Splintered Bones (14 page)

"Lynch! He was--"

"Riding them hard. And with incredible skill."

"That would be twenty times a week." Math wasn't my strong suit, but in this case I could multiply.

"His stamina is legendary."

I took my dishes to the sink. "So Carol Beth thinks one of these women killed Kemper because they were being serviced by Lynch?" I still didn't get it. "She was taking lessons, too."

Tinkie refilled our coffee cups as she talked. "Carol Beth believes that Kemper was trying to blackmail these women, and one of them decided to do something about it. They're all married. They all have a lot to lose if it becomes public knowledge that they're sharing the services of a philandering horse trainer. I mean it would be different if he were just seeing one of them. But all of them! It looks so . . . desperate. I mean, at thirty-three, we're all past our prime. But to have to pay for riding lessons just to get. . . some attention."

Desperation was never a good look on a Daddy's Girl. I was finally getting the picture Tinkie's list painted. In all of the DG training, the most unacceptable thing was to appear desperate. Cute, temperamental, manipulative, helpless, brainless, malleable, flighty, and just plain blond--all were high art forms in the hands of a DG. Desperation was for lesser mortals. When a DG looked desperate, it was the end. She'd blown all the work of building her lifelong facade. Ask Blanche DuBois. "You might be on to something," I agreed. It didn't explain Lee's confession, but it did give us more suspects and motives to muddy the water.

"Besides, Kemper was a total piece of shit." Tinkie got up and walked to the window. I knew she was looking out over the darkened vista of the cotton fields, which had been recently tilled and planted. I'd leased the land to Willie Campbell, a local farmer who'd been a few years ahead of me in high school. Tinkie could see none of my land. It was an internal landscape she viewed.

"Anyway, you have the list," she said. "Every single one of those women will be at the hunt ball. We can tackle them there." She bit her bottom lip in her signature gesture. "I have to get home. Oscar had a late meeting, but he'll expect his cocktail to be waiting for him."

"Thanks, Tinkie. You did great."

Her smile was a million watts. "We'll figure out a way to keep Lee out of prison, won't we?"

"We don't have a choice," I said, putting my arm around her shoulders and leaning down to whisper. "If we don't, Kip will have to go and live with you."

Tinkie's remark, harmless
enough at the time, that at thirty-three we were all over the hill, began to work on me at about midnight. I sat straight up in bed from a sound sleep, slightly disoriented by the bass thud of Kip's music. I wondered if she'd fallen asleep with her boom box on, or if she was still up.

"What are you muttering about 'over the hill'?" Jitty's voice drifted to me from the old rosewood rocker that my mother had used to soothe me when I was a babe in arms. Generations of Delaneys had been lulled into sleep by the rhythm of that old chair, and as annoying as I found Jitty, I was comforted by the gentle creaking.

"I'm not even close to being over the hill," I said. "If you'll remember back to the research done in the 1970's, women don't reach their sexual peak until their late thirties. Or even the late forties."

"Dream on." In the darkness Jitty sounded bored.

I snapped on the bedside light. "You read enough of those old
Cosmo
magazines in the attic to drive me crazy. There were dozens of articles in them about how women sexually peak out so much more slowly than men."

"Poppycock."

She was in a difficult mood and dressed to show it. She had on a slinky jumpsuit of what could only be tomato-red spandex. It was sleeveless, with capri-length legs that emphasized her trim ankles and killer-spike sandals. Her hair was straight, a la Vanessa Williams, and she looked like she might be twenty-two. I hated her.

"Get out of my bedroom."

"We need to talk."

"Go away." I pulled the covers over my head, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. I couldn't sleep, because I was worried. Forcing Jitty out of my room wouldn't quell my bout of anxiety. I threw back the covers and went into my bathroom. Beneath the bright lights of the mirror, I examined my face. Yes, there were the first signs of wrinkles. My left side, creased by a fold in the sheet, was worse. Crow's-feet. Laugh lines. Squint marks. I had them all. I turned profile to see if a wattle was developing.

"Better find you a man before you have to use spackle."

"Shut up." Jitty was enough to send me to look for the razor blades.

"Sarah Booth, why do you think you're still single? I mean, just as a point of curiosity. Why aren't you married?"

This was more soul-searching than I could stand. "Because Prince Charming has ridden all around
Mississippi
and somehow managed to avoid Zinnia?"

Jitty snorted. "You didn't give Malone Beasley a chance. You didn't even offer him a cup of coffee."

I turned to her. "Why should I entertain some reject Cece dredged up?"

"Maybe he was a nice man."

"He wanted my car, not me."

"What? You think he should have walked up to you and rubbed your bumper?"

She had a point, which only made me more adamant. "Cher-ry," I mimicked.

"You seriously need to get you a life." She frowned her disapproval.

"I may need a life, but he needs a car. He rode the bus from Wetumpka."

She sighed.

"He didn't have money to get home. That's exactly what I need. Another mouth to feed around here."

She sighed more deeply.

"He was--" I didn't get to finish. There was the sound of a guitar outside my bedroom window. It was a good riff that ran full ahead, broke, flowed, and continued into low-down and dirty blues.

A very low and sexy voice blended in with the guitar. "I sent for my woman, da-da-dum; she came to my side. Da-da-dum. She whispered so sexy, da-da-dum; you been drinkin' and you lied! Yeah, my baby's gone, and she took all her lovin' when she went!"

"I think you got company," Jitty said, stepping back against the wall. "He might not have a car, but he's got one helluva way with a guitar."

She was gone, and I was left with the troubadour beneath my window. I could only pray that Kip was asleep. What would she think? Malone Beasley and now this.

I hurried to the window and leaned out. In the darkness I couldn't see him, but he saw me.

"Sarah Booth, I've come to crown you as the queen of the blues."

"Who are you?" I whispered as harshly as I could.

"John Bell Washington, or the ladies call me J.B., the original blues man from
Greenwood
. At your service, ma'am."

I gritted my teeth. "Come around to the front door," I said sweetly.

"Whatever you say."

I grabbed some jeans and a shirt and hurried barefoot down the stairs. He was waiting there, guitar in hand, when I opened the door. He was better than six feet tall and had a grin that would charm Medusa. Long, dark hair was neatly queued.

"I apologize for arriving so late," he said as he stepped past me and into the house. "I had a gig at the Delta Blues Bar in
Greenwood
. It would have been a breach of contract if I didn't show. But here I am, and I'm ready to sing, dance, and generally make your life a pleasure. You look like you could use a massage."

"Who are you?"

A look of consternation passed over his face. "I told you. John
Bell
Washington
. You know, JBBLUES, all caps."

I didn't have a clue what he meant, but I was going to absolutely kill Cece. Malone Beasley wasn't bad enough. Now I had a musician standing in my foyer. No, headed into my kitchen. And who should greet him with a wagging tail but Sweetie Pie.

"What a great dog," he said, bending to pat the stomach she offered for his touch. "I'm about famished. You said you'd have something good to eat when I got here, and I think I smell roast."

He pushed straight into the kitchen and unerringly opened cabinets, drawers, and the refrigerator until he had a plate, flatware, and food. He served himself and sat down at the kitchen table. "Mmmmm, this is good," he said, spearing a half potato. "You are some kind of cook, no doubt about that. I'd say you were running neck and neck with Mother in the category of kitchen expertise."

"I didn't actually--"

"Lots of women lie about that kind of thing, but a lie always catches you in the end. That's what Mother says, and that's why I never lie. Now tell me about this ball we're attending."

In the light of the kitchen, I could see he cultivated a rugged look--he'd deliberately not shaved. His dark eyes watched me with mild curiosity. If I were forced to tell the truth, I'd have to say he was quite attractive.

"The
Chesterfield
Hunt Ball?" I knew without a doubt that Cece had been at work again.

"Yeah, all those ritzy ladies and gents. Lots of money and no fun. That's what you said, and I agree. Well, we're going to show them what it means to have a good time at a ball."

He polished off his plate of food with such blinding speed that I served him another without thinking. I cut a hunk of roast and offered it to Sweetie Pie, who broke off her adulation of John Bell Washington long enough to swallow it whole.

"So, are there any good blues clubs in
Sunflower
County
? I haven't spent much time over here."

"One or two," I said.

"Well, I'll find something to keep me busy until Saturday. Don't you worry about it at all. I'm good at entertaining myself. You know, I've never met an actual, honest-to-God private investigator."

Whether it was charm or calculation, I felt myself smiling. John Bell Washington, for all the fact that he was probably a manic-depressive on the upswing, was irresistible.

He laid his knife and fork properly across the plate. "I know this is kind of strange, so I'll mosey on down to the local hotel and park it until tomorrow. I'll rent some tails in town, and we'll make us some plans for that big ball."

He pushed back from the table and stood up. "Good night, Sarah Booth." He squeezed my fingers gently.

There was not the thumb throb of Harold, but there was a warm tingle. "I do love the blues," I said, unwilling to commit to anything more.

"I'm your man, then," he said with a lopsided grin. "Call me John or call me J.B., just be sure and call me tomorrow."

He left by the back door, whistling a down-and-dirty tune, and I was left alone in the kitchen with Sweetie Pie and the empty platter where once a roast had lain.

11

Trudging back up to my room,
I
stopped by Kip's door.
I almost tapped on it with a reminder that it was long past her bedtime. Instead, I went to my room. Kemper's funeral was set for tomorrow morning, Thursday, at eleven. No matter how it played out, it was going to be an ordeal for all of us.

Lying in bed with Kinky for company, I paused in my reading to listen to the wails and throbs of Kip's music. Perhaps her desire for a new hairdo was a sign she was coming around. I was certain of nothing. I only knew that I was deeply troubled and that my bedroom door, for the first time in my life, was locked.

Sleep settled over me, a thin blanket of forgetfulness troubled by strange images and a suffocating sense of urgency with an undertone of blues guitar.

I'd been asleep for what felt like a few minutes when I heard Sweetie Pie's soft whines. She was outside my door in the hallway. She'd taken to splitting her time between me and Kip. Apparently she was now ready for the midnight shift change and annoyed that my door was closed. I got up and opened it.

Instead of coming into my room, Sweetie barked and headed downstairs. At the landing, she waited for me. Curious, I followed. The tile of the foyer was cold beneath my bare feet as Sweetie led me to the front door. Looking at me, she began to bark.

I saw the headlights then. They were halfway down the drive, yellow beams in the dark night, too far away for me to distinguish the make of the vehicle. A slender figure passed in front of the headlights and got into the passenger side. Backing among the sycamores, the car turned around and left.

I didn't need to check Kip's room to know she was gone, but I did. Her bed was empty. With her things scattered all over the floor, there was no way to tell what, if anything, she'd taken with her.

I walked out onto the landing and sat down on the stairs. Kip was fourteen, a troubled girl with a history of instability, and possible violence. Her mother was in jail. I didn't know what I should do. Coleman was the logical answer, but I resisted. I had not yet resolved my role.

Jitty slipped beside me and sat. "You were fifteen when you ran away," she said.

"Fifteen and four months," I responded with a wry smile. I'd forgotten the incident. Aunt LouLane had forbidden me to attend a dance with a high school senior. Angry with her, and embarrassed that I was being treated like a baby, I'd run away. "I only went over to Annabelle's house."