“I’m not worried about what folks in this town like or don’t like.” Cole knew what people in St. Salome Parish liked. They liked thinking an outsider like Wade Dempsey was the killer. Couldn’t have been one of them. “But maybe folks in this town ought to worry about me.”
Mr. Wegand shifted the wad of tobacco in his mouth. The clerk at the register put down the phone.
“You got business in my store, boy?” Mr. Wegand asked.
Cole ordered the glass panes cut for the window at Bellefleur then, leaving the Cobra outside J. C. Barrow, he walked into the town. The morning was hot, muggy and as familiar as it was strange. The last time he’d seen Azalea Bend, he’d been driving his father’s beat-up Ford truck out of town, his mother beside him, everything they owned piled in the back, the memory of Bryn’s eyes haunting him all the way to Baton Rouge along with the thought that he’d never see her again.
Now he’d more than seen her. He’d held her and kissed her. And it was killing him. All he had to do was look at her for shooting darts of heat to stab him straight in the gut. But he couldn’t act on that heat, not again. If they got involved, it would be no simple affair. There were too many layers to Bryn and his feelings for her. Bleak, mysterious feelings that were better left dead and buried—for both their sakes.
But in spite of the danger, he needed Bryn.
No matter how much he believed in his father’s innocence, he had no idea where to start hunting for the truth. And his conversation with Mr. Wegand was a perfect example of what he knew he’d face all over this town. Stone walls.
The Café Petit Paris was cool, welcoming and deserted at this mid-morning hour except for the old-timers playing bourre in the rear card bar. Cole ordered coffee and watched the men argue over the game. Then he got down to business.
From the Petit Paris, he went to the old fire hall, now a museum, the meat market and even the Zydeco club. He introduced himself everywhere he went—and despite the shocked, often resentful reception he received, he passed out his business card with his cell-phone number, and made certain everyone knew he was staying at Bellefleur.
And he made damn sure they knew why.
Outside the Great House, storm clouds gathered, promising rain. Inside, Cole replaced the broken pane and wiped the line of caulk with a damp towel. He’d worked his way through college doing construction and had discovered an unexpected love affair with restoration while involved in preservation projects in Baton Rouge. It had turned into a continuing leisure pursuit when he’d bought a rundown steamboat gothic home in a shady residential district of the city.
Bellefleur was the antebellum jewel of River Road and not even the ghosts of his youth could take away the pleasure he took in making the minor repair. It was impossible not to appreciate a house that held so much history, even when some of that history had been ruinous. Like the passion and regret he held for Bryn, his attraction to the house was undeniable.
But he didn’t belong here. Never had, even though his teenaged self had believed differently. And he didn’t belong with Bryn—she’d damn sure made that clear to him. Like Bryn, this house was too much of a hell for him to ever be a heaven.
Cole put down the caulk and towel. He’d swept the bits of glass he’d cleaned out of the window seating into a pile. He hadn’t seen Bryn since he’d come back from town, though he supposed she must be about the plantation somewhere.
He wandered into the drape-drawn parlor furnished with matching Victorian rosewood pieces. A kaleidoscope of period clutter filled the room—rococo candlesticks, tall glass odalisques, iron urns. Books burst out of twin-vaulted shelves flanking the hearth. On the walls, family portraits mixed with religious art in antiqued frames, lending a medieval air to the space. Against one entire side hung the family’s colorful collection of Mardi Gras invitations. This was Bryn’s world of privilege and parties. How had he ever had the sheer arrogance at seventeen to think he could so much as touch one of the princesses of Bellefleur?
Even now, he felt out of place in Bellefleur’s rundown, rambling grandeur.
There was a sound from the hall, and he turned back to see Drake Cavanaugh enter the house. He hadn’t even knocked. He’d just opened the door and come on in.
A hot twist hit Cole’s stomach when, before he emerged from the shadows of the parlor, he heard feet treading down the steps and saw Bryn cross the hall. Cavanaugh put his arms around her. And she let him.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly.
Cole watched her from the doorway. Cavanaugh met his gaze over Bryn’s shoulder.
“Hello, Cole.”
Bryn turned. Cavanaugh kept a possessive hand on her waist, Cole noted. With his expensive-cut dark haircut and patrician features, he belonged at a place like Bellefleur with a woman like Bryn. He wasn’t an outsider, and he knew it. Drake’s sleek gray suit contrasted with Cole’s faded jeans and plain T-shirt, throwing them back in time. The son of the prominent St. Salome prosecutor and the hired hand’s boy.
And between them, the plantation princess in shorts and a cherry tank top. She had her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
“Cavanaugh.” Cole forced himself to move forward, hold out his hand. Drake accepted the handshake, moving his touch from Bryn to briefly grasp Cole’s hand.
“Let’s talk in the library,” Bryn said. She looked uncomfortable.
Cole steeled himself against the sympathy tugging his gut. Sympathy wouldn’t get him the answers he needed. If she thought things were uncomfortable already, she had no idea how much more uncomfortable they were going to get.
She’d find out soon enough.
Chapter 7
The library was a rich, solid-feeling space with oak-planked walls and heavy furnishings. Watercolor seascapes and more leather-bound books lined the room. It wasn’t hard to imagine the Louvel men of times past drinking brandy, smoking cigars and talking of war and politics while they counted their sugarcane cash.
Not that there was much cash at Bellefleur these days. Cole hadn’t missed the empty spaces left on sun-faded walls around the mansion that revealed the stark reality of Bryn’s current financial straits. It was clear pieces had been sold to keep the plantation running in recent years.
Bryn settled behind the massive desk. Cole and Drake sat opposite in wingback chairs.
“As you know, of course,” she said, “Drake’s father was the prosecutor for St. Salome Parish when my father was tried. Drake would like to hear about your visit with Randol Ormond, and we’d both like to see the original forensic report.”
Cole was prepared. He leaned forward to reach into his back pocket. Pulling out a crisply folded paper, he opened it and slid it across the desk to Bryn. He gave an abbreviated repeat of the information he’d provided Bryn the night before.
Bryn passed the paper across the desk to Drake.
“This is a copy,” Drake said.
“Yes.” Cole sat back. “The original remains in my possession.” It was safely tucked away in a bank drawer in Baton Rouge awaiting authentication.
“How do we know you haven’t tampered with it?” Drake asked narrowly.
“You’re free to talk to Randol Ormond for yourself,” Cole replied. He refused to rise to Cavanaugh’s bait, his implication that Cole was a liar. “He’s at the Blue Water Shores Rest Home and Care Center. Tampa.”
“It’s not much to go on,” Drake pointed out, “a copy of the supposed original forensic report, allegedly suppressed fifteen years ago. My father’s dead and he can’t defend himself.”
Cole’s gut clenched. “My father never got a chance to defend himself, either.”
A viscous tautness filled the room. Bryn broke it.
“This is about Aimee,” she said quietly, tensely. Her eyes shone with anguish. Drake reached across the desk and put his hand over hers, and Cole’s stomach twisted again. “If there’s some chance Aimee’s killer is still out there, that’s not something I can ignore.”
“T
hat’s what he wants you to think,” Drake argued. “He’s playing you, Bryn.” He cast a look at Cole. “What if he doctored that forensic report himself? Anything’s possible. What better revenge than to come back to Azalea Bend and accuse your father of murder and mine of conspiracy and fraud? That makes a hell of a lot more sense to me than what he’s saying.”
Cole would have been perfectly happy to knock Drake Cavanaugh on his well-heeled ass. Problem was, he wasn’t sure if that urge was instigated by Drake’s words or the fact that he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off Bryn.
Either way, he was going to have to rely on the icy control he’d spent fifteen years developing or risk losing any hope of gaining Bryn’s trust.
“I can guarantee you that I will speak to Randol Ormond myself.” Drake’s menacing look softened as he turned to Bryn. “I’ve got a couple of fundraisers this weekend, but if I can’t get satisfaction on the phone, I’ll arrange to fly out to Tampa next week.” Now he looked back at Cole. “In the meantime, you want to run around town asking questions, that’s fine. But you start making accusations—that’s different. Do we understand each other?”
Cole held Drake’s even, glacial gaze. “I’m sure we do.” He understood Drake just fine. Cavanaugh was an arrogant rich boy who’d grown up in St. Salome Parish flicking off annoyances like Cole as if they were fleas. And the fact that Cole had shown up at Bellefleur like a bad penny was really pissing Drake off.
And that was fine with Cole. Stirring up the dust was what he’d come to do.
“I’ve already been in touch with Frank Skelly.” Skelly had been the police chief at the time of Aimee’s death. Skelly, Ormond and Hugh Cavanaugh had been in the cover-up together, Cole was convinced. So far, Skelly wasn’t talking. He’d retired to Atlanta and he’d refused to see Cole when he’d shown up at his door. But he wasn’t planning to give up. Ormond had already cracked. Skelly couldn’t hold out once the evidence started stacking up. “I’d like to see any personal notes or records your father kept on the case,” Cole told Drake.
The air in the room positively crackled.
“I’ll look through my father’s papers myself,” Drake said. “I doubt there’s anything of relevance. The court documents are public record.”
“Evidence has a way of disappearing,” Cole replied. “Just like the scrapings from beneath Aimee’s fingernails.”
“You’re not going to find what you’re looking for, Dempsey.” Drake folded the copy of the forensic report and tucked it in his pocket. “This is a fifteen-year-old case. And it’s closed. If this forensic report was enough to get it reopened, you’d have gone that route already.”
Clean shot. Cavanaugh was right on that score. Cole had contacted the current St. Salome Parish D.A.’s office in the beginning and gotten nowhere. No way was an elected official in Azalea Bend reopening a case involving the Louvels and the Cavanaughs. Especially when the only witness was a dying old man in Florida who was too sick to be brought to the stand. He’d tried the police and had met a brick wall there, too. He was going to need more evidence.
The Louvels might not have the money they once had, but they were respected, and so were the Cavanaughs—and the Cavanaughs still held political sway here. Which was the same reason his threat to have Aimee’s body exhumed had been an empty one. But if he could get Bryn on his side…
“I’m looking for the truth,” Cole said. “And I’m planning to find it. And if that bothers people in this town, that’s fine with me. Someone knows what really happened to Aimee.”
Drake didn’t just look bothered. He looked furious. “Bryn doesn’t want you at Bellefleur.”
Cole lifted one eyebrow. “Bryn doesn’t want me here? Or you don’t want me here?”
“I’d like you to know,” Drake said tersely, “that I’ve asked Bryn to be my wife.” His hand was back over Bryn’s. “And if you cause her any grief while you’re here, I’m going to take it very personally.”
Cole’s jaw set. He’d known it, sensed it, from the moment Cavanaugh had walked in the door. Drake was too damn comfortable at Bellefleur. He glanced at Bryn. Her heart-shaped face tightened and she pulled her hand away from Drake’s touch.
Drake said he’d asked Bryn to be his wife. Had Bryn said yes? Did she kiss Drake with the same sweet fire and passion with which she’d kissed him last night?
“Okay, this isn’t going anywhere productive,” Bryn said. “Look, I think we can all agree that we need to resolve this issue as soon as possible. I’ve got a business to build. Drake’s got a campaign to run. I’m sure you’ve got a life in Baton Rouge to get back to.”
“Why don’t you cut to the chase, Dempsey?” Drake demanded. “I’m not going to just hand over my father’s papers. I’ll look through them, that’s all I can promise. What do you want from Bryn?”
“I want to know who was at Bellefleur the day Aimee died. I want the names of Aimee’s friends that summer, the places she went, the things she did. I want to know who might have wanted Aimee dead—and why.” It wasn’t all he wanted, but it was a start.
Drake’s patrician features sharpened in fresh anger. “Aimee was a sixteen-year-old girl. She didn’t have enemies.”
“Somebody killed her.”
“Wade Dempsey,” Drake ground back.
Bryn interrupted before the argument could escalate. “I want this settled. One way or the other.” She looked at Drake. “He’s registered at Bellefleur for two weeks. I’ll give him that long.” She fixed her heartrending gaze back on Cole. “I’ll help you, but in two weeks, if we don’t find one single thing to back up your claims, I want you to leave Bellefleur. And I want you to let me and Drake go on with our lives.”
Her and Drake’s life together? He didn’t know if that’s what she meant and he didn’t like it if it was, but it was a fair enough offer. He’d gotten nothing but cold looks in Azalea Bend this morning. And hell, he’d just been shooting in the dark, anyway. He didn’t know where to start asking questions about Aimee. He needed Bryn’s help.
As for the two-week time limit, he had no intention of going anywhere until he’d got what he came for. She could toss him out of Bellefleur if she really wanted to, but she couldn’t make him leave Azalea Bend.
It was only half a lie to say, “Agreed.”
“Are you going to be all right?” Drake’s fired-steel eyes held Bryn’s with concern. Thunder rumbled overhead as they stood on the steps of Bellefleur. The air was thick with the coming rain.
Bryn nodded. “I’m fine. Thanks for coming.”
“You’re not alone, you know.” Drake touched her cheek, grazed it lightly with the tips of his warm fingers. “I’ve got a dinner in the city tonight, but if you need me, all you have to do is call.”
A lump grew in Bryn’s throat. She appreciated Drake’s support, but she knew she had to tread carefully. She didn’t want to hurt him.
“You’re a good friend,” she said softly.
“You know I want to be more than a friend,” he answered. He dropped a gentle kiss on her mouth.
She wanted—God, how she wanted—to feel something, the same incontestable sizzle she felt when Cole kissed her. Even a fraction of it. Drake was perfect. Safe. Kind. Dependable. She’d known he would come here today and make her feel in control again.
Cole made her feel out of control.
But Drake’s kiss made her feel nothing but a gossamer tangle of regret. She pulled away.
“Drake—”
“I know. I said I’d give you time.”
“You shouldn’t have told Cole you’d asked me to marry you,” she said carefully. “You made it sound as if we’re engaged.”
“I want us to be engaged,” he said, his voice quiet, his gaze so serious.
“I promised you I would think about it, and I have,” she told him, her throat thick. She drew in a steadying breath, let it out. She didn’t want to lead him on, and she realized she had already, just by agreeing to consider his proposal. Somehow, now
, it seemed so clear. “You know how much I value your friendship—but that’s not enough to make a marriage. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us, but especially to you.” It was so hard to say the words, but she had to say them, for his sake. And she had to say them now.
The look in his eyes was hurt, and she hated that.
He was silent for a long beat. “I value your friendship, too,” he said finally. “I don’t want to lose that. No,” he said when she started to speak. “It’s all right. I know this is a difficult time for you. I didn’t mean to make it more difficult.” He reached for her hand, squeezed it gently. “We’re good friends and that’s not going to change.”
She hoped that was true, but she felt so awkward now.
“Hey,” he touched his hand beneath her chin gently. “Everything’s going to be all right. We’re fine. And everything else is going to be fine, too. Cole is crazy, you know. At the end of two weeks, you’ll see that. We’re going to be okay.”
He was telling her what she’d wanted him to tell her. So why didn’t she believe him? She had more reason to trust Drake than she had to trust Cole, but every time she thought about Aimee’s killer still walking around in Azalea Bend…
“I hope so,” she said.
She watched Drake get in his car and drive away. Wind rustled through the antebellum oaks, and Bryn turned back toward the house.
Cole met her with brooding eyes. All strong, dark, tense and masculine. He took over the porch, just as he’d taken over the library by his simple act of being there.
She moved across the portico toward him. Nothing could kill this intolerable wanting she felt whenever she looked at him, but she could—would—control it.
“Thank you for fixing the glass,” she said.
“If you tell me where you’ve got a broom and a dustpan, I’ll clean up after myself.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Just go away, she willed him. But of course he didn’t do any such thing.
Cole Dempsey’s Back in Town Page 6