Part 8 (2/2)

There were stories of her chairing the hospital charity drive and the garden club. She organized the Friends of the Library and other civic groups.

Through the 80s she was active, but in 1990, she announced her resignation from all civic clubs. There was a photograph of her at a farewell party at Tavia's Salon, a monthly gathering of intellectuals.

I studied the picture. She looked worn and . . . desperate. That was exactly the right word. As if something terrible hung over her head and she knew she couldn't avoid it forever.

Ten months later, she was dead.

”Beloved Delta Beauty Falls to Death” was the headline on the front page of the paper. Lana's death was ruled accidental by the coroner.

Gregory and Luther were quoted in the story and depicted as men devastated by grief.

”Lana was the light of my life. She was everything,” Gregory said.

”My only regret is that Mother and Erin were at odds,” Luther said.

A telling quote. Why air the family's dirty laundry in the newspaper at such a tragic time? And also untrue, if what Erin had told me was accurate. Whether Luther knew it or not Erin and her mother had patched up their breach.

Luther and Gregory had compounded the tragedy of Lana's death by failing to let Erin know that her mother was dead.

I pondered the implications of all this as I read the funeral arrangements. Burial for Lana Carlisle was in West Point, not Zinnia. Not in the Carlisle family cemetery, which would have been proper. Lana had gone home to West Point.

Gathering my notes, I returned the bound newspapers to their slots. There was no way to tell from the articles who'd arranged to send Lana's body to West Point--or why. But Sunflower County and the Delta had adopted the Black Prairie beauty as one of their own. It was almost unheard of for a woman who married into a wealthy family not to lie beside her husband in death.

If Lana had made the arrangements before her death--that was one story. Gregory and Luther s.h.i.+pping her off to West Point was something else again.

Shuffling the huge, bound editions of the paper, I found the one that contained details of Luther's death.

This story was also played on front page, but below the fold, which befitted the double tragedy of death by suicide. The exact coroner's ruling was ”death by accidental hanging,” a nice way to phrase it. The obvious facts were accepted. It appeared that no one considered the possibility of foul play.

Gregory Carlisle was buried in the family cemetery located on the estate.

Dusting my hands, I left the newspaper morgue and went to find Cece. As I drew near her office, I heard her on the phone.

”Well, Jimmy, I'd love to meet for dinner, and steak sounds wonderful. Carnivore would be a good description of me. Seven is perfect.”

She was almost purring. I leaned against the door frame and listened without apology.

When she hung up, she flashed me a grin. ”I'll find out what ever you want to know.”

”And a whole lot more than that,” I said. ”I'm heading over to the sheriff's office to check the reports filed on the Carlisle deaths.”

”Have you heard from Tinkie?”

My cell phone, that troubling implement, had remained silent. ”No calls from anyone.”

”I'm on deadline, but I'll meet you later.”

”Sure thing.”

As I left the newspaper, I had the strangest sense that everything that had happened in Hollywood was only a dream. The movie world seemed a million miles away, and I couldn't be certain if it was a good thing or a bad.

Coleman wasn't in the sheriff's office, and the new dispatcher showed me to the cubbyhole where old reports were kept. Since I had the dates of death for Lana and Gregory, it didn't take me long to locate the paperwork.

Nothing in the reports offered any insight into what had really happened at the Carlisle home.

In fact, the reports were nonexistent. There were no diagrams of body placement, no interviews, no real information at all.

Since I was going to the hospital to see Tinkie, anyway, I stopped first at the health department to check out the CDC facilities. Beaucoup and Peyton had taken over the back office of the clinic, and I was pleased to see what looked like high-tech microscopes and other equipment. A hint of relief whispered along my neck. Maybe Peyton and Bonnie would come up with a solution that would save the lives of the four sick people.

”h.e.l.lo, Peyton!” I called out as I stood around in the main office. The door hadn't caught properly, so the lock hadn't engaged. My first thought was to make sure everything was okay.

”Peyton! Bonnie Louise!”

The place was empty.

My second thought was to make sure the CDC team was sharing information. I went to the back room, where two desks had been set up. Beaucoup's was easy to spot--it was the one with everything neatly stacked and arranged. Peyton's desk was buried in paperwork.

Since he was the senior CDC official, I plowed through the stuff on his desk first. There were reports filled with language I didn't understand. I saw a notation regarding Mississippi Agri-Team and a phone number for Lester Ballard. Peyton was following the same leads that Coleman and I were pursuing.

My a.s.sumption--which was correct--was that the computers in the office were linked with the CDC network. Firing up the one on Peyton's desk, I did a bit of basic background work: I pulled Bonnie Louise's work record. She'd been with the CDC two years, and her service was filled with laudatory comments from her supervisors. Before the CDC, she worked with the World Health Organization. She'd been around plague, famine, and disease plenty.

I brought up Peyton's file. He'd only been with the CDC for six months, but his private research credentials read like a blue-chip portfolio. He must have been earning in the high six figures in private industry, but the bad economy had sent a lot of folks scurrying for government jobs. There was nothing else noteworthy.

I s.h.i.+fted to Beaucoup's chair and began to read through the papers on her desk. Reports had flown between the field office in Zinnia and the main office in Atlanta. Beaucoup was a meticulous note-taker and she made it a point to keep her superiors in Atlanta abreast of everything.

She was also thorough. And detailed. And organized.

On the negative side, she didn't have a lick of taste. A tacky keychain, all pink cubic zirconium-emblazoned alphabet letters BLM, served as a paperweight. But I hit the mother lode when I opened her desk drawers. One contained clothes--tight jeans, a slinky pullover, flimsy underwear, and nice shoes. She was a woman with dating on her mind, and I knew whom she intended to wear those clothes for. I closed the drawer.

I didn't know what I'd hoped to find, but it appeared from the reports I read that Peyton and Beaucoup were shooting straight.

I reached for the last bundle of papers when the small note torn from a yellow legal pad fell into my lap. Coleman used such a pad.

”Dinner tonight?” were the only two words written.

Rising slowly, I replaced everything and left the office, taking care to latch the door firmly. The bright sunlight gave me a sudden headache, which resulted in a churning stomach.

While I was a snoop, I wasn't the kind of person who threw up in public. After a few moments, the urge to hurl pa.s.sed. I wiped my clammy face and tried to find that mindset where I could sincerely wish happiness for Coleman and Beaucoup.

9.

After a depressing two hours at the hospital, Tinkie refused to leave, and I finally went home. I wanted to do some research on the Internet, and I couldn't bear watching Oscar and Gordon and the two women who suffered in their gla.s.sed-in sick ward. My head was still pounding, and I saw no improvement in any of the patients. As Doc had pointed out, though, the longer they hung on, the better the chances they would outlast the illness.

I'd just sat down at the computer when the telephone rang. I answered it without even checking caller I.D.

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