Kane (6 page)

Wasn't it?

P
ops was a wily old fox, Kane thought. He'd categorically refused to alter his usual schedule to see Regina that morning. Now he was making himself scarce for the rest of the day. When Kane called the funeral home office to confirm the meeting with Regina, he was told his grandfather couldn't make it. The tentative dinner afterward at Hallowed Ground was also off. Pops had received a call from a longtime friend who wanted to discuss hometown funeral arrangements for a brother who had passed away in another state. Naturally, such an appeal took precedence.

Kane didn't doubt the call had been received, but did question the necessity of his grandfather canceling the afternoon session with Regina in order to accommodate a friend. It was possible Pops felt Regina was being adequately entertained and had decided to get a sad task out of the way while it was on his mind. More likely, he was up to something.

His grandfather could be reconsidering selling the jewelry, Kane thought, putting off the appraisal until he was more certain. He could also be matchmaking since he seemed to think Kane was working too hard and needed the distraction of female companionship,
especially a certain redhead. Either way, it made Kane wary, very wary indeed.

Regina showed no inclination to take advantage of their extended time together. She was pleasant enough over the lunch they shared at a local café, but no more than that. In fact, she seemed far more interested in his legal practice and the case he was working on than she did in him as a man. When he was forced to report the postponement of her meeting with his grandfather, she opted at once to return to the motel.

Her attitude did little for his ego. He was used to women who at least pretended to enjoy his company and seemed reluctant to leave it. It felt peculiar to know the shoe was on the other foot. Not that there was anything personal about his interest; he was susceptible to Regina's brand of attraction, yes, but that didn't mean a thing except that he'd been too long without a woman. It was interesting to feel alive again in that way, though not particularly comfortable.

Luke had also been taken with Regina, but then, his cousin just plain liked women—all ages, shapes and sizes. There was hardly a night went by when he wasn't out with some female somewhere. How he kept them straight, Kane never knew. His cousin made it look easy, however—they didn't call him Luke-de-la-Nuit for nothing. If Kane suspected Luke's wicked ways hid problems he didn't want to face, well, they never talked about it. Kane had demons enough of his own.

As far as Luke taking a serious interest in Regina, that was unlikely. At least, not without his cousin making doubly sure Kane had no claim. There might have been a time when he and Luke had competed over
everything, including women, but those days were long gone. All that remained was the camaraderie of pretending. Or Kane thought that was all.

He noticed the burgundy Ford Taurus parked across the street from the motel as he returned to his own truck after seeing Regina to her room. He gave the guy behind the wheel a close inspection. There was nothing unusual about him; he was just a plain, ordinary guy reading a newspaper. Regardless, Kane caught himself frowning.

One problem was that the man was a stranger, someone who couldn't be matched with any local family resemblance. Turn-Coupe had been isolated for a long portion of its history and the resulting intermarriages had given most people a genetic similarity that allowed them to be placed in family groups with considerable accuracy. On top of that was the fact that people seldom sat waiting in cars in Turn-Coupe except in grocery or discount store parking lots, or maybe in front of a drugstore; there was just no reason for it. If the guy was from out of town but had a clandestine appointment at the motel, then he should have been holed up in one of the rooms instead of parked in plain sight. Add the fact that he didn't seem to realize he was as conspicuous as a bump on a log, and it was easy to guess he was an outsider unused to small-town ways.

So what the hell was he doing in Turn-Coupe?

Swerving from his intended path, Kane headed toward the motel office. As he stepped inside, Betsy looked up from where she sat with her feet propped on an open desk drawer, a thick April Halstead romance novel in one hand and a juicy apple in the
other. Kane jerked a thumb in the direction of the Taurus across the street. “That guy over there registered, by any chance?”

Betsy raised herself up enough to take a look out the window, then gave a derisive snort. “Not so you'd notice. He came into the coffee shop around lunchtime, bought the cheapest thing on the menu, asked a lot of questions. On his way out, he picked up a free paper left over from this morning. He's been parked over there ever since.”

“What kind of questions?” Kane leaned on the registration desk as he waited for her answer.

“All kinds. What kind of town Turn-Coupe is, main industry, jobs available, beer joints, stuff like that. He also wanted to know how many guests I have and what kind of place I ran. I think he suspected it was some kind of by-the-hour dive, but I told him it was nothing that profitable.” She grinned. “Then he wanted to know if I had anybody interesting, anybody different, registered.”

“You tell him?”

Betsy put her book down and tossed her apple core at a trash can. “I didn't crawl out from under a cabbage leaf this morning, honey pie. No, I didn't tell him. But you know what I think?”

Kane shook his head, his gaze inquiring.

“It's my guess he's some kind of private eye.”

“You sure you haven't been reading too many mysteries?”

She ignored that. “He's just got that look, you know? Could be he's after some lowlife running around on his wife, or maybe a deadbeat dad.”

Kane tilted his head as he noted her dubious expression. “But you don't think so.”

“There's something more interesting going on around here, now isn't there?”

“You think he has something to do with the trial?”

“Makes sense to me.” She waited, her gaze expectant.

“But why would he ask after your guests? Who's he after?” Kane had his own ideas, but it couldn't hurt to hear hers.

“Your guess is as good as mine. The only people I have just now are a couple from out of town visiting their daughter, a construction crew, a cotton harvester salesman, and your Regina Dalton.”

“She isn't mine,” he said curtly.

“Better luck next time.” Betsy grinned. “But you'll have to admit she's the kind a man might hang around to watch. Or could be your yo-yo out there is a boyfriend, maybe even a husband.”

“What makes you say that?” It was an effort not to frown.

“Just guessing. Could be he's even looking out for you. Better watch yourself, Sugar Kane.”

“I'll do that,” he said with irony, then added as he turned to leave, “Thanks, Betsy.”

“Any time.” She was absorbed in her novel again before the door closed behind him.

As he drove out of the parking lot, Kane gave the man with the newspaper a closer look. He was nondescript only from a distance. Close up, he looked a lot like a possum, with ashy gray-brown hair, a straggling beard that made his face look dirty, eyes set far back in his head, and a nose as sharp as an ice pick.

Kane felt his back and neck stiffen in primordial instinct. Two to one the Taurus was a rental, but he memorized the license plate number anyway. He knew someone who could trace it in about two seconds flat.

Melville Brown was in his office when Kane poked his head inside. His law partner was on the phone, holding the receiver under his chin and taking notes at the same time. He glanced up and a grin slashed the clear, cinnamon brown of his face. Waving Kane inside, he ended his phone conversation, tossed his pen down on his neat stack of papers, then leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his waist. “I hear,” he said in a smooth, molasses-rich voice, “that you've had yourself a busy morning. Or a busy couple of days. Now what's this about a coffin?”

“Don't start,” Kane said with a grimace as he dropped into the chair in front of the desk and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

“That bad, huh?”

“I made a jackass out of myself. But I swear Regina Dalton is up to something.”

“Excuses, excuses,” his partner murmured.

Kane's glance was jaundiced. “You'll be talking out of the other side of your mouth when she sets us up.”

The humor faded. “You're serious, aren't you?”

“As a hanging judge.”

“You really think she has something to do with the case?”

There was no question which case Melville was talking about. For the two of them, there was only one these days. Kane said in brooding answer, “She's from New York.”

“Lots of people are,” the other man said with calm reason.

“I don't like the coincidence. Besides, I've got this feeling.”

“Oh, well, that's different. Logical, even.”

“She bothers me.”

Melville said nothing.

As Kane met his gaze, he could see his partner was trying not to grin. “Not like that.”

“Sure. Whatever you say. Carry on, then—in a manner of speaking. In the meantime, want to hear what I dug up today?”

Melville enjoyed puns. Kane awarded this pair a long-suffering sigh as he said, “Give it to me.”

“Seems Berry struck a deal with a black religious conference a while back to buy their graveyards and give thousands of black church workers jobs selling burial contracts in Berry Association, Inc. How about that?”

“Sounds good on the surface. What's the catch?”

“The contracts were only for burial. None of them included normal services such as embalming and viewing at Berry's funeral homes. Unlike similar deals struck with white church groups, which did include those things.”

“Good grief.”

“Exactly.” Melville's smile was grim. “Berry's making several million a year off these church folks while paying them peanuts. On top of that, they can't go to his funeral homes for their services, but have to put poor old black granny in a hearse and drive miles to find a more accommodating funeral home. When
they've done that, and paid extra for it,
then
they can use a Berry-owned graveyard.”

“Isn't that a blatant example of discrimination for this day and age?”

“Guess he didn't expect to get caught. But I can't wait to see if his lawyers dare introduce Berry's record for creating jobs for African-Americans.”

“And you think they might?” Kane said, alerted by an undertone in his partner's voice.

“It's possible. I have it on good authority they expect to pack the jury with black faces.”

Kane's thoughts moved at the pace of lightning while he met his partner's expectant expression. “They intend to frame the trial along regional lines—Northern liberal versus Southern conservative.”

“Your granddad will be portrayed as the hidebound Southern gentleman in his mansion, a regular Legree of the funeral industry, trying to block progress from coming to our fair community. Berry will be shown as modern, reformist, and from the Northeast, therefore naturally without prejudice.”

“A flimflam show,” Kane said in disgust.

Melville gave him a tight smile before segueing from his normal, cultured tones into a
Gone with the Wind
parody. “They be thinkin' they can come down here and pull the wool over the eyes of us po' sharecroppers, that we be easy led by our feelings and don't know from nothin' 'bout the
law.
”

“Are they in for a shock?” Conviction layered Kane's tone.

“We hope.”

A small silence fell. After a moment, Kane said, “So did Pops's settlement offer go out today?”

Melville gave a judicious nod. “I spoke to the head legal honcho at the New York firm myself, with a follow-up in all the proper legalese by Express Mail. They'll get back to us after the offer has been presented to their client.”

“Any feedback on how it might go over?”

“It was all very cover-their-asses cagey. No discussion, just thank you and good day. Frankly, I think it has about as much chance of being accepted as a poodle at a polecat convention.”

“Berry doesn't have long to make up his mind, not if jury selection begins in less than a week.”

“True.”

With a thoughtful frown, Kane said, “You want to handle that part?”

“Jury selection? You thinking it might play better to the media if I'm the one to object to too many black faces?”

“I'm thinking,” Kane said, “that you're a good judge of character, no matter how it's packaged. I'm also thinking that African-American jurors might be a good thing if you can spring that surprise you have in mind.”

“Berry's use of the black churches? You've got a point. But this will be district court, not Turn-Coupe. The black community around here knows Mr. Lewis. That won't be the case in Baton Rouge.”

“Think we can take the chance?”

Melville gave a decided nod. “It'll be pure pleasure to make it work.”

They exchanged a glance of easy and wordless un
derstanding. The two of them had been roommates at LSU when both were in prelaw, then had gone on to Tulane together. There had been raised eyebrows when they set up a joint practice in a renovated mansion on the courthouse square, but they'd kept it low-key, accepting whatever came their way until people got used to the idea. They'd both worked long, hard hours, and their clientele had built slowly but surely until it was now as much as they could handle.

Kane rubbed a hand over his face, then gave a rasping sigh. “You know, I've got so used to looking for an angle behind everything, some devious purpose like this jury business, that I automatically think everybody must have an agenda. Do you think I've lost all ability to tell the difference between a scam artist and someone doing their job?”