Listening to Tinkie talk about past intrigues and romances that were Black and Orange legends, I felt a creeping excitement. Mollie had taken my measurements and assured me that my dress would rival anything there. I had ultimate faith in her. She’d have it ready in plenty of time, and it would be magnificent.
“We’ll have to go to Dillon’s Dominoes and get masks. Something with feathers!” Tinkie said, ticking off her list on her fingers. “And shoes! There’s a terrific shop uptown. Walking into that store is an erotic experience. The beautiful design of the shoes, the smell of new leather.” She sighed.
I was tempted to tease her that our visit to the jail would also be a visual and olfactory experience, but I didn’t. Tinkie’s pleasure was too pure to taint with an uglier whiff of reality.
We swung over the city, viewing the New Orleans business district of high-rises in the distance. We exited the interstate and looped down onto Canal, one of the boundary streets of the old French Quarter. Parking is always at a premium in New Orleans, and fortunately the hotel garage offered both convenience and security. We still had plenty of time for a leisurely lunch after we were registered and had been shown to our individual luxury rooms.
The saying is that there are no bad meals in New Orleans, and it’s almost true. You have to hunt hard for bad food in New Orleans. We ate shrimp and oyster po’boys at a restaurant that had once been the site of slave auctions, then took a cab to the NOPD district that was handling the investigation of Rebekah’s murder.
Detective LeMont was at his desk, his dark eyes cool as he recognized me. I introduced Tinkie as my partner.
“Arraignment is tomorrow morning,” he said brusquely. “The DA is going to ask for a high bond.”
“Why?” I asked, going into battle mode.
“She left town once. She has access to money.” He leaned forward. “She’s a nutcase. Her baby has been murdered, but it’s okay, because ‘death is just a transition.’ She’s just ‘energy that will never be lost.’ ”
Oh, great. Doreen had really pissed this guy off. Tinkie stepped into the challenge with the sweetest of smiles. “It does sound a little unbelievable,” she said, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. She gave him a troubled look before the full, lush lip popped out. LeMont was mesmerized. “Doreen has to believe her baby is in a better place or else this would kill her. Maybe all of this talk is just a defense mechanism. But she isn’t going to run away from this. Remember, she wasn’t under arrest or even suspicion when she went to Sunflower County. And she didn’t resist when the sheriff picked her up. She’s willing to cooperate, because if someone did kill her baby, she wants that person to pay.”
“There is no if. Rebekah Mallory was murdered.” He stacked a pile of file folders, which slid back over as soon as he put them on his desk. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“We need to speak with Doreen.”
“We’re not running a hotel here. She’s been with her lawyer all morning. Now the two of you are here. I should be her appointment secretary.”
Perhaps it was just in LeMont’s nature to grouse. Some men were like that. I gave him a smile. “We can’t do our job if we can’t talk to our client.”
“And I can’t do my job if you people keep interrupting me. There are other crimes to be solved, you know.” He handed me a slip of paper. “They’ll let one of you see her. Only one. Now I’ve got work to do.”
We were dismissed, and we stepped out into the hallway. I looked at the paper, which bore the address of the city lockup. “I’ll go talk to Doreen,” I said, wanting to spare Tinkie what I knew was going to be a bad scene.
“No, I want to see her.” Tinkie put a hand on my arm. She was dressed to the nines in a sienna silk pantsuit. Her suede heels were a perfect match.
“You aren’t exactly dressed for the jail,” I noted in a low voice. I’d opted for jeans and a blue sweater.
“Don’t you worry about me.” She took the paper from my hand. “I need to talk to her about her books. And I want her to tell me a little about Michael Anderson.”
I nodded.
“I’ll try to get her take on him.” She grinned at me. “Other than the fact that he doesn’t believe in love.”
In truth, I was itching to talk to both the senator and the televangelist. I didn’t care which one I got to first. Guilt made me stop in my tracks. “Are you sure, Tinkie?” I had a horrible picture of her walking down a line of cells while some pervert hurled bodily fluids at her, à la The Silence of the Lambs.
“I’m your partner, not your little girl. I can do this. No one’s going to bite me.”
Yikes. Tinkie was touchy this morning. Maybe she’d caught it from LeMont. “Okay,” I agreed as we walked out onto the sidewalk. I waved down a taxi. Running the risk of her ire yet again, I held the door open for her and sent her on her way. Once she was gone, I pulled out my cell phone and began rounding up the numbers I’d need to get to both Oren Weaver and Thaddeus Clay. Michael Anderson would be last, per Tinkie’s request.
STANDING ON THE shady front porch of the huge home, I listened to the somber tone of the doorbell. Senator Clay’s residence showed all the traditional grace of the South. A maid opened the door and showed me in.
“Mrs. Clay will be with you in a moment,” she said, indicating a formal parlor where I should wait.
“Excuse me, but my business is with the senator,” I reminded her.
She gave me a sidelong look. “Mrs. Clay will be here momentarily.” She was gone before I could raise another protest.
I took a seat and picked up one of the fashion magazines that featured the unmistakable image of El, the senator’s wife.
She’d been a cover girl for Vogue, Mademoiselle, Esquire, Modern Bride, Health & Fitness, Glamour, Paris, and Europe’s Trends—every major magazine in the world. She was renowned on the runway and helped host the Cannes Film Festival each year. She was becoming a power to be reckoned with in the art world. And she ran the regional United Way fund drive. She was the perfect accoutrement for a U.S. senator with the ambition to be president. She’d taken Jackie O’s attitude and put a spin on it that resonated with the culture of the new millennium—wealth, arrogance, and self-centeredness.
When she walked into the room, I almost stood. She commanded that kind of attention. I caught myself and waited for her to walk to me. Her gaze swept over me and one eyebrow lifted.
“Mrs. Clay,” I said, extending my hand and giving her my name, though I knew she knew it. “I was hoping to talk to your husband.”
“He’s a very busy man. What’s this about?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t discuss this with you. I need to speak with him.”
“His business is my business.”
“I don’t doubt that, but I have to talk to him.” I saw the anger in her dark eyes. Her skin was flawless, her makeup perfection. She was very beautiful and very hard.
“I don’t think he’s available.” She gave me a practiced smile that touched only the corners of her mouth.
“That’s too bad. I was hoping to avoid taking this to the police.” I rose.
“If this is blackmail, you can forget it. We don’t pay ransom. I’ll turn it over to my family. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Boudets.” The smile was much bigger, revealing perfect white teeth.
“Oh, yes. Even over in Mississippi the Boudets are well known.” I pulled a business card from my purse and handed it to her. “I assure you, your husband will wish he’d spoken with me. I know the way out.”
I was at the front door when I heard someone behind me. The tread was heavier than the maid’s.
“Ms. Delaney,” a baritone voice called. “Please wait a minute.”
I turned to see the very distinguished senator hurrying my way. “I apologize for Ellisea. She’s just trying to protect me.” He grasped my elbow. “What is it you’d like to speak to me about?”
Ellisea was probably lurking just around the doorframe. I had to use discretion.
“It’s a matter of religious principle,” I said. “Separation of church and state. Ms. Mallory said I could count on you.”
It was the use of Doreen’s name that got him. He flushed and propelled me across the hallway into a book-lined study. He closed the double doors and turned the key. When he came around to stand in front of me, he’d composed himself. “What is this again, and forget the riddles: Just come out and say it.”
“Doreen Mallory’s been charged with the murder of her infant child.”
He didn’t register surprise, so someone else had told him. The skin beneath his sharp blue eyes was bruised-looking, and wrinkles were etched around his eyes and mouth. The senator had not been sleeping well.
“I hate to hear that. I enjoy Doreen’s spirit. She believes very much in the things she teaches.”
“So you don’t deny knowing her?” I asked.
“Of course not. I’ve known her for over a year now. She’s dedicated to teaching people. I’ve been one of her top projects.”
“Do you deny sleeping with her?”
That stunned him. “She told you we were sexual partners?” he asked.
I took note of the fact that he didn’t say they were lovers or were in a relationship. They were sexual partners. Doreen’s gift of love hadn’t grafted well. “Yes, in fact, she did.” I got my notebook out of my purse. “You’ve been lovers since last summer. There is the possibility that you’re the father of her child.”
“No.” He stepped away from me. “No, that’s not true. I’m not the father. Rebekah isn’t my child.”
“How much did you know about the baby?” I asked. His reaction told me plenty.
“I knew she was born with a serious medical condition. I offered Doreen the best doctors in New Orleans, and she took Rebekah there. But there wasn’t anything they could do. Rebekah was going to die, probably before her first birthday.”
He had begun to recover his balance and he paced the room. “Doreen never said anything about me being the father. She never said a word. I’m positive it was someone else. Did she say it was me?”
I shook my head. “No.” He was telling me so much more than he knew. “But she said you were a possibility.”
“She had other lovers,” he said, pacing once again.
“She told you that?” I kept my voice level.
“Doreen was forthright about her life. She felt no need to hide any aspect of it. And I am a cautious man.”
I understood. “You had her followed.”
He gave me a reproachful look. “I did.”
“Who else was she sleeping with?” I had to be very careful here. I needed to know exactly what he knew.
“That’s a question you should ask Doreen,” he said.
My opinion of his intelligence notched up. “You had her followed but you never got a name?”
He walked to a crystal decanter on a sofa table and poured what looked like scotch into a glass. “Care for one?” he asked.
“No, thank you.” It was bad form to drink with a suspect.
“I want you to do something for me,” he said, coming to stand in front of me. “Doreen is a good woman. I don’t know what’s going on here, but tell her I’ll help her any way I can, as long as she keeps my name out of this. I sent a lawyer to talk to her this morning. I’m picking up the tab for him and he’s a good one. But she can’t let my name get involved in this.”
“What if you’re the baby’s father?” I asked.
“I’m not.” There was iron in his words. “That poor, deformed infant was not my issue. As long as it stays this way, Doreen will have the help she needs from me. But if my name is so much as linked to hers—” He sipped his drink.
I tugged my sweater down my hips. I was ready to go. “Distancing yourself from that baby seems to be a very high priority, Senator Clay. I just wonder how far you’re willing to go to keep that distance. As far as murder?”
This time no one stopped me at the door as I walked out into the October sunshine.
9
COMPOUND WAS THE PROPER TERM FOR REVEREND OREN WEAVER’S home. Chain-link fence with concertina wire secured the perimeter, enforced by armed guards who weren’t the least bit discreet about the automatic weapons they carried.
Even though I’d called ahead and left my name, they made me get out of the car and stand in the bright sun. “What’s the reverend afraid of? That hordes of the halt and lame will try to break in and get a free healing?” I asked.
The guards had no sense of humor. They held me at the gate for twenty minutes, but I didn’t mind. I’d stopped by the hotel garage and gotten the convertible. Once they let me get back in my car, I pretended to take a nap in the warm October sun.
“Reverend Weaver says he doesn’t have time to talk to you today,” the guard said when he finally approached me.
“Tell him Doreen Mallory says otherwise. He can see me or he can see the police. And please tell him that I’ll be sure and alert the media when the cops come calling.” I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest.
It took another ten minutes and a pat down, but I was finally allowed to drive up to the “big house.” Weaver’s home, surrounded by smaller cottages, was classic Tara. I could only presume the hired help, or maybe the postulants, lived in the cottages. The grounds were immaculate, and I wondered how he kept the huge palm trees alive during the infrequent cold snaps that could strike the Gulf Coast.
He met me in the foyer and made it clear with his body language that I shouldn’t expect to proceed farther into his home. His height surprised me. He was over six feet, with a body toned and lean. Dark hair was combed back in a pompadour, and he bore a slight resemblance to Elvis Presley. In other words, he was a fine-looking man.
I’d expected Weaver to be wearing a white suit with a Panama hat, but instead he wore somber navy with a red stockbroker tie—rather conservative. Then again, I’d heard he was a big contributor to political causes that ranged from oil-drilling in the Gulf and Alaska to war as a means of economic recovery.
“Make it fast. I have to give an interview in twenty minutes and I need to go over my notes,” he said without bothering to introduce himself. He was on television at least eight hours a week, from his own religious service to talk shows about the Second Coming to Christian investment opportunities and world news with a Christian slant. In other words, wherever the Devil was doing his dirty work, which was mostly in the right ear of all liberals.
“Where were you on the night of October first?” I asked, deciding to oblige him and make it fast.
“What?” He frowned at me. “You said this was about a woman named Doreen Mallory.”
“It is. And about October first. Where were you that night?”
“Right here. Where I am every night, except when I’m on a healing tour.”
If he wasn’t genuinely puzzled, he was a good actor, which of course he was. But the date of Rebekah’s murder didn’t seem to register with him.
“What’s your relationship with Doreen?”
“I’ve been counseling her,” he said smoothly. “Doreen has tremendous spiritual potential, but she’s caught up on one of Satan’s side paths. She believes she can heal folks, but she doesn’t believe her gift comes from Jesus Christ. I’ve been talking with her about the power of Jesus and how all things come from him. She has to first admit the source of all miracles before she can become a true healer.”
I was fascinated by the spin he was putting on the time he spent with Doreen, especially since I knew that the form of intercourse he’d been having with Doreen wasn’t talk therapy. “What, exactly, does counseling consist of?” I asked innocently.
“Reading the Bible and praying.”
“And do you lay hands on her?” It wasn’t my most subtle remark, and he narrowed his eyes.
“What are you doing here and why did Doreen send you? Is it money?”
“You could only wish it was as simple as money,” I said, smiling.
&nb
sp; “What are you talking about?”
“Doreen’s in jail.”
“What?” He was genuinely shocked.
“I gather you don’t watch much television news, except for the headlines you generate.”
“I hate reporters. They snoop where they don’t belong and twist everything. Why’s Doreen in jail?”
Once again, Oren Weaver seemed to be honestly surprised. But he’d also seemed sincere when he was lying about his activities with Doreen. “She had a child, a baby girl, about ten weeks ago.”
“Yes, Rebekah. She told me about her. It was a terrible thing, that little deformed baby. Doreen should take note—”
“The child was murdered,” I cut in. “Doreen’s been charged.”
“That’s preposterous. Doreen wouldn’t hurt that baby. She was terribly excited about having a child. Even after Rebekah was born, she spoke of her only with joy.”
“Did you ever see the baby?”
He shook his head. “No. Doreen was very clear that Rebekah was her special child. She didn’t want me to see her.”
“Do you know who the father was?”
“Ask Doreen.”
“I did.”
I let that hang out there while he thought it through. It took only a nanosecond for it to strike home. Fear washed over his face, but it was quickly replaced with concern.
“I don’t know who Doreen was involved with,” he said. “She’s a strong-minded woman. I always suspected that she charted her own course in the physical world, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I know what you mean to imply,” I said calmly. “You mean to imply that Doreen slept around.”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“But did she sleep around with you?” I asked.
“That’s preposterous.”
“Reverend Weaver,” I said slowly, “the police have blood samples from the infant. It’s a rather simple DNA test to prove paternity. Now wouldn’t it look terribly suspicious if you denied sleeping with Doreen and Rebekah’s DNA matched yours. That would lead me, and the police, to believe that you are a liar.”
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