Bones to Pick by Carolyn Haines Page B

lyrics of his classic song "When a Man Loves a Woman" with the reality that Humphrey faced.
    "How old are you, Humphrey?"
    "Thirty-nine." He tipped the waitress a ten. He might be on the edge of financial ruin, but he was going down as a man who knew how to live well. "My birthday is December fifth. I'll be forty."
    "And Allison is twenty-five?"
    "Yes. Her birthday was last April." He swallowed half his drink and signaled for another. Though he showed none of the affects, he was drinking hard. "Allison was still in diapers when I went to
Livingston
Academy
in
Richmond
,
Virginia
. She was in fifth grade by the time I returned to Tatum's Corner. We never had a chance to be close."
    "Were you ever friends?"
    "No." He rattled the ice in his glass. "Allison stayed in her room. She read a lot. She wanted to be a writer."
    That was news. "Yet Quentin wrote the book."
    "My parents ignored Allison. I was the apple of their eye, and there was no room for her. Whenever she told them about her dreams, they were amused. I remember one Thanksgiving dinner when she wanted to read a poem aloud. They shushed her." He leaned toward me. "They literally shushed her. I don't think she ever said another word about writing. If they'd ever taken the time to encourage her, things would be a lot different."
    The waitress brought his drink and our food just as a lone guitarist walked onto the stage and strummed his guitar. The club gradually quieted. The young man adjusted the mike, shifting from foot to foot as he did so.
    "Hi, folks. I'm Adam Sinclair. I'm glad to be here at Ida Mae's club. I have some exciting news. I just signed a record contract with Bristol Studios."
    He waited for the applause to die down. "I owe this to Rutherford Clark." He pointed to a table at the front of the stage where a balding man sat surrounded by three beautiful young women and thousands of dollars worth of silicon. "Stand up,
Rutherford
," Adam said.
    The balding man beamed a smile around the club as he stood to applause. The young women at his table all but hung on his arms.
    The singer spoke again. "Mr. Clark heard my songs, and he made some phone calls. He got me this chance, and this first song is for him." He sat back on the stool that had been provided for him and began to play.
    "Sarah Booth, what's wrong?" Humphrey asked.
    I was staring at Rutherford Clark, husband of Umbria McGee. The man who was supposed to be in
Russia
. Instead of attending his sister-in-law's wake,
Rutherford
was in a blues club with a bevy of buxom women.
    "Do you know Rutherford Clark?" I asked.
    "We've met before." He made a mock-surprise face. 'You're shocked that he's here instead of at the wake."
    'Yes," I said. "Quentin was his sister-in-law. I would think he'd be with his wife."
    "Have you met
Umbria
?"
    "Not yet, but what's that--"
    "Wait until you meet her. As every good warrior knows, never face the dragon head on."
    "Is she that bad?"
    "Only if you're sober, and
Rutherford
has found that the McGee money is adequate compensation." He nodded toward the girls. "They don't last long, but there's always a new one to take the empty place. I think Rutherford must go to
Memphis
to pick them out."
    "And
Umbria
? Does she have her little flings?"
    "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, or so the saying goes."
    'You wouldn't happen to have any names of the men she sees, would you?"
    "I can supply you with a list if you're really interested." He studied me without a qualm.
    "I am interested. Very." My gaze rested on
Rutherford
. He sipped champagne from the blonde's glass while one brunette fed him pieces of barbecue she tore into bite-sized chunks. I provided that kind of service only for my hound.
    "
Rutherford
better enjoy it while he can," Humphrey said.
    "Why is that?"
    "Once the family accepts the time of death, and Quentin is posthumously crowned heir apparent to the McGee fortunes, I have a funny feeling his life will change dramatically."
    All the more