“I’ve been a few times.” She shook her head. “It’s a great sport, except for the fox. I don’t think it can be much fun to be chased like that. Getting caught is murder.”
“I need to build a list of possible suspects.” All three women lifted their eyebrows. “Surely someone in that hunt crowd would want Kemper dead.”
“What’s that going to help?” Millie asked. “Lee’s already confessed.”
I nodded agreement. “I know, but I want to have a backup plan. Reasonable doubt is what I’m aiming for. If we can get Lee’s confession suppressed, and if she does come to her senses, I want to be able to present at least one other person who could have killed, might have killed, or likely did kill Kemper.”
“Good idea,” Millie said. She sipped her coffee, but her eyes held mine over the rim of her cup. “Got anyone in mind?”
“Should I?”
“Sometimes anger can push someone right over the edge.”
“Meaning?” I pressed.
She put the cup down in a saucer before she answered. “Working in a café, I hear a lot of things. Kids come in after school and talk. Teachers get together and get a little loud.” She shrugged. “About a month ago, Kip got in some trouble at the high school. Vandalism. Lee had to put her in counseling and pay the damages.”
All of the women were watching me. “How much damage?”
“I heard it from the school secretary. She said Kip and another girl got into it over something. The other girl had a knife and Kip went straight at her, disarmed her, and then slapped her around some. No one was really hurt, but they took Kip down to the office along with the other girl. Kip explained that she was attacked and was protecting herself, but the principal still punished her. It was after that that Kip lost it. She waited until after school and ransacked the library. Mostly she just made a big mess, by throwing books and knocking over shelves. There wasn’t a lot of monetary damage.”
My gut had that knotted feeling again.
“When I see her hanging out in town,” Cece said, “she reminds me of one of the lost girls. You know, an active member of the vampire cult of kids.”
“She wears a lot of makeup for her age,” I conceded.
“I feel sorry for her,” Millie said. “She sometimes comes in here late at night. She’s always by herself.” She shook her head. “Teenagers don’t like to be alone.”
Tinkie drummed her nails on the table. “I’ve got an appointment with Oscar.” She turned to me. “So you want me to investigate Lee’s clients and associates.”
“Yes. People who’ve been to Swift Level. Check out the hunt crowd. You can do that better than I can.” I looked at Millie. “If you could keep an ear open to the conversations floating around in here, that would be a big help.”
“You bet,” she said. “Content and source—I’ll make notes.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up on Kemper’s past. For the obituary, you know,” Cece volunteered.
For a brief moment I felt my hopes for Lee lift. She had the four ablest women in the state of Mississippi working on her behalf. And three of them were basically working for free.
4
There was one stop I had to make before I went back to Dahlia House. Zinnia National Bank was the only bank in town. I hadn’t wanted to ask Tinkie to approach this matter through her father, who owned the bank, or her husband, who was director of the board of trustees. Avery and Oscar failed to take Tinkie seriously. They saw only the glitzed façade she’d been carefully trained to build—and had executed with incredible finesse. To them, Tinkie was the perfect blonde. Beautiful, animated, and pliant. Had Tinkie asked about the finances at Swift Level, they would never have told her the truth.
I had another source inside the bank: Harold Erkwell. Besides, I always enjoyed seeing Harold. Ever since my return to Zinnia from my failed career as an actress in New York, Harold and I had toyed with the idea of a relationship. Just at the point when I was ready to capitulate, fate always stepped in and threw us a curve. Still, it was nice to be desired.
His secretary, Marie, showed me immediately into his private office. Harold looked up and his crystal-blue eyes lit with pleasure. Now that was a reaction even a failed Daddy’s Girl couldn’t help but appreciate. The memory of his mouth on my thumb last fall gave me a delicate little thrill. I had been reduced to living on memories.
“Sarah Booth, what brings you to the bank?” A frown touched his forehead. “Everything is good with Dahlia House, isn’t it?”
“For the moment.” Not so long ago, Dahlia House had been hours away from the auction block. In one of his less than fine moments, Harold had offered to save my home, if he could win my hand. Had I known him better then, I might have said yes.
He rose from behind his desk and came to me. Scooping my hand up, he kissed it. “Still not claimed,” he said, noting my ringless state and bringing to mind the honking big diamond he’d offered me. His lips lingered on the back of my fingers, igniting an old memory that throbbed in my thumb.
“Unclaimed and unfettered,” I answered, slipping my fingers from his. Harold made the art of flirtation an Olympic-level competition. Verbal dueling was his specialty.
He waved me into a chair and called Marie to bring us coffee. Five minutes later she brought in a tray with Haviland china and silver serving pieces. A nice touch. When we both were settled with our cups, Harold nodded for me to proceed.
I’d learned that only in matters of the heart did Harold like the circuitous approach. “I need to see the financial records on Swift Level.”
He was well schooled in hiding his reaction. “Impossible,” he said.
“I’m working for Lee. She’s hired me to help her.”
Harold watched me. “She needs a good lawyer, Sarah Booth. That’s not detracting from your abilities. You’ve done amazingly well. But her future is on the line.”
“I know.” I was annoyed that Harold, too, knew specific details of the case. Was someone in the sheriff’s office blabbing? I intended to have a talk with Coleman as soon as I left the bank. I wasn’t sure about writing columns for the newspaper, but Cece was right about one thing—the wrong kind of publicity or gossip could put the final nail in Lee’s coffin.
“Lee indicated that things are tight at Swift Level. Is that true?”
Harold would dodge a question, but he wouldn’t lie. “If you were asking me if you should invest in Swift Level, I would say that in the long term, it would be an extremely good move. In the short term, it could prove disastrous.”
“Swift Level isn’t making money?” I let it hang, watching Harold as he focused on sipping his coffee. He was deliberating on how much to tell me, scouting the boundaries of his ethics and my need to know.
“Kemper wasn’t a good businessman. He was also a compulsive gambler.”
The implication of this hit me like a kick to the womb—it gave Lee another motive for premeditated murder. Kemper was ruining her financially. That was a good reason to kill him, but probably not one the jury would sympathize with. “Damn,” I said softly.
“Kemper spent a lot of his time down in Biloxi on those gambling boats. From what I hear, they wouldn’t let him on the Silver Slipper in Tunica. He’d caused some problems there.”
“What if Kemper owed money to someone? I hear the Dixie Mafia is all over the Gulf Coast. What if he owed them a lot of money, and they sent someone up here to collect it?”
“Very plausible story, except that Lee has confessed,” Harold pointed out. “I hear you’re playing mom to Kip.” His grin said it all.
“She’s a thorny child.” To say more would be disloyal to Lee.
Harold got up and walked to the window that overlooked Main Street. For a long moment, he stared out. Waiting is a virtue highly prized in Southern women. It is the foundation of the code of Daddy’s Girls. Men act; women wait. Though I found it hard to swallow, I knew this was a moment that required all of my waiting skills. Finally he turned to face me.
>
“I’m talking out of school, but I think this may be important. Something wasn’t right between him and Kip.”
I saw Kip’s fourteen-year-old face so clearly—the heavy makeup, the spiked hair. Was it rebellious youth or self-hatred? The very idea made me physically ill. I put the coffee aside.
“Are we talking physical abuse, as in beatings, or something else?”
“Something else.” Harold put his hand on my shoulder, his fingers firm as they rubbed the tense muscle. “But not what you’re thinking. Nothing sexual. In a way, though, it’s almost as bad.”
“What kind of abuse?”
“Kip played a vital role at Swift Level. As talented a rider as Lee is, Kip is better. I’m only on the fringes of the horsey set, but I’ve gone to some of the bigger shows. Kip is magnificent. She’s been campaigning that big stallion of Lee’s, Avenger, but she also had a little mare of her own, one she’d raised and trained. I think the horse was called Mrs. Peel.”
I nodded that I got the reference, but I didn’t want to interrupt his story.
“Last month at the Lexington show, Kemper sold that mare right out from under Kip. Kip rode the horse in a class and took second place. When she came out of the show ring, a man stepped up and took the reins, said Mrs. Peel belonged to him and his daughter now. Kemper had sold the horse while Kip was riding her in the ring.” Harold frowned. “I saw Kip’s face. My heart almost broke for her.”
I was stunned. “Kemper was sincerely a bastard,” I said. “That might explain why Kip hates both of her parents. One for hurting her, and the other for failing to protect her.”
“You can check this out with Lillian Sparks. She was at the show. She overheard what Kemper said to Kip.”
Lillian was the town matriarch who’d been a renowned horsewoman in her day. “Which was?”
Harold debated whether he should repeat gossip. “Ask Lillian to be sure, but I heard he told Kip that Mrs. Peel deserved a first-place rider, not a second-place.”
I took a breath. “Damn it, Harold, you’ve just given me two more good reasons why Lee would want to kill Kemper in cold blood.”
“Or Kip,” Harold said as gently as he could. He sat down in the chair beside me and took my hand in his. “I know she’s only a kid, Sarah Booth, but don’t turn your back on her. The horse crowd is vicious and malicious. They seem to delight in character assassinations, but make no mistake about it: Kip Fuquar has a bad temper. She threw quite a tantrum.”
The courthouse had suddenly become a hopping place. Parking along the entire square was full. I had to take a side street and hoof it back to Coleman’s office. The morning had been made for walking. In the last days of March, it seemed that every flower in Mississippi had suddenly decided to bud. Azaleas, dogwoods, bridal wreath, the delicious magnolia frascatti, and wisteria. This was the South in her finest attire.
The fresh green of new leaves was electric, and the azaleas in purples, fuchsias, pinks, and whites were so vivid they seemed unreal. During this brief magical spell, it was easy to see where the idea of crinoline, hoopskirts, and ruffles culminated in the creation of the belle. It was simply an attempt to mimic the wonder of nature. In the South, women are still considered delicate flowers. It is a double-bladed sword.
I left the beauty of nature behind and stepped into the cool hallway of the courthouse. Television reporters were jamming the doorway of the sheriff’s office. The word had spread like wildfire. I noticed a reporter from a Memphis station and another from Batesville.
Easing through the crowd, I tried to slip into Coleman’s office, but I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked into the face of Deputy Gordon Walters. We respected each other, but we were not friends.
“Coleman’s not seeing anyone,” he said. His words were soft, but his hand was firm.
“I’ve got information.” I wasn’t sure how much I’d share with Coleman, but I’d at least tell him about the gambling. With his law enforcement connections, he could check on Biloxi gaming a lot easier than I could.
“Wait here.”
I did, until the door opened and Coleman signaled me inside. He was sitting at his desk with a stack of papers in front of him. He did not look happy.
“Damned media,” he said. “They’re making this the case of the century. Word is out that Lee confessed.”
“And how did it get out?” I asked, annoyed and worried.
“I’ll find out, and when I do, there’s going to be someone without a job.”
I walked around his desk so that I was behind him. He was a tall man with broad shoulders. He’d leaned up since his high school days on the football team. My aunt LouLane would have said he lost his baby fat.
“Coleman, I hear Kemper owed a lot of money down in Biloxi.”
He swiveled his chair around to face me. “Is that so?”
This was something he already knew, but he was wondering how I found out. “That’s what I hear.”
“Who’s talking?”
I shook my head. “Maybe Lee didn’t kill him at all.” I floated the concept. “What if one of those Mafia types killed him?”
“Why would Lee want to protect a killer from the gambling industry by confessing?”
It was the perfect question to lead me to where I wanted to go. “Maybe she’s trying to protect someone else.”
“And who would she be protecting?” His blue eyes were alert, eager. He was waiting for me to say Kip’s name. I couldn’t, and I suddenly had a clearer understanding of the dangerous game Lee was playing, if indeed she was protecting her daughter.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but that’s something I’ll find out.”
“When you get a line on who that might be, I’d like to hear it.”
No matter his personal preferences, Coleman was saying he wouldn’t cut Lee any slack. It was one of the things I admired about him. And one of the things that threatened to cost him his job, when he dared to step on the wrong toes.
“I’ll let you know,” I said. He bent back to his paperwork and I knew I was dismissed. I left the courthouse and headed home. I had no solid suspects, just a shadowy Dixie Mafia hit man.
And someone far more troubling: Kip.
There was also one other avenue—Bradford Lynch. He was a man with opportunity and ability. But did he have motive? That was something I had to find out. But Kip first.
Kip was on the front porch with Sweetie Pie at her feet when I pulled up to Dahlia House. Her hand was resting on the hound’s head, and for a split second I could see the child Kip might have been. Then she spoke.
“There’s nothing to eat here except a flat of strawberries.”
“I’ll make us some lunch.” It was a little late, and I’d truly forgotten that Kip might want to eat. Guilt is an interesting emotion—so easy to generate and so hard to get over.
“I don’t eat any of that healthy crap.”
I stopped in my tracks, hand on the doorknob. “I’ll make us some lunch. You can eat or not,” I said as calmly as I could. “I was thinking of a grilled cheese sandwich and some tomato-basil soup.” It was the only thing in the house, except strawberries. I thought of my basil plant, lying in the garden, roots exposed to the hot sun. I had murdered it even before I began. Jitty was right about me. Black-thumb Delaney. I went inside and left Kip to make up her mind. My aunt LouLane would have slapped me into next week for displaying such an attitude. Until exposure to Kip, I’d never fully appreciated the social tools she’d drilled into me.
Jitty was strangely absent. Something in the back of my brain fluttered, but I was too intent on making lunch to pay attention. I had the soup going, two grilled cheese sandwiches in an old black skillet, and the crust for a strawberry pie in the works when Kip came in. Hunger had won out over obnoxiousness. She took her seat and I placed a sandwich in front of her. She began to eat without a word.
The phone rang and she looked up, green eyes a shade darker than her mother’s. “I’ll get it.” She leaped to her
feet, but not before I picked up the extension and said hello.
“This is Kelly Brewer with WRRK-TV in Greenwood. I’m returning your call. We’ve got a camera crew on the way to the courthouse.”
I turned to look at Kip, who’d stuffed her sandwich into her mouth. Cheeks bulging, she stared back at me defiantly.
I hung up without a word and confronted her. “Why?” I demanded.
“Mother wants to be a celebrity. She confessed, you know.”
“You’re a real piece of work,” I said. “I don’t know if you’re stupid or just plain mean.”
“She confessed!” Kip was enunciating pretty well for having a mouthful of food. “She’s told everyone she killed my father. She doesn’t care what it does to me. She doesn’t care about anything except herself and Swift Level. She wants to be some kind of righteous murderer, then let her be as famous as she wants. Maybe this confession is just a big publicity stunt to promote Swift Level. It’s all over the news!”
Her face was red with fury, and though I felt a wave of pity for her, it wasn’t enough to counteract my anger. “That’s enough, Kip.”
“No, no, it isn’t enough. Mother didn’t kill him. She didn’t. She’s taking the blame for it, though. That’s what she does. She just puts herself in the line of fire. But she never thinks about me. She’s my mother, and she never thinks what this is doing to me. I need her and she’s in jail! Just once, just one time, I wish she could put what I need first. Just once.” She threw her fork across the kitchen, missing my head by a foot or two.
“As of right this minute, you have no phone privileges.”
She swallowed, and then laughed. “Right. Some big punishment. Have you noticed how many of my friends are calling to talk to me?”
She jumped up from the table, brushed past me, and ran up the stairs to her room. On the kitchen floor, Sweetie Pie moaned sadly.
Splintered Bones Page 4
