Crossed Bones (31 page)

Gordon dug a bullet from the barn wall and said it would go a long way toward solving the crime if we could find the rifle. Probably a 30.06, he said.

When we'd finished the preliminary search, I gave Gordon the biggest searchlight I had, and he went back to examine the area around the barn again. He didn't say so, but it was easy to see that he wanted to do his work without an audience. I stood at the kitchen door and watched the light working here and there in neat patterns.

J. B. drew me to the front porch, where we could sit in the rockers. It wasn't until I saw two cars careening down the drive that I realized what he'd done. While I'd been busy talking to Gordon, J. B. had sneakily called both Tinkie and Cece.

"You don't need to be alone," he said.

"Thanks," I said grudgingly, because I was glad that he'd called them. I didn't want to be a nuisance to my friends, but I sure didn't want to be alone.

"Dahling!" Cece cried as she leaped up the steps two at a time. She air-kissed me on each cheek, then did it again. "One shouldn't frighten one's friends." She was huffing hard, and I realized she was still dressed to the nines. "You had a date," I said, eyes narrowing. She'd left Playin' the Bones alone. Where had she found a man between Kudzu and downtown Zinnia at one o'clock in the morning?

"Men are a dime a dozen, dahling, but friends are priceless." She smiled.

Tinkie finally made it up the steps, and we all went inside and took a seat at the kitchen table. J. B. served us coffee and foraged around in the cupboard until he found a box of brownies, which he promptly mixed up.

I told all of them about the spray paint on my folks' tombstone and about Reveler, with J. B. throwing in his side of the story as he baked.

"Dahling, this is going to be front page," Cece said. "That Deputy Walters, acting like it isn't important because it was a horse. We'll see about that. This is Zinnia,
Mississippi
, not the O.K. Corral. I'd be willing to bet it's those two thugs who hang out with Scott."

I hadn't thought of Spider and Ray-Ban, but they did seem to be the most likely suspects, based on general attitude and character type. But why would they want to hurt me? I was helping Scott.

"I second that," Tinkie said, "though we need some hard evidence before we accuse them publicly." I couldn't help but grin. Tinkie had come a long, long way in a few months.

"I don't know," I said.

"It was just one man," J. B. threw in from the counter, where he was beating the brownie batter. "Do you have some pecans or walnuts?" he asked.

"Second cabinet, blue Tupperware." J. B. was implying that Spider and Ray-Ban were too cowardly to act alone, and I agreed with him. "Who would really want to hurt me?" I asked. "Even better, who would know that he could hurt me by hurting Reveler?"

"That's a good question," Tinkie said. "I don't think Ray-Ban and Spider are smart enough to figure that out. They would never love an animal enough to think to hurt someone else's."

"She has a point," Cece conceded. "But who?"

The door opened and Gordon Walters stepped into the bright kitchen lights. "Could you come outside with me for a moment?" he asked. His radio crackled and he spoke into it. "Yessir, Sheriff, I think you should come out to Dahlia House right now."

"What is it?" I asked.

He didn't answer but led the way across the lawn and to the barn. He went around the south side and we followed single file, Cece cursing once as her high heel slid in a pile of fresh manure.

When we rounded the corner of the barn, I stopped so suddenly that J. B. collided into me and Tinkie into him.

"Shit," J. B. whispered as he looked past me at the object framed in Gordon Walters' bright flashlight. Two large bones were wired together in the shape of a pirate's crossed bones. They leaned against the side of the barn, where the crude drawing of a human skull had been spray-painted above them. The bottom portion of both bones were manacled together by what looked like old leg irons.

"I don't suppose this was here yesterday, was it?" Gordon asked rhetorically.

"No," I said.

"The Bonesmen," Tinkie whispered. "I knew it was those lowlifes."

"I don't think so," I said softly. "There's something else here."

"The manacles," J. B. said. "I don't know a lot about the Bonesmen, but I know that isn't part of their thing. They do the skull and crossbones, the old pirate symbol." He knelt down and stared at the iron manacles. "This is different."

"We'll have them tested, but I'm pretty certain the bones are from an animal," Gordon said, kneeling beside them.

"That's a relief," Cece said. "I wouldn't want to be on the search party looking for the rest of the body."

No one heard Coleman as he slipped around the corner and came to stand behind me. It wasn't until I sensed him that I turned to find him staring at the evidence, an expression of pure anger on his face.

Standing in the night, both J. B. and I retold our stories, with Gordon throwing in what he'd discovered.

"Find Emanuel Keys and bring him in," Coleman said.

Tinkie, Cece, and I spoke simultaneously. "What?"

Coleman was in no mood to explain himself. When he spoke, his voice was terse. "I've been doing a little research on the Dominoes," he said. "They took the symbol of the Bonesmen and then took it one step further. The manacles, to symbolize their past history of slavery. I'm willing to bet this is the work of Emanuel Keys. He's been running amok all night, first at that blues club, then down at the black community meeting, and now here. We haven't found the evidence to connect him to Trina Jacks' abduction, but I'm sure he was behind it. Find him and put him in a cell."

The last was directed at Gordon, and Coleman walked away without another word.

Her gaze on Coleman's back, Tinkie put an arm around me. "What's eating him?" she asked.

No one answered.

25

Tuesday dawned stormy and gray. When a rainstorm
moves into the Delta in August, the air is congealed. It lays on the skin like an unwanted touch. I woke up sweating, grumpy, and out of sorts.

I was drinking coffee when the phone rang. The sound of Bridge Ladnier's voice perked me up a little.

"I hear I missed the show of the year last night," he said. "I was in the middle of some serious business or I would have been there earlier. I missed the whole thing."

"It was terrific." I rubbed it in. "Ida Mae can pull from the gut. She's the real deal."

"I was talking to an old friend of mine, Mike Utley. He was a green kid working with Sun back in the early fifties. He said he recorded Ida Mae once or twice."

"No kidding." I was impressed. Bridge knew the most interesting factoids about the blues. "Any chance those recordings are still around?" I had heard Ida Mae sing. I would give anything to have a record of her.

"I doubt it. Mike does, too. He said they were never released. Ida Mae abruptly gave up singing the blues and devoted herself to church. She didn't want any recordings released. If they still exist, someone's got them under wraps or else they have them in an attic and don't know what they have."

"That's too bad."

"Mike was talking about some recordings of Ivory and Elvis. Has Ida Mae ever mentioned anything about that?"

"No, but Scott did. He said Ivory told him about them."

"From what I hear, it was quite an ensemble. Mike said it was one of the hottest sessions he ever got on tape. The sessions were so dynamic, they went direct to disk, which was highly unusual. Ivory was on piano, Kingfish Tucker on lead guitar, the legendary Hotlips Freeman on harmonica, and Elvis did the vocals. Can you imagine?"

I could. "I'd give just about anything to hear that."

"The story gets even better. During one of the recording sessions, a man burst into the studio. He was waving a gun and he began shooting wildly. He got Hotlips in the shoulder, but he was after Elvis. Ivory jumped up from the piano and leaped across to Elvis, tackling him at the knees and knocking him down. Ivory saved Elvis's life. They caught the man and it turned out his girlfriend said she was in love with Elvis. The guy was just a nutcase."

It was a great story. "I wonder what happened to those recordings?"

"Mike said he thought one of the band members may have ended up with them. There were twenty-two cuts in all. Mike asked if Scott or Ida Mae ever mentioned the possibility of someone having them."

"Scott didn't say, but I'm sure if Ida Mae had access to them, she'd bring them out. She could use the money."

"I'm sure. They'd be quite valuable, and for a private collector ..."

He didn't finish. He didn't have to. Ida Mae could name her price.

"Sarah Booth, I'm sitting on the terrace waiting for Eunice to bring me some fresh orange juice and croissants from the bakery. I'd love for you to join me."

"Sounds like Sunday on a Tuesday," I pointed out. "I thought even entrepreneurs had to work."

"Money begets money. It's the first rule of finance. All you have to do is stand back and let it multiply." His voice lowered. "I'd like to share breakfast with you."

"I'd like that, too," I said, treading carefully. I spoke the truth, but I had no desire to lead Bridge on. Flirting was fine sport, if both sides understood the rules. I did enjoy it, but I was basically a one-man woman. "I think I left an earring in your guest bathroom."

"And I thought that was just a ploy to see me again. You disappoint me, Sarah Booth."

I laughed. Bridge was damn good.

"Shall I ask Eunice to set another place?"

It was tempting, but I had things I needed to do. "I'd better decline this time," I said. "Duty calls."

"Duty or destiny?"

It was a curious question, and I decided to dodge it, exercising my Daddy's Girl option number thirty-nine. In matters of the heart or the bedroom, a Daddy's Girl never has to be direct. In fact, subterfuge and prevarication are always preferred.

"Someone shot at my horse last night," I said instead.

"Sarah Booth, that's terrible. Do you know who it was?"

"Not for certain. The sheriff was interested in talking to Emanuel Keys. I'm headed to the courthouse to see if he was charged."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

It was a charming offer, and one that made me stiffen with alarm. "No, no thanks. It's best I do this on my own. It's my business."

He chuckled. "Yes, it is. Sorry. I didn't mean to sound like 1940."

Bridge was a remarkable man. He picked up on a cue like he'd been trained. "I'll call you later," I said, eager to get off the phone. Bridge had accomplished one thing. I was motivated to begin my day.

Walking into the
sheriff's office, I was prepared for anything Bo-Peep cared to dish out. I was in my red Guccis with the block heel and crisscross straps and a red crepe skort set that was raffish and designer. Bo-Peep could bring it on. Denim and daisy dukes were no competition.

Coleman's door was closed. That was troubling; he never closed his door. "I need to speak with the sheriff. Privately," I said, crisply efficient.

Bo-Peep swung her hips from left to right and somehow made forward progress to his door. She tapped, stepped inside, came out, sashayed to the counter, and finally looked at me. I wondered how she kept her eyes open under the weight of all that mascara. Her thick hair hung in tresses down her back.

"The sheriff will see you now," she said.

"Thanks." I smiled. "There's something crawling in your hair." I made a face and drew back.

She squealed and began batting at her head.

"I use Show Sheen to get the tangles out of my horse's tail. You should try some," I whispered. I was smiling to myself as I walked past her and into Coleman's office. I closed the door.

"Sarah Booth," Coleman said, rising to his feet behind the desk.

Our gazes locked and held. I closed the door behind me, unable to look away from him. We stood like that, transfixed, for a long time. The anger seeped out of me, and to my shame I felt the sting of tears. Damn! I absolutely couldn't cry. What did I have to cry about? I was being an idiot. Still, a single tear balanced on my left eyelashes, then slowly crept down my cheek.

Coleman was around the desk in a flash. His arms were around me and he was hugging me close. "I've been so worried about you. I wanted to call you, but I just didn't know what to say."

His shirt was starched. Only Coleman would wear a starched shirt in August. I breathed in the clean smell of the shirt, the sunshine, and Niagra. I felt his hands on my back, soothing and caressing. I was safe. The luxury of it was incredible. Held against his chest, I could shed my burdens.

My arms went around his waist and I held on, breathing in the clean, ironed smell of him. His hands moved lower. My tears dried up quickly in the sudden heat that he generated. He felt the change in my body and gently stepped away.

"Are you okay?"

I nodded. "Never better," I said to his sternum. In your arms, I wanted to add but didn't.