When Bobbie Sang the Blues (18 page)

Christy shook her head. “I have no idea.”

Dan looked into her face and reached for her hand. “Christy, how well do you know Bobbie? I mean
really
know her?”

Christy entwined her fingers in his. “I’ve seen her half a dozen times in my life. Over Christmas holidays or when she came through with one of her husbands. But I know her well enough to know she wouldn’t kill anyone. Why do you ask? And why do you suddenly look worried?”

He closed his hand over hers. “I hate to say this, but when the authorities charge someone with murder, there has to be strong evidence against that person. They’ve either got fingerprints on something crucial, or a secret witness or two, or…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know that the investigative unit for Bay County has an excellent reputation for playing fair and a high rate of indictments. Most of the cases they’re involved in prove they arrested the right person.”

Christy listened, feeling sad and knowing she looked it. She sighed. “But she didn’t kill him, and somehow, someway, I’m going to prove it.”

He didn’t comment, and this scared her. She tried another approach.

“When can I see the plans for your new project so I can visualize exactly what you’ve been telling me about it?”

“When are you not busy?” he asked, picking up the empty containers and returning them to the basket.

“Tonight?” she asked.

For a moment, he seemed occupied with getting everything back in the picnic basket. “I can’t,” he said, avoiding her eyes. She waited, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Can I keep the rose?” she asked, holding it under her nose. He’d said he wanted to help her, and he had spent the afternoon with her. The afternoon but not the evening. She thought of the compact and stood up, determined to keep her thoughts to herself.

“Thanks for a wonderful picnic,” she said as they walked back to the car. She was standing beside him when he opened the door to the backseat and returned the picnic hamper and tarp. His gaze fell to the floorboard, to the compact, and he casually slammed the door, his gaze sliding to hers.

She looked him in the eye for a moment, letting him wonder if she had seen the compact. Then she turned and went around to the passenger side to open the door and get in.

He slid behind the wheel, glancing at her again, as though trying to read her expression.

“I love this island,” she said, looking around her. “Did you know that J.T. is crazy about Cora Lee Wilson, Buster’s cousin?”

“Really?”

“Yep. And I guess she’s crazy about him.” She met his curious gaze but said nothing. Let him wonder about her for a while. From
now on, maybe she’d start holding things back. She’d always been a private person, and it served her well now.

“There’s something I should tell you,” he said, after they had crossed the bridge and driven in silence for several seconds.

“Oh?” She looked at him, gently waving the rose in front of her face.

“I can’t see you tonight because I made other plans a week ago.”

She put up a hand. “You don’t have to tell me anything. We agreed that you and I are both free to live our own lives. I know freedom is very important to you. And you know what? It’s important to me as well.”

He looked at her, and she guessed he was trying to read her thoughts. She wanted to give him his freedom and take back her own, if necessary. She wanted a balanced attitude, not a jealous, possessive one.

Her eyes followed a sea gull lifting from its perch at the top of a small tree, soaring like a free spirit out over the water. Freedom was important, she supposed. But when she felt lonely at night, freedom didn’t feel so good.

They approached the turnoff to her street, and she tried to focus her thoughts on opening a shop. What color of paint for the walls?

“When the moving van arrives with Bobbie’s furniture,” Dan said, “would you like me to round up some of my workers and come lend a hand?”

“I think we’re covered. Thanks anyway.”

“I’ll call you,” he said, watching her closely.

“Fine. Thanks again for the picnic, Dan.” She smiled, then got out of the car and hurried up to her back door. As she unlocked it, she heard him backing out of her driveway.

Once she stepped inside, she closed the door and leaned against it, fighting the disappointment creeping through her. Tears sprang to her eyes as conflicting emotions battled within her. Did he really love her? Or had he come back to her out of pity? Had he planned the picnic, complete with homemade cookies, to cheer her through this ordeal? And what about his plans for the evening? She knew it was a date. The compact might have been a water moccasin, rearing its ugly head at both of them.

She took a deep breath, brushed a tear from her cheek, and went over to sit at the eating bar. She opened the drawer and pulled out her prayer journal and Bible. She intended to find the strength she needed here. She found the passage that had helped her through other ordeals: “Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.”

Christy sighed.
Okay, God, you know I love Dan, but if he isn’t right for me, then tell me now. Or are you telling me now? Is Dan trying to tell me too?
She felt confused again, so she reread the verse.
Okay, I won’t lean on my own understanding; I will trust you to work things out
.

To everyone else, she seemed so capable, so independent, a got-it-together kind of girl. But when it came to romance, she didn’t know how to handle herself. There had only been Chad in her life
for so long, and she’d let herself love him and need him. After he died, she had felt like half a person for a long time.

She’d rebuilt that part of her heart and had begun to feel whole again when Dan came along. And now she was becoming needy again, and she had to stop before it took hold. Even if it meant avoiding Dan for a while.

She had to complete herself with God’s help. She couldn’t depend on another human being to do that.

Sunday Evening

G
rant Castleman stood in the pulpit looking at a scattered crowd. The evening services were usually much lower in attendance than the morning. Tonight, however, the gleaming oak pews held a record few, as though a flu epidemic had hit Summer Breeze.

Christy slipped into the family pew—right side, third from the front—and sat beside her mother. Beth gave her a tired smile and reached over to squeeze her hand, her eyes too bright. She wore an expression Christy recognized as forced pleasantness.

Christy glanced at one of the six stained-glass windows in the church. Each window depicted a stage in the life of Christ. Miz B had donated the money for the windows in memory of her husband, who had died the previous year.

She sneaked a glance around the sanctuary. Miz B was missing, but it wouldn’t be because of Bobbie. She suspected Miz B had driven up to Montgomery to visit her son and his family. Miz B adored her grandchildren.

Determined to ignore the empty pews, Christy looked up at her father, whose face held the weariness the family felt. Her eyes wandered to the organ, where a rose bouquet paid tribute to the death of Mrs. Hayward. Sheila Abernathy had been trying to replace her, but at least once a Sunday, she hit a sour note. Sheila then practiced harder the next week.

“I will be reading from 1 Corinthians, chapter 13,” her father said. He began with the part Christy’s class had memorized in Bible school one year. “‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.’”

As he read on, Christy’s eyes inched around the congregation. Dad had chosen the “love chapter” to try to reach the hearts of those who would judge Bobbie—a woman charged with murder—as well as the Castlemans for siding with her and protecting her.

“‘Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.

She felt like giving her dad a thumbs-up. She had a sudden impulse to stand up, face the crowd, and yell,
Did you hear that? Love does not judge! Do not judge my parents and my aunt
!

Christy fought a grin of satisfaction as she pictured herself shouting at the congregation. She studied her hands. Obviously everyone in Summer Breeze had heard about Bobbie’s situation and her parents’ involvement. And Roy Thornberry was the town crier with his front-page news.

A typical Nan Atkins remark slithered through Christy’s brain.
Paid a high price to get her out of jail, then hired a fancy lawyer to get her off
. Nan had a personal axe to grind where hotshot lawyers were
concerned. Such a lawyer had made a laughingstock of her when she took her accountant to court for mishandling her funds. How many other people in Summer Breeze were reading Roy’s front-page story, which Christy refused to do, and talking about Bobbie and her parents?

She must not judge everyone by a few doubting Thomases. Her mom had said some of the church members had offered to deliver meals.
So maybe they’re at home cooking
, Christy thought with a cynical half smile.

Hearing her father’s voice, strong and firm, Christy glanced at her mother, who sat in rapt attention. She looked back at her father. She knew most of the people who attended this church were not gossipy and judgmental like Mrs. Atkins, but there had obviously been some judgment and speculation. Otherwise, the attendance would not be an embarrassment to her father tonight.

Camp Honeywood
, she remembered, glancing quickly around. The half-dozen chaperons had not returned with the group, so of course they would not be in attendance, and neither would the youth. Her mother had returned early, appointing someone else to fulfill her duties because of her family emergency. Beth had remained at Bobbies side since her return.

Why couldn’t people understand that her mother couldn’t ostracize her only sister? Or that her dad practiced his beliefs of love and tolerance by putting up a huge bail? She suspected her parents had placed a sizable mortgage on their home to pay Bobbie’s bail and Harry Stephens’s retainer. Why weren’t folks thinking about that?

Well, some of them were, she conceded, hearing the strength of the voices around her singing a well-loved hymn. As she stood beside her mother, sharing the hymnal, the family love that had bound them together through the years rose inside her. She wished Seth were here. They needed him.

As the service ended and people flowed from the pews, she watched the smiles and friendly handshakes offered to her father at the door as he bade them good night. He paused occasionally to listen to a problem and nod in understanding. Looking as though nothing had shattered his family’s world, he held himself tall and erect and refused to feel belittled by the possibility that some people disagreed with what he had done.

Beth began to talk with a group of ladies about Camp Honey-wood, so Christy slipped out the side door into the soft twilight and headed for her car. One tiny cluster of people lingered, their faces serious, their voices low.
Let them talk
, she thought, unlocking her car and sliding behind the wheel.
Only God can judge a heart
.

Monday

R
oseann Cole spent half the day in bed after an exhausting drive home in Eddies truck. The overnight stay in Birmingham had not rested her, because her friend Jodie had gossiped until after midnight. As for the truck—she sighed. She hated stick shifts, even if they saved gas, as Eddie had claimed. She sprawled on her sofa and pulled Millie close to her.

Beautiful Millie. She studied the porcelain doll with its flaming red hair and eyes the blue of a robins egg. She’d always wished she looked like Millie.

Roseann dressed Millie well. The doll still wore the frilly, yellow, chiffon dress with rosettes on the bodice, just as Roseann had dressed her before she left town. She tightened the tiny pearl choker around the crack at Millie’s neck. Millie fell years ago and injured her neck, but this only endeared her to Roseann. Now Millie had a flaw, which made her more real.

Roseann heard a car pulling into the narrow drive, and she jumped up from the sofa to peer through the drapes. Her mother
was getting out of her worn Buick Century. Juanita balanced a load of groceries as she walked up the cracked sidewalk to the tiny front porch. As always, she looked tired.

Roseann unlocked the door.

“I hate standing in line,” Juanita said in greeting.

She aired her complaints as she walked down the hall to the kitchen, and Roseann trailed after her, shutting out the incessant talking. While Juanita unloaded the sack of groceries, Roseann stared at her, thinking her flushed face meant another rise in her blood pressure.

Juanita was sixty-two years old, and every year showed in the lines and jowls of her face. Her features were large and harsh, and Roseann doubted there had ever been beauty or even softness in that face. Without hair dye and the special hot oil treatment she doted on, her mother’s hair would be the color and texture of steel wool rather than a dull auburn. A floral pantsuit covered her lumpy body and its extra fifteen pounds, though she carried it well due to her height. She missed being as tall as Roseann by a couple of inches.

The man who fathered me must have been tall
, Roseann thought.

Juanita wore her auburn hair twisted into a thick pile on top of her head and secured with a giant tortoise-shell comb. The only bright spots in Juanita’s face were her piercing eyes, so clear and green that when she focused them on something or someone, she seemed to look straight through to the core. Those clairvoyant-looking eyes and her curious way of studying people convinced her
clients she could read their futures. Roseann felt the intensity of those green eyes focused on her.

“We need to have a talk,” Juanita said, pushing sandwich meats and a half-gallon of milk past the plastic containers in the refrigerator.

“A talk about what? Momma, I’m dead tired,” Roseann snapped.

“Yeah, well, so am I,” Juanita snarled.

An only child, Roseann tended to get her way with her mother most of the time. Today, however, Juanita seemed ready to fight back.

“Did you work last night?” Roseann asked, hoping to change the subject.

“I work every night.” Juanita spoke in a hoarse, throaty voice brought on by years of smoking. The beginning stages of emphysema had motivated her to give up the cigarettes, and these days she did a lot of useless fumbling around in her pocket or her purse.

“How many palms did you read?” Roseann asked, yawning.

“I told you, Roseann. I don’t read palms unless my clients nag me into it. I read my tarot cards and look in my crystal ball. That’s where I really see things.”

“So, Kountess Krystal, did you see anything interesting last night?”

Juanita slammed the refrigerator door and turned to Roseann.

“Unfortunately, I did. Right in the middle of an important reading with a good-paying client, I saw Eddie’s face in the crystal ball. Scared the willies out of me.”

At the mention of Eddies name, Roseann’s heart sank. “Is that what you want to talk about? Don’t you think I’ve got enough to do, making the funeral arrangements, being hostess to the brother and his wife?” She paused. “Did I make them a hotel reservation? I can’t remember.”

“I need to tell you something before you talk to anyone.” Juanita faced her with her hands on her hips. “Something came to me loud and clear last night. In fact, I stumbled through the reading so badly I didn’t even get a tip.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Someone is out to get you,” Juanita warned. “I couldn’t make out the face, but when I laid out the tarot cards, I read trouble again and again. Danger lies in your path, Roseann. I’m gonna brew my special tea to ward off the evil spirits around you.”

Roseann stared at her mother and clutched Millie tighter.

Christy told herself it was time to get down to business on the investigation. She had been sidetracked first by the trauma of the arrest and the idea that Harry Stephens would handle things. Then she’d had to deal with her own frustrations about Dan and the sudden, startling plan of becoming a partner in I Saw It First.

But now she was fired up and ready to act.

This grisly murder and ensuing investigation had taken its toll. It was bad enough that her aunt was the prime suspect, but the entire sordid mess was a direct hit on her family. She’d already witnessed
the effect of the rumor mill. She could handle herself, but she wouldn’t abide people treating her parents shoddily when all they’d tried to do was help Bobbie. Her parents were good, decent people who lived their beliefs.

Last night she had tried to shut out the world by watching a romantic comedy on television. Then she’d surrendered to exhaustion and deep sleep.

Today, however, she felt rested and ready to act. No more escaping into a novel while the real killer—killers?—headed back to Memphis in a black Mercedes. And she wanted to find out what Panada was hiding in the unit behind Bobbie’s. No matter what Hornsby said about his reliable printing business, Christy clung to the belief that he had an ulterior motive for renting a unit twenty miles away from his home and work. She always trusted her instincts.

Dressed in white capris and a plaid shirt, she thrust her cell phone in the deep pocket of her pants and grabbed her car keys. She locked the door and hurried to her car.

Cutting across the side streets and hitting the back road to Panama City Beach, on the way to Summer Place Condominiums, she laid out her plans. By the time she turned into the parking lot and squeezed between a white Cadillac and a green Lexus, she felt more determined than ever. Head high, she marched across the parking lot in her three-inch wedge sandals. Height gave her more confidence.

In the lobby, she walked to the reception desk, appraising the young man behind the counter as she approached. Medium height and build, thinning early around his forehead.

“Hi there,” she said, tossing a strand of golden brown hair back from her face and giving him a wide smile. “Slow day?”

“Yeah, things slow down after the weekends.” His gaze swept over her face. “What can I do for you?”

She considered it a gift from above that she had caught him alone at the counter.

“The two gentlemen from Memphis,” she said, speaking in a higher range to sound a bit ditsy. “Can you dial their room, please?”

He frowned, checking the computer. “What are their names?”

Christy giggled. “I don’t remember. They asked me to stop by and let them know when we’re having the party. Let’s see, I’ll remember their names in a minute. They’re actually friends of my parents.” She reached in her pocket and withdrew her cell phone. “I should have checked with my parents, and now I’ll get a lecture on not writing down their names.” She cast her most innocent smile toward his amused face.

“It’s okay,” he lowered his voice, grinning at her. “I found them. But they checked out yesterday.”

She tried to register disappointment. “You mean they’ve already gone back to Memphis?”

He looked back at the computer to be certain. “Sure have.”

“Oh darn. The party isn’t until next weekend. I bet they’d come back if they knew about it. People love the parties my parents host on their yacht.”

The young man nodded, and she hoped he had pegged her as a spoiled rich kid with half a brain. That was the part she was
going for, at any rate. She stared at the computer. “I don’t suppose…Is it possible for me to…kind of peek at their home address or phone number? Daddy wanted me to come over and talk to them on Saturday, but I got sidetracked.”

He smiled at that, and his eyes swept as much of her as he could see from behind the tall counter.

She reached over and tapped his hand. “Come on. Make my day and keep me out of trouble.”

He glanced around. “I can’t do that.”

Her face fell, and she cast her eyes downward. “Now I’ll have to listen to Daddy rant at me for hours. Tell you what,” she said, giving him a pleading look. “Can’t you just check on something over there and let me get a peek?” She pointed toward a stack of papers on the counter behind him. “It won’t be your fault I broke your rules.”

She could see him wavering as he studied her face. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jennifer Witherspoon,” she said instantly. “Want my phone number?”

The grin widened. “You’re available?”

She raised and lowered her eyebrows in one of those quick gestures that turned on all the green lights. “Oh yeah. Broke up with my boyfriend this weekend. That’s one reason I’m not thinking straight.” She grabbed a pen and paper. “I’ll write my phone number down while you check on that paperwork behind you.”

He gazed at the pen and pad, then turned his back. Christy peered around the computer and saw their names highlighted. She
jotted down the home addresses and phone numbers of the men from Memphis. Houston Downey and Joe Panada.
Panada!
Her eyes nearly popped. She wrote as fast as she could, then tore off the slip of paper.

On another sheet, she wrote down the number of her dentist and left it on the counter as he turned back around. She put the other slip in the pocket of her capris and shrugged. “Maybe Daddy won’t be so mad after all. And those guys will be glad they came back for Daddy’s big shindig. Well,” she sighed, as though hating to leave, “see you soon, I hope.” She polished off the act with a wide-eyed smile.

He read the phone number again, looked at her, and nodded. “I’ll call you tonight.”

“That’d be great,” she called over her shoulder, quickening her steps across the lobby. At the revolving doors, she stepped aside for a couple pushing through, trailed by a puffing bellboy with an overloaded cart of luggage. She waited for the entourage to get past, then moved through the doors and across the parking lot as fast as she dared.

The weekend gloom had dissipated, and sunshine poured down from the skies with pure gold light. Florida at its best. Christy longed to lower the top of her convertible, but that would be too risky. She had work to do, important work. She thrust her shades over her eyes and grabbed her baseball cap from the glove compartment. After whacking it against the seat a couple of times to get rid of the dust, she set it squarely on her forehead. While guiding her car back into the flow of traffic, she yanked down the
visor mirror and surveyed her image. Better tug the cap lower on her forehead.
And
she’d better do more listening and less talking.

Adventures like this brought Chad to mind, but she took a deep breath, knowing Chad was gone, along with her youth. As she headed for Tony Panada’s address in an exclusive area of the beach, she thought of Seth. For several seconds, she toyed with the idea of calling him to meet her, then discarded it. If anyone got in trouble for this, it would only be her.

Tony Panada. Joe Panada. She’d bet they called him Joey. There had to be a link. If the same last names were just a coincidence, it would be the first time she had encountered that. In her writing and in her snooping, she didn’t fall for coincidences.

Suddenly she thought of Roseann Cole. Those guys were headed back to Memphis. What if they thought Roseann had seen them, could even point them out in a lineup if it came down to it?