by C. J. Parker
Bobbie and Rhonda inched away from the table toward the door. Derek came to stand behind Tabatha. “Calm down.”
She stepped away from his heat, his voice. “Not now, Derek. Not a good time.”
Tabatha approached her mother, but she backed away from Tabatha, shaking her head. “You’re crazy. Just like them. Satan’s child, not mine. I told them, but no one would listen. Didn’t want to have you, but they said they’d leave me without a dime if I had an abortion.”
There it was. The truth Tabatha had known all along. Her mother never wanted her. Her heart ached. Tears threatened underneath her eyelids. “Pick it up, Mother. I won’t ask again. You will behave like the lady you think you are. We have no servants.”
Tabatha’s mother’s nose rose into the air, her eyes bright with tears of her own.
“We take care of ourselves. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mother? Bertha cooks for us, but that’s all.”
For a long minute, her mother, frozen as still as a statue, finally burst into tears and fell to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably as she made an effort to clean the mess she’d made.
Bertha knelt to sweep some of the debris into a dustpan.
Her mother screamed and crawled away. “Don’t touch me. Bad. All of you.” The wild look in her haunted eyes reminded Tabatha of a trapped wild animal as she looked from one person to the next in the room. She slowly pulled herself to her feet and straightened her housecoat. Drawing in a deep breath, she seemed to transform from the frantic woman of moments before to the persona of the lady of the manor. “I’m returning to my room, Bertha. I’ll have my lunch at noon, please.” She walked away without another word. Tabatha’s insides shook, and her stomach threatened to heave before she’d had a chance to eat anything. Her mother was insane. Plain and simple.
“Man.” Rhonda rubbed her arms. “That was creepy.”
Bobbie nodded. “Uh huh.”
“Tabatha?” Derek caressed her arm, but pulled away when she jerked in surprise. “What just happened? How did that tray take off like that?” He drew her closer. “You’re shaking. Are you all right?”
Bertha came to stand beside her. “Very impressive, little girl. How long you been holdin’ that in?”
“A long time, I guess.” She leaned against Derek praying to God he wouldn’t reject her. “I’m sorry. When I lose my temper, my power... erupts.”
His warmth seeped though his shirt and into her body. She raised her arms to hold him, but thought better of it.
“Remind me to never piss you off.”
She stepped away from him leaving behind a sensation of emptiness in her wake.
“Yeah,” Bobbie agreed.
Rhonda patted Tabatha on the shoulder. “I’m glad Shane wasn’t here to see that. He’d have loved it, though.” A schoolgirl giggle trickled out of Rhonda, but soon turned into a full body-shaking laugh. “Did you see Bobbie’s face when that tray flew through the air?” Rhonda crumbled into the chair, holding her stomach.
Bobbie turned to look at Tabatha, a crooked smile on her lips. “Well, at least she isn’t crying.” She laughed, drawing Tabatha into the giggles.
Soon everyone but Derek was laughing and holding their sides in pain. “What’s so funny? Have ya’ll lost your minds?”
“Baby girl, I’ve never seen you laugh like that,” Bertha said, drying her eyes.
Tabatha was as shocked as Bertha. “I don’t remember if I have.” She reached for a paper towel, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “What the hell are we laughing at, anyway?”
“Damned if I know.” Bobbie shook her head.
“I’m going to check on Shane.” Rhonda was still smiling as she left the room.
“I have a job interview this morning, so I’d better go get dressed.” Bobbie hugged Tabatha. “Will you be home when I get back?”
Tabatha tossed the paper towel into the trash. “I don’t know. But Bertha had keys made for everyone last night. They’re by the front door on the coffee table.”
Bobbie nodded. “I’ll call if I’m going to be later than noon. See ya.” Bertha clicked her tongue. “I better get a mop and clean this mess. What got into that woman?”
Tabatha shook her head. “Do you have to go to work today, Derek?” He nodded. “I don’t want you out by yourself. You or Rhonda. They probably don’t know about Bobbie yet.”
She grabbed a handful of her own hair and growled. “Damn it, Derek. I’m not going to be a prisoner in my own home. I’ll keep my gun in the car. You don’t have to have a permit in Louisiana for that, do you?”
“No.” He released a sigh. “Can you raise one of the murdered kids tonight? The sooner I find the killer, the quicker I can concentrate my attention on who is trying to kill you.”
She looked away, having forgotten about his asking her to do this. She’d never purposefully raised anyone except for Rhonda’s mother, and the idea of raising a child didn’t sit well. “What time?”
“Around six.”
She walked him to the door. “I’ll be ready.”
Chapter Fourteen
Derek rushed from his car toward the front door, but Tabatha exited and led him immediately away from the house.
Derek’s instincts kicked in. He visually searched the area but saw nothing out of place. “What’s wrong?”
She remained silent as she directed him toward the garage.
In blood red lettering across the driver’s side of her car were the words:
Your world will darken.
Your soul cry out.
Your friends can’t save you.
Have no doubt.
His heart jumped into his throat. “When did you discover this?”
“I went to the grocery this afternoon, came home and unloaded the car.
After the last trip inside, I unpacked the bags and returned to close the trunk.
That’s when I saw it.” A nerve ticked in her jaw. “He’ll never be a poet, huh?” The skin on his arms broke out into chill bumps.
She could have been hurt, killed. His pulse raced. “You saw who did this?”
“No. Didn’t see or hear a thing.”
Derek drew his cell phone from his jacket. Who to call first. The Lieutenant? What would he say? There would be a lot of questions Tabatha wouldn’t want asked or answered.
“What are you doing?” She placed her hand on his arm.
The heat of her hand seared his arm through the jacket’s sleeve. “I’m going to call this in.”
“No! No, no, no!” Her mouth tightened to the point of turning white.
He swore under his breath until he ran out of profanities. “Tabatha, someone was within a few yards of the house while you were running back and forth bringing in groceries. He could have been hiding beside the garage or in the trees the whole time, watching. He could have killed you.”
“What are you going to say? ‘Hey, boss, Saturday I met a girl. Today, someone wrote a poem on her car. Oh, and by the way, she can raise the dead.’” She doubled her fist as if she wanted to hit something. Maybe at this point of the conversation it was him.
“You want to let it go? There could be fingerprints. Have you looked inside the car? Maybe he left something behind.”
She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Do you have someone you can trust to keep his mouth shut? Another detective?”
“Frank.”
“No,” she shouted, then calmed her voice.
What did she have against Frank?
“You saw how his wife reacted toward me. I don’t know what my mother told her, but Mary doesn’t like me at all.” She shook her head. “No. Anyone but Frank. He’d tell what happened Saturday just to make his wife happy.” Derek recalled how Mary reacted toward Tabatha at the cookout. She’d made it clear she didn’t like or trust her. “Who returned your car?”
She glanced at her car then back at him. Confusion etched her brow. “What?”
“The shots shattered the windshield. I had it towed to a g
arage I do business with. Who brought it back to you?”
“Oh.” Her expression relaxed. “He said his name was George. Tall, lanky, brown hair and had one finger missing.”
Derek exhaled releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He trusted few people, but George was on the top of his good guy list. “Yeah, that’s George’s description. Who was with him?”
She furrowed her brow. “No one.”
He scratched his head, trying to put together this blank puzzle. “Then how did he leave?”
“He brought it on the tow truck. After I paid him, he drove off.”
Derek flicked open his phone, clicked through his phone list and pressed the call button for the garage.
“You wreck it, we’ll fix it.”
“George in?”
The sound of the phone being dropped shot through Derek’s head. The muffled sounds of machinery in the background reached though the line. “You got me. Who is this, and what the hell do you want?”
“Hey, George. Detective Bainbridge here. The black Grand AM I sent over there. Is it ready to be picked up?”
“Dropped it off couple of hours ago.”
He knew the answer before he asked the next question. “Who told you to deliver it to Miss Gray?”
“Your partner. Is there a problem?”
“No, no. That’s fine. Thanks, George.” He returned the phone to his shirt pocket.
“Let me guess. Frank?” Tabatha crossed her arms around her waist.
He nodded. But why? What did Frank have against Tabatha?
Tabatha looked him in the eyes. “What did he have to say today?” “He took a sick day.” Derek tried to make sense of Frank’s actions.
Derek had never known him to behave like this. “Maybe we should do this another night. The kids aren’t going anywhere. If someone is watching you, they may...”
“See me work my magic?” she interrupted him. “I’ll know if anyone is close.”
How would she know? Could she read minds, too? “You didn’t notice I was watching you raise Rhonda’s mother.”
Tabatha smiled. “I knew you were there.”
“We’ll go with you and stand guard a few feet away.”
Tabatha jumped around toward the voice behind them.
Derek reached for his gun as cold fear shot from his brain down his arm to his hand. “Damn it, Rhonda.” He blew out a long breath and released the weapon. “Good way to get yourself shot, girl.”
Rhonda grinned. “Nah. You’re one of those perfect record types—no mistakes. You always think before pulling the trigger.”
“What do you mean by we?” Tabatha leaned against the car, closed her eyes and turned her face toward the setting sun.
Bobbie and Bertha stepped out of the kitchen door. Bertha’s wide grin glistened in the sunlight. “If anybody tries to get past me, I’ll sit on ‘em.” Derek didn’t doubt the truthfulness of that statement.
Rhonda nodded. “I’ll think of something to stop them.”
“What about Shane? Who’ll take care of him?” Bobbie sat on the top step.
“We can drop him off at Momma’s.” Rhonda walked down the steps and sat at the bottom. “She’ll keep him safe. Besides, it’s only for a couple of hours.”
“Rhonda, if someone wants to use Shane to get what they want, your mom couldn’t stop them from taking him.” Tabatha pushed away from the car and strode to Derek’s side. “She could get killed trying.”
Stress-fueled pain shot out Derek’s eyes like little daggers. These women were going to drive him to an early grave. He glanced down at Tabatha and almost laughed. Hell, she’d raise him from the dead just to torment him. Bobbie stepped off the stoop. “Bertha, you want to help, right?”
“No way,” Derek shouted. “I’m not letting Bertha go on this escapade.” Bertha snorted. “My baby girl needs me, I’m there.”
“Okay, Derek.” Bobbie paced in front of him. “Can you get us a roll of crime tape?”
Derek tried to figure out what crazy idea Bobbie was cooking up, but came up blank. That alone scared the shit out of him. “I have some in the back of my car.”
Bobbie paced back and forth in front of the porch. “Let’s see. Do you think Shane would be safe with you, Bertha?”
“I got my skillet.” Bertha gave Derek an embarrassed grin.
He retuned her smile as he rubbed where the sizable lump on his head had been. Oh, yeah. She could take care of the boy.
“And I got my man’s double barrel. We can lock ourselves in his room and play games. God help anybody who tries to get in that door.”
Derek’s nerves stood on end when Bobbie stopped to stare at him. “You think we could get away with roping off the area and saying we’re looking for evidence? Something you might have missed?”
His patience had a limit and Derek was almost to that point. “First, I don’t miss evidence. Second, the cemetery where Selma Fortier is entombed was never a crime scene.”
“Damn.” Bobbie paced some more. “What about the cemeteries where the others are buried?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Bobbie sat on the stoop and tapped her finger against her chin. “Okay, what about this?” She paused, stood and paced again. “Where is Selma’s grave?”
“Greenwood Cemetery,” he answered.
“Greenwood?” Tabatha’s eyes widened.
That had hit a nerve. Who was entombed at Greenwood? “Yeah, it’s at the end of Canal.”
Tabatha shrugged and glanced away. “That’s where my family is buried. No one will question my going there. I come and go all the time. What’s your plan, Bobbie?”
He’d been to Greenwood a few times. Fallen police officers’ funerals. Not one of the cheaper cemeteries. But then he hadn’t thought Tabatha was poor.
“We can tape it off.” Bobbie tapped her chin with her index finger. “Rhonda and I will walk the perimeters and keep anyone from coming near while you do your thing.”
Derek scoffed. Taping off an area was as good as placing a classified in the paper announcing where and when they’d be at the cemetery.
Bobbie shrugged. “Got a better idea?”
He couldn’t believe he was going along with this, but desperate cases require desperate actions. “No tape. It would call too much attention to us. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open. If we can hide from someone, they can hide from us. Those crypts are too tall and too close together to see anything until you’re right up on them. But sounds carry. If you listen, you could hear someone coming.”
Tabatha shoved her hands into her pockets. “Let’s do it.”
“Chicken?” Bobbie asked.
“Oh, hell, you’ve got to kill something?” Derek shivered at the idea.
“Big bad cop can’t take the site of blood?” Bobbie’s mouth turned down in a fake frown. “Poor baby.”
Bertha smacked her on the bottom. “You hush up, girl. Ain’t nothing wrong with having pity for those poor chickens.”
Tabatha pointed to her left. “In the pet carrier sitting under the shade tree.”
Bobbie shook her head. “Where do you get these chickens?” Tabatha shrugged. “Bertha raises them.”
Derek jogged to the carrier but stopped as the mound behind the garage caught his attention. “What’s that?
“It’s been there as long as I can remember.” Tabatha turned to look at it. “Mom said it was dirt grandfather had brought in to level off the yard, but never had it spread. Trees and ivy have turned it into an impossible mass of roots.”
Something about it wasn’t right. It was too perfectly formed for a forgotten pile of dirt. He brushed the thought away for more important issues. He was going to find out who killed Selma Fortier tonight.
Bertha flicked his upper arm with her fingers. “Derek? You still with us?”
He smiled. “Sorry. Dreaming of putting away the killer.”
Tabatha hiked her thumb toward her Grand Am. “My car?�
��
Derek ran his gaze over the blood-red wording on the passenger side. “Sure. That poem isn’t conspicuous at all.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Well, yours screams cheese it, the cops.” Derek chuckled. “Cheese it?”
Tabatha laughed. “It means get down, run, hide.”
Bertha disappearing into the house caught his attention. She returned with keys in hand. “Here, take the Oldsmobile. It’s nearly an antique, but it runs good.”
Rhonda stood from the stoop. “Bertha, take care of my boy, you hear? He’s all I got.”
“Child, you worry about yourself. That boy is safer with me than a plate of grits at a Yankee wedding.”
“Let’s get this over with.” Rhonda walked to the car and slipped onto the front passenger seat.
“Well, well. Look who’s gone all brave on us,” Bobbie teased.
Bertha slapped Bobbie on the rump and shook her finger at her. “I’m gonna take a switch to you if you don’t stop pestering her.”
Bobbie laughed. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll behave.”
“You better.”
“Let’s go raise the dead and kick some killer ass.” Bobbie opened the car door and ushered them inside. “I’ll even share the back seat with Tabatha.”
Derek shook his head. “Bertha, I don’t think a one of them has enough sense to be afraid.”
“Oh, they’re afraid, baby boy. They just keeping it under control with their banter. Don’t you fool yourself. And you best keep them safe, or you’ll have me to contend with. You hear?”
He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Yes, ma’am. Loud and clear.”
Chapter Fifteen
Phelps saw the car pull to a stop in the drive and opened the front door before the dour-faced old woman could ring the bell. “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed. My wife is mourning her son. She wants silence. What’s so important that it can’t wait?”