“Tinkie, don’t put your faith—”
“It’s my faith to put, Sarah Booth. Just because you don’t believe, don’t push that off on me.”
“Tinkie, I believe Doreen’s a good woman, but can—a lump isn’t something to mess with.”
Her face had paled at my near mention of the dreaded word. “I’ll be fine, Sarah Booth,” she said, her normally full mouth a thin, hard line. “I’ll be just fine if you don’t push it too hard.”
She stood up, dropped her napkin on the table, and walked out of the restaurant.
14
PULLING INTO THE DRIVEWAY OF DAHLIA HOUSE, I WAS GREETED BY Reveler’s welcoming whinny. Sweetie Pie, too, got in on the action. She flew down the steps with so much speed that she nearly knocked me off my feet when she slammed into me. Her drumming tail beat a welcome on my knees as she reared up to lick my face. Lee and Kip had done a good job caring for my pets, but I had been missed.
A drape in the parlor fluttered, and I ran up the steps to say hello to Jitty. I opened the front door, expecting a greeting, but the parlor was empty. The undulating sheers were the result of wind blowing through a crack in the window.
“Jitty!” I’d actually missed the haint.
“Sarah Booth.”
I whirled to find her standing in the door. Lounging, actually. She held a cigarette in a long black holder, but it wasn’t lit.
“I’m only home for the night,” I explained. “I had to get my dress fitted.”
“The Black and Orange Ball,” Jitty said. “Sounds exciting.” Her dress was short, the material threaded with gold.
“You look like you’re getting ready to go to your own ball. You look beautiful.” She was always elegant, but this dress was particularly flattering.
She lifted the cigarette holder. “You look sad.”
I frowned. “I do have a lot on my mind. I don’t know if I can help Doreen.”
“And you don’t believe that Doreen can help Tinkie.”
“I wish I did.” I slumped onto the horsehair sofa. “I feel like I’m failing Tinkie as a friend because I can’t believe.”
Jitty stepped, or slinked would be a more accurate description, to the sofa and sat on the arm. “If Tinkie truly believes, nothin’ you do will shake her faith.”
I sighed and flopped back so I was gazing at the ceiling. “I wish I could believe.”
I felt a chill slip over my body. When Jitty didn’t answer, I lifted my head. She was standing by the mantel, a painting of Great-great-grandfather Delaney hanging above her. He was Alice’s husband. He went to war and never returned, leaving Jitty and Grandmother Alice to save the plantation. And they did.
“Faith is something each person comes to on her own,” Jitty said. The cigarette holder was gone from her hand, and it seemed that even the gold threads in her dress had lost some of their glitter. In fact, Jitty was less substantial.
“I know that, Jitty. I just don’t know how to get faith.”
She shook her head. “Seek it.”
“That sounds like a hocus-pocus answer.” I was a little aggravated. I remembered Trina’s face and the soft glow of belief that had made her seem youthful and innocent. How was it that everyone could find faith but me?
“The act of searching is a journey, Sarah Booth. It’s individual. I wish I could help, but I can’t.”
“I don’t even know where to look!” I stood up and went to the bar. I needed a stiff Jack Daniel’s, not a lot of new-age foolishness.
“I wish your mama was here.”
“I do, too.” My tone was a little snappy, so I softened it. “Did Mama believe?”
“Not like the Baptists or the Methodists or the Catholics, but she believed.” Jitty laughed softly. “She believed in herself, Sarah Booth. And she believed in her husband and in you.”
“I can believe in people. That’s not so hard,” I said, realizing the moment the words left my lips that I was lying. It was very difficult to believe in another person.
“Do you believe in yourself?” Jitty asked.
“Sometimes.”
She smiled, but her dark eyes were shadowed with sadness. “That’s not good enough.”
The ice bucket was empty so I poured a finger of Jack into a highball glass. I held it up, admiring the play of light in the amber liquor and the cut glass.
“You have to believe in yourself before you can believe in anyone else,” Jitty said. She wasn’t lecturing; she was trying to help.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I told her.
“Look into the eyes of your friends. See what reflection you see.” She came back to the sofa and sat beside me.
Sweetie joined us, too. She sat on top of my feet, her soulful eyes gazing up at me.
“The day you were born,” Jitty said, “your mama lifted you up right into a shaft of light that came through the window. Your mama said, ‘This is my baby girl, a gift to me and the world.’ That’s what she thought of you.”
My Aunt LouLane had told me that same story when my parents were killed. I hadn’t thought of it in years.
“Your friends see you as a gift, Sarah Booth. That’s how you’ve got to see yourself.” She arched her handsome eyebrows. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t trip and wallow in the hog shit ever’ now and then.”
“Thank goodness you said something mean. I was beginning to thing you’d become some kind of fairy godmother while I was away.” That would have really worried me.
“Don’t go getting any ideas that fairy tales come true. Just remember, your foot’s too big for any glass slipper. What size you wear? A ten?”
I took my first sip of the Jack and let out a sigh. I was home. It might be a sign of mental illness, but I’d missed Jitty’s harangues and I’d missed my hound and my horse.
“Then again, it might take a fairy godmother to get you a man.” Jitty stood up and began pacing in front of the sofa. “I bet you’re home to call that lawman.”
I shifted my weight.
“Quit squirmin’. That’s a sure sign I’ve hit on the truth. You’re back in Zinnia so you can tempt that sheriff.”
“You like Coleman,” I pointed out.
“He’s married.”
“Unhappily.”
“Sarah Booth,” Jitty said with a warning note in her voice, “don’t go triflin’ with another woman’s man. That’s white-trashy behavior.”
“I have no intention of trifling with Coleman. Or anyone else.”
Jitty’s lips pursed as she studied me. “You might not do it, but you want to.”
“What I want doesn’t matter. Coleman is married, and his wife is pregnant.”
“She may be terminally dumb, but at least she trapped a sperm.”
“Jitty!” I’d had enough. “I’m going to get my dress fitted.” I didn’t give her a chance to dog me more. I hurried out the front door and headed to Mollie’s.
Sweetie Pie met me at the car, and I motioned to her to jump in. I put on her black sunglasses and tied a scarf around her ears to keep the wind from blowing them. We blasted down the driveway, scattering sycamore leaves in our backwind.
I drove through town, noticing for the first time the Bradford pear trees changing color in front of the bank. The oaks on the courthouse square were bare of leaves, and the statue of Johnny Reb looked more worn and tarnished. I passed Deputy Dewayne Dattilo parking at Millie’s, tooted my horn, and continued out County Road 42.
October had brought the first dry weather since last April, and I slowed the car to look at the cotton fields that stretched for miles on either side of the road. The cotton bolls had split wide, the huge white tufts exploding. Some of the fields had already been picked, and in the distance I could see one of the huge combines at work. It moved across the land, sucking the cotton off the plants and leaving behind black, empty stalks. The machine harvested seven rows at a time. It was a monster of efficiency.
With the dry spell, the cotton farmers were busy, as were t
he hay farmers over near Blue Eve. The October moon was the Hunter’s Moon, but harvest was the true theme.
In the distance I saw the gray monuments that marked the cemetery where Lillith was buried. Even though I was pressed for time, I pulled into the cemetery and stopped. The angel in the blaze of fire was easy to spot. I walked over to her. It was the most artistically impressive monument I’d ever seen.
I read the troubling inscription once again. “Born of fire, she perished in flame.”
The lilies that had been fresh a few days ago had wilted and died. I picked them up and carried them away with me.
Mollie’s house was a short drive from the cemetery, and when I pulled up in the yard, she stepped out on the porch to greet me.
“Hurry up, Sarah Booth,” she said. “I’m itching to hem this dress.”
I almost sprinted up the steps and into the house, but in the doorway I stopped in my tracks. The dress was facing me on a dressmaker’s dummy. Orange material swirled over the left breast and black over the right. A diamond-shaped placket of orange and black sequins joined the material just below the breasts. The skirt, tea length in front and floor length in back, was a flowing mixture of orange and black swags of chiffon.
“It’s magnificent,” I said, walking around to view the bare back. “Mollie, it’s incredible.”
“There’s a lot of skirt there, Sarah Booth. Slip it on so I can start the hem.”
I wasn’t wearing the appropriate undergarments, but it didn’t matter. The dress slipped on like a second skin.
“Here.” Mollie handed me a mask, one side orange sequins and the other black. I slipped it on. “It’s the best, Mollie.” I hugged her tightly.
“I knew it would suit. I made a lot of clothes for your mama, Sarah Booth. This is a dress she would have loved.”
I blinked back the tears and smiled. “I’m going to be the belle of the ball.”
“You’d be that in a flour sack.” Mollie led me to a small dais as she spoke. “Now stand up here so I can work on the hem. You’ve got some sexy shoes, right?”
“Some black heels,” I said, going up on tiptoe. “They’re wonderful. Nothing but straps.”
“That’s good. Now hold still.” She knelt at my feet and started the tedious work of pinning up the hem.
“How’s Bernard?”
“Fine. He’s up at The Club. There’s a party there tonight.” There was the rustle of the pins. “Tammy was by here this morning. She’s worried about you.”
“Tammy?” I was surprised. Tammy Odom, known in town as Madame Tomeeka, was a longtime friend. “Why?”
“She had a dream about you.”
“And?”
“She said you were in a white room with sheer white curtains dancing in the breeze. She said the room was bare, except for you and a black wolf and a lion.”
“Great. I’m destined to be lunch.”
Mollie wasn’t going to be distracted from her story. “She said you held out a hand to each of the wild beasts. They both came up to you. You rested your hand on their heads. And then you had to choose. One or the other.”
My stomach had knotted to the point that I thought I was going to be sick.
“It’s only a dream.” I forced the words out in a light tone.
“Tammy was crying.” Mollie spoke softly. “She’s worried about you. She said it wasn’t a fair choice.”
“A wolf or a lion.” I visualized both animals. They were both powerful. Both predators.
“I’ll give Tammy a call,” I said as Mollie motioned me down from the dais. She’d worked quickly.
“Do that, Sarah Booth. And watch out for choices. Some of them are all bad.”
I kissed her and slipped back into my clothes. My stomach was still knotted as I headed home.
Instead of going through Zinnia, I took a back road. I was only a mile from Dahlia House when I saw the blue lights in my mirror and heard the siren. I braked and pulled over. I hadn’t been speeding or violating any traffic laws. I wasn’t being apprehended for a traffic violation. It was much worse.
Coleman pulled the patrol car in behind me and got out. He was wearing sunglasses that concealed his eyes. I watched him approach in my rearview mirror. If my stomach was knotted before, now it was snarled.
“Sarah Booth,” he said as he put his hands on the window. “And Sweetie Pie. A lovely duo out for a drive?”
“How are you, Coleman?” I reached up and removed the sunglasses.
“I’ve been better.”
No kidding, I thought. He looked like he hadn’t slept in five years.
“The case is a mess,” I admitted. “I came home to get a dress fitted.”
He laughed out loud, and I felt a smile tug at my mouth. It was good to hear him laugh, even if it was at me. “Appearances are very important to a private investigator. After all, who wants to hire someone who looks tacky?”
He laughed again and leaned down. “I’ve missed you.”
“Don’t—”
“I won’t lie, Sarah Booth. I have missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” I said. “Come by Dahlia House and have a drink. I’ll tell you about the case.”
15
I POURED US BOTH A DOUBLE JACK AND HANDED COLEMAN A glass. “Are you off duty?” I teased.
“I just clocked myself out,” he answered. My fingers brushed his as he took the glass, and I felt a dangerous sensation race through me.
He took the wing chair, leaving me the sofa. I found that as I talked about Doreen and the case, I relaxed. Coleman and I had been friends long before we’d let stronger emotions flare between us. Friendship was the ground we had to rediscover.
“So you honestly believe Doreen is innocent?” He sipped his drink as he waited for my answer.
“Do you think I’m a sucker?”
He shook his head. “There’s something about Doreen, a . . . a gentleness.” He paused. “I did a little digging in the records, just to satisfy my own curiosity. Lillith was arrested in 1963 on a charge of public drunkenness. The arresting officer was Coot Henderson.”
I remembered Coot. He was a good-looking man with a quick smile who, on occasion, turned his head when he saw an underage teenager driving. “He’s living out around Blue Eve, isn’t he? He hasn’t been a policeman for a long, long time.”
“He started drinking. Bad. The county had to let him go.” Coleman held up his glass to check the level. “Hell, even Marshal Dillon had a drink every now and again.”
“Are you drinking too much?” His color didn’t look good.
“Not nearly enough.” He shook his head. “Let’s talk about your case. I’m not a worthy subject.”
I started to protest but felt the ice cracking around my heart. I retreated to my case. “Doreen loved that baby.”
“But she couldn’t heal her.”
“That’s not grounds for murder.”
“Normally, no. But Doreen is a long way from normal.” Coleman’s gaze shifted out the window. The sun was setting and the sky was a glowing peach. It was a color that made me think of Tinkie.
“Do you think Doreen can heal people?”
Something in my voice must have given me away. Coleman’s gaze zeroed in on me with sudden intensity. “Are you okay? You’re not sick, are you?”
Tears gathered in my eyes, and though I tried to will them away, one slipped down my cheek.
“Sarah Booth,” he said, sliding from the chair to his knees. He was beside me in a split second. “Are you sick?” His hand hovered over mine but didn’t touch me. He knew the danger of the simplest of touches.
I shook my head. “I’m perfectly fine.” But the tears, once started, wouldn’t stop leaking.
“You don’t look fine.”
He was on his knees looking up at me, his hands lightly touching my arms. He was way too close. “I’m really okay.”
He stood up. “I don’t think so. I’m going to call Tinkie right now and ask her what’s wrong.”
He started toward the telephone.
“Coleman, don’t call Tinkie.”
Something in my voice stopped him. He turned slowly. “It’s Tinkie, isn’t it? Something’s wrong with her.”
Coleman was a perceptive man. Now that he had the scent, he wouldn’t give up until he knew the answer. “She has a lump.”
“My God,” Coleman said. “Is it cancer?”
I took a deep breath. “They don’t know.” Relief softened his face.
“It could be anything,” he said. “Lot’s of women get lumps and they aren’t malignant.”
“I know.” I inhaled, belatedly remembering that crying made my eyes all red and swollen. Even worse, I needed a tissue. “But what if it’s bad? Do you think Doreen can fix it?”
Coleman reached into his pocket and produced a clean white handkerchief. He handed it to me and managed not to watch while I blew my nose. “Don’t go borrowing trouble, Sarah Booth.”
“Where have I heard that before?” I asked, rolling my eyes.
He rocked back on his heels. “Tinkie’s still in New Orleans?”
“She’s on the case,” I said with a large degree of pride. Tinkie was no quitter. I had excellent taste in partners.
“What does she think about Doreen?”
“She thinks Doreen can heal her.”
That stopped Coleman. “Does she believe Doreen’s innocent?”
“I guess we both believe it.”
“So who killed the baby?”
“My bet is on one of the potential fathers.” I filled him in on what I had learned, delighting in his shock and surprise at the names I listed. It was good to bounce my theories off Coleman. Unlike me, he was objective and trained.
“Do you have a favorite?” he asked.
“The senator has the most to lose, but Oren Weaver is running a close second. Michael Anderson could be the father, but so far Tinkie hasn’t turned up any financial impropriety that would give him a motive. There’s also the maid, Pearline Brewer. She has opportunity and she’s been impossible to talk to.”
“Keep me posted.” Coleman stood up. He put his glass on the sideboard. “I have to get home.”
“How is Connie?” I made it sound as sincere as I could.
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