Crossed Bones (36 page)

Emanuel's hands tightened on the bars and I could only imagine that he wished it were my throat. "I didn't throw a Molotov cocktail. I'm being framed. Someone put that stuff in my car."

"What were you doing at Scott's?"

"I got a call. The man said if I wanted the evidence that would convict Scott, I should meet him on
Bilbo Lane
." He looked down, and I couldn't tell if he was lying or simply feeling stupid.

"You knew that was where Scott lived." I wasn't going to let him get away with playing dumb.

"Yeah, I knew that. I assumed Scott wouldn't be home and I wasn't going on his property. I figured the man who called would want some money. I was willing to pay."

"So you were driving along
Bilbo Lane
waiting to meet someone. How did the makings of a Molotov cocktail get in your car?"

Emanuel looked up at me. "The man told me where to park in the woods, and then I was supposed to walk down the road. He was going to meet me and give me the evidence against Scott. I did exactly as he said, but no one ever showed up. I was walking back to my car when I heard the bomb. I panicked. I ran back to my car, got in, and drove. I passed the sheriff, and I knew then I'd been set up."

"You were running," I said flatly.

He nodded. "I knew I was in big trouble. I was just trying to put some distance between me and whatever terrible thing had happened at Scott's house."

"I guess it never occurred to you that Scott might be badly injured."

He came at the bars so suddenly that I stepped back. "I didn't care. I don't care. I wish he was dead."

"That's exactly the reason you're behind those bars," I said as coolly as I could manage with my heart thumping. Emanuel frightened me. He was consumed with anger and hatred, and Scott had become the focus for a lot of it.

"Get out of here," he said through clenched teeth. "I knew you wouldn't help me."

"I'm going to see your mother," I told him, glad that the bars were between us.

"Leave her out of this!"

If he could frighten me, I could agitate him. "I would gladly leave Ida Mae out of this, but you made sure she was in the middle of it when you drove out to
Bilbo Lane
."

"I didn't throw that Molotov cocktail."

"Who is this mystery man who called?"

"He was a white man."

"You're certain of that? Or are you just being racist?" I'd discovered quite a talent in bruise-mashing where Emanuel was concerned.

"He was white, but he didn't sound like he was from here."

"How so?"

"Maybe like he was educated or pretending to be educated. Or like he'd been living somewhere else for a time."

"I'm sure Coleman will check your phone records. If this pans out, we've at least got a lead to pursue."

"You're taking my case?"

"No," I said with some satisfaction. "I can't. Conflict of interest since I'm already working for Scott. But I'll do what I can to find the truth."

28

"Don't you dare go taking up for Emanuel. He had
the makings of another Molotov cocktail in his car," Tinkie insisted as she drove me home. "He abducted and intimidated a teenage girl!" It was close to midnight and I was hurting and exhausted. Sweetie Pie, who was far wiser, was resting in the backseat of the Cadillac. Like me, she had lost a bit of hide. The big difference was that she still wagged her tail. Mine was dragging.

"He says he didn't do it--the Molotov cocktail, anyway. I didn't ask him about Trina," I felt obligated to point out.

"Yeah, like he would confess to the woman he nearly blew to smithereens. He can say what he wants to. The hard facts show he had all the ingredients for a Molotov cocktail in his car, including a box of detergent to make sure it would have some oomph. I guess when he saw you flying through the air, he figured he didn't need to throw the second one." Tinkie was talking with both hands and steering the big Cadillac with her knees. Luckily there were no other cars on the road.

"He says someone planted all that stuff on him. His fingerprints weren't on the wine bottle."

"There were
no prints at all
on the bottle!"

"Which is exactly the same scenario with the prison shank found in Scott's motorcycle bags." I found that significant, and Tinkie would, too, if she'd give herself half a chance.

"It was cheap wine." Tinkie sniffed. "He could have used
it
as an inflammatory instead of gasoline."

Tinkie's moments of snobbery were extremely rare, so I decided to ignore this one. "Other than the bottle of gasoline--"

"Stuffed with a rag," Tinkie pointed out.

"Was there any other evidence?" While I was talking to Emanuel, Tinkie had gotten the pertinent legal facts from Coleman.

"Emanuel was there right at the time the bomb was thrown. What was he doing hanging around Scott's house if he wasn't up to meanness? He's not a friend of yours or Scott's."

I repeated the story Emanuel had told me.

"Very convenient," Tinkie said, "especially since
I
think he killed his daddy."

I didn't say anything as I turned the facts I knew in all directions. Tinkie was absolutely right. If Emanuel killed Ivory and was responsible for setting Scott up for the murder, this story that he was out on
Bilbo Lane
searching for evidence against Scott was a perfect cover for his own guilt.

"Is Emanuel deluded or is he putting up a smoke screen?" I asked.

"I vote for the second scenario," Tinkie said. She turned into Dahlia House. "What the hay!"

I looked down the drive and saw nothing out of the ordinary, until I remembered that I'd left my car at Scott's. My car! There it was, sitting right in front of Dahlia House.

It had been parked right by Scott's cottage when the bomb went off. I only had five more payments on the old classic, but more importantly, I loved that car. "Was my car damaged in the explosion?"

"The car wasn't hurt," Tinkie said soothingly. "We were a lot more worried about you and Sweetie Pie than the car, but Coleman looked it over carefully."

"Thank goodness," I said, surprised at my concern for a heap of metal.

"I just wonder how it got here. I. . ." Tinkie didn't bother to finish, since we were pulling up at the front door. Both her question and mine were answered when Scott stood up on the front steps.

"Here's your car. I would have brought it to the hospital, but the sheriff said he'd put me in jail if he caught me within ten yards of the emergency room. Must be nice to have the law protecting you like a little jewel."

"Scott!" I got out of the car and despite my wounds and Tinkie's skintight pants, I hurried over to him. He stepped back from me, one hand raised to chest level. I realized someone had told him about my ribs. "I'm okay. Just a few minor burns and bruises."

"Good for you."

I stepped to the left so I could get a better look at him in the dim light of the front porch. "What's wrong?"

"I brought your car back. If something happened to it, I didn't want it blamed on me." He pressed the keys into my palm and started walking away. I grabbed his sleeve. Only a few hours before, he'd been falling in love with me. Now he acted like I had head lice. "Scott! What's wrong?"

"Not a thing, Sarah Booth. Your car is just fine." He didn't even look at me as he spoke.

"What's wrong with you?" I didn't care that Tinkie was a witness to our first argument. There was a coldness in Scott that gave me a feeling of great urgency.

"Okay, you want to do this now, then we will. You're fired, Sarah Booth. I don't want you working on my case anymore. I don't want you anywhere around me. Every time you get within twenty feet of me, something bad happens and I'm in trouble again. The sheriff made it abundantly clear that you're his property, and that was how
you
wanted it. I finally understand. Just stay away from me."

A sharp pain caught me just below the sternum. "You can't fire me. You didn't hire me," I reminded him. "And I don't belong to anyone."

"Right. You're a free agent, an independent woman. Maybe you'd better tell that to Coleman Peters," he said with an ugly twist to his mouth. "I'll speak to Ida Mae and tell her she's wasting her money on you. You haven't done a thing to help my case. In fact, you've only made things worse for me. I'll make sure Ida Mae sees that."

"You go right ahead." I was finding it hard to breathe, and it wasn't due to my injured ribs. Something serious was happening around my heart. "Talk to Ida Mae. Her son is in jail for trying to kill you, and you're charged with the murder of her husband. That's peachy for her. Go ahead and load a few more things on her back."

Scott's pale eyes glittered. "Listen, that guilt crap won't work with me. In fact, nothing about you works for me anymore. For one split second, I saw something in you-- or I thought I saw it. Then I got a reality check. You aren't anything special. You're mildly interesting in the sack, but I'm afraid I just lost interest. I don't need you hovering over me." He turned to Tinkie. "Keep her away from me, I don't need another stalker. Nandy was enough."

I watched him walk to the shadows beside the house. I hadn't noticed the motorcycle until he got on it. He stood with his foot on the starter. "Lucky for me I've got a few real friends who look out for me. Otherwise, I guess I'd have to walk home." He kicked the bike into life and scattered gravel as he took off.

"Charming," Tinkie said as she grabbed my elbow to lead me up the steps. "I can't believe you threw Bridge Ladnier over for him."

T
inkie left me
with great reluctance, but when she was gone, I did exactly as Doc Sawyer had told me not to. I made a very large Jack on the rocks and I ran a very hot bath. After a fifteen-minute soak, I was no more relaxed. Scott's words continued to buzz loudly in my brain.

Pacing my bedroom and wondering where Jitty might be, I finally saw the red light of my answering machine blinking. There was only one message and it was from Bridge.

"Sarah Booth, the most extraordinary thing has happened. Someone has stolen my car. Please call me when you get home, no matter what time it is."

My heart was still blistered by Scott's harsh rejection, and Bridge was the perfect balm. He'd never say I was "mildly interesting." I dialed his number. After ten rings, his answering service picked up, but I didn't leave a message.

I found a book, crawled into bed, and lay staring at the ceiling for another fifteen minutes. What had happened to make Scott hate me so? No matter what Coleman might have said, Scott hadn't given me a chance to explain.

Finally, at one o'clock, I phoned Bridge again. Still no answer. The idea that Bridge might need my help with his stolen car came as a terrific relief. In less than five minutes I was driving toward Bridge's.

Zinnia was empty. The three traffic lights in town had
been
set to blink a red warning, but there was no need to stop. I cruised past the darkened businesses and took a left into the residential section. Passing Cece's house, I noticed the lights on. She was finding it impossible to sleep--or else she was writing copy for the next edition. She was a workaholic.

Bridge's house was dark, and his car was parked in the driveway. I was a little disappointed that he must have recovered it already. My help wasn't really needed, but since I was there, I knocked on the front door. When no one answered, I knocked again. It was possible he'd fallen asleep. I didn't want to go home and be alone.

My hand slipped to the doorknob and it turned with ease. The door opened without even a creak.

"Bridge!" I called his name softly, then louder. Surely he was in the house. The idea that he might be injured came as something of a shock. "Bridge!" What if he'd accosted the car thieves and they'd done something to him?

I crept inside and made my way through the house, room by room. He simply wasn't at home. Standing in the middle of his bedroom, I didn't know what to do next. My purpose in coming to see Bridge had been more about my needs than his. I'd come to him for solace. Now I was standing alone in the middle of his bedroom. Bridge either had good taste or an expensive decorator. Oak furniture in a sleek Scandinavian style kept the focus on a big brass bed covered in silk sheets and a brocade coverlet.

The only ornate note in the room was a mahogany chest sitting on top of the dresser. It was obviously one of the few family heirlooms that Bridge had brought with him to the rental house.

I started back to the front door when I remembered my earring. I could retrieve it now and leave Bridge a note. A search of the guest bathroom yielded no sign of it. I went back to Bridge's bedroom and the little ornate chest, which probably held his personal items. Feeling only a little guilty, I opened the top drawer. Credit cards, business cards, and several keys were scattered about. The second drawer was deeper, and in it were two watches, a couple of rings, and cuff links.

Bridge wasn't a man who wore a lot of jewelry, and I picked up the rings and cuff links, curious to see if my earring was mixed up in the jumble and also to see what his taste ran toward. As soon as I turned over the onyx cuff link, my fingers went numb. I held it up and kept looking at it, hoping that somehow it would change. But it didn't. The white ivory bones, crossed at the center, were a perfect contrast to the onyx.