by Mallory Kane
“Oh, no. You’re not bailing on me,” Cara Lynn insisted. “You will go. You married the Delanceys when you married me, no matter what the reason was, and you will show up for at least some of the family events until you—” She paused for a beat. “We turned down my mother the evening of the gallery opening and so we need to go to this.”
“You turned her down.”
She lifted her chin. “With good reason. We should leave here around six o’clock.” She turned to head for the bedroom again.
“Cara?” Jack said.
“What?” She stopped.
“Thanks.”
She looked at him. “For what?”
“For dinner. For—” he shrugged and felt his cheeks warm.
She stood still for a few seconds, then turned around. “Jack, sit down.”
“What? Why?” he asked.
“Please,” she said. “I need to show you something.”
He pulled out a chair. “What is it?” he started, but she shushed him.
“Jack, please just wait, okay? This is not going to be easy.” She walked to the foyer and picked up her purse, then came back and sat at the table. She opened her purse and retrieved a folded piece of thick blue paper from an inside pocket.
She set her purse on the floor and unfolded the piece of paper and just looked at it for a moment, her lips compressed. At one point the fingers of her right hand tightened where they were holding the edge of the sheet. Jack saw her knuckles whiten.
He had a strong feeling he knew exactly what she was holding. It was killing him not to just reach out and take it from her, but he restrained himself. He felt as if he were watching a feral kitten. He didn’t want to move suddenly or do anything that would make Cara Lynn change her mind about what she had to show him.
If that piece of paper was what he thought it was, then he couldn’t blame her for hesitating. She could very well be holding the tool he needed to clear his grandfather’s name.
It occurred to him that if she gave it to him, she’d also be giving him his ticket out. She’d be saying, in effect, I know that as soon as you use this and manage to clear your grandfather’s name, you have no further use for me, nor I for you.
Was that true? Was he ready to leave, once the truth came out?
Chapter Ten
The truth.
Suddenly, he realized that not only was he assuming that the sheet of paper contained the truth, he was also assuming that it was going to contain his truth. It only made sense considering Cara Lynn’s hesitation. If it stated that Armand Broussard was guilty, why would she hesitate? That would be good news for her family and a punch in the gut for him.
He forced himself to curl his hands into fists and keep them at his sides while he waited for her to either give him the paper or fold it up and say Never mind.
She folded the sheet, which sent his pulse racing, then held it in her left hand and tapped her right knuckles with it. Finally she looked up at him and he saw tears glistening in her eyes. For herself or for him?
“I know this is the right thing to do,” she said, “but I hope you realize it’s not an easy decision for me. In fact it totally sucks.” She threw the paper down on the table in front of her, then interlaced her fingers and pressed her clasped hands to her lips.
“Are you—?” he started, then found he had to take a breath before he could finish what he was saying. “Are you sure, Cara?”
“Oh, damn it!” she cried. “Take the thing and read it before I change my mind.” She vaulted up, sending her metal dining room chair screeching across the floor, and went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of sparkling water.
Jack’s mouth was so dry he wasn’t sure he could swallow, but he wasn’t going to ask her to give him something to drink. In fact he wasn’t planning to move a muscle until he’d read everything on that piece of paper. He unfolded it and for a moment, he felt as though he couldn’t see anything. His vision was blurred. It took a few blinks before everything became clear. He blinked again and focused on the handwritten words on the sheet.
Dear Cara Lynn,
Somehow, when you’re young, you never believe these days that you fear will ever come. I certainly didn’t. It was only a few months ago, when my beloved Ivan died, that I actually believed that death was real. I was so lucky to have him for all these years.
Your mother wrote me that you’ve gotten married and sent me a snapshot of you and your husband, and has requested the items your grandmother left you.
Lilibelle wrote a holographic will after Con’s death, specifying her wishes that you receive her two most precious items, but only after you were married. If I can, I’ll be there soon after the reception at which you’re reading this. I wish I could be there to celebrate with you, but as you may know, my beautiful granddaughter Hannah and her fiancé, Mack, have been here in Paris, visiting with me. I would love to see my daughter as well, but neither she nor I can travel right now. I hope to be able to see her after she recovers from her liver transplant.
Lilibelle was always my best friend. When she told me her secret and asked me to keep it, I had no choice but to follow her wishes. You will find, in her journal, her confession that she, not Armand Broussard, killed your grandfather, her husband. She couldn’t bear the humiliation of him running for governor while he lived with his mistress, Kit Powers. I have not read the journal. I only read her letter to you and the note she wrote me. She wants you to read the entire journal, then make up your own mind what to do with the information.
Cara Lynn, I know you’ll carefully study and assess everything you have just received and will do the right thing. I don’t know what made her choose your marriage as the statute of limitations on this information, but I suppose she knew what she was doing.
Now, back to the photo of you and your new husband. He is quite handsome. As I...
Jack automatically turned the sheet of paper over, but there was no writing on the back. He looked up and caught a look on Cara Lynn’s face that he’d never seen before. When he met her gaze, she gave him a sheepish shrug. “There’s another page,” he said.
She nodded. “There is. But you have everything you wanted, right there.”
“But she was talking about me.”
“Just because it may be about you doesn’t give you the right to see it.”
Jack turned the sheet back over and read the entire page again. When he came to the part that said, point blank, that Lilibelle had killed Con, he read the words over and over.
You will find, in her journal, her confession that she, not Armand Broussard, killed your grandfather, her husband.
Each time Jack looked at those words, his heart rate sped up another fraction of a second. And to be perfectly honest, now that he had Lilibelle’s confession, albeit secondhand, the relief of knowing that his grandfather was truly innocent nearly brought tears to his eyes.
He felt like jumping up and shouting and pumping his fists in the air. But, while the letter was a triumph for him, those few words were going to cut like a knife into the hearts of Con Delancey’s family. So he restrained himself.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You could have kept it, and there’s no telling when I’d have been able to get the journal. Hell, I might have never gotten it.”
“Why am I showing it to you?” she said, spreading her hands. “Because it’s the truth. Or at least the closest thing to the truth you’ll get, outside of the journal.”
He nodded. “But it’s going to tear your family’s hearts to pi
eces. You had no obligation to give me this.”
That appeared to shock her. Her brow furrowed and she sent him an odd look. “We had a bargain,” she said. “We agreed to find the truth.”
That surprised him. He’d never expected her to share anything that would reflect badly upon her family.
“Jack?” Cara Lynn said. “What are you going to do?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “I’m going to take this letter to the police and use it as probable cause to petition the court to run DNA on blood from the evidence file.” He fanned the letter. “With any luck, this letter will be enough to convince the judge to reopen the case. And when he does, I believe the blood on the gun will turn out to be Lilibelle’s.”
“Blood?” Cara Lynn echoed. “What blood?”
“You’ve heard about the cases where wrongly convicted people are being freed because the court has allowed a review of DNA evidence in cases where the technology wasn’t available when the case was originally tried?”
“Oh, well yes. I just didn’t think about how old the evidence really was, I guess.” She gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment. “From what I understand from listening to Harte talk about these things, isn’t Aunt Claire’s letter hearsay? I mean, her letter can’t be entered into evidence, right?”
“It depends on the lawyer. I’m sure going to try to have it entered. We’ll see what the judge says.”
“But what about my grandmother’s journal? If it says the same thing as Claire’s letter, is that considered a confession? Will it be considered evidence in court?”
“I don’t know. I’m playing this by ear. I’d like to think so, but I’m afraid it won’t be. After all, even though the journal is handwritten and dated, and probably signed, I’m not sure it can be proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was your grandmother that wrote it, or that she was acting of her own free will when she did.”
“So you have to get the approval for the DNA.”
Jack nodded.
“Oh, my God. I have no idea what to tell my family.” She looked at Jack. “How do I tell them?”
“Cara, there’s no need to tell them at all. No need to worry or upset them until we have something conclusive.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I’m pretty sure this should be presented to Harte—he’s the Delancey attorney.”
Jack puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath in frustration. “I can guarantee you that within minutes of the petition’s filing, your family will know.”
“So you’re not going to do anything? That seems sneaky.”
He studied her for a few seconds. “If you feel that strongly, go ahead and tell them.”
She looked back at him as doubt clouded her face. He knew exactly what she was thinking. She was weighing telling her family about Claire’s revelation against her humiliation at being duped by Jacques Broussard. Then her brows drew down and her eyes narrowed.
“Jack, what if your grandfather’s DNA is in the blood evidence?”
“It won’t be.”
“You don’t know that. It was just Con and Grandmother and Armand Broussard up at the fishing cabin that day.”
“That’s not what my grandfather said.”
“What do you mean?” Cara Lynn asked.
“Your cousin Paul was there,” he said.
“Paul? Are you sure? I never heard that.”
“Yes. It’s what my grandfather said.”
“But—he could have lied. I’ve never heard anyone talk about Paul. My grandmother didn’t mention him in her letter and neither did Aunt Claire.”
Jack stiffened. “He didn’t lie.”
“Come on, Jack. How do you know? You’ve never heard but one side of the story.”
“He had no reason to lie.”
“No reason? What about appeals? What about trying to get a new trial or parole?”
“Your family saw to it that his appeals failed and that someone was there at every parole hearing talking about the tragedy of Con Delancey’s death and the grief of his poor widow.”
“Sounds like you were there.”
“I was. Ever since they finally let me in when I was eighteen.” He stood and walked over to the refrigerator, opening it and staring at the contents. After a moment, he pulled out a bottle of sparkling water and opened it.
Cara Lynn wanted to tell him how sorry she was that he’d had to see his grandfather in prison orange. That he’d never had a father figure in his home with him and his mother, but she couldn’t. He was angry.
Well, so was she. The two of them were like knights of old, jousting, using their own versions of the truth as weapons to dismount the other.
So instead, she took a deep breath to calm herself and asked what she thought was the next logical question. “But what if your grandfather’s blood is on the weapon?”
He turned and stared at her, holding the bottle of water ready to turn and drink. After a brief, frowning silence, he answered. “Then, that’s it. It’ll be over.”
“You’ll be done with—us? With the Delanceys?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, then lifted the cold bottle to his lips. Once he’d drunk his fill, he turned around, looking at the back of Cara Lynn’s bowed head. She was looking at her hands. He had a feeling she was thinking about whatever was written on that second page of Claire’s letter.
* * *
EVER SINCE HIS misspent youth from which his Aunt Lilibelle had saved him, Paul had been fascinated with the police. He’d had a police scanner since the first Christmas he’d lived with her, and over the years he’d spent many hours listening to it.
Also, among his drinking buddies were a few friends from the old days. One of them was a dispatcher for the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office. He kept Paul abreast of everything that went on in the county, especially having to do with the Delanceys, and in return, Paul picked up his bar tab.
So when the word got around that a petition had come in to reopen the Con Delancey murder case for comparison of DNA evidence, Paul found out within minutes. He went into a panic.
He’d done what any of the Delanceys would have done. He had protected his family, whatever the cost. But had his idea of protection gone outside the bounds of accepted behavior for law enforcement? And more importantly, for the Delanceys?
But right now, there was nothing he could do. He was going to have to wait and see what happened.
Cara Lynn had lied to him. There was a lot of interesting stuff in Jack Bush’s briefcase—or to be accurate—Jacques Broussard’s briefcase. But her letter from Lilibelle wasn’t there. He should have been harsher. Maybe he should have hurt her or fired a shot into a pillow to scare her.
In a way, he admired her. She either had more courage or was more foolish than he’d given her credit for. While she’d known he’d have a hard time getting into the case, she hadn’t had any idea how long it would take. She hadn’t known that he would not come back and kill her as he’d promised. And now he needed that letter more than ever. It was obvious that Jack had used it to file a petition for DNA testing.
Paul was too nervous to sleep, too anxious and distracted to take his usual daily run. He spent day and night drinking coffee, often boosted with bourbon, and going through his receipts and invoices and bank statements of the past two decades, trying to cook his books so that it appeared that the majority of Claire Delancey’s money that he’d spent had been on her house and not for his personal use. It was all he could ma
nage to concentrate on as he waited for the journal and the letter’s information to come out. As he waited for the police to come to arrest him.
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, on Friday evening, Cara Lynn and Jack took her car to their mechanic for regular maintenance scheduled for the next day, then headed to Reilly and Christy’s house, getting there at around six-thirty in the evening. Nicole, Ryker’s wife, who was a professional chef, had prepared a spectacular array of light hors d’oeuvres, and made a mint-julep punch. Reilly had a full bar of wine and liquor, as well as iced tea and coffee.
Cara Lynn took a quick look around and saw that most of her brothers and cousins were there. Her cousin Hannah and her fiancé, Mack, were missing, because as soon as they had returned from France, they’d discovered that her mother’s doctors were on alert that they might receive a liver within the next twenty-four hours. Then they’d heard of Claire’s sudden death.
Cara Lynn’s mom and dad had stayed home because her father had an infection and Betty was taking care of him.
“Reilly,” she said, taking his hand and proffering her cheek for him to kiss. “And Christy. Congratulations! You look really good!” she said, bussing Christy’s cheeks European style. “Although I’ve got to say that Reilly is the one glowing. I mean, look at that face.”
She and Christy laughed while Reilly, cheeks red, endured some good-natured ribbing from his brothers and cousins.
In the crowd she saw Paul talking with Shel Rossi, a second cousin on the Delancey side who was a firefighter. Shel was with a striking woman she’d seen with him at the reception.
She looked at Paul, thinking about Armand Broussard’s assertion that he was present when her grandmother shot Con Delancey. As she took Jack around and introduced him to the few people he hadn’t already met, she tried to calculate Paul’s age. She knew he’d been very young when his parents had been killed and he’d been taken in by her grandmother and grandfather. Lilibelle had always called him “her third son.”