Authors: Carolyn Haines
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Single Women, #Mississippi, #Women private investigators, #Ghost stories, #Delaney; Sarah Booth (Fictitious Character), #Women Private Investigators - Mississippi, #Women Plantation Owners, #Delaney; Sarah Booth (Fictitious Charater)
Splintered Bones (8 page)
"It's a news story, not society," Cece insisted.
"Mr. Erkwell, at the bank, specifically told me to talk to you," the man said.
He was not big of stature, but he had grit. Either that or he was dumb as a post. I lingered just outside the door, shamelessly eavesdropping.
"I'll have to thank Harold," Cece said. She leaned forward on her desk. Her perfect breasts pressed against the pale yellow sweater she wore, and I saw the gentleman's gaze lock on them. "You need
to
talk to someone on the news side, Mr. Walz. I can't help you."
"On the contrary, Miss Falcon. One positive mention of River-bend Development Company in your column could open a lot of doors for us. We need the support of the community." He leaned forward in his chair as he continued to talk to her breasts.
"Mr. Erkwell explained to me how so many people, especially the . . . landed gentry, shall we call them, frown on development. I concede that there have been too many unfortunate incidents in the past where historic homes and beautiful architecture have been razed to make way for progress. I want to assure the people of
I saw a flicker of interest pass over Cece's features. "Exactly what are your plans for
"We're very ambitious. We have some major investors. We're thinking
of
a golf course, a PGA-level course, with a country club and a housing development. Very elite, but preserving the integrity of the original property." He had his hands on his knees and had leaned back, but the flush on his face indicated that he had not lost interest in Cece's nonjournalistic assets. "It would be the economic scoop of the year for this state. This region."
"Have you selected a location?" Cece's tone was slightly bored, but I saw the keen interest in her eyes.
"We're exploring our options, but I'd like, very much, to anchor this development in
Cece finally caught sight of me lurking outside the door. "As I said, Mr. Walz, this is a news story. Until you begin development."
He smiled at her. "I'll look forward to working with you, Miss Falcon." He came out of the office, nodding at me as he left.
"Who was that?" I asked, stepping into her office and closing the door.
"Nathaniel Walz," she said, rolling her eyes. "A short man with a persistence problem."
"Have you found out anything for me?" I asked, settling into the chair that Walz had vacated.
Cece's smile grew wide and toothsome. "You will not believe what I found." Her nails, beautifully manicured and painted a glittering shade of metallic fruit, drummed on the small space of her desk that wasn't piled with paper.
"Spill it, Cece."
"Krystal Brook, the country singer, wants to do a benefit for Lee, to raise money for her defense. Her husband, who's also her manager, stopped by to see if I would do some articles if Krystal agreed to sing."
"Terrific." Benefit was good, but I needed leads.
"You'll never guess who Krystal Brook really is." Cece was beside herself.
"Who?" I asked, not wanting to play celebrity guessing games.
"Simpson Maes Fielding!"
I was stunned. Simpson was a Daddy's Girl, not a country music diva. "Simpson?"
Cece nodded, arching one perfectly groomed brow. "Her husband, Mike Rich, is trying to launch her career big time."
"Simpson is now Krystal?" I was still in disbelief. "Krystal Brook? That's her name now?"
"She legally changed her name. It takes a lot of guts to do that--to just abandon the past and become a completely different person."
Cece would know, from firsthand experience. "It takes a little getting used to, but it sounds like a great country music name."
"This benefit could help Lee and Krystal both. Mike said that Krystal is really talented, that she just needs a chance. She'll get total media coverage for doing this."
It was good to know that Simpson hadn't been completely transformed. She could still find the silver lining in another person's cloud. "Great. I hope it works out. But did you find out anything about Kemper that we can use?"
Not bothering to hide her miff at my lack of interest in music stars, Cece picked up a notepad and began to scan it. "I'm still digging. I haven't been able to locate his family, but I did turn up an interesting tidbit. He was expelled from
"No criminal charges?"
"None," she said, "but I'm still checking." She shuffled the papers on her desk and selected a sheet. "I have taken care of Kemper's funeral arrangements. There was no one else to do it. Thursday. Eleven o'clock. St. Lucy's Cemetery."
"Thank you, Cece." I meant it. "I know Lee will appreciate it."
"I'd have her there, Sarah Booth. For her daughter's sake and for appearances."
I nodded. "I could kiss you."
Cece held up one hand like Diana Ross stopping love. "Control yourself, Sarah Booth. We're friends, but you're not my type. Speaking of types, wherever are you going to get a date for the hunt ball? I've racked my brain, and I can't think of a single man who would take you on."
I
stopped at
the Pig and bought food. In concession to Kip's age, I included some chips and colas, but I also got shredded cabbage, catfish, and the makings for hush puppies and fries. I wasn't certain what type of food Kip liked, but no one in her right mind could resist fried catfish and all the trimmings. Grocery sacks in hand, I hustled in the back door. Sweetie was sound asleep on the kitchen floor, and there was no sign of Kip.
I checked in my bedroom, where the computer screen saver shifted from Mickey Spillane to Dick Tracy and a host of other cartoon renderings of detectives. Kip had been at work on the computer and failed to shut it down.
I knocked at her door. No answer. Feeling as if I were committing a crime, I opened the door of her room. Her clothes were all over the floor, along with CDs, books, magazines, and makeup.
"She's gone."
I turned to find Jitty peering over my shoulder. "So I see."
"She's very unhappy," Jitty said.
She wasn't telling me anything I didn't know. "I'm worried about her."
""Worried that she's unhappy, or worried that she has a reason to be unhappy?"
While I couldn't confess my concerns to anyone else, I could tell them to Jitty. She couldn't repeat them, because no one else could hear her.
"What if she killed Kemper?" I asked, nudging a CD with my toe. The band on the cover looked as if they could be Satan worshipers.
"What if she did?"
It was the crux of my dilemma. Lee had not hired me to prove her innocence; she'd hired me to prove that Kemper was a bastard. The reason for this fine distinction might very well be Kip. I saw Lee's strategy very clearly now. She had confessed, which would prevent a full-scale investigation of the murder. She wanted me to provide the evidence that Kemper was a worthless piece of work, which no one disputed. That would keep the focus of the trial on Kemper--and away from Kip. Lee had stepped onto an oily tightrope. If she could actually convince a jury of her peers of Kemper's role as abscess on the butt of the world, the right jury just might acquit her. She was correct; it had happened before. Barring that, she might get manslaughter and a sentence that amounted to county jail and probation. She could still keep
Swift
Level up and running and Kip safe. But it was a dangerous, dangerous game.
The thing that troubled me was Lee's first lie--that Kemper had attacked her and provoked his death. There had not been a single mark on Lee in that jail cell. A smart prosecutor, and Lincoln Bangs was not stupid, would have noticed that. That and the fact that Lee had never reported Kemper's repeated abuse of her, not one single time.
"Look at this mess." Jitty's voice pulled me back to the disarray of Kip's room. Had it not been a perfect reflection of my own room, I would have been forced to have the old "cleanliness is next to godliness" conversation with Kip. Spared by my own vices.
I turned around to leave and felt something crack beneath my shoe. Mascara. A black makeup kit was open on the floor, the contents spilling out. A tip of blue plastic caught my eye. I looked over at Jitty.
"She's your responsibility," she said.
I knelt down. The syringe was still in the plastic case, unused. I dumped the lipstick, mascara, and eyeliner pencils onto the floor. There was nothing else. No vials of medicine, no plastic bags of white powder. Just the syringe.
The phone rang and I walked to my room to answer it.
"Sarah Booth, it's
I barely knew Virginia Davis. "What's wrong?" I asked.
"It's Lee's daughter. She's out here and she's in a real state. The girl is acting crazy."
"I'm on the way."
Since Virginia had
called, I went to the main house instead of the barn. There was a gold Lexus in the driveway, and a green Mercedes. The only other vehicle in sight was a big black truck with dual rear tires, parked at the barn.
I walked into a scene so thick with tension that I stopped. Kip was sitting in a chair, her face streaked with makeup and dirt. A handsome man in casual slacks and a white shirt sat on the sofa, chatting with
"Sarah Booth,"
"What happened?" I addressed the question to
"Kip had a little tantrum," the man said. He stood up. "Mike Rich. Pleased to meet you, Miss Delaney. I've heard a bit about you from my wife."
I'd heard his name, but I couldn't place it. My focus was on Kip.
"What happened?" I asked her again.
"I was looking for something." She kept her gaze on the floor.
"She's torn up Mr. Lynch's apartment,"
Kip was on her feet. "Let her be disappointed! What about me? Does it matter that I'm disappointed? She lied to me. She lied to everyone. You can all just go to hell!" She ran out of the room. I heard the front door bang.
"How did she get out here?" I asked.
"I brought her." Mike Rich had remained standing. "I stopped by your home to discuss a business matter with you. You weren't home, so I mentioned that I was coming out here to look at Swift Level for the benefit concert." He paused for a moment, his gaze on
That was a sticky wicket I didn't want to touch. My only concern was Kip. "Are you often in the habit of giving teenage girls a ride?" I asked. I was angry with Mike Rich. At the very least, his actions fell in the category of stupid.
"Kip isn't exactly a stranger. I knew her father," he said with one eyebrow lifted. "I'm Krystal Brook's husband."
Mike Rich, star-maker. Now I placed his name.
"What are you going to do about that child?"
"Krystal didn't tell me you were musically inclined," he said. "I thought your talent was sleuthing."
"You said you were at Dahlia House to discuss a business proposition."