Bones on the Bayou: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Short Story by Carolyn Haines Page A

owned the bank and Oscar ran it. “Oscar does a great job and your daddy knows that, too.”
    “He does, but this Italian investment could be a good thing for the whole Delta.”
    The small town of Shaw had once been settled by Italians and still held a population with blood ties to Italy. The festivities for the night—a flotilla of miniature, lighted Christmas floats set to drift down Silver Bayou—had been planned as a special tribute to the visiting delegation from Venice. The Christmas tradition, which had long been retired, had been resurrected especially for the Venetians.
    Far down the bayou, bright green, red, blue, gold, and silver lights drifted on a gentle current. The brisk December night clamped over the Delta like an over-turned bowl of stars, and in the distance, children laughed and raced along Silver Bayou, keeping pace with the twinkling floats.
    “This really is magical,” I said, unable to suppress the kid in me that Christmas never failed to bring out. “I’m sorry Oscar got his butt on his shoulders.” As the parade came toward the bridge, I braced on the railing. Some thirty floats had been entered, and along the banks the crowds were laughing and clapping as the first float passed them.
    “Thank you for coming with me,” Tinkie said.
    “Not a problem.” I was freezing, and since I was driving I wasn’t drinking. Tinkie would do the same for me—and had in the past.
    “When I was a little girl, Daddy brought me to the Shaw Christmas on the Bayou every year. Mother wouldn’t come, so I had Daddy all to myself. The miniature floats, all lighted and built with such care, were magical.”
    “Maybe you should have invited Avery?” Tinkie was obviously missing familial connection
    “Dad and Mother are out of town,” Tinkie said. “Daddy’s turning more and more of the bank business over to Oscar. He and Mother travel nine months out of the year.”
    On top of being angry with her husband, Tinkie felt abandoned at Christmas. I liked Tinkie’s father, but her mother remained a stranger to me. I didn’t understand why they didn’t take greater care of Tinkie’s feelings.  Christmas was a time when family was important.
    “Look, the first float is almost here!” I drew Tinkie to the cement railing, glad to snuggle into the crowd for warmth.  The first float contained a beautiful, lighted Christmas tree complete with miniature gift-wrapped packages beneath branches loaded with ornaments. The detail and care made the crowd clap and whistle as it disappeared under the bridge.
    Angels filled the second float, and the builder had rigged up a recording of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”
    Spectators picked up the song and caroled as the float passed. The evening swept me back to a different time, one where the world was safer and small town living reflected a Norman Rockwell painting.
    The floats came along, one by one. Wise men, nativity scenes, snowmen, and finally, the last float held a miniature Santa and eight reindeer, rising into the sky. The floats drifted on the current in a neat line, except for the last one, which lagged behind.
    “It looks like it’s dragging something,” I said. Tinkie and I leaned over the railing to get a better view.
    At first, I thought my vision was off, especially since no one else seemed to notice. Two pale mounds broke the dark surface of the water and then disappeared, a miniature Moby Dick. Whatever it was slid beneath the water.
    “That looked like buttocks,” Tinkie said loud enough so that several people stared at us.
    “That’s Tinkie Richmond, and she’s drunk,” a woman said, nudging her husband away from Tinkie. “Some people have no idea how to behave at a family Christmas gathering.”
    I hurried to the other side of the bridge, dragging Tinkie with me and fighting the crowd that was dispersing. Leaning over the rail, I almost screamed. Pale white arms and legs floated to the black surface of Silver Bayou, only to submerge