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

by Denise Moncrief

  “I’ve been more comfortable.” That was all he’d give up about the car trip from his condo in Metairie to Wakefield Plantation. He cast a sideways glance at the sheriff. “Do you know why he’s so convinced I killed Audrey St. Clair? He’s never found a body.” Maybe the woman would share a little bit of what Moreau had told her about Dylan.

  “He’s convinced she’d dead because he thinks she should have shown up somewhere by now.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “No, but I know how Nick thinks. He’s out of leads, and he doesn’t have any other suspects.”

  Dylan couldn’t believe he was a suspect for no other reason than Moreau didn’t have any other suspects. “I wasn’t the last person to see her, you know.”

  The sheriff seemed surprised.

  “She called me the night she disappeared to tell me she was going to a party. She wasn’t alone. I could hear someone in the background of the call. Someone was telling her what to say.” He closed his eyes. “She was already drunk.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t drunk. She might have been drugged.”

  The sheriff’s suggestion shook his beliefs about Audrey’s disappearance. What if someone had forced her to leave town? He’d always sworn she’d taken off with some other guy. The male voice in the background of her call had made him believe so. The hang up phone calls had been further evidence she had another man in her life. Maybe he’d misinterpreted everything.

  “Did you tell Nick about the phone call?”

  “I might not have told him everything.”

  The sheriff made an exasperated noise. “How do you expect him to clear you if you keep information from him?”

  “I don’t think he wants to clear me.”

  The sheriff shook her head. “You don’t get Nick at all. He wants the right guy behind bars more than he wants the arrest. If he suspects you, it’s because you never gave him any reason not to. Your life is never going to settle down until you clear your name. You know that, don’t you?” The sheriff’s quiet assertions rang with wisdom.

  But she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.

  He closed his eyes, preferring not to witness the condemnation that might show on the sheriff’s face. “I don’t think she’s dead. I never have. How am I going to clear my name unless she shows up? I swear I think she’s somewhere getting a big laugh out of it all.”

  Sophia made an agitated noise. He slit his eyes open to catch a glimpse of her, to perhaps interpret her outburst. The look on her face told him everything. She’d never much liked being talked over and around, and she’d parked her butt between Dylan and Sheriff Soileau.

  “If you two want to talk about Audrey, I’m going to the trailer.”

  Dylan placed a hand on her arm. “Don’t go. I don’t want to talk about her either. So we can stop.”

  The tension in Sophia’s arm relaxed, and she retook her seat on the other side of Dylan from the sheriff. “Why are we sitting out here? It’s getting dark.” She shivered next to him and nudged his shoulder.

  Her unspoken message? Get me out of here. But Moreau had left in the car they had come in. They were on their own without transportation unless they hitched a ride into town with the sheriff.

  Dylan slid his arm across Sophia’s shoulders. His eyes caught hers, and he tried to communicate his reluctance to leave just yet.

  “I’ve been waiting around, hoping she would show up again.” The sheriff’s voice held practically no inflection. Flat. “You have your ghosts to face and I have mine. I came out here to talk to Les and Celia Wakefield because when I saw her in town, she acted strange. I’ve learned to verify what people tell me, so when you said no one lived here I wanted to find that out for myself. So I came back. Before I could knock, she answered. I told her I wanted to speak to her husband. She didn’t answer me. Instead she offered me a glass of lemonade. I followed her into the house. I was going to follow her into the kitchen, but that’s when I kind of snapped out of whatever trance I was in.” Her tone was almost as creepy as her subject matter.

  The sheriff swallowed hard. It was obvious telling the story out loud was difficult.

  Dylan knew enough about cops to know that the good ones lived by a code. Circumstantial evidence was rarely good enough. Speculation had to be backed up with hard evidence. There was nothing solid about anything that had happened to her at Wakefield Plantation.

  “I don’t know how I got down the hallway. When my eyes opened, I realized how impossible it was to get across that hole in the floor without falling and hurting myself. I still don’t know how I got across to the other side.” She turned fearful eyes toward Dylan. “But that’s not what scared me the most.”

  Dylan blinked, afraid if he spoke she’d stop talking.

  “She was wearing the same dress that’s on those bones we found in the Wakefield crypt today.”

  Sophia leaned closer to Dylan. “You know what’s been bothering me ever since we opened up Les’s tomb?” A symphony of insect noises warmed up in the nearby swamp, preparing for the night’s nocturnal performance. “I really thought when we disturbed his bones that he’d make an appearance. The whole thing was sort of anticlimactic.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Yeah. It seemed that way to me too. I guess that’s why I’m still here. I expected something to happen.”

  Dylan rubbed his hand over his chin stubble. “Jordan said he sensed that Les was not present in the house, like he’d gone out. We’ve gotten the impression that Brandon Wakefield wasn’t acting himself. Maybe Les doesn’t haunt near his bones. Maybe he’s traveling with Brandon.”

  The sheriff pushed off the steps and stood. “I don’t know about that kind of stuff. I don’t think I want to know about dark things like that. Still…I can’t help wondering.”

  Dylan stood, took Sophia’s hand, and pulled her to her feet. He wanted to ask the sheriff one more question before they parted for the night. “Sheriff, are you related to the Soileaus that used to own the plantation?”

  She blinked at him. “When did the Soileaus own this place?” She seemed truly clueless.

  “They were the owners before the Wakefields, and they used to own The Grove Plantation as well.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that. If I’m related, it’s news to me.” Her eyebrows pulled together across her forehead. “But then, my father never talked much about his family. I could ask my momma. She might know if we’re related. It wouldn’t surprise me. I’m related to every other Soileau in this part of the state.” The sheriff’s shoulders sagged, and it seemed she was already tired of the discussion. “I don’t think you should stay out here at night without a vehicle. You should leave with me.”

  Dylan suspected she was right. “We’ll be okay.” His handgun was probably still safely secured in the locked cabinet beneath the window seat in the trailer.

  She studied him a moment, probably considering how much she wanted to argue her point. “I’m gonna give you my friend’s number. He lives real close, right down the road. Call him if you have trouble. I’ll give him a heads up that I gave you his number.”

  Dylan smiled. “You mean Bobby? We’ve met.”

  The sheriff’s eyebrows raised. “Well, Bobby does seem to know everybody in Louisiana.” She waited another second before giving him one final piece of advice. “Lock yourself in the trailer tonight and don’t come out until the sun comes up. At least, that’s what I’d do if I were you.”

  She placed her uniform hat on her head and strolled toward her vehicle. Within minutes, she was gone.

  Dylan turned his gaze toward Sophia. He could see in her eyes that she was questioning the wisdom of staying at Wakefield Manor all night without a way to get away fast.

  “We should have left with Moreau.” The words popped out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  Sophia wrapped her arms around her middle. “Tonight might be a long night.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  After Soileau had left,
Sophia had grumbled about needing a shower. Dylan was not going to get in her way. Three things he remembered about her. Make sure the woman had hot food, a hot shower, and some hot coffee. She emerged from the bedroom rubbing her wet hair with a towel. She looked so sexy wearing one of Dylan’s old shirts and a pair of running shorts that he wanted to pick her up and lay her down on the bed. That probably wouldn’t go over so well. He sensed that Sophia wanted to rebuild their relationship at a slow, careful pace. It was like winning her love all over again.

  Their relationship had never been fast and furious. It was more like a song that started out slow and built to an incredible crescendo.

  He shoved a steaming cup of caffeine across the table toward her. “I know it’s already late, but I thought you could use a little boost.”

  “Are you trying to spoil me or something?”

  A smile broadened his face. “Yeah, is it working?”

  She returned his smile with a grin and continued drying her hair. “How does anyone live without a hair dryer?”

  “My hair is short. I let it dry naturally.”

  “Humph. I didn’t pack anything because I didn’t plan on an overnight stay.” She’d grumbled the same thing ten times or more since Soileau left.

  She dropped the towel on the nearest chair, slid onto the bench, and wrapped her fingers around her coffee mug. With a little hop, she managed to slide closer to Dylan. The warmth of her body next to his produced the old, familiar reaction.

  She pointed at the notebook he had open on the tabletop. “What are you doing?”

  “Making notes. Trying to sort through everything. There are so many bits and pieces to the story of Les and Celia Wakefield. Every time I think I’ve got it figured out, something else happens and adds another layer of mystery.”

  She blew on her coffee before taking a sip. “I’ve been thinking about what Jordan said. You know, about how many different personalities he felt in the house. That’s a lot of disturbed souls. Could they all have met a tragic end? Murder or suicide or an awful accident?”

  He reveled in the sheer joy of having Sophia sit so close to him. It didn’t matter that they were talking about anything but their new togetherness. They were together. That was what mattered.

  She pulled a crumpled envelope from her pocket, drew the letter out, laid it on the table, and then smoothed the wrinkles in the paper with the palm of her hand. The action appeared very hesitant, as if Sophia hated digging into the writer’s privacy uninvited. “My great-great-aunt Leticia wrote this to my great-grandmother back in 1936. My grandmother always called her Aunt Lettie.”

  1936. The year before Les Wakefield hung himself from the balcony of Wakefield Manor. A vision jumped into Dylan’s mind of a man dangling from a rope, convulsing and kicking when the cord stretched out and tightened around his neck. He sucked in a breath at the image. It disappeared before he could analyze it. The vision was so clear as if he’d been there. Sophia’s wobbly voice brought him back from his inner thoughts.

  “I didn’t get a chance to finish reading it before Momma interrupted me. I just remembered I stuffed it in the pocket of my jeans.” She cleared her throat and fingered the paper. “I’m not going to read all of it.” She cleared her throat and began reading.

  I saw Celia packing a suitcase last night. When she saw me watching, she shoved it under the bed and pretended she hadn’t been doing anything. I think she is going to leave Les, and when she does, that will leave him all to me. Surely, he will acknowledge this child as his.

  Sophia’s eyes moistened with tears. “She would have only been sixteen.”

  “Sure sounds like the son of a bitch had an affair with a teenage girl.”

  Sophia sniffed, obviously trying to stall an outburst of emotion. “Celia probably wasn’t much older.”

  “She was pregnant too.”

  Sophia’s eyes met his. “Those poor girls. Back in that time, getting pregnant without a husband was… Well, Lettie’s life would have been ruined. And Celia? She would have had to endure the shame of the entire community knowing her husband had cheated on her. That would have been almost as soul crushing. People can be so cruel.”

  Dylan slipped his arm around Sophia. “The ghost isn’t Celia.”

  Sophia’s eyes popped. The glow of enlightenment brightened her face. “You’re right. It can’t be. Celia really did leave. But… There’s more than one ghost. That’s what Jordan said. The ghost that Sheriff Soileau keeps seeing is the woman who came her in the 1960s. We know she died here because those were probably her bones in the Wakefield crypt.”

  He nodded his agreement. “The apparition of light we keep seeing must be someone else.”

  “I thought the ghost that asked me to free her was Celia, but it’s not. That’s why something didn’t seem right. It’s not Celia’s ghost I’m supposed to help.” She grabbed his free hand in hers. “That’s why I’ve always felt a connection to this place. I’ve always been drawn to this house. It’s in my blood. The ghost that wants my help is related to me. The apparition of light is my great-aunt Lettie.”

  Dylan chuckled.

  “What’s so funny? I don’t think this is amusing.” Her indignation was kind of cute. “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “I was just thinking we’ve both gone from not believing in ghosts to accepting they might exist to giving them their rightful names.”

  A grim expression turned down the corners of Sophia’s mouth and hardened her usually soft features. “It’s more than that, Dylan. I have to help Lettie right the wrong that was committed against her.”

  “What wrong? Who did something to her?”

  She shivered and paled. “The face in the mirror…the one covered in blood… That was Lettie’s face. I thought it was my face at first, but there was no blood on me. The reason I thought it was mine was because I resemble her.” She paused a moment. The significance of the moment vibrated around them. “My grandmother always said so. She said I looked just like her mother. Lettie and Hattie were twins.”

  Her excitement built with each thought she voiced. He could feel her pulse racing beneath her skin where it touched his.

  “People around here have always gotten it wrong. The ghost of Wakefield Manor isn’t the original Celia Wakefield. No. She’s Les Wakefield’s mistress. Celia’s maid.”

  Dylan had absorbed Sophia’s agitation. His nerves tingled with the anticipation of discovering the truth. “So who killed Lettie Duchesne? Les or Celia?”

  “The letters I found in the bedroom upstairs… They were from Hattie, but Lettie never got them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There were four of them, and in every one of them Hattie wanted to know why Lettie wasn’t answering her letters.”

  Dylan whistled. The secrets of the past danced around them. The ring of truth tolled like a clarion. He recognized it when he heard it. Truth had a tone all its own.

  “Someone was intercepting those letters.”

  “But who? Les or Celia?” Sophia gasped. “Someone beat her up in that room. That’s why the room seems so heavy to me.”

  “Okay, now you’re freaking me out. How do you know this stuff? You’re just speculating. That was so long ago.”

  She shook her head, almost violently. “You know I’m right. You feel it just like I do. The truth feels so free. It’s like the heaviness I’ve felt is lifting.”

  He wanted the truth. Not just for Celia and Lettie, but for Dylan and Sophia. He wanted the freedom that would come with destroying the deception that had built up a wall between them.

  “No, Dylan. I know it. Right here, I know it’s the truth.” She pressed her hand against her chest. “Ever since I stepped through the front door of Wakefield Manor, I’ve known it. Deep in my heart, I’ve felt it. Lettie has been trying to tell me what happened to her.” She jumped to her feet and stared at the door. “I have to see those letters again.”

  He rushed to stop her from doing something foolish by grabbi
ng her wrist. “Not tonight.”

  She twisted but didn’t manage to dislodge his grip. “How can I sleep? I have to know.”

  His fingers tightened. “You’ve read them all. What more can they tell you?”

  “I missed something. The answer is in the letters.” Her desire to get to the truth had reached a fevered pitch. Her face had flushed, and her voice had taken on a tone he’d never heard before.

  “You’re scaring me, Sophia.”

  She turned blazing eyes toward him, and for the first time since he’d met her, he wasn’t sure he knew who she was.

  He pulled her toward the bedroom door. “Get some rest.”

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “But you’re tired. I can tell.”

  She finally shook his hand from her wrist. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Sophia, look me in the eye. I’m not trying to boss you around. I’m just worried about you because I think you’re not acting like yourself. Please, snap out of it.”

  Her head jerked as if he’d slapped her. With a short gasp and a shudder, she seemed to calm. She shook her head as if it had been filled with fog or cobwebs or bricks. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” Her eyes begged him for help.

  “I’ll be right here with you. All night. In the morning, we’re getting out of here.”

  And they might not come back. Not if the place was going to affect them this way.

  She nodded and turned toward the bedroom.

  ****

  The lines smeared when the first fat tear dropped onto the paper and rolled toward the floor. She dropped the letter on the dresser top and grabbed the edges for support. Everything in the room seemed to blur. When the door creaked open behind her, she glanced up and peeked at the reflection in the mirror. She would have swirled around to face whoever had caught her in Celia’s bedroom, but it seemed her movements had all slowed until she was barely moving at all. Like she was paralyzed or frozen in her fear.

  Cruel fingers dug into her shoulder and spun her around. Anger was a living thing. Cruel and unforgiving. There was no excuse for her intrusion in Les and Celia’s bedroom. The fact that she had found letters that rightfully belonged to her was of no consequence.