“Okay, pax,” Zelda said on a bitter little sob. She tossed her hose onto the flagstone and threw herself at Ophelia’s chest and dug her fingernails into her arms. “I so totally screwed up,” she wept into Ophelia’s shirt. “Tell me what to do!”

  Ophelia peeled Zelda’s fingers away and closed her arms around her niece.

  Violet flung up her hands in disgust. “I. Give. Up. From day one I’ve told her violence is never the answer, and the minute she hits puberty she starts beating people up.”

  “Like you don’t lose your temper, Mom,” Zelda burst out. “Like you’ve never slugged some guy who came on to you.”

  “Only when I had no choice,” Violet said. She caught sight of Reuben and perked up.

  Ophelia’s bodyguard stared happily at Violet, dripping wet and nearly naked. “Need a hug?”

  “No, I’m perfectly under control, you delicious, pheromone-rich hunk of meat. Ophelia put you to work, did she? Go take a shower, darling. I know you can’t stand that sticky feeling.”

  Reuben grinned at Violet and raised his eyebrows.

  “Sorry, darling, I’d love to join you, but right now Zelda’s my priority. If she would only listen to me!” Violet’s eyes flashed.

  Zelda’s flashed right back. “Maybe you should try listening to me, Mother!”

  Art hovered uneasily at the corner of the house. “I’d better go home.”

  “Not at all,” Violet said. “Come into the kitchen for tea. You’re so much older and wiser and more cooperative than my adolescent child, of whom I expected much, much more.” She saw Reuben hanging indecisively at the foot of the steps, his eyes on Ophelia. “Go! Girl-talk time. You’re not wanted.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Reuben, I’m not going anywhere,” Ophelia said. “Have I tried to escape you even once today?”

  “See?” Violet said, once the bodyguard was on his way up the stairs. “Even Ophelia’s cooperating. And thank God for that, since her life is in danger. I’m glad to see at least one of my family acting sanely.” Tears spilled onto Violet’s cheeks. Ophelia sensed Zelda softening and grabbed her by the arm.

  “Zelda and I will have a little talk.” She hauled the teenager onto the back porch and settled beside her on the swing. “I am frigging well not cooperating,” she said under her breath. “I am biding my time. And don’t you dare tell Vi I said that. Now tell me what happened.”

  “Mom doesn’t understand at all,” Zelda said, when she had finished explaining the incident at school. “So what if I got suspended? So what if I was mean to Joanna? She deserved it. And please, please don’t be mad at me for defending you. I couldn’t stand what they were saying.”

  “I’m not mad, I’m grateful.” Ophelia squeezed Zelda’s shoulders. “But I think if we give Joanna a chance, if we make her feel safe with us, she’ll tell the truth.”

  “She’s already called twice. I refused to talk to her.” She raised stubborn eyes. “It’s not like Mom was an angel in school. She got into all kinds of trouble.”

  “Sure, but she never let it get past the administrator’s office. I was more like you. But that’s not the issue, is it? And neither is Joanna or the boy you slugged.”

  “No,” Zelda agreed, and sniffed and bit her lip and finally released a couple of tears and then a couple more. Ophelia hugged her hard, and for a long time they sat together in silence.

  Zelda sighed. “I didn’t think it would be like this. I swore I wouldn’t have a vamp’s temper. I love Mom, but it drives me crazy when she throws things around and breaks dishes until some dumb guy holds her down. It’s so childish! The water-therapy thing’s sort of fun, but I don’t want to be out of control when I’m thirty-five. I don’t want to be out of control now, but I lost it, Ophelia! I don’t even remember what happened. I was blind with it. What got into me?”

  “Your mom’s not out of control,” Ophelia said. “The drama works for her, so she uses it. Has she ever hurt anyone when she throws things around?” Zelda shook her head. “When she breaks something, does she expect you to clean it up? No, she takes care of it herself. And you may have noticed that she gets a lot more irate when there’s some guy around to grab her. Violet likes being squeezed into submission.”

  “Ick.” Zelda drew in a throbbing breath. “What am I going to do?”

  “Find your own way to control it, sweetie, and don’t beat yourself up in the meantime. Have you sprouted your fangs yet?”

  Zelda rubbed her gums. “No. Maybe I’m not a vamp. Maybe I’m just a violent bitch.”

  “Wishful thinking, I’m afraid,” Ophelia said. “The main thing is to have control over your fangs once you do sprout them, and to use them only in the direst emergency. You could do a lot of damage.” God, yes. “Not just to the person you attack, not just to yourself because you’d feel terrible, but to the safety of vamps in general. Maintaining our privacy without harming others is a huge challenge. In Bayou Gavotte, with any luck, you’ll be all right, but there won’t always be a Lep or a Constantine around to keep you out of jail. God, no. Slugging people isn’t good, but it’s a better option until you’ve learned some control.”

  “But why do we have such terrible tempers?”

  “Because when some really bad guy comes along, and unfortunately there will be plenty, your temper will be exactly what you need. An enraged vampire with her fangs out terrifies ninety-nine bad ones out of a hundred, and with your wits and some self-defense training, you can hopefully handle the hundredth, too.” God, yes, please.

  “Ta-da!” Violet flung open the back door and motioned Art forward. A new, elegant Art in a long, slinky electric blue dress and impossible heels.

  Art tottered forward. “This is so not me!”

  Ophelia laughed. “You look fabulous.”

  “And definitely not sweet sixteen,” Violet said. “To night will be so much fun.”

  “I’m dressed too much like Marissa,” Art said mutinously. “If this is what Dar wants, I’m not right for him at all!”

  Violet twitched the flared hem into place. “This is just an occasional you, snaring your man being the occasion. Tonight, the aim is to show him you’re all grown up. Once that’s sunk in, we’ll wallop him with something else.”

  Inside the house, the phone rang. Zelda jumped off the swing and stopped dead. She glowered at Ophelia. Ophelia shrugged.

  “Oh, all right,” Zelda said. “If it’s Joanna, I won’t hang up on her. But that’s all I promise.”

  It wasn’t Joanna, though. It was Gideon.

  “He sounds serious,” Zelda said. She handed Ophelia the phone.

  “Thank God you’re there,” Gideon said. “You’re not answering your phone.”

  “I left it in the truck. What’s wrong?” She saw Violet’s eyes on her and knew what her sister was thinking, knew what she had now realized and would have realized earlier if not for other overriding concerns, but Gideon’s next words drove all other thoughts out of Ophelia’s mind.

  “There’s been another murder,” Gideon said. “Plato’s dead.”

  “Why?” Two tears rolled down Ophelia’s cheeks at the pathetic sight of Plato on the forest floor with a hole in his chest. Dead leaves and pine straw clung to his clothing, and an army of ants marched efficiently under his once-crisp white shirt. She felt Gideon’s eyes on her, as they had been ever since she parked at the side of the old country road across the river from her property. Gideon had nodded his thanks to a relieved Reuben, and since the red Cadillac had driven away, his focus had been unnervingly upon her, and the attention had nothing to do with sex.

  She shook off an uncomfortable feeling of being tested and tested again. “He must have seen something,” she answered herself slowly. Her eyes traveled through the trees toward the river. “Whoever shot at me, maybe?”

  “What’s the likelihood he would have been down at the river at dawn?”

  “Close to nil,” Ophelia said.

  “If he saw something at dawn, he had all day to report it, but he didn’t try to call me till close to two.” Gideon sounded horribly grim. “He called three times within a few minutes. The third time he left a message, saying he needed to talk to me and only me, that he thought he had something but wasn’t sure. At two thirty-five he tried me again and was cut off before he finished identifying himself. Shot at close range with a small-caliber pistol is what it looks like. By then I guess he was sure, but it was too late.”

  “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Ophelia couldn’t hide the anguish in her voice.

  “My phone was at the bottom of the river. I picked up messages every chance I had until I got the new phone an hour ago. This killer has sheer dumb luck.”

  “Plato was ready for work,” Ophelia said irrelevantly. “He always wears a starched white shirt to work. He always wore black to the club.” She bit back a sob. “He was crazy, but he was good. There aren’t enough good people around. What was he doing over here?”

  For too long, Gideon said nothing. Ophelia looked at Plato again, at the mess of churned-up pine straw around him and the dearth of it to one side, at a drawn and trampled patch of poison ivy and a broken native azalea. “You think maybe he wasn’t shot here,” she said. “That he was dragged—or dragged himself—from over that way.”

  Gideon still said nothing but led her slowly through the trees, parallel to more signs of disturbance, toward an old brown farmhouse nestled in the woods.

  “The people who live in this house are on vacation,” Ophelia said.

  He waited some more, and again she felt obliged to explain.

  “They asked me to take care of their lawn while they’re gone. The people next door commute to New Orleans every day.” She nodded at a green Victorian similar to Gideon’s in size and shape. “I did some perennial beds for them last year. It wouldn’t be hard to get in and out of here unseen. He could have parked on the driveway, dragged Plato through the woods, covered him with dead leaves and pine straw…The body might not have been found for ages. And of course, whoever shot at us this morning might have been here, too.” Now it was her turn to ask questions. “Who found him?”

  “One of the construction workers came down here after his shift to scope out the river for fishing. If he’d been an hour earlier, I might have had a witness.”

  “If he’d been an hour earlier, he might have ended up dead,” Ophelia said. “This guy doesn’t let witnesses live. Have you made any progress on the other murders?”

  “A lot of negatives,” Gideon said. His phone rang. Ophelia watched him listen. “Huh,” Gideon said. “Makes sense.” Ophelia tried not to be irritated at his terse sentences and veiled eyes. “Thanks, Jeanie.”

  Ophelia started walking. “I need to go home and take a shower.”

  “Busy day?” Gideon asked politely.

  We had sex this morning. Polite doesn’t fit anymore. “This morning Reuben and I went to the nursery to buy more Japanese maples. We dropped the trees at the customer site, prepared the ground for planting, and went to lunch. I have the charge slip.” If he wanted proof. Goddamn it, what was going on? She waited, but Gideon said nothing, and his expression conveyed even less.

  Ophelia forced her fangs to stay quiescent and her tone to remain neutral. “During lunch, I prepared a drawing for one of my estimates. Then we drove all the way to Baton Rouge to pick up some equipment, came back to plant the trees, which just about killed Reuben, and then went to Vi’s house, where you found me. Reuben won’t want to bodyguard me for a while. Poor baby, he didn’t even get to sleep with Vi as a reward.”

  Gideon looked a polite question, and Ophelia pondered which one to answer. “Zelda got sent home from school for fighting, so Vi wasn’t in the mood.”

  Gideon looked another question.

  “Zelda was defending my honor. Lisa Wyler’s been spreading word via the gossip tree that I molested Joanna, and although Joanna denies it, she won’t say who did take those pictures. Vi spread word via another network entirely that Children’s Services needs to leave me alone or they’ll be sorry. Sometimes I’m grateful for my underworld contacts, but what if Joanna’s in danger? She says she isn’t, but whoever took those pictures must know she’ll break down and tell somebody sooner or later.” They reached Constantine’s truck, parked behind Gideon’s Mercedes. Gretchen came out from underneath and yawned. “You should be protecting Joanna instead of me. Now that I’m on my guard, I’ll do fine.”

  “We’re trying to keep an eye on Joanna,” Gideon said. “Like I told you, we’re a small outfit. In a mess like this, we have too much work and too few people.” He gave her evil new machine a once-over. “A chipper. Be careful with that sucker, honey.”

  Ophelia rolled her eyes, trying for nonchalance, hoping the sick feeling didn’t show on her face. Gretchen panted her way to Ophelia’s side and yawned again.

  “I worked for an arborist in college,” Gideon said. “Did you pay good money for this piece of junk?”

  “I only need it for one project,” Ophelia said. “It’ll do.” She had to get away from there. “I have to go home.”

  Gretchen pushed a cool nose under her hand. “Take Gretchen. She’s bored here,” Gideon said. “She’ll keep watch.”

  “All right,” Ophelia agreed.

  “I’ll try to find somebody to keep an eye on you,” Gideon added.

  Surveil me, you mean? Ophelia kicked a stone into the woods, fought her fangs, and forcibly relaxed her hands.

  The crime-scene van showed up. “Will you have dinner with me?” Gideon asked, and Ophelia tried her best to read him, but still she could see no sign of a desire for sex.

  She shivered. It felt so wrong. “You’re asking for a date? What about all these murders? What about Joanna?”

  “Not eating won’t help me sort this mess out. Talking it through with you might.”

  More interrogation? No way. Ophelia shooed Gretchen into the passenger seat and started Constantine’s truck. “Call me when you’re free. I might be feeling more sociable then.”

  “You don’t have to be sociable, honey. You just have to be there.”

  Be there for what? Ophelia drove away, the ancient chipper clunking along behind. You’re not supposed to discuss police business with me. And why aren’t you looking for sex?

  And yes, I’m a shallow bitch to be thinking about that, but I thought we had something going here. I thought you were different.

  You didn’t ask me to marry you. You didn’t even ask me to move in. You didn’t ask me to restore your garden.

  And you sure as hell didn’t say you love me.

  She reached her driveway five minutes later. Gideon or no Gideon, she would ditch her past and move on. She drove around the house and across the dead back lawn to the edge of the woods and unhitched the chipper, then returned the truck to the driveway and hurried inside for a quick sandwich. No bodyguard showed up, so maybe even Lep couldn’t always dish one up at a moment’s notice. If only this would happen when she really needed to be alone. She cleaned the chainsaw, gassed it up, and put phase one of her plan into action.

  But action left room for grief, and she kept seeing Plato, shot down because of her, dear crazy Plato who had given her unquestioning help when she’d needed it. Plato dead, while Gideon focused on her for no good reason and Plato’s murderer went free.

  An hour, a pile of branches and saplings ready for chipping, and no bodyguard later, she decided to take a hand in solving the mystery herself. Maybe Plato’d been killed at his place while he was watching hers. With Gretchen at her heels, she took her spare shotgun and marched across the road and up Plato’s drive.

  It didn’t take long to find the patch of dried blood and the disturbed gravel, and tears threatened again, followed by rage at the thought of Plato dying in the dirt. She batted Gretchen away and ordered the dog to wait, carefully skirted the path into the woods, and climbed up to the platform where Plato had so faithfully kept watch.

  Plato had done more clever pruning. The view had expanded from her own house and garden to include Donnie’s and Willy’s on one side and the woods on the other, and unless you were looking for it, you wouldn’t see the changes from across the road. Nothing seemed different from usual. No one was at Willy’s, but he probably had another gig tonight, and Lisa and the girls might be anywhere. Donnie’s truck was gone, too, but the TV flickered through his uncurtained front window, which meant he’d probably run to the corner store for milk.

  She let her eyes rove around the contents of the platform itself: Plato’s telescope on its tripod, pointing toward the floor, his old shears on a nail, a half-empty package of potato chips, a pile of wisteria leaves, and the utility knife he used to strip the vines. A stack of three baskets in a corner and the uncharacteristically misshapen bottoms of two more, set against the wall.

  A tendril of wisteria hung untidily over the edge of the roof, brushing Ophelia’s face. Automatically, she reached up to snap it off, but the squeak of a screen door distracted her. She whirled, fangs slotting down, ready to leap for her life.

  A rotund uniformed officer of the Bayou Gavotte police fended Gretchen off and hurried up the gravel drive. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  Ophelia jammed the fangs into place. “What the hell are you doing here?” She clutched her shotgun and drummed up some allure.

  Ponderously, the cop approached. “Ma’am, I need you to come down from there right now. This here’s a crime scene.”

  “Did Gideon O’Toole send you here to keep watch?”

  “Ma’am, I need you to get down right now.”

  Ophelia smiled blindingly at the cop, flipped her cell phone open, and dialed Gideon’s number. “You should have told me you had someone at Plato’s place,” she said when he answered. She passed the shotgun to the officer, then swung down the rope ladder with the cell phone to her ear. “I don’t mess with your goddamn crime scenes on purpose. Can’t you put up some yellow tape?”

  “Can’t you mind your own business?” Gideon said savagely after a short, awful silence.

  “This is my business.” Ophelia shot a smile edged with just enough allure that the cop stepped out of her way. “He was my friend and he was killed because of me. You did notice the bloodstain, I assume? And the gravel where he was dragged?”