Bone to Be Wild (28 page)

But I did have a little good news for Coleman. I pulled him aside and told him about my talk with Nandy and Curtis Hebert.

“Midnight Templars,” he said. “What the hell is that?”

“Tinkie and I are checking into it. Nandy wasn't clear and she couldn't distinguish between Farley's activities and this secret organization of rich men. Of course, it could be Farley blowing smoke to appear to be more important than he really is. Or someone could be using Farley as a beard—taking actions they hope the church will be blamed for.”

“I'm sick to death of crazy people.” Coleman's anger was quiet, and far more lethal than loud anger.

“Couldn't you just shoot them?” I was only half-kidding.

“I'd like to. Talk about a way to save tax dollars, that would be my choice.”

I had plenty to add, but ranting wouldn't help. “You can't fix stupid.”

“Amen. But I can damn sure put it in jail.”

“I'll investigate the Midnight Templars, but first we have to find Jaytee. Please, for Cece's sake.”

“We'll find him, and Sarah Booth, Gertrude has filed trespassing charges against you and Tinkie. I don't understand why she didn't do it immediately.”

I didn't even care. “So, I'll pay the fine.”

“It's a bit more complicated, but don't worry about that right now. There's something else.”

“What?”

“Frisco Evans has disappeared. He hasn't been at the car dealership since yesterday afternoon. He was last seen showing a Mercedes roadster to Gertrude. The same model car that you drive.”

“My mother's car.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think Gertrude did something to Frisco?”

“It's possible. It's also possible he's behind the new offer to buy the club. He's a wealthy man. Oscar helped me out a little, and Frisco made some terrific investments. He's got a lot of disposable cash. I don't know how he's involved with Gertrude, or if he's involved at all. He's still a viable suspect in the club shootings. He's used to getting what he wants.”

“He had an alibi.” I sounded pitiful.

“So many things have happened in such a short time frame, we're both playing catch-up instead of offense. This is a crime wave. I need at least ten more deputies. You and Tinkie are a great help, but we can't cover the ground we need to cover. What strikes me is that all of this started
after
Gertrude was released.”

“There is no end to Gertrude's involvement, is there?”

“Her finger is in this pie, I'm just not sure how. Instead of focusing on her, though, finding Jaytee is the top priority. Now you buck up. I need you strong and alert.”

“Okay.” I met his gaze with calm. Coleman had enough on his plate. He didn't need to worry I was melting down. “I'm good.”

“You're amazing, but let's put that talent toward finding Jaytee.”

DeWayne took the fingerprints he found to the sheriff's office to run against those on file. It was a long shot, but it was something. I pulled Harold aside and urged him to rescind the invitation to Foundation Rock to gather at Bijou's property.

“There's a small problem. I'm not certain I
can
rescind the invitation. What will be, will be.”

Harold was far too blas
é
for my taste. “I wouldn't object if they used Bijou for human sacrifice, but I don't want it to splash back on
you
.”

“No worries. If Bijou doesn't want them on her property, they'll be gone. Bijou truly can take care of herself, and she isn't hampered by the law, ethics, or what's right and wrong. I fear for the person who crosses her. But enough about her.” He pushed my hair out of my eyes. “You look like shit.”

“Such a sweet talker.”

“When this is over, consider my offer of dinner in Venice. You could use a vacation away from everything familiar.”

“You, sir, are a tempter. I might have to report you to Reverend Farley for trying to lure me into bad behavior.”

“That's only the tip of the iceberg.” He winked at me and went to talk to Cece.

Looking around Cece's home, I tried to imagine what had happened to Jaytee. The door hadn't been kicked in, so the harmonica player had opened it to someone. Or perhaps he'd been on the way outside when someone attacked.

The place had been trashed, as if the kidnapper was hunting for something. What did Cece have the kidnapper might want? She was comfortable, but not rich. The likelihood of finding great wealth or even expensive electronics was slim. What could she have of value? Was someone looking for the photos from the club opening? I thought the answer was a firm yes, based on the evidence—her files had been scattered around the room and the intruder had taken the memory cards from the two cameras on her bookcase.

Anyone who knew Cece would know she'd downloaded her photos as soon as she got home and sent them to the paper. It was SOP for her. That ensured a triplicate set of photos—one on her camera, one on the cloud, and one at the newspaper. But a person who'd never worked in journalism or met daily deadlines wouldn't realize that. If the intruder had meant to destroy the photos from the club opening—and Fred Doleman had behaved as if he didn't want to be photographed and possibly identified—then I could make a deduction that might lead to Jaytee's location.

I caught Coleman alone and told him what I suspected. “They might be holding Jaytee at the church compound.”

“That's a damn good lead, Sarah Booth.”

“I don't have solid evidence. Just a hunch.”

“It'll be difficult to get a judge to give me a search warrant for a church. Everyone on the bench has to run for reelection, and invading church property … not going to happen without major probable cause.”

He didn't have to explain. I knew the political climate. “It's a sensitive area, especially these days.” I could have gone into another rant about how justice shouldn't be held hostage to politics, but none of this was Coleman's fault. We were all victims of a system out of kilter. “I can go in.”

“Oh, no.” Coleman was having none of that. “If these people are kidnapping, setting fires, and shooting musicians, they wouldn't think twice about doing something to you. You'd open your mouth and send them into a frenzy. You are absolutely not doing anything that risky.”

“Do you have an alternative plan?”

“We'll come up with something. Just stay away from Farley's compound. Promise me.”

“Okay.” I smiled. I had no intention of lying to Coleman. I wasn't that kind of girl.

*   *   *

Tinkie was busy comforting Cece, and Harold left for home. Cece would give Tinkie a ride back to Hilltop when they realized I was gone. I hated to set off without my partner, but Tinkie would insist on accompanying me. She was dead-eye Pete with a pistol, but she didn't need to be involved in my plan.

I'd promised Coleman I wouldn't go to the church compound. And I didn't intend to. Bijou's property, Hemlock Manor, was my destination. It stood to reason that Farley, if he was behind Jaytee's abduction, wouldn't hold him at the church compound. Too obvious. Harold's fake invitation to Hemlock Manor would give him the perfect opportunity to imprison Jaytee there. As I knew from searching the premises for Roscoe, there were plenty of places to keep someone captive. Bijou's complicity in all of this could be determined later.

A rescue attempt wasn't my plan. I would stay hidden and photograph Jaytee, if he was there. I would gather the evidence Coleman needed for a search warrant.

The person I had to be careful of was Mason Britt. Bijou's foreman acted like a true believer of the propaganda Farley was selling. And if Koby's murderer came from the church, Mason Britt would be my first choice as shooter. He had the training and the temper.

My backup plan, should I fail to photograph Jaytee, included finding Nandy's parents and squeezing them until they coughed up useful information.

To that end, I slipped from Cece's house and hurried to my car. Like a land shark, Roscoe came up behind me, growling his evil little growl, eyes crackling with intelligence, little goatee aquiver with anticipation.

“Go home.” I stopped to point in the direction of Harold's. “You're injured and you need to stay home.”

“Grrr-rrr-rrr-rrrrr.” His beady little eyes danced.

“Roscoe, go home. You have broken ribs. You can't go with me.”

“Grrr-rrrrr-rrrr—ahhhh!” He sounded positively possessed.

I ignored him and walked to the driver's side.

“Aaarrrrfffff!”

His sharp bark was like a bullet crack. Holy moly, he'd have everyone in Cece's house out in the yard if he kept it up.

“Shut up!” I knelt down and took his face in my hands. “I know what you're doing. You're blackmailing me into taking you. I can't do it. You're injured. If something happened to you, Harold would never forgive me. Now go home.” I pointed again. I had no doubt Roscoe understood every word I said. The thing was, he chose to disobey.

Roscoe held his ground.

At any moment Coleman or Tinkie would come out of Cece's house and find me trying to make a getaway. I tried once more to open the car door and Roscoe tilted his head and barked—softly. As if to say, “I can make it loud if I really have to.”

“You demented little beast!” I waved him into the car. “Come on.” I would take him with me and lock him in Dahlia House. As my aunt Loulane would opine, there was more than one way to skin a cat, or an impish little dog.

Roscoe hopped gleefully into the front seat and sat down like royalty waiting to be chauffeured. I had to run by Dahlia House to check on Sweetie and Pluto, and to get some tools, namely my camera and telephoto lens. My pistol was already in my purse.

Graf had once accused me of excellent rationalization skills. Perhaps. Or maybe I was just an optimist. My mission to Hemlock Manor was dangerous, but I had faith I could pull it off.

I had to believe that if the kidnappers meant to kill Jaytee, he would have been dead on Cece's floor. His abductors wanted leverage. For what I didn't know, but I couldn't wait around to find out. There was a troubling aspect to my theory that Farley and his cult were behind Koby's murder, Mike's shooting, and the abduction of Jaytee. Summed up, it was simple. Why? Could they really hate the blues that much and think a nightclub was a danger to their American way of life? It didn't make sense. Sure, they were crazy. And crazy bred crazy. But Farley, for all of his willful ignorance and backwoods mentality, wasn't stupid. There was a big old world out there with hip-hop, jazz, R&B, rock, classical—lots of music that might not suit his taste. He couldn't eradicate it all.

Bottom line, I just couldn't believe Farley was that dumb. Then again, perhaps I overestimated his intelligence. No, I had shifted my focus to Mason Britt and the high-stakes offer to buy the club. I didn't have a clear picture, but it seemed far more likely to me that someone—maybe Frisco Evans—was determined to run Scott out of Sunflower County. And Mason Britt was a powerful weapon to aim.

I pulled up at Dahlia House to find Sweetie and Pluto on the porch waiting for me, almost as if they'd communicated psychically with Roscoe. I glared at Roscoe, who was wearing his innocent face. Who? Me? When I opened the passenger door to get him out, he refused to budge and growled at me.

“Roscoe!” I wasn't afraid of him. Exactly. He was known to snap when he didn't get his way, but this was one battle he wasn't winning. “Out of the car.”

“Grrrrr-rrrrrr.” With his bushy eyebrows and beard, he looked demented.

“You have to get out.”

A breeze blew by me as Sweetie Pie sailed past the front seat and into the back. Pluto, who could not be hurried if his tail were on fire, sauntered up to the car and jumped into the front seat with Roscoe.

Roscoe growled at the cat, then licked his head.

“Out!” I pointed to Dahlia House. “All of you. Out!”

They refused to budge.

I picked Roscoe up in my arms and took him to the front door and put him inside, then went back to deal with the mutiny taking place among my own animals. I was in a hurry. I didn't have time to fight with recalcitrant critters.

Sweetie refused to leave the backseat, and when I leaned over to get Pluto, something vile and wicked jumped on my back and flattened me in the seat. Roscoe was back. Sitting on my head. He'd rushed out the kitchen doggie door.

For a dog with broken ribs who wasn't supposed to exert himself, Roscoe was not being a good patient.

“Fine.” I had to hurry before Coleman got the report I was MIA and figured out where I was headed. “I can lock you all in the car. You can just sit and wait—”

My lecture was cut off by the mournful sound of minor piano chords. I froze as the sweet, musky scent of gardenias filled the air. I knew what was coming. “Not now!” I said aloud. “Time is crucial!”

A rich, distinctive voice sang lyrics I knew by heart. “Southern trees, bear a strange fruit…” The words painted the legacy of violence and blood that had scarred the South for too many generations.

I pivoted and faced Billie Holiday on the front lawn of my home. Thin as a rail, elegant in sequins, and tired, she sang the song written by a Brooklyn schoolteacher that never failed to move me.

My father had told me the history of “Strange Fruit,” and the courage of the composer and the performer who took on racism at a time when such things could be deadly. Daddy had lectured me on the price for standing up for justice, and he had instilled in me that good people took a stand. Like Abel Meeropol, the songwriter, and Atticus Finch, a fictional attorney. Doing the right thing always came with a price tag.

Jitty, as Billie Holiday, sang the lyrics with grit and passion. I needed to hurry, but time had to be taken to hear this song. And with each line, my fear for Jaytee grew. Was Jitty telling me the harmonica player had been killed? A victim of senseless violence?