Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery (27 page)

“Angela hasn’t been seen since yesterday, when she left the marina to call friends to help her move the boat,” Tinkie said as she walked up. Her normally perfect hairdo was beaten down by rain. Water dripped from the ends of her curls. If she looked bad, I knew I looked even worse.

“She’s not on the boat, either. Not a sign she was ever there.”

“Then where the hell is she?” Tinkie was aggravated. “Arley has been trying to call her all morning, too. He can’t move the boat without her, and he says this is no place for a boat that size to be moored with a storm coming in. He’s frantic.”

“She wouldn’t voluntarily act like this, Tinkie. She’s a responsible person. She’s either injured or someone is holding her captive.”

She’d just finished speaking when my cell phone rang. I answered it, praying it would be Angela.

“I just had a fascinating talk with Zeke Chavis,” Coleman said in his baritone drawl.

I clicked the phone to speaker. “Tinkie’s with me. Go ahead.”

“You’ve stepped in a hornet’s nest, Sarah Booth. I’m worried that someone is in danger of being seriously hurt.”

“That may have already happened,” I replied.

He was suddenly all business. “What’s wrong?”

Tinkie filled him in on Angela’s disappearance but assured him we were unharmed. “Except for Angela, everything is fine, so far. We’re just worried about the storm and all the complications it brings.”

“Everything fine with you, Sarah Booth?” he asked.

“Tinkie’s correct. Our client is missing. The hurricane is breathing down our necks, and I don’t trust the local law enough to call them in to help search for Angela.”

“Come back to Sunflower County. You can’t do anything else there until the storm passes. Come home.”

If only I were Dorothy and could click my heels three times and go back to childhood. The ultimate fantasy. “I’ll be in Zinnia soon enough. So tell me about Zeke.”

“I was shocked when he agreed to speak with me. He doesn’t admit to anything except his low opinion of the former Alabama governor. Barr apparently reneged on half the agreed-upon payment.”

Tinkie’s snort was her answer.

“Why am I not surprised?” I said. Criminals. If a man would murder his wife, why would he pay a debt? Especially one accrued in the commission of a murder. What was Zeke’s option? Report him to the law for failure to pay?

“Intelligent people don’t go into a life of crime,” Coleman said. “Zeke is smart enough to be wary of Barr, though. He said the governor had a very long reach. He likened him to a rabid dog and said he would bite anyone who got close enough.”

“Did he know anything about John Trotter? Would Barr have killed John Trotter to settle a score against Angela for the newspaper stories she wrote?”

“Zeke insisted he had nothing to do with Trotter’s murder, but he did say Barr was capable of such an act of revenge. Apparently, the ex-governor has no boundaries.”

The matter-of-fact tone in Coleman’s voice alerted me. “You believe Zeke, don’t you?”

“It’s impossible to tell, Sarah Booth, but my gut reaction was that he was telling the truth. He had an alibi for the time of Trotter’s murder. I followed up and called his alibi witnesses. Three men corroborated his statement. He spent the evening in Shazam’s Bar in Tillman’s Corner, a community on the outskirts of Mobile.”

“They remembered from over a year ago?” Tinkie asked the question before I could.

“As you would expect, they remembered drinking with Zeke on numerous occasions, but the night John Trotter was killed there was an incident.”

“What kind of incident?” I asked.

“Zeke tried to do a male-stripper routine, and his friends duct-taped him in a chair. They all got drunk and forgot to untape him. The thing is, when they remembered, they were all afraid to cut him loose. So he stayed in that chair all night.”

I took a deep breath. A night no one was likely to forget. “Okay, but did he know anyone else Barr might hire for wet work?”

“He’s not a professional hit man, just a good ole boy willing to kill for two grand. Barr might have gotten away with killing his wife if he’d paid for a real pro.”

“That’s a comforting thought,” Tinkie said.

Coleman chuckled. “I hear you, Tinkie. But Zeke said something else you might be interested in.”

“Which was?”

“He said his cousin is a good guy and a dedicated cop.”

“A great recommendation from a murderer.” I spoke before I thought.

Coleman sighed. “You’ve been hanging around DeWayne too much. He said the same thing.”

Coleman’s number-one deputy, DeWayne Dattilo, and I shared a bit of cynicism when it came to the word of a murderer. “You honestly believe Zeke?” I asked. “You’re as big a skeptic as I am, but you believe Zeke’s story. And his assessment of his cousin.”

“On the first count, his alibi is sound. On the second part, I do believe him. He said Randy had taken a lot of grief because of him. They were close at one time, and he said he didn’t want his cousin tarred with his dirty brush. Apparently, Randy had a moment when he realized the path he was on would lead to a jail cell. He changed.”

“They were both juvenile delinquents.” I clarified the issue. “I don’t think Zeke’s word is good for much.”

“I did some checking on Randy. I know a few deputies on the Mobile County force.”

“And?” Tinkie had been watching the
Miss Adventure
lurch and roll. She signaled we were leaving the marina. She’d obviously come up with a lead to follow, and who was I to stand in her way?

Coleman’s answer was a surprise. “Randy is well thought of. As I mentioned earlier, several of his fellow officers feel he should have made detective. They say Randy aced the test for promotion but someone changed answers on his test. My sources believe he was set up by an enemy within the department.”

“And did they opine why a patrolman who was passed over for promotion was allowed to act as lead investigator on a homicide?”

“They did. Actually. And the consensus of opinion was that Randy was singled out to fail. No one expected Larry Wofford would be convicted. The common belief among the deputies I spoke with is that John Trotter’s murder was meant to remain unsolved. Randy would be left holding a high-profile case with no killer apprehended. He would be labeled an ineffectual investigator.”

Tinkie gave me a quick frown. “That makes a certain kind of crazy logic.”

“No, it doesn’t make any sense.” My stubborn streak jumped into play. “Randy is the sheriff’s right-hand man. Why would Benson want to hang Randy out to dry?”

“That’s exactly the question I asked—and got a resounding silence,” Coleman said. “Maybe there’s another person involved in this you haven’t sniffed out. Someone willing to sacrifice Chavis and Wofford.”

I considered for a moment, but I couldn’t take that bit of information and make it fit. “What do you make of it, Coleman?”

“Come home, Sarah Booth, and we’ll talk it through and I’ll try to help. Or drive over to New Orleans for the ball. Just get off that spit of sand in the middle of dangerous water. Next week, when the weather has settled down, I’ll drive with you and Tinkie to the prison. You can talk to Zeke yourselves.”

It was a mighty generous offer. “Thank you, Coleman. You’re right. Cece and Oscar are chomping at the bit to see us. We’ll call it a day before too much longer.”

“That’s the best news I’ve had all morning,” Coleman said. “We’ll take care of this once the storm has blown through.”

I didn’t know if he was referring to Margene or my personal tsunami of emotional distress. Whichever or both, he was right. Once I had a line on Angela and knew she was safe, it was time to leave. “Coleman, you’re a good friend.”

“Someone has to keep an eye on you, Sarah Booth. It could be a full-time job.”

Tinkie pulled onto the main road and took a right toward the cottage. Sweetie and Pluto needed food and a bathroom break. I took them for a beach run—accomplished quickly in a moment of calm—and then upstairs for chow.

“When Graf comes home, keep him here,” I told Sweetie. “No excuses.” Tinkie was waiting in the Caddy. She pulled back on the road. I didn’t know what she was up to, but I trusted her instincts.

*   *   *

The clouds continued to gang up on the horizon, slowly moving toward us as we drove to Fort Gaines. My entire life I’d watched hurricane coverage—the weather-center employees clinging to signs and clutching their slickers and microphones. I understood the concept of rain coming in sheets and letting up, then blasting again. Soon, I would be living it. I knew what to expect in the future: one minute the deluge would blind us, and the next, the rain would stop for half an hour or more. As the storm drew closer, the feeder bands would become a solid onslaught of bad weather.

There was no sign of Angela’s little compact at Fort Gaines—or any other vehicle. The fort looked dreary and abandoned. For one brief moment, I thought I saw a woman in a black dress on the wall, but if it wasn’t Jitty, it was surely my imagination. Like the rain, she was there one minute and gone the next.

We left the fort and went by Angela’s house. It looked as empty as the fort. This was our last effort to find her.

Tinkie turned into the driveway and stopped. “She could be in danger. Call the sheriff’s office. We should have done it an hour ago.”

I nodded and pulled out my cell phone. A burst of wind hit so hard it made me flinch. Tinkie gave a nervous laugh. “The idea of driving over that bridge in this weather is a little intimidating.”

I hadn’t given it a thought, but now that she said it, I felt a flutter of nerves. The wind was strong enough at ground level. On that high arch, it would be more forceful. “Maybe our timing will be good and we’ll get over the bridge in a lull. Once we make it to I-10 it’ll be a piece of cake.”

The ringing of the phone startled me, and I jumped and dropped it. Tinkie laughed so hard I wanted to swat her. By the time I recovered it from the floorboard, Angela’s number showed up on the ID.

“Where the hell have you been?” I asked with no small amount of irritation.

“Can you pick me up?”

Her voice was strange, but it could have been the storm making her sound like she was in a tin can.

“Where are you, Angela?” Tinkie had turned around and was driving toward town.

“I’m at the bridge. I’ve been walking back, but I’m not feeling so great.”

I remembered the blood at her cottage. “Walking back from where?” It didn’t make sense that she’d left the island. “Should I call the sheriff?”

“No!” Panic bloomed in her voice. “Don’t call the sheriff’s department. Just pick me up, please. I’ll keep walking until I see you.”

“We’re in Tinkie’s Caddy, but stay off the bridge. The wind is too high.”

“Okay. I’ll be sitting on the side of the road.”

“We’re on the way.” I hung up. “Hurry, Tinkie. She sounds bad. I think she’s hurt.”

“We’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

Gusts of wind rocked the heavy Cadillac, but we made it over the bridge with no problems. Angela was easy to spot, sitting at the edge of the marsh grass. Behind her was a canal. My first thought, of course, was alligators. It looked like a great habitat for the reptiles. Ones that could run sixty miles an hour on six-inch legs.

There was no traffic in either direction, and Tinkie did a U-turn and stopped beside Angela. I rushed to her side.

“Are you hurt?” She had her hand over one eye, and when she looked at me, she appeared dazed. I helped her into the passenger seat and jumped in the back as Tinkie sped up the bridge. “Angela, are you hurt?” I shook her shoulder gently.

“I don’t know what happened. I was in my cottage packing some photos and things. I heard what I thought was the wind at the back door. All of a sudden, it burst open and Randy Chavis barreled into the kitchen. He started to say something, and that’s the last I remember. I think I was struck on the head. Or maybe I was injected with a drug. I can’t say. I just remember being very dizzy and falling into blackness.”

I didn’t see any obvious wounds or blood on her. Where had the blood in her cottage come from? “Are you bleeding?”

“I don’t know.” She felt her head and face. She pulled her hair back and revealed a gash in her skull. “I don’t know how this happened.”

Once we were at the beach cottage, I’d examine her more closely. “Was anyone else hurt at your cottage?”

She put a hand over her mouth. “I don’t know. I can’t remember anything.”

“How did you get off the island?”

“I don’t know that either. I woke up in this rancid little cottage on Heron Bay. It took a little while to figure out where I was, and when I did, I started walking toward the island.”

“Was there a sailboat docked there?”

“Yeah, a rundown one. And a motorboat. A big house that was locked tight. I tried to get in to use the phone, but it was like Fort Knox.”

“Did you see anyone?”

She shook her head. “But someone lives there. I saw men’s and women’s clothing. The place was a pigsty.”

“I think you were held at Remy Renault’s.”

“Why?” She still was a bit dazed. “Why would he do this?”

I didn’t have an answer, but I’d get one. As soon as I could.

“Why didn’t you call us on your cell?” Tinkie asked.

“My phone was dead. I thought the storm might have taken a tower out, but then the service would come back on. I’d try to call, and the phone would be dead. I couldn’t make sense of any of it.”

She wasn’t the only one suffering erratic-phone syndrome. “Well, you didn’t drive in that condition, I hope, but your car is missing. And your house has been ransacked. I figured it was Chavis looking for that spyglass.”

“The house was fine before I was taken.” Angela tapped her forehead as if trying to clear cobwebs. “I have to remember.”

“Angela, where is the telescope?” Tinkie asked. “Was that what they were after?”

“Maybe.” She leaned back. “They’ll never find it, though. It’s well hidden.”

It was possible Remy had taken Angela and stashed her at his house thinking he would go back and question her when she returned to consciousness. Only she’d regained her senses and gotten away. Or else someone had taken Angela there to frame Remy. They’d never anticipated that Angela would wake up. Either way, very sloppy work.