Witching Moon (24 page)

IT WAS TOO
early in the morning for a business meeting. But Paul Delacorte was responding to a summons from the most powerful man in Wayland. The message had been on his voice mail when he'd arrived at the office. He'd figured that he might as well get the interview over with.

James Lucas had apparently been waiting for him. The two men met outside the front door of the mansion next to one of the variegated ivy topiaries that flanked the wide entrance.

They eyed each other gravely. They weren't really friends. But they weren't enemies, either. Their skin color made them allies. Although they were of two different generations, they were both African American men who had done very well for themselves in the small town of Wayland, Georgia. Each was conscious of his position in the community.

They were both wearing uniforms that proclaimed their status. James, who was in his late fifties, was dressed in the neatly pressed black suit and crisp white shirt that his employer required him to wear. There were folks in the black section of town who thought that suit was a badge of oppression. He ignored them and had survived bigotry from both the black and white communities with grace and determination and an ability to keep his mouth shut when faced with stupidity from either race.

Paul, who was in his early thirties, wore the crisp navy blue police uniform and plain black trooper boots provided by the Wayland taxpayers. He and James had grown up in a different world. James had come from a generation where Negroes were considered to be inferior to whites for a variety of racist reasons, ranging from skull thickness to body odor. Paul had been born into a world where equality was supposed to be within reach, if you trod carefully among the tar pits and quicksand traps of life in a small southern town.

Ironically, each thought the other had gone too far in bowing to the subtle and not so subtle pressures that the white folks imposed on them. But neither of them would ever have voiced that opinion. They were allies in a struggle that remained on the collective radar screens of the African American community.

Paul might be the sheriff, but as the younger of the two men, he allowed James to take control of the conversation.

“I got a summons to the big house this morning. What's up?” he asked.

James lowered his voice but spoke in tones dripping with sarcasm. “The massa's scared,” he said, mocking a term of respect once used in slavery days.

“The field hands are rebelling?” Paul asked.

“Naw. I hear tell the witches have a grudge against him.”

“You got any idea why?”

“He don't confide in me.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I can get the straight story out of him.”

“Good luck.”

Paul had been summoned to the mansion a few times in the past. The last occasion had been when Barnette had wanted a police background check on the farm manager he was considering hiring. Paul had seen no harm in earning some brownie points by doing the town benefactor a favor. It had turned out the guy had a slew of DWI convictions, and Barnette had hired someone else.

“Where is he holding this audience, in the study or the conservatory?”

“Neither. You're in the front parlor.”

“Well, well. The black folks is comin' up in the world,” Paul muttered as he followed James inside.

The butler squared his shoulders and stood up straighter when he led the way down the hall to the house's main sitting room.

“Sheriff Delacorte, sir,” he intoned, as though he were announcing an important courtier to an eighteenth century English monarch.

Paul strode through the doorway, then stopped and studied the man sitting in a carved wooden chair that might have been a throne. It had been almost a year since their last face time. The patriarch of Wayland, Georgia, looked older and on edge, despite his studied casual air.

“I appreciate your coming,” Barnette said.

“Yes, sir,” Paul answered, hating the way he'd added that
sir
. But it seemed to come automatically out of his mouth when he was in this house.

“Have a seat,” Barnette invited.

Paul looked around at the uncomfortable furniture and selected a Chippendale chair about five feet from the master's throne, waiting for the man to say what was on his mind.

“I understand we have a situation in town,” he began.

“A situation?”

“Newcomers moving into the area and making trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“I expect you know what I'm talking about!”

“I'd like your perception, sir.”

Barnette permitted long seconds to stretch before allowing, “You know that over the years, we've had some unfortunate…incidents.”

He paused, but Paul remained silent and remained sitting quietly in his chair, although his pulse rate had picked up. He knew very well what the last unfortunate incident had been. It was decidedly different from what was happening now. Did Barnette recognize the difference?

The old man spoke again. “Things have been quiet for a while. But we both know there have been people in town who…” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Whose behavior doesn't conform to the community norm. Or any other norm. I expect that you're alert to that?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, sorry that they were still tiptoeing around the subject.

“Down through the years, there's been a history of incidents involving those people and the rest of us.”

Paul nodded, thinking that what Barnette meant was that homicide had been committed here. Out of fear and hatred.

Barnette rocked in his seat. “What happened was…documented.”

Paul blinked. “You mean murder? You mean somebody was stupid enough to write it down?”

Barnette's face contorted. “We're talking about papers that were supposed to be destroyed. Apparently, they ended up in a locked safe at the historical society.”

“Is that what the break-ins were all about?”

“Yes. And I wouldn't call it murder.”

“What would you call it?”

“Self-preservation.”

“We have a different interpretation of the term.”

“I believe your daddy and I saw things the same way,” the old man snapped.

“I'm not my father,” Paul said in a low but firm voice. “I don't sweep homicide under the rug because that's what the white folks want me to do.”

A flush spread across Barnette's wrinkled face. “That's not what I'm asking.”

“What
are
you asking?” he inquired, keeping his voice low and even.

“First, that you recover the stolen property.”

“I'm doing my best. But we have no leads.”

“You know as well as I do who took those records.”

“Do I?”

“Troublemakers who have moved into the area. New people who…who are connected with families that might have lived here at some earlier time. I want them brought to justice.”

“I don't have much to go on,” Paul repeated.

“You have employment applications. Real estate transactions. Phone records. Credit receipts. All kinds of information.”

“I've made a start on that. But I don't have the resources to go through months of random civil records with little hope of finding anything useful.”

Barnette snorted. “I can provide the resources.”

Paul raised an eyebrow.

“A special grant to the sheriff's department. More money for additional personnel. You run the department with eight deputies. That's not much manpower.”

So the old man was paying attention to things like staff numbers. What else was he into? “The offer of additional money is very generous of you, sir. But we can't hire personnel off the streets. Officers must have special training for their jobs. According to our charter, we can only take candidates who have graduated from the state police academy or who have been working in law enforcement.”

“I thought you'd give me some excuse like that!”

“I'm willing to hire suitable candidates after a thorough background check.”

“Which means it will take months.”

“I'm afraid that's so. When sheriff's departments skip that step, they can wind up with felons on the payroll. That happened in Dade County, Florida, not too long ago.”

Barnette's eyes narrowed. “Well, I don't intend to make myself a sitting duck. I'm hiring a private security company. I'm starting with two men right here.”

“At your estate?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have some reason to worry about your personal safety?”

“No more than any other normal citizen of Wayland.” He made a throat clearing noise. “I'd appreciate your keeping me informed on what you find out about any troublemakers in town.”

“I'm afraid I'm not authorized to do that, sir.”

“Yes, well, perhaps we should elect a sheriff who's more cooperative. When are you up for reelection?”

“Next year.”

Barnette stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That soon.”

Paul ignored the implied threat and stood. “If there's nothing else, I need to get back to work.”

“Of course.” Barnette gave a dismissive wave of his hand, as if he was sending away one of the house slaves.

Paul pressed his palm against the side of his uniform pants, thinking that it was a good thing he was getting out of here before he lost his cool and said or did something that would make his daddy roll over in his grave.

As he left, James appeared in the hallway. They walked silently toward the front door, then exited onto the porch.

“Well?”

Paul looked around, wondering if the portico was bugged. He made a quick negative gesture with his head, then walked slowly down the steps. James followed.

“You're right. He's actin' like a cat on a hot tin roof. He wants me to find out who broke into the historical society.”

“I guess that old lady, Mrs. Waverly, has her skirt in a twist.”

“It's more than that. What I got out of the conversation is that somebody kept some notes on who did what to whom over the years.”

“You're kidding.”

“No. Barnette thought they'd been destroyed. Apparently, he was wrong!”

 

USUALLY
Adam was up early. But exhaustion kept him asleep until long after the sun had risen.

He woke with a feeling of disorientation, followed immediately by a terrible tightness in his chest. The tightness eased when he found that Sara was still in bed with him. She was sleeping on her back. The covers had slipped part way down her chest, revealing the tops of her creamy breasts. He wanted to reach out and slide the sheet the rest of the way down so he could see more of her. But he held himself still, thinking he should be content with what the morning had given him.

Really, he thanked God for the morning's gift because he had been secretly afraid that Sara was going to disappear again.

They had cleared that hurdle. Now all he had to do was make sure he woke up next to her every morning for the rest of his life.

His right arm was in an uncomfortable position. But he was afraid to move, afraid to wake her. So he feasted on what he could see. The mass of blond hair spread across her pillow entranced him. So did the curl of her ear and the curve of her eyebrow.

Long moments later, he saw her lashes flutter, and his breath stilled. Her eyes opened, and he caught her momentary sense of confusion. Then she turned her head and looked at him.

“Good morning,” he whispered, shifting to ease the cramp in his arm and hearing the gritty quality of his own voice.

She gave a small nod.

“Thank you for being here.”

“I'm not going to run away again.”

The sense of relief was profound, followed by the need to pull her into his arms then, and make love to her all over again. But her next words stopped him.

“That isn't a promise that I'll stay forever.”

“What is it?” he managed to ask as he sat up and plumped his pillow behind him, giving himself something to do so he wouldn't have to meet her eyes.

She looked at him, then slid up carefully, pulling the sheet with her to cover her breasts. Then she took several moments to arrange her own pillow.

“A promise that I'm going to try and act like an adult, not a scared little girl.”

“Good.” He wasn't sure what else to say. What else to do. But he couldn't stop himself from reaching for her hand and holding on. He had gone to sleep wondering what he could say to influence her thinking. And he'd known it would have to be the truth. But the speech that had sounded so plausible as he'd silently rehearsed it last night now rang hollow in his mind. Still, he had to try and make her understand.