Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  "Let me call Lee and make arrangements for the pets," I said, picking up the phone. It hadn't even rung yet, but there was someone on the other end. A very excited someone.

  "Guess what, dahling?" Cece said, her drawl put to the test by her eagerness.

  "What?"

  "You're going to the famous Black and Orange Ball!"

  We both squealed. Then I frowned. "What's the Black and Orange Ball?" I asked.

  "Only the most fabulous Halloween ball in the entire world. It's held every year at the Bogata home in the Garden District. It is the ball of the year. And we're all going. Me, you, and Tinkie. Since you're going to be in New Orleans anyway, you simply have to say yes."

  "How did you arrange this?" I asked. Cece must have pulled some mighty big strings.

  "I simply said I couldn't attend because I had guests. The hostess graciously extended the invitation to you and Tinkie. And Oscar," she added without a lot of enthusiasm. "I wish it was just us girls."

  "Oscar can dance with us," I said. He was a terrific dancer for a man who looked as stiff as cardboard.

  "Now, you have to have a gown. It has to be black and orange only. Understand?"

  "A new gown?" I was torn between economic pettiness and joy at the prospect of a ball gown.

  "Black and orange. I've seen photos of some of the dresses and they are incredible. We only have a short time to pull this together. Tinkie is going to Memphis with me this afternoon to shop. Do you want to come along?"

  I did, but I had a far better idea—and one I wasn't sharing. When it comes to having the best ball gown for a big society event, a girl can become quite competitive, even with her best friends.

  "No, I have something I have to do. Then I have to pack. You girls have fun."

  "What are you up to, Sarah Booth?"

  Cece was nobody's fool. She knew I had an ace up my sleeve.

  "Cece, I'm in the middle of a case," I said, trying to sound mildly injured. "I'm working."

  "If you come up at the last minute with some excuse that you don't have a gown, Tinkie and I are going to wrap you in black garbage bags, tie an orange bow on you, and drag you to this ball anyway."

  "I get the picture," I said, smiling. I had a far better plan than garbage bags.

  Mollie Jacks was the finest seamstress in the state of Mississippi, or she had been until arthritis crippled her hands. But her husband, Bernard, had told me that Mollie still sewed for a few special people, and I didn't have to guess how much of a thrill she'd get out of designing a gown for a fancy New Orleans ball. My trip to Mollie's would also kill two birds with one stone. She lived right behind Pine Level Cemetery. I wanted to stop off at Lillith Lucas's grave. Call it gut instinct or total foolishness, I just couldn't let the Lillith thing go.

  I headed out of town, the top down on the roadster, enjoying the golden breeze in my hair. October was my favorite month. In years past, my mother's birthday had always been a big occasion. My father would throw her a huge party, complete with PA system and a pulpit. It was her day to get on a soapbox about anything she wanted. Her friends came every year to hear the speech she worked on for weeks. No one could ever predict the topic. Mama always pulled the rug out from under folks.

  My mind was in the past and I almost passed up the tree-shaded turn into the cemetery. I made a sharp right and pulled beneath the oaks. In the distance the old headstones were marbled with age. As a little girl, I'd loved to take rubbings from the stones. The sayings were wonderful. "She has risen into the light of heaven, our beloved mother." Or "The Lord has guided our best friend and husband into the land of plenty."

  I parked and walked, wondering if I should have called a caretaker to try and figure out where Lillith might be buried. My gaze wandered over the monuments and stones, many of them ornate and lovely. I was drawn to a stone depicting a woman surrounded by flames. The cold marble seemed alive, the flames licking at her gown. Yet she looked up to heaven.

  A jar of freshly picked lilies centered the grave.

  Lillith Lucas March 4, 1942-December 18, 1992

  There was the standard quote from the Bible about God's rich and unfailing love, and then something more interesting. I read the words carved in the stone with a chill. "Born of fire, she perished in flame."

  "Lillith," I whispered, "what secrets are you hiding?"

  Movement at the back of the cemetery caught my eye and I saw Mollie slowly stand up. She'd been kneeling at a grave. Was it coincidence or synchronicity that had brought the woman I needed to see into the cemetery at the same time I was there?

  "Mollie!" I called to her.

  She turned and a smile lit her face. "Why, Sarah Booth, for just a minute there I thought your dear mama was calling me from heaven. You sound that much like her."

  I took her arm and helped her walk under the shade of a big cedar at the back of the cemetery. It was a crisp October day, but the sun was still warm.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked her.

  "Same as you, visiting the dead," she said easily. "Did you see those pretty lilies I left at Lillith's grave? I met her daughter here."

  "Yes, the flowers are beautiful." I was surprised. "You left them for Lillith?"

  "More for that daughter of hers. I never much cared for Lillith. She was a woman tormented by her own hot blood. But I sure did take to her daughter. Doreen. She's got a gift."

  "Where did you meet Doreen?" I was a little lost.

  "I was here Thursday, putting some flowers on Bernard's mother's grave," Mollie continued. "Yesterday was her birthday and I always try to come and put out something bright for her. Anyway, I saw Doreen at the grave and we talked awhile. She had a lot of questions about her mama. Most of them I didn't answer, even when I could." She shook her head. "No point speaking ill of the dead, and Doreen seemed to have a lot to carry already. She lost her little girl."

  "I know. It was a terrible thing." I didn't think Mollie knew that Doreen had been arrested for the murder of her child, and I wasn't going to tell her.

  "What are you doing at Lillith's grave?" Mollie asked.

  "Trying to sort out the past. How long has that gravestone been there?"

  "Oh, about three years. Something like that. One day Bernard and I came out to visit our kin and the stone was there. Nobody knew a thing about where it came from or how it got put up. It was just there."

  "Did you walk over here?" I asked, looking around for her car.

  "I sure did. I got up this morning feeling fit as a fiddle." She smiled. "I'm going to drive into town and see about buying some material. I got the urge to sew again."

  "Really?" I couldn't hide my excitement. "I was going to ask if you could make me a gown for the Black and Orange Ball in New Orleans Halloween night, but I wanted to make sure your hands were feeling okay."

  "My hands are—" Mollie held them out, the fingers straight and lovely. She flexed them. "My fingers are just fine. Better than fine." She grasped my hands with hers. "Doreen held my hands, Sarah Booth. She held them tight and she prayed over them. When she let go, the arthritis was gone."

  8

  Throughout the night, I'd dreamed of ball gowns, pumpkin carriages, and a fairy godmother who looked exactly like Mollie. Anticipation woke me. By six o'clock Monday morning, I was dressed, packed, and eager for all the pleasures New Orleans promised.

  Tinkie and I chose to drive south on Highway 61 and we rolled onto Louisiana soil not too far from Angola Penitentiary. The river formed the fourth boundary of the huge prison farm, and local lore had it that not a single inmate had ever been able to swim across to freedom. Those who tried had been sucked down by the powerful current.

  We stopped in St. Francisville for breakfast, Tinkie still complaining that I made her leave her Cadillac and ride with me in the roadster.

  "Oscar's coming down in a day or two. He can bring your car,"

  I pointed out as I parked beneath the shade of a huge live oak laced with Spanish moss.

  "I hate b
eing without wheels." She got out of the car and stretched. An eighteen-wheeler that was passing the small cafe let out a blast on its air horn. The driver shrilled a wolf whistle at Tinkie. She was in a far better mood when we sat down at a small Formica table and placed our order for eggs and bacon.

  I'd already filled her in on the case files I'd read and Doreen's unholy trinity of lovers, and over breakfast I told her about Mollie's hands. As amazing as the story seemed to be, I wasn't prepared for the slightly breathless, glazed look on Tinkie's face.

  "Doreen is a healer," Tinkie said in a voice soft with wonder. "She really is. I sensed something about her."

  "I don't know, Tinkie." I'd seen the evidence, but overnight I'd had plenty of time to think of other explanations.

  "How can you not know, Sarah Booth? Mollie's hands were terrible. She had to give up sewing and she loved doing that. One doesn't give up the thing one loves because it hurts a little."

  "You're beginning to sound like Cece with the royal 'ones.' "

  "You have no faith, Sarah Booth." She was stricken by her own assessment. She put her fork down on her plate. "You don't believe in miracles at all."

  "Guilty as charged." I tried another bite of egg, but my appetite was gone, too. "And I don't believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. So sue me."

  But Tinkie wasn't in a litigating mood. She was, instead, sad. "Maybe that's why Doreen has come into your life," she said, "to teach you to have faith."

  I picked up the ticket and pushed back my chair. I wasn't in the mood to be the recipient of someone else's charity, especially in the faith department. "I'm perfectly fine just as I am."

  "I'll get the tip," Tinkie said, effectively ending the discussion in a way that made me suspicious. Tinkie never dropped a debate so easily. "What are we doing first when we get to New Orleans?"

  "Checking in with the NOPD and seeing if Doreen has made bond. Then we need to interview the men she's been seeing. Do you have a preference?"

  "Yes," Tinkie said sweetly. "You talk to all of them. I'll go through the financial records. Oscar said the baby was too young to have an insurance policy, so that's not a motive. But there might be a monetary reason someone wanted to frame Doreen and get her out of the way. Some kind of financial impropriety. Interview Michael Anderson last. Maybe by then I'll have something for you."

  It was a brilliant offer, and one I snapped up. "You've got it," I said, wanting to hug Tinkie. More than televangelists, I hated math. But so did Tinkie. So why was she taking the grunt work and offering me the plum? I didn't intend to question this form of charity.

  The entrance to New Orleans, from the south or east, crosses Lake Pontchartrain. As we drove over the huge lake, Tinkie talked about the Black and Orange Ball. I learned that it had been created as a mockery/salute to the Truman Capote Black and White Ball. Only at the Black and Orange, the guests were required to wear masks that could not be removed until midnight under penalty of being deleted from the guest list—forever.

  Listening to Tinkie talk about past intrigues and romances that were Black and Orange legends, I felt a creeping excitement. Mollie had taken my measurements and assured me that my dress would rival anything there. I had ultimate faith in her. She'd have it ready in plenty of time, and it would be magnificent.

  "We'll have to go to Dillon's Dominoes and get masks. Something with feathers!" Tinkie said, ticking off her list on her fingers. "And shoes! There's a terrific shop uptown. Walking into that store is an erotic experience. The beautiful design of the shoes, the smell of new leather." She sighed.

  I was tempted to tease her that our visit to the jail would also be a visual and olfactory experience, but I didn't. Tinkie's pleasure was too pure to taint with an uglier whiff of reality.

  We swung over the city, viewing the New Orleans business district of high-rises in the distance. We exited the interstate and looped down onto Canal, one of the boundary streets of the old French Quarter. Parking is always at a premium in New Orleans, and fortunately the hotel garage offered both convenience and security. We still had plenty of time for a leisurely lunch after we were registered and had been shown to our individual luxury rooms.

  The saying is that there are no bad meals in New Orleans, and it's almost true. You have to hunt hard for bad food in New Orleans. We ate shrimp and oyster po'boys at a restaurant that had once been the site of slave auctions, then took a cab to the NOPD district that was handling the investigation of Rebekah's murder.

  Detective LeMont was at his desk, his dark eyes cool as he recognized me. I introduced Tinkie as my partner.

  "Arraignment is tomorrow morning," he said brusquely. "The DA is going to ask for a high bond."

  "Why?" I asked, going into battle mode.

  "She left town once. She has access to money." He leaned forward. "She's a nutcase. Her baby has been murdered, but it's okay, because 'death is just a transition.' She's just 'energy that will never be lost.' "

  Oh, great. Doreen had really pissed this guy off. Tinkie stepped into the challenge with the sweetest of smiles. "It does sound a little unbelievable," she said, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. She gave him a troubled look before the full, lush lip popped out. LeMont was mesmerized. "Doreen has to believe her baby is in a better place or else this would kill her. Maybe all of this talk is just a defense mechanism. But she isn't going to run away from this. Remember, she wasn't under arrest or even suspicion when she went to Sunflower County. And she didn't resist when the sheriff picked her up. She's willing to cooperate, because if someone did kill her baby, she wants that person to pay."

  "There is no if. Rebekah Mallory was murdered." He stacked a pile of file folders, which slid back over as soon as he put them on his desk. "What can I do for you ladies?"

  "We need to speak with Doreen."

  "We're not running a hotel here. She's been with her lawyer all morning. Now the two of you are here. I should be her appointment secretary."

  Perhaps it was just in LeMont's nature to grouse. Some men were like that. I gave him a smile. "We can't do our job if we can't talk to our client."

  "And I can't do my job if you people keep interrupting me. There are other crimes to be solved, you know." He handed me a slip of paper. "They'll let one of you see her. Only one. Now I've got work to do."

  We were dismissed, and we stepped out into the hallway. I looked at the paper, which bore the address of the city lockup. "I'll go talk to Doreen," I said, wanting to spare Tinkie what I knew was going to be a bad scene.

  "No, I want to see her." Tinkie put a hand on my arm. She was dressed to the nines in a sienna silk pantsuit. Her suede heels were a perfect match.

  "You aren't exactly dressed for the jail," I noted in a low voice. I'd opted for jeans and a blue sweater.

  "Don't you worry about me." She took the paper from my hand. "I need to talk to her about her books. And I want her to tell me a little about Michael Anderson."

  I nodded.

  "I'll try to get her take on him." She grinned at me. "Other than the fact that he doesn't believe in love."

  In truth, I was itching to talk to both the senator and the televangelist. I didn't care which one I got to first. Guilt made me stop in my tracks. "Are you sure, Tinkie?" I had a horrible picture of her walking down a line of cells while some pervert hurled bodily fluids at her, a la The Silence of the Lambs.

  "I'm your partner, not your little girl. I can do this. No one's going to bite me."

  Yikes. Tinkie was touchy this morning. Maybe she'd caught it from LeMont. "Okay," I agreed as we walked out onto the sidewalk. I waved down a taxi. Running the risk of her ire yet again, I held the door open for her and sent her on her way. Once she was gone, I pulled out my cell phone and began rounding up the numbers I'd need to get to both Oren Weaver and Thaddeus Clay. Michael Anderson would be last, per Tinkie's request.

  Standing on the shady front porch of the huge home, I listened to the somber tone of the doorbell. Senator Clay's residence showed all the
traditional grace of the South. A maid opened the door and showed me in.

  "Mrs. Clay will be with you in a moment," she said, indicating a formal parlor where I should wait.

  "Excuse me, but my business is with the senator," I reminded her.

  She gave me a sidelong look. "Mrs. Clay will be here momentarily." She was gone before I could raise another protest.

  I took a seat and picked up one of the fashion magazines that featured the unmistakable image of El, the senator's wife.

  She'd been a cover girl for Vogue, Mademoiselle, Esquire, Modern Bride, Health & Fitness, Glamour, Paris, and Europe's Trends—every major magazine in the world. She was renowned on the runway and helped host the Cannes Film Festival each year. She was becoming a power to be reckoned with in the art world. And she ran the regional United Way fund drive. She was the perfect accoutrement for a U.S. senator with the ambition to be president. She'd taken Jackie O's attitude and put a spin on it that resonated with the culture of the new millennium—wealth, arrogance, and self-centeredness.

  When she walked into the room, I almost stood. She commanded that kind of attention. I caught myself and waited for her to walk to me. Her gaze swept over me and one eyebrow lifted.

  "Mrs. Clay," I said, extending my hand and giving her my name, though I knew she knew it. "I was hoping to talk to your husband."

  "He's a very busy man. What's this about?"

  "I'm sorry, I can't discuss this with you. I need to speak with him."

  "His business is my business."

  "I don't doubt that, but I have to talk to him." I saw the anger in her dark eyes. Her skin was flawless, her makeup perfection. She was very beautiful and very hard.

  "I don't think he's available." She gave me a practiced smile that touched only the corners of her mouth.

  "That's too bad. I was hoping to avoid taking this to the police." I rose.

  "If this is blackmail, you can forget it. We don't pay ransom. I'll turn it over to my family. I'm sure you've heard of the Boudets." The smile was much bigger, revealing perfect white teeth.

  "Oh, yes. Even over in Mississippi the Boudets are well known." I pulled a business card from my purse and handed it to her. "I assure you, your husband will wish he'd spoken with me. I know the way out."