Free Dead End by Stella Cameron Page A

till you leave?”
    “Oh,” Oribel said, looking not at Reb but at Precious. “Silly me, I forgot. They were delivered before you arrived, so I took them for you.” She held the flowers out.
    Reb accepted them. Floral gifts weren’t something she was accustomed to receiving. The greetings envelope parted company with the staple that had held it to the cellophane and fell to the shabby wooden floor of the porch. Reb retrieved it, feeling certain the bent card had already been read. When she glanced from Oribel to Precious, Oribel looked truculent and held her lips tightly pursed while Precious shifted her curvaceous bottom on the glider and wouldn’t meet Reb’s eyes.
    Peach roses, sprays of cream orchids, and fragrant freesias. Reb excused herself and went inside to put the flowers in water. And she read the card quickly.
Hi Reb: Looking forward to dinner. Pick you up at 6:30. Thought we
’
d drop by Pappy
’
s later and see
if I
’
ve forgotten how to dance. Marc.
    The mention of Pappy’s took the shine off getting the kind of bouquet any woman melted over. Not that she minded visiting the dance hall on very rare occasions. Early in an evening, people brought their children to eat and dance. It was later that the atmosphere changed. But there was only one reason Marc wanted to go there, and it had nothing to do with dancing. He wanted to look around the place where Bonnie Blue had sung—where he was convinced his sister had sung and spent the last hours of her life. He was wrong, but she was deeply sad for his sense of loss.
    She pocketed the card and rejoined the other women.
    Oribel sniffed suddenly and turned her face away.
    “Mama,” Precious said. No matter how often she pulled at her short yellow skirt it didn’t get any closer to her knees. “Oh, Mama, what is it? Reb, Mama’s cryin’. She never cries.”
    Reb picked up Oribel’s glass of tea and gave it to her. “Take a few sips and tell us what’s the matter. It isn’t like you, getting upset like this.”
    Oribel fumbled in a pocket of her orange pants and found a tissue to wipe her eyes. “I’m gettin’ silly in my old age, but I worry about you young girls. Maybe you’ve forgotten what happened here not so long ago, but I haven’t, and I’m not talkin’ about poor, dear Bonnie.”
    “Don’t, Mama,” Precious whispered, her own eyes moistening. “That’s all over, thank goodness. I don’t want to talk about it. And you’re not gettin’ silly, you’re sharper than anyone I know.”
    Reb hadn’t forgotten the killings that had terrorized Toussaint for months until a victim got away from the murderer and picked him out of a lineup. Or so the story went. Pepper Leach, the least likely murderer Reb had ever met, was in jail for the attempted crime, but although there was a lot of suspicion, and the town had convicted him, no physical evidence had tied him to the first two killings, and he’d been judged innocent on both counts. How she wished she could be sure Precious was right and the horror of it was behind them.
    “I don’t know what this town is comin’ to,” Oribel said, sounding choked. “Used to be a person could go anywhere, anytime, and not worry about a thing. Now you just don’t know.”
    “What made you think about this?” Reb said. “Bonnie?”
    “Oh, Bonnie wasn’t anythin’ like them others, God rest her sweet soul.” She sniffed again and hugely, and Reb thought how hard it must have been on the woman to arrive at St. Cecil’s early in the morning to clean the sacristy, and walk right in on Bonnie’s body.
    “Tell us what we can do,” Reb said, patting Oribel’s clenched hand.
    Oribel made a choking sound. Never good at keeping still, she stood up and marched to the edge of the porch where she bounced on the toes of her sneakers. “You can stay away from that Marc Girard for a start. There.” She looked defiant. “Those Girards never do anything unless they want something. I came to warn you