Bones to Pick (17 page)

"Have you bothered to check the statistics on these so-called love matches?"

I didn't say anything.

"Do that, Sarah Booth, before you go making such bold statements. That's one of your problems, you know. You step out front before you realize what's happening. If you aren't careful, you're going to wind up in trouble."

"I didn't mean to offend you." I might not have a diploma from the
Carrington
School
for Weil-Bred Ladies, but my mother had taught me respect for those older than I.

"The divorce rate today is close to seventy-five percent. Of the people who stay married, many of them have more at stake than simply romance. Properties, lifestyles, investments, the concept of building a life together instead of randomly falling into bed--that's the glue of a good marriage."

Thank God we were at the back steps. I helped her to the table in the shade of a magnificent oak. The garden was a riot of yellow, orange, amber, and garnet mums. "I'll check on Tinkie." I started to turn away.

"Sit down, Sarah Booth. I won't fuss anymore." She sighed. "I'm an old lady, and I find that I grow quarrelsome. I'm sorry."

I took a seat across from her. Her face was pale, except for her cheeks, which were flushed. She'd gotten upset, and it was my duty to calm her. "How many girls have graduated from your school?"

"When we first opened, the school was small. Our original class was ten girls. It was the height of the youth rebellion. Marijuana was being grown on the fringes of the cotton fields. Young girls were throwing away their brassieres, their morals, and their bodies. Society was under siege. I was a young woman of twenty-seven, and I saw what was happening. I knew I had to fight against it."

I glanced toward the house, praying Tinkie would appear. This was a conversation I didn't want to have with Virgie. We were polar opposites, and another clash of values would only upset her further. "Quentin and Allison graduated when?"

"Seven years ago." Her face clouded over. "Who could have foreseen all of this?"

"No one. Not even you." That was true. There was nothing to be gained by Virgie kicking herself over something she couldn't possibly have stopped.

"Quentin had an element of spite in her nature. I remember one time when she was visiting Umbria--she was just a child then--she took a dislike to the young man Umbria was seeing and put Red Devil lye in his shoes."

"That sounds a little extreme."

"Quentin lived on the edge. The book is mean-spirited. What she did to her own family, I don't understand it. What did she hope to gain? The book has a limited audience. No one cares about any of it except for those in the immediate area. It's caused a sensation now, but in six months no one will remember it."

"The book must be true, though. Otherwise, someone would have sued."

"There is factual truth and emotional truth, Sarah Booth. The sooner you learn that, the easier your life will become."

I knew what she meant, but as a private investigator, I dealt with the facts. The emotional shadings were another matter.

At last I saw Tinkie carrying a tray of cups, condiments, and a pot of coffee. There was also a bottle of expensive brandy.
Good thinking, Tinkie.
I needed a shot, if no one else did.

She set the tray down and poured for all of us, adding a dollop of brandy to each cup of coffee. "You look like you could use a little pick-me-up," she told Virgie.

To my surprise, Virgie accepted the brandy-laced coffee without complaint. She drank it down, and Tinkie prepared another.

"What's the story on Lorilee Brewer?" I asked.

"She was a Frazier before she married." Virgie sipped her coffee. "She had a vicious streak a mile wide. Most of the other girls despised her, and to be honest, I never thought she'd land a man. But Charlie Brewer married her. I dare say, he'll be divorcing her after everything Quentin revealed in the book. No man wants to be shamed like that. In many ways, men are so very fragile. It's a woman's duty to protect them from this type of shame."

"Lorilee said some vicious things about Marilyn," Tinkie said. "I can't imagine why they hang around together."

"Since Quentin revealed Marilyn's plans to sell her property for the landfill, Marilyn doesn't have a friend left in the world. All of her neighbors felt betrayed. I guess Lorilee is the best she can do." Virgie sighed. "It's so hard to watch my girls go wrong."

"Do you think either of those women could have killed Quentin?" I asked.

"When Marilyn was one of my students, she was sweet. A little withdrawn. She's changed. But if I had to pick one or the other, I'd say Lorilee. Then again, Marilyn lost a lot because of what Quentin and Allison revealed." She shook her head. "The truth is, either one could do it."

"Who else?" Tinkie asked.

Virgie put her empty cup on the table. "I'd certainly put
Umbria
at the top of the list. And that low-life husband of hers, Rutherford Clark. Why
Franklin
and
Caledonia
allowed that marriage, I'll never understand. Now that's something worth looking into." She slowly rose to her feet.

"I'm sorry, but I need to go and lie down. I hope you'll excuse me. And Tinkie, thank you for the refreshments."

When I made an effort to help her, she waved me back into my seat. "I'm not helpless yet," she said, "but I am tired. Good day, ladies."

13

We left The Gardens and slowed for school traffic. Tinkie was pensive behind the wheel of the Caddy. "Do you really think the murderer could be a woman?" she asked. "Quentin's murder was so brutal."

"You're the one who made the list of names from the book. Almost everyone on the list is female."

"I've been giving it some thought. Quentin's murder seems to be something a man would concoct. I mean, most women wouldn't think of suffocating someone in a mud hole."

That was true. But there was the note. "Dragging the family's name through the mud ..." I pondered the genderlessness of it. "Could be a woman or a man."

"We should go and look for those other notes."

Tinkie was right. I checked my watch. We still had two or three hours of daylight. "Let's go to
Oxford
."

Never one to miss a chance to show off her driving skills, Tinkie whipped a U-turn in the middle of
Main Street
. The school traffic deputy blew her whistle and started running toward us, white gloves waving frantically in the air.

"Go!"
I
urged Tinkie. The traffic cop was faster than she looked. "Go!"

Tinkie hit the gas, and the Caddy jumped forward. I looked back to see the cop shaking her fist at us.

Tinkie was laughing as we left Zinnia behind and headed up the highway to
Oxford
,
Mississippi
, and the rental house where Allison and Quentin had lived.

The topography of the Delta changed as we moved eastward across the state. The flat land gave way to hills and rises. Development was everywhere. When I'd gone to college, the drive to the university had been isolated. Now there were homes and businesses everywhere. I saw the death notice for the thousand-acre farms writ large on the canvas of the earth. Land would soon be more valuable for subdivisions than for growing things. Factory farms, where cattle and hogs were penned in squalid feedlots, were already replacing the sprawling grassland ranches.

"You're mighty quiet." Tinkie kept her gaze on the highway in front of her.

"I've been stuck in the past because what I see in the future terrifies me."

"Coleman?"

"No." I smiled. "Not Coleman but another lost love."

"
Hamilton
?"

"The land."

"Oscar and I were talking just last week. Politicians associate progress with growth, when it's exactly the opposite. If we could freeze the development in
Sunflower
County
, in ten years we'd have something really special--a town that isn't jammed to the seams with people."

"Oscar said this?" My understanding of bankers was that they encouraged development, because it meant more people borrowing more money.

"Sarah Booth, you consistently underestimate Oscar and yourself."

I was saved from a reply because we hit the outskirts of
Oxford
,
Mississippi
. It is a picturesque town that had developed around the
University
of
Mississippi
, or Ole Miss, as it is fondly known.
Oxford
was also the home of William Faulkner. Tinkie had accused me of not liking to read, but it wasn't true. In my youth I adored Faulkner and Miss Welty. In the past year I'd added books by Larry Brown and Brad Watson to Dahlia House's library shelves.

We passed the square, which housed, brilliantly enough, Square Books.
Oxford
had grown around a central courthouse square. William Faulkner had hung his hat here, and a lively group of writers of all genres now lived in the area. Many of the authors hung out at the bookstore and taught, when they could, at Ole Miss to supplement their incomes. The mystique of Faulkner could still be found in the shade of majestic oaks and along a rural dirt road.

The house that Allison and Quentin had shared was on the north side of town, a cottage really, tucked among second growth pines and oaks. The yard was a jungle. A storm that had come through in September had knocked trees down, and they remained partially draped across the driveway, which wound through the winter-bare trees and vines. In the summer, the place would be hidden by thick leaves.

"This is a little on the creepy side," Tinkie said as she maneuvered the car around a fallen pine. "It's been two months since the storm, yet debris is everywhere."

"Quentin had been on a book tour." I had to suppress a tiny shudder myself. The place was creepy. It was a strange blend of the witch's cottage in
Hansel and Gretel
and a Tolkienesque hobbit's hole. We pulled to a stop beneath the lattice-covered portico.

"We didn't bring a key," Tinkie said.

I could read her desire to leave on her face. But we'd driven hours to look for the threatening notes. "I'll go in a window." I got out and walked to the side door. To my surprise, the knob turned easily, and the door pushed open. "It isn't locked."

Tinkie reluctantly got out of the car and followed me up the steps and into the kitchen. I stopped. The room was painted barn red, with white fixtures and white trim on the windows. Lacy curtains fluttered in a breeze that blew through a crack. An old white farm table with four oak chairs stood at the center of the room. Copper pots gleamed on the walls, along with pen-and-ink drawings, done by Quentin, I noted.

"This is very nice," Tinkie said.

She was so close, I could feel her breath on my shoulder blades.

"I would never have suspected they were such traditionalists." She stepped forward and touched a vase full of dead flowers on the table. They'd been spider mums. "They were happy here, weren't they?"

I nodded. "Let's find those notes." We were trespassing on a past that was dead. The sensation made me uncomfortable, and I realized that this was what Tinkie had not wanted to feel. The life Quentin and Allison had shared was over. This was the last vestige of it. We had tainted it with our presence.

"I'll take the study." Tinkie scooted past me, leaving the bedroom for me.

"Thanks," I called after her as I moved down the hallway to the bedroom. The bed was made, covered with heirloom quilts. On the lavender walls magnificent Wyatt Waters artwork hung beside black-and-white photographs. I went through the bedside table drawers and then the bureau and highboy drawers. There were no notes, but I did find what appeared to be several digital camera diskettes. I slipped them into my pocket and went to find Tinkie.

She sat in the middle of the office floor, with pieces of paper all around her.

"These are serious," she said, her face pale in the fading light. "Someone really meant to harm Quentin, and finally did." She handed the note to me.

You are a disgrace to your family. Stop this foolishness or pay the consequences.
There was no date, and I couldn't tell if the note was about Quentin's book or her relationship with Allison. I took another note Tinkie handed up
to
me.
Your conduct will be the death of you.
The note was still ambiguous. The third one, though, was more telling.
The pen is mightier than the sword. Beware the consequences of what you write because you will pay in blood.

"There aren't any dates," I pointed out.

"If they were mailed, she didn't keep the envelopes. They could have been left here for her."