Rock-a-Bye Bones (8 page)

I'd been orphaned at twelve, and my father's sister, Aunt Loulane, had moved to Dahlia House to raise me. She'd given up her life for six years—without complaint—to stay with me until I went to college. Who would do that for little Libby?

As the miles spun beneath my wheels, I felt a twinge of guilt that I hadn't mentioned the baby to Charity, who was her grandmother. But Charity Smith had her hands full with a teenage daughter and a niece to raise. And Libby was safe at Hilltop with Tinkie and Oscar and by now probably a postnatal care unit.

Libby was where she needed to be until we had facts instead of speculation.

Sweetie Pie and Pluto had been exceptionally well-behaved while I was in the store, and on the ride back Sweetie had been content to stick her head out the window and let the wind flap her ears. Pluto snuggled against my thigh. He didn't care for the cold wind.

“Home at last, Children of the Corn,” I told the critters as I pulled into the driveway. I often referred to them as the demented children who killed all adults in the Stephen King classic. They seemed to like the reference.

My phone rang and I answered Doc Sawyer's call.

“Sarah Booth, you'd better come to the hospital.”

“What's wrong?” I hated the way my heart leaped into my throat and my head filled with tragic thoughts. Was Coleman hurt? Had Libby contracted a virus? Was Tinkie okay? The worst images jumped into my head.

“DeWayne found a male in a 1998 black Ford pickup about two miles from the hospital. DeWayne was on the prowl for those two offensive young men you called him about, and he noticed that someone had run over the mailbox at the old Bickerman place. He checked it out and found the driver had parked behind the barn. He bled out sitting in his truck.”

“What?” I wasn't certain why this involved me, but the idea that someone had bled to death was awful.

“I matched the victim's blood to the blood on your porch. It's Rudy Uxall.”

“Who?” I asked. I'd never heard the name.

“Rudy Uxall. He'd been stabbed. That's why he was bleeding all over your front porch.” Doc's voice held grief. “I could have saved him if he'd come to the hospital. It was a simple knife wound. I could have patched the artery and stitched him up.”

“Why would he leave the baby with me, then drive to an abandoned farm and hide while he was bleeding to death? Why didn't he drive to the hospital? He was only a few miles away.”

“The only thing I can think is that he didn't want people to know about the baby. Or he abducted Pleasant and this was his way of making amends. Either way, he won't be telling us anything now.”

“Do you know anything about Rudy Uxall?”

“No, I don't. He's from Bolivar County, and his family doesn't seem to have much use for doctors. He's about twenty-four, and whoever stabbed him is responsible for his death. He was murdered.”

A lot of things crossed my mind. Had Libby's mother stabbed Rudy? Was she even alive? There had been some kind of altercation, and Rudy was dead. Whoever was responsible, even if it was Pleasant Smith, could go to prison. And what would become of Libby?

The whole thing was a damn mess.

“Thanks, Doc. What does Coleman say?”

“He's out at the Gokee plantation with three dead gangbangers from Memphis. DeWayne's running the investigation on Rudy Uxall. The body is en route here for an autopsy.” He paused briefly. “I'm worried about that baby, Sarah Booth.”

“I'm worried about Tinkie.”

Doc sighed. “You and me both. She's called me a dozen times today, wanting information.” He hesitated. “Sarah Booth, she was asking if I thought she could produce milk for the child.”

That took the wind out of my sails. It was one thing to care for the infant, and quite another to assume the maternal role of Guernsey Mama. Tinkie would never, in a million years, leak milk on her expensive wardrobe. This was serious.

“I'm not liking the sound of this, Doc.”

“Sarah Booth, the baby is perfectly safe. Tinkie and Oscar, I'm not so sure. They're in love with that child.”

And Doc didn't know the half of it. “I'll be in touch.”

“You should go with DeWayne to check out the crime scene where Rudy bled out. You might learn something useful.”

Doc wasn't a private investigator, but he had a good sense of what warranted investigation. “I'm on it.”

*   *   *

The Bickerman farm was sad. There was no other way to describe it. The farmhouse, which had once been white clapboard, was a weathered gray with thick paint peels determinedly clinging to the wood. The front porch sagged, and the roof was on its last legs. Another good storm and it would cave in on the house.

I found DeWayne behind the old weathered barn beside a black Ford pickup. When I walked to the side of the truck, I could smell the blood. It was pooled in the seat and spilled onto the floorboard, leaking out the driver's door. Rudy Uxall had bled a lot. And why? Why hadn't he gone for help?

“I sent the body for an autopsy.” DeWayne was photographing the scene.

“Doc told me.”

“Just doesn't make any sense why someone would hide out here and bleed to death.”

“Unless someone was chasing him.” A completely new scenario played out in my mind. Somehow, Rudy had taken the baby and delivered her to me, but someone had tried to stop him. Who?

“Could be,” DeWayne said. “I'll keep you posted on what I find.”

“Has Coleman made any progress on the three murders at the Gokee place?”

“He'll fill you in, I'm sure.”

DeWayne wasn't withholding information, he knew Coleman would be in touch when he had something to tell. I shared what I'd found about Pleasant and shot him a message with her photo. I had a call to make, and I needed to ask some friends for help. “I'll be at Dahlia House if you need me.”

 

6

Rick Ralston was one of the best private investigators I knew, and Nashville's music scene was his home base. I made a call to Rick and hired him to check around the Music City on the hope that Pleasant was alive and well and plying her musical trade. That would be the best outcome, though I felt it was a long shot. After meeting Charity and Faith, I didn't view Pleasant as the kind of young woman who would have a baby, dump it, and take off to find fame and fortune.

Rick was a musician himself, and he had contacts in the underground world of those trying to break into the Nashville scene. He'd worked as a bouncer at the Bluebird Café, one of the premier locations for singer-songwriters to perform. If Pleasant's music was as good as her family and Frankie seemed to think, it was possible she'd been at the club.

When that was done, I called Tinkie to check on Libby. “How's the baby?”

“She's perfect. Oscar and I have figured out how to change diapers and get the formula at just the right temperature. You should see him when he holds her.”

“I'll bet that's something to see.” Oscar had refused to consider adopting. He'd also given Tinkie grief about Chablis, saying the dog was nothing more than a barking rodent. It sounded like his tune might be changing about a baby, just like it had about the pup.

“We have an appointment with the top surgeon for polydactyl removal at Boston Children's Hospital. The foot is such a fragile thing, Sarah Booth. If the surgery isn't done properly, it can result in trouble down the road.”

“Tinkie, you may not have the baby tomorrow.”

The long pause told me Tinkie's iron will had engaged. “Even if she isn't ours, Oscar and I have decided we want to provide the surgery for her.”

They were two of the most generous people walking the planet. And they were going to get their hearts ripped out and crushed. I had to take action. Fast. “I'm calling Madame Tomeeka to host a séance tonight.” I waited but Tinkie didn't respond. “We have to find the mother, Tinkie. Coleman can't let you keep the baby. He'll have to take her tomorrow. It's best if she goes home with her mother. Or her grandmother.” I told her about Charity.

“I know you're right.”

“Come over about six.”

“Okay.” She hesitated. “I'll bring the baby.”

“Good. I'm sure Madame Tomeeka would love to meet her. How many outfits did you buy her?”

“I love shopping for her,” she said in a forlorn tone. “At least she'll return home as a fashion icon.”

“I expected no less.” Tinkie, with her petite figure and big blue eyes, could make a flour sack look like Dior. She had presence and class, and she could definitely accessorize.

“I'll be there at six. I could bring some canapés?” she offered.

“Not to be rude, but who made them?”

“Cook.” She laughed and it did my heart good.

“Then bring them. I still suffer nightmares when I think about those doggy treats you made. Holy cow. You had to apply for a toxic waste permit to dispose of them.” Talk about a cooking disaster. They made Harold's impish little dog's eyes water, and Roscoe could eat anything and digest it.

“Six it is. And Sarah Booth, I will survive giving her back.”

“I know.” I didn't believe it for a minute, but she was trying. “I'll invite Harold tonight, too.”

“What about Coleman?”

“He's got a triple homicide to contend with. Which is the only reason he hasn't been by to take Libby to Child Services.”

“Then don't invite him. How about Scott? Maybe he could sing some lullabies to Libby. He should write a song for her.”

“She's newborn. She shouldn't experience the blues until she's at least four months.”

“You and your rules. See you soon.”

I hesitated about Scott, but in the end I called. He couldn't stay long, but he'd work with us for a while before he had to get back to his blues club, Playin' the Bones.

I'd barely hung up the phone when I heard the
rat-a-tat-tat
of a machine gun coming from the kitchen. Panic made me duck behind my desk. Gertrude Strom had found me, and she was heavily armed. My gun was still in the trunk of my car. I duckwalked to the window and looked out. I might make it out to the car and retrieve the pistol, but a handgun wasn't really adequate for a shootout with a machine gun.

And where had Gertrude gotten a machine gun?

That's when I noticed Sweetie Pie snoozing against the wall. Pluto had piled into Tinkie's chair, no doubt with the intention of leaving black hair everywhere so Tinkie could throw a fit when she stood up sporting a hairy butt.

If the critters were calm with bullets blasting everywhere, something was amiss. Like Jitty. I threw caution to the wind and sailed toward the kitchen. When I pushed the door open I found a stout woman with the blackest eyebrows and a very unattractive haircut. She wielded a machine gun, spraying bullets over the room. Thank goodness ghostly bullets didn't break all my dishes.

“Jitty, dammit, stop that right now. What is wrong with you?”

“I set an example for my boys and they lived up to it. Never underestimate the power a good mother has.”

“Put that damn gun down! Now!”

“Nobody talks to Ma Barker like that. Herman, Doc, take her out!” She waved at the window and fool that I was, I ran toward it to check the backyard, thinking additional gunmen were on the way.

“There's no one there.”

She lowered her machine gun and blew on the end of it. “Just goes to show when you raise your boys to be outlaws, you can't expect 'em to come when you call.”

I knew her then, the notorious Arizona Donnie Clark, aka Ma “Kate” Barker. She'd died a bloody death in Ocklawaha, Florida, with her young son Fred at her side. This after a violent crime spree that netted more than three million dollars in ill-gotten gains. And yet it wasn't enough. In 1930s money, that would have been tens of millions. Once the Barkers gave themselves over to crime, they couldn't stop.

“And that is my point exactly.” The ferocious expression faded and the matronly figure slimmed to my ever-slender haint. “Without a proper mama, Libby could grow up to be a criminal. I think you and Tinkie should file for joint custody.”

“Libby has a mother and a grandmother. Just because they're poor doesn't mean they aren't loving and wonderful guardians.”

“Poor ain't nothin'.” Jitty was indignant. “Miss Alice raised her brood, with my help, when we ate turnip greens and cornmeal mush three meals a day for weeks at a time. Lord, if we saw a potato we thought we were the luckiest folks in the area. We were poor, but that didn't mean Alice let her young'uns get away with anything.”

I'd heard the stories of how my many-greats-grandmother, Alice Delaney, had survived widowhood, the death of a child, and so much more during the horrors of the Civil War and Reconstruction. The truth was, I never tired of hearing them. Jitty brought the past to life.

“What would Grandma Alice do about Libby?” I primed the pump.

“She'd take that baby and run with her, if that's what it took to keep her safe.”

“Charity Smith's isn't an unsafe home.” I had to make that point clear. Charity seemed to love her children and niece as much as any mother could. Her circumstances were harsh, but I'd been raised believing that money wasn't the first thing a child needed—love was. “She's going to love that baby, Jitty. We can't steal her.”

“Yes, you can.” She morphed back into her Ma Barker persona.

Jitty had prodded me to do some outlandish—and criminal—things. But stealing a baby wasn't her normal mode of operation. Unless she knew something I didn't know.

“Is Pleasant dead?” I hated to even ask.

“You know I can't give away the secrets of the Great Beyond.”

I watched her closely. She was hedging her answer—because she knew the mother was alive. “She's alive. If you know where she is, you'd better spill it. She deserves to know her baby is safe.”