Buried Bones (9 page)

"Oh, he assured me that everything was under his control. The problem with
Lawrence
, though, is that he underestimated the meanness and cruelty of his fellow humans. He was out of his league, and he paid with his life. And now his private journals are missing. His address book, all of his correspondence. That bitch Brianna has them and she'll publish a book if she can."

Sweetie Pie had settled at my feet, emitting the sound of soft snores of contentment in direct contrast to Madame's frenetic energy. "Can you tell me exactly what
Lawrence
was writing?" This was crucial. If the book was truly devastating to someone, then stopping it from being published would be a prime motive for murder.

"I honestly don't know," Madame said, her voice hardly louder than a whisper. "He hadn't been feeling well the past couple of weeks. His was pale and cold. And then the cat--he was distraught over Rasmus dying. Whenever I stopped by, Brianna was there, slipping in and out, pressing him about the past. She convinced him that her name and her connections in the publishing world would propel the book to the best-seller list. She claimed she was dating that publisher.
Lawrence
was completely blinded by--" She broke off abruptly and took a healthy belt of Jack Daniel's.

"By what?" I asked. My gut told me this was a vital point, and one that Madame didn't want to confront.

"By his desire to be read," she finished, her voice trembling. "You can't imagine what it was like for him. He was famous once, sought after, respected, consulted about literature and art. He was somebody, Sarah Booth. And the last years have just passed. He watched his contemporaries achieve great success. Tom and Truman and Nell, all of those powerful Southern voices finding people who read them again and again, while his wonderful books were forgotten, out of print."

I could easily understand, but there was a problem. "It would have been Brianna's book, not his."

"Not really," Madame said, finally looking at me. "Not at all.
Lawrence
was actually doing most of the writing. I know that for a fact. And if the book was successful, what would it matter? His books would be reprinted, his body of work revived. There would be new opportunities. He had it all figured out."

Perhaps. "And he really thought Brianna could deliver?"

"He did. And in a way, I think he felt sorry for her. Her career, too, was over. In another year no one in fashion would remember her name. He saw it as an opportunity to help her."

"Why?" The question popped out. Brianna Rathbone wasn't a woman who elicited my sympathy. She was a very wealthy woman, if not in her own right, then by inheritance. Layton Rathbone was a millionaire many times over.

Madame went to the decanter and tipped a splash of liquor into her glass. "I tried to tell him that she wasn't to be trusted. Now, if she has the manuscript, she'll publish it. I know she will. She'll ruin anyone who gets in her way. We have to get it back."

We were back at the original point. Madame had grown short of breath as she talked. I went to her and eased her down into a chair. What she said made just enough sense to trigger my neck-crepe reaction. The flesh at the back of my neck was prickling and drawing, a very unladylike behavior.

The doorbell chimed and I knew it was Harold. I started to the door as Madame's small hand caught my wrist in a grip that would have done Charles Atlas proud.

"You have to get the manuscript back," she said, "and then prove that Brianna Rathbone is a killer."

Staring into her black eyes, I could only swallow. Madame had always been demanding, rigid, passionate, and suffered no fools. But I'd never seen such iron as I did in her gaze.

The bell chimed again and she released me, but her eyes held me firmly in place.

"There's a lot at stake, Sarah Booth. Whatever you do, don't mention this to another living soul. Promise me.

"Not a word." I turned to go to the door, shaken by Madame's naked determination. Sweetie Pie almost bowled me over as she hurried forward. This time there were no growls, only a metronome tail that was as dangerous as a swinging blackjack. She whined fetchingly at the door.

"Harold," I said, opening the door, trying hard to sidestep Sweetie's baton tail. No matter how many times I greeted him, I was surprised by his handsomeness. His gray wool suit was perfectly tailored, offset with a red Christmas tie that sported a blinking tree. Odd that the foolish tie clip only made him look more distinguished. And desirable.

"Sweetie." He swept the dog into a big bear hug. "And nice to see you, too, Sarah Booth," he added as he stood and took my hand. His ice-blue eyes danced.

We hadn't made it past the doorway when Madame entered the foyer, her hood back in place, her face partially concealed.

"Good evening, Harold," she said before she turned to me. "Remember, Sarah Booth, I'm counting on you." She swept past us into the night, leaving a palpable void of silence.

"She's upset," I said, opting for the Daddy's Girl tactic of obvious understatement. This would, hopefully, put Harold in the position of assuming the tower-of-strength pose, which would then make him forget to wonder about Madame's presence in my home and her strange remark.

"
Lawrence
's death is a tragedy," Harold said as he stepped inside. "I'm certain she's devastated. They were best friends."

I cast a keen glance at Harold. He sounded downright emotional. "How about a drink?" I led the way into the parlor.

Harold stopped at the threshold, an abrupt movement that sent Sweetie Pie crashing into the backs of his knees. Red and green neon pulsed, washing him in rhythmic light. "Very nice," he said. "Very Elvis."

It was the perfect description. "Thanks." It hadn't occurred to me, but music was what I needed. I pulled out Mother's 45 of "Blue Christmas."

"Ah, Sarah Booth," Harold said with a grin. "Let's dance."

Though I'd never admit it to Jitty, Harold's stock rose once again in my eyes as he settled a firm hand on my back. He held me tight and slipped into movement with the music. It was exactly what I needed. By the time we left Dahlia House half an hour later, I'd forgotten Madame and her demands. It was Christmas Day, or the last few hours of it. A tiny bit of celebration wasn't unwarranted.

We carried our festive mood into the car and along for the drive. Harold's Christmas decorations were unexpected. Candles in red and green paper sacks lined the drive. I let out a sigh of appreciation. Terribly, terribly romantic.

Inside, there was the smell of fresh-cut cedar from the boughs that lined his staircase. Holly and wild magnolia leaves formed a bower, and from it hung the mistletoe. I had kissed Harold only once before. I'd been surprised, then, by my reaction to him. This time I was prepared. The restraint he used made me want to press for more. As before, though, he refused to accelerate the embrace.

"Our past indicates we should proceed with caution," he said gravely as he ran his hands over my bare arms and concluded the kiss with a brushing of his lips across my cheek in a tease. "You returned my ring, and I tried to recapture something that was long gone," he reminded me.

He spoke truth. I didn't bother to say that I could forgive him for taking off with Sylvia Garrett since I'd had my turn with her brother. I wasn't much of a scorekeeper in home runs of the heart, but we seemed to be even in the errors department.

He seated me and poured us both a glass of wine. Then he set the room ablaze in candles.

We ate in that rare light where everything gleamed and sparkled, even my conversation. We took champagne to the fireplace and sat down to listen to Beethoven. I found myself leaning against Harold, his arm around me, as I sipped the bubbly he'd poured into
Waterford
flutes.

"To the future, Sarah Booth. Yours and mine," Harold said. "And to Lawrence Ambrose, a man of talent and generosity."

It was an easy toast to drink to. "Tell me how you knew
Lawrence
," I said. Though the hour was late, I didn't want to go home. It was Christmas. Harold's arm around me felt just right, creating a 3.2 on the Richter scale in my right thumb as I remembered a moment beneath fairy lights.

"As an adult, I became reacquainted with him through his wonderful work. But I knew him when I was a child. He was a friend of my Aunt Lenore's. He encouraged me to pursue music, but it was mainly our love of art that drew us together in the past few years.

Lawrence
was a fine sculptor. His work is in the best collections in
Europe
."

"Sculptor, too?"

"He was many things, Sarah Booth. It's one reason he never achieved the acclaim he deserved in this country. He refused to focus. That made him hard to categorize--and easy to dismiss."

"What was he like?" The champagne had made me warm and lazy, and I relaxed against Harold, enjoying his solid warmth, the beautiful music, and the flames of the fire.

"He'd come to visit Lenore, and sometimes he spent hours with me. He had the imagination to create another world, a place of enchantment for a young boy who craved attention from an adult."

I didn't know a lot about Harold's childhood, but I knew enough to know it hadn't been like mine. "He sounds wonderful."

"He was. And kind. He made me feel special, Sarah Booth." A log shifted in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. It broke the spell of memory and Harold sat a little straighter. "
Lawrence
did what few people ever have the courage to do. He took life by his own terms."

"And he may have paid the price." The words were out of my mouth before I thought of the implications. Harold, though, was not as sizzled by the wine and candlelight.

"What are you saying?" He turned so that he could look into my eyes. "The cut on his hand was an accident. He died while trying to call for help--didn't he?"

I shrugged, hoping to end it there.

"If foul play was involved . . ." His gaze focused beyond me for a moment. "Last night, that party, it was all about the book. He wanted everyone there to worry about what he'd written, what he might reveal."

I could see Harold mentally going over the guest list from the night before. It didn't take him long to get to the Rs. "Will Brianna go forward with the book?"

"I don't know." I put every scrap of sincerity I could muster into those three words. I sipped my champagne and decided to shift gears. "Harold, what could have prompted trouble between Brianna and Lawrence?"

"What makes you think there was trouble?"

The habit of answering a question with a question was strictly male, and highly annoying. But Harold's pale blue eyes held real worry. "Madame says the manuscript is missing. She said
Lawrence
pulled out of the book deal with Brianna the night of the dinner party."

"Do you have any proof?"

I cleared my throat softly. "I'm not accusing Brianna of anything. Yet. I'm merely telling you what Madame said. Do
you
know of a reason someone might hurt
Lawrence
?"

"Brianna had no reason to hurt
Lawrence
. In fact, it would be to her detriment." Harold got to his feet and poked the fire even though it was burning fine.

"Okay, someone other than Brianna."

"There was talk that
Lawrence
left
Paris
for a reason. He had a falling out with some of the other writers there, and when he left, he broke all ties. But there was also a story before that." He hesitated just long enough to qualify it as a tease. "Something to do with gambling and a place called
Moon
Lake
.
Lawrence
worked up at a casino near Lula when he was a very young man. It's all forgotten now."

"How do you know this?" Harold was a virtual encyclopedia of Delta gossip.

He gave me a look. "My Aunt Lenore ran away from home when she was sixteen and took a job as a guitar player in the same lodge. It was a gathering place for young artists. They worked at the casino and talked literature and art and music. It was 1940, Sarah Booth. Times were hard. Women had no freedom, and risk was a drug for the young."

Putting aside Harold's chivalrous defense of Brianna, this was the second mention of the old casino. "There was a murder there, right?"

He finished his drink. "I don't know. Lenore seldom talked of the past, yet she was trapped by it. She couldn't accept the restrictions of that time or her family's expectations."

Perhaps no one had asked the right questions. "What's she doing now?"

Harold shifted. His gaze dropped to the empty glass he held. "She hanged herself."

"I'm sorry." I felt as if I'd been slapped. The buzz of the champagne flattened, leaving the bitter aftertaste of regret. "Harold, really. I'm sorry. I had no idea."