Stella Cameron - Kiss Them Goodbye

Cyrus’s mouth twitched. He laughed, grabbed his napkin and pretended to be coughing, then gave up and managed to subside into bursts of chuckles. Spike, with his back to the women, didn’t help a thing by rolling up his eyes in a parody of death.

“We’re gonna be sorry Guy Patin’s kin moved into Rosebank,” Doll said. Her sunny episodes had a habit of not staying around long. “See if I’m not right. Too bad that house isn’t a whole lot farther away. There’s talk about what happened there yesterday and none of it’s good.”

Spike turned sideways in his chair. Everything about Doll was unremarkable, except her gift for understatement and her mean spirit. Pale gray eyes, light brown hair—long, straight and secured at the nape with a rubber band—average height and weight.

“Generally there isn’t much good to say about murder,” Spike said. “Best not to listen to gossip though. Even better not to spread it.”

Bill said, “Amen,” and went to the counter to get his coffee and meat pie.

“It’s not gossip that it was those women’s lawyer got himself killed,” Doll said, sounding stubborn. “And that Vivian supposedly found him, or so she says.”

“How do you know…” Spike glanced into Wazoo’s smug face and shut his mouth.

Doll was undeterred. “Guy Patin was leavin’ the place to some sort of charity. We all knew that. So how come those women moved in and started changin’ things? Just maybe the lawyer—” she gave her attention to Jilly “—maybe he come to say they jumped the gun or some-thin’. Could be they just thought Rosebank was theirs, or wanted it to be, and the lawyer was bringin’ the will to prove they had no right.”

“Now, Doll,” Cyrus said in a more even voice than Spike could have mustered. “The dead lawyer didn’t represent Guy Patin as far as I know. Speculations can be dangerous.”

“Troublemaking can be dangerous, you mean,” Spike said under his breath.

“I don’t hold with speculatin’ myself,” Doll said. “I can’t reveal my sources but I trust ’em. You wouldn’t be wanting me to say anything about a certain someone, Spike Devol, but if you’ve got the sense you were born with you won’t get too close to mud. It rubs off.”

Four workmen in white overalls saved Spike from saying something he’d regret. The men took their time ordering food to go and talked loudly among themselves.

“What’s she suggesting?” Bill asked, keeping his voice down while leaning forward to shrug out of his light blue seersucker jacket and hook it over the back of his chair. “I’ve met both of the ladies from Rosebank. Very nice they are, too. The young one’s something to look at.” Bill’s tie was the next to go. He believed in wearing a suit to work every day but the temperature soared outside, and inside the air-conditioning couldn’t keep up with the heat from the kitchen.

“Good people, too,” Cyrus said, blessedly giving Spike a chance to think.

The workers filed out and Doll pointed at their retreating backs. “Working for that lovely Mrs. Susan Hurst,” she said. “Too bad those Patin women don’t have her money. They’d get their hotel put together a whole lot quicker. Have you ever heard such nonsense? A hotel in that fine old house?”

Doll paused for breath but she hadn’t finished. “Mrs. Hurst isn’t too pleased, I can tell you. She and her husband—and that beautiful daughter of hers, Olympia—they move in and call their home Serenity, only to have people come next door talkin’ about a restaurant, not just for hotel guests but for anyone who wanders in. And who will they get to stay there, that’s what I want to know. If folks want a comfortable, reliable place to stay, they know where to come.” She crossed her arms.

“Doll’s right, her,” Wazoo said. “I’m the one who knows, too. I live at the Majestic. And my customers tell me how at home they feel, too.”

Doll hissed for Wazoo to be quiet. The Hibbs were careful not to admit that they had a medium/palm, tarot and tea leaf reader in residence. Spike figured they were afraid some folks might not like the idea of staying in a hotel where what went bump in the night might not always be the head of a bed.

“I reckon it’s time I got on,” Spike said. He liked most things about small towns except the way some folks couldn’t mind their own business. “Is Madge at the rectory?”

Cyrus, apparently speechless over a simple question, was the last thing Spike expected. The man stared at him, then looked away. “Madge,” he said. “Oh, Madge. No, she had some errands to run. Said she didn’t know how long she’d be.”

Spike stood up but didn’t go anywhere. Reb Girard, Dr. Reb Girard, that was, had arrived with her apricot poodle, Gaston, under her arm. Curls of Reb’s red hair had worked free of the topknot she wore while she was at her surgery on Conch Street. Spike smiled at the sight of her. Marc Girard and Reb O’Brien had married just before last Christmas. Marc must be right for her, lucky devil. Happiness sparked in her very green eyes and six months pregnant looked wonderful on her.

“You can’t see this dog, of course, no one can,” she said to Jilly, “but forgive me for bringin’ Gaston in. It’s too hot to leave him in the car.”

Gaston decided to growl. He craned his neck to look around Reb’s arm and bare his teeth. His shiny brown eyes fixed on Wazoo.

Reb ordered lemonade and turned to smile at Cyrus and Spike. She nodded at Bill who looked at her with more appreciation than Cyrus liked to see. An ex-Marine, Bill was around forty and divorced—and lonely. He needed a woman in his life and, although he might be ordinary to look at, he kept himself fit and it showed. He had a nice home in a cottage behind the local book-shop, and a good business. He should be a good catch for someone nice who would be an anchor in his life.

“Sit down,” Spike told Reb. “Get a load off…just sit down and I’ll bring the lemonade. It’s too hot for a woman in your condition to be walking around. The extra weight is a stress. Your ankles will swell.” He’d looked at her slim feet beneath the long, loose cream shift she wore before a desire to disappear hit him. He couldn’t have said the things he just said, he couldn’t have.

Without a hint of either annoyance or amusement, Reb thanked him and took the seat he’d left. Jilly wasn’t as kind. She made her already big eyes huge, and her eyebrows all but disappeared into her hair. Cyrus folded and refolded his napkin and didn’t look at anyone.

“Reb,” Spike said, “that sounded—”

“Hush,” she told him, reaching out to take his hand and give it a squeeze. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you. Silver tongues are a dime a dozen. I understand there’s someone else who’s pretty impressed with you, too.”

He swallowed air. Reb had to be talking about Vivian and there was nothing to talk about. Okay, so there was something to talk about after last night but he and Vivian were the only ones who knew about that.

“Follow your heart,” Reb said. “You deserve someone special and this is your big chance.” She pulled him down until she could speak into his ear. “I’ll do everything I can to help, but some things are up to you. Don’t wait. Women need to feel right about these things.”

What exactly was she talking about? Spike said, “Yeah, well…I’ll get on now.”

Gaston growled again and Wazoo let out a little scream. When she had everyone’s attention, she pointed a long finger, coated with the same powdered sugar that somehow clung to her eyelashes, frosted her black hair and tinted her normally sallow face white. “He’s lookin’ at me, him,” she said of Gaston. The sugar had come from the donut she held in her other hand. “He’s tryin’ to say how he wants somethin’ from me.”