19

AS MUCH AS I WANTED TO BE WITH HAMILTON, I NEEDED TO TALK with Doreen. Tinkie was heavy on my mind, but I didn’t want to discuss her personal business in front of Hamilton. When I told him I needed to work, he assured me that he had phone calls to return. He would wait for me at his place. I was invited to his private spend-the-night party.

Doreen and I walked through the falling dusk to the Center. Though we sauntered side by side, Doreen was far away. Several people smiled and spoke to her, but she didn’t notice them.

When we got to the Center, I put a hand on her shoulder. I wasn’t certain if we would have any privacy inside.

“I spoke with the sheriff of Sunflower County today. Doreen, this is hard.” I took a breath. “Your mother was involved with a county police officer for several years. His name is Coot Henderson. I don’t know how far into the past you want to go, but Coot thinks your mother may have been murdered.”

Doreen seemed to look beyond me. I thought at first she hadn’t understood what I’d said.

“Was my mother so hated that someone would kill her?” she finally asked.

“I wouldn’t have thought so.” I’d also asked myself who might have killed Lillith. And more to the point—why?

“Will you talk to this man for me?” she asked.

“Of course. Coleman’s made an appointment. In fact, Tinkie’s going to go to Zinnia tomorrow—”

“No, I’d like you to do it.”

“Tinkie is perfectly capable of—”

“I don’t doubt her skill. Tinkie doesn’t need to be in Zinnia right now. She’s focusing on something very important.”

“The cancer,” I said, wanting Doreen to know that Tinkie had trusted me with the knowledge of her illness. “And her doctor is in Zinnia.”

“She needs to be here.”

“She’s supposed to have a biopsy, and I certainly hope you aren’t discouraging her from that.”

“The biopsy is November fifth,” Doreen said, unruffled by my tone. “Until that time, Tinkie needs to be here.”

“With her husband,” I said forcefully.

“I’m eager to meet Oscar.”

There seemed no way I could offend Doreen. We entered the Center and went to her office. Michael was there, his face lighting up when he saw Doreen.

“Don’t forget your booking at the studio tomorrow,” he said.

“Cancel it,” Doreen said.

“What?” The joy evaporated from Michael’s face. “We’ve waited four months for that booking. If you cancel, we won’t be able to get that studio until after the first of the year.”

“Cancel it.”

“Doreen, this is the tape where you discuss the role of archetypes in illness. Your followers have been waiting for months already.”

For a moment, Doreen looked at Michael. In three long strides she was beside him. She put her hands on either side of his face. “Michael, it doesn’t matter.” Her voice was very soft.

“It does matter, Doreen,” he said. The edge was gone from his voice, but it was still strong. “You have commitments. You’ve made promises. I’ve spent the last four weeks setting this up. The CDs and tapes are due to ship out just before Christmas.”

“And what will happen if the tapes are never made?”

“A lot of people will be disappointed. And we’ll have to pay for the studio time anyway. That’s a lot of money.”

“Money isn’t a consideration here, Michael.”

“Of course it’s not. Money doesn’t matter to you because you never have to dirty your hands with it. I’m the one who takes care of all the financial problems. I’m the one who ultimately pays the bills for your decisions.”

Michael’s face was pale, his eyes angry.

“Michael, you’re wonderful at your job. But it is my decision to make.”

I saw the muscle in his jaw clench and then relax. He took a breath. “Yes, Doreen. It is your decision. But as your financial advisor, I have to tell you when I think you’re making a mistake.”

“You’ve told me,” she said softly. “You’ve done your job. More than your job. As always.”

“What about the people who’re waiting for this tape?” he asked.

“I help all that I can. I refuse to accept that burden.”

“I’m the one who initiated the campaign for these tapes. I’m the one who set the Christmas release date. And I’ll look like a fool,” Michael said bitterly.

“Not to me.” She kissed his forehead. “Never to me.”

Michael looked down at his desk. “You’re the boss.”

I couldn’t read anything into his tone, but Doreen straightened up and nodded at me. “I’m going to Zinnia with you.”

“Zinnia?” Michael asked. “Why?”

“Sarah Booth has discovered that my mother may have been murdered.”

“Is that right?” Michael looked at me, his dark eyes troubled. “I’m so sorry, Doreen. I didn’t realize why you were canceling the studio.”

“Reschedule for after the first, and apologize for me.”

“I’ll go with you to Zinnia,” Michael said. “If there’s murder involved, you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’ll be with Sarah Booth,” Doreen said with the hint of a smile. “We’ll be fine.”

“But what if the murderer is still around?”

“I doubt he’s hanging around the scene of the crime now,” Doreen said. “My mother’s been dead a long time.”

“Sheriff Peters will be with us,” I said. “We’ll be perfectly safe.” We didn’t need an entourage if we were going to talk about a potential murder.

“There’s a small problem,” Michael said, one corner of his handsome mouth turned down. “Doreen isn’t allowed to leave the jurisdiction.”

“I’ll talk with LeMont,” I volunteered. “Maybe he’ll be able to get her permission to make a day trip.”

         

THE BLACK KETTLE was a casual bar with a big business. The place was packed, and I stood on tiptoe trying to catch a glimpse of LeMont. I finally located him at the bar, where he was holding a stool for me by draping his leg over it.

His dark suit was rumpled and he finished one beer and ordered another. Judging from his posture, he was either tired or had just finished a discouraging day.

“Ms. Delaney,” he said as he shifted his leg and offered me the stool. “What can I do for you?” There was a snap in his voice.

“Thank you for meeting me,” I said. It would be best to get right to the point. “Doreen wants to go with me to Zinnia tomorrow. There’s some indication that her mother may have been murdered. I’m going to talk to a possible witness to the murder.” I was stretching things a bit.

“Her mother was murdered?”

“Possibly,” I said, wondering at his sudden interest.

“And you think it would be a good idea to have Doreen with you when you talk to this witness?”

Put in that frame, I could see it wasn’t such a good idea. “She wants to go.”

He took a long swallow of his beer. “If that’s what you want, I’ll talk with the judge.”

Now I was curious. Detective LeMont wasn’t in the habit of tossing favors out. He’d obviously discovered something that worked in Doreen’s favor. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugged. “I don’t view Ms. Mallory as a flight risk. But what I think doesn’t matter. It’s up to the judge and he’s going to say no.”

I wasn’t buying that flip answer. I remembered the baby bottle. “What have you found out? Whose fingerprints are on the baby bottle?”

LeMont gave me a long, calculating look. “Doreen’s and the maid’s, as you’d expect. And Reverend Oren Weaver’s. We had his prints on file from when his house was burgled a few years back.” He paused, studying my reaction. And what a reaction it was. My mouth opened wide in the mouth-breather moment of shock that my Aunt LouLane would have slapped off my face.

“Oren Weaver? Why would he touch that bottle?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. What would the mighty televangelist be doing holding a baby bottle for Rebekah Mallory?”

I shut my mouth and put a slightly more professional look on my face. “What does your investigation show?”

He grinned. “I’m just getting started. Now, I’ll talk to the judge, if you’ll tell me exactly what you know about the preacher man.”

I was caught on the horns of a dilemma. I’d promised Doreen I wouldn’t reveal her connection to Weaver, or the other men, unless I had to. LeMont was sniffing on the trail, but he hadn’t picked up the scent of possible paternity yet. By not telling him, though, I was thwarting an ally in proving Doreen’s innocence. And Doreen had possibly lied to me. She’d assured me that none of the potential fathers had ever seen Rebekah.

“Sarah Booth, what’s going on in that head of yours?” LeMont’s eyes were flat and I had the sense that he needed to move or drown.

But my word had been given. “I can’t help you,” I said.

He rose from his stool, finished his beer, and smiled. “I got a call from that sheriff of yours. He’s mighty fond of you.”

And LeMont was pretty damn good at throwing curves. “What did Coleman say?”

“It wasn’t so much what he said as how he said it.” He arched his eyebrows. “None of my business, though. I got my hands full in New Orleans.”

I leaned against the bar. “What about the judge?”

“You won’t help me, but you still expect me to help you?” He furrowed his brow. “Okay. I’ll talk to the judge because I know it won’t do a bit of good. And you’re gonna owe me.” He pushed his glass back. “I’ll find out how Weaver’s involved in this anyway.”

He walked out of the bar, never once turning around to look back at me. I ordered a vodka martini, dirty, and sat at the bar until it was gone. With just a hint of a buzz, I made my way to Hamilton’s apartment and the comfort of his arms.

         

AS THE SUN EDGED over the horizon, I drove across Lake Pontchartrain, my body sated and my thoughts on Arnold LeMont. True to his word, LeMont did call the judge. True to LeMont’s prediction, the judge refused to let Doreen leave New Orleans. On this Friday morning, I was traveling alone, and glad for the solitude.

I’d spent the night in the arms of a fantasy. The movie theater of my mind had been given a whole new reel of images to play again and again. The last one was of Hamilton sleeping, a dark stubble on his handsome face, his hair rumpled on the pillow, and a smile on his lips.

Now I was heading back to Zinnia, back to my normal life. Or was it normal? In the past few days I’d slipped my mooring. I was drifting. Life in New Orleans bore no resemblance to life at Dahlia House. I was caught in a time warp, where memory was more real than anything else. But memory fades.

As I was heading back to Mississippi, the last few hours in Hamilton’s bed seemed more like a dream than reality. Yet when I was spooned against Hamilton, it had felt so real, so perfect. I’d run my fingertips across the light sprinkling of dark hair on his arms, felt his fingers curl around mine, known the sensual delight of his leg pressed firmly against my own, sunk into solace with the rhythm of his breathing.

Now the highway stretched in front of me, a washed-out gray in a blur of pine trees and fallow fields. And this was my reality. I was hurtling through time and space at eighty miles an hour as the sun rose to my left, jewels of dew glittering all around me.

Behind me was Hamilton. In front of me was my home. And Coleman.

I drove in a turmoil of emotions, stopping twice for coffee and a bathroom. When I finally turned down the drive, Dahlia House awaited me through an alley of leafless sycamore trees.

Sweetie Pie greeted me with a chorus of barks, her tail whipping my legs as she whirled around me. In the back pasture, Reveler whinnied a welcome.

I rushed into the house.

“Hold up your hands,” Jitty said in a gunslinger voice.

“Jitty?” She stood in the doorway of the parlor, her elegance as cold as her attitude.

“Hold them up. Let me see.”

I slowly held up my hands, palms out. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you is the better question.” She stepped closer and I caught a fragrance that reminded me of my mother’s mother, Grandma Baker.

“Evening in Paris?” It was a light, talcumy odor.

“Which would be Evening in a New Orleans Hotel Bed without Benefit of a Ring if you were wearing it.”

It was instantly clear what was eating at Jitty. “I thought you’d be happy that Hamilton was back in the States.”

“For how long? Long enough to put a ring on that finger and make you an honest woman?”

I took a deep breath. “I am an honest woman, Jitty.”

“Liar.”

She spoke with such certainty that I felt my temper rise. “I am not a liar.”

“You the worse kind of liar. You lie to yourself. You go on about how you’re satisfied with a few nights in Hamilton’s arms. That ain’t the truth. You want him here, in Zinnia. Full-time.”

“I’m not so certain about that.” Truth be told, I wasn’t certain about anything. And Jitty was giving me a pounding headache.

“A full-time husband might interfere with your daydreams about that sheriff leavin’ his wife and takin’ up with you.”

“I’ve never asked Coleman to leave his wife. Never.”

“You haven’t asked, but that don’t mean you haven’t thought about it.”

I wasn’t going to lie. I had thought about Coleman leaving Connie. He didn’t have a real marriage. She’d tricked him back to her with the most low-down trick in the book. “I’ve never encouraged him to break his wedding vows. And he won’t.”

“No, he won’t. And that leaves you standin’ on the outside lookin’ in. You know, eighty years ago, a woman didn’t have the right to pop in and out of bed with men. Back then, she’da been run out of town on a rail. It wasn’t fair, because men could do as they pleased and never suffer a bad reputation. But this today ain’t good. A man won’t buy the cow, Sarah Booth, when he’s gettin’ the milk free.”

Jitty shimmered, as if a heat wave had rippled through her.

“Don’t you dare disappear,” I hissed. But it did no good. She was gone and I was left alone with her bitter words of wisdom.