Smarty Bones (22 page)

“Oh, he knows enough about Cece to know he hates her.” Harold sat taller, monitoring the dogs playing downstream in the shallows. They chased and barked and ran up and down the banks.

“Why would he hate her?”

Harold loosened his tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and put his arm around my shoulders. It was a gesture of friendship, not intimacy. “Jeremiah let his parents break him. They held money over his head and he kept jumping for it. Cece gave up the family inheritance and all the power it had over her.”

I put a stick in the path of a soldier ant and watched the creature’s amazing dexterity. “That’s exactly what I felt. I told Jeremiah he could still pursue art or whatever his dream was, but I infuriated him.”

“Many people who are victimized struggle hard to reclaim their lives, but a certain type of victim never wants to be told they have the power to change their status. Fear or self-doubt prevents them from changing. So they have to believe it isn’t their fault. The shame of it is that they become victims of their own belief systems.”

It always amazed me when Harold and I found ourselves not only on the same page but reading the same line. “Now I’m depressed all over again.”

“We live in a world of free choice, Sarah Booth. People want to be victims. Ignorance and bigotry are comfortable places, especially for victims. It’s easier to hate than to be curious. Sad truth of human nature.”

Harold pulled a backward Cinderella moment and removed my shoes. When he was barefoot, too, he escorted me into the water. The gently flowing creek was deliciously cool under the shady trees. As the dogs sprayed us with water and sand, I closed my eyes and soaked in the bliss of creek water and good friendship.

“As much as I dislike him, I don’t think Jeremiah killed Boswell.” I took the opportunity to hash out the case with Harold. He had a good head for logic, and he was excellent at playing devil’s advocate.

“Jeremiah can be dangerous, and don’t ever forget that. But I don’t think he killed Boswell, either. Poison is a coward’s weapon. Jeremiah is deluded, but he isn’t cowardly.”

He made a good point. Jeremiah and Buford viewed themselves as men left behind by history. They were the knights of the Round Table in a world that didn’t appreciate their nobility or willingness to sacrifice. Men of honor. Throwing rotten tomatoes had a rakish humor to it. “Oscar, with Cece’s help, says he’ll push to institutionalize both of them.”

“He can try.” Harold stepped in a depression and water covered his trousers to his knees. Instead of being upset, he laughed.

“You don’t think he can?”

“I don’t. Oscar has influence with a few judges, and he might manage to have Buford evaluated by a psychiatric team, but not Jeremiah. He has no standing to initiate action based on questionable mental health. Cece won’t pursue this. Don’t ask it of her.”

The cool waters sloshed our legs as we walked to a fallen tree growing sideways from the bank. It made a perfect seat, and he lifted me onto it before he jumped up himself. The limb was low enough that our feet dangled in the creek. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Roscoe swimming toward us like a big gator.

Harold hiked his feet before Roscoe could nip them. “If you want my opinion on who killed poor Boswell, I’d vote for Webber.”

“What do you know about Dr. Webber?” I moved my feet to safety, too. Roscoe circled like a shark.

The sunlight filtering through trees’ canopy showered us with dappled shadows. Harold hesitated. At last he answered. “Do you remember Linley Hanks?”

The image of a slender blonde with dark brown eyes came to mind. She’d been Miss Sunflower County my high school junior year. The little movie projector in my brain spun a reel. Linley Hanks wore a red glitter outfit and white boots with pom-poms. She twirled a baton at the head of the band as they marched around the courthouse square. Santa Claus threw candy from a float that followed behind Linley and the marching band.

“I do,” I said.

“Christmas Parade.” Harold sighed. “Red costume, white boots, and her baton had green tinsel.”

I’d forgotten the metallic green streamers on the end of her twirling baton. “Nice stroll down memory lane, but what does Linley have to do with this discussion.”

“She got pregnant and had a baby girl. The father wouldn’t marry her or support the child. She never told who it was.”

Working in the bank, Harold was privy to private info involving most of the region. “I hope she left town. Folks can be mighty hard on a girl who makes a mistake, especially one as beautiful as Linley.”

“She moved to Oxford and took a job on campus as a secretary. In the history department.”

“Oh, no.” I saw where this was headed. “He seduced her, didn’t he?”

“Right. They were something of a fairy-tale story—the secretary who nabs the professor. Linley was plenty smart. She could’ve been anything, but she fell hard for Webber. She spread the word around the university they were a couple. She said he’d offered marriage and support for her baby.”

“But he didn’t keep his promises.”

“Not a single one. Gossip had it that she caught him in his office with another woman. A younger woman. Linley transferred to a different department and eventually completed a nursing degree. She married a doctor and has a nice life. Her daughter is attending Ole Miss now. Things work out like they’re supposed to, but Webber is a skunk.”

“A lot of men wouldn’t take on the responsibility of another man’s child.”

“Rumor said it was Webber’s kid, too. Supposedly he met Linley during a senior trip for the majorettes and cheerleaders at Ole Miss. He was a research assistant for one of the other professors that summer. Later, when he had his PhD, he used the contacts he’d made to snare a job teaching.”

“Linley and her daughter were just too much baggage to carry,” I surmised. He was the lowest kind of bastard, not to mention the balance of power in the relationship had been weighted in his favor all along.

Harold’s tone was easy, but the tension in his jaw revealed how much this still upset him. “Professor Webber is capable of anything in my opinion. Any man who would deny his own child and the woman he seduced and impregnated—he’s not much of a man.”

I didn’t consider Harold’s judgment too harsh. I certainly needed to reexamine Webber’s alibi. If he would turn his back on his daughter, he might kill without a qualm. He had plenty of reason to hate Olive and to want her dead. Poor Boswell mistakenly drank the coffee.

Sweetie’s soft yodeling bay called my attention back to the moment. It was time to load up and head home. “Thanks for the break.” I splashed down from the tree seat and when Harold joined me, I put my arm around his waist. We headed out of the creek with the dogs bounding after us.

*   *   *

Before I dropped Harold at his place, he gave me the current skinny on Linley Hanks, now Mrs. Dr. Libeaux. Linley Libeaux—it had a nice ring. She lived on Highway 49 near Greenwood, not so far from the scene of her old high school reign of glory.

When I got her on the phone, she was agreeable to a meeting, especially after I mentioned the Christmas Parade and the glamorous figure she cut. Those carefree days must have been a respite for her.

I dropped Sweetie at Dahlia House and did a quick search for my missing fiancé. My friends and Graf had vanished. I was puzzled but not concerned. No telling what they were up to. I’d find out soon enough, and I didn’t have time to chase them down. I was on official PI business.

Following Linley’s directions, I cruised down a tree-lined driveway and pulled up in front of a home that smacked of the antebellum era.

Linley Hanks Libeaux opened the door with a warm greeting. Her well-appointed home showed quiet good taste and an emphasis on family. Linley looked older, but not by much. The last two decades had been kind to her. She offered Louisiana coffee with chicory and an apple strudel that belied her trim figure. She really did have it all, including a metabolism to die for.

“I haven’t stayed in touch with Richard,” she said in answer to my question. “There’s no reason to.” But her glance toward the back door made me wonder if she felt a need to escape the conversation.

I didn’t really want to go into great detail, so I skimmed the surface of Olive Twist’s research, including Webber’s role in it.

Linley showed no reaction. When I finished, she asked, “So what do you want from me? I don’t know about any of this. My … relationship with Richard is history.” Her half-smile straddled amused and sad. “I was a kid easily awed by Richard. He believed he was superior, so I did, too. Like I said, I was a gullible kid.”

“How ambitious is Richard?”

The sadness remained, but my question also evoked anger. “He denied his daughter and me, because he feared we’d hold him back. A man of his academic status couldn’t marry a mere secretary. Besides, a wife and baby would have cramped his style as the freewheeling, seductive professor. He’s ambitious enough to doom his own blood to bare survival.”

“Would you say he’s capable of murder?”

“Richard likes to play the game, but he never wants to pay the price. He’d kill if his comfort were threatened. He tried to talk me into aborting Kelly, but I wouldn’t. I thought I could make him love our baby. I was such a fool. Worse than a fool.” The skin beneath her eyes tightened. “One night, he threatened to choke me to death. He was that desperate to eject me from his life. See, I refused to be shamed into disappearing. When he wouldn’t marry me, I forced him to pay for my education.”

“So he has a bad temper?”

“Yeah. And no conscience. A classic sociopath. He takes what he wants and screw the consequences it causes for others.” She put her hands, palm down, on the table beside her coffee cup. “Once I accepted his utter lack of conscience, it was easy to walk away. I left behind the girl in the red-sequined dance costume. I stepped into the shoes of a pregnant, unwed teenager. But I wouldn’t be the person I am today, and I wouldn’t have Kelly and Charles, were it not for how awful Richard was.”

She spread her fingers on the table. “Charles was Kelly’s pediatrician. He’s a good man and he loves Kelly like his own child. I might have settled for an egotistical sociopath who cheated on me when I was pregnant. Instead I have a man who loves me, Kelly, and every child he meets.”

“Does the name Olive Twist mean anything to you?”

She laughed. “Bad pennies really do turn up again, don’t they? She was a graduate student he met at a history conference in San Diego.”

My jaw fell. “Were you at the conference?”

“No, I wasn’t there, but I pieced it together later. Twist isn’t the type of person you forget.” She gathered herself to recount the tale, anger sparking in her eyes. “I was almost due when Richard booked the conference. I begged him not to leave town. I was scared and on my own. But he went anyway. Weeks later, I found photos in his briefcase. Explicit photos of Richard and a lanky graduate student, Olive Twist. They had a torrid affair while I sat at home in Oxford and waited for him to call.” She pressed her hands against the solid table. “Thank God the pathetic, scared young woman I used to be is long dead.”

“Are you positive he was involved with Olive Twist?”

“Fake British accent and all. She called the history department repeatedly after he was home. She wanted me to know who she was and that she was educated and I wasn’t. She was everything he needed, she told me.”

It had to be Olive. And she and Webber had known each other for years. He’d certainly lied to me and Tinkie, which carried only the penalty of our wrath. They both had. Had they also lied to Coleman? Now, that was a different kettle of fish. Lying to a law officer could bring harsh consequences, and Richard Webber was a man who needed to feel the brunt of the law falling on his shoulders.

*   *   *

I swung by Cece’s, but she wasn’t home. Nor was she at the newspaper office—where she should have been. I called Graf to ask if he’d heard from her or Tinkie. No answer on his cell phone or at home. I left another message to let him know I was running by the courthouse to speak with Coleman. I needed to update the sheriff on the latest Richard Webber info.

Coleman had his own set of woes when I arrived at the sheriff’s office. DeWayne Dattilo, his deputy, gave me a comical moue of wild panic before Coleman caught him. “What’s going on?” I asked.

DeWayne pushed himself out of his desk chair. “I’m going to Millie’s. I’m having hunger pangs.”

“If you don’t convince Darcy Miller to say yes quick, you’ll be too big to fit behind the wheel of the patrol car,” Coleman snapped. “It’s three squares a day, not six troughs-full. How many pieces of pie have you eaten today?”

DeWayne had stacked on twenty pounds or so during his courtship of waitress Darcy Miller, but he was a long way from being obese.

“I’ll bring you a bowl of Millie’s peach cobbler. Might sweeten up that foul temper of yours.” DeWayne jammed on his hat and strode out the door.

I was left alone to face Coleman and his flushed cheeks. Embarrassment or anger, I couldn’t tell.

“I hope you have good news,” he said. “This is a frustrating case. And Gertrude Strom is driving me nuts. She could worry the fur off a bear.”

“What does she want?”

“The killer arrested and the reputation of her B and B restored. She says no one will drink her coffee since word is out that Boswell died of poisoned java. Folks are canceling reservations. She wants a front-page story in the
Zinnia Dispatch
saying her facilities are top-notch and perfectly safe.

“If she wasn’t always such a bitch to me, I’d ask Cece to write a story for the society page.”

“Yeah, like movie star Graf Milieu dines in the shady luxury of Zinnia’s premier B and B. I can see the photo spread. Graf, pensively leaning against a vine-covered post looking into the hazy, heat-soaked distance.”

“If you tire of pushing a badge, you can write ad copy. You have a knack for it.”

He rounded the counter, hat in hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

What was with the men today? A wade, a walk, next it would be a waltz. It was hot as hell outside but had begun to cool—a tad. It was still eighty-five degrees, and humid. But if Coleman needed to walk, I would stroll beside him. As a child, I’d spend endless hours bicycling around town, or walking and window-shopping. Now I seldom toured Zinnia, which was a shame.