Cry Wolf (16 page)

“I've heard so much about you,” he said. “I've been looking forward to meeting you, Laurel.”

There was something almost intimate in his tone. His voice was a warm, well-schooled, well-modulated baritone that vibrated with the ring of old Southern money.

“Stephen is from New Orleans,” Vivian said brightly, raising her voice a fraction as thunder rumbled overhead. “I met his mother years ago—though no one will get me to confess how many years,” she added coyly, lashes fluttering. “Back when I spent summers with my cousin, Tallant Jordan Hill. You remember Cousin Talli, don't you Laurel? Her father was in oil, and his brother was the one who made such a fortune in the silver market and then lost it all on the New York Stock Exchange? It was such a scandal!

“Laurel was a junior bridesmaid in Cousin Talli's second wedding,” she explained. Glory Trahern hung on every word. Everyone else's eyes had begun to glaze over. “Her first husband was crushed to death, you know. Lord, it was a horrible thing! But Talli bounced back and remarried well.

“A remarkable woman, Talli. She introduced me to Stephen's mother at a soiree. A lovely woman, just a precious, lovely woman! As it turns out, we had both attended Sacred Heart, but she was several years older than I, and we ran in different circles.

“The Danjermonds have been in shipping for years,” she said in conclusion, the mention of business making the men tune in once again.

“Shipping and politics,” Danjermond said. To his credit, he had managed to smile all the way through Vivian's monologue. “My elder brother, Simon, went into the shipping business. That left politics for me.”

The rest of the cast cooed and bobbed their heads approvingly. Laurel bristled. He still held her hand, and she couldn't pull it loose without creating a scene. She brought her chin up a notch and looked him hard in the eye.

“I've always been of the belief that a prosecuting attorney's first loyalty is the pursuit of justice, not public office.”

Glory Trahern sucked in a little gasp and put a hand to the bow at her throat as if it were choking her. The rest of the party stood staring at Laurel with owl eyes, except Vivian, whose stare more resembled a she-wolf's. Only Danjermond himself seemed unoffended. His smile curled a little deeper at the corners of his mouth.

“I'd heard you were quite the champion for Lady Justice.”

“That was my job,” she said flatly, refusing to be charmed. “And yours.”

He tipped his head, conceding the point. “So it is, and my record speaks for itself. The good people of Partout Parish can attest to that.”

“We certainly can, Stephen,” Vivian chirped.

Beaming a smile at him, she stepped to his side and slipped her arm through his, as if she had decided Laurel wasn't worthy of him so she was taking him back. Laurel pulled her hand free and crossed her arms, thinking she might have been amused if she hadn't been so damn angry with her mother to begin with.

“Your record is impeccable,” Vivian went on, glowing proudly at him, as if she were somehow responsible for this paragon of manhood. “I declare, I don't know how we'd get along without you. While all around us crime is running rampant throughout Acadiana, Partout Parish has become a virtual haven for the law-abiding.”

“I swear,” Glory Trahern gushed, leaning over to touch Danjermond's arm as if he were a lucky charm. “I hardly dare to set foot across the parish line, what with all these murders going on around us.”

Danjermond's green eyes glowed with amusement as he met Laurel's skeptical stare. “You see, Laurel, the advantage of having a politically ambitious district attorney? I have to do my job well, or no one will vote for me when I run for office.”

The comment drew chuckles all around. Vivian patted his sleeve, pleased with his benevolent good humor. Laurel managed a smile. Stephen Danjermond was hardly the first politician to train for the job in the district attorney's office. She was hardly up to arguing philosophy with him at any rate. She had come here to put in her required appearance, that was all. By the looks Vivian was sliding her, she figured she would do well to stick to that plan.

Be a good girl, Laurel. Don't rock the boat, Laurel. Always say the right thing, Laurel.

Olive slunk into the room, looking almost apologetic, and announced in a meek monotone that dinner was ready, flinching like a whipped dog as lightning flashed outside the tall French doors.

“Well, I certainly have an appetite!” Ross announced with a blazing smile. He slapped Reverend Stipple on the shoulder. “How about you, Reverend?”

The minister bobbed his head like a window ornament in the back of a hopped-up Chevy. “I surely do.”

Everyone moved on toward the dining room, Vivian leading Danjermond ahead, then returning without him to herd the rest of her guests out of the parlor. She snagged Laurel by the arm and held her back as the others continued down the hall, chatting amicably.

Laurel closed her eyes briefly and bit down on a sigh.

“Laurel Leanne! How dare you be rude to a guest in this house!” Vivian snapped, her voice a harsh whisper, her bony fingers biting into Laurel's arm. “Stephen Danjermond is an extremely important man. There's no telling how far he will go in politics.”

“That doesn't mean I have to agree with him, Mama,” Laurel pointed out, knowing it wouldn't do her any good. Her mother's code demanded that ladies be agreeable regardless. It wouldn't have mattered if Stephen Danjermond's politics had rivaled Adolf Hitler's for extremism.

Vivian pinched her lips together and narrowed her eyes. “Be civil to him, Laurel. I raised you to be a lady and won't tolerate less in this house. Stephen is educated, powerful, from a very good family.”

Translation: Stephen Danjermond was a prize catch. No doubt every debutante in the parish had her sights set on him. Laurel wanted to tell her mother that she wasn't fishing, but she kept the comment to herself. Somehow it had never occurred to Vivian that she might need time to heal in the wake of all that had happened to her.

“I'm sorry, Mama,” she murmured, not wanting to prolong the argument.

“Oh, well,” Vivian said with a sigh, her temper cooling as abruptly as it had flared up. “You've always had your headstrong moments. You're just like your father that way.”

She reached up to brush lightly at Laurel's bangs, her expression softening into one of her rare, truly motherly looks. “You do look pretty today, darlin'. This shade of pink becomes you.”

Laurel said thank you, hating herself for letting the compliment mean anything to her. She never seemed able to escape that childish need for her mother's approval.

A weakness. One of many.

She glanced at her watch as Vivian took her by the arm and led her out of the room, wondering how soon she could leave. This emotional tug-of-war wasn't what she needed to get herself back on track.

It's just a dinner, just a couple of hours. Get through it and go home.

The dining room was as elegant as the parlor, as filled with heirlooms and oil portaits of Chandlers dead and gone. The Hepplewhite table and shield-back chairs shone from two centuries of hand-polishing. Footfalls sounded against the cypress floor and bounded up to the twelve-foot ceiling. Glory Trahern stared up as if she were trying to see them rather than calculating the worth of the blown glass chandelier. Her husband snatched her arm and herded her toward a chair.

Not surprisingly, Laurel found herself seated directly across from Stephen Danjermond, who had the place of honor—at the right hand of Vivian, who sat at one end of the table, opposite Ross. Laurel slid into her chair and focused on her Wedgwood plate, uncomfortably aware of the handsome, elegant, articulate man across from her, wishing she had worn her glasses. She didn't want to attract his attention any more than she had wanted to attract the attention of her stepfather two decades ago. There was no room in her life for a man right now.

The image of Jack's mocking smile appeared before her mind's eye, and she frowned and speared a stalk of baby asparagus.

The topic of law and order had survived the trip down the hall, and the participants discussed the dynamic duo of Partout Parish—Sheriff Duwayne Kenner and District Attorney Danjermond—pleased and proud of the fact that crime here was being kept to a minimum.

“People can say what they will about Kenner's personality,” Ross said with his usual air of supreme authority, “but the man does his job. I daresay if those killings had taken place in our parish, Kenner would have had the man responsible by now.”

“Perhaps,” Danjermond murmured as Olive collected his salad plate and slunk away. “He would certainly do his utmost. He's a very capable man, and tenacious as they come. However, we have to remember that killers of this sort are notoriously clever. Brilliant even.”

“Sick,” Glory Trahern said, fussing with her bow as she shivered. “Crazy and sick, that's what he is.”

He tipped his head, conceding the possibility. “Or cold. Emotionless. Soulless.” He turned his intense, mesmerizing gaze on Laurel. “What do you think, Laurel? Is our Bayou Strangler crazy or evil?”

Laurel twisted her napkin in her lap, wishing herself away from this conversation, afraid that it would gradually turn her way and the Traherns and Reverend Stipple and Stephen Danjermond would want to hear all about her life as “the prosecutor who cried wolf.” “I . . . I couldn't say,” she murmured. “I don't have enough knowledge about the cases to form an educated guess.”

“There is a difference, though, don't you agree?” he prodded, the insistence in his voice subtle, smooth, strong. “While society deems all murderers insane to one degree or another, the courts have a different criterion. In the eyes of the law, there is a distinct difference.

“You believe in evil, don't you, Laurel?”

Laurel met his steady gaze, uneasiness drifting through her. She didn't want to be drawn into this conversation, but Danjermond held her attention, and the other diners waited expectantly. She could feel their eyes, sense the pressure of their held breath. Thunder rolled through the leaden skies outside. The rain came a little harder.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I do.”

“And good must triumph over evil. That is the foundation of our judicial system.”

Yes, but it didn't always. She knew that better than most, and so she held her tongue and glanced away, and Danjermond's cool green eyes held fast on her, speculating.

“Speaking of good and evil,” Laurel said, catching the eye of Reverend Stipple, “what do you make of Jimmy Lee Baldwin, Reverend?”

“As much as I hate to speak ill of anyone, my own opinion of him is less than complimentary,” the minister said as he served himself a portion of beef. “He's a bit too fancy for my tastes. However, his television ministry does reach out to the homebound and calls back those who may have left the fold of Christ on the wayward paths of life.”

One opinion was canceled out by the other, but Laurel bit her tongue on the urge to point that out.
Just do your time and get the hell out of here
.

“And he
is
campaigning against sin in the community,” Reverend Stipple went on, looking as though he might just convince himself to like Baldwin after all.

Laurel thought of Savannah's comment about Jimmy Lee Baldwin's twisted sexual preferences and held her tongue as the potatoes came her way.

“I hear he's going to try to close down Frenchie's Landing,” Glory Trahern said, her eyes lighting up at the chance to pass on gossip.

“Yes,” Laurel said, “and the owners are very upset about it.” At least T-Grace Delahoussaye was upset. She had to take T-Grace's word for it that Ovide was upset.

“You've been there?”

Laurel winced inwardly at Vivian's tone, but pushed the fear of her mother's reaction aside. She was a grown woman, able to go where she chose. “I had to see a man about a dog,” she said, cutting the one thin slice of roast she had taken. “While Frenchie's doesn't compare with the country club, it hardly seemed the den of sin Mr. Baldwin is trying to make it out to be.”

“It's nowhere for respectable people to go,” Vivian commented, her face tight with disapproval.

“I see your point, though, Laurel, darlin',” Ross announced. “Skeeter Mouton's is by far the most notorious place in the parish. If Baldwin were serious about this war against sin, Mouton's would be the likely target. I suspect, however, that Mr. Baldwin knows too well the kind of trouble he'd be asking for poking at that hornets' nest. He'd get himself killed.”

“Instead, he's harassing a legitimate business.”

“Are you taking up the Delahoussayes' cause, Laurel?” Danjermond asked mildly.

Laurel met his steady gaze once again. “I'm not practicing at the moment, but someone should take up their cause.”

He shrugged slightly. “I can't act on their behalf unless they make a formal complaint. You might pass that information along. It isn't against the law to preach; trespassing is another matter.”

“Yes, I already have made that suggestion to them.”

He smiled slowly, as if to tell her he knew her far better than she knew herself. “So you
are
taking up their cause, aren't you, Laurel?”

The truth of his statement stopped her short for a second, but she shook it off. “I merely made a suggestion.”

“Stephen has more important causes to take up. Don't you, Stephen, dear?” Vivian said, reaching out to pat his hand approvingly. “Why don't you tell us about the state attorney general's appointing you head of the Acadiana drug task force?”

The meal progressed at a snail's pace. Laurel picked at her food and glanced at her watch every thirty seconds. Finally, they left the table and went back to the parlor for coffee. While Vivian bossed Olive around and the Traherns settled on the gold settee, Laurel roamed to the French doors and stood with her cup in her hand, staring out wistfully at the rain-washed garden. The thundershower had passed. When she escaped, she would go back to Belle Rivière and take a book out to the courtyard and sit in a corner reading and absorbing the quiet, the scent of rain, roses, and wisteria.

“Is the company really all that unpleasant?”