At the sound of Nash’s voice coming from the front of the nursery, Lisa looked up and smiled. Then she glanced at Temple.
The younger Couviyon brother just shook his head and groused, “Older brothers are the bane of my existence. They take every opportunity to embarrass me.”
“Then just tease them about being older,” she said with feeling. “Believe me, it’ll catch up with them.”
Lisa watched as Nash moved along the stone path toward her. With each step, she felt her heart pick up a pace. She was at the far end of her land with his brother Temple, counting off plants being loaded onto a truck, so it was a long way and a lot of heart jumping till he got close. Lord, she loved the way Nash walked. His strides were long, lazy with a hip-rolling gait that reminded her of a cowboy. As if he didn’t have a care in the would. And she knew he did. He’d been in New York, and though she hadn’t seen him in three days, it didn’t take but one day for her to realize she’d missed him more than was wise. For both of them.
“Hey, old man,” Temple called, then winked at Lisa.
“Old means wiser, too, you know,” Nash replied.
Temple’s gaze shifted pointedly to Lisa, and Nash felt his insides clench at the subtle reminder. If you were so wise, how come you lost her? He hadn’t done anything to keep her, Nash thought. Now he’d spent three days away from her, trying to sort out his feelings, and though he thought he had them neatly packaged again, looking down at her, he knew he didn’t.
“Hi there,” Lisa said, wondering if the breathiness in her voice was her imagination.
“Hey yourself. Should you be working out in this heat?” he asked, touching the back of her head and taking a peak at her wound.
Instinctively, she covered his hand. “It’s okay, just a little tender is all. Don’t worry so much.” The motion brought his face closer.
“I do more than worry,” he said gruffly, bringing his gaze back to hers. For a moment he just stared, a recognition spiriting through every cell of his body.
“Thanks for the patrolman,” she said, her gaze flickering to the road beyond the fence.
“The person who hurt you is still out there.”
“I still think it was just so I didn’t see him.”
“And the butcher knife in the mattress slipped your mind?”
A pearl of fear dripped down her spine. “Oh, yeah,” she said stupidly.
Nash smiled, yet not willing to concede her safety for a moment.
“Okay, Lisa, that’s it,” Temple interrupted, earning him a glare from his brother. “Got a total?”
“Yes, sir, I do.” She picked up her clipboard and handed it over to Temple.
“I heard you were looking for anyone who grew poisonous plants, like lily of the valley, and pennyroyal,” Temple said to his brother as he glanced down at the list of items.
“Yes, but it grows everywhere and it wasn’t a viable lead.”
“That’s good, since the Baylor Inn has lily of the valley. Right alongside the café patio, if memory serves.”
Nash frowned. “You planted it there?”
Temple nodded, put his signature on the account, then handed the clipboard back to Lisa. “About a year ago, yes. It was a request of the owner, William.”
“Why request it?”
“He seems to think it was grown there years ago. Wanted it back.”
Nash was still frowning when his brother got to his feet and signaled his workers to leave. The truck pulled away and Temple looked at Lisa. “Thanks, Lisa, your stuff is always the best.”
“It’s a compost thing.”
Grinning, she ignored Nash’s shocked look when Temple leaned down and brushed a kiss across her cheek, then whispered for her ears alone, “Don’t step into those waters again unless you really want to, darlin’. I’d hate to have to punch out my own brother.”
Lisa met his gaze, searching his handsome face, and felt a little needle of worry prick her. Temple flirted with her every time she saw him, but she never thought much of it. He flirted with every woman, young and old. Was he sweet on her? Or was he just being a protective friend?
Nash stepped close. “Go to work, youngun.”
Temple hid his smirk in a smile as he left. Nash noticed Lisa watching Temple stroll away. He wasn’t sure he liked that she enjoyed his brother so much.
“What did he say to you?”
She glanced at him, waving at Temple as he got into his SUV. “Huh? Oh nothing important.”
Nash frowned again. That look was too sweetly innocent for him. “He’s a playboy, Lisa.”
She laughed shortly. “Oh, don’t I know it. Half the women in this town have shared his bed or want to, including my employee.” She reached for her cart handle.
Nash flushed for his brother’s sake. “How about you?”
Lisa whipped around. “I can’t believe you asked that.”
“You didn’t notice that he was flirting with you?”
“He always does, but he’s just a friend and your brother, for pity’s sake.”
That made Nash feel a little better. “I know and I’d hate to have to bash his face in.”
Now she really laughed. “You two think more alike than you know.” She turned toward the house, loving that he was jealous. Peter had been obsessive and hovering, but not what she’d call jealous. In fact, he wanted her to talk with anyone who’d benefit his career. She’d been a useful ornament, nothing more. In some ways Nash had done the same thing. She’d been a constant date, a lover, but nothing beyond that. And it still stung, because she’d never felt for Peter what she felt for Nash.
Walking beside her, pulling the second cart, Nash watched her expression, saw the hurt there and wondered what she was thinking.
Suddenly she looked at him, her brows knitting. “You found something in New York. With Delan and Forsythe?”
“More than something.” He checked his watch. “But I’ll talk to you about it later, okay?”
Lisa didn’t like the way he avoided looking at her. “What’s the matter?”
He hesitated for a moment, rubbing his mouth. “I’ve learned some things about your ex-husband that aren’t flattering.”
She scoffed. “I bet you I could tell you more.”
“I wish you would.”
She stopped, her hip cocked. “If this is about the conversation we had the night Peter died…” Now she hesitated, opening her mouth, then snapping it shut and sighing. “I’ll have to think about it,” she finally said. It would bring back so much more than just an argument between ex-spouses. It would open a door to her past she’d thought she’d firmly shut when she left Nash. Was she ready for that?
“At least now you’re thinking about telling me.”
He inched closer as she spoke, hemming her in, crowding her. The look on his face was tender and patient, and she tried not to remember what it was like to be with him and feel that tenderness when he’d made love to her. It was the one thing that had stayed with her with amazing clarity.
“You’re not accusing me of killing Peter anymore. Think that might have something to do with it?”
“Maybe,” he said on a smile. “Can I call you tonight?”
Surprise sparked, along with pleasure. “Yeah, sure. How about when you’re done with work you come over for supper?”
“I don’t know if that’s wise.”
“It’s an ethics thing, right?”
“No, it’s an ‘I don’t know if I can keep my hands off you’ thing.”
Heat ignited deep inside her and rushed to explode. “Is that what you want, Nash? Only to put your hands on me?”
The question slammed home and Nash heard all the reasons and excuses he’d told himself the past few days to back off and let Lisa go. But he was confused and his heart wasn’t listening to logic and reason. And of course, he was assuming a great deal. Assuming that Lisa felt the same as he did. With her, he could never tell. If he could, he would have seen their breakup coming, instead of b
eing broadsided.
“Not only my hands,” he said with a crooked smile. “But do you know what you want from me?”
I’ve always known, Lisa thought with heartbreaking detail, but that was four years ago. With Nash close, staring at her the way he had years ago, Lisa felt torn. She wasn’t sure her heart could take losing so much again. She didn’t trust it. “I’m not sure anymore,” she said, and knew that if she wanted more, she’d have to tell him about the child she lost.
“Then hands will do for now.” Gently with a featherweight touch, he put his palms on her waist and tugged her closer. “For now,” he said in a warning tone, and the air crackled between them. He leaned and brushed his mouth across hers.
Lisa’s breath hitched and her knees softened. A rush of feelings swept through her like warm seawater. “Nash.”
He met her gaze and waited. For her reaction, for an indication that she wanted more. He didn’t even know what he wanted from her. He checked himself and said, “I have to go.” Yet he didn’t move.
“You aren’t gone yet?” She smiled.
He stole another light kiss, wanting to hold her closer, taste her more deeply. Not yet, he thought. He had to have patience. Because Lisa had hidden more than the fact that her husband had been unfaithful. She was hiding the pain of it.
He stepped back, his hand lingering on her waist for a second before he strolled away, leaving her flushed and confused, and then at last, smiling.
NOTHING IN THIS LIFE felt better than putting pieces of a puzzle together, Nash thought as he stepped into the concierge office of the Baylor Inn.
Chartres didn’t hear him and he waited till the man noticed. It wasn’t long. He snapped around from looking at his computer and Nash enjoyed a bit of delight in watching the man’s face pale to a pasty white. It made his slicked-back black hair stand out further against his skin.
“Can I help you, Detective?” Chartres said.
“Would you like to add anything to your previous statement about the night Winfield died?”
Chartres’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his narrow throat. “What do you mean?”
“You lied to a police officer and concealed information that was pertinent to this investigation.”
Chartres’s expression bled with resignation. “My past with Winfield had nothing to do with his death.”
“Perhaps, but withholding information is a crime.”
Nash stepped inside the office and didn’t take a seat. Instead, he stood over Chartres and stared down at him. He detected the faintest quickening of his breathing.
“What was between us was past, buried,” Chartres said.
Oh, it was buried all right, Nash thought. “Why don’t you tell me about Winfield and why he would come all the way down here to see you.”
Chartres was taken aback. “He didn’t. He was here for some other reason, and when he recognized me, we had words.” He rose and went to the door, closing it softly, then faced Nash.
“On the night he died?”
“Yes. Briefly. Winfield was blackmailing me.”
“Go on.”
“We met in college, and when I landed a job at the Artisian Hotel, he visited. He said he was there on business. He asked for a favor, a woman for the night, and I obliged by finding him one.”
“Was this the first time you’d done this for a guest?”
“No, it wasn’t. New Orleans, even in the Artisian Hotel, is where people like to shed their inhibitions. Accommodating guests was my job,” he said with a hint of pride. “I’ll admit that it got a bit out of hand.”
“What was your take?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t get all righteous, Chartres,” Nash said sourly. “You were running hookers in the most prestigious hotel in New Orleans. You risked your job and your future. Pimping is a crime.”
Chartres made a face. “That’s so vulgar. My girls…” Chartres clamped his lips shut, realizing what he’d said. “The women were clean and lovely and cultured. They had to be—it was the Artisian.”
“I don’t care if they were society debs. What did Winfield do about it?”
“He threatened to reveal what I was doing. Unless I paid him. I did at first. But his demands increased and finally I couldn’t pay. He whispered things in the right ears, and I was fired.”
He said it all with a methodical litany for reciting high school poetry, without feeling, lacking details.
“What did you do about it?” Nash asked.
“Nothing. I’d lost my position and had no more income. His source, as it were, dried up.”
Nash already knew he’d sent Catherine to Winfield’s bed to get that blackmail evidence back. “What did he say to you when you saw him here?” Nash asked.
“He remarked that my employer obviously didn’t know about my past, and he’d take pleasure in telling him. It was a threat to start making me pay again. See, when I lost my position at the Artisian, I’d lost my reputation, as well. And I refused to pay because I couldn’t. Baylor knows, by the way.”
“Charitable of him to give you a job.”
Chartres reddened, then folded his hands on the desktop. “And how did you learn all this? Winfield played everything very close to the vest.”
“I’m not telling you that.” Winfield had photos of women, dates, times and how much Chartres was paying him.
For a second Chartres searched Nash’s face, then said, “Did you know about Carl Forsythe? That bald idiot made millions with Peter, illegally, and Peter kept good records. Very good ones. Even recorded phone conversations. He was paranoid, thorough and obsessive.” Nash saw Chartres’s face pale and the man realized Winfield had kept the same records on him.
“I’m aware of that. How did you know about Winfield’s dealings with Forsythe?”
“An old friend mentioned seeing them in New York.”
Nash liked it when he knew a whole lot more than his suspects. “And you’ve known this person how long?”
“Catherine Delan? Oh, years.”
“Before New Orleans?” Nash asked, and heard the trap close.
“Yes. We met in the Artisian—” Chartres clamped his lips shut. “That little witch.”
Nash stared, knowing Chartres had just linked himself to Peter Winfield, Catherine Delan and Carl Forsythe.
Chartres sagged back in his leather chair and shook his head. “She said she’d do anything for me, that she loved me.”
“Your first mistake was believing that. Your second was sending her to sleep with a married man who was richer than you.”
Chartres melted into the chair, rubbing his forehead.
Catherine had been doing Chartres a favor, in the beginning, by sleeping with Winfield and trying to regain the blackmail evidence that Winfield had documented. Pictures, payoffs, contacts. And Catherine Delan couldn’t get the stuff because it was in Winfield’s computer under an encrypted file. She had as much to risk and gain. Because Catherine Delan was an alias, and she had a rap sheet for prostitution. She’d been one of Chartres’s “girls.”
“Winfield paid for other women, Detective.”
Nash felt anger rise through him like a slow storm. Damn Winfield. “Give me names, Chartres.” Nash simply stared and waited, knowing it made Chartres nervous.
“He asked for a hooker in the best hotel in New Orleans, Detective. I doubt it was the first time.”
It was easy to deduce that Chartres wanted to throw suspicion off himself, but in Nash’s eyes the man had the biggest motivation, not to mention the best access, of anyone else implicated in Winfield’s death.
Nash flipped through his notes. “You told me that deliveries are signed for and delivered by the hotel. However, the bellman said that a delivery was made at 6:00 p.m. The day of the murder.”
“So?”
“Mick has no reason to lie, nothing to gain, yet you didn’t want anyone to know about your relationship with Winfield and your pimping for hookers at the Artisian.”
Chartres inhaled sharply.
“You told me that deliveries were signed for,” Nash went on. “This one wasn’t. You also spoke with the chef, criticizing his meals, and strolled through the dining room. Then you told me otherwise and made a signed statement to that fact.” Nash had confirmed this before leaving for New York, but he had needed more evidence to make Chartres a suspect. Time and place was key. And he had both.
“I spent most of the time in my office. I left only for a moment.”
“Yet you lied about it,” Nash restated. “You were also seen at the storage closet on the second floor at around six-thirty. Why?”
Chartres frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He started shuffling papers.
“A witness puts you outside the storage closet.”
Chartres looked thoughtful. “I was there to remind the housekeeper, uh, Miss Boon, not to disturb the honeymooners.”
“Chartres, how long do you think you can dance this tune?”
“Till this is over, I didn’t kill Winfield.”
Nash wasn’t getting anywhere with Chartres and was afraid that no one would till he was on the witness stand. “Where were you,” he asked, “at 4:00 p.m. on the twenty-first?” The time of Lisa’s attack.
Chartres looked at his calendar. “I was overseeing the inn’s contribution to the Shrimp Festival, which is next week. I had to meet with the other local businessmen on Baylor’s behalf.”
“Witnesses?” Nash said.
Chartres gave him a short list, his hand shaking a bit.
Nash folded it into his notebook. “Don’t leave town.” Nash needed the smoking gun to arrest Chartres.
“I have no intention…” Chartres’s eyes flared as the impact of what Nash had said hit him.
Nash moved to the door, then paused and looked back. “One more question. Do you know what type of flowers are growing in the gardens surrounding the inn?”
Chartres looked confused. “Yes, a few, but Mr. Baylor would be better at pointing them out than me. He’s aware of every flower his family has grown for the past hundred years.”
Nash felt anger slip up his spine. He’d assigned the job of gathering information on Baylor to an officer. Nash was going to have his badge for letting this slip.
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