Blood Ties in Chef Voleur

by Mallory Kane

  She’d had all day to consider what she was going to do about what she’d found under the kitchen table, but she was no closer to an answer than she’d been that morning when she’d discovered the small, spiral-bound notepad.

  Since seeing it on the floor against one of the table legs and picking it up, she’d opened it at least a dozen times to flip through for one more look at the notes he’d made about his grandfather, about her grandfather, about her family—about her.

  Reading Jack’s notes had been painful, the way a sore tooth was. The kind of pain that kept the tongue coming back to test it, as if by repeatedly touching it, the pain would—what? Give up and stop hurting?

  But Jack’s notebook hadn’t given up. Nor had it stopped hurting her. No matter where she turned, no matter whose name she saw, whether it was hers or someone in her family or his, it hurt just as much. And yet she kept probing.

  She’d stopped time and time again all day long to look through the little spiral-bound book, after that first time, when she’d flopped down on the floor and read it cover to cover without stopping except to dry her tears. After that, she’d looked for something—a paragraph, a sentence, even a word or two, that Jack had written that told her he cared about her. So far, she hadn’t turned up anything.

  Jack’s sketchy notes were the antithesis of her grandmother Lilibelle’s poetic, flowing narrative. But both of them, in their way, were documenting history as it occurred.

  Jack had documented the history of how he’d pursued her, arranged to bump into her, and finally met and seduced her into falling for him.

  As she’d paged through the notebook for the first time, she’d come to a page where he’d written her name and age, the words fiber artist, and a list of her gallery showings and sales. He’d listed an interview she’d done a few weeks before and jotted a note about her working on a genealogy of the Delancey and Guillame families.

  On the next page he’d written the showing at the Donnelly Gallery a second time, along with its date, plus four scribbled words. Accidentally bump into her.

  She shivered, standing there in the art gallery just like she had the first time she’d read those words. On the following page were more scribbled notations.

  7/14—Spent the nite—her apt. Nice! Sexy!

  Likes pasta—a lot. Talks about family.

  Shouldn’t be hard.

  Biting her lip and feeling her cheeks turn hot with embarrassment at some of the things Jack had alluded to, she turned the pages until she got to the first thing that had caught her eye that morning. It was the name Con Delancey.

  It was over halfway through the pad, behind Jack’s notes. Dog-eared pages that held tiny sketches and dimensions and calculations, all of which she assumed had to do with Jack’s architecture business. She remembered flipping through, a small smile on her face as she looked at what she thought were her husband’s work notes. A small thrill had hummed through her at the anticipation of seeing her name in there, maybe with a note about what time to meet her for the fiber-art show opening, or a note to himself to pick up flowers or something for her.

  But when she’d seen her grandfather’s name, she’d stopped and read the entire page, and a knot of fear had lodged under her breastbone. That page and several others had been filled with notes that referred to Con’s death, Lilibelle’s obsession with journaling, and the address of the fishing cabin on Lake Pontchartrain.

  She flipped through the entire notebook, each page a hopeful encounter that gave her one more chance to find out that she was wrong. That the notes and dates and comments would coalesce into something innocuous. But when she turned a page and saw the name Armand Broussard, and below it the charges against him, then below that, INNOCENT!!! in block letters, she knew there were no innocuous explanations.

  Then, when she saw the very last page, there was no denying the truth. It was plain to see. And it hurt. The last page was where Jack had experimented with new names until he’d decided on Jack Bush.

  Jacques Broussard.

  Jack Broussard. Jack Bruce. Jack Bushman.

  Jack Bush. Jack Bush.

  Cara Lynn still felt the chill that had flash-frozen her heart. She’d dropped the notebook and covered her mouth with her hands, doing her best to hold in a shocked scream. Her husband was Armand Broussard’s grandson.

  Jacques Broussard. Her husband Jack was Jacques Broussard. His grandfather had killed hers. Jack had found her, studied her, seduced her into a whirlwind marriage so he could—what? What exactly did he want so badly that had required making her fall in love with him and marry him?

  * * *

  BY THE TIME Jack got back from Biloxi that evening and made it to the gallery, it was late and the guests were thinning out. The only hors d’oeuvres left were little pigs in blankets and the only drinks were a mint-julep punch and a chardonnay which had grown warm. He bypassed the food and drink and headed toward Cara Lynn, who did not look happy. He wondered if the showing had gone really badly, or maybe she was getting a migraine. Deep inside, though, a queasy dread told him he knew what the real problem was.

  He stepped up to her and touched the small of her back. She jumped slightly but didn’t acknowledge his presence in any other way.

  “Sorry I was late,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize they were going to take the meeting through dinner. But the good news is, I think I’m going to get a huge contract to design their new casino.”

  Cara Lynn smiled and nodded to the couple who wandered away while Jack was speaking. She didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Cara, hon, are you all right? How did the show go?”

  She nodded distractedly. “Fine,” she said tightly. “I sold three pieces. What more could I ask?”

  Jack studied her. Her mouth was compressed, her shoulders were rigid. He could feel the tension running through the muscles of her back. She was seriously upset. He slid his hand around her waist and pulled her closer, but she neatly extracted herself from his grasp as her mother approached.

  “What a wonderful show, Cara Lynn! You and Jack are coming by the house for coffee, aren’t you?”

  “No, Mom,” Cara Lynn said tiredly. “I’m exhausted and I’m sure Jack is, too. He just managed to get here from Biloxi, I believe.” With that, she shot Jack a look that should have fried him on the spot.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get home.” He gave Cara Lynn’s mother a nod. “I apologize, Mrs. Delancey. We’ll see you another night. I’ll look forward to it.”

  He led Cara Lynn out and asked her if she would be okay driving her car home. “If not, I’ll drive us and I can get someone to bring the car out tomorrow.”

  “I’m fine,” Cara Lynn said archly. “Believe me, I am not drunk.”

  “I didn’t say you were. You just told your mother you were too exhausted to spend half an hour with her.”

  “So?”

  Jack sent her a questioning look, but she just turned on her heel and walked to her car. He watched until she pulled out of the parking lot, then he got into his car and followed her to their apartment.

  All the way home, he tried to convince himself that there were all kinds of reasons for her behavior. It wasn’t necessarily because she’d found his notepad and read it. She could have a headache and be truly exhausted. She could be coming down with something. She could have gotten angry at him for a dozen reasons that might not make any sense to him. But he wasn’t fooling himself. There was only one reason she’d look at him like that. Only one reason she’d be so pale and rigid.

  When he got inside, she was standing at the kitchen table, her arms folded, as if she were holding on to herself as tightly as she could. Her face was pale and wan except for two spots of color that stood out in her cheeks. If her glare were a laser, he’d be cut in two.

  “Okay, what’s wrong?” he asked as his
hands became clammy and his pulse sped up until blood hammered in his ears.

  He’d gotten to the meeting in Biloxi to discuss a contract for a new casino and realized he didn’t have his notepad where he kept his ideas and reminders. It wasn’t in his briefcase. It wasn’t in his car and it wasn’t in his pocket. He’d managed to get through the meeting without too many problems, but from the instant he realized the notebook was gone, a lump of apprehension had lodged in his throat.

  Standing there in front of Cara Lynn, the apprehension turned to certainty. He knew exactly what was wrong with Cara Lynn and exactly what was about to happen.

  The jig was up.

  Struggling to put a tone of casual weariness in his voice, he said, “I hope it’s something simple, because it has been a long day and I’m exhausted.”

  “I’m sure you are. It must be hard, maintaining a cover story 24/7. Of course it’s probably a lot simpler if you can spend a large percentage of that time having sex. That saves time having to pretend, I guess.”

  “What?” Jack said, frowning. He heard her words, but he couldn’t quite make sense of them. But certain things began becoming clear, like cover story, pretend, sex. “Cara Lynn, I’m not sure what you’re—”

  “Save it,” she snapped. “How long did you think you could last before you let something slip? Said something suspicious? Or—” She held up his notepad. “Or left something lying around?”

  “Cara Lynn—hold on a minute.”

  “No. I don’t need to hold on. I shouldn’t have even let you come back here, but I felt like I deserved at least a little bit of an explanation. I feel humiliated, violated and of course stupid....” She paused to take a deep breath and swipe at her eyes with her fingers.

  Jack wished there was a way he could comfort her and convince her that he hadn’t used her. He wished they lived in a world where he could snap his fingers and everything that both of them knew about their grandfathers would disappear and it would be only the two of them. He wished he hadn’t humiliated, violated and betrayed her. But this was reality.

  He’d made this bed of snakes, and now he was going to have to sleep in it. He spread his palms—knowing that by doing so he was acknowledging and agreeing to everything she’d said.

  “You’re not even going to try and deny it?” she asked, but even if he’d wanted to or been able to answer, she was still too quick. She continued before he managed to recall how to breathe, much less speak.

  “Tell me, Jacques, did you get what you wanted? And was it worth prostituting yourself?”

  Cara Lynn forced those last words out past a growing lump in her throat. The lump felt as big as a levee and it blocked the tears that wanted to break free and fall. If it would just last a few more minutes, until she’d finished what she wanted to say, then she could throw Jacques Broussard out of her home and out of her life, and she’d be free to cry all she wanted to.

  “That’s what you did, you know,” she added. “You prostituted yourself. But I guess that’s not as difficult for men as it is for women.”

  She steeled herself and met his gaze. He looked shell-shocked, and his mouth was open as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t quite get it out. She’d have liked to gloat over his misery, but she was too busy right now, trying to keep the tears at bay. “What?” she snapped. “What is it?”

  He shook his head. “Cara Lynn, I never meant to hurt you. You have to understand. As much as you loved your grandparents, I loved mine, too. And my grandfather didn’t kill yours.”

  “First of all I don’t have to do anything—” Cara Lynn stopped talking as soon as Jack’s last words penetrated. “Oh, no,” she said. “You will not just walk in here after what you’ve done and say Armand Broussard didn’t kill Con Delancey. Of course he did. He was arrested and convicted and put in prison.”

  “That doesn’t mean he was guilty,” Jack said. “It just shows how much influence the Delancey family had. And please, you don’t need to tell me what happened to my grandfather. Yes, he was arrested and convicted of Con Delancey’s murder. He was sent to prison in 1987, and he stayed there until six months ago. Do you know what happened six months ago?” he asked.

  She didn’t say anything, waiting for him to go on.

  “Well?” he snapped. “Do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Of course you don’t, because neither you nor your entire family have ever bothered to learn anything about Armand Broussard. He served as your grandfather’s personal assistant for over twenty years. He handled his correspondence, both personal and official, he acted as his valet, and he was his best friend.” Jack hardly paused to take a breath.

  “My grandfather loved and respected Con Delancey and Con loved and respected him. He left him a quarter of a million dollars in his will, but of course the Delanceys couldn’t let the man they’d decided was guilty of his murder inherit any of his money.”

  Cara Lynn stared at the man she’d fallen in love with and married within one month of meeting him. He was angry—really angry, for the first time ever. He looked different. His eyes were dark and glittering. His face was masked with rage. The tendons in his neck and wrists stood out in sharp outline against his skin.

  “But my grandfather never cared about the money. All he ever wanted to do was clear his name. A name you probably barely recognized—if you even did at all. To you, he’s just a nonentity out there. He killed a relative of yours that you’ve never met for a reason you’ve probably never even been curious about in a time before you were born. You have no connection to your grandfather, my grandfather or the incident that changed my grandfather’s life and his family’s lives forever. You have no clue what our life was like because someone in your family decided to kill Con Delancey and frame my granddad for the murder.” He pounded his chest twice with his fist.

  Cara Lynn had nothing to say. In a rather hazy, stunned way, she realized that what he’d said was true. She had no sense of connection to Con Delancey. He was her grandfather, but she knew nothing about him except that he was murdered.

  “Well?” he said again. “I asked you a question. Do you know why my grandfather is no longer in prison as of six months ago? Not because he was paroled. Not because his sentence was up.” Jack shook his head and pressed his lips together. “My grandfather is no longer in prison because he died. He died in prison. And do you know what he said with his last breath? He said he loved me and he hoped I believed he was innocent.”

  Cara Lynn heard the emotion in his voice. The rage in his face had morphed into grief and sadness, and dampness gleamed in his eyes. She understood that he was loyal to his grandfather. That he wanted his grandfather to be innocent.

  She understood, because she wanted the same thing—for him. But not at the expense of breaking the hearts of her family. She longed to reach out to Jack, even after what he’d done to her. But she steeled herself against him. “But if your grandfather didn’t kill my grandfather, then who did?” she asked.

  Jack leveled a gaze at her. “There aren’t many choices for the answer to that question.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying there were only three people at the fishing cabin that weekend.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because Papi told me.”

  “Papi?”

  “My grandfather.”

  Cara Lynn felt a pang deep inside her. “You call him Papi?” she asked. The idea that he had a nickname for his grandfather sliced her heart in two.

  “You’re right,” she said, her voice small. “I don’t have a connection with my grandfather. He hasn’t meant as much to me as your Papi has to you. To me, he’s a story—a legend. I never had a chance to know him, to talk with him.” She paused for a second. “To give him a nickname like Papi or Grampa or—” She shrugged. “He’d die
d before I was born. He was a great man with a great future, so I hear. But his life was snuffed out way before his time—because of your grandfather, Armand Broussard.”

  “Not because of my grandfather!” Jack shouted.

  Suddenly, his anger ignited hers. It piled in on top of all of her other emotions. It was heavy, overpowering and it tamped down on the hurt and heartbreak that still swirled inside her at Jack’s betrayal.

  “Stop it!” she cried. “I’m not going to stand here and listen to this. It’s not true. Any of it. You’re deluded if you think you can clear your grandfather’s name. You can’t clear the name of a person who’s guilty. I need you to get out of here, now! I don’t want to ever lay eyes on you again. Can you understand that? Never!” To her horror and dismay, the tears got past the lump and started to fall from her eyes. “Oh, damn it,” she sobbed.

  “Oh, hell no, I’m not leaving. You can forget that. Remember what we talked about the other morning. Someone has been coming in here when we’re gone. And that means that you could be in danger. There is no way I’m leaving you here by yourself.”

  “I don’t need you. I’ll call my brothers. They’ll take care of me. In fact—I’ll call Lucas. He’ll find something to arrest you for. Or Travis. He’s a former army special forces officer. He could make you disappear without a trace. Harte can prosecute you for—for—” She stopped because Jack was grinning. Not the false smile he’d given her so often, but a real grin. And that made her so angry that she thought smoke might be coming out of her ears. “Stop laughing at me! What?”

  “There’s no way you’re getting your brothers or your cousins or anyone else in your family involved.”

  She stared at him. “Are you threatening me?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then what? Making fun? Never mind.” She cut a hand through the air. “I don’t care what you’re doing. You just sit back and watch me. All I have to do is make one phone call and all four of my brothers will be over here so fast you’ll think they flew.”