Hallowed Bones (36 page)

"Right."

"Connie was always unbalanced. The rush of all those pregnancy hormones just pushed her over the edge. Did they send for Doc Sawyer?"

"Yes. He'd just gotten there."

"I could break Coleman's neck for calling and telling you this." She got up and paced the room. "Where's
Hamilton
?"

"On his way to D.C. He had an emergency. A Peruvian family was kidnapped and likely assassinated."

"Good Lord. You'd think people could behave for a few days and give you and Hamilton a chance." She tapped her foot with exasperation. "Well, you can't just sit there and mope. What are we doing next?"

I went over to the minibar and fixed us both a Jack and water. Tinkie was right. I couldn't just sit on my hands. I had a case to solve. "I need to use Oscar's computer, if he doesn't mind."

"Too bad if he does. I'll be right back." She whisked out of the room and was back in record time. She plugged in the laptop and motioned for me to take it over. In a moment, I had my e-mail pulled up and Kiley's message on the screen. The file she'd attached was easy to open.

In my duty as God's watcher, I have kept close tabs on Doreen Mallory.

She is a vile and contemptible woman. She flaunts herself,
using her beauty as a lure. Men watch her with lust in their hearts. She talks of God's healing love, but it is wantonness she worships. Even as I watch, she is leaving the Square with a man. She will take him to her bed and corrupt him. She will ride him until he moans and sends his seed into her.

Others see only her dark curls and flashing eyes, the perfection of her ripe body. But I see the truth. I see Satan unbound. She is unclean of spirit, corrupt of the flesh. She is a sign of the Antichrist. Hail, the Harlot has come unto the City, and the
Battle
of Armageddon will soon be fought, unless I take the necessary steps.

It is easy to see that Doreen Mallory is following in the footsteps of the mother. She can't deny her blood. She is accursed, branded with the blasphemy of her flesh. She is truly the spawn of Satan and must be destroyed.

"Tinkie!" She was reading over my shoulder and I turned and grabbed her hand. "Kiley wasn't lying. Adam did know that Doreen was his sister. On top of that, I think he may have killed Lillith." I reminded her of my visit with Coot Henderson and the phrase he'd overheard when he'd awakened to find Lillith's house burning.

"I don't know," Tinkie said. "Maybe it's a common phrase among that type of religious person. How old would Adam have been when his mother died?"

I did the math in my head. "In his mid-twenties."

She frowned. "It's strange that Adam knew about Lillith and Doreen. I give you that. But it's a long jump from strange to murder."

She was right; I was jumping to conclusions. But my gut told me I was onto something. The problem was that, though I may have solved Lillith's murder, it was no help in figuring out who'd killed Rebekah. Adam Crenshaw had been dead for four years.

"Kiley says there are other files. She wants to sell them to us."

"If you asked her to, Doreen would buy them. I just don't see the relevance. Adam Crenshaw's been dead for four years. He doesn't figure into Rebekah's murder, and that's what we need to focus on right now."

Tinkie was correct. I'd mention the files to Doreen and she could buy them or not. My big concern at the present was trying to find another suspect in Rebekah's death.

"As fascinating as Kiley's stash of trivia might be, we have real problems," I said. "Doreen lied about the baby's father. It's not the senator or Oren Weaver or Michael." I told her what LeMont had discovered about the DNA tests.

"Damn Doreen!" Tinkie was hot. "She needs to tell us the truth and she needs to do it right now. Grab a jacket. We're going to find her."

I did as Tinkie directed, and I followed her out of the hotel and into the streets of the French Quarter.

There was once a time when the tourist season meant June through September. These days
New Orleans
showed her stuff all year long. Music poured from the open doorways of bars, where kids churned in and out. It was one big party in a different location on each street corner.

Neon rippled down the streets as Tinkie and I dodged clusters of people. I was reminded of a
New York City
traffic jam, except there were no cars, only human bodies. We found a current of movement and followed through the worst of the logjam on
Bourbon Street
until we broke free.

"This has been great, but I'm about ready for Zinnia," Tinkie said.

I wanted to say something about her doctor's appointment, but I shut my mouth. Sometimes the best thing a friend can do is just zip it.

"Do you know where Doreen is?" I asked Tinkie, since she seemed to have a destination in mind.

"There was a meeting of the
Jackson Square
tarot readers. She mentioned it to me. It's in a restaurant just a few blocks from here."

I knew the Quarter well enough to get around, but Tinkie really
knew
it. I was happy to let her steer, but my mind kept slipping back to images of Connie in her house, holding a gun, blood splatter on a wall.

I was glad to leave those thoughts as Tinkie indicated a dark doorway with gold lettering that read Deja Vue Restaurant. It was the perfect place for fortune-tellers, I supposed.

It wasn't hard to find the gathering. I recognized several of the people from the Square, but as I searched over the faces, I didn't see Doreen. Starla waved to us, and Tinkie went to talk to her.

The place was loud, so I leaned against a wall and waited. I had no idea what Starla was telling Tinkie, but they both appeared to be upset. Tinkie had just started back toward me when the meeting was called to order.

"There's a move afoot to try and regulate the readers around the Square," a tall man in a black robe began. "We are gathered here tonight to discuss what our options are."

So it wasn't a social event but a movement. I liked the idea of an army of fortune-tellers picketing city hall. It was perfect for
New Orleans
. Instead of trouble, it would bring the tourists swarming.

"Doreen's in the Desire Projects. She called Starla just after you left," Tinkie said.

Desire was one of the toughest of
New Orleans
' inner-city projects. It was full of drugs and guns and anger. "What's she doing there?"

"Some kid. A gangbanger, from what Starla says. He's having migraines so severe that he's beating his head against the wall. Doreen's gone to see if she can help him."

"It would seem that Doreen has a death wish," I said, aggravated by her lack of common sense. Desire was a place where even the innocents got injured. The one thing I knew was that Tinkie and I weren't going there to look for her.

"Doreen believes people come into your life for a reason." She shrugged. "I don't think she looks at people or places as dangerous or safe."

"There's nothing else we can do tonight. We'll track her down first thing in the morning," I said.

"I guess we're at a dead end." Tinkie looked as glum as I felt.

The one thing I didn't want was to go back to my hotel room and wait. I dreaded the ringing of the phone, yet it was exactly what I was waiting to hear. We'd just started down the street when I heard the cell phone in my purse ring. I'd forgotten that I was carrying the darn thing.

"Aren't you going to answer it?" Tinkie asked.

Against my better judgment, I answered without even checking caller ID.

"Dahling, you'll never guess what I've discovered," Cece said.

"I hope it pertains to solving this case, because we're going nowhere," I said.

"That word written on Ellisea's Jaguar, well, it does have a meaning."

I frowned at Tinkie. "It's Cece. She's still on that Ellisea tear."

Tinkie took the phone. "Cece, it's time you just got over Ellisea. This is getting-- What? Okay, but this better be good." She held the phone so we both could hear.

" 'Chandala' is an archaic word that means 'outcast.' Like someone outside of society."

There was a long pause. "So," Tinkie finally said.

"'Outcast,'" Cece repeated. "Don't you get it?"

"No, we don't," I said, not even trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. "Cece, there are serious things happening in
Sunflower
County
and all over the world. Why are you so obsessed with Ellisea?"

"You shouldn't be so quick to make snap judgments," Cece said in her best take-me-to-task tone. "This is important, Sarah Booth. It bears indirectly on your case. But if you don't want to know, I'll just hang up."

"No!" Tinkie and I both shouted.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. It's just that Con--"

"Connie Peters is holed up with a gun, making everyone in
Sunflower
County
turn somersaults to placate her whims. Yes, I know. Dahling, don't be a fool. She's not going to hurt herself. She's crazy like a fox."

"You really think so?" I grabbed on to the thread of hope Cece cast my way.

"I'm positive about it. Think back to high school, Sarah Booth. Was Connie ever at the top of the pyramid? Did she ever do the really dangerous tumbling stunts? The answer is no. Connie always played it safe."

"But she's nuts."

"Not nuts enough to harm herself. This is all payment due from Coleman. She's just getting back at him, and she knows this is the most effective way to do it. It's public, it puts him in a place where he can't take action, and it lets everyone in the county know that he's... under her thumb."

"But is he?" I asked, thinking about his rental house and the fact that he had moved out.

"As long as she can injure that baby, he has no recourse but to dance to her tune. If it means sitting all day in his own front yard with medics and Doc Sawyer and everybody driving by and gawking, then that's what he's got to do."

"Enough about Connie, tell us what you found," Tinkie said with some impatience in her voice.

"It's simple," Cece said. "Ellisea Clay is a transsexual."

31

Once Tinkie and
I
had found a bar, ordered drinks, and had
a sip or two, we called Cece back and pelted her with questions. She'd done her homework and she had all the bases covered. The clincher was the birth records she'd dug up--for a six-pound eight-ounce baby boy, born July 12, 1966, to Henri and Callie Boudet and filed in St. Martin Parish. Another birth, for a daughter, was recorded for the Boudet family on that same day in Tangipahoa Parish. Cece believed the second record was false-- that Henri Boudet had used his influence to attempt to change history.

Cece had also put together the pieces of the tattoo parlor. The former nurse who ran it was dispensing hormone shots for needy "ladies." "You were a little bit of help, there, Sarah Booth."

"Glad to be of service."

"Before I break the story, I need to talk to Ellisea. I'll be in
New Orleans
tomorrow by lunch," Cece said.

"You'd better be careful," I said. "Even
Hamilton
was concerned for you. This sounds like a story the Boudet family has worked long and hard to keep hidden." That was a major understatement. I wondered how many bodies were in the
Louisiana
swamps because of Ellisea.

"Don't worry about me. I left a file of all my facts. If anything happens to me, the story will get even bigger play. It's in the Boudets' best interest to make sure nothing unpleasant happens to me."

It was pointless to argue with Cece. She had her teeth sunk in a story that would generate international attention. El, the face that launched the eighties and the fashion icon who had become a powerful senator's wife, was a deception. The public's insatiable lust for scandal would demand every gritty detail.

I didn't see the big deal. High fashion and politics were built on deception and illusion. I thought of Jitty and her constant lectures on the subject. What Cece needed was a good dose of Jitty.

"We'll see you tomorrow," I told Cece before I hung up.

Sitting across the small bar table from me, Tinkie looked depleted. Normally, she was a petite tornado of energy, and it hurt me to see her so down.

"Right now I can't bear to think about the trouble Cece's going to get in," she said with a sigh. "And we're at a total dead end on our case."

I had to agree. "We lost motive on our three prime suspects with the DNA tests. Other than that, Michael made some inappropriate investments. Oren Weaver is a fake, and the senator is married to a former man. Nothing really links back to Rebekah."

"Pretty dismal." Tinkie propped her elbows on the table and her chin sank into her hands.