Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  Coleman was the man I needed to see next, but I knew better than to go looking. The last I saw of him, he was snuggled in the bosom of domesticity. Well, that was a good place to hide, but I'd find him eventually. I was furious with him for withholding the fact that Ivory's body had been used as a canvas. It was a vital piece of evidence. Against Scott.

  Or maybe not. Both Spider and Ray-Ban wore the same insignia.

  I considered driving back out to Bilbo Lane to ask Spider and Ray-Ban a few questions, but my safety and the fact that it would be a wasted effort convinced me not to go.

  Saturday night loomed ahead of me. Another dateless evening. Sunday through Thursday, being a dateless wonder wasn't so bad, but come Friday and Saturday, it was another story.

  Instead of moping around Dahlia House and listening to Jitty point out my faults, I decided to drive out to Kudzu and talk to Ida Mae. I was sure she knew about the symbol cut into her husband—and if she didn't know, she needed to—yet she continued to support Scott. I needed to know why.

  Driving through the cotton fields that surrounded Kudzu, I felt the past crowding around me. It was in those fields that so much wrong had occurred. Yet the land was innocent. It nurtured any seed pushed deep into its loamy fecundity. The thigh-high cotton plants were testimony of that.

  The rows and rows of green plants flashed past the car window, creating an optical illusion. The land and the cotton were the same, only the humans had changed. This harvest, there would be no bowed backs and bleeding hands pulling the tough boles. Combines would harvest the cotton. The huge mechanical tractors would crawl over the land, doing the work of thousands of laborers.

  The plain steeple of Blessed Zion Independent Church rose out of the cotton. I was nearly at the intersection. Playin' the Bones was on my right. The navy BMW parked in front of the club gave me pause, and I swung into the parking lot.

  The sound of my tires crunching the gravel brought Emanuel Keys to the door, and the expression on his face let me know I was trespassing. I killed the motor and got out of the roadster.

  "Mr. Keys, I'm Sarah Booth—"

  "I know who you are. You're the one taking my mother's money for a lost cause."

  Emanuel was a handsome man who took pride in his appearance. His trousers were sharply creased, his white shirt immaculate, French cuffs fastened by onyx-and-gold cuff links, designer sunglasses in his hand. Looking at him, though, I saw nothing of either his mother or his father. Though he had his father's high cheekbones and his mother's nose and lips, his expression denied any kinship with his parents.

  "I give you my word that I won't take Ida Mae's money unless I can do what she wants me to do." I didn't feel that I had to defend myself, but I wanted to make it clear to this man that I was not the parasite he wanted to believe me to be.

  "Why waste your time, then? Scott Hampton killed my father. The sooner he's tried and convicted, the sooner my mother can begin to put this behind her."

  "Is your concern for Ida Mae or yourself?" He'd set the tone for this conversation.

  "Get off this property," he said.

  "Is the club yours now?" I held my body relaxed. "Are you the one who benefits from Ivory's death?"

  I'd often heard the expression that eyes could shoot sparks. Emanuel brought that phrase to life.

  "Mother hasn't allowed anyone to read my father's will, yet. I can promise you, though, that this club will be razed."

  His hatred of everything his father stood for was palpable. It was also like sticking my finger in an electric socket. I was fried. "Don't you have any respect for what your father accomplished?"

  "Respect? For this?" He waved his hand at the club. "My father was a dreamer. He believed the races could get along. He was just an Uncle Tom with a club. He thought seeing the whites in his place was a sign that things had changed. He was too stupid to realize they were using him still."

  "Your mother loves this club."

  "My mother loved my father. She loved him enough to even love his foolish dream. But she'll see the truth. Once Scott Hampton is convicted of killing him, she'll see that my father was tricked by another white man."

  Doc's words came back to me—Ivory had been killed by someone who was very angry. Someone who viewed Ivory as a symbol. I found that my mouth was dry. Fear had slipped up on me. My body had understood the danger before my brain had put it together. Unfortunately, my tongue wasn't as frightened as the rest of me.

  "Your mother still loves your father. She loves his memory and his dream. And you're the only one left who can hurt her more than she's already hurting."

  "What would you know about pain?" he asked, moving suddenly up to me. He grabbed my arm. Not hard enough to bruise, but with enough force for me to feel his fury.

  "You aren't the only person who ever lost a parent," I told him.

  "I never had one to lose. I never had a father. I had a blues musician and a woman who loved him. I can still see them sitting out on the porch, Daddy laughing with his friends when they'd stop over to visit. It wouldn't be long before they'd be inside, him at that damn piano, playing while sweat rolled down his face and the women laughed and danced. Then I didn't even have that. I had a jailbird for a daddy. But I had a lot of privileges. I got a good education, and I learned that I could take care of myself. So don't try to tell me about who I can hurt and how much I can hurt them." He dropped my arm and walked back into the club.

  I got in my car and drove away.

  15

  Ida Mae's yard was a kaleidoscope of colors, reminding me of lollipops and a game I'd played as a child. Candyland. A veil of hummingbird vines covered part of the front porch—and Ida Mae. She was sitting in a rocker watching the dozens of butterflies that darted around the delicate coral flowers of the vine. A slight breeze stirred the bottle tree, setting the glass to tinkling.

  Ida Mae's voice came from behind the vines. "Butterflies. Look at them. They're just the color of fresh-churned butter, aren't they?"

  There was sadness in her voice. I walked up the steps and took a seat in the rocker she indicated. "I haven't had fresh butter since Aunt LouLane passed away. She had a friend—"

  "Ronald McRae." Ida Mae chuckled. "I knew him well. And I knew your auntie. She had her hands full with you."

  I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been. Everyone in Sunflower County knew everyone else. Aunt LouLane would have been older than Ida Mae. But not by much. Ida Mae just didn't show her age.

  "I knew your mama, too." Ida Mae reached over and laid her hand on mine, giving it a gentle squeeze before she withdrew it. "She was a woman ahead of her time. We didn't go to school together. Back then, blacks and whites had separate schools. But we knew each other. You and Emanuel were born the same year. He came in April, and you were right after that in May. Doc Swain delivered both of you. Of course, Emanuel was born here at home."

  Now I was stunned. How was it that I'd never known a boy my age? The Sunflower County public schools were integrated in 1967. "He didn't go to school with me."

  Ida Mae spoke so softly I leaned toward her. "No, he didn't. It was about the time Emanuel was to start school that Ivory got sent to prison up in Michigan." She cut her eyes at me.

  "I know the story," I said, hoping she wouldn't ask me where I'd heard it. Now that I knew Emanuel's intent to destroy the club, I hoped Ida Mae would consider Bridge's offer.

  "You know he was defending a woman against her husband's brutality, then."

  I nodded.

  "Ivory didn't deserve to be in prison. He didn't. But he went, and the talk was all over Sunflower County about him killing a woman's husband because he was running around with her. I didn't want Emanuel to hear that kind of talk about his daddy, so I sent him up to my sister's in Tunica. He went to grade school there, and he was so smart, he got accepted into a private school in Nashville. Brentwood Academy. He got a full scholarship."

  Not all the money in the world could buy admittance into that caliber of private school. E
manuel was undoubtedly a genius. "You must be proud of him." This wasn't exactly where I wanted to go regarding Emanuel, but I decided to ease in that direction.

  "Proud of him?" Ida Mae gave me a long look. "No. I'm not proud of my son. That's a sin I was guilty of years back. But I've given a lot of study to who Emanuel is and how he came to be that person, and that fancy grade school may have been where I made my first mistake."

  "How could that be a mistake, to give your son the best education possible?"

  "Maybe he didn't see it that way. Children don't think, they just feel. Maybe that school wasn't an opportunity to Emanuel, but a punishment."

  "Surely he can understand you were trying to do the best for him that you could."

  She rocked slowly back and forth. "No, I don't think he understands that, and I think deep down inside, he's still that six-year-old boy being sent away from home to live with strangers because of his daddy."

  As much as I hated to admit it, what she said made sense. "And you think that's why Emanuel hates Ivory so much?"

  She rocked a bit before she spoke. "Feelings aren't rational. Emanuel can intellectually grasp that his father went to prison for defending a helpless woman, but somehow it's all tied up in his head with music. I think he feels that Ivory always put music ahead of him. Just think for a minute, Sarah Booth, what it would have felt like to you if your daddy loved the law more than you."

  "But he didn't," I pointed out.

  "You said that mighty quickly. That shows how much it means to you. Ivory loved Emanuel. He loved me. Music was his job, and I was never jealous that he loved it, too. He made a mistake, and he paid for it. We all paid. But I'm thinking Emanuel paid more than anyone else."

  Perhaps Ida Mae had put her finger on Emanuel's problems, but she'd failed to engage my sympathy. And I doubt hers would last long if she knew what plans Emanuel had in mind for Playin' the Bones.

  "Ida Mae, I spoke with Doc Sawyer. Why didn't you tell me about the bones?"

  She stopped rocking. "That doesn't prove anything except the killer knew about Scott's tattoo."

  I figured she might take this approach, and I'd already beaten her there. "Did a lot of people know about Scott's tattoo and what it meant?"

  She shrugged. "Who can say? I knew what it was because Ivory told me."

  "When he performed in the club, did he wear long sleeves?"

  "Most of the time. But he was around the club during the day, wearing T-shirts and short sleeves to move cases of liquor and supplies. Anyone could have seen that tattoo."

  "How well does Emanuel know Scott?" So much for subtlety.

  Ida Mae seemed to swell with air. She kept her focus straight ahead, as if she were watching the tan Taurus that seemed to float among the cotton. I didn't recognize the car but it was headed our way.

  "Emanuel's been home eight weeks. He knew Scott. They argued a lot when Ivory wasn't around. They hated each other."

  "Who inherits the club?"

  "I haven't turned in Ivory's will yet. I've been holding on to it, waiting."

  "For what?"

  "I don't know," she said. "Just waiting."

  "Who inherits?"

  "Emanuel gets the club. Ivory wants him to continue with it, but he won't. He'll sell it or maybe burn it down. He hates it."

  So Ida Mae already knew Emanuel's plans for the club. "Bridge Ladnier, an investor from Memphis, has expressed an interest in the club. In fact, he asked me to make an offer to you."

  Ida Mae didn't look at me. "Ivory wanted Emanuel to have the club."

  "Emanuel doesn't want it. He wants to destroy it. Bridge assured me that he would like to keep the club open and continue with what Ivory started."

  At last she looked at me. "And you trust this man?"

  Now that was a pertinent question. "I don't know him well, Ida Mae. I know he loves the blues. He has a tremendous collection. He's followed Ivory's career for years. I can only tell you what he told me—that he wants to keep the club running."

  Ida Mae stopped her rocker and simply sat. Her gaze was locked on the tan Taurus that seemed stalled in the midst of all that cotton. Distance was hard to judge in the Delta. What appeared close could often be miles away.

  "I'll speak to Emanuel." She pushed herself out of her chair, the first sign I'd seen of her age. "I'm tired. I think I'll go inside and make me some supper. Would you care to stay to eat?"

  The idea was appealing. I could cook, but I didn't. It had been a long time since my turkey sandwich with Doc.

  "Ida Mae, why does Emanuel hate Scott so much?"

  She turned slowly to look down into my eyes. "He hates white folks, not just Scott. But he hates Scott the most. He claims it's because Scott is a racist. He says a leopard can't change his spots and that Scott joined the Aryan Brotherhood because that's what he really believes—that whites are superior. But Emanuel belongs to his own secret club, the Dominoes. He doesn't have a tattoo, but his heart is branded with their hate-filled dogma, and that's worse. Now I'm tired of talking about hate. Let's get us some supper."

  She started to walk to the house just as the tan Taurus headed down the road in front of her house. We both walked to the edge of the porch to watch the car turn down her driveway.

  "Now who could that be?" she asked.

  I was wondering myself. When Deputy Dewayne Dattilo, complete with uniform and gun, got out of the car, I was as surprised as Ida Mae.

  "Can I help you?" she asked, one hand resting on the porch column.

  Dewayne nodded toward me. "I need to speak with Ms. Delaney, ma'am."

  I felt Ida Mae's eyes on me as I walked down the steps to the Taurus.

  "Sheriff Peters would like to see you," Dewayne said, his gaze grazing mine and then skittering away.

  "He sent you out here to get me?"

  "No, ma'am, I volunteered. I'm off duty, so this isn't official, you know."

  I almost smiled. Deputy Dattilo was so sincere. "What does Coleman want?" I needed to talk to the sheriff, but I wasn't certain I was in the proper mood.

  "Scott Hampton's made bail."

  "What?" I spoke louder than I intended. Ida Mae walked down one step, then paused.

  "Someone put up the fifty thousand to bond him out. Sheriff wants to know who did it and he figured you'd know."

  "I don't have a clue." I was trying hard not to sound as surprised as I was.

  "Sheriff thinks you might," Dattilo insisted stubbornly.

  "I'm busy."

  "He'd appreciate it if you could talk to him right away." He looked over the top of my head as he talked. I could have felt sorry for him if I wasn't so aggravated.

  "Then he should have sent someone to arrest me."

  "Ms. Delaney, I told him I'd bring you back to town to talk to him. There wasn't any need to arrest you."

  "Or any reason," I pointed out.

  "It won't take ten minutes, ma'am."

  He didn't say please, but it was in his voice. I took a deep breath. "Okay, I'll go. But in the future, you're going to owe me a big favor."

  "Yes, ma'am." Relief was evident in his smile.

  16

  Ten percent of half a million came out to fifty thousand dollars, and not a lot of folks in Sunflower County could command that kind of scratch for bond. As I drove in front of Dewayne's Taurus, I went through the Rolodex in my mind trying to figure out who could have bonded Scott out of prison. No one popped into my mind as Scott's fairy godmother. Tinkie and Oscar had the money, but they had no reason to want Scott free. That same reasoning applied to all of my friends with large bank accounts.

  Dewayne escorted me to the courthouse and then went home; I was left to face Coleman alone. My only consolation was that Bo-Peep didn't work on Saturdays.

  Stepping inside, my footsteps echoed on the linoleum tile. The courthouse was empty, but my brain was not. Zinnia had one bail bondsman, Yancy Pipkins, who ran a low-key operation out of his home. I wondered why Coleman was leaning on me and not him. In f
act, as soon as I was done with Coleman, I intended to track Pipkins down and find out who had bonded Scott out.

  The front office was empty, and Coleman's door was, uncharacteristically, shut. I tapped.

  "Come in, Sarah Booth," he said.

  He had the phone to his ear but was obviously on hold when I stepped inside.

  "Who came up with the fifty grand for Scott's bond?" he asked, and the deep furrow between his eyes let me know he wasn't in a patient mood.

  I shrugged. "You tell me."

  His knuckles on the telephone receiver whitened, as did the skin above his eyebrows. "I think you should just tell me," he said in a totally level tone.

  "If I knew, I might." I was getting angry, too.

  "Yancy said I was going to have to subpoena him to get him to tell. I don't want to have to do that. I want you to tell me."

  I searched his face for any trace of warm feelings for me. Coleman acted as if we were strangers.

  "I don't know. I don't know anything about the bond at all. Ida Mae doesn't have that kind of money, and so far, she seems to be the only person in Sunflower County who believes Scott is innocent." I ignored the chair he pointed at. "Do you have any other questions you want to ask me? Of course, it's just a waste of your breath since you don't believe a word I say."

  He hung up the receiver and slowly got to his feet. "Having Scott on the loose isn't a good idea. For him or for me. If he hangs around, he's the perfect target for an act of violence by just about everyone in the state. The blacks and the whites hate him. He's a lightning rod for the kind of racial violence we haven't seen in this state in nearly thirty years. Now if you don't understand that, I don't know how to make it any plainer."

  In all of the years I'd known Coleman Peters, he'd never assumed such a condescending tone to me or anyone else. I wasn't angry; I was furious. "Don't you lecture me, Coleman Peters," I said in a near hiss. "Don't you dare. I don't know who in the hell you think you are, but I won't be talked to in that fashion."

  Coleman seemed to freeze. We stared at each other for a full minute.

  "You honestly don't know who paid Scott's bond?" he asked, his gaze faltering at last.

  "I don't know." I was too angry to add anything else. I wanted out of that room. I wanted to go home to Dahlia House. I needed to think through the wild rush of emotions that made me almost physically ill. I had been angry at Coleman for several days in matters unrelated to Scott Hampton. This was icing on the cake.