Erica Spindler (16 page)

S
pring Fest was much as Avery remembered it. The atmosphere of celebration, the sound of children laughing mingling with the smells of good Louisiana food and the warmth of the sun on the back of her neck.

She and Matt did it all: rode the Ferris wheel and Tilt-A-Whirl; sampled foods from all the vendors, so much that she longed to unsnap the top button of her shorts; wandered through the arts and crafts booths; and from the blanket they'd spread under the canopy of the square's biggest oak tree, listened to the various bands scheduled throughout the day.

The day should have been perfect, Avery told herself. She should be relaxed, totally content. Hard to be either, however, when news of Luke McDougal's car being found in Tiller's Pond and the St. Claire murder was on everyone's lips. Hard to feel carefree when she couldn't shake her suspicions about her father's death. When she couldn't discount what Gwen Lancaster had told her about The Seven and the disproportionate number of suicides in Cypress Springs. Or that she believed her dad had been killed because he had known too much about The Seven.

Avery found herself trying to read people's expressions, trying to see beyond what they were saying to what
they weren't. Every glance from one person to another became a signal of some sort. She found herself listening to the conversations around her, hoping to recognize the voice of her anonymous caller.

She hated feeling this way, suspicious and on edge. Distrustful to the point of paranoia.

“Thirsty?”

Avery turned and found Matt's gaze on her. They sat on the blanket; the sun had set and the final band of the day had just finished their first song. “What did you have in mind?”

“Beer?”

“Why not?”

He frowned slightly. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. A little tired.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something further, then seemed to change his mind and stood. “Don't disappear on me.”

“I won't.” As he walked away, her smile faded. Luke McDougal had disappeared. According to Gwen Lancaster, so had a number of Cypress Springs citizens, picking up and moving in the night. No word to anyone.

“Where'd that no-good kid of mine go?”

Avery looked up at Buddy and smiled. Dressed in his uniform, complete with service weapon and nightstick, there was no doubt he was on duty. “Beer run.”

“A cold one sure would hit the spot right now.”

She made a sound of sympathy. “No rest for the wicked, I see.”

“Love Spring Fest. And hate it. With so many visitors in town and so much drinking going on, there's always some sort of commotion.” He looked in the direction Matt had gone.

Avery patted the blanket. “Have a seat.”

“I'd rather dance. Care to cut a rug with an old man like me?”

She smiled affectionately and stood. “I'd love to.”

He led her toward the makeshift dance floor, in front of the bandstand. He held out his arms. She took his hand and they began to move in time to the music, a Cajun two-step. “I've been waiting for a chance to get you alone. Matt's not left your side all day.”

“Matt's grown into a good man,” she said. “You must be proud.”

He shifted his gaze, a sadness crossing his features. Sensing he was thinking of his other son, she murmured, “Hunter's going to be okay. He will, I'm certain of it.”

He met her eyes once more, the expression in his gentle. “Thank you, Avery. That means the world to me.”

The music's pace shifted, Buddy adjusted smoothly. For such a big man, he was light on his feet, graceful. She told him so.

“Lilah made it clear when we were dating, if I wanted to win her hand, I had to know how to dance. So I learned. It wasn't easy, let me tell you.” He chuckled. “Two left feet is my natural inclination.”

She smiled at the story. “Where is Lilah tonight? I haven't seen her or Cherry.”

“Lilah's home. Under the weather. Cherry elected to stay with her.”

“I'm sorry to hear she's not feeling well.”

“She suffers horribly this time of year with her allergies.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Pay her a visit.” He smiled, the picture of fatherly affection. “I'm so pleased you're home, Avery.”

She kissed his cheek. “I am, too, Buddy. I didn't realize how much I missed this place. The people.”

“It's a good place. Good people.”

Anyone whose actions fell outside what was considered right, moral or neighborly was singled out.

Her smile faded. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“Buddy, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, baby girl.”

“You ever heard of a group called The Seven?”

His steps faltered; he drew his eyebrows together. “When you asked about her, I was afraid this might happen.”

“Who?”

“That Gwen Lancaster.”

“You know her?”

“Of her,” he corrected, expression tight. “She's been going around Cypress Springs spreading lies. Starting rumors.”

“So the group never existed?”

“They existed, all right. Just not the way she's portraying them. To hear her talk, they were a bunch of hate-mongers and murderers.”

He let out a heavy-sounding breath. “They called themselves Seven Citizens Who Care. The group organized in an attempt to stem the tide of social ills that had beset our town. Their feeling was, stop crime before it happened. They began a drug and alcohol awareness program in the schools. They organized a chapter of Planned Parenthood. They arranged counseling for families in crisis. They began a campaign to get families back to church.”

Avery remembered suddenly being required to take sex education in the tenth grade, remembered the addition of films about the dangers of alcohol and drugs in health class—subjects that had never been broached in school before.

“They weren't high-profile. They weren't in it for acclaim or notoriety. They were simply citizens willing to take a stand for this community. Lilah belonged. So did Pastor Dastugue.”

“I feel like an idiot. I didn't know.”

“I wish they had been more public. Then people like Gwen Lancaster couldn't spread their lies.”

“What's going on here, Dad? You trying to steal my girl?”

Buddy's expression cleared. “I think your mother would have something to say about that, son.”

A commotion by the bandstand interrupted their banter. Buddy glanced in that direction, then swore softly. “Excuse me, kids. Duty calls.”

They watched him go. The band struck up another tune. “Dance with me?”

Matt held out his arms; Avery stepped into them. Her talk with Buddy had changed everything, she realized. She felt as if a thousand-pound weight had been lifted from her shoulders. How could she have trusted a stranger over people she knew and loved?

“You and Dad have a nice talk?” he asked.

“Really nice.”

“He loves you a lot, you know. As much as me or Cherry.”

But not Hunter. Never Hunter
.

“You're thinking of my brother, aren't you?”

How did he so easily read her mind? Did he know her so well, still, after all these years?

“Yes,” she said.

“He did this to himself, Avery. He removed himself from our lives.”

“But why? I guess I just…don't understand. We were all so close.”

“I wish to God I knew what went wrong. You can't imagine—” He looked away, then back, expression in his eyes anguished. “I've never been closer to anybody than I was my brother. He's my other half, Avery. When we were kids…I couldn't have imagined this. That we wouldn't be best friends anymore. That we wouldn't even speak to one another, for God's sake.”

“Have you tried to reconcile?”

He laughed, the sound tight. “Are you kidding? We all have. Tried and been rebuffed. Time and again.”

“Hunter said something about Dad and Buddy's relationship. That they didn't even speak anymore. That it had become so bad between them, Dad would cross the street to avoid their coming face-to-face. Is that true?”

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, expression tightening. “That prick.”

“So, it's not true?”

“Only partially. In the last months before his suicide. I believe he avoided Dad because he knew Dad would realize how bad off he was and stop him.”

“Oh,” she murmured, feeling small and gullible.

“Did he say anything else about us?”

Nothing she was about to repeat
. She shook her head. “He seems so serious now. As if he's facing—”

“I don't want to talk about my brother, Avery. Not tonight.” Matt drew her closer against him. “Did today bring back memories?”

She tilted her face up to his. “Good ones.”

“Remember the Spring Fest we sneaked off to make out? We were all of thirteen.”

“Your dad caught on. Followed us. Made you apologize to me.”

“Lectured me about how to treat a lady.”

She laughed. “Little did he know, it was the lady's idea.”

And three years later, sneaking off to Tiller's Pond had also been her idea. And there, under the star-sprinkled sky they had consummated their passion for one another.

“We were so bad,” she said.

“We were in love.” His gaze held hers. Her mouth went dry. “I couldn't get enough of you, Avery. Of touching you. Of being with you.”

The blood rushed to her head. He dropped a hand to
the small of her back, began moving his fingers in slow, rhythmic circles.

She melted against him. Memories swamped her. Of past moments like this. Of hot, urgent hands and mouths. Of the dizzying rush of their newfound sexuality.

He brought his mouth to her ear. “Seeing you with Hunter yesterday like that, it made me crazy. I couldn't look at you. I was afraid of what I might do. To you. To him.”

What would it be like to make love with Matt? Avery wondered. Without the potency of young love, without the heady rush of their burgeoning sexuality? They weren't kids anymore but consenting adults. They'd had other lovers, they had hurt and been hurt. They wouldn't have to hurry, wouldn't need to worry about getting home before curfew or being caught. She knew how to please a man; he to please a woman.

With Matt she could have what she had lost. She could be the girl who was otherwise gone forever.

Cherry's warning to stay away from her brother unless she was serious ran through her mind, as did the assertion that Matt had never loved anyone but her.

Until she knew what she wanted, they couldn't go there. Much as she longed to.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“About the past. The way it was between us.”

“I'm glad.” He dropped his face close to hers. “Because it was good. And it could be good again. Very good.”

“I wish I could be as certain. So much has changed, Matt. We've cha—”

He brought a finger to her lips. “I'm a patient man. I've waited this long, I can wait a little longer.”

G
wen stared at the front page of the
Gazette
's Wednesday edition, her morning cup of coffee cooling on the bedstand. Not the headline story about Peggy Trumble's winning entry in the annual Spring Fest bakeoff, but the one at the bottom, tucked into a corner, almost an afterthought: Car Hauled Out of Tiller's Pond.

She skimmed the piece for the third time. The story—hardly more than a blurb—went on to report how Avery Chauvin and Hunter Stevens had discovered a car abandoned in Tiller's Pond. The vehicle had been hauled out and found to be empty.

It was the last line of the piece that shook her to the core.

The owner of the vehicle, New Orleanian Luke McDougal, who had been heading from nearby Clinton to St. Francisville, had been reported missing by his girlfriend three weeks before. Anyone with information should call the West Feliciana Parish Sheriff's Department.

No body. Just like her brother.

Gwen's legs shook so badly she had to sit. She sank onto the edge of the bed and brought a hand to her mouth. A suicide. A murder. And two disappearances. The Seven were responsible for all three, she hadn't a
doubt. Dr. Phillip Chauvin had been killed because he'd known too much about The Seven. Elaine St. Claire had been killed because of her lifestyle. Her brother had gotten too close to the group.

What about Luke McDougal? She shifted her gaze to the
Gazette
. According to the article, he had been passing through town. So what was his connection to the group? Was there a connection?

There had to be. McDougal's disappearance was too similar to her brother's. Car found, seemingly abandoned. No sign of its owner or of foul play.

Avery Chauvin had been at the scene. So had Hunter Stevens. Gwen drew her eyebrows together, curious. She had seen the man's name in connection with another news piece recently. She searched her memory a moment.

He had found Elaine St. Claire's body.

That was odd, even for a community as small as Cypress Springs. It seemed to her that the coincidental and unexplainable were piling up. As were the bodies—even if no one but she saw it.

She could be next.

Avery Chauvin had told her the same thing, though at the time it hadn't frightened her. Now she wondered if the woman meant the words as a warning. Or a threat.

Gwen fought the urge to flee. Fought to come to grips with the overwhelming sensation of being trapped. She had trusted Avery, even though she had known nothing about her. She had automatically assumed she could because Avery had only recently returned to Cypress Springs. And because of her father's suicide.

That hadn't been smart. Avery Chauvin could be sympathetic to The Seven. Their cause. Her father very well may have taken his own life, she had no physical evidence proving otherwise, just a gut feeling.

Gwen recalled Avery's surprise and denial to her assertions about The Seven. Her obvious, nearly palpable
relief when Gwen had suggested her father's death might have been other than suicide. As if relieved to have an ally.

Avery could be in cahoots with The Seven, but she thought not.

Gwen stood and crossed to the window, lifted one of the blind's slats and peered out at the brilliant morning. People moved about—on their way to school, work, on errands. City workers were still cleaning up from the weekend festival, removing lights, combing the square for the last remnants of trash.

Though no one as much as glanced her way, she felt as if she was being watched. Her comings and goings recorded. Who she spoke with noted.

Action against her was being planned
.

Shuddering, she stepped away from the window. She brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. She had been too vocal about The Seven. Had asked too many questions of too many people. She hadn't used caution.

In her zeal to uncover her brother's fate, she had put herself in harm's way. Just as her brother, in his zeal to prove his thesis, had. Would she, like Tom, simply disappear? Who would come looking for her if she did? Or would her end come via suicide? She could see the headline now: Sister, Despondent Over Disappearance of Brother, Takes Own Life.

Who would doubt she'd done it? Not her mother, who had slid so deeply into depression herself that she could hardly get out of bed in the morning. Not the shrink she had seen, who had prescribed antidepressants, then lectured her for not taking them.

Don't get paranoid. Just be careful
.

She needed an ally. She needed someone she could trust. Someone who belonged here, in this community. Someone the citizens of Cypress Springs trusted. Who could poke around and ask questions. Someone skilled at
ferreting out facts. A person who had a compelling, personal reason for wanting to help her.

Only one such person came to mind.

Avery Chauvin.