by Tami Hoag
“I am certain you are well aware of my relationship with your sister,” he drawled, that smooth, wonderful voice rolling out of him, rolling over Laurel like sunwarmed caramel. She steeled herself against its effects. “And you think less of me for it.”
“You're an adulterer, Mr. Cooper. What am I supposed to think of you?”
“That perhaps I loved Savannah as best I could while trying to keep a promise to a woman who no longer remembers me or anything of the life we once had together.”
Laurel pressed her lips together and looked down at her shoes, dodging the steady blue gaze.
“Savannah once told me you thought in absolutes,” he said. “Right or wrong. Guilty or not guilty. Life isn't quite so black and white as you would like for it to be, Laurel. Nothing is as absolute in reality as it is in our minds in our youth.”
“Loved,” Laurel repeated, seizing on the thought to fend off any pangs of contrition his words may have inspired. She raised her head and looked at him sharply again. “You said loved. Past tense.”
“Yes. It's over.” He ran a hand back through his blond hair, glancing at the clock as it ticked away another few seconds. “I don't mean to be rude, but I have to be in N'Awlins this afternoon. If you'll excuse my back, I'll lead the way.”
As she followed him into his bedroom, a feeling of something like déjà vu stole over her. The furnishings were big and masculine. The smell of leather and shoe polish underscored the faint woodsy tang of aftershave. Like Daddy's room back home before Vivian had dismantled it and given it over to Ross.
A duffel bag sat open on the white counterpane on the bed, giving her a peek of white cotton and polished wingtips. Cooper went to the closet and selected three shirts, which he hung neatly in a black garment bag on the closet door.
“She wanted to go with me on this trip,” he said. “Of course, I had to tell her no. She knew very well the boundaries of our relationship. If you think she took the news well, I should point out to you that I used to have a collection of fine antique shaving mugs left to me by my grandfather. I kept them in that cabinet next to the bathroom door.”
The curio cabinet stood, an empty frame with no glass in its sides and no antique shaving mugs within. All signs of the destruction had been vacuumed away, but Laurel could very easily picture her sister hurling mugs at Cooper's head. She had that kind of rage in her, that kind of violence.
Fingers of tension curled around her stomach and squeezed.
“When did this argument take place?” she asked, turning to face Cooper once again.
He hung a pearl gray suit in the garment bag and smoothed the sleeves. “Tuesday. Why?”
“Because I haven't seen her since Tuesday morning.”
He pulled another suit from the closet and added it to the bag, frowning as his mind rushed to plot out scenarios. “Then she's probably gone on to N'Awlins. I wouldn't put it past her to think she could disrupt my stay.”
“She didn't have a car.”
“She may have caught a ride with a friend.” His mouth compressed into a tight line as he zipped the bag shut. “Or another man. You might check with the Maison de Ville. She likes to stay in the cottages there.”
“Yes,” Laurel murmured. “I know.”
They had stayed there the spring before their father died. A family outing, one of the few she remembered happily. She could still hear Vivian going on about how movie stars sometimes stayed there. She could still see the thick-walled cottages and the courtyard, could still hear the noise and smell the ripe smells of New Orleans as she had perceived them then, through the senses of a child.
Cooper pulled the garment bag down from the closet door, folded and latched it securely. Laurel watched his hands. They were thick and strong with square-cut nails. The hands of a farmer or a carpenter, not a writer. A gold band, burnished with age, circled the third finger of his left hand.
“How is your wife?”
His head came up sharply, eyes shining with interest and surprise as he studied her. He swung the bag onto the bed beside the duffel.
Laurel picked at her ravaged thumbnail absently, uncomfortable with the topic and his scrutiny. “I heard about the incident at St. Joseph's. I'm sorry.”
Coop nodded slowly, finding it interesting that Laurel would apologize for the actions of her sister. They were two sides of the same coin—one light, one dark; one driven by angst to acts of justice, one to strange fits of passion. Laurel subdued everything feminine about herself; Savannah flaunted and magnified. Laurel held everything within; Savannah knew no boundaries and no control.
“She's doing well enough,” he said. “One of the few saving graces of her illness is that she forgets unpleasantness almost as quickly as it happens. It's the rest of us who have to go on with bad memories lingering like the smell of smoke.”
The past was gone, but its taint was stubborn and pervasive. An apt analogy, Laurel thought as she left the house.
She slid behind the wheel of her car and just sat there for a moment, her mind trying to go in eight directions at once. Cooper thought Savannah had gone to New Orleans. It didn't feel right. Savannah had always treated a trip to New Orleans as an event, something to fuss over and pack and repack for. She would have told Aunt Caroline, promised to bring back something outrageous for Mama Pearl just to hear the old woman huff and puff. She wouldn't have slipped away like a thief in the night, regardless of who she had gone with.
She would call the Maison de Ville, just to be sure, but there were other possibilities, and one of them was Jimmy Lee Baldwin.
Jimmy Lee stretched out across his rumpled bed and groaned. He felt near death with exhaustion. He smelled of rank, ripe sweat with an undertone of liquor and an overtone of sex. Without question, he needed a long shower before his lunch meeting with his deacons. Deacons. Christ, the saps would go nuts over that title.
“You're fucking brilliant, Jimmy Lee,” he snickered, staring up at the creaking old ceiling fan as it strained to stir the stale air. “You're a Grade A-mazing, God damntastic genius.”
It was the sign of a man who would go far. When things turned sour, he found a way to sweeten the deal. The taping at the Texaco station hadn't turned out the way he had planned, but ultimately it was going to be to his advantage. He would make sure of it.
The brainstorm had come in the middle of a wild, hard fuck. In a way, he had a whore to thank, ironic as that seemed. The answer to his troubles was what she had begged from him—mercy, sympathy. He would play on the sympathies of his followers. He didn't believe in giving sympathy himself. Go for the throat. Look out for Number One. Those were his mottoes. But the American people had traditionally loved an underdog. He would get a few key puppets whipped into a frenzy for his flagging cause, they would rally the troops, and he'd be back on track in nothing flat.
He smiled a wicked smile as he pictured it. The looks on their gullible, stupid faces as he poured his heart out to them about the plight of his ministry and his campaign to end sin. His cause was being sabotaged by Satan in the guise of Jack Boudreaux. He was being thwarted and made to look a fool at every turn, and he just didn't know if he had the heart to go on alone. Perhaps if one or two good men would be willing to shoulder some of his burden by filling the role of deacon . . . Their eyes would go wide, and their faces would shine with imagined grace.
The timing was perfect. Discovery of a mutilated female in their own backyards tended to turn people's thoughts to God and to vengeance. They would want a leader and a scapegoat, and Jimmy Lee intended to give them both.
He sat up just enough to snag the paperback off his nightstand and fell back across the lumpy mattress, thumbing through the pages.
Blood ran in rivulets, pearling and tumbling in the knife's wake. She tried to scream, but the sound vibrated only in her mind. Her throat was raw. Silk filled her mouth, like a stopper in a bottle, and the tie of the gag pulled her lips back in a macabre smile. . . .
“Twisted stuff, Jack my man.”
He chuckled as he folded down the corner on the page.
This was all playing right into his hands. He fantasized about all the possibilities as he stripped and showered in the grungy, mildew-coated shower stall. Jack Boudreaux would get pinned for the murders. Jimmy Lee would be a hero. Free publicity. Fan mail. The faithful would come out of the woodwork and follow him anywhere, do anything for him. What a perfectly wonderful dream.
He was a happy and satisfied man as he dressed. He even hummed a few bars of an old gospel tune as he polished off the knot in his tie and stood back to critique his look in the mirror above the bathroom sink.
His tawny hair was slicked back, his cheeks perfectly tan and clean-shaven. He flashed a smile, euphoric as always with the dental wonders he had invested in. He looked, quite simply, perfect. The shirt and tie were neat, but the knot was just slightly loose and askew. The suit was sufficiently limp with just enough wrinkles to make him look a little downtrodden. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting his shoulders sag and the muscles of his face droop into a worried frown. For a crowning touch, he mussed his hair a little in front, flicking a few strands loose to tumble across his forehead.
The deacons wouldn't know what hit them.
Someone banged on the screen door, and Jimmy Lee let whoever it was wait a few seconds, setting the mood. It was probably one of his chosen come to check on him. He had sounded despondent when he'd called them this morning. He shambled out of the bathroom, head hanging low, hands dangling by his sides.
Laurel Chandler stared in at him through the screen. She didn't look the least bit sympathetic. She looked like trouble.
“Miz Chandler,” he said, pushing the door open. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“Yes, I suppose you'd be less surprised to see my sister,” Laurel said. She stepped across the threshold, staying as far away from Baldwin as she could, never turning her back to him for a second. From the corners of her eyes, she did a quick reconnaissance of the shabby bungalow, her gaze lingering a second on the old bed with its scrollwork iron headboard and footboard.
Jimmy Lee let the door bang shut. His face carefully blank, his gaze steady on the woman who looked up at him with undisguised contempt, he pushed back the sides of his suit coat and planted his hands at his waist. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what you think it means.”
“You're suggesting I have a relationship with your sister?”
“No. I'm saying you have sex and play bondage games with my sister.”
His reaction was something that artlessly combined incredulous laughter and choking astonishment. Jaw hanging slack, head wagging, he staggered back a step, as if her words had struck him physically and dazed him. “Miz Chandler, that's simply outrageous! I am a man of God—”
“I know exactly what you are, Mr. Baldwin.”
“I think not.”
“Are you calling my sister a liar?” she challenged, planting her hands on her slim hips.
Jimmy Lee bit his tongue and assessed the situation. Back in his youth, when he'd hustled small-time for pocket money, he had prided himself on being able to read a mark in nothing flat. What he saw behind the glasses, in the depths of Laurel Chandler's deep blue eyes, behind the temper and the intelligence, was a hint of vulnerability. Maybe she didn't approve of Savannah's freewheeling sex life. Maybe she was every bit as prim as she appeared to be. Maybe she didn't quite trust Savannah's sanity.
He sighed dramatically and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, forcing his shoulders down. Letting her hang for a minute, he turned away from her—not so far that she couldn't see him furrow his brow and frown, as if in contemplation.
“‘Liar' is a harsh word. I think your sister is a very troubled woman. I don't deny she's come to me. I've tried to counsel her.”
“I'll bet you have.”
Her whole body vibrating with temper, Laurel took a slow turn around the room. When she came to the foot of the unmade bed, she stopped and curled her fingers over the curving bow of the foot rail. It was bumpy with layers of old paint, rough in spots where the rust was coming through. She gave it a yank, testing for sturdiness, and shot a look at Baldwin over her shoulder.
“Psychiatrists still favor using a couch for their sessions. I guess you decided to take it a few steps further.”
She gave the bed another shake, but turned her back to it the instant her imagination began to picture Savannah there with her wrists bound.
Annie Gerrard had been bound by her wrists too.
She settled her right hand on her pocketbook and pressed the pocketbook against her hip, imagining that she could feel the outline of her Lady Smith through the glove-soft leather.
“Do you know what I think of men who have to tie women up in order to feel superior to them?” she asked, giving Baldwin the same look that had cracked more than one defendant's story. “I think they're spineless, twisted, despicable scum.”
A muscle ticked in Jimmy Lee's cheek. In his pockets he balled his hands into fists. His temper strained with the need to use them. “I told you, I've never had anything to do with your sister sexually. Only the Lord can decipher what might go on in a mind like Savannah's. I don't doubt but that she's capable of saying—of doing—anything at all. But I'm telling you, as God is my witness, I have never laid a hand on her.”
“God is a very convenient witness,” Laurel said dryly. “Difficult to cross-examine.”
Baldwin's tawny brows scaled his forehead. He all but raised a finger and declared her a blasphemer. “You would doubt the Lord?” he gasped, incredulous.
The act was lost on Laurel. “I would doubt you,” she said. “I came here to ask if you've seen Savannah in the last couple of days, but I can see I'm wasting my time waiting for a straight answer. Perhaps Sheriff Kenner will have better luck.”
She hadn't taken three steps past him when his hand snaked out and caught her by the shoulder. Laurel twisted around, chopping at his arm as she had been taught in self-defense class, breaking his hold. He glared at her, but made no move to touch her again.
“I haven't seen your sister,” he said, struggling to maintain a facade of calm. “That's God's honest truth. No need to drag the sheriff out here.”
Laurel took another step back toward the door and inched her hand into her purse. Her heart was thumping. Her palms were sweating. She hoped to hell she would be able to hang on to the gun if the need arose.
“Why don't you want him out here? Skeletons in your closet, Reverend?”
“Scandal is deadly in my position,” he said, following her retreat toward the door. “Even though I've done nothing wrong, people tend to believe where there's smoke, there's fire.”
“They're usually right.”
“Not in this case.”
“Save your breath, Baldwin,” she sneered. “You couldn't win me over if you turned water into wine right before my very eyes. You're a charlatan and a fraud, and if I didn't have better things to do with my time, I'd make certain the whole damn world found out about it.”
She could ruin him. The thought hit Jimmy Lee like a brick in the belly. His stomach twisted into a knot. His shot at wealth and glory could be dead in the water. No one would believe her sister, but people would at least pause to listen to Laurel Chandler. They might dismiss what she said after, since she had a reputation for crying wolf, but the damage would be done.
The press would focus on him. Despite the pains he had always taken to disguise himself, some whore would recognize him on the news and sell a juicy story to the Enquirer. Christ, he wished he'd never set eyes on a Chandler woman in his life. Bitches and whores, both of them. He wanted to choke the life out of this one, the pompous little do-gooder.
As the picture flashed like a strobe in his brain, his hold on his temper broke with a snap. He opened his jaws in a snarl that was made only more eerie by the white of his too-perfect caps. A red haze filmed across his eyes, and he lunged toward her, growl
ing, “You little bitch.”
Heart catapulting into her throat, Laurel stumbled backward to give herself room. Staying just out of Baldwin's reach, she jerked the Lady Smith from her purse and held it chest-high, with both hands wrapped around the grip.
Jimmy Lee's eyes bugged out at the sight of the gun. “Jesus Fucking Christ!”
“Amen, Revver,” Jack drawled.
Adrenaline was searing his veins. He wanted nothing more than to throw the door open, tackle Baldwin, and pound the life out of him for whatever he had done to spook Laurel, but he held the machismo in firm check. Laurel and her purse pistol had the situation under control. Sort of. Her hands were trembling badly.
With deliberately, deceptively lazy movements, Jack drew open the screen door and propped himself up against the jamb.
“And if you think she can't use it, you better think again, Jimmy Lee,” he said. “She'll shoot your balls off and feed 'em to stray dogs.”
Jimmy Lee glared at him with a look of pure, unadulterated hate. “I didn't ask you in, Boudreaux.”
Jack arched a brow in amusement. “Oh, yeah? Well, you gonna do somethin' 'bout that, Jimmy Lee? Ms. Smith & Wesson might have somethin' to say 'bout that.”
“Isn't that just like you—hiding behind a woman,” Baldwin sneered. He raised an impotent finger in warning. “You take my word for it, Boudreaux. You won't be able to hide much longer.”
He had a card up the sleeve of that cheap suit. Jack could tell by the gleam in his eyes. He couldn't imagine what it was, but he couldn't imagine that he'd give a damn, either. He blinked wide in mock fear and splayed a hand across his heart.
“Did you hear that, Miz Chandler? Why I do believe the good reverend just threatened me.” With the same casual grace, Jack reached out and gently pushed her hands and the gun down so the barrel pointed at the floor. “Sugar, mebbe you could wait outside for me. I think Reverend Baldwin and I need to clear up this little misunderstanding.”