Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

Like ghosts, she heard the voices of her childhood-Savannah's wild laugh, her own shy giggle, Daddy promising he would come find them and tickle them silly. The memories bombarded her-good and bad. She remembered walking down this same hall to her mother's room the day of Daddy's funeral, and watching while Vivian applied her makeup artfully around her puffy red eyes.

You must endeavor to be a little lady, Laurel. You're a Chandler, and that's what's expected.

Then Vivian had loaded up on Valium and sat through the funeral in a daze, while her daughters struggled to weep gracefully into their handkerchiefs.

Vivian's spell of depression after Jefferson's death had lasted two months. Then Ross Leighton had begun worming his way into their lives.

Vivian's rooms comprised a spacious suite that saw a decorator from Lafayette once a year. The latest incarnation was a festival of floral chintz in shades of teal and peach. Olive escorted Laurel through the sitting room with its clutter of English antiques, knocked on the door to the bedroom, and opened it an inch when the muffled invitation came from within. Eyes downcast like a whipped dog, the maid slunk away as Laurel went in.

Her mother stood by the French doors, wrapped in teal silk, one arm banded across her middle, the other hand rubbing absently at the base of her throat. Opals glowed warmly on her earlobes. A ring with a stone the size of a sparrow's egg drew the eye to the hand pressed against her chest. She turned as Laurel entered the room, her features drawn tight, eyes looking dramatically sunken beneath the camouflage of dark eye shadow.

"Oh, Laurel, thank God you've come," she said, her voice reedy and strained. "I had to see you for myself."

"I'm here, Mama."

Vivian shook her head in disbelief and paced listlessly. "Savannah. I just can't accept what the sheriff had to say. That she was murdered. Like those other women, she was murdered. Strangled." She whispered the word as if it were profane, her right hand still rubbing at her throat. "Right here in our own backyard, practically. I swear, I can't bear the thought of it. The instant he told us, I nearly fainted. My throat constricted so, I could barely breathe. Ross had to bring my medication to the parlor, and I could hardly swallow it. He brought me straight to bed, but I couldn't rest until I'd seen you."

"I was on my way to the funeral home," Laurel said, toying with an arrangement of tiger lilies that filled a Dresden pitcher. "Would you like to come?"

Vivian gasped and sank down on the edge of the bed, careful to keep her knees together and tilted properly, one hand expertly seeing that her robe was tucked just so. "Heavens, no! I just couldn't bear it. Not now. I'm simply not up to it. I-I'm just weak with shock from it all, and filled with such emotions-"

She broke off as her beautiful aquamarine eyes filled, plucked a lace-edged hankie out of her breast pocket, and blotted at the moisture.

Anger built inside Laurel as she watched from beneath her lashes. Her sister was dead, and their mother sat here doing a one-woman show for sympathy. Poor Vivian lost the daughter she never loved. Poor Vivian, so fragile, so sensitive, like something out of Tennessee Williams.

"I haven't had a spell in so long," she went on, twisting her handkerchief in her fingers. "But I can feel it coming on, stealing over me like a shadow of doom. You can't know how I dread it. It's a terrible thing."

"So is your daughter's murder," Laurel said tightly.

Her mother's eyes went wide. Her hands stilled in her lap. "Well, of course it is. It's horrible!"

Laurel turned and gave her a hard look of accusation. "But the most important thing is how it affects you. Right?"

"Laurel! How can you say such a thing to me?"

She shouldn't have. She knew she shouldn't have. Good girls didn't sass back. Ladies kept their opinions to themselves. But all the dictates from her upbringing couldn't hold back the rage she had stored inside her all these years. In her mind she could see Savannah lying dead, could hardly allow herself to imagine the way her sister had suffered. And here was Vivian, playing Blanche DuBois. Always the center of attention. Never mind who else might be in pain.

"It was just the same when Daddy was killed," she said, her voice trembling with the power of her emotions. "It wasn't a matter of all of us losing him. You had to turn it around so the focus was on you, so people flocked out here to check on you, so they all went around town saying 'Poor Vivian. She's in such a state.' "

"I was in such a state!" Vivian exclaimed, pushing to her feet. "I had lost my husband!"

"Well, it didn't take you long to find another one, did it?" Laurel snapped, the pains of childhood flowing through her like fresh, hot blood.

Her mother's eyes narrowed. "You still resent my marrying Ross. All the sacrifices I made for you and your sister, and all I get in return is bitterness and criticism."

"Daddy was barely cold in the ground!"

"He was dead," she said harshly. "He was gone and never coming back. I had to do something."

"You didn't have to bring him into this house, into Daddy's room, into our lives."

Into Savannah's bed. God, if it hadn't been for Ross Leighton, Savannah might still be alive. She might have grown up to fulfill all the potential he had crushed out from inside her.

"Ross was a fine catch," Vivian said defensively, fussing with the lace at the throat of her nightgown. "From a good family. Respected. Handsome. Wealthy in his own right. And willing to take on the children of another man. Not every man is willing to do that, you know. I can tell you, I was very grateful to have him come calling. I couldn't manage the plantation by myself. I was in such a weakened state after Jefferson died, I just didn't know if I'd ever function again."

And along came Ross Leighton. Like a vulture. Like a wolf scenting lambs. Willing to take on another man's children? Willing to take their innocence. Vivian had no idea just how willing Ross had been.

Because Laurel had never told her.

"Don't tell Mama… No one will ever believe you…"

She wheeled toward her mother to let the terrible secret loose at long last, but the words turned to concrete in her mouth. What good would it do now? Would it bring Savannah back? Would it give them back their childhood? Or would it only prolong the pain and mire them all more deeply in the muck of the past?

"I did what was best for all of us," Vivian said imperiously. "Not that you or your sister ever showed a moment's appreciation. Your father spoiled you both so.

"And Savannah was always jealous of any attention I might have garnered for myself from Jefferson. She was no different with Ross. I swear, I don't know where that girl got her wildness, her stubbornness. I'd say from Jefferson's side; Caroline is just that way, you know. But Caroline never had an interest in men-"

"Stop it!" Laurel shouted, her voice ripping across the quiet, elegant room. Her mother gaped at her, mouth working soundlessly, like a bass out of water. "It's none of your business who Aunt Caroline sleeps with. At least she's happy. At least she's not deluding herself into believing she needs to have a relationship with a man no matter what kind of slime he is."

"No, she's not like Savannah that way, is she?" Vivian said archly.

Her own anger simmering, she resumed her pacing along the length of the half-tester bed. "I don't know how many times I told her to be a lady. All the hours of training, of showing by example how a lady should comport herself, and none of it doing any good at all. She lived like a tramp-dressing like a slut, going off to bed with any man who crooked his finger. God, the shame of it was almost too much to bear!" she said bitterly. "And now she's killed because of it."