Cold Blooded (39 page)

"The stiff peak stage ... ?"
Sarah burst out laughing as she switched off the mixer and disconnected
one of the beaters.

"You're bad, Sarah Restin."
"I know it?" Licking whipped cream off the beater and winking, she
proved her point.

"Save me!" But Olivia laughed.

"What's so funny?" Father James asked as he appeared in the doorway. He was wiping his hands on a handkerchief.

Both women laughed even harder.

"I think I missed the joke," Father James said.

"It's nothing. We were just being silly." Olivia shot Sarah a warning glare. "My house guest has a vivid imagination."

To change the subject, she walked through the archway and looked toward the front of the house. "So, is my door fixed?"

"Good as new." He showed her his handiwork and explained how he'd managed to fix the lock. "A little paint and no one will be the wiser." "How can I repay you?" she asked and from the corner of her eye saw Sarah lift a suggestive eyebrow.

' ' was a start," he said, and one side of his mourn curved upward. "Maybe I could convince you to attend mass once in a while."

"You drive a hard bargain," she teased, "but sure.

Maybe. Now, come on, we can have dessert in the living room. Why don't you see if you can find something decent to listen to on the radio and I'll light a fire?" "Leave that to me," he said. "Just point me in the direction of the woodshed. I was an Eagle Scout, you know."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

For the next hour, while a fire crackled in the old grate and smooth jazz compliments of WSLJ played through Grannie Guy's ancient radio, they made small talk. Father James was as charming as ever but Olivia noticed that beneath his veneer of affability and calm, there was a hint of tension, a disturbance that was visible only upon occasion, something dark in his blue eyes.

Sarah was right. He was handsome. Even drop-dead gorgeous.

Though Olivia tried to ignore the feeling, she noticed a little spark, a connection whenever he looked at her. It was almost as if there were an unspoken message in his gaze--an unasked question, one, she was certain, would scare her to death if she knew what it was.

And it bothered her. He was a priest, for God's sake.

Any bond she felt for him was unthinkable, perhaps her imagination working double time. She couldn't think of Father James Mcclaren as anything but a man of God. She wouldn't.

First the cop; now the priest.

No way. She sat on one end of Grannie Guy's lumpy couch, he on the other. Sarah, more relaxed than she'd been since she'd shown up on Olivia's front porch, kicked off her shoes and tucked her stocking feet beneath her as she slowly rocked in Grannie's old swivel chair.

Olivia thought about Sarah's observation--what it would be like to make love to a priest.

For God's sake, it's only been a few days since you were with Bentz.

She felt the heat wash up her face but managed to keep up with the conversation, which was turning toward Sarah and her life in Tucson. Sarah, gesturing as she spoke, explained that she and Olivia had owned a store together and it had "never been the same" since Olivia had returned to Louisiana.

This was a good time to make a quick exit and leave Sarah to talk to the priest. Olivia excused herself and started on the dishes, refusing all help in the kitchen, claiming the room was too small for more man one person and she could probably work faster by herself.

Sarah didn't put up much of a fight, and when Olivia hazarded a glance through the open doorway, she noticed that Sarah had moved to the couch, was deep in conversation with Father James, and was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Good. Now, if she could make herself scarce without being obvious about it.

She washed, dried, and put away the dishes, wiped down the counters and table, even swept the floor. Over the soft hum of music, she heard Sarah talking rapidly, her words punctuated with sobs, then Father James's deeper, calmer voice. Maybe he was helping her; getting through to her.

Olivia crossed her fingers and sent up a prayer that Sarah would somehow find a way to come to terms with her marriage and Leo, the jerk of a husband.

Olivia was about to offer an after-dinner drink when the phone rang, and for a heartbeat, she thought Bentz might be calling again. "Hello?"

"Hello, darling'." She froze. Recognized the voice. Her heart turned to stone. What did she have to say to her father?

"Just wanted to wish you a Happy Thanksgivin'."

"The--the same to you," she managed, though she wasn't sure she meant it.

' ' don't have time to stop by today and like as not you've got other things going' on, but someday, Liwie, we need to see each other and catch up on old times. I'm a man of God now. A minister. You can talk to me."

"There were no old times, Reggie." She had to nip this father-daughter thing in the bud.

"See, here? That's ' what I'm talkin' '. We need to bridge some rifts, darling'."

"Please, don't call me that. Not ever again. You can call me Olivia."

"Hell, that ain't no fun."

She was bristling now, angry that he'd disturbed her holiday.

"You know, Reggie, for a minister, you swear a lot."

"Maybe I'm from the Church of Tellin' It Like It Is. I just called to wish you a good day." She could tell he was about to hang up and thought twice about her harsh words.

After all, it was Thanksgiving.

"Wait," she said. "Look, I, uh, hope you have a good day, okay?" That was the best she could do.

"I will, Olivia."

"Reggie? There's something I want to ask you," she said, barreling on.

Since he'd called, she may as well take advantage of it. "I was digging through some things of Grannie Guy' s and I found a note that I have an older brother.

Bernadette confirmed it, but she couldn't tell me where he is or even if he's alive. I was thinking you might know something."

"Well, don't that beat all? Not a word about the kid in thirty years and now twice in one day. I don't know nothin' more than I told that detective who had the nerve to haul me down ta New Orleans on Thanksgivin'. I told him everything I know, which isn't a helluva lot.

The boy was kept a secret from me. Your damned mother, she never gave m e a chance to know my own son!" He was agitated, his raspy voice strained.

"Why all the interest now?"

"Because I never knew about him before."

"What about the cop?" "That's between you and him," she said. "I assume it's about a case."

"Hell, yes, a case. He had the nerve to ask me where I was when those women were kilt. Like I'd know! You fuck up once and the system gets ya, Livvie. I'll never be free even though I did my time. Anytime there's trouble, the cops, they'll be knockin' on my door.

"Listen, if you track that brother of yours down, you tell him he's got a pa--a real one--who'd like to meet him.

Seems the whole fam-damu-ily is a helluva lot more interested in him than they are in his father. Goodbye, Olivia," he said angrily and hung up so loudly Olivia jumped. Well, fine.

After replacing the receiver, she decided to pour herself an after-dinner drink. That was the way Reggie Benchet affected her. He drove her straight to the bottle. Scrounging through the cupboards, she found half a pint of Black Velvet and added a healthy shot to her coffee. "Cheers," she muttered to herself and heard Sarah's voice droning on over the faint sounds of jazz. Good. With a smile, she took a sip.

Not bad. She hummed as she finished putting the last pot away.
The phone jangled again.
Now who? Admonishing herself for a fool, she couldn't help but hope

Bentz was calling again.

"Olivia, let me talk to Sarah," Leo Restin said without so much as a
"in," or "hello." Great. "I know she's there.
She called a friend of mine last night, so get her on the line."
"Leo--"
"Now!" he ordered. Olivia didn't like his tone of voice.
She looked at the receiver, then promptly hung up.
"Bastard," she whispered before taking another swallow from her cup.
"How do you like those apples?"
The phone rang sharply. She considered unplugging the damned thing and

let Leo stew in his own juices. She drained her cup.
On the fourth ring, she answered sweetly, "Hello?"
"Olivia, don't you hang up on me," Leo commanded.
"Uh-oh? Not nice, Leo. You can't boss people around."

She dangled the receiver over its cradle.

"Olivia!"

Sighing, she held the phone to her ear.

Leo was nearly choking with rage. "I want to talk to my wife, and if you don't put her on the god damned line, I'll come over there and--" She dropped the receiver again and considered another drink, but the phone rang immediately.

She picked it up. Before she could say a word, Leo said, "Please put my wife on the phone." His voice was strained. He was forcing the words between clenched teeth.

"Then behave, Leo. It's Thanksgiving," she said.

"You have no right to--"

"Ah, ah, aahhh."

"Okay, okay. Just let me talk to her."

Olivia was considering hanging up again when she looked up and found Father James standing in the archway, his blue eyes trained on her.

"Trouble?" he asked.

' ' serious. Leo Restin is on the phone. Does Sarah want to talk to him?"

As if she'd been lurking around the corner, Sarah shot into the kitchen.

"I thought I heard you say his name," she charged. Her eyes were still wet, tears clinging to her lashes, but she threw Olivia a how-dare-you-screen-my-calls look and snatched the phone from her hands.

"Hello?" she said brokenly, then the tears began to roll rapidly down her cheeks again. "Oh, God, Leo, where are you? I've been so worried ... " She turned an ostracizing shoulder toward Olivia, who, shaking her head, poured herself and James each another cup of coffee. She reached into the cupboard again and silently she held up the near-empty bottle of Black Velvet. To her surprise, the priest nodded. Olivia poured them each a healthy shot then, as Sarah whispered, sniffed, and sobbed into the phone, carried their drinks into the living room.

Hairy, snoring softly, was curled beneath the window. ' ' you get through to her?" Olivia asked as they settled onto the couch.

Father James took a sip of his drink.' ' information," he said.
"Confidential."
"I just want to help."
"You've done all you can. Now it's up to Sarah and Leo."
"Jerk," Olivia muttered. She wanted to confide in Father James, to tell

him what a no-good, two-timing, mean-as the-devil creep Leo Restin was, but she kept her comments to the one word. Before she had a chance to second-guess herself, Sarah swept out of the kitchen.

"I've got to go. Leo wants to meet." Her eyes were bright with hope, a

tremulous smile upon her lips.
Olivia was certain her friend's heart was going to be ripped out and
stomped on all over again. "Are you sure--?"

"Yes! And I don't have any time for a lecture. I'll tell you all about it when I get back--" She started for the staircase then thought better of it. Hurrying back to the living room, she extended her hand to the priest. "Thank you, Father," she said. "You ... you really helped." And then she was gone, racing up the stairs, rattling around in the bathroom and flying back down again. "I'll see you later," she said to Olivia and then winked wickedly. "Unless I get lucky."

She was out the door before Olivia could clap a hand to her forehead.
"This is never gonna work."
"That's her decision."
"I know, I know, but she did come here, to my house, broken into a

million pieces."

"Maybe not so many," James said and sipped from his coffee cup as the strains of an old Frank Sinatra tune filled the room.

Red embers glowed as the fire hissed and sparked. The whiskey was taking effect. Olivia's bones melted a bit and she nudged off her shoes with her toes. Looking at James seated at the far end of the couch, his long legs stretched in front of him, she felt lucky that he was there.

Without his clerical collar, he seemed so real. So approachable.
So downright male.
He stared at the fire, his brow knit in concentration, his jaw hard. A

scholar's mind, an athlete's body, usually hidden beneath a priest's
vestments.
"Something's bothering you."
"Me?" He glanced up at her and flashed a quick smile.

"Nah."
"Yes, there is ... and don't try to deny it. I'm a little bit of a
psychic, you know." When he didn't respond, she added, "It's true. My
grandmother used to read tarot cards and tea leaves, and even though she
was a devout Catholic, she dabbled in voodoo."

"How does one " in something like that?" he asked.

' ', voodoo isn't all about killing chickens and pushing pins in dolls
to curse people, you know."
"I do know." He slid her a glance. "I've studied all kinds of religion

and theology and not just through the seminary. It's one of my
passions."
"Any other ones?"

He chuckled. "Oh, yeah ... " he said and his voice softened but he

didn't elaborate. "What about you?"
"Uh-uh. We weren't talking about me. I said that something's troubling
you and you tried to change the subject."

"Even priests have problems," he admitted and she watched as firelight
played upon the sharp angles of his face.
Yes, there was something bothering him, a sadness he tried to hide.

"Maybe I can help."
"You have. Already." Edging a little closer, he took her hand in his and
she was surprised to feel calluses upon his skin. "Just inviting me
here, letting me be a part of your little family of friends, that
helped. It reminded me of what it feels Like to be a part of a family."

He held her hand a second longer than necessary, then dropped it.
Olivia's breath caught. "I had ulterior motives because of Sarah.
Besides, you have a family."
His eyes darkened even more. "That I do."
"Where are they?"
"Around. But ... my folks are gone, one a year after the other, and I've

got a half-brother but we don't see each other that often." He stared at her for a few seconds, his concentration intense, and she suspected he was waging some kind of inner battle. "I think I'd better go." Placing his hands on his knees, he stood quickly, as if he were afraid he might change his mind. "I'm on duty later."