"You heard Coleman and Connie are back together?"
I kept my face perfectly blank. "Yeah, I heard."
"Fat chance that'll work out." She shrugged. "But you gotta give the man a blue ribbon for trying."
I stood up and pulled a wad of ones from my pocket. "If you had to say someone other than Scott Hampton killed Ivory, who would you name?"
Millie didn't hesitate. "Emanuel Keys would be my first suspect. I'd put him at the top of my list way before Scott. In fact, I'll bet you a steak dinner in Greenwood that Emanuel's the one behind that noose in the magnolia tree."
"Emanuel Keys? The son? He's alive?"
Millie acknowledged my surprise with a knowing look. "To hear Ida Mae talk about him, you'd think he was dead. But he isn't. And he's back in town just in time for his daddy to get murdered."
I recalled the gist of Ida Mae's limited comments about her son, and the sorrow and loss in her voice. Small wonder I'd assumed he was dead. "Tell me about him." I could see a real complication if Scott had become the "adopted" son.
Millie hitched one hip up on a barstool. "I think they found that boy under a cabbage plant. Or maybe a hemlock tree. He has poison in his veins—has ever since he was a little thing. He's just downright mean, and he treated his daddy like dog poo on the bottom of his shoe." "Where is Emanuel?"
"He's back in the area. I know because I've seen him. He moved off to Atlanta in some big job as soon as he graduated from Notre Dame. He let Ivory and Ida Mae pick up the tab for his education and then told them he was too smart to come back to Mississippi. Then he came home about three months ago." She picked up the ticket I'd been drawing on. "What's this?"
"Scott's tattoo. Ever see that symbol anywhere?" "Funny you should ask. I saw it Tuesday." "Yesterday? Scott Hampton was in jail." She lowered the ticket, her face puzzled. "It wasn't Scott. It was those other two."
I felt a pulse quicken. "What other two?" "The bikers. They were in here for breakfast." "Locals?" Sunflower County was small, with a minimal population, but there were all kinds in the mix. Even bikers.
"Not local. Hard to tell the difference sometimes, though. All that black leather, bandana head rags, sunglasses, black T-shirts. They all look alike."
"The uniform of the nonconformist." I knew what she was talking about.
"Exactly. Anyway, they came in for breakfast and they were talkin' hot and heavy about their preference in music, particularly Scott's music. Real connoisseurs, if you know what I mean." She rolled her eyes. "That's the first I heard of Scott's rap days. They were discussing some of the lyrics, if you can call that stuff lyrics, but I put a stop to it. I told them if they wanted to finish eating, they had to shut up." She made a sound of disgust. "Just a little more powder for the keg, if you ask me. Coleman ought to lock them up. Emanuel, too. Try to keep this place from going up in flames."
"Did they say they were friends of Scott's?" I was liking my client less and less.
"I doubt you could call those two friends of anyone, but they implied that they knew him."
"Did they happen to mention where they were staying or how long they'd been in town?" I picked up my car keys from the counter.
"No, I think their sole purpose in life is to stir up trouble. I'd stay away from those two, Sarah Booth." She saw I was getting ready to leave. "By the way, Cece's looking for you," she said as she picked up my plate.
"Thanks for the warning."
"She wants a quote for her story. It wouldn't hurt, you know. Publicity would be good for the Delaney Detective Agency."
"I'll keep that in mind." I had no intention of giving Cece a quote about Scott Hampton. In fact, I wasn't clear how I felt about Scott as a client—or a human being. I had my own soul-searching to do before I gave an opinion on anything.
6
When I got back to Dahlia House, Sweetie Pie was in a deep doggy coma on the front porch, overcome by the morning's play with Chablis and the heat. Beside her was a message from Cece, written in her signature purple on eggshell vellum and topped with her initials in a gothic swirl. Cece took the Southern thing way over the top.
"Call me the instant you get home." Cece excelled at directives.
I crumpled the note and went inside, sighing as the coolness of the big old house swept over me, a haven from the blistering temperatures outside. On the short walk from the car to the front door, I'd worked up a sweat. I hit the switch for the ceiling fan in the parlor and stood under the whir of the blades. The rush of air created a chill on my damp skin, and I felt that prickle that could be either cold or a tingle of apprehension.
"Do you believe in the basic laws of nature?"
So it hadn't been the ceiling fan. Jitty was standing beside the horsehair sofa. I knew instantly that this wasn't going to be a casual conversation about something she'd seen on Wild Kingdom.
"Why is it that I feel this is a trap?" I asked, avoiding an answer. I headed to the kitchen to find some ice cubes and something cold to drink.
Following right behind me, Jitty didn't give any quarter. "It's a simple question. Can a tiger change his stripes?"
"What you're really asking is, can a wild animal be domesticated?" It was a feeble dodge, but I was wary of Jitty and her linguistic tricks.
"Would you put a Bengal tiger in with a herd of sheep just because the tiger had spent a few years with humans and seemed to be tame?"
"I suppose it depends on how hungry the tiger might be." I hated these philosophical arguments. Jitty had an agenda, and she was good at moving me into a corner to prove her theory.
"So the element of safety for the sheep depends on how hungry the tiger is?"
"I suppose." My stomach growled loudly, and I was sorry I'd said anything about hunger. I'd just downed at least five thousand calories, and if Jitty got close enough, she'd be able to smell the fried chicken on me.
She sat on the edge of the table, and for the first time, I noticed that she looked exactly like someone off the cover of one of my mother's old albums. The Shirelles, one of the original girl groups, came to mind. She had on a powder-blue tent dress of layered chiffon, powder-blue satin pumps, and her hair gelled or ironed or something so that it swooped into a French twist-beehive kind of do. I missed the Star Trek outfits she'd been wearing only a few weeks before.
"So a tiger can change his stripes as long as he doesn't get hungry, then he's goin' back to bein' a tiger, right?" She laid it out for me.
"It could work that way," I said, draining a glass of ice water.
"Scott Hampton is a racist, Sarah Booth. He may have hidden it while Ivory Keys was feedin' him, but he finally got really hungry, and he went back to bein' what he always was."
I refilled my glass and turned to face her. She deserved my full attention. She'd raised an issue that was troubling me, too.
"It may look that way to me and you, but Ida Mae Keys believes differently."
"Ida Mae has to believe that Scott's innocent."
"Why?" I was curious to hear her reasoning.
"If he's guilty, then she should have seen it comin'. I'm sure she knows all about Scott's past. She probably knows more than anyone, except her dead husband. And she let Ivory convince her that the tiger was defanged. She let that tiger into her home, up to her table, and walkin' beside the man she loved. Now that man is dead and the tiger only did what it was in his nature to do all along. She's got to bear the blame of that if Scott Hampton's guilty."
Jitty's words were chilling. Faced with a choice between belief in someone and such a burden of guilt, I could see what Jitty meant.
"Scott looks guilty," I conceded. "But there are other possibilities."
"The man who killed Ivory Keys is guilty of something a lot worse than murder," Jitty said. "Ivory had a big dream, and the power of that dream was the power to heal. The man who killed him destroyed that dream."
I saw a tear in the corner of Jitty's eye, and the panorama of all she'd witnessed passed through my mind. We'd both seen far too m
uch loss. "Other men with dreams have died violently, and death didn't destroy the power of what they envisioned."
"No, but it sure knocked progress back in the ditch for a long time."
I couldn't argue that. I'd wondered more than once what would have happened if Martin Luther King Jr. had lived. Without his leadership, the movement for equality had faltered badly and never fully recovered.
"Ain't nobody risen up to take Martin's place," Jitty said, echoing my thoughts. "There are rare men—and women—who have the power to lead through the worst times. They don't come along ever' day."
"But the dream doesn't die," I insisted. "Maybe it gets stalled, but it doesn't curl up and die."
We stared at each other, both acutely aware of the long history that bound us so intimately together.
"If this guitar man killed Ivory Keys, he's done a terrible wrong. You can say the dream survives, but Playin' the Bones is closed, Ida Mae Keys is at home cryin' for her man, and the people who were beginnin' to believe that Ivory had a true vision are doubtin' all over again. If Scott Hampton walks out of this, not only will Ivory's dream die, but faith in the justice system will be destroyed." Jitty slowly stood up. "That's a heavy burden, Sarah Booth. You'd best shoulder it with a lot of thought."
She didn't pull a fading act, which was her usual exit when she thought she had the last word. She walked out of the parlor and disappeared up the stairs. I was left wondering how in the hell I had gotten myself into such a mess.
The answering machine light blinked urgently, and I played back my messages. Coleman had called saying he'd heard I had visited Playin' the Bones, which he had no doubt read as my decision to accept the case. He wanted a word with me "at my convenience." Good, I'd wait until tomorrow for a lecture. Besides, the thought of seeing Coleman made me nervous, angry, and sad. It was a dangerous cocktail of volatile emotions that I didn't trust myself to imbibe in public.
The other message was from Tinkie. My date was at seven sharp with a Bridge Ladnier, Memphis entrepreneur and investor. He was tall, handsome, and loaded. We were going to dinner at The Club, followed by dancing. Tinkie and Oscar would be there—close enough for an emergency, but far enough away to let "nature take its course." It was a date scripted from the Daddy's Girl Handbook of Red Letter Evenings.
I tried to sneak up to my room, but Jitty had heard the message from Tinkie and was waiting for me at the top of the stairs.
"A rich man, huh?" she said, and for the first time that day I saw a spark of the old devil I knew so well.
"Tall, handsome, and rich." I rubbed it in.
"Entrepreneur and investor," she said.
"Former banker," I tossed out.
"Tinkie's friend."
"Oscar's school chum." I was determined to have the final word on this. He was, after all, my date. Jitty and I were eye-to-eye.
"He's got all the financial credentials he needs, but can he cut the mustard or does he live up on Dead Pecker Ridge? Lots of men turn to makin' money when they can't make a woman grip the sheets and scream." Jitty was grinning, but she was also very serious.
"I didn't ask Tinkie for his Dun and Bradstreet or a report from his urologist." I was exasperated. Jitty could talk dreams and visions of a future, but for her it all boiled down to the tiny fusing of one sperm and one egg, all taking place in my female plumbing and ending up attached inside the Delaney womb. "Look, stay out of my social life." I gave her a hard look. "Why aren't you organizing a march at the jail or something?"
"If I could carry a sign, I'd be out there picketin'. Now forget about haranguin' me and go pick out what you're gonna wear tonight. Maybe that green halter dress with the full skirt."
Drat! It was exactly the dress I was thinking of. I hurried up the stairs and opened the closet. I wasn't a clotheshorse, but I loved a good bargain. During my tenure in New York as a failed stage actress, I'd happened upon a number of terrific secondhand stores. My wardrobe boasted big names at cut-rate prices.
I pulled out the green halter dress. It had a distinct 1940s look, with three big black buttons on the bodice, a pointed collar, and a completely bare back. The skirt was full and swingy, perfect for an evening of dancing to a big band, which was what The Club always offered. In fact, it was the same band from the 1940s. Wearing the same burgundy blazers with the gold lettering of The Club embroidered on the right lapel. Even the bubbles that churned from the hidden machine smelled vaguely of mothballs.
"Perfect," Jitty said. "That pale green matches your eyes. Wear those gold earrings Cece brought you from New Orleans. And those wicked black heels with the three sexy little straps."
Though she was an aggravation, Jitty had terrific taste in clothes. I couldn't help but wonder what she was doing, looking like a forgotten girl groupie, but I knew better than to ask. I had a date to prepare for, and at my age, it was going to take at least a full five hours to wash and condition my hair, put on a mud mask to shrink my pores, do my nails and toenails, pumice my calluses, lubricate my skin, pluck my eyebrows, shave my legs, and the host of other beautifying acts that every woman knew was a prerequisite to a Big Date. I would be exhausted before Bridge Ladnier showed up.
"If you went out more than twice a year, you'd be more caught up on personal maintenance," Jitty said. "What about that bikini line?"
"You make me sound like a car," I pointed out, choosing not to go into the fact that Bridge Ladnier wouldn't know if my bikini line was waxed or not.
"Well, you ain't no classic, so you'd better buff yourself up as much as possible. And remember to use that wax."
I sighed. There was no point in arguing with Jitty when she was on a tear.
I sipped a Jack on the rocks and watched the Jaguar pull up to the front of the house. The man who got out of the car was a perfect match for the clean, elegant lines of the auto he drove. Bridge Ladnier had arrived in style.
I saw his features clearly in the light of the porch. He had the look of a British aristocrat: deep-set brown eyes, a face toughened by the outdoors and touched with a hint of interesting lines, posture so perfect that it came across as casual. He rang the bell, adjusting his designer Picasso tie as he waited for me.
"Mr. Ladnier," I said as I opened the door. "Please come in."
He followed me into the parlor and took a seat on the horsehair sofa.
"Would you care for a drink?" I hovered by the bar, my Aunt LouLane's schooling in the caste of Daddy's Girl taking over before I could stop myself.
"Scotch and soda," he said, his gaze finding the old turntable where Marva Wright's powerful voice went deep and dirty. My mother had an extensive blues collection. "I saw Marva in New Orleans five times. She can bring a house down," he said as he accepted his drink.
Surprised, I poured Jack over ice for me. "You like the blues?"
"'hike may be an understatement," he said with a slow smile. "I love them."
"We share that in common," I said. "I like a lot of music, but the blues are my favorite."
"Is that why you're defending Scott Hampton?" he asked.
The question caught me off guard. Somehow I hadn't expected Bridge to be interested in local happenings. "No, it isn't about the blues." I hesitated. "Mrs. Keys asked me to help Hampton."
"You seem a little hesitant. Can he be helped?"
I avoided a personal opinion. "The evidence is strongly against him, but many innocent men have appeared guilty."
"And if he is guilty, then he's done a terrible thing." He watched me closely. "You haven't become a hired gun yet, have you?" His smile was warm. "I somehow don't think you will. That says a lot about your character."
Bridge Ladnier obviously had heard a lot of details about Ivory's murder. "This is a case where it's hard to know the right thing to do," I conceded.
"Yes, our justice system is built on the ideal that every man deserves a fair trial," Bridge said, swirling his drink so that the ice clinked in the glass. "It's a case that's going to get a lot of publicity. Might be good fo
r you, in the long run." One eyebrow lifted. "Now that's strictly a bottomline assessment."
I started to laugh. "I never considered whether this case would be good for me or not."
"Then you should, if you want a successful business, Sarah Booth. In fact, that should be one of your primary concerns for all future cases. 'What can I gain from it?' and 'How will it impact my reputation?'"
I could see where he was a good businessman. "I have a hard enough time trying to decide what's right and what's wrong in cases this convolved. Future impact of publicity may be too complicated for me."
He gave a wry smile. "I lived up North too long, I suppose. I forgot that Southern belles don't worry their pretty little heads about business."
His remark caught me off guard, and then I caught the twinkle in his eye. "You're right," I said. "That was a ridiculous thing to say. I have to think about the business side of this, whether I want to or not." I finished my drink and rose. He did the same.
"You're beautiful and smart, Sarah Booth. Never ridiculous. Business is not something a person knows intuitively. It has to be learned, and if you ever need any help, I'm available." He took my arm and leaned to whisper in my ear. "Gossip down at the bank is that your business will be a whopping success. They say you have a knack for solving cases."
I was still flushing with pleasure when we headed out into the night. While the Jaguar hummed over the long, straight roads that cut through the whispering rows of cotton, Bridge spoke of his reasons for returning to the South. He had family in Memphis, but it was a longing for the culture that had pulled him back to Mississippi.
"That, and I have this crazy notion that I might be of use."
"Of use?" Bridge didn't strike me as the kind of man who would relish being used in any way.
"I know it sounds like I'm some seventeen-year-old still wet behind the ears and filled with dreamy ideals, but Mississippi has made great strides to overcome the past. I want to see it move forward even more. We've got good people, bright and talented people. I can convince my associates to invest down here, bring in some good jobs. I'm not talking about chemical plants or textile mills where folks work for minimum wage and the environment pays the ultimate price."
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