"And I thought you were hiding from me."
"Moi? Hiding? Whatever for?"
So she was going to play innocent. I could crack her, but it would take more time than I had. Besides, I was more interested in LaCoco. "Where's LaCoco staying?"
"There's only one place to stay. The Holiday Breeze."
"Excellent work, Cece."
"Thank you, dahling. One does the best one can. Now I have to dash. Kisses."
The line went dead and I replaced the receiver.
Although in at least a tiny corner of my heart I wanted to be a victim of love, slain by the power of romance, and addicted to passion, I also had an ulterior motive for speeding over to the Holiday Breeze. I hoped to get an up-close look at Tony LaCoco. John Bell Washington, blues man, was a good secondary reason.
Just now, the Breeze had more patrons than I could remember ever seeing there, with the exception of 1999 when the monster truck competition was held in Clarkesdale and Zinnia ended up with the overflow of fans.
I heard the slide guitar as soon as I parked the Mercedes near the motel office. I didn't have to ask the desk clerk what room John Bell Washington was occupying. My destination, and according to Jitty my destiny, was room 8.
Zinnia had once boasted one of the grand hotels of the South, the elegant old Sunflower Hotel. But it was long gone, and with it had faded the tradition of afternoon tea and the evening story hour. The Breeze was more a place of mid-morning Millers.
Built in the 1950's along the distinctive architectural lines of a prison, the motel was flat, low, and painted a monotone shade of gray-yellow.
The small, empty pool nestled between the V-shaped wings was depressing. Eighteen-wheelers roared by on 61 Highway—the route many blues musicians and blacks had taken north—blasting grit against my legs.
A red Chevy van was parked in front of room 8, and there were three other cars in the parking lot, one of them Tony LaCoco's Town Car. There was also a red Mustang convertible and, to my surprise, the gold Lexus I'd seen Mike Rich driving.
Just as I was pulling in, a silver Taurus pulled out. The strange, dapper little man I'd met in Cece's office, Nathaniel Walz, developer, was leaving the parking lot.
I tapped on John's open door and peeped inside. He was in a chair, guitar in his lap, singing the blues. He nodded and put aside the guitar. "Come on in, Sarah Booth."
There were twin beds in the room, both of them rumpled. He was rumpled, too, his dark hair unbrushed. He wore baggy shorts and no shirt, though his chest was not a bad view.
"How's the case?" he asked. "I'm fascinated by this private eye business."
"My friend's in a lot of trouble," I conceded. It was something of a relief to talk to someone who didn't know Lee, someone who might just respond to the case as a set of variables.
"So your friend owes Tony LaCoco a lot of money," he said, frowning. "Maybe LaCoco had her husband killed."
I liked the way this man thought. I also wanted to know where he'd gotten those details, so I asked him.
He pointed at the headboard of the bed. "Yesterday, Mr. LaCoco had his goon practicing the speech he was to give at the graveside. I hope after all that work that the delivery was good."
"Convincing."
John glanced at the bathroom door for a split second. "What are you goin' to do? The kid's stayin' with you, right?"
His drawl was soft and easy, a voice that could be a comfort. "Yes, Kip is with me. The sheriff is aware of the threats, and he's watching out for her."
"And what about yourself? Who's watchin' out for you?"
I couldn't help but smile back at him. "If you've read any mystery books, you'll know that the private investigator always looks out for herself. It's one of the rules."
John laughed. "I want to know more about the rules and regs of being a private dick. I don't normally like rules, but it seems you're workin' with some interestin' by-laws. When I was a kid, I wanted to be one of the Hardy boys. I didn't care which one, just so long as I got to get in on all the adventures."
John's voice was like a down comforter on a cold winter night. I felt myself relaxing, loosening up. "I read Nancy Drew and the Hardy boys," I told John. Although few would consider it a mutual literary heritage, John and I had more in common than most of my married friends.
"Have a seat," he said, nodding at one of the beds.
My gaze fell on the suitcase, a sort of floral-patterned bag with what looked like a bit of pink quilted robe poking out. "Why don't we go to Millie's and grab something to eat?" I was only slightly uncomfortable. Jitty had urged me to take a risk, but loitering in a motel room with a man I didn't know the first thing about went up hard against Aunt LouLane's oft-repeated code of conduct for a Delta girl.
"Sure," he said, putting his guitar in a case. "Food sounds good.
We had a big breakfast, but that wore off a while ago. Mother loves to eat."
It was no Daddy's Girl ploy when I repeated the word. "Mother?"
He nodded. "Mother always travels with me. Of course, she knows she can't go to the ball, but we can fill her in on the details when we get home. Since Dad died, she isn't interested in dating, but she enjoys meeting my friends."
Looking at John, I had no sense of danger, but my gaze slid to the bathroom, to the place where the shower waited so innocently. I couldn't help but wonder if the shower curtain was opaque or clear. I could feel my muscles tensing for action.
He gave me a puzzled look. "What's wrong? Mother will be out in a minute."
"John, where was your mother last night?" I asked as calmly as I could.
"Oh, she was asleep in the car. I wanted to meet you and see what you looked like. I mean, people do lie about themselves on the Internet. Some women I've met claimed to have an athletic build." He winked. "Yeah, right, sumo wrestling would be the sport. Now me, I never lie. What you see is what you get."
"What are you talking about?" I was torn between trying to figure out what he was saying and worrying that when I stepped outside the door, Norman Bates would probably be standing there.
"The Internet. Your profile. You know, where you tell what you look like, what you do, what movies you like. Yours was V.I. Warshawski. Not a terrific flick, but appropriate."
I suddenly knew what he was talking about. "What else did my profile say?" I asked.
His grin was charming. "Is this a test? You're thirty-three and hangin' by a thread, never been married, a blues lover, mystery reader, especially books by Kinky Friedman, and you're an equestrian."
And I knew where the profile had come from. Kip was in big, big trouble. All along I'd blamed this on Cece, but not even Cece would think of listing me as "an equestrian." "I'm sorry, Mr. Washington, but I didn't fill out an Internet profile. Someone else did this. You've been duped, and so have I."
He picked up his guitar and played a few riffs. "Sounds like we're talkin' the blues. Might be a song in this somewhere." He began to sing. "I profiled my baby, da-dah-dum. I found her on-line, da-dah-dum. But when I got to Zinnia, for a date she was dis-inclined!"
He was laughing as he put the guitar down. "So I guess the Chesterfield Hunt Ball is out of the question."
"I'm afraid so." I stepped through the door. "I can only promise you that there's going to be one very sorry teenager." I was eager to find Kip.
"At least meet Mother." He called out to her. "Hey, Mom, Sarah Booth's agenda has changed. Come out and say hello."
Good manners rooted me to the spot, though I only wanted to flee. When the bathroom door opened, a short, white-headed woman in a lavender plaid dress stepped into the room. She looked at John Bell and then at me.
"You must be the woman Johnny came to date," she said in a pleasant voice. "I'm his mother, Lydia Washington."
Having been haunted by a ghost, I knew the difference between a figment and a real, live human. Lydia was real enough, and a relief. But a line had been crossed in my mind that I could not step back over. "It really is a pleasure to me
et you," I said. "Something has come up in the case I'm working on, and my plans have changed." He might be the most normal, kindhearted son in the universe, but I couldn't help it. I stepped further into the sunshine.
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Washington said. "I'm glad we didn't rent tails in Greenwood."
"I have to be going." There really wasn't anything else I could say.
The minute I walked out of the room and toward my car, the middle of my back began to tingle. Very slowly I turned around. One of the dark-suited men stood in the open door of room 10, next door to J.B.'s room. Tall and lean, the man watching me had worked on his physique, and not necessarily for aesthetic reasons. His gaze was hard and direct. He started walking toward me with intent.
"You're the one keeping the kid, aren't you?" he asked. He didn't give me time to answer. "I hear she inherits. You might want to remind her that Mr. LaCoco expects his debts to be paid. In a timely fashion. In this case, since the payments are so far behind, that means Mr. LaCoco would like his money yesterday." He grinned before he walked back in the room and closed the door.
I saw the motel curtain drop back into place. Someone inside the room had also been watching.
When I Got back to Dahlia House, Kip was in the kitchen. Pasta was boiling in a big pot, and she was stirring some delicious-smelling sauce on the stove.
"Do the names Malone Beasley and John Bell Washington mean anything to you?" I asked, standing behind a chair, my hands gripped on the back of it. I was angry and trying not to show it.
"Mr. Beasley was a mistake. He lied on his profile." The tiniest hint of remorse faded completely as she kept talking. "But John Bell Washington is cool, Sarah Booth. He'd be a great date. He had some of his music on his profile, and he's really good. He wants to help you with your cases. What could be better, a blues-singing private eye?"
"Kip, you got those men to come here under false pretenses. You tricked them, and you used me to do it. It's humiliating for them and me, and it was wrong."
She put the wooden spoon down. "I tore up Carol Beth's truck. That was bad, and I meant it to be. Going on the Internet for you wasn't bad. I heard everyone giving you a hard time. I know what it's like when everyone expects things and you can't make it happen like they want. I thought it would be great if you showed up with a handsome guy who was fun and cool. It would show them."
Maybe she was a great actress and maybe I was a fool, but my anger was leaking out. "You can't do things like that, Kip."
"I heard you talking to yourself the first night I was here. You were debating about going on-line to find a date. That's where I got the idea. It worked for Meg Ryan; why not for you?"
In her own way, Kip was paying me a compliment. "This is life, Kip, not a movie."
"What did it hurt? Beasley was a loser, but Mr. Washington would be fun. Why not take him to the ball?"
"In his profile, did he mention that he travels with his guitar—and his mother?"
Kip's eyes widened. "No!"
I couldn't help but grin. "Yes, he does. She's charming, and so is he, but just a little too strange."
She picked up the spoon and stirred the sauce some more, her total concentration on the bubbling pot. "I'm sorry, Sarah Booth. I really was trying to get your friends off your back."
"Kip, there are a lot of things we need to talk about, but this can wait until Lee is out of jail. Just don't do it anymore, okay?"
She nodded. "I'll delete your profile."
"Thanks," I said. "And that's it for the computer. Use it only for schoolwork and nothing else. And no phone. And no music. That's punishment for leaving the house last night and worrying me to death."
She looked up, surprised. "That's it? That's the punishment? What about Carol Beth's truck?"
"I know why you vandalized the truck. What you did was wrong, but I'm not willing to punish you for it. When your mother gets out of jail, the two of you can sort it out. I'm not your warden, Kip. But there is something I want you to do for me."
"What?"
"Who told you that Carol Beth had bought your horse?"
Her gaze slid back to the pot of sauce, which she began to stir with a vengeance. "I can't say."
"I certainly can't torture the name out of you, but I will tell you that whoever did it was either very irresponsible or very cruel. Does knowing where Mrs. Peel is make you feel better?" She didn't say anything, but I knew she was getting my point. "Has it helped your feelings in any way? Or has it just made it worse?"
"Worse," she whispered. "Before I found out Carol Beth had her, I could pretend that the young girl was riding her, and loving her the way I do."
"Who told you where the horse was?"
"Mr. Rich." She spoke the name so softly I wasn't sure what she said.
"Mike Rich?"
"Yeah." She picked up a pasta spoon and pulled up several spaghetti strands to test them. "He didn't know it was a secret."
"And did he pick you up last night?"
The look she gave me was desperate. "Don't get him in trouble. I lied to him. I said I had to talk to Carol Beth about something else. Mike was the only one of the men who came to the house who was ever nice to me. He came to the shows, too, and sometimes he'd sit at the trailer and talk to me. He knew I loved Mrs. Peel. He thought I'd want to know she had a good home."
She was holding back the tears by sheer will. "Okay, Kip," I said. "It's okay."
"Carol Beth is a bitch. She wants everything. She hung out at the barn, chasing Bud and wanting all of the horses. She took Mrs. Peel because I loved her, and Mrs. Peel loved me!" Red splotches bloomed on Kip's cheeks, and her throat was an angry red. Her eyes glittered, but not from unshed tears. She was furious. "I hate that bitch. I hate her! I hate the two of them, Carol Beth and my father."
She dropped the spoon she held and ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I heard her door slam.
When dinner was ready, neither Kip nor I had much of an appetite. We toyed with the pasta and salad before we decided to call it a night. Before I saw Coleman in the morning, I had to decide what I was going to tell him about Kip.
I crawled into bed, book in hand. Instead of ideas for my case, I had only worries. LaCoco's man at the Holiday Breeze Motel had ignited my anxiety fuse. Kip was more than I could manage, and another day had passed with Lee still in jail.
Since there was nothing I could do until morning, I opened my book. Kinky was in rare form, as author and as character. I slipped into the story, hoping that somehow, somewhere, I'd find a bit of detecting that might help me with my own case.
I was too tired to even turn off the light when I felt the book slipping from my fingers. I simply let loose of consciousness and fell into a deep sleep.
The smell of baking muffins teased me awake, and I discovered that I was fully dressed and already pushing through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Coffee perked on the counter, a sound and smell that offered good possibilities. What I didn't expect was the black-hatted stranger sitting at my kitchen table, twirling a cigar.
"Jitty said you'd be down soon," Kinky Friedman said, and I knew that I was dreaming. "And by the way, some women find cigars sexy."
"How'd you get in?" I asked.
"You should get a puppet head to hide your key," he recommended. "Of course, that won't do much good if you don't lock your doors."
"What are you doing in Mississippi?"
"I heard you were having trouble with your case. I thought I'd drop by. Mind if I smoke?" He didn't wait for a reply. He fired up the cigar and puffed to the ceiling. "From what I gather, you have a friend who's confessed to the murder of her worse half."
"She's innocent," I said.
"All the best ones are."
He wasn't as sympathetic in a dream as he'd appeared in a book. "I need to prove she's innocent," I told him.
"She's bound to be guilty of something. All the best ones are."
I poured us both a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. "If you
aren't going to help, then let me sleep in peace."
"What's she guilty of?" he asked.
"What kind of question is that?" I demanded.
"The right kind. What's she hiding? Why's she lying? The question I'd get an answer to first is why she stayed with her louse for all this time. Once you know that, maybe you can pick up the scent of other interesting things. And remember, if at first you don't succeed, ask and ask again."
He was gone, leaving only a curl of cigar smoke wafting in the early morning light.
I woke to the sound of Sweetie scratching on my bedroom door, and in my brain the humming of a question that demanded an answer.
13
On Friday, Kip had her own date with destiny in the form of Coleman Peters. Although she had a new do and better makeup, the sullen demeanor on her face was old and familiar.
Kinky's nocturnal visit had reignited my faith in myself, and I tried hard to be firm yet comforting with Kip. "Just tell Coleman the truth," I reminded her as we turned toward the courthouse square.
"Why do I have to talk to the sheriff?" she asked for the fifth time, as we pulled into a parking space at the courthouse.
"Because he wants to talk to you." I was losing patience, though I was trying hard not to.
"I don't know anything."
"It sure sounded like you did at the funeral. You accused your mother of lying. 'Tell them the truth.' I think that's a direct quote. It made your mother look very, very bad."
She fell silent, staring down at her hands in her lap. We were parked beneath oak trees, and the young leaves were apple green. Even the shade cast by the trees seemed dusted by green.
"Kip, if you know something, please tell me now, before you tell Coleman."
"He won't do anything anyway."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that."
"He used to come out and see Mama. Last year." Her face was lowered and she cut her eyes over at me with a slanting, knowing look. "They were very good friends."
She knew exactly what she was implying. "Coleman? Are you sure?" Call me naive, but I was dumbfounded.
"Sheriff Peters," Kip said. "He would come when Daddy was gone. They'd build a fire in the ladies' parlor and drink brandy or something. Sometimes Mama would play the piano."
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