Part 2 (1/2)

The Carlisles originally settled in the Carolinas, hoping to produce tobacco. Stories of the Delta land, topsoil eight feet deep, and a nation of Choctaw and Chickasaw Indians, who were a bit friendlier than the Cherokee, drew the family to the heart of Mississippi.

The War Between the States was not even a glimmer on the horizon as the Carlisles, like many other landowners, cleared the land with slaves and convict labor from the state penitentiary not fifty miles away.

Smart, hardworking, and determined, the family saw their holdings grow from a hundred acres to more than two thousand. When Mississippi gained statehood in 1817, James Carlisle became one of the first senators, a position he held for two terms. Though he retired from office, the Carlisles never completely left politics. They merely moved behind the scenes, a power at the rear of the throne. And then the war came.

Carlisle roused the state legislature in a fiery speech, pointing out that secession was not a violation of federal law but a right of statehood. At his urging, Mississippi became the second state to secede from the Union on January 9, 1861.

I skimmed through the hards.h.i.+ps and deprivations the family endured, the names of those wounded and killed at the various battlefronts that still evoke horror and loss among old Southern families.

I came out on the other side of the war with a story of Clayton Carlisle, one of the richest planters in the South. He'd held on to half the family land through war and Reconstruction, and he'd profited.

Moving on into current history, I read the news story of Lana Carlisle's tumble down a flight of stairs. Not a week later, Gregory Carlisle hanged himself in the equipment barn. Lana's death was ruled accidental, and Gregory's a suicide, presumable because he was so bereaved by the death of his wife.

But perhaps he died by his own hand--guilty of Lana's death. Call me a cynic, but I've come to understand that people are capable of great cruelty and meanness, especially where money is involved.

Certainly this family had had its share of tragedy, and it was no wonder rumors of a curse had spread.

In Gregory's obituary, his daughter, Erin, was listed as living in Jackson. I made a mental note to look her up. Gregory's son, Luther, had opened a trailer park on the south side of town. Happy Trails. Right. After seeing the nightmare of FEMA trailer encampments on the Mississippi Gulf Coast after Katrina, I didn't have high expectations of Happy Trails.

I'd stop by and talk to Luther. Maybe he could shed some light on chemicals used on his family property. Tinkie said the bank had leased the land to Mississippi Agri-Team, a farming consortium. Lester Ballard, the head honcho at MAT, was also on my visiting list. I was curious about this cotton he'd planted that was two feet tall when most cotton was just breaking the soil.

The front door rattled, unlocking, and Mrs. Kepler walked back in, her reusable grocery bag in hand. I had to admire her. She was nearly seventy and she was doing her share to keep the planet green.

”Thank you.” I gathered my notes and crackers and prepared to leave.

”Please tell Mrs. Richmond that I'm so sorry about Oscar. You know they made a significant donation to the library last year.”

I had no idea. Tinkie and Oscar didn't go around bragging about their good deeds. ”I'll tell her you asked about her and Oscar.”

She nodded. ”I wish I could do more.”

”We all do.” I waved good-bye, then hurried to the car and my s.h.i.+ft to sit with Oscar at the hospital.

3.

On the drive to the hospital, I phoned Graf. He had an early call to read for a new movie, a Western written and directed by the Coen brothers. The part was perfect for him, and he would bring the cowboy/reluctant gunslinger to life. I wished him luck and told him that nothing had changed in Zinnia.

”Say the word and I'll come to you,” he said. ”No movie role is as important as you.”

”Just hearing those words is enough.” It was true, even though I wanted him beside me. I was always a bit startled to realize how much I'd come to rely on Graf for support. It was knowing that I could lean on him that made all the difference. Graf couldn't change what was happening to Oscar and Tinkie, though I had no doubt he would if he could. With Graf working in Hollywood, I could focus totally on my friend and her requirements. ”If I need you, I'll pick up the phone.”

”I miss you, Sarah Booth. When Oscar is well, I want to set a date for our wedding.”

”You haven't officially proposed,” I reminded him, though his words had set my heart to thudding.

”I'm afraid you won't accept. If I just pretend it's a fait accompli, then maybe you'll go along with it.” His voice was tense.

”You have to take the risk and ask me.” A deep streak of traditionalism was a sudden discovery.

”What will you say?” He sounded nervous.

”I'm not sure.” I wasn't stringing him along. I simply didn't know if I wanted to be married. I loved him. Far stronger and deeper than the way I'd loved him in New York when we'd first met and fallen in love--and broken up. In recent months, Graf had shown himself to be a man of complex emotions and to have a willingness to do the right thing.

”Haven't you ever dreamed of walking down the aisle in a wedding gown?”

”Maybe when I was eight. Right before I human-sacrificed my friend's Bridal Barbie.”

He laughed hard and long, and it made me love him even more.

I owed him the truth, though. ”Marriage isn't a legal state that appeals to me. I don't need an official doc.u.ment to tell me that I love you. There seems no point to it, unless we decide to have children. Then we should be married.”

”That's something we need to work on.”

I loved his enthusiasm. ”I agree. As soon as Oscar is well, I'll be on a plane. You'll have to clear your whole schedule just so we can practice.”

”Deal.”

I pulled into a parking spot at the hospital. ”If anything changes, I'll phone you.”

”And I'll be in touch later, because I love the sound of your voice.” He blew me a kiss and hung up.

It was just eight o'clock--an hour too early to be considered civilized by most DGs--when I walked into the hospital. I'd barely gotten my foot in the door when Doc Sawyer materialized from behind a soft drink machine and grabbed my arm.

”Holy s.h.i.+t!” I jumped at least eight inches. ”Doc, don't you have enough work without trying to give me a heart attack?”

He drew me into his office beside the emergency room. ”I want to talk to you, Sarah Booth.”

His expression and tone immediately settled me down. ”What is it?”

”Oscar isn't getting any better.”

”Not any?”

”His temperature goes down slightly, but then it rises again. There doesn't seem to be anything we can do to help him.” His eyes were bloodshot; his hair, always in the mode of Albert Einstein, was bedraggled.

”What are you saying?” I swallowed.

”His body can't sustain these spikes of high temperature. He's used the last of his reserves. And the truth is, there could be brain damage from the fever. The same applies to Gordon and the two women.”

I heard Doc clearly, but my brain wouldn't process what he was saying. ”What about ice packs? Can we do that?” I'd seen something like that once in a movie.

”They're all on insulated pads that run cold water beneath them constantly. It isn't really helping.”

”Doc,” my voice cracked, ”what are you saying?”

He grasped both of my arms with his strong hands. ”That Oscar and the others are probably dying. You need to make plans to stay in town long enough to get Tinkie through this.”