Bridge had mastered the art of making his intentions clear without applying pressure. It was a surefire lure to an independent woman. “I'll have some free time in the evenings.”
He reached across and touched my hand, gathering it into his. When we were dancing, I'd noticed how long his fingers were. He had the hands of a musician. Rather like Scott Hampton's.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
He was acutely sensitive, too. “No. I was just thinking about tomorrow.”
We pulled up in front of Dahlia House. He got out, opened my door, and walked me to the front porch.
“Tinkie was right about you.”
“Really?” I forced a smile. There was absolutely no telling what Tinkie had said about me.
“She said you were smart and talented and entertaining. 'A rare speciman of Southern womanhood' is the way she phrased it.”
Relief swept over me. “It could have been a lot worse. Tinkie knows too many of my secrets.”
“She adores you, Sarah Booth. And I see why.”
Bridge was smooth. Another compliment, no pressure.
He stepped closer to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “It was a lovely evening. I'd like to take you to dinner Friday night.”
My dance card was woefully empty, but I didn't want Bridge to know that. Coleman Peters tried to pop into my brain, but I firmly shut him out. “I'd like that.”
“Good. I'll pick you up at seven. I'll make it a surprise evening, but dress comfortably. Wear something that makes you feel like reclining on soft cushions in the glow of a dozen candles.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss across my lips.
I'd wondered for the past thirty minutes what it would feel like to kiss him. Pleasant. When I didn't pull back, he kissed me again, this time with more intimacy.
His arms circled me, holding me firmly yet without pressure. I closed my eyes and gave myself to the wonderful sensation of being held in a man's arms, of kisses that hinted at passion but didn't demand.
Lifting his lips from mine, he stepped slightly away from me, holding me long enough to make certain I'd regained my balance.
“I think I'm going to owe Tinkie a lot,” Bridge said as he brushed his fingertips along my jaw, lingering just a second on my chin. “Good night, Sarah Booth. And don't give up on Scott Hampton. He could be your ticket to a lot of publicity and that's how you'll get bigger, better cases in the future. I don't think you'll have any more trouble from the likes of Marshall Harrison.”
He walked back to the Jaguar and drove away. I leaned against the front wall of Dahlia House, feeling the summer heat baked into the old bricks.
“Get in the house and get into that bed,” Jitty ordered from the foyer.
I opened the door and went in to find her sitting on the foot of the steps. Pink flowers decorated the baby-doll PJ set she wore, making her look all of about thirteen. I hadn't seen baby-doll pajamas since I was eight.
“Cute,” I said, stepping around her.
“Honey, now that Bridge Ladnier is my kind of man. Smooth, charming—”
“Rich,” I interrupted. “Darn, I forgot to ask if he was shooting blanks.”
“The answer to that question is no.”
Jitty said it with such authority I hesitated. “How can you be so sure?”
“First there's the name. He's carryin' the weight of a name that needs handin' down. Then there's the man. He knows that progeny is the only way to make sure of his place in the future. He knows the rules, Sarah Booth, even the ones you refuse to learn. Now that's the man for you.” She stood up. “Get some beauty rest, girl. I have a feelin' it won't be long before he comes a-callin' again.”
I didn't bother telling her our second date was already set. I took myself up the stairs and into my bedroom, wondering if the strange hot feeling in my gut was anticipation for my next meeting with Bridge, or revenge against a badge-wearing man who suffered from a waffling heart.
7
The pounding on the front door was sharp and irritating. It was, yet again, the familiar pitter-patter of little fists. It was bright and early on a Thursday morning, and Tinkie had come calling. She would be hungry.
My first thought, irrational though it was, was to pull the covers over my head and hide. I'd been in the middle of a complicated dream that was backlit by smoky pink neon, rotating stage lights, and a huge clock/calendar that kept running backwards until it stopped in 1965. Someone was moving out of that smoky pink neon toward me. A man who walked in a way that made a woman think of making love in the middle of a hot afternoon with the windows wide open and a breeze teasing the curtains.
“Sarah Booth Delaney, get your butt out of bed!” Tinkie beat on the door with a rat-a-tat-tat that meant business.
I rolled out with a groan, threw on a T-shirt, and went to open the door. The three bottles of champagne that had seemed like such a fine idea the night before were now a bitter memory aggravated by a pounding headache.
“Sarah Booth,” Tinkie cried, giving me a disgusted look. “It's nine o'clock, and you're still in bed. I thought you were going to see Coleman this morning.”
A visual of Coleman at his desk flashed through my brain on jagged streaks of hangover pain. I could see him, blue eyes unflinching, as he questioned me about Playin' the Bones and my little visit there. “I am, but—”
“How late did you stay out with Bridge?” Tinkie shifted positions so that she was in my face. Chablis, who was tucked in her arm, hurled herself free and onto my chest. Luckily, my reflexes weren't affected by the bags under my eyes, and I was able to catch her.
“We were dancing and we got carried away. The night was—”
“You didn't!” Her face was stricken. “Sarah Booth, no man wants a woman who's ee-a-zy!” In DG lingo, the three-syllable pronunciation of easy has only one meaning—a desperate woman who drops her drawers at the first attention paid by a man.
I was annoyed. “Tell that to Jitty,” I snapped before I thought.
“Who?” She was like a rat terrier. “Who's Jitty? What are you talking about?”
I shook my head. “Part of a dream,” I said. “Let me put on some coffee.” I stumbled toward the kitchen knowing that the only thing capable of diverting Tinkie's attention was the smell of bacon sizzling in my big, old cast-iron skillet. To that end, I threw a half dozen slices of thick-cut Smithfield into the pan.
Tinkie settled at the table, not even blinking an eye when Sweetie Pie picked Chablis up by the neck and carried her out through the doggie door. Not so long ago, such a sight would have given Tinkie a stroke. Now she'd grown to love my big old hound dog, and she knew Sweetie adored Chablis.
The bacon was sizzling and the coffee was perking, as was Tinkie's curiosity. “So, how was Bridge?” she asked. “I mean, I completely disapprove of sleeping with a man on the first date. It goes against all the rules, Sarah Booth. It's . . . cheap.” She pulled a moue and tried to restrain herself—unsuccessfully. “How was he? Pitiful, adequate, or . . . divine?” She was leaning so far forward that only her chest kept her from sprawling on top of the table.
“Very athletic,” I said. “And just a little kinky.”
The look on her face was worth the lie.
“Sarah Booth! Bridge is a highly respected . . .” She caught the glint in my eye. “That was mean! For a minute you had me worried. I mean, you really can't throw yourself at a man like him. Women do it all the time, and that just makes them look like a Kleenex tissue—something to be used and tossed away. A man like Bridge likes to pursue. Or at least think that he's pursuing. That's the whole art—to run just fast enough to keep him thinkin' you can't be caught.”
“Yes, lesson forty-nine in the Daddy's Girl book of 'How to Catch a Man,' “ I said with a heaping dose of sarcasm.
“You may not want to admit it, but there's a lot of truth in the things our mamas taught us.” She gave me a long look. “Well, maybe not your mama. She was a little different.”
“Bridge was
a lot of fun,” I said, tired of deviling her. “I had a good time. We're going out Friday night.”
That was all it took. She shot me a million-watt smile that made me just a little ashamed. Tinkie really wanted good things for me, and she put herself out quite a lot to see that they happened.
“Now, about this bluesperson.” The smile was gone. “Sarah Booth, everyone in town thinks he's guilty as sin. Marshall Harrison is just the tip of the iceberg for what's going to happen. Is Scott Hampton really worth this?”
I wanted to argue in Scott's defense, but I couldn't. “I tried to quit the case. Really. Ida Mae made me feel guiltier for trying to quit than everyone else makes me feel for taking the case.” That was the crux of the matter.
“I talked to Oscar this morning before he left for work.” Her lips turned up at the corners as a memory struck her full force. “This detecting business has inspired me. I don't think Oscar ever enjoyed a shower quite so much.”
Tinkie was one helluva partner. “What did you get? Aside from the obvious.”
Ignoring the flush that touched her cheeks, Tinkie cleared her throat. “Playin' the Bones has been in dire financial straits for the past five years—except for the last six months.” She reached in her purse and pulled out a notepad. “Ivory borrowed fifty thousand to refurbish the club and get it up and running. Now that was 1998. In the next three years, he missed two notes and was late on six more. Then in 2002, he nearly lost it back to the bank. But things changed in the last six months. He's been making double payments and putting money in two other accounts. The club has become very profitable.” She saw I was holding up an egg. “Over-light this morning, please.”
I cracked the eggs in the skillet. Tinkie's information was exactly what I expected to hear. Scott Hampton had begun to pull in a crowd, and gain a national reputation. He was the ticket to good times for Ivory. And it didn't take a rocket scientist to see that Playin' the Bones, at least in Scott's opinion, might have gone from life raft to prison.
Watching Tinkie pull away from the front of Dahlia House, I could only marvel at modern technology. The air conditioner in her Caddy was so powerful, Chablis' shag-cut ears were blown straight back from her head. In contrast, Tinkie's perfectly sweptback “do” didn't even quiver. She knew every secret of hair spray in the book. Emanuel Keys, her next assignment, would be putty in her hands.
I, on the other hand, had Coleman to confront. A strange churning began in my gut. I tried to pinpoint whether it was anxiety, anticipation, dread, or relief. Or perhaps none of the above. I bathed, dressed, and headed to town.
I parked as close as possible to the courthouse, while still claiming a bit of shade, and started walking the half block to the north door of the building. The beautiful flowers of spring had given way to lush greenery and an occasional crepe myrtle. These hardy trees with their strange, smooth bark erupted in clusterlike swags of fuchsia, lavender, watermelon, white, and a deep purple that was my favorite. They were the only blooms tough enough to withstand the August heat, and the tiny flowers littered the ground in places.
Once, when I was seven, my mother and I had gone hunting for wild grape vines called scuppernongs. Her goal was to make wine, while I loved to suck the pulp out of the thick hulls and eat it.
In our travels, we wandered onto the old Lassfolk place. Overgrown with weeds, the driveway was lined with white crepe myrtles that had grown huge. We were walking down the choked drive when a sudden gust of wind shook the white blossoms free and they cascaded down around us, a snowstorm in August. “Mississippi magic,” my mother said. I recalled that memory as I walked toward the courthouse and Coleman.
I heard the music first, a gut-tickling riff on a guitar. Then Scott Hampton's signature raw voice sang a line that made me stop in my tracks. I was stunned by the power, skill, and talent I heard—in contrast to the awful rap music I'd listened to earlier. I was also horrified by the lyrics.
“I went down to the corner, murder in my heart. He saw the shank I carried and said, 'Son, that ain't too smart.' But the devil gripped me tighter, oh, yes, he told me what to do. Now I'm headed straight to Parchman prison to sing those low-down, murderin' prison blues.”
If a man could be said to have sung himself into a capital murder charge, Scott Hampton would be that man.
Scouting the area, I saw the big black boom box that was the source of the music. I started toward it, determined to unplug it or stomp it to death. The boom box was running on batteries, so I knelt beside it, searching for the power button.
“Hey! You! Stay away from that. That's private property!” A woman came out from behind a big azalea bush holding a sign that read “Free Scott Hampton.”
It was only as she drew closer that I recognized her. Sort of. She bore a distinct resemblance to Stuart Ann Shanahan, known throughout high school and college as Nandy. But this was a Nandy I'd never seen before. This was Nandy after a long season in hell. She came toward me like a pit bull on the attack, then stopped. Recognition lit her heavily lined and mascaraed eyes.
“So, it's Sarah Booth Delaney, Zinnia's answer to Mickey Spillane. It's about time you were out of bed and working. You have to make them believe Scott's innocent.”
I heard the words, but I was focused on the earring that had somehow crept from her shell-shaped ear to her eyebrow. A blue stone had been expertly cut into the shape of a record album—a blues album. How unbearably cute! And how incredibly expensive.
Helped by a shaft of sunlight, I saw a matching ring in her navel, exposed by her designer jeans cut to hang perfectly on her prominent hipbones. Topping off the effect were pumiced and manicured toes painted what looked like that nearly impossible-to-find shade of Snow White red.
“Nandy?” I wasn't certain it was really her. My last sighting of Nandy had involved a chiffon gown and tiara when she was crowned Sweetheart of Sigma Chi at Ole Miss.
“You were expecting Lord Darnley?”
I'd read enough historicals to catch her reference to the murdered husband of Mary, Queen of Scotts, and I also knew her family's obsessive fixation with the beheaded queen. They'd named their sprawling Delta holdings Holyrood. I ignored the Darnley remark and zeroed in on the pertinent issue. “What are you doing here?”
“Since no one else seems to care, I decided to start the protest movement. Scott is more than a musician, he's a god.” She thrust the sign at an elderly gentleman who was headed into the courthouse. “They have Scott in jail. Can you believe it? They've locked him up like a common criminal.”
“He's charged with murder,” I pointed out, still trying to adjust to this new Nandy.
“What a crock of shit.” She wiped at some perspiration beneath her eye and smudged thick black mascara over to her temple. She wasn't wearing waterproof cosmetics!
“How do you know Scott?” I asked.
“I'm head of his fan club. The Blizzard Heads.”
“I see.” But I didn't. Nandy had preferred the soulful sounds of Barry Manilow. I'd gone through her CDs in college once, and she'd even had a couple of Perry Como's, as well as three albums of bagpipe music.
“The pigs won't let me even visit him in jail. Can you do something about that?”
“Would you turn that music off?” Aside from the fact that the lyrics were incriminating to Scott, I was positive the idea of a Blizzard Head broad playing loud music and holding a protest sign on the courthouse lawn was not helping Hampton's case.
“I'm not going to stop playing Scott's music, and I'm not going to eat until they let him out.” Her lips thinned into a straight line that I remembered well from college. Nandy got what Nandy wanted—or else. But in the past, she'd never been one to deprive herself of anything.
“Nandy, the music isn't helping.”
She ignored me. “Can you believe Coleman Peters is sheriff now?” she continued. “He was nothing but a stupid jock all through high school. Did he even go to college? Maybe some trade school. Something like Troughville State, where all the
best pigs are trained.”
I was wasting precious time. “I'll talk to you later.” I stepped past her and started up the stairs. Nandy had transformed her exterior, but there'd been no corresponding renovation of her soul.
Her fingers clutched my upper arm in a grip of surprising strength. “Are you going to talk to Scott?” The look in her eyes told me a lot more than I wanted to know. Even though she obviously knew I was working on his case, she was jealous of the fact that I could talk to him.
I could have eased her mind by telling her he didn't want to talk to me, but I didn't. “I'm going to talk to the sheriff.”
“Tell him he'd better let me see Scott.”
I didn't say anything for several seconds. Nandy had gone from asking for my help to demanding that I deliver her messages. “For Scott's sake, turn off the music,” I said, hurrying up the steps and inside the courthouse.
Coleman was at the counter, and the dispatcher's chair was empty. Little Bo-Peep had gone to round up sheep. Or with any luck, she'd gone for a shearing herself.
“You went out to Playin' the Bones. You're on the case.” Coleman wasn't asking.
“I took a look around.”
“You're making a mistake, Sarah Booth.” His voice was terse. “You don't need this, and neither do I.”
“What, exactly, do you need, Coleman?” I heard the heat in my own voice.
“I don't know,” he said, and he turned his profile to me.
Neither of us were talking about the case. But it was the only thing I could, legitimately, talk to him about.
“Any new developments with Hampton? What about that noose? Any idea who hung it?”
Coleman shook his head. “They were smart enough to use an old rope, so we can't trace it back to where it was purchased from. There's really nothing forensically that we can determine. We're trying to find witnesses.”
“Do you have any suspects?” I pressed.
“When I make a charge, you'll be the first to know.”
“What about the evidence against Scott? Anything new?”
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