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 in the driver’s seat and switched on the engine. Bonanza Alley separated the rectory from the church and graveyard. He ducked his head to look at the old white building glowing in the moon’s cloud-stained light. Shadows rippled across the glimmering facade.
The windshield fogged up fast. He found a cloth in the glove compartment and swiped at the glass. Wazoo’s van stood close to the Pontiac on the gravel parking strip outside the rectory. He noticed she’d left the dome light on. Shutting the dog in the car, Guy strode to the van and tried the passenger door. Locked. He walked around the hood—and collided with Wazoo on the other side of the vehicle.
“What you sneakin’ around for, N’awlins?” she said, leaning inside the van to put off the light.
“I was goin’ to steal your wheels—after I made sure the battery was still charged. Night.”
“You was goin’ to turn off my light. I know that. You got a nice dog there.”
Guy mumbled nothing in particular.
“Don’t leave her in the car, you. She could suffocate in there. When I got her out she was pantin’.”
“Night,” Guy said again.
“Yeah. Jilly Gable’s too good for you but maybe you’ll improve. Don’t you hurt her no more, you.”
Guy watched her return to the rectory kitchens before he got into the Pontiac once more.
Goldilocks barked.
Guy whipped his face toward her. “What’s up with you?”
The dog barked again, and set up a whining that made the hairs on the back of Guy’s neck stand up. That was the moment before he smelled something burning, something foul burning. Black smoke forced itself from the engine compartment and between the spaces around the hood.
He switched off, grabbed the fire extinguisher from behind his seat, the flashlight he kept in the pocket beside him, and shot from the vehicle.
He threw up the hood and took several steps backward from a blast of heat and acrid smoke laced with particles that stung his eyes.
With the light trained on the engine, he started a stream of foam from the extinguisher, but stopped. The smoke had thinned already.
If you liked your meat really well done, the gutted chicken, its blackened innards tidily arranged beside the carcass, was scorched to perfection.
7
Guy parked the Pontiac several houses away from Jilly’s. He said a small prayer, “Let her be reasonable,” and roused Goldilocks, who snored beside him.
The chicken was a joke. People didn’t really believe in all that voodoo hooey these days—they just liked to pretend so they could support Louisiana’s reputation.
“C’mon, dog, this is our fond farewell.” He couldn’t help wondering if the burnt offerings were Wazoo’s idea of being funny and she’d come outside for a good laugh at his expense.
If she’d done the chicken number she would have expected him to drive away as soon as he got in the car and not see or smell anything until he was on the road and his engine heated up. She couldn’t have known he’d hang around a bit too long.
Who else would go to so much trouble? He was darned if he knew.
Goldilocks climbed sleepily over his seat and jumped out. She leaned against his leg and yawned. It didn’t cost him anything to scratch her head. She wasn’t so old, maybe a year, and she still tired herself out.
“Now, do as I say,” he told her, walking in the shadow of a tall hedge and holding the scruff of the animal’s neck.
Up the driveway to Jilly’s front door they went, and Guy knocked softly.
The house was in darkness.
He knocked harder. She’d never hear otherwise.
Goldilocks whined and Guy gripped her muzzle in one hand while he whispered in her ear, “It’s real important you don’t get on the wrong side of Jilly, so be very quiet.” As soon as he let go, Goldilocks whined again.
This time Guy rang the bell—three times—and stepped back. He heard the slightest scrape and looked up to see a curtain blow where a window had been opened an inch. The window hadn’t been open when he arrived. He’d checked.
He stood beneath the window. “Jilly,” he said hoarsely, trying to project a whisper. “Jilly, it’s Guy. I need to talk to you.”
He waited and watched. Nothing moved and there wasn’t another sound. The curling in the pit of his stomach was too familiar. He was getting frustrated and that wouldn’t help a thing.
“Please, Jilly.” He glanced around to make sure no one else saw him grovel. On his cell phone, he dialed her number and heard the phone ring five times inside the house, then fall silent. No answering machine came on.
“Okay, I don’t want to do it, but I’m gonna have to get tough.”
Kneeling beside the dog, he said, “Bark. Go on, just bark.”
Guy’s ear got a thorough cleaning but not one peep did Goldilocks make.
He put an arm around her and made what he hoped were good imitations of low barks, then he growled for good measure.
The