Cypress Nights (10 page)

“I haven't seen that Wendy for too long,” Madge said. “I leave Rosebank before she's about in the morning and get back after she's in bed. I'll have to make sure I do get to see her, and David.”

The expression on Spike's face became contented. He adored his children.

“I'm going to find out about the Cashman land,” Roche said. “What do you intend to do about a multipurpose center, Bleu?”

“It's only been about ten days since I realized it was such an issue. I'm thinking about asking Marc to work on using the area where the parish hall is and build something a bit bigger, with two stories. What do you think?”

After a silence that seemed to stretch, Madge said, “The parish hall was built at the same time as the church. They're both pretty old. People want a new adult facility, but I think if we try to touch that hall, we'll find we've got preservationists breathing down our throats.”

“I'd be one of them,” Cyrus said. “Sorry, Bleu. And the
idea of acquiring another parcel of land is great, but we'd never raise the money. This isn't a wealthy town. I wish what we already own was bigger. When the Church bought the parcel for St. Cecil's and the other buildings that went up, they didn't anticipate there would ever be such a need for growth.”

“Maybe we should give the whole idea up,” said Madge. “Jim's already dead and the note with the ashes was a threat.”

“What note?” Bleu said.

“Just a silly note,” Cyrus said.

Madge glared into her coffee. She reached for the cream and poured in more. “What it said meant the killer was threatening to burn the new school down and kill the children inside,” she said.

Roche glanced at Spike and could see he was irritated at having his evidence chatted about.

“I expect Spike would like us to promise that what we've been talking about stays here,” Roche said.

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't repeat anything you've heard,” Spike said. “But you can't let someone bully you into abandoning your plans. The school must go ahead, Madge. Even if it didn't, we'd still have a murderer to catch.”

The dog had fallen asleep again, this time draped over Bleu's shoulder. She supported Millie's bottom and stroked her gently. “He'll be caught,” she said, sounding convinced.

“Let's hope it happens before someone else dies,” Cyrus said.

Madge rested her chin in her hands. “Meanwhile, we'll be wondering about what Wazoo is or isn't smelling,” she said.

“Fresh blood that's still pumping,” Bleu said and rolled her eyes.

“Don't,” Madge said and shuddered.

Cyrus offered her the can of nuts and she took several. Then she set them on the table; Roche figured she'd only accepted them to be polite.

Spike sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He had his Stetson balanced on one knee. “Well,” he said. “Me, I've got one big question to answer before I move on.”

“Okay,” Bleu said. “So tell us what big question.”

“How did someone drop that box at the front door and get away so cleanly? So far, we've got nothing, and it'll be dark soon. The front of the house will have to be taped off, Cyrus.”

“No problem,” Cyrus told him. “I've got another big issue to deal with, too. We'd better get the word out that mass will be held in the parish hall until the church is available again.”

“What kinds of things are you looking for out there?” Roche asked Spike.

“I'd take anything. Gum wrappers with big, fat fingerprints on 'em. A dropped wallet complete with ID.” He made a grumbling sound. “I'm not even amusing myself. It's rained, there should be some footprints. My men didn't find any. No fibers or fragments of fabric anywhere. No hairs. No convenient puddles of body fluids. They scoured it. Nothing.”

“There are footprints out there,” Roche said.

“Yeah, yours.” Spike shook his head. “You aren't so funny tonight, either.”

“Mine are there, but they aren't the only ones. There are some that show in the soft ground just out from Cyrus's office—the side, not the front. I didn't think
anything of it, except it seemed funny for them to come from that side and head up toward the lane, when it would be quicker to go straight out that way.” He nodded toward Bonanza Alley.

Spike was on his feet. “The fewer people who take a look at this, the better. I'll have to get casts made of the prints. Let's hope there's something unique on the bottoms of his shoes.”

Roche's stomach flipped. He hoped he wasn't starting a lot of trouble for someone completely innocent.

“Spike,” he said. “The prints are from high heels. The footprints are a woman's.”

B
leu jumped when the door closed behind Roche. He had asked again to take her home, and she had refused.

She hadn't missed the long look he'd given her, or her own longing to say she'd go with him.

Cyrus and Madge had followed Spike back to the offices.

The only sound in the kitchen was the loud tick from an old clock on the wall.

Bleu went to a window overlooking Bonanza Alley. Roche's car was still there. He had paused to stare toward the bayou. Looking at him tightened her belly—and the muscles in her thighs. She remembered what had happened when she'd been alone with him earlier and her face burned. Roche had behaved as if he didn't know she was climaxing, but she didn't believe him.

It had felt so good, even if she had made a fool of herself.

The breeze ruffled Roche's hair. With his hands on his hips, every lean, muscular inch of him looked rigid.

Bleu turned away, wishing she'd been nicer to him before he left, that she'd made a move to arrange another time to be with him.

Too late now.

She didn't want to let him go. A breath caught in her throat. It seemed impossible, but she wanted to be alive again and with Roche.

When she glanced back outside, he was getting into his car.

Running, yanking the door to the yard open and leaving it to slam shut on its own, she dashed across the grass to the fence and pulled open the gate. Her sandals scrunched on the gravel parking strip and small rocks lodged under her bare feet.

“Roche,” she called, but he had already started his engine.

In the middle of the alley, she stopped and let her hands fall to her sides. The car was moving.

“Roche,” she said quietly, and felt sick with disappointment.

As his car passed, he glanced over his shoulder and saw her. The brakes squealed when he slammed them on and in seconds he was out of the vehicle and striding to meet her.

“I almost missed you,” he said, breathing hard as if he'd been running. The hope in his eyes quickened Bleu's heart. “Changed your mind about that ride home?”

She shook her head and saw his shoulders drop slightly. “We were supposed to go out on a date the other evening,” she said. “Well, not a date exactly—”

“I asked you out,” he said, standing so close she had to look up at him. “That's called a date.”

Bleu nodded. “It's probably been too long a day, but I
wondered if you'd like to grab a meal with me a bit later. I think I need a nap first, and you probably do, too.”

Roche stared at her silently.

She gave a small laugh and crossed her arms. “Of course you're too tired. Forget I said anything.”

Her hair blew across her face and she pushed it away.

“You're asking me out?” Roche said, a slow smile spreading. “What do you have in mind?”

She smiled back. “I could make a supper reservation for us and where we go would be a surprise.” It would be a surprise to her, too, since she didn't know anything about restaurants in the area. “There are a couple of places I've heard about up toward Lafayette.” Her flash of bravery began to fade. “You think about it. If you want to go, give me a call.”

“I'm calling,” he said. “I want to go. Thanks.”

That evening

“I
knew it,” Roche said to Bleu. “You've got a secret life. I didn't know this place existed. But I don't get out much.”

Her laugh was more embarrassed than amused. “You ought to change that,” she said, her voice all but lost in the heavy blues beat from a small, gravelly group. “You know what a woman of the world I am—flitting around the countryside every night. If you're looking for the latest hot spot, just call me.”

He put his elbows on the table in their booth and grinned at her—not that she was likely to see the finer points of his facial expression in the gloom. “Auntie's, huh? Interesting place. When's the last time you were here?”

She inclined her head. “Well—when I remember, I'll let you know.”

Her choice made Bleu uncomfortable. Rather than ask for advice, she had picked a place out of the Lafayette
telephone book. Fine dining and music sounded great, but now she wasn't sure exactly what it was supposed to mean. Little food seemed to be served.

“I like all the red,” Roche said.

“It
is
very red in here,” Bleu said. In fact, everything was red, including the lighting. Velvet-covered booths, tablecloths and napkins, walls, hanging glass lamps, carpets, the abbreviated sequined tuxedos worn by the waitstaff—male and female.

“I like the music, too,” Roche said.

Bleu listened and nodded. “Me, too.” Even if it
was
suggestive and heavily moody.

A waiter, his chest bare under his jacket, but with a bow tie in place, lighted a candle on the table. “Is this your first time at Auntie's?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bleu said at once and bowed her head.

Roche laughed and echoed, “Yes.” He asked her if she liked champagne and ordered a bottle when she said she did. Bart, who would be “looking after them,” giggled and told them to “trust him,” with “nibbles.”

“I'm sorry,” Bleu said when they were alone again. “I was trying to be sophisticated and find a nice place. This is awful.”

“Don't be sorry,” Roche said. “I want to be with you and I don't care where that is.” He flexed muscles in his jaw. He couldn't seem to stop himself from being too honest around this woman.

Bleu looked sideways at him. Her eyes shone in the candlelight and there wasn't a hint of a smile on her face.

“Did I just say too much?”

“No,” she said. “I'd have to be fool to think that was too much. I wanted to be with you, too. That's why I chased after you the way I did.”

“D'you want to tell me what changed your mind about coming out with me? Or being anywhere at all with me, alone?”

Bart arrived with a champagne bucket, complete with bottle up to its neck in ice, and glasses. The nibbles were a small dish of nuts and another of pretzel sticks.

“How about some oysters to go with that?” Bart asked and winked at Roche.

“Yes,” Bleu said. “We'd like that, wouldn't we?”

Roche nodded. If he suggested they go somewhere else, she would be mortified. And he'd meant what he said about only wanting to be with her. He prayed things were as sleazy as they were going to get.

The champagne wasn't bad. Roche felt almost ridiculously grateful, and pleased when he saw Bleu wrinkle her nose and look happy. He'd have to remember that bubbles relaxed her.

There were all kinds of bubbles…

Her dress—simple, white, sleeveless with a round neck and straight skirt—couldn't have looked better if it had been designed for her. Her only jewelry was a pair of crystal earrings that shot sparks of reflected red across her neck.

He drank deeply. Tonight, he was Mr. Model Date. He would not do anything but respond to her, with restraint. Tonight, he would prove how unthreatening he could be.

“This is good,” Bleu said. Champagne wasn't something she'd had often, but she liked it. Roche, relaxed, more approachable than she ever remembered him, smiled back at her and managed to turn her heart more times than could be good for it.

He'd removed his black silk sport coat and his hair looked a little damp and very dark against an open-necked white shirt.

She would not start telling herself she didn't belong with a man like him.

Things were going to change with her. She would get past putting herself down and learn to feel desirable again. With enough guts, she could let go of her fear of getting close to a man—to this man.

“Oysters off your starboard side,” Roche muttered.

She didn't have a chance to move her head before “Shelly” arrived, also without a shirt beneath her sequined jacket.

“I'm going to make these easy for you,” Shelly said, leaning over the table until Bleu found the only safe place to look was at her own hands.

Shelly shucked oysters like a pro. “What else can I do for you?” she said.

“I can't think of a thing,” Roche said, doing his best to avoid a view of naked breasts some plastic surgeon must have ordered special implants for. They were huge, with saucer-sized nipples.

He saw Bleu glance up and take a deep breath. Now, hers were the breasts he wanted to see naked.

“People don't know we specialize in couples,” Shelly said.

Bleu frowned at her.

“You're fine where you are as long as you're comfortable. We insist our customers are comfortable. But when you're ready, so are we.”

Stunned, Bleu had difficulty meeting Roche's eyes. “Is this a…
place?
” she asked when Shelly left.

“I'm not sure what it is,” he said honestly. “But it's interesting.” He carried one of her hands to his mouth and kissed it lightly. And he set it gently back on the table afterward.

“Yes, yes it is.” She emptied her champagne and Bart appeared to refill the glass.

In the booth across from theirs, a couple settled in and wrapped their arms around each other. They kissed, and kissed. The man, beefy, with slick hair, pulled at his partner until he lifted her bottom from the seat. Unfazed, she knelt and pushed her hands into the back of his pants, pulled out his shirt and plunged her hands back inside.

Bleu glanced at Roche but he wasn't taking any notice of the performance. She felt a little dart of heat between her legs, crossed them at once and felt annoyed with herself.

“It's been a hell of a day,” Roche said. “Did you sleep?”

They'd hardly spoken on the drive north and Bleu was relieved to feel looser, even if the couple next to them were embarrassing. “A bit. It felt good. How about you?”

He touched the tip of her chin and smiled. “Not a whole lot.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “If you're too tired—”

“I'm not,” he said. “I didn't sleep because I was waiting to see you. Are we going to get to know each other, Bleu? No pressure?”

“I want to.” It was true, why not tell him?

The couple in the other booth got champagne—no nibbles. Their waiter sat in with them, cozying up until the woman became a voluptuous, giggling sandwich filling. Whatever they discussed brought loud laughter and a lot of head nodding.

Giggles' boyfriend was a generous guy. When she gave the waiter a lingering kiss and something that made him squeal, “ooh,” before he left, she was immediately welcomed back into another embrace.

“Why did you want us to get together tonight?” Roche asked.

She didn't know how much to say. “I haven't been fair to you. Or me. You don't need to hold a therapy session, but I am still getting over a bad marriage.”

It touched him that she was honest. “You can talk to me about anything,” he said. “Or nothing.”

“I don't have a lot of confidence,” she said, and hated the way it sounded. “That's not what I meant to say. I wasn't encouraged to be confident, but I'm too strong to let someone else destroy me. I'm getting back into living again and I like it.” She gave him her brightest smile. And she meant what she said, darn it. Maybe she had a long way to go, but she was on her way. Coming out with him tonight proved that.

“You
are
strong,” he said. She would be, he thought. These were the first steps and he admired her courage.

For himself, the increasing abandon of their neighbors was causing reactions he couldn't completely squelch. The pair needed a room and he had no doubt there were plenty available somewhere around here.

“You've never married,” Bleu said. “You seem like someone who should have a wife and children.”

He met her eyes steadily. “For years, there wasn't time. Then there wasn't anyone who interested me in the right way.”

The woman next to them sat on her companion's lap. He encased her middle with his big hands and slipped them up until her breasts were half-exposed beneath a ruckled top. He limbered up his thumbs on her nipples and she writhed, gasping. Evidently bras were out of favor.

He ought, Roche thought, to get Bleu out of here. But if he made a big deal of it, she'd figure he'd been spending
too much attention elsewhere or that he thought she was too naive to cope.

Bleu wished Roche would hold her hand. She spread her fingers on top of the table so that they came close to touching his wrist.

“You must have been young when you got married,” Roche said.

“Yes.” She must have been wrong when she'd been convinced Roche knew the details about Michael, but she didn't want to think about that now. A soft warmth had crept through her veins. Studiously, she avoided the antics at the next table but couldn't miss everything. For the second time tonight, bare breasts were on display and this time she supposed they were nice, nice enough for the man to look at them like gourmet ice-cream sundaes before sucking on one nipple then the other.

Bleu cleared her throat and moved a little closer to Roche.

“Would you like to leave?” he said. “It's getting late to find a meal, but we'd get coffee somewhere.”

Because he thought she was a wimpy, fading flower with no experience? “It's comfortable here,” she said. “The music's nice.”

Roche knew she wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't his place to say so.

“Did Spike say anything important about his investigations?” Bleu asked. “Madge called me after I got home and said the three of you had been talking back in her office. She thinks Spike's got an idea about the killer.” It was hard not to sound desperately hopeful.

“He's trying to think of some crime that was never solved. Here in Toussaint. He called it an incident, so I suppose he means a crime. I don't recall anything. How about you?”

“I've only been here a few weeks,” she reminded him. “Nobody's said anything to me.”

He spread his arms along the back of the booth and looked thoughtful.

Bleu looked at his solid chest, the crook of his shoulder, and had an urge to cuddle against him. He would put one of his arms around her and hold on. Then she'd tip her head back and he'd kiss her.

“There was a girl who went missing,” Roche said slowly. “A teenager home from school on vacation. I think it turned out she'd run off with a boyfriend. I never heard she was found dead.”

Bleu sighed. “Thank goodness. There's always so much trouble.”

“Fortunately there isn't always a murder in St. Cecil's.”

“Poor Jim.” Bleu couldn't stand thinking about such a gentle man being exposed to horrendous violence.

“Bleu, I'd like us to go out,” Roche said. “I know we are out. I mean, would you like to consider getting together now and then?”

She hid her smile.

“Don't answer until you're ready,” he said.

Bleu rested her face against the back of the booth, the top of her head brushed the underside of his arm. “I would like that,” she said quietly. She looked at his mouth. The outline was definite, the lower lip fuller than the top and the corners flipped up. She passed her tongue over her own mouth.

“That's great,” he said, giving her chin a mock tap with a knuckle.

Noises next door turned from panting and grunting to escalating sounds of runaway excitement.

Bleu turned her head before she could stop herself.
Giggles had her short skirt fashioned into a belt and her partner sagged in the booth while he bopped her up and down on his lap.

“Oh, dear,” Bleu said weakly.

Roche took her by the hand and pulled her from their booth behind him. Bart appeared, all smiles to offer them “whatever their hearts desired,” and Roche pushed some bills into his hand.

“Night,” Roche said with a sloppy salute.

He strode outside with Bleu and settled her in his car.

Her pulse thudded in every place a pulse could thud. She wiggled a little and forced her breathing to settle down. When had she turned into a sex-crazed creature ready to react to any stimulus?