Stranger, Seducer, Protector Page 3

  “The honeymoon is sheer perfection, and the beach condo we rented has a marvelous view. When the sun hits the water, the Gulf appears striped with the most regal shades of emerald and turquoise I have ever seen.”

  “Sounds divine.”

  “It is, and you sound hoarse. Are you coming down with something?”

  A case of crumbling drywall overload. Jacinth would have loved to spill the whole story and get her sister’s take on last night’s gore.

  But Caitlyn had been through her own nightmare mere weeks before, barely escaping with her life before she married Marcus. She deserved this period of unadulterated happiness.

  “I feel fine,” Jacinth said, “but my allergies are kicking up. Probably some fall-blooming plant we didn’t have in Ohio.”

  “Maybe you should see the doctor.”

  “I will if it gets worse. Now tell me about the Florida Panhandle. Is the sand really as soft and sugar-white as they say?”

  “Absolutely.” Caitlyn raved on, excitement and happiness radiating from her voice. Jacinth only half listened, her mind already jumping ahead to the promised visit from a homicide detective and the CSU unit.

  And hopefully a visit from the plumber. She needed a shower in the worst way.

  As soon as they’d said their goodbyes, Jacinth threw her legs over the side of the bed, tiptoed to the window and stared out at the dew-kissed lawn. The St. Augustine grass was still green and growing in spite of the scattering of leaves that had fallen from the aged live oaks that grew on her and the Findleys’ property.

  Her gaze moved to the carriage house where Nick had said he’d be if she needed anything at all. A tinge of awareness titillated her senses, just as it had when he’d leaned in so close last night.

  It was a schoolgirl response brought on by over-wrought emotions. She did not get giddy over men she barely knew, no matter how helpful and sexy.

  At any rate, his promise to be there if she needed him apparently didn’t extend to the daylight hours. His truck was gone from the driveway. If he was working, he’d definitely gotten an early start.

  She needed to, as well. But first, caffeine. The stairs creaked and groaned as she shuffled down them. When she’d first moved into the house, she’d reacted to every ghostly rasp and moan, thinking someone was behind her.

  She thought of them as the whispered secrets of the Villarés who’d lived and died in the house for generations. At least she had until last night. Now she wondered if the walls were merely preparing to drop another body part on her.

  And this after the building inspector she’d hired had assured her the foundation was sound and that with loving care and timely repairs the house might stand another hundred and fifty years.

  Sin indulged in a kind of purring yowl and walked to her empty feeding dish as Jacinth stepped into the kitchen.

  “I know. Time for breakfast. As if you’d let me forget. My grandmother obviously spoiled you rotten.”

  From the cabinet Jacinth took a can of the fishy-smelling canned food that Sin loved, opened it and filled the cat’s bowl. She gave her fresh water, as well, and then started a full pot of coffee. She had a feeling she’d need it before the day was over.

  Her thoughts went back to her grandmother as the enticing odor of brewing coffee filled the cozy kitchen. Marie Villaré had never been a part of Jacinth’s life. Jacinth didn’t remember one birthday card or phone call from the woman. Her name was never mentioned by Jacinth’s mother. Yet the inheritance that Marie Villaré had left Jacinth and Caitlyn served as a golden binding, reaching from beyond the grave to connect Jacinth with her Villaré ancestors and especially with her grandmother.

  Yet numerous questions still went unanswered.

  Had Marie ever wondered about her granddaughters? Why had she made no attempt to contact them even after their mother had died of cancer? If she had no interest in knowing them, why will them this house?

  Had Jacinth’s mother left New Orleans because of her husband’s murder, or had Marie Villaré done something to cause Sophie to leave Louisiana and never return or even want to speak of the city or this house again?

  The phone rang as Jacinth poured her coffee, jerking her back to the present. A drop of hot liquid spilled over her fingers.

  “I’m Detective Ron Greene,” said the voice on the line as soon as she’d identified herself. “I hear you had a little excitement at your place last night.”

  “Shock might be a better word.”

  “Yeah. I’m reading the police report now. Some of the details are a little fuzzy. I’ll need to talk to you as soon as possible. Do you have any problem with me coming over this morning?”

  “No. I’m available anytime.”

  “Then I’m on my way. The Crime Scene Unit will get there at approximately the same time.”

  “That will be fine.”

  The sooner they got this over with the better. Grabbing her coffee cup, Jacinth headed back upstairs to get dressed.

  She hesitated a few seconds in front of the closed door to her crime-scene bathroom. Maybe this old house was cursed after all and had stealthily lured Jacinth and Caitlyn into its web of evil.

  And maybe Jacinth had been sniffing too much plaster.

  She shook off the mood and hurried to get dressed for her own reality CSI.

  NICK TOOK THE hard plastic chair in front of the pane of thick glass. As always, this place, with its institutional gray walls, armed and aloof guards and acrid smell of cleansers and sweat, created a hard knot in the depths of his gut.

  He’d been ten years old when he’d come here the first time. It was also the first time since he was a first grader that he’d laid eyes on the father he’d been told was out of county on a special mission for his country.

  His boyhood superhero instantly dissolved into a flesh-and-blood disillusionment, leaving a hole the size of a bowling ball in his heart.

  Nick hadn’t said a word to the stranger staring back at him. Finally his mother dragged him back to their old Chevy and he’d thrown up all the way home, soaking the backseat with vomit. His mother had cried hysterically and just kept driving.

  He hadn’t returned to the prison until he was sixteen years old, two months after his mother had remarried and moved to Pennsylvania, leaving him to live with his paternal grandparents while he finished high school.

  The second visit to the prison had been at the urging of his grandfather. No pressure, Gramps had promised. Nick only had to go and make up his own mind if he wanted to engage. If not, they’d leave and nothing would be lost except the morning.

  Nick hadn’t walked away and the sluggish, agonizing process of building a relationship with his father had begun that day.

  Nick watched a woman walk across the floor of the visitor center flanked by two preschoolers. The girl’s short ponytail was tied with a bright pink ribbon that matched her shirt. A worn teddy bear with one arm missing was clutched in her right hand.

  The boy was tugging at his mother’s skirt, as if trying to slow down her progress across the scuffed tile floor. An action figure dangled from his fingers.

  Nick swallowed hard, aching for the kids. If they were here to visit their father, they had a tough road in front of them.

  A slight tapping on the window got Nick’s attention. His father smiled broadly as if they were meeting for lunch or to go to a Saints game. Nick saw past the smile to the dark bags around his father’s sunken eyes, the pall of his complexion and the swollen jowls.

  The chemo was doing a number on him.

  Nick picked up the phone in front of him. “How you doing, Dad?”

  “I’m hanging in there.”

  “Are they taking care of you?”

  “Yep. Dr. Singleton makes sure of that.”

  Tom Singleton was his oncologist, the one making the decisions on Elton Bruno’s medical care. Nick had talked to him by phone a couple of times and checked out his reputation on the internet. He was a well-respected doctor.

 
; That didn’t make it any easier for Nick to watch his father go through the treatments knowing they might be in vain and that his father could die in this prison. Knowing he might die waiting for a parole that wouldn’t come for a crime Nick was certain his father hadn’t committed.

  “What’s going on with you?” Elton asked. “Any interesting new cases?”

  “One. I can’t talk about it yet, but when it’s solved, I’ll feed you all the details.”

  “Sounds good. Weather’s great today. You going fishing when you leave here?”

  “Not today.”

  “Got other plans?”

  “Thinking of volunteering to fix a busted pipe for a friend.” Unless the plumber had beat him to it.

  “A lady friend?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “You never liked plumbing when you were working with your grandfather. I figured you had to have some pretty good motivation to make you volunteer your services.”

  “Not the kind of motivation you’re thinking. She’s just a neighbor.”

  “Then you should blow the plumbing off and go fishing. The day is too nice to waste hanging out with rusted metal.”

  “Good point.”

  Elton curled his hands around the back of his head and leaned back, balancing his chair on the two back legs as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “I’d like to go pole me a pirogue down a lazy bayou and pull in a couple of spiky, mustached old catfish. Fry them right there over an open fire. Down them with a six-pack of cold ones for a chaser while the gators float by and the blue jays squawk overhead.”

  For most men, that wasn’t much to ask. Nick planned to do everything in his power to see that Elton had the chance to live that dream before he died.

  “Any word from your attorney on the parole hearing?”

  “I’m nowhere near the top of the list. But if I do get out of here, we’re going to take that fishing trip.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Nick said.

  “I want me some boiled crawfish, too. Some days I can almost smell them.” Elton smiled. “Course it always turns out it’s just the spices in the heartburn chow I’m smelling.”

  Elton sat up straight again. “You know what else I’d like?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “To touch a woman, a real woman with curves and soft skin and hair that smells like flowers in springtime. You know the kind of woman I’m talking about?”

  An image of Jacinth slipped into Nick’s consciousness. A Villaré—of all people to think of here in this place. “Yeah, I know the kind of woman you mean. They usually spell trouble.”

  “Just a thought,” Elton said, this time chuckling into the phone. “Hell, even if I had a woman like that I probably couldn’t get it up with all this chemo they’re shooting into me.”

  Probably not the best place to go with this conversation. “Did you give any more thought to what I asked you about last time I was here?” Nick asked.

  Elton rubbed his jaw as all sign of his forced smile vanished.

  “I’ve thought about it for the last twenty-two years. I’ve come up with a thousand different theories about who might have killed Micah, but none of them holds water. Truth is, with all the scenarios I’ve considered, I don’t even trust my memories any longer. But it’s all in the trial notes.”

  Notes that Nick had been over a thousand times before and gotten nowhere with. But the trial had been manipulated by lawyers and layered with rules, objections and emotions. Truth could get tangled up in that.

  “Just think about it again, Dad.”

  “It won’t help. I don’t have anything new to tell you, son. I wish I did.”

  But Nick was not about to give up, not while his father had a breath left in his cancer-wracked body.

  Someone had gotten away with murder and his father was paying for the crime. He had a good idea who that someone was.

  But he needed more than supposition. He needed proof. That’s where Jacinth came in.

  RON GREENE WOULD NEVER be cast as the lead on a TV detective show. His face was pocked and treaded, likely the result of teenage acne gone mad and apparently untreated. His scowl was perpetual, the lines in his brow permanent, the wrinkles deeply furrowed though he was probably no more than mid-fifties.

  But he definitely had that detective air about him, authoritative and intimidating. Even Sin had gone into hiding when he showed up.

  That was two hours ago. Now the CSU was done and gone, leaving Ron Greene time to focus all his attention on Jacinth.

  Just looking into his piercing eyes inspired guilt and gave her a compelling desire to confess something. The worst offense she could think of was running a yellow light on her way to work last Tuesday. She doubted the detective would be impressed.

  She led him to the kitchen for the interrogation, or chat as he referred to it. The parlor with its uncomfortable antique seating seemed a poor fit for his six-foot-plus frame. The den seemed too cozy.

  He turned down her offer of coffee and asked for water as he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. “Mind if I tape our conversation?” he asked.

  “No, why would I?”

  “No reason, but I’m required to ask.” He took a small recorder from his shirt pocket, set it on the table in front of him and pushed a button.

  A green light flashed and suddenly she grew nervous, though she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if he could possibly consider her a suspect. Or could he?

  Nonetheless, she was only telling the truth and that wouldn’t change. So why worry that it was being taped?

  “Some of this is in the police report,” the detective said, “but I’ll have you restate it for my records.”

  She nodded.

  “Will you state your full name and age?”

  “Jacinth Elizabeth Villaré. I’m twenty-four years old.”

  “Single?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you lived at this address?”

  “Eleven months.” She went over the details of the inheritance once again—explaining how she and Caitlyn had come down to New Orleans from Ohio with the intention of picking up the keys from the estate attorney and listing the house with a real estate company.

  “What made you decide to stay?” Greene asked.

  Admitting they’d fallen in love with the house and felt it was calling to them sounded far too corny to share with the blunt detective. “We found the city intriguing and Tulane University offered the graduate program I was looking for.”

  “What program would that be?”

  “American Cultural History.”

  “It says in the police report that you work at Tulane.”

  “I have a teaching assistantship while I complete my doctorate. I don’t see how these questions are going to help you find out what happened to the woman who lost her head.”

  “I’m just trying to get a timeline here. What I’m going to need from you are the names of anyone who had access to the house after it was deeded to you. Construction workers, friends, cleaning staff, anyone who had a key or had one in his possession long enough to have one made.”

  “I’ll have to give that some thought.” Unfortunately, there had been a constant stream of workers in those first few weeks after she and Caitlyn had moved in.

  “I’d like to have the list by tonight. You can always add names later as you think of them. I’ll give you my card and you can fax the names to me.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’m going to need as much information as I can get on your late grandmother’s lifestyle. Names of her caretakers. Whether or not she had renters or frequent visitors. Names of her friends.”

  “I won’t be much help to you there. I didn’t have a relationship with my grandmother. The last contact I had with her was when I was two years old.”

  Detective Greene shot her a look of undisguised skepticism. “So how did you get in the will?”

  “My best guess is that my sister and I are
the only living relatives she had left. I can’t swear to that, though.”

  He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and raked his fingers through his thinning hair. “Your knowing nothing about the house before you moved in will complicate the investigation,” he said, his expression suggesting she’d let him down.

  “What about letters, diaries, old photos? Your grandmother must have left some of those around the house.”

  “Not that we’ve located.”

  “See what you can find.”

  “I’ve already searched the closets and the attic and every place else she might have kept personal information. I didn’t find anything except some old receipts and Post-it notes she had stuck on half the surfaces in the house.”

  Jacinth smiled as she remembered her grandmother’s haphazard method of organizing. “They were mostly reminders of appointments and to take her meds.”

  “What kind of appointments?”

  “Doctors. Hair. Nails. Gladys Findley said she was very concerned about her appearance right up until the end.”

  “Who’s Gladys Findley?”

  “My next-door neighbor.” She nodded toward the window with a view of the Findley house.

  “Do you still have the notes?”

  “No. They didn’t seem important.” Jacinth rearranged herself in the chair and met the detective’s steely gaze. She had a few questions of her own and this seemed as good a time as any to ask them. “Do you have a definitive answer for how long the victim had been dead?”

  “Not yet.”

  “An ID?”

  “No. She’s still labeled the Jane Doe head.”

  “What about the search you just made of my bathroom?”

  “What about it?”

  “Did you find any more skeletal remains?”

  “This is a police matter now. I’m not at liberty to discuss specifics of the evidence.”

  “It’s my house. I have a right to know if there are bodies inside my walls.”

  “As far as I can tell, you’re clear of corpses.”

  She sighed, relieved. “Does that mean I can start repairing the room?”