Midnight Bayou

by Nora Roberts

  She’d cased the first floor when he’d led her back to the kitchen, and going in through the back, she arrowed straight to the library and the big rolltop desk she’d spotted.

  People with money kept cash handy, in her experience. Moving quickly, she yanked open drawers, riffled through, then let out a shout when she found a neat pile of fifties. Those she stuffed into her pocket.

  She figured the books he’d shelved and the ones yet in boxes were probably worth something. But they’d be heavy, and hard to sell. He’d likely have more cash, a few pieces of jewelry up in his bedroom.

  She raced up the main stairs. The fact that he could come back at any time only added to the thrill of stealing.

  A door slammed, had her falling straight to her knees. Just a draft, she told herself as she caught her breath, as the pulse in her throat began to pop. Big, drafty old house. In fact, she felt cold air whisk over her as she jumped to her feet again.

  She touched a doorknob, yanked her hand away again. The knob was so cold it all but burned.

  Didn’t matter. What the fuck? His room was down the hall. She wasn’t as stupid as people thought she was. Hadn’t she watched the house over the last few days? Hadn’t she seen him come out on the gallery from the room at the far corner?

  Laughing out loud, the sound rolling back over her, she dashed down, streaked through the open door. She yanked open the top drawer of a dresser and hit pay dirt with the old carved box inside.

  Gold cuff links—at least she assumed they were real gold. Silver ones, too, with some sort of fancy blue stone. Diamond studs, a gold watch. And in a box inside the box, a woman’s ring of . . . ruby maybe, diamond and ruby, fashioned in interlocking hearts.

  She set the box on the dresser, hunted through a couple more drawers until she found another wad of cash.

  Paid anyway, didn’t you, you bastard. Paid just fine.

  She tossed the bills into the jewelry box, tucked the box under her arm.

  Standing there, her breath whistling out in excitement, cocaine dancing in her blood, she debated the satisfaction of trashing the place. It would be satisfying—more payment. But it wasn’t smart. And she was smart.

  She needed time to turn the jewelry into cash, time to turn some of the cash into drugs. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. Best to leave things as they were.

  She’d go out the other side, just in case her long-nosed mama was looking this way.

  But when she stepped back into the hall, she found herself staring at the third-floor stairs.

  What was up there? she wondered. Maybe something good. Maybe something she could come back for later. Something that would make her rich.

  Her breath wasn’t just whistling now, but wheezing. Her skin was ice cold. But she couldn’t resist the urge to climb those stairs. She was alone in the house, wasn’t she? All alone, and that made it her house.

  It was her house.

  Swallowing continually to wet her dry throat, she started up. Shivering.

  Voices? How could she hear voices when there was no one there? But they stopped her, urged her to turn back.

  Something wrong here, something bad here. Time to go.

  But it seemed hands pressed to her back, pushed her on until, with trembling fingers, she reached for the door.

  She meant to ease it open, slowly—just take a peek. But at the touch of her hand, it swung violently open.

  She saw the man and woman on the floor, heard the baby screaming in the crib. Saw the woman’s eyes—staring and blind. And dead.

  And the man, his hair gold in the dim light, turned to look at her.

  Lilibeth tried to scream, but couldn’t grab the air. As she opened her mouth, something pushed into her. For one horrifying moment it became her. Then it swept through her. Cold, vicious, furious.

  Another figure formed in the room. Female, sturdy, in a long night robe.

  Julian.

  And in speechless terror, Lilibeth turned and ran.

  17

  Within twenty-four hours, Declan discovered he had more help on the house than he knew what to do with. Apparently everyone in Louisiana was invited to the wedding, and they were all willing to lend a hand.

  He had painters, plumbers, carpenters and gofers. And though it occurred to him in the middle of the melee that if half that amount had pitched in to repair the original venue, the job would have been done in about twenty minutes, he decided to keep the thought to himself.

  It seemed rude to voice it.

  And he appreciated the labor, sincerely. Reminded himself of it whenever he felt certain pieces of the house slipping away from him into someone else’s charge.

  He’d been looking forward to screening in the lower rear gallery himself, but comforted himself that one good hurricane would demand rescreening.

  He’d intended to sand and varnish the ballroom floors, but bucked up when he thought of all the other floors waiting for him throughout the house.

  And he sure as hell didn’t mind turning over the exterior painting to others. It was a hot, exacting and laborious job, and crossing it off his list left him free to tackle the downstairs powder room, and to hang the blown-glass chandelier he’d bought for the foyer, and to finish plans for the mud room. And . . .

  Well, there was plenty to go around, he reflected.

  Then there was the pure pleasure of watching Effie zip in and out on her lunch hour or after work. Even when she brought her mother in tow. Mrs. Renault was a spit-and-polished older version of her daughter with an eye like an eagle and a voice like a drill sergeant.

  Remy was right, she was pretty scary. Declan hid from her, whenever possible and without shame.

  On the second day of the full-out campaign, Declan strode toward the rear gallery to check progress. He was feeling pretty peppy from the tile he’d just set, was covered with ceramic dust from cutting it.

  The noise level was amazing. Voices, radios, power tools. As much as he enjoyed people, he’d have given a thousand dollars for five minutes alone in his house.

  “Jim Ready? I want those windows sparkling, you hear? How’s it going to look in the wedding pictures if those windows are dull? Put your back into it, boy!”

  The sound of Mrs. Renault’s voice had Declan turning sharply on his heel and changing direction. He all but bowled over Odette.

  “Hey, sorry. You all right? I didn’t see you. I was running away.”

  “You got a houseful.”

  “You’re right about that. If this place isn’t fixed up enough to suit General Renault by D Day, we’re all going to be shot.” He took her arm as he spoke and, thinking only of self-preservation, hustled her into the library. Shut the doors.

  “Can I come live at your house?”

  She smiled—a curve of lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re such a good boy, Declan, doing all this for your friend.”

  “I’m not doing much more right now than staying the hell out of the way.”

  “And you’d rather all these people go back where they came from, and leave you be so you can play with your house.”

  “Yeah, well.” He shrugged, pushed his dusty hand through his dusty hair. “There’ll still be plenty to do once they go. We’re not touching the third floor or the servants’ area, and only doing one other room on the second. Tell me what’s wrong, Miss Odette.”

  “I gotta work up to it.” She set down the shopping bag she carried, then walked over to look at some of his books. There were still boxes of them to be shelved, but she saw what it would be. Towers of words, some old and worn, some fresh and new. Small treasures, deep colors.

  “You got vision,” she said at length. “You picture what you want, then you make it happen. That’s a fine skill, cher.”

  “Some people call it single-minded.”

  “You’re anything but. You’ve got a lot of channels in that head of yours. Working on one at a time till it’s done shows character to me. I’m awful fond of you, Declan.”

  �
��I’m awful fond of you, too. I wish you’d sit down, Miss Odette. You look tired.” And troubled. “Why don’t I get us a cold drink?”

  “No, don’t you trouble and risk getting shanghaied by Sarah Jane Renault. Now that’s a single-minded individual, and I don’t fault her for it.”

  “She told me to get a haircut by the end of the week so I don’t look shaggy or freshly shorn for the wedding.” Sulking over it a little, Declan ran a testing hand through his hair. “And that she’ll be putting fancy soaps, towels and so on in all the bathrooms the day before the wedding. I’m not to use them under penalty of death. And I’m to get more green plants inside the house. A house can’t breathe without green plants.”

  “She’s just nervous, honey. Effie’s her baby. Her youngest daughter.” Odette pressed her lips together. “Declan, I’m shamed to say what I have to say to you, and I won’t blame you if, after I’m done, you ask me not to come back in your home again.”

  The words alarmed him, nearly as much as the pain in her eyes. “There’s nothing you can say that would make you unwelcome in my home, Miss Odette. Who hurt you?”

  “Oh, mon Dieu, if this spoils what I see between you and my Lena, I’ll never forgive myself. My daughter stole from you,” she blurted out. “She came in your house and took what was yours.”

  With a heavy heart she reached into her bag, took out his carved box. “This was in her room. I knew it was yours even before I looked in and saw a set of cuff links with your initials. I don’t know if it’s all here, but that’s all there was. If anything’s missing—”

  “Let’s just see. I want you to sit down now. I mean it.”

  She nodded, sank into a chair.

  He chained down his rage as he set the box on a table, opened it. He saw the ring box first, opened it, and felt the worst of the anger fade when the stones glittered up at him.

  “Okay.” He breathed out. “The most important thing’s still here.” As was, as far as he could see, everything else but the couple thousand in twenties he kept secured with the money clip that had been his great-grandfather’s.

  “It’s all here.”

  “You’re not telling me the truth,” Odette said dully.

  “A little cash, that’s all.”

  “I need to know how much so I can pay it back.”

  “Do you think I’d take money from you?” Some of the anger lashed out, made her wince. “Look at my face. Do you think I’d take money from you for this, for anything?”

  Her lips wanted to quiver, so she pressed them into a firm line. “She’s my responsibility.”

  “The hell she is. Don’t insult me again by talking about restitution.”

  Despite her promise not to shed one in front of him, a tear spilled over. “I know what she is. And I know she’ll never be what I hoped for, worked for, wished for from the moment I knew she was inside me. But she gave me Lena.”

  She dug out a tissue, patted her cheeks. There would be no more tears. “I expected she’d steal from me before she took off again, but I didn’t think she’d take from you. I never thought of it, and I’m sorry for that.”

  “You want to look at my face again and see if I blame you?”

  “No, you don’t blame me. Oh, I want you for my Lena. I’m sitting here knowing my child stole from you, and all I can think is I want you for my baby.”

  “Good thing, because I want me for her, too.” He picked up the ring box, crossed over to her chair. “I bought this for her. Maybe you could put in a good word for me so when I give it to her, she takes it.”

  Odette looked at the ring and sighed. “Suits her. Sure does suit her. She’s got a good heart, Declan, but it’s got scars on it. She’s so strong. Sometimes I worry she’s too strong, and she’ll forget how to give. I’ll have to tell her about this.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll have to figure out how to keep her from pulling away from you when she knows. That’s what she’ll want to do.”

  “Don’t worry. Where’s Lilibeth?”

  “Gone. I found this in her room this morning. She’s barely come out of there since the day before. When I went in and found it, I put it away where she wouldn’t find it. Then we had words about it. She packed up and left. She’ll come back,” she said in the same hollow tone he’d heard from Lena. “In a year or two. And we’ll go through it once more.”

  “We’ll deal with it when it happens.” He leaned down, kissed her cheek. “I love you.” When her eyes filled again, he took her hand. “Whether Lena’s ready for it or not, we’re family now. Family sticks.”

  “When I meet your mama,” Odette managed, “I’m gonna give her one big, rib-cracking hug.”

  “That’ll set her up. Why don’t we take a look at what’s happening around here, and you can protect me from General Renault.”

  He didn’t expect it to take long, and wasn’t disappointed. About the time most of his free labor was packing up for the day, and Effie and her mother had him out in the back garden, Lena strode around the side of the house.

  Since he was in the middle of the series of uh-huhs, you-bets and no-problems that had become his litany of responses to the Renault women’s wedding agenda, he decided the confrontation in Lena’s eyes would be a relief.

  “The railings and baluster will be wrapped in tulle and lace.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And we’ll have baskets—white baskets—of flowers set out on the gallery there.”

  “You bet.”

  “The florist will need to start early on the day of the wedding, so you just scoot out of the way and make sure they have access to all the areas of the house I’ve got marked off on my chart here.”

  “No problem. Lena.” He reached out and clutched her hand. A drowning man grabbing a rope. “We’re just talking about flower arrangements.”

  “Flowers are the landscape of a wedding,” Mrs. Renault declared, and made more notations on the clipboard she carried everywhere. “How are you, Lena?”

  “I’m just fine, Miss Sarah Jane. Isn’t this exciting? Counting right down to the big day. Effie, you must be half mad with the details.”

  “I’ve passed half, working toward pure insanity.”

  “It’ll all be beautiful.” She kept her smile bright, her voice light even as the dark heat coursed through her. “Those rhododendrons are going to be spectacular on your day.”

  “The gardens are going to be a sight,” Mrs. Renault agreed, and ran down her checklist again. “Pity, though, there wasn’t time to put up an arbor, train some sweet peas up.” She looked over the tops of her reading glasses at Declan with a faintly accusatory gleam.

  “Maybe the Franks can rig something. Ah, can you excuse me a minute? There’s something I need to show Lena.”

  He escaped, pulling her toward the steps to the second-floor gallery. There were still some of General Renault’s militia on the lower level. “They’re like ants,” he babbled. “Crawling out of the woodwork when you’re not looking.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “People. Everywhere. Watch that bucket. I think the ballroom’s safe.”

  “Feeling a little pressed, are you, cher?”

  “I’m thinking of a nice vacation in Maui until this is over. I’ve got to say, I admire women.”

  “Really.” She glanced down at the ladders, the tarps, the debris of construction—and the two women picking their way through it with visions of tulle and lace in their heads. “Why is that?”

  “You can be spitting mad, and still carry on a polite conversation about rhododendrons.” He peeked through the ballroom doors, sighed. “All clear. Anyway, when most guys work up a head of steam, it spews. Well . . .” He stepped inside. “What do you think?”

  The walls were a pale rose, the floor gold and gleaming.