Early evening, two days later
“Would you like a glass of wine before you go?” Cyrus asked. “Or something else?”
“Wine would be lovely.” Relief lightened Madge’s heart. Cyrus was accepting that she had a date—and she would like a glass of wine just to relax with for a few minutes.
“When’s Sig arriving?”
Madge looked at her watch. “He called and said he had a heavy clinic afternoon. He should be here in about forty-five minutes.”
She watched Cyrus get up. It was special when a man felt familiar, but still managed to speed up your pulse. He was like that. In an old, green-check shirt and black pants, and wearing scuffed black loafers, he looked comfortable…and irresistible at the same time.
Madge smiled at herself. She had a bad case; she’d had it forever. And it wasn’t as if she’d ever been a contrary sort. There had never been a time when she’d pined for something she couldn’t have—except for Cyrus.
“Red or white?” he said, picking up a bottle standing at the back of a counter. “I think this is going to be a good one. It’s a Cabernet Sauvignon—’76. I’ve been saving it.”
She joined him at the counter. “What have you been saving it for?”
Above his collar, his neck turned a little red. “Something special. A celebration. I’m hoping tonight will be the start of something new and special for you.”
He had a deep and rumbly voice, but it could still catch if he was emotional. It caught now, but he turned away and got out two glasses—two of the Waterford ones he’d told her an aunt had sent from Ireland when he was ordained.
Instead of following her instincts and protesting that he should not use the wine now, she said, “Thank you, Cyrus,” and touched his back lightly.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said, looking at her with suspiciously glittery blue eyes. “We had the old sitting room decorated because it’s been a mess for years, but we still haven’t used it. Let’s inaugurate it now.”
She smiled at him and nodded. Everything he said was about “we.” Wazoo had been right to notice that she, Madge, also said it. How long ago had she, Madge, become a “we” with Cyrus?
Carrying both glasses, he led the way into the corridor outside the kitchen and turned right. He managed to open a door—this one refinished and glowing. The next project would be the entire corridor and front hall.
“It’s so lovely,” Madge said. She had better think so, since picking the fabrics, wall colors and furniture had all been left to her.
“I’m glad you put in the fans,” Cyrus said.
He glanced at her sideways and they both laughed. Cyrus had thought the fans a frivolous waste of money at the time.
They sat down, one at either end of a couch covered with a red lotus-blossom design. Floor-to-ceiling drapes over the tall windows were striped and banded at the top with the same lotus blossoms. Madge sighed and worked her way farther into her corner of the couch.
“Look at you,” Madge said suddenly. “I can read your mind. You think the money should have been spent on something else. But this room was falling apart.”
Cyrus looked at her thoughtful brown eyes, her short, shiny, curly dark hair, and at that moment he would have signed for anything she wanted to do around here.
He felt the way she scrutinized him. There was no other word for it. Fate had dealt them a bitter lot, but then, it had also allowed them a lot of joy.
Madge rubbed her hands together and turned her face away from him. She didn’t usually wear pants, but she had on jeans today, and a white blouse. Very nice they looked, too, although he always preferred her in a dress.
“Are you going to drink both glasses of wine?” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“Oh. Sorry. I was taking another good look around in here. I think we should use it more. It’s very comfortable and…chic. That’s the word. My parents were tres chic, so I should know.”
Madge gave him an odd look, and he realized he’d never mentioned his family before, except for his sister Celine, who lived with her husband, Jack Charbonnet, and their children, in New Orleans.
“Do you think I should run upstairs and get changed?” Madge asked. “Sig didn’t say where he’s taking me, but I did bring a dress with me.”
She asked as if he were her brother or father. “Yes,” he said, and his throat hurt. “Go do it, then maybe we’ll still have a few more quiet minutes. I want to talk to you about the school and the center. I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t concerned. But we’re goin’ to get it done. Maybe we’ll have to think smaller is all.”
“Cyrus…” She wanted to talk about the heaviness pressing in on everyone in town. At the same time she wished she could shut it out. “It’s been three days and there’s nothing. Not a word about the case going forward.”
He sucked in his bottom lip. “Yes. From the complaints, you’d think people were mad at being questioned, but I think they’re grateful for any sign that official wheels are turning.”
Spike and his people continued to go door to door, questioning, searching for any small fragment that might lead to a break in the case. “Bleu’s very quiet, isn’t she?”
His expression became speculative. “Very. Does she seem as if she’s only worried about the parish? And Jim, of course. Or do you think there’s something else?”
“Nothing gets past you,” Madge said. “Of course there’s something—or someone—else. Roche.” The idea worried her.
“They aren’t talking about it to anyone else,” Cyrus said. “We’ll find out if we’re supposed to.”
“I don’t think—”
“Get changed,” he said. “Then you can make everything around here seem so plausible, I’ll wonder why I ever worried at all.”
“Exactly.” She put her glass beside his on a brass table.
Madge left quickly. She wasn’t a woman who needed a lot of fuss to make herself look lovely.
He got up and walked to a window. Colored lights from a long-ago party remained strung in the trees. Madge liked them, so they stayed, and he made sure any burned-out bulbs were replaced.
Madge had talked about how pretty a Christmas tree would look in here this year.
Families had Christmas trees. Priests didn’t.
He was feeling sorry for himself, and God deserved better than that from him. When he took his vows, he committed his life to the Church and he didn’t regret his decision.
If Sig Smith was the one for Madge, he had better treat her the way she deserved to be treated. At least the man was committed to Roche’s clinic in Toussaint and seemed to like living in the town. And Roche said Sig was reliable. Roche trusted Sig Smith, and that should be enough for Cyrus.
It might be wrong, but Cyrus knew he wouldn’t relax until he could see that Madge was happy with…another man. She needed marriage and children. Madge loved children.
There were other things he should be thinking about, like the senseless murder of a good man. With the exception of Ozaire, no one had a notion who had killed Jim. Or, if they did, they weren’t sharing their thoughts.
Spike and his deputies must have interviewed every person in this town by now and learned nothing substantial. He intended to repeat the rounds of questioning and only grew more grim-faced and determined.
The phone rang, startling Cyrus. He picked up. “Father Cyrus Payne,” he said.
“Father, this is serious,” a man said. “I don’t understand why there ain’t nothin’ been done to take the suspect into custody.”
“Who is this?” Cyrus said.
“Why, it’s Ozaire. You know me, Father.”
Cyrus sighed and slid to sit on the couch again. “Yes, I do. How are you, Ozaire?”
“Mad, that’s how I am. Excuse me for sayin’ so, Father. What’s the matter with Spike Devol? He’s got all the proof he needs. What’s he waiting for?”
An unpleasant feeling gripped Cyrus’s stomach. Nothing stayed secret around here. “What would that be?”
“You just bein’ difficult,” Ozaire said. “Excuse me for sayin’ so, Father. I know all about those footprints. A woman’s footprints. I already told you what Kate Harper said about Jim. I told Spike, too, and I’m sure he talked to her. She needs to be picked up.”
“And you, Ozaire, need to start using your head.” Cyrus breathed deeply and tried to calm his thudding heart. “Who told you about the prints?”
“I’ve got my sources.”
“Of course you do. I’m told Kate Harper has arthritis. She isn’t someone who could climb around in high-heeled shoes.”
Ozaire cackled. “Shows what you know. And shows how much you notice, too. Miz Harper, she loves to dance. Lil told me that’s one of the things she had against poor Jim. He didn’t dance. And the arthritis is in her neck, not her feet—if it’s anywhere at all. You better get a good look at her shoes. There’s some around here calls her Imelda.”
Madge came through the door, her head tilted to one side while she put some sort of shiny thing in her hair.
“This is what I want you to do, Ozaire,” Cyrus said. “Go to see Spike again and ask him your questions directly.”
“But I thought you’d—”
“You thought I’d carry these tales of yours to Spike? I can’t do that. He’ll want to hear from you himself. I’m busy here, Ozaire. Look—”
“I’m not sayin’ she did it herself,” Ozaire interrupted. “Someone needs to look into any strangers in town. I reckon Kate hired herself a hit man.”
Cyrus closed his eyes and made himself wait a moment. Then he said, “Thank you for calling, Ozaire. Look after yourself and God bless you.”
When he put down the phone and looked up, Madge frowned at him. “What was all that?”
“Ozaire is still trying to convict Kate Harper of murder. Tomorrow, I’m going to visit her again, myself. She’s got to know there are very few people who believe these crazy stories. And she’ll have heard them by now, I’m afraid.”
“She surely will,” Madge said. She walked to the table and picked up her glass. She gave Cyrus his. “You’re going to see her tomorrow, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“I’ll come with you,” Madge said. “I’m overdue to see her, anyway. Now let’s have those few quiet minutes.”
He tipped up his glass and swallowed some of the wine. It flooded him with warmth and he wished he could hold on to that.
What Madge had put in her hair was a comb. Along the top there were tiny blue crystals set very close together, covering the bar. The comb pulled her hair back at one side.
“I like your hair like that,” he said. “And the comb. And the earrings!” He laughed. “Sapphire earrings look good on you.”
“They’re fake,” she said, but she smiled with pleasure. “Pretty good, though.”
Madge never wore much makeup. She didn’t have a lot on tonight, but her eyelashes, always thick, looked even thicker and darker and she wore lipstick, a pinkish brown that showed off how pretty her full mouth was.
“Now you’re checking out the makeup,” she said. “Is it too much?”
“Oh, no. It’s just right.”
Her laugh made him smile. “As if you’d know anything about makeup,” she said.
He gave her a withering look. “I know enough to recognize when a woman’s turned herself into a clown or just added some nice color. You’re in that group, the nice-color group.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’ve never seen you in a better dress.” Shiny blue silk, the skirt fitted quite tightly and finished a couple of inches above the knee. The top was one of those halter things that crossed over in front and went around the neck, leaving her back bare. “Just…Sig Smith is a lucky man and he’d better appreciate it.”
Madge laughed. “Are you sure you don’t have a shotgun hidden away around here?”
“If I needed a shotgun, I probably couldn’t wait to cock it before I pummeled the life out of Sig Smith.”
Unfortunately, he meant every word he said and it was time to control himself. “Sit down,” he said, eyeing her shoes. “And don’t fall over in those things.”
The heels of her shoes were high and narrow; thin straps fastened around her slim ankles.
He didn’t want her to go out with Sig Smith, or any other man. Men were all instinct, and she would have the kind of effect on Sig that would have his instincts doing cartwheels.
Madge crossed her legs.
“Do you like the wine?” Cyrus asked. He concentrated on his own glass, but not before he’d seen her skirt rise high on her thighs, and looked at the vulnerable underside of her leg above one knee. Her shoulders and arms were smooth.
“It’s good wine,” Madge said. She looked too serious. “I completely forgot to ask if Millie is okay here with you overnight.”
“I like her here,” he said honestly. He liked the gentle warmth from the little body curled against him in his bed. “You just have a good time.”
“What do you think about Roche’s idea to see about the Cashman land?” Madge asked.
“It would be a great idea if St. Cecil’s had any way of raising the money to buy it. If it’s even for sale. But it’s impossible.”
“Probably,” said Madge. “But I would like to know who owns that parcel, wouldn’t you? I never thought about it before, but now it’s a mystery. I don’t know of anyone called Cashman. You know how I like to solve mysteries.”
“I imagine Roche intends to do that,” he said. With every second, he struggled between wanting her to stay and wishing she would go quickly so he couldn’t look at her anymore or think about Sig Smith’s hand at her waist, his thumb resting on bare skin.
He would want to kiss and hold her.
He would want more than that.
Cyrus looked away. He bent forward and propped his elbows on his knees.
“What is it?” Madge asked.
“Nothing.” Now he sounded like a petulant teenager. “It’s been a long, hard day. I’ll try to catch up on some sleep after you leave.”
“You should.” She got up and sat down again, near to him. “You keep going as if you don’t have the needs other people have. But you do, my friend.” She rubbed her fingertips up and down his spine.
She didn’t have any idea what she did when she touched him like that.
“I know when I’m pushing too hard,” he told her. “I have ordinary needs that get in the way when I want to keep going. But I do know when I’m worn out. Don’t worry about me.”
“I do. I always will.”
He checked his watch. “Shouldn’t Sig be here?”
“Any time now,” she said. “Unless he’s got cold feet.”
“Fat chance.” Cyrus looked back at her. She wore a very light, lemon-scented perfume. “Where’s Millie?”
“I fibbed.” Madge winced. “I didn’t forget to ask you if she could stay, I just took you for granted. She’s on your bed. I told her she was staying with you and she went right up there.”
Cyrus slept in a simple room on the third floor. It had been built beneath the rafters of the house and had a single dormer window. He felt peaceful there—most of the time. “You can take me for granted. You should hear what Millie and I say about you when you’re not around.”
She giggled, then hitched at the bodice of her dress.
“Is that thing behind your neck going to stay?” The bow she’d tied seemed ready to unravel.
Madge turned away from him. “Make sure it will. Put a knot in it, then tie the bow.”
Bows were not Cyrus’s forte but he dutifully undid the one that was ready to come undone, looked over her shoulders to make sure he had the fabric even and straight. He felt the weight of her breasts and might as well have been kicked in the gut.
“Do you want me to do it?” Madge raised her arms, showing the side of a breast. How pale the skin was there.
“I can do it.” Once he concentrated he got a fresh knot tied with little problem. “Maybe I should just put the ends flat. The bow sticks up a lot on top of the double knot.”
“Good idea.”
Cyrus spread the ends of the ties against her back, smoothing away wrinkles. This should feel forbidden to him, but it didn’t. Such a simple, but intimate gesture seemed natural, right.
“That looks okay.” He tweaked one last time, let his fingertips drift down over her shoulder blades, and moved away. He picked up his wine again.
“Thank you.” Madge still faced away from him.
The front doorbell rang and Cyrus sprang to his feet. “That’ll be Sig.”
“Stay here,” Madge said, standing herself. “You don’t have to greet someone here to see me.”
“It’s more appropriate,” Cyrus told her, waving her back onto the couch. “Sit there and sip your wine. Look nonchalant. Not a bit eager. It won’t hurt for him to know I’m responsible for you.”
“You’re not,” Madge said, but she sat down yet again.
“You spend most of your time here with me. You have no male relatives to look after you. I am responsible for you. That’s the way it is.”