by Sharon Sala
She paused a minute, biting her lip, as if trying to control emotion, and when she looked at him, there were tears in her eyes. She sighed. “Hundreds of slaves died trying to get those damn ballast stones off the bottom of the river, but eventually they hauled up enough to pave the river walk. When I was young, I used to say a prayer for the ghosts I felt there. It’s a haunting place at night, but a beautiful place, too. I wish I could show it to you. I think you’d like it.”
Without giving him a chance to answer, she slid off the desk and brushed off the seat of her slacks.
“So, want to walk me down to the kitchen instead and see what Miss Billie is making for lunch?”
He nodded.
She tossed her hair back and laughed, but it was as false as the smile on her face, and he knew it. She leaned against the office wall.
“You know the routine. Follow me, McQueen, lest I am beset upon by nefarious men and meet my doom somewhere between here and the kitchen.”
When he crooked an eyebrow at her, she added, “Those were lines from a movie I was in. My character was a flighty, ridiculous woman from the Victorian era. I was glad when that movie was over.”
“Then I should probably lead the way,” he said, moving toward her. “Just in case.”
He slid a hand beneath her hair and stroked the side of her face with his thumb.
She looked up at him, clutched the wall a little tighter and then stepped away.
“After you,” she said.
He strode out of the office, then waited until she was right beside him before taking another step. The fact that he’d been the cause of her latest grief and heartache was killing him. He didn’t know how this would end, but he was suddenly willing to risk another heartbreak to find out.
“How about we take this trip together and see what happens?” he said, and then held out his hand.
“Are you going to throw me away again when the mood strikes?” she asked.
It was the tremble in her voice that told him he’d made the right decision.
“No. I won’t ever do that again.”
She took his hand. Daring to trust one more time, she tightened her grip, as if that would somehow make the decision stick.
He led the way out of the office, and when they got to their bedroom, she paused.
“I want to leave the papers here.”
She slipped into the room, leaving him in the doorway as she dropped the papers in the drawer by her bedside table. She came back to him with a slight bounce in her step.
He thought it was because they had just made a truce of sorts, when in fact it was from the relief of knowing that even if she died, there wouldn’t be an estate for anyone to contest. What was hers was hers to do with as she chose, and she’d chosen. This mysterious killer wasn’t the only one with secrets, and she’d just decided to beat him at his own game.
When they got downstairs, Billie had already returned from her errand.
“Where’s Lucy?” Sahara asked, noticing she wasn’t helping Billie out with the meal as she usually did.
Billie pointed. “She’s helping out in the garden. I sent her out to tell Sutton I want all of those peace lilies planted among the hostas before I left. They’ll do better in a little shade than in full sun.”
Brendan moved toward the window. Lucy was standing beneath a shade tree talking to Sutton. He watched her for a few moments.
“Looks like Lucy made a conquest,” he said. “I’ve never seen her so animated.”
Sahara frowned. “I think she has a boyfriend back in LA, but she doesn’t talk about him much. She doesn’t have a lot of free time, which is my fault, I suppose. If I’m on the move, then so is she.”
Brendan watched Lucy throw her head back and laugh, then looked at the tall, skinny man she was flirting with. He wasn’t doing much talking, and he kept looking toward the house. Maybe he was concerned that she was keeping him from his work.
He turned back to find Sahara and her mother head to head, talking. It wasn’t like they were sharing secrets, but it was touching to see. And then Sahara moved to the cabinets to set the table.
“Prepare yourself, McQueen. Crab salad, fresh croissants and bourbon-flavored ice cream. I will require a nap later, I think.”
He patted his stomach. “I’m going to start packing on the pounds if we’re here much longer,” he said.
Billie eyed his flat belly and well-muscled body and rolled her eyes.
“You are not packing anything but muscle, Brendan McQueen, and you know it. Would you please let Lucy know we’re going to eat?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and opened the door. “Hey, Lucy. Billie says lunch is ready.”
Lucy jumped as if she’d been punched, but when she started back to the house, Sutton came with her.
She ran into the house, her face flushed.
Sutton paused on the threshold and smiled at Sahara.
“Well, hey…long time, no see,” he drawled.
“Hi, Sutton. It’s really good to see you! Congratulations on the business. I hear you’re doing great.”
“I can’t complain,” he said, then glanced at Billie. “Miss Billie, I can’t plant the peace lilies in the hosta bed around the live oaks like you wanted. There are too many tree roots. I suggest a bed for them on the east side of the shed. They would get early light and then shade by midday and after.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that, but it’s a good idea,” Billie said.
“Okay, then, I’ll get back to work. Lucy, nice to meet you,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Lucy said.
Sutton closed the door.
Billie smiled. “That man. He’s still as friendly as he was when he was a child.”
Sahara sat silent among the chatter without really listening. Her mind was on getting Leopold and Katarina interred.
“Mama, we have a problem,” she said.
Billie frowned. “What kind of problem?”
“Something just occurred to me regarding Katarina and Leopold’s memorial service. Traditionally, I would be attending it in church, and we would host snacks and drinks for the closest friends afterward.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Billie said.
“But that’s not going to happen,” Brendan said.
Sahara nodded. “Exactly. Without knowing the enemy’s face, I cannot expose myself to hundreds of people and expect Brendan to be able to keep me safe.”
Lucy spoke up without being asked. “Why don’t you just inter them and announce in the paper there will be a memorial service held at a later date?”
“That’s a good idea,” Brendan said.
“Yes,” Sahara agreed. “That would work. Thank you, Lucy. Thank you again for helping my messed-up life run smoother. That’s absolutely the perfect thing to do.”
Lucy smiled. “Happy to help. Besides, it’s why you pay me.”
“Okay, then. I’m going to call a funeral home and tell them to retrieve the bodies after the police release them, and inter them in the family mausoleum. I can have a notice put in the paper stating a later date will be set for a memorial service, which will satisfy everyone else,” Sahara said.
“Lunch will be ready in five minutes,” Billie said.
“Okay. I’ll wait and do it after lunch,” she said.
Billie relayed a funny story she’d seen as she was coming out of the bakery today. A toddler who was obviously potty training pulled down his pants and was peeing on a sidewalk, embarrassing the mother to no end as she grabbed him up and ran, unaware he was still peeing down the leg of her pants.
It was the perfect story to lighten the mood, and the joy that came with the telling was the only dessert Sahara wanted.
Then she told the group about her plans to clean up the penthouse and sell it.
“Really?” Lucy said. “Were they able to get the elevator fixed?”
“According to Harold, it should be fixed within a day or two.”
Lucy sat for
a moment, as if considering her words. “If you want, I could go back and see if there’s actual damage visible after the cleaning crew went through it. Maybe do a little staging to sell, and pack up your clothes for you,” she said.
“You would be willing to do that?” Sahara asked. She had a feeling Lucy’s offer might have more to do with her wanting to get home to her boyfriend than it did with helping out Sahara, but after seeing her get perhaps a little too friendly with Sutton, she figured it would probably be a good idea.
“Yes, of course,” Lucy said.
“Then I’ll see where they are with the elevator repair and let you know when you’ll have full access again. I’ll check with Harold about arranging the trip and let you know.”
Lucy smiled, pleased her idea had been well received.
Brendan’s phone signaled a text. He glanced at it briefly. It was from his brother Carson.
I have news. Call when you get a chance.
He dropped the phone back in his pocket and finished eating while keeping an eye on the workers just outside the door. They were on the patio now, cleaning up the scattered pots and mangled flowers from the storm.
They finished the meal, helped Billie clean up and then went their separate ways. Lucy took Billie’s car to run errands for herself. Sahara watched her drive away from her bedroom upstairs and wished she had the freedom to just jump in the car and go anywhere at will. Instead, she was in jail—a luxurious one, but nevertheless, a jail.
But she had tasks to do.
“McQueen, I need to call Leopold’s lawyer.”
Once again, he handed her his phone.
She Googled Chapman Farraday, Esquire, then called.
The secretary answered. “Chapman Farraday’s office.”
“This is Sahara Travis. I need to speak to Mr. Farraday.”
“Yes, Miss Travis. One moment please.”
Seconds later she heard a click.
“Miss Travis, this is Chapman. My sincere sympathies on the deaths of your parents.”
“Thank you. The reason I called is to ask if my parents had prior plans made for burial.”
Farraday cleared his throat. “Why, yes, they did. I was reminded as I was rereading the papers regarding their estate. You are their sole heir and—”
“That is of no consequence to me,” she said. “I need to know where to bury them. I was never privy to the information regarding their family mausoleum.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” she said. “What cemetery?”
“Umm, that would be Lafayette Number 1. The family mausoleum is Greek Revival architecture…in the Travis name, of course.”
“Of course,” Sahara said. “Did he have any kind of prepaid funeral plan or a funeral home preference?”
“None mentioned,” Farraday said.
“Can you recommend a decent one? I would hate to pick something socially unacceptable.”
Farraday hadn’t seen Sahara since she was a girl, and it sounded as if she’d grown into a very aggressive woman—like Leopold, he supposed.
“Schoen Funeral Home would be a good choice.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And just so you know, their bodies will be interred without ceremony once they’re released from the morgue. I’ll hold a memorial service at a more dignified time…when I’m no longer the target of a killer. I’m requesting that you publish that notice, worded without mention of my current situation, of course, in all of the proper papers.”
Farraday was just slightly less than horrified.
“Oh dear, yes…of course.”
“Thank you for your help,” she said, and disconnected, then handed the phone to McQueen.
He was leaning against the desk with his arms crossed across his chest, watching her.
“What?” she said.
“Nice performance,” he said.
She frowned. “I must be losing my mojo if that came across fake.”
“Only to someone who knows you are everything but an ice queen.”
She sighed. “Whatever. By any chance do you know the number to the New Orleans PD?”
“Detective Fisher’s number is in my contacts.”
Her hands were starting to shake. “Would you do something for me?” she asked. “Would you call him and tell him that when they release the bodies, the authorities are to contact the Schoen Funeral Home, who will pick them up?”
He took the phone from her fingers and brushed a thumb across her lower lip.
“Yes, Sahara, I will do that for you.”
Exhausted, she threw herself belly-first onto her bed, legs sprawled, her cheek against a pillow, and closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered was hearing the low rumble of McQueen’s voice, and then she was dreaming.
Fifteen
“Sahara! Sahara! Where are you?”
Sahara curled up into the tiniest ball beneath the bed and closed her eyes, thinking if she couldn’t see Katarina, then Katarina could not see her. Then she heard a slap, and her mama’s high-pitched voice.
“I don’t know where she is, ma’am. I swear I don’t,” Billie said.
Katarina’s voice was strident and angry. “You find her now, or I’ll punish her myself and neither one of you will like that. The Garden Club ladies will be here in just over an hour, and we still need to do the child’s hair and change her clothes.”
“Yes, ma’am. I know, ma’am. I’ll find her, I promise,” Billie said.
Sahara was sad now, wishing she hadn’t hidden. She’d gotten Mama into trouble.
Billie sat down on the side of the bed, wiped her eyes and took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.
“You can come out now,” Billie said.
Sahara crawled out from under the bed, her eyes welling with tears.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
Billie lifted Sahara into her lap and gave her a brief hug.
“You go tell Katarina that you were outside in the garden and didn’t hear her calling. Tell her you’re sorry.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sahara said, and left their bedroom with her steps dragging.
But she was soon running, her little footsteps echoing throughout the house.
Katarina heard her and came out of her bedroom with an angry look on her face.
“I’m sorry, Katarina! I didn’t hear you calling. I was in the garden.”
Katarina sighed. Children were such a burden sometimes.
“It’s okay, child. I thought you were hiding.”
“Oh no, ma’am. I would never do that,” Sahara said, and then smiled.
Katarina looked down into the beautiful little face before her and imagined she saw herself in those perfect features.
“Well, then,” she said. “We need to hurry. You’re going to sit beside me during Garden Club as a reminder to the members to vote you in as Little Miss Rosebud. Come Mardi Gras, you will be riding with me in the Garden Club float. Isn’t that exciting?”
“Yes, ma’am, exciting,” Sahara said.
*
Bubba was running out of ways to get rid of Sahara without revealing his identity. If he managed to get inside the house, he would have to deal with the bodyguard, which was out of the question. And while he had been using bombs earlier, he had no intention of blowing up the mansion. Poison hadn’t worked. Deadly snakes didn’t work. Hiring a hit man was a bust. Every time he changed his modus operandi and failed, it was a cautionary warning to them of impending dangers.
He was walking past a mirror in his house when he paused, intently eyeing his reflection. He didn’t look like a murderer. He didn’t feel like one, either. What he felt was cheated. He hadn’t started out intending to hurt others to get what he wanted, but in war, collateral damage was inevitable.
He leaned closer. He had his mother’s eyes and coloring, and he’d also inherited from her an ingrained hate for the Travis family as a whole, which was why he had no problem ending their time o
n earth. They’d lived in opulence long enough. It was his turn to share in the wealth, and there was only one more person standing in his way.
He made a quick trip to the supermarket and was back home in less than an hour, carrying the sacks up to his third-floor apartment.
When he reached the third-floor landing, he stomped loudly, certain that the lady who lived across the hall from him would open her door to see who was making noise in the hall.
And just as he expected, she did.
“What’s going on out here?” she cried.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Lively. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said.
The old woman frowned. “Well, since it’s you, it’s fine. For a minute I thought it might be some kind of burglar, kicking in the doors to rob good folks like us.”
“No, ma’am, just me. I’m really sorry. Oh, by the way! Did you hear the news about Sahara Travis?” he asked.
She frowned. “Hear what? That they found her daddy dead? Yes, everyone heard that.”
“No, not that. I just heard on the news as I was driving home that she had been killed. She was the last of that family—now they’re all gone. Sure is a shame.”
“Oh my Lord!” the woman cried. “I hadn’t heard. What a tragedy. So beautiful and so young,” she said, and shut the door in his face.
He grinned. Mrs. Lively was the building’s gossip, and she had a reputation for spreading even a hint of a rumor the second she heard one. She loved being the center of a good story, and so Bubba knew she was on her way to share this tidbit with anyone who would listen. She would have it on Facebook to all of her family all over the United States, and he knew that because he saw her posts to them regularly. If he was lucky, she’d also text her daughter who had a big following on social media as a stylist to the rich and famous on the East Coast, and the rest would take care of itself. The story would blow up before anyone thought to verify it because that was how social media worked these days. If he was lucky, Sahara would come out of hiding just to prove she was still alive, and he would get one clear shot at her and change the rumor to a truth.