Splintered Bones (25 page)

"What's going on?" The same pot of coffee seemed to be sitting in the stained coffeemaker. I eyed it carefully to see if it had come to life yet.

He came around the desk and put his arm around my shoulders. "I got Kemper's blood work back. There's something strange there."

"What?" My heartbeat surged, but I forced my body to remain relaxed.

"There was insulin in Kemper's body."

"Insulin? Was he diabetic?"

Doc slowly shook his head. "No, he wasn't. Sarah Booth, I haven't told Coleman yet, but I'm going to have to."

"So there was insulin. What exactly does that mean?"

He gave my shoulders a squeeze before he walked back behind his desk and picked up some papers. He was looking down when he spoke again. "I'm not a detective, I'm just an old country doctor, but I'd say someone injected Kemper with the intent to kill him."

"What about the blow to the head?"

"That's what killed him," he said slowly. "I'm still not certain what kind of instrument. Nippers, a hammer. Coleman never found the weapon."

"Was insulin the only thing you found in his blood?"

He paused. "Should I have found something else?"

My gaze fell to my lap. "How should I know?"

He cleared his throat. "I would have to say that Kemper was unconscious from the insulin when he was struck a fatal blow in the head. That's what I'll have to testify to."

The scenario Doc described was one of premeditated murder-- and one that couldn't be blamed on a horse.

18

Thunderclouds were massing outside the driver's window as
I drove home. On either side of
the car, cotton fields, sprouting with the tender new growth of spring, stretched to the horizon. Only to the west, where the clouds marshaled, did there seem a finite end to the fields. Slowing the car, I watched the clouds. They took on the shape of a cavalry charge, and in the distant rumble of thunder I could hear the horses' hooves racing toward me. It was a fantasy of childhood, and one I always associated with Lee.

The storm perfectly matched my mood. I'd thought carefully about my role in this case. I was going to have to go to Coleman with what I knew. Counting the seconds between the thunder and the forks of lightning that followed, I calculated the distance of the approaching storm. It would be nice to be at Dahlia House for a turbulent spring storm. I'd never felt less than safe within the walls of my home, and I loved to watch the wind twist the sycamore trees into a dance of strength and beauty. I notched the speed up to eighty-five, relishing the handling of the car, and raced the storm home.

The first strong winds were whipping the tender leaves of the sycamores when I turned down the drive. Dahlia House, in need of paint and other cosmetics, stood like a grand lady at the end of an aisle. The sense of coming home was one of the best emotions I'd ever felt. I could only pity those people who'd never loved a place, had never felt the satisfaction of roots holding firm in land that nurtures both the past and the future. I was home.

I made sure the convertible top was latched down and the windows rolled up before running up the steps just as the first big drops of rain began to fall. I almost tripped over the large package that was tilted against the doorway, the overnight delivery box a bright orange and purple.

My dress! In the emotional turmoil of the day, I'd forgotten that Neiman Marcus was going to FedEx my Cinderella outfit for the ball. I snatched it up, ran inside, and headed straight for the kitchen and some coffee. I forced myself to wait until the coffee was brewing before I opened the package.

The red dress, featherlight and so delicate that the tiniest movement sent the material rippling, was beautiful.

"Good thing you're goin' to this ball with the law, otherwise the vice squad would be on your ass like a duck on a June bug."

Jitty was leaning against the wall, a smile of satisfaction on her face.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Looking at the dress, I could even forgive her for ganging up against me with Kinky in my dreams.

"Put it on," she suggested.

I didn't need a second invitation. I stripped out of my clothes and let the dress whisper down my body. The sheer sensuality of the material sliding over my skin made me shiver. It was one helluva dress. Jitty confirmed it with a whistle.

"You 'bout over the hill, Sarah Booth, but that dress makes you look like you got a few good years left."

"Thanks," I said, unable to feel anything except delight, even if Jitty was being a troll. "I'm going to have to rush out and get some new underwear," I said. Any excuse for new underwear was a good one, but this dress was the best.

"Yes, ma'am, panty lines would sure ruin the effect." Jitty sniffed. "Maybe you could just go without."

There was a hint of devilment in her eyes. "Maybe," I agreed, my own imp of mischief ready to play. I stepped out of the panties I was wearing and felt the delicious slide of the dress against my body. "I need my red high heels." They'd been an extravagance when I bought them in
New York
, but now they were going to pay dividends.

"Yes, indeed. Better find your red garter belt and some of those shimmery stockings." Jitty sighed. "Harold is going to regret asking Carol Beth instead of you."

"I certainly hope so." I huffed. "You'd think after Brianna he'd have learned his lesson about cavorting with man-eaters."

Jitty's chuckle was warm. "You sound a little jealous."

"I just hate to see Harold roasted on a spit." If Jitty were still in her fifties mode, she'd be harping on family values and the immorality of married folks going out with single folks. Unfortunately, it wasn't a road I could travel for long, seeing as how Coleman was also married. Of course, going to this ball was just part of the job. For both of us, I reminded myself.

"I'll expect a full report." Jitty began to fade.

"Hey, don't go." I needed some guidance, and Jitty had been around for a hundred and fifty years. She'd worked elbow to elbow with my great-great-grandma Alice and a host of other Delaney women, surviving war, famine, and Reconstruction. Surely she could come up with some ideas for this case. But it was too late; Jitty had vanished.

The knock on the back door almost made me jump out of the dress. I glanced out the window and met Harold's silvery gaze beneath the rim of an umbrella. Rain spattered and jumped off the stretched cloth.

"Let me in," he said. "Do you have company?"

It was almost as if I'd conjured him up with my conversation. There was nothing to do but kick my discarded clothes into a pile beneath the kitchen table and open the back door.

He walked in and scanned the room, stopping dead center on me. "Sarah Booth." His breath came out in a rush. "You look ravishing!"

Ah, Harold had a way of expressing himself. "Do you like it?" I did a spin that set the dress in motion.

"I think that dress could be classified as a lethal weapon."

I laughed with pleasure. There was nothing like a well-paid compliment to make a woman happy. Money isn't even good coin in comparison. I could almost forgive him for asking Carol Beth to be his date. Almost.

"What brings you to Dahlia House?" I asked. I got two coffee cups and put them on the table.

"Kip. Where is she? I'd like to have a word with her." Harold's visit was serious, not social.

"I'll get her." I went upstairs, only to find her room empty. I checked around, stopping in my room. My computer was still on, and several of Kip's notebooks were beside it. A page was taped to the computer screen.

"Amy Winslow invited Sweetie and me to spend the night. J knew you were going to the ball, and I didn't want to be alone. Kip."

I took the note back downstairs and gave it to Harold. While he read, I watched his face. He was truly disturbed about something.

"What is it?" My initial pleasure at the thought that Kip had been considerate of my feelings in leaving the note began to fade.

"A check came through Lee's account. It had been forged with Lee's signature. I'm fairly certain Kip wrote it."

"What are you going to do?" I asked, suddenly weary.

"I took care of it, for now."

"Thank you, Harold. I think."

"It's not that simple." He looked up, and his silvery gaze was worried.

"Who was the check made out to?"

He walked to the kitchen window and looked out at the rain. "I
should
go to Coleman with this."

Who in the hell was Kip writing checks to? Harold wouldn't tell me. He had a rigid sense of ethics when it came
to
banking business, but he was doing his best to give me fair warning that Kip was in big trouble.

"I'll talk to Lee. And I'll talk to Kip. In fact, I'll go bring her home right this minute."

Harold shook his head. "Leave her at the Winslows'. She's better off there than alone here."

"I suppose." He had a point.

He stood up. "Talk to her in the morning, Sarah Booth. There wasn't money in the bank
to cover
the check she wrote. She has to understand the gravity of her actions."

"I'll take care of it. It would help if I knew--"

He leaned forward and brushed his lips across my cheek. "I can't tell you. Save me a dance tonight."

W
ith each
passing
hour, my anticipation for the ball increased. By seven-thirty, I was a red, shimmery frenzy of nerves. But I was ready. Jitty had given her seal
of
approval, and I decided to spin some discs in the parlor while sipping a little bourbon to calm my nerves.

Jack Daniel's and my mother's old Percy Sledge album were a fine combo. I'd mellowed enough to answer the door with a smile when Coleman knocked. My smile froze as I took in the figure he cut, his body taller and leaner in his tails. I stepped back and allowed myself a head-to-toe exam while he did the same.

"My, oh, my," I said.

"Sarah Booth, you look terrific."

We spoke simultaneously and ended up laughing. "I think we both need some dating practice," I said, ushering him inside. I poured him a drink and refreshed my own. I could tell by his demeanor that Doc Sawyer hadn't spoken to him about the insulin. I considered my options, and decided that tomorrow was soon enough to tell him what I'd learned.

Coleman finished his drink in three swallows. He paced the parlor, nervous as a cat. "Are you ready?"

The minute I reached for my handbag-cum-briefcase, I knew I was destroying my dress.

"Make another drink. I'll just be a minute," I said, rushing up the stairs to find my sequined evening bag. I dumped the contents of my purse on the bed and was busy picking out lipstick, blusher, compact, brush, and--I froze. Half hidden beneath my wallet was a syringe. Very carefully, I examined the syringe and needle--identical to the one I'd seen in Kip's makeup bag, except this one contained nearly eight cc's of clear liquid.

"Sarah Booth?" Coleman called. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm coming." I looked at the syringe. I didn't have to wonder where it had come from. I knew. Swift Level. Someone had slipped into my car and put the syringe into my purse.

"Do you need some help?" Coleman called.

I heard his tread on the stairs and I pushed the syringe and contents of my purse under the pillow on the bed. Snatching up the sequined bag, I hurried across the room to meet him at the door.

"I had some trouble finding my purse," I said, holding it out as evidence.

He smiled. "Women. Even the smartest ones can act a fool over a handbag."

I was so upset I didn't even try to defend my gender. "I'm ready," I said, slipping past Coleman.

Who had put the syringe in my purse? Bud? Kip? Anyone on the property could have done it. Bud had said earlier that someone was snooping around.

The questions whirled in my brain until I felt dizzy. Coleman's hand at my elbow steadied me at the bottom of the stairs.

"Are you okay? You're acting strange," he said.

"Party nerves," I answered, trying hard to be calm.

He turned me to face him. "What's wrong?"

It was the moment of truth. By all rights, I should turn the syringe over to him. "I'm not certain what to do," I said in all honesty.

His hands slid down my arms to capture my hands. He held them lightly. "I only know that I've never been out with a lovelier woman."

I found a smile. "Thank you."

"Don't look so sad, Sarah Booth. We have time to finish our drinks before we go. I'll freshen yours up."

He went to the bar and poured a little bourbon over the ice. "Remember, we're working," he said as he handed me the glass.

"Are you ever off work?" If he would ever go off duty, maybe I could confide in him. I wanted to--needed to. But I couldn't risk the outcome.

"You sound like Connie. It's hard to turn it on and off, you know." He sipped the drink and regained a friendlier tone. "Do you find it that way?"

My cases had come back-to-back, with hardly a moment for thinking in between, but I could see where detecting could become a lifelong habit--or vice, as the case may be. "So far, yes."