Authors: Carolyn Haines
"Listen, Sarah Booth." Madame took a seat in one of the rockers and began to fumble in her purse. She drew out a checkbook and wrote. She tore off the check with a flair and handed it to me. "Cece said you get ten thousand a case." She pressed the check into my hand. "There's ten. I want you to prove that Brianna Rathbone killed
I took the check and held it as if it were dangerous. "What if I can't prove it?" I didn't have the nerve to ask what if it wasn't true. It wasn't that Brianna wasn't capable of almost anything to push her own agenda. I just didn't see how she could have cut
"I don't care how you do it, just do it. Last night,
Madame had given me a motive. Sort of. "But you said she could still publish the book anyway."
"True, but it would be unauthorized. The other point is that the publishing world will be fascinated by
Sad but true, too. A corollary motive. The book would sell like hotcakes
because
"I'll get a copy of the autopsy report," I told her as I heard the approach of sirens.
"There are things missing from his house," she said.
The abruptness of her tone startled me. How could she tell? The place was jammed with paintings, sculptures, drawings, books, plants--artistic endeavors of every kind. Everything looked neat and orderly to me. "What things? How do you know?"
"Whoever was with him after I left took his journal, a scrapbook of clippings ..." Madame's gaze slid down and away, "and the manuscript. He always kept them locked in a cabinet and they're gone. Maybe you can find some clues inside." She bent down and scooped up the yellow tabby cat. "If only Apollo could talk."
If only, I thought. As the sheriff pulled up, I dutifully went back inside the house for one final look. Someone had cleaned up after the party and things seemed to be in perfect order. But how would I know?
I heard Madame speaking with Coleman Peters outside. She told the sheriff that she believed
Coleman and a young deputy I didn't know came into the house. For a few seconds they gazed at
"He was that writer, the one who had the fling with Ginger Rogers," the deputy said with a proper note of awe in his voice.
"He was a wonderful old man," Coleman responded, his brow furrowed as he began to examine the body.
"I heard he could dance like--" The deputy stopped at the sound of Madame's sniffling. "Sorry, ma'am."
"He was a wonderful dancer," Madame said.
She left the room and I heard her big car start and pull away. I was left facing a curious Coleman.
"A new case, Sarah Booth?" he asked.
"You tell me."
He shook his head. "No sign of a struggle but an awful lot of blood. We'll see what Doc Sawyer has to say." He put his hand on my elbow and eased me out the door. Outside, his grip tightened, halting me. "I don't have to tell you that this could get crazy.
"My lips are sealed," I assured him.
"I find it a little odd that you and Rosalyn Bell are out here together with a dead man. What's going on?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," I said, eager to make my getaway. I liked Coleman, but I didn't want to be interrogated. "If I come across something, I'll get with you."
"Be sure you do, Sarah Booth. There's something troubling about finding you here. Something deeply troubling."
4
"Fetch, Sweetie Pie," I urged the lanky hound as I tossed the Evan Picone shoe down the drive. It landed under the first sycamore, a bright red splash against the blanket of new snow. Unmoved by the sight, Sweetie Pie flopped to her back and proceeded to do her doggy version of snow angels by wiggling on her back and wagging her tail.
"Get the shoe," I ordered. She'd already eaten the mate. The dog had a distinct preference for Italian leather. I'd hoped, using her fondness for fine footwear, to teach her to retrieve. Or at least occupy her for a few moments. In her brief tenure at Dahlia House, she'd toted up a hefty price. Still, the light of joy in her warm brown eyes whenever I gave her as little as a kind word had to be weighed.
That it was Christmas Day held no joy for me. Not even my neon wreath had been able to lift my spirits. The death of Lawrence Ambrose weighed heavily on my mind. Madame's check was still in the pocket of my coat, another burden. In my heart, I believed Madame's reaction was emotional. There had been so much blood.
Chasing the shoe for Sweetie had made me warm and I took off my wool jacket and hung it over a tree limb. I returned my attention to the bounding hound. I had just retrieved the shoe when I saw a showy red car turn down my drive. No one in Zinnia drove such a car, a classic T-bird convertible. I stood up, wiping my cold, wet hands on my jeans. Sunlight had followed the snow, illuminating the solitary man in the car. I waited as the vehicle flashed red through the bare sycamores and finally come to a stop not ten feet away from me.
Willem Arquillo stepped out, the sun catching the golden highlights in his hair. His teeth were white and perfect as he gave me a smile that made it seem as if he had anticipated this meeting for at least half his life.
"Hola, Senorita Delaney,"
he said, exaggerating his accent as he came toward me, a gift from a land kissed by sun, Spaniards, and some genetic component of tall, blond gods.
"Willem," I replied. "What brings you to Dahlia House?"
He lifted my empty hand and brought it to his lips, then stepped back, his gaze drifting to the red shoe I held. "Perhaps I've come to play Prince Charming to your Cinderella."
"I was playing fetch." I tossed the shoe again, but there was no sign of Sweetie. She'd disappeared.
He took my elbow and gently began to usher me to the front porch. "Perhaps you should go inside and warm up," he said.
His hand on my arm, even through my old green sweater, was extremely warm and supportive. Extremely. As if his fingertips had tiny little electric heaters in them whirring down to my skin. Had he said he was going to help me to the brink of hell, I would have followed his lead.
He hadn't answered my question and I was about to ask again when I saw the dog. She came out from under the porch, a blur of black, rust, tan, and big white teeth that had everything to do with the-better-to-eat-him-with line in the fairy tale.
"Sweetie!" I cried, thrusting myself against Willem in an attempt to save him from the hound.
Unaware of the pending attack from the dog and responding only to the attack from me, his arms came around me, one hand landing squarely on my newly robust bust.
Tearing myself away from Willem's embrace, I grabbed Sweetie's collar.
"What kind of creature is that?" Willem asked, stepping back from the dog, not in fear but in distaste. "I've never seen an animal so unfortunate-looking."
"She's a red tic." I was hanging on to her collar for dear life. Her normal tail-wagging charm had turned into Cujo. She barked in a deep, hoarse-sounding bay, and her ears flopped wildly as she lunged at Willem.
"I never realized there was such an ugly breed."
"Get inside." It wasn't exactly a gracious invitation to enter my home, but I wasn't feeling exactly gracious. He'd violated the code of conduct. In the South, be it the realm of wealthy Buddy Clubbers or the lowliest shotgun shanty, there's a list of things that aren't open for criticism. Dog is at the top, followed by pickup, gun collection, and shoe size--small for men and large for women.
When Willem was safely inside the front door, I released Sweetie Pie. "Guard the porch," I told her. "If he comes out with the family silver, eat him up." I gave her a pat as I slipped inside and found Willem admiring the bust of Stonewall in the foyer.
"I enjoy the fact that all Southerners claim some relationship to at least one Confederate general. If I recall my history,
"Sperm donor," I said with the most charming smile in my arsenal. For all his handsome physical appearance, Willem had a way of getting under my skin.
"In my country, we also have strange blood ties." His hazel eyes actually seemed to darken before he turned his gaze away.
It was an odd comment after what I'd heard at
"But I didn't come to discuss history," Willem said, his long fingers ruffling the tinsel wreath around Stonewall's neck.
Remiss on both conversation and hospitality, I came to my senses. "Would you like a . . ." What should I offer? The day had gotten away from me, and I was at a loss to think of the proper libation for the hour.
"Brandy would be lovely," he said.
I opened the door of the front parlor. Willem stopped at the threshold, awed by the blinking neon and the huge tree that dominated the corner of the room.
"I thought I'd call the Daughters of the Confederacy and enter the holiday decorating contest," I said with some mischief. I had a sudden mental picture of Brianna Rathbone's decorations--all white twinkle lights, designer-tied plaid bows, ceramic angels, and matching gift-wrapped presents.
Willem had not moved. "I've never seen anything like it," he finally said. His hand, so fluid and sensual even with the smallest gesture, took in the neon. "A blend of traditional values and pop art. I'm envious. This must be photographed."
I'd anticipated horror, but his face reflected a deep interest in my handiwork. It occurred to me that he might be playing me for a fool. I got two glasses and poured us both a healthy brandy.
"What brings you to Dahlia House?" I asked again. Willem was taken with the decorations, but he was also carefully evaluating everything else in the room. After he accepted the drink, he took a seat in the leather chair that faced mine.
"To share the holiday sentiments of good cheer," he said with one eyebrow arching just enough to be devilish. "You left the party last night without giving me a chance to say good night."
He was smooth, and even though I was aware of it, I still couldn't help a tiny flutter. I dropped back to the safety of cynicism, my defensive trump. "Right."
His smile acknowledged my hard shell. "I came because I heard about Mr. Ambrose. You discovered the body."
Tiny little goose bumps trembled on my arms. "Yes, that's true."
"The shock, it must have been severe."
His eyes were a light hazel with golden flecks that seemed to shift in soft patterns. Perhaps it was just the effect of the blinking neon. "Yes." I lowered my gaze and waited.
"The sheriff certainly believes it was an accident, right?"
I shrugged, aware of his subtle implication that it might have been something other than an accident. "It would seem."
"And just when he was about to complete the book about his life." A pause. "Such a shame that the project is ruined."
"Is it ruined?" I asked. If Willem was pumping me, I decided to turn the tables.
Willem leaned across the space and touched my hand. "Perhaps I misunderstood. Will Brianna continue with the book?"
The touch of his hand distracted me with a flash of sensory neon, but something in his tone made me cautious. "I'm not certain what her plans are. Maybe you should ask her."