Passion In The First Degree

by Carla Cassidy

  Billy nodded, and together they left the restaurant and walked out into the broiling afternoon sun. “I wonder if we’ll ever get a break from this heat,” Shelby said as the hot pavement burned through the soles of her thin sandals. There wasn’t even a gasp of a breeze to alleviate the heavy, humid heat.

  “The best thing to do on days like this is get naked and wallow beneath the air from a ceiling fan.”

  “Billy Royce, you are the most perverse man I’ve ever known,” Shelby exclaimed in frustration. “If you’d spend half the energy trying to solve this crime as you do trying to seduce me, we’d have the real killer behind bars.”

  Billy laughed. “But we wouldn’t have half as much fun. Besides, I do have an image to keep.”

  “Ms. Longsford.”

  Shelby and Billy stopped walking at the sound of the unfamiliar voice that called from the distance. A teenage boy ran toward them, a brown-paper-wrapped box in his hand. “I thought I was going to have to drive all the way out to your place to deliver this to you.” He held out the package to her.

  Shelby studied his face closely. “You must be one of the O’Rileys.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The youth smiled cheerfully, causing the freckles to dance across his nose. “I’m Jackson O’Riley.”

  Shelby took the package from him. “I guess your mama still runs the post office.” She had a vivid memory of Emma O’Riley, who had worked the mail since Shelby had been a small child. The woman had half a dozen children and a penchant for gossip.

  “Yeah, I help out during the summers, but she doesn’t pay me half enough.” He blushed as only a red-haired teenager could, then with a nod of his head, he went on his way.

  “Secret admirer?” Billy asked with raised eyebrows.

  “Who knows? There’s no return address.” She tucked the package under her arm as they continued toward the pickup.

  It wasn’t until they were driving back to Billy’s that she decided to see what was inside. Carefully she tore away the brown paper to reveal a plain white box. “I can’t imagine who would send me something,” she said. “It’s postmarked from right here in Black Bayou. Why would somebody go to the trouble to send me a package instead of just bringing it to me?”

  “Maybe it’s from a shy secret admirer,” Billy observed dryly.

  She ignored him and opened the lid of the box. As she peeled back the colorful cellophane paper inside, she stared at the contents in horror. With a startled cry, she threw the box on the floor.

  “Shelby?” Billy slammed on the brakes as she bailed out of the truck. He muttered a curse as she stumbled to her knees at the side of the road and lowered her head, drawing in deep gasping breaths of air apparently in an effort not to be sick.

  Throwing the truck into Park, Billy reached over and picked up the box from the floorboard. He stared at the contents, anger rolling in waves in the pit of his stomach.

  Nestled inside festive paper was a full bouquet of black, withered roses. Death in the form of flowers. He was about to place the lid back on when he noted a folded sheet of paper. It was a pale blue, thick sheet of stationery. And written on it in big, bold letters was, “GO BACK TO SHREVEPORT OR THESE WILL DECORATE AT YOUR FUNERAL.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Billy stood in the doorway of his bedroom watching Shelby sleep. He’d driven her back to the shanty, the box with the flowers in the bed of the truck, then insisted she lie down for a little while. She hadn’t protested and had immediately fallen asleep, exhausted from the emotional shock she’d sustained.

  He should get back to work, reading files, making notes, trying to glean a clue, any clue to the identity of the killer, but for the moment he was content to simply watch her sleep.

  Her hair spilled over his pillowcase, the dark strands like finely spun silk. The laugh lines around her eyes disappeared in sleep, making her look younger. Her scent filled his room, the pleasant floral smell he would always identify with her. Just as he could be blindfolded and know his own son by smell, so it was with Shelby. Her scent was indelibly printed in his head…as was the curve of her breast against his palm, the taste of her mouth against his.

  He pulled himself away from the door, irritated with his thoughts, disgusted by his very passion for Shelby, a passion more intense than any he’d ever felt for his wife. He realized now he’d been unfair to Fayrene. He’d promised to love her, without knowing what real love felt like, without understanding how all-consuming true love could be. Mentally shaking himself, he shoved these troubling thoughts away.

  The box containing the ominous gift he stored temporarily in an unused kitchen cabinet. Later he would take it to Bob. It was obviously meant as a warning to Shelby, a threat that shouldn’t be taken lightly.

  Sinking into a chair at the table, his thoughts turned to Angelique. If he found out she was responsible for the flowers, he would personally wring her neck. It would be a long time before he managed to forget the paleness of Shelby’s face when he’d helped her up off the ground, the way she had clung to him, her body shivering with fear and revulsion. Somebody would pay and pay dearly for bringing such horror to her.

  Still, the dead bouquet was out of character for Angelique. Generally, Angelique was known for her healing powers; her charms and herbs were used in positive ways. There was no mistaking the message the flowers had been intended to bear, and it certainly wasn’t a gift of love and goodwill.

  Billy was aware of time running out, not only for himself but for Shelby, as well. There was no doubt in his mind that she had seen a member of her own family kill Layne Rocharee all those years ago. It was the only thing that made sense, traumatic enough for repression. But who?

  With a deep sigh Billy focused on the files before him, somehow believing the answers to everything existed within the reports.

  He’d been working about an hour, reading and taking notes, when he heard Shelby whimpering from the next room. Pitiful sounds of torment, they pulled him from his chair and to her side.

  She lay on her back, her head tossing and turning, her eyes flickering beneath the lids as if she were watching a movie unfold…an unpleasant movie. A low moan escaped her and her hands flailed the air, as if warding off an assailant.

  Billy reached out to awaken her, then hesitated. If she was dreaming the murder she’d seen, perhaps he was better to let the dream play out. Perhaps this time she’d see the face of the killer.

  Tears oozed out from beneath her eyelids, and still he remained unmoving at her side, knowing that perhaps this time she would discover the answers they sought.

  But as her moans and whimpers increased, her obvious terror pulled at his heart. It wasn’t worth it. Her pain wasn’t worth his vindication. He shook her shoulder gently in an attempt to awaken her, his guilt swelling as he thought of those mere moments he’d allowed her to suffer in an attempt to save himself.

  “No…please stop…no,” she cried. “I don’t want to see, please don’t make me.”

  “Shelby, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.” He shook her shoulder again and her eyes flew open. In their dark blue depths he saw the horror of her dreams. It was there only a moment, a yawning darkness that threatened to pull him in, then she sobbed and threw her arms around his neck.

  “Oh, Billy, when will this end?” She clung so tightly to him he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. Her body trembled against his, like a captured bird quivering in his hand. She was so vulnerable it made his heart ache. He held her close, his hands moving up and down her back in an effort to soothe.

  “You should go back to Shreveport,” he said, wishing he’d never brought her back here. “Get out of Black Bayou and away from the swamp.”

  She pulled away from him and swiped at her tears. “And how do I run from my nightmares, Billy? How do I run from the knowledge that somebody in my family is probably a murderer?” She leaned her head against his chest and drew in a deep breath. “Shreveport isn’t far enough for me to run from those things. No p
lace is far enough.”

  When she raised her head again, he saw that the terror had been replaced by steely strength. “Running isn’t a viable option,” she said.

  “Shelby, I’m frightened for you.” Billy spoke what was in his heart. “Those flowers were meant as a warning. You aren’t safe in your house.”

  “That’s probably the one place I am safe,” she objected. “If somebody is going to try to kill me, they won’t do it in the house where the crime will be tied to the family.” She uttered a bitter laugh. “Imagine the gossip if I was found dead in my own bed.”

  Billy pulled her against him once again, wishing he could swallow her up inside and keep her safe. It surprised him, the protective surge he felt for her, the same emotion that always humbled him when he experienced it toward Parker. He stroked her hair, listened to her heartbeat, allowed her fragrance to wrap around him.

  Despite her words to the contrary, Billy knew that when the case was over she’d return to Shreveport. If what they suspected was true, her family would be destroyed when the swamp serpent was named, and there would be nothing left to keep her here. The Longsfords would be torn apart, Billy would be vindicated and the last of Shelby’s innocence would be destroyed.

  She moved out of his arms and got up from the bed. “If only I could remember,” she said softly as she moved to stand in front of the window. “It’s all there, the murder, the way the moon shone down that night, Layne Rocharee’s face…it’s all there, so clear, so sharp. But when I get to the face of the murderer, it’s a blank.”

  Frustration eddied inside him. It would be so damned easy if she’d just remember. His trial date was less than ten days away and they were really no closer to catching the killer than they’d been before.

  Could she not remember because she knew in her heart that for sure the memory would name her father, or her brother? Was she subconsciously making a choice, protecting her family over him? “Maybe you aren’t trying hard enough,” he said, inexplicably angry with her.

  “Is that what you think?” She turned from the window and stared at him. “You think I’m not trying hard enough?”

  “I don’t know, Shelby. Are you really trying?”

  Anger swelled inside her, an anger bred in frustration and fear. “I’m doing everything I know to remember that night. I relive that horrible scene over and over again in my head, hoping that the next time I’ll see it all. And if you think I’m holding back, then you can go to hell.” She stalked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She threw herself into a kitchen chair, angry with herself for not being able to remember, more angry with Billy for believing she wasn’t trying hard enough.

  Leaning back and staring at the whispering ceiling fan, she wondered if it was possible he was right. Was there a tiny part of her that didn’t want to remember? Didn’t want to shatter the last of her childish dreams where her family was concerned?

  “Truce?” Billy leaned against the doorframe between the bedroom and the kitchen.

  She nodded wearily. “Truce,” she agreed.

  “The worst thing we can do is bicker.” Billy sat down across from her and reached for her hand. “I need you, Shelby. I know no other lawyer who could represent me as well as you.”

  She pulled her hand away, vaguely irritated by his words. She remembered Olivia intimating that Billy’s desire for her was based on his need of her legal expertise. Shelby wanted him to need her, but not for her lawyering skills, and not for her memories that might solve a crime. She wanted him to need her as a woman, but she knew that was ridiculous. Billy Royce didn’t really need anyone.

  “I think we should just call it a day,” she said, closing up the files on the table and placing them all in a neat stack.

  “We need to take that package to Bob,” Billy said.

  “Why? What can he do with it? I’m sure whoever sent it was smart enough not to leave fingerprints.”

  “True, but that pale blue stationery came from somewhere.”

  Shelby shook her head. “I’m sure that stationery is probably sold in every discount store in the state. If you don’t mind, just throw it all away. I’d rather forget about it.”

  “I don’t want you to forget about it.” Billy moved closer to where she sat. “Shelby, that was meant as a threat and you have to be on guard. I also don’t want you walking alone through the swamp to come here anymore. From now on, you call me and I’ll meet you at the edge of your property.”

  “Surely you’re overreacting,” she scoffed.

  Billy reached out and flipped one of the murder photos in front of her. “Overreacting? Take a good look, Shelby. This woman would have been thirty years old this year, but she died five years ago, stabbed in the swamp where nobody could hear her cries. Those bouquets, along with the note, were warnings that we’re getting too close. No, I’m not overreacting, I just don’t want you to become the swamp serpent’s next victim.”

  “I’m just so confused,” she finally said, averting her gaze from the photo in front of her. “I have to admit, no matter how the evidence points to the killer being somebody in my family, there’s a part of me that finds that so difficult to believe. And the worst part of all is not knowing who…my father? My brother? Roger? There has to be some way to discover the truth besides depending on my faulty memories.”

  Billy slid into the chair next to hers. “The only way I know to find out who’s guilty is to eliminate those who aren’t.” He put the crime photo away and pulled out a sheet of paper. “While you were sleeping, I made a list of the murders and the dates they are believed to have happened. If your family has alibis for some of these dates, then they can’t be the swamp serpent.”

  Shelby took the paper from him and studied it. Fifteen dates spanning twelve years—sixteen dates if the night Fayrene and Tyler were killed was added into the equation. It seemed an impossible task, trying to discover alibis for dates over that length of time. “I don’t even remember what I did yesterday. How am I supposed to find out what people did on a particular night twelve years ago?”

  Billy smiled at her, an obvious attempt to alleviate some of the tension that still existed between them. “I never promised you a rose garden.”

  She laughed, despite her edge of despair. “You’ve always been the kind of man who never makes promises.”

  He frowned, his eyes dark with the intensity that made many believe he was a dangerous man. “I promise you this. I won’t rest until we find the person responsible for all the deaths in the swamp. I won’t rest until I see justice done.”

  She heard the passion ringing in his voice, knew the depths of his abhorrence for the person responsible for the crimes. How could he not help but feel some sort of spillover revulsion for her if the killer turned out to be her father, or her brother?

  “I’m done for today.” She stood, grabbed her bnefcase from the floor and opened it on the table. Together they placed the files inside, then she closed it and snapped it locked. “I can’t think anymore.”

  “I hear there’s a big party this evening at the Whalens’. You going?” Billy asked a few minutes later as he drove her home.

  “I was invited, and I think the rest of the family is going, but I think I’ll just stay home, relax and try to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “I hope you have a lock on your bedroom door.”

  Shelby didn’t answer, but rather wrapped her arms around herself, finding it chilling that she would have to lock a bedroom door in order to keep herself safe in her own home.

  It wasn’t until he pulled up in front of the house that Billy spoke again. “Shelby, I think we’re getting so close the killer is getting frightened, and that makes things more dangerous. I have the feeling that somehow the situation is reaching a boiling point and there’s going to be an explosion soon.”

  She nodded. The moment she’d stared at the withered, dry, blackened roses, she’d felt the sands of time slipping away from her, knew that before long something horrible would ha
ppen. She could only pray she’d remember what she’d seen in the swamp on that night so long ago before there was another victim.

  “I’ll be careful, Billy,” she promised as she got out of the truck.

  “Don’t forget to call me before coming to my place. Under no circumstances should you be in that swamp alone.”

  “I won’t forget.” With a small wave, she watched his truck until it disappeared from sight, leaving only a layer of dust swirling in the air.

  What a day. First she’d had to tell Bob about the disappearing files, then the horror of staring down into the gift box with the dead roses inside. And if that wasn’t enough, Billy’s unspoken accusation that she intentionally didn’t want to remember the identity of the murderer, haunted her.

  Was he right? Despite her family’s dysfunction, she loved them all, and the thought that one of them could do something so horrible filled her with a dreadful, all-consuming sickness.

  As she walked toward the house, she wondered if she was subconsciously protecting a murderer.

  BY EIGHT O’CLOCK the house had grown silent. All the members of the Longsford family had left for the Whalens’ party and the household help had been dismissed for the remainder of the night.

  Shelby sat in the kitchen eating a snack of cheese and crackers, listening to the wind that had begun to wail an hour before, promising the approach of a storm and welcome relief from the heat.

  All evening her mind had been filled with thoughts of the murders and the possibility of alibis. In her heart, each time she contemplated who the murderer might be, her father’s image always came to mind. It brought with it an ache of betrayal, a fury of contempt and the knowledge that he, more than anyone else, seemed a likely suspect. Fathers weren’t supposed to be killers, she thought with a childlike hurt. Fathers were supposed to love and protect, be role models.