Dead on the Delta (31 page)

Even if that someone was a six-year-old girl?

Maybe. Horribly, awfully … maybe.
Someone
killed Grace. There’s no reason that person couldn’t be a doctor. Monsters come in every sex, color, and creed, and hold a wide variety of jobs.

“What do you think about Mr. James, Deedee? Is he nice?”

“I don’t know.” Deedee picks at the dried snot trail on her arm, making me rethink the wisdom of asking for a hand up. “I don’t hardly never see him. He’s busy. He’s going to be a doctor.”

“Did you ever see him with Grace? Was he nice to Grace?”

She shrinks. “Grace said … Grace said bad things.”

“What kind of bad things?” A sound from the other room makes us jump. It’s probably just my cup falling over in the sink. Probably. But I can tell from the frightened look in Deedee’s eyes that she doesn’t think so.

“I … I can’t tell. I can’t tell anything. I shouldn’t of told you.” Deedee jumps to her feet, hands fisting her dress, fresh tears in her eyes. “Just don’t tell.”

“I won’t, I told you—”

“And don’t go to the house, Miss Annabelle. Don’t go to Camellia Grove. Not ever never.” Deedee turns and runs, streaking out the back door before I can pick my jaw up off the floor.

Holy. Shit. Maybe the murderer really
is
someone at Camellia Grove.

With a grunt and a groan and several gasping
breaths, I drag myself to the baseboard of the bed and pull myself to my feet. I stand on shaking legs, giving my body a few seconds to adjust before taking one halting step and then another toward the kitchen table.

Despite Deedee’s warning, I have to go to the plantation and see if I can find out more about who killed Grace. Fernando’s life could depend on it. But first, I have to make sure I have backup. Or at least technological support. I need a hidden wire or a pin-sized video camera concealed in an earring … or something. Something the FBI is more likely to possess than the Donaldsonville Police Force. Stephanie probably won’t want to give me the time of day, let alone access to the FBI’s surveillance equipment, but maybe if I kiss up and apologize for—

“Shit.” Stephanie. Our meeting. Even before I look over my shoulder, I know I’m late. Still, I’m surprised by just
how
late.

The clock reads nearly one o’clock.
Shit!
I shuffle faster toward the table, my legs thankfully remembering how to function more swiftly than the rest of me. I’m nearly an
hour
late. My ass is grass, dry, patchy, prison grass. Unless I can prove I was incapacitated, or too busy solving the FBI’s murder case to make it to the review.

I pluck my phone from the table, ignoring the red dot announcing I have two unheard messages, and scroll down to Cane’s name. He warned me to keep my nose out of police business, but surely he’ll help
if I tell him my future could depend on it. I have to show up at the Beauchamps wearing a wire and catch Percy or James or someone threatening me to keep my mouth shut, or trying to kill me, or something. Anything to prove Fernando is innocent and I’m an upstanding, crime-fighting facilitator who doesn’t belong behind bars.

Cane answers on the third ring, his voice hushed and tight. “Where are you?”

“I’m at home, but I won’t be for long, I—”

“You need to get over here, Annabelle. Right now.”

“I know I’m late,” I say. “But something crazy came up.

“Crazy is right. Don’t you understand how serious this is?”

“Yes, I do. But this is serious, too.” I will him to hear that I’m not screwing around. “Deedee was just here and—”

“I don’t care who was there.
Agent Thomas
is here. She’s pissed the hell off, and she just got on a secure line to someone with a 228 area code.”

“Keesler?” Oh, shit. Oh dear, oh shit.

“I might be able to get her back into the meeting room if I tell her you’re on your way, but it might already be too late.”

Too late. As in, “taken into custody, carted off to Keesler, and held for a much less cordial review in front of a military judge and jury” kind of too late. Unless I have a good excuse. Which I do. Several good excuses, actually, but none of which I’m prepared to
share. I can’t tell Stephanie, or anyone else, about Tucker. And I promised not to share anything Deedee told me in confidence. I’m not going to break that promise. Even to save myself. At least not until I’m sure Deedee is safe.

So what the hell am I going to do? How to fast-talk my way out of trouble and into a wireless mic? I turn the problem over in my mind, tumbling it end over end, but can’t see a way, not any way out. I’m screwed. I’m completely screwed.

“Annabelle? Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m … ”
I’m freaking out. I’m fresh out of stories, too tired to think of a good excuse, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to prison.
“I’m on my way, I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I lie, hurrying to the junk drawer where I found my key this morning and searching through the wreckage. I’m sure I saw my old college mini-recorder in there somewhere, the one I used to tape lectures so I could nap during class.

“Good … and Annabelle … ”

“Yeah?” I ask, still digging, cursing my stiff, fumbling fingers.

“If you tell anyone I told you this, I’ll deny it,” Cane says, his words reminding me uncomfortably of Hitch’s. “But Stephanie got a call from her partner a couple of hours ago.” Hm. Think of the devil. “After she hung up, she asked Dom to start the paperwork to subpoena Theresa Swallows.”

“What?” That’s weird. Theresa has nothing to do with any of the investigations. She
can’t.
I can’t deal
with another friend on the wrong side of the law. “Why?”

“I guess your ex watched you order some drinks this morning.”

“Wh-what?” Hitch was watching me? Spying on me? Acting like he was walking away and then circling back to get confirmation of my lush-i-tude? I curse myself and Theresa for bringing those damned Bloody Marys. I didn’t even ask for the first one!

You could have sent it back. She didn’t pour it down your throat.

Ugh. Whatever. This is still ten different types of unfair.

“Agent Rideau wants Theresa on record verifying that there was alcohol in those drinks. She wouldn’t tell him when he asked nicely, so he’s going to have her testimony subpoenaed.”

“What! What the fuck? Why?”

“He thinks it’s pertinent evidence for your review. I told Agent Thomas the DPD can’t get involved since FCC agents are federal employees.” Looks like Cane is still on my side, no matter how mean he was this morning. “But that’s only going to buy you a day or two, until one of them finds the time to file the paperwork themselves. In the meantime … well, you should probably hire a good lawyer.”

“Doesn’t he have better things to do than ruin my life?” I wail, unable to deal with the thought that I might really need a
lawyer
. “Like solve a murder? Or close down a drug ring?” I finally locate the tape
recorder and go back in for batteries, my hand shaking. What’s wrong with Hitch? Why is he
doing
this? And what will Theresa say to the judge? She’ll have to tell the truth, and what will happen then? An isolated incident might not be that big a deal, but what if Hitch testifies about that empty can he saw in my purse? Shit! How could he do this to me? Who the hell does he think he is? Who the—

The drawer in front of me slams shut with a sharp crack that makes me cry out in surprise. The phone falls from my hand, clattering to the floor and spinning in a slow circle that mocks the racing of my heart.

Distantly, I hear Cane’s voice asking if I’m there, if I’m okay, but I just stand there staring at the drawer, breath coming fast, too disturbed to reach for the phone. I didn’t touch the damned drawer. I’m
positive
I didn’t, certainly not hard enough to make the wood splinter. I’d moved it some other way, using some other part of me that I’ve only
barely
begun to believe might exist.

Believe it or not, here it comes...

Visions of floating rocks and smashed bunnies dance through my head, making it hard to swallow. What if Grace didn’t mean to hurt those animals? What if she’d been angry and bad things had just … happened? What if she couldn’t control her “magic” as well as Deedee thought?

And what if I’m more fucked than I want to believe?

“Annabelle? Annabelle? Are you there?”

I snatch the phone from the floor. “I’m here. Sorry,
I … I dropped the phone. I just can’t believe this is happening, and I can’t talk about it right now. I just can’t. Okay?”

“Okay, it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about anything,” Cane says. “You’ll get through this. Just get here as fast as you can. Do you want me to send a squad car to—”

“No. Thanks. I’m fine. I’m already on my way.” More lies. But I
will
be on my way soon … just not on my way to the police station. “Thanks, Cane. And I’m so sorry about Amity and … I really … I’ve been thinking of you … ”

“Me too,” he says, then curses softly. “I almost forgot, I had Dicker drop your cat off at Dr. Hollis’s office. It was having a fit outside the station.”

“Oh no, is Gimpy okay?”

“I think she’ll be fine. Maybe she’s getting ready to have kittens or something? Her stomach seemed swollen.”

“Um, I don’t think so.” I snatch my gun and holster from the table and start for the door only to curse myself and turn around. “Gimpy’s a boy.”

“Oh, well … ”

I rush back into my room, and throw open my closet, searching for something suitable for afternoon tea. I can’t show up at Camellia Grove in sweat-soaked clothes, wearing a gun in my armpit. I need to sneak in under the guise of visiting Libby, then find a way to get some incriminating audio from Percy or James.

Or maybe you’ll just get a kick-ass recording of a gunshot if the killer’s not in the mood to give an evil genius confession before she/he takes care of business.

“Right,” Cane says. I know he’s talking about the cat. But still … his timing makes my nose wrinkle. My plan is a dumb, shitty plan, but it’s the only plan I have. I have to make it work.

“Did Dicker talk to the doctor? Did she say what might be wrong?” I grab a brown halter dress with a tiered skirt from its hanger, throw it on the bed, and go digging for the purse that matches. Silk and bare shoulders are a little dressy for afternoon tea, but it’s my only dress with matching accessories. The chocolate purse is big enough to fit my gun, cassette recorder, phone … and Bernadette’s car keys.

My next-door neighbor owes me for all the entertainment I’ve provided in the past few years. It’s time to pay up with the loan of her canary yellow 1964-and-a-half Mustang convertible. Assuming it actually runs. I’ve never seen her drive it. It just sits in the shed behind our houses, peeking a shy fender from under its tarp, teasing the world with its gloriousness.

“Dicker didn’t stick around. The cat gave him a nasty scratch on his hand,” Cane says, not sounding particularly grieved by his coworker’s injury. “But I’m sure everything will be fine. I gave Dr. Hollis your number.”

“Thanks, Cane.” I chuck off my shoes and set to work disposing of my pants with stiff fingers, so distracted
my mouth continues to function without the consent of my brain. “Talk soon, love you.”

I freeze, pants around my knees, skin breaking out in goose bumps. I said it again. Sober. In daylight. Without any excuse to take the words back at a later date.

“I love you too, baby,” he says, the warmth in his voice making my throat tight. “See you soon.”

He hangs up without waiting for a response—maybe to urge me to hurry, maybe because he knows what a big deal it is for me to say the l-word. Either way, he’s going to be really,
really
mad when I don’t show up at the station. If I know Cane, I have maybe fifteen minutes before he comes to hunt me down.

Jolting back into motion, I kick off my jeans, toss my tank top, and wrestle into my dress and sandals in record time. My hair is a hopeless tangle, but it’ll only be worse after a convertible ride, so I twist it into a clip and pronounce it “good enough.” A quick sweep of powder, some lipstick, and a liberal application of laundry-scented body spray—invented by some genius who believes in wearing dirty clothes as much as I do—and I’m ready to dash.

And dash I do, throwing items in my purse as I go, refusing to think about everything that could go wrong in the next half hour. It’s time for something to go right. It
has
to go right … or I’m going to be in some very serious, maybe even deadly, trouble.

Y
ou can throw your purse anywhere. My mother’s out for the afternoon, so no one’s going to care,” Libby says, smiling at me across the island in the Camellia Grove kitchen.

It really is big enough to
be
an island. A tribe of hunter-gatherer pygmy people could have flourished there unnoticed by man. The oak fixture is twenty feet wide and eight feet deep, and boasts an intimidating slab of granite that would make the room feel weighed down if it weren’t just as enormous. The kitchen is three times the size of my house, with a ceiling that arches forty feet in the air.

I feel like I’ve wandered into the bowels of a medieval castle. I had no idea the kitchen was so immense. All the other rooms in the plantation—the ones I saw on the walking tour when I was a kid—are small and cozy, with tiny beds for tiny people who weren’t raised on a steady diet of multivitamins and bovine growth hormones.

“It’s okay, I’ll hold on to it. Otherwise I’ll lose it.” I re-cross my legs, and drum my fingers lightly on the oak table, trying to pretend I’m not crawling out of my skin.

So far I’ve been here ten minutes and have yet to see any sign of Deedee or Percy. Or James. He’s home, if the BMW in the driveway is any indication, but apparently choosing not to come greet the company. Libby met me at the door and led me straight back to the kitchen, where she’s
still
baking, though four dozen muffins of various flavors sit cooling on the countertop. It must be her version of stress relief, though one has to wonder what she does with all the goodies. She certainly isn’t eating them. She looks even thinner standing up than she did in the van.