His smile was both sad and tender. "When you're on a case, you're on. That's a good sign. Mule-headedness is normal for you." He took a deep breath. "I didn't see Emanuel throw the bomb, but I was turning onto Bilbo Lane when I heard the explosion. About five minutes later, Emanuel passed me doing at least a hundred. I radioed Dewayne, and he caught him on the south side of town. Emanuel was running hard and had all the makings for another bomb in his trunk."
I wasn't surprised, but I suddenly remembered something more important than Emanuel. "Sweetie Pie! She was with me."
"She's fine," Tinkie said. "Coleman brought her to my house and she's playing with Chablis."
"Was she hurt?"
This time it was Tinkie and Coleman who exchanged glances, and I knew instantly that something wasn't right with my dog. "Was she hurt?" I asked again.
"She's fine now," Coleman said. "She got a few scrapes. She was hit by a car, but it was a glancing blow and she's fine."
I started to get up, but a sudden pain shot through my midriff. "Boll weevil!" I gasped. "How badly am I hurt?" I asked Coleman because he would tell me the truth.
"You're bunged up pretty good, but nothing fatal. Bruised ribs, lost a good bit of hide from your left arm, singed off a lot of your hair."
I thought of all the gel and hair spray I'd loaded into my hair. It was a wonder I hadn't gone up like a human torch.
"Can I leave?"
"As soon as Doc releases you," Tinkie said, "I'll take you home."
"Why would Emanuel do this?" I asked.
"I think he was trying to kill Scott. That would solve a lot of problems for him. With Scott charged with Ivory's murder, there's the possibility that the case would be closed without further investigation."
I knew Coleman well enough to know that that would be only Emanuel's fantasy. "I suppose I was just an innocent bystander?"
"I don't think there's any love lost on you from Emanuel's point of view," Coleman said. "Two for the price of one."
"Did he admit that he did it?"
"Hell, no, he's proclaiming his innocence." He leaned down closer, but not before I saw the grin on his face. "And he's asking to see you."
I didn't bother to hide my surprise. "Me? Why?"
"He says he wants to hire you."
Emanuel was holding on to the bars of his cell when I entered the jail, walking very slowly and carefully. Part of my caution was my battered body, but most of it came from the fact that I was wearing a pair of Tinkie's slacks. Any rash movement might split a seam. Tinkie had deliberately chosen the pale pink silk slacks that were capris on my taller frame. She'd known they would hug my butt like Saran Wrap. It was her method of showing disapproval for my "mule-headed" decision to talk to Emanuel tonight. She'd tried to refuse to drive me to the jail, insisting that I should be in bed. At the moment, she was sitting with Coleman in his office, discussing my "clinical stubbornness."
I watched Emanuel watching me with what could only be called contempt.
"Crime is obviously down in Sunflower County," I said, indicating the empty cells I passed on my way to Emanuel. "Except for attempted murder. Coleman said you wanted to see me."
"I didn't think you'd come," he said.
"That makes us even," I said. "I didn't think you'd ask for me."
He snorted, lowering his head as he held on to the bars. "Me and you can never be even. In case you haven't noticed, you're white."
"That won't work with me, Emanuel," I said with a bit of heat. "In case you haven't noticed, you're the man charged with trying to kill me, yet here I am, willing to listen to your story. And let me point out that I'm about the only person in town who's willing to listen to anything you have to say."
"Everything they're saying is a pack of lies. I didn't try to kill anyone. They've been trying to put me right here in this jail for years. Now they have me locked away on some trumped-up charge."
"Who is this they}" I asked. "Coleman? The law? The town? The county? Who, exactly, is it that has it in for you?"
"Why are you here?" he asked with some aggression.
"Because of your mother. This is going to kill her, having you locked up like this. And there's one other reason."
His eyes narrowed. "You believe I'm innocent?"
"No," I said, because it was true. Emanuel had enough hate to fuel an attempt to kill Scott. "What I want is to show you that not every decision in Sunflower County is made on race. I'll look into your claims of innocence. For your mother and because that's what I do."
Emanuel's hands tightened on the bars and I could only imagine that he wished it were my throat. "I didn't throw a Molotov cocktail. I'm being framed. Someone put that stuff in my car."
"What were you doing at Scott's?"
"I got a call. The man said if I wanted the evidence that would convict Scott, I should meet him on Bilbo Lane." He looked down, and I couldn't tell if he was lying or simply feeling stupid.
"You knew that was where Scott lived." I wasn't going to let him get away with playing dumb.
"Yeah, I knew that. I assumed Scott wouldn't be home and I wasn't going on his property. I figured the man who called would want some money. I was willing to pay."
"So you were driving along Bilbo Lane waiting to meet someone. How did the makings of a Molotov cocktail get in your car?"
Emanuel looked up at me. "The man told me where to park in the woods, and then I was supposed to walk down the road. He was going to meet me and give me the evidence against Scott. I did exactly as he said, but no one ever showed up. I was walking back to my car when I heard the bomb. I panicked. I ran back to my car, got in, and drove. I passed the sheriff, and I knew then I'd been set up."
"You were running," I said flatly.
He nodded. "I knew I was in big trouble. I was just trying to put some distance between me and whatever terrible thing had happened at Scott's house."
"I guess it never occurred to you that Scott might be badly injured."
He came at the bars so suddenly that I stepped back. "I didn't care. I don't care. I wish he was dead."
"That's exactly the reason you're behind those bars," I said as coolly as I could manage with my heart thumping. Emanuel frightened me. He was consumed with anger and hatred, and Scott had become the focus for a lot of it.
"Get out of here," he said through clenched teeth. "I knew you wouldn't help me."
"I'm going to see your mother," I told him, glad that the bars were between us.
"Leave her out of this!"
If he could frighten me, I could agitate him. "I would gladly leave Ida Mae out of this, but you made sure she was in the middle of it when you drove out to Bilbo Lane."
"I didn't throw that Molotov cocktail."
"Who is this mystery man who called?"
"He was a white man."
"You're certain of that? Or are you just being racist?" I'd discovered quite a talent in bruise-mashing where Emanuel was concerned.
"He was white, but he didn't sound like he was from here."
"How so?"
"Maybe like he was educated or pretending to be educated. Or like he'd been living somewhere else for a time."
"I'm sure Coleman will check your phone records. If this pans out, we've at least got a lead to pursue."
"You're taking my case?"
"No," I said with some satisfaction. "I can't. Conflict of interest since I'm already working for Scott. But I'll do what I can to find the truth."
28
"Don't you dare go taking up for Emanuel. He had the makings of another Molotov cocktail in his car," Tinkie insisted as she drove me home. "He abducted and intimidated a teenage girl!" It was close to midnight and I was hurting and exhausted. Sweetie Pie, who was far wiser, was resting in the backseat of the Cadillac. Like me, she had lost a bit of hide. The big difference was that she still wagged her tail. Mine was dragging.
"He says he didn't do it—the Molotov cocktail, anyway. I didn't ask him about Trina," I felt obligated to po
int out.
"Yeah, like he would confess to the woman he nearly blew to smithereens. He can say what he wants to. The hard facts show he had all the ingredients for a Molotov cocktail in his car, including a box of detergent to make sure it would have some oomph. I guess when he saw you flying through the air, he figured he didn't need to throw the second one." Tinkie was talking with both hands and steering the big Cadillac with her knees. Luckily there were no other cars on the road.
"He says someone planted all that stuff on him. His fingerprints weren't on the wine bottle."
"There were no prints at all on the bottle!"
"Which is exactly the same scenario with the prison shank found in Scott's motorcycle bags." I found that significant, and Tinkie would, too, if she'd give herself half a chance.
"It was cheap wine." Tinkie sniffed. "He could have used it as an inflammatory instead of gasoline."
Tinkie's moments of snobbery were extremely rare, so I decided to ignore this one. "Other than the bottle of gasoline—"
"Stuffed with a rag," Tinkie pointed out.
"Was there any other evidence?" While I was talking to Emanuel, Tinkie had gotten the pertinent legal facts from Coleman.
"Emanuel was there right at the time the bomb was thrown. What was he doing hanging around Scott's house if he wasn't up to meanness? He's not a friend of yours or Scott's."
I repeated the story Emanuel had told me.
"Very convenient," Tinkie said, "especially since I think he killed his daddy."
I didn't say anything as I turned the facts I knew in all directions. Tinkie was absolutely right. If Emanuel killed Ivory and was responsible for setting Scott up for the murder, this story that he was out on Bilbo Lane searching for evidence against Scott was a perfect cover for his own guilt.
"Is Emanuel deluded or is he putting up a smoke screen?" I asked.
"I vote for the second scenario," Tinkie said. She turned into Dahlia House. "What the hay!"
I looked down the drive and saw nothing out of the ordinary, until I remembered that I'd left my car at Scott's. My car! There it was, sitting right in front of Dahlia House.
It had been parked right by Scott's cottage when the bomb went off. I only had five more payments on the old classic, but more importantly, I loved that car. "Was my car damaged in the explosion?"
"The car wasn't hurt," Tinkie said soothingly. "We were a lot more worried about you and Sweetie Pie than the car, but Coleman looked it over carefully."
"Thank goodness," I said, surprised at my concern for a heap of metal.
"I just wonder how it got here. I. . ." Tinkie didn't bother to finish, since we were pulling up at the front door. Both her question and mine were answered when Scott stood up on the front steps.
"Here's your car. I would have brought it to the hospital, but the sheriff said he'd put me in jail if he caught me within ten yards of the emergency room. Must be nice to have the law protecting you like a little jewel."
"Scott!" I got out of the car and despite my wounds and Tinkie's skintight pants, I hurried over to him. He stepped back from me, one hand raised to chest level. I realized someone had told him about my ribs. "I'm okay. Just a few minor burns and bruises."
"Good for you."
I stepped to the left so I could get a better look at him in the dim light of the front porch. "What's wrong?"
"I brought your car back. If something happened to it, I didn't want it blamed on me." He pressed the keys into my palm and started walking away. I grabbed his sleeve. Only a few hours before, he'd been falling in love with me. Now he acted like I had head lice. "Scott! What's wrong?"
"Not a thing, Sarah Booth. Your car is just fine." He didn't even look at me as he spoke.
"What's wrong with you?" I didn't care that Tinkie was a witness to our first argument. There was a coldness in Scott that gave me a feeling of great urgency.
"Okay, you want to do this now, then we will. You're fired, Sarah Booth. I don't want you working on my case anymore. I don't want you anywhere around me. Every time you get within twenty feet of me, something bad happens and I'm in trouble again. The sheriff made it abundantly clear that you're his property, and that was how you wanted it. I finally understand. Just stay away from me."
A sharp pain caught me just below the sternum. "You can't fire me. You didn't hire me," I reminded him. "And I don't belong to anyone."
"Right. You're a free agent, an independent woman. Maybe you'd better tell that to Coleman Peters," he said with an ugly twist to his mouth. "I'll speak to Ida Mae and tell her she's wasting her money on you. You haven't done a thing to help my case. In fact, you've only made things worse for me. I'll make sure Ida Mae sees that."
"You go right ahead." I was finding it hard to breathe, and it wasn't due to my injured ribs. Something serious was happening around my heart. "Talk to Ida Mae. Her son is in jail for trying to kill you, and you're charged with the murder of her husband. That's peachy for her. Go ahead and load a few more things on her back."
Scott's pale eyes glittered. "Listen, that guilt crap won't work with me. In fact, nothing about you works for me anymore. For one split second, I saw something in you— or I thought I saw it. Then I got a reality check. You aren't anything special. You're mildly interesting in the sack, but I'm afraid I just lost interest. I don't need you hovering over me." He turned to Tinkie. "Keep her away from me, I don't need another stalker. Nandy was enough."
I watched him walk to the shadows beside the house. I hadn't noticed the motorcycle until he got on it. He stood with his foot on the starter. "Lucky for me I've got a few real friends who look out for me. Otherwise, I guess I'd have to walk home." He kicked the bike into life and scattered gravel as he took off.
"Charming," Tinkie said as she grabbed my elbow to lead me up the steps. "I can't believe you threw Bridge Ladnier over for him."
Tinkie left me with great reluctance, but when she was gone, I did exactly as Doc Sawyer had told me not to. I made a very large Jack on the rocks and I ran a very hot bath. After a fifteen-minute soak, I was no more relaxed. Scott's words continued to buzz loudly in my brain.
Pacing my bedroom and wondering where Jitty might be, I finally saw the red light of my answering machine blinking. There was only one message and it was from Bridge.
"Sarah Booth, the most extraordinary thing has happened. Someone has stolen my car. Please call me when you get home, no matter what time it is."
My heart was still blistered by Scott's harsh rejection, and Bridge was the perfect balm. He'd never say I was "mildly interesting." I dialed his number. After ten rings, his answering service picked up, but I didn't leave a message.
I found a book, crawled into bed, and lay staring at the ceiling for another fifteen minutes. What had happened to make Scott hate me so? No matter what Coleman might have said, Scott hadn't given me a chance to explain.
Finally, at one o'clock, I phoned Bridge again. Still no answer. The idea that Bridge might need my help with his stolen car came as a terrific relief. In less than five minutes I was driving toward Bridge's.
Zinnia was empty. The three traffic lights in town had been set to blink a red warning, but there was no need to stop. I cruised past the darkened businesses and took a left into the residential section. Passing Cece's house, I noticed the lights on. She was finding it impossible to sleep—or else she was writing copy for the next edition. She was a workaholic.
Bridge's house was dark, and his car was parked in the driveway. I was a little disappointed that he must have recovered it already. My help wasn't really needed, but since I was there, I knocked on the front door. When no one answered, I knocked again. It was possible he'd fallen asleep. I didn't want to go home and be alone.
My hand slipped to the doorknob and it turned with ease. The door opened without even a creak.
"Bridge!" I called his name softly, then louder. Surely he was in the house. The idea that he might be injured came as something of a shock. "Bridge!" What if he'd accost
ed the car thieves and they'd done something to him?
I crept inside and made my way through the house, room by room. He simply wasn't at home. Standing in the middle of his bedroom, I didn't know what to do next. My purpose in coming to see Bridge had been more about my needs than his. I'd come to him for solace. Now I was standing alone in the middle of his bedroom. Bridge either had good taste or an expensive decorator. Oak furniture in a sleek Scandinavian style kept the focus on a big brass bed covered in silk sheets and a brocade coverlet.
The only ornate note in the room was a mahogany chest sitting on top of the dresser. It was obviously one of the few family heirlooms that Bridge had brought with him to the rental house.
I started back to the front door when I remembered my earring. I could retrieve it now and leave Bridge a note. A search of the guest bathroom yielded no sign of it. I went back to Bridge's bedroom and the little ornate chest, which probably held his personal items. Feeling only a little guilty, I opened the top drawer. Credit cards, business cards, and several keys were scattered about. The second drawer was deeper, and in it were two watches, a couple of rings, and cuff links.
Bridge wasn't a man who wore a lot of jewelry, and I picked up the rings and cuff links, curious to see if my earring was mixed up in the jumble and also to see what his taste ran toward. As soon as I turned over the onyx cuff link, my fingers went numb. I held it up and kept looking at it, hoping that somehow it would change. But it didn't. The white ivory bones, crossed at the center, were a perfect contrast to the onyx.
In rapid succession, scenes flashed through my memory, where Bridge displayed interest and curiosity in my case, in Scott, in the club, in the legendary records. I'd thought he was interested in me. And he was, but for the wrong reason.
Very carefully I put Bridge's jewelry back in the chest, closed the drawer, and stepped back. Each movement took incredible effort. Crossing the bedroom, I walked through the door, down the hall, and to the front door. My arms and legs were stiff as I opened the door and closed it firmly behind me.
My mind was fast-forwarding through my various dates with Bridge. The blues had been a constant theme. We'd even talked about the symbolism of the crossed bones. Not once had he ever indicated that the symbol meant something to him. I'd thought him so philanthropical, wanting to buy Playin' the Bones from Ida Mae. But he didn't want the club as much as he wanted what he thought was hidden there. Those damn records. If they even existed.
Sarah Booth Delaney Page 110