Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [12]
“We don’t date anymore,” Eleanor said. “We both decided at fifty we’d had enough. We’re not man-haters or anything. It’s just that we have so many other interests to pursue. And we do everything together.”
I’d pegged them for early forties. My, my, money and a life of luxury might not buy youth, but it sure kept the wrinkles and sags away. “When was the last time you saw Monica?”
“She said she was going into the gardens to think,” Eleanor said. “That was just as dusk was falling.”
“She never came back inside?” That was eight hours ago.
“I went to my room. Monica insisted we pack for Geneva. She decided we had to escape Natchez before we were hurt. I got the suitcases from the attic, put hers in her room, and took mine. I got involved selecting my wardrobe for the trip. She wanted to head for New Orleans as soon as the insurance check came through. From there, we were going to Europe.” She fought to control the tremor in her voice but was only partially successful. “What’s happened to her? What if she’s hurt?”
“When did the police arrive?” I held the phone with one hand and grabbed my jeans with the other.
“I finally called them about midnight. They said she wasn’t missing until twenty-four hours had passed.”
“They refused to check it out?” Monica wasn’t a teenager likely to strike off after a spat with parents or boyfriend.
“They think we’re insurance scammers and crooks.” Eleanor sounded defeated. “They aren’t interested in hunting for my sister.”
“I’ll wake Tinkie and we’ll be there as soon as possible.” Monica might be perfectly safe at a hotel or apartment playing the cougar to some buff young man, but Eleanor was worried. Extremely worried.
“Thank you,” she said before she hung up, and I thought there was just a tiny amount of relief in her voice.
I pulled on my shoes and a sweater and knocked at Tinkie’s door. She appeared, hair tousled and a frown on her face. “Sarah Booth, what in heaven’s name are you doing up at this hour?”
“Monica Levert has disappeared from Briarcliff. Eleanor is distraught, and the police won’t do anything until tomorrow.”
Traces of sleep evaporated. “Let me get dressed.” I hunted for her practical shoes while she found the clothes she’d left in a trail on the carpet. Tinkie wasn’t a slob by any stretch, but her family, the Bellcases, had always had domestic help. Why hang up clothes when someone else would do it?
To her credit, she was dressed in under two minutes, and we left the Eola and got in her car. As we approached Briarcliff, Tinkie slowed, using the Caddy’s high-beams to search the dense bushes. I’d never thought of camellias and azaleas as sinister, but these huge heritage shrubs were twenty feet tall. An army of invading Huns could hide in them.
The car’s headlights threw moving shadows that gave me hope and then the creeps. Anyone or anything could be lurking in the towering vegetation.
As we drew closer to the house, I caught a glimpse of it in the light of a gibbous moon that peeked through a scudding cloud cover. The dark gray stones glittered with a silvery cast, a place of half and full shadows. Not a single window held a light.
“This stone heap is scary,” Tinkie said, voicing my thoughts.
“Monica is probably somewhere on the grounds, but it’s possible she turned an ankle or something.” I opted for the most logical and least tragic explanation. I didn’t believe Monica would willingly worry her sister. They were very close.
“I hope Eleanor has some high-beam flashlights.” Ever the practical one, Tinkie stopped the Caddy in the circular drive by the front door.
A light came on, giving the façade of the house a more inviting look. We crunched along the gravel drive to the front door. Earlier, we’d gone in under the portico, but Eleanor greeted us at the front entrance. She came out on the small entrance alcove, a breeze catching the folds of her robe and sending it billowing behind her like a vision from a 1940s Hitchcock film.
“I’ve searched the entire house. Monica isn’t here,” she said, her voice