Hallowed Bones (30 page)

"Illusion-slash-delusion," she said, shrugging her shoulders. The smile that touched her face was beautiful. "Delusion is an art form that brings only disaster. The worst delusion of all is self-delusion."

"And Zelda suffered from self-delusion?"

"I think it became her fortress."

"And Mother?"

"Your mother sometimes created an illusion. For effect. To make a point."

"But she truly didn't care if she aggravated people."

"That's only partially true, Sarah Booth. She cared about agitating you and your father. There were people she cared greatly about. And sometimes, those people needed what she liked to term a wake-up call."

"Grandpa and Grandma Baker?"

"That's right. She felt that they'd fallen victim to their own delusions of wealth and social standing and class. She didn't aim to hurt them."

"But she did."

"All I'm saying is that your mother may have adopted some of the exterior characteristics of the flapper. She was bold and outspoken and her own woman. She drank whiskey and danced with the man she loved in a way that certainly wasn't ladylike."

I couldn't help but smile, remembering Tammy's dream of my parents. They had been a little on the scandalous side when it came to their dancing.

"But beneath all of that was the real thing. She didn't self-destruct, because at her core she was a woman of substance. She didn't suffer from delusions."

"But I do," I said softly. "I'm talking to a ghost."

Jitty chuckled. "Sarah Booth, I'm the least of your troubles, girl. You have some hard choices, but it's our choices that define us. Just remember that."

She was gone.

I went upstairs, took my bath, and set the clock for five A.M. I had to get back to
New Orleans
and find the evidence that would free Doreen. There was another task that awaited me, too. I could no longer ignore the choices laid before my heart. To continue to do so might be to slip the moorings of happiness forever.

25

"Cece went home, thank goodness," Tinkie said as she sipped
her cafe au lait. "She had to be at work this morning." She bit into a beignet, leaving a fine dusting of powdered sugar beneath her nose. Without thought, she licked her lip in a way that made a waiter collide with a customer. Hot coffee flew, but no one was injured. I could only shake my head and smile.

"I didn't do that deliberately," she said, but there was a glint of pleasure in her eyes. Nondeliberate devastation of the male is one of the highlights of a Daddy's Girl's day. She'd wreaked havoc without intent.

"Coleman's keeping Sweetie in the jail for her term of incarceration."

"That's good for Sweetie, I'm just not sure it's good for you," she said. Her blue eyes probed mine, but I gave nothing away. "What about Coleman, Sarah Booth? What about
Hamilton
?"

"What about me?" I asked in a monotone.

"Yes. What about you, Sarah Booth? What do you want?"

"I don't have any answers. The best I can do is come up with more questions."

"You're going to have to do a little better than that. I think
Hamilton
may be falling in love with you."

I sighed.

"I guess I always viewed
Hamilton
as the unattainable man. He was the brass ring, something to reach for, but forever out of a woman's grasp. But I see him look at you, Sarah Booth, and I know that he can truly be yours. He's a good man. That's a big responsibility."

She gave me a chance to respond, but I remained silent.

"Coleman is a good man, too. I'm not trying to take anything away from him." She started to say something and then stopped. "Be careful. Both of them are vulnerable. They're men." She touched my hand. "You have the power to do a tremendous amount of damage."

"I never asked for that power."

"No. You didn't." She gave a crooked smile. "And that's the end of the lecture. What's on for the case?"

"Can you handle the Kiley matter?" I asked, eager to get off the subject of my love life. I'd told Tinkie about the widow's claim to Adam's share of Doreen's inheritance.

"Sure. I'll check with Doreen and see how she wants to handle it. What are you going to do?"

"Unless LeMont tells me differently, I'm driving to
Lafayette
." I checked my watch. "And soon. We've waited long enough for Pearline to come home."

Tinkie nodded. "I just have this nagging suspicion that she knows something."

"Maybe we're just desperate." I hadn't been able to shake my depression on the long drive back to
New Orleans
.

She shrugged. "Desperation is the mother of invention."

"Yes, when all else fails, quote Benjamin Franklin."

"Did he really say that?"

I laughed. "I don't know. Let's just say that neither one of us should ever try to get on a TV quiz show."

"Be careful, Sarah Booth. If Pearline's hiding, it's because she has a reason. Desperate people take desperate measures."

There was that word "desperate" again. Doreen would say the universe was giving me a psychic tap. Though I might be skeptical, I wasn't totally stupid. "I'll look out for 'desperate,' " I promised Tinkie. "If I see it, I'll duck."

She gave me such a dazzling smile that I felt blessed. "I love you, Sarah Booth," she said.

"I love you, too, Tinkie." Funny how easy it was to say to her.

"Girl power!" She held up her knuckles for me in the salute we'd created in second grade when none of the boys wanted to play with us. We bumped knuckles and went our separate ways.

At my car, I used my cell phone to call LeMont. To my surprise he didn't even sound surly.

"Pearline Brewer's giving a statement," he said conversationally.

"She's here, in
New Orleans
?"

"Yeah, I got a call about five o'clock this morning from another law enforcement... agency. It was a good tip. I sent a car to
Lafayette
with a warrant for Pearline as a material witness."

God bless Coleman. He'd followed through. "Can I talk to Pearline?"

"Sure. As soon as I've finished."

I didn't like the sound of that. Pearline was employed by the Clays. In all probability, so was LeMont. As fond as Tinkie was of old sayings, I had a favorite of my own: A man couldn't serve two masters. I didn't trust LeMont not to coach the witness to protect Ellisea or the senator.

I drove to the Eighth District, figuring I'd have at least a two-hour wait. To my happy surprise, LeMont motioned me back to his office. A petite woman with cafe-au-lait skin and espresso eyes looked up at me. In that strange, exotic swirling of cultures, Pearline Brewer was an exceptionally lovely woman. I guess I'd expected a maid to be plain or dowdy. Pearline could have been on the cover of any magazine. Her smile was shy.

"I've been waiting to talk to you," I said.

"My mother has been ill, yes," she replied in that strange cadence that was English, but not. I'd heard it along the bayous of
Louisiana
and sometimes the streets of
New Orleans
. It was lilting and beautiful and sometimes difficult to decipher.

"You were with Rebekah all evening before she died?" I asked.

I could tell LeMont had been over this ground, but he didn't interfere. Pearline gave a basic rundown of her evening. She'd bathed and fed Rebekah around six, as usual. This was normally the time Doreen came home from either the Center or the Square. But Doreen had called saying she needed to stay later, until eight. Pearline had willingly agreed to stay with the baby.

"She was a pleasure, yes," Pearline said. "Her smile was like being touched by God."

"Pearline, why were Reverend Oren Weaver's fingerprints on Rebekah's baby bottle?" I'd hoped to get her off balance with a sudden shift in direction.

From his desk drawer LeMont removed a plastic evidence bag that contained a baby bottle. It was the kind where fresh sacks of formula could be inserted. He set it on his desk.

Pearline looked down at the floor. "The detective has asked the same question,
cherie.
"

I glanced at LeMont. He shrugged. "I thought you might as well hear the answer with me."

Suddenly he was willing to let me play with his toys. I couldn't help but wonder why.

"So tell us."

"It will break Doreen's heart, yes." She bit her lip and lifted her dark eyes to mine. "Doreen could not help her baby. She prayed for Rebekah. She asked her god to help. But nothing happened, yes. I thought perhaps the true God could help Rebekah. Doreen was working a little late, so I took Rebekah to a revival meeting so that Reverend Weaver could heal her. I took that sweet baby to be healed, and that night she died."

Of all the answers I'd expected, it wasn't this one. So Oren Weaver had held Rebekah, possibly unaware of who she was and that she might be his own daughter. It was a bitter irony.

Pearline's soft sobs filled the office. "It was wrong. Doreen will be so hurt that I didn't trust her to heal her own child, that I took her to Reverend Weaver. But he's healed others on television. I've seen him. I thought it was worth a chance, yes, and I knew my little baby was dying."

"Did Reverend Weaver know this baby was Doreen's?"

Pearline's eyes were horrified at the idea. "Oh, no. I betrayed Doreen by taking her baby to another healer, but I would never have told anyone. I wouldn't tell now except the detective said if I didn't tell the truth I'd go to jail."

I put a hand on Pearline's shoulder and that's all it took. She began to sob in earnest. In a moment I was sitting beside her and she was wetting my chest with her tears.

"Everyone looked at that baby and saw only her deformities, yes. But I looked into her eyes and I saw an angel. She was sent straight from God."

As I patted Pearline's back and did my awkward best to comfort her, I felt a pure and righteous rage building in my own heart. Oren Weaver, the lying bastard, was next on my list for a personal visit.

Storm clouds were
building to the west as I drove toward Oren Weaver's compound. Doreen had been right about one thing; Pearline hadn't harmed Rebekah. Of all the people walking the planet, Pearline had never even seen Rebekah's medical problems. She'd seen only her spirit and had fallen in love with the infant.

The top on the roadster was down and I liked the cold, rain-promising wind that whipped into my face. The year when I was nine years old, I'd come to
New Orleans
with my parents. August was never a good month to visit a Southern city below sea level. While it's hot in the Delta, it's suffocating in
New Orleans
. And it's hurricane season.

A tropical storm that had stalled off the
Yucatan
Peninsula
for a week had suddenly picked up a twenty-mile-an-hour forward speed and roared into the coast of
Louisiana
as a class three hurricane. It had happened so suddenly that my parents and I hadn't had time to evacuate.

We'd stayed at the Royal Sonasta in the Quarter, and we listened to the howling wind and watched the sheets of rain from the safety of our second-floor room. What I remember most was the flooding. Because portions of
New Orleans
are below sea level, the storm had drowned the city. Streets were turned into Venetian canals. Things that had long been buried beneath the silty river bottom floated through main intersections. I'd decided never to find myself in
New Orleans
during another flood.

The rain clouds blowing up from the west were a long shot from hurricane clouds, but I was itchy to leave
New Orleans
. My skin felt as if it had been peeled back and salted, burning and rubbing in strange places.

The guards at Oren's compound were about as glad to see me as I was to see them. They dicked around with me for ten minutes before they let me through the gate--after a good pat down, of course. It was okay. Just another little score to settle when I finally faced Oren.

True to form, he met me at the front door with no intention of asking me in. I pushed past him and went to the cold den where several young men in suits were sitting in what was obviously a meeting.

"Get lost," I said.

They looked at Weaver, who'd walked in behind me.

"We'll continue this later. Take a fifteen-minute break," he told them. They got up like obedient robots and left the room.

"Ms. Delaney, I'm about ten seconds away from calling the police and having you charged with trespassing."

I handed him my cell phone. "Be my guest. Detective LeMont's probably on his way here now to question you."