Rock-a-Bye Bones (28 page)

“What's Bijou up to?” I asked.

“Missing from her social agenda. She's staying at home, according to my sources. She's missed garden club, The Club, and even her investment club meetings.”

“Is Gertrude hiding out at Hemlock Manor?” I'd nicknamed Bijou's huge plantation and the derogatory term had stuck.

“I can't say for positive, and neither can Jaytee, though he sat on Bijou all day.” She rolled her eyes. “I love to shop, but how one woman could spend six hours trotting around Zinnia going to store after store … oh, yeah, I think Tinkie can do that, too.”

“Tinkie's bought enough clothes for Libby to get her through until college.” It was true. “Somehow there has to be a way to explore Hemlock Manor and see if Gertrude is there.”

Cece swiveled on the bar stool and grabbed both my arms. “You are not to put foot on that estate. I'll tie you up and sit on you.”

“
I
can't go to Hemlock Manor. Bijou would press charges against me.” I gave her a dazzling smile. “But
you
can. How about a spread in the fashion section of the paper? Bijou would go for that. She's such a narcissist she'll invite you in if she thinks she'll be presented in the newspaper as someone with class and style.”

“Don't you think she'd smell a rat?” Cece ate one big, fat queen olive from her martini. “She's not stupid.”

“But she is a narcissist. She'd jump at it even if she suspects something. The lure of being lauded in the paper will outweigh the possibility that you have an ulterior motive.”

Cece considered, and I signaled for another drink for her. I could be a lot more persuasive if Cece's common sense was dulled by alcohol.

“Ply me with liquor. That won't get you much except a huge bar tab. You know I have a hollow leg.” Cece accepted the drink with a grin.

“So will you do it?”

“It won't do any good. Coleman checked Hemlock Manor. He didn't find a trace of Gertrude, but we both know there are hundreds of hiding places on an estate that big.”

“I know.” Defeat was hard to accept.

“I'll ask Jaytee to tail her again.”

I had no doubt Jaytee would attempt to spin the earth clockwise if Cece asked him. “I think Bijou is a dead end. I'm just desperate.”

“I know.” Cece clinked her glass against mine.

As exhaustion and alcohol finally began to take a toll, I relaxed and enjoyed a chat with my friend. Cece was all ears about the hiring of Dog and his crew of bounty hunters. She whipped out a pad and made notes. “Do you think Junior Wells will talk to me about it?”

“He was mighty pleased with himself. Maybe.”

“That would be a great story. Is Dog's wife and family coming?”

“Hold on. I'm not certain Dog is personally coming here himself. He may send employees. Junior will have to tell you about the arrangement.”

“Did you talk with Betty McGowin and tell her I'd like to interview her?”

I wasn't slacking on my friend duties. “In fact I have. She said after Thanksgiving she'd consider it.”

“Thanks, Sarah Booth.”

“We work well together.” I finished my drink and felt the return of anxiety. I hated being forced to sit and watch the clock wind down. There was so much left undone, and I was hamstrung by Gertrude. When Cece excused herself to assist Jaytee, I called Coleman.

“What did the search of Carrie Ann's house turn up?”

“No sign of Pleasant or Gertrude.”

He sounded tense. “What's wrong?”

“Carrie Ann isn't right. In the head.”

I could have told him that from my brief visit. She'd displayed all the loon behavior I'd needed to see. I could only imagine how much angrier she was that Coleman had invaded her home.

“But you didn't find anything relating to Gertrude or Pleasant?”

“Nothing that would count as evidence in a courtroom. But—”

My heart leaped. He had found something.

“I have information on the blond young man Tally and Marcia were talking to.”

“What did you find?”

“Owen DeLong did time with Luther Potter at Parchman.”

This was the link we needed. “He'll know where Potter is.”

“My thoughts exactly, which is why Hoss is picking him up right now for questioning.”

“I need to drop Sweetie and Pluto off at Dahlia House. Tinkie and Oscar are meeting me there with Libby. Can you stop by later?”

“I can,” Coleman said.

“I found some things today, too. We can compare notes.”

“And take care of some other business.”

He hadn't said anything inappropriate, but the tone of his voice made me flush. Thank goodness Tinkie and Oscar would be there to protect me from myself. “I'm heading home in fifteen minutes.”

“Just as long as you aren't alone.”

“I promise.”

“And steer clear of Bijou's place.”

I was about to ask how he knew I'd even discussed Hemlock Manor with Cece, but it was pointless. Coleman had great intuition.

I finished my drink, thanked Curtis and Scott, and said good-bye to my friends before I whistled up Sweetie Pie and cajoled Pluto into leaving. Sometimes my pets reminded me of a good daughter and a James Dean rebel. One wished to please and the other was too aristo-cat-ic to even take notice of my requests.

 

21

By the time I pulled in front of Dahlia House, the long day and roller coaster of emotions had begun to take their toll. I was relieved to see Tinkie's Caddy there, the trunk still open and Oscar coming down the steps to retrieve more of Libby's “necessities.” I wondered if there would be room to sit in Dahlia House with all of Libby's new gear.

When I got out of the car, Tinkie was standing in the doorway holding Libby. Chablis was nowhere in sight. Sweetie and Pluto took off at a run, scooting past Tink and baying through the interior of the house. They were looking for their furry friend.

“Where is Chablis?” I asked when I made it up the steps.

“She's here.”

“Where?” Chablis was always eager to greet me.

“Around.”

My hackles went up and I walked past her and began to scout the house. What I found sent steam shooting from my ears. Chablis was curled in a corner of the music room. She was so despondent that she didn't even move when I called her name. Sweetie nosed her, and Chablis ignored her best playmate. Not even Pluto, testing with one black kitty claw, could get a response.

“Chablis,” I whispered, kneeling beside her. I stroked her trembling body and checked her for a wound or illness. She wasn't hurt—physically.

I scooped the dog into my arms and marched back to Tinkie. “Put that baby down this instant. There's someone here you're neglecting.”

Tinkie's expression went from shock to fleeting anger and then sudden remorse. “I have been ignoring Chablis.”

“And it will stop now.” My friend was tenderhearted and loved her dust mop of a dog, but baby fever had clouded her judgment. Tinkie would never, ever do a single thing to upset Chablis or hurt her feelings. Yet she had. And knowing my partner, she would suffer guilt until she made amends with her pooch.

Libby was oblivious to all of it. When Tinkie put her in the playpen, the baby turned to look at Sweetie, gurgling with joy.

I handed Tinkie her pup. “You need to do some serious making up.”

Tinkie sank into a chair beside the playpen and rocked Chablis back and forth, crooning apologies to her. I went to the front door, where Oscar, loaded with even more baby stuff, struggled up the steps. Some of the products I'd never seen or heard of. Baby-ramas, Johnny jumpers, cuddle clothes. I'd grown up knowing about pacifiers, teething rings, diapers, and baby rash ointment. In the years I'd failed to pay attention, there'd been an explosion of things for doting parents to spend money on. Much of it useless, in my opinion.

“Oscar, put that stuff back in the car. Libby has everything she needs right inside.”

“But she might want—”

“This excess has to stop. It isn't good for you or the baby. And while I'm laying down the law, you have to stop neglecting Chablis. Her little heart is breaking.”

He slowly lowered the goods, a chagrined expression on his face. “I hadn't realized how we were leaving her out.”

“She was your first responsibility. Sure, the baby needs constant attention, but Chablis needs to know she's loved, too. You can balance the two.”

Oscar left his bundle at the door and hurried inside. He joined Tinkie, who still cuddled Chablis. The pup looked a thousand percent more chipper, and after a few minutes of love from both her humans, she jumped to the floor and romped off with Sweetie.

Crisis averted.

“Thanks for the wake-up call,” Tinkie said as she shifted to sit on the floor beside the playpen. She lay down on her side so she was eye to eye with Libby, who watched her with absorption.

“Chablis is a sensitive soul. She's fine now. She will love Libby just as much as she loves you two.” I stifled a yawn. My day had been long and worry had settled heavy on my shoulders. The long hours of the night stretched ahead of us.

Famished, we dug into the food Millie had prepared, and Tinkie and Oscar regaled me with stories of Libby's intelligence and ability to understand English, French, and Spanish vocabulary words. They raved about her discerning palate. I didn't say a word. How a baby who drank only formula could be such a prodigy of taste, I didn't know and refused to ask. It was just fun to hear them brag so outrageously over the infant.

The critters enjoyed the special treats Millie had sent them, and they stretched out on the floor beneath the kitchen table.

I'd locked all the doors, windows, and even the doggy door. Sweetie, Chablis, and Pluto were fearless. I was filled with fears. To keep them safe, I made sure they couldn't charge out into the night—should Gertrude show her face. Before it got any later, I called Lee McBride, my horsey friend, and checked on my herd. Reveler, Lucifer, and Miss Scrapiron were grazing in a lush winter pasture, content and well attended.

After Gertrude's surprise visit, when she recklessly shot up my place, I was glad the horses were safely away from Dahlia House, at least until Gertrude was brought to justice.

As the hours passed, Coleman called twice to check on me. He didn't explain his absence, and I was honestly too tired to question him thoroughly. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

“Sarah Booth, you should go to bed.” Tinkie knelt in front of me. I'd fallen asleep sitting up on the horsehair sofa.

“Scott said he'd spend the night.” I yawned again. “Watchdog.”

“You jump under the covers. We'll let him in. I promise.” Tinkie put the back of her hand against my forehead as if she were testing for fever. “You're so tired your body is cool to the touch. You need rest.”

I covered a yawn with my palm. She was right. I'd get a crick in my neck if I continued to sleep with my head cranked over. “Thank you both.”

“See you in the morning,” Tinkie said. “And thanks for pointing out how left out Chablis felt.”

I nodded and trudged up the stairs to my room, barely aware of what I was doing.

The next morning I woke up with the sun in my eyes and someone sitting on my bed. When I finally focused on the towering blue beehive hairdo, I scooted against the headboard. “What the hell?”

“It's going to be a lovely day, Sarah Booth. Friends and family gathering round.”

I leaned toward the bedroom door. If I could get away from the apparition with the huge blue hairdo, red necklace, and voice that sounded like gravel, I was going to make a break for freedom.

“Don't be in a rush, Sarah Booth. Rushing is bad for your digestion. Homer never rushes.”

“Marge Simpson.” I meant to speak under my breath but failed.

“Yes, it's me. Marge. Here to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

I'd seen Jitty take on the form of cartoon characters, in particular Betty Boop and Wonder Woman, but to see her as Marge was disconcerting. Marge was a long way from beautiful or sexy, which were Jitty's preference. Marge tolerated Bart's mischief and Homer's mediocrity. She was loving and kind and forgiving, which was also far down the list of Jitty's character traits.

Marge loved her family above all else.

At last I got it—why Jitty presented as Marge Simpson. She was the mother of unconditional love.

“You got it, cupcake,” Jitty/Marge said in that voice that could drive me straight up the wall. “Mothers love. That's their job. You're a mother to Sweetie Pie and Pluto. And one day, you'll be a mother to your own little Delaney.”

I braced myself for the shriveling ovaries lecture, but Marge was kinder and less repetitious than Jitty. She moved on to other areas.

“You don't have to be smart or famous or even pretty to be the best mother around. I know. I'm none of those things. But I got love.”

In the crazy way that Jitty worked on me, I began to miss the idea of common, plain old motherhood. I didn't have to be a genius, or the best private eye, or the prettiest Delta gal, or even the best cook. I could be Mom, and that required the capacity to love. It was a job description that suddenly held gargantuan appeal. My mother had been an exemplary mother. She fought for her community and to change the world. She married the smartest man in the South, a man who stood for something. But I didn't have to match her. I could just be a mom in my own way.

“Don't compare yourself to the past. Remember, history's like an amusement park. Except instead of rides, you have dates to memorize.”

That statement was like a slap in the face or a glass of cold water tossed on me. I snapped out of it. Throwing the covers aside, I leaped out of bed. “Stop it, Jitty. You're turning my brain into mush. Of course I have to be the best mom ever—just like my mama. I can't be a substandard vessel for the last Delaney spawn.” I knew that would get her goat.