A Grave Mistake

by Stella Cameron

  “Yes,” Cyrus said. He fell silent and drank some of his wine.

  A round clock ticked on one of the white walls. The room smelled of homemade bread and Guy saw loaves on a wood cutting board with a red-and-white cloth over them. He doubted there had been any changes made around this place for years, but he felt comfortable surrounded by the ceiling-high cabinets with thick glass fronts.

  On his own minute back porch, a turquoise refrigerator shaped like a capsule of some kind crowded most of the space. The refrigerator came from the same era as the mottled-gray appliances in the rectory kitchen, and they didn’t make their kind anymore.

  “I’ve never seen Jilly the way she was when I went to her house. First she tried to be all buttoned-up. She said she forgot to go back and talk to the deputy. Then she cried, and Jilly should never feel so badly she cries like that. She said she was all muddled up. Those were her words. I asked what she meant, but all she could say was that caring too much could mess you up.”

  Guy was well aware of Cyrus’s hard stare. He was watching for reactions. “I don’t like to think of Jilly being upset,” he said, and felt lame. Caring too much? Did she care more than he did? “What do you think she meant?” He knew the question could be dangerous.

  Cyrus didn’t hesitate to say, “You. What else could she be talkin’ about? There’s no one else she cares a lot about who treats her badly.”

  “Damn it.” Guy shot to his feet. “You may be a priest, but that doesn’t give you the right to make guesses like that. I wouldn’t treat Jilly badly.” But he hadn’t treated her as well as he should have.

  “I didn’t mean you abuse her.” Cyrus scooped out a handful of nuts and started popping them. “You asked a question. I gave my best answer.”

  Guy let out a long breath and sat down again. “Sure you did. Sorry I piled on like that, but don’t you see how dangerous it could be for Jilly and me to get more involved?” We already have, and look how much damage we’ve done.

  “I think I do,” Cyrus said. “You’re both worried one of you will decide this is a rebound thing and you’ll get badly hurt again. I think the difference between the two of you is that Jilly, bein’ a woman, needs the lovin’ enough to take the risk. Bein’ a man, you don’t think you do. Not that kind of lovin’, anyway.”

  Guy scowled at the priest. “You don’t know what I think.” He’d better make up his own mind about that. “And you’re out of line pinning Jilly’s behavior on me. How is it my fault she didn’t make sure and talk to the deputy?”

  “The two of you drove away in your car, arguin’, and she didn’t come back afterward. What would you think in my position?”

  No answer was expected. Guy stacked his hands behind his neck. His job was to go to her now.

  A rapid knock on the kitchen door startled both of them. L’Oiseau de Nuit burst into the room and Goldilocks shot in behind her.

  Guy pointed at the dog. “Dogs don’t belong—”

  “Not a word, you,” Wazoo, as the whirling, plan-a-minute woman was known locally, said. “Later, I tell you about dogs, N’awlins.”

  Gritting his teeth, Guy ignored the nickname Wazoo had adopted for him over the past months.

  The dog saw him and her tongue lolled from her mouth. She high stepped to flop down beside his chair and nuzzle a foot.

  Black-haired, flamboyant, shimmering with energy, Wazoo had blown into town a few years back according to Jilly, to attend the funeral of a friend—and stayed. She lived at Rosebank and helped out there to keep her rent low, worked many mornings at Jilly’s place and was currently filling in at Hungry Eyes, the bookstore and café owned by Jilly’s sister-in-law, Ellie Gable. Wazoo also insisted she dabbled in “the arts,” and considered herself a fine animal psychologist.

  “I come to see you, God Man,” she said to Cyrus. “And you knows I don’t do that so easy. But I’ll be talkin’ to you, too, N’awlins. So don’t you try sneakin’ away. I’ll take some of that wine, me.”

  Wazoo made great sport of pretending not to like Cyrus, to be afraid his Christianity would get her darker side all stirred up.

  Without complaint, Cyrus went and poured her a glass of wine, and put it on the table. Wazoo sat down facing Guy. She saw the nuts and helped herself.

  The wild mane of black hair that used to reach Wazoo’s waist remained a mane, but much shorter now and kind of pretty, Guy decided, all tight, springy curls that accentuated her white skin and dramatic features. There used to be long discussions about Wazoo’s age. Was she forty, fifty? Then she’d started making something of herself and the latest conjecture put her in her thirties.

  “You’re gonna know me if you see me again, N’awlins,” she said, raising her face and laughing her full-throated laugh.

  He grunted. “It’s not my fault you’re a fascinatin’ woman. You’d make any man stare.”

  She laughed some more and the look in her black eyes was actually one of liking. “God Man,” Wazoo said to Cyrus. “You know everything that goes on around here. They reckon you saw Jilly early this evenin’. She ain’t seein’ no one else. What’s up with her? And I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t love her.”

  “Jilly’s lovable,” Cyrus said. He looked at Guy, who looked away, unwilling to have more conversation with Wazoo than he had to.

  “You know Joe and Ellie Gable went off on some fool trip,” Wazoo said. She wore her usual black clothing, but today the dress was simple, with a belt, and it would be hard not to notice her nice figure. “I open up at Hungry Eyes. The café, anyway. Elsie from the dime store does the books. She’s in a book club so she’s good with recommending. Jilly sends Missy Durand over from All Tarted Up in the afternoon when they aren’t so busy. That’s so I can get back to Rosebank and do my chores there.”

  “I know,” Guy said. “Jilly told me.”

  “Missy Durand couldn’t come today because Jilly never got back to the shop so Missy had to stay there.” Wazoo cast an accusing look at Guy. “That meant I couldn’t leave so I’ll have to make up my chores at Rosebank real late. I can’t expect Vivian to keep my rent low if I don’t do what I’m supposed to.”

  An urge to tell Wazoo to get to the point tensed every muscle in Guy’s body. The fact that he couldn’t tell her made them ache.

  “Wazoo,” Cyrus said gently. “It’s too bad you were inconvenienced, but—”

  “I don’t care about no inconvenience,” Wazoo said, her voice rising. “What I care about is Jilly. She doesn’t let people down. So there’s somethin’ real wrong with her and I figure I’m in the right place to find out what.”

  “Your intuition is failing you this time,” Cyrus told her. “You’re right. I went over to see her because I was concerned. But I can’t tell you what’s happened to her because she didn’t tell me.”

  Wazoo turned her attention completely to Guy. “But this is the one who knows,” she said. “I’ll bet you—er, Father, I’m sure you got him here with you because you know he’s no good for Jilly, and he’s finally done somethin’ to mess her up but good. You’re goin’ to tell him to move on.”

  “Wazoo—”

  “If he was any good at all,” Wazoo said, interrupting Cyrus, “he’d be with her now instead of steppin’ out in her hour of need to go drinkin’ with the boys.”

  “A glass of wine with the local priest isn’t exactly drinkin’ with the boys,” Guy said, looking at the grain in the old oak table.

  “That’s better,” Wazoo said. “You feelin’ miserable now. You should be. And Father here is most likely feelin’ better. He don’t care what you do as long as you have a bad time doin’ it—includin’ drinkin’.”

  Cyrus, in the act of emptying his glass, laughed until tears popped in the corners of his eyes. “Can I use that in my next homily?” he asked.

  “Not unless you want me to sue you.” Wazoo narrowed her eyes but her mouth twitched.

  “I’m glad the two of you are havin’ such a good time,” Guy said. “I’ve got things t
o do.” He’d gone over the top. What was he thinking, speaking to Cyrus like that?

  “You mean you’re goin’ over to try and sweet-talk your way into Jilly’s good graces. Well, don’t hold your breath, N’awlins, she’s got her head screwed on right and I can tell she’s made the right decision. You’re out. Time you crept away.”

  Understanding how Wazoo had burrowed her way into the hearts of the folks in Toussaint could be tough to understand. Guy liked her, too, but didn’t know why. She had an acid mouth when she wasn’t being outrageous and she pushed herself into the middle of anyone’s affairs. And they accepted her as if she was meant to be there. Bottom line was most likely that she’d do anything to help anyone.

  In a low voice Guy said to Cyrus, “Sorry for snappin’. I was out of line.”

  Cyrus gave his shoulder a light punch and turned to Wazoo. “You have no reason to behave that way.”

  “It’s awful,” Wazoo said suddenly. She gripped her glass in both hands and raised it to her mouth, at the same time staring ahead at the dark window. “I see it now. I got it wrong. All wrong, me. That’s gotta be ’cause I ain’t practicin’ like I ought to these days. Oh, so much pain and sufferin’ I see and—and—you the only one who can stop it.” She pointed at Guy but continued to stare with unfocused eyes.

  With a sigh, Cyrus reached to pat her but she pulled back and slowly turned to Guy. “Death,” she said. “Maybe. Then maybe more death. Don’t you stop listenin’ to someone who knows things or evil will descend on this town and we’ll be too late to stop it.”

  Wazoo was given to weighty predictions.

  From the hallway, Spike Devol came into the kitchen. “Evenin’,” he said, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners and his blond hair standing on end in front like it always did. For years a deputy, now he was actually the elected sheriff in these parts, but he still worked all hours.

  Wazoo gave no sign of having seen him. “There’s blood,” she said. “Blood everywhere. And poison—voodoo.” Her shudder visibly moved her flesh.

  Spike tossed his Stetson on the table and adjusted the belt around his trim waist and flat stomach. His marriage to Vivian Patin and his move to Rosebank Resort had been good for him. He was one healthy-looking lawman who made his khaki uniform look like a must for a GQ spread—with Spike in it.

  “I know where some of this is comin’ from,” Wazoo said, the focus back in her eyes. She pointed a long, red-tipped finger at Cyrus. “You can make a difference. You let those charlatans park their trailer on church land for free. You don’t know what they do, or where they come from. I heard they got all kinds of voodoo goin’ on. And your parishioners won’t tell you, but when they’re sure you won’t catch ’em, they’re linin’ up for that nonsense.”

  “You’ve been known to dabble in a little voodoo yourself,” Spike remarked. “Who is she talking about?” he asked Cyrus.

  “A very nice couple who earn their way by doing odd jobs. They’re willing and prompt. They were on hard times so I let them hook up their trailer over that way.” He pointed vaguely in the direction away from the church. “Ken and Jolene, their names are.”

  “You sure that was a good idea?” Spike asked.

  “I feel ever so much safer when you’re around,” Wazoo said to him. “You’ve got a level head, Spike Devol, and it’s one of the few in these parts.”

  “They’re fine people,” Cyrus told them. “Don’t go makin’ up stories about them because you think they could take away some of your business, Wazoo. And remember they grow vegetables and sell them. That’s probably their primary source of income. They do a good business.”

  Wazoo gave one of her memorable frowns. “In case you’ve forgotten, animal psychology is my thing and there’s many who’ll tell you how good I am at it. You ask Spike’s Vivian—and Joe and Ellie Gable. I’ve got plenty to speak for me—includin’ Dr. Reb. Her Gaston was one mixed-up poodle before I straightened him out.” She looked under the table at Goldilocks. “If you’ve got the sense you was borned with, N’awlins, you’ll get that sweet thing to me quick, too. I never saw a more obvious case of low self-esteem.”

  Guy resisted the temptation to check on Goldilocks.

  Spike stood at the opposite end of the table from Cyrus, but looked at Guy. “What’s going on?” he said. “You’ve been behavin’ different—so Homer says—and Jilly’s locked herself up in her house. If you don’t want to discuss it here, we can go somewhere private.”

  Guy’s stomach made a slow revolution. “You’re overreactin’, everyone is.”

  “Gator reckoned I’d find you here. You left Homer’s and never went back.”

  “I left a few hours early and Ozaire covered for me. But Ozaire must have passed along the good news to his buddy, Gator.”

  “Some man with a flashy car was leavin’ with the dog when Ozaire got back to Homer’s. He gunned it out of there as soon as he saw Ozaire. Who was that?”

  “Why the interrogation, Sheriff? Am I under arrest?” he said, trying to lighten things up, but failing.

  The atmosphere had a slow, darkening pulse.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass—I’m lookin’ for answers, and help.” Spike pulled out a chair at the table. He declined wine or beer but got up again and poured coffee. “Vivian’s on the warpath. Reckons it’s all my fault Jilly’s upset.”

  Guy looked to Cyrus, who crossed his arms on the table and waited for Spike to continue.

  “Ozaire said he saw a black Corvette leave Homer’s place just as Ozaire was getting there.” Once again Spike’s expression pinned Guy.

  “I have a friend from New Orleans who owns one of those,” Guy said. He might as well spit it out. “He stopped by to see me. I thought he would leave before Ozaire got back.”

  Red fingernails flashed and Wazoo made shooing motions at Guy. “Leave. Go. You don’t want to be here.”

  He had to ask, “How does Vivian know Jilly’s upset?” He would never get used to the way gossip traveled in this town.

  “There was an accident,” Spike said. “Corner of Main and St. Mary’s Street. You know that, anyway. You were there.”

  “You weren’t,” Guy told him.

  “Half the town was,” Cyrus said, grinning and tipping up his glass.

  “Vivian’s on my case because Deputy Hall’s a new recruit and he let things get out of hand.” Spike shook his head. “He didn’t take down anything about the mobsters who showed up and hassled Jilly.”

  Wazoo sat forward, all eyes. “I told you bad stuff was goin’ to happen here.”

  Cyrus and Guy shared a blank glance, then Guy remembered. “You mean a man called Caruthers Rathburn? Just one man, not a gang, and he works for the man who married Jilly’s mother after she left Toussaint.”

  “How about an altercation between Laura Preston and Lee O’Brien? And all the threats that were tossed around? The way I heard it, Miz Preston made a threat against Miz O’Brien’s life. Told her if she wrote about Jilly or herself in the Trumpet, Lee’s body would never be found.”

  “That’s exactly the way it went,” Guy said, getting up and retrieving his hat. The fib felt justified. He made for the door to the backyard with the pesky hound at his heels. “Didn’t anyone tell Vivian the war-lock from the wood was there, too, with his witch partner? Could be it was all the chicken innards they threw around that really got to Jilly.”

  He let himself out into a night that still steamed and closed the door behind him—and Goldilocks. The whole situation had gotten blown out of proportion. Nothing funny was going on, not a damn thing. If he had to guess he’d say Nat’s New Orleans murder case had nothing to do with this town, either.

  The dog wouldn’t get in the back of the car. Instead she settled herself on the passenger seat, and each time Guy tried to put her in back, she climbed up front again.

  “So sit there,” he told the critter. “This is our last ride together, anyway.”

  Guy got in the driver’s seat and switched on the engine
. Bonanza Alley separated the rectory from the church and graveyard. He ducked his head to look at the old white building glowing in the moon’s cloud-stained light. Shadows rippled across the glimmering facade.

  The windshield fogged up fast. He found a cloth in the glove compartment and swiped at the glass. Wazoo’s van stood close to the Pontiac on the gravel parking strip outside the rectory. He noticed she’d left the dome light on. Shutting the dog in the car, Guy strode to the van and tried the passenger door. Locked. He walked around the hood—and collided with Wazoo on the other side of the vehicle.

  “What you sneakin’ around for, N’awlins?” she said, leaning inside the van to put off the light.

  “I was goin’ to steal your wheels—after I made sure the battery was still charged. Night.”

  “You was goin’ to turn off my light. I know that. You got a nice dog there.”

  Guy mumbled nothing in particular.

  “Don’t leave her in the car, you. She could suffocate in there. When I got her out she was pantin’.”

  “Night,” Guy said again.

  “Yeah. Jilly Gable’s too good for you but maybe you’ll improve. Don’t you hurt her no more, you.”

  Guy watched her return to the rectory kitchens before he got into the Pontiac once more.

  Goldilocks barked.

  Guy whipped his face toward her. “What’s up with you?”

  The dog barked again, and set up a whining that made the hairs on the back of Guy’s neck stand up. That was the moment before he smelled something burning, something foul burning. Black smoke forced itself from the engine compartment and between the spaces around the hood.

  He switched off, grabbed the fire extinguisher from behind his seat, the flashlight he kept in the pocket beside him, and shot from the vehicle.

  He threw up the hood and took several steps backward from a blast of heat and acrid smoke laced with particles that stung his eyes.

  With the light trained on the engine, he started a stream of foam from the extinguisher, but stopped. The smoke had thinned already.

  If you liked your meat really well done, the gutted chicken, its blackened innards tidily arranged beside the carcass, was scorched to perfection.