Cypress Nights (11 page)

Roche got in beside her, and she sat with her knees primly together when she smiled at him. “I guess it takes all kinds,” she said. “I don't think I'd make it as a concierge.”

His smile charmed her—all the way from her brain, through every possible spot on the way to her toes. “That would depend on the clientele you were trying to satisfy. Let's get you home.”

He patted her hand on her leg and she swallowed. Turning toward the passenger window, she let her eyes close. When had she last felt like this? Pliable, sensual and longing for a man's warmth and strength? Bitterness opened her eyes fast. Regardless of how long ago it had been, she hadn't been fulfilled.

They drove through a pleasant night. Roche smiled at her often. She felt his contentment. When they got to her place, she would get past all the inhibitions and ask him in. He wasn't rushing her along. She had nothing to fear from him and just to sit with him close beside her and share a comforting hour would feel so good.

“Tomorrow, I've got to catch up,” she said, scrambling for anything at all to say.

“I'm sure. I'll be busy myself for the next couple of days. Out at the clinic. Things are still very slow in town.”

“That'll change,” she told him. She couldn't think of anything she'd like better than an excuse to sit and talk to Roche Savage, to have him listen to her, and look at her.

“It will in time,” he said. “I admit I'm worried.”

“About getting enough patients?” He surprised her.

“No, no. It's early yet to hope for progress, but someone killed Jim, and they were making a point.”

“It's funny,” she said. “But we could never find out who did it. What if it was someone passing through? Maybe robbing the collection boxes, and Jim caught them.”

He glanced sideways at her. The dashboard light did nice things for his features. “Do you really think that?”

“No. Anyway, Sam Bush counts the money from the boxes and he'd have said if something was different.”

“Try not to think about it all the time,” he said.

They'd entered the streets of Toussaint and set off into the neighborhood that eventually petered out into the almost undeveloped area where Bleu lived.

If he asked her out tomorrow, Bleu intended to go. Not back to Auntie's or anywhere like it, though. She blushed at the thought. In her whole life she'd never seen anything like that.

She shifted in her seat again. A woman shouldn't get all sexy because of a thing like she'd just seen. Should she? Roche didn't seem affected by it.

He drove up the cul-de-sac, put on the emergency brake and got out.

Bleu let him come around and open her door—and help her get out. With a hand at the back of her waist, he ushered her up the front steps, took her key and opened the front door.

She faced him and looked up under the light on the wall. “I don't know what to say except, that was wild and I ought to be embarrassed.”

He chuckled. “Chalk it up to
the education of Bleu.
Not exactly what you need, but part of life. Forget it. I really enjoyed being with you. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she said and stepped a little closer. “You're really good company. Will you forgive me for standing you up? That was so childish of me. I think I got cold feet.”

“Understandable,” he said. “You didn't know if you could live up to my charm.”

She bowed her head then looked at him through her lashes. “Something like that. Would you like to come in for that cup of coffee you suggested earlier?”

Roche rubbed her cheek with the back of a hand, then replaced his hand with his lips. He kissed her lightly and stood back. “It's been a long day. Get inside and lock up.”

Her head buzzed. Goose bumps popped out on her legs. “Yes. Of course. Good night.” Only then did she realize he hadn't even turned off his car engine.

“I'll talk to you soon,” he said.

“I'll look forward to it.”

“Night.” He took a couple of downward steps.

Bleu went inside, locked the door and sat on the bottom step of the stairs. She crossed her arms and rocked.
Darn him, anyway.

 

On the way back to Rosebank, Roche drove faster than was wise. Eventually, when he became aware of dark trees
becoming a blur against a pewter sky, he forced the brake to the floor and fishtailed off the road and on to a rocky shoulder.

He didn't remember the last time restraint had cost him so much. She would have had him come in, and who knew what that would have led to?

“Oh, my God!”

It could have come to his getting carried away, persuading her into what would have been abandoned sex—he was worked up enough to get so wild he might or might not make her run, screaming, from him.

Okay. He was a saint. But he would have to give himself some breathing room or Saint Roche's halo would get confiscated.

Early evening, two days later

“W
ould you like a glass of wine before you go?” Cyrus asked. “Or something else?”

“Wine would be lovely.” Relief lightened Madge's heart. Cyrus was accepting that she had a date—and she
would
like a glass of wine just to relax with for a few minutes.

“When's Sig arriving?”

Madge looked at her watch. “He called and said he had a heavy clinic afternoon. He should be here in about forty-five minutes.”

She watched Cyrus get up. It was special when a man felt familiar, but still managed to speed up your pulse. He was like that. In an old, green-check shirt and black pants, and wearing scuffed black loafers, he looked comfortable…and irresistible at the same time.

Madge smiled at herself. She had a bad case; she'd had it forever. And it wasn't as if she'd ever been a contrary
sort. There had never been a time when she'd pined for something she couldn't have—except for Cyrus.

“Red or white?” he said, picking up a bottle standing at the back of a counter. “I think this is going to be a good one. It's a Cabernet Sauvignon—'76. I've been saving it.”

She joined him at the counter. “What have you been saving it for?”

Above his collar, his neck turned a little red. “Something special. A celebration. I'm hoping tonight will be the start of something new and special for you.”

He had a deep and rumbly voice, but it could still catch if he was emotional. It caught now, but he turned away and got out two glasses—two of the Waterford ones he'd told her an aunt had sent from Ireland when he was ordained.

Instead of following her instincts and protesting that he should not use the wine now, she said, “Thank you, Cyrus,” and touched his back lightly.

“I've got an idea,” he said, looking at her with suspiciously glittery blue eyes. “We had the old sitting room decorated because it's been a mess for years, but we still haven't used it. Let's inaugurate it now.”

She smiled at him and nodded. Everything he said was about “we.” Wazoo had been right to notice that she, Madge, also said it. How long ago had she, Madge, become a “we” with Cyrus?

Carrying both glasses, he led the way into the corridor outside the kitchen and turned right. He managed to open a door—this one refinished and glowing. The next project would be the entire corridor and front hall.

“It's so lovely,” Madge said. She had better think so, since picking the fabrics, wall colors and furniture had all been left to her.

“I'm glad you put in the fans,” Cyrus said.

He glanced at her sideways and they both laughed. Cyrus had thought the fans a frivolous waste of money at the time.

They sat down, one at either end of a couch covered with a red lotus-blossom design. Floor-to-ceiling drapes over the tall windows were striped and banded at the top with the same lotus blossoms. Madge sighed and worked her way farther into her corner of the couch.

“Look at you,” Madge said suddenly. “I can read your mind. You think the money should have been spent on something else. But this room was falling apart.”

Cyrus looked at her thoughtful brown eyes, her short, shiny, curly dark hair, and at that moment he would have signed for anything she wanted to do around here.

He felt the way she scrutinized him. There was no other word for it. Fate had dealt them a bitter lot, but then, it had also allowed them a lot of joy.

Madge rubbed her hands together and turned her face away from him. She didn't usually wear pants, but she had on jeans today, and a white blouse. Very nice they looked, too, although he always preferred her in a dress.

“Are you going to drink both glasses of wine?” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching.

“Oh. Sorry. I was taking another good look around in here. I think we should use it more. It's very comfortable and…
chic.
That's the word. My parents were
tres chic,
so I should know.”

Madge gave him an odd look, and he realized he'd never mentioned his family before, except for his sister Celine, who lived with her husband, Jack Charbonnet, and their children, in New Orleans.

“Do you think I should run upstairs and get changed?”
Madge asked. “Sig didn't say where he's taking me, but I did bring a dress with me.”

She asked as if he were her brother or father. “Yes,” he said, and his throat hurt. “Go do it, then maybe we'll still have a few more quiet minutes. I want to talk to you about the school and the center. I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't concerned. But we're goin' to get it done. Maybe we'll have to think smaller is all.”

“Cyrus…” She wanted to talk about the heaviness pressing in on everyone in town. At the same time she wished she could shut it out. “It's been three days and there's nothing. Not a word about the case going forward.”

He sucked in his bottom lip. “Yes. From the complaints, you'd think people were mad at being questioned, but I think they're grateful for any sign that official wheels are turning.”

Spike and his people continued to go door to door, questioning, searching for any small fragment that might lead to a break in the case. “Bleu's very quiet, isn't she?”

His expression became speculative. “Very. Does she seem as if she's only worried about the parish? And Jim, of course. Or do you think there's something else?”

“Nothing gets past you,” Madge said. “Of course there's something—or someone—else. Roche.” The idea worried her.

“They aren't talking about it to anyone else,” Cyrus said. “We'll find out if we're supposed to.”

“I don't think—”

“Get changed,” he said. “Then you can make everything around here seem so plausible, I'll wonder why I ever worried at all.”

“Exactly.” She put her glass beside his on a brass table.

Madge left quickly. She wasn't a woman who needed a lot of fuss to make herself look lovely.

He got up and walked to a window. Colored lights from a long-ago party remained strung in the trees. Madge liked them, so they stayed, and he made sure any burned-out bulbs were replaced.

Madge had talked about how pretty a Christmas tree would look in here this year.

Families had Christmas trees. Priests didn't.

He was feeling sorry for himself, and God deserved better than that from him. When he took his vows, he committed his life to the Church and he didn't regret his decision.

If Sig Smith was the one for Madge, he had better treat her the way she deserved to be treated. At least the man was committed to Roche's clinic in Toussaint and seemed to like living in the town. And Roche said Sig was reliable. Roche trusted Sig Smith, and that should be enough for Cyrus.

It might be wrong, but Cyrus knew he wouldn't relax until he could see that Madge was happy with…another man. She needed marriage and children. Madge loved children.

There were other things he should be thinking about, like the senseless murder of a good man. With the exception of Ozaire, no one had a notion who had killed Jim. Or, if they did, they weren't sharing their thoughts.

Spike and his deputies must have interviewed every person in this town by now and learned nothing substantial. He intended to repeat the rounds of questioning and only grew more grim-faced and determined.

The phone rang, startling Cyrus. He picked up. “Father Cyrus Payne,” he said.

“Father, this is serious,” a man said. “I don't understand why there ain't nothin' been done to take the suspect into custody.”

“Who is this?” Cyrus said.

“Why, it's Ozaire. You know me, Father.”

Cyrus sighed and slid to sit on the couch again. “Yes, I do. How are you, Ozaire?”

“Mad, that's how I am. Excuse me for sayin' so, Father. What's the matter with Spike Devol? He's got all the proof he needs. What's he waiting for?”

An unpleasant feeling gripped Cyrus's stomach. Nothing stayed secret around here. “What would that be?”

“You just bein' difficult,” Ozaire said. “Excuse me for sayin' so, Father. I know all about those footprints. A woman's footprints. I already told you what Kate Harper said about Jim. I told Spike, too, and I'm sure he talked to her. She needs to be picked up.”

“And you, Ozaire, need to start using your head.” Cyrus breathed deeply and tried to calm his thudding heart. “Who told you about the prints?”

“I've got my sources.”

“Of course you do. I'm told Kate Harper has arthritis. She isn't someone who could climb around in high-heeled shoes.”

Ozaire cackled. “Shows what you know. And shows how much you notice, too. Miz Harper, she loves to dance. Lil told me that's one of the things she had against poor Jim. He didn't dance. And the arthritis is in her neck, not her feet—if it's anywhere at all. You better get a good look at her shoes. There's some around here calls her Imelda.”

Madge came through the door, her head tilted to one side while she put some sort of shiny thing in her hair.

“This is what I want you to do, Ozaire,” Cyrus said. “Go to see Spike again and ask him your questions directly.”

“But I thought you'd—”

“You thought I'd carry these tales of yours to Spike? I can't do that. He'll want to hear from you himself. I'm busy here, Ozaire. Look—”

“I'm not sayin' she did it herself,” Ozaire interrupted. “Someone needs to look into any strangers in town. I reckon Kate hired herself a hit man.”

Cyrus closed his eyes and made himself wait a moment. Then he said, “Thank you for calling, Ozaire. Look after yourself and God bless you.”

When he put down the phone and looked up, Madge frowned at him. “What was all that?”

“Ozaire is still trying to convict Kate Harper of murder. Tomorrow, I'm going to visit her again, myself. She's got to know there are very few people who believe these crazy stories. And she'll have heard them by now, I'm afraid.”

“She surely will,” Madge said. She walked to the table and picked up her glass. She gave Cyrus his. “You're going to see her tomorrow, aren't you?”

He nodded.

“I'll come with you,” Madge said. “I'm overdue to see her, anyway. Now let's have those few quiet minutes.”

He tipped up his glass and swallowed some of the wine. It flooded him with warmth and he wished he could hold on to that.

What Madge had put in her hair was a comb. Along the top there were tiny blue crystals set very close together, covering the bar. The comb pulled her hair back at one side.

“I like your hair like that,” he said. “And the comb.
And the earrings!” He laughed. “Sapphire earrings look good on you.”

“They're fake,” she said, but she smiled with pleasure. “Pretty good, though.”

Madge never wore much makeup. She didn't have a lot on tonight, but her eyelashes, always thick, looked even thicker and darker and she wore lipstick, a pinkish brown that showed off how pretty her full mouth was.

“Now you're checking out the makeup,” she said. “Is it too much?”

“Oh, no. It's just right.”

Her laugh made him smile. “As if you'd know anything about makeup,” she said.

He gave her a withering look. “I know enough to recognize when a woman's turned herself into a clown or just added some nice color. You're in that group, the nice-color group.”

“Thank you.”

“And I've never seen you in a better dress.” Shiny blue silk, the skirt fitted quite tightly and finished a couple of inches above the knee. The top was one of those halter things that crossed over in front and went around the neck, leaving her back bare. “Just…Sig Smith is a lucky man and he'd better appreciate it.”

Madge laughed. “Are you sure you don't have a shotgun hidden away around here?”

“If I needed a shotgun, I probably couldn't wait to cock it before I pummeled the life out of Sig Smith.”

Unfortunately, he meant every word he said and it was time to control himself. “Sit down,” he said, eyeing her shoes. “And don't fall over in those things.”

The heels of her shoes were high and narrow; thin straps fastened around her slim ankles.

He didn't want her to go out with Sig Smith, or any other man. Men were all instinct, and she would have the kind of effect on Sig that would have his instincts doing cartwheels.

Madge crossed her legs.

“Do you like the wine?” Cyrus asked. He concentrated on his own glass, but not before he'd seen her skirt rise high on her thighs, and looked at the vulnerable underside of her leg above one knee. Her shoulders and arms were smooth.

“It's good wine,” Madge said. She looked too serious. “I completely forgot to ask if Millie is okay here with you overnight.”