Them Bones (18 page)

Outside the open door of the office 1 heard the motor of my car catch and run smooth and easy. My time was up. I closed the file, returned it, and made it into one of the plastic waiting room chairs just as Billie came in the door.

"Loose spark plug wire," he said.

"What do I owe you?" I pulled my checkbook out of my purse.

"Nothing." He tilted his head. "I don't mean to scare you, Sarah Booth, but it looked as if someone wiggled that wire off there deliberately. You had any prowlers out around your house?"

"Only the repo man," I answered with a smile.

"I heard you were having some financial difficulties," he said. "I'm sorry to hear of your troubles."

"That doesn't mean I can't pay for car service," I told him, a little embarrassed that he wasn't charging me out of charity. This was almost more than I could bear after my morning with
Hamilton .

"There's no charge, because I simply pushed the plug back into place." He picked up one of the pink cloths that always hang from the back of a mechanic's pocket. "Go on and have a good day. I hope your luck turns," he said. "I know what it's like to be in a tight spot."

I had a couple of options open to me, but neither of them held any appeal. I could go see Isaac Carter at the Zinnia International Export office. Carter's family owned the cotton gin for
Sunflower County , and he had developed himself as the broker for cotton and other goods.

The idea of confronting Carter after our powwow in the cornfield didn't strike me as a lot of fun. So the other possibility was to go to Friars Point. The private mental institution called Glen Oaks was north of Zinnia, up toward
Memphis in a small, scenic little river town near the
Helena ,
Arkansas , bridge. I could get there by three with time enough to get back at dark, or just after.

I didn't mind talking with a crazy woman. Most of my family had been crazy women, so it wouldn't be a hardship. What I did mind was the idea of what would happen when
Hamilton found out I'd been to see his sister.

He would be pissed.

Too bad.

The Mississippi Delta is extraordinary land. Black topsoil stretches flat into the distance, so vast and so fertile it's hard to recognize it as part of the poorest state in the
Union .

As I drove through the winter fields, I saw the efforts hard work had begotten. My land had once looked this way--neat rows, fences up, combines working the land. And it would again. The land demanded it. It was a sin to allow such fecundity to lie fallow.

With that reminder of my heritage, I hardened my resolve to do this thing for Tinkie.
Hamilton had made me feel bad about myself, but there was nothing shameful in wanting to know the truth. How else could Tinkie make a decision that would affect the rest of her life? There was nothing wrong with my work as a PI. It was
Hamilton 's misfortune that events pointed the finger of guilt at him. And if he was innocent of wrongdoing, then surely he would thank me for confirming it for the world. Or at least Zinnia.

I left the flat fields behind me and headed toward the levee that signaled that the
Mississippi River wasn't far away. Friars Point was on the river, but protected by the giant levee built after the 1927 flood that struck the Delta with relentless devastation.

I made good time and I was eager to discover if Sylvia Garrett would actually see me. She had no reason to. Then again, I didn't think she had a busload of visitors. Perhaps curiosity and loneliness would work in my favor.

I pulled into a Double Quick, filled the tank, bought a Coke and some peanuts, and got directions to the mental institution. The woman behind the counter was extremely cheerful about Glen Oaks and assured me that everyone in Coahoma County was delighted to have the hundred-bed facility--"for folks who're havin' a little trouble adjustin' to the real world"--in their community.

"Everybody's a little crazy some time," she reassured me.

She was a big, rawboned woman with blond frizz and black roots, but she had the prettiest set of teeth I'd seen outside of
Hollywood . Her big gray eyes were nicely set in her head, and there were laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. I liked her, and poured some peanuts in my Coke, prepared to chat. I'd been alone with my thoughts too long, and Ina Welford, as she introduced herself with a firm handshake, was a delight.

"My uncle Tip was half a bubble off," she said, lighting up a cigarette and taking a sip of strong black coffee. "We loved him, but he could be a handful when he decided that the Arkansans were coming across the river and trying to steal our land." She chuckled. "I spent many a night camping on the river standing guard. It was easier to pacify him than it was to fight about it."

I had a terrible longing to have known a family that camped out on the riverbank to accommodate a crazy old man's fantasy. "What happened to your uncle?" I asked.

"Oh, he drowned one night. He saw a log floating down the river and he was sure there was an
Arkansas man attached to it, so he jumped in the river and took off after it."

"Couldn't he swim?"

"Like a fish, but it was flood stage and one of the currents got him. Or else another log or some trash in the river bumped him in the head. It was dark, and we weren't ever certain what really happened. We found his body downriver, hung up in the top of a tree. His eyes and mouth were wide open, like he was still searching for something."

"That's terrible."

"Naw, not really. Think how he coulda died in a hospital or locked up somewhere. He loved the river and he died on her. Just hope that you get to die somewhere you love."

There was no arguing with those words. "Thanks for the story," I said, starting out the door.

"Hey, have a good time out at Glen Oaks. Just check your backseat before you leave. The patients sorta come and go. Like this weekend, one escaped and they didn't round her up until Sunday night. I heard she'd gotten over to the Delta and was in the middle of a cornfield in her nightgown."

Tammy believed in sixth senses, and I wasn't about to deny that they existed as goose bumps marched over my arms. "Do you know who it was?"

"Not by name. She's been there awhile. Lollie--she's my cousin by marriage and she works there as a nurse's aide--anyway, Lollie said she was some rich woman who'd been there a long time. Nearly twenty years."

Now I was sure who she was talking about.

"Hey, you look a little pale, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I drained the Coke and left the bottle on the counter. "Thanks again."

I took the directions Ina had written down and found myself at the mental institution in less than fifteen minutes. Based on this latest information, I wondered if I stood a prayer of getting to see Sylvia Garrett. What was troubling was that she'd made her escape on the very weekend that Delo Wiley had been killed. And Delo had been murdered in the exact same spot her father had died.

18

A wise woman would probably have turned the car around and headed home, but I wasn't about to give up. If I was going to get to see Sylvia, though, I had to come up with a good story, and certainly not anything about a book. I looked down at my wardrobe and considered. I was the right age to be a cousin, so I decided to try that angle.

I walked into the building with a big smile and all the confidence of a Daddy's Girl. I headed to the main desk where I introduced myself as Sarah Booth Mason, a second cousin of Sylvia Garrett.

"You're not on the list of approved visitors," the nurse said, eyeing me suspiciously.

"I'm from
New Orleans ," I said. "I haven't been in the Delta in years, but while I'm here, I want to visit Cousin Sylvia. I promised my mama I'd be sure and stop by and see her. We all feel so guilty that we don't get up to visit more often. You know how it is, though, with kids and jobs and all." I smiled my Daddy's Girl conspiracy smile to let her know that though I was born into a life of privilege I was no better off than she was.

The nurse nodded knowingly. "My aunt Martha has been ill in
Greenwood and I can't seem to make it to see her. She raised me when I was little." She picked up a chart. "It says here that I'm supposed to call the doctor before I let anyone see Miss Garrett."

"Honey, I don't have but ten minutes. I'm on my way to
Memphis . I know Cousin Syl had a rough weekend, slippin' out and all. I just want to say hi. What could it hurt? If she doesn't remember me, then there's no harm done. If she does, it might make her feel better."

"She has been something of a problem lately," the nurse said, checking the clock on the wall. "She came back from her little adventure covered from head to toe in mud. She must have made a horrible mess in that big, fancy car when they brought her back." She studied the chart.

"She came back on her own?"

"She did. Got dropped off at the gate. Okay, you can have fifteen minutes. It might help her, poor thing."

I followed the nurse down the corridor wondering how long it would be before I was a "poor thing." That's a classification of unmarried females which negates whether a woman is single by choice or not. A woman could have been the first female to the moon, or have invented the cure for cancer, but if she doesn't marry, she will end up being a "poor thing."

"Does Cousin Syl get many visitors?"

"More than usual lately." She stopped. "Here's her room."

When the nurse pushed open the door, I walked into a lovely suite that could have been part of an English estate. The woman sitting at a delicate antique desk had a sheaf of white-blond hair that hung down below her waist. Rich, luminous hair that seemed to radiate its own light.

"Miss Garrett," the nurse said, her voice holding a degree of respect. "You have a visitor." Sylvia turned to face us.

What I noticed first was that Sylvia Garrett's silver eyes fixed on me and pinned me like a butterfly to a corkboard. She shared her brother's directness, but there the resemblance ended. Her face was completely unlined, her skin opalescent and beautiful, framed by the mass of straight, incredible hair. She was a study in moonlight, a woman of alabaster.

"Cousin Sylvia," I said, recovering and stepping forward. "Do you remember me? Sarah Booth?"

Her smile was sly. "Of course I do, Sarah Booth, come in and sit down."

I looked at the nurse, who nodded. "Just a few minutes," she agreed. "Don't get her upset."

The door closed behind me. "Did
Hamilton send you to convince me to behave?" Sylvia asked, motioning me into the room.

"No." Although I was raised not to stare, I couldn't help myself. She was beautiful. Her darker eyebrows and eyelashes contrasted with her delicate, flawless skin.

"People do find me interesting to look at," she said, not at all perturbed by my rudeness.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled and looked down at the floor, which was covered in an expensive hand-woven carpet. On the bedside table was a fresh bouquet of birds-of-paradise, the purple-and-orange blooms exquisite in a globe of blue that seemed to glow with the afternoon light.

She noticed my interest. "The vase was a gift from my father," she said. "At Knob Hill there's a sculpture."

"The pink lady," I said, immediately remembering the fascinating work.

"Yes." She nodded at a collection of breathtaking colored bottles in a glass bookcase and I thought of Tammy. These had to be the bottles she once dusted with such concern. "Beautiful, aren't they." She went to the case and picked one out, fondling it carefully.

For a moment she stared out the window at the manicured grounds. "Do you know how long a day can be here?" she asked. "Some days are like years, and those are the good ones. Others last for decades. But prisons come in all shapes and degrees of luxury. A room, a continent, a dark corner of the mind."

I looked at the shelves of books and music. Someone had tried to make her prison as palatable as possible, but she was right; it was still a prison, even if she'd volunteered to stay.

She seemed to reassess me. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Information. About the past."

Her hand on the arm of her chair trembled, but her fingers grasped the carved wood. "I've been here nineteen years. Why the sudden interest in the past?"

"I was thirteen when your father was killed."

"And that explains nothing," she answered. "I was seventeen. Away at school. My father's body had already been prepared for burial by the time I was told of his death. My mother had decided everything. Even how she was going to sell Knob Hill and move." She moved to a seat facing me.

Sylvia's anger seemed alive in the room. I wondered what would happen if she were turned loose. "What do you want to know?" she asked, eyes wary and alert.

My time was short, and she didn't seem the type to suffer a fool. "Do you know who killed your father?"

She leaned back in the chair and slowly relaxed her hands. "My version of the truth is somewhat suspect. Haven't you heard? I'm insane."

I couldn't tell if she was mocking herself or me. "I'm willing to take a risk on your version."

She was so still. "I don't know," she said. "I was at school. Mother was careful. Oh, so careful. She had friends, male friends, but they came and went. They danced and laughed and played cards." She leaned forward, a blush on her ivory cheeks. "There was never a hint of such dark passions. It was all so socially acceptable." Her smile turned bitter. "But there was someone. And she knew that I knew. I told her so. And I told her I would find out. I told her that I would never rest until I made her pay for what she'd done. And that was my mistake. I warned her."

She rose from her chair so suddenly that I pressed back in mine. My reaction made her laugh. "You're smart to be afraid of me. There's no telling what I might do." She walked to a desk in the corner of the room and I was taken with the way she moved. She had the grace of a dancer, the body of a woman who worked at keeping fit. And that sheaf of blond hair swung around her hips. She was thirty-six. Nineteen years must have been an eternity. "Ask something else."

"What were you doing at Delo's?"