Saving Grace

by Patricia Rosemoor

Declan rolled out of bed and pulled on his pants. “What’s going on?”

  “Just a minute, Corbett. Oh, okay. I’ll talk to you later, then.” She hung up.

  Worried as hell, Declan said, “Grace, tell me.”

  “The Web site. Apparently, Bergeron just launched it.”

  Thunder cracked and a flare of white light lit the room for a second—portents of more evil in their lives. Rain came down with a rush, battering the apartment house, the drumming sound pushing Declan into action.

  Cursing under his breath, he rushed to the living room where he booted up Grace’s laptop. With a sheet wrapped modestly around her, Grace followed and sat next to him. He tried to read her, but it was as if shock had left her devoid of emotion. He typed her name into a search engine and immediately found the link. One click and horror became a reality—Grace exposed for the world to see.

  “Corbett said he’s going to try to get it taken down,” she said in a small voice. “Can he do that?”

  “Let’s think positively.”

  He pulled her into his arms and felt her shiver.

  The only thing Declan was positive about was that, even if Corbett did succeed, thousands would see the damn Web site first. And he feared anything that had once been on the Net was never really gone.

  Inhaling Grace’s scent, Declan pulled her closer, as if the contact could protect her. He’d thought the woman he loved was out of danger.

  But looking at her crumpled expression, he realized there was more than one way to inflict a mortal wound.

  “PUBLIC SENTIMENT SEEMS to be with Grace Broussard, our very own Voodoo Woman,” the news anchor announced on the midday news.

  He hadn’t even shown the damn Web site, not even with the special effects to hide the “forbidden” parts. Instead, a photograph of the bitch in a glamorous purple number filled the LCD monitor.

  “Her mother, Assistant District Attorney Sandra Broussard, and brother, City Councilmember Corbett Broussard, are both outraged and vow that whoever is responsible will be held accountable. With a few exceptions, the public stands behind them both.”

  Then a full glass crashed into the monitor, splashing ice cubes and alcohol everywhere.

  “This can’t be happening! This was supposed to destroy them, not make them martyrs!”

  The plan had been foolproof, carefully planned every step of the way. Attack the most vulnerable member of a moneyed family and get a windfall. And get a little revenge, as well.

  Why couldn’t the bitch have gone along with the plan?

  No, she had to involve that private investigator. She had to ruin everything. Even if Grace Broussard had come up with the money, nothing would have been enough to keep that Web site from going public.

  But nothing had gone right the night before.

  Nothing but the part where Bergeron Prejean—the only witness—was silenced forever. The authorities called it a hit and run. Exactly as planned.

  Now what?

  The rest of the plan had backfired.

  There was no money.

  And rather than shunning Grace and her family, the public was embracing the Broussards as victims!

  There was only one thing left to do—make Grace Broussard pay in a very final way.

  GRACE HADN’T MEANT to see Eula Prejean again when she and Declan cut through the gray day to the Orleans Parish Criminal District Court to check on Mama. It had stopped raining, and now the fog was rising off the river and snaking along the pavement. Approaching the courthouse had given her pause. The gray building had looked like it was rising out of a smoky Hell.

  Exactly what she wished she could do…but was powerless to accomplish.

  So there Eula was, sitting on a bench in the wainscoted hallway with her lawyer, a guard standing on the other side. At first, Grace didn’t know how to react. Or if she could. She simply felt empty. Useless. Unable to control anything that happened in her life now.

  Eula’s eyes widened when she saw Grace and she shakily stood and reached out a hand. “Miss Grace, please, can I talk to you a minute?”

  Thinking about how Eula had tried to stop Bergeron from hurting her the day before, Grace stopped, but didn’t know what to say. Declan’s supportive arm around her shoulders tightened. The former security guard looked terrible—her face was swollen from crying. Something in Grace softened—she couldn’t help but be sympathetic for Eula’s loss. Even if Bergeron had been lower than low, he had been Eula’s brother. Grace couldn’t even fathom what it would be like to lose Corbett.

  “What is it?” she finally asked.

  “I-I wanted you to know I’m sorry,” Eula said. “I didn’t mean for nothin’ bad to happen to you.”

  “You just wanted to expose me and my family with that Web site.”

  “No! Bergeron didn’t commit no armed robbery, and outta prison like that, he couldn’t get no job. He just wanted enough money to go somewhere and start over and figured your family owed him. I don’t know why he tried to hurt you, Miss Grace, I swear. To escape, I guess. He never did nothin’ like that before. He was desperate.”

  “But he did hurt me, Eula. Not only physically. When he launched that Web site, he hurt my whole family.”

  Even though public sentiment seemed to be on their side, Grace knew her mother wasn’t as nonchalant about the situation as she tried to appear.

  “Bergeron didn’t launch no Web site.”

  “But he did, Eula. I guess you haven’t seen the news today.”

  “I know what happened, and I’m sorry for that, too.” Eula shook her head. “But I’m telling you it wasn’t my brother. Bergeron barely knew how to use a computer. He wouldn’t know how to do that technical stuff.”

  “He knew enough to build the Web site,” Declan said.

  “No, he didn’t. He just passed it on, had it on one of them thumb drives. Said someone else put the Web page together.”

  “Who?” Declan asked.

  “He never told me.” Eula shook her head and her dark eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Grace suddenly had trouble breathing. “Are you saying someone else was involved in the blackmail scheme?”

  Eula shrugged. “Honest, Miss Grace, I don’t know about no one else. I only know my brother couldn’t have made that Web site because he didn’t know how.”

  “WHO COULD HAVE DONE IT?” Grace asked Declan as they walked down the hall to meet her mother. “If not Bergeron Prejean, then who was he working with?”

  “One of the usual suspects, I assume.” Declan spotted Sandra Broussard speaking to the blond reporter who’d given Grace such a hard time. Grace’s mother didn’t look all too happy, so the woman must be on her case now. “Trouble ahead.”

  Even as he said it, Jill Westerfield honed in on them as if she had built-in radar. Grace shrank into him, then, as if collecting herself, pulled away and stood tall.

  Wearing a jubilant smile, the reporter said, “Why, Ms. Broussard, I was just going to track you down. A follow-up for the Rising Sun feature. Readers will want to know your reaction to the terrible blackmail plot against you.”

  “No comment, Ms. Westerfield,” Grace said in a gracious tone.

  A tone that hid irritation, Declan realized. But he was getting stronger vibes from the reporter. She was angry that Grace wasn’t cooperating. And there was something else he couldn’t quite get.

  Jill’s eyes glittered behind the horn-rimmed glasses. “I just thought you might want to defend yourself.”

  “My daughter has nothing to defend, Ms. Westerfield,” Sandra Broussard said. “She’s the victim here.”

  The reporter was silent as she assessed the situation, glancing from one woman to the other. Then she said, “Of course she is. My apologies.”

  Jill Westerfield was anything but sorry. The reporter was pursuing a story, so why did her emotions feel so personal? Declan wondered as she stalked off, brushing against Grace, who looked after the blonde with an odd expression.


  Had Grace seen something?

  About to ask if she’d had a vision, he held back when Grace gave him a warning flash of her eyes. Declan knew her mother wasn’t aware she was using her ability again any more than she was aware that Grace and he were a couple.

  “Thank you for bringing me, Declan,” Grace said. “I’m going to have dinner with Mama and Corbett. Call me later, okay?”

  “Whatever you need.”

  Right now she needed time with her mother and brother. Though Declan wished he could stay with her, he understood. Her family didn’t even know their relationship had turned personal, so his being there would seem odd.

  Besides which, he had some investigating to do back at the office.

  As he entered Vieux Carré Investigations ten minutes later, Ian was just leaving for the day. Declan had already filled him in by phone on everything that happened the night before and earlier in the day. He quickly updated him about Eula’s claim that Bergeron hadn’t had anything to do with the Web site.

  “So why are you here instead of with Grace?” Ian asked.

  “Continuing the investigation. Have you ever heard of a reporter named Jill Westerfield? She works for the Rising Sun.”

  “Name’s not familiar. She new in town?”

  “Could be.” Probably was if Ian didn’t know the name. “I’m going to find out.”

  “Don’t work too late. You need to take care of your woman tonight.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, Ian.”

  A few minutes later, Declan settled down in his office in front of his computer. He ran a search on Jill Westerfield. He’d gotten emotions from the woman far darker than those from Bergeron…more in keeping with the person he’d chased from Grace’s building to Bourbon Street. Other than her association with Rising Sun, he found nothing about a woman going by the name of Jill Westerfield living in New Orleans.

  Huh. How was that possible? Maybe she had just moved to the city. He expanded his search to the whole state…and then to neighboring states where he found multiple references to three women named Jill Westerfield.

  By the time he found the article about the reporter from Biloxi, Mississippi, who went missing a couple of months ago on a business trip to New Orleans, the sun had already set and another bout of rain further darkened the skies outside the office windows. Declan glanced back to the computer monitor. A hazy photo of a woman with short, blond hair and horn-rimmed glasses accompanied the article.

  Vaguely aware that it was getting late and Grace hadn’t called yet, Declan forced himself to stay put until he played out this lead.

  Knowing the media always blew up the bad stuff, but didn’t always come through with the resolutions to stories if they didn’t have any shock value, he decided to call a contact in the police department.

  Yes, a Jill Westerfield had disappeared according to Biloxi relatives who’d made a complaint three months ago, but she’d never been found.

  Three months…about the same time the reporter started writing for the Rising Sun.

  Hanging up, Declan sat back staring at the monitor.

  Why hadn’t the reporter ever let her family know she was all right and living here now?

  He enlarged the picture of the blonde, but the photo grew fuzzy. Was this the same woman he’d faced in that courthouse hallway an hour ago or had there been some kind of identity switch? Uncertain, he hit print.

  Wanting Grace to take a look, he tried to call her. Her home phone went right to voice mail.

  “Hey, this is me calling you. I’ll try your cell.”

  But the cell phone didn’t scare her up, either.

  Leaving another message that she should call him—telling himself Grace was simply involved with her family—Declan checked his watch. He’d give her a half hour and then try again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dinner had felt forced. Mama and Corbett kept trying to make Grace feel better. They’d even invited Cousin Minny. Grace just wanted to be alone—or better yet, to be with Declan—but she suspected her family’s attempt to cheer her in reality kept them from depression. No matter that the public seemed to be on their side, Grace knew there would be whispers anywhere they went. People loved to gossip, even about those who’d been victimized.

  “We could have coffee or iced tea in the living room,” Mama announced, shooing them from the table. “It’s Cornelia’s day off, so I’ll get it myself.”

  Grace said, “Mama, we can help—”

  “Just go sit. All of you. I insist.”

  Reluctantly, Grace followed her brother and cousin into the living room. Maybe Mama needed a few minutes alone herself. Corbett took the wing-back chair where he’d left his laptop and Minny made herself comfortable on the sofa. Today she was a splash of fuchsia against the flowered upholstery.

  Realizing her brother was sneaking a peek at the computer, Grace asked, “Is it still there?” She assumed he would understand she was asking about the offensive Web site.

  “Afraid so. It’ll probably take a court order to have it removed. If all traces can be removed.”

  “If only we could find out who owns the site.”

  So far, they’d had no luck. The owner’s identity was well hidden. No surprise there.

  “Take some comfort that the blackmailer’s plot backfired and the public is outraged,” Minny said. “For once.”

  Remembering that Minny had gotten bad vibes from touching the bustier in the first place, Grace asked, “You couldn’t by any chance see something about the owner by touching the Web site on the monitor?”

  “I’m afraid my powers don’t extend to cyberspace. Or electronics in general. I already tried,” Minny admitted. “Now if you could line up the suspects in person and I could touch them…”

  “If we knew who to suspect,” Corbett said.

  “I still wonder about Larry Laroche.” Grace watched her brother carefully and added, “And then, of course, there’s Jill Westerfield.” Whom she hadn’t considered earlier in the crisis because she hadn’t had any direct contact with the woman until the interview for the Rising Sun.

  Corbett’s head whipped up, the computer suddenly forgotten. “Grace, I know you don’t like Jill—”

  “The problem is, she doesn’t like me and makes no bones about it. And I have no idea of why.”

  “I think you’re listening to your imagination.”

  “No, to Jill herself. She answered the door at Raphael’s last night. She touched me…”

  “And what did you see?” Minny asked eagerly.

  “Jill Westerfield with Larry Laroche—”

  “He’s her client!” Corbett protested.

  Part of her brother still wanted to deny that she and Minny had abilities he couldn’t understand. His world was black-and-white, no shades of gray allowed.

  “A personal client, then,” Grace told him. “She was rubbing up against him very personally and thinking that she was going to get everything she ever wanted.”

  “So?” Corbett wouldn’t let it go. “That makes Jill guilty of blackmail?”

  “And today,” Grace went on, “when she tried to get me to talk in the courthouse, and I wouldn’t give her what she wanted, she brushed my shoulder.”

  “So what did you see, Grace?” Minny asked again.

  “Her with Corbett.”

  Her brother laughed. “Hey, things are looking up.”

  Grace’s stomach tightened. Her brother was turning her reservations into some kind of joke.

  “I don’t think there’s anything positive about it. Her expression…” Grace tried to explain. “You looked happy, Corbett, but she was smiling like she was…I don’t know…triumphant.”

  “Oh, yeah, convict her for smiling at me.”

  “Don’t be too quick to dismiss your sister’s instincts,” Minny said. “If Grace had a vision, there’s a good reason for her seeing what she did. You need to pay attention!”

  Grace sighed. “I only wish I saw something more
telling.”

  “I saw something telling on my way over here,” Minny said.

  “Like what?” Corbett asked.

  “I stopped at the Orleans Exchange building, walked around the loading dock…and into the street where Bergeron Prejean was hit by a car.”

  “And someone was there?”

  “No one. But there was dried blood on the pavement.”

  Grace started. “What did you see?”

  “It’s what I felt…what Bergeron was thinking as he was hit. He knew the driver.”

  “Knew…as in the driver hit him on purpose?”

  “That’s what I would suppose.”

  “The two of you—listen to yourselves,” Corbett muttered. “Making up a case for murder now.”

  Just then, Mama entered the room carrying a tray with a carafe of hot coffee and a pitcher of iced tea. Grace’s cue to back off Corbett. Though Mama didn’t show it, Grace knew she was upset as it was. She didn’t need to get in the middle between her children.

  Realizing Corbett was about to close his laptop, Grace said, “Hey, wait! I haven’t checked my e-mail today. What if whoever launched the Web site has been trying to get in touch with me?”

  Scowling now, Corbett passed the computer to Grace. On edge, she set it on the table in front of her and opened her e-mail program. Quickly scanning the in-box, she didn’t realize she was holding her breath until, finding no additional threat, she let the breath out.

  “Nothing from the blackmailer, but there’s a message from Declan,” she said, wondering why he’d e-mailed her rather than called her.

  GRACE—

  I TRACKED DOWN A LEAD. THERE’S SOMETHING I WANT TO SHOW YOU. I’M TIED UP FOR A WHILE. MEET ME AT 10 ON THE MOONWALK IN THE AREA BEHIND CAFÉ DU MONDE—THERE’S A BENCH NEAR THE STEPS THAT GO DOWN TO THE RIVER.

  DECLAN

  Thinking it was an odd request, Grace figured Declan must have a good reason. Maybe whatever he had to show her was there in the open?

  Unable to imagine what, she checked her watch. “Declan wants me to meet him at ten, but I still have time for a coffee.”

  Minny squealed. “Oooh, you’re having a tryst…”