Smarty Bones (11 page)

“Oscar is really mad at Buford,” Tinkie said, her focus on the highway but her thoughts clearly on her husband and family. “He is such a disappointment.”

“I don’t blame Oscar. Buford is a fool.”

“Oscar said, ‘Maybe they’ll shoot Buford, the silly bastard. Buford is a moron. He’s got a thousand rolls of toilet tissue and the IQ of a dead snail. I hope Coleman puts him under the jail.’”

Tinkie was damned good at impersonating her husband. And I thought I had acting chops. Something wasn’t right, though. “So why are you upset? Everything Oscar said is true.”

“There’re rumors that Buford also has weapons.”

I wanted to come up with a witty reply that would explain everything, only I couldn’t. “All those good ole boys have guns. It’s compensation for … well, men who are inadequate need to feel powerful in some fashion. Guns and killing helpless animals make them feel strong.”

“Oscar said if Buford gets arrested, I’m not to bail him out. He also said he’d cut off his allowance if he made a public jackass of himself.”

“A few weeks in jail might smarten him up.” Doubtful, but why dash her hopes.

Tinkie motioned she wanted to pull over. I needed a cup of coffee so I pointed out a fast-food drive-through. Tinkie eased off the highway and joined the line. An emotional storm moved across her face.

“What’s wrong?” Worry ate at her with sharp little teeth.

She ordered two coffees, and I didn’t press. The sun was hotter than six degrees of hell even with the air conditioner blowing hard. She found a shady spot and parked.

“Exactly what is wrong with Oscar?” I asked.

She checked the rearview mirror as if we were being followed. “I found this in his jacket pocket.” She pulled a folded piece of paper from her purse and handed it to me.

Meet me tonight. Dr. Twist has fabricated material about your family. I have evidence, but it will cost you.

There was no signature. I considered the many implications of Tinkie’s revelation. “Who gave this to Oscar?”

Her lips quivered, as if she might cry. “I can’t be certain, but from the paper and handwriting, I think it was Jimmy Boswell. After the firebomb incident. I think he slipped the note in Oscar’s pocket.”

“Did Oscar meet with him?”

“I don’t know.” She cleared her throat. “Last night, Oscar disappeared for a couple of hours. He could have met Boswell then.”

“So what? Surely you don’t suspect Oscar of trying to poison Boswell or Twist.”

“Of course not.” Righteous indignation pushed her tears away. “I’m worried Twist caught on to what Boswell was doing and killed him herself. But if that’s the case, she’s smart enough to implicate Oscar. She’d do it for meanness.”

Traffic whizzed by as we sat beneath a pecan tree beside a strip mall and a fast-food joint. The thermometer in the car showed ninety-four degrees.

“How do you want to handle this?”

“Find out if Oscar met with Boswell, and if he did, what happened between them.” She shifted into drive and edged to the highway. “Why didn’t Oscar just tell me? We promised not to keep secrets from each other.”

“I don’t know.” But I had a guess. “The Richmond family honor is at stake. Maybe Oscar doesn’t want to taint that for you, especially if all of this is made-up bull-crap Olive is trying to sell as fact.”

“I married Oscar, not his name. Who cares what happened two hundred years ago?”

I laughed, but I wasn’t mocking her, because her heart was true. Yet family name and reputation carried a lot of weight in the South. In the current climate, the charge of being Lincoln’s lover might shock a few people, but to be labeled an accomplice in his assassination was completely different. Time wouldn’t fade that stain. “A logical attitude, but if the Bellcase name were linked with political assassination, you might see things differently. And don’t forget, we’re looking at current illegal acts. Someone tried to blow up Olive Twist and killed Boswell.”

“If Buford and Jeremiah killed that young man, they have to be punished. It’s just that … Buford used to be somebody. And Jeremiah, too. People looked up to them. We were little kids, so we don’t remember. Buford served on the bank’s board of directors. He went into financial advising and made money for a lot of people. He only started drinking when the economy tanked. Now he’s like a joke. It just hurts me.”

Her conversation triggered an old memory. Buford coming out of the courthouse with my father. They both wore suits and laughed as they walked in dappled sunshine to Millie’s for coffee. Buford was handsome, well groomed, and well liked by my father and the people they passed. I’d been a kid, as Tinkie said. And I’d forgotten the admirable Buford.

“All I’m saying is Oscar and Cece may act like this doesn’t bother them, but it does. There’s history here. Everything isn’t black-and-white.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“It doesn’t change what we have to do. I just wish Buford would consider the impact of his actions on others.”

Drunks had no conscience, as far as I could tell. Their needs were all they thought of. No sense saying it, though. Tinkie knew it as well as I did.

Easing into the traffic, Tinkie aimed for the southbound lane of the highway that would take us to Holmes County.

“Who do you think killed Boswell?” I asked as the sun-soaked fields of green slipped past us.

She didn’t hesitate. “I think Olive did it. He betrayed her on two fronts. With Webber and Oscar. She found out and acted out of rage.”

“But you agreed to work for her to prove her innocence.” Her lack of even a shade of gray surprised me. Tinkie wasn’t duplicitous.

“And I’ll do my best. But I’m convinced what we’ll prove is her guilt. And I won’t be unhappy by those results.” She cut a sly look at me. “Dr. Webber makes a lot of sense. And he’s very persuasive.”

“You think he’s handsome, don’t you?” I slapped the dashboard. “You’ve got a crush on the professor.”

“I’ve always had a weakness for academics, or anyone with doctor in front of his name. Why, when I was a junior at Ole Miss, Dr. Mitchell was the Canterbury scholar. He whispered old English in my ear when we were making out. Honestly, it just weakened my knees.”

“Tinkie Richmond!” I couldn’t believe it. “You dated your professor? And Old English turned you on?” I wasn’t certain which part of her revelation was more provocative.

“Of course we didn’t date. That would’ve been against the rules. We just kissed in his office. It was really innocent, but very exciting. You know, forbidden passion. And I swear, ‘The Wife of Bath’ is exquisite. So bawdy!”

“You are a scandal.”

Tinkie laughed. “Oh, don’t play innocent with me. I’m sure you had your flirtations in college. The theater department was a hotbed of steamy sex. Do you remember Carlos Rodriguez? Oh, he was the heartthrob for many girls. Of course I couldn’t date him because he didn’t belong to a fraternity, but he was so sexy.”

“My lips are sealed.” I’d had a crush on the handsome Carlos, but I’d never acted on it. He was the Latin lover who made the rounds—and won the male lead in every production for the four years he was in school. Had he not been so busy putting notches on his belt, I might have fallen for him.

“You’ll end up telling me everything,” Tinkie said with confidence. “You always do.”

She slowed for a roadblock as she approached the Odd Fellows Cemetery. “Uh-oh. Things are heating up.” She parked on the roadside. “Grab my camera, Sarah Booth. We may get a photo of Boswell’s killer. And of course I want to document this for our client. God knows she loves being filmed.”

I took in the chaotic scene. “Half of Zinnia is here.”

Several hundred people milled in and around the cemetery. Many were society ladies, wilting in business suits and pumps. They’d come to protest the exhumation.

Tinkie couldn’t mask her disapproval. “You know, a Daddy’s Girl would never cause a spectacle like this. It’s unseemly to dig up a dead woman and hold a press conference about it.”

“Bad taste is the least of our troubles,” I said, pointing to four men armed with hunting rifles. Second Amendment nutcases took the Bill of Rights to the extreme. I was always leery of an emotionally unbalanced person carrying a loaded weapon. With their sweat-stained camo T-shirts, beer guts, swagger, and guns, they seemed more than half a bubble off plumb.

“Sarah Booth, this could get out of hand.” Tinkie had the same thought.

“An understatement, Tink.” We stopped halfway to the cemetery. “If Twist persists in this, someone
will
be hurt.”

“There’s the coroner.” Tinkie pointed through the crowd to Meshach in his hot suit. The man believed in personal presentation. He held an envelope in his hand and approached Olive Twist with it extended. He spoke a few words and left the way he’d come. Olive opened the envelope and read for a moment.

“Uh-oh, her desires have been thwarted and she’s mad.” Tinkie’s eyes twinkled. “Look how her face went pale and then red. Sure sign her temper is up.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Olive called out. “My request for exhumation has been denied. I will pursue this matter legally. I promise the mystery of the Lady in Red will be solved. I will prove she’s a relative of prominent Delta families and that she was involved in a nefarious crime.”

When the first tomato flew through the air, I thought Olive had been shot. The red splotch on her white blouse looked, for a second, at least, like blood. By the time three or four rotten tomatoes had splattered her, I realized a troublemaker was pelting her with spoiled fruit.

An enraged shriek let me know Dr. Twist failed to find a scintilla of humor in the situation. “Who’s responsible for this?” she demanded. “Sheriff, arrest whoever did this. I want them charged with deadly assault.”

“Ma’am, it’s a tomato, not a hand grenade.” Holmes County sheriff Adams Peeples was a tall, slender black man with studied calm.

“It’s that idiot Buford,” Tinkie whispered in my ear, and pointed to a tall holly hedge where the fruit pelter had hunkered down. “At least he isn’t shooting hollow points. Let’s take him out.”

“Are you serious?” I checked out her expensive sundress and bejeweled sandals. “You want to tackle him in a dress?”

“I don’t intend to get dirty. You tackle him. Once he’s on the ground, I’ll stand on him. I can put a hurting on him.”

It was pointless to argue with Tinkie. I was the one wearing jeans and boots. I was the taller and heavier partner. I was the muscle. “Okay.” I broke away from the crowd and circled behind the hedge. It wasn’t just Buford involved. Jeremiah was handing him the overripe tomatoes and he was tossing them with deadly accuracy.

Twist had taken refuge behind the sheriff’s car, and a swarm of tomatoes burst against the white and green cruiser. So far, the local constabulary showed no interest in stopping the fruit attack.

“Buford, dammit!” I slapped a tomato out of his hand just as he was about to hurl it. “Stop this shit or you’ll go to jail.”

“I doubt it,” Jeremiah said. “We don’t listen to the likes of you anyway.”

Jeremiah had made it abundantly clear that anyone who supported Cece was his enemy. I’d given him a piece of my mind several years back and it had rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. The only thing he’d accomplished in his miserable life was to shut out his last remaining family member and doom himself to loneliness and hate.

“You think it’s fun throwing tomatoes?” I asked.

“Yeah. It’s fun,” Buford said. “Big fun.”

“Yeah,” Jeremiah brilliantly added.

I picked up a crate of tomatoes and started throwing at both of them. I scored a few direct hits before they reorganized. By then, Tinkie had arrived with the sheriff.

“Arrest them,” she said. “They’re a danger to the community. Vandalism. Flat-out stupidity—I don’t care what the charge is, just lock them up.”

A cluster of armed men stood beneath an old cedar tree in a corner of the cemetery. They talked and nodded toward Twist. The sheriff was well aware of the potential for violence.

“This is a volatile situation. Dr. Twist will keep stirring the pot until she gets media attention. She’s willing to risk her life for a spot on the six o’clock news. Those two buffoons”—I indicated Buford and Jeremiah—“will be goaded into acting so stupendously stupid the national media will be down here. Lock them up for their own protection.”

“Not a bad idea.” Sheriff Peeples snapped cuffs on Buford and Jeremiah before they knew what happened. “Let’s head to the jail so you can tell me all about your rights as citizens of the great state of Mississippi.”

Like it or not, I needed to talk to Olive. I herded Tinkie in that direction. “Should we drop her case?”

“Nope. This way we’re on the inside. We’ll know what she’s up to.”

I considered it as we crossed the cemetery, moving from one shady patch to the next to avoid the sun. “Do you believe what Dr. Webber said about Boswell’s secret stash of videotapes?”

Tinkie stared at Olive as she berated a group of Heritage Pride Heroes. The professor obviously had a serious death wish. “Maybe. Olive is certainly self-destructive. Look at her.” She used her palm to remove a sheen of perspiration from her brow. “On the other hand, I don’t trust Webber as far as I can throw him.”

“I thought you liked him.” I was surprised.

“Oh, he’s sexy and smart. But he’s a snake. He certainly thinks well of himself, as does Olive.”

“I don’t understand the standards academics judge themselves by.” Things were very different in the theater department at Ole Miss. The measuring stick of success was a role on Broadway or in a film in Los Angeles. “Is Webber successful?”

“He’s a prince among paupers in his own reviews. And Olive is a princess. We walk amongst royalty.”

We were still chuckling when we approached Olive’s side. “Thank you for saving me from those nabobs,” she said. “Lord, the ignorance here is abysmal.”

“Our pleasure,” Tinkie interjected before I could point out we weren’t really concerned for her safety when tomatoes were the weapon of choice.

“It seems a petition to stop the exhumation was presented to the judge. He halted the process to consider the petitioner’s views. I’m positive I’ll prevail, but it’ll delay things.” She tried brushing tomato pulp from her clothes to no avail. The stain only spread over the left side of her blouse. “I should sue those cretins for ruining my clothes.”