Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [48]
“I don’t know.” I was torn. Would this information make Eleanor more careful or more terrified?
Lightning split the sky, and rain pelted down. Jerome motioned toward the house. “Best get inside before you drown.”
Before I could say anything else, he jogged down the garden path, disappearing in the heavy wall of rain.
Cece and I dashed for the front porch. The door opened, and Eleanor called us into the house. “Have you found something?” she asked.
“Nothing definite.” I wiped the water from my face on my sleeve. “We should search the property and the grounds. Are there any cisterns at Briarcliff?”
“There’s one behind the rose garden. It hasn’t been used in years, though.”
“Why don’t I stay here and help Eleanor search the house?” Cece offered.
“That would be a huge help.” I would be free to seek out Marty Diamond and his cabin in the woods.
“Tinkie should be here soon,” Cece said. “I’ll give her a call and ask her to hurry.”
“You’re a genius.” I gave her a hug and whispered in her ear, “Keep an eye on Eleanor. She doesn’t look good.” Worry and anxiety were eating her alive.
“Got it.” Cece hugged me. “Be careful.”
11
The minute I entered the Homochitto National Forest, I felt as if I’d stepped into a scene from Tolkien’s great works. The rain had abated, but thunderheads were massing in the west. The gray skies contrasted with the summer green of the trees, giving the landscape a fantastical feel. The flat vistas of the Delta have their own charm, but the forest’s rolling hills held a haunting beauty and tantalizing possibility of a world where nymphs and sprites ruled. I had to hand it to the state of Mississippi for preserving vast stretches of wilderness.
Cece had written copious directions. I had no trouble finding the isolated cabin where Marty Diamond supposedly hung his Stetson. It was picturesque, the kind of place a soulful singer would occupy. It would also make a terrific hostage hideaway.
The cabin was out of sight at the end of what would be termed in the pine barrens a “logging road.” In other words, two ruts with minimal clearance on either side. It was tight, even for Cece’s little hybrid. I doubted another human being was within a five-mile radius.
No vehicles were visible. I exited the car to examine the road. No fresh tracks. Maybe Marty had spent the night in town.
Easing onto the front porch, I peered through a curtainless window. The interior was neat, spartan. There was no sign of Marty or anyone else. The door opened at my lightest touch, which indicated no one was being held there against her will.
Breaking and entering isn’t a charge a private investigator can afford on her record, but I’d driven nearly an hour, and I wasn’t leaving empty handed.
Just to be on the safe side, first I circled the cabin, peeping in every window available. Empty. If someone was inside, he was moving around to avoid me. The back of my neck tingled at the thought. Hide-and-seek had been a favorite childhood game. My friends and I had loved to play at dusk, just as the shadows gathered and the balance shifted from light to dark.
Too many times I’d crept around the woods and fields of Dahlia House, hoping to find a hidden playmate—only for my friend to jump out and startle me. The game produced a delicious chill that was also a little unpleasant. I felt the same way as I moved around Marty Diamond’s woodland home.
Back at the porch, I called his name loudly. No answer. Time to fish or cut bait. I stepped across the threshold and entered. The room was simple but cozy. Hand-woven tapestries—instead of the redneck’s normal décor of dead-animal heads—adorned the walls. In the far corner were several beautiful guitars and what appeared to be recording equipment. If ever a place existed for creative energy, this was the spot.
In the kitchen a plate, a bowl, and a cup waited in a drain board. Marty Diamond used earth-friendly detergent and cloth towels. On some level, the guy had green tendencies.
The bathroom was