Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  I watched Bridge's profile in the pale glow of the Jaguar's dash. He was passionate about what he was saying. I felt something inside me stir, the brush of an old memory, and I realized that I'd heard the same powerful emotion from my mother as she talked about Mississippi and her love for it.

  "Just because you have ideals doesn't make you naive," I said. "I like people who dream."

  Bridge chuckled with a hint of self-consciousness. "That's enough serious talk." He pulled into the parking lot, got out, and handed me out of the car. As I tucked my hand through his arm, he pressed my fingers, teasing the back of my hand as he let go. "Tonight we dine, drink, and dance. We'll save the serious discussions for daylight.

  It would be a pity to waste that moon," he said, pointing to the sky, where a pale moon hung on the horizon, gilding the surrounding cotton fields with silvery leaves.

  He led me into The Club and proved that his word was good. Oscar, wearing a white dinner jacket, rose and waved us to a table. Before I could even sit, my napkin was in my lap and my champagne flute filled.

  Tinkie was especially lovely in a pale orange swing dress and matching heels. She and Oscar hit the dance floor for a rumba, and I watched with amazement as Oscar's hips swiveled and his face was alight with fun. In his official capacity at the bank, he was a stoic and reserved man. Tinkie was the fuse that lit him, and I felt an unreasonable swelling in my heart for the two of them.

  "No marriage is perfect, but those two do get on," Bridge said, giving voice to my thoughts.

  "I'm really beginning to respect Oscar," I admitted. "But don't tell him, he'll get the big—"

  I didn't get to finish. A shadow fell over my plate and I turned to find Marshall Harrison standing over me, a glower on his face. Marshall was a decade older than I and I knew him only because he owned the local fast-food franchise.

  "You shame all of us," Marshall said, his words slurred with too much alcohol.

  "I think you should walk away from the table," Bridge said levelly. He didn't rise, but his body was poised for action.

  "I'm talking to Miss Delaney," Marshall said, putting a sweaty hand on my shoulder. "Your mother was a troublemaker and now you've taken up the flag. Decent folks around here don't like it and we won't put up with it."

  Bridge had intervened once, as is a gentleman's right, but I was no lady. "Take your hand off my shoulder now," I said, turning in my chair so I could look at him.

  Instead of removing his hand, he squeezed. "Hampton is white trash. He's going to get what he deserves."

  I had a sudden thought that Emanuel Keys may not have hung the noose at the courthouse. There were factions, both black and white, that wanted violence. I drew back my elbow, prepared to land a blow where it would do the most good.

  To my surprise, Marshall's knees buckled and he almost dropped to the floor. Oscar had stepped up behind Marshall and held his other arm in a viselike grip, levering it up behind his back.

  "Take your hands off the lady," Oscar said.

  Marshall's hand instantly fell away. "Excuse us," Oscar said calmly as he steered Marshall toward the exit. Bridge excused himself and followed. I started to go outside, but Tinkie caught my hands as she sat down at the table.

  "Let the men handle it," she said.

  "It's about me and I should see it through," I insisted.

  "This is only the beginning," she said sadly, holding my hands in her lap so I wouldn't get up.

  "Why?" I asked, still a little stunned. "What's this case to Marshall Harrison? I doubt he ever went to Playin' the Bones or even knew who Ivory Keys was, much less Scott Hampton. What does my mother have to do with this?"

  Tinkie released one of my hands long enough to drain the rest of her champagne. "It doesn't matter, Sarah Booth. That's what I tried to tell you. The scabs are coming off the past now. The guilty and the innocent will be swept up in this. There won't be a winner, no matter what the outcome."

  "There never is a winner when someone is dead," I said bitterly.

  Bridge and Oscar returned, neither with a hair out of place. Oscar ordered another bottle of champagne, and Bridge leaned over to whisper in my ear. "It's important that we act as if nothing happened. And it didn't. The man was drunk and stupid."

  When the waiter brought the champagne, we ordered dinner, and through the wit and manners of the men, Tinkie and I were able to put the evening back on track.

  We laughed and danced, and in the quiet moments, I found myself surrounded by the ghost of memories of my youth, when I'd sat with my parents and watched an older generation of belles dancing with their handsome dinner dates.

  Bridge offered me a bedazzling view of what my future might have been, had I not wanted to become an actor. Had my parents not been killed when I was a teenager. Had my mother not been a socialist and indoctrinated me into the ways of the independent female during my formative years.

  Before the evening was over, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps I'd made a serious mistake by chucking out the baby with the bathwater.

  As we rode back through the soft night to Dahlia House, I kicked off my shoes and tucked my throbbing feet under me. I had paid the price of wicked shoes without a whimper.

  "You're quite a dancer." It was an understatement. Bridge, for all of his upright posture, could move. In his life of privilege, he'd somewhere learned to salsa with just enough hip action to make a girl think of other activities.

  "Thanks. You're a good partner." He glanced over at me. It was the most intimate action he'd committed all night. Bridge Ladnier was a very careful man.

  "Will you be in Zinnia long?"

  "I'd planned to leave Sunday. Although I'll be doing a bit of work here in Zinnia, my base is in Memphis. But I think I'm going to change my plans." This time his glance lingered on me. "Will you have some free time in the next few days?"

  Bridge had mastered the art of making his intentions clear without applying pressure. It was a surefire lure to an independent woman. "I'll have some free time in the evenings."

  He reached across and touched my hand, gathering it into his. When we were dancing, I'd noticed how long his fingers were. He had the hands of a musician. Rather like Scott Hampton's.

  "Is something wrong?" he asked.

  He was acutely sensitive, too. "No. I was just thinking about tomorrow."

  We pulled up in front of Dahlia House. He got out, opened my door, and walked me to the front porch.

  "Tinkie was right about you."

  "Really?" I forced a smile. There was absolutely no telling what Tinkie had said about me.

  "She said you were smart and talented and entertaining. 'A rare speciman of Southern womanhood' is the way she phrased it."

  Relief swept over me. "It could have been a lot worse. Tinkie knows too many of my secrets."

  "She adores you, Sarah Booth. And I see why."

  Bridge was smooth. Another compliment, no pressure.

  He stepped closer to me and put his hands on my shoulders. "It was a lovely evening. I'd like to take you to dinner Friday night."

  My dance card was woefully empty, but I didn't want Bridge to know that. Coleman Peters tried to pop into my brain, but I firmly shut him out. "I'd like that."

  "Good. I'll pick you up at seven. I'll make it a surprise evening, but dress comfortably. Wear something that makes you feel like reclining on soft cushions in the glow of a dozen candles." He leaned down and brushed a kiss across my lips.

  I'd wondered for the past thirty minutes what it would feel like to kiss him. Pleasant. When I didn't pull back, he kissed me again, this time with more intimacy.

  His arms circled me, holding me firmly yet without pressure. I closed my eyes and gave myself to the wonderful sensation of being held in a man's arms, of kisses that hinted at passion but didn't demand.

  Lifting his lips from mine, he stepped slightly away from me, holding me long enough to make certain I'd regained my balance.

  "I think I'm going to owe Tinkie a lot," Bri
dge said as he brushed his fingertips along my jaw, lingering just a second on my chin. "Good night, Sarah Booth. And don't give up on Scott Hampton. He could be your ticket to a lot of publicity and that's how you'll get bigger, better cases in the future. I don't think you'll have any more trouble from the likes of Marshall Harrison."

  He walked back to the Jaguar and drove away. I leaned against the front wall of Dahlia House, feeling the summer heat baked into the old bricks.

  "Get in the house and get into that bed," Jitty ordered from the foyer.

  I opened the door and went in to find her sitting on the foot of the steps. Pink flowers decorated the baby-doll PJ set she wore, making her look all of about thirteen. I hadn't seen baby-doll pajamas since I was eight.

  "Cute," I said, stepping around her.

  "Honey, now that Bridge Ladnier is my kind of man. Smooth, charming—"

  "Rich," I interrupted. "Darn, I forgot to ask if he was shooting blanks."

  "The answer to that question is no."

  Jitty said it with such authority I hesitated. "How can you be so sure?"

  "First there's the name. He's carryin' the weight of a name that needs handin' down. Then there's the man. He knows that progeny is the only way to make sure of his place in the future. He knows the rules, Sarah Booth, even the ones you refuse to learn. Now that's the man for you." She stood up. "Get some beauty rest, girl. I have a feelin' it won't be long before he comes a-callin' again."

  I didn't bother telling her our second date was already set. I took myself up the stairs and into my bedroom, wondering if the strange hot feeling in my gut was anticipation for my next meeting with Bridge, or revenge against a badge-wearing man who suffered from a waffling heart.

  7

  The pounding on the front door was sharp and irritating. It was, yet again, the familiar pitter-patter of little fists. It was bright and early on a Thursday morning, and Tinkie had come calling. She would be hungry.

  My first thought, irrational though it was, was to pull the covers over my head and hide. I'd been in the middle of a complicated dream that was backlit by smoky pink neon, rotating stage lights, and a huge clock/calendar that kept running backwards until it stopped in 1965. Someone was moving out of that smoky pink neon toward me. A man who walked in a way that made a woman think of making love in the middle of a hot afternoon with the windows wide open and a breeze teasing the curtains.

  "Sarah Booth Delaney, get your butt out of bed!" Tinkie beat on the door with a rat-a-tat-tat that meant business.

  I rolled out with a groan, threw on a T-shirt, and went to open the door. The three bottles of champagne that had seemed like such a fine idea the night before were now a bitter memory aggravated by a pounding headache.

  "Sarah Booth," Tinkie cried, giving me a disgusted look. "It's nine o'clock, and you're still in bed. I thought you were going to see Coleman this morning."

  A visual of Coleman at his desk flashed through my brain on jagged streaks of hangover pain. I could see him, blue eyes unflinching, as he questioned me about Playin' the Bones and my little visit there. "I am, but—"

  "How late did you stay out with Bridge?" Tinkie shifted positions so that she was in my face. Chablis, who was tucked in her arm, hurled herself free and onto my chest. Luckily, my reflexes weren't affected by the bags under my eyes, and I was able to catch her.

  "We were dancing and we got carried away. The night was—"

  "You didn't!" Her face was stricken. "Sarah Booth, no man wants a woman who's ee-a-zy!" In DG lingo, the three-syllable pronunciation of easy has only one meaning—a desperate woman who drops her drawers at the first attention paid by a man.

  I was annoyed. "Tell that to Jitty," I snapped before I thought.

  "Who?" She was like a rat terrier. "Who's Jitty? What are you talking about?"

  I shook my head. "Part of a dream," I said. "Let me put on some coffee." I stumbled toward the kitchen knowing that the only thing capable of diverting Tinkie's attention was the smell of bacon sizzling in my big, old cast-iron skillet. To that end, I threw a half dozen slices of thick-cut Smithfield into the pan.

  Tinkie settled at the table, not even blinking an eye when Sweetie Pie picked Chablis up by the neck and carried her out through the doggie door. Not so long ago, such a sight would have given Tinkie a stroke. Now she'd grown to love my big old hound dog, and she knew Sweetie adored Chablis.

  The bacon was sizzling and the coffee was perking, as was Tinkie's curiosity. "So, how was Bridge?" she asked. "I mean, I completely disapprove of sleeping with a man on the first date. It goes against all the rules, Sarah Booth.

  It's ... cheap." She pulled a moue and tried to restrain herself—unsuccessfully. "How was he? Pitiful, adequate, or .. . divine?" She was leaning so far forward that only her chest kept her from sprawling on top of the table.

  "Very athletic," I said. "And just a little kinky."

  The look on her face was worth the lie.

  "Sarah Booth! Bridge is a highly respected ..." She caught the glint in my eye. "That was mean! For a minute you had me worried. I mean, you really can't throw yourself at a man like him. Women do it all the time, and that just makes them look like a Kleenex tissue—something to be used and tossed away. A man like Bridge likes to pursue. Or at least think that he's pursuing. That's the whole art—to run just fast enough to keep him thinkin' you can't be caught."

  "Yes, lesson forty-nine in the Daddy's Girl book of 'How to Catch a Man,'" I said with a heaping dose of sarcasm.

  "You may not want to admit it, but there's a lot of truth in the things our mamas taught us." She gave me a long look. "Well, maybe not your mama. She was a little different."

  "Bridge was a lot of fun," I said, tired of deviling her. "I had a good time. We're going out Friday night."

  That was all it took. She shot me a million-watt smile that made me just a little ashamed. Tinkie really wanted good things for me, and she put herself out quite a lot to see that they happened.

  "Now, about this bluesperson." The smile was gone. "Sarah Booth, everyone in town thinks he's guilty as sin. Marshall Harrison is just the tip of the iceberg for what's going to happen. Is Scott Hampton really worth this?"

  I wanted to argue in Scott's defense, but I couldn't. "I tried to quit the case. Really. Ida Mae made me feel guiltier for trying to quit than everyone else makes me feel for taking the case." That was the crux of the matter.

  "I talked to Oscar this morning before he left for work." Her lips turned up at the corners as a memory struck her full force. "This detecting business has inspired me. I don't think Oscar ever enjoyed a shower quite so much."

  Tinkie was one helluva partner. "What did you get? Aside from the obvious."

  Ignoring the flush that touched her cheeks, Tinkie cleared her throat. "Playin' the Bones has been in dire financial straits for the past five years—except for the last six months." She reached in her purse and pulled out a notepad. "Ivory borrowed fifty thousand to refurbish the club and get it up and running. Now that was 1998. In the next three years, he missed two notes and was late on six more. Then in 2002, he nearly lost it back to the bank. But things changed in the last six months. He's been making double payments and putting money in two other accounts. The club has become very profitable." She saw I was holding up an egg. "Over-light this morning, please."

  I cracked the eggs in the skillet. Tinkie's information was exactly what I expected to hear. Scott Hampton had begun to pull in a crowd, and gain a national reputation. He was the ticket to good times for Ivory. And it didn't take a rocket scientist to see that Playin' the Bones, at least in Scott's opinion, might have gone from life raft to prison.

  Watching Tinkie pull away from the front of Dahlia House, I could only marvel at modern technology. The air conditioner in her Caddy was so powerful, Chablis' shag-cut ears were blown straight back from her head. In contrast, Tinkie's perfectly sweptback "do" didn't even quiver. She knew every secret of hair spray in the book. Emanuel Keys, her next assign
ment, would be putty in her hands.

  I, on the other hand, had Coleman to confront. A strange churning began in my gut. I tried to pinpoint whether it was anxiety, anticipation, dread, or relief. Or perhaps none of the above. I bathed, dressed, and headed to town.

  I parked as close as possible to the courthouse, while still claiming a bit of shade, and started walking the half block to the north door of the building. The beautiful flowers of spring had given way to lush greenery and an occasional crepe myrtle. These hardy trees with their strange, smooth bark erupted in clusterlike swags of fuchsia, lavender, watermelon, white, and a deep purple that was my favorite. They were the only blooms tough enough to withstand the August heat, and the tiny flowers littered the ground in places.

  Once, when I was seven, my mother and I had gone hunting for wild grape vines called scuppernongs. Her goal was to make wine, while I loved to suck the pulp out of the thick hulls and eat it.

  In our travels, we wandered onto the old Lassfolk place. Overgrown with weeds, the driveway was lined with white crepe myrtles that had grown huge. We were walking down the choked drive when a sudden gust of wind shook the white blossoms free and they cascaded down around us, a snowstorm in August. "Mississippi magic," my mother said. I recalled that memory as I walked toward the courthouse and Coleman.

  I heard the music first, a gut-tickling riff on a guitar. Then Scott Hampton's signature raw voice sang a line that made me stop in my tracks. I was stunned by the power, skill, and talent I heard—in contrast to the awful rap music I'd listened to earlier. I was also horrified by the lyrics.

  "I went down to the corner, murder in my heart. He saw the shank I carried and said, 'Son, that ain't too smart.' But the devil gripped me tighter, oh, yes, he told me what to do. Now I'm headed straight to Parchman prison to sing those low-down, murderin' prison blues."

  If a man could be said to have sung himself into a capital murder charge, Scott Hampton would be that man.

  Scouting the area, I saw the big black boom box that was the source of the music. I started toward it, determined to unplug it or stomp it to death. The boom box was running on batteries, so I knelt beside it, searching for the power button.