The Accused

by Jana DeLeon

  “Don’t worry. I think you two are in absolute agreement on this one.”

  “Yes, well, I tried to talk Ophelia out of marrying him—I suggested she live with him rather than making it legally binding. Probably not my kindest moment, but with her own father deceased and my firm managing her estate, I felt responsible.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t successful—not in convincing her to forgo legally binding herself to him or in trying to get her to address the issues of the estate to protect her daughters.”

  “I don’t get that part. If she loved her children so much, why wouldn’t she want them protected?”

  William shook his head. “Because she wanted so badly to believe in Purcell and did? Because she was only twenty-eight and couldn’t force herself to think about her own death? I can’t really say. What I can tell you is that failing to take the legal steps to protect her girls was the second-biggest mistake Ophelia ever made.”

  “How did Ophelia die?”

  “Heart attack was the official ruling, but I’d argue that a more apt description was a broken heart.”

  “Hmm. Rather a poetic statement for an attorney.”

  William gave him a small smile. “Comes from having a British mother who loved the classics, I suppose.”

  “And Purcell? I assume the broken-heart thing wasn’t his bag?”

  “Hardly, but Purcell had all sorts of issues.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was so secretive—people-avoidant, quite frankly. When he moved into the house, he convinced Ophelia to give up all her volunteer work within the community and to pull the girls out of public school. They rarely left the house.”

  “And after Ophelia died?”

  “Until the day the coroner carried his body out, I am not aware that he ever left the house again. The caretaker was born on the estate and never left, so he was on hand to tend to most things day to day, and after Purcell shut himself off, he convinced Jack Granger to play errand boy for him.”

  “When he was sober enough to drive.”

  William nodded. “And probably when he wasn’t. I think Purcell threw enough money at him to keep him in beer, but not much else. He did some grumbling after Purcell died. I think he was expecting something by way of inheritance.”

  “So no one knew that Purcell didn’t have the authority to dispense Ophelia’s money.”

  “Not unless Purcell told them, and I doubt he would have let that fact loose. I’d hazard a guess that he got cheap labor off some of the Calais citizens for years with promises of riches at his death.”

  “So there might be some pissed-off people in Calais?”

  William shrugged. “Maybe, but Granger is the only one I can think of who still lives here, and anyone with a lick of sense and decency wouldn’t begrudge those girls their inheritance, even if it meant that Purcell played them for a fool.”

  Carter nodded, mulling over everything William had told him. From start to finish to now, it was a strange setup. “The thing I don’t understand is, why did Purcell marry Ophelia for her money, then hide away in the bayou after her death? He’d already disposed of her children, so his responsibilities were minimal. Shouldn’t he have been on a tropical island with a flock of sexy women?”

  “Yes, that would have followed more the norm, but I think that’s where Purcell’s issues came in. I think he was already pulling away from society and saw Ophelia’s riches as a way to avoid any interaction with the outside world because he wouldn’t be required to hold a job. Her death only entrenched that belief because without Ophelia and the girls, he had no one pressing him to venture outside of his own mind.”

  “So he was crazy?”

  “I have no medical training for the basis of my opinion, but yes, I’d say crazy. However, crazy, in this case, does not absolve intent. I have no proof, of course, but I think Purcell was a mean man—deliberately mean to Ophelia and the girls. Evil requires calculation.”

  Carter shook his head, wondering if any of the information he’d gained meant something now. Certainly it gave him a better view of the circumstances that led to his current problem—and gave him at least ten more reasons to hate Purcell—but he wasn’t sure it gave him any direction on the situation with Alaina.

  He looked over at William. “I don’t suppose you believe in ghosts, do you?”

  William was silent for a moment. “Well, if it’s a ghost you saw, let’s hope for Alaina’s sake that it was Ophelia and not Trenton.”

  * * *

  ALAINA UNPACKED the last of the groceries from the boxes she’d lugged into the kitchen. The staples were strewn across the long stone countertop that formed the bar, but that was all she’d taken the time to wipe down. Tomorrow, she’d lug the boxes with cleaning supplies into the kitchen and tackle the pantry and inside of the cabinets. Once they were clean, she’d head into Calais to get some refrigerated items, now that she’d ensured the ancient appliance was still working.

  A burst of thunder fired off and a bolt of lightning flashed across the glass wall of the breakfast area, causing her to jump. The second blast rolled through a couple of seconds later and giant raindrops began to plink against the windows.

  The ceiling!

  She’d meant to close the roof before she started unpacking but was so distracted that she’d forgotten. She rushed back to the entry and was relieved that no rain poured into the house. Now, as long as the switch worked, she was in business.

  Saying a silent prayer, she reached out and flipped the switch. The machinery whined for a couple of seconds, but then the roof started to slide slowly back in place. She blew out a breath of relief as the panel slid over the last foot of the glass.

  The lack of light hid the dust and grime, but it invited in the spooky. The vases and other objets d’art that resided on the freestanding columns stood like silent sentinels in the dim light. Surely the entry contained another light source. Glancing down the walls, she spotted sconces placed every twenty feet or so. Now, if she could just find the switch.

  She started checking to her right, thinking if it were her house, she’d want a switch located somewhere outside the kitchen, but as she traveled farther and farther away from the kitchen hallway, she realized that logic had apparently not entered into switch-plate placement in this house.

  As she drew closer to the back of the entry, in the darkest corner of the room, a buzzer sounded and she barely fought back a scream.

  The laundry.

  As she headed down the hallway to the laundry room, she chided herself. First the storm; now she was jumping at appliances. Thirteen more days in this house stretched ahead of her. She had to get a grip.

  She pulled the sheets from the dryer and transferred the blanket from the washing machine to dry. So far, William’s word that the house was serviceable was holding up, which was a relief. She sniffed the sheets and was relieved that the dust and slight smell of mold were no longer present. The last thing she needed was to get sick in this environment. Leaving would be the only way to get healthy again.

  As she folded the sheets, lightning flashed, lighting up the overgrown courtyard outside the laundry room. She froze. Was something moving outside? Surely not, given the storm. She placed the sheets on the dryer to try to get a better look.

  The humidity from the storm had the glass panels on the door fogging over, thus limiting visibility. She stepped close to the door and rubbed a peephole, then peered out into the darkness. The foliage swayed in the wind, the occasional bursts of lightning casting rays of light in between the branches and leaves. Whatever she’d seen was solid. At least she thought it was, but because she’d caught it out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t be certain.

  Her peephole fogged over again and before she could change her mind, she reached for the doorknob. She’d just step out under the overhang and see if she could get a better look.

  She sucked in a breath when the knob turned easily in her hand.

  It was already unlocked!
>
  She pulled her pistol from her waistband, where she’d stuck it earlier. That door had been locked when she’d started the laundry. She’d checked it herself. As much as she hated to admit it, Carter might have seen a real live person on the landing.

  Clenching her pistol, she pulled open the door and stepped outside. The rain came down in giant sheets, reducing visibility to only a couple of feet. Squinting, she leaned forward, trying to see into the brush about twenty feet from the door. Was something moving in there?

  A burst of thunder boomed overhead and lightning streaked across the sky, lighting up the entire courtyard. Rays of light streaked through the brush, illuminating the individual branches and leaves. Nothing. But she could have sworn something was there just seconds ago.

  The sheets of rain gusted toward her now and the huge drops stung her face and eyes, causing her vision to blur. Time to go back inside and lock the door behind her.

  Then a hand grabbed her shoulder, and she screamed.

  Chapter Six

  Alaina spun around, gun leveled, and knocked the elderly man down onto the laundry room floor.

  “Oh, no!” She tossed her gun onto the sheets and reached down to help the man, who must be the caretaker, to his feet.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, scanning him up and down for visible injuries. “Are you all right?”

  “Been hit harder.” He delivered that single statement, then stood there staring, but in an odd way—not expectantly and not as if he was studying her.

  “I’m Alaina LeBeau,” she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “You must be Amos.”

  “Yep,” he said and continued standing there, water dripping down his face and body and onto the laundry room floor.

  All righty, then.

  Alaina reached for one of the folded towels she’d washed earlier and handed it to Amos. “I’m sorry about that. I thought I saw someone outside in the courtyard and then when you touched me... I guess I’m feeling a little jumpy.”

  Amos dried his face with the towel and nodded. “It’s a strange house. Has a strange feel. That’s why I told Mr. Purcell I wouldn’t live here. Got my own place. It don’t feel strange.”

  Alaina had her doubts that any space Amos occupied would feel normal, but now wasn’t the best time to explore that thought. “Did you need something, Amos?”

  “Saw lights on. Thought I’d better check things out. Wasn’t expecting you till Thursday.”

  “It is Thursday.”

  “You don’t say.” He rubbed his chin. “Well, then I guess I lost track of a day or two.”

  An encouraging thought. “I appreciate your checking on me.”

  “Just doing my job. Guess now that I have, I’ll head off to bed.”

  “Did you walk over here from your cabin?” Maybe Amos had been the one she saw in the courtyard. That would be the best explanation she could think of.

  “In this storm? I’m old, not crazy. I drove my truck over. It’s parked out front.”

  “Do you want to wait here a bit until the storm slacks off?” Good manners forced her to make the offer, but she held her breath, hoping the odd caretaker would take his leave into the monsoon.

  “Won’t slack anytime soon. Need to get home before the power goes out.”

  He started down the hallway and across the entry to the front door. Alaina trailed behind him, alternating between relief that he was leaving and worry that she might spend her first night in the swamp mansion of horrors without lights.

  “There are flashlights in that cabinet next to the washing machine,” Amos said when he stopped at the front door. “I keep working batteries in ’em. You best get a couple soon.”

  “Thanks. If you get a chance tomorrow, I’d really appreciate it if you can come by and show me around the house and point out anything else I need to know about it.”

  “Of course. That’s my job.” He stared at her for a couple of seconds. “You look like your mother.”

  “That’s what people say. I’m afraid my memories of her are hazy.”

  “No matter. Now that you’re here, she’ll be by soon and you can see for yourself.”

  * * *

  THUNDER BOOMED over the sheriff’s department and the lights blinked. Carter logged off the computer before the storm could do it for him. Every time he got shut down by a power outage, it was a pain in the rear to get things working right the next morning.

  He’d spent a frustrating two hours after his conversation with William trying to find more-concrete information on Trenton Purcell and Ophelia LeBeau, but there was little to find. That didn’t surprise him much in Ophelia’s case. She was an heiress and, according to William, had come into millions when her parents passed. But she was a small-town bayou heiress with parents who’d felt no compulsion to be in the limelight of the city or on the front of newspapers hosting some charity event. Based on what he could find, they’d lived a quiet, simple life in a mansion on the bayou and had raised their daughter to live the same way.

  Which she’d managed nicely until Trenton Purcell entered her life.

  Purcell had been even more of an enigma. Despite extensive searching, Carter had been unable to trace the man back to his birthplace, his parents, previous employment or even a driver’s license. All of which made career cops very suspicious.

  He’d bet anything he owned that Trenton Purcell was living under an assumed name and identity in Calais, but he had no proof. And at this point, he couldn’t see what difference it would make, except to further exasperate people who’d liked Ophelia and warned her off marrying the man.

  He locked the sheriff’s department and ran to his truck, but he was still soaked by the time he jumped inside. It was really coming down out there. He started down Main Street, but when he got to the intersection at the edge of town, he stopped in the middle of the street. His current residence—a cabin he’d inherited from his grandfather—was to the left, near his mother’s house. To the right was the lonely road that led to the LeBeau estate.

  He had no obligation to check on Alaina. In fact, she’d probably resent the intrusion more than appreciate it, as their earlier parting hadn’t exactly been without conflict. But something tugged at him.

  She’s a beautiful woman who’s all alone.

  That much was true, and he could go straight home and try to convince himself that that was all that concerned him. But he’d given up lying years ago—even to himself.

  Sighing, he turned the steering wheel to the right. He’d just make a quick stop—only long enough to ensure she was getting on all right in the storm. Then he’d head home for a big bowl of his mother’s vegetable soup, heated up in his microwave, and a cold beer.

  A visual of Alaina LeBeau climbing the stairwell flashed across his mind. The way her jeans clung to her perfectly toned rear. The way her breasts strained against the cotton blouse as she turned to look back at him.

  He blew out a breath.

  Maybe two beers were in order. Two beers and a cold shower.

  * * *

  AMOS SLIPPED OUT the front door and into the storm before Alaina found her voice. Not that it mattered. What the hell did you say to follow up a statement like that? If Amos believed her mother was going to show up twenty-five years post-death and speak to her, he was either crazy or suffering from some sort of aging disease.

  She locked the door and hurried back to the laundry room to find the flashlights while the lights still worked. Even entombed in the huge house, she could hear the storm intensifying. The rumbles of thunder were closer together than before, and she could hear the plinking sound of heavy drops of rain against the northern glass in the kitchen area. It was time to wrap up her day and lock herself up in the bedroom for the night.

  The cabinet door stuck a little and she had to give it a harder tug, then she blew out a breath of relief when the flashlights were right where Amos indicated and in working order. She had a penlight on her key chain, but hadn’t even thought to bring anything
larger with her. Decades of city living were a definite disadvantage.

  She grabbed two of the flashlights and placed them on top of the sheets she’d been folding earlier. Her pistol lay silent and forgotten on the sheets and she quickly put it back in her waistband. The cold metal pressing against her bare skin gave her a bit of comfort and a tiny feeling of security.

  She wrapped the ends of the sheets around the flashlights, grabbed the blanket she’d laundered earlier and crept up the spiral staircase, looking around the edge of the big bundle to ensure she didn’t misstep on the winding stairs. The absolute last thing she needed was to have an accident. Her cell phone was in her pocket, but she’d bet her last dollar that the storm had knocked out any hope of reception.

  Her personal supplies were limited to what she could fit in her SUV, but she’d had enough forethought to pack a mattress cover. It was queen-size and the bed in her old room was full-size, but it would be no problem to tuck the extra under the mattress.

  Dust billowed out of the mattress as she lifted the edges to slip the ends of the cover over and dropped them back into place. She waved one hand in the air and covered her face with the other, trying to keep from inhaling the bulk of the flying particles, then alternated tugging one side and then the other until the mattress was completely covered.

  She made quick work of the sheets and blanket, then grabbed a flashlight and ran downstairs to snag a bottle of water and a protein bar. It wasn’t much of a supper, but it would do for tonight. Back in the bedroom, she shrugged off her jeans and polo shirt and, most important, her bra, in favor of yoga pants and T-shirt. As she lugged her suitcase off the bed, the edge of a folder peeked out at her.

  Frowning, she pulled the folder out of her luggage and stared at it for a bit. It had been complete impulse that made her copy the files from the case that had caused her more anguish and guilt than she could bear and had subsequently tanked her career. She’d made a mistake. Somewhere in that file had to be the thing she’d missed. The thing that could have prevented a child’s death.