Cypress Nights (24 page)

He folded her hand in both of his. “Why didn't he call me?”

“Because…” She swallowed. “Sig knew I wasn't lost. I let him know I was safe.”

“He couldn't know you were safe when you were out there alone.”

Madge struggled to her knees beside him. She kissed his knuckles, rested her cheek where her lips had been. “This isn't about Sig. Please, we have to let it all go.”

He stroked her hair and raised her chin.

His breath slipped across her face. The pupils of his eyes were huge.

“Time changes everything,” she whispered. “It will for us. We'll be all right.”

“I look up to you,” Cyrus said. He looked at her mouth. “You don't do anything wrong. You're perfect.”

Her tears fell, and she didn't try to stop them. “That's the Madge you've tried to make of me, not the Madge I am. Forgive me for this.”

She touched her mouth to his.

His fingers convulsed around hers and she leaned against him.

Madge smoothed his face, his hair. She kissed him again, and he kissed her back. He squeezed his eyes shut, and his lashes flickered.

Harder she kissed him, and she slid her free arm around his neck. Cyrus kept his shaking grasp on her other hand.

Madge slid to sit on his lap and, finally, his arms went around her.

When they paused, he rested his forehead on hers.

She framed his face and made him look at her.

And beneath his tan, Cyrus grew so pale she could only stare at him. His eyes opened, widened. The sound he made was like none other she had heard.

“My, God,” he said, his voice broken, and set her back on the bed. “Forgive me.”

“Cyrus?”

He shook his head, doubled over and moaned. He convulsed, his face turned from her.

Then he left, stumbling away, not pausing to shut the door.

She stood up, stared into the shadowy corridor. It hadn't been
her
forgiveness he'd asked for.

“Oh, Cyrus. My poor Cyrus.” She knew what had happened to him. How could she have forgotten the inevitable result of arousal in a man who denied himself any release. “I didn't mean to do that to you.”

A little later the same morning

“M
e, I'm not putting one more foot down in this mud without some light,” Wazoo said.

She was tired, irritable, and tramping around the Cashman property at three in the morning with Mary Pinney made her crazy.

When Mary called to be picked up, Wazoo had almost said what she really thought about that idea. Curiosity had put the wrong words in her mouth and here she was, her shoes squelching in the dark.

“Mary,” she said. “I'm turnin' on the flashlight.”

“Don't do that.”

She hasn't lost her tongue after all.
“Can you see in the dark, Mary Pinney?”

“No.”

On the phone earlier, Mary had sounded excited and sure of herself. Not now. Wobbly, that was the way to describe her now.

“I can't see in the dark, either. And there's no one out here in the middle of nothin' to know if there's a light on anyways, girl.”

“There could be.”

Mary had at least a foot in height on Wazoo and she had the kind of presence folks remembered, but this morning the woman could have been an oversized child.

“We-ll,” Wazoo said. “With the racket we been making, fallin' around and yellin', if there
is
someone else here, they know we are, too.”

Wazoo snapped on her flashlight and Mary yelped.

They had come onto the property from the southern end, the one farthest away from St. Cecil's. Around them, old-growth trees blocked even a hint of sky. Wazoo didn't know how many acres of land there were, but figured plenty.

“What's your problem?” she asked Mary. “You're jumpin' around like a frog on crack.”

“If you were scared, you'd be jumping, too. You're the one who said there was a cabin here. I've told you it's got to be the one George was talking to Kate about last night.”

“He wasn't talkin' to you,” Wazoo said. “You admitted you couldn't hear properly, and nothin' good comes of sneakin' around eavesdropping.”

“You are my friend, aren't you, Wazoo?” Mary said.

Wazoo wasn't comfortable with feeling pressured, but she said, “Yes.”

“I've been worrying about George and Kate,” Mary said. “They spend all kinds of time together, and he gets mad if I say anything about it.”

“It's gotta be 'cause Jim just died,” Wazoo said. “George is tryin' to be helpful.”

“George isn't the helpful kind. They're real close, if you know what I mean.”

Now that was a conversation stopper. “Mm.” Patience never came easily to Wazoo. “It's time to leave,” she said.

“Don't you say another word till I'm finished,” Mary said. “George said, ‘Your old Eugene Cashman's sleeping with it at that cabin.' Then he and Kate laughed. They reckoned no one would find it, because they wouldn't dare go there. People around here are afraid to come in here. I would be, too, without you. You said there was a cabin for real. We've got to find it.”

“I don't have to do anything,” Wazoo said. “You're just dancin' around the details. Why did we have to come now, in the dark?”

“Because I told George we're going to paint the storeroom at the café early this morning. We want the smell to die down before customers come.”

Wazoo scrunched up her brow. “Paint the storeroom?”

“We're not really going to. I needed an excuse in case he woke up after I left—not that he would. Nothing wakes him up until he's ready.”

“I don't think we're gonna find that cabin,” Wazoo said. “Maybe in daylight, but not like this.”

“But you said it was here.” Mary sounded close to tears.

“It is. So I've been told. But I don't know just where. You said there was somethin' interesting you wanted to show me there. But I don't think there's anything at all. You don't really know what you're lookin' for, do you?”

“Yes I do. There's a clue to who killed Jim Zachary. That's what's in that cabin. I know it is.”

The light caught a defiant, “what do you think of that?” glitter in Mary's light eyes.

“Hoo mama,” Wazoo said. “We gonna have to start at the beginnin' here. First, this Eugene Cashman does own this land we're trespassin' on, doesn't he?”

“He did. He's dead.”

“It belongs to someone, girl.”

Mary smiled, so quickly Wazoo almost missed it. “Of course it belongs to someone,” Mary said. “I can't say any more about it, though. Loyalty is loyalty even when you know you don't owe any.”

“Uh-uh,” Wazoo said. “You won't say anythin' to convince me I ought to be here with you, so I'll be goin'. If
I
don't owe no loyalty, ain't no loyalty bein' wasted by this woman. I don't owe you no loyalty, Mary, excepting at the shop.”

“Please do this with me,” Mary said.

Her thick black hair hung around her muscular upper arms as far as the elbows. If Wazoo weren't a hard woman to scare, she'd be running from the vision in front of her. Mary looked wild.

Wazoo said, “I want you to come along with me, and I'll make sure you get rested up before opening time.”

“No, and I'm not leaving till I've got what I came for.”

“Good luck, then,” Wazoo said.

“You drove me here.”

“And if you want me to drive you back, the bus is leavin'.” She turned away, keeping the flashlight beam trained on the ground.

“I can't be alone in the dark.” Mary as good as screamed. She took Wazoo's arm in a painful grip.

That does it.
“Get your hand off me,” she said and shook Mary away. “Look where we're at. Do you expect me to believe you're afraid of the dark?”

“I am. I always have been. But there could be a clue here. Spike isn't getting anywhere. It's up to you and me to unmask Jim's killer and make sure no one else gets hurt.”

“Hurt?” Wazoo said. “That's what you think happened to Jim Zachary? He got
hurt?
Hoo mama, if you ever decide an injury is serious, I don't want to know about it.”

“Can I trust you, Wazoo, really trust you?”

“I've never liked committing myself.” She tapped a fingernail against her teeth. What if there was something worth knowing about Cashman's cabin? “But you can trust me, girl.”

“I think George is planning something awful.” Mary turned her back.

Wazoo waited quietly.

“Let's try this way,” Mary said, and began picking a path away from Wazoo. She didn't go far before she looked back. “Come on.”

“Not till you finish sayin' what you started.”

Wazoo kept a small gun in a canvas belt just above her waist, under her blouse—just for insurance. This could turn into a night when she would be glad she was cautious.

“I don't know why you're making this even more difficult for me,” Mary said. “It could be that my life's in danger.”

Wazoo had expected something like this. “Go on.”

“If someone…Oh, I might as well say it. There's only you and me here.”

“Glad you agree,” Wazoo said.

“I don't know if I do, but I'm out of choices. If George wants this property, I'm in his way.” Mary's voice broke and she coughed.

Wazoo absorbed the information. “I don't see how getting rid of you would give him this. Unless you're going to tell me it's yours and you've left it to him.” She almost laughed.

“No. And I don't have any proof of this, but it's probably Kate Harper's.”

That hadn't even been a start of an idea for Wazoo.

“I think it rightfully belonged to Jim Zachary,” Mary said. “He inherited it. If he did, it makes sense Kate expected it to go to her.”

If she'd done some investigating, Wazoo might have found out more about the land, only she hadn't known it could be important. “So what difference does it make to you? Or to George? You aren't in anyone's way.”

Mary let out a long, shaky breath. “I could be. If George and Kate are planning to get together.”

Wazoo laughed. “Kate Harper's a bit long in the tooth for him.”

“She's fifty-something. Look at her. She's not old and she plays up to George. And he eats it up. I may not have made out everything they said, but they were talking about their future.”

Holding up a hand, Wazoo said, “Hold it! We're gonna slow down. You think George and Kate—” she made an airy gesture with one hand “—you think they didn't want Jim around?”

“Maybe.”

“I've got the picture,” Wazoo said. “Now, what's it goin' to help for us to go to that cabin?”

“I told you. George put something there for safekeeping. I'm not sure what, but maybe if we can find it and take it to Spike, we'll save my life.”

This woman should be on the stage, Wazoo decided. Or in horror movies. “Yeah, well, what would this thing be?”

Mary threw out her arms. “We've got to get this done.”

“What?”

“I don't know,” Mary said. “But it's something.”

“You're tellin' me you heard Kate and George talk about hiding something without saying what it was?”

“You know how it is when two people are talking about something without really talking about it. It's like they're using code. Well, Kate said George was her hero for making sure Jim didn't throw everything away at the parish meeting. Now, how would George stop Jim from going to that meeting, that's what I want to know.”

Wazoo didn't fill in the obvious blank.

“I'm probably wrong, but it could be that George…you know. And Kate was thanking him for it. Then she wanted to know if he had everything ready for what he had to do next. When George said he did, she asked what he did with ‘it.' That's when he told her it was here.”

Patience never came easily to Wazoo. “It's time to leave,” she said.

Mary crossed her arms and glared. “I think Jim changed his mind about leaving this land to Kate. Maybe he was going to give it to St. Cecil's and he had the deed with him the night he died. George killed him to get the deed, then hid it out here. That could be it. It's George's insurance now. All he's got to do is get rid of me.”

“You don't know any of this.” Wazoo shone the flashlight on her watch. “What you heard didn't have to mean a thing like you're sayin'. We gotta go. Let's talk some more, and if we both think it's worth it, we'll come back.”

“That could be too late for me,” Mary said.

She had a point—if anything she said was true. “Then we better get help, because we're not cutting it on our own.”

Mary backed away, and fell. She landed with her long legs straight up in the air.

“You stay still!” Wazoo called.

Watching the jumble underfoot, she picked her way toward Mary.

The hull of an upturned pirogue stopped her, just as it had stopped Mary who sprang up again before Wazoo reached her.

“Darn boat,” Mary said. “I didn't see it there. I could have broken something.”

“Did you?”

“I don't think so.”

“Good.” Wazoo trained her light behind Mary. “We've found the cabin.”

The cabin, its walls and roof still intact, its open door sagging but stout enough, could easily have been missed. Long ago, vegetation had filled the clearing where the owner had built his tiny fortress. Windowless, moss-laden and squat beneath old, old cypress trees—if Mary hadn't fallen over the wooden boat, she and Wazoo might have passed by without noticing anything.

Scraped up and bleeding in places, once she got inside the log walls, Mary didn't have much to say. She produced her own flashlight, a thin, laser affair, and made methodical passes over the interior.

Wazoo assessed the one-room structure. A trestle table and a bench rested at angles with the bottom of the legs buried in inches of dirt.

“There's about as much moss inside as outside,” Wazoo said, sniffing. “Smells like things been rotting here a long time.”

“Where would he hide something in here?” Mary said dispiritedly.

“Nowhere,” Wazoo told her.

The moss on the walls and ceilings glistened with
moisture. The air felt warm and heavy enough to pour into molds.

“Give it up, girl!” she said, and folded her arms. “There's no place for hiding anythin'.”

Mary didn't answer. She shone her tiny light along each joint in the log walls.