Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  The only thing that remained of Lillith was her tomb. I stopped and a throng of Japanese tourists piled into my back. I apologized and stepped into a doorway to think.

  The gravestone depicted Lillith surrounded by flames, just as Coot had described her standing in the bedroom. But Lillith had died of smoke inhalation. So she had never stood in the flames. Had Coot, in a moment of guilty remorse, paid for the tombstone? It was a question that needed an answer.

  I whipped out my evil cell phone and dialed the Sunflower County Sheriff's Office. It was late and Rinda Stonecypher had long gone home, so I wasn't surprised when Coleman answered. I got the impression he went home as little as possible. That thought was a barb in my heart.

  "Did Coot pay for Lillith's stone?" I asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Will you ask him?"

  "I'd do almost anything for you, Sarah Booth."

  LeMont was in a far corner of the bar, the long work week showing in his posture. Not twenty feet from him a dart game was going on, to raucous cheers. Across an alley, Irish music wafted out of a second bar. A golden voice sang a sad ballad.

  I stopped at the bar and got a double Jack on the rocks before I went to the corner. LeMont didn't bother to stand when I got to his table. I took a seat and waited for him to talk first.

  "Your clever little friend is going to regret upsetting Ellisea." "My clever little friend, as you call her, thrives on upsetting people like Ellisea. I'm sure she can handle anything Mrs. Clay chooses to dish out. In fact, it will make fascinating material for Cece's newspaper column."

  Ah, the pen was mightier than the sword.

  "That's assuming she has a chance to write a column." LeMont grinned, and a cold chill touched my soul. "But let's not exchange threats. Ellisea was upset. She'd rather apologize than have this go further."

  "LeMont, I never figured you for an errand boy." I was genuinely pissed. He'd threatened my friend and now offered a second-hand apology.

  "It doesn't matter what you figure me for. What matters is that this ends right here."

  "Or what?"

  "Ms. Delaney, you came here to look into the murder of an infant. Ellisea Boudet is not within the scope of your interests. You and your friend should let it go."

  "Oh, but you're wrong there, Detective. Mr. and Mrs. Clay are very much within the scope of my investigation. Based on the fact that you're sitting here talking to me, I'd say they just moved to first place."

  LeMont's face was grim. "The Clays had nothing to do with Doreen Mallory or her baby. It's true the senator contributed some money to Ms. Mallory's ministry. That and a large number of other organizations."

  "Money wasn't the only thing the senator gave Doreen." It was time to fish or cut bait. I'd kept Doreen's secret as long as I could. The senator knew he was a suspect. Ellisea probably did, too. Possibly even LeMont. But if he was playing in the dark, I was ready to enlighten him. "The senator might be Rebekah's father."

  He was well schooled in showing nothing. I couldn't tell if I'd shocked him or not.

  "Ms. Mallory made this accusation? Is that what the DNA test is all about?"

  "You got it."

  He rose to his feet. "I want to question Ms. Mallory tomorrow morning, at the district, at eight sharp." He turned abruptly and left.

  I finished my drink. It was after two o'clock Saturday morning. Hamilton might still welcome me to his bed, but I'd been brought up with better manners, and what little of the DG rules Aunt LouLane had belatedly been able to instill. Going to a man's bed at two A.M. sounded cheap. In fact, it sounded a whole lot like free milk.

  Walking through the streets of the Crescent City, I worked hard at convincing myself that I wanted the solitude of my hotel room, where I could anticipate seeing Hamilton at the Black and Orange Ball in only a matter of hours.

  22

  It did me no good to accompany Doreen to the police station. I'd turned down breakfast with Hamilton for the pleasure of cooling my heels in a dingy interrogation room. Alone.

  I'd warned Doreen that LeMont knew about Clay's possible paternity. She took it better than I thought. Now that she believed Rebekah was murdered, she wasn't nearly as interested in protecting the senator. Or Oren Weaver, or anyone else. Doreen had turned a corner, and to my surprise, I wasn't proud of my part in making her confront the ugly realities of what had happened to her baby.

  These were the things I pondered as I waited for LeMont to finish with her. I kept expecting her lawyer to walk through the door and considered calling him myself. But I didn't. Doreen was nobody's fool.

  After two hours she came out of LeMont's office, looking as refreshed as if she'd been to a spa. LeMont wore a thundercloud on his forehead.

  "I should slap you both in jail for withholding vital evidence," he said angrily. "Obstruction of justice is a serious thing in New Orleans. Maybe that hick-town sheriff looks the other way, but you're on my list, Delaney."

  "You weren't interested in evidence," I said, using my best Delta drawl. "You arrested Doreen, and you didn't look any further. As far as you were concerned, Rebekah was hatched. You never even asked about the father."

  "Doreen was the logical suspect."

  "Anyone but the Clays are logical suspects, aren't they? Tell me, is it Ellisea you're protecting, or the senator?"

  LeMont bowed up, his jaw clenching along with his hands. "You're out of line."

  "I've told the detective everything," Doreen said. "He's promised me he's going to check out all the suspects."

  I had my doubts, but I kept my mouth shut. Further bickering with LeMont would get me nowhere, except maybe a cell.

  "I'll be in touch," LeMont said as we started to exit the building. "If you think of anything else vital to the case, do give a ring."

  Even though it was Saturday, Doreen had work at the Center. It was a perfect opportunity for me to question her about her investments. We hailed a taxi.

  As I suspected, she had no idea how the money was invested. "Michael handles all of that." She dismissed the subject as if we were talking about a choice of motor oil.

  "Would you object to owning stock in companies that manufacture munitions?"

  "Michael would never invest in such things knowingly." She shifted on the seat so that she could see me better. "Are you saying that I own those kinds of stocks?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll speak to Michael as soon as we get to the Center. He'll have to sell them." Her mouth was a thin line. "Is it possible he didn't know what he was buying?"

  "Tinkie's husband found it immediately. Tinkie didn't know, and neither would I. But Michael is your financial advisor. He should know these things."

  "Michael is my right hand even though he's not formally trained in advising. He's self-taught, and I admire that. You have to understand that the things I've accomplished in the last year are because of him. I owe him a lot. But there are times when his concern for money overrides his focus on the things that really matter."

  "And what really matters?"

  "A sense of peace. Helping others to realize the divinity in themselves. Good friends and a healthy body."

  I couldn't argue with her choices. But money made everything on her list a little sweeter. Not even naivete could totally ignore that fact.

  "Doreen, if something untoward should happen to you, who would benefit?"

  "I'm perfectly healthy. Nothing's going to happen to me." She smiled at the idea.

  "Indulge me."

  "The Center. Everything would go to the Center and Michael would oversee it. He knows how important things like the soup kitchen are to me. I think there would be enough money to keep the Center going for a long, long time."

  "Then you aren't aware that Michael Anderson is named as your beneficiary on all accounts?" I asked the question calmly.

  A frown touched her face. "You know, it seems he mentioned something to me about how it would be best for the money to go into his control. Michael is totally devoted to the g
oals I'm trying to accomplish."

  She paused, seeming to watch the hustle of New Orleans pass by the cab window. "I told him to do whatever he thought best. The most expedient solution. If his name is on the policies, it's because I allowed it. I trust him totally." She looked at me. "Michael may not have the formal training or sophistication of some money managers. He makes mistakes. But he's as devoted to this ministry as I am. Don't ever doubt that."

  "Money can be a powerful motivation for a lot of things, good and bad."

  The cab pulled up in front of the Center. She opened the door and started to get out. I was riding on to meet Hamilton at an uptown restaurant. "I will speak to him about where the money is invested. I'm sure he'll agree immediately to find other, saner investments."

  Che's, a small, intimate restaurant with a lovely garden, was the perfect place for a romantic rendezvous. Tables were scattered discreetly amidst bougainvillea, ferns, sawmill palms, and thick banana plants. Unfortunately, Hamilton was at none of the tables.

  But he had called in his regrets and his credit card number. He was unavoidably tied up in a business meeting. He would call later in the afternoon.

  I had no right to feel irritated. My work had interfered last night. Today he had business. It was part and parcel of who we were. So I ordered a vodka martini and lunch, and enjoyed the dining experience. Maybe it was best that Hamilton didn't see me before the ball. Sort of like bad luck for a groom to see his bride on their wedding day.

  That thought conjured up a host of images. Did I even want a wedding day? Had I fallen so far off the normal path of a Daddy's Girl that I no longer cared that my left finger was barren? Not to mention my womb. I glanced furtively around the garden to see if Jitty had somehow slipped behind a potted palm and was practicing mind control.

  The waiter brought my espresso and saved me from further ruminations. I was glad to escape confronting the void of my future.

  A nap was in order and I caught a cab back to the French Quarter. The Monteleone was beginning to look like home. I undressed and slipped beneath the covers and fell asleep almost instantly, visions of my black-and-orange gown dancing in my head.

  THE rat-a-TAT-TAT of a tiny fist beating at my door made me think I was at Dahlia House and Tinkie was demanding breakfast. But the room was strange, the smell of the wonderful stargazer lilies almost a drug. I awoke to hear Tinkie's irritated voice on the other side of the hotel door.

  "Open up, Sarah Booth. Don't force me to call the manager and tell him that you've stolen the good silver from the dining room."

  "Coming!" I jumped out of bed and unlocked the door. Tinkie took one look at me and shook her head.

  "You haven't even begun to get ready!"

  "It's only"—I checked my watch—"four o'clock. The ball doesn't start until nearly ten."

  "That doesn't leave us much time," she said, marching past me and slamming the door. "We have a manicure, a pedicure, pumicing those heels and elbows, waxing the legs." She sighed. "That doesn't even get us above the waist for at least two hours!"

  "Tinkie, it's a ball gown, not a bikini."

  "Honey, you've just let yourself go to hell in a handbasket."

  I was saved from defensive commentary by the ringing of my phone. Hamilton would salve the wounds that Tinkie had opened.

  "Hello," I said in a sexy voice.

  "I want what's mine. I should inherit whatever Adam's share was. I was his wife. I had his kid."

  The voice had the high-pitched drone of a hungry mosquito.

  "Who is this?" I asked.

  "Kiley. Kiley Crenshaw. And don't play dumb with me. You know who I am, and you tell that Doreen Mallory that whatever money she intended to give to Adam, she owes me. That bastard left me with a kid."

  "Adam drowned," I said. The Crenshaws had told Tinkie they didn't believe Kiley's child belonged to Adam.

  "What's your point? He got out of it, didn't he? Scot-free, too. He didn't have to change a diaper or do a single damn thing with Joshua."

  "He died, Mrs. Crenshaw. It's not like he abandoned you."

  "Well, it all amounts to the same thing in my book. I got left with all the responsibility. Now I want my due."

  "I'll be sure and tell Doreen," I said. The Crenshaws might not be far off the mark in blaming Kiley for Adam's death. I could see where she might rival the harpies in driving a person to desperate measures.

  "Why don't you give me her number and I'll tell her myself."

  "I don't think so."

  "I can come to New Orleans and find her, you know."

  "I advise against it. Doreen has her hands full now. She's not required by law to give any portion to anyone. She was going to share with her brother because she's a generous person. If you try to push her into a corner, she legally doesn't have to give you a dime."

  It was the truth and it gave me great satisfaction to tell her.

  "How do I know you're not lying?"

  "Well, I guess you don't." I hung up and turned to relay Kiley's portion of the conversation to Tinkie. I'd barely let a smile of satisfaction creep over my face when Tinkie tackled me, pushed me back on the bed, grabbed a foot, and set to work on making me beautiful. I was going to look good even if it killed both of us.

  Tinkie had pumiced one heel and was tackling the other when a knock on the door gave me hope of rescue. Surely it was Hamilton. He hadn't called all day.

  I tried to sit up, but Tinkie slapped a hot bath towel around my face. "We need to open your pores and then shrink them," she said. "Don't move."

  Beneath the swaddling of the towel, I recognized Cece's voice. "I brought the Epilady," she said. "If we yank those hairs out by the roots, they won't grow back for the next three weeks."

  I sighed. Resistance was useless. I was in the hands of the beauticians from hell. There would be no salvation, only results. I could only hope that Hamilton's first glimpse of me would be worth it.

  "Now hold still," Cece said. "This is going to hurt a little."

  She wasn't lying. I wouldn't have to shave my legs again. Probably ever. I probably wouldn't be able to use them due to nerve damage.

  "I found out something interesting today," Cece said.

  I pushed the hot towel off my face. "What?"

  "That auto-track I ran on Ellisea?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I checked out a couple of the addresses I picked up." She grinned. "I canceled her order for shoes at Le Menage. I hope those were the ones she was planning on wearing to the ball tonight. They were special order. Supposed to be flown in from Dallas today. Too bad, huh?"

  "Cece," I said, impressed. She really knew how to hurt a woman.

  "But the other discovery was the interesting one. I went to what I thought was another boutique. But it wasn't a boutique at all. It was a tattoo parlor."

  "Maybe she had her eyes lined or her lips permanently colored," Tinkie said. "I'd like to do that. Save a lot of time in the morning."

  "I don't think so," Cece said.

  "What kind was it?"

  "Oh, the kind that specializes in things other than tattoos."

  "Such as?" I was curious.

  "Body piercing. You know, nipple rings, cock studs, that kind of thing."

  "Wow," Tinkie and I said in unison.

  "I said I was a friend of Ellisea's and mentioned that I'd like to buy her a special.. .adornment." She crossed one leg over the other. "Dahlings, one would think that the mere mention of Ellisea's name could cause flying monkeys to descend from the sky. They hustled me out the door, closed it, locked it, and pulled the shade."

  23

  When I'd lived in New York, I'd seen plenty of imposing architecture and sophisticated decor. Still, the home of Alexandra and Christoph Bogata was stunning. The Black and Orange Ball was a spectacle designed to please all the senses. Tiger lilies were the only flowers allowed, but they burst from vases and swags and climbed the legs of tables and staircase railings. In a final touch, two dozen magnificent blossoms were
sewn into the flowing black taffeta train of the hostess's gown. Her hair, a cascading glory, had been dyed to match the lilies. A gossamer net of black jet sparkles held every hair in place.

  "Ms. Delaney," she said as she took my hand. "A pleasure to meet you. I've heard so many interesting things about you."

  I couldn't tell if she was being pleasant, catty, or merely gracious. Tinkie and Cece had pulled my hair up into a bun, with spectacular effect. But their initial, overly zealous efforts had resulted in a sort of temporary paralysis to my facial nerves. I shook Alexandra's hand as I smiled. "Thank you for inviting me. It's an honor to attend."

  "Cece has told me that you'll participate in the charity auction tomorrow. I can't thank you enough. It's our biggest fund-raiser, and I've heard that because of Ellisea Clay's participation, we can expect a good bit of attention from the fashion world." She leaned closer. "Vogue is sending a reporter!"

  I didn't reply. I wanted to wring Cece's neck. I'd told her I didn't want to participate. She was welcome to the gown, though I have to say it was going to be hard to part with Mollie's creation. My entrance had created a small ripple of excited whispers—until it became clear I was a nobody in a somebody's dress. But Mollie would have been proud. My dress was an attention-getter. Even Tinkie had been suitably impressed. In fact, she'd conceded our bet, saying that I'd won hands down.

  "Excuse me, Alexandra. I require the attention of your guest."

  Hamilton's warm baritone was in my ear and his hand on my elbow. I turned to him with a radiant smile.

  "I've been waiting a long time for a moment with Ms. Delaney," Hamilton said.

  "Of course," Alexandra replied, though her lips didn't move.

  She turned to welcome the next guest. I walked on air beside Hamilton as we made for a quiet corner of the ballroom, where at least five hundred people chatted, talked, drank, ate, and even danced.

  Hamilton wore a domino, as did everyone. His was plain black silk. It didn't matter. I could have picked him out of a crowd of fifty thousand.

  "I've missed you," he said.

  "Likewise."

  "Sorry about lunch." He frowned. "Bad situation. Nepal."