Bone to Be Wild (25 page)

“Those exact thoughts occurred to me,” Harold said. “That's why I'm here. Oscar is doing his best to find out who's behind this conglomerate offer, but it's not as easy as it should be. Oscar took the call from a lawyer, Vito Martine. He is, naturally, refusing to disclose whom he represents. He merely says an ‘offshore interest.'”

“Which means the money has been stockpiled in the Cayman Islands or another country with thick privacy shields. It could be anyone.”

“Yes, that's true.”

“And if this conglomerate wants the club badly enough, they'd kill to force Scott out.”

“I don't know that, but I do know such tactics have been used before in high stakes investments.”

I signaled Harold to follow me to the kitchen before I burned the quiche to a crisp. Coffee was brewed and waiting, and I pulled the egg dish from the oven and put it on a trivet to cool while I filled two mugs.

“Where's Scott?” Harold asked.

“Asleep. He was dead on his feet. I couldn't relax, though.”

Harold stepped behind me and rubbed my shoulders, his strong thumbs digging into the tight muscles with just the perfect amount of pressure. “If these muscles ever truly relax, your head will pop off and splatter like a fat tick.”

“Thanks for the image.” It was gruesome but funny. “What's Oscar planning to do about the property offer?”

Harold ceased the massage and sat down across from me. “The entertainment center they're proposing would bring a lot of money into Sunflower County. Lots of money. They could put a facility anywhere in the Delta, but it's the location for Playin' the Bones they want. The legend of the crossroads at Pentecost and Sawmill roads. They asked Oscar to broker the deal with Scott, and they want an answer in twenty-four hours. They're offering six times what Scott paid for the club. He could get out of debt and start over.”

“I'm envisioning the Dollywood of the blues.” I wasn't being catty or sarcastic. The Delta was one of the most economically depressed areas in the nation. Such a vast development would bring jobs, entertainment, tax revenues. The theme park in the Great Smoky Mountains near Gatlinburg, named after a country singer I adored, had brought jobs, health care, better schooling, and much more to a very impoverished population. Zinnia would benefit from such a venture.

“There's an ugly side to it, potentially.” Harold played devil's advocate well. “This type of development kills off authenticity. It will become a mockery of what it intends to portray. Sanitized blues. Authentic music approved for the whole family. Soul food prepared in microwaves and served to those who don't know any better. Whenever you put profits ahead of anything else, what you get is … sad. But amazingly lucrative.”

“I can see that.” My concern was far more personal and immediate. “If Scott has to close the club for longer than a week, he'll lose it. Oscar's offered a loan, but Scott won't take it. He won't risk Oscar's capital. If Scott can't meet his mortgage, that'll open the door for the bank to sell the club to this huge concern.”

“I'm afraid that's true.” Harold wasn't happy. “Scott is over a barrel. The one bright spot is that he has the option of investors,” Harold said. “If someone with enough money to cover his operating costs steps in, that would buy him time to get past these murderous threats.”

“Yes, but a partner brings other complications.”

“I know.” Harold wasn't there to sugarcoat things. “Any leads on who is killing off his friends? If you and Tinkie and Coleman could find out who's behind the attacks…”

“I turned up something, but I haven't determined if it's a solid lead.” I told him about Zeb's financial problems and the sudden reemergence of Wilton Frasbaum in Scott's life and business. “The folks behind this club take-over have the most to gain, financially, and money is generally the most reliable motive for murder.” But why not just kill Scott and be done with it? That would accomplish the same thing and with far less bloodshed. “This doesn't parse. None of it fits. Not the international investors building Bluesorama or the Memphis gang connection to Zeb, or the idea a lone wolf is stalking and killing men for cheating or some kooky religious belief where women are second class and music is Satan's tool.”

“I agree, Sarah Booth. But we work with what we have. By eliminating suspects, we are accomplishing something. I'll try to break down the shield of protection on this conglomerate, but it's difficult even when the government steps in. It takes time.”

“And that's the one thing Scott doesn't have.”

“Any news on Mike Hawkins?” Harold asked.

“HIPAA laws—they couldn't tell us much. If his condition heads south, Doc will call, though. He can't give details but he can warn us to be there.”

“I should return to the bank.” Harold leaned down and kissed my cheek. “You'll figure this out and save the day. I have complete faith in you.”

Harold's words warmed the cockles of my black little heart, but they were also a burden to carry. I didn't have any magic or even leverage. It occurred to me that when Graf left, he might have taken my detective mojo right along with my heart. What if I now sucked at PI work? My only marketable skill might have evaporated.

“Sarah Booth, are you okay?”

“I'm not sure.”

Harold pulled his chair beside me and put an arm around me. “You've had a rough few months. Why don't you call Doc and check on Mike? Oscar and I will put our heads together and take this offer apart. Maybe we'll be able to trace it back to the people behind it. If Coleman has to call in the feds, I think he can make that happen.”

Harold was doing everything he could to reassure me. I had many good friends, but Harold had turned into the staunchest supporter of my PI work. And for Tinkie, too. He valued what we did, and he viewed our abilities as true talent, not just as Lucy and Ethel floundering into a resolution.

“How's Roscoe?” I had to get the focus off me.

“Feeling much friskier. He's supposed to stay quiet for another week, but it's driving him nuts, which means he's driving me to drink. Heaven forbid when the vet cuts him loose from restricted movement. I fear for those in the vicinity.”

I didn't doubt it for a moment. Roscoe terrorized people he didn't like. It was fifteen miles to Bijou's place, Hemlock Manor, and Roscoe would attempt to get there as soon as he escaped from the house. Roscoe carried a grudge in a way I couldn't help but admire.

“You have to keep him contained.”

“How well I know. Care to offer any tips on how to accomplish that, other than a kennel?”

“Frontal lobotomy?”

“Very clever but not helpful.”

“Sorry. Roscoe is a force of nature. Maybe he can come out to Dahlia House and play with Sweetie Pie.”

“More likely he'd convince her to plot mischief with him.”

“True.” Harold loved Roscoe. He loved him because of and despite his uncanny ability to create trouble and to lampoon people he sensed were pompous or arrogant. In certain ways, Roscoe and I were much alike, a point that wasn't lost on me.

“The important thing is Roscoe is home with you and will suffer no lasting damage.”

“None,” Harold said. “Thanks to you. The vet said if he'd laid out on the cement in the cold for the whole night, he might not be with us.”

“Have you considered filing cruelty charges? Or at least dog theft.” I wanted Bijou in jail.

“I've thought of something better.” He grinned and the glint in his eye was worthy of Clyde Barrow. “Even better than laxative brownies.”

“Do tell.”

“I've invited all of the members of Mason Britt's church to camp in the slave quarters at Hemlock Manor. For a two-week revival. And I sent the invitations in Bijou's name.”

“Harold! You are a genius. Mason is her right-hand man, so she'll be reluctant to run them off because of him. Oh, I love this. What if she realizes it was you?”

He shrugged. “What will she do? She crossed the line when she hurt Roscoe, or allowed him to be hurt. This is war. The rest of my productive days will be spent figuring out ways to screw her.”

“I love you!” And I did. Harold fought for the helpless and the innocent far harder than he'd fight for himself.

“If I'd known sooner that messing with Bijou turned you on, I could have started years back.”

And like Roscoe, Harold could be incorrigible. I lightly punched his shoulder. “Grow up!”

He kissed my cheek and gave my shoulders a last squeeze. “The bank demands my presence. You should try to sleep. Even a couple of hours would refresh you.”

I pointed to the quiche. “I need to eat. Can I send some to the bank with you?”

He patted his stomach. “I cooked Una Mae Denison's campout breakfast casserole this morning, so I'm full up. Call me if you need me. And never doubt yourself, Sarah Booth. Never.”

 

14

At ten o'clock, I woke Scott, fed him, and dropped him at the club, which stood forlorn, as if a black cloud had settled over it. The day was dreary, but that didn't completely explain the closed and shuttered look that made me think the wooden structure itself was saddened by recent events. The club had aged fifty years overnight. The empty parking lot was a sharp contrast to the successful opening.

“Are you sure you want to be here?” I asked.

“Coleman said it was okay.”

He displayed a talent for evasion. “Have you changed your mind? Are you going to open?” A million questions popped into my head. Who would play keyboard? Should the band all stay together in the club for the evening? Even if Scott opened, would people come? Playin' the Bones was getting a dangerous reputation.

“No. We aren't opening.” Scott's tone was conclusive. “I came to check over the building. We need to be sure the band equipment is safe, the kitchen shut down. I don't need a fire or for a thief to break in and steal the band's instruments.”

I didn't want to, but I told him about the proposal that had come to Oscar at the bank. It shook him, literally, to his shoes. “How much did they offer?”

“A lot of money. Enough to give you a solid start somewhere else. They also want to purchase a large tract of land around the club. It sounds like a multi-billion-dollar investment, and this club is the hub of it all. Because of the legend about the crossroads out front.”

“If I close the club for longer than a week, I'll have to let it go. I took a big risk putting the money down on the property, paying for the band members to move here, renovating the kitchen and stocking the bar. I can't sustain the debt if I don't have money coming in.”

“I find the offer and the shootings strangely coincidental.”

“I know.” Scott was almost defeated. “But what can we do about it?”

“The timing with this offer, the way disaster follows immediately on the heels of any success—there has to be local involvement, Scott. Someone here in Sunflower County is working to bring the club down. Are any of the band members still … friends with Frasbaum?”

“No. Wilton didn't inspire friendship. He was about control and money.”

“Would he push things so far as to shoot someone?”

“I wish I knew.” Defeat laced through his words.

“Look, I'm headed to the newspaper to check out the photos Cece took. Maybe I can spot someone who shouldn't have been at the opening.”

“I'll review the club inventory and see what we need to order, should we open this weekend. I want to hang around here.”

I almost went to him to offer comfort, but Scott didn't want to be comforted. He wanted to save his club. That was my mission.

“Check on Tatiana.” I was worried about her, too. Mike's shooting would bring every horrid second of Koby's murder back with a fiery ferocity. “If you hear anything from Coleman and DeWayne, please call me.”

“Sarah Booth, you have the heart of a lion. I admire your courage. This is my dream, and you've bought into making it real as if it were your own. I can survive this. If I lose the bar, it won't kill me. Don't put yourself in danger for the club. Or for me.” Scott rumpled my hair and walked into the bar, his lean hips churning up memories of a time not so long past.

*   *   *

The
Zinnia Dispatch
was one of the last locally owned newspapers in the nation, and as such, it relied on real reporters committed to the community to dig up and report on the news that mattered to Sunflower Countians.

I loved the smell of paper and ink, and the sense of stepping back in time that came with a visit. When my father worked at the courthouse, I'd often accompanied him to the newspaper for a quick interview or to give the editor his legal advice on whether a story was libelous or not.

Back then, the newspaper had been printed on-site with hot type. I'd wander around the back shop where lead was melted, and then set into letters, words, and sentences, then locked into a page that was placed on the printing press. The rush of the press, forward and back as the pages were printed, four at a time, both terrified and excited me.

Now it had all changed to offset. There were no typewriters, only computers. No Linotypes or roaring presses. The process of printing a paper was so much faster and less labor-intensive. Still, I had great memories.

Cece's cubbyhole was in the very back of the front office, past the desks and cubicles of the other reporters and photographers. Most nodded a greeting or called out a hello as I passed by on the way to her inner sanctum. The reporting staff adored Cece, but they also loathed her a tad. She was the society editor, but more often than not, she broke the big stories because she was dead set in the middle of them—helping me and Tinkie.

I opened the door to her office and stepped inside. Clutter reigned, and while I couldn't see her behind the stacks of newspapers and magazines, I heard her clacking away at her keyboard. “Cece?”