Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [8]
“What about the gardener, Jerome Lolly?”
“He has a small cottage at the back of the property. He didn’t see or hear anything. Not this time. Not anytime.”
“Could he be behind this?” Lolly had easy access and knowledge of the sisters’ habits. He also had intimate knowledge of the layout of the house.
“He’s a person of interest.”
“And the housekeeper, Kissie something?”
“Kissie McClain. She’s interesting. She has a record of B&E and theft. She did a stretch in the Adams County Jail. Six months. For breaking into her ex-boyfriend’s place and stealing a guitar. She said it was hers but had no way to prove it. The boyfriend, also with a record, testified the guitar was his. She was convicted.”
“The Leverts know about her record?”
He nodded. “They picked her up when she finished her time and gave her a job.”
“Drugs?”
“The boyfriend, certainly. Kissie … we never saw it, but it’s not improbable.”
From everything I could see, Gunny was a professional lawman. “What kind of training did you have in the marines, Gunny?”
“The best.” His smile told me he enjoyed a verbal one-up as much as anyone else. “My specialty was surveillance.”
“I’ll bet you were good at it. You’ll let me know if your team finds anything here?”
“Okay. Can I get a copy of your report?”
Technically, my report belonged to my employer. “I can’t see why the sisters would object. If they agree, I’m happy to make you a copy.”
He nodded. “Are you staying in town?”
Tinkie and I had hoped to get back to Zinnia by nightfall, but just in case I’d asked my friend Lee to feed Reveler and Miss Scrapiron, the two horses at Dahlia House, and the dogs. “I’m not sure,” I told him.
“The Eola is worth a visit. Lots of history in that old hotel. I should have this report by tomorrow.” He gave a cross between a salute and a tip of his hat and returned to supervise his investigators.
If we stayed, we could write up our report on Tinkie’s laptop, turn it in tomorrow when we had all of the police data, take our check, and go home. Besides, a night in the river town of Natchez held appeal. An advertisement for a “haunted Natchez” walking tour had sparked my interest. Maybe I could find some ammo to direct at Jitty. Briarcliff had put me in the mood for a good spooking.
* * *
The Eola was a grande dame nestled in the heart of Natchez. Tinkie and I took separate rooms, bought toiletries we’d failed to bring for the night, and Tinkie went on a shopping spree for new clothes. I managed with a new T-shirt that said, “I Got Down and Dirty Under-the-Hill,” a reference to Natchez’s riverfront district. Tinkie said it made her think of trolls.
We met in the lobby for the haunted tour. Along with a totally impractical but gorgeous cocktail dress, Tinkie purchased walking shoes, khakis, a sweater, and a jacket. Evenings along the river could be brisk, even in summer.
We fortified ourselves with a few adult beverages in the Eola bar before we met up with the tour group, an eclectic mix of tourists, locals, semiprofessional ghost hunters, and high school kids who knew the spiel by heart but enjoyed it nonetheless. Our merry company toured the town, stopping to see orbs flit by haunted houses and hear tales of gore and murder that generally accompany a haunting.
At King’s Tavern, a local eatery, we had drinks and I felt the warm spot on the upstairs bed where the ghost Madeline slept. Tinkie accused me of fibbing, but an area on the bed where a body might lie was warm to my hand.
The last stop was the bluff beneath Briarcliff, an unexpected bonus. Our tour guide gave a brief history of Barthelme Levert and his five tragic marriages. “Each bride was buried with a valuable ruby necklace. Some say it was Barthelme’s attempt to assuage the guilt of murder. Wife number six survived the old pirate. She knew the art of poison and drove Barthelme mad with a potion that sent him running and screaming out of the house and over the edge of this