Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  There were several black-and-white photographs of the crime scene. One showed a body covered with an old spread, and beside it a tall, lanky lawman who had to be Pasco Walters. I examined his face and remembered him from trips to the courthouse with my father. I had thought him very handsome, and I remembered how he tugged my braids and teased me.

  This photo showed none of his humor. He was tense and serious, actually very authoritative looking. I would have voted for him for sheriff.

  I read through a few more reports, enjoying the sensation of being alone and privy to the sordid details of the past. I was about to move on to Veronica's file when a shadow fell across my notebook. I turned to confront a tall, slender man in a deputy's uniform.

  "You find what you need?" he asked, his face in shadow.

  I closed the notebook. "Some of it." He stepped closer and I saw he was staring at me in a way that was deliberately meant to intimidate.

  "Looking for anything in particular?" he asked.

  "I'm writing a book," I said, feeling the need to rise to my feet. When I was standing, he was still a good six inches taller than I was. He lacked the broad-shouldered physique of Hamilton the Fifth, but he had an edginess that was compelling. He blocked the exit, his hand resting on the butt of his gun like some High Noon marshal.

  "I heard you're interested in the past," he said.

  "Like I said, I'm writing a book." I closed Hamilton's folder, hoping he hadn't seen much. My gut instinct was telling me not to reveal what I was hunting for, and to get out of there as quickly as I could. I would have to come back another time to probe the death of the last Mrs. Hamilton Garrett.

  "Folks are touchy about the past," he said quietly. He took a step closer so that the minimal light glinted in his eyes. He looked down at the records I'd been examining. "1979. That would be about the time Hamilton Garrett the Fourth was shot."

  I considered calling out for Coleman, but that would show I was frightened. There are certain types of men who take great pleasure in frightening women. I suspected that the deputy blocking my path might be one of them. "Excuse me," I said, starting to brush past him.

  His hand found the exact same place where Hamilton Garrett the Fifth had gripped me. He leaned down so that he whispered in my ear. "It might be wise to postpone this little writing project for a while."

  I twisted free of him with minimum effort. "Who do you think you are?" It was spoken like a true Daddy's Girl.

  "Deputy Gordon Walters. Pasco's son."

  His hand was no longer on me but his eyes held me. He had the eyes of a hunter. "Law enforcement seems to run in the family," I said.

  His chest moved up and down slowly. "Take a word of warning and stay away from Knob Hill and everyone associated with it," he said. "The only thing you'll find in the past is ghosts."

  By the time I pulled up under the big oak tree at Tammy Odom's house, I was armed to the teeth with facts and even more opinions. The "investigation" of Hamilton Garrett the Fourth's death was sloppy. There was no public record of the men who'd allegedly been hunting with Guy Garrett on that day. I had only the list of Buddy Clubbers that Delo had given me. A bit more digging via a phone call to Cece had turned up that Pasco Walters had died in the Mississippi River in 1980. He'd run his cruiser off the side of a bridge and drowned. I'd stopped by Billie's Garage but found it closed.

  As I got out of the car, I saw Tammy sitting in the shadows on the porch. It was late afternoon, and she was rocking slowly.

  "Claire said you'd probably be by to see me," she said, rising. "Come on in. I put on coffee about five minutes ago."

  "Dahlia is beautiful," I said, following her inside. "And Claire, too. She's a good mother."

  "Yes, and smart, too. I miss her."

  I wasn't certain what to say. Tammy had forced Claire from her house, had sent her packing to Mound Bayou. "What about school?" I finally asked.

  "She's doing good. I think she'll get that scholarship to Ole Miss." Tammy turned and smiled at me. "Times have changed since I was a girl."

  They had indeed. And in this instance, for the better. "What about the baby?"

  "She can come here, stay with me while Claire gets her degree." Tammy shook her head. "When Claire was born, I was so frightened, I didn't get a chance to enjoy her."

  Now seemed as good a time as any to ask. "Tammy, who is Claire's father?"

  "Why are you asking now, after seventeen years?" She put cream and sugar on the table. Her movements were casual.

  "Claire thinks it might be Hamilton Garrett the Fifth." I watched her face closely, but she gave nothing away. She'd learned to guard her expressions in the game of fortune-telling, and she was a top-notch performer.

  "He's home, isn't he?" she asked, eyes suddenly alert. "I knew he'd come back."

  I nodded, amazed at the wistfulness in her voice. "I ran into him at Knob Hill. He's a very intense man."

  She motioned to a chair at the kitchen table and poured us both coffee. She took her seat before she spoke again. "Did you know that the summer I turned sixteen I worked at Knob Hill, mostly in the kitchen and laundry?" She shook her head. "I hung miles and miles of cotton sheets to dry."

  "I had no idea."

  "School got out, and you went about your life for the summer. You were taking tennis lessons and planning a trip to Florida. When I was making beds and chopping onions, I thought about you on the beach. I saw you in a red bikini with white laces on the top and bottom. I took the job at Knob Hill because I needed to earn money for clothes."

  The fact that I had worn a red lace-up bikini on the beach that summer aside, I was stunned. "So Hamilton is the father." As I spoke his name I could almost feel his hand on my shoulder. And I felt something else, too. Disappointment. "He never attempted to help you with child support?"

  "He never knew." She reached across the table and touched my hand. Her fingers were dry, and they whispered on my skin. "He isn't Claire's father." She waited until I met her gaze. "Stay away from Knob Hill, Sarah. There are things at work there that you can't possibly stop."

  Her words, such an echo of Deputy Walters's, sent a battalion of chill bumps marching up my not-so-staunch spine. "I need the money," I said.

  "Money can't buy back your soul."

  "If I lose Dahlia House, I'll lose a part of my soul. Maybe the best part." I saw her give up. It was the first emotion I could clearly read on her face. "You worked at Knob Hill the summer before Hamilton Garrett the Fourth was shot. What was it like there?"

  Tammy stared down into her coffee cup. "Young Hamilton was sixteen, and I was in love with him." She smiled at whatever she saw in the cup. "I picked up his clothes and did his laundry. He liked lemon meringue pies and he said I made the very best he'd ever tasted. He was nice to me. He'd give me books from the library and talk to me about college."

  The tears in her eyes were a surprise. So was her description of the dark master of Knob Hill. "Kind" would not have been the word I chose for Hamilton the Fifth. "What about Sylvia?"

  "She was away most of the summer. Mrs. Garrett had sent her to Switzerland because she didn't want her home. No one ever talked about her. It was sad, like there was something wrong with her and they all pretended she didn't exist."

  "And Mrs. Garrett?"

  "She was a beautiful woman. She'd sit out by the pool and drink gin rickeys in a pewter cup with her name inscribed on it. Then she'd swim laps and get out, all sleek and wet, and drink more. Her friends would come over and they'd laugh together. They had beautiful teeth and dark sunglasses and big hats, and they laughed all summer." She rested her hands on the table. "She had all these fancy bottles, and I hated dusting them. I was afraid I'd break one."

  "Did she have a boyfriend?"

  Tammy looked up at me. "I couldn't say. There were always men there. All the time."

  "And Mr. Garrett, what was he like?"

  "He was at work a lot. I'd see him, sometimes, in the upstairs window looking down at his wife. I think no m
atter what she did, he would always have loved her."

  I'd come to the conclusion that if Hamilton the Fourth had been murdered, it was the lover who pulled the trigger. My take on Veronica was that she was too smart to do the deed herself.

  "What men were around?" I pressed, thinking maybe a naive young girl wouldn't notice flirtations. I wanted names.

  "The husbands of her friends, businessmen, Hamilton's friends, hired help. That was a house full of men."

  "Did Mrs. Garrett pay any of them special attention?"

  Tammy's eyes darted away. "She wasn't stupid. She wasn't careless in front of the help."

  I leaned forward. "Tammy, do you think Veronica Garrett had her husband killed?"

  For a split second fear seemed to spark in her eyes. "All that summer I dreamed of doves. I dreamed that I was flying with them. And then the hunters started shooting, and all around me the other doves began to fall to the earth, wounded."

  I couldn't believe what she was saying. I tried to speak, but it seemed my throat was frozen, the words blocked. Tammy wasn't looking at me. She was staring into her coffee cup and talking.

  "I was afraid to go to sleep at night because I didn't want to have the dream. So I told my granny about it." Tammy nodded. "You know what she said? She said, 'Blood soaketh the earth, and in the proper season the bones will rise.'"

  I reached across the table to grab her arm, to stop her from talking. My hand swept the half-filled mug to the floor. The blue cup shattered and the black liquid spread on the yellow linoleum, and for a moment I could only stare at it.

  Tammy made no effort to move. She looked at me, waiting. "You've had that dream, haven't you?" she asked. She bent down and picked up a fragment of the cup and held it so that the light from the window struck it. It was a hand-cast mug and on the surface three birds had been etched, the outline of their bodies gathering the blue glaze.

  "What does it mean?" I finally asked.

  "I don't know," she said. "Just promise me that you'll leave this alone. I'm afraid for you. And for Claire. Is Tinkie Bellcase really worth this risk?"

  12

  Jitty tapped her fingernail on the crystal decanter that rested on the porch railing. Her long nails were a pale, opalescent pink that matched her frosted lipstick and the paisley pattern of the skintight hip-huggers she wore. "That stuff's gone rot your guts out."

  I lifted the glass in a silent toast. Jitty was upset that I was drinking hooch in public. It would be okay in the bedroom, but on the porch a lady only sipped sherry.

  "You've been around. You know secrets," I said, aware that my pronunciation had begun to slip a little. I had been drinking, feet propped on the porch rail, for over an hour. I was cold, and too stubborn to go inside. "What do you know about the Garretts? Surely you've heard something."

  Jitty traded in her disapproving face for one that held a bit of slyness. "I know you're thinking about Hamilton the Fifth more than you should."

  "He's my case," I pointed out, aiming my glass at her for emphasis. "If I don't think about him I won't be able to help Tinkie."

  "You can fool other folks, but you can't fool me. I know when that Delaney blood is pumpin' strong. That man's got you stirred up." She grinned. "You thinkin' about how dark and brooding he is, how his fingers dug into you and made you mad and at the same time brought you to life." She nodded. "He's a vital man. His blood's strummin' like a river at flood stage, and it makes you want to jump in and swim."

  Instead of denying it, I sipped the moonshine.

  "What about Mr. Diamond Man?" Jitty asked cagily.

  That was a good question.

  Jitty stood up and walked to the edge of the porch. The sycamores closest to the house were bone white in the illumination that reached from the porch like delicate fingers. Beyond them was a rich blackness, a sense of solitude and peace. All around me, as far as my voice could carry, was Dahlia land.

  A valiant cricket rubbed his little legs together in an effort to stay warm, and his song was sadly reminiscent of the summers past. I had spent many a sweet June night down by Salem Creek listening to the night-song with a man I fancied and the unspoken birthright of a known future. I would live at Dahlia. I could pursue my dramatic career because Dahlia was always there for me. Like all of the other Daddy's Girls, I would marry a man with financial security. But I would be just a little different. I would also love my husband with a wild abandon that never seemed part of the matrimonial bargain for my friends.

  A sudden longing took hold of me, and I couldn't help my thoughts from going to Hamilton Garrett the Fifth. What would it be like to have him sipping moonshine beside me? To feel him move up to stand behind me in the stillness of the Delta night? I shivered.

  "You thinkin' crazy," Jitty said without turning to face me. "Next thing I know, you'll be hoppin' in the sack with young master from the big, big house." Her voice grew sharp. "That's your client's interest—the man she's payin' you twenty thousand to check out for her. First you steal her dog, and now you're after her man. Hurrump!"

  "Thinking and doing are two different things," I said. And they were.

  She turned to face me and for the first time she looked old, her voice tired. "You're displayin' the full range of Delaney aberrations. Keep it up and you'll end up at the emergency room with a tilted womb and a frontal lobotomy."

  No point denying it. I had a wealthy, successful man wanting to marry me and a handsome, reputed mother-killer on my mind. "I think I'll go inside and type up a report for Tinkie." It would give me something to do, and also help clarify my thoughts. I had only two real leads left—Billie's Garage and a talk with some of the Buddy Clubbers to see what they remembered about the day Guy Garrett was shot. I did not relish confronting powerful old men about a possible murder.

  "Sarah Booth, what are you gonna do if you find out Hamilton did kill his mama?" This time Jitty's question was pensive. She wasn't simply needling me. She was worried that at the advanced age of thirty-three I might sustain a serious heartbreak that would steal the last good years I had left.

  "I don't know."

  "I'm ready for the next generation. Time's passin' by." Her sigh was the sound of the old house settling into the cold night. "I remember when you were born. Your mama was never so happy. And your daddy, he went all over town giving out cigars and buying drinks. Times were good then."

  I'd heard the stories. I had been the long-awaited princess. Perhaps I could not settle for a facsimile of love now, because I understood what the real thing felt like. To be truly loved. With that in mind I answered Jitty with honesty.

  "I used to daydream about being married. I had it all planned out, how it would be, how I would feel. The trouble is that every man I meet leaves me feeling . . . empty."

  "Except Hamilton the Fifth," Jitty interjected.

  It was true. Hamilton Garrett the Fifth had made me feel many things. Empty was not one of them. And that frightened me.

  "Be careful, Sarah Booth. Emotion and marriage have nothing to do with one another. Your daddy loved your mama, but that was a rare thing."

  James Franklin Delaney and Elizabeth Marie Booth had set the Delta on fire with their torrid romance. Heir to the Delaney holding, James Franklin had met Elizabeth Marie at a college dance at Ole Miss. She had been the one signing up volunteers to join the Peace Corps, and had rebuffed his first advances.

  In front of his friends, she had pointed out that as a "wealthy planter" he held no interest for her. She intended to go to Borneo and help establish productive farming methods and a 4-H Club.

  He had been swept off his feet. A social conscience was born, along with a year-long campaign to get Elizabeth Marie into his bed. "Give a damn" was the slogan Elizabeth lived by, and James set out to prove that he did. He wooed her with roses and dinners and dances. With the zeal of a missionary, she held to her ideals. James could accompany her to the gatherings and protests and political organizations that fired her blood. It was the only place she allowed hi
m to see her.

  The only daughter of a banker, my mother had spent her college tuition money on a Volkswagen van and brochures extolling the virtues of giving a damn. Her parents were horrified. Her name was not spoken in her family's Meridian, Mississippi, home, but she made phone calls to and received phone calls from the Kennedy administration.

  Her only weakness was blues music, and my father used that to his advantage, proposing to her as they danced to B.B. King's driving electric guitar in The Iron Bedrail, a colored joint in Issaquena, Mississippi. Caught in the pulse of the hot music, she accepted Daddy's proposal. He found a justice of the peace that night, before she could change her mind.

  It was only my birth that finally brought my parents to heel. They closed the commune they'd developed at Dahlia House and settled into maturity, of a sort.

  "Mother loved Daddy, too," I finally answered. It had not been a one-way street, though it may have started out that way.

  "More than life," Jitty answered, and there was grief in the hollow of her voice.

  "I wish they were still here."

  Jitty came to stand by me and the light filtered through her pink paisley pants, giving the porch a warm tint. "I do, too, Sarah Booth. This old house is empty. You should give Harold's proposal some serious thought. You could go a lot farther and do a lot worse."

  "What would Daddy do?" I asked her.

  "The most unlikely, wildest thing possible." She smiled. "But your mother would rein him in. Until that night—"

  "I know." I interrupted, not wanting to think of the night they had died. My home held all of my memories, even the tragic ones, and for a moment they seemed overwhelming. "Maybe it would be better if I left. Maybe I should move to California."

  Jitty only laughed softly. "Now that's desperation for a Daddy's Girl. Honey, you're not wild enough, tan enough, or blond enough. You go out there and that West Coast wind'll suck the humidity out of you and your lips will crack and fall off."

  It was not a pretty picture, and my stint in New York had taught me the hazards of transplantation. Love of my home had brought me back to Dahlia House. Now I wondered if I could live anywhere else. If I left the Delta, would I become a different person? So much of me was this place, these people. My rhythm was joined with that of the Mississippi seasons. To change would shift everything inside of me, as well as outside.