“What do you want?” He didn’t move at all, but he somehow seemed closer to me.
“I want the truth. Are you Rebekah’s father?”
“I can’t say. It was a moot issue. Rebekah was Doreen’s child. Totally hers. Doreen would never allow me to lay claim to the baby in any way. In case you don’t know Doreen well, she does what she wants, whenever she wants.”
“What are you saying?” I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
“I suspected that Doreen had other lovers. She kept our relationship on a certain level. It’s hard to describe. She’s the most extraordinarily giving woman I’ve ever met, yet she also held me at arm’s length.” His eyebrows rose. “I always thought she was in love with someone else.”
“You suspected, but you didn’t know if she had other lovers?”
“Come into the den,” he said. “Would you care for a beverage? Coffee or a soft drink? We don’t have liquor here.”
“No, thank you,” I said as I followed him through a doorway. “Did Doreen ever talk to you about her lovers?”
“Why is this important, Ms. Delaney?”
“Because if Doreen didn’t kill her child, then perhaps it was the father who did.”
“Why would the father kill his baby?”
“Oh, maybe because he feared blackmail, because the baby’s birth defects were so serious that medical care would be a big financial drain if he were legally pulled into the problem. Or maybe because he has a public image that would suffer greatly from being exposed as Doreen’s lover.”
He put one hand in the pocket of his trousers. “Wait a minute. I see where you’re going with this and I don’t like it.”
“Rebekah was born with Robert’s syndrome. Her arms didn’t develop, and there were some structural problems with the palate and face. She also had respiratory and heart problems.”
He looked at me. “What did Doreen tell you about me?”
“Enough. But I have to say, it’s been even more fascinating listening to the line of bullshit you can shovel.”
He didn’t even bother to deny it. “Doreen promised me that she’d never divulge our relationship. She said she only wanted to give to me.” His lips twisted. “And I was just beginning to believe her.”
“You should believe her,” I said. “She didn’t want to give me your name, but I told her it was either me or the police.”
“The police!”
“Doreen is charged with murdering her own baby. Even if the police aren’t concerned with who the father is right now, I’m sure a good defense attorney will be. Especially when the lawyer learns that the potential father has such a lot to lose by being exposed.”
“I’m not the father! Doreen assured me that I wasn’t!”
“Rebekah was born July fifteenth. You do the math.” And he did. I saw him calculating the months. Doreen would have been only slightly pregnant when he was last with her. Not enough to show, but enough for the baby to belong to him.
“When was the last time you saw Doreen?” I asked.
“Last May. We met for lunch and a conversation. She was very pregnant and seemed very happy.”
I was surprised that Weaver had continued to have contact with Doreen once the sexual liaison was over. He didn’t strike me as the type who valued “good conversation” with a woman.
“Are you married?” I already knew the answer.
“Yes. My wife lives in Baton Rouge.”
“You pay her to stay married to you. And to keep her mouth shut.”
“Myra and I have our differences. She’s content with our arrangement, as am I. And this is certainly none of your concern.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But October first is my concern. Where were you?”
He rang a small bell beside the chair where he stood. In a moment a young man so wet behind the ears that he was almost dripping came forward.
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring me my appointment book, please, Joseph.”
Without another word, Joseph scurried to do his master’s bidding.
An uneasy silence settled over us. I took in the room. It lacked the old-world grace of Senator Clay’s home. This was all modern and angular. The sofa and chairs were white, the carpet white, the walls gray, and the throw pillows black. Monochromatic. Cece would have an absolute fit over it—for about half an hour. To me the design was slick, just like the owner.
Joseph returned with a large black book with slips of paper stuck all through it. Weaver flipped the pages until he stopped. “October first I was booked onto the John and Sarah Good Time Hour. It was a live broadcast.” The appointment book slapped shut with a satisfied smack. “Does that get you off my back?”
“That show is broadcast from where?”
“In Slidell. At WCHT Studios.” He pulled a piece of paper from the book and a pen from his shirt pocket. He wrote a number down and handed it to me. “Call them.” He motioned to his telephone. “Call them from here. That way you can’t accuse me later of getting them to lie for me.”
In this incident, I believed he was telling the truth. It would be too easy to check out. “What time did the show air?”
“From nine until eleven,” he said proudly.
“And it’s about forty-five minutes to Slidell?”
“Depending on the traffic.”
I nodded. “You still had plenty of time to get to the French Quarter and kill that baby.”
“I might have had time to set an orphanage on fire!” Oren thundered. “Time isn’t relevant because I didn’t kill that baby. I had no reason to kill her, because she wasn’t my child.”
Oren could deny it until the cows came home, but I could see that his anger was a thin disguise for his fear.
I’D JUST LEFT Weaver’s compound when my cell phone rang. Tinkie’s voice had an urgency that made my foot press harder on the gas pedal.
“Meet me at the Café Du Monde,” she ordered. “This is good. This is really good.”
“Did you see Michael Anderson?” I asked.
“I can’t talk now. Meet me in thirty minutes.”
The line went dead and I concentrated on negotiating the heavy New Orleans traffic. I was right on time as I stepped beneath the green awning of the sidewalk café that served coffee and beignets.
“Sarah Booth!” Tinkie waved fingers covered in powdered sugar. She had a small white mustache and a lap full of crumbs. “There is nothing better than a hot beignet,” she sighed, sipping her café au lait. “I ordered some for you, too. Lucky for me I was smart enough to find a ball gown made of spandex.”
I groaned. Mollie had taken my measurements, but I might have to call and make some adjustments. I’d never hear the end of this from Jitty.
My order arrived and though I tried, I couldn’t resist a beignet. It was worth an extra bulge or two.
“What did you find in the books?” I asked. “Did you see Michael Anderson?”
She bit her lip to hide her smile. “Both questions deserve an equal answer. I’ll address the money first. I saw the books.” She gave a low whistle. “Some books. Doreen gave me a note when I saw her in jail, which instructed her secretary to give me full access. I don’t think even Doreen has a clue how much money she’s making.”
“And Anderson?” I pressed. “Was he around?”
“He came in. At first he was angry, but when I told him I was hired to help with Doreen’s defense, he didn’t say anything else.”
“And?” There was an addendum to this comment. I saw it in her eyes.
“And he is one handsome man. He could be a cover model for some of those historical romance novels. And he’s smart, too. I’d consider giving him my investment portfolio to manage.”
I had to give Doreen the credit. She was three for three. Oren Weaver was handsome and charismatic. Clay was powerful and distinguished-looking. I was eager to see Michael.
“Did he seem upset you were looking at the books?”
“Not once he knew who
I was. In fact, he was just the opposite. He found all the old records and told me to look as long as I wanted. I don’t think I ever met a man with better manners.”
I gave Tinkie the once-over. She was totally devoted to her husband, but there were moments when she could become infatuated with a good-looking man. She was a Daddy’s Girl, but she was also human.
“So your first impression of Michael Anderson is—”
“He’s not the father of that baby. He couldn’t be. He’s physically perfect. Or at least everything I saw. And Doreen is so beautiful. If they made a baby, it would be drop-dead gorgeous.”
Tinkie knew as well as I that genetics couldn’t be judged by the exterior. Leave it to her to be overwhelmed by a handsome man. “What about the books?”
“Doreen makes a lot of money. A lot.” Tinkie ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “I need to dig in this a little deeper. She has a lot of people with fingers in her pie, and some of them may be greedy. It’s a possibility that someone wanted Doreen out of the way badly enough to set her up for murder.” She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “She’s on her way to becoming very wealthy. Michael’s been smart. Risky, but smart.”
“How does she make her money?” I asked.
“I had the books from 2000 until now. That’s when she first incorporated. Doreen Mallory Ministries, Inc. That’s when the money began to come in from her classes and her practice. She also started a small publishing company, Healing Words Press, which is becoming more and more lucrative. Sarah Booth, she’s bringing in nearly half a million this year. Next year it looks like it could double.”
My face must have registered my surprise.
“I know. Five years ago she was reading tarot cards in Jackson Square. Now she’s renovating part of a building she bought on St. Peter for her healing center. She doesn’t call it a church.”
“I’m surprised she doesn’t have her own television show.”
“I found some offers, but she declined.”
“I wonder why.”
“You’ll have to ask her that. I would have asked Michael, but he’d already left.”
“Did he act nervous or anxious?”
She shook her head and gave a lopsided smile. “He said he had to go to Jackson Square to tell the people waiting for Doreen that she wasn’t coming today. He said they line up every Monday and wait for her for hours.”
“She still reads tarot cards?”
“Yes,” Tinkie said, a strange calmness settling over her. “And sometimes she heals.”
10
TINKIE WAS CHOMPING AT THE BIT TO GET BACK TO WORK ON THE books. She’d developed a real interest in math—when it came to multiplication of dollar signs and nuptial possibilities. Tinkie’s DG training had kicked in and I could see she was sizing Michael Anderson up as date potential for several friends who had missed the first boat of financially secure husbands.
It’s an unwritten code among DGs that once one is properly married, she seeks suitable husbands for her friends. It’s more than a code, it’s a sacred vow. I dreaded the fact that I was among that number that Tinkie felt obligated to matchmake for, even though her efforts so far had proved dismal failures.
It wasn’t that I failed to see Michael’s many assets. He had the Midas touch, but I still had him on my list of potential murder suspects.
Since we were just across Rampart Street from Jackson Square, I prevailed on her to walk over. I loved the Square, where artists rendered quick sketches in charcoal and tarot card readers dressed in everything from Scottish kilts to Viking horns read the future for twenty bucks a shot.
My first view of Michael Anderson literally stopped me in my tracks. For once in her life, Tinkie had been understated. Michael was tall and dark complected, with intense brown eyes.
He was standing beside a small table surrounded by fifty or sixty people. The crowd, judging by their clothes, was diverse. All economic backgrounds and ages.
“Doreen can’t come today,” he was saying. “Probably not for a while.”
“Where is she?” someone asked.
“She’s in jail,” someone in the crowd answered before Michael could. Too bad. I was curious to see how he would have responded to the question.
He stepped away from the table and my gaze went from his broad shoulders to his trim waist and hips. The expensive suit covered him, but it didn’t hide the body of a Greek god.
“Doreen is in jail and the charge is serious. As you all know, Doreen’s infant daughter died in her sleep recently. Unfortunately, the police have begun to believe that Rebekah was murdered.”
“Doreen wouldn’t hurt that baby,” an older woman spoke out. “The Lord just took her back. He never meant for her to stay here long at all.”
A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd. “What can we do to help?” a young man with studs in his eyebrows, nose, and lips asked.
Michael shook his head. “Pray.” He loosened the tie at his throat. “Doreen is okay. I spoke with her this morning and she’s only sorry that she can’t be here to talk to all of you.”
“Will she be at the Center later?”
“I’ll post a note on the fence when I find out the date she’ll be back,” Michael promised. “Just pray. Continue to ask for guidance and focus your prayers and energy for Doreen.”
“My cousin is flying in from Portland,” one woman said in a voice filled with stress. “She’s coming just to see Doreen. She’s got breast cancer and it’s spreading all over her. She’s gonna die. She’s got to see Doreen.”
Michael’s handsome features hardened. “Doreen is in jail, charged with murder. Can’t you look beyond your own needs for a split second?”
The woman paled and several of her friends huddled around her.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “That was inexcusable. I’m worried sick about Doreen. I don’t have to tell you what’s at stake here. This is a capital murder charge.”
“We’re worried about Doreen, too,” a thin, well-dressed man spoke out. “She’s helped so many of us. Now we’ll have to focus on helping her.”
“Thank you,” Michael said softly. “And as soon as she’s able, she’ll be here to talk with you and help you. But remember what she says: You have the power to heal yourself. Doreen has no magic. She only has belief. She’s been teaching you how to think and explore. Go home and apply those things. Trust yourselves. That’s what Doreen told me to tell you. Trust yourselves.”
“That’s exactly what she’d have said,” a woman said with a teary smile. “Well, it’s not doing any good to stand around here.” She turned away and headed across the Square in front of the cathedral. Several others followed her.
The thin man remained, taking a seat opposite Michael at the small table. Tinkie and I walked forward. Michael had seen us out of the corner of his eye, and he introduced himself to me, and both of us to his companion, Alec Hathoway. Michael had obviously been told about me, either by Tinkie or someone else.
“Alec helps with the ministry,” Michael said. “He runs the soup kitchen for us.”
“We feed about a hundred people a day, mostly young kids,” Alec said with a slow smile. “The Quarter has a lot of youngsters on the lam. Although we don’t have the winters they do farther north, this can be a very cold city for a teenager with no money and no shelter.”
Michael broke in. “Have you found anything that might help Doreen?”
If he had any reason to believe he was a potential suspect, he surely didn’t show it.
“We have some interesting leads.” I stepped out of the way of a gaggle of teenage girls who were laughing and pushing one another as they came out of Madeline’s Bakery and Café.
“Doreen didn’t do this,” Michael said.
“No, it’s impossible that she would do such a thing,” Alec agreed. “Doreen loved her baby. Most people would have been devastated.” He shook his head slowly. “I have to say, it hurt me to look at that child. How could so many th
ings go wrong and the baby still live?”
“Doreen never saw any of the defects,” Michael said. “She never grasped the reality of what Rebekah was.”
“And what was that reality?” I asked.
“She was going to die.” Michael stared into my eyes. “Doreen was going to suffer, no matter what she did.”
“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt the baby?” I asked.
“Have you spoken with Pearline?” Alec asked. “She was always around Rebekah. Maybe she knows something.”
“Pearline?” Tinkie and I asked in unison.
“Doreen’s maid. She was more a nanny than a maid. She kept Rebekah when Doreen was working.” Alec’s frown was minimal, but present. “I would have thought she’d be one of the first people you’d talk to.”
“She would have been if someone had told us about her,” Tinkie said. She glanced at her watch. “Is she still employed?”
“She is, but she hasn’t been in this week,” Michael said easily. “When Doreen decided to travel to Zinnia, Mississippi, she gave Pearline the week off. And to be honest, there isn’t much work for Pearline to do now that Rebekah is . . . gone.”
“Do you have her address?” I asked Michael.
He wrote the street address and phone number on the back of a business card. “She has other clients, so call before you waste a trip.”
“Thanks,” I said, tucking the card into the back pocket of my jeans.
“Doreen’s apartment isn’t far from here,” Tinkie said. “Would it be possible for us to take a look around?”
Michael nodded. “It would be, but I don’t have a key. Doreen insisted that her private life be just that, private. I have keys to the Center, but not to her apartment.”
“Would anyone have a key?” Tinkie pressed.
“I don’t think so.” Michael looked at Alec.
“Pearline had a key,” Alec offered. “Even though you can’t get in the apartment, you can look around the courtyard. I never went upstairs, but we sometimes sat on the patio and talked. Doreen was buying the entire building. It might be interesting to talk to the tenants. Maybe they saw something.”
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