Marisa Carroll - Hotel Marchand 09

by Her Summer Lover

  Sophie felt her facial muscles tense slightly but hoped it didn’t show in her expression. “I’d forgotten,” she fibbed. “But now that you mention it, I recall Nanan Maude telling me about his promotion to chief.”

  Marjolaine’s eyes narrowed slightly. Sophie could almost see her mind sifting through her memories, sorting out the bits and pieces that pertained to Sophie and Alain Boudreaux. “He’s been back in Indigo for three—no, four years. Since right after his divorce from Casey Jo became final.”

  “I know about the divorce.” Sophie hoped her voice sounded normal, interested but not too interested. Marjolaine might not even remember she and Alain had been an item the summer after her high-school graduation. Fifteen years was a long time, after all. And she prayed that for both their sakes, but mostly for Alain’s, no one had learned about the other short, but intense relationship they’d shared after she’d run to Maude for comfort when her marriage collapsed. It was a reconciliation that had ended almost before it began, when Casey Jo had found Sophie in Alain’s arms,

  Sophie still burned with embarrassment whenever she thought of that horrible scene. She and Alain hadn’t committed adultery as Casey Jo accused, not physically, but they might as well have. Since then they had never been alone, had barely spoken to each other, and, over the last few years, she hadn’t done much more than catch a glimpse of him across the town square during her infrequent visits.

  “Divorced. Going on five years now. Casey Jo, she’s off dealing blackjack in a Mississippi casino and trying out for American Idol. Can you believe that?” Marjolaine grinned.

  “I remember she was very pretty.” Night-black hair, long, long legs and model-thin. No wonder Alain had fallen so hard for her after he and Sophie broke up. And he’d gotten her pregnant almost the first time he went out with her, if the gossip one of her old summer friends had passed along to her was right. And it must have been, because Alain and Casey Jo’s son, Guy, was fifteen years old and the star center on the high-school basketball team. Another small fact of Alain’s life that her traitorous mind had filed away and refused to forget. Her stomach growled loudly enough for Marjolaine to hear.

  “I’ll get you that sandwich,” she said. She walked to the back of the room and disappeared through a set of swinging doors into what Sophie supposed was the kitchen.

  She turned toward one of the small round tables set up in the room, but before she could take a seat, another elderly man approached her. “Miss Sophie, I’m Hugh Prejean. I’m the town librarian. Maude was on the library board. She was one of our staunchest supporters. She will be missed.” The man, dressed in an old-fashioned white linen suit, holding a white fedora in his hands, looked like something out of a Faulkner novel. He sounded like one of Faulkner’s characters, too, his vowels soft and rounded, his words and gestures as formal as their surroundings.

  Sophie set her punch cup down on the table and shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Prejean. I know how much Maude loved books. She was very proud of Indigo’s library.”

  “She also worked with me on the history of the Valois Opera House, did you know that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He angled his body so that he could see the flower-bedecked walnut casket from where they stood. “We spent many hours researching the history of the building. The town is looking to restore it to its former glory, you know, Miss Sophie. That is, if we can get title to the building.”

  “I do know the owner is Canadian,” Sophie said. Everyone who had any connection at all to Indigo knew that much about the opera house. It had been built originally by an aristocratic—and distant—ancestor of Alain Boudreaux’s, on his mother’s side, for his talented and beautiful young Cajun bride, then passed to Canadian relatives after her death. Maude had leased the building for her business for years, always dealing with a lawyer from New Orleans when negotiations or repairs were necessary.

  “Do you anticipate reopening Past Perfect anytime soon, Miss Sophie?” Hugh asked. “Meaning no disrespect to her memory, but Maude and I were in the middle of authenticating an early twentieth-century appearance here of Miss Lillian Russell. It would be a draw for tourists, you know. And it would also be beneficial in our quest to get the opera house listed on the state registry of historical sites. All our research material is filed away in her office, not to mention the old records themselves, still up in the attic.” He looked out the window behind them, although Sophie knew he could see nothing but their reflections. He shook his head, making little tsking noises with his tongue. “All this rain. The roof isn’t in good repair although we do our best. Maude intended to speak to the lawyer about it again right soon.”

  “I don’t know about reopening the business, Mr. Prejean,” Sophie said honestly. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. After all, her godmother had been dead less than two days. “I…I know very little about antiques.” It was true she had loved working for Maude during her teenage years, and had learned to appreciate the quality of the craftsmanship and artistry of the pieces Maude treasured and hated to part with; as well as the whimsy and appeal of the not-so-valuable collectibles that Maude confessed formed a bigger percentage of her yearly profits than one would suspect. But her parents hadn’t raised Sophie to run a small-town antique shop, and when she graduated from Bard College, her mother’s alma mater, she had returned to Houston and entered the family business as a fund-raising consultant to several small universities and hospitals.

  “Oh dear, but yes, I see that might be a problem.” Hugh’s long face drooped with disappointment.

  “However, I’ll certainly inform you as soon as Chief Boudreaux turns Maude’s keys over to me so that you may retrieve your reference materials and take a look at the roof.” She smiled and lifted her hand palm up. “You see, I have no way to get into the opera house, or my godmother’s home for that matter, until he releases her effects to me. I hope you understand.”

  His hangdog expression cleared. He gave her a thin-lipped but genuine smile that crinkled his eyes. “Of course, I should have realized that would be the case. I will wait to hear from you, then. And in the meantime, if there’s any way I can be of service to you, do not hesitate to call on me.”

  “How kind of you,” Sophie said, and she meant it.

  Marjolaine appeared at her elbow carrying a china plate with a ham and cheese sandwich and a sprig of green grapes as the old man walked away. “Here’s your sandwich.” Sophie took the plate with a grateful smile. “I see you met Hugh Prejean. He’s a dear old soul. Maude and I were helping him research the opera house records. We’re hoping we can come up with enough facts and figures to get it on the state historical register.”

  “Mr. Prejean was just explaining all that to me.”

  “I hope you’ll allow us to keep digging through the attic. Most of the old records are still stored up there and the roof is none too good. We’d like to get them someplace safer before they deteriorate any further.”

  “I already promised him I would let him know as soon as I have possession of the keys to the opera house.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that, too.”

  “No problem.” What she omitted telling Marjolaine was that while she certainly meant what she said, she also didn’t intend to confront Alain Boudreaux one minute sooner than she absolutely had to.

  “THERE SHE IS.” Marie looked though the narrow opening of the partially closed pocket doors that shielded Maude’s mourners from drafts of wet January air. “She’s sitting at that little table by the window talking to Marjolaine.”

  They were huddled in the big, high-ceilinged foyer of the funeral home, Cecily, Yvonne and Marie, each holding a casserole dish and dripping water onto the polished wood floor. “Don’t trip, Mama,” Cecily cautioned. “This floor is like glass.”

  “I wonder how Marjolaine gets it to shine like that?” Marie mused, sliding the open toe of her stiletto heels over the glossy wood. Cecily looked down at her own sensible black, two-inch pumps.

  �
�I have no idea and I’m not asking her.”

  “Good evening, ladies. You’ll be wanting to take those dishes into the kitchen, I imagine.” Henry Roy, the undertaker who worked for Marjolaine, glided through the pocket doors separating the foyer from the viewing room and slid them shut behind him with the ease of many years’ practice, shutting off their view of the principal mourner. “But first let me take your coats, won’t you.”

  Once he’d divested the women of their coats and umbrellas, Henry opened a door beneath the sweep of the main staircase and ushered them down a narrow hallway to the kitchen. “Merci, Henry, we know our way around,” Yvonne said as the undertaker pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen. “You can go back to the front.” Henry and Yvonne were old allies in the rituals of small-town death. With a nod he retreated down the dark, narrow hall.

  “This place always gives me the willies,” Marie complained when they were alone again.

  “It’s just a kitchen,” Cecily sniffed.

  “A funeral home kitchen.” She shuddered and folded her hands beneath her breasts. “The whole house is creepy.”

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway. “Hush,” Yvonne warned.

  “Hello, Yvonne, Cecily, Marie.” Marjolaine entered the room just as Yvonne slid the last casserole into the big oven. “Henry told me you’d arrived. I see you have everything you need.”

  “Gabriel has everything laid out for us,” Cecily said, patting the braided bun that hung heavily on the back of her neck. Marjolaine had long, straight hair the same as she did, but she always wore hers in an intricate French braid that Cecily had never had the patience to learn how to produce.

  “He’s a good boy,” Yvonne approved.

  “He tries hard.” Marjolaine smiled, but her eyes were troubled as they usually were when her mentally challenged younger brother was the topic of conversation. “The tables are set up in the Ladies’ Parlor. I’ll have Gabriel start the coffee as soon as Father Joe finishes the prayer service.”

  “Bon.”

  Just then Estelle Jefferson and Helen Simone, the sixth and newest member of the Lagniappe Ladies, came through the back door of the kitchen, both laden with casserole dishes in padded baskets. “Sorry we’re late,” Estelle said.

  “How’s Willis doing today?” Marjolaine asked.

  “Fair to middlin’,” Estelle responded.

  “He’ll feel better when the weather breaks.” Marjolaine set the plate and glass she’d carried into the kitchen with her in the big double sink and exited the room, leaving the Lagniappe Ladies alone.

  Estelle and Helen placed their casseroles in the oven alongside the others and turned to Yvonne. “Are we ready?” she asked.

  Yvonne nodded, pulling her rosary out of her pocket. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s go say au revoir to Maude, and then we’ll figure out how we’re going to sweet-talk Sophie Clarkson into letting us inside the opera house without my grandson finding out what we’re up to.”

  Marie didn’t budge from where she was standing. “I say after the funeral we just walk up to her and ask for the key to get our stuff out of the shop. I mean, it’s not like we’re smuggling heroin or something like that. We paid for it. We have receipts and everything.”

  “But we still smuggled it into the country,” Helen pointed out, biting her lip. “It’s against the law to bring prescription drugs over the border and you know it.” Helen was a timid woman and their activities had never set well with her. “Especially one like Willis’s that’s banned in the States.”

  “Banned is right,” Cecily hissed. “Why do you think we’ve been doing it like this for the past two years?”

  “I was never so frightened in my life as when I got that letter from the government people saying they’d confiscated Willis’s pills and we could be arrested if we tried ordering them from Canada again,” Estelle murmured.

  Cecily lowered her voice to a whisper, but even then it vibrated with emotion. “We have to get our shipment out of the opera house and that’s all there is to it. It’s not just the six of us. There’s another dozen people waiting for their medications, remember.” She wasn’t ashamed of what they were doing, but she was worried about what might happen to all of them, and to Alain, if they were caught. “But we’ve got to be smart about this. We can’t just walk up to Sophie Clarkson and ask straight out for the shipment unless—”

  “Unless what?” Marie demanded.

  Cecily gave up; she couldn’t let Willis and the others down. “Unless we absolutely have to.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SOPHIE SMOTHERED a yawn behind her hand. The music playing on the funeral home’s PA system, a mixture of Cajun ballads and folk tunes instead of the somber classical or religious orchestrations she’d expected, wasn’t loud enough or lively enough to keep her awake. It was almost midnight but there were about twenty people scattered throughout the viewing and refreshment rooms, eating, drinking, talking and even laughing softly now and then. Someone, it seemed, was always at her side, everyone friendly and solicitous, trying hard to include her in their conversations. But her connection to Indigo had been tenuous at best the last several years and she found herself only truly engaged when someone was speaking of Maude.

  Sophie had eaten her fill of Blue Moon Diner gumbo and Yvonne Valois’s sweet potato pie when the buffet was set out an hour ago, and had drunk what seemed like a gallon of coffee, but the intake of sugar and caffeine hadn’t helped. She was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. And at the moment she felt like kicking herself for not accepting Marjolaine’s invitation to go upstairs and take a short nap. How would she ever make it through the entire night and half the next day without falling asleep on her feet?

  “You know there’s no rule that says you have to be here every minute,” a masculine voice said from behind her.

  Sophie spun around. The man now standing before her was young, a quality which had been in short supply that evening. He was probably in his late twenties, broad-shouldered, blond and blue-eyed. When he smiled, Sophie’s breath caught in her throat for a moment or two. He was so handsome it was an absolute sin.

  He held out his hand and Sophie took it automatically. “Ms. Clarkson, my name’s Luc Carter.” He wasn’t a native of Indigo, she could tell that right away. His vowels were clipped, his words too precise. She guessed he had grown up in the north, or possibly out west. “I moved to the area about ten months ago. I didn’t know Maude Picard as well as the others here, but we were becoming friends. My condolences.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Carter.” Sophie had recovered her breath and her poise.

  Luc Carter smiled and released her hand. “I meant it when I said protocol doesn’t demand you stay here all night. You look beat.”

  “That bad?” she asked. She restrained herself from raising her hand to pat her hair. It was blond—naturally—shoulder-length, curly and flyaway, the bane of her existence.

  He had the grace to look chagrined. “Sorry, I phrased that badly. I know you drove all the way from Houston today. It will be another long day tomorrow. No one expects you to be here every single moment in between. You should get some rest if you have the chance.”

  “As a matter of fact, Marjolaine offered me a bed upstairs, but—” This time it was her turn to stumble to a halt.

  “But you don’t exactly feel like napping in a funeral home, right?”

  “I know it’s silly, but you’re right, I do feel that way. Unfortunately I have nowhere else to go.” A little spurt of annoyance sharpened her words. “Alain Boudreaux has the keys to my godmother’s house and he hasn’t seen fit to show up here and give them to me yet tonight.”

  Luc angled his head a fraction. “Why don’t you come home with me?” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Sophie hoped she didn’t sound as shocked as she felt. Who was this guy?

  He saw her confusion and smiled. “That’s an invitation, not a proposition. Marjolaine can vouch for me. I run La Petite Maison. The L
ittle Cottage,” he explained when he saw her bewildered expression. “It’s a bed-and-breakfast.”

  “I had no idea there was a bed-and-breakfast operating anywhere near Indigo,” Sophie said, relaxing a little. She began to register the friendly smiles and waves of greeting directed toward Luc Carter and dismissed the unworthy thoughts of ax murderers and gigolos that had stampeded through her tired brain moments earlier. “My godmother never mentioned it.”

  “We’re located not quite a mile out of town, on the bayou road. I’m the manager, plumber, gardener and concierge, but the property is actually owned by my grandmother.”

  “Have I met her?” Sophie asked politely. Family connections were important in Indigo, one always inquired.

  “I doubt it,” Luc said a little abruptly, then softened the sharp words with a smile. “She’s lived in New Orleans for decades, but La Petite Maison was the family’s summer getaway many years ago.”

  “And you’ve always dreamed of running a hotel, right?”

  His easy smile faltered for a moment. “Actually I’ve been in the hotel business for several years.”

  “Ah, but you always wanted to open a place of your own,” Sophie amended.

  “Something like that.”

  “You have a room available for the rest of the night, then?”

  “Not just tonight. I’ve only been open a few weeks. I can accommodate you for as long as you wish to stay in Indigo. As a matter of fact, if you don’t mind climbing an extra flight of stairs, you can have the attic suite. It has a whirlpool tub and a private bath. The other four rooms share.”

  “A Jacuzzi. That sounds like heaven.” Her exhaustion was fast overcoming her guilt at leaving the wake.

  “And the view from the balcony’s not bad, either. It overlooks the gardens and the Bayou Teche. It’s a little early for the gardens but I never get tired of watching the river roll by.”