Smarty Bones (16 page)

“Maybe he could marry Snooki.” Cece aimed for comedy and hit her mark.

I grinned. “I think even she has more taste than to settle for Jeremiah. How has this happened to a man who had everything—brains, looks, and money?”

The curving driveway passed the gazebo where I’d first kissed Coleman on a dare. It had taken all of my middle-school courage to boldly kiss an older boy, but it was a bang-up memory. And now the scene of my daring foray into adulthood was in ruins. Half of the gazebo’s roof had collapsed. The foundation, built with bricks hand-fired by slaves, was still in good shape, but the wooden structure was a lost cause.

“What the hell has he been doing here? Everything has gone to hell.” I was angry. Jeremiah had destroyed Cece’s family home,
and
he’d tromped all over a bunch of my memories. “I think you should have him committed and take the property over.”

“My parents didn’t want me to have it,” Cece reminded me.

That would always be salt in her wound. “They wouldn’t want to see how Jeremiah has treated the place.”

She nodded. “Legally, it’s his to do with as he chooses.”

“
Legal
and
just
can be two different things. And if he ends up a ward of the men in white coats, maybe the place will revert to you.”

Cece parked in front of the house. “Let’s see if we can figure out the extent of his survival activities and beat it back to town. There’s nothing on this property for me except pain.”

I hurried after her. She wore five-inch heels and I had on flats, yet I still had trouble keeping up.

She opened the front door with a key. When I stepped inside, the smell hit me. It was like the dankest, moldiest men’s high school locker room ever invented. The stench was like a physical slap.

“It’ll knock you down and make you cry ‘Mama,’” Cece said. “Disgusting!”

“That is some funk!” I tried hard not to breathe. “Let’s grab his computer and hit the road.” I didn’t have enough oxygen to come up with creative curses.

Cece led the way to what had been the front parlor. In sixth grade, we’d gathered in a circle on the floor and played spin the bottle. Now the room was a barracks/classroom. The once-vivid antique Persian rug was clotted with mud and gunk.

Diagrams of weaponry adorned the walls, covering valuable artwork. Semi-automatics, powerful assault rifles—someone had diagramed the parts and uses of the guns in great detail. Pamphlets filled with kooky theories of the poor waging war against the rich were scattered over the floor. The brochures included Jeremiah’s prediction of the coming battles and his theories of how the “righteous and ordained
men
” would prevail.

“This is some sick shit,” she said, her face pale and sweat forming on her forehead.

“Should we box this crap up?” If Jeremiah kept acting like a total idiot, this might be evidence for Cece to use in a sanity hearing.

“A pox on Jeremiah and his stupidity. If he goes to the mental institution, then he goes. The house and property aren’t mine. They’ll never be mine. I can’t believe I let sentimentality get the better of me. I don’t even know what I’m doing here, to be honest with you.”

I put my arms around Cece and gave her a hug. At first she stiffened, but then she hugged me back. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.” I was there for the long haul, like a friend should be.

“Let’s open some windows and air this place out. Once the man musk is gone, maybe we can think more clearly.”

We set to work and an hour later, a hot wind blew through. In the Old South, homes were designed to allow cross-ventilation. We hadn’t explored the wings of the house, but the main rooms smelled much better.

Judging by their ankle-deep garbage, Jeremiah’s merry band of recruits had none of the military’s discipline or neatness. These were the dregs of a dying world. Folks who couldn’t fit into society and had become survivalists, gun lovers, men who were impotent in their regular lives and therefore had to hide out in a fantasy where weapons gave them power over people.

They were also nuts. And dangerous. Jeremiah, who hadn’t worked a day in the past two decades, was a member of the class he feared. He could no longer consider himself part of elite Delta society. He lived off a trust fund, which in my opinion was little better than the dole. All he had to do was look around at the decay and filth to get a picture of who he really was. Of course, self-blindness was part of his narcissism.

My emotions twisting, I stopped to open the draperies in the dining room. Mrs. Falcon’s once beautiful mahogany dining table was covered by a flip chart, papers, tracts printed by radical organizations, and notebooks filled with Jeremiah’s scrawling handwriting. I thumbed through the pages of a notebook.

Instructions and diagrams on making Molotov cocktails stopped me. Had one of Jeremiah’s minions tried to harm Olive Twist? Had Jeremiah done it himself?

“Saint Thomas doing handsprings,” I said as I took it to Cece. With the air clear, my creativity in cursing had returned.

Her hands clenched as she read the damning evidence. “You don’t really think this bunch of yahoos would put something like that into action, do you? I mean, talking about it and doing it are two different things.”

Reality loomed large between us. Someone had attempted to bomb Olive or Boswell or both. Fact. And the notebook held a recipe for just such a firebomb.

I wanted to cheer her up, even if I offered false hope. “Most guys like this are blowhards. They talk the talk but then go home and drink a six-pack, kick their dogs, smack their wives, and fall asleep on the sofa.”

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

I punched her arm lightly. “Sort of.” But I had to be honest. “Jeremiah isn’t rational, Cece. The man you loved as an older brother—he’s not in residence these days.”

“It could’ve been one of Jeremiah’s disciples.”

I couldn’t argue with her logic. “We’ll take this to Coleman. It isn’t evidence Jeremiah did anything, but it’s evidence. In fact, all of this,” I waved my arm to indicate the state of the house, “is evidence Jeremiah isn’t thinking with all parts of his brain.”

“First the Molotov cocktail, then poison. Twist was the target, wasn’t she?” Cece asked.

“Probably. But there’s another possibility. Did Twist poison Boswell because he meant to blackmail her?”

“What do you think?”

“Twist is twisted.” I’d been wanting to say that since I met her.

Cece groaned. “You need better material, dah-link! Your punning sucks.”

“But you did smile,” I pointed out. “Mission accomplished.”

“I have to tell Coleman about this,” Cece said. “The class warfare bullshit, the Molotov cocktail diagrams—Jeremiah needs to be institutionalized. I can’t risk he’ll declare war on the whole town of Zinnia just to protect his cherished—and
fabricated
—heritage.”

“They’ll likely send him to Whitfield.” Mississippi State Hospital in Whitfield was a public mental health institution. For those without insurance or families unwilling to spring for pricey private institutions, the state facility was a viable option. Jeremiah had inherited wealth, but I was willing to bet he’d run through all the cash. If the Falcon lands were in an unbreakable trust, which I hoped they were, Jeremiah would be destitute.

“He doesn’t have medical insurance. He hasn’t for years. He doesn’t believe in it.” Cece was growing angrier by the second. “I mean, the man inherited a fortune and he’s squandered all the savings. He leases the land for a tidy amount. And he has
no
insurance!”

“Take it easy. He can get care at MSH.” I understood her frustration.

“I think I have a great case for involuntary commitment, don’t you?” Cece asked.

“I wouldn’t count on that, Mr. Cecil,” a deep male voice said.

We whirled around to find a man standing in the doorway. He was enormous. At least seven feet tall and three hundred muscular pounds. He blocked the doorframe in all direction.

Cece squared her shoulders. “I don’t know who you are, but get out of my house.”

“It isn’t your house. It’s Jeremiah’s, and he sent me to collect his things. When he hears you’ve been trespassing, he’s not gonna like it.” His grin was like a jack-o’-lantern’s. Crooked teeth, big head.

“If I report to the sheriff what Jeremiah’s up to, he’ll never see the light of day. I’ll have power of attorney to sell everything here, including the land. The proceeds will be used to defray his medical bills.”

“You can’t do that.”

“What’s your name?” I stepped forward.

“You’re that nosy private investigator. You’re so smart, find out yourself. I’m going to talk to Jeremiah, and he’ll put a stop to your plans. Now, you two get out before I toss you out. And you can put the notebook back where you found it. In fact, you’ll walk out of here empty-handed, just like you came in.”

“My brother is in serious trouble. I’m trying to help him.”

“He don’t want help from the likes of you. He’s told us all about you. Every disgusting detail.”

I moved in front of Cece. “I suggest you shut your piehole.”

“I’d love it if you tried to make me. Uppity bitches need to learn how to act in front of a man. You’ll learn your place quick enough, which is flat on the floor, crawling.

He was big, and he had plenty of sense. If I went for him, he could slap me silly and call it self-defense. I wished for a loaded gun. A .22 would be fine. I’d pop him in the foot and listen to him holler.

“Let’s get out of here.” Cece latched on to my arm. She knew how my mind worked. “It isn’t worth it, Sarah Booth. Let’s go. Coleman will obtain a search warrant and take care of my brother.”

“Call the law on your kin. That’s what creatures like you do.” His disdain for Cece was palpable.

“Listen, meathead, give me a reason—”

Cece snatched me backward. “Outside,” she whispered. “Now!”

Tension radiated from her and I didn’t argue. When we were at the car she almost pushed me into the passenger seat. “What’s wrong with you? He had a gun tucked in his waistband.”

“I have a gun, too.” I did, but it was in the trunk of my car.

“Maybe you’re comfortable restaging the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral, but I don’t want to be shot. I think that guy would have killed us without blinking an eye. We’re less than roaches in his opinion.”

She was right, and when my nose was rubbed in the reality, I realized how dangerous he could have been. “Let’s hit it. I’ll call Coleman while you drive.”

Cece tore down the drive while I punched my phone. Before I could connect with the sheriff’s office, I received an incoming call from Harold.

“Where in tarnation are you, Sarah Booth? I’m driving all over Sunflower County hot on your trail.”

“Cece and I are leaving Magnolia Grove. It’s a long story.”

“Meet me—”

“At the courthouse.” I wanted to speak with Coleman in person.

“I’m on my way.”

Folks in Sunflower County were laying low from the heat, so we wheeled into town in record time. Cece and I were standing on the courthouse lawn when Harold Erkwell pulled up.

“Tinkie said to call her,” Harold slammed the car door. “She’s determined to go to Lexington, even though Oscar told her she couldn’t. She was having a confab with Oscar, and I’m a little worried.”

“What were they talking about?”

“I don’t eavesdrop on my boss and his wife, but I’d be willing to bet Buford and Jeremiah were a main topic. Whatever it was, Oscar is mighty upset and Tinkie was about to cry. No matter you how cut it, Buford is a Richmond, and Oscar feels an obligation toward him.”

“What are you doing out of the bank?” I asked. It wasn’t part of Harold’s normal routine to drive around the countryside during work hours.

“Looking for you. Olive Twist got the okay for the exhumation of the Lady in Red. Judge Colbert abruptly reversed himself. Frances Malone asked me to track you down. She left several messages, but you were out of pocket.”

“I can’t believe Twist. This is a hornets’ nest. Someone threw an incendiary device in her room, and her assistant was poisoned. Yet she won’t back off even long enough to let things cool down.”

“She’s going gangbusters,” Harold agreed. “She keeps it up, she’ll get herself killed.”

“I have to do what I can to protect her.” It was certainly a thankless task, but I couldn’t walk away from my duties. The last thing Sunflower County needed was for something bad to happen to Olive. “Where’s Dr. Webber?”

Harold shook his head. “Don’t know. I heard he checked out of The Gardens. You be careful, Sarah Booth. And you, too, Cece. To someone with good sense, this sounds like a tempest in a teapot, but I gather this whole Lady in Red situation could be a career-maker for Twist and her ilk. Or at least a lot of money. Folks have killed over a lot less. I wouldn’t want my favorite journalist and unmarried private eye to get caught between the ambitions of two academics eyeing fat book contracts.”

“We’ll take care,” I promised.

Harold gave a little salute and drove away.

“He still carries a torch for you, Sarah Booth,” Cece said.

“Harold will find the love of his life. And so will you.”

“I’ll talk to Coleman about my brother’s activities. Too bad we couldn’t grab any of his papers to show the sheriff. I didn’t even see a computer.”

“I didn’t, either. But he has to have one. Anyway, I’d better check in with Tinkie. We need to be in Lexington if they’re going forward with the Lady in Red and I’m a little worried about her.”

“I can walk to my car at Millie’s. Might have to get another piece of that pie to take home for a late-night snack.” She pecked my cheek with a kiss. “Call me and let me know that everything is fine and I’ll give you a report on what happens with Jeremiah.”

“It’s a deal.”

*   *   *

By the time Tinkie and I got to Lexington, the Lady in Red was exhumed and on her way to the state lab for tests. Dead bodies littered my history, but viewing a hundred-year-old corpse didn’t headline my idea of fun events. Olive had gotten her way with the body, and she would be intolerable.

Sheriff Peeples had supervised the exhumation and now prowled the Odd Fellows Cemetery’s perimeter for wayward spectators or troublemakers, his scowl an opera of disapproval for Olive and us.