The Unmistakable Scent of Gardenias (Haunted Hearts Series Book 6)

by Denise Moncrief

  Odd. She’d circled the entire house and hadn’t noted any gardenia bushes. Plenty of azaleas and camellias, but not a single gardenia.

  Stories of hauntings and malicious spirits surrounded the mansion, something that invariably happened with any old, abandoned property. Sophia didn’t believe in ghosts, despite her occasional indulgence in watching ghost hunting shows on television. She would never admit it to anyone, but the dilapidated old house spooked her.

  It had been only a few days from being condemned before the long-lost heir to the Wakefield fortune stepped in to stop the demolition. Her contribution to the restoration was weeks, possibly months away, so her excursion this morning was for the sole purpose of drinking in the excitement of being involved in the project. Since beginning her career in interior design, she’d done a lot of research on abandoned antebellum homes along the River Road. She’d always felt drawn to photographs of Wakefield Manor as if she knew one day she’d be part of its history.

  Her armpits prickled with the unmistakable feeling someone was standing too close to her. She swung on her heel and stared straight at a man’s broad chest. Slowly she lifted her gaze. Bright blue eyes beneath thick dark eyebrows glowed with mischief. Dylan Hunter still had the look of someone who was up to no good. She loved and detested that about the man.

  How had he managed to sneak up on her when she had just surveyed the grounds for possible trespassers?

  “What are you doing here?” She smacked him with an attitude because the jerk so richly deserved it.

  “Same thing you are. Sizing up a new project.” He smiled down at her as if he didn’t remember what a mess he’d made of their relationship.

  She stepped back from him. “Oh no. I’m not working with you. Les Wakefield promised me I’d be working with Collin McVey.”

  “I’ll be working with Collin. I’ve hired him to be my foreman. You’ll be working with me.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s not what Les told me. I don’t like this arrangement.”

  “Did you already sign the contract?” His grin widened a bit as if he already knew the answer and the answer would piss her off.

  She gulped down her quick retort and glared at him.

  He moved around her with the grace of a panther and climbed the short steps to the rotting front porch. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Bet you can’t get out of it without a lot of difficulty, huh?”

  When he turned to face her, the tease had dropped from his face, replaced by a serious expression that made her breath catch.

  “I’ll bet you need this job just as much as I do.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I have plenty of work. I don’t have to do this project with you.”

  His eyes glittered with amusement. “I don’t think you have a choice. If you want the job, you’ve got to work with me.”

  “I always have a choice.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. When their relationship had ended, it wasn’t what she’d wanted. She’d had no choice but to accept its demise. He’d made any other possible outcome impossible. Resentment soured her stomach.

  “Well, now, you don’t want to get the reputation of being a quitter, do you?”

  She whipped her phone out of her purse and headed for her car. Once she got into the vehicle where she could have a little privacy, she and Les Wakefield were going to have a very intense chat.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  She whirled to face him. “I’ve been here for at least an hour, studying the place and getting a feel for it.” She narrowed her eyes for just the right effect. “I don’t get bored and move on so easily…as some other people might.”

  She flung her car door open, clambered into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut behind her.

  “Arrogant jerk.” She muttered to no one in particular as she punched the numbers for Les Wakefield’s office phone. She got his voicemail, left a message, and then continued to move her lips as if she was having a lengthy conversation with her client.

  From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Dylan watching her. The smirk on his handsome face suggested he knew she was pretending. She hit the end button and dropped the phone into her cupholder.

  She’d met Dylan in college the second semester of her sophomore year. The two of them had been inseparable until they graduated from Tulane. That’s when Dylan had called off their engagement, informing her that he needed to experience the world before he settled down. He never left New Orleans. Apparently, the only part of the world he had really needed to experience was the inside of the apartment Sophia used to share with her best friend. Dylan and Audrey St. Clair had lived together for six months until the night Audrey disappeared.

  ***

  Dylan watched Sophia drive away down the dirt track toward the two-lane road that led from the plantation to Wakefield, the seat of St. Denis Parish. The parish was the smallest in the state of Louisiana and would have been the most impoverished if not for the revenue generated by property taxes on the Wakefield land.

  Anyone familiar with the estate’s history assumed the Wakefield name had died with Leslie Wakefield in 1937, right before the oil boom hit that part of the state. If the old man hadn’t hung himself, he would have been very wealthy. The property, along with the lucrative mineral rights, had been included in the Wakefield Trust held by the St. Denis First National Bank and Trust since 1939. At that time, the search for heirs had ceased, and the Wakefield fortune had been entrusted to the bank. The terms of Wakefield’s will allowed the bank to liquidate the trust and retain the proceeds should no one step forward as an heir after seventy-five years. The bank had accumulated and reinvested the income until the trust held quite an impressive portfolio of assets.

  For almost seventy-five years, no legitimate heir had claimed the fortune. Leslie Wakefield IV came forward, seemingly out of the fog, just in time to keep the bank from asserting ownership and demolishing the house. Proof of his heirship seemed in order. Apparently, the older Wakefield’s pregnant wife had run away before his death in 1937 and had begun a new life on the east coast unbeknownst to the residents of St. Denis Parish. Local legend had always suggested that Wakefield had murdered her and dumped her remains in the swamp somewhere near the vast estate. The residents of St. Denis had obviously been wrong.

  Royce Robichaux, president of St. Denis First National Bank and Trust had not been pleased with the unexpected appearance of a Wakefield heir, not in the least. When Les Wakefield asked Royce for help finding a qualified contractor, Royce had recommended Dylan for this project because of their long-standing friendship.

  The bank president thought something was hinky about an heir materializing out of nowhere at the last minute. He suspected Les Wakefield IV was a fraud. Involving law enforcement or a private investigator might stir up an unacceptable stink, so Royce had asked Dylan to snoop around the old house looking for any evidence the elder Wakefield had indeed produced an heir, or even better, that the new Les Wakefield was not who he claimed to be.

  Close association with Sophia Cannon was going to make Dylan’s clandestine mission a lot more difficult. Thoughts of Sophia were already distracting him. When he first caught sight of her staring up at the façade of the old manor house, his heart had nearly jerked to a dead stop.

  At the age of twenty-eight, Dylan was too young to have so much he would do over if he could, but layers of regret clung to him as thick as kudzu on an abandoned shack by the side of the road. His biggest regret was letting Sophia go. Audrey hadn’t been worth hurting Sophia, and the investigation surrounding Audrey’s disappearance had been one of the roughest times in his life. For nearly three years, he’d been under the spotlight of police scrutiny. After all, doesn’t the boyfriend always commit the murder?

  Dylan didn’t think Audrey was dead. He was certain she had run off with another man. Probably some poor idiot she stole from another woman.

  Audrey had the heart of a vampire.

  ****r />
  Sheriff Soileau grabbed the diet soda from the counter and stuffed her change into the front pocket of her uniform pants. She waved at Harvey Garceau and Stan Cranston, who had hunkered over a game of Scrabble in the far corner of the country store. “I’ll see ya’ll later.”

  They returned her wave with barely a glance her direction. She smiled. Those two old coots had nothing better to do with their day than harangue each other over a word game. As she pushed open the front door, Stan disputed Harvey’s last word choice. If she didn’t move fast enough, the two of them would pull her into the middle of their squabble.

  It had taken the residents of St. Denis Parish a few years to get used to a woman sheriff, but Charlotte had won the election fair and square when Boots Theriot dropped out of the race. When would these politicians ever learn to keep their zippers up during an election year? Why did he think it was okay to boink the mayor’s wife? The small parish seat of Wakefield was only a tiny bit smaller than the entire parish, so if you boinked the mayor’s wife, word was bound to get around. Besides, Boots and Patty were too old for such shenanigans.

  Boots wasn’t trained in law enforcement. The job was nothing more than a title for the former sheriff. He had been entrenched in the position for decades, and she suspected he’d padded his pockets with the revenue from the local speed trap. Many an unsuspecting tourist traveling from New Orleans on the River Road had forked over a few hundred dollars to avoid time in Wakefield’s dinky little jail.

  Charlotte had a lot to overcome her first few years in office. Didn’t matter that she’d been born and raised on the edge of the swamp in Wakefield. The local populace still viewed her as a cop from New Orleans trying to push big city ways down their throats. Truthfully, big city crime hadn’t overtaken this small patch of Louisiana. The worst thing she’d encountered was getting into the middle of a couple of dozen domestic disputes. No small thing. Actually, a very dangerous thing, as any law enforcement officer knows.

  She stepped into the sunlight and headed toward her SUV. Just as she reached the vehicle, a woman pulled onto the lot in a Ford Galaxie. Charlotte hadn’t seen that model and make of car in years. As old as it was, she wondered that the contraption still managed to roll down the street. Though, the car appeared to be in mint condition.

  The driver hurried out of the vehicle and rushed into the store. Something about her jerky motions made Charlotte stop and lean on the side of her vehicle until the woman reemerged from the store. She was barely inside Boudreaux’s Stop & Get a minute before she bolted out the front door.

  The scarf over her head seemed odd for a young woman. Charlotte’s grandmother wore those things to keep the wind from blowing her hair every which direction. The big sunglasses were strange as well. The huge lenses with thick white frames covered most of the woman’s face.

  Years of experience told her something wasn’t right. “Excuse me…” She cringed, still amazed that her once smooth voice could have become so rough from the damage caused by a single hard blow to her throat. Truthfully, it had taken her longer to recover from the emotional trauma than it had from the physical injury.

  The woman froze and turned reflective lenses toward her. She didn’t answer, but her mouth worked as if she wanted to say a lot.

  Charlotte walked the few paces to the woman and extended her hand. “I’m Sheriff Soileau.”

  The woman probably stared at her through the shades, but how would she know?

  “Celia Wakefield. I’m Celia Wakefield.” Her name floated from her mouth, soft and feminine.

  Charlotte raised a brow. Wakefield? She thought the Wakefield name had died with Leslie Wakefield in the1930s.

  “I…I…just needed a jug of milk. That’s all. Just a jug of milk.”

  Charlotte’s hand still dangled in front of her unshaken. She lowered her arm and smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

  Celia jerked her car door open. She had disappeared down the road before Charlotte realized what had bothered her so much about the woman’s appearance. Not only did the scarf seem like something her grandmother would wear, but the woman’s clothes also appeared to be vintage, as if she’d grabbed her dress right out of the 1960’s. Orange with big white polka dots. Why would a young woman wear an old thing like that? Maybe she was one of those eccentric types who only wore vintage clothing. Probably came from one of the coasts. People from California did some strange things.

  “It takes all types, I guess.”

  So a new Wakefield was haunting the old plantation house. How did the property manage to come back into the Wakefield family after years of being in ownership limbo? There had been a series of tenants living in a mobile home on the place, but no one dared move into the manor house. Rents were paid to the St. Denis First National Bank and deposited into a trust account that the bank didn’t know who rightfully owned.

  More than once the state of Louisiana had tried unsuccessfully to escheat the trust fund out from under the local bank. Old man Drew Hennigan had held onto that money for dear life, dodging every shunt and closing every loophole. Without the management fees the Wakefield trust fund generated, the bank’s net income would suffer to the point of being unhealthy. It seemed the new manager, Royce Robichaux, had been keeping up Drew’s fine tradition of keeping the bank afloat with Wakefield funds.

  Maybe Charlotte needed to pay Royce a visit.

  Before she could open the door of her SUV, Bobby McIntosh pulled into the spot next to her. His old CK 1500 pick up groaned and whined as it came to a stop. The hinges squeaked when he flung the door open.

  “Morning, Sheriff.”

  He knew better than to call her Sheriff, but she bit her tongue to keep from reminding him.

  Bobby resembled a hyperactive puppy. His bright smile could always lighten her day, and his tight blue jeans reminded her why he had been so popular with the girls in high school.

  “What brings you to town, Bobby?”

  He patted his flat stomach. “Need provisions. Man’s gotta eat.”

  “Doesn’t your momma fix for you anymore?”

  “My momma?” He shook his head and grinned. “You know my momma.”

  She did, indeed, know his momma. Cherie had kicked Bobby out of the house when he was eighteen and had told him to fend for himself. He had been ever since. Still lived alone. After all these years, Bobby had never settled down and gotten married. What kind of husband would Bobby have been if Tiffany Duchesne hadn’t taken a header off the Atchafalaya Bridge a few years ago?

  Charlotte sighed. She’d never get the opportunity to find out. They had dated a few times in high school, but Bobby had never wanted anything more than occasional sex. Charlotte wanted more than that from a man, so she had no plans to renew her old relationship with Bobby. He’d made it clear long ago that his heart belonged to someone else.

  Bobby headed toward the storefront, taking the front steps two at a time.

  “Hey, wait.”

  He halted and turned toward her with his hand on the thin metal strip that served as a door handle. His face lit up with a broad grin as if he expected she’d changed her mind about being just friends.

  “Have you met your new neighbors?”

  A twinge of disappointment appeared on his face and then disappeared in a flash. He dropped his hand from the door handle. “Oh, you mean the couple that just moved into the old Wakefield place?”

  She nodded.

  “He must have seen me coming. I got a good look at him before he went inside the house. He wouldn’t answer the door when I knocked. What’s he scared of? Me? I ain’t dangerous.” He laughed.

  “Have you met his wife?”

  “No, but I got a glimpse of the back of her head.” He rubbed his lower jaw. “You know something, Char…”

  She loved it when he called her by her shortened name. It was as if her world hadn’t changed that much since she had moved to New Orleans twenty years ago. “What?”

  He moved a step closer to her, the front porch
boards creaking under his boot heels. “It was really odd. He kind of growled at her, and she scampered off around the side of the house like a scared rabbit.” A spark blazed in his brown eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  “Saw her a minute ago. She acted skittish. Like… Why would a young woman wear clothes my grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead in?”

  He shrugged. “You got me.”

  Butch Devereaux pulled in alongside Bobby’s truck and honked. Bobby glanced the other man’s way, and Charlotte had lost his attention. Butch and Bobby had been inseparable drinking/fishing/hunting/carousing buddies since their teen years.

  “Catch ya later, sheriff.” He grinned at her over his shoulder.

  Charlotte smiled and finally got into her SUV. She shielded her eyes against the bright sun on a hot, humid day that caused the landscape to shimmer and blur from the heat rising from soggy earth after a rainstorm. The hot South Louisiana sun had a tendency to make asphalt crack and buckle, but the road out of town was smooth since the parish had just repaved it. Her tires hummed, white noise in the background of her thoughts.

  Celia Wakefield had acted strange. Mighty strange. The woman said she came into the store for a jug of milk, but she’d left empty-handed.

  Charlotte might have to pay the new occupants of Wakefield Manor a visit. Her list of people to visit was growing.

  Chapter Three

  Dylan set to work yanking the tangled ropes of kudzu from around the front porch. The aroma of damp earth and rotting wood assaulted his nostrils. Les Wakefield had promised him big bucks to do the renovation work on the old house. The initial construction draw had given him more than enough funds to get the project started. Judging from the condition of the place, Dylan was going to earn every penny of the agreed upon contract price. Actually, he saw a few lucrative change orders in his future.