"What is Arlin saying?" I asked, curious.
"Nothing to me. That's why I called you. He won't give me any details, but you know how this town is. He mentioned it to a couple of the courthouse crowd. It'll be all out of proportion and all over town in half an hour. Folks in here have been buzzing all day about Doreen killing her baby and how she should be sent to the gas chamber."
"I'm on the way," I said.
"Hurry up, he's about finished. I'll refill his coffee and try to hold him."
On the drive over, I called Tinkie just in case she wanted to meet me at the cafe. She was still at the salon, and her hair was pulled through a plastic cap so that her stylist could add those sun-gilded strands to her tawny mane. "I can't make it," she wailed. "Damn it. I hate this."
"This isn't exactly a matter of life or death," I assured her as I sped through the cotton fields. "I think I can handle this one."
"I never thought I'd have to choose between... vanity and career," she said.
"It's a choice no woman should have to make," I said with amusement. "I'll fill you in later."
I parked the car and walked into Millie's, caught, as always, by the aroma of fried chicken and other wondrous things. Arlin was seated at a corner table with several other lawyers. I took a seat at the counter.
Arlin was finishing the last bite of his apple pie and coffee, and I waited until he went to the cash register to pay.
"How are you doing today, Mr. McLain?" I asked.
"Why, Sarah Booth," he said, smiling, his eyes scanning my riding breeches and boots. "You look very fit and stylish. I hear you're going to help Doreen Mallory."
I nodded. "I hear you're involved, too." He'd been a friend of my parents and had often joined us for dinner.
Arlin took his change and settled onto a stool beside me. "I'd say your sources are much better than mine. I barely uttered Doreen's name." He eyed Millie, sending her hustling into the kitchen.
"Are you representing Doreen on the murder charge?" I asked.
"No, I'm handling an inheritance matter for her. There's nothing I can do for her criminally," he said. "She's charged in New Orleans. She'll need someone with a Louisiana law license, and she'll need someone who knows the intricacies of criminal law in that state. It doesn't look good for her."
"She says it's all a mistake. She doesn't believe her baby was given anything."
"Yes, that's what she told me. And she's mighty calm about it all. If she did kill her own baby, I don't think she feels a whit of remorse over it."
Arlin was a man who weighed the guilt or innocence of his clients on a regular basis.
"She's an interesting woman," I said to volley the conversational ball back into his court.
"More than interesting. She's arrestingly beautiful. Stunning."
I sipped my coffee and let my gaze slide over to study him. Arlin was in his sixties, a gentleman, and still handsome.
"Do you really believe Doreen is Lillith Lucas's daughter?" I asked him.
"Without a doubt."
"Why?"
"When Lillith asked me to handle the money she'd set aside, she told me about her daughter. She said I'd know Doreen because of her birthmark. And I did."
I didn't recall that Doreen had a birthmark. At least not a noticeable one. "What type of birthmark?"
"She has a small red blotch on the inside of her wrist," Arlin said. "It has five sides. It's a most distinctive mark. I'm sure Doreen is Lillith's daughter."
"Did she tell you anything about her brother?" I asked.
Arlin couldn't hide his surprise. "A boy? There's another child?"
"Yes, an older boy."
He shifted his weight to his other leg. "Lillith never mentioned another child. Doreen is the sole heir. I don't believe she's aware there is a brother."
"Don't you find it strange that Lillith gave her children away and then left money in the bank for only one of them?" I needed to get the details on the inheritance.
Arlin shrugged. "There are no laws dictating inheritance."
"Where in the world did Lillith get enough money to set aside. She always looked as if she were half-starved."
He gave me a long and troubled look. "Lillith was a woman of intelligence and... charisma. If you ever looked into her eyes, you saw surprising things."
"Such as?" I was curious.
Arlin rose from his seat on the stool. "I knew Lillith when she was a teenager. She may have been the loveliest young woman I've ever seen. I had the sense that she hated her loveliness. That she sought to be viewed in a different way. And that quest took her to some very dark places within herself." He put a hand on my shoulder and his brown eyes were misted with the past. "Lillith was lovely, but your mother had heart. You look more like her every time I see you. If I closed my eyes and listened to you speak, I'd think she was talking to me. You have a nice day, Sarah Booth, and be careful with this one."
I watched him walk out of the cafe, leaving me with a truth I'd never had the insight to see. Arlin McLain had been in love with my mother.
Reveler was as eager for a ride as I was. As I saddled my horse, Sweetie Pie spun circles around our legs. We set off to the south at a brisk trot, Reveler tossing his head and humping his back just to let me know he felt good.
When I hit a tractor trail beside an endless stretch of cotton, I let Reveler gallop. I was at last going fast enough to leave the past behind. The moment was all that mattered, my horse surging beneath me and my hound baying at my side.
I rode to Lunar Lake, so named because of its round shape and clear reflection of the nocturnal sky. There was also the fact that local high school kids parked there, often mooning each other. Oh, when the world was young enough that dropping your pants and bending over was considered cute and comical.
Lunar Lake contained bream, catfish, and a few small bass, but no one really fished there. During weekday afternoons, the lake was almost guaranteed to be abandoned. I enjoyed the solitude as I rode the trails around the lake, stopping at the edge to let Reveler and Sweetie drink.
I almost jumped out of my saddle when a male voice called my name. Reveler, who had far better nerves, merely lifted his head and looked at the bank where Coleman Peters leaned against a tallow tree.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, following it up with, "And where's Connie?"
"She's supposed to be at the doctor's office. I took off work to take her. I was determined to make her go, but she said she'd go if I stayed home."
There was something beneath his words, but I was afraid to probe. Coleman and his wife's medical arrangements could not be my concern.
"She's lying to me," he said matter-of-factly. "I went to every doctor in the county. Her car's not there. I stopped by Dahlia House and saw you'd taken the horse. I was hoping you'd come here."
"Maybe she went to someone in Jackson," I said, keeping the focus where it should be—on Connie. "Maybe she decided to establish a medical link with a doctor there or in Memphis." The bigger cities had more state-of-the-art neonatal care.
"No," he said, "she isn't in Jackson. Or Memphis."
I held my teeth together so that my busy tongue would behave.
"Come up here and take a rest," he said.
I slowly walked Reveler out of the lake and up on the bank. Coleman had retreated to the shade of a white oak tree that rattled leaves down on us with the smallest gust of wind. The woods around the lake were beautiful. The South never saw the burst of color that marked the change of seasons for cooler climates, but the sumac, cypress, maple, and a few scattered sycamores shimmered in shades of red and gold. Instead of getting down, I remained on Reveler.
"Are you afraid of me?" Coleman teased.
I shook my head. "Not you. Me." I wasn't teasing. We'd come very close to crossing a line that would destroy us.
He walked up to Reveler and lifted me off the horse, gently setting my feet on the ground. My heart was hammering, and I didn't look at him.
"You'r
e safe," he said. "You'll always be safe with me."
"You're breaking my heart," I answered, because it was true.
"I had decided to divorce Connie. I'd already talked to Arlin McLain about filing the papers."
I finally looked at him and put my fingers to his lips. "Don't say any more."
"She lied to me, Sarah Booth. She said she was on the pill."
"It doesn't matter. We can't change what's happened." When I started to turn my face away, he held my chin with his hand and forced me to look at him.
"I'm telling you this, not to seduce you or excuse myself. I'm telling you because I have to. For my own sanity. I can't go on torturing myself about what you may or may not know or what you may be thinking. I'm with Connie. You're off-limits. But never doubt that what I felt for you, what I feel for you, is real. I slept with Connie because she begged me to. It was pity that motivated me and fantasy that made it possible."
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice so low that Sweetie gave up digging for a gopher and came to check on me.
His hand moved from my chin to caress along my cheek, then dropped to his side. "We won't speak of this again. We're going to work together, and I'll be the friend you can count on for anything. Let me have at least that much." A smile touched his lips, and in that moment I'd never had more admiration for his courage. "Come sit with me," he said. "We'll talk about your client. Rinda paged me and said you were wanting reports on the case."
We settled against the trunk of the white oak, careful not to let our shoulders touch. Because I often stopped on my rides to read a book or daydream, I carried a halter and lead, and Reveler was grazing contentedly.
"I haven't seen any of the reports, but according to the detective in charge of the case, it's like I told you earlier. The ten-week-old infant was given a sleeping medication in her formula." Coleman looked out at the lake. "It's a sad case."
"Why would Doreen kill her own baby?" I honestly couldn't get a handle on the motive.
"The baby was born with problems. A lot of them."
I knew Rebekah had medical problems of a genetic nature, but I didn't know the details. "Exactly what kind of problems? What is Robert's syndrome?"
"Remember the thalidomide babies? It's something like that."
The term was vaguely familiar from a television news show, but I didn't remember the details. "Like brain damage?"
"The most obvious signs are the limbs. Sometimes they're nonexistent. The hands or feet are attached to the trunk. And there are other complications. Rebekah suffered from many medical problems."
I knew then what he was talking about. There had been a rash of babies born with these problems in the late fifties and early sixties. But those cases had been caused by a drug, which had since been pulled from the market. "Was Doreen taking something?"
He shook his head. "Not according to Detective LeMont. Rebekah's problems were genetic, as far as I know. It's a rare condition."
"So the NOPD is making a case for mercy killing?" I asked.
"No. They're saying Rebekah's birth has caused some of Doreen's followers to question her divinity."
The very idea of it made me furious. It was judgment of the cruelest sort, a condemnation of someone because of tragedy. "As in, why would God bestow such a baby on one of his chosen spokespersons?" I heard the heat in my words.
"Exactly."
"That is so ignorant. So Doreen killed her baby because Rebekah was an embarrassment?"
Coleman watched me. "That kind of baby can be very expensive, and not just monetarily. The care is almost superhuman. And there's no getting better."
"So is it greed, mercy killing, or just plain not wanting to be bothered? What are they saying is Doreen's motive?"
"I'm pretty sure they'll try to use all of the above," Coleman said. "And they've charged her with Murder One. I don't have to tell you that this case is going to generate a lot of press and a lot of high emotions. Your client doesn't present the most sympathetic picture. She hardly seems to grieve."
Coleman wasn't judging her, he was merely stating facts.
"When is she going back to New Orleans?"
"Sunday morning," he said.
"Can I get a copy of all of this?"
"Stop by the office early Sunday. I understand LeMont is coming personally to pick her up. It's a smart move on his part if she decides to spend the drive talking. Anyway, be at the office at eight. You can at least talk to LeMont. I've left word that you're to be allowed to see Doreen anytime you wish." He grinned. "I just love to make Rinda's butt pucker."
6
Sunday morning I was at the courthouse as soon as it opened. Coleman wasn't in yet, but to my surprise, Rinda was. She left me standing at the counter. Just to spite her, I lifted the countertop and walked into what she now considered her domain. I went straight to the coffeepot and poured the last cup, listening with glee to the shortness of her breathing.
The back door opened and Coleman stepped inside, followed by a handsome man in a navy suit. He was shorter and stockier than Coleman, and his dark gaze was quick, moving over the room and landing on me.
"Sarah Booth Delaney," Coleman said, "this is Detective Arnold LeMont. He's in charge of the case, and he's come to take Doreen to New Orleans." He turned to the detective. "Sarah Booth is a private investigator. She's been hired on Ms. Mallory's behalf."
LeMont rolled his eyes. "Everybody's got to earn a living, I suppose. Me, I got no real use for private investigators. Most of them are parasites."
"Sarah Booth is the worst kind of parasite. She latches on to another woman's—" Rinda started.
"Sarah Booth is a friend of mine," Coleman said, overriding Rinda and causing the detective to look at him with speculation.
"Yeah, I see," LeMont said, giving me a more thorough assessment.
The implication was unflattering to both me and Coleman, but Rinda was eating it with a spoon.
"As my friend, Sarah Booth will be treated with courtesy, won't she?" Coleman asked softly.
LeMont thought about it a moment. "No skin off my teeth."
"Rinda, make a fresh pot of coffee," Coleman said in a tone I'd never heard him use to speak to an employee. "Arnold, did you happen to bring your case file with you?"
LeMont was slow to answer. "As a matter of fact, I did. Why do you ask?"
"If it isn't too much trouble, Sarah Booth would like to look over your reports."
LeMont wasn't quick to jump into anything. He thought it through. "The defense will see them eventually, so I don't see what harm it would do for her to see them now. I left my briefcase in the car. But I got to be headed back to New Orleans soon."
"Rinda, would you go outside and get Detective LeMont's briefcase?" Coleman asked without looking at her. I had no doubt that next she'd be cleaning toilets. She had really pissed Coleman off.
He showed LeMont into his office and I followed. When Rinda brought the briefcase in, I took the files that LeMont handed me and sat down in a chair in the corner.
"Do you always help the local PIs?" LeMont asked Coleman. "Or is this one special?"
I listened with one ear, hearing Coleman explain that we'd gone to high school together and that I was a woman of integrity. I didn't look up. I didn't dare. And in a moment my attention was riveted to the papers I held in my hand.
The autopsy photos were graphic. Rebekah Mallory's abnormalities were gut-wrenching. The infant was better off dead. My judgment was instant and harsh, rendered on the basis of my own preferences. I tried to swallow the dryness in my mouth. Why had such a thing happened to an innocent child?
I thought of the woman in the jail cell. Doreen had not shown any grief for her baby. Nor had she shown horror or pity, though the birth defects were grotesque. I realized I understood nothing about the woman who was my client.
The autopsy report was clinical and clear. The cause of death was listed as barbiturate overdose. Traces of Seconal—a prescription drug I recognized from reading Jacqueline S
usann's Valley of the Dolls—were found mixed in the undigested formula in the baby's stomach. There was no room for doubt. The coroner's ruling of homicide was factual and correct.
I put aside the autopsy and read the remaining reports, which included Doreen's statement. Doreen had told LeMont that she'd followed her routine schedule. She fed Rebekah and put her in her bassinet around nine o'clock. Doreen had remained awake for several hours after that, working on her sermon and drinking a single glass of wine. Rebekah was normally a sound sleeper, and Doreen checked and changed her again at midnight before she went to bed. Doreen arose at five A.M. and discovered that Rebekah wasn't breathing. She called 911 and an ambulance arrived. Rebekah was pronounced dead at the scene.
There was a sketch of the apartment, which showed that Rebekah's bassinet was in the first bedroom from the door. Doreen's bedroom was at the far end of the apartment, connected to the infant's room by a bathroom. I took note that Doreen's bedroom windows opened onto a balcony over Dumaine Street
. From LeMont's notes I could tell Doreen's second-floor apartment was part of a large house that had been broken up. There was a central courtyard that gave access to the stairs.
LeMont had done an excellent job of detailing the scene. I couldn't help but wonder why—initially the baby's death had been ruled a natural death or SIDS—but I had the man in front of me and I asked him.
"The morning of the death we figured the baby was so sick that she just died in her sleep," LeMont said. "SIDS is always a questionable death, though, so we strive for a professional job at the scene, just in case something else shows up."
"Why was an autopsy ordered?" I asked.
"Police aren't coroners. The baby's death couldn't positively be determined by us. Autopsy is routine," LeMont said. "We went by the book, but we assumed the case was a natural death. It wasn't until the blood work got back from the coroner that we had any suspicions that the infant was murdered."
"Did you have any suspects other than Doreen?" I asked.
"In other words, did we rush to judgment?" LeMont asked.
I waited for his answer. LeMont wasn't going to be an easy man to work with. I lifted my eyebrows, inviting his response.
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