With a sigh she dropped her gaze to the small china tray on the commode where she had left the little pile of oddities she'd come across recently. The gaudy earring no one would lay claim to, the matchbook from Le Mascarade she had found in her car, the necklace that had come in the plain white envelope. At a glance they seemed unrelated, harmless, but something about the way they had simply appeared made her uneasy. Looks could be deceiving. An earring with no mate. A matchbook with a name that conjured images of people in disguise. A necklace. There was no thread to tie the items to one another other than the mystery of their origin.
She lifted the necklace, draping the flimsy chain over her index finger. The little butterfly wobbled and danced in a bar of light that slanted through the door. It was probably Savannah 's, she told herself again. She'd left it somewhere with a lover. She was notoriously careless with her things. The man had sent it… in an envelope with no address. No. It had to have been left in the car. Unless the Bayou Breaux post office was employing psychics, blank envelopes didn't get delivered.
The obvious solution was to simply ask Savannah herself. Forgetting the hour, Laurel marched down the balcony to her sister's room and let herself in.
The bed was empty. The sheets were tangled. The same abandoned clothes littered the chairs and floor. The same sense of stillness as had been there the night before hung, damp and musty in the air.
The memory of that stillness hit Laurel like a wall. It had seemed so surreal, she had almost convinced herself it had been a dream, but here it was again with panic hard on its heels. Savannah hadn't slept in this bed. When was the last time anyone in the house had seen her? She had returned the Acura sometime Tuesday night or Wednesday morning-How did anyone know that? The car had been in the drive Wednesday morning, but no one had actually seen Savannah that day.
"Murders?" "… four now in the past eighteen months… women of questionable reputation… found strangled out in the swamp…"
"Oh, God," Laurel whispered as tears swam in her eyes and crowded her throat till it ached.
She clutched the little necklace in her fist and bit down hard on a knuckle as wild, terrible, conflicting images roared around in her head like debris caught up in a tornado wind. Savannah lying dead someplace. Savannah locked in combat with Annie Gerrard, her eyes glazed with blood lust. T-Grace screaming on the gallery at Frenchie's. Vivian relating the tale of the vandal at St. Joseph 's Rest Home. "Blood will tell." Blood. Blood from wounds. Bloodred-the color of the matchbook from Le Mascarade. Savannah's face blank as she tossed it on the table. "I use a lighter…" Savannah, finally pushed over that mental edge after all these years because of that son of a bitch Ross Leighton. Savannah, used by men, by Conroy Cooper, by Jimmy Lee Baldwin, who liked his women bound…
All of it whirled around and around in Laurel's mind like fractured bits of glass in a kaleidoscope, every picture uglier than the one before it, every possibility too terrible to be true. And over it all came the harsh voice of logic, scolding her for her foolishness, for her lack of faith, for her lack of evidence. All she really knew was that her sister wasn't home, and no one in the family had seen her since Tuesday. The only logical thing was to go looking for her.
She seized on the notion with a rush of relief and resolve. Don't fall apart, do something. Get results. Solve the mystery.
Focused, all the tension drawn into a tight ball of energy that lodged in her chest, she left the room and went to her own to get shoes and her purse. She would leave the back way, she thought as she trotted down the steps to the courtyard. No use alarming Aunt Caroline or Mama Pearl. She would find Savannah, and everything would be all right.
Mama Pearl was up already, shuffling out onto the gallery with a cup of coffee and the latest Redbook. She caught sight of Laurel the instant her sneaker touched ground at the foot of the stairs.
"Chile, what you doin' up dis hour?" she demanded, her brow furrowing under the weight of her worry.
Laurel pasted on a smile and stepped toward the back gate. "Lots to do, Mama Pearl."
The old woman snorted her disgust for modern femininity and tossed her magazine down on the table. "You come eat breakfast, you. You so little, the crows gonna carry you 'way."
"Maybe later!" Laurel called, waving, picking up the pace as she turned for the back gate.
She thought she could still hear Mama Pearl grumbling when she was halfway to L'Amour. It might have been her stomach, but she doubted it; it had gotten too used to being empty. Out of habit, she dug an antacid tablet out of her pocketbook and chewed it like candy.
She had left Jack to avoid the awkwardness of morning-after talk. What had passed between them during the night had gone far beyond words and into a realm of unfamiliar territory. But this was safe ground. She wanted to ask his opinion, tap his knowledge. It was like business, really. And friendship. She wanted his support, she admitted as Huey bounded between a pair of crepe myrtle trees and bore down on her with his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth and a gleam in his mismatched eyes.
The hound crashed into her, knocking her into the front door with a thud. As she called him a dozen names that defamed his character and his lineage, he pounced at her feet, yipping playfully, snapping at her shoelaces. He whirled around and leaped off the front step, running in crazy circles with his tail tucked, clearly overjoyed to see her. Laurel scowled at him as he dropped to the ground at the foot of the step and rolled over on his back, inviting her to scratch his blue-speckled belly.
"Goofy dog," she muttered, giving in and bending over to pat him. "Don't you know when you're being snubbed?"
"Love is blind," Jack said sardonically, swinging the door open behind her.
He was in the same rumpled jeans. No shirt. He hadn't shaved. A mug of coffee steamed in his hand. As Laurel stood, she could see that the brew was as black as night. She breathed in its rich aroma and tried to will her heartbeat to steady. He didn't look pleased to see her. The man who had held her and loved her through the night was gone, replaced by the Jack she would rather not have known, the brooding, angry man.
"If you've got some milk to cut that motor oil you're drinking, I could use a cup myself."
He studied her for a minute, as if trying to decipher her motives, then shrugged and walked into the house, leaving her to follow as she would. Laurel trailed after him down a long hall, catching glimpses of rooms that had stood unused for decades. Water-stained wallpaper. Moth-eaten draperies. Furnishings covered with dust cloths, and dust cloths thick with their namesake.
It was as if no one lived here, and the thought gave her an odd feeling of unease. Certainly Jack, The New York Times best-selling author, could afford to have the place renovated. But she didn't ask why he hadn't, because she had a feeling she knew. Penance. Punishment. L'Amour was his own personal purgatory. The idea tugged at her heart, but she didn't go to him as she longed to. His indifference to her presence set the ground rules for the morning-no clinging, no pledges.
He led her into a kitchen that, unlike the rest of the house, was immaculate. The red of the walls had faded to the color of tomato soup, but they were clean and free of cobwebs. The refrigerator was new. Cupboards and gray tile countertops had been cleaned and polished. The only sign of food was a rope of entwined garlic bulbs and one of red peppers that hung on either side of the window above the sink, but it was a place where food could be prepared without threat of ptomaine.
He pulled a mug down from the cupboard and filled it for her from the old enamel pot on the stove. Laurel helped herself to the milk-a perfect excuse to snoop. Eleven bottles of Jax, a quart of milk, a jar of bread-and-butter pickles, and three casseroles, each bearing a different name penned on a strip of masking tape like offerings for a church potluck supper. Lady friends taking care of him, no doubt. The thought brought a mix of jealousy and amusement.
She leaned back against the counter, stirring her coffee. "Have you seen Savannah since the other morning when she left in such a huff?"
"No. Why?"
"I haven't, either. Nor has Aunt Caroline or Mama Pearl." She fiddled with her spoon as the nerves in her stomach quivered. She fixed her gaze on Jack's belly button and the dark hair that curled around it. "I'm a little concerned."