"So your first impression of Michael Anderson is—"
"He's not the father of that baby. He couldn't be. He's physically perfect. Or at least everything I saw. And Doreen is so beautiful. If they made a baby, it would be drop-dead gorgeous."
Tinkie knew as well as I that genetics couldn't be judged by the exterior. Leave it to her to be overwhelmed by a handsome man. "What about the books?"
"Doreen makes a lot of money. A lot." Tinkie ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. "I need to dig in this a little deeper. She has a lot of people with fingers in her pie, and some of them may be greedy. It's a possibility that someone wanted Doreen out of the way badly enough to set her up for murder." She looked up at me, her eyes wide. "She's on her way to becoming very wealthy. Michael's been smart. Risky, but smart."
"How does she make her money?" I asked.
"I had the books from 2000 until now. That's when she first incorporated. Doreen Mallory Ministries, Inc. That's when the money began to come in from her classes and her practice. She also started a small publishing company, Healing Words Press, which is becoming more and more lucrative. Sarah Booth, she's bringing in nearly half a million this year. Next year it looks like it could double."
My face must have registered my surprise.
"I know. Five years ago she was reading tarot cards in Jackson Square. Now she's renovating part of a building she bought on St. Peter for her healing center. She doesn't call it a church."
"I'm surprised she doesn't have her own television show."
"I found some offers, but she declined."
"I wonder why."
"You'll have to ask her that. I would have asked Michael, but he'd already left."
"Did he act nervous or anxious?"
She shook her head and gave a lopsided smile. "He said he had to go to Jackson Square to tell the people waiting for Doreen that she wasn't coming today. He said they line up every Monday and wait for her for hours."
"She still reads tarot cards?"
"Yes," Tinkie said, a strange calmness settling over her. "And sometimes she heals."
10
TlNKIE WAS CHOMPING AT THE BIT TO GET BACK TO WORK ON THE books. She'd developed a real interest in math—when it came to multiplication of dollar signs and nuptial possibilities. Tinkie's DG training had kicked in and I could see she was sizing Michael Anderson up as date potential for several friends who had missed the first boat of financially secure husbands.
It's an unwritten code among DGs that once one is properly married, she seeks suitable husbands for her friends. It's more than a code, it's a sacred vow. I dreaded the fact that I was among that number that Tinkie felt obligated to matchmake for, even though her efforts so far had proved dismal failures.
It wasn't that I failed to see Michael's many assets. He had the Midas touch, but I still had him on my list of potential murder suspects.
Since we were just across Rampart Street from Jackson Square, I prevailed on her to walk over. I loved the Square, where artists rendered quick sketches in charcoal and tarot card readers dressed in everything from Scottish kilts to Viking horns read the future for twenty bucks a shot.
My first view of Michael Anderson literally stopped me in my tracks. For once in her life, Tinkie had been understated. Michael was tall and dark complected, with intense brown eyes.
He was standing beside a small table surrounded by fifty or sixty people. The crowd, judging by their clothes, was diverse. All economic backgrounds and ages.
"Doreen can't come today," he was saying. "Probably not for a while."
"Where is she?" someone asked.
"She's in jail," someone in the crowd answered before Michael could. Too bad. I was curious to see how he would have responded to the question.
He stepped away from the table and my gaze went from his broad shoulders to his trim waist and hips. The expensive suit covered him, but it didn't hide the body of a Greek god.
"Doreen is in jail and the charge is serious. As you all know, Doreen's infant daughter died in her sleep recently. Unfortunately, the police have begun to believe that Rebekah was murdered."
"Doreen wouldn't hurt that baby," an older woman spoke out. "The Lord just took her back. He never meant for her to stay here long at all."
A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd. "What can we do to help?" a young man with studs in his eyebrows, nose, and lips asked.
Michael shook his head. "Pray." He loosened the tie at his throat. "Doreen is okay. I spoke with her this morning and she's only sorry that she can't be here to talk to all of you."
"Will she be at the Center later?"
"I'll post a note on the fence when I find out the date she'll be back," Michael promised. "Just pray. Continue to ask for guidance and focus your prayers and energy for Doreen."
"My cousin is flying in from Portland," one woman said in a voice filled with stress. "She's coming just to see Doreen. She's got breast cancer and it's spreading all over her. She's gonna die. She's got to see Doreen."
Michael's handsome features hardened. "Doreen is in jail, charged with murder. Can't you look beyond your own needs for a split second?"
The woman paled and several of her friends huddled around her.
"I'm sorry," Michael said. "That was inexcusable. I'm worried sick about Doreen. I don't have to tell you what's at stake here. This is a capital murder charge."
"We're worried about Doreen, too," a thin, well-dressed man spoke out. "She's helped so many of us. Now we'll have to focus on helping her."
"Thank you," Michael said softly. "And as soon as she's able, she'll be here to talk with you and help you. But remember what she says: You have the power to heal yourself. Doreen has no magic. She only has belief. She's been teaching you how to think and explore. Go home and apply those things. Trust yourselves. That's what Doreen told me to tell you. Trust yourselves."
"That's exactly what she'd have said," a woman said with a teary smile. "Well, it's not doing any good to stand around here." She turned away and headed across the Square in front of the cathedral. Several others followed her.
The thin man remained, taking a seat opposite Michael at the small table. Tinkie and I walked forward. Michael had seen us out of the corner of his eye, and he introduced himself to me, and both of us to his companion, Alec Hathoway. Michael had obviously been told about me, either by Tinkie or someone else.
"Alec helps with the ministry," Michael said. "He runs the soup kitchen for us."
"We feed about a hundred people a day, mostly young kids," Alec said with a slow smile. "The Quarter has a lot of youngsters on the lam. Although we don't have the winters they do farther north, this can be a very cold city for a teenager with no money and no shelter."
Michael broke in. "Have you found anything that might help Doreen?"
If he had any reason to believe he was a potential suspect, he surely didn't show it.
"We have some interesting leads." I stepped out of the way of a gaggle of teenage girls who were laughing and pushing one another as they came out of Madeline's Bakery and Cafe.
"Doreen didn't do this," Michael said.
"No, it's impossible that she would do such a thing," Alec agreed. "Doreen loved her baby. Most people would have been devastated." He shook his head slowly. "I have to say, it hurt me to look at that child. How could so many things go wrong and the baby still live?"
"Doreen never saw any of the defects," Michael said. "She never grasped the reality of what Rebekah was."
"And what was that reality?" I asked.
"She was going to die." Michael stared into my eyes. "Doreen was going to suffer, no matter what she did."
"Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt the baby?" I asked.
"Have you spoken with Pearline?" Alec asked. "She was always around Rebekah. Maybe she knows something."
"Pearline?" Tinkie and I asked in unison.
"Doreen's maid. She was more a nanny than a maid. She kept
Rebekah when Doreen was working." Alec's frown was minimal, but present. "I would have thought she'd be one of the first people you'd talk to."
"She would have been if someone had told us about her," Tinkie said. She glanced at her watch. "Is she still employed?"
"She is, but she hasn't been in this week," Michael said easily. "When Doreen decided to travel to Zinnia, Mississippi, she gave Pearline the week off. And to be honest, there isn't much work for Pearline to do now that Rebekah is... gone."
"Do you have her address?" I asked Michael.
He wrote the street address and phone number on the back of a business card. "She has other clients, so call before you waste a trip."
"Thanks," I said, tucking the card into the back pocket of my jeans.
"Doreen's apartment isn't far from here," Tinkie said. "Would it be possible for us to take a look around?"
Michael nodded. "It would be, but I don't have a key. Doreen insisted that her private life be just that, private. I have keys to the Center, but not to her apartment."
"Would anyone have a key?" Tinkie pressed.
"I don't think so." Michael looked at Alec.
"Pearline had a key," Alec offered. "Even though you can't get in the apartment, you can look around the courtyard. I never went upstairs, but we sometimes sat on the patio and talked. Doreen was buying the entire building. It might be interesting to talk to the tenants. Maybe they saw something."
"We'll do that," Tinkie said, smiling. "I just want to get a feel of the layout. It could prove important in the case."
"Is there a convenient time when I can speak with you alone?" I asked Michael.
His intense eyes connected with mine. "I'm at your disposal, Ms. Delaney. Whatever I can do to help Doreen."
"This evening? Say, seven o'clock?"
"Why don't we meet at the Center on St. Peter? I can give you a tour. I'll also bring along some of the financial records that Ms. Richmond has asked to see."
"That would be perfect," I agreed.
Tinkie and I took our leave, walking along St. Ann to Dumaine, where we took a left. Tinkie stopped at a shopwindow that held an exquisite display of antique jewelry. "What did you think?" she asked.
She didn't have to say about what. "He's a handsome man," I agreed. "One of the handsomest men I've ever seen."
"And?" she pressed.
I tried to organize my feelings about Michael Anderson. He lacked the charisma of Oren Weaver and the power of Thaddeus Clay, but there was something there. An intensity that was compelling.
"I get the feeling that he's been badly hurt in the past." I stumbled over my words, trying to find the right ones. "Wounded," I said finally. "Somewhere along the way, Michael has lost a lot. I recognized that in him."
Tinkie lightly grasped my shoulder and turned me to face her. She was caught in a shaft of October light that seemed ancient, a hue haloed and muted by time. I was struck by the soft perfection of her skin and the real concern in her blue eyes.
"Are you okay, Sarah Booth?"
I thought about it. "Yes," I said.
"You haven't been yourself lately."
"I know." Lying to Tinkie was never smart, so I didn't try.
"Is it Coleman?"
"Partly," I admitted. "But it's other stuff, too. I think about the past a lot."
"I do, too," Tinkie said, rubbing my arm. We stepped closer to the storefront, to allow a cluster of tourists sporting cameras, hats, and varicose veins to pass by us. I was suddenly aware of the bustle of the street, the constant motion of the loud tourists holding Styrofoam cups filled with frozen liquor concoctions.
"I think about the future, too," she said. "This is a hard case for me. I want a child so much, and Oscar doesn't. He keeps saying he's not ready."
"Why does Oscar get to make this decision all by himself?" I asked.
"He doesn't. But he is an equal partner. If he says no, then it's no. I guess in this case the declining partner has a little more than fifty percent of the vote."
"Why?" I demanded, remembering my prior conversation with Jitty and her point that women had served for centuries at the bidding of men. "You could have a baby."
"I could, but how right would that be? I mean, put the shoe on the other foot. What if Oscar wanted a baby and I didn't? Would it be fair for him to trick me into getting pregnant or demand that I carry his child?"
Tinkie was not only becoming an excellent investigator, she was becoming an adult.
"Maybe he'll change his mind," I said, trying to find the best outcome.
"And maybe by the time he does, it'll be too late."
Her words sent a chill down my spine. It was as if Jitty had possessed Tinkie's body. "You have another ten years. At least."
She shook her head. "I'm not even talking biologically. The instinct to nurture and mother fades. It's the way God made us, so that we let go of our children and they can be independent and find their own lives. In another five years, I might not want to focus all my attention on a baby."
Tinkie had a valid point, and one that haunted me even when Jitty was far away at Dahlia House. "The future is out of our hands. Right now, all we can do is concentrate on our job. Let's check out Doreen's pad," I said, opting for the hip lingo of my mother's generation. It seemed to put a devil-may-care spin on things, even if it was only a superficial one.
Doreen's address wasn't hard to find. It was only a few blocks from Decatur and the French Market, in an area of big, historic houses that had been divided into street-front businesses and interior apartments. The stout, arched door was opened by a diminutive woman in a dance leotard.
"We're working for Doreen Mallory," I told the woman as Tinkie handed her one of our newly printed business cards.
She scanned it. "My name is Martha LaFoche. I've already spoken with Sister Mary Magdalen and she said to expect you. Come in," she said, opening the door wide. "The tenants have been talking together and we want to help."
"Did you see someone the night Rebekah was killed?" Tinkie asked eagerly.
"I didn't see anything. I was onstage. But some of the others may have ideas. I'll show you where everyone lives."
We followed her down a brick carriageway that gave a beautiful, arched view of a courtyard bursting with vegetation and a tinkling fountain. Stepping into the courtyard was like entering another world.
"That back apartment is Trina Zebrowski's," Martha said, pointing it out. "That one is rented by Starla Marston, and then Doreen is above that. To the right is my apartment, which is a two-story and the largest apartment other than Doreen's."
"Where is Starla?" Tinkie asked. She was hot on the trail of this interview.
"She's working. On the Square. She reads tarot cards."
"We'll find her on our way out," I said more to Tinkie than Martha. I walked to the center of the courtyard and turned around, taking in the physical reality of the place. LeMont had done a damn good job of drawing it, but he'd failed to capture the otherworldliness. "How old is this building?"
"It dates back to the late 1700s," Martha said. "Doreen knows all the details, but it's on the historic registry. It was once a home, and the back apartment was above the stables. The groom lived over the horses."
"It must be quite valuable property."
"Yes, it is. Even though the Quarter is gradually sinking, the real estate is prime." She gave a laugh that perfectly suited her tiny frame.
"Is it possible to climb to Doreen's windows from the street?" I asked, remembering the balcony that had overhung the arched doorway on Dumaine where we'd entered.
"A slender man or a woman, or of course a child, might be able to climb it. But the balcony is old. If you look closely you can see that the attachment to the old building is weak." She shrugged. "Do you think someone climbed in the window and killed Rebekah?"
"I don't think Doreen did it," Tinkie said stoutly.
"Neither do I," Martha said. "I saw her with the baby every morning. She'd come in the courtyard w
hile Pearline went to Madeline's or the Cafe Du Monde for coffee and breakfast. Doreen would hold that infant in her lap and sing to her." She blinked, and I couldn't be certain if it was tears or not. "She acted like Rebekah was normal. She talked about her like she'd grow up. She asked me if I'd give her dance lessons."
"What about the maid, Pearline?" Tinkie asked.
Martha cocked her head. "She was totally devoted to that baby. Ever since Rebekah died, Pearline's been in a deep depression. Several times when she didn't show up for work, Doreen went to check on her. In some ways, it appeared that Pearline took Rebekah's death harder than Doreen."
I knew what she was talking about. Doreen's serenity sometimes made her seem to have less emotion.
"When was the last time you saw Pearline?" I asked.
"Oh, that would have been last week. She came to clean the apartment." Martha glanced down at the ground, then back up at me. "She was packing up the baby's things, to take them to Goodwill. She was very upset."
"Is there any access into Doreen's apartment other than the interior stairwell?" Tinkie asked. "I mean, it used to be one house. Is there an adjoining door from your apartment?"
"The doors have all been sealed and plastered over," Martha said. "Unless the killer climbed the balcony, he had to enter through the stairwell."
"What about Trina?" I asked. "Do you know her well?"
"She's the newest tenant. She's also a mounted policewoman and she manages all the repairs and maintenance of the whole place for Doreen."
"Where was she the night Rebekah died?" Tinkie asked.
"She was with her boyfriend."
"Do you know his name?" I was pulling my pad from the pocket of my jeans. Nothing like adding more leads.
Martha gave us a curious look. "It's Michael. Doreen's financial manager. Trina's seeing him." The sentiment "lucky dog" was implied.
I looked at Tinkie. "Have they been seeing each other long?" Tinkie asked.
"About three months. I mean, they knew each other long before that and were friendly. I always had the impression that Michael was in love with someone else. He just never seemed to notice when any of the young women made a pass at him, and believe me, that's a lot of not noticing. I just began to think that his heart already belonged to someone. And then all of a sudden, Trina came home from work one day, changed into a dress, and said Michael had asked her to dinner."
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