Cry Wolf (25 page)

Kenner gave her a flat look, the muscles in his lean jaw working. His cigarette smoldered between his fingers, ribbons of blue smoke curling up into the stagnant air. “I know who you are, Miz Chandler,” he said softly. “I don't need some female with an overactive imagination running around my parish crying wolf every time she turns around and dud'n like the look of somebody.”

The jibe hit and stuck. Laurel tensed against it, steeled herself and her pride, and dug down for some of the grit she had been known for back in Scott County. Lifting her chin, she met Kenner's stare, unflinching. “I don't make empty accusations, Sheriff. If I cry wolf, there'll be one coming to chew your skinny ass.”

He gave a snort of derision and stubbed out his cigarette, shooting another glare at the maintenance men, who had stopped working altogether to watch the confrontation.

“Get your lazy asses in gear and get that goddamn blind up before I get a heat stroke!”

Laurel turned and walked out, gritting her teeth as her stomach knotted and her nerves gave a belated tremor. The hall was cooler and darker. The courthouse had been built before the Civil War, and for a town the size of Bayou Breaux, it was an impressive structure, three stories of brick with Doric columns and a broad set of steps out front. Inside, the hallways were wide with soaring ceilings where old fans turned lazily to stir the humid air. The dark green plaster walls were decorated with a framed gallery of prominent citizens from the past.

For a moment Laurel leaned back against the cool, nubby plaster and rested her eyes, willing herself to relax. It didn't matter what Kenner thought of her. His opinion was no great surprise. She imagined a great many people held it.
The Prosecutor Who Cried Wolf
. The headline still made her angry, still made her want to lash out, to rail at those who had doubted her.

I wasn't wrong. They were guilty.

She wasn't wrong, she was a failure. That was the worst of it. Knowing that those children had been committed to terrible fates because she hadn't been able to prove it.

“No one will believe you, Laurel. . . . Don't tell Mama.”

For an instant she was twelve again, standing in the door to the parlor, watching Vivian fuss with an arrangement of calla lilies and delphinium. The secret was there inside her, a big gooey ball of words that clogged her throat. Savannah's warning rang in her ears—
“No one will believe you, Laurel. Don't tell Mama. She'll only get cross with you. . . .”
Helplessness and fear gripped her like icy hands, grappling with her sense of justice. She wanted to tell, thought she ought to, but she just stood there, watching Vivian frown and fuss, her temper slipping visibly as the flowers failed to please her. . . .

Sucking in air like a diver just breaking the surface, Laurel shoved herself away from the wall and turned into a shallow alcove, where a water fountain gurgled. She bent over and swallowed a mouthful of cool, over-chlorinated water, dampened her fingers, and patted her cheeks. Dismissing the memories, she dug through her pocketbook for a roll of Maalox tablets.

She would have to go to Frenchie's and explain things to T-Grace and Ovide. Maybe she would stop by the antiques shop and tell Aunt Caroline everything had gone well enough.

“Back in harness, so to speak, Laurel?”

She jumped at the sound of Stephen Danjermond's voice. She hadn't heard his approach, had been too focused on herself, she supposed. Closing her purse, she casually took a step back. “Just doing a favor for some friends.”

“The Delahoussayes?” he asked, his smile telling her he already knew the answer. He stood half in shadow, his face half light and half dark, like a figure in a dream. Laurel found the effect unsettling. “News travels fast in a town this size,” he said, sliding his hands in the pockets of his tailored charcoal trousers. “I had a chat with Judge Monahan over lunch. He was very taken with you.”

“He was taken with the idea of making Reverend Baldwin's life unpleasant,” Laurel said. “Some years ago his mother gave a sizable fortune to a man of Baldwin's ilk, and it was later discovered he spent the contributions of his flock on such things as air-conditioned dog houses and spiritual retreats to nude beaches on the French Riviera.”

“You sell yourself short, Laurel. I was discussing with him the possibility of your coming to work for me. The idea pleased him.”

She frowned a little. “I wish you wouldn't have said anything. I told you, Mr. Danjermond, I'm not thinking about going back to work at this point.”

“But you're thinking about seeing justice done, aren't you, Laurel? A job title has little to do with it. You are who you are.”

The way he said it had a ring of inevitability, as if mankind's little play of the busy, bustling world was all superfluous to the core of life. The trappings could all be stripped away and everyone reduced to their very essence. She was the champion for justice.

“It's what matters most to you, isn't it?”

Laurel kept her answer to herself, feeling it would somehow give him an advantage in their chess game. She resettled her purse strap on her shoulder and shifted her weight toward the door. “I ought to be on my way. I have to go tell T-Grace and Ovide what's going on and make sure Baldwin gets the message. I don't have a lot of faith that Kenner will do the job.”

Amusement lit the district attorney's eyes and widened his smile. He turned and started toward the door with her, checking his long, fluid strides to stay beside her. “I assume it wasn't love at first sight between you and Duwayne.”

“He's a racist, a sexist, and a jerk,” Laurel said flatly.

“And he's very good at his job.”

“Because he knows whose ass to kick. Yes, he told me.”

They stepped out onto the broad portico. A capricious breeze slithered between the columns, riffling Danjermond's raven hair and playing with the end of his burgundy tie. He cut a handsome figure, Laurel admitted, athletic and elegant, perfectly at home in his tailored suit standing at the portal to the halls of justice. He would go far on looks alone, farther with a mind as sharp and clever as his. She really couldn't blame her mother for seeing him as a potential son-in-law. Vivian had been raised to believe in matches made for family allegiance and social prominence. Stephen Danjermond had to fit her requirements to a T.

“There's a trick to dealing with Kenner, you know,” he pointed out.

Laurel frowned. “Yes, well, I don't think I'm going to grow a penis anytime soon.”

Danjermond laughed, delighted with her plain talk. People never expected her to speak her mind, assuming that because she was petite and pretty, she was automatically shy and retiring. She had used that erroneous assumption to her advantage more than once.

“Heaven forbid!” He lifted a hand and cupped her chin, his thumb stroking along her jaw, sending a jolt of awareness through her. Sexuality, sensuality, hummed in the air around him as if he had suddenly turned up the power on his magnetism. “You're delicate, lovely, exquisite just as you are, Laurel. Bright, forthright, brimming with integrity.”

“Kenner thinks I'm a troublemaker.” She backed away from him and turned to look out at the street.

“I'll speak with him.”

“No. I fight my own battles, thank you.”

“Yes, you do, Laurel. That's a matter of record.” His gaze turned speculative. The breeze died. “The battle you fought in Scott County—should you have won?”

Laurel had to brace herself against the barrage of feelings his blunt question brought on. Yes, she should have won—for the children, for the name of right. But she hadn't been strong enough, and in the end evil had won out.

“They were guilty,” she said, and without another glance at Stephen Danjermond, she headed down the steps.

Chapter
Fourteen

Laurel wheeled her Acura into Meyette's Garage, dreading the thought of getting out of the car's air-conditioned comfort. She had shed her jacket, but the day had simply turned too hot to move. It was a day to be spent in a cool room with quiet music and a good book. That image would remain in her imagination, however, shimmering like a mirage for another hour or so.

Savannah had brought the car home with a near-empty tank and a coat of mud splatters from God knew where. Laurel had decided she would fill up on her way to Frenchie's Landing and wash the car herself after the heat of afternoon had subsided. The prospect of doing something physical, simple, and gratifying held enormous appeal. Just herself and her car in the shade of the driveway, a bucket and a sponge, Mozart playing softly in the background . . .

She pulled up along pumps of a type most stations had traded in for newer models ten years ago and got out, sending a smile to the mechanic who stuck his head out from under the hood of a putty-color Ford.

“Hey, Miz Chandler.”

“Hey, Nipper.”

“I'll be right with you.”

“That's fine.”

He beamed a smile at her, strong white teeth flashing in a lean face that was covered with grime and running with sweat. He was twenty-five, with a flat-topped hedge of brilliant red hair. Laurel thought he was probably something of a local heartthrob when he was clean, but she had only ever seen him tinkering under the hood of a car, looking like Pigpen grown up.

Meyette's was the kind of station that didn't exist anywhere but small, out-the-way towns. City folk would have shied away from the shabby buildings, the dark, dirty, cavernous garage. They might have found the old chest-type Coca-Cola cooler that squatted on the gallery by the front door quaint and might have tried to wheedle the antique away from the old rube who ran the place, but they would have let their bladders burst before asking for the restroom key and would have starved before trying a stick of the homemade
boudin
sausage Mrs. Meyette sold over the counter in the office.

The thought offered a margin of security. While Cajun country had become a trendy tourist draw, there were still parts of home that would never be violated.

Laurel's gaze hit on Jimmy Lee Baldwin, who stood on the gallery of the garage, a bottle of Orange Crush in hand, and the word “violated” reverberated in her head. Her enjoyment of her surroundings dimmed. She couldn't look at him without thinking of the things Savannah had said about him. The man was slime. His mere existence was a violation against decent people. Preaching salvation and performing lewd sex acts on the side was a kind of hypocrisy that touched off an almost uncontrollable fury in her.

Straightening away from the side of the building as she marched toward him, he smoothed a hand over his slicked-back tawny hair, at the same time pasting on his too-white smile, making the two actions seem like cause and effect. He had sweated through his white dress shirt and rolled up the sleeves in a futile attempt to battle the heat. His skinny black necktie hung limply around his neck, pulled loose at the collar, and the button beneath it was undone. The crease in his black trousers had melted out, the total effect leaving him looking like a rumpled and disreputable traveling salesman.

“Miz Chandler, what a pleasant surprise,” he said. He discreetly wiped the condensation from the soda bottle off on the side of his pants leg and offered his hand to her. He had given the subject of Laurel Chandler considerable thought as he had lain in bed this morning, the fan blowing across his naked body as he recuperated from his night's play. He wanted her if not as an ally, then at least out of the Delahoussaye camp. He was ready to pluck the rose of his future, but every time he reached for it, he was pricked by this lovely little thorn.

Laurel scowled at him as if he were holding out a dead rat for her inspection. “I don't see much of anything pleasant about it, Mr. Baldwin.”

Jimmy Lee tightened his jaw against the urge to call her a snotty little bitch. He pulled his hand back and planted it at his waist. “There's no need to be hostile. We're not enemies, Miz Chandler. In fact, we could be allies. We fight on the same side, you and I. Against evil, against sin.”

Laurel almost laughed. “Save the sermons for the poor fools who believe in you. We're not on the same side, Baldwin. I have my doubts that we belong to the same species. From what I've heard about you and seen of you, I'd have to say you're more closely related to things that crawl out from under dead tree stumps. Don't waste your time trying to charm me. I've dealt with too many snakes not to know one when I see one.”

Fury burned hot in Jimmy Lee's belly. If there was one thing in this world he couldn't tolerate, it was a mouthy broad. He would have given just about anything for a chance to cuff her one, but he wouldn't have given up his shot at stardom, and Nipper Calhoun was too handy a witness.

He lifted his shoulders in a stiff shrug and stared down at her, his tawny eyes as cold and flat as gold coins. “That's not what I've heard about you,” he said tightly. “The way I hear it, you point fingers at random.”

The blow to her pride landed, but Laurel didn't bat an eyelash. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. “It doesn't matter what you've heard about me. All you need to hear is what Judge Monahan has to say. As of today you are hereby ordered to cease and desist your harassment of the Delahoussayes and are forbidden from setting foot on their property. I'm pleased to give you the news in person,” she said, flashing him a nasty smile. “The paperwork will be delivered. You have yourself a real nice day, Mr. Baldwin.”

She turned and pranced away toward Meyette's office, prim little nose in the air. Jimmy Lee watched her go and felt all his carefully stacked plans for his big campaign tumble around him like a house of cards. Before he could stop himself, he had lunged after her and clamped a hand down on her shoulder, meaning to spin her around and tell her a thing or two about playing hard ball.

Jack stepped out of the shadows of the garage and hooked the toe of his boot in front of the preacher's ankle. As Laurel twisted away from the man's touch, Jack pulled back, and the Revver went sprawling, facedown in the dirt. Baldwin's breath left him in a painful grunt.

“Oh, hey, I'm sorry, Jimmy Lee,” Jack said without a drop of sincerity. “I guess I wasn' lookin' where I was goin'.”

Baldwin shoved himself up onto his hands and knees, coughing and spitting dirt in between curses. He shot a vicious look at Jack over his shoulder, his face burgundy beneath the layer of gritty dirt.

“Bon Dieu!”
Jack exclaimed with exaggerated shock. “There's some words comin' out your mouth I never seen in the Bible!”

“I doubt you ever cracked the spine of a Bible, Boudreaux,” Jimmy Lee snarled. He hauled himself to his feet, trying in vain to dust his clothes off. His eyes locked on Jack in a stare as hard and cold as a billiard ball.

“Well,” Jack drawled, “mebbe I never have read it, but I looked at the pictures.” He put on a quizzical look and scratched his head. “Do you think Jesus got his tan at Suds 'n' Sun too?”

Jimmy Lee glared at him for a second, his jaw working to chew back his rage.

“What do you think, Miz Chandler?” Jack arched a brow at Laurel.

Laurel stared at him for several seconds, caught completely off guard by his appearance, to say nothing of his question. She hadn't expected to see him here, hadn't finished preparing herself for speaking to him after what had happened in the courtyard. She had strategies filed away in her brain for every kind of courtroom situation, but she had no strategies for near-miss sexual encounters. She had no string of lovers in her past to draw experience from. Her ex-husband was the only man she had ever been seriously involved with, and while Wesley was a good man, an intelligent man, a kind man, he wasn't the kind of man Jack was.

He was shirtless and tan. He held a cherry Popsicle in his left hand, his elegant musician's fingers deftly holding the stick so the thing wouldn't drip on him. He brought it to his mouth and nipped off a corner.

“This is quite a day for me,” he said, his dark eyes glittering with mischief. “I get to see a lawyer speechless and a television preacher wearing his dirt on the
outside
for once.”

“I don't have to take this from you, Boudreaux,” Jimmy Lee said, his voice low and thrumming with anger. He raised an accusatory finger and shook it in Jack's face. “Mr. Big-Shot Best-Selling Author. You're nothing but a no-account, alcoholic piece of trash. All the money in the world can't change that.”

“Naw,” Jack said, his pose deceptively casual, one leg cocked, his right hand propped at his waist. He heaved an exaggerated sigh and hung his head. “A man is what he is.”

In the blink of an eye, he had Baldwin by the shirt front and slammed up against the side of the building. That quickly the mask of humor was gone, and in its place was a fury that burned like hot coals in the depths of his eyes.

“A man is what he is, Jimmy Lee.” He ground the words out between his teeth, his face inches from Baldwin's. “You, you're a piece-of-shit con man. Me, I'm the guy who's gonna kick your balls up to your throat and knock your teeth down to meet 'em if you
ever
lay a hand on Miz Chandler again.” He let the fire shimmer in his eyes for a moment longer, then flashed an unholy smile. “Have I made myself perfectly clear, Jimmy Lee?”

Slowly he loosened his hold on Baldwin's shirt front. Smiling affably, he made a token attempt to smooth out the fabric and brush off some of the dirt, then stepped back and dropped his hands to the waist of his jeans.

“Mebbe you just better go on home and change, Jimmy Lee. You don' want people lookin' at you and thinkin' you had a run-in with the devil and lost.”

He walked away a few paces and poked his toe at the Popsicle he had dropped, frowning. Dismissing Baldwin entirely, he dug some change out of his pocket and headed for the little white freezer that hummed laboriously beside the Coca-Cola cooler. He could feel Baldwin's eyes boring into his back, but didn't give a damn. There was nothing any two-bit cable TV preacher could do to him. He didn't run a business, and he already had a bad reputation. He shot an inquiring look at Laurel.

“You want a Popsicle,
'tite chatte
?”

“You're messing with the wrong man, Boudreaux,” Baldwin said, his voice trembling with rage and humiliation. “You don't want to tangle with me.”

Jack flicked a glance at him, looking supremely bored with the whole scene. “That's right, preacher. I don' want to tangle with you. I got better things to do with my time than scrape you off the bottom of my shoe, so mebbe you oughta just stay the hell outta my sight.”

Jimmy Lee shook his head, a strange look of amazement dawning on his face. “You don't know who you're dealing with,” he muttered, then turned on the heel of his wingtip and stalked off toward his car.

Laurel watched him walk away, then turned toward Jack, stepping up onto the gallery. He stared down into the freezer as cold billowed up out of it in a cloud.

“For someone who claims not to be anybody's hero, you seem to spend an awful lot of time coming to my rescue,” she said.

“Mais non,”
Jack mumbled, reaching in for a Fudgsicle. “Me, I was just having a little fun with Jimmy Lee while my carburetor gets looked at.”

He didn't want her reading anything into his actions, he told himself. But the truth was that he didn't want to look at those actions too closely himself. He didn't want to dig too deep for the reason behind the rush of anger he'd felt when Baldwin had put his hand on her. He didn't own her, would never have any claim on her, and therefore had no business feeling jealous or overprotective.

Conditioned response. That was what it was. How many times had he rushed at Blackie when the old man reached out and put a hand on Maman or Marie? Countless times. They had called him their hero, too. But he hadn't been anything but a kid full of rage and hate. Small and weak and worthless, and Blackie had shaken him off more times than not. He wasn't small or weak anymore. The feeling of slamming Baldwin up against the building had sent a rush of adrenaline and power through him that was still buzzing in his veins.

He glanced at Laurel as he unwrapped his treat, trying to defuse her concentration with a teasing smile. “Besides, I didn't want you to pull your gun out and shoot him. Day's too hot to have a corpse laying around out in the sun.” She made a disgusted face, and he chuckled to himself. “Popsicle or Fudgsicle, angel? What do you think?”

Laurel narrowed her eyes as he blatantly dismissed her line of questioning. “I think you ought to make up your mind, Jack,” she said. “Are you a good guy or a bad guy?”

“That all depends on what you want me for, darlin',” he murmured, his voice rough and smooth at once, beckoning a woman to reach out and touch him.

Laurel's heart beat a little harder; nerve endings he had awakened and tantalized the night before stirred restlessly. She frowned at him. “I don't want you for anything.”

Jack leaned across the open freezer. “It's a good thing you're not under oath, counselor,” he whispered.

“Close the freezer, Boudreaux,” she said sarcastically, “before your hot air melts all the Popsicles.”

She went into the station and paid for her gas, spending a few moments chatting with Mrs. Meyette, who asked after Aunt Caroline and Mama Pearl, told her she was too thin, and made her take half a dozen sticks of
boudin
with her. When she came out, Jack was nowhere in sight.

She staunchly refused to acknowledge the disappointment that slid down through her. She had better things to do with her time than spar with him, and she had to assume he had better things to do, as well. He was supposed to be some hot-shot best-selling author, but he never seemed to work. It seemed to her he was always at Frenchie's or giving her a hard time. And it took no imagination at all to picture him spending the rest of his time sprawled in a hammock asleep with that awful hound sacked out right beneath him.