Free Buried Bones by Carolyn Haines

months. He'd been working on the years he spent in
Paris
. That was what I thought the book would encompass. Those years of war and intrigue.
Lawrence
led a fascinating life. That would have been enough, a wonderful book."
    She stopped, and for a moment I thought she was finished. When she resumed, her voice had lost all softness. It was as flinty as her eyes.
    "At the party, that dreadful Sam Rayburn was talking about using everything, from cradle to
Magnolia Place
. It was like he owned
Lawrence
's life and everyone in it. And
Lawrence
didn't object."
    I'd overheard a portion of that conversation. Rayburn wouldn't have been my producer of choice. "
Lawrence
wanted this opportunity," I reminded her.
    "Yes, his plan." Her laugh was short and bitter. "He said that flies couldn't resist a fresh . . . well, you get the idea. He said the only way to sell anything was to create anticipation, a buzz, and that the best buzz came from a swarm of eager flies. He wanted everyone in that room to buzz. He knew that each of them, challenged with the possibility of revealing their dirty little secrets, couldn't resist talking. They would swarm and buzz, and the demand for his book would be irresistible."
    I had so heartily disliked most of the people at the party that I understood
Lawrence
's motivation--on several levels.
    Revenge has its place in the gamut of human needs.
    "Surely, though, he didn't intend to torment you?" Madame had loved
Lawrence
, and though they'd never married, I was certain he cared equally for her.
    "Oh, he assured me that everything was under his control. The problem with
Lawrence
, though, is that he underestimated the meanness and cruelty of his fellow humans. He was out of his league, and he paid with his life. And now his private journals are missing. His address book, all of his correspondence. That bitch Brianna has them and she'll publish a book if she can."
    Sweetie Pie had settled at my feet, emitting the sound of soft snores of contentment in direct contrast to Madame's frenetic energy. "Can you tell me exactly what
Lawrence
was writing?" This was crucial. If the book was truly devastating to someone, then stopping it from being published would be a prime motive for murder.
    "I honestly don't know," Madame said, her voice hardly louder than a whisper. "He hadn't been feeling well the past couple of weeks. His was pale and cold. And then the cat--he was distraught over Rasmus dying. Whenever I stopped by, Brianna was there, slipping in and out, pressing him about the past. She convinced him that her name and her connections in the publishing world would propel the book to the best-seller list. She claimed she was dating that publisher.
Lawrence
was completely blinded by--" She broke off abruptly and took a healthy belt of Jack Daniel's.
    "By what?" I asked. My gut told me this was a vital point, and one that Madame didn't want to confront.
    "By his desire to be read," she finished, her voice trembling. "You can't imagine what it was like for him. He was famous once, sought after, respected, consulted about literature and art. He was somebody, Sarah Booth. And the last years have just passed. He watched his contemporaries achieve great success. Tom and Truman and Nell, all of those powerful Southern voices finding people who read them again and again, while his wonderful books were forgotten, out of print."
    I could easily understand, but there was a problem. "It would have been Brianna's book, not his."
    "Not really," Madame said, finally looking at me. "Not at all.
Lawrence
was actually doing most of the writing. I know that for a fact. And if the book was successful, what would it matter? His books would be reprinted, his body of work revived. There would be new opportunities. He had it all figured out."
    Perhaps. "And he really thought Brianna could deliver?"
    "He did. And in a way, I think he felt sorry for her. Her career, too, was over. In another year no one in fashion would remember