It might be fascinating to track Jeremiah’s Internet travels, but a cache of files looked more interesting. I’d just opened up one titled Tilda Richmond—History, when we wheeled into the courthouse lot.
Coleman and DeWayne chatted beside a cruiser, a sign that didn’t bode well. A security light filtered through the branches of an oak, checkerboarding the two men in shadows and light. The image struck at my soul. It spoke of so many things, of the past, the duality of life and nature, that clarity of sight or mind exists only if both light and dark are accepted. Life and death. A foreboding omen.
“Did you find Graf?” I asked, climbing out before Cece came to a full halt.
“There’s not a trace of him.” Coleman delivered the bad news with a clenched jaw. “He can’t be far. But it’s like he disappeared into thin air.”
Coleman’s words evoked scenes from Ghost Whisperer where the reconciled spirit sees the portal to the next dimension and then walks into nothingness. I choked back a sob. Coleman’s arms came around me, supporting me against his chest.
“Call Tinkie here right now,” he said to DeWayne or Cece, I couldn’t be sure. With the lightest pressure, he guided me toward the trunk of the oak. How many hours had I played around the root system of that old tree when I was a child? I’d strung fantasies and built caves and created waterfalls with an old mop bucket and water from the fountain.
In those glorious days of remembered childhood, the light softened the edges of the hard things, the painful things. I was a child in braids, singing “Tom Dooley,” a song my mother taught me, and playing in the oak’s shade, until my father finished work so I could ride home with him. At nine, I’d been oblivious to the pain life meant to deliver. I’d been cocooned in my parents’ love.
I would have given a lot to look up and see my father walking down the courthouse steps.
“Sarah Booth, we’ll find him.” Coleman held me tight against him, otherwise I might have melted to the ground. “Buck up, girl. This is no time to lose your grit.”
The strongest impulse to run came over me. I pushed hard against Coleman’s chest, intending to break free and sprint away. I had to move. If I didn’t run as hard as I could, I might burst into flames. Or tears.
But Coleman anticipated my reaction. His arm clamped down around my waist and he used his chest as a bulwark. I fought with everything I had in me. And he held me with as much tenderness as he could afford.
We struggled in silence, neither saying a word. The only sound was my harsh panting as I fought him.
Behind me, I heard Cece’s sharp sob, and DeWayne’s murmured words of comfort. The shrill cry of a hawk came from high in the oak tree, another omen of doom.
I had to break free. I was suffocating in Coleman’s hold, but I couldn’t budge him. At last, I collapsed against him and grew still. He magically released me, knowing there wasn’t an ounce of fight left in me.
“We’ll find him, Sarah Booth.” He said it twice.
“Those people are dangerous. I thought they were a bunch of ridiculous kooks. They’re a lot more than that. They could have killed me when they spiked my car tires. I think they meant to kill me.”
His hand cupped my elbow. “Let’s go inside and review what we each know. I think Cece gave me the time frame for Graf’s disappearance. His car hidden on the grounds of The Gardens tells me he was abducted there, probably on his way to the parking lot.”
I felt as if a muddling fog had begun to clear from my mind. The things Coleman said sharpened the time line. Graf had been gone for nearly seven hours. They’d taken him without so much as a scuffle that anyone witnessed.
I forced calm into my voice. “I want to go to The Gardens. Maybe Sweetie can pick up his trail.”
“Good thought. But let’s go to my office first. I want you to speak with Olive.”
“To hell with Olive.” I’d had enough.
“She might be able to help.”
“Seriously?” I couldn’t believe it. “I should never have gotten involved with her. She came here to start trouble, and she sure has. For me, for Cece, for Tinkie and Oscar. For everyone I care about, even you.”
Coleman had the grace to look away, which sent a flood of fury through me. “I’ll find Graf, and anyone who tries to stop me will be sorry.”
“And the quickest way to get there is to talk to Olive.” Coleman’s patience was running thin. He, too, felt the pressure of time. Each hour without a ransom call whittled away the possibility of a happy ending.
“Loan me a patrol car. I want to go to The Gardens.”
Coleman slowly shook his head. “Tinkie’s on the way, Sarah Booth. She and Oscar went out to the place where you wrecked and found your cell phone. Oscar’s arranged to have the car towed to the garage. They went by Dahlia House. Pluto’s safe and sound. Tinkie fed him.”
Pluto’s safe return to Dahlia House was one worry off my plate. “Thank them when you see them, but please give me the keys to a vehicle.”
Coleman sighed. Before he could respond to my request, Cece pushed forward. Her slender arm circled my shoulders and she marched me toward the courthouse. “Twist may have information. Before you go running off and get yourself abducted, at least talk to her. If you want to help Graf, use your head, not your heart.”
Every impulse told me to do something—anything. Not talk, but action. Yet Cece and Coleman both counseled me to question Twist. What could she possibly know about Graf’s abduction? It was time to find out.
“Okay. Five minutes. Max.”
We marched up the courthouse steps like the Fantastic Four—DeWayne brought up the rear. When we were in the sheriff’s office, Coleman motioned me to the cells. “Find out what she knows. DeWayne and I will round up Jeremiah and Buford.”
“Watch yourselves.” Cece gave them each a quick hug.
“Will do.” Coleman’s gaze flicked to me. For a moment I saw his worry and determination, and then he walked out with DeWayne at his side.
“Should we call in reinforcements?” I asked.
“I don’t think cavalry is stationed in Mississippi.” Cece kept glancing at the door. I didn’t have to read her mind to know she was hoping Tinkie would arrive.
A sudden question made me grasp Cece’s elbow and pull her around. “If Olive has information about Graf, why isn’t Coleman here to dig it out of her?”
A vein in Cece’s temple pulsed with every beat of her heart. “She won’t talk to Coleman.”
“Why not?”
“We’re wasting time.” She pulled free. Her long stride carried her to the jail. I had no choice but to follow.
16
Olive prowled the cell like a caged lioness. If she had a tail, it would be lashing back and forth. Pluto came to mind and I wished he were with me. His interrogation techniques were simple and to the point. Claw first, and bring the suspect to her knees. Completely efficient. Too bad I couldn’t wring her scrawny neck until she squawked. I was in no mood to play patty-cake with the historian.
“Good of you to drop by,” Olive said.
I wanted nothing more than to wipe the smirk off her face, preferably with a Brillo pad and Red Devil lye. “Where’s Graf?”
“I should think you’d ask how you can get me released. You are my employee, after all.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, you haven’t paid me a penny. There isn’t enough money in Fort Knox to get me to work for you. The fact that Tinkie and I even considered taking your case makes me question our sanity.”
“Good to know, but I don’t believe a word.” A grin stretched her lips. “You might not like it, but I suspect you’ll work for information. Especially information about a certain actor.”
The jail cell was locked, which was the only thing that protected her. “If you know something, you’d better tell me now.”
Perhaps it was because I gripped the bars so tightly my knuckles were white as bleached bones. Maybe it was Sweetie’s bared fangs. Or it could have been Cece’s f
lip remark, “Tell her or I’ll open the cell. She’s going to snap you like a twig.”
Whatever—something loosened the hinges of Olive’s jaw.
“You and Tinkie were buttering up Webber in the bar. Cece left to walk home, and you sent Graf to give her a ride.”
But Olive hadn’t been in the bar; how did she know? “You’re not psychic, so that means you—”
“I set up a camera in the bar.” She shrugged. “So sue me for invasion of privacy. Which you can’t do. The bar is a public place. There’s no expectation of privacy.”
I wanted to pull her vocal cords out through a hole in her neck. “What else did you record?”
“I also installed cameras around the grounds. I wanted to catch the person who firebombed my room, and it didn’t seem the good sheriff was equipped to suss out the perp.”
“They don’t call them perps, and Coleman doesn’t suss,” Cece said. “Suspect would be the word you’re seeking. For an educated person, you sure don’t know much—”
“Did you see who abducted Graf?” I reached through the bars and caught Olive by the bib of her butt-ugly pink and gray blouse depicting what had to be a Martian sunset. Polyester. Like bad seventies fabric. “Tell me now.” Her face squashed against the bars. Her wide feet flailed for purchase on the floor.
Cece jumped into the fray and was trying to break my grip. “Sarah Booth, let her go! She’s Coleman’s prisoner. You can’t hurt her.”
“Oh, I can. And I am. And I’ll enjoy doing it. Where’s Graf?” I locked onto Olive and pressed my face to hers. Only the bars separated us. My intentions were easy to read.
“I don’t know. But I saw what happened to him.” She struggled to breathe.
I eased up a little. If she passed out, it would take time to splash water on her and wake her up. “What happened?”
“He left the bar and hesitated, like he heard something. Then he disappeared from camera range for about five minutes. After that, I got a clear view of him on the path between those big oaks. He was walking to the parking lot, maybe eight minutes behind Ms. Falcon. He was walking fast, like he was in a hurry to get somewhere, and he had his cell phone out and was dialing someone. Then this dark shadow came out of the bushes. The person was dressed all in black and ran up behind Graf. It looked like Graf was stabbed in the neck with a syringe of some kind. I couldn’t be certain because the picture was grainy and not clear. But it looked like his attacker drugged him.”
“And you’ve known this how long?” Judas jumping candlesticks, I had to kill her. It would be a civic duty. The woman needed to die.
She flipped her dark hair over her shoulder and struck a senior portrait pose. “Awhile. But I had to keep you focused on what I needed.”
Cece karate-chopped my wrist before I could drag Olive back against the bars and beat her. I was forced to let Olive go. She slumped onto the cot. “Honestly, you don’t have to get so irrational.”
“What happened after he was injected?” Cece asked. Her tone told me she was as fed up with Olive as I was.
“He sort of crumpled to the ground. Then my camera went on the fritz. A very expensive camera, I might add.” A little moue of disinterest settled around her mouth. “I don’t know anything else. I was going to check on the camera when Coleman brought me here and locked me up.” She spat the last sentence.
“Describe the attacker,” I held no hope that Olive would give any reliable details, but I had to try.
“Average height and build. A little stocky. Moved with speed.”
That ruled out Jeremiah, who was tall and slender. And the “moving with speed” ruled out Buford. He was out of shape and slow. But it could be any of their minions. Jeremiah had at least half a dozen men searching the fields for me. And there was no telling who was on their membership roster.
“Let’s go.” I motioned Cece from the cell.
“Hey! Hey! What about me?” Olive asked. “I haven’t been charged with anything. You can’t hold me here. This is a lawsuit waiting to be filed. I’ll own every inch of this ratsuck little hellhole town.”
“We aren’t deputies,” Cece said. “We have no authority to release you.”
Olive lunged at the bars, but we were already moving back to the sheriff’s office, where I’d left the tablet. We had work to do.
Cece took over. She was quicker and more proficient at button pressing. Jeremiah had compiled a number of files, and among them was a neatly typed list of members of the Heritage Heroes. Telephone numbers were helpfully included.
With her superior skills, Cece accessed the sheriff’s office printer, and in a moment we both had a hot-off-the-press copy of the membership. I read the baker’s dozen names twice, wondering if Graf languished in confinement—or worse, injured—in the hands of one of these men.
There were no women on the list, I noted. Jeremiah and Buford’s club of haters allowed none of the “weaker sex.” I would show them what brains and determination could do. I’d thwart them and save Graf.
I cross-checked the names with Cece, marking the handful of familiar ones with an X. Half the names we didn’t recognize—a few were people I knew in passing. Folks who had recently moved into Sunflower County and I’d met in the grocery store or at some political function. In fact, I realized many of the men had injected themselves into the actions of Sunflower County’s governing bodies. I could only assume they had moved to Sunflower County to join Jeremiah’s Internet madness. Mayan calendar, the Rapture, sunspots, whatever it took to feed the fear. The people on the list had a desperate need to believe the world was coming to an end and they would be the chosen ones, the survivors. To me, it seemed like a form of mental illness, and I could never forget that out of those thought processes martyrs were born.
Using a county map, we plotted where each member lived. I urged Cece to ditch the sheriff’s office and hit the road with me for a safari, hunting members of the militia group, but she refused. Tinkie was due any second, and Cece wouldn’t consider confronting Jeremiah or his henchmen without a lawman, a search warrant, and a loaded weapon.
I thought the search warrant unnecessary, but there was no budging Cece. While we waited on Tinkie to arrive and Coleman to return, we perused the other files on the tablet. Cece kept up a barrage of constant chatter, an attempt to keep my mind off Graf and the ticking clock. I would thank her later, but at the moment I had visions of a ball gag.
When we got to the file on Tilda Richmond’s history, Cece plopped into DeWayne’s chair and I hovered over her shoulder. We skimmed the paragraphs. Much of it was what Oscar had already revealed. Tilda was a Richmond relative who ran away from home at the age of sixteen to avoid an arranged marriage. No news there.
She went to Washington, D.C., where she worked as a serving girl in a tavern near the Capitol for several years. She engaged in heated political debates with the customers, a fact that got her discharged, but not before she came to the attention of a newspaperman, William French.
Tilda’s passion for freeing the slaves—couched as traitorous sentiments by the author of the article—but keeping the union intact appealed to French. He hired her to ghostwrite articles for his newspaper and introduced her to the political circles of D.C. She left behind the tavern and became a member of the fourth estate and the political elite.
In 1855, at the age of twenty, she met Montgomery Blair, a man destined to be Lincoln’s postmaster general. In the next years, the Kentucky lawyer brought her into the circle of men who were Lincoln’s political adversaries and who, in a brilliant political move, would later become his cabinet. It was a world where Tilda’s sharp perception and understanding of the Southern mind-set was greatly appreciated.
Cece began to read aloud. “Tilda and Blair, an avowed abolitionist though his family owned slaves, became friends, an odd couple in the Washington political circles. It was in this friendship that Tilda drew up a plan for the federal government to buy the slaves from slaveholders and preserve the Union. It was a bol
d proposal, and it met with much resistance from all sides, though Lincoln strongly supported the idea.
“A friendship was forged between the President and Tilda, which we believe escalated beyond the boundaries of professional to personal. Tilda Richmond can reliably be called a traitor and a whore.”
Cece looked up and frowned. “Could they do that? I mean, just buy the slaves and free them? Would it have worked?”
“I have no idea if it was a viable plan, but it sure would have saved a lot of anguish and lives.” It had never occurred to me to consider such a thing. Could the war have been averted had the idea of a twenty-five-year-old woman been taken seriously? Would the Southern states have gone along with it? The Civil War remained a huge scar on the consciousness of the nation, and the South had never completely recovered from the shroud of defeated nation.
Cece returned to the tablet screen. “After the Southern states seceded from the Union, Blair arranged for Tilda to meet Secretary of War Stanton. A keen animosity developed between them. Stanton allowed that no woman had a role in government, but it was after Lincoln’s assassination that Stanton turned vicious toward Tilda. He told her that soft sympathies for the Confederate states would be punished as treason. There is documentation he told Tilda she should have swung beside Mary Surratt.”
“This is incredible. It’s almost easier to believe Twist’s version—that Tilda was involved in an assassination attempt on Lincoln.”
“Women weren’t even allowed to vote.” Cece massaged her neck to relieve the tension. “This is amazing stuff. No wonder Twist and Webber are at each other’s throats. This really could be a great book. A barn burner of a plot with bigger-than-life characters—a bestseller as Twist predicted. I wonder why they don’t just collaborate?”
“That’s like asking why two pit vipers tied in a sack can’t get along.”
Smarty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 23
