Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1)

by Jennifer Blake

  “Who knows? But I don’t like it when problems are dumped in my lap. I’ve got a strong hunch there's more to this deal than we've been told. You’re to find out how much more.”

  The case was getting more interesting by the minute, but that didn’t keep him from seeing problems. “And I’m supposed to do that with nothing to back me up, no way to persuade the Caret woman to let me get close, much less inside her house. Got any idea how I’m to go about it?”

  His cousin’s smile held grim amusement and no sympathy whatever. “Beats the hell out of me. But you’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out.”

  Lance’s jaws still ached from holding onto his temper when he stepped inside the coffee shop and beer joint known as the Watering Hole a short time later. The humid atmosphere and eternal sameness was like balm to his spirts, exactly what he needed. He could feel the knots of tension begin to leave the back of his neck after his first deep breath.

  The name came from the big watering trough, carved from a single cypress tree, that had been installed when the spot was occupied by a livery stable—and was still there. That the customers poured a lot more coffee and beer down their throats than they did water had no bearing. The place was a town institution.

  The familiar, sugary smell of doughnuts fought it out with the sour tang of onions left over from yesterday’s hamburgers and hot dogs. Hot grease, frying fish, grilling meat and the yeasty scent of beer added their grace notes. But the main event was the full-bodied aroma of the coffee the owner blended and brewed from his own secret recipe. Hot as the pits of hell and strong enough to grow hair on a cue ball, it was what kept the geriatric crowd and young sprouts alike coming back. It certainly wasn’t the décor, which was your typical ancient coffee shop staple of gritty wood floors, scarred wooden tables and chairs, and booths with red fake leather seats.

  A long counter ran down one wall with a few stools in front of it. It was a popular area as it was manned, off and on, by the coffee shop’s manager, a brown-eyed, wise-cracking termagant who was surly on her good days and downright insulting on the rest.

  As he strode toward the counter, Lance nodded at folks he knew here and there, waved and spoke to the table of retired guys seeking refuge from the soap operas at home, and tipped his hat to a couple of older women with shopping bags at their feet. He could feel eyes burning into his back, following his progress, and knew with disgusted certainty that his stint on administrative leave was already common knowledge.

  “Lance, old buddy! What are you doing here? I thought you spent your days cruising around, taking potshots at law abiding citizens. Oh, wait. Guess you hit one every now and then, huh?”

  Only two people in the known world would even whisper such a thing, much less yell it across the room. One was his cousin Beau Benedict, who had far better manners than to actually do it. The other was also a cousin, Trey Benedict, the Watering Hole’s owner who also laid claim to a truck stop and several convenience stores. No need to wonder why Trey put up with the rudeness of his female manager. He could hardly complain, since he always said exactly what he thought himself. Insults, sometimes teasing, sometimes not, were his stock in trade.

  “I could try for two out of two,” Lance said as he changed directions. Snatching off his hat, he spun it across the table toward where Trey sat.

  “Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine. Missing your shiny badge? Or would it be your big old pistol?”

  “Handgun, firearm, or Glock,” Lance corrected for the thousandth time.

  “All the same to me.”

  Trey’s shrug was designed to drive him crazy, Lance knew. So was his laidback position, the tilt of his dark head and the humorous challenge in his gray eyes. “Yeah. Until it’s a weapon of yours.”

  “Well, sure. But I have to say you look naked without your equipment. Being on leave must suck, you not being able to swagger around with it hanging off you.”

  Lance gave him a jaundiced look as he slid into the booth. He did feel too light. He’d never admit it, however, not even under torture. “Do I still get free cop coffee, or do I have to pay?”

  “You can have whatever Zeni will bring you. Just don’t expect too much.”

  “This not a good day?”

  “I asked her to make me a hot dog a few minutes ago, and she told me I already was one. Do you think she meant I’m ‘hawt’ or what?”

  “Doubt she thinks anything about you.”

  Trey gave a deep sigh. “I licked her hand like a good doggie, but it got me nowhere.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “Don’t encourage him, Lancelot,” Zeni said as she appeared at the booth to set a cup in front of him and then fill it from the steaming carafe on the tray she carried. “I only have two bottles of hand sanitizer left.”

  “I’ll buy you a case if you’ll let me lick your face.” Trey did his best to look soulful.

  “Eww. Pass.” She set off a doughnut and napkin-wrapped stainless utensils, centered them in front of Lance, and turned to walk away.

  “Hey, where’s mine?” her boss asked.

  “You don’t get any until you figure out the difference between rude and romantic.”

  “I can lick romantically if you’ll tell me how!” Trey called as she kept walking.

  “Can’t do it, but I’ll know it if I feel it,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Fine. Maybe I can practice on a doughnut!”

  She snorted. “You want it, you can come get it.”

  “Does that work with you?”

  She gave him an index finger over her shoulder. It might not have been her middle one, but there wasn’t a grinning fool in the place who didn’t know what she meant by it.

  That folks laughed instead of being put off, even the older ones, was a minor miracle in Chamelot, but that was Zeni. She was one of a kind with her rainbow-colored hair, small, gold nose ring and tattoo on her back so large parts of it were always visible. No one knew where she came from or if Zeni was her real name, yet everyone liked her sassy attitude, not to mention her ultra-curvaceous shape usually shown off by a constantly changing array of tank tops over the same short blue jean skirt topped by an apron exactly the same length.

  Trey was forever threatening to fire her. It was all talk; Zeni was too good at what she did and had too much entertainment value. Besides, doing his best to rile and beguile her while constantly getting shot down was the spice of his life at the moment.

  A group of teens over in a corner seemed to be getting extra fun out of the exchange. They elbowed each other, rolling around in the booth as they giggled and guffawed. It was only as Lance caught the waving, sword-wielding motion of their arms, heard the half-smothered chortles of “Lancelot! Oh my God! It’s killing me!” that he realized he was the butt of their horseplay.

  It wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. His lips tightened as he turned his attention to his coffee and doughnut.

  “Should I throw their skinny butts out of here?” Trey asked.

  Lance shook his head. “They don’t know the story.”

  “Right, and wouldn’t understand if they did.”

  Rising, Trey picked up his empty cup that was sitting on the table and went to pour himself a refill. Lance watched him go while a wry smile tugged at his lips. It was likely no one knew the whole tale except the three of them—Trey, who was actually Tristan, Beau, who was saddled with Galahad as a moniker, and him.

  It started with the name of their town, of course, Chamelot being an Old French spelling for the mythical Camelot of King Arthur fame. To capitalize on it, the locals hosted an annual medieval fair, as well as a tour of the area’s old mansions and pageant highlighting local history. Their mothers had all been friends and enjoyed acting as maidens in the fair together, especially, as well as southern belles in the pageant. When two of the girls married Benedict brothers, Beau’s mother became their sister-in-law, being a Benedict herself.

  By chance the three friends became pregnant at
the same time and discovered they would all have boys. The moms-to-be decided to name their sons for knights of old, in honor of their time as fair maidens. Lance became Lancelot Anthony, Beau was Robert Galahad Beauregard, and Trey was Tristan Thomas. As Beau’s mom never married, all three boys carried the Benedict name.

  With monikers like that, it was only natural they banded together from kindergarten to fight off the jokesters and bullies. That they’d become a force to protect others kids who were being bullied was just one of those things.

  But it was their high school English teacher who put the icing on the cake. Fond of fluttery blouses and poetry, unmarried at forty, she was also director of the school play presented every year. To cast the three of them as knights of King Arthur’s court in an amateur production of the Lerner and Loewe musical, Camelot, had been her masterstroke. Knights they had been ever since. And Lance sometimes thought they were doomed to live up to the title.

  He looked up as Trey rejoined him with his fresh coffee. “Ever see Miss Grantly?”

  “Saw her a couple of weeks ago at the grocery store.” Trey shook his head, though with a reminiscent smile. “She patted my cheek and said I’d always be her ‘veray parfit, gentil’ knight.”

  “I thought that was me,” Lance said in mock protest.

  “And you will be the next time she sees you.” Trey went on after a second. “So what are you going to do with yourself while on leave? Go fishing? Take up golf?”

  “Not likely. I have this special assignment that may be a problem.”

  “In spite of—”

  “Yeah, in spite of putting a bullet in our star quarterback.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about that too much, no matter what I said earlier. I heard Jackson’s been pouring down the beer like it was water lately. He was drunk as a skunk when he was in here this past weekend, picking fights, being a real jerk.”

  Lance nodded. “You have to feel for him, though. His old man has been on his back since he was a kid, shoving him to become NFL material, bragging about how he’ll retire on the millions his boy’s bound to make.”

  “Word is he’s foaming at the mouth now,” Trey said with a straight look. “He swears he’ll get you for ending his son’s brilliant career.”

  “I don’t think Jackson was on board with all that. As much as I hate saying it, I think maybe he wanted to be shot.”

  “Afraid he couldn’t measure up?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Guess he won’t have to, now.” Trey, holding his hot coffee cup by the top edge, gave it a couple of turns. “Meanwhile. About this assignment?”

  Lance kept his voice low as he gave him the details. It never occurred to him to hold back. He’d trust Trey with his life, had no fear he’d endanger Amanda Caret by running off his mouth. Talking to his cousin was almost like talking to himself.

  “A babe, is she?” Trey asked when Lance fell silent.

  “What makes you say that?” She was a little more than that, but he was trying hard not to dwell on how young and tender she looked, or the wary courage in her eyes.

  “I can’t remember the last time you were so focused on a tail—I mean to say,” he went on hurriedly as Lance’s chin came up, “on a perp you’re supposed to be tailing.”

  “She’s my only responsibility now.”

  “Yeah, right.” Trey’s night-black eyes narrowed in concentration. “This problem of yours, then, is getting close to her without drawing attention?”

  “And without having authority of any kind.”

  “You can’t run ordinary surveillance, can’t stake out her house on that quiet street, even in an unmarked. If she didn’t make you, the Neighborhood Watch of retired folks around there would.”

  “And the last thing she’s going to do is invite me inside.” Lance lifted a shoulder in resignation.

  They were silent while they sipped their brew. Finally, Trey said, “Think spending a few days next door to her might do it for you?”

  “It sounds better than nothing. What do you have in mind?”

  “Granny Chauvin could use a yard man.”

  Lance leaned back in his chair. He knew Granny; everybody in town did. He was aware she lived next door to the house where Amanda Caret was staying, knew she was on Trey’s list of elderly widows he helped out from time to time.

  “You mean me on the business end of a rake or hoe or shovel. Me, that is, instead of you?”

  “You got it,” Trey said with bright humor dancing in his eyes.

  Chapter 2

  Mandy stood to one side of the window and used a fingertip to lift the blind. She narrowed her eyes against the sun glare of midmorning as she scanned the backyard next door.

  There he was, Deputy Lance Benedict himself, in the hard, sun-browned, half-naked flesh. He’d exchanged his uniform for a pair of cutoff jeans and his gun for a shovel.

  She'd thought it was his voice she heard while having her coffee at the table near the kitchen’s open window. Deep, even, and touched with a honeyed drawl, it was hard to miss and even harder to mistake. It had sent her running upstairs for a better vantage point.

  Her nearest neighbor lived alone, as far as Mandy had been able to tell. Spry for her apparent age, she seemed active in the community considering how often she went in and out in her big boat of a car. Her hair like white feathers and the near perfect circles of wrinkles around her eyes gave her the look of a wise old owl. Granny Chauvin people called her in greeting when they saw her in her front yard. She was a little bent with age, sweet-faced yet feisty.

  Mandy had to smile a little as she watched her; she was so like the grandmother she and her younger sister had made up when they were kids, left alone in their ragged trailer while their mom worked. Independent yet firm, she would bake brownies, give out hugs, and always be there.

  How the deputy wound up in Granny Chauvin’s backyard was a question, but he appeared to be digging a flowerbed for her. It must be difficult for the elderly woman to handle a shovel with her knotted, arthritic hands; helping her out was no doubt a kindness.

  Mandy didn't think for a single minute it was Deputy Benedict’s only purpose. He was watching her, exactly as he'd threatened.

  It was costing him, she thought with less than complete sympathy. Perspiration darkened the oak leaf brown of his hair and set it in waves over his head. Without his shirt that he’d tossed to the ground beside him, the sculpted planes of his torso gleamed like wet bronze in the sun. He bent, shoved and twisted in effortless, unending grace, his muscles gliding and contracting under the skin. The damp waistband of his cut-off jeans rode low, snagging on his hipbones.

  If he begrudged a second of the effort he was expending, he gave no sign. The work seemed as natural to him as breathing, something he'd done a thousand times before, instead of only an underhanded scheme to spy on her.

  She could be wrong. It might be sheer coincidence that he’d appeared next door. Yes, or else some community outreach program for seniors sponsored by the sheriff’s department.

  No, she didn’t buy that. She remembered his warning too well, the politely worded threat that, easy way or hard, she’d stay under his eagle eye.

  At least he was being discreet about it, for which she should probably be grateful. His official vehicle wasn’t parked on the gravel driveway next door. He’d lost his uniform and its extra equipment.

  Man, had he lost them.

  Still, he glanced at her sanctuary too often as he worked, scanning the multi-paned windows and the back porch with a probing gaze. He seemed more interested in what he could see than in the shovel he wielded as if it were an oversized tablespoon.

  Mandy’s stomach muscles fluttered while heat rose inside her. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight. How ridiculous, to allow herself to be affected by the sight of a half-naked man. Especially now, especially this one.

  Okay. She was human, that was all, and it had been ages since she'd been exposed to so much sweaty, musc
ular power. Well, or to muscles of any kind, actually. Her husband prided himself on his intellect rather than what he labeled unnecessary brawn. And wasn't that a thought to cool her overheated libido?

  Below her, the deputy straightened from his job and rested his bent elbow on top of his shovel handle. Ducking his head, he used his upper arm to wipe at the sweat that trickled from his hair. He glanced up again toward the window where she stood, his gaze as intently focused as a heat-seeking missile.

  Mandy almost jumped back, but then froze into place. He couldn't see her; she knew he couldn't. He must have discovered which bedroom she used for sleeping, had perhaps noticed a light in the window.

  That was the most likely explanation, yes. She had been up and down half a dozen times a night since moving into the old house. Every creak and drainpipe flutter jerked her awake. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out where she slept.

  If she stepped away and let the blind slat she held fall, he’d surely notice the movement. It would be better if she waited until his attention wandered somewhere else.

  She was motionless, and so was he, as if caught in some strange attunement. Her heartbeat increased, thudding against her ribs. Her chest rose and fell in quickening rhythm. She felt as if her knees were locked in place, as if movement might no longer be possible.

  Her gaze skimmed the face of the man beyond the fence dividing the two properties. He didn’t blink, moved not an iota. A shining rivulet of perspiration tracked slowly down his jaw and dripped onto the solid wall of his chest. Watching that droplet, she licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry with the need to taste it.

  The distinctive slap of a screen door broke the spell. Her elderly neighbor appeared with a pitcher of lemonade in one hand and a tall glass filled with ice in the other.

  Granny Chauvin said something to the deputy that made him laugh, breaking up the stern angles of his face so he appeared carefree and heart-stoppingly attractive. He answered, and then leaned to kiss the elderly woman’s lined cheek. Spots of color like old-fashioned rouge flared in her lined face. She scolded in pseudo annoyance as she poured a glass of liquid refreshment for her helper. He took it with a quick, laughing comment, probably of thanks.