Dead End (24 page)

“Sure,” she said, still holding him. “Then I’ll see what I can do to make you too mad to be upset.”

“You do that,” he said and kissed the top of her head. To hell with what people thought.

Grumbling set up from the direction of the gate to Bonanza Alley. Marc narrowed his eyes but could only make out a parting and immediate closing of ranks.

“Now what?” Spike said.

Cyrus joined them and stared toward the commotion. “Marc,” he said. “You could still call this off.”

“I know, but I won’t. How am I supposed to make peace with my life until I can put my sister to rest properly?”

Cyrus didn’t respond.

A small procession arrived at the barricaded area. Oribel and Wally, who pushed his bike with Nolan’s soggy brown bag in a basket behind the seat, led the way. Jilly and Joe were there, and the Hibbses, and, bringing up the rear, a small woman all but hidden inside layers of jet-beaded, satin-bound black chiffon.

“Shit,” Marc said. “Our night bird? What d’you think, Cyrus?”

“I think this had better not get any more out of hand than it already is.”

The woman in black capered about on the other side of the fence, leaping in some sort of formless dance that needed a whole lot of elbow, knee, and bare-foot action.

Swathed in a black nylon poncho and wearing black Wellington boots, with what looked like a hollowed-out crow perched on her head, Oribel forced aside the man who tried to stop her from entering the enclosure. She waved Wally inside—with his bike—and cast disapproving looks at the Gables and the Hibbses when they followed.

She marched Wally to Cyrus. “Tell Father right now,” she ordered the boy. “If you forget anything, I’ll help you.” There were small bets, and some not so small bets, around town that Cyrus was still looking for a way to confront Oribel and get rid of the Fuglies, as the rusted sculpture outside the rectory was widely called.

Madge, who had been keeping an eye on William in case he threw one of his enraged fits about strangers “messin’” with his graveyard, hurried to stand with Cyrus. “Oribel, dear,” she said quietly. “As you know, this is a very somber day—”

“I don’t need you to tell me what kind of day it is, Madge Pollard. I been in this town since you were in diapers. This is a somber day, and it’s goin’ to get more somber with things they way they are.”

Cyrus put a hand on Wally’s neck and smiled at him. “Is there something that can’t wait?”

“Well…” Wally checked Oribel’s expression and continued, “I kept tryin’ t’tell you what I was afraid of. I couldn’t go home much on account of bein’ scared what Mama and Daddy would say. They think I’m irresponsible and lazy, see.”

“We don’t think it,” Doll said, “We know it. And we don’t appreciate strangers interferin’ in our business. Particular in front of all Toussaint and whoever all the rest of these folks are. Embarrassin’, I’d call it.”

“Speak up,” Oribel said, her mouth a straight line. “The bike?”

“It went missin’,” Wally said with tears in his voice. “I leave it in the shed William doesn’t use much. He said I could.”

“I know that,” Cyrus said, leaning to see what progress was being made on the tomb. “It’s a good place to keep it safe.”

“It’s been gone,” Wally said, sniffing. “For weeks.”

“And for weeks this boy has been trying to keep it from Doll and Gator because they’re such unreasonable cusses.”

“Oh, Oribel,” Jilly Gable said, her hazel eyes glittering. “Let’s not argue at such a time. We could just rejoice that Wally has his bike back and let it go.”

“Good idea,” Spike chimed in. “We won’t go far wrong if we listen to Jilly.”

Temporarily distracted, Marc looked from Jilly, with her striking coloring, to Spike Devol. The deputy sheriff stared at Jilly’s café au lait complexion and light hair, at her startling hazel eyes, and the interest Marc saw there was anything but casual.

“Has that bike been gone, son?” Gator said. The man rarely spoke at all.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“And you didn’t want to be around us in case we found out you’d been irresponsible and whupped you for it?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Don’t you shame us in front of everyone,” Doll hissed. “You know we don’t whup you.”

“Only sometimes,” Joe Gable said helpfully. He showed no sign of thinking any of this was funny. “You’re right, though, Doll. This isn’t the time or place. The dead deserve the respect of the living.”

“You’re a wise one,” Oribel told him. “I’m only goin’ to say this much, then I’ll lead us in a song. Wally’s bike went missing—for weeks. I know, because he confided in me when it happened. I didn’t know he was runnin’ around like a gypsy or I’d have made him go home, but he’s a good boy who doesn’t get his due.

“He come to me again today, just ‘cause he needed an honest listener. I took him out and we did one more search around, and this here bike was back where Wally left it, and shinin’ clean like new. Not a speck of dust on it or a lick of mud even in the tires. I’m thinking someone
borrowed
it, then found religion and brought it back. That person’s got to be rooted out. We gotta make this town a safe place for God-fearin’ people again.”

A collective sigh went up.

The tomb was open.

He could still change his mind, Marc thought. He’d believed he was strong enough to deal with whatever had to be done to prove it was Amy and not Bonnie Blue lying inside that cold stone. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Reb laced the fingers of one hand through his. “You can do this,” she said as if she read his mind. “We’ll do it together. I was told they’ll remove the casket and take it to Lafayette to be opened.”

“It’s indecent,” he said. “I hate the idea of strangers staring at her when she’s helpless.”

“We’ll be with her. And Cyrus, and anyone else you want to ask. She won’t be without friends.”

If he could speak again, he’d thank her. The burning constriction in his chest and throat made that impossible.

To his horror, another chorus of “Dem Bones” started. Cyrus went to Vince Fox and spoke in his ear. The band shuffled close for a powwow, and “Just a Closer Walk With Thee” was quickly picked up. Hands rose and waved.

The night-bird lady had ceased to hold Marc’s attention
now. She joined in the hymn, and he found himself wondering exactly what her angle was.

Without warning, those working over the tomb stood back, their heads bowed. Spike, Cyrus, and the men from Lafayette walked to look inside the stone resting place. Marc heard the word
open
and felt sick.

A small sound from Reb reminded him that he was holding her fingers between his—and crunching them to pulp. “Sorry,” he murmured, and carried her hand to his lips. He kissed her elegant fingers and held her palm against his cheek. “Okay. I can do this. You don’t have to come.”

“Oh yes I do.”

They walked together to stand on the low wooden frame erected around the foot of the pinkish tomb. Reb pushed a hand beneath his arm and around his waist, and he held her shoulder while they slowly bent over.

“Dear God,” Cyrus said. “Help us all.”

Oribel stepped up beside Cyrus, with Madge at his other side.

“No,” Oribel shrieked. “No, no, no.” And with that she fell backward onto the wet grass and appeared to pass out.

Madge cried quietly while, one by one, those inside the barricade ignored the rules set down, stepped over or around Oribel, and moved forward to see the horrifying sight.

“The casket done gone,” William said. “This the work of the devil, this.”

Marc stumbled from the step and turned blindly away. He became vaguely aware that he was embraced by Spike Devol.

Wild, unrestrained laughter rang out. “L’Oiseau de Nuit tell the truth. This the devil’s work am here. She been taken away. Ain’t no body here.”

Precious Depew scurried along, keeping close to the shops on one side of what passed for Toussaint’s town square. A triangle of grass with a wide, old oak bowing over statues of small angels and small animals was the central feature in a short but wide rectangle of shops and business. The statues, some very old, kept guard over a burial place for beloved animals. People said the plastic flamingos, ducks and gnomes were in poor taste, to say nothing of Santa, his sleigh and his reindeer—all illuminated—perched in the oak and ready for Christmas.

The very sight of Santa visiting those little animals brought a tear to Precious’s eye, and when the sun shone on them, she thought that the pinks, blues, and greens, the touches of yellow and orange in the plastic decorations blended in nicely with the color-washed buildings that faced them.

The rain was a real pain. It made her hair frizz, even though she held Chauncey’s red-and-yellow golf umbrella. Chauncey didn’t play golf, but he reckoned keeping his expensive gear in the back of his Lexus SUV lent just the right tone.

She passed All Tarted Up and Boudreaux’s Sundries and Connie and Lorna’s Eye For Books before she felt the presence she’d known would arrive before she got too much farther on her route.

At the corner stood Doll and Gator’s Majestic Hotel with its lime green facade and eastern-looking dome on a round tower on one side. The dome was painted lilac and crisscrossed with a gold diamond pattern. In pots flanking the open double front doors, Doll’s sunflower whirligigs moved sluggishly, slowed down by the rain despite a determined wind. Precious slowed down, too, and stopped, removing the clackity-clack of her high heels from what noises there were on a Sunday morning.

The scuffing footsteps behind her were slower to halt. She turned around and stared baldly at a man with a newspaper held before his face. A wet newspaper that slowly bent in half to reveal Dante Cornelius, his black hair plastered to his forehead. Water dripped from his chin, and his black suit and shirt, together with his black tie, hung in folds around his thin body.

She waved at him and smiled—and turned away without waiting to see his reaction. Damn that Chauncey to hell. A woman couldn’t step out of a Sunday without her husband sending a spy after her. Of course, after Friday’s
exhumation,
he was more anxious than ever to find her secret home away from home. He had a bed to fill, although how he thought he’d carry that off now, Precious had no idea. Even her own plans needed some rearrangement. Wouldn’t do to have extra bodies floating around.

Her temper snapped. She went back and caught Dante by the hand. “Come with me. We need to get you dry before you catch your death in this weather.”

His fingers closed, almost trustingly, around hers, and he allowed her to pull him along. The sodden paper trailed from his other hand to drag on the sidewalk.

Precious took a sly peek at his face. He was good-looking in a narrow, wiry way. If she didn’t know his reputation for professional blunders, the bulge inside his jacket might not make her jumpy. After all, Chauncey needed her alive. But it was the knowledge of Dante’s blunders that set her nerves on edge.

“Didn’t see you at the funeral on Friday,” she said conversationally, homing in on her car parked out back of the sheriff’s offices.

“Where you going, Miz Chauncey?” Dante said at last. He tried to drag her to a stop. “You fuckin’ mad or somethin? You tryin to get me killed by your husband, or what passes for the law in these parts? Chauncey warned me not to let anyone see me followin’ you.”

“You aren’t following me, sugar. I’m holding your hand and takin’ you with me.” And she didn’t give a cottonmouth’s ass about the length of Dante’s life.

“Shee-it,” Dante said with feeling.

Precious smiled and hurried him to her Jag sports model. Silver, with dark tinted windows and a license plate that marked her as the owner, the car was her pride and joy.

“Get in,” she told Dante, pressing her key pad. When he stood there staring at her, she looked toward Spike’s window and said, “Better wave to the law, Dante.”

Instantly he lowered himself into the passenger seat, put on dark glasses, and pressed himself as low as he could. Precious joined him, gunned the engine, and screeched out of the parking lot, spewing grit from beneath the tires as she went.

She drove south and out of town. The trees and occasional rows of shotgun houses blurred together as she passed them with Dante squirming beside her. Precious was a natural behind the wheel. Fearlessness helped. She found a crossing over the Teche and headed for Spanish Lake.

“I don’t get this.” Dante dug his fingers into his knees and peered through the steamy windshield at the narrow track lined by drenched willows with branches that occasionally brushed the top of the car.

Precious knew the spot she was looking for and took so sharp a left that her passenger, who evidently thought seat belts were for wusses, fell sideways against her.

She took another left down a lane you’d never find if you didn’t know it was there, and spun to a stop against a fallen cypress log that already sprouted green shoots.

“What you doin’ this for?” Dante asked. He ducked his head to see through the windows on all sides. “Where are we? Chauncey finds out about this, I’m a dead man.”

“You worry too much. He’s not going to find out. Take off your clothes.”

Dante slammed himself against his door and hunched his shoulders. The look in his eyes was that of a hunted animal.

Precious pulled up her skirt and put the car keys inside her panties.

“Shee-it.” Dante had a stunted vocabulary.

“Chauncey trusts you a lot, doesn’t he?” she asked. “He tells me so.”

“Yeah. He trusts me because he can. I owe him, and he deserves my loyalty. Quit messin around and drive back to town.”

She managed, with almost no effort, to burst into tears.

“Hey.” Now Dante was alarmed. “Quit that, will ya?”

“I…can’t,” she sobbed out. “I love Chauncey, but he’s an important, busy man and he doesn’t have any energy left over for me. He…hasn’t made…love to me in weeks. Dante, I’m so lonely.”

He shifted in his seat.

Precious worked off her short, belted coat and tossed it in the back of the car. She wore a thin, purple mohair top that crisscrossed her breasts and tied at her side. Above her matching skirt, her midriff was bare. She fluffed up her hair and checked her makeup in the driver’s mirror.