by Nora Roberts
Matt chose a noisy restaurant in the French Quarter because he always found it easier to make people talk if they weren’t sure they could be heard. He’d sensed, from the introduction, that while Susan Fisher had given her trust to Laurel, she was withholding judgment on him. For the moment, he’d decided to let Laurel lead the way.
He was amiable, sympathetic, as he filed away Susan’s every word and gesture. She was a woman, Matt decided, who had buckled under pressure and was fighting her way back up. She still had a long way to go, but on one point she wouldn’t be swayed. She’d known her sister. Susan wasn’t going to let Anne’s death rest until all the facts were laid bare. Perhaps Matt admired her for it all the more because her hands weren’t quite steady.
He glanced at Laurel and nearly smiled. She’ll take in any stray, he mused, though he didn’t doubt she’d bite his head off if he suggested it. She didn’t want to be considered soft or vulnerable, particularly by him. They were colleagues or, more accurately, competitors. He’d always enjoyed going head to head with her, reporter to reporter. And after that two minutes between floors on the elevator, he didn’t think she’d forget he was a man. He wasn’t going to give her the chance to.
Pouring more coffee into Susan’s cup, Matt sent Laurel a silent signal that it was his turn. Her slight shrug showed him that the truce was still on. “Your sister died nearly a month ago, Susan.” He said it softly, watching her face. “Why did you wait so long before bringing all this up?”
She dropped her gaze to her plate, where she’d been pushing food around for twenty minutes. Over her head, Laurel’s eyes met Matt’s, brows raised. He could almost hear the question in them. What the hell’s this? But she knew her job. He felt they were already partners without having stated the ground rules. I question. You soothe.
“Susan.” Laurel touched her arm. “We want to help you.”
“I know.” Setting down her fork, she looked up again, skimming over Matt to settle on Laurel. “It’s hard to admit it, but I didn’t cope with Anne’s death well. The truth is, I just fell apart. I stopped answering my phone—didn’t leave my apartment. Lost my job.” She pressed her lips together. When she spoke again they had to strain to hear her over the cheerful din in the restaurant. “The worst is, I didn’t even come down for the funeral. I suppose I was pretending it wasn’t happening. I was the only family she had left, and I wasn’t here.”
“That isn’t important. No, it’s not,” Laurel insisted when Susan began to speak. “You loved her. In the end, love’s all that really matters.” Looking over, she saw Matt watching her steadily. For a moment, Laurel forgot Susan, suspicions, the noise and scents of the restaurant. She’d expected to see cynicism in his eyes, perhaps a very faint, very mocking smile. Instead, she saw understanding, and a question she didn’t know how to answer. Without speaking, he lifted her hand to his lips, then set it down again.
Oh no, she thought, panicking. Not him. That wasn’t just impossible, it was ludicrous. Dazed, she picked up her coffee, then set it back down when she saw her hand wasn’t quite steady. That one long look had scattered her wits more effectively than the odd kiss that wasn’t a kiss, on the elevator. As from a distance, she heard Susan’s voice and forced herself to tune into it.
“It all hit me last week. I guess the first shock had passed and I started to think about her letters. It didn’t fit.” This time she looked up at Matt, demanding he understand. “Whenever she’d mention that swamp it was with a kind of loathing. If you’d understand just how much she hated the dark, you’d see that she would never have gone into the place alone, at night. Never. Someone took her there, Mr. Bates. Someone made her go.”
“Why?” He leaned forward, and while his voice wasn’t hard, it was direct. “Why would someone want to kill your sister?”
“I don’t know.” Her knuckles went white on the edge of the table as she fought the urge to just lay down her head and weep. “I just don’t know.”
“I covered the inquest.” Taking out a cigarette, Matt reached for the pack of restaurant matches. He didn’t want to be tough on her, but if she was going to fold it would be better if she did it now, before they got too deep. “Your sister’d been here less than a year and knew almost no one, as she and her husband rarely socialized. According to the servants, she doted on him, there was rarely a cross word between them. The basic motives for murder—jealousy, greed—don’t apply. What else is there?”
“That doesn’t matter.” Susan turned back to Laurel again. “None of that matters.”
“Let’s take it a step at a time,” Laurel suggested. “Do you still have your sister’s letters?”
“Yes.” Susan let out an unsteady breath. “Back at my hotel.”
Matt crushed out his cigarette. “Let’s go take a look at them.”
When Susan was out of earshot, Laurel brushed close to Matt. “The shock may be over,” she murmured, “but she’s still not too sturdy. Matthew, I have a feeling about this.”
“You’ve got too many feelings, Laurel.”
She frowned at him as they skirted between tables. “Just what does that mean?”
“We have to deal with facts. If you want to play Girl Scout, you’re going to cloud the issue.”
“I should’ve known better,” she said between her teeth. “For a minute back there, I thought I saw some small spark of sensitivity.”
He grinned. “I’m loaded with sensitivity. We can talk about it over drinks later.”
“In a pig’s eye.” Laurel swung out the door behind Susan and made a point of ignoring Matt through the cab ride to the hotel.
It was seedy—the streets were narrow, the concrete was chipped, the banisters were peeling. Condensation gathered and dripped from the rusting balconies. The paint on the buildings was cracked and coated with layers of grime and moisture from the constant humidity. All the colors seemed to have faded into one—a steamy gray.
The alleyways were shadowed and dank. At night, Laurel knew, the street would be mean—the kind of street you avoided, or walked on quickly while glancing over your shoulder. From the open window across the street the sounds of an argument overpowered a scratchy jazz recording. A bony cat lay over the stoop and made a low, unfriendly sound in his throat when Susan opened the door.
When Laurel cautiously stepped around it, Susan offered an apologetic smile. “This place has its own . . . atmosphere.”
Matt grinned as he cast a look around the dim lobby. “You should’ve seen the apartment where I grew up in New York.”
The strained smile relaxed as Susan turned toward the stairs. “Well, it was here, and it was cheap.”
Following them, Laurel frowned at Matt’s back. She’d caught another glimpse of sensitivity. Odd. And, though she hated to admit it, the careless comment about his youth piqued her interest. Who had he been? How had he lived? She’d always been very careful not to allow herself to speculate.
The place was so quiet, so empty, that their footsteps echoed on the uncarpeted steps. Cracked paint and graffiti. Laurel studied Susan’s profile as she unlocked the door. I’m going to get her out of here, she promised herself, by this afternoon. Catching the amused, knowing look Matt sent her, Laurel glared at him.
“After another merit badge, Laurellie?” he murmured.
“Shut up, Bates.” While he chuckled, Laurel stepped into Susan’s cramped, shadowy room. It had a narrow bed, a scarred dresser and no charm.
“That’s funny, I know I left the shades up.” Crossing the room, Susan jerked the cord so that the dusty white shade flapped up and the sun poured into the room. She flicked a switch that had a squeaky ceiling fan stirring the hot air. “I’ll get the letters.”
Laurel sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at Matt. “What part of New York did you come from?”
His brow lifted, as it did when he was amused—or evasive. “You wouldn’t know it.” His lips curved as he moved to sit beside her. “Ever been north of the Mason-Dixon line, Laure
l?”
“I’ve been to New York several times,” she began testily, then made a sound of frustration when his smile only widened. “Twice,” she amended.
“The Empire State Building, Ellis Island, the U.N., tea at the Plaza and a Broadway show.”
“You love being smug and superior, don’t you?”
He ran a fingertip down her jaw. “Yeah.”
She fought back a smile. “Did you know you become even more insufferable with prolonged contact?”
“Be careful,” Matt warned. “I’ve a weakness for flattery.”
With his eyes on her laughing ones, Matt lifted her hand, palm up, and pressed his lips to the center. He watched, pleased, when confusion replaced the humor in her eyes. Behind them, Susan began to pull out drawers frantically. They didn’t notice.
“They’re gone!” Susan swept a handful of clothes onto the floor and stared at the empty drawer. “They’re gone, all of them.”
“What?” A little dazed, Laurel turned to her. “What’s gone?”
“The letters. All of Anne’s letters.”
Immediately Laurel was on her feet and sorting through Susan’s jumbled clothing. “Maybe you put them somewhere else.”
“No—there is nowhere else,” she said with a dangerous edge of hysteria in her voice. “I put them all in this drawer. There were twelve of them.”
“Susan.” Matt’s voice was cool enough to stiffen her spine. “Are you sure you brought them with you?”
She took long, deep breaths as her gaze shifted from Laurel to Matt. “I had every oné of Anne’s letters with me when I checked into this hotel. When I unpacked, I put them in that drawer. They were there when I dressed this morning.”
Her hands weren’t steady, Matt noticed, but her eyes were. He nodded. “I’ll go check with the desk clerk.”
As the door closed, Susan stared down at the crumpled blouse she held. “Someone was in this room,” she said unsteadily. “I know it.”
Laurel glanced at the shade Susan had lifted. “Are you missing anything else?”
“No.” With a sigh, Susan let the blouse fall. “There isn’t anything in here worth stealing. I suppose they realized that. It doesn’t make any sense that they’d take Anne’s letters.”
“Matthew and I’ll sort it out,” Laurel told her, then was annoyed with herself for linking herself with Matt so easily. “In the meantime . . .” Bending, she began to gather Susan’s clothes. “Can you type?”
Distracted, Susan stared at her. “Well, yes. I work—I worked,” she corrected, “as a receptionist in a doctor’s office.”
“Good. Where’s your suitcase?” she asked as she folded Susan’s clothes on the bed.
“It’s in the closet, but—”
“I have a place for you to stay, and a job—of sorts. Oh, this is lovely.” She shook out the blouse Susan had crumpled.
“A job? I don’t understand.”
“My grandmother lives outside of town. Since my brother and I moved out, she’s been lonely.” The lie came out too easily to be questioned.
“But I couldn’t just stay there.”
“You’d pay for it.” Laurel grinned as she turned back. “Grandma’s been threatening to write her memoirs and I’ve just about run out of excuses for not typing them up for her. You won’t be bored. She’s eighty-two and didn’t give up men until . . . Actually, she hasn’t given them up at all. If I weren’t so busy, I’d love to do it myself. As it is, you’d be doing me quite a favor.”
“Why are you doing this for me?” Susan asked. “You don’t know me.”
“You’re in trouble,” Laurel said simply. “I can help.”
“Just that easy?”
“Does help have to be complicated? Get your suitcase,” Laurel ordered before Susan could work out an answer. “You can pack while I see what Matthew’s come up with.” As she slipped into the hall, Laurel bumped into him. She let the door click shut behind her. “Well?”
“The clerk didn’t see anyone.” Matt leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. “But then he’s more interested in cheating at solitaire in the back room than covering the desk.” He blew out a stream of smoke that rose to the ceiling and hung there. “I spoke to the woman who does the rooms. She didn’t pull the shades.”
“Then someone was in there.”
“Maybe.”
Laurel ignored this and stared at the opposite wall. “Susan thinks it was just a break-in. In her state of mind, that’s all for the best.”
“You’re playing mama, Laurel.”
“I am not.” Angry, she looked back at him. “It’ll be a lot easier to sort through this if she doesn’t start thinking someone’s deliberately trying to stop her.”
“There’s no reason for her to think that at this point,” Matt said dampeningly. “What’s she doing?”
“Packing,” Laurel muttered.
He nodded. It wasn’t wise for her to stay where she was. “Where’s she going?”
Laurel angled her chin. “To my grandmother.”
Not quite suppressing a smile, Matt studied the tip of his cigarette. “I see.”
“You couldn’t see through barbed wire. And don’t start spouting off about my getting too personally involved, or—”
“All right.” He crushed out the cigarette on the dusty, scarred floor. “And I won’t comment that you’re a very sweet, classy lady. I’ll get a cab,” he added when Laurel only stared at him.
Just when I think I understand him, she mused, he throws me a curve. If I’m not careful, Laurel added as his footsteps echoed off the stairs. If I’m not very, very careful, I’m going to start liking him. On that uncomfortable thought, she went back in to hurry Susan along.
In under ten minutes, Laurel was in the back of a cab with Matt, glancing behind her at the taxi that would take Susan to her grandmother.
“Stop worrying about her,” Matt ordered. “Olivia’ll keep her mind off her sister, and everything else.”
With a shrug, Laurel turned back around. “I don’t doubt that. But I’m beginning to doubt that Anne Trulane walked into that swamp alone.”
“Let’s stick with the facts. Motive.” Absently, he wound a lock of Laurel’s hair around his finger—a habit he’d recently developed and rather enjoyed. “There doesn’t seem to be any. Women aren’t lured into swamps for no reason.”
“Then there was one.”
“No sexual assault,” Matt continued, half to himself. “She didn’t have any money on her own—and her only heir would’ve been Susan in any case . . . or her husband. He has a sister, but I can’t see any benefit there.”
“The last people I’d consider as murder suspects would be Louis or Marion Trulane. And there are other motives for murder than sex and money.”
He lifted a brow at her tone but continued to toy with her hair. “True, but those always spring to mind. Most of us are fond of both.”
“Some think beyond your scope, Matthew. There’s jealousy, if we go back to your two favorites. Louis is rich and attractive. Someone might have pictured herself in Anne’s place.”
He caught something—the drift of something he didn’t quite understand. And didn’t like. “Do you know him well?”
“Louis?” A smile touched her mouth, a gentle one. It reminded him that Laurel had never once looked at him that way. “As well as anyone, I suppose—or I did. He taught me to ride when I was a girl, let me tag along after him when I was ten and he was, oh, twenty-one or twenty-two. He was a beautiful man—and very patient with a girl’s infatuation.”
When he discovered his fingers were no longer relaxed, Matt released the tendril of hair. “You got over it, I suppose.”
Hearing the cynicism in his voice, Laurel turned, the half smile still on her face. “Weren’t you ever in love, Matthew?”
The look he gave her was long and guarded while several uncomfortable emotions moved through him. Her eyes were soft; so was her mouth, her skin. If they’d been alone, he mi
ght not have answered the question at all, but would simply have taken what he found he needed so badly. “No,” he said at length.
“It softens something in you, something that never quite goes away for that particular person.” With a sigh, she sat back against the seat. It had been a long time since she’d let herself remember how sweet it had been, and how hurtful. She’d only been a child, and though her dreams had been fairy tales, she’d believed them. “Louis was very important to me. I wanted a knight, and I think he understood that well enough not to laugh at me. And when he married . . .” She lifted her hands and let them fall. “It broke my heart. Do you know about his first wife?”
Matt was staring down at the hands in her lap; small, elegant hands with the nails painted in the palest of corals and a smoky emerald in an intricate old setting on her finger. An heirloom, he thought. She would have heirlooms, and genteel ancestors—and memories of riding lessons from a tall young man, dashing enough to be a knight.
“Bits and pieces,” Matt mumbled as the cab pulled to the curb. “Fill me in later.”
Laurel climbed out of the cab, then meticulously brushed off her skirt. “That’s perilously close to an order, Bates. Since Don didn’t lay down any ground rules, maybe you and I should take care of that ourselves.”
“Fine.” He didn’t know why he was angry. He studied her with eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. “This is my beat.”
With an effort, Laurel smothered the flare of temper. “And it’s my lead.”