Bone to Be Wild (13 page)

“How will it look? One of the primary witnesses against me is caught trespassing on my property. Have you considered how that will refute any testimony you might give?”

“That's ridiculous.” I lowered the phone. The problem was, I had thought about it. Yet I'd trespassed anyway. Coleman would be mightily pissed off at me and Tinkie.

“Not so ridiculous. It's obvious you have a burn on for me. You're stalking me, tormenting me. Maybe you fabricated some of the details.” Gertrude didn't bother to hide her pleasure at my situation. “What are you hunting that's worth all of this?”

“Do you have a black pickup?” Tinkie asked.

“What?” Gertrude looked from Tinkie to me. “What's she talking about?”

“Do you own or drive a black pickup? It's a simple question.”

“No. And that's a one-syllable answer. You snuck in on horseback to see what kind of vehicle I was driving?”

Gertrude was mean but she wasn't dumb. Her expression brightened as she figured out why we were on her property. “You think I had something to do with the murder at Scott Hampton's club.” She patted her abundant bright red hair. “I'm like the Al Capone of Sunflower County. If a crime is committed, it has to roost at my door.”

When I started to say something sarcastic, Tinkie stomped my foot. Hard. “Gertrude, we're leaving. Call the sheriff if you want.” She took Scrapiron's reins from me and clucked to Sweetie Pie. “Let's get out of here.”

“I'll see you in court, Sarah Booth. I look forward to it.”

For the life of me I couldn't figure out why she wanted to goad me. She stood to spend the rest of her life in prison. And yet she couldn't stop herself. “Gertrude, you won't be my problem for long. You're about to end your days at the women's prison. Not exactly a vacation spa.”

“Don't count on it. I have a new lawyer.”

Something clicked. The whole conversation, Gertrude's changed attitude, suddenly made sense. She'd been dying to tell me this. For some reason, she thought a new lawyer would get my goat. “How nice for you. I hate to break it to you, but not even F. Lee Bailey could help your case. Graf will testify about what you did to him, and Coleman has evidence you killed the graduate student.”

“Don't be too sure.” She was aggravatingly smug.

Tinkie bit. “Who's your new lawyer?”

“Alton James.”

I almost choked. Alton James was the most high-profile defense lawyer in the nation. He didn't walk into a courtroom without a half-million-dollar retainer. He represented the worst of the worst and more often than not got them acquitted.

“Oh, you've heard of him.” Gertrude gloated. There was no other word for it. She brought out a cell phone and snapped a dozen photos. “Proof that you were on my property.”

“How can you afford James?” Tinkie asked. “You sold the B&B, but the proceeds won't come close to paying his fee.”

“I have a benefactor.” Gertrude patted her hair back into place. “I've been dying to see your face when you heard the news. So gratifying! Now I suggest you get off my property. Immediately.”

We didn't need a second invitation. I turned the horses around and Tinkie and Sweetie Pie led the way out. When we were out of earshot, Tinkie stopped. “How is she paying for Alton James? Oscar wouldn't be able to afford him and we're the wealthiest people in Sunflower County. Or I thought we were.”

“I don't know.” My fear subsided and had been replaced with rage. Gertrude had wantonly injured a number of people. A young grad student was dead because she'd poisoned him. And she possibly had the best lawyer on the planet, one known to prevent guilty people from paying for their crimes? It wasn't right.

“She might have a big-name lawyer, but Coleman has the evidence,” Tinkie said. “And you witnessed her torturing Graf and trying to kill you. For heaven's sake, Graf almost lost his leg because of her. She won't get away with this. Your testimony alone will put her in prison.”

“I just tainted my testimony.” It was true. By trespassing on her property, I'd played into the role of obsessed stalker. I'd weakened anything I might say in court. Tinkie didn't deny it. “I'm not leaving here without something to connect her to what's happening at the club. I know she's behind it. Her hatred of me is irrational.”

“What are you going to do?” Tinkie asked.

“Search her cottage.”

“You can't.” Tinkie tried to grab my wrist. “That's breaking and entering. That's a felony. You could get jail time. Or worse. You go in there alone without a witness and she may try to kill you.”

I didn't care. I'd risked and lost. Now it was double or nothing. “Will you wait for me here?”

Tinkie chewed her lip as she thought. “Yes.” She pushed the gun into my hand. “You've got thirty minutes. After that, I'll ride until I get a signal and then call the sheriff.”

Gertrude was not just mean and determined to ruin my life—she was guilty. I believed it to the bone. I had to find evidence of her part in what was happening at Playin' the Bones.

I ran down the trail with Sweetie Pie at my side, the gun tucked in my waistband. Panting from exertion, I circled the cottage. Gertrude was gone. But for how long? I pulled my car keys from my pocket and used a key to remove the screen from a back window and eased the old-fashioned window open. I had to find something. I couldn't walk away empty-handed.

Once I was inside, I went to the small library and began my search. The B&B financial records were on the desk, along with an appraisal. To my surprise, Yancy had paid two hundred thousand dollars more than the property was valued at. Why? I skimmed through more papers but found nothing.

I had to get out of there. Tinkie would have Coleman tracking me down, if Gertrude didn't come home and shoot me first. I tidied up her desk to hide my intrusion. A business card fell from the stack of papers. Bijou LaRoche. It wasn't evidence, but it sure led to speculation.

I snapped photos of the financials with my phone and then went back out the window where Sweetie Pie waited patiently, her attention on the path from the B&B. “Let's go home,” I said to my dog, who eagerly led the way out of the woods.

*   *   *

Tinkie had her cell phone in hand when I hailed her from the edge of the trees. We mounted the horses and headed toward Dahlia House at a gentle canter. It was too much action to allow chitchat, which was fine with me. I wanted to get home, put the horses safely in the pasture, have a drink, and get Tinkie to examine the financials.

At the boundary of Dahlia House land, Tinkie pulled Miss Scrapiron to a walk. “Sarah Booth, Alton James is a celebrity lawyer. We need to poke into this. Gertrude paid her mortgage on the B&B each month. The place provided a decent living. Now she sold the property to Yancy to make bond. She doesn't have the income stream to pay a big-name lawyer. Who is funding her? And why?”

Those were great questions, and ones I hoped I could at least partially answer once we were in the office. “Gertrude has obviously attracted some special interest. Alton James is a gun for hire. He's defended Nazis, child molesters, serial killers. If they have the money, he'll take the case.”

“So who's behind hiring him for Gertrude? It isn't like she's innocent and being railroaded by corrupt law enforcement. She's guilty as sin, and twice as ugly.”

“I found something.” I was eager to tell her.

“As luck would have it, you can tell me and Coleman at the same time,” Tinkie said. We'd walked up a slight rise and Dahlia House was a vision in the distance. The brown patrol car Coleman drove was parked in front of the house. He sat on the steps, obviously waiting for us.

“Do you think Gertrude called him?” I asked. He was going to be really, really pissed off at us.

“We'll find out soon enough.”

I didn't like the sound of that, but there was no running from it. We'd escaped Gertrude's property without injury. If she pressed trespassing charges, it wouldn't be the worst that could have happened.

*   *   *

Coleman prepared coffee while Tinkie and I untacked and gave the horses a good rubdown. Sweetie and Chablis abandoned us and went inside for some warmed up chicken and dumplings from Millie's Caf
é
—cooked especially for my hound. Coleman had been kind enough to heat the snacks for the dogs while Tinkie and I dealt with the horses.

Tinkie put the English saddle back on the rack and then ran an oil-soaked cloth over it. For a nonhorsewoman, she knew how to care for leather. “I don't think Gertrude called Coleman. He's too laid back. If she'd told him about the trespassing, he'd be on our asses like a duck on a June bug.”

“The ethical dilemma is whether we should confess.” I wiped down the bridles and hung them on pegs. The horses' grain was soaking in warm water and a little molasses—a nice hot mash. “We found—”

“No.” Tinkie brought her manicured hand down emphatically through the air. “End of story. No confessing.”

I fed the horses and let her persuade me. She had a good point. Telling Coleman of our actions would only worry him, which meant Oscar would be worried. Never a good turn of events. “Okay, mum's the word,” I conceded. “We won't tell. But we'll get Harold to help us with the financial stuff. And Gertrude's connection to Bijou.”

We entered the back door to the delicious aroma of coffee and a wonderful cinnamon smell. Sweet rolls!

Coleman brought a pan from the oven filled with Millie's homemade cinnamon buns. Tinkie fell on one with gusto. “Oh, this is good,” she said with her mouth full. We were starved after our brisk ride. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I smelled those tantalizing baked goods.

Coleman's gaze caught mine and held. “What's going on?” I asked.

“I don't want you to get broadsided by this. Gertrude has a new attorney. Alton James.”

I pretended to be surprised and choked on the sweet roll. Tinkie slapped me on the back to dislodge it and we managed to get through the moment.

“James sent notice he intends to speak with all of the prosecution witnesses,” Coleman continued. “You and Tinkie are on the list.”

“We don't have to talk to him.” I wasn't a lawyer, but I knew a few of my rights.

“No, you don't.” Coleman sat down at the table and picked up my cold hand. “It's up to the two of you. Sometimes, though, you can learn a lot by the questions asked.”

Coleman wanted to send us on a fishing expedition. His reasoning was obvious, but I didn't know if I could do it. I didn't want to think about Gertrude's trial. Or her high-dollar lawyer. Or the horror that hung over my head with the court case. Maybe I should have just shot her when I had the chance.

My tactic was to change the subject. “What's new in the Koby Shaver murder?”

Coleman got down to business. “Based on the crime scene, we feel the driver of the truck
could
also be the shooter. The angle of the shot would indicate the gun was resting on the window ledge.”

“Driving and shooting simultaneously, they had to be pretty darn good.” Tinkie ate the last bite of her sweet roll. “There are an awful lot of good shots around these parts. Lots of shotguns, too, what with the hunters and skeet shooters. Frisco Evans has some trophies to prove his shooting skills. And his only alibi is Angela, and she has a reason to want Scott to fail, too.”

“DeWayne is talking with those two right now,” Coleman said. “This case is going to be solved by motive rather than forensic evidence. Have you turned up anything?”

“Nothing solid.” I hated lying about the things I'd found at Gertrude's, but I wasn't sure they were relevant. “Farley is problematic. He's a zealot and filled with righteousness, but he has the best alibi of the lot.”

“Tell me about the preacher,” Coleman said.

“Farley is running a cult. It's a scary place,” Tinkie said. “You might check in on it when you get time. I have a bad feeling that something's wrong there, and I wouldn't be surprised to find domestic abuse. Very patriarchal place.”

“I read you loud and clear,” Coleman said. “I've heard some complaints in the past, but I could never pin anything on Jebediah. When I went to investigate, not a single member of his congregation would speak out. Farley is pious and filled with God's rules and regulations, except they don't apply to him.”

“What do you know?” Tinkie asked. She had caught the scent of good gossip.

“Farley grew up in Greenwood. He was in the police academy with me, but he didn't finish. Dropped out to preach. He said he could make more money working on Sunday than I could working seven days a week. He used to tell me how he could herd people like sheep. He said a slick preacher could part a widow from her pension and make her glad to go hungry.”

“What a total creep.” Tinkie was indignant.

I held up a hand. “Wait a minute. That doesn't sound like the guy I met.” I wasn't defending Farley, but he'd appeared to be a man who turned away from material things. He lived in what I considered poverty conditions. “The compound is bleak. A hobo wouldn't be thrilled to live in that campsite. They don't have running water or electricity. It's pretty basic.”

“The question to ask is whether Farley actually lives at the compound.” Coleman arched one eyebrow. “Sometimes, Sarah Booth, your naivety is just refreshing.”

I punched him in the arm, hard. I'd fallen for Farley's game and I hated it. “Where does he live?”

Coleman's grin was pure devilment. “You'll love this.”

“Dammit, tell us.” Tinkie was as curious as I was.

“Last spring he was the guest of Jewel Kelner.”

Tinkie and I both were gape jawed. Coleman took his finger and lifted my chin. “Don't catch flies, Sarah Booth.”