“Sorry to interrupt,” Cyrus said.
Spike looked up at once and grinned. “I was hopin’ someone would interrupt me. Interruptions are the procrastinator’s dream.”
“That sounds like a Vivianism,” Cyrus said, and Spike nodded. “We’re going to find the link,” Spike said. “Little pieces have started to fall into place. We’ll get the rest soon.”
Cyrus drew in a breath and let it out. “I know. That’s why I came.”
A commotion in the corridor outside the office materialized into Wazoo with Lee O’Brien, and Deputy Lori half-seriously trying to intercept the two women.
“It’s okay, Lori,” Spike said. “We could use a little light relief around here.”
That was when Cyrus noticed another wall of photos, this time of Zinnia and Pip Sedge. He glanced at the two women who hurried into the room, Wazoo opening and shutting a fancy purple umbrella with black lace around the rim and black streamers on top. She shook water everywhere.
“Every little thing is so hard around here,” she said. “We try to come back here and have a word with a friend—” she looked sideways at Cyrus “—didn’t expect to see you, God Man. But all we wanted was a few words with Spike, and Lori chases us down like criminals. Phooey, what a lot of commotion.”
Lee stood quietly by but had the grace to keep her eyes down.
Wazoo saw the pictures of Caruthers. “See,” she said to Lee. “Just like I told you. Brains all over. I made a mistake that night, though. I was thinkin’ he’d probably eaten cake with his own hair and brain in it but that couldn’t be. It’d be someone else who got his hair in a cake. Messes with a person’s mind, I can tell you, then kills ’em. At least…yes, that’s it.” She drummed her fingers on her jaw. “No. I was right in the first place.”
Spike shook his head. “I’m havin’ a busy day, ladies. So unless there’s somethin’—”
“Somethin’?” Wazoo said, her voice unusually high-pitched. “I’d say there’s somethin’. You think people like Lee and me got time to burn? You men aren’t the only busy ones.” She shook out mauve skirts with points that dipped to the floor. The bodice was close-fitting, showing off a nice figure, and despite the humidity, Wazoo wore a black lace shawl.
Lee, in a white shirt and jeans with her blond hair in a single pigtail down her back, seemed all business.
“Would you like me to leave while you talk?” Cyrus asked.
“Yes,” Wazoo said.
Lee poked her. “Of course not, Father. This won’t take long and there’s probably nothing useful in what I’ve got.”
“It’s going to break the case,” Wazoo said with conviction. She swung her slightly damp skirts and hummed. “It’s been too long since I went to a good dance,” she said. “We got Pappy’s Dancehall right up the road a ways and does anyone ever ask me to go and dance? Uh-uh.” She sprung into a two-step with variations that involved slapping the feet down hard and twirling her hands above her head.
“I bet that nice Nat Archer would take you,” Lee said. Cyrus liked her because she took everyone seriously.
Lee went to the wall where Rathburn’s pictures were displayed. She studied them carefully while Cyrus waited for Spike to warn her off. He didn’t. Then she moved to the shots of Zinnia, and Cyrus saw Lee’s hand go to her throat.
“She was beautiful,” Lee said. “You can see it even here.”
“Look at that one up there,” Spike said, pointing.
Lee followed the direction of his finger and said, “Oh, my.” The photo was of a very alive and smiling Zinnia.
She turned to Spike. “I know I’ve overstepped myself a few times but I’m hoping you’ll forgive me if I can help out.”
“I’ve already forgiven you,” Spike said. “I reckon you’ve got a job to do.”
“Did I hear that Mr. Rathburn had pieces of sticky tape under his fingernails?” she asked.
Spike frowned.
Cyrus figured Lee was about to have her forgiveness revoked.
“How do you know that?” Spike asked.
“The truth will set you free,” Wazoo sang.
Lee puffed at trailing strands of hair. “I asked questions,” she said. “I went to the morgue and one of the assistants didn’t seem to mind talking to me.”
“Could be that was the case,” Spike said, leaning back in his chair. “About the tape.”
From a purse Lee wore with its long strap across her chest, she took out an envelope.
Wazoo, apparently out of patience, whirled to take the envelope from Lee and shove it in front of Spike. “Be careful with what’s in there. It’s fragile. Here—” she produced tweezers from her pocket “—I sterilized ’em first.”
Dutifully, Spike accepted the tweezers, opened the envelope and peered inside. He removed a tricolored scrap, or rather a two-colored scrap, with a bit of tape on it.
“See,” Wazoo said. “Sticky tape. And it’s got a flake of pink paint and a fragment of paper on it.”
Spike turned it this way and that and looked closer. Then he looked at Cyrus. “What does this look like to you?”
Cyrus went closer and shook his head.
Wazoo put a hand over her mouth and jumped up and down while Lee bit her lip to stop from grinning. “Think about pink paint,” she said.
“Paint from the door of All Tarted Up, tape and some paper,” Cyrus said at once. “Can’t think of anywhere else you’d find paint that color.”
“Whoo-hoo,” Wazoo said, twirling again. “God Man got it right and I think Spike knew, too. They may not be as dumb as they look.”
“Wazoo,” Lee said, almost managing to sound shocked. “It was by chance I found it. I noticed some flakes missing above the letter slot in the door and a tiny remnant of tape. Then I saw this bit stuck on lower down. It must have fallen there and whoever was picking at the tape didn’t notice.”
Spike and Cyrus looked at the exhibit, then at the two women. Spike cleared his throat. “Well, thank you, ladies. I’ll have this put in the evidence room.”
Lee crossed her arms. “You don’t have the faintest idea what that could mean, do you?”
“Someone stuck somethin’ to Jilly’s door then scraped it off again and dropped a bit,” Wazoo said. “I reckon it was a note.”
“And Caruthers had tape under his nails,” Lee said. “Like he was the one who scraped it off, maybe?”
“Logical,” Spike said. “I’ll look into it. Did your source happen to tell you if Caruthers also had pink paint under his nails?”
Lee looked crestfallen. “I asked. He didn’t.”
“So this could have been a different piece of tape from a different incident?”
“Yes,” Lee said.
“Maybe we should ask Jilly about it.”
Cyrus bent over the desk to peer at the “evidence.” And his heart started to beat faster. There was a faint suggestion of a green line at the edge of the torn snippet of paper. He took the gum wad from his pocket and felt embarrassed not to have made any attempt to keep it clean.
“What’s that?” Spike said.
“Sometimes I take vagueness too far,” Cyrus said. “Help me make sure I don’t mess this up even more than I already have. It could have fingerprints on it.”
“Surrounded by criminologists,” Spike said. He put a clean piece of paper in front of Cyrus. “Put it on there—whatever it is.”
“It’s gum wrapped in a bit of paper,” Cyrus told him. “I saw someone throw it away the night Caruthers Rathburn was murdered. The paper has lines on it like that.” He pointed to the faint green line on Lee’s evidence. He wasn’t about to mention Wes Preston’s name if this was all as ridiculous and unimportant as he thought it might be.
Spike opened his mouth, then closed it again. Probably because he’d been about to ask who the gum chewer had been but changed his mind with Lee and Wazoo there. He picked up the phone and arranged for the samples to go to the lab. “They say they can get some preliminary results pre
tty quickly,” he said when he’d finished his conversation.
“Spike!” Deputy Lori abandoned her customary plod to rush into the office. “There’s somethin’ comin’ on TV you’d better watch. And I don’t suppose you’ve seen this.” She slid a copy of the Toussaint Trumpet in front of him and turned on the television.
While Lori fiddled with the reception, Spike scanned the paper, which now had a single extra sheet inserted in the middle. He looked up at Cyrus. “A man of the cloth in the business of hiding fugitives? That you?”
Cyrus took a second to put the comment together with Miz Trudy-Evangeline. “No,” he said honestly. He hadn’t thought of mentioning the lady to Spike, but even if he wanted to now, he thought he’d have to get Nat and Guy’s approval.
A familiar location appeared on the television screen: All Tarted Up. Again Lee O’Brien stood in front of the door being interviewed by a reporter. “Yes,” she said. “This is Miz Gable’s shop. Rathburn’s killing took place in the yard behind. There’s speculation in the local newspaper, the Toussaint Trumpet, about a possible connection to a wider crime scene in New Orleans.”
When the piece finished, Spike turned off the set and drummed his fingertips on his desk. “When was that?” he asked Lee, who looked miserable.
“A few hours ago,” she said. “They keep askin’ for interviews.”
“Okay,” Spike said. “I’d better get over there and talk to Jilly. She should probably be moved somewhere safe until we’re sure she’s not in danger.”
Lee sank into a chair and propped her forehead on her fists. “She’s not there,” she mumbled.
“Jilly’s not at work?” He picked up the phone and punched in numbers. No one picked up at the other end. “And she’s not at home,” he said.
Lee shook her head.
Wazoo dropped her hands to her sides and looked stricken.
Spike tried another number and waited, then another—and had a short conversation—before putting the phone down quietly again. “Guy’s not at his place and Homer says he’s not there, either.”
This time the phone rang and Spike snatched it up. “Spike Devol.” He listened for some time before he said, “She’s probably wanderin’ around the Quarter, Guy. If you’ve got people lookin’ for her, she’ll show up okay. We’ve got a couple of pieces of new evidence at this end. I should have reports before too long. I’ll call you. Thanks.”
He scribbled down a number and hung up. “Guy’s in New Orleans. Jilly drove him in then went off on her own. Apparently there was a piece on TV there, too—naming Jilly and showing her picture. They’ve got people on the street lookin’ for her but so far, no news.”
“This is all my fault,” Lee said. “I had no right—well, I was wrong to try to take advantage of something bad just for my own personal gain. It seemed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and…” She hung her head.
Madge had left the rectory as soon as Cyrus drove her back from Edwards Place. She made some excuse about running errands but Cyrus knew her too well. She had gone off to be quiet and try to deal with her concern for Jilly.
He had spent time inside St. Cécil’s but hadn’t found it easy to quiet his mind and pray. The open air called him and he walked between tombs on soft, wet grass. There would be more rain but for now it had stopped. As he liked to do, he stopped now and then to read the inscription on a stone. So many of the tombs had turned dark with age and it was hard to make out what had been chiseled there, especially if there were also clumps of thick moss growing.
Perhaps it wasn’t too soon to call Spike and ask if there was any news of Jilly. He continued on to the corner of the church farthest from the rectory and turned for home.
On the other side of a fenced-in family memorial, by the outer wall, he saw two crouched figures. They wore green jackets with hoods and it was surprising he’d noticed them.
Hurriedly, Cyrus made his way toward the people. They seemed still, and as he drew close he saw they kneeled side by side on the soaked ground. Fresh earth stood in two small mounds.
He ran, suddenly convinced something was very wrong.
They didn’t hear him coming. Leaning shoulder to shoulder, they cradled a little metal lunch box and Cyrus heard them crying. One man, one woman. Ken and Jolene Pratt.
With a throat that closed and ached, Cyrus walked carefully, slowly, around until he faced the Pratts. “Ken,” he said, “Jolene. What’s happening?”
Both looked up at him. “We’re so sorry,” Jolene said. “It seemed the best thing to do at the time but now we can’t visit anymore—like we used to at night—so we’re moving our baby.”
Cyrus closed his eyes. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“We buried her ourselves because we didn’t know if you would let her be here. God forgive us.”
“Tell me about all this,” Cyrus said, looking at the smallness of the box. “You miscarried a little girl?”
Ken and Jolene nodded. “I soldered the box. It’s tight shut,” Ken said.
“We’re not Catholic, Father,” Jolene said. “We’re not anything. But we came to you for help and you gave it to us. We wanted her here.”
“But you tithe,” Cyrus said, bemused.
“We give back for all you’ve given us,” Jolene said.
Looking at the heavy sky, in his mind Cyrus had a quiet word with God. And he considered what it meant to be truly good. “Let’s put this little one back for her nap,” he said, getting down and instantly feeling the knees of his pants grow wet. He put a hand under each of theirs and guided the burial.
Cyrus placed dirt in each of their palms and when they had thrown it on the box, it was Cyrus who replaced the rest of the earth, and the sod that had been peeled back. And he blessed the baby.
From a pocket, Ken took what looked like a laminated bookmark. It said, Baby Mary, nothing more, and he slid it into a crack made by cutting the sod, slid it sideways into the ground until it wasn’t visible. He got up, pulling Jolene with him.
“Is it all right?” Jolene asked.
Cyrus got to his feet and put an arm around each of them. “It’s all right,” he said.
36
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” The man who had approached Jilly pushed back a very white cuff to look at his Rolex.
She said, “Good afternoon,” hating the way her stomach turned. “This is a wonderful shop. I’ve heard a lot about it but I’ve never been in before.”
“Prestons is a New Orleans institution among antique connoisseurs. I’m Russell Smith, the manager.” He offered his hand and Jilly shook it. She didn’t miss the faint flicker of his blue eyes taking in her casual shirt and pants. “Did you have something special in mind?”
Run, run, run. Now, that would be stupid behavior for an adult woman. “I came in hopin’ that Mr. Preston might be here. Mr. Sam Preston. I’m a friend of his.” Since she had no idea whether the Prestons were talking about Edith’s long-lost daughter, she had decided not to mention the relationship.
The change in the man’s demeanor wasn’t subtle. He inclined his narrow head and gave her his full attention. “Is he expecting you, Miss…”
“I’m Jilly Gable. No, he’s not expectin’ me but I’m sure he’ll see me if he has a few moments to spare.” And then she would tell him what she’d been rehearsing while she drank too many cups of coffee in a nearby café.
Not a strand of Russell Smith’s blond hair was out of place. He had a light, even tan that made the best of unremarkable but pleasant features.
His lengthy silence gave him away. Russell wasn’t sure what to do about Jilly.
“Look,” she said. “Perhaps I’ve come at a bad time. If he is in today, or if he’s comin’ in, please tell him I stopped by. I think he’ll be pleased I was interested in the shop.” The place was deep and she could see one room leading to another. A hush hung in lemon-scented air.
“Please don’t rush away,” the man said. “Mr. Preston did mention dropping by today. He s
pends more of his time at auction than he does here, much more, but I know he won’t be at any of the houses today or tomorrow. Do let me make you comfortable while I try to find out when he might arrive.”
“That’s a lot of trouble.” And she’d completely changed her mind about the wisdom of a heart-to-heart with her mother’s husband.
“Jilly? I’ll be—is that you, Jilly Gable?”
At the sound of a familiar male voice, she turned sharply, just in time to be engulfed in a crushing hug from Wes Preston. His smile was a thousand watts and he chuckled delightedly. “Of all the people I didn’t expect to see in here, you’re probably it. Welcome. If you’d let us know you could have come on the chopper. Has Russell been looking after you?”
She stiffened in his arms. “He certainly has.”
“Miss Gable was hoping to find your father here,” Russell said. “I was just going to ascertain if he plans to be in New Orleans today.”
“I’ll save you the trouble. He does. But he’s busy for an hour or so, which gives us time for a late lunch, Jilly.” He frowned slightly. “Tell me you haven’t already eaten.”
“I haven’t.” She didn’t want to go anywhere with him. “But I’m not really hungry.”
“Of course you are.” He tucked her hand under his arm and started toward the door. “When Mr. Preston comes in, ask him to call me,” he said without looking back. To Jilly, he said, “Edith called and said Laura was comin’ into town with Daddy. Apparently there’s some ring he wants to show her—as if she didn’t already have enough. My father loves to give presents.”
“I know,” Jilly said. “I believe he’s a very generous man with a basically good heart.” Suddenly she was desperate to squelch any idea that she felt close to Wes, or that they shared some sort of secret.
“Really?” He raised his dark eyebrows.
Outside, he opened the passenger door of a black Mercedes coupe and helped Jilly inside. The moment he was behind the wheel, he grinned at her and started the car. “This is great,” he said, and entered the flow of traffic. “I’ve got a favorite place for lunch and they’re already expectin’ me. They’ll be more than happy when I show up with you.”
A Grave Mistake Page 34