BRIDAL JEOPARDY

by Rebecca York

  He came across some forms and instructions from a place called the Solomon Clinic in Houma. Apparently it was a fertility clinic. And it looked as if Stephanie’s mother had gone there for treatments before she was born. That was interesting. Did it mean that Stephanie would have trouble conceiving children? He hadn’t considered that when he’d decided he had to marry her because it certainly hadn’t been his main reason for wanting to keep her close. Kids would be good, though, because it was a way to keep hold of her. If she was worried about losing custody of her children, she wouldn’t be quick to leave her husband. But that was all in the future. It didn’t give him a clue to where she was now. He put the folder back into the box and kept looking for information he could use.

  “Do you have a second home?” he asked Swift.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  He gave the location.

  That might be a possibility.

  When his cell phone rang, he looked at the number with annoyance, displeased to be interrupted in the middle of his search.

  Then he recognized the area code and knew it was the guy in D.C. he’d hired to dig up stuff on Craig Branson. Maybe he’d found something that would be more useful than these piles of old papers and pictures.

  He got up, walked into the hall and answered the phone.

  “Mr. Reynard?” the detective said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been digging into Branson’s past.”

  “Have you found any dirt?”

  “Not anything illegal that he’s done, but he was involved in an incident a number of years ago.”

  John felt his heart leap. Was this something he could use?

  “What?” he demanded.

  “He and his family were eating dinner in a restaurant when a mob boss named Jackie Montana was gunned down.”

  John felt the hairs on his arms prickle.

  The man continued, “The guy and two of his bodyguards went down. It turns out Branson’s twin brother, Sam, was collateral damage.”

  An exclamation of disbelief sprang to John’s lips. “You mean at a place called Venario’s?” he managed to ask.

  “You know about it?”

  “It made the news,” John answered. He’d ordered that mob hit because Jackie Montana had been trying to muscle in on John’s New Orleans operation. John had known that there were some civilians hit, but he’d never paid attention to the names of the victims. That hadn’t been his concern.

  “You’re sure about that?” he asked now.

  “Yes.”

  John’s head was buzzing, but something the man was saying penetrated the swirling thoughts in his brain.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “Which part?”

  “About the clinic.”

  “Okay. Yeah. After Sam died, the mother tried to get in touch with a place called the Solomon Clinic. Down your way, in Houma.”

  “Okay. Thanks. You have the address.”

  “I have the old address, but the place burned down.”

  They talked for a few more minutes before John hung up.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said to Swift.

  “I didn’t do much.”

  “You noticed.”

  When he started out of the room, the older man called out, “Hey, what about all that stuff on the bed?”

  “I’m sure you can put it away.”

  He knew Swift was angry, which pleased him.

  Outside he turned to his man. “You and Marv are going down to Houma.”

  “For what?”

  “Stephanie and that bozo she’s with might show up there.”

  “Like where, exactly?”

  “There was a clinic down there they might want to check out. I’ll get you the address.”

  * * *

  “WE CAN LEAVE our things here and drive over to Houma,” Craig said.

  “And do what, exactly?”

  “We could start with the archives at the local papers, or we could try something else.”

  When she asked for details, he said, “I’ll tell you about it on the way over.”

  They walked to the main house, where Mrs. Marcos was in the dining room.

  “I hope you slept well,” she said brightly.

  “Yes, of course,” Stephanie answered. “The cottage is charming.”

  “You can sit anywhere you like. Breakfast is served buffet-style.”

  They took a table by the window, then helped themselves to the buffet on the sideboard, indulging in the coffee cake and muffins that Mrs. Marcos had set out—along with her spinach quiche and strong Louisiana coffee.

  “I didn’t see you at breakfast yesterday. Are you enjoying your stay?” the B and B owner asked as they were finishing their breakfast.

  “It’s perfect,” Stephanie answered.

  “And we enjoyed your accommodations so much that we’re hoping to keep our room for another night,” Craig added.

  “That would be fine. Where are you off to today?”

  “We thought we’d drive over to Houma.”

  “It’s a lovely little town.”

  “Didn’t I read about some kind of explosion there?” Craig asked.

  Mrs. Marcos’s expression clouded. “Yes. At an underground research lab,” she said, then pressed her lips together, indicating that she didn’t want to continue the subject.

  What do you mean by “underground”? Craig asked.

  “Nobody in town knew Dr. Solomon was still doing research.” The woman stopped, looking confused. “Well, I guess some people did know. Like his nurse, Mrs. Goodell. She worked for him at the old clinic....” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t know why I’m prattling on like this. I have things to do in the kitchen.”

  “You’re just being friendly,” Stephanie said in a pleasant voice when her heart was pounding. She added her psychic power as she let Craig direct the message he sent the B and B owner.

  If you know anything more about the Solomon Clinic or Dr. Solomon, tell it to us now. He repeated the suggestion, waiting tensely for what she would decide.

  The outcome wasn’t a sure thing. Stephanie could see the woman going through a debate in her mind, and she felt Craig pushing the idea.

  “So who was this Dr. Solomon?” Stephanie asked.

  “Thirty years ago, he had a fertility clinic,” she said as though she didn’t really want to speak the words. “My friend Darla Dubour went to him, and she was so appreciative when she got pregnant. She had a little boy. David.”

  “It’s always nice when medical treatment works out,” Stephanie said brightly. She caught a stray thought from Craig and asked, “Where is her son now?”

  The woman’s eyes clouded. “He died.”

  Stephanie sucked in a startled breath. “What happened to him?”

  “I should stop talking about this.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know how we got on the subject. I guess we were just looking for information about Houma so we could plan our day.”

  “You can get that from the chamber of commerce or the town hall.”

  “Yes, thanks,” Stephanie said, but the other woman was already bustling toward the dining-room entrance, where another couple was waiting to be seated.

  I guess we hit some kind of nerve, Stephanie said to Craig when they were alone again.

  Yeah. There must have been some blowback from the Solomon Clinic.

  Or it’s because that woman’s son died.

  I think we should go see her.

  You think she’ll talk to us? Stephanie asked.

  Maybe we can use the same method, Craig answered.

  I hate doing that to a grieving mother.


  I don’t love it, either, but if it saves our lives, I’m willing to try it.

  She winced.

  They went back to their room, where they used the computer to look up Darla Dubour in Houma, Louisiana, and found that she lived in a small community outside of town.

  “Should we call her?” Stephanie asked.

  “I think it’s better if we just go over unannounced.”

  They were in the car and on their way a few minutes after they’d looked up the location.

  Stephanie felt a chill go through her.

  Craig reached to cover her hand with his. “You’re thinking we’re going to find out something bad about ourselves when we talk to that woman?”

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  WAYNE CHANNING and his partner, Buck Arnot, Harold Goddard’s men, had arrived in Houma the evening before.

  Because they’d been ordered to stake out the location where the Solomon Clinic had been located, they had spent an uncomfortable night in their car in a grocery-store parking lot where they could see the target location.

  “Got to pee,” Wayne said as he moved restlessly in his seat.

  “There’s a gas station a couple blocks down.”

  “But we’re supposed to keep the building in sight.”

  Channing sighed. “This is a real long shot.”

  “But we got our orders.”

  “Okay, I’ll drive down to the gas station and do my thing. You stay here and watch the building.”

  “And get arrested for loitering.”

  “Walk up the sidewalk and back again, like you’re out for your morning constitutional.”

  “Yeah, right. Come back with coffee and doughnuts.”

  “What flavor?”

  “Surprise me.” Buck climbed out and watched his partner drive off. When he was out of sight, he ducked around by the Dumpsters. He didn’t need a smelly gas station to relieve himself. Then he started down the block, looking in shop windows.

  When he got to the cross street, he turned and walked back, then did it again.

  He was going to call Wayne on his cell and ask if he’d fallen into the gas-station toilet when he saw something interesting.

  A car turned in at the grocery-store parking lot where he and his partner had spent the night. As he watched, two tough-looking men got out and stretched, as if they’d just finished a long drive.

  Their gazes were fixed on the building that he and Wayne had been watching.

  When he saw his partner coming back, he flagged him down and climbed back into the car.

  “I can go into that parking lot and we can switch. You can drive to the gas station, and I’ll wait here.”

  “I already done it out by the Dumpsters.”

  Wayne made a disgusted sound. “Didn’t your mama teach you better?”

  Ignoring the comment, Buck said, “Keep on drivin’ past that parking lot.”

  The urgency in his voice made Wayne glance toward the lot, then speed up.

  “Two tough-looking guys,” he said.

  “Yeah. I’m thinkin’ they might have the same assignment we do.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Must be a lot of interest in Swift and Branson.”

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  “Call the guy who hired us and ask for instructions.”

  “He’s probably still sleeping.’

  Buck’s voice took on a nasty tone as he turned toward his partner. “Well, we got reason to wake him up.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I thought we’d take a look around town before we talk to Mrs. Dubour’s,” Craig said as he pulled out of the driveway of the B and B.

  Stephanie closed her hand around his arm.

  “Don’t go there.”

  His gaze shot to her, then back to the road as he tuned in to her thoughts.

  “You think it’s dangerous to go into Houma,” he said aloud, considering the implication of her words.

  “Yes.”

  He silently debated her assessment. “You think the men who kidnapped us might be looking for us there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which would mean they know something about the Solomon Clinic.”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, we can go straight to Darla Dubour’s.”

  “How are we going to approach her?”

  “I think honesty is best. We tell her that we found out we were born as a result of treatments our mothers received at the Solomon Clinic and came to Houma to see if we could find out more about the clinic. We were talking to Mrs. Marcos, and she told us about David, and we’d like some more information, if she can give it to us.”

  “And if she doesn’t want to talk to us?”

  “We try our new technique.”

  * * *

  RACHEL HARPER SHUFFLED a deck of tarot cards and laid one of them on the table.

  Her husband, Jake, took in the worried expression on her face.

  “It’s the Hierophant, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes. He’s the archetype of the spiritual world. The card can refer to a person who holds forbidden or secret knowledge.”

  “Which means what, in this case?”

  She sighed. “You know how relieved we were when Solomon and Wellington were killed.”

  Jake nodded.

  “Suppose there’s someone else who knows about the children from the Solomon Clinic?”

  “And he’s trying something similar to what Wellington was doing?”

  She clenched and unclenched her fists. “Yes.”

  “Which means we should stay away from him.”

  “Or it means we need to reach out to that other couple. Unless they turn out to be our enemies.”

  “Try another card,” Jake suggested.

  Rachel fanned out the deck and pulled out the Ace of Cups. When she smiled, Jake stroked his hand over her shoulder. “The start of a great love,” he murmured.

  “You’re learning the cards.”

  “I like knowing what you know.”

  “A great love—ours or theirs.”

  “Let’s see one more card,” Jake said.

  Rachel pulled out the Five of Swords and caught her breath.

  “What?”

  “Well, it usually means you are defeated, cheated out of victory by a cunning and underhanded opponent.”

  “You think it refers to that other couple?”

  “Or to the person who is going against them and us. But sometimes with the Five of Swords, you are that victor. You’re the one who wins over your opponents by using your mind.”

  “That sounds like us.”

  “And them.”

  “And you still don’t have enough information to trust them?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not just us who would be at risk. It’s also Gabriella and Luke,” she said, referring to Gabriella Bordeaux and Luke Buckley, another couple who’d been born as a result of treatments at the Solomon Clinic. Rachel and Jake had come to their rescue, and they had formed a little community, using the plantation property Gabriella had inherited from her mother. Rachel and Jake lived there part of each week and commuted to New Orleans so that they could each maintain their business interests in the city, Rachel with her shop and Jake with his antiques and restaurant businesses.

  “Can you at least try to figure out where they are?”

  Rachel closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, sending her mind outward.

  * * *

  “IF MRS. DUBOUR won’t talk to us, we’re no worse off than we were before,” Craig said.

  They drove away from town, turning off onto a secondary road that le
d to a small community at the edge of the bayou, checking the house numbers on the mailboxes as they drove.

  When they came to number 529, they turned into a rutted gravel drive that was about fifty yards long. At the end was a white clapboard house with blue shutters surrounded by a trimmed lawn and neatly tended flower gardens edged with white painted rocks.

  A car was parked in front, and they pulled up behind it and walked to the front porch that spanned the front of the house.

  It took several moments for them to hear movement inside after they knocked. Finally an old woman opened the door. She looked to be in her late seventies, with wispy gray hair and a lined face. She was wearing slippers and a faded housedress.

  “I’m not buying anything,” she said as she stared through the screen door. “And I’m not interested in any religious lectures.”

  Stephanie shook her head. “We’re not selling or preaching. Are you Mrs. Dubour?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’d like to talk to you about your son, David.”

  She stiffened. “What about him?”

  “We’re staying at Mrs. Marcos’s bed-and-breakfast, and we were talking to her this morning. She told us that you were treated at the Solomon Clinic before David was born.”

  “What about it?”

  “Our mothers were both treated at the same clinic, and we wanted to find out what you knew.”

  Her expression had become less hostile as she’d listened to Stephanie speak. “I guess you’d better come in,” she said.

  Craig let out the breath he’d been holding as the older woman stepped aside. They followed her into a small, neat sitting room furnished in old maple pieces and a bulky sofa and overstuffed chairs.

  “Sit down,” she said, gesturing toward the sofa.

  They sat, and she took one of the chairs opposite, where she watched them with speculative interest.

  “You say your mothers went to the same clinic that I did?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It goes back to my twin brother being killed by mobsters in a restaurant when I was eight.”

  The old woman sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m so sorry.”

  “After Sam died, I remember hearing my mother trying to contact someone at the Solomon Clinic, but it was already closed by then.”