Crazy Like a Fox

by Anne Stuart

  “I didn’t . . .” Margaret began, then decided to drop the matter. Lisette was someone who believed what she chose to believe. All Margaret’s protests would fall on conveniently deaf ears.

  “I trust you aren’t going down to dinner in that outfit? Gertrude wouldn’t stand for it,” Lisette said smugly.

  She was dressed for dinner, of course, this time in a cream wool dress studded with pearls. Real pearls shone in her tiny ears, and the strand around her neck had to be worth a fortune. Margaret ran her hands down her flour-smeared jeans, thinking of her aging black dress. Maybe she could have dinner in the kitchen with Mrs. McKinley and Carrie. She had little doubt she’d have a more comfortable time. But she chickened out again. “I was just about to change.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. The only thing Gertrude hates more than being underdressed is being late. The family assembles in the drawing room for drinks at six, and woe be unto those who straggle in late. It is now one minute of six.”

  Without another word Lisette sailed past in a cloud of Chanel. Margaret stood on the landing, watching her go, and then, on impulse, she stuck her tongue out at Lisette’s elegant back.

  “Tsk, tsk,” a deep masculine voice reproved her, and for a moment Margaret felt that familiar-unfamiliar tightening in her stomach. Until she realized Peter was still locked upstairs, and the voice had come from across the hallway.

  Wendell was standing in the open doorway, the setting sun behind him gilding his outline for a moment, throwing his face in shadows. He was dressed with the same propriety as Uncle Remy, though he didn’t wear his clothes with quite the same panache. The white suit was a little too neat, the tie a little too proper.

  “Not that I blame you,” he continued, stepping out into the hallway.

  The weird effect of the sun vanished, leaving him nothing more than a normal, attractive man. “My baby sister tends to have that effect on people. You just did what her current—soon to be ex-husband is busy doing, only he’s doing it in more legal terms.”

  “Is that why she’s here?”

  “You don’t think Lisette would choose to be at Maison Delacroix if she could help it? She got a very nice settlement from her first husband, enabling her to live quite comfortably in New Orleans, but of course that alimony stopped when she remarried. And Vern, her second husband, is not feeling quite as generous. Therefore Lisette’s in seclusion while she has her lawyers deal with such tawdry matters.”

  “You’re not handling the divorce for her?”

  Wendell shook his head. “In general it’s not a good idea for lawyers to represent their own families.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Wendell hesitated. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m Peter’s lawyer?”

  “I wasn’t aware that you were.”

  “Cousins aren’t as close as siblings,” Wendell said. “And, of course, he knew I’d do anything for him, short of bribing a jury. I still didn’t get him off.”

  “I didn’t know you could get a . . .” She couldn’t think of a tactful way to phrase it.

  Wendell nodded, understanding her dilemma. “Hard to think of the right word, isn’t it? ‘Psychotic’ seems a little extreme. ‘Mentally ill’ seems too polite. For what it’s worth, Peter prefers the term ‘crazy.’”

  “All right.” She shrugged. “I didn’t know you could get a crazy person off.”

  “We weren’t using the insanity plea at first. You didn’t know Rosanne. With the right sort of judge we could have gotten away with justifiable homicide. The woman was a bitch of the first order.”

  “What did you use?”

  “Innocent. That’s what Peter insisted he was, right up until sentencing. I certainly tried my best, but I couldn’t shake the jury. The circumstantial evidence was too much, and then, of course, he confessed.”

  “I’m sure you did your best,” she said lamely.

  “You’re right, of course. Given the circumstances, I did all right. At least Peter didn’t end up in the electric chair. We have capital punishment in this state, you know. He wouldn’t have gotten a slap on the wrist and a few months on a prison farm.”

  “He’s ended up with something like that,” Margaret pointed out.

  “Yes, he has, hasn’t he?” Wendell appeared struck by the thought. “Worrying about Peter is a waste of time. Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Grandmère said you’d be able to give me a hand a couple of days a week.”

  “I’d like to. I need to earn my way.”

  “I can’t pay that much. Certainly not what you would have gotten in Arizona. This is a small backwater, and I don’t have a wealthy clientele.”

  “That’s no problem. Whatever you think is fair.”

  Wendell smiled then, a dazzling smile that reminded her too much of Dexter when he was trying to get his own way. “My office is a mess, I warn you. My last secretary went on maternity leave and never came back, and I’ve been making do with high school typists.”

  “I’m not much better.”

  “At least you won’t giggle and play Taylor Swift on your iPhone.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone, and if I did I’d probably stick to Phish.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Really? Well, at least it’s not country music. We can’t even mention it in this house,” he said with a shudder. “It’s part of Peter’s problem.”

  “Why?”

  Before he could answer Remy’s faintly slurred voice floated up the stairs. “Grandmère’s asking for you two. Best hurry up if you don’t want her in a foul temper.”

  Margaret peered over the banister at her uncle-in-law. He had a drink in one hand, an absent smile on his face, and the toes of his white shoes, the ones he’d used for gardening, were spotless.

  “Hi, Uncle Remy. I’ll be down in a minute. I have to get dressed first.” He was the only genuinely friendly person it the place, and she couldn’t help but like him.

  He grinned up at her, clearly liking her, too. “Hi yourself, Margaret. If I were you I’d come down now. Grandmère doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Cousin, your arm,” Wendell said grandly, crooking his elbow.

  She had no choice but to take it. She wished she could simply head out the back hall to the kitchen or stay up in the attics with Peter, but she’d learned long ago that cowardice wasn’t an option. Head held high, she descended the wide, curving staircase of Maison Delacroix like a pampered debutante or a glowing bride.

  “Bravo,” Uncle Remy whispered as she sailed by, and she felt her smile strengthen, enough to carry her through as she entered the overheated drawing room and came face to face with Gertrude’s stern disapproval.

  Fortunately they had a guest. “Dr. Pitcher, this shabbily dressed young lady is Margaret Jaffrey, Dexter’s widow,” Gertrude announced. “She seems to have forgotten we dress for dinner at Maison Delacroix.”

  Margaret dropped Wendell’s arm, her smile never faltering. “My husband’s grandmother seems to have forgotten that other people might not be able to afford to dress for dinner,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact.

  Dr. Pitcher was a tall, white-haired gentleman in the shady area around sixty, but he’d clearly known Gertrude for most of those years.

  “Gertrude’s sense of reality is her own,” he said, taking Margaret’s hand in his. “Welcome to Louisiana, Margaret, and welcome to Delacroix Landing.”

  Gertrude was clearly affronted. “Why didn’t you say you didn’t have any decent clothing?” she demanded. “Lisette could have lent you something.”

  “Not likely,” drawled Lisette from her perch on the love seat. She waved her cigarette. “Besides, I’m what you might call petite. Margaret’s a strapping wench, aren’t you, darling? Built along much more generous lines.”

  Since Margaret
considered herself too thin at that particular time, Lisette’s barbs missed their mark. “Thanks, anyway,” she murmured with just the hint of a smile. “It was nice of you to offer.”

  “I didn’t . . .,” Lisette began with some heat.

  “You shouldn’t smoke those things,” Dr. Pitcher announced sternly. “You know they’re no good for you.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “I brought you into this world, young lady. I continue to take an interest in those I delivered.” He glowered at her from under thick, white eyebrows. “Smoking’s no good for you.”

  “Especially since I’m on the pill,” Lisette shot back.

  “Lisette!” Eustacia roused herself from her placid trance to direct a shocked look at her daughter.

  “Oh, Lord,” murmured Wendell in her ear. “Another peaceful meal at Maison Delacroix.”

  “I’m not interested in Lisette’s reproductive choices,” Gertrude announced stiffly. “We’re more concerned with Peter’s prognosis.”

  Margaret looked around for an escape. “This is none of my business,” she said, backing toward the door.

  “Stay right there!” Gertrude ordered. “Of course it’s your business. It’s family business, and you’re family.”

  “You’ll soon learn, my dear, that the Jaffreys and the Delacroix believe in plain speaking,” Dr. Pitcher said with a wry smile. He took a seat beside Eustacia, opposite Gertrude’s throne-like chair. “I have to tell you, Gertrude, that I’m not happy. He’s not responding to drug therapy, and he’s still prone to angry, destructive outbursts.”

  “So what else is new?” Lisette drawled.

  “I think he’s going to have to go in for treatment again,” Dr. Pitcher continued smoothly, ignoring the interruption.

  “Somehow I expected you were going to say something like that,” Gertrude said, her voice unexpectedly wry. “When?”

  “Soon. I’ll have to make arrangements, of course. Next week, probably.”

  “Mardi Gras time. You won’t have any trouble getting him in the hospital? I assume he’s going into the same small, private institution he was at before.”

  “That was my intention. The staff at Shady Oaks are very dedicated. I think they’ll take him on such short notice, even at such a busy time.”

  “You’ll have a lonely Mardi Gras, Grandmère,” Wendell murmured. “Would you rather we stayed and kept you company?”

  “Certainly not. Mrs. McKinley and Carrie and I will have a fine time without you quarrelsome creatures around.”

  “You’re coming, of course, Cousin,” Wendell turned to Margaret.

  “No, thank you,” she said instantly.

  “You’re turning down Mardi Gras in New Orleans?” Lisette asked incredulously. “Maybe she’s the one who belongs in the nuthouse, Dr. Pitcher.”

  “I need to get started with work,” Margaret answered, thinking of her dead car, thinking of how very much she wanted to take her daughter and get away from Maison Delacroix.

  “There won’t be any work while I’m in New Orleans, Margaret,” Wendell said gently. “Don’t worry, we won’t be gone that long, and I’ll personally see to it that you have a wonderful time. Promise me you’ll think about it.”

  She didn’t even want to promise that much, but Wendell was looking too beseeching, too much like Dexter, like the old, charming Dexter she’d been fool enough to fall in love with. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Could we get back to the matter at hand?” Gertrude demanded.

  “What is there to get back to? Peter’s nuts, he’s getting nuttier and Doc is going to get him out of our hair for a while,” Lisette said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Case closed.”

  “Is it?” Margaret asked, looking up at Wendell.

  “Is what?”

  “Is the case closed?”

  He smiled, warm, friendly one with lots of teeth. “Of course. He was convicted and he confessed. Three state experts certified that he was insane.”

  “But what happens if he recovers? Does he go to jail, or can he go free?”

  “That’s a good question.” Wendell escorted her into the candlelit dining room, pulling out her chair with a flourish.

  “Don’t you know the answer? You’re his lawyer.”

  “It isn’t that simple,” he murmured.

  “Stop whispering,” Gertrude snapped as Dr. Pitcher helped her into her seat at the head of the table. “If you have something to say, say it to everyone.”

  “Nothing, Grandmère,” Wendell said. “Merely remarking on the weather.”

  MARGARET STARED out the kitchen window into the rain swept night. It was after ten, and the room was deserted, quiet, except for the steady thrum of the rain and the distant sound of bickering from the living room. Mrs. McKinley had gone home; where, Margaret wasn’t quite sure. Carrie was sound asleep in her bed, having enjoyed her second night at this desolate place even more than her first. And the Jaffreys and Delacroix were doing what they did best. Arguing and gossiping about people Margaret had never met and never hoped to meet.

  She sat perched on the high stool by the well-scrubbed oak table, watching the Spanish moss dance in the wind. All the lights were off; she was alone in the darkness, searching for some sort of peace. She didn’t really expect to find it, at least, not until she got away from Maison Delacroix.

  She didn’t want to go to New Orleans and spend Mardi Gras with strangers. She wasn’t in the mood for gaiety, or drunkenness, or revelry. She couldn’t afford to let go, even for a moment. She didn’t want to.

  She was so tired, so weary in every muscle and bone in her body, but something kept her from going to bed. Some restless, incomprehensible part of her kept her sitting alone in a darkened kitchen, away from light and people and laughter.

  She knew what it was, of course. She was remembering the man in the attic, and the tray of dishes.

  She hadn’t thought about them until Mrs. McKinley left. They could stay up there, of course, and be fetched in the morning when someone took breakfast up to him. There wasn’t anything dangerous, a table knife, a fork, some glassware. No one had told her to go back up there; no one had said it mattered.

  If she needed company she should return to the drawing room. Wendell was charming, flattering, and it had been so long since she’d allowed herself to see the light of attraction in a man’s eyes. Dr. Pitcher seemed very sweet and avuncular, the sort of man you could bring your troubles to. Uncle Remy would probably be mixing strong drinks, just the sort of thing to wipe out her restlessness and help her sleep, and even Lisette was amusing in a catty sort of way.

  Or she could follow Eustacia’s and Gertrude’s example and head upstairs for bed. Anyone as tired as she was had to fall asleep. But she knew from experience that exhaustion wasn’t enough. Not when there was a restless nagging in the soul.

  She climbed down from the stool, stretching her arms over her head in the darkness. She knew perfectly well what she was going to do, whether it was sensible or not. She was going to get the last remaining dirty dishes in the house.

  PETER LEANED BACK and closed his eyes, letting the music sweep around him. The Magic Flute danced around him, the voices blending, soaring, sending shivers along his skin. There were times, nights like this, when he sat alone, wishing he could crawl into the music and disappear. When they brought him breakfast the next morning he’d be gone, floating out into the air with the glorious sounds of Mozart.

  “Damn,” he said out loud, the curse momentarily breaking the spell. He was getting as loony as they said he was, stuck alone in this damned attic. He’d always considered himself a pragmatic man, until his life had turned upside down. If he didn’t get out soon, he’d end up really belonging there.

  He leaned back, sliding down on the couch, his long legs stuc
k out in front of him. He’d been handling things pretty well until Margaret Jaffrey had shown up. He had to put her out of his mind, forget she even existed. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t come anywhere near him unless she absolutely had to, and given the edgy, suspicious manner she had around him, he probably could count on her giving him a wide berth. It was unlikely that his strong attraction was reciprocated, in view of what she’d been told about him, given what she’d probably been through at Dexter’s careless hands. He’d known his cousin better than he wanted to, a weak, charming asshole who took advantage of everyone around him. Dexter was enough to turn any woman off men. No, chances were he wouldn’t be seeing her for days.

  He heard the soft knock on the door, the rattle of the key in the lock. Frozen, he sat unmoving, still letting the music shift and flow around him. It would be Wendell, with one of his guilty excuses, or it would be Doc Pitcher again, taking pity on Peter’s solitude. Maybe Uncle Remy with a bottle, or any number of people now in residence at Maison Delacroix. Anyone but the person he couldn’t stop thinking about.

  He’d turned off most of the lights, leaving the room in shadows, and when the door opened the hall light silhouetted the figure standing there. Too tall to be Lisette, he thought, his breath catching.

  “Peter,” Margaret said, and she sounded nervous. “I came to get the dishes.”

  Sure you did, he thought, not moving. That answered his question. She was as drawn to him as he was to her. It wasn’t the dirty dishes she was worried about—he’d already checked out her room when she was downstairs at dinner, and she was definitely not into compulsive neatness. Something had called to her—he had called to her—in the dark, rainy night, and she’d come.

  “I already washed them,” he said, his voice quiet, just rising above the level of music. “Sit down.”

  “I should go back . . .”

  “You don’t want to be with them. Sit down, Margaret. The couch is big, and I won’t touch you. Trust me,” he said, knowing how ridiculous that would sound to a woman who believed him capable of murder.