Authors: Carolyn Haines
Buried Bones (25 page)
Somehow I managed not to roll my eyes. "What other gossip did you overhear?"
"Oh, Oscar and Daddy are furious with Harold. They told him if he couldn't get Brianna to drop the suit, they were going to fire him."
I sat down across from Tinkie. "Why? Why are they blaming Harold? It's Brianna who's filing the suit."
Tinkie swallowed a mouthful of eggs and daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin before she spoke. "They think Harold hid the manuscript in the bank, thereby putting the bank in danger."
"But Harold said the manuscript wasn't in
Tinkie nodded. "That's true. It wasn't. Coleman Peters was there when Harold opened the box. There were some papers, financial things, some old photographs, deeds, letters, a few pieces of jewelry. That's all."
Those were the normal things kept in safe deposit boxes, as far as I knew. "No computer disks?"
She shook her head. "Oscar had already thought of that."
"Did anyone check
Harold's
safe deposit box?"
Tinkie lifted an eyebrow. "He voluntarily opened it. Nothing pertaining to
"So how can they blame him?" I was a little worried for Harold. He took his job very seriously.
"I don't know, but they do."
"Can Brianna really force the bank to open safe deposit boxes of other patrons?" This sounded like a violation of privacy or civil rights or something.
"Probably not, but the publicity itself will damage the bank. Or that's what Daddy and Oscar say." She finished off her eggs and pushed her plate back a little.
"Personally," she added, her eyes glittering. "I think it's because Harold is courting Brianna."
I schooled my face into a bland expression. "Are you certain?"
"He was there last night. It's hot and heavy."
I got up and poured us more coffee, mostly to avoid her curious stare. Damn Harold. He'd left my house and gone straight to Brianna. Another appointment my butt. He had a date.
"Aren't you going to eat?" Tinkie asked.
My appetite was effectively squelched. "I don't have time. I've got some running around to do."
"What's my first assignment?"
The question irritated me. I wasn't certain what I should do, much less Tinkie. But I had to come up with something, and there was an area where Tinkie could be far more effective than I could. "What do you know about Senator Jebediah Archer?"
"He's about a hundred and ten, but he still lives outside
I'd hoped for some political insight, but scandal was almost as good. "How about you have lunch with your father and pump him about the senator. I'm particularly interested in what happened up at
"Perfect," Tinkie said, scooping Chablis into her arms. "I'll get Daddy to meet me at The Club and we'll have a few martinis. He'll talk. Gin makes him gregarious."
"J. Edgar Hoover was at
Tinkie nodded. "Should I save my receipt? For tax purposes?"
It was a noble question and one that made me smile. Tinkie honestly thought I'd make enough money to file a long form. "Sure," I said. "Do that."
Researching the senator had been my next chore, and now I was left trying to decide how to proceed. My case was a mess. There was the distant past, the past, the book--all potential motives for the murder of a writer. There were a half dozen solid suspects, and maybe fifty more, depending on the scope of the book, which was still missing.
If I had ever doubted that the manuscript was the motive, I no longer did. Madame, Harold, even Lillian had indicated it was the source of danger. I had to find it.
I went upstairs, bathed and dressed, donning a peplum-cut wool jacket with a black velvet mandarin collar and some black wool slacks. The pants were tight, but I was finally over my fruitcake binge. All would be well in the end.
Jitty was conspicuous by her absence, but I didn't have time to worry about her. She was up to something. Whatever it was, I wouldn't have to wait long. We both shared the trait of impatience.
My first stop was the bakery in town, where I bought two coffees and three Danishes, which I promptly took to
The Zinnia Dispatch
society editor's private office. Cece eyed the white paper bag and licked her perfectly outlined, tawny lips. She'd obviously fully recovered from her panic attack.
"For me?" she asked even as she reached.
I gave her the bag, watching as she bit large into the cheese Danish that was her favorite. "Wonderful. Thank you, Sarah Booth. 1 was starving."
"My pleasure."
"So what do you want?"
There wasn't any point in trying to disguise the fact that I only stopped by when I needed something--an excuse to attend some function as her minion or some information. "You knew
She took a smaller bite of the Danish. "We became friends."
"Does he have any family?"
She chewed and stared. "You know, you're the only person who's asked that question. I did his obituary, and he has no one. Not that I can find. By the way, his burial is today at two o'clock."
Strange, but I'd never considered that there would be a funeral. The finality of it was startling. It was the first time
Cece pushed a copy of the newspaper across her jumbled desk to me. The memorial service was frontpage news. "Literary Figure Laid To Rest." The byline was hers. "Most investigators at least make an effort to keep up with the news. Especially when their friends work for the newspaper."
I ignored her jabs and scanned the story, growing more amazed with each paragraph. The acclaimed French filmmaker Ramone Gilliard was coming to Zinnia to give the eulogy. He was an old man, and ill, but he was coming to say goodbye to his friend. And the list of other notables was astounding. John Irving, John Grisham, T. R. Pearson, Dolly Parton, and Boy George, not to mention several famous artists.
"This is incredible." I leaned forward in my chair and pulled a Danish out of the bag. I hadn't intended to eat one, but I had to have some sustenance to help absorb this news.
"I know." Cece grinned.
"Where did you get all this information? Is it confirmed?"
"Harold told me about Ramone. Apparently Ramone and Lawrence had a pact that whoever died first, the other would do this. And I have a friend who does reservations at the airport in
"Brilliant." I was as impressed with Cece as with the list of names she'd come up with.
"Would you like to work as my photographer at the memorial service?" She grinned wickedly.
"I'd love it." Once again, Cece had come through with the perfect entree for me.
"You do know how to use a camera, don't you?"
"Sure." I did, in a fashion. How hard could it be? "I studied photography in college. And I made an A." True, as far as it went. I had shown what the professor called "artistic flair," even if I was a little shaky on the technical aspects.
"I'll see you at one o'clock, at the chapel. We need to set up and discuss the shots. Father McGuire is officially in charge, and this is one of the biggest things that's ever happened in Zinnia. I'm counting on you not to screw this up, Sarah Booth."
"Yeah, sure.
She shrugged one shoulder. "It doesn't really matter. The priest is agreeable, and he loved
"At one. I'll be there. Bring the camera." I crammed the rest of the Danish into my mouth, picked up the second cup of coffee, and left. There was a lot to do before the service.
Harold's car was not at the bank. I didn't intend to stop by to see him, but I hadn't been able to resist checking on his whereabouts. Dark images of what Brianna might be doing to him snaked through my brain.
I pushed them aside as unworthy of mental energy and drove to the sheriff's office. The courthouse was in a dither as secretaries put up notices stating that they were closing for the funeral. If celebrities hadn't been coming to town, I wondered if
There was a carnival air in the rotunda, with laughter echoing off the old tile as I made for the sheriff's office. Coleman, at least, was sitting at his desk, lounged back, with a steaming cup of coffee on the blotter in front of him.
He sat up when he saw me, then stood. For a moment we stared at each other. There was something he wanted to ask, but he was calculating his odds. Apparently he decided against a direct question because he signaled me into an empty interrogation room, nodded at a chair, and closed the door.
"Coffee?"
I shook my head. "No thanks. I had some with Cece."
"I wish she'da held off on her story until after the fact. Everyone around here's gone crazy."
"I saw."
"It's a memorial service for a man most of them didn't know. All they want is to rub up against someone famous."
Coleman was put off by all of the hoopla. "I wonder how
"I didn't know him very well, but I don't think anyone would want this commotion." He waved his hand toward the door.
We talked a minute about traffic and how two of his deputies were already locating parking for the hordes of rubberneckers. Burial was to take place on the grounds of
Patience was never my strong suit. "Did you find any matching prints?" I asked.
He folded his hands on the table that was between us. "No. We got prints, but they didn't match any we had on file. None in the national registry. I didn't think we would."
It was a long shot, but I'd been hopeful. Now I was disappointed, and I didn't bother to hide it. "So we don't know who handled the bag. What a bust."
"We do know that
If he didn't touch it, he didn't put it in the cabinet. Which was interesting in and of itself. "How did you find that out?
His
prints were on file?"
He shook his head. "I went over and fingerprinted the body."
It was a grotesque image, but I was grateful to Coleman for his thoroughness. He'd also earned my respect.
He'd figured the bag had come from
"So that leaves us nowhere."
"Maybe, maybe not." He went to his desk and got his coffee, coming back into the interview room and sitting down. He stared into his cup as if the secrets of the universe might be revealed. Damn him, he was playing me like a cheap harmonica. He knew I couldn't stand the role of patient waiter.
"What?" I demanded.
"Harold Erkwell is hosting a reception after the funeral."
A flash of annoyance shot over my skin, causing a flush. Coleman noted it but said nothing. Harold hadn't bothered to invite me. Hadn't mentioned it. Neither had Tinkie. I'm sure she'd assumed I was invited, but I wasn't.
"Are you going to it?" Coleman asked.
"As a photographer for the newspaper." Thank goodness for Cece.
"I know Erkwell, and he won't be serving in paper cups. If you could snag a few of the glasses that people drink out of . . ."
I didn't know whether to be flattered or put out that Coleman would think me capable of such a thing. I decided on flattered. "I can. Whose prints would you want?"
He smiled slowly. "You're the PI, you tell me."
"No suspects of your own?" I countered.
He held his smile but it was by an act of will. "You're not going to like this, but I do have a suspect."
