He kicked a board loose from the exterior and peeked under the decking of the first floor. His flashlight beam scanned the underworld beneath the structure. Upon his first inspection weeks ago, he had been surprised to discover that none of the huge foundational blocks that supported the house would have to be replaced. Lifting the structure to replace damaged blocks would have cost Wakefield a small fortune. Still, Dylan’s gut instinct nagged at him. Something beneath the house needed a closer look.
The crunch of wheels on gravel pulled his attention away from the creepy underside of the house. An SUV had made it most of the way up the weed-infested drive before Dylan turned to determine who approached. Disappointment sank into the pit of his stomach when he caught a glimpse of the St. Denis Sheriff’s Department logo plastered on the side of the vehicle.
When a woman finally emerged from the car and pressed her uniform hat on top of her head, he nodded toward her, daring to take charge of the conversation. “Where y’at?”
“Awrite.”
“How can I help you, deputy?”
“Sheriff Soileau.” She smiled with glistening white teeth.
He imagined the woman with the bite of an alligator. “Sorry, Sheriff. I made a bad assumption, didn’t I?”
She nodded in acknowledgment of his apology. “Are you Les Wakefield?”
“No, ma’am. I’m the contractor Mr. Wakefield hired to restore the manor house.” He hooked his thumb toward the dilapidated structure.
“Can I speak with Mr. Wakefield then?”
The conversation had taken on an odd flavor. Something was off. As far as Dylan knew, Les Wakefield had yet to set foot on the property.
“He’s not here.” That was all the information he would allow. He’d learned to answer cop questions very specifically.
“Then can I speak with his wife?”
A hoot erupted from Dylan’s mouth before he could think better of expressing his derision. “Wife? That man doesn’t have a wife.” Who would marry him? When had he developed such a negative attitude toward Les Wakefield? He didn’t know the man well enough to form those kinds of opinions.
“Well, then his sister.” The cop’s voice had taken an authoritative, antagonistic tone.
“He’s never mentioned a sister, but then I don’t know the man very well.”
She shifted into full cop pose and crossed her arms over her torso. Even the female cops could take on the stance.
“I just saw a woman in town who told me her name was Celia Wakefield.”
“Are you sure the woman lives here?”
Confusion settled over the sheriff’s features. “She said her name was Wakefield.”
“Look, Sheriff, as far as I know, the only woman that’s been on the place recently is Sophia Cannon. She’s the designer who’s redoing the interior, and she’s definitely not Les Wakefield’s wife.”
The expression on the sheriff’s face informed him that she was about to ask another question he was sure he wouldn’t be able to answer, so he cut her off. “When I talked to Royce Robichaux at the bank, he said no one has lived on the place for at least six months or more. The last tenant wasn’t a Wakefield, and he didn’t live in the main house. He lived in the mobile home near the road.” He pointed in the general direction. “Mr. Wakefield told me he might get up here from New Orleans sometime next month after renovations had started. I can get you his contact information if you want to speak with him.” Yeah, he’d be glad to send the cop Les’s way and get her off Dylan’s back.
She removed her hat and wiped her brow. The Louisiana heat seemed to be melting her makeup.
She stared hard at him. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” Stupid answer. Cops hated that response. He extended his right hand. “Dylan Hunter.”
Her eyes flashed with name recognition. Of course, she’d heard of Dylan Hunter.
A long moment had passed before she rendered her judgment of him and his reputation. “Stay out trouble, Mr. Hunter. I’ll be watching you.”
She left his hand dangling.
****
Charlotte shifted her gaze toward her rearview mirror every once in a while as she drove at a snail’s pace down the lane toward the highway. Dylan Hunter kept his eyes trained on her bumper. She’d have to call her ex-partner in the New Orleans Police Department when she got back to her office. So many questions about Hunter’s presence in her neck of the woods rose to the surface of her mind, like bilge to the top of a scum-filled pond.
She recalled the missing person’s case that had come out of New Orleans. Had Hunter’s girlfriend ever been found?
The man’s answers to her questions about Celia Wakefield made every one of her nerves zing. The combination of a missing girlfriend and an invisible boss named Wakefield put her cop warning system on high alert.
Visions of a woman entombed on the Wakefield property zoomed into Charlotte’s imagination. She shook the odd images out of her head. Maybe she was looking for an intense situation to work because the remainder of her duties in the parish was so painfully mundane. Was she that hard up for excitement? Maybe she should have never left New Orleans.
She stopped the awful thought before it could form a habit of wrong thinking. She’d left for good reason. Her partner Nick Moreau had picked up her slack until there was too much slack to handle. She’d left before the department forced her to go on permanent medical leave. She sighed. Looking back on those tense months was a waste of emotional energy.
Less than a quarter of a mile down the road from Wakefield Manor, Bobby McIntosh’s truck snuggled into a grove of cypress trees next to his mobile home. As she drove up the gravel-covered drive to Bobby’s front deck, she could see the outline of Butch’s bulky form through the open screen door. She killed the engine and stepped out of her vehicle.
Butch’s high-pitched laughter escaped through the open door of the mobile home and rang under the tree cover. Bobby answered his laughter with a strong epithet for his friend. She shook her head. Name calling, beer guzzling, and girl chasing had long ago defined their relationship. It was a wonder the two of them weren’t locked up every night for disturbing someone’s peace.
She knocked on the doorframe, and Bobby’s smile appeared two seconds before the rest of him. “Well, now, Sheriff, you couldn’t get enough of Bobby when you seen me in town?” His grammar suffered around Butch.
“Got a favor to ask.”
Bobby nodded. His eyes lit with anticipation. “Anything for you, Char. Whatcha want?” He popped the screen open.
The two of them faced each other over the threshold. He’d only invite her in if she gave him the hint she wanted the invitation. They had an unspoken agreement of sorts.
“The way Celia Wakefield reacted when I spoke to her really worries me. I’ve seen that kind of reaction before. She acted like she was scared of her shadow, you know? So I paid a visit to the Wakefield place.”
Implying someone was being abused would get Bobby’s undivided attention. Charlotte had heard rumors about things Bobby had done to right certain wrongs. Some questions were best left unasked, in Charlotte’s humble opinion.
Bobby slapped a mosquito that had landed on his neck. “So did she talk to you?”
“Okay, this is the weird part.” A nervous laugh stuttered past her lips. “The only person on the place was a contractor named Dylan Hunter. He said no one was living out there. He and an interior designer were the only two people who’d been on the place in months. Certainly not Les and Celia Wakefield.” She paused for effect. “Hunter said that the new owner wasn’t married.”
Bobby’s eyes glowed with excitement. He loved a good mystery-laden scandal. “Well, that is very interesting. What do you want from me, darlin’?”
“Do you think you could do a little surveillance for me? Find out what’s going on over there. Something doesn’t smell right.”
Bobby shot a glance toward Butch and then let loose a guffaw. “That smell is proba
bly coming out of Butch’s butt.”
She grinned. “I wasn’t being literal.”
“I’ll call you if anything unusual happens over there.”
Butch had been quiet, a little too quiet for Butch. “Dylan Hunter. I know that name.”
Bobby filled in the hard-to-recall particulars for Butch. “Sure, you do. He’s that guy from New Orleans. You know the one. His girlfriend went missing, and he couldn’t explain why his blood was in the trunk of her car.”
“Yeah, yeah. He said the car had been stolen, but the New Orleans cops found it parked in a parking lot behind the apartment where they lived.” Butch had warmed to his recollection, spewing details Charlotte had forgotten.
If she stayed too much longer, Bobby would drag her into the conversation and offer her a beer, and she’d either have to refuse his hospitality or be stuck with them all afternoon until the buzz wore off.
She backed up a step, prepared to depart. “That’s the guy.”
Bobby stepped out onto the deck. His warm smile broadened. “I’ll keep an eye on him.” He hesitated. “Char…”
“You know I’m gonna say no, right?”
Resignation reflected in his brown eyes. “Yeah, I know.”
She left Bobby’s place with a grin stretched across her face. One day, she’d have to find out if enough time had passed since Tiffany’s death that she and Bobby could be more than just friends with benefits.
****
Dylan tossed his keys on the kitchen table. A quick trip to the refrigerator produced a bottle of beer. He scrounged in a drawer until he located an opener and then popped the top. A long draw on the cold brew soothed the fire that had been building inside him.
He’d reflected on his day all the way from Wakefield to the New Orleans suburb of Metairie until rush hour traffic had consumed his undivided attention. He leaned on the counter, and his mind had traveled back to Wakefield Manor again. The confrontation with the parish sheriff had left a bad feeling in his gut. He needed to inform Sophia of the sheriff’s visit and her strange questions. Well, it was a good excuse to call her anyway.
Could he work with Sophia and keep his professional cool? Now, that would be a Class A challenge. The woman could still get to him after all the time that had passed.
A search for interior designers revealed a business phone number and an address not far from his place. If he wasn’t mistaken, the address was for an apartment complex nearby. Did she work out of her home?
So she had gotten out of New Orleans proper and settled in the suburbs just like he had. When she had moved out of the apartment she had shared with Audrey and he had moved in, Dylan had lost contact with Sophia. Until Les Wakefield told him he’d hired Sophia as an interior designer, Dylan had no idea she was still in the area. He had assumed she’d gone back home to Lafayette after she graduated from college.
Dylan had moved to Metairie after Audrey disappeared. Living in the apartment he’d shared with her hadn’t really troubled him, but living in the apartment Audrey had shared with Sophia…that had bothered him a lot. He’d stayed there with Sophia many times while Audrey was out. Even before Audrey disappeared, the memory of Sophia’s presence seemed to haunt him every day and every night he stayed there. If Audrey hadn’t left, he’d have insisted they move.
He shoved the painful memories aside and glanced at the time on the display before punching the digits into his cellphone keypad.
Sophia answered on the fifth ring. “Dylan, why are you harassing me?”
He counted to three before answering. “Something strange happened at the Wakefield place after you left. I thought you might like to know, but if you’re going to have such a pissy attitude, you can learn important stuff on your own. Hope this one doesn’t take you by surprise and throw you off your game.”
She growled something low, mean sounding, and indistinct before answering. “What game? I don’t have a game, Dylan. I have a job. You should take care of yours, and I’ll take care of mine.”
He grinned as if she could see him. “Don’t hang up yet.”
A pause before she snapped her displeasure. “You’d better make it quick, and it better be important.”
“The parish sheriff paid me a visit today.”
“Your troubles with the cops are not my problem—”
“She asked about Celia Wakefield.”
“Who’s Celia Wakefield?”
He relaxed. Her attention belonged to him, at least for the next few minutes. “The cop said she was Wakefield’s wife.”
Her laughter danced across the airwaves. “Wife? As far as I know, Les Wakefield isn’t married.”
Interesting. Sophia’s derisive tone indicated she had developed the same opinion of Les Wakefield as he had.
“Now do you want to hear what I have to tell you?”
She groaned. “Please finish your story.”
He could imagine her tapping her foot as if that would hurry his narrative along. He chose to dawdle.
“The sheriff seemed to think Les and his wife Celia were living in the house.”
Sophia snorted. “Has he seen the house? No one could live there.”
“She. The sheriff is a woman. She said she saw Celia Wakefield in town.”
The pitch of Sophia’s voice raised an interval or two. “That’s weird.”
He waited a moment before shooting his idea out into the atmosphere. “I’d like to know who Celia Wakefield is.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Good. He had her. She was locked into their joint venture. Together they would discover the identity of the woman who had called herself Celia Wakefield. She wouldn’t let go of the mystery until it was solved. That was Sophia’s way.
“Okay, then. I’ll talk to you later.” He’d strung the conversation out to its limit. If he pushed it too far, she’d figure out he’d called just because he loved the sound of her voice. “Take care of yourself, Soph.”
As he disconnected, she grumbled that she was too old to go by the shortened version of her name any longer. He smiled. He’d sneaked that one bit of nostalgia back into their relationship before she could stop him.
****
Sophia closed her eyes and rubbed the spot on her forehead where a headache had formed right between her eyes. Tension or sinus? It didn’t matter. The pain was just as real regardless of the cause.
Dylan Hunter had her number in his contact list now, and he probably knew where she lived. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out she worked out of her apartment.
“Guess he Googled me.” She’d made sure she wasn’t difficult for potential clients to find. Maybe she should have paid for a business landline and a post office box.
Her heart ached. Seeing him again after so long had dug up forgotten feelings, sort of like exhuming the dead. Both good and bad memories rose from the deep place in her subconscious that she’d buried them. When their relationship was good, it had been really good. When it had gone bad, it had been hell.
She brushed off thoughts of Dylan. No use rehashing past hurts. She’d moved on. So why had a dull ache formed right where he heart resided?
Sophia dropped onto the sofa. The meeting with Les Wakefield after she’d left the Manor had taken all her energy. Soon, and very soon, she might have to gently remind him that they needed to keep a professional distance between them. Les was a little too friendly. Flirtatious even. He’d already enticed her into doing the work at the Wakefield Plantation, so there was no need for him to continue to woo her, unless he had a different kind of relationship in mind.
She shivered. During the meeting, he had found creative ways to put a hand on her back or brush his arm against her chest. Some men had the gift of touching without seeming to touch on purpose. She supposed Wakefield was one of those guys. Oh, he was slick. She couldn’t slap him for anything he’d done. Not yet.
Dylan’s call had further jangled her tattered nerves. Did he think she didn’t know what he was doing? Sophia remembered a thing or
two about Dylan Hunter. His call was about anything but his encounter with the Sheriff of St. Denis Parish.
How had her mind wandered back to Dylan? Stop that. Thinking about him is only going to make your headache worse.
Besides, she shouldn’t have to deal with Dylan much longer. Les had promised her that he would look into getting out of his contract with Dylan. The thought made her stomach hurt. Les had made it sound as if he was doing her a special favor. Had she been too hasty in her determination to rid the job of Dylan’s unwanted presence?
She drew in a deep breath and pushed off the sofa. Wallowing in her past hurt wasn’t going to make her life any easier. A little distraction was what she needed. She trudged into the bathroom, gazed at her reflection in the mirror over the sink, and pulled her long chestnut hair out of the tight ponytail she usually wore when she was working. A night out with her two best friends in the world would liven her spirits.
A knock on her apartment door startled her out of her skin. She smirked at her jumpiness. It had been a few years since she had to be extra careful about answering her front door. Still, after all the time that had passed, any knock on her door could startle her, even if the knock was expected.
When she peeked through the spyhole, her friend Treena bounced on her tiptoes, sticking her tongue out so that the nasty appendage appeared square in Sophia’s field of vision. Treena was twenty-four, old enough to calm down.
Sophia swung the door open. “Haven’t you grown up yet?”
Treena countered with an equally useless comeback. “Sometimes you act like Maw Maw.”
Sophia huffed at Treena’s snide remark. She’d often accused Sophia of being too straight-laced. Sophia didn’t think of it that way. For her, staying in control meant staying safe. Audrey hadn’t played it safe and… The thought fizzled. Her heart wouldn’t allow her to finish it, not with the oh-so-recent run-in with Dylan fresh on her mind.
Sophia locked the door behind her and followed Treena into the parking lot that faced the Parkway. She didn’t like living right on a main road, but when she’d searched for the apartment, her limited funds had only been able to acquire less than optimal living. Despite her mother’s repeated guilt trips, Sophia refused to move back home to her mother’s house in Lafayette. After three years, she would have thought her mother would have given up on the idea.
The Unmistakable Scent of Gardenias (Haunted Hearts Series Book 6) Page 3