Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  But of everyone in the household, Schyler best handled the recalcitrant patient. She seemed to know how to mol­lify his temper when something set it off and how to boost his morale when he fell victim to depression. By turns she kept him calm and encouraged.

  He was allowed to watch newscasts on the portable tele­vision that had been placed in his room. One of Gayla's duties was to bring him the local newspaper the moment it was delivered. But Schyler kept her answers vague when­ever he asked about Crandall Logging.

  "Everything's going very well," she parroted each eve­ning when she came in to visit with him.

  "Any problems on getting that order to Endicott?"

  "None. How are you feeling?"

  "Trains running on schedule?"

  "Yes. Mrs. Dunne said you ate all your lunch today."

  "Does it look like good timber their cutting?"

  "Highest Crandall quality. Did you get a good rest this afternoon?"

  "Are we gonna make that loan payment in time?"

  "Yes. I'm sure of it. Now settle down."

  "Jesus, Schyler, I hate that you're having to undo my mistakes."

  "Don't worry about it, Daddy. The hard work is good for me. I'm actually enjoying it."

  "It's too much for a woman to handle."

  "Chauvinist! Why shouldn't I be able to handle the busi­ness?"

  "Guess I'm just old-fashioned in my thinking. Behind the times." He glared at her from beneath his brows. "Like when I was your age, queers were avoided. Normal women sure as hell didn't move in with them. Is that why I never got to meet Mark Houghton? You were hiding him from me?"

  "That's not the reason at all." She kept her voice even, but inside she was fighting mad. Tricia or Ken had tattled. It was probably Tricia, in retaliation for the putdown she'd received from Mark. "Mark had to leave before you got home, that's all."

  She had returned home that morning from Cash's house to find a note pinned to her undisturbed pillow. In it Mark expressed his hope that she'd had an enjoyable evening. He wrote that he had been struck by a sudden case of home­sickness in the middle of the night, had packed and called Heaven's one taxi, promising an enormous tip if he were driven to Lafayette where he could make flight connections the following day.

  Schyler could read through the lines of the cryptic mes­sage. Mark hadn't wanted to say good-bye to her. She be­longed at Belle Terre; he didn't.

  Their bittersweet parting had occurred the night before, though neither had wanted to admit that's what the conver­sation on the veranda had been. A sad, lengthy, weepy good-bye would have put them through an unnecessary and emotional ordeal. Distressed as she had been to find his note, Schyler was glad Mark had taken the easy way out. She was sad, but relieved.

  "How could you live with a guy like that?"

  "'A guy like that'? You don't know what kind of guy Mark is, Daddy. You never met him."

  "He's a queer!"

  "A homosexual, yes. He's also intelligent, sensitive, funny, and a very dear friend."

  "In my day, if one of those crossed our path, we'd beat the hell out of him."

  "I hope that's not something you're proud of."

  "Not particularly, no. But I'm not particularly ashamed of it either. That's just what us regular guys did. That was before all this social consciousness bullshit got started."

  "High time, too. We've come a long way from rolling queers in alleys."

  Cotton didn't find her attempted humor very funny. "You've got a real smart mouth, Miss Crandall."

  "I learned it from you."

  He studied her for a moment. "You know I was real upset about you and Ken not getting together. But now I'm glad. Damn glad. He's a pussy. Drinks too much, gambles too much. Lets Tricia run roughshod over him. She likes that arrangement just fine. But you would have hated it, and soon enough you'd have come to hate him. You're too strong for Ken Howell." He sighed in aggravation. "But once you were rid of him, what do you go and do? You shackle yourself to a man who's even weaker."

  "You're wrong. Mark is a very strong individual, one of the strongest men I've ever met. It took tremendous cour­age for him to leave the life he led in Boston. I moved in with him because I liked him, we got along extremely well, and both of us were lonely. Believe it or not, I didn't consider your feelings about it at all. I didn't become Mark's roommate to spite you."

  Cotton frowned at her skeptically. "Kinda looks like that, doesn't it? When are you going to get you a real man, one who can plant some grandbabies in you?"

  "Mark could have, if he wanted to. He didn't want to."

  "I reckon that's one reason you were attracted to him. He didn't pose a threat."

  "I liked him for what he was, not for what he wasn't."

  "Don't play word games with me, young lady," he chided her sharply. "Your problem is that you've always loved the unlovely."

  "Have I?"

  "Ever since you were a kid. Always taking up for the underdog. Like Gayla. Like Glee Williams."

  Glad for the chance to switch subjects, Schyler said, "Speaking of Glee, he's doing very well. I called today. The doctors are going to release him from the hospital soon. He'll have to report every few days for physical ther­apy. I'm hoping we can find a desk job for him to do."

  "Who's we?"

  "We?"

  "You said you hoped 'we' can find Glee a desk job."

  "Oh, uh, you and I." Cotton's eyes shrewdly searched for the truth. Schyler squirmed. "Glee doesn't like taking a salary without earning it."

  He grumbled, a sign that he wasn't satisfied with her glib answer. "You didn't inherit that generous nature from me. Certainly not from Macy. Her heart was about as soft as a brass andiron. Where'd you get your kindheartedness?"

  "From my blood relations, I suspect. Who knows?" The conversation had taken a track that made Schyler distinctly uncomfortable. She consulted her wristwatch. "It's past your bedtime. You're intentionally dragging out this con­versation to postpone it. Really, Daddy, you're worse than a little kid about going to bed on time."

  She leaned over him and fluffed his pillow. Kissing his forehead, she switched off the bedside lamp. Before she could step away, he caught her hand.

  "Be careful that your benevolence doesn't work against you, Schyler," he warned.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Vast experience has taught me that folks dearly love to bite the hand that feeds them. It gives them a perverse satisfaction that's just plain human nature. You can't change that." He wagged his finger at her. "Make sure nobody mistakes your love and charity for weakness. Folks claim they admire saints. But fact is, they despise them. They gloat in seeing them stumble and fall flat on their asses."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  Cotton had a spit-and-whittle club philosophy. Schyler wanted to smile indulgently, say, "Yes, sir," and dismiss his advice as the ramblings of an old man. But it weighed on her mind as she stepped out onto the veranda through the back door. She had a strong intuition that Cotton was beating around the bush about something—specifically Cash Boudreaux. He was reluctant to bring it into the open.

  She still hadn't mentioned the extent of Cash's involve­ment in the business or how much she depended on him.

  Cotton wouldn't like it. And what Cotton wouldn't like, she wasn't telling him. Careful as she'd been to keep Cash's name out of their conversations, Cotton was too smart not to pick up signals. Piecing information together had always been his forte. He must know that Cash was running the daily operation of Crandall Logging. He no doubt resented that, but realized that Cash's experience and knowledge were necessary to Schyler's success.

  What he suspected, but obviously didn't want con­firmed, was Schyler's personal involvement with Cash. Because of his long-standing relationship with Monique, Cotton would certainly have misgivings about an alliance between them.

  Schyler had more than misgivings. She was downright terrified of her feelings for Cash.

  She had a voracious physical appetit
e for him. She looked forward to his stolen kisses and their hungry love-making. She had never felt more alive than when she was with him, nor more confused when she wasn't. He was the most intriguing man she'd ever met, but it was confound­ing not to know all his secrets. He was passionate and perplexing. She depended on him; yet she didn't com­pletely trust him. His lovemaking was frightening in its intensity, but he was often aloof afterward.

  When the heat of their desire had been extinguished and she languished in his postcoital embrace, the moment was invariably spoiled by her niggling doubts. She feared that Cash wanted her only because she represented something he'd always been denied. He'd been with legions of women. Certainly many of them were more fascinating, pretty, and sexy than she. What made her so attractive to him? When he entered her body, was he loving her or was he trespassing on Belle Terre?

  That thought was so disturbing, it made her warm. Needing air, she stepped outside and drifted soundlessly along the veranda. As she rounded the comer, she bumped into Gayla. The young woman let out a soft scream and flattened herself against the wall of the house.

  "Gayla, my God, what's the matter with you?" Schyler said, catching her breath. "You scared me."

  "I'm sorry. You scared me, too."

  Schyler looked at her friend closely. Gayla's eyes were round with genuine fear. "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing. I was just taking the evening air. Guess it's time I went in."

  Gayla eased away from the wall and turned as if to ran. Schyler caught her arm. "Not so fast, Gayla. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  "Don't tell me nothing. You look like you've seen a ghost."

  Gayla's mouth began to work emotionally. Tears formed in her large, dark eyes. "I wish it was a ghost."

  Schyler moved in closer, concerned for her friend's mental stability. "What's happened?"

  Gayla reached into the deep pocket of her skirt and took something out. Enough light from the window fell on it so Schyler could see what it was. It was an ugly little hand­made doll that bore an uncanny resemblance to Gayla. There was a vicious-looking straight pin stuck in the brightly painted red heart on its chest.

  "Voodoo?" Schyler whispered. She glanced up at Gayla incomprehensively. "Is that what it is?" She didn't believe in such nonsense. "Where did you get it?"

  "Somebody left it on my pillow."

  "In your room? You found it in your room? Are you saying that somebody in the house did this?" The cruelty of it was inconceivable, even for Tricia. There was no love lost between the two women, but. . . black magic?

  "No. I don't think it was anybody in the house," Gayla replied.

  "When did you find it?"

  "Last night."

  "Tell me."

  "I heard something out here on the veranda."

  "What time?"

  "I don't know. After you left." The two women shared a guilty glance, then looked away. "It was late."

  "Go on."

  "I thought I heard a noise out here." Gayla glanced around apprehensively. "I wasn't sure. I thought it could have been my imagination. I've been real spooked lately. I think I see Jigger behind every bush."

  "That certainly isn't a figment of your imagination," Schyler said grimly, nodding down at the doll.

  "I worked up my courage and came out here to investi­gate."

  "You shouldn't have done that alone."

  "I didn't want to make a fool of myself by waking up everybody."

  "Don't worry about that the next time. If there is a next time. What happened when you came out here?"

  "Nothing. I didn't see or hear anything. When I went back inside, this was lying on my pillow." She crammed the doll back in her skirt pocket and tucked her hands under her opposite arms.

  "Do you think Jigger did it?"

  "Not him personally. He's not that subtle." She thought for a moment. "But he might've hired somebody to do it, to let me know he hasn't forgotten."

  "Who does that kind of thing these days?"

  "Lots of the blacks."

  "Christians?"

  Gayla gravely nodded her head. "The early slaves be­lieved in black magic before they ever heard of Jesus. It's been passed down."

  "Does Jigger believe in it?"

  "I doubt it. But he knows that other folks do, so he uses it to scare them."

  "Then he's used these scare tactics before?" Schyler was remembering the two dead cats found on the veranda.

  "I think so, yes."

  "Do you know who he gets to do his black magic for him?" Gayla looked everywhere but at Schyler. Schyler clasped her arm and shook it. "Who, Gayla?"

  "I don't know. I'm not sure."

  "But you have a fair idea. Who?"

  "Jigger only mentioned one hex to me in all the time I lived with him."

  "And?"

  "He was probably lying because it isn't a black."

  "Who? Give me a name."

  Gayla wet her lips. When she spoke, her voice was as soft and fitful as the Gulf breeze. "Jigger said Cash Boudreaux did it for him."

  Cash heard the old board on his porch squeak under weight. He laid down his magazine and casually slipped the knife from the scabbard at the small of his back. Pressed flat against the inside wall, he inched toward the front of his house. The door was opened. Insects dived toward the screen, making small pinging sounds when they struck. He didn't hear anything else. It didn't matter. He knew with a guerrilla fighter's instincts that somebody was out there.

  Moving so fast that his limbs were flesh-colored blurs, he whipped open the screen door and lunged outside. The other man was cowering against the wall. Cash's shoulder gouged his midsection. As he doubled over, Cash pressed the tip of his knife against the man's navel.

  "Jesus, Cash," he cried out in fear. "It's me."

  Adrenaline stopped its chase through Cash's body. His brain telegraphed his hand not to send the knife plunging in and up. He eased to his full height and slid the weapon back into the scabbard. "Goddammit, I almost gutted you. What the hell are you doing sneaking around out here?"

  "I thought that's what you hired me to do. Sneak around."

  Cash grinned and slapped the other man on the shoulder. "Right. But not around me. Want a drink, mon ami?"

  "I could damn sure use one. Thanks."

  They went inside. Cash poured two straight bourbons. "How'd it go?"

  "Just like you said." The man tossed back his drink and, with a wide smile, added. "They never knew I was there."

  Chapter Forty-seven

  "What's so amusing?" Rhoda Gilbreath asked her hus­band from her end of the dining table. She laid her fork on her plate and reached for her wineglass. "They lock people who laugh to themselves into tiny, padded rooms, Dale."

  Unperturbed, he blotted his mouth with his napkin and pushed his plate aside. Because Rhoda wanted to stay stick-figure thin, she expected him to eat as sparingly as she did. Not that he wanted huge portions of the health food she served at home. He ate sugary bakery doughnuts every morning for breakfast and a high-caloric lunch so that he wouldn't starve to death in the evenings.

  "Sorry, darling. I didn't mean to exclude you from the joke." He washed down his last tasteless bite with a swal­low of tepid white wine. It, too, was low cal and had no sting. "Have you heard about the latest entertainment at­traction in town?"

  "They've reopened the drive-in theater. Old news, Dale."

  "No, something else."

  "I'm holding my breath," she said drolly.

  "Jigger Flvnn's got a pet snake."

  "Bully for him."

  Dale leaned back in his chair. "This isn't any ordinary snake. It's a rattlesnake. Gruesome- looking thing."

  "You actually went to see Jigger Flynn's snake?"

  "I didn't want to be the only one in town who hadn't seen it," he chuckled. "That's all anybody's talking about."

  "Which is a clear indication of the intelligence level in this community."

  "Don't be snide. This really is
a remarkable snake."

  "You're dying to tell me all about it, aren't you? Well, go ahead." When he was done, Rhoda was impressed in spite of herself. "And he doesn't know who left it in his yard?"

  "Claims not to. Of course Jigger is a bald-faced liar, so you can never be sure if he's telling the truth or not. Still," Dale said, recalling Jigger's giddiness as he showed off his prized possession, "I think this is more than just another of his money making schemes."

  "How so?"

  "I'm not sure. This snake seems to have touched Jigger in some way."

  "Touched? You mean mentally?"

  "Psychologically." Dale leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, "I think it was supposed to."

  "Isn't this where the spooky music is supposed to come up full? Doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo."

  Dale ignored his wife's sarcasm. His expression was re­flective, as though he were reasoning through an intricate riddle. "Whoever left that rattler for Jigger to find wanted him to be hyped up about it. Jesus, it wouldn't take long for that monster to fuck with my mind. You can hear the thing from two hundred yards. Never heard such a creepy sound in all my life."

  Rhoda's slender, beringed fingers slid up and down the stem of her wineglass as she shrewdly regarded her hus­band. "You don't know anything about it, do you?"

  Dale feigned surprise. "Who, me? No. Certainly not." At her skeptical expression, he laughed. "Honest. I don't know anything about Jigger's snake."

  Rhoda took a sip of wine. "If you did, you wouldn't tell me.

  "What makes you think that?"

  "Because you're a provoking son of a bitch, that's why."

  Dale frowned at his wife. She wasn't a cheerful drunk. Indeed, she got more surly by the glass. "I'd like to know what burr has been stuck up your ass for the last week or so. You've been impossible to live with."

  "I've got a lot on my mind."

  "Not the least of which is who your next extramarital lover is going to be."