Crossed Bones Page 20

  In the face of such courage and friendship, the only thing I could say was, “Thank you.”

  Tammy shook her head sadly. “Connie Peters was back here Saturday asking if I thought she should go and talk to you. How deep are you going to sink yourself, Sarah Booth?”

  22

  I drove home, made more coffee, and finally phoned Scott to set up the luncheon. To my sweet relief, he didn't answer the phone. I left a message, emphasizing the importance of his appearance at Dahlia House.

  It seemed all of my time was being consumed with keeping one faction or another from skinning Scott alive. I'd made little or no progress on the actual case. Of course, if my client were hanging from an oak tree, I wouldn't have a case.

  I made another quick call to Bridge. I'd checked out the car and there was no sign of my earring. It had to be at his house. When I got the answering machine again, I hung up without leaving a message. No man liked to be dogged by a woman, even if he did have her heirloom jewelry.

  There was another matter I needed to attend to. Even as my hand dialed the number and I heard the first ring, I knew I was a coward.

  “Sunflower County Sheriff's Office.”

  Bo-Peep's voice was low and sexy.

  “Coleman, please,” I said, though I wanted to ask her if she had her own 900 number for ba-a-a-a-ad sex.

  “May I ask who's calling?”

  “Sarah Booth Delaney,” was what I said; though I wanted to say, “Your worst nightmare, bitch.”

  “The sheriff looks mighty busy to me. I don't think I should disturb him.”

  I swallowed in surprise. She had taken control of the phones. I kept my voice level but firm. “Please tell him I'm on the line.”

  “No, I don't think I can do that. He's terribly busy.”

  Whatever else I did, I had to keep my cool. “If Coleman asked you to screen his calls for him, that's fine with me.” I hung up. Blood was pounding in my ears, I was so angry. My first desire was to drive to the courthouse and take the telephone and shove it someplace in Bo-Peep's anatomy where it ought to be mighty uncomfortable. Lucky for her, I was a lady—I merely imagined vile things, I didn't act on them.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and walked to the kitchen window. The view never failed to calm and settle me. In the midst of the heat—mine and August's—the Delaney family cemetery looked cool. The trumpet vine that Harold had bought and planted for me while I was recuperating from a gunshot wound back in the spring had taken firm root. The vine was climbing up the wrought-iron arch, and the magnificent orange blossoms, shaped like a trumpet, were hanging in abundance. Mother would have liked the vine.

  “Your mother might enjoy the flowers, but she wouldn't be so happy with your choice of beau.”

  I closed my eyes on a smile. I'd honestly missed Jitty, even for just one evening. “Where've you been?” I turned around to confront a mélange of styles. Jitty's head was wrapped in a rich burgundy scarf that matched the paisley palazzo pants. She wore a sleeveless black velvet vest with gold brocade and frogs. And the shoes. Platform didn't begin to describe them.

  “I had a gathering,” she said mysteriously.

  “Looks more like you walked off a fashion runway about forty years ago.”

  “True fashion is never dated,” Jitty said sagely. “Do you have any incense? Sandalwood would be nice.”

  “The short answer to that is no. Would vanilla candles work?” So far I'd resisted the rush to aromatherapy, but the candles had been a gift, and I did enjoy them.

  “Vanilla isn't quite what I had in mind.” Jitty lifted her arm and golden bangles slid almost to her elbow in a jingle.

  “Scott is coming to lunch and I want you to behave.”

  “You know I can't devil anyone but you. For all the good it does me to try and help you out, I can't even make you mind.”

  “Tammy's coming, too.” It had occurred to me only after I'd agreed to have lunch at the house that Tammy, with her psychic gifts, might be sensitive to Jitty.

  “You've enlisted Tammy to help protect Scott?” Jitty's eyes narrowed. “Does she know you're walkin' his lizard?”

  “Where did you get that vulgar turn of phrase?”

  “Call it what you like, you're bumpin' uglies with the man.”

  I rolled my eyes. Since Jitty wasn't wearing her schoolmarm shirtwaist, she'd taken the governors off her tongue, too. “Would it be possible to say we made love? Is that so hard to believe?”

  Jitty sat down on the edge of the kitchen table where she could really study me. “You don't believe that any more than I do. You don't love that man. You wanted him. You desired him, and you got him. Maybe you felt a rush, but it isn't anywhere close to love.”

  My first inclination was to deny it, but deep in my heart I knew Jitty was right, and it was a distinction I needed to own. “I don't love him, exactly.” My feelings for Scott were confused.

  Jitty nodded. “So why did you drop your drawers for him?”

  I found myself lightly chewing on my bottom lip as I gave her question some thought. “I didn't set out to sleep with him.” Which was the complete truth . . . or was it? How long had I been harboring desire for Scott? My first encounter with him in jail, when he'd moved toward me, had been fraught with sexuality. I'd felt desire then, and it was a lot more blatant than a ladylike tingle. Perhaps Aunt Cilla, my libidinous relative who was sent to Atlanta to hide her sexual activities in the hubbub of the big city, had a lot more in common with me than I'd ever thought.

  “He's the most sensual man I've ever met,” I said, feeling my way into the explanation. I was determined to be honest. “I crave his touch.” Addiction had been the correct diagnosis of my condition. Even speaking of Scott made me want his touch, his kisses. But it wasn't that simple. “There's something else about Scott. He has the ability to own his mistakes and to change. Not many people can really change. He's proven that he can.”

  “Girl, you're in a place of great danger.” All of Jitty's posturing was gone. She walked over to me and reached out to gather my hands in hers. I felt only a cool breeze at her intended touch. “You've given up a dream for a hallucination. Scott Hampton isn't real. He can't be real for you. He isn't that kind of man.”

  Staring out the kitchen window at the graves of my kin, I wondered what kind of man it would take to “be real” for me. Perhaps Scott's true appeal was that he wasn't the kind of man to become permanent. He was transitory. He was a mover. His very mobility made me want him more. He was yin to my yang.

  “Opposites attract,” I pointed out to Jitty, but I did it gently. She wasn't needling me for the fun of it. She was worried. After all, her future hung on my conduct.

  “Beneath all the sexual fizz, there has to be substance. You want him because he's here for the moment. You want him because you shouldn't. Look at the things he appeals to in you, Sarah Booth—all the flash and dazzle of a shooting star. But after that moment of light, it's gone.”

  I felt a wave of sadness slipping over my ankles, up my knees, over my thighs, and headed for my heart. “Maybe I don't trust anything more permanent than a starburst.”

  “Baby girl, that's not a good thing.”

  I wasn't feeling up to judgment calls regarding my choices. My last fling had been a man home for a split second from his life in Europe. Now, months later, I had slept with Scott, who would never stay in Zinnia. He had “big time” written all over him. “Maybe I don't want permanence right now,” I said. “I can always change my mind.” That made me feel a little better.

  Jitty shook her head. “Changing your mind isn't like changing your habits. I see a pattern developing here.”

  “Maybe you should just be glad my libido reared its ugly head. Only a few months ago, you suspected that the Delaney womb had died.”

  A hint of humor touched the corners of Jitty's eyes. “That's a point, but I don't have to tell you that Bridge Ladnier would be a far better choice for your libido to play peekaboo with.” She jangled her br
acelets, a soft tinkling that sounded like the wind chimes on the corner of the house. “I just want you to be happy. That's all your mama would want.”

  “I'm working on it.”

  “What's for lunch?” Jitty asked, bringing me back to the immediate problem. Food and the imminent arrival of Scott.

  “I'd better check the fridge and see what can be salvaged.”

  “I'm off to a meeting.” Jitty glided toward the door.

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “A discussion of dream interference and noncorporeal powers. I'll let you know what we decide.”

  I knew she was gone when a breeze blew through the tiniest crack in the kitchen window, tickling my face.

  As soon as I opened the refrigerator door, Sweetie Pie came out of her doggy coma and charged through the doggy door. She had the intense hearing of a bat, which she applied only to the sound of food. An electric can opener could draw her home from the next county.

  “Here you go, Sweetie,” I said, tossing a chunk of cheese her way.

  There was romaine lettuce, red bell peppers, pickled okra, feta cheese, cherry tomatoes that I'd had to buy since my own plants had perished from lack of love, and one purple onion. It was the start of a salad. I went through the freezer and found some chicken to broil. Then my gaze fell on a pork loin.

  This was my first meal for Scott. While Tammy and I might enjoy a cool grilled chicken salad, Scott was a man. Meat. The more the better.

  And I had a recipe that my mother used every time she needed to put my father in a receptive mood. Roasted pork loin and Jezebel sauce.

  Wicked.

  I pulled the meat out of the freezer and started the big thaw. From the spiffy pull-out tater bin beneath the counter, I gathered sweet potatoes. It was summer, and the living was replete with fresh vegetables, so I decided on crowder peas, okra, squash casserole, and corn bread. There is no finer cooking than Southern. Scott Hampton would be slain by the goddess of bodacious eatin'.

  By the time I got everything in the oven and almost done, I had just enough time to “put on my face,” as Aunt LouLane used to say. Even girls with a perfect complexion had to coat their skin with foundation. In my aunt's time, foundation was the byword for appearance in all its forms.

  I decided that a little foundation wouldn't hurt me, so, along with Angel Beige number 5, I chose a lacy spandex body suit to wear under my little red dress with white piping on the neck and sleeves. It was the perfect casual dress for a summer luncheon. White strappy sandals completed the look. Even Cece would be proud of me, I thought, as I did a twirl in the mirror just as the doorbell rang. My only problem was my hair. Because the humidity was now permanent in Zinnia, I'd chosen a French twist, which reminded me that I hadn't recovered my earring from Bridge's bathroom. If he didn't call me before the day was over, I was going to fetch it anyway.

  Tammy arrived first, and I was left wondering if Scott would actually show. If Tammy noticed my anxiety, she was kind enough not to mention it.

  We took a seat in the parlor, and Tammy sipped the iced tea I offered her. To my extreme relief, the doorbell rang again and Scott Hampton stood on my steps, clutching an armful of coral gladioli. My heart sang.

  “They're beautiful,” I managed, getting him and the flowers into the house without damaging either.

  “Surprised, aren't you?” he asked, unable to hide his grin. “You thought I was going to be a jerk.”

  I was so relieved I didn't even try to hide it. “The thought crossed my mind.”

  He leaned close enough to my ear so he could whisper. “I was raised with good manners. I just use them when I choose to. And I choose to with you.” Then his lips caught the lobe of my ear and gave a tiny little nibble.

  I thought my knees would buckle. His hand caught my elbow as he chuckled softly. I realized then that I'd lost any chance of pretending he didn't affect me. I'd given him the upper hand in the relationship.

  We walked into the parlor, and Tammy took her time assessing the two of us together before she stood up as I made the introductions.

  “The flowers are lovely,” she said, going to the sideboard to get a crystal vase since I had obviously lost all powers of movement. She took them from me and deftly arranged them.

  “I love flowers,” Scott said. “I always wanted a garden.” He shrugged, laughing at himself. “Ridiculous, right? A blues singer who putters around in the impatiens.”

  Tammy was looking at Scott, but she handed me the vase, her eyes hot with emotion. “Water.” She leaned down to my ear. “I need to speak to him alone.”

  “Right,” I said. “Scott, how about some tea?”

  “Perfect.” He waited until Tammy took her seat before he found one himself. He had been trained.

  I stayed in the kitchen, eavesdropping on their conversation. At first Tammy was cool, asking sharp questions about Scott, his past, his relationship with Ivory. I almost dropped the platter when I caught her next question.

  “What do you know about past lives, Scott?”

  “I've heard the concept.”

  “But you don't believe?”

  “I don't disbelieve. My focus has been pretty much on this lifetime.” There was humor in his voice. “But I have some curiosity. Sarah Booth mentioned that you have powers.”

  Tammy didn't deny it. “You have a strong presence. In this life and in others. I think the power of the past is part of your charisma now. You've been many things.”

  Tammy was tempting him, teasing him into her world. I wondered if he would follow.

  “What do you see?” Scott asked, with the same interest as if he were asking for a doctor's diagnosis.

  “Let me see your hands.”

  I peeked through the door, fascinated. Scott stood up and went to Tammy, his hands held out, palms up. She took one, holding it as her fingers stroked his palm.

  “Calluses,” she noted.

  “I play the guitar. If I didn't have calluses, I wouldn't be a very good player.”

  “You don't play the guitar with your palms,” she pointed out.

  He bent lower, examining his hands, too. “They've always been that way. Or at least as long as I can remember. But you're right. My palms don't touch the strings.”

  “What would callus your hands?” she asked.

  His face opened and I was reminded of a schoolboy with the correct answer. I was charmed anew.

  “I've been chopping wood. It must be the axe.”

  “Or chopping cane.”

  He looked stumped. “Sugarcane? There isn't anything here except cotton.”

  “I see you, standing in the field in the heat, skin darkened even more by the sun. You're an angry man, Scott Hampton, though you go by another name. You look up toward the plantation house, and you think of violence. And around you the sugarcane shakes like a fierce wind, bowing as the other slaves slash it with machetes.”

  Scott's hands had begun to tighten on hers. “Where is this?” he asked.

  She shook her head lightly. “Not here. Not this life. Another life.” She held his hands. “Think about it, Scott. How many people have asked you how you could play the blues like—”

  “Like a black man,” he finished for her.

  She nodded. “Can you even imagine it?”

  I held my breath. Tammy didn't expect everyone to buy into her belief system, but I knew this was important. She might view a rejection of reincarnation as a rejection of a possible black incarnation.

  “It makes sense,” Scott said. “It might explain why I hate the taste of sugarcane. Once I was in Louisiana when they were burning the cane stubble in the fields after harvesting. I got violently sick. Ivory had to take me to an emergency room, but as soon as we got into the city, away from the smell, I was fine.”

  “Perhaps it was just the smell. It's a little overpowering.”

  Scott now held her hands. “No. It was something more than that. It went so deep, way down to a place that was twisted with anger.”
>
  I had a question, but I wasn't invited to the little private séance that was taking place on my grandmother's horsehair sofa. I'd heard that a person could shift genders as they progressed through their lives, but races? I'd never considered it. But that would mean that white folks might once have been slaves, and, of course, the reverse. And Jews might have once been Nazis. And . . . it was endless. And wonderful. If people would buy into this concept, it would be impossible for any one race or religion or creed to claim the role of victim. It would mean we had to give up the grievances of the past and live only in the present, with a nod of hope to the future. It was mind-boggling. And as I peeped through the doorway, I saw that Scott and Tammy had caught onto the power that had just been unleashed.

  Tammy slowly released Scott's hands, and he touched the palms together, considering. “I'll have to think about all of this.” He knelt down in front of her on one knee. “Whether you know it or not, you've given me the first hope of absolution.”

  “I've never had the power to absolve anyone,” Tammy said.

  “No, but you allowed me to consider forgiving myself.”

  The moment was so intensely personal, I shut the door and turned to check the table settings in the dining room again.

  When I finally took Scott his tea, Tammy was actually smiling.

  “Ivory was a great man,” she said. “You know my granny got arrested with his band when she was a young woman.”

  This was a story I hadn't heard, and I'd known Tammy's grandmother. “Were they trying to sing in an all-white club?” I asked.

  Tammy laughed rich and full. “Heavens, no. Granny was dating that harmonica player they called Hotlips, and they were all in Memphis for a gig. Well, they drank all night and the next morning they were arrested in a park, drunk as Cooter Brown.” Tammy was still laughing. “My grandmother wasn't really a drinker, so it was a big adventure for her. No harm came of it, and she had a story to tell for the rest of her life. They were just young and adventurous.”