Crossed Bones (27 page)

"Trina Jacks!" Tinkie and I said in unison.

"What?" Tammy asked.

Tinkie relayed what had happened to Trina, and I could see the anger building in Tammy. "That bastard Emanuel. He's behind this. He points the finger at those two bikers, and he's worse than they are."

I didn't want to say it, but Emanuel was looking more and more like the primary suspect for his father's murder.

Tammy poured us more coffee. "Trina got off lucky. I've heard that some girls have been abducted and held for days. During that time, they're verbally assaulted and harassed until they agree to date only their own race."

I knew Tammy wasn't making this up. By her tone, I also knew she found it as reprehensible as I did. "This organization is active in
Sunflower
County
?" I'd never heard of it, and judging from the look of shock on Tinkie's face, neither had she.

"That's why Emanuel came home, as best I can tell. To organize a cell of the Dominoes. That's why he and Ivory fought so much. Ivory was bitterly opposed to the Dominoes and all they stand for."

"As any sane person would be," I pointed out. My heart was heavy for Ivory and Ida Mae. It would be a difficult thing to see your own flesh and blood become something you despised. "Does Coleman know about this?"

"I'm sure he does, but until someone files a complaint or until the group is caught in the act of doing something illegal, Coleman can't do a thing about them. He isn't the thought police."

"What does Emanuel hope to gain?" I asked.

"He has a dream, Sarah Booth. You and I both happen to buy into Ivory's dream of mutual respect and caring, regardless of race or religion. Just because we find Emanuel's dream to be repugnant doesn't mean others will. He's come home to start the foundation of a social battle, and let me put it to you plain. Scott Hampton, as the accused murderer of his father, is the perfect poster boy for racial justice."

Tammy's delicious grits had turned into a gelatinous lump in the pit of my stomach. I slowly rose from the table. "I don't want to put you at odds with Emanuel." The only decent thing to do was withdraw my request for Tammy's help. She had a daughter and a grandchild who counted on her emotionally as well as financially.

"I'm not telling you this so I can back down. I have my own dream, Sarah Booth. I dream of a community where there's a group of women, black and white, and they're friends who can count on one another. But you see, I'm one of the lucky ones, because my dream has already come true." She reached across the table and took Tinkie's hand and mine. "I'll meet Scott, and I'll speak out on his behalf,
if
I
believe he's innocent."

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 melange 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 Cilia, 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 bracelets, 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.