Carolyn Haines - Wishbones

I wanted to ask him why it was that everything I loved died, but I knew how terribly melodramatic such a question would sound. “Sweetie is smart.” I said it aloud. Once again I was confronted with my own fears, and I was determined to master them. “She’s plenty smart, and she’ll be here any minute.”

The words were barely out of my mouth when I saw her, framed in the darkness by the orange blaze.

“Sweetie! Sweetie Pie!” I dashed out onto the lawn, causing several firemen to look at me as if I’d lost my mind. I didn’t care. “Sweetie!” She ran into my arms, a scrap of blue material in her mouth.

“What is that?” I took it from her and recognized it as the type of material used in athletic apparel.

Graf had followed me out and he bent to examine it. “Someone must have lost a jacket or something down in the ravine.” He gave Sweetie’s ears a rumple. “What say I finish cooking dinner and we can eat and keep an eye on the fire?”

Clutching my hound’s collar, I nodded. “Sounds like a plan.” Together the three of us walked into the house where we watched until an hour later, when the firemen finished extinguishing the flames.

Sweetie slept in the next morning while Graf and I went to work. Moviemaking can be a tedious affair. Except for the brief times when I was needed in a scene, I was free to roam the sound stage and explore costume potential with Dallas Brown, the designer. I’d been dreading the fitting sessions, but though Dallas tut-tutted at the size of my waist, she was congenial and merry and filled with wisecracks and fun.

Everyone at the studio had heard about the wildfire, and after I repeated my personal experience with it about six times, I’d begun to forget the terror of it and think what a great tale it made. I was beginning to really enjoy my place in the community of moviemakers when my cell phone rang.

“Ms. Delaney?” the male voice was clipped and businesslike.

“This is she.” Aunt Loulane had taught me impeccable telephone manners.

“This is Sheriff Grady King. I’ve just received the fire report on the Lettohatchie Canyon blaze. It was arson. I’d like a word with you and Mr. Milieu.”

“The blaze was set?” Who in his right mind would start a blaze in the tinder land of California? Thousands of acres could have been burned, homes destroyed, wildlife killed.

“That’s right. It’s definitely arson.”

“Graf and I have no idea who would do such a thing. We’ve only been staying at Bobby Joe Taylor’s house a few days. We’re guests.”

“I’ll drop by about five this evening.”

“But-” I didn’t get a chance to protest. He’d hung up. And it was only after he’d done so that I remembered the lipstick message on the mirror. I should have reported it. As it was, I hadn’t even mentioned it to Graf.

“Are you okay, Sarah Booth?” Dallas asked. She was holding a slender, short skirt and a pair of spike heels that looked to be my size.

“Apparently the fire last night was an arson.”

“Oh, my.” She frowned. “Surely they don’t think the fire was meant to harm you.” Her face brightened. “I’ll bet some gal went after Bobby Joe Taylor. He’s got a bad reputation with the women. Likes to love ’em and leave ’em, or so I’ve heard.”

Sweet relief swept over me. The message on the mirror could as easily have been for Bobby Joe, calling him a hick and telling him to get out of town. He was from Alabama, and the hick title fit him as well as me. Even better, perhaps, if Dallas was right and he made a habit of rolling over people’s feelings.

That thought sustained me through the rest of the work day. When Graf and I drove up the mountain to the house that afternoon, we found Sheriff Grady King waiting for us.

He was a handsome man-no surprise in a county where looks are part of a person’s résumé. Tall, lean, with an elegant mustache, King’s sharp gray eyes took in every relevant detail. His gaze shifted from Graf to me to our left hands to the house and Sweetie Pie’s nose poking up at a window.

“You say you’re visiting here?” he asked without even an introduction.

Graf went through the whole spiel about how we were borrowing Bobby Joe Taylor’s house while we were getting ready to film. King didn’t make a single note but listened with full attention. There were things about him that brought Coleman to mind, and I snuffed out the attending emotions that came up.

Graf gave him Bobby Joe’s contact number, and we were about to walk inside when I turned back.

“Someone broke into the house two days ago, while we were at the studio. They left a message in red lipstick.” I repeated the words exactly. “I was so angry I cleaned them up before I even thought.”

I found myself caught between dual looks of concern and consternation.

“You didn’t mention this,” Graf said without even an attempt to hide the accusation in his tone.

“I figured the message was for Bobby Joe. I mean someone who had a key to the house.” I shrugged. “I just assumed it was one of his ex-girlfriends who was mad. Bobby Joe is from Alabama and a reputed rounder. He could be called a hick as easily as me.”

Sheriff King was strangely quiet, another habit that reminded me of a Mississippi sheriff. “Would anyone leave such a message for you?” he asked me at last.

I was about to answer that Suzy Dutton might be a little pissed that I’d gotten the role of Matty, but Graf beat me to the punch.

“Everyone in town adores Sarah Booth. There isn’t anyone who would leave such a note or even refer to her as a hick. Just because she’s Southern doesn’t mean she’s a hayseed. She’s sophisticated.”

“Thanks, Graf.” It was nice to have someone rush to my defense, even if it wasn’t the complete and total truth.

“If you think of anything, give me a call.” The sheriff pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Graf. “I’d get the locks on the house changed. If Mr. Taylor has a harem of distressed women chasing him down, you don’t want to get caught in the crosshairs.”

“You think a woman started that blaze?” Graf asked. “Arson doesn’t seem to be a female crime.”

King tilted his head as if he were considering. “I thought you were an actor, Mr. Milieu. I didn’t realize you were also a criminal profiler.”

Graf didn’t react instantly. He thought it through. “I gather you have some issues with actors,” he said softly.

“No, no, that’s not it at all. I enjoy the picture shows as much as the next one. What I have an issue with is a person who thinks they’re so special they don’t have to obey the law, a person who feels like celebrity is a ticket to any kind of bad or illegal conduct. That’s what I have trouble with, Mr. Milieu.”

“And what makes you think Sarah Booth and I are that kind of people?”

He nodded slowly. “Could be the report I pulled up on the two of you before I came up here. Let’s see if I can remember it right. Ms. Delaney was charged with first-degree murder, and you were involved in a high-speed chase that resulted in a death. Ms. Delaney runs her own PI agency, no doubt aggravating every law officer in the vicinity. Am I leaving something out?”

“Sarah was innocent. The death was a suicide. If you’d done your homework, you would know that. Renata Trovaioli took her own life. Sarah Booth wasn’t involved at all.”

King only smiled. “You two have a good day, now. I hope your stay here is productive and short.”

He walked away, never looking back.

“What a prick,” Graf said.

I didn’t respond. King was certainly unpleasant, but I had the feeling that he was also very good at his job. Why had he personally come out to talk to us? It was an interesting question and one without a ready answer.