by JoAnn Ross
“What kind?”
“I don’t know. Some kinda black-and-brown mutt. Someone dumped it in a field by our house. I brought it home and kept it hidden in my room, but the guy my mother was livin’ with drowned it.”
“Damn.” This picture the boy was painting was getting worse and worse. “He still around?” he asked casually.
“I guess.” He shrugged and wiped the white powdered sugar off his mouth with the back of his hand. “He’d moved into the apartment, anyway.”
“Which is why you’re not there?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“You realize, don’t you, that if you’d be a little bit more open and come clean about your situation, there’s a very good chance I might be able to help.”
The kid rolled his eyes.
“I guess that’s a no.” Nate stood up. “Come on.”
“Where?”
The unrelenting suspicion was beginning to drive him nuts. “My brother’s house.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a cool place. With a dog who’s always happy to meet new folks who’ll throw her a Frisbee to catch.”
“You gonna stick around?”
“Well, now, that’s the thing. I promised the detective—”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Why spend time with a kid when you can be doin’ a hot chick?”
“Okay, dammit, that’s it.” Nate turned on him, the flare of temper catching them both off guard. “I’ve been trying my best to give you the benefit of the doubt, since you look like you’ve been rope-drug from the tailgate of a pickup down a long patch of bad road. And if you’re not lyin’ about that drowned puppy—”
“I’m not.”
“—then I’ve gotta figure that whatever you’re running from has got to be a helluva lot worse than what you’ve gone through on the road, which sure doesn’t look like it’s been a picnic.”
“It hasn’t,” he mumbled.
“Shut the hell up.” It worked. The kid dropped his eyes to the heart-of-pine floor. “Like I said, I’m willing to cut you some slack, but if you don’t stop talking such trash—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll dump me back with the cops.”
Nate saw the fear beneath the tough veneer and, though it wasn’t easy, held firm. “If you’d quit finishing my sentences when you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, you’d discover that you’re not the only one with problems.”
“Cops don’t have problems. They make problems.”
“Like when the detective crawled under that electrical wire to save your life?”
“I don’t remember asking her to do that.”
Damn, what he wouldn’t give to have Jack or Finn here right now. Or both of them. They could double-team the kid, who probably wouldn’t hold up two minutes when being played by experts.
Nate dragged a hand down his face, wondering what the hell he’d done in a previous life to deserve all this crap dumped on him at one time. Peter Pan was sounding real good about now. Flying off to the island of lost boys had to be a lot more fun than dealing with this runaway kid. If that wasn’t bad enough, thanks to him, Detective Delectable’s entire life, as she’d known it for thirty-three years, had just come crumbling down around her. How the hell was he supposed to make up for that?
“Like I said, the detective’s got some private, personal problems. And I promised to help her solve them.”
“What are you, a priest or something?”
Nate laughed at that and put his arm around the kid’s shoulder. When he felt the sudden rigidity he lightened up a bit, but did not take his arm away. “Son, I am about as far away from a priest as you can get.”
They were on their way to Beau Soleil, the Porchdogs singing “Hello Josephine” on the SUV’s CD player, when Nate turned toward his passenger.
“You know, it’d be a helluva lot easier to carry on a conversation if I at least knew your first name. ‘Hey, kid’ is a little limiting.”
He could see the wheels turning behind those pale blue eyes, then the kid blew out a long breath of surrender. “Josh.”
It wasn’t much. But it was a start.
Regan had to say this about Nate Callahan. He was true to his word. The rental car was waiting for her at the front of the inn when she returned from her early morning run. It had even been washed, she noticed immediately. Since according to Nate’s scrawled directions the library was only two blocks away, Regan decided to walk.
The rain had moved on; the day had dawned bright and sunny and as warm as she’d been expecting when she’d left L.A. The library was located on Magnolia Avenue, next door to the Acadian Butcher Shop, which boasted displays of plump chickens and sausages beneath green-and-white-striped awnings, and across the street from a small park ablaze with naturalized daffodils. The interior of the building was brightly lit, and dust covers of upcoming releases were displayed on a wall covered in green, purple, and gold burlap (which she’d read in the hotel’s visitor guide were Mardi Gras colors). The windows sparkled like crystal, and old-fashioned oak catalog cases gleamed with lemon oil, which added a fresh scent to the air.
“Good morning.” The blond woman’s smile, which was echoed in her eyes, was as warm and welcoming as her library. “You must be Regan.” She held out a hand. “I’m Dani Callahan, Jack’s wife. Nate called this morning and told me you’d be coming.”
“It’s good to meet you.” Regan was momentarily put off by Dani’s outgoing attitude; cops weren’t accustomed to people being happy to see them.
“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” Moss green eyes moved from Regan’s face to her wrists. “Though I am a bit disappointed you’re not wearing your bracelets.”
“Bracelets?”
“Wonder Woman’s magic bracelets. You and Nate ended up on the front page of the paper.” She held up a copy of the Cajun Chronicle. In color, above the fold, was a photo of her ducking beneath the wires to hand Nate the blanket. There was another of Nate pulling the boy from the truck.
“That was a brave thing he did, for a civilian.” Or idiotic.
“I doubt if, in his mind, he had much of a choice,” Dani said. “Though the fact that there was a child in the truck undoubtedly added to the urgency. Nate’s terrific with kids.”
“Probably because his emotional growth stopped about twelve himself,” Regan murmured.
“You may have a point, since that’s how old he was when his father was killed. He told me that he’d told you about that,” she said. “It’s not something he talks about often, so it’s interesting that he chose to share it with you.”
“It was just part of the general conversation. He insisted on helping me into my coat because, as he put it, his daddy taught him to, and I suggested his father might want to join the twenty-first century.” She still felt a twinge of guilt about that. “He seems all right with it.”
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” Dani braced her elbows onto the glossy surface of her desk, linked her fingers together, and rested her chin atop her hands. “You know, that was a dreadful time, but looking back and seeing all three Callahans from an adult perspective, I think it ended up being hardest on Nate.”
“Why?”
“Jack and Finn were older, so they latched onto their roles right away. Finn became the man of the family, something he did very well.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“No, I expect you’re not, having worked with him.”
“Seems Nate’s been talking about me.”
“He’s like my brother. We share everything.” Her eyes momentarily sparkled. “Well, almost everything. Anyway, Finn just got more adult and serious, and Jack became Blue Bayou’s James Dean. He calls it his rebel-without-a-clue period.
“Nate was closest of the three to his mother, which I suppose isn’t surprising for the youngest child in a family. They lived out at Beau Soleil, the house I grew up in, so I had a front-row seat after the tragedy. I don’t think he left her side from
the time she got the terrible news to days after the funeral. Wherever she was, he was, holding her hand, talking her into eating something, telling her jokes.”
A small, reminiscent smile teased at the corners of her mouth. “I remember him making her laugh at some silly story the night of the viewing. Mrs. Cassidy, from the market, was scandalized a woman could laugh when her husband was lying in a casket in the same room. I was the same age, and watched him all during that time and wished, just a little, that I could fall in love with him.”
“You don’t seem to be alone, there.”
“Women like Nate,” Dani agreed mildly.
“I figured that out for myself.”
“You don’t have to be a detective to see it.” Dani’s expression turned a little serious. “He’s certainly sexy enough, and charming, but what attracts women is that he’s one of those special men who genuinely admires all aspects of us. Which is why most of us like him right back.”
“I’ll admit he’s difficult to dislike.” Regan wasn’t quite ready to make the leap into Nate Callahan’s female fan club.
“I can’t think of anyone who’s ever had a reason to. As I said, there were a lot of times when I thought how much easier it would be if I’d just fall in love with Nate. Or Finn.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” She twisted a gold ring as her eyes warmed with private thoughts. “My heart’s always belonged to Jack.”
Regan wanted to get on with her reason for coming to the library, but there was one thought that had been running through her mind since she’d been jerked from a restless sleep by that nightmare. “I met this woman volunteer at the hospital—”
“Orèlia.” Dani nodded. “She’s definitely one-of-a-kind, isn’t she? My father lives with her during the week.”
“So Nate said. He seems like a nice man. Your father, that is.”
“He’s a good man.” Regan, who was used to listening for what people didn’t say, caught the qualification in that statement. “It’s no secret that we’ve had some rough patches, but fortunately we had a chance to straighten them out before we lost the opportunity.” She shut her eyes briefly as she realized what she’d said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” Regan sighed. “I guess Nate told you everything.”
“He filled me in on what he knows of your situation. If it’s any consolation, he was unusually reticent. Except for a brief synopsis of your possible family situation, all he’d tell us was that you reminded him of Finn, were very pretty, and smelled good.”
Regan wasn’t at all pleased to hear he’d compared her to Finn. Okay, maybe they were both cops, but surely she didn’t come off as remote, cool, and rigid as the eldest Callahan. She shook off the momentary pique.
“It’s not easy to have to consider that the woman I always thought of as my mother may be my aunt,” she allowed. “Orèlia mentioned something about Nate’s mother dying, as well.” She was not trying to pump Danielle Callahan, but she couldn’t help but be curious.
“Oh, that was a terribly sad time. She was diagnosed with breast cancer when Nate was a freshman at Tulane. She tried to keep him in school—he was planning to become an architect—”
“I thought he was going to be a baseball player.”
“Oh, I think he could have been a very good one. All the Callahan men are naturally athletic, but Nate enjoyed the game-playing aspect of sports more than the other two. But he was smart enough to realize that even if he did make it to the majors, he wouldn’t be playing all his life, so he decided it’d be good to have a backup occupation.”
“That’s more planning than I would have expected.”
Dani smiled at that. “Every once in a while, just when you think you’ve got Nate figured out, he surprises you. I think he probably has more layers than either of his brothers.”
“Finn certainly always seemed straightforward.”
“With Finn, what you see is pretty much what you get,” Dani agreed. “Though I have to admit that it was fun watching Julia Summers pull the rug out from beneath his tidy, orderly world.”
Regan definitely could identify with that feeling.
“Nate’s always loved construction. When they were kids playing cowboys and Indians, while Jack and Finn were practicing their fast draws, Nate was dragging home boards he’d find in the swamp to build the jail.”
Regan laughed at the idea of Finn Callahan in a cowboy hat, having cap pistol shootouts. “So Nate’s an architect?” Her admittedly sketchy investigation of him hadn’t revealed that.
“No. He dropped out of school the day he heard the news of his mother’s cancer and came home to be with her. I’ve always thought that he was somehow convinced he could single-handedly save her with love and determination. I firmly believe he’s the reason she lived two years longer than the doctors predicted. It was a difficult three years, but he was always there for her.
“Jack was working for the DEA somewhere in Central America when she died, but Finn and Nate were with her at the end. Finn said she died smiling at a joke Nate had told her.”
“That’s nice.” Regan didn’t run into all that many people who died smiling in her line of work.
“There was a time when I don’t know what I would have done without him to talk to. He was the only person during some hard times who could make me forget my troubles for a little while. And if part of him is still twelve years old, well, perhaps that’s what makes him able to slough off his own problems while taking on everyone else’s.”
Regan didn’t want to consider that possibility. It was easier to believe that Nate Callahan was just some immature, hormone-driven southern charmer.
“That’s all very interesting,” she said, her smile a bit forced. “Could you tell me where you keep your newspaper archives?”
“The newer ones have been scanned into the computer. The ones you’re looking for are still on microfiche. I’ve pulled up the reels for you.” She gestured toward a chair and a reader across the room. “If there’s anything else you need—”
“No, thanks. That’ll do it.”
“Great. Do you know how long you’ll be staying?”
“I suppose it all depends on what I find and how soon I find it.”
“Hopefully you’ll be here for the Fat Tuesday party out at Beau Soleil.”
Regan hadn’t come to Blue Bayou to party. “That’s very nice of you, but—”
“Please come, Regan. How else can we live up to our reputation for southern hospitality? Nate and Jack have done wonders with Beau Soleil, and I do so love to show it off. Have you ever visited a plantation house?”
“No.”
“Beau Soleil was the model for Tara,” Dani said, sweetening the pot. “Margaret Mitchell was a visitor before she wrote the book.”
“That’s quite an endorsement.”
“It’s really worth the trip to see what Nate’s done with the house. He’s more than just a contractor, he’s a master craftsman. His millwork is phenomenal. There was a time when I felt sorry for him, dropping out of school and all, but it’s obvious that he never belonged building skyscrapers; he’s really found his niche.”
“That’s important.”
Regan had once been certain she’d found hers. She was no longer quite so sure. It’s not burnout, she assured herself. You just need a break. Like a month in Tahiti. Or maybe in bed. Sleeping.
“If I’m in town, I’ll try to come by.”
“I’m so pleased. Jack will be, too.” Dani’s smile suggested she hadn’t expected any other outcome, making Regan wonder if all southerners had velvet-bulldozer personalities. Had Linda Dale? “Jack lived in Los Angeles for several years, so you’ll be able to share stories.”
Regan liked Dani Callahan. If Dani lived in Los Angeles, the two of them might have been friends. Other than Van, whose life these days revolved around Rhasheed and her unborn son, Regan didn’t have many women friends. Her job didn’t allow time for socializing.
If she did take time from work, she was likely to be found sharing a pitcher of beer with a group of cops at the Code Ten.
She realized Dani had asked her a question. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Nate told me he’d asked you to take the sheriff’s job?” Her voice went up a little on the end of the sentence, turning it into a question.
“He did. And I turned him down.”
“Having met you, I’m doubly sorry you didn’t accept.” Her slight frown turned into a smile. “Well, perhaps you’ll change your mind. My brother-in-law can be very persuasive.”
That was an understatement. But Regan had no interest in leaving L.A. for such a small, isolated town. Pigs would be spouting gossamer wings and flying over Blue Bayou before she pinned on that badge again.
As if to prove how different the town was from Los Angeles, the story of Linda Dale’s death, which would have been buried in the back pages of the local section in the Los Angeles Times, had captured nearly the entire front page. There was also a picture of Dale captioned “In Happier Days”—the New Orleans Mardi Gras photograph. Inside were more photographs, including the red car in which her body had been discovered by her employer. Another picture showed a woman carrying a toddler out of a tidy, narrow white frame house. Regan recognized her as the woman she’d always thought was her mother, and a chill skimmed up her spine as she realized she was, indeed, that toddler.
Josh was trying his best not to be impressed, which was frigging hard when the house Nate pulled up in front of reminded him a lot of the White House.
“Your brother lives here?”
“Yeah. Jack.”
“He must be rich.”
“I think he probably does okay for himself. He writes books.”
“Yeah?” Josh liked to read; books had often proven an escape from his life. But he’d never actually given any thought to people writing them. “What kind of books?”
“Thrillers, I guess they’re called.”
The name clicked. “Your brother is Jack Callahan?”
“Yeah, I guess you heard of him.”
“Heard of him? Shit, I just finished reading The Death Dealer! It’s in my backpack.” He’d swiped it from a CVS in Tallahassee, along with a can of Vienna sausages and a Milky Way bar. “He rocks.”
