Crossed Bones (3 page)

Scott knew that I saw it and a sound, almost animal, came from him. "Keep Ida Mae out of this. Give her back her money," he ordered.

"Who put up the noose?" I asked him, my voice only a little shaky. The South is filled with symbols--neon crosses, snakes and their handlers, bedsheets, flags, magnolias, and mockingbirds. But there is none more potent than the noose. Someone had sent Scott a very explicit message, and he knew it.

"Stay out of it," he said.

"Did you see them?"

"No."

"Have you told the sheriff?"

"No." He grinned, daring me to ask more.

"Coleman will find out who did this," I said. It didn't matter what Coleman thought about Scott Hampton personally. Someone had broken the law, and in doing so had stirred up the horror and hatred of the past. Someone would pay for that.

"My best advice to you, Ms. Sarah Booth Delaney, is that you keep your nose out of this, and don't take Ida Mae's money. She doesn't have much and she's going to need what she has to survive this."

"Tell me one thing, Mr. Hampton," I said, finding that cool, level voice that I needed. "Did you kill Ivory Keys? If you say yes, I'll take that answer to Ida Mae and advise her to let it go. But until you confess, she isn't going to drop this."

He walked to the window and looked out. Following his gaze, I saw deputies Dewayne Dattilo and Gordon Walters outside, removing the hangman's noose with great care. Someone had finally seen it and reported it.

When Scott came back to the bars, his face was hard, his mouth a thin line. "I'm tried and convicted. If they don't kill me before the trial, I'm going to Parchman. Some amateur private detective isn't going to change that at all."

"Nice dodge. Did you kill Ivory Keys?" I repeated. The least he could do was confess and let Ida Mae off the hook.

His hands grabbed the bars so fast I involuntarily stepped back. The smile that touched his face held satisfaction. "It's a good thing to be afraid of me," he said. "A very good thing."

I walked out of the jail, determined to return Ida Mae's check and not to lose a wink of sleep over Scott Hampton. The sheriff's office was empty, thank goodness, and I left a message for Coleman to call me when he found out who'd put the noose in the tree.

The community of
Kudzu was little more than a crossroads in the northwest corner of the county. Driving through the flat cotton fields, I scanned the horizon for the simple church steeple that would mark my destination. It was said that during the twenties and thirties, a nightclub at this crossroads had been one of the hottest blues joints in the nation. All of the greats had played there as they roved the South, all headed for
Detroit
and eventual fame.

During this time, clubs known as juke joints dotted the dirt roads of the Delta. Open mainly on weekends, these bars were often little more than shanties where the black folks could gather to drink and dance. From the burning sun of the cotton fields to the sweet heat of a summer night, the blues had been birthed to express the sorrow, desperation, and power of sex that told the story of a time, a place, and a people.

In the distance I saw the steeple and turned off the highway onto a dirt road that cut, straight and narrow, between the rows of cotton. In less than ten minutes, I stopped at Blessed Zion Independent Church. A small sign announced services for Ivory Keys at ten o'clock Saturday morning. Behind the church, two elderly black men were digging the grave.

From in front of the church, I could see the nightclub at the crossroads. Although I'd driven to Kudzu to return Mrs. Keys' check, I decided it wouldn't hurt to take a look inside.

Playin' the Bones looked like a small war might have been fought in and around the club. The front door was locked and remnants of crime-scene tape lay on the ground. The back door was closed but unlocked. I walked inside.

Mayhem met my gaze. The place had been trashed, and it didn't take me long to find the brownish stain on the floor that marked the location where the body had lain. A stool and table were overturned by the bloodstain. I could picture Ivory Keys sitting at the table, working.

Eyes adjusting to the dim light, I stood still and looked around. It was a very cool place. The bar was mahogany and looked as if it might have been salvaged from the old Sunflower Hotel when it was torn down. Tables and chairs, all heavy and comfortable, were scattered on three sides of the big dance floor, and up against the walls were thickly padded booths. An assortment of glasses hung from racks over the bar, which was fully stocked.

The stage where the band played was set with drums, an upright piano, a well-used amplifier on a chair, and mike stands.

When my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I moved deeper into the club. According to Coleman, Ivory Keys had been stabbed with a homemade prison shank. The knife had been found in Scott's possession, wiped clean of prints.

Pretty stupid for a man who thought himself so smart.

The wreckage in the nightclub indicated that someone was hunting for something. The cash register was bashed open, the empty drawer hanging out.

Money--nearly three grand--had also been found on Scott. But why would Scott wreck the club if the money he wanted was in the cash register? The obvious answer was that he was looking for something other than money.

I took my time and fixed a mental image of the club in my head. Ivory's murder had been brutal. Coleman hadn't said exactly, but there was the implication that Ivory had been beaten before he died. The destruction of the club showed a form of rage. Scott Hampton, with his contempt for all around him, was most probably the man who'd killed Ivory Keys. It was time to talk to Ida Mae and make her see reason.

3

Groomed
was the first word that popped into my
head as I got out of the car in Ida Mae Keys' front yard.
Colorful
was the second. Zinnias lined the dirt walkway. Gerber daisies bordered the small wooden house, and daylilies in all varieties bloomed orange, pink, purple, and lavender. These were not just flowers that could be planted and left to fend for themselves. They required care.

As I walked to the steps, the tinkle of glass against glass stopped me. At the side of the house, I saw the branches of a bottle tree waving gently in the breeze. Coke, Nehi, Bubble-up, Dr Pepper, and Barq's soft-drink bottles had been slipped onto the stout branches of the tree. It was a sight from a high adventure of my childhood, when my mother had taken me to a palm reader in
Memphis
. The old woman had at least a dozen bottle trees in her yard. I'd sat on the steps and listened to the voices of the bottles as they brushed and touched each other in the wind, while my mother had gotten her fortune told.

The bottle tree was either a symbol of good luck or a way of warding off evil. I couldn't remember if you were supposed to make a wish on the tree or if you placed the empty glass bottles on branches to keep the devil at bay.

Although the sun was hot on my head and skin, chillbumps danced over my arms.

Ida Mae answered my knock immediately. She'd obviously been standing at the window, watching me. She wasn't exactly what I'd expected.

I guess in my mind I'd been prepared for either a stout, matronly woman or a nightclub lady. Ida Mae Keys was neither. She was a tall, slender woman with gray-streaked hair that was carefully cut and curled. The navy suit said businesswoman, as did the sensible pumps. Instead of the sixty-something I knew her to be, she looked forty and in excellent health.

"I'm Sarah Booth Delaney," I said, holding out my hand.

Her handshake was firm and perfunctory, just as her question was direct. "Is Scott out of jail?"

"The bond hearing's set for Friday. It's going to be a high bond."

"I can sell some things and make it."

I took a breath as I tried to decide the best way to say what I'd come to tell her. "Mrs. Keys, I'm returning your check." I pulled it out of the pocket of my slacks and held it out to her. I'd already decided not to mention the noose. "Scott Hampton doesn't want my help or yours. He told me to tell you to keep the money."

Ida Mae looked at the check but made no effort to touch it. "Scott didn't hire you, so he can't fire you." It was as simple as that in her mind.

"He won't cooperate with me. Under those conditions, it wouldn't be right for me to take your money." I extended my arm.

"I'll have a talk with Scott. He'll come around."

I didn't think so. In fact, I didn't think even a personal conversation with either God or Satan would have much of an impact on Scott Hampton.

"I don't think I can help Scott."

She put one finger on her lips and stared at me. "Because you think he's guilty."

"Yes, ma'am." I really hadn't wanted to say that, but evasion, even born out of kindness, wasn't Ida Mae's style.

"Come in and sit down," she said, finally stepping out of the doorway.

I followed her inside the house. Neat and colorful, just like the yard. Sunflowers nodded in a large vase on the dining room table. Glancing out the window, I saw what looked like a two-acre field full of the big, yellow flowers with the black centers. Some of the blooms were at least eight inches wide.

"Beautiful," I said, gesturing toward the window.

"Yes, they are," she said slowly. "Ivory loved them. He said they were smarter than us humans because they turned their faces up to the sun to accept God's blessings and they never questioned the right or wrong of it."

I sat on the edge of the chair she indicated. I hadn't noticed at first, but all around me were religious icons. A crucified Jesus hung on one wall, along with a beautifully framed painting of the Last Supper. Mary, halo glowing, hung on another wall. There were also pictures of Jesus with the little children crowded around him, and one depicting the tomb with the stone rolled away and Jesus ascending above the tomb. Beside that was a pair of praying hands. The ceramic rendition was uninspired, and I could see it had been painted by a child.

"My son did that," Ida Mae said. "Emanuel. He made that at vacation Bible school when he was eight." She spoke with such sadness I wondered if her son had died. I didn't want to ask such a personal question, especially not when she'd just lost her husband to an act of violence.

I put the check on the coffee table in front of her. She looked down at it a moment.

"I want you to help Scott. He didn't kill my husband, no matter what people say."

"The evidence--"

"Damn the evidence!" She spoke so sharply that I actually jumped a little.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just know Scott didn't kill my husband. They were very close, more like a father and son than . . . Scott loved my husband."

"Even people who love each other can do harm to each other," I said softly. In some cases, it was all the more reason for violence.

"Scott didn't do this thing."

"Why are you so certain that he's innocent?" It was a fair question.

"Why are you so certain that he's guilty?" she countered, but with a sad smile.

"The evidence--"

"I know the evidence," she interrupted, but with much less force. "Murder weapon, money, all of it. Anyone could have put that knife and that money in Scott's saddlebags. Anyone. And that's all they've got. A knife and some money. They don't have motive."

"They're looking at robbery and/or a desire to get out of the two-year contract Ivory signed him to." She had to hear it sooner or later.

"Hogwash. Scott didn't want out of his contract. He and Ivory loved that club. They sat up nights talking and planning about what to do next. That boy and that club brought my husband immense pleasure."

I couldn't argue with her view of things, but I could keep pressing my only advantage. "That still doesn't explain why you think Scott is innocent."

She reached down and picked up a ring I hadn't noticed on the coffee table. When she held it up, the light struck it golden. A wedding band. I noticed the silent tears running down her cheeks. For a moment, her age showed.

"I can't decide whether to wear my ring or take it off," she said. "Seems odd being married to a dead man, yet that's how it is. My husband, so alive and full of music and joy, walked out of this house Monday afternoon and now he'll never come home again."

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"Let me tell you something about Scott Hampton. He saved Ivory's life when they were in prison together. He saved his life
and
his left hand. Ivory called that his boogie hand." A fleeting smile softened the pain on her face. "In repayment, Ivory taught Scott how to play the blues. You see, they both owed each other their very existence."

She walked over to an old upright piano that was missing the front panel. Trailing a finger, she glissaded down the keys. "My husband had a dream, Miss Delaney. A big dream. And he and Scott were making it come true."

"What kind of dream?"

She turned back to face me. "That music could heal all the old wounds and bring people together. Ivory said there was a power in the music that Scott played. It made people forget if they were black or white or poor or rich. It spoke to the bones and to the spirit, and it taught folks how to live with sorrow and joy. He believed that if folks could forget color for the length of a song, they could forget it for an hour, and then a week, and then a month. You get the idea. My husband and Scott were going to change the world, and they'd made a good start on it. That's why I know Scott Hampton is innocent."