Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1)

by Jennifer Blake

  “Good keepsake,” he said.

  “Souvenir,” she corrected, “plus a reminder of what not to do when you go to the Caymans. I had bad dreams for a week about agents coming to the house and hauling me away.”

  Was she talking about an attack of conscience, Lance wondered, or only a healthy respect for the criminal justice system? It could be either one, since she knew about the latter from personal experience. And yet, something in her voice made him wary of accepting the cynical view.

  Maybe it was because he was trying to believe the best of her. When had that started?

  They worked on into the morning, washing, rinsing and drying until the baby RV shone like new money. Both were a more than a little damp after the final rinse off with a water hose, but neither complained. The sun was creeping up the sky and the day growing steadily warmer. The wetness here and there made for natural air conditioning.

  Lance went inside long enough to pour cold apple juice over ice for both of them. They lay in the lounge chairs under the awning, enjoying the rest and the warm breezes that wandered past. The only conversation for some time concerned the virtues of fly paper versus electric bug zappers for fly and mosquito control, and what they might have for lunch.

  They were almost dry and down to a few slivers of melting ice in their drinks when they heard a rasping noise as someone cleared their throat. Lance, half dozing, opened his eyes a fraction to see an older woman walking up the section of asphalt that led to the concrete pad where they sat.

  “Morning!” The visitor’s closed-mouth smile fell short of real friendliness, and her gaze darted over them as if looking for a place to light.

  “Morning,” Mandy answered, her voice pleasant yet inquiring.

  Lance let her do the hostess honors, since being sociable wasn’t on his agenda just now. She handled it with aplomb, exchanging polite comments on where they were from and where they were going, all vague enough to give away nothing important.

  Their visitor, tall and lanky, with a silver helmet of short hair and wearing her shirt tucked in and belted over a pouching stomach, rambled on. She mentioned the heat, the mediocre fishing down at the lake’s public pier, and a Cajun family gathering taking place at one of the campground pavilions. Finally, she got around to the point of her visit.

  “Would you folks like to buy a donation ticket on a quilt? Only two dollars each, with the money going for charity projects. It’s machine-pieced but hand-quilted, and a beauty if I do say so.” She leaned to hand Mandy a photo.

  “Pretty,” Mandy said after a single glance at what appeared to be bed covering done from an old-fashioned geometric pattern in blue and red. “But we don’t really need a quilt.”

  “Everybody can use a quilt!” the woman insisted. “Why I bet it would be great on your bed in there.” She waved at the door of the RV that stood open. “The two of you would be as snug as two bugs in a rug under it.”

  “No, really, we aren’t interested in raffle tickets.”

  Color rose in Mandy’s face as she spoke, Lance saw. She flicked a glance at him before looking away again. It was annoying as hell, but he thought his face might have turned a little red, too. Hot weather and images of cuddling under a quilt with Mandy were not a good mix.

  “Oh, these aren’t raffle tickets.” Their visitor pulled a sheaf of paper tickets from her pocket that were obviously done on a home computer and cut out with scissors. “No, no, that wouldn’t be right since raffles are illegal without a license. The money will be strictly a donation.”

  “I see. But we don’t get a ticket unless we pay?”

  “Well, no.” The woman appeared uncomfortable at being forced to that answer.

  “Then it’s a raffle, no matter what you call it,” Mandy said in even tones. “As I said before, we aren’t interested.”

  “Well, I never!”

  It was clear the woman wasn’t used to losing a sale or an argument. She stood for an instant with her mouth open and angry confusion in her eyes. Then she whirled and strode away, her shoulders stiff with resentment and arms paddling as if to increase her speed. Mandy stared after her a brief moment with worry and something like regret in her expressive face.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Lance told her. “She’s no danger to us.”

  “I know, but I should probably have kept saying no instead of pointing out her mistake.”

  “She’d probably still be standing here then.”

  “It’s just that hypocrisy rubs me the wrong way. If you’re doing something wrong, even if it’s for the right reasons, the least you can do is own up to it.”

  Lance, watching Mandy as he drained the last drops of cool water from his glass, was disturbed again by her unexpected ethical view. Unexpected by him, anyway. It didn’t seem to go with the image he’d acquired based on her file.

  He couldn’t accuse her of manufacturing it for his benefit, however. There would be no point. He knew her past, and what he thought could make zero difference to the investigation of her husband’s death.

  It was possible his impression of Amanda Caret needed a serious readjustment.

  Chapter 9

  A denim skirt was one of the options stuffed into the bags Zeni had sent. Waltz length, with generous fullness provided by three full tiers edged with narrow blue lace, it was pure country. Certainly, it didn’t look like anything Trey’s store manager, with her multi-colored hair, tats and piercing, would choose. It was also longer than anything Mandy had worn in recent years. Bruce had preferred miniskirts and made snide remarks if she wore anything longer—though there had been an extremely fine line between stylish and vulgar in his view of female fashion.

  Bruce was gone. It was time she stopped thinking about what he did or didn’t like, and of how completely his dictates had ruled her life. The reasons she’d allowed it were many, not the least being gratitude, but that was over. It was time to move on.

  She couldn’t do that completely until after the funeral. She had responsibilities there that couldn’t be avoided. At some point in the next day or two, she’d have to face them. But that didn’t prevent her from thinking about afterward. She needed to take serious stock of what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

  The only clothing choices she had, other than the skirt, were the shorts she’d worn the day before and a pair of jeans. The last were heavy, and the day was going to be hot; she could feel the sun’s heat through the windows already. The skirt would definitely be cooler.

  A short time later, she left the RV wearing a scooped neck purple T-shirt and the matching flip-flops with the skirt. She paused a moment under the awning’s shade, breathing deep of the fresh, pine-scented air. Then as naturally as breathing, she turned toward where Lance stood at the picnic table that went with their camp site.

  He appeared to be working at something on its scarred wood surface. He had abandoned his shirt, and his jeans hung low on his hips, exposing the top edge of a pair of red cotton briefs.

  Yes, indeed, she thought, running her fingers through her hair, lifting it off the back of her neck that suddenly felt as if she was getting a heat rash, it was going to be a scorcher today.

  “What’s going on?” she asked as she sauntered toward him with her skirt swirling around her ankles.

  “Lunch.” He gave her a quick smile to go with that laconic answer.

  “A little early, isn’t it?”

  “Our neighbor in the big motor home offered us the limit of bass he caught this morning but didn’t want to clean. I took him up on it.”

  That’s what he was doing, scraping scales from the fish with the edge of a fillet knife. “Anything I can do to help?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You might not want to get too close. You’re looking too fine to wind up smelling like fish.”

  That was actually a compliment. Amazing. At least she thought it was. It wasn’t easy to tell.

  Retreating
to a lounge chair, she picked up the local newspaper he’d left beside it. He must have walked over to the office for it while she was dressing. More than likely, he’d wanted to see what the press had to say about Bruce’s death.

  There was nothing that she could find, though she scanned the pages with care. Were the police being cagey about the details, or was one more killing in New Orleans not newsworthy here, several hours north of the city?

  She began reading the front page, but glanced at Lance now and then over the top of it. He was a compelling sight, his movements swift and capable, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. What was it about a man who not only didn’t mind work, but was competent at it? There seemed to be a visceral appeal that could be tied to the past, when a man with skills at providing shelter and food had extra value in female eyes.

  Or it could be she just liked the way Lance’s muscles bunched and moved under his sun-gilded skin. She did enjoy that. What woman wouldn’t? He was an attractive man, in or out of uniform.

  Yes, well, he’d probably be even more appealing out of clothes of any kind.

  With an soft exclamation, Mandy leaped from her chair and headed back inside. The last thing she needed was to sit around mooning over the man set to watch her. There was no future in it. More than that, it seemed a bit out of place when she was so recently widowed.

  Deputy Lance Benedict might accept her help as he had yesterday, might even come to see her as a halfway decent human being, but getting serious about a former jail bird was about as likely for him as dancing naked on their picnic table.

  The morning eased past. Mandy peeled potatoes to go with the fish then rinsed and dried the deep fryer she found stored under the bench seat. Lance prepared seasoned cornmeal for coating the fish, and mixed batter for hushpuppies. While he cleaned the picnic table and set up his cooking station on it, Mandy made iced tea and dished up pickles.

  When the fish fillets, potatoes and hushpuppies were golden brown, they ate outside under the pines. With appetites made keen by fresh air and easy labor, they ate as if starved. And nothing had tasted so good in years.

  The quiet day continued. After washing up and putting everything away, the two of them read and napped under the air conditioning, avoiding the afternoon heat.

  Toward sundown, however, Mandy grew tired of the inactivity. Slipping on her flip-flops, moving as quietly as possible to prevent waking Lance, she let herself out of the small rig.

  All her care was for nothing. She barely made it as far as the road that wound through the campground before he caught up with her. She heard the faint scrape of his footsteps on the asphalt, but didn’t stop until he put a hand on her arm.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Her smile held ironic appreciation for his ability to keep tabs on her even in his sleep. “For a walk. I really need to stretch my legs.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “From what I’ve seen, no one knows or cares that we’re here.”

  “We can’t be sure.” He met her gaze, his own grim. “It’s not as if they’re going to knock on the door and introduce themselves.”

  “I know that, but it’s so peaceful. Have you seen anyone or anything suspicious?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, then.”

  “It doesn’t mean they aren’t here.”

  “You’ve walked around the campground more than once,” she pointed out in exasperation.

  “It’s not the same thing. No one is after me.”

  “But if they know I’m with you, and they find us—”

  “If they do, I’m more likely to see them first.”

  She could hardly argue with that, since it had been his instincts that kept her from being shot just days ago. She looked away from him with a defeated sigh. “How far do we have to run? How long will we need to hide?”

  “As far as it takes, and as long.”

  “Meanwhile, we’re cooped up inside Trey’s baby, or else staying so close it’s like being attached by an umbilical cord.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned at the unintended pun. “That bad, huh?”

  “Not exactly. I guess it’s only that I’ve been kept close for so long. Bruce seldom let me out of his sight for months, and now—”

  “How long was that, how many months?”

  “A year, maybe a couple of months more. It started around the time my sister died, though I never knew why.”

  “Nothing else happened about then?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “And Caret never said anything.”

  Her smile was one-sided. “You mean other than telling me it was all in my head?”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “I may not be a cop, but I can tell when I’m being followed, especially when the person doing it thinks I’m too much of an airhead to notice.”

  Lance was silent for long seconds while the bitter echo of her words faded around them. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. If you need to get out that badly, I’ll come with you.”

  “Fine,” she said as she turned and started off again. “That will be fine.”

  They strolled in silence except for an occasional comment on a rig or the way a camp site was marked with signs or party lights. The evening was pleasant as the sun sank behind the trees, and a breeze drifted around them laden with the scents of wood smoke, grilling meat and honeysuckle. Music played from somewhere not too far away. Now and then, they heard the murmur of voices with an undercurrent of laughter.

  Mandy glanced at the man beside her, with his air of alert reflexes. “You said we’ll stay away as long as it takes, but it really can’t go on forever.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll have to go back. You have a job, responsibilities, people who must wonder where you are.”

  “Not really.”

  “No?”

  “I’m on leave from the sheriff’s office,” he said, and went on to tell her of the football player he’d shot, and the review board inquiry that was underway.

  She gazed up at him with a frown making a groove between her brows. “That must have been terrible, being forced to shoot someone you know and for no real reason.”

  “It’s not something I ever want to have to do again.”

  It wasn’t something he wanted to rehash, either; that was clear from his voice. On a slightly different tack, she said, “Don’t you have to testify or something?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. They have my report. Anyway, these things can grind on for weeks.”

  “Meanwhile you’re off duty, no longer official.”

  “That bother you?”

  Did it? She wasn’t sure. She might feel a bit forsaken without the protection of the law, yet when had she ever really trusted the police? She was left with only Lance to rely on, yes, but that was no different from before.

  The one thing she did know was that it changed her thinking.

  “You don’t have to be here, then,” she said.

  “Yes and no. Looking out for you is Sheriff Tate’s idea of a way to occupy my time and mind until I’m reinstated.”

  “I see.”

  She did, too. The job was therapy of a sort. It might have become a bit more exciting than the sheriff had anticipated, but was still under the radar. “You don’t have to stay with me if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be. I can strike out on my own.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ve done it before.”

  “Not under these circumstances, and not when you’re a suspect in a murder case.”

  “That again.” She lifted a shoulder.

  “Yeah, that.”

  “You can’t really believe I had anything to do with Bruce’s death.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I believe. You’re stuck with me for the duration.”

  It wasn’t exactly a ringing declaration of faith. “So we go on, then.”

  “We go on,�
�� he said easily, and tucked his hands into his back pockets, watching the road ahead as he walked.

  She wanted to argue with him, swear she was innocent, but was sure he’d heard it many times before. She preferred not to be an obligation, though she was fairly sure it would be a waste of breath to say so. When she finally spoke again, it was on a different topic altogether.

  “I’ll need to go back to New Orleans to plan the service for Bruce.”

  “It won’t be any time soon. The body will be held until after the autopsy is completed.”

  “Autopsy? I thought you said he was shot?”

  “They’ll need to discover when, where, how and the make and model of handgun, plus a few other details.”

  “But I should be making arrangements. There’s no one else. Well, unless one of his law partners takes charge.”

  “It will keep.”

  “I don’t see how you can say that.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “The morgue is a cold place.”

  She shivered and fell silent. It was something she didn’t want to think about, much less discuss.

  They found the source of the music and laughter soon afterward. It was that Cajun family gathering mentioned by the quilt ticket woman, one being held under a big, four-square, tree-shaded pavilion and around a huge bonfire in the open field beyond it. People sat well back from the flames to avoid the heat, relaxing at the pavilion’s tables or in their folding lawn chairs with plastic cups and beer bottles, paper plates and plastic forks in hand. Kids played chase among the trees, yelling and squealing in excitement. The rich smells of spicy food, sugary desserts, and fresh-cut watermelon lingered in the air.

  “Evening, folks! Come join us!”

  The invitation came from a man sitting on the corner of one of the picnic tables nearest the road where they walked. He waved a fried chicken leg in cheerful encouragement while his invitation was taken up by others in the crowd.

  “We were only out for a walk, thanks,” Lance answered without pausing.

  “You newlyweds or something? Have no use for any company except your own?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “Significant others, then. Whatever. We don’t care. Come on, pull up a chair, have a beer and grab a plate. Somebody’s got to help us eat all this food!”