Still Waters (12 page)

“We're not going to the courthouse. I have to stop at the Jarvis place first. Helen Jarvis called in to say someone trashed their mailbox last night.”

“No fooling?” She sobered and shifted sideways on the seat. “The killer adding insult to injury?”

“Seems pretty juvenile.”

“I don't think our prison system is overflowing with psychologically mature men.”

He hit the blinker again and turned left, easing the Bronco to a stop in front of a glorified split-foyer house that had been overdressed with a row of fake Doric columns along the front. It had the look of a low-rent Tara, complete with a little grinning black-jockey hitching post standing beside the front step, as if Ashley Wilkes might actually ride up, tie his horse to it, and stay to chat about The War. Pink plastic flamingos lurked in the juniper bushes, their long necks bent at unnatural angles. Smack in the middle of the front yard, amid a riotous patch of pink petunias, stood an enormous carved stone fountain that would have looked more at home in Versailles.

At the end of the curving drive, the mailbox—encased in white imitation wrought-iron filigree—was in a sad state. It stood crumpled over sideways, like a skinny kid who'd had the wind knocked out of him by the class bully. The frame was twisted and scabs of paint were missing in a manner that suggested someone had tried to beat it to death with a tire iron.

The complete picture of Jarrold Jarvis's home had a weird, incongruous, surreal quality about it that made Elizabeth shiver in distaste. If the king and queen of tacky had needed a palace, she thought, this would have been it.

“Christ in a miniskirt,” she muttered, leaning ahead. “I'll bet you a nickel they've got a black velvet painting of Elvis hanging over the imitation Louis XIV settee.”

“You lose.” Dane pulled the keys from the ignition and palmed them, flashing her a wry grin. “It's a bull-fighter. Wait here.”

“Wait here!” Elizabeth wailed.

He slammed his door on the rest of her indignant protest and started for the house. Elizabeth scrambled down out of the truck, pushing her sunglasses up on her nose and hitching her purse strap over her shoulder. If he thought she was going to stay in the car like some recalcitrant child and miss out on meeting the bereaved Mrs. Jarvis, he had another think coming. In the first place, that she offer her condolences was only decent. In the second place, she wanted to see what kind of woman had married a pig like Jarrold. Then there was the matter of her job.

She took one step toward the house, and Dane wheeled on her with a look that could have frozen molten lava. It stopped her in her tracks, discretion, for once, winning out over impulse. She shrugged and showed him a big, phony smile.

“Just stretching my legs,” she said meekly.

Dane snarled a little under his breath, backing toward the house until he was certain she wasn't going to follow him. He couldn't think of many more distasteful things than facing a new widow with a reporter in tow. God only knew what the amazing Miss Stuart might come up with—
I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Jarvis. By the way, did your husband sleep around or anything? Just for the record. The public has a right to know
.

Helen Toller Jarvis met him at the front door with a cherry Jell-O mold in hand. Short and moon-faced, she looked to be near fifty and was hardened rather than well preserved, as if the layer of plumpness under her skin had solidified into something more dense than fat. Her face was stretched unnaturally taut, the result of being the only recipient of a face-lift in all of Still Creek.

She was dry-eyed and pale, her skin looking waxy beneath a layer of makeup that had been applied with a lavish hand. Two shades of blue shadow arched over her eyes in a monochromatic rainbow that went to her brow line. Rouge dotted her cheeks in spots of hectic red. Her hair, dyed a shade of peach that brought to mind fiberglass insulation, rose up in a teased and sprayed cone, looking impervious to any disaster—natural or man-made. Tragedy might drive Helen to her knees, but her beehive would survive.

A low buzz of activity sounded in the house behind her. News of Jarrold's death had hit the grapevine, and the women of Still Creek had begun to arrive with food in hand to offer comfort and shore up the grieving with tuna casserole and applesauce cake.

“Dane,” she said, the corners of her lips flicking up in an automatic smile. “I thought you might be another woman from the church. We have enough Jell-O to last the year already. Mavis Grimsrud brought this one.”

She lifted the jiggling red mass to give him a better look. It was molded in the shape of a fish with bulging maraschino cherry eyes and fruit cocktail innards showing through the transparent sides. Dane tucked his chin and clenched his teeth against a grimace.

“I don't know why people think we need Jell-O when someone dies,” Helen said, her piping voice hovering somewhere between chipper and shrill. She looked up at him, her eyes a little glazed from shock or tranquilizers, over-plucked brows tugging together like a pair of thin question marks. “Why do you think that is, Dane?”

“I—a—” He shrugged, at a loss. He had expected her to have questions about Jarrold, the case, the senselessness of murder. Jell-O was out of his realm.

“I suppose everyone has a box in their cupboard,” she mused absently. She balanced the plate on one forearm and picked at a cherry eye with a long coral fingernail. “If you know that trick with ice cubes, you can have it ready in a flash. Now, a hot dish, that's something else. Arnetta McBaine brought one by made with Tater Tots. She told me once she keeps a casserole in her freezer for emergencies.”

Dane drew in a long, patient breath. “Helen, how are you doing? Do you need anything?”

She snapped out of her fog with a half-laugh of embarrassment. “I'm fine,” she said, her voice fluttering like Glinda the Good Witch from the
Wizard of Oz
. Her lips tightened against her teeth and her eyes squinted into nothingness. “Jarrold is the one not doing too well. And my mailbox. My poor mailbox isn't well at all.”

“I know. Lorraine told me you'd called. I thought I'd drop by myself—”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Jarvis. I just wanted to offer my condolences.”

Dane jerked around, eyes blazing. Elizabeth stepped past him on the stoop and offered her hand to the Widow Jarvis.

Helen's wispy brows scaled her forehead again. “I'm sorry,” she chirped. “Do I know you?”

“No, and I'm terribly sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. I'm Elizabeth Stuart.”

“Elizabeth—?”

For an instant Helen Jarvis went still while the cogs of her brain slipped into gear. The lull before the storm. Elizabeth saw the sudden flash of recognition, then fury in the woman's tiny eyes, the rise of natural color beneath the clown dots of rouge on her cheeks. She pulled her hand back and braced herself for she knew not what.

“You're that woman,” Helen said, her voice suddenly so low and rough, she sounded like the devil talking through Linda Blair in
The Exorcist
. Elizabeth took a cautious step back, the short hairs rising on the back of her neck. “You're that
southern
woman.” She hissed the word as if it were one of the foulest in her vocabulary.

“I'm from Texas, actually,” Elizabeth said weakly.

Helen edged out onto the step, a wild sound rumbling in her throat like a poodle growling. Her body was rigid and trembling visibly, her face flushing red as rage bubbled up inside her. If a human could have imitated a volcano about to blow, Elizabeth figured this was about what it would look like, right down to the fiery cone of hair thrusting up from the top of her head. It was a frightening thing to behold, and she could only stand and watch, like a deer caught in headlights, too flabbergasted to think of anything else.

“You bitch!” Helen exploded, fury blasting out of her in waves. “How dare you come to this house! How dare you!”

Before Elizabeth could draw breath to answer, the Jell-O mold came flying at her. The plate dropped away en route, like a booster off a rocket, and shattered on the concrete of the terrace. The gelatin bass kept coming. It hit her square in the chest and burst like an overripe melon, spewing fruit cocktail and shards of Jell-O in all directions. Elizabeth fell back with a gasp of astonishment, arms spread wide as if she'd been shot.

Dane snarled a curse under his breath as globs of red goo pelted his clean shirt. He grabbed Helen by her rigid shoulders and turned her back toward the house.

The doorway was suddenly overflowing, ladies from Our Savior's Lutheran Church spilling out onto the terrace, their faces frozen in various expressions of horror and excitement according to their personal bent. Mavis Grimsrud, who bore a notable resemblance to Ma Kettle, let out a shriek at the sight of Elizabeth, though whether it was concern for Elizabeth or for her own dismembered Jell-O masterpiece was difficult to tell.

“Grandma Schummacher's plate!” she wailed as her gaze fell to the terrace. She hitched up her cotton housedress to her knees in one meaty fist and squatted down to pick up the slivers of china.

Dane herded Helen around her, singling out Kathleen Gunderson with his gaze. “Kathleen, take Helen inside and see that she lays down.”

“Lie down,” Helen growled, digging her heels in every step of the way into the foyer. “Talk to that slut about lying down.”

Kathleen, a dainty woman Helen's own age, took a firm hold of her friend's arm and dragged her another step into the house, her mouth tightening with disapproval. “Helen, for heaven's sake, there's no need to air that dirty laundry now.”

“Dirty laundry! I gave her some dirty laundry!” Helen's shrill little-girl voice ended in a squeak and giggling uncontrollably she went off into the nether reaches of the house with Kathleen.

“Judas H.,” Dane muttered. He turned and pinned Edith Truman with a look.

She raised a hand, needing no order. “I'll go call Doc.”

The rest of the women lingered around the doorway, eyes on Elizabeth. No one rushed out to console her or to help her brush the mess off her clothes. Not one voice was raised in inquiry or sympathy or explanation. They stood up against the side of the Jarvis home as if they were guarding the portal against a foreign invasion, their gazes ranging from carefully blank to wary to accusatory.

Elizabeth stood just off the terrace, staring back at them, reading their expressions. The faces were new, but the sentiment etched there was no different from what she'd seen on the faces of the Atlanta Junior League ladies the day news of her impending divorce had hit the grapevine. She was an outsider. She was unwelcome here. Separation stretched like an invisible gulf between them, yawning wide, with no one willing to reach across to her. She was alone.

The feeling was nothing new, but somehow it managed to hit her with an unexpected amount of hurt. Being snubbed by Atlanta's upper crust when Brock's propaganda campaign against her had been at its peak hadn't broken her. But standing here next to Jarrold Jarvis's lawn jockey with cherry Jell-O dripping down her and the venerable matrons of Our Savior's Lutheran Church looking down their noses at her had tears crowding her throat.

“Why don't you ladies go in and make some coffee,” Dane suggested.

He held Mavis's elbow as she hefted herself up, the final remains of Grandma Schummacher's plate crunching under her orthopedic shoes. Great, he thought, as if the town wasn't already buzzing with news of the murder; now there would be this tale to tell and retell. How “that southern woman” made poor Helen Jarvis lose her mind.

As the last of the church ladies went into the house and the door swung shut behind them, Dane wheeled around. “Dammit, I told you to wait—”

The rest of his diatribe jammed in his throat. Elizabeth was standing there in her faded jeans and college T-shirt, scraping red Jell-O off herself, blinking back tears. Tears. Shit. He could take her tantrums and tirades. Her tart tongue kept her just where he wanted her—at arm's length. But tears. He hadn't expected tears, had never been sure what to do about them. Something suspiciously like tenderness sprang unexpectedly to life inside him, and he winced as if it were a thorn.

“Well,” she said on a shaky breath, trying to force one of her cocky grins. “So much for paying my respects.”

One fat crystalline drop rolled over her lashes onto her cheek. She swiped at it angrily, leaving a globby smear of gelatin. Dane swore under his breath. He stepped off the terrace, pulling an immaculate white handkerchief from his hip pocket.

“You really bring out the best in people,” he grumbled, rubbing at the mess on her cheek, focusing on the task instead of on the almost overwhelming desire to take her in his arms and hold her. Soft. He was going soft in his old age.

Elizabeth almost managed to chuckle. He had meant it facetiously, of course. Hadn't given a thought to the fact that he was actually being nice to her for once in his accursed life, she was sure. But he was. There was sympathy in his eyes behind the annoyance, and he had positioned himself between her and the house, shielding her from view of anyone peering out between the Levolors.

“Could you rub a little harder?” she asked as he mushed her cheek up against the side of her nose. “I've never been partial to having skin there, and I think you've about got it scraped right off.”

Dane scowled at her but gentled his touch.

“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching up to take the handkerchief from him. “I'll get the rest, if you don't mind.”

The rest was on her chest. The idea of letting his hand drift down to touch her breasts wafted through her mind as she looked up at him, as her fingertips bumped against his on her cheek. Just a quick vignette of involuntary fantasy, a fleeting image of those long, elegant fingers brushing against her.

Dane glanced down at the globules of Jell-O clinging to the upper slopes of her breasts. His mind raced ahead to imagine what it might be like if she were naked and he were to gently rub those cool, glittering bits of sweetness over her skin, then lean down and let his mouth follow the trail. . . . Heat drifted through him, the core of it curling like a fist in the pit of his belly.