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Unknown; BURIED BONES Delaney Book 02

Carolyn Haines

1 Chasing the blues away is a talent Delaney women are still trying to acquire. Perhaps our melancholy is a sign, as Jitty insists, of some obscure womb disorder. Regrettus Wombus, a medical term for the regretful womb, resulting in the deep-dark, down-and-ugly blues. Historically, Delaney women have been known to wallow in that place where loss takes up more space than any other organ. I fear I'm no exception to the family tradition. There wasn't a radio station in the small Mississippi town of Zinnia that wasn't playing "I'll Be Home for Christmas." It is my belief that any song mentioning chestnuts, toasty fires, or sleigh rides for two should be banned from the airwaves. It's a fact, documented in my psychology journals, that suicide rates increase during the holidays. Due, no doubt, to the sadistic disc jockeys playing these songs. With the conclusion of my first case, I'd received payment in full from Tinkie for my investigative services. Dahlia House had been saved, for the moment, from my creditors. I should have been on top of the world. Instead, I was in the front parlor, knotted in a tangle of tinsel, and with a Christmas tree that looked as if residents of Bedlam had put up the lights. Turning off the radio, I tossed the tinsel in the fire and was rewarded with a multihued flame. I picked up all the magnolia leaves, holly, and cedar that I'd cut and brought in to use as decorations. With a mighty heave, I burned them, too. As the last of the Delaneys, I'd inherited my mother's incredible collection of great albums, and I sat down on the carpet and began to go through them. I couldn't control the radio stations, but I could find my own music. As my fingers closed over Denise LaSalle, I felt a surge of renewed spirit. The album was a little scratched, but there was no denying the feminist power of the Delta-born blueswoman. It was perfectfight the blues with the blues. And Denise was putting it on her no-good man. She had her Crown Royal, her car, and a juke-joint band to dance to. She'd also given me a new motto"If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with." There were plenty of fish in the ocean. All I had to do was find me a pole and throw in my line. With my energy renewed, I crawled behind Aunt LouLane's horsehair sofa, found the electrical outlet, and jammed the prongs of the extension plug into the holes. Maybe I wasn't the best with traditional Christmas decorating, but I'd found something even better. Something that spoke to me. And I'd gotten it at a bargain-basement price. Peering over the back of the sofa at the mantel, I smiled with satisfaction at what I had wrought. The neon tubing slid to hot green with liquid light, creating the perfect outline of a Christmas wreath. Mingled in the green curlicues that made the body of the wreath were red ornaments that blinked on and off. It was a masterpiece, a real find in Rudy's Junk Shop. I picked up the second extension cord and poked it home. The reds, greens, blues, and yellows of old-fashioned Christmas lights flickered to life, creating a series of fascinating shadows on the high ceilings of the front parlor. Neon meets tradition! A successful Delaney moment. Before I could stand up to see the fruits of my labors, I heard the harrumph that warned me Jitty was in the room. "You've got this place lookin' like a Chinese whorehouse," Jitty said. "And you not much better. I didn't know they made such a thing as a flannel muumuu. Girl, it's late afternoon. You been wearin' that getup all day? And look at those socks. Just 'cause they red and it's Christmas don't mean you should wear 'em." Bracing against the sofa, I rose to my knees and traced her voice to the brocade wingback. She was sitting there, dark eyes reflecting the multihued Christmas lights that she disdained. Behind her, the neon wreath pulsed and throbbed, seeming to pick up the singer's declaration of freedom and at the same time give Jitty a hellish halo. "Merry Christmas, Jitty," I said, brushing the dust off my knees as I stood. "I've been decorating." "Honey, you need some serious help," she replied. "This ain't decoratin', this is vandalism." I walked across the wide, polished oak planks of the parlor and viewed my handiwork from her vantage point. The thirteen-foot fir tree, trimmed with about a million lights, at least five hundred ornaments, some red-velvet bows, a few wooden toys and trinkets, and five packages of the real old-timey silver icicles looked pretty good to me. Not to mention the stockings hung by the fireplace with care, or the thorn branch that I'd laboriously studded with rainbow gumdrops. I turned back to Jitty. "I think it looks great." "Don't get that hurt look on your face, Sarah Booth," she said coldly. "Some women got the touch when it comes to decoratin', some don't. You could improve yourself a little bit, though, if you'd take a few hints from" "Stop!" I would not allow the name of the decorating maven from hell to be spoken in my home. My home. The phrase gave me a moment of pleasure. I, Sarah Booth Delaney, had single-handedly redeemed Dahlia House. I still had debts aplenty, but I no longer had to peek from behind closed curtains whenever a car drove up to make sure it wasn't the sheriff and a repo crew. "What you lookin' so self-satisfied for?" Jitty asked with tiny little snake rattles in her voice. I looked at her. Really looked at her, for the first time today. Gone were the glitz and gaudiness of the seventies. Jitty had reinvented herself yet again. "Where in the hell did you get those clothes?" I asked, pointing at her and moving my finger up and down to indicate the entire package. From the tight curls bound back by a turban-style scarf to the waist-cinched blue gingham dress and high-heeled pumps, Jitty looked like a negative image of Jane Wyatt on a rerun of Father Knows Best. My horrified gaze roved back up to her waist. My Lord, it had to be under twenty-three inches. "Somebody around here's got to put a halt to moral decay. No more of this 'free love, if it feels good do it' bull. What we need are some family values." Jitty looked like a rod had been rammed up her spine. "Once we get us some family values, maybe a family will follow." Her smug tone should have been a warning. "You mean you're done with Gloria Steinem and moved into the camp of that fifties-throwback Phyllis Schlafly?" And I had foolishly thought nothing could be worse than bad polyester and metallic eye shadow. Her hair, normally alive with energy, looked as if it had been beaten into submission. "You're leadin' a wild and reckless life, Sarah Booth. It's time you settled down. I thought I'd set you a good example." I briefly closed my eyes, hoping this was all a bad, bad nightmare. Jitty, my great-great-grandmother's nanny, a ghost lingering in Dahlia House from pre-Civil War days, was going to set an example for me. A woman who fed off meliterally, figuratively, and spirituallyhad found me lacking in moral fiber. This from the haint who only four weeks ago would have used a turkey baster to stuff me with the sperm of bachelor-banker Harold Erkwell? "Hold on one second, there" I began. "Don't go pointin' that finger at me, missy," Jitty shot back, rising from her perch on the chair arm to stand on those slender little heels. It gave me a stab of pleasure to see her sway dangerously. She hadn't quite perfected the Loretta Young stance. "Missy?" My voice rose an octave. "Missy? What's going on here?" "You are a missy," she said, her eyes glittering now. "As in unmarried, over thirty, no prospectsyou don't straighten up fast and act righteous, you gone be an old missy. And turn off that sex music. Listenin' to that stuff will get you" "Bred," I supplied, finally coming to the heart of the matter. "Which is the real problem here. You're mad at me because I'm not pregnant." It was unbelievable. "You're furious because my . . . encounter with Hamilton Garrett V didn't produce a viable . . . product. This is all some form of ghostly punishment you've devised. My God! I'm not living with a badass from the Mod Squad any longer. Now I've got Aunt Jemima acting out Donna Reed!" "Child," she said carefully. "Not product. Child. That's what's wrong in this picture. You've lost your tender parts. I think it might have something to do with the Delaney womb condition. You let that man slip right through your fingers. You didn't even try to hold on to him." The memory of my passionateand doomed Thanksgiving romance was enough to push every holiday emotion I had right out the front door and across the frozen acres of the Mississippi Delta. "Hamilton is back in Europe. He hasn't even sent a Christmas card. And you're upset because I'm not the vessel that holds his seed?" My hands went automatically to my hips. I could feel the red spread up my face. "You need a doctor's appointment. If you didn't have some womb tilt, you might have held on to a few of those Garrett . . . you know ..." "Sperm, Jitty. You can say the word." I didn't like this new fifties modesty. Jitty had always been a ghost who called a spade a spade. "If you'd tried a little harder, you might have conceived." "What do you suggest? That I should have done it standing on my head? Or is that considered immoral in the land where Father Knows Best!" "Have a drink of water," she said. "Your face is red and your eyes are 'bout to pop out of your head." "Could it be that I'm angry?" My pulse throbbed at my temple. She snorted. "Sarcasm is lost on me. And it's very unladylike. You want to get you a man, you gone have to give up actin' like a harpy." "Hamilton didn't stick around long enough to see my harpy side." She sat down on the chair arm, kicked off a shoe, and began to massage her foot. "If you'd gotten pregnant, Hamilton would have come back to Zinnia." I was stunned. "You mean I might have trapped him into marrying me?" She continued to rub her foot, unable, or unwilling, to look me in the eyes. "Lots of marriages start off that way. What difference does it make if you bait the trap with sex or home cookin' or a child?" I waited until she brought her gaze up to mine. "I don't want a man I have to trap." "Don't be a fool," she answered, a hint of the seventies Jitty showing through in the way she flounced to her feet, ignoring the fact that she had on only one shoe. "Men don't think of marriage on their own. None of them. Women got to put the idea in their heads. And if you'd hung on to that sperm, a baby would have been one unavoidable idea." "Jitty," I warned. "Make a doctor's appointment. Maybe there's a kink in some of your tubes. 'Course there's no rush. It'll probably be another five years before you slide out of your panties again." "Jitty!" She'd gone too far. I couldn't tell if I was madder at the implication that I couldn't get laid or the prediction that I wouldn't. Truth be told, Hamilton's return to Europe had done more damage to my heart than I wanted to admit. "I was thinkin' about pot roast for dinner," she said in an abrupt change of tactics. "You keep eatin' that fruitcake, you gone be too big to attract anybody 'cept one of those Shelby pig farmers. Now those boys 'predate a woman with some poundage." I saw her flicker, then begin to fade. It was just like her to start an argument and then disappear. "You come right back here," I ordered, even as the last trace of her form disappeared. "Jitty!" "Answer the door," she said, her voice only a sigh in the room. The chiming of the doorbell pulled me up short. It was Friday evening, the last weekend before Christmas. Who could possibly be at the door? Not Cece, the society editor of the local newspaper and my sometimes employer. It was deadline for her Sunday section. And not Tammy. Zinnia's local psychic was spending the weekend visiting her granddaughter, little Dahlia, over near Mound Bayou. Harold Erkwell? My thumb gave a little tingle at the thought of the distinguished banker who'd offered me a rock and a marriageboth rejected in haste. Was it possible I was still carrying some kind of torch for Harold? If not a torch, perhaps a Bic? "Sarah Booth, yoo-hoo?" The bell chimed again, and there was a harsh rap on the door. I hurried out of the parlor and into the foyer, noticing with a certain satisfaction the tinsel wreath I'd hung on the bust of Stonewall Jackson that had been in my father's family for almost as long as Jitty. Jackson was a hard-looking manperhaps not hard but determined. The glittering red wreath gave him a holiday air. Hah! Despite Jitty's cruel words, I did have a certain flair for decorating. The bell rang again, this time with vehemence. The pounding was staccato and solid. A cane? I didn't know a soul who used a cane. I slipped to the window door and very carefully eased the lace sheer back. Two bright blue eyes, enlarged by black-rimmed spectacles and topped with a shock of snow-white hair, stared directly into mine. I didn't recognize the man at all. "Open up, dah-ling, I'm here on official monkey business." I did as he ordered and found myself face-to-face with an older man who'd escaped most of the trappings of agehe was spry. He made a courtly bow, sweeping low to the floor. "Let me introduce myself. Lawrence Ambrose, a very dear friend of your parents. Your mother in particular. I adored her. She was every inch a real lady." I was stunned. All of my life I'd heard about Lawrence Ambrose, the Mississippian who'd taken the Parisian world of letters by storm. He was also an artist and playwright and a host of other things. I'd known that Ambrose lived in Zinnia, a recluse on the Caldwells' large estate, but I'd never anticipated meeting him in the flesh. "Please, come in," I managed. "I do believe there's a bit of the monkey in you, my dear," Lawrence said, offering his arm to me. "There's not a Zodiac sign for the monkey, but there should be. Somewhere between the scorpion and the goat, don't you think? What sign are you?" Leaning only slightly on his cane, he escorted me inside. In the parlor, Lawrence Ambrose settled into the club chair beside the fire and pointed at my Christmas decorations with his cane. "Lovely, dahling. Very SoHo, fifties. Andy Warhol would have absolutely coveted such a creation. That was before he became a caricature of himself, you know. At one point . . ." He lowered the cane and I saw his hand tremble before it closed tightly over the horse's head. He was too pale. "It's a sign of age when the past seems to dominate one's conversation. Forgive me." He seemed so genuinely taken aback that I had to think of a change of subject. Food was always good. "Would you care for some coffee? And fruitcake?" If he ate it, I might be able to fit into my pants tomorrow. "Fruitcake?" he asked, two shaggy white eyebrows arching. "None of that hideous store-bought gomm that they pass off as fruitcake?" Though he was still pale, he'd bounced back. "No," I assured him, even more impressed that he knew the difference. "Homemade. From a secret family recipe." "Dahling, there's nothing better in the world than a secret family recipe. Except for an afternoon in Italy with a skilled lover." His reply stopped me dead in my tracks. "You'd be surprised which Zinnians have indulged in such decadence," he added, eyes a wicked blue. "It's the most interesting thing, how something so wonderful at the time can end up being the source of such anxiety. I've lately become quite the expert on secret anxieties. And secrets in general." His smile was pure delight. "I'll get us some. Coffee and fruitcake," I said, excusing myself and heading into the kitchen. Lawrence Ambrose intrigued me, but he'd also caught me completely off guard. What in the world was the writer doing at my house now? My mother had adored him. She had collected signed copies of all of his work. She even had a photograph of him as Rita Hayworth's escort at the Academy Awards. Mother had loved his writing. Years back, there had been rumors about his partiesbacchanalia with Maypole dances, original plays acted out in elaborate costumes on the lawn. There was even a story that he'd hung and burned an effigy of one of Mississippi's more infamous governors, Cliff Finch, and ended up in a fistfight with Zinnia's volunteer fire marshal. That was before he'd become something of a recluse. But he didn't seem at all reclusive. Just another example of how rumors spread in a small town. I waited for the coffee to perk, pondering why he'd come visiting me. When the tray was prepared, I hurried back to the parlor with it. Lawrence accepted his coffee and cake with the ease of a man comfortable in a parlor. "No doubt you're wondering why I'm here. It's a rather long story, and boring, as most long stories are. And naturally, it involves money. And secrets." He was a verbal tease, hinting and dangling little tidbits. But he did it with such style and humor that I found myself intrigued rather than annoyed. "I love secrets," I said. "Generally they pay well." "Ah-ha, I knew you were part monkey. Clever little thing. Facts first and then secrets. My last books were financial failures. No publisher will touch my work. They say my numbers are down and no one remembers or cares about what I used to be." He took a bite of cake. "Heavenly, Sarah Booth. Who would have thought a pigtailed hellion would grow up to bake such divine fruitcake." Hardly taking a breath he continued. "I've now decided to publish my memoirs. Would you have a bit of brandy to liven up the coffee? Caffeine is bad for your liver, my child. Brandy counteracts the acids." At first I'd thought Lawrence had reached the age where rambling and conversational rabbit trails were unavoidable, but his blue eyes belied such a judgment. He was in expert control of his faculties and the conversation. "Certainly," I said as I found the proper decanter and splashed a good dollop into his cup. "Finding new talent is one of my greatest pleasures. I'm having a small gathering at my home Christmas Eve," he said. "There'll be some writers, publishers, a few movie people, an artist, and the usual suspects in the Sunflower County literati. Since you're writing a book, I thought you might enjoy the gathering." "But I'm not" I stopped my confession. The lie that I was writing a book had launched my career as a private investigator. As my mother once told me, sometimes it's too late for the truth. Besides, the party sounded interesting, especially based on Lawrence's past history of fetes. "It sounds lovely," I said. "I'm reintroducing my biographer to her native soil. I believe you know her. Brianna Rathbone." Lawrence stamped his cane on the floor. "A dazzling young woman. She's been living in New York, but has now returned to the Delta to work on my book. My memoirs. This will signal a new era for me. Brianna is an international celebrity, yet Southern. I think the combination of my story and her celebrity status will push this book right to the top of the best-seller list. You remember her, don't you?" The thwack of the cane combined with Brianna's name was like tiny little jolts of electricity in the reptilian lobe of my brain. I had the strongest urge to coil and strike. "Yes." The word was a croak. My reptilian lobe was still in control. I remembered her perfectly. "I didn't realize Brianna had an interest in writing," I said, floundering for something to say. "She's a model. A jet-setter. One of the beautiful people." "Brianna, as a former model and jet-setter, is the perfect person to add that zest to my story." Lawrence arched his eyebrows. "Don't you agree?" "Can Brianna write?" I asked before I could stop myself. A better question would have been if she could read. "I'm not in need of eloquence," Lawrence said. He sat taller in his chair. "The truth of the matter is that my light has faded. What I need is a biographer who can regenerate that spark. Like it or not, the world lusts for celebrity, not art. Miss Rathbone has been on the cover of Vogue. She's dating Gustav Brecht, the publishing magnate. She has the elan to capture the public's attention. She has a reputation." No doubt about the reputation part. She'd slept with half the men in New York. And now she was dating a publisher. Was that a good thing? Brianna had always reminded me of a black widow. Mate-eater. Or at least maimer. I could see the benefits of a biographer who was in bed with the publisher, but what would happen when she gnawed off his leg? But I held my tongue. "Can I expect you for dinner?" Lawrence asked. As fascinating as the evening sounded, I'd rather spend an hour in a snake pit than sit through dinner with Brianna Rathbone. I was on the verge of declining when he pulled another directional shift in the conversation. "I have two reasons for having this dinner, Sarah Booth. I found my favorite cat, Rasmus, dead yesterday. He was twenty years old. He must have died of old age. He loved my entertainments and would frequently perform kitty yoga on top of the guests. My only regret is that I didn't have one sooner, for him, but I'm having one now in his honor." There was a hint of sudden desperation and sadness in Lawrence's voice that tugged on my heartstrings. He shivered then, even though he still wore his coat and the fire was hot. I had the sinking feeling that he was masterfully playing me, but I didn't have the heart to resist him. I got up and added another log to the fire. "What's the other reason?" I asked. His eyebrows rose and the glitter in his blue eyes was both mischief and excitement. "Secrets. The second reason is that everyone there will have a secret. And I know them all." "What time is dinner?" I asked, caught up in his spirit of devilment. Secrets were, indeed, good fun. "I told everyone six, which means they'll arrive at seven because they all want to make a grand entrance. Seven would be lovely. Bring your opera glasses, dahling, the peacocks will be parading." The eyebrows rose slowly and held. "I intend to make them stampede. It will be great fun." "It sounds wonderful, but why are you inviting me?" I had to ask. "To bear witness, darling. You're the perfect choicea writer and a detective." 2 "Leave it up," Jitty said, standing behind me as I poked a jeweled hair comb into my unruly mop of brown curls. I liked the casual elegance of the upswept do, but I was afraid it wouldn't withstand the rigors of the evening. "It feels . . . unsecured." "You're worried about hair? Take a look at your chest." Jitty was opposed to the red-glitter cocktail dress that I'd bought at a tony little shop in Memphis during a shopping spree with Cece. True to her word, Cece Dee Falcon had provided entertainment during the tripa nonstop babble of gossip and factoids she ferreted out and catalogued in her newspaper work. She also tossed out expert fashion advice. But trying on clothes with Cece was an experience I hadn't bargained for. More often than not, I forgot that Cece had once been a man. Long gone was the lanky, twitchy high school boy Cecil Falcon. In his place, an elegant, sexy, and very feminine woman emerged thanks to a talented team of Swedish surgeons. A cramped dressing room was an interesting place to play before-and-after. Even as I fastened a diamond locket around my throat, I reassessed my image. Cece, with her lean hips and angular collarbone, could wear anything. But she was truly expert in dressing others, too. My dress was Parisian cool. Low-cut in front and daringly backless. The style did a lot to emphasize my decolletage, more defined since my fruitcake binge. Play your assets, my mother always said. My makeup was subtle, emphasizing the green of my eyes. Jitty stepped back from me. "Honey, those fruitcakes are gangin' up on your waistline and looks like they're preparin' to claim squatter's rights." Where I'd discarded binding bras and underwire, she was girded, girdled, heart-crossed, and granny-panted against even the tiniest jiggle. God forbid that she might be able to draw a deep breath. A little oxygen to her brain might allow her to think for herself. "There's nothing in the detective handbooks that says I can't be plump," I offered, anticipating the explosion. "Girl, you better pull yourself together! You talkin' like an old maid." "I am an old maid," I reminded her. "But I have a good personality and I can make my own clothes," I added, to ward off the sting. "Just keep makin' jokes," Jitty said. "Life has a way of followin' after the words we cast out in front of us." Her philosophical statement caused a small cavalry of goose bumps to gallop up my arm. "Don't wait up," I said, picking up my purse and keys. I took off down the stairs and into the night. It was perfect weather for a Christmas Eve bash. The barren cotton fields were coated in frost, a tundra of silvery white that reached into the dark blue and star-spangled Delta sky. Though the night was clear, snow was predicted. I remembered a long-ago white Christmas. Dahlia House, decorated like a storybook home, had seemed to be a place where only happiness could live. I was four. Still, a blanket of cold, white stuff would soften even the heart of a cynic. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. I kept the mantra going so that I wouldn't think about what was missing from the eveninga dateas I drove to the party. Lawrence Ambrose lived in a cottage on Magnolia Place, one of the few estates that still functioned as a producing cotton plantation. The Vardaman Caldwells owned the property, but they traveled extensively and were often out of the country. Set back from the main house about half a mile, the spacious guest cottage was a perfect location for a writer, elegant and secluded far enough from the main road not to draw attention should Lawrence decided to engage in one of his famous parties. The drive was lined with live oaks. Huge and gnarled, they were probably two hundred years old. I pulled into a parking space beside a number of nice autos, and one silver Porsche, probably belonging to Brianna, since it was just like herfast and high-maintenance. The chatter of the party spilled out onto the wide gallery where several cats reclined in rocking chairs. Bottles of opened wine and clean glasses were on small tables beside huge brass planters filled with fresh spices. I recognized basil, dill, and rosemary. There were dozens of other plants I knew but couldn't name. I helped myself to a glass of merlot, stroked a friendly yellow tabby, and listened to the melange of voices within. Brianna's throaty laugh was hard to miss. Ah, Brianna. I opened the door and she was the first person I saw. Honeyed blond hair to her shoulders, black sheath, sharp hipboneshungry. A walk like a caged panther, headed directly at me. For a few seconds I was back in tenth grade, staring at the perfect face that would grace magazine covers around the world. "Sarah Booth Delaney," she said, coming forward to take my hand. "I never dreamed I'd see you here." Interpretationwhat's someone like you doing among these star-kissed people? Her tone made it clear that I didn't belong. "Lawrence is interested in my book," I said. The lie rolled off my tongue like quicksilver. "He thinks I have talent." "Amazing. But then, isn't everyone convinced that their pathetic little lives are of interest?" She flicked her hair over her shoulder. "I had no idea you could write." "It's a skill I acquired in high school, while you were busy on your knees soliciting an A from the" Harold Erkwell appeared at my side, a striking figure in a black wool suit that emphasized his salt-and-pepper hair. "Stunning dress, Sarah Booth," he said, hands on my bare shoulders. "Luscious." "Lush-us," Brianna said, mouthing the word with her collagen-plumped lips. "Another ten pounds, Sarah Booth, and you'll qualify as dumpling cute." She walked away and only Harold's hands on my shoulders saved her. "I'm going to tear her throat out," I said sweetly. "Too messy," Harold said, turning me in the opposite direction and giving me a gentle push. "I didn't know you'd be here," I said, instantly realizing that he belonged here much more than I did. Harold was a huge supporter of the artsin literature, visual, music, and drama. It was perfectly logical that he'd be among Lawrence's friends. "I'm here to keep an eye on Lawrence. He's up to something." Worry furrowed his brow. "What's going on?" I asked. Before he could reply he was captured by Lillian Sparks and her campaign to outfit the first New Year's baby born in Sunflower County with a year's supply of cotton diapers. Homegrown cotton, of course. The party swept over me and I found myself talking to a New York literary agent and a handsome actor who was hoping for his Hollywood break. Both were busy looking beyond me for a better connection. We were joined by a short, posturing man who enjoyed name-dropping and commandeering conversations. I thought at first his name was Dean, realizing only later that it was his title, which he'd soldered onto his identity by ceaseless repetition. "Of course Joyce was never a social man," Dean Joseph Grace droned. "I once had lunch with William Burroughs, and it occurred to me that there were similarities between Joyce and Burroughs that no one had ever before connected. I thought instantly what a wonderful thesis that would make for some young scholar at the university. That's the problem these days, our students have no originality. No spark of creativity." There was no doubt that he referred to the University of Mississippi, or Ole Miss, the Sacred Hunting Ground for Daddy's Girls to find suitable mates. I could have informed him that there was plenty of originality among the students when it came to snaring the suitable mate. "You've read both Burroughs and Joyce?" His narrow brown gaze pinned me as a possible troglodyte. "Who hasn't?" I replied gamely. To my horror the agent and actor fled, obviously better at self-preservation than I was. Rescue arrived not a moment too soon. Madame Rosalyn Bell, former prima ballerina and Nazi dance mistress, took my arm. "Pull your shoulders back. It makes your breasts perky," she said. "There's someone I want you to meet." I didn't want to imagine who that might be. So far the guest list, with the exception of Harold and Mrs. Sparks, seemed pretentious and fed on malice. "Come along, dear. He's outside, smoking. Cultural thing, you know." Before I could protest, her tiny fingers dug deeply into my arm and she pushed me out into the cold night. "Are you really a private investigator?" she said as she pulled me to face her, just as she'd done in dance class twenty years before. "I've concluded one" "No prevarication, Sarah Booth. Either you are or aren't." "I am." One thing about Madameshe didn't allow for waffling. "You have a sharp eye for people. You must, if you're in the PI business. What do you make of Brianna's desire to write Lawrence's life story?" Brianna had also been one of Rosalyn's students. She'd been a beautiful dancer with a superior attitude and the habit of never letting Madame forget that she was her employee. I had a vivid memory of the petite dance mistress lifting her hand to slap Brianna's face for an especially cruel remark she'd made to one of the chubbier girls in the dance class. But something had restrained Madame. She'd lowered her hand and walked away. "I never knew Brianna had an interest in writing. She certainly never did in high school." "You're hedging again, Sarah Booth. An unattractive habit I would have thought you'd outgrow. Brianna isn't interested in writing, she's interested in recapturing the limelight. Any. Way. She. Can." The emphasis was clear, and the hair on the back of my neck quivered. Rosalyn was so tense she was almost vibrating. "Writing a book doesn't seem all that glamorous," I said, hoping to calm her. "Lawrence has the goods on half the well-known writers alive today. During his Paris years, he knew everyone who was anyone. There are some secrets better left in the past, Sarah Booth. Some damaging secrets. Brianna is hunting for those secrets. Lawrence won't believe it, but she's been snooping in his house, plundering through his things. I've caught her twice. If she finds The past is never dead. Lawrence doesn't realize how damaging, or how dangerous, it can be." I remembered Lawrence's broad hints. Brianna would enjoy nothing better than digging up dirt on others and watching them twist in the wind. Still, I had doubts that Brianna would have the discipline to finish a book even if she started. Writing required solitude, and Brianna never liked her own companyfor obvious reasons. "I wouldn't worry too much. I doubt Brianna can write anything, much less a book. Even if by some miracle she finished, it probably won't get published." That conclusion gave me a jolt of satisfaction. "Layton Rathbone will buy his daughter a publishing company if that's what it takes," Rosalyn insisted. "Or at least that's what Lawrence believes. He thinks he's going to use Brianna, but there's one small problem. No one uses a Rathbone and gets away with it." The sound of deep, sensual laughter was a perfect contrast to the chill of Rosalyn's words. We both turned our heads. I saw him standing at the edge of the light, a striking silhouette against the backyard torchesa tall man, slender, in an Italian-cut suit that emphasized his long torso and legs, lean hips, and broad shoulders. When he turned, I stopped dead in my tracks. Light from a dozen blazing lanterns caught in his golden blond curls, intensifying his hazel eyes. Rosalyn moved toward him, leading me beside her. "Willem Arquillo, this is the woman I promised to introduce you to. Sarah Booth Delaney, Senor Arquillo." He came toward me with two long strides, his hand capturing mine. He lifted it, then turned it over and bent back my fingers lightly to expose the palm. Very deliberately he kissed it. In the cold Delta night, his lips were very, very warm. "You're even more beautiful than Rosalyn told me," he said. He continued to hold my hand as he turned to Madame Bell. "Exquisite," he whispered. "I saw your paintings in Memphis," I said, beginning to see real value in cultivating artsy-fartsy acquaintances. Aside from the fact that he was a magnificent painter, combining primitive images with controversial politics, he was gorgeous. Lawrence had said an artist would be at dinner, but he hadn't said which artist. "What brings you to Zinnia?" I'd heard gossip, from Cece, naturally, that he was working to establish a trade partnership between Mississippi and Nicaragua both Third World countries, as he so aptly put it. But that type of negotiation would take place in Jackson, the state capital, not little ol' Zinnia. "Business and pleasure," he said smoothly. "Lawrence and I have some unfinished business. We've been friends for a long time." Willem's melodious voice made my spine tingle. "I understand Lawrence collects art. Does he have some of your paintings?" His gaze was sharp, but his voice was as warm as a caress. "Probably more than he realizes. But I'm bored talking about myself. I hear you're a writer. Are you helping Lawrence with his big project, his grand revelation of his life? He tells me he's going to zoom to the top of the best-seller list. I wonder how many bones will crack beneath his shoes." The back door opened before I could ask him what he meant or answer his pointed question. Brianna stepped into the night. "So this is where you've stashed Willem," she said. "I should have known if there was a single man, Sarah Booth would have him out in the dark." Before I could say a word, Willem cut in. "You flatter me, Brianna, but I came outside to have a cigarette. Now I must excuse myself. Lawrence promised to give me a brief education on the Southern baroque era." He gave my hand a suggestive squeeze before he let it go. Moving with complete poise, he took Madame's arm. Brianna and I were left in the yard that was suddenly much colder. "Too bad he's interested in Southern baroque," I said to Brianna. "If he liked Southern slut, he might want to talk to you." I headed for the back door, knowing that the battle lines were now clear. We'd each drawn blood. Just as I reached for the door, it opened and a tall, slender man stepped into the night. He was backlit, his features hidden. "Sarah Booth," he said warmly, taking my hand and patting it. "How nice to see you. It's been years. I'm looking for my daughter." He turned so that the light fell across his face. "Mr. Rathbone," I said in surprise. "I didn't know you were in Zinnia." Layton Rathbone and his wife seldom came home. He had extensive business holdings in Europe. Word around town was that Pamela Rathbone had gotten too good for her roots and preferred the rarefied air of "The Continent." It was beyond me how a man as nice as Layton had married Pamela and spawned Brianna. "Just a pop-in visit to see my little girl." He patted my hand and dropped it. "Publishing is a new game for her. It always concerns a father when his baby takes on a new challenge, especially if you have a daughter like Brianna." Layton Rathbone was a business genius, turning soybeans into gold, but when it came to his daughter, he was puttyto be molded by her every whim. Still, it wasn't up to me to point out that the idea of Brianna writing anything was laughable. "My girl's out here somewhere, I believe," he said, looking beyond me into the shadows. "Ummm," I said. "It was good to see you." And I darted into the house. I found a wall and eased around the cottage, scoping out the other attendees while admiring Lawrence's homea place filled with art and objects of fancy. Every square inch of wall was hung with a sketch or painting. Books were everywhere, jammed in glass cases that also held sculptures and figurines, a mixture of fine and gaudy. A waiter took my empty wineglass and handed me a full one. I sampled a tray of hors d'oeuvres, delighting in the unexpected surprise of steamed collards stuffed with ground pork and pine nuts. Excellent. Cece had arrived in a white dress that was simply dazzling: sleek, slinky, and sophisticated. I gave her a thumbs-up from across the room and indicated I wanted to talk to her when she had a moment. She'd have the lowdown on every guest. She was snared immediately by Dean Joseph Grace. He stood eye-to-nipple, continually smoothing back his silver-streaked dark hair as he talked. Within seconds, their conversation grew heated. They both glanced across the room at Lawrence before they set to at each other again. To my surprise, Grace poked Cece in the chest with his little finger. Face red with anger, Cece drew back a fist, halted as if frozen, then abruptly walked away. I was getting ready to check on Cece when I heard Madame's voice, raised high, from a corner of the room. She was arguing with a tall man whose silvery hair was badly in need of a cut. Madame was clearly furious. She had to crane her neck to look at the tall man, and her expression was one of tight hatred. Even as I considered intervening, a hand on my arm pulled me up short. "Sarah Booth, I need to speak with you." Harold's gaze was intense, but there was the hint of amusement in his eyes. I felt a throb in my left thumb, the one Harold had suggestively sucked one cold November night in the magically lighted driveway of his home. "Can we meet?" he asked. "When?" I glanced over at Madame, whose face was beet-red. Lawrence had joined the group and was waving his hands, actually stepping between Madame and the tall man. Brianna and her father had also walked up. Layton held Brianna's shoulders, and I saw that he was no longer the dashing forty-year-old I remembered from my childhood. But he still looked good. Damn Brianna, she even had genetic advantages. "Tomorrow is Christmas," Harold said. "Have dinner with me. I'm cooking a tur-duck-en. It's a turkey stuffed with duck and hen. Seven o'clock," he said. "I'm even making sugarplums." "Fine," I agreed, anxious to see what vile thing Brianna was doing to Madame. In our little outdoor tete-a-tete, Madame had actually given me something to worry about. To my knowledge, Brianna had never written a word. But she did give interviewsto tabloids. And in them she took obvious pleasure in dissecting her past lovers. There was a cruel streak in her a mile wide, and if Lawrence was foolish enough to reveal secrets to her, she'd delight in telling them. "Shall I pick you up?" Harold asked. I surprised myself with the sudden anticipation I felt. "That would be wonderful, Harold. Now I have to check on something." "Private eye business?" he asked, a worried gaze straying toward the arguing group. "Madame's upset. This whole book idea worries me. Lawrence's behavior worries me." "I'll try and find out what's happening," I hedged, not wanting to admit to anything. "You'll have to give me all the details tomorrow evening." "We'll trade," I promised, slinking toward the arguing group until I was in eavesdropping position. "Lawrence, tell them they can't do it," Madame was saying. She placed her tiny hand on Lawrence's shoulder. "Please. You promised me that the book would be about the Paris years. There's no point in going back to our youth." "Cinematically speaking, the Delta era was the formative time for his character," the thin man said, nostrils flaring wide. "Those years must be included in the movie. As will the war years. Of course there may be cuts, but I will decide when and what to delete. Brianna has assured me that I will have complete artistic control. I demand that." His gaze seemed to dare Madame to resist. Brianna clasped her hands in front of her hungry hipbones. She didn't need food; she fed on the suffering of others. "I've worked my tail off to get Sam to even consider this project, Lawrence. Gustav is expecting a movie deal. Don't be difficult." "Artistic control isn't the same as good judgment," Lawrence said with the most reasonable tone I'd ever heard in the face of such bullying. "To stretch the story so long will only be tedious to the reader, or the audience, in the case of a movie. It's the heart of the story that deserves attention. Ramone Gilliard knew this instinctively. Look at his work." "Gilliard is a pauper who couldn't get backing to make a film if he had a script written by God," the thin man replied. "And let me remind you, Lawrence, that you're far from a salable commodity. It's Brianna's name on the book and my reputation as a filmmaker that will pull this off. And so we don't have to have this conversation again, remember that in your day, when film was unsophisticated, there were restraints. We have cinemagraphic techniques, Lawrence." He patted the author's shoulder. "Leave it to the professionals. Now I need to freshen my drink." He walked away as if he were a captain who just dismissed his troops. Brianna was right on his heels. "Lawrence," Madame said, her whispery voice shaking. "What have you done? What did you tell Brianna? Surely you remember we agreed that the past" "It's okay. Rosalyn, dahling, you know how those people are." He put a hand on her small waist. "Don't worry for a moment. I'm totally in charge." He took Madame's arm but it was Layton Rathbone he looked at. Brianna's father was standing beside a piano. He turned away abruptly and went after Brianna. Lawrence's gaze swept the room and stopped on me. "Look, Rosalyn, you've caught the attention of our budding author." "Is something wrong?" It would have been pointless to pretend I wasn't eavesdropping. "A trifle," Lawrence said. "But how wonderful to see you, dahling. Red is your color. I made a very special treat for you. Stuffed okra. Let me help you with a plate. These modern women today, too thin. When I was in France working with Deneuve, we almost had to force the child to eat. Of course the director loved that ethereal look, those huge eyes. But I was always more of a Gina Lollobrigida fan. Rubens was right! A woman, not a twig. Fashion is so fickle, my dear." His grip on my arm was firm but his hand was freezing as he led me away from Madame and in the opposite direction Brianna had taken. "Who is that self-centered bastard?" I asked him. "Oh, a Hollywood type. Sam Rayburn. We want to bring out a movie simultaneously with the book. A big splash. That's the way it's done these days, or so I've been told." I almost stumbled as the name hit me. "The Sam Rayburn? Producer of Marilyn Goes Blonde!" It was the blockbuster conspiracy movie about Marilyn Monroe and her alleged murder with the use of Thorazine suppositories. "Brianna assures me that he isn't an impostor. Very touchy breed. But don't take anything he says too seriously. Hollywood, dahling. Interest is like heat lightning, gone before you're even sure you saw it." "What exactly will your biography cover?" I asked. "Now if I told you, there would be no suspense. Look around. Everyone here wants to know what I'm including in my book. Tell me something, Sarah Booth. What's the most important element in writing?" he asked. I realized he was talking to me as if I were actually writing a book. Now my lie would snap me on the butt. Still, I had to make a stab at it. "In nonfiction, the truth would be important. In fiction, I suppose it would be in creating a believable story." "Dean Grace, our authority on everything, would give you an A for that answer." "And you?" I was curious to hear his answer. "Think a little harder. Why would I be motivated to publish my life history now?" He didn't wait for me to guess. "Revenge, malice, money. Or possibly truth." He let that sink in. "Good fiction is life laid bare, the actual emotional truth. Nonfiction is the illusion of truth. In nonfiction, detail is boiled down to a fine syrup. Truth is no longer a raw substance but a by-product of a process. The individual telling the story determines the process based on his own particular pathology. Right?" I nodded, captivated by him and what he was saying. "This by-product, labeled truth, has many uses. To sweeten, to flavor, to soothe, to tempt. To extract revenge." He waved an elegant hand around the room in a grand gesture. "They're all concerned what my truth will be." He laughed. "After two decades of being forgotten, it's wonderful to again feel the power of commanding attention." He selected a pickled mushroom and held it to my lips. "And for all of this fun, remember to savor the tiny pleasures, Sarah Booth. They're the only ones that truly count. Excuse me." He stepped back slightly and announced that dinner was served. To my dismay, I was seated between a graduate student and the dean. They'd obviously come to the party together and chattedover and through meabout books, authors, and Mississippi's place in the world of the literati. Of course they both knew everything about each subject. And what they didn't know, the bookstore owner across the table was glad to fill in. During the delicious pumpkin soup, I learned of their importance in Mississippi in particular and the universe in general. The Chicken Muriel Spark was a treat, and I had a respite from the Ego Bowl while Lawrence explained briefly how he'd come to acquire the recipe. As the hired help served the chicken accompanied by beautiful crystal dishes of cranberry salad, Bailey Bronson, the bookstore owner, rose unsteadily. "To Lawrence!" He raised his glass. "Underappreciated and now in the catbird seat." He swayed dangerously. "Renowned for his international Epicurean flair and his parties, at which too many people drank too much and spilled their guts. May he take his secrets to the grave. The sooner the better." Madame's gasp was the only sound. Even the cutlery stilled. "My death would benefit no one," Lawrence said as casually as if he were ordering coffee. "All pertinent information is already in writing. As a vessel of secrets, I've been drained. But what abomination do you fear, Bronson? We'd love to know. I could hazard a guess if you'd like." At that moment the waiters burst out of the kitchen with the cheese course. As they served, the tension grew. Only Lawrence seemed oblivious to it all. When the waiters left, Lawrence smiled and nodded. "You're still not worried about that literary contest you organized. Some dazzling talent. I judged it, but the winner . . ." He arched his eyebrows. "There was some confusion, as I recall." Bailey Bronson tried to rise but sat back down heavily in his chair. His hand trembled as he reached for his wine. Time seemed to flat-line and stretch. I'd spent a few awkward weeks in a sorority house back in my younger days, but I'd never been in a room where the air seemed to itch as if it had been lightly salted. Everyone at the table focused on his or her food, except for Brianna. She blew a kiss across the table to her father. His smile was both tolerant and proud. The kitchen door opened again and the waiters returned. "Ah, the salad," Lawrence said, once again breaching an awkward silence. "Don't expect iceberg lettuce and pallid tomatoes. This is a fence row salad made from weeds gathered along the roadways and a hint of that wonderful plant that smells like an angel's armpit." Beneath the clatter of china, individual conversations once again sprang up. I sat back in my chair and sipped my wine, examining the faces of my fellow diners. They were all practiced at the art of facade. Only Madame and Willem Arquillo made no attempt to hide their discomfort. At last dessert was served, a persimmon parfait made from fruit Lawrence had gathered "at the Shelby hog farm. I had to fight the sows back." With the serving of the sweet, and last, course, the momentum of the party seemed to escalate. Conversation rose in pitch and volume, and I was still left wondering why a man as charming as Lawrence Ambrose would choose to spend an evening with these tedious people. The purpose of the eveningthe real purposeand my role in it remained unclear. Still, Lawrence's reputation as a chef was indisputable. I was captivated by the parfait, savoring the hint of Cointreau in the rich dessert. It was after my second spoonful that my tenure of boredom with my table companions paid off. The Dean dropped a blob of parfait on his lap and in the conversational lull that ensued as he tried to wipe it off, I heard Willem Arquillo talking about a new coffee bean he was developing on his finca in Nicaragua. "So tell us, Arquillo, are you testing the new blend on the hapless Nicaraguan campesinos?" Bailey Bronson asked in a slur that was clear enough to stop all conversation at the table. "Isn't that what your father did? Some sort of testing on the Jews. Human genetics, I believe. Was it Auschwitz or Dachau? I hear Lawrence intends to spill his guts about your family in his book. That'll put the knife in your new political career as Nicaraguan Minister of Agriculture." In the silence that followed, a thin woman I'd completely overlooked let out a choked cry. "Stop it! Just stop it!" The only color in the woman's face was a harsh flush that ran up her neck and into her cheeks. "This is enough stabbing and cutting. We all bleed!" Beside me Grace expelled a burst of air, a sound of disgust. "Bailey Bronson, you fool." Lillian Sparks rose to her feet. "You'd repeat any rumor that belittled someone else, hoping, I presume, to increase your own stature. You're pathetic." She reached over to the other woman. "It's okay, Tilda. Don't let them upset you. He's just a drunk, and Willem is far too cultured to even acknowledge him." The bookstore owner sat taller. "I was addressing the Latin bean breeder, Lillian. But then you spent an awful lot of time down in the family barns, didn't you? Breeding is a big interest for you. Perhaps you think it's fine to experiment on beasts and humans. Is that why you never married?" Willem rose slowly from the table, dropping his napkin in the parfait. "Bronson, if you wish to question my family and my honor, I suggest you stand up and do it like a man." No one moved. Bailey tried to find his feet, but he was too drunk. He slammed back into his seat, tottered dangerously, then fell forward into his plate with a smack. The only appropriate thing seemed to be to toss my napkin over his head, which I did with flair. "Rest in peace," I proclaimed. Lawrence stood at the head of the table and blew a kiss at me. "Dahling," he said, his blue eyes dancing with merriment. "I dub you Sissy Pom-Pom Ali. That's a combination of Mother Teresa and Muhammad Ali. You saved old Bailey's skin, though now that I consider it, that could be a crime against nature." Laughter swept the table, and glasses were raised in my honor. Only Willem didn't pick up his glass. He was still angry, that Latin blood thundering. I could see it in his eyes, and it had a more potent effect on me than the wine, which I gulped down. "Now that all of the excitement is over, let me tell you some stories about the days of Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Hemingway, Fitzgeraldthe Left Bankers." Lawrence recaptured the table with perfect grace. "It was a time of magic. We smoked Turkish cigarettes, drank, and ran wild in the more permissive climes of Paris." While he talked I concentrated on using the private investigator's primary skillobservation. Harold sat with the attentiveness that marked his comfort with culture, and his pleasure in Lawrence. Layton Rathbone's gaze never left Lawrence, while beside him Brianna held a compact in her lap, studying her flawless face. Off to my left, the Dean set up a buzzsaw of commentary. He was tipsy but able to enunciate clearly, and what he said suddenly caught my interest. "Lawrence lived out in the wilds of Lula, you know," he said, talking still to the graduate student and an unconscious Bailey. I was getting worried that perhaps the bookstore owner had snorted his parfait and suffocated. But he gurgled, turned his head, and passed out again while Grace continued to talk. "Lawrence worked as an entertainer and chef on a lake, a very interesting place. Tennessee Williams visited often, and others, but you won't hear Lawrence talking about those years. There was gambling and liquor. And a murder. I wonder if the old fossil will reveal that in his book." "Sounds to me like something Ambrose made up to generate interest in his life." The graduate student licked the rim of his parfait glass. "I mean he was a brief luminary, wasn't he? This whole idea of letting a has-been model write his biography is scandalous. Strictly a publicity stunt. How else to reclaim a bit of spotlight?" I felt a deep urge to shove the parfait glass down his throat. I was relieved of the urge thankfully when Lawrence adjourned the table. Coffee would be served in the European tradition, standing, so guests could move about, smoke, and mingle. I sprang from the table. "A moment," Lawrence said, drawing everyone's attention back to him. "I have a brief announcement. I just want everyone to know that my book will be thorough and truthful." The room stilled. "Down to every little gritty detail. Those of you who are my old, dear friendsyou'll all be stars." He smiled and I was reminded of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. "Each one of us sitting here hides something. I, of course, am included. I have my own shadow world where half-truths and base actions lie curled in a fetal position in the darkness. But I believe there is an accounting, and I prefer to have mine here. I hope you understand . . . and forgive me for whatever light I cast on your dark corners. Now let's have some coffee." He walked away from the table, which suddenly erupted in a scraping of chairs as the guests evacuated. Madame had said Lawrence was playing out a dangerous scheme, and if his intent was to strike fear into the heart of his guests about what he might reveal, he'd done a thorough job of it. I'd made it only a few steps from the table when I felt another hand on my arm, this one with perfectly manicured nails painted a glittering white to match her dress. "Sarah Booth, I hate to ask," Cece said, "but could you possibly take me home?" I turned to find her face blanched, her bottom lip trembling. "What's wrong?" I asked. "I'm not well," she said, her voice shaky, eyes wild. She didn't have to say it twice. She looked ghastly. "Let me get your coat and bag." Lawrence spotted us and quietly escorted Cece to my car and carefully seated her. "I'll check with you later," he assured her. "We'll have a long chat." When he turned to me, his eyes were lively in the moonlight. "Dahling, come to brunch tomorrow. We'll do something interesting with the carcass of this meal. And then we'll talk. Just you and I. Rosalyn is worried about me, and I want to set her mind at rest. I'm not the fool I might appear to be, nor am I an old crank bent on malice. The gloves must come off for the truth to come out. Come at nine." "In the morning," I agreed. I got into the car, where Cece was huddled in her coat, shaking like a leaf. She'd taken on a blue tint, but it could've been the moonlight reflecting off her glittery gown. She groaned. "Why is Lawrence doing this?" It was suddenly like someone let the air out of her. There was a long sigh, and she slumped down in her seat. I just looked at her and shook my head. I had no answer for her. "Get me home, Sarah Booth. Just get me home." 3 Christmas Day dawned gray and gloomy. The promised snow had not fallen but seemed to hang low in the clouds, an impending, ominous pressure that made the drive to Dahlia House seem fraught with danger. In the Delta, there's only sky and land, and the sky rules. Against the lowering clouds, Dahlia House looked like a haven. The weather perfectly reflected my mood. I'd spent the night at Cece's. Doc Sawyer had made a house call, giving her a shot of Valium and a lecture about the dangers of unchecked anxietywork related, Cece insisted. When I left, she was sedated and asleep, the unexplained fear gone from her features. Now I needed strong black coffee and some rest. Unfortunately, I had time for neither. I was due at Lawrence's for brunch. I was headed down the drive at a fast clip when a slant of sunlight broke through the clouds. Odd how an angle of light can evoke an avalanche of memories. I thought of my parents, sauntering down that drive on just such a winter morning, hand in hand. I could still hear my mother's laughter. Or the Christmas Day that Eulalee McBride came galloping down it on Spartacus, an incredibly beautiful gray stallion that she'd gotten for a present. The light had caught her red braids and made her look like a Viking warrior. Or Johnny Wells, walking down the lane toward the house, a box of chocolates in his hand as he came to pay a Valentine's call on me. I was twelve and mortified by his attentions. But it hadn't kept me from watching him come, black hair made sleek and brilliant as a crow's wing by the winter sun. My life was captured in moments, some of them occurring in the lane that curved gently before me. But I knew that the past was so appealing only because the present was empty. I had diagnosed the disease; it was only the cure that eluded me. Perhaps Jitty was right. Had I not slept with Hamilton Garrett V, the man I'd been hired to investigate as a mother-killer, I would never have known what I was missing. The feelings he'd awakened would have remained dormant. As my father used to tell me when I was a child, "You can't miss what you've never had." As I continuedslowlydown the drive and through the flat land of the Delta, brown and barren after the cotton harvest but topped by a pink meringue of clouds so full of early light that my heart ached, I knew I wouldn't undo what I'd done. Fool for love or just plain fool, I would suffer the pain to pay for the pleasure. Thank goodness, though, I had no time for reflection. I was late for a very important date. I made a mad dash up the stairs and into my bedroom where I jerked the first thing I could lay hands on out of the closet and threw it on. Red was good. Lawrence had complimented my red cocktail dress. Clingy was not so good, but it would have to do. "Try black. It's a minimizin' color," Jitty advised from the doorway as I checked my reflection for unsightly panty lines under the beaded sweater dress. My plans for Christmas Day had been starvation and a form of physical abuse termed aerobics. Instead, I'd signed on for two big meals prepared by gourmands. Well, it was Christmas. Food was the one thing I had left to enjoy. In a pattern of bad behavior that codified the worst of the Daddy's Girls, I'd opened every Christmas present as soon as it arrived. Instant gratification, the mantra of every red-blooded DG. End resultthere was nothing under my tree to slow me down this morning. Jitty eyed me up and down. "You be sure and gobble all the food at Mr. Ambrose's so that when you get around to dinin' with Harold, you can eat like a lady instead of a field hand." "I thought you were watching reruns instead of Gone With the Wind." Not for the first time I considered having the cable removed. Psychological studies indicated that violent behavior on the little screen warped the minds of children. Jitty was watching way too many of the old black and white shows. She'd bought into the theory that if she turned back the clock on conduct to the fifties, then the era of moral prosperity with families, mealtime, and cheerful children would magically return. "Jitty, I might not love the way things are now, but I won't ever be a Stepford Wife." She ignored me completely and continued her tirade. "No man wants a woman who can eat her weight in cornbread dressin'. I found some back issues of Bride'smagazine up in the attic. I think we can fit you into somethin' decent if you don't balloon up another size. Those empire waistlines can hide a lot of" "I'll keep that in mind." I'd gained five pounds, not six dress sizes. As a ghost, Jitty never gained an ounce. I wanted to snatch her bald. "Uh-oh," Jitty said and vanished. I finished applying my lipstick just as I heard the sound of someone beating on the back door. Since Santa only used the chimney and I wasn't expecting any other guests, I hurried downstairs, curious as to who was knocking at my door. I slipped into the kitchen and made my way to the window for a view of the back steps. A strange whine was coming from the back door. I eased open the curtains and found myself staring directly into the ice-blue gaze of Harold Erkwell. For the longest moment we simply stared at each other. "Merry Christmas," he said, bent over in the strangest position. For all of his contortions, his salt-and-pepper hair was immaculate, his smile charming. "Harold?" Just brilliant. Harold was a master of social intercourse, and I sounded like one of those sitcom idiots. "I have a present," he said, not yet straightening up. "Open the door, please." I did, eagerly. Harold was known for his exquisite gifts. I never saw what it was that knocked me down, stepped all over me, and barreled through the swinging door of the kitchen. I only heard glass hit the floor and shatter. "Sweetie Pie!" Harold cried out. No amount of sweet talk was going to work now. "You are going to die," I answered, all tender thoughts knocked slam out of me. What type of creature had Harold unleashed in my house? A chair crashed over and more glass broke. "I'll get her," Harold said, leaping over me as he ran across the kitchen and through the swinging door. I remained on the floor, wondering if he'd remember his impeccable manners and rush back to help me to my feet. There was the sound of another crash and I leapt up, convinced that if I didn't get into the dining room, there would be nothing left. "Sweetie, come here," Harold called pleadingly. I was going to sweetie him! I pushed through the door and stopped dead still. A huge, raw-boned hound dog was standing in the center of the dining room table licking the hand-varnished oak. There wasn't a piece of china or crystal left on the table. "What is that"