When I looked over my shoulder, I saw Coleman walk through the door and head toward our table.
“Coleman, I hope this table is okay?” She looked around. “Sarah Booth was just leaving.”
“Sarah Booth,” Coleman said. “How are you?”
“Perfect. Any change in Gordon?” I asked.
He took off his hat, revealing a fresh haircut. “They’re all still holding their own. Doc figures that’s not as dismal as it might sound. They could be going downhill.”
“Has he found the cause?”
He put his hat on the table. “They’re still not sure if it’s bacterial or viral or what. The tests so far are inconclusive.”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” I said. “I’ve got to get some food to Tinkie.”
“Give her my best,” Coleman said.
“Yes, give her our best,” Bonnie added.
I left the table without another word. Suddenly her nickname was perfect. Beaucoup Bitch.
Tinkie accepted the food and ate without comment. I don’t think she tasted a single bite, but she knew she had to keep up her strength.
Standing at the window, I watched Oscar and Gordon. The nurses came in and hung new bags of fluids and left. Doc entered with two strangers in tow. They read the charts at the foot of each bed, examined the patients carefully, and then walked out in a huddle.
“Go find out what they think?” It was the first thing Tinkie had said in ten minutes.
“They won’t talk to me.”
“Since when did that stop you?”
“Got it.” I ambled down the hallway, setting up position outside the swinging door that led to ICU. This was the only exit from the isolation ward.
Sure enough, less than a minute later, the door opened and the three men emerged. Doc saw me and paused. “Sarah Booth, this is Dr. Franklin and Dr. Formicello. They’re here from the World Health Organization. I was hoping they might have seen something like this.”
Both men were nearing fifty, and their faces showed lives lived out of doors. I glanced between them, picking up on the tension.
“We don’t have any answers,” Dr. Franklin said. “To be honest, I’ve never seen an illness like this.”
“Nor I,” Formicello agreed. “I hope this is truly contained.”
“Can you guess as to whether it’s bacterial or viral?” I asked. From the little I knew about medicine, it would make a tremendous difference. Bacterial would respond to antibiotics. Viral—probably not. So far, though Doc had tried at least four major types of antibiotics on the patients, none had shown improvement. Lab cultures had come back inconclusive.
They shared a look. “We don’t know,” Franklin said.
“Do the sores indicate some kind of contact with a poison?”
Again, they looked at each other and Doc. “Miss Delaney, we simply can’t, and won’t, speculate.”
“Oscar’s wife is near emotional and physical collapse. Don’t you have anything you can tell her? Any tiny word of hope.”
“The longer the patients survive, the better the odds. Mr. Richmond has been here for four days. He’s survived the high temperatures and the buildup of fluid around his heart and lungs—take that as a positive sign. In fact, all the patients have good health and physical strength on their sides. Older patients would be dead by now.”
That wasn’t exactly the glad tidings I wanted to take to Tinkie, but it was better than a death sentence.
When I reported back in, she handed me the half-eaten container of food.
“Will you take me home for a little while?”
She was so tired, she sounded drunk. “Sure. I’ll come back and stay with Oscar.”
“Mother’s coming. I told her you’d take me home.”
I sat on the edge of the cot beside her and put my arm around her. “He’s going to pull through this.”
“Why can’t they figure it out?” she asked. “They’ve run tests for four days.”
“I don’t know.” I told her about my conversation with Peyton, the genetically altered cotton, and the strange boll weevils he’d discovered in the fields.
“Do you think the gods are punishing Sunflower County?” she asked.
“Like biblical plagues?” I was astounded. Tinkie was the voice of reason, the optimist, the one who championed true love and goodness. Here she was talking Armageddon of biblical proportions, all focused on Sunflower County.
“Insects, disease, a shift in the climate.” She looked at me. “I’m worried.”
“Me too, but not about End Times. I’m not buying that stuff, Tink. There have been predictions about the end of the world from the Dark Ages on. People used to believe an eclipse was a sign of Armageddon. We’ll figure this out. You have to believe that.”
Her smile was weary but amused. “You’re a good friend.”
“You’re a better friend.”
Her smile widened. “You’re the best friend.”
“You’re the bestest friend.” I lifted her to her feet. “I’ll track down Jimmy Janks, a developer who showed some interest in the Carlisle land. Might be illuminating to dig around in his background, especially in light of the fact that Erin Carlisle says she won’t sell the land to be developed.”
Tinkie’s eyes lit. “If the land is overrun with weevils, and the crop is ruined, and there’s talk that the place has some kind of agricultural problems, then no one will lease it to farm and—”
“And Erin might yield and sell to a developer.”
“Good thinking, Sarah Booth.”
“The problem with that train of thought is if someone thinks the land is diseased, they may not want to build a subdivision on it,” I said.
Her expression disagreed. “Some developers build on top of swamps and wetlands and landfills and chemical dumps. A few illnesses and some boll weevils wouldn’t stop them. You know they aren’t going to tell the home buyers about the history of the land.”
“Good point.”
Tinkie stretched and stifled a yawn. “Stop by the bank and talk to Harold. He may know Janks. A lot of the developers do business at the bank.”
I kissed her forehead. The food had helped her color a little. “Let me get you home. A hot bath, a few hours in your own bed. The world will look better after that.”
“Can we pick up Chablis?”
“For you, we can even pick up wandering leprechauns with gnarled toes and knobby canes.”
“Sarah Booth, are you on drugs?”
I propelled her down the hall. “I’m mainlining friendship . For the first time since we got back from Hollywood, I have this sense that things will be okay.” I had no idea where the euphoria had come from, or how long it would stay. But for the moment I clung to it. And Tinkie did, too.
She linked her arm through mine. “I think you’re unstable, but I need a bit of hope right now.”
“You need your pup and some sleep. Let’s make that happen.”
8
Jimmy Janks had set up shop in a strip mall on the outskirts of Zinnia. The fake-stucco front was designed to look like the Alamo. For what reason, I couldn’t begin to fathom, unless Janks had some Fess Parker/coonskin hat fetish that I didn’t want to explore.
The strip mall contained a Tae Kwon Do studio, a smoothie place, the Janks Development Company, and a nail salon. Not a single parking space was occupied when I pulled in. Even though the brutal summer temperatures were still a month away, the black asphalt radiated heat devils. Beyond the borders of the strip mall was a lush field of new corn.
The martial arts studio wasn’t open until three, when school students would be available for classes. I’d considered taking up karate but convinced myself it would be smarter to take shooting lessons. Which I needed to sign up for. I’d promised both Graf and Tinkie I would become proficient with a weapon. Something else on my to-do list.
I entered Janks’s office and was greeted by a pretty receptionist who took me straight back to see “the man.”
>
Jimmy Janks, wearing khakis, a button-down shirt, deck shoes, and a diamond Rolex, came from money somewhere up the line. His posture, his boyish haircut, his manicured nails, and perfect smile told me a lot about his background.
“Ms. Delaney,” he said, extending a hand. “I’ve heard all about your exploits in Hollywood. Are you selling your family plantation? It would be a perfect location for—”
“Dahlia House isn’t for sale,” I said with a cold edge that froze him in mid-sentence.
“So many of the older land parcels are on the market, I just assumed . . . well, farming is becoming too expensive. Folks want to sell off the land and get out of a business that relies on the vagaries of weather.”
As much as I wanted to launch into a tirade about paving the best farmland in the nation, I stopped myself. “Actually, I’m interested in your plans for the Carlisle land. Luther said you see development potential there.”
He settled behind his desk, punched something into his iPhone, and gave me his full attention. “Luther desperately wants to sell, but the sister, Erin, won’t even discuss it.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do until the family comes to terms.”
“You’ve spoken with Erin?”
“Not a chance. She ships my letters back marked ‘Return to Sender.’ Like that old Elvis song.” He laughed. “She won’t even hear me out. Luther said he’s filed a petition in court. That’s where it stands with him. Once it clears the court, he’s agreed to my generous offer, which includes shares in the development. We’ll both make a killing. The sister, too.”
“When was the last time you were at the Carlisle place?”
He retrieved his iPhone, punched some more buttons, and said, “Two weeks ago. I went out there with Luther. We checked a couple of low places for a lake. Waterfront is where the money is in development. We found a couple of potential places, did some soil samples, then we left.”
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“Tallest stand of cotton I’ve ever seen for this time of year, and an empty house that’s going to have to be bulldozed.”
“Why?” I asked. “The Carlisle House is historic. Surely someone would want to live there.” I hadn’t been there in years, but I remembered it as a beautiful, raised plantation house with a curved, double set of steps used for many a Zinnia High School annual photograph.
“Historic, haunted, and out of style. Folks want glass, more width and less height, and modern conveniences. Those old houses, heck, by the time you repair the central air and heat, the electrical systems, the plumbing, it’s just easier to raze them and start from scratch. Cheaper, too.”
My opinions weren’t important, so I tamped them down. I kept a calm face and listened to a man who had no sense of history. “Where are you from, Mr. Janks?”
“Call me Jimmy. We’re an old Mobile family. Born under an azalea bush and all of that.” He waved it away with disdain.
Child of privilege, a notch above the “entitled” generation. “How’d you end up in the Delta?”
“Made some friends in college. Toke Lambert, Haney Thompson.” His grin was boyish. “Those guys know how to party. Anyway, I came up here to dove hunt with them on some of their family land, and I realized this area was perfect to develop.”
I knew the men. Sons of Buddy Clubbers, who’d inherited their land and never struggled a day to claim it or work it.
“When you were at the Carlisle place, you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary?”
“Nice stand of cotton. Nothing else.”
Janks wasn’t a farmer, so he wouldn’t appreciate the extraordinary maturity of the cotton. “And you didn’t feel sick?”
He laughed. “I don’t have time to feel sick. I’ve got irons in the fire.”
“There’s some thought that the illness that struck down Oscar Richmond and the others came from the Carlisle place.”
He leaned back in his chair. “That’s a troubling idea.”
“Would it affect your plans for the land?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, the development we’ve mapped out will take at least a year to initiate. At least three to finish. By then, all of this will be cleared up.”
“Has anyone else shown an interest in the land?”
“Not to my knowledge, but Luther would be the one to ask about that. When you do, tell him he’d better not be plotting a double-cross.” He laughed, but there was a glint in his eyes.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Janks.”
“Not a problem. Ms. Delaney, this area is growing. Like it or not, the human animal demands forward progress. We’re like sharks. If we aren’t swimming forward, we’ll die. Keep in mind, I’m not as bad as some developers.”
“I’ll take that into consideration.” I walked out. Janks might not be worse than others, but the end result was still the death of a way of life and a land I loved.
When I settled into the driver’s seat, the car was hot and I was overcome with a lethargy that made me want to close my eyes and rest a moment.
I knew what was happening—I was trying to hide from the events unfolding around me. Illness, development, worry for my friends. The hot sun and the smell of clean leather were lulling. If I could just close my eyes for fifteen minutes . . .
A car horn tooted beside me. Cece sat behind the wheel of her sexy new hybrid. Her window went down, and she signaled for me to do the same. “Taking up martial arts?” she asked.
“Interviewing Jimmy Janks.”
His office door opened, and Janks walked out and around the building to the side.
“Is that Janks?” Cece asked.
I recognized the predatory tone in her voice and reconsidered Janks. He was tall, well built, and good-looking in a deliberate kind of way. Not someone I would normally think of as fitting Cece’s taste, but what did I know?
“That’s him.” In a moment he drove around the building in a big Tahoe with “Janks Development” written on its side.
“He might be an interesting subject for a profile in the paper,” Cece said. “I’ll find out what his plans are really all about.”
“Just an excuse for you to find out about him.” I wasn’t fooled by Cece’s sudden journalistic ambitions.
“One of the perks of my job, dahling.”
Cece made me smile, and that was certainly welcome. “Where are you headed?” I asked.
“Back to the newspaper. I saw your car and wanted to be sure you were okay. It looked like you’d fallen asleep behind the wheel.”
“Resting my eyes. Mind if I join you at the paper?”
“Not at all. Research?”
She knew me too well. “I want to dig up the story of the Carlisles.”
“I’ll help.” She backed up and took off, and I followed. For a hybrid, her little car had pep.
The newspaper office was contained bedlam. Most Delta papers had been bought by large chains, but the Zinnia Dispatch was still locally owned. The news stories focused squarely on Sunflower County, with minimal regional and national copy coming off the wire. With all the emphasis on local reporting, the paper, through the decades, was an invaluable source of history.
While Cece busied herself setting up an interview with Jimmy Janks, I went to the stacks and began pulling newspapers. I had a general idea of when Mrs. Carlisle died, based on Erin’s age and my years in high school.
I found the front-page story without difficulty, then sat down on a stool to read.
Lana Carlisle, the former Lana Entrekin, of West Point, Mississippi, was considered one of the state’s outstanding beauties. West Point isn’t part of the Delta but is situated in the northeast part of the state in what’s known as the Black Prairie, another area with exceptional soil. The prairie lent itself to ranching more than cotton. Lana served the region well, capturing the title of Miss Mississippi during a time of strife for the nation and the South.
Though she didn’t win the title of Miss America, Lana had been first runner-up.
In 1974, she put beauty pageants and the possibility of becoming a concert pianist behind her to marry Gregory Carlisle. The wedding, which united the powerful Carlisle family with talent and beauty, was big society news.
I leafed through page after page of fêtes, soirées, showers, luncheons, shopping trips to New Orleans and Memphis, menus, details on dress designs and lace, and charming moments of a “royal” courtship. Reading the stories, I thought of the fairy tale wedding of Princess Diana and Prince Charles. In 1974 Mississippi, this was as close to the Cinderella story as one could get—Delta royalty finding a princess.
After the wedding, which made headlines in Memphis and Atlanta, Lana settled into the Carlisle estate.
Had she found the lull of farming in a flat, fertile landscape boring, or had her roots hit the black soil called “gumbo” and taken a firm grip?
There were stories of her chairing the hospital charity drive and the garden club. She organized the Friends of the Library and other civic groups.
Through the 80s she was active, but in 1990, she announced her resignation from all civic clubs. There was a photograph of her at a farewell party at Tavia’s Salon, a monthly gathering of intellectuals.
I studied the picture. She looked worn and . . . desperate. That was exactly the right word. As if something terrible hung over her head and she knew she couldn’t avoid it forever.
Ten months later, she was dead.
“Beloved Delta Beauty Falls to Death” was the headline on the front page of the paper. Lana’s death was ruled accidental by the coroner.
Gregory and Luther were quoted in the story and depicted as men devastated by grief.
“Lana was the light of my life. She was everything,” Gregory said.
“My only regret is that Mother and Erin were at odds,” Luther said.
A telling quote. Why air the family’s dirty laundry in the newspaper at such a tragic time? And also untrue, if what Erin had told me was accurate. Whether Luther knew it or not Erin and her mother had patched up their breach.
Luther and Gregory had compounded the tragedy of Lana’s death by failing to let Erin know that her mother was dead.
I pondered the implications of all this as I read the funeral arrangements. Burial for Lana Carlisle was in West Point, not Zinnia. Not in the Carlisle family cemetery, which would have been proper. Lana had gone home to West Point.
Greedy Bones Page 7
