“Why’re you here, cousin?”
Sephronia lived on the edge of the swamp, but traveling to her house still required water transportation with a dependable motor. If Bobby was at her front door, he wasn’t just passing by.
“You met Sheriff Soileau yet?” He nodded toward Charlotte.
“No, ma’am. I ain’t laid eyes on you, but I’ve heard of you.”
No doubt, she had. Good or bad? That was the question.
The woman surveyed her up and down. “Would you like some iced tea?”
Yes, it was obvious she had heard rumors about the lady cop that came to St. Denis and tried to change things. Plenty of grumbling from town filtered into the nearby swamp, but people on the water usually tried to stay out of town politics. Southern hospitality wrapped around the rougher edges of swamp culture. Offering her iced tea was a definite seal of approval.
“I’d love that. Thank you.”
Once they all had a glass in their hands, Bobby started the conversation. “The sheriff was asking me about the Wakefields. I thought you might answer her questions better, cousin, since you’ve been around here longer than me.”
Both of them had lived in St. Denis Parish all their lives, but the family tree had many twisted branches. Bobby and Sephronia were cousins, probably two or three times removed. Sephronia had at least forty years on Bobby.
Sephronia’s dark eyes seemed to delve into Charlotte’s heart and soul. “Whatcha want to know?”
“Do you remember hearing anything about Les and Celia Wakefield? Things that happened back in the 1930s?”
The woman’s eyes darted toward Bobby. She lowered her tall thin body into the nearest chair and rested her elbows on the arms. “I’m not that old.”
Charlotte took Roni’s seated position as a welcome to take a seat as well.
“No, ma’am.” She offered the woman the same respect she’d been given. “I didn’t think you were.” She glanced toward Bobby, who was obviously hiding a smirk behind his hand. “I’m interested in the history of Wakefield Manor. Bobby thought you might know about things that happened around here. Maybe things you heard your family or your neighbors talk about.” Calling swamp people neighbors was a stretch. The area outside of Wakefield was sparsely populated, yet there was a definite sense of community.
The woman grinned. Charlotte had chosen the right words. Bobby had warned her never to suggest the information she collected was rumors or gossip, yet that was exactly what Sephronia gathered and stored in her long-term memory.
“That was a long time ago.” Sephronia’s gaze settled toward the open door as if seeing into the past.
Charlotte caught Bobby’s eye. Bobby had told her that Sephronia seemed to wander off into a trance-like state on occasion. A lot of swamp people called her a seer, claiming she could see into both the past and the future.
Sephronia blinked hard a few times and settled her watery gaze on Charlotte. “That’s a sad, sad story. He killed himself, you know. Everyone round here thought it was because he lost all his money during the depression, but that’s not why he hung himself.”
Charlotte held her breath. Was that all Sephronia would say? She wanted more information, but Charlotte couldn’t push too hard or the woman wouldn’t cooperate.
“I heard tell Miss Celia was a right pretty woman. Supposed to get The Grove when her daddy died. Old man Wakefield wanted that property, so he married Celia. She knew that. She resented him for it. She never did love that old man. But he loved her.” Sephronia’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Everyone thinks she’s in the cemetery with her husband, but she’s not.”
The truth was hovering on the edges of their conversation. Charlotte could feel it as if it were a cold breeze blowing across her psyche. “Where is she then?”
The woman shrugged. “I ain’t heard that much.”
“Could she have run off and moved somewhere else?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. But someone was murdered on that place.” A long pause. “At least, that’s what I heard.” She licked her lips as if the telling of the tale was a delicious indulgence. “That’s why the place is haunted.” She leaned forward. “If you want to know more about that, the old woman that lives on the place was around when it happened.”
Bobby shifted in his seat. “What old woman, cousin?”
Funny. Charlotte detected alarm in Bobby’s question. Now why would the thought of someone living so close to Wakefield Manor bother him? Maybe she didn’t know Bobby as well as she thought she did. Twenty years was a long time to be gone. Things changed while she was away. Maybe Bobby had changed too.
Sephronia sniffed. “They claim she sees the future.”
Charlotte ventured a guess. “If she was around then, she must be about a hundred years old.”
The woman nodded. “Not quite, but she’s probably in her old age by now. She’s seen a lot of history.”
Her comments were clearly a dismissal of the woman’s ability to see the future. Oh, Charlotte understood the contempt. The woman was Sephronia’s competition.
“What’s her name?”
Sephronia shrugged. “No one knows. Maybe she don’t remember her own name.”
Was Sephronia casting doubt on the woman’s ability to recall the past? Then why was she steering Charlotte in the woman’s direction? Was this a deflection?
Something wasn’t clicking right about the conversation, and Charlotte couldn’t quite grasp what was off. “She lives on the Wakefield property?”
“She’s there all right, but she hides from people like you.”
People like Charlotte? Of course, Sephronia meant law enforcement. She allowed her skepticism to emerge from the depths in which it had been wallowing. A healthy distrust of gossip had always been a good policy. She couldn’t trust anything the woman had told her. There might not even be a woman living on the Wakefield property. Charlotte had lived in St. Denis for a lot of years before and after her tenure in New Orleans. She’d never heard of anyone living out there without the bank’s permission.
The haunting rumors? Those had been great entertainment at sleepover parties for decades. She’d never believed the stories until she’d had her own experience at Wakefield Manor. Strange things happened out there, but she wasn’t ready to tell anyone about what she’d seen. She had her credibility to maintain, and that was still a fragile thing. If she lost the respect of the people in her jurisdiction, she might as well resign.
“Every twenty years or so someone will come along and claim to be Les Wakefield. They’ll start working on that old house and then they disappear. Just vanish.” Sephronia snapped her fingers.
That was news to Charlotte.
Bobby’s gaze shifted toward his cousin. Displeasure appeared on his face for a half second.
Sephronia wasn’t through gossiping. “Ask that guy that used to run the bank in town. He knows.”
Charlotte suppressed an aggravated sigh. The more she stirred the pot the thicker the brew became.
Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. “Excuse me. I need to take this call.” She hurried onto the front porch and down the few steps onto the dock. “What’s up, Royce?”
“My investigator has managed to uncover some interesting information. Are you ready for this?”
She wasn’t sure she was. “Give it to me.”
“There really is a Wakefield in South Carolina, but he’s not the guy living in New Orleans. My investigator talked to the real Les Wakefield. The man was surprised to learn someone had stolen his identity. The documents are real. Les in New Orleans not so much.”
“Does the guy in South Carolina know he’s an heir to a fortune?”
“I asked my guy out there to keep that to himself until we have the straight story.”
Of course, Royce would. He’d do anything to delay a true heir coming forward and claiming the trust. As bank manager, Royce’s policy was no different than Drew Hennigan’s had been before him.
Charlot
te rubbed the ache between her eyes. “Okay, Royce. Thanks for letting me know.”
“What’s the next step, Sheriff?”
She wasn’t going to tell him anything more than what he rightfully needed to know. “I’ll be in touch.” She disconnected before Royce could ask any more questions.
It was time she talked to her old partner, Nick Moreau. Maybe if she asked sweetly he would help her confront the guy who wrongfully claimed to be the rightful Wakefield heir.
She turned to go back inside to ask Sephronia a few more questions. Bobby’s angry voice stalled her outside the door.
“Why’d you tell her about them guys that came around pretending to be Les?”
Sephronia’s voice was too low for Charlotte to hear her response.
“She’ll come back in here in a minute. You’d better be careful how much you tell her.”
A cold chill ran up and down Charlotte’s arms. No, she didn’t know Bobby any longer.
She shook off her disappointment and stuck her head in the door. “I’ve got to get back to town. It was nice to meet you, Miss Sephronia.”
The old woman nodded. “Don’t be a stranger.”
On the ride back to town, Bobby acted like the Bobby she’d always known. After his strange comments to his cousin, she listened to everything he said with a new, hyper-aware sensibility. Any thoughts she’d had of getting together with the man vanished. Once again, her heart ached for what could have been but was never going to be.
****
Pounding rattled his front door again. For the first time, Dylan wasn’t pissed off that Nick Moreau was standing on the other side. He pulled open the door for the cop and raised his eyebrows.
“Can I come in?”
Dylan motioned toward the living room. Sophia sauntered out of the kitchen at the same moment Moreau dropped onto the sofa.
He glanced at her and then at Dylan. “Am I interrupting something?”
Sophia snorted. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
The urge to kiss her raced through him. She’d defended him without telling the cop anything. She’d always been his kind of woman. Sweetly sassy. Fiercely feminine. Dangerously desirable.
So why had he cheated on her with Audrey? No, the real question was why he had ever allowed himself to be alone with Audrey. He could blame Audrey for everything. That would be the easy road, sure. He had allowed her to lead him down the path knowing every step of the way what he was doing was wrong. Maybe it was time he stopped blaming Audrey for what he’d done. It was time to man up, take responsibility for his actions, and beg forgiveness.
The cop pulled out his little cop notepad and dragged Dylan’s attention back to the present. “Do you know how I can find your friend, Jordan Clark?”
Dylan shook his head. He hadn’t heard from Jordan all day. “Why do you want to talk to him?” He asked as if the cop would give him a straight answer.
“Do you always answer with a question, Hunter?”
He crossed his arms, a deliberate pose relaying his skepticism of the cop’s motives.
A scowl formed on Moreau’s face. “I found out some things about Brandon Wakefield that I thought he might like to know.”
Stunned. That’s what Dylan was. It appeared the cop had answered him truthfully. “I don’t know where Jordan is, but I can call him.”
“Why don’t you just give me his number?”
“I’m not sure he’d want me to give his number out to just anybody.”
The cop snorted. They both knew Moreau could get Jordan’s cell number easy enough by making a phone call. So why hadn’t he?
“What do you want to tell him?”
“Will you pass this information along to him?”
Dylan laughed. “You trust me that much?”
“On this…I do. I was actually hoping to find him here so I could tell you both what I found out at the same time.”
Dylan suppressed a smile. That must have hurt Moreau to admit.
The cop flipped open his book and reviewed his notes. “I was able to obtain Les Wakefield’s fingerprints.”
“How did you do that? I’m sure he didn’t just give them up.”
Moreau grinned, obviously proud of his cleverness. “I had another detective follow him until he tossed a coffee cup into the trash.”
At that moment, Dylan almost liked the guy. “Nice.”
“Your friend Jordan’s hunch was dead on. The guy claiming to be Les Wakefield is Brandon Wakefield. He’s the second child of Brian and Kelly Wakefield of Mobile, Alabama. He’s a Wakefield, just not the one he claims to be. As far as I can tell, if he’s a relation of the Louisiana Wakefields, the mutual ancestry must be way back in family history somewhere, because my researcher couldn’t find it. No surprise he’s been in and out of jail a few times for minor offenses.”
Dylan glanced at Sophia, recalling their earlier argument. The question of whether they would continue to work on the Wakefield project might be moot.
Sophia moved next to Dylan, so close he could feel the warmth of her bare upper arm. “So what’s the next step?”
“I’m sharing this information with Sheriff Soileau. She’ll have to investigate his fraudulent claim to the trust fund, and I’m going to investigate his activities here in New Orleans. He’s got more going on than just his claim to the Wakefield property in St. Denis. Apparently, the Royale Chateau Hotel in the French Quarter and The Grove plantation up the River Road are both part of the Wakefield inheritance as well.”
Dylan had heard of The Grove. The old plantation house operated as an upscale bed and breakfast that catered to ghost hungry guests. “Really? Who’s been managing those properties?”
“The hotel has been shuttered since Hurricane Betsy in 1967, but the trust hired people to keep The Grove running.” Moreau rose to his feet. “Anyway, his scam is over. The trust will file suit to take back possession of the property. I’m sure you’ll want to cease work on the manor house. I’d hate to see you arrested for trespassing…or something.” He seemed to smother an amused grin.
Moreau would be glad to see him arrested whether he’d done anything criminal or not.
The cop turned his piercing gaze on Sophia. “You should keep your distance from Brandon Wakefield. It hasn’t been that long ago he was wanted for questioning in the disappearance of Jordan Clark’s sister. He didn’t kill her, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t planning to.”
Dylan’s blood pressure spiked. The same man that had played Jordan’s sister was stalking Sophia.
Moreau pointed a finger at Dylan. “I see the look on your face. Don’t take the law into your own hands.”
He raised his hands as if in surrender. “I’m leaving justice up to you.” He paused just long enough to make his point. “You think you can handle it?”
“Your attitude doesn’t help you one bit, Hunter. If you cared even a smidgen for Audrey St. Clair, you would want the same thing I do.”
Dylan edged closer to Moreau as he shifted closer to the door. “When you find her, tell her that I want her to get what she deserves.”
Moreau tilted his head. “What’s that, Hunter? What do you think she deserves?”
A very loaded question.
“Justice.”
Moreau’s confidence wobbled. “Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll make sure she gets justice.”
Dylan yanked the door open and then slammed it shut behind Moreau.
“I get the feeling the two of you don’t have the same justice in mind.”
He held Sophia’s gaze for a long moment. “No, we don’t.”
The frightened expression on her face suggested that he’d gone too far, said too much, hinted at the truth. When he turned away from her, she grabbed his elbow. “There’s something you’re not telling me. You know something about her disappearance, don’t you?”
“Don’t ask questions that you don’t want the answers for.” He pushed her hand off him.
“You know why she disappeared.”<
br />
He allowed his lungs to fill, all the way to the bottom, before he spoke. “No, not really. But I’ve always had my suspicions.”
“You’re covering something up, aren’t you? You haven’t told that cop what you know. Why don’t you come clean with him and clear your name?”
He pressed his lips together.
She stepped back. “Oh, I get it. I know that look. You’re protecting someone.”
“Let it go, Sophia. She ran off with some guy just like I said she did.”
Absolute horror washed over her face. What little trust they’d managed to rebuild crumbled.
“Please, don’t look at me like that, Sophia. I’m not dangerous.”
Doubt flashed in her eyes. She twisted on her heel and rushed toward his bedroom, locking the door behind her. He guessed he’d be sleeping on the sofa.
Chapter Nine
When all was said and done, Jordan and Chelsea had insisted on getting a motel room. That had left Dylan and Sophia alone in Dylan’s condo. She’d fidgeted throughout the meal he’d put together from whatever he could find in the kitchen and then declared she needed some rest. He could hear her moving around in his room next door, her feet thudding across the laminate flooring, back and forth across the floor.
He longed to knock on the door and attempt to reassure her that everything was going to be all right, but he didn’t want to make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. Everything might not be all right. If she continued to pressure him about Audrey’s disappearance, he might not be able to remain quiet about his suspicions. Besides, his thoughts hadn’t quite formed into any scenario that made sense. He was missing pieces of the puzzle, and without Audrey around to fill in the blanks, he might never know for sure if he was on to something or not. There was no need to anger Sophia by talking about his unproven speculation.
He rested his forearm across his closed eyes. It had been a long day, a long freaking day.
The Unmistakable Scent of Gardenias (Haunted Hearts Series Book 6) Page 10