"My, my, my," Tinkie whispered. "Don't look now, Sarah Booth, but two-thirds of the women in this room would like to cut off your head. The other third would like to find out what you did to charm Humphrey." She leaned a little closer. "What, exactly, did you do?"
"Check out the altar," I whispered, pointing to the front of the chapel.
10
Virgie Carrington took center stage in front of a spray of red roses and calla lilies. It was the only stand of flowers in the small chapel, jammed with dozens of women in the prerequisite Carrington suit, hat, and veil. A few men, including Harold, were also in attendance. Tinkie and I moved up about midway in the chapel. The one thing I noticed was that not a single person shed a tear. The Carrington class of 1999 was in attendance, but no one was mourning the passing of Quentin McGee.
We took our seats just as Virgie Carrington stepped forward. A buzz emanated from the vicinity of two women I'd seen the night before at Playin' the Bones. I poked Tinkie in the ribs. "Who are they?"
She tilted her lips up and beckoned me to lean close. 'That's Lorilee Brewer and Marilyn Jenkins. Honestly, you'd think they could can the whispering for the length of a funeral."
I couldn't understand any of what was being said, but it had the angry tone of hornets, and the two women were intent on what they were saying.
From the front of the chapel came Virgie's sharp voice.
"This is a funeral service, not an opportunity for gossip." Silence as heavy as a shroud fell over the chapel. "Quentin McGee was the most talented student I ever taught." Her gaze seemed to rest on each of the women in the chapel, measuring them and finding them wanting.
"With one exception," she continued. Her gaze focused on the front row. "Allison Tatum."
Several people gasped. Propriety warred with curiosity until, at last, I swiveled around to look. Everyone in the audience was surprised by Virgie's statement. Marilyn and Lorilee were whispering again. Only Allison failed to show any emotion. She sat rigidly beside her brother, looking neither left nor right.
Virgie's tone had grown gentle. "Allison truly has the talent to write. She has the heart and imagination to create a novel, yet it was Quentin who published a book. That is an irony bitter beyond belief. The only thing I have to add is that Allison is no killer. Certainly not of the person she loved above even her talent."
No one moved as Virgie talked. The chapel was so still that when the air conditioner kicked on, the sound was disruptive.
Virgie looked over the crowd. "At first, I would have said that Quentin and Allison made an unlikely pair. But as I came to know them, I saw the love they shared."
A whisper moved around the chapel. The only indication that Virgie heard was the tightening of her mouth. "It will surprise some of my Carrington girls to realize that I had agreed for Allison and Quentin to be married at the school. Neither of their families would allow the ceremony to be held at their homes. In fact, the families requested that the wedding be moved from their towns. So I offered the school. I saw the love these two women shared, and I wanted to help them celebrate it. The wedding date had been set for December twenty-first, only a few short weeks away. Now, instead of celebrating a union, we're here to grieve a passing. The joyful plans that Allison and Quentin made are ashes."
She stepped out from behind the podium. "Allison is left alone, accused of murdering the companion she intended to spend the rest of her life with."
Virgie walked slowly across the front of the chapel. She seemed to study her next words. "Quentin was a woman who made enemies more easily than friends. I've known her since she was a young girl. When she was ten or so, she'd occasionally come to the school to visit her sister, Umbria. Her parents were hoping that some of Umbria's social skills and ambitions would rub off on Quentin." She shook her head. "Never were two sisters more opposite."
Virgie's hand went up to touch the triple strand of pearls at her neck. "Quentin was a neatnik." Her fingers clutched the pearls. "It has always been one of my tenets that an ordered house reflects an ordered mind, but Quentin was more than ordered. She was compulsively neat. Once when she came to spend the weekend with Umbria at the school, Umbria went through her suitcase and didn't put things back in order. I thought Quentin was going to have a conniption on the spot." The memory made Virgie smile. "Quentin was a stellar student. She had a photographic memory. She loved sports, especially riding horses. She was kind and generous to those who treated her with kindness and generosity. She was a champion of the underdog to the point that she often aligned herself against authority. Any authority. And more than once I found her taking the leftover food from the Carrington kitchens to the homeless on the streets of Memphis. These are things few people know about her. She never needed public approval, or acclaim, for her deeds."
In the front row, I saw Allison's head bow. She sobbed once, and to my surprise, Humphrey put his arm around her.
Virgie paused, but only for a beat. "I have such vivid memories of Quentin. I see her in the classroom, helping a student. I see her on the hockey field, running with such joy. In fact, when I think of Quentin, I always remember her passion for whatever she turned her hand to. Quentin had the potential to be my masterpiece."
She walked slowly in front of the podium. "Life is never a straightaway. I try to prepare all of my girls for the bad things in life, as well as giving them the necessary polish to become excellent wives. I was never able to put a buff on Quentin." She shook her head. "Quentin defied me. She rejected the values I taught. But—" She held up her hand. "Quentin had her own values, and I, for one, am here to honor them."
Tinkie shifted her knee so that it touched mine. "I never thought Virgie Carrington would bend like this," she said.
"Was she that fond of Quentin?" I asked softly.
"I never thought so. Maybe Allison," Tinkie whispered.
Virgie riveted us with a gaze of disapproval. "I can see not everyone in the audience has learned proper behavior at a funeral. Miss Delaney, Mrs. Richmond, do you have something to add?"
"No, ma'am." Tinkie seemed to slink down in her seat.
I merely shook my head.
"Then I'll continue. Quentin McGee has written a book hurtful to her family and her class. I don't approve of it."
Virgie walked to the podium and removed a copy of King Cotton Bleeds. She held it up. "Quentin hurt many people with this book, but she was hurting, too. All she wanted was love. That's what we've come here today to give her. A final farewell, from her classmates and friends. And at least one member of her family."
Virgie walked to the front row and sat down beside Allison.
Two rows in front of us, a plump woman rose. She turned and looked around the chapel. "I have something to say. Allison, you know this is true. Quentin cheated me. She promised to put me in her book and didn't."
Virgie started to rise to her feet, but Allison stopped her with a hand.
"It's true. Quentin promised me that she'd put me and my family in her book. I have the highest IQ in the Southeast. Along with all of the terrible secrets she found out, she was supposed to include some of the good things, too. But she didn't. She didn't put in a single good thing."
"Who is that?" I whispered to Tinkie.
"Genevieve Reynolds." Tinkie put her hand on my knee to silence me.
Genevieve took a deep breath. "I just want you all to know that I'm writing my own book. One that will reflect some of the positive accomplishments of the people we know. So there."
She sat down to a round of applause.
The funeral director, Roger Dendinger, stepped forward. "There will not be a graveside service. Miss Carrington will transport Quentin's ashes to her family cemetery in Clarksdale."
Before he'd finished speaking, Gordon Walters walked through a back door and escorted Allison out. She never had a chance to speak to anyone.
The attendees rose and began to file slowly out of the chapel and into the bright November day. I pulled at the back of my skirt until
I felt Tinkie's hand slap at me.
"Sarah Booth, you act like you're trying to pull your panties out of your—" She broke off.
"It's these damn panty hose. I couldn't put them on straight, and now they're all twisted around the tops of my thighs." I was finding it difficult to take a normal step. My stride was restricted to no more than six inches.
"Can I help you with something?"
I looked up to see Humphrey watching me with amusement. Tinkie was trying to hide her smile.
"Sarah Booth has some binding garments," she said, with a sparkle in her eyes. "I think she needs some assistance getting out of her panty hose."
"It would be my pleasure to offer assistance." Humphrey bowed slightly and held out his arm. "There's a small alcove just over here. Perhaps I could escort you and remove those offending garments."
"This isn't the freaking eighteen hundreds," I snapped. "They aren't garments. They're cheap panty hose, and I can take them off by myself." They'd had their sport with me. "How's Allison holding up? I didn't get a chance to talk to her."
"She was swept away like some kind of dangerous criminal." The humor was gone from Humphrey's eyes. "She's seriously depressed. I'm worried she might try to hurt herself."
"Gordon will watch out for her," Tinkie reassured him. "To be honest, Allison is safer in jail than anywhere else."
"Are you recommending that I don't bond her out?" Humphrey asked. I couldn't read a thing in his expression.
Tinkie exchanged a look with me. "I think, for right now, Allison is better off where she is." Tinkie frowned. "We've found several potential suspects, and if the book is at the bottom of all of this, Allison could be in danger, too."
Humphrey maneuvered so that he had one of us on each arm as we walked along the sidewalk toward our cars. I had to admit that he was the most fluidly social man I'd ever met. If a gracious gesture was called for, he was Johnny-on-the-spot.
"Sarah Booth, may I have a word with you?"
I recognized Harold's voice and turned to face him. He didn't look well, and my concern must have registered on my face.
"I'm fine," he said. "Has Humphrey told you that the reading of Quentin's will is set for ten o'clock tomorrow?"
"Yes." I didn't want Tinkie to think Humphrey was holding out on us.
"Does anyone have a clue what Quentin may have done in her will?" Tinkie asked. She tapped her tiny little foot impatiently on the sidewalk as she turned to Humphrey. "Surely you have an idea. I mean no one in Zinnia can prepare a will without most of the town knowing the terms."
"Quentin was very secretive. Ladies, let's talk about this over lunch," he said as smooth as butter.
"Sarah Booth doesn't have time for lunch," Harold said as he put his arm around me and moved me away. "I need her."
"Are we talking emotionally or sexually, dahling?"
None of us had noticed that Cece had walked up. She had a notepad and pen in her hand. "I need a comment for tomorrow's paper," she told Humphrey.
"My sister is innocent." Humphrey said it with conviction. "She's as much a victim as Quentin. Once Sarah Booth and Tinkie find the real killer, Allison will be vindicated."
"And free to inherit?" Cece asked, with arched eyebrows.
"The will hasn't been read yet." For the first time, a note of testiness was in Humphrey's voice. "Quentin never divulged the contents of her will to Allison. If Allison inherits, it'll be a surprise to her."
"Oh, really? They were partners, were they not?"
"If Quentin and Allison had been allowed to actually marry, they would undeniably be partners. But as it stands now, Allison is merely a close friend. She inherits only what is named in the will. If anything is named."
Cece closed her notebook. "Do you have any idea what's in the will, Mr. Tatum?"
The irritation was gone from Humphrey's face. "No, and I will tell you this for print. I don't care what's in the will. In some ways, if Al inherits, it'll look worse for her. So it's a catch-22. The best thing that could happen would be to turn the clock back and prevent Quentin from going to that cotton field."
Cece nodded. "Do your parents feel the same way?"
Humphrey shrugged. "I have no idea how my parents feel. I haven't spoken to them since I came here and hired the Delaney Detective Agency. Ladies, are we going to lunch?"
"I need to speak with Harold," I said, detaching myself from Humphrey's arm. "Tinkie?"
"I'd be delighted. I'll fill Humphrey in on what we've done so far."
"I have a deadline." Cece turned to me. "Sarah Booth, give me a call later, when you have time."
The group split, everyone going in different directions. I stood in the warm sunshine and faced Harold. "What is it?"
"Gordon stopped by to see me today. He found my fingerprints in Quentin's room."
"But that's impossible. You—"
"I was there."
I tried to pull myself together. "What were you doing in Quentin's room?"
"I stopped by with some papers from the bank for her to sign."
"Was Allison there?"
"No. It was on Friday, before she was killed Saturday night."
Harold hadn't been exactly square with me, and I felt the slow fuse of anger begin to burn. "You had to take them to her?"
"Rachel was staying there. I stopped by for lunch and brought the papers with me."
I sighed. "We'll get it straight. Don't worry." I gave his arm a squeeze.
"There's something else."
I dreaded to hear what he might have failed to tell me. "About Quentin's murder?"
"About Coleman."
My throat constricted. "Tell me."
"I'm not sure I'm doing the right thing, but Coleman will be here tomorrow. He's meeting with the board of supervisors at ten."
My heart was pounding in my chest. "Why?"
"I'm not certain." Harold gave me an odd expression. "I don't mean to pry, Sarah Booth, but why hasn't Coleman called to tell you this?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. I haven't heard a word from him since he left with Connie."
Harold took my arm. "Both of you are trying to do the right thing here. If he hasn't called, it's because he has nothing to offer you."
A year ago I would have questioned Harold's motives. Now, though, he spoke as my friend. "I know."
"Let it go, Sarah Booth."
"I'll talk with Gordon about the fingerprints. I need to see Allison, anyway."
He released my arm. "Would you like some lunch?"
I shook my head. "I'm not hungry." It was true. I'd lost my appetite. "I'll be in touch." I walked to my car, hoping no one else would attempt to waylay me. I needed a little time to recover.
11
Jitty must have sensed my mood, because when I got back to Dahlia House, she was nowhere in sight. I tore off the aggravating panty hose, slipped into some jeans and my boots, and went out to saddle Reveler. There are times when the kingdom of animals is the only place to find comfort. With Sweetie at my side, I rode into the cotton fields.
Once upon a time, the vast expanse of the cultivated fields had been forest. Man had worked tremendous change on the face of the Delta. Not all of it good. Once, the forests had been filled with wildlife. Teddy Roosevelt had hunted bear here. In some of the old groceries that dot the crossroads, there are photographs of hunters standing proudly beside the carcasses of bears, panthers, wild hogs, deer. Whatever they could kill. The carnage is celebrated in the smiles on the hunters' faces. The excess of the kill—a slaughter of wild creatures—is considered something to be proud of.
Once the value of the land for crop cultivation was understood, the wealthy planters moved in and put their slaves to pushing back the forests. Fields that stretched for two and three miles were cleared, the rich soil tilled for the sowing of cotton.
The edges of the fields had been left wooded, and I rode beside the remaining trees, listening to the fussing of the squirrels as I passed. Cotton was still king in the Mississipp
i Delta, and its rule had been bought with blood. It was this heritage that Quentin had trashed in her book. She had used words to cut deep into the land, revealing things that Delta families had wished to keep hidden. And it had cost her her life. Blood to blood.
I thought about the photograph of the hunters, the casual brutality of their smiles as they gripped the horns of a deer to twist its head, glazed eyes staring into the camera. Quentin had stirred that bloodlust.
Struck by sudden inspiration, I turned Reveler toward home. I needed to find some annuals of the Carrington School and compare the photographs of the girls to the names in the book Quentin had written. More importantly, I needed to find her notes for the proposed second book. It seemed to me that it was the second book that surely prompted her murder. The idea of killing for revenge was entertaining, but more likely was the prospect of killing to prevent the revelation of some other dark secret.
I allowed Reveler his head, and we galloped through the fields in the bright sun. Sweetie, ears flopping, raced with us. For a brief few moments, I forgot about Quentin and murder and Coleman and love, and I gave myself to the pleasure of the ride.
We arrived at Dahlia House breathless. After cooling him out, I untacked Reveler and set him loose in the green winter rye pasture and headed into the house. To my surprise, the back door was locked. Sweetie slipped through the doggie door, but I was forced to walk around to the front. Who would have locked the door, and why? It wasn't Jitty. She didn't lift a finger to do a single manual chore, not even turning a lock. Perhaps I'd palmed the doorknob by accident when I left.
I trudged around to the front and stopped. A car was pulling down the driveway. A car I didn't know. I looked down at my jeans, spattered with mud from my ride. My hair was unbrushed, my face daubed with dirt. I wasn't prepared to entertain guests, but I didn't have a choice. The champagne-colored town car barreled toward me at breakneck speed. The dark-tinted windows concealed the occupants. I stood at the edge of the lawn as the car slid to a stop in the loose oyster shells only five feet from me.
The driver's window lowered automatically. A veil-covered face was revealed. It took me a moment to recognize Marilyn Jenkins.
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