"One normally doesn't."
"And your point is?" I bluffed. Delo wasn't the kind of man who would ordinarily drop by a newspaper office. COR's had little use for newspapers or transsexuals.
"He was checking up on you," Cece said, and I could see the logical part of her mind clicking through options a mile a minute. "He wanted to know if you'd ever written anything before. It makes one wonder about your newfound love of fiction." She gave it two beats. "You are writing fiction, aren't you, dahling?"
"Facts are too limiting," I answered carefully.
"That's not a real answer."
"It's as real as it gets, at least tonight." I was tempted to tell her I was a private investigator and give up the whole writing tale. But it had proven to be such a serviceable lie. No one ever wanted to be investigated, but almost everyone wanted to be immortalized in print.
"What are you up to?" Cece asked, but I knew by her singsong tone that it was rhetorical. "Get an interview with Hamilton, a good one, and I'll give you a job." She smiled her hungry smile and turned away.
I was left with the image of a very sleek jungle cat.
Cece headed out the door, and a general exodus followed. The party was over. Several members of the banking board remained clustered in front of the fireplace. When they lit cigars and took up brandy snifters, I knew it was time for my departure, along with the other women. I made sure to slip my typed report to an eager Tinkie at an opportune moment before the crowd thinned.
Harold insisted on walking me to my car. A heavy fog had begun to settle over the Delta, and had turned the familiar night into an eerie landscape. Having arrived fashionably late, I had parked a good distance from the house.
Harold tucked my hand through his arm and guided me down the drive. I must confess that my womb was in a serious state of unrest. I found the solid reassurance of Harold's arm, his simple presence, to be profoundly moving.
At my car he kissed my hand, holding it lightly. "Your entrance was spectacular," he said. "It was everything I expected of you."
I filed that away for further pondering. I was tired and my shoes, though exquisite and worth every penny, had permanently deformed my toes. "Good night, Harold," I said, offering a cheek.
He ignored the cheek and lifted my hand to his lips once more. Instead of the kiss I expected, he sucked my thumb into his mouth. With unexpected expertise, he gave it a delicious tug and a provocative nibble, then slowly released it.
Without another word he left me. Stunned, I watched him disappear into the descending fog that blurred the fairy lights he'd constructed into a soft tunnel of light.
I slept late the next morning, but it was not a restful repose. It seemed that I had two pulses going in my body—one in my thumb and the other more womb-oriented. Awakening, I felt as if I'd been caught between two drumming tribes of warriors.
The first thing to meet my gaze was Jitty, perched on the bed with a black stormcloud surrounding her head.
"Holy DDT," I said, scooting back from her. My vision cleared and I realized she'd given up on the orange juice cans and gone natural. Her Afro was a masterpiece that went against every principle Newton had ever advocated. The dashiki she wore radiated red, yellow, and black with an intensity that hurt my blurry eyes.
I glared at her, then turned my attention to my thumb. It looked normal, so why did it have a heartbeat all its own? I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom when the doorbell chimed. I checked the bedside clock and saw it was nine. Not really late, but too early for visitors. Respectable visitors, at least.
The house was cold, so I hustled into a robe and slippers and made it to the door only to find that whoever had come had also gone. On the front porch was a newspaper, a white box tied with string, and a paper bag from which wafted the aroma of coffee. Delighted, I snatched them up, slipped off the string, and opened the lid of a pastry box whose contents were still warm from the oven. Oh, delight of delights! I rushed back upstairs and crawled under the covers, mouth watering with anticipation.
In New York, when I lived on East Ninety-first Street, half a block from a pastry shop, I'd paid the owner's nephew to deliver hot Danish, coffee, and The New York Times at eight o'clock every Sunday morning. It was the height of civilization as far as I was concerned.
Though it was a Monday instead of Sunday, and the paper was the Dispatch rather than the Times, I was in hog heaven. I turned to Cece's column—after all, it was why she'd made the delivery—and picked up a pastry.
The heir apparent of the Garrett fortune, Hamilton the Fifth, newly returned to his home, made a splash reentering the waters of high society last night at a gala at the home of Harold Erkwell, local banker and art connoisseur.
Hamilton's return to his native soil was a surprise, and one that left the ladies breathless. It did not take Madame Tomeeka's talents to see what was running through the minds of at least a dozen of Zinnia's most prominent blooms. The local dry cleaners will have a booming business this week removing drool stains from the bodices of several expensive gowns.
HG the Fifth is one handsome man, and though his marital status wasn't determined as fact, I did notice that his ring finger was bare, and without even a trace of a tan line.
The hot questions for this week are: What brought Hamilton home and how long will he stay? And does he lack for female companionship? More on this as the story unfolds.
So, Cece was stirring the pot. It would drive Hamilton wild that he couldn't control the mad dog of the press, Cecily Dee Falcon.
"Hot bath," I said, diagnosing exactly what I needed and wondering if Jitty missed such mundane pleasures. I hadn't even considered sharing the pastry with her.
"Cold shower would serve you better," she replied.
"You're jealous," I teased.
"Harold threw you for a loop," she said smugly. "You got a decision to make, girl. And it won't be easy. I tol' you there was more to Mr. Banker than fine art and financial security."
I hate it when Jitty is right, especially about men. "If you're so damned smart about romance, how come you never married?" I asked. I had a second cup of coffee waiting for me; I was content to lounge in bed and chat for a while.
"I don't suppose you ever heard of a small disruption called the War Between the States. Funny how a thing like romance takes a backseat to survival."
We'd started the day on a mutual snarl, and I decided to make the first move in improving things. Something about her posture touched me. "So were you ever in love?" I asked.
I was surprised to see Jitty, normally an in-your-face sort of ghost, turn away from me to gaze out the bedroom window into the crisp December morning. I could tell by the bright sunshine that it was going to be a cold day.
Though I could only see the curve of her cheek, shaded by the huge Afro, I knew that she was sad. "I'm sorry, Jitty. I didn't mean to pry." I actually hadn't meant to upset her.
"It was such a long time ago, you'd think a body would forget."
I knew better than that. There are certain things that a body simply doesn't forget. Not ever. It is a cruel fact of nature that a subspecies that cannot wring out a dishcloth or understand the importance of one-syllable words such as "thank" and "you" can leave indelible marks on corporeal memory. There are certain moments that are branded into flesh, and for me, most all of them involved men.
"Tell me about him," I requested.
She was still staring out the window, but I could see that her smile had rounded her cheek. "He was a man," she said simply, "good in many ways. I fell in love with him when I was sixteen. For a long time we were separated, and then your great-great-grandmother, Miss Alice, discovered that I was in love with him and she arranged to buy him." Jitty chuckled softly. "You know she was something else." At last she turned to look at me. "She gave him to me."
"As in legally?" I was astounded.
"She gave me his papers. I owned him." Jitty shook her head, laughing softly at the memory. "She said that I had the perfect opp
ortunity to make my man responsive to my desires. She said she would check on the progress."
Jitty got up and walked to the window, and I knew she was staring down into the cemetery.
"Did you marry him?"
"I never did," she answered. "There was no need, and then suddenly we were at war. Coker went off with Mr. Karl to the cavalry unit in Nashville. Coker had his own fine horse, and he and Mr. Karl rode with General Forrest. Now Coker wasn't part of the Confederate Army. He was with Mr. Karl. But he might as well have been a soldier for all it mattered." She came back to stand at the foot of the bed, her hand on the poster. "Neither of them came back. Not Coker and not Mr. Karl. The story Miss Alice and I got was that Coker got hit first and Mr. Karl went back for him. They were both shot."
There was nothing I could say.
She sighed and picked up her story. "That was the first year of the war. And then it was just a matter of days and weeks and months and years before everyone we knew suffered death. We were so busy trying not to starve or be killed by soldiers or deserters or renegades or the Home Guard that we didn't look ahead or behind. When it was finally over, we didn't remember what we'd been like before."
I sipped the hot black coffee and let the horror of the past wash over and through me. I was not immune. In some way I felt as if I, too, had been a part of it. It would be impossible to live in Dahlia House, filled with relics of the past, and not understand the undeniable link to history.
"Grandma Alice remarried," I pointed out.
"She needed a man to organize the labor in the fields. The free Negroes and white trash wouldn't work for her." Jitty spoke without bitterness. "They wouldn't work for me, either. We were women and not worth listening to."
"But the two of you brought Dahlia House back. You saved it."
"And your grandmother had to marry to see that it was safe," she pointed out, and the sadness in her eyes was replaced by fire. "Which isn't a point I intended to make, but it's a dang good one now that I'm here at it."
"I'm well aware of the Delaney ability to sacrifice life, limb, and womb in the name of heritage." And I was, but I wasn't going to follow that particular martyr's path.
"So when are you seeing Harold?" Jitty asked.
"I don't know." I finished the coffee, brushed the crumbs into the box, and flipped back the covers. "But I'm seeing Hamilton this afternoon." I had decided, on the spur of the moment, to pay another visit to Knob Hill. "Cece has offered me a job if I can get an interview. It's a good excuse to talk with Hamilton. He can't deny me, because he knows I'm destitute without the newspaper job. Code of the South."
"How'd you get an appointment with him?" she asked.
"I don't have one, which isn't the issue. The important thing is, what am I going to wear?"
"Just go naked. It'll save a lot of time," Jitty mumbled.
"Too cold to go naked," I answered, popping out of the bed. I felt young and impulsive. "And I don't have the right coat. Naked requires some magnificent fake fur." I reached into the closet. "What about this red sweater dress?" I asked, lifting it from the rack. Even though Jitty wasn't going to be any real help, I wanted to discuss wardrobe with someone.
"Why not just wear a sign that says, 'I'm a sexually frustrated slut'?"
Perhaps the red sweater dress was a little clingy. "The green wool suit? I'm working on a holiday theme."
"You've been so fond of that muumuu, why not show him the real Sarah Booth Delaney?"
"I don't want to scare him off. At least not yet." Jitty's barbed remarks couldn't dampen my spirit. I pulled out a beige suit and pushed it back.
"Try your jeans and a sweater," Jitty said, shaking her head. "You go all dolled up like the Queen of Sheba, he's going to know you're trying to impress him. Go the other way, real casual. That'll keep him guessing."
I looked at her and realized the wisdom in her words. "Sometimes, Jitty, I'm almost glad you're my own personal haint."
"I don't belong to you, and I wouldn't give you advice if I didn't have a stake in the outcome here. I want a baby, and I guess it doesn't matter to me how you get one. Just get one."
"I'll do my best," I said as I headed for the bathroom with my jeans and a dark blue sweater with gold piping tucked under my arm.
I hadn't made it to the door before 1 heard the second disruption of the morning. Instead of the chime of the bell, someone was trying to beat the front door down.
"Just a dang minute," I called as I dropped my clothes and ran barefoot down the stairs. Jitty was right. We needed a butler. I looked out the peephole and stepped back from the door. Of all the people I expected to see, it wasn't Gordon Walters all dressed up in his deputy's uniform. He had that lean and hungry look that made me think he could beat up a suspect in a jail cell. I cracked the door slightly.
"Yes," I said. "Can I help you?"
"Sarah Booth Delaney, I have some questions to ask you." He didn't sound friendly at all.
"I'm getting dressed, and I have appointments all day. How about tomorrow?" I didn't want to answer any of his stupid questions at any time. I didn't want him in my house. He'd tried to intimidate me in the sheriff's office, and he'd succeeded. But he was on my turf now.
"I'm afraid you'll have to postpone the activities you planned for today."
Now that stopped me short. "And why would that be?" I asked haughtily.
"Delo "Wiley was killed yesterday."
16
I sat in the straight-backed chair beside Gordon Walters's desk and resisted the impulse to scratch my head. My hair wasn't dirty, but Gordon had hustled me out of the house without a chance to shower, much less soak in a hot tub. At the moment, I was more concerned about my personal hygiene than about the fact that the moron with the badge considered me a suspect in a killing. Or at least that was the implication, though he hadn't come out and said as much.
"What business did you conduct with Mr. Wiley at ten-hundred hours on the morning of November twenty-eight?" Gordon asked, his eyes foxy and mean.
"We had a lengthy discussion about the weather." I knew I was only prolonging my agony, but I couldn't help myself. I hadn't been offered a phone call, and though I had no intention of calling a lawyer, it did cross my mind to call Harold. The Bank of Zinnia no doubt held the mortgage on everything Gordon Walters owned or ever hoped to own. Gordon was messing with me—and one act of terrorism deserved another.
"Strange that you'd visit an old man you hardly knew to discuss the weather," Gordon said, showing his willingness to play my game.
I checked the time. It was ten o'clock. I'd give Gordon an hour for his fun. I settled back into the chair, crossed my legs man-style, and lifted my chin. "I've been thinking about growing corn at Dahlia House. The fields have been fallow for the last eight years. I think I could get a pretty good crop. Delo grew corn, so I stopped by for a chat."
Gordon picked up a pack of Marlboros and shook out a cigarette. He offered it to me with a grin that some women would have found intriguing. "Are you going to have time to farm while you're writing your book?" Gordon asked.
I considered the cigarette but shook my head. It had been three years since I'd smoked. "Working both activities simultaneously will produce synergy."
"No wonder your eyes are brown," he answered, but there was something new in his expression. Open curiosity. "You're not the average little Delta belle, are you?" he asked.
I chose to ignore the condescending personal question and directed my answer to the real reason I was downtown in the sheriff's office. "Look, I don't know what happened to Mr. Wiley," I said. "I talked to him, but not about anything that would get him killed." I suddenly remembered his warning to me about stepping outside the boundaries of my "class." He had said I was drifting onto dangerous ground. But it had proven more dangerous for him.
"Something wrong?" Gordon asked.
He was rather astute. I suddenly wished the sheriff would walk through the door. "Where's Coleman?" I asked.
"Gone to
Jackson to pick up some state funds. He won't be back until tomorrow." Gordon grinned. "I'm in charge."
"Look, Deputy Walters, I'm not involved in this. But I have some ideas. Tell me about the body. How was he killed?"
Gordon stared at me. "You want to see?"
I most certainly did not, but there was a challenge in his question, and I wasn't about to show that I'd never viewed a murder scene. In fact, Gordon hadn't said whether it was murder or not. "Killing" was a rather generic term that meant death but not necessarily murder.
"Sure," I said, "let's go."
He let me ride in the front seat of the patrol car, but he didn't look at me or talk to me as we drove out of town toward the flat, open fields. It gave me a chance to study his profile, and I duly noted the roguish nose that had been broken, the rugged looks that might be considered handsome.
"Was Delo shot?" I asked.
"Very effectively."
"Could it have been suicide?"
"Not unless he pulled the trigger with his toe and then got his boot back on with only a bloody stump for a head."
Now that was an image I didn't want rattling around in my brain, but it bore a shocking resemblance to the death of Hamilton Garrett the Fourth. The graphic details were meant to deter me from asking other questions. "So it was a shotgun?"
"A twelve-gauge." Gordon turned right. "It must have happened about eleven hundred hours yesterday."
Just before Sunday dinner.
"Where were you about that time?" he asked.
"Painting my fingernails." I held out my hands for him to see the Little Red Russet shade. I had indeed been getting ready for Harold's soiree. I started to ask where the shooting had taken place, but we'd turned down Delo's drive, passed the house, and headed out across the cornfield. The patrol car bumped gamely over the rows of brown cornstalks. A clutch of doves flew up to the right, and I watched them line out on the horizon and fly hard and straight.
I remembered the dream I'd had. The one that Tammy had also had. Though it was morning, and bright and cold, the day had taken on the muted tones of the dream.
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