What She Doesn't Know

by Beverly Barton

  She headed the Escalade down the road, intending to go back into town, but as she passed the old dirt lane that led onto the back side of the Belle Rose property and within walking distance of the pond, she slowed her SUV. Without properly thinking through her actions, she eased the sleek vehicle off the road and onto the bumpy overgrown trail. Feeling compelled to face one specific demon from the past, she parked, opened the door, and stepped down and onto the ground. If memory served her right, the pond was about a quarter of a mile through the woods. Was the old pathway still there, the one she, Theron, and the Wells offspring had forged when they were children?

  She would never forget how outraged she’d been on Theron’s behalf when Garland Wells, who’d been sixteen at the time, had told a fourteen-year-old Theron that he was now too old for it to be proper for him to play with and go swimming with the young ladies. The young ladies being Sandy and Felicia Wells, ten and twelve at the time, and ten-year-old Jolie.

  Although she searched thoroughly for the pathway, she couldn’t find it. No doubt it had been overtaken by the underbrush long ago. In all these years there had been no children’s feet to trample the vegetation and keep the ground clear. Making her way as best she could, shoving aside low-hanging tree limbs, and stomping over decaying leaves and weeds, Jolie forged ahead, and realized she was going in the right direction when she heard the sound of running water. The spring trickled out of the earth, feeding the pond. Fresh sweet water that she had drunk as a child.

  As she approached the spring, her pants leg caught on a briar bush and snagged the soft linen. She cursed softly, bent over to untangle herself, and in the process nicked her finger. She brought it to her mouth and sucked. She had lived in the city for too many years, had lost her familiarity with the country and the wilds of nature. Once free from the bush, she continued her trek until she neared the clearing. At the edge of the pond, a magnificent black Arabian stood, his head lowered to drink from the refreshing water. A saddled horse meant a rider, didn’t it? Well hidden behind a tree and thick bushes, Jolie could see without being seen. Her gaze traveled around the area and within seconds caught sight of a dark-haired man. A tall, well-muscled man standing ankle-deep in the pond. As if mesmerized, she watched while he removed his shirt, tossed it on the ground behind him and bent to cup handfuls of water. He splashed the water on his head and let it trickle across his face and down onto his wide shoulders and over his back and chest. He repeated the process several times. Jolie sucked in her breath. The man was as magnificent as the horse.

  She had come to the pond hoping she could force herself to recall the details of the day she’d been almost murdered for a second time, and perhaps remember something about her attacker. Not in all the years of therapy she’d undergone had she ever remembered anything important about either attempt on her life. Either the truth was buried forever within her subconscious or she truly didn’t remember anything. If coming home could help her once and for all to free herself from guilt and stop blaming herself for what she didn’t know, then this trip back to hell would be worth the price she would pay for the round-trip fare.

  The man turned and walked out of the water, then sat on the damp ground. His wet black hair glimmered in the sunlight. Tilting back his head, he stared up at the crystal-clear azure sky and stretched his long lean body, reminding her of a big jungle cat spreading himself out in the sun. Jolie’s breath caught in her throat. She recognized the man. He was no longer the beautiful, lanky eighteen-year-old he had remained in her memories; he was now larger, more muscular and the beauty of youth had matured into the rugged yet devastatingly handsome features of a man only two years shy of his fortieth birthday.

  Maximillian Devereaux.

  And God help her, the sight of him still created an untamed fluttering in her belly, a purely physical reaction unlike anything she’d ever felt with any other man. It was as if she were fourteen all over again and her teenage hormones had gone into overdrive.

  Suddenly Max let out a loud howling groan that jarred Jolie’s nerves. She watched in morbid fascination as he wept, his big body trembling with the force of his grief. And it was grief, she realized, that tortured Max so terribly. He was mourning her father. Odd how she envied him his ability to mourn, when there were no tears left inside her for Louis Royale.

  Obviously Max had sought solitude by the pond, knowing he would be alone, knowing he could vent his frustration, his anger, and his pain without anyone seeing him. She felt an odd pang of sympathy. He seemed so alone, so totally, sadly alone.

  She couldn’t let him catch her spying on him. He wouldn’t take kindly to her having witnessed him in a weak moment. Her smartest move would be to get the hell off Belle Rose property immediately. She’d have to face Max and the others soon enough. And when she came face-to-face with the new master of Belle Rose, she would meet him not as a member of the family but as an enemy. Max could never be anything else to her. In the battle to come, he would align himself with his mother and sister. If as she suspected, her father had deeded Belle Rose either to Georgette or Mallory, Jolie intended to protest. She’d hire a good lawyer, an expert in the field of breaking wills, and tie them up in court forever, if that’s what it took to keep her mother’s ancestral home out of the hands of that whore.

  Jolie took one last look at Max and hated her body’s unbidden reaction. With an iron will she had cultivated to protect herself from hurt, she turned and walked away, careful to move quickly and quietly. When meeting Max again, she would have to make certain that he never became aware of her physical attraction to him—now or in the past. He might try to use it against her, thinking she was the type of woman weak enough to allow a man to dominate her.

  And she should never forget that there was always the possibility, however remote, that Max was the Belle Rose killer.

  The First Methodist Church in Sumarville was filled to capacity, with the overflow spilling into the vestibule and outside, down the steps, and onto the sidewalk. Afternoon sunshine hit the stained glass windows like huge spotlights, flooding the interior with rainbows, and the melancholy moan of the church’s organ resonated over the clatter of the packed house. The sweet overpowering scent of flowers permeated the warm air. Floral arrangements surrounded Louis’s coffin, filled the pulpit behind the altar, and lined the sanctuary’s walls from altar to vestibule. Max felt safe to surmise that there had never been a funeral in Desmond County to rival the one being held here today. Some of the most important people in the South were in attendance, including the governors of three states and various U.S. congressional represenatives and senators. No other man in Mississippi had been as well-thought-of as Louis Royale. His business and political associations had been far-reaching. He had been respected by all who knew him and loved by his family and close friends. Naturally, his elder daughter’s absence had been noted by several who had offered their condolences to Georgette, Mallory, and Max. When asked why Jolie wasn’t here today, Georgette had been rendered speechless, thus prompting Max to respond. He’d said simply that Jolie had been notified and was expected at any time.

  With his arm around his mother’s shoulders, he all but dragged her away from the casket. Weeping pitifully, she clung to Max, her black gloved hands tightening on his forearm and wrist. He eased her onto the front pew, one of two on each side of the aisle that had been reserved for immediate family. When he pulled away from his mother, she reached out for him.

  “Don’t leave me,” Georgette whimpered.

  Max leaned over, took his mother’s hands and whispered, “There are things I have to attend to.” He glanced at his sister who sat as solemnly as a wooden statue on Georgette’s left. “Mallory is right here with you, and I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

  Georgette nodded, but Max felt the trembling in her hands just as he released his hold on her. His poor mother was going to be lost without Louis. Max looked at Mallory who stared back at him with a blank expression on her face.

  “Take care o
f Mother until I come back.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Mallory!”

  “I heard you,” she replied.

  Max scanned the reserved pews. His mother and Mallory sat side-by-side on the first bench to the left. Uncle Parry, bleary-eyed but thankfully sober, kept his arm around Mallory’s shoulders, occasionally patting her affectionately. A handful of Louis’s distant relatives congregated in the second pew; some of the people Max had never met. Aunt Clarice occupied the first bench on the right, along with Nowell Landers. Yvonne Carter sat on the other side of Clarice, her bright hazel eyes ever watchful. He suspected she was as wary of Nowell’s attentions to Clarice as he was and was equally incapable of dissuading her from continuing her relationship with the man. Max had the greatest respect for Yvonne, who was as devoted to Clarice as any mother or sister might have been. He had no idea what deep bonds joined the women, but he suspected that their abiding friendship superceded the normal bounds of servant and mistress. Indeed, he’d never seen the two act in any manner other than as friends. Even when Yvonne waited on Clarice and fussed over her, they acted and reacted as if they were family.

  On the second pew to the right various Desmond relatives, none of whom bore the surname, sat proudly, their southern aristocratic noses in the air. Not a one of them were closer kin to Clarice than a second cousin once removed.

  As Max made his way up the aisle, he spotted the Wells family—father and son—seated together. Roscoe Wells was an old reprobate. A former Klansman who had changed his ideology to adapt to modern times and today’s voters. At nearly seventy, he still tried to maintain a level of authority over his two children, neither of whom paid him much heed. Garland, affectionately called Gar by his friends, resembled his father physically, being short and stocky with a loud infectious laugh; but he was a quieter, softer version of his charismatic father. And a better man by far.

  Sandy sat two rows behind her father and brother, the distance between them making a bold statement. Sandy was for all intents and purposes her now-deceased mother’s daughter, a friendly, outgoing do-gooder, who had taken it upon herself to right many of the wrongs her father had perpetrated before his well-known change of heart. Max had always been fond of Sandy, as was everyone who knew her, and a part of him regretted that he could never return the affection she felt for him. He’d known for years that she was in love with him or at least thought she was. She was absolutely nothing like Felicia. If only he had fallen in love with the younger Wells daughter instead of the elder. If he had, his life would have been so much simpler. And a great deal happier. But he’d been mad about Felicia, and she had used his wild passion against him. By the time she disappeared, shortly before their third anniversary, he had not only stopped loving her, he had grown to despise her. Felicia had been her father’s daughter—a conniving, manipulative, self-serving monster.

  As he passed the pew where Sandy sat on the end, she stood and held out her hand to him. He paused long enough to give her a hug and accept an affectionate kiss on the cheek, then he hurriedly broke away and continued down the aisle. Two o’clock was fast approaching and he wanted to double check with McCoy Trendall to make sure all the arrangements he’d made for today’s service would be carried out just as he had instructed. Louis deserved only the best. Making sure his funeral was an unforgettable event was the last thing he could do for his stepfather—a final tribute.

  A squad of talented bagpipers had been flown in to play “Amazing Grace” directly before the minister spoke. The choir from the black Sumarville Freewill Baptist Church would take turns with the white First Methodist’s choir, both singing their own style of spirituals. Mississippi’s governor would offer the eulogy.

  McCoy met Max in the vestibule and pulled him aside. “We have things under control. No need to worry. I promise that everything will go off without a hitch.”

  “Do you have the outdoor loudspeaker system working?” Max gazed through the open doors to where a large crowd waited on the steps and sidewalk below.

  “I’ve checked it myself. It’s working just fine.”

  Max nodded, shook McCoy’s hand, and made a mad dash through the crowd in the vestibule. After being forced to pause and shake hands with several people, he escaped into the men’s room. Thankfully, the room was empty. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, along with a small black notebook, looked up the number he needed and dialed.

  “This is Maximillian Devereaux,” he said. “I’m calling to check on—”

  The voice on the other end of the line assured him that the New Orleans jazz band he’d hired to play at the reception at Belle Rose following the funeral was in fact already at the mansion. He breathed a sigh of relief. Louis had loved jazz and the two of them had often driven down to New Orleans for a boys night out. Max thought it only fitting that the music played this afternoon for Louis’s mourners be the music he had loved.

  Max glanced in the mirror over the sink area and noticed his tie was slightly crooked. He straightened his tie, braced his shoulders, and swung open the rest room door. In a few hours this would all be over, all the pomp and circumstance, and then he would be faced with the reality of Louis’s death.

  Just as Max returned to the sanctuary and was nearing the front pew, he heard a buzzing hum rising from the crowd. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and instinct cautioned him that something was wrong. The murmurs grew louder until he distinctively heard someone say Jolie. His gut tightened. He stopped at the end of the third pew to the left of the aisle and slowly glanced over his shoulder. He swallowed hard and cursed softly under his breath.

  The woman, dressed in a simple beige linen suit, walked down the aisle, her head held high, her expression solemn. She didn’t look much like the plump teenager he remembered. But he would have recognized her anywhere. This fashionably dressed curvaceous woman bore a striking resemblance to her mother and her aunts. She was without a doubt a true Desmond. Golden blond hair swept up into a French twist. A square jaw, full pouty lips, and an air of superiority that all but oozed from her pores. Only her eyes declared her a Royale. They were the same intense blue that Louis’s had been and identical to Mallory’s.

  So, the prodigal had returned at long last and had managed to make a grand entrance. Every eye in the church kept watch as lips spread gossip like wildfire flying destructively through summer dry grass.

  Do it whether you want to or not, Max ordered himself. Everyone will expect it of you.

  As if his shoes held heavy lead weights, he turned around and took several tentative steps toward Jolie Royale, who didn’t even glance his way. She was headed straight for her father’s casket. Any minute now his mother would see her and so would Aunt Clarice. Their reactions would be totally different, poles apart, and yet each equally dramatic.

  Forcing himself into action, Max moved directly in front of Jolie, halting her progress toward the altar. Pausing, she stared directly at him, her expression daring, her facial muscles tight.

  “Jolie, I’m Max Devereaux, your stepbrother.” He didn’t touch her; he didn’t dare. If he did, he might find himself wrapping his hands around her long white neck and strangling her.

  She glared at him, pure animosity evident in her eyes. “I know who you are.”

  “Would you like to say a proper good-bye to your father?” he asked. “If you’d like, I can walk with you the rest of the way.”

  “How very nice of you to offer, but I think I can do this without your assistance.” An icy tone edged her words.

  “As you wish.” He stepped out of her way, then added, “You will, of course, sit with the family for the service and ride with us to the cemetery.”

  Her lips curved into a fragile fleeting smile, so quickly concealed that he thought he might have imagined it. “Of course.”

  “And you’ll come to the reception afterward at Belle Rose?”

  Ah, he had her there. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes. If she came to Belle Rose, she would have to be civil t
o his mother and he knew how that would gall her.

  “I hadn’t planned on—”

  “You might want to change your plans,” he told her, then leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Garland Wells is going to read Louis’s will to the family this evening. Don’t you want to find out whether your daddy left Belle Rose to you or to my mother?”

  Chapter 6

  Jolie managed to make it through the funeral service. Seated between Aunt Clarice and Yvonne, both women overjoyed to see her, she drew strength from their love and concern. Aunt Clarice kept saying, “I knew you’d come home.” The extravagant tributes to Louis Royale were probably well deserved, but the minister’s condolences to her were wasted. In her mind and in her heart, she had buried her father long ago. If anyone questioned why she hadn’t shed a tear, she wouldn’t have a problem telling them. But then again, she didn’t owe anyone an explanation. What the people in this antiquated one-horse town thought of her didn’t matter. She’d be gone soon enough. Once the will was read.

  Thankfully, Trendall Funeral Home provided two black limousines for the immediate family, so Jolie wasn’t forced to ride to the cemetery with Georgette and her children. The chauffeur parked, then got out and opened the door for them. Yvonne emerged first, then Nowell Landers, who assisted Aunt Clarice. Jolie hesitated momentarily before joining the others. Not once had she given any thought as to where her father would be buried. Somehow she had managed to block the question from her mind. Would Louis Royale be laid to rest alongside his first wife in the Desmond family section of the Sumarville Cemetery? Or had other arrangements been made? Odd that she should care, but she did. What difference would it make now? Perhaps it mattered to Louis’s new family, but certainly it shouldn’t matter to her.