Greedy Bones Part 4

"Was she difficult to locate?"

Harold laughed. "Not in the least. Luther knows exactly where she lives. Erin is opposed to selling the land for development. In fact, she's blocked a sale before. Luther is trying to slide this past her."

Goes to show that just because a man has bone china coffee cups in a trailer, he doesn't always have high morals.

Harold gave me her address and phone number. "Erin is . . . difficult. She's angry, and she takes it out on this county and the people who live here."

"How do you mean?"

"When her mom died, neither Luther nor her father let her know. Someone from the funeral home finally took pity and called her. She arrived just in time to see the casket going into the hea.r.s.e for transport. She's never forgiven the people here. She felt, rightly so, that someone should have notified her."

"That's awful. Luther told me a lot of stuff, but he acted like Erin's refusal to join a sorority was a big deal."

Harold hesitated. "Lana Entrekin Carlisle was a fifth-generation Zeta Zeta. Her ancestor was one of the founders. ZZ is the sorority at Ole Miss. Haven't you seen the billboards set up along the highways during rush?"

"I've seen them." I had indeed. Mortified described my reaction. The billboards listed a toll-free suicide hotline for girls who weren't offered bids for this sorority. "A tad extreme, wouldn't you say?"

"Erin was a heritage candidate. She was a shoo-in."

"Jesus, Harold, this is a sorority you're talking about, not members.h.i.+p to The Rapture."

"Social connections are often more important than any academic degree."

I couldn't argue that. Too often, life has nothing to do with merit and too much to do with contacts.

"Still and all, to cut her out of the family seems a bit extreme. I mean, she could have married a first cousin and produced a child with twelve fingers. That might have been a reason to kick her out. But a sorority?" I couldn't let it go.

Harold wisely ignored me. "Call her. She can fill you in on details I'm not privy to. The bank deals with Luther, but she gets a copy of everything."

"Thanks, but I have another question."

"No, my l.u.s.t for you hasn't waned. Those photographs from Hollywood have only made me want you more."

Harold delighted me, even when he was being outrageous. He'd once proposed, but our friends.h.i.+p had recovered from that hurdle. "You know Jitty thinks I should marry--" I stopped dead. Jitty was Harold's strongest proponent. She viewed him as the perfect donor of sperm and the best potential partner for marriage. But I didn't need to tell him that.

"Who's Jitty?" he asked.

"Oh, a friend."

"From Zinnia?"

I was stumped for an answer. "Sort of."

"How are you 'sort of' from a place? Either you are or you aren't."

"She lived here once but doesn't now." I outdid myself with cleverness.

"Have I met her?"

"What is this? Sixty questions? She's a friend. Case closed. Saving Oscar is the focus."

"You're right. We can explore tomfoolery at another time."

"I'll contact Erin and let you know what I find out."

"Anything else?"

"Lana Carlisle. Did she trip and fall down the stairs, or did she have some help?"

Harold hesitated. "The death was ruled accidental. But there was gossip. A lot of it. Especially since the funeral was held so fast and Erin wasn't notified."

"Talk that Mr. Carlisle killed his wife?" I was remembering what Luther had said about Erin tattling about an affair. High emotions sometimes led to rash actions.

"That either Mr. Carlisle or Luther killed her."

Now that shocked me. "Luther was a suspect in his mother's death?"

"And his father's."

"Holy cow. Was there an investigation?"

"That was before Coleman became sheriff, so things weren't always done by the book. As you recall, there were some issues with our former sheriff."

"Thanks for the heads up, Harold."

"Glad to help. Call me if you need anything. I'm stopping by the hospital when I get off work."

"Cece and I will be by there as soon as we can. I think I'm going to make a quick trip to Jackson."

"Good luck, Sarah Booth." He dropped his voice a notch. "I can't wait to meet this Jitty person."

"Sure thing." Now I'd jumped on the gut wagon with a one-eyed dog. Before long, I just might have to feed him.

5.

Image Photography was located on the north side of Jackson, Mississippi, in the Ridgeland area. I found the studio with ease and noted the parked Lexus and Mercedes crossovers and one vintage, baby-blue Nissan that obviously belonged to someone with excellent taste. I parked my antique Mercedes roadster that had been my mother's pride and joy next to it.

For fifteen minutes I watched the studio, taking the temperature of the clientele and what Erin Carlisle had given up an inheritance of land and comfort to pursue.

While I waited, I got the number for Mississippi Agri-Team in Yazoo City, Mississippi. My plan was to stop by there and speak with Lester Ballard, until a receptionist at the company told me he was out of the country.

"May I speak with someone about the cotton crop on the Carlisle plantation land?" I asked.

"I'm sorry, only Mr. Ballard can talk with you. He handles that property."

Across the parking lot, a mom came out of the photography studio with twin boys about five years old, dressed in suits and ties. The boys were miserable, tugging at their clothes. The woman looked like she'd stepped from a fas.h.i.+on magazine.

"When will Mr. Ballard return?" I asked, still watching the studio's front door.

"He should have been back yesterday, but there was a delay."

Another woman with a lovely young girl departed the photographer's. The child's white dress imitated a Victorian design. This girl was in hog heaven in her finery. She pirouetted on the sidewalk and then slipped into the pa.s.senger side of a Bentley.

"Where did you say Mr. Ballard had gone?" I asked.

"I didn't say. Shall I have him call when he returns?"

"Please." I gave her the contact information and got out of my car as another client exited the studio and got into a BMW convertible.

I strolled up to the storefront and examined some of the photographs on display. These were not graduation pictures or images of happy moments caught on film. These were portraits, as in the kind that brought to mind great painters. Art with a capital A. They had the quality of a painting in the use of light, texture, composition--a richness normally not captured by a camera.

What ever else could be said, Image Photography had a clientele with taste. Erin had managed a career that blended art and commerce.

If I had a child, Image Photography is where I'd want her portrait taken.

Hoping the coast was clear and no additional clients lurked inside, I walked in and stopped at the reception desk. A young woman with dark-framed gla.s.ses angled stark against her pale skin looked up at me. "May I help you?"

"Erin Carlisle, please."

"She's in the darkroom and can't be disturbed."

"I'll wait." I took a seat in one of the chairs. Several magazines were spread on a coffee table and I selected one and began to read about vacations in the Eastern bloc and why they were such good bargains.

The receptionist watched me with discomfort but returned to her work.

Twenty minutes later, I'd skimmed through a series of articles on places to avoid in the way of restaurants, hotels, transportation, and travel guides. An itch of irritation, plus the sense that I should be back in Zinnia with Tinkie, made me snappish.

"Would you ask Ms. Carlisle when she'll be available to see me?" I asked.

"May I tell Erin why you're here?" the young woman countered.

I nodded agreeably, controlling my urge to point out that she could have asked that question half an hour sooner. "Certainly. I'm here to talk about her family estate in Sunflower County. I'm not going back to Zinnia until I do."

The girl's expression went blank. "I'll tell her." She got up immediately. She was gone about five minutes, returned to her desk without a word, and began phoning clients to set up appointments for the next week.

Footsteps sounded coming my way. I was looking at the door when Erin Carlisle stepped through it. She was striking, with honey-blond hair, blue eyes, and cla.s.sic features. "What do you want?" she asked.

She wasn't friendly, but then I didn't need to be her BFF. "Can we talk privately?"

She waved me to follow her through a sitting area with several sets and into an office in the back. Leather sofa, plush carpeting, well appointed. Cla.s.sy, just like Erin.

She put her hands on her hips. "What?"

"Four people who visited the Carlisle estate--your family property--have become seriously ill. They may die." I thought that would take the wind out of her sails, but her mouth only hardened.

"Over a decade ago, two people did die there," she said. "My mother and my father. And no one would do a d.a.m.n thing about either of those murders. Why should I get worked up over the fate of some strangers who co-incidentally got sick?"

"I don't believe it's coincidental."

"Are you suggesting someone on my property concocted an illness and is spreading it in the hopes of murdering your friends?"

" 'Murder' isn't a word to use carelessly," I warned her, but gauging her tight jaw, my advice held no weight.

"When someone deliberately takes another's life, premeditated, for personal gain, I'd say that's murder, wouldn't you?"

I nodded. "By definition, yes. Are you talking about your parents?"

"My mother was pushed down the stairs, and then my father was hanged. A murderer is roaming free and still trying to swindle me out of my share of the estate." She didn't mince her words.

"You think your brother is a murderer?"

"Perhaps a serial killer. Isn't that what you call someone who kills more than once?"

I didn't intend to banter psychopathic definitions with her. She was furious, and she was looking for revenge against her brother.

"Do you honestly believe Luther killed your mother and father? His own parents?"

She sat on the edge of the desk. "Luther is capable of almost anything."

I had the clearest memory of him sitting behind his desk in the trailer and sipping hot coffee from a delicate china cup. He'd been immaculately groomed, dressed in razor-creased Dockers and a crisp white s.h.i.+rt. He'd also been angry, though he'd covered it better than his sister. "Is he the reason you left Sunflower County and won't come back?"

She thought about it. "I loved that land and that farm with my whole heart. I had dreams for growing new crops, things that wouldn't deplete the land and would help the environment. I spoke out about something that made my parents so angry that with a bit of prodding from Luther, they threw me out. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. It forced me to work hard and build my business. I struggled and got better and better. I've built my future here."

She was talented, no doubt about it. But while she might avow the destruction of her roots, she was far from unattached to Sunflower County. "The official verdict on your mother's death was accidental."

Shaking her head, she stood. "I don't believe that. She was in perfect health. No bad heart or weakness or dizziness or anything. She didn't fall. She was pushed, and if the sheriff had been worth a d.a.m.n, he would have found out who did it."

I couldn't defend Coleman's predecessors. "There were two people in the house. Not just one."

She cracked the knuckles of her long, elegant fingers. "My father and my brother."

"What if your father did it?" I asked. "Was there a big insurance policy?"

"Half a million dollars for accidental death. The policy was less than a year old. My father was the beneficiary. Trust me, he didn't kill Mom and then kill himself out of guilt and remorse." She laughed. "Not a chance. My father didn't know the meaning of the word 'remorse.' He would have spent that money and enjoyed every second doing it. Look, I'm sure my mother was murdered, but I'm doubly positive my dad was."

"Did you have Luther investigated?"

She looked at me as if a large zit had popped up in the center of my forehead. "Waste of time and money. Luther is smart. He fooled the coroner and the sheriff, but he can't fool me. You tell him that when you see him. And tell him that as executor of the estate, I'll tie it up as long as I want to. I know what he's up to, and I'll never sell to a developer. That land has been in the family since before Mississippi was a state, and he's not going to cover it in asphalt and s.h.i.+tty look-alike homes for soulless families who produce no-neck little brats."

Whew! Erin was pa.s.sionate about the land. "Look, Ms. Carlisle, I'm not certain how your family plantation figures into all of this, but four people who went there are seriously sick. The CDC has been called in. There's something else very peculiar. The cotton there is two feet tall, much more developed than any other fields in the Delta. This leads me to believe something suspicious is going on."

"I wouldn't put it past Luther to do something to devalue my land for agricultural purposes. He wants to force a sell, and if no one would lease the land, I'd have to sell it to pay the taxes."