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

by Denise Moncrief

  “Of all the sexist…”

  Boots spread his hands in a defensive gesture. “You know attitudes were different back then, Charlotte. Don’t blame me. I’m just repeating what I heard.”

  There had to be more for her to work with than what Boots had already told her. “That’s all interesting, but that doesn’t tell me anything about what happened to her.”

  He grunted and pouted a bit. “I’m getting there. Keep your pants on.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “People around here were starting to get suspicious that he was a wife beater. Of course, back then people were a lot more reluctant to get into the middle of other people’s business. When she came to town, she always acted like she was scared out of her mind. She’d sneak up there to the Stop & Get to mail a letter. When her husband caught her doing that, old man Boudreaux thought all hell was gonna break loose. He felt so sorry for the poor woman.”

  “So Sheriff Perot went out to see them.” Just like Charlotte had gone out to interview the most recent iteration of the Les and Celia phenomena.

  Boots nodded. “He said the man acted odd, like he was in another world or something. Kind of like he was in a trance. Perot asked to talk to the woman, but the man said she wasn’t at home. No one ever saw her again, and shortly after that, the man disappeared. He’d started fixing up the old place, but he left his repairs half-finished. We all thought the whole thing was strange. And then the sheriff’s deputy from up there in Nashville came around looking for her. Perot didn’t want to admit he’d let the woman get away from him, so he acted like he hadn’t seen anyone around here with that description.”

  Charlotte crossed her arms. “Uh-huh. That’s no excuse for failing to keep records of the incident. Now, I have remains with no rightful name to go with them.”

  Boots shrugged. “Have you considered searching the place? Maybe the man left something of his real identity behind.”

  “Now, why didn’t Sheriff Perot do that?”

  Boots coughed. “He just wanted the whole thing to go away like it never happened. If that woman died because he wasn’t doing his job…”

  Sure, Charlotte understood. She didn’t like it, but she knew where the inclination to cover up the incident came from. She didn’t intend to run the Sheriff’s Office that way. That’s why the parish had at first been skeptical of her effectiveness in the position. Change was difficult in a rural south Louisiana parish where most of the inhabitants and their ancestors had done things a certain way for generations. Covering up scandal was an old habit that died hard.

  “I’m going to do as you suggest and search the Wakefield house. But after all this time, I doubt if anything that belonged to the man is still there.” She glared at Boots. “You know, there’s been several other men who have come to Wakefield and claimed to be the long lost heir to the Wakefield estate.”

  “Yeah, I know, and that fool Drew Hennigan at the bank got suckered every time.”

  “Why didn’t you jump in and help him investigate them? They were frauds. Every one of them.”

  “I did, Charlotte, and by the time I could prove anything, every one of them had disappeared without a trace. Them and their wives along with them. All of ’em named Les and Celia. Now, don’t you think that’s odd?”

  Yeah, she did, and Boots should have done more to investigate why the oddity kept reoccurring.

  ****

  Sophia lifted the cover on the roll top desk and pulled the letters out of the cubbyhole. Relief washed over her when she held them in her hands. They weren’t a figment of her overactive imagination. They were real.

  Her fingers trembled as she removed a yellowed letter. It wasn’t the first in chronological order, so she laid it aside and opened them all, sorting them until she had them in proper sequence.

  The sun had already peeked over the eastern horizon and sprayed its golden rays into the room, splashing bits of light onto the faded ink. She squinted at the tight handwriting. The cursive writing scrawled across the unlined paper, embellished with curlicues and flourishes. Her finger traced the delicate script while her heart raced faster and faster.

  Her unconscious thoughts screamed into her consciousness. So close to the truth. Get a little closer. Find the truth and free her.

  She gasped when she discovered the lines she had forgotten, but had wanted so desperately to read again.

  I am sorry you have come to hate the perfume of gardenias so much, dear sister. It was mother’s favorite scent, but I can understand if you now associate the fragrance with everything you detest about Les Wakefield. Why does he insist that you wear it? Doesn’t his wife think this peculiar behavior? I do not know how to put this delicately, sister. Are you involved with him in a way that you shouldn’t be? Please don’t be offended by my questions. I am only concerned. I am aware of how easily a person might fall under his control.

  You seem so distressed that I wish you would return home. I think that father would gladly take you back in if you would but ask with a humble heart. He has been kind to me since my return despite my rebellious nature.

  Please answer me. I’ve become desperate to hear from you since you did not reply to my last letter by return post as you usually do.

  H.

  The letters dated afterwards were shorter and contained more urgent entreaties to reply to Hattie. Sophia could only assume that Hattie never heard from her sister again. A sob escaped her. Her heart pounded with conflicting feelings of love and loss and anger and fear. She imagined Lettie’s emotions burrowing into her soul, as if Sophia was once again giving them life.

  A thud shattered the quiet. Sophia twisted to scan the room behind her. From the four corners, dots of light materialized, floated and swirled. In ones and twos, the glowing spots gathered and clung together until all the orbs of incandescence melded into one enormous pulsating ball of energy, almost blinding in its intensity. She shielded her eyes from the glare.

  In the center of the room, the mass of light hovered, drawing Sophia away from the desk. She reached out a hand to the warmth and strong emotion rushed her, feelings that were not easily defined characterized with deep longing and enormous pain.

  “Lettie, is that you?” The question barely left her mouth; so difficult was it to voice.

  You know who I am?

  The whispered question touched her spirit until she ached. “You sister was my great-grandmother.”

  You’ve come to free me.

  A statement. Not a question.

  Her heart said yes even though her mouth couldn’t verbalize her answer. “Who killed you?” Once the truth was known, surely Lettie would find her peace.

  “I killed her.” The voice boomed from behind Sophia.

  She twisted to see Brandon Wakefield in the door. He couldn’t have killed Lettie. Brandon hadn’t been born when Lettie died.

  He advanced, and Sophia froze, her feet rooted to the brand new boards Collin McVey had nailed in place only days before. The glowing spots where the ghost’s eyes should have been blazed with red heat. The apparition turned her radiant countenance toward Brandon.

  An anguished scream rattled the house. Imposter. The ghost had spoken yet her mouth hadn’t moved.

  ****

  Dylan blinked his eyes, yawned, and stretched before rolling over and patting the empty spot where Sophia had slept. He sniffed and failed to detect the pleasant aroma of coffee. Surely, if she had already gotten up for the day, she would have brewed a pot. Sophia was a coffee addict if she was nothing else.

  He glanced at the clock by the bed. Already past ten. He’d slept longer than he intended. The night before, he’d flinched at the noise he’d made every time he’d shifted, fearful he’d wake Sophia when she needed rest. He wanted to beat himself up for sleeping so soundly that he hadn’t heard her get up from the creaky bed they shared.

  No noise came from the attached bathroom. The lack of morning sounds alarmed him enough that he jumped out of bed and yanked the bedroom d
oor open. The trailer was empty.

  He stepped out of the door and scanned the surrounding area. No sign of her. Then his eyes strayed toward the manor house. He squinted into the sun peeking through oak branches that hung over the roof. His heart sputtered when he caught a glimpse of someone through the nearest bedroom window.

  Her odd behavior the previous evening came to mind. I begged her not to go in there by herself. What’s the matter with her?

  He rushed to pull on a t-shirt. Before he left the trailer, he grabbed his gun from the drawer where he kept it. An overreaction maybe, but the atmosphere around him felt heavy with danger. Maybe it was the strange lack of sound coming from the woods that filled his consciousness with foreboding. No birds singing. No insects chirping. No rustling of leaves. Dead silence. Or maybe it was the suffocating scent of gardenias that hung heavy in the air.

  His mind raced. Sophia was in trouble. He sensed it. His heart pounded the certainty with every beat. His feet carried him forward with little instruction from his brain. Panic controlled him.

  He took the front steps two at a time, his feet not quite making contact with the brick. When he reached the front door, he grabbed the door handle, but then yanked his hand back. Sparks flew where his skin had met the metal. “What the…”

  Searching the grounds surrounding the front porch, he located a tree limb on the ground. Using a stick as leverage, he jiggled the handle. Sparks sizzled and spat while he worked at the trigger. The house didn’t want him to enter. He felt its displeasure all the way to the center of his being. Strange that the house would protest his intrusion. He’d assumed it was the occupants that didn’t want him there.

  The door opened, and he shook the strange thoughts out of his head. Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard a woman scream.

  ****

  Brandon didn’t seem to notice the apparition’s glare or absorb her accusation. His eyes remained focused on Sophia. “I killed her for you.”

  What did he want from her? Did he want her to say thank you?

  In another two steps he was right on her. She couldn’t move. Paralyzed with fear.

  His breath smelt of sulphur, an evil smell. “I killed Lettie for you, Celia.”

  She finally broke free from his spell with a jerk. “I’m not Celia. I’m Sophia.”

  For every step she moved backward, he took another step toward her, keeping pace with her retreat. He reached out and touched her face. “There aren’t many woman named Celia any longer. You will be my Celia.”

  Nooooo. The denial swelled until it filled the room. The ghost of Lettie Duchesne raised her arm, her long fingers stretched out toward Brandon. A flash of fire zipped across the short space and found the center of his chest. He convulsed and hit the wood floor on his knees. But within a split second, he had shook off the energy she had zapped him with.

  He stood to his feet. Rage flashed across his features. His face transformed into someone unrecognizable. Had the spirit of Les Wakefield finally taken over? Was she seeing the face of the original Les Wakefield implanted on Brandon? She recoiled at the horrible sight. If this was Les Wakefield’s face, his countenance reflected pure evil.

  “You think you can defeat me, Lettie? I’ve always been stronger than you. Go and leave us alone.” He roared, and his voice rushed past her like a mighty wind buffeting her.

  The light that was Lettie disappeared in a heartbeat as if she’d never been there at all. The room filled with darkness, so dense and thick that breathing was difficult. In Sophia’s heart, her soul, and her mind, she discerned that the man who had her wrist wrapped in fingers of steel was not Brandon Wakefield. The spirit of Les Wakefield controlled Brandon, and with incredible power, it controlled her.

  “You will not leave me. You will stay with me forever.”

  Dylan was on the grounds, asleep in the trailer when she left him. Sophia wanted to scream for help, but her mouth seemed to be sealed shut. She squirmed and wrestled with Brandon but he had the strength of a legion of dark souls.

  He dragged her across the room. She managed to loosen her grip, but he slammed her head against the wall. Bright flickers of light raced across her vision. Her head erupted with sharp, stabbing bursts of pain. She tried to press against the hurt with her hand, but Brandon slapped her hand down, pulling both of her arms behind her back and shoving her through the open door. He pushed her toward the stairs, nearly wrenching her arms out of her shoulder sockets.

  All the pieces of Celia’s story came together in a burst of revelation. Les was trying to complete unfinished business. In 1937, Celia had gotten away from him before he could stop her. In 2014, his ghost was acting out the final scene of Les’s revenge on his unfaithful wife as if the end of the story had actually happened.

  “Are you going to kill me? And your child?”

  He stopped mid-way and spun her around. She caught hold of the banister before she toppled backward down the stairs. The laughter that sprang from his lips sent chills through her. An unnatural sound. As if all hell had descended upon them.

  “So you are with child. How do I know the bastard is my child? How can I trust a whore like you?”

  Through trembling lips, she played her role. “Let me go home to my father. I’ll be no trouble to you. No one has to know.”

  “You know what I did to Lettie. I can’t let you leave.”

  She dug deep into her well of false bravado for an ounce of strength. “You should have given Lettie her letters. Now her sister will come looking for her. She’ll figure out what you did.”

  “Hattie won’t do anything. She has her own secrets to keep. I’m sure she never wants to see me again.”

  Her mother’s words came back to her, clear and sharp. If I had known you were intent on digging up old family secrets, I would have never let you come out here.

  A horrible thought leaped into her consciousness. The meaning of Hattie’s words in her letter to Lettie shifted around in her mind until they made perfect sense. She dared stare at the man on the stairs above her. When she peered into his eyes, she was staring straight into the soul of another man from another time. Could Les Wakefield, the original mad man of Wakefield Manor, be her great-grandfather? Was this the family secret that her mother was hiding?

  “What did you do to Hattie?”

  His lip curled. “Nothing she didn’t deserve.”

  Sophia recognized his answer for what it was, the same lie every abuser told in defense of his abuse.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dylan stood frozen and speechless while the drama between Brandon and Sophia unfolded above him. He wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but both of them seemed to be acting out a play, a melodrama from another time. So deep were they in their conflict that neither of them had noticed him enter the front door or race across the grand hall. Unwilling to startle them, he stalled at the bottom of the stairs.

  He sucked down a few curse words and considered the best strategy for dealing with the situation. “Wakefield, let her go.” The words belted out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  He groaned. Was that the best idea he had? Telling the villain to let the damsel in distress go was so cliché. And if he knew anything at all about Sophia, she was no damsel in distress. Sophia had a plan, and she wouldn’t go down without a hard fight. When Dylan arrived in the middle of the moment, he had simply changed the dynamic.

  Brandon shifted his gaze from Sophia to Dylan, just as Dylan had wanted him to do. With his attention distracted, perhaps Sophia could manage to get away from the crazy bastard. Dylan moved forward, up the stairs two steps.

  Brandon curled his fingers into Sophia’s shirt. “She’s mine, Phillip. You can’t have her.”

  Sophia’s gaze met Dylan’s. Her eyes begged him to act cautiously, to engage in the drama instead of trying to defuse it. What was Wakefield talking about? Dylan searched his memory. Of course. The spirit of Les Wakefield had mentioned Phillip through Brandon once before. Dylan an
d Sophia had never figured out to whom Wakefield had been referring.

  “She won’t be yours if you hurt her, Wakefield.” Dylan’s tentative reply rang with uncertainty.

  Was he doing the right thing? Surely, they should confront the spirit of Les Wakefield with the truth and demand he leave Brandon’s body. Wouldn’t that be a better plan? But Sophia wanted answers, and so as long as Les Wakefield held Brandon’s body captive, she was going to dig into Les’s tortured psyche. The result might be fatal for Brandon or for her. Dylan wanted to warn her off, but he knew she would not be dissuaded.

  Hate hissed through Brandon’s teeth. “What I do to my wife is none of your concern. Remember that you work for me. Get back to your job.”

  So Phillip had been Les’s employee, someone who worked on his farm, maybe.

  No matter if they played the game or not, Dylan had to get between Brandon and Sophia, so he dared to ascend another step. If anything happened to her… He drew on courage he didn’t think he had and went along with Sophia’s plan. “I promised her I’d see her to the train station in New Orleans. That’s all.” Was that a sufficient lie? One that made sense in the 1930s?

  Brandon shook Sophia. “You deceitful whore. Now you have my foreman lying for you.”

  Sophia’s eyes widened with fear. She glanced at the stairs below her. Dylan could easily read the thoughts rushing through her mind. If she went tumbling, her injuries might prove fatal. Landing the wrong way could break her neck.

  The muscles in Brandon’s forearms rippled beneath his shirtsleeves. All it would take is one hard shove.

  Dylan calculated that in a few more steps he’d be able to break her fall. Once more, he climbed toward them.

  “I’m warning you, Phillip. Stay back, or I’ll break her neck.” Brandon’s fingers curled around Sophia’s throat.

  The cruelty in Wakefield’s threat set Dylan’s teeth on edge.

  Sophia’s eyes blazed with the heat of righteous indignation. She nailed the spirit of Les Wakefield with her accusation. “He killed Lettie, Phillip. He knocked her in the head and then he buried her alive. Whatever happens to me, don’t let him get away with it.”