I made a quick call to Tinkie. I didn’t have time to wait for the Chesterfield Hunt Ball to talk to the four Daddy’s Girls who comprised Bud Lynch’s personal stable.
Tinkie picked up on the first ring, a little breathless. “Sarah Booth, I’ve been driving all over town looking for you.”
I was curious to know why, but I shifted back to first priority. “I need phone numbers on Elizabeth, Mary Louise, Susannah, and—”
“Krystal’s fund-raiser for Lee is tonight. At the Crystal Pistol.”
“How appropriate. Krystal plays the Crystal.”
“Don’t be tacky,” Tinkie said. “I’ve already talked Oscar into going.”
“Not Oscar the banker.” I couldn’t help but tease her. “Oscar must hold the mortgage on the bar.”
“Sarah Booth, that’s too mean. What’s wrong with you?”
I’d actually hurt her feelings. Normally Tinkie didn’t mind a few jokes at Oscar’s expense. “Sorry, I thought for a minute I was a comedienne.”
“It’s okay.”
Tinkie got over a huff faster than anyone I knew. Rapid forgiveness was a Daddy’s Girl ploy, but in Tinkie’s case it was for real.
“Is Simp . . . Krystal really trying to help Lee?” I asked.
“Help her or gain attention, I can’t say for sure.”
“Tell me what you know.” Every passing day proved to me that my decision to take Tinkie in as a partner had been the right one.
“Her husband has rented the Pistol for the whole night. There’s going to be a hundred-dollar charge at the door per couple, and Krystal’s going to actually record the whole session for a possible album called Jail Bail. She’s going to allow local talent to play and sing with her, and the proceeds from tonight and the album will go to Lee’s defense fund.”
“Brilliant.” It was. Whoever did PR for Krystal deserved a big salary increase. I could almost guarantee that media from Nashville to New Orleans would be on hand for this event. I could see the headline: SINGER RAISES MONEY TO HELP JAILED FRIEND. Krystal would become a saint. “The only thing better would be if she could get the Dixie Chicks as backup.”
“She tried. They’re on tour in Biloxi. Conflicting schedules.”
“No kidding.” I was impressed. “I need to talk to Krystal.”
There was a pleased giggle. “No problem, Sarah Booth. You’ve got a backstage pass and thirty minutes to talk privately.”
“How did you arrange that?”
“Oh, I just used that lie you made up about the book. I told her husband you wanted to put her in your book. He was a little confused because he thought you were only a private investigator. I straightened it all out.”
“Tinkie, you are terrific!”
“Well, it was your original lie. I just borrowed it.”
“When we make some money, remind me that you need a raise.”
Her laugh was musical, an attribute many Daddy’s Girls aspired to but few achieved. “Sarah Booth?”
“Yes.” I didn’t like the new tone in her voice.
“The Chesterfield Hunt Ball is tomorrow night.”
“I can’t conjure a man out of thin air.” I sounded defensive, but I couldn’t help it.
“Let me handle this. Now, I left a catalogue in the kitchen when I brought Kip home yesterday. Pick out a dress and order it. My credit card number is written on the front.”
“I can’t—” I was still redeeming my credit rating after a rough couple of years, but Tinkie wasn’t my fairy godmother.
“Don’t argue. I know your credit rating got a little confused before you became a detective. You can pay me later. Right now we need fast action, and the store will express deliver if they can charge an account. Just pray you don’t need alterations. With that in mind, the less material the better, if you get my drift. Don’t procrastinate, Sarah Booth. Just do it.”
15
The Neiman Marcus catalogue was on the kitchen table, along with the digits of Tinkie’s platinum charge account. I put on a pot of coffee and managed to avoid picking up the catalogue for all of ninety-seven seconds.
While the coffee brewed, I slipped into a chair, grabbed the wish book, and opened it to the gowns. Jitty took a seat beside me, silent while I flipped the pages.
At last she spoke. “Go back a page. That red number has your name all over it.”
It was exactly the dress I wanted. As if it had been created by Tinkie’s prediction, there wasn’t a lot of material involved. The front was a low V and the back was scandalous. “I don’t know . . .”
“Fine time for you to decide to act like a lady.” Jitty pointed at the dress. “Order it. Just remember, this is one ball where you need to take your own prince, Cinderella.”
She was right; the dress was the least of my problems. The ball required a date, and one in tails, no less. I had about twenty-four hours to conjure up such a masculine masterpiece.
“You could ask one of the Buddy Clubbers. They’re old enough to be your father, but they all have full dress suits in their closets.”
Instead of getting my ire up, Jitty’s comment deeply depressed me. “This is what I’ve come to, finding a man as potential date material because he has the proper wardrobe.” I closed the catalogue. Tinkie would have to manage the ball without me. Even if I ordered the dress, I couldn’t just order up a man.
“That blues singer isn’t so bad. So he has a mama. Ever’body knows a man treats his wife the same way he treats his mama, and looks to me like John Bell Washington sure treats his mama good.” Jitty studied her fingernails as she talked. They were a strange metallic color. Her outfit was rather futuristic, too—a formfitting tunic with a flared skirt. Very short! And leggings. Jitty had definitely left the June Cleaver image behind. Her hair was a smooth upsweep that made her look like . . . Lieutenant Uhura. I gave her ears close scrutiny. No points—yet.
“Earth to Sarah Booth. Earth to Sarah Booth. I said that blues singer, John Bell whatever, was kind of goodlookin’. I think Kip did a pretty good job findin’ you a date.”
“I have to face facts. I don’t have a date today, and I won’t have one by tomorrow night.”
Jitty walked around me, her Star Trek outfit looking like a second skin. She stopped in front of me and narrowed her eyes. “You go any deeper down in the ditch of de-spair, you gone need to call nine-one-one to get a ladder long enough to get you out.” Jitty studied me. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s the case. I can’t seem to do anything to help Lee. The more I dig, the worse it looks. Kemper was ruining her financially, and he actually owned Swift Level. It won’t be hard for the prosecution to make a case that she certainly stood to benefit financially from his death. There’s not a jury in the world that would feel compassion for a premeditated murder. The thing is, I think she’s protecting Kip.”
“Let me tell you somethin’, Sarah Booth. Somethin’ I don’t want you to ever forget. Your mama would have gutted anybody who ever tried to hurt you. She would have cut out his gizzard with a bread knife. I’d be a lot more worried about Lee if she wasn’t protectin’ Kip. Now quit mopin’ around and order that dress,” Jitty instructed. “It can be here tomorrow. If you don’t wear it, you can send it back.”
“I don’t have a date.” Back to square one.
“I guess I better go up in the attic and look for my fairy godmother wand.” Jitty grinned. “Now, I forget. What else do I need? A pumpkin, six mice? Wasn’t there a lizard or two in there?”
“I have a perfectly fine carriage. What I need is a prince.”
“Order the dress. Miracles do happen, Sarah Booth.”
The Crystal Pistol was off Wade Hampton Road, a strip of narrow asphalt that connected Zinnia to the greater community of Blue Eve. The locale was somewhat appropriate, seeing as how the community was named after a woman who caught her man cheating and then knifed him to death. Her guilt was never proven in a court of law, so she remained a free woman. But it was said she wandered the flat D
elta back roads for the next thirty years, looking for him in all the joints and shanty shacks where he’d drunk and gambled. He was dead, but she was a long way from over him.
Of course, her name was Eve.
Blue Eve was a hub of the cattle-and-hay industry in the Delta. These were the hardscrabble farmers who’d pieced together four hundred, six hundred, or a thousand acres, in contrast to the cotton plantations, which often stretched for miles. While the Delta aristocrats rode their thoroughbreds to the hounds, the men of Blue Eve rode their tractors into the sunset.
I’d passed the Crystal Pistol a thousand times, but had never stopped in. Tonight, the pickup trucks were liberally laced with Mercedeses, Lexuses, a scattering of Volvos, and six television trucks. One reporter was doing a live stand-up in the parking lot, while a crowd of beer drinkers yelled and yee-hawed in the background. The band was muffled but not smothered by the windowless cement-block building. A big, hairy man was sitting on a stool with a cash drawer on his lap.
“That’ll be fifty dollars, little lady.”
He had white teeth and brown eyes. Everything else was covered by hair. But they were perfect teeth, and they showed even more when I held up the backstage pass Tinkie had finagled for me.
“So you’re the book writer. Mike said to be on the lookout for you.” He pulled open the heavy door, and a blast of music and cigarette smoke nearly knocked me back into the parking lot. “Miss Krystal won’t go on for nearly an hour, so you might get to talk to her a bit. Just take it easy. She gets a little tense before she performs. It makes her . . . snappy.” He grinned even bigger.
“Bitchy” was the word he wanted, but he valued his job. I waded into the music and felt as if a physical presence were resisting me. The lights were dim and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Gradually, I began to make out a few people I knew. Lillian Sparks was at a table with Boyd Harkey and Lincoln Bangs, the man who would prosecute Lee. I wondered at Linc’s presence at a fund-raiser for Lee’s defense. The Delta is indeed incestuous.
The house band was playing a fair rendition of a country song I’d heard on the radio but didn’t know. On the dance floor, a thin blond woman was dancing alone, her body moving in a way suggestive of the horizontal salsa, eyes closed and hips thrusting. She was holding on to a support beam covered in red indoor/outdoor carpeting. Three men at the bar were staring at her with their mouths hanging open and their thoughts clear for all to read.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to face Bud Lynch. Murder suspect he might be, but he was a charming one.
“Want to dance?”
“Now?” I didn’t want to match moves with the blonde.
His answer was a laugh as he took my hand and led me to the floor. With one hand on my hip and the other firmly holding my hand, he swept me into the beat of the music.
“Just relax,” he said. “I’ll make you look good.”
And he did.
“Will you bring Kip out to ride?” he asked.
“Sure, if she wants to go. She hasn’t mentioned it, but seeing the horses might be good for her.” We twirled until I was breathless.
“Avenger needs her. She’s the only one who rides him. He hasn’t been ridden in a week, and he’s about to tear his stall down.”
“I’ll bring her if she wants to go. I have to say, she didn’t seem overly fond of the horses in her conversation.”
Bud shook his head. “She loves them, just like her mother. Kemper was always putting heat on her to ride, but Kip would have done better if he’d left her alone. She’s a natural, a real, honest-to-God talent. You should see her on Avenger.”
We finished with a twirl and a dip, and I found myself in Bud’s arms and staring over his shoulder into Harold’s silvery eyes.
“Why, Sarah Booth, you look terrific.” Harold held out a hand. “Care to dance?”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Bud said, turning me over to Harold.
We stepped onto the dance floor and into a two-step. Harold moved with grace and a firm lead that showed me to advantage. “I’m taking Carol Beth to the ball, but I wish it were you,” he said.
I felt a rush of blood to my thumb. Harold had the power to move me, at times. “Why are you taking Carol Beth?” I asked. “She has a husband.”
“Benny can’t make it. I was asked to be her escort.” He spun me, caught me tight, and whispered in my ear. “I’m doing a little investigating of my own.”
“Harold?” I said, spinning and ending by his side for a few quick steps before he twirled me again.
“I need you to do something for me,” he said.
“What?”
“You’ve met Nathaniel Walz, haven’t you?”
“In Cece’s office.” I was talking in short sentences. Harold was giving me a workout on the dance floor.
“Make it a point to talk to him. He has some interesting ideas, and he thinks you’re pretty.”
I frowned at Harold. “Date bait?”
Harold shrugged, but his crystal eyes were alight with amusement. “A good P.I. uses all of her tools,” he said, his hand sliding up my ribs and sending a chill down my spine.
Carol Beth stepped out onto the dance floor, blocking us. “And Madame said you’d never be able to dance. It just goes to show you can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. With enough effort.” Bud had walked up holding two beers. She looked at him. “Sarah Booth can’t afford you, honey.”
“Neither can you,” Bud said easily. “Though you tried your damnedest.”
“What are you doing here, Carol Beth?” I asked. “I thought for sure you’d be signing checks for the prosecution, in the hopes you might be able to play carpetbagger and just step in and steal Lee’s entire farm.”
Harold captured Carol Beth’s hands. “They’re playing a waltz,” he said, steering her onto the dance floor. Over his shoulder, he gave me a long look that I couldn’t decipher in the dim light.
I took the beer Bud offered. “I can see why Kip hates Carol Beth. What I don’t understand is why you were spending time with her.”
“Would you believe me if I said it was a long story?” His grin was wry.
“Where did you and Carol Beth hold your little rendezvous the night Kemper was killed?” It was too loud in the bar for subtlety.
“You’re back to checking my alibi.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m checking Carol Beth’s.” I held his gaze. “Who else has been hanging out at Swift Level?”
“Kemper did a lot of business in the barn. He owed money, and that’s where he met his creditors. I never hung around to hear the conversations, but I got the idea that some of them were men who wanted money and were determined to get it.”
“Could you identify any of them, in a lineup?” It was stretching, but Boyd Harkey had said his plan was to inundate the jury with potential suspects.
He nodded. “One or two of them.” He hesitated. “I got a call out at the farm this morning. It isn’t good news.”
“What?”
“Coleman’s been turning the office inside out looking for something. I finally figured out what—insurance policies. I had a little visit from the insurance agent yesterday. What a strange man he is. Kemper took out additional life insurance about two weeks before he died. Seems like he thought an awful lot of himself.”
“I know,” I said. “Why would he take out a policy on himself? It would seem more likely he’d take one out on Lee and try to kill her.” I was thinking aloud.
“That would be more in character,” Bud said.
“Were there any other changes in policies?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t say, but someone else has been looking for something. Things have been moved, little things. I haven’t been able to catch them at it. Yet.”
Bud Lynch was a capable man. It would take some fox to sneak into his henhouse and get out alive. “Any clues?”
“Papers in the office have been moved around. Someone had a key to get in the office,
and the combination to the safe. No way for me to tell who’s doing it.”
“Was anything missing?”
“Lee would know better than me. It appears all of the important papers are still there.” He shrugged. “Lee’s the business manager. I’m just the trainer.”
“What about Lee? Does she have any idea?”
Bud frowned. “I had a talk with her this morning and she says no, and I believe her. She said she and Kemper had the only keys, other than mine. All three of those keys are accounted for.”
A woman who’d been eyeing Bud from the bar sauntered over to us and planted a kiss on Bud’s cheek.
“It’s been too long, honey. Where you been keepin’ yourself?” she purred. She attached herself to his side and gave me a purely feline glare.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” I said, slipping away for my meeting with Krystal. It had been more than ten years since I’d talked with her.
The backstage area was tiny, but she had her own private space. There was even a vinyl star with her name plastered on the door. I tapped and waited.
“It had better be important.”
The voice still held traces of a Delta Daddy’s Girl, but it was overlaid with Nashville twang and a polyurethane coating of hardness. As I recalled, Simpson, as I had known her, had been good at French and Spanish, too.
“It’s Sarah Booth.”
“Oh, Sarah Booth, come in.” The door opened and a smiling Krystal Brook greeted me.
Red hair flamed out from beneath a white Stetson hat, and her makeup was flawlessly, though heavily, applied. She was wearing a hot pink silk blouse with white fringe that outlined her enhanced bosom. A white-and-silver belt with a big buckle circled her tiny waist, and tight pink pants swelled over her hips and down her long legs. She even made the white cowgirl boots look good.
“Simpson! You look . . . terrific.” And she did. She just didn’t look like Simpson. She was, indeed, Krystal Brook.
“I know. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I think, who is that woman looking back at me?”
Her voice was musical, filled with implied heartbreak and treacherous secrets. She’d always been a very private girl. Of all the Daddy’s Girls, I knew least about her. I couldn’t remember even once being invited to her home.
Splintered Bones Page 15