Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  "Thank you, Michael," I said as I started toward the door. "I'm sure we'll be talking a lot in the coming days. Do you know who Doreen has hired for her attorney?"

  "Jake O'Banyon."

  I turned to stare at him. Jake O'Banyon was the most high-profile criminal lawyer in the Southeast. "He's not a big gun, he's a cannon."

  "Doreen has friends in high places."

  I started to ask him exactly how much he knew about Doreen's relationship with Senator Thaddeus Clay, but I knew he would never tell me.

  "O'Banyon's gotten the bail hearing set for the morning. He assures me Doreen will be out in time for coffee and beignets."

  I nodded. "Michael, who do you think killed Rebekah?"

  "I won't hazard a guess."

  I gathered my purse. "I'm going to ask for a paternity test."

  "Rebekah's already been cremated."

  "The coroner will have enough material to run a DNA test."

  "Tell Mrs. Richmond I had several boxes of records delivered to her hotel room as she requested."

  "I'm sure she'll appreciate it."

  "I've never known anyone like Doreen," he said, walking out with me. He touched my arm, and I was wrong to have thought him genderless. His fingers traced heat through my blouse. "She's a very powerful woman."

  12

  Dawn was just breaking on Tuesday morning as I drove down the narrow street and stopped in front of the pink shotgun cottage where Pearline Brewer lived. It was a low-income neighborhood, but a neat one. The pink house was offset by blue shutters, and in the summer sun, it would be a bright and pleasant place. In the soft light, the house looked tired. The porch sagged a little as I walked to the door and knocked. An old Chevy in the driveway led me to believe that Pearline was home.

  After two minutes, I knocked again, and louder.

  The morning was brisk and I shifted from foot to foot as I waited. When there was still no answer, I resorted to pounding on the door.

  A front porch light came on at the house next door, and a slender black woman in a purple robe stepped out.

  "Whoever you are and whatever you want, you'd best be moving on before I call the police. Pearline's gone," she said. "Won't be back for a week at least. Her mama's ailin' over in Lafayette."

  "Do you have a number where I can call her?" My voice showed my disappointment.

  "No, she didn't leave a number," the woman said. "If she calls me, I'll tell her someone was looking for her."

  I hurried down Pearline's steps and trotted over to the neighbor's house. Pulling one of my new cards from my pocket, I handed it to her.

  "I'm working for Doreen Mallory," I said. "I need to talk with Pearline."

  "I'll be sure and tell her," the neighbor said. She held the robe at her throat with one hand while she slipped my card into her pocket. Her gaze never left mine.

  "Thanks." There was nothing left to do but meet Tinkie for the prearranged breakfast.

  I drove slowly out of the neighborhood and cruised down the streets. Pearline's neighborhood was neat, but only four blocks west, the houses got bigger and were better kept. Gentrification would soon encroach on Pearline's street. The flip side of renovation was that an entire class of people got shoved out.

  At six-fifty-nine, I parked the roadster and sprinted to the front door of the restaurant. Tinkie was already seated. I watched for a moment as every man who passed her slowed and looked. With her hair swept up in a soft cluster of curls, she looked like a movie star. The coral cashmere sweater she wore accentuated her assets. Her perfectly healthy-looking assets. Tinkie could not be sick. I examined her face as she studied the menu. I'd lost everyone I'd ever loved, and I realized that in the past year I'd come to love Tinkie with the most precious of bonds—friendship.

  I took a deep breath, forced a smile on my face, and slid into the seat opposite her. "Find anything interesting in the books?"

  She raised her gaze from the menu and studied me. "Where did you go? I rang your room at six."

  "I went to Pearline's but she's gone to Lafayette to tend her sick mother."

  "Right," Tinkie said, mirroring my own cynicism.

  "I left a card. Maybe she'll call."

  "Of course she will." Tinkie rolled her eyes. "In answer to your question, I did find one tiny little tidbit."

  I leaned forward, unable to suppress my eagerness.

  "Doreen wasn't paying Pearline's salary."

  "Who was?"

  "Now that's an excellent question," Tinkie said, her coral lips puckering. "I think it's a clue."

  "I wonder if Michael knows?"

  "I wonder if he'll tell," she said, arching an eyebrow. "But first I need sustenance. I'm having the Cajun sausage and green pepper omelet, biscuits, and coffee. What about you?"

  "Tinkie, you have excellent taste. In partners, clothes, and breakfast. I'll have the same."

  Ten pounds heavier and nearly in a coma of satisfaction, I stumbled out into the street with Tinkie. We'd decided that I would go to the bail hearing for Doreen and then stop by to talk with LeMont and, hopefully, Trina Zebrowski. Tinkie was going to the Square to talk to some of the other tarot card readers in an effort to track down Starla.

  I dropped Tinkie off across the street from the Cafe Du Monde and headed down to the municipal court building for Doreen's bond hearing. It was set for nine. I'd be there right on the dot.

  The hearing was a formality. I sat in the back of the courtroom and took note of Doreen. She sat perfectly still, her beautiful dark hair covering her like a cloak. The judge dispatched the case in less than five minutes, setting bond at two hundred thousand.

  Jake O'Banyon didn't raise an objection. He nodded at a young boy who sat behind him. The boy shot out of his seat and ran out of the courtroom like his pants were on fire. I figured him for the runner to the bondsman.

  LeMont was on the prosecutor's side, and I watched him carefully as he started toward Doreen.

  "My client has nothing to say to you," O'Banyon said, stepping in LeMont's path.

  "I have some questions and she's going to answer them," LeMont said.

  "I have a question for you, Detective. Why wasn't a juvenile detective assigned to this case? That's normal procedure. Why are you clinging to the case like dandruff to a black coat?" O'Banyon smiled like a shark.

  "What are you implying?" LeMont said, his mouth so tight and thin I was surprised words could escape.

  "I'm way too smart to imply anything," O'Banyon said, "but just let me point out that if anything funny's going on in this case, the stink's going to rub off on you."

  O'Banyon took Doreen's arm and hustled her toward the front of the courtroom. They disappeared through a heavy oak door.

  LeMont turned and when he saw me, he reddened. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

  "Watching the wheels of justice turn," I said, grinning. "Why are you handling the case, Detective?"

  "There wasn't a juvenile officer available." He brushed past me.

  "I talked to some kids at the Center last night. They said you questioned them. I'd like to see those reports. And any others you might have."

  "People in hell want ice water," he said over his shoulder. He sped out of the courtroom without a backwards glance.

  I ran after him, catching him at the front door of the building. "LeMont!" I grabbed his sleeve.

  He started to shake free but stopped and faced me. "What?"

  "The baby bottle with the barbiturate in it, did you have it processed for fingerprints?"

  "At the time we thought we didn't have to. Ms. Mallory said she'd held the bottle. The only prints on it would have been hers. Remember, when we first investigated, we thought it was a death by natural causes."

  Anger made my jaw tighten. "Things have changed since then. Doreen is charged with Murder One. I suggest you get that bottle printed."

  LeMont gave me a disgusted look and pushed through the doors. He trotted down the steps and disappeared into the throng of pedest
rians that now crowded the city.

  I stood for a moment, torn between hunting Doreen down and going after Trina Zebrowski. I chose Doreen.

  I didn't have to hunt long. Doreen appeared in the corridor while I was trying to decide where to look for her.

  "Sarah Booth," she said, her smile soft. "I saw you in the courtroom. Thanks for coming."

  "I gather you won't have a problem making the bail?"

  She shook her head as we started walking. "It's covered. Michael is handling all of it."

  We pushed through the doors and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To the Center, first. Then home." She stepped into the street, lifted her hand, and began waving at a cab five blocks away. "I'm glad to be out in the sunshine."

  "Doreen, who was paying Pearline?"

  She put her hand down and turned to face me. "I told Thad it wasn't a good idea."

  "The senator was paying Pearline?"

  She nodded. "Pearline works for him three days a week. He sent her to me two days. She needed a full-time job, so he made these arrangements."

  "And he paid for it?"

  "Yes." She held my gaze.

  "And Pearline was with Rebekah all that afternoon and most of the evening?"

  "Yes." Her eyes held mine. "Pearline can't even step on a roach. There's no way she could've hurt Rebekah."

  "Someone did."

  "Not Pearline."

  "Then who?" She'd given me so little to work with.

  "Why would Pearline hurt Rebekah? What would she gain?"

  "I don't have an answer to that question. Perhaps, though, she was acting for someone else?"

  "You think Thad sent her to work for me like some kind of assassin?"

  I'd wondered if Doreen could be rattled. Now I knew. She was spitting nails.

  "If he thought the baby was his and he wanted to make sure you never filed a paternity claim, he could have."

  "Thad isn't that kind of man."

  "And you aren't that kind of woman, so who killed Rebekah?"

  The taxi had pulled up to the curb and the driver shouted something out the window. Doreen ignored him. She stood motionless, looking into my eyes.

  "I want you to find my brother," she said. "I want to give him half the money my mother left."

  Doreen was a woman who operated on many levels simultaneously. I would be wise never to underestimate her. "That's two separate cases. I don't think I should splinter my time like that. He could be anywhere in the world."

  "Just work on it when you have spare time. My baby is the main focus, but I would like to meet my brother. It's important that he gets half his inheritance. It's important that I have a chance to know him."

  She opened the taxi door and got in. She leaned forward to give the driver instructions, and then she was gone. I stood on the curb for a moment, watching the cab blend into the packed traffic. I understood Doreen's need for a family, but I questioned her timing. A brother wouldn't do her much good if she was in prison.

  My watch showed only nine-thirty, so I drove back to the Eighth District. LeMont needed another good prod, and I also wanted to talk to Michael Anderson's main squeeze, the mounted patrolwoman, Ms. Zebrowski.

  LeMont growled an acknowledgment as I sat down beside his desk.

  "I need your help," I said, deciding on my very best Daddy's Girl manipulation.

  "Go away." He didn't even look up at me.

  "Detective, an innocent woman may spend the rest of her life in prison."

  He looked up at that. "Doreen Mallory killed her baby. That's what the facts tell me and that's what I believe."

  "What facts?"

  "She was alone with the infant. There's no sign of a forced entry. She admits to giving the baby the bottle." He sighed. "We've been over all this, Ms. Delaney. Not even Ms. Mallory can think of another single suspect."

  "What if the barbiturate was put in the bottle during the day, when Doreen was at the Center. Someone could have prepared that bottle long before she gave it to Rebekah."

  He put down the file he was holding. "No one else had a key to the apartment."

  "Doreen had trysts with several men in the past year. They've all been in her apartment. They all had as much, or more, motive than Doreen."

  "How so?"

  "Paternity."

  He actually flinched. "That's the most cockamamie thing I've heard in at least two weeks."

  "The men are very powerful." I didn't want to tell him and violate Doreen's request, but I was prepared to lay it on the line.

  "What, she's slept with the mayor and the police chief and who else, maybe the President? Now, four years ago, I might have believed that!" He barked a laugh. "Get out of here and quit wasting my time." He lifted the file. "I've got fifty more of these waiting for me."

  "Doreen could well be innocent!" I stood slowly. He wasn't even interested enough in Rebekah's paternity to ask who Doreen was sleeping with.

  He bent over the file, dismissing me.

  "Have you questioned the maid, Pearline Brewer?"

  He didn't look up.

  "Detective LeMont, the maid had ample opportunity to mix the barbiturate in the formula. If you've talked to her, I'd like to see that report."

  "Pearline Brewer has been out of town since the baby's death." He spoke to the top of his desk.

  "You haven't talked to her?" I was shocked and didn't bother to hide it. "Maybe that should be the next item on your very busy agenda."

  "Beat it," he said.

  I stormed away from him and stopped at the front desk. It took only a moment to discover that Trina Zebrowski was riding a beat on Bourbon Street for a blues funeral.

  13

  The funeral procession moved slowly down Bourbon Street, led by the ancient black men who comprised the Excelsior Band. They played a dirge as they drew abreast of me, then followed it up with "When the Saints Go Marching In." By the time the procession was out of sight, the mourners, all holding colorful umbrellas and wearing Mardi Gras beads, were dancing behind the hearse. The cycle of life and death, New Orleans style.

  Trina Zebrowski rode a heavy bay gelding. Horse and rider seemed unflappable as they pushed back the tourists who didn't realize that the funeral procession was real and not some theatrics provided for their entertainment. As she passed me, I made eye contact. Her blue eyes seemed shadowed with grief.

  I'd already checked the funeral route, and I was standing at the gate of the cemetery when the procession arrived. Trina spotted me instantly. When her duties were complete, she rode over to me.

  "You want to talk with me?" she asked, a hint of the Midwest still discernible.

  "I do. I'm working for Doreen Mallory."

  The most amazing smile touched her face, and for a split second I could have sworn she was only a child. "Please help Doreen. I know she didn't kill Rebekah. She loved that baby."

  "I know," I said. I was finding it difficult to crane my head up; the horse was a handsome seventeen hands. "Could we talk somewhere?"

  She laughed softly and slid from the saddle to the ground. To my surprise, she was only a little over five feet tall. Mounted, she'd appeared much bigger.

  "Let's walk," she said, pointing to a broad shell path that led through the mausoleums. "We have to bury the dead above-ground, you know. We're below sea level here."

  I walked beside her and let her talk as she led her horse. We were well out of range of the burial when I stopped. "If Doreen didn't kill her baby, who do you think did?"

  "I can't imagine," she said. "We all loved that baby."

  "I understand you were with Michael that night."

  "Yes, I spent the night with him." She was looking at the ground as she walked, but her smile was that of a woman in love.

  "What happened?"

  She looked up at me, and once again she looked like an innocent child. "We went to sleep. We didn't wake up until the morning, when Doreen called."

  "How did Micha
el react to the news?"

  "He was concerned for Doreen, supportive. He cares about her."

  "And Doreen? How did she sound?"

  "She's the most wonderful person in the world. Even when she called to say that Rebekah was dead and the police were there, she was so calm. She thought that God had just called Rebekah home."

  "And what do you think?"

  Trina frowned. "I don't know. Detective LeMont says Rebekah was murdered, but I know Doreen didn't do it." She hesitated. "Maybe this is a trial God has sent to Doreen, like the people in the Bible. God does that a lot, you know."

  I started to say that I thought such a God was pretty awful, but she spoke again.

  "God sent me a test. Doreen helped me pass it. She saved my life."

  "Tell me about it."

  "I grew up in Oklahoma, on a farm. I hated it. My parents were so... repressed. Anyway, about three years ago I moved here to New Orleans. I wanted to be a singer, but there are just so many musicians here. Anyway, I ended up really sick. I had a tumor on my spine."

  "You had a medical doctor diagnose this?" I'd heard that Doreen had cured Trina's tumor, but I wanted proof that there had actually been one.

  "Yes, at Oschner's Clinic. It was a fast-growing cancer. They told me I had maybe three months before I'd be paralyzed." She stopped talking and started walking faster. The horse, so well behaved, followed behind her on a loose rein.

  I caught up with her. "So, what happened?"

  "Doreen bought the building where I was living. At first I was totally disgusted with her. I'd go to the Square and watch her read for people and then touch them. I figured she was the biggest charlatan around."

  "And?" I prompted.

  "I saw her in the courtyard one day, planting some flowers. I was so angry. I could feel the tumor growing on my spine, pushing on the spinal cord. I knew I'd be in a wheelchair in a matter of days. And there she was, gardening, living the life I wanted. I just lit into her."

  "You struck her?"

  Trina shook her head, "No, but I started cursing her. I told her how unfair it was that I was dying and she was stealing money from people. I'd never done anything bad to anyone."

  "What did she say?"

  "She just stood up really slow and she asked me if I'd like some tea. She went inside her apartment, and she came down with two glasses of iced tea. When she handed me my glass, she touched me. And she looked right into my eyes, and she said, 'The tumor will begin to shrink now.' "