The night was cool, and the tiny cotton plants shivered silver in a light breeze. The moon gave plenty of light, and I knew the land, each dip and contour. This was Delaney land, much of it cleared by mules and sweat.
I’d seen the ghosts of slaves in these fields on foggy nights, heard the singing and the row calls that were so much a part of the tradition of the blues songs that I loved.
On hot days I’d watched the huge machines crawl across the acres harvesting the cotton. While my father had earned his living as a lawyer, he’d also farmed. Sometimes he’d let me ride in the cab of the pickers with him. Sometimes he’d even let me steer.
The rows, loaded with white bolls, would fall to the picker. Behind us we left brown stalks and a few tufts of white that the machine had missed. Cotton was the lifeblood of the Delta. What would happen if an infestation of boll weevils destroyed the crop? With a country already teetering on economic crisis, such a catastrophe could put Mississippi back into a time warp of poverty and hunger.
When I finally came out of my dire thoughts of economic ruin, I found I’d ridden miles from home. Across a big field was the cottage that a handsome young blues-man had rented. Another page of my past rose up to haunt me on this strange night.
This was also the location where Coleman and I had first kissed.
The house he rented wasn’t far. I checked my watch. It was nearly five in the morning. He’d be up in another half hour. I’d surprise him by riding up and having a cup of breakfast coffee. I needed to ask him a few things about the case.
Fifteen minutes later, Reveler and I walked down Coleman’s dirt driveway. I wondered what happened to the house he’d shared with Connie. Knowing Coleman, he’d signed it over to Connie without a backward look.
Just as I slid out of the saddle, Coleman stepped onto the front porch of the wooden cottage. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and he held a mug of steaming coffee. When he saw me, a smile spread across his face before he reined his expression in.
My stomach fluttered, and a delicate curl of nausea teased me, but I walked to the porch leading Reveler.
“Are you investigating on horse back now?” he asked.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a ride. I guess Reveler and I rode a little farther than I anticipated.”
“Coffee?”
“I’d love some.” I removed the bridle and let Reveler graze in Coleman’s front yard while we sat on the porch and drank our java.
“Have you made any progress in the case?” I asked.
Coleman gazed to the east, where day was breaking. “Bonnie Louise believes someone deliberately loosed some kind of bacteria at the Carlisle plantation.”
“Does she have any evidence of that?” I kept my voice neutral.
“She’s examined some of the weevils at the Carlisle place. They’re a mutant strain. Something she’s never seen, and boll weevils are her specialty. She and Peyton believe the weevils and genetically altered cotton are connected. I’ve been trying to reach Lester Ballard for days. I gather he’s so deep in the South American jungle no one can contact him.”
“Have you talked to Luther?”
“I have. He doesn’t have a clue. Or if he does, he isn’t saying.”
I brought him up-to-date with Erin Carlisle and the research I’d done into her family’s past.
“So she thinks Luther may have done something to destroy the value of the land agriculturally.”
“Maybe.”
“Bonnie took some weevils to Starkville to the university. There’s a scientist affiliated with the school who specializes in insects and he’s agreed to help. Her concern is that these weevils have such a short gestation period.” He rubbed his jaw and I saw he hadn’t shaved. “It could be a serious problem for the farmers here. Everywhere cotton is grown. The good news is that this is confined to the altered cotton. The weevils, the destruction of the cotton, even the illness.”
“Has she pinpointed whether the weevils are related to what’s wrong with Oscar and Gordon?”
He shook his head. “No one can make that link.”
“You said Bonnie Louise believed the infection was bacterial. Surely it can be treated with antibiotics?”
“Doc has used every antibiotic available. He’s trying for some experimental medicine now. Nothing has touched this.”
If antibiotics weren’t working, in my mind, that meant viral. “Maybe some of those new bird flu drugs, something to attack a virus instead of bacteria.”
“Sarah Booth, Doc’s tried everything. Bacterial and viral.”
We sat side by side in two old cowhide rockers. “That cotton didn’t get there by accident. We have to figure out who and what is behind this.”
“If Erin is correct, Luther Carlisle stands to gain financially if the land is contaminated for agricultural purposes,” Coleman said.
I nodded. “And his sister, too. While she says she doesn’t want to sell the land for development, she’d make a lot of money.”
“I can’t believe either of them would be stupid enough to infest a field with boll weevils.” Frustration was evident in Coleman’s voice.
I told him about Erin’s suspicions that her brother was behind the death of her parents.
“I’ll check into it.” He didn’t sound real enthused, and I knew he doubted that events so far in the past could help unravel what was happening now. But I’d come to understand that the past was the soil that sprouted the seed of the present. While I clung to my personal past, everyone carried a bit of theirs around with them.
The sun warmed the night from the front porch and for a moment I sat in the glow, glancing from Coleman to Reveler. I considered warning Coleman about Bonnie Louise’s predatory nature, but I couldn’t risk that he would misconstrue my interest. A breeze kicked in from the west and ruffled Reveler’s mane and tail. Draining the last of my coffee, I stood.
“I’d better head home,” I said. “I’m going to do some more digging into the Carlisle past. Cece’s working on Jimmy Janks. If she finds anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Bonnie Louise may give us some answers.”
“Yeah.” I handed him my cup and turned to walk down the steps when I felt my knees weaken. Dizzy, I grabbed at the porch railing and missed. Before I could even yelp, I was tumbling down the steps. I slid into the cool grass still damp from the night’s dew.
“Sarah Booth!” Coleman knelt beside me, his hands moving over my arms and legs, checking quickly for breaks. “Can you talk?”
“I haven’t stroked out.” I hid my embarrassment with gruffness. I wanted to sit up, but he held me down with one hand against my breastbone.
“Hold on a minute and give your blood pressure time to adjust. Unless you like kissing the ground.”
I wiped the dew and dirt from the side of my face. “I’m okay. For a moment I was a little dizzy.”
“Dizzy enough to fall and break your neck.” He held out a hand and helped me to my feet. He half-assisted, half-propelled me into his house and sat me on a leather sofa. “What’s going on with you?”
“I didn’t get much sleep. I haven’t eaten since . . .” I couldn’t remember the last time I really ate a meal. “And I rode horse back for miles.”
“I’ll make you some toast.”
A protest wouldn’t do any good. If I wanted to ride my horse home, I’d have to eat something before Coleman would release me.
As the bread toasted, my stomach grumbled with hunger. That was all it was. I was light-headed because I’d failed to feed the furnace.
When he handed me the saucer, I ate like I’d been starved for weeks. Four bites—toast gone.
He made another two slices. “Want some jam?”
“Got any scuppernong jelly?”
He laughed. “It just so happens Mabel Donovan dropped some by a few weeks ago. Her teenage son ran away and Gordon and I tracked him to Memphis and brought him home.”
While he loaded the toast with butter and jelly, I studied
his bachelor digs. Clean, orderly, some nice furniture, but sparse.
He brought the toast, and we munched in companionable silence.
At last I stood, confident that I wouldn’t topple over again. “I’d better get back. There’s work to be done.”
He walked behind me to the door. “I’m glad you came by, Sarah Booth. I’ve been worried that we might not be able to maintain our friendship.”
“Me too,” I said. “If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”
I rebridled Reveler, mounted, and turned south for home. Reveler wanted to canter, and I didn’t see a reason in the world not to let him.
10
Probated wills are recorded in the chancery clerk’s office, and I wanted a peek at Lana and Gregory’s. Erin’s story was interesting—and at conflict with what Luther had implied. The truth might be found in the terms of inheritance.
Clean, dressed, and ready for action, I hurried inside the court house. Chancery Clerk Attila Lambert, a man who’d overcome the nearly insurmountable political handicap of his name, greeted me with a smile.
“Miss Sarah Booth,” he said, “how can I help you?” With his white hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks, he had nothing of the demeanor of his namesake. Instead of rape, pillage, and burn, he played Santa each year in the Christmas parade.
He led me back to the records, where I could look up wills. “The books should be out on the table,” he said helpfully. “There’s been a run of interest in the recorded documents of the Carlisle family.”
“Was Luther here?”
“Oh, goodness, no.” He held a chair for me at one of the long tables where lawyers frequently did research. Once I was seated, he put the book in front of me. “It was the CDC person.”
“Peyton?”
“Not him, the pretty woman, Miss Bonnie Louise. She’s smart as a whip and such a pleasure.”
“She wanted to look at the wills?”
“In-deed.” He laughed aloud at his own pun. “Sorry, working with land titles and all.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, she was very interested.”
“Did she say why she was interested?”
“Something to do with land usage and inheritance. She didn’t talk a lot.” He stood in front of the table. “Is there anything else?”
“Why did your parents name you Attila?” I asked him.
His laughter was genuine. “It’s not such a strange name, once you know the story. I was a preemie. My mother was nearly forty when she got pregnant after years of believing she was infertile. The pregnancy was difficult, and when I was born, there wasn’t much chance I’d live. My dad came up with the toughest name he could find. He wasn’t a student of history, but somehow Attila the Hun stuck in his imagination. He said the name would give me strength.”
“There must have been some magic in that name.”
“Maybe so, Miss Sarah Booth. Names are powerful things. At any rate, I wasn’t much of a conqueror or warrior, but I seem to have excellent health.”
“Thanks for the help. When I finish, what should I do with the books?”
“Leave them on the table. I’ll put them away.”
I found Lana’s will first, and just as Erin had stated, Lana controlled the Carlisle land and left her daughter and son in dual charge of a trust. One could not move without the other’s consent. Gregory, for all intents and purposes, was disinherited—except for the insurance policy he’d had on his wife and which wasn’t part of the will.
When Attila poked his head around the corner to check on me, I had a question. “The Carlisle land is leased now. Who determines the terms of the lease?”
“I don’t know. Luther seems to handle most of the business related to the plantation. From all I’ve heard, that girl never comes home,” he said. “I assumed Luther had the majority interest.”
Deciding that silence was the better part of valor, I didn’t comment on Luther. I flipped the pages looking for the last will and testament of Gregory Carlisle.
The document was brief and to the point—all proceeds of his estate would go to his son, Luther. Erin wasn’t mentioned. But there was an unexpected codicil—the sum of one hundred thousand dollars was bequeathed to Sonja Kessler of 2424 Parkside Drive in Chicago.
“How do I find out what was included in Gregory’s estate?” I asked. “There’s no list of property.”
Attila shrugged. “We only record the probated will. His lawyer may know the details. Often those details are handled by a law firm to keep them private.”
Harold might know, and he was a far more direct route to knowledge than any lawyer I’d ever met.
“Thanks, Mr. Lambert.”
“Please, call me Attila.”
I would try, but I couldn’t make any promises. I gathered my notes and legged it over to the bank.
Harold met with me instantly. I’d barely sat down when his secretary brought in the coffee service complete with cheese Danish.
“You look hungry, Sarah Booth,” he said. “Help yourself.”
What was it with all the men in my life wanting to feed me? My mouth watered at the sight of the pastries, and I helped myself to one and a steaming cup of black coffee.
“Delicious,” I mumbled with my mouth stuffed.
Harold laughed out loud. “You can be so childlike, Sarah Booth.”
“I’m ravenous all the time,” I answered, eyeing another Danish.
He pushed the plate closer to me. “When you come up for air, tell me what’s on your mind.”
I told him what I needed, which was confidential bank records for Luther, Lana, Gregory, and, if possible, Erin Carlisle.
He tapped his fingers together gently as he thought. “This is absolutely necessary to help Oscar?”
“I believe Oscar picked up some bacteria or something at the Carlisle place. Now the bacteria or what ever had to get there one of three ways—natural occurrence, deliberately put there, or accidentally put there. I’m voting for deliberate. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Tinkie, it’s to look for the financial gain. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
Harold studied my face for a brief few seconds. “Okay. For you, I’ll get this personally.” He rose and left the office.
He was taking a risk. A big one. Violation of confidentiality and all of that. I had no legal authority to ask for such information. While he was gone I ate two more Danishes and downed another cup of coffee. I was just beginning to regret my pastry orgy when he returned with a sheaf of papers.
“Please destroy these once you’ve found what you need.”
“I will.”
He glanced from the empty Danish plate to me. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. Of course I wasn’t okay. The Michelin Tire Man and I were about to claim kinship. I’d always had a healthy appetite, but my hunger for the pastries had been insatiable.
“There are no records for Erin. She moved her account from Zinnia years ago.”
That was interesting, but not unusual. Why would she bank in a town where she didn’t live? I took the documents he handed me. In one glance I knew I needed Tinkie’s help. She was the financial genius in the Delaney Detective Agency. “As soon as I figure out if any of this is pertinent, I’ll shred them.”
“If this helps you uncover what’s wrong with Oscar, I’ll take any fallout that comes my way.”
“Coleman could have gotten this with a court order.” I was trying to make him feel better about violation of his personal ethics. Harold took his job seriously.
“Yes, he could have.”
“But it would have taken time. By then . . .”
“Yes, by then, Oscar may be dead.”
I rose. “Thank you, Harold.
“Good luck, Sarah Booth.” His pale eyes were bloodshot, and he was tired and worried.
I put my hand on his shoulder and felt a weak pulse in my thumb. Harold worked on me in a strange way. My throbbing thumb let me know that our mutual attraction would never completely die. “Colem
an and the CDC and I will leave no stone unturned. We’ll find out what’s wrong.”
“Has there been any improvement in any of the patients?” he asked.
I thought about it. “I’m no medical expert, but I think the two women are a little better. Doc hasn’t confirmed this.”
“And Gordon?”
The deputy was worse. Sores covered his nose and mouth. Doc had applied ointment and pads and taped his eyes shut. “He’s hanging in there.”
“Tell Tinkie I’m available to do what ever she needs.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
Clutching the documents, I left the bank and drove to the hospital where Tinkie sat guard, her father at her side.
The documents sprawled across a small table in the hospital cafeteria. Tinkie had commandeered a pad from the nurses’ station, and she was making notes and calculations. The meticulous lines of figures meant nothing to me. I put two fresh cups of coffee on the table and a plate of toasted bagels and cream cheese. Unbelievably, my mouth watered at the smell of the bagels.
Absently, Tinkie began to eat, her total concentration on the numbers.
When she lifted her gaze, there was defeat in her face. “The figures all track, according to what you said was in the wills. There’s no hint of misappropriation of funds.”
“Well, damn.” I’d hoped to pin something on Luther.
“Gregory didn’t have a lot of time to blow through the insurance money after Lana’s death. The check for half a million from the insurance company went into his account. Gregory made biannual payments to this Sonja Kessler prior to his death, and Luther continued them. There must have been an agreement between father and son.”
“Sonja Kessler is next on my to-do list.”
“She may be a good lead.” Tinkie glanced at the snack machines and small food court as if aware for the first time of her surroundings.
Worry and fear, which had abated for the few moments she puzzled out the financial statements, settled back onto her features. “I have to go.” She stood up as if she’d been given an electric jolt. “Oscar’s all alone.”
Greedy Bones Page 9
