Crossed Bones Page 23

  “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.

  His fingers glided down my cheek, lifting my face. “My God, Sarah Booth. I've never wanted anything as much as you. You can't imagine what it's like, wanting you and trying to do the right thing by Connie.”

  I could imagine it, and it made me want to howl. It didn't matter what I felt. He was still a married man. He'd invoked his wife's name. He'd drawn the line we couldn't cross. And deep in my heart, I knew he was right. “I'm trying really hard,” I said, the words rock-bottom honest.

  “I know,” he said slowly, his hand moving up to cradle my cheek. “We both are. We've both gone down a rocky path this time,” he said, lowering his hand. It was a good thing he did. I wanted to step into his touch, to bask in the warmth that he generated in me.

  “How is Connie?” I asked, the words sticking a little in my throat. I smiled to hide the pain.

  “She's doing okay. We're in counseling. I guess I needed to hear some hard things about myself. In fairness to her, I haven't been the best husband. A woman can't come in at the bottom of the priority list all the time.”

  “No, she can't.” I swallowed hard. My throat was parched, and there were words lodged in it. Words that would never get spoken.

  “I never realized how it must seem to her. I was always on the job, always putting it first. I thought I was being a good provider. Seems like I was hiding from my feelings by working all the time. I've learned that's a form of addiction. Work to avoid feeling. Connie hasn't been happy, but neither have I.” He shrugged, embarrassed and guilty.

  I couldn't lie and tell him that I hoped he worked it out. I just couldn't say those words. “I think counseling's a good idea.”

  “Yeah, women do.”

  I put my hand on his badge. “It'll make you a better lawman, and a better man.”

  “I could use a little of both of those, especially the latter,” he said. He went back to his desk and sat down, motioning me to take a seat. “We brought Emanuel in last night but we had to cut him loose. He had an alibi for the time Reveler was attacked.”

  “Who was his alibi?”

  “Three men. All members of the Dominoes.”

  I could tell Coleman didn't believe the alibi. “What about the bones and the manacles?”

  “He admitted it was the sign of the Dominoes. He feigned surprise that it was left at your place. We got a search warrant and went through his car and his home. There was no gun, no other bones, nothing to tie him to the act.”

  “Whoever did it was trying to frighten me. It worked, too. It made me realize how vulnerable I am when it comes to the things I love.”

  “That's where we're all vulnerable, Sarah Booth.” He made no move toward me. “I'm vulnerable where you're concerned because I love you. That's why you have to be so careful. That's why you have to promise me that you'll drop this case.”

  The air leaked out of me. I didn't sigh or gasp or anything. Suddenly, my lungs were empty. “I can't,” I said simply. I breathed. Coleman loved me, and it did neither of us any good. It was just one more open wound we both had to try to protect.

  “This county's going to explode,” Coleman said. His voice was gentle. “Sarah Booth, you've put yourself in a position to be hurt by both factions. Please walk away from this.”

  “I can't.” If I were a true Daddy's Girl, I would invoke the name of wife, pointing out that we both had things we just couldn't back away from. Coleman had his obligations and I had mine. But I wasn't a DG and Coleman wasn't an adversary. He was the man, under different circumstances, I might have married.

  “Do you still believe Scott is guilty?” I asked him.

  “It doesn't matter what I believe. What I can prove is what matters to the law.”

  I studied Coleman. I couldn't be certain what he really thought about Scott, or what he knew about the two of us, but he wasn't showing the edge of certainty about Scott's guilt that had been there earlier in the case.

  “If it wasn't Scott, who else would want Ivory dead?” I asked.

  “Ivory was a symbol to a lot of people. Symbols are always an easy target. His death serves a number of purposes, if you put it in a political perspective.”

  I nodded. “Where was Emanuel the night his father died?”

  Coleman's hands were flat on the desk. He had large hands, the nails clean and neat, and they could be so gentle. But if I touched the palms, I knew I would feel the calluses that came from physical labor. While his job didn't require a lot of manual labor, Coleman liked hard work. When he didn't answer my question, I looked up at him.

  “Emanuel was at the blues club until about midnight. He had an argument with his father. He went back to the club around four. He found his father's body.”

  “And you don't find that suspicious?”

  “I do. But the shank and the money were found on Scott.”

  “Easily planted evidence.”

  “Scott had motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “So did Emanuel. And Nandy Shanahan.”

  There was a brisk tap on Coleman's door and he called out for Bo-Peep to come in.

  “We have a 10–52 out on Bilbo Lane,” she said, trying hard not to let me hear.

  Coleman stood up abruptly. “I have to go.”

  I stood up, too. Bilbo Lane could only mean Scott Hampton. Coleman started out the back door and I was on his heels. He stopped so suddenly I slammed into his back, the butt of his gun jabbing my hipbone.

  “Ouch!”

  “You're not going,” he said.

  “What's a 10–52?”

  “Assault and battery.”

  I'd mentioned Nandy's name, and she'd appeared, for it could be no one else. “Wild horses couldn't keep me away.”

  Coleman's grin let me know I'd responded exactly as he'd expected. “Hop in,” he said as he strode to the patrol car.

  26

  We turned down Scott's drive and into a swirl of flashing red lights. The muggy August air seemed to hold the light in a long, red scream. Something tragic had happened.

  Two paramedic units were there, and men in white shirts bustled about the yard. They lifted a stretcher on Scott's porch and ran toward the open back doors of the closest ambulance. I couldn't stop myself from rushing forward. Coleman had told me no additional details on the drive over.

  The sight of Nandy's bloody face, surrounded by sandbags to stabilize her neck, stopped me in my tracks. My gaze locked on the place in her eyebrow where the blue sapphire record stud had been. The flesh was split; the ring torn out. My stomach tightened and flipped.

  Nandy's eyes were closed, but she opened them and saw me. One thin hand motioned me toward her. I had no choice. I stepped close.

  “You can have him,” she whispered. “If he ever gets out of prison.” Her smile was that of the victor.

 
The paramedics loaded her into the ambulance, slammed the door, and drove away. I couldn't move. Not even a foot. Not even when I saw Scott on the porch, his torso and hands covered in blood. Coleman was talking to him. He was shaking his head, pointing to the porch floor. Finally, I forced my right leg to move, then the left. I walked to the porch.

  “I heard something out here and when I came out, I found her, lying there.” The place Scott indicated showed a smudged bloodstain. “I called 9-1-1, then I called your office.”

  “You didn't hit her?” Coleman was looking pointedly at Scott's hands, which were bloody.

  Scott bowed up. Authority figures still rankled him. “I didn't hit her,” he snapped. “I'm not an idiot, and I'm not an asshole who beats on women.”

  “Did you touch her?” Coleman asked with more patience than I expected.

  Scott looked down at his hands and realized there had to be some explanation. “I couldn't tell how badly she was hurt. I was afraid she'd bleed to death, so I touched her. I tried to find where she was bleeding. But I never hit her.” His tone had corrected itself, and he sounded like the Scott I'd come to know.

  “How'd she get in that condition?” Coleman asked.

  Instead of getting angry, Scott shook his head. It was an effort I appreciated. “I know how it looks, but that's how I found her. I don't know how she got here or what happened. Could you tell how badly she was hurt?”

  “I'll check at the hospital and let you know,” Coleman said.

  My face must have registered my surprise. Coleman wasn't arresting Scott. I was positive Nandy had accused him of beating her, but Coleman wasn't buying in to it.

  Scott's face opened in relief. “That's it?”

  “You're done,” Coleman said.

  Scott ran down the steps and scooped me into a hug. “Am I glad to see you,” he said, squeezing me. “When I saw Nandy all bloody like that on the porch, I almost flipped out.” He put his face in my neck, nuzzling into my hair. My arms went around him, holding him. My gaze went up the porch to Coleman, who stared back at me. If I'd ever doubted my power to hurt him, I didn't any longer. Neither did I doubt how unintentionally cruel life could be. I didn't want to hurt him, and I finally understood, completely, that his choices with Connie were unconnected to me, no matter how gravely they affected me. Wisdom is a bitter, bitter draught.