“I don’t mean to disturb you, ma’am,” he’d said. “I’m Nowell Landers, and I was a friend of Jonathan Lenz. We were in the same outfit in Nam. I—I was with him when he died.”
She hadn’t been as instantly attracted to another man since Jonathan, so was it any wonder that she kept finding similarities in the two men? Same height and similar builds, although Nowell was heavier, broader, probably the results of aging. Same piercing dark eyes. But there were differences, too. Enough so that she could usually differentiate between the two. Yet sometimes, when Nowell and she were alone together, like now, her heart longed for them to be the same man. Of course, that wasn’t possible, was it? Jonathan was dead.
“I don’t like that sad look on your face.” Nowell rubbed his index finger across the frown lines on her forehead.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about…It doesn’t matter.” Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him. Sweet and fleeting, just a brush of lips against lips.
“You were thinking about Jonathan, weren’t you?”
Clarice grabbed Nowell’s hand. “Don’t be jealous. I loved Jonathan dearly, but he’s been gone a long, long time.”
“You still love him,” Nowell said.
“I …yes. But I love you, too. And I never thought I’d ever love again.”
“It’s all right, honey.” He cupped her face with his big hands. “I don’t mind if you love both of us. Your heart’s big enough for that.”
“How kind you are. How understanding.” She tugged on his hand. “I thought you brought me back here to your apartment after our dinner date so that you could ravish me.”
He smiled. “I want to make love to you. But only if it’s what you want, too.”
“It’s what I want,” she told him. “More than anything.”
Nowell scooped her up into his arms. Sighing with delight, she draped her arm around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. He carried her through the small living room and into the bedroom, then placed her in the center of the bed, on the brown quilted spread.
“I haven’t been with anyone in years,” she told him. “Not since…”
“No one?” he asked. “No one since Jonathan?”
“No one…until you.”
“God, Clarice.”
She was both surprised and yet deeply touched by the tears in Nowell’s eyes. Crying seemed so out of character for the big burly man. Opening her arms in welcome, she said, “Make love to me.”
His gentleness mixed with passion, showing her by heated romantic words and nerve-tingling caresses that she was precious to him. “Precious beyond words,” he said as he removed her beige silk blouse and unlatched the front hook of her bra.
Shouldn’t I feel the least bit embarrassed? she wondered. Shouldn’t I worry that he will be disappointed when he sees my thin sixty-year-old body? But she felt neither embarrassment nor worry as Nowell slowly, tenderly removed her clothes, caressing her, kissing her, praising her each step of the way. When she was completely naked, he rose up and off the bed and quickly divested himself of his own clothing. Clarice watched with fascination as he stripped down to bare skin. He was big, thick chested, and very hairy. His chest hair was almost white and the rest was mixed with gray. She studied him, admiring his raw masculinity. And another comparison came to mind. He looked like Jonathan there, too. Although her experience was limited, she knew enough about men to know they weren’t all equally endowed.
“You keep staring at me that way, honey, and I won’t be able to wait. And I want to wait. I want to take a long time with you.”
Clarice swallowed. Her nerves sang a high-pitched melody of great expectations.
Nowell came down over her, bracing his weight so that he didn’t crush her. His lips moved over her face, down her throat and stopped to pay homage to her small breasts, her taut nipples. She quivered, the sensation an unbearably painful pleasure. While he acquainted himself with every inch of her body, every curve, every indentation, she caressed him—his shoulders, his hairy chest, his large biceps, his stomach, his penis. When she circled him, he drew in a deep breath, but made no move to stop her when she began pumping him. Odd how familiar everything was, the taste of him, the feel of him, the sound of his heavy breathing. Making love must be like riding a bicycle, she thought, you never forget how to do it.
With intimate lunges, Nowell’s tongue explored between her open thighs. When he laved the kernel of sensitive flesh between her feminine folds, Clarice’s hips bucked upward to meet his mouth. And then before she realized what was happening, she climaxed. While shudders of release racked her body, Nowell tested her readiness and found her moist from her orgasm. He lifted her hips and entered her, slowly, carefully, inch by inch embedding himself deeper inside her. When he’d taken her fully, she wrapped her legs around his hips and participated passionately as he thrust and retreated. Within a couple of minutes, he came, his roar of completion like that of a jungle animal.
“God, Ricie, I love you.” He eased off her, sliding down beside her on the bed.
Although she was in a state of shock, she didn’t protest when he pulled her close and held her. She lay there, her heart beating wildly, her mind filled with chaotic, incomprehensible thoughts. He had called her Ricie, but apparently wasn’t aware that he had. Jonathan had called her Ricie. No one else. Only Jonathan. There was a logical explanation for why he’d used Jonathan’s pet name for her. There had to be. But she couldn’t imagine what that explanation might be. She couldn’t believe that Jonathan would have shared something so personal, so intimate with anyone else, not even a comrade in arms. But what other explanation could there be? Unless… Oh, Clarice, you mustn’t do this to yourself. Stop thinking crazy thoughts. Accept Nowell for who he is and be grateful that you’ve found love again. Don’t ask for the impossible.
Tired, dirty, and feeling slightly waterlogged after drinking God only knew how many cups of coffee, Jolie dropped her head onto the old desk in the basement of the sheriff’s department and groaned loudly.
“Okay, I give up,” she said. “We’ve gone over every inch of this basement, looked through every damn file cabinet, every shelf, every drawer, in every nook and cranny. There are no Belle Rose massacre files.”
Theron cocked his chair backward, up on two legs, stretched his arms, entwined his fingers, and cupped the back of his head. “Either someone took them, probably years ago, or someone destroyed them. It really doesn’t matter. Either way, we’re screwed. Without those files—”
“Don’t say it.” Jolie lifted her head just enough so that she could look at Theron. “There has to be another way to get the case reopened. Just the fact that the files are missing should prove something.”
“Prove what?” he asked. “Prove incompetence? Files get misplaced all the time. We have no proof that they were destroyed or taken. All we have is my gut instinct.”
“Then we’ll just have to find another way to gather evidence. Find Sheriff Bendall, if he’s still alive. Talk to his deputies. It’s only been twenty years ago. Most of them probably still live around here. And there’s always the CIB report. The agent who came to Sumarville to investigate had to have filed a report. We need to find out his name and where he lives now.”
“I’m too tired to think about it tonight.” Theron checked his wristwatch. “Damn, it’s nearly eleven o’clock.” He scooted back his chair and stood. “Come on. Let’s go home. We can come back tomorrow and straighten up this mess. After a good night’s sleep, we’ll plot our new strategy.”
Jolie rose to her feet, arched her back, and groaned. “I’m not used to sitting that long. My neck, shoulders, and back are sore.”
As they headed for the stairs, Theron clamped his hand on Jolie’s shoulder. “Take a long soak in the tub before you go to bed. Then sleep until I phone you in the morning. Bright and early tomorrow, I’m going to make some calls and also talk to Ike to see if I can find out the whereabouts of everyone involved in the investigation. As soon as I have
something to go on, I’ll call you.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
Upstairs they said good night to the deputies on the evening shift, then headed outside to their cars. Just as Jolie unlocked and opened the driver’s side door of her Escalade, Theron called to her.
“You realize that Ike was right about it taking somebody with money and power to pull Larry Newman’s strings, don’t you? The same holds true for whoever saw to it that those records disappeared. And since we have no way of knowing if those files have been missing for years or only for months—”
“What are you trying to say?”
“If the files were misplaced in the past few months or even the past few years, then I’d say either Roscoe Wells or Max Devereaux is the man behind the scenes.”
“And if they were misplaced twenty years ago?” She held her breath, knowing the answer, but needing to hear Theron say it.
“Then it would be either Roscoe or…” he hesitated a split second, “or Louis Royale.”
She released the breath she’d been holding, suddenly feeling like a deflated balloon. “Why would Daddy… Oh , my God. To protect Georgette.”
“Or Georgette’s son.”
Georgette lay awake in her bed. Alone and afraid. She’d never been afraid when Louis was with her. He always kept the demons at bay. Nothing would ever be the same without him. He had known her so well, understood her completely, and loved her unconditionally. Now that Louis was gone, Max would try his best to take care of her. But her son didn’t know the woman she’d once been, so he couldn’t truly understand her well enough to help her fight the monsters that lived inside her.
The room lay in shadows. The night-light in the corner didn’t banish enough of the darkness. She reached out and flipped on the bedside lamp. A creamy glow illuminated the room. Georgette slipped out of bed, grabbed her thin silk robe from the chaise longue, and went to the French doors that opened out onto the upstairs balcony at the front of the house.
As a young girl she had dreamed of living in a house like this, with servants to wait on her, and more money than she could spend in a lifetime. While she earned her living by giving her body to any man with the right price, she had kept her heart untouched. And dreamed of the day her prince would come. Philip Devereaux had been her prince. One of her customers for several years, using her services whenever he visited New Orleans, Philip had fallen in love with her. She had given Philip a little piece of her heart when he married her and took her with him to live in Sumarville. His home had been nice, better than anything she’d ever known, but it was nothing in comparison to Belle Rose.
The first time she saw Louis Royale, she knew that he was unlike any man she’d ever known. And the first time he touched her, she had felt that she was destined to be his in a way she had never belonged to another man. She had given her whole heart to Louis, loving him more than she’d ever thought possible. And he had loved her, with his body and his heart and even with his very soul.
But I had no soul to give you, did I, my love? Georgette whispered the words as she opened the French doors and walked out onto the balcony. Once you’ve killed, once you’ve taken another person’s life, you lose your soul.
Chapter 14
Theron started the Ferrari’s motor, powered down the windows to release some of the stale oppressive heat that had accumulated inside the vehicle during the afternoon, and upped the air-conditioner setting. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he watched Jolie’s SUV pass by behind him. She threw up a hand and waved good-bye. Odd that a friendship forged in childhood and left unattended for years could remain so strong. Of course, discovering they had a common purpose—righting the wrongs of the past—bound them together now. But was that the only reason he felt a connection to Jolie? It was just gossip. You know how people talk. They said Mr. Sam Desmond and Sadie Fuqua were…Ike’s word played over in his mind, like a needle stuck in a groove on an old record. He didn’t want to believe it was true, that Sam Desmond had fathered his grandmother’s twins, that his mother was a half sibling to the Desmond sisters. He couldn’t deny that he’d wondered about his mother’s light skin and her hazel eyes, eyes he had inherited from her. But he had thought that whatever white blood flowed in her veins came from generations ago.
But if it were true, why hadn’t his mother told him? And why hadn’t he ever heard the rumor before today?
Theron removed his cell phone from the belt clip, fished in his shirt pocket for the number he’d written down this morning, and punched in the digits. She had told him to call anytime before midnight.
She answered on the fifth ring. “Hello.”
“Amy, I apologize for calling so late at night, but—”
“That’s all right. It’s not midnight. I hadn’t gone to bed.”
He loved the sound of her voice. Soft, light, slightly high-pitched, like a little girl’s. But Amy Jardien was no little girl. She was all woman. Beautiful, intelligent, and successful. The kind of lady he liked.
“I suppose it’s too late for me to drop by,” he said.
She laughed, a sweet tinkling sound that aroused him. “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
Theron touched the button that lifted the windows closed, then he put the gears into reverse and backed out of the parking place. Bracing the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he put both hands on the wheel as he headed down Main Street.
“What about tomorrow night?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“How about dinner? Around six-thirty?”
“I usually start my rounds at the hospital at six. But if you’ll make it seven-thirty, then we have a date.”
“Seven-thirty it is.” As Theron turned off Main and onto Oak Avenue, he noticed headlights behind him. A vehicle had made the same turn a couple of minutes after he did. “Do you have any preferences for dinner? Italian? Chinese? Down-home cooking?”
“I’ll let you choose,” she told him. “I’m not picky and I’m afraid my indiscriminate appetite shows on my hips.”
“Your hips look fine to me.” He smiled when he heard her sigh. “As a matter of fact, everything about you looks fine to me. Mighty fine.”
“My, my, Mr. Carter, I had no idea you were such a sweet-talking man. But I should have suspected you would use words to your advantage, since you’re a lawyer.”
“I’ve found that words can be used to hurt, to heal, to seduce…Amy?”
“Yes?”
Theron turned again, off Oak Avenue and onto Pinewood, the street where his rented duplex apartment was located. Instinctively he glanced in the rearview mirror. No sign of headlights. A sense of relief eased through him. Hell, why had he been concerned? You didn’t think somebody was following you, did you?
“You’ve lived in Sumarville all your life, so I was wondering…” He paused. Should he bring up the subject of old hometown rumors? “Nah, just forget it.”
“What? What were you wondering?”
Theron pulled his car into the driveway at the side of his duplex. “I heard a rumor today… an old rumor. About my grandmother.”
“Oh?”
“Ike Denton happened to mention that…Have you ever heard people say anything about my mama being Mr. Sam Desmond’s daughter?”
Amy sucked in a deep breath.
“Amy?”
Theron undid his seat belt, opened the car door, and got out; then he closed and locked the door behind him.
“You mean you don’t know if it’s true or not?” she finally responded. “If it’s true, wouldn’t your mother have told you?”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Using the streetlight to see by, Theron jiggled his key chain, seeking his door key.
“No, Theron, I’ve never heard that rumor. But come to think of it, I do remember my mother saying something I thought was rather odd at the time.”
“What was that?” He walked up the sidewalk toward his front door.
“I overheard Mama and Daddy talking
not long after the Belle Rose massacre and Mama said that if it had been anyone else, she wouldn’t have believed it, but that Lisette Desmond was just the type of woman who would have taken her own brother as a lover. I wondered what Mama meant because the Desmond sisters didn’t have a brother.”
“My God!”
“You shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Amy said. “Ask your mother. She’ll tell you the truth.”
Theron started to insert the key in the deadbolt lock on his front door. Hearing a car drive by, he glanced over his shoulder in time to see a dark sedan pull over to the curb and stop in front of the duplex.
“Amy, will you hold on for a minute,” Theron said. “I’ll—”
Three men emerged from the car. Three white men.
“Amy, call the police station and tell them to send a patrol car to my house, 118-B Pinewood.”
Theron’s hand shook as he tried to insert the house key into the lock. Three trailer-trash white guys trooping toward his duplex had to mean trouble. Big trouble. For him.
“Theron, what’s wrong?”
“Just do it!”
The damn key was upside down!
Leaving the phone on, he slid it onto his belt clip and turned to face the threesome coming right at him. He didn’t have time to unlock the door, get inside, and deadbolt the door.
“Good evening,” one of the men said, the tallest of the three, the guy in the middle.
“Evening,” Theron replied, trying for a show of bravado. “What can I do for y’all?”
They hadn’t tried to disguise their appearances, had done nothing to prevent him from recognizing them and identifying them at a later date. That meant one of two things—either they had no intention of physically harming him or they were going to kill him.
Jolie stopped at the closed gates, rolled down the window, reached out, and punched in the code numbers Aunt Clarice had given her. She had memorized the codes for the gate and for the house. When had her father installed the security system at Belle Rose? Not immediately after the murders, so it must have been sometime after he sent her away. Had he been afraid that someone might harm his new family?
What She Doesn't Know Page 17