Cypress Nights (25 page)

After half an hour, Mary straightened and said, “I could have misunderstood what I heard. You're right.”

“About what?”

“There's nothing hidden here.”

Wazoo followed her outside.

“I'm sorry,” Mary said, and sounded as if she was. “I read too much into what they were talking about. But I'm not wrong about the two of them being cozy.”

“You could be,” Wazoo said. “Give it more time, and see if George is just being nice to Kate.”

“You don't know him,” Mary said. “He's not like that. But that woman's not getting my husband.”

“Sounds like you'd be better off if she did,” Wazoo said.

“We'd better get on,” Mary said, moving past the pirogue with great purpose. “Try to keep up.”

So now it's my fault we're hangin' around here?
The toe of one shoe dug into something firm enough to bring Wazoo to a stop. “Well, hell,” she said. She'd hit a bag filled with dirt. The contents broke loose and filled both of her shoes.

Same morning: Toussaint's waking up

R
iding a bike was supposed to be something you never forgot. Bleu hadn't forgotten, but searing complaints from every muscle in her legs reminded her that it had been a long time.

She didn't know more about Roche's history this morning than she had last night. But she had been unfair to him, that was for sure.

She rode the ancient bike from the townhouse carport into the courtyard behind his single-story office building on Cotton Street. The only car in sight belonged to him. Not surprising, so early in the morning.

When he had left her place, she asked him where he was going, and he said, after looking as if he wouldn't answer, “To my office.”

She couldn't be certain he either meant it then or that he would still be there, but Bleu had set off with the first
pink streaks of dawn, as soon as the bike's lack of lights didn't matter so much.

Her cell phone, ringing in her pocket, sent her feet slamming to the ground. The brakes on the bike were almost gone, and she scuffed rapidly along until it came to a wobbly stop.

With her eyes on lights in one of Roche's windows, she answered the phone softly, “Yes.” The number showed as “private.”

“I probably shouldn't be doing this,” a male voice said. “I couldn't wait any longer to check on you.”

She recognized Sam Bush. “I'm doing well, thanks,” she told him. “Thanks for caring.”

“I do care,” he said. “A lot. Have you got all your doors locked?”

“Yes, and my windows.” He didn't have to know she wasn't where locks made a difference.

“Are you up?” Sam asked.

Bleu took an instant to respond. “Yes.”

“Can I tempt you with some fresh pastries and coffee I just bought? We only see each other for work. It might be nice to get to know each other better. If you're okay having me at your place, that is.”

He wanted more than she could give him. Bleu felt terrible, but she couldn't pretend something she didn't feel. “I'm leaving shortly.” She glanced around, hoping a car wouldn't drive in and give her lie away.

“I could pick you up,” Sam said. “You didn't get a loaner car, did you?”

Privacy was a myth around here. Everyone knew your business. Of course, Sam had been there after the fire yesterday. She forced a laugh. “No loaner. They didn't have
one. But I'm looking forward to getting back into cycling. A bike someone left in the garage works just fine.”

“Bleu—”

“Look.” She interrupted him. “I don't want those pastries wasted. Will you be at the rectory later?”

“Yes.” His voice went flat.

“Great. If you haven't eaten everything by then, I'll look forward to heating one up and giving myself a coffee break. I hope you'll join me.”

“Sounds good.”

From his tone, her suggestion barely beat out a prison sentence in popularity.

He rang off before she could respond again.

Bleu returned her attention to the building. She owed Roche, if not an apology then a chance to fully speak his mind. Last night, he'd left rapidly, his expression closed, and she had decided to wait until this morning to approach him again.

A cruiser pulled slowly into the courtyard. Bleu panicked. She considered riding off, but stopped herself. Goose bumps shot out on her arms and legs and her face felt tight. She didn't want to be seen coming here at this hour, but she didn't have a choice anymore.

It was Spike who pulled up beside her. He got out of the car, his hat tilted over his eyes at the usual angle, and stood with his thumbs in his belt. “I told the deputy who called me he had to be mistaken,” he said. “Bleu Laveau wouldn't be fool enough to go ridin' around on her own on some old heap of a bike early in the mornin'. Not when she knows the kind of problem we've got on our hands. Shows what I know about human nature. Have you lost your mind?”

She heard a door open in the building behind her and took a deep breath. Roche had heard the commotion, too.

“Mornin', Roche,” Spike hollered. “You got an early visitor.”

Bleu's spine turned creepy. “How did you know where I was and what I was doing?” she asked, keeping her voice down.

“Told you. Deputy called me.”

“Can't a person move around this town without being followed and reported on?”

“You can't,” Roche said, arriving beside them. His eyes were tired, but he still looked way too appealing. “What's the matter with you, Bleu? Are you going to tell me that after what happened yesterday, you rode all the way here on that heap of junk? On your own? With no one around?”

“Nope,” she said. “I'm not going to tell you that. You can come to your own conclusions.”

The noise Spike made could only be a snigger.

Bleu met Roche's stare directly. He wasn't laughing. He did take the bike from her and looked it over with a disgusted expression.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on Bleu,” he said. “Apparently she does need twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

She bit back a retort. Arguing with these two, especially when she
hadn't
been smart riding around on her own the way she had, wouldn't win her any points.

Spike crossed his arms on top of his open cruiser door. “I would have come lookin' for you two shortly anyhow,” he said.

Bleu felt suddenly very cold. “What's happened?”

“Don't go jumpin' to conclusions,” Spike said. He glanced at Roche.

“Why don't we go inside?” Roche said. “I've even got coffee.”

Spike took off his hat and revolved it by its brim. His dishwater-blond hair needed a cut. His long crewcut was tipping over at the ends, and the piece that tended to stand up in front parted in the middle. “I never thought we'd go even a couple of days without a real solid person of interest,” he said, as if he hadn't heard Roche's invitation.

“Has someone else been killed?” Bleu asked quietly. “They have—I can see it in your face.”

He shook his head.

“Spike,” Roche said, “is there something you're not saying? Are you sure there isn't someone you're
interested
in?”

A sniff and an expressionless stare was all Spike offered.

“There is someone?” Roche said. “You don't have to say anything concrete.”

Spike shrugged upright, and Bleu didn't miss the way he raised his brows, very slightly, at Roche. All these signals were wearing her down.

“Like I said, I wanted to have a word with you, Bleu,” Spike said. “The reports came right back on the fire at your place. Like we thought, it was set in that barrel. There were oily rags in there, and you saw the firelighter.”

She nodded.

“But you don't have any idea who might have done it?” Roche said. There was an edge on his voice.

“Nope. Except he's an amateur.”

Bleu looked at him sideways. “What does that mean?”

“He wasn't organized. He could have got there with one thing in mind, then changed it. Maybe a couple of times. The theory is, he probably intended to break in, but he knows Roche's car and saw it at the bottom of the cul-de-sac so he had to wait.”

“So you do know something about him,” Roche said. “Whoever this is knows about me, too, including what my car looks like. And he knows Bleu and I are acquainted.”

Acquainted.
Bleu pinched her hands hard. Funny how a word could make a person feel almost dismissed.

“You're right,” Spike said. “But that could be a lot of people. Our guy wanted to make sure you didn't go anywhere, Bleu. He got bored waiting, so he set the fire, but before that, we think he rigged your car. Like I said, he's an amateur. What he did could fizzle to nothing—or blow a car to pieces. We got something in the middle, thank God.”

“He rigged her car,” Roche said grimly. “Explain that.”

“Arson people reckon he wired a bottle of gasoline to the ignition. He fixed it so when the key was turned, an igniter touched off the gas.” Spike looked directly at Bleu. “Fortunately, we don't have a dead firefighter. But we could have had one—or a dead Bleu Laveau.”

R
oche liked seeing Bleu inside his offices.

He liked seeing Bleu anywhere—more than might be good for his health.

She knew he was watching every tiny move she made, but that didn't seem to bother her. Like him, she was still wrestling with Spike's announcement.

“Before you suggest I'm hanging out here because there's nothing to do and I'm lazy,” Roche said, “I've been getting through paperwork.”
And trying to figure out where we go from here.

“You don't have to explain yourself to me,” she said.

No, he didn't. But she sounded defensive, and the set of her chin could mean she was thinking more than she was saying.

Once Spike left, Roche had insisted on putting the rusted bike into his waiting room, then locking all the doors in the building with the two of them inside. By the time he'd finished, she was eyeing him as if he could be the rapist she'd more or less accused him of being.

He'd dealt with plenty of anger, and he felt some brewing in Bleu. “You haven't said much since we left Spike,” he said.

“Neither have you.”

“Bleu? Tell me what's on your mind.”

She moistened her lips. “I guess I'm still thinking about what Spike said. It's a horrible feeling, knowing someone tried to kill you.”

Roche thought about it. “I don't think he tried that hard.”

“But what he did could have been enough.” She shook her head. “Spike said I got lucky. How can you say…What do you mean, you don't think the guy tried
that
hard? He booby-trapped my car, then tried to make sure I ran out and got in it by torching the house.”

She had come to that conclusion all on her own, Roche thought. “That's a new slant.”

“Who knows?” She flopped into one of the gray corduroy chairs in the waiting room. A single forefinger jabbed in his direction. “You asked me once if I was a quitter. I'm not, damn it. And I am sick of feeling pushed around. I didn't come to Toussaint to find another way to be frightened.”

A wise man knew when to keep his mouth shut. But he admired her flash of anger and the courage she showed.

Bleu got up. “I'm getting a handle on my feelings. No one has to do anything they don't want to do, just because of me.”

What,
he wondered,
was the “anything” she had in mind?

“From now on, I'll deal with my own problems. So you can stop wasting time trying to help me. I know I'm a charity case for you, and that's admirable. But I don't need your charity.”

This wasn't an argument he could either win or lose without feeling like a jerk.

“You heard what Spike told us,” she said. “He was playing it down, but I'm sure they've got an idea who the killer is. They're going to get him, and they don't want any civilians poking around in their turf before they do. I'm sure they're watching him so closely, they have to cover their eyes when he goes to the lavatory.”

She paused and turned pink. “Why didn't Spike tell us who it is?” Her voice quivered. “Then we'd know who to watch out for.”

“I don't think Spike does know. That's why he's so edgy,” he said. “You're overwrought.”

“I am
not
overwrought.”

But she was more than agitated. “I'd like you to lie down now.”

“I just bet you would.” Pink cheeks turned scarlet. “I mean, that's the last condescending thing I'd better ever hear from you. You lie down if you need to.”

“I will, if you will.”

“This is serious.” She spread her arms and her eyes glittered. “I'm never like this. I'm a quiet woman. And it's all your fault. Before I met you I don't think I'd raised my voice to a man. And I had plenty of reason…”

Her arms fell to her sides and she lowered her eyelashes. “Good grief. Don't take any notice of me. I'm a bit—I'm not myself. I had to push myself to come looking for you this morning.” She looked up at him. “I felt sick about the way I treated you last night. I shouldn't have talked to you like that, when I've only got rumors to go on. I don't know if you're a rapist or not.”

The next change in her color was even more interesting. Bleu became so white she almost matched her blouse.

“Forget it,” he said hurriedly. “We're all strung out. I understood.”

“No, you didn't. You stormed away in a rage. I could feel the electricity crackling around you.”

“You're wrong. I was frustrated because I don't have a way to prove my side of the story, but I wasn't in a rage.”

Bleu paced away from him. “The woman you…the woman you were with, wouldn't she speak for you? Not that it's necessary to prove anything to me. I'm a good judge of character. But would she speak for you?”

“No.” Damn, he detested this subject. “She's dead.”

Bleu faced him again, frowning. “That's awful. Was she ill?”

“She died suddenly.”

“And you don't like talking about it. Of course you don't.”

“No.”

“So all you've got to back up your story is your reputation and your character.” Her sudden smile transformed her. “I'd say that's good enough.”

He wanted to thank her, but waited for her to add a clunker, like it was good enough for other people but not for her.

“Why did you bring the bike in here?” she asked.

“What?”

“You brought my bike in and locked all the doors,” Bleu said.

“We don't want it stolen.” If he were the blushing type, he'd blush now.

“That heap of junk?” Bleu said. She wrinkled her nose. “I hope I get the insurance settlement fast. I need to go used-car shopping.”

Coming clean had worked for him before. “I want you
here with me for as long as we've got this morning. No one would be likely to connect you to the bike, but just in case…”

“You're hiding me away,” she said, flipping up the corners of her mouth. “I've been kidnapped. Should I be worried?”

“That'll depend.”

She gave him a questioning stare.

It'll depend on you and on me.
“I thought we'd see what happens. Be open to anything.”

She swallowed, swallowed again.

“You're not in any danger from me,” he said. At least that was the truth. When the chips were down, he had iron control. He took her by the hand and led the way into his consulting room. Once more he shut—and locked—the door.

“What's with locking the doors?” she asked in a small voice. “All I have to do to get out is turn the handle.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Glad you noticed that. What I don't want is for someone to walk in on us.”

“Your car's parked outside,” she said.

“That doesn't have to mean I'm here. I always park out there when I come into town but I don't always stay in the office.”

Bleu gave him a long look, then studied the room. “No wonder the townhouse looks tacky to you,” she said. “Fifties funk isn't your style.”

“I told you I'm into jukeboxes.”

“You'd have a special room for them, like a museum.”

“Wait till I get my own place here, and you'll see where I put them.”

She felt her hair, as if she expected it to be mussed. It wasn't. “You're not going to stay at Rosebank?”

“Not forever.” In the past couple of days, the question of a home had started to interest him again. “I want to do it right if I build. I've spoken to Marc Girard about architectural plans. We haven't gotten far yet, but we will. I'm wondering about the Cashman lot. I'd like being close to the bayou, and it's moody there. Moody appeals to me.”

Her silence caught his attention. “What?” he said. “You don't think it would be good to build there? You don't like atmosphere?”

“I do. I was thinking about the school.”

He grinned at her. “So am I. And I haven't forgotten that's the perfect spot for the school. Do you know how big that parcel of land is? Huge. It could be divided and the house wouldn't be within sight of whatever else goes up.”

“You do a lot of planning, don't you?” she said. “In your own world everything works out your way. You don't even know who owns that lot now.”

“No, but I will.” He let the other slide past.

Bleu nodded. “What if someone calls you here this morning?”

Fortunately, he switched gears easily. “Someone like?”

She shrugged. “A patient.”

“It wouldn't matter who it was. The phones are switched over to my service.”

Why, Bleu wondered, didn't she try opening the door? If he stopped her, she'd know she had something to worry about.

She crossed the beautiful blue carpet and turned the door handle. The lock popped undone.

She looked at Roche over her shoulder. He hadn't moved. Propped against his desk, he watched her speculatively.

“Hmm.” She engaged the lock again and faced him. “I'm a bit obsessive-compulsive—I have to check things out. But now I know, I promise I won't keep on doing that.”

“It's okay if you do.”

Bleu went to stand in front of him. Only inches separated them, and she inclined her face while she studied his eyes, filled with dark blue shadow. He matched her scrutiny, feature for feature.

“We're not a fit, y'know,” she told him. “We're really different.”

That brought a one-sided smile. “I'm glad.”

“You know what I mean?”

“Of course I do, and I don't agree with you. What you call a ‘fit' doesn't have much to do with experience.” He touched the side of her face, pushed her hair back.

Bleu kissed his palm, rested her cheek there.

Light in the room was soft, but clear. “I like looking at you,” she said.

“Ditto,” he said softly, and shifted just enough to lean forward and part her lips with his. He put a breath's distance between their mouths and said, “Looking at you in that mirror was…I'd better shut up.”

They kissed a long time, with Roche using only his hand on the side of her head to hold her. They breathed from each other, their eyes squeezed shut. Bleu's breasts tingled. The flutters in her belly concentrated and pooled into a low burn.

His other hand settled on her neck, slid beneath her blouse to fold over her shoulder, but only for a moment before he tugged her closer, landed her against him.

Never taking his eyes from hers, he reached between them to unbutton her blouse, his fingers shaking but still
moving rapidly. Spreading the front open, he smoothed his hands over the tops of her breasts and inside her bra. He scooped her up and bent to lick the tender flesh, his tongue trailing closer and closer to her nipples, but never quite touching.

Unexpected sunlight through the window struck Bleu's eyelids and she flinched. She opened them and his head rested against her chest, his hair black against her pale skin.

Roche slid the edges of his thumbnails over her nipples. Bleu gritted her teeth. She stood there, passive, while he touched her. And he made her want him to do it, and do it.

The sunshine washed over them, over the office.

“No!” She was strong and she shoved at his shoulders, pushed his head away from her.

She wrapped her blouse over wet, reddened nipples and turned her back to Roche. She shook, not outwardly, but inside, and her teeth wouldn't stay together.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

He didn't answer.

“It's not your fault. I let you think I wanted it. I came to you.”
Never in daylight.
“It won't work. Darn, it won't work. I can't change everything about me quickly enough.”

“Quickly enough for what?” He sounded gruff.

“You aren't going to wait for me to deal with my hangups. I've got them, Roche, and I'm fighting as hard as I can, but it's going to take time. I still can't believe…. When I think about us, together at my place, I wonder if that was me, or someone who took my place.”

“That was you,” he said. “I'll sign an affidavit if I need to.”

She began buttoning her blouse.

“Start talking about the hangups.”

“No.” Bleu shook her head. There was nothing familiar for her anymore. She had promised herself a fresh start far away from things she knew—and detested—but she felt adrift, without foundations.

“We can take as much time as you need. You don't have to worry about anything happening
quickly enough.
What set you off just now?”