[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine (13 page)

“I don’t like to jump too far ahead in my thinking,” Gideon said. “There was every reason to believe it was suicide, and yet… it didn’t feel right.”

“Of course it didn’t! She
was
better. She
was
doing fine.” Marguerite jumped up. “Why didn’t you
tell
me?”

“Feelings aren’t evidence,” he said. “Why voice something that upsets people and leads nowhere?”

“But… but why would someone kill poor Pauline?” Her gaze sought inspiration in the untidy room. “What could someone have wanted that was worth killing her for?”

“At the moment, your guess is as good as mine.” Gideon shrugged. “Probably better.”

“Right now, I have no clue, but it’s a relief that she may have been murdered.”

Constantine let out a whoop of laughter.

She colored, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I have to be able to trust my, uh… instincts.”

“The same instincts that refuse to accept that I’m a wacko stalker?”

“Yeah, those ones.” Pointedly, she turned to Gideon, who was watching them with ill-concealed amusement. “Fine, but how did he do it? She overdosed herself with her own prescription meds. There was no sign that she’d been attacked, restrained, or anything of the sort. Right?”

“None,” Gideon said. “The only physical damage occurred when somebody ran over her after she was dead. No surprise if someone didn’t want to report that.”

“Especially if the killer did it just to make good and sure,” Constantine said. Marguerite shuddered, but he couldn’t even congratulate himself on finally freaking her out because it was the Enemy who’d done that. All he got credit for was putting what might have happened into words. He began picking up the books and sorting through them.

Marguerite made an agitated turn through the relatively small clear area in the middle of the room. “It makes no sense at all.” She threw up her hands. “She had nothing of value.” She made another turn. “No enemies.” Back again. “Well, she hated…” She rounded on Constantine again, who stepped back. “You don’t need to do that. In fact, shouldn’t Detective O’Toole be dusting for fingerprints?”

“Not for a burglary without the chief’s approval,” Gideon said. “Yes, I know it’s not really a burglary, but we can’t tell the chief that.”

“Why not?” Marguerite demanded.

“Long story, but the chief won’t accept our murder theory without real evidence. He has already decided the episode on the mound this morning was a publicity stunt.” He shrugged. “We’re not likely to find any prints, Ms. McHugh. This guy is no slouch.”

Marguerite grimaced. “Maybe, but—”

Constantine interrupted. “She hated…?”

Marguerite glared at the two of them. “Men,” she said baldly. “Absolutely loathed them.”

“Doubtless with good reason,” Constantine said. “We’re not a pleasant gender.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gideon said. “Why did she hate men?”

“An abusive father followed by an abusive husband, and no, neither of them could have killed her or done this because they’re both dead. Her dislike of men made for quite a bit of constraint with her male colleagues at Hellebore, but she’d learned to keep it to herself. In any case, none of them had reason to kill her or ransack her house. Would you please stop cleaning up?”

Just standing there would drive Constantine crazy. He had to
do
something. “It’s that or play the cello.” She blinked, and he added with a tilt of the chin, “The one in Pauline’s bedroom.”

Gideon, damn him, was shaking with suppressed laughter. “Constantine has a lot of nervous energy,” he said. “He’s also compulsively tidy, and it does him good to be useful.”

With great difficulty, Constantine roped and hog-tied his annoyance. He didn’t need the help of this well-meaning cop. He didn’t need anyone’s help.

“That’s all very well,” Marguerite said, “but this is police business. I don’t see why Constantine can’t just leave.” She winced.

Oh, fuck, oh
fuck
. He hadn’t corralled his emotions well enough. He’d
hurt
her again, just as he had on the mound. He snarled at the distant bird.
See? I
don’t
have control.

Marguerite gazed at him wide-eyed, a flurry of emotions traversing her face, but he had no difficulty recognizing one of them.

How dare she feel sorry for him?

Marguerite knew by Constantine’s aura that she had hurt his feelings. He was quiet as stone, but he wasn’t made of it. Well, of course not. Nobody likes rejection.

She fumbled for the right words. “I would chalk it up to stress,” she said, “but that’s no excuse. It’s just that I hate being in the public eye, and the more I associate with you, the more I will be. I don’t know how you stand it, day in and day out.” Not only that, his horniness would drive her crazy, but no way was she getting into that discussion with Gideon here. “If you want to put the books away, that would be great.” That wasn’t entirely sincere, but she meant it when she added, “Although I’m sure we’d love to hear you play the cello.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Gideon said, apparently unaffected by the emotions roiling around the room. “We’re working on a murder case. We need to be able to think.”

Constantine’s grin would have convinced anyone else. “I think better when I’m making music.”

“Well,
I’d
like to hear you play it,” Marguerite said. His aura calmed slightly; evidently, he believed her.

“I’ll leave in a couple of minutes,” Gideon said, “and then you can do all the playing and thinking you like. How do you want me to handle this, man?”

“Leave it to me for now.”

“But…” With something akin to panic, Marguerite blurted, “I don’t mean to be rude again, but what does Constantine have to do with this?” She turned to Constantine, desperate to explain without hurting his feelings again. “I really appreciate your going through the house first to make sure I would be safe, but you’re not a police officer.” To Gideon again: “Constantine can’t investigate Pauline’s murder—which you can’t just ignore, regardless of what your chief thinks—and besides that, Constantine and I aren’t really involved with each other. I was unlucky—at the wrong place at the wrong time—and just happened to be drugged and left on the mound.”

It didn’t just happen
, Constantine said in her mind. Judging by the expression on Gideon’s face, he agreed.

Oh, God.

The connections tumbled through her brain like vowel shifts across the centuries. She started pacing again. “It’s a sort of daisy chain—a link between Pauline’s death and this ransacking.” A turn. “The ransacking and my drugging.” Back again. “My drugging and…” She gazed into Constantine’s dark, cold eyes. “Nathan and his informant. The one who told him to come to the mounds this morning.”

“Yep,” Constantine said.

“His informant and the murderer,” Marguerite said, and sat plump down on the sofa.

Gideon sighed. “Told you she was smart.”

Constantine’s mouth quirked up. “So you did.”

Whoa. Gideon had spoken to Constantine about her? When?

Constantine’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. What a pity, because it had been a genuine smile.

She marshaled her thoughts and took a deep breath. “So you don’t think I was a random choice for drugging last night.”

“It kept you out of your house for a good long time,” Gideon said, “and it provided a victim for the scenario on the mound.”

“Thereby killing two birds with one stone,” Constantine said.

“But he couldn’t have known I would be at the concert. I was driving home from the coffee shop, and some kids yelled to me from their car. They’d just heard about it and were telling everyone they passed.”

“Maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Constantine said, “like the concert. We were jamming in the Cat and just decided to go for it.”

Gideon stood, turning to Constantine. “Anything else you want me to do?”

After a distinct pause, Constantine told him, “I’ll text you.”

“About what?” she demanded, glaring from Constantine to Gideon. “Detective O’Toole, if Constantine is planning to beat up… some innocent person to get information, you need to know right now that Pauline wouldn’t have approved any more than I do, even if she
was
murdered.”

“Ms. McHugh,” Gideon replied placidly, “if you would kindly show me the paraphernalia from the mound, I’ll be on my way. You can pick up the police report on the burglary tomorrow.”

Unbelievable. “How can you just leave a murder investigation in Constantine’s hands?”

“This is Bayou Gavotte,” Gideon said. “The police deal with some crimes, while the vigilantes handle the others. If Constantine can find the murderer and dispose of him without anyone the wiser, you’ll be safe, he’ll be safe, and the rest of our fair town will be ignorant but safe.”

“And what if Constantine—or any other vigilante—disposes of the wrong person?”

“I won’t,” Constantine said.

She turned on him. “But what if you do? How will you reconcile it with your conscience?”

“How kind of you to assume I have one,” Constantine said. “As far as I know, I haven’t screwed up yet.”

“And you’re okay with this?” she demanded of Gideon.

“Not really,” he admitted, “but it’s efficient, and I’m prepared to live with it until we come up with something that works better. We have a better record than the justice system, if that’s any consolation.” He went out the door, and Marguerite followed.

Lawless squeezed past her and into the street to greet Zeb, who was deep in conversation with a group of kids. She shook her head and flicked a hand at him.
Go! Go!
He gave her an unreadable look, detached himself from the group, and loped away down the street just as Constantine emerged onto the porch.

Judging by the defiant glance Marguerite shot at Constantine, she seriously expected him to take off down the street after Zeb. Seemingly, she also thought she could prevent
him from doing whatever he needed to do to the kid, whenever he decided to do it.

God, she was such a turn-on.

Constantine strolled into the street, made nice with the kids hovering there, and signed the CDs they were clutching, while Gideon drove away in his old Mercedes and Marguerite retreated indoors, taking the dog with her. He called Lep to get the background on Zeb.

“He’s been suspended from school once or twice for fighting,” Lep said, “and he failed a couple of drug tests when applying for jobs. Tested positive for both weed and opiates.” This surprised Constantine; he wouldn’t have pegged Zeb as a druggie. “His mom was a vampire—which we already knew—and his dad’s acting head of Chemistry at Hellebore. Several years ago, he won the Sexiest Professor Award.”

Constantine did a mental eye roll.

“Seems to be at his wits’ end about the kid, who went down the tubes after his mom died,” Lep went on. “Zeb’s a bit of a loner, but he’s reasonably well liked by the other kids at school. No girlfriend at the moment, but he’s pals with that goth chick Juma who tutors him in French.”

This might seem like a strange pairing, but along with her dedication to schoolwork, Juma had major attitude—a result, Constantine assumed, of her difficult upbringing. He didn’t know her well, but she seemed like a good kid. He couldn’t see himself leaning on her for info about her friend.

“And the girl he beat up that perv over? It was Zelda Dupree.”

Even worse—Zelda was like a daughter to Constantine.

“As for Eaton Wilson, he’s a bit of an eccentric, but students like him. He’s been in the running for Master Teacher a couple of times.”

Constantine thanked Lep and texted Gideon with a request for more information, about which he intended to say nothing to Marguerite. He didn’t need any more guilt trips just now.

Surprisingly, she’d left her front door unlocked. He found her manically sweeping the kitchen. “I can’t believe he just
left
me with you,” she said.

“If you didn’t want me to come back inside, you could have locked the door.”

“You pick locks.” Her grip on the broom slackened, and her expression softened. He could have sworn she sensed his inner turbulence, which was impossible. He had himself latched down so securely that he hardly noticed it himself.