Ophelia’s fangs slotted down, then disappeared again. “Sorry. Just getting mad on your behalf.”
“Smug’s not the right word. Satisfied, maybe.” No, that wasn’t it either. “Relieved!”
“Well, duh,” Ophelia said. “What could be more obvious? Something happened to upset and really, really worry him. He wanted you out of the way, no longer associated with him, and therefore safe. He got rid of you to protect you. That explains why, after trying to maintain the distance by pretending to Gideon that he really suspected you of something, he couldn’t stop himself from also asking him to warn you.”
“Maybe,” Marguerite said, wanting and yet not wanting to hope, exhausted in spite of napping half the day. She rubbed her eyes. If she didn’t leave soon, she would fall asleep on the drive to New Orleans.
“There’s no maybe about it. Gideon!” She left the room, and Marguerite laid her head on the table and closed her eyes.
Ophelia came back several minutes later. “Proof!”
Marguerite roused at this.
“Reuben’s gone,” Ophelia said. “He was supposed to make sure you went to New Orleans, and when you didn’t, he reported that you were here, at which point Constantine said he could go. Constantine doesn’t want you staying home alone, but he’s fine if you’re here. He does care about you.”
“He cares about everyone who’s endangered,” Marguerite said, ruthlessly snuffing the candle. “He doesn’t want to be responsible for my death, but the fact remains that he won’t even speak to me.”
Ophelia flapped a hand. “I’m going to give him a good talking to.”
“Please don’t, or at least not on my account. He didn’t love his wife, but he cut her a lot more slack than he cut me.”
“He spoke to you about Jonetta?”
Marguerite nodded wearily.
“Even more proof! He never tells anybody about her. He wouldn’t even talk to me. He must be absolutely crazy about you!”
The candle within burst into glorious life. She tried to snuff it again and failed. She was in terrible shape if she still wanted a guy who’d treated her like dirt. Why couldn’t he have just told her what was wrong?
“Once this is over, we’ll sort him out. In the meantime, you’re staying here. Policeman’s orders. You’re unfit to drive tonight.”
Marguerite let herself be shown to the spare bedroom. She showered and crawled thankfully into bed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The body drifted up against a snag a mile or so downriver, a ghastly pale face with blank staring eyes and gaping mouth. Zeb swallowed and forced the vomit back down his throat. He retrieved the folded paper and stuffed it in his own back pocket, then kicked the body off the snag and sent it away again downstream. He followed it for what seemed like hours, guiding it past dozens more snags before letting it go, hoping it would get washed a mile or two further before another dead tree across the river held it. He waded and swam and waded again across to the other bank, and slogged upriver in the shallower water. It didn’t seem likely the cops would canvas the entire river for footprints; anyway, his shoes were new and could belong to anyone who ran.
On the way down the river, he had figured out where to go. Zelda’s Aunt Ophelia, who was a landscaper, lived somewhere along the river, but she also owned some property on the water a short way upriver from her house. There was a big new greenhouse and an old trailer. Zelda had taken him there once to take pictures of the bat houses along the bank, when he’d needed visual aids for a public speaking class at school.
By the time he spied the bat houses on their poles, the first desultory birdsong before dawn had already begun. He pulled himself out of the water by the roots of a cypress, thankful for more drenching rain. With luck, what footprints he left would be washed away, and Ophelia wouldn’t visit her greenhouse. The pathway he’d followed with Zelda was somewhat overgrown now but still passable. It was beginning to be light; he threw off the exhaustion that threatened him and hurried, smudging his footprints as he went just in case. It seemed longer than before, but eventually the greenhouse loomed, and then he was at the trailer. To one side there were woods, and to the other a couple of houses, but no lights showed yet in the windows. He found the key to the back door in the same metal box under the stairs where Zelda had left it. He fumbled in the gloom with the lock, opened the door, and went inside. He didn’t dare use the lights for fear the neighbors would notice, but it didn’t matter. He was safe for now.
The moment he relaxed, he was sick as hell. He groped his way to the bathroom, fell to his knees before the toilet, and it all came up. Not that there was much in there, but he retched and retched anyway. Finally, he got to his feet and flushed. He took the folded paper out of his pocket and set it aside to read when he had some light. He peeled off his clothes and propped himself in the shower. By some miracle, the water was hot. Maybe Ophelia showered here from time to time when working in the greenhouse, but whatever the reason for this blessing, Zeb gave thanks. He stood under the water for ages, trying to think what to do next.
By the time he got out of the shower, it was daylight. He dried himself with a towel from the rack, rinsed his clothes and shoes, and hung them over the shower rail.
Dizzy with fatigue, he took the paper to a window. The thick paper had weathered the soaking well, and so had the charcoal sketch on it. He had no difficulty recognizing Constantine and Marguerite—and not only that, Marguerite’s drawing style. Tired as he was, he still snickered at the ridiculous length of the penis. He laid the sketch on the towel to dry and looked for someplace to crash. All he needed was a few hours’ sleep, and his brain would start working again, and he’d figure out what to do.
Astonishingly, he found a bed in the room at the end of the trailer. Maybe all this unexpected comfort was an omen; on the other hand, maybe he was making himself a sitting duck. At this point, he just didn’t care. He sagged onto the thin cotton bedspread and fell immediately into an exhausted sleep.
Constantine finally packed it in an hour or two after dawn. Agony had its uses; working together, he and Lep had come up with some truly excellent songs during the night. He should probably feel more of a sense of accomplishment, but numbness would have to do. Lep yawned and headed down to the kitchen for something to eat, and Constantine retired to the bed, which smelled of sex and Marguerite. He shut his eyes and willed himself to sleep.
His cell phone woke him. He turned away and put a pillow over his head, but it rang again a few minutes later. Groaning, he reached for it. Gideon.
The cop didn’t waste time on preliminaries. “Do you have an alibi for last night and this morning?”
Huh? “What’s up?”
“From the time Marguerite left you till, say, eight A.M.?”
“Lep was with me,” Constantine said. “He came up shortly after she left, and we jammed all night.”
“Thank God for that,” Gideon said. “Someone stabbed Nathan Bone and threw him in the river during the night.”
“Jesus Christ.” Then: “Is Marguerite all right?”
“When I left home, she was asleep in my spare bedroom,” Gideon said. “I’ll tell her you asked.”
“Don’t! She’s better off hating me. She’s got to stay away from me. I cannot risk having her death on my account, too.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Gideon said. “I’d say this was another attempt to implicate you, but how could he have known whether you would be alone?”
How indeed?
“Nathan said on his blog yesterday that you had threatened him,” Gideon said.
“No, I warned him that his anonymous informant might be dangerous.” Constantine sighed. “He had no idea who he was playing with.”
Gideon’s voice sharpened. “And you do?”
“Yes and no,” Constantine said. “I think I know who did it, but I don’t know his name.”
“Say what?”
“I’m doing my best to remember, but it’s from a long time a
go. When you’re done with the cop stuff, come and see me.”
Constantine lay back. Time to dredge up the childhood memories he’d been keeping at bay all his life.
Marguerite tossed and turned for hours, finally falling asleep as the birds began to sing before dawn. She roused briefly at the sound of a phone ringing and later to the baby’s cries, but she didn’t wake properly till past noon. She showered and dressed, and found Ophelia at the kitchen table drawing a garden plan, complete with meandering pathways and a bridge.
“For a customer?” Marguerite said.
“I hope so,” Ophelia said. “They may not go for it. It’s going to be pricey.” She gave Marguerite a look. “Pour yourself a coffee. There’s news.”
Judging by the expression on Ophelia’s face, not to mention her uneasy aura, it wasn’t good. “What?”
“Somebody stabbed that reporter, Nathan Bone, and threw him in the river last night.”
“Oh my god. Poor Nathan.” Pause. “Is Constantine all right?” Her heart battered her chest. “They’re not going to pin this on him, are they?”
“The media will do their best, but he was with Lep all night,” Ophelia said. “Unless there’s some real evidence against him, he’ll be okay.”
Marguerite poured a coffee and dropped into a seat at the table. “Nathan was pretty horrible, but he didn’t deserve this. Does Gideon have any idea who did it?”
“Not as far as I know, but there’s a kid called Zeb who’s mixed up in all this, and he’s gone missing.”
“No.” Marguerite shook her head. “Zeb didn’t do this. He’s a good kid.”
“Gideon said the police and the underworld were taking turns keeping him under surveillance, but he slipped his leash last night and never came home. This morning his father called every one of Zeb’s friends he could think of, got nowhere, and reported him missing.” She rubbed out a cypress tree and drew it again. “Seems like an overreaction to me. Maybe the kid was partying someplace all night and fell asleep there. On the other hand, my niece is one of his friends, and she’s worried he’s suicidal.”
“Al—that’s his dad—usually has a cool head, but he’s been worried about Zeb lately, too. So have I, but regardless, he’s not capable of killing somebody.”
Ophelia’s aura fluttered strangely. Without looking up from drawing a semicircle of shrubs on the garden plan, she said, “Everyone’s capable of it.”
Marguerite watched the flutter resolve itself and fade from the vampire’s aura. Interesting, but none of her business. “In self-defense, maybe, or to save someone else, but this sounds like cold-blooded murder. Anyway, what motive would he have? I’m a more likely candidate than he is.”
“Luckily, you were here all night,” Ophelia said. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“None,” Marguerite said. “He could be holed up almost anyplace. His friends wouldn’t rat on him, and I think he has some keys that he shouldn’t.” He probably had a key to her place, come to think of it, because he’d taken care of Lawless once when she and Pauline had both been out of town. But he hadn’t been the one to do the break-ins. He had no reason, and he wouldn’t hurt Lawless. “I have to go to the office for a while. Can I leave my dog here? I’m not allowed to bring him into university buildings on weekdays.”
“No problem. Gideon said don’t be surprised if someone seems to be shadowing you. The media are back in hordes, and the underworld people have their hands full, but they’ll keep an eye on you if they can.”
“How am I supposed to know whether the person shadowing me is friend or foe?” Marguerite said.
Ophelia snorted. “Beats me.” Painstakingly, she filled in a pathway with flagstones.
“Or whether they suspect me of collusion with the murderer?”
Compassion suffused the vampire’s aura, and she glanced up briefly. “It sucks, doesn’t it? Believe me, I can relate. Gideon suspected me of murder once.” Her eyes were back on the drawing. “I don’t think he seriously suspects you, but there’s obviously some connection between you and the murderer. Maybe they think by keeping an eye on you, they’ll find him. Anyway, Gideon says stick to public places and don’t trust anyone.”
Feeling more alone than ever, Marguerite finished her coffee and left.
“That’s his T-shirt,” said a female voice. “He must be here someplace.” It was Zelda. “Please be okay. Please don’t be dead.”
Fuck. Not again.
“Here he is,” said Juma. “Zeb, what the hell are you doing here?”
“As long as he’s alive, it doesn’t matter,” Zelda said. “Jeez! He’s butt naked!”
“Guys with butts like that,” Juma said, “should be naked.”
“For all the female world to gaze upon,” Zelda agreed, and then her tone shifted. “Zeb, are you all right? We’ve been so worried!”
Zeb groaned, groped for the bedspread, and wrapped it around himself. He tried to open his eyes, and the events of last night crashed into him. He sat up, clutching the bedspread, and forced his eyelids unstuck. “Yeah. Sure.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m fine. What time is it?”
“It’s almost seven P.M.,” Zelda said.
Christ. He’d slept the whole day away. He should have been up and heading into town hours ago.
“You don’t look fine,” Juma said. “That’s blood on the bedspread. You’re bleeding!”
One of the rips on his palm had opened again. “Yeah, I cut myself last night.”
“Everybody’s searching for you,” Zelda said. “Your dad’s been calling everywhere. He even went to the cops. We tried all the usual places, and then I thought of here as a last resort, although I couldn’t imagine why you’d—”
Panic roiled up. “My dad’s not here, is he?”
“No, but I’m going to call him right now.” Zelda whipped out her phone.
Zeb leapt off the bed and grabbed it. “No!”
Both girls gaped at him, although it was hard to say whether they were more focused on his privates or his behavior. He glared at Juma. “Don’t you dare call him either. Or text him.”
“No problem, dude.” She put up her hands as if he’d pointed a gun at her, and he felt himself flush. “You know me better than that.”
“Let me get dressed.” He stalked off down the hall, still gripping Zelda’s phone. If he hadn’t been so freaked, he would feel ridiculous.
Zelda was close behind, doubtless butt-watching to her vampire heart’s content. “If my mother thought I was missing, I’d call her first thing. She drives me crazy, but I couldn’t stand having her worried about me.”
“My mother is dead, and my father’s just pretending to care.” He had to pee. “Do you mind?” He glared at her and went ahead, and she had the grace to roll her eyes and leave the bathroom. He splashed his face and rinsed his mouth, then pulled on his still-damp underwear and stuck his head into the hall. At least he was thinking straight now. “I need to talk to Constantine.”
Zelda and Juma exchanged glances.
“What’s wrong?” Zeb took his shorts off the shower rail. “Yesterday, you were ecstatic when I said I’d talk to him.”
“Yesterday, you ran away,” Zelda retorted.
“It’s life or death now.” It had been life or death yesterday, too, if only he’d known. He pulled on his shorts. “Did you come here by car? Is Constantine at the Impractical Cat?”
“Yes, but it’s surrounded by news people and fans,” Juma said. “This reporter dude was stabbed to death and dumped in the river last night, and some people are trying to blame it on Constantine.”
“A reporter?” Zeb zipped his fly. Now he knew why the dude had looked familiar; he was the one who’d taken pictures of Marguerite at the Merkin. “That makes no sense.”
“Unfortunately, it does,” Juma said. “The reporter’s been printing awful stuff about him, and about his new girlfriend, too.”
“He didn’t do it,” Zeb said flatly.
<
br /> “We know that!” Zelda said. “Constantine would never do such a clumsy job. If he had killed the guy, the body would never have been found. Not that I approve of murder, mind you.”
“Sometimes it’s necessary,” Zeb said, flat and sure.
Zelda stilled. “You’re reminding me of Constantine again.” Even Juma’s cynical eyes widened a little.
“I wish,” Zeb said. But he didn’t have Constantine’s savvy or guts, and meanwhile the old man might be dreaming up new ways to wreak havoc. He reached for his T-shirt.
“What’s this?” Juma picked up the drawing Zeb had laid on the towel hours and hours earlier. How could he have slept so long? “Whoa. This is a drawing of Constantine and some girl.”
Zeb pulled on his T-shirt. Planting the sketch on the reporter seemed like an attempt to implicate Constantine, but why? The bastard’s twisted mind might be bursting with reasons to harm Lutsky, or even Eaton Wilson or Pauline. But why would he care one way or another about Constantine?
“That’s one bizarro penis.” Zelda made a face. “She seems to be enjoying it, but it looks like some weird sort of bondage to me.”
“It’s clearly symbolic,” Juma said loftily. “Where’d it come from, Zeb?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He put his sneakers on without bothering with his still-soggy socks and reached for the paper.
Juma backed away, holding it over her head. “Tell us.”
“Give it to me. This isn’t a game.”
“Then don’t keep us in the dark,” Zelda said. “We’re only trying to help.”
“If you really mean that, do what I ask. Take me to the Cat and get me in to see Constantine.” But Juma danced away, so he grabbed her wrist and squeezed.
She yelped and dropped the paper. “You jerk!” she said. “That hurt! Forget the ride. Forget the sex thing, too. You’re not my kind of guy.”
[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine Page 26
