Bone to Be Wild (6 page)

A gust of dead sycamore leaves skittered across the porch and hung in the runners of the white wicker rockers, scratching to get away as if they were alive. Nothing said abandoned and alone quite like brown and crinkled leaves blowing on a cold November day.

I entered the front door and stopped cold. The tinkling sound of a piano came from the music room, but no one was home. Stupid as it was, my heart leaped to the thought that Graf had returned. Even though I knew he didn't play the piano. Even though I knew it wasn't time. Even though I knew the only person it could be was … Jitty. My heart cracked a little more.

I went in search of my musical haint. The song was both sad and sexy, and I followed the sound until I locked in on Jitty in the middle of the music room. Sweetie Pie snoozed on the rug and Pluto sat on the piano bench where no one played but the keys moved of their own volition. Neat trick.

Jitty wore a floor-length white sequined gown and a hat that defied description. Something from the flapper era. She swung around to face me and sang, “Baby, won't you please come home.”

I recognized the song and her persona, Bessie Smith, the tragic Mississippi singer who bled to death after a car accident not so far from Zinnia. The legend went that the local hospital refused to treat a black person.

“Stop it, Jitty! I get it. I have the blues.” I tried to sound stern, but it was hard to do when the song spoke to my feelings.

She continued with the classic, which only made me sadder. I finally gave up and listened to the clarity of her voice. When she assumed the persona of someone, she gave it her all, and Jitty had a feel for the song. I closed my eyes and listened to the woman who, in the 1920s, was known as the Empress of the Blues. At a time when many black people weren't allowed to vote and segregation was the rule of the nation, Bessie had owned her own railroad car and traveled with Ma Rainey, selling merchandise and performing to crowds that made her a wealthy woman.

When the song was over Bessie morphed back into the haint I recognized and loved. And sometimes wanted to throttle. “What's the truth about Bessie's death?” I asked Jitty.

She turned sideways. “She was hurt bad. Her arm was almost severed. She died. I don't think anything would have changed that.”

It wasn't an answer to the question that blues lovers had asked for seventy years, but it was all I was going to get out of Jitty right now. Instead of begging for answers, I decided to share a little music history with my haint. “Did you know Janis Joplin had a headstone made for Bessie and placed at her grave?”

“Lots of the early rockers recognized the black talent that inspired them. Doesn't surprise me a bit Janis would do the honors for a woman she admired.” Jitty hated it when I knew something she didn't.

“Well, did you know that vehicular and plane accidents and murder are leading causes of death for famous musicians?”

“Aren't you little Miss Sunshine and Good Cheer. I thought workin' at the club would liven you up, but that was a vain hope.” She leaned in closer and a slow smile crept over her face. “Sometimes a blues singer knows just the right chords to strum, if you get my meaning. If you'd give that cute Scott Hampton half a chance, I'll bet he could have you singing with pleasure.”

Oh, I got her meaning. And I ignored it. “You're accusing me of being Debbie Downer? Hell, if I were chewing happy pills, that song would bring me down.” I flopped on the piano bench beside Pluto. He was a fat kitty with an attitude. Most of the time he could be mistaken for a stuffed pillow, but when he geared up for action, he was fierce. He and Sweetie Pie were blues lovers and the perfect mystery-solving companions.

“Pain and joy are inseparable. Without love, there wouldn't be the blues.” Jitty sank into a club chair beside me. “Sarah Booth, you've had a setback, but there's a long road ahead of you. And you got options. Scott, Coleman, Harold,” she ticked them off on her fingers. “Those men know you and they still wanna chance to love you. Plenty of time to love again.”

“Great use of sarcasm. And just so you know, I'm not interested in falling for a man. Love should come with a guarantee. I'm not interested in doing this again.”

She laughed, and the sound was rich and sultry and delicious, and it made me smile. I had the most sensual ghost on the planet. Even when she was tormenting me, she could be sexy. “Girl, you're all curled up in the fetal position tryin' to protect that big heart, but you can't. Even if you hide out right here in Dahlia House and never love another man, you still get a servin' of pain. You love these animals, and that's loss around the bend.”

She was right, so I couldn't argue. And I didn't want to. I wanted to forget, and the best way I knew to do that was to stay in constant motion. “What should I wear to the club tonight?”

“Something slinky, so when you dance, the dress knows it.”

I had the perfect outfit in mind. “Thanks, Jitty. Now
that
was helpful.”

Sweetie gave an approving yodel of love, and I left the music room feeling more lighthearted than when I'd arrived. Jitty and the blues—who knew such things could improve a broken heart.

*   *   *

The club winked hot blue, purple, and pink neon in the soft Delta sky, and I was thrilled to see the parking lot overflowing with vehicles. Trucks with mud flaps and monster tires, high-end luxury sedans and SUVs, even one electric car everyone knew belonged to Pattie Tierce, one of Zinnia's new lawyers.

I parked beneath a leafless pecan tree across the road and pushed through the door into a wall of sound. Scott had brought the whole county out, and people were laughing and visiting, excited by the prospect of having one of the hottest blues bands working as our very own.

Scott was at the bar, surrounded by a bevy of squealing young women. He was friendly with each of them, but kept his distance. Cece and Jaytee were huddled in a corner and could have been plotting the takeover of the government or a menu for the evening. Whatever they were doing, Cece was radiant.

Coleman slipped up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I'm good.” Chin up, smile in place.

“It'll get better,” he said.

“Did you learn anything about Scott's former partner?”

“Nothing good. The guy has a reputation for shooting off his mouth, threatening people, trashing people's lives when he can get away with it. The thing is, he's been in Copenhagen for the past six months. There's no indication at all he even knows about this club.”

“Aside from threats to the band, do you have anything interesting on your plate?” I'd lost touch with the cases Coleman was working. Graf's shooting, his recovery, his daughter—I'd been so wrapped up in my life with Graf that I'd neglected my friends.

“Mostly run-of-the-mill stuff, except for Ned Gaston's fire. Fire marshal confirmed it was arson, but there isn't a lot of evidence to track the person who set the fire. DeWayne and I won't give up, though.”

“Is Ned running the boot shop?”

“He is.”

“He's a good man. He made a pair of boots my mother cherished. I still have them.” They were beautiful pale leather with stitched designs in hues of turquoise, jade, and coral. She'd worn them everywhere and said they were her favorite dancing shoes.

Coleman reached to touch my lips but stopped. “A good memory because you're smiling.”

“Yes.” I stepped back slightly. “Any luck tracing the threatening calls made to Scott and the band?”

“They came from different burner phones and pinged off different towers. Whoever did this is very sophisticated, at least with telecommunications.”

My frown spoke of my concerns. “Then this may not be a joke.”

He nodded. “Someone went to a lot of trouble not to be traced. But why even call and warn Scott? That's the confusing part. If the person is serious about the threat, why warn the band?”

“What if it's all about the club? Maybe they thought he would cancel the opening.”

“I wish he had. I did talk to him, but he was adamant. He wouldn't be bulldozed into canceling.”

I understood. To give in to blackmail—what would the next demand be? To sell the club? Or only open certain days and times? Blackmail, once yielded to, would only grow in scope and demand. “What can I do to help tonight?”

“Watch the kitchen. I'm a little worried about Curtis back there. I don't want him hurt.”

“Got it.” I doubted the threatening caller intended to harm the best barbecue chef in six counties, but if that's what Coleman needed me to do, it was as good as done.

“DeWayne is on the front door. And I'll be working the room, trying to keep tabs on anyone who might be contemplating stirring up trouble. You note who goes in and out of the kitchen.”

At last I realized what Coleman feared. “You don't think … poison?” The idea was horrifying.

“No.” Coleman chucked me under the chin. “You are pulling out the worst-case scenarios, aren't you?”

“Life has taught me to be cynical.”

“Then save me a dance and I'll teach you how to feel something else.” He buried his worry beneath flirtation and his clear eyes held a dare.

“In that case, I might even save you two.” I met him tit-for-tat because I refused to be the
poor thing
abandoned almost at the altar.

“I'm sorry for the pain, Sarah Booth. But I'd be lying if I said I was sorry you're single. I'm holding off until Christmas to give you a chance to get your sea legs under you. Fair warning, though. I'm claiming you for the holidays.”

It was too soon for me to feel anything for another person. “We'll see about Christmas,” I said, unwilling to even hint at my future emotions.

The band took the stage and I positioned myself where I had a clear view of the kitchen door and the band.

The opening song, “Bad to the Bone,” had the packed club on its feet and dancing. If the first ten minutes was any indication, Playin' the Bones was going to be a rockin' joint. Scott was electrifying as he finessed pure sex out of his guitar.

“Wow!” Tinkie came up beside me. “They were great at the Black and Orange Ball, but this club is the perfect venue for them. The band is sizzling.”

“They are.” I scanned the room. Most of the tables had been served their food. Liquor flowed from the bar. Yancy and the two tables of his friends followed every move of the band. Scott had won him over, if I was reading Yancy's body language correctly. “I hear Scott has hired several buses and drivers to take folks home. That was smart.”

“He wants to be part of the community. An asset, not a liability.”

And yet someone meant to cause him worry, at the very least. Possibly something more deadly.

The kitchen door swung open and two waiters brought trays of barbecue out. Curtis was in the background, his apron stained with his secret sauce. He had a staff of four people helping him, all trusted employees. No one had made any attempt to get into the kitchen, and Curtis knew his food sources. So far, so good.

Despite the fact that Tinkie and I were on guard duty, I found myself being pulled into the music. Mike Hawkins on keyboard and Zeb Kohl on drums each had young ladies putting on a show near the stage. Bass player Davy Joiner, the youngest member of the band, teased the ladies by dancing to the edge of the stage and showing off his Elvis moves.

After the first set finished, I needed some fresh air. And maybe a cigarette. The band had certainly gotten my blood flowing. Koby Shavers had a Jack on the rocks waiting on the bar and slid it to me like an old western barkeep. “It's good the boss is having some fun. I didn't mean to come on so strong earlier. I like to flirt, but I don't want any hard feelings.”

“Not a problem. I like to flirt, too.” It was impossible not to like Koby. Beneath his Lothario ways was a man with a good heart.

Customers at the other end of the bar waved for Koby's attention, and I picked up my drink and slipped out the front door. On the side of the club beneath a pecan tree was a small picnic table. I sat down on the weathered bench and lit up a Marlboro. The club, the blues, the joy of the band performing and the audience listening, the friendship offered by so many—all combined to remind me life held so many wonderful gifts.

The back door of the club slammed, and I looked up as Koby Shaver came out the back door. He rolled his shoulders and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. I stood up to walk over as he lit his smoke. A vehicle spun gravel beside the club. I'd only gone about ten steps when the black pickup—running without lights—careened around the corner of the club.

Koby stood perfectly framed in the light from the open back door. I tossed the cigarette and started to run. The shotgun blast rang out into the cold night. The truck skidded past me, a gun barrel hanging out the passenger-side window. I dropped and rolled as a second spray of pellets struck the tree I'd been standing in front of. The truck sped away, a black shadow in a dark night.

I ran toward the back of the club, praying Koby hadn't been hit, but deep in my heart I knew better. We'd been warned. All of us.

I made it to Koby as the kitchen door banged against the wall. Light fell across the bartender's fallen body. The blast of the shotgun had opened his chest. I felt for a pulse, but he was gone.

 

5

Coleman firmly maneuvered me away from the body. Within seconds, the security team swarmed the back of the club. The useless security team. Harold and Oscar kept the patrons inside. I couldn't believe everything happened so quickly. I needed a rewind. If I could only go back fifteen minutes and delay Koby at the bar.

“Where the hell were the security men?” I asked Coleman.

“They were checking vehicles at the entrance, and two men were inside.”