The Perfect Neighbor (4 page)

“I like your place, Delta.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Delta let loose that rich laugh again. “But you sure like my man there. You’ve had your pretty cat’s-eyes on him since you came in.”

Thoughtfully, Cybil swirled her whiskey while she debated how to play it. Though she had no doubt she could handle herself on the streets—or anywhere else, for that matter—Delta outweighed her by at least thirty pounds. And as she’d said, it was her place. Her man. No point in making a potential new friend want to rip out her lungs at their first meeting.

“He’s very attractive,” Cybil said casually. “It’s hard not to look. So I’ll keep looking if it’s all the same to you. I doubt his eyes are going to wander when he’s got someone like you in focus.”

Delta’s teeth flashed in a brilliant grin. “Maybe you can take care of yourself after all. You’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”

Cybil chuckled into her whiskey. “Oh, yeah. I am. And I do like your place. I like it a lot. How long have you owned it, Delta?”

“This? Two years here.”

“And before? It’s New Orleans I’m hearing in your voice, isn’t it?”

Delta inclined her head. “You got good ears.”

“I do, actually, for dialects, but yours is one I couldn’t miss. I have family in New Orleans. My mother grew up there.”

“I don’t know any Campbells—what’s your mama’s maiden name?”

“Grandeau.”

Delta eased back. “I know Grandeaus, many Grandeaus. Are you kin to Miss Adelaide?”

“Great-aunt.”

“Grand lady.”

Cybil snorted, drank. “Stuffy, irritating and cold as winter. The twins and I—my brother and sister—used to think she was a witch of the wicked sort.”

“She has power, but it only comes from money and a name. Grandeau, eh? Who’s your mama?”

“Genviève Grandeau Campbell, the artist.”

“Miss Gennie.” Delta set her whiskey down so that she could rear back and thump a hand to her heart as she rocked with laughter. “Miss Gennie’s little girl comes into my place. Oh, the world is a wonderful thing.”

“You know my mother?”

“My mama cleaned house for your
grandmère
, little sister.”

“Mazie? You’re Mazie’s daughter? Oh.” Instantly bonded, Cybil grabbed Delta’s hand. “My mother talked about Mazie all the time. We visited her once when I was a little girl. She gave us beignets, fresh and wonderful. We sat on the front porch and had lemonade, and my father did a sketch of her.”

“She put it in her parlor and was very proud. I was in the city when your family came. I was working. My mama, she talked of that visit for weeks after. She had a place deep in her heart for Miss Gennie.”

“Wait until I tell them I met you. How is your mother, Delta?”

“She died last year.”

“Oh.” Cybil laid her other hand over Delta’s, cupping it warmly. “I’m so sorry.”

“She lived a good life, died sleeping, so died a good death. Your mama and your daddy, they came to the funeral. They sat in the church. They stood at the grave. You come from good people, young Cybil.”

“Yes, I do. So do you.”

* * *

Preston didn’t know how to figure it. There was Delta, a woman he considered the most sane of anyone he knew, huddled together with the pretty crazy woman, apparently already the fastest of friends. Sharing whiskey, laughs. Holding hands the way women do.

For more than an hour they sat together in the back of the room. Now and then, Cybil would begin what could only have been one of her chattering monologues, her hands gesturing, her face mobile. Delta would lean back and laugh, or lean forward, shaking her head in amazement.

“Look at that, André.” Preston leaned on the piano.

André wiggled his fingers loose, then lit a cigarette. “Like a couple of hens in the coop. That’s a pretty girl there, my man. Got sparkle to her.”

“I hate sparkle,” Preston muttered, and no longer in the mood to play, tucked his sax in the case. “Catch you next time.”

“I’ll be here.”

He thought he should just walk out, but he was just a little irritated to have his good friend getting chummy with his lunatic. Besides, it would give him some satisfaction to let his nosy neighbor know he was onto her.

But when he stopped by the table, Cybil only glanced up and smiled at him. “Hi. Aren’t you going to play anymore? It was wonderful.”

“You followed me.”

“I know. It was rude. But I’m so glad I did. I loved listening, and I might never have met Delta otherwise. We were just—”

“Don’t do it again,” he said shortly, and stalked to the door.

“Ooooh, he’s plenty pissed off,” Delta said with a chuckle. “Got that ice in his eyes, chills down to bone.”

“I should apologize,” Cybil said as she bolted to her feet. “I don’t want him angry with you.”

“Me? He’s—”

“I’ll come back soon.” She dropped a kiss on Delta’s cheek, making the woman blink in surprise. “Don’t worry, I’ll smooth things over.”

When she dashed out, Delta simply stared after her, then let out one of her long laughs. “Little sister, you got no idea what you’re in for. Then again,” she mused, “neither does sugar lips.”

Outside, Cybil dashed down the sidewalk. “Hey!” she shouted at his retreating back, then cursed herself for not having the sense to ask Delta what the man’s name was. “Hey!” Risking a twisted ankle, she switched from jog to run and managed to catch up.

“I’m sorry,” she began, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. “Really. It’s completely my fault.”

“Who said it wasn’t?”

“I shouldn’t have followed you. It was impulse. I have such a problem resisting impulse—always have—and I was irritated because of that idiot Frank and … well, that doesn’t matter. I only wanted to—could you slow down a little?”

“No.”

Cybil rolled her eyes. “All right, all right, you wish I’d get run over by a truck, but there’s no need to be upset with Delta. We just started talking and we found out that her mother used to work for my grandmother, and she—Delta, I mean—knows my parents and some of my Grandeau cousins, so we hit it off.”

He did stop now, to simply stare at her. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,” he muttered, and made her laugh.

“I had to follow you into that one and make pals with your girlfriend. Sorry.”

“My girlfriend? Delta?”

And to Cybil’s amazement, the man could laugh. Really laugh, with a wonderful baritone rumble that melted all the ice and made her sigh in delight.

“Does Delta look like anyone’s
girl
friend? Man, you are from Mars.”

“It’s just an expression. I didn’t want to be presumptive and call her your lover.”

His eyes were still warm with amusement as he stared down at her. “That’s a happy thought, kid, but the guy I was just jamming with happens to be her husband, and a friend of mine.”

“The skinny man at the piano? Really?” Pursing her lips, Cybil thought about it, found it charming and romantic. “Isn’t that lovely?”

Preston only shook his head and started walking again.

“What I meant was,” Cybil continued—he’d just known she couldn’t possibly be finished—as she hurried along beside him, “I’m sure she came back to check me out, you know? To make sure I wasn’t going to hassle you, and then, well, one thing led to another. I don’t want you to be annoyed with her.”

“I’m not annoyed with her. You, on the other hand, have gone so far beyond being an annoyance I can’t find the word.”

Her mouth fell into a pout. “Well, I’m sorry, and I’ll certainly make it a point to leave you alone, since that’s apparently what you like best.”

Her perky nose went up in the air, and she sailed across the street in the opposite direction from their building.

Preston stood there a moment, watching her scissor those very pretty legs down the opposite sidewalk. Then, with a shrug, he turned the corner, telling himself he was glad to be rid of her. It wasn’t his concern if she wandered around alone at night. She wouldn’t have been out walking around on those silly, skinny heels if she hadn’t followed him in the first place.

He wasn’t going to worry about it.

And, swearing, he turned around, headed back. He was going to make sure she got home, that was all. Back inside, where he could wash any responsibility for her welfare off his hands and forget her.

He was still the best part of a crosstown block away when he saw it happen. The man slid out of the shadows, made his grab and had Cybil letting out an ear-piercing scream as she struggled. Preston dumped his case, sprinted forward with his fists already clenched.

Then skidded to an amazed halt as Cybil not only broke free but doubled her attacker over with a hard knee to the groin, knocked him flat with a perfect uppercut.

“I only had ten lousy dollars in here. Ten lousy dollars, you jerk!” She was shouting by the time Preston gathered his wits and rushed up beside her. “If you’d needed money, why didn’t you just ask!”

“You hurt?”

“Yes, damn it. And it’s your fault. I wouldn’t have hit him so hard if I hadn’t been mad at you.”

Noting that she was nursing the knuckles on her right hand, Preston grabbed it by the wrist. “Let’s see. Wiggle your fingers.”

“Go away.”

“Come on, wiggle.”

“Hey!” The shout came from a woman hanging out an open window across the street. “You want I should call the cops?”

“Yes.” Cybil snapped the word back as she wiggled her fingers and Preston probed, then blew out a steadying breath. “Yes, please. Thanks.”

“Polite little victim, aren’t you?” Preston muttered. “Nothing’s broken. You might want to get it x-rayed anyway.”

“Thanks so much, Dr. Doom.” She jerked a hand away, kept her chin lifted and gestured with her uninjured hand in what Preston thought of as a grandly regal gesture. “You can go. I’m just fine.”

As the man sprawled on the sidewalk began to moan and stir, Preston set a foot on his throat. “I think I’ll just stick around. Why don’t you go get my sax for me. I dropped it back there when I still believed the Big Bad Wolf ate Red Riding Hood.”

She nearly told him to go get it himself, then decided if she had to hit the jerk on the sidewalk again, she’d hurt herself as much as him. With stiff dignity, she walked down the block, picked up the case and carried it back.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For the thought.”

“Don’t mention it.” Preston added a bit more weight when the man on the ground began to curse.

When the squad car pulled up ten minutes later, he stepped back. Cybil wasn’t having any trouble giving the cops the details, and Preston harbored the hope that he could just slide away and stay out of it. The hope died as one of the uniforms turned to him.

“Did you see what happened here?”

Preston sighed. “Yeah.”

* * *

And that was why it was nearly 2 a.m. before he trooped up the steps with Cybil toward their respective apartments. He still had the unappealing taste of police station coffee in his mouth and a low-grade headache on the brew.

“It was kind of exciting, wasn’t it? All those cops and bad guys. It was hard to tell one from the other in the detective bureau. Well, you could because the detectives have to wear ties. I wonder why. It was nice of them to show me around. You should have come. The interrogation rooms look just the way you imagine they would. Dark and creepy.”

He was certain she had to be the only person on the planet who could find a sunny side to being mugged.

“I’m wired,” she announced. “Aren’t you wired? Want some cookies? I still have plenty.”

He nearly ignored her as he dug out his keys, then his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything for the past eight hours. And her cookies were a minor miracle.

“Maybe.”

“Great.” She unlocked her door, left it open, stepping out of her shoes as she walked to the kitchen. “You can come in,” she called out. “I’ll put them on a plate for you so you can take them back and eat them in your own den, but there’s no point in waiting in the hall.”

He stepped in, leaving the door open behind him. He should have known her place would be bright and cheerful, full of cute and classy little accents. With his hands in his pockets, he wandered around, tuning out her bubbling chatter while she transferred cookies from a canister in the shape of a manically grinning cow to the same bright-yellow plate she’d used before.

“You talk too much.”

“I know.” She skimmed a hand over her spiky bangs. “Especially when I’m nervous or wired up.”

“Are you ever otherwise?”

“Now and then.”

He noted a scatter of framed photos, several pairs of earrings, another shoe, a romance novel and the scent of apple blossoms. Each suited her, he thought, as perfectly as the next. Then he paused in front of a framed copy of a comic strip on the wall.

“‘Friends and Neighbors,’” he mused, then studied the signature under the last section. It read simply, Cybil. “This you?”

She glanced over. “Yes. That’s my strip. I don’t imagine you spend much time reading the comics, do you?”

Knowing a dig when he heard one, he looked back over his shoulder. It must have been the late hour, he decided, after a long day that made her look so fresh and pretty and appealing. “Grant Campbell—‘Macintosh’—that your old man?”

“He’s not old, but yes, he’s my father.”

The Campbells, Preston mused, meant the MacGregors. And wasn’t that a coincidence? He moved over to stand on the opposite side of the counter and help himself to the cookies she was arranging in a stylish circular pattern.

“I like the edge to his work.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.” Because he was reaching for another cookie, Cybil smiled. “Want some milk?”

“No. Got a beer?”

“With cookies?” She grimaced but turned to her refrigerator. Preston had a chance to see it was well stocked as she bent down—which gave him a chance to appreciate just what snug black slacks could do for a perky woman’s excellent butt—and retrieved a bottle of Beck’s Dark.

“This do? It’s what Chuck likes.”

“Chuck has good taste. Boyfriend?”

She smirked, getting out a pilsner glass before he could tell her he’d just take the bottle. “I suppose that indicates that I’m the type to have
boy
friends, but no. He’s Jody’s husband. Jody and Chuck Myers, just below you in 2B. I was out to dinner with them tonight, and Jody’s excessively boring cousin Frank.”