Crossed Bones Page 5

  “So a tiger can change his stripes as long as he doesn't get hungry, then he's goin' back to bein' a tiger, right?” She laid it out for me.

  “It could work that way,” I said, draining a glass of ice water.

  “Scott Hampton is a racist, Sarah Booth. He may have hidden it while Ivory Keys was feedin' him, but he finally got really hungry, and he went back to bein' what he always was.”

  I refilled my glass and turned to face her. She deserved my full attention. She'd raised an issue that was troubling me, too.

  “It may look that way to me and you, but Ida Mae Keys believes differently.”

  “Ida Mae has to believe that Scott's innocent.”

  “Why?” I was curious to hear her reasoning.

  “If he's guilty, then she should have seen it comin'. I'm sure she knows all about Scott's past. She probably knows more than anyone, except her dead husband. And she let Ivory convince her that the tiger was defanged. She let that tiger into her home, up to her table, and walkin' beside the man she loved. Now that man is dead and the tiger only did what it was in his nature to do all along. She's got to bear the blame of that if Scott Hampton's guilty.”

  Jitty's words were chilling. Faced with a choice between belief in someone and such a burden of guilt, I could see what Jitty meant.

  “Scott looks guilty,” I conceded. “But there are other possibilities.”

  “The man who killed Ivory Keys is guilty of something a lot worse than murder,” Jitty said. “Ivory had a big dream, and the power of that dream was the power to heal. The man who killed him destroyed that dream.”

  I saw a tear in the corner of Jitty's eye, and the panorama of all she'd witnessed passed through my mind. We'd both seen far too much loss. “Other men with dreams have died violently, and death didn't destroy the power of what they envisioned.”

  “No, but it sure knocked progress back in the ditch for a long time.”

  I couldn't argue that. I'd wondered more than once what would have happened if Martin Luther King Jr. had lived. Without his leadership, the movement for equality had faltered badly and never fully recovered.

  “Ain't nobody risen up to take Martin's place,” Jitty said, echoing my thoughts. “There are rare men—and women—who have the power to lead through the worst times. They don't come along ever' day.”

  “But the dream doesn't die,” I insisted. “Maybe it gets stalled, but it doesn't curl up and die.”

  We stared at each other, both acutely aware of the long history that bound us so intimately together.

  “If this guitar man killed Ivory Keys, he's done a terrible wrong. You can say the dream survives, but Playin' the Bones is closed, Ida Mae Keys is at home cryin' for her man, and the people who were beginnin' to believe that Ivory had a true vision are doubtin' all over again. If Scott Hampton walks out of this, not only will Ivory's dream die, but faith in the justice system will be destroyed.” Jitty slowly stood up. “That's a heavy burden, Sarah Booth. You'd best shoulder it with a lot of thought.”

  She didn't pull a fading act, which was her usual exit when she thought she had the last word. She walked out of the parlor and disappeared up the stairs. I was left wondering how in the hell I had gotten myself into such a mess.

  The answering machine light blinked urgently, and I played back my messages. Coleman had called saying he'd heard I had visited Playin' the Bones, which he had no doubt read as my decision to accept the case. He wanted a word with me “at my convenience.” Good, I'd wait until tomorrow for a lecture. Besides, the thought of seeing Coleman made me nervous, angry, and sad. It was a dangerous cocktail of volatile emotions that I didn't trust myself to imbibe in public.

  The other message was from Tinkie. My date was at seven sharp with a Bridge Ladnier, Memphis entrepreneur and investor. He was tall, handsome, and loaded. We were going to dinner at The Club, followed by dancing. Tinkie and Oscar would be there—close enough for an emergency, but far enough away to let “nature take its course.” It was a date scripted from the Daddy's Girl Handbook of Red Letter Evenings.

  I tried to sneak up to my room, but Jitty had heard the message from Tinkie and was waiting for me at the top of the stairs.

  “A rich man, huh?” she said, and for the first time that day I saw a spark of the old devil I knew so well.

  “Tall, handsome, and rich.” I rubbed it in.

  “Entrepreneur and investor,” she said.

  “Former banker,” I tossed out.

  “Tinkie's friend.”

  “Oscar's school chum.” I was determined to have the final word on this. He was, after all, my date. Jitty and I were eye-to-eye.

  “He's got all the financial credentials he needs, but can he cut the mustard or does he live up on Dead Pecker Ridge? Lots of men turn to makin' money when they can't make a woman grip the sheets and scream.” Jitty was grinning, but she was also very serious.

  “I didn't ask Tinkie for his Dun and Bradstreet or a report from his urologist.” I was exasperated. Jitty could talk dreams and visions of a future, but for her it all boiled down to the tiny fusing of one sperm and one egg, all taking place in my female plumbing and ending up attached inside the Delaney womb. “Look, stay out of my social life.” I gave her a hard look. “Why aren't you organizing a march at the jail or something?”

  “If I could carry a sign, I'd be out there picketin'. Now forget about haranguin' me and go pick out what you're gonna wear tonight. Maybe that green halter dress with the full skirt.”

  Drat! It was exactly the dress I was thinking of. I hurried up the stairs and opened the closet. I wasn't a clotheshorse, but I loved a good bargain. During my tenure in New York as a failed stage actress, I'd happened upon a number of terrific secondhand stores. My wardrobe boasted big names at cut-rate prices.

  I pulled out the green halter dress. It had a distinct 1940s look, with three big black buttons on the bodice, a pointed collar, and a completely bare back. The skirt was full and swingy, perfect for an evening of dancing to a big band, which was what The Club always offered. In fact, it was the same band from the 1940s. Wearing the same burgundy blazers with the gold lettering of The Club embroidered on the right lapel. Even the bubbles that churned from the hidden machine smelled vaguely of mothballs.

  “Perfect,” Jitty said. “That pale green matches your eyes. Wear those gold earrings Cece brought you from New Orleans. And those wicked black heels with the three sexy little straps.”

  Though she was an aggravation, Jitty had terrific taste in clothes. I couldn't help but wonder what she was doing, looking like a forgotten girl groupie, but I knew better than to ask. I had a date to prepare for, and at my age, it was going to take at least a full five hours to wash and condition my hair, put on a mud mask to shrink my pores, do my nails and toenails, pumice my calluses, lubricate my skin, pluck my eyebrows, shave my legs, and the host of other beautifying acts that every woman knew was a prerequisite to a Big Date. I would be exhausted before Bridge Ladnier showed up.

  “If you went out more than twice a year, you'd be more caught up on personal maintenance,” Jitty said. “What about that bikini line?”

  “You make me sound like a car,” I pointed out, choosing not to go into the fact that Bridge Ladnier wouldn't know if my bikini line was waxed or not.

  “Well, you ain't no classic, so you'd better buff yourself up as much as possible. And remember to use that wax.”

  I sighed. There was no point in arguing with Jitty when she was on a tear.

  I sipped a Jack on the rocks and watched the Jaguar pull up to the front of the house. The man who got out of the car was a perfect match for the clean, elegant lines of the auto he drove. Bridge Ladnier had arrived in style.

  I saw his features clearly in the light of the porch. He had the look of a British aristocrat: deep-set brown eyes, a face toughened by the outdoors and touched with a hint of interesting lines, posture so perfect that it came across as casual. He rang the bell, adjusting his designer Picasso tie a
s he waited for me.

  “Mr. Ladnier,” I said as I opened the door. “Please come in.”

  He followed me into the parlor and took a seat on the horsehair sofa.

  “Would you care for a drink?” I hovered by the bar, my Aunt LouLane's schooling in the caste of Daddy's Girl taking over before I could stop myself.

  “Scotch and soda,” he said, his gaze finding the old turntable where Marva Wright's powerful voice went deep and dirty. My mother had an extensive blues collection. “I saw Marva in New Orleans five times. She can bring a house down,” he said as he accepted his drink.

  Surprised, I poured Jack over ice for me. “You like the blues?”

  “Like may be an understatement,” he said with a slow smile. “I love them.”

  “We share that in common,” I said. “I like a lot of music, but the blues are my favorite.”

  “Is that why you're defending Scott Hampton?” he asked.

  The question caught me off guard. Somehow I hadn't expected Bridge to be interested in local happenings. “No, it isn't about the blues.” I hesitated. “Mrs. Keys asked me to help Hampton.”

  “You seem a little hesitant. Can he be helped?”

  I avoided a personal opinion. “The evidence is strongly against him, but many innocent men have appeared guilty.”

  “And if he is guilty, then he's done a terrible thing.” He watched me closely. “You haven't become a hired gun yet, have you?” His smile was warm. “I somehow don't think you will. That says a lot about your character.”

  Bridge Ladnier obviously had heard a lot of details about Ivory's murder. “This is a case where it's hard to know the right thing to do,” I conceded.

  “Yes, our justice system is built on the ideal that every man deserves a fair trial,” Bridge said, swirling his drink so that the ice clinked in the glass. “It's a case that's going to get a lot of publicity. Might be good for you, in the long run.” One eyebrow lifted. “Now that's strictly a bottom-line assessment.”

  I started to laugh. “I never considered whether this case would be good for me or not.”

  “Then you should, if you want a successful business, Sarah Booth. In fact, that should be one of your primary concerns for all future cases. 'What can I gain from it?' and 'How will it impact my reputation?' “

  I could see where he was a good businessman. “I have a hard enough time trying to decide what's right and what's wrong in cases this convolved. Future impact of publicity may be too complicated for me.”

  He gave a wry smile. “I lived up North too long, I suppose. I forgot that Southern belles don't worry their pretty little heads about business.”

  His remark caught me off guard, and then I caught the twinkle in his eye. “You're right,” I said. “That was a ridiculous thing to say. I have to think about the business side of this, whether I want to or not.” I finished my drink and rose. He did the same.

  “You're beautiful and smart, Sarah Booth. Never ridiculous. Business is not something a person knows intuitively. It has to be learned, and if you ever need any help, I'm available.” He took my arm and leaned to whisper in my ear. “Gossip down at the bank is that your business will be a whopping success. They say you have a knack for solving cases.”

  I was still flushing with pleasure when we headed out into the night. While the Jaguar hummed over the long, straight roads that cut through the whispering rows of cotton, Bridge spoke of his reasons for returning to the South. He had family in Memphis, but it was a longing for the culture that had pulled him back to Mississippi.

  “That, and I have this crazy notion that I might be of use.”

  “Of use?” Bridge didn't strike me as the kind of man who would relish being used in any way.

  “I know it sounds like I'm some seventeen-year-old still wet behind the ears and filled with dreamy ideals, but Mississippi has made great strides to overcome the past. I want to see it move forward even more. We've got good people, bright and talented people. I can convince my associates to invest down here, bring in some good jobs. I'm not talking about chemical plants or textile mills where folks work for minimum wage and the environment pays the ultimate price.”

  I watched Bridge's profile in the pale glow of the Jaguar's dash. He was passionate about what he was saying. I felt something inside me stir, the brush of an old memory, and I realized that I'd heard the same powerful emotion from my mother as she talked about Mississippi and her love for it.

  “Just because you have ideals doesn't make you naíve,” I said. “I like people who dream.”

  Bridge chuckled with a hint of self-consciousness. “That's enough serious talk.” He pulled into the parking lot, got out, and handed me out of the car. As I tucked my hand through his arm, he pressed my fingers, teasing the back of my hand as he let go. “Tonight we dine, drink, and dance. We'll save the serious discussions for daylight. It would be a pity to waste that moon,” he said, pointing to the sky, where a pale moon hung on the horizon, gilding the surrounding cotton fields with silvery leaves.

  He led me into The Club and proved that his word was good. Oscar, wearing a white dinner jacket, rose and waved us to a table. Before I could even sit, my napkin was in my lap and my champagne flute filled.

  Tinkie was especially lovely in a pale orange swing dress and matching heels. She and Oscar hit the dance floor for a rumba, and I watched with amazement as Oscar's hips swiveled and his face was alight with fun. In his official capacity at the bank, he was a stoic and reserved man. Tinkie was the fuse that lit him, and I felt an unreasonable swelling in my heart for the two of them.

  “No marriage is perfect, but those two do get on,” Bridge said, giving voice to my thoughts.

  “I'm really beginning to respect Oscar,” I admitted. “But don't tell him, he'll get the big—”

  I didn't get to finish. A shadow fell over my plate and I turned to find Marshall Harrison standing over me, a glower on his face. Marshall was a decade older than I and I knew him only because he owned the local fast-food franchise.

  “You shame all of us,” Marshall said, his words slurred with too much alcohol.

  “I think you should walk away from the table,” Bridge said levelly. He didn't rise, but his body was poised for action.

  “I'm talking to Miss Delaney,” Marshall said, putting a sweaty hand on my shoulder. “Your mother was a troublemaker and now you've taken up the flag. Decent folks around here don't like it and we won't put up with it.”

  Bridge had intervened once, as is a gentleman's right, but I was no lady. “Take your hand off my shoulder now,” I said, turning in my chair so I could look at him.

  Instead of removing his hand, he squeezed. “Hampton is white trash. He's going to get what he deserves.”

  I had a sudden thought that Emanuel Keys may not have hung the noose at the courthouse. There were factions, both black and white, that wanted violence. I drew back my elbow, prepared to land a blow where it would do the most good.

  To my surprise, Marshall's knees buckled and he almost dropped to the floor. Oscar had stepped up behind Marshall and held his other arm in a viselike grip, levering it up behind his back.

  “Take your hands off the lady,” Oscar said.

  Marshall's hand instantly fell away. “Excuse us,” Oscar said calmly as he steered Marshall toward the exit. Bridge excused himself and followed. I started to go outside, but Tinkie caught my hands as she sat down at the table.

  “Let the men handle it,” she said.

  “It's about me and I should see it through,” I insisted.

  “This is only the beginning,” she said sadly, holding my hands in her lap so I wouldn't get up.

  “Why?” I asked, still a little stunned. “What's this case to Marshall Harrison? I doubt he ever went to Playin' the Bones or even knew who Ivory Keys was, much less Scott Hampton. What does my mother have to do with this?”

  Tinkie released one of my hands long enough to drain the rest of her champagne. “It doesn't matter, Sarah B
ooth. That's what I tried to tell you. The scabs are coming off the past now. The guilty and the innocent will be swept up in this. There won't be a winner, no matter what the outcome.”

  “There never is a winner when someone is dead,” I said bitterly.

  Bridge and Oscar returned, neither with a hair out of place. Oscar ordered another bottle of champagne, and Bridge leaned over to whisper in my ear. “It's important that we act as if nothing happened. And it didn't. The man was drunk and stupid.”

  When the waiter brought the champagne, we ordered dinner, and through the wit and manners of the men, Tinkie and I were able to put the evening back on track.

  We laughed and danced, and in the quiet moments, I found myself surrounded by the ghost of memories of my youth, when I'd sat with my parents and watched an older generation of belles dancing with their handsome dinner dates.

  Bridge offered me a bedazzling view of what my future might have been, had I not wanted to become an actor. Had my parents not been killed when I was a teenager. Had my mother not been a socialist and indoctrinated me into the ways of the independent female during my formative years.

  Before the evening was over, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps I'd made a serious mistake by chucking out the baby with the bathwater.

  As we rode back through the soft night to Dahlia House, I kicked off my shoes and tucked my throbbing feet under me. I had paid the price of wicked shoes without a whimper.

  “You're quite a dancer.” It was an understatement. Bridge, for all of his upright posture, could move. In his life of privilege, he'd somewhere learned to salsa with just enough hip action to make a girl think of other activities.

  “Thanks. You're a good partner.” He glanced over at me. It was the most intimate action he'd committed all night. Bridge Ladnier was a very careful man.

  “Will you be in Zinnia long?”

  “I'd planned to leave Sunday. Although I'll be doing a bit of work here in Zinnia, my base is in Memphis. But I think I'm going to change my plans.” This time his glance lingered on me. “Will you have some free time in the next few days?”