Ida Mae looked at the check but made no effort to touch it. “Scott didn't hire you, so he can't fire you.” It was as simple as that in her mind.
“He won't cooperate with me. Under those conditions, it wouldn't be right for me to take your money.” I extended my arm.
“I'll have a talk with Scott. He'll come around.”
I didn't think so. In fact, I didn't think even a personal conversation with either God or Satan would have much of an impact on Scott Hampton.
“I don't think I can help Scott.”
She put one finger on her lips and stared at me. “Because you think he's guilty.”
“Yes, ma'am.” I really hadn't wanted to say that, but evasion, even born out of kindness, wasn't Ida Mae's style.
“Come in and sit down,” she said, finally stepping out of the doorway.
I followed her inside the house. Neat and colorful, just like the yard. Sunflowers nodded in a large vase on the dining room table. Glancing out the window, I saw what looked like a two-acre field full of the big, yellow flowers with the black centers. Some of the blooms were at least eight inches wide.
“Beautiful,” I said, gesturing toward the window.
“Yes, they are,” she said slowly. “Ivory loved them. He said they were smarter than us humans because they turned their faces up to the sun to accept God's blessings and they never questioned the right or wrong of it.”
I sat on the edge of the chair she indicated. I hadn't noticed at first, but all around me were religious icons. A crucified Jesus hung on one wall, along with a beautifully framed painting of the Last Supper. Mary, halo glowing, hung on another wall. There were also pictures of Jesus with the little children crowded around him, and one depicting the tomb with the stone rolled away and Jesus ascending above the tomb. Beside that was a pair of praying hands. The ceramic rendition was uninspired, and I could see it had been painted by a child.
“My son did that,” Ida Mae said. “Emanuel. He made that at vacation Bible school when he was eight.” She spoke with such sadness I wondered if her son had died. I didn't want to ask such a personal question, especially not when she'd just lost her husband to an act of violence.
I put the check on the coffee table in front of her. She looked down at it a moment.
“I want you to help Scott. He didn't kill my husband, no matter what people say.”
“The evidence—”
“Damn the evidence!” She spoke so sharply that I actually jumped a little.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I just know Scott didn't kill my husband. They were very close, more like a father and son than . . . Scott loved my husband.”
“Even people who love each other can do harm to each other,” I said softly. In some cases, it was all the more reason for violence.
“Scott didn't do this thing.”
“Why are you so certain that he's innocent?” It was a fair question.
“Why are you so certain that he's guilty?” she countered, but with a sad smile.
“The evidence—”
“I know the evidence,” she interrupted, but with much less force. “Murder weapon, money, all of it. Anyone could have put that knife and that money in Scott's saddlebags. Anyone. And that's all they've got. A knife and some money. They don't have motive.”
“They're looking at robbery and/or a desire to get out of the two-year contract Ivory signed him to.” She had to hear it sooner or later.
“Hogwash. Scott didn't want out of his contract. He and Ivory loved that club. They sat up nights talking and planning about what to do next. That boy and that club brought my husband immense pleasure.”
I couldn't argue with her view of things, but I could keep pressing my only advantage. “That still doesn't explain why you think Scott is innocent.”
She reached down and picked up a ring I hadn't noticed on the coffee table. When she held it up, the light struck it golden. A wedding band. I noticed the silent tears running down her cheeks. For a moment, her age showed.
“I can't decide whether to wear my ring or take it off,” she said. “Seems odd being married to a dead man, yet that's how it is. My husband, so alive and full of music and joy, walked out of this house Monday afternoon and now he'll never come home again.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“Let me tell you something about Scott Hampton. He saved Ivory's life when they were in prison together. He saved his life and his left hand. Ivory called that his boogie hand.” A fleeting smile softened the pain on her face. “In repayment, Ivory taught Scott how to play the blues. You see, they both owed each other their very existence.”
She walked over to an old upright piano that was missing the front panel. Trailing a finger, she glissaded down the keys. “My husband had a dream, Miss Delaney. A big dream. And he and Scott were making it come true.”
“What kind of dream?”
She turned back to face me. “That music could heal all the old wounds and bring people together. Ivory said there was a power in the music that Scott played. It made people forget if they were black or white or poor or rich. It spoke to the bones and to the spirit, and it taught folks how to live with sorrow and joy. He believed that if folks could forget color for the length of a song, they could forget it for an hour, and then a week, and then a month. You get the idea. My husband and Scott were going to change the world, and they'd made a good start on it. That's why I know Scott Hampton is innocent.”
She walked over to the coffee table, picked up the check, and stuck it in the pocket of my camp shirt. “Prove it. The worst thing that could happen to me would be to see Ivory's dream torn down like this. I can stand him dying, because I know it won't be long before I'll be with him for eternity. But here on earth, I can't let his dream be killed. Scott didn't kill my husband, and I want you to find out who did.”
4
So I'm a sucker for a woman with convictions. The check was still in my pocket, and I was still working for Ida Mae Keys. It was time to bring my partner in on the case.
I turned down the long drive to Hilltop, a locale I normally tried to avoid. At the sight of Oscar and Tinkie Richmond's Tara-like estate, a tidal wave of guilt slammed into me.
One night, not too long ago, I'd hidden in the bushes beside the house and waited until Chablis Richmond came prancing outside to do her doggy business in the grass. As soon as the little fluffball was in reach, I dognapped her. It was the ransom money Tinkie Richmond (née Bellcase) paid to me that saved Dahlia House from the auction block, and it was dognapping Chablis that eventually led Tinkie to hire me for my first case.
I'd taken Tinkie in as a partner in my P.I. business as penance for that act, but the cold truth was that it was one of the best moves I'd ever made. There were times when Tinkie saved the day—not to mention my life. She was the perfect partner, and it was time I filled her in on Scott Hampton.
The minute I rang the doorbell, I heard the excited yipping of Chablis. The Yorkie was spoiled, pampered, sun-glitzed by a professional colorist—and lovingly embedded in my heart. As I listened closer, I heard a distinctive baying.
Tinkie opened the door on a gentle reprimand for the dogs to be quiet. She was nearly knocked down by a big, brindle-colored hound that came bounding onto the porch, baying like she was on the trail of a deer.
“Sweetie Pie!” I groped for her collar. “What are you doing here?” Sweetie was my dog, and the last I'd seen her, she was snoozing under the kitchen table at Dahlia House.
“Chablis and I stopped by for breakfast and you weren't home, so we brought Sweetie Pie to play. Chablis wanted some company.”
A dark suspicion clouded my brain. “You're not thinking of taking Sweetie to the poodle parlor again, are you?” Tinkie had taken Sweetie to a doggy salon and given her a new look, changing her from a brindled red tic hound to a vibrant shade of redbone. The color, after repeated washings, had finally faded away.
“It's the Canine Cut and Curl, and I promised you I wouldn
't dye her ever again.” Tinkie's lips pushed out into a provocative pout.
“That's wasted on me,” I told her, walking toward the kitchen. “You can bring grown men to their knees with that pursed-up mouth of yours, but it doesn't have any effect on me.”
“What's going on?” She opened the door and let Chablis out for a romp with Sweetie.
“I was just in the neighborhood.” I sauntered slowly toward the kitchen. It was always better to let Tinkie get really hungry for details. I could hear the tippy-tap of her stiletto house slippers right behind me, and once again I had to admire her quick ability to move from one mood to the next. It was pure Daddy's Girl; a lesson in survival tactics. When a pout doesn't work, try a smile. But with Tinkie, the smile was always sincere, even if the pout was manufactured for effect.
My footsteps clomped and Tinkie's tapped across the imported tile of her kitchen floor. The place was a cavern. Huge. The walls and counters were lined with all the latest culinary tools, most of them used only by Margene, the cook. Tinkie could make coffee, and she did so with dispatch.
As she brewed, I filled her in on the Scott Hampton case. I didn't have to see her face to know she was distressed. Her posture told it all. When she did turn to face me, her eyebrows were drawn together.
“Sarah Booth, I heard about that killing, and I have to say, this is going to be a mess. All those damn Yankee reporters will be down here trying to make this 1964 again. We just got that fool Byron dela Beckwith convicted and all of that finally put to rest. We don't need this.”
Truer words were never spoken. Mississippi was still stained by the blood of the past. Good people as tainted as the bad. While enormous prejudice and horrid acts of violence were committed in every state, Mississippi had served as a lightning rod for the attention of the rest of the nation.
“Need it or not, we're going to get it,” I said. “We might as well face it head-on.”
“I don't want to face it head-on. I went down to The Grove this morning to pick up Margene because her car's at the mechanics. She wouldn't ride with me. She told me to go home, that she'd find her own ride.” There was hurt in Tinkie's face. “Margene's cooked for us since Oscar and I got married. She didn't want to be seen with me.”
There was little I could do to take away the sting Tinkie was feeling, but I had another theory. “She may have been afraid to be seen with you.” I told her about the noose.
“I hope Coleman finds those yahoos and puts them under the jail.”
I doubled her sentiment. “I have to say, Scott Hampton isn't doing anything to help his case.”
“Can't you just let this go?” she asked, sighing.
“I tried. I went to Ida Mae Keys' with the sole purpose of turning the case down. You go talk to that old woman and see if you can quit.”
She shook her head slightly. “Why is she doing this?”
I had thought a little about that on the drive to Tinkie's. “Ida Mae knows what's going to come down here. Her husband's death has the power to divide the entire community again, and she doesn't want that to happen, because he wouldn't want that. Mr. Keys had some idea that music could heal the wounds of both races.” I could see Tinkie thought I was nuts.
She put the coffee on the counter and slipped onto a stool beside me. “So tell me about Scott Hampton,” she said. “He's incredibly hot. When he plays that guitar, it's like he's making love to it.” She bit her bottom lip, sucking it in slightly and then letting it pop out. It was a habit of Tinkie's that made a drooling idiot out of even the most confident man. On occasion, I'd borrowed the mannerism, but I could never perform it as effectively as she did. “How did he strike you, Sarah Booth?”
“He's a total ass,” I said, recalling his insolence and contempt. I had no desire to acknowledge his sexual appeal or admit that he frightened me a little.
Tinkie lifted an eyebrow and I could see her brain buzzing. “So how are we going to approach this?” she asked.
I grinned. Tinkie was in. “With great caution. I don't know that there's anything we can do. The evidence points to Hampton as the killer. But I told Mrs. Keys we'd try.”
“Yes, we'll try, but there is one condition.” Tinkie gave me a look that said she knew she had me.
“What?”
“An old school chum of Oscar's will be in town tonight. Go out to dinner with him.”
“A banker?” I had nothing against bankers.
“Former banker. Independent investor now. I think you might find him interesting.”
Tinkie was being coy, but she failed to realize that I happened to really like blind dates. Gambling, as far as slot machines, cards, or bingo, had never been one of my vices. But the old roulette wheel of romance piqued my interest. My theory was that a blind date could go either way, but no matter the outcome, I never ended up empty-handed. Either I had a good date or a good story to tell.
“Sounds perfect. What time, where, what to wear?”
My capitulation surprised Tinkie. “Tonight. The Club. I'll get back to you with the details. Aren't you even going to ask who it is?”
“Surprise me,” I said as I walked to the door. “Now for your part, I want you to pump Oscar about the financial status of Ivory Keys and Playin' the Bones. Find out everything Oscar knows.” I didn't give her a chance to ask another question. I whistled up my hound and left.
I'd given Tinkie her assignment. Oscar, her husband, was on the board of directors of Zinnia National Bank. In a small town like Zinnia, bank officials knew all the data. And Tinkie had incredibly effective ways of making Oscar talk. He didn't just talk, he gushed. By afternoon, I'd know whether Playin' the Bones was in the red or black and what the financial future had looked like for Ivory and Scott.
For my part, I went home to my computer. As much as I hated learning technology, I'd found the Web to be a place of many free facts. Even so, I wasn't prepared for the surfeit of information on Scott Hampton.
Especially not the kind of information I found.
While Scott dominated a lot of the blues Web sites, he was also listed on five neo-Nazi sites. Call me naíve, but I was shocked at the violence and racism rampant in those sites. I had just opened the third Aryan Nation site when I was brought up short. A skull-and-crossbones tattoo, an exact replica of the one on Scott's arm, was perfectly rendered on the screen.
The organization was the Bonesmen. An elite branch of the Aryan Brotherhood formed totally of convicted felons. The Bonesmen were one of the most violent of all prison gangs. Their listed enemies included blacks, Jews, Indians, both native and eastern, Asians, Hispanics, and Eskimos. They pretty much covered everyone who wasn't “white.”
And guess who their poster boy was—Scott Hampton.
There were several links to music sites, and dreading what I'd find, I clicked through. Scott had an impressive body of work in the blues, but there was another side to his musical career. The titles of these songs, all produced by White Victory Studio, made my stomach knot with dread. The “N” word was in abundant supply, most frequently coupled with a violent verb or a sexual slur. Downloading the songs would take a while, so I went to the kitchen to rummage through the refrigerator.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd cleaned out the fridge, so I called Sweetie Pie in for help. If she sniffed at anything with disdain, we threw it away. After half an hour, the cupboard was looking bare, while the garbage was growing into a mountain. I was eyeing a container of what appeared to be macaroni and cheese. That was impossible. I hadn't made macaroni and cheese since I'd returned home to Dahlia House. I poked the container with a meat fork, seeing if anything moved inside.
“Fine time to clean the refrigerator.”
Startled, I banged my head on the refrigerator door opening. Jitty was standing right behind me, crowding in close. I backed out and stood up straight.
“You've been harping at me for weeks to clean out the refrigerator. Now that I'm doing it, you don't like it.” Having a nagging ghost on your heels t
wenty-four-seven can make a girl cross.
“You ought to have your head in that closet, pickin' out a dress to wear tonight. Or findin' one that fits.”
That was it. I grabbed the container in question and tossed it at the garbage can. “I can wear everything in my closet,” I said. “I'm tired of your cracks about my size.”
“Your mama never gained an inch in her waist. She did a lot of walkin'. Some would have called it marchin', I suppose.”
Jitty was wearing a navy, polka-dot skimmer, conservatively cut just above the knee. The dress was out of current character, but not nearly as much as the anger in her eyes.
“What's wrong with you?” Jitty would give me no peace until I heard her out.
“Your mama wouldn't be proud of what you're doin'.”
I didn't even have to ask what. I knew. “I'm doin' what I'm doin' for Ida Mae Keys. She believes Scott Hampton is innocent, and she believes it enough to write a check for five grand.”
“It's wrong. That man is bad, and he belongs in jail. Killin' Ivory Keys was a bad, bad thing. And don't go taking that innocent-till-proven-guilty attitude. You think he did it, too.”
I sat down at the table. Jitty wasn't saying anything I didn't think. “What if he's innocent?”
Jitty paced the kitchen. “He's not innocent. He's a racist and a dope head. More than likely, he's a murderer. Coleman thinks he's guilty.”
“Everyone thinks he's guilty, except Ida Mae Keys,” I pointed out. “Right now, she's the one that counts.”
“She's grievin' and tryin' hard to hang on to what little bit of her husband is left: his dream. That don't make it right for her to spend her money on that bad man. Don't make it right for you to take it.”
I was going to hear this argument from a lot of people. I might as well hone my defenses on Jitty. “I'm only looking into the case. I won't take Ida Mae's money if it looks like I can't help.”
“Help how? Help get that trash back out on the street?”
That, indeed, was the crux.
“Go listen to some of his music. Not the blues, but that other stuff,” Jitty pressed. “Then you tell me he needs to be set loose on society.”
Crossed Bones Page 3