Zinnia was empty. The three traffic lights in town had been set to blink a red warning, but there was no need to stop. I cruised past the darkened businesses and took a left into the residential section. Passing Cece's house, I noticed the lights on. She was finding it impossible to sleep—or else she was writing copy for the next edition. She was a workaholic.
Bridge's house was dark, and his car was parked in the driveway. I was a little disappointed that he must have recovered it already. My help wasn't really needed, but since I was there, I knocked on the front door. When no one answered, I knocked again. It was possible he'd fallen asleep. I didn't want to go home and be alone.
My hand slipped to the doorknob and it turned with ease. The door opened without even a creak.
“Bridge!” I called his name softly, then louder. Surely he was in the house. The idea that he might be injured came as something of a shock. “Bridge!” What if he'd accosted the car thieves and they'd done something to him?
I crept inside and made my way through the house, room by room. He simply wasn't at home. Standing in the middle of his bedroom, I didn't know what to do next. My purpose in coming to see Bridge had been more about my needs than his. I'd come to him for solace. Now I was standing alone in the middle of his bedroom. Bridge either had good taste or an expensive decorator. Oak furniture in a sleek Scandinavian style kept the focus on a big brass bed covered in silk sheets and a brocade coverlet.
The only ornate note in the room was a mahogany chest sitting on top of the dresser. It was obviously one of the few family heirlooms that Bridge had brought with him to the rental house.
I started back to the front door when I remembered my earring. I could retrieve it now and leave Bridge a note. A search of the guest bathroom yielded no sign of it. I went back to Bridge's bedroom and the little ornate chest, which probably held his personal items. Feeling only a little guilty, I opened the top drawer. Credit cards, business cards, and several keys were scattered about. The second drawer was deeper, and in it were two watches, a couple of rings, and cuff links.
Bridge wasn't a man who wore a lot of jewelry, and I picked up the rings and cuff links, curious to see if my earring was mixed up in the jumble and also to see what his taste ran toward. As soon as I turned over the onyx cuff link, my fingers went numb. I held it up and kept looking at it, hoping that somehow it would change. But it didn't. The white ivory bones, crossed at the center, were a perfect contrast to the onyx.
In rapid succession, scenes flashed through my memory, where Bridge displayed interest and curiosity in my case, in Scott, in the club, in the legendary records. I'd thought he was interested in me. And he was, but for the wrong reason.
Very carefully I put Bridge's jewelry back in the chest, closed the drawer, and stepped back. Each movement took incredible effort. Crossing the bedroom, I walked through the door, down the hall, and to the front door. My arms and legs were stiff as I opened the door and closed it firmly behind me.
My mind was fast-forwarding through my various dates with Bridge. The blues had been a constant theme. We'd even talked about the symbolism of the crossed bones. Not once had he ever indicated that the symbol meant something to him. I'd thought him so philanthropical, wanting to buy Playin' the Bones from Ida Mae. But he didn't want the club as much as he wanted what he thought was hidden there. Those damn records. If they even existed.
But did he want them bad enough to torture an old man and kill him? Somehow, I just couldn't picture Bridge that way.
My roadster was parked farther down the drive, but I went to Bridge's car. He'd reported it stolen, yet here it was. I walked to the front of it and looked at the fender. There was just a small dent, and what looked like blood and hair. Someone had struck my dog and kept going. If this was Sweetie Pie's blood and hair, then it was Bridge. My stomach roiled. In the time I'd spent with Bridge, I would never have believed he was capable of murder, or even hit-and-run on a dog. But the initial evidence—Emanuel had said the voice on the phone sounded educated—showed I might be wrong about his character.
I'd learned enough as a detective to know I needed solid fact, not conjecture. As soon as I got to a phone, I'd call Coleman and get him to examine Bridge's car.
I swallowed hard to keep down the nausea. This wasn't the place to be sick. I had to get away before Bridge came home and found me.
Through the long hours of the morning, I sat out in the barn with Reveler. Sweetie stayed at my feet, occasionally licking my ankles. I studied each piece of the puzzle and tried to fit it into the new shape of Bridge Ladnier. It didn't seem possible, but the evidence told the story of Bridge's guilt. He had the opportunity to commit every act that spoke of guilt.
When dawn broke the eastern sky, I went in the house, bathed, dressed, put on a pot of coffee, and called Tinkie. She was barely awake, but when I told her about the cuff links, she woke right up.
“Bridge and crossed bones!” I could hear her tap-tapping across the floor in her high-heeled bedroom slippers. Even in a crisis, Tinkie didn't abandon the necessity of looking good. “I'm getting dressed.”
“I'll put some bacon on,” I said.
“Don't bother. I'm going to find Oscar. He went to the bank early this morning to get some papers straight for the auditor. If Oscar brought home a man who would hit a dog and then leave the scene, he's going to have some explaining to do. I'll swing by the bakery on my way to your house.”
“Fine,” I said, because it was the polite thing to do. In truth, I needed to be in the kitchen cooking. Southern women, and perhaps women all over the world, turn to cooking in times of high drama. I was ready for a grit soufflé with sausage crumbles. Whatever Tinkie brought from the bakery, the soufflé would be the perfect complement. And I needed to keep my hands busy, because my brain was in overdrive.
The soufflé was in the oven when I heard Tinkie tap on the front door and enter. There was something wrong, though. She was walking like an old lady. The swinging door opened, and Tinkie entered, Chablis and a bag of pastry in her arms. As soon as the pampered little Yorkie saw Sweetie, she leaped to the floor and the two dogs took off through the doggie door.
Tinkie put the bakery bag on the table and took a seat. “I had to threaten Oscar with a sexless future, but I got him to tell me about the cuff links.” She stared at her perfectly manicured hands as she talked, her voice a monotone.
I got a cup of coffee for her. She didn't even touch it. She hadn't commented on the aroma of the baking soufflé—Tinkie was gravely depressed.
“What did he say?” I asked, getting a plate and dumping the bag of fresh crullers on it. I pushed the plate toward her, but she just shook her head.
“My stomach's in a knot. Sarah Booth, I don't know what to say.”
“Tinkie, what happened?” My own stomach was twisting and churning. My friend was in pain. “What did you find out?”
“Oscar knew all about the cuff links because he has a pair, too. They're hidden in a special drawer in his desk at home. Both of them belong to a secret club for rich boys. Rich men, I should say. They joined the Skull and Bones Club at Ole Miss and they've been members all this time.”
“And?” I prompted. I tried not to show any of the stampeding emotions I felt.
“They call it S&B for short, and the members are dedicated to becoming multimillionaires. A lot of very powerful men are members. Former presidents, world leaders, men who control oil and gas and other energy supplies.”
“A secret rich-guy society,” I said, immediately seeing the potential for a lot of unethical wheeling and dealing on a global level, not just in Zinnia. But it was the local application of the bones symbol that had me worried. Rich men were just as capable of murder as poor. But what if the symbols were somehow linked? Piracy seemed a common theme among all three of the groups I knew about: the S&B, the Bonesmen, and the Dominoes.
“Oscar has belonged to this organization for years!” Tinkie said in the midst of a rant. “He's gone to meetings and
lied to me about what he was doing. It's like he's hidden a part of his identity from me. It's wrong.”
I saw her point immediately. “Did he say why he lied to you?”
“They take an oath. Everything is secret, and the membership is all male, of course.” She blinked away a tear. “Oscar never mentioned a word of this to me.”
I went to Tinkie and put my hands on her shoulders as she slumped at the table. Tinkie was an all-or-nothing person. It was one of her traits that I loved best. She'd given herself to Oscar completely, and now she'd discovered that he'd held back this part of himself. She was devastated and feeling more than a little betrayed.
“I'm sorry, Tinkie.” I rubbed her shoulders lightly.
“Oscar could have told me. I've never divulged anything he's ever told me in confidence.”
“This isn't about you, it's about him,” I pointed out to her. She turned around in her chair and looked up at me, eyes brimming with tears.
“Thank you, Sarah Booth.” Her chin lifted. “Can you believe it? A secret club with no girls allowed. Talk about discrimination!” Color was coming back into her face. “One thing Oscar's going to learn the hard way. If he has secrets, I'm going to get a few of my own. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”
I was relieved to see her spirits picking back up, but more than a little worried. Tinkie had once considered having an affair, primarily because Oscar was ignoring her. But she wasn't the kind of woman to lie and deceive, not even when the code of Daddy's Girls allowed it. “Don't do anything rash, Tinkie,” I counseled.
“I'll show Oscar rash! To hell with Oscar and his foolishness. Let's get on with the case.”
Tinkie was sitting up straight now, a flush of anger on her cheeks. She picked up a cruller and bit it in half. “What's that wonderful aroma I smell?”
I gave her a hug and took the soufflé out of the oven. It was a perfect golden brown on top. When we both had a plate before us, I sat down. “What did you learn about Bridge?”
“He came to Zinnia to talk to Ivory Keys. He told Oscar he was going to make a lot of money. When he found out from Oscar that you were working for Scott, he asked Oscar to set the two of you up.”
“Oh.” My fragile ego turned black and shriveled to a crisp, but it was further proof of Bridge's guilt. He'd dated me only to find out what I knew. “What did Oscar say?”
“He thought it was great. Oscar likes you, Sarah Booth, and he thought Bridge would be perfect for you.”
I'd make it a point not to let Oscar introduce me to any more of his friends in the future. “What did he say about the Bones symbolism?”
“He says the Skull and Bones has nothing to do with Ivory Keys' death. He insists the secret club is harmless. When I told him about Ivory being cut like that, he was very upset.”
“Did he know if Bridge and Ivory had ever met?”
“He said Bridge was distressed when Ivory was killed before he got a chance to conduct his business with him.”
“He never told Oscar what his business might be?” I asked.
“Maybe we should just ask Bridge what he's up to,” Tinkie said.
“I doubt he'll confess to trying to bomb me and Scott to smithereens,” I said dryly.
“Do you really think he struck Sweetie and kept going?” Tinkie didn't want to believe this. A doggie hit-and-run was obviously far more serious than trying to blow up me and Scott, but I didn't let it hurt my feelings. We were talking about Sweetie Pie, after all. “I'll bet those awful biker boys were on his payroll!”
“I don't know,” I said, “but I don't think we can afford to just go and talk to him. I don't think he'll tell us the truth.” But Tinkie's observation sounded right on. If Bridge was behind Ivory's death, it was very likely that he'd hired someone to do the dirty work. Ray-Ban and Spider fit the bill perfectly, and I didn't think they were smart enough to think up such a scheme on their own.
“What about Scott? He fired us.”
“He can't fire either of us, but even if he could, he only fired me,” I said. “He didn't fire you.”
Her face lit up. “You're right, he didn't!”
“So what I want you to do is tell Coleman about the blood and hair on Bridge's car. I was going to call him, but it would be better if you did it.”
“What are you going to do?” Tinkie was looking at the bandage on my arm with motherly concern.
“Just a little visiting.” I smiled as convincingly as I knew how.
“You're not going to see that awful man, are you?” She was referring to Scott. “He treated you terrible, Sarah Booth.” She lowered her voice. “He said you were mildly interesting in bed. That rumor could ruin you!”
“I'm not calling on Scott,” I assured her. And I wasn't. I might prove him innocent of murder, because it was my job, but I had no intention of ever talking to him again. He'd lashed out and hurt me without giving me a chance to defend myself.
“I'll talk to Coleman.” She gave me a sympathetic look. “You're in a real romantic mess, aren't you? Coleman, Scott, Bridge.” She counted off the names on her fingers.
Instead of answering, I served her the soufflé. She forgot about counting romantic mistakes and picked up her fork. “This is delicious, Sarah Booth.”
“Thanks.” I wasn't really hungry; I'd just needed to cook. Now I was ready to talk to Ida Mae.
The drive to Ida Mae's did nothing to soothe my bruised and battered heart, not to mention my sore ribs. A vicious killer was on the loose, and I intended to ferret him out. I climbed the steps and knocked at Ida Mae's door. Wearing a navy suit, navy stockings, and navy pumps, Ida Mae held a navy hat in her hand. She was ready to go out.
“I heard what Emanuel did,” she said. “I was headed to your house to check on you.”
“I'm fine,” I assured her. “Scott isn't hurt at all.”
“Sarah Booth, I don't know what to say. I was wrong to hire you on this case.”
My face must have reflected my pain, because she pushed open the screen and stepped out onto the porch to put her arm around me.
“I'm not criticizing your work, child, I'm trying to say I'm sorry you were hurt.”
Relief made me smile. “It's only a few bruises.”
“Come inside and tell me, did my son do this?” she asked.
I followed her into the living room and took a seat before I answered. “I don't know. To be honest, I don't think he did.”
“He called this morning, wanting me to bond him out. I'm not going to. I think it best he stays in jail. When I told him that, he got very angry.”
I could see where it would tend to make Emanuel mad. Ida Mae would have bonded Scott out, yet she wouldn't help her own son.
“I told him I was afraid for him to be out on the streets. Either he's going to really hurt someone, or someone is going to hurt him.”
I saw the sorrow in Ida Mae's eyes, and I admired her more at that moment than ever before. How difficult it must be not to give a child what he wanted. Instead of trying to win Emanuel's love, she was trying to save his hide.
“I'll talk to him.” He was one of the few primaries in the case I could talk to. “I'll explain.”
She shook her head. “He won't listen, but you can try. If you don't think he did it, who do you think did?”
“I don't want to say, but I have a question for you. The recordings with Elvis and Hotlips that Ivory talked about, what happened to them?”
“Why are those old records suddenly so important?”
“Were they at the club?” I pressed.
She understood then. “You think Ivory was killed for those recordings?”
“I can't even guess at their value.”
She stared out through the window at the bobbing sunflowers and thought. “I don't know where they are. The last thing Ivory said about them was that a lot of folks thought the blues was the devil's music, but that sometimes the devil's tune could lead a lost soul home.”
“What doe
s that mean?” I wanted an answer, not a riddle.
“I don't know for sure. The only thing I know is that those recordings meant a lot more to Ivory than money. They were part of his dream.”
“When was the last time you saw them?”
“About a year ago.”
“And he never mentioned them again?” I was astounded. Obviously neither Ida Mae nor Ivory had a clue how valuable those recordings might be.
“He said he'd cast them on the water hoping they'd multiply, but that it might turn out to be pearls before swine. That's the last I heard.”
I knew instantly where the recordings were. “Thank you, Ida Mae.” I stood up, almost running from the room. “I'll be in touch.”
29
On the way to the courthouse, I used the cell phone Tinkie had badgered me into getting, to call an old friend, country diva Krystal Brook. It took Krystal three phone calls and ten minutes to get me an estimate of the value of those recordings. Between eight and ten million dollars.
I was still in sticker shock when I hurried down the jail aisle toward a waiting Emanuel Keys.
“Did Mama send you with the bond money?” he asked. “Is she getting me out of here?”
“Where are those recordings?” I watched him closely. Confusion was quickly followed by gloat when he realized what I was talking about.
“They're in a place where no one will ever hear them. That music is a sin. I'm ashamed that my daddy and the others were playing and singing with that rockabilly white man.” His voice grew bitter. “You should hear them, laughing and cutting up like they're brothers.” His mouth twisted. “It's disgusting.”
I could barely breathe. What Emanuel had were live sessions, including all the horseplay among the musicians! “Those records are worth millions.”
His features grew even harder. “It doesn't matter how much they're worth. Daddy gave them to me. They're mine, and I can do anything I want with them.” His smile was an ugly thing to see. “I'm going to burn them. I've been waiting for the perfect moment. A big fire and everyone watching them melt, so they can see that principles are more important than money.”
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