"Dream on." In the darkness Jitty sounded bored.
I snapped on the bedside light. "You read enough of those old Cosmo magazines in the attic to drive me crazy. There were dozens of articles in them about how women sexually peak out so much more slowly than men."
"Poppycock."
She was in a difficult mood and dressed to show it. She had on a slinky jumpsuit of what could only be tomato-red spandex. It was sleeveless, with capri-length legs that emphasized her trim ankles and killer-spike sandals. Her hair was straight, a la Vanessa Williams, and she looked like she might be twenty-two. I hated her.
"Get out of my bedroom."
"We need to talk."
"Go away." I pulled the covers over my head, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. I couldn't sleep, because I was worried. Forcing Jitty out of my room wouldn't quell my bout of anxiety. I threw back the covers and went into my bathroom. Beneath the bright lights of the mirror, I examined my face. Yes, there were the first signs of wrinkles. My left side, creased by a fold in the sheet, was worse. Crow's-feet. Laugh lines. Squint marks. I had them all. I turned profile to see if a wattle was developing.
"Better find you a man before you have to use spackle."
"Shut up." Jitty was enough to send me to look for the razor blades.
"Sarah Booth, why do you think you're still single? I mean, just as a point of curiosity. Why aren't you married?"
This was more soul-searching than I could stand. "Because Prince Charming has ridden all around Mississippi and somehow managed to avoid Zinnia?"
Jitty snorted. "You didn't give Malone Beasley a chance. You didn't even offer him a cup of coffee."
I turned to her. "Why should I entertain some reject Cece dredged up?"
"Maybe he was a nice man."
"He wanted my car, not me."
"What? You think he should have walked up to you and rubbed your bumper?"
She had a point, which only made me more adamant. "Cher-ry," I mimicked.
"You seriously need to get you a life." She frowned her disapproval.
"I may need a life, but he needs a car. He rode the bus from Wetumpka."
She sighed.
"He didn't have money to get home. That's exactly what I need. Another mouth to feed around here."
She sighed more deeply.
"He was—" I didn't get to finish. There was the sound of a guitar outside my bedroom window. It was a good riff that ran full ahead, broke, flowed, and continued into low-down and dirty blues.
A very low and sexy voice blended in with the guitar. "I sent for my woman, da-da-dum; she came to my side. Da-da-dum. She whispered so sexy, da-da-dum; you been drinkin' and you lied! Yeah, my baby's gone, and she took all her lovin' when she went!"
"I think you got company," Jitty said, stepping back against the wall. "He might not have a car, but he's got one helluva way with a guitar."
She was gone, and I was left with the troubadour beneath my window. I could only pray that Kip was asleep. What would she think? Malone Beasley and now this.
I hurried to the window and leaned out. In the darkness I couldn't see him, but he saw me.
"Sarah Booth, I've come to crown you as the queen of the blues."
"Who are you?" I whispered as harshly as I could.
"John Bell Washington, or the ladies call me J.B., the original blues man from Greenwood. At your service, ma'am."
I gritted my teeth. "Come around to the front door," I said sweetly.
"Whatever you say."
I grabbed some jeans and a shirt and hurried barefoot down the stairs. He was waiting there, guitar in hand, when I opened the door. He was better than six feet tall and had a grin that would charm Medusa. Long, dark hair was neatly queued.
"I apologize for arriving so late," he said as he stepped past me and into the house. "I had a gig at the Delta Blues Bar in Greenwood. It would have been a breach of contract if I didn't show. But here I am, and I'm ready to sing, dance, and generally make your life a pleasure. You look like you could use a massage."
"Who are you?"
A look of consternation passed over his face. "I told you. John Bell Washington. You know, JBBLUES, all caps."
I didn't have a clue what he meant, but I was going to absolutely kill Cece. Malone Beasley wasn't bad enough. Now I had a musician standing in my foyer. No, headed into my kitchen. And who should greet him with a wagging tail but Sweetie Pie.
"What a great dog," he said, bending to pat the stomach she offered for his touch. "I'm about famished. You said you'd have something good to eat when I got here, and I think I smell roast."
He pushed straight into the kitchen and unerringly opened cabinets, drawers, and the refrigerator until he had a plate, flatware, and food. He served himself and sat down at the kitchen table. "Mmmmm, this is good," he said, spearing a half potato. "You are some kind of cook, no doubt about that. I'd say you were running neck and neck with Mother in the category of kitchen expertise."
"I didn't actually—"
"Lots of women lie about that kind of thing, but a lie always catches you in the end. That's what Mother says, and that's why I never lie. Now tell me about this ball we're attending."
In the light of the kitchen, I could see he cultivated a rugged look—he'd deliberately not shaved. His dark eyes watched me with mild curiosity. If I were forced to tell the truth, I'd have to say he was quite attractive.
"The Chesterfield Hunt Ball?" I knew without a doubt that Cece had been at work again.
"Yeah, all those ritzy ladies and gents. Lots of money and no fun. That's what you said, and I agree. Well, we're going to show them what it means to have a good time at a ball."
He polished off his plate of food with such blinding speed that I served him another without thinking. I cut a hunk of roast and offered it to Sweetie Pie, who broke off her adulation of John Bell Washington long enough to swallow it whole.
"So, are there any good blues clubs in Sunflower County? I haven't spent much time over here."
"One or two," I said.
"Well, I'll find something to keep me busy until Saturday. Don't you worry about it at all. I'm good at entertaining myself. You know, I've never met an actual, honest-to-God private investigator."
Whether it was charm or calculation, I felt myself smiling. John Bell Washington, for all the fact that he was probably a manic-depressive on the upswing, was irresistible.
He laid his knife and fork properly across the plate. "I know this is kind of strange, so I'll mosey on down to the local hotel and park it until tomorrow. I'll rent some tails in town, and we'll make us some plans for that big ball."
He pushed back from the table and stood up. "Good night, Sarah Booth." He squeezed my fingers gently.
There was not the thumb throb of Harold, but there was a warm tingle. "I do love the blues," I said, unwilling to commit to anything more.
"I'm your man, then," he said with a lopsided grin. "Call me John or call me J.B., just be sure and call me tomorrow."
He left by the back door, whistling a down-and-dirty tune, and I was left alone in the kitchen with Sweetie Pie and the empty platter where once a roast had lain.
11
Trudging back up to my room, I stopped by Kip's door. I almost tapped on it with a reminder that it was long past her bedtime. Instead, I went to my room. Kemper's funeral was set for tomorrow morning, Thursday, at eleven. No matter how it played out, it was going to be an ordeal for all of us.
Lying in bed with Kinky for company, I paused in my reading to listen to the wails and throbs of Kip's music. Perhaps her desire for a new hairdo was a sign she was coming around. I was certain of nothing. I only knew that I was deeply troubled and that my bedroom door, for the first time in my life, was locked.
Sleep settled over me, a thin blanket of forgetfulness troubled by strange images and a suffocating sense of urgency with an undertone of blues guitar.
I'd been asleep for what felt like a few minutes when I heard Sweetie Pie's soft whines. She
was outside my door in the hallway. She'd taken to splitting her time between me and Kip. Apparently she was now ready for the midnight shift change and annoyed that my door was closed. I got up and opened it.
Instead of coming into my room, Sweetie barked and headed downstairs. At the landing, she waited for me. Curious, I followed. The tile of the foyer was cold beneath my bare feet as Sweetie led me to the front door. Looking at me, she began to bark.
I saw the headlights then. They were halfway down the drive, yellow beams in the dark night, too far away for me to distinguish the make of the vehicle. A slender figure passed in front of the headlights and got into the passenger side. Backing among the sycamores, the car turned around and left.
I didn't need to check Kip's room to know she was gone, but I did. Her bed was empty. With her things scattered all over the floor, there was no way to tell what, if anything, she'd taken with her.
I walked out onto the landing and sat down on the stairs. Kip was fourteen, a troubled girl with a history of instability, and possible violence. Her mother was in jail. I didn't know what I should do. Coleman was the logical answer, but I resisted. I had not yet resolved my role.
Jitty slipped beside me and sat. "You were fifteen when you ran away," she said.
"Fifteen and four months," I responded with a wry smile. I'd forgotten the incident. Aunt LouLane had forbidden me to attend a dance with a high school senior. Angry with her, and embarrassed that I was being treated like a baby, I'd run away. "I only went over to Annabelle's house."
"Yeah, only to Annabelle's. You had it all planned, didn't you? Your girlfriend loaned you a dress, and you had that boy pick you up there, and you went to the dance."
"1 remember," I said. The dress had been a deep, rich russet, a beautiful silky dress with a matching shawl. It had been late September, when the weather was still warm. "Taylor Williams. That was his name." I smiled at the memory. He'd gone on to college the next year, disappearing into one of the law firms of the Northeast. "He married a Yankee. I think Aunt LouLane's fit scarred him for life."
Jitty was not amused. "Your aunt about stroked out. She was drinkin' bakin' soda fizzes, 'cause she thought she was havin' a heart attack. She had the sheriff, the highway patrol, and all five constables lookin' for you. Ever' time the phone rang, she thought it was the kidnappers callin' with a ransom request."
I couldn't help but smile, though the memory still caused me deep guilt. "I danced all night. The last disco party."
"And then you didn't sit down for several days."
"That was the only time Aunt LouLane ever spanked me. She used a hairbrush, as I recall."
"Lucky for you she didn't use a baseball bat."
"True." I sighed. "So what are you trying to tell me?"
"Somebody had to know when and where to pick Kip up." Jitty leaned back on her elbows. "This ain't no rash runnin' away from home. It was planned, just like yours."
"Maybe Tinkie overheard her on the phone." I had a lead.
"That would be my first suggestion. Then I'd check that computer. There's a whole world out there that she's conversin' with, and some of those folks may not be safe."
If Jitty intended to frighten me, she was successful. I jumped to my feet. "Internet predators! Do you think she's talking to some killer?"
Jitty rolled her eyes. "More likely she's talkin' to some hired hit man, but I'd use what few skills you got to find out. And first thing tomorrow, I'd sign up for some computer classes."
"Like I have time to learn anything new," I retorted.
"You gone be old, wrinkled, with shriveled ovaries and no technology skills. In other words, you're racin' toward extinction with the lumberin' speed of a dinosaur!"
I finally turned to look at her. She looked dressed for speed. "You learn it," I said. "I have to call Tinkie."
The clock in the kitchen, where I put on a pot of coffee, showed two in the morning. Oscar was not going to be happy with me. Not at all. Oscar had been amazingly pleasant about Tinkie's involvement with the detective agency, but I suspected a dead-of-night call might be the straw that would break the camel's back. Still, there was no help for it.
Tinkie answered on the second ring, her voice sleepy.
"Kip just ran away," I said.
"Where? How? With whom?" She was wide awake and asking all the right questions.
Unfortunately, I had no answers. "I just saw her get in a car. The driver was smart enough not to come all the way down the drive."
There was a long, low rumble of complaint and I knew Oscar had awakened, and not in the role of Prince Charming.
"Honey, Lee's girl has run away. I've got to help find her."
There was a garbled, mumbled discussion that I wasn't intended to hear. At last, though, loud and clear, came Oscar's voice, surprisingly pleasant. "You promise?" he asked.
"Baby, I'm going to rock your world when I get back," Tinkie said. She spoke into the phone. "I'm closer to Swift Level than you. I'll stop by and check there on my way."
"Thanks." I hung up, pondering Tinkie's many skills. She'd taken the lesson plan of a Daddy's Girl to new and dizzying heights. In fact, as I pondered it, I came to the conclusion that she was breaking the major rules and bending all the others. In her own way, she had become a rebel.
I was on the front porch with coffee when she pulled up. She got out of the car and I almost choked. She was wearing a flowing tiger-print silk robe over a matching teddy. On her tiny feet were five-inch spike heels with a little ruffle of fuzzy tiger fur.
"You actually wear that to bed?" I asked. My own sleep-shirt was faded and sagged in all the wrong places.
Her answer was a critical eye that lingered on each sag. "You need help," she said. She reached into the backseat and brought out a black leather bag. "There was no sign of Kip at Swift Level. Pour me some coffee while I change. I was afraid if Oscar really woke up, he'd say I couldn't come, so I just grabbed some things and ran." She was walking toward a downstairs bathroom as she talked.
By the time I had her coffee, she was back on the porch in jeans and a sweater, waiting for me. I filled her in, telling her everything, from the syringe to the phone call I'd overheard to the psychiatric diagnosis. Confession didn't bring the release I sought. Tinkie's face was as worried as mine.
"Kip was on phone restriction except for schoolwork. Did she talk to anyone last evening?" I asked.
Tinkie nodded. "She went upstairs to her bathroom. I was cleaning up the mess and setting the table, and I started upstairs to check on her. I overheard her whispering."
"Do you remember what she said?"
"She said, 'Can you find her? I'll do whatever I have to.' Then there was a long pause, and she said, 'Whatever you say.' And she hung up."
"Did she see you?"
"No, but I asked her what was wrong." Tinkie sipped her coffee. "She said it was a school friend who lost her dog. I should have told you this, Sarah Booth, but teenagers always have so many secrets. I didn't give it a thought."
I put a hand on her shoulder. "I should have gone to Coleman long ago, when I first suspected."
"Suspected what?" Tinkie asked. Her blue eyes were large with concern.
"That Lee is protecting Kip."
Tinkie looked down at her feet, now encased in sensible Italian walking shoes. She fiddled with the shoelace. "He already knows," she said. "I was worried about you, Sarah Booth, alone here with Kip. I'd heard a few things. I talked to Coleman." She looked up with tears in her eyes. "I had to."
"What did he say?" Instead of being angry, I was relieved.
"He already knew all of it. He's been keeping an eye on you and just waiting and watching, hoping that Lee will recognize the futility of what she's doing. I think we should call him now."
"Let's give it until morning," I said. It was only another few hours. "If she's not back by six, we'll call him."
Tinkie stood up. "I hope you made a big pot of coffee."
We were sitting on the porch
when Kip came walking down the driveway. A low fog had covered the ground in dense patches, and Kip walked out of one, materializing like a specter.
"Kip!" Tinkie stood and called her name.
Kip froze, then started walking again. She came straight on, stopping at the steps.
"Where have you been?" I asked.
"There was something I had to take care of," she said, green eyes holding mine with sheer will.
"We've been worried sick," I said, slowly rising.
"I'm sorry. I knew you wouldn't let me go. I had to do it."
"Do what?"
She swallowed, glancing at Tinkie and then back at me. "I can't tell you."
"Who picked you up?" I asked.
"A friend."
"I want a name."
She shook her head. "I won't tell you. Send me to DHR or wherever you have to. I won't tell."
"Go inside and clean up," I said with as much control as I could muster. The new hairdo that Tinkie had created had done a lot to improve Kip's look, but she was still the same rebellious kid.
"I'll be ready for the funeral," she answered, walking past me and into the house.
"What are you going to do?" Tinkie asked.
"I don't know," I answered.
The CASKET, COVERED with a blanket of white roses, was on a stand beside the open grave. Father McGuire stood at the head of the silver coffin, his black robes fluttering in the March breeze that carried the dizzying fragrance of wisteria.
Lee stood beside Coleman. I almost didn't recognize her in a black dress, hose, and heels. Her long Viking hair had been piled into a very sophisticated chignon. Tinkie, with her yen for hair sculpting, had been by the jail. For all of her Daddy's Girl upbringing, Tinkie had a way with hair. Had she been born into different social circumstances, she could have been the Sassoon of the Delta.
Though I scanned the tiny group twice, Cece was not to be found. Garvel LaMott, camera dangling from his neck and grubby notepad in his hand, was representing the Dispatch. Cece was not only a meddling hussy, she was also a craven coward. She was afraid to show up and fess up to sending those two men over to Dahlia House.
Tinkie had agreed to bring Kip. As they approached the green tent, I took note of Kip's miraculous makeover. The short haircut was perfect, and the color was dazzling. She had the strength of Lee's features but a darker skin tone. In her black dress, she looked older and more sophisticated than her fourteen years. The traces of a long night without sleep could be seen in the circles beneath her eyes, and I caught the look of pain on Lee's face as she devoured her daughter with her gaze.
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