She looked up. “Imagine that, Mary,” she said, “both body and soul in twenty-four hours.”
“Wow! What a deal,” Mary said, “Both body and soul. What more could you ask for?”
Rosie narrowed her eyes. “Are you making fun of my unique herbal remedy?” she asked.
Mary tried to hide her grin. “No, never,” she said. “I mean, wow, twenty-four hours to take care of everything. Took God a whole week.”
Rosie sniffed. “Well, at least you could try it,” she said, handing it to Mary.
Mary nodded, opened the jar and sniffed. She coughed and quickly tightened the lid. “What is this made of? Yak poop?”
Rosie grabbed the jar. “It can’t be that bad,” she said, twisting the lid and holding the jar next to her nose.
“Oh, my,” she said, her nose wrinkling as she screwed the lid back on quickly. “I think I’m going to demand my money back.”
Mary smiled. “I think that’s a very good idea.”
“Maybe I could swap it for some lovely rocks that you lay on your body and they absorb your pain,” she suggested.
“Or you could just get your money back,” Mary said, swinging her chair back to her computer.
Rosie nodded and sighed. “You’re just not any fun anymore.”
Mary heard the door close and sighed. Rosie was right; she wasn’t much fun right now. The head of the forensics team Bradley sent out to the fort called earlier that day. He told her they had found the remains of the girls and would be contacting their parents.
The remains of Jessica had already been found and her memorial service was scheduled for the next day. Mary hadn’t decided if she was going to attend. She had met with Jessica and the other girls the day after Hank had been taken into custody. They had said their goodbyes and she knew they were already where they were supposed to be.
The families would be the ones dealing with the grief and pain.
“Which is better, hope or closure?” she wondered aloud.
“Closure,” Bradley said, from the doorway.
Mary jumped at his voice, then turned and smiled.
“Good to see you on your feet, Chief,” she said.
Using a wooden cane, he limped into the room, the small cast on his foot leading the way. He lowered himself into a chair. “I needed to get out of my office for a few minutes,” he said, “and I wanted to make sure you heard about the girls.”
She nodded. “I got the call this morning,” she said. “Thanks for moving it along so quickly.”
“Well, Montague was in no position to deny that he had confessed to the murders,” he said. “He’s still babbling about seeing ghosts.”
Mary smiled. “Imagine that.”
Bradley chuckled for a moment and then his face turned thoughtful. “I didn’t want the families to have to wait any longer. Now they can finally move on.”
Mary nodded. “I can’t imagine what those families went through for all of those years,” she said. “How do you go on with your life?”
Bradley sighed. “You go on because you have to,” he said. “Because if you don’t, you will go crazy.”
“You sound like you have experience with this kind of thing,” Mary said.
Bradley shrugged. “I’ll tell you about it sometime,” he said. “But now I have to get back to my office.”
He hobbled over to the door, stopped and turned back to Mary. “Are you ever going to tell me what went on in the back of Hank’s truck?” he asked. “Something tells me that it’s important to remember, but my memory is still fuzzy.”
Mary shook her head. “I really can’t think of anything that stands out,” she said evasively. “But if I do, I’ll let you know.”
Bradley nodded. “You do that,” he said.
He grabbed the door handle, walked out of the doorway and just before he closed the door said, “By the way, Mary, my wife’s name was Jeannine.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Terri Reid lives near Freeport, the home of the Mary O’Reilly Mystery Series, and loves a good ghost story. She lives in a hundred-year-old farmhouse complete with its own ghost. She loves hearing from her readers at [email protected].
***
OTHER BOOKS BY TERRI REID:
Loose Ends—A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book One)
Good Tidings—A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Two)
Never Forgotten—A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Three)
Final Call—A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Four)
Darkness Exposed—A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Five)
Natural Reaction—A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Six)
Secret Hollows—A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Seven)
Broken Promises—A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Eight)
Twisted Paths—A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Nine)
Veiled Passages—A Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book Ten)
The Ghosts Of New Orleans—A Paranormal Research and Containment Division (PRCD) Case File
Find Terri’s Books on Amazon
LOVE AND SMOKE
JENNIFER BLAKE
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.
Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Design.
Copyright © 1989 and 2013 by Patricia Maxwell
First Fawcett Hardcover Edition: May 1989
First Fawcett Paperback Edition: June 1990
First E-Reads Publication: October 2008
First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2013
L’amour et la fumme ne se cachent pas.
Love and smoke cannot be hidden.
~ Old Louisiana Creole proverb
Louisiana Keepsake, 1988
Lillie Petit Gallagher
ONE
SHE COULD DESTROY him. The knowledge of her power was like white heat in Riva Staulet’s brain as she sat watching the man on the speaker’s platform. There was pleasure in it, and triumph. There was no man she despised as much as Edison Gallant, the newly announced Democratic candidate for governor of Louisiana, and none who had hurt her more. At the same time, the consciousness of her will to use that power made her uneasy. She was not vindictive by nature, and the satisfaction she felt at having the means to stop Edison seemed wrong. Not that she meant to allow such scruples to stand in her way. The consequences of failure were too great.
Nothing of the turmoil Riva felt was apparent. She sat with her hands loosely clasped in her lap and an expression of polite interest on her clear-featured face. She was still beautiful at forty, a woman of elegance and grace dressed in monochromatic perfection in cream linen with the lustrous double strands of the famous Staulet pearls about her neck. Her hair was glossy with health and without a sign of gray in the golden brown, classic chin-length style. Her oval face had a serious cast, in part the effect of her dark, straight brows. A wide-brimmed hat of cream Italian straw shaded green eyes that had a warm gold rim around the iris, and cast lacy shadows across her high cheekbones. It was a practical hat against the hot Louisiana sun that beat down on those gathered for this “old time” political rally, but at the same time it added an air of mystery. She looked like a lady, cool and self-possessed, but one who kept her secrets.
Riva knew exactly what she looked like, and why. If she had learned anything in the twenty-five years since she had last seen Edison Gallant, it was control of her emotions.
He had ch
anged. He was heavier, his voice was richer and deeper, and there was silver shining in his perfectly cut blond hair. There was about him the burnished appearance that actors and professional politicians take on. Regardless, his eyes were still piercingly blue, and there was something about him that made every woman in the audience sit up a little straighter and smile when he looked her way.
Every woman except Riva Staulet. She met his gaze as it moved over her without a flicker of response. Her stillness, the impassive watchfulness of her, caught his attention, for he paused in his sweep of the audience. Uncertainty flickered across his face and was gone. He gave the smallest possible nod in her direction before he continued with his speech.
Edison didn’t know her. He thought he did, no doubt, thought he recognized the widow of the well-known businessman Cosmo Staulet, the woman who was now co-owner, with her stepson Noel Staulet, of Staulet Corporation, a multinational company with interests as diverse as sugar and oil, marine insurance and microprocessors. It was not surprising that he should think so. Her face often graced the business and social pages of newspapers all over the state, particularly those of the New Orleans dailies during the Mardi Gras season, and was not unknown in the tabloids of the larger cities on the Eastern Seaboard and in Europe. She had been cited for her efforts toward historic preservation and restoration, both in general and on her own antebellum plantation known as Bonne Vie. Her decorating skills as shown in her “cabin” in Colorado and her villa in the islands had appeared in Architectural Digest and Modern Home, and she had been approached more than once by those behind the television program “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,” though she had refused the opportunity to be featured. She was a woman of high visibility but one selective about where she chose to appear. However, it was not who she was that was important at this moment, but who she had been.
She would swear that Edison did not recognize her at all. She did not know whether to be pleased or angry, complimented or saddened.
Riva had known of Edison’s political maneuvering for some time, for years, in fact. She could have put a stop to it long ago, and perhaps she should have. It was Cosmo who had counseled restraint. Mere revenge was beneath her dignity, he had said. Let the past remain in the past. Everyone knew what happened when you touched pitch.
Cosmo had been fond of maxims. He had also been wise. It didn’t matter. He was gone, had been dead these six long months, and things had changed. She would have to touch pitch. The only question was how dirty she would get.
The people on the platform behind Edison looked hot. The two other candidates for office who had already spoken and Edison’s campaign chairman, the organizer of this south Louisiana political rally, sat squinting while perspiration trickled down their faces. Edison’s wife, in navy silk, fanned herself with her handkerchief, and his sandy-haired son twitched his broad football player’s shoulders and tugged at his shirt collar.
The smell of the jambalaya, rich with ham and shrimp, that was waiting to be served wafted over the gathering. Mingling with it was the alcoholic yeastiness of the chilled kegs of beer that had already been broached and the hay scent of the park’s freshly mown grass. A soft breeze brushed over the crowd, alleviating the heat for an instant and stirring the leaves of the live oaks that were dotted about the grass to a cool-sounding whisper. The instant the wind died, the hot and humid air closed in again.
Beside Riva, the man who was her escort for the occasion shifted in his chair, then lifted a fist to stifle a yawn. She gave him a swift smile of apology. Listening to political speeches, she knew, was not Dante Romoli’s idea of a fun way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Dante only shook his head with its close-cropped brown curls, his dark gaze wry but patient. He was with Riva, and that was what mattered.
There came the clatter of applause. Edison Gallant, with a last two-handed wave, stepped away from the microphone. His campaign manager made an announcement about the gumbo and the jambalaya that had been waiting as long and was as spicy-hot as the audience was overheated. People began to rise from their folding chairs, chatting among themselves, moving to seek the shade of the oaks or the food tents set up in a row.
“Aunt Riva! Over here!”
Riva turned at the hail. Bearing down upon her was a young woman so vividly attractive that heads swung around as she passed. Her hair was golden blond and curled abundantly about her shoulders, and her eyes were clear and sparkling green. She moved with a model’s long, confident stride and such total disregard for how she looked that it was disarming. Riva’s face lighted at the sight of her niece, her sister’s daughter, and she braced herself for Erin’s exuberant hug.
Erin greeted Dante, then turned back at once to speak to Riva. “If I had known you were coming, I’d have saved you a seat in the shade. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was a last-minute impulse.”
“There must be a lot of that going around. I met Noel just now. Seems one of his old college buddies is in charge of this get-together and persuaded him to come.”
Riva looked past her niece and nodded to the tall, dark man who sauntered in the girl’s wake. Her greeting was as stilted as the one she received in return from Noel Staulet, her dead husband’s son by his first marriage. Since she had seen Noel scant hours before at the breakfast table, there was no call for transports, but the reserve between them suddenly struck her as absurd, as absurd as the familiar pain it gave her. They were two adults, and it was more than twenty years since the afternoon Cosmo Staulet had sent his only son away for her sake. Noel had not been a displaced child at the time, but a young man fully five years older than she had been herself. She recognized that Noel had valid reason to resent her and tried to make allowances. The relationship between them had been less than cordial since his return from near exile in France just before Cosmo’s death, but surely it would do him no permanent injury to be pleasant in public.
Her niece Erin was rattling on, claiming her attention. “I know what it is, though, Aunt Riva, you can’t fool me. You wanted a look at Josh, that’s what. Wasn’t it sweet of him to sit up there sweltering just to support his dad? And isn’t he a certified hunk? Come on, I’ll introduce you. You can meet the next governor, too!”
Riva permitted herself to be pulled forward. Perhaps it was better this way, more natural. She glanced over her shoulder at Dante, who had fallen into step beside Noel as they trailed after Erin and herself. Dante’s presence at this meeting would be comforting, but it was unplanned. If it turned out to be a mistake, it could not be helped.
Edison was holding court under the gnarled branches of a grand old live oak. There were members of the press gathered three-deep around him, something Riva might have expected if she had taken the time to think about it. She hung back, unwilling to interrupt what was apparently an impromptu news conference. Erin veered to one side, waving to Edison’s son.
A grin split Josh Gallant’s square face as he saw Erin. He lifted a hand, waded out of the congestion around his father. As the introductions were made, Riva gave the young man her hand. There was something about his confident blue gaze, the curve of his mouth, the lift of his chin that made her throat close for a stifling instant.
“Mrs. Staulet,” he said, “I’ve heard so much about you from Erin that it seems I know you already.”
She summoned a smile. “Yes, I…have to say I feel the same.”
The young man shook hands with Noel and Dante, then glanced over his shoulder. “I think the press hounds have had about enough. I know Mom and Dad will want to meet you.”
A moment later, Riva was standing before Edison Gallant and his wife. A nervous tremor moved down her spine, then faded away. She held her head high, drawing on years of poise gained in rarefied social circles and buttressed by old money and new accomplishments. She was no longer a barefoot country girl in a faded gingham dress. There was no reason to be intimidated.
“Erin’s aunt? I would have said her sister,” Edison said with practiced charm as
the formalities were completed. “It’s a great honor and a pleasure to have you here. My wife and I appreciate you taking the time from your busy schedule.”
On cue, Anne Gallant murmured, “Yes, indeed.” She stood a little stiffly, as if self-conscious in her role as political wife. She was perfect for the part, very much the Junior League matron with a white Peter Pan collar on her dress, navy and white spectator pumps, and no jewelry. Regardless, there was an odd mixture of boredom and apprehension in her hazel eyes. As she glanced toward her son Josh, who had an arm around Erin, the fixed smile on her face grew warmer and more animated.
“The pleasure is mine,” Riva said, and was proud of the even, composed sound of her voice. She dismissed Edison’s comment as obvious flattery. However, the light of appreciation in his eyes was unsettling. She preferred this contact between them to be impersonal, and over with as quickly as possible.
One of the photographers with the news crew that was moving off looked back. When he saw Riva and her niece, he swung around to return, taking the lens cover off his camera once more. Whether he recognized her or was only attracted by the picture she and Erin made with the new candidate and his wife and son was hard to tell, but his attention appeared to be fixed on Erin. The dark-haired and lanky young man grinned at the girl before he lifted his camera and began to focus.
Riva was used to being in front of the camera, but this wasn’t a meeting she cared to have recorded. She lifted her hand in a gesture of denial. It was never finished, however, for Edison was already flashing his quick smile, already putting his arm around Erin. The five of them froze in place as the camera clicked and whirred.
The photographer called his thanks, walking backward with his gaze still on Erin, before he finally swung around and broke into a trot to catch up with the other newspeople. Riva wished she knew what paper the young man was with so that she could kill the picture. Failing that, she could only hope that with so many others taken today, this particular one would hold little interest.
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