Malone cast a covetous glance at my car. "How about a ride to the bus station? You can't expect me to walk back to town."
I hesitated. Common decency dictated that I give him a ride. Then again, he might salivate in the front seat of my car.
"I'll call a cab." That was the best I could offer. And I acted on that, going inside and calling Burtis Wade, the only cabby in Zinnia. He wasn't actually a cabby, but he had a 1963 Ford Fairlane that he used on prom night to drive the seniors around so they could drink. He was groggy from a nap and reluctant to work, but I told him it was an important story for Cece, whom he should bill for the fare. He said he was on the way.
I wanted a hot bath and a locked door. When I went into my room, Kip was sitting at the computer. She clicked off the screen she'd been looking at. "Where's Mr. Beasley?" she asked.
"He's gone." I examined her fourteen-year-old face. She was growing more innocent by the second. "Did you tell him you were my niece?"
"No. I told him I wasn't your daughter, that you'd never been married. He just assumed I was your niece." She was finding it hard to hide her amusement. "He had a box of cherry cordials for you. He showed me. I thought it was kind of sweet."
I wanted to murder Cece. I was prevented from rash action by the sound of high heels tapping through the parlor and toward the kitchen.
"Sarah Booth! Kip! I'm here!" Tinkie called out.
I'd forgotten all about the hair appointment. I went down to the kitchen to find her pulling boxes and bottles out of a pink plastic bag. She already wore a pink plastic apron. Kip had followed me, and Tinkie signaled her over to the table. "I think something with auburn highlights, but very subtle." She was already touching Kip's hair. To my surprise, the thorny teenager sat in a chair and let Tinkie have her way with her burgundy head.
Afternoon light slanted through the kitchen window illuminating them, and for a moment I saw clearly how Kip craved the attention of a woman, the feminine skills that Lee had put at the bottom of her list of priorities. Kip needed a mother.
I walked to the window and looked out at the family cemetery plot some fifty yards away. The Delaneys, including my parents and Aunt LouLane, were all buried there. Five generations. Around LouLane's grave a star-burst of daffodils was blooming. They'd always been a favorite of hers.
"Sarah Booth, what do you think of this style?" Tinkie pointed to a magazine on the table.
I walked over and looked at the crisp, clean cut. "I like it."
"Just make me look completely different," Kip said.
"Okay, then we'll do that cut, and this color." Tinkie held up a box.
"Great," Kip said. "No one will recognize me."
I gave her a close look, but she was staring at the hair-color box.
"By the way, Sarah Booth, Margene, my cook, is bringing over a roast for dinner. I hope you don't mind." Tinkie was whipping strands of hair into the air.
"Thanks," I said, meaning it. Without the duties of chef, I could take care of pressing business. "I need to run an errand or two." I hesitated. Was I leaving Tinkie in danger?
"That roast will be here in half an hour," Tinkie said. "We'll just have time to put the color on." She rolled up the sleeves of her Chanel suit. "You go on, Sarah Booth. We'll have a surprise for you when you get back."
All of the courthouse offices were winding down for the close of day, but Coleman was still at the sheriff's office, and I noted that it seemed he seldom went home anymore. I walked in to an unexpectedly big grin.
"Well, Sarah Booth," he said. "You've been on my mind." He could barely contain his amusement. "There was a man here about half an hour ago. One Malone Beasley. He says you lied to him. That you deceived him in a deliberate effort to make a jackass out of him. He wanted to press charges against you. Date fraud."
My ears flamed with humiliation. "Maybe you should talk to Cece. This is her idea of a joke." I would never, never live this down.
"Now I've heard of date rape, but date fraud is a new one on me. What, exactly, does that entail?"
"I just said no," I answered glumly.
Coleman's chuckle was soft and easy. "I needed a laugh," he said. "Mr. Beasley didn't have bus fare, so I loaned him some cash and sent him on his way."
"Thanks." I felt my body shrinking.
"You didn't ask him to Dahlia House?"
"Coleman, I'm not an idiot. Absolutely not."
"How did he know about the ball and you?"
It was a logical question, but logic is never a girl's best friend in moments of burning shame. "Cece told him."
Coleman laughed again. "I'd kill her, Sarah Booth. But take a word of advice, don't confess if you do."
"May I borrow your phone?" I asked. Alternately steaming and burning, I dialed the newspaper. Cece was out, and no one knew where. I suspected she was hiding in her office, but I didn't have time to drive there and hunt her down. It would have to wait until tomorrow, when I was fresh and ready for mayhem.
"Can't find her?" Coleman asked.
I shook my head. He signaled me into his private office and closed the door. When he sat at his desk, all traces of his earlier humor were gone.
"Have you found anything?" he asked.
It was a strange question coming from the sheriff. Coleman was good at his job. He didn't need my help, and more often thought of me as an interference.
"Nothing concrete," I said. More than anything, I wanted to talk to Coleman about Kip. He was rational, logical, a man who'd learned to look at evidence and not emotion. But I couldn't. Coleman was sworn to uphold the law. If Kip had broken it, he would arrest her.
Fel Harper knocked at the door, his face deliberately expressionless as Coleman motioned him into the room. He extended an envelope, turned abruptly, and left.
Fel was still sore at me about my first case, when he used to be county coroner before he was recalled from office for misidentifying bodies and other small infractions of the law. Now he worked as a gofer for the Sunflower County Funeral Home. I'd already made it very clear to Tinkie and Cece that should anything happen to me, my body was not to be left alone with Fel.
The envelope was heavy, and Coleman opened it and dumped the photographs onto his desk. At first I didn't recognize what they were pictures of. Then I realized it was Kemper Fuquar—or what was left of him. My first reaction was to acknowledge that Doc Sawyer had not been exaggerating. Avenger's hooves had done tremendous damage. I looked through the stack, willing my stomach to stay calm and my emotions to remain cool. I knew one thing, though: If those photographs were allowed into the courtroom, Lee would lose a lot of sympathy. It wouldn't matter that Kemper was dead when the horse stomped him. The prosecution would put those images to good use.
Coleman gathered up the photographs without a word and slid them back into the envelope.
"I need to see Lee," I said.
"Talk some sense into her if you can," Coleman said softly. "The prosecutor had her evaluated by a psychiatrist this morning. She was found competent to stand trial. She won't tell me a damn thing except she killed him, and that she's prepared to stand up in court and say he got what he had coming to him." Coleman held out the pictures. "These don't prove anything, but they're emotionally damning."
Coleman didn't have to tell me that Lee's situation had just gone from bad to worse.
He led me to the door of the jail, opened it, and then closed it behind me. I walked toward Lee's cell with a heavy heart. The vacancy rate in the Sunflower County jail was high. At times, Coleman was jammed to overflowing with state prisoners who were "boarded out" in county jails—by court order. And there were the drunks, parties to domestic violence, burglars, and such. Since Lee's arrival in the jail, though, Coleman had done his best to give her as much privacy as possible. I wondered if she even realized it.
She was sitting on her cot, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. She didn't hear me as I approached.
"Lee?"
She straightened her back and
rose to her feet. "Sarah Booth," she said. "How's Kip?"
"Tinkie's giving her a makeover."
Relief showed in every line in her face. "She hasn't been to see me. She's okay?"
"She's fine. She hasn't asked to visit," I said. "She's angry. With you and everyone else."
Lee nodded. "I can imagine." Something dark passed over her features. "She's only a child," she said with such urgency that I wondered what she was really saying.'
"She wants to do her schoolwork via computer. She doesn't want to go back."
Lee nodded. "Thank you, Sarah Booth. Kip's a whiz on the computer. That's how she kept up with her classes when she was on the show circuit. It's been hard on her. A lot harder than it had to be." A note of iron crept into her voice. "But she's an all-A student. She'll have the scholarships I never had a chance at. You know, scouts from the Olympic team are looking at her this year. She's only fourteen!"
I watched Lee closely. Except that she was framed through the bars of a jail cell, she could have been any proud mother listing her daughter's accomplishments. That and the fact that she was crushing her right hand with her left as she talked.
"Lee, what happened at school?"
She swung on me. "How did you find out about that?" She got a grip on herself and consciously grew calmer. "It was nothing. Kip got in an argument with another student. It got out of hand. She knocked some books over in the library and tore up a locker." She shrugged. "It's over."
"Kip said Dr. Vance prescribed some medication for her?"
Lee blanched. She was already pale, but what little color there was in her face completely drained. "She told you that?"
"She did. She said she was taking Prozac and Paxil. Those are both pretty strong."
"It's also a crock of shit. Kip doesn't take those drugs. That moron Vance prescribed them. That's what he does—cure all the problems of kids with a few prescriptions. Kip went to him; she had to, or they were going to expel her from school. He gave her the prescriptions, and we get them filled every month. The school can check to make sure she's following his medical advice. But she doesn't take the pills. She flushes them down the toilet."
I wondered if she was just naive or if she was deliberately lying to me. "I found a syringe in Kip's makeup."
Lee hesitated. "It wouldn't be uncommon for her to have something for the horses."
"That's what she said."
She paced the cell. "That's what it is. It has to be for the horses if she said so."
"Lee, did Kip kill Kemper?"
She was at the bars so fast that I actually stepped back.
"Don't say that, Sarah Booth. Don't even think that again. Kip didn't do anything. I told you, I killed him. I did it and no one else."
I knew she was lying, just as Coleman did. Just as a jury would, but they would still convict her if she insisted she was guilty.
"Then I have some questions for you. Why didn't you report the past beatings to the sheriff? Why not plead self-defense? Why didn't you divorce Kemper before it came to this?" I peppered her with the questions. "Who are you protecting?" I asked softly. "If it's Kip, there may be a better way."
Lee's fingers tightened on the bars. "Leave Kip out of this. I mean it, Sarah Booth. Leave my daughter out of this. She's suffered enough. Now don't ever mention this to me again, or to anyone else."
"If it were only me, it wouldn't matter. I'm on your side, Lee, but I'm going to point one thing out to you. The night Kemper was killed, he never struck you. There wasn't a mark on you, and I'm not the only one who noticed. That's why you aren't pleading self-defense. You didn't kill Kemper. You're covering for—"
"I don't have to answer your questions. You need to know one thing and that is Kemper died by my hand. By all that you hold dear, if you try to sacrifice my daughter, you will regret it until the day you die."
Although Lee hadn't killed her husband, I had no doubt that she would do serious damage to me or anyone else who tried to harm her child.
10
Tinkie was in the kitchen, washing the last of the supper dishes, when I got home. A heaping plate of roast, new potatoes, carrots, onions, and fresh shelled English peas waited on the counter for me under a stainless steel cover.
"Kip's upstairs setting her hair. I showed her how." Tinkie took a dishcloth and wiped the counter. "Under all of that bad hair and makeup, there's a lovely young girl."
I sat down at the table and began to eat. "Thanks, Tinkie. This is wonderful."
"Margene's been cooking for me since she was eleven. Her mama, Mazy, cooked for Oscar's mama. I stole Margene right out from under Mother Bellcase. Lord, she threw a famous hissy fit at The Club and almost got us all thrown out, but that's water under the bridge now. She's glad enough that Margene is cooking for Oscar now."
The roast was so tender it almost melted in my mouth. I was so busy eating I could only nod and chew.
Tinkie sat down at the table, reached into the pocket of her fitted jacket, and brought out a sheet of paper. "I had lunch today at The Club with Carol Beth. I picked up some interesting gossip." She held the page out to me.
"Carol Beth?"
She nodded. "She is such a bitch, isn't she? She said you were at Swift Level. To check out Bud Lynch's services." Tinkie giggled. "I couldn't help myself. I told her that you were engaged to Hamilton Garrett the Fifth, and that he was so smitten by you that he was thinking of moving back to Mississippi since you wouldn't leave your home."
"Tinkie! You are the best girlfriend! That was brilliant."
"She was so aggravated about the romantic trip to Paris you're taking in April that she said a few things she might regret." She nodded at the page I held.
I looked at the list of names scribbled in Tinkie's hand. At the top was Bud Lynch, followed by a series of names—all female, I noted— that included some of the shining lights of Delta society, all former schoolmates of mine.
"Mary Louise Bellington, Elizabeth Cooper, Susannah Adair Fitzgerald, and Krystal Brook?" I finished the list on a big question mark. "Simpson—that Krystal?"
Tinkie nodded slowly. "She's been taking riding lessons from Bud. Her husband doesn't seem like the type to tolerate those kinds of antics."
"I've met him," I said. "He definitely likes to manage." I studied the list. "Are you're telling me that Carol Beth fingered these women as possible murderers?" I knew all of them—all former Daddy's Girls who'd married well, lived well, and had the finer things in life handed to them on silver platters. "Why would they kill Kemper?"
"They were all taking riding lessons from Bradford Lynch."
My eyes opened. "All of them?"
"Every single one of them. Sometimes five times a week." Tinkie's Sun-Kissed-Peach lips slowly curled into a wicked smile. "Rumor has it that the horses at Swift Level never broke a sweat, but the trainer was another matter."
"Lynch! He was—"
"Riding them hard. And with incredible skill."
"That would be twenty times a week." Math wasn't my strong suit, but in this case I could multiply.
"His stamina is legendary."
I took my dishes to the sink. "So Carol Beth thinks one of these women killed Kemper because they were being serviced by Lynch?" I still didn't get it. "She was taking lessons, too."
Tinkie refilled our coffee cups as she talked. "Carol Beth believes that Kemper was trying to blackmail these women, and one of them decided to do something about it. They're all married. They all have a lot to lose if it becomes public knowledge that they're sharing the services of a philandering horse trainer. I mean it would be different if he were just seeing one of them. But all of them! It looks so . . . desperate. I mean, at thirty-three, we're all past our prime. But to have to pay for riding lessons just to get. . . some attention."
Desperation was never a good look on a Daddy's Girl. I was finally getting the picture Tinkie's list painted. In all of the DG training, the most unacceptable thing was to appear desperate. Cute, temperamental, manipul
ative, helpless, brainless, malleable, flighty, and just plain blond—all were high art forms in the hands of a DG. Desperation was for lesser mortals. When a DG looked desperate, it was the end. She'd blown all the work of building her lifelong facade. Ask Blanche DuBois. "You might be on to something," I agreed. It didn't explain Lee's confession, but it did give us more suspects and motives to muddy the water.
"Besides, Kemper was a total piece of shit." Tinkie got up and walked to the window. I knew she was looking out over the darkened vista of the cotton fields, which had been recently tilled and planted. I'd leased the land to Willie Campbell, a local farmer who'd been a few years ahead of me in high school. Tinkie could see none of my land. It was an internal landscape she viewed.
"Anyway, you have the list," she said. "Every single one of those women will be at the hunt ball. We can tackle them there." She bit her bottom lip in her signature gesture. "I have to get home. Oscar had a late meeting, but he'll expect his cocktail to be waiting for him."
"Thanks, Tinkie. You did great."
Her smile was a million watts. "We'll figure out a way to keep Lee out of prison, won't we?"
"We don't have a choice," I said, putting my arm around her shoulders and leaning down to whisper. "If we don't, Kip will have to go and live with you."
Tinkie's remark, harmless enough at the time, that at thirty-three we were all over the hill, began to work on me at about midnight. I sat straight up in bed from a sound sleep, slightly disoriented by the bass thud of Kip's music. I wondered if she'd fallen asleep with her boom box on, or if she was still up.
"What are you muttering about 'over the hill'?" Jitty's voice drifted to me from the old rosewood rocker that my mother had used to soothe me when I was a babe in arms. Generations of Delaneys had been lulled into sleep by the rhythm of that old chair, and as annoying as I found Jitty, I was comforted by the gentle creaking.
"I'm not even close to being over the hill," I said. "If you'll remember back to the research done in the 1970's, women don't reach their sexual peak until their late thirties. Or even the late forties."
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