Free Crossed Bones by Carolyn Haines

thick hulls and eat it.
    In our travels, we wandered onto the old Lassfolk place. Overgrown with weeds, the driveway was lined with white crepe myrtles that had grown huge. We were walking down the choked drive when a sudden gust of wind shook the white blossoms free and they cascaded down around us, a snowstorm in August. "
Mississippi
magic," my mother said. I recalled that memory as I walked toward the courthouse and Coleman.
    I heard the music first, a gut-tickling riff on a guitar. Then Scott Hampton's signature raw voice sang a line that made me stop in my tracks. I was stunned by the power, skill, and talent I heard--in contrast to the awful rap music I'd listened to earlier. I was also horrified by the lyrics.
    "I went down to the corner, murder in my heart. He saw the shank I carried and said, 'Son, that ain't too smart.' But the devil gripped me tighter, oh, yes, he told me what to do. Now I'm headed straight to Parchman prison to sing those low-down, murderin' prison blues."
    If a man could be said to have sung himself into a capital murder charge, Scott Hampton would be that man.
    Scouting the area, I saw the big black boom box that was the source of the music. I started toward it, determined to unplug it or stomp it to death. The boom box was running on batteries, so I knelt beside it, searching for the power button.
    "Hey! You! Stay away from that. That's private property! " A woman came out from behind a big azalea bush holding a sign that read "Free Scott Hampton."
    It was only as she drew closer that I recognized her. Sort of. She bore a distinct resemblance to Stuart Ann Shanahan, known throughout high school and college as Nandy. But this was a Nandy I'd never seen before. This was Nandy after a long season in hell. She came toward me like a pit bull on the attack, then stopped. Recognition lit her heavily lined and mascaraed eyes.
    "So, it's Sarah Booth Delaney, Zinnia's answer to Mickey Spillane. It's about time you were out of bed and working. You have to make them believe Scott's innocent."
    I heard the words, but I was focused on the earring that had somehow crept from her shell-shaped ear to her eyebrow. A blue stone had been expertly cut into the shape of a record album--a blues album. How unbearably cute! And how incredibly expensive.
    Helped by a shaft of sunlight, I saw a matching ring in her navel, exposed by her designer jeans cut to hang perfectly on her prominent hipbones. Topping off the effect were pumiced and manicured toes painted what looked like that nearly impossible-to-find shade of Snow White red.
    "Nandy?" I wasn't certain it was really her. My last sighting of Nandy had involved a chiffon gown and tiara when she was crowned Sweetheart of Sigma Chi at Ole Miss.
    "You were expecting Lord Darnley?"
    I'd read enough historicals to catch her reference to the murdered husband of Mary, Queen of Scotts, and I also knew her family's obsessive fixation with the beheaded queen. They'd named their sprawling Delta holdings Holyrood. I ignored the Darnley remark and zeroed in on the pertinent issue. "What are you doing here?"
    "Since no one else seems to care, I decided to start the protest movement. Scott is more than a musician, he's a god." She thrust the sign at an elderly gentleman who was headed into the courthouse. "They have Scott in jail. Can you believe it? They've locked him up like a common criminal."
    "He's charged with murder," I pointed out, still trying to adjust to this new Nandy.
    "What a crock of shit." She wiped at some perspiration beneath her eye and smudged thick black mascara over to her temple. She wasn't wearing waterproof cosmetics!
    "How do you know Scott?" I asked.
    "I'm head of his fan club. The Blizzard Heads."
    "I see." But I didn't. Nandy had preferred the soulful sounds of Barry Manilow. I'd gone through her CDs in college once, and she'd even had a couple of Perry Como's, as well as three albums of bagpipe music.
    "The pigs won't let me even visit him in jail.