Dead on the Delta

Twenty-three



You mean … she killed her sister’s rabbits?” I try to keep my voice neutral. Deedee sounds sincere, but this story is hard to believe. It seems more likely that a precious pink princess who loved unicorns and playing pretend would be petting the bunnies and drawing sparkly pictures of their babies, not killing them.

And Marcy was so positive that Grace was a nice, normal girl. Marcy … who apparently also thinks it’s okay to kill people and help fathers kidnap their daughters.

“Are you sure she did it on purpose?” I ask.

Deedee nods, fresh tears in her eyes. “She used the magic. She took the rocks from around the big fountain and dropped them on their heads. Right on top.” Deedee’s sobbing softly now and snot leaks down her upper lip. I would get her a tissue—if I could move, or if she hadn’t just made the gesture futile by swiping her nose with her arm, leaving a glistening trail from her elbow to her wrist.

“You’re sure? You saw her do this? You saw her carry the rocks—”

“She didn’t carry them. She made them move with the magic,” Deedee corrects without a second’s hesitation, sticking to her story. “And she told me I had to watch or she’d tell her mama that I was the one that killed them.” She shudders, as if the idea sickens her. As it should. As it would anyone but a psychopath or a future serial killer. “I knew Miss Bee wouldn’t believe her ’cause she knew Grace was turnin’ bad, but I was afraid to leave. I was afraid she’d crush me with the rocks too.”

“Wow.” The more she speaks, the more I believe. The story is too horrible to be pretend. Deedee’s a weird kid, but weird in the “wants to pet mean cats and climb trees in her nice dresses and wipe snot on her arm and leave it there to dry” kind of way, not the “makes up sick and twisted stories to get attention” kind of way.

What if … what if Grace really had been disturbed? That wouldn’t change the fact that she didn’t deserve to be killed, but it would certainly add a few people to the list of suspects. Percy still ranks high, but what if she wasn’t acting alone, what if she’d been obeying orders like she has every day for the ten years she’s worked for the Beauchamps? What if “Miss Bee” regretted adopting a bad seed and wanted out? There aren’t many options in a situation like that.

She could have had Grace committed or sent to a home out of state, but how would that have looked to the rest of the Delta royalty? Bad. It would have looked very bad, and Barbara would have lost all those points she gained for adopting an orphan with a heart condition in the first place and a butt load more.

Having a kid in the funny farm for torturing small animals is a good way to become a social outcast, and Barbara seems to value her place at the top more than she values anything. Certainly more than she values her family’s safety, or she would have left the Delta years ago. Maybe even more than her children’s lives … or at least her adopted child’s life …

I keep seeing her on the steps of the Capitol building, so perfectly put together and in such a terrible rush. What was she doing there? Perhaps it was something completely harmless. Or perhaps she was delivering a payment to a top-secret safety deposit box for her trusty maid, the woman who’d done her dirty work for her once again. There’s a bank on the ground floor, one of the few that still rents safety deposit boxes.

But could Barbara Beauchamp do something like that? Pay someone to kill her daughter?

No matter how much a part of me likes the story—always ready to believe the worst of anyone who reminds me of my mother—my gut says Percy was acting on her own, with her own motives. If she honestly believed her daughter’s life was in danger from a girl who crushed baby bunnies for fun, she might have decided she had no choice … that it was either Deedee or Grace.

“That sounds horrible.” I pull one leg in with a slow draaaggg across the floor, and turn to Deedee. “You must have been really scared and sad.”

She sighs. “I always wanted a bunny. Even though mama says all they do is sit around and poop all day.”

“So you told your mom about what Grace did to the rabbits?” I ask, jumping on the opening she’s provided. “What did she think about that?”

Deedee’s eyes search mine, confused. “She thought it was gross and bad,” she says, the “no, duh” note in her voice making me feel pretty dumb. So far, I’ve sucked at questioning Deedee like a child. Might as well treat her like an adult and see how far that gets me.

“Right. Of course she did, I just meant … did your mom say what she thought should be done about it? How Grace should be punished for killing those animals and scaring you half to death?”

“Mama said Grace was crazy. She said we just had to pray for her to get better.” Deedee rolls her eyes, and mutters under her breath. “But I don’t see that prayin’ ever works. I prayed forever for a necklace like Grace’s, but I never got one until I took it.”

“Well … I guess the Bible does say God helps those who help themselves … ” I shift my other leg beneath me and prop up one knee, starting to think seriously about standing up. “But I don’t think stealing was what the Bible was talking about. Do you?”

“No, prolly not.”

“And take it from a person who once had a lot of stuff; it’s just stuff. It’s not going to solve your problems or make you happy.” I sound like an after-school special, but I feel strangely obligated to share one of the few lessons I’ve learned in my life. Good lessons, anyway. “I mean, look at Grace, she had a lot of stuff and she wasn’t happy, was she?”

A light sparks in Deedee’s dark eyes, as if I might have said something that makes sense. “No, she wasn’t, not even before the magic. Even on her birthday, when she got a car that drove around the yard just like a real car.”

“See there. She must have been really sad inside if not even something like that could make her happy.” I pause, sensing an important bit of information in Deedee’s words. “Can you remember when Grace started feeling so sad?”

“She wasn’t just sad, she was mad, too. Sad and mad and she never wanted to play with me anymore. Not since her brother James came back to live at the house.”

The brother. The mean, cranky brother who treated Libby like an unstable waste of time. Maybe he’d done the same to his other little sister. Or worse. Maybe this doctor in training isn’t a healer, but a hurter. I’ve certainly met my share of sadistic a*sholes pretending to be medical professionals. It’s part of the reason it was so easy to leave med school when things between me and Hitch went to hell. Scarily enough, I can imagine a couple of the doctors I’d known thinking they could get away with “accidentally” overdosing someone who made their lives difficult.

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 f*ck? 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 f*cked 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.