Bone to Be Wild (18 page)

“I served in Afghanistan with Koby. We were like brothers. He was a good man, deeply religious, a man who'd given his soul to Jesus. Until he fell in with a pack of musicians. Blues musicians. The devil's music took him straight to hell. Now, he'll burn in eternal flames because of you. This is on you.” He pointed around the room. “On each and every one of you. Tempters, debauchers, fornicators, whores. A good man is dead because of your treacherous lies.”

All the members of the band, Coleman, and DeWayne stood. “Leave now.” Coleman was calm but steel threaded his voice. “Mason, this isn't the time or the place.”

“What better time and place? Koby is dead because of that juke joint and these people.” He stepped down and walked to stand directly in front of Scott. “You're responsible for his death.”

“The person responsible is the one who pulled the trigger,” Scott said calmly. “You've got a wire loose, buddy. My suggestion is to get some help. I appreciate your service to this country, and I'm sorry you're so afraid you have to believe in a god who punishes people who love music and a good time. But don't bring that crap in here.”

Mason drew back a fist, but Coleman caught his arm before he could swing. “Come outside with me,” Coleman said softly. I could clearly see his white knuckles. His grip on Mason's wrist had to be punishing.

“You're as bad as the rest of them,” Mason said to Coleman. “God is going to punish all of you. There's a price to pay for sin.”

“There's a price to pay for shooting someone in cold blood,” Scott said. He wasn't about to back down. “Whoever killed Koby snuffed out the life of a good man. I will see that person punished.”

Coleman twisted Mason's arm behind his back and pushed him down the aisle and out of the chapel. For a moment no one knew what to do. Cece had the presence of mind to begin to speak.

“Let me tell you what I know about Koby Shaver.” She launched into a funny story about stocking the bar with various tequilas and how Koby knew details and anecdotes about different musicians and what they drank. Slowly the tension faded from the room.

“We have to investigate Farley much more closely,” Tinkie whispered to me. “I thought for sure we had Frasbaum in our sights. Now, though, even if Farley didn't pull the trigger, he's mongered fear and hatred.”

“And Bijou. We haven't determined what her influence over Mason might be. Everywhere I turn, her name pops up.” Thoughts of the female barracuda made me wonder how the brownies had gone down. As if I had a psychic connection, my phone vibrated. Doc Sawyer was calling. “Excuse me,” I said, leaving the chapel and going outside where Coleman had Mason pressed against the patrol car and was talking to him. I watched but stayed out of earshot so they couldn't overhear my conversation.

“What's happening, Doc?” The elderly doctor, who looked remarkably like Albert Einstein with his cloud of white hair, had saved my life more than once. He'd been my family doctor until he retired from private practice and took over the emergency room at the local hospital. Now instead of working twelve-hour days, he worked 24/7. He also performed the autopsies for the county.

“Bijou LaRoche is in an exam room. She's asked the nursing staff to call Coleman.” Even as I talked to Doc, Coleman dismissed Mason and reached for his cell phone. He nailed me with a glare as he began to talk.

“And?” I wasn't admitting to anything.

“She's claiming you tried to poison her.”

“Oh, really?” It was hard not to laugh. “What kind of poison?”

“She says you put something in brownies and then gave them to her as a gift.”

“She sounds crazy. Does she have any evidence?”

The long pause indicated Doc had confirmed his worst suspicions about me. “What was in the brownies? She's in bad shape. She can't get more than six inches from a toilet.”

“Which might indicate how full of shit she is.”

“Sarah Booth!”

“Oh, quit pretending, Doc. She isn't hurt. She's begged for something like this for a long time. And remember, this conversation is protected by doctor-client privilege.”

Doc's chuckle told me everything I needed to know. “She's a bitch,” he agreed. “This won't kill her, but right now she's having a really bad experience. Re-al-ly bad.”

“Boo-hoo.”

“Might I ask what brought this on?”

“Roscoe was held prisoner in a filthy cage in her barn. He has two broken ribs where someone kicked him. Bijou meant to have him destroyed. I can't prove it, but I'd stake my life on it.”

Doc sighed. “I have to treat her. I took an oath.”

“I know,” I said. “Just maybe slow down the remedy as much as you can.”

“You're a pistol, Sarah Booth. Your mama would approve, and your daddy would keep you out of the hoosegow. You'd be his only client, you know. He wouldn't have time for anyone else.”

“I love you, Doc.” And I did. He connected me to my childhood with one sentence, bringing my parents back to me even if the visit was brief. “Here comes Coleman, gotta go.”

The look on Coleman's face warned me that the phone call he'd received had indeed come from the hospital regarding Bijou's accusation. How she'd known so quickly I was the culprit, I couldn't say. In a way I was glad she knew—as long as she couldn't prove it. Now I wondered what Coleman would do.

“Did you send Bijou a box of brownies?”

“Me?”

“Are you denying it?”

I had to think quick. I didn't mind lying, but I didn't like doing it to those who loved me. I faked a frown, as if I were thinking hard. “Brownies? You know I don't bake.”

“She's in the emergency room with intense intestinal distress. She says you're responsible.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps it's merely a case of karma. She's a real pain in the ass to a bunch of people. Maybe the karmic boomerang has struck her down.”

Coleman put an arm around my shoulders and ushered me back inside the funeral home. “You know if Bijou decides to press charges I'll have to investigate. There'd better not be any evidence tying you to her problems.”

“When would I have time to bake brownies?” I asked.

His arm squeezed me tight. “You are a one-woman force of trouble. Trespassing, bad brownies. Just beware. You've been warned,” he whispered in my ear, making goose bumps pop up on my neck and arms.

We entered the chapel in the middle of Cece leading the gathering in an a cappella rendition of “Amazing Grace.” It was a joy to watch her with Jaytee, who stood slightly behind her, singing along, but proud to let Cece have center stage. So many horrid things had happened in the past few weeks, so much loss, but Cece had found someone to love who seemed to love her back. Her affair with Jaytee was whirlwind and irrational and possibly a danger to her heart, but I couldn't fault her for going for it full bore. She'd spent years changing her gender to become the woman she knew in her heart she was destined to be. She'd accepted that her life choices were difficult for some people to accept. Yet she'd honored her inner truth, courageously changed her body to match her heart, and now she had let Jaytee into her life without reservation. Her passion and trust in the future put me to shame.

The service concluded and Scott led us out into a day where massive thunderclouds loomed in a front on the western horizon. Sometimes the clouds formed and floated over the Delta, but my predicting ability said a storm was settling in for a hard stay.

“Come to the bar for a drink,” Scott said. “In honor of Koby.”

It was a fitting conclusion for a bartender.

 

11

My sleep roiled with nightmare images, gunshots, and Gertrude Strom. I awoke in midmorning more exhausted than when I'd gone to bed. Tonight was the reopening of the club, and I had much to do.

Tinkie blasted out of Zinnia at daybreak to chair a national meeting of her Ole Miss sorority in Memphis, but she would be back by midafternoon. A horseback ride was in order if I wanted my brain to function. To that end, I checked in with the two security men and told them my route, saddled Lucifer, and trotted off around the fields with Sweetie Pie at my side. Riding clarified my thoughts and simplified my emotions.

As the sun beat down on my shoulders and Lucifer surged beneath me, I allowed my thoughts to return to Koby's death. Senseless. I was pissed off and worried for my friends. Now I had to push emotions aside and sort facts, but I took a moment to savor the success of my culinary prank.

Revenge, though sweet, could have a bitter aftertaste. I didn't feel bad about what I'd done to Bijou, but it wasn't an appropriate punishment. She needed to do jail time, suffer public humiliation. For her, I'd vote to bring back the stocks, complete with rotten vegetable pelting. My hard emotions were provoked by the suffering of an innocent animal. Well, not innocent, but one who hadn't deserved such brutal treatment.

At last I was able to push my angry thoughts away and ride. A mass of clouds marched on the western horizon. The fat underbellies hung low, promising a drenching when the storm front finally arrived. I gave Lucifer his head and we settled into a rocking-chair canter. He covered the ground with incredible speed. When we came to a brake and small stream, he sailed over the water without missing a stride. Yes, bad things had happened in my world, but there was also a tremendous joy.

Hunger finally drove me home to discover Tinkie idling her Caddy at the front door. “I got halfway to Memphis and blew off the meeting,” she said. “Are you okay, Sarah Booth?”

“I am.” We hadn't really had a chance to talk, and there was a lot I had to tell her. “Want to come in for coffee?”

“When I drove in, Gertrude Strom was parked about a hundred yards down the road from your driveway. When she saw me, she took off. There was someone in the car with her.”

“Who?”

“I couldn't get a good look. I called Coleman. He's speaking with the security men.”

“Let's put the coffee on.”

Tinkie checked her watch. “Sure, I have this crazy urge to go home. It's like we've been trapped in a bog of people being hurt for a year, but it's only been four days. It makes me want to hide in my house and hunker down.” She turned off the car and picked up Chablis.

“I know.” We entered the house to the joy of Sweetie Pie greeting Chablis and the disdain of Pluto, who sat on the stairs and licked a front paw.

Instead of the kitchen, we aimed for the office. “I have a confession.” I told her about the adventure Harold and I had at Hemlock Manor, and about Roscoe. I kept the brownie part to myself. I didn't want to implicate her in Brownie Blowout, but I wanted her to understand the situation had been successfully resolved.

She grabbed up her car keys. “I'm going over to Bijou's right now.” Her cheeks were hot pink—never a good sign. “She will not hurt Roscoe without consequence.”

I took the keys away and gripped her hands. “It's been handled. I promise. And there will be more retribution in the future, but you can't get involved in it.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“If I tell you, it may come back to haunt both of us.”

“I gather you wish to withhold the details. Which means it must be something illegal.” She bit her bottom lip in concentration. When it popped out of her mouth, I couldn't help but think of the effect that simple maneuver had on men. Tinkie could bring Samson to his knees and never have to touch his hair.

“I promise, I'll tell you later. I don't want to taint you with knowledge, in case there are legal repercussions. If I get in trouble, you have to be free to help Scott.”

“This sounds delicious!”

“In a manner of speaking,” I said.

“Curiosity is killing me.”

“I'll give you a hint.” If she didn't get the info from me, she could draw her own conclusions. “Talk to Doc Sawyer. You'll put it together and I won't have to tell you anything.”

“I'll do that. Now let's figure out what's going on with Koby's awful death.”

For the next twenty minutes we laid out the pieces of the case, trying to fit the facts into a coherent pattern. Mason Britt's audacious appearance at the funeral home colored our perception of the facts. Mason was a zealot in a church that hated the blues. Koby, though, was a bartender, not a musician. And Koby and Mason were friends. Or had been close. They'd survived a terrible war, a bond sometimes closer than blood.

“Mason Britt may hate the blues and think Satan has us by the shirttails, but would he really gun down his combat buddy?” Tinkie asked. “I can't buy that. He'd be more likely to kill Scott or a band member, someone he felt dragged Koby into sin.”

“I agree. Maybe the shooter wasn't Mason but someone else in the church. Or, it's possible the shooter, if it was Mason, didn't see Koby clearly and thought he was a musician. I still think Frasbaum looks like the best choice. Or maybe Frisco Evans.”

“Good points. Coleman will have to investigate Frasbaum. The Chicago PD won't work with us. And I have to say, if Frisco and Angela were doing it in the bushes, I think they should both be put in jail for bad taste.” She shuddered. “How could that be fun? It's cold, and there are bugs.”

“You are not a nature girl, Tinkie.” My partner was more the five-star-hotel type. “If we could get someone from Farley's church to talk to us…” I was thinking out loud. “Maybe one of the women.”

“They never let the women off the compound, Sarah Booth. Coleman should handle Farley.”

Tinkie wasn't afraid, but she recognized we'd have little influence on Farley and his group. Our gender rendered us ineffective there.

“What troubles me are the warning calls. Those seemed designed to scare Scott away from Sunflower County, to force him
not
to open the club. Mason works for a woman who plans on using a resurgence of interest in the blues to further her business holdings. Whether she knows it or not, her office equipment is being used to stir up hard feelings toward Scott and the club. And Bijou told Angela she'd prefer a different kind of club. Let me add that I don't think a single thing happens at Hemlock Manor that Bijou isn't aware of. She's playing both ends of this dance club thing. Maybe that's smart business, but it sure looks like she's manipulating the situation to get the outcome she wants.”