I didn't say anything. Scott Hampton was on my mind. Women loved him. They got excited watching him play and perform. They'd lay down on the stage for him. I doubted he had much respect left for the entire gender.
“Ivory was playing up in Detroit. The band was a huge success and was drawing bigger and bigger crowds. There was a female vocalist by the name of Darcy Danton.”
“I haven't heard of her,” I said.
“Her career was short-lived.”
“She was killed, wasn't she?” It was a guess, but a good one judging from the look on Bridge's face.
“I would call it murder. She was singing at the club, and she and Ivory became very close. The story goes that her husband was abusing her. She'd come into the club with bruises, black eyes, broken fingers. One night she came in after her husband had nearly strangled her to death. She couldn't sing. Couldn't make a sound.” He paused. “Ivory moved her into his room.”
Train wreck coming. I could see it clearly. “And one thing led to another.”
“Exactly. What started out as comfort, friendship, and support ended up between the sheets. It didn't take her husband long to track her down, and he entered the room just about the time Ivory entered . . . well, you get the idea.”
I did, and I was amused at Bridge's wry humor. “Ivory was caught en flagrante.”
“The enraged husband knocked Ivory out, pulled Darcy from the bed, and began to beat her viciously. Ivory regained consciousness and got his gun. He shot the husband twice. Both times in the back.”
“Self-defense would be hard to prove.” I could visualize the scene where Ivory had done only what he had to do. But convincing a jury with two shots in the back would be hard.
“The man would have killed Darcy if Ivory hadn't stopped him when he did. As it was, she was hospitalized for a month. Brain damage. She was never really right after that. Her death was tragic.”
I was certain I didn't want to hear this, but I had to ask. “How did she finally die?”
“She froze to death in an alley behind the club where she sang with Ivory's band. Story goes that she was waiting for Ivory to finish his set. She couldn't grasp that he was in prison.”
“Well, shit.” It was a tragic story. It seemed that Ivory's life, and death, had been closely twined with tragedy.
“I know. And now Ivory is dead.”
“Murdered.” I knew that certain people, take Spider and Ray-Ban for instance, lived in a world of violence and suffering. They chose violence. But Ivory hadn't been that kind of man. He'd been caught in one violent act. Yet it had followed him home to the Mississippi Delta.
“I've only met Mrs. Keys once. She seems like a very strong woman,” Bridge said. “I guess she'd have to be. Ivory served a long time, and she waited for him. She forgave him and waited.”
Greek mythology was filled with such women, and Ida Mae, indeed, was a mythic force. “She is remarkable,” I said.
Bridge picked a silk string from one of the pillows that had gotten on my pants. “I don't want to be presumptuous, Sarah Booth, but what is Ida Mae going to do with the club now?”
“I don't know.”
He cleared his throat. “As you can tell, I have a great love for the blues. I'd like to keep the club open, and I'd also like to help Ida Mae out of her financial pinch. Do you think she'd consider selling the club to me?”
It was an extremely generous offer. There was no guarantee Playin' the Bones could recover from what had happened there. Folks in Mississippi were still superstitious. A murder had occurred in the club. That fact alone might drive an audience away.
“I don't know what Ida Mae is going to do. I don't even know who inherits the club. There's a son, Emanuel.” I tried to keep my voice level when I said his name.
“I know him, or rather his reputation,” Bridge said. “He's a very astute businessman, but he hates the blues. I can't imagine he'd want the club, even if he inherits it.”
I shrugged. “I know the club is important to Ida Mae because it was important to Ivory.”
“Exactly. I have the money to keep it open and give it time to recover. I'd like to do that. Would you speak to her on my behalf?”
I was surprised. “Why don't you talk to her?”
He frowned. “I don't want her to think any pressure is being applied. There's a big mortgage on the place. Ivory did a lot of work on it.” I nodded that I'd seen it. “I don't want Ida Mae to think I'm moving in like a vulture to pick the carcass. I just really want to help, and to make sure that the club remains open and the blues continue to be played there.”
“That's very generous, Bridge. But maybe not the wisest business decision.”
Bridge chuckled, and it was a low, masculine sound of amusement and confidence. I liked it immensely. “Perhaps I'm not the best businessman,” he said, lifting both eyebrows. “A man should keep a little mystery about him or else the woman he's trying to impress will find him boring.”
My eyebrows rose. “Don't tell me you actually have rules for hooking women.”
“The young females of a certain social strata aren't the only ones with pressures. Men, too, have expectations put on them.”
“Such as?” I prompted, delighting in my companion.
“To marry a beautiful woman who is not only a bauble on his arm but a good breeder, a good mother, active in the community, and not too demanding.”
Even though I'd known this all of my life, I was still a little shocked to hear it verbally acknowledged by a man. “Someone actually told you this. I mean, like it's a rule.”
“Sarah Booth,” he said, shocked. “I thought you knew. I mean, the book has been in print for generations.”
“What book?”
For the first time since I'd known him, Bridge frowned. “I really thought you knew. I should never have opened my mouth.”
He rose quickly and went to make another drink.
Like a hound on the scent, I got up and followed him. “What book? There's actually a book of rules for men to follow in getting a woman?”
“A suitable woman. One who is of the same class and yet not too much . . . trouble.”
He wouldn't look at me as he talked. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. “Trouble! What's that supposed to mean?”
“A woman who accepts her responsibilities cheerfully and doesn't complain. One who works by a man's side but doesn't step out in front of him. A woman who wants to build a family and a certain style of life.” He finally looked at me. “You know exactly what it means, Sarah Booth. It's no different than the rules you women have for trapping a man who can provide a good life with security, family ties, social standing, and all of that. Women of a certain socio-economic level have certain wants and needs. Why would you think men would be different?”
He was right, but it didn't matter. I was hot. “The whole thing is idiotic. Acting a certain way to trick someone is stupid. For men and women.” I was hammering away at my soapbox with everything I had, rearing to climb on top of it and start preaching. “How long are you supposed to act? Forever?”
“The best marriages are built with certain deliberate falsehoods,” Bridge said, one eyebrow cocked. “For goodness sake, Sarah Booth, Tinkie said you were sophisticated. She said you'd been around enough to know the truth. Men and women need the cloaking of certain social conventions to live together successfully. If both parties were brutally honest, there would be no marriage or family. It would be tribal. The men would live in one hut and the women in another, and they'd only get together for sex.”
“For purposes of procreation, no doubt,” I threw out in a caustic tone.
“Of course,” he said, nodding. “It's only the truly lower-class women who actually enjoy sex.”
I saw it then, the tiniest flicker of devilment. He hid it quickly, but not fast enough.
“Damn you, Bridge, you're putting me on,” I said, punching his arm in indignation, anger, and embarrassment. “You did that just to get me wound up.”
/>
“You started it,” he said, chuckling in that very masculine way. He handed me my drink. “You sat right on the floor and pretended that you were nothing but the sweetheart of Ole Miss, all roses, chiffon, and parties.” He gave me a look. “I happen to know you were a liberal rabble-rouser.”
Busted. Bridge had caught me playing the game I despised, and he'd had his fun with me. I had no right to be angry with him for setting me up. I shook my head. “I have no defense,” I said. “Guilty as charged. I just didn't want to get into it.”
He lifted my chin with one finger so I looked into his eyes. “You didn't want to pierce the veil of pretense,” he said.
“Not because I'm ashamed of what I did or because I wanted to pretend to be other than who I am, but I promised Tinkie I wouldn't slap you upside the head with it right off. Trust me, I don't have the patience to pretend to be anyone other than who I am. The ugly truth would have come out.”
Bridge put his arm around my shoulder and kissed my cheek. “Now that I believe. But not ugly, Sarah Booth. Just the truth. You are who and what you are, and I find you delightful.”
I suspected he was teasing me again. “I'm not biting twice in one night.”
He laughed. “I'm sure Tinkie told you I've never married. I'm equally sure you know that my family is hounding me to take a wife and have children.”
“Boy, do I know that pressure,” I said.
“I didn't realize you had family living,” he said, puzzled.
I'd been caught in a pretense once, but even so, I wasn't about to explain my current family—one Jitty. “I don't need family to remind me of my duties. For a Southern woman, they're bred into the bone.”
He laughed. “Yes, I see your point. What I was saying is that I enjoy your company, Sarah Booth. Exactly as you are. I have no interest in the type of woman who bends herself to my views. I happen to like independence.”
I smiled at him. He was a remarkable man. “I'm glad,” I said. “I will speak to Ida Mae for you.”
“Thanks,” he said, brushing his lips across my cheek. “And now I'd better take you home. My tactic is to tantalize you, to make you want me as much as I want you.”
I swallowed. He was very direct with his plans.
“Is it working?” he asked, and I knew he was teasing me again.
“Absolutely,” I said, picking up my sandals from the floor. “That's why I'm going home. Before I spoil all of your hard work.”
Laughing, he walked me out the door and into the hot Delta night.
13
I awoke to a dark shadow across my eyes and a boding sense of disapproval. I forced one eye open. Jitty sat on the edge of the bed staring at me.
“Another opportunity lost,” she said in a tone as serious as cancer.
“Go away.” I threw a pillow at her, but it simply slammed into the wall.
Jitty grinned wickedly. “If you'd played your cards right, you could be incubatin' the heir to the Ladnier fortune right this minute.”
“I'm not a chicken hatchery.” I pushed myself up in bed and opened my eyes wide, the better to see her with. I closed them instantly.
“With that man's money, we could spend the next year redecoratin' Dahlia House. 'Course you'd need to hire help. You don't have a lick of decoratin' ability.” Jitty was wearing a navy-blue suit with Kelly green piping. A little green polka-dot kerchief was tucked in the pocket. She wore a pillbox hat and navy-blue pumps.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I asked, making the sign of the cross with my fingers and holding them out at her. “You look like the Church Lady.”
She only laughed. “This is a replica of a suit worn by one of our greatest first ladies. She knew the value of carrying an heir. She gave it her all. She had class. She carried herself like a lady at all times, even under the worst of circumstances. She knew her duty. Which is more than I can say for you. Duty is bein' a partner to a good man, Sarah Booth. That's the way you build a future. You look for values. That's what life is about. Like Jackie. She put up with a whole lot, but her values were right where they should be.”
“What the hell are you babbling about?” I asked her.
“Jackie.”
“Who?”
“Jackie Kennedy.”
I took a deep breath. My mother's admiration for a woman who'd lived through the worst that life could hand her must have rubbed off on Jitty. I gave her attire a long look and recognized the suit from a photograph of Jackie in an old Life magazine. We had a huge stack of them in the attic.
“Why are you dressed like that at nine o'clock on a Saturday morning?” I asked. “State luncheon?”
“State funeral,” Jitty said solemnly. “Ivory Keys. Services at ten.” She checked a slender watch held on her wrist by a thin gold bracelet. “That gives you about twenty minutes to get ready and twenty minutes to drive there. Are you taking Tinkie?”
“Yes.” I hadn't actually planned on taking Tinkie, but it was a brilliant idea. I threw back the light spread and got out of bed.
“What are you wearing?”
I ignored Jitty as I went in the bathroom and ran my bath. What did one wear to the funeral of a musical icon? Cece would know.
I called the newspaper and caught her just as she was preparing to leave for Blessed Zion Independent Church. She wanted some preliminary photographs and didn't trust Garvel LaMott to make the right choices. I didn't blame her there. Garvel wasn't bright, but he was ambitious. Not a good combination for a partner.
“Oh, dahling, one can't be overdressed. The hat is the important accessory. Vital. Something with flash. But not too much flash. You should have thought of this ages ago, Sarah Booth. If you simply throw your wardrobe together at the last minute, then you look like you're thrown together.”
I rolled my eyes. “I don't have a hat. At least not one like you're thinking of.”
She sighed. “Wear blue and I'll bring a hat for you. Navy is always totally appropriate for a funeral.”
“It's August,” I reminded her. My only wardrobe rule was never to wear anything dark on a summer day. Mosquitoes were attracted to dark colors, and so was sweat.
“August, Schmaugust. Wear navy, black, or purple. Which will it be?”
“Navy,” I conceded, thinking of a linen dress I had with white buttons. It was sleeveless and ankle length. Sedate, yet as cool as navy could be.
“I have just the hat,” she said. “Meet me before the service. And don't be late, Sarah Booth.”
“Right.” I hung up, called Tinkie, and told her I'd pick her up on my way. She, of course, had no wardrobe qualms. She was state-funeral perfection when I pulled up in front of her door. As was Chablis. The little Yorkie had on a black hat and veil that was a tiny duplicate of the one on Tinkie's coiffed head.
“Tinkie?” I frowned at Chablis. “Are you sure?”
“Drive,” she said, getting into the car. “Ivory would be honored to have Chablis paying homage at his funeral.”
I wasn't going to argue that. I was just going to let her out in front of the church and park the car while she entered.
We arrived at Blessed Zion fifteen minutes early, and Cece was as good as her word. The navy straw hat with a cubic zirconium-encrusted veil was perfection. I allowed her to twist up my brown curls and secure them under the hat. I was transformed from serious summer brunch to solemn church event.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Someone has to keep you from embarrassing yourself,” Cece said, but not unkindly. “Did you hear that Scott Hampton will be here?”
“At the funeral?” I was surprised.
“Yes. Ida Mae talked Coleman into it. Can you believe it? She said if he wasn't allowed to attend, it would prejudice his case.” She swept her hand around the small churchyard. “That's why all the deputies are hanging around. Volunteers from Bolivar and Alcorn counties came in. More are coming from Hinds and Tunica.”
I hadn't really noticed the extra uniforms, but now that Cece had po
inted them out, I added up a total of ten deputies sitting in their sun-baked cars or standing at the side of the church. They were all in uniform and all wearing guns and radios. I didn't see Coleman, Dewayne Dattilo, or Gordon Walters. What I did see was a cluster of black men standing at the side of the church. They were dressed in suits, but the Sunday clothes didn't hide their anger. That anger seemed focused on us.
“Coleman's inside with Scott,” Cece said. “I knew it was important to get here early for photos. I got one of Scott at the coffin. It's going to make the national wire. That Garvel was dragging his feet. I swear, he makes one want to do something drastic. One day when he's asleep with his feet propped up on his desk, I'm going to wax his hairy legs.”
“Cece!” I wasn't shocked at the idea of waxing legs, but Garvel's legs were repulsive. He had pasty white skin and black curly hairs. It had been a subject of much disgusted commentary even in fifth grade.
“Don't act so prim and proper,” Cece warned. “You'd like nothing better than to tear Garvel's leg hairs out by the roots and you know it.”
I didn't answer. Several cars had pulled into the churchyard, and men and women were gathering on the church steps. Cece, Tinkie, Chablis, and I stepped to the side. We were not the primary participants in this ritual. A black limo pulled up to the church and a tall, slender man walked around and helped Ida Mae out.
“That's Emanuel,” Tinkie whispered in my ear. He had the look of a zealot. He was not a man who found joy in many things. His angry gaze swept the churchyard, surveyed the clump of men, and landed on us. Abruptly he dropped his mother's arm and stormed toward us, the other men flanking him.
“Get out of here,” he said, waving his left hand angrily in our faces. “This is no place for white people. You came here to gawk and make money on my father's death. You've harvested enough profit from the blood of the black man—”
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