She wet her lips. “Avenger tensed, and I looked up. Kemper was standing in the barn aisle. He walked over to the wall and picked up a riding crop. Then that smile came over his face. The bastard looked right at me, smiling like he did when he was going to do something cruel, and he said, ‘Come on out here. I’m going to beat you within an inch of your life, and then I’m going to work on that horse.’ ”
She turned away abruptly so that she spoke in profile to me. “Avenger was going crazy, so I stepped out into the aisle. He started hitting me across the back. During the past few weeks, he’d gotten meaner and meaner, but this time he acted like he meant to kill me.” She rubbed her forehead with one hand, shielding her eyes. “I’m so ashamed for you to know how we lived. It was so sick.”
“What happened, Lee? You have to tell me the truth, with as much detail as you remember.”
“I ran into Avenger’s stall, trying to get away from Kemper. He was afraid of Avenger. The horse hated him, and I thought if I could just get into the stall, Kemper would leave me alone. Avenger was rearing and pawing the air, kicking the walls. I remember that the hinges on the door gave this terrible shriek, and I wondered why Bud didn’t hear the commotion and come down. I found out later he had a date.”
“Bud?”
“He’s the trainer.” She looked up for a moment. “Sarah Booth, this has been going on for so long. You can’t begin to imagine.”
How true that was. I couldn’t imagine the Eulalee McBride that I remembered from high school taking the first fingertip of abuse from any man. Lee had defied her parents, the school, and anyone else who tried to wrap her up in a neat little package. It was hard to believe that she’d lived with a man like Kemper for longer than five seconds.
“You went into Avenger’s stall,” I prompted.
She nodded and picked up the story. “Kemper was so angry that he came in after me. He was wild with rage. I’d never seen him so out of control. Anyway, Avenger lunged at him.” She swallowed and took a deep breath.
“Go on,” I urged her.
“Kemper grabbed my hair. He was slashing at me with the crop. I got free and he lunged at me again, but I was quicker. I stepped aside and tripped him. He crashed headfirst into the wall. He was drunk, and for a moment he just moaned and thrashed around in the shavings. Avenger was dancing and pawing.” She finally looked into my eyes. “I tried to get out of the stall, to get away. Kemper grabbed my ankle. He jerked, and tried to pull my feet out from under me. It was all I could take. I had the nippers in my hand. I hit him. I brought the nippers down on his skull as hard as I could.”
Up to the point of bashing his brains out, I’d held out a glimmer of hope for accidental death. I reached through the bars and touched Lee’s arm. “Did you tell all of this to Coleman?”
“Every word of it.”
“You need a lawyer, Lee. A good one.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want one. I’m going to represent myself.”
Lee had always been headstrong. She refused to go to Ole Miss and pledge Phi Mu, the McBride heritage sorority. Her folks had withdrawn college money, so Lee had packed up her things and caught a bus to Lafayette, Louisiana. She got a scholarship and a job, and in three years earned a bachelor’s degree in animal husbandry from Northwest Louisiana Tech.
Though the general consensus of our group was that Kemper was a charming scalawag and a scoundrel, he and Lee seemed happy. They had renovated the old Parker place, renaming it Swift Level, and Lee began breeding and training horses. “And they lived happily ever after” should have been the concluding line of their story, not “Rest in peace.”
“Lee, Coleman is right. Boyd may be the only person who can help you.”
“You can help me, Sarah Booth. You’re the person I want.”
“How?” I asked.
“By digging up all the dirt on Kemper you can find. I’ve got this all worked out. I’m going to plead not guilty, and my defense is going to be that Kemper needed killing. With your help, I can convince a jury of that. We can do it.”
I saw the fire in her green eyes. She wasn’t kidding. “That’s not a defense,” I said, holding on to the bars for support. “That’s a good way to go straight down the road to Parchman prison. Maybe you could plead self-defense, get it reduced to manslaughter—Boyd might be able to get your confession suppressed.”
“No! My confession stands! That bastard deserved killing, and I’ll be tried on the merits of that. My only regret is that I didn’t do it years ago. If I’d known how easy it was going to be I would have done it much sooner.”
“Lee!” I reached through the bars and put my hand over her mouth. “Hush up! You keep talking like that and you’ll die in prison.”
She pulled away from my touch. “I can convince a jury that I did the right thing, but I need your help. I’m not going to be able to make bail, so I can’t get out and gather evidence. You can do it, and keep an eye on Kip.”
I was truly frightened for her. She had the look of Joan of Arc right before they torched the dry twigs at her feet. “This isn’t about what a bastard Kemper was or wasn’t. It’s about killing someone. If you admit you did it because he deserved it, that could go as premeditated murder, Lee. That’s murder one—that’s life.”
She came up to the bars and circled her hand over mine. “I didn’t go into the barn planning to kill him, but I did it just the same. If I get the right jury, I can explain to them how years and years of abuse finally just piled up too high. It’s been done before, and I’ve got the medical records to prove my case. They’re filed in the barn.” She walked to the back of the cell and stood under the bright glare of the fluorescent light.
I’d noticed before how thin she was. My gaze lingered on her back, the white of her thin cotton shirt, the outline of her bra, and the lack of any visible marks of a beating on her back.
Lee McBride was lying through her teeth.
The main house of Swift Level was at the hub of a circle of impressive buildings. The gracious old home had been built along the same lines as Dahlia House, and dated back before the War Between the States. Though Swift Level was older than my home, it was better maintained.
The front porch was painted and swept. Planters full of brilliant red geraniums and trailing clumps of phlox added color to the stark white of the painted brick walls.
Around the house, like the spokes of a wheel, were the stables and outbuildings. Some were new, others renovated. All were crisp white with the same green metal roof. Lush pastures spread out behind the buildings, and in the distance horses grazed. I slowed my car and simply stared at the vista. Lee had brought a dream to life. This was the exact farm blueprint that she’d drawn out in eighth-grade science class. I remembered, because while all the rest of us had sketched our “dream” homes, Lee had executed a series of architecturally accurate drawings, including all the barns, sheds, training paddocks, and living quarters for the help. She was, of course, teacher’s pet for the rest of her school days.
I clearly remembered Tinkie Richmond’s, nee Bellcase, comment when Eulalee unveiled her drawings. “That girl is crazy. She doesn’t care about dancing or boys or anything except horses. She’ll spend the rest of her life with horse manure on her shoes and trouble dogging her footsteps.”
Well, Tinkie had proven almost as psychic as my other friend, Tammy Odom, better known currently as Madame Tomeka, Zinnia’s answer to The Psychic Hot-line. As soon as I got back to Dahlia House, I needed to give Tinkie a call. Although she was a Daddy’s Girl to the max, she was also my partner in the Delaney Detective Agency. Tinkie had been my first case, and in my second run as a P.I., she’d proven to be a loyal and dependable friend. Married to Oscar Richmond, banker and deep pockets, Tinkie might be a big help in trying to convince Lee to hire a lawyer. For all of her wilting femininity, Tinkie had a good brain and amazing powers of persuasion.
I eased down the drive toward the main house with two goals in mind. Hopefully I’d find t
he medical records Lee had told me about, which would document the numerous beatings she’d endured. If they existed. Of more concern was my second assignment, Lee’s fourteen-year-old major disciplinary problem masquerading as her daughter.
I’d heard enough about Kip to know difficult didn’t begin to describe her. I’d seen enough of Kip around Zinnia to know my minimal parenting skills were going to be less than useless. In a town of fewer than two thousand it was hard not to notice a tall, slender beauty who wore a fierce look of defiance, black leather, and spiked hair dyed a burgundy red. The heavy eyeliner and shadow that she sported made her look nineteen rather than fourteen. I got the impression she was going for the look of twenty-five.
Knocking at the front door, I tried to compose a speech. I was unprepared when Kip flung the door open and glared at me.
“If she sent you, tell her to go to hell.”
She tried to slam the door but I was quicker, using a body block. “Kip, I need to talk with you.”
“Talk won’t undo what’s been done. Let ’em both rot in hell.”
I had expected shock, grief, maybe even worry. The lack of all three made me testy. “Your mother’s life is on the line, Kip.” I pushed the door open and was surprised at her strength as she resisted. For a string bean who looked sickly pale and anorexic, she was very strong.
“She made her choices.” Kip vibrated with anger. “They both did. And neither of them gave me a goddamn thought except to keep me obedient and on a horse.”
“I know this has been terrible.” I tried to find some way to connect with this . . . young girl. I had to keep reminding myself that she was only fourteen. “I’m so sorry about your father.”
“I don’t need your sympathy.”
I looked at her, and she glanced back, daring me to contradict her sentiments. “I’m sorry,” I said simply. “I didn’t know Kemper very well, but now my concern is for Lee. We’re old friends, and she’s asked for my help. To do that, I’m going to need your help.”
“Bite me.” She turned around and started to walk away.
It took all of my restraint not to reach out and grab a fistful of that nasty spiked hair. I took a breath. “Where’s the phone?”
“Find it yourself,” she said, heading up the stairs.
“You might want to hear this conversation. I’m calling DHR. That’s the Department of Human Resources. As a minor, you can’t be left here alone in the house. Lee asked me to take you home with me, but I have no desire to have you in Dahlia House. I guess you’ll be going to juvy hall or some institution, until they can find foster placement.”
She halted on the stairs but didn’t turn around. She was thinking it through, wondering if I was bluffing, weighing the merits between life with me or life in an institution. It wasn’t a difficult choice.
“The phone’s in the library,” she said, slowly turning. “But you don’t need it.”
“Oh, I disagree,” I said softly. “I told your mother I’d look out for you as a personal favor to her. She failed to tell me that you were rude, obnoxious, and a pain in the ass. The deal is off.”
I saw the fear in her eyes then, and it took all my strength not to buckle and relent. Then I remembered something my aunt LouLane had told me when she’d come into my home to finish the job of raising me after my parents had died. She said that the first encounter with child or animal sets the tone for the rest of the relationship. With Kip, I couldn’t afford to lose this round.
She inhaled, thinking. “I don’t want to go to DHR.”
“So I have something you want—a place to stay that doesn’t involve rigid rules and communal showers.” I waited for her to nod. “And you have something I want—help for your mother.” Again I waited for her to nod. “I think we can reach a deal, but it’s going to cost you.”
“How?” she asked, the defiance returning to her green eyes suddenly reminding me of Lee in her jail cell.
“You’ll be courteous and polite in my home. You’ll obey the ground rules I establish, and you’ll work with me on saving your mother from a life sentence in prison.” I held up a hand. “I don’t care what your sentiments toward your mother might be. You’re going to help.”
“And I can have my music and a telephone.”
It was a statement, not a request.
“Played at a moderate level, and you can use the phone line I had installed for the computer, except when I need it for work.”
She nodded. Grudgingly.
“Okay, now help me find the records for the horses,” I said, not wanting to show my relief. I would never have been able to turn Kip over to DHR. Lee had already extracted my word that I would care for her.
She stalked past me, headed across the porch and down the steps. “They’re in the main barn, in the office.”
“How long have you been riding?” I asked, catching up with her. She was the most unlikable kid I’d met in a while, but she was Lee’s daughter and her father had just been killed so I thought I’d try to engage her in some conversation.
The look she gave me was scathing. “Since before I could walk. That’s my life, riding. That’s who I am to Mother and what I was to my father. That’s all that mattered to either one of them, those damn horses.” She gave me a sideways look that was sly and cunning. “You know, sometimes at night, I entertain myself by dreaming that they all burn to death in the barns.”
She was watching me, waiting for a reaction of shock and horror. It was all I could do not to oblige her. She was a cunning and manipulative young girl, and one filled with anger and hatred. Lee had not been exaggerating when she said someone needed to keep an eye on Kip. My stomach in knots, I walked past her without comment.
The barn smelled of leather and cedar, reminding me of my childhood riding lessons. I had just begun to jump when my folks were killed in an automobile accident.
Kip led me into the biggest of the barns. A central aisle split two rows of stalls. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, we were greeted by soft nickers and neighs. Glancing at Kip, I saw that she was unmoved. She walked past the stalls without ever once looking at any of the magnificent animals.
Down the aisle a half dozen yards, an older man was mucking out an empty stall. He gave me a long, intense look.
“It’s okay, Roscoe, I’m going to be staying with her for a day or two. She’s a friend of Mother’s. Through her efforts, Mother and all the horses will be saved.” Kip didn’t bother to hide her contempt for me.
“Miss Kip, don’t act thataway,” Roscoe said, leaning on his rake. “I know you’re hurtin’, but so is Miss Lee.”
“At least Father’s out of his misery.” Kip stalked away, leaving me to follow or not.
“This is a sad place,” Roscoe said to me. “Miss Kip’s not bad, she’s just messed up. Got plenty of cause to be, if you ask me.”
I did want to ask him a few questions, but Kip called me down the aisle. “The records are in there,” she said, pointing. “The file cabinet. Alphabetical order.” She picked up a manure fork and headed toward a stall. “I have chores to do.”
“Kip, I think it would be okay if you let it slide today. Maybe you should go and put some of your things together.”
Her laughter was loud and brittle. “Not around here. Nothing interferes with chores and duties and responsibilities. Water, muck, turn out, ride, transport, hay, rake, bush hog, paint.” She nearly spat each word, but a slant of sunlight coming through a stall window caught the glint of a tear in her eye. “My question is this. Where did Mother find the time to bash his brains out? There’s always so much work to be done.” She turned and walked past me.
The prospect of Kip was so daunting, I wondered if I could come up with Lee’s bond myself. Maybe Tinkie would chip in some cash. I sighed and went into the office to begin my search.
Lee’s medical file was two inches thick and right where she said it would be. I leafed through it. Over the last three years, there were at least fifty trips to the Sunflowe
r County emergency room or to private physicians in the region. Flipping through the dates, I saw that Kemper’s attacks against Lee had grown increasingly frequent. And vicious. I was still troubled by the lack of physical marks on Lee’s back. The beating she’d described as preceding Kemper’s death would have been severe enough to leave some kind of injury, and there was solid medical evidence that he’d hurt her in the past. Why hadn’t she filed charges against him long ago?
The medical records would prove Kemper’s history as an abuser, but I was still troubled by the fact that Lee had lied about Kemper hitting her the night he was murdered. Why was she lying? More important, was Coleman aware of her lies?
I was so caught up in my reading that I didn’t hear anyone enter the office. I sensed him before I saw him; there was that vague tingle that comes when someone is staring at you. I turned around. A man was leaning against the wall, one booted foot crossed over the other. His arms were crossed, too. It was obvious he was waiting me out.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“A good question. Why don’t you answer it?” He righted himself without seeming to move a muscle. Arms still crossed, he walked up to me. He had light eyes that took me in, head to toe.
“You’re not one of the ladies who come to ride. You’re not a relative, and you’re not media. So, who are you?”
“Sarah Booth Delaney,” I said. “I’m a friend of Lee’s.” I closed the file and pulled it into my lap. “So, who are you?” He wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a cotton shirt streaked with dirt. His movements blended grace and confidence, yet he wasn’t what I might have expected at Swift Level.
“Bradford Lynch, but most folks call me Bud. I’m the trainer here at Swift Level.”
I had never seen a man hold himself so quiet and yet so poised for action. “So you’re the live-on-the-premises trainer?” I asked.
His smile was slow. “What are you, some kind of plainclothes detective?” He once again took in my jeans and camp shirt. “I remember when female cops used to look like linebackers.”
Splintered Bones Page 2
