by Sandra Brown
"There's always one." Drolly, he added, "At least one."
"Jealous?"
"You know better."
"Ah, that's right," Rhoda said with a catty smile. "You were always a much better spectator than participant."
"Because you always put on such an entertaining and engrossing show."
It wasn't a compliment and Rhoda was smart enough not to mistake it for one. "Let's talk about something else. Or better yet, let's don't talk at all. You're in a foul mood tonight."
Dale puffed the pipe with deceptive contentment. "You'd be well advised not to anger me, my dear." Just as Dale had intended, that got her attention.
Figuratively she laid down her weapons. "Oh? Why not?"
"I'm about to pull off a big deal."
"At the bank?"
"Hmm. Something you'll be extremely pleased about."
"Is it legal?"
He frowned at her, but neither one of them took his reproachful expression seriously. "Shame on you. Of course it's legal. In fact it will be the culmination of a year's work."
"What does it mean to me?"
"Nothing short of the realization of a dream. For both of us. Instead of us being on the outside of Heaven's social circle looking in, these rednecks will be kissing our asses. There won't be anything we can't do and get away with."
Rhoda tingled with an excitement that was almost sexual. She sat down on the arm of his chair and wiggled close to him. "Tell me about it."
"Not yet. I'm saving it for a surprise." He emptied the bowl of his pipe into an ashtray and turned out the lamp on the end table.
Rhoda fell into step behind him as he left the chair and headed toward the bedroom. "Damn you, Dale. I hate it when you dangle carrots in front of me like this."
"On the contrary, darling, you love it. You thrive on intrigue."
"I can't if I don't know about it. Let me in on what you're up to."
"I'll give you a hint." He switched the light on in their bedroom. "What's the hottest topic of conversation around town these days?"
She thought for a moment, watching with detachment as Dale took a 35mm camera from a glass shelf in the étagdre. He loaded a roll of film and reset the ASA. Suddenly Rhoda's throat vibrated with a low, nefarious laugh. "Not Cotton Crandall!" she exclaimed. "Your scheme doesn't involve Crandall and Belle Terre, does it?"
"Why shouldn't it?" Dale adjusted the lamp shades on the bedside tables to his satisfaction. He looked at his wife pointedly. She began removing her clothes.
"Belle Terre? You mean there's a chance—"
Dale reached out and cupped his hand over her mouth. "It's not to be discussed outside this room, understand?" She nodded her head. He removed his hand and began undoing the buttons of her blouse.
"That daughter," Rhoda whispered. "I understand she's a firecracker, that Cotton coached her well."
"Schyler? Not to worry," Dale replied with dismissive smugness. "She's being taken care of."
"What do you mean?"
"That's one of the details you needn't be concerned about. The stakes are high on this one, Rhoda. That's why we must be extremely careful." He slipped her blouse off and tossed it onto a chair. He ran his hands over her breasts. "It would be regrettable if a senseless indiscretion screwed this up, wouldn't it?" He tweaked her nipple, a pinch too strong to be classified as foreplay. She winced. "And screw is the operative word."
"Be specific."
"All right. Find a lover who isn't so personally involved with the Crandalls and preferably one who didn't crawl out of a trash can."
She met him eye to eye without flinching. She wasn't alarmed that he knew about her affair with Cash. In fact she was pleased. Dale knew that Cash's reputation with women was legendary. That Cash had chosen her from so many elevated her desirability.
"You've never cared who my lovers were before," she said in a voice as sultry as the weather.
"They've always come from a suitable strata of society before. You're scraping scum off the bayou this time."
By tacit agreement the name Cash Boudreaux would never be uttered. They had learned from experience that mentioning names was unwise. Names could result in more complicated resolutions once affairs were over. Admit nothing was the credo that each adhered to.
"He could be useful to us."
"He is," Dale said. "Extremely useful. But I'm using him my way. He's of more value to us someplace other than your bed. He can't be screwed by both of us at the same time."
Again she laughed deep in her throat. "We've used that tactic before."
"But not with this kind of man. I don't think he'd like that, do you?"
"No," she said without a second's hesitation. "He definitely would not."
"I don't blame you for selecting him. He's attractive, if you like the vulgar, brutal type. But until all the details are finalized, amuse yourself with someone who's closer to being your social equal."
"And yours." Rhoda knew that that was at the crux of this entire discussion. Dale didn't mind being a cuckold. He did mind who made him one. It was a matter of ego.
"And mine," he admitted. He helped her step out of her skirt and paused to admire the dark hosiery, the lacy garter belt, and the patch of hair in between. He slid his hand between her thighs. "You're wet."
"You knew I would be."
Stroking her, he laughed. "Money hungry, bitch. You can come just talking about money."
"We share the same ambition, darling."
"I remember the time you told me that if my cock were as monstrous as my ambition, you wouldn't have to seek outside diversions."
"And in reply you said that my sexuality was one of your greatest assets."
"It's served its purpose profitably many times."
Later, as she languished against the pillows on the bed, the lips of her sex as rosy and glistening as those of her mouth, Dale moved in for a closeup with the camera. He snickered as he clicked the shutter.
"Let me in on the joke."
"I was just thinking what some of the bank board members would say if they saw you this way."
Rhoda reached out and stroked his cheek in a parody of affection. "Most of them have, my dear, most of them have."
Chapter Thirty-one
It was the dead cats that did it.
Schyler had returned to Belle Terre after being with Cash and went straight to her room. She filled her bathtub to the rim and soaked until the hot water turned cold. She asked Mrs. Graves to bring her dinner up to her on a tray. She ignored both the housekeeper's long-suffering sigh and the dinner. She wasn't hungry. She doubted she ever would be again.
How could she have done something so stupid?
Not that she was new at making severe errors in judgment. She had underestimated her sister's jealous hatred and ability to manipulate. She had given Ken up too easily, but had clung to a dead love for too long. She had almost let Tricia destroy her relationship with their father. But of all the serious mistakes she had made in her life, going to bed with Cash Boudreaux championed them all.
To save herself from having to think about it that night, she took a sleeping pill and went to bed early. Before the effects of the mild narcotic overpowered her, though, she suffered through several replays of the afternoon.
In her imagination, she felt again his hands, his lips, his body. Beside hers. Inside hers. She kept remembering him naked and strong and hard and beautiful. He made love as he did everything else, with intensity and passion and a total absence of discipline. His reputation as a stud was well earned. Even the memory of die act was more potent than any other sexual encounter Schyler had ever had. She had never felt so bloody marvelous in her life.
That is, until it was over. Then she'd never felt so wretched. She hadn't cried, but she had wanted to. Thank God she had held back her tears. They would have spelled her final and absolute humiliation and Cash's unqualified victory because what had happened on that bed had been a battle. He had set out to prove that there was
a way he could best her, and he had.
He had fought to win. If there had been one kind and tender word spoken, she might not have taken defeat so hard. Nothing had softened the blow to her pride, not even that she had been forced or coerced. No, when he had carried her to his bed, she had wanted to go.
She had left his house and driven home under her own power. She had spoken intelligently with Dr. Collins over the telephone, and had even had a brief and animated conversation with Cotton. Under the circumstances, she had done well. She was confused and angry, but she was made of stern stuff. The matrix of her spirit had held her together. She hadn't crumbled; she hadn't broken apart.
But when she saw the dead cats she began to shake.
Mrs. Graves's scream rattled the crystal in every chandelier in the house. It was a clear morning, promising a better day than the one preceding it. Birds were splashing in the rain puddles on the lawn. A new sun was disintegrating sheer pink clouds. God was in his heaven . . . but all was not right with the world.
The scream woke Schyler up. She bolted out of bed. She was naked, so she grabbed a robe and charged out her door, almost colliding with Ken and Tricia. By the looks of them, they had been roused by the housekeeper's scream, too.
"What the hell is going on?" Ken mumbled.
"I don't know."
Schyler beat them downstairs. Mrs. Graves was standing in the open front door, her face in her hands. She was making retching sounds. Schyler pushed her aside and stepped across the threshold.
Her empty stomach contracted. She tasted bile in her throat. No more than three feet beyond the front door lay the two cats. The female was on her back, spread-eagled beneath the male. The symbolism was blatant and crude. The female's throat had been slit. Blood and gore still oozed from the wide wound. Black fur was clotted with it. Her dead eyes were crawling with ants. The male was dead, too, but whatever had killed him wasn't apparent.
"Jesus!" Ken hissed. "Stay back, Tricia. And for chrissake, shut her up." Impatiently he gestured toward Mrs. Graves who was still gagging behind her hands.
The two women gladly withdrew. Ken stepped around Schyler, who seemed rooted to the threshold. He bent down on one knee and investigated the macabre sight. He looked up at Schyler. "Do you know anything about this?"
"Of course not." But she was afraid she did. Two dead cats found on the front porch could be attributed to teenage pranksters, playful vandalism. Two dead cats, brutally murdered and arranged to depict human beings making love, was the product of a sick mind. The question was, whose?
"Guess we ought to call the sheriff."
Schyler shook her head. "No. He wouldn't do anything. Just get rid of them. Clean up the mess."
"Like hell!" Ken exclaimed. "I'm not a yard nigger."
Schyler began to tremble. Her hands balled into fists. She could feel herself losing control. "Clean it up," she angrily enunciated. "Unless you'd rather go to the landing and deal with the loggers."
Ken's face worked with indignation, but in the end, he stamped off the porch and toward the toolshed. He crossed the wet grass in his bare feet, having to dodge mud puddles in his path. Schyler looked down at the floorboards of the veranda. They were clean. There were no muddy footprints on the steps either. Whoever had placed the cats there could have come from inside the house. Either way, the perpetrator was clever—very, very clever.
She went back inside and upstairs to her room. She returned to the bed, but she didn't give in to the second impulse to hide beneath the covers. Instead, she sat on the edge of it and folded her arms over her middle. Rocking back and forth, she indulged in a good crying jag.
Someone knew about Cash and her. Someone knew that they'd been to bed together. But who except the two of them?
Cash? She had fired him. He hadn't liked her in the first place. But could he be so violent as to wantonly kill two cats? Of course he could. That's why she had asked him to do away with Jigger's pit bull terriers. She had witnessed him pulling the knife on Ken. He had a reputation for violence.
Jigger Flynn could be violent, too. But he wouldn't know about Cash and her going to bed together. Would he? How?
Tricia and Ken were no doubt furious with her after the confrontation yesterday. They stood on opposing sides regarding the sale of Belle Terre. But they wouldn't resort to something like this even if they knew about Cash and her.
Suddenly Schyler realized that there were several people in Heaven, and on Belle Terre in particular, who would have teen much happier if she had never come home from England.
But it was going to take more than a couple of grisly dead cats to scare her off. She had to pay back the loan before the deadline. Yesterday's production had been sacrificed to the weather so they would have to work twice as hard today to make up for it. Now that Cash was out of the picture, she would have to handle everything alone. That shouldn't slow her down. She had been relying solely on herself for a long time.
Wiping the salty tear tracks from her cheeks, she removed her robe and headed for her closet.
When she arrived at the landing three loggers were there. They were hoisting chains and pulleys onto a flat trailer. It was obvious they were wasting no time. Their expressions were grim. They didn't even take time to stop and speak to her. Something was wrong.
"What's going on?" she called out as she left her car.
"Accident," one informed her around a wad of tobacco. "'Xcuse me, ma'am." Moving her aside, he slung a coil of heavy rope over his head and threw it onto the track.
"An accident? Where? What kind of accident?"
"Rig overturned."
"Did anyone get hurt?"
"Yes, ma'am. One man's down."
She didn't need more details than that. This was an emergency. Loggers loved to swap horror stories of work- related accidents. She had hung around the landing enough to know that. The tales rarely needed embellishment to make them gory. Logging accidents were usually disastrous, if not fatal.
"Is he badly hurt? Why wasn't I notified?"
"We called the house. You'd already left."
"Did you call an ambulance?"
"Sure did. Told 'em where we're cuttin'. It's back deep in the woods. Be tough to get anything that's not four- wheel drive in there, but they said they could. Hey, Miz Schyler ma'am, whadaya doin' ?"
"Since I can't take my car, I'll ride there with you." She was met with three argumentative stares.
"No sense in you goin' at all, ma'am."
"A cuttin' site ain't no place for a woman."
"We're wasting time." She stepped into the cab of the truck and decisively slammed the door behind her.
Shrugging and muttering that it was no skin off his ass what the boss lady did, the driver slid in beside her. The other two climbed onto the trailer.
The truck labored its way along a twisting, narrow highway. Once they made it to the tumoff, it had the muddy, bumpy skid rows to navigate. They drove for what seemed like miles through a forest so dense that daylight barely penetrated. The driver colorfully cursed the truck's reluctance as it chugged over the rough terrain toward the site where they had been cutting towering pines.
"Up yonder," the driver told Schyler with a nod of his head.
Logs were scattered about the clearing like a giant's set of pick-up sticks. The floor of the forest was littered with severed branches and pine needles. The air was damp. The skidder, a piece of machinery that dragged the logs through the woods to be loaded onto the rig, had left the earth freshly plowed. The scent of pine was as pungent as a
Christmas candle. Later in the day, the site turned hot and dusty, but at this early hour it was verdant.
Schyler had always enjoyed being in the woods early, but today she didn't pause to enjoy its green freshness. In the middle of the clearing the overturned rig looked like a fallen dinosaur lying on its side. She didn't wait until the track came to a full stop before putting her shoulder to the cranky door and shoving it open. She jumped to
the ground. Her shoes were immediately swallowed by the mud. She worked them free and, lifting her skirt above her knees, tramped toward the silent group of men.
"Excuse me, excuse me." She elbowed her way through the somber huddle of loggers. The sound of her voice acted like Moses' rod. The men parted as cleanly as the waters of the Red Sea to let her through.
She drew up short when the last crewman stepped aside and she saw what was in the center of the ring of men. A massive pine log had pinned down a logger's leg. He was lying on his back, obviously in excruciating pain. Taking a deep breath, she moved to his side and dropped to her knees.
His lips were rimmed with a thin, white line of agony. His face was as waxy and pale as a peeled onion. Each hair follicle of his dark beard stood out in contrast. He was drenched with sweat. His teeth were clamped shut, but bared, and his hand was gripping another as though his life depended on maintaining that grip.
He was holding on to Cash Boudreaux for dear life.
Cash was speaking softly. ". . . the fanciest whorehouse I've ever seen. Right there in downtown Saigon. Did you get to any of those whorehouses while you were over there, Glee? Those Asian girls have got tricks—"
The logger screamed.
"Where's the goddamn whiskey I asked for?" Cash roared. Through the crowd of men a bottle of Jack Daniels was passed from hand to hand until it reached Schyler. She handed it to Cash. His eyes locked with hers. Something odd happened to her insides. They experienced a flurry.
Cash said nothing to her but took the bottle and uncapped it. He held it to the man's lips and used his other hand to support his head.
"Where's the fucking ambulance?" Cash asked her out of the side of his mouth.
"The men said they called. It should be here soon."
"Cash?" the injured man asked, refusing any more liquor. "Will they take it off. My leg? Will it have to come off?"
"Shit, this little scratch? It ain't nuthin'." Cash passed the whiskey bottle back to Schyler and wiped the man's drooling lips with his bare fingers.
"Don't bullshit me. Will they take it off?"
Cash dropped the false joviality. "I don't know, Glee."