Magnolia Moon

by JoAnn Ross

  “No.” Regan snapped out a quick, harsh denial. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, hard enough to see swirling stars. Emotions she couldn’t begin to sort out crashed down on her as the disbelief she’d been trying to hang on to shattered.

  Her heart was pounding hard and fast as she forced herself to continue reading, her eyes racing over the page.

  He seemed a bit distracted, which isn’t surprising, since tomorrow’s the day he’ll finally tell his wife that he’s leaving Blue Bayou. Regan and I will be leaving with him. Anticipation has me as giddy as if I’ve been drinking champagne from a glass slipper. I won’t sleep a wink tonight.

  That was the final entry. Regan closed both the journal and her eyes as waves of emotion crested over her. She lifted a hand that felt as heavy as stone and dragged it through her hair.

  She’d felt this way twice before: during those weeks she’d spent in the hospital, drugged to the gills, and again three years ago, when her mother had died suddenly and unexpectedly from a brain embolism. Karen Hart, L.A.’s own Wonder Woman, had finally run across something she couldn’t control.

  The thing to focus on, Regan told herself, was that she’d survived both. She’d surprised all the medical experts with the speed of her recovery, and she’d gone back to work despite the constant need for more surgery, just as she’d overcome the shock and pain of loss to take care of the funeral arrangements for her mother.

  She dragged herself out of bed on legs that felt as shaky as they had during her early months of physical therapy, and opened the cedar trunk.

  Fighting for breath, she took the elephant, which for some reason she’d named Gabriel, from the trunk. He was tattered and worn, as any child’s favorite old toy would be. And while technically in a court of law he might be considered circumstantial evidence, since he couldn’t be the only such toy in the world, Regan knew, without a shadow of doubt, that she was holding proof of Nate Callahan’s claim.

  The gilt crown had long since disappeared, and she remembered breaking the beads during a playground tug-of-war with six-year-old Johnny Jacobs. She’d ended up with the elephant, and he had gone home with a black eye that had caused her to be deprived of television for an entire week after the crybaby had gone home bawling to his mother.

  Regan hadn’t minded being banished to her bedroom; justice was more important than watching Starsky and Hutch. Her father would have understood, she’d insisted at the time.

  Her father. The thought struck like a sledgehammer to the head. If Karen Hart wasn’t her mother, then John Hart was probably not her father, either. Unless, of course, he was the J in the journal?

  Could he have been having an affair with his sister-in-law? The distance between Louisiana and California would have made it difficult, but then, there was no indication that Linda Dale had been living in Louisiana when she’d gotten pregnant.

  And would a woman actually take the child her husband had fathered with another woman into her home, raising her as her own? Especially if that other woman was her own twin sister?

  Regan didn’t think many women would, but Karen Hart could well have been the exception. She might not have taken the child out of any sense of family or love, but she’d had a steely sense of responsibility. It also might have explained why Regan could not recall a single warm maternal moment spent with the woman she’d always believed to be her mother.

  “Damn.” A predawn light cast the room in a soft lavender glow. Regan pressed the stuffed toy against her breast, bowing her head against a sudden onslaught of pain. Had her entire life been built on a foundation of lies? And if not, what parts had been true, what parts false?

  She picked up the piece of hotel stationery with Nate Callahan’s telephone number and stared at it for a long time, trying to decide what to do next. Part of her wanted to call him, to ask the myriad questions bombarding her brain.

  She removed the receiver from the cradle, dialed the 985 area code, then slammed it down again. She needed time. Time to absorb the shock. Time to decide her next move.

  She had to get out of here. Had to clear her mind, start thinking like a cop, and not a woman who’d just had her world pulled out from under her.

  Still numb, she changed into her running clothes, though a cold winter drizzle was falling and fog was blowing in from the beaches. As she began running through the still dark streets, Regan remained oblivious to the weather. The very strong possibility that the woman who’d fed and clothed her, put a roof over her head, and raised her, if not affectionately, at least dutifully, had also created a sham of a life, left Regan with a bitter, metallic taste in her mouth.

  And so, beneath the thick gray clouds blowing in from the steely, white-capped Pacific, Regan ran. And ran. And ran.

  8

  Abreakout of gang wars kept Regan working nearly around the clock, which, while exhausting, at least occasionally took her mind off her own problem.

  She kept her secret to herself for nearly a month, viewing it on some distant level like a cold case she’d get to as soon as the hot ones were solved. Finally, after several marches by residents of the communities that were being torn apart garnered the attention of the press, politicians loosened the purse strings long enough to pay for more cops on the beat, which resulted in a string of high-profile arrests.

  Once things seemed to have calmed down, Regan tracked down Finn, whose advice echoed what she’d been telling herself ever since Nate Callahan’s visit. There was no way she was even going to begin to get a handle on her past if she didn’t visit Blue Bayou—and the scene of Linda Dale’s death—herself.

  Regan made the travel arrangements. Then, after another long, early morning run on the beach, she called her partner. “Did I wake you?”

  “Of course not.” Van’s groggy tone said otherwise. A male voice said something in the background. Regan could hear her telling Rhasheed who was calling. “So, what’s up?”

  “I’m going to be taking some leave time.”

  “Good idea. You’ve been working killer hours for too long. A break will do you good.”

  “I hadn’t realized there was anything wrong with me.”Terrific. Could you sound any more defensive?

  “You haven’t taken any real time for over eighteen months.”

  Nineteen. But who was counting?

  “Where are you going?”

  “Louisiana.”

  “Oh, lucky girl! New Orleans’s got great food, great jazz, and lots going on, especially now with Mardi Gras coming up.”

  “I’m not going to New Orleans. I’m going to Blue Bayou. It’s a little town closer to the Gulf,” she said, anticipating Van’s next question.

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I doubt if many people have. It’s pretty small.”

  “How did you find out about the place?”

  “I did an Internet search.” The half lie caused a little pang of guilt. She had looked up the town’s website, which had revealed what Finn had already confirmed: that Nate Callahan was, indeed, the mayor.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a longer pause. Regan could practically hear the gears turning in her partner’s head. “This sudden trip wouldn’t have anything to do with a man, would it?”

  “In a way.”

  They’d known each other too long for Van not to realize something wasn’t quite right. “Would you care to share what you’re holding back on your partner and best friend?”

  There was no point in trying to pretend everything was all right. “I can’t. Not yet.”

  The curiosity in Van’s voice changed to concern. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Regan wasn’t quite prepared to share details she didn’t even know herself. “Thanks anyway, but I’ll be fine. It’s just some little misunderstanding I have to clear up. In case anything urgent comes up, I’m staying at the Plantation Inn.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “I g
uess so.” It was the only hotel in town. She recited the number she’d called to book her reservation, then, after reassuring Van that she really was fine, Regan began packing.

  Fourteen-year-old Josh Duggan had never expected Louisiana to be so frigging cold. It had been snowing when he’d left Tampa, and he’d figured it’d stay warmer if he stuck to the southern states, but he’d been wrong. If someone didn’t come along soon, he’d turn into a Popsicle.

  He knew it was dangerous to be hitchhiking, but it wasn’t like he had a whole lot of choices. After seeing the cop talking to the cook in the restaurant next to the bus station in Jackson, he’d been afraid to get back on the bus and had decided to take his chances with his thumb on the back roads, which was proving not to be the most brilliant idea he’d ever had.

  So far only one car had passed on this narrow, lonely stretch of road. When he’d recognized the black-and-white as a trooper’s cruiser, he’d dived into a ditch until it had passed. Now his clothes were wet and sticking to his skin, and he could feel the blood from the rock he’d hit his face on oozing down his cheek.

  His stomach growled. He’d been promising it something to eat for the last twelve hours. Since he was down to about thirty-five cents, he was going to have to boost dinner. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  But first he was going to have to get to an effing town.

  His spirits perked up just a little when something came looming out of the swirling gray mist. The roar of the diesel engine was unmistakable. But at the speed it was going, would it even see him in time? Josh was desperate enough to consider leaping in front of the cab when the eighteen-wheeler’s air brakes squealed.

  The semi came to a grinding stop about fifteen feet beyond him. He must have hurt his leg when he’d jumped into the ditch, because it hurt like hell to run on it, but afraid the driver would take off, he ignored the pain and sprinted on a limp past the two trailers to the cab. The big door opened. A man Josh would not want to meet in a dark alley was looking down at him. His eyes were black as midnight; a red scar started high on his cheekbone and slashed through a scrabbly thatch of dark beard. “What the fuck are you doin’ out here, kid?”

  “Car broke down,” Josh lied without a qualm. Everyone lied. “I was walking into town to try and find a mechanic.”

  Dark eyes narrowed. “Didn’t see no car on the highway.”

  “I left it on a side road.”

  “Sure you did. You don’t look old enough to drive.”

  Josh thrust out his jaw and met the openly skeptical gaze head-on. “I’m small for my age.”

  “That so?” The driver studied him for another long moment that seemed like a lifetime. “It’s against regulations to take on passengers.” He jabbed a thumb at the sign in the window. “But hell, my old lady would kick my ass six ways to Sunday if she found out I left some skinny kid out in a frog-strangler like this.” He shrugged. “Get on in.”

  Not waiting for a second invitation, Josh scrambled into the passenger seat. The rush of heat from the dashboard, mingling with the mouthwatering aroma that could only be doughnuts, made his head spin. “Thanks. I’d pay you for the ride, but—”

  “Hell, I’m not interested in your money, kid. What I’d like is for you to tell me the truth, so I know whether or not I can expect the law to be comin’ after you.” He glanced up into the rearview mirror as if expecting to see flashing lights behind them.

  Blue and red artwork snaked around huge arms the girth of tree trunks. Josh wondered if he’d gotten any of those tattoos in prison, then decided he didn’t really want to know.

  “I’m not some juvenile delinquent runaway, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he lied.

  If the driver picked up that cell phone fastened to the dash and called the cops, he’d be busted. Not that it’d do any good. They could drag his ass back to Florida, but he’d just run again. And again.

  The driver didn’t answer right away. Every nerve ending in Josh’s body jangled as he plucked an empty Coke can from the cup holder on the dash and spat a huge stream of brown tobacco juice into it. “Don’t much like the law,” he said finally. He reached behind him and pulled a waxed Krispy Kreme bag from the sleeper. “You like doughnuts?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  The taste of the sugar-glazed fried dough nearly made Josh burst out bawling. Exhausted, he leaned his head against the window and watched the wipers sweeping the rain from the windshield. As the lonely sound of a train whistle wailed somewhere out in the heavy fog, he almost allowed himself to relax.

  Nate was up on a ladder, ripping away some water-stained drywall, when she entered the sheriff’s office. His built-in female radar detector had never failed him, and it didn’t this evening. He glanced back over his shoulder at Regan Hart standing in the doorway of the former storage room.

  Raindrops sparkled like diamonds in her sleek hair. She was wearing black jeans, sneakers, and a black Lakers jacket.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said. No hello, nice to see you again, what a lovely little town you have.

  “I was doin’ a little work on the place.”

  “I came to see the sheriff. There wasn’t anyone in the outer office.” Her tone suggested she didn’t approve.

  “We’re still looking for a sheriff. Mrs. Bernhard, she’s the dispatcher, doesn’t work after five. Her husband likes his supper on the table right on the dot, so he can eat it along with WATC’s six-o’clock news.” As he looked down into thickly fringed whiskey-colored eyes, Nate felt a familiar, enjoyable pull. “I never have figured that out, since it seems watching all that war, politics, and crime’d ruin anyone’s appetite, but that’s the way Emil likes it. And after fifty years of marriage, Ruby says it’s too hard to teach her old man new tricks.”

  “The town doesn’t have a night dispatcher?”

  “Nope.” She clearly did not approve. Nate shoved the claw hammer back into the loop on his tool belt, wondering how she could remind him so much of his big brother and still have him wanting to nip at that stubborn chin.

  “What happens when a crime happens at night?”

  “It rings into Henri Petrie’s house. He’s the senior ranking deputy. Mostly the only after-hours trouble happens at the No Name—that’s a bar outside of town—or the Mud Dog, another local watering hole about a mile away from the No Name. Since Henri spends most every evenin’ but Sunday at the Mud Dog playing bouree—that’s a card game sorta between poker and bridge—he’s usually already on the scene if trouble does break out.”

  He climbed down the ladder and noted her slight step back. Not only was she into control, she liked to be the one setting boundaries. Which wickedly made him want to press hers a little more.

  “Though he’s been complaining that being on call all the time is cuttin’ down on his socializing, being as how he can’t get drunk anymore, just in case something does come up.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first cop to drink on duty.”

  “Probably true. But so long as I’m mayor, I’d just as soon he not.” He saw the flash of skepticism in her eyes. “You’re surprised.”

  “I suppose, if I’d given it any thought, I would’ve expected you to be a bit more laid-back when it came to law-and-order issues.”

  “Stick around a while, Detective Chère, and you’ll discover I’m just full of surprises.”

  He could smell the rain on her hair. Accustomed to women who seemed to bathe in heady perfumes custom-blended in New Orleans, he’d never realized he could find the fragrance of rain and Ivory soap so appealing. Underlying the clean aroma was her own scent, which reminded him of those citrus candles his maman used to like, blended with freshly cut spring grass.

  “It’s real nice if you can have a job you enjoy, but that doesn’t mean that everyone should go mixin’ work and play. Especially when their job involves guns,” he said with a slow smile that more than one woman had told him was irresistible.

  Apparently they’d been wrong
. Or, more likely, she was just a harder case than the average woman.

  “But you do,” she guessed with what appeared to be yet more disapproval. “Mix work and play.”

  Christ, the woman could be a hardass. Though, he thought, remembering how she’d looked marching away from him in that L.A. parking garage, as asses went, it was still a pretty fine one.

  “Like I said, it’s nice to have a job you enjoy. As for the drinking-on-duty rule, it’s hard enough for the parish to make its liability insurance payments now. The last thing we need is a lawsuit from some city slicker who came down here to let off a little steam and got himself thrown into jail on a drunk and disorderly by a cop with whiskey on his breath.”

  “And you people prefer to handle things yourselves and leave outsiders…well, outside.”

  “That’s pretty much the way it’s always been down here,” he said agreeably. If he didn’t suspect that the weeks since he’d dropped his bombshell had been pretty damn tough on her, he might have let her know flat-out that he wasn’t real thrilled with the way she seemed to be looking down not just on him, but on Blue Bayou as well. “How much do you know about the Cajuns?”

  “I know who Paul Prudhomme is. And that I like Cajun food, and they have a reputation for partying.”

  “Laissez le bon temps rouler. That’s the name of a song: ‘Let the Good Times Roll.’” If her attitude so far had been any indication, he suspected it’d been one helluva long time since she’d roulered any bon temps. “It’s pretty much a motto down here.”

  Nate wondered what it would take to get that cool, faintly sarcastic mouth to soften. He’d never kissed a cop before. The closest he’d come had been Jenna Jermain, a reporter who worked the police beat up in Ascension Parish. They’d passed a few good times before she’d landed herself a job on the Houston Chronicle.