What little Laurel had eaten of her meal turned into a lump of grease in her stomach. "Astor Cooper?" she managed weakly as her mind pieced together facts without her consent.
"Yes. Her husband is Conroy Cooper, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author? Such a charming man. So generous to the local charities. It's just a tragedy that his wife has to be so afflicted. Alzheimer's, you know. And I'm told her people up in Memphis are just lovely. It's such a shame. Ridilia said Mr. Cooper was absolutely beside himself over the vandalism. He's so very loyal to his wife, you know…"
Laurel placed her hands in her lap, fighting the urge to grip the table to steady herself. While her mother sat across from her, going on about Conroy Cooper's sterling character, that same voice drifted out of the back of her mind, admonishing her for her manners. Young ladies do not lay their hands on the table, Laurel… Then Savannah 's face came to mind, her expression sly. His wife has Alzheimer's. He put her in St. Joseph 's… I hear she doesn't know her head from a hole in the ground.
Sick dread ran down her throat like icy fingers. It couldn't be, she told herself. It simply couldn't be. Savannah had her problems, but she wouldn't resort to-As if to mock her defense, her memory hurled up a picture of her sister locked in combat with Annie Delahoussaye, screaming like a banshee and whirling like a dervish around Frenchie's.
" Laurel? Laurel?" Her mother's sharp tone prodded her back to reality. Vivian was frowning at her. "André would like to know if you've finished with your fish."
"I'm sorry." Laurel scrambled to compose herself, ducking her head and smoothing her napkin on her lap. She glanced up at the patient André, who watched her with soulful brown eyes set in a bloodhound's face. "Yes, thank you. It was excellent. My apologies to the chef that I was unable to finish it."
As the dinner plates were whisked away and the tablecloth dusted for crumbs, Vivian studied her daughter and sipped her wine. "I hear you've been to the courthouse twice this week. They're seeing more of you than I am."
An untrained ear may not have picked up the note of censure. Laurel received it loud and clear. "I'm sorry, Mama. I got caught up helping the Delahoussayes."
"Hardly the sort of people-"
Laurel brought a hand up to stop her like a crossing guard. "Can we please skip this conversation? We're not going to agree. We'll both end up angry. Could we just not have it?"
Vivian straightened into her queen's posture on her chair, her chin lifting, her eyes taking on the same cold gleam as the sapphires she wore. "Certainly," she said stiffly. "Never mind that I have only your best interests at heart."
That Vivian had never had any interests at heart but her own was a truth Laurel chose to keep to herself. If she provoked her mother into an argument in public, she would never be forgiven. A part of her thought she shouldn't care, but the plain truth was Vivian was the only mother she had, and after a lifetime of walking on eggshells to gain approval, to garner what Vivian would consider love, she was probably not going to change. Just as Vivian would never change.
The pendulum of Vivian's moods swung yet again as she turned toward the entrance to the dining room. Like the sun coming out from behind a thunderhead, a smile brightened her face. Laurel turned to get a look at whoever had managed to perform such a miracle and caught another unpleasant surprise square on the chin.
"Stephen!" Vivian said, offering her beringed hands to Danjermond as he strode to their table. He took them both and bent over one to bestow a courtly kiss. Vivian beamed. All but purring, she turned toward Laurel. "Look, Laurel dear, Stephen is here! Isn't this a lovely surprise?"
In a pig's eye. Laurel forced a smile that looked as if she had a lip full of novocaine. "Mr. Danjermond."
"Stephen, you're just in time for dessert. Do say you'll join us."
He treated her to a dazzling square smile. "How could I decline an offer to spend time with two of the most beautiful belles in the parish?"
Vivian blushed on cue and batted her lashes, impeccably schooled in the feminine art of flirtation. "Well, this belle needs to powder her nose. Do keep Laurel company, won't you?"
"Of course."
As she walked away from the table, Danjermond slid into the empty chair to Laurel 's right. He was, as she was, dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the courthouse that morning-the coffee brown suit, the ivory shirt and stylish tie-but he had somehow managed to come through the day without a wrinkle, while Laurel felt wilted and rumpled. Something about his elegance made her want to comb her hair and take her glasses off, but she refrained from doing either.
"You're angry with me, Laurel," he said, simply.
Laurel crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt, taking her time in replying. Outside, a squall line had tumbled up from the Gulf and was threatening rain. Wind pulled at the fingers of the palmetto trees that lined the putting green. She stared out at them through the French doors, debating the wisdom of what she wanted to say.
"I don't like the games you play, Mr. Danjermond," she said at last, meeting his cool green gaze evenly.
He arched a brow. "You think my being here is part of a conspiracy, Laurel? As it happens, I dine here often. You do concede that I have to eat, don't you? I am, after all, merely human."
The light in the peridot eyes danced as if at some secret amusement. Whether it was her he was laughing at or the line about his being a mere mortal, she couldn't tell. Either way, she had no intention of joining in the joke.
"Anything new on the murder?" she asked, toying with the stem of her water glass.
He plucked a slice of French bread from the basket on the table, tore off a chunk, and settled back in his chair with the lazy arrogance of a prince. Chewing thoughtfully, he studied her. " Kenner released Tony Gerrard. He feels the murder is the work of the Bayou Strangler."
"And what do you think? You don't think Tony Gerrard might have pulled a copycat?"
"No, because if he had, he would have screwed up. Our killer is very clever. Tony, regrettably," he picked a white fleck of bread off his tie and flicked it away, "is not."
"You sound almost as if you admire him-the killer."
He regarded her with a look of mild reproach. "Certainly not. He intrigues me, I admit. Serial killers have fascinated students of criminal science for years." He tore another chunk off the fresh, warm bread, closed his eyes, and savored the rich, yeasty aroma of it before slipping it into his mouth. As he swallowed, his lashes raised like lacy black veils. "I'm as horrified by these crimes as anyone, but at the same time, I have a certain"-he searched for the word, picking it cleanly and carefully-"clinical appreciation for a keen mind."
As he said it, Laurel had the distinct impression that he was probing hers. She could feel the power of his personality arching between them, reaching into her head to explore and examine.
"What do you think of sharks, Laurel?"
The change of direction was so abrupt, she thought it was a wonder she didn't get a whiplash. "What should I think of them?" she said, annoyed and puzzled. "Why should I think of them at all?"
"You would think of them if you found yourself overboard in the ocean," Danjermond pointed out. He leaned forward in his chair, warming to his subject, his expression serious. "In all of nature, they are the perfect predator. They fear nothing. They kill with frightening efficiency.
"Serial killers are the sharks of our society. Without souls, without fear of recrimination. Predators. Clever, ruthless." He tore off another chunk of bread and chewed thoughtfully. "A fascinating comparison, don't you think, Laurel?"