Hallowed Bones (9 page)

We stopped in St. Francisville for breakfast, Tinkie still complaining that I made her leave her Cadillac and ride with me in the roadster.

"Oscar's coming down in a day or two. He can bring your car,"

I pointed out as I parked beneath the shade of a huge live oak laced with Spanish moss.

"I hate being without wheels." She got out of the car and stretched. An eighteen-wheeler that was passing the small cafe let out a blast on its air horn. The driver shrilled a wolf whistle at Tinkie. She was in a far better mood when we sat down at a small Formica table and placed our order for eggs and bacon.

I'd already filled her in on the case files I'd read and Doreen's unholy trinity of lovers, and over breakfast I told her about Mollie's hands. As amazing as the story seemed to be, I wasn't prepared for the slightly breathless, glazed look on Tinkie's face.

"Doreen is a healer," Tinkie said in a voice soft with wonder. "She really is. I sensed something about her."

"I don't know, Tinkie." I'd seen the evidence, but overnight I'd had plenty of time to think of other explanations.

"How can you not know, Sarah Booth? Mollie's hands were terrible. She had to give up sewing and she loved doing that. One doesn't give up the thing one loves because it hurts a little."

"You're beginning to sound like Cece with the royal 'ones.' "

"You have no faith, Sarah Booth." She was stricken by her own assessment. She put her fork down on her plate. "You don't believe in miracles at all."

"Guilty as charged." I tried another bite of egg, but my appetite was gone, too. "And I don't believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. So sue me."

But Tinkie wasn't in a litigating mood. She was, instead, sad. "Maybe that's why Doreen has come into your life," she said, "to teach you to have faith."

I picked up the ticket and pushed back my chair. I wasn't in the mood to be the recipient of someone else's charity, especially in the faith department. "I'm perfectly fine just as I am."

"I'll get the tip," Tinkie said, effectively ending the discussion in a way that made me suspicious. Tinkie never dropped a debate so easily. "What are we doing first when we get to
New Orleans
?"

"Checking in with the NOPD and seeing if Doreen has made bond. Then we need to interview the men she's been seeing. Do you have a preference?"

"Yes," Tinkie said sweetly. "You talk to all of them. I'll go through the financial records. Oscar said the baby was too young to have an insurance policy, so that's not a motive. But there might be a monetary reason someone wanted to frame Doreen and get her out of the way. Some kind of financial impropriety. Interview Michael Anderson last. Maybe by then I'll have something for you."

It was a brilliant offer, and one I snapped up. "You've got it," I said, wanting to hug Tinkie. More than televangelists, I hated math. But so did Tinkie. So why was she taking the grunt work and offering me the plum? I didn't intend to question this form of charity.

The entrance to
New Orleans
, from the south or east, crosses
Lake Pontchartrain
. As we drove over the huge lake, Tinkie talked about the Black and Orange Ball. I learned that it had been created as a mockery/salute to the Truman Capote Black and White Ball. Only at the Black and
Orange
, the guests were required to wear masks that could not be removed until
midnight
under penalty of being deleted from the guest list--forever.

Listening to Tinkie talk about past intrigues and romances that were Black and
Orange
legends, I felt a creeping excitement. Mollie had taken my measurements and assured me that my dress would rival anything there. I had ultimate faith in her. She'd have it ready in plenty of time, and it would be magnificent.

"We'll have to go to Dillon's Dominoes and get masks. Something with feathers!" Tinkie said, ticking off her list on her fingers. "And shoes! There's a terrific shop uptown. Walking into that store is an erotic experience. The beautiful design of the shoes, the smell of new leather." She sighed.

I was tempted to tease her that our visit to the jail would also be a visual and olfactory experience, but I didn't. Tinkie's pleasure was too pure to taint with an uglier whiff of reality.

We swung over the city, viewing the
New Orleans
business district of high-rises in the distance. We exited the interstate and looped down onto Canal, one of the boundary streets of the old French Quarter. Parking is always at a premium in
New Orleans
, and fortunately the hotel garage offered both convenience and security. We still had plenty of time for a leisurely lunch after we were registered and had been shown to our individual luxury rooms.

The saying is that there are no bad meals in
New Orleans
, and it's almost true. You have to hunt hard for bad food in
New Orleans
. We ate shrimp and oyster po'boys at a restaurant that had once been the site of slave auctions, then took a cab to the NOPD district that was handling the investigation of Rebekah's murder.

Detective LeMont was at his desk, his dark eyes cool as he recognized me. I introduced Tinkie as my partner.

"Arraignment is tomorrow morning," he said brusquely. "The DA is going to ask for a high bond."

"Why?" I asked, going into battle mode.

"She left town once. She has access to money." He leaned forward. "She's a nutcase. Her baby has been murdered, but it's okay, because 'death is just a transition.' She's just 'energy that will never be lost.' "

Oh, great. Doreen had really pissed this guy off. Tinkie stepped into the challenge with the sweetest of smiles. "It does sound a little unbelievable," she said, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. She gave him a troubled look before the full, lush lip popped out. LeMont was mesmerized. "Doreen has to believe her baby is in a better place or else this would kill her. Maybe all of this talk is just a defense mechanism. But she isn't going to run away from this. Remember, she wasn't under arrest or even suspicion when she went to
Sunflower
County
. And she didn't resist when the sheriff picked her up. She's willing to cooperate, because if someone did kill her baby, she wants that person to pay."

"There is no
if.
Rebekah Mallory was murdered." He stacked a pile of file folders, which slid back over as soon as he put them on his desk. "What can I do for you ladies?"

"We need to speak with Doreen."

"We're not running a hotel here. She's been with her lawyer all morning. Now the two of you are here. I should be her appointment secretary."

Perhaps it was just in LeMont's nature to grouse. Some men were like that. I gave him a smile. "We can't do our job if we can't talk to our client."

"And I can't do my job if you people keep interrupting me. There are other crimes to be solved, you know." He handed me a slip of paper. "They'll let one of you see her. Only one. Now I've got work to do."

We were dismissed, and we stepped out into the hallway. I looked at the paper, which bore the address of the city lockup. "I'll go talk to Doreen," I said, wanting to spare Tinkie what I knew was going to be a bad scene.

"No, I want to see her." Tinkie put a hand on my arm. She was dressed to the nines in a sienna silk pantsuit. Her suede heels were a perfect match.

"You aren't exactly dressed for the jail," I noted in a low voice. I'd opted for jeans and a blue sweater.

"Don't you worry about me." She took the paper from my hand. "I need to talk to her about her books. And I want her to tell me a little about Michael Anderson."

I nodded.

"I'll try to get her take on him." She grinned at me. "Other than the fact that he doesn't believe in love."

In truth, I was itching to talk to both the senator and the televangelist. I didn't care which one I got to first. Guilt made me stop in my tracks. "Are you sure, Tinkie?" I had a horrible picture of her walking down a line of cells while some pervert hurled bodily fluids at her, a la
The Silence of the Lambs.

"I'm your partner, not your little girl. I can do this. No one's going to bite me."

Yikes. Tinkie was touchy this morning. Maybe she'd caught it from LeMont. "Okay," I agreed as we walked out onto the sidewalk. I waved down a taxi. Running the risk of her ire yet again, I held the door open for her and sent her on her way. Once she was gone, I pulled out my cell phone and began rounding up the numbers I'd need to get to both Oren Weaver and Thaddeus Clay. Michael Anderson would be last, per Tinkie's request.

Standing
on
the
shady front porch of the huge home, I listened to the somber tone of the doorbell. Senator Clay's residence showed all the traditional grace of the South. A maid opened the door and showed me in.

"Mrs. Clay will be with you in a moment," she said, indicating a formal parlor where I should wait.

"Excuse me, but my business is with the senator," I reminded her.

She gave me a sidelong look. "Mrs. Clay will be here momentarily." She was gone before I could raise another protest.

I took a seat and picked up one of the fashion magazines that featured the unmistakable image of El, the senator's wife.

She'd been a cover girl for
Vogue, Mademoiselle, Esquire, Modern Bride, Health & Fitness, Glamour, Paris,
and
Europe's
Trends
--every major magazine in the world. She was renowned on the runway and helped host the Cannes Film Festival each year. She was becoming a power to be reckoned with in the art world. And she ran the regional
United Way
fund drive. She was the perfect accoutrement for a
U.S.
senator with the ambition to be president. She'd taken Jackie O's attitude and put a spin on it that resonated with the culture of the new millennium--wealth, arrogance, and self-centeredness.

When she walked into the room, I almost stood. She commanded that kind of attention. I caught myself and waited for her to walk to me. Her gaze swept over me and one eyebrow lifted.

"Mrs. Clay," I said, extending my hand and giving her my name, though I knew she knew it. "I was hoping to talk to your husband."

"He's a very busy man. What's this about?"

"I'm sorry, I can't discuss this with you. I need to speak with him."

"His business is my business."

"I don't doubt that, but I have to talk to him." I saw the anger in her dark eyes. Her skin was flawless, her makeup perfection. She was very beautiful and very hard.

"I don't think he's available." She gave me a practiced smile that touched only the corners of her mouth.

"That's too bad. I was hoping to avoid taking this to the police." I rose.

"If this is blackmail, you can forget it. We don't pay ransom. I'll turn it over to my family. I'm sure you've heard of the Boudets." The smile was much bigger, revealing perfect white teeth.

"Oh, yes. Even over in
Mississippi
the Boudets are well known." I pulled a business card from my purse and handed it to her. "I assure you, your husband will wish he'd spoken with me. I know the way out."

I was at the front door when I heard someone behind me. The tread was heavier than the maid's.

"Ms. Delaney," a baritone voice called. "Please wait a minute."

I turned to see the very distinguished senator hurrying my way. "I apologize for Ellisea. She's just trying to protect me." He grasped my elbow. "What is it you'd like to speak to me about?"

Ellisea was probably lurking just around the doorframe. I had to use discretion. "It's a matter of religious principle," I said. "Separation of church and state. Ms. Mallory said I could count on you."

It was the use of Doreen's name that got him. He flushed and propelled me across the hallway into a book-lined study. He closed the double doors and turned the key. When he came around to stand in front of me, he'd composed himself. "What is this again, and forget the riddles: Just come out and say it."

"Doreen Mallory's been charged with the murder of her infant child."

He didn't register surprise, so someone else had told him. The skin beneath his sharp blue eyes was bruised-looking, and wrinkles were etched around his eyes and mouth. The senator had not been sleeping well.

"I hate to hear that. I enjoy Doreen's spirit. She believes very much in the things she teaches."

"So you don't deny knowing her?" I asked.

"Of course not. I've known her for over a year now. She's dedicated to teaching people. I've been one of her top projects."

"Do you deny sleeping with her?"

That stunned him. "She told you we were sexual partners?" he asked.

I took note of the fact that he didn't say they were lovers or were in a relationship. They were sexual partners. Doreen's gift of love hadn't grafted well. "Yes, in fact, she did." I got my notebook out of my purse. "You've been lovers since last summer. There is the possibility that you're the father of her child."