Crossed Bones Read online

  As I crossed the street, I was thinking about what Jitty had said earlier about dreams. Somewhere along the way, had I become afraid to dream? It was a question to ponder.

  The heat was intense and I was glad to step inside the courthouse. When my father had served as circuit court judge, there had been no air-conditioning in the building. Though I often took the troglodyte, no-progress stance and rejected modern improvements, air-conditioning was a true miracle. I stood for a moment under a vent, hoping to dry up the rivulet of sweat that had begun to slip down my spine and into my underpants. Melted was exactly how I felt.

  The sheriff's office door was open, and a sound bite of conversation caught my attention.

  “He's guilty as sin,” the dispatcher said in a country twang veneered with sophistication. “He sits in the jail cell, feet propped on the bars, cool as a cucumber. If he feels anything, it sure ain't, I mean, isn't, remorse.”

  “He's hard,” Deputy Dewayne Dattilo agreed. Dattilo was a new addition to the force, as was the dispatcher.

  “He can play the guitar. I heard him a few times when I was out dancin'. He could make a girl's bones melt, if you know what I mean.” The dispatcher's voice carried grudging admiration, topped off with a portion of sexual hunger. “He had the women squirmin' in their seats, or those of them who could stay seated. And that one crazy gal, man, she all but jumped on his leg.”

  “She's gonna be trouble,” Dewayne said, and not without a little eagerness.

  I entered and was greeted with wary curiosity from one and dislike from the other.

  “Is Coleman in?” It was a courtesy question. I could see him at his desk in his office.

  “I'll see.” The dispatcher, known as Bo-Peep because of her overpermed, blondeened hair, went into Coleman's office and closed the door. I couldn't help but notice that she had a great figure and a walk that was all invitation. Coleman had hired her while I was at Dahlia House healing. She'd worked as a temp last winter. In those brief two weeks we'd developed a mutual animosity club. Now she was on the payroll full time, permanent.

  Within minutes she came out and swayed over to the counter. “The sheriff says he can see you,” she said. Leaning closer, she whispered, sotto voce, “He's gone back to his wife, though, so don't get your hopes up.”

  I brushed past her, determined not to show the shock I felt. Once in Coleman's office, I closed the door, composing myself as I turned around to face him. His blue eyes held sadness, matched by the long line of his mouth.

  “Ida Mae Keys has hired me to prove Scott Hampton is innocent,” I said, wanting to immediately put the visit on the footing of officialdom.

  Coleman shook his head. “I like that old woman, and I hate to see her waste her money and your time. You've got a perfect record for solving cases, Sarah Booth. This is one you might want to walk away from. The evidence we have is circumstantial, but it's pretty damning.”

  “Fill me in.” Concise, professional, that was the tone I had to maintain. I focused on the lines at the corners of his mouth that hadn't been there two months before. He might be back with Connie, but he wasn't a happy man.

  “Murder weapon found in his possession. Just over three thousand dollars, which we believe was stolen from the club, also in his possession.” Coleman sounded more tired than convinced.

  “What was the murder weapon?”

  “Prison-type shank. Handmade.”

  “Where'd you find it?”

  “In the saddlebag of Hampton's motorcycle. The bike was parked outside his house. He's renting a place on Bilbo Lane, way out in the sticks.”

  “Anyone could have put the money in the bag,” I pointed out.

  “He had a bad attitude when we went out to talk to him. He refused to talk to us, and we had to get a search warrant. Let me just say that he didn't show a tremendous amount of regret or remorse when we told him Ivory was dead.”

  Scott Hampton seemed to be his own worst enemy. “And you've determined, beyond all doubt, that the shank belongs to Hampton. Again, I'll point out that someone could have put it in the saddlebags of his bike.”

  “Someone could have, but we don't believe that to be true.”

  “Prints?”

  “None. It was wiped.”

  “How many times was Keys stabbed, and where?” Coleman knew I could get all of this information from Doc Sawyer, the man who would perform the autopsy.

  He sighed. “Stabbed in the chest. Three times.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He didn't die instantly.” He hesitated. “And that's all I'm going to say about the actual crime.”

  He'd been fair in giving me as much as he felt he could. I felt a flurry of anger as I realized how much I'd come to count on Coleman's fairness.

  “So robbery is the motive?” I snapped back into professional mode.

  “Ivory had Hampton tied up in an ironclad contract at Playin' the Bones for the next two years. Hampton has developed quite a reputation, and he'd gotten some big offers from other clubs. His career could have been on the rise, except he was legally tied to Keys.”

  “So you think he killed his benefactor for the money or to escape his contract?” I'd learned a few things in my brief stint as a P.I. Murder generally had one very specific motive. I wanted to know which one Coleman was going to try to prove when it came to a trial.

  “We're still investigating.”

  “What about bond?” Ida Mae said she wanted Scott out as soon as possible.

  “Friday. Judge Hartwell.” His mouth hardened into a thin line as he said the name. Hartwell was only a justice court judge, but he had a reputation for rash and prejudicial behavior. “It's going to be high.” He put the pencil down and placed his hands on the desk. “Let this one pass, Sarah Booth. It's going to get ugly. A lot of old scabs are going to be ripped off here.”

  His advice was meant as a kindness, but I wasn't in the mood to accept the crumbs of his generosity. The least he could have done was tell me himself that he was going back to his wife.

  “Can I see Hampton?”

  Coleman's eyebrows lifted at my tone. “Sure.” He picked up a pencil and twirled it in his fingers, but his gaze held mine. “Is there something bothering you?”

  “Not a thing.” The wall of pride had erected itself with amazing speed. We had never spoken of our feelings for each other, so there were no words to take back.

  “I've been meaning to come out to see you,” he said. His gaze fell to the blotter on his desk. He seemed fascinated by the scribbling there.

  I could have helped him out, but I wasn't in a charitable frame of mind.

  “Connie and I are gonna give it one more try,” he said, finally looking at me.

  “I hope it works out.” Thunderation, what did he think I would say?

  For a split second, he registered surprised regret. Then he caught himself and nodded. “I'll have Dewayne take you back to see Hampton.” He stood up and walked past me.

  I could have put out my hand and touched his arm. The smallest gesture would have stopped him. But I had no right to make that move, and I let him walk past me without a word.

  Scott Hampton was everything I expected. His face, undeniably handsome, seemed fixed in a permanent sneer. His blond hair was gelled back, à la Elvis, giving him a strange dated appearance that was at odds with his eyes, which said he was a man of the moment.

  “Mrs. Keys has hired me to prove you didn't kill her husband.” I didn't bother to hide the doubt in my tone. Scott Hampton sat on his bunk, rocking slightly to a beat I couldn't hear. He didn't inspire compassion or confidence.

  “Tell her to save her money.” He stood up and walked to the bars.

  I had not been aware of the full measure of his sexuality until he moved. He was a jungle cat, a predator. It was in his walk, in the way he held me with his eyes. He was a dangerous man, and he liked knowing that I knew it. The first hint of a smile touched his lips.

  I held his gaze until mine slid down
his body, exactly as he wanted it to. The tattoo on his left arm caught my interest. The skull and crossbones looked professionally done, though the black ink spoke of decoration acquired in prison.

  “I can't help you if you won't help yourself,” I said, finding the words from a million old television shows.

  “I don't want your help,” he countered as he lounged against the bars of the cell. “Give Ida Mae back her money and leave me alone.”

  “For some reason, she wants to believe you're innocent,” I told him. “Maybe she's crazy, but that's what she believes.”

  “Do you make a living taking advantage of old folks or is this a special case?”

  I felt as if he'd slapped me. “Listen, Hampton, if it were up to me, I'd just as soon walk away from this. The sheriff is pretty certain you're going to Parchman prison for a good, long stretch. You may have done time in Michigan, but that's kindergarten compared to Parchman.”

  “So I've heard. Do they still work the inmates in the cotton fields? I might come in handy, singing the blues. Back to the roots of the music, you might say.”

  I was suddenly tired. Scott Hampton was a man who buzzed with electricity. He sucked at my energy level. “This may be a joke to you, but I'm not working for you. You can help me or not. Either way it's up to Mrs. Keys. I'm going to tell her that I think you're a waste of time, but she decides what happens next.”

  “Make her decide to drop this thing,” Scott said, his voice even but his eyes sending all kinds of warnings. He tried to hold my gaze, but a breeze outside the jail caught the branches of an old magnolia tree that stood not far from the statue of Johnny Reb, the bronze image that memorialized all the men who'd given their lives to noble ideals enforced with foolish violence. My gaze locked on the rope that swung so lazily from the graceful branches of the tree, a hangman's noose on the end.

  Scott knew that I saw it and a sound, almost animal, came from him. “Keep Ida Mae out of this. Give her back her money,” he ordered.

  “Who put up the noose?” I asked him, my voice only a little shaky. The South is filled with symbols—neon crosses, snakes and their handlers, bedsheets, flags, magnolias, and mockingbirds. But there is none more potent than the noose. Someone had sent Scott a very explicit message, and he knew it.

  “Stay out of it,” he said.

  “Did you see them?”

  “No.”

  “Have you told the sheriff?”

  “No.” He grinned, daring me to ask more.

  “Coleman will find out who did this,” I said. It didn't matter what Coleman thought about Scott Hampton personally. Someone had broken the law, and in doing so had stirred up the horror and hatred of the past. Someone would pay for that.

  “My best advice to you, Ms. Sarah Booth Delaney, is that you keep your nose out of this, and don't take Ida Mae's money. She doesn't have much and she's going to need what she has to survive this.”

  “Tell me one thing, Mr. Hampton,” I said, finding that cool, level voice that I needed. “Did you kill Ivory Keys? If you say yes, I'll take that answer to Ida Mae and advise her to let it go. But until you confess, she isn't going to drop this.”

  He walked to the window and looked out. Following his gaze, I saw deputies Dewayne Dattilo and Gordon Walters outside, removing the hangman's noose with great care. Someone had finally seen it and reported it.

  When Scott came back to the bars, his face was hard, his mouth a thin line. “I'm tried and convicted. If they don't kill me before the trial, I'm going to Parchman. Some amateur private detective isn't going to change that at all.”

  “Nice dodge. Did you kill Ivory Keys?” I repeated. The least he could do was confess and let Ida Mae off the hook.

  His hands grabbed the bars so fast I involuntarily stepped back. The smile that touched his face held satisfaction. “It's a good thing to be afraid of me,” he said. “A very good thing.”

  I walked out of the jail, determined to return Ida Mae's check and not to lose a wink of sleep over Scott Hampton. The sheriff's office was empty, thank goodness, and I left a message for Coleman to call me when he found out who'd put the noose in the tree.

  The community of Kudzu was little more than a crossroads in the northwest corner of the county. Driving through the flat cotton fields, I scanned the horizon for the simple church steeple that would mark my destination. It was said that during the twenties and thirties, a nightclub at this crossroads had been one of the hottest blues joints in the nation. All of the greats had played there as they roved the South, all headed for Detroit and eventual fame.

  During this time, clubs known as juke joints dotted the dirt roads of the Delta. Open mainly on weekends, these bars were often little more than shanties where the black folks could gather to drink and dance. From the burning sun of the cotton fields to the sweet heat of a summer night, the blues had been birthed to express the sorrow, desperation, and power of sex that told the story of a time, a place, and a people.

  In the distance I saw the steeple and turned off the highway onto a dirt road that cut, straight and narrow, between the rows of cotton. In less than ten minutes, I stopped at Blessed Zion Independent Church. A small sign announced services for Ivory Keys at ten o'clock Saturday morning. Behind the church, two elderly black men were digging the grave.

  From in front of the church, I could see the nightclub at the crossroads. Although I'd driven to Kudzu to return Mrs. Keys' check, I decided it wouldn't hurt to take a look inside.

  Playin' the Bones looked like a small war might have been fought in and around the club. The front door was locked and remnants of crime-scene tape lay on the ground. The back door was closed but unlocked. I walked inside.

  Mayhem met my gaze. The place had been trashed, and it didn't take me long to find the brownish stain on the floor that marked the location where the body had lain. A stool and table were overturned by the bloodstain. I could picture Ivory Keys sitting at the table, working.

  Eyes adjusting to the dim light, I stood still and looked around. It was a very cool place. The bar was mahogany and looked as if it might have been salvaged from the old Sunflower Hotel when it was torn down. Tables and chairs, all heavy and comfortable, were scattered on three sides of the big dance floor, and up against the walls were thickly padded booths. An assortment of glasses hung from racks over the bar, which was fully stocked.

  The stage where the band played was set with drums, an upright piano, a well-used amplifier on a chair, and mike stands.

  When my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I moved deeper into the club. According to Coleman, Ivory Keys had been stabbed with a homemade prison shank. The knife had been found in Scott's possession, wiped clean of prints.

  Pretty stupid for a man who thought himself so smart.

  The wreckage in the nightclub indicated that someone was hunting for something. The cash register was bashed open, the empty drawer hanging out.

  Money—nearly three grand—had also been found on Scott. But why would Scott wreck the club if the money he wanted was in the cash register? The obvious answer was that he was looking for something other than money.

  I took my time and fixed a mental image of the club in my head. Ivory's murder had been brutal. Coleman hadn't said exactly, but there was the implication that Ivory had been beaten before he died. The destruction of the club showed a form of rage. Scott Hampton, with his contempt for all around him, was most probably the man who'd killed Ivory Keys. It was time to talk to Ida Mae and make her see reason.

  3

  Groomed was the first word that popped into my head as I got out of the car in Ida Mae Keys' front yard. Colorful was the second. Zinnias lined the dirt walkway. Gerber daisies bordered the small wooden house, and daylilies in all varieties bloomed orange, pink, purple, and lavender. These were not just flowers that could be planted and left to fend for themselves. They required care.

  As I walked to the steps, the tinkle of glass against glass stopped me. At the side of the house, I saw the br
anches of a bottle tree waving gently in the breeze. Coke, Nehi, Bubble-up, Dr Pepper, and Barq's soft-drink bottles had been slipped onto the stout branches of the tree. It was a sight from a high adventure of my childhood, when my mother had taken me to a palm reader in Memphis. The old woman had at least a dozen bottle trees in her yard. I'd sat on the steps and listened to the voices of the bottles as they brushed and touched each other in the wind, while my mother had gotten her fortune told.

  The bottle tree was either a symbol of good luck or a way of warding off evil. I couldn't remember if you were supposed to make a wish on the tree or if you placed the empty glass bottles on branches to keep the devil at bay. Although the sun was hot on my head and skin, chill-bumps danced over my arms.

  Ida Mae answered my knock immediately. She'd obviously been standing at the window, watching me. She wasn't exactly what I'd expected.

  I guess in my mind I'd been prepared for either a stout, matronly woman or a nightclub lady. Ida Mae Keys was neither. She was a tall, slender woman with gray-streaked hair that was carefully cut and curled. The navy suit said businesswoman, as did the sensible pumps. Instead of the sixty-something I knew her to be, she looked forty and in excellent health.

  “I'm Sarah Booth Delaney,” I said, holding out my hand.

  Her handshake was firm and perfunctory, just as her question was direct. “Is Scott out of jail?”

  “The bond hearing's set for Friday. It's going to be a high bond.”

  “I can sell some things and make it.”

  I took a breath as I tried to decide the best way to say what I'd come to tell her. “Mrs. Keys, I'm returning your check.” I pulled it out of the pocket of my slacks and held it out to her. I'd already decided not to mention the noose. “Scott Hampton doesn't want my help or yours. He told me to tell you to keep the money.”