Hallowed Bones (10 page)

"No." He stepped away from me. "No, that's not true. I'm not the father. Rebekah isn't my child."

"How much did you know about the baby?" I asked. His reaction told me plenty.

"I knew she was born with a serious medical condition. I offered Doreen the best doctors in
New Orleans
, and she took Rebekah there. But there wasn't anything they could do. Rebekah was going to die, probably before her first birthday."

He had begun to recover his balance and he paced the room. "Doreen never said anything about me being the father. She never said a word. I'm positive it was someone else. Did she say it was me?"

I shook my head. "No." He was telling me so much more than he knew. "But she said you were a possibility."

"She had other lovers," he said, pacing once again.

"She told you that?" I kept my voice level.

"Doreen was forthright about her life. She felt no need to hide any aspect of it. And I am a cautious man."

I understood. "You had her followed."

He gave me a reproachful look. "I did."

"Who else was she sleeping with?" I had to be very careful here. I needed to know exactly what he knew.

"That's a question you should ask Doreen," he said.

My opinion of his intelligence notched up. "You had her followed but you never got a name?"

He walked to a crystal decanter on a sofa table and poured what looked like scotch into a glass. "Care for one?" he asked.

"No, thank you." It was bad form to drink with a suspect.

"I want you to do something for me," he said, coming to stand in front of me. "Doreen is a good woman. I don't know what's going on here, but tell her I'll help her any way I can, as long as she keeps my name out of this. I sent a lawyer to talk to her this morning. I'm picking up the tab for him and he's a good one. But she can't let my name get involved in this."

"What if you're the baby's father?" I asked.

"I'm not." There was iron in his words. "That poor, deformed infant was not my issue. As long as it stays this way, Doreen will have the help she needs from me. But if my name is so much as linked to hers--" He sipped his drink.

I tugged my sweater down my hips. I was ready to go. "Distancing yourself from that baby seems to be a very high priority, Senator Clay. I just wonder how far you're willing to go to keep that distance. As far as murder?"

This time no one stopped me at the door as I walked out into the October sunshine.

9

Compound was the proper term for Reverend Oren Weaver's
home. Chain-link fence with concertina wire secured the perimeter, enforced by armed guards who weren't the least bit discreet about the automatic weapons they carried.

Even though I'd called ahead and left my name, they made me get out of the car and stand in the bright sun. "What's the reverend afraid of? That hordes of the halt and lame will try to break in and get a free healing?" I asked.

The guards had no sense of humor. They held me at the gate for twenty minutes, but I didn't mind. I'd stopped by the hotel garage and gotten the convertible. Once they let me get back in my car, I pretended to take a nap in the warm October sun.

"Reverend Weaver says he doesn't have time to talk to you today," the guard said when he finally approached me.

"Tell him Doreen Mallory says otherwise. He can see me or he can see the police. And please tell him that I'll be sure and alert the media when the cops come calling." I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest.

It took another ten minutes and a pat down, but I was finally allowed to drive up to the "big house." Weaver's home, surrounded by smaller cottages, was classic
Tara
. I could only presume the hired help, or maybe the postulants, lived in the cottages. The grounds were immaculate, and I wondered how he kept the huge palm trees alive during the infrequent cold snaps that could strike the
Gulf
Coast
.

He met me in the foyer and made it clear with his body language that I shouldn't expect to proceed farther into his home. His height surprised me. He was over six feet, with a body toned and lean. Dark hair was combed back in a pompadour, and he bore a slight resemblance to Elvis Presley. In other words, he was a fine-looking man.

I'd expected Weaver to be wearing a white suit with a Panama hat, but instead he wore somber navy with a red stockbroker tie--rather conservative. Then again, I'd heard he was a big contributor to political causes that ranged from oil-drilling in the Gulf and
Alaska
to war as a means of economic recovery.

"Make it fast. I have to give an interview in twenty minutes and I need to go over my notes," he said without bothering to introduce himself. He was on television at least eight hours a week, from his own religious service to talk shows about the Second Coming to Christian investment opportunities and world news with a Christian slant. In other words, wherever the Devil was doing his dirty work, which was mostly in the right ear of all liberals.

"Where were you on the night of October first?" I asked, deciding to oblige him and make it fast.

"What?" He frowned at me. "You said this was about a woman named Doreen Mallory."

"It is. And about October first. Where were you that night?"

"Right here. Where I am every night, except when I'm on a healing tour."

If he wasn't genuinely puzzled, he was a good actor, which of course he was. But the date of Rebekah's murder didn't seem to register with him.

"What's your relationship with Doreen?"

"I've been counseling her," he said smoothly. "Doreen has tremendous spiritual potential, but she's caught up on one of Satan's side paths. She believes she can heal folks, but she doesn't believe her gift comes from Jesus Christ. I've been talking with her about the power of Jesus and how all things come from him. She has to first admit the source of all miracles before she can become a true healer."

I was fascinated by the spin he was putting on the time he spent with Doreen, especially since I knew that the form of intercourse he'd been having with Doreen wasn't talk therapy. "What, exactly, does counseling consist of?" I asked innocently.

"Reading the Bible and praying."

"And do you lay hands on her?" It wasn't my most subtle remark, and he narrowed his eyes.

"What are you doing here and why did Doreen send you? Is it money?"

"You could only wish it was as simple as money," I said, smiling.

"What are you talking about?"

"Doreen's in jail."

"What?" He was genuinely shocked.

"I gather you don't watch much television news, except for the headlines you generate."

"I hate reporters. They snoop where they don't belong and twist everything. Why's Doreen in jail?"

Once again, Oren Weaver seemed to be honestly surprised. But he'd also seemed sincere when he was lying about his activities with Doreen. "She had a child, a baby girl, about ten weeks ago."

"Yes, Rebekah. She told me about her. It was a terrible thing, that little deformed baby. Doreen should take note--"

"The child was murdered," I cut in. "Doreen's been charged."

"That's preposterous. Doreen wouldn't hurt that baby. She was terribly excited about having a child. Even after Rebekah was born, she spoke of her only with joy."

"Did you ever see the baby?"

He shook his head. "No. Doreen was very clear that Rebekah was her special child. She didn't want me to see her."

"Do you know who the father was?"

"Ask Doreen."

"I did."

I let that hang out there while he thought it through. It took only a nanosecond for it to strike home. Fear washed over his face, but it was quickly replaced with concern.

"I don't know who Doreen was involved with," he said. "She's a strong-minded woman. I always suspected that she charted her own course in the physical world, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, I know what you mean to imply," I said calmly. "You mean to imply that Doreen slept around."

"You'd have to ask her."

"But did she sleep around with you?" I asked.

"That's preposterous."

"Reverend Weaver," I said slowly, "the police have blood samples from the infant. It's a rather simple DNA test to prove paternity. Now wouldn't it look terribly suspicious if you denied sleeping with Doreen and Rebekah's DNA matched yours. That would lead me, and the police, to believe that you are a liar."

"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?"