Her eyes whiplashed up to his as she wondered how he dared make a comment like that when he was the one who had broken his vows. “Like I was saying,” she bit out, “they’re waiting for me at the high school.”
“The Krewe can wait, Allie. I need to talk to you.”
Not today, she thought. Not now. The last thing she wanted was to cry in front of him.
He rubbed his face and took a deep breath, but kept his eyes on the floor. “I was wondering something, Allie. I was wondering if you would go to the funeral with me.”
She felt transparent and wondered if he saw the million conflicting emotions battling on her face. “Why?” she asked. Though the question seemed confrontational, Allie couldn’t help asking it. Did he want her with him for image control—so people who didn’t already know about their breakup wouldn’t find out now?
He swallowed. “I just thought we could put our differences aside for George’s sake. And…well, it’s not going to be an easy day.”
Maybe he needed her, she thought. He was certainly closer to George than she was to Martha. But that idea raised questions.
“Is she going to be there?”
“Who?” he asked in a flat voice, but she didn’t doubt for a moment that he knew.
“Isabelle Mattreaux. Oh, that’s right. You call her Issie.” She said it so bluntly that she surprised even herself. For so long, they had talked around the name, as if uttering it would somehow unleash things that were better left contained.
He looked slightly indignant. “Everybody calls her that. And I would imagine she’ll be there. The whole town will be there. What difference does it make?”
She tried to think. Did it make a difference if she was there? Wouldn’t Allie go anyway? Would she rather be with Mark or without him when she faced her? Would she rather look like the independent, strong woman who’d gone on with her life, or the wife who still hadn’t quite let go?
Mark watched the struggle on her face. Finally, he said, “Never mind, Allie. Just forget it. I thought it would be nice if we went together, for George’s sake, but never mind.” He started for the door.
For a moment she thought of letting him go, but something told her that, if she did, it would become one more thing to add to her list of regrets.
“Mark?”
“What?”
“I’ll go with you.”
He swung around. “Don’t do me any favors, Allie.”
“Do you want me to go, or not?”
“Yes! That’s why I came here. That, and to see if you were all right. To tell you to lock up carefully, and not answer the door if you don’t know who it is.”
The tears that had threatened her, that she had managed to hold at bay, pushed into her eyes now. She turned away and closed her eyes, pressing her tear ducts to keep her tears from falling.
He stepped slowly back into the room.
“Do they know who did it?” she asked, not sure if real curiosity triggered the question or if she was merely trying to get the focus off her feelings for Mark. “Do they have any idea?”
“No. There are very few leads.” His words were delivered in a soft monotone, all business. “We know that it wasn’t a forced entry. Her back door was wide open, and the killer probably just came in through the unlocked screen. He didn’t take anything, so robbery isn’t the motive, and there was no rape. They took fibers and prints and blood samples, and they’re all at the crime lab now.”
“So there’s somebody out there who could walk in and shoot a woman in the forehead for no good reason.”
“Probably somebody who came to town for Mardi Gras. The whole holiday seems to bring out the absolute worst in society. Wouldn’t bother me if Newpointe refused to celebrate it.”
“We’d be evicted from the state of Louisiana.”
He shrugged sarcastically. “A murder here, a rape there—small prices to pay to boost the economy.”
She wasn’t amused, but she knew he didn’t mean for her to be.
“Well, I’ll let you know if they find out anything. And we’ll make firmer plans when the time for the funeral is set.”
She nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
He gazed at her a little longer, then finally looked away. “Are you gonna be all right?”
“You know me,” she said without much feeling. “I’m always all right.”
He started to respond to that, then stopped himself. Finally, he said, “Keep everything locked, okay? Even the shop. I’ll lock up on my way out and put out the ‘Closed’ sign. You have enough to do without any new customers today, anyway.”
She nodded agreement. “Are you on duty tonight?”
“Unofficially. It’s not my shift, but I’m gonna go in and help out for a while. We’re expecting a little more activity tonight.”
They held each other’s gaze for a moment longer, and finally, Mark headed out of the shop.
As she heard him locking the door, Allie sank down onto her stool and covered her face with her hands.
Chapter Six
As expected, the 911 lines stayed lit up the evening of Fat Tuesday as brawls broke out in barrooms and drunk drivers rammed trees. Some addict on PCP tried to fly from a two-story building and wound up breaking his back and both legs. A group of pot-smoking teenagers gathered leaves and sticks to start a campfire in the elementary school’s playground, only to find that the wind was too strong and caught the school on fire. The firefighters had put out the fire before too much damage was done, while the police dispatched to the scene had arrested the youngsters and the paramedics had treated them for smoke inhalation and a few minor burns. Almost every call required a collaborative effort among the town’s emergency teams, and tonight, they were all hopping.
But none of the emergency personnel in Newpointe wanted to answer these emergency calls when there was a killer on the loose. Every one of them wanted to be out searching the town for the man who had killed Martha Broussard.
Since Mark wasn’t officially on duty, he left the station just after ten and headed to the bar a couple of blocks away, where many of the cops and firemen hung out after work. It was unusually crowded as the Fat Tuesday-ers crushed in to celebrate. Their cigarette smoke left a haze over the room, and the low roar of voices competed with the jazz band playing in the corner.
There had been a time when Mark had hated this place. But then he and Allie had begun having problems, and he’d dreaded going home. He had started coming here after work with Cale Larkins, one of the firemen on his shift. He hadn’t come to drink—he’d always gotten a soft drink while his buddies indulged in their choice of spirits. Now, looking back, he couldn’t remember exactly when he’d made the transition from Sprite to vodka, but it had happened some time after he and Allie split up. Now his visit to Joe’s Place was almost a nightly event.
He took a stool at the bar and looked around. Some of the off-duty cops sat at a table, probably talking about the murder. He wondered if they’d learned anything about the killer yet.
Joe Petitjean, the proprietor, pointed to him. “Where y’at, Mark?” It was the typical Cajun greeting, and even non-Cajuns like Mark responded appropriately.
“Awright,” Mark said. “Vodka, straight up. Double.”
Joe turned back, unfazed, and poured the drink. “Was you at the Broussard’s house today when they found her?” he asked, leaning across the counter to be heard when he handed him the drink.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Ever’body’s talkin’.”
“Anybody saying who could have done it?” Mark asked.
“Not yet. No leads, what I hear.”
Joe went back to work, and Mark swiveled on his chair and scanned the patrons. He sipped on his vodka, let the liquid burn down his throat, and told himself that soon he wouldn’t be thinking about the murder or his marriage, or any more of a million things that could keep him awake nights.
The door opened and cool air spilled inside, providing a little relief from the smoke
. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Issie Mattreaux coming in with two girlfriends. She saw him immediately, said something to her friends, and started toward him.
She wasn’t in uniform, the way he usually saw her, and in her jeans and sweater she looked almost like a teenager. Her nickname suited her well. No one could ever call her Isabelle with a straight face. Her silky black hair hung straight to her shoulders, and she wore a small barrette on one side to hold it back from her face. But around her eyes were tiny lines, lines that belied her youthful look and gave away the fatigue and worry on her face since the murder. He wondered if Allie would still be threatened if she could see Issie now.
She came up behind him, set a hand on his back, and leaned around him to Joe. “Give me a Diet Coke, Joe,” she said.
Mark lifted an eyebrow and looked back at her. “Diet Coke? On Fat Tuesday?”
She knew him well enough to know that his question was sarcastic. “I’m not in the mood to drink,” she said, pulling up onto the stool next to him. She nodded at the glass in his hand. “I see you are, though.”
He grinned. “Whatever gets you through the night.”
She turned so that she was facing him, and asked, “You okay?”
“Sure, why?”
“Well, it was a rough day. Martha and everything…” Her voice trailed off. “I saw your car at the florist this afternoon. Is Allie all right?”
“I guess.” He looked down at the bar and tried to rub a spot off the wood. He knew she wasn’t really concerned about Allie’s state of mind. More likely, she just wanted to get the scoop on what had happened between them today. But he couldn’t blame her—before his separation from Allie, he’d accommodated that curiosity plenty.
“So…are you two trying to work things out?”
It annoyed him that she would ask such a thing.
“You don’t have to answer if I’ve hit a nerve,” she said, starting to get up. “I know it’s none of my business.”
“No, that’s not it,” he said. “I mean…I’d talk about it if I had any answers. I just don’t.”
He felt her gaze on him, but he didn’t dare meet it. He had managed to keep his distance for the past few weeks, even though he saw her frequently at the fire station. But he kept her at arm’s length, didn’t look her in the eye, and avoided any heartfelt conversations that he’d feel guilty about later.
“Has either of you filed for divorce?”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe in divorce.”
“Just separation?”
He rubbed his eyes. “No, I don’t believe in that, either. But sometimes you don’t have a choice.”
“Are you still going to counseling?”
He knew he should never have told her about that in the first place, but she had been there when no one else had, and he’d needed to talk. “No. When she threw me out, she refused to go back. Said I wasn’t being honest and it was a waste of time.” He took a gulp of his drink, then grinned up at her, trying to shift the conversation away from such serious matters. “Speaking of wasting time, can we talk about something else?”
“Honest about what?” she asked, ignoring his question as she sat back down.
He couldn’t tell her that it was all about her, but he knew she realized it. That was why she questioned him so hard. She wanted him to state the obvious, so that their relationship—or whatever it was—could move to a higher level.
Either that, or she was just genuinely interested in seeing him reunite with his wife.
Yeah, right.
“You don’t really care about this. It’s too sad for a stand-up act and too boring for a country song.”
“Come on, Mark,” she said, leaning toward him. “It’s me you’re talking to. What did she think you weren’t being honest about?”
He turned away from her and scowled, frustrated. He didn’t like being put on the spot. “Got me.”
She leaned forward on the bar and took a sip of her drink, pondering what he’d said. He glanced up at her, saw her expression. “What?” he asked. “You have something on your mind. What is it?”
She shook her head. “Just something I’ve wanted to ask, but haven’t had the nerve.” Their eyes locked. Was this where he was supposed to tell her to go ahead and ask? No, no need. She would find the nerve somewhere.
“Mark, this may come out sounding like a real arrogant question, and if it does, then I’ll just have to look like a jerk.”
“You should become an ambassador, Issie. You’re the queen of diplomacy. All those great lead-ins…I want to ask, but I don’t have the nerve…this may come out sounding real arrogant, but…I can hardly wait for what all these lead-ins are leading up to.”
“It’s about Allie,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm—which she had said she found charming anyway. “I’ve run into Allie a few times, and I feel a little bit of a chill from her, and I was wondering…”
His stomach tightened, and he brought the glass to his lips, seeking the burn it could bring.
“Mark, are you sure your breakup doesn’t have anything to do with our friendship?”
“Are you kidding?”
She frowned. “Mark, I’m serious.”
He set the glass down hard, and Issie jumped. Mark took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, then looked her in the eye. Lowering his voice so they wouldn’t be overheard, he said, “My wife caught me with my arms around you in the bunk room at the fire station. She drew a conclusion—a mistaken one, but it had some pretty serious repercussions.”
“But the breakup came weeks later, and you said it had nothing to do with me.”
“I lied. I didn’t want you to feel bad, when nothing really happened.”
“She should have trusted you enough to know that. Even I know you better than that.”
He looked into his glass, recalling how Issie had cried on his shoulder about being jilted by her pseudofiancé. He had closed the door so she could cry in private, and they had sat on the bunk while she bared her soul to him. She’d told him he was her best friend, the only one she trusted, and when she’d been overcome with emotion and grief, he had held her to let her cry.
So much for being a nice guy.
Just his luck that Allie had surprised him with a visit to the fire station, that the other guys had innocently directed her to the bunk room, that she had walked in on that little scene. He had tried to explain, but she wasn’t interested in explanations. Only in what she thought she had seen.
The fact that Issie seemed so concerned now galled him. She hadn’t cared that much at the time.
“I could talk to her,” Issie said. “I mean, if it would help.”
He almost laughed. “Trust me. Having you call Allie is the fastest way I can think of to get the divorce wheels turning. Allie would turn the wheels, and they’d run right over me.”
“Don’t worry, Mark. I’d be there to rescue you.”
He met her eyes and saw that she meant exactly what he thought she did. Something about that pleased him.
The door opened, and several other off-duty firemen spilled in and made a beeline for him. Talk about rescue, he thought. They just might be rescuing him from himself.
Chapter Seven
Jamie Larkins was already nursing a hangover at 10:30, about the time most of the town was getting their second wind. She was also cursing herself for getting ripped so early in the day. She took two Tylenol and tried to sleep. It had occurred to her that she could keep drinking—even that she should, since she planned to give up alcohol for Lent tomorrow and needed to get the partying out of her system—but the murder had doused her plans. Her girlfriends who had planned to go out partying with her tonight after Cale reported to work had all backed out, mostly out of fear because a murderer was on the loose.
She went to her purse and dug out the vial of cocaine, and with a great sigh dropped it into a drawer in the end table next to the couch. She had hoped to talk Cale into sharing it with her tonight, even though
he was so paranoid about random drug testing and losing his job. But she knew that he liked a good time as much as she did, and with the right coaxing, he would come around. It didn’t matter now, though, since he’d had to work and she felt too lousy right now to waste it.
Unable to sleep, she sat on her bed and turned on the television with the remote control. She combed her fingers through her hair to pull it out of her eyes and flipped channels until she came to channel 4, a New Orleans station doing a live broadcast from Bourbon Street. The reporter seemed to be living it up himself, and in the background drunken, laughing partyers crowded in behind him while music from street musicians kept the mood upbeat.
If Cale hadn’t had to work tonight, the two of them would be there now, right in the middle of things as they had been so many times before. Mardi Gras was her favorite time of year, and the Southshore—New Orleans—was her favorite place to celebrate it. That far from home—over forty miles they needn’t worry about his reputation as a public servant. Besides, she knew they wouldn’t be doing drug testing for a while yet, since they had just tested Cale’s shift last week.
But Cale had wound up working tonight, and her friends had all backed out. She couldn’t believe she was sitting at home alone on Fat Tuesday. The phone call they’d shared half an hour ago was no substitute for his being here.
She picked up the phone and dialed the number of the fire station, hoping Cale was available and would have a minute to talk. The phone rang unanswered, and she guessed they were out on a call.
She hung up the phone and leaned back on her pillows, watching longingly as the television cameras zoomed in on Pat O’Brien’s, where revelers in bawdy costumes brandished Hurricanes in their trademark glasses. As she watched the cameras pan the French Quarter, she heard a noise in the living room. She sat up, wondering if Cale had sneaked away and come home to check on her, or if he, too, was feeling so hungover that he’d convinced someone from another team to swap shifts.
She cut off the television and listened. “Cale? That you?”
There was no answer, and a chill of apprehension shivered down her back. But then her cat came strolling in and leaped up on her bed. Relieved that the noise hadn’t been an intruder, she reached for the cat. She could have sworn she had let him out, but with her hangover and pounding headache, she had probably forgotten letting him back in.