"Varik, a dangerous man who nearly drains you of all your blood."

"Charming."

"Oh, I can charm you into offering that beautiful white neck to me."

I had no doubt of that. In fact, Graf had glamoured me so thoroughly that I wanted to do nothing but remain in bed for the rest of the week. If only we could stop time outside the hotel room, freeze everything tragic and bad happening to my friends, and give ourselves a week or a month or a year to truly explore the riptide of feelings swirling around us.

But that was not to be. The bedside clock showed another precious hour had slipped away.

"When is your flight back to L.A.?" I held the script as if it could somehow, magically, stretch the minutes.

"I have to be at the airport at six."

I did the calculations in my head. Our time was short.

"Sarah Booth?"

I gave him my full attention.

"I want to marry you."

My heart fluttered in excitement and fear. "Graf--"

"Don't answer me now. Don't. The timing is all wrong. I want to propose properly. But I didn't want to leave with those words unsaid."

"I can't imagine my life without you."

"That's a big step for you." He leaned over and kissed me. "One day you'll trust me completely. That's when we'll marry. When I prove I'm the man you can lean on."

I kissed him. We only had a couple of hours left before his departure. I intended to make full use of them.

When I exited the hotel, suitcase in hand, my cab driver was waiting. Graf had left in the predawn darkness, and I'd managed not to cry, though I was slightly teary as I climbed into the backseat of the cab.

My destination was the office of the superintendent of public schools. To my everlasting grat.i.tude, the school system's records were computerized, and within half an hour I'd found Jimmy Janks's high school home address, 1024 Pompeii Street, and his father's name, Austin James Janks. I'd also looked up Sonja Kessler's school address. I wasn't familiar with the street, but my resourceful cabby supplied me with a city map.

A stop at the nearest library gave me a peek at a reverse directory. John and Elsie McBane now owned 1024 Pompeii. The home where Sonja had grown up had also been sold. My time was limited and I had to choose.

"Pompeii is closer," my driver said.

"Go there." Sometimes a cabby with a good sense of direction makes all the difference in the world.

Janks's old neighborhood was quiet and middle-cla.s.s. The homes were older, neatly maintained, the lawns clipped and trimmed. When the cab stopped in front of 1024, I hurried up the sidewalk and rang the bell.

"Can I help you?" Elsie McBane was a pretty young woman with a baby on one hip and a toddler banging his toys in a loud ruckus on the floor behind her. Instead of frustration, she wore an open smile and jounced the baby on her hip to keep it quiet.

I introduced myself and implied that I was attempting to find a member of the Janks family in regard to an inheritance.

"Oh, that would be wonderful," Elsie McBane said, obviously delighted to have an adult to speak with, even if it was a stranger. "The younger Mr. Janks, Jimmy, was such a nice man. He kept this house in perfect condition. Not a crack uncaulked. You don't find such care and detail in most homes."

"Yes," I agreed. "Do you know where I might find the elder Mr. Janks?"

She frowned. "Why, he's dead, I'm afraid. There was an accident involving chemicals." She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't remember the details. It was a long time ago, way before we bought this house. I only heard the talk. Jimmy hated to sell the family home, sentimental value and all, but he had to. An inheritance would be a wonderful thing for him."

"What did the father do?"

She grabbed a pacifier that the baby spit out and put it back in the infant's mouth. "Seems like he was some kind of chemist or biologist or something like that. I believe he worked for DeFoe, the chemical plant."

My pulse had begun to race, but I hid my excitement behind a bland smile. "Do you remember when he died?"

"I'm sorry, I don't." She leaned down to the toddler on the floor and removed a pot he was beating. "Charles, please stop banging for half a minute." She rolled her eyes. "He's fascinated by the sounds he can make. I'm hoping Emma here is a quieter baby."

The infant watched me from beneath a mop of dark curls. Never one to get sappy over a baby, I found this one striking. "She's a beauty."

"Takes after her dad."

"Thanks for your help, Mrs. McBane."

I jumped in the cab and we headed to the airport. As the city slipped farther and farther behind me, I examined the map my driver had so kindly provided.

The Janks house was less than a mile from the street where Sonja Kessler had grown up. As Cece had so succinctly pointed out, coincidences like this were hard to swallow.

After clearing security, I had forty minutes to kill, and I dialed Chicago information. The link to pesticides and Austin James Janks might be a dead end, but it was worth checking out. Time was critical. If there was an antidote to Oscar's illness, we needed it as quickly as possible.

DeFoe Chemical was unwilling to give out any information on employees, past or present. I had no alternative but to call in the law.

"Sunflower County Sheriff's Office." Bonnie Louise answered the phone.

"It's Sarah Booth. I need to speak with Coleman."

"Is this business or personal?"

I couldn't believe her, but now wasn't the time for a set-to over phone etiquette. "Business."

"He's in a meeting, but he should be out in just a minute."

"And you're his new receptionist?" Coleman had a long history of hiring difficult receptionists.

"I'm happy to help Coleman any way I can, even if it means answering the telephone for a half hour." She drawled the words.

"Any luck on the tests you've been running? I'm particularly interested in pesticides or chemical agents."

There was a pause. At last she answered. "The soil tests show nothing, so far. The cotton itself, while genetically altered, hasn't been treated with any detectible chemical or poison. The well water is fine to drink. My best determination is that pesticides aren't an issue."

"What about those strange boll weevils?"

"The good news is that they're confined to the genetically altered cotton. There's no danger they'll spread. It's not clear how this relates to the sick people."

An airline employee announced my flight.

"There has to be some link," I told her. "The last four people to step foot on the property are sick. If it isn't pesticides, it has to be the cotton or the weevils."

"The weevils appear to have mutated in some ways. They're still being examined, but it's going to take some time. I have to study their DNA, breeding, and re-productive cycles. Preliminary testing shows sudden changes in those areas."

It didn't take a brainiac to figure this boded ill. "How long before you get some answers?"

"I've consulted an independent expert, a brilliant man. Even Peyton is impressed with his skills and accomplishments and n.o.body impresses Peyton. He's dying to meet the doctor. I'm hoping to have some solid information soon."

The airline attendant began to shut the door to the flight ramp. "My flight is boarding. Tell Coleman I'll stop by to see him when I get home."

"He's got a full schedule, but I'll tell him."

Before I could say anything, she hung up. I hustled onto the plane that would ferry me to Memphis. Before take-off, I was able to leave Coleman a voice mail on his cell phone regarding Austin James Janks.

It was late afternoon by the time I got home and fed Reveler. Sweetie Pie and Chablis were asleep on the front porch, and I let them inside and defrosted some ground turkey to cook for them.

"Your mama will be home soon," I told Chablis. She was looking a little forlorn. I scooped her into my arms and gave her some kisses. Since Tinkie was practically living at the hospital, it was up to me to keep Chablis fed and loved.

As I'd driven south from Memphis I'd heard a country ballad on the radio about a prison hound. I held Chablis in my arms and sang it to her while Sweetie Pie accompanied me with a soft alto yodel.

A sharp knock on the kitchen door interrupted our duet.

"Who's there?" Most of my friends used the front door and didn't bother with formalities.

"Sarah Booth?"

The voice was deep, male, and one I recognized. Cole-man Peters. At the back door.

"Coleman?"

"I didn't want to leave the patrol car in front of the house."

"Why ever not?" And then it struck me. He didn't want Beaucoup to know he was visiting Dahlia House. "Are you hiding the fact that you're here?"

"Not for the reasons you've jumped to."

I inhaled. Perhaps I had been speedy in my a.s.sessment. "Then why?"

"Everyone in town knows we have a history. And that you're in love with Graf Milieu. Why should we complicate things by stirring up gossip?"

Even though I could see his point, I was still a little hot. "I don't give a rat's a.s.s what other people think, Coleman. You're the sheriff. I'm an investigator. Our friends are in trouble. We can talk about it at midnight in the cemetery if that's what we need to do."

His expression touched me. "You never change," he said. "That's a compliment."

"Want some coffee?"

"How about a Jack? I'm off duty."

Coleman seldom drank, and with Gordon sick, he was never off duty, but I fixed us both a short one without comment. G.o.d knows I could use a drink. I hadn't slept a wink the night before and I was running on pure adrenaline.

"What're you cooking?" he asked.

"Turkey and whole wheat noodles. For the dogs."

He stirred the pot with a big spoon. "Sounds like your nesting skills are kicking in and the dogs are the beneficiaries."

"Chablis is virtually an orphan." I added the frozen peas and carrots. Though I had nothing fresh to cook, my freezer was well stocked.

The ground meat cooked quickly and while it was cooling, Coleman and I sat on the front porch to sip our drinks. While the days were warm, with night falling the wooden steps were cool. Soon the paint would be baking in the summer heat.

The fields around Dahlia House sprouted row upon row of tender green cotton, young plants that symbolized the South's tragic past and uncertain future. Even so, looking over the growing fields yielded a moment of serenity.

Coleman sipped the Jack. "I talked to the folks at DeFoe."

It was a good lead. I could tell by the way Coleman gripped his gla.s.s. "And?"

"Janks moved to Argentina, where he was a contract worker for a branch of DeFoe that creates crop pesticides. There was some trouble at the plant. They were reluctant to go into details, but it involved a breach of plant security and the theft of chemical formulas."

"What kind of chemical formulas?"

"There's a particular type of beetle in South America that destroys the roots of gra.s.s. It could devastate the beef industry there. Janks and several other scientists had reached a breakthrough on the pesticide, when someone broke into the plant. Janks was killed and the formula stolen. About a year later, a European company came up with a formula to resolve the beetles. DeFoe lost a lot of money."

"The boll weevil is a type of beetle," I pointed out.

"Exactly. The DeFoe spokesman glossed over the actual event. He'd only say that Janks was killed, burned to death in a chemical fire. He wouldn't come out and say it, but he hinted that Janks might have been involved with the break-in and the fire. I'd say the Janks clan is something to keep our eyes on." He lifted his gla.s.s in a toast. "Good work, Sarah Booth."

"Cece had a date with Jimmy last night? Did she find anything?"

Coleman, about to sip his drink, slowly lowered the gla.s.s. "I haven't spoken with Cece."

"She was supposed to call you last night. She went to Memphis with Jimmy for dinner."

"And no doubt to pump him for information." His forehead furrowed. "You haven't heard from her?"

I stood quickly. "No. I need to check right now."

Inside, Coleman dished up the turkey for the dogs while I called Cece's cell phone. The phone rang straight to voice mail. I left a message, asking her to call, and then tried her home phone. No answer.

The newspaper was closed, but I called, anyway, hoping she might be working late. When her voice mail picked up, I ended the call.

"I want to run by her house," I said.

"Let's do it." Coleman had his keys in his hand.

13.