In the Midnight Rain (32 page)

His eyelashes and brows . . . she propped her chin on her hand and considered. His eyelashes embarrassed him. They were so long they fell like fans on his cheeks, making his sleeping face look like a child's. They always said that, that lashes and sleep made a man look like a child, but in his case, it was because of those very long, very dark lashes. They were, perhaps, very close to black.

Not his flesh. The smoothest skin she'd ever seen, almost completely hairless—arms and legs and chest and chin—and not a nick or a scar. But no one, no woman with half an ounce of brain, could ever mistake that smoothness for anything but pure maleness. His limbs were long and sleek, without a pucker of softness anywhere, just smooth graceful lines of work-born muscles in his arms and down his back and thighs.

Sometimes she wondered if she would love him if he looked another way, but it was impossible to imagine him in another body, with any other face. She yearned to make love to him, to that body, because it belonged to him. Looking at him gave her pleasure because he was beautiful, but also because that face and that body contained his heart, his soul. She reached out now and curled her hand around his ankle, wanting that small connection.

It must have awakened him, for he reached out one strong, elegant hand and put it against her head. "Come here, baby," he said. "Let me hold you."

Gladly she moved into the circle of his arms, and nestled into the curve of his shoulder. He kissed her head and settled his cheek against her hair, and fell asleep again, holding her.

17

E
llie took time enough to change clothes, though it was fairly difficult to find anything clean or unwrinkled enough to wear. Someday, she really had to think about doing some real laundry, rather than just a load here and there. The only thing left was a sleeveless cotton shift in blue calico that she'd never much liked—but it packed well, and with a jacket, it could look professional, so it was a mainstay.

It was too hot for the jacket today, of course, and she settled for rubbing lotion on her arms, noticing for the first time that she had really not acquired much of a tan thus far this summer. Over her hair, she dithered, and finally just left it in its little knot on top of her head.

As she drove to Hopkins', it occurred to her that the dithering was due to nervousness. What kind of customers would be there in late morning? Anyone? Did Doc work in the morning?

She slowed. Maybe she should have called first.

Mellow out, Connor, she told herself wryly.

What's the bottom line here? The worst that could happen—the very, very worst—was that Doc wouldn't be there, or he'd refuse to talk to her about Mabel if he was.

But, in her heart, she had to admit it was a little intimidating to go there by herself. A black club in a town she didn't know well. It was one of those unspoken rules of culture in America: One waited to be invited to country clubs, to uptown society dinners, and to any spot run by and frequented mainly by another ethnic group. Walking in uninvited meant you'd probably get an icy stare or two.

Okay. She took a breath and let it go. Perfectly understandable reason for feeling nervous. She was allowed to feel it, she just couldn't let it stop her. By the time she reached the gravel parking lot, she was ready to go to bat as Mabel's biographer. To write this book, she had to have more answers.

There were three other cars in the small lot. Not so intimidating. She parked in the shade of a tall pine and turned off the engine. Before she got out, she looked at the place through the windshield, trying to shed herself, to see the place the way Mabel might have. The last time she'd been here, she'd been so dazzled by Blue's physical presence that little else had made an impression. Even now, thinking of the way he'd flirted with her that night made her smile. It had all started right there. With the blues winding around them, binding them together.

Get to it, Connor. With a sigh, she grabbed her purse and notebook and got out of the car, and paused again to let her imagination soak up whatever details it chose. It was humid and hot as she crunched over the gravel. Birds and wind made the only sounds. She tried to put on the Mabel persona, see the scene through the blues singer's eyes.

Mabel would have been wearing silk, or maybe rayon, the old kind that needed an iron every three seconds. No stockings. High-heeled sandals—she'd had a taste for vampy shoes, which showed off her pretty ankles. Ellie felt her body ease a little, into a more natural gait. Yes.

The oak tree arching over the roof, casting deep shade over the entrance and a grassy meadow to one side, would have stood then, though not quite so thick. From the meadow, a well-worn path led into the forest. Mabel would have known where it led.

Ellie stepped into the shade, and with a ripple of sudden awareness, she realized Peaches had been shot right here. Within a couple feet of the door. Someone he'd known had come up to him and shot him clean through the heart. She closed her eyes and tried to sense any lingering trace of that sudden violence, but there was nothing but the brush of wind against her elbows, a gust that loosened her hair and pushed curls over her face. From within came the sound of music.

Hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she pushed open the door like a professional in pursuit of answers.

Coming as she did from the bright day, she was blinded. She heard the door shut behind her, deepening the gloom, and for a moment, stayed where she was, blinking to clear her vision. The jukebox was playing Jonny Lang's cover of "Lie to Me"—not exactly a good sign—and somewhere in the back, someone clinked glassware. Ellie could make out the red tubing around the jukebox and the blaze of brighter lights around the bar. Still mostly blind, she headed toward that beacon of light—and instantly cracked her shin hard against a chair.

"Shit."

"Hurt enough to suit you?"

Ellie rubbed the place. "Marcus?"

He laughed, so amused it annoyed her. "Hang on, little girl. We'll come rescue you."

"I'm fine," she said, and straightened. Her eyes had finally adjusted. Doc stood behind the bar, heels of his hands propped on it, his face closed as she approached. Marcus sat on a stool, a cup of coffee before him. At least he was a point of friendliness, although Ellie had the sudden distinct sense that she was about to be played like a fiddle.

The only other person there was a small black woman somewhere between fifty and seventy. Impossible to tell. She wore a pair of thick glasses that distorted her eyes and effectively hid the upper half of her face. As she came closer, Ellie recognized her. "Hi," she said. "We're neighbors. We met one morning on the river—you were fishing."

"I remember."

"Mrs. Laisser?"

"That's right." Her voice was low and calm. "Please call me Gwen."

Ellie smiled. "Gwen it is." She turned to Marcus. "I didn't see your truck out there."

"Nah, I came down from my mama's. She sent some beans down to Doc here."

A little pause. Ellie felt the awkwardness of them calmly waiting, all three of them, to state her purpose. "I came to talk to you, Doc, if you can spare the time."

"About Mabel, I guess."

Ellie nodded.

"I done told you all I know already."

"Yeah." Ellie pursed her lips. She felt Gwen's eyes on her from one side, and Marcus's from the other. "I know. Um. The thing is, I still have big gaps I need to fill in. I came up with a couple of theories I wanted to ask you about."

He gazed at her steadily with flat eyes.

"Please," Ellie said. "It isn't my intention to smear her. But I can't possibly write this without knowing the truth. She was a great singer and songwriter, but more than that, before all that, and through it, she was a woman, and what happened to her in her life made a difference in what she wrote. If I don't know who the woman was, how can I write with any authority about her music?" She took a breath, and repeated, "Please. I need your help."

Doc pursed his lips, considered. Capitulated. "All right." He gestured for her to sit.

Marcus moved his knees and Ellie settled on the vinyl-covered stool. "They're kind of sensitive questions," she said, glancing toward Mrs. Laisser.

Doc remained stone-faced. "You can speak freely here."

Taking a breath, Ellie folded her hands on top of the bar and leaned forward. "There are a couple of gaps—and they're important. Whatever happened during that spring and summer of fifty-two must have led her to leave everything behind." She pressed the fleshy parts of her thumbs together hard, for courage. "Two questions. Did Mabel ever have a child?"

Ellie was watching carefully, but it wouldn't have taken a trained observer to see the pain that flashed over Doc's face. He shook his head. "What you want to drag that up for? Why you want to dig in her secrets and make her look bad?" He slammed his hand on the bar. "Folks need to know what she did for music. All the rest don't mean nothing."

In spite of his outrage, Ellie felt a flare of exhilaration. He hadn't denied it. And since he was riled up anyway, she tossed out the second question. "Was it Mabel who shot Peaches?"

Doc made a noise and walked off, muttering to himself. He picked up a bar towel and wiped the far end, shaking his head. Ellie, defeated, started to move. Marcus put his hand on her arm. "Give him a minute."

And sure enough, he came back down to her. "I just don't know why you keep poking around in all this. What does it matter, now?"

Reaching deep, relying on instinct, Ellie responded with as much earnestness as she could. "Because music doesn't just appear in the world. It's the musicians who make it live. It comes from the soul. What Mabel knew and who she loved and what happened to her made a difference in her music."

He lowered his eyes, and Ellie pressed on. "I'm telling you honestly, from the bottom of my heart, that I don't write to expose the seams of a musician's life. I write to illuminate the music that came from them."

She leaned forward. "Mabel is so special, and maybe some of those things you're hiding from me made a difference that I'll be able to understand when I get ready to write about those songs she wrote before she disappeared. They're so rich, as rich and beautiful as any music I've ever heard. I'm here, Doc, because I love those songs, and I don't want her contribution to be lost in time. Can't you understand that?"

Reluctantly, he raised his eyes, and Ellie saw a glimmer of respect there. "Doc, I need to know why she walked away, and I think you're the only one who knows."

Silence. Thickest right in front of her. The mulish silence of a man protecting a woman. Ellie glanced at Marcus, who shrugged a little, commiserating with her. "Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind," she said, and slid off the stool. "She must have been one hell of a woman."

She headed for the door.

"Young lady." It was the woman's voice.

Ellie turned.

"Hold on, and let me walk you out." Mrs. Laisser made a move to get off her stool, but her feet didn't quite reach the floor. Marcus reached out and helped her down, and there was nothing frail about her step. When she got to Ellie, she said, "Come on."

Ellie followed her out to the lot. The woman didn't speak for a minute, then she lifted her head. "Doc won't ever give you anything true. Men never did understand Mabel Beauvais," she said, finally. "This is a woman's story, and if you want to find out what happened to her, you're gonna have to talk to the women who knew her."

"Well, that's what I've been trying to do. And yet none of them seem to know what Doc knows." She hesitated, then plunged forward. "How well did you know her, Gwen?"

"As good as anybody, I expect." A slow, almost sad smile. "I can tell you one thing that Doc just can't bring himself to say: That woman loved Peaches McCall, heart, soul, and bone. And he made a fool of her."

Ellie nodded. "That's what I thought." She inclined her head. "What was he like, Peaches?"

The smile was somehow young. "Honey, there wasn't a woman in this town that didn't at least think once or twice about that man's hands on her. He just had that scent about him, you know? And a way of looking right into a woman's eyes that—" She broke off, shook her head. "You know what I mean. He liked to set the streets afire."

A vision of Blue rose before her, loose limbs and sultry eyes and that deadly, sexy smile. "Yes."

Gwen moved a step away. "You oughta go talk to Peaches's mama. Hattie Gordon. Tell her I sent you."

"Thank you." As Gwen started to back away, she said, "Will you still tell me what you remember, now that you're back?"

"If you don't get what you need from Hattie, I will." She smiled. "You're a pretty brave girl. I like that." She lifted a hand in farewell, and headed back inside.

* * *

Marcus had to take his mother in to the doctor and run some errands for her, so Blue spent the morning taking soil measurements and making notations, all the while thinking about Ellie.