A Grave Mistake

by Stella Cameron

  “Can it, Archer.” He couldn’t help grinning. “You don’t change, do you, partner? Jilly and I understand each other.”

  Nat pushed his hat to the back of his head. “You don’t say? Guy, I think something’s breakin’. I didn’t want to say too much on the phone, but it may be time for you to come back where you belong. The department needs you.”

  Where did he belong? Once he thought he knew, but he didn’t anymore. “What’s up? Last time you called, some girl’s daddy was after you with a shotgun.”

  Nat punched Guy’s arm. “Trust you to mangle history. The girl was a woman in her thirties and her brother was the goon on my tail. I spoiled their scam. They thought they had a patsy with deep pockets—me. They’re guests of the State.”

  “Such excitement,” Guy said, rubbing stubble on his jaw. “Makes a quiet type like me feel giddy.”

  Nat quit smiling. “Is there somewhere we can go where we won’t be interrupted?”

  “It’s quiet here,” Guy said, “but it can pick up anytime. There’s just me till Homer gets back. I could call someone in so we could go to my house. It’s the safest place I can think of.”

  Nat nodded. “I admit I’m tryin’ to connect some long wires here. But we could be about to skate over the thinnest ice you and me ever stepped on. That’s saying somethin’. I’m not sure—I can’t be yet—but it could be somethin’ big is about to blow up in Toussaint. And if it does, yours truly is going to be right here with you.”

  Curiosity strung Guy out tight. “That so?” He had never known Nat to embellish things.

  Calling Ozaire back didn’t rate high on Guy’s list, but he wasn’t about to bother Homer, who would be over at Rosebank—a resort hotel owned by his daughter-in-law, Vivian Devol, and her mother, Charlotte Patin. Homer’s son, Spike, helped run the place with his wife, while he also kept the Toussaint sheriff’s department running. Each afternoon Homer picked up Spike’s daughter by a previous marriage, and took her home from school. Only Wendy could turn Homer into a softie.

  “You got a bug somewhere he didn’t ought to be?” Nat asked. “Looks like you got pain.”

  Guy’s response was to call Ozaire, who was so enthusiastic about returning to work he made Guy suspicious.

  “Go on ahead to my house, I’ll join you as soon as he gets here,” Guy told Nat. Then he had a thought that started him punching numbers on his phone again. “What the hell am I thinking of?” he muttered. “How’s she supposed to know if I don’t tell her? She needs to know now, not later.” He could not wait to tell Jilly to forget she had seen Nat.

  “Aw, you know those aren’t things you tell a woman on the phone. You had your chance to say the sweet nothings in person. You blew it.”

  Guy ignored Nat and looked at the sky while he listened to Jilly’s phone ring. She wouldn’t even be back to town by now and she always kept her cell on.

  He hung up and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

  “What’s up?” Nat asked.

  “You,” Guy said without preamble. “I told you I didn’t want us seen together around here. If Spike, that’s the sheriff and he’s Homer’s son, if he gets wind that I’m holed up with my old partner, he’ll be sure I’m getting ready to leave. He’ll tell Homer. Homer will get mad and fire me because he’ll want to tell me to go before I can quit.”

  Nat shook his head. “Why would you care?”

  “Jilly needs me here.” He needed her. “And I owe Homer.”

  “She already knows about me, man,” Nat pointed out.

  “Jilly might not make the connection if… Let it go. I don’t want people speculating about you, okay?”

  “O-kay.”

  His partner’s attitude galled him. “Look, Nat. You come sashayin’ in, driving a car people around here will talk about. There isn’t always a lot of excitement, see, and they can get pretty imaginative with very little encouragement.”

  “Whoa.” Nat held up both hands. “I asked you if you were on your own and you said you were, or would be in a few minutes.”

  “I didn’t expect Jilly to stay.”

  “Is it my fault she did?”

  “This had better be important,” Guy said. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  His phone rang and he looked at the readout. “Hi, Jilly,” he said, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt.

  “Sorry I didn’t pick up just now,” she said.

  “You had a right,” he told her. “I need to ask you a favor. Nat, the guy you just met?”

  “Yes.”

  The sound of zydeco from her car radio made him smile. She loved the music, and she loved to dance. So did he, with her.

  “There’s a real good reason why he wasn’t here.”

  “Huh?” She turned off the radio. “What did you say?”

  “He wasn’t here.”

  “Nat Archer, the knockout guy I just met at Homer’s, he wasn’t there? The one with a voice like warm, tumbled gravel? For goodness’ sake, why don’t you just put things so they aren’t so confusing? You don’t want me to mention Mr. Archer to anyone. Right?”

  He blew out a breath in a whistle. “I just don’t have your smooth way with words, cher.”

  “You can say that again,” Nat muttered.

  Guy reached out and snatched the fedora, jumped on the closest bench, then on the picnic table, and held the hat high.

  All Nat did was shake his head slowly.

  “You’ve got my word, Guy, you know that,” Jilly said. “But I hope you’ll explain the reason to me.”

  Just what he didn’t want to do. “Sure. How about that dinner?”

  “Maybe I can fit you in. I…get back! Stop!”

  Jilly screamed and, at the same time, Guy heard the gut-churning sound of a collision, breaking glass, buckling metal—and a cacophony of shouting voices.

  “Jilly,” he yelled. “Jilly!”

  She didn’t answer him.

  There was only one road into Toussaint from Homer Devol’s place, so that simplified Guy’s rubber-laying drive. You also couldn’t get lost in the town and you for sure couldn’t miss a car crash, any car crash there.

  He saw flashing lights behind him, then heard a siren. “Not now,” he said through his teeth, and floored the accelerator. Almost at once he saw his folly, slowed and pulled over. The cruiser screeched to a stop, slewed behind the Pontiac.

  One big “ain’t I cool?” officer took his time getting to Guy’s window. The man’s hand hovered over his weapon and he spread his feet. “Out,” he said, “hands behind your head, down on your face.”

  Guy did something he tried to avoid. He smiled at an asshole and said, ever so sweetly, “Afternoon, Officer. I’m Detective Gautreaux, NOPD. Should have put my light on top, but you know how it is with these pricks, think they’re smarter than we are. I prefer to sneak up on ’em when I can.”

  He was on thin ice. “Inactive duty” wasn’t a designation that carried weight, and if he told the guy the truth he’d have to run a check. Guy couldn’t afford the delay.

  The officer looked uncertain. “Yeah, I know what you mean. You got a badge, sir?”

  “In the pocket of my jeans. Left front.” He put his hands behind his head. Because they expected him back at NOPD he’d never been asked for his badge. Carrying the thing was a habit. “I’ll get out.”

  The man made up his mind. “You’d best get going. Sorry I slowed you down.”

  Guy nodded and took off fast enough to reach Bi-geaux’s hardware store on the outskirts of town and disappear around a corner without ever seeing the cop again. But he had lost at least eight or nine minutes and it was his own fault.

  He dialed Jilly’s number again. No answer.

  There it was. Toussaint’s very own talking points for the next few weeks. In the intersection of St. Mary’s Street and Main, the only four-way stop in town. A big old burgundy Impala station wagon stood at an angle, one side shoved in, empty holes where the window had been. An
d a few feet distant where it had come to a stop after bouncing off the Impala, was Jilly’s Beetle. The front had crumpled and popped open, and the damage was what you would expect when the engine was in the rear: the front wheels had moved a whole lot closer to the rear ones. In every direction, sun bounced off broken glass. Gas ran all over the road.

  With her head in her hands, Jilly sat on a curb. Guy could see the scrapes from yards away. Father Cyrus Payne, pastor of Toussaint’s St. Cécil’s Parish, owner of the Impala, crouched beside her, an arm around her shoulders.

  A deputy Guy hadn’t seen before had his hands planted on his hips while he had a face-to-face discussion with a large, thickset man in a dark suit.

  Jilly looked up, saw Guy, and burst into tears.

  He parked and got out of the car. Immediately he heard the deputy’s raised voice. “You’ve told me what you saw, sir. You’ll be contacted if we need more information.” The officer’s thin face had turned bright red and Guy wondered if this was his first day on the job.

  The other man held his hands loosely in front of him and spoke softly, too softly to be heard.

  “No,” the officer said. “You can’t take care of this little matter. We’ve got procedures we follow.”

  A small crowd had already gathered and every face was familiar.

  Guy went to Cyrus and Jilly and bent down beside them. “Who’s the guy arguing with the deputy?”

  With no warning, Jilly’s crying intensified. She covered her face and shook her head, but tears made it between her hands to drip off her chin.

  “Cyrus?” Guy looked at the priest. “Jilly’s really shocked.”

  Cyrus raised his brows, widened his deep blue eyes as if trying to send a silent message. He indicated Jilly by inclining his head at a sharp angle.

  “Jilly,” Guy said. “Jilly, cher, all this will go away. You must have hit something slippery and slid right into Cyrus.”

  She bowed lower with her hands laced over the back of her head, and Cyrus shocked Guy by grabbing the neck of his T-shirt and yanking him down. “You mean well,” the priest said into Guy’s ear. “But it would be better if you found out how Jilly is before you analyze the rest of this situation.”

  Guy squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re right,” he said. I am a fool and I never was any good with women. She deserves better than me.

  “How’re you doin’, Jilly?” he asked quietly. Too bad he couldn’t feel noble for never making a move on her. He wanted to.

  “You didn’t hear the crash?” she said, in a choked voice. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe the brakes felt mushy. I don’t understand why you didn’t hear all that noise.”

  He blinked a few times. “Of course I did. We were talkin’ on the phone.”

  “Then why didn’t you come right away? If you cared… Friends look out for each other.” She brought her left hand down and looked at her watch. “If it had been you, and I knew something bad had happened, I wouldn’t have taken my time getting to you.”

  Cyrus actually gave him a sympathetic look. Honesty was the only way of saving his tail here. “I did, Jilly, but I speeded like a fool and got stopped by a cop. If he hadn’t decided to be reasonable, I’d still be there.”

  “Oh, Guy.” She looked at him reproachfully. “You shouldn’t have been speeding.”

  Cyrus said, “I think I’d better help out the young deputy. I don’t know who the other man is, but he’s making nothing into something. Uh-oh, here comes Patti-Lou, or Lee I guess her name is when she isn’t writing her gossip column.” He got up, slapped Guy’s shoulder and walked away.

  “C’mon,” Guy said, taking hold of Jilly’s free hand and pulling her up. “Do you hurt anywhere? Hurt bad like something’s broken?”

  She shook her head and leaned to look around him. “I don’t want anything in the Trumpet about this.”

  Guy turned enough to see Lee O’Brien, cousin of Reb O’Brien Girard, Toussaint’s medical examiner and only doctor, pushing a tape recorder under the deputy’s nose. “Forget it. Whether you like it or not, you’re in the paper. Can’t really blame the woman—most days she doesn’t have a whole lot to write about.”

  “Except gossip.” Jilly groaned, touched the side of her head and mouthed, “Ouch.”

  “You did hurt yourself,” Guy said. “You hit your head.”

  “A bump. It’s nothing.”

  “I expect someone already made it over in the aid car to check you out.”

  Jilly shook her head again.

  “Hey,” Guy yelled. “Officer, get over here. And you can get lost,” he added, pointing to the suit. He ignored Lee O’Brien, her tape recorder and her expression of breathless anticipation.

  “Guy,” Jilly whispered, “that’s the bodyguard from Edwards Place—the new one I told you about.”

  “I don’t give a shit if he’s Darth Vader.” He cleared his throat. “Pardon me for the language, please. He’s interferin’ where he’s got no right to be.”

  Cyrus had reached the pair. He said a few quiet words and the deputy followed him back toward Guy and Jilly. The bodyguard also approached, his flat, freckled face impassive. He walked slowly and ignored Lee O’Brien, who trotted beside him and talked cheerfully.

  “You didn’t send for an aid car?” Guy said to the deputy. “You’ve got casualties. Who did you call so far?”

  Again the man turned red. “I got real busy, sir.”

  “First day on the job?”

  “Second. Nothing happened yesterday, and—”

  Guy checked out the youngster’s name tag. “Tell the gawkers to move on, Hall. Cyrus, Jilly, do we want the aid car?”

  They both said, “No.”

  “Dr. Reb’s going to expect a visit from the pair of you.”

  “Later,” Jilly said.

  Deputy Hall had developed a much bigger voice and he herded citizens on their way. “Look,” Guy said. “You need to give a report to him, exchange particulars with each other, make sure pictures are taken and get the tow truck here. Call your insurance companies. Either of you have a problem with sending the cars to Mortie’s?”

  “Mortie’s is the only body shop in town,” Cyrus pointed out, and Jilly actually smiled.

  “I’m Caruthers Rathburn.” The bodyguard had arrived. “I think I can make this a great deal easier for everyone.”

  “Excuse me?” Guy looked the man in the eyes. Standing so close, he could see that rather than freckles on his round face, he had open pores where oil mingled with sweat. “This is a routine traffic accident. No need for anyone to make anything easier.”

  “How are you feeling, Jilly?” Lee O’Brien asked. She had the kind of blue eyes that suggested she’d never seen anything worse than a piece of eggshell in an omelette.

  “Good, thank you, Lee,” Jilly said. “Give my best to Reb and Marc. We’re finished here.”

  Guy coughed.

  Caruthers Rathburn reached inside his jacket and Guy’s hand went instinctively for the gun tucked into his belt.

  “Wallet,” Rathburn said with a knowing sneer. He pulled out the wallet and eased out a fan of big bills. “I work for Miss Gable’s stepfather. I’ve spoken with him and he insists she’s to go to her mother immediately. Please take this, Father. Use what you need for transportation until we deal with things. I know—”

  “No, thank you.” Cyrus looked at the fistful of money pressed against his middle as if it were maggots. “I’m sure things aren’t as bad as they look. We’ll fix any little problems.”

  “Father,” Lee said, her blond ponytail flipping as she looked from one person to another. “You don’t have any little problems with that car of yours. How does that make you feel?”

  They said she was sharp, Guy thought. You could have fooled him.

  Cyrus smiled at the woman and said, “I’ll be glad to talk to you about this, and I’m sure Jilly will, too. But we ought to deal with the formalities, first.”

  The way very pretty Lee O’Brien gaz
ed at Cyrus reminded Guy how hard it might be for a priest who looked the way this one did. Women invariably sent longing glances in his direction.

  “I don’t think I heard your name,” the bodyguard said to Guy.

  “No reason you should. Excuse me.” He turned back to Jilly.

  The bodyguard didn’t figure out that he was supposed to get lost. “I have my orders. This is yours.” He gave the bills another push against Cyrus, and when he wouldn’t touch the money, let it slide and flutter to the ground at their feet. “I’ll drive you to your mother, Miss Gable.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but I’m going to my shop now,” Jilly said, her face white. “Please tell my mother I’m fine.”

  Rathburn only hesitated a moment before walking away, leaving the four of them standing in a heap of money.

  “Cyrus,” Jilly said. “We can do this between us. It was all my fault.”

  “You don’t say that when you have an accident, Jilly,” Cyrus said.

  “You would.”

  She didn’t get an argument from Cyrus. When she glanced at Guy he was smiling. Darn it all, anyway, he had the clumsiest mouth in the South, but he also had the best heart—if he’d ever stop burying it in a hole and piling body armor on top.

  Wally Hibbs, fifteen-year-old only child of Gator and Doll Hibbs, who ran the Majestic Hotel, arrived on his bicycle, which he stopped by slamming his sneakers on the street. He’d outgrown the bike a long time ago.

  “Everything’s okay here,” Cyrus said at once, and Jilly felt good just knowing Wally had the priest and the folks who worked at St. Cécil’s to give him the warmth and welcome he didn’t get at home. Wally hung around with Cyrus whenever he could, and the man had become almost a surrogate father to the boy.

  “Who is that man?” Lee asked, her eyes on Rathburn’s back. “He’s got a nasty attitude. He said he worked for your stepfather, Jilly?”

  “Yes,” she said, pretending not to see the faces Guy made at her.

  Wally’s bike crashed to the ground and he stooped to gather the money. “Can’t just leave this here, Father,” he said. “I saw that man give it to you. Is it true your dad’s the richest man in all Louisiana, Jilly?”