Them Bones (2 page)

I didn't know diddly. The Garretts were more local legend than reality. And here Tinkie had been carrying on with the heir apparent of Southern scandal.

"And now he's coming home again." Tinkie's voice was beginning to grow louder. Chablis snuggled deeper into my chest. "And I've gone and married Oscar! What am I going to tell him?"

"Just keep your mouth shut, Tinkie."

"I never thought
Hamilton would return to Zinnia," she whispered. More crystal tears slid down her carefully made-up cheeks.

"Are you certain he's coming home? Have you heard from him?"

"Madame Tomeeka said so. It's bound to happen."

Tinkie wasn't looking, so I rolled my eyes. Madame Tomeeka was a long story, and one I knew too well. "I wouldn't get my knickers in a twist until
Hamilton walked down

Main Street

," I said, relieved that Tinkie's real problem was an addiction to psychic predictions.

"You don't believe in Madame Tomeeka, do you?" she asked.

I knew Tomeeka, or Tammy Odom as she'd been known in school. "I'm a little skeptical about all this special ability," I conceded, as mildly as I could.

"She's always right." Tinkie's color had returned and her breathing was back to normal.

"And well she may be, but my advice is not to worry about
Hamilton until he appears. Don't borrow trouble," I said. "She said a dark man. She didn't name names."

Tinkie stood up and reached for her dog. "I feel much better, Sarah Booth. How about meeting me at The Club for lunch? We've all missed you."

A flash of the old days nearly knocked me back to the sofa. There had been a time when I'd driven my convertible and lunched at The Club with the girls. All of us Daddy's Girls had eyed the tennis pro and giggled about our futures. But that was nearly two decades past, and I hadn't paid dues in a year.

"Lunch sounds divine, but maybe another day."

She eyed me up and down. "Find yourself a color consultant. Honey, I hate to be critical of a creative person, but you look like shit."

"Thanks, Tinkie," I said, showing her out the door.

Chablis looked over her shoulder and barked once, an invitation if ever I heard one.

2

"Even if he bites, don't let him go," Jitty said as she hovered in the doorway. "Little dog like that couldn't bite much. Ugly little teeth will hardly get through the fat."

Easy for her to say; she was staying home where the fruitcakes baked in the warm, dry kitchen. Dressed in my warmest jeans and flannel, I closed the front door and stepped into the night. The afternoon rain had turned into a slow drizzle, a perfect atmosphere for a woman of Delaney blood. I snugged my dark hair more firmly under my fedora. It was a night more given to dallying with men than dognapping. Turning up the collar of my leather jacket, I thought of a crackling fire, the fizz of champagne, Spanish guitars spicing the background, and the golden skin of Roberto. With Delaney women, the past was usually a far better place for romantic adventures than the future.

The reality was Roberto was gone, and Chablis was waiting.

The repo man hadn't yet found the Mercedes Roadster in the copse of willow trees, so I removed the camouflage tarp and headed for Hilltop.

To an outsider, Zinnia appeared to be a typical Delta town. A cluster of shops lined

Main Street

, where the square building of the Bank of Zinnia anchored the town to the flat topsoil. I passed Millie's Cafe, the Clotheshorse, the hardware store, the old Zinnia Drugstore, the post office, a dime store, and a few scattered beauty salons, insurance offices, and the like. I drove through the heart of Zinnia, cruising through the single green light like a phantom. At the Sweetheart Cafe, I stopped and got a plain hamburger.

Flat and unimpressive to the visitor, Zinnia is my personal history. My life is etched in this town. I have walked, skipped, cycled, and driven the sidewalks and roads so often that they are pathways in my brain that lead to the memories that define me. Where will I go when Dahlia House is sold?

This was not the proper time for fear or reflection. In less than three minutes, Zinnia was an image in the rearview mirror. Hilltop was only a few miles away.

Tinkie's driveway curved up to the house, where lights blazed from all of the downstairs windows and the upstairs bedroom. The Richmonds are childless. It is just Tinkie, Oscar, and Chablis. I parked on a road that leads back to the river and scurried toward the house. When I was thirty yards away, I eased into the azalea bushes and waited.

At ten, the front door opened and Chablis tiptoed out into the grass. The door closed on Tinkie's wind chime laughter. None of the earlier distress was in her voice, and I was once again amazed at the artfulness of a desperate woman. A scene in seventh grade math class came back to me, and I knew exactly the moment Tinkie had crystallized, the first time her wiles worked on a man other than her father. The math teacher didn't have a chance. Tinkie's big blue eyes shimmered with tears, and that pouty little lip popped out, followed by a laugh of self-deprecation. She passed.

All of the Daddy's Girls knew the techniques of manipulation, had, in fact, been trained at Daddy's knee. I was the exception. My mother believed in reasoning and logical discussion. My lessons in female skills came later in life from Aunt LouLane, after my parents were dead.

Still, all of us girls, the daughters of privilege and breeding, had been taught that the hardships in life could be avoided by a simple formula that added up to Machiavellian manipulation. Sex appeal was the easiest tool of all to use, but there were many, many others.

But I wasn't lurking in Tinkie's bushes to philosophize on Tinkie's skills. Chablis had pranced just beyond the drive, done her business, and was headed back to the house. I whistled softly to her. At first she hesitated, and I considered running forward and snatching her. She was in the light from the windows, and if Tinkie opened the front door, I'd be caught red-handed.

I whistled again and tossed a niblet of the hamburger. In less than twenty seconds, Chablis was stuffed into the warmth of my jacket, munching the bun and burger.

The deed was done. I had committed theft. Chablis snuggled against my black heart as I ran through the night.

I took the back roads home. With the dog asleep in my jacket, I didn't bother covering the car. Not even a repo man would be out on such a cold and bitter night. I hurried around the house, still not really believing that I'd stooped to stealing Tinkie Bellcase Richmond's pet dog.

"I'll pamper you to pieces," I promised Chablis as I crept up the back steps. My timing was perfect. The fruitcakes were ready to come out of the oven. I wondered if any other Delaney woman had combined theft and baking. I suppose not. Multitasking is the obsession of my generation.

I was totally unprepared when the man stepped out of the bridal wreath beside the steps. His hand shot out and grabbed my arm. "I've been waiting here for nearly an hour," he said.

Only the fear of setting Chablis to barking kept me from screaming. I stifled the scream and spoke calmly. "Well, Harold, I didn't realize you'd taken to skulking around my yard." I shook free of his grip. I had to get inside and unload the dog before Chablis made her presence known. Harold worked side by side with Tinkie's father at the Bank of Zinnia, and he would easily recognize the dog.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"I have to go ... to the ladies' room." It was a statement no gentleman could question. Bathroom functions were never, ever up for discussion. I told him to wait in the kitchen for me as I rushed upstairs and put Chablis in my bedroom. Jitty, of course, was absent. It had been her idea to steal the dog, and she wasn't even around to help.

There was no time for recriminations. Harold Erkwell and the other fruitcakes waited for me in the kitchen. Perhaps it would be easier to give up tradition and let Dahlia House go.

I hurried back down, glad, at least, to step into the warmth of the room. I didn't want to get my hopes up, but perhaps Harold had come with good news--that the bank had approved my loan application. One look at his face told me I was a fool.

"You look flushed, Sarah Booth," he said from the shadows beside the sink. His was the soft, cultured voice of a man who never had to speak loudly to be heard. "Can I dare to hope that you're anxious to see me?"

There was a courtliness to Harold that barely covered his true nature--bottom-feeder. But, a bottom-feeder with bucks. Fine judgments from a dog thief. He stepped forward, and I took in his suit, impeccably cut, and his salt-and-pepper hair, trimmed to perfection. He cut a handsome figure.

I cut to the chase. "I have a headache, Harold." It wasn't a lie. My pounding head echoed my pounding heart. I was a novice at criminal behavior, and the episode had produced both a rush of anxiety and the most peculiar tingle of exhilaration.

"The bank is going to reject your loan application."

The news wasn't unexpected, but the loan had been my last hope. Even though I'd taken Chablis, the whole dognapping business was a finger in the dike, at best. I turned to the oven and began to remove the fruitcakes.

"I could," he stepped to the table, "put in a good word for you. Perhaps."

Very slowly I closed the oven door. "That would be very kind of you, Harold." I turned to face him. On certain levels and at certain times, conversation is still an art form. For decades, it has been the only weapon a woman is allowed. Though I'd disdained many of the talents Aunt LouLane tried to teach me, I'd proven an adept student at verbal strategies. Between a woman and a man there is a definite balance that must be maintained, a pretense of mutual respect.

"The board will discuss your loan in the morning."

His eyes were ice blue. Their clarity was tempered a bit by speculation, but the acuity had not suffered. He watched me carefully.

"Anything you say in my behalf would be greatly appreciated," I responded. Oh, the dance. No harem woman had ever performed with more nuances.

"It's a long shot," he said slowly, his pupils narrowing as he watched the effect of his words on me.

"I've always heard you were the master of such things," I answered, scoring another good one.

Harold's pupils shrank to pinpoints. "I don't know why I want you, Sarah Booth, but I do."

He had crossed the line. Directness was not part of the exchange. I could have told him that his desire sprang from his need for challenge, something that Harold had seen so seldom that it intrigued him. He was not accustomed to being denied.

"Once Dahlia House is sold, I'll leave Zinnia," I said, taking another tack.

"If I told the board that we were . . . involved, they might look more favorably on your loan. It would seem there was some . . . backing behind you."

No doubt. Harold had come to collect his payment up front, or behind, or any way he could get it. He was not a stupid man. "You can
tell
them whatever you think best," I pointed out.

"I couldn't lie to the board of directors. It would be unethical."

The things he wanted to do to me weren't exactly in the Ten Commandments, but that wasn't stopping him. My only option was to play for more time. "If the board's decision could be delayed," I suggested. "I need more time to think."

"You've been thinking for months now."

"What's another week?" I asked breathlessly, which wasn't artifice. "These things aren't to be taken lightly. It is the fulfillment of a woman's role, Harold. I want to be certain I can put my whole . . . self into it."

"You'll have an answer for me by Thanksgiving?" he asked.

"An answer for both of us," I replied, borrowing the bottom lip thing from Tinkie. I'd already stolen her dog; what the hell was a mannerism.

"Sarah Booth," he said urgently, stepping forward, his gaze fastened on my wet lip. I did it again with such force that it popped out of my mouth with an audible sound. He started toward me with a gasp.

I reached behind me, grabbed a hot fruitcake, and thrust it into his hands. "Take this and think of me," I said.

He juggled the cake.

I covered my face. "I can't bear this torment," I whispered. "I have to lie down." I'd suddenly remembered that I'd left my favorite Italian heels beside the bed, and if Chablis was a normal dog, my last pair of good shoes was in danger of complete destruction.

"I'll see you at Thanksgiving," Harold said, still shifting the cake from hand to hand.

I fled the kitchen, leaving Harold to show himself out. As I mounted the stairs, I heard a distinct sound of disapproval.

"Shut up," I warned Jitty. I was in no mood for her evaluation of the scene in the kitchen.

"He's not that bad," she said, following me up the stairs. "It's not like he was asking to marry you. He just wants a little female companionship. Maybe once a week. Twice at the most. Sitting behind a desk all day countin' his money, that's all he could hold up to."

"Jitty," I spat, "enough!"

I opened the bedroom door to find Chablis perched in the middle of my pillow. Or what was left of it. A single feather floated to the floor.

Jitty looked around the corner of the door. "I say cut off one of the dog's ears and send it with the first ransom note. That way Tinkie'll know you mean business."

I checked the note one last time. I'd cut the lettering from the local newspaper and used latex gloves and a hot-glue gun. It was amazing; all the tools of terrorism could be found in the local hardware store.

"If you ever want to see your dog alive again, you'll need $5,000." I enclosed a snippet of Chablis's sun-glitzed hair so Tinkie would know I had the goods.

Five thousand was a lot of money, but Tinkie had it to burn, and it was the smallest amount I could put toward the debt I owed at the bank. Five grand would buy me more time to figure out a legitimate way to save Dahlia House. One that didn't involve my healthy, at least for the moment, female organs.

Addressing the envelope was a problem, but I found enough letters in advertisements and finally cut them out and pasted them on. While Chablis dined on Swan-son chunky white chicken meat, I dropped the note in the mailbox in the middle of town. Tinkie would have it in her hands by eleven. I consoled myself with the fact that at least she would know Chablis was alive.