by Jana DeLeon
“No way,” Tyler said. “Look, I promise I’m not going to be lying around on your couch all day for months on end. I’ll be starting my own security firm as soon as I get all the permits and approved formation documents.”
William pushed his empty bowl to the edge of the table and took another sip of coffee. “I’m not worried about my couch. Your mother picked it out and I never liked it much—all those roses. And I’m well aware of your business pursuits as I filed the corporate formation documents for you last week.”
“Then what’s your angle?”
“I don’t have an angle. What I have is a spooky, partially repaired old house that has three deaths attached to it in as many months, and an heir who needs to occupy that house for two weeks in order to gain back everything that was stolen from her. I’d really like her to have an easier go of it than her sisters did.”
Tyler frowned. The happenings surrounding Trenton Purcell’s death and the subsequent arrival of two of Ophelia LeBeau’s daughters had set off a chain reaction of threats, break-ins, stalkers and eventually, three deaths—one murder and two in self-defense. But the facts paled in comparison to the sheer amount of disturbance that had rocked the sleepy bayou town.
“I’m not sure what you think I can do,” Tyler said finally.
“You plan on opening a security firm, don’t you? I expect you can protect the heiress and her assets. I’m not expecting you to do so for free. The estate will be happy to cover the cost of on-site security—in fact, in light of recent events, they’re requiring it.”
Tyler shook his head. “I’m opening a firm, but I’m not going to do any of the face-to-face work. I’m focusing solely on hardware and administration. I’ll hire some of my military buddies for the groundwork.”
William scrunched his brow. “You plan on sitting behind a desk all day? You’ll be bored within a week.”
I don’t think so.
“If I get bored,” Tyler said, “we’ll go shopping for a new couch. Mom’s been gone for years. It’s time you got some manly furniture in the place.”
William studied him, and Tyler forced himself not to squirm under his father’s scrutiny. Apparently, his attempt at levity hadn’t distracted his father for a moment. Tyler had never been able to hide anything from the shrewd attorney, who seemed to possess the ability to read minds. And more than anyone, his father knew how much Tyler hated sitting still—hated concentrating on paper and numbers and words. He was smart, but it had been a struggle to get him out of high school. He’d sit in class almost twitching with anxiety, wanting desperately to jump out a window and run until he sated his body’s always-demanding call to action.
It’s why he’d joined the Marine Corps as soon as he graduated.
The Marine Corps had immediately recognized that Tyler was able to sit still long enough to take a flight to where they needed him for action. Beyond that, and you risked a fidgety bored adult, carrying a weapon and expertly trained at using it. When Tyler wasn’t on maneuvers in the Middle East, he worked in the villages alongside the occupants, helping them rebuild their homes. He hadn’t sat behind a desk since high school, and he already knew he was going to be bored.
But you rarely saw people die when you sat behind a desk.
And that was the bottom line. He’d seen too much sadness, too much tragedy, and he needed to get away from it all. Which was why he was digging in his heels over the issue with the heiress. The last thing he wanted to do was sit all day in that monstrosity of a house with some fainting violet of a woman.
“I don’t know what happened overseas,” William said quietly, cutting into his thoughts. “I’d like to think that someday you’ll tell me. But I wouldn’t ask this of you if I had other options. The reality is, you’re the best person for the job and I need the best. This woman’s safety is on my conscience. I can’t rest if she’s not protected.”
Tyler held in a sigh, knowing he’d just lost the fight, but determined to give it one last parting shot. “What about Carter? He’s definitely capable, and his mother would make him do anything for you.”
William nodded. “Quite true, which is why Carter was tasked with verifying the daily presence of all the heirs. But Carter is Calais’s sheriff, and lately, that job is more than full-time. Not to mention that he has a new fiancée who lives with him, and it would be highly inappropriate for him to move in with her sister—even if only for two weeks and for the purpose of protecting her.”
Tyler’s parting shot faded into the distance, and he let out the sigh. If anyone but William had tried such a line on him, he would have accused them of attempting to guilt him into doing what they wanted, but that was something his father would never do. Which was why Tyler knew William was telling the truth when he said the woman’s safety weighed on his conscience. His father was a good man—the best, actually—and he wasn’t afraid to care about people.
Even if it cost him in the long run.
“Fine,” Tyler relented. “I’ll do it. But only for the two weeks the estate requires her to be there. If she wants to stay and redecorate or open a knitter’s colony or something, she’s on her own. And I have no intention of sitting and staring at her all day. You want me in the house, that’s fine, but I want to talk to the contractor and get a list of things I can work on while I’m there.”
William beamed at him. “Thank you, Tyler. I’m sure Zach can provide you with plenty of items that need attention.”
Tyler nodded. Zach Sargent was the contractor William had hired to make repairs on the house, but he’d had other reasons for coming to Calais. Zach’s father, a funeral director, was one of the many people Purcell had paid off, and Zach took the job in order to figure out exactly what his father’s attempted deathbed confession and the large cash deposit had entailed. Zach hadn’t gotten the answers he’d hoped for, but he’d formed a relationship with the youngest of Ophelia’s daughters and had moved back to New Orleans, with her in tow. He returned to Calais on weekends to continue repairs on the house.
“You don’t know how relieved I am that you’ll be my eyes and ears in that house,” William said.
“Why? Surely, it’s all over now.”
William’s smile faded away and he shook his head. “Much of Purcell’s evil intentions and those who carried them out have been exposed, that’s true.”
“But?”
“But I still have a bad feeling about all of it.”
“Of course you do. Purcell was a hit man for the New Orleans mafia who romanced Ophelia LeBeau for her money and a safe hiding place when his own employer put a hit on him. Then he killed her and sent her kids away like they were department store returns. I’ve got lots of feelings about it myself, and trust me, all of them are bad.”
“We don’t know for certain that Purcell killed Ophelia.”
“Then what was he paying all those people for?”
William nodded. “Oh, we’re certain Purcell was paying for silence, and I’d guess it’s exactly as you say and he killed Ophelia, but we still can’t prove it. And with everyone on his payroll dead, there’s no one left to ask.”
“And that’s exactly my original point—all the bad guys are dead.”
William stared out the plate-glass window of the café and looked across the street into the swamp. Finally, he looked back at Tyler and leaned across the table.
“I don’t think they are all dead.” William’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “The swamp is wrong. You don’t even have to enter it to feel it. Something is still out of balance, and I don’t think the swamp will rest until it churns up all its secrets.”
If it were anyone else speaking or if his father were talking about anywhere else but Calais, Tyler would suggest he needed professional help. But the swamps of Mystere Parish were different than any place he’d ever been. Although he’d been surrounded by
them his entire childhood, and had traipsed through them thousands of hours, Tyler had never felt at ease in the dense cypress trees and foliage.
It was as if the swamp itself was alive.
Certainly, the swamp comprised lots of living things, but it was something more than that—as if the swamp were a separate living entity, with its own agenda. At times, it was pleasant enough, but he’d never found the atmosphere relaxing, even though parts of it were beautiful. At other times, it had been oppressive, the weight of it pressing in around him.
That oppressive weight had always aligned with something tragic, usually death.
If the swamp was out of balance, then something was still very wrong in Calais. Given that the only recent tragedies all centered on the LeBeau estate, Tyler understood why his father was so anxious to ensure that Ophelia’s middle daughter was offered the best protection he could provide. The swamp wouldn’t return to a peaceful state until a reckoning had occurred.
“What do you think is wrong?” Tyler asked.
“I don’t know, and that’s what bothers me the most. But we may get some answers soon.”
“How’s that?”
His father looked at him, his expression sad and haunting. “We’re exhuming Ophelia LeBeau tomorrow.”
Chapter Three
As she pulled through Calais, Joelle studied the old buildings, looking for something that appeared familiar. The weathered brick buildings were typical of any old small town, but none of them sparked even a twitch of memory. The café caught her interest as she pulled by, but only because she planned to spend her two weeks allowing others to cook for her. She hoped the food was good, as it appeared to be the only option.
Her stomach rumbled as her thoughts turned to food, and she realized it was well past lunch. She’d almost stopped several times, but each time she pressed the accelerator and continued down the highway, anxious to get the long drive over with. Unfortunately, she had arranged to meet the attorney at the house in about ten minutes, so eating would have to wait a bit longer.
As soon as she passed the last building on Main Street, she pulled a paper with directions from her purse. She’d gotten this far without referring to the attorney’s instructions, but when the directions started including items such as “turn right at the giant oak tree,” it was time to pay attention. The last thing she wanted to do was to get lost in the swamp.
She turned to the right at a four-way stop, directing her car onto a semblance of a road. The economy rental she’d acquired before leaving Jackson was no match for the bumps and holes that mostly made up the dirt trail that led to the house, and she gritted her teeth as the dashboard rattled. She swerved to miss a huge hole, but her right front tire caught the edge of it and the entire car dropped. Cringing at the sound of the bottom of the car sliding across rocks, she clenched the steering wheel and leaned forward to get a better look at the road.
The cypress trees that lined both sides of the road grew thicker, creating a canopy above the road that blocked most of the sunlight from entering. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have sworn it was late evening rather than mid-afternoon. Surely, the house couldn’t be much farther.
Fifteen minutes later, she rounded a corner and the house burst into view. Continuing her slow creep around what remained of the circular driveway, she looked up at the place she’d spent the first four years of her life, waiting for that spark of recognition to hit. She was disappointed when it never came.
A new pickup truck was parked in front of the house, and she pulled up behind it and parked, figuring it belonged to the attorney. She jumped out of the car and stretched her aching legs and cast a glance back at the car. She’d rented the economy vehicle to try it out, thinking she might purchase the same model to replace her totaled Honda. The tiny car would be a huge benefit in the city, where she rarely drove more than twenty miles in one stretch, but after hours on the road, she was well aware of just how cramped her long legs were in such a compact space.
Her suitcases could wait until after she’d spoken to the attorney, so she headed up to the front door. When she raised her hand and knocked, the door inched forward just a bit. She pushed the door open and stuck her head inside.
“Mr. Duhon,” she called out. “It’s Joelle LeBeau.”
She waited a bit, expecting the attorney to appear or at least respond, but only her own voice echoed through the giant entry. Deciding the attorney must be off in a part of the house where he couldn’t hear her, she stepped inside, then drew up short. A twinge of something—some tiny flicker of recognition—flashed through her, but as soon as she tried to grasp it, the flicker disappeared.
The entry was massive, like the entry of a hotel or museum. The giant spiral staircase was centered toward the front and she peered up to see the balcony running around the entire second floor, doors to various rooms lining the upstairs walls. The first floor of the entry was littered—there wasn’t really a better word—with decorative columns and tables, all housing art, china and glass that seemed to have no consistency of era or country of origin.
To the left, a wide hallway led away from the entry. Patches of sunlight streamed from the room at the end of the hallway and onto the stone floor. Figuring the hallway led to a family room or kitchen, she took off to the left, hoping to locate the attorney.
The kitchen and breakfast nook were in sharp contrast to the rest of the house and had her smiling. Clearly, someone had put in long hours on this room and it showed—the gleaming cabinets, polished countertops and fresh coat of paint made the room a cheery retreat from the gloomy entry. Giant windows formed the far wall, along with a single door that led onto an overgrown patio.
She gazed around the room once more before readying herself to continue her search for the attorney, and that’s when she realized the patio door was partially open. Now understanding why the attorney hadn’t heard her call out in the entry, she stepped outside and looked up and down the long stone patio. Shrubs and brush had grown right up to the edges, and vines climbed the stone columns and trailed across the ground, but it was clear that someone had recently started clearing the brush away.
Following a trail of small branches and leaves, she walked to the far end of the patio and saw the tiny path that led straight into the swamp. The remnants of foliage continued down the path, but Joelle hesitated before stepping off the stone patio. Something about the swamp bothered her—more than just the dim, creepy appearance.
She was just about to head back inside and wait for the attorney when a voice sounded behind her and she jumped, her foot slipping off the edge of the patio and onto the path several inches below. She struggled to maintain her balance, but the drop was just enough to send her crashing into the brush at the side of the trail.
As soon as she hit the ground, she scrambled to get up, fighting the thick vines that she’d brought down on top of her. Suddenly, she felt someone grasp her arm and tug her completely to her feet. A branch slapped her across the face and her eyes watered, so the only thing she could make out when she was upright was a tall man with dark hair.
Brad.
Instantly, a mental image of her ex-boyfriend flashed across her mind, and just as quickly, she sent it scurrying to the recesses where it belonged. Brad was long gone and old news.
She blinked a couple of times and the man came into focus, but this young, incredibly gorgeous and seriously ripped man couldn’t possibly be the aging attorney she’d talked to on the phone. The scowl on his face was just further proof. The attorney had been kind and cheerful. This man looked like those attributes were not part of his makeup.
“I hope you’re not always this jumpy,” he said. “A fall in the horror funhouse could bring more than just vines crashing down around you.”
A blush ran up her neck and onto her face, and she felt a flash of heat wash over her. “Maybe if you
didn’t go sneaking up behind people, you wouldn’t startle them.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking almost amused at her accusation. “I’m wearing work boots, and I was hardly tiptoeing across that patio. Hell, people back in town could hear me coming.”
“Really? Then maybe you should tell them why you’re trespassing on private property.”
He sighed. “You must be Joelle. My father owes me big-time for this.”
Joelle narrowed her eyes at him. “Exactly who is your father?”
“William Duhon.”
“Oh,” she said, momentarily taken aback that the pleasant gentleman she’d spoken to on the phone had produced such a surly son. “Your father was supposed to meet me here. Is he on his way?”
“He’s not coming.”
“What do you mean? He’s supposed to provide me a key to the house and go over any of my questions concerning the estate requirements.”
“Well, you got me instead.” He pulled a giant iron key from his pocket and handed it to her. “That’s the front door key. I’m having keys to the patio and back door duplicated and will pick them up this afternoon.”
“Am I supposed to meet your father at his office?”
If possible, he looked even more aggrieved.
“No. I’m supposed to take you to meet him for an early supper at the café, after I get you settled in.”
She stared. Was he joking? The last thing she intended to do was get in a car with Mr. Personality.
“I’m sure I can find my way back to the café, the same way I found the house,” she said. “I don’t need an escort.”
“My father says you do, and unfortunately for me and you, so does the estate. During your two-week stay in Calais, I will go wherever you go.”
“That’s outrageous! Neither the estate nor your father can mandate who I spend my time with.”
“No, but they can insist you maintain personal security at all times, and they have.”