Kiss Them Goodbye

by Stella Cameron

  Burning, Vivian turned on her heel but didn’t make it past Spike who stepped in front of her. “I’ll leave that to you, Pops. Nobody’s tougher than you are. Vivian and I will take Wendy with us to the rectory.”

  Vivian didn’t want to be in the middle of this.

  “Run up and say goodbye to Wally,” Spike told Wendy. “Tell him he should come over to the station and show me his new Nolan.”

  The child went silently. Spike resented that she’d witnessed hard feelings, not that it was the first time by too many.

  “No need to take her,” Homer said. He rolled in his lips. “You know I go off sometimes. Bad habit.”

  “Forget it, Pops. Wendy enjoys Lil Dupre. She can help her in the kitchen while we see to some business with Cyrus.” He stared at his father. “You’ve been around me enough to know how a murder has a way of taking over everything.”

  Chapter 12

  “They’re still over there at Rosebank, Daddy dear. How long do you suppose it’ll be before someone decides asking us a few questions wasn’t enough. They could decide to check out the inside of Serenity House?”

  Dr. Morgan Link held on to the side of the new pool Susan had built for him inside an elegant white marble pool house. Olympia Hurst plagued him daily. He’d expected her to show up here. Calling her mother’s second husband “daddy” while she came on to him appeared to give her a perverse thrill.

  He wiped water from his eyes but made sure he didn’t look at her. “If I were a policeman, I would search any properties near the crime scene if I could get the warrants. That’s not always easy unless there’s a real good reason.”

  “And that wouldn’t bother you?”

  “Why should it?” He pushed off the wall and began swimming a length of the pool in an easy backstroke.

  She laughed and shouted after him, “You don’t think the little secret would come out before you and Mama were ready?”

  It wouldn’t come out unless someone talked out of school. He’d have to make sure that didn’t happen.

  The strength he felt in his limbs, the perfect tone of his entire body, satisfied him. Only one thing could make this swim more perfect. He reached the far wall, flipped over and started back. Olympia wanted him as much as he wanted her—even if their reasons were the smallest amount different.

  Perhaps he should shock the little tease and pull her in here with him. He’d seen her enter the bathhouse in a gauzy white halter top and tiny shorts. She loved to flaunt herself whenever she could get him alone.

  She felt safe baiting him, goading him…letting him know she hated the man who took her father’s place, even though she couldn’t stay away from him.

  He heard her laughter bounce from the slick and soaring walls. Best not to react. She had no self-discipline and she was like a bitch in heat, wiggling her pretty heart-shaped ass almost in his face, making sure he got the scent of her. So far he’d managed not to touch her.

  She hated him but she hated her mother more. She would let poor Susan spend a fortune trying to turn her into Miss Southern Belle yet her ultimate fantasy was to fuck her own mother’s husband. The supreme betrayal. Olympia knew Susan wanted the contest win for herself, to give her another reason to brag. The girl felt the expenses were coming out of her own inheritance. And the excesses Susan showered on Morgan ate more chunks of money the girl wanted for herself. After all, her father had earned it and Susan was only supposed to safeguard it for Olympia, or that’s the way she saw it.

  “Look at that, Morgan,” Olympia shouted. “Something’s come up, but I’m sure you’ve already noticed that.” Her laughter scaled high. “What a waste. And here I am, ready to help you—and me, Morgan.”

  How had this become so complicated? He had married Susan for her money, mainly. That wouldn’t surprise anyone. All they’d have to do was look at the two of them to figure it out. But he hadn’t planned on the daughter being a vindictive, sex-starved nymphomaniac. Quite the combination, there. “How could you possibly help anything?” he asked Olympia, pushing close to the wall and continuing to float on his back. Let her look at the tent pole his dick had become. Let her squirm and salivate.

  She dropped to kneel on the tiled edge, pressed her breasts together with her arms, made sure he could see inside her top. If he sat beside her he’d be looking at her nipples. “I could help a lot,” she said and stretched flat on her stomach. “That can’t be comfortable and it’s certainly a waste.”

  He knew what she wanted to do. Perverted little cock-sucker. She wasn’t ready for the finish yet, oh no, O-lympi-a didn’t intend to get him all the way inside her unless and until it suited her crooked plans.

  “Come closer,” she whispered, and the whisper ricocheted about the crystalline palace Susan Hurst had built for her husband.

  “Why should I?” he said. He slipped a hand inside his trunks to fondle himself.

  “I can do that so much better than you,” she said. “Poor baby, that’s what you get for marrying an older woman. You learn to take care of your own needs. Is the money still worth it, Daddy dear?”

  Now and again he felt sorry for her—a little sorry. One day when she pushed too far, and had too much to lose by striking back at him, he’d tell her it was too bad she couldn’t study her mother’s mastery of the art of sex because Susan was a master and she could teach a lot to a willing hedonist in training.

  “Are you ignoring me?” Olympia whined through pouty lips. Blond and with her mother’s fine bones and soft features, when she looked at him like that, with that child-behind-a-woman’s-beautiful-face impression she pulled off so well, he reminded himself how dangerous she could be.

  He splashed water and she squealed. When she swung to sit on the edge with her feet trailing in the water, her soaked and transparent halter didn’t hide a thing. He never tired of perfect breasts.

  “Olympia,” he said, tiring of the unrequited ache she caused. “Perhaps you need some therapy, someone knowledgeable to listen to your fantasies.”

  “Someone like you, our resident psychologist?” She parted the halter at its plunging V and peeled it apart. “Talk to me, doctor. Tell me what’s wrong with me and what would make it better.”

  “Playing with other children, I should think,” he told her and looked at her breasts, naked, and all too tempting in their wet sling. He made sure she knew he was staring at them. “That doesn’t look comfortable. Big girls need all the support they can get.”

  “All the support this girl needs is you, Morgan. We’ve been handed a prize. There’s time to collect it, but not too much time.”

  “There isn’t a ‘we,’ and I haven’t been handed anything,” he told her, furious at the way she made light of heavy things. “I saw an opportunity and figured out how to use it. But either I make all the right moves from now on or ‘we’ will kiss goodbye to a lot of dreams, yours and mine.”

  “Don’t threaten me,” she said and took the top all the way off. She hopped to her feet and shucked her shorts. “I’m not the killing type, remember? You, on the other hand—”

  “Shut the fuck up. Never say anything like that again.” Anger aroused him even more and Olympia, her weight on one foot, running her hands over her body and panting each time she sank fingers between her legs, brought him to the brink.

  Without warning she jumped into the pool.

  Morgan swung his feet down and trod water, careful to keep some distance between them.

  “Is Vivian Patin your type?” she asked.

  He frowned at her and said, “Where did that come from? I don’t know her.”

  “Do you think she’s sexy?”

  “No.” What was one more little lie between friends?

  “Will it bother you if they pin the murder on her?”

  He must not forget, even for a moment, that Olympia would always put herself first. “You’re letting your mind stray,” he told her.

  Grinning, she shot forward, twined her arms around his neck and gripped his waist
with her legs. “My mind isn’t straying. I still know what I want.”

  Her tongue entered his mouth before their lips met. What followed wasn’t so much a kiss as a feeding frenzy before she flipped onto her back and scissored her legs about his neck. With her feet and ankles secure, she spread her knees.

  He could, Morgan decided, use her sex addiction to bind her to him—until he didn’t want her around anymore. And it wasn’t a hardship to play her game.

  With his mouth planted exactly where Olympia wanted it to be and his tongue doing rapid pushups, he pulled and shook her nipples. She came quickly and he used the echoes of her spasms to bring her to climax twice more in rapid succession.

  With her eyes closed, she pushed away from him, moved her arms slowly while her legs trailed.

  Morgan didn’t realize what she was up to until she was already in motion, propelling herself beneath the water and yanking down his trunks. She popped up for air and gave him a mock snarl. When she gave him a backward push, he obliged by letting his legs float to the surface.

  She mouthed, “oh, my,” and slid her lips over him.

  The concept of getting a blow job from a woman who hated him only deepened his pleasure. Yes…yes…yes. She was so willing; why not make this a habit?

  He exploded and thrashed at the water while he emptied.

  Olympia didn’t swallow. He smiled at that thought.

  “I knew you’d like that,” she said when his breathing evened out.

  “That was just the hors d’oeuvres,” he said, calculating every word. “How about the rest of the meal?”

  She paddled to the edge of the pool again and pulled her clothes, or what passed for her clothes, into the water. “Wouldn’t want Mama to wander in and see those out there with us in here.”

  Earlier they’d visited the rectory at St. Cécil’s in Toussaint, intending to impress Father Cyrus with their neighborly concern for the Patins. The priest had been out and after doing some groundwork with Lil Dupre, the housekeeper, Morgan had returned home with Olympia. Susan had remained in Toussaint to see Bill Green about a piece of vacant land adjacent to Serenity House. He would join her there when she called. He didn’t remind Olympia that she was only fantasizing danger because it aroused her.

  “She’s got to go, y’know,” Olympia said, bouncing in the water. “You and I will make the best team ever, perfect partners while we grieve. It’s too bad we’ll never be able to marry.”

  “A shame,” he said, anxious to leave and get into Toussaint. “But don’t get distracted. Nothing gets done out of order.”

  “How come you get to decide the order?” she said. “What if I want to switch things around?”

  He had her by the throat before he could stop himself. Then he didn’t want to. “If I go down because you interfere, I’ll take you with me.”

  Her eyes were wide and she grappled with his hands. “You’re frightening me. Stop it.”

  Morgan squeezed a little tighter and gave her a shake. “You stop it. Repeat after me—one move at a time.”

  “One move at a time,” she murmured.

  “And only Morgan’s moves when he’s ready to make them.”

  “And only Morgan’s moves when he’s ready to make them.”

  He nodded at her and eased his grip, placed his thumbs, side by side, on her chin. “And what’s our first, our biggest priority?”

  Olympia’s mouth trembled. “To make sure Rosebank never becomes a hotel.”

  Chapter 13

  Saturdays were Cyrus’s favorite days, even this one when he’d confronted another dose of Errol Bonine’s sleazy arrogance and witnessed how little his parishioners took his anti-gossip homilies to heart. On Saturdays he got away with wearing an old shirt and jeans to do whatever needed to be done around the parish. Things that didn’t have to fall under Ozaire’s control.

  The morning and part of the afternoon had already been used up but there were a lot of daylight hours left.

  Knowing Madge was in the house didn’t hurt his mood. She’d decided to follow him back to the rectory and catch up on some of the paperwork she’d left when she went to Rosebank. Even though she wasn’t supposed to work past noon on a Saturday, and any Saturday work was optional, he hadn’t found the backbone to tell her she should go home.

  He didn’t dwell on his motives, just accepted that when she was nearby he felt as happy as he ever expected to feel.

  This afternoon showed little sign of last night’s torrents. Earlier in the day steam from the ground mixed with thick mist over the bayou and the trees had seemed rooted in a layer of clouds. Heat still rose in quivering waves but the mist and steam were gone. Bees hovered and darted in the bed of wildflowers Cyrus had planted on the bayou side of the rectory. He shaded his eyes from the sun and cast a satisfied eye over the white church that sat, surrounded by glittering tombs and green grass, on the opposite side of Bonanza Alley from the rectory. A low, white fence surrounded both pieces of property.

  Ozaire Dupre’s rusted blue truck bumped to a halt beside the church fence and Ozaire, Lil’s husband, meandered along a path leading to his shed near the church. Short and thick, Ozaire might give the impression he didn’t have the energy to scratch his nose but he was the strongest man Cyrus had ever met, apart from his predecessor, William.

  Cyrus didn’t want to think of the people he’d lost since he’d been at St. Cécil’s, some of them good, some of them plain old wicked. And he didn’t want to think about the scenes at Rosebank yesterday. Some might laugh and say that a murder was a murder, but experience had taught him that some unnatural deaths were more significant than others. He thought the murder of Louis Martin could turn out to be real significant.

  From the path that ran alongside the rectory on the Bonanza Alley side came Wally Hibbs. The boy didn’t change much and at almost twelve he was as rangy as ever. His brown hair fell over his brow and he fastened hazel eyes on Cyrus with the delighted look he assumed whenever his benefactor came into sight.

  During school time, like now, he could only come around on Saturday and Sunday, but in summer he was there most days. It was Cyrus who made sure that Wally, the son of Doll and Gator Hibbs, proprietors of the Majestic Hotel, got the help he needed with his homework, and that he had someone to talk to.

  “You tendin’ them Oribel flowers, you?” Wally shouted. “Or you diggin’ them up. Ma calls ’em weeds. Jilly thinks they’re the prettiest things she ever saw. ‘Cept for they set ‘round the Fuglies way they do.”

  “I like my Fuglies,” Cyrus lied about the primitive bronze sculpture of five cavorting two-dimensional figures in the middle of the lawn, surrounded by what Wally called “Oribel” wildflowers. Oribel Scully had been Lil’s predecessor and she had gifted the piece of sculpture to the parish, but the slender-stemmed show of oranges and blues, white, red, lavender and yellow celebrated something other than her generosity. They reminded Cyrus of life and how precious it was.

  “Spike brought that pretty lady from Rosebank to the Majestic,” Wally said. He sat, cross-legged, on the grass and Cyrus noticed the boy settled a white plastic box by his feet. Holes punched in the box made Cyrus suspicious that he knew what was inside. “Vivian Patin she’s called. Wendy Devol was there, too. She’s okay for a baby. Homer brought her over to visit with Dad. From what I heard, they were talkin’ about how the Patins are outsiders and Spike’s makin’ a fool of himself with Miz Vivian. Homer’s bellyaching about how Spike’s aiming too high and Wendy will get hurt all over again when Miz Vivian moves on.”

  Wally made a sudden, swift move and caught a cricket which he slipped into the white box.

  “Reckon there could have been a dust-up when Spike showed up with Miz Vivian,” he said. “Weren’t there any time at all when Wendy came up to say they was leavin’. I thought they was comin’ here. Guess they already left.”

  “Must have changed their minds,” Cyrus told him. “Probably decided to take Wendy home first—if they’re coming at all.
”

  To hide any giveaway expressions, Cyrus returned his attention to the flowers. Spike had him worried. Homer could just be right about a relationship between his son and Vivian being a poor idea. But Cyrus was worried about more than that and he needed to talk to Spike alone. Remarks had been made at Jilly’s that left him with suspicions he’d like to forget, but he had a job to do, a duty, and for all his failings, he took his responsibilities seriously.

  “Stuff’s happenin’ again, isn’t it?” Wally asked in the hushed and hoarse voice that became less audible the more unsettled he was. “Not just that killing. Other stuff. I can feel it. That Miz Vivian didn’t kill no one, but they’re tryin’ to say she did and there’s plenty willing to believe it. I reckon that detective just wants to have someone to blame and move on.”

  Cyrus tossed weeds into an old cardboard box from Ron Guidry’s Louisiana Lightning hot sauce before he looked at Wally. “You do a lot of thinking. A lot of working things out. Our job is to try not to interfere or give opinions, Wally. But I think you’re right and we may eventually have to do something. Meanwhile, watch out for yourself. What’s in the box?”

  Wally smiled his one-sided smile. “A buddy.”

  “Doesn’t have hairy legs, does he?”

  “Yup.” Wally nodded and grinned. “Nolan Two. I like having him around.”

  Cyrus had hoped Wally’s need to prove he was different had worn off. Maybe it never would, at least not until he was grown and could make his own decisions.

  The back door to the house opened and Wendy Devol ran from the kitchen, her braids flapping behind her. She went toward Wally who didn’t look unhappy about the little girl’s attention.

  Next came Vivian carrying her little dog, with Spike behind her.

  Cyrus shaded his eyes to watch them. She was lovely, would be even more lovely without the anxiety that tightened her expression. Vivian looked over her shoulder at Spike who settled a hand on the back of her neck. When she faced Cyrus again, her brilliant smile didn’t need an explanation. These two were wading in deep with each other, just as Cyrus had feared.