Cry Wolf (9 page)

Laurel pushed herself away from the side of the Corvette as Savannah stormed across the parking lot, all pique and no pie in sight. She looked furious, and Laurel had a strong hunch it wasn't anything to do with the restaurant, but one of its patrons. Conroy Cooper. Old enough to be their father Conroy Cooper. Married Conroy Cooper.

Oh, Savannah . . .

“Let's get the hell out of here,” Savannah snarled. Tossing her purse behind the seat, she jerked open the driver's door and slid in behind the wheel.

Laurel barely had time to get in the car before the 'Vette was revved and rolling. They hit Dumas, and Savannah put her foot to the floor, sending the sports car squealing away from Madame Collette's, leaving a trail of rubber.

“Where are we going?” Laurel asked as casually as she could, considering she had to shout to be heard above the roar of the wind and the engine.

“Frenchie's,” Savannah yelled, pulling the pins from her hair and letting them fly. “I need a drink.”

Laurel buckled her seat belt and held on, not bothering to comment on the fact that it didn't look as though they'd be having rhubarb pie for supper, and trying her damnedest not to think about Jack Boudreaux.

Chapter
Five

“Jesus saves!”

“Jesus lives!”

“Jesus Christ,” Savannah snarled as she stopped in her tracks, propped a hand on one hip, and took a look at the scene outside Frenchie's.

Patrons crowded the gallery, staring down, bemused at a dozen protestors who were toting signs bearing such intelligent slogans as “Close Frenchie's. End Sin.” The picketers were gathered in a knot at the bottom of the steps, putting on a show for the camera of a Lafayette tele-vision station, chanting their slogans in a vain attempt to drown out the swamp pop music that spilled through the screens.

In the center of the righteous stood the ringleader of their band, Reverend Jimmy Lee Baldwin, resplendent in a white summer suit, fresh out of the JC Penney catalog. Two thousand dollars' worth of too-white caps shone as he spoke to a reporter who looked as though he used enough hair spray to put his own personal hole in the ozone.

Jimmy Lee was good-looking, standing an inch or two past six feet tall, and had once been lean and athletic, though in the years since high school basketball, firm muscle had softened. He wore his tawny hair slicked straight back from his face, drawing attention to his eyes, which were the color of good scotch, and to the dazzling dental wonders that lined his smile like big white Chiclets.

Though he was barely thirty-eight, lines of dissipation were etched deeply beside those tawny eyes and around a mouth that had a certain weakness about it. Between the teeth and the tan that looked as though he'd gotten it down at the Suds 'n' Sun Laundromat/Tanning Parlor, Jimmy Lee looked just a little too tacky to be truly handsome. Not that anyone could ever have convinced him of that.

“Who is it?” Laurel asked, shoving her glasses up on her nose. The sight of the white news van automatically made her nervous. The irrational fear that they had come here to track her down flashed through her mind, but she resolutely crushed it out with the gavel of practicality. She wasn't news any longer.

“The Reverend Jimmy Lee Baldwin. Saver of lost souls, purveyor of heavenly blessings, leader of the Church of the True Path.”

“I've never heard of it.”

“No. I reckon Georgia had its own religious screwballs. The Revver showed up here about six months back and started to gather himself a flock. He's got his own show now on local cable up in Lafayette. Fixin' to be a big star in the televangelist ranks, he is.”

Savannah dug a cigarette out of her pocketbook and lit it, taking a long, considering drag as she stared at Jimmy Lee through her sunglasses. He was on a roll, gesturing like a wild man as he began ranting about the dens of iniquity.

“Come on, Baby,” she said on a breath of smoke. “I need to get me that drink.”

Laurel started for the side door, having no desire to call attention to herself by crashing a picket line. But Savannah made a beeline for the action, miniskirt twitching across her thighs, hips swaying alluringly. She gave her head a toss, fluffing her long, wild mane with her free hand as she went. She looked like a walking ad for wanton sex and decadent living. Laurel bit back a groan and followed her. Trouble had always been a magnet to Savannah, and she was headed toward this mess with a sly smile teasing the corners of her mouth.

Her approach did not go unnoticed. Almost immediately a chorus of wild cheers and wolf whistles rose from the men on the gallery. Of the group involved in the protest, the reporter saw her first, his head snapping around in a classic double take as he held the microphone in front of Reverend Baldwin. He elbowed the cameraman, who swung his lens in her direction. Reverend Baldwin broke off in midtirade, clearly annoyed to have his moment in the spotlight cut short. He recovered quickly, though, and moved to turn the situation to his advantage.

“Sister, sister, be redeemed!” he called dramatically. “Let Christ Jesus quench your thirst.”

Savannah stopped a scant six inches from the minister, cocked a hip, and blew a stream of smoke in his face. “Honey, if He shows up in the next five minutes with a Jax long-neck, I'll be glad to let Him quench my thirst. In the meantime Frenchie can serve that need just fine.”

She blew a kiss to the camera while the crowd on the gallery howled laughing, and sauntered on, the picketers-turned-gawkers parting like the Red Sea to let her pass on up the steps. Laurel tried to hurry after her before the faithful closed ranks on their leader again, but Baldwin caught her by the arm.

“Turn to God, young woman. Find the True Path! Let the Lord quench the thirst in your soul with conviction and righteousness!”

Laurel looked up at him, her brows pulling together in annoyance. She had no patience for the likes of Jimmy Lee Baldwin. Televangelists ranked a notch lower than disreputable used-car salesmen in her book, bilking the poor and the elderly out of what limited funds they had, selling them the kind of salvation God offered free of charge in the Bible. She hadn't come here looking for a fight. In fact, she would have given anything to have passed unnoticed through the throng. But she wasn't about to be used as a pawn. She pulled in a deep breath and felt the fire that had been turned low leap inside her.

“I have convictions of my own, Mr. Baldwin,” she said, smiling inwardly as he jerked his head around and looked at her as if she were a mute suddenly healed. He hadn't expected her to stand up to him. “All of them more important than the sale of perfectly legal alcoholic beverages in a licensed establishment.”

Jimmy Lee recovered admirably from his shock. “You condone the sin of drink, lost sister? May the Lord have mercy—”

“If I'm not mistaken, it was Christ who changed the water into wine at the wedding at Cana. John, chapter two, verses one to eleven. Liquor itself isn't bad, Reverend, just the foolish acts committed by those who overindulge. And alcoholism is an illness, not a sin. Perhaps God should have mercy on
your
soul for suggesting otherwise.”

He bared his snowy-white teeth at her in what would pass for a smile on videotape, she supposed, and his fingers tightened on her upper arm, telegraphing his anger. “I come only as God's soldier in the war to save men's souls. Our battlegrounds are the dens of iniquity where men's weaknesses are exploited for monetary gain.”

“If you're only interested in saving
men's
souls, then perhaps you could take your hand off me,” she said dryly, pulling free of his grasp. “As to exploiting people's weaknesses for monetary gain, my interests run more in the direction of the disposition of monies solicited by television preachers. I wonder what the Lord would have to say about that.”

As the audience on the gallery cheered, Baldwin flushed red. His mouth tightened, and the whiskey-brown eyes, which had moments ago glowed with the bright lights of glory, hardened like amber. He took a step back from her, admitting defeat as far as Laurel was concerned. She gave him one last hard look and started to turn for the steps, but the reporter outflanked her, and she flinched away from the light of the handheld strobe an assistant shot up behind the cameraman.

“Miss, Doug Matthews, KFET-TV, can we please get your name?”

Memories of other times and other cameras flashed through Laurel's mind. Reporters pressing in on her, yapping and jumping at her like a pack of hounds. Questions, accusations, snide remarks, hurled at her from all sides like darts.

“No,” she murmured, fighting the tightness that suddenly squeezed her chest. “No, please just leave me alone.”

Savannah stepped down off the gallery and pushed the cameraman's lens down. “Leave my sister alone, sweetheart,” she said, her gaze leveled on the reporter, “else I'll take that cute little microphone and shove it up your tight little ass.”

Hoots and shouts issued from Frenchie's patrons. Gasps rippled through the crowd of believers as the Chandler sisters went up the steps and into the bar.

Jimmy Lee stepped away from them, dragging Doug Matthews with him. “You'll take that shit out, or I'll beat her to that goddamn microphone,” he growled, looming over Matthews, who was jockey-short and coward-yellow.

Doug Matthews sent him a contentious look, making a token show of journalistic integrity as he smoothed a hand carefully over his blond hair. “It's news, Jimmy Lee.”

“So is your penchant for pretty young men.” His eyes darted to his throng of disgruntled followers who were milling around the parking lot looking as though their parade had been hailed on. “Fuck news. This is supposed to be the launch of my big campaign against sin. I'm not gettin' shown up by some little skirt in horn-rimmed glasses. You take that tape and cut and paste until I look like Christ himself forgiving Mary Magdalene.” He cuffed Matthews on the chest, scowling ferociously. “You got that, Dougie?”

Matthews pouted and rubbed at the sore spot, carefully straightening his turquoise tie. “Yeah, yeah. I got it. I wonder who she was, anyway. She sure as hell cleaned your clock.”

Jimmy Lee rubbed his knuckles against his chin, his gaze on the screen door the two women had gone through. “Sister,” he murmured, the oily wheels of his mind whirring like windmills. “Savannah Chandler's sister.” Awareness dawned, and he brightened considerably as the seeds of a plan took root. “Laurel Chandler.”

“Poor Jimmy Lee,” Savannah said without sympathy as they stepped into the cool, dark interior of Frenchie's. “He's only trying to rid the town of impurities, immoralities, and prurient behavior. He's a firsthand expert on prurient behavior.” Sliding her sunglasses down her nose, she looked at Laurel and smiled wickedly. “And I ought to know, 'cause I've gone to bed with him.”

“Savannah!”

“Oh, Baby, don't look so scandalized.” She chuckled as she glanced around the room for a choice place to roost. “Preachers get the itch too. And let me tell you, Jimmy Lee likes his scratched in some of the most inventive ways. . . .”

She sauntered toward a table, feeling a little bit mean and a little bit vindicated. Coop had rattled her, something she didn't like at all. Making a fool out of Jimmy Lee went a long way toward making up for the scene at Madame Collette's. And truth to tell, shocking Laurel made up the rest. Laurel, such a good girl. Laurel the upstanding citizen. Laurel the golden child. It did her good to get thrown for a loop every once in a while. Let her see how the other half lived. Let her think
There but for the grace of God and Savannah
. . . .

The crowd in the bar greeted her like the conquering heroine, calling to her, raising their glasses. A sense of warmth and importance flowed through her. This was her turf. These were her people, much to the dismay of Vivian and Ross. Here she was appreciated. She smiled and waved, the kind of all-encompassing, regal gesture of a beauty queen.

“Hey, Savannah!” Ronnie Peltier called from over by the pool table, where he stood leaning on the butt of his cue. “Dat's some tongue you got on you, girl.”

“So I've been told, honey,” she drawled.

He grinned and shifted his weight. “Oh, yeah? Well, why you don' come on over here,
jolie fille,
and show me?”

Savannah tossed her head and laughed, assessing his charms all the while. Ronnie was big where it counted and cute as could be. Conroy Cooper could go to hell. She had just found herself a fun-loving Cajun boy to play with.

Leonce Comeau swiveled around on his bar stool and slid his hand down her back as she passed. “Hey, Savannah, when you gonna marry me? Me, I can't live without you!”

She slid him a sly look over her shoulder, mentally shuddering at the grotesque scar that bisected his face, the long, shiny-smooth pink line that began and ended in strange knots of flesh. “If you can't live without me, Leonce, then how come you ain't dead yet?”

“I yi yiee!”
He clutched his hands to his heart as if she'd shot him, a big grin splitting across his bearded face. “You heartless bitch!”

Laurel watched the proceedings with a sinking heart and a churning stomach. It tore her up to see this side of her sister—the seductress, the slut. Savannah had so much more to offer the world than her sexual prowess. Or she once had. Once she had been full of promise, full of hope, bright-eyed at the possibilities life had to offer. Once upon a time . . .

“You want a toothpick,
'tite chatte
?”

The voice was unmistakable. Whiskey and smoke and a vision of black satin sheets. His breath was warm against her cheek, and she jerked around, cursing herself for bolting.

“Why would I want a toothpick?” she demanded indignantly.

Jack grinned at the flash of temper in her dark blue eyes. It was a hell of an improvement over the sadness and guilt he'd glimpsed there a moment before. For a moment she had looked like a lost child, and the impact of that impression had slammed into him like a truck. Not that he really cared about her, he assured himself. Miss Laurel Chandler was hardly his type. Too serious by half. Too driven. He liked a girl who liked her fun. A few good laughs, a nice healthy round of mattress thumping, no strings attached. Laurel Chandler was a whole different breed of cat—as evidenced by the mincemeat she'd made of Jimmy Lee Baldwin.

“Why, to pick all those pieces of Jimmy Lee out your teeth, sugar,” he said. “You sure chewed him up and spit him out. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

She scowled. “You're already on my bad side, Mr. Boudreaux.”

“Then why I don't just buy you a drink, angel, and we can make up?” he suggested, smiling, leaning down just a little closer than he should have. Her frown tightened, but she held her ground.

“I'd rather be left alone, thank you very much,” Laurel said primly, avoiding those dark eyes that had managed to see past her carefully erected defenses once already. She fixed her gaze on one deep dimple and did her best to ignore its blatant sex appeal.

“Oh, well, then you came to the wrong place, sugar.”

He draped an arm casually around her shoulders and steered her toward the bar, completely ignoring her wishes. She held herself stiffly, resisting his herding. She looked up at him sideways. He wore a battered black baseball cap that had “100% Coonass” machine embroidered on the front in glossy blue thread. A blood red ruby studded the lobe of his left ear. The wild Hawaiian print shirt he wore hung completely open, revealing a broad wedge of tan chest, well-defined muscle lightly dusted with black hair, a belly that looked as hard and ridged as a washboard. A line of silky-looking hair curled around his belly button like a question mark and disappeared into the low-riding waist of his faded jeans, as if beckoning curious female eyes to wonder about the territory that lay beyond.