Greedy Bones (21 page)

I pulled the roadster to the side of the highway. I didn't trust myself to drive. Or to talk.

"Do you think Jimmy Janks is responsible for what's happened to Cece?" I asked. I would carve out his gizzard with an iced-tea spoon.

"The Jackson PD is investigating, but Cece hasn't been able to tell them much. She's heavily sedated. What the officer was able to piece together was that she was attacked in the parking lot in front of Erin Carlisle's studio."

"I lost Janks in West Point. At Lana Carlisle's grave."

"That's an intriguing twist. Don't worry. He won't get far. We'll get him." He hesitated. "Look, Beaucoup is calling. She helped in recovering the body, but she had to rush back to conclude some tests. Maybe she's found something. I'll call you when I hear anything."

I leaned my head against the headrest of the car. My world had turned upside down again. I was at sixes and sevens, and while I knew I needed to go check on Tinkie and Oscar, I had no faith that I could conceal the truth of Cece's condition.

My life in Hollywood hadn't been easy or problem-free; it had been surreal, almost as though it were happening to someone wearing my skin.
This
was too real and too awful.

Easing the car back onto the road, I drove to the CDC offices. Peyton might be in, and it was possible he'd have more information. No matter that Cece had been found,
I still wanted to investigate the Carlisle plantation for myself.

The CDC used the back entrance rather than traipse through waiting rooms with wall-to-wall moms and children who needed vaccinations or medical attention. Once inside, I saw Peyton's door was cracked and I heard him on the phone.

"That is Bonnie Louise's area of specialty. I'll pass that information along." He made a few more affirmative sounds, then replaced the phone.

"Is someone there?" he asked.

The man had bat-hearing. I'd barely shuffled on the linoleum. "It's me, Sarah Booth. I came for the hazmat suit."

Peyton came to the door and waved me in. There was a glint of excitement in his dark eyes.

"Do you have anything on the illness yet?"

He paced the room. "We took samples from the blood, mucous lining, skin scrapings, tissue samples from all of the sick people."

I didn't dare interrupt him but said a silent prayer that, at last, something useful had been discovered.

"The reason Oscar and the others haven't responded to antibiotics is because this isn't a bacterial infection."

"But it doesn't appear to be viral, either," I said.

"True. None of the tests for viral agents have been conclusive."

I couldn't help jumping ahead. "If it isn't bacterial or viral, what is it?"

"Fungal."

After Katrina, thousands of homes in New Orleans and along the Mississippi Gulf Coast flooded and became infested with mold. Some owners became very ill. But we hadn't even had a good rainy spring in Zinnia.

"We're talking mold, right?" I wanted to be sure I hadn't gone off on a tangent.

"Some form of mold or spore. The patients must have inhaled the spores." He lifted both palms. "That's an educated guess. I don't have all the facts yet, but at least I have a direction."

"Where did this mold come from?"

He closed the office door before he sat on the edge of his desk. "This can go no further, Sarah Booth. I'm trusting you with information that I may not share--just yet--with the sheriff."

"You have to tell Coleman. He's working to resolve this just like you are." I didn't see why he would withhold any information.

"In good time, Sarah Booth." His tone warned me to back off. "I should probably keep this to myself until I have something solid."

"Someone deliberately infected the Carlisle plantation, didn't they?" I asked. Even speculation would be helpful to me.

He hesitated, then finally spoke. "That would be my guess. The problem is that I've not been able to identify a spore that would cause these exact symptoms."

"A mutation."

"Exactly. But until I have more information . . . I don't want to send this investigation down a rabbit trail, understand?"

I saw his point. Peyton was talking serious crimes. "The mold, by itself, is it harmful?"

He shuffled some papers on his desk until he found one sheet. Pulling it to the top of a stack, he looked it over. "Bonnie and Dr. Unger have worked nonstop on the weevils. They'd found a very different breeding cycle. It may be attributable to the mold."

"So how do we find out about this mold? What will counter the effects in Oscar and the others?"

"I'm running tests on the cotton. Bonnie Louise is working on the weevils. Now Doc can address the mold. Between the three of us, we should find an answer."

"How long?"

"Mold is insidious. Now that we know to look in this direction, we have a focus, but it isn't as simple as A follows B to conclude with C."

"Oscar and the others don't have a lot of time, Peyton."

"I know that. We'll get the answer you want, Sarah Booth."

I was about to ask for the hazmat suit when the door flew open and banged against a wall.

"I want to talk to the CDC." The tall, lanky man from Millie's Cafe entered armed with a bad attitude. Joe Downs was making the rounds of Zinnia and, judging from the redness of his face, he was still pissed off.

"Who the hell are you?" Peyton was as cool as a crap shooter on a winning streak.

"I'm Joe Downs. Mississippi Agri-Team leases the Carlisle plantation. I have a murdered employee and some land that I'm told looks like a biblical plague struck." He jabbed his pointer in Peyton's direction. "If those weevils spread to other plantations, this could be the ruination of the economy here."

Peyton pulled up another chair. "Have a seat, Mr. Downs. This is Sarah Booth Delaney."

Downs gave me a nod of acknowledgment and eased his angular frame into the chair. "I know 'er. Knew her dad. He did some legal work for my father. Knew his business and treated folks fair."

I didn't get a chance to thank him before Peyton cut in.

"First of all, Mr. Downs, I regret the situation you're in, but I have nothing to do with it. The CDC is studying an illness, and I have to point out, the boll weevils are a secondary matter."

"Look, Lester Ballard was a friend as well as an employee. He's dead. Murdered. Shot in the back! People who went out to that plantation are seriously sick. A strange crop is infested with weevils, and all I can get from the sheriff is a bunch of guff. I want to know what you've found and what you're planning to do." Downs gripped the arms of his chair.

"We're doing everything in our power." Peyton went to a carafe, poured a glass of water, and handed it to Downs.

If what Peyton suspected was true, someone had created the problems with the cotton and weevils. And that someone had something to gain. "Did MAT have a written agreement with the Carlisle family for the use of the plantation?" I asked.

"Of course we did. Used to be a handshake was good enough, but not any more. We had a signed lease. Good for another six years."

"Were you aware that Luther Carlisle intended to sell the land?" I pressed.

"The first MAT heard about this was a week ago. Lester was fit to be tied. He tried to talk to Luther, but the coward wouldn't take Lester's calls. Lester had some business in Central America, but he returned and was on this Sunflower County matter quick as he could be."

"What are the terms of the land lease?" I asked. "Can it be terminated?"

"For cause. From our end. I find it mighty interestin' that contamination is about the only reason MAT would halt the lease."

I found that equally fascinating. "You've never had trouble with the Carlisles before?"

"Not a bit of it. Luther was glad enough to take our money and have us manage the land. That Jimmy Janks came in here and got Luther all goo-goo eyed with greed over his development scheme. Janks is the scoundrel who's trying to turn good farmland into a subdivision, and I'd lay money he's behind these weevils."

"Do you know if Mr. Ballard spoke with Janks?"

Downs sipped the water. Talking calmed him. "Lester said he was meeting Janks. Lester had found some other land that wasn't so fertile. He meant to propose a swap with Janks so he could develop the poorer land. He said he had a meeting set up, but Janks didn't show, so he was taking the meeting to Janks. That's the last I heard from Lester. This morning Lester didn't answer his phone. He wasn't in his hotel room. I knew something awful had happened."

I got up and refilled Downs's glass. He'd lost a coworker and friend, and he wanted answers. My sympathies were with him.

Downs sipped the water and continued. "Luther, that greedy gut, is tryin' to roll over his own sister." Contempt dripped from his words. "Still, I never figured him for a killer. Too squeamish. Goes against that genteel pose he strikes. But there's no tellin' what greed will do to a man. If he's behind this, he'll burn in Hell, because I'll send him there."

"Threats aren't necessary," Peyton said softly. "Sheriff Peters will find the guilty party."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Downs," I said. "I know this is a terrible loss for you."

"Lester was a good man. A decent man. He didn't deserve to be killed and thrown into a river. And you can
call it a threat, but I consider it a promise. Someone is going to pay." He stood up. "While this is personal, it also involves an entire industry. If those weevils get loose on the rest of the cotton, it could destroy us."

"Mr. Ballard, I know you're worried. My associate, Ms. McRae, has a unique knowledge of the boll weevil. She isn't here now, but when she returns, she'll call you and update you on her studies regarding the insects."

"I'm not nearly as concerned in studyin' them as I am in killin' them. I heard most of the cotton on the Carlisle land is destroyed. I can't even get out there to check it."

It intrigued me that Peyton failed to mention the weevils had only attacked the genetically altered cotton. That might give Downs a little solace, but I trusted Peyton had his reasons for staying mum.

"We're hoping to have some answers soon. Then you'll be able to check the property." Peyton was kind but firm.

"Can you give me a time when this might happen?" Downs asked.

"I wish I could. This is our highest priority."

Once Downs got to the land, based on the descriptions I'd heard of the cotton, he'd have a hissy fit for sure.

Downs rubbed his chin. "I talked with some of the experts at MAT. There's a new chemical, a pesticide. I'd like to give it a try. See if I can't salvage something."

Peyton's jaw flexed. "I wish I could say yes. I honestly do. But finding the cause of an illness comes first."

Downs rattled the ice in his glass. "They didn't catch what they've got from cotton or weevils. That's crazy talk that'll get folks stirred up and make trouble like you've never thought about." He leaned forward. "It sounds like something Luther and Janks cooked up to scare people. Fact is, I wouldn't put it past Janks to be the one who sent Lester that new cotton seed."

This was a lead to pursue. "We've been curious about the cotton on the Carlisle place. It's . . . unusual." If Peyton wanted to yield the details, he could. Again, he kept silent.

Leaning a boney elbow on a knee, Downs thought a moment. "Lester told me something about the seed, but I don't clearly remember the whole story. Take it up with Luther Carlisle. He's involved. You can count on it."

"Thanks." It was a solid tip.

"Listen here, you two. MAT has worked that land for a long time. If there's something sick about it, someone brought it and put it there and it wasn't Lester."

He unfolded from the chair. "Call me when I can see that land."

Downs hadn't been gone a minute when Bonnie Louise pushed through the door. She wore scrubs and a lab coat and looked as if she hadn't slept in a week. "Peyton, I need your help." She acknowledged me with a look. "Dr. Unger believes the mold comes from the weevils. He's not sure of the source, but this is a big step. He wants us to gather more specimens from the field."

Peyton stood quickly. "Let's go."

"Oh, yeah, Sarah Booth, Coleman asked me to call you an hour ago and tell you Cece left the Jackson hospital. She should be here in Zinnia any minute. Sorry, I got busy and forgot to call."

A little advance notice would have been nice. To prepare Tinkie for Cece's condition. "I'll get that suit later," I told Peyton.

"Sure thing." He locked the door behind the three of us as we hurried out of the building.

I walked across the potholed parking lot and driveway to the hospital's back doors. They were supposed to lock automatically, but that wasn't the case. Some enterprising family member of a sick person or a hospital employee
sneaking out for a smoke break often disabled the lock with a bobby pin. When I tugged lightly, the door opened wide. Folks had been working that stunt since Aunt Loulane was in the hospital fifteen years ago.

I approached the hallway where Tinkie sat on the edge of the cot, slumped with fatigue.