Now her voice was on the rise, but still no emotion, as though she had merely turned up the volume on a machine. “I have to develop a witness to testify against the rest of them. I plan to break the bastard any way I can – whatever it takes.”

Mallory’s face was inches from his own. Her hand wrapped around his arm, fingers digging in. All her emotions came out to play now. There was real pain in her face, her voice. “And then I’m going to tell the creep that my mother had it coming to her! That the bitch deserved to die!”

His head jerked back as though she had slapped him.

Her voice softened. “I’ll tell him any filthy lie he needs to hear.” She whispered, “That’s what cops do.”

And now she was rising, going away from him again. She stood by the rail and leaned back on her hands, all cold to him now, and mechanical when she said, “So Alma Furgueson slit her wrists. Alma’s still breathing. My mother is dead. Time to choose up sides, Charles.”

She hovered by the staircase, undecided whether to go or stay. “Has Riker won you over?” She set one boot on the steps. “Are you throwing in with him or me?”

“I would never – ”

“Are you in or out, Charles?”

“I’m in.” After all, Alma was still breathing.

CHAPTER 22

The sheriff sat back and evaluated his young deputy over the rim of his beer glass. Though Lilith Beaudare still had a lot to learn, she had been broken of arrogance – just as he had broken Eliot Dobbs before her. Deputy Travis had come to him prebroken, and was no damn fun at all.

“Very soon, things may get ugly, Lilith.” And how would she react? “Could you kill somebody if you had to? If you can’t do it, you might wind up dead, or someone else will. You’ll only get one second to find out what you’re made of.”

And now he knew he had hit on a soft spot. She lowered her eyes – a bad sign. Had she already been tested under fire? There was nothing in her file to say she’d ever been involved in gunplay.

“Have you ever killed anybody, Sheriff?”

He approved. Distraction was a good move on her part. But her brains were not in question today. “In all the years I’ve had this job, I’ve never had occasion to fire my gun in the line of duty.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I do believe we’ll have the time to know each other a little better, Lilith, but that time is not here, not yet.” Well, that knocked her down again. “So what is it you’re not telling me?”

Her hands wormed around her glass as she dropped her eyes again, casting around for some better diversion. Soon he would have to teach her not to give so much away.

She looked up again. “I think Mallory might be a cop. It’s just a – ”

“A good guess. She is. Detective Sergeant Kathleen Mallory.”

“How did – ”

“Well, if it isn’t the man from New York City.” He pointed toward the door of the Dayborn Bar and Grill.

Charles Butler was blocking out most of the sunlight streaming in behind him. The door swung shut, and now he was in that disorienting passage from bright light to dim.

While the man was still half blind and vulnerable, the sheriff called out across three tables, “Mr. Butler! If you’re looking for your friend Riker, you just missed him. He’s gone off to New Orleans.”

The sheriff gathered that Butler had elected not to bluff his way out, but to ignore the remark. The man was smiling as he joined the sheriff and his deputy.

“Call me Charles, please. Actually, I was looking for you, Sheriff.”

Tom Jessop was working hard to suppress a grin, for now this poor bastard had to come up with a reason for his impromptu visit.

“I was just wondering if you had any men on your suspect list yet. So far you seem to favor women.”

“Still do, Charles. I’m nothing if not politically correct.” He turned to his deputy. “Ain’t that right?”

Lilith smiled as she rose from the table and left with explanations of places to go and things to do. Out of respect, Charles stood up to see her off. Tom Jessop remained seated for much the same reason.

“So, Sheriff, you don’t think Fred Laurie could have done it?”

“He could have.” And he did like the idea of a dead man as a suspect. Fred was probably in the ground by now and in no condition to whine about being maligned.

“I also wondered where you were when Babe Laurie died.”

The sheriff grinned. “You have real good instincts. If I’d known what Babe did to Ira, I might have been your best suspect. As it is, I still like the ladies. And now you’re probably thinking I missed Augusta, but I didn’t. I just didn’t want to ask her on the off chance she might confess. As I’m sure you know, letting Augusta get away with murder is a tradition in St. Jude Parish.”

“You’re speaking figuratively, of course.”

So Charles didn’t know. “Didn’t you take the tour? Betty tells the whole story to everyone who comes through here.”

“I’ve been rather busy.”

“You must be the only visitor in fifty years who didn’t know that Augusta murdered her own father.”

Charles only shook his head from side to side, smiling now to say this must be a joke. “She couldn’t have done that.”

“She dragged it out, too.” The sheriff caught the bartender’s eyes and held up two fingers. “Not a neat clean death. ‘Course, I know the details better than most. My father was her lawyer. Augusta would be happy to tell you the story herself. It’s not like she ever tried to deny it. Fact is, she took a lot of pride in that murder. She’s a rare one. Most southern women would favor slow poison for the alibi factor. They’d want to be three counties gone before your body hit the floor. Not Augusta. Hell, she wanted the credit.”

Two beers landed on the table, cold gold on the inside, cold sweat on the glass. “Put it on my tab,” said the sheriff. The bartender nodded and walked off.

“Thank you,” said Charles. “So, she confessed? There was a trial?”

“No, it never went beyond the coroner’s jury. The ruling was accidental death. You gotta remember that she was fifty years younger then – nineteen, almost twenty years old. The coroner’s jury was all men. Not a one of them wanted to see her hang for murder. And to be fair – she meant to shoot the old bastard, not push him down the stairs in his wheelchair.”

“Was it the money? I know he cut her out of the will.”

“Oh, hell no. That’s Betty’s theory, but Augusta didn’t care about that. She could have married more money and a bigger house if that’s what she wanted. You just don’t know what a beauty she was. People from Nashville to New Orleans had heard of Augusta Trebec.”

“I know her mother committed suicide. Was it -?” “You could say it started with her mother’s death. The local doctor – he was also the town drunk – he said Nancy’s suicide was insanity. Old Jason probably figured her blood was tainted. Now suppose Augusta went crazy, too? What would happen to his precious house? That’s all any of the Trebec men ever cared about – that damn house. And what if Augusta married? His property would pass to another family. So Jason had his own daughter neutered like a cat.”

“Augusta wouldn’t have allowed that.”

“She didn’t know. Old Jason and the doctor made up some bullshit story about her appendix. She was only sixteen. Well, he’d killed off his last chance for an heir with Augusta’s surgery. He was a sick old man in a wheelchair, and in no shape to make another baby.”

“So he made the house into a historical monument to himself.”

“Right you are. By the time Augusta turned nineteen, the hack doctor who butchered her was dead. It never occurred to Jason that the drunken old fool left medical records on Augusta’s surgery. So another doctor took over the practice, and he told Augusta what had been done to her.”

“And then she killed her father?”