"Is J.B. going to be okay?"
"Right as rain. No permanent damage done, and I think his mama's flung a net over Doc Sawyer. I caught them out in the parking lot, staring at some pine trees like it was a majestic bit of scenery."
"That's great." I leaned a little heavier on his arm than I really needed to. It was just nice to have an arm to lean on. "Another few minutes and Krystal would have been dead."
"She knows that. She said to tell you that she's dedicating her first album to you." Coleman chuckled. "The irony here is that she'll finance that album with Mike's insurance policy. They had mutual policies—a million dollars each."
"That's what I'd call an ironic twist."
Coleman's laugh was easy as he firmly grasped my elbow and helped me to his car. "By the way, that was terrific detective work. When Cece followed that lead you gave her and discovered that Mitchell Raybon was really Mike Rich, she called me right away. I was afraid you were in trouble, so I headed straight out to Putnam Hall. As it happened, Tinkie had stopped by Dahlia House to take Sweetie home from Canine Curls, and she found Kinky on the front porch with your note. Lucky for you Tinkie likes to drive that Caddy about a hundred and five. Tinkie and Kinky got there in the nick of time."
"They sound like a bad vaudeville act." I stumbled on a rock, and Coleman's arm went around my waist. "Are you okay?"
"A little tired, but there are other things you need to know. Mike burned the barn."
"I know. Kip saw him. When LaCoco indicated he'd kill Avenger, Kip decided to ride him over to a friend's house and hide him out. She saw Mike in the loft and smelled the gasoline. By the time she got Bud, the barn was in flames, and they decided to stage a dramatic exit." He handed me into the car and then got behind the wheel.
"They did a good job. How is Nathaniel Walz tied up in this?"
"Through LaCoco. I call them the Buzzard Brigade. When Lee confessed to Kemper's death, LaCoco knew Swift Level was in jeopardy. If Lee went to prison, Swift Level would be sold. He called Walz in as the front man to buy the property. They planned on getting it for nothing and developing it as a fancy resort." Coleman eased the car out of the hospital parking lot and into the night.
"Where are Walz and LaCoco?"
"They left town. There was nothing I could actually charge them with, but I made it clear I'd keep looking until I found something. They decided to go where there was less scrutiny of their activities."
It was really over. I leaned back in the car seat. This was a much different ride from the last one I'd taken with Coleman. We were going a lot slower, and my hospital gown was a far cry from the beautiful red dress I'd worn.
"I had a mechanic pick up your car," Coleman said. "They'll repair the rag top for you."
"Thanks, Coleman. Thanks for everything."
He turned on the car radio, and I stared out the window at all of the familiar sights as Willie Nelson's "Stardust" played. The night sky over the dark fields was bejeweled with stars. The land was a part of me, deep inside, like blood and muscle. I'd traveled a good bit and seen beauty in many places, but none of it had the power to move me like the flat, fertile land of my home.
Coleman's voice in the easy comfort of the car was part of my homecoming. "Sarah Booth, you scared the life out of me. When I saw all of that blood ..."
He reached across the seat and took my good hand. Holding it lightly, he squeezed my fingers just as we turned down the drive to my home.
Dahlia House was ablaze with lights. Tinkie's Caddy was there, as well as Krystal's car, and several others I didn't recognize. My friends, and Mr. Friedman, were standing on the porch.
Cece, dazzling in a sheer red sundress with spaghetti straps and dancing sandals, held up her glass. "To Sarah Booth!" They all lifted their glasses and someone stuck a flute of champagne in my hand. We toasted as the front door burst open. A big brown dog rushed out to greet me.
"Sweetie Pie?" I almost choked. My gaze shot up to Tinkie.
"It's not permanent," she said in a rush. "It'll wash out in a few weeks."
Lee was laughing, and I thought how young she looked. It was as if she'd left the old woman back in the cell.
"I have a surprise for you." She took my elbow and began to steer me off the porch and around the house. "Sarah Booth, I know I made it hard on you. All of the evidence pointed to Kip as the murderer. The only thing I could do was protect her the only way I knew how. That was to take the blame. Bud was the only one who really believed she was innocent. He never would concede that she might have killed Kemper, even if she had every reason in the world to do it."
"We both owe Kip an apology," I pointed out.
"She owes you one, too. She lured Mr. Friedman here under false pretenses, but that will all be explained soon enough."
She was hustling me along pretty rapidly. Everyone else had fallen into line behind us. There was an expectant silence that both warned and excited me.
We rounded the corner, and I saw that someone had turned on the lights in the old barn that Aunt LouLane had used as a storage shed. Lee let out a whistle, and there was an answering whinny from inside the barn. A magnificent buckskin horse burst out of the barn and ran to the rickety fence.
"His name is Reveler. He's a four-year-old by Avenger, out of a terrific mare, Miss ScrapIron. He's yours, Sarah Booth."
"Mine?" I had to be dreaming. I'd always wanted a horse.
Reveler came to the fence and tossed his head, thick black mane flying. With a snort, he spun and galloped across the paddock, his muscles rippling.
"You can keep him here, or bring him back out to Swift Level. Whatever is easiest for you." Lee's hand was on my back, gently rubbing.
"Lee, I can't accept a horse. Especially not one of Avenger's babies." I knew how valuable Reveler's lineage made him.
"Sure you can. You can have the horse, or wait until spring and I'll pay you the money I owe you for handling my case. Now for the rest of the surprise." Lee whistled again. "Come on out!"
I looked to the open doorway and felt a small explosion in my heart. A teenage girl and a tall cowboy came walking out. Kip was leading a big gray stallion.
I stared at them. "I hope Coleman can figure out a charge to put you both in jail for scaring us all half to death." I hadn't realized how mad I was at Bud and Kip.
"Sarah Booth, dahling," Cece called out, "you don't have to act like an ass just because yours is hanging out the back of that devastatingly awful hospital gown."
Cece, as usual, was right on target. Kip, Bud—and Avenger—were safe. That was all that really mattered.
Kip climbed through the fence and wrapped an arm around me. "I'm sorry, Sarah Booth. I let you know as soon as I could."
"I'm glad you're okay." I kissed her cheek.
"I won't stay mad at you for thinking I was a murderer if you won't stay mad at me," she said, her eyes dancing. "Thank you, Sarah Booth. You saved my mother."
"Tinkie actually gets the credit. And Kinky," I said. "They saved me, too. Now, where have you been?" I asked her.
"At Roscoe's place. Over in Leflore County. Not very far away." She turned to Kinky. "I've explained everything to Mr. Friedman, and how you weren't involved in the story I made up." She bit her lip and leaned over to whisper. "He's been really nice about it."
"Should I ever decide to write a book about crazy Mississippians," Kinky said, "I've got more than enough material."
Cece tucked her arm through Kinky's. "We do crazy like nobody else can do it." She waved a hand. "One can't celebrate without food. Millie's on her way with some barbecue and cole slaw," she said. "Harold's bringing some ice. This is going to be the first barbecue of the season. I've got to call Garvel to bring a camera. Imagine the spread I can do—Kinky Friedman as celebrity guest; Lee absolved; Carol Beth in jail; Bud, Kip, and Avenger risen from the dead. It's a perfect pre-Easter story."
It was the wee hours before I finally made it to my bedroom. Since I was only wearing a hospital gown, the process o
f undressing was much easier.
I crawled beneath the comforter. My arm throbbed, despite the tender ministrations of my good friend Jack. I had a bit of him beside the bed, which I intended to sip, while I unwound.
"So, you get yourself shot and still end up in bed alone."
I looked up to find Jitty in the rocker. She was heel-toeing it to beat the band. Any minute that old rocker was going to throw her on the floor.
"Getting shot isn't exactly in the romance guide as foreplay." I put my book aside, glad to be alive to argue with Jitty. She was even more stunning than usual in a glittering green unitard. "Where are you headed?"
"I'm lookin' to the future, Sarah Booth."
"I'm glad someone is. I'm pretty happy to be right here." For one night, at least, I had found the perfect balance between past and future.
"You might explain what that mystery writer is doing as your housepest."
I gave her a sharp look. She was beginning to talk like Kinky. "He's here because he helped save my life, and because I invited him to stay. Also because Kip e-mailed him that someone was murdering all the cats in Sunflower County, and that I needed his help on the case. She was playing on his sympathies as a cat lover."
"That girl has a way with computers," Jitty retorted. "Of course, she has a tendency to exaggerate, but maybe that's an indication of a career in writing. If she could devise an E-mail that gets men runnin' after you, she has real talent."
"Aren't you going to congratulate me for solving the case?" I decided to take the high road and ignore her jabs. "Lee is free. All charges have been dropped."
"Congratulations, Sarah Booth. Now that we've taken care of that, I want to point out that you're missin' an opportunity. There's a live one sleepin' in your guest room."
"Tonight, I'm sleeping alone, Jitty. The only thing I'm taking to bed with me is this book." I held up the Kinkster's mystery. I had one chapter to go before I finished.
"Your life is a series of wrong choices," Jitty admonished as she began to fade.
I picked up my book and slipped easily into the world of the Kinkster: his apartment, beneath the loft of the lesbian dance class, where he was deviled by a know-it-all cat and a cluster of friends as ornery and loyal as my own.
1
My Great-Aunt Cilla was fond of saying that there's nothing like the feel of a blooded animal between a woman's thighs. Of course with Aunt Cilla, that might apply to a Thoroughbred or a Southern gentleman with good lineage. Although most of the women in my family have been cursed with the Delaney womb, Great-Aunt Cilla was the only one of my female forbears who didn't bother to hide her affliction. She was exiled to Atlanta for her honesty.
Lying here in the porch swing with my hound at my feet and a mint julep in my hand, I can't help but think of my ancestors and the history of this land I love. I've just concluded an Old South tradition—perusing my cotton fields from the vantage point of a horse.
Tidbits of Aunt Cilia's wisdom are coming back to me. Her womb might have had a vociferous appetite, but it was nothing compared to her brain. It was she who pointed out to me the two most potent symbols of the Old South: King Cotton and blood.
On my morning rides, I see the past, present, and future of my home: the cotton, with its green leaves covered in early morning dew; the whisper of money, of times long gone and of a way of life that seems both a dream and a nightmare, depending on perspective. The wealthy settlers of the rich Delta soil in Mississippi understood the powerful combination of horse and land, the addictive pleasure of riding one's property on a healthy and responsive animal.
Aunt Cilia had her own uses for healthy, responsive animals—especially of the human species. An excellent horsewoman, she was especially fond of grooms. Horses, leather, a virile young man—Aunt Cilla's favorite aphrodisiacs.
"Sarah Booth Delaney, you are one worthless gal. Out here sittin' on the porch, fantasizin' about lettin' the hired help poke you. If you were worth a lick, you'd be wedded, bedded, and bred by some respectable gentleman."
The disapproving tone belied the soft richness of the voice. And voice was all it was. Jitty, the itinerant ghost of my great-great-grandmother's nanny, had yet to materialize.
"I would have thought you'd be glad to know I was thinking about anyone, hired help or gentleman caller, pokin' me, as you so delicately call it." I was far beyond getting ruffled at Jitty's nagging. We were on old, familiar ground. My lack of use of the legendary Delaney womb was her favorite topic of haranguing.
"If you were thinkin' of a real hired hand, like that Willie Campbell fellow, I might be interested. You let that man use your land, might as well let him plow your furrow."
I declined to dignify her bawdy remark with a comment. Willie Campbell had leased the land around Dahlia House, and he had a fine crop of cotton in the ground. Egyptian cotton and the new strain that burst into boles of fiber already tinted green and blue. Ignoring Jitty, who was wavering in and out of existence at the foot of the swing, I sipped my julep and rubbed Sweetie Pie's belly with the toe of my boot.
"You lookin' mighty self-satisfied for a woman whose inner thighs are sore from a horse. There's a better way to get that lazy look on your face." She crystallized to the left of the swing, effectively blocking my view of the driveway.
My eyebrows rose in an inquisitive arch. Only yesterday she was one hot mama in spandex and spikes. Now she looked like Sunday morning church in a black-and-white photograph. Jitty was once again hip-hopping the decades, searching for the era that best suited her current attitude.
"What gives?" I asked, indicating the shirtwaist dress and sensible flats. "Your space boots need new heels?"
"I've been giving our predicament a lot of serious thought. What we need around here is some conviction, a dream, something to work toward. I'm gonna get it for us."
On my last three cases I'd been stabbed, shot, and generally bruised on all body parts. None of that struck fear into me the way Jitty did. I sat up a little straighter in the swing, taking care not to spill my julep. It contained the last bit of scraggly mint I'd been able to grow. "What do you mean by that?"
"I'm talking about passion and a belief in something. Have you forgotten your mama, Sarah Booth? She believed in something, and she fought to have it."
I nodded. "Yeah, I remember. Folks around here refer to Mama as 'that socialist.'"
"She wasn't a socialist. She was a woman who saw inequality, and she wanted to change it. She wanted all people, no matter what color or gender, to have equal opportunity."
"And she started a commune on this land, which nearly sent the entire county into a convulsion."
"It was your daddy who started the commune. Your mama just went along with it."
"You know, Jitty, if I'd had normal parents and been raised to be a Daddy's Girl, I might have turned out more satisfactorily, from your point of view."
I was a bitter disappointment to Dahlia House's resident haint. It was an uphill climb for Jitty as she tried to force me into the role of MFF, manipulative femme fatale. She wanted me wed and bred, or at least bred, so there would be an heir to reside in Dahlia House. Delaneys had occupied this land since before the War between the States. Jitty had no desire to find a new place to hang out should I not produce the next generation.
"You don't have to be a Daddy's Girl, Sarah Booth, but it would be nice if you'd bathe and hold off on the drinkin' until after lunch." She pointed at the julep cup in my hand. It was fine pewter, engraved with my mother's initials in an intricate pattern of twining ivy. "Puttin' that devil's intoxicant in a fine cup won't change what it is."
I looked at her from under a furrowed brow. "You're not turning into a teetotaler, are you?" I'd endured a number of different attitudes from Jitty, but I wasn't about to tolerate someone who lectured me constantly on my vices—especially not when that same someone would put me in the most intimate of acts with a perfect stranger if it would produce a child.
"Nothin' wrong with a drink ever' now
and again, as long as it don't rob a person of her dreams. Looks to me like you might be headed down the path to destruction, what with your heels hiked up on the swing and those skintight britches clingin' to your ass."
I studied Jitty closer. She was wearing a dress that looked like it had come out of my Aunt LouLane's closet. One thing I'd always admired about Jitty was her flair. She could carry off just about any look. She'd even straightened her hair and curled it under. All she needed was a sweater thrown over her shoulders and a Bible in her hand. She'd make a perfect minister's wife, circa 1960-something.
"What, exactly, is it you want me to do?" I asked.
"It's a toss-up between findin' you a man and findin' you some work. Either one will do at this point."
The bullet wound in my arm had healed just fine. There wasn't a reason I couldn't get out and beat the bushes for a client. The truth was, I'd given in completely to the joy of riding Reveler and feeling the rhythm of the passing summer days. There was plenty of time in the future to concentrate on what I ought to be doing.
Jitty took two steps away from the swing to face the front of the house. The shadows of the pink lemonade and coral honeysuckle vines that crept up the trellis beside the porch cast an intricate pattern of light and dark over her, and I was reminded again of a black-and-white photograph.
She took a deep breath and slowly began to hum. Deep, rich, and throbbing with emotion, the sound seemed to seep from her, as she stared down the driveway. I was transfixed. With all of her talents, Jitty had never confessed that she could sing. I was also jealous.
"Sum-mertime, and the livin' is ea-sy. Fish are jumpin', and the cotton is high."
I closed my eyes and let the words slide through me. It was a song that always touched me, and in Jitty's powerful contralto, I felt the hairs on my arms stand on end.
"Your daddy's rich, and your mama's good-lookin'." She stopped abruptly, forcing me to open my eyes and glare at her.
"Now that you've shown me you can sing, keep doing it," I commanded.
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