by Anne Stuart
He looked troubled. “Margaret, I really don’t want to prescribe for you without doing a complete physical—”
“I don’t need a prescription,” she broke in, startled. “What did you think I was asking for?”
“Tranquilizers or birth control,” he replied promptly. “I take it I was wrong.”
“I don’t need either.” I don’t want either, she added silently. She didn’t believe in using tranquilizers, and she didn’t want to be in a position where she needed birth control. “Actually, I didn’t want to talk about me. It’s about someone else.”
“Your daughter? She seems fine to me.”
“No, not Carrie. Peter.”
Had she imagined it, or had his eyes grown wary?
“Ah, Peter,” he murmured. “What did you want to say to me about Peter?”
“I wanted to ask you about him.”
“I can’t discuss a patient with you. You should understand that. There’s a question of patient confidentiality, not to mention professional ethics. If you’re worried about whether he’s a danger to you or your daughter, then I can safely guarantee that he’s not. Peter wouldn’t harm a living soul. But I really can’t say anything more.”
“I just wondered . . .” She stopped, embarrassed, but Dr. Pitcher was waiting patiently enough. “It struck me that Peter might not . . . might not really be crazy. That for some reason or other he’s simply pretending to be ill.” She looked up at him hopefully. “That maybe someone else killed his wife, and he had to pretend . . .”
Dr. Pitcher was shaking his head sadly. “I wish I could tell you there was any hope, Margaret. I brought the boy into the world, along with all his cousins, and I’ve watched him grow up into a fine man. That is, until Rosanne came into his life and started systematically destroying him. I was involved in the forensic evidence. I was part of the team that did his psychiatric evaluation. There’s no doubt at all. Peter Delacroix strangled his wife in a moment of insanity, and has never really come back from that state.”
His eyes were dark and full of sorrow, and she had no choice but to believe him. “You’re certain . . .?”
“Certain,” he said. “He’s coming down for an after-dinner brandy. If you’d rather, you might like to go to your room.”
It took an enormous effort, but she managed a bland smile. “That’s all right. It doesn’t really matter to me, after all. I just thought it might be possible that a mistake was made.”
“The only mistake that was made was when Peter married Rosanne. It set the wheels of destruction in motion, and who knows how it will all end.”
“I thought it had ended,” she said sharply. “Peter’s been convicted and incarcerated, at least to a certain extent. You’ve assured me he’s harmless. What’s left?”
Dr. Pitcher’s smile was the epitome of reassurance and expert bedside manner. “Nothing at all. I tend to grow a bit pompous and poetic as I get older. The waste of human potential gets to me after a while. If you’re not going to bed yet, come with me and we’ll share a brandy. Peter may change his mind.”
Margaret looked up the flight of stairs, to the darkened landing above. He was up there, somewhere, and the situation was as bad, or worse, than she’d expected. Things always hurt more if you dared to hope, though why it should even matter was beyond her.
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” she said. “Though tonight I might need one of Uncle Remy’s concoctions.”
“Trust me, Margaret. I’m an expert at dispensing brandy and advice.”
“Do you have any advice for me?”
“Forget about Peter and his problems. They’re not yours, and you don’t need the complications. If I were you, I’d get out of here as soon as you can afford to. Go someplace light and airy, where there’s room to breathe.”
Unbidden, the memory of Wendell’s house came to mind. That was a place where someone could breathe, could live, could prosper. But Wendell wasn’t the man to share it with. “I intend to do just that,” she said. “As soon as I possibly can.”
By the time they’d reached the drawing room Lisette and Wendell had stopped bickering, though neither of them looked particularly cheerful. “We thought you’d retired for the night, Margaret,” Wendell murmured. “I’m glad to see you’re still up.”
“Peter’s coming down,” Dr. Pitcher announced. “Put out your cigarette, Lisette.”
Lisette’s response was particularly vulgar as she stubbed out her cigarette. “I’m going to bed.”
“You’ll stay where you are, young lady,” Gertrude said. “I won’t have Peter made to feel like a leper in his own home.”
“He is a leper,” Lisette said hotly. “He’s an outcast, unwanted, and I wish to hell he’d stayed in the institution. Or in jail, where he belongs.”
“Peter doesn’t belong in jail,” Dr. Pitcher said. “You know that as well as I do, and so does the state. As long as his behavior meets certain standards he’s free to stay at home, and home is the best place for him.”
The expressions on almost every face in the room took leave to doubt that, but Dr. Pitcher ignored them, heading for the brandy bottle and pouring himself and Margaret a healthy snifter full. “I know it goes against the Jaffrey-Delacroix heritage,” he said, “but why don’t we try for a pleasant, peaceful end to the evening. Stress does no one any good, and Peter isn’t making the progress I’d like.”
“Then why don’t you keep him locked in the attics?” Lisette countered stubbornly.
“No one can keep me locked in the attics, dear Cousin,” Peter said, said from the doorway. “You should know that.”
Margaret took a deep gulp of her brandy as Peter strolled into the room, and his deep green eyes met hers. “Don’t gulp good cognac, Marguerite,” he murmured. “It’s a waste. If you need something to calm you, come up to my rooms and I’ll give you some of the drugs they try on me. They’re enough to tranquilize a horse.”
“You haven’t been taking them,” Gertrude said accusingly.
“Not if I can help it. I prefer a mild coherence to a blissful stupor. I already spent too many months in that condition.”
He hadn’t moved from Margaret’s side, and she could positively feel the tension thrumming through him. He might have a charming, relaxed smile, but Margaret, at least, wasn’t fooled. He was up to something, and she didn’t know if she could bear to watch.
He must have sensed her concern. While Wendell started making anxious noises, he reached out and brushed a stray wisp of hair from her troubled face. “You should be in bed,” he said softly. “You’re tired. Why don’t you go on up?”
It took all her effort to fight the hypnotic effect he had on her. His low, faintly drawling voice, the strength, the warmth in his hand as it brushed against her cheek threatened to lull her into a dreamy state. A state she couldn’t afford to be in. “Why does everyone tell me I should be in bed?” she asked plaintively, fighting her reaction.
Peter laughed then. “Who can blame them?” he replied, moving away. “Suit yourself.” He sat down on the love seat beside Lisette, giving her a mocking smile. “How are the plans for Mardi Gras coming, Lisette? Is your costume ready?”
“Don’t try to charm me, Peter,” she snarled. “You forget; I’ve known you all my life. I know when you get in one of those moods of yours, and I’m not about to put up with it. Go back up to the attic.”
“Dear heart, I wouldn’t think of it.” He leaned back, smiling at his relatives as an uncomfortable silence settled over the room. “Don’t let me disturb you,” he said cheerfully. “Continue with whatever you were doing. I’ll just sit here on the edge of things, listening.”
By that time Eustacia and Remy had filed in. Eustacia had taken one panicked look at her nephew and scuttled silently into a corner. Remy had headed straight for the bar.
/> “So what are you wearing for Mardi Gras, Wendell?” Peter asked, lazily, yet his eyes were alert. “Something original, I trust.”
“I’m going to be a vampire,” he replied warily. “I thought it would be particularly fitting after the Anne Rice books.”
“And what about Margaret? I trust you have something suitable planned. You are taking her, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll come,” Wendell grumbled. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I’m sure we’ll be able to find something.”
“Just don’t leave the choice up to Lisette.”
“Damn you, Peter,” Lisette began hotly. “As a matter of fact, I have ordered something for her. I knew Wendell would be able to talk her into coming, and while I know you think I’m heartless, I want her to come, too.”
“Of course you do, darling,” Peter murmured. “So you’ve seen to a costume for her. Not like that horrific pink dress, I hope?”
“Of course not. Though some redheads look very nice in pink. How was I to know it would make Margaret look like a milkmaid?”
If it hadn’t been for the trace of malice in her eyes Margaret would almost have believed her innocent.
“I had her choose something suitable, Peter,” Gertrude said sternly. “I hope I know my granddaughter well enough to know that she doesn’t make the same mistakes twice. I’m certain Margaret will look quite lovely at Mardi Gras.”
“I’m certain she will, too,” said Peter, not bothering to glance at her. “In spite of Lisette’s best efforts. You know, I really don’t see Margaret as a leprechaun.”
“A leprechaun?” Margaret echoed faintly. “Is that what I’m supposed to wear? A tall, skinny, redheaded leprechaun?” She’d never had an excess of vanity, but the very thought made her shudder.
“I thought it would be fitting,” Lisette defended herself. “After all, she is Irish—you can tell by those freckles. And no one can tell me green doesn’t go well with red hair.”
“Lisette, I thought better of you.” Gertrude frowned. “It’s lucky we’ve known of it in time for something more suitable to be provided.”
“How did you know?” Lisette demanded, her eyes narrowing suddenly. “Have you been ferreting around in my room?”
Peter smiled blandly. “How could I, darling? I’ve been locked in my rooms.”
Margaret drained her glass of brandy, setting it down on the table with a small clinking noise. “I hate to mention this,” she said faintly, “but do you smell something burning?”
All eyes turned accusingly toward Peter. “What have you done?” Gertrude demanded.
“Carrie,” Margaret gasped, racing for the door in panic as visions of flames swept through her mind. Mrs. McKinley was there at the door, a stern expression on her face.
“Your daughter’s safe,” she announced flatly. “Fire’s out.” She advanced into the room, a stately figure intent on one goal. “You go on upstairs now, Peter. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night.”
He grinned up at her indolently. Margaret paused by the door, knowing she should check on Carrie, anyway, yet unable to tear herself away from the drama unfolding in front of her.
“You spoil all my fun, Mizmac,” he drawled.
“Someone sure needs to. You wrecked Lisette’s Mardi Gras dress.”
“What?” Lisette shrieked. “That gown cost me two thousand dollars! You swine, you snake, you animal.”
“The remains are in the bathtub,” Mrs. McKinley said without looking at Lisette. “Go see if you can salvage anything.”
“Peter,” Dr. Pitcher said sadly. “How could you?”
Peter smiled. There was a peculiar sadness in that smile, a sweetness that touched Margaret’s heart. She wanted to reach out to him, despite the acrid odor of smoke that drifted down the stairs.
“Easily, Doc,” Peter said. He lifted his hand, still holding the disposable lighter. In the other he held a sheaf of papers. “Like this.” And he set the papers on fire, scattering them all over Gertrude’s priceless Oriental carpet.
It happened so quickly Margaret could scarcely follow it. By the time Wendell dove for Peter he’d leaped away, heading for the sheer gauze curtains that draped the floor-to-ceiling windows. Within seconds they were ablaze, and Peter had moved on toward the liquor supply.
That goal galvanized Uncle Remy, who flung himself in front of the bar with a strangled cry of protest. Eustacia, with more self-possession than she’d shown in the week since Margaret had met her, tossed the bucket of ice water onto the curtains, and Mrs. McKinley was already busy with a handy fire extinguisher as Wendell finally succeeded in flattening Peter and wresting the lighter from his grip. It was over in a few moments, the stench of chemicals and burned fabric overriding everything.
Margaret hadn’t moved from her post by the door, too shocked to do more than stare. Wendell yanked Peter upright, and Dr. Pitcher moved to take his arm, as the others scurried around, picking up charred papers and stamping out lingering coals. “Call the ambulance service, Mizmac,” Dr. Pitcher said grimly. “Tell them we’ll need a pickup first thing in the morning.” He yanked at Peter with less than doctorly care. “I’m going to chain you to the bed, boy,” he snarled. “Then we’ll see whether you can get into any more trouble.”
The two men started hauling Peter out of the room. He kept his head down, moving willingly enough, but just as they passed Margaret’s stunned face he stopped and lifted his head to meet her gaze. “I told you not to watch,” he murmured softly.
She waited until they were out of sight on the landing, waited without moving, without helping, as the Jaffreys and Delacroix cleaned up the mess with an accustomed air. “I never liked those curtains, anyway,” Gertrude said with a sigh. “It was about time to replace them.”
“What about my dress?” Lisette demanded in a cross between a shriek and a whine. “I’ve been planning on it for over six months, and now it’s ruined.”
“Maybe something can be salvaged,” Eustacia murmured, scooping up charred papers and tossing them in the unused fireplace.
“Not if I know Peter. He’s nothing if not thorough,” she said viciously.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. McKinley agreed. “There’s not much left but a few scorched rags. It’s a good thing I found it when I did, or your whole closet might have gone up in flames.”
Lisette shrieked. “You mean he set fire to it in my closet? My clothes will be ruined!”
“They just smell a little smoky,” Mrs. McKinley said cheerfully. “Funny thing about that, though. I would have thought Peter could have heard me coming. That fire hadn’t been burning more than thirty, forty seconds when I found it.” She smiled blandly at Margaret. “Guess we’re all just plain lucky.”
“Lucky,” Margaret echoed. This house was old, and made of ancient wood. If Mrs. McKinley hadn’t been on guard the whole place could have gone up like a tinderbox. Thank heavens Peter hadn’t realized his pyromaniacal actions were being observed.
“Go on up to bed, Margaret.” Gertrude’s tight voice roused her from her abstraction. “This is your first run-in with Peter’s little problem, and it’s doubtless upsetting. I’m sure you’ll find that Carrie has slept through it all.”
“I couldn’t . . .,” Margaret said, but Uncle Remy was ahead of her, pressing a refilled brandy glass in her hand.
“Go to sleep, p’tite,” he said, and Margaret didn’t bother to point out that she was taller than he was. “Tomorrow this will all seem like a strange dream.”
Of course they were right. Carrie was fast asleep, snoring slightly, unaware of the scene that had played out below. Lisette’s door stood open, and the smell of wet, burned cloth was heavy in the air.
She undressed and got ready for bed as quickly and quietly as she could, fighting back tears. She didn’t know why she wanted to cry.
She hadn’t learned anything new. Peter was crazy, and if she’d had any doubts, he’d effectively dispelled them that night. So it made no sense that she wanted to throw herself on her smoke-scented pillow and cry her eyes out.
She drained the brandy glass with one gulp, remembering, against her will, Peter’s caution. He’d warned her not to gulp the brandy. He’d warned her not to stay and watch.
She slept poorly, dreams of fire jerking her into awareness every few hours. Finally, at six-thirty in the morning, she gave up, dragging herself out of bed, wrapping an ancient chenille bathrobe around her and heading down to the kitchen.
She made the coffee very strong, carrying it with her to the veranda that ran along the side of the house. She settled down in the rocking chair that was Mrs. McKinley’s territory, taking her first sip of coffee, and let the cool, damp morning air settle around her.
The sounds of car doors slamming made her jerk around. She could just manage to see the driveway from her spot at the back of the house. A white ambulance was parked there, must have been there when she’d come down, but she hadn’t noticed. Dr. Pitcher was there, and so was Peter.
She didn’t move, didn’t look away, as he was led over to the double back doors. He was laughing, his head thrown back in the sunlight, and Dr. Pitcher was laughing with him. Peter was about to climb into the back of the ambulance, when he stopped, suddenly alert.
He turned and looked at her. No one else realized she was there, watching. It was a moment divorced from time or space, just his eyes staring into hers, and there was no laughter left. No madness, only a rueful sort of grief. And then he climbed into the ambulance, pulling the doors shut behind him.
Chapter Nine
“I’M DELIGHTED YOU changed your mind, Margaret,” Wendell said, patting her hand as the car sped along the River Road toward New Orleans. “No newcomer to Louisiana should miss carnival. I’m only sorry you couldn’t come for longer. Marci Gras should build. You’ve already missed our krewe’s private ball and some of the best parades.”