Bone to Be Wild (24 page)

“Can you describe the truck?” Tinkie asked.

“Black, extended cab, late model. I think it's a diesel. I couldn't really see anything else. It didn't have any lights on. It came out of the dark and then lit up Mike with the cue-beam and shot him. It drove away fast.”

If other details became available, Coleman would share. Now it was best not to grill the poor woman further. Her husband's life hung in the balance and she was pregnant with their second child. Talk about a world of hurt.

Tinkie engaged Danni and Scott in casual conversation, and Coleman spoke with the nurse at the desk. When he finished, he tilted his head toward the hallway. I joined him there.

“Do you have any insight into why would Yancy Bellow fly a specialist in from Memphis for a musician he doesn't even know?” Coleman asked.

“He offered to buy into the club, to give Scott some operating cash.”

“So he views the band members as an investment.” Coleman digested that information.

“Yancy thinks Playin' the Bones can be a big asset to the community. Especially the tourism business. I got the impression the blues club is a means to an end for him. He bought The Gardens and he's looking to acquire more property that could be turned into B&Bs. The club will bring in tourists.”

Coleman caught Scott's attention and indicated he should join us. He walked over and Coleman put the same question to him.

Scott rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted. “This is an amazing community. Folks step up to help each other. I don't know what this specialist costs, but I can only promise to try to repay Mr. Bellow. That is, if I can keep the club open. If not … touring in Europe builds a reputation but it isn't exactly a ticket to wealth. I want to stay here, in Zinnia.”

“Few businessmen are motivated by compassion,” Coleman said. “Yancy may be the exception, but I wouldn't bet the farm on it.”

“He stands to make a lot of money if the music takes off,” I said.

“I need to head to the crime scene,” Coleman said. “DeWayne is there, but he's been hampered by the darkness. Dawn is breaking and we need to get to work. If there's evidence, we have to retrieve it.”

“We'll stay here with Scott and Danni,” Tinkie said. “We'll call as soon as we hear anything about Mike.”

After Coleman's departure, we simply sat in silence. My brain sent jumbles of incoherent images chasing each other. We were all exhausted but unable to rest. The minutes ticked by. I got fresh coffee for us, and we sat more.

At last, Doc came into the waiting room. He wore fresh scrubs, but his face told me how seriously Mike was hurt. We jumped to our feet, as if taking the news upright would be easier.

“How is he?” Danni asked, doing her best not to weep. Tinkie put a protective arm around her.

“The shotgun blast did some damage. Dr. Lee was able to repair his lungs. Thank goodness he arrived here so quickly. I'm a fair surgeon, but he's amazing.” He found a worn smile. “Now there's nothing to do but wait and see.”

“What are the odds?” Tinkie asked.

“Mr. Hawkins was lucky. The blast hit his lungs but spared his heart. If he doesn't throw a clot, his chances are pretty good. He's young and healthy.” Doc took Danni's hand and patted it kindly. “He's a strong man. I'd put my money on him.”

Pretty good didn't sound like the odds I'd want. I favored exceptionally good. Damn near a hundred percent was what I wanted to hear, but I kept that to myself. Instead, I maneuvered Doc away from the others.

“Was he shot in the back?” I asked.

Doc shook his head. “No, he was facing the person who shot him.”

If he lived, he might remember something more than Danni did.

Doc patted his cloud of wild white hair. “I'll see Dr. Lee off. There's a private plane waiting for him and he has patients to see in Memphis.”

“I'd like to thank him,” Scott said.

“Sure.” Doc motioned for Scott and Danni to follow him into the medical staff area. He gave Tinkie and me a thumbs-up. “Keep good thoughts. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

We sat down. Again. I couldn't tell if I was relieved or simply dead beat. Numbness reached from my butt to my brain. “Dr. Lee saved Mike's life.”

“Yancy Bellow is a peculiar man,” Tinkie said. “I asked Oscar what he knew about him. Not much more than we know. It's strange, because Oscar knows everyone with money in Sunflower County. Well, actually in the Delta. Yancy travels under the radar. Old family, lots of land, but he's never been active in local events. His holdings are international and mostly handled in New York, where he spends the greatest part of the year, though he throws some business to Oscar.”

“Is that unusual?” Having no money to invest, I wasn't up to speed on how the upper crust managed money.

“No. The Delta has a fair number of extremely wealthy people. They bank out of Memphis and other big cities. Money goes to money. The law of attraction. Yancy's interests are far-flung. But I refuse to look a gift horse in the mouth. I'm confident Mike would have died without this specialist. Thank God he took action.”

“Yeah. Yancy has been a good friend to the club.” I didn't say it, but maybe he would still invest and help Scott keep the club alive, if it came to that.

“I can say one negative thing about Yancy.” Tinkie's voice was glum.

“What?”

“He could exercise better taste in women. A lot better.”

“Bijou!” I'd actually forgotten she existed. “Why would he spend his valuable time with her?”

“She's pretty, wealthy, probably a shark in the sack,” Tinkie counted off her attributes on her fingers. “And he's a man. He couldn't care less about her moral or ethical character. He's not going to marry her.”

“She's not interested in marriage.” Bijou seemed to be a new breed of Delta woman. She didn't need a man for her identity. Wealth had passed to her directly, through no accomplishment of her own I might point out. She didn't need a husband to provide endless security or luxuries. She could afford to indulge every whim. With her personality, she wouldn't yield to the pressures of society to wed. In a way, I could actually admire her. If she wasn't such a total and complete bitch.

“I like his new girlfriend, Chantal. Classy,” Tinkie said. “Maybe he's done with Bijou.”

“Maybe.” The question to ask would be was Bijou done with him.

Doc returned alone and sat wearily beside us. He had to be in his late sixties or early seventies and he put in longer hours than anyone I knew except maybe Millie. Doc and Millie came from hardy stock—people who worked steadily without complaint.

“What did Sarah Booth do to Bijou?” Tinkie asked him right off the bat.

“Nothing I know of.” Doc focused on the floor. He couldn't risk a glance at me or he might rat me out or burst into laughter.

“Doc Sawyer!” Tinkie's curiosity demanded an answer. “Sarah Booth won't tell me. She said you'd know.”

“Correction!” Tinkie was slick, but I couldn't let her buffalo Doc into thinking I wanted him to tell my secret. “I
said
for you to ask Doc what was wrong with Bijou. I never said I had a thing to do with it.”

Doc's eyes crackled with amusement. “Let's just say when she came out of the bathroom, I was surprised there was anything left of her.”

The conversation stopped when Scott and Danni returned. He looked worse than before, if that was possible. “Dr. Lee did a remarkable job. And you, too, Doc Sawyer. They aren't letting anyone sit with Mike. There's nothing we can do until he comes out of recovery. They said four or five hours. I think we should go home and try to rest.”

“I'm staying here,” Danni insisted. “Tatiana helped me find a sitter. She's a sweet and helpful girl, and she was so upset about Mike. More even than Koby.” She pushed her hair from her face. “I can't leave Mike alone. I want to be here, in case … I promise I'll call with any news at all.”

“You do what you feel is best,” Tinkie told her. “Just call if you need us.”

Sitting in the waiting room, fretting and worrying, was a waste of time for us, but it might give Danni a tiny sense of control. “Scott, please stay at Dahlia House. We can grab a few hours of sleep.”

“I will.” Every lick of fight had been sucked out of Scott.

I kissed Doc on the cheek and whispered in his ear. “Thank you.”

He patted my shoulder. “I don't disagree with your actions.” He leaned close and whispered. “Just don't get careless, Sarah Booth, or there will be consequences, no matter that you're on the side of the angels. What you did to Bijou might be considered assault.” His soft laughter tickled my ear. “Assault on an ass. An excellent description of Bijou.”

We left the hospital, stepping into the promise of a new day. The sun glinted between the horizon and a mass of enormous clouds that promised rain. I thought of Coleman and the crime scene. By all rights I should have gone to help him, but I didn't know if I could put one foot in front of the other.

We dropped off Tinkie at Hilltop and picked up Sweetie and Pluto. Always willing to forgive, Sweetie bounded toward me, yodeling her joy. Pluto was another matter altogether. Every time I reached to pet him, he hissed and gave me his butt. He reserved his affections for Scott.

“He knows how to emphasize his point,” Scott said, cradling him as I drove home.

“Cats.” One word said it all.

“He knows he's superior and now he's letting you know it, too.”

We both needed the laugh. At Dahlia House, Scott declined breakfast. “I'm going to sleep. Can we set an alarm for three hours? I need to be up and moving.”

I obliged and took myself upstairs for a nap. Before I conked out, though, I made a few calls regarding Tatiana, per Coleman's instructions. Koby had worked at Mike's Molotov Cocktails, a popular Austin bar. The general manager wasn't in until five, so I left a message asking for a callback.

And then I collapsed. Pluto deigned to sleep on the foot of the bed, but he refused any cuddling. Sweetie Pie was strangely wound up. She paced the bedroom.

I checked her over, concerned she might have pulled a muscle or hurt herself playing with Chablis, but I found no evidence of physical discomfort. She was simply tense and anxious. And so was I. I tried to sleep, and though my body demanded shut-eye, my brain wouldn't cooperate.

At last I got up and went downstairs for coffee. I rummaged through the refrigerator and found fresh spinach, bacon, eggs, and cheese and whipped up a quiche. While it baked, I dressed for the day and went to my office to go over the notes on the case.

Guilt was my problem. It ate at me. I was five days into this case, and I'd turned up not a single lead that Coleman could use for an arrest. Koby was dead, and Mike gravely wounded. Scott had been effectively blackmailed into shutting down the club, which would bankrupt him shortly. Who was behind this? Was the perpetrator willing to kill innocent people to make a point about the blues and some ignorant belief involving Satan? I honestly couldn't wrap my brain around such a crazy thing.

It seemed more likely that someone meant to harm Scott, but I hadn't been able to dig up any reason. Or possibly to get back at Zeb for his actions. But that didn't ring true, either. And what gave with two separate warning calls. A man calling Danni and a female calling the club landline. Other calls had come into the band members' cell phones, as if the caller were taunting them with the fact that he'd obtained private cell phone numbers. The landline for the club was listed and it was no big deal for the female caller to obtain the number. A woman caller.

I sensed this was important, but I couldn't figure out how.

Was this about money?

I had three classic motives for the shootings—religion, revenge, or greed.

The frustrating thing was that I'd found no evidence to lead me in any direction. Sure, Farley's church railed against the blues club, but shaking a finger at Satan and shooting people were miles apart. I disliked everything Farley stood for, but I was having difficulty believing he deliberately orchestrated a murder and a shooting because he didn't like a style of music.

Without a motive, it would be nigh on impossible to find this drive-by assassin who seemed to select his victims at random, drawing from the pool of those involved with the blues club. Did Gertrude or Bijou figure into this? They hated me, but that, too, was a stretch. Frisco Evans needed a closer look.

The timer on the quiche went off and as I passed the front porch headed to the kitchen, I saw a car in the driveway. Harold had stopped by. I unlocked the front door and let him in before he could knock.

He gave me a peck on the cheek, but he wasn't there for romance or conversation. Harold wore his worried expression, and that upset me. “What's wrong?” It was nine thirty in the morning. The bank had been open for half an hour and Harold never missed work.

“Oscar got a call this morning the moment the doors unlocked. A conglomerate out of Tennessee wants to buy Playin' the Bones and the six hundred acres around it. Their plan is to develop a blues theme park.”

“Money.”

Harold put a hand on my forehead to check for fever. “Connect the dots, Sarah Booth, you're making me think you've had a stroke. What are you saying?”

“Money is the motive for trying to shut down Scott.” This was so much better than sin or personal animosity. Money. “Someone realizes if the juke joint is a huge success, Scott'll never sell. If he has the best venue in the state—an original juke, not a Disney version—they won't be able to compete with him.” It clicked into place. “And that place, that one spot on planet Earth, has the blues mojo and is worth millions in advertising. It is the primo location for a club. And if there's that much land for sale around the club…”