"Even the horse knew. Avenger hated Kemper. Hated him. He could smell him a mile away. That's when he'd get crazy." Roscoe shifted his weight. "I was wearin' Kemper's old jacket yesterday when Avenger took out after me in the arena. I shoulda known better, but I wasn't thinkin'."
"Do you know how Kemper was going to kill the horse?" Maybe the horse could take the rap and plead self-defense.
His gaze was intent when he looked up at me. "Insulin injection. I knew how he was gonna do it, I just didn't know when. He had to wait until Miss Lee was out of the way. I guess when Dara had trouble foalin', he saw his chance. I found the insulin in the syringe in the stall, before the sheriff got here. I know I shoulda told the sheriff, but things looked so black for Miss Lee, I thought that would look like another good reason she wanted to kill Kemper. I didn't know what to do for a while. I was afraid whatever I did would only make it worse. Then I thought, you were Miss Lee's friend and you'd know best what to do."
"You've given me too much credit, there. I'm not certain what to do either," I admitted. "Please continue."
He took a long breath. "I figured it out, you know. I found the twitch he was using. Kemper thought he could put the chain on Avenger's lip and hold him while he gave the shot, but he didn't know Avenger. He's a smart horse. He knew to act like he was caught. When Kemper went to pop him with the needle, Avenger knocked him down. Kemper never stood a chance. Avenger got him." He lifted one hand, clenched in a fist. "The horse got him first. He stomped him to death, and Miss Lee is takin' the blame."
I heard Roscoe's ragged breathing and knew it was caused by the fury and frustration he felt. If only the scenario he had presented were true. But it wasn't. I watched dust motes dancing on the weak sunlight that filtered through the stall windows, and a part of my brain registered that the thunderstorm was holding off.
"Kemper had insulin in his body," I finally told him. "The horse couldn't have given him an injection. Someone else killed Kemper."
Roscoe shrugged. "Maybe he fell on the needle. It's happened more than once around a strugglin' horse."
"Can we find evidence of that?" I asked him.
"Even if we can, Miss Lee won't allow it. She won't let Avenger take the blame." Roscoe picked up the manure rake.
"Then Avenger is alive?" I'd finally circled back to the question I'd come to ask.
He stopped, his back still to me. "I didn't see nothin'."
Roscoe pulled a wheelbarrow out of the stall and pushed it down the aisle to the next stall. "All I'm gonna say is that I believe that little girl, her daddy, and her horse have all gone to a better place. I wouldn't worry about those three."
"Her daddy? You think Kemper went to a better place?" I was just a little startled by that sentiment. Most folks were soothed by the idea that Kemper was likely toasting at the feet of Satan.
Slowly he turned around. His wrinkled face held many secrets, but this was one he was going to share. "Kemper's not her daddy. Bud Lynch is."
22
My first impulse was to rush back to town. Coleman had figured out that Bud, Kip, and the horse were alive. He was probably tracking them down right this second. While I was at Swift Level, though, I wanted to look for a little more evidence. Coleman had searched the premises looking for evidence of Kemper's murderer. He hadn't been looking for the leavings of Cupid.
Bud's apartment was sparsely furnished, reflecting what little I knew of his nature. There were over a hundred books neatly stacked on shelves, many of them showing the signs of having been read more than once. I glanced through the titles, surprised at the names T. R. Pearson and Pete Dexter, and a host of Mississippi classics from Welty to Faulkner. Based on Bud's vocabulary, I'd known he was well read, and yet I was still surprised at the scope of his literary taste. Horse magazines were piled beside a chair and lamp.
There were no photographs on the shelves, no mementos of past good times. Several pairs of cowboy boots were neatly lined up in the closet, and his clothes hung above them, cleaned and ironed. Even the bathroom was ordered. Shaving gear, toiletries, all pushed to the back of the counter.
The queen-size bed was covered with a patchwork quilt. I recognized the Rose of Sharon pattern, and wondered if it was his or Lee's. The bed was an old iron frame, painted white and butted against an exterior wall. Beside the bed, curtains with a bronco motif fluttered in the light breeze.
The drawers were my next line of attack. I shuffled through his personal items and found an old wallet, empty of everything. I couldn't help but contrast his living quarters to my own. In Dahlia House each piece of furniture had a family history. Photographs and letters had been passed from generation to generation. The details of my character could be found scattered along library shelves or hanging on walls. Every item in the house was hooked to someone or something of importance to me. Even the pots in the kitchen could be linked to Aunt LouLane's cheese grits or my mother's cornbread. Bud had deliberately eradicated any trace of his past. No photos of favorite horses, no old postcards or movie ticket stubs. Nothing.
I decided to check between the mattress and the box springs, so I pulled the quilt off the bed. Military corners on the sheets. It was the most revealing thing I'd found so far. As I lifted the mattress, I heard the tinkle of something hit the floor. There was nothing under the mattress, so I let it drop and searched for the item I'd heard fall. I saw it sparkling against the polished wood floor. A gold pendant.
It was beautifully crafted, an elegant horse's head, wild mane flying over a magnificent emerald eye. Certainly not Bud's, but one of his conquests'. It could easily belong to any of the women who took riding instruction from Bud. Any of them. But the unique design of it told me otherwise.
I tucked the pendant in my pocket and took one last look around. I had not found what I was looking for, but I'd found something else.
The need to talk to Lee pressed hard on me, but I went back to the barn office and went through every file again in a search for the insurance papers on Avenger that Roscoe and Mike had mentioned.
Those papers could prove crucial to Lee. After an intense search, I had to admit defeat.
Coleman was not in the sheriff's office, and I didn't bother asking Deputy Walters for permission to visit Lee. I opened the door to the jail and shut it behind me. I had to see Lee, and I had to see her alone.
"Sarah Booth," she said, rising from her cot. She was so pale she was almost ethereal.
I held out the hair clip, my hand stuck through the bars at her. She took it very carefully. "You know they're alive, don't you?" I asked.
"I had hoped," she said. Her fist curled around the hair clip, holding it tightly. "Thank God."
"Where are they?"
Her green eyes slowly lifted until our gazes met and held. "I don't know."
"Don't know or won't tell?"
"I don't know, and I wouldn't tell if I did. It doesn't matter where they are, Sarah Booth. They're safe. That's all that matters."
"So many secrets, Lee. So many unnecessary secrets." I reached into my purse and brought out the insulin syringe.
"What's that?" she asked, a pulse jumping in her throat.
"You tell me." I waited. Lee was an accomplished liar, but she wasn't as good at hiding her fear.
"I don't know," she said.
"One more time. I need the truth. What is this?"
She reached for it, but I withdrew it. "An injection of some type." She made a gesture to show it was of little importance to her.
"My best guess would be insulin. Now tell me one more time how you killed Kemper. This time don't forget the part where you injected him with insulin."
Lee didn't move. She was frozen in place. Her gaze clung to mine, searching for some sign that what I was saying wasn't true.
"You weren't even in the barn when Kemper was killed, Lee. You've been lying all along. It's time for you to tell Coleman the truth."
"No."
"We need to find Kip and bring her home. We can get help for her."
/> "No." She slowly shook her head. "No. She's safe now. She's with Bud. He'll look out for her, make sure she doesn't..." She stopped.
"She doesn't hurt someone else?"
"She's not like that. You know she isn't."
"Coleman knows they're alive. I'm sure of it. He's hunting them now, and he'll find them. Lee, help Kip. Tell the truth, get out of here, and help us find her."
The movement of her head was minute, but it was still a no. "She's only fourteen."
"And she needs her mother."
"Bud will take care of her."
"Because he's her father." I knew all of her secrets now, and I was using them to tear her down, to bring her to her knees so that she would have to accept the truth of what had happened—what was going to happen.
Her gaze was fixated on the syringe in my hand. "I should have killed him long ago, before he sank us in gambling debts. He wouldn't stop. Nothing could stop him. He was going to tell Kip he wasn't her father. He was going to hurt her because she'd disappointed him."
So Roscoe was right. Bud was Kip's father.
Lee's chest moved in and out, but she didn't look away. "I got pregnant, and Bud didn't want to marry. We were young and wild. He wanted to live the cowboy life, which isn't conducive to a wife and home. I was trapped, and I was prideful. When Kemper came along, he was so greedy for what he thought I would inherit. I thought I could make it work." Her hands clenched in her lap. "It's a mistake I've paid for every day of my life since."
"Would it have been such a terrible thing for Kip to know Bud was her father?"
"Yes. Yes, it would have. Things were bad enough for Kip, but that would have been worse."
"I don't see how," I said. "Kemper was such an S.O.B. At least Bud didn't beat you."
She turned on me. "You don't know anything about not belonging, Sarah Booth. Don't lecture me on what it's like to discover that you're a bastard child. Don't ever try to tell me how it feels when you have your nose rubbed in the fact that the man you called Daddy has nothing for you but contempt. Every beating I took was for Kip. Every time Kemper struck me, it was only the thought of Kip's face that kept me from killing him on the spot. Weston McBride isn't my father. I don't know who my real father is, but when I came home pregnant and told my mother the truth, that was the end of me.
" 'Like mother, like daughter,' my father said. Those were the last words he ever spoke to me."
23
A large crack of thunder greeted meat dahlia house. The old porch seemed to vibrate as I walked to the front door.
"Keep that storm outside—the rain and that thundercloud on your forehead," Jitty said before I could clear the threshold.
"I'm not in the mood for a sassy ghost who"—I checked out her black jumpsuit with the red racing stripes—"looks like an escapee from some sci-fi movie."
She put her hands on her slender hips, accentuating the spandex that clung in all the right places. "You've got mail, and somethin' tells me you'd better read it," she said defiantly.
"Not another word," I warned her. I went to the kitchen and began to rummage through the refrigerator for something to eat. I was angry, and any strong emotion required calories. I found a platter of leftover fried catfish and put it on the table. Catfish po'boys were an option. I turned back to rummage for other possibilities.
Faster than a speeding bullet, Sweetie Pie made a lunge for the fish. Her houndish jaws snapped shut on all four pieces as she passed by, and before I could blink, there was nothing left on the platter but a couple of cold fries, some stray pieces of onion, and a puddle of grease.
"Sweetie!" I started after her, but she was out the doggy door and free.
"I told you that hound was gonna be nothin' but trouble." Jitty had come through the wall and was standing by the refrigerator.
"Jitty, I don't want to be chastised or lectured. Save it for a rainy day."
Prophetically, another deep echo of thunder rattled the windows, and raindrops the size of marbles began pelting down. Jitty walked past me, just a cool whisper blowing by. She went to the window and looked out at the Delaney family cemetery in the distance. I didn't have to look; I knew by heart the outline of the old tombstones, and the newer ones that marked my immediate family. I suddenly wondered where Jitty's bones had been buried. I was about to ask when the telephone rang.
I answered it, fully expecting Coleman. Cece's voice was low, as if she were whispering.
"I've just heard that Kip is alive."
"Your sources are accurate," I said. I wondered who was tickling Cece's ear with whispers.
"I think we should keep this quiet," she continued.
My agreement was total, but my curiosity was piqued. "Why?" I asked innocently. "So many people were traumatized by the fire, I would have thought you'd be rushing to press with a banner headline."
"Sarah Booth, dahling," Cece said with some contempt, "a true journalist knows the difference between a good story and the seed of a good story. This is just a tiny little sprout."
"And what do you see growing from this sprout?" I asked.
"A girl can't give away all of her secrets. Just tell Coleman to keep this hush-hush. I'm positive he'll agree with my assessment of the situation. I presume Lee is still in jail?"
"Yes."
"Good. She should stay there." Before I could respond to that, she continued. "She's protecting Kip, isn't she?"
I couldn't answer that question. As frustrated as I was with Lee, I couldn't violate her trust.
"Never mind answering, I don't need confirmation. What are you going to do?"
"Try to find Kip and the horse."
"And that delicious trainer," Cece said. She smacked her lips. "When you find him, tell him if he needs a place to stay, I have plenty of room."
"You're getting greedy, Cece. Can you handle Nathaniel Walz and Bud Lynch?" I couldn't help teasing her just a little. The developer was so definitely not her type, and yet she'd taken him to the ball as her date.
"Talent comes in surprising packages," Cece said somewhat coolly. "By the way, your entry in the Elvis contest was quite impressive. What was his name, Tom Smith? I hope you have a percentage in him. That man is going places." She cleared her throat, and her voice dropped to low and sizzling. "How far did he make it with you, dahling?"
The wickedness in her voice was the only thing that saved her. It was impossible to get angry with her when she was being so bad. "I don't kiss and tell." I'd actually forgotten about Tom. "Did he do well?"
"First place. By a large margin. Congratulations. He said to tell you he'd be in touch." I could imagine her smiling. "So what gives with you and the man with a badge?"
"Business," I said too quickly.
"I'm sure."
"Coleman's married." Even to me I sounded defensive.
"Not for long, from what I hear."
"So tell me, Cece, what is it about Nathaniel Walz that holds your interest?" I had to refocus the conversation, or Cece would soon ascertain that my feelings for Coleman, though confused, weren't all professional.
"He's a man with ideas," she said. "I like the way he can see into the future. That's a talent, Sarah Booth, as real as writing or painting or singing."
"What does he see?" I had to be careful. Cece sounded as if she really liked this man.
"Beautiful buildings, places that bring back the elegance of the old South."
"Does he have any locations in mind?" My heart rate increased, even though Harold had assured me that Dahlia House was safe.
"He's very secretive. That's one of the things I find so interesting about him. He knows a lot about this area, and he reveals only what he must."
"Does he have backing, or is he ..." I almost said "a lot of talk." I had to remember that Cece had feelings for this man. While I'd barely spoken to him and didn't like what gossip I'd heard, Cece might have invested emotionally in him.
"He has yet to fully confide in me, but when he does, if there's a good opportunity, I'l
l let you know. Ta-ta, dahling, one of my best sources is on the other line."
She hung up, and I replaced the phone. Cece was not behaving normally. I couldn't help but wonder if her talk of secrets and withheld revelations had more to do with what she'd failed to tell Nathaniel Walz about herself than vice versa. I'd never known Cece to have an emotional attachment, and I'd never considered how hard it was going to be for her to reveal her past.
I looked around for Jitty. She'd taken herself off on some ghostly business, and I was spared having to confess that she was right about one thing—while I found safety in the past, Cece had hurled herself into a new future. Neither one of us was doing great in the romance department, though.
I was hungry, but had neither the energy nor the inclination to do anything about it. It took the very last of my strength to drag myself up the stairs and run some bathwater. When all else fails, a soak in a tub is the only alternative.
I used a liberal amount of some delicious foaming vanilla bubble bath that a friend in New York had sent me, lit candles, and got myself a hefty measure of Jack Daniel's on the rocks. I had a gut feeling that Jack and I were going to become good friends before the evening was over. If I'd belonged to the elite society of Daddy's Girls, I would have drunk white wine. Lucky me, as an outcast I could keep company with the rowdy boys.
I sank beneath the bubbles, forcing my body to relax one part at a time. Underwater, sound is completely distorted, but I thought I heard someone at the front door. I rose up out of the water and listened. The only thing I heard was the water dripping from my head and pattering into the tub. Sweetie Pie, though a food thief and shoe-chewer, was a pretty good watchdog. If someone had been around the house, she would have barked.
Tinkie had given me an inflatable bath pillow, and I made good use of it, reclining back. The Jack Daniel's had a bite, and I felt it burn all the way down. It was Sunday, and I'd been through an emotional wringer with the thought of Kip burning to death, and now her resurrection. Lee was lying through her teeth, but I didn't know how to save her without sacrificing the thing she loved most. I wanted to get very, very drunk, and I intended to do exactly that. I took another long swallow, rattling the ice cubes.
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