fine. No, I’m not fine, I’m scared. It’s Louis Martin. He’s been hurt.”
“I’m on my way. Guide me to you. Hang on.” He turned back and said, “Cyrus, stay with Charlotte and be ready in case we need to get more help.”
“Please hurry,” Vivian said. “It’s terrible. I can’t leave. You can’t leave someone like this.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I’m coming to you. I’m outside the house now. Standing on the steps.”
She gave him directions and he followed them, quickly getting drenched himself. Each time he looked at the ground, water ran from the brim of his hat. Edging between potted laurels, he saw the flashlight she’d told him she had. He still had to walk a winding track to where a couple more laurels blocked the way. Then he pushed through and saw a car. He turned his own flashlight on Vivian who leaned against the trunk of the vehicle, her head dropped forward and a phone pressed to her ear. She held a destroyed white rose in the same hand. He turned his phone off.
“Hey, hey,” he said, running to her. A man’s leg extended from the open driver’s door. “Everything’s okay, sweetheart. Here, hold on to me. Let me use your phone to call for the local law then I’ll get you into the house.” He considered putting his Stetson on her but she’d only be more uncomfortable with her wet hair pressed to her head.
Vivian fell into his arms. “You are the law.”
“This isn’t my jurisdiction. One way to make sure you don’t get along with the guys in a neighboring parish is to interfere with their turf. And, unfortunately, I have some history in Iberia. I worked here once and managed to step on the wrong toes.”
“You’re the law,” she repeated as if he hadn’t spoken. “Louis is dead. I checked. He doesn’t have a pulse. They slit his throat. There’s blood everywhere.”
Spike held her face against his shoulder and bent to see inside the car. “You looked for a pulse?”
“There isn’t one.”
“You’ve got guts.” The corpse wasn’t a pretty sight. Spike wished he could have spared Vivian this. He eased back and looked into her face, what he could see of it. Her hair obscured all but the spaces she’d made to see and speak. “Your mama said your phone was in the kitchen.”
“This is Louis’s.”
He swallowed. “Where’d you find it?”
“In his briefcase. I had to pull it from under his head. It was awful. I thought it was going to…fall off,” she finished in a whisper.
“Hush.” All he could think of was how badly she’d interfered with evidence. “The thorns on that rose are going to mess up your fingers.”
“They…I mean whoever did this left the flower on his chest.” She swallowed and swallowed as if she would vomit. “They—someone kissed him on the cheek. I don’t think they did it with lipstick. I think they put their mouth in his blood.”
Shee-it. Sick bastard had set the scene all right. Too bad Vivian had been the one to stumble on it. He’d dealt with these situations before and he knew to expect her to have problems dealing with what she’d experienced. His next thought was about Errol Bonine, the lazy detective who would definitely be assigned to the case. Wait till he saw what had been done to his crime scene. And finding Spike in the vicinity would only make the slob’s night.
Running with mixed water and blood, and obviously covered with Vivian’s prints, the victim’s phone was so contaminated Spike figured he might as well use it. If the instrument had been in the briefcase, with Martin’s head on top of it, chances were the killer never touched or even saw it. He held it between finger and thumb to call the police, was patched through to Bonine at home, and had to listen to the ass’s warnings not to put his nose into Errol’s business if Spike knew what was good for him. Officers would be arriving to make sure nothing was touched and nobody left the scene, Bonine told him, but Spike should fill in until they got there.
He clicked off and turned back for the house, supporting Vivian and with her little dog running circles around them. “Cry if you need to,” he said. “Sometimes it helps. You’re in shock. Bound to be.”
She didn’t answer him.
“Whoever did that was trying too hard.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice sounded faint and choked.
“He—if it was a he and the chances are it was—he went overboard with the setup. Made it almost comic.”
“Not funny,” she mumbled.
“Not funny,” he agreed and tried to brush more of her hair out of her face.
She clung to him fiercely enough to dig her nails into his flesh. “Like a serial killer. They do things like that, don’t they? Leave the signs each time they kill because they want people to know it’s them.”
“Some do,” he said. “Although they don’t do much singing until they’re caught and want bragging rights behind bars. But let’s not think about this being a first killing with more to follow. Could be isolated and the perp tossed in the window dressing to throw us off.”
“Spike.” She looked up at him. “I want you to do this, not a stranger.”
If he had time for the luxury, he’d be flattered. “I’ll give you any personal help you’ll let me, but I have to defer to the local guys.”
“Will you be with me when they come?”
He groaned inwardly, anticipating Errol’s sneering displeasure. “If you want me, I’ll be there.”
“I want you.”
Timing had never been his friend. If he was going to be as much help as he could around here, he’d have to make sure he kept his head clear and his hormones under control. Hell, that shouldn’t be hard. He was a professional.
He’d barely steered Vivian into the hall, and confronted Charlotte and Cyrus, when the sound of a siren reached them.
Cyrus said, “Bad?”
Spike nodded and said, “That’ll be a patrol car. The officers will start sealing off the—they’ll do their thing.”
“Oh, Vivian.” Charlotte reached for her daughter, but if Vivian noticed she chose to ignore the gesture.
What Spike felt was entirely too conflicted to be appropriate. That would change and quickly. “Let your mother help you get dry,” he said. “I need to speak with the police. Charlotte, I also need a plastic bag right now.”
Vivian dropped her hands at once, but she shook her head, turning down any assistance from Charlotte, who didn’t waste time arguing. She sped away and returned with a self-sealing plastic bag and opened it for Spike to drop Louis Martin’s phone inside. He set it on a marble-topped demi-lune table and rested the mangled rose on top.
“We could go into the kitchens maybe,” Cyrus said—ever the diplomat. “Get out of the hall so we don’t look like
