Dead End (5 page)

“No, William,” Madge said, casting her eyes heavenward. “No, no, no, that is not true. Mr. Girard is not a pimp, he’s an architect…If that’s true I just learned something. I never did hear that architect is rich-people code for pimp. There are no souls in danger because Mr. Girard is in town…I think talking to your daughter that way is a bad idea, not that I think she’ll take any notice. You’d have to catch Martha before you could lock her away, and that isn’t going to happen.” Her smile turned mischievous. “You are so right. This is a job for Father Cyrus, and I’ll have him call you later.” She hung up.

Cyrus frowned at Madge. He had already made himself comfortable in her chair and now he sank as deeply into the cushions as he could go.

“Now you’re cross,” she said to him. “I’ll call William back and tell him you have to leave and won’t be around today.”

“You think I’d have you lie for me?” He raised his head and looked at her down his nose, attempting to be disapproving. He failed. “William, our very own custodian, I take it?”

“The same,” Madge said. “He saw Marc arrive here, and he’s heard there’s a plan to turn The Majestic into a ritzy house of ill repute.”

Even men of God could laugh at the ridiculous, and Cyrus laughed until he coughed and got tears in his eyes. “I take it he’s threatening to lock up Martha to keep her safe from the forces of evil?”

Madge dabbed at her own eyes and drank from a cup of hot tea. Oribel said she wasn’t normal to drink hot tea and called her a chain-tea-drinker.

A crash sounded from Cyrus’s office, and he and Madge stared at the wall. Madge leaped from her chair and hurried around the desk. “Someone’s in your office,” she said.

Cyrus caught her arm as she walked past him. “There certainly is someone in there. Two someones. Marc Girard and Reb, and I don’t think they’re comfortable with one another.”

Madge backed up and sat on the edge of her desk. “Why should she be comfortable with him? He’s too confident, and a whole lot too good-looking for any woman to be at ease with him. Least of all Reb. I don’t remember the last time I saw her with a man. Even if she had the time, she’s not relaxed with ‘em unless they’re sick.”

“Reb might not take that as a compliment.” Madge’s fervor made him smile afresh. It didn’t stop him from wrangling with his conscience for having left Reb with Marc.

“They both grew up around here,” he told Madge. “I think they’re old friends, or at least old acquaintances. As in, they may have been really close in the past.”

“No,” Madge said. She dropped her voice to a whisper and smiled wickedly. “Let me see. Life gets dull around here—there must be something juicy to make out of this. You think they were lovers and there was a breakup, but now Marc’s come back to rekindle the affair? Do you think—” Her eyes became round, and she tiptoed toward the wall. “I need a glass to listen with. That noise in there. What if he’s having his way with her? I wouldn’t want to miss it, would I?” She sniggered.

Madge’s sense of humor amused Cyrus. “I’m sure that would be titillatin’, but Marc Girard wouldn’t do something like that.”

“You’re too trusting, Cyrus. You put a tall, strong, devastatingly good-looking,
virile
man, who is probably burning with unrequited love and sexual deprivation”—she rolled her eyes—“you put him with a beautiful, voluptuous redhead who is one smoldering bundle of frustrated desire, and what do you get?”

“You need a hobby,” Cyrus told her. “Have you ever thought of writing fiction?”

“What makes you think I’m not writing something already:
Toussaint,
Louisiana.
Sin City on Bayou Teche.
There
’
s more than old crawfish that smell bad around here.
I’ve been needing fresh material.”

“Maybe a husband would be a good outlet for your imagination.” He knew his mistake at once. She lowered her eyes, and he heard her swallow.

“I left them in there for two reasons,” he said in a hurry “First, I do think they already know one another, and my presence wasn’t going to help them deal with whatever issues they’ve got. Second, I had to grab an opportunity to regroup. Madge, he made a comment about Bonnie and how she loved music.”

Madge paled. She pushed a hand into her thick, black curls and kept it there. “He knew Bonnie?” She had lowered her voice again.

“That’s what he seemed to be letting me know. And he’s got a lot to say about her, or will have when I let him. Reb arrived just as he was asking me if I thought Bonnie was murdered.”

The phone rang. When Madge finally noticed, she reached behind her and switched over to the answering service.

They stared at one another until Madge broke the silence. “I’ve never heard anyone say he was unstable.”

This was one of those times when Cyrus knew he wasn’t expected to say anything. Madge liked to think aloud.

“So, if he’s sane and makes a statement like that, he believes he has inside information.”

She crossed her legs and bounced a foot up and down.

“He was sounding me out,” Cyrus said. “Looking for my reaction. Which means he’s trying to figure out how much I know.”

“Just could be he was making sure you didn’t know anythin’ at all,” Madge said.

Cyrus nodded. “And we’re getting mighty irritated by our own questions, while Marc Girard is the only one who knows why he’s here and what he thinks.”

“Toussaint used to seem so sleepy to me,” Madge said. Her brow furrowed, and she turned to glance briefly through the window at the slope down to the bayou. Willow branches hung, unmoving under the sun of a breathless afternoon. “It’s not sleepy. Not anymore. It looks peaceful out there, and welcoming—but that’s a disguise.”

To disagree would be to lie. “There’s too much going on. Things we don’t like, I mean.” He did wish he could reassure her. “Whatever it takes, this little town will settle again.”

“I hope it happens before anyone else dies.”

So did he.

“We should do what we can to help.”

Cyrus looked at her sharply and leaned forward in the chair. “What you can do to help is be aware of what’s going on around you and keep yourself safe.”

Her expression lost its sharp edge. “I thank you for your concern,” she said, “but you don’t have to worry about me. Puttin’ myself in danger isn’t my thing, but I don’t like sitting around waiting for something else to happen. I say we take this into our own hands.”

“Slow down,” he told her and congratulated himself for not groaning aloud. “Anything I can do, I will do, you know that. And I’ll let you know the minute you can help out,” he added hastily.

Madge jumped to her feet. She raised her shoulders and rubbed her hands as if there was something pleasant and exciting in store. “Let’s start by going over whatever we remember. All the little details, and the big ones.” She snatched up a pad and pen. “I’m sure Bonnie had more possessions than they found in her room after she died. We’ve got to think about that and figure out what could have been missing. The next job will be to find out why. Don’t forget, her purse was never found.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself.” The idea wasn’t bad, just more than he wanted to deal with, at least while Marc and Reb were still closeted together next door. “Don’t forget that the police looked into all that.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll have any lucky finds,” Madge said, but she sounded undeterred. “It’s probably been destroyed, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try again.”

“You make a lot of sense,” he told her, and she did. “Let’s think about this before we rush into anything.”

“If we remember something, it could—” She spread her hands.

“It could be a clue,” Cyrus finished for her. Movement outside caught his eye. Wally plodded uphill, probably making his way in a circle around the house. “Excuse me. I forgot I promised to talk to Wally.”

“What about?...” Madge turned her eyes significantly toward his office. “You know. Marc and Reb?”

“I’ll be outside with Wally. If it sounds as if things are getting hot in there, call me.” He shot her a half-serious frown and strode from the room, leaving the door open and feeling just a little guilt.

Guilt at his own irreverent sense of humor. Guilt because he’d abandoned Reb to Marc Girard. If Marc were making a move on Reb, Gaston wouldn’t be a silent observer. And he hadn’t teased Madge that badly. He opened the front door and all but fell over Wally.

“Hey, here I am. Did you think I’d forgotten you?”

Wally shook his head. “Nah.”

More guilt!
“The truth’s important, yes?” He waited for the nod before adding, “You know I get caught up in a lot of stuff, but you trust me to do what I say I’ll do—eventually.” He took the boy by a shoulder and walked him to a bench built around the thick trunk of an old oak. The next time he had a few hours off, he’d replace some rotting slats in the bench and make it bigger at the same time.

Sitting side by side, their backs against the oak, they slipped into silence. Wally wasn’t a talker. He was happy whenever he could trail along with Cyrus, watching and listening and just being accepted. Attempts to talk to the Hibbses about their son, his awkwardness around other kids, his need to have others help him open up, had been met with impatience. According to Doll and Gater Hibbs, Wally was “difficult and always has been,” a self-centered boy who enjoyed making them suffer.

“What is it?” Cyrus asked.

Wally gave a great sigh and plunked his bony elbows on bruised and scabby knees—legacies from skateboarding heroics and forgotten pads. He pulled an NYC baseball cap low over his eyes. “My folks are mad at me, real mad.” His soft, hoarse voice troubled Cyrus, as it did Reb.

When waiting didn’t bring more details, Cyrus said, “Why?” He squinted against bursts of sunlight bouncing off the front windows. The grassy earth smelled warm and sweet.

“I guess I just don’t turn up home too often.”

Cyrus bent his head and stared at Wally until the boy looked at him from the shade of his cap bill. “What d’you mean, you don’t turn up at home too often? Where are you when you’re supposed to be at home?”

“Around.” Wally’s shoulders almost met his ears. “I didn’t think they’d notice I wasn’t there.”

“Okay,” Cyrus said. “Give me the whole story.” Each time he and Wally got onto the subject of his parents, Cyrus felt the weight of watching every word. As parents, Doll and Gater weren’t naturals, but they loved their boy as best they knew how.

“They’re upset all the time.”

“How long did you say you’ve been staying away from the hotel?”

“Couple of weeks.”

That wasn’t a time frame Cyrus had been prepared to hear. “But you’ve been here often enough. Where have you been sleeping?” He looked Wally’s clothes over. His
Frog
’
N and Dawg
’
N Pizza
T-shirt and khaki shorts were clean.

“I sleep in my room. Don’t stay there no more’n I have to, though. I hang out till their lights go off, then I go in.” His hazel eyes were too bright. “In the mornin’ I pick up the list off the table and do what Mama writes there. I try not to see ‘em is all.”

One of the things Cyrus regretted about the vows he’d taken was that they meant he’d agreed never to have children of his own. Could be he was the lucky one after all. “Okay. I’m going to let you tell it in your own time.”

“Can I stay here till…till I’ve fixed something? I wouldn’t get in the way.”

Cyrus didn’t need a chart to show him he was heading into deep water. “You haven’t explained a thing yet.”

Wally swallowed, but he didn’t shift his eyes from Cyrus’s until a pea green Volkswagen Beetle pulled onto the verge outside the fence. “Jilly,” he said and didn’t sound happy.

“You like Jilly,” Cyrus reminded him. “We all like Jilly.”

“Yep.” The word was the right one, but it sounded like a habit rather than a true affirmative.

Jilly Gable who, with her half-brother Joe, operated All Tarted Up, Toussaint’s Flakiest Pastry Shop, emerged from her car and left the door open wide so as not to waste the music from inside. A singer with a sawed-off voice squeezed out a version of “Jolie Blonde” as if a harmonica were stuck in his vocal chords.

“I see you, Wally Hibbs,” Jilly called out. “And you are in big trouble, my friend.”

“Told you,” Wally said darkly, touching his brown bag beneath the bench.

“Afternoon, Jilly,” Cyrus said when she drew close enough for him to see her smiling gray-green eyes. Even held back by a piece of black ribbon that was only inches from falling off, her blond-streaked brown hair reached her waist. She carried one of the bakery’s rainbow-colored boxes by a string tie. “You have a delivery to make somewhere?” Cyrus asked, knowing she’d brought him something he’d enjoy.

“I do,” Jilly said, arriving and sitting down on the grass, her long yellow gauze dress flowing over her body and legs. “Marzipan tartlets.”

He reached for the box, but she set it on the ground behind her. “This one’s cheese has really slid off his cracker now.” She pointed a long finger at Wally. “If I opened up your head, I think I’d find bugs had eaten your brains.”

Jilly had a way with words. “Go easy,” Cyrus told her.

Wally actually smirked and rubbed the back of a hand over his eyes.

“You hungry?” Jilly asked the boy.

He said, “Nah.”

“You ought to be, unless someone’s feeding you somewhere—or you’re stealing food. You aren’t eating at home.” She grimaced at Cyrus. “Your folks say you’re out of control.”

“They’re arguin’ all the time,” Wally said, his husky voice even more difficult to hear. “They get madder and madder every day.”

“But not with you,” Jilly said. She kicked off her sandals and practiced trapping grass between her toes and tearing it up. The sun spread a glow over the coffee gold of her skin. “You’re making too much out of everything.”

Wally clammed up.

Cyrus considered options and figured he didn’t have any. Wally had to go home, and Cyrus had better be there when he did.

“Father Cyrus.” William’s bottom-of-the-barrel rumble reached them while the man was still crossing Bonanza Alley from the church where the custodian’s room was located out back.