Jingle Bones

 

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Jingle Bones

A thick ribbon of pink lazed in the sky as the sun edged toward the horizon, casting the bare cotton fields in a warm light. The third week of December hit Sunflower County, Mississippi, with a whammy of freezing temperatures. My fingers were so cold, I fumbled with the loppers as I wrestled with the cedar tree. I only needed a few more branches.

Reveler stamped his hoof with impatience, his snort condensing in the cold air, as I worked. The delicious smell of fresh cedar wafted up to me and I stuffed the limber branches into the large cloth sack I'd found in the barn.

Christmas was just around the corner. I'd make garlands when I got back to Dahlia House. I'd bind the cedar branches together and twist them with colored lights and popcorn-cranberry strings to decorate the balustrades on the front porch and the stair rail inside. My mother had done this every Christmas for the first twelve years of my life. It was the opening salvo of the holiday madness that I loved beyond measure.

I'd hang the garlands while my fruitcakes baked. Definitely fruitcakes. And cornbread stuffing. And sweet potato fluff. And pumpkin pies. And green bean casserole, and Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, and dirty rice with sausage, and—I had to go to the Pig to pick up the groceries I needed just to get started on the feast.

So much to do to prepare for the first annual Dahlia House Christmas Eve fete. I had begun a new tradition.

When I survived The Black and Orange Ball in New Orleans this past Halloween, I made a vow. I would not allow my breakup with Graf Milieu to ruin the holiday season. I had much to celebrate. First and foremost, Cece Dee Falcon, my most stalwart friend, who had endured pain beyond measure to be the person she was born to be, had fallen in love. And Jaytee, a hot and rocking harmonica player for a terrific blues band, was a guy that I thought matched my friend perfectly. On this Christmas, Cece would have a special friend to kiss under the mistletoe. My Christmas wish for her was that she'd never again be alone for a holiday season.

With a last
clack
of the loppers, I finally had enough cedar for the garlands. I mounted Reveler and headed back across the fields to Dahlia House, the sack of boughs bouncing behind me.

The sky burned peachy gold, and clouds of fuchsia climbed high. A windrow of trees stood silhouetted against the magnificent sky, and a gentle breeze rattled the dying leaves, reminding me of the rustle of widow's weeds. As I cleared a small creek and the land opened up to reveal the big white house on a slight rise, I slowed Reveler and took in the vista I loved so much. The fields were bare—the cotton all picked, pressed into round bales, and loaded onto flatbeds for transport. White tufts, like lost snowflakes, had scattered around the edges of the fields. Next spring, they'd be plowed under and the new crop planted. The cycle of life: planting, growth, harvest, and rest. Christmas brought family and the fallow period of winter. While I loved the holidays, it was also the time I missed my family more than ever.

The sycamore trees that lined the driveway were bare, their pale branches dancing lazily in an erratic December breeze. Reveler's mane lifted on the wind and he stamped a foot, eager for a hot mash, and the company of Miss Scrapiron and Lucifer. Reveler loved me, but he loved his herd, too, and I had kept him busy all afternoon.

I whistled up Sweetie Pie, who'd taken off down the branch. For a dog who hated a bath, she didn't mind running through the icy water of a creek in pursuit of some delicious smell. There would be plenty of tantalizing aromas coming from the Dahlia House kitchen in the next few days. Millie Roberts, the best cook in the county, had offered to help me prepare our Christmas Eve feast.

As I drew close to the house, I caught sight of a black sedan traveling fast down the driveway. Something sleek and expensive, like a Jaguar. Who the heck was coming to visit me? When I finally recognized the driver, I was more than a bit surprised.

I met Theodora Prince at the front of the house. As I jumped from the saddle, I couldn't wait to hear why she had called. As far as I knew, Theodora was of the mindset that I was headed straight to hell. Merely being in my presence put her squeaky clean little soul at risk.

“Sarah Booth,” she said, getting out of the car. Theodora was a beautiful woman, but somewhere along the line she had decided that dressing to emphasize her looks insulted the man upstairs. Her long black hair was pulled into a ponytail so tight it lifted her eyebrows almost to her hairline. If the rubber band popped, her face might shoot to Texas.

“Theodora, what can I do for you?” We'd gone to high school together, and when I left for Ole Miss, Theodora had gone to a place that trained women to be good wives and mothers. She had certainly gone forth and multiplied, with six kids to her credit. Her husband, Perry Prince, was the minister of the Final Harvest Church, a place I'd never visited. The name, so Stephen Kingish, was enough to keep me away. Another reason I was destined to burn in the fiery lake.

“I'm desperate or I wouldn't come to you.”

No news there. “So what can I help you with?”

“It's the Christmas pageant. There are forces at work to make a mockery of it. I want you to stop them.”

I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly, so I slowed down the conversation. “We're talking about a Christmas pageant with the birth of baby Jesus, where all the Wise Men wear bathrobes and mumble their lines?”

“Exactly. Under my direction, Final Harvest's pageant will be the best in the state. We have real farm animals, and this year we've rented a llama.” She was triumphant. “A camel is just too big, but the llama works perfectly and lends a real Bethlehem aura to the pageant. The other churches will be envious.”

The only thing I knew about llamas was that they could spit a really long distance. And it was stinky, slimy spit. I side stepped her envious comment. “What can I do?”

“Marjorie Rush is determined that her children participate in the pageant this year. Those children are heathens. They're too old and completely out of control. Heck, they may be cannibals for all I know.”

Okay. Cannibals. I hadn't expected that. “So what is it you think I can do? You're the pageant director. Kick them out.”

“I can't. Not without cause. My husband won't allow it. I want you to investigate the Rush family. Last year, someone stole the baby Jesus from the crèche, and I know it was those Rush hellions. If I can prove they did it, I can ban them from the pageant. It's my only hope. Perry says it's unchristian to prevent children from participating in the birth story of baby Jesus.”

“This sounds like something you should take up with your husband.”

Theodora looked at me like I'd grown two heads. “The Rushes are the biggest tithers in the church. Perry is naïve. He has no idea what those two little bas … boys can do. Last year, one of them had a whoopee cushion and every time the Angel of the Lord tried to speak, the little monster made this horrific farting sound. It tore up the whole pageant. Mary started crying and the angel got so frustrated she cursed in the church!”

I patted Reveler's shoulder to keep from laughing. When the spasm passed, I said, “Theodora, don't you think hiring a private investigator is a little extreme? They're kids. It's one night. Wouldn't you really prefer to just dig in and get through it?”

“Those children are possessed. They'll ruin everything and their half-wit parents won't lift a finger to stop it.” She leaned forward. “They're downright gleeful about the mayhem those kids generate. Marjorie and her absentee husband think concocting mischief shows intelligence. That's what I'm up against. Now will you take the case or not?”

“I'm not sure I can prove they stole a baby doll from the Christmas crèche a full twelve months ago. I'm afraid it would be wasting your money.”

“You take the case and let me worry about my money.” She pulled a roll of greenbacks held by a rubber band from her purse and tossed them at me. “Just don't tell Perry what I'm doing. He says the church is the best place for those kids. He believes he can work some godly influence on those unevolved monkeys.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I say Hell is where they need to be. Not in the middle of my pageant. Thanks for your help, Sarah Booth. Maybe this will be a mark in your favor when the day of judgment is upon you. Based on your church attendance, you're going to need all the help you can get.”

She sped off in her expensive car and I was left holding a wad of money big enough to choke my horse. Okay, then, my Christmas gala was in the black, and I was on the trail of a missing baby doll. From twelve months before. This might be the first case I couldn't solve.

*   *   *

Once Reveler was untacked, groomed, and all three horses slurping a hot bran mash, I started across the lawn to the house. The last sliver of the sun sank beneath the horizon, and Dahlia House beckoned with warmth and light as the blue hour settled over me. Clear as a bell, I heard a sultry voice belting out, “Merry Christmas, baby, I heard you was doin' fine.”

I recognized a version of the Hop Wilson song that turned me inside out. Jitty, the resident haint of Dahlia House, was singing the blues. But who was that on harmonica? Jitty was free to invite whomever she wished to visit, but mostly the dead weren't all that eager to socialize with me. Jitty was the exception, sent by my dead parents to watch over me—and boss me as much as possible.

When I opened the front door, I halted in my tracks. Cece and her boyfriend Jaytee were stringing popcorn and cranberries and singing away. “Wow, Cece, you can belt that song.” My friend never ceased to amaze me.

“Jaytee and I thought we'd perform at your Christmas bash. If you want us to.”

“I would love it.” Jaytee played with Bad to the Bone, Scott Hampton's house band at the blues club located at the crossroads. “Have you seen Tinkie?”

“She's in the office.” Cece waved me toward another wing of the house where Delaney Detective Agency had desks, files, phones, computers, and the many things necessary to man a small office.