He shoved thoughts of the witch aside and scooped the eggs onto two plates. “Here you go.” He set Sophia’s helping in front of her.
“What are we doing today?”
They’d been idle long enough. Maybe it was time for them to make some concrete plans. Hanging around his condo wasn’t paying the bills.
“I talked to Collin last night.” He dared to lock eyes with her. Was she ready to return to Wakefield?
“Really? What did you talk about?”
Did he detect hope in her attitude? Maybe she was as restless as he was.
“He says his crew is ready to go back to work.”
She set her coffee cup on the table. “Are you?”
He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to go back, but he’d promised all the interested parties he would complete phase one of the renovations. “I think I have to be.”
“I’ll go with you.”
He didn’t like the idea of Sophia exposing herself to the strange supernatural vibes the house emitted, but he also didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone in New Orleans with Brandon Wakefield still at large. Neither Detective Moreau nor Sheriff Soileau had made any progress in locating the son of a bitch.
“I want to read those letters again.”
That meant returning to the bedroom where she’d found them. He slid a chair across the table from her and slipped into it. “Please don’t go into the house without me.”
Her eyes widened. “Why would you think that I would?”
The unmistakable pounding of Moreau’s fist on his front door rattled the condo.
He sighed. “Moreau’s here.”
She tilted her head. “How do you know that’s Moreau?”
“His knocking always sounds angry.” He grinned and rose from his chair.
Sophia followed him into the living room, and he glimpsed her hide her smirk behind her hand when he opened the door to find Moreau there just as he’d predicted.
“Good morning, detective. We were about to eat breakfast. Would like a cup of coffee?”
A surprised expression spread across Moreau’s face. “What’s this? Are you actually being polite to me for a change?”
Dylan acted like the idea was a shock to him. “I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“Maybe living with Ms. Cannon has civilized you.”
Sophia snorted her opinion of that.
How did Moreau know they were living together? Had he been watching Dylan’s place since they’d returned to his condo?
Dylan motioned toward the kitchen. He slid a cup of coffee in front of Moreau as soon as the man’s butt rested in a kitchen chair. “So why are you here?”
Moreau rotated his shoulder where the bullet had grazed his upper arm. “Charlotte called me this morning to tell me the exhumation order was signed by the judge in Wakefield.”
Charlotte? Oh yeah, he’d forgotten about Moreau’s former partnership with the St. Denis sheriff. The way Moreau said her name… Was there more to their relationship than professional association?
“Cream or sugar?”
“Milk.”
Dylan set the jug in front of him.
Moreau poured a bit in his coffee and swished the contents of his mug. “I was wondering if you were going back any time soon. Charlotte thought you might like to be there when we opened up the Wakefield crypt.”
So Sheriff Soileau had noted their absence from St. Denis Parish and concluded they had returned to his condo.
Dylan glanced at Sophia. Her gaze shot toward his. How many times had she mentioned her desire to keep her distance from the cemetery and the old crone that lived near it? She’d often mentioned her mixed emotions, her desire to solve the mystery of Celia Wakefield’s disappearance and her fear of experiencing further paranormal events at Wakefield Plantation.
“When are they opening up his tomb?”
Sophia tensed at Dylan’s question.
“This afternoon. If we leave now, we’ll get there in plenty of time.”
Dylan studied the cop’s face. “You’re going?”
“Yes, I want to be there.”
“Curiosity?” It really wasn’t Moreau’s jurisdiction. The fraud had been committed in St. Denis Parish.
“I have a gut feeling that opening his crypt is going to tell us a lot about a lot of things.”
Sophia croaked her question. “Like what?”
Moreau scratched his ear before answering. “I’m not sure. It’s just a sick, sick feeling.”
The thought of digging up the past at Wakefield Plantation created a very intense feeling of foreboding in Dylan. When he turned his gaze toward Sophia, all the color had drained from her face.
Why Moreau and Soileau requested their presence at the disinterring was a mystery, but out of curiosity, Dylan would go along for the ride. He wanted to discourage Sophia from going with them, but he could see the surging determination to face her fears glittering in her eyes. If she was invited to attend, then nothing could keep her away.
****
A cloudless sky hung over Wakefield Plantation belying the dark mysteries surrounding the property. An intermittent breeze pushed the moss around in the branches of the oak trees that lined the drive. On the wind, the faintest whiff of a floral scent wafted past Charlotte’s nose. No doubt, the infernal stench of gardenias. None of the flowering bushes near the manor house would have created such a strong smell. Mid-June and the scraggly, untended azaleas were past their prime.
One day she was going to figure out where the horrid smell was coming from.
She leaned on her vehicle and glanced at her watch. The coroner was standing by, ready to break open Les Wakefield’s crypt. Without any family on the premises to observe, the opening wasn’t going to be a formal occasion. She’d dragged two of her deputies along for witnesses. One of them carried a sledgehammer.
Nick Moreau and his traveling companions were late. She’d give them another couple of minutes and then proceed without them. Her eyes drifted toward the house, searching the upper windows for any sign of life. On a bright June day, the place seemed devoid of activity, paranormal or otherwise. Could her overactive imagination have conjured up the ghost of Celia Wakefield? No, both Dylan Hunter and Sophia Cannon claimed to have seen Brandon Wakefield right there on the front porch of Wakefield Manor talking to the woman Charlotte had seen in town.
The crunch of gravel announced the arrival of a car. When she spotted Nick’s dark head behind the wheel, the tension between her shoulders relaxed a bit. He had been the best partner she’d ever had. He’d always had her back, and she’d always had his. Maybe he sensed that she needed him. At any rate, he had driven up from New Orleans, just because she’d asked him to. If they hadn’t been partners, maybe… She cut that thought off quickly. No need dwelling on things that couldn’t happen.
It seemed Nick had a new love back in New Orleans. The man had gone on and on about a woman he’d met that had psychic powers. Jerilyn had creeped him out and she wasn’t his type at all, but he said he was drawn to her and couldn’t stop thinking about her. That didn’t sound like the Nick she’d known. He’d always had very definite opinions about the kind of woman he preferred. The psychic held some kind of power over Nick that Charlotte didn’t understand. When she’d called him to talk about the exhumation, they’d spent more time talking about the psychic than they had about Les Wakefield.
Nick stepped out of his car. “Charlotte.”
His broad grin warmed her.
“You waited for us.”
She smiled and nodded toward Dylan Hunter as he stood next to Nick. Sophia Cannon trailed right behind him. Were those two joined at the hip already?
Nick had told her that he thought they were living together. They had obviously fixed whatever had been wrong with their previous relationship. Charlotte didn’t think she could get past Hunter’s involvement in Audrey’s death, if she were Sophia.
“I was gonna give you another couple of minut
es.” Charlotte returned Nick’s smile with a huge grin.
After a moment of uncertainty, the two of them awkwardly hugged.
She glanced toward Hunter, and he closed the gap between them, offering her his hand. “Good to see you again, Sheriff.”
The cordial attitude surprised her. She shook his hand, and it seemed the tension between them had dissolved.
Charlotte was surprised Jordan Clark was missing from the group. “Where’s Jordan? I would have thought he’d have just as much interest in the real Les Wakefield as you would.”
“Jordan took Chelsea back to Arkansas. Something about settling her legal name. I don’t think she was born with the name Chelsea, and he wants to get it all straightened out before he marries her.”
“So Jordan’s getting married. Will we be invited to the wedding?”
Hunter grunted. “Your guess is as good as mine. You two go back a ways, don’t you?”
She smiled. “He was the wildest child I ever babysat.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Jordan.”
The coroner cleared his threat, and Charlotte nodded. “I guess it’s time to disturb the bones of Les Wakefield.”
Sophia muttered something Charlotte couldn’t quite understand.
“Did you say something?”
“Nothing.” Sophia rubbed her hands over her arms as if she were chilled. Weird, since it was a typical June scorcher. “Actually… I wish you hadn’t put it that way.”
Charlotte guessed she could understand Sophia’s feelings about disturbing Les Wakefield and his bones. “Let’s get this done.”
The group of them filed down the path toward the cemetery. The deeper into the woods they traveled, the darker and more oppressive the atmosphere became. It seemed the humidity had climbed all the way to one hundred percent. Moisture clung to her exposed skin. She lifted her uniform hat and ran her hand over her brow.
When they arrived at the wrought iron gate set into the rock fence that bordered the cemetery, Sophia moaned and stepped back, detaching herself from the group. “I don’t think I can go in there.”
Nick cleared his throat, nervous energy tingeing his words. “Well, you can’t stay out here by yourself, can you?”
Sophia shot eye daggers at Nick, and Charlotte couldn’t say that she blamed the woman for her hostility. Nick could be a jerk.
Charlotte motioned toward the gate. “Perot, open it up for us.”
Her deputy did as she requested. The gate swung open with a creak and a groan, screeching across the slab of rock that had been laid beneath it. The wind picked up as if on cue, rustling through the branches of magnolia trees that lined the outer wall of the cemetery.
Charlotte suppressed the urge to giggle. She pressed her lips together to keep her inappropriate desire to melt into hysterics in check.
Sophia jerked and spun on her heel, gazing into the cypress woods on the edge of the nearby swamp.
“A little jumpy?”
“I could have sworn I felt someone touch me.” Sophia edged in front of Dylan so that she wasn’t the last one to pass through the gate.
That left Charlotte’s other deputy on the tail end of their group. Charlotte jumped when the man closed the rusty gate behind them and swallowed hard to keep from insisting her deputy push the gate open again. Her blood seemed to run thicker through her veins when she was on the plantation. Visions of needing a quick escape flashed through her mind. She shook her head to toss off the weird feeling.
She’d relived the night she’d been punched in the throat a million times, in slow motion. The lethargy she experienced in the cemetery was the same drained, sluggish feeling that weighed her down in her nightmares.
Nick Moreau placed a reassuring hand on her upper arm. “You okay, Charlotte?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Let’s do this.” She nodded toward Deputy Perot, who dutifully approached the crypt with the Wakefield name carved across the title piece. Inscribed on the stone’s surface was one name. Leslie Earnest Wakefield. No birth date. No death date. Strange.
Perot lifted the sledgehammer, reared back, and then stopped mid-swing, dropping the tool to the ground. “Sheriff, I don’t think I need to break it. The stone isn’t attached. It looks like it’s been chiseled loose.” He pointed toward the slab of rock that covered the front of the crypt.
She caught the second deputy’s eye. “Help him move it.”
The other man rushed to do his boss’s bidding. With a few heaves and shoves, the two deputies had managed to wedge the heavy front out of the crypt and push it aside. The coroner moved closer, peering into the shadowy shelves of the two-tiered crypt. Dylan Hunter hung back with his arm around Sophia Cannon. Nick stood so close to Charlotte she could feel his warmth.
Deputy Perot pulled a flashlight from his pocket and aimed the beam into the open tomb. Just as Charlotte had expected, a coffin occupied the top tier. As her eyes adjusted to the artificial light spraying cross the contents of the supposedly empty second shelf, Sophia gasped behind her.
Perot pointed. “There’s a skeleton in here, Sheriff.”
Perot didn’t have to tell her. She could see it.
A body had been shoved into the lower tier of the burial chamber. No casket. The corpse had decayed to nothing but bones. The discovery didn’t shock her nearly as much as the sight of what the dead woman had been wearing.
Charlotte struggled to organize her thoughts. Her voice cracked when she finally managed to speak, breaking the heavy silence. “I need to talk to Boots Theriot.”
“Who’s Boots Theriot?” Nick asked. His voice sounded muted and unnatural.
“Former sheriff.” She couldn’t manage more than those two words. Sorrow pressed down on her, burrowing deep into her soul.
Nick tossed her a quizzical glance. The concern on his face told her Nick thought she was acting weird.
“You think her name would have come across his desk?”
It was a legitimate question, properly worded. A body entombed as this person had been was surely the result of criminal activity. It was fair to assume the victim had been murdered.
“I think I know who she is. I just want him to confirm it.”
“Sheriff, who are you talking about? Who is she?” The coroner finally allowed his curiosity to find his vocal cords. If Charlotte could identify the bones, her identification would make the coroner’s job much easier.
“She calls herself Celia Wakefield.”
The coroner pointed at the crypt. “How do you know that’s Celia Wakefield? She would have died before you were born.”
“Not that Celia Wakefield. No, this one… She’s the one that came down here in the 1960s. One of the fake ones.”
“How do you know that, Sheriff?” Skepticism rang in Deputy Perot’s question.
“Orange dress with white polka dots.” Charlotte made eye contact with Hunter. “The same one she was wearing when I saw her in town and when I saw her in the manor house.”
The coroner’s uncomfortable laughter circled around them in the thick air. “You saw a woman wearing that outfit in the 1960s. Are you even old enough to remember someone who came around that long ago, Sheriff?”
“It’s a long story.” Her vague answer wouldn’t appease Dr. Henry Shelton for long.
Shelton took charge of the situation. “Get the straps out. Everyone lend a hand. Let’s get old man Wakefield’s coffin out of here and into the van. Then we can deal with processing the second remains.”
Charlotte backed away to allow her deputies room to pull the casket from its cubbyhole. Without being asked, Hunter and Moreau helped move the coffin up the path to the yard in front of the house.
The solemn mood that had descended on the group created a hollow feeling in the pit of Charlotte’s stomach. When she got back to town, she was going to pound on Boots Theriot’s front door. The former sheriff of St. Denis Parish had some explaining to do. He had poked his nose into every bit of parish life. There was no way he didn’t know
about the couple who came out of nowhere in the 1960s and pretended to be Les and Celia Wakefield.
****
Sheriff Soileau had called a friend with the state police stating that the case appeared more detailed and delicate than her deputy’s limited training. Oh, Deputy Shilling’s skills were enough to service St. Denis Parish, but there had never been a crime of this nature in the parish since modern forensic technology had become an important law enforcement resource.
It had taken the state officer forever to arrive and complete the on-scene forensic investigation. How much forensic evidence would still be present after so much time had passed? It was obvious from the condition of the skeleton that the body had been buried inside the crypt for many years. Yet the officer had scrutinized even the smallest of details just as if the scene was fresh and the woman had been murdered only a few minutes before they had arrived.
Once the coroner had loaded the coffin into his van and the crime scene investigator had gathered what he could from the cemetery, Dr. Shelton had carefully boxed and removed the woman’s bones from the Wakefield crypt with a promise that he’d try to push the state lab to determine how long the woman had been dead.
An urgent phone call from his new partner had lit a fire under Nick Moreau to return to the city. After a bit of contentious discussion, Moreau had gone back to New Orleans and left Dylan and Sophia with Sheriff Soileau.
The three of them sat on the steps of the Manor house, and the sheriff stared down the drive, her focus on Moreau’s taillights disappearing into the shadows.
“That must have been an uncomfortable ride over here from New Orleans.” Speculation danced in the sheriff’s eyes.
Dylan considered her fishing expedition. Did she really think he’d take the bait and talk about Det. Moreau behind his back just so she could call him and report what Dylan had said? The two of them had already conferred about him enough.
The Unmistakable Scent of Gardenias (Haunted Hearts Series Book 6) Page 20
