Them Bones (14 page)

That was news to me, but he was watching so closely I knew better than to show the slightest interest. "Maybe we should go inside and build a fire." I was freezing, and I needed time to find out everything Harold knew about
Hamilton .

Harold stood up, pleased at my unexpected invitation. I was usually shoving him out the door. "That would be lovely," he said. "I'll bring in some wood."

In his fine suit, he walked to the woodpile and began gathering logs. Wood carrying was a man's job. It would never cross Harold's mind that I was capable of it.

In that moment, marriage did not seem impossible.

13

Harold built the fire with the same grace and economy of motion I'd come to expect of him. We settled onto the sofa, drinks in hand, as the blaze caught the dry oak and began to crackle. Though the night was not particularly cold, the warmth of the fire was comforting.

"This is a fine old place," he said, looking into the fire instead of at me. "I've often regretted the loss of my family home. It was nothing like Dahlia House. It was on

Birch Lane

, a nice old Victorian Gothic with a big yard. I had some pleasant memories there."

His admission caught me by surprise. Harold was not from
Sunflower County . He'd grown up in
Greenwood , still in the Delta but not part of my world. I knew that his parents were dead, but I knew very little else. His attachment to property that had given "pleasant memories" was unexpected.

"What happened to the house?" I asked. Every Pliant Woman knows that the way to a man's heart is to focus the conversation on him. But this was actually something I wanted to know.

"After my mother died, I sold it. School debts. I wanted to go to Juilliard." His smile showed amusement at a long-ago dream. "Business school seemed much more practical."

"You've done well." I heard the creak of a floorboard and knew that Jitty, as usual, was eavesdropping. Harold assumed it was simply the sound of an old house standing firm against a north wind.

"There's no sense regretting decisions that are irrevocable," he said. "There are people who spend their entire lives in regret. It's a sad substitute for awareness of the present."

I wondered if his words were directed at me or himself. "You said you went to
Dorsett Military Academy . It's difficult to believe you were a discipline problem."

He laughed softly. "I was an inconvenience. But I learned self-reliance at Dorsett. It wasn't a wasted experience."

I had arrived at the tricky patch of road. "You went to school with Hamilton Garrett. Did you know his sister, Sylvia?"

So far,
Hamilton 's steps had been easy to trace, but Sylvia was elusive, a shadow person.

Harold turned from the fire and looked at me. "Yes, I knew her. Even as a young girl she was striking." He looked at his drink. "We shared an appreciation for art. And music."

Something in his expression made me catch my breath. "I understand she's in Glen Oaks," I said, shaking my head slightly. "What a pity. I believe
Hamilton is her only family."

"I thought most people had forgotten she ever existed." He lifted his glass to catch the flames in the intricate pattern of the crystal. "She wanted to be forgotten. It was her stated wish."

"She committed herself voluntarily, didn't she?"

"Her father's death nearly destroyed her. There were problems in the family, but Mr. Garrett's violent end did something to her. Sylvia was always delicate, always so high-strung. I talked to her after her mother's accident. I tried to convince her to seek help outside the institution. She would only say that her life had been one of waiting, first for tragedy and now for the opposite."

This was very dicey. Harold had obviously not forgotten her. "Is she--"

"Insane?"

"I'll?" I supplied in a softer voice.

"Not when I knew her. At least not in the way everyone thought. She had an intensity . . . There was always something between her and her mother. When I knew her she was almost grown, almost ready to have her own life." His voice drifted to a close.

The fire crackled and a log shifted, sending sparks up the old chimney. "I heard she was very beautiful."

He shifted so that he could look directly at me. "She's very different from you, Sarah Booth." His voice grew stronger. "But I didn't come to talk about Delta heritage or intrigue. Or the past." He dropped his gaze to my left hand. "Whatever you decide, the ring is yours to keep."

His change of subject left me momentarily befuddled. I was so deep into my PI mode that I'd forgotten the rules of social conversing. Now it was time for a witty and challenging reply. I fell flat in my mission and mumbled, "That's hardly fair, Harold. It's a very expensive ring."

His light eyes seemed to reflect the restless movement of the fire. "You have some strange ideas," he said. "What is fair in life? Especially in romance?" He lifted my ringless hand and examined it, giving my unmanicured nails a shake of his head. "The diamond would look lovely on you. Your hands, for all that you don't seem to care, are artistic."

By God, the scoundrel had turned the tables. "And I won't keep it unless I wear it as it was intended." I had barely finished speaking when a crash in the kitchen made us both jump.

Harold rose instantly and started toward the sound.

"Wait," I said, reaching out to catch his arm. I knew the culprit, and I knew Harold would find nothing in the kitchen except the stack of fruitcake pans Jitty had sent flying to the floor. "It's the wind. I left the kitchen window cracked."

He swung to face me and before I could react, he stepped forward and caught me in his arms. He did not crush me to him; instead, he brushed a strand of hair from my face. "May I kiss you, Sarah Booth?"

For answer, I lifted my face. His arms around me felt solid, and I was curious. There were things about Harold I was growing to like. Would this be one of them?

His kiss was restrained passion. He was a man who governed his emotions, even his desire. While I was tempted to urge him on, I also checked my impulse. Passion unleashed was a dangerous thing. Some of the Daddy's Girls had confided that they kept their marriage beds free of such troubling emotions. Why swamp a stable and adequate boat in a gale of roaring needs and expectations? Harold was a man who would be safe. Did I truly want to unleash the demon of desire?

Ah, but of course. Just a little.

I kissed him back, closing my eyes and letting the four ounces of moonshine I'd consumed loosen my back and my inhibitions. My response encouraged a bolder kiss. And yet he held back. I was getting ready to up the ante when he broke the kiss gently and stepped away.

"You give me hope," he said. "Shall I send a car for you Sunday?"

He was leaving. I was surprised. "No, I'll drive myself." I wondered if his withdrawal was deliberate. A strategy. Was it possible that I was being outflanked by a banker?

"Wear something daring," he said as he went to the door and let himself out. The front door shut with a solid click.

I was still standing in the center of the room when Jitty came out of the kitchen. She was in such a hurry that she didn't bother with the door, just came right through the wall. "What kind of fool are you? You gone give the ring back if you don't marry him?! I tol' you, the ring is part of the goods. When a man gives an engagement ring to a woman, it's hers if she accepts the engagement. Even if it's only for one night, or a week. Of course, there's some expectation of a good time there. But once she breaks if off, the ring is hers."

She rattled those cheap Mexican bracelets in my face and took another breath. "But no, you gone give the ring back. Miss High-and-Mighty, actin' like we got money to burn."

Jitty was only expressing my thoughts, but I didn't like to hear them. "Fair's fair," I retorted, determined to stand my ground with Jitty if not with Harold.

"I'm surprised that man didn't run screamin' from the room. What woman talks about fair when jewelry is involved?" She shook her head and I realized that something was terribly wrong. Her head was huge, twice as big as I'd ever seen it--and it was covered in an orange net thing with hot-pink and olive green tassels all over it. It looked like some underwater creature had jumped on her head and might be sucking her brain out.

I reached out and pulled the elastic band of the headcover, but she jerked away. "What is that thing?" I asked.

"It's a curler bonnet," she said, miffed. "If you ever read
Cosmo,
girl, you'd know a few tricks about how to straighten hair."

"That's incredibly ugly, Jitty," I said, snapping the elastic against her forehead. I took another peek under there. "Orange juice cans? Is that what you're using for rollers?"

"What's wrong with that?" she asked. "You put some a' that gel stuff on your hair and then the big juice cans pull it straight. At least that's what the magazine says."

I had a vague memory of such beauty antics. I'd still been in my first decade when the seventies roared into Sunflower County and turned Zinnia upside-down with hip-huggers, long straight hair, love beads, halter tops, sandals, and rich girls who had been trained to barter sex for security suddenly giving it away free to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who could strum a guitar or blow a harmonica.

My mother, who'd had a head full of long, wavy chestnut hair, had read
Cosmopolitan
sitting in the floral chair of the parlor. Mother had already been through her hippie phase, but she was a strong supporter of female independence.

I suppose Jitty had found some of the magazines up in the attic. Or else she remembered that time period. She seemed to have an amazing memory, and an endless amount of time to experiment with fashion. Really bad fashion.

"Wait a minute," she said, narrowing her eyes and beginning to walk around me. "You just hold your horses. I know you're tryin' to divert me. I know your game, Sarah Booth Delaney. You your father's child as sure as the night is dark. I'd get him pinned down in one place and he'd shift around to another subject. That won't work with me anymore."

I rolled my eyes.

"You better figure out a way to keep that ring," she warned.

"Or what?" I asked.

"Or else you gone have to marry that man for real."

It was late Saturday afternoon before I found a pair of shoes that would do for Harold's Sunday soiree. They set me back two hundred dollars, but they were going to be worth every penny. As I glanced at my legs in the full-length mirror of Steppin' Out, I decided not to think about whether I was buying the shoes for Harold or Hamilton. I was still Daddy's Girl enough to know that there was no point spoiling the perfect pair of shoes with too much thinking. The shoes were so striking, I decided a manicure was a necessity.

Although Zinnia is a small town, it's possible to find the latest in fashion at several of the small boutiques. I stopped in at After Nine to look at the winter season's dresses and to do a bit of sleuthing. Martha Wells, the owner, was busy with two customers, so I sauntered around the stylized, faceless mannequins that were draped in black and red sheaths. I was hoping the store would clear and I would have Martha to myself.

Instead, Tinkie came into the shop on a blast of rich perfume and a soft bark. Chablis leaped out of her arms and came straight at me, launching herself at my face. Luckily, I caught the fluff-ball as she licked my nose with amazing dexterity.

"Oh, my lord," Tinkie said, putting a hand on her heart as her eyes filled with tears. "She knows you saved her life, Sarah Booth. She remembers!" She rushed toward me and gave me a real kiss on the cheek.

"Tinkie!" I whispered, but Chablis took that opportunity to give me a dog kiss right in the mouth. Her breath had a hint of expensive leather, and I knew a pair of shoes had bitten the dust. I hoped they were Oscar's. "Tinkie, hush up," I said. "You'll blow my cover." Of course, the dog rescue had already been in
The Zinnia Dispatch
so it was sort of a moot point.

Tinkie hustled me over to the lingerie corner, and my eye drifted to a severely sexy black teddy. Now, that was something that would demand center stage in the bedroom.

"Sarah Booth," she whispered, "have you found out anything?"

In fact, I'd discovered quite a bit, but this wasn't the time or place. What was more important was that I let Tinkie know about the party at Harold's. Except I discovered that I didn't want her there. If she and Hamilton actually had something going on, I didn't want to watch it playing out in front of me. But I'd been paid for the information, and paid handsomely.

"Will you be at Harold's tomorrow night?" I asked.

Her nose wrinkled like a little rabbit's. "Oscar said something, but I just hate those parties where the men discuss business and the women are left to drift around with a glass of wine. I was thinking of developing a minor relapse of anemia. I let my prescription for my vitamins run out, just in case."

I was surprised. Tinkie's description of the parties was accurate, but those were the moments when Daddy's Girls got to preen. I would have thought she'd adore the opportunity.

"You should make it a point to be there," I said, still reluctant to spill the big news.

She picked up on something in my voice. "Why?" she whispered, her eyes big with excitement.

"
Hamilton will be there. He's in town." I reached out and grasped her shoulder.

"You've seen him?" she asked.

More than seen, I'd felt his hand on me. But I wasn't being paid to acquire titillating experiences. I was paid for facts. "He's back at Knob Hill. He's doing business with the bank." It was good I had my hand on her because she slumped against the wall. She was not tall, but she was deadweight.

"Madame Tomeeka was right," she moaned. "He's here."

Chablis wriggled free of my arm and began to bark. "Tinkie, you're causing a scene," I whispered. The words were like a slap. She regained her balance and stood straight. Dramatic scenes were never to be wasted in such places as a dress shop with no men around.

"What was he like?" Some of the color came back into her face. "I should have known Oscar was up to something." She looked at me in alarm. "Did
Hamilton look poor? Oscar was talking about someone pretending to have money."