Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  "I'm sorry, Sarah Booth. I owe you an apology."

  "Is Scott out?" I was too hurt and too angry to accept it.

  "No, he doesn't even know his bond has been made. I can hold him until Monday as a formality, and I intend to do just that."

  I swallowed. "Are we done?"

  He walked around the desk and stood only inches from me. "No, we're not done. We've been friends too long to treat each other this way." He hesitated. "I thought we were maybe a little more than friends."

  This was the can of worms I didn't want opened. I bit down hard on my lip in an effort to control the tears.

  "What's going on with you, Sarah Booth? With us?"

  "That's a fine question!" It came out angry, and I was spared the humiliation of crying. "You've gone back to your wife. You're a married man. There's nothing going on between us."

  My angry words seemed to slam into him, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he spoke calmly. "All summer you avoided me like I had a social disease."

  "You don't have a disease, Coleman, you have a wife. And you've gone back home in an effort to save your marriage. I can't argue with that."

  "Would you like to?"

  "What am I supposed to say to that? Yes I want to do my best to break up your marriage, or no I don't see myself in the role of home-wrecker today?"

  "Just tell me the truth, Sarah Booth. Tell me what you want."

  My anger at him hit a new level of heat. "What I want doesn't matter, Coleman. I don't have a right to have any wants in this situation. If you don't understand that, you're not the man I thought you were."

  I ran out the door and slammed it as hard as I could behind me. I was halfway across the office when I heard a low whistle. I whirled around to find Bo-Peep sitting at the desk in a pair of Daisy Dukes and a red-checked halter top tied under her breasts.

  "Forgot my billfold," she said, leaning forward until her breasts almost spilled out of the skimpy top. "It's nice to know you rich girls have so many morals. You just left that man in there ripe for the pickin', and I'm here to enjoy the fruit."

  Before I could answer, she swished past me, her hips swinging like a pendulum. At the door to Coleman's office she turned, one hand on the knob and the other fanning out her gnarly blond locks. "Thanks, Sarah Booth, I owe you." She opened the door and slipped inside, shutting it firmly behind her.

  If home is where the heart is, it's also the place you instinctively run to to lick your wounds. I sped to Dahlia House and the comforts of my home and hound.

  Sweetie Pie met me at the door, her tongue licking all exposed areas of my body. I went straight to the sideboard in the parlor and made a stiff Jack and water before I headed into the kitchen. Sweetie's bowl was empty! Another failure. I couldn't catch a man, and I couldn't even keep food in my dog's bowl. I refilled the bowl and sank into a chair at the table, my elbows on the table and my head in my hands. I'd just made a total ass of myself. Until my encounter with Coleman, I had been able to pretend that I'd never exposed my feelings for a man who was off limits. Now, to satisfy my anger, I'd sacrificed my pride. In front of Bo-Peep!

  I felt the cool chill of Jitty's entrance and looked up to find her standing at the opposite end of the table. She wore an orange, sleeveless tent-dress that barely covered possible, orange hose, and white go-go boots.

  "Where are you going?" I asked, noticing the heavy eyeliner and false eyelashes. I peered closer. There was a psychedelic flower drawn on her cheek.

  "Your man done done you wrong." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

  "He wasn't my man, and he hasn't done anything wrong. I made a fool of myself."

  "No reason to be all down. You should know from experience that doesn't kill you."

  I mustered a glare. "I don't need you making me feel worse."

  "I'd say that's about impossible," Jitty said. She turned to look out the kitchen window, her huge gold-hooped earrings jangling. "You're already so down I'm surprised you aren't six feet under with the rest of your kinfolk."

  She was staring out at the family cemetery. Everyone who'd ever cared about me was out there.

  "Maybe you should go ahead and call the funeral home. Make your arrangements, 'cause I know you ain't made no will and I can't be responsible for gettin' you planted." She sat on the edge of the table. "Just imagine how much fun ol' Fel's gonna have when he gets hold of your body."

  "Stop it!" Fel Harper, the former coroner, had a real grudge against me. The idea of him doing anything to my body—even if it was dead—was more than I could abide.

  "Yessir, that's gonna be some scene."

  "Jitty! Just stop it!" I stood up, hoping she'd take a hint and evaporate.

  Instead, she grinned. "That's better. You still got enough spit left to wanna protect your . . . assets. Nothin' like the fire of pride to burn off de-spair."

  "Thanks for nothing." But the truth was, the little burst of horror at the thought of Fel's hands on my body had diminished my black slump.

  "I been thinkin' about your case," Jitty said, slipping off the table and beginning to pace the kitchen. "Sarah Booth, this is a big deal. If Scott didn't kill Ivory, who did?"

  "That's the million-dollar question," I said. "If I had a viable suspect, I could put him"—I thought of Nandy— "or her forward."

  "The money stolen from the club was in Scott's saddlebags." She stopped and looked at me. "That was the only thing stolen from the club?"

  "As far as anyone can tell," I said, feeling an itch of excitement. Jitty was onto something.

  "If Scott didn't do it, then whoever did it got absolutely nothin' out of it, except the satisfaction of killin' Ivory Keys."

  "A personal enemy!" I had been over this ground, but Jitty made it a lot clearer.

  "Someone who hated Ivory," she said slowly, "or who hated what he stood for."

  "That gives me three prime suspects: Spider, Ray-Ban, and Emanuel. And those are the same three suspects I've always had." Suddenly I was back to square one.

  "Or someone who hated Scott."

  I turned to look at her. I hadn't even considered that possibility. And I didn't think anyone else had. "Excellent, Jitty." And I meant it. "Who would hate Scott?"

  "This involves the two j's," Jitty said, her wide grin revealing her perfect teeth. How was that possible? They didn't even have toothpaste back in the 1800s.

  "The two j's?" I said, supplying the obvious question.

  "That's right. Jealous and jilted. One or the other might account for the motivation of the killer."

  "Stuart Ann Shanahan," I said softly. "She was at the club when Scott left."

  "Very true," Jitty said.

  "But is she strong enough to stab Ivory three times?" That was the fact that had allowed Nandy to slip from the suspect list, at least in my mind.

  "Crazy folks sometimes get mighty strong," Jitty said. "Endorphins."

  I gave her a long look. "What do you know about endorphins?"

  "I can read," she said with a sniff. "You the psychology major. You should know the body produces chemicals that can make it do powerful things."

  She was right. I'd studied such cases in my quest for a college degree. In a crisis situation, folks with brains in the normal range could produce adrenaline that gave them extraordinary strength. Then there were those folks considered abnormal. Their brains produced chemicals that allowed their bodies to commit amazing feats.

  "Is Nandy crazy or is she just rebelling?" I asked out loud.

  "A good investigator would have the answer to that question before sundown. Or, you could just sit here in the kitchen and mope."

  I rolled my eyes. Jitty was a harsh taskmaster.

  "I'd find out what's goin' on with Nandy before Scott gets out of jail," Jitty said sagely.

  Great. I was headed to the courthouse again. I could only hope that Coleman and Bo-Peep were gone.

  But not together.

  Nandy was sitting on the balustrade on the south side of the courthouse. The
side closest to the jail. At her feet was the boom box, and Scott's voice came out of it, wild and lonely, the guitar riff beneath his voice pulsing and hot.

  "Sarah Booth," Nandy said, not bothering to hide her disdain. "Some investigator you are. Scott's still in jail."

  "How long have you been back in town?" I asked, trying to make my question sound casual.

  "What's it to you?"

  She lifted her foot up to the balustrade and examined her toenail polish. She'd changed from Snow White red to a bright pink. Baby Doll, if I wasn't mistaken. Nandy, for all her eyebrow piercing and grunge hair, had all the classic nail colors.

  "It's nothing to me," I said, pushing my hair back. "I was just trying to be nice, since it's so obvious Scott can't stand you. I guess I was feeling sorry for you." I hit pay dirt. Nandy was on her feet, her cheeks flaming with color. It was a fine time to remember she was a natural redhead.

  "Don't you dare feel sorry for me," she said. "Scott loves me. We were together when Ivory was killed. I'm his alibi. He just doesn't want to involve me in all of this."

  "Right," I said. She really was crazy.

  "Don't take that tone with me, Sarah Booth Delaney."

  "Grow up, Nandy. Scott can't stand you. Whatever little scheme you have spinning around in your head, forget it. Scott didn't kill Ivory, and he doesn't need your lies to prove his innocence."

  Nandy walked slowly toward me. "He needs me, and he's going to recognize that fact."

  "You forget one thing, Nandy," I said slowly. "You put yourself at the murder scene. That makes you a suspect. Maybe you aren't protecting Scott. Maybe you need him to say he was with you to give you an alibi." I walked back down the steps and to my car. Turning to look back only once, I saw Nandy standing on the steps, her fists clenched at her sides and her face red with fury.

  I also saw Scott's face framed in the jailhouse window. One hand lifted and his thumb came up.

  17

  As much as I wanted to talk to scott, I didn't want to risk seeing Coleman. Or his sheep-girl. Instead, I decided to pay a visit to Yancy Pipkins.

  The day was ending, but the air was thick with humid­ity. I put the top down on the roadster anyway and drove into the sunset. The breeze blowing against my face was hot, but I needed to feel it. My hair was already a frizzy mess, so a little wind wouldn't make any difference.

  Yancy lived in an older part of town, near the city park. By the time I got to his house, the church bells at St. Lucy's were ringing for the seven o'clock mass. The August night was only moments away. Already a few stars were scat­tered across the eastern sky, peeking through the oaks that were the pride and joy of Zinnia's park. I pulled into the drive, got out, and knocked on the front door.

  Yancy was a quiet man. And thin. He had a head full of thick brown hair and gray eyes surrounded by laugh lines. He didn't fit the picture of the typical bondsman.

  "Why, Sarah Booth," he said, smiling. "Come on in here. What brings you calling?"

  I followed him inside, glad to see that his wife wasn't around. "I need to talk to you."

  "Care for a drink?" he asked. "I was just about to make me a little cocktail. Reba's gone over to Greenwood to check on her mama, and I'm batching it tonight. I've got the grill going and a big rib eye marinating."

  "I don't want to interrupt your supper," I said, even though I had no intention of leaving. It was the polite thing to say.

  "No, you're not interrupting a thing." Yancy was equally polite, though I'm sure he was wishing I'd take a hint and depart. "What'll you have?"

  "Bourbon and water." I took a seat on the sofa.

  He was back in a moment with a drink for me and one for himself.

  "This is about Scott Hampton, isn't it?" he asked. "Coleman's been trying to track me down all day. I gave him the dodge for a while, but I can't keep running."

  "Who made Scott's bond?" I asked.

  He cocked his head and studied me. "I can't tell you."

  "Why not?" I wasn't surprised that he was keeping his mouth shut.

  "The person who put up the money asked me to keep it confidential." He sipped his drink, but his gaze never left me.

  "I'm working on Scott's behalf. I really need to know."

  He shook his head. "I can't tell you, Sarah Booth. I can't tell anyone. I gave my word."

  "You'll have to tell Coleman."

  "No, ma'am. Not unless he subpoenas me into court. By that time, it won't matter a bit."

  He was right about that. It would be Christmas before the wheels of the justice system could grind any information out of Yancy. "Scott's life may be in danger. This person may want him out of jail so that something bad can happen to him."

  "This person just put up fifty thousand dollars to guarantee Scott would be at his trial," Yancy pointed out. "I don't know many people who would do that just for revenge. Especially when it seems pretty clear he's going to prison for the rest of his life, if he isn't gassed."

  He had a point. "Coleman thinks Scott is safer in jail, and I'm not sure I disagree with that."

  Yancy shook his head. "Hampton doesn't have to accept the bond. But look at it like this. If Hampton's out of jail, he can play at the club and keep it open. That would help Ida Mae."

  That I couldn't argue with, but what I couldn't tell him was that as soon as the will was read, Ida Mae wouldn't own Playin' the Bones. "If he isn't killed by some redneck or racist," I pointed out. "That won't help Ida Mae."

  "You wouldn't be talking about Emanuel, would you?" He was staring into his drink, refusing to look at me.

  "He is a racist, and he hates Scott." I wasn't willing to go any further than that, but I wondered if Yancy would. As a bondsman, Yancy dealt with all kinds of people. I couldn't help but wonder what he might have heard.

  "Emanuel's the most angry man I've ever met," Yancy said, finally catching my eye. "In my business, I've seen a lot, but I never thought Emanuel would gain a following here in Sunflower County."

  I remembered that my father told me once that hatred was an elixir for those who felt disenfranchised because of their own limitations. "Emanuel is passionate." I wanted to remain noncommittal so Yancy would keep talking.

  "Passionate. That's another way of looking at him. He spews hatred, and he's poisoning some of the younger men. They're ganging up. I saw about twenty of them up at Devoe's Barbecue last night. They were tormenting this teenage girl."

  "Why?"

  "Best I could tell, it was her choice of friends. White friends. They were saying she was betraying her race. Just really nasty."

  "Emanuel is breaking his mother's heart."

  "I'd make it a point to stay away from him. And Hampton should, too. Both of them are trouble, and if you get caught in the middle, Sarah Booth, you're going to get hurt."

  "Do you really believe Emanuel is capable of violence, or is he all talk?" I pressed.

  "About two months ago I had a client, a young black man from Tunica who was just passing through Sunflower County. Not necessarily a good risk for me. You know I hate it when I have to go chasing after someone who runs. Anyway, this young man, name was Lamond, had ties to Emanuel. In fact, it was Emanuel who made his bond."

  "What had the man done?"

  "He cut another young man. A white man who happened to be driving a pickup truck with a Confederate flag on it. You might know him. Kenny Bristow." He watched me as he waited for a response.

  "I know him." I'd gone to school with his eldest brother, Teddy. The whole family was short on brains and big on mouth. It was no surprise to me that Kenny would be driving around town looking for trouble.

  "The two of them got into some sort of altercation in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. Name-calling led to action. It ended up that my client was armed and the other man wasn't."

  "How bad was it?" I didn't have to stretch my mind to picture the entire scene.

  "Kenny would be dead except that one of the deputies showed up. Gordon Walters saved that man's life. My client wa
s about to gut him like a fish."

  "How did Emanuel get involved?"

  "Apparently, Lamond was in town to see Emanuel. They belong to some sort of organization. They made a big point out of how they were more than brothers and how they'd promised to look out for each other and for their cause."

  "Their cause being—?"

  "Teaching white folks a lesson, as best I could tell. There's a whole lot of anger and hatred there. It's not like the sixties, when good folks wanted to work toward equality. This is just plain hatred. They don't want to build anything. They just want to tear things down." Yancy drained his drink. "We've had the vote on the flag issue, but it isn't over. Not by a long shot."

  "Thanks for telling me that," I said, finishing my drink and putting the glass down on a coaster on the coffee table. It was time for me to get moving.

  "There's something else I can tell you," he said, rising and starting toward the door.

  I followed him and then stepped in front as I went out the door. He was going to make sure I was out of the house before he opened his mouth. On the top step, I turned to face him.

  "Someone else showed up to make Hampton's bond." He said it so calmly he knew he was dropping a bombshell.

  "Someone else offered fifty grand to bond Scott out?" I didn't even try to hide my shock. "Who?"

  "Fella name of McBruce. He had an accent. You know him?"

  It took a moment for the brain cells to fire, but when they did, I felt my mouth drop.

  "You do know him, don't you?" Yancy said with a hint of amusement. "Now it's your turn to share a few facts."

  I didn't see the harm in it. "He's Stuart Ann Shanahan's estranged husband."

  "No kidding." Yancy grew thoughtful. "Why would he want Hampton released? His wife's up at the courthouse twenty-four/seven making a total fool of herself."

  "Now that's an excellent question," I replied, my own brain spinning with possibilities. "Did he act clandestine in any way?"