Smarty Bones (17 page)

Tinkie pinched my arm. “Here she comes, strutting like Tom Turkey in a yard full of hens.”

We stood in the center of the Odd Fellows Cemetery in Lexington. The open grave where the Lady in Red had rested was only ten yards away. The earth reminded me of a raw wound.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” Olive asked. She wore a white lace blouse with a high neck, long sleeves, and a million tiny buttons. Her black skirt’s hem dropped below her calves. Her huge feet were encased in black patent boots that caught the sun and winked as she walked. She had the worst taste in clothing I’d ever seen. Prim and tasteless seemed to be her fashion choices.

“Aren’t you about to die of heatstroke?” I asked. “It’s got to be ninety-five degrees and you’re wearing boots?”

“In the Northeast, we understand fashion. We can’t all run around barefoot and pregnant.”

One day I would lose my control and smack Olive right in the nose. Tinkie’s fists were balled. She, too, felt the need to knock some sense into Olive.

“Neither Tinkie nor I is pregnant,” I assured her. “Nor are we barefoot. But when you develop a raging case of athlete’s foot from those hot boots and your toes rot off, don’t come crying to me.”

A slice of doubt moved across her features. “Enough about fashion. Who poisoned Boswell?”

“I’m shocked you noticed he was dead,” Tinkie said.

“Don’t be silly. I had to make my own coffee this morning and use inferior beans I bought at the Piggly Wiggly. Of course he’s dead or he would have served me in bed.”

I restrained Tinkie with a touch on her shoulder. Nothing would shake Olive out of her self-involvement. Best not to allow her egotism and prejudice to get under our skins. “You do realize you’re still a suspect in his murder?”

“Totally ridiculous. Coleman will never believe I did such a thing. He sees into my heart.”

So now he was Coleman to her and he had X-ray vision that penetrated the black nut of her heart. Tinkie’s hold on my arm restrained me. “Why didn’t you drink coffee yesterday morning? It was
your
special beans,
your
grinder. You don’t strike me as the generous type. Why did you forgo coffee?”

“My stomach was upset. I’m very delicate. I was afraid the acid from the coffee would engage my gag reflex. That would have been unpleasant for me, and for Jimmy.”

“But you allowed Boswell to drink your coffee?” Tinkie asked. She got right to the heart of Olive’s selfishness.

“He’d already brewed it when I woke up. Of course I told him I would deduct the cost of the beans from his pay.” Olive sighed. “Just think. I could be dead.”

“Don’t tempt me,” I said under my breath. “So what’s on your agenda now?”

“Research. There are church records of the Richmonds, Falcons, and Erkwells. I may find something interesting.”

“Search all you want. You won’t find a thing.” Tinkie was confident. “That woman, whoever she was, is not an ancestor of Oscar or Cece.”

“Then your husband wouldn’t mind giving me a DNA sample, would he?” Olive was cunning. I had to hand it to her.

“You’ll have to ask Oscar yourself.”

“I’ll do just that. I can be very persuasive with an intelligent man. I wonder if Ms. Falcon would consent. Buford agreed, but now he’s reneged.” Perplexion dropped over her features. “If they had nothing to hide, why wouldn’t they give a sample?”

Tinkie’s jaw clenched so tightly I heard her teeth grind. “Maybe because they view you as an elitist, bigoted bitch?”

“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee. Isn’t that what your Southern heroine always said? Look, I’ve won this round, and I’ll win the war. Just like last time.”

“Olive, I think you’d best walk away.” I had Tinkie by the back of her shirt. If I let loose, she’d fly all over the professor and it wouldn’t be pretty.

“You two are so entertaining. It’s like watching tadpoles in a mud hole.” Olive pivoted and headed out of the cemetery. “Find out who killed Boswell. And figure out what Dr. Webber is up to. He’s probably the killer. I suspect he meant to do me in. Now get busy. Chop-chop!” She tossed her commands over her shoulder as if Tink and I weren’t worth her full attention.

“I am going to kill her,” Tinkie vowed. “Before the day is out, most likely.”

“She’s not worth the lead it would take to plug her.”

Tinkie laughed. “The sooner she leaves town, the sooner our collective blood pressure will go down.”

*   *   *

I returned to Dahlia House to confront one hungry kitty and one lethargic hound dog. Pluto sat on the front steps, his tail flicking his displeasure at being left without numerous menu choices.

I sat down beside him for a moment to try to make amends. As I stroked his sleek black fur and baby-talked him, he started to purr. I was home—order was restored in his world. He was not a happy puss when both Graf and I were out of the house.

Sweetie came over and I rubbed her long, silky ears. Hounds have the most expressive faces, and Sweetie’s showed bliss. The sun was hot on my legs and face, but there was contentment in sitting on the steps, just as I had as a child during the long, late-summer days.

A sudden fantasy of walking into Dahlia House and hearing my mother, busy in the kitchen, took hold of me. She didn’t cook all the time, but when she did, it was such a treat. My father and I would eat in the kitchen, sometimes with a couple of their friends. It would be festive and casual and fun.

I was startled out of my fantasy by a golden rope that fell over me and was pulled taut, penning my arms to my sides. “What the—”

“Don’t you dare curse.” My captor wore a red, blue, and gold formfitting costume. And brother, did she have the form to fit. Enormous, perky ta-tas rose above a nineteen-inch waist and swelling, voluptuous hips. A golden crown rested in dark black hair.

“Diana Prince!” I knew who she was. Wonder Woman! One of my favorite cartoon characters, though she was a sexist creation. Still, she had super strength, super speed, and the ability to make people tell the truth. Now, that would be useful in my current line of work.

The lasso shook free and fell. “I don’t need no lasso to see you’re pinin’ for your mama.” Jitty took the form of the Amazon goddess of the comics, but she hadn’t bothered to upgrade her accent. She sounded just like Jitty.

“Okay, so you’re roaming the halls of the great comic-book heroines. What message are you trying to convey?”

“Sarah Booth, you are one lazy chile. Sittin’ here on the porch, moonin’ about with a hound and a black cat. Put your thinkin’ cap on. What’s the story on Diana Prince?” Jitty was all about the lecture and never about giving a simple answer. She struck a pose and light reflected off the silver bands that encased her forearms.

“Let’s see.” I hadn’t thought of Wonder Woman in years, though Jitty’s portrayal reminded me that I’d once fantasized about her magnificent superpowers. “She’s a princess, the ruler of a tribe of Amazon women. She fights to bring peace to the planet, and she can make people tell the truth with her golden lasso.”

“Your brain ain’t all turned to mush.”

Jitty was never free with a compliment either.

“So, what’s shaking in the world of superheroines? And aside from the ass-kicking costume, why Wonder Woman?”

Jitty’s response came in the form of another question. “Where is that Olive Oyl person?”

“Dr. Twist is at The Gardens, I presume. Or she might be in Jackson making the state investigator’s office a hellhole. She has a knack for bringing stress and discord wherever she appears.”

“Forget Twist the twit. You need to find the truth about the Lady in Red, Sarah Booth.”

“No kidding.” She was pissing me off. “Do you have any suggestions how I might go about that? I don’t have a lasso of truth.”

“Have you bothered speaking with Oscar?”

“Tinkie’s Oscar?” I didn’t see the point.

“Maybe he’ll tell you what he won’t tell Tinkie.”

I sat up. I hadn’t considered such a thing. “Is Oscar related to the Lady in Red?” I’d never entertained the idea Olive’s accusation could be true.

Jitty twirled her lasso.

“Was the Lady in Red involved with Abraham Lincoln?” Jitty could answer if only she would. Almost everyone involved in the wacky case hung out beside Jitty in the Great Beyond. All she had to do was track Honest Abe down and interrogate him.

“You know I can’t tell you secrets from the Great Beyond. Why do you keep askin’ such things?”

“Because you
could
tell me if you wanted.” I didn’t care that I sounded spoiled and bratty.

“Rely on yourself, Sarah Booth. That’s what your mama would say.”

She was right about that. And Wonder Woman would say the same. “I do rely on myself.”

“Better get in the kitchen and cook up some vittles for your man.”

I stood slowly. Pluto reached up and dug his claws into my kneecaps. I thought I’d dance off the steps backward but managed not to break my neck. “Pluto! What’s with you?” When I looked up, Jitty was gone.

I disengaged Pluto’s claws and walked toward the kitchen. She was right. I should prepare something fantastic for Graf. Lately, he’d done most of the cooking. I would surprise him with my culinary skills.

“Right!” Jitty’s voice echoed around the kitchen.

I whirled around, but there was no evidence of Jitty at all. She just had to have the last word.

Pluto and Sweetie followed me to the cabinets. When I reached for one of my favorite recipe books, a note fell from the pages. I picked it up and discovered my mother’s lovely handwriting, a recipe for curried shrimp salad. Perfect for a hot September evening. I had just enough Gulf shrimp in the freezer. And I had a plan!

*   *   *

“Why, Sarah Booth, I had no idea you were an aficionado of the curry.” Oscar reached for a third serving of the shrimp salad.

“My mother’s recipe.” I opened another bottle of the crisp California pinot Graf had brought from the land of oranges, grapes, and movie stars. My intention was to help Oscar to a drunken state. Then, if my questions offended him, he wouldn’t remember tomorrow.

Tinkie put down her fork and watched me. Behind her baby blues, her brain was churning. I hadn’t told her of my goal—I would never solicit her help in getting her husband drunk—but she was on to me nonetheless. She wasn’t my partner because she was slow.

“Have more wine,” she urged Oscar.

When I began to clear the table, Graf snatched my hand and pulled me into the dining room. The swinging door closed. “What the hell are you and Tinkie up to?”

I wanted nothing more than to kiss him. I’d had a bit of wine myself, and my libido was thrumming. I put my hand in his thick hair and twisted my fingers. “We’re getting him drunk so I can question him.”

“You’re not far behind him.” Graf’s good humor was restored. “Oscar will be hurting tomorrow.”

“I know.” I was suddenly remorseful. Oscar was a good guy, and I’d plied him with liquor.

“Cheer up. He’ll live.” Graf took my elbow and led me back into the kitchen. Tinkie arched her eyebrows and I nodded.

“Graf, will you help me find a file in the office?” She kissed Oscar’s cheek. “We’ll be right back, sweetheart.”

I was left alone with Oscar.

“Tinkie is something special,” Oscar slurred.

“She is, indeed.” I captured his hand on the table and held it firmly, forcing his attention to me. “Oscar, are you related to the Lady in Red?” I asked him outright.

It took a moment for his gaze to latch on to me, but then he looked down at the table. He couldn’t hold my gaze and fib. “Don’t lie to me, please.”

“Maybe.” He tried to focus but couldn’t. “There are family stories about a young girl with beautiful red hair. She was a Richmond. Tilda Richmond. She was an accomplished woman, especially for those times. Though she couldn’t get a degree, she studied law and was more knowledgeable about agriculture than any of her brothers or cousins.” His grin was lopsided. “Family legend has it that she was wild as a March hare. Had her own mind about things, and how her future would be. She was like you, Sarah Booth, kicking against conventions.”

“What happened to her?”

Oscar reached for his wineglass but then pushed it away. He was toasted, but he wasn’t wallowing drunk. “She ran away when she was sixteen. She never came back to Zinnia, at least not that anyone knew.”

“Do you think she’s the Lady in Red?” I asked.

He tried to stand but sank back in the chair. “In 1969, when that backhoe dug her up, the question was raised. Judging by the perfectly preserved corpse, she would have been about Tilda’s age, according to family records. The whole thing was so peculiar. If you remember, the late sixties were a time of great stress in Mississippi. My family chose not to pursue the question of the Lady in Red. But she’s haunted the Richmond family. If she was a Richmond, and my family knew of her and didn’t bring her home because they disapproved of her lifestyle or her political beliefs, then I’m deeply ashamed.”

The poignancy of that touched me. If the Lady in Red was indeed Tilda Richmond, she’d been so close to home, yet she couldn’t make it. She’d died a few counties away from her family and those who had once loved her.

“Do you know any more of her story?”

Oscar was closer to sober than I’d assumed, and still willing to answer the question. “The family story goes like this. Her father had arranged a betrothal for her to a planter’s son. It was a very wealthy family from Virginia that had established a huge plantation here in Mississippi. Tilda would have been well taken care of and held a position in society.”

“But she didn’t love him.” This story was old and familiar. Why did parents never learn? Security and position meant nothing to a young girl who’d always had everything she ever wanted. She’d never experienced life’s harshness. She’d been loved—and she wanted the same devotion from her husband. Not a business contract.

“She couldn’t know if she loved him or not. She never met him,” Oscar continued. “She never gave him a chance. When she heard he was coming to visit and meet her, she ran. Sixteen years old and alone. She took a few of her clothes and her horse and rode out during a March storm. She was never seen again. There was talk she made it to Washington, D.C., but there were also stories she opened a saloon in Tombstone. Any or none of it could be true.”