Stella Cameron - A Grave Mistake

“She already knows about me, man,” Nat pointed out.

“Jilly might not make the connection if… Let it go. I don’t want people speculating about you, okay?”

“O-kay.”

His partner’s attitude galled him. “Look, Nat. You come sashayin’ in, driving a car people around here will talk about. There isn’t always a lot of excitement, see, and they can get pretty imaginative with very little encouragement.”

“Whoa.” Nat held up both hands. “I asked you if you were on your own and you said you were, or would be in a few minutes.”

“I didn’t expect Jilly to stay.”

“Is it my fault she did?”

“This had better be important,” Guy said. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

His phone rang and he looked at the readout. “Hi, Jilly,” he said, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt.

“Sorry I didn’t pick up just now,” she said.

“You had a right,” he told her. “I need to ask you a favor. Nat, the guy you just met?”

“Yes.”

The sound of zydeco from her car radio made him smile. She loved the music, and she loved to dance. So did he, with her.

“There’s a real good reason why he wasn’t here.”

“Huh?” She turned off the radio. “What did you say?”

“He wasn’t here.”

“Nat Archer, the knockout guy I just met at Homer’s, he wasn’t there? The one with a voice like warm, tumbled gravel? For goodness’ sake, why don’t you just put things so they aren’t so confusing? You don’t want me to mention Mr. Archer to anyone. Right?”

He blew out a breath in a whistle. “I just don’t have your smooth way with words, cher.”

“You can say that again,” Nat muttered.

Guy reached out and snatched the fedora, jumped on the closest bench, then on the picnic table, and held the hat high.

All Nat did was shake his head slowly.

“You’ve got my word, Guy, you know that,” Jilly said. “But I hope you’ll explain the reason to me.”

Just what he didn’t want to do. “Sure. How about that dinner?”

“Maybe I can fit you in. I…get back! Stop!”

Jilly screamed and, at the same time, Guy heard the gut-churning sound of a collision, breaking glass, buckling metal—and a cacophony of shouting voices.

“Jilly,” he yelled. “Jilly!”

She didn’t answer him.

There was only one road into Toussaint from Homer Devol’s place, so that simplified Guy’s rubber-laying drive. You also couldn’t get lost in the town and you for sure couldn’t miss a car crash, any car crash there.

He saw flashing lights behind him, then heard a siren. “Not now,” he said through his teeth, and floored the accelerator. Almost at once he saw his folly, slowed and pulled over. The cruiser screeched to a stop, slewed behind the Pontiac.

One big “ain’t I cool?” officer took his time getting to Guy’s window. The man’s hand hovered over his weapon and he spread his feet. “Out,” he said, “hands behind your head, down on your face.”

Guy did something he tried to avoid. He smiled at an asshole and said, ever so sweetly, “Afternoon, Officer. I’m Detective Gautreaux, NOPD. Should have put my light on top, but you know how it is with these pricks, think they’re smarter than we are. I prefer to sneak up on ’em when I can.”

He was on thin ice. “Inactive duty” wasn’t a designation that carried weight, and if he told the guy the truth he’d have to run a check. Guy couldn’t afford the delay.

The officer looked uncertain. “Yeah, I know what you mean. You got a badge, sir?”

“In the pocket of my jeans. Left front.” He put his hands behind his head. Because they expected him back at NOPD he’d never been asked for his badge. Carrying the thing was a habit. “I’ll get out.”

The man made up his mind. “You’d best get going. Sorry I slowed you down.”

Guy nodded and took off fast enough to reach Bi-geaux’s hardware store on the outskirts of town and disappear around a corner without ever seeing the cop again. But he had lost at least eight or nine minutes and it was his own fault.

He dialed Jilly’s number again. No answer.

There it was. Toussaint’s very own talking points for the next few weeks. In the intersection of St. Mary’s Street and Main, the only four-way stop in town. A big old burgundy Impala station wagon stood at an angle, one side shoved in, empty holes where the window had been. And a few feet distant where it had come to a stop after bouncing off the Impala, was Jilly’s Beetle. The front had crumpled and popped open, and the damage was what you would expect when the engine was in the rear: the front wheels had moved a whole lot closer to the rear ones. In every direction, sun bounced off broken glass. Gas ran all over the road.

With her head in her hands, Jilly sat on a curb. Guy could see the scrapes from yards away. Father Cyrus Payne, pastor of Toussaint’s St. Cécil’s Parish, owner of the Impala, crouched beside her, an arm around her shoulders.

A deputy Guy hadn’t seen before had his hands planted on his hips while he had a face-to-face discussion with a large, thickset man in a dark suit.

Jilly looked up, saw Guy, and burst into tears.

He parked and got out of the car. Immediately he heard the deputy’s raised voice. “You’ve told me what you saw, sir. You’ll be contacted if we need more information.” The officer’s thin face had turned bright red and Guy wondered if this was his first day on the job.

The other man held his hands loosely in front of him and spoke softly, too softly to be heard.

“No,” the officer said. “You can’t take care of this little matter. We’ve got procedures we follow.”

A small crowd had already gathered and every face was familiar.

Guy went to Cyrus and Jilly and bent down beside them. “Who’s the guy arguing with the deputy?”

With no warning, Jilly’s crying intensified. She covered her face and shook her head, but tears made it between her hands to drip off her chin.

“Cyrus?” Guy looked at the priest. “Jilly’s really shocked.”

Cyrus raised his brows, widened his deep blue eyes as if trying to send a silent message. He indicated Jilly by inclining his head at a sharp angle.

“Jilly,” Guy said. “Jilly, cher, all this will go away. You must have hit something slippery and slid right into Cyrus.”

She bowed lower with her hands laced over the back of her head, and Cyrus shocked Guy by grabbing the neck of his T-shirt and yanking him down. “You mean well,” the priest said into Guy’s ear. “But it would be better if you found out how Jilly is before you analyze the rest of this situation.”

Guy squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re right,” he said. I am a fool and I never was any good with women. She deserves better than me.

“How’re you doin’, Jilly?” he asked quietly. Too bad he couldn’t feel noble for never making a move on her. He wanted to.

“You didn’t hear the crash?” she said, in a choked voice. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe the brakes felt mushy. I don’t understand why you didn’t hear all that noise.”

He blinked a few times. “Of course I did. We were talkin’ on the phone.”

“Then why didn’t you come right away? If you cared… Friends look out for each other.” She brought her left hand down and looked at her watch. “If it had been you, and I knew something bad had happened, I wouldn’t have taken my time getting to you.”

Cyrus actually gave him a sympathetic look. Honesty was the only way of saving his tail here. “I did, Jilly, but I speeded like a fool and got stopped by a cop. If he hadn’t decided to be reasonable, I’d still be there.”

“Oh, Guy.” She looked at him reproachfully. “You shouldn’t have been speeding.”