Hallowed Bones (25 page)

My message light was blinking, but I called Doreen before I did anything else. She answered the phone at her apartment on the first ring, and I wondered if she was haunted by the memories of her daughter like I was sometimes haunted by my parents.

"I didn't find anything conclusive, but there is a possibility that someone killed your mother."

"Who?"

"Coot
Henderson
said he thought she was talking to someone. Someone she called the spawn of Satan."

There was a long silence. "My whole family is dead," Doreen said. It was the first time I'd heard her sound even the tiniest bit defeated. "My mother and my daughter possibly murdered. One brother dead at childbirth and one drowned."

"I'm sorry, Doreen."

"How would my life be different if I'd known my parents and my brothers? If Rebekah had grown up to be a young woman?"

She was talking in the realm of the impossible, but I kept my lips zipped. Loss and grief were immune to rational thought. But she was right about the history of tragic violence that went core-deep in her family.

I had news for her that was either going to cheer her up or depress her more. "When I talked to LeMont last night, he'd had Rebekah's baby bottle fingerprinted."

"And my prints were on it." She sounded resigned.

"Yes, and Pearline's, and another set."

"Whose?"

"Oren Weaver's."

There was a pause. "That's impossible. Oren never saw my baby. He never once saw her. I made sure of that."

"Maybe he didn't just see her, Doreen. Maybe he murdered her."

21

After
I
hung up with an awakening Doreen,
I
listened to my
messages. Tinkie had gone over the Center's books and was having dinner with Oscar. There were several investments she wanted to discuss with her husband. Cece was at Shimmy Chang's, a Chinese restaurant/floor show that specialized in the city's most beautiful transvestites who sang, performed, and embarrassed patrons half to death. I could only grin as I imagined the fun she was having.

There was a call from
Hamilton
. All he said was, "I miss you." But it was the way he said it. There was an invitation and a promise in those three little words. A delicious shiver went over me, and I sprinted out the door to his apartment.

On the way to
Hamilton
's I thought about Doreen. She had at long last begun to believe that one of her lovers might have killed her baby. I felt a little guilty at robbing her of her innocence, but now she'd begin to take the murder charge seriously. Once she believed someone had murdered her child, healer or not, she'd want vengeance.

I bolted through the door of
Hamilton
's building, earning an amused glance from the doorman. Where had he been the first night I'd come to this place? I'd been in a sexual trance. Smiling, I pressed the elevator button. My cell phone rang.

Tinkie was breathless with excitement. "Sarah Booth, you have to see this. It's big. Really big."

"Can you tell me on the phone?" I heard the elevator glide to a stop.

"No. You have to see it."

The door whispered open. I looked longingly at the elevator that could transport me to the penthouse and
Hamilton
. Damn! "Where are you, Tinkie?"

"At Luna Blue."

It was a small cafe on the river. I could walk there faster than a taxi could get me there. "I'm on the way," I said. I left the building with a lot less spunk than I'd entered. On the way I telephoned
Hamilton
and told him I had to work. I waited tensely for his reaction.

"I'll leave the door open for you when you finish. If you're too tired, I'll see you tomorrow."

He said it with such grace. "Thank you,
Hamilton
." I hung up and headed past the gaudy T-shirt shops, the frozen-daiquiri places, the gay bars, the Western bars, the leather shops, and antiques emporiums. I crossed
Decatur
and found the heavy oak door of Luna Blue.

Tinkie and Oscar were at the bar. Oscar came forward to greet me. The kiss on my cheek was a real surprise. Oscar wasn't demonstrative. In the quick glance I got into his eyes, I saw they were shadowed with worry.

"Look at this," Tinkie said, waving a document at me.

The light in the bar wasn't the best, but Oscar provided an intense penlight that made the numbers jump off the page. I could see them; I just couldn't understand them. "Please explain."

"Oscar found it. It's an investment line that's listed as Doreen's IRA."

"And?" The only thing wrong with that was that a tarot card reader in
Jackson Square
had an IRA. I didn't.

"It's the companies the money is invested in. One's a munitions manufacturer. Another is one of the biggest polluters on the face of the planet."

That was a little strange. Doreen was one with the universe. She didn't want to shoot it or pollute it. "Maybe Doreen doesn't know. I mean, a lot of people don't have a clue what the companies they invest in do."

"True," Oscar said, "but I looked over the books and I can't find out where the money came from. It's just there. I have no doubt Doreen earned the money, but it's just a little irregular. And guess who's listed as the beneficiary?"

"Michael?"

"On every single policy." Tinkie couldn't help but be smug. She'd done a fabulous job.

"The plot thickens," I said, telling her about Oren Weaver's fingerprints. "Now we have great motivation for each of them."

Tinkie's brow furrowed. "But who else would Doreen leave her things to? She hasn't any family. Perhaps it's all legitimate. Maybe she trusted Michael to continue with her work."

She had a point, but it would be interesting to hear Michael's answers and compare them to what Doreen said.

"Tinkie, you did an excellent job," I said, hugging her. I even got Oscar to unbend a little more when I gave him a hug and thanked him for his help.

I was about to make my exit and return to the arms of
amore
when my cell phone rang again. I hated the dratted thing.

"You'll never believe what that bitch Ellisea has gone and done." Cece had lost the veneer of sophistication she loved to convey. "Where are you?"

"Luna Blue."

"I'm right outside. Call Tinkie. We need a powwow."

"She's already here."
Hamilton
would have to wait a little longer. Sisterhood came first.

Cece breezed into the restaurant, bellied right up to the bar, and ordered a giant green goblin. "Not a word until I have something to drink," Cece ordered, waving us back from her.

I eyed the drink with some suspicion as the bartender mixed it and put it in front of her. She peeled a straw and proceeded to suck the entire concoction down. I was truly impressed.

When the last drop had been hoovered into her mouth, she turned on her bar stool and addressed us with her famous poise. "Dahlings, I've had the most traumatic evening."

The drink had revived Cece's decorum and a bit of her color.

"What happened?" Tinkie didn't beat around the bush.

"I was at Shimmy Chang's." She rolled her eyes. "Those gals are too much. I have to say even I was a little shocked."

"Go on," Oscar put in impatiently.

"Well, who should show up but Ellisea Boudet Clay. At Chang's! And she was outraged that I was there."

"How did she know you were there?" I asked, realizing there was more to this story than Cece was volunteering.

"Because I confronted her about that charity auction. I walked right over to her, and I told her that I knew what she was doing and why."

Cece was a woman now, but the vestiges of the balls she'd once had came through. I gave her arm a squeeze.

"What did she say?" Tinkie asked.

"She gave me this cold stare, like I was dog poo on her shoe.

Then her lip curled"--Cece demonstrated, showing perfect teeth--"and she told me to get lost or I'd be sorry."

"That's it?" I was disappointed.

"No, because I refused to go. I asked her why she'd tried to blackball me. I wanted to hear her say it. She denied she'd done it, and then this man came up to the table and she flipped out. She called me the most vulgar name. I retaliated by saying the name of her electrolysis clinic. That's when she lunged across the table."

We were all leaning forward in our chairs, even Oscar. "And?" he urged.

"And that man caught her by the arms and restrained her. She was spitting and hissing at him and telling him that he'd pay for touching her. That he was just a 'backwater dick' that her father had 'pulled from the slime.'

"He told her that her father would be furious if she created a public scene. He said she had a lot to lose."

"He was a private investigator?" I was intrigued.

"No, he's a cop. His name's LeMont. She called him by name." She grinned.

"
Arnold
LeMont?" Tinkie asked.

Cece shrugged. "She only used his last name. About six feet, dark hair and eyes. Maybe forty. Could be attractive, but something predatory in the eyes."

It was a perfect description of the police detective handling Doreen's case. And now he was dining with one of my suspect's wife--and obviously sharing a long history, if Cece had heard accurately, which she always did.

"What was Ellisea doing in Chang's?" I wondered aloud.

"I think she went there to meet that cop, because she knew no one on the social calendar would be caught dead in a restaurant full of transvestites," Cece said. "She thought she was safe there."

I gave Cece a power hug. She might never make the social register of Daddy's Girls or their
New Orleans
counterpart, but she was the real thing, through and through.

I was about to make my withdrawal from the group once more when the evil little gadget in my purse rang again. Desperate to get to
Hamilton
, I checked the number. It was from a local pay phone. With a sigh, I answered.

"I need to talk to you," the male voice said. "Right now. O'Flaherty's on
Toulouse
."

The line went dead. I looked at my partner and my friends. "Speak of the Devil," I said. "LeMont wants to meet me."

The detective's connections to the powerful Clay family were well worth looking into. The senator was a prime suspect, and Ellisea had the temperament of a cold-blooded assassin. Would she kill a baby to protect her position and power? I didn't have a doubt she'd eat her young if they got in the way of her ambition.

LeMont's investigation had been sketchy at best. He'd fingered Doreen and looked no further. Perhaps it was a simple rush to judgment, or it could be something much darker--a frame. If LeMont was owned by the Boudet family, there was no telling what he'd do to protect the senator or his wife.

Add to that the fact that LeMont had stayed on the case instead of turning it over to a juvenile officer, the normal procedure. The detective had claimed a juvenile detective wasn't available.

I hadn't told LeMont that I suspected Thaddeus Clay, but if he was owned by Ellisea, I didn't have to tell him. She would have. Which complicated everything.

Despite the protestations of my chums, I went to the bar alone. Since it wasn't far, I walked. My thoughts turned to my casual turn of phrase. "Speak of the Devil." "Spawn of Satan." Remarks with religious overtones were embedded in our language. But who could Lillith have been referring to? My gut told me that the answer to that would reveal some important facts. The trouble was, I didn't have a way to find that answer. The physical evidence of the fire had long been destroyed.

The only thing that remained of Lillith was her tomb. I stopped and a throng of Japanese tourists piled into my back. I apologized and stepped into a doorway to think.

The gravestone depicted Lillith surrounded by flames, just as Coot had described her standing in the bedroom. But Lillith had died of smoke inhalation. So she had never stood in the flames. Had Coot, in a moment of guilty remorse, paid for the tombstone? It was a question that needed an answer.

I whipped out my evil cell phone and dialed the Sunflower County Sheriff's Office. It was late and Rinda Stonecypher had long gone home, so I wasn't surprised when Coleman answered. I got the impression he went home as little as possible. That thought was a barb in my heart.

"Did Coot pay for Lillith's stone?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"Will you ask him?"

"I'd do almost anything for you, Sarah Booth."

LeMont was in
a far corner of the bar, the long work week showing in his posture. Not twenty feet from him a dart game was going on, to raucous cheers. Across an alley, Irish music wafted out of a second bar. A golden voice sang a sad ballad.