I slipped my feet into my shoes, collected my car keys, and headed out the door. I wasn't going to settle for watching Oren on television. I had a hankering to hear the great healer in person.
I rode with the top down, stopping once to ask directions when I thought I was lost. Oren Weaver had staged his show on the fairgrounds that were also the home of the Blues Festival.
The parking lot was filled to capacity. Once I finally parked, it was at least a good two miles back to the tent. I couldn't help but listen to the conversations of some of the people I passed, headed to the revival.
"He's got the power of God in his hands," one elderly woman said. "He's going to shrink my cancer until it goes away."
"We'll pray for you," her companion said. "Me and Bernice have been praying for you every day." Her voice held sorrow.
I passed them as quickly as possible. Sorrow was contagious, and I knew I wasn't immune. I came up behind an old man walking painfully to the tent. A young, handsome man was helping him.
"Take it easy, Grampa. Becky's saving you a seat."
"I want the front row. Revered Weaver might not see me in the back."
The back was exactly where I wanted to be. To see without being seen. People poured into the tent, desperation etched in their faces. Talk about the halt and the lame. My suspicions of Oren Weaver were turning into disgust. He was bilking these people, holding out a miracle with one hand while his other hand picked their pockets.
The choir, a cast of at least a hundred in scarlet satin robes, swayed from side to side as they sang "What a Friend We Have in Jesus." The tent filled fast. A young man in a dark suit stepped to the microphone and began to quiet the crowd with a gentle voice that spoke of God's love for his children. I hadn't been to church in years, but it was a familiar sermon. Impatiently, I checked my watch. Most of the audience was doing the same thing. They could get a sermon in their own churches. They'd come for a miracle.
"Now Reverend Oren Weaver," the young man said, backing away from center stage as Oren entered from stage right.
Oren was a commanding presence on the stage. The audience hushed. Everyone's attention was riveted where Oren stood, gilt-edged Bible in hand. He lifted the Bible, shook it once, and commanded, "Praise God!"
The audience responded with a roar.
"I say, praise God Almighty."
The din was deafening.
"We are all sinners here tonight. All of us, even me. But God's love washes all of our sins away. We come here tarnished and we'll leave clean. We come in despair and we'll leave in joy." He paused. "We come broken and we'll leave healed."
That drew another roar. An elderly woman next to me began to weep. Her hands were so knotted with arthritis that she could barely hold the tissue to her eyes.
The emotional charge in the tent was palpable. The crowd was alive with hope and expectation. It was all focused on Oren, and I wondered how addictive such rapt adulation could be.
"Reverend, help me!" A tall, thin man stood up and began to hobble toward the altar. "Please help me. I've been a sinner all my life, but I want to change. I want to walk in the light."
"You want to walk, brother, but I don't believe it's in the light. You want to walk back through that bar door to indulge in the spirit-killing alcohol!" Oren said. "God has no miracles for those who don't believe, and you, sir, are not a believer."
There it was again—the hitch to getting a miracle. All it took was belief. Of course, if the miracle didn't happen, then it had to be because the supplicant didn't have enough faith. It was sickening.
"Last night I had a vision," the man said, his voice pleading.
"God told me to come here. He said you could help me. I've changed, sir. I called my children this morning and told them I was sorry for the times I hit them. I sent a check for part of my back child support to my ex-wife. I shoulda done it long ago."
"God spoke to you?" Oren asked in a gentler voice.
"He did. I saw the man he wanted me to become, and I'm going to do it. Walking upright or hobbling, I'm going to do it."
Oren stepped down to the man. He put his Bible on the altar and clasped the man's head between his hands. It looked as if he were bending him backwards.
"Be he-aled!" Oren declared.
The man bucked like he'd been electrocuted. Two acolytes rushed forward and caught him as he fell to the ground. The crowd gasped as he twitched a time or two and lay still.
"Is he dead?" The question was whispered all around the tent. "Is he dead?"
"Rise up," Oren commanded the man. He lifted his own palm to heaven.
The man, with the assistance of the acolytes, stood. He seemed stunned and disoriented. He took a tentative step, his leg faltering. Then he took another step and another. He no longer hobbled. He walked upright, straight and sure.
"Praise God!" he shouted.
"Praise God!" Oren and the audience screamed together.
In front of me a well-dressed woman stood up, hands shaking in the air, and began speaking in tongues. She leaped on a pew and shimmied. Wild, unintelligible language rippled out of her mouth. As she spun on the bench, I could see her eyes rolled up in her head. Before I could move, she fell.
Two more acolytes were there to catch her.
"God is with us tonight!" Oren said.
"Amen!" the crowd replied.
"God is with us because we've come to seek him. He is there for us, always. It's we who turn away from God. But now you're all here, back on the path of light. And God will shower you with his love. But it costs money to spread the word of God. It's expensive to travel and set up this tent and pay my helpers. So I'm going to ask you to help me continue spreading God's word. Just contribute what you can. My helpers will pass the collection plates while I take a moment to recover. God's work is mighty strenuous, my children." He slipped from the stage.
It was interesting that Oren was going to get his money up front. One little miracle and he was passing the hat. I took that as my cue to slip out the back of the tent. I had a little exploring to do. And I was curious about the man he'd healed.
The west side of the tent was where all the equipment trucks were parked. They'd make good cover. In the tent, Oren called for a series of hymns. I found an opening beside a sound truck and peeked inside, hoping for a little luck.
Several of Weaver's helpers, all dressed in dark suits and white shirts with red ties, were in a cluster talking. They looked like college boys from the fifties with their hair clipped above the ears and combed neatly back. Youth and passion gave them all good looks. I wondered what Oren truly taught them. I eased behind them.
Piles of what looked like amplifiers and other equipment were stacked behind the stage. I slipped around them and stopped when I heard voices.
"You were perfect, Bill," Oren said. He pulled something out of his pocket and gave it to the thin man who'd been healed.
"I have to say, my leg is feeling better." Bill jumped up and down.
"Now isn't the time for a medical report," Oren said tartly. "I think next time we should use the rodeo story. Folks like to think I'm helping a busted-up cowboy."
"Rodeo Bill, that's me." There was a laugh. "It makes all those Christian ladies feel real sorry for me. There is something about a cowboy."
"Get back out in the audience. Those people have paid to see a miracle. Show it to them. I'll heal Martha of her blindness after my break."
Bill wove through the equipment and disappeared. I wanted to follow him, but Oren was still fifteen feet away, standing by himself. Doreen berated me for my lack of faith, but look what faith wrought. It was just another tool to fleece people who did believe in a higher power with the ability to grant miracles.
There was the sound of something shifting. "What are you doing here?" Oren demanded.
I peeked around the equipment, but I could only catch a glimpse of a slender, dark woman. "I'm worried," the woman said.
"Hush your mouth right now. What have you got to
be worried about?"
"I thought you could help her," the woman said. "But you didn't." Her voice broke. "God didn't help her."
"I tried." There was something in Oren's voice that made me risk another look. "I did the best I could."
The woman leaned into him, sobbing. He put his hand on her head and stroked her hair. I was fascinated by Oren's gentleness.
"I have to preach," he said. "They're on the next-to-last song before it's time for me to get back out there."
"I know." She straightened up and wiped at her eyes with her hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here."
"No, you shouldn't have. Now, I'll show you how to get out of here without being seen."
They started away together but stopped when a big, well-built man in a black jacket and black T-shirt stepped in front of them.
"Samuel!" Oren actually sounded afraid.
"I think the little lady was leaving, right?" the big man said in a menacing tone.
"Yes, she was on her way out." Oren's voice softened as he turned back to her. "Go on home. This place is dangerous for you."
There was a lengthy silence and the sound of someone moving away. I was afraid to peep. Samuel was facing my hiding place.
"What is the meaning of this, Samuel?" Oren asked in a tone that tried to be haughty.
"That idiotic wife of yours has spouted off to a reporter about your little fling with that whore. I told you to break it off. Now here she is waving her fancy ass at a revival. I don't know what you're thinking with, but it isn't your brain."
"Myra can't prove a thing and you know it."
"She says she can." Samuel's tone was ominous. "I just got you out of a similar scrape. I'm not doing it again. If you can't keep your dick in your pants, maybe you'd better give up preaching."
Oren laughed. "If I don't preach, I don't make money. If I don't make money, you don't get paid. It's a simple equation, Samuel."
"You're getting careless, and I'm sick of picking up the pieces. Can you shut Myra up?"
"Maybe," Oren said. "She probably wants a new car or something."
"Well, give it to her. And pay off that whore and send her on her way."
"Thanks for the advice." Oren's voice was icy.
Samuel stormed toward me. I crouched among the equipment, expecting a huge hand to lift me up by my neck. The stack shuddered and several boxes toppled over. One struck my shoulder so solidly I almost cried out. Then there was silence. I waited at least ten minutes before I dared to move. When I did, the choir in the tent was belting out "Bringing in the Sheaves."
As much as I longed for a hot bath and a bed, I went back inside the tent to hunt for the miraculously healed Bill. I needed to talk to him. But he was in the middle of a large throng of excited people. There wasn't a sign of Oren Weaver's latest girlfriend.
Tinkie TAPPED ON my door, dragging me out of a sleep so sound I felt drugged. I'd made it back to the hotel room after the tent revival and crashed. Vague fragments of dreams clung to my brain, images of saints and sinners, angels and the damned.
The knocking at my door was persistent, and when I opened it, Tinkie stood in the hall with a tray containing coffee and hot croissants. She walked past me and put her burden on the small table near the window. She poured two cups of coffee and handed me one, black. "The Black and Orange Ball is less than sixty hours away, Sarah Booth. Are you getting excited?"
I had bigger fish to fry than dances. "Tinkie, I hope you aren't buying into this Doreen—"
"Sarah Booth, I love you, but we aren't going to discuss Doreen's beliefs. I know she upset you, and I'm sorry, but I won't choose between you. We're on a case. You were out last night. What did you find out?"
My first impulse was to lash out, but I couldn't do it. Tinkie had been too good a friend. "I found out some things about Oren Weaver. Let me just say that he's moved to the top of my suspect list."
Over coffee and a nibble of croissant I filled Tinkie in on what I'd witnessed, repeating Samuel's comment about cleaning up another of Oren's affairs.
"He's a charlatan. I wonder why Doreen thinks he's truly a healer?" Tinkie asked.
"Doreen may be a little naive," I said as gently as possible.
"Maybe," Tinkie agreed, surprising me. "We need to get Doreen to demand that DNA test," she said. "She doesn't want to do it, but she's going to have to. I'll work on her."
If Tinkie had fallen under Doreen's spell, it certainly hadn't clouded her ability to see the case clearly.
"Can you make her understand?"
"I'll handle it. We'll get the order for the DNA by lunchtime. What are you doing today?"
"I'm meeting Cece for brunch."
"Sarah Booth, I want to see your dress for the Black and Orange Ball."
Spiritualism hadn't cured Tinkie of worrying about fashion.
"I don't have it here. I've got to pick it up."
"The ball is Saturday. That's two days. Where is the dress and when are you getting it?"
"The dress is in Zinnia," I said. "Mollie made it for me. And it's fabulous. I swear it. She's hemming it now."
"Mollie made it!" Tinkie squealed with pleasure. "You're going to look magnificent. I still have to go and get my mask." The prospect of shopping put a glow in Tinkie's eyes.
"Mollie's making mine," I said a little smugly.
"Sometimes, Sarah Booth, you do take the cake." She leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Would you mind if I joined you and Cece for brunch?"
"I'd love it."
Court of Two Sisters was the place Cece had chosen. I went down the narrow hallway and was led to a seat in the courtyard. It was a beautiful place, if touristy. I ordered a Bloody Mary as I waited for Tinkie and Cece to join me.
Someone slipped warm hands over my eyes, and I heard Cece's voice at my ear. "Surprise, dahling."
"Take your paws off my face," I said a little grumpily, "you're smearing my mascara."
"Sarah Booth."
The voice was low and male and sexy. I put my hands up and felt the hands on my face. They were large hands, masculine hands. I whirled around and looked up to see Hamilton Garrett V smiling down at me.
"Hamilton?" I felt as if I'd fallen into a dream. He was the handsomest man I'd ever seen. With his dark hair and green eyes, he was better than a movie star. I felt a blush color my face as I remembered, in vivid detail, the hours of lovemaking we'd shared.
"You're blushing," he whispered in my ear. His lips brushed my cheek and sent shivers down me. "What are you thinking about?"
"Just remember, Sarah Booth, he's my date," Cece said, settling down at the table and signaling a waiter. "Sit down, Hamilton, every woman in this place is staring at you."
And they were. Especially me. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He'd been the subject of my first case, and for several weeks I'd believed he was a mother-killer. Of course, that hadn't kept me from falling into the sack with him. And my only regret had been that he'd returned to his home in Europe rather than stay in Zinnia and continue sinning with me.
"Did they deliver the flowers?" he asked, unfolding my napkin and putting it in my lap.
"The flowers! You sent them! To me! I thought they'd been delivered to the wrong room."
"Sarah Booth," Cece hissed, "you make it sound like you never get flowers. I've just been telling Hamilton how every single man in Zinnia has been courting you." I felt the pointed toe of her stylish boot bite into my shin.
"That's right. I get flowers all the time." I'd rather lie than let Cece kick me to death. "What are you doing in the States?" Turning the conversation to Hamilton was my only defense.
"I came to see you," he said. "I realized that I'd never drag you out of the cotton fields to visit me, so I came home."
"For how long?" My heart was beating fast.
"A week."
I wanted to ask, "And then?" but I didn't. Sometimes it's best not to know the future.
"I want to spend as much time with you as your case allows," he said, h
is gaze holding mine. "I'll take every spare moment you have."
"Hamilton is my date for the ball, but he can dance with you some," Cece said. She put in an order for two more Bloody Marys. "Make that three," I said. "Tinkie's—"
"Tinkie!" Hamilton said, rising. "How good to see you."
She sailed across the room and took a seat at the table. When she looked at me, her eyes were bright with happiness. "Sometimes God sends good things, Sarah Booth. You should never despair."
I was about to answer her when my cell phone rang. Everyone at the table was watching me as I answered it.
Coleman's voice was clear. "Sarah Booth, I've rounded up Coot and I think he'll talk to you. There's something you should hear. He thinks Lillith was murdered." There was a pause as he waited for me to respond. "Sarah Booth, when are you coming home?"
18
"Tomorrow morning," I said to Coleman on the phone, never breaking eye contact with Hamilton. I fought to keep my face blank.
"I'll be glad to see you," Coleman answered. "Call me when you get in."
He hung up and I held the cell phone to my ear another few seconds. I'd been reduced from delighted to conflicted. In Hamilton's absence, Coleman had entered my heart. But he was a married man. Now Hamilton was back, at least for a week. I wasn't certain what I felt.
"Sarah Booth, are you okay?" Tinkie was staring at me.
"I'm fine. Coleman got me an appointment with Coot. He believes Lillith Lucas was murdered."
"Murdered?" Cece and Hamilton echoed. I'd successfully thrown the two of them off the scent of my fluctuating heart, but Tinkie wasn't so easily diverted. She stared at me with cool speculation.
"When's the appointment?" she asked.
"Tomorrow."
"Is Coleman going with you to talk to Coot?" She was as persistent as Sweetie Pie after a roast.
"I'll talk to him tomorrow when I go home," I said.
"I just remembered, I left my earrings at home. Since I have to go get them, I'll talk to Coot and save you a trip to Zinnia," Tinkie said quickly. "I'll pick up your dress, too. Tomorrow is Friday. Just one day to go before the ball."
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