“I mean she shot the robber.” Mike spoke slowly as if he was a slow-witted child. “What did you do to make her so mad?”
Drake ignored her question. Christine had killed someone? Truly? No wonder she looked so upset.
“Are you going to answer me?” Mike tapped her foot against the banquette.
“What question?”
“What did you do?” asked Mike.
“Pardon?”
“What did you do? That woman is so angry with you—with us—she nearly melted the paint off the walls.”
Drake peered through the glass. Christine still sat on the pouf. She’d tilted her face to look up at Kenton, revealing tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I didn’t do anything.” He hadn’t. Things had been better than fine until she disappeared.
“Do you think she heard us?”
“What?” He tore his gaze away from Christine and focused on Mike.
“In your hotel room.”
He stared at her.
“Don’t you remember? I asked if she knew about me and if—when—you planned on telling her. You said never.”
The sensation of solid ground falling away beneath his feet was gut-wrenching. His heart rose to his throat. His stomach sank to his knees. And the shot of adrenaline in his system left him looking for someone to fight. “She was gone by then.” Wasn’t she? She had to be.
“What if she came back?” Mike voiced his fear.
If she had heard his conversation with Mike, she’d think he’d betrayed her. Betrayal wasn’t something Christine would forgive. “I have to explain.” He stepped toward the door.
Mike stopped with him a hand on his arm. “She’s too angry to listen right now.”
Drake peered through the glass. Christine still gazed up at the police detective but the ghost sitting next to her scowled at him.
Warwick Lambert rose from the pouf and soared through a few hats and the glass window. “You want to explain to me what in the Sam Hill you’ve been doing with my daughter?”
Every instant of the night Christine had spent in his bed scrolled through Drake’s mind and a dull heat warmed his cheeks. Drake told Lambert about the search for the coins, the trip into the bayou, finding the water, and the debacle at Jackson Square.
Lambert listened, his face hardening with each new word. “She did all that for me?”
“She loves you.”
The ghost glanced over his shoulder at his daughter. “I never dreamed I’d be putting her in such danger.”
“What happened in there?” asked Drake.
“Desdemona brought me back. She was fixin’ to kill Christine but the feller arrived.”
“Where did he come from?” asked Mike.
“He broke in through the back,” said Lambert.
“Was he with Desdemona?” she asked.
Lambert opened his mouth as if to speak then left it hanging open. He tilted his head then snapped his jaw shut. “I don’t rightly know. She shot him.”
Drake took a step toward the door. Christine needed him.
Mike’s hand on his sleeve stopped him.
He shook her off and looked at Lambert. “She killed the man on the floor?”
“I already told you that.”
“But she’s afraid to…” Drake’s voice faded at the ferocious look on Lambert’s face.
“My daughter shared her fears with you?”
That one. Drake nodded.
Lambert’s eyes narrowed to slits. “She’s right upset about something. She was riled up even before she shot that sonofabitch.” He rubbed his chin. “I reckon it’s you.”
“I have to talk to her.”
They all glanced inside. Christine sat on the pouf, her hands crossed neatly in her lap, her faced turned up to talk to Kenton. She looked calm now, poised…she even managed a small smile. But with Christine, looks were deceiving. She might appear to be a southern belle with nothing more pressing than the shade of ribbon on her hat but inside Drake knew she was hurting. Over killing a man who meant her harm and over a simple misunderstanding. One easily explained.
If only she’d listen.
Then what?
“I don’t reckon she wants to talk to you.”
Mike patted Drake’s arm. “You can talk to Miss Lambert later.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, ma’am.” Lambert stared with deadly intent. “You stay away from my daughter.”
Chapter Seventeen
An hour passed before the police removed the body from the shop, still another sixty minutes ticked by while a carpenter repaired the back door where the man she’d killed had pried the frame, and yet more time was spent cleaning up once the men with their dirty boots and loud voices departed.
The shop restored to perfect order, thoughts of Drake niggled past Christine’s defenses. That wouldn’t do. She dashed away a tear then picked up a length of satin in a soft shade of gray, matched it with white silk roses, located a charcoal tulle, and unwrapped a yard.
“What are you doing?” asked her father.
“Making a hat.” Her heart still ached over the memory of Drake’s betrayal, of watching him walk away with Mike. Creating a hat was far better than fighting tears.
“I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“I am.” Regret—if only she hadn’t put her faith in Drake—had eclipsed the sunshine of Warwick’s return and her tone was laced with tears.
“You don’t look happy.” He leaned against a doorjamb. “Why are you making a hat?”
When had her father become so interested in the minutia of her day? “I’m a milliner.”
He narrowed his eyes and regarded her with open skepticism. “Why now?”
She dropped the fabric onto the counter and scowled at him. “Why not now?”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “You don’t want to rest after all that’s happened?”
The exact opposite. If she stopped moving, her thoughts and emotions might overwhelm her. Far better to concentrate on contrasting shades of grey. “No.” Her voice didn’t sound as carefree or flippant as she hoped. It sounded desperate. She snatched up the tulle.
“That’s a very somber hat.” His tone was tentative, as if saying the wrong thing might set her to crying. “That man—”
“I don’t want to talk about him.” Her words came out in a rush, faster than the river at flood stage.
Her father pursed his lips as if he meant to argue but the front door opened.
Yvette Simms stepped inside and surveyed the shop. The woman had a knack for appearing whenever there was trouble. At least Yvette’s arrival had saved Christine from her father’s curiosity—or worse—sympathy.
Christine somehow dredged up a smile. “Welcome, Mrs. Simms. What may I do for you today?”
Yvette Simms fingered a velvet ribbon hanging from a hat with a broad brim. “I heard the most amazing story.”
The woman wanted gossip? Hardly a surprise. She should have expected an influx of the nosy as soon as the police left. “Oh?”
“I heard a voodoo witch died in here this morning.”
“Not exactly.” How had Yvette heard about Desdemona?
“Whatever was she doing here? Was she a regular customer?” Yvette’s meaning was clear. If Christine sold hats to women like Desdemona, she needn’t expect to keep Yvette’s custom.
“She walked by, saw a hat in the window that she liked, and came inside for a moment.”
“You don’t say?” Yvette’s voice was bland but her eyes were sharp. “Did she buy the hat?”
“No.”
“And a man. I heard a man died.” Yvette had heard all sorts of things. How?
“He tried to rob me. He was shot.”
“You had an exciting morning.”
Exciting? Not the word Christine would have chosen. She reached deep within herself, found another polite smile, and pasted it on her face. A surge of dislike tightened Christine’s lips, almost destroying the
polite smile. Since the first day they’d met, when Yvette swanned into the shop and spent a small fortune, something about her had rubbed Christine the wrong way. Today that something chaffed. “I shot him.”
Yvette covered her heart with her hands. “How very brave of you. What do you suppose he wanted? It’s not as if he could wear one of your hats.”
“Perhaps the contents of the cash drawer.”
The current owner of her family home sniffed as if she suspected Christine’s cash box was practically bare. It wasn’t.
Christine somehow held onto her smile. “May I help you find a hat?”
Yvette waved her fingers. “No, no. Just looking.” She wandered around the shop, considered this hat, and stroked the velvet ribbon on that one.
“I’ve never liked that woman,” said her father.
Of course he hadn’t. She lived in the house he’d lost. But liking a customer wasn’t a requirement for accepting their money. “That pink one would look lovely on you.”
“You think so?” Yvette tilted her head and traced the edge of the pink ribbon with the tip of her finger. “Where’s that handsome Yankee?”
“No idea.” The painful twinge—more like the sucking wound—just below her left breast reminded her of the hole in her chest. Christine raised her hand to her heart, ignored her father’s curious gaze, and found a few more words. “I do think the pink would look stunning. Let me help you.” She stepped out from behind the counter and lifted a confection of dotted tulle, satin ribbon, and straw off its stand.
Something hard jabbed her in the ribs and she looked down.
Yvette held a gun, a pearl handled derringer, the muzzle of which rested between Christine’s fifth and sixth rib, aimed at her already broken heart.
“What are you doing?” Had Yvette lost her mind? Christine put her free hand on the muzzle and attempted to push it away.
The gun stayed firmly lodged between her ribs. Yvette shook her head slowly. “I wouldn’t do that.” Her voice took on a harder, colder quality. “Where’s the water?”
How did Yvette know about the water? Why did she care? “I gave it to Desdemona.”
The woman with the gun shook her head until the feathers on her hat shimmied. “I don’t believe you.”
Yvette glanced around and her lip curled. “Did you hide it in your little shop?”
“I didn’t hide it anywhere.” The stand of liquor bottles in Drake’s hotel room flashed before Christine’s eyes. “I gave it to Desdemona. She had something of mine.”
“Ah yes, your precious father. I’m quite fond of his card-playing abilities. Did she give him back?”
Yvette couldn’t see Warwick? Christine was careful not to look his way. She didn’t have to see him to know he was bristling.
“I’m quite grateful to your dear father. I do so love my house.” Yvette jabbed the gun deeper into Christine’s side. “Where’s the water?”
Apparently she did still have a heart in her chest. It slowed to a near stop. “How do you know about the water?”
“I’ve known since the start. If my men weren’t idiots, I’d have it now.”
Her men? Yvette in her frilly yellow dress and straw hat with its abundance of ostrich feathers had sent men after her and Drake? The very idea left Christine flabbergasted.
“I know you found the real water, I know you poured it into something else, and I know you filled the flask you gave to Desdemona with water from the tap. I also know that Yankee of yours is holed up at the Monteleone with another woman. He won’t be coming to save you.”
All that might be true but Yvette didn’t know about Warwick. Christine dared a glance his way.
His face was screwed with effort. “I’m still too weak to hurt her.”
“May I?” Christine held up the pink hat and nodded toward its stand.
“Fine.”
Christine settled the hat back into place, then tilted it to just the right angle.
“Where’s the water?” Yvette was certainly single-minded and the way she jabbed her gun suggested a cruel streak.
Christine adjusted the stand, turning it to best show off the hat.
“I mean it.” The gun dug still deeper.
Christine’s fingers closed around the stand’s base. She lifted the heavy brass and swung.
Yvette blocked the blow with her forearm and a pained grunt. “Is that any way to treat your best customer?” She turned her arm from side to side as if being walloped had hardly hurt. “That’s going to leave a bruise. Now, drop it.”
Christine looked into Yvette’s narrowed eyes. Something dark—something that raised gooseflesh—swam there. The woman would shoot her given half a chance. Christine loosened her hold and the stand thudded against the floor.
“Now…last chance, where’s the water?”
“Tell her,” said Warwick. He looked…worried. “Look at her. She’s crazy. She’ll kill you if you don’t.”
With her brows drawn so tight that furrows appeared between her eyes and a sneer on her lips, Yvette did look crazy—crazy enough to kill as soon as she got what she wanted, crazy enough to be a terrifying threat if she somehow drank her way to eternal life. She couldn’t get her gloved hands on the water.
“I gave the water to Desdemona.”
One of Yvette’s brows rose. “Liar.”
“It’s true.” Too bad she wasn’t a better liar when it counted.
“I don’t believe for a minute that your Yankee just tossed the chance for eternity across Jackson Square.”
How did Yvette know what had happened at Jackson Square? Had she been there?
“It’s gone,” Christine insisted. “Desdemona probably drank it.” The gun poking her in the ribs hurt. She’d have a deep bruise—if Yvette let her live that long.
“You’re a terrible liar. The Yankee must have it.” Yvette bit her thumb, considering. “You were willing to trade for your father.” She glanced around the shop as if she expected to see Warwick.
Apparently still too weak to launch himself through Yvette’s heart, Warwick wore a fearsome scowl.
Yvette’s gaze returned to Christine. “I wonder, will your Yankee trade for you?”
…
“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” said Mike.
Drake paused his pacing and scowled at her. “I’m thinking.”
“No, you’re not.” Mike settled back into the only chair in his hotel room. Her lips quirked. “You’re fuming. There’s a difference.”
“This isn’t amusing.”
“It all depends on one’s perspective.”
Drake turned his back on her and resumed his pacing.
“If you explain when she’s not furious, she’ll listen.”
“You don’t understand. Christine won’t forgive betrayal.”
Even with his back turned, he saw her roll her eyes.
“Then it’s a good thing you didn’t betray her.”
Mike truly didn’t understand. She hadn’t read Christine’s expression. Hadn’t seen the absolute rejection on her face.
“Just tell her you love her.”
His feet froze to the carpet. “I can’t.”
“Why not? You’re obviously in love with her.”
“I just can’t.” The women he loved died. To tell Christine of his feelings would be like signing her death warrant.
“Then what do you plan to do?”
Drake raked his fingers through his hair. “No idea.”
Mike leaned back in the chair, crossed her arms, and gave him the kind of look most often worn by teachers of particularly difficult children. “We’re not leaving New Orleans until you tell her how you feel.”
“We?”
If possible, the expression on Mike’s face became more marm-ish, a woman unlikely to tolerate the foolishness of a recalcitrant child. “We. I know you. You’ll walk away from her without saying a word—to her. You’ll tell yourself you’re being noble. You’re not.”
Drake’s hands fisted. Mike was lucky she was a woman. He was spoiling for a fight and her words and tone were the rough equivalent of goading an angry bull. If a man had said such a thing he’d be laid out on the floor nursing his jaw. “She’s better off without me.” The words slipped past barred teeth.
“Pish.” The word hung in the room as delicate as a soap bubble. It popped. “You’re afraid you’ll lose her and you’d rather walk away than take that risk.”
“Mind your own damned business.” His shoulders and neck ached with tension. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just call me a coward.”
Mike’s lips thinned. “I’m sure you will.”
This conversation was over. Drake stalked to the door. His hand closed on the knob. He’d walk away from whomever he damned well pleased, including Mike.
Warwick Lambert flew through the door’s oak panels. “I found you!” The ghost sounded breathless.
Ghosts didn’t breathe.
A sickening knot formed in Drake’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“You have to come! She’s taken Christine!”
Mike stood. “Who took her?”
“That woman. She took Christine.”
That woman. “Desdemona?” There wasn’t enough air in Drake’s lungs to say more.
“Not her!” Lambert wrung his hands, practically hopping with impatience. “Yvette Simms.”
Yvette Simms? The frilly, silly woman who flirted while her husband ailed? Air trickled back into Drake’s lungs
“Who?” asked Mike.
Lambert glanced at her then back at Drake. “She’s one of Christine’s customers—one of her best customers.”
Mike’s brow wrinkled. “Why would she take Christine?”
“She wants the water. She says she’ll trade Christine for it.”
And just like that, the air whooshed out of Drake’s lungs again. “What do you know about the water?”
Lambert stared at him as if he’d asked a stupid question. “Fountain of Youth. Eternal life. Lafitte’s greatest treasure.”
“How long have you known?”
“Years. Before I died. I won a piece of eight and the man I won it from told me the coin was one of three and the key to finding Lafitte’s treasure. I squirreled it away. Can we go find Christine now?”
Bayou Nights Page 23