Chapter Eighteen

Suzanne’s story

“Give her overnight,” Sheriff Duval said. “The woman’s had marriage problems. No sign of struggle in the room. Could be a stunt to get her husband back or gain George’s attention. Could be she threw herself in the bayou. I’ll start asking around today. See if anyone’s seen her. If she doesn’t turn up, we’ll make it formal tomorrow. Mornin’, Miss Hudson, George, Doc. And you, Birdie, you, too.” He tipped his hat directly at the maid and left.

With a weary step, Dr. Sonnier followed the sheriff. George shrugged Suzanne off and said he had to get to work. He phoned later to say he might go over to Linc’s that night, not to wait up for him. She thought that was a good idea, knowing he’d talk things out with his friend, maybe get over being mad at her and realize she’d been trying to help. Birdie gave her the silent treatment. She went about her work as if she were the only person in the house.

Suzanne made her own lunch and walked out for the mail afterwards. Relieved, she found nothing from Paul for a change. She read a long, newsy letter from her mother, mostly about how bitterly cold it had been, would winter never end? Her brother, the lawyer, had won another case and might possibly be settling down with one woman at last. How was her only daughter doing? Had she met any nice men besides her employer? And Mom remained glad she did not live alone in Philadelphia anymore. The serial killer had struck again last week, a young woman exactly Suzanne’s age stabbed to death in her bedroom. That made twelve victims in less than a year. Nothing like this had ever happened in her day. Sure, Mom.

Suzanne tried to work on her paper but felt too restless and wandered the house, double checking information on the furnishings. By the time she returned to her room, Birdie had made the bed and neatly repacked Cherie’s clothes as if the woman would return at any minute and scold if the work had not been done. The window to the bedroom was latched again. Suzanne wondered if the linens had been changed. She’d prefer sleeping in this room rather than Virginia’s, but not in sheets smelling of Cherie and George together.

She didn’t own the man, hadn’t even wanted him until that night in the cabin when dull, stable George turned out to be a devil in the sack. Ironically, George St. Julien was her ideal man—steady, nice, and a wonderful lover. Now, he despised her for meddling and wanted Cherie Angers. Magnolia Hill had no bodies under the beds but plenty of skeletons in the closet. She simply couldn’t resist dragging them out and dusting them off like forgotten priceless antiques. Everyone had been unmasked now, thanks to the interference of Suzanne Hudson.

The telephone rang. Hoping George called, she got halfway down the stairs in an instant, but Birdie answered.

“Oh, no, oh Lawd, Lawd,” she kept saying softly to the voice on the line. Hanging up, the housekeeper sat in the chair by the phone and wept.

“What is it?” Suzanne asked. “Is it George? Your son? What happened?”

“Doc Sonny’s dead. Took his own life this afternoon. Odette St. Julien done heard it from the Sonnier’s maid. Left a long letter saying to his wife how he was a liar, an adulterer, and a thief, and asking for her forgiveness. Left letters for his children and Mr. George. They say he went into Opelousas with his son after he finished his morning appointments. Come back an hour or so later and said he would be going up to his bedroom to rest before the afternoon patients, give himself a shot of something in the arm, and died.”

Birdie didn’t say it, but Suzanne knew what she thought. This was the city girl’s fault, all her prying Yankee fault. Rip off the mask and some men crumbled, some stood tall, and some men showed an entirely different nature.

Paul was like that, a man in a mask, impeccably dressed and well-mannered, a methodical perfectionist but underneath filled with rage. What had his last letter said? “I’m coming to get you,” just what they all said, another note to be disregarded and thrown in the trash. What if George had been telling the truth and hadn’t gone to Cherie’s room or tussled with her on the balcony? Had Paul come last night and found Cherie Angers in her bed? Had the kidnapped Cherie taken a knife meant for Suzanne and wielded by a serial killer from Philadelphia?

She knew which bed she would have to lie in that night. The one she had made for herself—and she’d be sleeping in it alone. Sure, she could call Sheriff Duval and share more of her fine crime solving skills with him. He would love that. He was probably going to be one of Jefferson Sonnier’s pallbearers. Besides, she hadn’t kept even one of Paul’s letters. No evidence to show. No blood, no knife in the room, only a missing woman who had slept where Suzanne should have been, an old flame who thought at one a.m. her former boyfriend wanted to play wicked games. Cherie had laughed when Paul carried her away. Could she still laugh now?

Birdie, upset by Doc Sonny’s suicide, went home early. George did not return, and the dark set in. Having creeped herself out with her theory about Paul, Suzanne stayed dressed in practical clothes—jeans and a shirt—and tucked a carving knife from the kitchen under her pillow. She put out the lights and drew the covers up to her chin. She lay there, so tense and afraid she quaked under the quilts. Near midnight, she heard a sound at the window. A dark figure filled the frame. The sash jerked so hard the ancient latch snapped open. Clutching her knife, she prayed.

“Oh, please, God, let it be George in his mask and cape. Let this all be for fun where no one dies and everyone lives happily ever after. Please!”

The person leaning over the bed was not George. Suzanne stared up at the face concealed by a black ski mask and tried to rip the butcher knife from under her pillow. His hand clamped on her wrist. He took the knife away easily, twisted her arm behind her back, and hauled his former girlfriend from the bed. Suzanne figured she deserved to suffer for the pain she’d given Paul, George, Birdie, and most of all, Doc Sonny.