“You got it.”
They said good-night, and Ethan hung up.
He was still for a moment—both angry and amused. On the one hand, Charlie had gone behind his back. But on the other, he was only here because of her. So she had faith in him, apparently, but maybe not enough?
He looked at his watch. He’d used what was left of his twenty minutes on the phone. As he left the room he saw that Charlie was just coming out of her own.
He started down first, but near the bottom of the stairs, she tried to push past him. “Told you I’d be ready first!” she cried.
“Hey, no cheating,” he told her, catching her by both arms as they reached the lower landing. He spun her around to face him. For a moment they were looking straight at one another, laughter in their eyes.
And for a moment he felt as if they were caught in time, as if his body were both frozen and searing hot all at once.
“Better get going,” he said huskily, and released her quickly.
As if she had burned him.
Which, in a way, she had.
He smiled, curious as to when she would tell him about the plans she’d made with her friends.
She nodded. “Yes, let’s get going.”
They drove toward the café without speaking, as if neither one of them was quite sure what to say. It was late enough that it was easy to find parking on the street. As he exited the car, he looked up at the old wooden sign that identified the eatery as Mrs. Mama’s. It was the same sign that had been there since he’d been a kid.
The café itself hadn’t really changed, either. The place was still paneled in wood, with tile flooring. The building had originally been a hotel way back in the day, and at a later point it had been a school for young ladies. The Watson family had owned it for over seventy years.
The booths and tables were all solid wood. There was a bar that offered a view into the kitchen, and the lights were relatively bright. The kitchen itself was modern and busy. The café drew both locals and tourists.
It was especially busy whenever the Saints played. Emily Watson had seen to it that there were flat-screen televisions set high on the walls—along with pictures of famous Louisianans, Grace Episcopal Church, the Myrtles and other nearby plantations. There was also a striking picture of the Journey proudly moving down the Mississippi.
There was no Saints game that night, though, and the news was on, the sound muted.
When they entered, Mrs. Mama’s was busy, though the crowd consisted mainly of the film’s cast and crew. Everyone who had been working that day had shown up, from Brad and Mike Thornton to the photographer, Chance Morgan, who quickly came over and promised Ethan that he would get the files to him as soon as possible, but he was hungry and hadn’t been able to resist the lure of a good meal first.
Ethan nodded. There were only two seats left, and they weren’t together. Charlie wound up across the table from him, between Jimmy and George.
He took the remaining chair between Brad and Jennie.
Brad leaned toward him and said, “I heard from your friend Detective Laurent today.” He laughed. “Randy! Whose high school claim to fame was popping beer bottles open with his teeth. But he makes a good detective, strange as that seems. Never acts like he’s lording it over anyone, but he gets the job done.”
“We were all kids once, and then we grew up,” Ethan said. “So, what did Randy tell you?”
“He finally went through all the footage I gave him. Nothing. He said he didn’t expect to see anything, that based on the autopsy, Farrell Hickory was dead and in the ground long before we started filming that day. I guess they’re figuring he was killed the night before. And if Charlie hadn’t found him, he might still be there, buried in a shallow grave.” He was quiet for a moment. “Guess it might have gotten a lot worse if he hadn’t been found. It would have looked like the North against the South all over again. Of course, now it looks like someone involved with my movie might be the killer.”
“Yeah, I know how you feel,” Ethan said. He liked Brad. He had also eliminated Brad and Mike Thornton from his personal list of suspects.
He believed someone had thrown a knife at Charlie.
And Brad and Mike had been with him at the time.
That still left a wide array of possibilities, along with the question of why someone was after her. Did it have something to do with her father? But what?
He glanced across the table at her. She was laughing at something Jimmy was saying. They had always been good friends, he remembered.
“Ethan, what are you having?”
He turned. Emily Watson—proprietor of Mrs. Mama’s since he’d been a kid—was standing behind him. Despite being at least eighty, she was still slim and straight, and her face was beautiful, even with the passage of time. She was holding a coffeepot, and when she offered him some, he grabbed the cup in front of him and accepted with an enthusiastic “Thank you.” He could see her age in her hands, but there was strength in them, as well.
He smiled at her. “I’ll have your gumbo, of course, ma’am.”
She nodded, pleased. Then her smile faded slightly.
“What’s wrong?” Ethan asked her.
“I’m proud of my gumbo. It’s my own recipe. But I can’t help remembering that both Albion and Farrell were in here often, and they both liked my gumbo—and now they’re gone.”
“Did they ever get together here, Mrs. Watson?”
“Oh, my, yes. Those fellows were the best of friends,” she said. Her eyes started welling up. “You find out who killed those two fine men, Ethan, you hear me?”
“I intend to do everything in my power,” Ethan promised her. “Miss Emily, were they in here together before they were killed, by any chance?”
“I don’t remember exactly, Ethan. I know they were both in here not long before they died, but not together, though.”
Ethan nodded. “Thanks, Miss Emily. And I promise you again, I’ll do everything I can to bring their killer to justice quickly.”
Emily frowned. “Maybe Jonathan can help you.”
“Jonathan?” Ethan said.
“You know. Jonathan Moreau. Charlie’s daddy. He’s in here all the time, too. Bless that man. He tells people on the boat that they have to come here for lunch. I saw him with both men together not that long ago. Maybe they told him something you can use. It was nice to see you come in here with Charlie, too.” She winked at him. “You two make one handsome couple.”
“Uh, thank you.” He didn’t try to tell her that he and Charlie weren’t a couple. “So you’re saying Jonathan was in here with Albion and Farrell recently?”
“Yes, a week or so ago, maybe. He’s such a nice man.”
A nice man whose name kept coming up in connection with two dead men. Even so, he couldn’t believe Charlie’s father had anything to do with the murders.
“You were always a bright and determined boy, Ethan. I know you’ll handle this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Emily gave herself a little shake. “I’m going to get moving over yonder to see what Charlie would like to have—took care of the rest of these riffraff already,” she said, smiling.
“Miss Emily knows everyone in town—and just about everything that goes on, too,” Brad said. “And, of course, Nancy is working here now, too. What Miss Emily doesn’t know, Nancy does.”
“Nancy?” Ethan said.
“Nancy Deauville. Well, Nancy Deauville Camp now. She married Todd Camp. He works over at Perry’s Garage.”
“I remember her now. She was a year behind me in school.”
“She was the pledge master who had Charlie tied to that gravestone the night you and she…encountered that serial killer.”
“And she’s working here now? I thought she wanted to work for one of the airlin
es, see the world,” Ethan said.
“I guess she wanted to get married more. Todd was getting ready to go off and accept a partial scholarship to some big northeastern school. Nancy…needed him. She was going to have the twins. They got married, and Todd didn’t go to college. Like I said, now he’s a grease monkey at Perry’s Garage.”
“Our plans in life can change,” Ethan said.
“They were there that day on the Journey. Todd had the afternoon off, and Miss Emily is always flexible when it comes to Nancy’s hours ’cause of the kids. She doesn’t take much time off, though. She needs to make money any way she can,” Brad said.
“I guess if you have two kids, you don’t have much choice,” Ethan said. He remembered Todd better than he did Nancy. Todd had been on the football team and, like Randy Laurent, he’d been great at opening beer bottles with his teeth.
Ethan made a mental note to find out where Todd had been around the time of the murders. It was always good to know where everyone who could’ve been even remotely involved might have been.
“I half expected Miss Emily to be the ‘detective’ who solved this thing,” Jennie said, turning to look at Ethan. “She knows more than any local reporter. I’m from NOLA, but I get out here pretty often, and I can tell you, Emily Watson probably knows more about me than I know about myself.”
Ethan smiled, about to answer her when he found himself distracted by the television high above their heads near the counter.
He rose and walked toward the big screen.
The news was from Baton Rouge. He couldn’t hear the details, but he heard enough to know the attractive reporter was giving out information on a murder. The picture of a taped-off crime scene was projected behind her.
“Mrs. Watson, would you turn that up for me, please?” he asked.
“Sure, honey,” she said, then got the remote out from behind the bar and handed it to him.
The anchor was continuing with her story. “Mrs. Rodriguez was found this afternoon just outside the campus in a wooded section of town. Friends, neighbors and coworkers considered her a warm, friendly woman, and police are seeking help from anyone who can tell them more about her whereabouts or give any information whatsoever that could lead to the apprehension of her killer. In other news…”
Ethan quickly flicked to another station.
And then another.
Mrs. Selma Rodriguez, sixty-two, of Baton Rouge, a custodian at the college, had been found murdered just outside campus. She’d been reported missing when she’d failed to show up for work. Her purse, money and credit cards had been found with the body, ruling out robbery as a motive. As it was an ongoing investigation, police were not reporting the cause of death, and were seeking any and all help from the community.
He sensed someone standing next to him, watching the television, and turned to see it was Chance Morgan.
The photographer was shaking his head sadly. “This world’s a real mess. Killing a hardworking woman—for what? Too many crazy bastards out there.”
“Yeah. Crazy bastards,” Ethan agreed. He turned to see Charlie staring at him. He smiled grimly back at her and returned to the table just as a young waiter was delivering his gumbo.
He felt her eyes still on him as he bent to eat his meal. Charlie was a good person and would undoubtedly be upset that a woman had been murdered.
But she would also be wondering why he found the case of such interest.
He was actually wondering that same thing himself.
And then he remembered that the Journey had been in port at Baton Rouge that day.
With Jonathan Moreau among those on board.
Had he spoken too soon when he told Charlie he didn’t consider her father a suspect?
* * *
The silence in the car as they drove back to Charlie’s house hung heavy, as if they were both harboring dark thoughts they didn’t dare voice.
“Did you enjoy being on set today?” Charlie said finally. “I mean, minus me thinking someone threw a knife at me and the fact that the bayonet the killer used was likely stolen from the prop collection.”
“I didn’t mind filming,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate. His features looked cast in concrete as they were caught in the moving shadows created by the streetlights as they drove.
He wasn’t showing any outward signs of anger, but she could feel him seething. And she had no clue why.
He would certainly be angry later, when she finally told him she was certain the answers to the murders lay aboard the Journey.
And that she would be aboard next time it set sail.
“It’s sad about Selma Rodriguez, that woman in Baton Rouge,” she said, since he didn’t seem inclined to keep the conversation going.
“Yes.”
Clearly talking wasn’t going to help, so she decided to go back to dark silence.
They reached the house, and Ethan immediately got out of the car. While she headed for the door, he opened the trunk and took out a briefcase, then headed up the walk to join her. He inspected the door and nodded, and she slid the key in the lock.
Inside, he made sure the door was locked, then went straight to the sofa, sat down and pulled his laptop out of his briefcase. Without a word, he booted up the computer and started working.
Charlie hadn’t moved away from the door; she just stood there and watched him.
At last he looked up at her, his head tilted at an inquisitive angle. “Yes? Is everything all right?”
“Fine, thank you. Thank you for staying.”
He nodded, then looked at her expectantly, waiting.
“Well,” Charlie murmured, “I guess I’ll go to bed.”
He stood suddenly and walked over to her. She was disturbed to realize she actually had to force herself to hold her ground. Her knees felt weak, and she felt hot as her blood rushed through her. She never had gotten over the way she felt about him. Ten years…a decade. A lifetime between them. She still loved the way he looked, the way he moved…even the way he breathed.
And yet, as she stood there expectantly, she remembered the absolute humiliation of throwing herself at a man who hadn’t wanted her. She’d been so certain they’d been made for one another. But he had only stared at her in horror and walked away.
It was a moment never to be forgotten.
He stood for a moment, not touching her, just looking at her.
“Is there anything you’d like to talk to me about?” he asked her.
She wasn’t sure if she lied at that moment because she still didn’t know how to explain her near desperate determination to be on the Journey or because she was distracted because he was standing so close.
“No,” she managed sweetly. “Just thank you, that’s all.”
He still didn’t move, but she couldn’t stand there any longer. He was, however, blocking the stairway. She put a hand on his chest as she moved past him, and she felt his body heat and the sudden sharp constriction of his muscles.
She fled. Up the stairs, into her room. She closed the door and put on a nightshirt. Got in bed.
And remembered…
She remembered the unhallowed ground where she’d sat as they’d waited for the police to arrive, then the man—the killer—suddenly emerging from the trees and racing straight at her, intent on murder.
She’d been so young, so terrified, but Ethan had been there, like a bolt of lightning, the wind of a hurricane, slamming into her would-be killer and taking him down.
She forced herself to consider the possibility that she had fallen victim to some kind of survivor’s hero worship for the man who had saved her life. Maybe Ethan and her feelings for him weren’t what she’d thought they were for so long. Certainly she could live without him, as witnessed by the last ten years.
No
. He’d always been there, lurking in the far reaches of her mind, her heart.
And she knew.
This wasn’t hero worship. Something inside her was captivated by the man. And she felt as strongly now as she had when she’d been raw and young and scared. From the moment he had come to her rescue that night, freeing her from “pledging” at the gravestone, she’d been connected to him. And she was forced to admit that it had been more than her knowledge that he could see the dead that had led her to ask to have him assigned to the case.
It had been the best excuse in the world, though, since it was real.
She realized she should head downstairs while he was still awake and at least tell him about her conversations with Alexi and Clara. It would be the right thing to do.
She started to rise. Just as she sat up, there was a knock at her door. She froze, afraid.
She suddenly wished she hadn’t changed into one of the ragged football jerseys she used as nightgowns.
“Yes?” she asked.
The door opened. Ethan was there, silhouetted in the light from the hall.
There was something between them. They both felt it and always had, even though he’d fought so hard against it ten years ago. And now, at last, he had come to her. She’d felt his instant, sharp response when she’d touched him. He knew, knew that no one in her life had ever lived up to just the dream of him.
“Okay, so when the hell were you going to tell me?”
“Pardon?” she said, genuinely confused.
“About the Journey, Charlie. About the plans you and your friends made—and neglected to tell me about.”
“Oh.”
She plumped up her pillow and clutched it on her lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t exactly make any plans. I can’t make plans. Neither can they. All we could do was imagine what might be possible, and then they were going to follow up with—”
“Oh, cut the bull, Charlie!” He walked over to the bed. He was like a tower of searing anger, completely restrained, of course, and possibly more shocking—or awesome—because of it.
“I know what you’re doing, and I understand why you want to do it, but what I can’t understand is why you made the effort to get me down here specifically, but then you didn’t trust me enough to keep me in the loop. If you want me here, don’t lie to me.”
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 6: Haunted Destiny ; Deadly Fate ; Darkest Journey Page 76