A Grave Mistake

by Stella Cameron

  In gathering darkness, Jilly stood in front of All Tarted Up. Through the windows she could see Wazoo sitting at a table with a dark-haired woman. The lights were low but Jilly was certain this was the person who had left Rosebank so hastily that morning.

  She breathed through her mouth. The horror wouldn’t leave her, or the sense of evil everywhere—and helplessness. In her mind she carried a vivid picture of the woman in the bathtub. Guy said the autopsy would give an estimated time of death. Jilly wanted to know the second when Zinnia Sedge died. She wanted to know that she and the men had not stood in the shop while a woman was brutally murdered a few yards away.

  Wazoo’s phone request for her to come to the shop on her way home sounded like an invitation to another drama. Jilly had been in more than her share of drama for one day.

  Cyrus and Madge had driven to New Orleans to bring Jilly home. Guy would stay, at least for a day or two, he’d told her. And this time he’d made it clear she would help him by leaving the Quarter.

  Madge Pollard got out of her car and joined Jilly. “Is that Amy Girard?” Madge said. “I knew she was back, but this is the first time I’ve seen her. I never did really meet her but she fits her description.”

  Cyrus stood behind them. The women inside the shop hadn’t noticed company approaching and he eased Madge and Jilly to one side. “It has to be Amy,” he said. “Why would Wazoo insist you come here to meet her? It’s getting late.”

  Amy Girard? Marc’s sister? She could want to explain her earlier behavior, Jilly thought, but she didn’t mention that incident to Cyrus and Madge.

  Madge touched Jilly’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything now,” she said. “Why don’t I go in there and tell Wazoo this will have to wait?”

  “There’s no point in putting it off. Wazoo made it sound important.” Jilly had no idea why she would have any connection to Amy Girard.

  “Wazoo has a rather dramatic approach to all things,” Cyrus said. “I agree with Madge. Give yourself a break. Get some rest first.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t feel like going home and being alone yet, anyway.”

  “I won’t let you do that,” Madge said quickly. “I’ll take you back to Rosebank with me. You know you’re welcome there anytime.”

  “Or you can have a room at the rectory,” Cyrus told her. “There’s no reason for you to be on your own. When this mess gets cleared up it’ll be different.”

  Jilly looked at the Hummer parked in front. Even in the darkness it seemed to shine. She giggled and felt out of control. “I’ve got to get rid of that thing. I’m using it like a billboard till I do and only driving it when I have to. I’ll talk to Mortie at the body shop tomorrow, tell him to get a move on fixing my Beetle.” Guy had said chances were that Lee wouldn’t know a brake hose from an alternator, any more than Jilly would, but she’d make sure the brakes were checked out.

  “Your Beetle should be done by now,” Cyrus remarked. “The Impala was in worse shape and they put that back together.”

  “Thank you for coming to get me,” Jilly said. “I’ll take it from here.” She stood by the door, picking absently at the first signs of flaking paint. It would have to be painted, the whole place would.

  “If you don’t mind,” Cyrus told her, “I’d like to wait in Madge’s car until you let us know everything’s okay. Normally I’d insist on comin’ in but I don’t think I will right now.” He looked at the women in the shop. “No, Wazoo would only set the meeting up this way if she was lookin’ for privacy.”

  Madge smiled up at him and said, “The truth, Father, is that you’re not in the mood to be hailed as God Man by Wazoo.” She touched his chest and laughed.

  “Thanks,” Jilly said, and watched them go back to Madge’s Camry before pushing on the door. It was locked and she opened her purse to find her keys.

  Movement made her look up. Wazoo rushed toward her in a cloud of flying black-and-purple lace. She whipped open the door and pulled Jilly inside. “I never was so glad to see a body,” she said in a low voice. “Now, you got to use all that tact you got, the tact you forget most of the time. This is Amy Girard, Marc’s sister. She’s not in good shape. Not herself. You understand?”

  “Okay,” Jilly said quietly. She wanted, more than anything, to be with Guy. Even having her arms around Goldilocks would be comforting. The dog had stayed with her master, who had stopped talking about not wanting her.

  Wazoo peered into her face. “You okay, sexy woman?”

  “Yes,” Jilly said, shaking her head. Appropriate wasn’t a word in Wazoo’s vocabulary. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll get some coffee for all of us. I need it if you don’t. Hoo mama, this has been a bad day.”

  “Trouble balancing everything I’ve heaped on you?” Jilly asked, very aware of the woman sitting alone.

  “That’s no sweat, no, ma’am, no sweat atall. But you and me is livin’ in one unhinged town. I know more than a bit about psychology—from all of my work with animals, even if they are sharper than humans—and we got folks who belong in institutions walkin’ around here.”

  Jilly saw no reason to argue.

  “Homer Devol’s up in arms because Ozaire pulled a fast one on him. Said he needed to store some crates for a few days, but he didn’t tell Homer those crates was filled with exercise stuff he wanted to store in the boilin’ plant out there. Ozaire and his gym, y’know. He’s not givin’ up on the idea, but he doesn’t have a place for it. Homer says if he doesn’t move them machines out of there in twenty-four hours they’ll be rustin’ on the bottom of the bayou.”

  “Wazoo,” Jilly said, trying to be patient. “I’m real tired. Could we do what you wanted me here for, and talk about these other things tomorrow—or some other time?” She didn’t care about Ozaire’s latest and ongoing get-rich schemes.

  Her cell phone rang and she smiled. Guy had said he’d call to check up on her. Only the caller’s number was restricted. “Hi,” she said, propping an elbow on a forearm.

  “Where are you?” Laura Preston asked. “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused? Ducking out in New Orleans the way you did, then giving us the silent treatment?”

  “This isn’t a good time,” Jilly said. “I’m sorry if I’ve made things tough but I didn’t intend to. You know why I left.”

  “You didn’t need to sneak off,” Laura said. Either she had a cold or she had been crying. “We said we’d look after you. If you’d told Daddy you had to leave you could have made it easy on us. He’s furious. He’s blind to his own faults, or pretends to be.”

  Jilly sighed. “Then it’s past time one of you set him straight.”

  “You don’t know anything. He’d make our lives hell.”

  So get out on your own, you and Wes, and live your own lives. Jilly knew why they didn’t and there was no point in antagonizing Laura. “I’m sorry.”

  “Edith keeps asking me when you’re coming back—and she’s gone into her adoring-wife mode. She’s useless.”

  “I’ve been very busy,” Jilly said. She’d seen more than she cared to see of what Laura and Wes were prepared to do for Preston’s money. Just being polite took discipline.

  “You’ve made it so tough on us,” Laura said. “Daddy’s doing a Godzilla act and blamin’ all of us because you left.”

  Laura had started repeating herself. Weariness weighted Jilly down. “I’m seein’ to some business now. Where are you? Can I call you back?”

  “We’ll be in Toussaint tomorrow but don’t come to Edwards Place.”

  Jilly frowned. “Why?” Wazoo busied herself making coffee and Amy Girard ripped a napkin into small pieces as if she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone.

  “Wes and I both told you to stay away from Daddy once you left the New Orleans house,” Laura said. “We’re concerned for your safety. We’ve seen him when he’s obsessed with someone before. He can’t leave it alone even if he wants to. I think he knows sniffin’ at you isn’t right but he’s go
nna do it, anyway. When I talk about safety, I don’t mean I think he’d hurt you, but he could make you pretty miserable.”

  “The way he has you? Wes doesn’t pretend Mr. Preston hasn’t come on to you.” And neither do you.

  Laura took a while to respond. “That’s history. I don’t want you to go through it, too.”

  Jilly didn’t bother to say she’d heard Laura agree to seduce her father-in-law. “I will come over tomorrow,” she said firmly. “Staying away could do more harm than good.” And, there were some things she’d like to check out if she could get away on her own there.

  “Why don’t you consider getting out of Toussaint?” Laura sounded intense. “Go somewhere and don’t say where you are. Just till things blow over.”

  “No. Runnin’ doesn’t work. Quit worryin’ and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Laura said a reluctant goodbye and they hung up.

  Wazoo had returned to her friend and watched Jilly anxiously as she approached.

  “I didn’t even guess you two hadn’t met,” Wazoo said. “I should have. You wouldn’t have known each other before. Amy just told me.”

  The woman turned to look at Jilly, the same woman who had rushed out of Rosebank that morning, all right. She swallowed at the sight of Jilly, and blinked rapidly. Then she held out a hand. “Amy Girard,” she said. “Sorry I behaved like an ass this morning. I know it must have looked like it was something to do with you but it wasn’t.”

  “Um, Amy—”

  “I’ll do just fine explaining myself,” Amy told Wazoo. “It’ll be good for me.”

  Wazoo frowned and sat down. Jilly sat next to her and accepted a mug of coffee already heavily laced with cream the way she liked it.

  “You’re Jilly Gable and your brother is Joe,” Amy said. “He’s a lawyer.”

  “Yes. And you must be the… You’re Marc Girard’s sister.”

  “The woman who almost got murdered on the bayou a few years ago?” Amy said. “Is that what you were going to ask? The answer is, yes.” She looked away and studied her folded hands on top of the table. She had squashed the pieces of napkin into a ball.

  “Wazoo, what did you mean the other day when you said you sang at Amy’s first—” Jilly winced, then kept her mouth closed.

  Laughing in her abandoned way, Wazoo said, “I said I sang at your first funeral, Amy, but that’s not quite true since you haven’t had a funeral yet. I guess I could say I sang in your memory.”

  An unhappy and deep crease sank into the skin between Amy’s brows. “What did you sing?”

  Jilly decided against drinking the coffee. She didn’t need to get more jumpy than she was already.

  Wazoo actually blushed, something Jilly didn’t recall seeing before. “Well, remember I’d been told a false story about you being dead. I sang, ‘Dem bones, dem bones, them d-ry…bones.’” Her voice trailed away. “I was bein’ respectful, Amy, because I thought my friend had died. We knew each other quite a while.”

  Amy tried not to smile but failed. “Sounds like a lovely affair.” Her eyes settled on Jilly again. “You didn’t send me running this morning. It was being inside Rosebank for the first time since I was a girl.”

  A slight movement caused Jilly to look sharply at Wazoo. The other woman’s mouth hung open.

  “It’s okay, Wazzy,” Amy said. “I’m all right. I can talk about this now, especially when I’ve got you to make me strong. Jilly, I don’t want Marc and Reb to know we’ve talked. With the baby due, they’ve got enough on their minds without worrying about me. You won’t say anything, will you? Or you, Wazoo?”

  Jilly was tempted to point out she had no idea what she wasn’t supposed to talk about, but let it go. “Don’t worry,” she said, and Wazoo murmured the same thing.

  “I was feeling bad because I hadn’t got in touch with Wazoo.” Amy smiled at her and Jilly got another glimpse of a pretty woman behind the usually sad and prematurely aged face. “That’s why I went over to Rosebank, to try to see her before she went to work. I’m sorry, Wazoo. I’ve been on my own a lot for a long time and sometimes I forget there are people who care about me.”

  Wazoo grinned. “We used to argue,” she said bluntly. “You called me Dirty Darlene because you didn’t like my clothes, or much else about me.”

  “No!” Amy shook her head emphatically. “It was just a sort of nickname is all. Your clothes suit you. I’m glad you got rid of the Darlene. Never did like that. L’Oiseau de Nuit is pretty.”

  “You’re a fashion plate now, aren’t you?” Jilly said to Wazoo, and winked. “Never mind us, Amy. You’re more interesting.”

  “I’m not interesting,” Amy said. “Not interesting at all. Just ask anyone who ever knew me. I ran out this morning because I hadn’t been inside Rosebank since my daddy died. I was a girl back then, a teenager. Daddy played cribbage with the Mr. Patin who used to own Rosebank. Vivian Devol’s uncle. I guess I walked through that door and into the sitting room where I’d seen Daddy sitting so often and I freaked out. You know how I used to go there with my daddy, Wazoo? Sorry about that.”

  A faintly strangled sound escaped Wazoo but she nodded.

  Amy listened only to herself. “I’m agoraphobic, you know. It’s hard for me to leave home. I panic. There was that this morning, too. Yes, agoraphobia. And some post-traumatic stress syndrome. I get nervous when I’m with other people, especially strangers.”

  The woman didn’t seem to notice that she was babbling, or giving a laundry list of excuses for her behavior of the morning.

  “I’m not good in crowds,” Amy said, and smiled. She laced her fingers in her lap.

  “I’m not great at that, either,” Jilly said.

  “Then there’s me,” Wazoo said. Worry darkened her eyes even more. “Put me in front of a crowd and I love it. You can’t stop me from talkin’ and sayin’ things I regret later.”

  “You won’t do that about me, will you?” Amy said, reaching to hold Wazoo’s hands tightly on the table. “Wazoo, say you won’t.”

  “I won’t.” Wazoo’s eyes got bigger.

  “Please forget it happened,” Amy said, looking at Wazoo, then Jilly. “It didn’t happen. I always find it easy if I put something down to my imagination.”

  “That’s right,” Wazoo said quietly.

  “Don’t mention I was at Rosebank,” Amy said. Her thin hands moved continually. “Tell the others, too. From this morning. Tell them what happened to me and why. Then ask them to forget all about it.”

  “Okay,” Jilly said, trying to still Amy’s hands. “It’s forgotten.”

  “I loved being at Rosebank with Daddy. Wazoo knows. Thank you. I want to go home.”

  They all got up and went toward the door.

  Amy turned back. “You won’t tell anyone?” she said, tears slipping from her eyes. “I don’t want to frighten you, but if anyone finds out about me, they’ll kill me. They tried before.”

  Jilly grew still and cold. “I promise you I’ll make sure no one talks about you being upset, or anything.” If she hadn’t been a witness at a murder scene today she might find it easy to laugh off Amy’s remark.

  “Don’t talk about me at all,” Amy said, breathless, her body stiff. “Not to anyone.”

  “We’re going to make sure,” Wazoo said. “Let’s get you home and see if you can go back inside without being seen.” She glanced at Jilly. “We came in my van. I know Amy doesn’t want Reb and Marc askin’ where you’ve been.”

  Amy walked through the door and Wazoo shot out a hand to pull Jilly close. “She said she had to tell you something, then she must have changed her mind,” she said. “I never heard any of that other stuff before. Jilly, I met Amy in New Orleans when she was almost thirty. I never knew her when she was a child and I never met her daddy or saw her with him. I think she’s makin’ it all up. She’s scared out of her mind.”

  “She needs more time to heal,” Jilly said.

  30

  “Oliphant and Fleet wer
e partners,” Nat said, as if he were giving Guy a piece of news. “Why aren’t we askin’ Oliphant about Fleet’s missing notes?”

  “There’s more missing than notes,” Guy pointed out. “We’re not askin’ because he’s not offerin’. He knows we’re lookin’ at one of their old cases but he hasn’t said word one.”

  “I don’t think Oliphant had a lot to do with it,” Nat said. “There’s somethin’ about the way he reacts when I mention Paula Hemp or Jazz Babes. As if—aw, I can’t read him.”

  “As if he doesn’t know much about it, maybe?” Guy said. “And it rankles?”

  Nat pushed his beige straw fedora way back on his head and pointed a long forefinger at Guy. “Exactly,” he said, jabbing the air. In flickering light from a candle on the table, animation sharpened his angular face. “You were always so good at workin’ out that type of stuff, the finer stuff. The feely stuff.”

  Jack Charbonnet laughed. Together with Dwayne LeChat, the four of them sat at a table at Les Chats and talked fairly freely because the audience approval of the review on the stage whited out any other noise. Candles provided all the light in the club apart from spotlights on the stage. A smoky pall hung, gray-white, over the finger-snapping, hooting onlookers. Perfume made a questionable companion for the celebrated down-home Cajun food Les Chats served.

  “You won’t get any complaints about feely stuff from me,” Dwayne said, his grin more gleeful than wicked. “What happened to Fleet?”

  “Heart attack,” Nat said.

  Guy thought about it. “He went out on a call and never came back.”

  “Was Oliphant with him?”

  Nat frowned. “Nope, don’t think so. Like I said before, Fleet was into doing his own thing a good bit of the time. Oliphant was Fleet’s faithful dog. Smart, detail-oriented. Took the death hard.”

  The music turned slinky and slow. Jack snapped his fingers and closed his eyes. The piano player had him by the soul. A server slapped a heaped platter of soft-shell crabs in the middle of the table, slid plates and silverware in front of each man, and Jack’s eyelids didn’t even flicker.

  “On the other hand,” Guy said, “Oliphant could know something he doesn’t want us to know. What if he’s protectin’ Fleet’s reputation?”