by Anne Stuart
“I hate the thought of going home,” Wendell said with a sigh, slipping on his jacket and reknotting his silk tie.
“Why?”
“Have you forgotten that the Prodigal Son has returned?” he said bitterly. “Not that we’re likely to see him. Peter usually keeps a low profile after one of his fits. Nevertheless there always seems to be a pall over the house when he’s in residence. I wish they could find him some nice, safe, private sanitarium and keep him there. Forever.”
Margaret looked up in surprise. “I thought you were instrumental in getting him released into home custody.”
He shook his head. “Not me. He needs full-time professional help. He should be getting it.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t dangerous.”
“He isn’t. At least, not if you don’t count burning down the old building if he isn’t caught in time dangerous. He’s never going to get better, Margaret. You heard what Doc Pitcher said. There’s been no improvement. Every time we think that at least things are going along at a fairly even tenor, then he throws one of his fits. Someone forgets and leaves matches in his reach, or someone doesn’t turn off the radio and he starts tossing things through windows. Sooner or later he’s going to start tossing people, not furniture, and we’re going to have a real mess on our hands.” He shook his head sadly.
“So you think he needs to be in an institution to get better?” She followed him out the door, waiting as he locked the office.
“No. For one thing, an institution would be too stifling. But there are some lovely places, more like vacation spas than mental hospitals. I’ve done some research and come up with a list of about half a dozen, all in the South and Southwest. He could get the care he needs, and Grandmère wouldn’t have that tremendous strain on her shoulders. At eighty-six she shouldn’t have that sort of responsibility wearing her down.”
“I don’t think Gertrude would appreciate your concern,” Margaret said wryly. “She thinks she’s indestructible.”
“Well, she’s not. And I don’t want Peter cutting anyone else’s life short,” Wendell said savagely, jerking open the passenger door with instinctive courtesy despite his rage.
“What’s the other thing?” she asked as he sank into the driver’s seat and started the car, stalling out and starting it again.
“I beg your pardon?” He backed into the narrow, sleepy lane, almost hitting a parked Volvo, before taking off, grinding gears as he went.
“You said that for one thing there were nice places Peter could stay in. What was the other thing?”
He looked at her, a mistake considering what a poor driver he was, but Margaret merely bit her lip, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “The other thing,” he said heavily, “is that I don’t believe Peter’s going to get better. Whether we like it or not, Peter is declining into full-blown madness, and the sooner we get him out from under our roof, the safer we’ll all be.”
She said nothing, turning to look out at the quiet little streets as Wendell drove, too fast, through the town. She couldn’t refute his statement, even if her instincts told her he was wrong. She’d known Peter only a few weeks, only seen him a handful of times. Who was she to insist that he wasn’t that sick, that he was going to get better? And why should it matter to her?
She wanted to see him, wanted to talk to him, even touch him. To find out who was stronger, her mysterious, sensual phantom or the madman in the attic?
Hadn’t she learned anything after the debacle of her marriage? Why wasn’t she attracted to the man beside her, a decent, gentle man? Why was she drawn to madmen and phantoms, men who murdered their wives and men who wouldn’t even show their faces? After the long, slow death of the soul she’d suffered when married to Dexter, surely she wasn’t seeking out a physical death. Was she as mad as Peter was purported to be?
At least Lisette was still absent, she thought during dinner, picking at her food, keeping her eyes downcast. No one appeared in the mood to talk that evening. Remy seemed even more devoted to his mint juleps, Eustacia’s habitual silence was never broken and even Gertrude only managed to converse in terse phrases. All Margaret could think about was the man upstairs, and the impossibility and sheer insanity of drumming up an excuse to go see him.
Wendell dropped his fork, and everyone in the room jumped. “Sorry,” he muttered, reaching for his chicory-laced coffee.
“I must say I appreciate the proper Lenten spirit,” Gertrude said tartly, “but aren’t we carrying fasting and repentance a little too far? No one in this room has eaten a decent meal tonight.”
“How’s Peter?” Margaret asked abruptly.
Everyone turned to stare at her. “Were we talking about Peter?” Gertrude demanded.
“Yes.” Margaret lifted her head to look the old lady in the eye. “We were talking about why no one had any appetite or wanted to talk. And you know as well as I do it’s because Peter is back. How is he?”
“I appreciate your telling me what I do or do not know,” Gertrude said with some sarcasm, not denying it. “He looks fine. A little tired, perhaps. I didn’t ask what they did to him in that private sanitarium, and I don’t wish to know. But he seems very quiet and subdued. I don’t expect we’ll have a replay of last week’s scene.”
“At least not for a while,” Wendell said. “Until it starts building, and explodes, and someone gets hurt. I’ve told you, Grandmère—”
“And I’ve listened, Wendell,” the old woman cut him off sharply. “And I’m not going to have family locked away, cared for by strangers, simply because it’s inconvenient. Most of the time Peter is as normal as anyone in this family.”
“That’s not saying much,” he muttered, setting his coffee cup down with an annoying clatter. “And it’s not inconvenient. It’s downright dangerous.”
“I don’t agree. There’s no need to rehash this, Wendell, and it’s not really any of your business. As long as I’m alive I own Maison Delacroix, and what goes on under my roof is my business, not yours. What’s happened to the house you wanted to buy? If your living arrangements don’t suit you, why don’t you make your own plans?”
“He doesn’t want to sell.”
Margaret turned to him, honestly distressed. “You aren’t going to be able to buy that charming house? That’s awful. Whoever owns it obviously doesn’t care about it, or he’d spend more time there and finish the renovations.”
An uncomfortable stillness settled over the table. “How’s your work going?” Gertrude changed the subject with her usual high-handedness. “Is Wendell keeping you busy?”
“She’s doing a wonderful job,” Wendell said. “I’m just about completely caught up on my paperwork for the first time in months.”
“So you won’t be needing her to spend any extra time?” Gertrude prodded.
Wendell looked wary. “Two days a week will suffice.”
“Then I have another secretarial job for you. Also involving a salary. Would you like that?” Gertrude was looking smug.
“Very much. If we can work out the transportation . . .”
“There will be no problem with transportation. It’s working with Peter.”
“Grandmère!” Wendell protested. “Peter doesn’t need any help. He has a computer and access to anything he needs. He’s never needed help before. He’s even refused it.”
“He’s changed his mind. He’s decided to throw himself into his work, and I for one applaud that notion. He’s got a chapter to contribute to some college textbook, and he has to get his lectures in order for publication. He needs help. Would you be willing to give him that help, Margaret?”
She was as crazy as Peter was for even considering such a notion. And she was lying to herself. She wasn’t considering; she’d already decided. “I need the work,” she said.
Someone sighed, and she looked up
to see Uncle Remy shaking his head ruefully. “Life is getting very tangled, chère,” he murmured, draining his glass. “Be very careful.”
“I still don’t approve,” Wendell said, tossing his napkin on the table and pushing away. “But no one’s going to listen to me. Just remember, I know him better than any of you. I grew up with him. I represented him at his trial. I know about his relationship with Rosanne. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Without another word he stalked out of the dining room, and a moment later they heard the front door slam.
Gertrude leaned back with a sigh. “I could do with an after-dinner brandy. What about you, Eustacia?”
Eustacia lifted her head. “A double,” she said flatly.
“Margaret needs one, too,” Gertrude announced, rising with a grace unimpeded by the support of her cane. “Remy, if you will do the honors. You’ve had the most practice pouring drinks.”
Remy’s vague smile acknowledged his mother’s malice. “Practice makes perfect, Maman,” he said, bringing his own glass with him. “And we do so want to be perfect.”
PETER PACED THE wide expanse of his attic prison, cursing silently under his breath. That was one advantage of the spaciousness of the third floor—it gave him plenty of room to pace like a caged tiger. He’d spent weeks, months pacing, pacing until he really thought he’d go crazy. And if Margaret O’Rourke Jaffrey didn’t get here within the next ten minutes he’d start swinging from the barred windows.
Patience, he told himself. It was only nine o’clock in the morning. Carrie hadn’t left for school that long ago, and Margaret probably had things she needed to do. Except that he knew she’d been up since six. He’d been awake himself, stretched out on the sofa, watching the sun come up and drinking coffee, listening to her moving around below him.
Damn. There was no way he could get out of here for a number of months. Doc had warned him—if his “breakdowns” came too often the state might decide to investigate. As long as they were willing to leave him and his treatment up to Doc he was safe. If they felt like checking up, he and Doc might run into trouble.
What the hell was Wendell doing? Why hadn’t he made any more progress? It had been two years, two long, endless years, since someone had ended Rosanne’s short, greedy life, and they weren’t any closer to finding out who had done it. There were times when he caught Wendell looking at him, when he wondered whether Wendell believed him. Whether Wendell might not wonder if Peter had actually strangled his wife, then set fire to the guest house to cover the traces of the crime?
He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to remember identifying her body, or the feel of handcuffs on his wrists, or the days and nights locked in a cell. Anything was better than that, even his gilded cage, complete with a tall, skinny, redheaded bundle of temptation.
He almost didn’t hear the soft knock on the door. Whirling around, he immediately dropped down on the sofa, stretching out with all the appearance of a man at ease. Not a man who’d been going crazy waiting for her.
“You’ll have to let yourself in,” he called. “I’m afraid I don’t have any keys.”
Some small, illogical part of him had hoped she wouldn’t be as enticing as he remembered. That she’d be less graceful, more aggressive, less vulnerable, harder and meaner and colder. She stepped inside the room, carefully locking the door behind her, and her huge green eyes were wary. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss the fear away. He wanted to wipe out any doubts, any panic, any thoughts about anything but him. He wanted her to smile up at him, sweetly, safely, as she had that night in New Orleans. And he wanted to finish what they’d started on top of some old Creole’s tombstone.
The ring was gone, and he felt his own little beat of disappointment. It was to be expected. She’d thought it was a worthless trinket, or, if she’d known better, then she’d thought it was too valuable to wear for everyday. Or else it simply hadn’t mattered to her. Either way, her hands were bare. And he couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted those hands on his body.
He had to force himself not to get up, not to move close enough to touch her, to breath in her scent. He stretched lazily, looking at her out of hooded eyes. “Did you enjoy Mardi Gras, Cousin?”
Did she know she’d spent Mardi Gras with him? She was looking at him strangely, as if she were trying to envision him in a phantom’s costume with a half mask covering his face.
She shook her head, as if dismissing the notion. “I had a wonderful time. Did you enjoy the institution?”
He laughed. “Sharp-tongued as ever, Cousin. It had its moments. The nurses were very pretty.”
“I’m sure they were. Do you want some coffee?”
He watched as she moved in the direction of the kitchenette, her long, fluid body infuriatingly graceful.
“There’s some made. Help yourself. Did Cousin Wendell show you a good time?” he prompted, wanting to see if she was going to tell him about Andrew Delacroix. Wanting to see what she thought of his alter ego.
“Very nice,” she said repressively, pouring herself a mug of coffee and sitting down on the sectional as far away from him as she could manage.
“Did you meet any other cousins?” he prodded.
“Dozens of them.” She took a sip of her coffee, refusing to elaborate.
“Anyone in particular?”
“Your Cousin Francene.”
“If you don’t talk in more than one-syllable words, Marguerite, I am going to strangle you,” he said calmly, waiting for her reaction.
He’d manage to shock her. Those wonderful green eyes of hers had widened for a moment; then she simply took another sip of coffee.
“I thought you only killed your wives.”
“I could make an exception,” he growled. “Come on, chère, give me a break. I haven’t been to Mardi Gras in over two years, and for a native-born Louisianan, that’s pure torment. At least tell me what went on. Give me a taste of it.”
She sighed. “It was very noisy, very dirty, very crazy,” she said. “And absolutely wonderful.”
“And Wendell was the perfect host?”
“I imagine that from these pointed questions you’ve already heard I ditched Wendell,” she said, setting her mug down on the table in front of her and stretching her legs.
She was wearing those faded jeans of hers again, he noted, the ones that Gertrude deplored, the ones he loved. Loved the way they hugged her endless legs, loved the way they cupped her rounded bottom. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, surreptitiously adjusting his own jeans.
“Did you really?” he said. “Poor Wendell. Not that I blame you. He can be pretty deadly. So did you spend the time with Francene?”
Her eyes gauged him carefully. “I spent the time with your Cousin Andrew.”
“Which Cousin Andrew is that?”
“Andrew Delacroix of the Baton Rouge Delacroix. Ever heard of him?”
Peter grinned. “Of course. As a manner of fact, I know him pretty well. Or did before my recent misfortune. What did you think of him?”
He didn’t like that look in her eyes. She couldn’t know the truth, and if she’d begun to guess, she had to dismiss it as an impossibility. But she was looking at him as if she saw right through him, knew what he was doing and why he was lying.
He only wished she did. He considered telling her—for one brief moment he considered spilling everything, but he didn’t dare. Even Grandmère didn’t know the whole of it, though she certainly suspected. He couldn’t bring a stranger, a newcomer, into the secret. The fewer people he knew, the safer he was. He would be a fool to put his trust in Margaret.
“What did I think of him?” she echoed.
He detected a trace of odd defiance in her deliciously husky voice.
“I wanted him,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?” He was genuinely startled.
“You heard me. I wanted him. If we’d had five more minutes together I probably would have fallen completely, recklessly in love with him. Fortunately dawn broke, along with fasting and repentance. He went his way and I went mine.”
He held himself very still on the sofa. She was baiting him, and he was jumping for the bait like a starving catfish looking for a juicy worm. “Did he remind you of anyone?” One last crumb, he thought, one little taste to carry him through.
“He did,” she said.
“Who?” He held his breath, waiting.
Her smile should have warned him. “Dexter.”
It was almost like a blow, and then he realized she’d done it on purpose. “Liar,” he said, almost genially. “He’s not anything like your late husband, and if he were you wouldn’t have gone anywhere near him.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You forget, I knew Dexter, better than almost anyone. I knew that look in your eyes when you first came here. I don’t know what he did to you, though I can guess. I do know that you wouldn’t be fool enough to have anything to do with another man like him.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you,” she said, leaning back against the sofa and closing her eyes. “There are times when I think I’m just as crazy as you are. I certainly have no sense at all when it comes to falling in love.” She opened her eyes, looking into his, and their clear, cool depths were both despairing and accepting. “I always pick the wrong man.”
For a moment he said nothing, unwilling, unable, to respond. She was playing him, and while part of him reveled in the game, it was too dangerous. “Tactless of you, cousin. I believe the proper term is . . . god, I can’t think of one. Mentally ill is too bland. Psychotic might be more accurate.” She didn’t react. He simply shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Dexter was wrong, chère,” he said. “Not you.”