by Tami Hoag
And maybe, a lost, lonely part of him thought as the pain of those self-inflicted blows burst through him, maybe after all the penance he had done, he deserved to be left in peace.
Laurel went up to her room via the courtyard and balcony, not wanting to alert anyone else in the house that she was only just returning. Preoccupied with turbulent thoughts of Jack and the night they had spent together, she took a long, warm shower, then dressed for the day in a pair of black walking shorts and a loose white polo shirt. She assessed her looks in the mirror above the walnut commode, seeing a woman with troubled eyes and damp, dark hair combed loosely back.
There should have been some external sign of the changes made inside her during the last few days—the strength she had regained fighting for her new friends, the humility that remained after her pompous ideas concerning Savannah's life had been shattered, the uncertainty in her heart about her own future.
With a sigh she dropped her gaze to the small china tray on the commode where she had left the little pile of oddities she'd come across recently. The gaudy earring no one would lay claim to, the matchbook from Le Mascarade she had found in her car, the necklace that had come in the plain white envelope. At a glance they seemed unrelated, harmless, but something about the way they had simply appeared made her uneasy. Looks could be deceiving. An earring with no mate. A matchbook with a name that conjured images of people in disguise. A necklace. There was no thread to tie the items to one another other than the mystery of their origin.
She lifted the necklace, draping the flimsy chain over her index finger. The little butterfly wobbled and danced in a bar of light that slanted through the door. It was probably Savannah's, she told herself again. She'd left it somewhere with a lover. She was notoriously careless with her things. The man had sent it . . . in an envelope with no address. No. It had to have been left in the car. Unless the Bayou Breaux post office was employing psychics, blank envelopes didn't get delivered.
The obvious solution was to simply ask Savannah herself. Forgetting the hour, Laurel marched down the balcony to her sister's room and let herself in.
The bed was empty. The sheets were tangled. The same abandoned clothes littered the chairs and floor. The same sense of stillness as had been there the night before hung, damp and musty in the air.
The memory of that stillness hit Laurel like a wall. It had seemed so surreal, she had almost convinced herself it had been a dream, but here it was again with panic hard on its heels. Savannah hadn't slept in this bed. When was the last time anyone in the house had seen her? She had returned the Acura sometime Tuesday night or Wednesday morning—How did anyone know that? The car had been in the drive Wednesday morning, but no one had actually seen Savannah that day.
“Murders?” “. . . four now in the past eighteen months . . . women of questionable reputation . . . found strangled out in the swamp . . .”
“Oh, God,” Laurel whispered as tears swam in her eyes and crowded her throat till it ached.
She clutched the little necklace in her fist and bit down hard on a knuckle as wild, terrible, conflicting images roared around in her head like debris caught up in a tornado wind. Savannah lying dead someplace. Savannah locked in combat with Annie Gerrard, her eyes glazed with blood lust. T-Grace screaming on the gallery at Frenchie's. Vivian relating the tale of the vandal at St. Joseph's Rest Home. “Blood will tell.” Blood. Blood from wounds. Bloodred—the color of the matchbook from Le Mascarade. Savannah's face blank as she tossed it on the table. “I use a lighter. . . .” Savannah, finally pushed over that mental edge after all these years because of that son of a bitch Ross Leighton. Savannah, used by men, by Conroy Cooper, by Jimmy Lee Baldwin, who liked his women bound. . . .
All of it whirled around and around in Laurel's mind like fractured bits of glass in a kaleidoscope, every picture uglier than the one before it, every possibility too terrible to be true. And over it all came the harsh voice of logic, scolding her for her foolishness, for her lack of faith, for her lack of evidence. All she really knew was that her sister wasn't home, and no one in the family had seen her since Tuesday. The only logical thing was to go looking for her.
She seized on the notion with a rush of relief and resolve. Don't fall apart, do something. Get results. Solve the mystery.
Focused, all the tension drawn into a tight ball of energy that lodged in her chest, she left the room and went to her own to get shoes and her purse. She would leave the back way, she thought as she trotted down the steps to the courtyard. No use alarming Aunt Caroline or Mama Pearl. She would find Savannah, and everything would be all right.
Mama Pearl was up already, shuffling out onto the gallery with a cup of coffee and the latest Redbook. She caught sight of Laurel the instant her sneaker touched ground at the foot of the stairs.
“Chile, what you doin' up dis hour?” she demanded, her brow furrowing under the weight of her worry.
Laurel pasted on a smile and stepped toward the back gate. “Lots to do, Mama Pearl.”
The old woman snorted her disgust for modern femininity and tossed her magazine down on the table. “You come eat breakfast, you. You so little, the crows gonna carry you 'way.”
“Maybe later!” Laurel called, waving, picking up the pace as she turned for the back gate.
She thought she could still hear Mama Pearl grumbling when she was halfway to L'Amour. It might have been her stomach, but she doubted it; it had gotten too used to being empty. Out of habit, she dug an antacid tablet out of her pocketbook and chewed it like candy.
She had left Jack to avoid the awkwardness of morning-after talk. What had passed between them during the night had gone far beyond words and into a realm of unfamiliar territory. But this was safe ground. She wanted to ask his opinion, tap his knowledge. It was like business, really. And friendship. She wanted his support, she admitted as Huey bounded between a pair of crepe myrtle trees and bore down on her with his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth and a gleam in his mismatched eyes.
The hound crashed into her, knocking her into the front door with a thud. As she called him a dozen names that defamed his character and his lineage, he pounced at her feet, yipping playfully, snapping at her shoelaces. He whirled around and leaped off the front step, running in crazy circles with his tail tucked, clearly overjoyed to see her. Laurel scowled at him as he dropped to the ground at the foot of the step and rolled over on his back, inviting her to scratch his blue-speckled belly.
“Goofy dog,” she muttered, giving in and bending over to pat him. “Don't you know when you're being snubbed?”
“Love is blind,” Jack said sardonically, swinging the door open behind her.
He was in the same rumpled jeans. No shirt. He hadn't shaved. A mug of coffee steamed in his hand. As Laurel stood, she could see that the brew was as black as night. She breathed in its rich aroma and tried to will her heartbeat to steady. He didn't look pleased to see her. The man who had held her and loved her through the night was gone, replaced by the Jack she would rather not have known, the brooding, angry man.
“If you've got some milk to cut that motor oil you're drinking, I could use a cup myself.”
He studied her for a minute, as if trying to decipher her motives, then shrugged and walked into the house, leaving her to follow as she would. Laurel trailed after him down a long hall, catching glimpses of rooms that had stood unused for decades. Water-stained wallpaper. Moth-eaten draperies. Furnishings covered with dust cloths, and dust cloths thick with their namesake.
It was as if no one lived here, and the thought gave her an odd feeling of unease. Certainly Jack, The New York Times best-selling author, could afford to have the place renovated. But she didn't ask why he hadn't, because she had a feeling she knew. Penance. Punishment. L'Amour was his own personal purgatory. The idea tugged at her heart, but she didn't go to him as she longed to. His indifference to her presence set the ground rules for the morning—no clinging, no pledges.
He led her into a kitch
en that, unlike the rest of the house, was immaculate. The red of the walls had faded to the color of tomato soup, but they were clean and free of cobwebs. The refrigerator was new. Cupboards and gray tile countertops had been cleaned and polished. The only sign of food was a rope of entwined garlic bulbs and one of red peppers that hung on either side of the window above the sink, but it was a place where food could be prepared without threat of ptomaine.
He pulled a mug down from the cupboard and filled it for her from the old enamel pot on the stove. Laurel helped herself to the milk—a perfect excuse to snoop. Eleven bottles of Jax, a quart of milk, a jar of bread-and-butter pickles, and three casseroles, each bearing a different name penned on a strip of masking tape like offerings for a church potluck supper. Lady friends taking care of him, no doubt. The thought brought a mix of jealousy and amusement.
She leaned back against the counter, stirring her coffee. “Have you seen Savannah since the other morning when she left in such a huff?”
“No. Why?”
“I haven't, either. Nor has Aunt Caroline or Mama Pearl.” She fiddled with her spoon as the nerves in her stomach quivered. She fixed her gaze on Jack's belly button and the dark hair that curled around it. “I'm a little concerned.”
He shrugged. “She's with a lover.”
“Maybe. Probably. It's just that . . .” She trailed off as the suspicions and theories tried to surface. She wished she could share it all with him, but he wasn't in a sharing mood, and faced with the stony expression he was wearing, she couldn't bring herself to tell him any of it. She felt alone; the one thing she had come to him to avoid. “. . . with all that's been going on, I'd feel better knowing for certain.”
“So what do you want from me, sugar?” he asked bluntly. “You know for a fact she's not in my bed.”
“Why are you doing this?” she demanded, setting her cup aside on the counter. She halved the distance between them, hands jammed on her hips.
“What?”
“Being such a bastard.”
Jack arched a brow and grinned sharply. “It's what I do best, angel.”
“Oh, stop it!” she snapped. “It's too early in the morning for this kind of bullshit.” She dared another step toward him, peering up at him in narrow-eyed speculation. “What did you think, Jack? That I was coming over here to ask you to marry me?” she said sarcastically. “Well, I'm not. You can relax. Your martyrdom is safe. All I want is a little help. A straight answer or two would be nice.”
He scowled at her as the martyrdom barb hit and stuck dead center. Giving in to the need to escape her scrutiny, he abandoned his coffee and sauntered across the room to pull a beer from the fridge.
“What do you want me to say?” he asked, twisting off the top with a quick motion of his wrist. “That I know who was screwing your sister last night? I don't. If I were to hazard a guess as to the possible candidates, I could just as well hand you a phone book.”
“Oh, fine,” Laurel bit back. She stalked him across the room like a tiger. Fury bubbled up inside her, and she wished to God she were big enough and strong enough to pound the snot out of Jack Boudreaux. He deserved it, and it would have gone a long way to appease her own wounded pride. “You're a big help, Jack.”
“I told you, sugar, I don' get involved.”
“What a crock,” she challenged, toe to toe with him now, leaning up toward him with her chin out and fire in her eyes. She might have been uncertain treading the uneven ground of their suddenly formed relationship, but she knew what to do in an argument. “You're dabbling around the edges everywhere, Jack—with Frenchie's, with the Delahoussayes, with Baldwin, with me. You're just too big a coward to do more than get your feet wet.”
“Coward?” He gaped at her, at the sound of the word. He described himself in many ways, few of them flattering, but “coward” was not on the list.
Laurel pressed on, shooting blind, fighting on instinct. Her skills were rusty, and she had never been good at keeping her heart out of a fight, anyway. It tumbled into the fray now, tender and brimming with new emotion. The words were out of her mouth before she could even try to rope them back. “Every time it starts looking like you might have a chance at something good, you turn tail and run behind that I-don't-give-a-damn facade.”
“A chance at something good?” Jack said, his gaze sharp on hers, his heart clenching in his chest. “Like what? Like us?”
She bit her tongue on the answer, but it flashed in her eyes just the same. Jack swore under his breath and turned away from her. Struggling for casual indifference, he shook a cigarette out from a pack lying on the counter and dangled it from his lip. “Mon Dieu, a couple' a good rolls in the sack and suddenly—”
“Don't!” Laurel snapped. She held a finger up in warning and pressed her lips together hard to keep them from trembling. “Don't you dare.” She gulped down a knot of tears and struggled to snatch a breath that didn't rattle and catch in her throat. “I didn't come here to have this fight,” she said tightly. “I came here because I thought you might be able to help me, because I thought we were friends.”
Jack blew out a huff of air and shook his head. “I can't help anybody.”
Laurel tugged her composure tight around herself. Damned if she'd let him make her cry. “Yeah? Well, forgive me for asking you to breach the asshole code of conduct,” she sneered. “I'll just go ask Jimmy Lee Baldwin flat out if he had my sister tied to his bed the past two nights. I'll just go knock on every goddamn door in the parish until I find her!” She held up a hand as if to ward off an offer that was not forthcoming. “Thanks anyway, Jack,” she said bitterly, “but I don't need you after all.”
He watched her storm out of the kitchen and down the hall, a frown tugging at his mouth, a lead weight sinking in his chest. “That's what I've been tellin' you all along, angel,” he muttered, then he turned and went in search of matches.
Coop stared into his underwear drawer, frowning at the array of serviceable cotton Jockey shorts and boxers and the little silk things Savannah had bought him. He lifted out a white silk G-string, dangling it from his finger, shaking his head. He'd felt stupid as hell wearing it, too big and too old and too set in his ways. But as he dropped it in the wastebasket beside the dresser, he felt a little twinge of regret, just the same.
She wouldn't be back this time. The fight to end all fights had been fought. It was over, once and for all.
Too bad, he thought as he stared out the window. He had loved her. If only she had been able to take that love for what it was worth and find happiness. Of course, that restless, insatiable quality had been one of the things to draw him to her in the first place. So needy, so desperate to assuage that need, so utterly, pitiably incapable of filling that gaping hole within her heart.
He sighed as his mind idly drew character sketches of Savannah, and his gaze fell through the window, taking in the details of the setting. The bayou was a strip of bottle green beyond the yard, and beyond the banks lay the tangled wilderness of the Atchafalaya. Wild and sultry, like Savannah, unpredictable and deceivingly delicate, fragility in the guise of unforgiving toughness.
He thought he ought to write the image down, but he couldn't work up the ambition to go and get his notebook. Instead, he let the lines fade away and tended to his packing. Five pairs of shorts, five pairs of socks, the tie bar Astor had given him the Christmas before she forgot his name.
Astor. God, how different she had been from Savannah. She had always worn her fragility like a beautiful orchid corsage, as if it were the badge of a true lady, a sign of breeding. Her toughness had been inside, a stoic strength that had borne her through the stages of her decline with dignity. She would have disapproved of Savannah—silently, politely, with a tip of her head and a cluck of her tongue. But he imagined Astor would have forgiven Savannah her sins. He wasn't so sure the same could be said for his case. He had made his wife a pledge, after all.
The doorbell intruded on his musings, and Coop abandoned the closet
and his shirt selections to answer it, never expecting to find Laurel Chandler standing on the stoop.
“Mr. Cooper, I'm Laurel Chandler,” she said, all business, no seductive smile, no gleam of carnal fire in the eyes behind the oversize, mannish spectacles.
“Yes, of course,” he said. Remembering his manners, he stepped back from the door. “Would you care to come in?”
“I'll be blunt, Mr. Cooper,” Laurel said, making no move to enter the house. “I'm looking for my sister.”
Coop sighed heavily, wearily, feeling his age and the weight of his infidelity bearing down on his broad shoulders. “Yes. Do come in, Miz Chandler, please. I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a hurry, but we can talk as I pack.”
Determined to dislike him, Laurel stepped past him and into the entry hall of a lovely old home that held family heirlooms and an ageless sense of loneliness with equal grace. Everything was in its place and polished to a shine, with no one here to see it. A grandfather clock ticked the seconds away at the foot of the stairs, marking time to the end of a family. Cooper and his wife had no children. When they were gone, so would be the memories the family had made in this house over the generations.
She cast a hard glance at Conroy Cooper. Behind the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses, he met her gaze with the bluest, warmest, saddest eyes she had ever seen, and he smiled, wistfully, regretfully. It wasn't difficult to see what had attracted her sister. He was a big, strong, athletic man, even at an age that had to be near sixty. His face had probably taken young ladies' breath in his hey-day. A strong jaw and a boyish grin. Now it was a map etched with lines of stress and living. No less handsome; more interesting. He stood there in rumpled chinos with one leg cocked, his head tipped on one side. A gray T-shirt with a faded Tulane logo spanned his shoulders and hung free of his pants.
