Bone to Be Wild

by Carolyn Haines

  “Okay, so you bought the club.”

  “The first call came in last week. I’d bought some new tables and chairs and was paying for them at the furniture store when my cell phone rang.”

  “Your cell? How did the caller get your number?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think it’s someone you know?”

  He looked miserable. “I don’t want to think that. I had a business partner, and he’s a little upset with me. He would have my number, and he could have disguised his voice.”

  I had a good place to start. “I’ll need his name and contact information.”

  “I don’t want to accuse anyone who may not be guilty.”

  “I won’t accuse anyone of anything. Tinkie is very adept at this kind of situation.”

  His gaze sparked with humor. “Yes, she’s a woman with multiple talents. I can clearly see she’d finesse this situation.”

  “Thanks.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m just the bull in the china shop stomping around.”

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult.” He caught a waiter’s attention and signaled for two more drinks.

  “I know.” And I did. I knew exactly what he meant. Tinkie could charm a man into telling her most anything. I had to rely on trickery, bribes, or ultimatums. “So how many threatening calls?”

  “Three, so far.”

  “All the same message?”

  “More or less that someone associated with the club is going to die.”

  The waiter brought the drinks and Scott gave him our empties. As he took a sip, his phone rang. Pulling it out of his pocket he checked the caller ID and frowned. “Private number, same as the other threatening calls.”

  “Put it on speaker,” I whispered.

  “Scott Hampton?” a male asked.

  “Who is this?” Scott demanded.

  “You’ve been warned. Abandon the club or someone will die.” The caller disconnected.

  Two things were clear. The caller was male, and he had no fear of being traced. “I’ll track down Coleman Peters. He needs to know about this.”

  “Do you think it’s a serious threat?” Scott was torn between worry and feeling a little foolish. “It’s a juke joint. It’s not like it’s a casino or brothel. We play music.”

  “That’s a good point, Scott. Why would anyone care so much about a venue in Zinnia, Mississippi?”

  The obvious motives were financial, racial, monetary, jealousy—pretty much the same for most crimes. I just didn’t see where any of them came into play. Sunflower County had hosted blues festivals and clubs in the past. The memory of the musicians who cultivated the unique sound and shared it on early recordings was viewed with great pride by most Mississippians. Maybe the reasoning behind the calls was more personal and directed at Scott. Someone who had a bone to pick with him. “Tinkie and I will stay alert. When we get home, you and I need to have a serious talk.”

  Scott nodded. “Do you think the caller would really hurt one of my band members?”

  “The majority of the time, calls are as far as the person will take it. But there aren’t any guarantees.”

  “Can you find out who’s behind the threats?”

  “I can try.”

  “Thank you, Sarah Booth. Now I have to get back to the stage. Our break is over. Just promise you’ll dance with me when we play a slow one. Jaytee’s a great ballad singer.”

  “You got it.”

  We hurried down the stairs and into the swirl of the party. Tables laden with food flanked the stage and ran down each side of the ballroom. In the back of the room five bartenders worked nonstop. Folks were eating, drinking, and laughing, but when the band picked up their instruments, all attention focused on them. I drifted to the outer edges of the crowd where I’d last seen my partner.

  Instead of Tinkie, I found Coleman Peters, sheriff of Sunflower County, and the man I’d once thought would be my life partner. Unfortunately, Coleman had already had a wife—a disturbed one, but Connie was his legal spouse. Coleman had done his best to honor his vows, even when Connie lost her tenuous hold on sanity. By the time he divorced, the moment between us had passed. I’d begun dating Graf, and Coleman had squired several Delta belles to various social functions, but had avoided serious entanglement.

  “How’re you holding up?” he asked.

  My train wreck of a relationship was on everyone’s mind. “I’m okay.”

  “I could mouth a bunch of platitudes, but you know them all.”

  “I do.” I appreciated his restraint. “Someone has been making phone threats against Scott and his band. He just got one. The male caller said if Scott opened the club, someone would die.”

  Coleman indicated a quiet corner outside the ballroom. When we were out of the party’s din, he said, “I don’t like this, Sarah Booth. There’s a real meanness afoot these days. It doesn’t take much to push some of these people into rash action. Is Scott taking the threats seriously?”

  I hesitated. “He asked me to look into them. You don’t think my friends are colluding on a plot to keep me from getting depressed, do you?”

  Coleman’s laughter was warm and deep. “You do have good friends, but that’s extreme even for them. When we get back to Zinnia, tell Scott to stop by the office. If it turns out this is a setup, I want a front-row seat for the ass kicking.”

  “Thanks, Coleman.”

  “I’m heading out early tomorrow morning. DeWayne is holding down the fort, and everything is quiet, but I need to get back.”

  “What’s going on?” I could tell by his lack of eye contact that something was troubling him. Good thing for Coleman that his only deputy, DeWayne Dattilo, worked as hard as Coleman did.

  “We had an arson last week. Ned Gaston’s house was burned to the ground. Luckily he and his family were visiting relatives in Memphis.”

  I knew Ned. He’d been a friend of my parents. “Who would set fire to a man’s home?” Ned was a quiet man who owned a shoe repair shop in Zinnia. He and his wife were chronic do-gooders. They’d taken in numerous abandoned children and tutored classes for the migrant workers who passed through the county when the row crops came in.

  “I’ll have the fire marshal’s report Monday morning.”

  I read a lot more into the situation than he was saying. Coleman was worried, but he wasn’t ready to talk about it. “I’ll help Cece finish up here and then I’ll be home, too. Tinkie wants me to drive her Cadillac. She’s riding with Oscar.”

  “Be safe, Sarah Booth. I know it’s easy to be distracted. If someone really means harm to Scott or the band, they might not wait for them to get back to Sunflower County.”

  “Constant vigilance,” I promised and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Even in a tuxedo he still carried the scent of a starched shirt and sunshine. In my mind he would forever be associated with summer and the flap of sun-drenched shirts on a clothesline.

  2

  Sweetie Pie, my red tick hound, was sound asleep in my bed when I got back to my hotel room. The big dog was curled around a rotund mound of black fur—Pluto the cat. They both snored lightly.

  The ball was over. Cece and Jaytee and other band members had gone to Bourbon Street for an after-gig celebratory drink. Tinkie and her husband, Oscar, chose bed. I, too, opted for the solitude of my room.

  As I stepped out of the beautiful gown, I couldn’t help but wonder what Graf was doing. If I called or texted, he would answer. But what was the point? He needed, and deserved, time to put his life in order. And I had to do the same. Calling Graf would be moving in the wrong direction.

  Tinkie had left her computer in my room, and because I was too tired to sleep, I booted it up and indulged in a little Internet research.

  Engrossing and delightful photos of Scott Hampton popped up when I searched his name. I tracked his career since he’d left Zinnia. He’d stormed across Germany, but really found his niche in the club scene in Paris. He was the best thing since sliced baguettes in France. There we
re magazine covers, television interviews, and YouTube clips of the band performing. I had never doubted his talent, but the accumulation of material let me know exactly how the world viewed him. He was an icon.

  And he had moved to Zinnia. Playin’ the Bones, his club, would highlight the Blues Trail through Mississippi and honor musicians like Robert Johnson, Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup, Skip James, Son House, Howlin’ Wolf, and Mississippi John Hurt. They’d influenced the great rock ’n’ rollers from Mick Jagger to Eric Clapton and even the Beatles.

  I hadn’t really had a chance to meet the band members, but I did a quick check on Jaytee, for Cece’s sake. If he was married or had “issues,” I wanted to know. My friend was head over heels in lust, which was fine. She was long overdue for a fling. I just didn’t want to see her hurt.

  The information I found on Jaytee showed he was single, never married, no children, and ripe for the picking.

  The only controversy I could find about Scott and the band involved a dispute with a former manager. When Scott fired Wilton Frasbaum, it made headlines in the music world. After an angry interview in a tabloid where Frasbaum called Scott a cheat and embezzler, he disappeared from the public eye. If there was a lawsuit or a settlement, it had been handled discreetly. Frasbaum dropped off the radar and the band went on to bigger and better venues and more lucrative recording contracts. I made a note, though, just to be on the safe side. I’d ask Scott tomorrow.

  * * *

  When the last amplifier and mic stand were loaded on the bus, Scott gave the band a wave and jumped in Tinkie’s Cadillac with me. It was early Sunday morning, November 1. My Celtic ancestors had once built fires to celebrate Samhain, the holiday marking the beginning of the descent into winter, the subconscious, and the darker half of the year. I was certainly entering my own gloomy time, but I was determined to be perky and a good conversationalist on the drive back to Zinnia. I was glad to see Scott, and glad he felt no need to ask questions of a personal nature. Of all the men I knew, Scott understood the blues.

  We had a long drive home, but the weather was perfect and we were as full as ticks. We’d breakfasted on beignets and delicious café au lait with the band, Cece, and Tinkie at Café du Monde. Now it was home to Zinnia and my horses.

  I was waiting to pull into traffic when Harold Erkwell came out of the hotel. Harold was Oscar’s right-hand man at the Bank of Zinnia, and one of the most eligible bachelors in the Delta. I’d seen him during the ball talking to Coleman, a very handsome and distinguished older man Cece identified as Yancy Bellow, and Bijou LaRoche, a wealthy Delta woman who had a reputation for getting what she wanted. Everything she wanted. This morning Harold, who was never less than dapper, appeared absolutely furtive. He was slinking! “Check that out.” I pointed.

  “What gives with Harold?” Scott asked.

  “I’m not sure.” The car idled as we watched the handsome banker call for his car to be brought from the parking garage. In less than a minute, Bijou appeared. Even after dancing all night, she was as put together as a Parisian model. Long and lean with a mane of red hair and a figure impossibly slender, she sashayed up to Harold and put a possessive hand on his arm. He was in her crosshairs, and she never missed.

  “Harold! Harold Erkwell!” She looked up at him and simpered. “Are you leaving so early? I thought we’d have breakfast and maybe go to Jackson Square. I have a yen to get my fortune told. I think there’s a new man in my future, and I want some psychic help in learning to please him. I do take pleasing a man very seriously.”

  Harold glanced left and right as if he expected help to arrive. I turned off the car to better take in the entertainment. Harold was high on the headhunter list for a number of Delta women who valued his good looks, charm, social graces, and money. Harold, though, didn’t enjoy the role of prey. No matter how beautiful the huntress might be.

  “I woke up early and decided to leave.” He tried for dignity, but it was clear he knew he’d been caught sneaking away.

  “Harold, darling, let’s enjoy this gorgeous day in New Orleans.”

  “Another time, Bijou. I need to get back to Zinnia. It’s my dog!” His face brightened when he hit on an excuse. “Roscoe is a very bad dog and the house sitter called. He’s in big trouble. I have to go sort through this, before he’s put on doggy death row.”

  “How horrid! I really don’t care much for the canine species, always sniffing each other’s derrieres and fighting. Can’t you stay long enough for breakfast?”

  “Roscoe is my responsibility,” Harold said in a weary voice. “He’s my cross to bear.”

  I almost blew Harold’s falsehood by laughing out loud. Roscoe was a devil and a torment, and Harold adored every one of his dirty, sneaky little tricks.

  Bijou pouted. “Well, if you must you must.”

  “I must.” Harold peered into the maw of the darkened garage. No doubt he was praying for the valet to bring his car.

  “Then I’ll go with you. I can support you in this. I’d hoped for a frolic in the French Quarter, but I can make the Delta as exotic as anything here. I have my own pasties and g-string, should the occasion arise. Now, we need to rescue the dog, and then we can have dinner at The Club. Afterward, I can promise you some entertainment.”

  Scott poked me in the ribs lightly. “Are you just going to sit here? He’s your friend.”

  “I know.” I mentally debated what action to take. “He gets himself into these scrapes with desperate women. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Go help him. He doesn’t want to be unkind. And trust me, it’s highly possible he didn’t do a thing to egg this on. Women like her, they think everything in life is theirs for the asking or at least at a price they can afford to pay.”

  Scott didn’t have to tell me he’d had his share of avid fans. With his looks, the sexual element of the blues, his charm and charisma, women had surely thrown themselves at him. Such a thing might be fun for an hour or two, but it would wear thin. There was a line—and when people crossed it, life became difficult. As far as I could tell from my research last night, Scott hadn’t fallen victim to any serious relationships since he’d left Zinnia.

  “Okay. I’ll back Harold’s play.” I jumped out of the Caddy and charged up to Harold. “I just got a call from Coleman. DeWayne has been trying to reach you. That evil Mrs. Hedgepeth is pressing charges against Roscoe. She’s claiming he committed a licentious and lewd act in her front lawn.”

  “Damn Roscoe!” Harold feigned shock and horror like a Shakespearean actor. Or maybe an escapee from a George Romero film.

  “DeWayne is holding him in a cell at the courthouse, but he said he would have to call the dogcatcher if you didn’t come get him right away.”

  “Bijou, so sorry, but I have to handle this. I’ll call you soon.” Lucky for him, his car arrived and he was able to jump into it and drive away. I was left standing on the sidewalk with one huffy socialite.

  “What man puts his dog above a good time in New Orleans?” she asked me.

  I gave her the wide left eye—an expression Tinkie said made me look very disturbed. “Why, any sane man,” I answered. “Have fun at Jackson Square.”

  “Sarah Booth Delaney, you’re not nearly as amusing as you think you are. There are some folks in Sunflower County who are sick of you poking your nose in their business. Remember my words when you get it cut off.”

  She pivoted and marched back into the hotel.

  I returned to the car, an amused Scott, a sleeping hound, and a cranky cat. “Now you finessed the situation. Bijou is mad at you and not Harold. He really owes you.”

  “Oh, yes he does.” I checked to be sure the critters were safe in the backseat. “Now let’s start this road trip. I’m eager to get home to my horses.”

  * * *

  Dahlia House loomed like an old familiar friend as I turned down the driveway. I’d dropped Scott at the house Jaytee had rented on the edge of town. The bus with the band and equipment was behind us. Scott assure
d me they would pick him up on the way to the club. Returning home to a Dahlia House empty of Graf was something I needed to do alone. The first time would be the hardest—I just had to get it behind me.

  I slowed for a minute to drink in the vista of my fields and home. The pounding of horses came to me as my herd topped a small rise.

  I continued toward the house and Reveler, Miss Scrapiron, and Lucifer raced along with the car. It was the perfect fall morning, from a horse’s point of view. Brisk, with the sun shining and just the faintest breeze. My equine friends were in fine fettle, and Sweetie Pie serenaded them with a series of bays and hollers. Pluto, who’d taken the front seat after I let Scott out, practiced feline disdain. He was not going to be sucked into the frolics of dog and horse.

  As glad as I was to see Dahlia House, I entered with reluctance. I was reminded of my return to the Delta after my failed attempt at acting on Broadway. My heart was broken then, too, and by the same man. Neither breakup derived from malice or bad behavior. One was career and the second was his daughter. The word star-crossed came to mind.

  I unloaded the car, listening for Jitty. She liked to pop up and scare the bejesus out of me. While I didn’t want an adrenaline jolt, I sought her company. I’d learned much about Jitty in the past week. Born into slavery, orphaned at a young age, she’d built a life for herself. She was my connection to the loved ones I’d lost, to my past, to the indomitable spirit and will that marked her and my Delaney ancestors.

  The house was empty. My footsteps echoed, and I was sad when Sweetie Pie and Pluto disappeared out the back doggie door. They were eager to explore their turf and re-mark their boundaries. I didn’t begrudge them. After I’d unloaded the car, I made a drink and went to the front porch.

  The land spread out in waves of white cotton. I leased my fields to a farmer, and that crop was his survival. Soon the mechanical cotton pickers would be crawling across the rows. I knew the intensive labor of picking by hand. My father had taken me picking one time, and we worked together to fill the sack that extended far behind us. I was exhausted before it was half-full. My father never said a word, but I think the whole exercise was for me to appreciate the hard work that was the backbone of Dahlia House. The Delaney wealth had been built on cotton, and that cotton had been picked by slaves. It was a hard and ugly past, and one I was never to forget.