I looked up to find Jitty in the rocker. She was heeltoeing it to beat the band. Any minute that old rocker was going to throw her on the floor.
“Getting shot isn’t exactly in the romance guide as foreplay.” I put my book aside, glad to be alive to argue with Jitty. She was even more stunning than usual in a glittering green unitard. “Where are you headed?”
“I’m lookin’ to the future, Sarah Booth.”
“I’m glad someone is. I’m pretty happy to be right here.” For one night, at least, I had found the perfect balance between past and future.
“You might explain what that mystery writer is doing as your housepest.”
I gave her a sharp look. She was beginning to talk like Kinky. “He’s here because he helped save my life, and because I invited him to stay. Also because Kip e-mailed him that someone was murdering all the cats in Sunflower County, and that I needed his help on the case. She was playing on his sympathies as a cat lover.”
“That girl has a way with computers,” Jitty retorted. “Of course, she has a tendency to exaggerate, but maybe that’s an indication of a career in writing. If she could devise an E-mail that gets men runnin’ after you, she has real talent.”
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me for solving the case?” I decided to take the high road and ignore her jabs. “Lee is free. All charges have been dropped.”
“Congratulations, Sarah Booth. Now that we’ve taken care of that, I want to point out that you’re missin’ an opportunity. There’s a live one sleepin’ in your guest room.”
“Tonight, I’m sleeping alone, Jitty. The only thing I’m taking to bed with me is this book.” I held up the Kinkster’s mystery. I had one chapter to go before I finished.
“Your life is a series of wrong choices,” Jitty admonished as she began to fade.
I picked up my book and slipped easily into the world of the Kinkster: his apartment, beneath the loft of the lesbian dance class, where he was deviled by a know-it-all cat and a cluster of friends as ornery and loyal as my own.
TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCERPT FROM
THE NEXT EXCITING MYSTERY FROM
Carolyn Haines
CROSSED BONES
Available from Dell
My Great-Aunt Cilla was fond of saying that there’s nothing like the feel of a blooded animal between a woman’s thighs. Of course with Aunt Cilla, that might apply to a Thoroughbred or a Southern gentleman with good lineage. Although most of the women in my family have been cursed with the Delaney womb, Great-Aunt Cilla was the only one of my female forbears who didn’t bother to hide her affliction. She was exiled to Atlanta for her honesty.
Lying here in the porch swing with my hound at my feet and a mint julep in my hand, I can’t help but think of my ancestors and the history of this land I love. I’ve just concluded an Old South tradition—perusing my cotton fields from the vantage point of a horse.
Tidbits of Aunt Cilla’s wisdom are coming back to me. Her womb might have had a vociferous appetite, but it was nothing compared to her brain. It was she who pointed out to me the two most potent symbols of the Old South: King Cotton and blood.
On my morning rides, I see the past, present, and future of my home: the cotton, with its green leaves covered in early morning dew; the whisper of money, of times long gone and of a way of life that seems both a dream and a nightmare, depending on perspective. The wealthy settlers of the rich Delta soil in Mississippi understood the powerful combination of horse and land, the addictive pleasure of riding one’s property on a healthy and responsive animal.
Aunt Cilla had her own uses for healthy, responsive animals—especially of the human species. An excellent horsewoman, she was especially fond of grooms. Horses, leather, a virile young man—Aunt Cilla’s favorite aphrodisiacs.
“Sarah Booth Delaney, you are one worthless gal. Out here sittin’ on the porch, fantasizin’ about lettin’ the hired help poke you. If you were worth a lick, you’d be wedded, bedded, and bred by some respectable gentleman.”
The disapproving tone belied the soft richness of the voice. And voice was all it was. Jitty, the itinerant ghost of my great-great-grandmother’s nanny, had yet to materialize.
“I would have thought you’d be glad to know I was thinking about anyone, hired help or gentleman caller, pokin’ me, as you so delicately call it.” I was far beyond getting ruffled at Jitty’s nagging. We were on old, familiar ground. My lack of use of the legendary Delaney womb was her favorite topic of haranguing.
“You lookin’ mighty self-satisfied for a woman whose inner thighs are sore from a horse. There’s a better way to get that lazy look on your face.” She crystallized to the left of the swing, effectively blocking my view of the driveway.
My eyebrows rose in an inquisitive arch. Only yesterday she was one hot mama in spandex and spikes. Now she looked like Sunday morning church in a black-and-white photograph. Jitty was once again hip-hopping the decades, searching for the era that best suited her current attitude.
“What gives?” I asked, indicating the shirtwaist dress and sensible flats. “Your space boots need new heels?”
“I’ve been giving our predicament a lot of serious thought. What we need around here is some conviction, a dream, something to work toward. I’m gonna get it for us.”
“You know, Jitty, if I’d had normal parents and been raised to be a Daddy’s Girl, I might have turned out more satisfactorily, from your point of view.”
I was a bitter disappointment to Dahlia House’s resident haint. It was an uphill climb for Jitty as she tried to force me into the role of MFF, manipulative femme fatale. She wanted me wed and bred, or at least bred, so there would be an heir to reside in Dahlia House. Delaneys had occupied this land since before the War between the States. Jitty had no desire to find a new place to hang out should I not produce the next generation.
“You don’t have to be a Daddy’s Girl, Sarah Booth, but it would be nice if you’d bathe and hold off on the drinkin’ until after lunch.” She pointed at the julep cup in my hand. It was fine pewter, engraved with my mother’s initials in an intricate pattern of twining ivy. “Puttin’ that devil’s intoxicant in a fine cup won’t change what it is.”
I looked at her from under a furrowed brow. “You’re not turning into a teetotaller, are you?”
“Shush,” she said, cocking her head in an age-old attitude of listening. “If you ain’t got the blues now, you’re gonna,” she said as she vanished into thin air.
“Jitty!” I hissed. I hate it when she delivered one of those enigmatic one-liners and then disappeared. “Jitty, you’re cheating. You can’t just say something like that and take off.” But she could. Jitty could not be summoned or dismissed. If she’d ever been servile, she’d long forgotten the basic deportment.
“Sarah Booth?” The voice that called out held some concern. “Who are you talkin’ to?”
I recognized John Bell Washington’s voice instantly. He was a blues guitarist I’d met on my last case, thanks to the cyber-intervention of a teenager. Nonetheless, J. B. was a nice guy who’d risked a lot to help me.
“I’m over here in the swing,” I called out to him, rising to give him a hug as he came up the steps to the secluded shade of the small side porch. J. B. was every woman’s dilemma—handsome and frequently unemployed. The work schedule for a blues guitarist was strictly seasonal. J. B. had another major talent as a masseur when he chose to work the day shift, which wasn’t often as long as his mama supported his desire to play music.
He walked around the corner of the porch toward me, a puzzled look on his handsome face. “Who were you talkin’ to?” he asked again.
“Myself, I guess.” I blushed becomingly. For all that I’d disavowed the tactics of a Daddy’s Girl, there were a few harmless maneuvers that I deployed when necessary.
The blush effectively derailed his curiosity. At a momentary loss, he thrust a newspaper toward me. “What do you think of this?”
“Blues Blizz
ard Scott Hampton Arrested for Brutal Murder.” I scanned the story, which was a thumbnail sketch of race, music, and hot tempers that had plagued the nation since the sixties.
The dead man was one Ivory Keys, an acclaimed piano player who owned the most popular nightclub in Kudzu, a thriving, mostly black community on the west side of Sunflower County. Needless to say, Ivory was black. Scott Hampton, heir to the Michigan auto-manufacturing family, was white. Of interest was the fact that both men had served time in the Michigan State Penitentiary, their sentences overlapping slightly in the nineties.
Ivory Keys had been brutally stabbed in his own nightclub, Playin’ the Bones, where Scott was the featured talent of the wildly popular club band. Keys had hired the white musician when he got out of prison after serving his time on a cocaine charge. Apparently, Keys and Hampton had had a rather unusual relationship dating back to their prison days.
The murder weapon and money, thought to have been stolen from the club, were found in Hampton’s possession. He was in Sunflower County jail charged with first-degree murder.
“Do you know him?” I asked slowly.
“I knew them both. A better man than Ivory Keys never walked the earth.”
“And Hampton?”
J. B.’s face showed his ambivalence. “He’s one of the most talented guitarists I’ve ever known. Maybe better than Stevie Ray Vaughan.”
The picture of Scott Hampton in the newspaper showed an arrogant, angry man, with light eyes and pale hair expertly cut to look oh-so-disheveled. I could easily read the “spoiled rich kid” smirk. I was familiar enough with it on the faces of the young men my age from the Delta: the sons of Buddy Clubbers, who’d grown up to believe the entire world was their oyster. These were the men who were paving the rich Delta soil to create strip malls and other eyesores called progress.
“It may not be that simple,” J. B. said.
The hint of doubt in his voice hooked me. “So you believe he’s innocent?” I asked.
“What I believe isn’t important. What Mrs. Keys believes is. And she believes Scott is innocent. She wants to hire you to find the real killer.”
Freshly bathed, mascaraed, and unfortunately enacting Truman Capote’s description of ladies melting like marshmallows in the summer heat, I drove to the Sunflower County Courthouse with the roadster’s a.c. on full throttle. A phone call to Ida Mae Keys had confirmed the singular fact that she wanted Scott Hampton out of jail and proven innocent. Ida Mae refused to expound on her reasons and had abruptly gotten off the phone, stating point-blank that she had no need to meet with me, just get on with the job.
Her check was safely tucked away in the old pie safe at Dahlia House, since I’d determined not to deposit it until I talked to Coleman. In my past P.I. conduct, I’d slipped across the fine line of ethics a few times, but I wasn’t going to take money from an elderly black woman whose husband had just been killed if I couldn’t help her.
Coleman Peters, Sunflower County sheriff, was the logical place to start. Besides, Coleman and I had something personal to finish. Although neither of us had acted on it, a strong emotional bond had formed between us. I’d come to rely on his honesty and good sense. There was more, though. Coleman didn’t waffle. Not in what he thought or felt. He was rock solid, and that was sweet nectar.
Coleman was freshly separated from his wife, an event I had not played a role in. Actively not played a role in. For the last twelve weeks, while my shoulder was healing, I’d done my best to stay out of his way. He’d come out to Dahlia House several times to check on me, but I had not put myself in his path. He had decisions to make that no one else had a right to interfere in.
The heat was intense and I was glad to step inside the courthouse. When my father had served as circuit court judge, there had been no air-conditioning in the building. Though I often took the troglodyte, no-progress stance and rejected modern improvements, air-conditioning was a true miracle. I stood for a moment under a vent, hoping to dry up the rivulet of sweat that had begun to slip down my spine and into my underpants. Melted was exactly how I felt.
The sheriff’s office door was open, and a sound bite of conversation caught my attention.
“He’s guilty as sin,” the dispatcher said in a country twang veneered with sophistication. “He sits in the jail cell, feet propped on the bars, cool as a cucumber. If he feels anything, it sure ain’t, I mean, isn’t, remorse.”
“He’s hard,” Deputy Dewayne Dattilo agreed. Dattilo was a new addition to the force, as was the dispatcher.
“He can play the guitar. I heard him a few times when I was out dancin’. He could make a girl’s bones melt, if you know what I mean.” The dispatcher’s voice carried grudging admiration, topped off with a portion of sexual hunger. “He had the women squirmin’ in their seats, or those of them who could stay seated. And that one crazy gal, man, she all but jumped on his leg.”
“She’s gonna be trouble,” Dewayne said, and not without a little eagerness.
I entered and was greeted with wary curiosity from one and dislike from the other.
“Is Coleman in?” It was a courtesy question. I could see him at his desk in his office.
“I’ll see.” The dispatcher, known as Bo-Peep because of her overpermed, blondeened hair, went into Coleman’s office and closed the door. I couldn’t help but notice that she had a great figure and a walk that was all invitation. Coleman had hired her while I was at Dahlia House healing. She’d worked as a temp last winter. In those brief two weeks we’d developed a mutual animosity club. Now she was on the payroll full time, permanent.
Within minutes she came out and swayed over to the counter. “The sheriff says he can see you,” she said. Leaning closer, she whispered, sotto voce, “He’s gone back to his wife, though, so don’t get your hopes up.”
I brushed past her, determined not to show the shock I felt. Once in Coleman’s office, I closed the door, composing myself as I turned around to face him. His blue eyes held sadness, matched by the long line of his mouth.
“Ida Mae Keys has hired me to prove Scott Hampton is innocent,” I said, wanting to immediately put the visit on the footing of officialdom.
Coleman shook his head. “I like that old woman, and I hate to see her waste her money and your time. You’ve got a perfect record for solving cases, Sarah Booth. This is one you might want to walk away from. The evidence we have is circumstantial, but it’s pretty damning. Murder weapon found in his possession. Just over three thousand dollars, which we believe was stolen from the club, also in his possession.” Coleman sounded more tired than convinced.
“What was the murder weapon?”
“Prison-type shank. Handmade.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“In the saddlebag of Hampton’s motorcycle. The bike was parked outside his house. He’s renting a place on Bilbo Lane, way out in the sticks.”
“Anyone could have put the money in the bag,” I pointed out.
“He had a bad attitude when we went out to talk to him. He refused to talk to us, and we had to get a search warrant. Let me just say that he didn’t show a tremendous amount of regret or remorse when we told him Ivory was dead.”
Scott Hampton seemed to be his own worst enemy. “And you’ve determined, beyond all doubt, that the shank belongs to Hampton. Again, I’ll point out that someone could have put it in the saddlebags of his bike.”
“Someone could have, but we don’t believe that to be true.”
“Prints?”
“None. It was wiped.”
“How many times was Keys stabbed, and where?” Coleman knew I could get all of this information from Doc Sawyer, the man who would perform the autopsy.
He sighed. “Stabbed in the chest. Three times.”
“Anything else?”
“He didn’t die instantly.” He hesitated. “And that’s all I’m going to say about the actual crime.”
He’d been fair in giving me as much as he felt he could. I felt a flurr
y of anger as I realized how much I’d come to count on Coleman’s fairness.
“So robbery is the motive?” I snapped back into professional mode.
“Ivory had Hampton tied up in an ironclad contract at Playin’ the Bones for the next two years. Hampton has developed quite a reputation, and he’d gotten some big offers from other clubs. His career could have been on the rise, except he was legally tied to Keys.”
“So you think he killed his benefactor for the money or to escape his contract?” I’d learned a few things in my brief stint as a P.I. Murder generally had one very specific motive. I wanted to know which one Coleman was going to try to prove when it came to a trial.
“We’re still investigating.”
“What about bond?” Ida Mae said she wanted Scott out as soon as possible.
“Friday. Judge Hartwell.” His mouth hardened into a thin line as he said the name. Hartwell was only a justice court judge, but he had a reputation for rash and prejudicial behavior. “It’s going to be high.” He put the pencil down and placed his hands on the desk. “Let this one pass, Sarah Booth. It’s going to get ugly. A lot of old scabs are going to be ripped off here.”
“Can I see Hampton?”
Coleman’s eyebrows lifted at my tone. “Sure.” He picked up a pencil and twirled it in his fingers, but his gaze held mine. “Is there something bothering you?”
“Not a thing.” The wall of pride had erected itself with amazing speed. We had never spoken of our feelings for each other, so there were no words to take back.
“I’ve been meaning to come out to see you,” he said. His gaze fell to the blotter on his desk. He seemed fascinated by the scribbling there.
I could have helped him out, but I wasn’t in a charitable frame of mind.
“Connie and I are gonna give it one more try,” he said, finally looking at me.
“I hope it works out.” Thunderation, what did he think I would say?
For a split second, he registered surprised regret. Then he caught himself and nodded. “I’ll have Dewayne take you back to see Hampton.” He stood up and walked past me.
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