Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [26]
“So what was it Monica and Eleanor thought I could do about the necklace?” she asked. “They hate my guts. Did they send you to search the house?”
“Well, actually, they didn’t send us.” Tinkie crunched the celery from her Bloody Mary. “We came on our own initiative.”
“To what purpose?” Millicent’s eyes twinkled merrily, but I wasn’t fooled.
“We need your help,” Tinkie said. “The insurance company is stalling. As the only legal heir of the Briarcliff Estate, aside from the sisters, I thought it might be in your best interest to help.”
I had to hand it to Tinkie. She was a genius.
“What can I do?” Millicent asked.
“The insurance company wants the whereabouts of every heir accounted for. Where were you on Monday?”
“That’s easy enough,” she said. “I was on a shopping spree in Jackson. You can verify it at Belinda’s Costume Emporium. It’s time to get ready for my next Halloween getup. I’m thinking Elvira Mistress of the Dark.”
“An excellent choice.”
She retrieved her purse and brought out a sales slip with the time and date. “Any more questions?”
6
We left the pink Victorian without a tour of the doll room. By this time we stopped for lunch at a unique restaurant tucked under the skirts of a giant Aunt Jemima. Perhaps not the most politically correct structure, but the food was homemade and delicious. I was tempted to order a second slice of lemon meringue pie. Only Tinkie’s appraising eye roving over the waist of my tight jeans made me resist.
Tinkie pushed back her plate. Far be it from me to comment on her fried chicken gnawed down to the bone. There wasn’t even a breaded crumb of crispy skin lurking on her plate.
She must have read my mind. “To hell with moderation. Let’s split a piece of chocolate pie,” she said, waving at the waitress.
When we left, I thought I might roll out to the car, but managed to bend into the front seat. Tinkie drove to Helena Banks Gorenflo’s mansion, a Tara replica out Highway 61. The house centered a four-hundred-acre estate. The “garage” apartment was a converted carriage house measuring close to four thousand square feet. Behind the apartment was a swimming pool and tennis courts. John Hightower, British biographer-slash-grudge-holder, had fallen into the lap of luxury.
We’d deliberately failed to warn him of our imminent arrival, so when we climbed the stairs to knock on his door, he opened it with a mildly puzzled expression. “Can I help you?” he asked, very proper.
“We’re private investigators,” Tinkie said. “We’d like to speak with you.”
“Oh, dear.” He paled. “And what, may I ask, are you investigating?” Guilt was writ large on his face.
Tinkie’s smile revealed perfect, glistening white teeth. “You, Mr. Hightower. You. May we come in?”
Had he been a smarter little piggy, he’d have said “not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.” As it was, Tinkie merely pushed at the door and he fell back, giving us entrance to his beautifully furnished abode.
John Hightower was an oddity amidst the dark paneling, leather sofas, weight machines, and fitness equipment that spoke of a man deeply involved with physical image. He was slender, pasty, balding, and had the musculature of a cooked egg noodle. His belt was notched at the first hole. I had a terrible suspicion his waist was smaller than mine.
My first thought was John Hightower couldn’t pull off a practical joke, much less a kidnapping. Especially not the abduction of a woman as fierce as Monica.
Tinkie and I seated ourselves in matching wingback chairs.
“I don’t think you should be here.” He rested his slender hands on the back of a sofa.
“Did we ask for your thoughts?” Tinkie was a powerhouse. She’d sensed that he would yield to a forceful woman and she was dead on.
“Well, no, but—”
“We ask the questions and you answer.” Tinkie leaned forward. Even though he was ten feet away, he flinched. “You were at Briarcliff five days ago, is that correct?”
“Briarcliff?” He acted as if he’d never heard the word. “Five days ago?”
Tinkie’s left eyebrow shot almost to her hairline. “Are you on drugs, Mr.