ought to these days. Oh, so much pain and sufferin’ I see and—and—you the only one who can stop it.” She pointed at Guy but continued to stare with unfocused eyes.
With a sigh, Cyrus reached to pat her but she pulled back and slowly turned to Guy. “Death,” she said. “Maybe. Then maybe more death. Don’t you stop listenin’ to someone who knows things or evil will descend on this town and we’ll be too late to stop it.”
Wazoo was given to weighty predictions.
From the hallway, Spike Devol came into the kitchen. “Evenin’,” he said, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners and his blond hair standing on end in front like it always did. For years a deputy, now he was actually the elected sheriff in these parts, but he still worked all hours.
Wazoo gave no sign of having seen him. “There’s blood,” she said. “Blood everywhere. And poison—voodoo.” Her shudder visibly moved her flesh.
Spike tossed his Stetson on the table and adjusted the belt around his trim waist and flat stomach. His marriage to Vivian Patin and his move to Rosebank Resort had been good for him. He was one healthy-looking lawman who made his khaki uniform look like a must for a GQ spread—with Spike in it.
“I know where some of this is comin’ from,” Wazoo said, the focus back in her eyes. She pointed a long, red-tipped finger at Cyrus. “You can make a difference. You let those charlatans park their trailer on church land for free. You don’t know what they do, or where they come from. I heard they got all kinds of voodoo goin’ on. And your parishioners won’t tell you, but when they’re sure you won’t catch ’em, they’re linin’ up for that nonsense.”
“You’ve been known to dabble in a little voodoo yourself,” Spike remarked. “Who is she talking about?” he asked Cyrus.
“A very nice couple who earn their way by doing odd jobs. They’re willing and prompt. They were on hard times so I let them hook up their trailer over that way.” He pointed vaguely in the direction away from the church. “Ken and Jolene, their names are.”
“You sure that was a good idea?” Spike asked.
“I feel ever so much safer when you’re around,” Wazoo said to him. “You’ve got a level head, Spike Devol, and it’s one of the few in these parts.”
“They’re fine people,” Cyrus told them. “Don’t go makin’ up stories about them because you think they could take away some of your business, Wazoo. And remember they grow vegetables and sell them. That’s probably their primary source of income. They do a good business.”
Wazoo gave one of her memorable frowns. “In case you’ve forgotten, animal psychology is my thing and there’s many who’ll tell you how good I am at it. You ask Spike’s Vivian—and Joe and Ellie Gable. I’ve got plenty to speak for me—includin’ Dr. Reb. Her Gaston was one mixed-up poodle before I straightened him out.” She looked under the table at Goldilocks. “If you’ve got the sense you was borned with, N’awlins, you’ll get that sweet thing to me quick, too. I never saw a more obvious case of low self-esteem.”
Guy resisted the temptation to check on Goldilocks.
Spike stood at the opposite end of the table from Cyrus, but looked at Guy. “What’s going on?” he said. “You’ve been behavin’ different—so Homer says—and Jilly’s locked herself up in her house. If you don’t want to discuss it here, we can go somewhere private.”
Guy’s stomach made a slow revolution. “You’re overreactin’, everyone is.”
“Gator reckoned I’d find you here. You left Homer’s and never went back.”
“I left a few hours early and Ozaire covered for me. But Ozaire must have passed along the good news to his buddy, Gator.”
“Some man with a flashy car was leavin’ with the dog when Ozaire got back to Homer’s. He gunned it out of there as soon as he saw Ozaire. Who was that?”
“Why the interrogation, Sheriff? Am I under arrest?” he said, trying to lighten things up, but failing.
The atmosphere had a slow, darkening pulse.
“Don’t be a smart-ass—I’m lookin’ for answers, and help.” Spike pulled out a chair at the table. He declined wine or beer but got up again and poured coffee. “Vivian’s on the warpath. Reckons it’s all my fault Jilly’s upset.”
Guy looked to Cyrus, who crossed his arms on the table and waited for Spike to continue.
“Ozaire said he saw a black Corvette leave Homer’s place just as Ozaire was getting there.” Once again Spike’s expression pinned Guy.
“I have a friend from New Orleans who owns one of those,” Guy said. He might as well spit it out. “He stopped by to see me. I thought he would leave before Ozaire got back.”
Red fingernails flashed and Wazoo made shooing motions at Guy. “Leave. Go. You don’t want to be here.”
He had to ask, “How does Vivian know Jilly’s upset?” He would never get used to the way gossip traveled in this town.
“There was an accident,” Spike said. “Corner of Main and St. Mary’s Street. You know that, anyway. You were there.”
“You weren’t,” Guy told him.
“Half the town was,” Cyrus said, grinning and tipping up his glass.
“Vivian’s on my case because Deputy Hall’s a new recruit and he let things get out of hand.” Spike shook his head. “He didn’t take down anything about the mobsters who showed up and hassled Jilly.”
Wazoo sat forward, all eyes. “I told you bad stuff was goin’ to happen here.”
Cyrus and Guy shared a blank glance, then Guy remembered. “You mean a man called Caruthers Rathburn? Just one man, not a gang, and he works for the man who married Jilly’s mother after she left Toussaint.”
“How about an altercation between Laura Preston and Lee O’Brien? And all the threats that were tossed around? The way I heard it, Miz Preston made a threat against Miz O’Brien’s life. Told her if she wrote about Jilly or herself in the Trumpet, Lee’s body would never be found.”
“That’s exactly the way it went,” Guy said, getting up and retrieving his hat. The fib felt justified. He made for the door to the backyard with the pesky hound at his heels. “Didn’t anyone tell Vivian the war-lock from the wood was there, too, with his witch partner? Could be it was all the chicken innards they threw around that really got to Jilly.”
He let himself out into a night that still steamed and closed the door behind him—and Goldilocks. The whole situation had gotten blown out of proportion. Nothing funny was going on, not a damn thing. If he had to guess he’d say Nat’s New Orleans murder case had nothing to do with this town, either.
The dog wouldn’t get in the back of the car. Instead she settled herself on the passenger seat, and each time Guy tried to put her in back, she climbed up front again.
“So sit there,” he told the critter. “This is our last ride together, anyway.”
Guy got
