Closer than the Bones (13 page)

She went into foster care, an experience which had scarred her irreparably, or so she had claimed. She hinted at abuse, both psychological and sexual, all before she was twelve years old, when she finally found a home with a family in Oxford who took better care of her, if more by neglect than by design. At least no one had molested her, even if nothing much had been done to nurture her. She was nothing if not bitter, this Sukey Lytton.

An intelligent child, she had attracted the notice of a couple of her teachers who encouraged her intellectual aspirations. Between the scholarships she had earned and student jobs on campus, in various places like the English department and the law school library, she got through four years at Ole Miss with a degree in English.

She had been hopeless at teaching, she said, so she gave up on the idea of graduate school or a career as a high school English teacher. Instead, she had failed her way through a succession of jobs on newspapers and in restaurants and libraries.

Through it all she wrote—mostly poetry, but the occasional short story as well. She got enough encouragement through publication to continue, despite the fact that being a poet is a hard way to go. Eventually she was able to get enough grants and sponsorship to eke out a meager living. The generosity of patrons like Mary Tucker McElroy and a few others whose names I didn’t recognize had made all the difference, she asserted.

She was able to concentrate on her art, as she put it, and she didn’t need a lot of material goods to make her happy, anyway. Writing was her life.

Writing was also her death, if her alleged manuscript was what the crew at Idlewild said it was.

I felt a headache coming on—whether from lack of sleep or sheer annoyance, I wasn’t sure. Late last night, tossing and turning in my bed, I had given up trying to figure out where the blasted manuscript had gotten to. The murderer surely hadn’t had time to get it out of the house or destroy it, so it had to be there, somewhere. But where?

When questioned by Jack Preston, Miss McElroy hadn’t mentioned any secret passages in the house. There was no evidence of burning, or burying, as far as any member of the sheriff s department could discern. So where the flaming hell was it?

I gave up the fruitless speculation and bundled together the papers Farrah had collected for me. I might as well head back to Idlewild. I was tempted to drive home, just to check on things, but one of my cousins had promised to keep an eye on my house while I was at Idlewild. He was also looking after the mischievous dog I had inherited from a friend, and seeing me would only cause Gemma, a Patterdale terrier, to misbehave even more than usual. I realized I was actually beginning to miss the Devil Dog, as I called her in more affectionate moments.

Back to the task at hand. I found Farrah assisting a harried father who couldn’t figure out how to use the library’s on-line catalog, though his eight-year-old twin daughters didn’t seem to be at all puzzled by it. I nodded my thanks at Farrah over the man’s bitter complaints about the retirement of the old card catalog, and she smiled before turning back to her fretful patron.

During the hour I had spent inside the library, the temperature had risen outside and the interior of my car was even warmer. I sat for a few minutes, letting the air-conditioning play catch-up and hoping my head would clear. Then I put the car in gear and drove back to Idlewild.

The missing manuscript continued to occupy my thoughts.

Where would I hide a manuscript so that no one else could find it? The problem was, I didn’t know the house well enough to pinpoint potential hiding places. The library was an obvious choice, but the killer would know that. I doubted he or she would have chosen such a place, unless the killer was playing a game out of ‘The Purloined Letter.”

Fretting over it did me no good, except to make my headache worse. Maybe all I needed was more caffeine and two aspirin. I stopped at a gas station on the way and got a cold Diet Coke from the cooler. Fishing aspirin out of my purse, I popped two in my mouth and downed them with a cold swig of the cola. I swear my head felt better in two minutes.

When I drove up to Idlewild I saw a couple of strange cars parked in front of the house. One was clearly a sheriff’s department car, the other a nondescript sedan. The latter must be Jack’s car. As a plainclothes investigator, he drove an unmarked vehicle. I drove on around the side of the house to the old stables, where I parked my car. I locked the Jeep, then I stood outside. Scanning the area behind the house, I zeroed in on the summerhouse Brett Doran had mentioned.

There it nestled, off to my left, on the edge of the lawn, just under a stand of old oak trees. I hadn’t paid it much attention before, because in the mornings it would be covered by the deep shade of the trees. I thought about going to talk to Brett, to ask the questions I wanted him to answer, but I decided they could wait a while longer. I felt diffident about interrupting his work.

I let myself in the back door and headed up the rear stairs to the second floor. I wanted to put away my folder of materials before anyone spotted me with them. It would be just as well that no one else knew I had them, except perhaps Miss McElroy. I hadn’t yet decided whether to ask her about her marriage to Morwell Phillips. The situation disconcerted me, not a feeling I tend to enjoy.

There was no one about in the second-floor hallway, though I could hear the sounds of some activity from down the hall. Probably the investigators continuing their search for clues, I guessed, in the victim’s bedroom. In my room, I looked about, trying to decide the best place to stow my folder. There was a desk underneath the window on the back wall of the house. That would do. I dropped my handbag on the bed, then went and sat down at the desk.

Period furniture is not one of my fortes, and I wasn’t sure just how old this desk was. It certainly looked antique. The wood had the glow that comes from years of polishing. I thought it might be maple. I pulled open the top drawer on the side. The drawer was shallow, and it was filled with blank typing paper.

That was a bit odd. I might have expected to find some kind of stationery there, but not plain typing paper that was slightly crinkled about the edges.

I shut the drawer and opened the next one. It was empty, so I shoved my file folder into it. I thought for a moment, then I pulled open the top drawer again and lifted out about half of the large stack of blank paper. Shutting the top drawer, I deposited the paper on top of my folder and spread it out a bit so that it concealed the folder. Anything more than a casual search would reveal my stuff, of course, but that would do for now.

I closed the drawer and sat back in the chair. Staring out the window, I drank in the view of the tranquil back garden of Idlewild. From my vantage point on this side of the house, I could see the old stables off to my left and the summerhouse under the trees to my right. Everything looked so peaceful at the moment, I had to force myself to remember that a violent death had occurred just down the hall from where I sat.

As I watched, a figure came into view from the direction of the back door of the house. Her head was bent and her face was turned slightly away from me, but I recognized Katie, one of the two housemaids. Where was she going? At this time of the morning, I figured she ought to be busy either helping with preparations for lunch or cleaning the bedrooms. The latter activity was probably suspended for a while, thanks to the investigation, I realized.

Maybe the girl was just taking a brief break to get outside the house for a few minutes. I could understand that impulse.

While I watched, she continued walking, and I realized she was headed for the summerhouse. She stepped up onto the small porch across the front of the summerhouse and knocked. Moments later, the door opened in response to her knock. I couldn't see who stood inside the door because of the shadows cast by the trees around the summerhouse, but I assumed it was Brett Doran. After a brief conversation, Katie went inside the house and the door closed behind her.

Curious, I thought. Perhaps she had gone to try her luck with Brett, not realizing that she most emphatically wasn’t his type.

Or maybe it was something a bit more sinister. I still had that gut feeling she knew something she wasn’t telling. Moreover I was afraid she might try to make use of that knowledge and get herself in serious trouble—if she didn’t get herself killed, that is. I recognized her type. Secretive, sly, looking for some way to work a situation to her advantage.

I was concerned for Katie’s welfare if she tried something so stupid as blackmail, but the fact she had approached Brett alarmed me. I had taken quite a shine to that young man, and I was going to be horribly disappointed if I found out he was the killer. I knew I couldn’t afford to let my emotions be engaged in a situation as dangerous as this one, but sometimes you just can’t help liking someone. The head knows better, but the heart won’t listen.

I decided I’d better tackle Katie straightaway, so I watched for her to leave the summerhouse. The door opened after only a few minutes, and she came strolling back out into the sunshine of the lawn. I was too far away to be able to read the expression on her face, but her body language didn’t lead me to believe she was upset.

By the time she came into the house through the back door, I was waiting for her, having hustled myself down to the first floor via the back stairs. I startled her when she came inside. Her smile, when she realized who it was, wasn’t exactly warm and friendly, but she paused when I spoke to her.

“Katie, I’d really like to talk to you for a minute,” I said.

“Yes’m,” she said. “I’m afraid Mrs. Greer needs me back in the kitchen right now. I could maybe talk to you after lunch is done.”

I shook my head. “No, this really can’t wait. I’m sure Mrs. Greer won’t mind if I delay you for a few minutes more. I’ll explain to her, so you won’t be in trouble.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, but she didn’t argue with me. The door to the kitchen was shut, so I figured here by the back door was as good a place as any to question her. I didn’t intend to keep her very long, anyway.

“Do you remember what I said this morning, Katie? About telling the sheriff’s department investigator anything you might have seen?”

She nodded, but I could feel her withdraw from me.

“This is a dangerous situation, Katie, and more bad things could happen, if we’re not very, very careful. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

She tossed her head, causing one stray curl of her blonde hair to bob on her forehead. “I been taking care of myself for years now, and I don’t need no advice on how to do it. I can watch out for myself, don’t you be worrying about that.” She shot me a hard look. “Besides, I’m just a maid here. Nobody pays no attention to me, noways.”

The bitterness in her voice told me a lot more than she realized. She was desperate for attention, and I suspected she was going about getting some the worst possible way.

I decided there was no point in pussyfooting around with her. “A man was murdered here yesterday. You didn’t see the body, like Betsy did. I saw it, too, and it was a nasty sight. The man who died was taunting people because of something he knew and they didn’t. He ended up dead in the bathtub, with a knife sticking out of his back. Do you want to end up that way?”

Katie paled, but she remained as obstinate as before. “I done told you, I don’t know nothing. And even if I did, why should I tell a nosy old bitch like you?” She whirled away and opened the door to the kitchen, letting it shut with a firm click behind her.

That flew all over me, and I had to work hard to keep myself from following her and slapping her stupid little face. Short of holding her down and poking her with a stick until she told me what she knew, however, I couldn’t see any way of making her talk. I just prayed she wouldn’t pay the ultimate price for being such a little jackass.

I sighed in frustration. I might as well tell Jack Preston what I suspected. Maybe he could get something out of her.

Where would he most likely be? I decided to try the library first.

The first floor appeared deserted as I pushed through the door into the main part of the house. I walked around the stairs to the other side of the hall and knocked on the door of the library.

After a brief delay, the door opened, and the young deputy, Robbie Davis, stuck his head out. “Yes, ma’am? Oh, hello, Miss Carpenter. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Jack Preston, Robbie,” I said.

“He’s busy at the moment. Miss Carpenter,” he said. “If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, he can prob’ly see you before too long, though.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll just wait out here, if that’s okay.”

“Not a problem,” he said. “Just a few minutes.” The door closed.

I sat down in a chair against the wall and waited. I discovered that if I leaned my head back and turned my ear to the wall I could hear the rumble of voices from inside the library. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I could discern different pitches. Jack was talking to a woman; that much was clear from the higher pitch of the second voice.

Suddenly, the sounds from within the library grew louder. The female voice hit an even higher pitch, and the next thing I knew, the door to the library opened and crashed back against the inside wall with a resounding thump. I jumped in my chair, wincing and rubbing my ear.

“I will personally complain to the sheriff about this, you can count on that!” Alice Bertram was in full tirade as she came hobbling out into the hall, leaning heavily on her walker. “I’m not one of the hillbillies you’re used to dealing with, and you’re going to find out that you can’t treat me in that disgraceful and disrespectful manner.”

She stormed past me, moving at a faster clip than I had thought her capable of, barely missing my toes with her walker. She paid no attention to me, however, being intent only on getting away from Jack Preston. He had come to the door of the library and stood watching her, a bemused smile on his face.

“What was all that about?” I asked him as I stood up and motioned him back inside the library.