Cypress Nights (4 page)

Bleu let out a short laugh. How could a man be so oblivious of his presence. “Father Cyrus, you couldn't be invisible if you tried. And every woman who sees Roche just about drools.”

Her hand, audibly slapped over her mouth, made Roche smile, and he didn't miss the way Cyrus tried to squelch a grin.

Embarrassed, Bleu said, “I just meant you're easy on the eye. Well, nice to look at, anyway. So people are bound to watch you.”

Bleu glanced at Cyrus, who raised his eyebrows and gave her a great big smile.

“I guess I'm just a smooth talker,” she said, chagrined at her own clumsy efforts. “I've led a pretty sheltered life, so you'll have to make allowances for me.”

Sidney, her dark eyes clear and cheerful, arrived with a bunch of coffee cups strung on her fingers. Deftly, she
swung off three and set one in front of each of them. “Coffee?” she said. “Leaded or unleaded?”

She wriggled menus from the pocket of her apron and passed them around. Sidney had worked with Jilly for several years and took pride in the café.

“Leaded with cream,” Bleu said.

“Leaded, black,” Cyrus said, and Roche asked for the same.

“You havin' cooked breakfasts?” Sidney asked, pouring coffee from a carafe. Her shiny brown hair hung in a single braid down her back.

“Oh, an omelette,” Bleu told her, pretending to faint against the wall.

The others laughed. “Bowl of grits, and the morning man-blast,” Cyrus said. “Two sausages, two pieces of bacon, two eggs, hush puppies, corn bread, honey—and whatever else you can get on the plate.”

“Make that two of those,” Roche said, feeling better already, even if he was having a testosterone rush. Or maybe that was making it a perfect morning.

Bleu's gaze met Roche's and she made him feel suspended in time until she looked away.

He had a bad case; in fact he had the worst case he could recall. He had always been a hotblooded boy who knew trouble was his middle name when it came to women.

Cyrus said Sidney's name softly and she went to bend down beside him. The little smile on her lips suggested that she'd expected him to approach her for something. She nodded, and deep dimples popped into her cheeks before she sped away.

“What was that about, Cyrus?” Roche asked, and got himself a puckish grin as an answer.

“Sidney and I have our own secret,” Cyrus said. “I'm very good at keeping secrets.”

“Hey, Bleu,” Jilly called over the din. “Great presentation on the school last night. One of these days, Guy and I will be wanting our kids to go there.”

A hoot swelled among the customers and Jilly glared at them. “When we're expecting, you folks will be among the last to know,” she said in a neutral tone of voice. Her meaning sank in and boos replaced hoots.

When the noise died down, Bleu said, “Thanks, Jilly. We've got a long way to go yet.”

It would be hard to miss the rumble of low voices that followed.

“Here you go, Father,” Sidney said, her face pink from the warm kitchen. On the plate she put in front of Cyrus were two large, golden-brown tarts.

“I'm a happy man,” Cyrus said. He closed his ever-changing blue-green eyes and breathed deeply. Then he picked up a tart and sank in his teeth, closing his eyes again as he chewed the first bite. After that, all restraint disappeared and he chomped through both pastries until nothing but crumbs remained on the plate.

“Oh-oh, I'm gonna get to heaven,” Sidney sang, “on a marzipan tart.” She left humming her ditty amid laughter on all sides.

Bleu peered at Cyrus's plate and said, “It's all right, Father Cyrus, I didn't really want a bite of one of your tarts.”

“Good,” he said.

More coffees arrived, soon followed by their meals.

Before they could do more than take a few bites, the door opened hard and Ozaire Dupre, Lil's husband and the caretaker at St. Cecil's, made a wild-eyed entrance.
His bald head shone when he turned from side to side. He raised his thick arms like wings, obviously searching for someone.

Lil said, “There's a chair for you here, Ozaire,” and pulled one out.

He ignored her, but his round chin jutted when he saw Cyrus, and he pushed his way past complaining people to reach the table.

“Good morning, Ozaire,” Roche said, but the man focused only on the priest.

“Father,” he said, panting for breath. “You can't have heard. Lordy, lordy, we've got the devil unleashed on us.”

“Sit down,” Cyrus told him.

Already an intense silence had blanketed the place.

Ozaire remained standing. He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in his denim overalls and swabbed his face and scalp, the back of his neck.

“Have a seat,” Roche said. “I know you'd rather have a quiet chat about what's on your mind.”

“Jim Zachary's dead,” Ozaire all but shouted. “Stabbed through his neck, all the way through. In the church. And that pamphlet we all got about not wanting the new school—stuck in his mouth.”

Roche actually saw Cyrus give up on the situation.

Shocked exclamations burst out, and people stood up.

“It'll be okay,” Bleu said loudly. She sensed the glances coming her way. “Spike and his department are already on it.”

“There's no mystery to be solved?” Ozaire said. “This ain't nothin' to do with more buildin' at St. Cecil's. That's just a red herring. We all know Kate Harper is the one who'd want Jim dead.”

Later the same morning

A
priest must expect to be tested.
Cyrus didn't smile at his own small sarcasm. Priest-testing had been getting heavy around here.

After he got to St. Cecil's, he went into the rectory by the kitchen door at the back of the house. He had hoped to get inside without talking to anyone, but Lil, who must have rushed to get back from town before him, stood at one of the old-fashioned marble counters, punching down bread dough.

As soon as she saw him, she picked up a dish towel and came toward him, rubbing her flour-covered hands and arms. “Don't be angry with him, Father,” she said. “Him, he was upset about Jim Zachary and he didn't think what he was sayin'.”

“Yes,” was all Cyrus could think of to say.

“Ozaire and me, we value working here.”

It wasn't always quite true but Cyrus said, “I value both of you.”

Lil's shoulders dropped a couple of inches and she smiled tentatively. Her new “do,” a reddish-brown dye job on short hair combed upward all around, reminded Cyrus of Peter Pan. Even the top of the hair stood up.

“This couldn't have happened to Jim because of the school,” Lil said. “Some people really don't want it, but I can't think of a one who'd do something like this to Jim.”

“Neither can I.”

“There's a lot of older folk who resent the school idea. They want a big activity center that's mainly for them. They've wanted it for years.”

And so had Lil and Ozaire, but Cyrus didn't mention the obvious. Ozaire in particular had wanted the site of the old schoolhouse, burned out many years before Cyrus arrived in Toussaint, replaced by a multipurpose building where he could open a gym—paying rent to the church, of course.

“Lil,” Cyrus said quietly, “Bleu is the person to talk to about space and cost. She's already mentioned the possibility of both a school and another facility. We all know the parish hall is too small.”

“Too small for anything,” Lil muttered. “Not even big enough for a good bingo game.”

“I think it manages the bingo games just fine,” he said, so tired that he longed to put his head down.

“What will they do to Kate Harper then? Put her in jail, I suppose.” Lil didn't look pleased at the thought. Kate was one who always showed for bingo.

“The less said on that subject, the better,” Cyrus said incredulously. “I can't imagine where Ozaire got such a wild notion. And I don't expect you to mention it again,
Lil. This is a police matter, of course. They're the ones who'll find the murderer.”

“Plenty of folks know Kate Harper took advantage of Jim,” Lil said, the color in her face rising. “He paid for everything—”

“You don't know that,” Cyrus said.

“Everyone does. They all know Jim paid off Kate's mortgage. Her husband didn't have anything to leave her. Jim did.”

He wanted to walk away and not hear what Lil was going to suggest next. “Okay, what are you saying?” Best get this over with.

Shrugging, with tears suddenly spilling over, she said, “I don't want to talk bad about anyone, but sometimes Kate said things about Jim. She'd call him ‘set in his ways.' He was in a rut, and she couldn't make him get out of it. She…Kate wanted to go dancing and have some fun—that's what she told me. I used to tell her she should be past that.” She paused, cleared her throat. “Kate said she had plenty of dancin' time left and she might just have to find herself a younger man to be her partner.”

He waited.

Lil wiped at her tears with the back of one arm, and left patches of white flour on her cheeks. “Now I've started, I better finish. Jim had plenty. No family, everything come to him after his mother died, and a good job in the surveyor's office all those years. And he left everything to Kate.”

And so he had the story according to Toussaint's amateur sleuths. “How did Kate kill Jim?”

A fresh torrent of tears made Lil's words unintelligible. With her apron held over her face, she wept.

As much as he wanted to, Cyrus didn't comfort Lil.

She blotted her cheeks and looked at him with red and swollen eyes. “I don't know,” she said in a tiny voice.

“You do know how he died?”

“He was stabbed,” she said.

“Where? The details?”

Lil shook her head. “In his back, I suppose. Oh, I don't know where.”

“No,” Cyrus said. “You don't. But Kate Harper couldn't have done it. I saw what had happened, and it would have taken a lot of strength. Kate is a small woman—and not strong.”

“Ozaire said either she did it herself, or she could have paid someone else to do it.”

Patience, already stretched thin, snapped for Cyrus. This enraged him. A crazy man, someone very powerful, had driven the knife through Jim's neck and left a hole in the pew where the blade had been hacked downward with such force.

“Father?” Lil said tentatively.

He looked through the windows toward the white church. Official vehicles clogged the driveway normally used only for funeral cars or utility vehicles. The ends of the yellow crime-scene tape that stretched across the entrances to the church, fluttered like ribbons. The day was becoming cloudless—perfect, even if there was thick moisture in the air—yet a sickening and heavy pall dulled the scene before his eyes.

“Don't you worry, Father.” Lil's hand on his arm surprised him. “The truth will come out. The good Lord will help us get through.” She sighed. “Poor Jim Zachary. Just yesterday I talked to him.”

“This is difficult for all of us,” Cyrus said. “Take some time off today if you need to, Lil. But don't get drawn into
any speculation about Kate Harper. I thought she was a friend of yours.”

“She is.” Repeated sniffs made Cyrus feel very sorry for Lil. “Ozaire said it was—”

“It's all right,” he said, rubbing her left arm. “We've all got to do anything we can to make sure the murderer is brought to justice. We won't help if we point fingers and confuse everything.”

“Yes, Father,” she said.

Cyrus smiled at her, but felt uneasy. He'd hear more of Ozaire's theory about Kate Harper.

He continued through the kitchen and into the corridor. The dark wainscot that reached halfway up the walls was as old as the house, and it shone from regular polishing.

Cyrus loved this rectory.

But he detested the confused, angry, vengeful thoughts that gripped his mind like the rapid run of waves on the shore. The moment he thought they had gone away, back they rushed to swamp him again.

There was no peace left for him in Toussaint, and his difficulties only increased. He couldn't quit when the need for him here was so great, but he had been tempted to ask for reassignment.

If he did that, what would he gain? The only answer that came to him was, regret.

Halfway along the corridor, he heard voices. A man
and Madge.
Cyrus paused. He crossed his arms and looked at his shoes.

Nothing they said was clear. He was grateful for that. How had he sunk to listening to his assistant's conversations—or trying to? Cyrus knew the answer. Madge had given him too many good years of her life, and recently, when he'd been deeply shaken by the strength of their
friendship, he had pushed her to start dating. Now, each time he saw her with a man, even a man who was a stranger, he could barely restrain himself from whisking her away.

He leaned against the wall and tipped his face up to the ceiling. Tears? Tears stung his eyes as if he was some moonstruck kid who didn't get the girl. When had he started allowing himself to question his calling?

No, he didn't question that, but he would be a liar if he didn't admit that he was a man with two passions, each of which deserved all of him: the Church, and Madge Pollard.

A door opened and a man said, “I don't want you getting upset, Madge. I'll take you back to Rosebank tonight, and we'll have dinner. This is all too much for you.”

Cyrus shrugged away from the wall. His throat felt closed and he heard the pounding of his blood in his ears. Forcing himself to move, he carried on toward his office. Madge's was next door and Sam Bush, the parish accountant, stood partly out of her room, but with his head inside. Above-average height and well-built, his relaxed posture and easy manner underscored his self-confidence.

Cyrus hesitated again. He couldn't just go into his office and shut the door without saying a word to Sam or Madge.

Sam Bush wasn't Cyrus's choice for Madge, not that the choice would ever be his. The man's wife, Betty, had left him without any sign that she was unhappy, or so Sam insisted. He'd been alone for a year and recently he leased a long-stay apartment at Rosebank, the resort where Sheriff Spike Devol and his wife ran a destination resort and rented suites of rooms. Madge had rooms in the same
building, and until Sam moved in, Cyrus had felt good about her being there.

Recently, there had been talk about Sam looking into a way to be officially single again. Joe Gable, Jilly Gautreaux's brother and the town's lawyer, knew what was going on, but Joe would never reveal even a hint of a client's business.

Sig Smith was the man Cyrus was encouraging for Madge. A psychologist, he was a thoughtful, intellectual type who worked for Roche Savage and seemed as if he could be right for Madge.

“Okay,” Sam said into Madge's office. “So Vivian Devol would come and pick you up in your car if it's fixed today. It probably won't be. I'll check in with you later anyway. It would be easier for me to give you a lift. We're going to the same place. Either way, we'll have dinner.”

Cyrus didn't hear Madge say anything to that.

Sam hadn't taken long to get over the loss of his wife and start looking elsewhere. Cyrus remembered Betty Bush, a vivacious and pretty woman. Why would she disappear like that when she seemed happy in her marriage? What made Sam think he could have her declared dead so soon—if that's what he was trying to do—unless he knew something he wasn't talking about?

Grim, annoyed with his runaway speculation, Cyrus approached Madge's office. “Hey there, Sam,” he said, moving briskly. “Have you finished with us for today?”

“Hey, Father,” Sam said, straightening up and turning serious gray eyes on Cyrus. “Yes, all finished. I've got plenty waiting for me at the office, though.”

Cyrus indicated that he was going into Madge's room and Sam released the door.

“Is Madge's car playing up?” Cyrus asked Sam, passing him. “Don't worry about it. I'll make sure she gets back if necessary.”

He nodded at the man, and smiled until Sam shrugged and walked away without a word of argument. He headed toward the kitchens and eventually left the house by the back door. It slammed, and Cyrus was left to think about what he would say to Madge.

“Good accountant, Sam Bush,” he said, turning to look at her. “Are you still pleased with him?”

She sat behind her desk, elbows resting on the shiny top. Her hands propped her chin, but her dark eyes stared into his. There was no need for words; she understood him and saw through any clever maneuver he tried to pull off.

He shut the door and sat down carefully in Madge's favorite striped easy chair. Immediately, Millie, Madge's black-and-white papillon, ran from beneath the desk and leaped onto his knees. He stroked her absently. Often the tiny dog and her silky fur could relax him, but not today.

Seconds passed, and he couldn't look away from Madge. “What are you thinking?” he finally asked.

When she was happy, her eyes were warm and bright. When she was sad, they still shone, but the light turned distant—it was distant now.

“Madge? Say something, please.”

“Sam's just a friend.”

He felt embarrassed by his own behavior. “I know that. Would he like to be more, do you think?”

“Would you approve of that?”

She was backing him into the kind of corner he was trying so hard to avoid. “If he's what you want, of course I do. You wouldn't pick him if he wasn't a good man,” Cyrus said.

“I would always try to choose good people as friends. Sam's a decent man. He would like to be more than a friend to me.”

Cyrus shifted. He breathed harder. Millie got up, made a perilously fast turn on his thighs, and plopped down again.

Madge smiled. “She doesn't appreciate tension, that girl. You're tense.”

“And you're not?” he snapped back and wished he hadn't. “Forget it. I don't have any right to ask that. And I shouldn't be interfering in your private life.”

She rubbed her brow. “What's happened to us?” she said. “Every time we're together and we're not working on something, we start digging at each other.”

“No,” he said and laughed. “We're just having a bad day and there will be more of the same. Until they catch whoever killed Jim, there won't be any peace for anyone in Toussaint.”