Chapter Two

FOUR HOURS LATER Margaret wasn’t feeling much better. Her nap had been haunted by unpleasant dreams—men with guns, mysterious thumps overhead and a man named Peter who had to be watched. She wished she could remember what Dexter had said about his cousins, his family. It hadn’t been much. Dexter had been far too interested in the roll of the dice, the turn of a card, to waste time on conversations with his wife and daughter.

It was his gambling that had led them to their final, desperate predicament. His death in a car accident, one that just might have been arranged by his creditors, had left Margaret and Carrie destitute and frightened. She’d sent a telegram to Maison Delacroix more out of duty than the feeling that anyone would actually care, and the response hadn’t been encouraging. Gertrude’s invitation and offer of shelter hadn’t been warmly made—it had been tantamount to an order, and Margaret, finally free of a man she had come to hate, wasn’t about to take any more orders.

Until she’d had no choice. She still wasn’t certain she’d made the right decision, but there had been no other choice. She’d gotten only partway through her graduate studies when the money had run out, and Margaret had learned that Dexter couldn’t be trusted with their infant daughter while Margaret went to classes. She could type, with more speed than accuracy, but bringing a child along on job interviews didn’t exactly impress prospective employers, and their resources had dwindled into nothingness, ending with them being locked out of their fifth-rate apartment in Tucson.

She should be reveling in the comfort and safety of Maison Delacroix. Someone was actually cooking for her, her bedroom was larger than the entire Tucson apartment and Carrie, with the adaptability of the young, seemed charmed with the entire place. If only Margaret could get rid of her positively Gothic sense of foreboding.

She dressed for dinner, or at least as close as she could come to it with her limited wardrobe. She owned one dress, a depressing black number she’d worn to Dexter’s funeral, every single job interview and whenever all her jeans and T-shirts needed washing. It made her look even taller, even skinnier, and her unfortunate shade of hair even brighter, but it would have to do.

“You look nice, Ma,” Carrie said, surveying her critically. Carrie didn’t own a dress, and if she did, she’d probably refuse to wear it. She was now at a point of rejecting all traces of femininity and preferred to be called by anything other than her name.

“Thanks, kid. So do you.” She smoothed back Carrie’s short-cropped red hair and looked into those unmistakable Delacroix eyes. She’d never known where that piercing shade of brown had come from, until she’d met Gertrude hours earlier. That family resemblance made her feel a little more comfortable in her captivity. “Baby, we don’t have to stay here too long. Just long enough for me to get a job and earn a little money. Enough to give us a head start.”

“I like it here,” Carrie said. “Better than Arizona. Can’t we just stay here for a while? I was getting tired of moving around all the time.”

Margaret sighed. “So was I, sweetheart. So did I.”

“THERE YOU ARE, Margaret.” Gertrude greeted her from her throne like perch in the middle of the salon. “Your cousins were wondering where you were.”

Not my cousins, Margaret thought, but she plastered an amiable smile on her face. She was going to be pleasant and conciliatory if it killed her. “I’m sorry. I overslept.”

“Don’t let Grandmère intimidate you,” a soft, slow, Southern voice assured her.

Margaret turned, matching the face and body with the voice. Cousin Wendell, she guessed. It couldn’t be Peter—no one was watching this man. Before she could say anything he enveloped her in an embrace, kissing her lightly on her parted lips. “Welcome to Louisiana, Cousin. And welcome to Maison Delacroix.”

“Stop flirting,” a pretty, dark-haired woman said. “Give her a chance to meet you before you start pawing.”

“Children!” A faint, reproving voice issued from a faded gray lady on the other side of the sofa. “No squabbling in front of company.”

“Margaret’s not company,” the man said, smiling down at her. “She’s family. Kissing cousins.”

Margaret took a hasty step backward in case he was about to repeat his salute, but he merely kept hold of her hand. “Allow me to make the introductions, Margaret. I’m Wendell Delacroix, Dexter’s cousin. That sharp-tongued brunette is my sister, Lisette, and heaven only knows what her current last name is. My mother’s beside her on the couch—she’d be your Aunt Eustacia, and Uncle Remy’s over by the bar.” He looked down at Carrie’s skeptical expression as she stood as close to her mother as she possibly could. “And this must be your adorable daughter, Carrie.”

Carrie could tell a con job a mile away, Margaret thought with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “No, I’m not,” Carrie said flatly. “Call me ‘Sam.’”

“We certainly won’t,” Gertrude announced. “Your name is Carrie, and that’s what you’ll be referred to in my presence. And in this family, young lady, we dress for dinner.”

“I don’t own a dress.”

“I don’t own a dress, Grandmère,” Gertrude corrected. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

“I don’t wear dresses.” Carrie’s piquant little face had a mutinous look.

“Then you may eat in the kitchen with Mrs. McKinley.”

At that Carrie’s face lit up. “It’s a deal,” she agreed cheerfully.

It was past time for Margaret to intervene. She’d resigned herself to a certain amount of interference once she’d acceded to Gertrude’s summons, but there were limits. “Where’s Cousin Peter?” she inquired innocently.

A dead silence filled the room. Aunt Eustacia, a pale woman of indeterminate age, lowered her eyes; Uncle Remy, a well-dressed, florid-faced gentleman in his sixties, poured himself another drink and stared into it as if seeking the answers to life’s eternal mysteries, and even Wendell flushed. He was a very attractive man, Margaret thought absently, though a bit too much like his late-cousin Dexter. He was tall, with wavy blond hair, a well-defined brow and nose, and cheerful blue eyes. She would need to watch herself very carefully—wavy blond hair still might have the ability to addle her brains.

“Cousin Peter doesn’t usually join us for dinner,” Gertrude announced repressively.

“Thank God,” Lisette murmured, lighting a cigarette and blowing a thin stream of smoke in her mother’s direction. “This company is jolly enough.” She rose and crossed the room to Margaret with a graceful glide accentuated by the designer silk dress that was clearly made for her well-curved body. “Watch out for Southern gentleman, Cousin Margaret. You should have learned your lesson with dear Dexter. Keep away from my brother, and most particularly keep away from Cousin Peter. He’s a lady-killer.”

“Lisette!” Wendell’s voice was a shocked hiss. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

“I certainly have,” she acknowledged cheerfully, waving her cigarette a bit wildly. “And so has Uncle Remy. What else can you do in the armpit of the South? It’s a wonder everyone hasn’t gone crazy by now.”

“Watch your tongue, Lisette,” Gertrude warned, her quiet voice deadly. “Or you may eat in the kitchen as well.”

“It might be preferable to this charming bunch,” she announced with a sweeping gesture that sprinkled ashes all over Margaret’s black dress.

By this time Uncle Remy had lumbered gracefully from the bar, two drinks in hand. He presented one to Margaret with a courtly flourish. “Drink up, Cousin Margaret,” he said in his gently slurred voice. “It’s the only way to survive an evening en famille at Maison Delacroix.”

“This is boring,” Carrie declared, having correctly picked up the unpleasant atmosphere. “I’m going to the kitchen. See you later, Ma.”

“See you later, kid,” Margaret said faintly, wishing she could follow her daughter’s sturdy little figure. She took a sip of her drink, then bit back a choking cough. Remy Delacroix had poured her a tall glass of straight whiskey.

“She’s delightful,” Wendell said fondly. “So unspoiled.”

“So fresh,” Lisette muttered, wandering over to the window.

“Give it up, Lisette,” Wendell told her sharply. “Can’t we have a pleasant meal for once?”

“I don’t think so.” The soft, whispery voice floating up from the self-effacing Eustacia had the effect of capturing everyone’s attention. “He’s coming.”

No one in the room, with the exception of a bewildered Margaret, had to ask what she meant. Lisette, with a short, sibilant curse, stubbed out her cigarette. Wendell moved swiftly to turn off the radio that Margaret hadn’t even heard, and Gertrude sighed a long-suffering sigh, belied by the gleam in her dark eyes.

“He must have heard you were here, my dear,” Remy said sweetly. “Better drink up. You’re going to need it.”

“We’re not going to have one of his awful policemen at dinner, are we?” Lisette demanded plaintively. “They slurp their soup.”

“There are worse things in this life than being underbred,” Wendell intoned.

“Name one,” Lisette retorted.

“Your nasty tongue, Cousin.”

A new voice had entered the fray, and the assembled Delacroix and Jaffreys turned in silence to face the newcomer. Margaret followed suit, more with curiosity than with dread, to see what the mysterious Peter Delacroix looked like.

He was without a keeper, standing alone in the drawing room doorway, and indeed, he didn’t look as though he needed a burly policeman to keep him in line. He was tall like the other Delacroix and Jaffrey cousins, but slighter, wirier than either Wendell or Dexter. His hair was darker, a deep chestnut, and his eyes were neither the bright blue of Wendell’s nor the piercing brown of his grandmother’s. She couldn’t quite tell their color from that distance, but she presumed they were a nondescript hazel. What they lacked in color they more than made up for in glittering intelligence.

He had a narrow face, high cheekbones and a wide mouth that was curved in a cynical smile as he greeted the clearly unwelcoming members of his family. There was no denying that the man was freaking gorgeous, with an oddly muffled intensity that made her uneasy. If he needed a keeper it was probably to keep away the hordes of women who wanted to throw themselves at his feet. Next to Peter, Wendell’s blond attractions paled into insignificance, and Dexter’s charms were completely forgettable.

“How lovely that you decided to come down, dear Peter,” Gertrude said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “It might have been nice if you’d informed me instead of your Aunt Eustacia.”

“Oh, I didn’t inform Aunt Eustacia. One of her little voices must have told her. Isn’t that right, Auntie?”

He didn’t have quite the drawl the other men had. Just the trace of a liquid slide in his deep voice, more a promise of long, slow, hot nights and steamy days.

Eustacia tucked a lace-edged handkerchief into the sleeve of her mauve chiffon dress. “Laugh at them all you want, Peter. My voices know a great deal more than most of the people around here.”

Peter advanced into the room, his mocking gaze dancing over each of the inhabitants, avoiding Margaret’s fascinated stare. Unlike the other men, he was dressed casually in faded denims and a wrinkled khaki shirt. He sniffed the air, cocking an inquiring eye at Lisette. “Smoking again, Cousin? I wonder if I might trouble you for a light?”

“Cut it out, Peter,” Lisette grumbled. “You’re not funny, and your new audience can’t even appreciate your wit.” Still Peter didn’t look at Margaret, turning his attention to Wendell, instead. “Hullo, dear Cousin. Did you turn off the music for my sake? I promise to behave myself. I’ll just sit in the corner and drink my soup in complete silence.”

“Don’t be an ass, Peter,” Wendell said heavily. “We’re glad you felt like coming down to meet our new cousin.”

A curious sweetness touched Peter’s malicious smile. “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

He turned then, directing the full force of his gaze at Margaret, and she realized with a shock that his eyes weren’t hazel at all. They were green, like hers. As he looked into them it gave her the unnerving sensation of seeing into the mirror of her own soul.

“Cousin,” he said softly, advancing, and she steeled herself for another hearty embrace, dreading it. She’d survived Wendell’s exuberance, but for some unnamed reason she felt Peter’s embrace could be far more dangerous to her shaky equilibrium.

To her relief he stopped short of touching her, moving close enough so that she could feel his body heat, close enough so that she felt cornered, invaded, and yet could do nothing about it. Not without backing into Wendell’s immovable body.

“Welcome to Maison Delacroix,” Peter said softly. “Or as we call it, Maison Diable. Do you smoke?”

“Enough of that, Peter, or I’ll have you taken back upstairs,” Gertrude said sharply. “If you’re joining us, try to behave yourself.”

“Grandmère, I always behave myself,” Peter said, his gaze never leaving Margaret’s. “We have something in common, Cousin,” he said softly.

“What’s that?” She was amazed at how even her voice sounded.

“We’ve both been widowed.”

“Oh, God,” Lisette muttered, reaching for her cigarettes.

In a flash Peter was beside her, reaching for her silver filigree lighter. “Can I light that for you, darling?” he inquired smoothly.

Lisette slapped at his hands, shoving her cigarettes and lighter back in her pocket. “For heaven’s sake, behave yourself.”

“I think Mrs. McKinley must be ready by now,” Gertrude announced, rising from her seat and moving forward. “Peter, you may escort me in to dinner.”

“I came down to meet my new cousin, Grandmère. Let Remy take you in.”

“Peter.” She never raised her voice, but, then, she didn’t have to. With an almost imperceptible shrug Peter reached down and took the tiny woman’s arm, leading her with surprising gentleness out into the hallway to the dining room across the way. Margaret watched with unease and fascination as the Jaffreys began a stately procession that seemed to hearken from another century, Remy with the petulant Lisette, Wendell with his mother. He held out his other arm for Margaret, but enough was enough.

“You go ahead,” she murmured. “I’ll be right behind.” Apparently Mrs. McKinley was privy to the same occult voices Eustacia was. There was a place set for Peter, one across from Margaret, and the thought of spending an entire meal avoiding that too familiar green gaze vanquished what little appetite Margaret had left. She hadn’t felt like eating for what seemed like weeks, maybe months, and the tangled politics of the Delacroix family were not the sort of thing to tempt her.

Two unlit candelabra decorated the center of the huge walnut table. Candlelight would have been nice, she thought, softening the edges of the shabby room. But for some reason matches seemed a dangerous subject around Peter.

If she expected the bickering to continue she was in for a happy surprise. The barbed undercurrents vanished once the disparate crew sat down to eat, and the conversation, with its topics of the weather, neighborhood gossip and politics was innocuous enough to be boring to someone who hadn’t yet experienced the weather, didn’t know the neighbors and didn’t care about local politics. She sat quietly, content to be ignored, as she toyed with the excellent gumbo, watching each member of the household in turn. All except the man across from her, the man who appeared to be the greatest mystery of all.

The conversation flowed around her, the warmth of the room added to her exhaustion and she found her eyelids drooping over the creamy chocolate cake that already had a piece missing by the time it was brought to the table. Margaret knew where that piece had gone, knowing her daughter’s fondness for all things chocolate, and the feeling that at least Carrie had found a friend, a protector in Mrs. McKinley, went a long way toward settling her mind.

“I have a few things to discuss with you, Wendell,” Peter was saying as he pushed his plate away. His expression was lazy, innocent, his eyes watchful as he glanced at Lisette’s pack of cigarettes.

“Certainly, old man. Is now as good a time as any?” Wendell asked promptly.

“If the others will excuse us.”

“Go ahead, boys,” Gertrude waved them away. “I’m glad you felt up to joining us, Peter. We don’t see enough of you.”

Peter’s smile held a peculiarly sad sweetness to it, and he brushed a kiss against Gertrude’s withered cheek as he passed by. “I’m sorry, Grandmère.”

She touched his hand. “Don’t fret about it, my child.”

Margaret waited until the dining room door had closed behind the two men. She opened her mouth to ask all the inevitable questions that had been building up, when Gertrude forestalled her with an imperious gesture.

“I’m tired. Eustacia, help me to bed. Remy, give Mrs. McKinley a hand with the dishes, and don’t drink too much. And Lisette?”

“Yes, Grandmère,” Lisette murmured, lighting her long-awaited cigarette and taking a deep drag.

“Watch what you say.”

“Yes, Grandmère.”

“Good night, Margaret. Welcome to Maison Delacroix.”

“Thank you, Gertrude. It’s good to be here,” she murmured politely, remembering Peter’s scathing term. Maison Diable. House of the Devil, or Hell House. The only devil in this house seemed to be Peter Delacroix himself.

Neither Lisette nor Margaret moved from the table as the two older ladies left the room. Lisette’s blue eyes, when they met Margaret’s, were cool and knowing. “You ready for the details?” she inquired, blowing smoke out in a long, steady stream.

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if I wasn’t,” Margaret replied with some asperity. She didn’t particularly care for Lisette, but if she wanted to find out the truth of what was going on here, she’d be most likely to get it, without frills, from the cool, cynical female across from her.

“We don’t smoke or light candles or have fires in the fireplace in front of Peter.”

“I gathered that much. The question is, why?”

“We can’t play the radio or record player, and we have to be careful about the television when he’s around. Classical music, Mozart and the like, is safe. But nothing modern. No rock, no country, no Cajun music, which is all the radio stations play around here.”

“I’ll ask you again. Why?”

Lisette’s smile was devoid of charm, exposing sharp white teeth.

“Because my cousin Peter is a nut case, incarcerated in the attics of Maison Delacroix instead of the state institution, where he belongs. Most of the time he’s harmless enough but give him an open flame and he’ll set anything he can on fire. Play country music in his hearing and he rips off his clothes and curls up in the fetal position. Either that or he starts to smash things. Believe me, it can be most embarrassing if you happen to be entertaining at the time.”

Margaret stared at her, horrified. “He didn’t look as if he were mentally unbalanced.”

“He’s not mentally unbalanced, honey. He’s loony. Nutty as a fruitcake. You ever been to an asylum, Cousin Margaret?”

“No.”

“Well, I have. Peter was placed in one for a few months before we got the authorities to let him be kept at home. And let me tell you, sugar, you couldn’t tell the crazies from the doctors in that place.”

“Shouldn’t he be getting some help? He shouldn’t just be locked away . . .”

“Oh, Doc Pitcher checks in on him a couple of times a week, he has occupational therapy and they have him loaded up with drugs to keep him peaceful. He’s safe enough, and if there’s any chance he’ll get better, then Doc Pitcher should be able to help. Personally I don’t think he’s going to get better. I think he’s going to spend the rest of his days up there in the attic. I just hope to God I don’t inherit him along with the house.”

“Are you going to inherit the house?”

Lisette shrugged. “Who knows? Uncle Remy isn’t going to get married at this late date, and Dexter was disinherited years ago, so don’t go expecting any of the gravy, Cousin. That leaves Wendell and me. I expect we’ll work something out. But I won’t take the Maison if it means I get the loony in the attic.”

“Maybe he’ll be well by then.”

“Grandmère’s eighty-six. She can’t live forever, and Peter isn’t getting any better. He’s been up there for two years now.”

“Two years in the attic,” Margaret echoed, horrified. “Where was he before that?”

“New Orleans.”

“In a mental institution?”

“You might say. Better known as the University of Louisiana. He was head of the history department.”

“You mean he wasn’t always ill?”

Lisette lit another cigarette from the stub of her first one. “Ill? If you want to call it that, sugar. Hell, no. He’s only been crazy since February 14, 2015.”

She could tell from Lisette’s breathless, parted pink lips that she was just waiting for Margaret’s next question. If she’d been a better woman she wouldn’t have asked; she would have let Lisette stew in her own malice. But she couldn’t help it—curiosity had always been one of her besetting sins.

“What happened on February 14, 2015, Lisette?”

“Why, dear Cousin Peter strangled his wife and then burned her body in the little guest house out back of here.” She leaned back, and Margaret thought she saw a triumphant smile on her smug, beautiful face.

“And that’s when Peter went crazy,” she finished.