Bone to Be Wild (21 page)

He knew an awful lot about my family background. And about Gertrude's motivation and her legal maneuvers. Someone had been talking about Gertrude's private business, but I knew my mother had never betrayed a confidence. I sipped my drink. “You're well informed.”

“I was at The Gardens for dinner tonight. I'd made plans to meet Bijou, but she wasn't inclined to venture out in public. I ended up dining with Alton James. I met him last year at a cocktail party in New York, so it was natural for me to ask why he was in Zinnia.”

“I heard he was representing Gertrude. He's a very expensive lawyer.”

He put his glass on the bar. “Yes, he is. He's also a legal shark. I'm afraid I played a role in bringing him here.”

I couldn't hide my shock and anger. “You gave Gertrude money for a top defense lawyer? Why?”

“It wasn't what I intended. Gertrude contacted me and offered to sell the B&B. You know my interest in building tourism. I agreed to buy it on the spot. The property has tremendous potential, and I overpaid. I acted quickly, without thinking of the repercussions, because I wanted to close the deal before other investors heard the place was going on the market. I wanted you to hear this from me before my name got all tied up in Gertrude's legal mess.”

My anger simmered, but not at Yancy. At least he'd had the
huevos
to tell me to my face. “Thanks for telling me.”

“This is a small community. My dinner with Mr. James will be all over town by tomorrow. I wanted to get ahead of the gossip. Sarah Booth, I had great affection for your mother. She was remarkable. There were those who felt she was too outspoken, too much a champion for justice, but I admired her courage.”

“She was passionate about her beliefs.”

“And you are cut from the same cloth.”

“That's a compliment I'm not sure I deserve.”

“Let's put this unpleasantness aside. Would you care to—”

Coleman appeared at my elbow, putting a hand on my shoulder. “May I have this dance?” he asked.

“Sheriff, enjoy your dance.” Yancy picked up his drink. “I need to speak with Ms. Falcon about an article on the rise of five-star B&Bs in the Delta. We need to generate a buzz.”

I smiled my appreciation for his classy conduct. “Thank you for the reward money, Yancy.”

He eased through the crowd, greeting people as he passed. While he appeared to be shy, he had a bit of the country politician in him as well. “He's an interesting man,” I said. “He wanted to tell me about buying The Gardens and how Gertrude managed to make bail. I think he felt guilty, but he shouldn't. He was merely conducting business.”

“No shop talk for four minutes while we dance,” Coleman said. “You know this is a rare occasion for me. I'm not all that comfortable on the dance floor.”

I would have goose-stepped to a wind-up monkey slamming cymbals for a chance to dance with Coleman. All the years I'd known him, he'd avoided the dance floor like the plague. I linked my arm through his and led the way to the center of the floor.

I put my hand in his and we faced each other. The first notes of Percy Sledge's classic, “When a Man Loves a Woman” slid down my body like an intimate touch.

Scott's voice, crisp and clear and sexy, did justice to the lyrics of the love ballad. While the song wallowed in sexual overtones, it was also filled with sadness. It epitomized yearning, an emotion I had extensive personal experience with. It was also a song I'd cherished for years. My parents often danced to it, loving each other so much their love spilled over onto me. Watching them bonded in a musical embrace, I'd wanted the same kind of love. I had to wonder if such a thing existed now, or if a special magic had fallen over my folks giving them such intense, wonderful passion and understanding because their lives were destined to be cut so short.

“You okay, Sarah Booth?” Coleman asked.

“I am. Right this moment I'm very okay.”

“Hold on.”

He swept me into his arms, pulling me tight against him. I had no objection. I didn't try to talk. I simply let the music sway me, and Coleman's arms support me. For the first time in weeks, I felt safe. It would last only the length of the song, but it was a welcome relief.

Although I wasn't the most graceful dancer around, I loved trying, and Coleman was a strong lead. We swept past Madame Tomeeka dancing with the debonair Mr. French, who looked more than a little taken with his chauffeur. The music critic held Tammy in his arms, his eyes closed, as he moved her about the dance floor with technique and style.

Coleman maneuvered me to the back of the room, his strong hands on my back. I was acutely aware of the smell of sunshine and fresh laundry that always clung to him, the rasp of his beard against my cheek.

Moving among the crowd of dancing couples, I glimpsed Tinkie and Oscar, and Harold and Cece. Jaytee was on the stage, blowing the harp to a fare-thee-well. Yancy danced with the lovely Chantal.

Folks had come from as far away as Chicago and New Orleans. They came to listen to the music and dance. While I knew a lot of the people attending, there were also many strangers. A few I didn't recognize had come costumed as the Blues Brothers or as famous blues singers. My heart skipped at beat at a mocha-skinned beauty, who had fashioned her attire after the incredible Billie Holiday. I feared for a moment that Jitty had acted on her stated desire and showed up to attend the opening. A closer inspection revealed the young woman as a local, Panky Street, an aspiring rapper who'd gone to school with Madame Tomeeka's daughter.

The band's reputation, and Scott's raw sex appeal, brought many of the people to Zinnia, but the club itself had magic. The junction of Highways 61 and 49 at Clarksdale was traditionally thought to be the crossroads where bluesman Robert Johnson traded his soul to the devil for musical ability. Once that deal was signed and word spread, legend had it that several other bluesmen followed in Johnson's footsteps here at the junction of Sawmill and Pentecost roads.

This had been a gathering spot for field workers from all over the Delta. In the early days, someone with a wagon would ride along the road, allowing those on foot to jump aboard for an evening of music, dance, and drink. It was a place where the hard work of sharecropping could be forgotten for an evening of pleasure.

The rural South of the early 1900s held little hope for blacks. The rich Delta land was owned by wealthy whites, and sharecropping, for poor blacks and whites alike, was a hard life filled with scarcity. Music was the ticket to a better life. Desperation, the legend noted, drove more than one man to trade his soul for talent and the ability to earn a living.

Many, like Robert Johnson, who died at the age of twenty-seven, found the bargain to be a hard one. But some of the most remarkable music ever created had also been played here.

A blues club had stood near the crossroads since 1870, and though the building had twice burned to the ground, a new club always rose again. Stories had it that the ground had been saturated with talent, and those who sought a career in the blues would do well to play here, to soak in the magic.

Judging from Bad to the Bone's performance, the superstition was true. I'd never heard Scott play and sing better, and the other band members were equally on fire. Even the audience shared in the intensity. Folks from all different backgrounds had come together. Everyone looked happy.

I took mental snapshots of my friends, something Cece had been doing all evening with a real camera. The next edition of the
Zinnia Dispatch
would put to rest some of the stupid rumors Mason Britt and his faction had instigated. People would see the harmless fun everyone was having, the joy. How could anyone find fault with a place where people danced and laughed and let the music wash away all their differences?

This was a night to remember, a celebration of the sound that was a part of the land we cherished and the rootstock of rock 'n' roll. For one evening, what mattered most was music and friendship. We'd come together: black and white, old and young, religious and non, and we were celebrating our history and love of the blues.

The song ended and Coleman dropped me at the table with my friends. “I'll take a spin around the exterior,” he said. “The security team reports everything is calm, but I like to check it out myself. You ladies have fun.”

When Scott shut down the bar at two
A.M.
, I'd had more than enough to drink, and I'd danced so much my legs were numb. “It was a spectacular show,” I told Scott. We'd had the last dance together, a belly rubber called “What Can You Do?” Jaytee and Cece had performed it together to a standing ovation that brought the house down. “I believe the launch was a huge success.”

“It was.” He took my hand and we joined my friends. “Thank you all. Tammy, I owe you big time. I so appreciate meeting Parker French and having a chance to talk to him.”

Parker interrupted an intense conversation with Oscar. “It was my pleasure, Scott. For a white boy, you sure can sing the blues.”

Tammy slapped him playfully on the arm. “We don't see color here, Parker. We're just people. Neighbors who care about each other.”

“Mississippi has taken big steps,” Parker said. “I'm proud to see it. Proud to be here and participate in this opening. Living away from the South for the last twenty years, I've failed to see the progress. Old stereotypes are hard to destroy. I'm glad to meet all of you. I owe Reverend Hillet more than he knows.” His hand on Tammy's shoulder said plenty. “And I'll be sure and let Wilton Frasbaum know that his evaluation of Playin' the Bones is way, way off track. Some would even call it sour grapes.”

“What exactly did Wilton say?” I kept my tone conversational though my heart had begun to pound.

“He said he'd once managed the band and that Scott had cheated him. He made a few other allegations, including that the talent was second tier. He also said this venue would never work out. Too rural, he said. Too rustic.” Parker watched Scott's face. After all, Parker was a journalist, and a good one. He was here for the story, whatever that might be.

“Parker?” Tammy was in shock.

“Mr. French, did Wilton Frasbaum say he'd
seen
the club?”

Parker hesitated. “Not in so many words, but he clearly implied he'd been down here investigating.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“He called me this morning,” Parker said.

“Did he say where he was?” I pressed.

“No, but I half expected to see him here tonight.”

Oh, not on a bet, I wanted to say. Coleman would pop him in jail so fast his head would spin. “Thanks,” I said, eager to pass the news to Coleman. If Wilton Frasbaum was in the area, Coleman needed to know.

*   *   *

Waiting for a chance to speak with Coleman, I reviewed the night. I'd danced with Harold and DeWayne, and even the band members when they could break away from the stage. I'd danced with men whose names I didn't know. I'd spent the night as a dancing fool. The bar was shutting down, and so far, so good.

Coleman and DeWayne were in the parking lot checking to be sure each guest was safely buckled in his or her car and on the road home—with full driving faculties.

Zinnia didn't have a taxi service, but Scott had engaged drivers to ferry those too inebriated to drive. I'd kept my word to Tammy and stayed strictly inside. Now I finally went out for a smoke. The event was over. If someone had intended to do something terrible, the moment had passed.

I lit up, enjoying the cigarette as I observed Coleman and DeWayne. The four security men came up from the roadblock and reported nothing had given them reason for concern. The grand opening had gone off without a hitch, and I, for one, was relieved. And ready to go home. Sweetie and Pluto would have to be pacified before I could sleep. They weren't used to being excluded from my cases, but a juke joint was no place for a cat and dog. When I crawled out of bed in the morning, I'd take Sweetie for an ice cream and stop at the seafood place for a treat for Pluto.

First and foremost, though, Tinkie and I had to determine if Frasbaum was in the area, and if he was a threat or just a blowhard. News of the reward money would spread quickly and I hoped callers would give us new information.

Gertrude hung over me like a thundercloud, but she'd wisely stayed out of my sight. Lurking on my road was an intimidation tactic, but she'd failed to file trespassing charges against me and Tinkie, which was a curious thing. Her lawyer should have advised her to do so, because it would have damaged my credibility as a witness against her. Yet she'd taken no action. If she was spying on me, I hadn't caught her at it. I could only hope that her trial date would arrive soon, a conviction would be handed down, and she'd spend the next twenty years behind bars, Alton James or no Alton James.

A low rumble of thunder warned that while the storm didn't ruin the opening, I might not be so lucky. It felt like the sky would unzip at any moment. When Graf and I were together, I'd loved Dahlia House in the rain. We'd prop ourselves up in bed and talk and daydream. The rain had sealed us in the house, given us an excuse to shut out the rest of the world and attend to each other. The thought of going home alone, especially after dancing the night away, was depressing.

A flurry of rain splashed down, and I stepped under the eaves of the blues club to finish my cigarette. Movement at the oak that shaded the picnic table caught my attention. A silhouette stood, watching the club. In the darkness I couldn't discern any detail, but the way the figure watched the club was ominous. It was almost as if he or she waited for something to happen.

I crushed out the cigarette in preparation to challenge the watcher. As I turned I bumped into a broad chest and let out a startled yelp.

Scott had come out to check on me. “You okay?”