* * * *
With a feeling of revulsion at himself and Suzanne, Darius pulled on his clothes. Suzanne's rapacious hunger had brought about the desired result. He'd achieved release, but satisfaction still eluded him. The fault lay in his mind, not in his body. He felt as if he'd been unfaithful to Emma. And even more so to himself.
He paid off Cassandra and nodded for her to leave, though he hated to see her go. She'd diverted Suzanne from giving him her full attention. She'd deliver the photographs to him later. For now, he needed to find out what Suzanne's agenda was. She lay on the bed, purring like a kitten, her hot hand still stroking his back.
“You're not getting dressed already, are you?”
He was quiet for a moment, as he struggled to control his body's response to her touch. Now he remembered why he hated losing control. It was so hard to get it back. Despite the desires of his mind, his body wanted release again. It cared only for sensation. He moved away from her, grabbing a chair and bringing it close to the bed.
“Now we talk, Suzanne.” His tone was level, cool. Thankfully, she liked cool and controlled.
She pouted, but pulled and pushed the pillows until she could sit up. She made no attempt to cover her nakedness. The light from the open window fell unkindly across her, finding the places where age was taking its toll.
If only he could leave.
She appeared to consider how to begin her pitch. What surprised him was that she shivered, as if remembering something bad, and appeared to shrink inside herself. He reached down and pulled the blankets up over her, glad for the excuse. She looked down, fingering a piece of fuzz on the blanket before looking at him.
“Bubba Joe almost killed me today.”
She said it calmly enough, but remembered fear darkened her eyes. If she was telling the truth, Darius felt a stab of compassion for her and, ironically enough, sympathy for Bubba Joe's desire to have her out of his life.
“Why would he do that?”
She looked at him now, eagerness helping to push back fear. “He's afraid. And when he's afraid, he gets mean.”
“Afraid? Of what?”
Her gaze shifted. She still wasn't sure she trusted him. How could he help her along? He took her hand and squeezed it. So simple, but so effective. She gave him a grateful smile.
“Bubba Joe told me you're the one who introduced Verrol Vance to him.” She couldn't look squarely at him, instead, studying him sideways and from under lashes thick with mascara.
Was she going to try to blackmail him? After what she'd just let him do? If she was, then she had some balls he hadn't found during their recent encounter.
“I introduced Bubba Joe to a lot of useful people.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and teased her fingers with his lips and tongue. The calculation in her eyes clouded with desire. She should have learned you can't mix business with pleasure, at least not from the underneath position. For that you had to stay on top.
“But Vance killed Magus Merlinn. And now his attorney and his wife are dead. Murdered.”
“I've seen the news.” What was she after? She had him puzzled. He licked the palm of her hand and observed her body's uncontrolled shudder. Was there any place he could touch her that she wouldn't respond to? She was ridiculously easy. It was hard not to compare her with Emma, who'd required him to court her assiduously through their one, long night together.
She pulled his hand to her cheek and eased close, so she could lean on his knees and look up into his face. For the first time, she seemed unaware of him sexually.
“Darius—” She paused for effect. “He did it.”
“It?” It what?
“
It
. The million dollar question. The one thing everyone wants to know? Who hired Vance?” She sat back with a look of triumph. “It was Bubba Joe. He told me he did it.”
“Really?” Even his poker face needed to respond. He allowed his eyebrows to rise as he exhaled. “Shouldn't you be telling the police?”
“He'd kill me. I'd never get to be free of him. And there's no proof. Yet.”
Yet?
That was an intriguing way to put it. “I don't understand.”
“He's so stupid. He threatened Vance's wife. Can you believe it? So Vance set a trap for him. Her death has triggered it. Any day now, evidence will be released, connecting him to Vance. I told him I'd help him try to find it, but then, I thought, why should I help him?”
She touched her throat, calling his attention to the bruises there that he hadn't been interested enough to notice in the throes of passion.
“If this doesn't take him down, it'll be something else. And he's going to kill me. I could see it in his eyes. It's not just about being governor for him. It's about power. And no matter how much he gets, it will never be enough. He needs to be stopped.”
“I see.” His mind reeled from shock. He'd never thought he could get too much information. How intriguing that she'd come to him for help in dealing with her murderous husband. While murder was his last resort, it was always on his list of options when dealing with difficult people.
Was he about power, too? He didn't think so. He took no pleasure in killing, at least, none that he could recall from his early days, before he could afford to hire his killing done for him.
No, he wasn't about power. He liked the puzzle, the challenge of manipulating events. Life was so dreary otherwise. It amused him to play at politics. To see if he could foist his protege on the state, then control him. Everyone thought he didn't know how lame his choice was, but he did. That's what made the game so interesting.
Still, it was funny that he and Bubba Joe had both thought they were the only one who had hired Vance to kill Magus.
TEN
* * * *
Dorothy strolled along the path to the cemetery, grateful to be alone for a few minutes. She hadn't been down to pay her respects at her parents’ graves since the day she walked behind Magus's coffin. She'd been in Louisiana off and on over the years, taking care of business, but so briefly, she hadn't had time to come to Oz. Or so she'd told herself. She wasn't entirely sure she was ready now. So many questions, even more since her return, still stood between her and her memories of her parents.
The path showed her neglect. In places the tall grasses pressed close or completely over the path, with the possibility of fire ant hills hiding down their depths. She was intensely aware of the silence. Even nature seemed to be slumbering in the hot, mid-day sun. The hot, rich smell brought back so many memories of that awful day she'd laid her father to rest. At the time shock has cushioned her, but when shock faded, she was left with vivid memories to live and relive over and over since then, in all their nuances, and through all the stages of grief.
To some extent, she was passing through them again, though faster. Presently, she was deep in angry. Where did this person get off, just whacking people when he felt like it? At first, she'd wondered if she should back off, but not now. This person had to be stopped. This wasn't just about her father anymore. This person might be seeking public office. This person might be looking beyond the state to the white house. This wasn't merely a personal issue anymore. He'd taken it public. It was now firmly in the “no man is an island” zone.
At least no one had died today. Well, no one she knew, or was connected to the case. The New Orleans murder rate was a separate issue and not within her purview, thank goodness.
She should call Leda and make sure she was all right, though if someone had been listening in on their conversations, they must know Leda knew less than nothing.
After a night in Oz, danger seemed distant from them and connected, instead, to New Orleans. Thanks to Titus's security measures, Oz was darn near an ivory tower.
She and Remy had discussed the party idea and had decided to limit the guest list to suspects only. Even that small group, however, necessitated a massive preparation effort. Oz had been closed a long time and she wanted to make sure they felt the full power of Magus's legacy and her return to wield it. She'd worried their prey wouldn't come on such short notice, but Remy had said grimly, “They'll come. Either out of curiosity, or because they can't help themselves.”
She knew that he also wanted her to have this quiet time in Oz for her spirit to heal. In his own, third-estate way, he was a nice man. And they'd both agreed that a period of quiet would be more likely to up the tension level of their suspects, not lower it. Or maybe he'd just wanted her to believe that. In any case, he had to work today, but would be taking some of his vacation time starting tomorrow. They both felt that events were coming to a nice—or nasty—boil.
There was certainly a lot to do to get the house ready for public viewing. She'd had an excellent caretaker, but the house had stood empty a long time. She'd brought in her housekeeper from the Dallas, because Helene Tierry, who'd been the housekeeper, retired after Magus died. She lived in town, but seemed content with her retirement.
Titus had offered to oversee the contractors working on the outside and she'd gratefully accepted. She felt awkward with him since she'd lied to him in the library. And she still felt strongly she needed to cut him loose, but didn't know how to do it. Since they'd come back, their relationship had changed. Their comfortable camaraderie was gone and she missed it, but at the same time, was glad for it.
It made her feel crazy, but then, the situation was insane. She and Remy were courting a killer by inviting him to freaking dinner.
Her personal assistant had flown in to help her with the details and a new grounds keeper was supervising the reclamation of the garden and yard areas. She supposed he'd eventually get down this way, too. She also had people going over the wiring and plumbing. Roots had a way of growing through pipes down in this country. She didn't want a backed up toilet for her guests. Talk about messing with the mystique.
Out of the chaos, the yellow brick road had emerged. The landscape still had a wild, brooding aspect, but that was just rural Louisiana. Her favorite decision so far was to order the house painted a soft, emerald green. She intended the Wizard to be an unseen guest at the party, even if she had to cross the line into melodrama.
Gone for now, was the brooding quiet of Magus's Oz. Dorothy was bringing it to life again, but when night fell, he was back, he was
there
, assessing her work and alternately approving and disapproving. If she were being haunted, it was nothing like she'd expected. And it didn't seem to include her mother. Of course, she hadn't been murdered, so maybe resting in peace was not issue for her.
Knowing Magus, he wouldn't approve her intent to commune with the past today. He'd never been one to attach much importance to graves and had only been sentimental when the situation required. He'd consider it an unproductive use of her time, which was one reason she was so determined to do it.
In an odd twist, her parents had both died on the same day. They weren't buried side by side, since they'd been divorced, but at Dorothy's request, Magus had arranged for Emma to be buried the next row over, in the family graveyard. They'd ended up headstone to headstone, since Dorothy had had control over Magus's final rest. She could remember hoping it would force them to come to terms with each other.
The path curved around a stand of oak trees mixed with a few cypress trees. The gray ghostly Spanish moss hung down in her face and even the sluggish air seemed determined to slow her down. It still fascinated her how the cypress knees pushed up through the grass in tiny communities or maybe they were little clumps of gnomes planning nightly mischief.
Gently, almost imperceptibly, peace pushed out every other emotion. It was far too hot to be angry, or agitated. There'd always been something almost magical about the woods around Oz, as if she'd stepped out of time and possibly even place.
Moisture clung to her skin, making her linen dress cling, too. Her feet slipped in her sandals, but none of it mattered. In the distance, the quaint steeple of a church broke the line of the trees, then the path straightened and she could see the little cemetery with its mix of headstones and crypts. Little cities of the dead. Only not just the dead waited there.
A blue car sat parked in the dirt lot in front of the little church and a woman in black stooped to lay flowers on a grave.
Annoyance tried to rise, but it was too hot. She could only manage mild irritation and an even milder curiosity. Most of the family buried there had been part of the family Oz used to belong to. They'd died out, just after selling out to Magus. The only new graves in twelve years were her parents.
Of course, people doing genealogy could still be related to the family, but then why would they come dressed to mourn? And from here, it looked like her mother's grave receiving attention.
The woman stood up, and as if she felt Dorothy looking, she turned to face her. Glasses hid her face, but the shape of the jaw was as familiar as her own. For the first time, she remembered the genealogy scroll and the previously unknown aunt. Events had pushed that little surprise out of her head. Now it surged back to the forefront.
Time slowed to a dream's pace as they studied each other. The hair barely visible beneath the hat was gray. A bit of filmy black lace covered her eyes. Gloves in this heat? Insanely high heels for the terrain. Designer dress, no question about that. The cut was wonderful, flattering and demure. Perfect for mourning. Never mind that it was twelve years too late.
Dorothy stopped when the width of her mother's grave separated them. The silence was reflective, not uncomfortable. Perhaps she should be angry or something, but it was too hot. Her heart counted out time in slow and steady beats, that seemed to pause when the woman reached up and lifted the veil back to reveal eyes as violet as Dorothy's. She could be looking into a mirror thirty years from now.
“Hello, Dorothy,” she said.
“You must be my Aunt...?” Dorothy heard herself ask with matching calm.