Sunrise in a Garden of Love and Evil Read online

  Both cars were gone, Gideon no doubt following Vi into town like a puppy on a string. Fine. Whatever. Ophelia toweled her hair and flipped through the phone book. O’Toole, Artemisia…O’Toole, Gideon—Highway 43, Bayou Gavotte. Far too close for comfort. She returned to the entry for Artemisia, which listed Olive Street, near one of her customers. Whatever.

  She ran her finger under Gideon’s number and picked up the phone. She only needed to show him she wasn’t such a bitch as she had pretended. Which wouldn’t change a thing, since he now viewed her with abhorrence, so what harm could one phone call do? Three rings and she heard his lovely, slow voice, but it was just a machine. She took a deep breath and waited for the beep. “Gideon—Mr. O’Toole, this is Ophelia Beliveau. I’m calling to say I’m sorry about that last remark I made. It was uncalled for and I apologize. Uh…good-bye.” Pitiful, but at least she’d done it. Now, for that life she was so eager to get on with.

  She dressed, gathered up her clipboard and a pamphlet on flagstone, and headed for her truck. Donnie Donaldson came across the ditch, carrying a two-by-four and a portable saw. “What’s the cop gonna do?”

  “Nothing,” Ophelia said. “I told him to go away. You’re going to fix my porch railing? Thanks!”

  “No time like the present. Aren’t you pressing charges?” He tut-tutted at the broken panes of her greenhouse.

  “Of course not,” Ophelia said. “I just want Willy to sit up and take notice. He must have been drunk or on drugs to do such a dumb thing. When he comes to his senses we’ll discuss restitution.” She dumped the clipboard and pamphlet on the passenger seat of her pickup, took the small tub of monkey grass and set it next to the ditch. “Keep this in your yard where Willy won’t trash it, and I’ll add it to your border in a day or two.”

  “Wonder why the cops sent a detective,” Donnie mused, setting the two-by-four and the saw on one of the paving stones leading to her front steps. “I knew his parents. He lives down the river a ways.”

  Ophelia lifted her shoulder in a shrug.

  “You know who he is, don’t you?” Donnie took a tape measure and a pencil from his belt.

  “Somebody or other O’Toole. So what?”

  “He’s the cop. The one who let Constantine Dufray off the hook.”

  “He didn’t let him off the hook,” Ophelia said irritably. She’d heard this nonsense far too often in the months since the rock star’s wife had been poisoned. Considering that they owed them their safety, the people of Bayou Gavotte were ridiculously ready to believe the worst of Constantine and the other underworlders who often acted as the town’s vigilantes. Come to think of it, her jibe at the cop this afternoon had been completely unwarranted. What had gotten into her? As a vamp she was hugely indebted not only to the vigilantes who protected her, but to the lawmen who turned a blind eye. “There was no evidence against Constantine to start with. He was hours away when his wife died.”

  Donnie shook his head. “I know he’s a friend of yours, but where there’s smoke there’s fire.” He scrawled dimensions on one of the boards.

  Perhaps, but whatever deaths Constantine was responsible for, his wife’s wasn’t one of them. “Think what you like, Donnie,” Ophelia said, “but watch what you say. Constantine’s a friend of Violet’s, too.”

  She got into her truck and headed toward a residential area fifteen minutes across town. Forty-five minutes later she escaped that prospective customer with a promise to return with a drawing of a winding path edged by flowering shrubs, and she drove into the crowded tourist area of downtown Bayou Gavotte. Her destination was the Impractical Cat, ostensibly to deliver plants for the patio, actually to warn Leopard off before he took matters into his own hands. By now Violet would certainly have called him.

  Ophelia pulled the truck into the alley behind the restaurant. She entered the patio, still under construction, and deposited several pots of lantana in a corner. The door swung open. “Yee-haw, Ophelia!”

  A rough hand whacked her on the butt, and Ophelia jabbed an elbow into the jerk whose paw was groping for her breast. “Fuck off, Burton.” She kicked him in the shin for good measure. “Beat it, or I’ll really hurt you.”

  Burton Tate laughed and rubbed his shin.

  Inside, a waitress scurried by with pitchers of water and tea. “Hey, Marie,” Ophelia called out. “Lep here?”

  “In the office with Constantine.” Marie motioned Ophelia aside. “Your number was in the men’s again this morning. Lep had ’em paint over it, but…” She grimaced. “Sorry.”

  Ophelia shrugged. “Thanks for letting me know. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  “You can put my number up in the ladies’ room anytime you want.” Burton limped hurriedly past.

  “Sure you want your number to be up, Burton?” Ophelia asked, and Marie guffawed. Ophelia continued down the hall to the lair of the drug-dealer-turned-drummer who controlled the underworld of Bayou Gavotte.

  “Come in, girl.” Leopard sighed, but Constantine Dufray shot her a grin. It was the Native American rocker’s real smile, not the mesmerizing one his fans swooned over, which meant he was genuinely amused.

  Leopard, on the other hand, was not. Ophelia threw herself into the easy chair in the corner and told him, “I left some lantana on the patio. I’ll come back tomorrow or the next day to plant it.”

  “Uh-huh,” Leopard said. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

  “And you’re a thug. So what?”

  Constantine grinned again. “Cappuccino, vampire babe? Good elbow on Burton, by the way. Solid kick.” He laid his guitar below the one-way glass that showed the back hall, stretched like a languid cat, and went to the espresso machine on a table by the wall.

  “Thanks—and kindly shut up,” Ophelia said. “Listen, Lep, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I wanted to get through this without anyone beaten up.”

  “That lowlife Wyler deserves to be beat up,” Leopard grunted. He tugged at his dreads and untied the grubby leather thong holding them back.

  “Blood? Or just mocha?” Constantine pumped in some chocolate syrup.

  “Shut up, Constantine,” Ophelia repeated. “Lep, I want to stay on good terms with my neighbors. Also, Wyler’s kids don’t need to see their dad trashed. Let me handle this my way.”

  “When some moron’s hanging death threats on your door? Not a chance.” Leopard flicked the thong between strong brown fingers. “None of this matters. What matters is you dissed Gideon O’Toole.”

  Surprised, Ophelia said nothing. She sank lower into her chair and scowled. “I should have known he’d be a friend of yours. What’d he do, come whining to you?”

  Leopard snorted. “You’re the one doing the whining, girl. He’s not a friend, exactly. He’s the buffer between me and our sorry excuse for a police chief, and he deserves some respect. From what Vi told me, you treated him like dirt. Of course, she might have been pissed because he wouldn’t play with her. Not one to be led around by his dick.”

  Ophelia tried to ignore the lightening of her heart. Not many turned down her half sister’s advances. “I called and apologized. Left him a message.”

  Constantine whistled. He poised whipped cream over the coffee cup.

  “Shut up,” Ophelia responded. “Yes, please.”

  Leopard was grinning now. “Not your style, apologizing to a guy who comes on to you.”

  “I was way out of line,” Ophelia admitted. She took a cream-covered cinnamon-sprinkled cappuccino from Constantine. “I freaked out. I was expecting some doofus I could dazzle and then send away. I didn’t want a nosy detective.”

  “You shouldn’t have called him, then,” Lep said.

  “I didn’t call him,” Ophelia snapped, then rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I got rid of him, so hold off about Willy Wyler. He didn’t do the cat thing, and I want to talk to him and his wife before you send in your thugs. As for the cat—”

  “You didn’t get rid of him,” Lep interrupted. “Gideon called a couple of minutes
ago. Told me he’d take care of you.”

  Oh God, yes, thought Ophelia. Oh God, no. “I don’t want a cop looking into my life…and I know, I know—I shouldn’t have called him, then.”

  Leopard spread his hands. “Since Gideon wants to handle your little problem, and since I don’t intend to step on his toes, you’re on your own…unless he finds a reason to clap the cuffs on you.”

  “Of course, it depends why he’s clapping on the cuffs,” Constantine interjected. When Ophelia shot him the bird, the rocker laughed, retrieved his guitar, and fiddled with the tuning pegs. “Exactly. And why not? He’s a red-blooded guy, and you need it bad.”

  She couldn’t deny the last. “You can’t expect me to jump into bed with some man I hardly know.”

  “I know him,” Leopard replied. “He’s a good guy. Go for it.”

  “What if I don’t want to sleep with him?”

  Lep and Constantine laughed so hard they almost fell off their chairs.

  Ophelia fumed, waiting till they’d had their fill. “I see Vi’s been busy today. I can’t believe you’re abandoning me like this.”

  “You asked for it,” Leopard said, still chuckling. “I wish I could be there when he finds out you’re a vamp. As far as I know, he’s not into anything bent.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Constantine added. “No thugs after Willy, just like you want. I may take care of the cat dude myself, though, once your cop figures out who it is. Just for fun.” His fingers trickled across his guitar strings. “I need a break from the stress of rock and roll.”

  “Shut up,” Ophelia said one more time, sinking farther into her chair. “What am I going to do? The last thing I need is a cop looking over my shoulder!”

  Constantine shrugged. “For a vamp, you lead a hell of a clean life.” When Ophelia said nothing, the rocker’s eyes darkened a tad, and she wondered not for the first time how much he knew. Or guessed. “But since you’re worried,” he continued, “why not distract him with sex?”

  “He’s not that easy to distract,” Leopard said. “He’s a persistent dude.”

  “In which case, he’ll persist about the sex,” Constantine said. “Once he’s fucked Ophelia, what’s the chance he’ll lock her up?”

  “Zilch,” Leopard said. “Not in jail, anyway.”

  “Since neither of you perverts has slept with me,” Ophelia grumped, “there’s no way you can know that.”

  The two perverts laughed themselves silly.

  Ophelia waited for them to cool it and sipped at her coffee, terror and desire battling within her. She licked at the disappearing mound of whipped cream and contemplated licking Gideon. She thought about sinking her fangs deep inside him. She thought about Gideon sinking himself deep inside her. Then she remembered the last man she’d bitten, and nausea sucker punched her. She sat up and put the cup carefully on the floor.

  “Oh, shit,” she said, clutching her stomach. “I’m so scared.”

  “Gotta move ahead sometime.” For a man with a rep for violence—not that he had ever been caught—Constantine’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “You can’t—”

  “Be ruled by fear,” she agreed. “I know.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Men and their dumb bondage jokes, thought Ophelia. Not that Vi’s much help. Oh God, what am I going to do?

  Definitely not whine that nobody understands me, she told herself, although she had a feeling that Constantine, brutal though he might be, understood all too well, especially after the death of his estranged wife and the media kerfuffle that followed. But face it: a pair of vigilantes and a sister with absent sexual mores didn’t make the grade as life-choice advisers. Sleep with him, they all said. Why not?

  Apart from the fact that I met him only a few hours ago? Because I can feel my past poised to destroy me.

  Dumb and dramatic, but that didn’t make it any less true. Ophelia drove away from the center of town, with its tourists and clubs, to one of the older, oak-lined residential sections of Bayou Gavotte. Even setting her appalling past aside, it was obnoxious to distract a guy with sex unless you intended to deliver. A rush of longing shot through her. Lord, did she ever want to deliver. But there had to be another way to distract him, to buy some time.

  She puttered down Olive Street to her client Andrea Dukas’s house, took a left at the cross street, and pulled around to the back gate to park beside their new minivan. The rear doors of the vehicle gaped wide, revealing a stroller, a folded baby cot, and several suitcases stowed any which way. On the ground behind the car stood five potted azaleas. Andrea had likely found a so-called bargain at the hardware store again.

  “Miss Ophelia!” Two little girls tumbled across the lawn, ponytails flying, pink backpacks bumping on their shoulders. “We’re running away!”

  Ophelia settled her hostas and the flats of annuals in the shelter of the fence. “Sure you want to do that? Your sister and brother will miss you.”

  “They’re running away, too. So is Mom.”

  The eldest Dukas girl tottered toward Ophelia carrying her year-old brother. She gasped a hello, dumped little Simon in his car seat, and hollered at the twins to get in the van.

  Had Andrea and her husband split up? Impossible. “Where are you going?”

  One of the twins began, “To G—”

  “Shut up!” her older sister shrieked. “Mom said not to tell anyone.” She sniffled woefully. “I’m sorry, Miss Ophelia. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “That’s okay.” Now Andrea was staggering toward them with a cooler, while a tall, dark-haired woman who looked somewhat familiar juggled cups, sandwiches, three Tupperware containers, and an overflowing tote. Ophelia frowned at the tear tracks on Andrea’s cheeks and the other woman’s grim face. She said, “Sorry if it’s a bad time. I came to drop the plants for tomorrow.”

  Andrea’s face puckered. “Didn’t you get my message? You’ll have to take the plants back, because everything’s gone wrong and I can’t afford you anymore.” She struggled to hold back tears. “I bought some azaleas and tried to return them, but they w-wouldn’t take them and now you can’t even plant them for me, so they’ll die!” She slung the cooler into the van, sobbing, and slammed the doors.

  First time ever, thought Ophelia: a good excuse to not plant stressed plants that had been overfed and would probably die anyway, and she couldn’t use it. “Of course I’ll plant them. At least then they’ll have a chance of survival. I’ll plant the ones I brought, too, and you can pay me whenever. No rush.”

  Tears gushed out as Andrea got into the driver’s seat. “We’ll never be able to pay you. We’ll have to sell the house and live in a trailer.” She blanched. “I’m sorry!”

  “For cripes sake, Andrea, like I care about that.” What the hell was going on?

  Andrea yelled at her kids about seat belts while her friend distributed cups and sandwiches and lifted the tote through the window. Two dog-eared photographs fell out.

  Andrea’s voice rose in panic. “Oh, no! What if some fell on the lawn or in the house?”

  Her friend retrieved the photos. “I’ll check everywhere. Once you’re gone, I’ll call my brother and fess up.”

  “Not until I’m across the state line! What if he starts snooping and asks about me?” Andrea’s red-rimmed eyes were drowned in tears.

  The friend shot a glance at Ophelia and back at Andrea. “Unlikely. He never talks to me unless he absolutely has to.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” Ophelia asked.

  “No.” The friend followed this hostile monosyllable with a grudging “Thank you.”

  “I wish.” Andrea gave Ophelia a wavering smile. “Your advice totally transformed my…” She mouthed “sex life” as she took the photos. “Come to think of it, Art, you should talk to Ophelia. About you know what. And you know who.”

  Art stiffened. “You’d better get going.” She stood away from the car, and Andrea drove off. Ophelia took a good long look at Art, who glared back.


  Perfect: a way to distract Gideon. With detective work, not sex.

  “You’re being blackmailed. Both of you, right?”

  Gideon hung up the phone, picked it up again, dropped it back in its cradle and himself on the couch. The world slowed, stopped, and started spinning again. The right way this time.

  “She won’t apologize,” Violet had said. She had been dead wrong. And he had been right. For once, his instincts hadn’t let him down. But then, where sex was concerned they never did. In that long moment when Ophelia stared at him before turning away, there had been heat in her eyes. She’d been trying for disdain, sure, but the longer she’d looked, the more the desire had come through.

  Hot damn, thought Gideon, but sobered himself immediately. This woman was nothing but trouble. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to get his head straight. The yowling of the dogs penetrated his whirling brain. He let them inside and greeted them automatically, popped open a beer, and took a steak out of the fridge. Hot damn. He could use that kind of trouble.

  Whistling, he took the charcoal and the lighter onto the porch to start the barbecue. Take it slowly, he told himself. Check into the vandalism and the dead-cat thing. Find out who did what, and make sure neither happens again. Easy. Meanwhile, figure out what makes Ophelia Beliveau tick.

  While the coals heated, he cut a ripe tomato into thin slices and popped a potato in the microwave. He trimmed the fat off the steak and tossed it to the dogs. First things first, he decided as he laid the steak gently on the grill. He leaned against the porch rail and dialed the dispatcher at home.

  “Uh-oh,” Jeanie said when she answered the call. She chuckled. “Hi, Gideon.”

  “You set me up,” he accused cheerfully. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”

  “Ooh,” Jeanie said. “Anything you like. Is Ophelia as sexy as they say?”

  “As who say?”

  “Her sister. The guys that hang out at Blood and Velvet. The lowlifes who write her number on men’s room walls.”

  “Jesus.” He blew out a long breath.