He walked down the steps and disappeared into the night. In a moment I heard the sound of his car, and then his headlights cut the darkness as they sped down the long drive toward the road.
I forced myself to get up and go inside. No matter how weary, how defeated, I was going to make someone pay for what had happened to Kip.
Jitty was sitting at the top of the staircase. She wasn't her vibrant self. Her skin tone was a little on the ashy side.
"Girl, you've talked your way through most of this night, but what are you gonna do now?"
"I don't know," I said, stepping past her.
She followed me into my bedroom. "Will Coleman let Lee go free, since Kip confessed?"
"I don't know." I let my red dress fall to the floor and stepped out of it. Jitty didn't even raise an objection when I left it where it fell. "It's odd. Now that Kip's confessed, I'm not so certain she killed her father." There were a lot of things niggling at me.
Jitty sank down in the old rocker that my mother had used when I was an infant, and generations of Delaneys before that. She rocked slowly. "Any other detective would be glad to have things neatly wrapped up."
"If this case were neatly wrapped up, I'd be happy, too."
"Kip confessed to the murder. What could be neater?" Jitty persisted.
I went to my purse and got out the hair clip. Roscoe had never said how he came by it. "Kip, Bud, and the horse are gone," I reminded Jitty. "Lee will collect the insurance on Kemper and on the horse."
"Are you saying that Lee benefits from all of this tragedy?"
I slowly paced my bedroom. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm too tired to think right now."
"I know," she answered softly. "Crawl up in that bed and go to sleep. I'll just sit here and watch over you."
I sank into the bed, aware that Jitty was seldom so nice. It was something that, like Scarlett, I would have to worry about tomorrow.
21
I awoke to the sound of fists on the door. Not Tinkie’s normal little knock, but more of a "rise and shine" pounding. I pulled the pillow over my head and ignored it. There was no one I wanted to see. No one I cared to talk to.
The pounding didn't stop, so I got out of bed and stormed downstairs, Sweetie Pie at my heels.
I opened the door with a glare that turned into amazement. The King stood before me, in tight black jeans and a sky-blue silk shirt, open just enough to reveal a tantalizing bit of chest.
"Howdy, ma'am," he said. "I hear you're havin' a rough time. I'm here to help."
Elvis died in 1977. He could not possibly be standing on my front porch. I peered around him and saw a magnificent pink 1957 Cadillac in my drive. I had a weakness for classic cars. "Jitty!" I yelled. "Jitty!" My resident haint had to be behind this visitation.
"Easy, ma'am," Elvis said. "You're 'bout to have a conniption." He put a hand on my shoulder. A real, warm, human hand.
"Who the hell are you?" I asked.
"I'm Tom Smith. You know, TomcatTupelo. As soon as I got your E-mail, I rushed right over here."
I looked down at my ratty sleep-shirt. Maybe a timber had fallen on my head. Maybe I was dreaming, but for the past week my midnight hours had been claimed by visits from the Kinkster, not Elvis. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what this man was doing on my porch.
"What E-mail?" I asked.
"The one that told me to get right on over A-S-A-P. And I thought, W-W-E-D. That's short for 'What would Elvis do?' He would have rushed right out to help a lady in distress, so here I am. Oh, yeah, Kip said to tell you not to worry."
"Kip?" The name slipped from my lips.
"Your secretary." His handsome face was creased with worry. "She sent the E-mail. She said there'd been a fire, and that you were very upset. I can see she didn't lie."
I backed into the foyer, motioning him to follow. "Coffee," I said, leading the way to the kitchen. "Coffee," I mumbled. I had gone from dreaming to hallucinating, but I had the strangest sensation that Tom Smith was real. If that was true, then Kip was alive. It was more than I could absorb.
"Coffee," I repeated for the third time.
"Sounds like you need a cup of java." He fell in behind me.
I needed something stronger than coffee. Kip had sent this man an E-mail mentioning the fire, and he had come to help me. It was her way of letting me know that she hadn't burned to death.
I turned so suddenly that he stepped back. "What time did you get that E-mail?" I demanded.
"I got in from a show and it was there. Musta been about three this morning. I went right home and put all my gear in the car. I haven't had a wink of sleep, but Elvis had a lot of stamina."
"What time was it sent?"
He frowned. "I can't rightly say. I didn't look. But it had to come in during the wee hours. I checked my mail about midnight and cleared out my mailbox. Ask your secretary when she sent it."
A brilliant suggestion, except "my secretary" was supposed to have died in a fire. I pointed to a chair at the kitchen table and put on a pot of coffee. While it perked, I held on to the kitchen sink and stared out the window at the family cemetery.
"I brought all of my things for the audition."
"What audition?" At least that was a question that might have a sane answer.
"At noon. At The Club." Tom's voice rose with excitement, which only made his drawl extend. "I can't wait. Everyone in Tupelo has heard about The Club. I never thought I'd be goin' there. I've been rehearsin' and rehearsin'. My act is down pat. I don't think there's an Elvis who can possibly beat me out this time."
A dim bell began to jangle in my memory. The Club, exclusive hangout of Daddy's Girls and their older male counterparts, the Buddy Clubbers, was hosting some kind of fund-raiser for charity. An Elvis impersonator contest.
I chanced a look at him out of the corner of my eye. He was the spitting image of Elvis Aaron Presley in his lean and mean days. He caught my glance and smiled, and I knew why millions of girls had fallen in love with him.
"I know you're on a case. You're tryin' to save your childhood friend, and I want you to know how much I admire that. Elvis stood behind his friends. It was loyalty to the death."
He was talking as if he sat in my kitchen every morning of his life.
"That was one of the things that intrigued me about you. I guess because of my vocation, I meet a lot of women who sort of wait for life to happen to them. You're not like that. You go out there and make it happen."
The coffee was only half perked, but I poured two cups and put one in front of him. He lifted the mug in a toast.
"Might as well tank up," he said agreeably. "Coffee doesn't make me nervous. You know, before Elvis got all strung out he took every appearance seriously. He studied for each show, and rested, and made sure that he could give it his all. That's how I do it. Just like he did."
"Is there any way you can check when you received that E-mail?" I asked him.
"Sure. I got a laptop out in the car. Once you get the hang of those things, they're terrific. Keeps my bookin's straight and all my taxes. Or I can use your computer. Six of one, half a dozen of the other."
"How did you know I had a computer?" I asked.
He laughed. "You've been sendin' me E-mail for a week now. If it hadn't of been for you, I never would have known about the competition at The Club."
"Let's check my computer," I suggested. "It's right upstairs."
With Elvis at my side, I went to my bedroom. Kip had left the modem plugged in, saving me from having to crawl under the desk. He sat down in front of the computer and within seconds had accessed his E-mail. "Let's see here." He made a few more clicks. "I received that E-mail at two-ten in the A.M."
I walked over to the bed and sat down. Kip was alive. There was no doubt about it.
"Are you okay?" he asked me.
"I'm better than okay." A strange joy had taken hold of me. Kip was alive! If I got my hands on her, she might not be for long, but she had not burned to death.
"You look plumb delighted," he said. "I sometimes have that effect. Folks often ask me how I got into this business. My mama used to dress me like Elvis when I was a little baby boy. I could always sing, and they got me a little guitar and she made me some clothes with a bit of flash and dazzle, and they'd take me around to the state fairs and things and I'd perform." He stood up. "And that's what I've got to do right now. Perform. I've got to get on over to the competition. The original plan was for me to come by here after I won the competition. Is that still a go?"
He smoothed back his hair on one side, careful not to disturb the single strand that hung in his eye.
"Mr. Smith, my secretary is missing, and my friend is in jail charged with murder. I think it would be best if we postponed our . . . meeting. At least for a while."
"I can see you've got your hands full. I know what it's like to be caught up in your work." He smiled, and he'd never looked more like The King. "If I make it big as Elvis, I'd like to come back here and court you."
"You call me. On the telephone," I added hastily, pulling out an official Delaney Detective Agency business card from the pile of papers on my computer and handing it to him.
"Good day, Sarah Booth. Now you call me if you need me for anything," he said, doing a courtly little head nod before he walked out of my bedroom. I heard the front door close behind him. Elvis had left the building.
It had been days since I'd been on the computer. I went to my E-mail and took a shaky breath. There were 173 unopened messages. I began to scroll through them, noting the names. TopDog, Sweet-Home, Chester, Dancinfool. Kip had been very, very busy in my behalf, but there was no message from her.
I opened the file that contained sent messages. There were three to Malone Beasley, two to JBBLUES, and three to TomcatTupelo, among a half dozen others to such interesting cyber addresses as Utopia and UncleHenry.
"I tol' you that you had mail!" Jitty said at my shoulder. "If you weren't stubborn as a mule, you'da been prepared for some of your gentleman callers." Jitty perched on the edge of my desk. "This is the future, Sarah Booth. There are more men out there than you can shake a stick at. You just got to find one that can shake a stick back!"
She slapped her thigh, laughing at her own joke. Kip's resurrection had lifted the pall. Jitty was out of black and wearing a lime-green mini.
"You put Kip up to using the computer, didn't you?"
Jitty made a face of surprise. "Moi?"
"Moi my ass," I said. "How'd you do it? You can't talk to anyone but me."
"You did it yourself," she said, standing and walking toward my bedroom window. She did a half-turn and looked over her shoulder. "You're always fussin' at me, and Kip just overheard you. She's a smart girl. She put two and two together and decided on her own that you needed a date for that ball. She didn't do too bad, either. Two outta three."
I couldn't argue the statistics, but I wasn't going to concede the battle. Especially not to Jitty. "Your fingerprints are all over this."
She smirked and strutted, hips swaying like a gentle tide. "Teenagers are very open to suggestions from . . . beyond. Poltergists and demons love 'em." She arched one eyebrow in a gesture that I coveted.
"You are a demon," I pointed out.
"Honey, that's not always a bad thing." She winked. "A man likes a woman with a little bit of devilment. If you got Harold smokin' in the right places, he'd find that big honkin' ring he offered you and you stupidly gave back."
Harold was one place I didn't want to go, but I had a point to make. "If Harold decided to ask me out again, I wouldn't be averse to that. Unlike gentleman callers from cyberspace, Harold is a known quantity," I said carefully. "I'm comfortable with that. I know who he is."
"Because he lives here in Zinnia?" Jitty asked.
"Because I know how he treats people, how he thinks. I know his values."
Her eyebrows were almost in her hairline. "Sarah Booth, maybe you should invest in a tape recorder and use it on yourself. You're talkin' like a traditionalist. You only want to risk a man that you can pin like a bug and examine. You think you know Harold because he's familiar. Because he's geographically known. You think 'cause he's from right around here that you share values with him." She paused for effect. "That's a mighty big assumption, young lady."
"I have a history with Harold, and I'm not talking about that thumb-sucking incident."
"Too bad your aunt LouLane isn't around to hear this." Jitty rolled her eyes. "I remember many a night she worried herself silly that you'd hurt yourself takin' a foolish risk. While you were out cuttin' a rug, she'd be pacin' the floor in her room, worried that some boy would break your heart."
"I was only having fun," I said, remembering the days when I had Aunt LouLane to come home to. I'd been free then just to enjoy the boys and young men who waltzed through my life. "I wish Aunt LouLane was here now. Used to be a girl could count on her family to introduce her to nice men."
"Oh, I remember that!" Jitty said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. "Yeah, those were the days, when a nineteen-year-old spinster was packed into a wagon and sent from relative to relative in the hopes that someone could find a man to take her off their hands. Oh, I know exactly what you're talkin' about. If Cousin Ida can't find a man for the poor thing, send her on to Illinois and Cousin Belle. Surely she can find some desperate corn farmer to take a wife."
"That's not what I mean." Jitty was wearing me down. "There used to be a time when a man's reputation meant something. Family members took the time and trouble to check those things out."
"Are you hearin' yourself?" Jitty asked. "You want a consensus on the man you have feelin's for? Girl, you better get one thing straight right now. The only person who can judge the right man for you is you. No one, livin' or dead, can approve your feelin's and make them right or wrong."
"Not approval, Jitty." She was missing the point.
"You're just afraid to risk. Does the word 'dowry' mean anything to you? Too bad your daddy didn't arrange a marriage for you when you were born. That would certainly make it easier now, wouldn't it?"
"You've stepped over the line," I said with as much huff as I could muster. "I don't have time to argue this right now. Since Kip is alive, I've got to find her." I shut down the computer and stood up.
"You can change the subject, but this conversation ain't over until the fat ghost sings."
"Finding Kip is more important than a discussion of my nonexistent love life." I pulled some clothes from the closet, determined to get out the door before Jitty could start a new harangue.
"Who was the last person to see Kip alive?" Jitty asked.
"Bingo!"
I bathed, dressed, and hurried out to the car. I put Kip's hair clip on the passenger seat, and beside that, the syringe in a plastic Baggie.
As I drove up to Swift Level, the site of the barn was a charred and blackened skeleton. Except for the deputy Coleman had left at the scene, the farm appeared deserted. The yellow crime-scene tape fluttered in the quickening breeze. No one was there searching for bodies, which told me a lot.
I parked in the shade of an oak and made my way over to the deputy, a new recruit I didn't know.
"Where's Coleman?" I asked. I had a lot of things to tell him.
"Gone." He gave me a long look. "You're the detective, aren't you?"
"Sarah Booth Delaney." I held out a hand for him to shake.
"You can call me Dewayne. Deputy Dewayne Dattilo," he said. "Sheriff Peters went back to town."
"Did they find anything?" I was really asking how much Coleman knew.
"Best to talk to the sheriff," Dewayne said. "He told me if I said a word to anyone, he'd skin me alive."
No amount of badgering was going to pry a single tidbit from Deputy Dewayne Dattilo. The fact that Coleman was gone already, though, pretty much confirmed my suspicions. Neither Kip, nor Bud, nor the horse had been in the barn when it burned, and Coleman knew it.
I went down to the main barn where
the office was. The white paint on the outside wall had blistered and begun to peel from the heat of the fire. I brushed a few flakes off as I walked past.
The office door was unlocked, and I found the medicine cabinet with ease. All of the vials and bottles were clearly labeled. There was no insulin, though there were a number of unused syringes the size of the one I possessed.
Bud had lived in an apartment above the office, but I wasn't certain where Roscoe lived, or if he even resided on the grounds.
"Miss Delaney?"
Roscoe's soft voice called to me from a stall, and as I drew closer, he stepped into the hallway, manure rake in hand. "I didn't know if you'd come."
"Where's Kip?" I had no intention of beating around the bush. "What about Bud and Avenger? Are they alive, too?"
Roscoe leaned the rake against the wall with great deliberateness before he spoke. "Kemper was gonna kill that horse."
"What are you talking about? Kemper's dead."
"Avenger. Kemper had been plannin' on killin' him. That Kemper Fuquar was a mean bastard. He owed those men money, and they weren't gonna wait no longer. They come up here one night, three of them. They showed him a little bit of what it felt like to be knocked around. The next day, I heard him on the phone, gettin' insurance on Avenger. But he had to kill the horse in a way that no one could tell, or the insurance company wouldn't pay up."
I'd heard of people who killed racehorses for insurance money. It was a highly profitable scam. Horses were shot in pastures and labeled "hunting accidents," or beaten to death with metal pipes and reported as "accidents in the starting gate." It was a dirty, ugly business, and one I'd always associated with the lowest class of scum. The problem in my thinking was that just because Kemper lived at Swift Level, I hadn't actually seen him for what he was.
"Did Lee know about this?" Unfortunately, here was another motive for her to want him dead.
He shook his head. "He worked on it while she was gone to shows. He planned it all out, but I was watchin' him. And Bud was watchin', too. Bud shoulda killed him."
I didn't disagree.
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