Crossed Bones Read Online Free PDF Page A

to Hilltop, a locale I normally tried to avoid. At the sight of Oscar and Tinkie Richmond's Tara-like estate, a tidal wave of guilt slammed into me.
    One night, not too long ago, I'd hidden in the bushes beside the house and waited until Chablis Richmond came prancing outside to do her doggy business in the grass. As soon as the little fluffball was in reach, I dognapped her. It was the ransom money Tinkie Richmond (nee Bellcase) paid to me that saved Dahlia House from the auction block, and it was dognapping Chablis that eventually led Tinkie to hire me for my first case.
    I'd taken Tinkie in as a partner in my P.I. business as penance for that act, but the cold truth was that it was one of the best moves I'd ever made. There were times when Tinkie saved the day--not to mention my life. She was the perfect partner, and it was time I filled her in on Scott Hampton.
    The minute I rang the doorbell, I heard the excited yipping of Chablis. The Yorkie was spoiled, pampered, sun-glitzed by a professional colorist--and lovingly embedded in my heart. As I listened closer, I heard a distinctive baying.
    Tinkie opened the door on a gentle reprimand for the dogs to be quiet. She was nearly knocked down by a big, brindle-colored hound that came bounding onto the porch, baying like she was on the trail of a deer.
    "Sweetie Pie!" I groped for her collar. "What are you doing here?" Sweetie was my dog, and the last I'd seen her, she was snoozing under the kitchen table at Dahlia House.
    "Chablis and I stopped by for breakfast and you weren't home, so we brought Sweetie Pie to play. Chablis wanted some company."
    A dark suspicion clouded my brain. "You're not thinking of taking Sweetie to the poodle parlor again, are you?" Tinkie had taken Sweetie to a doggy salon and given her a new look, changing her from a brindled red tic hound to a vibrant shade of redbone. The color, after repeated washings, had finally faded away.
    "It's the Canine Cut and Curl, and I promised you I wouldn't dye her ever again." Tinkie's lips pushed out into a provocative pout.
    "That's wasted on me," I told her, walking toward the kitchen. "You can bring grown men to their knees with that pursed-up mouth of yours, but it doesn't have any effect on me."
    "What's going on?" She opened the door and let Chablis out for a romp with Sweetie.
    "I was just in the neighborhood." I sauntered slowly toward the kitchen. It was always better to let Tinkie get really hungry for details. I could hear the tippy-tap of her stiletto house slippers right behind me, and once again I had to admire her quick ability to move from one mood to the next. It was pure Daddy's Girl; a lesson in survival tactics. When a pout doesn't work, try a smile. But with Tinkie, the smile was always sincere, even if the pout was manufactured for effect.
    My footsteps clomped and Tinkie's tapped across the imported tile of her kitchen floor. The place was a cavern. Huge. The walls and counters were lined with all the latest culinary tools, most of them used only by Margene, the cook. Tinkie could make coffee, and she did so with dispatch.
    As she brewed, I filled her in on the Scott Hampton case. I didn't have to see her face to know she was distressed. Her posture told it all. When she did turn to face me, her eyebrows were drawn together.
    "Sarah Booth, I heard about that killing, and I have to say, this is going to be a mess. All those damn Yankee reporters will be down here trying to make this 1964 again. We just got that fool Byron dela Beckwith convicted and all of that finally put to rest. We don't need this."
    Truer words were never spoken.
Mississippi
was still stained by the blood of the past. Good people as tainted as the bad. While enormous prejudice and horrid acts of violence were committed in every state,
Mississippi
had served as a lightning rod for the attention of the rest of the nation.
    "Need it or not, we're going to get it," I said. "We might as well face it head-on."
    "I don't want to