Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  Tinkie ignored that last bit of evidence. "Do you want to meet for a drink when we both finish?" she asked.

  "I'm tuckered out. I'm going home and going straight to bed. I'll give you a call tomorrow. Better yet, come by for breakfast. I'm making French toast and bacon."

  "Seven?"

  "Perfect." I was about to hang up when emotion swept over me. "Tinkie, you're the best partner anyone could ever ask for."

  "Are you okay?"

  My sentimentality had stirred the hounds of suspicion. "One hundred percent. I just had a moment of weakness. I should know better than to hand out compliments. It goes against my character."

  "I'll see you tomorrow."

  "I can almost smell the bacon sizzling." I hung up before she could ask any more pertinent questions.

  I went to the sideboard and made myself another drink. While I was in the vicinity, I went through my mother's records and pulled out B. B. King. Every year the town of Indianola celebrated his birthday with a big picnic. He and Lucille, his guitar, brought the blues home one more time.

  With the music playing, I went up to my room and broke a half dozen fashion rules as I put on black jeans and a black tank top in August. Not to mention the black riding boots. I found my black leather jacket. So if I wasn't shot or knifed, I'd die of swelter. The life of a P.I. is rough.

  I'd loaded my car trunk earlier and I was as ready as I'd ever be. Tape recorder in my hand, I started toward the bedroom door.

  "Are you sure you know what you're doin'?" Jitty wore a somber black suit. The bow tie at her neck reminded me of the costumes so many women had to adopt in the early days of the feminist movement—severe suit softened by the de rigueur bow of white or tasteful pastel. We had come a long way, baby.

  "I'm going to lure Bridge Ladnier out into the open and then I'm going to get him to confess."

  "Exactly how are you going to accomplish that?"

  I held out the small tape recorder, also compliments of Tinkie. I'd never used it before, but now it was going to make its debut. "Trick him."

  "How?" Jitty held her hands clasped in front of her pelvis like a good little girl. Her pumps were sensible. Her hair sculpted into what served as a French twist. Then I noticed the hat. A black veil marred her beautiful skin.

  "Where's the funeral?"

  "Maybe right here at Dahlia House. Maybe yours."

  That stopped me. Jitty was a haint, but she wasn't in the habit of offering up doom and gloom. "What's wrong with you?"

  "Is Scott Hampton worth dying for?"

  She'd taken up the litany of my friends. "This isn't about Scott. It's about the truth. He didn't kill Ivory."

  "Did you ever consider that Coleman would figure this out if you stayed out of it?"

  "Ida Mae hired me. I'm in it now. Besides, Bridge wouldn't shoot me in cold blood."

  "If he killed Ivory, then he tortured him, too—or had him tortured. And you don't think he'd put a bullet in you?"

  Jitty had hit the one point in my theory of Bridge's guilt that also troubled me. I couldn't see him torturing Ivory by beating and cutting him. That was why I'd gone to such lengths to make sure Ray-Ban and Spider were out of town. While I would set a trap for Bridge, I didn't want to catch the two bikers in it. That I would leave for the law.

  "I think Bridge doesn't get his hands dirty, but his two henchmen are way down in Biloxi."

  "I'm back to the how question. How are you gonna make that man confess?"

  I had an answer for her, but I knew she wasn't going to like it. "Ego. I'll play dumb, and Scott can pretend to be his buddy."

  She lifted the veil enough to let me see the contempt in her eyes. "Ain't no playin' dumb involved. You are a fool, Sarah Booth."

  "If Bridge killed Ivory, he won't leave without those records."

  "Now that's a fact. Even if he has to kill you." She stepped closer to me. "You better have a backup plan."

  "I do," I said, picking up my keys. I sprinted down the stairs and opened the front door, hyped about the coming events. Connie Peters stopped me dead in my tracks. She was standing on the porch, hand lifted to knock.

  "I need to speak with you," she said, and I could see that she'd been crying.

  "Connie, I'm in a bit of a rush right now."

  She slipped past me, and I realized how much weight she'd lost. She was bone-thin. Before I could stop her, she was in the parlor sitting on the old horsehair sofa.

  "I know there's something between you and Coleman and I have to know what it is." Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her fingers were slightly blue.

  This was one conversation I really didn't want to have. "Look, I've got to be somewhere in just a few minutes." That wasn't a lie. I'd timed the whole thing out. I had to be at Scott's in the next half hour.

  "I've only got one question. What are you to my husband?"

  One question that might take me the rest of my life to figure out the answer to.

  She leaned forward and stared at me. "I see," she said, dropping her gaze to her hands. "I should have realized this, but I was too busy nursing my grudges to wonder what my husband was so busy doing."

  "Nothing has happened between me and Coleman." I didn't have an answer for her question, but I couldn't let her think that her husband had broken his vows. "Coleman isn't the kind of man to cheat on his wife. You have my word on that. Nothing has happened."

  The ghost of a smile touched her face. "Thank you for getting rid of that horrible creature in his office."

  My face must have shown my confusion.

  "The dispatcher," she reminded me.

  "Oh, Bo-Peep."

  "That's a perfect name." Connie's laugh brought back a rush of high school memories. She'd been the best tumbler on the cheerleading squad. She'd had an infectious laugh that made it seem as if the girls leaping and yelling on the edge of the field were having more fun than the law allowed. I'd been keenly jealous of her, even then.

  "Look, Connie, Coleman has always been true to you." I jangled my keys, hoping she would take the hint.

  "As far as you know."

  She could have slapped me and not shocked me more. "What are you saying?"

  "I've been following you lately. Coleman doesn't come here, but he doesn't go home, either."

  "Why don't you follow him?" So she had an infectious laugh. It might be because the sound resonated in her empty head.

  She unclasped her hands. "Maybe I don't want to know the truth. Maybe I have to learn it bit by bit."

  "Maybe there isn't any truth." I felt a headache coming on. "Look, sit here as long as you want. I have to go."

  And I did. I walked out of my house, leaving the door wide open, B. B. King playing his heart out, and Coleman's wife sitting on my great-great-grandmother's sofa.

  33

  My Headache only intensified as I drove through the muggy night. Moonlight silvered the leaves of the cotton and turned the tight boles into ghost-shadowed buds.

  No matter the outcome of this night, the land would continue to nourish its crop. That was only mildly reassuring as I drove to Scott's and what I knew Coleman would label as "abject stupidity," with a few more profane adjectives slipped in the middle. But I'd done the best I could to make sure this turned out right. My gut told me that Bridge would confess, especially if he thought Scott was getting ready to abscond with the records.

  There was one bright spot in the evening. I could easily imagine Emanuel foaming at the mouth in his cell when he heard I had the records and that I was taking them to Scott. And I had no doubt he would hear it—I'd seeded the gossip clouds thoroughly.

  Though my mind was on the case, I couldn't help but think of Connie. If I'd said I was sleeping with Coleman, what would she have done? Left him? Attacked me? Neither scenario seemed likely. So why had she come? I pulled my thoughts back to what lay ahead of me.

  I checked my watch. It was almost nine. If I calculated correctly, I had a few moments to let Scott in on the plan for
the evening.

  The lights were on in his cottage when I pulled into the driveway. I stopped the car in front of the porch and got out. The front doorway held his silhouette, but he made no move to greet me.

  My foot was on the step when he spoke. "I never realized you and Nandy shared the trait of showing up where you aren't wanted. I guess it's something in this Delta soil that makes the women stupid and desperate."

  "There are some boxes of records in the trunk. Please bring them in." I steeled my heart and my voice. Though his words were daggers, I kept going forward.

  "Get off my property, Sarah Booth."

  "Get the records and quit acting like a prick. I'm not here to seduce you. I'm here to catch Ivory's killer. Now I need your help." I brushed past him and walked inside to survey the room. He had a portable phone and I picked it up, punched the number of my cell phone in the speed dial memory, turned the volume up to loud, and hid the phone in the pillows of the sofa. I put my tape recorder right beside it.

  I was only slightly amazed when Scott walked in with one box of heavy records. "Get the suitcase, too." When he shot me a look, I glared back. "I'm not moving in. It's a phonograph. Bridge is going to demand to hear at least one of the records if he's going to pay for them."

  Light dawned in Scott's eyes. It was perhaps the only satisfaction I would ever get from him again, so I drank it in. "You found the records," he said with some degree of respect.

  "Emanuel had them hidden. I'm using them as bait to lure Bridge out. He's been after the records all along. When he gets here, you act as if the records are yours. I want you to slap me hard enough to knock me onto the sofa." I pointed to the place I'd hidden the phone. "I'll pretend to be out. Then it's up to you to get him to tell you how he killed Ivory."

  "Me?" Scott was ready to balk. "How can I get him to confess?"

  "You convinced me that you cared about me. Charm him, Scott. Lie. Do what comes naturally. I know you can." My bitter words found a target. He stepped back from me before he got his expression under control.

  "You've got it," he said, all ice once again. "Of course, since Bridge is a man, he may be a little harder to manipulate."

  My first impulse was to slap him. Hard. Instead, I pointed to the door. "Get the rest of the records."

  He walked out and I had a moment to compose myself. He was such a bastard. Had it not been for Ida Mae, I would have walked out right then. Ida Mae and the memory of Ivory Keys. I'd never known Ivory, but in working the case, I'd come to admire him and his dream.

  After Scott brought the remaining records and the phonograph in, I showed him where to set it up. When I handed him the album, he held it as if it were the most valuable thing he'd ever seen.

  "I was never really certain Ivory had the records. I suspected he had a line on them. I begged Ivory to sell them. He and Ida Mae could have lived their golden years in great comfort." When he looked at me, the hardness was gone from his eyes. I saw again how much he'd loved Ivory.

  "Did he ever hint to you he gave them to Emanuel?"

  He shook his head. "All he'd ever say was that music was a powerful weapon. He said one day the person who had the records might listen to them and realize that music didn't see color. He said that when that happened, a true miracle would be performed." Scott's gaze dropped. "I didn't believe him."

  "Emanuel intended to destroy them in some sort of public testimonial to prove his hatred was stronger than money."

  "Ivory believed there was good in everyone. That was actually what got him killed." His face darkened. "And you really believe this rich man killed him?"

  I hesitated. The evidence led me to believe Bridge was the culprit. The night would give me an answer. "Killed him or paid someone to do it."

  Awareness dawned in his eyes. For all of his years in prison, Scott had never considered that Ivory was killed by a hired gun. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Not Spider and Ray-Ban." He said it emphatically. "They're just easy targets, like me. They wouldn't do this. Not because of Ivory, but because of me."

  "You're as naive as Ivory ever dared to be." It was the pot calling the kettle black. I was among the sinners on that list, for once upon a time, I'd believed in a future with Scott. I ran down the list of reasons I believed they were implicated. He was still doubtful.

  "They're involved in this, Scott. They were in town before Ivory was killed, weren't they?"

  "They could have been," he said slowly. "I make you this promise: If they hurt Ivory in any way, I'll make them regret the day they were born."

  I had no doubt about that.

  "They're in Biloxi at Jimmy John's," he said. "He called them to come take care of something for him. I didn't ask questions. I was relieved to see them go."

  Something niggled in my memory. Spider and Ray-Ban had told Millie that Scott had asked them to leave. So they were liars about everything, using their banishment in an effort to win Millie's sympathy. Not much luck there. "Coleman will get them, but first we have to get Bridge to confess. I believe your old prison buddies killed Ivory when he wouldn't tell them where the records were."

  Learning the true nature of Spider and Ray-Ban was going to be costly for Scott. Though the two bikers would be caught and punished, Scott would never forgive himself. He'd given succor to the enemy.

  "If that rich bastard doesn't confess, I'll beat it out of him." Scott's fists were clenched. He was ready to inflict pain on someone, because he was hurting himself.

  I didn't bother to argue. That wasn't in my game plan for the night.

  Further talk was stopped as headlights came down Scott's driveway. Halfway, when there had been enough time to see my car in the beams, the headlights stopped. A door slammed. In a few moments the boards of the steps creaked.

  "Hampton?" Bridge's voice called out.

  Even though I'd anticipated this, had planned for it, my heart sank a little. Though I believed Bridge to be guilty, a part of me had hoped for a different outcome.

  "Who is it?" Scott's voice held anger. He was playing his part to the hilt.

  "Bridge Ladnier. Is Miss Delaney there?"

  "What's it to you?"

  "I've come to negotiate with the two of you. I believe you have something I very much want."

  "I'm not interested in selling the records. Beat it."

  The porch creaked as Bridge came to the open door. He held a stack of hundred-dollar bills in one hand. "I want those records. I'm a collector." He tossed the money to Scott, who caught it with one hand. "Keep that just for talking with me."

  Scott threw the money down on the table and grinned. "I like the way you do business. Come on in."

  "Bridge, don't trust him." I stepped into the fray. "He's going to try and cheat you."

  "Shut up!" Scott yelled at me.

  "Sarah Booth," Bridge said smoothly, "I enjoy a challenging negotiation. It's the art of entrepreneurship. The win is no fun unless there's risk."

  "Don't trust him, Bridge. He killed Ivory to get these records. I came here to get him to confess. I thought I could—"

  "I'm not telling you again." Scott grabbed my arm so tightly that I almost dropped to my knees. His grip was the only thing that kept me standing.

  "Hey!" Bridge started toward us.

  "Stay out of this." His voice was threat enough to stop Bridge in his tracks. "This bitch has to learn who's running this show." He pushed me slightly as he released me. I stumbled against the coffee table but caught my balance. Scott was damn good at this. Almost too good.

  "May I hear the merchandise?" Bridge asked.

  Scott got the record I'd shown him from one of the boxes and put it on the old phonograph. There was some chatter among the musicians.

  "Lord, we're gonna show the world that Mississippi is a place where music rules." Ivory Keys was talking.

  "Put your hands on those keys and start us off." I would have recognized Elvis's voice anywhere. Even if I hadn't, the look of rapture on Bridge's face would have clued me in.

/>   The music was red-hot and blue. Elvis's voice wasn't the slick Vegas drawl he'd perfected later. It was raw and moaning. Without a doubt it was some of his best work.

  "What do you want for all of them?" Bridge waved at the records.

  "Ten million." Scott didn't blink an eye. "And something else."

  "What?"

  "Don't listen to him. Bridge, I was wrong about him. He killed Ivory. He can't be trusted. He'll take your money and kill you." I stepped forward so Scott had a clear shot at me. He swung and came at my head. As his palm connected with my cheek, I felt almost nothing, but there was the sound of fist meeting flesh and I knew Scott had somewhere learned the art of wrestling. He'd slapped his chest while pretending to strike me. I let him push me back onto the sofa, and collapsed as if I were unconscious. I fell with my face and one hand right in the crack of the pillows where I'd secreted Scott's phone and my tape recorder. I could work both devices with minimal movement.

  "Sarah Booth!" Bridge's voice was indignant.

  "She's not hurt." Scott was matter-of-fact, as if he punched me out every day. "She's just quiet for a while. Now that she's not chattering on, let's do business."

  As they talked, my fingers found the necessary buttons. I hit the speed dial button on Scott's phone and listened to the tinny ring buzzing in my ear. I'd left my cell phone in the boxes of records in Coleman's office closet. I counted five rings, and panic was setting in when Coleman picked up the phone and said hello. I didn't answer. I just inched the telephone so he could hear the conversation in the room, and I clicked on my tape recorder.

  "I'll give you the ten million for the records," Bridge said. "Cash. Right now."

  "That's a fair price, but I want something else."

  "What?" Bridge was antsy.

  "A confession."