"Everything matches?"
"So far. We'll have more details when the lab reports on Annie Gerrard come in, but it's all there-the silk scarf, the same pattern of knife wounds. Most importantly, details that were kept away from the press match, eliminating the possibility of a copycat."
"Such as?"
"Such as the markings on the wrists and ankles, and the fact that each woman had items of jewelry taken off her body. Sick bastard likely keeps them as souvenirs," he mumbled, his eyes narrowing to slits as he took in the savagery one human being could commit against another. "Well, by God, I'll find out when I catch him. I swear I will."
Chapter Nineteen
One of Vivian's more annoying traits was her sporadic attempts at spontaneity. Laurel recalled the times during her childhood when her mother would snap out of her day-in-day-out routine of clubs and civic responsibilities and life as mistress of Beauvoir, and scramble frantically to do something spontaneous, something she thought terribly clever or fun, which the events seldom proved to be. There was always an air of desperation about them and a set of expectations that were never achieved. Not at all like the spur-of-the-moment notions of Laurel 's father, which had always been unfailingly wonderful in one way or another, never planned, never entered into with a set of criteria or goals.
"Seize the moment and take what it gives you," Daddy had always said with a simple joy for life glowing in his handsome face.
Vivian had always seized her moments with grasping, greedy hands and tried to wring out of them the things she wanted. Laurel had always felt sorry for her mother because of it. It wasn't in Vivian's makeup to be spontaneous. That she felt compelled to try, and tried too hard, had always left Laurel feeling sad, particularly when one of Vivian's failed attempts led her into yet another spell of depression.
Perhaps that was why, when Vivian had called to invite her to have dinner out with her-dinner and "girl talk," God forbid-Laurel hadn't managed to find an excuse during that slim five-second window of opportunity when lies can go undetected over the phone lines. Or perhaps her reasons had more to do with the day and the thoughts she had had of family and the fickleness of life.
Savannah would have no doubt had a scathing commentary on the subject. But as Savannah had yet to return from wherever she had spent the day, Laurel didn't have to listen to it. She accepted the invitation with an air of resignation and did her best to turn off the internal mechanism of self-examination.
They sat in one of the small, elegant dining rooms of the Wisteria Golf and Country Club, chatting over equally elegant meals of stuffed quail and fresh sea bass. The club was housed in a Greek revival mansion on what had once been the largest indigo plantation in the parish. The house and grounds had been meticulously restored and maintained, right down to the slave cabins that sat some two hundred yards behind the mansion and now served as storage sheds for garden equipment and between-round hangouts for the caddies-who were quite often black youths. No one at Wisteria worried about offending them with the comparison between caddies and slaves, and there were no other people of color to be offended other than hired help, because Wisteria was, always had been, and always would be an all-white establishment.
Laurel poked at her sea bass and thought longingly of bluepoint crabs and the colors of the Gulf sky at sunset, the sound of the sea and gulls, the tang of salt air. Instead, she had a grouper glaring up at her from a Limoges plate, green velvet portieres at tall French doors, a Vivaldi concerto piping discreetly over cleverly hidden speakers, and the artificial cleanliness of central air-conditioning. Her mother sat across from her, completely in her element, ash blond hair sleekly coiffed, a vibrant blue linen blazer bringing out the color of her eyes. Beneath the jacket she wore a chic white sheath splashed with the same shade of blue. Sapphire teardrops dripped from her earlobes.
"The world has gone stark raving mad," Vivian declared, spearing a fresh green bean. She chewed delicately, as a lady should, breaking her train of thought absolutely to savor the taste of her food. After washing it down with a sip of chardonnay, she picked up the thread of the conversation and went on. "Women being murdered in our backyards, practically. Lunatics running loose through town in the dead of night.
"Tell me why on earth anyone would want to vandalize St. Joseph 's Rest Home, scaring those poor elderly people witless."
Laurel went on point like a bird dog, straightening in her chair, her fork hovering over her mutilated fish. " St. Joseph 's?"
"Yes," Vivian went on with appropriate disgust as she took a knife after her quail and dismembered it. "Spray-painted obscenities outside one of the rooms, left a terrible mess on the lawn that I simply won't even speak of in public or anywhere else, banged on the windows, shouting and carrying on. It was an absolute disgrace, the things that were done."
"Did they catch this person?" Laurel asked carefully.
"No. She ran screaming into the night."
Foreboding quivered down Laurel 's spine. "She?"
"Oh, yes. A woman. Can you imagine that? I mean, one might expect a certain kind of hooliganism from a young man, but a woman?" Vivian shuddered at the thought of the natural order of things being so badly twisted. "I volunteer at the library, as you know. This was my day to take books to the rest home. Ridilia Montrose assists the activities coordinator there on Wednesdays. You remember Ridilia, don't you, Laurel dear? Her daughter Faith Anne was the one who had such extensive orthodontia and then wound up being elected homecoming queen at Old Miss? Married a financier from Birmingham? Ridilia says it was most definitely a female, according to the night staff."
She pressed her lips into a thin line of disapproval and shook her head, setting her sapphires swinging. "Terrible goings-on. I swear, some people just breed indiscriminately and let their children grow up running like wild dogs. Blood will tell, you know," she said, as she always said. And, as always, it made Laurel grit her teeth on a contradiction she had been trained not to voice. "Anyway, the person I feel most sorry for is that poor Astor Cooper. All this went on right outside her window. Can you imagine?"
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."