Cypress Nights

by Stella Cameron

“Bye,” he said, sticking his feet into his shoes and stuffing things into his pockets. “Later.”

  “Later.”

  By the time she heard the front door close, Bleu had sneaked from the mattress to retrieve her pajamas and put them on. In bed once more, she closed her eyes, even though she didn’t expect to sleep.

  Scared shouldn’t be the first thing that came to mind when a man left a woman he’d made love to, and wanted to make love to many more times.

  But he was, Roche thought, scared sick. The sex had been amazing, but he’d planned the way it would go. He hadn’t even known if he would be able to hold on and stay cool. Cool hadn’t happened, but he had kept himself in check.

  If he told himself he wouldn’t try to educate her a little more each time they were together, he’d be a liar. Educate? He lengthened his stride to reach the bottom of the cul-de-sac. What he had in mind wasn’t taught in any course he knew of. You had to be a natural to get it right.

  Damn, she was like honey, sweet and sexy-sticky, and she was supple. He could bend her body wherever he wanted it to go.

  Watching her in the mirror had driven him wild. And he felt wild all over again.

  He aimed his key at the BMW. A more serviceable vehicle was what he should have around here. This week he’d look for something. That car of Bleu’s was living on borrowed time. Maybe she’d accept the BMW.

  Sure, she would. He could tell her he wanted to wait to sell it until he could be somewhere with a good dealer. Make it a loaner.

  Take it slow and easy, buddy. The woman isn’t for sale.

  He couldn’t let anyone see him. “Mess” didn’t cover it. Behind the wheel, he sat with one foot outside on the rough road while he started the car. He wanted fresh air before this day turned muggy. The rain had stopped at last and already a faint vaporous layer collected over the ground.

  Roche reached to pull the door shut.

  He stopped, and listened.

  A dull boom. Like something exploding in a confined space. Or maybe a big bang muffled by layers of…layers of what?

  The sound didn’t last more than seconds and he had no idea where it came from.

  He closed the car door and adjusted his mirrors.

  Smoke rose in a smutty plume behind him. It rose from Cypress Place.

  He leaped from the car and took off the way he’d come. The instant he got around the corner his head started to pound and his palms sweated.

  The smoke poured from the carport up the side of Bleu’s townhouse. While he ran, he saw a bush catch fire and crackle to nothing.

  Thank God everything was wet.

  An acrid, oily scent streamed energy through him. There could be all kinds of flammable materials in that carport. Paint, thinner, old brushes, oily rags.

  The smoke got thicker and engulfed the side of the house. Flames licked at the carport—and Bleu’s car.

  Damn it, the car would go up.

  “Bleu,” he yelled, gasping as smoke reached him. He got to the driveway, dashed to, then up the front steps. Shit, he’d locked the front door—of course he had.

  He stepped back and looked up at the bedroom window. “Bleu! For God’s sake. Bleu!”

  Damn, Max. His twin had nagged Roche into not carrying a weapon anymore. He sure as hell needed it to deal with the lock.

  Choking, he gave himself room, threw his body at the door and felt a rush of hope when it creaked on its hinges.

  A few steps away, then he repeated the process, leaving the ground when he hurled himself against the cheap wood. This time it splintered—not on the handle side, but where the screws in the hinges were letting go.

  The sound of sirens shocked him. He hadn’t taken the time to call anyone.

  A third assault on the door tore the top hinge from the wood. He jumped, hitting the thing with both feet and all of his weight.

  He landed inside, flat on his back on top of the door.

  “Roche!”

  There she was. At the top of the damn stairs. She’s more afraid of who might come through the door than she is of the fire.

  “Come to me,” he yelled, starting up the stairs.

  Wearing her baggy pajamas again and looking almost childlike, she got to her feet and took a downward step, her eyes locked on his.

  Black smoke streamed through the open door.

  He grabbed her from the stairs, threw her over a shoulder and went out over the rocking, fallen door.

  The local fire truck, its crew working as fast as they could given their old equipment, ran toward the building, hoses unwinding as they went. Water drizzled at first, then shot out in a brave stream.

  Another truck roared into the cul-de-sac, this one with the St. Martinville insignia on its side.

  “Thank God for rapid response teams,” he said.

  Bleu coughed. “You can put me down,” she said quietly.

  “Farther away, first.”

  A cruiser joined the trucks, followed by another.

  Spike got out of the first one, tipped his Stetson over his eyes and plodded toward them. “Stick around, if you don’t mind,” he said to Roche.

  More familiar bodies in slick-sleeved khaki uniforms and straw Stetsons came their way at a run, and passed by, but not without hard glances. They went into a huddle with Spike a few yards away, then separated and spread out in different directions.

  Carefully, Roche put Bleu’s feet on the ground.

  If anything, the smell got worse and the smoke, blacker.

  Roche scratched his forehead and rubbed at his stubbly chin.

  Spike joined them again. “Hard night?” Spike said, immediately looking away.

  Roche put an arm around Bleu and rolled her in so her face was hidden against his chest. “Save it,” he told Spike. “Sometimes less is more.”

  Spike’s eyes slid toward him and there was no doubt the man was exhausted. “This damn town is falling apart,” he said. “Got any neat little platitudes for that?”

  “Nope.” But Roche didn’t apologize for what he’d said. “How did you all know about the fire so fast?”

  “A call came in. To the fire station and to us.”

  “I didn’t make any calls,” Roche said. “I was around the corner and in my car when I heard something go up. Did anyone get a trace on the calls?”

  “Save me,” Spike said. “Everyone’s a cop these days. This is Toussaint, Louisiana, not New York City. Maybe we’ve got something, maybe we haven’t.”

  “Doesn’t have to be New York…” Roche decided not to finish. “Someone in Crawfish Alley must have called. That’s the closest street.”

  “How long ago did this start?” Spike asked. With the St. Martinville crew on scene, the problem was all but over. Occasional cracks and pops came from the carport, following by more smoke, but the whole thing was calming down. Hoses snaked in every direction, and men who hadn’t taken the time to clamp the tops of their flapping boots shut, moved rapidly but not as if they were worried about a thing.

  “Minutes,” Roche said.

  “You sure you didn’t call?” Spike said.

  “Sure, I’m sure,” Roche said. “Like I said, I was getting into my car down there.” He hooked a thumb toward the bottom of the street. “There was a thud like something went up under a heap of blankets. I almost didn’t come back.”

  “That right?” Spike said, eyeing him. “Did you hear the fire sirens before you decided to get out of your car again and come back? It wouldn’t have looked good if you drove away. Someone might have come to the wrong conclusion.”

  Damn it, the man was suggesting Roche could have had something to do with the fire. “Nice police work,” was all he let himself say.

  “Like fire, do you?” Spike said, grinding out the words. “Is this a warmup for the little kids…no pun intended.”

  Roche pressed his lips together.

  Bleu pushed against his chest and faced Spike. “Spike, you say some nasty things sometimes. Roche didn’t set fire to th
e carport and run away. If he did, he certainly wouldn’t call for help and come back. Use your head. How about whoever did set that fire placed the call and hoped Roche would be blamed? Check Roche’s cell-phone records and you’ll see he didn’t call you.”

  Roche enjoyed the way she rushed to his defense. He noted the interesting color in Spike’s cheeks.

  “No one goes in there till the chief gets here,” he yelled, indicating the carport. “I’d still like you two over at the station,” he added to Roche and Bleu.

  “I need to get dressed,” Bleu said.

  She trembled and Roche wanted to punch Spike, who behaved as if he hadn’t heard her.

  “I’ve got a coat in the back of my car,” Roche said into her ear. “Don’t worry. It’ll just look like you got woken up suddenly by the fire.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “And what’s your excuse?”

  He laughed. “If I need one, I’ll have one. I don’t think anyone’s going to notice a thing.”

  “You can’t go back into that house until they’re sure the fire’s out, Miz Laveau,” Spike said. “It’s just a precaution.”

  Roche didn’t miss the formality. “Can we stop by my office on the way to the station?” he asked. “There’s a shower there and my assistant will come up with some clothes for Bleu.”

  Spike raised one brow until it disappeared into his hat. “Why not? You’re on your own recognizance. You’ve got time to clean up. Pick up doughnuts or something on the way. I’m starving. And pray there’s still hot coffee in my office.”

  Roche saluted. “You’ve got it.”

  Bleu was barefoot. He looked down. “Fireman’s lift or piggyback?”

  “I can walk.”

  He caught her around the back and picked her up from beneath her knees. Spike glanced at him and shook his head in that, “Women,” way that conveyed understanding between men.

  A fireman scuffed from the carport, the tops of his boots flapping. “Hey up, Sheriff,” he said. “We’ve about got it done. At least the old junker didn’t go up. Looks like hell, though. Smells worse. We’ll have to open a wall just to make sure we’re not missing something.”

  Roche pretended to be concentrating on something else.

  “Thanks for the good work,” Spike said.

  “Look at this,” the fireman said. He held up a flint fire starter, the melted, misshapen red handle wrapped in a rag. “The chief’s gonna be interested in this one. I reckon this is what got things started. It was in an old oil drum. Couldn’t have done the job on its own.”

  Chapter 19

  “I thought she got rid of that thing the last time she smashed it,” Spike said.

  Roche, with Bleu at his side, had only taken a few steps down the cul-de-sac when a dark blue van appeared. Dented and scraped, emblazoned on its sides were ringed planets, signs of the zodiac and a list of Wazoo’s services in a block down the center.

  Illustrator, makeup consultant, waitress, pet psychologist, housekeeper, expert on matters black and white, potions—or what you will, advertising executive, dancer and exorcist.

  The little gathering in the cul-de-sac was seeing the good side of the vehicle. The other looked as if a giant ice-cream scoop had taken a passing dig at it.

  “How would she know to come here?” Bleu said. Wazoo intrigued her; the woman had a way of showing up at odd times and in odd places.

  Roche shook his head. “She probably monitors radio transmissions.”

  To Bleu, although he hinted at disapproval, he actually seemed okay with whatever Wazoo did.

  Spike bent forward so the brim of his hat completely obscured his face. “She’s got a radio.” He flicked a piece of ash from his well-creased short sleeve.

  Roche waited for Wazoo to appear and frowned. “She’s not alone in the van.” Darkly tinted windows made it hard to see inside. Someone moved beside the driver.

  “Nope.” Spike leaned forward, trying to see through the windshield.

  “Is that Nat Archer with her?” Roche said. “Madge mentioned Wazoo threatened to get him in here.”

  “Damn her hide, anyway,” Spike said, squinting toward the van. “Like I need an NOPD homicide cop sniffing around. Or any idle meddlers like Wazoo.”

  Nat Archer and Jilly’s husband, Guy Gautreaux, used to be partners on the homicide squad in New Orleans. They still helped each other out when they wanted to know their backs were totally covered.

  “You know she’s protective of you,” Roche told Spike. “She’s trying to help. That’s the only reason she’d get Nat to come.”

  Spike looked at him sideways, one side of his mouth tipped up. “The only reason? I think that crazy man would marry our town loon if she’d have him.”

  “Hush,” Bleu said.

  The van door creaked open on the driver’s side. The wider Wazoo pushed it, the louder the sound of metal screeching on metal became.

  Vertically challenged, she slid to the ground and closed the door with a mighty fling. Purple was the color of the day, with black, naturally. She resembled an exotic butterfly in motion—an angry butterfly.

  “Is there fog crawling up the front of that wreck?” Roche said.

  Bleu leaned to see around Wazoo. Vapor oozed over the hood of the van.

  “Bum radiator,” Spike said. “That’s steam. Even leak stopper won’t work anymore. She carries water with her for when it really runs out the bottom.”

  “This where you live, Bleu Laveau?” Wazoo called out.

  “Yes,” Bleu said. “Nice to see you.” Even to her the greeting sounded banal, but everyone made conversation sometimes.

  “Well, I surely can’t say the same about you,” Wazoo said, marching uphill toward the group. “A fire. Of course, a fire. We got a box of burned books, didn’t we? We know there’s someone around who likes fires.” She pointed from Roche to Spike and nodded at Bleu. “This girl, she’s likely to be the next one in the church—for her funeral. So you better be watchin’.” She looked over her shoulder and planted her hands on her hips.

  Bleu’s pajamas were too warm. She needed to buy some new ones—not that she intended to spend a lot of time wearing them out here. A glowing orb in the sky, the sun, and all the gorgeous golden trim on parting clouds wouldn’t seem so lovely in an hour.

  Wazoo stood right where she was until a woman appeared on the passenger side of her vehicle.

  “That’s not Nat,” Spike said.

  Wazoo shot him a pitying glance. “No shit?”

  “What is Mary Pinney doing here?” Bleu’s top stuck to her skin. She had nowhere to hide from anyone who chose to come for the show.

  Mary and her husband, George, whom most people had never seen, lived in rented rooms at Jim Zachary’s place. Mary managed Hungry Eyes, the café and bookstore at the far end of Main Street. As one of her many jobs, Wazoo had helped out there for years.

  “Don’t you get uppity,” Wazoo said to Bleu. “I know it’s only because you’ve had a shock, but you need to get over it. We were on our way to open up Hungry Eyes. Followed one of Spike’s cruisers here. Mary’s concerned for you, too. You know how interested she is in a teaching job at the new school if it’s built. All these bad things happenin’ weigh on her.”

  Bleu knew all about Mary’s interest in the school, but didn’t see why that gave her the right or a reason to be here.

  “Hoo mama,” Wazoo said, watching Mary close her door and come around the front of the van. “That girl gotta have hidden depths. Have you met her husband?”

  “No.” And Bleu wasn’t interested.

  “Wait till you do see him. When he was made, whoever did it smiled, big-time. There’s things we can’t see, given the rules about wearing clothes, but we got imaginations—”

  “Wazoo,” Spike said, trying to look stern.

  “When can I go back inside the house?” Bleu asked him. “It looks like it’s only the carport and the siding that got damaged. Mostly the carport.” She stared in that direction. “Well,
darn it anyway. My car’s a mess.”

  “It didn’t blow up,” Wazoo said. “You should be givin’ thanks, girl. What’s a bit of soot among friends? Most of it will wash off. If you’re so inclined. I kind of like character to a vehicle myself. Now, are you hearing me?”

  Bleu nodded yes.

  “Never relax, not for one second, silly girl. Stands to reason, if the new school made someone mad enough to kill poor Jim, then you’re an ugly pimple on the killer’s skin. He wants to squeeze you out. Got that?”

  “Lovely description,” Bleu said. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Bleu isn’t alone,” Roche said. “She’s being looked after.”

  Wazoo looked up at him from beneath thick eyelashes. “I’m just sure she is. My, the gods were payin’ someone off when they made the Savage twins, too. You are a wet dream, boy.”

  Bleu wanted to disappear.

  Roche laughed. “Thank you, Wazoo,” he said, and that was the end of it.

  Bleu stopped looking at Wazoo. She had met Mary Pinney at the parish hall meeting, but with the crowd and all the questions, there hadn’t been time to study the woman. Pointed inquiries about when teachers would be hired did catch Bleu off guard, but she had put the pushy approach down to eagerness.

  Tall, tanned, muscular, her long dark hair scraped back into a thick coil, Mary made Bleu want to say that she didn’t see much hidden about her potential depths. There was a physicality there, even given a calm, fine-boned face and clear blue eyes.

  “Hidden depths,” Bleu muttered under her breath.

  “You’ve got that right,” Wazoo whispered in her ear. “She’s a nudist, y’know. Doesn’t wear a stitch when she’s home. Cooks, cleans, does everything in the skin she was born with.”

  “How do you know?” Bleu said from the corner of her mouth, doing a poor job of hiding a grin.

  Wazoo gave her an arch look and tossed her masses of curly black hair. “I’ve got my sources,” she said archly. “You’d be surprised what I know.”

  Bleu let it go.

  “Wow,” Roche said. “I don’t think Miz Pinney gets around much or I’d have seen her.” He cast Bleu a sidelong glance, a provocative grin. She kept her expression blank.