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like that.”
    “You’re too trusting, Cyrus. You put a tall, strong, devastatingly good-looking,
virile
man, who is probably burning with unrequited love and sexual deprivation”—she rolled her eyes—“you put him with a beautiful, voluptuous redhead who is one smoldering bundle of frustrated desire, and what do you get?”
    “You need a hobby,” Cyrus told her. “Have you ever thought of writing fiction?”
    “What makes you think I’m not writing something already:
Toussaint,
Louisiana.

Sin City on Bayou Teche.
There
’
s more than old crawfish that smell bad around here.
I’ve been needing fresh material.”
    “Maybe a husband would be a good outlet for your imagination.” He knew his mistake at once. She lowered her eyes, and he heard her swallow.
    “I left them in there for two reasons,” he said in a hurry “First, I do think they already know one another, and my presence wasn’t going to help them deal with whatever issues they’ve got. Second, I had to grab an opportunity to regroup. Madge, he made a comment about Bonnie and how she loved music.”
    Madge paled. She pushed a hand into her thick, black curls and kept it there. “He knew Bonnie?” She had lowered her voice again.
    “That’s what he seemed to be letting me know. And he’s got a lot to say about her, or will have when I let him. Reb arrived just as he was asking me if I thought Bonnie was murdered.”
    The phone rang. When Madge finally noticed, she reached behind her and switched over to the answering service.
    They stared at one another until Madge broke the silence. “I’ve never heard anyone say he was unstable.”
    This was one of those times when Cyrus knew he wasn’t expected to say anything. Madge liked to think aloud.
    “So, if he’s sane and makes a statement like that, he believes he has inside information.”
    She crossed her legs and bounced a foot up and down.
    “He was sounding me out,” Cyrus said. “Looking for my reaction. Which means he’s trying to figure out how much I know.”
    “Just could be he was making sure you didn’t know anythin’ at all,” Madge said.
    Cyrus nodded. “And we’re getting mighty irritated by our own questions, while Marc Girard is the only one who knows why he’s here and what he thinks.”
    “Toussaint used to seem so sleepy to me,” Madge said. Her brow furrowed, and she turned to glance briefly through the window at the slope down to the bayou. Willow branches hung, unmoving under the sun of a breathless afternoon. “It’s not sleepy. Not anymore. It looks peaceful out there, and welcoming—but that’s a disguise.”
    To disagree would be to lie. “There’s too much going on. Things we don’t like, I mean.” He did wish he could reassure her. “Whatever it takes, this little town will settle again.”
    “I hope it happens before anyone else dies.”
    So did he.
    “We should do what we can to help.”
    Cyrus looked at her sharply and leaned forward in the chair. “What you can do to help is be aware of what’s going on around you and keep yourself safe.”
    Her expression lost its sharp edge. “I thank you for your concern,” she said, “but you don’t have to worry about me. Puttin’ myself in danger isn’t my thing, but I don’t like sitting around waiting for something else to happen. I say we take this into our own hands.”
    “Slow down,” he told her and congratulated himself for not groaning aloud. “Anything I can do, I will do, you know that. And I’ll let you know the minute you can help out,” he added hastily.
    Madge jumped to her feet. She raised her shoulders and rubbed her hands as if there was something pleasant and exciting in store. “Let’s start by going over whatever we remember. All the little details, and the big ones.” She snatched up a pad and pen. “I’m sure Bonnie had more possessions than they found in her room after she died. We’ve got to think about that and figure out what could have been missing.