Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [2]
“The value is…?”
“Four million dollars.”
I’d grown up in a society where valuable jewels were commonplace. The belles of the Delta, women of exceptional beauty and charm, felt good jewelry was a birthright. But a necklace with this appraisal was extraordinary. No wonder the insurance company was balking.
“The police have verified the theft?”
“They have, but Langley Insurance is still stonewalling. My sister and I thought bringing in reputable private investigators to reevaluate the evidence might speed things up.”
“I doubt that.” I had to be honest.
“Would you at least speak with Mr. Nesbitt at the insurance company? He’s aware of your reputation for honesty.”
Nice to hear, but in the instance of a $4 million claim, I doubted the reputation of Delaney Detective Agency would matter a whit. But what did I have to lose? “Sure, if my partner agrees.”
“Eleanor and I will await your phone call,” Monica said.
It took less than a minute to clear the case with Tinkie, who not only agreed to take the Leverts’ job offer but jumped in her Cadillac to head for Dahlia House. She loved Oscar, but their constant togetherness in the last weeks was driving her a little nuts.
We’d both gotten used to calling our own shots, a simpler situation for me. Tinkie had been reared in the fine tradition of a Daddy’s Girl, a woman who accomplishes much through charm and the guise of acquiescence. Tinkie was about as pliable as a titanium rod, but she knew how to appear malleable. It just required a lot of effort to do so.
She roared down my drive like a bat out of hell and bounded out of her car on the heels of Chablis, her dustmop Yorkie terrier with the heart of a lion. Sweetie Pie, my noble red tic hound, greeted them with a tenor serenade. Ah, Placido, should you ever need a hound onstage, Sweetie’s voice could make an audience weep!
“Have you called the Levert sisters back?” Tinkie asked, rushing up the steps.
I held out a hand to steady her. She wore three-inch stilettos and I feared she’d topple backward and break her neck. Her sundress put me in mind of the 1960s, complete with the cutest straw sun hat. Tinkie had excellent taste and the budget to indulge it.
“I thought I’d let you do the honors.” I led her toward our office on the first floor of Dahlia House in what was formerly a parlor. Our décor was taupe filing cabinets and cheap furniture. Tinkie had insisted on, and paid for, the frosted-glass door that said Delaney Detective Agency. Classic noir. The only classy thing about our digs.
I gave her Monica’s number and she put the phone on speaker and dialed.
Monica answered on the second ring.
“We’re interested in the case,” Tinkie said. “Our fee is two grand up front and a grand a day, plus any unexpected expenses.”
“Can you start today?” Monica asked.
“You realize we’ll investigate and write the report of whatever we find.” Tinkie wanted to be clear no one was buying results.
“We wouldn’t dream of anything else,” Monica said. “Eleanor and I are distraught over the theft. Yes, the necklace has a monetary value, but it’s part of our history. I’m sure you ladies can understand what that means.”
She was stroking my weak spot. “Heritage,” “tradition”—two words I understood down to the bone.
“Where would you like to meet?” Tinkie asked.
“The Excelsior Tea Room. At noon?”
“We’ll be there,” Tinkie agreed before she punched the disconnect button.
She sat on the edge of the desk. “A new case, Sarah Booth! Isn’t it exciting?”
Oh, exciting wouldn’t cover it when she told Oscar and I told Graf. Unless, of course, we could make the two-hour drive to Natchez, examine the evidence, come home, and write the report without anyone being the wiser. As my aunt Loulane would say, were she alive to say it, “Discretion is the better part of valor.”
If we kept our mouths shut about the case, we’d spare Oscar and Graf needless worry. It could even be interpreted as an act of love.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blur of black and heard the soft rustle