Crazy Like a Fox

by Anne Stuart

  “Oh, I didn’t inform Aunt Eustacia. One of her little voices must have told her. Isn’t that right, Auntie?”

  He didn’t have quite the drawl the other men had. Just the trace of a liquid slide in his deep voice, more a promise of long, slow, hot nights and steamy days.

  Eustacia tucked a lace-edged handkerchief into the sleeve of her mauve chiffon dress. “Laugh at them all you want, Peter. My voices know a great deal more than most of the people around here.”

  Peter advanced into the room, his mocking gaze dancing over each of the inhabitants, avoiding Margaret’s fascinated stare. Unlike the other men, he was dressed casually in faded denims and a wrinkled khaki shirt. He sniffed the air, cocking an inquiring eye at Lisette. “Smoking again, Cousin? I wonder if I might trouble you for a light?”

  “Cut it out, Peter,” Lisette grumbled. “You’re not funny, and your new audience can’t even appreciate your wit.” Still Peter didn’t look at Margaret, turning his attention to Wendell, instead. “Hullo, dear Cousin. Did you turn off the music for my sake? I promise to behave myself. I’ll just sit in the corner and drink my soup in complete silence.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Peter,” Wendell said heavily. “We’re glad you felt like coming down to meet our new cousin.”

  A curious sweetness touched Peter’s malicious smile. “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  He turned then, directing the full force of his gaze at Margaret, and she realized with a shock that his eyes weren’t hazel at all. They were green, like hers. As he looked into them it gave her the unnerving sensation of seeing into the mirror of her own soul.

  “Cousin,” he said softly, advancing, and she steeled herself for another hearty embrace, dreading it. She’d survived Wendell’s exuberance, but for some unnamed reason she felt Peter’s embrace could be far more dangerous to her shaky equilibrium.

  To her relief he stopped short of touching her, moving close enough so that she could feel his body heat, close enough so that she felt cornered, invaded, and yet could do nothing about it. Not without backing into Wendell’s immovable body.

  “Welcome to Maison Delacroix,” Peter said softly. “Or as we call it, Maison Diable. Do you smoke?”

  “Enough of that, Peter, or I’ll have you taken back upstairs,” Gertrude said sharply. “If you’re joining us, try to behave yourself.”

  “Grandmère, I always behave myself,” Peter said, his gaze never leaving Margaret’s. “We have something in common, Cousin,” he said softly.

  “What’s that?” She was amazed at how even her voice sounded.

  “We’ve both been widowed.”

  “Oh, God,” Lisette muttered, reaching for her cigarettes.

  In a flash Peter was beside her, reaching for her silver filigree lighter. “Can I light that for you, darling?” he inquired smoothly.

  Lisette slapped at his hands, shoving her cigarettes and lighter back in her pocket. “For heaven’s sake, behave yourself.”

  “I think Mrs. McKinley must be ready by now,” Gertrude announced, rising from her seat and moving forward. “Peter, you may escort me in to dinner.”

  “I came down to meet my new cousin, Grandmère. Let Remy take you in.”

  “Peter.” She never raised her voice, but, then, she didn’t have to. With an almost imperceptible shrug Peter reached down and took the tiny woman’s arm, leading her with surprising gentleness out into the hallway to the dining room across the way. Margaret watched with unease and fascination as the Jaffreys began a stately procession that seemed to hearken from another century, Remy with the petulant Lisette, Wendell with his mother. He held out his other arm for Margaret, but enough was enough.

  “You go ahead,” she murmured. “I’ll be right behind.” Apparently Mrs. McKinley was privy to the same occult voices Eustacia was. There was a place set for Peter, one across from Margaret, and the thought of spending an entire meal avoiding that too familiar green gaze vanquished what little appetite Margaret had left. She hadn’t felt like eating for what seemed like weeks, maybe months, and the tangled politics of the Delacroix family were not the sort of thing to tempt her.

  Two unlit candelabra decorated the center of the huge walnut table. Candlelight would have been nice, she thought, softening the edges of the shabby room. But for some reason matches seemed a dangerous subject around Peter.

  If she expected the bickering to continue she was in for a happy surprise. The barbed undercurrents vanished once the disparate crew sat down to eat, and the conversation, with its topics of the weather, neighborhood gossip and politics was innocuous enough to be boring to someone who hadn’t yet experienced the weather, didn’t know the neighbors and didn’t care about local politics. She sat quietly, content to be ignored, as she toyed with the excellent gumbo, watching each member of the household in turn. All except the man across from her, the man who appeared to be the greatest mystery of all.

  The conversation flowed around her, the warmth of the room added to her exhaustion and she found her eyelids drooping over the creamy chocolate cake that already had a piece missing by the time it was brought to the table. Margaret knew where that piece had gone, knowing her daughter’s fondness for all things chocolate, and the feeling that at least Carrie had found a friend, a protector in Mrs. McKinley, went a long way toward settling her mind.

  “I have a few things to discuss with you, Wendell,” Peter was saying as he pushed his plate away. His expression was lazy, innocent, his eyes watchful as he glanced at Lisette’s pack of cigarettes.

  “Certainly, old man. Is now as good a time as any?” Wendell asked promptly.

  “If the others will excuse us.”

  “Go ahead, boys,” Gertrude waved them away. “I’m glad you felt up to joining us, Peter. We don’t see enough of you.”

  Peter’s smile held a peculiarly sad sweetness to it, and he brushed a kiss against Gertrude’s withered cheek as he passed by. “I’m sorry, Grandmère.”

  She touched his hand. “Don’t fret about it, my child.”

  Margaret waited until the dining room door had closed behind the two men. She opened her mouth to ask all the inevitable questions that had been building up, when Gertrude forestalled her with an imperious gesture.

  “I’m tired. Eustacia, help me to bed. Remy, give Mrs. McKinley a hand with the dishes, and don’t drink too much. And Lisette?”

  “Yes, Grandmère,” Lisette murmured, lighting her long-awaited cigarette and taking a deep drag.

  “Watch what you say.”

  “Yes, Grandmère.”

  “Good night, Margaret. Welcome to Maison Delacroix.”

  “Thank you, Gertrude. It’s good to be here,” she murmured politely, remembering Peter’s scathing term. Maison Diable. House of the Devil, or Hell House. The only devil in this house seemed to be Peter Delacroix himself.

  Neither Lisette nor Margaret moved from the table as the two older ladies left the room. Lisette’s blue eyes, when they met Margaret’s, were cool and knowing. “You ready for the details?” she inquired, blowing smoke out in a long, steady stream.

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I wasn’t,” Margaret replied with some asperity. She didn’t particularly care for Lisette, but if she wanted to find out the truth of what was going on here, she’d be most likely to get it, without frills, from the cool, cynical female across from her.

  “We don’t smoke or light candles or have fires in the fireplace in front of Peter.”

  “I gathered that much. The question is, why?”

  “We can’t play the radio or record player, and we have to be careful about the television when he’s around. Classical music, Mozart and the like, is safe. But nothing modern. No rock, no country, no Cajun music, which is all the radio stations play around here.”

  “I’ll ask you again. Why?”

 
Lisette’s smile was devoid of charm, exposing sharp white teeth.

  “Because my cousin Peter is a nut case, incarcerated in the attics of Maison Delacroix instead of the state institution, where he belongs. Most of the time he’s harmless enough but give him an open flame and he’ll set anything he can on fire. Play country music in his hearing and he rips off his clothes and curls up in the fetal position. Either that or he starts to smash things. Believe me, it can be most embarrassing if you happen to be entertaining at the time.”

  Margaret stared at her, horrified. “He didn’t look as if he were mentally unbalanced.”

  “He’s not mentally unbalanced, honey. He’s loony. Nutty as a fruitcake. You ever been to an asylum, Cousin Margaret?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I have. Peter was placed in one for a few months before we got the authorities to let him be kept at home. And let me tell you, sugar, you couldn’t tell the crazies from the doctors in that place.”

  “Shouldn’t he be getting some help? He shouldn’t just be locked away . . .”

  “Oh, Doc Pitcher checks in on him a couple of times a week, he has occupational therapy and they have him loaded up with drugs to keep him peaceful. He’s safe enough, and if there’s any chance he’ll get better, then Doc Pitcher should be able to help. Personally I don’t think he’s going to get better. I think he’s going to spend the rest of his days up there in the attic. I just hope to God I don’t inherit him along with the house.”

  “Are you going to inherit the house?”

  Lisette shrugged. “Who knows? Uncle Remy isn’t going to get married at this late date, and Dexter was disinherited years ago, so don’t go expecting any of the gravy, Cousin. That leaves Wendell and me. I expect we’ll work something out. But I won’t take the Maison if it means I get the loony in the attic.”

  “Maybe he’ll be well by then.”

  “Grandmère’s eighty-six. She can’t live forever, and Peter isn’t getting any better. He’s been up there for two years now.”

  “Two years in the attic,” Margaret echoed, horrified. “Where was he before that?”

  “New Orleans.”

  “In a mental institution?”

  “You might say. Better known as the University of Louisiana. He was head of the history department.”

  “You mean he wasn’t always ill?”

  Lisette lit another cigarette from the stub of her first one. “Ill? If you want to call it that, sugar. Hell, no. He’s only been crazy since February 14, 2015.”

  She could tell from Lisette’s breathless, parted pink lips that she was just waiting for Margaret’s next question. If she’d been a better woman she wouldn’t have asked; she would have let Lisette stew in her own malice. But she couldn’t help it—curiosity had always been one of her besetting sins.

  “What happened on February 14, 2015, Lisette?”

  “Why, dear Cousin Peter strangled his wife and then burned her body in the little guest house out back of here.” She leaned back, and Margaret thought she saw a triumphant smile on her smug, beautiful face.

  “And that’s when Peter went crazy,” she finished.

  Chapter Three

  SHIT, PETER THOUGHT once he was alone again in his attic, the door securely locked, ostensibly keeping him in. He never should have gone down this evening. He’d been in a melancholy mood already, sick of these four walls, sick of a life that had narrowed to a strangled existence.

  Bad choice of words, he thought. He looked down at his hands. They were large, with long, narrow fingers and broad palms. Strong hands, good hands. Sometimes he could feel people watching his hands, and he knew what they were thinking. They were envisioning them wrapped around Rosanne’s beautiful white throat, squeezing the life out of her.

  “Shit,” he said, out loud this time, and headed for the tiny kitchenette, located behind a closet door at the end of the long room. There were no knives, no forks, no gas flames and no decent food in that cramped area. Nothing the slightest bit exciting but the bottle of Jack Daniel’s hidden behind the box of oat bran. He wasn’t supposed to have the liquor any more than the knives and forks, but good old Uncle Remy had taken pity on him. At the moment Peter needed a drink; he could also have used his uncle’s undemanding company. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, alone with his frustrations.

  Wendell didn’t help, but, then, he never had. Why Peter had been naive enough to hire his cousin as his lawyer was something that had always mystified him. Growing up with him should have taught Peter that Wendell, though charming, bright and more than capable, simply didn’t have the killer instinct required to get someone off of an almost inescapable murder charge. And after two years he was getting no closer to freedom.

  If he hadn’t given in to his personal demons and gone down to see the red-haired cousin for himself he wouldn’t be in such a frustrated state. He’d never liked red hair—the fact that Dexter’s widow had shown up should have been no more than a mild curiosity. But given his limited existence, any newcomer was a major occurrence. And given his enforced celibacy, even a redhead could start to look attractive.

  Who was he kidding? It wasn’t celibacy that made him want to push Margaret Jeffrey up against a wall and screw her senseless. It was those green eyes of hers, both vulnerable and wary; it was her mouth, soft and pale and eminently kissable; it was her body, long and a little too thin but still undeniably luscious, and it was that wild red hair of hers, tied back in a vain effort to tame it. It wasn’t that he needed a woman, any woman. He hadn’t been at the mercy of his hormones since he was sixteen years old, and he wasn’t going to let things like that complicate his already tangled life. But for some reason Dexter’s widow had the surprising ability to knock down his defenses, whether she knew it or not, and he was prey to the least PC fantasies he’d ever indulged in.

  She was scared to death of him. Probably his best bet would be to encourage that fear. He couldn’t afford to get involved with someone; he couldn’t afford to let anyone into the secret little world he lived in. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder if irresponsible, self-centered Cousin Dexter had ever appreciated such a glorious woman.

  He poured himself a good, generous drink, turned on some Mozart and sank down on the sectional, staring at the Georgia O’Keefe print across from him, losing himself in the swirls and whorls of color. He wasn’t going to pick the lock and go roaming in the hope that he might run into Cousin Margaret. For one thing, she wouldn’t be sharing his X-rated fantasies, and while the only entertainment he had in life was to cause trouble he suspected Margaret had had more than her share. He didn’t want to add to them.

  Anyway, with his luck he might run into a drunken, voracious Lisette, and he didn’t fancy fighting her off again. No, he was going to stay put, put a dent in that bottle and listen to Wolfgang.

  OF ALL THE ROOMS in Maison Delacroix, Margaret decided she liked the kitchen best. It was old-fashioned, huge, with an iron sink, drain boards, a big restaurant-style stove and open shelves for storage. Mrs. McKinley kept it spotless, and her willing helpers worked diligently under her direction.

  Uncle Remy had obeyed his mother’s dictates. He’d stripped off his white linen jacket, rolled up his sleeves and tied a butcher’s apron around his paunchy middle. But his tie was still carefully knotted, his tall glass of whiskey was only half-empty, and his faded eyes could still focus. He smiled sweetly at Margaret, continuing his conversation with the fascinated Carrie.

  “Tomorrow, chèrie, I’ll take you and your mother on a tour of the grounds, what’s left of them. We’ve had to sell off our best lands, but there’s still plenty to see. The rose arbor’s been kept up by your Uncle Peter, and there’s a small vegetable garden I’ve been working on. You look as if you might have a talent for weeding. That is, if it’s all right with your mother.”

  “We’d like that,�
�� Margaret murmured. “Is there anything I can do here?” The kitchen appeared immaculate, but Margaret had learned that her standards of cleanliness sometimes fell short of other people’s.

  “Everything’s done,” Mrs. McKinley said, stripping off her apron and surveying her domain with a steely gaze. “Don’t worry about it, Margaret. Gertrude will set you to work soon enough. She doesn’t believe in idle hands.”

  “No, indeed,” Remy agreed, reaching for his glass of whiskey and taking a swallow.

  Margaret wanted to choke in sympathy as she watched him down the amber liquid. He drank it as if it were water, fastening a beatific smile on the two new Delacroix.

  “I, for one, am delighted you’re here, Margaret.” Remy said. “This old house needs fresh blood.”

  Margaret couldn’t stop from thinking of the murderer in the attic. “I hope you don’t mean that literally.”

  “Heavens, no.” Uncle Remy looked shocked. “Don’t pay any attention to what Lisette tells you. Peter had an unfortunate experience, and we have to be careful not to set him off, but he’s really quite harmless.” He shook his head. “You know, men who kill their wives aren’t the same as your normal, everyday murderers.”

  “No, just their wives,” Margaret said, unable to help herself.

  Uncle Remy snorted. “You never met Rosanne. That girl was a holy terror—a cheat, a liar and an all-around monster. I never understood why he married her, and I don’t blame him for doing her in. If I’d been married to her I’d have strangled her, too.”

  “Who killed his wife?” Carrie piped up, all ears.

  “No one you need pay any attention to, sugar,” Mrs. McKinley said, casting a disapproving glance at the other two adults. “Just foolish talk. You ready for bed? I’ll take you up if your ma still wants to gossip.”

  “No more gossip,” Margaret said firmly, taking Carrie’s hand. “I’ll get her settled. Thanks, though.”