Damn, she was too far away to tell. He ran a hand through his hair, which annoyingly curled at the ends, despite his best efforts to comb it down straight. Bosarge wasn’t easy to peg, and he liked to classify people he interviewed into categories within minutes of meeting them: Con Man, Bad Guy with Attitude, Psychopath, Injured Wife, Slutty Girlfriend, or—more rarely—the Innocent or Unknowing. All part of his job as an FBI agent.
Too soon to know what type of woman he was dealing with. And the sexual tension crackling between them played havoc with his normal analytical observations. It made no sense. He’d never before had chemistry with someone he interviewed and Bosarge was unlike any other woman he found physically attractive. She was dark-haired, tall and athletic, deep-voiced and a bit edgy. His usual type was a petite, curvy blonde with a soft voice and an easy, uncomplicated smile.
The woman jumped into a battered red pickup truck and pulled out much too fast, tires squealing on the wet pavement. The corners of his lips involuntarily tugged upward. What kind of woman wore diamond earrings and drove a beater jalopy? She could easily afford a Rolls-Royce.
Everything about Jet Bosarge was a contradiction. Dark hair and eyes contrasted with pale skin and deep red lips. She dressed casually, as if she’d thrown together an outfit with no thought, but the choppy haircut and diamonds gave an air of natural, feminine elegance. At first, she gave one the impression of an overgrown tomboy with her lean, muscular body, short hair and direct mannerisms. Yet, her long legs and low, throaty voice had distracted him so much, only his considerable willpower had allowed him to remain professional during the interview.
He’d studied photographs of the woman, but those cold prints didn’t do her justice. Something about Bosarge in the flesh was vibrant and pulsing with energy. It was as if the rainy day had been nothing but gloomy shades of gray until she’d walked into the office. The effect was akin to when Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz tumbled out of the ruined Kansas farmhouse and stepped into an explosively Technicolor alternate universe.
Landry shook his head at the direction of his thoughts. The woman most likely was a thief and a liar. Getting personally involved with her would be inappropriate and potentially damaging to his career. He was here to do a job and at last things were moving. He’d spent a whole week in the bayou doing nothing but watching Perry Hammonds and reviewing, yet again, the case files with which he’d grown sickeningly familiar. Evidently, the suspect had been in a holding pattern like him. Hammonds did nothing but bum around his rental cottage drinking beer and watching television.
If there was one thing he despised more than deceit, it was sloth. Laziness should be one of the top sins; there was no excuse for sloppy living. You might fail, but at least you got up every morning and made your own way in the world. That belief had helped him rise above a childhood of poverty and emotional chaos.
He’d been about to approach Hammonds directly when Bosarge had returned from out of town. Past experience taught him it was always easier to get to the girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend—whatever the status of their relationship happened to be—and dig around for preliminary information.
Bosarge’s records were most unusual. She possessed a staggering family trust fund. The interest alone provided a comfortable living without her ever having to dip into the fund’s capital. And almost every dime she’d earned from selling maritime artifacts with Hammonds had been donated to various ocean-related charities: Save the Dolphins, Save the Whales, Save the Oceans, Save the Manatees.
Could be she was a spoiled princess who got involved with Bad Boy Hammonds for excitement. The philanthropy could be a smoke screen or a means of assuaging her guilt over stealing. Because it was theft if the collection site was close to shore. That salvage technically belonged to the government and the taxpayers. And Hammonds and Bosarge hadn’t owned an expensive vessel with all the bells and whistles needed for deep-sea extractions.
Landry picked up the fake tax file and shoved it into a drawer. She’d bought his accountant act hook, line and sinker. The important files were locked in his desk at home. He turned off the printer before opening and checking it for jammed papers. Nothing appeared wrong, as usual. With a sigh, Landry turned his attention to the clock and reset it to the correct time. He held it to his ear and picked up the slight hum of the battery he’d installed yesterday.
Finished with his afternoon ritual, Landry retrieved a jacket and umbrella. No need to hurry; he knew exactly where she was heading.
Sure enough, ten minutes later he drove past Hammonds’s cottage and spotted her red truck pulling into the driveway, splashing mud like an angry beast. Landry gripped the steering wheel tightly until the cottage was out of sight. He flipped on public radio, trying to lose himself in a news story, but it was no good. He couldn’t help wondering how the post-prison reunion was unfolding between them. No doubt they had once been lovers and not merely business partners. He’d been privy to many pictures of them embracing or kissing on board the boat they sailed in search of maritime artifacts.
Forget her. He had an investigation and he would concentrate on doing his job. His real focus was on Hammonds. Their past crimes, if they were guilty, were fairly small in the grand scheme of things—he had coworkers covering billion-dollar drug-smuggling rings, after all—but the FBI took notice when Hammonds was released early from a South American prison. That early payoff had been financed by one Sylvester Vargas, a known crime figure with a reputation for dabbling in foreign intrigue. Hammonds had wandered aimlessly for weeks until Vargas’s men collected him and put him on a one-way flight back to Alabama. Now Hammonds was back in the States, and the coupling of maritime salvage with foreign investors and criminal activity was a red flag.
The woods grew denser as Landry passed into a less populous area of Bayou La Siryna until he reached home. He climbed the wooden staircase to the humble cottage set up on stilts like many others in the remote bayou.
The plain door gave way with its customary squeak of rusty hinges. Most things eventually corroded in the salt air. If he took up permanent residence, his sleek BMW would have to be traded in for the ubiquitous pickup truck. Seemed Bosarge was onto something after all with her rusted truck.
The smell of lemon and ammonia mixed with brine meant the maid had come by today. He’d used the same one for years. The first time Landry returned to the cottage after Mimi’s death, the scent of musty decay had been depressing, so he had his real-estate agent hire someone to clean and air out the rooms before his visits. Now that he’d moved in for the next few weeks, he’d been able to keep the same cleaner.
His grandmother had taken great pride in maintaining the tiny place. The scarred pine floors were always waxed, the air-dried bedsheets were crisp and smelled of the ocean, and the cheap linoleum-tiled kitchen had smelled of corn bread, pecan pies, roasts or shrimp boils.
Mimi had spoiled him every summer, as if compensating for his shitty life with a careless mom and her string of increasingly sorry boyfriends. His mother’s house was filled with half siblings from stepfathers that came and went, and constant drama from financial pressures. Every new romantic relationship of his mother’s had created new sets of problems and complications.
Landry placed the car keys on a table in the den and surveyed the interior with satisfaction. Most of the furniture he’d replaced over the years. Mimi’s sofa had been upgraded to a modern leather sectional. He’d kept what he could. The leather couch was draped with one of her crocheted afghan throws, a patchwork of rainbow colors against a sleek sea of black. Her old wicker rocking chair remained in the same spot. The bathroom, however, had no sentimental value and he’d gutted and expanded it the first year after Mimi’s death.
He hung his suit jacket in the bedroom closet and stepped out of the black leather loafers. Back in the den, he adjusted a glass cat figurine on the battered sideboard. The cleaning company knew his peculiarity for detail and
sameness, but they weren’t perfect. His fingers accidentally brushed against a red sequined coin purse and he recoiled, as if the haunting memories associated with it could transfer into his heart. It had been one of Mimi’s treasured possessions but he had never liked the purse openly displayed. After Mimi’s death, he’d taken it off the sideboard but then wandered about the cottage, unsure of an appropriate resting place for the ghostly memento mori. In the end, Landry had returned it to just where Mimi had left it.
After a few more minor tweaks to the figurines display, he slipped open the glass doors and stepped onto the wooden deck.
The scent of salty brine swirled in the early-April wind. He inhaled deeply and leaned over the wooden railing. Mimi’s house could best be described as quaint—or ramshackle to be more precise. But here lay its secret charm—the million-dollar view. Located at the bend of one of the bayou’s fingers, Landry could look over the pine and cypress trees hugging the shoreline and see the vast expanse of the Gulf of Mexico.
A tiny flash of orange darted at the base of a tree.
“I’ll be damned,” Landry muttered. He hurried inside and found the binoculars in the sideboard drawer, rushed back out, then focused in on the orange patch. A ginger tabby nestled in a bed of pine needles. Closer examination revealed a swollen belly. Landry set the binoculars on the rail with a sigh. The feral cat population was alive and thriving. It was a losing battle, but he’d try to entice the mama cat into a trap and do what he could to find the kittens a home.
His eyes scanned the ocean. The waters were calm, a blue-gray sheen with a few scatterings of tame whitecaps.
But despite its calm facade, Landry secretly suspected that beneath its placid surface lay a foreign world teeming with mystery and creatures beyond most humans’ imaginations.
He knew. He’d witnessed it with his own eyes.
No, don’t go there. Landry ran a hand through his hair and dismissed the foolish memories. He’d been a kid. A scared, ridiculous kid with a huge imagination. Nothing more to it. He reentered the cottage and made his way to the kitchen, determined to change the direction of his thoughts. He opened the fridge for a drink. His hand drew back abruptly at the sight of the porcelain cat figurine sitting on the shelf by the soda cans.
The same figurine he’d straightened on the sideboard less than ten minutes ago.
Damn. It was getting worse.
Copyright © 2014 by Debbie Herbert
ISBN: 978-1-472-05094-6
JINGLE SPELLS
Naughty or Nice? © 2014 Vicki Lewis Thompson
She’s a Mean One © 2014 Rhonda Nelson
His First Noelle © 2014 Kira Sinclair
Silver Belle © 2014 Andrea Laurence
Published in Great Britain 2014
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited
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Jingle Spells Page 29
