Dead End (16 page)

“Just one thing,” Wally said urgently. “If they ask about my bike, please don’t say anything.”

There wasn’t time to tell Wally that Cyrus didn’t know anything about the bike before Doll and Gator descended. Doll pulled her son against her and glared at Cyrus. “You’re alienating our boy from us,” she said on a hiss. “That’s going to stop, right, Gator?”

Her husband coughed and didn’t manage a word.

“You’re coming home now. Jilly will drive us—you’ll have to pick up your bike tomorrow.”

Wally took off, half-dragging his mother with him. His father and the Gables followed, but Jilly popped to Cyrus and said, “This is nothing to do with you. You’re good to Wally. But it might be for the best if you persuaded him to patch things up with Doll and Gator.”

Cyrus was grateful for the hubbub that drowned out most distinct conversation. Madge said, “Let it go for now. Let’s follow Marc.”

Marc had opened the door from the kitchen into the yard, and he disappeared outside.

Cyrus made to follow him, and Madge said, “I hope your nerves are ready for this. Maybe you’re not ready to go out there yet.”

“Make sure everyone gets something to drink before they leave,” he said, and went outside.

Instead of following orders, Madge was right behind him. “They haven’t done anything to earn drinks,” she said. “It’s you I feel sorry for. You’re the one who’ll need a drink, and iced tea won’t do it.”

His stomach crunched one more time before he reached Marc’s side and froze.

“Lil stopped by a while ago and went into the kitchen,” Madge said. “I was in the office, but she was alone back there.” She indicated the windows.

“Ooh, ya-ya,” Marc said and folded his arms. The rain had eased, but the gathered party, hair plastered to heads, licked water from their lips and wiped at their eyes.

Cyrus couldn’t find his voice, or couldn’t make it work.

Ranged on the lawn where it would be visible to all who came or went from St. Cecil’s was a six-foot-tall bronze sculpture resembling a two-dimensional line of paper-doll cutouts. And Lil hadn’t been wrong. They struck prancing poses, and their jagged teeth, open in jack-o’-lantern rictus were indeed red—painted that way. The horns Lil spoke of adorned three of the five heads but were most likely intended to depict flipping ponytails.

Reb joined them and muttered, “Oh dear.”

Temporarily placed spotlights illuminated the work of art.

Madge held Cyrus’s arm and said, “There’s a plaque. I didn’t notice it before.”

They went closer and crouched to read: “Joy! Primitive form by Jonas Running High. Gift to St. Cecil’s from a grateful parishioner.” This cheery message was set in the top of a partially sunken concrete base.

“Will you look at that.” William, together with a swelling crowd of Toussaint’s residents, had ventured closer. “They’s little letters, them. Humble. Just like you always tellin’ we to be, Father.”

The “humble” letters announced: ORIBEL SCULLY.

Cyrus and Madge looked at each other, and when he could speak, Cyrus croaked, “They’re fu…” The sound of his own voice astounded him. “They’re ugly. Pagan.”

“They’re the Fuglies,” Reb sputtered.

Marc added, “Cyrus is right, they’re fucking ugly.”

After they’d left the rectory, Marc realized that what had happened there wasn’t all funny. “I’ll see you inside,” he said to Reb as they arrived in Conch Street.

She held a sleeping Gaston on her lap. “I appreciate the thought,” she said. “There’s no need.”

“I’d appreciate a thought from you,” he told her. “How am I supposed to get any sleep if I’m not sure you’re safe?”

“I’ve been keeping myself safe for a long time,” she said, gathering the dog in her arms. “I mean, thank you, but I’m not your concern. Not that I think there’s anything to be concerned about.”

“Okay. We’ll revisit that.”

“Great.” She reached for the handle.

“In about five minutes,” he told her. “Or as soon as you give me your impression of what we saw tonight.”

Reb kept her fingers on the car door handle and looked at him over her shoulder. He could only see her eyes and the upper half of her face.

“Well?” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re really asking, but that thing shouldn’t have been set on the lawn—in concrete—without Cyrus being consulted. It’s inappropriate, and the money could have been spent on things that are really needed. But Cyrus has got a dilemma, because he won’t want to hurt Oribel’s feelings when she’s probably gone into debt to give something special to the parish.”

In his business, Marc dealt with art enough to know that the primitive piece was probably worth a goodly sum. “In the end he’ll have to do what the majority of his parishioners want. Oribel should have sought advice first. Putting the thing where it is and pulling off a surprise like that couldn’t have been easy. The concrete isn’t completely set, but it’s close. That isn’t what I was talking about, though, Reb. Cyrus and Madge have…they have feelings for one another.” He waited for her to get mad.

“I know that,” Reb said, and her expression was worried. “They make me sad because nothing will ever come of it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” she said, her brows pulled together. “A committed priest, which Cyrus is, doesn’t turn his back on his vocation—on his vows. And Madge won’t allow herself to be more than his friend. I doubt if Cyrus is fully aware of how he feels.”

“Crazy,” he said. Also not something he could do anything about even if he wanted to. “One more quick topic, then we’ll go in.”

Reb shook her head and looked weary.

“Bear with me. Tell me about the first two murders.”

“A quick topic?” She settled Gaston on her lap once more, pulled her heels onto the seat and wrapped her skirts around her legs. More of her damp hair fell to her shoulders than remained pulled on top of her head. “It’s complicated. Or bizarre would be a better description. And I don’t know why you want to know.”

“Of course I do,” he said. “I’ve got to look for any similarities between those deaths and Amy’s.”

“The coroner did the autopsies.” Reb rested her forehead on her knees and said, “But I read the reports, and there were absolutely no similarities between Bonnie’s accident and the two murders. Nothing, Marc. Not a single thing except all three women ended up dead.”

He couldn’t tell if she really didn’t believe Amy had been the one to die, or if she wouldn’t consider the possibility. “Isn’t it possible some of the common elements were missed?”

“No.” She shook her head. “My opinions were way down the list anyway, but the murders were carbon copies. The third death was different. If you’re really interested in the macabre, you can get more information from public records.”

He took the wide neck of her dress between finger and thumb and ran them back and forth over the silky stuff. Her skin was cool. “I want you to tell me,” he said. “The closer to the chest I hold my cards, the better.”

“I don’t get it. What makes you think you’ll feel better if you get to go through all that terrible stuff?” The clinical distance left her voice. “I wish you wouldn’t. It won’t help, but it’ll hurt. Hard as we try, most of us are changed by each tragedy we deal with. My prayer is that Amy will get in touch with you.”

How soft she was. He shifted his fingers a little lower and tensed for her to slap him away, but she didn’t. Instead she rested her head back and closed her eyes.

“Tell me about it—please,” he asked her quietly and kept on stroking her. He sensed her mood matched his—she wanted to explore how they would be together—but he didn’t kid himself that she’d be amused if he started now.

“Around here they were called the Rubber Killer Murders,” she said, and he heard her swallow.

He almost laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not much of a kidder.”

Faint moonlight gleamed along her profile, and down the outline of her arched neck. He had never touched her—not really touched her. It would have been so easy when they were at Tulane. She had even offered a clumsy invitation for him to spend the night with her. At least he’d had the sense, and the decency, to stay away from her after that.

“Both women talked about feeling watched.” She swallowed again, and his own spine tensed. “So did May Lynn. In each case they’d gone so far as to report being frightened.”

And now Reb was being watched—and she was frightened.

“The first one, Carla Jennings, hadn’t been back in Toussaint long. She’d been in New York. She wanted a serious acting career, but she ran into problems. Got in with the wrong people. There was a baby involved, but she didn’t bring the child here.”

So far nothing sounded similar to Amy’s background.

“Louise Simmonds died about two months after Carla. Two and a half. She’d always lived in Toussaint. Her family blamed her for her own divorce, and she was needy, lonely. She’d married while she was in high school and never worked. A sad woman.”

Not a thing to link any of the deaths as far as Marc could see. “What about May Lynn?”

“Her last name is Charpentier. She’s got a beauty shop on the west side of town. A boyfriend came on the scene last year. They’re going to be married, and she seems very happy. But she was pretty much alone before. She involved herself with the church choir and 4H projects with kids. I like her, but I’m not sure she isn’t holding back valuable information.”

He played with her hair. Through the slightly open windows of the Range Rover came the sound of earth absorbing water, and the frogs were at full throat. “What makes you think she’s got information?”

“Just a feeling.” She rolled her face toward him. “A lot of details about the murders aren’t common knowledge. It’s pretty much routine for the police to keep important aspects quiet. They don’t want to tip the criminal’s hand or set off copycats.”

Marc craved kissing her again. How right were those who said a man’s head and his sex drive rarely made one another’s acquaintance. “But the guy involved in the first three is behind bars.”

Reb’s discomfort showed. She sat up and braced her weight on her arms. “Cyrus knows what I think. So does Madge. We keep trying to figure out what to do. We don’t have a clue to offer the law. We have filed our concerns, but that’s all they are, concerns. We don’t believe the man who got put in jail had anything to do with the two killings. Nothing was proved. But Pepper Leach is behind bars for the incident with May Lynn, and everyone—almost everyone—seems happy to condemn him for the deaths because that means they can pretend to feel safe.”

She had his entire attention. “You didn’t mention this before.”

“You’ve been here a few days. You and I haven’t seen each other, or spoken in years. Why would I spill all this the moment I saw you?”

“You think this
Rubber Killer
is still on the loose?”

She nodded. “Yes. And I think he’s aware that I do. Which means I’m dangerous to his freedom—or he believes I am. I’m a long way from being a danger, although I intend to get there.”

“Telling you to keep your nose out of it won’t do any good. I will tell you I’m involved now. You and I are going to be good at three-legged races, cher.”

“Marc, you mean well, but you aren’t my father, husband, or brother. I don’t have any of those. If it turns out you have a good idea, throw it in the pot, friend. That’s the best any one of us can do.”

“If you and Cyrus came up with this—and Madge—why isn’t the law crawling all over? A man’s in prison and y’all think he shouldn’t be there? That’s wild.”

“I didn’t say I’m sure he shouldn’t be in prison, only that I don’t think he’s the killer. I’ve already said too much,” Reb told him, but she smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Habit, I’m thinking. We aren’t ignoring what’s going on. And I don’t know what the Sheriff’s Department is thinking. Spike Devol isn’t about to tell me. My take is that Pepper’s keeping quiet in return for something I haven’t been told about.”

“He should be free.”

“If he’s free, R.K. knows his cover has gone away. We don’t want to set him off again.”

“R.K. Why Rubber Killer?” He almost dreaded the answer.

“He never touched them with any part of his body, not directly. From what the medical examiner and forensics could determine, the murderer probably wore the equivalent of a wetsuit—and used a condom. DNA testing was out. The victims were hit over the head and about the face many times with a blunt object, raped and strangled—and hit some more.”

Her clinical recitation, almost devoid of emotion, reminded him forcefully that she wasn’t the teenager he’d sweated over and dreamed about at Tulane. “But the Charpentier woman saw him and got away.”

“Exactly. And hard to swallow maybe? If you went to the trouble to completely cover yourself, wouldn’t you cover your face, too?”

He thought about it. “Yes.”

“She insisted she saw his face when she managed to twist away, then she picked a man out of a lineup. They never found any of his paraphernalia. But Pepper didn’t put up a fight. He’s a painter who was starting to make a little headway. Quiet. His behavior from the time the law knocked on his door amazes me.”

Only one thing yelled at Marc. If Reb was right, the murderer was still out there, and he was following her around. “Could someone else know what you think?”

“Cyrus and Madge, of course, but anything’s possible. As I keep saying, this is a small place. The condom was talked about by the police, but not the really weird part of the sexual assaults. Damage was done to the victims. I’ve seen that kind of thing in women who try to abort. Usually the result of inserting foreign bodies into the vagina. I’m not the only one who believes just raping wasn’t enough for him, he wanted to punish and punish, and he used other things to accomplish that. And the investigation is still wide open, you can bet on that.”

“Reb—”

“I absolutely should not be telling you about this. For some reason you still feel like the one I confided in when I was a kid. It feels safe to talk to you. I hope I’m not wrong.”

Since when had it taken so little to make him feel so good? “I would never hurt you, Reb. Never. Anything you say to me might as well be told to a dead man.”