Buried Bones (24 page)

"Yes," he said, without giving a darn thing away.

"You weren't at home."

"Yes," he said again in that annoying fashion.

I pulled out the big gun. "Your bed hadn't been slept in."

"No." He poked the fire again.

"So where were you?" Let's see how good he was at evading a direct question.

"I had some personal business. I was away for the night."

I wanted to turn to him and say "I know that! And I know where you were!" Restraint. Restraint. I heard the drumbeat of Aunt LouLane's command in my head, and I managed to force a tight smile onto my face. "I hope it was satisfying."

He gave me a sharp look. "We have to find that manuscript."

As much as I wanted to torment him about Brianna, his sudden inclusion of me as a partner stopped me dead in my tracks. There was one question that had to be asked. "Harold, have you actually seen this manuscript?"

"There's a nearly completed autobiography," he said with certainty. "Even though Brianna's name was going to be on it,
Lawrence
actually wrote it."

"How can you be sure?"

He came to stand directly in front of me. "I read his will. There's something you should know, Sarah Booth."

His eyes were so pale a blue that they looked like the deep, deep interior of an ice crystal. "What?"

"The night of the dinner party,
Lawrence
called me back to the cottage. All of the guests had gone. He had written a new will. He gave it to me--in case something happened to him."

"You were there, at the cottage, after everyone else had gone?"

"I was. He gave me the will and named me as executor."

"And the manuscript?"

"He told me it was finished and that he'd decided to publish it under his own name."

"Where is it?" I was ready to jump out of my seat.

"I don't know," Harold said so softly that I thought I'd surely misunderstood him.

"What do you mean?"

"He handed me the will in a stack of papers and asked that I not read it, unless he died. Right then I should have picked up on his concerns. He suspected he was in danger, and I didn't even notice."

"Who would have considered murder?" I said softly. "Lawsuits, yes. Murder, never."

Harold's sad smile showed his thanks. "
Lawrence
said he'd made arrangements to safeguard the manuscript, and that I would know where to find it. He quoted a line of poetry--'Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.' " Harold watched me intently. "I haven't been able to make head nor tail of it."

"That's it?" Though the words were chilling, they weren't much of a clue. "There must have been something in the papers."

"I've looked through everything a dozen times. There's no mention of where the manuscript might be."

"The publisher! Maybe he sent it to them."

"I've contacted Bainbridge Publishing. They don't have the book. I spoke with Gustav Brecht. He was expecting it but it never arrived."

"And Brianna, did he know her?"

"He knew her." Harold's gaze slipped to the floor. "I couldn't determine what his relationship with her or Lawrence was, except that he'd been waiting for the manuscript."

"Could
Lawrence
have sent it to another publisher?"

"I've called every publisher
Lawrence
ever worked with. No one has the book."

We looked at each other.

"Brianna doesn't have it," he said with such deliberateness that I knew, even if I wanted to argue it would be pointless. I agreed with him anyway. If she had it, she'd be rushing to
New York
, not hanging around Zinnia. Unless she was interested in Harold as something other than a boy toy.

"That's another small complication," he said. "
Lawrence
's new will was never witnessed. There's the possibility someone might contest it." His hand brushed a strand of my curly hair out of my face in an unexpectedly tender gesture. Before I could say or do anything, he was on his feet. "I must be going," he said.

"I wanted to ask you something." I truly did. But I also wanted to know what that touch had implied. Harold wasn't the kind of man to hop from bed to bed.

"It'll have to wait." He checked his watch. "I'm late."

Because Harold was not a man to pull a pout on, I rose to my feet and walked him to the door. "Your aunt Lenore," I said. "Did she ever tell you anything about
Moon
Lake
that might have come back to haunt
Lawrence
? There was a boyfriend, a fight--"

He stopped abruptly, a move that allowed Sweetie Pie to shoot between his legs and into the pack of waiting suitors.

"Sweetie!" I made a lunge but missed. "Primal drive," I said. "Your aunt--"

"I wouldn't worry overly much about
Moon
Lake
. That's the distant past, and I'm certain
Lawrence
had no interest in writing about it. Now I must be going." He turned and walked away. I watched for a moment as he skirted the tangle of sniffing and snorting dogs and disappeared into the night.

15

I went to sleep in a tangle of unanswered questions and unresolved emotions. Sweetie Pie, all of her needs and urges met, snored beside my bed. The gentle whuffle of sound coming from the dog should have been comforting, but it was only a counterpoint to my own noise-making--the incessant ticking of my biological clock.

When I finally drifted into a restless sleep, I found myself in a long luminous hallway. It was an endless corridor of white, wide and inviting, but perfectly empty. I could go left or right, but neither direction seemed to recommend itself.

Far in the distance was soft music, an acoustic guitar played with great skill. It was something in a minor key, sad and filled with longing. I started walking, hoping to find the musician, or anyone who could tell me where I was.

I walked and walked for what seemed like hours, until I came to a white wooden door. The knob was crystal, glowing in the radiant light that filled the hallway. The music was still with me, no louder than before. I turned the knob and opened the door, stepping through hesitantly.

A garden awaited me, filled with bright flowers and the sound of water running. A brick path forked in front of me. This time I took the left-hand fork and followed it to a cul-de-sac where two benches had been placed, back to back, beneath a willow tree.

I was tired, so I took a seat on the bench with a view of the lake that suddenly appeared. I could see there were two piers leading to two different sailboats. Both were equally beautiful, their bright spinnaker sails ballooning in the quickening breeze. Filled with despair, I started to weep.

I woke up slowly to sunshine streaming through my window. Not the white light of my dream, but the pale yellow sunlight of a Delta winter morning. I lay in the warm bed for a few moments, replaying the dream. I didn't need Madame Tomeeka to interpret this one. Choice. One choice leads to another. There is no end, no final conclusion. It is only a series of decisions, moving endlessly until death. Each time we choose we leave behind untold possibilities. Each time, our path narrows. Because we cannot see further down the road, few choices are based on anything other than intuition and hope. There are no guarantees, only the grand lotto of life. Until the end.

Perhaps I'd have a choice whether to stay dead or come back as a ghost. It was the perfect thought to shake me out of the depression of the dream and onto my feet. Wouldn't it be exquisite to come back and haunt Jitty?

"What you smilin' like a mule eatin' briars for?"

I hadn't realized she was in the room, but I should have been expecting her. "When I die, will I have a choice about becoming a ghost?"

She arched her eyebrows. "Depends on whether you do your duty in this life."

This sounded vaguely familiar with that ring of religious fanaticism. Duty being the operative word. "Meaning?"

"Get you a husband and produce me an heir."

There was the sound of sharp knocking on the front door. I closed my eyes for a split second, and in typical Jitty fashion, my haranguing ghost disappeared. I was left to rush downstairs and answer the door. The familiar rat-a-tat-tat was as insistent as ever. It was becoming a regular morning pattern--to serve as Tinkie's chef.

"Coffee," she said, breezing past me. She put Chablis on the floor and followed her into the kitchen where Sweetie greeted both of them with writhing tail wags as she offered her stomach up for belly rubs. The dog was shameless in her needs.

"Do you think we might have some costumes made for that dog?" Tinkie asked, eyeing Sweetie. "Something brocade."

"She isn't a sofa." I put the coffee on. "What are you doing here at daybreak?"

"It's after seven. Oscar went in early to talk to Harold. They're having a teleconference with Boyd and
Layton
. Naturally,
Layton
is off somewhere--
Tokyo
,
Tunisia
, somewhere with a major time difference. It's a big deal."

She was about to bust a gut to tell me the rest. "What kind of meeting?" I agreeably prompted. I sort of enjoyed waking up to Tinkie's chatter.

"I couldn't help but overhear. Brianna
has
filed suit. Angela Rhee was telling the truth." She gave me a thin-lipped look. "I told you so."

I shook my head. "I'm surprised at you, Tinkie. A well-brought-up Daddy's Girl would never, ever resort to telling someone so."

"That's true. I'd never do it to another DG. But you're a fallen angel, Sarah Booth. I can do it to you and it doesn't count."

"Thanks. Want an omelet?"

"With sausage, please." She put sugar in the coffee I put in front of her and settled in for a long chat. "There's more."

As I broke the eggs with one hand, I gave her an inquiring look. "What's going on with you, Tinkie? Normally I'd have to bribe all of this information out of you."

She put more sugar in her coffee. "I want to be your assistant, Sarah Booth."

I almost crushed the egg I was holding. "What?"

"Oscar will never let me study hair design. You know, my dream. But he can't stop me from picking up little tidbits of gossip. It just happens naturally, like lint in a man's navel."

I was dumbfounded, but I could see by the sparkle in her eyes that she wasn't kidding. "I'm barely hanging on to Dahlia House. I only have one client, who doesn't really have the money to pay me." I had a stab of guilt about Madame's check in the pocket of my coat, which had gone missing. I was going to have to find that thing today. "I can't afford to pay you."

She waved a hand. "Money doesn't matter. Daddy and Oscar won't ever let me realize my dreams. Heck, they won't even let me talk about hair. But they're generous with money." Elbows on the table, she wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and held it in front of her chin. "I need this for me, Sarah Booth. And I can be a help."

"Arr-rrrr." The tiny growl came from under the table where Chablis had Sweetie's long, silky ear and was tugging at it. Sweetie wagged her tail.

"Me and Chablis," Tinkie amended. "You know that little fool barks every time I go by your driveway."

That was it. The final element of guilt. It was the ransom money for Chablis and Tinkie's subsequent faith in me that had gotten me started in the PI business. I simply could not deny her. "Okay, you're hired."

"Oh, Sarah Booth!" She jumped to her feet and rushed me. Her hug was strong and enthusiastic. "I've never had a job before. I can't believe it. I wish I could tell the other girls. They'd be green with envy."

I was glad that, what with her face crushed into my shoulder, she couldn't see my expression. She'd never had a job. None of her friends had ever worked. Not a lick. Females were to be taken care of, to be guarded, protected, and totally dependent on their fathers and then their husbands. There were times, when I was desperate and afraid, that I was jealous of such cradle-to-grave safety. Then again, I could never have borne the heel of male authority on my neck.

"Tinkie, I suggest you keep this job to yourself." It was meant to be kind advice. One of the other Daddy's Girls, maybe inadvertently or maybe deliberately, would spill the beans to
her
husband, who would then call Oscar, and that would be the end of that. Somehow, I didn't think Oscar, or Tinkie's father, bank president Avery Bellcase, would view private-eyeing as a suitable pastime for someone of Tinkie's social status. They'd put the kibosh on it instantly.

"I won't tell a soul. I'll be like a secret agent," she said, sitting back down as I put a heaping plate of eggs and sausage in front of her. "What's my first assignment?"