“I don’t. We got a call from a nun.” I realized how strange that sounded. “Why would a nun in New Orleans call a detective to help this woman?”
Coleman considered a moment before answering. “I’ve talked with Ms. Mallory, and she was raised by nuns in New Orleans. She was an orphan. I’ve spoken with Sister Mary Magdalen myself, and I can tell you she sets quite a store by Doreen Mallory. She claims she’s a miracle worker.”
I watched Coleman’s eyes carefully as he spoke. He was a man who’d learned to be extremely cynical from his work, but there wasn’t a hint of mockery in his tone.
“A miracle worker?” I paused but he gave me nothing. “Like raising the dead and turning water into wine?” He still said nothing. “Or more like curing warts and reading tea leaves?”
“Talk to her yourself,” he said, beginning to walk to the courthouse.
Coleman frequently left me to make my own conclusions, but he was never without an interest in which path I went down. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Let me tell you what I know about this woman,” he said. “We found her in Pine Level Cemetery talking to her mother’s grave. She’s being held on a warrant from New Orleans that charges her with killing her own infant, a ten-week-old female child.”
Doreen Mallory sounded more like a person with mental problems than a miracle worker. “How did the baby die?”
“Some type of sleeping pill, probably in her formula and fed to her. I don’t have all the details.”
We entered the courthouse, our footsteps echoing. “Is it possible she’s just nuts? I mean, what motive would she have for killing her own baby?”
“The baby was ill. We’re talking major birth defects.”
“You’re saying you think she killed her baby because she didn’t want to take care of it?” It had happened before. It had happened with women who didn’t want to take care of a healthy baby.
“That, on top of the fact that it looks mighty bad for a woman who claims to work miracles not to be able to help her own child.” Coleman opened the door to the sheriff’s office.
When we walked inside, I stopped dead in my tracks. Coleman should have warned me. Connie’s best friend, Rinda Stonecypher, was sitting at the dispatcher’s desk. Her brown eyes blazed with intense dislike as they focused on me. For a moment I felt a real pang of sympathy for Coleman. He was far more imprisoned than anyone in his jail. Connie was extracting a terribly high payment for his infraction with me.
“Rinda, you remember Sarah Booth,” Coleman stated, setting the tone.
“Yes, I remember her,” Rinda said. “Mrs. Richmond is in your office, waiting.”
Coleman put his hand on my arm and led me into his private office, closing the door behind us. It was something he never used to do. Tinkie was seated in front of his desk. She scanned us with the intensity of a laser beam, looking for any signs of damage. Satisfied, she leaned back in her chair.
“So, it’s your theory that Doreen Mallory killed her baby because it might interfere with her ambitions?” I asked him, taking the other chair that faced his desk.
“Not my theory. That comes from the NOPD. They’re extraditing her for trial.”
“Have you talked to her, Coleman?”
He hesitated. “Yes. I picked her up in the cemetery.”
“And?” I saw something flicker in his eyes.
“She was cooperative. She denied hurting her child. In fact, she was shocked that she was being charged. The baby’s death was originally ruled natural causes. There were a lot of physical complications, and the supposition was that she simply stopped breathing. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome seemed the most plausible explanation. Then the blood work came back and chemicals were found.”
“I know you’re impartial, Coleman, so what did you think about her?” Tinkie pressed. “This isn’t your case. You can afford some thoughts.”
I cast a sidelong glance at my partner. She was getting better and better. Finding out what Coleman thought would be a big asset in the long run. Normally, he was a “just the facts, ma’am” kind of guy, but as Tinkie so astutely pointed out, Coleman had no dog in this fight. He could afford an opinion.
“When I got the request from New Orleans to pick her up, I didn’t think much about it at all. When I found out she was in the cemetery, I was curious. When I saw her, I was . . . stunned. And after I talked with her—” This time his pause was extended. “I’m not certain what I think, but I’m sure the two of you will form your own opinions.”
“Now tell me again, exactly, what she was doing in Pine Level Cemetery. Talking to a grave?” I asked. Pine Level was one of the few cemeteries integrated since its inception. For many decades, the front of the cemetery was filled with the dead bodies of white folks. The back of the cemetery contained some of the oldest graves in the county. Slaves were buried there, many of the graves marked only with simple wooden posts.
“She was visiting her mother,” Tinkie said. The excitement in her tone made me give her my full attention. “Her mother was Lillith Lucas. Rinda ungraciously gave me a few details.”
I couldn’t quite grasp the information. “Crazy Lillith?” I asked, a vivid picture of the flamboyant street-corner preacher coming to my mind. “Lillith never had children. She wasn’t married. She had every one of us kids terrified of sex.”
Coleman’s soft chuckle accompanied the memory of a woman with long, stringy hair, raising a Bible over her head as she chased us along the streets of Zinnia, telling us that if we participated in the Devil’s pleasure, our organs would wither and fall off.
“She didn’t practice what she preached,” Tinkie said, giving Coleman a wink.
“Are you sure about this?” I still couldn’t believe it.
“Doreen says Lillith was her mother. She was given away in infancy or early childhood. Left at a convent in New Orleans, actually. Why would anyone claim Lillith for a mother if it wasn’t true?” Coleman asked.
“A very good question,” Tinkie said.
“And one we need to ask our client,” I pointed out. “Can we see her?”
“Sure,” Coleman said. “But she’s headed to New Orleans.”
“When?”
“As soon as they send someone to retrieve her.”
We all stood up and walked into the main office. “Rinda, could I have the jail key?”
“Dewayne forgot to leave it,” she said, not looking at any of us.
“I left my keys in my coat pocket,” Coleman said, patting his hips. “I’ll be right back.”
As soon as the door closed, Rinda was out of her chair and churning toward me. She, too, had been a cheerleader, but she’d put on sixty pounds and lost her bounce.
“How dare you come in here?” she hissed at me. “You’re determined to break up their marriage, aren’t you?”
“Does Coleman know you’re off your medication?” Tinkie asked sweetly.
“I’d watch my step, Mrs. Richmond,” Rinda said. “She’ll be after your husband next.”
“I have no concerns about my husband’s loyalties,” Tinkie said, and her normally merry eyes were a chilly blue. “And you should be worried about your job, not other people’s personal business. If Coleman had an inkling of this incident, you’d be fired.”
“I doubt that,” Rinda said with a smile. “Connie got me this job.”
“Coleman will take only so much,” Tinkie warned her.
She ignored Tinkie and pointed one red-tipped fingernail at me. Her figure had gone to hell, but her manicure was impeccable. “I’ve got my eye on you. I know what kind of woman you are, and I can make you one promise: Keep chasing Coleman and everyone else in the Delta will know you for the slut you are.”
“Has the elastic waistband of your pants shut off the oxygen supply to your brain?” Tinkie asked.
“You’re a fine example that money can’t buy brains,” Rinda spat back at Tinkie.
I started to interject something, but Tinkie held up a hand to stop me. “Ri
nda, the only thing you ever had going for you was cute. I’d quit worrying about everyone else and start hunting for some of what you lost. If I hear one word of gossip about Sarah Booth, I promise you I’ll be back to take it up with you. It won’t be pretty.”
Rinda was back at her desk before the door opened and Coleman reappeared. He assessed the room, probably catching just a whiff of verbally singed hair. “Everything okay?”
“Let’s talk to Doreen,” Tinkie said, her blue eyes clear and untroubled. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
3
IT WAS A RITA COOLIDGE ALBUM COVER THAT CAME TO MIND WHEN I first saw Doreen Mallory. The long hair, the slender body, the stance. “Bird on a Wire” played in my head. Doreen Mallory lacked the Indian heritage of the singer; the freckles lightly scattered across Doreen’s nose spoke of another gene pool. But her black gypsy hair hung to her waist, and her hazel-green eyes never flinched. She wore boots, jeans, and a loose white shirt that only heightened her willowy elegance. There wasn’t a single chromosome of Lillith Lucas in Doreen’s features that I could see.
Tinkie made the introductions, and I studied the haunted smile that touched Doreen’s lips. “I told Sister Mary Magdalen not to waste her money on a private detective,” she said in a voice both cool and soothing.
“Why would she be wasting her money?” I asked, wondering if Doreen was admitting to murdering her child. She certainly wasn’t your typical grieving mother.
“Because I didn’t do anything wrong,” Doreen said. “I’m sure the police will sort it all out. I’m innocent. This is just a mistake.” Her lips pressed together. “No one would hurt Rebekah. She was just a little baby.”
“There were sleeping pills in her blood,” I said, surprised at the harshness of my own tone. “That doesn’t sound like a mistake. Someone put them in her baby bottle.”
“The police must have mixed up the blood,” Doreen said, undisturbed by my tone. “Rebekah wasn’t drugged.”
I was about to say something else when Tinkie stomped my foot so hard I thought her stiletto heel had gone through muscle, bone, and tendon. I stumbled back into the cell across the aisle, grasping the bars for support.
“What if this isn’t a mistake?” Tinkie asked very gently. “What if someone did . . . something to Rebekah? Is there someone who might have wanted to hurt your baby? Or you?”
Doreen blinked. “No. No one would want to hurt either of us.”
“What about the father?” I inserted.
“He has nothing to do with this. Nothing.”
“We’ll still need to talk to him,” I said.
“No, I don’t think so,” Doreen answered with a hint of polished steel. “You’ll have to take my word on it. He isn’t involved.”
“Tell us about your ministry,” Tinkie said, giving me a “back-off” look. “I understand you’re a preacher.”
“Not a preacher,” Doreen said. “More like a teacher. I try to show people how to live in peace and freedom. With themselves and others. The first step toward harmony is always made with ourselves.”
“I understand you can work miracles?” I said, wary of Tinkie’s right heel. She’d obviously taken a liking to Doreen Mallory and was ready to defend her.
Doreen’s smile was amused. “Everyone can work miracles, Ms. Delaney. I’m no exception.”
“But you have healed people?”
She considered it. “No, I can’t really claim that I’ve healed people. On some occasions, I’ve shown people how to leave illness behind.”
“Sort of like checking your coat at the door?” I asked, stepping away from Tinkie before she stomped me again.
“Yes, sort of like that,” Doreen said, not the least offended by my flippancy. “If you believe the weather outside is warm, you don’t need your coat. Illness is sort of like that. If you don’t believe you need it, you can leave it behind.”
“Science of mind?” I asked.
“Nothing that formal. This is very simple. It has to do with thought and energy,” Doreen answered, and I got the feeling she was trying to explain herself to me in a way that I’d grasp. “May I ask you a question?”
“Me?” I was surprised, but nodded. “Sure.”
“Why do you invest so much of your energy in the past, Ms. Delaney?”
When Doreen Mallory turned her green gaze on me, I felt totally naked. And exposed. “I’m not really the issue here,” I said, deflecting the question. “What do you call yourself?”
“Doreen Mallory,” she said, not bothering to hide her amusement at my discomfort. “As I’m sure you know, it isn’t my birth name. There was an older nun at the convent who cared for me most of the time. Her name had been Mallory before she took her vows.”
“I was asking what title you applied to yourself. Reverend, doctor, what?”
“I have no title and need none. Just Doreen is fine. Can you tell me about my mother?”
“What do you want to know?” I hedged. I didn’t believe Doreen was a miracle worker, but I didn’t see the need to tell her that her mother had been considered the town crazy.
Doreen’s calm gaze never faltered. “I only found out a few weeks ago where I really came from. I thought perhaps my birth mother would have some answers about Robert’s syndrome, which is a genetic condition. The nuns finally broke down and told me enough about how I came to live at Rosebriar that I was able to piece things together and find Lillith. It was too late, though; she was already dead.”
It was the first hint of a chip in her perfect composure. Her daughter’s many medical problems had sent her looking for answers into a past that, if Lillith Lucas was truly her mother, could hold only unpleasant surprises for her. But at least she’d made an attempt. That made me feel a little better about her.
“We didn’t know Lillith well,” Tinkie, ever the diplomat, answered. She didn’t say that we were all terrified of Lillith because she had the fire of madness in her eyes and a tangle of gray hair that looked like Spanish moss. “The only thing we really knew about Lillith was that she was a religious woman. Some might say obsessed with religion.”
“Everyone considered her crazy, didn’t they?” Doreen asked.
Tinkie stepped closer to the bars and studied Doreen’s face. “Yes. I’m sorry, but most folks in town thought she was a little mad. We kids were afraid of her. She waited for us on street corners, yelling Bible verses at us. We avoided her whenever possible. To be honest, I don’t ever remember looking her in the face.”
Doreen’s hands went to the bars. Her slender fingers circled them. “Sheriff Peters told me a little about her. And that woman in his office said Lillith was insane. She told me she burned to death. And she said Lillith was nothing more than a whore who used religion to intimidate people out of their money.”
“I wouldn’t give you a plugged nickel for anything Rinda Stonecypher said.” It aggravated me that Rinda could be so unnecessarily cruel.
“No one in town knew my mother had a child?” Doreen asked.
I shook my head. “None of us,” Tinkie said. “Of course, grown-ups didn’t talk about stuff like that in front of us kids, but we would have heard it somewhere. I’d have to say that somehow Lillith kept your birth a secret.”
“She must have felt very alone and isolated,” Doreen said.
“Lillith was obsessed with sex. That’s mostly what she preached against. We never considered that she was having sex, much less that she’d had a baby.”
Doreen smiled. “So often it’s the demons we rail against in others who have us by the neck.”
“Do you believe in demons? In possession?” I asked, wondering if she might have killed her baby in some attempt to cast out the evil demons of medical illness.
“No, not the kind you’re thinking of. Rebekah wasn’t possessed by Satan. To me, she was beautiful. I felt her spirit. She was truly a gift from God, even with all of her problems. She came to show me something wonderful, and then she returned to paradise.”
/> For one split second, I caught the power of peace that Doreen Mallory offered. To honestly believe that your baby’s death was part of a plan, part of something other than horrible bad luck and the normal grind of human suffering—that would be nothing short of miraculous.
But only a madwoman could really believe such a thing. As I stared into Doreen’s calm green eyes, I wondered exactly who lived there.
“Coleman said you were at Pine Level Cemetery when he picked you up,” Tinkie said.
Doreen nodded. “I went to visit my mother. I needed to talk to her.”
“Doreen, you know she’s dead.” Tinkie was very gentle.
“Exactly what is death?” Doreen countered. “Her physical body has been shed, but that doesn’t mean her spirit, her energy, is gone.”
“Oh, so she’s just hanging out at Pine Level?” I asked.
“It was the only place I knew to go. I don’t have any idea where she lived in Sunflower County. I wanted to feel close to her. Sometimes the easiest way to do that is to go somewhere familiar to a spirit.”
“Did you talk to her?” Tinkie asked.
“I was just beginning, when this older woman came up to put some flowers on a grave. I chatted with her instead. She told me a good bit about my mother. I think perhaps Lillith sent her to me.”
Doreen had a neat way of turning events in her favor. She wanted to talk to her dead mother, but a live person showed up. Very convenient.
The door between the jail and the sheriff’s office opened and Coleman ushered in a short woman in a flowing aqua habit. Coleman took in the scene before he closed the door, giving us our privacy.
The sister hurried toward us, worry etching a line between her eyebrows. “Michael is taking care of everything, but your followers are worried. The sisters have been praying nonstop. The sheriff says he can’t set bond, that it’s in the hands of the New Orleans justice system—as if there were such a thing!” The small woman almost hummed with angst and energy.
“Sister Mary Magdalen,” Doreen said. “You shouldn’t have come all this way. I’m fine.”
Though we were standing only a few feet from her, Tinkie and I didn’t register on the nun. She had eyes only for Doreen. “I look at you behind those bars and I feel an awful fear.” Her eyes were large, her face pale.
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