by Kylie Brant
A school of rainbow-hued fish floated across her computer monitor as the screen saver automatically switched on. She didn’t notice. She was too busy examining the feeling that had crept up on her unawares—contentment.
She marveled at the emotion; but as foreign as it was, there was no mistaking it. The proof was in the ten pages she’d just finished—the first writing she’d done in nine months that wouldn’t have to be trashed. There was more evidence in the normal sleep she’d gotten, and the return of her appetite. Zoey L. Prescott had regained control of her life, and it was sweet, indeed.
She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms out in front of her, limbering her fingers absently. There were few things, she’d learned, more essential than control. Control was what had gotten her through the grieving when her father had died when she was nine. Her mother had depended on Zoey’s strength to cope with raising three children alone. And when her mother had lost her fight with cancer right after Zoey’s high-school graduation, it was that same control that had empowered her to set aside her dreams for attending college hundreds of miles away. Carolyn and Patrick had been counting on her to keep the family together.
So she’d changed her plans to include a local college nearby and become mother, father and sister to her younger siblings. At a time when her peers had been pledging to sororities and juggling dates and textbooks, she’d been learning how to be a parent. The fact that her aunt and uncle had been watching closely, expecting her to fail, wanting her to, had merely strengthened her resolve.
She’d proved to her relatives and to the courts that she could handle the responsibility of her siblings. She’d proved to the publishing world that the success of her first novel, written when she was twenty, wasn’t a fluke, by following it with four others. She’d seen Carolyn through college, Patrick through high school and into the marines. And just when she’d been convinced that she could handle anything life threw at her, Alan had swept in and devastated her world.
Her fingertips drummed lightly on the keyboard. With a sense of wonder she noted that for the first time, thoughts of the man failed to bring that fire to her belly, that sense of helpless rage that had haunted her for so many months. He’d been first her accountant, then her lover. But while she’d been fantasizing about white lace and happily-ever-afters, he’d been draining her investment accounts and preparing to leave the country on a permanent vacation.
It would soothe her ego if she could claim that she’d started looking more closely at her finances because she’d suspected what Alan was up to. But Zoey was brutally honest with everyone, and she’d never spared herself. When it came to trust, she’d been a sap. She’d only begun to examine her assets in order to determine how much to spend on the wedding Alan had started hinting about.
Blowing out a breath, she scowled at the computer screen. It would be a long time before that experience would lose its sting. And even longer before she lowered her defenses again. But there was satisfaction in knowing that she’d made sure Alan Hecox would have plenty of time to contemplate his crimes. Although she’d frequently fantasized about him spending the rest of his life at Attica with an affectionate cell mate, she was content with his sentence of eight years in a country-club prison.
His conviction, however, failed to ease her disgust at the way she’d lowered her guard enough to allow him close to her. She’d begun to depend on him, to—a wince formed at the thought—trust him. Her biggest error had been forgetting for even a short time that she could depend only on herself.
She’d be the first to admit that there had been a hole left in her life by her siblings’ leaving home, which a deeper relationship with Alan had seemed to fill. But she would have sneered at the idea that she’d felt lonely, been outraged by the suggestion that she’d been vulnerable. Zoey L. Prescott refused to contemplate vulnerability. She was the strong one, the responsible one. If a return to her customary control meant keeping her emotions tightly wrapped, well, she didn’t consider that a disadvantage. Emotions got trampled. Trust got abused. Strength and independence did not.
She watched two squirrels chase each other over the lush back lawn. It occurred to her for the first time that someone would actually need to cut that lawn, probably on a regular basis. She hadn’t discussed it with the real-estate agent, hadn’t even thought of it. Zoey had been a city dweller all her life, had always lived in a high-rise apartment building. Squirrels and lawns had never been a concern before. The fact that they were now the biggest worries she had brought a smile to her lips.
She pressed the Save command and got up from the desk she’d brought from Chicago. She walked through the compact kitchen and onto the small screened-in porch. She’d been tempted to put her computer out here. With the large trees and hedges bordering the property, there was a sense of isolation about the yard. Unfortunately, there would be nothing there to protect her computer from nature’s tantrums. Rather than risk exposing her computer to the elements when the next storm blew in, she’d settled for placing her desk beneath the big window in the kitchen, in the spot most would probably reserve for the table.
There was something almost hypnotizing about that endless spread of grass, she observed idly, leaning against the wall to better contemplate it. She hadn’t seen this much uninterrupted lawn outside of city parks for almost a year. She drank in the pleasure of the sight, and savored the first genuinely stress-free afternoon she’d had in months.
The peal of the doorbell was unexpected, but Zoey wasn’t startled. The one thing she’d noticed since she’d moved was the friendliness of the citizens of Charity. And though some of them had displayed a curiosity about her that was just short of nosy, they’d been willing to reciprocate with answers to the many questions she’d had. She figured it had been an even exchange.
Fully expecting to see one of the ladies she’d spoken with at the grocery store yesterday afternoon, she walked to the front of the house and pulled the door open.
It was the uniform that caught her eye first. With a tiny stab of guilt she wondered if someone had reported to the law that the newest resident in town ignored yellow curbs at will.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the sleek gold-and-white car with the official seal on its door parked in the driveway. “Good afternoon…Sheriff.” This was added after a quick glance at the badge pinned to his shirt. “Can I help you?”
“As a matter of fact, ma’am, I think you can.”
She didn’t need the man to remove his sunglasses for recognition to overtake disbelief. There was no mistaking the slow liquid drawl, the voice that carried just the barest hint of amusement.
“You!”
Cage raked his fingers through his dark blond hair and nodded, his gray eyes reflecting the smile he managed to keep from his lips. “Yes, ma’am. Cage Gauthier, sheriff of St. Augustine parish. And you’re Zoey Prescott, or so the twins told me. And since they manage to know just about everything that goes on around here, I consider them a pretty good source.”
The twins. She flipped through her mental files. “You can only mean Lulu and Francine Potter. Something tells me they’re the root of a very reliable grapevine in Charity.”
She’d met the Potter sisters at Neesom’s grocery store. Not only did they share the same physical characteristics, the two octogenarians were blessed with identical talents for eliciting information. They were also, she’d found, local experts on any news that was news in Charity, Louisiana.
“Actually, it was Francine who gave me your name.” This time the smile settled on his well-formed mouth. “Lulu just provided corrections, as needed.”
The visual image his words summoned was vivid. The sisters seemed to have a system of communication worked out. One did the talking while the other contradicted, inserted and provided additional details. The effect was a bit overwhelming for the listener, but definitely enlightening.
Zoey relaxed against the doorjamb and considered him. She was still having difficulty connecting th
e smooth-talking charmer from Jonesy’s with the chief law enforcement for the parish. He presented two pieces to a puzzle that, try as she might, she couldn’t seem to make fit. “You didn’t mention your job last night.” If he had, she might not have been so eager to get rid of him. Indirectly, the murder of Janice Reilly had lured her to Charity. Cage Gauthier was in a position to know all the details of that murder.
“No, we didn’t get around to talking about our jobs.” He regarded her with lazy appreciation. An ornately worked gold locket hung from a thin gold chain and nestled in the hollow at the base of her slender throat. Her shorts today were ragged cutoffs, white at the seams. They did just as fine a job showcasing those long legs as the pair she’d worn last night.
With difficulty, he dragged his gaze from that sleek expanse of bare skin. It wouldn’t do to get sidetracked right now. “If we had, maybe we could have had this conversation earlier.”
She watched him warily. There was a difference about the man that owed to more than the uniform. There was “cop” in his eyes, and in his voice, as it hardened just a fraction.
“I understand that you’re a writer.”
She had no idea why he would make the statement sound like an accusation. “I’m sure the twins make a habit of getting details like that straight.”
His smile had vanished. “Yes, ma’am, they do. They also told me that you were asking a lot of questions about the murder victim found near here a while back.”
Choosing her words with care, she asked, “Is that a problem?”
His gaze remained steady but shielded. “Actually, Miss Prescott…it is.” He slapped his glasses against his palm in a rhythmic motion. “We’ve had our share of news crews and reporters sniffing around here the last several days.” She stiffened slightly at his choice of words, but he didn’t seem to notice. “There’s nothing like a tragedy to bring out media searching for sound bites.”
“I’m not part of the media.”
“I know that.” He gave a languid nod. His every action seemed leisurely, as if some internal mechanism was fixed in slow motion. Or maybe the trait was a natural by-product of living in the South. The heat certainly had a draining effect on her own energy.
Belatedly, she realized he was speaking again. “Pardon me?”
“I said, it doesn’t matter that you’re not part of the media. You’re doing the same thing the reporters did—asking questions, stirring people up.” The glasses were slid inside his shirt pocket. “I don’t want my people stirred up.”
Frost coated her words. “People have a right to get stirred up over murder, Sheriff.”
“Of course they do. Homicide is always shocking, but probably even more so in St. Augustine parish. The last murder we had here happened before I was born. But folks have a right to peace of mind, too, and I’ve been working overtime to make sure they get it.” He watched her bare foot cross to her opposite shin, glide down in an absent movement, and he abruptly lost his train of thought. Her skin reminded him of his mother’s favorite gardenias—smooth, soft and fragrant. He drew a breath and cleared his throat.
“Maybe peace of mind isn’t what the residents of the parish need right now,” she argued. “Maybe you should be spending your time warning them of the very real dangers that exist, regardless of where they live. The fact that murder struck in Charity, Louisiana, a small quiet community with no crime rate to speak of is what made it national news.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked back a little on his heels. “You’re wrong about a couple of things, Miss Prescott, and so were the reporters. See, Janice Reilly wasn’t murdered in Charity.” That was a fact he was sure Chief of Police Runnels gave nightly thanks for. “The body was found outside city limits, which is my jurisdiction.”
His eyes went flinty and his mouth flattened. “And the way I figure it, the victim wasn’t killed anywhere around here. The parish was just used as her final resting place.”
Chapter 2
Surprise kept Zoey silent. She’d known that the murder victim had been a stranger to the area, of course. But the talk yesterday in town had all dealt with the rumors surrounding the way Janice Reilly had died and the discovery of her body.
“You hadn’t heard.” Cage felt a measure of resignation. Although he’d emphasized the fact to the local paper, that piece of news couldn’t compete with the sensational details regarding the parish’s most shocking happening in the last generation.
“No.”
He gave a mental sigh, thinking of the work his office still had ahead of them. Soothing the fears of an edgy citizenry was difficult in the best of circumstances. It was an uphill battle when pitted against the very human fondness for gossip.
He narrowed his gaze at the woman before him, and tried not to notice the way the sultry heat had moistened the velvet line of her jaw. “Janice Reilly lived and worked in Baton Rouge, some fifty miles from here. We know she went to work that day, bought a few groceries, had dinner alone, and then dressed to go out.”
When he didn’t continue, Zoey prompted, “Dressed to go out where? Whom did she meet?”
“It would appear that she met her killer, Miss Prescott.” There was no mistaking the chill in his voice, and she had a sudden image of the treatment the news crews must have gotten when they approached the sheriff’s department. It didn’t stop her from asking, “How do you know she wasn’t killed here? Why do you think the murderer would go to the risk of transporting her body elsewhere?”
Since it looked like he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon, Cage took a step backward and propped himself against one of the rounded porch posts. He’d always been a great believer in conserving energy. “There weren’t signs of the crime anywhere in the vicinity.” Deliberately he added, “The savage treatment she received would have left a great deal of evidence. Her killer had a sadistic bent.”
He watched her blink, then swallow hard. But there was none of the horrified fascination that he’d seen on the faces of some of the townspeople, none of the zealous greed displayed by the reporters. Instead there was shock, tempered by compassion. Her reaction moved him more than it should have.
“So the killer traveled back roads until he found a secluded place far away from the actual scene of the crime.” She tilted her head, her eyes alight with interest and intelligence. “But he didn’t just dump the body there, did he? I understand she was tied to that old oak tree by the river.”
He didn’t respond to that; didn’t intend to. The information he’d given her so far was nothing that hadn’t been made public already. It couldn’t compete with the grisly facts about the arrangement of the body—facts he was sure the town was still buzzing about. The victim’s hand had been nailed to the bark in a macabre greeting for the unfortunate soul who would discover her—in this instance, a teenage boy who’d decided to play hooky and go fishing.
Instead he appeared to change subjects seamlessly. “St. Augustine parish dates back to before the war.” With a sudden flash of amusement she realized he was talking about pre-Civil War days. He reached absently into his shirt pocket and withdrew a slim cigar. Running it through his fingers appreciatively, he made no move to light it. “Most of its residents can trace their ancestry to the settlers of the parish and beyond.”
Something inside her made her ask, “Including you?”
His fingers hesitated an infinitesimal moment. “My family took great pride in being directly descended from some of the founding fathers. Most of the residents make their living farming, trapping or fishing, unless they work in the paper mill outside of town.”
With the earlier steel absent from his words, he sounded like an old-timer in a rocking chair, preparing to render a lengthy lesson on local history for the benefit of ignorant youngsters. Zoey tucked away the recognition of how easily he seemed to switch from laid-back charmer to grave Southern sheriff. It was a curiosity to be pondered at a later date. “What does all that have to do with the murder of Janice Reilly?”
His smile was as slow and easy as the lazy waters of the Atchafalaya. “Are all Chicagoans as impatient as you?”
“Are all Southerners as reluctant to get to the point?” she countered. In the next instant it occurred to her that she’d never told the ladies in the grocery store that Chicago was her home.
He watched her gaze narrow at the realization that he’d done some checking of his own, and admired the way temper darkened her eyes. With more than a hint of regret, he replaced the cigar in his pocket. “My point, Miss Prescott, is that this is an old parish, and a settled one. Most of the families have been living here for years. People don’t move around much and they aren’t used to big-city problems. They leave their doors unlocked and the keys in their cars.” That unthinking level of trust had been shaken, and Cage felt a fresh burn of anger. When he’d been a detective for the New Orleans Police Department he’d encountered murder and death all too often. But murder and death didn’t belong in Charity.
She slipped the tips of her fingers into the pockets of her cutoffs, pulling them tighter across her hips. “So you’re saying that life is simple in St. Augustine parish, and that’s the way you want to keep it. Your goal is to return everything to normal and let folks get back to their safe worlds.”
He nodded approvingly. “That’s about it.”
“I think you’re doing them a disservice. It’s not unreasonable for people to be on their guard.” She waited a beat before adding deliberately, “Unless you can guarantee the residents that the killer won’t strike again.”
“There aren’t any guarantees in this life.” He was in a position to know that all too well. “But this isn’t a Z. L. Prescott novel.”