Darkwater Secrets

by Robin Caroll

  The man had done nothing for Dimitri’s sake. Ever. “I suppose I will just have to figure out a way to pay Geoff’s legal fees myself.” He smiled at the shock on his father’s face. “What you need to understand, Father, is you can’t manipulate me anymore. It’s time I do what I want, what I’m good at. I wish you could understand and support me. I wish you could allow me to bring honor to our name and our legacy through my natural ability, but if you can’t, there’s nothing you can do to stop me from leaving.”

  Claude Pampalon raised a single eyebrow and smiled. “If you leave, my dear Dimitri, I shall have no other recourse than to fire Ms. Fountaine.”

  Beau

  “Am I interrupting?” Beau stood in the doorway of the Fountaine house, staring at Vincent.

  Vincent opened the door wider and pulled Beau into the living room with a shake of his hand. “Nope, I just finished a chapter and need to make some notes for the next. I just made a fresh pot of coffee.” He led the way into the kitchen and pulled out another cup.

  Beau pulled out his chair at the kitchen table. His chair—the one he’d sat in since he was a teen through all the holidays, always welcome at the table like a member of the family. Beau’s throat stung with the rawness of betrayal.

  “I heard you solved your murder case.” Vincent set a mug in front of Beau and one in front of the chair he pulled out and plopped down on. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, but it wasn’t just me. My partner and—”

  “I know it took a team, but you were a lead part of it, so just take the congratulations.”

  Beau nodded and took a sip of his coffee, made just the way he liked it, yet bitterness burnt his tongue. He stared out the kitchen window, seeing the tree he and Addy had climbed as children still standing tall and regal, although older and a little more weathered. Would his relationship with Vincent and Addy be like the tree?

  “Come on, son, spit it out. You don’t just show up here on a Tuesday morning without a good reason. What’s got you bugged?” Vincent always did know how to cut through the excuses and silence and get to the heart of any matter.

  Once he’d made up his mind that he needed to come clean, he realized how much he loved Vincent Fountaine. The man had been more than just a father figure. He’d been an advisor, a sounding board, and a friend. He’d taught Beau how to stand up for himself and others, helped him grieve when his mother passed away, and loved him even when he was being a rebellious teenager. Because of the love and respect he had for Vincent, he knew he couldn’t hold his secret any longer. Not when he had so much to tell Vincent.

  All this morning as he got dressed, and on the ride over, he’d rehearsed this conversation a hundred times. Suddenly, he found himself unsure where to start.

  “Beauregard?”

  “Yes, sir.” He wiped his sweaty palms over his pants. “I need to tell you something, sir. Something I’ve done that I’m not proud of, but even more embarrassed that I kept it from you for such a long time.”

  Vincent shook his head and rested his elbows on the table. “This seems to be the week for it.”

  Ah, so Addy had finally told her father. Good.

  Now it was his turn. “You have to know how much I love and respect you. How much you mean to me. You’ve been such a presence in my life, and I would never want to disrespect you in any way. I hope you know that.” It was important he understood.

  “I know that, and you know that the feeling is mutual. Always has been.” Vincent took a sip of coffee.

  Beau ignored his own mug. “I can never express how much it’s meant to me to have you in my life. You have taught me so much that I can never repay you.” He swallowed the lump lodged in the back of his throat. “I look around this house and so many memories wash over me. You taught me how to fire my first handgun.” He grinned at the memory. “Even though it knocked me flat on my back, you told me to get up and fire again, this time doing what you told me.”

  Vincent returned the grin. “I told you it kicked and to widen your stance.”

  “You can bet I’ve not forgotten since.” Beau stared at the apple-­shaped clock on the wall. “I remember the first Christmas after Dad died. You made Mom and me come spend it here. We ate, and you pulled me and Addy out back to show us the matching bikes you’d gotten us.”

  “Except Addy’s had that pink basket and those little plastic things hanging off the handlebars.”

  Beau nodded. “We raced those bikes for years. At least until she stopped beating me.”

  “She never did like to lose.” Vincent chuckled. “Still doesn’t.”

  “Nope, she doesn’t. Do you remember the Thanksgiving right after Mom died when Addy tried to cook the dinner all by herself?”

  Vincent laughed and nodded. “The turkey was still frozen. She was so mad that it hadn’t thawed properly.”

  “Everything else was perfect: the stuffing, green bean casserole, sweet potato casserole, mashed potatoes, and those pies. It was all delicious, but her Thanksgiving was ruined because the turkey hadn’t lived up to her expectations.”

  Vincent sobered and stared at Beau. “Is this about Addy?”

  “No, I mean—kind of.” Beau ran a hand over his stubbly chin. “Not what you think. Not about what she just told you.”

  “You knew?”

  “No, sir.” Beau swallowed hard. “I mean, she told me when it became part of my investigation and I already knew. I confronted her then when I had to take her statement, but when it happened? No, I didn’t know. I think only Tracey knew.”

  Vincent nodded. “So how is this related to Addy?”

  Beau felt as if his heart had been spliced open. “I care very deeply for her. I hope you know that. And I have the utmost respect for her. I’ve been in—er, her friend practically all my life. She’s very important to me.”

  Vincent grinned. “Boy, are you trying to tell me you have feelings for Addy? Feelings more than friendship?”

  Heat raced up the back of Beau’s neck and into his face.

  Vincent leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good grief, I’ve known that for several years now. Was just wondering when you’d work up the nerve to admit it and ask her out. And if you’re here to ask my blessing, of course you have it. Nothing would make me happier.”

  For just a moment, Beau considered not telling Vincent. He looked happy and very pleased with himself. Beau didn’t want to hurt the man, but if he didn’t speak up now . . .

  “Vincent, that isn’t it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you remember when Angelina was denied being on the national transplant list because of her alcoholism?”

  All amusement slipped off Vincent’s face. “I do.”

  “And everyone we knew went and got tested to see if they were a match for possible liver donation?”

  Vincent nodded. “What does this have to do with Addy?”

  “I was a match.”

  The room got very still. Very quiet. Even the ticking of the clock seemed to go silent.

  “I was a match, but I never told you or Addy. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t. I’d just lost Mom to a drunk driver. I know it was selfish of me, but I couldn’t make it right in my head to donate part of me to go into a drunk who had damaged herself by her own choices.” He felt like a pair of hands tightened around his throat. “I’m so, so sorry. If I could go back and choose differently, please believe me that I would.”

  “Son, listen to me and hear me. Do you think, for one second, that I didn’t already know that? That I didn’t know it as soon as your results were in?”

  Wait, what? “But you never—”

  “Of course I never said anything. The choice to donate was yours to make. I understood without your telling me, I still do.” Vincent leaned over and squeezed Beau’s shoulder. “Please don’t tell me you’ve hoarded this secret all these years fearful I would be upset with you.”

  “I, I . . .” Beau couldn’t even think at the moment.

 
“If that’s the case, you can put it right out of your mind this minute. I respect the choice you made.”

  Relief opened his airway. “What about Addy? Does she know?”

  “Ah, so you do really care about her.” Vincent grinned. “I don’t think she knows. We never discussed it. I doubt it would make a difference to her.”

  “But I should have told her. Should have told you.”

  “Maybe.” Vincent shrugged. “But it’s of no matter now.”

  Beau took a sip of the now cold coffee and grimaced.

  Vincent laughed and stood, grabbing the mug. “Let me get you some fresh coffee now that you don’t look like you’ll puke if you drink it.” He turned and moved to the sink and poured out the coffee. “Then you can tell me all about your feelings for my daughter.”

  Twenty-­Five

  Adelaide

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” Adelaide hovered in the open office doorway. “Your secretary isn’t out here.”

  “Yes, come on in and shut the door, please.”

  Getting summoned to the owner’s office always made Adelaide revisit her middle school days when she had to appear in the principal’s office. Talk about making her knees go weak, having to face Claude Pampalon did it every single time.

  She shut the door and sat in the single chair, a Sanctuary Paris wingback, facing his desk. Anxiety crossed her ankles and tucked her feet under the chair.

  Mr. Pampalon’s office was, in a word, beautiful. The designer had opted for old-­world French elegance with the whitewashed walls and select paintings depicting French landscapes. In the center of the office was the focal point, his massive La Maison Du Travail desk.

  He sat in the chair behind the desk, his hands relaxed upon the top. “I have read all of the reports you sent to me. I appreciate your thoroughness and attention to detail.”

  Adelaide forced the smile to widen. “Yes, sir.”

  “Am I to assume you have sent proper tokens of appreciation to the fire chief for the waste of his team’s time and energy regarding the false alarm?”

  Heat filled her face at the implication that she was somehow to blame for drunken idiots’ actions and that she didn’t know policy protocol. She swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. We sent two large fruit baskets to the station as well as a personal basket to the chief himself.”

  “The incident was handled by the police department, I understand?”

  He’d read her reports so he knew it had been. This was just a calling out on the carpet to keep her in check and make sure she knew her place. “Yes, sir. Those responsible were taken into custody but later released. They have, however, been required to pay a fine instituted by the judge they went before.”

  “Very well.” Mr. Pampalon paused, staring at the papers in an open file on his desk. “I see that room 219 has been adequately cleaned and is back in service.”

  She nodded. “The crime scene company we hired was very thorough, timely, and discreet. The room has already been utilized with no complaints.”

  “Very well. I can appreciate the discretion. It would not bode well to have the Darkwater Inn on some haunted tour because a guest had been murdered here.”

  Was he expecting her to comment? There was nothing she could say, so, as her father had taught her, she remained silent.

  Mr. Pampalon glanced back to the paper on his desk. “I see that you have recommended Sully Clements be promoted to chief of security now that Mr. Aubois has been arrested.”

  “He has tenure here at the Darkwater with an exemplary employee record. He has proven himself to be a viable part of the hotel’s security detail.”

  “I see.” Mr. Pampalon smiled, which actually looked more like a smirk. “As I am sure Mr. Aubois’s record reveals as well.”

  Adelaide bit her tongue to not snap that it was Claude himself who hired Geoff many years ago. “Geoff recommended Sully and I concur.”

  “Pardon me if I do not share your sentiment. It is obvious Mr. Aubois did not always make the best decisions, yes?” He didn’t wait for her to answer before continuing. “I would like to see the personnel file on Leon Edwards so that I might make an informed decision of promotion.”

  Leon was Geoff’s second choice. It wasn’t worth making a big deal out of it, even though she truly believed Sully would be the better choice. “Of course, sir. I’ll have that sent to you immediately.”

  Mr. Pampalon shut the folder and met her stare over his desk. “It is my understanding that you have provided a statement to the police regarding your relationship to the murder victim, correct?”

  Everything in Adelaide went sideways. Her stomach twisted. She balled her hands into fists lying in her lap. This was her job, and she loved it. She took in a deep breath, forcing her expression to remain as neutral as possible. “I’ve told the police how Kevin Muller raped me, if that’s what you mean by relationship.”

  He nodded and narrowed his eyes a little. “Yes. It is also my understanding you intend to testify to this on behalf of Mr. Aubois if needed.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He lifted a pen and twirled it through his manicured fingers. “Have you considered how such testimony might affect the hotel? After all, you are the general manager.”

  This man was unbelievable! And as insufferable as Dimitri claimed many times over.

  Adelaide took several cleansing breaths before replying. “I think standing up for injustice, telling the truth, and speaking for those who can’t speak for themselves is worth any personal embarrassment I might feel.” She drew in another breath, letting it out slowly. “I would think most people would respect that, bringing no dishonor to the Darkwater.”

  “What about the victim’s wife? Do you think she would see your actions as noble?”

  He was deliberately taunting her. For what? To see what she was made of, how much she could withstand?

  Adelaide wouldn’t play this game his way. “I’m not trying to be noble, simply telling the truth.” She squared her shoulders and forced her hands to relax. “I’m not sure how his wife would see anything clearly. She was, after all, married to a habitual rapist and sexual predator and was either unaware of his deviant bent, or turned a blind eye to his behavior. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I will stand on the truth and no longer hide, ashamed, for the assault on me and many other women, including Geoff’s little sister.” Adelaide stopped to catch her breath.

  “Very well, Ms. Fountaine. Dimitri informed me that you were principled and would not be dissuaded from speaking on behalf of Mr. Aubois.”

  Her lips tickled to smile. Thank you, Dimitri. To her boss, she nodded and stood. “If that’s all, sir, I’ll go get Leon’s personnel file for you.”

  “Of course.” He stood as well.

  She reached for the door, relieved to finally escape.

  “One last thing, Ms. Fountaine.”

  Dejection dropped her hand as she pivoted. “Yes, sir?”

  “I would appreciate it very much if you would refrain from encouraging my son to not take his rightful place in the Darkwater Inn and to pursue the notion of becoming a chef.”

  “Sir?” She didn’t quite know how to respond. Had Dimitri talked to him, finally told him what he wanted to do?

  “I spoke at length with my son about his proper place in the Darkwater. He understands that now and will be taking a much more active role here, outside the kitchen.” Mr. Pampalon smiled the smile of a snake oil salesman. “I would appreciate you keeping your opinions on the matter to yourself and not encourage him to be distracted.”

  No way had Dimitri let his father talk him out of being a chef. The man had to have held him over a barrel.

  “That is all, Ms. Fountaine.” Claude Pampalon gave her a nod of dismissal, then turned back to his desk.

  At least it wasn’t a job dismissal.

  Beau

  “Detectives.” The officer approached Beau and Marcel.

  “What do we have, Officer Williams?” Beau asked as he an
d his partner slipped their vests on, then slammed the trunk shut. Indigestion roiled in his gut right under his ribs on the right side as he cinched the bulletproof vest. He’d have to find some antacids after shift.

  The young officer shook his head. “This one’s a mess. Neighbor called in reporting gunshots. When we arrived onsite, we found a victim under the carport. Before we could call it in, the possible shooter came out through the side door, fired at us, and pulled the body back into the house.”

  “And we’re the lucky ones who got the call?” Marcel checked his gun, then re-­holstered it.

  “Sorry, man.” Jon Williams shook his head. The man stood less than six feet, but he’d been a huge asset to the department’s softball team last spring. Beau liked the man who was proud of his wife and kids to the point of being that annoying guy who just had to show off pictures on his cell to anybody who would stand still and talk to him for longer than five minutes. There was something to be said for a husband and father who put his family first.

  Beau studied the house with the tall weeds marring what could be a nice lawn. The house itself was nice enough, but needed a little TLC. “Anybody tried to talk to the shooter?” His chest tightened. He wasn’t apprehensive about the call, so it had to be his body regretting the tacos he had for lunch.

  “Yes, sir. He’s not answering us.”

  Beau glanced around at the spectators lining the street. “Any idea who the victim and shooter are?”

  Williams nodded. “Neighbors say it’s a couple who often have loud fights. George and Cali Hinson. Both African American, both in their late twenties, no children. Both live in the house. It’s a rental and the owner lives in Baton Rouge.”

  “Lovely.” Marcel glanced at Beau. “My turn to take point?”

  Beau nodded. “I’ll head around back.” He ducked as he made his way into the backyard.

  The brown grass stood even taller in the back. A three-­legged, rusted barbecue pit leaned against a tree. An old birdbath lay crumbled in an ant bed. A dog barked from the fenced yard two doors down.