by Rebecca York
Clenching her teeth, she strode into her room and closed the door. After unpacking her laptop, she settled on the bed and connected to the Internet.
Then she quickly sent a message to Decorah, telling them that she had arrived safely. She debated what else to add and finally mentioned that men in town had exhibited hostility when she’d asked for directions to Belle Vista. She also noted that Andre Gascon seemed to be less than forthcoming in his answers to her questions about the presumed voodoo priestess who had been outside her window chanting the night before. But she also credited him with rescuing her from a flash flood—omitting any details that might alarm her friends back home.
A little smile flickered on her lips as she thought about their reaction to the voodoo part. Probably that would give them pause, but they knew she could handle herself. Right, if they didn’t think she’d lost her mind.
Of course, as far as she was concerned, a more urgent problem was not having a weapon. Her Glock had been swept away by the flood. Although she knew from her research that there was a gun shop in town where she could replace it, that would have to wait until she got her car back from the garage—and Andre checked it out for her.
Turning off her computer, she strode to the window. The view looked different in the daylight, of course. But she was pretty sure she could pick out the tree where she’d seen the woman last night. After stuffing some plastic bags and thin rubber gloves into her pocket, she headed downstairs again. On the first floor, she explored until she found a back door off the same hallway that led to the kitchen.
Outside, she breathed in the damp air, then looked down at the garden from the vantage point of the landing. The grounds had impressed her the evening before, although she’d hardly gotten to enjoy the view before Andre had hustled her into the house. In the bright sunlight, the garden was stunning, with carefully mulched beds that were almost devoid of weeds.
Descending the steps, she wandered among the flower beds. When she came to a stalk of grass that obviously didn’t belong among the begonias, she pulled it up, then wondered where she was going to get rid of it.
As she walked across the broad lawn and away from the house, she could see that Andre had different garden beds scattered around the lawn. Many were edged with bright annuals to provide continuous color. In the center were grouped perennials like iris, peonies or lilies that would provide varying bursts of color throughout the year.
The garden—and the house—said a lot about the owner of Belle Vista. He was supremely self-sufficient. He made long-range plans. He loved living in a beautiful setting. He was willing to work hard to achieve his goals.
At the margins of the garden, Andre had cultivated informal groups of natural plants. Under a live oak, just past a patch of spear-like ferns, Morgan found a rough circle of trampled earth. As she examined the spot, a shiver traveled over her skin, despite the heat. This must be where the voodoo priestess had been standing, although she saw no evidence beyond the trampled ground.
How often did the woman come here? Was her visit a special treat for Andre’s librarian? Along with the gris-gris.
Morgan glanced back over her shoulder. Without her gun for protection, she wanted to keep the house in sight. But she also wanted to do some more investigating. She began walking back and forth, checking the ground. About fifteen yards from the edge of the manicured area, she spotted something white among the leaves covering the ground. When she squatted down, she found several cigarette butts. Pulling on a rubber glove, she picked up the butts and shoved them into a plastic bag. Methodically, she looked for more evidence but found nothing besides bird droppings. The butts would have DNA evidence—from saliva. But there was a good chance the rain had washed it away. Still, she was going to send the evidence to Decorah for analysis.
The hair prickled on the back of her neck, and she looked quickly over her shoulder, expecting to find Andre staring at her. She saw no one. Yet the feeling of being watched persisted.
Before she’d come here, Andre had told her which books to read about the natural environment. Now she pretended great interest in a giant hooded pitcher plant as she scanned the underbrush around her. Although nothing stirred, the feeling of uneasiness persisted. And the house was out of sight now. But she knew the way back because bright sunlight marked the edge of the lawn.
Still, she kept her ears tuned for danger. When she heard something moving in the underbrush, she went stock-still, visions of jaguars playing through her head.
With part of her mind, she knew she was out to prove to herself that Morgan Kirkland hadn’t changed since coming to Belle Vista and meeting Andre Gascon. She still had the same reckless disregard for her own safety.
But she had enough sense to hesitate for several minutes stepping farther into the shadows, moving cautiously from tree trunk to tree trunk. It was a secret relief to find she could only walk another twenty yards before she came to the bank of what she would have called a small, lazy river, although she suspected the people down here would refer to it as a bayou.
She followed its course for another couple of hundred yards, moving farther from the house—farther from safety, until she came to a place where she could see an island about six feet from shore, with a fallen log lying across the banks, providing access. The log was about three feet above the water, the near end resting on a bed of sphagnum moss. It was too narrow to be a good bridge, but when she moved closer, she saw muddy footprints in the moss and on the log top—suggesting that someone had crossed over. Someone with a secret to hide out here in the swamp?
It could be Andre. But what if it wasn’t him? What if someone else was hiding an illegal operation on his property and wanted everyone to keep out of the area? A murderous jaguar would certainly discourage trespassers.
She stared across at the tangle of vegetation on the island, trying to figure out if someone had been over there recently—or on a regular basis. Some of the saw palmettos and pond spice bushes looked trampled. But she couldn’t be sure if a person or an animal had done it.
The place seemed ordinary, yet it gave her a creepy feeling—as though something lurked on the other side of the log, waiting to grab her.
Nonsense, she told herself firmly.
###
Crouching in the shadows, the watcher on the island stayed very still—still as the nearest tree trunk.
Morgan Kirkland was standing on the bank, staring across the brown water, looking over here like she wanted to find out what was going on.
“Come on. Come on and try it. But watch out for the booby trap—and the gators.”
She’d come marching out of the house this morning and started poking around. Then she’d picked up something from the ground and put it in a plastic bag.
The bitch was much too nosy. In town, she had given out the story that she was a librarian. If so, why was she taking an inspection tour of the bayou? Why was she so damn interested in the island?
“Come on,” the watcher whispered again. “You want to cross? You’ve got to do it just right or you’ll give my pet gator a nice breakfast treat. Usually he has to make do with the chunks of meat I feed them. But maybe not today.” It was hard to repress a chuckle, but the watcher managed.
That image of Ms. Kirkland flailing around in the water, getting dragged down to the muddy bottom was comforting. Little Miss Librarian—if that’s what she really was—didn’t know what she’d gotten into when she’d taken a job with Andre Gascon. She couldn’t imagine the dangers lurking in the wilderness surrounding his nice green lawn and that house he was so proud of.
Was she dumb enough to come out of the house at night? Maybe there was some way to lure her out here. And then the sheriff could find her in the morning—clawed to death.
That would serve her right for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
###
Once again, Morgan tried to shake off the creepy feeling that she wasn’t alone out here. Turning in all directions, she searched the underb
rush but saw nothing. She should go back, but maybe she could make a quick trip to the island first.
As she stepped up on the makeshift bridge, she looked down at the brown water and froze. A smaller fallen log floated near the bank. Only, it didn’t look quite right. The observation was confirmed when it raised an elongated head, gave her what looked like a hopeful glance, and then opened a mouth full of sharp teeth.
Instinctively, she jumped back onto the muddy ground. That was no log. It was an alligator, waiting for someone to fall—or get pushed—into the water.
Nervously, she looked back over her shoulder, suddenly aware that she’d come pretty far into the swamp, far enough to lose sight of the place where the wilderness ended and the garden began.
Damn! She wanted a replacement for her gun. And maybe a compass. She didn’t know this part of the country, and the green and brown landscape gave no clue to her location.
“Stupid,” she muttered. But she did know one thing. She had come along the bayou, and when she looked down at the ground, she could see her footprints in the mud.
Feeling like she’d made a very fortunate escape, she followed her own trail back along the bank, then found the spot where her footprints veered off—toward the house.
Quickly she hurried toward the gardens—then stopped short when she spotted Andre standing near the edge of the trees, with his hands wedged on his hips. His face was grim, but she forced herself to walk directly toward him, then stopped several feet away.
What was he angry about, exactly? Had he spotted her near the island and been worried that she’d find something he wanted to keep hidden?
He bolstered her suspicion with his clipped question. “I don’t want you tramping around outside the garden area by yourself.”
“Why not?”
“It’s dangerous!”
For you or me? she wanted to ask, but she kept her own counsel.
“What were you doing out there?”
“Looking for evidence,” she answered immediately.
“Of what?”
She raised her chin. “I found the spot where the voodoo priestess was standing last night.”
“I know where she was!” he snapped.
“And do you know who else has been out there in the underbrush?”
He stiffened. “Nobody!”
“You’re wrong. Unless she smokes cigarettes.” Holding up the plastic bag, she displayed what she’d found earlier.
As he stared at the contents, his eyes widened. “Where did those come from?”
“Not too far from where the priestess had been standing.”
“That explains it,” he muttered.
“Explains what.”
“Why I didn’t find them.”
She regarded him steadily. “What does she have to do with it?”
For a moment he looked like a boy who has been caught telling lies. Then his mouth firmed. “I told you, she’s given herself a protective charm. So, I stay away from the area where she’s been. Which is why I didn’t see that stuff.”
“And what exactly does the charm do—to you?”
He glared at her. “If I get close to her—or where she’s been—my throat closes up. Like someone with anaphylactic shock.”
She made a strangled sound. “Really?”
“Yeah, really!”
He walked closer and inspected the plastic bags in her hand. “Too bad whoever left these didn’t drop a set of keys or a wallet.”
The sound of a car in the driveway made them both turn. From the side of the house where they stood, she could see a black and white patrol car rolling to a stop.
As a tall, solidly built man climbed out, Andre cursed under his breath. “Sheriff Marlon Jarvis has thought of an excuse to pay us a call.”
“Old Razorback,” she said, recalling the name Andre had given the lawman.
He laughed. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
She watched Andre deliberately relax his shoulders, then stiffen again as he looked toward the plastic bag she held. “Merde.”
“What now?”
“If he sees that and figures it’s significant, he’ll confiscate it.”
“Not to worry.” Morgan took a step to the side, then lowered her arm along her leg, letting the bags slip to the ground behind a gnarled trunk.
“Thank you,” Andre murmured.
“No problem.”
Silently, they started in the direction of the drive.
The sheriff stood on the blacktop, staring toward them. He looked like a classic example of a small-town lawman, with a blue uniform, high trooper boots and a broad-brimmed hat. As they drew closer, she saw that his face was broad and ruddy, his features a bit coarse. Probably he was in his late forties or early fifties. The extra flesh on his frame and the tense way he stood told her where Andre had gotten the nickname.
“Afternoon,” he said in an even voice. Then, addressing Morgan, he said, “I’m Sheriff Jarvis.”
“Morgan Kirkland,” she supplied without offering her hand.
“Afternoon,” Andre said, using the same noncommittal tone as Jarvis. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” he asked, although they all knew that the encounter wasn’t likely to be enjoyable.
“Just making sure everything is okay.”
“Everything is fine,” Andre clipped out.
Jarvis turned to Morgan. “You stopped in town yesterday afternoon and asked directions to Belle Vista, Miss Kirkland.”
“Mrs.,” she corrected immediately.
He looked surprised.
“My husband was killed in Afghanistan.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It was several years ago.” she answered, knowing her loss was a good way to make most people uncomfortable.
She could tell she had succeeded with Old Razorback. But she also knew he wasn’t going away until he was good and ready. He waited a beat before saying, “Your car was towed back to town this morning. The driver said there was evidence of a flash flood on the road.”
“Yes, there was. It was lucky that Mr. Gascon was worried when I didn’t show up on time and came looking for me,” she said, unconsciously drawing closer to him.
“Yes, lucky,” the sheriff repeated as though he was taking her assessment under advisement.
She thought about mentioning the two men who had followed her. But they would just bring up the issue of the jaguar that had scared them off. And she sensed that getting into a discussion about the cat would be a bad idea. Probably, at this point, the less she said to this man, the better. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did you get a report on my car?”
“No.”
“Something was wrong with the brakes. I was having trouble controlling the vehicle. I thought it strange that it happened not long after I stopped at the service station in town.”
“Are you implying something?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she said evenly.
“Funny thing,” he said. “About that flash flood. Your car was found on the side nearest town. How did you get across?”
She might have asked if he thought she’d flown over the water on a broomstick. Instead, she said, “I was looking for ferns or something to put under my wheels—to get me out of the ditch. So, I was out of the car when the water suddenly swept over the road. Mr. Gascon fished me out.”
The sheriff whistled through his teeth as he eyed Andre. “I guess she was lucky you came along.”
“Um hum,” he answered evenly.
The lawman turned back to her, switching topics abruptly. “I understand you’re going to be working in the library here.”
“I’ve already started. And I should be getting back now,” she said, taking a step away. With anyone else, her tone and body language would have ended the discussion. Apparently, the sheriff wasn’t finished with her.
“Just a minute. I assume Mr. Gascon has told you about the problems we’ve been having around here.”
She f
elt her stomach knot, but she kept expression bland. “I’m a researcher. I did a lot of reading about the area before agreeing to take the job.”
“And you’re not worried about working out at Belle Vista-—which is an isolated location?”
“Are you trying to get me to quit?” she demanded.
“No. I’m making sure you understand the consequences of living here.”
Beside her, Andre looked like he was going to punch the guy out—a very bad idea when it came to a cop. She wanted to put a restraining hand on his arm. But that would imply a level of intimacy that would seem strange to an outsider. It seemed strange to her, actually. But she focused on the sheriff’s statement as she said, “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I can take care of myself here. But I do have a question about the area.”
“Yes.”
“I saw a sign for a voodoo priestess in a house at the edge of town.”
“That would be Miss Sonnier.”
Sonnier. The same name as the woman in the dream.
“She supports herself with her voodoo activities?”
Both Andre and the sheriff looked uncomfortable.
“Why do you ask?” Jarvis drawled.
“If she’s any good, I might want a consultation.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Jarvis shot back.
“Why not?”
“There’s been bad blood between her family and the Gascons for generations. If you’re associated with the estate, she won’t be friendly to you.”
“Well, I appreciate your filling me in on town politics,” she said.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it politics.”
“How would you phrase it?”
“Like I said—bad blood.”
“The Hatfields and the McCoys? Do the Sonniers and the Gascons shoot each other?”
“It hasn’t come to that,” Jarvis muttered. Taking out a business card, he handed it to her. “If you have any problems, give me a call.”
“I certainly will.”
When he climbed in his car and drove away, she and Andre both sighed with relief.
“Nice guy. Has his family been here for generations, too?”