Splintered Bones (17 page)

That tidbit of news did stop me in my tracks. "The last four nights?
Before
Kemper was murdered?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you."

I could imagine Cece moving her shoulders back and forth in that little maneuver that showed off her exquisite collarbones, and her impatience. "That makes him an excellent--"

"Suspect," Cece supplied. "Those Mafia types take it seriously when a debt isn't paid. For a little debt, they just break kneecaps. For a big debt, like what Kemper owed, it's death. They have to make an example of people who don't pay, so all the others are afraid and do pay."

"LaCoco was at the funeral. His man made a veiled threat to Lee." As mad as I was at Cece for playing Chuck Woolery in my life, I couldn't help but be delighted with her information. "Good work, Cece. Why weren't you at the funeral?"

"I had a little run-in with Mr. LaCoco at Millie's about half an hour before the funeral. I went in and started to ask a few simple questions about his business in Zinnia. It isn't every day that a gangster of Mr. LaCoco's repute visits a small town for a collection."

"What happened in Millie's?" Cece had a way of making a person beg for the punch line.

"Mr. LaCoco doesn't care for journalists," she said dryly. "One of the bodyguards, the least cute one, threw a plateful of biscuits and redeye gravy at me. I'm afraid that wonderful Dior suit is ruined."

"And I thought you were hiding from me."

"Moi?
Hiding? Whatever for?"

So she was going to play innocent. I could crack her, but it would take more time than I had. Besides, I was more interested in LaCoco. "Where's LaCoco staying?"

"There's only one place to stay. The
Holiday
Breeze."

"Excellent work, Cece."

"Thank you, dahling. One does the best one can. Now I have to dash. Kisses."

The line went dead and I replaced the receiver.

A
lthough in at
least a tiny corner of my heart I wanted to be a victim of love, slain by the power of romance, and addicted to passion, I also had an ulterior motive for speeding over to the Holiday Breeze. I hoped to get an up-close look at Tony LaCoco. John Bell Washington, blues man, was a good secondary reason.

Just now, the Breeze had more patrons than I could remember ever seeing there, with the exception of 1999 when the monster truck competition was held in Clarkesdale and Zinnia ended up with the overflow of fans.

I heard the slide guitar as soon as I parked the Mercedes near the motel office. I didn't have to ask the desk clerk what room John Bell Washington was occupying. My destination, and according to Jitty my destiny, was room 8.

Zinnia had once boasted one of the grand hotels of the South, the elegant old Sunflower Hotel. But it was long gone, and with it had faded the tradition of afternoon tea and the evening story hour. The Breeze was more a place of mid-morning Millers.

Built in the 1950's along the distinctive architectural lines of a prison, the motel was flat, low, and painted a monotone shade of gray-yellow.

The small, empty pool nestled between the V-shaped wings was depressing. Eighteen-wheelers roared by on 61 Highway--the route many blues musicians and blacks had taken north--blasting grit against my legs.

A red Chevy van was parked in front of room 8, and there were three other cars in the parking lot, one of them Tony LaCoco's Town Car. There was also a red Mustang convertible and, to my surprise, the gold Lexus I'd seen Mike Rich driving.

Just as I was pulling in, a silver Taurus pulled out. The strange, dapper little man I'd met in Cece's office, Nathaniel Walz, developer, was leaving the parking lot.

I tapped on John's open door and peeped inside. He was in a chair, guitar in his lap, singing the blues. He nodded and put aside the guitar. "Come on in, Sarah Booth."

There were twin beds in the room, both of them rumpled. He was rumpled, too, his dark hair unbrushed. He wore baggy shorts and no shirt, though his chest was not a bad view.

"How's the case?" he asked. "I'm fascinated by this private eye business."

"My friend's in a lot of trouble," I conceded. It was something of a relief to talk to someone who didn't know Lee, someone who might just respond to the case as a set of variables.

"So your friend owes Tony LaCoco a lot of money," he said, frowning. "Maybe LaCoco had her husband killed."

I liked the way this man thought. I also wanted to know where he'd gotten those details, so I asked him.

He pointed at the headboard of the bed. "Yesterday, Mr. LaCoco had his goon practicing the speech he was to give at the graveside. I hope after all that work that the delivery was good."

"Convincing."

John glanced at the bathroom door for a split second. "What are you goin' to do? The kid's stayin' with you, right?"

His drawl was soft and easy, a voice that could be a comfort. "Yes, Kip is with me. The sheriff is aware of the threats, and he's watching out for her."

"And what about yourself? Who's watchin' out for you?"

I couldn't help but smile back at him. "If you've read any mystery books, you'll know that the private investigator always looks out for herself. It's one of the rules."

John laughed. "I want to know more about the rules and regs of being a private dick. I don't normally like rules, but it seems you're workin' with some interestin' by-laws. When I was a kid, I wanted to be one of the Hardy boys. I didn't care which one, just so long as I got to get in on all the adventures."

John's voice was like a down comforter on a cold winter night. I felt myself relaxing, loosening up. "I read Nancy Drew
and
the Hardy boys," I told John. Although few would consider it a mutual literary heritage, John and I had more in common than most of my married friends.

"Have a seat," he said, nodding at one of the beds.

My gaze fell on the suitcase, a sort of floral-patterned bag with what looked like a bit of pink quilted robe poking out. "Why don't we go to Millie's and grab something to eat?" I was only slightly uncomfortable. Jitty had urged me to take a risk, but loitering in a motel room with a man I didn't know the first thing about went up hard against Aunt LouLane's oft-repeated code of conduct for a Delta girl.

"Sure," he said, putting his guitar in a case. "Food sounds good.

We had a big breakfast, but that wore off a while ago. Mother loves to eat."

It was no Daddy's Girl ploy when I repeated the word. "Mother?"

He nodded. "Mother always travels with me. Of course, she knows she can't go to the ball, but we can fill her in on the details when we get home. Since Dad died, she isn't interested in dating, but she enjoys meeting my friends."

Looking at John, I had no sense of danger, but my gaze slid to the bathroom, to the place where the shower waited so innocently. I couldn't help but wonder if the shower curtain was opaque or clear. I could feel my muscles tensing for action.

He gave me a puzzled look. "What's wrong? Mother will be out in a minute."

"John, where was your mother last night?" I asked as calmly as I could.

"Oh, she was asleep in the car. I wanted to meet you and see what you looked like. I mean, people do lie about themselves on the Internet. Some women I've met claimed to have an athletic build." He winked. "Yeah, right, sumo wrestling would be the sport. Now me, I never lie. What you see is what you get."

"What are you talking about?" I was torn between trying to figure out what he was saying and worrying that when I stepped outside the door, Norman Bates would probably be standing there.

"The Internet. Your profile. You know, where you tell what you look like, what you do, what movies you like. Yours was
V.I. Warshawski.
Not a terrific flick, but appropriate."

I suddenly
knew
what he was talking about. "What else did my profile say?" I asked.

His grin was charming. "Is this a test? You're thirty-three and hangin' by a thread, never been married, a blues lover, mystery reader, especially books by Kinky Friedman, and you're an equestrian."

And I knew where the profile had come from. Kip was in big, big trouble. All along I'd blamed this on Cece, but not even Cece would think of listing me as "an equestrian." "I'm sorry, Mr. Washington, but I didn't fill out an Internet profile. Someone else did this. You've been duped, and so have I."

He picked up his guitar and played a few riffs. "Sounds like we're talkin' the blues. Might be a song in this somewhere." He began to sing. "I profiled my baby, da-dah-dum. I found her on-line, da-dah-dum. But when I got to Zinnia, for a date she was dis-inclined!"

He was laughing as he put the guitar down. "So I guess the Chesterfield Hunt Ball is out of the question."

"I'm afraid so." I stepped through the door. "I can only promise you that there's going to be one very sorry teenager." I was eager to find Kip.

"At least meet Mother." He called out to her. "Hey, Mom, Sarah Booth's agenda has changed. Come out and say hello."

Good manners rooted me to the spot, though I only wanted to flee. When the bathroom door opened, a short, white-headed woman in a lavender plaid dress stepped into the room. She looked at John Bell and then at me.

"You must be the woman Johnny came to date," she said in a pleasant voice. "I'm his mother, Lydia Washington."

Having been haunted by a ghost, I knew the difference between a figment and a real, live human.
Lydia
was real enough, and a relief. But a line had been crossed in my mind that I could not step back over. "It really is a pleasure to meet you," I said. "Something has come up in the case I'm working on, and my plans have changed." He might be the most normal, kindhearted son in the universe, but I couldn't help it. I stepped further into the sunshine.

"Oh, dear," Mrs.
Washington
said. "I'm glad we didn't rent tails in
Greenwood
."

"I have to be going." There really wasn't anything else I could say.

The minute I walked out of the room and toward my car, the middle of my back began to tingle. Very slowly I turned around. One of the dark-suited men stood in the open door of room 10, next door to J.B.'s room. Tall and lean, the man watching me had worked on his physique, and not necessarily for aesthetic reasons. His gaze was hard and direct. He started walking toward me with intent.

"You're the one keeping the kid, aren't you?" he asked. He didn't give me time to answer. "I hear she inherits. You might want to remind her that Mr. LaCoco expects his debts to be paid. In a timely fashion. In this case, since the payments are so far behind, that means Mr. LaCoco would like his money yesterday." He grinned before he walked back in the room and closed the door.

I saw the motel curtain drop back into place. Someone inside the room had also been watching.

When
I G
ot
back to Dahlia House, Kip was in the kitchen. Pasta was boiling in a big pot, and she was stirring some delicious-smelling sauce on the stove.

"Do the names Malone Beasley and John Bell Washington mean anything to you?" I asked, standing behind a chair, my hands gripped on the back of it. I was angry and trying not to show it.

"Mr. Beasley was a mistake. He lied on his profile." The tiniest hint of remorse faded completely as she kept talking. "But John Bell Washington is cool, Sarah Booth. He'd be a great date. He had some of his music on his profile, and he's really good. He wants to help you with your cases. What could be better, a blues-singing private eye?"

"Kip, you got those men to come here under false pretenses. You tricked them, and you used me to do it. It's humiliating for them and me, and it was wrong."

She put the wooden spoon down. "I tore up Carol Beth's truck. That was bad, and I meant it to be. Going on the Internet for you wasn't bad. I heard everyone giving you a hard time. I know what it's like when everyone expects things and you can't make it happen like they want. I thought it would be great if you showed up with a handsome guy who was fun and cool. It would show them."

Maybe she was a great actress and maybe I was a fool, but my anger was leaking out. "You can't do things like that, Kip."

"I heard you talking to yourself the first night I was here. You were debating about going on-line to find a date. That's where I got the idea. It worked for Meg Ryan; why not for you?"

In her own way, Kip was paying me a compliment. "This is life, Kip, not a movie."

"What did it hurt? Beasley was a loser, but Mr.
Washington
would be fun. Why not take him to the ball?"

"In his profile, did he mention that he travels with his guitar--and his mother?"

Kip's eyes widened. "No!"

I couldn't help but grin. "Yes, he does. She's charming, and so is he, but just a little too strange."

She picked up the spoon and stirred the sauce some more, her total concentration on the bubbling pot. "I'm sorry, Sarah Booth. I really was trying to get your friends off your back."