Hallowed Bones (19 page)

"Pearline is a good worker. She's also good with babies. She needed a full-time job, and Ellisea doesn't want her at the house five days a week." He shrugged. "I sent her to Doreen on Tuesdays and Thursdays. To help out."

"You cared about Doreen, didn't you?" Thaddeus was married to a viper. It was easy to see that someone as gentle and kind as Doreen might appeal to him.

"I did," he hesitated. "I do."

"Where is Pearline?"

"
Lafayette
,
Louisiana
. Her mother is ill. She's been there since Doreen was arrested."

At least I was getting the same story. Still, it was mighty convenient.

"I'll find her eventually. Do you have any idea why she might be hiding?"

The senator's eyebrows drew together. "She loved Rebekah. I know she stayed with her some nights when Doreen was preaching. She
volunteered
to stay." He stopped talking and looked down at his shoes. "Pearline told me one time that Rebekah was an angel."

I swallowed. Some might think that was a lovely sentiment. To me, it sounded ominous. "Do you think Pearline could have given Rebekah something to make her sleep?"

"Not with any malice. Maybe... No, I just don't see Pearline doing anything that would endanger that baby."

"If you hear from Pearline, tell her I'm looking for her."

"I will. And, Miss Delaney-- Please don't come here again. It only upsets Ellisea."

We stared at each other a moment. I made no promises.

The hotel desk
was busy, so I didn't wait to see if Tinkie might have left me a message. I went straight to her room. My knock went unanswered.

My room was next door, so I went there hoping to see the little red light on the telephone blinking a message from Tinkie. When I opened the door of my room, the wonderful fragrance of stargazer lilies engulfed me. A huge bouquet was on the dresser.

I stepped into the room and stopped short at the reflection of an enormous bouquet of red roses on the bedside table. Another bouquet of gladiolus graced the desk.

Someone had delivered the flowers to the wrong place. There was no one in
New Orleans
who would send me flowers. Curious, I opened the card.

"I didn't know your favorite, so I sent a selection."

Wow. Someone had a real admirer. I searched the other bouquets but there was nothing else. I went to the telephone to call the desk. The light was blinking! I forgot about the flowers as I listened to the message from Tinkie.

She was fine and she was at
Jackson Square
. I was to join her if I got there before five.

I checked my watch. I had fifteen minutes to spare. I could either call about the flowers or find Tinkie. It wasn't even a choice.

I flagged a taxi in front of the hotel and made it to
Jackson Square
with ninety seconds to spare. Tinkie, lovely in a chocolate-colored suit, was sitting beside Doreen. A crowd of at least a hundred people was gathered around them. Among them were the teenagers I'd met the night before. And Michael Anderson.

None of them spotted me, so I took the opportunity to watch. The crowd was unnaturally quiet. Especially the teenagers. They were all looking at Doreen with rapt attention. As was Tinkie.

Michael stood a little apart, his focus on Doreen. When a middle-aged woman in the crowd stepped forward, Michael moved to intercept her. His job might be the books, but he was acting the role of watchdog.

Doreen stood and leaned across the small table in front of her. She reached out and put her hands on the woman's arms. To my utter amazement, the woman jolted, as if she were being shocked. A beatific smile touched her face. Doreen released her and the woman clutched at Doreen's hands.

Michael was there in a split second. He caught the woman's arms and gently tugged her free of Doreen. They disappeared in the crowd.

Doreen nodded at Tinkie, who jumped to her feet. Together, they started walking across the Square. I hustled to catch up with them.

"Sarah Booth," Doreen said, smiling, when she caught sight of me. I said hello, but my focus was on Tinkie. She smiled at me. It was the innocent smile of a child.

"Tinkie?"

"Sarah Booth," she said. "I've had the most wonderful day. And I've learned so much." She grasped my hand. "You can't begin to imagine the power you have inside you. We're all creatures of the Divine."

"Tinkie?" I considered shaking her to wipe the smile from her face.

"I'm going to be fine. I'm not going to have surgery, I'm going to will the lump away."

I cut a look at Doreen. "Everything's going to be fine," she said.

I thought of Sun Myung Moon and the Moonies. Just because Tinkie was wearing a Chanel suit and perfect makeup didn't mean she hadn't been brainwashed. If Doreen could make a breast lump disappear, it was fine. But if she couldn't, Tinkie was risking her life.

"When's Oscar getting here?" I asked. If I needed backup in the realm of practicality, Oscar was my man.

"Tomorrow. So's Cece. And her date!" Tinkie's face had lost the foggy look. "I can't wait. The Black and Orange Ball is going to be stupendous."

Relief made me smile. Tinkie might be gaga, but she still had her social priorities straight.

Doreen patted my arm. "Tinkie's fine," she said. "She always was. Did you find out anything about my brother?"

"Maybe we should sit down somewhere." I didn't want to deliver the news of Adam's death while we strolled by tourists and the circus life that made
Jackson Square
so interesting.

"Let's have a glass of wine," Doreen suggested. "You look done in, Sarah Booth."

I was tired. It had been a long and emotional day. And I'd been worried about Tinkie. I was still worried about her.

Doreen led the way to a small bar tucked into a courtyard. Obviously a hangout for locals, there was no sign outside.

Banana plants, huge and lush, were protected from the wind. Wrought-iron tables around the patio allowed some patrons to smoke, and I inhaled the scent of tobacco, thinking suddenly of Jitty and her latest fashion accoutrement. Illusion/delusion. Which was Doreen?

She took a seat and ordered white wine. Tinkie followed her lead, but I asked for Jack on the rocks. I watched Tinkie until the drinks arrived. It wasn't until she thanked the waiter for her drink that I could pinpoint what was different about her. She looked younger.

"Tell me about my brother," Doreen asked, her eyes expectant.

"His name was Adam Crenshaw--"

"'Was'?"

"I'm sorry, Doreen. Your brother is dead. He drowned four years ago."

"Oh." The expectation left her eyes.

"How did he drown?" Tinkie asked.

"I gather he was swimming in the river with his wife and some friends."

"Were his parents nice?" Doreen asked.

"They're very religious, but they seem to have loved him greatly. They are still torn up by his death." I hesitated. "There is a widow."

"Any children?"

"I assume no. I didn't ask."

"Could you find out?" Doreen asked.

"Sure," I said. Doreen was taking the news of her brother's death quite well. Then again, she'd never known him. "Adam was religious. Very religious."

"How so?" Doreen's brow furrowed.

"He was involved in the church and studied the Bible a lot." I tried to think of something she might find comforting, but there was little of comfort in the religion that Janey Crenshaw had shown me. "His parents are still very upset by his death."

"The Crenshaws shouldn't grieve," Doreen said. "He isn't gone. He's merely in a state of transition."

"Doreen, that's exactly the kind of remark that's going to hurt you with a jury," I snapped. I'd had it with the hocus-pocus talk. "It's normal to grieve when someone dies." I should know; I'd lost plenty.

"As long as you know the grief is for
your
loss," Doreen said.

"In other words, grief is selfish?" I was getting madder by the second.

"Yes," she said. "But that's not a bad thing. Grief is part of the healing process. It's only when you become stuck in grief that you give away your power. People who grieve too long end up trapped in the past. That's not a happy place to be."

It all sounded so damned practical, irritatingly practical. I started to say something, but Tinkie interrupted.

"Sarah Booth has lost a lot," she said with such tenderness that I felt tears sting my eyes. "She was so young, too."

"We all lose people we love," Doreen said. "But they aren't gone, Sarah Booth. They're with you right this second." She touched my hand, and a tingle shot up my arm. "Just like Rebekah is with me. If I didn't know that, I couldn't bear her death."

I wanted to believe. I wanted it badly.

"There are two things you have to accept as true," Doreen said, her fingers stroking my hand. "The first is, God is love. We are his creatures, and we share his divinity."

I felt as if I were falling into her green eyes. There was such peace there. Such comfort and joy.

"The second is, everything happens for a reason. Everything."

I thought of the night my parents were killed. I'd been sound asleep. There'd been a knock at the door. Aunt LouLane was staying over with me, and I heard her scream. When I ran downstairs, she was on the horsehair sofa, rocking back and forth, holding her stomach as if she'd die. There had been an accident. A car wreck on a straight stretch of road. My parents had been headed home. Something went wrong. The car went off the road, flipped, and caught fire. They were dead.

"My parents died for a reason?" I asked. The tingle was gone. I was suddenly cold.

"They did, Sarah Booth. You have to believe that."

I slowly pulled my hand free of hers. "No, I don't." The idea was beyond infuriating. I stood up and walked away, blinking back the hot tears that threatened to spill over.

17

My hotel room smelled like a funeral parlor.
I
called the
desk to complain about the flowers. What had once been beautiful was now an aggravation. My mood was black, and it didn't improve when the front desk clerk insisted the flowers had been delivered to the correct room. He was so smug, I hung up on him.

I'd left Tinkie and Doreen at the bar, sipping their white wine. I paced the room, giving my anger at Doreen free rein. Her beliefs, as far as my losses went, were harmless. Tinkie was another matter. As soon as Oscar got to
New Orleans
, I was determined to have him intervene in Tinkie's relationship with Doreen.

The best thing to do would be to contact Sister Magdalen and quit. I owed Doreen nothing, not even a resignation. I sat down at the desk, whipped out the hotel stationery, and started to pen a letter to the nun. I'd only written a few words when I stopped.

If Jitty were with me, she'd be riding me hard. She'd be the first to point out that I wasn't angry with Doreen, I was angry with God. There was no reason for my parents to die. No good reason. I needed them. Even though years had passed, I still needed them. And they were gone, taken from me in one split second. To say that their deaths served any kind of purpose made me furious.

What good had come of it?

I sat down on the bed as I pondered that question. I couldn't think of a single thing. If this was God's way of showing love, I'd just as soon be ignored.

Quitting wasn't the answer, though. I owed Tinkie more than that. And I owed myself. Nothing Doreen said had been spoken in meanness. She just didn't understand how much death could hurt some people.

Loss weighed heavily on me as I clicked on the television. Wednesday night loomed long and lonely. I had a strong urge to get in the car and drive back to Dahlia House. At least I'd have Jitty and Sweetie Pie for company. And I could get up in the morning and ride Reveler in the crisp October sunshine.

Instead, I clicked through the TV channels, hunting for WWJD, the local religious channel. Oren Weaver had his own show. He had a terrific gimmick going, a huge circus tent that he moved from location to location, like an old-time revival. I'd taken the time to find out that he was currently set up on the old fairgrounds; I just needed to find out when his services began. I watched for a few minutes before I was rewarded. A handsome young man in a blue blazer was looking directly into the camera as he stood in front of a billowing blue-and-white tent.

"Reverend Weaver will perform a healing here tonight. Each and every one of you is invited to come and bask in God's healing light and let Reverend Weaver wash away your sins. Services start at eight o'clock."

I slipped my feet into my shoes, collected my car keys, and headed out the door. I wasn't going to settle for watching Oren on television. I had a hankering to hear the great healer in person.

I rode with the top down, stopping once to ask directions when I thought I was lost. Oren Weaver had staged his show on the fairgrounds that were also the home of the Blues Festival.