“Where did Coleman, Oscar, and Jaytee get off to?” Harold asked. The men had all been with us, but now three of them had disappeared.
“Maybe doing secret mission work,” I said wickedly. “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”
“Not going to happen, Sarah Booth.” He shook his head. “But I’d like for you to try to make me talk. Maybe a few threats? I love it when you talk brash.”
Harold was incorrigible. He would never spill the beans. It was a waste of my time, but we both enjoyed the challenge. “Tinkie might be more effective at wringing the truth out of you. After all, her daddy owns the bank.” Harold worked with Oscar at Zinnia National Bank. They were both, technically, employees of Tinkie’s father, but Avery Bellcase left the running of the bank to Oscar, and Oscar relied heavily on Harold. Avery never interfered and Harold knew that.
“Ah, threatening my livelihood. That is a new low, Sarah Booth.”
“Maybe I’ll just get some compromising photographs of you and … what is her name? Tulla? Bricey? Or…”—I pointed at the beautiful blond woman who was making a beeline for us—“maybe her.”
“Watch out for her,” Coleman whispered to me, his breath tickling my ear and neck. He’d reappeared out of nowhere. “She’s a barracuda.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Years of experience with dangerous women.”
Coleman was teasing me, up to a point. I could tell by his expression that he was genuinely wary of the woman who came up and introduced herself.
“Hello, I’m Clarissa Olson. Welcome to Rook’s Nest. This is my home. I’m intrigued to have private investigators here”—she stared at Coleman a moment too long—“and an official member of Mississippi’s finest.”
“What about bankers and musicians?” I asked.
“Oh, them, too. But Sheriff Peters isn’t wearing a ring. There’s a flock of women who’ve noticed already. The same for the banker and the musician.” She eyed Jaytee and I wondered if she would actually drool. “I hear he blows a hot harmonica.”
It was impossible to tell if she was being serious or coy. I decided to go with the latter. Some women had been raised to be the coquette; it was the only behavior they knew.
We all offered compliments on her house and decorating skills.
“Thank you. I’m just fortunate to have a house that allows me to indulge in these excesses of Christmas.” She waved a hand to include the tree, the garlands of greenery draped everywhere, and even the mistletoe hanging from a chandelier. She grabbed Coleman’s hand and tugged him under the batch of greenery. She stood on tiptoe, intending to plant a big kiss on my guy. I slid between them with the subtlety of an elephant stampede, pushing Clarissa backward with a bit too much verve. She was lucky Harold caught her when she stumbled and almost fell off her high heels.
“I don’t recommend messing with Sarah Booth’s fella,” Harold said loudly enough for several bystanders to hear. A little twitter broke out among the females.
“Oh, honestly,” Clarissa said, straightening the emerald shantung jacket she wore. “People in this town are so uptight about a little Christmas buss.”
Before our encounter could escalate, my attention was drawn to the top of the beautiful staircase. All around me laughter and conversation bubbled, but for me, the room had gone suddenly silent. At the top of the stairs, a man teetered on the soles of his feet as his arms windmilled. Events unfolded in silent slow motion. I watched in horror as he hurtled down the steps, tumbling in a topsy-turvy heap so that I couldn’t identify who it was, only that it was a male. Sound returned with full intensity when several women screamed, and then all conversation stopped as the man made the curve in the staircase, heels over head, and sprawled to a stop right at my feet.
The entire room drew in a collective breath. The man bleeding on the expensive Oriental carpet was George Clooney handsome and definitely injured—and one I’d seen before with Tulla Tarbutton in a restaurant. He of the angry wife. I knelt down to feel for a pulse. “He’s alive! Call an ambulance now!”
Panic broke out as several people came over to assist with first aid. A dark-haired woman broke through the crowd and dropped to her knees beside him. “Bart! Bart!” She tried to get a response. “Tell me you’re okay.” It was the wife—the same one who’d slapped his face in the restaurant.
But Bart wasn’t talking—and might never again. I had no idea how serious his injuries were or what had happened. As people with medical ability took over, I stepped back to the fringes of the crowd, watching as Coleman took command of the scene. He was clearing everyone away while Harold and Jaytee knelt by Bart, who was moaning and starting to show signs of wanting to get up. The woman on the floor kneeling at his head looked up into the faces of the guests. From an expression of fear, her face went to full-blown rage. She pointed at Tulla Tarbutton. “This is on you! This is your fault.”
“I didn’t push him,” Tulla said. “I wasn’t upstairs. I was over in the corner with some others. Maybe you did it, Sunny. He’s your husband. You’re the one with a motive to kill him.”
Sunny came off her knees like she was powered by a nuclear reactor. “How dare you! I’m going to pull every hair out of your head.” She lunged across her husband’s prone body, but Coleman captured her and held her.
“Calm down. Just calm down. Let’s get some help for your husband before you do anything rash.” Coleman had a tiger by the tail. Sunny was almost foaming at the mouth.
Movement at the top of the stairs caught my eye. I saw Bricey Presley dart down the hallway
