Erica Spindler (9 page)

G
allagher's funeral home was housed in a big old Victorian on Prospect Street. The Gallagher family had been in the funeral game for as long as Avery could remember. She and Danny had gone to school together, and she remembered a report he had given in the seventh grade on embalming. The girls had been horrified, the boys fascinated.

Being the biggest tomboy in Cypress Springs, she had fallen in line with the boys.

Danny Gallagher met her at the front door of the funeral home. He'd been a lady-killer in school and although time had somewhat softened his chin and middle, he was still incredibly handsome.

He caught her hands and kissed her cheeks. “Are you all right?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess.”

He looked past her, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “You drove yourself?”

She had. Truth was, half a dozen people had offered to drive her tonight, including Buddy and Matt. She had refused them, even when they had begged her to reconsider. She had wanted to be alone.

“I'm a city girl,” she murmured. “I'm used to taking care of myself.”

He ushered her inside, clearly disapproving. “If you need anything, let me or one of the staff know. I'm expecting a big crowd.”

Within twenty minutes he was proved correct—nearly the entire town was turning out to pay their respects. One after another, old friends, neighbors and acquaintances hugged her and offered their condolences. Some she recognized right off, others had to remind her who they were. Again and again, each expressed their shock and dismay over her father's death.

Nobody actually said the word. But it hung in the air anyway. It was written on their faces, in the carefully chosen words and softly modulated tones. It was there in the things they didn't say.

Suicide
.

And with that word, their unspoken accusation. Their condemnation. She hadn't been there for him. He had needed her and she had been off taking care of herself.

“Where were you, Avery, when your dad was so depressed he set himself on fire?”

Hunter's taunt from two days before was burned into her brain. She told herself he had meant to hurt her. That he was angry, hurting, just plain mean. She told herself he wouldn't win unless she let him.

But she couldn't tell herself the one thing she longed to: that the things he'd said weren't true. Because they were.

And in that lay their power.

Minutes ticked by at an agonizing pace. The walls began to close in on her. Her head became light; her knees weak. She felt as if she were suffocating on the smell of colognes and flowers, cloying, too sweet. Each vying for dominance over the other.

She had to get some air
.

The patio
.

She inched in that direction, fighting her mounting panic. She reached the doors, slipped through them and
out into the unseasonably cool night air. She hurried to the patio's edge; grasped the railing for support.

“Keep it together, Avery. You can't fall apart yet.”

From the other side of the patio came an embarrassed-sounding cough. She swung in that direction, realizing she wasn't alone. That she had been talking to herself.

A man she didn't recognize stood on the other side of the patio, smoking. She scolded herself for the spear of irritation she felt. It was she who was intruding. Not he.

He met her eyes. “Sorry about your dad, Ms. Chauvin. He was a fine man.”

“Thank you,” she said, fighting past the emotion that rose in her throat and crossing to him. “I'm sorry, but do I know you?”

He looked embarrassed. “We've never met.” He extinguished the cigarette and held out a hand. “John Price. Cypress Springs Volunteer Fire Department.”

She shook his hand. “Good to meet you.”

He looked away, then back, his expression pure misery. “I was on call that morning. I was the first to…see your dad.”

He had seen her father
.

He had been the first
.

A half-dozen questions popped into her head. She uttered the first to her tongue. “What did you do then?”

He looked surprised. “Pardon?”

“After you found him, what happened next?”

“Called my captain. He called the state fire marshal. They sent the arson investigator assigned to our region. He's a good guy. Name's Ben Mitchell.”

“And he called the coroner.”

“Yup.” He nodded. “Parish coroner. Coroner called Buddy.”

“That's how it works?”

He shuffled slightly. “Yeah. Our job's elimination and containment of the fire itself, as well as search and res
cue. Once our job's done, we call the state fire marshal. He determines how the fire started.”

“And calls the coroner?”

“Yes. If there are victims. He calls the PD. Chain of command.”

She felt herself emotionally disengaging, slipping into the role of journalist. It was an automatic thing, like breathing. She found it comforting. “And my father was dead when you got there?”

“No doubt about that. He—” The man bit back what he was about to say.

“What?”

“He was dead, Ms. Chauvin. Absolutely.”

She shut her eyes, working to recall what she knew of death by burning. The arson piece she'd done. Those two little victims; she had seen a picture. Charred cadavers. Entirely black. Generic fea—

“Avery? Are you okay?”

At Matt's voice, she opened her eyes. He stood in the doorway, Cherry hovering just behind him.

“Fine.” As she said the word, she realized she felt a hundred percent better than when she'd stepped outside.

“People are looking for you.”

She nodded and turned back to the fireman. “John, I'd like to talk to you more about this. Could I give you a call, set up something?”

He shifted his gaze, obviously uncomfortable. “Sure, but I don't know what I could tell you that would—”

“Just for me,” she said quickly. “For closure.”

“I guess. You can reach me through the dispatcher.”

She thanked him, turned and crossed to where Matt and Cherry waited.

“Ms. Chauvin?” She stopped and glanced back at the fireman. “You might want to call Ben Mitchell, at the state fire marshal's office in Baton Rouge. He could tell you a lot more than I can.”

“Thanks, John. I'll do that.”

“What was that all about?” Cherry asked.

“Nothing. I needed some air.”

Cherry frowned slightly and glanced over her shoulder, obviously annoyed with her answer. “Jill Landry married him. You remember Jill? Met him through her sister, in Jackson.”

“He seems like a nice guy.”

“I guess.”

Avery stopped and looked at the other woman. “Are you trying to tell me something, Cherry?”

“No. I just thought you should know…he's not from around here, Avery.”

“He found Dad,” she said sharply. “I was asking him about it. Is that okay with you?”

“I didn't mean anything—” She glanced from Avery to her brother, expression wounded. “I just…I'm worried about you, that's all.”

“I'm a big girl, Cherry. I don't need protecting.”

“I see that.” Color flooded her cheeks. “I won't make that mistake again. Excuse me.”

“She was only trying to be your friend,” Matt said softly, tone reproachful. “She cares about you. We all do.”

Avery swore softly. “I know. I just reacted.”

Matt laid a hand on her arm. “I understand. Just don't—” He paused.

“What?”

“You're hurting. I'm sympathetic to that. We all are. But don't push us away, Avery. We love you.”

She swallowed hard, eyes burning. He was right. Alienating the people who cared about her would do nothing but leave her more alone than she already was.

She caught his hand, squeezed his fingers. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Your friendship means more to me than I can say.”

He curled his fingers around hers. “I'm here for you, Avery. I've always been here for you.”

The moment was broken by three older women. Members of her mother's quilting group, she learned.

Matt greeted the women, then excused himself. She watched as he made his way through the crowded room, heading in the direction Cherry had gone. He meant to find and comfort his sister.

She would apologize later, Avery promised herself, turning back to the three, accepting their condolences. The Quilting Bees, as they called themselves, exited, leaving Avery momentarily alone.

She swept her gaze over the gathering, stopping on a group of men who stood at the far end of the room. They spoke to one another quietly, expressions intent. She recognized several of them; though by face not name. None had spoken to her tonight. As she watched, one of them nodded toward someone outside their circle. The others glanced in the direction he indicated.

She turned. They seemed to be discussing a woman she didn't recognize. Tall, slim and sandy-haired, she wore a simple black skirt and white, button-front blouse. She was alone, standing by a tall, potted fern. Something about her expression looked lost.

Avery frowned and shifted her gaze back to the men. They were definitely looking at the woman. One of them laughed. She didn't know why that struck her as wrong, but it did.

She darted another glance at the woman. Who was she? A friend of one of the men?

“Avery, honey, I'm so sorry.”

She dragged her gaze from the group, meeting the eyes of the woman who had been Avery's first-grade teacher. She accepted the woman's condolences, hug and promised to call if she needed anything.

Avery turned back toward the group of men. They had
dispersed. The woman they'd been talking about was gone as well. She checked out the thinning crowd, searching for her without luck. She wondered if she had imagined the whole thing.

It wouldn't surprise her, she acknowledged, glancing toward her father's closed casket and experiencing a moment of pure panic. Nothing would surprise her anymore.

H
unter stared at his computer screen, the things he'd written swimming before his eyes. Mocking him. With a sound of disgust he hit the delete button and watched as the cursor ate one letter after another until nothing was left but the blank page.

How could he write when the words filling his head were ones he had flung at Avery? How could he envision his characters when her image crowded his mind? Her hurt expression. The accusation in her eyes.

She had looked at him as if he were some sort of monster.

Dammit!
Hunter pushed away from the desk and stood. At the kitchen door, Sarah whined to go out. The dog had been antsy and agitated all evening—much as he himself had been.

He ignored her and made his way through the apartment and to the office in front. Empty, dark save for the blinking message light on his answer machine, he recalled the space as it had been: filled with the scent and color of flowers. Now it smelled as colorless as it looked. Like blank paper and law books.

He crossed to the front window and peered out at the dark street. From this vantage point he could see Gallagher's roof, one block over. They were all at
Phillip's wake, he thought. His mother and father. Cherry. Matt. Most likely the entire town.

That's the kind of town this was.

He had figured Avery wouldn't care to see him. And he sure as hell hadn't wanted to see the Stevens clan. He wasn't certain he would have been able to hold his tongue.

And the last thing Avery needed was a confrontation.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.
Phillip. What a mess. Dammit.

Hunter dropped his hands, acknowledging grief. Frustration. Truth was, he longed to be there. Longed to pay his respects to a man he had always admired. One who had become his friend. And who he now missed.

Some might have considered their friendship unusual, he supposed. After all, their ages had been separated by thirty years. But they'd had loneliness in common. Feelings of alienation. And a tremendous amount of history.

History that had included Avery.

Yeah, great. Avery.
Some send-off for his friend. Flinging accusations at her. Hitting her where she was most vulnerable. Where she was already hurting.

She had called him hateful. And cruel.

Maybe she was right, he thought. Most probably she was.

What was it about him? Why was everything always black or white? Why couldn't he swallow his thoughts? Blur his personal line just a little? And who the hell was he to think he owned the moral high ground?

Everything he touched turned to shit.

Hunter glanced over his shoulder, toward the apartment. He longed for a drink. He needed one. The need clawed at him. He pictured himself walking to the kitchen, selecting the immediate poison of choice and drinking until he no longer possessed the ability to question the course of his life.

Drink to the point where he felt little but cynical
amusement when someone he cared about called him hateful and cruel.

He swallowed hard against the urge. Wallowing instead in the pain. His anger and frustration. His feelings of loss. For they were real. Authentic. As much a part of life as breathing.

Never again, he promised himself, fisting his fingers. Never again would he anesthetize himself to life's highs and lows.

Sarah pawed at the kitchen door, then woofed softly. Hunter turned in that direction. She hadn't been out that long ago. Or had she? When he worked, he lost track of both time and the mundane details of life.

He exited the office and made his way to the kitchen. The dog whined. “Okay, girl.” He grabbed the leash from the hook, snapped it to her collar and opened the door. She leaped forward, dragging him through the door and into the alley before he got a firm grip on the lead.

When he did, he yanked hard on it. Sarah heeled.

“What's up with you?” Hunter bent and scratched behind her ears. Instead of sinking on her haunches and sagging against him in grateful ecstasy, she stayed at attention, muscles taut. Quivering.

He frowned and turned his gaze in the direction of hers—the narrow, dark alley. “What is it, Sarah? What's wrong?”

She growled, low in her throat. The fur along the ridge of her back stood up.

“Anyone there?” he called.

Silence answered. He squinted at the darkness ahead, working to make out details, differentiate shape from shadow. Wishing for Sarah's acute sense of smell and hearing. He called out once more. Again, without answer.

Wondering at the wisdom of what he was about to do, he eased his grip slightly. The dog charged forward. Or
tried to. He held her back, forcing her to proceed slowly, giving his eyes time to adjust to the dark.

As they reached the middle point of the alley, she angled right. Her growl deepened. Hunter drew back on the leash, struggling to hold her. The dog's muscles bunched and rippled as she fought him, digging in with each step.

Produce crates, he saw. A stack of them sent askew. From the Piggly Wiggly around front. And tipped trash barrels, discarded bakery and deli items spewing out into the alleyway. Sarah began to bark. Not a high, shrill bark of excitement, but a fierce one. Deep, threatening.

“Sarah,” he chided, “all this over a little spoiled chow?” He bent and thumped her side. “Or is the possum or coon that made this mess still hanging around?”

The sound of his voice did little to comfort her. As he moved to straighten, something peeking out from under the pile of crates and boxes caught his eye.

An animal's tail. No wonder Sarah was going bonkers. The creature that caused this mess had gotten itself trapped under one of the tipped crates. It could be hurt, maybe dead.

He glanced around, looking for something he could use to move the crates. No way was he about to use his hand. Cornered creatures defended themselves ferociously. Especially when hurt.

He spotted a broom propped in the opposite doorway. He retrieved it, then wedged its handle through the crate's wooden slats and tipped it up. His stomach rose to his throat. He took a step backward, Sarah's frenzied barking ringing in his ears.

Not an animal's tail. Human hair.

The woman it belonged to stared up at him, face screwed into a death howl.