Cry Wolf

by Tami Hoag

  Laurel poked at her sea bass and thought longingly of bluepoint crabs and the colors of the Gulf sky at sunset, the sound of the sea and gulls, the tang of salt air. Instead, she had a grouper glaring up at her from a Limoges plate, green velvet portieres at tall French doors, a Vivaldi concerto piping discreetly over cleverly hidden speakers, and the artificial cleanliness of central air-conditioning. Her mother sat across from her, completely in her element, ash blond hair sleekly coiffed, a vibrant blue linen blazer bringing out the color of her eyes. Beneath the jacket she wore a chic white sheath splashed with the same shade of blue. Sapphire teardrops dripped from her earlobes.

  “The world has gone stark raving mad,” Vivian declared, spearing a fresh green bean. She chewed delicately, as a lady should, breaking her train of thought absolutely to savor the taste of her food. After washing it down with a sip of chardonnay, she picked up the thread of the conversation and went on. “Women being murdered in our backyards, practically. Lunatics running loose through town in the dead of night.

  “Tell me why on earth anyone would want to vandalize St. Joseph's Rest Home, scaring those poor elderly people witless.”

  Laurel went on point like a bird dog, straightening in her chair, her fork hovering over her mutilated fish. “St. Joseph's?”

  “Yes,” Vivian went on with appropriate disgust as she took a knife after her quail and dismembered it. “Spray-painted obscenities outside one of the rooms, left a terrible mess on the lawn that I simply won't even speak of in public or anywhere else, banged on the windows, shouting and carrying on. It was an absolute disgrace, the things that were done.”

  “Did they catch this person?” Laurel asked carefully.

  “No. She ran screaming into the night.”

  Foreboding quivered down Laurel's spine. “She?”

  “Oh, yes. A woman. Can you imagine that? I mean, one might expect a certain kind of hooliganism from a young man, but a woman?” Vivian shuddered at the thought of the natural order of things being so badly twisted. “I volunteer at the library, as you know. This was my day to take books to the rest home. Ridilia Montrose assists the activities coordinator there on Wednesdays. You remember Ridilia, don't you, Laurel dear? Her daughter Faith Anne was the one who had such extensive orthodontia and then wound up being elected homecoming queen at Old Miss? Married a financier from Birmingham? Ridilia says it was most definitely a female, according to the night staff.”

  She pressed her lips into a thin line of disapproval and shook her head, setting her sapphires swinging. “Terrible goings-on. I swear, some people just breed indiscriminately and let their children grow up running like wild dogs. Blood will tell, you know,” she said, as she always said. And, as always, it made Laurel grit her teeth on a contradiction she had been trained not to voice. “Anyway, the person I feel most sorry for is that poor Astor Cooper. All this went on right outside her window. Can you imagine?”

  What little Laurel had eaten of her meal turned into a lump of grease in her stomach. “Astor Cooper?” she managed weakly as her mind pieced together facts without her consent.

  “Yes. Her husband is Conroy Cooper, the Pulitzer Prize–winning author? Such a charming man. So generous to the local charities. It's just a tragedy that his wife has to be so afflicted. Alzheimer's, you know. And I'm told her people up in Memphis are just lovely. It's such a shame. Ridilia said Mr. Cooper was absolutely beside himself over the vandalism. He's so very loyal to his wife, you know. . . .”

  Laurel placed her hands in her lap, fighting the urge to grip the table to steady herself. While her mother sat across from her, going on about Conroy Cooper's sterling character, that same voice drifted out of the back of her mind, admonishing her for her manners. Young ladies do not lay their hands on the table, Laurel. . . . Then Savannah's face came to mind, her expression sly. His wife has Alzheimer's. He put her in St. Joseph's. . . . I hear she doesn't know her head from a hole in the ground.

  Sick dread ran down her throat like icy fingers. It couldn't be, she told herself. It simply couldn't be. Savannah had her problems, but she wouldn't resort to—As if to mock her defense, her memory hurled up a picture of her sister locked in combat with Annie Delahoussaye, screaming like a banshee and whirling like a dervish around Frenchie's.

  “Laurel? Laurel?” Her mother's sharp tone prodded her back to reality. Vivian was frowning at her. “André would like to know if you've finished with your fish.”

  “I'm sorry.” Laurel scrambled to compose herself, ducking her head and smoothing her napkin on her lap. She glanced up at the patient André, who watched her with soulful brown eyes set in a bloodhound's face. “Yes, thank you. It was excellent. My apologies to the chef that I was unable to finish it.”

  As the dinner plates were whisked away and the tablecloth dusted for crumbs, Vivian studied her daughter and sipped her wine. “I hear you've been to the courthouse twice this week. They're seeing more of you than I am.”

  An untrained ear may not have picked up the note of censure. Laurel received it loud and clear. “I'm sorry, Mama. I got caught up helping the Delahoussayes.”

  “Hardly the sort of people—”

  Laurel brought a hand up to stop her like a crossing guard. “Can we please skip this conversation? We're not going to agree. We'll both end up angry. Could we just not have it?”

  Vivian straightened into her queen's posture on her chair, her chin lifting, her eyes taking on the same cold gleam as the sapphires she wore. “Certainly,” she said stiffly. “Never mind that I have only your best interests at heart.”

  That Vivian had never had any interests at heart but her own was a truth Laurel chose to keep to herself. If she provoked her mother into an argument in public, she would never be forgiven. A part of her thought she shouldn't care, but the plain truth was Vivian was the only mother she had, and after a lifetime of walking on eggshells to gain approval, to garner what Vivian would consider love, she was probably not going to change. Just as Vivian would never change.

  The pendulum of Vivian's moods swung yet again as she turned toward the entrance to the dining room. Like the sun coming out from behind a thunderhead, a smile brightened her face. Laurel turned to get a look at whoever had managed to perform such a miracle and caught another unpleasant surprise square on the chin.

  “Stephen!” Vivian said, offering her beringed hands to Danjermond as he strode to their table. He took them both and bent over one to bestow a courtly kiss. Vivian beamed. All but purring, she turned toward Laurel. “Look, Laurel dear, Stephen is here! Isn't this a lovely surprise?”

  In a pig's eye. Laurel forced a smile that looked as if she had a lip full of novocaine. “Mr. Danjermond.”

  “Stephen, you're just in time for dessert. Do say you'll join us.”

  He treated her to a dazzling square smile. “How could I decline an offer to spend time with two of the most beautiful belles in the parish?”

  Vivian blushed on cue and batted her lashes, impeccably schooled in the feminine art of flirtation. “Well, this belle needs to powder her nose. Do keep Laurel company, won't you?”

  “Of course.”

  As she walked away from the table, Danjermond slid into the empty chair to Laurel's right. He was, as she was, dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the courthouse that morning—the coffee brown suit, the ivory shirt and stylish tie—but he had somehow managed to come through the day without a wrinkle, while Laurel felt wilted and rumpled. Something about his elegance made her want to comb her hair and take her glasses off, but she refrained from doing either.

  “You're angry with me, Laurel,” he said, simply.

  Laurel crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt, taking her time in replying. Outside, a squall line had tumbled up from the Gulf and was threatening rain. Wind pulled at the fingers of the palmetto trees that lined the putting green. She stared out at them through the French doors, debating the wisdom of what she wanted to say.

  “I don't like the games you play, Mr. Danjer
mond,” she said at last, meeting his cool green gaze evenly.

  He arched a brow. “You think my being here is part of a conspiracy, Laurel? As it happens, I dine here often. You do concede that I have to eat, don't you? I am, after all, merely human.”

  The light in the peridot eyes danced as if at some secret amusement. Whether it was her he was laughing at or the line about his being a mere mortal, she couldn't tell. Either way, she had no intention of joining in the joke.

  “Anything new on the murder?” she asked, toying with the stem of her water glass.

  He plucked a slice of French bread from the basket on the table, tore off a chunk, and settled back in his chair with the lazy arrogance of a prince. Chewing thoughtfully, he studied her. “Kenner released Tony Gerrard. He feels the murder is the work of the Bayou Strangler.”

  “And what do you think? You don't think Tony Gerrard might have pulled a copycat?”

  “No, because if he had, he would have screwed up. Our killer is very clever. Tony, regrettably,” he picked a white fleck of bread off his tie and flicked it away, “is not.”

  “You sound almost as if you admire him—the killer.”

  He regarded her with a look of mild reproach. “Certainly not. He intrigues me, I admit. Serial killers have fascinated students of criminal science for years.” He tore another chunk off the fresh, warm bread, closed his eyes, and savored the rich, yeasty aroma of it before slipping it into his mouth. As he swallowed, his lashes raised like lacy black veils. “I'm as horrified by these crimes as anyone, but at the same time, I have a certain”—he searched for the word, picking it cleanly and carefully—“clinical appreciation for a keen mind.”

  As he said it, Laurel had the distinct impression that he was probing hers. She could feel the power of his personality arching between them, reaching into her head to explore and examine.

  “What do you think of sharks, Laurel?”

  The change of direction was so abrupt, she thought it was a wonder she didn't get a whiplash. “What should I think of them?” she said, annoyed and puzzled. “Why should I think of them at all?”

  “You would think of them if you found yourself overboard in the ocean,” Danjermond pointed out. He leaned forward in his chair, warming to his subject, his expression serious. “In all of nature, they are the perfect predator. They fear nothing. They kill with frightening efficiency.

  “Serial killers are the sharks of our society. Without souls, without fear of recrimination. Predators. Clever, ruthless.” He tore off another chunk of bread and chewed thoughtfully. “A fascinating comparison, don't you think, Laurel?”

  “Frankly, I think it's stupid and dangerously romantic,” she said bluntly as her temper began to snap inside her like a live wire. Ignoring the dictates of her upbringing, she planted her fists on the table and glared at the district attorney. “Sharks kill to survive. This man is killing for the pure, sick enjoyment of seeing women suffer. He needs to be stopped, and he needs to be punished.”

  Danjermond scrutinized her pose, her expression, the passion in her voice, and nodded slightly, like a critic approving of an actor's skills. “You were born for the prosecutor's office, Laurel,” he declared, then his gaze intensified, sharpened, as if he had sensed something in her. Slowly, gracefully, he leaned forward across the table until he was just a little too close. “Or were you made for it?” he murmured.

  Laurel met his gaze without flinching, though she was trembling inside. The air between them vibrated with Danjermond's potent sexuality. He was close enough that she could pick up the hint of a dark, exotic cologne. Somewhere outside the cube of tension that boxed them in, thunder rumbled and fat raindrops spat down out of the clouds. The wind hurled handfuls under the veranda, pelting the panes in the French doors.

  “You do fascinate me, Laurel,” he whispered. “You have an astonishing sense of chivalry for a woman.”

  Vivian chose that moment to return to the table, and Laurel thought that if she was never grateful to her mother for anything else, she was grateful for this interruption. Stephen Danjermond made the short hairs stand up on the back of her neck. The less she had to be alone with him, the better.

  He sat with them for coffee. Vivian ordered bread pudding and enjoyed it with a side order of political talk and chatter about the upcoming League of Women Voters dinner. Laurel sat studying the stubs of her fingernails, wishing she were anywhere else. Her thoughts turned unbidden to Jack, and she wondered, as she stared out at the rain, where he was tonight, what he was feeling.

  Judge Monahan and his wife were shown into the dining room, capturing Danjermond's attention, and the district attorney abandoned them for more influential company. While Vivian took care of the bill, Laurel took her first deep breath in thirty minutes.

  They walked out onto the veranda together and stood watching as the valets dashed out into the rain to retrieve their cars.

  “This was lovely, darling,” Vivian said, smiling benevolently. “I'm glad we could have this evening together after that unpleasantness with your sister Sunday. I swear, I don't know at times how she could even be mine, the way she behaves.”

  “Mama, don't,” Laurel snapped, then softened the order with a request. “Please.”

  Instead of pique, Vivian chose to move on as if Savannah had never been mentioned at all. “I'm so glad Stephen was able to join us for a little while. He's very highly thought of in these parts and in Baton Rouge, as well. With his family connections and his talent, there's no telling how far he might go.” Her white Mercedes arrived under the portico, but she made no move toward it, turning instead to give her daughter a shrewd look. “As I walked across the dining room tonight, I couldn't help thinking what a handsome couple the two of you would make.”

  “I appreciate the thought, Mama,” Laurel lied, “but I'm not interested in Stephen Danjermond.”

  Disapproval flickered in Vivian's light eyes. She reached up impatiently and brushed at a wayward strand of Laurel's hair, succeeding in making her feel ten years old. “Don't tell me you're interested in Jack Boudreaux,” she said tightly.

  Laurel stepped back from her mother's hand. “Would it matter if I were? I'm a grown woman, Mama. I can choose my own men.”

  “Yes, but you do such a poor job of it,” Vivian said cuttingly. “I asked Stephen about Jack Boudreaux—”

  “Mama!”

  “He told me the man was disbarred from practicing law because he was at the heart of the Sweetwater chemical waste scandal in Houston.” Laurel's eyes widened automatically at the name “Sweetwater.” Gratified, Vivian went on with relish. “Not only that, but it isn't any wonder he writes those gruesome books. Everyone in Houston says he killed his wife.”

  If her mother said anything after that, Laurel didn't hear it. She didn't hear the murmured words of parting, didn't feel the compulsory kiss on her cheek, noticed only in the most abstract of ways that Vivian was being ushered into her car and the gleaming white Mercedes was sliding out into the darkening night.

  She stood on the veranda in a puddle of amber light from the carriage lanterns that flanked the elegant carved doors to the Wisteria. Beyond the pillars that supported the roof, rain pounded down out of the swollen clouds and splattered against the glossy black pavement of the drive. And it was Jack's voice she heard. “I've got enough corpses on my conscience. . . .”

  He wanted to kill somebody.

  Jimmy Lee stalked the confines of his steamy, shabby bungalow in his underwear, frustration bubbling inside him, gurgling in a low growl at the back of his throat as he recounted all the shit mucking up his road to fame and fortune.

  The cheap secondhand television he had picked up at Earlene's Used-a-Bit sat on an old crate in the corner. Instead of his own regularly scheduled hour of glory, the screen was filled with the flickering image of Billy Graham on a crusade to save the heathen communist souls of Croatia. A rerun hastily dug up to take the place of the fiasco that had been taped the day before at the old Texaco
station.

  The horizontal hold was slipping like fingers on a greased pig, the picture jumping up, catching, jumping up, catching. Passing the set on his circuit around the room, Jimmy Lee gave it a smack along the side that served only to send the volume blaring.

  Swearing, he fumbled with the knob, managing to break it off in his hand. The control on his temper snapped just as readily, and he grabbed a lamp off an imitation wood end table and hurled it at the wall, the horrific crash drowning out Billy Graham right in the middle of his rage against the excesses of modern life.

  Fuck Billy Graham. Jimmy Lee turned from the set, ignoring it even though it was rattling with the wrath of the master televangelist. The guy had one foot in the grave. He was old hat, passé, not in touch with what needy fanatics of the '90s wanted. In another few years, Jimmy Lee would be the one crusading around the world, begging the faithful of all races to stand up and be counted—and, most importantly, to stand up and have their money counted.

  He'd be there, at the top, at the pinnacle, worshiped. And he wouldn't wear anything but tailor-made white silk suits. Hell, he'd even have tailor-made white silk underwear. He did love the feel of cool white silk. He'd have sheets of silk and curtains and white silk socks and white silk ties. Silk, the feel of money and sex. White, the color of purity and angels. The dichotomy appealed to him.

  He'd get there, he promised himself, no matter what he had to do, no matter who got in his way.

  Immediately several faces came to mind. Annie Delahoussaye-Gerrard, whose corpse had upstaged him in the local news. Savannah Chandler, whose taste for adventure dragged his thoughts away from his mission. Her sister, Laurel Goody Two Shoes, who plagued him like a curse. Bitches. His life was infested with bitches. Good for nothing but slaking a man's baser needs. On the television, a fat white broad who looked like Jonathan Winters in drag was belting out a chorus of “How Great Thou Art.” Inside Jimmy Lee, the restless hunger burned. The night beckoned like a harlot, hot, stormy, tempestuous, and he cursed women in his best televangelist voice for leading him into temptation.