Courir De Mardi Gras (20 page)

At least, the weird notes from Paul had stopped coming. After opening a few, she blocked his e-mail and tossed any snail mail with his handwriting. He’d devised new addresses meant to sneak past her guard, and she had to block those, too. Now, she simply didn’t open any mail she didn’t recognize. Basically, Paul kept repeating the same theme: if she didn’t return to him soon, he’d come for her and carry her bodily back to Philly—after he’d had his way with her. The messages went from simple warnings to elaborate, erotic threats involving ropes and her being spread-eagled across large feather beds, an oddly Victorian fantasy. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Suzanne no longer thought of him that way either. Mr. Sicko was more like it.

Should she call in a tip to the Philadelphia police about Paul’s threats? Could he be the Slasher? Of course not. Paul, the nice, quiet guy in the next apartment, was still upset about being jilted. But, that’s what the neighbors always said about sex maniacs after the criminal got caught. “I thought he was taking out the garbage in those big, plastic bags, not body parts. Who knew?” She pictured old Mrs. Minchin in 3-A saying exactly that. Perhaps tomorrow she should….

George knocked. She told him how very busy she was and that she did not care for any wine. Assembling the introduction to her paper, Suzanne revised the outline and began typing a businesslike report to Dr. Dumont, mentioning the disappearance of the silver and stressing the uniqueness of the collection rather than its value. She asked if she should include the silver collection at all since it had been stolen. On the other hand, her notes were complete and the description of the items itself might be of value. She told Dr. Dumont that she planned to finish as soon as possible, perhaps by mid-April instead of May.

Then in a personal note, she found herself telling her advisor about the dark rider. She’d dismissed the incident as a prank in the letter to her mom and neglected to tell her about the dunking in the bayou or the erotic dream brought on by fever and drugs. Some things mothers should never be told. But she spilled it all to Dr. Dumont who would find the whole story exciting. Besides, thinking of the startling blue eyes and what might be under the black mask took her mind off the mess George had created with the silver.

After writing about that experience, she had trouble sleeping. Her letter to Dr. Dumont revived the thrill of the gallop to the base of the hill with the masked man and the crushing kiss just before the disastrous boat ride. Around two a.m., Suzanne crept down the stairs and made a sandwich and a cup of hot herbal tea. Having refused to go with George and Birdie for a celebration dinner in Opelousas, she was hungry, very hungry. Foraging in the freezer, she ate the chocolate chunk ice cream she found hidden behind a rump roast right out of the box. Around three a.m. back in her room, she put on the peach-colored gown, gazed out at the moon for a while, and left her window unlatched. Talk about wishful thinking.

****

The sound of George’s sedan leaving woke Suzanne around 10:30 that Saturday morning. Alone in the house, she didn’t bother to dress, just put on a robe and pottered downstairs to make some coffee. The carafe sat already full and hot with brew. Someone had set a place for her at the little oak table. She drank the slightly warm orange juice waiting there. A note from George on her plate said he would not be home until late in the evening, as if she needed to know where he went or had to keep track of him. She crumpled it up and tossed the paper into the waste can where it collided with a still sealed business envelope addressed in heavy lead pencil. Shivering, she picked the envelope out of the trash. Paul had written to her again. George, being protective, had opened the letter and not given it to her.

“I am coming to get you, and when I do I’ll…” The same lurid stuff as before.

She mashed this note even tighter than the first and put it back in the trash where it belonged. Suddenly, juice and coffee seemed like enough breakfast. She put the biscuits George left wrapped in a napkin aside and tossed half a pan of congealed scrambled eggs out the back door. The one-eyed rooster came running. He wasn’t a friendly sort but lurked nearby for handouts of any kind.

Dressing quickly, she worked diligently all day. The sooner she finished the job, the sooner she could go home, but maybe not to Philly. She might stay with her parents for a while. George did not come home by dusk. Since he’d made breakfast, she put together a simple dinner of salad and toasted garlic bread and heated a small frozen lasagna from the freezer. Suzanne ate alone when George did not arrive by seven.

Darkness closed in around the Hill so far from town, so far from anywhere. She left on a large number of lights until ten p.m., then thought about the utility bills and turned them out. Rain began to fall, gently at first, then hard enough to cover the sound of any footsteps in the mansion. She’d locked the doors of course. George had a key if not too drunk from celebrating to get it in the latch. Where was he anyhow? No use getting upset, acting like a child afraid of the dark, or more exactly, afraid of a few words printed on a piece of computer paper. Paul had been in Philadelphia four days ago when he mailed the letter. Probably, he was still there writing his nasty notes.

Foolish to wait up for George, she figured. At last, Suzanne shucked her jeans and shirt, then her bra and panties, and stood bare for a moment while she rummaged in the armoire for an old flannel nightgown. Somehow, she needed something warmer and more concealing than a T-shirt tonight. The peach-colored nightie hung on the hook inside the cabinet door next to the mirror bolted to the frame. She stroked the silky fabric for a second, and then shook out the flannel. With the gown half over her head, her arms still upraised, she caught a motion at the window in the mirror.

Unlatched from last night, the sash slid upward easily even in the dampness, the way it would for a strong man who gave it a good tug. She let the flannel gown drop into place, knowing he had seen all there was to see from the gallery. Black cloak, satin mask, burning sapphire blue eyes, he stepped into the room and crossed to her. He placed his gloved hands on her shoulders, took the worn, shabby material in both fists and tore it down the middle. The warm flannel pooled at her ankles.

She knew what would happen next with his blue eyes glittering over her, making her feel small and vulnerable in her nakedness, but it did not. He took the silk and lace gown from its hook and smoothed it over her body, down the thighs, across the breasts. He ripped the crocheted coverlet from the bed and wrapped it twice around her like a fantastic web of his own making. The mystery man stooped, picked her up effortlessly, and started downstairs. His black cape with its scarlet lining fanned out behind him in the draft of the stairwell. They went through the front door, across the flag terrace, his boots sounding on the stones, and out into the darkness.

Chapter Thirteen

Linc’s story

Not good. No sir, not good at all. When Linc drove over to see his mama on Saturday afternoon, he found Ghost shooting baskets through that rusty old hoop on the garage. Crystal and Misty watched, and Linc was sure glad Tiffy wasn’t there. Still steamed over bayou water getting in her bugle, she didn’t feel too kindly toward the old Ghost at the moment. George did not need an angry kid in his face right now.

This situation reminded Linc of days past when Miss Virginia got on George about something, or when she lay up there dying at the Hill, making George pay for things his daddy done by keeping him next to her day and night. When George escaped for a little while, he came to Mama’s house. Mama would give him a slice of yam pie, a glass of milk, and lots of sympathy. Then, he’d work it out shooting baskets or spilling his guts if ole Linc came around. Sometimes, Mama would call him to come over and talk to George. Today, she expected her son to pick up the kids, no call necessary. Sending the girls in to visit their granny, Linc sat down by the empty milk glass on the side steps.

“Ghost, my man, I thought you’d be out on the town with Miss Suzanne this weekend celebrating your good fortune. I heard Ernest Prevost’s eyes just about bugged out of his head when you handed him that check at quarter to two on a Friday afternoon. Bet he had to work late erasing that lien against the Hill.”

“Yeah.” George went on shooting, bang-thud, bang-thud.

“Yeah. Yeah, is all?”

“Suzanne thinks I stole the silver. She hasn’t said it out loud, but I know.”

“Well then, she must have some feelings for you ’cause she ain’t turned you in yet.” That stopped George in his tracks.

“I didn’t take it.” George heaved the ball into Linc’s chest. He caught it and took a few shots, bang-thud, bang-thud.

“You’re about the most honest man in town, George. You wouldn’t be doing accounts for the garbage man if people thought otherwise.”

“Sheriff Duval seemed to have a few doubts.”

“That’s his job to hassle people.” Linc passed the ball to George. Ghost needed something to do with his hands.

“How did the lie detector test go?”

“Not a pleasure. This guy, Bill, starts off with the usual name, rank, and serial number stuff. Then, he asks if I’m sleeping with Suzanne. I say no. He asks if I like girls. I say yes. He asks if I like boys, big ones, little ones. I say no, but he got under my skin with that. Then, he starts in on the silver. Did I steal it? No. Do I have debts? Big ones? Everyone in town knows that. Did I steal the silver? He came back to that half a dozen times, asking me different ways.”

The ball hit the backboard hard, rebounded over the hoop and slammed to the concrete. George scooped it up. The
Port Sentinel
featured the case on the front page of its little rag every day, “
Heist Helps Historic Home.
” The article started with a quote from Ernest Prevost declaring how it delighted him that Magnolia Hill was no longer in danger of becoming the property of the bank and ended with one from Sheriff Duval saying that work continued on solving the case despite the settlement with Mutual Trust. Making a big deal of it, papers all over the state followed the story.

“You must have done all right else Duval wouldn’t have let you off.”

“The trouble is, I know who did it, but I can’t get Suzanne to talk to me.”

“Bet the sheriff would listen to you. That would get her attention.”

“No proof.”

“Try it out on me.”

“Randolph Royal spent a lot of time at the Hill while my mother was sick. He brought her things, took things away when I went to work. He cheated her, and I’m willing to bet he knew where the key to the sideboard hung. With Suzanne checking out all of the antiques, he must have gotten scared of being caught by me or the insurance company.”

“One problem. Randy lives in Opelousas.”

“But the light of his life lives here and eats lunch every day with his parents because he can’t stomach the food at his own restaurant. Bobby goes home for a break, hears from his father, the good Doc Sonny, that Suzanne is in her room and sedated and Birdie is out with a family crisis. Bobby calls his friend. They clean out the cabinet to cover Randy’s shady dealings with my mother. Randy moves the stuff along to the buyers of hot goods he already knows.”

“I can see it. Suzanne should.”

“She won’t sit still and listen to me. Claims she’s busy doing her project.”

“Bet she wouldn’t pull that stuff with the Devil’s Horseman. He don’t put up with crap from women.”

George dropped the ball in mid-shot. “No way!”

“Way! She loved every minute of it right until the pirogue swamped. How did that costume dry out? You didn’t burn it or anything?”

“You know what that thing cost me? No, I didn’t burn it, but I paid an enormous dry-cleaning bill in Opelousas. I—uh—used it one other time.” Ghost held the ball right up in front of his face, judging the distance to the hoop.

“You devil, you. You holding out on your ole buddy, Linc? What happened?”

“Nothing. We were interrupted.”

“Look, I got this great idea.”

George groaned, but Linc forgave him because they went back a long way. “My Uncle Jack has this duck camp about five miles north of your place in the swampy area where the bayou loops back on itself. It’s real secluded like, but not too far to ride.”

“Ride?”

“I saw Puffy kicking up his heels in Porrier’s lot last week. He still looks real good. Vegetables won’t be in for another month. I guess old Alcide doesn’t need him and could use a little extra cash about now. We could get things fixed up for you and Suzanne by tonight.”

The more he talked, the more George liked the idea, a romantic ride in the moonlight to a quaint cabin where no one would bother the couple until dawn. George and Suzanne could talk it all out, or do whatever else came to mind. Linc hustled George into the car before he could change his mind. Happy that George looked better, Mama waved from the porch.

The cabin was pretty rustic, the door not locked, nothing there to steal. Even if there had been, the thieves would never get it out in a truck. They had to walk in over this little spit of dry land Uncle Jack built up using sand and shell. The camp stood on stilts against the high water because sometimes the levee holding the river back gave in spots. Uncle Jack had hauled an old iron stove and a homemade table and chairs inside. When men went hunting out here, they brought sleeping bags and big coolers. Uncle Jack boxed off a little room to the side for a john. When a guy looked down through the hole, he could see the lake, but men don’t care about junk like that.

Well, the place needed fixing up a little, but it was better than the warehouse with less chance of interruptions, nice and isolated. Unc Jack’s camp would be a regular love nest by the time they got through redecorating Linc kept guaranteeing George.

It was, too, once they swept up and laid a nice fire in the stove and set out the hurricane lantern with one of the candles and matches Uncle kept in a waterproof box. Linc made a trip home for his very own deluxe air mattress and the gold sateen sheets Doris gave him for Father’s Day a few years back. Those were lucky sheets he told George. Little Linc got conceived on those sheets. They covered that splintery table with the top sheet and put the fitted one on the pumped up air mattress. Linc sprayed around a little air freshener to sort of take the mildew smell out of the room and remembered to put a roll of paper in the john, women being particular about things like that. At night with the fire in the stove and the candlelight, the place could pass as a romantic hideaway. George and Suzanne would be gone by the full light of day, or else be so taken up with things of a sexual nature the surrounds wouldn’t make a difference.