trotted down the stairs and turned into the parlor, a room with soft pink walls and the kind of elegant details that put Belle Rivière on a par with the finest old homes in the South.
“. . . poor girl over in St. Martin Parish,” Caroline was saying in a low voice.
She sat in her “throne,” a beautifully carved Louis XVI man's armchair upholstered in rose damask. Home from her regular Saturday morning at the antiques shop, she had settled in place, kicking off her black-and-white spectator pumps on the burgundy Brussels carpet and propping her tiny feet on a gout stool some woman in the eighteenth century had doubtless gone blind needle pointing the cover for by lamplight. A tall, sweating glass of iced tea sat on a sterling coaster on a delicate, oval Sheraton table to her left.
“I turned the radio off before she could hear,” Savannah said, her voice also pitched to the level of conspiracy. She sat sideways on the camelback sofa, leaning toward her aunt, her long bare legs crossed.
“Before I could hear what?” Laurel asked carefully.
The two women jerked around, their eyes wide with guilty surprise. Savannah's expression changed to irritation in the blink of an eye.
“It should have taken you at least another twenty minutes to get ready,” she said crossly. “It would have, if you'd bothered to put on makeup and do something with your hair.”
“It's too hot to bother with makeup,” Laurel said shortly, her temper rising. “And I don't give a damn about my hair,” she said, though she automatically reached up a hand to tuck a few damp strands behind her ear. “What is it you didn't want me to hear?”
Aunt and sister exchanged a look that sent her ire up another ten points.
“Just something in the news, darlin',” Caroline said, shifting in her chair. She arranged the full skirt of her black-and-white dotted dress slowly, casually, as if there were nothing more pressing on her mind. “We didn't see the need to upset you with it, that's all.”
Laurel crossed her arms and planted herself in front of the white marble fireplace. “I'm not so fragile that I need to be shielded from news reports,” she said, tension quivering in her voice. “I don't need to be cosseted from the world. I'm not in such a precarious mental state that I'm liable to fly apart at the least little thing.”
Even as she spoke the words, her mouth went dry at the taste of the lie. She
had
come here to be cosseted. Only just last night she had gone to pieces arguing with a no-account drunk about a no-account hound.
Weak
. She shivered, tensing her muscles against the word, the thought.
“Of course we don't think that, Laurel,” Caroline said, rising with the grace and bearing of a queen. Her dark eyes were steady, her expression practical, straight-forward with not a hint of pity. “You came here to rest and relax. We simply thought those objectives would be more easily attained if you weren't dragged into the torrent of speculation about these murders.”
“Murders?”
“Four now in the last eighteen months. Young women of . . . questionable reputation . . . found strangled out in the swamp in four different parishes—not Partout, thank God.” She gave the information flatly and with as little detail as possible. Now that the cat was out of the bag, she saw no point in dancing around the issue with dainty euphemisms. Certainly her niece had dealt with cases as bad or worse in her tenure as a prosecuting attorney. But neither did she see the need to paint a lurid picture of torture and mutilation, as the newspapers had done. She only hoped the case wouldn't snag Laurel's attention. Coming away from the situation in Scott County, she didn't need to become immersed in another potboiler case of sex and violence.
“All in Acadiana?” Laurel asked, narrowing the possibilities to the parishes that made up Louisiana's French Triangle.
“Yes.”
“Are there any suspects?” The question was as second-nature to
“. . . poor girl over in St. Martin Parish,” Caroline was saying in a low voice.
She sat in her “throne,” a beautifully carved Louis XVI man's armchair upholstered in rose damask. Home from her regular Saturday morning at the antiques shop, she had settled in place, kicking off her black-and-white spectator pumps on the burgundy Brussels carpet and propping her tiny feet on a gout stool some woman in the eighteenth century had doubtless gone blind needle pointing the cover for by lamplight. A tall, sweating glass of iced tea sat on a sterling coaster on a delicate, oval Sheraton table to her left.
“I turned the radio off before she could hear,” Savannah said, her voice also pitched to the level of conspiracy. She sat sideways on the camelback sofa, leaning toward her aunt, her long bare legs crossed.
“Before I could hear what?” Laurel asked carefully.
The two women jerked around, their eyes wide with guilty surprise. Savannah's expression changed to irritation in the blink of an eye.
“It should have taken you at least another twenty minutes to get ready,” she said crossly. “It would have, if you'd bothered to put on makeup and do something with your hair.”
“It's too hot to bother with makeup,” Laurel said shortly, her temper rising. “And I don't give a damn about my hair,” she said, though she automatically reached up a hand to tuck a few damp strands behind her ear. “What is it you didn't want me to hear?”
Aunt and sister exchanged a look that sent her ire up another ten points.
“Just something in the news, darlin',” Caroline said, shifting in her chair. She arranged the full skirt of her black-and-white dotted dress slowly, casually, as if there were nothing more pressing on her mind. “We didn't see the need to upset you with it, that's all.”
Laurel crossed her arms and planted herself in front of the white marble fireplace. “I'm not so fragile that I need to be shielded from news reports,” she said, tension quivering in her voice. “I don't need to be cosseted from the world. I'm not in such a precarious mental state that I'm liable to fly apart at the least little thing.”
Even as she spoke the words, her mouth went dry at the taste of the lie. She
had
come here to be cosseted. Only just last night she had gone to pieces arguing with a no-account drunk about a no-account hound.
Weak
. She shivered, tensing her muscles against the word, the thought.
“Of course we don't think that, Laurel,” Caroline said, rising with the grace and bearing of a queen. Her dark eyes were steady, her expression practical, straight-forward with not a hint of pity. “You came here to rest and relax. We simply thought those objectives would be more easily attained if you weren't dragged into the torrent of speculation about these murders.”
“Murders?”
“Four now in the last eighteen months. Young women of . . . questionable reputation . . . found strangled out in the swamp in four different parishes—not Partout, thank God.” She gave the information flatly and with as little detail as possible. Now that the cat was out of the bag, she saw no point in dancing around the issue with dainty euphemisms. Certainly her niece had dealt with cases as bad or worse in her tenure as a prosecuting attorney. But neither did she see the need to paint a lurid picture of torture and mutilation, as the newspapers had done. She only hoped the case wouldn't snag Laurel's attention. Coming away from the situation in Scott County, she didn't need to become immersed in another potboiler case of sex and violence.
“All in Acadiana?” Laurel asked, narrowing the possibilities to the parishes that made up Louisiana's French Triangle.
“Yes.”
“Are there any suspects?” The question was as second-nature to
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