In Silence Page 6
Avery smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Old Dixie went belly-up last year. The burned-out hulk's for sale. Myself, I can't see anyone buying it. It's a stinking eyesore on the countryside. And I mean that literally."
She arched an eyebrow in question and he laughed without humor. "Just wait. You haven't been here long enough to know what I'm talking about. When conditions are just right-the hu-midity's high, the temperature's warm and the wind's blowing briskly from the south, the sour smell of the plant inundates Cypress Springs. Folks close their windows and stay inside. Even so, it's damn hard to ignore."
"Makes it hard to forget, too, I'll bet." Avery wrinkled her nose. "Does the town have any recourse?"
"Nope, company's Chapter 7." He leaned toward her. "Can't squeeze blood out of a turnip. Waste of time to try."
Avery fell silent a moment, then looked at Buddy, returning to the original reason for her visit. "Why did Dad clip and save all these articles, all these years, Buddy?"
"Don't know, baby girl. I just don't know."
"Am I interrupting?" Matt asked from behind her.
Avery turned. Matt stood in the doorway, looking official in his sheriff's department uniform. "What're you doing here, son?"
"Do I need a reason to pop in to see my old man?"
"Course not." Buddy glanced at his watch. "But it's past lunch and the middle of a workday."
Matt shifted his gaze to hers. "You see why I chose the sheriff's department over the CSPD? He'd have been all over me, all day." Buddy snorted. "Right. Nobody needs to sit on top of you and you know it. You practically breathe that job." He wagged a finger at his son. "Truth be told, I wouldn't have had you work for me- I'd never have gotten a moment's peace."
"Slacker." Matt strode into the room, stopping behind Avery's chair. "You have a woman call in a missing person last week?" he asked his dad.
Buddy's expression tensed. "Yeah. What about it?"
"Just got off the phone with her. She thinks you're not doing anything on the case, asked the sheriff's department to check it out."
The older man leaned back in his chair. "I don't know what she expects. I've done everything I can do."
"Figured as much. Had to ask anyway."
Avery moved her gaze between the two men. "Do I need to go?"
"You're okay." Matt laid a hand on her shoulder. "In fact, you're an investigative reporter, you give us your take on this. Dad?"
Buddy nodded and took over. "I got a call last week from a woman who said her boyfriend contacted her by cell phone from just outside Cypress Springs. He told her he broke down and was going to call a service station for a tow. She never heard from him again."
"Where was he heading?" she asked.
"To St. Francisville. Coming from a meeting in Clinton."
"Why?"
"Business. Meeting with a client. He was in advertising."
"Go on."
"I spoke with every service station within twenty miles. Nobody got a call. I asked around town, put up flyers, haven't gotten a nibble. I told her that."
Matt moved around her chair and perched on the edge of the desk, facing her. "So, what do you think? She's screaming foul play."
"So where's the body?" Avery asked. "Where's the car?"
"And not any car. A Mercedes. Tough to lose one of those around here." Matt pursed his lips. "But why would this woman lie?"
"We see a lot of that in journalism. Everybody wants their fifteen minutes of fame. To feel important. Or in this woman's case, maybe to rationalize why her boyfriend hasn't called."
She glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly time for her meeting at Gallagher's. She stood. "I've got to go. Danny Gallagher is expecting me in at two." She looked at Buddy. "Thanks for taking all this time to talk to me, I appreciate it."
"If something comes to mind, I'll let you know." He came around the desk and kissed her cheek. "Are you going to be okay?"
"I always am."
"Good girl."
Matt touched her arm. "I'll walk you out."
They exited the station and stepped into the bright midday sun. Avery dug her sunglasses out of her handbag. She slipped them on and looked up to find him gazing at her.
"What were you and Dad talking about?"
"A box of newspaper clippings I found in Dad's closet. They were all concerning the same event, the Sallie Waguespack murder."
"That doesn't surprise me."
"It doesn't?"
"That's the story that blew this little burg wide open."
"I hardly remembered it until I read those clippings today."
"Because of Dad, I lived it." He grimaced. "The night of the murder, I heard him with Mom. He was…crying. It's the only time I ever heard him cry."
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I feel like such an ostrich. First Dad, now learning this. I wonder-" She bit the words back and shook her head. "I need to go. Danny's expecting-"
"You wonder what?" he asked, touching her arm. She let out a constricted-sounding breath. "I'm starting to wonder just what kind of person I am."
"You were young. It wasn't your tragedy."
"And what of now? What about my dad? Was that my tragedy?"
"Avery, you can't keep beating yourself up about this. You didn't light that match. He did."
But if she had been here for him, would he still have done it?
"I've got to go, Matt. Danny's waiting." She started off. He called her name, stopping her. She turned.
"Next Sunday? Spring Fest?"
"With you?"
He shot her his cocky smile. The one that had always had her saying yes when she should have been saying no. "If you think you could take an entire day of my company?"
She returned the smile. "I think I could manage it."
"Great. I'll give you a call about the time."
Pleased, she watched him head back to his cruiser. In that moment, he looked sixteen. Full of the machismo of youth, buoyed by a yes from the opposite sex.
"If you're not serious, just stay away. Just…stay…away."
Her smile slipped as she remembered Cherry's warning. Avery shook off the ripple of unease that moved over her. She was being ridiculous. Cherry was a sweet girl who was worried about her brother. Matt was lucky to have someone who cared so much about him.
CHAPTER 7
The Gavel called the meeting to order. All six of his generals were in attendance. Ready to do battle. To lay down their lives for their beliefs and their community.
Each believed himself a patriot at war.
He surveyed the group, proud of them, of his selections. They represented both the old and new guard of Cypress Springs. Wisdom invigorated by youth. Youth tempered by the wisdom of experience. A difficult combination to beat.
"Good evening," he said. "As always, I appreciate the sacrifice each of you made to be here tonight."
Because of the nature of the group, because some would not understand their motives-even those who stood to benefit most from their efforts, indeed, their sacrifice-they met in secret and under cover of late night. Even their families didn't know the location or true nature of these meetings.
"I have bad news," he told the group. "I have reason to believe Elaine St. Claire has contacted a Cypress Springs citizen."
A murmur went around the table. One of his generals spoke. "How certain are you of this?"
"Quite. I saw the letter myself."
"This is bad," another said. "If she's brazen enough to contact someone in Cypress Springs, she very well might contact the authorities."
"I plan to take care of it."
"How? Isn't she living in New Orleans?"
"She can destroy us," another interjected. "To leave Cypress Springs is to lose the safety of our number."
The Gavel shook his head, saddened. New Orleans had been the perfect place for her. Sin city. Anything went.
But, it seemed, she hadn't been able to help herself. No doubt, the passing
months had dimmed her fear, had lessened the immediacy of the danger. It was human nature, he acknowledged. He hadn't been surprised.
He was beginning to doubt the effectiveness of the warning system they had devised. Warnings rarely worked. Or only proved a short-term deterrent.
"She's in St. Francisville now," he said.
"Better," a general murmured. "We have friends there."
"We won't need them," the Gavel said. "I've planned a trap. A carefully executed trap."
"Lure her back to Cypress Springs," General Blue said. "Once here, she's ours."
"Exactly." He gazed from one face to another around the table. "Are we in agreement, shall I set the trap?"
The generals didn't hesitate. They had learned nothing good came with lack of conviction. Weakness opened the door to destruction.
The Gavel nodded. "Consider it done. Next? Any concerns?"
Blue spoke again. "A newcomer to Cypress Springs. An outsider. She's asking questions about The Seven. About our history."
The Gavel frowned. He'd heard, too. Outsiders always posed serious threats. They didn't understand what The Seven were fighting for. How seriously they took their convictions. Invariably, they had to be dealt with quickly and mercilessly.
Outsiders with knowledge of The Seven posed an even more significant danger.
Damn the original group, he thought. They'd been weak. They hadn't concealed their actions well. They hadn't been willing to take whatever measures were required, no matter the consequences to life or limb.
Too touchy-feely, the Gavel thought, lips twisting into a sneer. They'd bowed to internal fighting and the squeamishness of a few members. Bowed to a member who threatened to go to the American Civil Liberties Union and the Feds. And to any and all of those prissy-assed whiners who were sending this country to hell in a handbasket.
It made him sick to think about it. What about the rights of decent, law-abiding folks to have a safe, morally clean place to live?
That's where he and his generals differed from the original group. The Gavel had chosen his men carefully. Had chosen men as strong-willed as he. Men whose commitment to the cause mirrored his own in steadfastness and zeal.
He was willing to die for the cause.
He was willing to kill for it.
"The outsider," the Gavel asked, "anyone have a name yet?" No one did. A general called Wings offered that she had just moved into The Guesthouse.
The Gavel nodded. Her name would be easy to secure. One call and they would have it.
"Let's keep an eye on this one," he advised. "She doesn't make a move we don't know about. If she becomes more of a risk, we take the next step."
He turned to Hawk, his most trusted general. The man inclined his head in the barest of a nod. The Gavel smiled. Hawk understood; he agreed. If necessary, they would take care of this outsider the way they'd taken care of the last.
Determination flowing through him, he adjourned the meeting.
CHAPTER 8
The Azalea Cafe served the best buttermilk pancakes in the whole world. Fat, fluffy and slightly sweet even without syrup, Avery had never stopped craving them-even after twelve years away from Cypress Springs. And after a weekend spent preparing her childhood home for sale, Avery had decided a short stack at the Azalea wasn't just a treat-it was a necessity.
She stepped into the cafe. "Morning, Peg," she called to the gray-haired woman behind the counter. Peg was the third-generation Becnal to run the Azalea. Her grandmother had opened the diner when her husband had been killed in the Second World War and she'd needed to support her five kids.
"Avery, sweetheart." She came around the counter and gave Avery a big hug. She smelled of syrup and bacon from the griddle. "I'm so sorry about your daddy. If I can do anything, anything at all, you just let me know."
Avery hugged her back. "Thanks, Peg. That means a lot to me."
When the woman released her, Avery saw that her eyes were bright with tears. "Bet you came in for some of my world-famous pancakes."
Avery grinned. "Am I that transparent?"
"You ate your first short stack at two years old. I remember your daddy and mama like to have died of shock, you ate the whole thing. Every last bite." She smoothed her apron. "Have yourself a seat anywhere. I'll send Marcie over with coffee."
The nine-to-fivers had come and gone, leaving Avery her choice of tables. Avery slipped into one of the front window booths. She looked out the window, toward the town square. They had begun setting up for Spring Fest, she saw. City workers were stringing lights in the trees and on the gazebo. Friday night it would look like a fairyland.
A smile tipped the corners of her mouth. Louisianians loved to celebrate and used any opportunity to do so: the Blessing of the Fleet on Little Caillou Bayou, the harvest of the strawberries in Pontchatoula, Louisiana's musical heritage in New Orleans at the Jazz Fest, to name only a few. Spring Fest was Cypress Springs's offering, a traditional Louisiana weekend festival, complete with food booths, arts and crafts, music and carnival rides for the kids. People from all over the state would come and every available room in Cypress Springs would be booked. She had gone every year she'd lived at home.
"Coffee, hon?"
Avery turned. "Yes, thanks."
The girl filled her cup, then plunked down a pitcher of cream. Avery thanked her, added cream and sugar to her coffee, then returned her gaze to the window and the square beyond.
The weekend had passed in an unsettling mix of despair and gratitude, tears and laughter. Neighbors and friends had stopped by to check on her, bringing food, baked goods and flowers. The last time she'd seen most of them had been at her mother's funeral and then only briefly. The majority had stayed to chat, reliving times past-sharing their sweet, funny, outrageous and precious memories of her father. Some, too, shared their regret at not hav-ing acted on his bizarre behavior before it had been too late. The outpouring of concern and affection had made her task less painful.
But more, it had made her feel less alone.
Avery had forgotten what it was like to live among friends, to be a part of a community. Not just a name or a P.O. box number, but a real person. Someone who was important for no other reason than that they shared ownership of a community.
Avery sipped her coffee, turning her attention to her dad's funeral. Danny Gallagher had recommended Avery wake her father Wednesday evening, with a funeral to follow the next morning. He had chosen that day so the Gazette could run an announcement in both the Saturday and Wednesday editions. The whole town would want to pay their respects, he felt certain. This would offer them the opportunity to do so.
Lilah had insisted on opening her home for mourners after the service on Thursday. Avery had accepted, relieved.
Two days and counting.
Would burying him enable her to say goodbye? she wondered, curving her hands around the warm mug. Would the funeral give her a sense of closure? Or would she still feel this great, gaping hole in her life?
The waitress brought the pancakes and refilled her coffee. Avery thanked her and not bothering with syrup, dug in, making a sound of pleasure as the confection made contact with her taste buds.
In an embarrassingly short period of time, she had plowed through half the stack. She laid down her fork and sighed, contented.
"Are they as good as you remember?" Peg called from behind the counter.
"Better," she answered, pushing her plate away. "But if I eat any more I'll burst."
The woman shook her head. "No wonder you're so scrawny. I'll have Marcie bring your check."
Avery thanked her and turned back toward the square. She began to look away, then stopped as she realized that Hunter and his mother were standing across the street, partially hidden by an oak tree, deep in conversation.
Not a conversation, Avery saw. An argument. As she watched, Lilah lifted a hand as if to slap her son but he knocked her hand away. He was furious; Avery could all but feel his anger. And Lilah's despair.
Lilah was begging, Avery realized with a sense of shock. But for what? Her son's love? His attention? In the next moment, Hunter had strode off.
Lilah stared after him a moment, then seemed to crumble. She sagged against the tree and dropped her head into her hands.
Alarmed, Avery scooted out of the booth, hooking her handbag over her shoulder. "Peg," she called, hurrying toward the door, "could you hold my check? I'll be back later."
She didn't wait for the woman's answer but darted through the door and across the street.
"Lilah," she said gently when she reached the other woman. "Are you all right?"
"Go away, Avery. Please."
"I can't do that. Not when you're so upset."
"You can't help me. No one can."
She dropped her hands, turned her face toward Avery's. Ravaged by tears, stripped of makeup, she looked a dozen years older than the genteel hostess of the other night.
Avery held out a hand. "At least let me help you to your car. Or let me drive you home."
"I don't deserve your kindness. I've made so many mistakes in my life. With my children, my-" She wrung her hands. "God help me! It's all my fault! Everything's my fault!"
"Is that what Hunter told you?"
"I've got to go."
"Is that what Hunter told you? I saw you arguing."
"Let me go." She fumbled in her handbag for her car keys. Her hands shook so badly she couldn't hold on to them and they slipped to the ground.
Avery bent and snatched them up. "I don't know what he said to you, but it's not true. Whatever's wrong with Hunter is not your fault. He's responsible for the mess of his life, not you."
Lilah shook her head. "You don't know… I've been a terrible mother. I've done everything wrong. Everything!"
Lilah attempted to push past; Avery caught her by the shoulders. She forced the woman to meet her eyes. "That's not true! Think about Matt. And Cherry. Look how well they're doing, how happy they are."