Splintered Bones (38 page)

"It was a great restaurant. Too bad they couldn't make a go of it. Krystal says it's intimidating to go in the kitchen to make coffee because of all the professional equipment."

"I seriously doubt Krystal spends enough time in the kitchen to do her self-image any damage." I wasn't being mean. Krystal just wasn't the domestic type. She liked to have a staff of servants to do her bidding, including making coffee.

Cece held up a hand. "Hello, Mike, dahling. Cece Dee Falcon here. Are you busy?" She laughed. "How sweet. You sure know how to flatter a girl. Sarah Booth is here with me and I wanted to send her out to do some photos of your place. Along with her other talents, she's a fabulous photographer, and she's agreed to take this assignment. I'm thinking about a full-page society spread on the renovations you're going to make to the house and grounds. You know, a before-and-after kind of thing."

I picked up the camera on Cece's desk and checked to make sure it had film. The photographs were a brilliant idea.

"No, I promise Sarah Booth won't disturb Krystal. I'm sorry she isn't feeling well, and I appreciate your helping me out with this, Mike." She winked at me and nodded. "Lovely. She won't be there long, but I think a photo spread showing how much a part of the community Krystal is becoming will be the perfect way to keep her name in front of the public. Yes, ta-ta, dahling. Sarah Booth will be there in a shake." She replaced the phone. "I thought it would be better if you had a cover. Now you can just talk to him and see what he says about Nathaniel."

"Thanks, Cece."

"Is there anything I can do from here?"

"Check out a Mitchell Raybon for me. He was Kemper's partner in a resort development near
Lafayette
,
Louisiana
."

"Will do, dahling. Anything else?"

"Could you put it at the top of your list?"

"For you, Sarah Booth, I'll reorganize my schedule."

I
drove
through
town, on the lookout for Tinkie's Caddy. I found it parked at Canine Curls, and I wondered if she was actually taking Sweetie for a consultation. Before she went too far, I'd have to put my foot down. Instead of stopping there, I went to Dahlia House to check my phone messages on the off chance that something helpful had come in. No such luck.

I made a quick call to the hospital to check on J.B. He was still in intensive care, and still in a coma. His mother was with him, and the nurse assured me that everything possible was being done in his behalf.

Before I left Dahlia House, I wrote a note and taped it on the door telling Tinkie where I'd gone. When she brought Sweetie home, she'd find the note. I asked her to call me with any new developments.

It was another beautiful afternoon, and I drove south. The sign from the catfish restaurant/inn was still standing, though the first tendrils of kudzu had crept up the posts, and the green leaves had begun to claim more of the sign. In another month, it would be a strangely shaped clump of vines, perhaps resembling a giant dog or a small camel.

The lane, too, bordered on either side by impressive live oaks that had once been hand nurtured by slaves, showed signs of neglect. I had mixed feelings about seeing the old homes turned into commercial ventures such as bed-and-breakfasts, restaurants, and gift shops. But commercialization was often the only solution a hard-pressed landowner could find.

Driving slowly, I noted the details of decay all around the plantation. Out in the field, a couple of mules grazed. I remembered that last Halloween the Jaycees had held their annual hayride here. Putnam Hall was perfect for the house of horrors they'd established, to the delight of young and old.

As I caught the first glimpse of the house through the trees, my heart gave a feeble protest. Vines covered a lot of the windows, and the house had a shuttered and closed look, as if it had accumulated a horde of guilty secrets and didn't want to share with anyone.

Once I shook off the creepies, I could see the loveliness of the Greek Revival architecture beneath the neglect. Maybe Krystal and Mike would bring it back to its former glory.

Gravel scrunched beneath my feet as I walked to the steps and knocked on the front door. It must have been six inches thick. Though I used my fist until my knuckles were sore, I wasn't certain anyone could hear me.

After ten minutes, I grew tired of waiting. Pushing at the door, I found it was unlocked, so I opened it and stepped into the cool, dark foyer.

"Krystal! Mike!" The house was eerily silent.

"Krystal!" I stepped past the staircase and continued down a dark hallway. Opening another door, I stepped onto a screened porch that was tucked around a fireplace in an arc like a capital C. Glass-topped tables with white chairs were set up with tablecloths, china, crystal, and matching napkins. It looked as if a party had been scheduled and then canceled--several months before. The plates had a thin film of dirt.

"Mike!" I felt the finger of dread tickle my gut. "Krystal!" I called, this time with a lot less force. I wasn't really certain at this point that I wanted Krystal to actually come out and talk to me. The house had that eerie quality of a really haunted place. I was afraid that whoever walked out in Krystal's body wouldn't be the same person who'd formerly been Simpson Fielding. The sense that something was very wrong in the house grew stronger with each second I was there.

From the porch, I had two routes. To the left was a door that led to what was probably some type of game room or private dining area. To the right was the kitchen. I chose right, and found myself tiptoeing along the painted boards of the porch.

My skin prickled and goosed as I eased forward. Even though I kept checking over my shoulder and seeing nothing, I had the sense that I was being watched.

Cece had talked to Mike only an hour or so before. What could have happened to him?

At the door, I pushed easy, then hard. "Mike!" The door was jammed, or possibly locked from the inside. A lacy curtain was thick enough to effectively prevent peeking inside.

There was a screened door to the outside, so I exited and walked around to steps that led up to the back door and another entry to the kitchen.

This door, too, was locked. I made a circuit of the house and reentered the front door, stopping in the foyer. I could go upstairs from here, or left or right. Again I went right, hoping for an interior route to the kitchen.

The minute I left the foyer, I felt as if something cold had begun to breathe on my neck. Whirling, I found only emptiness behind me. I turned back and almost cried out at the stuffed bobcat perched on a limb sticking directly out of the wall. The room was dim, but I picked out a buffalo head, several deer, an elk, a red fox, also on a limb, and a big, coiled rattler. This room was devoid of all furniture, except for the stuffed creature collection.

I kept a wary eye on the dead animals as I walked through the room. I didn't want any of them to spring to life without enough warning for me to get a good, running start.

"Krystal." I said her name. Well, whispered it. Where in the world could she be? Two cars, including the gold Lexus, were in the drive. Zinnia was a good ten miles away, and there wasn't even a U-Tote-Em closer than six miles.

I made my way across another room, this one for formal dining. The furniture was heavy, old, and beautiful, no doubt part of the original Putnam Hall. The built-in glass china cabinets even held some of the highly collectible red-leaded crystal. It was odd what people left behind when they moved from a place.

I came to a swinging door, and I knew that I had at last gained access to the kitchen. Easing it open a crack, I stopped. There was the strangest sound, an angry, droning noise that sounded like hornets.

It took a few seconds for the smell to register. Gas. Without thinking, I pushed the door open and rushed into the room.

Krystal's legs extended from one of the big, commercial ovens. She was sprawled across the door, most of her upper body inside the maw of the oven. The angry hissing came from the gas jets.

"Krystal!" Fear gave me the strength to pull her out of the oven and drag her, none too gently, onto the floor. I turned the gas off, but the room was saturated with it. Grabbing both of her feet, I dragged her across the kitchen and through the swinging door. I had built up quite a head of steam, so I just kept going until I was out on the front steps and in the pale yellow of a late spring afternoon.

In the sunlight, Krystal looked like she was dead. I knelt beside her, feeling her throat for a pulse that was so weak it took me a while to find it. Against the paleness of her skin, her red hair was garish and her lips a translucent blue.

"Don't die," I ordered her. "Damn you, Krystal, you cannot die." I didn't wait for her response. I ran inside and picked up the phone to call 911. There was no dial tone. I punched the phone on and off several times, to no avail. The phone was off the hook somewhere in the house, or the line was dead.

Krystal was on her back on the narrow porch, her chest barely rising and falling. I had no way of knowing how seriously she was hurt. I knelt beside her, chafing her hands and rubbing her cheeks and doing everything I'd ever read in a book or seen in a movie to get her to come around. Nothing worked.

"Mike! Mike!" I yelled his name. He'd been at the house only an hour before I arrived, and he was expecting me. Where had he gone?

I needed cold water. The only thing to do was go back into the house and get it. It took every ounce of courage I had to walk back in the front door. The dead animal room was as scary as before, but I ran through it and the formal dining room. Back in the kitchen, I unlocked both outside doors, opened them and all the windows, and got a clean, wet dishcloth and filled it with ice.

When I got back to Krystal, I sat down beside her and pulled her into my lap. Her breathing was shallow and labored. I was terrified she was going to die.

"You are going to live, and you are going to tell me why you did this." I talked to her with righteous fury. I almost wept with relief when she shifted her face away from me.

"Stop," she said, gagging on the fresh air.

"You'd better breathe," I warned her. I listened for the sound of traffic on the road, but there was nothing except the low coo of a dove.

"In the house. Be careful." She groaned out the words.

"What?" I demanded. My sympathies were lagging way behind my fear and anger. "Where's Mike?"

"In the house. Kemper signed them. Avenger." She mumbled the words as her head moved back and forth.

"What? Signed what?"

"He planned all of it." She started crying. "All along." Her eyes opened wide. She searched my features as if she didn't know who I was. Then the flat, dead look gave way to fear. Before I could move, her hands rose and clutched the lapels of my blouse in a grip so tight I felt like she was choking me.

"Krystal." I tried to break her grip. She was looking beyond me into some unknown abyss where terror ruled supreme. "Krystal, it's me, Sarah Booth."

"You're a dead woman," she said, and violently pushed me away from her.

The force knocked her off my lap and down the steps. She rolled toward my car in bone-bruising jolts without making a sound.

"Krystal." I started after her, scrabbling on my hands and knees. It took me a few seconds to realize that something held me in place. I swung around to face Mike Rich. He was staring at Krystal as if she were some awful aberration.

"She tried to kill herself," I said, trying to shake free of the grip he had on my blouse. "We have to help her."

"Do we?" he asked.

Krystal had reached the gravel parking lot, and she crawled on her hands and knees, oblivious to the sharp stones. She fell onto her stomach, splitting her chin. Blood dripped onto the gray stones, while Mike held me like a rag doll.

"Let me go." I twisted with all of my strength.

"Be still," he said, his focus on Krystal as she clawed at the door of my car.

"Turn me loose!" I swung at him, catching him full in the cheek with my fist.

Without a second's thought, he brought his free hand around and slapped me. The pain was instant, a blinding wall of light. Blood spurted from my split lip and inside my mouth, where my teeth had cut my cheek.

"Run, Sarah Booth. Run!" Krystal had gained her feet, and she managed to open my car door and crawl in.

"Get back here." Mike tossed me to the steps with a knee-capping thrust. He was at the car in three strides, but Krystal had managed to slam the door and lock it. Her hands fumbled at the keys while her face registered mindless fear.

The pain in my crushed knees kept me facedown on the steps as I watched them. Mike pulled a knife from his pocket, and with a swift, clean gesture, he sliced open the convertible top of my car. His hand went in, clutching Krystal's throat. I saw her eyes widen as her fingers clutched at the keys.

At last the motor caught. Somehow she managed to slam the car into gear and began to drive up the steps. Mike, his hand still at her throat, ran beside the car.

She came straight at me, the car climbing the steps in an awkward bumping lurch. My legs were not mine to control. My brain screamed at them to move, but they lay flaccid and useless on the cement. It wasn't until the car was only feet away that I threw myself to the left, tripping Mike as he came up the steps, arm still clutching Krystal in the car.