Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  I had his number, though. "Tinkie is afraid." I spoke softly. "She's terrified, and if she's going to get through this, she's going to need both of us."

  "She's determined to kill herself, and I for one am not going to sit around and watch."

  I walked around his desk and captured his hands in mine. Though he pulled them away, I held on. I was trading on the fact that he was too much of a gentleman to fight with me.

  "Tinkie's not going to die." I looked him right in the eye. "I've lost everyone I ever loved. But not Tinkie."

  "She has a lump in her breast, and she won't go to the doctor."

  "I know." I held his hands tightly. "I know all about it."

  "She's committing suicide, and I won't be party to it."

  I gripped tighter, until I lost the feeling in my own fingers. "She's not going to die, Oscar. Tinkie believes the lump is healed."

  "By some miracle." His tone was scornful. "Wouldn't that be wonderful, if we could just wish bad news away?"

  Only yesterday I'd been urging Tinkie to see a surgeon, but suddenly I understood. "Oscar, this isn't about Tinkie's lump. It's about your fear."

  He looked at me as if I'd grown a second head. Before he could react, I pushed him into his chair and sat on the edge of the desk, blocking him.

  “You have to love Tinkie enough to allow her to seek the type of treatment she feels is best."

  "But she'll die."

  I put my hands on his shoulders. "You don't know that."

  "Cancer is—"

  "Tinkie was never diagnosed with cancer."

  "But it's a lump."

  "And it could be anything. Benign. Some kind of fatty tumor. A fibroid. It could as easily be nothing as something terrible. You and I, both of us, have jumped to the worst possible conclusion. We're wrong. Dead wrong."

  He stared into my eyes. "You're saying Tinkie is right to ignore the lump?"

  "I'm saying she has a right to do what she wishes, and we should support her."

  "You're as crazy as she is." He tried to stand, but I pushed him back down.

  "Maybe I am, but I know if we don't stand by Tinkie, we're both going to lose her."

  "All I want is for her to get the damn thing biopsied. Is that so wrong?"

  I shook my head. "You want to protect her because you love her."

  'Yes!"

  "But you have to love her enough to support her choice."

  "Even when it's wrong?"

  I smiled. I'd finally come to understand. "We don't know that it's wrong. Or right. Only Tinkie knows that. She's the one who must bear the consequences of her choice, so it's her right to choose."

  Oscar slumped in his chair as if the air had been let out of him. "I want to fight this. I want to take action."

  "I know." I cleared my throat. "There's something else."

  He looked up at me. "What now?"

  "Tinkie says she can't have a child. I think the whole breast lump-doctor business is tied together."

  He looked out the window onto a bustling downtown Zinnia. "She blames me. Did she tell you that?

  "Blame is easy to hand out but hard to get rid of."

  "I wasn't ready to be a father."

  I stood up and walked around his office, taking in the photographs of Sunflower County from the 1920s. To my surprise, I saw Dahlia House, resplendent with fresh paint and pots of flowers. "You and Tinkie have to figure this out together." It wasn't the most original advice, but it was true.

  "There's nothing I can do to make it up to her."

  "So you've quit trying?" I looked at him. "I never figured you for a quitter, Oscar."

  He looked down. "I would change it if I could. I would go back and change it." He shaded his eyes with his hand.

  "Maybe that's all Tinkie needs to hear."

  "It won't change anything."

  "Except she'll know you hurt as much as she does."

  "And that's going to fix everything?"

  "It's a step in the right direction." I walked back to him and rubbed his back. "Tinkie feels alone. She feels isolated with only her broken dreams and a future that looks pretty lonely."

  "She'll never be alone as long as I'm alive." I hugged him. "Now you need to tell her that." He stood up. "Do you know where she is?" "I was hoping she was here, but I didn't see her." My worry returned. "I've looked in all the usual places. We were supposed to go to West Memphis this afternoon." Oscar frowned. "Did you check The Club?" "No. I have tried her cell phone, and she isn't answering."

  "I'll drive out to The Club. I want to talk to her." "Good. I'm going to head on to Memphis. I need to talk to Jolene Loper."

  He held the door, and we left the bank together. I'd never doubted Oscar's love for his wife. Now he had to convince her of it.

  I followed him out of the parking lot, and when he turned to go to The Club, I headed north. It would have been a better trip with Tinkie as a companion, but she needed to focus on her marriage. I could handle an interview with a beautician's sister.

  The brown cotton fields stretched out on either side of the road as I headed north. Almost a year had passed since I'd come home and started to work as a private investigator. In that time I'd solved five cases and gained and lost sixty pounds in five-pound increments. I was still wearing the same black jeans and driving the same car. I'd been engaged and unengaged, involved and abandoned. One of the best things that had happened was my partnership with Tinkie.

  As the roadster covered the miles, I thought about the past. It was a dirty pleasure with me, and I indulged. Growing up, I'd never considered there was another world other than the Delta. The land was part of my subconscious. My parents discussed it as if it were a family member, and with their deaths, I had become custodian. It marked me and shaped me in small, indefinable ways. The longer I stayed in Sunflower County, the more I would belong to the land.

  My drive paralleled the river, and even though I couldn't see it, I knew it. Brown and lazy looking, the Mississippi was strong. The man-made levees contained it, for the moment. But the river's whim could change everything for miles around.

  The photographs in Oscar's office had shown cotton being readied for shipment downriver to New Orleans. Down to the mills, where city labor had turned the fiber into thread. Now machines did the work.

  At last, I hit the outskirts of Memphis and headed west, toward Arkansas. West Memphis had been the boomtown for the blues. The greats, like Howlin' Wolf and Muddy Waters, had played in juke joints. Time had changed everything—for better and for worse.

  The beauty salon I sought was another half hour away, and I watched for my exit. From what I'd learned, Jolene had taken over the salon after Belinda's death.

  The shop was called Shear Excellence, and once I was off the interstate, it wasn't hard to find. In fact, it was the only salon I'd ever seen advertised on five billboards. The ads themselves were interesting. Sexy blondes, redheads, and brunettes posed in provocative positions, with the line "Let us 'do' you." Subtlety was indeed a dying art.

  When I spotted the shop at last, I was agog. It was huge, more like a Wal-Mart of hair. Belinda Loper must have been raking in the dough. I got out and walked inside. A teased young girl looked at me with contempt. "We don't take walk-ins," she said, "and we're booked through January."

  "Is Jolene Loper in?" I forced a smile.

  "Ms. Loper is busy. Like I said, we don't take walk-ins."

  I smiled and walked past her.

  "Hey! Come back here!"

  I ignored her shouts and kept walking past chair after chair of stylists working on hair. There were bleach jobs, perms, cuts, blows, curls—everything that could be done to hair. I kept walking, with the young receptionist snipping at me like a rabid Chihuahua.

  I spied a door at the end of the salon and opened it without the least hesitation. I was met with a squeal.

  "Damn nation! That hurt!"

  I rounded the corner and came upon Jolene Loper holding a strip of wax and what had once been
someone's very personal hair. A woman reclined on a table covered by a sheet.

  I slammed the door in the Chihuahua's face and leaned against it.

  'You said it wasn't going to hurt. You're a damn liar." The woman shifted up on her elbows so she could see who'd entered the room. "Hey, if you're here for a bikini wax, don't! It hurts like hell."

  "Fashion is supposed to hurt." Jolene dropped the wax into a trash can and snapped off latex gloves. "Quit whining, Beth Anne. If you want to compete with the girls on Montgomery Street, you're going to have to update your act."

  "Update is fine. Having my skin torn off is not." Beth Anne swung her legs down and sat up. She was a beautiful woman, if a little overly made-up. "Who are you?" she looked at me.

  "A private investigator."

  Jolene turned slowly around. "I know you. You're from Zinnia. What are you doing here?"

  "I need to talk to you, Jolene. About your sister." There was no easy way to say what had to be said. "I'm working on a case—"

  "I paid Belinda's back taxes and all of that."

  I shook my head. "It's about her death. About how she died."

  Tears formed in Jolene's eyes. "It was horrible. When she didn't answer her cell phone, I came here looking for her. I found her. She'd convulsed on the floor. It was gruesome."

  Beth Anne found her jeans and pulled them on. "We were all just plain horrified."

  I gave up on trying to be delicate. "I think Belinda may have been murdered. Did she receive any kind of threatening note before she died?"

  Jolene's eyes narrowed. "There was a note."

  My heart beat faster. "What did it say?"

  She frowned. "She put it in her office somewhere. It might still be there."

  "Let's take a look."

  She opened a door that led to a small office. Sitting down at the desk, she began to pull out drawers and shuffle through the contents. I watched, praying she would find the note.

  "Here it is!" She drew out a plain white page, just like the notes Quentin had received. Typed in the same font were the words It's a great day to dye!

  I looked over the note to Belinda. "Did she ever report this to the police?"

  She nodded. "She did, but no one took it seriously. I mean she's a stylist. D-y-e."

  "When did she receive the note?"

  "Last March. About a week before she inhaled the dry peroxide. She'd gotten another one before that. Something to the effect that her business was in poor taste." She shook her head. "We've heard that all our lives. Poor taste. But that's no reason to kill someone, is it?"

  I didn't say anything, but I saw it on her face. She knew. Her sister's death was not an accident.

  18

  As I drove home, I felt as if a year had passed since I went to the reading of Allison's will. I tried repeatedly to call Tinkie on her cell phone, but there was no answer. She had it turned off. I could only hope that Oscar had found her and that they were together, ironing out the hurt and pain of their relationship.

  My fingers hovered on the cell phone pad, and at last, I dialed.

  "Sunflower County Sheriff's Office," Dewayne drawled.

  "Is the sheriff there?"

  "Why, hey, Sarah Booth," he said. "Coleman was here, but he left about ten minutes ago."

  "Do you know where he went?" I tried to sound nonchalant.

  "Couldn't rightly say. You want me to tell him you're looking for him?"

  "No."

  "Need some help handling that dangerous bomb you received?"

  A flush crept up my neck. "No. Not tonight. See ya, Dewayne." I hung up fast.

  Millie's was still open when I hit town, so I stopped for a burger. Most of the tables had been cleared when I sat down, but to my surprise, Marilyn and Lorilee were having dinner at a table in the front. In a far corner, Harold sat with a cup of coffee and some papers.

  I'd barely taken my coat off and sat down when Lorilee came over. "Why, Sarah Booth, I heard you had a terrible scare."

  Everyone in the place stopped eating to listen.

  "Drop it, Lorilee. I need to talk to you about something serious."

  "You're the only person I know who could confuse a vibrator with a bomb. Makes me wonder if you'd know what to do with the real thing."

  Cutlery was on the table, and I wondered if a stainless knife would work as effectively as a wooden stake. "I'm not an expert in battery-operated toys like you."

  Marilyn had risen from her seat, but she didn't move. She only stood and watched.

  "I heard you and Tinkie and that newspaper person were all cowering in the house while your gift vibrated around the driveway." She laughed. "That must have been a sight to behold."

  Before I could respond, Harold stepped to my side. "Lorilee." He oozed charm. "I haven't consulted your financial statements, but I have a tip for you—invest in sex toys rather than young boys. It's far less expensive in the long run."

  Harold assisted me from my seat. "Let's go to my place."

  "You, too, Harold?" Lorilee's face contorted in a sneer. "What does she have that fascinates men so?"

  "Perhaps it's her kindness, Lorilee. Something you have none of, so are therefore doomed to a life of loneliness."

  We left without a backward glance.

  Once out in the night, I kissed his cheek. "What a gallant rescue."

  "Nothing better than to slay the fire-breathing bitch. Are you still hungry?"

  "Yes."

  "I have some pheasant soup I made yesterday."

  Harold was a gourmet cook, and I appreciated his talents. "That would be lovely."

  "Follow me." He got in his Porsche and led me to his home.

  When I turned down Harold's oak-lined driveway, I stopped. Rope lights had been wrapped around the tree trunks and limbs, creating a fairyland. I remembered Harold's Christmas party last year. He was a man's man with a great sense of the magical.

  He was waiting for me on the porch when I pulled up at the house. "Are you having another holiday party?" I asked.

  "Yes. But I keep the lights up year-round." He smiled. "I have a remote. I turned them on for you."

  He led the way to the kitchen, and while he heated the soup, I sliced bread. We sipped a dry red wine as we worked. When everything was prepared, we sat at the small kitchen table. "Much cozier than the dining room," I said. The large table there seated twelve.

  "Oscar never came back to work today."

  "I never found Tinkie." A flicker of concern washed over me, and he must have read it on my face.

  "They have to work it out alone."

  "I know."

  He smiled. 'You're a loyal friend, Sarah Booth."

  "Tinkie is more than just a friend. She's like a sister to me."

  'You've changed her. She's stronger, more confident. You've been good for her."

  "Oscar may not feel that way." I ate a bite of the dark pumpernickel bread. "They love each other. It's just that Tinkie's hurting."

  Harold picked up my hand and held it gently.

  "And you're hurting, too."

  I squeezed his fingers. "Have you heard from Rachel?"

  "Yes. She's in Mexico."

  "Is she going to open some salons with a Latin flavor?"

  He laughed. "She's an amazing businesswoman. She combines financial savvy with an unerring ability to know what the public will pay for."

  "And you miss her."

  "Tremendously."

  "Call her."

  As if the phone company did my bidding, my cell phone rang. I jumped for it, pulling it from my coat pocket, knowing it was Tinkie.

  "Sarah Booth, dahling," Cece drawled, "I've found something that may interest you."

  It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to Cece, but I'd so hoped it was Tinkie. I struggled to hide my disappointment. "What did you find?"

  "Where are you? I want to show it to you."

  "I'm at Harold's." I watched his expression as I talked. He was curious.

  "I'm on the way,"
she said.

  Before I could respond, she hung up. I closed the phone and looked at him. "Cece has something to show me, and she's on her way here."

  He laughed. "An impromptu party. I'll set another place."

  Cece was knocking at the door before I could pour the wine. "The lights are magnifique." She breezed in waving a sheaf of papers, took the glass of wine I offered, and slid out of her coat. "Look at these." She thrust the papers into my hand.

  "We were just having some soup and bread," Harold said, holding a chair for her.

  I took my place and studied the newspaper clippings about the tragic death of Marilyn's mother, Karla. Cece had pulled up the clips from the Birmingham newspaper, which covered the freak accident in great detail.

  Cece's attention had fallen on the soup, and she attacked the food with great gusto. "Harold, this is delicious. I'm impressed. I'm doing a column on holiday food for the Thanksgiving issue. I'd love to feature you."

  Ignoring Cece's chatter, I read the articles. I was on the third story when I found what I wanted. Birmingham police officer Clyde Marshall talked about the threatening note that Karla Jenkins had received only the week before her death. The penalty for fornication is stoning.

  I grabbed Cece's hand. "Thank you, Cece. You found the note. Marilyn's mother was definitely murdered." The full impact hit me, and I grasped Cece's hand in mid-swallow of soup.

  "There's a serial killer on the loose."

  Cece rolled her eyes. "Why do you think I rushed over here, dahling?"

  I left Harold with orders to call Rachel. Were I not in the middle of a case, with a horse and a hound to care for, I would have been on a flight to Acapulco. Harold was just being hardheaded.

  Even though it was after eleven o'clock, I tried Tinkie's cell again. Still no answer. I drove by Hilltop, but the house was dark. Maybe they were home, sleeping.

  When I got to Dahlia House, I stepped over a small package in front of the door. I'd had it with Humphrey and his wicked surprises. I kicked the bow-laden box hard enough to send it careening into the shrubs by the side of the porch. I wasn't going to be suckered yet again by the mad humper.

  When I got to the barn, Reveler was miffed at his late dinner. He turned his butt to me and ate. Sweetie, too, was pissed. She came out, sniffed my leg, and squatted to pee.