Smarty Bones by Carolyn Haines Page B

on his cheek.
    “Molotov cocktail,” Coleman corrected. “Whoever made it was an amateur. They didn’t put enough gasoline in the bottle to spread the flames.”
    “Maybe the bomber didn’t intend to do real damage. Maybe it was someone Olive paid to have her little moment of drama. She’s a diva if ever I saw one.” I sounded stiff and hateful, and I didn’t care.
    “Your ability to judge character is excellent,” Webber threw in. “Dr. Twist is a barracuda. Her exploits are legendary. She craves the limelight and would do anything—or anyone—to be the center of attention.”
    “The same thought occurred to me,” Coleman said. “My first assumption was the event was staged. Now, after examining the scene, I’m not so certain.”
    “You found evidence of an intruder?” Tinkie asked. “Tell us.”
    “There were footprints made by a large shoe in the dirt outside the window,” Coleman said. “Very large.”
    “Have you checked Olive’s clodhoppers?” I asked maliciously.
    Coleman arched an eyebrow at me and kept talking. “We tracked the prints from the porch to Olive’s window, and then back. Someone ran to the window, threw the bottle, and then rushed back to the porch and disappeared into the main building. DeWayne tracked the person through The Gardens and then out to the front parking lot, where the trail ended. We’re acting on the belief the bomber was male.”
    His gaze drifted pointedly to Richard Webber. “Where were you?” Coleman asked him.
    “Right here at the bar. The barkeep will verify I didn’t leave my stool to even go to the john.”
    “I will check,” Coleman said pointedly.
    “So whoever it was likely drove off in a car.” I didn’t believe Webber was guilty. He was too collected and urbane to be a mad bomber.
    “Exactly.” Coleman eased into a chair Graf provided for him. “As far as I can tell, the only person Dr. Twist knows in Zinnia is her assistant. Both of them are accounted for at the time of the explosion. As were you, Sarah Booth. Otherwise, based on your obvious dislike of the professor, I might have you on the prime suspect list.”
    Graf laughed out loud, which only made me more annoyed with Coleman. “You tried that once before with a murdered actress. How did that work out for you?”
    “ Touché .” Coleman’s grin didn’t slip an iota.
    “So who did throw the cocktail?” Oscar asked.
    Gertrude Strom appeared out of nowhere. Leaves from a ficus tree and other flora were trapped in her red hair. She’d been hiding behind the potted plants eavesdropping on us.
    “Sheriff Peters, you find the person who did it and make him pay for all the damages. Whoever did this is gone, but I fear he’ll be back. Once word gets around about Olive’s project, every yahoo and half-wit in the area will be after her, and I don’t intend for my bed-and-breakfast to become a war zone. But I believe this book needs to be written. A lot of hoity-toity people will get their comeuppance.”
    “You like what she’s proposing to write about?” I asked.
    “I like the truth,” Gertrude said. “Sometimes it takes centuries for it to finally roll around. If the Lady in Red was involved in killing President Lincoln, the whole world needs to know about it.”
    Dr. Webber drew himself up to his full six-foot-two height. “I can assure you, madam, that such is not the case. I’ve done extensive research in this area, and the woman in that grave was Abraham Lincoln’s lover, not his assassin.”
    “Oh, King Solomon with a meat cleaver! Where did that come from? Lincoln’s lover? And just how do you intend to prove that?”
    “I’ve been working on this premise for the past two years. Dr. Twist became aware of my research and has stolen my concept and tagged a ridiculous assassination charge onto the end of it. Tilda Richmond, and I’m reasonably certain she was a Richmond and not a Falcon, though there is some blurring to be cleared, was in love with Lincoln.