Magnolia Moon

by JoAnn Ross

  “The best,” Nate agreed. “Maman was the judge’s housekeeper,” he told Regan. “After my father was killed.”

  “I would have liked her to be more than a housekeeper. But Jake turned out to be too tough an act to follow.”

  Regan noticed Nate looked surprised by that revelation. “My parents had something special.”

  “That’s what she said when she rejected me.”

  “I hadn’t known you proposed.”

  “No need for you boys to know, since she turned my proposal down. Of course, she was real nice about it. No one in the parish sweeter than your mother.” Appearing embarrassed by the glimpse into his personal life, the judge squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, signed the temporary custody papers with a flourish, then handed them back to Nate.

  “This is just temporary,” he warned the teenager. “You give Mr. Callahan any trouble, and I’ll rescind the order so fast your head will spin.” He snapped his fingers to underscore the warning.

  “Well, that scares the shit out of me,” the boy muttered beneath his breath.

  “What did you say?” The judge’s voice cracked like a whip.

  “I said, okay.”

  Eyes locked, and challenge swirled between the youngest and oldest males in the book-lined room. Regan let out a breath when the judge decided not to wield his authority to just ship the kid off right now.

  “You’ve definitely got your hands full,” he warned Nate.

  “We’ll get along fine.”

  “If he doesn’t steal you blind,” the judge muttered, as if the teenager wasn’t standing right there in the room. “Always were too good-natured for your own good. Just like your mother.”

  “I’m proud to be compared to maman.”

  “Blue Bayou might be a small town,” Regan said as they drove away from the house, “but the judge could hold his own on any bench in L.A.” The teen was in the backseat, nodding along with whatever was blasting out of his Walkman earphones.

  “You should have seen him in the old days. He’s softened a lot the past few months.”

  “Seems he had at least one soft spot for a long time. You didn’t know about his feelings for your mother, did you?”

  “No fooling a cop,” he said with a casualness she suspected he wasn’t quite feeling. “That was a surprise. Though I suppose it does explain a lot of things. Like why he was always bailing Jack out of trouble and trying to straighten him out, like he was his own son. Looking back on it, I guess you could say he was giving him tough love. At least he didn’t ignore him, the way he did Danielle.”

  “Jack’s wife?”

  “Yeah. I guess I didn’t mention that part. She’s the judge’s daughter.”

  “Is everyone in this town connected?”

  “Pretty much so, I guess. It’s a small place, and people tend not to move away, or move in. So while there are some distinct circles, they all pretty much overlap.”

  “Which means that most of the people, of a certain age, anyway, would have known Linda Dale.”

  “Yeah. I’d suspect so.” He glanced up at the rearview mirror, then over at her. “Which should make your cold case not as cold as it might be in the big city.”

  “True. It also suggests that if she didn’t commit suicide, whoever murdered her may still be living in Blue Bayou, which makes it personal.” For both of them, if Dale did turn out to be her mother.

  “Yeah.”

  Having come to the conclusion that things really were different in the South, Regan didn’t bother to argue when Nate insisted on seeing her up to her room. Which meant, of course, that they had to take the teenager with them so they wouldn’t risk him rabbiting the minute he was alone.

  “Shit, you two are paranoid,” he muttered as he slumped across a lobby boasting huge bouquets of hothouse flowers, lots of rich wood, exquisite antique furniture, and leafy plants.

  “Not really.” Nate stuck the coded card in the slot and pressed the button for the third floor. “You just remind me of someone I used to know, so I just think about what he would have done in a similar circumstance.”

  The elevator doors opened onto a luxurious suite that would not have been out of place in the Beverly Wilshire.

  “I need some time alone with the detective,” Nate told the kid. “We need to talk.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s what everyone does in a hotel room.”

  Nate heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You know, you really can be one pain in the ass.” He opened the mini-bar and pulled out a Coke, a can of peanuts, and a Snickers bar. “This doesn’t concern you, so why don’t you go into one of the bedrooms and play some video games on the TV?”

  Mumbling beneath his breath, he snatched the snack food out of Nate’s hands, disappeared into the adjoining room, and shut the door behind him.

  “He’s going to have junk-food overload,” she warned.

  “Probably won’t be the worst thing that happened to him.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. She skimmed a finger over the glossy top of a Queen Anne desk. “You didn’t have to upgrade my room to this suite.”

  “It wasn’t any big deal.” Nate was bent down, perusing the contents of the mini-bar. “It was jus’ sitting here vacant.”

  “So, how did you end up owning a third of a hotel?”

  “The hotel was built in the 1800s but burned down last year. When the owners rebuilt, they figured they’d get more tourist business if it was redone to look more like Tara, so they hired me to do the job, but they couldn’t afford what it was going to cost to do it right. So I took some draws to cover the subcontractor and material bills, then agreed to take a piece of the place as my cut.”

  “Blue Bayou doesn’t exactly seem like a tourist mecca. Won’t it take an awfully long time to get your money back?”

  “Probably. But I’ve always had this perverse feeling that it was more important to be happy than rich.”

  She could identify with that. “And restoring this hotel made you happy.”

  “As a crawfish in mud.”

  “You did a very good job.” She studied the crown molding, surprised that such an outwardly easygoing man would pay such strict attention to detail.

  “Thanks.”

  “Though, to be perfectly honest, it reminds me more of Twelve Oaks than Tara.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a nodding acquaintance with a certain movie.”

  “I’ve seen it a few times.” She didn’t feel any need to mention that a few translated to a dozen. Her mother once accused her of having hidden southern blood, to be so taken by a mere movie. Regan sighed. She’d never realized at the time how true that might be.

  “How about a little Bailey’s nightcap?”

  “At mini-bar prices?” The TV came on in the other room, the low bass sound of the video game thrumming through the wall. “Who’s buying?”

  “It’s on the house. Besides, even if it wasn’t, you’re a rich lady now. You can afford to indulge yourself.”

  “We still don’t know, for sure, that I am actually Linda Dale’s daughter.”

  “You wouldn’t have come all this way if you didn’t think there was a damn good chance.” He took down two glasses from the overhead rack, poured the Irish Cream, and handed her one.

  “Thanks.” She took a sip and felt the liquid warmth begin to flow through her veins. “And no, I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t thought there was a possibility.”

  Regan wasn’t yet prepared to share the story of the Mardi Gras elephant. She sank down on the couch, tilted her head back, and looked out at the flickering gas lights of the town’s main street. The Irish Cream was going straight to her head, conspiring with a lack of sleep last night and the long flight, followed by the adrenaline rush of the rescue wearing off.

  “I really hate to admit this, but I think I’m afraid to discover the truth.”

  “You’re a detective,” he reminded her. “Digging out the truth is your job.”

  “Yea
h, it seems I’ve done a bang-up job of that.” Her head had begun to feel light, but she took another sip anyway. “If the woman who died in that garage is my mother, I’ve been lied to my entire life and never had a clue.”

  If there was one thing Nate had always had a handle on, it was knowing precisely what to say in the getting-to-know-you stage of an affair. He let out a deep breath and wondered why he couldn’t think of a single word to make this right.

  “She probably had a good reason for not telling you the truth.”

  “Sure she did. Being honest would have brought up a lot of questions she probably didn’t want to answer.” Regan’s strangled laugh held not a hint of humor. “I don’t know why I should be surprised. Everyone lies.”

  She’d told him that the first day. She’d also told him to get lost, but there’d already been too much passed between them to walk away now.

  “You’ll figure it out, chère.” He sat down next to her. “Put all the pieces together.”

  “Yeah.” She jerked a shoulder. “You’re damn right I will.” Nate found the renewed spark of pride encouraging. It was good that she was beginning to convince herself. “There was this detective I worked with when I first got promoted into homicide, who’d drive everyone crazy because he was so slow and methodical.” She ran her finger around the edge of the glass. Nate was finding it disconcerting to imagine those smooth lady hands holding a gun, those long slender fingers tipped with their tidy, unlacquered nails pulling a trigger. Especially when he was experiencing this low, thrumming need to have them on him.

  “Watching him work a crime scene was like watching a glacier flow,” she continued, unaware of the hot, uncensored direction of his thoughts. “Whenever anyone’d rag him about it, or a new partner would complain, he’d just shrug and say that he’d solve no crime before its time.”

  “It’s been thirty-one years. Seems about time, to me.”

  “Cold cases are the hardest.”

  “Which is why you should be gettin’ some rest.” As he’d done at the airport, he skimmed a finger beneath her eyes. “I’ll get the kid, take him home and get him settled, and be back in the morning.”

  “Don’t you have to work?” Video game explosions were coming from the bedroom; his outwardly casual touch had ignited other ones inside her.

  “Nothin’ that can’t be put off.”

  “What about the boy?”

  “That’s the nice thing about having family. I’ll drop him off at Jack’s.”

  “What makes you think your brother can handle a delinquent, runaway teenager?”

  “After our dad was killed, Jack became a wannabe delinquent. This kid reminds me a lot of him back then. He’s angry and a whole lot lost. ’Sides, I figure any guy who can hold his own with Colombian drug lords should be able to take care of one teenage kid for a few hours.”

  He went over to the table, where a ballpoint pen inscribed with the inn’s name and a notepad were sitting, scrawled some lines onto the paper, and handed it to her. His handwriting was as illegible as hers was neat.

  “Is there a codebook that goes with this?” she asked

  Regan knew she was in trouble when his deep laugh pulled sexual chords. What she’d told Van was true: all her parts definitely were in working order.

  “It’s how to get to the library. Not that you wouldn’t have found it yourself—this town’s pretty easy to get around, bein’ that it’s all laid out in squares like Savannah, but this might save you some time. The local paper’s the Cajun Chronicle. Dani—she’s Blue Bayou’s librarian—can help you dig into the archives.”

  “How did you know I was going to go digging in the archives?” She’d already tried to do that online, but the thirty-year-old newspaper issues she’d needed hadn’t been uploaded to the Internet.

  “That’s what Jack or Finn’d do.”

  He had her there. “I’m also going to pay a call on Mrs. Melancon.”

  “The old one, or the young?”

  “Old. Since she was running the company back then, she might know something about how Linda Dale got those stock certificates.”

  “I doubt that visiting the old lady will do much good, bein’ how she’s turned pretty reclusive and rumors have her mind going south, but…Jesus,” he said on an exasperated breath when she shot him a sharp, suspicious look. “You really don’t trust anyone, do you?”

  “Would you, if you were in my situation?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

  His smile turned a little distant as he gave her a considering look.

  “What?” she asked, growing uneasy when he didn’t look away for a very long time.

  He slowly shook his head. “Damned if I know,” he said, more to himself than to her. Vivid blue eyes, fringed by lashes most women would kill for, blinked slowly. The air between them grew thick and far too steamy.

  Just when Regan’s nerves were feeling stretched to the breaking point, he broke the silence. “Guess I’d better interrupt the intergalactic wars.”

  He retrieved the teenager, who, not surprisingly, wasn’t all that wild about leaving the video game. “Two more levels, and I would’ve been emperor of the universe,” he complained.

  “Next time,” Nate said easily. He paused in the open doorway and skimmed a finger down Regan’s nose. “See you tomorrow, chère.”

  After they left the suite, she listened to the footfalls on the hallway carpeting, the ding of the elevator, the whoosh as it opened, then closed.

  Regan leaned back against the door, closed her eyes, and let out a long breath. “Detective chère to you, Callahan.”

  The two-year-old girl lay in her trundle bed, huddled beneath her sheets, hiding from the full moon that her baby-sitter, Enola, had told her would make her eyes go crossed. She heard her mother’s high heels tapping on the wood floor. The voices grew harsher. Louder. Angrier. A sound like a glass breaking had her peeking out from beneath the sheet; the moonlight streaming in through the window cast a silver light over the bedroom, but the corners were draped in deep shadows.

  Regan shivered, fearful that the loud voices would wake the cauchemar. Whenever her mama went out and Enola stayed with her, the sitter would sprinkle holy water from a little bottle over Regan’s pillow to protect her from the witch who crept around in the dark, looking for little girls to eat.

  They were shouting now. Regan had never heard her mother shout and wondered if she was fighting with the cauchemar just on the other side of the door. She tried to climb out of bed, but her legs wouldn’t move. She tried to call for her mama, but the witch had wrapped its bony crawfish claws around her throat, so no sound came from her lips. Huddling beneath the sheets at the bottom of the bed, she hid from those shining red eyes Enola had told her could set children on fire.

  She heard a scream; then a crash, then silence.

  * * *

  Regan jerked awake, bathed in sweat, her mouth open in a silent scream she’d never been able to make heard, her heart beating triphammer hard, triphammer fast.

  “It was just a dream,” she told herself with a mental shake as she retrieved the pillow that had fallen onto the floor. The nightmare was an old one, going back as far as she could remember.

  She took a deep breath, looked over at the clock radio, and saw it was not even three A.M. yet. Groaning, she climbed out of bed and retrieved the journal from her carry-on bag. There’d be no more sleep tonight.

  13

  The kid had slept like the dead, revealing that it had been a long time since he’d had any real rest. He also had the appetite of a horse. A Clydesdale. He was single-handedly burning through breakfast as if he hadn’t eaten for weeks. Which, Nate considered, just might be the case, seeing as how he was mostly skin and bones.

  “What’s this stuff?” he asked, poking at the milk-drenched hot cereal Nate had gone to the trouble of fixing.

  “Couche-couche.”

  “That doesn’t tell me a frigging thing.”

  �
��It’s cornmeal, salt, baking powder, milk, and oil.” A lot of oil. “My maman used to make it just about every morning for my brothers and me when we were kids. But she used to serve it with sucre brule, which is kind of a syrup.” Thinking back on the ultrasweet, golden brown syrup made by cooking water and sugar together, Nate was surprised any of them had any teeth left.

  Food had always been an intrinsic part of the Acadian culture; his mother had turned it into a celebration.

  “It’s not bad.” The kid pushed aside the empty bowl. “But I like these better,” he said, biting into a sugar-powdered Cajun doughnut.

  “They’re beignets.” Nate wasn’t that good a cook—never had to learn since, on the occasions when there wasn’t a woman willing to feed him, there was always takeout from Cajun Cal’s Country Café. But any idiot could fry up a bunch of dough in a skillet of hot oil. “I don’t suppose that, having slept on it, you remember where home is?”

  “Nope.” He used his third piece of raisin toast to wipe up some yolk from the fried eggs.

  “You do realize that DSS will probably end up putting you in some sort of facility if they don’t get an answer soon.”

  His faced closed up. “I thought I was staying here with you.”

  “Temporarily. Talking Ms. Welch into letting you come home with me for a couple days was one thing, since we’re old friends from our school days. But I don’t exactly fit a foster family profile. ’Sides, they don’t have any way of knowing that you’re not a regular Jesse James, running from robbin’ a bank or something.”

  “I didn’t rob any bank. And the damn social services assholes can put me anywhere they want, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna stay there.”

  Nate sighed. The kid reminded him a bit of Turnip, the raggedy old stray yellow dog that had shown up at Beau Soleil last spring. The difference was that the dog had deftly insinuated herself into Jack’s life with her unrelentingly cheerful personality. But thinking about Turnip gave him an idea.

  “You like dogs?”

  “They’re okay, I guess. I had me a puppy when I was a kid.”