Coleman said nothing. His blue gaze merely held mine. His scrutiny made me even more uncomfortable. Putting down his coffee cup, he leaned across the counter and took my hand. He held it, palm open to the light. He studied it for a long time, then drew a finger lightly from my wrist to the tips of my fingers. The power of his touch caught me by surprise.
He looked back into my eyes. "I get the sense that no one has told the complete truth in this case. If you know something you haven't told me, now would be the time."
He still held my hand, the lightest of touches, and I had to admire his tactics of interrogation. They were incredibly effective. "Kemper was involved with Tony LaCoco in an insurance scam in Louisiana before he married Lee. It was the two of them and a third man named Mitchell Raybon."
"Mitchell Raybon," he said. "Should I know the name?"
"I don't. I got it from a newspaper reporter in Lafayette."
Coleman nodded. He smoothed his thumb across my palm. "Good work. Now tell me where Kip is, and the horse."
"I don't know."
He gently bent my fingers back as if he might find the answer to his question in my palm. "I have to find her, Sarah Booth. For her sake. Was J.B. Washington talking about Kip when he told you to find her?"
I sighed. "I really don't know what he meant. He left a message at Dahlia House. He's been snooping around a little, eavesdropping, that kind of thing."
"And reporting to you," Coleman finished, making it sound as if I were responsible for J.B.'s condition.
"He liked doing it."
"It had nothing to do with him liking you?"
Putting it that way made me sound even more responsible. "He didn't really know me."
"But he wanted to, didn't he?"
I could only stare at our hands on the countertop. "The message J.B. left said something about how the rats were really running now. He said he'd overheard something important. I went to the motel as soon as I got his message."
Coleman eased my hand to the counter. "Whoever struck him meant to kill him. That's an extreme measure to take if he was merely hanging around the motel, picking up gossip."
"I guess it depends on who the gossip involves."
Coleman leaned forward on his elbows. "That's true. Be careful, Sarah Booth. Somehow the stakes in this case have changed."
"Coleman, did you run across anything that might indicate Kemper had insured Avenger?"
He picked up his coffee cup. "Billy Appleton said he spoke with you, so you know his story. The horse wasn't insured."
"Not by Billy."
"There are companies that specialize in insuring horses. I checked all of them. There's no record of a policy taken out by Kemper Fuquar on a stallion."
"Could it be in Kip's name? Or someone else's?"
He shook his head. His hand on the counter moved toward mine, but stopped less than halfway. "This case doesn't add up. We're missing something, Sarah Booth. Something very important. You need to know that Lee talked to Boyd earlier this evening. They're trying to come up with some kind of involuntary manslaughter plea bargain. She's decided to plead guilty and avoid a trial altogether."
My frown must have tipped him off as to my thoughts.
"It isn't what I want, but Lee refuses to help herself. This would be better than risking a trial for murder. She can do a little time, get paroled out, and pick up what's left of her life without losing anything more."
There was an element of sadness in his voice that chilled me. "I don't know," I said. I wasn't willing to give up.
He gave me that lopsided grin that made him look about fourteen. "You can be a bulldog, Sarah Booth."
I took it as a compliment, which showed how far I'd fallen from my Daddy's Girl ways. In my former incarnation as a DG, the only reference to a dog that would have been a compliment was being called a real bitch—in the sense that my high standards for a man were hard to meet.
"Connie called earlier. I've got to run home for a while. She's been doing some thinking, and she wants to talk. Try not to stumble on any more wounded bodies tonight."
"You got it," I said as I walked out of the office and into the empty halls of the courthouse. My footsteps echoed hollowly off the vaulted ceiling, and I looked up the double set of staircases that led to the courtroom. This was the place where my father had told me that justice balanced the scales. He'd never told me how hard it was to find the evidence.
Jitty was sitting on the front porch steps, and I was relieved to see her. Sweetie Pie, too. The hound was stretched out, sleeping off the adventures of her day. Since Dr. Matthews had removed her regenerated ovaries, she was a more relaxed—and better-smelling—pet. Not too far in the distant past, when a man had a "disobedient" wife, he'd take her in for a bit of surgery. Once her ovaries were snatched out, she might get a little weird, but she lost all of those unfortunate impulses toward sexual identity.
Of course, a Delaney, like Sweetie Pie, would just have grown a new set of ovaries. I, personally, had regrown my tonsils after they were surgically removed. Regenerating body parts. It was a fine genetic tradition to uphold.
I sat down beside Jitty.
"Pretty bad day, huh?" she asked.
It didn't take me long to fill her in on the graphic details of the assault on J.B.
"If I could hold a glass, I'd make you a drink," she said.
"Grand idea!" I went inside and made a double, because it was only polite to drink for her, too. I rejoined her on the steps and stroked Sweetie's silky hound ears. I'd neglected the water in my "Jack and water," and the bite was harsh and welcome.
"You've done everything you could do," Jitty said in the gentlest tone I'd heard her use in a while.
"I suppose." I didn't have it in me for an argument. J.B. Washington's battered body was wedged on the edge of my subconscious, and I intended to drink that image away. Arguing would only hamper the process.
"Sarah Booth, I've been giving this some thought. What do you see in your future?"
Jitty had been on this kick about the future all month. Even tonight, she was tricked out in some glistening fabric that caught the moonlight and spangled it in the amber weave. Still, the future was better than her prior obsession—the fifties, where she'd taken the wholesome image of June Cleaver to the point of making me want to hurt her. The problem with her question was that I had no clear view of the future. "I see Dahlia House painted and looking like she used to look. I see me sitting at the kitchen table paying my bills, writing out checks without having to wonder if I might be arrested when they bounced."
"And who do you see with you?"
That question opened a black hole in my heart. "Jitty, I don't have that kind of imagination."
"Harold would look nice standing there beside you."
My smile was fleeting. "He's a good man. You were right about him."
"And?"
"And nothing."
"If you had Harold sitting here beside you, there wouldn't be a need for discussion. A man has a way of takin' a woman's mind off her troubles."
"And, if everything is working properly, producing an heir to Dahlia House at the same time, right?" Jitty was as single-minded and pigheaded as all of my other acquaintances.
"That sheriff is a good-lookin' man. Why don't you find a reason for him to apprehend you? A thorough search might be fun."
"Jitty!" I gave her a hard look, and realized that in the outfit she was wearing, a man wouldn't have to touch her at all to get a list of her assets. "Where'd you get that dress? It barely covers possible, as Aunt LouLane so delicately referred to the female anatomy."
"I love these modern fabrics. All suction and no ironing." Jitty smoothed her hands over her torso. "But I'm not the focus of this conversation. You are. You and the future, which is pretty bleak if it only includes paint for Dahlia House and money in the bank. I want to hear the pitter-patter of little feet, and no matter how independent you are, Sarah Booth, you can't get pregnant alone. That Coleman, now, he'd m
ake a good daddy."
I gave Jitty a sideways glance. "Perhaps you've missed the fact that he's married."
"Yeah, I guess one of us missed that fact." She stood. "Maybe you should go to Paris and visit Hamilton. If you time it right, you could come back with the goods."
"I can't afford to give birth to 'the goods,' as you so charmingly call it. I can't private detect and raise a baby. Besides, I wouldn't use Hamilton that way."
She rolled her eyes. "Please don't throw Mr. Hamilton into that mean ol' briar patch!"
She'd used her height as an advantage, so I stood and moved up two steps. "Jitty, I've had a really bad day. Can we talk about men tomorrow?"
"Fine, put it off 'til your innards are as black and shriveled as your heart. The future is just one second from now, you know."
"Jitty, why don't you focus on the present?" I thought it was a brilliant retort.
"Huh! You're a fine one to talk. You cling to the past like it's your favorite pair of sweatpants."
The arrow of truth struck with a sting of pain. I did have a habit of living in the past. How could I help it, with a ghost from the 1850's lurking in my home and the curse of tradition in every corner of the house? But there was more to Jitty's accusation. I knew what she meant, and the truth of it was frightening.
"I don't want to get hurt again. Loss is something I have no desire to experience again."
"I know that, Sarah Booth. I know it well. I lost people I love, too. But the only thing that makes all the sufferin' worthwhile is bein' able to love again."
Jitty's words held wisdom. I turned to thank her, but I was alone on the porch with a gently snoring Sweetie Pie and the darkest hours of the morning ahead of me.
I got up and went inside. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a meal, so I went to the kitchen and made two peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Dr. Matthews had fussed at me about Sweetie Pie's rapid weight gain, but then the good doctor was thin as a rail and didn't have to suffer the emotional flux of the Delaney womb. Chocolate would have been best, but peanut butter was a good second choice.
Sweetie and I smacked our way through the sandwiches, and I took myself off to bed and the Kinky Friedman novel that had seen me through the last long night. Like Kinky, I was blessed with good friends. Tinkie was the perfect partner. Her only drawback was that she was married and didn't frequent bars.
I took my book and settled beneath the covers. The night was still chill enough to make the comforter a real comfort, and I immersed myself into the cigar-smoking, espresso-making world of the Kinkster.
26
When I woke on Monday, I was surprised to see the sun streaming in the bedroom window. Only seconds before, I'd been in a dark New York City bar sharing a bottle of Jameson with Kinky.
He'd had on his black cowboy hat, black shirt, black vest, and a purple boa that hailed from his days as opening act for Bob Dylan. The dream had been brief, but pointed. He'd used his first and second fingers to do a little Broadway dance number along the bar while he sang, "Let your fingers do the walking."
I groped for the phone book even before I headed downstairs to make coffee. It was just after eight, and I called Dr. Matthews, Zinnia's top veterinarian and the man who'd saved Sweetie Pie's life.
"Where would a person get enough insulin to kill a horse?" I asked him without preamble.
"Funny you should ask," he said. "I'm missing some drugs."
I was suddenly wide awake. "What kind of drugs?"
"A bottle of Banamine and the insulin. I try to keep some on hand. I didn't notice it gone until yesterday."
"When was the last time you saw it?"
"Last Sunday, I was out at Swift Level on an emergency call. Lee was having trouble with a foaling mare. The drugs were in the truck. I remember because I had to rummage around to get the things I needed to help deliver the foal."
There was no delicate way to proceed. "Who could have taken them?"
"Anyone there, except Lee. She was with me the entire time." His voice was firm, and I was reminded that his friendship with Lee spanned two decades. He was playing it as she had asked him to.
Still, I had to try. "Speaking of time, when did you leave Swift Level?"
There was a long pause. "I'm sorry, but I'm a little confused on that point. It was a long and difficult birth, and I was very tired. I wasn't paying attention to the time."
"Thanks, Dr. Matthews." Caught between loyalty and the law, he wasn't going to contradict Lee's story—at least until he was under oath and forced to do so.
I placed a second call to the hospital to check on J.B. His condition was stable and the doctors had decided not to transfer him. He was still unconscious, but I would be allowed to visit.
I was dressed and walking out the front door when Tinkie pulled up. She'd changed cars, upping her trademark Caddy to the latest model in a handsome hunter green.
"I heard about that musician. My goodness, Sarah Booth. Are you okay?" she asked as she came up the front steps. She made the art of high-heel walking look easy.
"I'm fine. I think J.B.'s going to be fine, too." That was more wish than fact, but I was clinging to it.
"I have some news for you," Tinkie said.
"I have some for you, too." I took a breath. "Kip and Bud are alive. So is Avenger."
Tinkie moved gracefully to one of the rocking chairs on the porch and sat. "They're alive?" Her blue eyes were wide.
"Tinkie, you can't tell a soul. Not even Oscar. Everyone has to believe they're dead. Kip may be in real danger." I told her what J.B. Washington had said as he gripped my arm. "I think he overheard some plan to hurt Kip. I think that's why he was attacked."
"Where is Kip?"
"That's the million-dollar question. Coleman's searching for her. Lee says she doesn't know."
I gave Tinkie a few moments to digest the news. In the fields on either side of the veranda, flocks of crows settled onto the newly plowed earth. Willie Campbell was getting ready to plant. Would it be cotton or soybeans? I hadn't asked him.
"Coffee!" Tinkie demanded. "Make it strong."
"I'll get us a cup," I said. I knew just how she felt.
When I returned with the coffee, Tinkie was staring out into space. "Are you okay?" She was still too quiet and too wide-eyed.
"Who burned the barn?"
"I'm not certain," I said. It was a damn good question.
"Did Kip set that fire?"
"Maybe," I admitted. "I'm just not sure."
She rocked for a moment longer. "My news is a bit anticlimactic. Bud never slept with Mary Louise or Elizabeth or Susannah."
My discoveries into Bud's relationship with Lee and Kip had somewhat prepared me for the truth. This was the theory that I'd hoped Tinkie could prove for me. Bud was a man women wanted, and when they didn't get him, they simply lied. It was an interesting bit of psychology to chew on at a later date. Right now, it confirmed my belief that Bud, though he had slept with Carol Beth in an attempt to save Avenger, was deeply in love with Lee. "Did the girls actually admit they hadn't slept with him?"
"With much chagrin and a lot of begging that I keep this to myself," Tinkie said. She narrowed her eyes as she stared at me. "You aren't surprised? Everyone in town had the idea that he had a revolving door into his bedroom."
"Bud is Kip's father."
Tinkie sat back in her rocker so hard she hit the wall. "Holy shit."
She threw a hand up over her mouth. "Excuse me, that just slipped right out. Bud is Kip's daddy?"
Repeating a fact is also a DG method of emphasis and backhanded flattery, showing that a real juicy and unexpected tidbit has been revealed. The original spokesperson can then repeat the fact for additional effect. I was glad to oblige.
"Lee admitted it."
"Why in the world didn't she dump that loser Kemper and marry Bud?"
"It's a long story," I said. "A long, sad story that has a lot to do with living up to others' expectations. That and the fact that Kemper
owned Swift Level and Lee's secrets. He was a master at emotional blackmail."
Tinkie had grown pensive, her lively face settling into an expression of sadness. "What a terrible waste. Bud and Lee are a lot better suited for one another. And Kip adores Bud." Tinkie used her tiny little feet in their child-size, lime-green high heels to push her rocker gently back and forth. "What a hell it must have been for Lee. Kemper was ruining her financially. Kip was being forced to watch her parents eviscerate each other on a regular basis, including physical abuse, and, down in the barn, Bud was doing his best to make everyone believe he was screwing everything that walked."
"To keep Kemper from realizing Bud's true motivation for being at Swift Level, I can only presume," I said. "And to save Avenger, where Carol Beth is concerned."
Tinkie shook her head in bemusement. "All of those women thought the others were screwing Bud, so they said they were doing it, too. No one wanted to be the one left out, so they all just started lying, and with each lie they upped the ante."
I felt the beginning of a laugh build. "It's almost too good," I said. One-upmanship was the basis for most conversations among DGs, but this was the extreme. Normally, competitions had to do with the most expensive gift, most boring husband, most doctor's appointments in a week's time, and most disciplinary actions taken against their children at school that required parental intervention and unconditional defense.
Now, headed toward their mid-thirties, the DGs were feeling the pinch of time and had added sexual notches to the competition list. At least Bud was a trophy worth bragging about.
Tinkie was getting angrier with the women as I grew more amused. "That Susannah! We had a couple of drinks at The Club, and she told me how good Bud was in bed. She gave me details that actually made me blush. And she'd made every bit of it up." Tinkie rocked faster. "Those girls!"
"You did an excellent job, Tinkie."
"They tricked me."
I leaned forward in my rocker so she had to look me eye to eye. "Only because they so effectively tricked themselves. And me, and Coleman, and half the town. I thought they were sleeping with Bud, too. He was as guilty in that little charade as the women were."
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