Jezebel's Blues (28 page)

Ellie looked from one to the other. "I give up," she said. "Which of you is Dr. Reynard?"

The white man rose with a half smile. Ellie had the faint sense that she'd been tested, but also that she'd passed. "That would be me," he said. "You must be Miz Connor." It was a bourbon voice, smoky and gold and dangerous, and Ellie heard the unmistakable sound of money in the blurred Southern vowels. "We've been waiting for you."

Ellie took a breath against the sudden wish to stand straighter, toss her head, somehow be prettier. "You somehow don't look the way I pictured you, Dr. Reynard," she said mildly.

"Call me Blue. Nobody calls me anything but Blue around here." He inclined his head, and a wash of that thick, wavy hair touched his shoulder. "You're not what I was expecting, either, to tell you the truth."

"I'll tell if you will."

He paused, then gave her a slow grin, one that hid all the darkness and brought out the charm. "A woman named Ellie who writes biographies says middle-aged librarian to me." The grin said he knew she'd forgive him.

"Ditto," Ellie said. "A man who spends all his free time talking trash in blues newsgroups with a whisky at his elbow—I was thinking a Keith Richards lookalike. Middle-aged and worn out."

A surprised chuckle rolled out of him. "Dissipated, maybe," he said, lifting a finger. "Worn and ragged by hard living, definitely. But I don't spend all my time on the computer. Just nighttime."

The black man laughed softly. Ellie had forgotten he was there. Reynard gestured. "Miz Connor, this is Marcus Williams."

Ellie nodded politely. "How do you do?"

He answered, "Just fine, thank you," a Southernism she'd forgotten.

"Well," Reynard said, straightening, "can I get you something? I have some sweet tea, maybe some lemonade, and"—he held up his tumbler with a sideways grin—"good Kentucky bourbon."

"Much as I'd love to, I'm going to have to say no tonight. I'd just like to get settled." From the car came a deep, pointed bark. Ellie glanced over her shoulder. "And my dog urgently wants to get out."

"No need to make him suffer." He gestured. "Go on and let him out."

"She," Ellie corrected automatically, and hesitated. "You sure?"

"She won't cause any damage my own haven't at some time or another." April, as if overhearing the conversation, let loose another sharp alert. The mutt on the porch, unable to resist any longer, rushed down the steps and licked Ellie's fingers. Reynard grinned. "Let your dog out, sugar, before she busts."

"Thank you." Ellie hurried back to the car, the mutt at her heels, and opened the door. "Come on, sweetie." April leaped out and rushed to the grass to squat with an almost bashful look of relief on her face. To keep the mutt busy, Ellie rubbed her soft gold ears. "You're kind of cute."

From the porch, the black man snorted. "Ratdog."

Ellie smiled over her shoulder. "She must belong to you, then, Dr. Reynard."

"Marcus is a dog snob, that's all. Don't mind him." He whistled softly, and the mutt ran full tilt up the stairs, halting barely in time to avoid smashing into his knees. He bent down to give her that hearty pat men seemed to always bestow on dogs. As if to claim his attention, the skinny white cat circled around his ankles and Reynard stroked her back absently.

Watching, Ellie felt a little of the vague tension in her ease. He didn't appear to be unbalanced or particularly strange—it was probably safe enough. As if he noticed, Reynard straightened and eyed her, taking a swallow of the whisky in his hand. In the dusky stillness, ice clinked. "Now that your dog's all right, are you sure you don't want something to drink?"

His voice mesmerized her, that slow rolling depth, and it took a moment before she realized he'd asked her a question.

Which was answer enough in her mind. "No, thank you. Really."

"I'll get the key, then. If you want to drive on back down the road, I'll meet you over there." He pointed through the deepening gloom toward a path that seemed to lead to the greenhouses, which glowed a soft green against the twilight.

Ellie finally spied the small house set beneath a stand of live oak and loblolly pines. She clicked her tongue for her dog. "Nice to meet you," she said to Marcus.

"Good luck with your biography."

"He told you?"

"Mabel's our only claim to fame, so we're kind of proprietary."

Ellie smiled. "I promise to do my best."

"Can't ask no more than that, I reckon."

She whistled for April and got back in the car, only realizing as she drove that she was humming under her breath. "There's a red house over yonder ..." and her mind was playing it, the Jimi Hendrix version, threaded with that smoky sex sound that had made him such a god among women.

She rolled her eyes at her subconscious, which had an annoying habit of coughing up the most embarrassing, corny soundtrack for her life—like flying into LAX and finding herself humming "LA International Airport"—and made herself stop before he heard her.

Blue. She glanced in the rearview mirror. She wished his name were Laurence.

* * *

As he cut through the open meadow between the house and the old slave quarters, converted in the twenties to a guest house, Blue told himself it was liquor making his skin feel hot. He'd worked hard in the sun all day, the warmest they'd had so far. Probably had a little sunburn. And the bourbon on an empty stomach had gone to his head.

But as Ellie stepped out of the car at the guest house, he found his attention snared again. She was not his usual type. He liked soft, shapely blondes. Women who wore gauzy sundresses you could see through just a little bit. Women with easy laughter and soft edges and no causes to champion. The less serious the better.

Bimbos, Marcus called them. Blue preferred to think of them as easy to get along with.

Either way, Ellie Connor did not fit the profile. Small and too thin, with angles instead of softness, khaki shorts instead of floaty skirts, and curly black hair that fell in her face instead of that swing of blonde he found so appealing. From her posts, he'd known she was strong and smart and knew her mind, an impression reinforced now by the set of her chin and the sharp, no-nonsense way she met their eyes back there. It wouldn't surprise him at all if she had a revolver in the glove box—she struck him as a woman who wouldn't leave much up to fate.

But even she had to struggle, trying to lift a big suitcase out of the trunk.

Blue stepped forward. "Let me get that for you."

"Thank you."

He grabbed it while she picked up some other things and followed him to the porch, waiting behind him silently as he unlocked the door. Inside, he flipped on the lamp by the desk. "This is it. Small, but comfortable."

She put a soft-sided case on the table. "It's beautiful," she said, and it sounded sincere.

"Thought you'd like it," Blue said, shoving hair out of his eyes. "I took the liberty of dragging out some of the material we talked about"—he pointed to a neat stack of books and files on the desk—"and had Lanie—she's my aunt, who lives with me—order some groceries to be delivered. She got most of the staples, coffee and milk and things, but if there's something you don't see, just holler. Nearest store is about five miles down the road, back the way you came."

For a moment, she just looked around her. In a lazy way, he zeroed in on that mouth again. She might not be his type in a lot of ways, but that was one hell of a mouth. Bee-stung, his mama would have said.

The light was better in here, and he could see the exotic cast to her features, a faint tilt to her eyes, high cheekbones; together with all that glossy black hair it made him think maybe Russian or East European.

"Ah!" she said suddenly, and moved across the room to the counter, putting her hands on a CD player. "Excellent. I carry a portable with me, but this is much better." She turned, and looked straight at him. "It's really very nice of you to offer your hospitality this way," she said, and a knowing glitter by her eyes. "Although I suspect you were drinking when you extended the invitation."

Blue winced. "Guilty." Not unusual of a late evening, which was when he generally signed on to the Internet, looking for a good argument. "How'd you know?"

"Your notes have a different tone. And you transpose letters."

He crossed his arms, smiling to cover his discomfort. "Here I thought I was being so sly, and all the time, I might as well have been hootin' in some club."

"Not exactly. It was really just a guess."

"Well, bourbon or not, I was sincere. The place is yours as long as you need it. I'm glad you're doing the biography. It's long overdue."

"And whatever the circumstances, I'm grateful. I really hate looking for a place to keep April, and I won't leave her in a kennel."

At the sound of her name, the dog swept her tail over the hardwood floor. "That speaks well of you, Miz Connor."

She looked at him, all calm sober eyes, and Blue looked back, and all the months of notes back and forth rose up between them. He'd liked her sharpness, a certain diffidence edged with wry humor. They'd stuck mainly to discussing the blues, but every so often, they'd go off on a sidetrack and he'd catch an intriguing glimpse of something more: a hint of anger, or maybe just passion, mixed in with the steadiness.

"It's really a shock to see how different you are from how I imagined you," he said impulsively.

Something flickered in her eyes, there and gone so fast he couldn't really place it, before she tucked her hands in her back pockets and turned her face away. A sliver of gold light from the lamp edged her jaw, and Blue found himself thinking he liked that clean line. She had very fine skin. It made him think of the petals of an orchid in one of the greenhouses. "Ditto," she said, and again raised her head and looked at him with that directness.

He wasn't used to women who looked so straight at him.

As if she thought better of it, she moved to the table and unzipped the soft-sided case, revealing dozens of CDs in their plastic cases, and scooped up a handful. It was a restless gesture, the kind of thing a person did to fill up an awkward moment, and Blue realized he ought to take the hint and leave her to settle in.

But a person's taste in music said more about them than they ever realized, and he couldn't resist peeking into the case. "What do you have here?" He pointed. "Mind if I look?"

"No. Of course not."

The CDs were piled in a jumble. "They have cases now that'll stack 'em up for you."

She made a rueful noise. "Yes, but they don't carry enough." She smiled at him, a quick bright flash. "I need my dog and my CDs to feel secure."

He lowered his head, oddly unsettled. He looked at the titles, wondering if he really wanted to know that much more about her, but he didn't stop sorting through them. Blues, of course. He
tsk
ed and took out a Lightnin' Hopkins recording, shaking his head.

She plucked it out of his hands. "You've made your feelings plain about the Delta style, Dr. Reynard. Unhand my classics."

He grinned. They'd had quite an argument about various styles. Blue didn't like the tinny sound of Delta, and she didn't care for jazz, which he considered just short of sacrilege. "Gonna have to turn you on to some good jazz, darlin'," he murmured, and bent back to the case.

Besides the blues, there was a huge variety. A little alternative rock and roll, some country he thought of as "story" songs, some classical. "Baroque, huh?" he said, pulling out a couple of cases from that period and flipping them over to look at the lists.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face. "You like it?"

"You sound surprised, sugar." He tossed the CDs back, the unsettled feeling growing along the back of his neck. "A man might say the same about you. Never saw you in the other music newsgroups."

"Do you visit others?"

"Some." That made him think about her comments on his drinking when he posted. Embarrassing. "Well," he said, straightening. "I guess I'll leave you alone. In the morning, I'll be glad to take you around town—show you where the library is, and introduce you to some of the folks who might have some stories to tell."

"You don't have to put yourself out, Dr. Reynard."

"Blue."

"Blue," she repeated. "I'm sure I can find my way around."

"I'm sure you can. But things'll go better if you let me take you." He lifted a shoulder. "It's a small town."

Still, she hesitated. Then, "All right. I'll see you in the morning."

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," he said. On the way out, he paused to scratch April's ear.

Out in the night, with lightning bugs winking all through the grass, Blue stopped, feeling a little off-balance. He put a hand to his ribs and took in some air, then blew it out and shook his shoulders a little. In his mind's eye, he saw the bulging, soft-sided case and the big, well-trained dog. Security, she'd said. Music and a dog. Security for Miss Ellie Connor with the tough set of her shoulders and her head-on way of looking at him.

He shook his head. Probably just a case of the girls looking prettier at closing time. He needed some food, some sleep. But when he stepped back up on the porch, he said, "She's not just into the blues. She's got classical in there. And REM. Even some Reba McEntire."

Marcus nodded and wordlessly handed him a fresh glass of bourbon, an offering of solace.

Blue drank it down, taking refuge in the burn, then poured another and put the bottle down on the wooden floor of the porch. After a long space of time, filled only with the lowering depths of the night and the faint squeak of the porch swing, he rubbed his ribs again.

"Not one of your bimbos there, that's for sure," Marcus said.

"No, I don't think so."

"Hell of a mouth."

"Yep." Blue drank.

A dark, rolling laugh boomed into the quiet. "Oh, how the mighty do fall!"

"Not my type."

"Mmmm. I saw that." Marcus stood and put his glass on a wicker table. He pulled his keys out of his pocket. "I think I'll go curl up with my woman."

"Hell with you, Marcus."

Laughter was the only reply.