S
aturdays were Cyrus’s favorite days, even this one when he’d confronted another dose of Errol Bonine’s sleazy arrogance and witnessed how little his parishioners took his anti-gossip homilies to heart. On Saturdays he got away with wearing an old shirt and jeans to do whatever needed to be done around the parish. Things that didn’t have to fall under Ozaire’s control.
The morning and part of the afternoon had already been used up but there were a lot of daylight hours left.
Knowing Madge was in the house didn’t hurt his mood. She’d decided to follow him back to the rectory and catch up on some of the paperwork she’d left when she went to Rosebank. Even though she wasn’t supposed to work past noon on a Saturday, and any Saturday work was optional, he hadn’t found the backbone to tell her she should go home.
He didn’t dwell on his motives, just accepted that when she was nearby he felt as happy as he ever expected to feel.
This afternoon showed little sign of last night’s tor
rents. Earlier in the day steam from the ground mixed with thick mist over the bayou and the trees had seemed rooted in a layer of clouds. Heat still rose in quivering waves but the mist and steam were gone. Bees hovered and darted in the bed of wildflowers Cyrus had planted on the bayou side of the rectory. He shaded his eyes from the sun and cast a satisfied eye over the white church that sat, surrounded by glittering tombs and green grass, on the opposite side of Bonanza Alley from the rectory. A low, white fence surrounded both pieces of property.
Ozaire Dupre’s rusted blue truck bumped to a halt beside the church fence and Ozaire, Lil’s husband, meandered along a path leading to his shed near the church. Short and thick, Ozaire might give the impression he didn’t have the energy to scratch his nose but he was the strongest man Cyrus had ever met, apart from his predecessor, William.
Cyrus didn’t want to think of the people he’d lost since he’d been at St. Cécil’s, some of them good, some of them plain old wicked. And he didn’t want to think about the scenes at Rosebank yesterday. Some might laugh and say that a murder was a murder, but experience had taught him that some unnatural deaths were more significant than others. He thought the murder of Louis Martin could turn out to be real significant.
From the path that ran alongside the rectory on the Bonanza Alley side came Wally Hibbs. The boy didn’t change much and at almost twelve he was as rangy as ever. His brown hair fell over his brow and he fastened hazel eyes on Cyrus with the delighted look he assumed whenever his benefactor came into sight.
During school time, like now, he could only come around on Saturday and Sunday, but in summer he was there most days. It was Cyrus who made sure that Wally, the son of Doll and Gator Hibbs, proprietors of the Ma
jestic Hotel, got the help he needed with his homework, and that he had someone to talk to.
“You tendin’ them Oribel flowers, you?” Wally shouted. “Or you diggin’ them up. Ma calls ’em weeds. Jilly thinks they’re the prettiest things she ever saw. ‘Cept for they set ‘round the Fuglies way they do.”
“I like my Fuglies,” Cyrus lied about the primitive bronze sculpture of five cavorting two-dimensional figures in the middle of the lawn, surrounded by what Wally called “Oribel” wildflowers. Oribel Scully had been Lil’s predecessor and she had gifted the piece of sculpture to the parish, but the slender-stemmed show of oranges and blues, white, red, lavender and yellow celebrated something other than her generosity. They reminded Cyrus of life and how precious it was.
“Spike brought that pretty lady from Rosebank to the Majestic,” Wally said. He sat, cross-legged, on the grass and Cyrus noticed the boy settled a white plastic box by his feet. Holes punched in the box made Cyrus suspicious that he knew what was inside. “Vivian Patin she’s called. Wendy Devol was there, too. She’s okay for a baby. Homer brought her over to visit with Dad. From what I heard, they were talkin’ about how the Patins are outsiders and Spike’s makin’ a fool of himself with Miz Vivian. Homer’s bellyaching about how Spike’s aiming too high and Wendy will get hurt all over again when Miz Vivian moves on.”
Wally made a sudden, swift move and caught a cricket which he slipped into the white box.
“Reckon there could have been a dust-up when Spike showed up with Miz Vivian,” he said. “Weren’t there any time at all when Wendy came up to say they was leavin’. I thought they was comin’ here. Guess they already left.”
“Must have changed their minds,” Cyrus told him. “Probably decided to take Wendy home first—if they’re coming at all.”
To hide any giveaway expressions, Cyrus returned his attention to the flowers. Spike had him worried. Homer could just be right about a relationship between his son and Vivian being a poor idea. But Cyrus was worried about more than that and he needed to talk to Spike alone. Remarks had been made at Jilly’s that left him with suspicions he’d like to forget, but he had a job to do, a duty, and for all his failings, he took his responsibilities seriously.
“Stuff’s happenin’ again, isn’t it?” Wally asked in the hushed and hoarse voice that became less audible the more unsettled he was. “Not just that killing. Other stuff. I can feel it. That Miz Vivian didn’t kill no one, but they’re tryin’ to say she did and there’s plenty willing to believe it. I reckon that detective just wants to have someone to blame and move on.”
Cyrus tossed weeds into an old cardboard box from Ron Guidry’s Louisiana Lightning hot sauce before he looked at Wally. “You do a lot of thinking. A lot of working things out. Our job is to try not to interfere or give opinions, Wally. But I think you’re right and we may eventually have to do something. Meanwhile, watch out for yourself. What’s in the box?”
Wally smiled his one-sided smile. “A buddy.”
“Doesn’t have hairy legs, does he?”
“Yup.” Wally nodded and grinned. “Nolan Two. I like having him around.”
Cyrus had hoped Wally’s need to prove he was different had worn off. Maybe it never would, at least not until he was grown and could make his own decisions.
The back door to the house opened and Wendy Devol ran from the kitchen, her braids flapping behind her. She went toward Wally who didn’t look unhappy about the little girl’s attention.
Next came Vivian carrying her little dog, with Spike behind her.
Cyrus shaded his eyes to watch them. She was lovely, would be even more lovely without the anxiety that tightened her expression. Vivian looked over her shoulder at Spike who settled a hand on the back of her neck. When she faced Cyrus again, her brilliant smile didn’t need an explanation. These two were wading in deep with each other, just as Cyrus had feared.
He didn’t remember Spike ever looking at anyone the way he looked at Vivian Patin. He hid the exposed need quickly enough but something almost more dangerous remained; Spike wasn’t just falling, he’d already fallen for this woman. Cyrus looked down at the flowers. His own experiences with passion would stay pure and safe as long as his faith was never tested too harshly.
Cyrus dropped the trowel he’d been using and stood up. A rush of sensation had constricted his lungs. He was capable of feeling another kind of passion, had already felt it and fought it on too many occasions. The gentle, exhilarating warmth of human love was denied him by his own decision.
Service, that was his mission, and he would use service to keep him from stumbling so badly he couldn’t recover.
“Lil’s in the kitchen putting groceries away,” Spike said. “Looks as if she’s laying in stores for the whole winter. She’s in a good mood.”
Cyrus sighed. “That’s probably bad news.” He raised his face to the almost too-blue sky and said, “God forgive me for my mean spirit.”
“You’re only sayin’ the truth,” Wally said, sounding disturbed. “You’re never mean. Lil only gets cheerful when she’s been mixin’ somethin’ up.”
Spike frowned in the direction of Wally and Wendy. Cyrus could almost hear him wondering if he could trust Wally to look after the little girl. “Vivian and I would like
to talk some things over with you,” he said to Cyrus, still repeatedly returning his attention to the kids.
“Wally,” Cyrus said, giving his sidekick a significant glance. “Take Wendy upstairs to my sitting room. I expect she’d enjoy the books and you might even want to watch a cartoon.” He didn’t suppose he should suggest television to a boy, but none of them would feel safe leaving Wally and Wendy out here.
Wally said, “Okay,” with a lot of enthusiasm and once Wendy got a smile of approval from her father she bobbed up and ran for the house, her arms swinging in circles like miniwindmills. Boa made a close third, scrambling from Vivian’s arms and taking off after the kids. “We’ll take care of her,” Wally shouted.
“Look at that,” Vivian said. “My faithful friend deserts me for children. Never fails.”
“Under the tree?” Cyrus asked, indicating a white-painted bench beneath an oak. “I don’t think we’ll get past Lil too easily if we try going to my office.”
“The bench is fine,” Spike said and put a hand at Vivian’s waist while he walked with her.
Spike touched her, the tip of his fingers curling in then spreading, as if she belonged to him, and nothing about her response suggested she didn’t like it. Cyrus smelled disaster in the making—if it hadn’t already been made.
Vivian sat in the middle of the bench and patted the slats on either side of her, expecting the men to join her. They remained standing and before her eyes they both traded smiles for frowns. Even the atmosphere changed.
Men.
If a situation was bad, or might be bad, they made it worse with their efforts to strike the right attitude and take charge.
“We were coming right over after I picked up Wendy from the Majestic,” Spike said. “Got a call. Domestic violence, or so the dispatcher said. Nothin’ more’n a lot
of cryin’ and threatenin’. Two kids with a kid of their own. Married a year and scared stiff about money and how to bring up the little one.”
Spike shook his head. “Their parents didn’t approve of the marriage so they don’t have anyone to turn to…or they didn’t.” Spike smiled and Vivian had to smile with him. He could look like a gleeful, overgrown boy. “They called and spoke to Madge while I was still at their apartment. She’s got them coming over to see you after nine o’clock mass tomorrow.”
Cyrus said, “Good, good,” in a distracted manner. He repeatedly looked from Vivian to Spike.
Spike cleared his throat and glanced at Vivian. Typical. When it got right down to it and the problem was his own rather than someone else’s, the man wasn’t so ready to deal with it.
“Madge said you knew Bonine was coming directly to Rosebank after talking to you,” Vivian told Cyrus. For a woman who hadn’t had much sleep, she felt jumpy with energy. She wanted to move around, get things done. “Gary Legrain, Louis’s associate, showed up very early this morning, thank goodness. He’s acting for Mom and me so he sat in on the interview.”
She felt Spike frowning at her and tilted her head sideways, trying to see his face in shadows cast by the oak. “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You didn’t tell me about Legrain, or the interrogation.”
“I haven’t had a chance yet,” she told him, starting to stew. “You know I couldn’t talk about things like this in front of Wendy.”
“You should have found a way to take me aside. I need any information exactly when you get it, not hours later.”
“Spike,” Cyrus said mildly, his thick dark lashes low
ered a little over blue-green eyes. “Calm down, huh? You’re not being fair to Vivian.”
“Not fair?” Spike stopped speaking with his lips parted and his expression passed from angry to mortified. He stuttered slightly when he said, “Maybe. If that’s true, I’m sorry. None of my damn business, anyway.”
Vivian felt like slapping him. “So you say.” Unfortunately what he said was true but she intended to change that. “You’re in this case up to your neck. Errol Bonine’s got his net strung between trees just waiting for you to pass that way, then he’ll cut the rope and you’ll be hanging right where he wants you.”
Cyrus and Spike gave each other that man-to-man glance again and Vivian took deep breaths to keep her cool.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I mean by that?”
“Sure,” Spike said in a voice guaranteed to make her doubt he intended to take a word she said seriously.
“No,” Vivian said and stood up. “I’ve got a question to ask first. And if you two insist on standing over me—like you weren’t already twice as big—I’ll have to stand, too.”
“Don’t be ornery with me,” Spike said and kicked at the grass with the toe of a brown boot. “The last thing I want to do is make you mad.”
She managed to avoid rolling her eyes. Cyrus sat down on one end of the bench and stretched out his long legs.
“What did your father mean when he said he didn’t want to visit your broken body in the hospital again?” she asked Spike.
Damn Homer’s big mouth anyway, Spike thought. There wasn’t any harm in him but sometimes he just didn’t think. “I had an accident in New Iberia. I was a detective.” And his bitterness showed. “Just one of those things.”
“What things?”
From the interest Cyrus was taking, Vivian could tell this was news to him also.
“There was a problem with some guys. Three guys. I’d been stakin’ them out for weeks and couldn’t seem to get enough on ’em to take ’em down.”
“Why was that?” she asked.
“Vivian, don’t you ever stop askin’ questions?”
“Not after what your dad said this afternoon, and now this explanation. Homer meant you’re in danger again. He thinks Bonine was behind what happened to you.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Was he?”
Spike pushed his hat low over his eyes. “He swore he knew nothing about it. And the gov’nor believed him so I had to as well. Didn’t matter because I was kicked out for not being a team player.” He gave a short laugh. “I learned from all that. I used to think I was the maverick who would set the world on fire. Now I’m grateful to have any kind of job in the law and I know I’m going nowhere.”