by Liz Talley
The mysterious Annie Perez. Could she be in on the threats? He didn’t want to think so, but she was hiding something and she’d had opportunity that morning. But setting up a kidnapping? His blood ran cold at the thought.
His gut told him Annie wasn’t the perpetrator. She’d seemed genuinely concerned about the boy yesterday, and she’d have to be a consummate actress to fake the emotion he’d glimpsed.
But he’d been fooled before.
Hadn’t his dad trusted the gardener?
Hadn’t a young Nate, along with his siblings, laughed as the man wheeled them at dizzying speeds in the wheelbarrow? Hadn’t Della always followed Sal as he plucked roses and trimmed the thorns so she could twine them in her curls? The man had smiled at them with manufactured loyalty as he plotted to poison them with his greed.
Nate shouldn’t trust Annie any more than he trusted the town drunk. And the town drunk was the president of Homestead Bank and Trust.
* * *
ANNIE SLIPPED INTO THE house, ducked into the empty library and pulled out her cell phone. Ace answered on the second ring.
“Sterling.”
“We got a big problem,” Annie said, checking to make sure no one was around. She shut the door with a soft snick. “Whoever’s been making threats is here in Louisiana.”
“Damn,” Ace breathed. She could almost see him in his trademark Bermuda shorts and surfer T-shirt, tugging on his shaggy hair in frustration. “Jimmy got a lead on a bit actor for Keene on Miami Metro. The dude got into a fistfight with Keene on the set during the last episode. Had something to do with Tawny. No alibi for the night of the vandalism either. I thought we might be close to shutting this one down.”
“I don’t think so,” Annie said, moving toward the floor-to-ceiling windows flanking the large antique desk. She moved on the balls of her feet, her footfalls making no sound on the Oriental carpet. The stuffed bear stared at her from the corner. “Someone left a note this morning, along with a dead bird.”
“A dead bird?”
“Birdie.”
He paused. “This is escalating.”
“Maybe. Nothing for weeks and then as soon as we get here, we get a bump. Whoever’s responsible is here. Part of the crew. Or the talent.”
“Bump is right. No clue what’s beneath the surface, but it has big teeth and likes to play. Damn.” For a few seconds, he said nothing. “Okay, guess I’ll send Jimmy down to help.”
“Might be crowded. Locals are on the case.”
He sighed. Annie knew he’d dealt with the cold shoulder from local law enforcement before. Most cops disdained private investigators, but Sterling Investigations had recently contributed on several high-profile cases, even receiving national press for its work on the Ventura burglary ring and the SoCal freeway killer. If Jimmy came to Louisiana as a representative of Sterling, he’d be dealing with authorities who knew nothing of their reputation or expertise. In other words, Jimmy would likely get no help. “Protect yourself, Anna. You’ll do more covertly for this case than overtly. Stay low, but I’m sending Jimmy anyway.”
“What’s he going to do that I can’t?”
“Hard to ask questions when you’re with the kid. Jimmy will have mobility.”
Annie closed her eyes. She hated being shackled by her undercover role, but Ace was right. She couldn’t get around with a kid on her hip, something that left a bitter taste in her mouth. “Sucks for me.”
“Well, if you can find an ally on the police force, you might do us some good. You’re a babe. Use it.”
“Are you talking about flirting?” Felt like a dirty word on her tongue. Playing femme fatale was so not her thing. Not just because it was deceitful but because deep down, locked in the basement of her heart, was the thought she wasn’t feminine enough to attract a man at such a base level.
“Find the lead investigator and use that pretty smile to get a few leads out of him. Stroke his ego and get him to tell you all about how he’s going to find the person doing this. Unless it’s a woman, then you may have to switch tactics.”
“Lead is Picou Dufrene’s son.”
“Perfect.”
Annie felt a bit of dread unwind inside her. She couldn’t use feminine wiles to manipulate men, undercover or not. “I don’t think he’s the type.”
“We’re all the type. I hired you for a good reason, crackerjack.”
“I’ll fall flat on my face.” Even though she already knew Nate was interested. Yet, something told her to play straight with him as much as possible. Her playing dumb as he opened his kit earlier proved as much—suspicion had lurked in his eyes. “I’d rather be direct.”
“Just do your job,” Ace said, “and Jimmy will be in touch when he gets in town.”
“Fine. Tell him to bring me some hardware.”
Sterling confirmed her selection of weapon and then hung up. Jimmy would be in Louisiana within three days, bringing her piece with him. The heat would make it brutal to wear a jacket concealing the weapon, but she’d think of something. She’d been nearly crazy not having her gun.
She pocketed her phone and turned.
“Hardware?” Nate stood with arms crossed, leaning against the bookcase.
“Agh!” She jumped.
She hadn’t heard him enter the library. The man must be part cat. His eyes crackled with intensity even though his posture suggested indifference. How long had he been there? She swallowed mild panic.
“You’re ordering hardware?”
“Do you always listen in on people’s conversations? I get you’re a cop, but that’s rude.”
He made a face. “I’m not a cop.”
“A technicality. This is still a violation of my rights.”
“To what?”
“Uh, privacy.” She did her best smart-ass.
“You’re in a private home sneaking around after we found a dead bird along with a threat intended for the little boy you’re minding. I think forgoing privacy is a non-issue at this juncture.”
“I don’t think violating someone’s privacy is ever justified. It’s in the Bill of Rights. I think. Besides, I know your mother taught you good manners, so use them and stop eavesdropping on phone calls.” She crossed her arms and gave him a hard stare. “But, if you must know, I was talking about my laptop. Mine’s on the fritz and a guy I know in New Orleans is bringing me a new hard drive. Thanks for asking.” She stomped toward the door, stepping past him.
His hand clamped down on her arm. “What friend?”
“Seriously?” She looked up at him. “What do you care?”
He dropped her arm, looking startled at his action. “I don’t. Just trying to keep track of who comes and goes around here. We have an ongoing investigation and I don’t know anything about you other than you’re particularly defensive right now.”
Annie could still feel the warmth of his touch on her arm. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she wanted his action to be about her, not the investigation. Which was alarming in a way she didn’t want to admit, even to herself. “Don’t worry. I’m as interested in protecting Spencer as you. Now I need to get upstairs.”
“But first I have some questions for you.”
“Fine, but can I get Spencer first?”
His mouth twisted. “We’ll talk later. With this new threat, you need to keep tabs on him at all times. Nothing like yesterday can happen again.”
Annie bristled, even though she’d have given the same advice in his shoes. Even though she’d told herself the same thing right after they found the bird and note. “It won’t.”
He nodded. “Good.”
Annie started toward the door. “Oh, I meant to ask—what was in the note?”
He narrowed his beautiful eyes, kicking up one side of him mouth. “I can’t disclose that information.”
“So you watch Law and Order, too, huh?” She’d get the contents from Carter Keene later anyway. Besides, she reminded herself, she had to start being nice to Detective Dufrene
. Gain his trust. Try to be friendly.
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“All that cop talk,” she said, allowing the irritation leftover at his spying to melt away. She wasn’t a former FBI agent. Or a current undercover investigator. She was a nanny. A single nanny. Dear Lord, he was about to see right through her. She couldn’t flirt for shit. “I care for Spencer, so I’ll help any way I can. We’ll meet later?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Suspicion. Then interest.
“To do what?” he asked, his gaze dropping to her lips.
She sucked in her bottom lip before she could think about it. “Whatever you want. I mean, um, don’t you have to ask me some questions about Spencer and stuff?”
He pulled out his phone. “Give me your number.”
She quirked a brow. A surprised brow.
But his internal resolve seemed to slide back into place. “Never mind, I’ll interview you here.”
Hmm. The feminine-wiles thing almost worked.
“Fine. I’ve got to shower then give Spencer his breakfast. I’ll be around.” Annie nearly choked on the last line as she shut the door.
Okay, she knew she couldn’t proceed in this manner, mostly because attempting to flirt with Nate felt dangerous—career-crusher dangerous. Ace hired her with a probationary clause. Even an old FBI associate couldn’t disregard the foolishness of tossing over a career for the temporary insanity that had seized Annie, leading her to quit her job, play mommy to a girl who despised her and fiancée to a man who only wanted to use her as a babysitter.
Yeah, when it had come to Seth and Mallory, Annie’s skills as an investigator had failed her.
All because she thought she’d found something she’d secretly dreamed about in the small darkness of her bedroom in the apartment she’d leased in Philly.
A man.
A child.
A family.
To feel as though her heart could actually work like a normal person’s.
But she’d been wrong.
So she couldn’t fail in this quest. And she couldn’t risk feeling any sort of interest in Nate Dufrene. Her assignment was to use whatever he could give her on the case. Not pin some deep-buried hope to feel something for a man who lived almost a thousand miles away from where she needed to be.
Annie had to play things smart.
She climbed the elegant stairway, which was deserving of more grand dress than running shorts and shirt, and went to her room. Spencer wasn’t there, but she heard him and Tawny laughing down the hall. After a quick shower, she went to the room where Spencer was supposed to sleep, pushed open the door and found Tawny tucking pajamas in a lovely maple dresser. Annie nearly keeled over in shock.
“Hey, Annie. Spencer’s ready for breakfast. I told him maybe you’d take him for a walk afterward.” She turned to a sulky Spencer. “Sorry, birdie, I want to take you, but I’ve got to get on set.”
Spencer buried his head in the fluffy pillows of the antique rice bed and said nothing.
“Come on, baby. At least you’re here with mommy this time.”
He lifted a tragic face to his mother but said nothing. His lower lip poked out a good inch.
Annie walked toward the boy. “Spencer, sometimes moms have to work. Mine did when I was little, and I went to day care. I had to share my toys with a mean boy named Kyle.”
“You did?” He tipped his face to her. “Why was he mean?”
Annie sank onto the bed. “I don’t know, but he bit me once.”
“He did?”
She tugged him so he sat up. “Yep. But your mom loves you so much she hired me to be your nanny. And I won’t bite you. I promise. I’ll even share my toys.”
Spencer grinned. “You don’t have toys. You’re a grown-up.”
“Oh, yeah,” Annie said, scratching her head. “I guess I need some toys.”
Spencer laughed. “You’re silly, Annie.”
Was she? Silly was as foreign to her as flirty. She looked at Tawny, who watched them from the open doorway. The actress nodded and mouthed “thank you” before disappearing.
Annie felt a flash of pleasure at the woman’s acknowledgment. Odd, she didn’t usually seek approval from anyone other than her boss. Of course, some would say Tawny was her boss.
“Let’s get some cereal and then we’ll take that walk. You want a bath first?”
He shook his head. “I want Fruity O’s.”
“Of course, monsieur. Coming right up.”
Spencer slid off the bed and pulled on his Crocs. Much to his mother’s dismay, the rubber shoe was Spencer’s choice of footwear. Didn’t really go with the hundred-dollar ripped jeans and trendy boutique shirt, but Annie had to give the boy props for choosing something easy to clean. “Annie, you’re good at fixing cereal. I think that’s kinda cooking, huh?”
“I’m no Rachel Ray, but you won’t starve.”
CHAPTER SIX
NATE SAT FEET CROSSED at the ankle, taking up space in his mother’s sitting room. Picou sat at her desk regarding him with solemn eyes as he traced the pattern on the brocade armchair. The air felt tight as a guitar string, but still he remained silent, waiting for Picou to find her footing after having been told about the woman asking questions about the past.
She cleared her throat. “We’ve had false alarms before.”
“I read the report. This deputy is a friend of the woman’s and he provided a physical description along with a description of a stuffed animal she said she’d had since she could remember—a pink blanket with a stuffed poodle attached to it. The woman said she called it Dobby.”
“But that’s not what Della called it. She called it her baby.”
Nate quirked a brow. “I know, Mom. But think about what ‘Dobby’ is similar to.”
“Darby,” Picou whispered.“Why are you telling me this time?” his mother asked from her position at the old cherry rolltop desk she’d inherited from a maiden great-aunt. Her hands shook as she twisted one of the loose brass knobs.
“Because last time I didn’t tell you, you refused to speak to me for over a month. That meant I didn’t get any of Lucille’s pound cake. Can’t take that again.”
“The pound cake?”
“Well, that, too.”
His mother gave a quasi smile and turned toward the open window of the small room she preferred to visit every morning to drink her tea and read her devotionals. Birds flitted in the bushes outside, and he thought he heard Annie and Spencer in the breakfast room down the hall.
“I promised I would tell you any new information that surfaced in regards to Della. This may come to nothing more than a new piece of evidence in her murder. We might reopen the case and find out what really happened.”
“Was her name on the tag?”
Nate sighed. This was it. The game changer. “Yeah.”
Picou raised her hands and covered her face. Her shoulders shook as a choking noise joined the songs of the birds. He allowed her to wade through the emotion before saying, “May not mean anything, Mom.”
She wiped her cheeks. “It means something.”
“Could have been picked up at a yard sale. Found in a car. Anything.”
“How old is the girl?”
“Twenty-seven.”
His mother picked up a pen and clicked the top over and over again. “Birth date?”
“February 28th.”
“About the time she went missing.”
“Yeah, but that’s all circumstantial. Imagine how many twenty-seven-year-olds are out there. This girl may not be Della.”
“But she might be. It’s the best lead we’ve had since they found Sal’s body in that stolen truck in the bayou. Della wasn’t with him.”
“But they found her hair ribbon wedged in the backseat.”
“Stop it.” Picou’s violet eyes flashed determination. Outside of color, they were eyes he knew well. He looked at them in the mirror every day before he walked out the door. “What’s her name? Where
does she live? Who raised her?”
“Sally Cheramie, and she was raised in the flats off Bayou Lafourche by a fisherwoman. She graduated from University of Louisiana Lafayette and teaches second grade,” he said, gripping the arms of the chair. He didn’t want to give her too much, but the woman’s intensity had him blurting out more than he wanted to reveal. “Look, I wanted you to know, but I don’t want you to count on this panning out. I still believe Della’s dead, Mom. Everything points to it. I’ve seen the evidence. Read the reports.”
“Don’t say that.” Picou slammed a hand flat on the polished wood. “There was no body. Billy Priest said Sal shot her and fed her to the gators, but there was no proof. They searched the area Sal hunted.”
“But they found fresh tire tracks and cigarette butts, Mom. Sal had been there.” The name Sal Comeaux brought anger surging through his body. Damn betrayer. His plot had amounted to naught—not a damn penny. And his cohort Billy rotted in Angola, swearing Sal was the mastermind. Nate hated both men.
But there was more. More about the girl he wouldn’t tell his mother. He didn’t want her to come crashing down if it amounted to nothing. Of course, he knew it was too late for that. Her hopes sailed high.
“Don’t take away my hope, Nate.” Picou’s eyes were fierce. Damn, he shouldn’t have told her, no matter what he’d promised. He should have followed his instinct and checked things out before he mentioned it, but it was too late. He’d screwed up.
“Listen, I’ll go down to Galliano and talk to this girl and get some answers. Maybe talk to the woman who raised her as her granddaughter, but it will have to wait a day or two. With the threat to the boy, I’ll be busy for the next few days. Blaine’s getting pressure from the father, and we don’t need bad publicity.”
“I can go—”
“No, Mom.” He gave her the look—the one he saved for a collar. The one that said, don’t mess with me on this.
Picou closed her mouth and glared back. “I just—”
“No.”
“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your mother.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I know and that’s why I won’t let you run around chasing a dream. This could break your heart.”
