Smarty Bones (3 page)

I smiled. “Tell me a little about yourself.” Some folks loved to talk about their favorite subject—themselves. I suspected Dr. Twist was one of them.

“What’s the big interest in me?” she asked. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who gives a flip about academics or the pursuit of knowledge. Do you even read?”

It was hard, but I ignored the insult. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m a big fan of facts. Facts are my stock-in-trade.” I sipped my drink, amazed that her glass was drained. She might not weigh a hundred pounds, but she sure could Hoover down a drink. “Lay some knowledge on me.” Yeah, I couldn’t help myself from goading her just a little.

“Maybe you’ve got a personal interest in what I’m doing.” She tapped her straw against her glass and assessed me. “Booth is a rather interesting name in a small Southern town. Booth. Ring any historical bells for you? A would-be actor, a theater, a gun.” She chuckled. “I hadn’t counted on such good luck on my first day here.”

This wasn’t going to be easy. Whatever else Dr. Twist might be, she was nobody’s angel—and nobody’s fool. “Are you referring to John Wilkes? No relation to my family, I assure you.”

“DNA tells out. Have any family branches from Maryland?”

I refused to rise to the bait. “I’m trying to figure out what your interest in Zinnia is. Why don’t you just spare us both a lot of hemming and hawing and tell me why you’re here.”

She signaled the barkeep for another drink. “Research.”

“Could you be more specific? It’s possible my friends could assist if your project is interesting.”

“I don’t think you or your friends will help me. No, not at all.” She took the drink the bartender brought and sucked down half of it. “I don’t think you’ll approve of my … research.”

“History’s history. It’s either fact or not. It’s not up to me to approve or disapprove.”

“Very enlightened attitude, but you’re not a convincing liar. I know your type. Defend the family honor no matter the truth. It’s been said that in the South, blood is always thicker than water. In some instances, I’ve been told, blood carries more weight than money. Is that true, Ms. Delaney?”

She didn’t really know me at all, but she’d locked in on a partial truth. I was extremely defensive about my family’s honor, and also my friends. Money came in a distant second to honor in my book. “So what are you researching?”

“I don’t have to tell you a damn thing about my work here. Or your friends. I doubt any of you could understand what I’m doing. And if you did understand, you wouldn’t approve of it. Besides, I have Boswell. He provides every service I need.”

My brain flipped through a mental Rolodex and came up empty. “Boswell? From
Charlie’s Angels
?”

“That’s Bosley, you…” She stopped herself. “Boswell is my assistant. The one with the camera.” She waved at him. “I’ve promised him a credit and a tiny percentage of the royalties on my book if he works hard. There’ll be plenty of glory to share, and Boswell is all I need. He works tirelessly, and he’s very good at what he does. He loves to please me.”

She’d managed to dodge the question of her research as well as my insincere offers of assistance. What she needed was a good dose of Aunt Loulane’s wisdom—she sure could catch a lot more flies with sugar than with vinegar. I wondered what had made her such a sour person.

“I guess polite questions won’t work for you. Let’s get down to the nit-picking.” I was pretty certain that colorful phrase would please her, because I was sure she believed everyone in Zinnia had nits. “Are you researching the genealogy of the Richmond and Falcon families?”

“What if I am?”

Saint Peter with rigor mortis, she was an aggravating varmint. I signaled the barkeep for another round for her. She drank like she had a hollow leg. I’d run up a bar tab and gotten nothing in return. “Both the Richmond and Falcon family are personal friends. Slander or, worse, libel is not a good idea.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Pope Paul at a clambake! I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t care, but if you’ve come here to make trouble for my friends, it won’t end pretty.” Dang, that was a Freudian slip. Dr. Twist could have been a real beauty, if she had better taste in clothes and a foot transplant.

“Threats don’t scare me. Your friends’ ancestors were involved in some low-down, dirty business that resulted in the assassination of one of the greatest men to ever lead this country.”

“JFK? No one in Zinnia had anything to do with that.”

“Not Kennedy. Lincoln.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” She really was a fruitcake.

“I have evidence, and as soon as I get the order to disinter the Lady in Red, I’ll have proof beyond a shadow of a doubt. Her DNA will match either Oscar Richmond or Benjamin Falcon. She is the mastermind who plotted the murder of Abraham Lincoln. Mary Surratt was falsely accused and executed. It should have been the woman in that grave, Tilda Richmond or Tilda Falcon, who swung from the gallows.”

The ghoulish scene she evoked made me blink. “You don’t know which family?”

“There’s a connection between the families I haven’t figured out. But I will. Once I’m on a scent I’m better than a bloodhound.”

Color me flabbergasted. I opened and closed my mouth like a guppy, unable to form words. Her accusations and leaps of logic were so astounding, no sane person would give them credence. She’d taken a local mystery and embroidered it into a tablecloth for a banquet of crazy lies.

The Lady in Red, an unidentified female, was accidentally disinterred on Egypt Plantation in Cruger, Mississippi, in 1969. The details of the incident were well known, at least in the Delta. Few folks outside the region knew—or cared—anything about a mysterious grave.

A backhoe operator unearthed the sealed coffin of a beautiful lady wearing a red gown and gloves. The glass-topped coffin had been filled with alcohol and sealed so that the body inside was perfectly preserved. No one identified the body. No one claimed her. She was reburied at a local cemetery, and the plantation owner erected a monument inscribed: Lady in Red, Found on Egypt Plantation, 1835–1969. Her birth date was presumed, based on her clothes and age. The year 1969 was when she was accidentally dug up and reburied. No real facts were known.

The grave was a local attraction for teens and tourists for years—for those who could find it.

“No one knows who’s in that grave,” I said. “If she’d been a Richmond or a Falcon, trust me, her family would have claimed her.”

“Would they?” She gulped down the last of her drink. When she tried to signal for the barkeep, I grabbed her wrist. I’d had enough.

“Where did you come up with this cockamamie idea?” I asked.

“You’ll have to read my book to get those answers, but I’ll give you a hint. Lincoln had one cabinet member, Edwin Stanton, who loathed traitors, and he viewed all Southern sympathizers as such. He kept tabs on a woman who fits the description of your Lady in Red. I have some of his private letters, which are enlightening on the subject of Lincoln’s seduction and betrayal.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it?” A smile lifted her features from haughty to beautiful.

“After all this time, new evidence is suddenly discovered? Sounds to me like you’re desperate for something sensational.”

Olive’s expression shifted to consternation, and I glanced behind me. A very handsome young man had walked up. Light brown curls topped his six-three frame, and clear gray eyes met me head-on. He held an expensive digital camera in his hand. He nodded a hello. “Jimmy, this is a private detective sent to scare us out of town. Does she frighten you?”

He laughed. “Dr. Twist, it’s time for your massage.”

“Thank you, Boswell. I’ll be right there. Go and heat the rocks. I’ve had enough tension for the day.”

“I’ll be ready for you in fifteen minutes.” He nodded good-bye before he left.

“That’s your assistant?” It was my first good look at him sans the vegetation. He looked more like a boy toy.

“Boswell has a bright future, as long as he does what I tell him.”

“No doubt.” Anyone who bucked Dr. Twist would suffer. “But I can tell you the woman in that grave has no relationship to Sunflower County families. It would behoove you to stop that kind of gossip. Oscar won’t tolerate it, and if Tinkie hears any of it, she’ll take you to court.”

“I’m the only one who has access to Stanton’s letters, and I intend to make the most of it. Truth is the only defense against slander or libel. I’m going to prove my hypothesis is true.”

“How?”

“Once the body is on an autopsy table, I’ll compare DNA to the living family members.”

“And how do you intend to prove that the woman in that grave had anything to do with Lincoln’s assassination?”

“Oh, I have my ways, Ms. Delaney. And I’m willing to stake my professional career on it. Now I must go. I can’t miss my massage. There’s so much tension in this kind of research, and I can’t afford to stress my back.”

2

Chablis, Tinkie’s lionhearted Yorkie, greeted me with a little dance and yips of pleasure when I slipped through the front door of Hilltop, Tinkie and Oscar’s home. Now, while she was alone, would be the best time to tell Tinkie about Olive Twist. Oscar was still on the links with Graf, and Tinkie would have a couple of hours to calm down before he returned.

My friend was not a hothead or a brawler, but she’d married a Richmond, and woe unto anyone who messed with her family. Since I hoped Twist would be a passing nuisance—a kerfuffle among the heritage dames of the county—I’d considered keeping the situation from Tinkie. But I would hate it if someone hid things from me. Especially something involving family. Perhaps Tinkie could straighten out Dr. Twist and send her packing. Tinkie’s social skills were sharper than a surgeon’s blade.

“Sarah Booth!” Tinkie sang as she came out of the kitchen waving a spoon covered with something brown. And stinky. Really stinky. Even Chablis took a whiff and ran to hide under the sofa.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Tinkie continued. “I’m making doggy treats for the local animal shelter fund-raiser.” She grimaced at the sad apron she wore, spattered with gunk that reminded me of an explosion in a turd factory. “The first batch I baked turned into rocks. I was afraid Chablis would chip a tooth. I didn’t have to worry. When I tried to give her one, she hightailed it and ducked behind a chair.”

“You’re making doggy treats?” This did not sound like my detective partner. Tinkie and Oscar had a cook. And a maid. And a gardener. Tinkie was more inclined to get a pedicure than to bake. Judging from her apron and the smell wafting from her and the counter area, life was better in the Richmond household when she stayed out of the kitchen.

“It’s for a good cause, and Madam Tomeeka assured me it was a simple recipe.” She was dangerously close to a pout. “I don’t understand why it won’t come out right. Tammy predicted I would be the hit of the bake sale.”

Madam Tomeeka, known to her close friends as Tammy Odom, was a psychic of sorts and a loyal friend of the highest order. This time, though, she’d led my partner astray.

“Did she also tell you that you’d wreck your kitchen and create something akin to toxic waste?”

Tinkie took a halfhearted swipe at me with the spoon. I almost gagged. “What in the hell is on that spoon?” The color, consistency, and odor ignited convulsions in my throat. “God, it’s awful.”

“I know.” Tinkie plopped the spoon in the sink. “I did something wrong.”

“Understatement of the year. Put the baking aside, I need to talk to you.”

Tinkie untied her apron and threw it on a chair. Her gaze swept over the kitchen and she picked up a bowl filled with foul-smelling brown goop and dropped the whole thing in the trash. It was swiftly followed by a pan of baked brown things shaped like bones. “I’ll buy some gourmet dog treats and donate them to the fund-raiser. I don’t think any dog in its right mind would eat one of these things.”

Silence was the wisest choice. When the kitchen was tidy again, Tinkie motioned me to follow. “I have an appointment. We can talk while I’m getting dressed.”

Tinkie was a clotheshorse, and I had total appreciation for her élan and taste. She’d look good in a feed sack, but her closet was filled with the latest fashions. I settled onto an overstuffed burgundy velvet chaise and gave her a chance to ask me the news. I wanted her full attention.

She shook out her blond curls. “You never come to Hilltop if it’s a case, so this has to be personal. What has you picking your cuticles? You and Graf have a lovers’ spat?”

I shoved my hands into my pockets. Tinkie had the vision of an eagle. “Graf and I couldn’t be better. It’s something else. It’s not as bad as it may sound at first, but—”

“Spill it, Sarah Booth, before you give me a coronary.” Tinkie tapped her bare foot on the carpet. “It must be horrible for you to be so afraid to say it.”

“A university professor is in town doing research on the Lady in Red.”

“That old grave they found out in a field?” Tinkie opened the closet door. “Whatever for? And more importantly, why is this news? Folks have speculated about the woman in that grave for fifty years and nothing has ever come of it.”

I wanted to broach the subject with finesse and calm. Those were not my strong suits. The end result was silence.

“Well, what is it?” Patience exhausted, Tinkie put her hands on her hips. “You look like you’re constipated. Tell me or let me get dressed.”

“There’s a crazy bitch in town who claims the Lady in Red is a relative of Oscar’s and that she intended to assassinate President Abraham Lincoln. She’s a university professor and she’s come here to prove her theory.”

Tinkie’s cheeks turned pale, then flushed. I could see her body temperature rising with every passing second. “Who is this person? Surely not someone from Ole Miss. The history professors there have far more breeding than to try to stitch together this ridiculous tale.”

“No, not Ole Miss.”

She caught the scent of the story. “Where the hell is she from then, and who is she?”

“Her name is Olive Twist. She’s a—”