A Grave Mistake

by Stella Cameron

  Short of risking a scene, possibly a loud one, she had no choice but to let him lead her from the room. Once outside, she faced him and said, “Everything’s fine, thank you. You need to get to bed yourself.” The thunder of her heart made her light-headed.

  He inclined his head and smiled into her eyes. “You’re a good daughter.”

  I am not your daughter, you pervert. She cleared her throat. “Look, I wasn’t aware that Edith didn’t know what happened to Caruthers. I’m afraid she does now.”

  His nostrils flared. “That’s unfortunate. Edith doesn’t cope well with tragedy.”

  “I wasn’t told to keep anything from her. Anyway, I’m not sure if or when she’ll mention it, but I needed to let you know she might.”

  “I should have told her myself,” he said. “Don’t give it another thought.” He went to the door of her room and threw it open with a little bow.

  “Thank you,” Jilly said, and made to pass him.

  Preston took her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek, catching the corner of her mouth as he did so. He straightened and looked down at her from beneath lowered lids. It was so hard not to swipe a hand across her lips.

  “Good night,” he said, and turned to walk swiftly back to his own bedroom.

  15

  “I can’t hear you,” Guy said, pressing his cell phone tight against his ear. “You’re still at the Preston house?”

  “Yes,” Jilly whispered. “I wanted you to know I have to get out of here—now. Where are you? I’ll come to you—if that’s okay.”

  “I’ll come for you.”

  “No, you might cause trouble for… Don’t come. Just tell me where to meet you—I know my way around the area.”

  He glanced at a clock on Nat’s kitchen wall. “No. Stay there. It’s very late and very dark. You will not go out there alone.”

  He couldn’t make out Jilly’s response. “Get somewhere you can lock yourself in and call me back,” he told her. “You’re whisperin’ and I can’t hear you.”

  “You don’t understand. No one’s tryin’ to kill me, but I have to get out of this house now. I’m goin’ to leave everything behind and make a run for it.”

  Nat stood only a few feet away, staring at Guy.

  “Stay there. Don’t go outside. Nat and I are comin’ to get you. Quit worrying, we’re on our way.” He grabbed his piece and the keys to the Pontiac and made for the front door.

  “No! I mean it, Guy, don’t come here. I’ll be gone, anyway, and I’m not takin’ the Hummer.”

  “On foot? You’re goin’ to be out there runnin’ around alone?”

  Nat locked the house behind them, but rather than get into Guy’s car he threw open the door of the cruiser parked there and slid behind the wheel. Guy’s imagination went on overload but everything he came up with had Preston’s face on it.

  “I’ll turn left out of the gate and go down as far as Washington,” Jilly said. “That’s well lit. From there I’ll head to St. Charles Avenue.”

  “You will not, cher.” He needed to calm her down.

  “Why are you in such a stew, Guy Gautreaux? Cool it. There’s nothing to worry about as long as I leave now and I have my route planned. This is makin’ me think, though. I hate ’em, but maybe it’s time to carry a gun.”

  Nat swung the cruiser onto the street in front of his house and turned to Guy with his eyebrows raised. The dash lights rippled over his face and he was one serious man.

  Guy pointed and Nat took off in that direction.

  There would be no discussion of Jilly carrying. “Okay,” he said. “We’re on the road. This won’t take long.” Fat raindrops marred the windshield. “It’s rainin’. You don’t want to go out there and get wet. We’re in a cruiser and we’ll pull up to the front door.”

  “Oh, my—no! I’m hangin’ up now and headin’ out. I’ll go to that big church on St. Charles. What’s it called?”

  Nat had the wipers on and he leaned forward—probably because he had allowed his foot to get real heavy on the pedal and he figured he’d better watch carefully.

  Spinning it out, Guy said, “Now, what big church would that be, cher?”

  “Big church where?” Nat snapped.

  “Oh, just some big church on St. Charles—down past Washington Avenue.” He squeezed Nat’s leg as a warning and got an elbow jab for his trouble.

  “That’s not funny,” Nat said. Then he raised his voice. “Christ Church Cathedral, Jilly.”

  Guy elbowed him back and covered the phone. “I was lettin’ you know I didn’t want to tell her about any church. She can wait where she is.” They were moving so fast they might be in a church—or churchyard—sooner than they’d expected.

  He put the phone back to his ear. “We’re makin’ good time.”

  “Thanks,” Jilly said. “I’ll be lookin’ out for you. I’m outside already. Bye.”

  “Jilly!” She’d hung up and he didn’t dare try to call back. “Well, hell. ”

  They would drive a police car up to the Prestons’ front door and pick her up? Jilly shook her head. Sometimes she was sure men didn’t think ahead. Guy and Nat to the rescue. Never mind if Mr. Preston would know she’d called them. Never mind if Preston would stop her from seeing Edith again. And never mind that Guy and Nat were overreacting.

  Every rustle of the wind in the trees brought her heart into her throat. If Preston discovered she’d left the house and came after her, he might do anything.

  A laurel hedge rose high above iron railings surrounding the property. She poked her head out and checked the street in both directions. Didn’t see a thing move. She did have her purse and looped the long strap across her body.

  Keeping close to the railings, she set off at a brisk pace. A purposeful, head-held-high pace. She quickly reached a corner, Seventh Street. For some reason she’d thought Washington Avenue was the first cross street but it must still be ahead.

  The rain Guy had mentioned grew heavy, and the wind threw twigs and leaves into Jilly’s path. She liked wild weather—or she did most of the time.

  Someone ran past her, barely missed bumping into her, a small woman with wet hair flapping. Jilly considered calling out and suggesting they go together, but that could bring all kinds of trouble.

  Some yards ahead, the woman dashed to the curb, turned a pale face in Jilly’s direction and scurried across the street. She bent over as if to make herself invisible, or at least even smaller.

  A flashlight beam, as brilliant and directed as a searchlight, burst over the hunched figure who let out a cry Jilly heard. The beam followed its quarry when she reached the opposite sidewalk and kept running.

  The woman from Preston’s car? She could be.

  Pulling as near to the railings and vegetation as she could, Jilly looked back and located the position of the person with the flashlight. He stood on the same side of the street as Jilly—until he hurried, the beam wavering, to the other side.

  Soft-soled shoes squeaked on wet ground. The man rushed past without noticing Jilly. It would be easy to throw up right then and there. She breathed deeply through her mouth and pressed a hand over her heart as if she might slow it down.

  She did what seemed best and slipped to the other sidewalk herself. A person couldn’t just let a woman be chased through the night and do nothing.

  She grabbed her cell phone from her purse and quickly dialed Guy’s number. He answered at the first ring. “Jilly? Where are you?”

  “I’ve got to keep my voice down. Something’s going on. A man is chasing a woman. She’s got a lead on him but he’s faster. He’s got a flashlight trained on her. Guy, I’m terrified he’ll shoot her.”

  “And maybe he’ll shoot you next. Where did you say you were?”

  “Still on Prytania. Washington’s farther than I thought. I can’t talk and run. I just wanted you to know what I’m doing.”

  “You’re running? Why? It’s better to walk. You’re less likely to draw attention to yourself.
”

  “Look—” she knew he wouldn’t like this “—she’s alone and I’ve got to try to help if I can. I called because I knew you’d want to know.”

  “Stand still at once. Oh, my God, Jilly. Stop running. You’re a good woman but you’re…you can’t help. I’ll call for backup and we’ll be right there.”

  Jilly hung up and switched off. She absolutely couldn’t risk having her phone ring now. And if she was a fool to try to help a stranger in terrible trouble, she hoped someone else would do the same if she was ever in the same position.

  The woman crossed Sixth, seemed to hesitate, then carried on. So did her pursuer, only he’d turned off the beam. Jilly watched his sneakers moving.

  Taller iron railings loomed, and inside the railings the crooked shapes of old tombs caught the hazed-over glimmer from a streetlight.

  Jilly swallowed, and swallowed again. Brave she might be, but any fool knew to stay away from New Orleans graveyards, especially at night. She crept across Sixth and hid herself there, out of the line of sight of those ahead.

  She wanted to turn back, but the truth was that if she didn’t do something, now, and she read in tomorrow’s paper that a woman had been murdered in that graveyard, she would go to pieces.

  Around the corner and back on Prytania Street she went—just in time to see her flashlight buddy turn right through a gate into the cemetery. She plucked at her clothes, absently pulling her sodden brown windbreaker away from her skin.

  She couldn’t delay. At the entrance, she listened but heard only the rain and the whining wind. But she saw that flashlight shining again and went past the gates, using tombs to shield her from view, slipping from one to another to get closer. Her breathing grew so loud and rapid, she feared the man would hear her.

  “Forgive me,” a woman’s voice wailed. “Forgive me. Please. ” Then she screamed, a long, thin, high scream that faded away.

  Jilly hugged herself. Goose bumps encased her body, and her hair, heavy and wet, lay on her back in an icy rope. She tiptoed forward, swiping rain from her eyes and face, and passed a massive brick tomb topped with silently howling stone dogs.

  “I promise,” the woman cried. “Whatever you want, I promise I will do.”

  Jilly persisted until only a single marble tomb stood between her and the others. Back to the wet, slick stone, she slid along with arms outstretched until she touched a corner. A sound came from above her and she glanced up. The flat slab on top of the tomb had been turned sideways, leaving the resting place open to any who cared to peer inside. The noise she had heard got louder until a black thing erupted from the crypt, shrieking an unearthly cry.

  With a hand over her mouth, Jilly crumpled to the muddy ground and watched, her eyes strained wide open.

  The black apparition swelled and seemed to beat the air before it rose into a murky halo of light from a streetlamp. A bird, a huge bird that swooped in Jilly’s direction, a bloated worm trailing from its beak, before it flew upward and she heard the slashing of its wings against the wind before it was gone.

  A male voice rumbled, but the owner kept it low and Jilly picked out, “… It will never happen…living at my pleasure. You’ll die at my pleasure if—”

  “Don’t hit me!”

  At once Jilly heard the fearsome sound of a connecting blow and rage overtook her. “You stop that right now,” she yelled, and jumped into the open. The woman crouched on the ground and the man bent over her. “Stop it!”

  He straightened at once and Jilly took off running. The flashlight picked her out and she ducked aside, pounded down a narrow strip between the hulks of graves. He would want to silence any witnesses. All she had to do was run fast enough to give the other woman time to get away and then get away herself. She set her mouth in a grim line. All she had to do. Guy could show up anytime he pleased.

  She heard sneakers slap smooth, waterlogged mud. They were too loud because they were too close. She stopped to catch her breath but the footsteps kept coming. They were to her right. No, to her left.

  An owl hooted and a mouse scurried up a granite wall and inside a tomb.

  How could the rain get heavier? It did and it deadened any movements.

  She didn’t know what made her turn back, only that she was driven to do it—to slip and slide toward the place where the woman had been. Jilly had to know if the other one was safe. Could Preston have sent someone to kill the woman?

  This had been the way she came, surely this was the way.

  No, the tombs weren’t familiar. Or they were all the same. She tripped over a broken piece of masonry and fell hard again some railings. When she gripped the cold, slick metal and looked up, she saw a stone angel carved so it appeared ready to soar.

  Hands closed on her shoulders. An agonizing grip on her hair stopped her from looking behind.

  “I got lost,” she said, and felt lame—and stupid.

  A snicker chilled her.

  Down he pushed her, down, his weight like a mountain on top of her. An engine roared and she forced her eyes open, praying for flashing lights but seeing none.

  “Mind your own business,” the man said, his voice muffled by whatever he held to his mouth. “Curiosity can kill.”

  Pain blasted through her head.

  16

  Cyrus sat at the table in the rectory kitchen with his arms crossed. He couldn’t see or hear Madge but he could feel her, feel her confusion. Dealing with people in crisis was part of his job and he felt capable in his role. He might be sad, overwhelmed by the need to take away their pain, but he knew what to do and when.

  A quietly furious woman who marched away with compressed lips at the sight of him didn’t call for any of the skills he’d learned. Not that Madge hadn’t been angry with him before.

  He’d been late getting back from New Orleans. There was a good reason to get the cold shoulder.

  Madge should already have gone home to Rosebank hours ago. Listen to him. Didn’t he feel like the victimized one? Kind of like a child who hadn’t realized he was breaking some rule and now that he’d been chastised, he got petulant.

  A petulant boy—now, there was an attractive picture when the boy was a grown man who usually thought he’d gained some wisdom.

  “Damn it all,” he said, with no remorse. “I’m just a man. No man understands women.”

  And that was a cop-out.

  On his feet again, he poured two mugs of coffee, put cream in Madge’s, then found the honey and added a spoonful. She liked it that way.

  He scuffed along in his stocking feet to her office door. It stood open and she wasn’t inside. She wasn’t next door in his office, either.

  Peering through his office window he could see the shape of her car on the parking strip, so she hadn’t sneaked out without a word.

  Stopping every few steps to steady the coffee—and still losing a drop here and there—he climbed the stairs and went toward the big sitting room where he entertained and saw those who came for counsel.

  Madge met him in the doorway. She looked at the coffee and frowned, then took both cups from him and walked back into the room. “You don’t have to make up to me, Cyrus,” she said. “You’ve got a right to be where you want to be, when you want to be there. You don’t owe me a thing—even if you do know I get worried out of my mind if I don’t know where you are.”

  “Madge—”

  “No, no, you’re not at fault, not at all. I am because sometimes I expect more than I have a right to.”

  He sighed. “It’s been too long since we took some time for ourselves and talked about what we have a right to expect—from each other.”

  Her dark eyes became suspiciously brilliant. “That’s just it, Cyrus. I know exactly what I have a right to expect from you. You’re the one who must feel he’s steppin’ around land mines here sometimes. I’m sorry for that.”

  Aghast, he took the mugs back from her and set them on the table in front of his worn green couch. “I never want to hear you apol
ogize to me again.” He smiled but couldn’t quite get both corners of his mouth to cooperate at the same time. “You’re givin’ your life to this parish, and to me, and it’s not fair.”

  She turned away sharply and walked to the windows. The view—if it weren’t inky black outside—would be over the back gardens and down to Bayou Teche where cypress and willow trees bowed over the water. Madge stared down as if she could see. “I like havin’ those old Fuglies there,” she said. “Ugliest piece of so-called art I ever did see but it reminds me of that sweet, unlucky Bonnie Blue.”

  Homeless and down on her luck, Bonnie Blue had passed their way some years ago. Cyrus had taken her in and given her a place to live and Madge looked after her as best she could. The two-dimensional bronze of five capering figures irreverently known as the Fuglies dated back to Bonnie’s tenure and remained on the lawn despite the complaints of some parishioners.

  “We share a history, Madge,” Cyrus said.

  She nodded but didn’t look at him. “Years seem to fly by,” she said, and closed her mouth firmly. Those were the things she should never say to him. They weren’t fair. Cyrus had told her she needed a life, a husband and children—he didn’t deserve for her to salt the wounds he must carry over the friendship they shared. The “passionate, chaste relationship,” he’d explained to her, offering her all he could as a man of God.

  It wasn’t enough. Most of the time she made do, happy just to see him, to feel his hand on her shoulder or at her waist, but the days and nights had become too raw. The tightness in her throat rarely faded completely anymore.

  “Bad day?” Cyrus asked, arriving beside her.

  “No. Frustrating maybe, but not bad. You taught me about that, remember? That days aren’t really bad, it’s the way we choose to see them.”

  “Did I say that?” He looped an arm across her shoulders. “Pretty stupid, huh?”

  She looked up at his face.

  “I have bad days,” he said, staring ahead as if watching sun shine on bayou water. “A lot of them.”

  Sadness bathed her. “Why did you wait to tell me? I might be able to help. You know I’ll do everything I can to lighten the load for you. Look, forget my meanderings, they don’t mean a thing. I get crotchety sometimes is all.”