“Evidence of a fascinating culture. Recognition for a lifetime of research and work.”
He wasn’t going to come clean. “You’re hedging the truth, but I don’t believe you’re a killer. Did Bella Devareaux ever talk to you about why she was interested in Mound Salla?”
“She was working on a case, she said. I never understood why she thought her missing women were linked to a Native burial mound. She was really interested in the procedures, how we took precautions to carefully remove the dirt. What artifacts we’d already found. She was curious about the family that once lived on top of the mound.”
“How curious?” I asked.
He waved a hand, dismissing the question. “She was a layperson, not a scientist. She couldn’t appreciate the value of pottery or a glimpse into history. She asked about gold or things of value.”
“Did she ask about anything specific?”
Hafner hesitated. “Nothing I put any credence in.”
“A specific might help us,” I said. “Frank, you could be charged with her murder. If you know something, help yourself.”
He thought a moment. “She was fixated on something of value from the past. Maybe it wasn’t gold or jewels.”
“What else could stand the passage of time?” Tinkie asked.
“Some artifacts can be quite valuable.” He hesitated again. “Now that you mention it, her curiosity was out of the ordinary.”
And that helped us not at all. “If you think of anything she said that might point us in a direction, please call.”
“Oh, I’ll call you, Sarah Booth.” He grinned at Coleman. “You see, Sheriff Peters, your girlfriend has clearer insight than you do. Sarah Booth is searching for a motive, which is what you should be doing.”
I gave Hafner a sidelong glance to see if I could determine what he was up to. Was he messing Coleman around for a purpose, or just for fun?
“Drop it, Frank,” Tinkie warned him. “We have a great working relationship with Coleman and you won’t impact it. We’re not that desperate for a client.”
“Ms. Bellcase, your beauty is only exceeded by your brains. I’ll heed your warning.” He turned to me. “Have dinner with me tonight, Sarah Booth. I don’t want to discuss the case or anything to do with the dig. I want to get to know you.” He reached and captured my right hand. He looked at it. “You don’t wear a ring, so I assume you’re free to have dinner with an admirer.”
For a split second I considered biting his hand. I hadn’t bitten anyone since second grade, when June Caruthers stuck a stick in the spokes of my bicycle and made me wreck. “Actually, I’m not free. Coleman and I have plans.”
“Such a pity,” Frank said. “Perhaps tomorrow night?”
“I’m trying to prove your innocence, Frank. I believe that should be my priority, not playing at date night.”
“Of course.” He kissed my wrist in a gesture so smooth I didn’t even have time to stop him. “I’ll postpone my desire to get to know you until the shadow of suspicion has been removed. Then, Sheriff, may the best man win.”
“Where’s Delane tonight?” I reminded him that I knew he was sleeping with his student.
“Delane’s off with that Memphis reporter. She won’t miss me.”
“Put a sock in it, Frank,” Tinkie said.
Frank turned to Coleman. “Sheriff, Ms. Bellcase, have a good evening. I’ll be in touch, Sarah Booth.” He walked out the front door and Coleman closed it.
“What the hell was that?” Coleman asked.
“A man with a death wish,” Tinkie said. “He’s either stupid, smitten, or playing an angle. Either way, he’s walking a dangerous line.”
17
Tinkie left to meet up with Oscar. They were due at The Club for a social event, so they didn’t take me up on my offer of a libation. Coleman and I were left to our own devices. While that tickled my fancy, I also had more questions.
We hadn’t watched the news in several days, so we settled in the den on the big, soft sofa. Even with the two of us stretched out together, there was still room for Sweetie Pie. Pluto settled on the top of the back cushion. It was a cozy family setting, and one that touched my heart with a wild joy. Slowly, day by day, Coleman and I were stitching together those rare moments of simple family experience. Sipping a drink as I reclined against him wouldn’t be what another person would call earth shattering or spectacular, except that it was. To me. It was that shared intimacy mixed with complete ease in each other’s company. It was coming home.
Coleman turned the TV to the local Memphis station—he liked to switch back and forth between Memphis and Jackson to keep up with what was happening in the state and region. Cece was our source of local news—our missing local source. Where in the heck was she?
Just as I was about to speak, the newscast switched over to a live feed of the real Cissy Hartley in front of the Prince Albert. She was a tall brunette who topped the ratings in the regional TV news market. Her light dusting of freckles and dimples were a sure-fire combo with her sharp questions and willingness to back an interviewee into a corner. The camera adored her.
The two Sunflower County murders was the top story. “Sunflower County authorities are working to connect two brutal murders at Mound Salla with an unconfirmed report of three missing women across the Mississippi River in Avoyelles Parish. Authorities believe a killer has been on a spree for the past ten months—the victims all young women.” Cissy went into all the gory details of the two real murders and a lot of supposition on the missing women across the river. It was enough to scare the pants off everyone in Sunflower County. She had more details than Coleman had released to anyone, and she played them for all the sensationalism she could.
“How did a Memphis television reporter get hold of that information about the Louisiana missing women, who we don’t know are truly missing?” Coleman didn’t bother to hide his aggravation.
“Bella Devareaux had Cissy Hartley’s press identification. It would seem that Cissy was helping the private eye gain access to the dig. And Cece had Hartley’s business card in her pocket. Tinkie and I called Cissy and got nothing.”
“I need to talk to Delane Goggans.” Coleman was a coiled spring, ready for action. “Frank said she was talking with Hartley. She’s been avoiding my deputies.”
“Let me call her.” I dialed as I talked. The phone rang several times and then went to voice mail.
“This isn’t good,” Coleman said. “If she’s the one feeding this information to reporters, she needs to stop. She’s going to panic folks.”
I didn’t disagree, but I was snug and comfortable and exhausted. “I’ll track her down tomorrow and talk to her. It’s late. Let’s worry about this tomorrow.”
“You got it, Miss Scarlett.” He’d just pulled me into his arms when his cell phone pinged. He read the text and grinned. “The Washington County sheriff just confirmed there’s a vehicle at the Winterville site. A blue SUV. That’s what Peter drives. It would seem Cece and Peter are there.”
“Do you know why Cece would be at another burial site in another county?”
“Cece has great instincts as a journalist.”
He wasn’t going to evade me that easily. “So what lead does Cece have?”
“You’ll have to ask her.” I felt his rib cage stiffen slightly, and I grinned. Coleman didn’t have many tells, but this was one. He was dodging around the truth. When he did that, his torso tightened. I was anxious to know what Cece was up to, but the fact that she was found had lightened a considerable load of worry.
“Oh, I think I’m asking you. You might as well tell. You know I’ll figure out a way to get the information. If you didn’t know what she was looking for, you’d be out there right now bringing her home.”
He had the grace not to deny that. “When I was over in Louisiana, I found out that Bella Devareaux had a lead about the Winterville Mound. The Avoyelles Parish sheriff had her notes when I stopped by. He found them on the foyer table in her home.
She’d marked a date to visit Mound Salla, and then she meant to go on to Winterville. There was no indication why.”
“And you think Cece knew this?”
“I think Peter did. It’s just too convenient that he and Devareaux are basically from the same place.”
I nodded slowly. “There’s a connection between the killer and the Indian mounds and I mean other than the obvious location for a body dump.” My chest felt tight now. If this killer had no connection to the archeological dig but was acting on some deeper, darker impulse involving ritual killing, he would be much harder to catch. Coleman didn’t believe there were three additional victims, but he knew for a fact he had two. And no one in custody. The killer was smart.
“How could Dr. Sandra Wells and Bella Devareaux and three women be connected? It just doesn’t add up.”
“You’re tracking my line of thinking exactly,” Coleman said. “I believe Dr. Wells and Bella Devareaux were murdered by the same person because of the work at Mound Salla. I just don’t have a clue why. If my hypothesis is right, the story about the missing women was a smoke screen to scare the folks at the dig site. Someone—the killer, perhaps—wanted to be at that dig when no one else was there. Scaring people with talk about curses, ghosts, and missing women—that was the aim of our dead private investigator. The Avoyelles Parish sheriff agrees with this.”
“But Bella Devareaux is dead. Do you think Bella was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she saw something. She was definitely looking into the Native American burial mounds. She’s connected to that. The sheriff sent a copy of Bella’s notebook to Budgie and he’s been working on what looks to me like meaningless squiggles. We thought at first it might be written in the Tunica language, but that’s been dead for a long time. Budgie couldn’t find any written history of the language, so we can’t be sure if that’s what Devareaux was doing. Keep in mind that she’s pretty much a newcomer to the Marksville area and she wasn’t part of the Tunica tribe. I think Bella’s notes were meant to be found. I’m basing my conclusion on what was in the notebook and how it was left right on a table by her door. It seems like a pretty big coincidence,” Coleman said.
“You think someone planted that notebook for the sheriff to find?”
“I do.”
“And you think Cece and Peter took off based on that information to find out what Bella Devareaux was investigating at Winterville?”
He finished his drink before he answered. “I do. How would you like to take a ride out to the Winterville Mound tonight? Maybe we can find a hint of what those two are investigating.”
“I’m game.” My body begged to stay home, on the sofa, in front of the crackling fire, but despite Coleman’s logical reassurances, I needed to be sure my friend was safe. There were dangerous people on the loose, whether it was a killer of five or two. “Who do you think was taking a potshot at me and Tinkie today?”
“Not the killer, or you’d be dead. I think it was one of the students or Frank Hafner himself. Someone who was looking for something at that dig site or intending to sabotage the equipment and didn’t want to be discovered. They were running you and Tinkie off.”
And they’d been successful. Drat it. “Any clue who it might be?”
“I plan on doing some interviews tomorrow. I’m hoping Doc will have some information for me on the autopsies. Dr. Wells’ family has asked that her body be shipped back to Michigan. Hafner has been asked to deliver the eulogy. Delane wasn’t lying about that.” He shook his head. “I don’t have enough to keep him here.”
“What do you really think is going on?” I asked Coleman.
“I wish I could say for certain. There’s something about that dig that’s worth a whole lot to someone. And I don’t believe it’s academic fame or a television show for the killer.”
I thought of the people who would gain or lose—Peter, Frank, Delane, Elton Cade, and the other investors. “Coleman, I’ve talked to Elton and Lolly Cade. Elton seems very open and he has a lot of money tied up in this dig. He had an affair with Sandra. Seems like everyone connected with the dig has at one time or another.” I waved that away. “What about Sandra’s investors? Have you interviewed them? Or Elton?”
“I’ve known Elton most of my life, and I did a formal interview with him. As you said, he confessed to an affair with Dr. Wells. He didn’t seem to know anything about the dig for a man who put up a lot of money to make it happen. He said it was a childhood interest.” Coleman eased to the edge of the sofa, unsettling me from my comfortable perch.
“And Dr. Wells’ investors?”
“Henrik Anderson is her primary backer, but he’s in Amsterdam. This is business for him—nothing personal. I’ve spoken with him several times, he seems absolutely legitimate in his financial dealings and in his desire to participate in unearthing important historical facts. Nothing more.”
“You sound pretty certain he’s not involved in murder,” I commented.
“Anytime there’s a lot of money on the line, I’m never certain of a person’s innocence. But I don’t see how killing Sandra could be of any benefit to him, or to Elton Cade. These murders are simply costing them more money and delaying the work.” Coleman stood. He checked his phone, though it hadn’t dinged or vibrated. “Peter and Elton have been friends a long time. He might lie to protect Peter, but I can’t see him involved deeper than that. Elton has more money than he’ll ever spend.”
“And his son, Jimmy, is in some kind of genius program for computers and engineering. He’s only sixteen and developing games that are internationally popular.”
“Takes after his dad,” Coleman said. “Elton is a genius, too.”
I thought of Jitty and her wish for an heir and sighed. “Lolly was really down in the dumps that Jimmy has left home to attend school. If my parents had lived, I probably wouldn’t have gone to New York.”
“Sure you would have,” Coleman said. “And your folks would have gone up all the time to visit and cheer you on. You were never afraid to dream big, and that’s something I love about you.” He checked his phone again. Coleman was not an impatient man, but he was concerned about something.
“Let’s take that ride to Winterville Mound.” It would be better to move, and no matter how I tried to roll over it, I was still worried about my friend. If Cece was still at the burial site in Greenville, Coleman could have the pleasure of watching me kick her butt all over the mound.
“I wish this dig had never come to Sunflower County.” Coleman was pensive. “I remember the Bailey family who lived out there. Quiet people. The mother was always in church but never said much of anything. They suffered a lot of tragedy.”
“One of the sons killed his father?” I had a vague recollection.
“It was a brother who was murdered by a brother, then the father abandoned them. There were five or six children. I don’t remember the details, but when Arbin left, the family was in a bad situation. Martha Bailey worked as a teacher’s aide for a while, then I remember she was at the Piggly Wiggly checking groceries. She was always so tired looking, and so quiet.”
I didn’t remember the family, but that wasn’t unusual. I’d gone to school in the city limits. There were smaller community schools scattered around the county. Hilo High School, out near where Elton lived, was closer to Mound Salla than Sunflower County High. Had my parents lived, I would have known more community people because of the work they did. But Aunt Loulane was more retiring, more private. My world was limited. My group of friends all attended Sunflower High. In contrast, Coleman knew everyone. He’d worked on local farms all over the county, rotating from one harvest to the next. Good farmhands always found work. Now, as sheriff, it was his job to know his county.
“Why did Mr. Bailey leave?” I asked.
“Folks always thought he had a girlfriend. That’s the typical pattern. Guy has half a dozen kids, then decides settling down to family life isn’t his cup of tea.”
“I don’t remember,” Coleman said. “The Bailey kids were a good bit younger than us, so I didn’t know them personally and I was away from Sunflower County. That was the summer I went to work in Texas on that ranch. I had to get away from home myself. Things weren’t good with my dad. From the stories I heard, things were much worse in the Bailey house. Arbin, before he left, was a mean drunk. The boys were into all kinds of trouble. It seems Martha and the girl put up with a lot. The stories are that Martha haunts the house. She didn’t die on the property, but it’s said she came back to guard it.” He frowned. “As I recall I heard she’d died in Louisiana. I don’t remember the details, but there was the sense that her life ended in that house atop a burial mound. No matter how hard she worked, she couldn’t change things for her kids. Now her spirit is trapped in a place she was never happy, or so the stories go.”
I’d heard whispered stories about Coleman’s abusive father. Not a word ever came from Coleman—he had never been one to talk about his personal business. The rumors were vague. When we had high school gatherings, it was always his grandmother who hosted the groups. We were young and no one ever questioned that arrangement but it came back to me now. “You didn’t have it easy,” I said.
“Neither of us did, but for different reasons.”
As soon as I graduated high school, I’d left for college. Coleman had already left two years before to work on a cattle ranch in west Texas. We’d each left Sunflower County as a solution, and yet we’d both come back. The Baileys hadn’t been as lucky. They hadn’t been able to escape. The kids had eventually scattered, one by one, at least one in a trip to the state prison. I felt a pang for Martha Bailey, who’d worked herself into an early grave. “No wonder folks thought the old Bailey house was haunted.”
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