Dead End (12 page)

His gut burned and acid rose in his throat. “What do Girard’s concerns have to do with me?”

Precious stood up so suddenly, he flinched and stepped backward. She kept on coming and stood close enough for him to smell gin on her breath and to feel the heat of her body. He recovered and held his ground.

She kept her eyes on his. “Marc Girard doesn’t think there ever was a Bonnie Blue. He thinks the woman who died was his sister Amy.”

Chauncey swallowed a mouthful of acid.

Precious layered herself against him with her arms draped around his waist. He felt too sick to enjoy the moment.

“Don’t you have something to say?”

“Maybe,” he said, but knew his attempt to sound cool didn’t come off. “What would make Girard think a thing like that?”

“Descriptions fit.”

“Yeah? But it wasn’t Amy.”

“You know that. I know that. We’re it.”

She scared him. She’d forgotten one or two people who belonged on her list of people who already knew too much about the body. Her experience with things like this was nil, and there was so much at stake, she could put them both behind bars. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said, as reasonably as he could. “You haven’t forgotten that none of this must go anywhere but between the two of us?”

“Of course I know that.”

“You can’t tell your mother.”

Her mouth dropped open, then she laughed as if amazed. “I may be difficult on occasion, but I’m not mad. We’d both better hope she doesn’t find out or she’ll turn us in. No way is my mother going to cover for criminals, even if they are her kin.”

“We aren’t criminals. Sometimes you just have to look out after your own interests.”

“I’m not arguing that now. This is all your fault, but if you get out of it, it’ll be because I help you.”

“Help me, then.” The whining note in his voice didn’t embarrass him. “Quit stringin’ me along. Tell me what you’re thinkin’.”

“I’ve got someone you think is yours. I say she’s mine because she messed up my marriage before it ever had a chance. Your fault. You made a damn-fool wild move and stashed Amy Girard in
this
house. She came to talk to you because she’s sick crazy about you, and you turned the bitch into a prisoner. And you thought I’d just go along with it? Well I didn’t, and now
I
’
m
the one playin’ nursemaid to the woman my husband screwed before and during our marriage. You was still screwing her until a couple of months ago, for cryin’ out loud. What do you think I’m made of, ice?”

“I’ve told you I’m sorry a million times. You shouldn’t have interfered. I’d have dealt with her and sent her on her way by now.”

“Quit whining. The fact is that your whore can never be set free. Amy Girard would ruin every damn thing we’ve worked for. And Mama would give everythin’ she’s got to the Church.”

“Don’t keep saying that woman’s name aloud. Someone could walk in.”

“Not unless they’ve got keys, and if that greasy pet creep of yours does have keys—”

“He doesn’t.” Chauncey’s mind wouldn’t settle on one thing. No matter what spin Precious put on this, they were done for. There was no way out.

“We’re gonna be just fine,” she said. “Know what Mama heard Marc Girard say to Reb?”

“What?”

“The Gambles aren’t certain about Girard, and Doll and Gator wish he’d wake up and find out he croaked in the night. They say he’s just like his mean ol’ daddy—always wantin’ his own way and not givin’ up until he gets it.”

“I don’t give a shit about any of the small-timers. Just tell me what Girard said to Reb?”

She clasped her hands behind her neck and arched her back. “He’s goin’ to get that body exhumed. He won’t pay no mind to how a decent burial put that poor Bonnie at rest finally. Out of that grave he’ll have her dragged, so he can look her over.”

“Oh my God, no,” Chauncey said. He fell back into the chair. “That’s horrible.”

“Of course. Terrible.” Precious grinned while she said it. “No one knows where Amy is at the moment, and they don’t ever have to know.”

Chauncey’s eyes stung and he blinked. “I don’t follow you.” Girard knew about him and Amy. He could already be watching the house. He was probably out there now. Chauncey covered his face. He was going to have to run and leave almost everything behind.

“Damn it, Chauncey. Concentrate. You’re going to let me make all the decisions from now on. Girard thinks it’s Amy in that casket. Why not give him what he wants?”

She would never lose the power to shock him. “Bonnie’s in there,” he said.

“She doesn’t have to stay there.”

Chauncey stared at her. How right she was.

Precious bent over him, and he couldn’t even get interested in an eyeful of her boobs only inches from his nose. “I see you’re starting to understand me,” she said, and sat astride his thighs while she undid his pants. “We just gotta make sure that when the paperwork’s done and that grave’s opened, it
is
Amy they find so we can make Girard’s hunch comes true. We’re gettin’ a gift. The perfect murder. The perfect way to make everything right again. First you prepare the restin’ place no one’s ever going to take a second look at.”

“You want—”

Warm air moved by the overhead fan hit his exposed body.

“I want you to get rid of an unwanted guest of the parish.  Someone who ain’t never been looked for.”

That’s what he thought. “I need to concentrate, baby.” He pushed halfheartedly at her fingers. “That means you’re going to have to forget playin’ around for now.”

“This?” She flapped him back and forth. “Don’t read anythin’ into this. I’m just checkin’ it out.”

He did, Chauncey decided, hate her.

“All our troubles are about to be over, big man.”

“I think you’ve forgotten one or two points. Like a body that’s been…Bonnie Blue’s body’s in different condition from Amy’s.”

She let her head fall back and laughed aloud. “It is now. I wasn’t suggestin’ you were gonna bury Amy alive.”

“Damn you.” He pried her fingers loose. “Even if Amy had been dead two or three weeks it’d still be obvious the timing wasn’t right.”

Her grin disappeared. She slid down to kneel on the floor, bent over to take him in her mouth, and bit down so suddenly he yelled. But she didn’t bite hard enough to hurt, only to make sure she had his undivided attention. “All you have to think about now is making sure there’s a nice empty restin’ place waitin’ for your old friend. The minute you give me the word things are clear there, we’ll go to the next step. Givin’ her the same injuries as Bonnie won’t be a problem. Then there’s ways to make sure no one gets any ideas about someone playing who’s-got-the-real-body? My daddy wasn’t in the funeral business for nothin’. Never could understand why he gave it up to be a deacon. But he taught me plenty.

“You better get started figurin’ out where you’ll put Bonnie Blue. I got to go take care of things.” She snorted. “That Amy actually thinks I’m a saint. She thinks I’ve saved her from you and I’m gonna find a way to take her someplace where you can’t get to her.

“And I Guess that’s kinda what I am gonna do—except we might turn up another guest who needs the resting place more than she does.” She mounted him and put a hand over his mouth to contain his cry. “Could be we’re gonna need more than one space, but you could always stack ‘em.”

“Apologizing for kissing a woman isn’t a great idea.”

“Excuse me?” Marc said loudly.

Reb framed her mouth with her hands to make herself heard over the Swamp Doggies performing “Toussaint Nights”—with a lot of help on the lyrics from Pappy’s patrons. “I wish you’d drop the subject. I’m sorry you’re sorry you kissed me.” But she surely was not sorry he had.

The song ended, and she was convinced her last few words must have been heard by everyone in the smoky, low-ceilinged dance-and-eats hall.

Marc leaned across the table. “You needed comforting, cher. And I didn’t want you to really start cryin’.”

She rolled her eyes.

“No, no.” He held one of her hands, and she would not give satisfaction to the curious by pulling it away. “Reb, kissing you was worth the effort—”

She’d laugh if she didn’t want to let him suffer and stumble his way through his own discomfort.

“I don’t mean it was an effort,” he said, and his unforgettable eyes were deeply sincere. “I wanted to comfort you.”

“And keep me quiet.”

“That, too.”

She did laugh then, and she enjoyed the indistinct reddening along his cheekbones. Gaston, whom she’d smuggled in and put beneath the table, shifted between Reb’s ankles, and she prayed he wouldn’t decide to bark.

Trying to smother his own smile, Marc bent over her hand, turned it palm up. Reb didn’t have to look around to know they had their own gallery of listeners. Toussaint had suffered its share of bad news in recent years, but in general, not enough happened day to day to satisfy busy minds. Reb was aware that she and Marc must make an interesting spectacle for the locals.

“I liked kissing you,” Marc said without looking up. His nose was as straight as ever and up close, his eyebrows were as dark and flaring, his hair as curly and blue-black, but the smile lines at the corners of his eyes and beside his mouth were deeper. The kiss they were both thinking about had stunned her. If necessary she would remind Marc that they’d both clung, weak-kneed, to each other afterward.

She got a sideways glance and the faintest of grins from him. “You smell nice, cher, and you taste nice. And you feel nice, too.”

When she’d recovered enough, she said, “The set’s over. Keep your voice down.”

“I am. You make the mistake of thinking everyone’s interested in your business.”

“You, Mr. Girard, have a mean tongue.”

“Thank you.”

“I wasn’t talking about…ooh, you have not changed. You still think you’re God’s good gift to women.”

“Do I?” The look he gave her from beneath his brows turned her heart. There had always been something poignant in Marc. It didn’t show often, but it did now, and Reb’s resolve not to get close to him wobbled. Not that he was in Toussaint because of her, or that he would stay a moment longer than it took to get what he’d come for.

She smiled at him and sat straighter. “I could have insisted on you driving me home rather than coming here,” she told him.

“Yes, you could. But you didn’t want to.”

“
Marc—
”

“Sorry. That wasn’t cute. I’ll rephrase it. I was relieved when you didn’t ask me to take you home.”

She must not forget that he’d been a master of charm all his life. On the other hand, that charm had matured into something really…charming. “Thank you, Marc.”

“I don’t want you to be afraid,” he said. “We will not be passive about what has been happening to you. The law must become involved. And I know many people. Some of them could prove very helpful if we need them.”

“I’ve been thinking about what I told you.” The idea of “helpful people” unnerved her. She didn’t want to explore exactly what he might mean by that. “I think I’ve been too sensitive. All that happened before has made me touchy. What I intend to do is calm down and stop looking for goblins.”

With a long forefinger, he traced the lines on her palm, and tapped the finger on which she’d used a dressing. “Because you are touchy, you imagined glass in Gaston’s food?”

He would never allow her to be less than honest with herself. “If I want to put everything behind me and start over, is that so bad? I will improve security in Conch Street, but I will not continue to expect someone to jump out and grab me. And for all I know, the glass was in the bowl when I poured Gaston’s food in.”

“You don’t lie well.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m trying to mean what I say.”

“I can’t allow you to take these risks.”

“You won’t be able to stop me from doing anything I want to do…
Cyrus?
What’s Cyrus doing here?”

Marc followed the direction of her gaze to where Cyrus stood at the bar talking to Spike Devol. “A priest can’t have a drink?”

“That’s Spike Devol he’s with. Deputy Sheriff. Spike never comes in here, either—unless there’s trouble or he’s lookin’ for someone. Spike was already here. I saw him talking to the man wearing a suit.” No one wore a suit to Pappy’s. “I think Cyrus just got here.”

“I’d forgotten how important it is for everyone to know everyone else’s business in Toussaint.”

She ignored the remark. “I think I’ve seen the other man, but I’m not sure where. He definitely doesn’t come from around here.”

Reb couldn’t feel Gaston anymore. She tapped her toes left and right, but he wasn’t there.

“Relax,” Marc said. “Gaston’s okay.”

When had her reactions become so transparent?

He pushed the plates that had held his jambalaya and Reb’s chicken gumbo away from the edge of the table and peered down at the dog. “Hey, boy,” Marc said, leaning back in his chair to get a better look. “I love it when you smile at me that way. He’s fine, he’s sitting on my feet.” He sat up and scooted his chair in again but not without Reb noting how cautiously he did so.

“Gaston doesn’t usually bite,” Reb told him. “Just keep still and you’ll be okay.”

Marc steepled his fingers beneath his chin and turned his face up to the beamed wooden ceiling where thumbtacked business cards covered every inch. Visible in spots, deeply yellowed layers from years gone by added a designer touch to the décor.

Let him be irritated with her, Reb decided.

Her pager alerted her, and she muttered an apology to Marc before returning a call to Ozaire Dupre. Ozaire had been talking to William at the church and wanted to warn Reb to stay away from “that bad man.” “Thanks, Ozaire,” she said. “I’m doing very well. How’s your ear? No more pain?”

Marc’s expression was difficult to read, but she’d take a bet that he was chalking another one up to her being too soft and too available to her patients.

Ozaire wasn’t to be put off so easily. His ear was just fine, had been for two months. Had she heard what William heard about that Marc Girard?

“I heard what was said,” she told him. “That isn’t true, Ozaire. Please do your best to stop the rumor.”