Cypress Nights

by Stella Cameron

  “Yes, Father,” she said.

  Cyrus smiled at her, but felt uneasy. He’d hear more of Ozaire’s theory about Kate Harper.

  He continued through the kitchen and into the corridor. The dark wainscot that reached halfway up the walls was as old as the house, and it shone from regular polishing.

  Cyrus loved this rectory.

  But he detested the confused, angry, vengeful thoughts that gripped his mind like the rapid run of waves on the shore. The moment he thought they had gone away, back they rushed to swamp him again.

  There was no peace left for him in Toussaint, and his difficulties only increased. He couldn’t quit when the need for him here was so great, but he had been tempted to ask for reassignment.

  If he did that, what would he gain? The only answer that came to him was, regret.

  Halfway along the corridor, he heard voices. A man and Madge. Cyrus paused. He crossed his arms and looked at his shoes.

  Nothing they said was clear. He was grateful for that. How had he sunk to listening to his assistant’s conversations—or trying to? Cyrus knew the answer. Madge had given him too many good years of her life, and recently, when he’d been deeply shaken by the strength of their friendship, he had pushed her to start dating. Now, each time he saw her with a man, even a man who was a stranger, he could barely restrain himself from whisking her away.

  He leaned against the wall and tipped his face up to the ceiling. Tears? Tears stung his eyes as if he was some moonstruck kid who didn’t get the girl. When had he started allowing himself to question his calling?

  No, he didn’t question that, but he would be a liar if he didn’t admit that he was a man with two passions, each of which deserved all of him: the Church, and Madge Pollard.

  A door opened and a man said, “I don’t want you getting upset, Madge. I’ll take you back to Rosebank tonight, and we’ll have dinner. This is all too much for you.”

  Cyrus shrugged away from the wall. His throat felt closed and he heard the pounding of his blood in his ears. Forcing himself to move, he carried on toward his office. Madge’s was next door and Sam Bush, the parish accountant, stood partly out of her room, but with his head inside. Above-average height and well-built, his relaxed posture and easy manner underscored his self-confidence.

  Cyrus hesitated again. He couldn’t just go into his office and shut the door without saying a word to Sam or Madge.

  Sam Bush wasn’t Cyrus’s choice for Madge, not that the choice would ever be his. The man’s wife, Betty, had left him without any sign that she was unhappy, or so Sam insisted. He’d been alone for a year and recently he leased a long-stay apartment at Rosebank, the resort where Sheriff Spike Devol and his wife ran a destination resort and rented suites of rooms. Madge had rooms in the same building, and until Sam moved in, Cyrus had felt good about her being there.

  Recently, there had been talk about Sam looking into a way to be officially single again. Joe Gable, Jilly Gautreaux’s brother and the town’s lawyer, knew what was going on, but Joe would never reveal even a hint of a client’s business.

  Sig Smith was the man Cyrus was encouraging for Madge. A psychologist, he was a thoughtful, intellectual type who worked for Roche Savage and seemed as if he could be right for Madge.

  “Okay,” Sam said into Madge’s office. “So Vivian Devol would come and pick you up in your car if it’s fixed today. It probably won’t be. I’ll check in with you later anyway. It would be easier for me to give you a lift. We’re going to the same place. Either way, we’ll have dinner.”

  Cyrus didn’t hear Madge say anything to that.

  Sam hadn’t taken long to get over the loss of his wife and start looking elsewhere. Cyrus remembered Betty Bush, a vivacious and pretty woman. Why would she disappear like that when she seemed happy in her marriage? What made Sam think he could have her declared dead so soon—if that’s what he was trying to do—unless he knew something he wasn’t talking about?

  Grim, annoyed with his runaway speculation, Cyrus approached Madge’s office. “Hey there, Sam,” he said, moving briskly. “Have you finished with us for today?”

  “Hey, Father,” Sam said, straightening up and turning serious gray eyes on Cyrus. “Yes, all finished. I’ve got plenty waiting for me at the office, though.”

  Cyrus indicated that he was going into Madge’s room and Sam released the door.

  “Is Madge’s car playing up?” Cyrus asked Sam, passing him. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure she gets back if necessary.”

  He nodded at the man, and smiled until Sam shrugged and walked away without a word of argument. He headed toward the kitchens and eventually left the house by the back door. It slammed, and Cyrus was left to think about what he would say to Madge.

  “Good accountant, Sam Bush,” he said, turning to look at her. “Are you still pleased with him?”

  She sat behind her desk, elbows resting on the shiny top. Her hands propped her chin, but her dark eyes stared into his. There was no need for words; she understood him and saw through any clever maneuver he tried to pull off.

  He shut the door and sat down carefully in Madge’s favorite striped easy chair. Immediately, Millie, Madge’s black-and-white papillon, ran from beneath the desk and leaped onto his knees. He stroked her absently. Often the tiny dog and her silky fur could relax him, but not today.

  Seconds passed, and he couldn’t look away from Madge. “What are you thinking?” he finally asked.

  When she was happy, her eyes were warm and bright. When she was sad, they still shone, but the light turned distant—it was distant now.

  “Madge? Say something, please.”

  “Sam’s just a friend.”

  He felt embarrassed by his own behavior. “I know that. Would he like to be more, do you think?”

  “Would you approve of that?”

  She was backing him into the kind of corner he was trying so hard to avoid. “If he’s what you want, of course I do. You wouldn’t pick him if he wasn’t a good man,” Cyrus said.

  “I would always try to choose good people as friends. Sam’s a decent man. He would like to be more than a friend to me.”

  Cyrus shifted. He breathed harder. Millie got up, made a perilously fast turn on his thighs, and plopped down again.

  Madge smiled. “She doesn’t appreciate tension, that girl. You’re tense.”

  “And you’re not?” he snapped back and wished he hadn’t. “Forget it. I don’t have any right to ask that. And I shouldn’t be interfering in your private life.”

  She rubbed her brow. “What’s happened to us?” she said. “Every time we’re together and we’re not working on something, we start digging at each other.”

  “No,” he said and laughed. “We’re just having a bad day and there will be more of the same. Until they catch whoever killed Jim, there won’t be any peace for anyone in Toussaint.”

  “No—he—I can’t believe it. He loved this church. He must have gone there for a few quiet minutes, same as he always does—did.”

  “Yes.” Cyrus thought of walking up the path toward one of the side doors into the building with Jim at his side. “I went into the church with him yesterday. I’d left my clipboard there. The last thing he said was that he’d be at the meeting Bleu was holding.”

  Madge’s mouth trembled and she pressed her lips tight together.

  “I know, I know,” he said, trying to comfort her as best he could from where he was. Getting too close to Madge was dangerous. They both knew it.

  She covered her face with her hands. “Me, I don’t know how we carry on after something like this.” Her voice came to him, muffled by her hands. “We do it over and over when the hurt comes. Each time we console each other and we think evil things won’t happen around us again. But they do. It’s no good thinking you’ve had your share of unhappiness. It feels like too much already, but more comes along soon enough. Why is that, Cyrus?”

  Her hands rested on the desk now, and her tragic, puz
zled face turned toward him. She wasn’t asking a rhetorical question. Madge wanted him to explain why his God, and hers, let these things happen.

  “You know it doesn’t work that way,” he said. “What happened to Jim is man’s making. Don’t try to find another reason.”

  When Madge’s tears came, they broke in sobs and she swung her chair around, away from him, so he couldn’t see her cry. He stood up, holding the dog under one arm.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “Just let me calm down. I’ll be fine.”

  She would be fine. Would she? Would either of them ever be fine?

  Swiftly, he put the dog down and moved behind her chair. Awkwardly, he patted her back, then stood beside her and rubbed the nape of her neck.

  Madge got up. She turned to him, her eyes awash and shimmering. A pretty, dark-haired woman with a big heart. And he had failed her completely.

  She walked straight into him and rested her face and fists against his chest. He felt her tears dampen his black shirt.

  He felt as if she tried to burrow inside him, to hide and be kept safe.

  A useless man wasn’t a man at all.

  Putting his arms around her was what any friend would do for her, and he did. Sometimes he forgot how small she was. The top of her head didn’t reach his chin. With hands that betrayed him by their jerky efforts, he smoothed her back through her cotton blouse. She moved her arms at once and put them around him. She held on tightly.

  Cyrus bowed his head. With one hand, he stroked her hair. “Be quiet, Madge. Inside, be very quiet. Make your heart calm.”

  When she nodded, her nose pressed into his chest even harder.

  “I’d like a promise if you can spare me one,” he told her.

  Once more, she nodded.

  “Be very careful, my friend. Don’t be alone after dark in any of the buildings here. Think before you go wandering. Just ask me, and I’ll go with you as soon as I can. Rosebank is a big, secluded place, too. Once you’re in your rooms for the night, stay there. And always, at any time, call me if you’re worried about something.” After a pause, he finished, “Call me, even if you just need a friend to talk to.”

  So, he had taken several steps backward from the distance he’d promised to put between them. He was only human.

  Madge kept her face close to his chest, but looked upward at him.

  She held her heart in her eyes, and there was longing, but also acceptance in the gentle way she remained close.

  There was no decision; he kissed her forehead lightly, softly, asking nothing of her, but desperate to give her some peace.

  Her eyes closed.

  Millie barked sharply.

  Cyrus and Madge sprang apart.

  The dog barked louder. She jumped and turned circles at the same time. And she quivered before she ran to hide in an open cupboard.

  Madge gave a weak smile. “That’s our big, bad watchdog. Someone must be coming to the door.”

  Before she’d even finished, the front doorbell rang.

  Running her fingers through her short curls, Madge visibly pulled herself together. She took a tissue and blotted her eyes. A final sniff and she stood very upright. Cyrus admired her strength. He had no tears to wipe away, but he hurt where no one could see.

  Dodging around him, Madge left the office and went to open the door. In moments, she was back, a beautifully wrapped package in her hands. “It’s for you, darn it. Must be from one of your legion of admirers.”

  He smiled at the expression on her face. “Women like presents, don’t they?” he said.

  “Yes, of course they do. We’re shallow things.”

  “You’d do me a big favor if you’d open that for me. I always make a horrible mess with the paper and ribbons.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She put the box on the desk and undid a scarlet ribbon with a bow so large and intricate it covered the top. After this, she lifted away pieces of tape without tearing the shiny white paper scattered with red roses.

  “Hmm.” She looked at him and her lips were pursed. “It’s from an admirer all right. Look at the way it’s wrapped.”

  He sighed and did his best to look abashed.

  The lid on the box inside had also been taped shut. Madge used her fingernails, ran them under the box rim to free the lid.

  Holding the box aloft, she removed the lid with a flourish.

  A cloud of dust rose from inside. It billowed. Madge coughed and Cyrus’s eyes stung.

  “Drop it and get back,” he shouted. Madge dropped it on the floor between them. He grabbed her and pushed her behind him.

  Small pieces of burned paper floated up from the box. Black, oily-looking, they drifted down to settle everywhere, including on Cyrus and Madge.

  “A silly joke,” Madge said, picking bits out of her hair.

  Cyrus took up the phone, called Spike but got his second-in-command, Marty Brock. “If you think we need the fire department, call ’em,” Cyrus explained to him, after giving him the general rundown on what had happened. “I don’t smell anything much except old smoke.”

  “Spike’s tied up, but Marty’s on his way over,” Cyrus told Madge. “Stay where you are.”

  He made his way around the perimeter of the room until he had a clear view of the open box. Dust was settling. Dust and ash. He wrinkled his nose at the acrid scent. Slowly, he went closer. “Someone stuffed the box with burned books,” he told Madge, getting even closer. “That’s all it is—old burned books.”

  A piece of lined paper, folded once, lay on the old carpet. Cyrus picked it up, and by the time he read it, Madge was beside him.

  And the new schoolhouse went away

  all burned up.

  Suffer the little children

  suffer and die.

  Chapter 5

  At the same time

  Spike had never been inside Kate Harper’s house before but nothing about it surprised him.

  Every pale blue, flower-sprigged upholstered chair and couch stood on spindly gilded legs. So many roses in crystal bowls sat on shiny surfaces that he struggled not to wrinkle his nose at the overpowering scent.

  “Do sit down, Sheriff,” Kate Harper told him. “Choose just anywhere that pleases you. It’s not often enough that I have the company of a handsome young man.” She actually fluttered her long, dark lashes at him. Red hair, piled high on her head, spilled down into ringlets around her face.

  He had dreaded coming here and didn’t feel any better now he had arrived. “Thank you, Miz Harper.”

  She flapped a white hand. “Kate, Sheriff. Call me Kate like everyone does.”

  Damn, if she wasn’t flirting with him, even if only a little. He sat on a chair and straightened his back. He needed to remember that Kate was a traditional Southern woman from a class taught to flatter men. “Kate,” he said. “I didn’t want to come by so soon, but one or two things have happened since Jim’s death yesterday that I surely didn’t expect. I want you in the picture, and I’m hoping you can give me some useful ideas.”

  Kate’s age was a matter of local conjecture. Without staring too closely, he decided she must be in her fifties, which was younger than he’d expected. She had a regal carriage and almost floated across the polished wooden floor to take a place on the edge of a couch. She settled the skirts of a green, polished cotton dress carefully. Kate had a nice figure, a voluptuous figure.

  She sat quite still with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes downcast.

  “There’s nothing I can say to make this any easier,” Spike told her. “I can’t even imagine the depth of your shock.”

  She made a little choking noise and nodded. When she looked at him, her eyes shone with moisture. “My Jim’s—my Jim was the best man in the world. The kindest, gentlest man I ever met. You have to find his killer, Sheriff. Please find him and bring him to justice real soon.”

  “I intend to do my best,” Spike said. The room felt expensive, but it was common
knowledge that Jim had lavished gifts on Kate, his companion of a number of years. He had stepped in to comfort and help the woman when her husband died and apparently left her with very little.

  “I know what they’re sayin’ about me,” Kate said. A luminously pretty woman in that pale manner common in the Southern redhead who never forgot her hat or gloves.

  Spike searched for the right thing to say.

  “What’s wrong with Sam Bush comin’ by to see if I need anythin’ extra now and then, that’s what I want to know?” She raised her shoulders almost to her diamond drop earrings. “If Jim thought it was a good idea, then there’s no one who should make anythin’ of it.”

  “Of course not,” Spike said cautiously. He had no idea who did or didn’t pay attention to any visitors Kate had.

  “Same with George Pinney. You know George, Sheriff?”

  “I’ve never met him, but I know he and his wife look after Jim’s place.” Jim Zachary’s house was the closest one to Kate’s. In fact it was the only other house in this pretty little area just out of town.

  “That’s right,” Kate said. “George runs little errands for me, too. These things don’t mean I’ve got a mess of strings to my bow like the busybodies in this town are suggestin’. And why would they bring it all up now, anyway? You tell me that. If they think I could…do what they’re suggestin’, what would Sam or George have to do with it just because they’re good to me?”

  He had refused iced tea and now regretted not accepting a glass. Despite fans slowly turning overhead, the big room stifled him. “Beautiful roses,” he said. He had to get past thinking Kate was too fragile to be questioned. He didn’t have the luxury of waiting to work on this case.

  “I pick them myself,” Kate said. “I’ve got a beautiful rose garden. Jim made sure of that.”

  “When was the last time you actually saw Jim?” Spike said.

  “Yesterday,” Kate said, sniffing. “He stopped by at lunch, because I was worried about a mold George found on one of my trees. Jim knew all about those things.”