Jingle Bones Read Free

decorating your parlor.”
    â€œI brought a sack of cedar boughs to them. They’re making popcorn-and-cranberry strings. They’re happy as pigs in mud. They have liquor and that wonderful chicken salad Millie made. And they have each other.”
    â€œI should have a drink before we go. You do know the Rush family, don’t you? Remember the year those boys set the Santa float on fire? The boys said if he came down the chimney he should be fire retardant. Or the time they stole Mayor Havard’s brand-new Dodge Ram dually and drove it into the Sunflower River? To see if it would float. They were only eight years old and knew how to drive.”
    The Rush boys were notorious. The family had plenty of money and therefore the kids had never been punished for their misconduct. With each year, their pranks escalated. Now the boys were in fifth grade. I doubted their mother could control them even if she’d had a belated motherly instinct to instill some self-discipline.
    Tinkie tossed me the keys to her Cadillac. “You drive. I intend to drink. Heavily.”
    She picked up a bottle of Stoli, a jar of olives, and the ice bucket on her way out the door.
    Who was I to argue with Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, queen bee socialite of Zinnia, Mississippi.
    *   *   *
    The soft December night spangled stars across the sky. A waxing moon illuminated the white shell drive as the car crunched toward the road, “Joy to the World” playing softly on the radio. Sweetie Pie and Chablis were in the backseat. They loved the cold. The night beyond the headlights of the car was a rich black. Not a streetlight or any other form of human habitation polluted the perfection.
    Tinkie mixed a martini or, more accurately, straight vodka on the rocks with olives, and kicked back in the passenger seat. “You know those boys will never give up the baby doll.” She swigged her drink. “I can’t think what they may have done with it. Remember when they stole Frances Roberts’s lacy bra-and-panty sets and ran them up the flagpole at the high school? That was her first year teaching. It almost broke her spirit, and those naughty high schoolers wolf whistled at her the rest of the year.”
    â€œWe don’t want that wretched baby doll back. We want a confession so Theodora can boost them from the Christmas pageant.”
    â€œThey came out of the womb wicked and cunning. And good luck with a confession. Those boys are professional criminals. They’ll never own up to anything.”
    She was probably right, but we’d taken the case and now we had to try.
    The Rush family lived in a high-end subdivision that had once been a beautiful pecan orchard. Mr. Rush, the developer, had bulldozed every single tree. That told me a lot about family sensibilities. The house had to be eight thousand square feet, and when we pulled up in the driveway, a young boy watched us from an upstairs window. He had red hair and the wily eyes of a fox. Maybe it was a good thing Tinkie preferred to watch the car.
    The doorbell chimed and the heavy door opened quietly. Marjorie Rush looked annoyed. Her beautiful red hair offset a rare alabaster complexion. She came from money and she’d married more.
    â€œSarah Booth, what brings you here?” she drawled. “Collecting for world peace or some other pie-in-the-sky scheme?”
    We’d gone to high school together but never traveled in the same clique. Marjorie had been head majorette, leader of the jazz dance team, Miss Sunflower County High beauty queen, and president of at least six school organizations. At Ole Miss, she zoomed straight to the top of Delta Delta Delta sorority and was the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi four years in a row.
    â€œI’m in the middle of something important. What do you want?” She inched the door nearly shut.
    â€œI need to talk to Heathcliff and Lord Darcy.” Not Darcy. Lord Darcy. I patted myself on the