After ten minutes, I turned to leave. There was more than one way to skin a cat. I’d deal with the senator later; I felt a need to get back to the hotel to check on Tinkie. I was worried how her meeting with Doreen had gone.
Just as I made it down the steps, the front door opened and the senator stepped outside. Before he closed the door, I heard Ellisea.
“My brother can take care of her. And I just might call him. You’re too spineless to step on a roach. You—” He slammed the door and took a deep breath.
“My wife believes abuse is what motivates a man to greatness.” He looked me dead in the eye. “What do you want?”
“I want to know why you were providing a housecleaner and maid for Doreen.”
He inhaled. “So you found out about Pearline.”
“Yes. It’s a little strange, don’t you think?”
“Pearline is a good worker. She’s also good with babies. She needed a full-time job, and Ellisea doesn’t want her at the house five days a week.” He shrugged. “I sent her to Doreen on Tuesdays and Thursdays. To help out.”
“You cared about Doreen, didn’t you?” Thaddeus was married to a viper. It was easy to see that someone as gentle and kind as Doreen might appeal to him.
“I did,” he hesitated. “I do.”
“Where is Pearline?”
“Lafayette, Louisiana. Her mother is ill. She’s been there since Doreen was arrested.”
At least I was getting the same story. Still, it was mighty convenient.
“I’ll find her eventually. Do you have any idea why she might be hiding?”
The senator’s eyebrows drew together. “She loved Rebekah. I know she stayed with her some nights when Doreen was preaching. She volunteered to stay.” He stopped talking and looked down at his shoes. “Pearline told me one time that Rebekah was an angel.”
I swallowed. Some might think that was a lovely sentiment. To me, it sounded ominous. “Do you think Pearline could have given Rebekah something to make her sleep?”
“Not with any malice. Maybe . . . No, I just don’t see Pearline doing anything that would endanger that baby.”
“If you hear from Pearline, tell her I’m looking for her.”
“I will. And, Miss Delaney— Please don’t come here again. It only upsets Ellisea.”
We stared at each other a moment. I made no promises.
THE HOTEL DESK was busy, so I didn’t wait to see if Tinkie might have left me a message. I went straight to her room. My knock went unanswered.
My room was next door, so I went there hoping to see the little red light on the telephone blinking a message from Tinkie. When I opened the door of my room, the wonderful fragrance of star-gazer lilies engulfed me. A huge bouquet was on the dresser.
I stepped into the room and stopped short at the reflection of an enormous bouquet of red roses on the bedside table. Another bouquet of gladiolus graced the desk.
Someone had delivered the flowers to the wrong place. There was no one in New Orleans who would send me flowers. Curious, I opened the card.
“I didn’t know your favorite, so I sent a selection.”
Wow. Someone had a real admirer. I searched the other bouquets but there was nothing else. I went to the telephone to call the desk. The light was blinking! I forgot about the flowers as I listened to the message from Tinkie.
She was fine and she was at Jackson Square. I was to join her if I got there before five.
I checked my watch. I had fifteen minutes to spare. I could either call about the flowers or find Tinkie. It wasn’t even a choice.
I flagged a taxi in front of the hotel and made it to Jackson Square with ninety seconds to spare. Tinkie, lovely in a chocolate-colored suit, was sitting beside Doreen. A crowd of at least a hundred people was gathered around them. Among them were the teenagers I’d met the night before. And Michael Anderson.
None of them spotted me, so I took the opportunity to watch. The crowd was unnaturally quiet. Especially the teenagers. They were all looking at Doreen with rapt attention. As was Tinkie.
Michael stood a little apart, his focus on Doreen. When a middle-aged woman in the crowd stepped forward, Michael moved to intercept her. His job might be the books, but he was acting the role of watchdog.
Doreen stood and leaned across the small table in front of her. She reached out and put her hands on the woman’s arms. To my utter amazement, the woman jolted, as if she were being shocked. A beatific smile touched her face. Doreen released her and the woman clutched at Doreen’s hands.
Michael was there in a split second. He caught the woman’s arms and gently tugged her free of Doreen. They disappeared in the crowd.
Doreen nodded at Tinkie, who jumped to her feet. Together, they started walking across the Square. I hustled to catch up with them.
“Sarah Booth,” Doreen said, smiling, when she caught sight of me. I said hello, but my focus was on Tinkie. She smiled at me. It was the innocent smile of a child.
“Tinkie?”
“Sarah Booth,” she said. “I’ve had the most wonderful day. And I’ve learned so much.” She grasped my hand. “You can’t begin to imagine the power you have inside you. We’re all creatures of the Divine.”
“Tinkie?” I considered shaking her to wipe the smile from her face.
“I’m going to be fine. I’m not going to have surgery, I’m going to will the lump away.”
I cut a look at Doreen. “Everything’s going to be fine,” she said.
I thought of Sun Myung Moon and the Moonies. Just because Tinkie was wearing a Chanel suit and perfect makeup didn’t mean she hadn’t been brainwashed. If Doreen could make a breast lump disappear, it was fine. But if she couldn’t, Tinkie was risking her life.
“When’s Oscar getting here?” I asked. If I needed backup in the realm of practicality, Oscar was my man.
“Tomorrow. So’s Cece. And her date!” Tinkie’s face had lost the foggy look. “I can’t wait. The Black and Orange Ball is going to be stupendous.”
Relief made me smile. Tinkie might be gaga, but she still had her social priorities straight.
Doreen patted my arm. “Tinkie’s fine,” she said. “She always was. Did you find out anything about my brother?”
“Maybe we should sit down somewhere.” I didn’t want to deliver the news of Adam’s death while we strolled by tourists and the circus life that made Jackson Square so interesting.
“Let’s have a glass of wine,” Doreen suggested. “You look done in, Sarah Booth.”
I was tired. It had been a long and emotional day. And I’d been worried about Tinkie. I was still worried about her.
Doreen led the way to a small bar tucked into a courtyard. Obviously a hangout for locals, there was no sign outside.
Banana plants, huge and lush, were protected from the wind. Wrought-iron tables around the patio allowed some patrons to smoke, and I inhaled the scent of tobacco, thinking suddenly of Jitty and her latest fashion accoutrement. Illusion/delusion. Which was Doreen?
She took a seat and ordered white wine. Tinkie followed her lead, but I asked for Jack on the rocks. I watched Tinkie until the drinks arrived. It wasn’t until she thanked the waiter for her drink that I could pinpoint what was different about her. She looked younger.
“Tell me about my brother,” Doreen asked, her eyes expectant.
“His name was Adam Crenshaw—”
“‘Was’?”
“I’m sorry, Doreen. Your brother is dead. He drowned four years ago.”
“Oh.” The expectation left her eyes.
“How did he drown?” Tinkie asked.
“I gather he was swimming in the river with his wife and some friends.”
“Were his parents nice?” Doreen asked.
“They’re very religious, but they seem to have loved him greatly. They are still torn up by his death.” I hesitated. “There is a widow.”
“Any children?”
“I assume no. I didn’t ask.”
&
nbsp; “Could you find out?” Doreen asked.
“Sure,” I said. Doreen was taking the news of her brother’s death quite well. Then again, she’d never known him. “Adam was religious. Very religious.”
“How so?” Doreen’s brow furrowed.
“He was involved in the church and studied the Bible a lot.” I tried to think of something she might find comforting, but there was little of comfort in the religion that Janey Crenshaw had shown me. “His parents are still very upset by his death.”
“The Crenshaws shouldn’t grieve,” Doreen said. “He isn’t gone. He’s merely in a state of transition.”
“Doreen, that’s exactly the kind of remark that’s going to hurt you with a jury,” I snapped. I’d had it with the hocus-pocus talk. “It’s normal to grieve when someone dies.” I should know; I’d lost plenty.
“As long as you know the grief is for your loss,” Doreen said.
“In other words, grief is selfish?” I was getting madder by the second.
“Yes,” she said. “But that’s not a bad thing. Grief is part of the healing process. It’s only when you become stuck in grief that you give away your power. People who grieve too long end up trapped in the past. That’s not a happy place to be.”
It all sounded so damned practical, irritatingly practical. I started to say something, but Tinkie interrupted.
“Sarah Booth has lost a lot,” she said with such tenderness that I felt tears sting my eyes. “She was so young, too.”
“We all lose people we love,” Doreen said. “But they aren’t gone, Sarah Booth. They’re with you right this second.” She touched my hand, and a tingle shot up my arm. “Just like Rebekah is with me. If I didn’t know that, I couldn’t bear her death.”
I wanted to believe. I wanted it badly.
“There are two things you have to accept as true,” Doreen said, her fingers stroking my hand. “The first is, God is love. We are his creatures, and we share his divinity.”
I felt as if I were falling into her green eyes. There was such peace there. Such comfort and joy.
“The second is, everything happens for a reason. Everything.”
I thought of the night my parents were killed. I’d been sound asleep. There’d been a knock at the door. Aunt LouLane was staying over with me, and I heard her scream. When I ran downstairs, she was on the horsehair sofa, rocking back and forth, holding her stomach as if she’d die. There had been an accident. A car wreck on a straight stretch of road. My parents had been headed home. Something went wrong. The car went off the road, flipped, and caught fire. They were dead.
“My parents died for a reason?” I asked. The tingle was gone. I was suddenly cold.
“They did, Sarah Booth. You have to believe that.”
I slowly pulled my hand free of hers. “No, I don’t.” The idea was beyond infuriating. I stood up and walked away, blinking back the hot tears that threatened to spill over.
17
MY HOTEL ROOM SMELLED LIKE A FUNERAL PARLOR. I CALLED THE desk to complain about the flowers. What had once been beautiful was now an aggravation. My mood was black, and it didn’t improve when the front desk clerk insisted the flowers had been delivered to the correct room. He was so smug, I hung up on him.
I’d left Tinkie and Doreen at the bar, sipping their white wine. I paced the room, giving my anger at Doreen free rein. Her beliefs, as far as my losses went, were harmless. Tinkie was another matter. As soon as Oscar got to New Orleans, I was determined to have him intervene in Tinkie’s relationship with Doreen.
The best thing to do would be to contact Sister Magdalen and quit. I owed Doreen nothing, not even a resignation. I sat down at the desk, whipped out the hotel stationery, and started to pen a letter to the nun. I’d only written a few words when I stopped.
If Jitty were with me, she’d be riding me hard. She’d be the first to point out that I wasn’t angry with Doreen, I was angry with God. There was no reason for my parents to die. No good reason. I needed them. Even though years had passed, I still needed them. And they were gone, taken from me in one split second. To say that their deaths served any kind of purpose made me furious.
What good had come of it?
I sat down on the bed as I pondered that question. I couldn’t think of a single thing. If this was God’s way of showing love, I’d just as soon be ignored.
Quitting wasn’t the answer, though. I owed Tinkie more than that. And I owed myself. Nothing Doreen said had been spoken in meanness. She just didn’t understand how much death could hurt some people.
Loss weighed heavily on me as I clicked on the television. Wednesday night loomed long and lonely. I had a strong urge to get in the car and drive back to Dahlia House. At least I’d have Jitty and Sweetie Pie for company. And I could get up in the morning and ride Reveler in the crisp October sunshine.
Instead, I clicked through the TV channels, hunting for WWJD, the local religious channel. Oren Weaver had his own show. He had a terrific gimmick going, a huge circus tent that he moved from location to location, like an old-time revival. I’d taken the time to find out that he was currently set up on the old fairgrounds; I just needed to find out when his services began. I watched for a few minutes before I was rewarded. A handsome young man in a blue blazer was looking directly into the camera as he stood in front of a billowing blue-and-white tent.
“Reverend Weaver will perform a healing here tonight. Each and every one of you is invited to come and bask in God’s healing light and let Reverend Weaver wash away your sins. Services start at eight o’clock.”
I slipped my feet into my shoes, collected my car keys, and headed out the door. I wasn’t going to settle for watching Oren on television. I had a hankering to hear the great healer in person.
I rode with the top down, stopping once to ask directions when I thought I was lost. Oren Weaver had staged his show on the fairgrounds that were also the home of the Blues Festival.
The parking lot was filled to capacity. Once I finally parked, it was at least a good two miles back to the tent. I couldn’t help but listen to the conversations of some of the people I passed, headed to the revival.
“He’s got the power of God in his hands,” one elderly woman said. “He’s going to shrink my cancer until it goes away.”
“We’ll pray for you,” her companion said. “Me and Bernice have been praying for you every day.” Her voice held sorrow.
I passed them as quickly as possible. Sorrow was contagious, and I knew I wasn’t immune. I came up behind an old man walking painfully to the tent. A young, handsome man was helping him.
“Take it easy, Grampa. Becky’s saving you a seat.”
“I want the front row. Revered Weaver might not see me in the back.”
The back was exactly where I wanted to be. To see without being seen. People poured into the tent, desperation etched in their faces. Talk about the halt and the lame. My suspicions of Oren Weaver were turning into disgust. He was bilking these people, holding out a miracle with one hand while his other hand picked their pockets.
The choir, a cast of at least a hundred in scarlet satin robes, swayed from side to side as they sang “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” The tent filled fast. A young man in a dark suit stepped to the microphone and began to quiet the crowd with a gentle voice that spoke of God’s love for his children. I hadn’t been to church in years, but it was a familiar sermon. Impatiently, I checked my watch. Most of the audience was doing the same thing. They could get a sermon in their own churches. They’d come for a miracle.
“Now Reverend Oren Weaver,” the young man said, backing away from center stage as Oren entered from stage right.
Oren was a commanding presence on the stage. The audience hushed. Everyone’s attention was riveted where Oren stood, gilt-edged Bible in hand. He lifted the Bible, shook it once, and commanded, “Praise God!”
The audience responded with a roar.
“I say, praise God Almighty.”
The di
n was deafening.
“We are all sinners here tonight. All of us, even me. But God’s love washes all of our sins away. We come here tarnished and we’ll leave clean. We come in despair and we’ll leave in joy.” He paused. “We come broken and we’ll leave healed.”
That drew another roar. An elderly woman next to me began to weep. Her hands were so knotted with arthritis that she could barely hold the tissue to her eyes.
The emotional charge in the tent was palpable. The crowd was alive with hope and expectation. It was all focused on Oren, and I wondered how addictive such rapt adulation could be.
“Reverend, help me!” A tall, thin man stood up and began to hobble toward the altar. “Please help me. I’ve been a sinner all my life, but I want to change. I want to walk in the light.”
“You want to walk, brother, but I don’t believe it’s in the light. You want to walk back through that bar door to indulge in the spirit-killing alcohol!” Oren said. “God has no miracles for those who don’t believe, and you, sir, are not a believer.”
There it was again—the hitch to getting a miracle. All it took was belief. Of course, if the miracle didn’t happen, then it had to be because the supplicant didn’t have enough faith. It was sickening.
“Last night I had a vision,” the man said, his voice pleading. “God told me to come here. He said you could help me. I’ve changed, sir. I called my children this morning and told them I was sorry for the times I hit them. I sent a check for part of my back child support to my ex-wife. I shoulda done it long ago.”
“God spoke to you?” Oren asked in a gentler voice.
“He did. I saw the man he wanted me to become, and I’m going to do it. Walking upright or hobbling, I’m going to do it.”
Oren stepped down to the man. He put his Bible on the altar and clasped the man’s head between his hands. It looked as if he were bending him backwards.
“Be he-aled!” Oren declared.
The man bucked like he’d been electrocuted. Two acolytes rushed forward and caught him as he fell to the ground. The crowd gasped as he twitched a time or two and lay still.
“Is he dead?” The question was whispered all around the tent. “Is he dead?”
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