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Gideon said. "When the blackmailer's caught, you're tops on my list."
    He drove away determined to put Ophelia, her sister, and his own sister firmly out of his mind, and within five minutes leaped up his front steps to the joyous welcome from the dogs in the fenced backyard. The phone was ringing, and he got the door open just as the answering machine finished its spiel.
    Ophelia's voice came on, low and hesitant. He listened, transfixed, as she began her message, but by the time he reached the phone she had gone.
    "I'm scum," Ophelia told herself as she turned on the shower. She had left the others in the driveway with a list of breezy excuses--an appointment for an estimate, a truck full of plants to deliver, and of course a life to get on with.
    She squared her shoulders against the memory of the disgust in Gideon's voice. Which was ridiculous, as she should have been relieved at the success of her tactics, as well as grateful for Vi's efficient takeover. She soaped her hair and remembered Gideon walking beside Violet in total absorption, which just went to show he was scum, too, albeit gorgeous, sexy scum. She scrubbed her scalp furiously and rinsed with rage, and stepped out of the shower clean and still scummy and knew that whatever he might be, she couldn't leave it at that.
    Both cars were gone, Gideon no doubt following Vi into town like a puppy on a string. Fine. Whatever. Ophelia toweled her hair and flipped through the phone book. O'Toole, Artemisia...O'Toole, Gideon--Highway 43, Bayou Gavotte. Far too close for comfort. She returned to the entry for Artemisia, which listed Olive Street, near one of her customers. Whatever.
    She ran her finger under Gideon's number and picked up the phone. She only needed to show him she wasn't such a bitch as she had pretended. Which wouldn't change a thing, since he now viewed her with abhorrence, so what harm could one phone call do? Three rings and she heard his lovely, slow voice, but it was just a machine. She took a deep breath and waited for the beep. "Gideon--Mr. O'Toole, this is Ophelia Beliveau. I'm calling to say I'm sorry about that last remark I made. It was uncalled for and I apologize. Uh...good-bye." Pitiful, but at least she'd done it. Now, for that life she was so eager to get on with.
    She dressed, gathered up her clipboard and a pamphlet on flagstone, and headed for her truck. Donnie Donaldson came across the ditch, carrying a two-by-four and a portable saw. "What's the cop gonna do?"
    "Nothing," Ophelia said. "I told him to go away. You're going to fix my porch railing? Thanks!"
    "No time like the present. Aren't you pressing charges?" He tut-tutted at the broken panes of her greenhouse.
    "Of course not," Ophelia said. "I just want Willy to sit up and take notice. He must have been drunk or on drugs to do such a dumb thing. When he comes to his senses we'll discuss restitution." She dumped the clipboard and pamphlet on the passenger seat of her pickup, took the small tub of monkey grass and set it next to the ditch. "Keep this in your yard where Willy won't trash it, and I'll add it to your border in a day or two."
    "Wonder why the cops sent a detective," Donnie mused, setting the two-by-four and the saw on one of the paving stones leading to her front steps. "I knew his parents. He lives down the river a ways."
    Ophelia lifted her shoulder in a shrug.
    "You know who he is, don't you?" Donnie took a tape measure and a pencil from his belt.
    "Somebody or other O'Toole. So what?"
    "He's the cop. The one who let Constantine Dufray off the hook."
    "He didn't let him off the hook," Ophelia said irritably. She'd heard this nonsense far too often in the months since the rock star's wife had been poisoned. Considering that they owed them their safety, the people of Bayou Gavotte were ridiculously ready to believe the worst of Constantine and the other underworlders who often acted as the town's vigilantes. Come to think of it, her jibe at the cop this afternoon had