"Thank you, thank you," I said, jumping from foot to foot. Before she could change her mind I was back in the reference section pulling out the bound editions of the paper from 1979.
I knew Hamilton the Fourth was killed during dove season, which would begin around September, so I started there. It would be front page, so that made the search easier. I had the story in record time.
Hamilton the Fourth was found dead in a cornfield owned by Delo Wiley on October 23, 1979, during the second dove season. Mr. Wiley had gone out to the field to search for him when he hadn't come in with the other hunters at dusk.
The death had been ruled accidental by Coroner Fel Harper. No autopsy had been performed; no charges filed. The newspaper account was not graphic, but it was clear that Hamilton the Fourth had been shot in the throat at close range. I read the account and came to two possible conclusions—murder or suicide. Sheriff Pasco Walters ruled accidental death.
In the code of the Southern gentleman, hunting accidents are a noble way to die. No need to assign guilt to your hunting partners if they blast you to kingdom come. No need to pursue suicide if the family is wealthy enough to buy silence.
But it was a little beyond the pale that one of Sunflower County's most prominent men could have been murdered, and deputies, coroners, family members, and friends had all conspired to brush it under the rug.
Unless, of course, it was Hamilton the Fifth who pulled the trigger. That would cast a whole 'nother light on matters. Cece was right. Money could buy a verdict, or kill an investigation.
Fel Harper was still the county coroner. He was also not likely to tell the truth to me if he'd been involved in a cover-up.
I flipped forward through the newspapers, fighting the morbid compulsion to seek out the stories about my parents' deaths. This was not about me or my past. I had a job to do.
I scanned through January and found the story in the February 10 issue. The death of Veronica Hampton Garrett was also front page with photos—what was left of an expensive sports car and an old society picture of her. She looked like a movie star, with her hair piled up with glittering combs and a diamond necklace around her throat. Blond and beautiful.
I examined the car again. It looked as if it had been placed in a compactor and squeezed. No one could have survived that crash. And the tree didn't look too healthy, either.
I read the story, which said Veronica Garrett had been traveling the Knob Hill Road
toward home at a high rate of speed when she lost control of the car and struck a tree.
The accident wasn't discovered for several hours. Hamilton the Fifth had found his mother's body when he passed by on his way home from a date. He called an ambulance, but his mother was dead.
The verdict you can afford—Cece's words again.
"Sarah Booth! We have to be going." Mrs. Kepler had her purse on her arm and was waiting at the door.
I closed the files and put them away. Damn! I hadn't really found anything, and I'd bruised my perfectly good fists on the library door. And then it struck me. I had discovered something. Two violent deaths had been passed off as accidents. Two prominent people, in the same family, died brutally within a four-month span, and both were ruled accidental.
Someone in the sheriff's office wasn't doing a very good job.
After a long and restless night, I was determined to put the case aside and have Thanksgiving. I dressed festive—newest black jeans and elegant russet velour blouse. The dining room table gleamed with silver and candles. I'd set two place settings, though I didn't know if Jitty would eat with me. I wasn't certain she ate at all. Mostly she mumbled and complained. But this was a holiday, and she was as close to family as I was going to get.
The turkey was a golden masterpiece, and I hauled it into the dining room as the piece de resistance of the meal. The sweet potato casserole steamed, along with the green beans and dressing. Everything was perfect as I lifted my glass of wine.
"To the future. It looks as if we may actually have one." I was pumped about my discovery at the library and about evading Harold for the holiday meal.
"You start foolin' around like some gender-busted Sam Spade, you gone get your butt caught in a crack." Jitty had taken her place at the table, but she didn't seem overly impressed with the spread.
"Jitty, I can do this. Besides, it's sort of exciting."
"Yeah, that man from Austin was exciting, too. What was it the prison psychologist said about him? Sociopath with paranoid tendencies? When you start usin' the word 'exciting,' I start thinkin' this is not a good thing."
The bad thing about family is that they remember every little mistake, and they feel free to throw it in your face. "This is different. This is a job, not a man."
"It's a job about a man—potentially a man who killed his mama. I don't like this Hamilton Garrett. No, ma'am, he sounds a lot like Mr. Texas."
"His name was Felix," I mumbled. "Felix Manson." Jitty's hearing was acute and selective. Death had given her the equivalent of bat ears. She heard exactly what she wanted.
"And that didn't give you a clue, did it?" she asked.
"It wasn't his real name, anyway."
"Uh-huh," she said, puckering her lips in the way I hated. "He picked the name Manson. That tells me a lot. If you had half a brain, it would tell you plenty, too. But you were too busy being excited by him to notice something like that."
It was time to move on. Jitty was ruining my meal with her memory. Felix Manson had been a mistake, but I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her.
"I have to do something to earn some money fast, and this opportunity has presented itself. Now eat your dinner and quit finding fault with everything I do."
"Uh-oh, company's coming." She vanished before I could say another word.
The doorbell chimed and I peeped out the window, shocked to see a young black woman holding an infant. Jitty's relatives? I wasn't aware that she'd had children.
It wasn't until I opened the door that I recognized Tammy's daughter and the infant named after my home.
"Claire!" I swung the door wide and opened my arms.
She stepped into them with a smile. "Miss Sarah," she said, ducking her head in the old, shy way. "This is Dahlia," she said, holding out the infant.
Babies are not of particular interest to me, but I took Dahlia and was surprised to see her smile. "Come in, Claire. I was just having some dinner. Come eat with me.
"Mama already fed us," she said, grinning, "but it's Thanksgiving. I can make room for a little more."
A person with a lot of relatives can eat eight or ten times on big holidays. Although most people serve the traditional foods, there are subtle variations that make sampling one of the joys of life.
Claire stopped at the table, noting the place settings for two. "Are you expecting someone?" she asked.
"I had a hunch someone might stop by." I waved her into the other chair, handed off the baby, and began to fill her plate.
We chatted about the baby and her schoolwork, which she assured me wasn't suffering. I watched her closely. She was too thin. The baby had cost her deeply, though it was clear to see she loved the child. I didn't ask about Dahlia's father. If there was anything to tell, Claire would get around to it.
"I guess you're wondering why I came," she finally said, pushing her empty plate away.
"You don't need a reason to visit me," I answered.
"I've got one." She modestly lifted her shirt to feed the baby, who'd begun to fret. "It's Mama. She's worried about you." Claire's soft brown eyes held mine. "She thinks you're in some kind of danger. She had a dream."
"What kind of dream?" I meant to say something about her dream being ridiculous, but curiosity won out. I wanted to know.
Claire shifted the baby slightly. "She said you were doing dangerous things." Claire took a breath. "Miss Sarah, you've always liked to have adventures, but whatever you're doing now has got Mama really upset." She took another breath. "I'
ve already worried her sick."
"I'll talk with her," I promised.
"What are you up to?"
"Nothing dangerous, I swear." She drilled me with those big eyes. "I'm looking into an old scandal. Something that happened twenty years ago. None of it matters now, except to the woman who's paying me. And I need the money. But it isn't dangerous. Everyone who was involved is either dead or has moved away."
"Some buried things stink bad when they're dug up," she said.
"It's not like I intend to publish it in the newspaper. This is for a private client." I liked the sound of that.
"You're determined, aren't you?" There was resignation in her voice.
"I need the money, Claire. If I don't earn some cash, I'll lose Dahlia House."
She looked around her, perhaps remembering the months she lived with me when Tammy was having her own personal problems.
"This place has belonged to your family since it was built. Over a hundred years."
"That's right." I was pleased that she'd troubled to remember some of the stories I'd told her.
Her smile was gentle and suddenly wise for a seventeen-year-old. "Mama thinks I'm a victim of her past," she said softly. "She doesn't want to see you become a casualty of yours."
"We're all victims of our past," I said. It was a hard way to look at things, but it was true. History, genetics, environment—not much room left for the old free-will principle.
"Don't let this big old house be the death of you, Miss Sarah."
"Did your mother tell you to say that?" I smiled so that she'd know I wasn't angry.
"No, not exactly." She pulled the blanket tighter around little Dahlia and shook her head. "She told me to leave you alone. She said if I talked to you it would only make you more stubborn." Her lips hinted at a smile as she watched for my reaction. "I came because I wanted to see you, and I wanted you to see Dahlia. Mama is part of it, but I wanted to see for myself."
"And are you reassured?" I cut the pumpkin pie and slid a piece onto a crested Delaney saucer.
"No, I'm not reassured. I'm more worried. This man you're investigating, Hamilton Garrett. You should talk to Mama again. She hasn't told you everything she knows."
"Tammy never tells everything she knows." I placed the pie in front of Claire. "Pumpkin pie is the best possible nutrient base for breast milk. Eat up."
I caught her by surprise and was rewarded by her full laugh. Claire had always been a delight, and I could see that she was growing into a beautiful woman.
She lifted the fork, and even with a baby in her arms she was graceful. Still smiling, she said, "So along with becoming a detective you've founded the Zinnia La Leche Organization. You're a busy woman."
"I try." I was glad the topic had been shifted from dark and dire. Even babies were preferable.
"Miss Sarah, do you know who my father is?"
The question was as effective as a mule kick. Tammy had never told me diddly about the father of her child. And she obviously hadn't told Claire, which, I suddenly realized, was what this holiday visit was really about.
"Tammy keeps her own secrets," I said. Telling the truth was easy when it fit my purposes. "She never said."
"Can you find out for me?"
I definitely didn't want Claire Odom as a client, not when it meant poking into Tammy's past. "I can't do that, Claire. I've already got one client, and I'm just beginning. I'm not sure I'm going to be good at this."
"You could do it as part of what you're already working on," she said, focusing on the baby that now slept in her arms. "For Dahlia, so she can know who her people are."
"Part of what I'm working on?" I didn't like the sound of that.
"I believe Hamilton Garrett is my father." Claire looked up at me. "I think that's why Mama is so upset. I think that's why she's dreaming of white sheets and blood."
7
Claire and Dahlia were gone before I recovered enough from the shock of her revelation to truly analyze what she'd said. There was no doubt that somewhere in the Odom line Africans and Caucasians had made the two-backed beast. Claire was exquisite, and exotic. But so was Tammy.
What was almost as interesting as Claire's heritage was my own density and callousness. I'd hardly given Claire's father a thought. Tammy had never been linked to any man. She was a girl, like many others I knew, who bore a daughter and who had no connection to the man who contributed a few million sperm to the process. Why hadn't I wondered more about this?
I knew the answer; I had assumed that even if she told me the name, I wouldn't know him.
So who was the father of her child?
Hamilton Garrett the Fifth didn't seem like the right answer, because he'd been spirited away to Europe. That didn't make a liaison between Tammy and Hamilton impossible—Hamilton could have made a return sweep through Sunflower County. But how would Tammy have met him? It was all a bit far-fetched.
For the first time, it occurred to me how alone Tammy must have been, a high school student, pregnant, knowing that her entire life had changed because of the child growing in her belly. She'd lived with her elderly grandmother, a responsibility rather than a protector.
Before the baby, Tammy was the best basketball forward the Zinnia Panthers fielded. She had hoped for a scholarship and even a chance to play on the Olympic team. It was her only possible ticket out of Zinnia, and she lost it with Claire. She had accepted that loss with a stoicism that, with brilliant hindsight, now amazed me.
I thought about paying Tammy another visit, but it was only a passing fancy. If she intended to reveal the past to anyone, it would be Claire, not me and my client, Tinkie.
But who was the father?
In light of Claire's supposition, I had to wonder two things: Had Tammy heard something specific from Hamilton regarding his return to Sunflower County; and were Tammy's predictions for Tinkie motivated by fact or some form of devilment?
The Daddy's Girls were not kind to those outside their clique. Tammy's pregnancy, when it became obvious, had been the source of several comments and jokes, but it had not even rippled the surface of the world where the Daddy's Girls lived. Some of the girls had been catty and cruel, but Tinkie had not been active in that number. Still, obliviousness can be a form of torture to those who live in exile.
"Your hands already look like a scrubwoman's. Soakin' 'em in that hot water's only making 'em worse."
Jitty had slipped into the kitchen. "I don't suppose you're offering to help?" I asked.
"Stay clear of the past, Sarah Booth. There's nothing you can do to change it."
"I was just thinking how the past shifts. It's one way when you're there, and completely different when you remember it."
"Thinkin' is a dangerous thing for women in your family. It leads to those deep, down, and dirty blue funks, and you know where those can take a woman." Jitty walked to the kitchen window and looked out into the clear afternoon. Beyond the sycamore trees was a stand of cedars that marked the Delaney cemetery.
I didn't want to think about my dead relatives, so I asked her, "Who do you think is the father of Claire's child?" Jitty knew as much as I did. Maybe more.
"Someone handsome. Claire is a looker."
That was true, but nonspecific.
"I can't remember ever seeing Tammy talk to a boy." As far as I knew, she'd gone home to tend her grandmother every day after school. The truth was, Tammy could have been carrying on with Brad Pitt and I wouldn't have had a clue. Our friendship was a daytime thing. Her evenings, I had assumed, were spent with Granny.
"The way I see it, don't matter who Claire's father is. That's not your concern. What Tinkie wants to know is about his white family. She's not interested in the colored branch, if there is one."
"Only because she doesn't know it exists," I pointed out.
"Why complicate a simple job?" Jitty nodded slowly as agreement lit my eyes. "No need to tell Tinkie everything you dig up. I think you should make a trip to Knob Hill."
"T
he house is empty."
"You could interview the help. Surely they had folks workin' for them. Gardeners, maids, mammies. Folks with that kind of money gone have somebody to do the daily chores."
It was a good idea, but I hated to give Jitty the credit. She was already too bossy. I checked my watch. It was after three, a good time for a visit. The tryptamines from the turkey would be kicking in and folks might be more receptive to a probing visit from a stranger.
"I think I'll take a drive." I picked up my keys and sauntered to the door.
"Don't go out that door!"
Jitty wanted her pound of flesh—to make me admit I was taking her suggestion. I jerked open the door, intent on evading her. Harold Erkwell blocked my escape.
"Sarah Booth," he said, his voice smooth and refined. "I was wondering if you might join me for a bit of fresh air. I thought we'd go for a drive."
Harold. I had an appointment with him. I suddenly remembered an old story about a man named Daniel Webster. It did not have a happy ending.
The reprieve from my financial woes was utterly temporary. I couldn't afford to alienate Harold completely. An intelligent woman knows that the management of the male is an art, but damn, manipulation was so time-consuming, and I had important things to do.
"That sounds lovely," I said, smiling. As Aunt Lou-Lane said, "A girl can catch more flies with sugar than vinegar," and once they're caught you can smash them flat with ease.
Harold offered his arm and I pulled the door closed after me, ignoring Jitty's smirk.
He opened the door of his Lexus and seated me. 1 had to admire his impeccable manners. I had gone to college with girls who disdained manners. What fools they were. Manners are the cocoon that softens the journey from youth to maturity. Many a bad moment can be soothed with the balm of courtesy. I could appreciate Harold for his gracious behavior, if nothing else.
I didn't question where he wished to take me. It's better to give men the illusion of control. There is nothing more exciting to a man with power than a Pliant Woman, a PW. There is nothing worse than a Willful Woman, or WW.
During the time when women could not own property or vote, men amassed the bulk of their power. Though women, especially in the South, did the organization and day-to-day running of the large tracts of land and plantation houses, the men owned them.
Sarah Booth Delaney Page 5
