Free Cry Wolf by Tami Hoag

her as inquiring after someone's health.
    “No.”
    “Do they—”
    “This doesn't concern you, Baby,” Savannah said sharply. She rose from the sofa and came forward, her pique doing nothing to minimize the sway of her hips. “You're not a cop, and you're not a prosecutor, and these girls aren't even dying in this jurisdiction, so you can just tune it out. You hear?”
    It was on the tip of Laurel's tongue to tell Savannah she wasn't her mother, but she bit the words back. What a ludicrous statement that would have been. Savannah was in many ways more of a mother to her than Vivian had ever been. Besides, Savannah was only trying to protect her.
    Hands on her hips, she tamped down her temper, sighing slowly to release some of the steam, feeling drained from what little fury she had shown. “I don't have any intention of trying to solve a string of murders,” she assured them. “Y'all know I have my hands full just managing myself these days.”
    “Nonsense.” Caroline sniffed, tossing her head. “You're doing just fine. We want you to concentrate on getting your strength back, that's all. You're a Chandler,” she said, seating herself once more on her throne, arranging her skirt just so. “You'll be fine if your stubbornness doesn't get the better of you.”
    Laurel smiled. This was what she had come to Belle Rivière for—Caroline's unflagging fortitude and ferocious determination. There were those around Bayou Breaux who compared Laurel's aunt to a pit bull—a comparison that pleased Caroline no end. Caroline Chandler was either loved or hated by everyone she knew, and she was enormously proud to inspire such strong reactions, whatever they were.
    “We're going to lunch, Aunt Caroline,” Savannah said, slinging the strap of her oversize pocketbook up on her shoulder. The Ray-Bans slid back into place, perched on the bridge of her nose. “Come along? Mama Pearl's gone to a church meeting.”
    “Thank you, no, darlin'.” Caroline sipped her tea and smiled enigmatically. “I have a luncheon appointment with a friend in Lafayette this afternoon.”
    Savannah tipped her glasses down and arched a brow at Laurel, who just shrugged. Caroline's friends in other towns never had names—or genders, for that matter. Because she'd never been married, or even seriously involved with any of the local men, Caroline's sexual preferences had long been a source of speculation among the gossips of Bayou Breaux. And she had always staunchly, stubbornly refused to answer the question one way or the other, saying it was no one's damn business whether she
was
or
wasn't
.
    “What do you think?” Savannah asked as they slid into the deep bucket seats of her red Corvette convertible.
    “I don't,” Laurel said, automatically buckling her seat belt. Savannah drove the way she lived her life.
    Savannah chuckled wickedly as she put the key in the ignition and fired the sports car's engine. “Oh, come on, Baby. You're telling me you've never tried to picture Aunt Caroline going at it with one of her mysterious friends?”
    “Of course not!”
    “You're such a prude.” She backed out of the driveway and onto the quiet, tree-lined street that led directly downtown. Belle Rivière was the last house before the road stretched out into farmland and wetlands. But even up the street, where houses stood side by side, the only activity seemed to be the swaying of the Spanish moss that hung from the trees like tattered banners.
    “Not wanting to picture my relatives engaging in sex doesn't make me a prude,” Laurel grumbled.
    “No,” Savannah said. “But it sure as hell makes you the odd one in the family, doesn't it?”
    She let out the clutch and sent the Corvette flying down the street, engine screaming. Laurel fixed her eyes on the road and fought the urge to bring her hand up to her mouth so she could gnaw at her thumbnail.
    Sex was the last thing she wanted to talk about. She would have preferred there were no such thing. It