Kiss Them Goodbye by Stella Cameron Page B

that led from the back of the property to a side road and Vivian’s green van was parked in the yard of the old stable where it couldn’t be seen from the front of the house, leaving hadn’t been a problem.
    After five hours during which his partner and a female officer made sure Vivian and Charlotte, Spike and Cyrusdidn’t have a chance to talk to one another in private, the hateful Detective Bonine had abruptly stopped his round of interviewing them, one by one. Spike and Cyrus had been dismissed with warnings to “be available.” Vivian and Charlotte were told, “It’s in your best interests not to plan any trips.” Bonine had pulled Vivian aside and said, “I’ll be back,” before scuffing from the house.
    Spike had left about an hour earlier so he could only have been home half an hour at most. He was probably looking for something to eat right now.
    The rain had stopped and the moon shone clear, even if it was banded with cloud. Driving north into St. Martin’s Parish Vivian tried to concentrate on how much she’d grown to like this quiet place. Visions of Louis, dead in his car, pushed their way in but she moved them aside quickly and found that thinking about Spike’s face took her in a whole new direction.
    If she hadn’t been distracted she’d have made sure he took the food with him.
    Yeah, and who was she fooling? Seeing the leek pie in the refrigerator and the color-frosted sugar cookies shaped like Raggedy Ann and Andy baked by her mother for Wendy had lifted Vivian’s spirits and made her hands shake with anticipation. That was one convenient excuse to do what she wanted to do: see Spike again. She couldn’t wait to see him.
    Up ahead she could already see the black and white sign in front of Devol’s, St. Martin’s First Gas Stop. Store Out Back. The Bayou Provisioners. You Want It, We Got It. We deliver anywhere. And Eats. On the other side of the board, Last replaced First.
    Vivian’s courage fled. Driving from Rosebank to Spike’s place took about half an hour, which meant that instead of being, “only two in the morning,” it was now, “only two-thirty in the morning.”
    Idiot woman. How did she think she was going to get to Spike without waking up Homer and Wendy? And what made her imagine for one moment that the object of her fantasies would be delighted if she dropped in on him when he probably had to be on duty early?
    Apart from a single bulb at the corner of the building, the gas station lights were off. The store, set far back from the road, was also in darkness and she couldn’t see the house which she thought was closer to the bayou.
    Spike’s Ford sedan, complete with insignia on the trunk and front doors, stood beneath the gas station light. Pretty good deterrent to troublemakers.
    Vivian pulled her van in, considered for a moment whether she had the courage to walk boldly to the house and leave the food on the gallery—with a note on top—and decided she certainly did.
    If the striped moon weren’t still casting some light, it would be difficult to see without a flashlight and she’d run the risk of disturbing someone.
    The only sounds were of rustling leaves and buggy nightlife with voices way too big for their size.
    Once past the gas station and beside the store, Vivian saw the dark outline of Spike’s house. Bigger than she’d expected, it stood on substantial stilts. The gallery had to be on the other side, facing the bayou. The part of the building she approached probably contained the bedrooms.
    A little jumpy, she hurried around the house, skirting a light-colored van as she went and, sure enough, two wooden chairs glowed white on a screened gallery—between them stood a miniature version. Wendy’s. Vivian swallowed. Intruding here without an invitation was a dumb idea.
    The dishes she’d brought were stacked in a plastic crate with wire handles. A picnic table sat out front of the gallery. She placed the crate there and backed away, wiping her hands