Bone to Be Wild (2 page)

“Sarah Booth, there is no certainty in life except uncertainty. It's my fault for pushin' at you so soon. It just seems such a waste of … talent not to jump that Scott Hampton standing right there on the stage. Your friend, Cece, is makin' eyes at the harmonica player. Lord, those two are about to catch on fire.”

I wanted to punch her arm, but I feared I'd pass right through her, lose my balance, and fall into the street below. “Scott isn't some hot body to be used and cast aside.”

Jitty's chuckle was rich and smooth. “I don't think he'd mind being used a little. Not judging from the way he was lookin' at you. That boy's still carryin' a torch.”

It wasn't what I wanted to hear. Not now. “I need a new case.”

“You need some viable sperm.”

“If you can't stop pestering me about sex, go home to Dahlia House. Maybe spruce the place up, cook something comforting. In other words, be useful, not annoying.”

“To what end? Useful was my past. Annoying is my present. You'll just have to put up with me, Sarah Booth. You're powerless to control me.”

I wanted to say something clever, but she was gone. She'd lifted me from my depression, but I still had a ways to go to reach feeling good.

The balcony doors opened and Scott walked toward me. “I saw you leave the dance floor. You okay?”

“I am.” I held up the cigarette pack. “Indulging in a very bad vice.”

He carried two drinks, and he gave one to me. He'd remembered my fondness for Jack Daniels. “There are times for rigid discipline, and then there are times to cut yourself some slack. This would be a time to indulge.”

“The music is terrific, Scott. Even better than I remembered.” A truthful statement. He'd been the Blues Blizzard when I first met him, the icy-eyed, blond-haired, guitar wonder who came out of a non-blues tradition and took serious music aficionados by storm. A year in Europe had added a level of sophistication to his music that made it truly unique and totally his. The confidence he'd gained was also attractive.

“We've had to cover a lot of other people's material tonight. Folks like to dance to songs they know. When we get back to Zinnia, I want you to hear us at the club. The band and I have written some songs. I'm so excited about this, Sarah Booth. My very own club right in the heart of the place where the blues were born.”

“I'm glad for you, Scott. And it's the perfect location. That crossroads at Sawmill and Pentecost roads is said to be the location where the devil made more than one bargain for a musician's soul.” He'd taken every penny he could scrap together and put a down payment on Playin' the Bones, a wonderful blues venue in Sunflower County. The former owner had run it successfully for several years, but decided to sell when he got an offer in Chicago.

Some locals said the club had a special magic for a guitarist lucky enough to play there. At any rate, the location had a solid, loyal following and the hint of supernatural intervention only made it more exciting. Scott and his band, Bad to the Bone, would take the club to megavenue status, if his gamble paid off.

“I don't want to crowd you, Sarah Booth. You're going through a hard time. I want to be a friend right now, nothing more.”

I forced a smile and put my hand on his arm. “Thank you. I'm so confused, I don't know what I really feel, except hurt.”

“Who would? You took a blow. I'm sorry.”

Scott had never been anything other than sincere. While his words threatened to open my wound, I knew they were meant to comfort. “It's done. I just have to adjust to the new reality.”

“On another topic, Sarah Booth, I need your help.”

“Did Tinkie put you up to this?” Tinkie Bellcase Richmond was my partner in the detective agency and the daughter of the man who owned Zinnia's only bank. She wasn't above sending a hot guitar player, who also happened to be an ex-lover of mine, to ask for help with a made-up problem.

“I haven't talked to Tinkie, but Cece thought it was a good idea for me to seek your counsel.”

I snorted. “Cece has been panting after your harmonica player all night long. I'm not so sure she's capable of determining whether an idea is a good one or not. Her brain isn't working.”

“I noticed she was getting cozy with Jaytee.” Scott took my arm and led me back inside where the warmth was welcome. I hadn't realized how cold I was.

“Take a look,” Scott said.

Cece's black-and-orange gown flowed around her tall, lean body like it was bewitched. Her upswept hair, elegant carriage, and the dress turned heads. She stood near the stage and watched the harmonica player with undisguised lust. Cece was due for some fun, and Jaytee looked like he could deliver.

“Cece's on the hunt.” And was not holding back.

“And Jaytee is a man who likes to get caught.” Scott finished his drink. “So will you help me with my problem?”

“Depends on what it is. I can't do math and I'm not all that great at investment advice.”

He laughed, and I could clearly see the relief in his eyes. Everyone was afraid I'd spin into a bad depression and … do what? Leave town? Drink myself silly? If either one would help, I'd do it, but a heartache wasn't something I could run away from or drown. Grief always found its target.

“I don't want to push this out of proportion, but I've gotten some threatening calls at the bar.”

“What kind of threatening?”

“The caller said death was stalking each of us and would strike when we least expected.”

That got my attention. Some folks didn't like the blues for what they labeled religious reasons, and others because white boys were playing what was once considered traditionally black music. And some people resented what they viewed as Yankee musicians coming to town to own businesses and put local musicians out of work. But to threaten bodily harm or death was a bit over the top, even for the ignorant/backward contingent.

“Male or female caller?”

“Male.”

“Death was stalking” was a peculiar way to phrase the threat. “Did the caller specifically refer to the band members?”

He shook his head. “No he didn't. I assumed it was aimed at the band.”

“When did the calls start?” I wished I had my little PI notebook. I liked to write it all down.

“I bought the club the first of October and—”

“You've been in Sunflower County the whole month and I never knew?”

He shook his head. “I closed the deal the first of October, but we just got into town last week. We've been unpacking and working on the sound system, finding a cook, deciding on hours and music and how this is going to operate. I want Playin' the Bones to be the premier blues club in the Southeast. Memphis won't have anything on us.”

I was only a little hurt that Scott hadn't bothered to let me know he was in Zinnia. I had been engaged, true enough, and everyone in town knew it. Just as they would now know I'd been dumped.

“Okay, so you bought the club.”

“The first call came in last week. I'd bought some new tables and chairs and was paying for them at the furniture store when my cell phone rang.”

“Your cell? How did the caller get your number?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you think it's someone you know?”

He looked miserable. “I don't want to think that. I had a business partner, and he's a little upset with me. He would have my number, and he could have disguised his voice.”

I had a good place to start. “I'll need his name and contact information.”

“I don't want to accuse anyone who may not be guilty.”

“I won't accuse anyone of anything. Tinkie is very adept at this kind of situation.”

His gaze sparked with humor. “Yes, she's a woman with multiple talents. I can clearly see she'd finesse this situation.”

“Thanks.” I rolled my eyes. “I'm just the bull in the china shop stomping around.”

“I didn't mean it as an insult.” He caught a waiter's attention and signaled for two more drinks.

“I know.” And I did. I knew exactly what he meant. Tinkie could charm a man into telling her most anything. I had to rely on trickery, bribes, or ultimatums. “So how many threatening calls?”

“Three, so far.”

“All the same message?”

“More or less that someone associated with the club is going to die.”

The waiter brought the drinks and Scott gave him our empties. As he took a sip, his phone rang. Pulling it out of his pocket he checked the caller ID and frowned. “Private number, same as the other threatening calls.”

“Put it on speaker,” I whispered.

“Scott Hampton?” a male asked.

“Who is this?” Scott demanded.

“You've been warned. Abandon the club or someone will die.” The caller disconnected.

Two things were clear. The caller was male, and he had no fear of being traced. “I'll track down Coleman Peters. He needs to know about this.”

“Do you think it's a serious threat?” Scott was torn between worry and feeling a little foolish. “It's a juke joint. It's not like it's a casino or brothel. We play music.”

“That's a good point, Scott. Why would anyone care so much about a venue in Zinnia, Mississippi?”

The obvious motives were financial, racial, monetary, jealousy—pretty much the same for most crimes. I just didn't see where any of them came into play. Sunflower County had hosted blues festivals and clubs in the past. The memory of the musicians who cultivated the unique sound and shared it on early recordings was viewed with great pride by most Mississippians. Maybe the reasoning behind the calls was more personal and directed at Scott. Someone who had a bone to pick with him. “Tinkie and I will stay alert. When we get home, you and I need to have a serious talk.”

Scott nodded. “Do you think the caller would really hurt one of my band members?”

“The majority of the time, calls are as far as the person will take it. But there aren't any guarantees.”

“Can you find out who's behind the threats?”

“I can try.”

“Thank you, Sarah Booth. Now I have to get back to the stage. Our break is over. Just promise you'll dance with me when we play a slow one. Jaytee's a great ballad singer.”

“You got it.”

We hurried down the stairs and into the swirl of the party. Tables laden with food flanked the stage and ran down each side of the ballroom. In the back of the room five bartenders worked nonstop. Folks were eating, drinking, and laughing, but when the band picked up their instruments, all attention focused on them. I drifted to the outer edges of the crowd where I'd last seen my partner.

Instead of Tinkie, I found Coleman Peters, sheriff of Sunflower County, and the man I'd once thought would be my life partner. Unfortunately, Coleman had already had a wife—a disturbed one, but Connie was his legal spouse. Coleman had done his best to honor his vows, even when Connie lost her tenuous hold on sanity. By the time he divorced, the moment between us had passed. I'd begun dating Graf, and Coleman had squired several Delta belles to various social functions, but had avoided serious entanglement.

“How're you holding up?” he asked.

My train wreck of a relationship was on everyone's mind. “I'm okay.”

“I could mouth a bunch of platitudes, but you know them all.”

“I do.” I appreciated his restraint. “Someone has been making phone threats against Scott and his band. He just got one. The male caller said if Scott opened the club, someone would die.”

Coleman indicated a quiet corner outside the ballroom. When we were out of the party's din, he said, “I don't like this, Sarah Booth. There's a real meanness afoot these days. It doesn't take much to push some of these people into rash action. Is Scott taking the threats seriously?”

I hesitated. “He asked me to look into them. You don't think my friends are colluding on a plot to keep me from getting depressed, do you?”

Coleman's laughter was warm and deep. “You do have good friends, but that's extreme even for them. When we get back to Zinnia, tell Scott to stop by the office. If it turns out this is a setup, I want a front-row seat for the ass kicking.”

“Thanks, Coleman.”

“I'm heading out early tomorrow morning. DeWayne is holding down the fort, and everything is quiet, but I need to get back.”

“What's going on?” I could tell by his lack of eye contact that something was troubling him. Good thing for Coleman that his only deputy, DeWayne Dattilo, worked as hard as Coleman did.

“We had an arson last week. Ned Gaston's house was burned to the ground. Luckily he and his family were visiting relatives in Memphis.”

I knew Ned. He'd been a friend of my parents. “Who would set fire to a man's home?” Ned was a quiet man who owned a shoe repair shop in Zinnia. He and his wife were chronic do-gooders. They'd taken in numerous abandoned children and tutored classes for the migrant workers who passed through the county when the row crops came in.

“I'll have the fire marshal's report Monday morning.”

I read a lot more into the situation than he was saying. Coleman was worried, but he wasn't ready to talk about it. “I'll help Cece finish up here and then I'll be home, too. Tinkie wants me to drive her Cadillac. She's riding with Oscar.”

“Be safe, Sarah Booth. I know it's easy to be distracted. If someone really means harm to Scott or the band, they might not wait for them to get back to Sunflower County.”

“Constant vigilance,” I promised and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Even in a tuxedo he still carried the scent of a starched shirt and sunshine. In my mind he would forever be associated with summer and the flap of sun-drenched shirts on a clothesline.

 

2

Sweetie Pie, my red tick hound, was sound asleep in my bed when I got back to my hotel room. The big dog was curled around a rotund mound of black fur—Pluto the cat. They both snored lightly.