Cypress Nights

by Stella Cameron

  “Really broken up,” Cyrus said. “I think she already knew something awful had happened to Jim, because he didn’t normally alter his routine. Day by day, always the same. They may have been closer than I’d thought. She made dinner for the two of them every night and had done so for years.”

  “Poor woman,” Bleu muttered, her attention on the windows ahead and the not-very-casual way people turned their heads to watch her approach with Cyrus and Roche.

  Roche. He was the most unexpected thing to happen to her—in her whole life. Complex, certainly not a talker most of the time. When she was with him she didn’t breathe quite normally and her skin became supersensitive. She didn’t imagine that he felt vaguely dangerous to be with. These were not signs that brought her any peace. They thrilled her, though. Quiet he might be, but he had a big personality, and when it touched her, she wanted more of him—even if the reaction tensed her muscles until they ached.

  In the darkness last night, he almost paralyzed me. I never knew that sensation before. He can’t know what an enigma he is, can he?

  When he looks at me now, by daylight, my breath rushes away. For moments, I forget who and what I am. All I can think about is sex—what it would be like with him.

  I feel this even in the forbidden daylight and it is strange, foreign, to a woman who was taught that she should hate the realities of intimacy. Michael only approached me at night, in the dark.

  Since he died, when the shadows gather, what should be quiet hours teem with distorted pictures, spin into a black miasma that is a mirror image of my marriage. Again, I’m huddled up in long, ugly nightgowns until my husband comes to rip at my clothes as if he was raping me. He assaults my body, pounds out his disgust with every stroke.

  Then, when he is satisfied, he leaves me on my own.

  What do I want? To see Roche by day when lust wakes up? Or to venture to him by night when terror could either hold me back from him, or crack open and send me to swarm over him until I’ve sucked him dry?

  Bleu felt wild, shocked. She stared ahead, but saw nothing clearly. I want him. I want to feel again, and hope to be alive inside.

  “You’re hovering,” Roche said.

  She started, and everything came back into focus.

  “Are you okay, Bleu?”

  “Of course. I was just waiting for us all to catch up,” Bleu said, avoiding looking at him, and pushing open the pink door.

  A wave of warm, fragrant air met them. Bleu smelled freshly fried beignets and the subtle sweetness of the powdered sugar they were dredged in, and realized just how hungry she was. She walked inside on unsteady legs, still reeling from thoughts and images that she could not have imagined before she met Roche.

  She felt him close behind her. He might as well be touching her with his body—stroking every nerve ending.

  “Hi, Miz Laveau.”

  Bleu collected herself and looked at a familiar face from last night. The woman had sat in the front row at the parish hall. “Hi, there,” Bleu said.

  “I’m Jan Pierce,” the woman said. “I work for the paper. I’ve got two kids and we really want that school.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” Bleu said, and moved on.

  Looking around at other friendly faces, she returned smiles and waves. Her heart lifted. There were a lot of good people in Toussaint.

  “Hey, you three,” Jilly Gautreaux said loudly from behind the bakery cases, grinning at them as if they came in together daily. As always, there was a line waiting to buy pastries and coffee to take away.

  Roche said, “Hi.” He liked Jilly because she was real. Most people wore armor of various kinds; Jilly faced the world as she was—soft spots, prickly spots and all—and so did her husband, Guy.

  Guy Gautreaux, a former New Orleans police detective, ran his P.I. business from the flat above All Tarted Up. His oversized black dog, usually flaked out at the open front door beside the shop, was the signal that Guy was up there and available.

  “You here for breakfast?” Jilly said with her strong Cajun lilt. When they all nodded, she pointed to an available table close to the front of the shop. “Best table in the house. Saving it for you.” She winked. “Sidney, she’ll be right over.”

  Roche put a hand on Bleu’s shoulder and guided her around the line for counter service. A faint tremor passed beneath his fingers, and she moved a little closer to him. Surprised was a weak word for the effect the little move had on him, as was pleasure. He felt almost lightheaded. She had come near to draw strength from him; he was certain of it.

  To feed on his strength.

  Arousal brought with it the inner flush, this time with even more force than he expected. He hardened. And he clamped his teeth together.

  Staying away from her could be the kindest thing. That would keep her safe from him.

  But need would bring him back to her again and again. He must fight his instincts to pursue until he captured.

  Bleu sat down by the wall, facing the windows, and he sat beside her. Cyrus took a chair opposite.

  “They’re talking about us now,” Bleu said, so quietly that Roche had to bring his ear almost to her mouth to hear. “They’re making something out of nothing.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, although he was aware of surreptitious glances quickly averted.

  “I don’t know. They watched us outside when we were coming here. Then I thought everything was fine—until we came inside. Now, they’re pretending not to look at us and talk, but it’s obvious they are. What can they be saying? Do you think they’ve heard about Jim Zachary yet?”

  “I doubt it,” Cyrus said. “Lil won’t have been at the rectory yet. Everything was done so quietly last night and there was no one around but us, then Spike and his guys. It’ll all come out soon enough. Everyone will be questioned.”

  “Yep,” Roche said, catching a pair of interested eyes that looked away at once. “You’re right though, Bleu. We’re the entertainment around here this morning—at least for some.”

  Cyrus cleared his throat and bent forward over the table. “Don’t put too much emphasis on that. Not at all,” he said. “Small towns have their own habits. The folks are interested in everything. Yes, they surely are. You haven’t been here long, Bleu, so you’re the latest unknown quantity. They’re still sizin’ you up all right. I don’t know why they’d look at Roche and they surely wouldn’t bother with me. They’re so used to me, I’m pretty much invisible.”

  Bleu let out a short laugh. How could a man be so oblivious of his presence. “Father Cyrus, you couldn’t be invisible if you tried. And every woman who sees Roche just about drools.”

  Her hand, audibly slapped over her mouth, made Roche smile, and he didn’t miss the way Cyrus tried to squelch a grin.

  Embarrassed, Bleu said, “I just meant you’re easy on the eye. Well, nice to look at, anyway. So people are bound to watch you.”

  Bleu glanced at Cyrus, who raised his eyebrows and gave her a great big smile.

  “I guess I’m just a smooth talker,” she said, chagrined at her own clumsy efforts. “I’ve led a pretty sheltered life, so you’ll have to make allowances for me.”

  Sidney, her dark eyes clear and cheerful, arrived with a bunch of coffee cups strung on her fingers. Deftly, she swung off three and set one in front of each of them. “Coffee?” she said. “Leaded or unleaded?”

  She wriggled menus from the pocket of her apron and passed them around. Sidney had worked with Jilly for several years and took pride in the café.

  “Leaded with cream,” Bleu said.

  “Leaded, black,” Cyrus said, and Roche asked for the same.

  “You havin’ cooked breakfasts?” Sidney asked, pouring coffee from a carafe. Her shiny brown hair hung in a single braid down her back.

  “Oh, an omelette,” Bleu told her, pretending to faint against the wall.

  The others laughed. “Bowl of grits, and the morning man-blast,” Cyrus said. “Two sausages, two pieces of bacon, two eggs
, hush puppies, corn bread, honey—and whatever else you can get on the plate.”

  “Make that two of those,” Roche said, feeling better already, even if he was having a testosterone rush. Or maybe that was making it a perfect morning.

  Bleu’s gaze met Roche’s and she made him feel suspended in time until she looked away.

  He had a bad case; in fact he had the worst case he could recall. He had always been a hotblooded boy who knew trouble was his middle name when it came to women.

  Cyrus said Sidney’s name softly and she went to bend down beside him. The little smile on her lips suggested that she’d expected him to approach her for something. She nodded, and deep dimples popped into her cheeks before she sped away.

  “What was that about, Cyrus?” Roche asked, and got himself a puckish grin as an answer.

  “Sidney and I have our own secret,” Cyrus said. “I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

  “Hey, Bleu,” Jilly called over the din. “Great presentation on the school last night. One of these days, Guy and I will be wanting our kids to go there.”

  A hoot swelled among the customers and Jilly glared at them. “When we’re expecting, you folks will be among the last to know,” she said in a neutral tone of voice. Her meaning sank in and boos replaced hoots.

  When the noise died down, Bleu said, “Thanks, Jilly. We’ve got a long way to go yet.”

  It would be hard to miss the rumble of low voices that followed.

  “Here you go, Father,” Sidney said, her face pink from the warm kitchen. On the plate she put in front of Cyrus were two large, golden-brown tarts.

  “I’m a happy man,” Cyrus said. He closed his ever-changing blue-green eyes and breathed deeply. Then he picked up a tart and sank in his teeth, closing his eyes again as he chewed the first bite. After that, all restraint disappeared and he chomped through both pastries until nothing but crumbs remained on the plate.

  “Oh-oh, I’m gonna get to heaven,” Sidney sang, “on a marzipan tart.” She left humming her ditty amid laughter on all sides.

  Bleu peered at Cyrus’s plate and said, “It’s all right, Father Cyrus, I didn’t really want a bite of one of your tarts.”

  “Good,” he said.

  More coffees arrived, soon followed by their meals.

  Before they could do more than take a few bites, the door opened hard and Ozaire Dupre, Lil’s husband and the caretaker at St. Cecil’s, made a wild-eyed entrance. His bald head shone when he turned from side to side. He raised his thick arms like wings, obviously searching for someone.

  Lil said, “There’s a chair for you here, Ozaire,” and pulled one out.

  He ignored her, but his round chin jutted when he saw Cyrus, and he pushed his way past complaining people to reach the table.

  “Good morning, Ozaire,” Roche said, but the man focused only on the priest.

  “Father,” he said, panting for breath. “You can’t have heard. Lordy, lordy, we’ve got the devil unleashed on us.”

  “Sit down,” Cyrus told him.

  Already an intense silence had blanketed the place.

  Ozaire remained standing. He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in his denim overalls and swabbed his face and scalp, the back of his neck.

  “Have a seat,” Roche said. “I know you’d rather have a quiet chat about what’s on your mind.”

  “Jim Zachary’s dead,” Ozaire all but shouted. “Stabbed through his neck, all the way through. In the church. And that pamphlet we all got about not wanting the new school—stuck in his mouth.”

  Roche actually saw Cyrus give up on the situation.

  Shocked exclamations burst out, and people stood up.

  “It’ll be okay,” Bleu said loudly. She sensed the glances coming her way. “Spike and his department are already on it.”

  “There’s no mystery to be solved?” Ozaire said. “This ain’t nothin’ to do with more buildin’ at St. Cecil’s. That’s just a red herring. We all know Kate Harper is the one who’d want Jim dead.”

  Chapter 4

  Later the same morning

  Apriest must expect to be tested. Cyrus didn’t smile at his own small sarcasm. Priest-testing had been getting heavy around here.

  After he got to St. Cecil’s, he went into the rectory by the kitchen door at the back of the house. He had hoped to get inside without talking to anyone, but Lil, who must have rushed to get back from town before him, stood at one of the old-fashioned marble counters, punching down bread dough.

  As soon as she saw him, she picked up a dish towel and came toward him, rubbing her flour-covered hands and arms. “Don’t be angry with him, Father,” she said. “Him, he was upset about Jim Zachary and he didn’t think what he was sayin’.”

  “Yes,” was all Cyrus could think of to say.

  “Ozaire and me, we value working here.”

  It wasn’t always quite true but Cyrus said, “I value both of you.”

  Lil’s shoulders dropped a couple of inches and she smiled tentatively. Her new “do,” a reddish-brown dye job on short hair combed upward all around, reminded Cyrus of Peter Pan. Even the top of the hair stood up.

  “This couldn’t have happened to Jim because of the school,” Lil said. “Some people really don’t want it, but I can’t think of a one who’d do something like this to Jim.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “There’s a lot of older folk who resent the school idea. They want a big activity center that’s mainly for them. They’ve wanted it for years.”

  And so had Lil and Ozaire, but Cyrus didn’t mention the obvious. Ozaire in particular had wanted the site of the old schoolhouse, burned out many years before Cyrus arrived in Toussaint, replaced by a multipurpose building where he could open a gym—paying rent to the church, of course.

  “Lil,” Cyrus said quietly, “Bleu is the person to talk to about space and cost. She’s already mentioned the possibility of both a school and another facility. We all know the parish hall is too small.”

  “Too small for anything,” Lil muttered. “Not even big enough for a good bingo game.”

  “I think it manages the bingo games just fine,” he said, so tired that he longed to put his head down.

  “What will they do to Kate Harper then? Put her in jail, I suppose.” Lil didn’t look pleased at the thought. Kate was one who always showed for bingo.

  “The less said on that subject, the better,” Cyrus said incredulously. “I can’t imagine where Ozaire got such a wild notion. And I don’t expect you to mention it again, Lil. This is a police matter, of course. They’re the ones who’ll find the murderer.”

  “Plenty of folks know Kate Harper took advantage of Jim,” Lil said, the color in her face rising. “He paid for everything—”

  “You don’t know that,” Cyrus said.

  “Everyone does. They all know Jim paid off Kate’s mortgage. Her husband didn’t have anything to leave her. Jim did.”

  He wanted to walk away and not hear what Lil was going to suggest next. “Okay, what are you saying?” Best get this over with.

  Shrugging, with tears suddenly spilling over, she said, “I don’t want to talk bad about anyone, but sometimes Kate said things about Jim. She’d call him ‘set in his ways.’ He was in a rut, and she couldn’t make him get out of it. She…Kate wanted to go dancing and have some fun—that’s what she told me. I used to tell her she should be past that.” She paused, cleared her throat. “Kate said she had plenty of dancin’ time left and she might just have to find herself a younger man to be her partner.”

  He waited.

  Lil wiped at her tears with the back of one arm, and left patches of white flour on her cheeks. “Now I’ve started, I better finish. Jim had plenty. No family, everything come to him after his mother died, and a good job in the surveyor’s office all those years. And he left everything to Kate.”

  And so he had the story according to Toussaint’s amateur sleuths. “How did Kate kill Jim?”

  A fresh
torrent of tears made Lil’s words unintelligible. With her apron held over her face, she wept.

  As much as he wanted to, Cyrus didn’t comfort Lil.

  She blotted her cheeks and looked at him with red and swollen eyes. “I don’t know,” she said in a tiny voice.

  “You do know how he died?”

  “He was stabbed,” she said.

  “Where? The details?”

  Lil shook her head. “In his back, I suppose. Oh, I don’t know where.”

  “No,” Cyrus said. “You don’t. But Kate Harper couldn’t have done it. I saw what had happened, and it would have taken a lot of strength. Kate is a small woman—and not strong.”

  “Ozaire said either she did it herself, or she could have paid someone else to do it.”

  Patience, already stretched thin, snapped for Cyrus. This enraged him. A crazy man, someone very powerful, had driven the knife through Jim’s neck and left a hole in the pew where the blade had been hacked downward with such force.

  “Father?” Lil said tentatively.

  He looked through the windows toward the white church. Official vehicles clogged the driveway normally used only for funeral cars or utility vehicles. The ends of the yellow crime-scene tape that stretched across the entrances to the church, fluttered like ribbons. The day was becoming cloudless—perfect, even if there was thick moisture in the air—yet a sickening and heavy pall dulled the scene before his eyes.

  “Don’t you worry, Father.” Lil’s hand on his arm surprised him. “The truth will come out. The good Lord will help us get through.” She sighed. “Poor Jim Zachary. Just yesterday I talked to him.”

  “This is difficult for all of us,” Cyrus said. “Take some time off today if you need to, Lil. But don’t get drawn into any speculation about Kate Harper. I thought she was a friend of yours.”

  “She is.” Repeated sniffs made Cyrus feel very sorry for Lil. “Ozaire said it was—”

  “It’s all right,” he said, rubbing her left arm. “We’ve all got to do anything we can to make sure the murderer is brought to justice. We won’t help if we point fingers and confuse everything.”