Chapter 29
The Iberia heat had taken charge—again. Bonine and nice Detective Wiley, with all the people who did their special jobs at times like this, and a bevy of foot soldiers, tromped about the grounds. Searchlights whitened the area between the west and south wings.
Errol Bonine hadn’t been to any charm schools since the last time Vivian met him. Everyone in the house was a suspect until eliminated, and he said ”eliminated” as if he meant dead.
Apart from a grunt, Gary Legrain hadn’t said anything since he’d walked into the Rosebank kitchens, an hour previous. He’d dropped his briefcase on the floor and sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.
Seemed best to leave him that way.
Wazoo stood on the counter, cleaning out high cupboards.
Spike drank coffee with Cyrus, who had refused to leave after the grisly discovery of poor Gil’s body.
It would have suited Vivian to be alone with Spike. Each time he looked at her she remembered what he’d told her at the bookshop. They had so much to say to each other.
Charlotte drank coffee, gazing straight ahead through the steam and not shifting her attention even when she upended the mug.
“Look at these,” Wazoo said, holding an egg cup in one hand and salt and pepper shakers in the other. “Pineapples. Monkeys and pineapples. Mr. Guy Patin, he like they ever’where. Me, I even got monkeys with red eyes lookin’ at me in the dark. They painted on the ceiling. Best room I ever had, me.”
Spike wasn’t sure he liked the idea of painted monkeys on any ceiling.
“Bonine’s some kind of animal,” Vivian said. Boa stood on a stool by the island with one paw raised and a wounded look in her bright, round eyes. Vivian covered the dog’s ears. “A dumb animal, that is.”
Jokes weren’t going to work this evening. Not for Spike. “Bonine’s a pain in the ass,” he said.
“That’s where he’s a pain,” Cyrus said, frowning and nodding his head. “The man comes around and restates the obvious.”
“He said this couldn’t be the same killer,” Vivian said. “That makes me—”
“Panicky?” Spike suggested. “I don’t blame you for being panicky, but don’t be just because of what Bonine says. If this wasn’t the same killer, I’ll be amazed.”
“Errol Bonine said these people who leave marks, like the rose and so on, keep doing the same thing to prove it was their…kill,” Vivian finished in subdued tones.
Spike took her by the hand and seated her in a chair beside Gary. “And the signs were there. Time has passed, remember. Louis was a fresh kill—sorry. There were roses in that compost and one of them was probably deliberately left with Gil’s body.”
“But the kiss?” Vivian said. “I didn’t—”
Spike shook his head slightly, signaling her to drop the topic. He still had a contact or two in Iberia and he’d already tapped one of them for some information on bloodred kisses—fresh or faded.
“Wazoo,” Charlotte said. “I don’t know how I managed without you. All you do is work. But I’m putting a stop to this day’s work now and sending you off to get some relaxation.”
“I’m not tired, me. I—”
“That’s great, but I want you to stop workin’. I hear there’s big doin’s at Pappy’s Dance Hall. The Swamp Doggies are playing like usual but they’ve got some group from New Orleans, too. Why don’t you go over and have some fun. It’s late but things will still be swingin’. Pappy’s got a special on the menu, bread pudding Galatoire’s style. And the gumbo’s supposed to be somethin’.”
Still standing on the counter, Wazoo faced the room and stood with her feet apart and her arms thrown wide, as if she were on the stage. She wiggled her fingers and sang out, “Poor crawfish ain’t got no show, Frenchmen catch ’em and gumbo. Go all ’round the Frenchmen’s beds, Don’t find nuthin’ but crawfish heads.” She sidestepped in one direction then back in the other, slapping her feet like a clogger.
Cyrus and Spike clapped in time, but stopped at the disapproving expression on Charlotte’s face. “We don’t have any cause to celebrate,” she said. “Please get down, Wazoo.”
“You got it,” Wazoo said, and landed nimbly on the kitchen floor. “I got the idea. We all go to Pappy’s.”
The silence that met her suggestion obviously gave her the message that she should keep her ideas to herself. She shrugged her shoulders up to her ears and backed out of the kitchens.
“Nervous energy,” Charlotte said. “She’s upset like the rest of us but she doesn’t know how to be appropriate.”
Cyrus scrubbed at his face. “This is unreal. The police don’t have a thing yet. Or if they do, they aren’t sayin’.”
“I don’t believe they’ve found any significant leads,” Spike said. “But it could break real fast. That’s the way things go a lot of times.”
“No leads and no motives,” Vivian said from the table.
“Yes, motives,” Spike said at once. “Like I’ve already suggested, whatever Louis was bringing to you was what he died for. Gary’s already said there had to be more in Louis’s briefcase than the police found. Whatever’s missing killed him. And it’ll turn out Gil got in the way of the killer. They’re going to place his death around the same time as Louis’s.”
“Sure of yourself, aren’t you.” Gary Legrain got up abruptly. He massaged the back of his neck. “And you’re probably right. But what could have been worth two lives?”
“I just want whoever did it, caught,” Vivian said.
“Don’t we all?” Gary’s breaking point had worked close to the surface. “I hope it’s going to work for you and Charlotte to go into Toussaint tomorrow.”
His question was met with silence.
“Louis’s will is going to be read.”
Spike watched reactions. “In Toussaint? Why?” Not that it was his business.
Everyone looked blank, as if they thought they hadn’t really heard what Gary said or, at least, hadn’t understood him.
“Louis made the arrangements himself before he died. Of course, I wasn’t expecting this to roll around so soon. It’ll be in Joe Gable’s offices.”
The silence continued until Vivian said, “Shouldn’t you have told Bonine about this?”
“Louis kept his will private and that was his right and his business. He told me some of the broad strokes, but no details. It was his bank manager who let me know the will was drawn up by Gable—at Guy Patin’s suggestion.” Exhaustion etched gray shadows into Gary’s face. He slid a folded piece of lined yellow paper from his shirt pocket. “It’ll happen at ten in the morning. I already told you it would be at Joe Gable’s. The Martin twins will be there, and myself—these are Louis’s wishes—also Mrs. Angelica Doby and Charlotte and Vivian. And there should be a representative of the law agreed on by the majority.” He looked at the paper again. “In case action is needed, the note says.”
“Why us?” Vivian said suddenly, sharply, as the enormity of Gary’s statements sank in. “I don’t understand. And what does it mean, in case action is needed?”
Gary said, “If it’s a problem for you to be there tomorrow, I’ll ask for a later date.”
“I just don’t understand—”
“A later date is a good idea,” Gary said. “That would give me time to see what I can find out ahead of time. This is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you.”
“When Spike and I came to your office, you were talking to Louis’s sons as if you knew all about the will,” Vivian said.
“They were telling me the way things would be,” Gary said. “They do that a lot. They were making assumptions about the will, which they assumed I had dealt with.” The man looked chagrined at that.
“You didn’t set them straight,” Spike said. He raised a hand. “Don’t take any notice of me. I’m talking out loud and not sayin’ anythin’ important.”
“Are the Martins ready to be there?” Charlotte asked.
“Ready, and breathing fire,” Gary said.
Vivian’s stomach rolled. “And Mrs. Angelica…”
“Doby,” Gary finished for her. “She says she can make it, but—”
“Tomorrow, then,” Vivian said, looking at her mother who nodded agreement. “The sooner it’s over, the better. The will’s being read in Toussaint so it’ll be fine if Spike’s the law.”
Gary shrugged. His gray eyes showed fatigue and his usually straight shoulders sagged. “If that’s agreeable to everyone.”
“Is it agreeable to you?” Cyrus said, surprising Vivian.
“Of course,” Gary said at once. “Mrs. Doby said she’d leave the choice in my hands.”
“Sounds like a majority to me,” Cyrus said.
Gary frowned. “The Martins—”
“Excuse me,” Vivian said. “I have to go to my room now.” She left with Boa under her arm, feeling foolish and impetuous, but desperate to get away from more discussion of dead men, wills and angry sons. She didn’t want to listen to what was bound to come soon, either: a discussion about Louis’s lady friend.
She climbed the stairs to the second floor. Now that Bill Green had taken charge of organizing work parties to get some rooms ready for guests, Vivian felt fresh hope, but Mama’s pride seemed dented. She’d already found an opportunity to point out more repairs that must be made. And the subject of money, how little they had and that supplies would be costly, had come up.
Vivian’s room looked out over the driveway and she already loved the view from her windows of the treelined sweep to the circular turnaround in front of the house. The only things to see out there now were the lights of official vehicles coming and going. What she was glad she couldn’t actually see were the men, women and dogs searching.
In the morning, her favorite time to watch the light change over cultivated timber in one direction and flat rice fields and crawfish farms in another, the renewed activity at Rosebank would be obvious and she dreaded that.
She dreaded the strange idea of being present for the reading of Louis’s will just as much. When she and Spike had been with the Charbonnets on their riverboat, Jack hadn’t been subtle about the Martin boys’ reputations.
A thorough cleaning and some fresh white paint on the millwork were all Vivian had thought necessary to make her room perfect. It was the same one she’d used whenever she came to Rosebank. Uncle Guy had found the ebony four-poster with a carved canopy at a palace auction in Thailand.
A person had no excuse for boredom with a bed like that. She’d been finding new surprises in the carvings since she was a girl.
Boa licked her face and she squeezed the little dog until she wriggled free and took up her place on the embroidered tangerine-colored bedspread.
Vivian closed the shutters and the drapes. Light from colored-glass wall sconces in the shapes of scantily clad men and women didn’t give much more than a muted glow.
She put on a nightie and bathrobe and prepared to go across the hall to shower.
From overhead came a bumping noise, as if something were being slid over an uneven wooden floor.
Vivian wrapped her robe more tightly around her. Apart from shaking out drapes covering the furniture, the rooms on the third floor hadn’t been touched yet. No one slept in any of them, or had any reason to be up there.
She listened but heard nothing now.
A hot shower and a good night’s sleep would settle her down. No, they wouldn’t. Who was she trying to fool? She might feel a bit more relaxed but how could anyone settle down in this house?
Squeaking started, the sound of wood against wood? This time it didn’t seem to come from the floorboards but it was definitely from the same room. And it went on for a couple of minutes, then stopped. Only seconds passed before it happened again, then again, and again. Vivian held her shaking hands beneath her crossed arms.
Someone must already be working up there. She’d been out a good deal during the day and with all the commotion over poor Gil, Mama had forgotten to mention it.
Working into the night?
Everyone who had offered help had work of their own to do, so why not at night? But tonight, when Bill had only announced his plans that morning?
Downstairs there were plenty of people who would help her check things out. And she’d feel like a jumpy fool for asking.
Murder had been committed in the grounds. But not today and the killer wouldn’t be crazy enough to hang around.
Killers were always crazy at some level.
Take your shower and go to sleep.
Boa growled. Her lips were pulled back from her teeth and she stared fixedly upward.
Tiny hairs rose on Vivian’s spine and her neck prickled. At the back of a drawer in a chest beside the bed lay a gun which had once belonged to David Patin. Her dad had taught Vivian how to load and shoot it, and made sure she knew to keep the ammunition separate from the weapon.
She’d never loaded it since the last time her father took her to a shooting range. But she hadn’t forgotten how. She retrieved the gun and smoothly slid a clip home.
This is nuts. Her slippers were under the bed and she felt around with her left foot to find them.
Shivers shot up her leg and she pulled her foot back. People she trusted were downstairs. ”I think I heard something on the third floor and I’m afraid someone’s under my bed.” Then they’d all think she was a wimp and maybe she was—just a bit of a wimp, anyway—but she’d deny that one to the death.
Eww, wrong connection.
Boa sat up, her ears moving back and forth, and let out a single, pretty subdued bark. The sweet little thing must be picking up bad vibes from Vivian.
What she should really do was get over this need to withdraw and go back downstairs.
And if she did, it wouldn’t be because she thought she could change the habits of a lifetime but because she was a chicken.
The squeaking started again, in short bursts this time. Vivian cocked her head, smiled, and began to chuckle. What would be so unusual about some sort of critters moving into available quarters?
She felt ridiculous. The exterminators would be called in the morning. Meanwhile, maybe she could scare the things to silence.
With her feet firmly inserted in her slippers and the gun in the pocket of her robe, Vivian left her room, retraced her steps to the staircase and climbed to the next floor. Boa hopped up behind her, snuffling. The dust was still bad in much of the house and there wasn’t enough staff to keep up with it.
Most of the corridor lights were burned out. Vivian counted doors until she arrived at the room she thought was probably above hers.
The door stood partly open. She reached inside and felt around for the light switch. Apart from clicks, moving it up and down produced nothing. A musty odor made her nostrils flare. Somehow the entire house had to be aired regularly.
Vivian stepped through the opening and cried out. She’d stubbed her toe on a brass doorstop that had been used to keep the door open. She bent to pick up the stop and smiled, couldn’t help it. The episode began to feel like frames from an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
Inside the room, faint moonlight washed a bed, another four-poster with a wooden canopy, a freestanding wardrobe and white-draped shapes of other pieces of furniture. Vivian gave the door a push, opening it wide, and did her best to look around. She heard nothing, which probably meant any unwanted furry friends had skittered away, but she’d need to check for droppings. A lamp stood on a draped table in front of the window and she hurried to see if it had a working bulb.
It didn’t.
At least she’d put her irrational fears to rest and could go and get some sleep.
When she turned back from the windows, a shadowy shape confronted Vivian. A woman in loose, pale clothes, her face indistinguishable in the almost darkness.
Vivian screamed. She screamed, and jumped so violently her legs buckled and she landed on her knees. With her face covered, she bent over, waiting for her pounding heart to explode. Breathing through her mouth, she struggled to calm down, and to find the courage to look up again.
Inch by inch she raised her face. The woman facing her across the room also knelt.
“Damn,” she muttered. “Damn, damn, damn.” The woman she saw was herself reflected in a mirror on the wardrobe door, a door which had swung open.
Shaky and exasperated, she stumbled to her feet. Time to get out of here and stop playing games with her own head.
What had caused the wardrobe door to open?
But now she had to pass the open wardrobe to get to the door. One deep breath and she started forward, watching her reflection in the mirror as she went.
She reached the wardrobe.
”Vivian?” Her name, whispered, rushed to envelop her. Muscles in her neck and throat bunched and beat out a pulse of their own. She couldn’t breathe.
The wardrobe door slammed shut. Vivian saw the looming outline of a man, his arms outstretched, his fingers reaching. She went for the gun in her pocket and wrenched it out. Her face flashed hot while the rest of her body felt frozen.
She threw herself at him and tried to shout for help, but her throat wouldn’t move. He was no apparition. When she collided with him he was so solid she would have fallen back if he hadn’t grasped her, one big hand like iron closing on her right wrist, the other around her waist, holding her in an embrace that stole her breath. He shook her wrist, worked his fingers over hers to release them from the gun. She closed her mind to the pain and locked her joints in place.
He cursed softly, pried her fingers apart, and she heard the gun hit the floor and slide.
She had feet.
Vivian kicked, sending pains through her toes inside soft slippers. And she used her left hand, her fingernails. He might kill her, but he’d be carrying enough of her DNA to convict him for it, and his would be on her.
”Vivian.” He shook her.
His face would never look the same when she’d finished with it.
“Vivian, it’s Spike!”