Kiss Them Goodbye
“Are you going to make some connections anytime soon, Detective?” Legrain’s profile had turned hard. He narrowed his eyes.
Bonine ignored him. “How long?”
“We met a couple of years back, maybe longer,” Vivian said. “We used to talk whenever I was here visiting my uncle.” And this morning we did more than talk.
“We’ll come back to that. You told me Louis Martin was bringin’ good news. You told me what he said, but I don’t necessarily read it the way you did. Maybe it was bad news. Perhaps there was something in the briefcase you didn’t want anyone to see—some question about the ownership of Rosebank, maybe. Did he threaten you, want money or something?”
“The detective is way out of line,” Legrain said. He snapped out his words and stood up. “I suggest you back off and rethink how you want to pursue this, Bonine.”
“Save it for the prosecutor, Legrain. You don’t get to make suggestions to me. Devol would do anything to get back at me for whatever he’s decided I’ve done to him. He’d be on the front line to help someone make a fool of me.” He creaked sideways in the chair to peer at the recorder. “Will you look at that? Damn cheap equipment quit.” One heavy finger plunked down on a button and Vivian realized he was turning it on, not off. When had it stopped recording?
Confused, she lost her battle to keep on seeming unfazed. “Spike had nothing to do with any of this. He didn’t know you’d be the one to come.”
“He knew,” Bonine declared.
“Are you suggesting Devol’s an accessory?” Legrain asked. “If so, that’s a pretty flamboyant accusation.”
Bonine gave a smile that flared his nostrils. “I’m not suggestin’ anythin’, me. Just doin’ my job.”
“Apparently the priest saw—”
“What he does or doesn’t say he saw is between him and me at this point. I’m an analytical man, me. Time of death doesn’t have to mean a thing in a case like this.”
Tapping at the door startled Vivian. Legrain raised his eyebrows. Bonine’s frown wiped out his eyelids.
Vivian said, “Come in.”
Madge Pollard, Cyrus’s right hand, she who kept St. Cécil’s—and Cyrus—running, trotted into the room with four cups on a tray, and a guileless smile on her lips. “Break time,” she said, or just about sang. “From what Cyrus, and now Charlotte have told me, not one of you is taking care of yourself. How will you think your way through this tragedy if you don’t give your brains a good slap now and then.”
Bonine was exercising male viewing rights. Madge’s cream shirt and tan pants were demure enough, but she had the kind of figure that would turn a Kevlar jumpsuit into sexy gear.
“Put it there,” Bonine said, referring to the tray and pointing at the desk. He actually tilted his head to watch Madge do as he asked.
“Cream and sugar?” Madge asked. “I’ll be mother.”
Vivian clamped her lips together. Nothing Madge did would surprise her, but the ditzy brunette act could become a party piece.
“Cream, no sugar, please,” Legrain said and his interested grin let Vivian know he hadn’t missed Madge’s charms, either.
Black curly hair, chin length, bounced with each move of Madge’s head and the deep intelligence in her dark eyes made them even more appealing. Vivian didn’t think an interruption by Gil the gardener would have been as well received.
Once the men held their coffee, Madge handed a cup to Vivian and picked up one for herself. “We’ve got tea.” She smiled all around. “Hot tea. Cools you down. Isn’t that what we say, Vivian? Stops you from feeling wiggly.” Another innocent grin. “I hate it when the heat makes you wiggly, don’t you?”
Affirmative mumbles followed, and the clearing of throats, and a certain gleam in eyes that probably envisioned Madge feeling “wiggly.”
Vivian stared at Madge in disbelief. Who would have expected someone else to spout Mama’s tea and body temperature wisdom?
Madge had burst into the room to be a Good Samaritan and try to spring Vivian, but Madge was also having a great time with her act.
“I heard that about hot tea,” Bonine said. He’d gotten up. “I need coffee for that brain slap you talked about. Very apt. But I’ll remember to try the tea later.”
What was she, Vivian wondered, yesterday’s grits? Her own appeal had been remarked on more than a time or two, yet Bonine treated her like a cottonmouth. Spike, he was the reason. Bonine really hated him. She thought of the detective’s earlier insinuations and pressed a hand into her jumpy stomach. It would be better for Spike Devol if he kept his distance from her—not that she expected Bonine to give up the notion that his old enemy had masterminded a potential coup, or assisted the mastermind. Things like this didn’t happen to Vivian Patin.
“I don’t think there’s a need to continue the discussion now, do you?” Gary Legrain said to Bonine, who blinked a few times and gave a sharp shake of his head.
Slap it some more. Vivian had an irreverent vision of the detective’s brain ricocheting inside his skull.
Madge inhaled sharply, audibly, and said, “Oh, ya, ya, I was so taken with the company I forgot to remind you of your appointment this afternoon, Vivian. Your mama asked me to.”
Appointment? “Thank you.” Vivian felt herself turning red. She wasn’t a comfortable liar.
“I told you to be available at all times,” Bonine said. “I told you that early this mornin’.”
Madge put her arm beneath Vivian’s. “Some appointments can’t be ignored, can they?” She smiled encouragement.
“What kind of appointment?” Bonine asked. “Who are you seeing—Devol?”
“No,” Vivian said.
Instead of concentrating on catching a killer, Bonine had turned Louis’s death into a reason for a vendetta. Gary Legrain’s pinched expression could mean he was thinking the same thing. Since he was taking Louis’s death hard, that wouldn’t be a pleasing idea.
Madge hung on her arm. “Now, Detective, you know there are some things a girl can’t discuss around men.”
Vivian wanted some of whatever Madge had swallowed before coming into the office.
Legrain actually seemed a bit flustered but Bonine’s curiosity made his head jerk forward and his mustache twitch.
He opened his mouth to speak but Madge cut him off. “Private things,” she said, her voice conspiratorial. “Do you know Reb Girard?”
“The lady doc in Toussaint?”
“Uh-huh. The very one. I understand she’s real helpful in delicate times. She’s guided a lot of women through similar situations. And, of course, she’s a wonderful doctor. I’ve always thought women doctors were better at some things. They have smaller hands.”
Vivian looked at Madge aghast.
Chapter 10
“Hey there, Cyrus.” Spike let the bubble-gum pink door to All Tarted Up, Flakiest Pastry in Town, close with enough of a bang to set the bell to jangling. “Just thought of a way to increase business, Jilly. Hold a contest to rename the bakery. Offer a good prize to the winning entry, like all the day-old bread you can carry.”
Jilly Gable and her brother Joe owned the bakery and café. They’d come up with the current name to “make the place more sexy,” poker-faced Jilly told anyone who asked.
“Sure,” she said from behind a counter. “Not much of a prize when everything gets sold the day it’s made, though. Maybe we could offer a tour of the Sheriff’s office instead. That should take five minutes. And you could throw in some of that mud you call coffee.”
Cyrus watched the two of them idly. For a while there it had seemed they might have something going, but whatever that was didn’t last long. They’d come out of it even stronger friends than they were before, though, which said a lot for their characters and made Cyrus feel good.
“Join me,” he said to Spike. “I had a nosy visitor a few hours ago. Our detective friend from last night. I’d decided the man didn’t do mornings but he fooled me.” Errol Bonine had turned up at the rectory at 8:30, to the consternation of Lil Dupre who didn’t take kindly to interruptions in her carefully crafted routine. Since Lil had moved into the housekeeper position, which she considered the most prized and important job around, Lil had turned from a whiner who did good work into a tyrant, who still did good work.
For Spike, mention of Cyrus being questioned again interfered with the good mood his encounter with Vivian had left behind.
“Go sit down,” Jilly said. “I’ll bring your coffee and a fresh one for Father. It’s comin’ up on lunchtime too so I’ll fix you something ahead of the rush.” Her startling hazel eyes made you take a second look every time. The eyes, the tawny skin and long, brown, blond-streaked hair.
She called to Samie Machin, the extra assistant who had been added in the past year since Joe Gable’s law practice had grown and made it impossible for him to help out at all. “Two extra specials for Father Cyrus and Spike, please Samie.”
Spike sat opposite Cyrus and said, “Ever feel like you’re waitin’ for the shit to hit the fan?”
Cyrus smiled faintly. “The way we’re feelin’ right now, you mean?”
“Yeah.” Spike tossed his hat on the seat of the chair beside him and ran a hand through his short hair. “So Errol dropped in at the rectory? Did you know him before last night?”
“Never set eyes on him. Looked him up. He was baptized at St. Cécil’s but he probably lives in Iberia now.”
Spike grunted. “I don’t see Errol Bonine as a churchgoing man.”
He realized his mistake before Cyrus said, “You being an expert on churchgoing men.”
Spike knew when to keep his mouth shut.
“He has pretty narrow interests,” Cyrus said. “Mostly you, then you and Vivian Patin. I had to be the one to talk about passing poor Louis Martin when I was leaving Rosebank earlier in the day. He seemed to have forgotten.”
If Errol didn’t get his act together this was going to be an unsolved crime. “But he talked about it once you raised the subject?” Spike said. “What theories does he have—if he told you?”
“He told me he didn’t think it made a whole lot of difference. In his words, ‘what happened, happened.’ The detective gets right to the point. He isn’t putting himself out to find every angle. Gives a whole new meanin’ to putting your trust in the Lord.”
Spike didn’t feel like laughing.
The shop bell rang again and kept on trembling. Doll Hibbs, who ran the Majestic Hotel, came in with Wazoo, their one permanent boarder, and Bill Green. Bill was Toussaint’s leading Realtor. He was Toussaint’s only Realtor.
Doll, whose moods were unpredictable, gave Spike an almost coy wave and said, “Good mornin’ to you, Father,” to Cyrus. Wazoo inclined her head at Spike but ignored Cyrus, and Bill Green joined the men while the two women claimed chairs at opposite ends of a table for eight near the windows.
“For a semi-wide spot in the road,” Bill said, “this place gets more than its share of trouble.” He raised his voice to say, “Hi, Jilly. Cup of coffee and one of those famous meat pies of yours, please.”
Fresh-faced Samie Machin hustled from the kitchen to put plates in front of Spike and Cyrus. The smell of fried onions caught Cyrus by surprise.
“Eat ’em and weep,” Jilly said, laughing. “We mixed cooked and uncooked to keep ’em crunchy. Jilly burgers. First time on the menu.”
“These are tortillas,” Cyrus said.
“You try saying Jilly quesadillas more’n a time or two.”
“I’ll stay with the meat pie,” Bill Green said, screwing up tearing eyes. “I deal with the public.”
“I don’t know how any of you can eat today,” Wazoo’s high voice cut across the café. “A man hardly cold in our own backyard. All that blood and cut-up flesh. I’d surely faint if a plate of meat was put in front of me.”
Cyrus’s mouth twitched. He laughed, grabbed his napkin and pretended to be coughing, then gave up and managed to subside into bursts of chuckles. Spike, with his back to the women, didn’t help a thing by rolling up his eyes in a parody of death.
“We’re gonna be sorry Guy Patin’s kin moved into Rosebank,” Doll said. Her sunny episodes had a habit of not staying around long. “See if I’m not right. Too bad that house isn’t a whole lot farther away. There’s talk about what happened there yesterday and none of it’s good.”
Spike turned sideways in his chair. Everything about Doll was unremarkable, except her gift for understatement and her mean spirit. Pale gray eyes, light brown hair—long, straight and secured at the nape with a rubber band—average height and weight.
“Generally there isn’t much good to say about murder,” Spike said. “Best not to listen to gossip though. Even better not to spread it.”
Bill said, “Amen,” and went to the counter to get his coffee and meat pie.
“It’s not gossip that it was those women’s lawyer got himself killed,” Doll said, sounding stubborn. “And that Vivian supposedly found him, or so she says.”
“How do you know…” Spike glanced into Wazoo’s smug face and shut his mouth.
Doll was undeterred. “Guy Patin was leavin’ the place to some sort of charity. We all knew that. So how come those women moved in and started changin’ things? Just maybe the lawyer—” she gave her attention to Jilly “—maybe he come to say they jumped the gun or some-thin’. Could be they just thought Rosebank was theirs, or wanted it to be, and the lawyer was bringin’ the will to prove they had no right.”
“Now, Doll,” Cyrus said in a more even voice than Spike could have mustered. “The dead lawyer didn’t represent Guy Patin as far as I know. Speculations can be dangerous.”
“Troublemaking can be dangerous, you mean,” Spike said under his breath.
“I don’t hold with speculatin’ myself,” Doll said. “I can’t reveal my sources but I trust ’em. You wouldn’t be wanting me to say anything about a certain someone, Spike Devol, but if you’ve got the sense you were born with you won’t get too close to mud. It rubs off.”
Four workmen in white overalls saved Spike from saying something he’d regret. The men took their time ordering food to go and talked loudly among themselves.
“What’s she suggesting?” Bill asked, keeping his voice down while leaning forward to shrug out of his light blue seersucker jacket and hook it over the back of his chair. “I’ve met both of the ladies from Rosebank. Very nice they are, too. The young one’s something to look at.” Bill’s tie was the next to go. He believed in wearing a suit to work every day but the temperature soared outside, and inside the air-conditioning couldn’t keep up with the heat from the kitchen.
“Good people, too,” Cyrus said, blessedly giving Spike a chance to think.
The workers filed out and Doll pointed at their retreating backs. “Working for that lovely Mrs. Susan Hurst,” she said. “Too bad those Patin women don’t have her money. They’d get their hotel put together a whole lot quicker. Have you ever heard such nonsense? A hotel in that fine old house?”
Doll paused for breath but she hadn’t finished. “Mrs. Hurst isn’t too pleased, I can tell you. She and her husband—and that beautiful daughter of hers, Olympia—they move in and call their home Serenity, only to have people come next door talkin’ about a restaurant, not just for hotel guests but for anyone who wanders in. And who will they get to stay there, that’s what I want to know. If folks want a comfortable, reliable place to stay, they know where to come.” She crossed her arms.
“Doll’s right, her,” Wazoo said. “I’m the one who knows, too. I live at the Majestic. And my customers tell me how at home they feel, too.”
Doll hissed for Wazoo to be quiet. The Hibbs were careful not to admit that they had a medium/palm, tarot and tea leaf reader in residence. Spike figured they were afraid some folks might not like the idea of staying in a hotel where what went bump in the night might not always be the head of a bed.
“I reckon it’s time I got on,” Spike said. He liked most things about small towns except the way some folks couldn’t mind their own business. “Is Madge at the rectory?”
Cyrus, apparently speechless over a simple question, was the last thing Spike expected. The man stared at him, then looked away. “Madge,” he said. “Oh, Madge. No, she had some errands to run. Said she didn’t know how long she’d be.”
Spike stood up but didn’t go anywhere. Reb Girard, Dr. Reb Girard, that was, had arrived with her apricot poodle, Gaston, under her arm. Curls of Reb’s red hair had worked free of the topknot she wore while she was at her surgery on Conch Street. Spike smiled at the sight of her. Marc Girard and Reb O’Brien had married just before last Christmas. Marc must be right for her, lucky devil. Happiness sparked in her very green eyes and six months pregnant looked wonderful on her.
“You can’t see this dog, of course, no one can,” she said to Jilly, “but forgive me for bringin’ Gaston in. It’s too hot to leave him in the car.”
Gaston decided to growl. He craned his neck to look around Reb’s arm and bare his teeth. His shiny brown eyes fixed on Wazoo.
Reb ordered lemonade and turned to smile at Cyrus and Spike. She nodded at Bill who looked at her with more appreciation than Cyrus liked to see. An ex-Marine, Bill was around forty and divorced—and lonely. He needed a woman in his life and, although he might be ordinary to look at, he kept himself fit and it showed. He had a nice home in a cottage behind the local book-shop, and a good business. He should be a good catch for someone nice who would be an anchor in his life.
“Sit down,” Spike told Reb. “Get a load off…just sit down and I’ll bring the lemonade. It’s too hot for a woman in your condition to be walking around. The extra weight is a stress. Your ankles will swell.” He’d looked at her slim feet beneath the long, loose cream shift she wore before a desire to disappear hit him. He couldn’t have said the things he just said, he couldn’t have.
Without a hint of either annoyance or amusement, Reb thanked him and took the seat he’d left. Jilly wasn’t as kind. She made her already big eyes huge, and her eyebrows all but disappeared into her hair. Cyrus folded and refolded his napkin and didn’t look at anyone.
“Reb,” Spike said, “that sounded—”
“Hush,” she told him, reaching out to take his hand and give it a squeeze. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you. Silver tongues are a dime a dozen. I understand there’s someone else who’s pretty impressed with you, too.”
He swallowed air. Reb had to be talking about Vivian and there was nothing to talk about. Okay, so there was something to talk about after last night but he and Vivian were the only ones who knew about that.
“Follow your heart,” Reb said. “You deserve someone special and this is your big chance.” She pulled him down until she could speak into his ear. “I’ll do everything I can to help, but some things are up to you. Don’t wait. Women need to feel right about these things.”
What exactly was she talking about? Spike said, “Yeah, well…I’ll get on now.”
Gaston growled again and Wazoo let out a little scream. When she had everyone’s attention, she pointed a long finger, coated with the same powdered sugar that somehow clung to her eyelashes, frosted her black hair and tinted her normally sallow face white. “He’s lookin’ at me, him,” she said of Gaston. The sugar had come from the donut she held in her other hand. “He’s tryin’ to say how he wants somethin’ from me.”
“Probably your donut,” Jilly said without any expression at all and cracked up her clientele. “Hello, Thea,” she said to a gray-haired woman who came in and joined Doll and Wazoo. Thea cleaned and helped out around Rosebank.
Cyrus couldn’t find it in him to be amused anymore. Madge might think him oblivious to a lot of things but she was wrong. Just because he didn’t always say a whole lot didn’t mean he missed much. All the banter in the world wouldn’t cover up the growing dread he felt. Unrest stirred the air, the kind of unrest he’d had the misfortune to feel before in this town.
“You okay?” Spike murmured to him.
“Are you?”
Spike shook his head slightly.
They’d been through bad times in the past and had barely managed to deal with the murderer of four women and a man without even more loss of life. Over a year had passed since the crimes were solved and Cyrus had become complacent about peace in Toussaint. He met Spike’s gaze again and something there suggested their thoughts weren’t so different.
After Detective Bonine left the rectory, Madge had grilled Cyrus on what had been said, then she’d insisted on going to Rosebank to see if she could help Charlotte and Vivian. There could still be danger at that house. He didn’t worry so much about Madge driving deserted roads now that she had an almost new car and he made sure it was kept in tip-top condition, but it wasn’t only on lonely roads that evil struck.
“I’d better go, too,” he said, deciding to visit Rose-bank himself.
Bill finished his coffee. “Samie Machin has me looking for a house. Her husband’s overseas in special ops but he’s due on leave in a few weeks and she wants some properties to show him. I’ll stay put until I can have a word with her.”
Cyrus joined Spike to walk out—and bumped into Madge on her way in. He grinned and would have hugged her, but the gentle warning in her eyes and his own caution stopped him in time.
Madge said, “I persuaded Vivian to come into town with me. She needs a break. We’re going to sit outside. Say hi to her when you go by.”
Before Cyrus could respond, Spike left without a word. He went outside to a table where Vivian Patin was settling into a chair with her little dog peering from the top of a straw bag she settled on her lap.
Chapter 11
“Good mornin'. Or good afternoon now, I guess. Looks like Jilly’s gettin’ overrun.”
Vivian looked up into Spike’s blue eyes. He’d come from the pastry shop and hadn’t put on his hat, probably because he had some of those old-world manners a lot of Southern men were born with.
“It’s one o’clock already,” she said, feeling inane. What exactly did you say to a man you’d almost made love with only hours ago?
“How are you feelin’?”
Fortunately, the blush she was working on could be mistaken for reaction to the heat. “Terrific. How about you?” Liar. Hopeless pretty much covered what she felt.
Spike looked at the ground. His hair was short, but very thick and the sun glinted on the ends it had bleached. “I’ve felt better, Vivian,” he said. “Too much on my mind, I reckon.”
Disappointment tightened her skin. “Don’t let me keep you,” she said. A woman could hope and she had hoped he’d say something to steady her.
“Too much getting in the way of the only thing I want to think about.” He met her eyes again, very directly, and her spirits rose, she couldn’t stop them when Spike looked at her as if he couldn’t get enough of…looking at her. “I’m not having much luck keeping my thoughts on track. Seems someone’s been messin’ with my mind.”
“Funny you should say that.” It didn’t take so much to resurrect her natural courage. “My own mind’s been messy lately. The difference between you and me is I could come to like it that way.”
He leaned forward to spread his fingers on the white enameled table and braced his weight on tanned forearms corded with tight muscle and sprinkled with hair bleached by the same sun that got his hair, but darker than you’d expect at the root, dark like the hair on his body.
Vivian stroked Boa in her basket and tried to settle down.
She wasn’t right for him, Spike thought, any more than he was right for her, but he sure wanted it to be otherwise. “I understand Bonine was over to ask more questions,” he said. He couldn’t manage clever conversation right now but neither could he wave and walk on. “He went to St. Cécil’s first.”
She kept her head bowed over the dog. “Madge told me.” Vivian’s hair slid forward, smooth and black, to frame her pale face. “She didn’t tell me what the detective wanted, though.”