by Eve Gaddy
A few minutes later, Jackson was literally dragging Casey by the arm over to the ambulance. Jackson was a few inches taller and his hair not nearly as dark a brown as his sister’s, but there was a definite family resemblance. Just now, the similarity lay mostly in their identical determined expressions.
As they passed Nick, Casey shot him a look of acute dislike. “Thanks a lot,” she said, or rather, croaked.
He smiled as he watched them go. Casey was tall—five foot nine or ten, he’d guess—and slim, with dark hair escaping from a ponytail that flowed nearly to her butt. She was pretty now, even considering the effects of the fire. He bet when she cleaned up she’d be a knockout.
His stay at Bellefontaine might just be more interesting than he’d anticipated.
LATER, AFTER the Fire Captain in charge, Ted Mitchell, pronounced the house safe, the family gathered in the billiards room to talk to the officials. The family and Nick Devlin. Ordinarily, Casey didn’t mind Jackson bringing his friends home. Especially not a gorgeous one like Nick. She was human, after all. But tonight was very personal, family business. And however delicious he might be, Nick Devlin wasn’t family.
Thank goodness Murray and his father had gone home. Though Murray was a frequent and welcome visitor, relations were still strained between the elder Dewalt and the Fontaines. Neither Casey nor Jackson had ever heard the full story. Esme, usually eager to discuss all topics having to do with the family, wouldn’t speak of the man at all.
Hoping to get Megan back to sleep, Tanya had taken the little girl to one of the garçonnières quite a bit earlier, after giving the Fire Captain her statement. Again, Casey wondered about the nanny’s reaction to the fire. It didn’t auger well for her care of Megan that she froze in a crisis. Casey intended to talk to Jackson later, though she wasn’t sure yet what she’d say. She knew finding a nanny hadn’t been easy.
Aunt Esme had flatly refused to let them sit in the front parlor or the living room, or indeed, any of the rooms that were part of the Historic Landmark tours. She had a point, Casey supposed, since they were all pretty grubby and could easily ruin the antique furniture and fabric in that part of the old house. What furniture hadn’t been damaged by smoke, that is.
They couldn’t be sure of the extent of the smoke damage yet, though the Fire Captain had assured them the department had run all the tests and the house was safe now. Casey had asked him a lot of questions before they’d all come inside.
“You won’t even notice the smell upstairs after my crew gets through using the reverse fans,” Mitchell had assured her, pointing at the open windows and billowing drapes.
She’d been doubtful, but he obviously knew what he was talking about. The room they were in now, though downstairs, didn’t carry much odor of smoke, just a faint remnant of that and another stronger odor she couldn’t identify.
Casey had taken a seat on the overstuffed dark-blue leather couch directly across from the huge billiards table dominating the room. Beside her, Aunt Esme sat in one of the matching armchairs. Both Jackson and Nick were at the octagonal poker table, in wooden chairs. They were waiting for the Fire Captain, who’d said he’d be there any moment.
“What is that god-awful smell?” Casey asked her aunt.
“Language, dear,” Esme reminded her, frowning. “Ladies don’t say ‘god-awful.’ Though I must say—” she wrinkled her nose fastidiously “—c’est trés désagréable.”
“Unpleasant? It smells like lemon crap,” Casey said.
“Cassandra!”
“Well, it does,” she repeated, unrepentant. Sometimes she thought Esme harped about her language—which wasn’t really all that bad—as a matter of habit. Or possibly because she just enjoyed nagging.
“The smell is from a chemical called ozium,” Nick said. “They spray it in the air, then use the fans to clean the air of smoke. You couldn’t stay in the house if they didn’t use it.”
If he’d been handsome by moonlight, he was even more so in full, glaring light. His eyes were blue enough to drown in, a beautiful, mesmerizing blue as bright as the skies over Ireland, where his ancestors no doubt originated.
“You sound like you know something about fire fighting,” Casey said, willing to be distracted while they waited.
“No, but I was in a hotel fire once. I asked a lot of questions.” His lips twitched and he added, “I like knowing about things.”
He didn’t seem to mind taking charge, either, she thought, remembering how he’d hauled her away from the fire, then tattled to her brother that she’d been overcome by smoke. Though it had really bothered her at the time, she tried not to hold that against him. After all, he had helped them fight the fire before the trucks came. And he’d carried the hoses for her when she’d been about to collapse from exhaustion.
He was still looking at her, a half smile on his lips. Their eyes met, and whatever she’d been about to say completely deserted her mind. In fact, all rational thought pretty much evaporated. She found it hard to breathe.
Oh man, what’s the matter with me? she wondered. All he’d done was smile and meet her eyes and she’d turned into a puddle of rampaging hormones. And a more inappropriate moment for these thoughts she couldn’t imagine.
“Thank you all for meeting me in here,” Ted Mitchell said, entering the room. He took one of the bar stools, piling his papers on the bar itself. “It’s much easier to fill out the report with you all together like this.”
Casey tore her gaze from Nick’s and fixed it gratefully on the Fire Captain, who was holding his clipboard and scribbling on a piece of paper.
“I’d like to start with you, Miss Esme, if you don’t mind. According to reports, your niece found you in the kitchen, unconscious.”
“So I’ve heard. I’m not certain I was unconscious, though I was a bit stunned.” Esme sniffed and regally inclined her head, clearly intent on putting her own spin to the events.
At sixty-one, Esme Fontaine was every inch the Southern society matron. Though she’d never been married, she carried an air of assurance that stretched back to her Creole ancestors on the paternal side, as well as the French aristocracy on her mother’s side. Esme had been educated at the Sorbonne, and spoke flawless French as a matter of course.
Just now, she appeared more fragile than she normally did. It bothered Casey, because her aunt had always been such a rock. Esme’s carefully colored, light auburn hair was a straggling mess, hanging in her face in a way that Casey knew would have horrified her aunt if she’d realized it. Aside from that, soot smudged both her face and her clothes. Casey doubted Esme had ever been so bedraggled in her life.
Esme wore a dressing gown of very expensive silk brocade, a gift Jackson had brought from Paris. Casey hoped it wasn’t ruined, since she knew how much Esme loved it. Jackson was the apple of Esme’s eye, or had been until he’d brought his illegitimate daughter home to live with them. Still, even that solecism hadn’t caused him to fall below Casey in her aunt’s esteem.
Casey didn’t doubt her aunt loved her, but she knew she exasperated the older woman. Despite Esme’s determined efforts, Casey had stubbornly resisted all attempts to have her take her rightful place in Baton Rouge society. Casey had neither the inclination nor the patience for the things Esme considered so vital to a woman of good family growing up in Louisiana.
Only when forced—usually by a gentle request from her mother, or worse, an abrupt command from her father—did Casey make a grudging appearance at the functions that were her aunt’s raison d’être. Casey just wanted to be left alone to grow her sugarcane. Everything else took second place, or lower, in Casey’s scheme of things.
“Can you tell us what happened, Miss Esme?” Mitchell had been acquainted with the family for some years now. He was also no dummy, and knew how to treat older Southern ladies. Politely requesting information, with a touch of deference, drew her out infinitely better than barking questions would.
Esme nodded. “I came down to make some hot tea.
I enjoy iced during the day, but there’s nothing like a cup of hot tea at night, n’est-ce pas? The Earl Grey is my favorite. Do you like tea, Mr. Mitchell? My niece doesn’t,” she added, with a reproving glance at Casey.
Casey rolled her eyes but remained silent. Another bone of contention was Casey’s dislike of tea, iced or otherwise. Esme held firm that no true Southerner disliked iced tea.
The Fire Captain gently led Esme back to the point. “Yes, ma’am. Did you see any sign of the fire when you first entered the kitchen?”
“Well, I hardly know. Although I thought I smelled something a little odd, I didn’t pay much attention. My television show was coming back on and I was in a hurry. Do you watch the Arts and Entertainment Channel, young man? Quite fascinating. Tonight was a show about—” She caught herself. “But that’s neither here nor there. I went in to put the kettle on to boil. That’s when it happened.” She paused dramatically, looking around at her audience to be sure they watched. Esme loved to be the center of attention.
“What happened, Miss Esme?”
“A man was in the kitchen. A great big ruffian of a man. I only caught a glimpse of him. I started to scream and he rushed at me. Something hit my head. The next thing I knew, I was out in the yard. Alone,” she added, with another glance at Casey.
“What man?” Casey demanded. “Aunt Esme, you didn’t mention this earlier.”
“Of course I didn’t. The important thing was to put the fire out.”
“Can you describe this man?” Mitchell asked.
Esme shook her head regretfully. “No, I’m afraid not. I only saw him for a moment. Dark hair. And big and rough looking, as I said.”
The Fire Captain from the other truck entered the room just then, going directly to Mitchell and conferring with him in a low voice. After a few moments, Mitchell nodded. “All right, you boys go on. I’ll be along after I finish up this report.”
He spoke to everyone else now. “Preliminary investigation establishes that the fire started with a pan of grease on the stove. There was a burner with a tea kettle on it beside the pan, but the burner beneath the kettle was off. The one beneath the grease, however, was still on.”
Esme stared at him for a full thirty seconds. “You’re saying I turned on the wrong burner? Are you implying the fire was my fault, young man?” she demanded imperiously. “When I’ve told you about the man I surprised? Why, I never heard such slander in all my born days. You think I, a Fontaine born and bred, am lying about what took place?”
“No, ma’am. Not at all,” the Fire Captain replied. “I’m saying the fire was caused by the grease overheating.”
“There was no pan of grease on the stove I used. That woman,” she said, referring to Betty Rabaud, their longtime cook and Esme’s nemesis, “wouldn’t dream of using that stove. She’d better not, if she knows what’s good for her. No, you’re mistaken, young man.”
“Miss Esme, you misunderstand me. I think someone wanted the fire to appear accidental. This fire was anything but. Not only do we have your claim about a man in the house, and the cut hoses that Casey told us about, but I was just informed that the smoke alarm in the kitchen had been disabled.”
“So that’s why I didn’t hear anything when I was coming from the greenhouse—not until I was nearly there,” Casey said. “I couldn’t understand why the alarm hadn’t gone off earlier, especially with so much smoke in the kitchen.”
Mitchell nodded. “I think it’s clear the fire was set deliberately.”
“I should say so,” Esme said huffily.
Mitchell wrote some more down on the papers on his clipboard. When he looked up, he caught Casey’s eye. “Casey, I understand you pulled your aunt out of danger. Can you tell me what you saw? As exactly as you can describe it, please.”
Esme, still fuming and muttering about the perceived insult, distracted her. Casey took a breath and gathered her thoughts. “I was walking up from the greenhouse when I smelled smoke, but I didn’t think much of it until I got closer. I think the alarm went off just as I rounded the corner and saw the flames shooting from the kitchen. I heard Toodles barking and ran inside to find Aunt Esme lying on the floor.”
She closed her eyes, reliving the scene in her mind. The fear, the near panic. “I knew I had to get her out. I didn’t notice a lot, since I was concentrating on Aunt Esme, but the fire was getting worse, just in that short time.”
Mitchell nodded and took more notes. “Did you notice a pan burning on the stove?”
“No. I didn’t even think about looking for the source. I guess I should have pulled the pan off. After I got Aunt Esme out, I was so worried about Megan, I went straight to get her.”
“You might have burned yourself severely if you’d attempted to move that pan, so it’s just as well you didn’t. What did you do next?”
“I ran upstairs and got Megan and her nanny. On the way up, I called 9-1-1. Why was the smoke so bad up there? I could hardly see.”
“Smoke rises. You shouldn’t have gone upstairs, you might have been overcome by the smoke and fumes.” He smiled at Casey to take the sting out of his words. “But with your niece upstairs, I can understand why you did.”
“Thank God she did.” Jackson had begun pacing the room while the captain questioned Casey. “All this—” he waved a hand, indicating the house “—from a grease fire?”
“You’d be surprised how quickly a house can go up. It could have been much worse. As it is, most of the fire damage is likely to be confined to the kitchen. You’ll have possible smoke damage throughout the house, however.”
“You really think someone set the fire deliberately?” Casey asked him. It seemed impossible.
Mitchell nodded. “Looks that way. We’ll know more after the Fire Inspector comes out tomorrow.”
“But why would anyone want to burn down Bellefontaine?”
“I don’t know, Casey. That’s what the Fire Inspector will try to find out. Did anyone else see anything suspicious?” He glanced at Jackson and Nick.
Nick shook his head. “No, we got here not too long before the fire trucks arrived.”
“We didn’t see a thing.” Jackson shook his head, as well.
Mitchell turned to Casey again. “Going back to Miss Esme’s statement, you didn’t see a strange man? Or any sign of one when you rescued your aunt?”
Esme bristled, but Casey ignored her. “No,” she said slowly. “But I wasn’t paying attention to anything except getting Aunt Esme out.” Truthfully, she wondered about the existence of this mysterious stranger. Esme had been on the floor, overcome by smoke. She could have been confused. But then, the hoses had been cut, and the smoke alarm disabled. Those were facts. Very troubling facts.
“I know you think I imagined that man, but if that’s so, then why do I have a lump on the back of my head?” Esme held herself rigidly. “Ask the paramedics—they treated me.”
Jackson squatted beside her chair and patted her hand. “Aunt Esme, no one thinks you imagined it. We’re just not sure of anything yet. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” He turned to the Captain. “I think my aunt needs to rest. Have you got enough for your report?”
Mitchell nodded and rose. “Hank Jensen, the Fire Inspector, will be out tomorrow. Don’t touch anything or try to clean up until you clear it with him.” He hesitated a moment and added, “I know it might not seem like it, but you folks are lucky that there’s so little damage compared to what there might have been.”
Casey snorted. Lucky, yeah right. She hadn’t the heart to look tonight, but the kitchen was probably destroyed.
After he left, Esme turned to Jackson and, in a voice that easily carried, said, “Jackson, dear, you haven’t introduced me to your friend.”
Jackson laughed. “I guess I never did formally introduce you two. Aunt Esme, this is an old friend of mine, Nick Devlin. Nick, this is my aunt, Esme Fontaine. I brought him home to stay with us. He’s, uh, working in Baton Rouge.”
“I’ll leave you to
see to his comfort. I’m really quite exhausted.”
“Do you want me to help you, Aunt Esme?” Casey asked.
“No, dear. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
Casey argued with her, but Esme was firm. She left after bestowing a somewhat unfocused smile on Nick.
“Chicken,” Casey said to Jackson after Esme left. It had suddenly dawned on her just what kind of work Nick Devlin was doing in Baton Rouge. She looked at Nick. “You’re a gambler, aren’t you? That new casino is yours.”
“Guilty,” he said, and smiled. “At least, it was mine before I sold it to Guy Moreau.”
“Aunt Esme’s going to kill you,” she told her brother. “You know how she feels about the casinos.” She turned to Nick and, in a passable imitation of her aunt, said, “Encouraging riffraff, and worse, to inhabit our city. But I’ll let Jackson deal with that.”
“No point telling her until we have to,” Jackson said, seeming unconcerned. “Nick, I’m going to check on my daughter and then turn in. Casey, can you take him out to the other garçonnière? The one closest to the kitchen, since I put Tanya and Megan in the farthest one.”
“But—” Before she could finish her protest, Jackson had tossed her the keys and left the room. Great, Nick Devlin, staying at Bellefontaine. She’d been sure her reaction to him had been a passing one, and since she’d assumed she wouldn’t see him again, she hadn’t been too worried. She had a feeling ignoring him would be a lot harder with him under the same roof.
She looked at him and he smiled, a beautiful smile that made dimples wink provocatively in his cheeks. Her heart rate sped up. Hard to ignore? Try impossible.
CHAPTER THREE
“YOUR FACE IS REMARKABLY EASY to read,” Nick said, enjoying the moment.
Casey got up and walked toward the French doors leading outside. “Is that a fact? Tell me, Nick, what am I thinking?”
“You’re annoyed your brother invited me to stay. Especially now, with everything in an uproar. And you’re having to be polite when you’d like nothing better than to tell me to take a flying leap. Am I close?”
