Cypress Nights

by Stella Cameron

  She threw her purse on the mattress and flung open a closet door. Somewhere, she had a pair of blue silk pants she hadn’t worn since they were cleaned.

  There they were. Carefully, Bleu put them down beside her purse.

  Roche had called each day since the infamous date at Auntie’s. Bleu flinched at the thought of the place being her own choice. When she was feeling sensible, she could laugh at herself and the spectacle they’d witnessed. She wasn’t quite laughing now.

  From the chest of drawers, she took a cotton sweater in a paler blue than the pants and dropped it on the mattress, too. Talking to Roche—he’d called more than once on each of the past two days—and starting to feel as if they were close had excited her.

  His voice tightened her all over. Just the sound of him made her pulse race. But then she relaxed and felt warm and safe—and longed to be with him. There wasn’t much mystery about all this. She’d started falling in love with him.

  She slammed the drawer shut and leaned her weight on the chest. Why should she be surprised that she reacted like a girl with a first boyfriend, dreamily imagining that this was a forever thing? Experience wasn’t her middle name.

  A violent thud came from behind her. Bleu shot around, her heart in her throat, blood pounding in her ears.

  The noise came from the bathroom.

  Uncontrollable shaking took over.

  Another bang.

  A tearing sound.

  Bleu caught a toe in the nearest rug, stumbled sideways catching at emptiness and fell against the closet, her shoulder landing hard enough to rattle the doors.

  Angry, deep-throated grunts grew louder.

  The bathroom lay between her and the top of the stairs. She’d never make it out of the bedroom if someone opened that bathroom door and came for her.

  Her cell was in the bag on the mattress.

  Everything was too far away to help her.

  And she couldn’t seem to move.

  The clock radio on the seat of her one chair blasted on. Loud enough so she could hear it when she was downstairs, yesterday she had thought to put it on a timer for safety reasons. Anyone managing to get into the house when she was at home in the evening would hear the noise and think there was someone up here.

  Maybe they would.

  Sweat drizzled down the sides of her face and the middle of her back.

  Get the phone.

  Grunts turned to hissing, then high-pitched howling and a crazed scratching on the other side of the bathroom door.

  The tension ebbed. Bleu still shook but she giggled and felt ridiculous. A cat was shut in the bathroom, probably the big tabby that liked to sun himself outside her kitchen door.

  He would be wild and dangerous when she let him out.

  On her toes, she crossed the room. With her back to the wall, she reached for the bathroom door handle, turned it sharply and pushed.

  Shrieking, the tabby emerged, first hunched down and spitting, then leaping and throwing himself downstairs, hissing with fury all the way.

  Bleu wanted him out of the house. Now. She stepped cautiously down after him, listening so hard her ears popped, and walked into the one big room downstairs.

  The end of the cat’s tail disappeared through an open window above the sink, and the instant quiet drained any fight Bleu had left. She managed to get herself to that window and shut it tight.

  This would teach her to be more careful. She always made sure all windows and doors were secure before she left in the morning, but this time she couldn’t have checked that the catch was all the way down.

  Now she really had to hurry, and on weak legs, Bleu rushed back the way she’d come. Last night, she had cleaned every inch of the place, and the flowers on her little table still looked fresh.

  Her cell phone rang before she made it up the last couple of steps, but she reached her bag in time to answer.

  “Hello,” she said, not meaning to sound so frazzled.

  “Are you okay?” It was Roche.

  “Great,” she lied, aware of a silly smile on her face. “Looking forward to seeing you.” Now, a cool woman didn’t blurt that out.

  He didn’t answer, or not immediately. When he did, he said, “I am so sorry, Bleu. This is awful, but I can’t get there.”

  Her throat ached. Then she felt a little sick, and her eyes burned.

  Ridiculous. Things happened. Disappointments happened all the time. “Boo,” she said. “That’s a shame. You’ve been working really hard, haven’t you?” Unless he said otherwise, she would choose to believe that work was keeping him from their evening together.

  “I have,” he said. “But I didn’t expect this one. I’ll explain better when I see you.”

  Her breathing relaxed a bit. “I’ll be interested.” Psychiatry had begun to really intrigue her. Or perhaps she was hoping to find answers about herself. “What time do you think you’ll get away?” It didn’t matter if he was late.

  “Not tonight, Bleu. I’m going to have to stand by. Are you going to forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said and forced a laugh. “You’re a busy man. Don’t worry about me, I’ve got plenty of chores to catch up on.” And she wasn’t proud that she felt weak and like having a good cry.

  Darn that cat.

  “Thank you,” Roche said. “I’m really bummed out. I’m glad you’re more grown up than me.”

  He was kidding her, but she was glad he didn’t know just how disappointed she was. “I’m a baby,” she said. “But I’m not going to cry without an audience.”

  They both laughed.

  “Is it all right if I call you first thing?” Roche said. “Are you going to the rectory?”

  “Yes, and yes,” she said.

  “What time are you getting there?”

  “Before you’ll be ready to get up,” she told him. “Just call my cell when you feel like it. Good luck tonight.” Now she wanted to get off the phone and be miserable all on her own.

  “Expect an early ring,” he said.

  Bleu smiled. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  It took her a few second to get a breath before she said, “Tomorrow. I’ll look forward to it. Good night.”

  “Good night,” he said, and they hung up.

  Pull yourself together and grow up. After Michael, weakness had been the first item on her list of emotions that had to go.

  Back upstairs she went. She wasn’t interested in eating dinner anymore.

  She hadn’t told Roche about the cat, because he would have grilled her on how it got in and she didn’t want to say she’d forgotten to close one of the windows.

  The clothes she had chosen were quickly put away, and she pulled out her favorite pajamas instead.

  Instead of a quick shower, she would take a long, hot bath in mountains of bubbles and read a book until she turned into a prune.

  Locked in the bathroom, she checked for scratches on the back of the door and grimaced. The paintbrush would have to come out. The poor cat had terrified himself by shutting himself in.

  The start of a headache niggled between her brows. The cat could have run inside through the front door while she was fixing the outside light.

  She stripped off her clothes.

  Air from the fan sent the shower curtain billowing inward. The current felt good. Bleu turned the faucets on and grabbed the edge of the curtain to pull it out.

  On the bottom of the tub, in the first rivulet of water to shine its way over the porcelain, a pinkish-red streak wound a path.

  Bleu gripped the curtain so tightly, a ring popped off the rod.

  With a yank, she bared the tub.

  In the bottom, with its head missing, lay the body of a chicken.

  Chapter 15

  Late that night

  A high, clear moon silvered the trees on either side of the cul-de-sac. Roche took measured steps up Cypress Place. Carrying a peace offering, he had left his car around the
corner so he wouldn’t risk waking Bleu if her townhouse was in darkness. If it was, he’d leave.

  There were lights burning on the lower floor.

  A wiser man wouldn’t feel so hopeful. In every indicator, he read that she seemed to be opening up to him, but he couldn’t be sure that what she felt was even close to the way he wanted her.

  A sensible man wouldn’t be anywhere near her place at this time of night, but he wasn’t sensible, only beyond being tired, and on fire to see Bleu.

  Either she liked him or wanted to like him. He knew the signs; and he knew the signs that someone had been damaged. Bleu had been badly broken by some goon, but Roche had always felt confident he could fix anyone, given enough time.

  He could fix Bleu, as long as he managed to keep the lid on his own little issue.

  Keep the lid on the wild stuff, not on sex altogether. It doesn’t mean endless abstinence, only restraint. I know what she could enjoy if she’d relax enough. No, not just enjoy. Holding back costs, but I’ve got to keep to the plan. If fate smiles on me—I’ll blow your mind, Bleu.

  In her driveway, he realized the unthinkable: he had the start of cold feet. Intruding at this time of night would throw her off balance—if she didn’t die from shock first.

  Roche backed down the driveway.

  If he gave her a quick call and said he was outside, she’d want to at least say, “Hi.”

  She might think he was a crazed predator.

  Maybe he didn’t want to think along those lines.

  Her number was programed. Juggling his packages, he gave the thumb to the necessary button, slammed the phone to his ear and looked for the Little Dipper.

  Her whispered, “yes,” came just as he was about to hang up.

  “Are you asleep?” he whispered back.

  Silence.

  “I mean, did I wake you up?”

  “Is this Roche?”

  “How many men call you in the middle of the night?” he said at normal pitch.

  “I didn’t mean…No, I’m sorry, it’s just that you didn’t say who you are.”

  He listened to the tone of her voice and took note of each word she said. “Are you afraid of me?”

  Her throat clicked. “No, of course not.”

  “Should you be apologizing because I did something as dumb as to call you at this hour?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “No. And that’s exactly what you should say. No, Roche. You’re a damned nuisance and you wouldn’t know ‘appropriate’ if it hit you in broad daylight. I’m sorry, Bleu. Now get to sleep, and I’ll go home and behave myself.” Sheesh, what a goddamn idiot he could be.

  “No,” she said quickly—and too anxiously, he thought. He heard her draw in a breath before she added, “You said you weren’t coming, so you surprised me, is all. Where are you?”

  “I’m…in your driveway. But I’m leaving and I really am sorry for interrupting you.”

  “No, don’t go!” She breathed harder. “Would you like some…coffee? Or I do have some bottles of that lemonade with alcohol in it. They were in a basket from some ladies who welcomed me to the neighborhood. I forgot to buy more wine.”

  Roche chewed a hangnail. Dr. Roche Savage—the psychiatrist—stood in a woman’s driveway after midnight, chewing a hangnail and having a long conversation with her on the phone.

  “I just realized how ridiculous it was for me to come,” he said. “Forgive me and I’ll call at a more—”

  “I’m glad you were stupid enough to come,” she said, and he could hear…desperation in her voice? That couldn’t be.

  “You and I make quite the pair,” she continued. “Are you sure you didn’t go into psychiatry because you’ve got something emotional that needs fixing?”

  “I thought that was the only reason for going into psychiatry,” he said. If she only knew.

  He laughed, but Bleu didn’t.

  The front door opened and she stood, a silhouette in the light. “Come and have—” She let her hand and the phone, fall to her side. “Come on in and talk to me,” she said loudly.

  Relief actually weakened Bleu’s knees. She clenched her hands but wanted, more than anything, to run and hold on to him.

  Roche jogged all the way to her front door. For a moment, he stood there, looking down into her face. She wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. The cat, and the horrible chicken, had terrified her and, even though the whole thing had to be a nasty coincidence, she couldn’t quite shake her dread.

  “Straight on in,” she said. “You know the way.”

  He did. And straight on in he went, but she could have sworn he considered kissing her before he did.

  “I’ve been taking catnaps,” she said behind him. “I can’t stay asleep, though.” Cats killed chickens; they killed much bigger prey than chickens.

  “You’re unsettled, that’s why.” He carried a case of wine. Also, dangling from his fingers, were two bags filled with groceries. He put the case on the floor, some cheese in the refrigerator and left the rest of what was in the sacks on a counter.

  “You didn’t need to bring anything here,” Bleu said, and she heard how awkward she sounded.

  “Nope. I didn’t need to, but I wanted to. We may need a snack, and the wine is for when I visit. And I still have to cook you dinner soon, remember?”

  She followed an urge to step outside. The moon lighted the landscape, but she didn’t see anything move. Roche might be sympathetic if she told him what had happened, but he’d probably write her off as unbalanced if he found out she wondered if someone had deliberately set up the scene she found in her bathroom.

  “What are you looking for?” he said from the kitchen.

  “Nothing,” she almost shouted and came into the house again.

  From his expression, she knew that she hadn’t covered the apprehension on her face quickly enough. She would not risk giving him a reason to question her stability.

  Roche looked at Bleu carefully.

  “I’ll let you to put these things where they go,” he told her.

  She nodded, then shut the door and locked it.

  How could he blame her for being jumpy? He didn’t.

  “Have you heard anything?” she asked, joining him in the kitchen. “Do the police have any leads yet?” A blue cotton T-shirt over what appeared to be a pair of pink-check pajamas looked cute on her. He hadn’t noticed before that she had small feet and she painted her toenails. He did notice that she wore a bra. That was a shame.

  “Have you?” she said.

  Roche stared at her for an instant and said, “No one’s been arrested, as far as I know.” From what he saw and felt, she was a lot more than jumpy.

  “No,” she said, looking into the distance. “I didn’t think so.”

  “It’ll happen,” he told her, and hoped they would like what happened.

  “I was thinking about that land,” Bleu said. “Cashman’s. It’s been on my mind.”

  He watched hope spark in her eyes and was glad he had at least something to tell her. “You really want something to come of that, don’t you?” he asked.

  “I had a dream,” she said and her smile turned down. “I fell asleep on my Coca Cola banquette—”

  “How would you do that?” Roche asked. “It’s curved and there’s a table sticking up.”

  “You kind of burrow along the seat from one end and there you are. The table overhangs you. It’s a bit like camping out.”

  “Mm.” He nodded and looked at the Coca Cola booth in the corner, still working for its living. “Lying on plastic sounds sticky. Don’t you have a bed?”

  “Yes, but it’s upstairs.”

  “Is that a problem?” he asked.

  She hunched her shoulders. “I prefer being down here with all the lights on.”

  Her honesty gave him confidence. He needed to have her trust.

  “Tell me about your dream,” he said.

  “It was stupid. Someone came along and gave me th
e deed to the land so I could give it to the church. I kept thanking them, over and over. Only I don’t know who it was.”

  Carefully, Roche held her elbow and walked her to the round table. Once she was seated, he went into the kitchen again and started opening and closing doors.

  She didn’t say a thing. Just sat there and watched with a little smile on her face.

  Lemonade with alcohol in it.

  Roche would have preferred one of the wines he’d brought, but hard lemonade it would be.

  He opened the refrigerator again and there it was. With smooth efficiency, he swept out two bottles, unscrewed the pop-off tops with his bare hands and used two glasses from a draining rack.

  Paper towels would serve just fine as napkins. He tore off two sheets and folded each one into four. These he put on the table with the glasses on top. “There,” he said, and slid into the chair facing her. “Let’s see how it tastes.”

  The stuff was strong. Roche liked it.

  So, evidently, did Bleu. She drank down half the glass without stopping.

  “That’s refreshing,” she said, inspecting the label. “Mm, I love lemonade. I’m glad you came.”

  Sometimes it was best just to let someone talk. Bleu was lonely and scared—that’s why she hadn’t gone upstairs to bed—and she was grateful for company, even his.

  “You’re quiet,” she said.

  “Just thinking,” he said.

  “About what?” Bleu said.

  “Did you know that women always ask that question, but most men never do. Men think, ‘She’s thinking. Oh, good, that means I don’t have to talk.’ Then women get mad because the men don’t say anything.”

  Bleu frowned. “So, did you just talk…or maybe what you said doesn’t count. I don’t think it counts as talking.”

  The lemonade was relaxing her. Roche made sure his expression was serious. “Yes, it does count. I wanted you to know I had that thought about men’s as well as women’s reactions. But I’ve got other things to say. I’m concerned about you, Bleu. Out here on your own, when there’s a murderer on the loose.”