Jaron shook his head, declining the offer. "You need to be more careful," Jaron said, his voice only a whisper.
"Huh?" Ronnie squinted his inquiring eyes.
"I can see what's going on with you and Charmaine," Jaron said. "If Booth ever picks up on any vibes—"
"There's nothing going on between Mrs. Fortier and me. You're way off base with that kind of accusation."
"I'm her brother. I love her. I don't want anything bad happening to her," Jaron explained, not buying Ronnie's denial. "Anything else bad, that is. Being married to Booth is bad enough."
"You've said too much," Ronnie told him. "I like Mrs. Fortier. She's good to me. And I'd never do anything to cause her harm. But I work for Mr. Fortier and my allegiance is to—"
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Theoretically your allegiance is to Booth, but—" Jaron glanced decidedly at Ronnie's crotch. "We both know you'd feed your best friend to the gators for a chance to screw my sister."
Charmaine sat up quickly and glared at Jaron. "What are you two talking about? You both look so serious."
"Business," Jaron replied.
"Business, business, business." Charmaine's full, pink lips formed a sassy pout, then when she was certain both men had seen her sultry expression, she sighed. "That's the only thing y'all ever talk about. Booth's always sending me out of the room so he can talk business."
"Did I hear my name mentioned?" Booth Fortier stood just inside the open French doors.
Jaron swallowed hard, then turned to face his brother-in-law. Booth Rivalin Fortier wore only the finest clothes. He had his own tailor in New Orleans. He kept a barber and a manicurist on retainer. The man prided himself on his personal appearance. With a strenuous exercise routine, he kept his five-eleven, fifty-nine-year-old body in prime condition. Vanity, pure and simple. Booth was a proud, vain man. When he'd started going bald in his mid-thirties, he'd tried a toupee and even considered plugs, but at forty, he'd shaved his head, giving his appearance a Yul Bryner exoticness.
Charmaine lifted her sheer see-through robe off the foot of the chaise, slipped into it and sauntered across the deck toward her husband. "I was just complaining to Jaron and Ronnie that all you men ever talk about is business."
When she drew near, Booth reached out, grabbed Charmaine around the waist and pulled her up against him. He nuzzled her neck. She giggled. Jaron knew a fake giggle when he heard one.
"Business pays the bills, mon petit chou."
Charmaine sighed dramatically, then turned just enough so that when she rubbed against her husband, her right breast brushed his side. Booth gazed at her, lust in his eyes. And Jaron noted something far more dangerous than lust. Obsession. Booth's slender, manicured fingers slid down Charmaine's back and grabbed her butt. He glanced at Jaron and then at Ronnie, as if saying, This is mine. Ain't it fine.
Jaron could only guess what went on between his sister and her husband behind closed doors. But he suspected it was often brutal. More than once Charmaine had tried to explain away the bruises on her beautiful body.
God, he had to get her away from Booth. And soon. Before Booth found out about Ronnie. If that happened … they'd all die.
* * *
With no one other than herself residing at Belle Foret, Grace had cut the household staff down to only a housekeeper and a butler/chauffeur, both having been in her father's employ since before Grace's birth thirty years ago. Laverna and Nolan Rowley were in their late sixties, a devoted couple, who had always seemed like family. Laverna received assistance from daily maids who worked for a local agency, so now her job mainly consisted of preparing meals. Since the tragedy four years ago, Laverna and Nolan had spoiled Grace shamelessly, more so than ever.
While Laverna placed the silver service on the tea cart in the front parlor, Nolan headed out into the foyer on his way to answer the doorbell's insistent ring.
"Will there be anything else, Miss Grace?" Laverna used her apron to swipe nonexistent dust from the edge of the tea table.
"No, that's all. Thank you." When Laverna reached the door, Grace called to her. "Please, if anyone telephones while my guests are here, take a message. I don't want to be disturbed."
"Yes, ma'am."
The minute Nolan opened the front door, Grace heard the squabble and walked quickly toward the foyer. Dear Lord, what horrendous timing. Joy and Hudson had arrived on her doorstep simultaneously. The two had taken an instant dislike to each other the moment they met in Grace's hospital room nearly four years ago. Joy called Hudson an insufferable dork and he referred to her as the brainless twit. Of all nights, why tonight? Grace asked herself. She didn't need this. Not when she had to make an important decision and wanted the advice of her closest confidantes. Maybe Joy wasn't the most intellectual person Grace knew, but her bubbly little cousin had a good heart. She was someone Grace had been able to count on, since their childhoods, through the good times and bad.
"All I asked was why, if you had to take a cab over here instead of driving yourself, didn't you remember to bring some cash with you?" Not giving Nolan a glance, Hudson stormed into the foyer, Joy walking quickly to keep up with him, her cheeks splotched with color and her eyes shooting fiery darts. "And why on God's green earth did you tip the driver twenty dollars? With my money! That's obscene. It's ridiculous!" Hudson threw up his hands in disgust. "What am I saying? Not only are your actions ridiculous, but you're ridiculous. Just look at yourself. No self-respecting woman wears those outdated clothes like you've got on. You look like my great-aunt Mozette did when she gave one of her garden parties. "
Joy grabbed Hudson's arm, then paused in the foyer. She blessed Nolan with her sweetest Southern belle smile. "Evening, Nolan. How are you this evening?"
"Just fine, Miss Joy. And you?" The butler didn't return her smile, but his watery blue eyes twinkled.
Joy had always had a way of making people like her. Everyone except Hudson. Grace couldn't figure it out. What possible reason could Hudson have to dislike Joy? Grace supposed it was because Joy disapproved of him so vehemently.
Hudson tried to disengage himself from Joy's tenacious hold, but the harder he tried to escape, the tighter she held onto his arm.
"Damn it, woman, will you let go of me?" Hudson demanded in a harsh yet quiet tone.
"I didn't drive myself over here tonight because my car's in the shop. My precious Jag is sick. And I don't have a chauffeur the way Grace does." Joy gave Hudson a pathetic wide-eyed look, like a soulful puppy dog, her long, thick lashes fluttering ever so slightly. "And my goodness, Huddie, you act as if I won't reimburse you for the money I borrowed to pay the driver."
"Good evening." Grace moved into the foyer to meet her cousin and business associate. "What seems to be the problem?"
"No problem." Hudson slapped at Joy's arm, trying to free himself from her clinging grip.
When he finally gave up and forced a smile as his gaze connected with Grace's, Joy whipped her arm away from his and rushed toward Grace.
"Give Huddie some money, will you?" Joy requested. "A fifty will be enough. I had to borrow a little from him to take care of the cabdriver, and he's making a scene about it."
"Will you please stop calling me Huddie." Hudson's cheeks flamed bright pink.
"But isn't that the pet name your brothers and sisters gave you when you were a child?" Joy asked guilelessly. "I thought that's what Grace told me."
"I haven't been a child in years." Hudson grimaced, his expression just a fraction short of malevolent.
"Sometimes I find it difficult to believe you were ever a child." Joy breezed past Grace and floated into the front parlor. Joy seldom simply walked. She breezed into, floated along, sauntered, meandered and strolled; but never just walked. Then without glancing his way, Joy said, "And for your information, Hudson—" she emphasized his name "—you're the only man of my acquaintance who disapproves of the ladylike way I dress."
"I'd appreciate it if you two would set aside whatever personal differences make both o
f you act like competitive children whenever you're around each other," Grace said. "At least for this evening."
"I apologize." Hudson squared his shoulders and stood ramrod straight, as if Grace was his commanding general preparing to inspect the troops.
"Oh, Gracie, sweetie. It's all my fault." Joy hugged Grace, then planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek. "I'm afraid Huddie—er … Hudson brings out the worst in me. I promise I'll behave myself … for tonight."
"I must admit that I'm curious as to why you called this meeting," Hudson said.
Before Grace could respond, Nolan opened the door for Elsa Leone, Grace's trusted and valued assistant. During the past three years, she had come to think of Elsa as a good friend. The young woman was, as Grace's daddy would have said, smart as a whip. Efficient to the nth degree, Elsa had proven herself time and again. Although the two had shared personal moments, neither had taken the opportunity to pour out their hearts to each other. Grace knew the basic facts about Elsa's life, but had respected the woman's privacy as Elsa respected Grace's. Grace did know some of Elsa's history. She was the eldest child of four. Her father had died years ago, leaving Elsa with a mother who drank too much and worked too little. The sister just younger than Elsa was married and lived in Lake Charles. The youngest sibling was mentally handicapped and attended a private school that cost Elsa a fortune, despite the scholarship the little girl received. The only brother was a freshman at St. Camille Junior College. Troy had gotten into some trouble in high school—drinking and drugs—but Elsa believed he'd finally gotten his act together.
"I hope I'm not late." Elsa said.
Brown-eyed, sable-haired, with a slender build and of medium height, Elsa wasn't the type who stood out in a crowd. But she was quite pretty, if one bothered to take a second look.
"Right on time," Grace replied. "Please, come join us in the parlor. Once Uncle Willis arrives—"
As if on cue the doorbell rang. When Nolan opened the door, a stocky, ruddy-faced man entered, a jolly expression on his round face, his pudgy cheeks flushed from the warmth of the humid Louisiana evening. Uncle Willis was Willis Sullivan, her father's old friend and attorney. Grace had known him all her life. He wasn't really family, unless you counted the fact that his sister had married one of her daddy's first cousins once removed.
"Evening all." Willis's thick Southern accent rolled off his tongue like molasses over hot biscuits. He was a rotund man of average height, with thick white hair and a full beard and mustache, both neatly trimmed. In his tan summer suit, he looked like Santa on vacation.
Once the round of greetings ended, Grace ushered everyone into the parlor and closed the massive pocket doors. With her guests all seated, she turned to face them.
"I didn't mean to sound so mysterious when I telephoned each of you, but this … this wasn't something I could talk about over the phone."
"Heavenly days," Joy said. "You certainly know how to make a body curious."
Grace took a deep breath. "I received a letter today. It was sent to the office. The envelope was postmarked New Iberia."
All eyes focused on Grace. Quivers of uncertainty rippled along her nerve endings. Although she had somehow managed to make it through the afternoon at work, her mind had never wandered far from the mysterious letter.
"The letter was typed and not signed." Grace paused. Dear Lord, how could she say the words aloud? How could she repeat such damning information? "Whoever wrote the letter wanted me to know that he—or she—is certain that the hit-and-run driver who crashed into Dean's car and sent it over the ravine wasn't just a drunk driver. Dean's death and Daddy's death weren't accidents. They were targeted to be killed that night."
Murmurs of disbelief rose throughout the room, but it was Uncle Willis who spoke. "Are you saying that this person, who didn't even sign his name to the letter, claims Dean and Byram were murdered?"
Grace nodded.
"Why?" Hudson asked. "Why would anyone want to harm your family?"
"Good question," Joy said. "I can't imagine either Dean or Uncle Byram having an enemy capable of such a terrible thing."
Just come right out and say it, Grace thought. Tell them. Name the enemy who is more than capable of murder. "What if that enemy was Booth Fortier?" Grace's heartbeat hammered deafeningly inside her head.
A stunned silence enveloped the parlor.
"The Booth Fortier?" Hudson's eyes widened; his mouth gaped.
"The letter accuses Governor Miller of being 'in bed' with Fortier," Grace said. "Supposedly Dean was working on unearthing the evidence to prove it and he'd told Daddy and Daddy was set to use Sheffield Media, Inc. to—"
"Byram never mentioned a word of this to me." Willis shook his head in disbelief. "My God, if this is true … it would mean Dean and Byram really were murdered."
"Wasn't it possible that Daddy didn't tell you because he was waiting until Dean had the evidence in hand?" Grace asked.
"Of course, it's possible." Willis frowned. "And the fewer people who knew what Dean was doing, the better. It makes sense. And they wouldn't have told you because they wanted to protect you. You know how old-fashioned Byram was. And Dean, too."
"I think the whole thing is ridiculous," Hudson said. "It's a hoax. Someone's trying to upset you."
Grace glanced around the room, first to Elsa, then to Joy. "What's your opinion?"
"I don't think you can dismiss the letter as a hoax," Elsa said. "If you believe there's a possibility that what it states is true, then you will have to prove it."
"But that could be dangerous." Joy's usual vivaciousness waned and Grace could sense the fear she felt. "I think you should call the police."
"And tell them what? All I could do is show them the letter. I have no proof whatsoever." Grace walked over to the antique secretary, opened a middle drawer and retrieved the notorious missive.
"The police could dust for fingerprints," Joy said.
"Probably wouldn't do any good." Willis tsked-tsked. "This sure enough is puzzling."
"I called y'all here because I want your advice." Grace waved the letter about as if it were a fan, then slapped it down on the open drop-leaf secretary's desk. "I have to make a decision. The right decision."
"Call the police," Joy said.
"Throw the damn thing in the garbage and forget it," Hudson told her.
"Hire a private investigator to look into the allegations," Elsa recommended. "Find out if it's really possible that the governor is in Booth Fortier's hip pocket."
"I agree with Elsa," Willis said. "Hire a private investigator for now and if he uncovers anything that links Fortier to Lew Miller, then go to the police."
"If we're voting on this then I cast my vote with Elsa and Uncle Willis." Joy's lips curved precariously, as if she had intended to smile, then thought better of the idea.
"Oh, all right," Hudson added. "What harm can it do to have someone check into the allegations and prove them unfounded?"
Grace sighed with relief. The four people she trusted most in this world had given her the advice she'd wanted to hear. "I'm glad y'all agree with me. I came to this same conclusion earlier and made some inquiries. I needed each of you to support my decision. Thank you."
"There are any number of decent private firms in Louisiana," Willis said as he moved toward the tea cart. "Anyone else care for something to drink?"
"I'd love some coffee," Joy said. "Cream and sugar, please."
"I've chosen a firm that's based in Atlanta," Grace told them. "The Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency. I checked them out and found that they're considered one of the top agencies in the country, definitely the premiere agency in the South."
"I take it that you haven't contacted them, yet." Elsa joined Willis at the tea cart.
"Now that we're all in agreement, I'll call first thing in the morning. I want an agent here in St. Camille as soon as possible."
"Why not call them tonight?" Elsa suggested. "I'm sure someone will take your
call, an answering service probably." Elsa instantly took over the job of hostess, serving first Willis and then Joy before preparing a cup for herself.
"Would y'all stay awhile? I asked Laverna to prepare enough supper for guests." Grace didn't want to be alone when she made the call. And she didn't want to spend the evening alone, thinking about the letter, about the implications. Simply dealing with her family's deaths on a daily basis was difficult enough. How would she cope if she could prove what the letter stated was true?
You'll make sure the ones who are guilty pay … and pay dearly.
With Haviland cup and saucer in hand, Joy advanced on Grace, pausing at her side, a sympathetic expression on her china doll pretty face. "Are you sure you really want to dig up that particular can of worms? You'll have to relive that night … and remember all your losses. And if there's a speck of truth that Booth Fortier was somehow involved, then your own life could be at risk if you start snooping."
Grace grasped Joy's chin, forcing her cousin to look her squarely in the eyes. "If you were me, would you leave it alone? Would you be so afraid for your own life that you'd allow—"
"I'm not as brave as you are." Joy clutched Grace's wrist and pulled Grace's hand away from her face. "But, yes, I suppose I'd do exactly what you intend to do. I'd need to know the truth. I'd have to know." Joy set her cup and saucer on the secretary, only inches from the letter, then reached up and placed her arm around Grace's shoulders. "If Uncle Byram and Dean were murdered, then you could wind up a victim yourself. I'd just die myself if anything happened to you."
"I'll be careful," Grace promised, then added, "but you know as well as I do that since the night I lost my family, my life hasn't meant much to me. I'm not afraid to die because I really don't have anything to live for, do I?"
"Oh, honey, don't talk like that. I just can't bear it."
Grace kissed Joy's cheek, then slipped away from her and picked up the telephone on the secretary. She flipped open the address book lying beside the phone where she'd written down the number for the Dundee Agency; then with everyone watching her, she made the call.
Grace Under Fire Page 3