Them Bones (26 page)

As I sifted through the odds and ends of Delo's life, I wondered if Gordon Walters and the other deputies had been there before me. Surely they'd already searched the obvious places. I was wasting my time and freezing to death in the cold house. Yet I searched on, determined not to let impatience or discomfort rule my success.

The kitchen was small, and I eased around the table where two coffee cups remained. As I turned away my jacket sleeve caught an ashtray and sent it crashing to the floor. It was a heavy piece of glass and didn't break, but a cigarette butt and a book of matches scattered across the old oak boards. I gathered them up and put them back.

The butt brand was Marlboro, and as my freezing fingers clutched at the matchbook, I felt the embossed letters with a sense of wonder. I swung the light to them.
La Tour d'Argent.

There are no French restaurants in Zinnia. Nor in
Sunflower County . The cigarette brand was the same as the butts left behind Harold's yew hedge. This and the matches spoke of one person.
Hamilton Garrett the Fifth.

I had not recovered from the surprise of my discovery when I heard the mild creak of the front door. I instantly clicked off the flashlight and was swallowed in blackness. Very slowly the night sky appeared in a bright wedge that grew as the front door eased open. A tall, dark form stood at the threshold.

I stood perfectly still, praying that the intruder would not be able to see me if I didn't move. My muscles trembled with the strain. With no way to defend myself, I watched the larger silhouette shift, and then there was the glint of starlight on sleek black metal. Slowly the barrel of the shotgun rose to chest level, and then swung to point directly at me.

24

"Don't move."

The voice was male but soft as warm cotton. It was not Hamilton or Gordon. Relief was sweet, but also limited.

"My name is Sarah Booth Delaney," I said, but I didn't move. The intruder was young and black. This was not
Chicago or
Los Angeles . Chances were, if I didn't know this man, he would know me. The day I saw Delo's body, there had been two black men who'd taken Delo's dogs. The older was James and the younger . . . "Cooley?" I asked.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, and the barrel of his gun notched down slightly. "Come on outside where I can see you. What are you doin' in Mr. Delo's house?"

He stepped back from the door so I could walk out on the porch. "Looking for something."

"
Lot 's o' folks say they lost things here in a dead man's house."

Healthy skepticism is a sign of intelligence, and I stepped forward so that he could get a glimpse of me in the moonlight.

"I'm looking for a check written by Kincaid Maxwell." My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I could see his expression, a narrowing of his eyes, which signified wariness.

"Mr. Delo told me that he rented those cabins for money. It seems that money was owed."

"I'm not disputing the debt, but someone else should pay it." I thought about my options. "If the sheriff finds that check, Mrs. Maxwell will be a suspect in Delo's murder. She didn't kill him. If she's investigated, a lot of secrets will come out and a lot of innocent people will be hurt."

He lowered the gun to the floor. "If you're talkin' about her meetin' that old man in the cabin, she shoulda thought of that before she got caught." He gave a soft snort of contempt. "And you're just here to help your friend."

One of the dogs gave a mournful howl. "Kincaid isn't exactly my friend. She's my client."

"Seems to me she ought to be here riskin' her neck."

He was right, but I needed the money, and Kincaid would be even worse at this than me. "She paid me to do this."

He nodded and motioned me out of the house. "So you think it's okay to bust into a dead man's house and rummage through his things to find evidence that might go against your client."

He was not stupid, and he'd mastered the art of sarcasm. "I think it's probably against the law. But the way I'm looking at it is that a bigger injustice would be done if Kincaid were falsely accused."

"What if she did kill him?"

"She didn't. I've given it a lot of thought. There are two people Kincaid would have killed before she even thought about killing Delo. Her husband and Isaac Carter. Kincaid would have bought Delo off."

Unlike most men, Cooley seemed willing to accept my evaluation as fact. He nodded as if the wisdom of my words were growing on him. "Maybe you killed him," he suggested.

Now this was something I didn't expect. It was possible my actions could be interpreted in that way. "If you believed that, you'd have the gun pointed at me," I noted. I saw a fleeting smile on his face. "Are you looking after his dogs?"

"Me and James. Delo loved those hounds. Nobody's been up to see about them." He shook his head. "Delo never expected they'd outlive him."

"Maybe you should take them home with you," I suggested. If the dogs' fate was left in the hands of the court system, they might be destroyed.

"James and I talked about it, but we wouldn't want to be accused of stealin'."

There was a long and tangled web of innuendo attached to his simple words. "What if I just turned them loose?"

"I live across that field," he said, pointing. "I bet if you open the pens those dogs will find their way to my house."

"Looks to me like they need some exercise," I said as I walked over to the pens and examined the lock. It was little more than a latch used to hold a screen door shut, and I flipped it up and opened the door. The four hounds came out in a wiggling mass. Their tails thumped my legs and their tongues found every inch of exposed skin. As soon as they heard Cooley's clear whistle, they charged in his direction.

"Walk with me," he said softly.

It wasn't exactly on my way home, but I no longer believed I'd find Kincaid's check at Delo's and I had a few questions for Cooley. I jogged over and fell into step with him as the hounds, delighted with their freedom, coursed through the cotton fields in an ecstasy of sniffing and running.

"Did you see anyone visiting Delo? Anyone unusual?"

"Delo didn't have many friends. Only folks ever talked to him were me and James. Until lately." Cooley kept a fast pace over the uneven rows. Up ahead the dogs caught the scent of something and took off baying and yelping.

" 'Coon, most likely," he said without breaking stride.

"Who was talking to Delo, lately?" I pressed.

"You were the first to stop by. Then that woman who left the check. The deputy--"

"Gordon Walters?"

"Yeah, him."

"Who else?"

"Mr. Garrett. He was over there Sunday mornin' early."

Hamilton had been there. I'd made a correct deduction. "What did he want?"

"Mr. Delo didn't tell me his business. I just know what I saw."

Up ahead the lights of a house glowed bright. The dogs were still baying at the edge of the woods, and Cooley paused long enough to whistle them up. As he started up the steps, they went under the porch.

"They'll be okay here, right?" I asked.

"They'll be fine."

I hesitated, wondering if he intended for me to go inside with him. When he opened the door and the yellow light spilled out and over me, he waited. "You comin'?"

I hurried inside, glad for the warmth and the cheerfulness of the room. At first I didn't notice the older black man sitting in a big armchair, reading. He looked up at me over his glasses. "Miss Delaney," he said softly. "What brings you here?"

"She was breakin' into Delo's. That's what the dogs were fussin' about."

I had seen James in the cornfield, but I hadn't realized he was so old. His hair was grizzled and there were deep lines in his face. He examined me in a way that let me know he knew me, and that whatever status quo I'd been raised to believe in, he was his own man.

"Would you make us some coffee, Cooley?" he asked politely, but his gaze remained on me.

"Sure." Cooley left us and James waved me into a chair beside his.

"I knew your daddy," he said. "We did some business. And I knew your mama." He chuckled softly, and the seams in his face shifted into new trenches. "They were somethin'." He laughed even deeper. "Your mama was a pretty thing, and she had fire in her eyes. She'd look at folks and say, 'Give a damn.' It made some people real mad."

"I've heard a few stories," I answered.

"Times were troubled back then."

I wondered where this was going, but I could smell the coffee brewing and the warmth of the fire was turning my cold bones to gel. James had a soothing voice, rich and worn.

"When your mama got pregnant with you, that was when your daddy decided to put his law degree to work. He came by here and told me he'd never meant to practice law. He loved that land and wanted to work it. But it was a hard time for big landowners. The weather and the economy had turned against him. He was worried, too, about your mama. She stirred people up. She never believed anyone would hurt her for what she believed. Your daddy knew better, so he practiced a little law, mostly free, and then got elected as a judge."

"Did you know them well?"

He nodded. "I'd say pretty well." He shifted in his chair so he could face me more directly. "I gave your daddy some advice, on occasion, and I'm gonna give you some, too. Stay out of Delo's house. Stay away, Sarah Booth. It's not finished, and you don't want to be in on the end of it."

He wasn't trying to frighten me. "What's going on?"

He shook his head. "Delo Wiley never hurt anybody in his life. He let those rich men hunt his fields when the corn was in, and he took their money. I told him not to let that Maxwell woman use his cabin. But it was easy money, and it tickled him that such high-and-mighty folks acted no better than what they called poor white trash."

Kincaid's reasons for meeting Isaac Carter were too complex to explain. More revenge and power than lust and sex. Perhaps the same was true for most people who cheated on their husbands or wives. I shook my head. "Kincaid didn't kill Delo."

James nodded. "Delo was killed so secrets wouldn't be told."

My heart began to beat faster. "What secrets?"

"You want to come back here tomorrow and find a dead old Negro sitting in his chair?"

"Isaac Carter and his toady Deputy Walters have already been out here to talk to James about the good ol' days," Cooley threw in from the kitchen. "A blind man could read that message."

James ignored the younger man's outburst. "Delo didn't really know anything. He suspected, but he didn't know. When I saw that dead man's grown son over there, I knew it was trouble. And that sister out in the cornfield, digging like a madwoman. She nearly scared Cooley half to death with that long silvery hair and that nightgown blowing in the wind. It's a wonder she didn't freeze to death."

"You saw Sylvia in the cornfield?" I asked.

"She got out of a car about midnight. Then it drove away and she started digging."

I remembered
Hamilton 's question about his sister's means of conveyance. "What kind of car?" I questioned.

"Big car. Dark color." James looked past me as he thought. "An older-model
Lincoln ," he said. "It had a big, smooth engine, because when I heard the dogs barking and I got up to check I remember thinking that the car was fine-tuned, in perfect condition. The woman got out of the car, and before she had time to close the door, the car was pulling away."

"They just let her out?" Sylvia had obviously arranged a pickup point, because she made it back to Glen Oaks. Crazy she might be, but she was also smart. Very smart.

"There was a cold wind, and she was walking across that cornfield with her nightgown billowing out behind her. The sight of her made me afraid. After a while, I sent Cooley out to bring her in here before she froze. She saw him coming and ran into the woods. I figured that's why the brother showed up just at dawn. He was looking for his sister."

"How long did
Hamilton stay?"

James looked at me long and hard. "I saw him and Delo walk out in the cornfield. Then I went on to church with Cooley. I was gone awhile, visiting, but when I got back he was gone and Delo, I suppose, was dead."

The pictures his words created were as sharp and painful as nails in my flesh. Cooley came into the room bearing a tray with three mugs, three spoons, sugar, and cream. I took mine black and sat back in the chair. "Did you tell the sheriff about this?"

Cooley gave that soft snort of contempt I'd heard before. "We don't tell the law anything. If you were black, you wouldn't talk to anybody in a uniform. For the last twenty years those fools have been comin' out here in the dead of night, diggin' up the corn and the fields. It's gotten worse lately. They're ruinin' Delo's crop, and ours, too. Like we might have buried it. We called the law plenty of times, but you know what was done. Nothing. They're out there looking for that--"

"That's enough, Cooley," James said gently but with a hint of iron. "Miss Delaney doesn't want to hear about such foolishness. I'm sure she'd rather hear about the time her father and I caught that big tabby cat in the river. It almost took the boat down."

I wanted to hear a tale about my father, but I wanted to find out who was digging in the cornfield more. One look at James's face and I knew he wasn't going to tell me anything else. I sat back and drank my coffee and listened.

Jitty hovered around the kitchen table, her normally serene face a knot of concern. I'd been gone all day and most of the night, and the house was freezing. The oven was on broil and the door open, but it seemed as if the liquid in my body had turned to slush. I sighed and shuddered, wrapping my hands around the bowl of soup I'd heated and then decided I didn't want.

"You knew all along he was a suspect." Jitty had a bossy tone in her voice, as if I were a naughty child who'd hurt herself doing something against the rules.

I pushed the soup bowl away, untouched, and sat back in my chair. What she was saying was true.
Hamilton the Fifth had always been the prime suspect in his mother's murder. Now, he'd been placed at Delo's murder only hours before the body was found.