Sitting in the waiting room, fretting and worrying, was a waste of time for us, but it might give Danni a tiny sense of control. “Scott, please stay at Dahlia House. We can grab a few hours of sleep.”
“I will.” Every lick of fight had been sucked out of Scott.
I kissed Doc on the cheek and whispered in his ear. “Thank you.”
He patted my shoulder. “I don’t disagree with your actions.” He leaned close and whispered. “Just don’t get careless, Sarah Booth, or there will be consequences, no matter that you’re on the side of the angels. What you did to Bijou might be considered assault.” His soft laughter tickled my ear. “Assault on an ass. An excellent description of Bijou.”
We left the hospital, stepping into the promise of a new day. The sun glinted between the horizon and a mass of enormous clouds that promised rain. I thought of Coleman and the crime scene. By all rights I should have gone to help him, but I didn’t know if I could put one foot in front of the other.
We dropped off Tinkie at Hilltop and picked up Sweetie and Pluto. Always willing to forgive, Sweetie bounded toward me, yodeling her joy. Pluto was another matter altogether. Every time I reached to pet him, he hissed and gave me his butt. He reserved his affections for Scott.
“He knows how to emphasize his point,” Scott said, cradling him as I drove home.
“Cats.” One word said it all.
“He knows he’s superior and now he’s letting you know it, too.”
We both needed the laugh. At Dahlia House, Scott declined breakfast. “I’m going to sleep. Can we set an alarm for three hours? I need to be up and moving.”
I obliged and took myself upstairs for a nap. Before I conked out, though, I made a few calls regarding Tatiana, per Coleman’s instructions. Koby had worked at Mike’s Molotov Cocktails, a popular Austin bar. The general manager wasn’t in until five, so I left a message asking for a callback.
And then I collapsed. Pluto deigned to sleep on the foot of the bed, but he refused any cuddling. Sweetie Pie was strangely wound up. She paced the bedroom.
I checked her over, concerned she might have pulled a muscle or hurt herself playing with Chablis, but I found no evidence of physical discomfort. She was simply tense and anxious. And so was I. I tried to sleep, and though my body demanded shut-eye, my brain wouldn’t cooperate.
At last I got up and went downstairs for coffee. I rummaged through the refrigerator and found fresh spinach, bacon, eggs, and cheese and whipped up a quiche. While it baked, I dressed for the day and went to my office to go over the notes on the case.
Guilt was my problem. It ate at me. I was five days into this case, and I’d turned up not a single lead that Coleman could use for an arrest. Koby was dead, and Mike gravely wounded. Scott had been effectively blackmailed into shutting down the club, which would bankrupt him shortly. Who was behind this? Was the perpetrator willing to kill innocent people to make a point about the blues and some ignorant belief involving Satan? I honestly couldn’t wrap my brain around such a crazy thing.
It seemed more likely that someone meant to harm Scott, but I hadn’t been able to dig up any reason. Or possibly to get back at Zeb for his actions. But that didn’t ring true, either. And what gave with two separate warning calls. A man calling Danni and a female calling the club landline. Other calls had come into the band members’ cell phones, as if the caller were taunting them with the fact that he’d obtained private cell phone numbers. The landline for the club was listed and it was no big deal for the female caller to obtain the number. A woman caller.
I sensed this was important, but I couldn’t figure out how.
Was this about money?
I had three classic motives for the shootings—religion, revenge, or greed.
The frustrating thing was that I’d found no evidence to lead me in any direction. Sure, Farley’s church railed against the blues club, but shaking a finger at Satan and shooting people were miles apart. I disliked everything Farley stood for, but I was having difficulty believing he deliberately orchestrated a murder and a shooting because he didn’t like a style of music.
Without a motive, it would be nigh on impossible to find this drive-by assassin who seemed to select his victims at random, drawing from the pool of those involved with the blues club. Did Gertrude or Bijou figure into this? They hated me, but that, too, was a stretch. Frisco Evans needed a closer look.
The timer on the quiche went off and as I passed the front porch headed to the kitchen, I saw a car in the driveway. Harold had stopped by. I unlocked the front door and let him in before he could knock.
He gave me a peck on the cheek, but he wasn’t there for romance or conversation. Harold wore his worried expression, and that upset me. “What’s wrong?” It was nine thirty in the morning. The bank had been open for half an hour and Harold never missed work.
“Oscar got a call this morning the moment the doors unlocked. A conglomerate out of Tennessee wants to buy Playin’ the Bones and the six hundred acres around it. Their plan is to develop a blues theme park.”
“Money.”
Harold put a hand on my forehead to check for fever. “Connect the dots, Sarah Booth, you’re making me think you’ve had a stroke. What are you saying?”
“Money is the motive for trying to shut down Scott.” This was so much better than sin or personal animosity. Money. “Someone realizes if the juke joint is a huge success, Scott’ll never sell. If he has the best venue in the state—an original juke, not a Disney version—they won’t be able to compete with him.” It clicked into place. “And that place, that one spot on planet Earth, has the blues mojo and is worth millions in advertising. It is the primo location for a club. And if there’s that much land for sale around the club…”
“Those exact thoughts occurred to me,” Harold said. “That’s why I’m here. Oscar is doing his best to find out who’s behind this conglomerate offer, but it’s not as easy as it should be. Oscar took the call from a lawyer, Vito Martine. He is, naturally, refusing to disclose whom he represents. He merely says an ‘offshore interest.’”
“Which means the money has been stockpiled in the Cayman Islands or another country with thick privacy shields. It could be anyone.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And if this conglomerate wants the club badly enough, they’d kill to force Scott out.”
“I don’t know that, but I do know such tactics have been used before in high stakes investments.”
I signaled Harold to follow me to the kitchen before I burned the quiche to a crisp. Coffee was brewed and waiting, and I pulled the egg dish from the oven and put it on a trivet to cool while I filled two mugs.
“Where’s Scott?” Harold asked.
“Asleep. He was dead on his feet. I couldn’t relax, though.”
Harold stepped behind me and rubbed my shoulders, his strong thumbs digging into the tight muscles with just the perfect amount of pressure. “If these muscles ever truly relax, your head will pop off and splatter like a fat tick.”
“Thanks for the image.” It was gruesome but funny. “What’s Oscar planning to do about the property offer?”
Harold ceased the massage and sat down across from me. “The entertainment center they’re proposing would bring a lot of money into Sunflower County. Lots of money. They could put a facility anywhere in the Delta, but it’s the location for Playin’ the Bones they want. The legend of the crossroads at Pentecost and Sawmill roads. They asked Oscar to broker the deal with Scott, and they want an answer in twenty-four hours. They’re offering six times what Scott paid for the club. He could get out of debt and start over.”
“I’m envisioning the Dollywood of the blues.” I wasn’t being catty or sarcastic. The Delta was one of the most economically depressed areas in the nation. Such a vast development would bring jobs, entertainment, tax revenues. The theme park in the Great Smoky Mountains near Gatlinburg, named after a country singer I adored, had brought jobs, health care, better schooli
ng, and much more to a very impoverished population. Zinnia would benefit from such a venture.
“There’s an ugly side to it, potentially.” Harold played devil’s advocate well. “This type of development kills off authenticity. It will become a mockery of what it intends to portray. Sanitized blues. Authentic music approved for the whole family. Soul food prepared in microwaves and served to those who don’t know any better. Whenever you put profits ahead of anything else, what you get is … sad. But amazingly lucrative.”
“I can see that.” My concern was far more personal and immediate. “If Scott has to close the club for longer than a week, he’ll lose it. Oscar’s offered a loan, but Scott won’t take it. He won’t risk Oscar’s capital. If Scott can’t meet his mortgage, that’ll open the door for the bank to sell the club to this huge concern.”
“I’m afraid that’s true.” Harold wasn’t happy. “Scott is over a barrel. The one bright spot is that he has the option of investors,” Harold said. “If someone with enough money to cover his operating costs steps in, that would buy him time to get past these murderous threats.”
“Yes, but a partner brings other complications.”
“I know.” Harold wasn’t there to sugarcoat things. “Any leads on who is killing off his friends? If you and Tinkie and Coleman could find out who’s behind the attacks…”
“I turned up something, but I haven’t determined if it’s a solid lead.” I told him about Zeb’s financial problems and the sudden reemergence of Wilton Frasbaum in Scott’s life and business. “The folks behind this club take-over have the most to gain, financially, and money is generally the most reliable motive for murder.” But why not just kill Scott and be done with it? That would accomplish the same thing and with far less bloodshed. “This doesn’t parse. None of it fits. Not the international investors building Bluesorama or the Memphis gang connection to Zeb, or the idea a lone wolf is stalking and killing men for cheating or some kooky religious belief where women are second class and music is Satan’s tool.”
“I agree, Sarah Booth. But we work with what we have. By eliminating suspects, we are accomplishing something. I’ll try to break down the shield of protection on this conglomerate, but it’s difficult even when the government steps in. It takes time.”
“And that’s the one thing Scott doesn’t have.”
“Any news on Mike Hawkins?” Harold asked.
“HIPAA laws—they couldn’t tell us much. If his condition heads south, Doc will call, though. He can’t give details but he can warn us to be there.”
“I should return to the bank.” Harold leaned down and kissed my cheek. “You’ll figure this out and save the day. I have complete faith in you.”
Harold’s words warmed the cockles of my black little heart, but they were also a burden to carry. I didn’t have any magic or even leverage. It occurred to me that when Graf left, he might have taken my detective mojo right along with my heart. What if I now sucked at PI work? My only marketable skill might have evaporated.
“Sarah Booth, are you okay?”
“I’m not sure.”
Harold pulled his chair beside me and put an arm around me. “You’ve had a rough few months. Why don’t you call Doc and check on Mike? Oscar and I will put our heads together and take this offer apart. Maybe we’ll be able to trace it back to the people behind it. If Coleman has to call in the feds, I think he can make that happen.”
Harold was doing everything he could to reassure me. I had many good friends, but Harold had turned into the staunchest supporter of my PI work. And for Tinkie, too. He valued what we did, and he viewed our abilities as true talent, not just as Lucy and Ethel floundering into a resolution.
“How’s Roscoe?” I had to get the focus off me.
“Feeling much friskier. He’s supposed to stay quiet for another week, but it’s driving him nuts, which means he’s driving me to drink. Heaven forbid when the vet cuts him loose from restricted movement. I fear for those in the vicinity.”
I didn’t doubt it for a moment. Roscoe terrorized people he didn’t like. It was fifteen miles to Bijou’s place, Hemlock Manor, and Roscoe would attempt to get there as soon as he escaped from the house. Roscoe carried a grudge in a way I couldn’t help but admire.
“You have to keep him contained.”
“How well I know. Care to offer any tips on how to accomplish that, other than a kennel?”
“Frontal lobotomy?”
“Very clever but not helpful.”
“Sorry. Roscoe is a force of nature. Maybe he can come out to Dahlia House and play with Sweetie Pie.”
“More likely he’d convince her to plot mischief with him.”
“True.” Harold loved Roscoe. He loved him because of and despite his uncanny ability to create trouble and to lampoon people he sensed were pompous or arrogant. In certain ways, Roscoe and I were much alike, a point that wasn’t lost on me.
“The important thing is Roscoe is home with you and will suffer no lasting damage.”
“None,” Harold said. “Thanks to you. The vet said if he’d laid out on the cement in the cold for the whole night, he might not be with us.”
“Have you considered filing cruelty charges? Or at least dog theft.” I wanted Bijou in jail.
“I’ve thought of something better.” He grinned and the glint in his eye was worthy of Clyde Barrow. “Even better than laxative brownies.”
“Do tell.”
“I’ve invited all of the members of Mason Britt’s church to camp in the slave quarters at Hemlock Manor. For a two-week revival. And I sent the invitations in Bijou’s name.”
“Harold! You are a genius. Mason is her right-hand man, so she’ll be reluctant to run them off because of him. Oh, I love this. What if she realizes it was you?”
He shrugged. “What will she do? She crossed the line when she hurt Roscoe, or allowed him to be hurt. This is war. The rest of my productive days will be spent figuring out ways to screw her.”
“I love you!” And I did. Harold fought for the helpless and the innocent far harder than he’d fight for himself.
“If I’d known sooner that messing with Bijou turned you on, I could have started years back.”
And like Roscoe, Harold could be incorrigible. I lightly punched his shoulder. “Grow up!”
He kissed my cheek and gave my shoulders a last squeeze. “The bank demands my presence. You should try to sleep. Even a couple of hours would refresh you.”
I pointed to the quiche. “I need to eat. Can I send some to the bank with you?”
He patted his stomach. “I cooked Una Mae Denison’s campout breakfast casserole this morning, so I’m full up. Call me if you need me. And never doubt yourself, Sarah Booth. Never.”
14
At ten o’clock, I woke Scott, fed him, and dropped him at the club, which stood forlorn, as if a black cloud had settled over it. The day was dreary, but that didn’t completely explain the closed and shuttered look that made me think the wooden structure itself was saddened by recent events. The club had aged fifty years overnight. The empty parking lot was a sharp contrast to the successful opening.
“Are you sure you want to be here?” I asked.
“Coleman said it was okay.”
He displayed a talent for evasion. “Have you changed your mind? Are you going to open?” A million questions popped into my head. Who would play keyboard? Should the band all stay together in the club for the evening? Even if Scott opened, would people come? Playin’ the Bones was getting a dangerous reputation.
“No. We aren’t opening.” Scott’s tone was conclusive. “I came to check over the building. We need to be sure the band equipment is safe, the kitchen shut down. I don’t need a fire or for a thief to break in and steal the band’s instruments.”
I didn’t want to, but I told him about the proposal that had come to Oscar at the bank. It shook him, literally, to his shoes. “How much did they offer?”
“A lot of money. Enough to giv
e you a solid start somewhere else. They also want to purchase a large tract of land around the club. It sounds like a multi-billion-dollar investment, and this club is the hub of it all. Because of the legend about the crossroads out front.”
“If I close the club for longer than a week, I’ll have to let it go. I took a big risk putting the money down on the property, paying for the band members to move here, renovating the kitchen and stocking the bar. I can’t sustain the debt if I don’t have money coming in.”
“I find the offer and the shootings strangely coincidental.”
“I know.” Scott was almost defeated. “But what can we do about it?”
“The timing with this offer, the way disaster follows immediately on the heels of any success—there has to be local involvement, Scott. Someone here in Sunflower County is working to bring the club down. Are any of the band members still … friends with Frasbaum?”
“No. Wilton didn’t inspire friendship. He was about control and money.”
“Would he push things so far as to shoot someone?”
“I wish I knew.” Defeat laced through his words.
“Look, I’m headed to the newspaper to check out the photos Cece took. Maybe I can spot someone who shouldn’t have been at the opening.”
“I’ll review the club inventory and see what we need to order, should we open this weekend. I want to hang around here.”
I almost went to him to offer comfort, but Scott didn’t want to be comforted. He wanted to save his club. That was my mission.
“Check on Tatiana.” I was worried about her, too. Mike’s shooting would bring every horrid second of Koby’s murder back with a fiery ferocity. “If you hear anything from Coleman and DeWayne, please call me.”
“Sarah Booth, you have the heart of a lion. I admire your courage. This is my dream, and you’ve bought into making it real as if it were your own. I can survive this. If I lose the bar, it won’t kill me. Don’t put yourself in danger for the club. Or for me.” Scott rumpled my hair and walked into the bar, his lean hips churning up memories of a time not so long past.
Bone to Be Wild Page 19