by JoAnn Ross
“She can be so condescending your teeth hurt from being clenched, and she’s a snob, along with being Blue Bayou’s self-appointed morality czarina. But I can’t see her killing anyone, if that’s where you were going. Especially if it’d involve anything that might involve chipping a fingernail.”
“There’s one thing I learned early on in homicide.”
“What’s that?”
“Everyone’s a suspect.”
“You’re a hard woman, Detective Chère.”
“I’m a realist.” She had to be. “I’m going to want to meet her.”
“Mrs. Melancon?”
“Yeah. The way I see it, I can do it three ways. I can find out her daily activity pattern and just happen to run into her by chance and get to chatting, but that’s iffy, and if she’s in a hurry, it doesn’t give me a real good opportunity to talk with her.
“Or I can just go to her house, knock on the door, tell her that her husband may be a suspect in a thirty-year old murder case, and could we have a little chat about whether or not he used to sleep around on her back when she was a young bride.
“Or,” she said as he pulled up to a four-way stop, “I can have you arrange things.”
He braked and briefly shut his eyes. “Why did I know you were going to say that?”
“Because you’ve spent all your life surrounded by cops. Some of it’s got to have rubbed off onto you.”
“I use that soap with pumice in it so it doesn’t stick.”
“You might not want to admit it, Callahan, but on occasions, you, too, can think like a cop.”
He frowned. “I don’t know if I’ve been complimented or insulted.”
She laughed for the first time, and Nate was struck by how much he enjoyed the rich, full sound. She reached over and patted his cheek. “Why don’t you think on it.”
18
They stopped for a while in a peaceful spot next to the bayou for lunch. The sandwich was the richest she’d ever tasted. She’d only been able to finish half of it and still didn’t think she’d be able to eat again for a week. They’d parked beside a metal marker memorializing the victory of a battle against the Union Army.
“Isn’t that the pirate you were going to tell me about?” She remembered him mentioning that when they’d first entered the ER.
“That’s him. Jean Lafitte. Actually, there were three of them—Alexander, Pierre, and Jean—but Jean was the most infamous. Alexander, who, I guess you could say was most respectable, was Napoleon’s artillery officer. Jean and Pierre were privateers who earned their living attacking the trading ships comin’ and goin’ between the Gulf and the river cities.”
“I imagine there was a fairly good profit in piracy.”
“Mais yeah. Jean and Pierre had thirty-two armed warships under their command, they, which was more than the entire American navy at the start of the War of 1812. Both the British and the Americans recruited them, but Andrew Jackson was the one who promised them amnesty if they’d fight in the Battle of New Orleans.”
“Which they did,” she guessed.
“They did. After they won the battle and sent the Redcoats packing, they went right back to raiding. Tales about his final restin’ place flow as freely as Voodoo beer at Mardi Gras, but folks here in Blue Bayou prefer the one where he was buried in an unmarked grave after bein’ on the losing end of a duel with one of his lover’s husbands. His ghost is real popular, showin’ up all over the bayou, sometimes at the wheel of his warship.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Now, I can’t say that I have. But I think I did hear him one night in Holy Assumption’s cemetery, back when I was in high school.”
“What were you doing in a cemetery at night? Never mind,” she said an instant later as the answer came to her.
“I don’t expect you’d believe I was studying the stars?”
“Only if you happened to be studying them with a girl.”
He rubbed his chin. “Studying was always more fun when you had someone to do it with. I have to admit, the sound of those chains rattlin’ nearly scared the pants off me.”
“I have the feeling they wouldn’t have stayed on long anyway.”
He put a hand against his chest. “You wound me, Detective Chère.”
“I strongly doubt that’s possible,” she said lightly, enjoying sparring with him. As she’d sat in the SUV and drank in the absolute silence surrounding them, Regan had found herself beginning to relax. It had been an odd sensation; she had actually taken a few moments to recognize the feeling.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t suspend time forever. After driving another ten minutes, Nate turned off the main road again and headed through a cane break.
“Where are we going, now?” she asked.
“Beau Soleil.”
“Jack and Dani’s plantation house?”
“Yeah. I’ve got some work to do there, and it’ll let me check up on the kid.”
“Construction work?”
“Sorta. Blue Bayou usually has the Mardi Gras party in the park, but this year Dani decided it’d be fun to host it at Beau Soleil, like back in the old days when her daddy pretty much ran the town. The party’s free, of course, but for an extra five bucks you get a tour of the house and some autographed books Jack’s donating. Between the home’s history and my brother’s fame, the tickets have been sellin’ like popcorn shrimp. The money goes into the parish’s community chest.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’s more of a necessity. The parish still hasn’t fully recovered from the oil bust, when a lot of folks had to leave land that had been in their families for generations and move into the cities. Those who stayed behind have to work harder to keep things together.”
“You really do fit here, don’t you?”
He didn’t have to think about that for a moment. “Yeah. I do.”
“There are a lot of things I like about L.A. The beach, my friends, my work. The fact that I may be making a difference. But I’ve never actually felt as if it was home.”
“Must be hard for roots to settle in concrete and asphalt.”
Part of Nate had decided long ago that perhaps not reaching his youthful dream of playing third base for the Yankees hadn’t been such a bad thing, after all. He’d have hated to get to New York and discover that the fantasy hadn’t been anywhere near the reality. He wasn’t, after all, a hustle-bustle kind of guy.
“Maybe you never felt like you belonged in California because Blue Bayou’s your true home,” he suggested.
“Even if I do turn out to be Regan Dale, I didn’t live here long enough to have a connection. I certainly haven’t recognized anything, or had any feeling of déjà vu.”
“Maybe you’re tryin’ too hard. Sometimes the answer comes when you’re not looking for it.”
“Is that something else you’ve read in one of Jack’s books?”
“Nope. That’s mine. From when I’ll be wrestling a set of blueprints all night, trying to make something work, and later, while I’m having morning beignets and coffee at Cal’s and arguing sports scores, the solution will just come right out of the blue.”
She’d experienced the same thing, when she’d been working a case that seemed a dead end, and suddenly the answer would occur to her.
“Stay around a while, and Blue Bayou will start to grow on you,” he suggested. “Maybe I will, too.” He skimmed a hand over her hair.
“Like that Spanish moss hanging from all these trees.”
He chuckled, unwounded.
Nate turned onto another unmarked road, which took them down a narrow lane lined with oaks that appeared centuries old. When he turned a corner and the white Greek Revival antebellum plantation house suddenly appeared, gleaming like alabaster in the sunshine, she drew in a sharp breath.
“It really is Tara.”
“Pretty damn close,” he agreed. “There are those around here who swear Margaret Mitchell used Beau Soleil for the model in he
r book.”
“That’s what Dani said, but I’m not sure I took her seriously. Wow. It’s stunning. It’s also hard to believe that anyone—any normal person, that is—actually lives here.”
“Dani and Jack are as normal as you get, basically. Her family first got the deed to the place in the mid-1800s. Her ancestor, André Dupree, won it in a bouree game on a riverboat. Her daddy, the judge, nearly lost it to taxes a while back when he had himself some personal problems, but Jack came to the rescue and bailed him out.”
“That was certainly a grand gesture.”
“He said at the time he liked the idea of bein’ a man of property, and wanted to stop this New Orleans mob family from turning it into a casino, but personally, I think he bought it for Dani’s sake, since he still had strong feelings for her. When they got married, it landed back in the Dupree family again.”
“Well, that’s certainly convenient.”
“Neither one of them married for the house. When you see ’em together, you’ll realize they could be just as happy living in a one-bedroom trailer.”
“This is certainly not a trailer.” Her gaze swept over the white-pillared facade. “I’d feel as if I were living in some Civil War tourist attraction. Did you say you grew up here?”
“Not in the big house. We moved into one of the smaller ones after Dad was killed.” He pointed toward a small white house on the outskirts of the compound. “After maman died, it sat vacant for a lot of years. Dani’s turned it into a guest house. It’s real cozy, even bein’ haunted like it is.”
“Of course. What would an old antebellum home be without a ghost?”
“There you go, bein’ skeptical again,” he said easily. “He’s a Confederate officer who got lost here in the bayou after the Battle of New Orleans. Since the Union Army had taken over Beau Soleil, one of Dani’s ancestors hid him in the little house. According to the story, she sent her own personal maid to take care of him during the day, then every night, she’d be real liberal when it came to pouring the port. After all the Yankees would pass out, she’d sneak out of the house and take the night shift trying to nurse that poor Confederate boy back to health, which was a pretty gutsy thing to do, since harboring the enemy was a hangin’ offense. Even for a woman.”
“That couldn’t have been an easy decision.” Easier, perhaps, if the southern soldier had resembled the man sitting beside her. She could see a woman taking foolish risks for Nate Callahan. “I take it she failed?”
“Yeah. The poor guy’s leg had been blown off, and he ended up dying, probably of sepsis. When we were growing up we heard stories about the lady, who lived to a ripe old age, tellin’ folks that he used to come visit her at night, but people figured she’d just gotten a little touched in the head.”
“But you believe the stories,” Regan guessed.
“I like the idea of them findin’ happiness together. I’ve never seen him, though Jack claims to have heard music in the ballroom, where they’re supposed to dance.”
“I’ll bet Finn never saw the ghost, either.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Now, see, that’s what you get for stereotyping. Finn’s the only one of the three of us who actually has seen him.”
“I don’t believe that.” Finn Callahan was the last person, other than herself, she’d expect to believe in such fantasy.
“My hand to God.” He lifted his right hand. “Though I suppose, in the interest of full disclosure, I oughta add that he was feverish with flu at the time, and once he got better he tried to back away from his story about seeing the two of them waltzing.”
“It seems as if it’d be hard to waltz with one leg.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nate argued. “People can do a lot of things when they’re in love that they might not do otherwise. Or so I hear.”
She wasn’t surprised he referred to hearsay. Nate Callahan did not strike her as a man who’d fall in love. Lust, sure. But the forever-after kind of love? No way. Another thing they had in common
The front door opened, and a huge yellow ball of fur came barreling toward them. “Brace yourself,” Nate warned as she tensed. Every cop who’d ever worked the rough parts of town, and a lot who were assigned the cozier suburbs, had learned the hard way that it was best to be wary of strange dogs. “She’s not dangerous, ’less you consider gettin’ licked to death a problem.”
What appeared to be a mix between a yellow lab and a school bus came skidding to a halt in front of them. Her tail was wagging like an out-of-control metronome. “Hey, Turnip.” Nate took a Milk-Bone from his jeans pocket and tossed it to her. The treat disappeared in a single gulp.
The dog turned to Regan, who did usually carry dog treats with her, partly because she liked dogs and partly to make friends with the territorial ones. “Sorry, doggie. I’m all out.” Wishing she’d saved the other half of the sandwich from lunch, she rubbed the huge head thrust toward her. “Her name’s Turnip?”
“Yeah.” He grinned as the enormous pink tongue slurped the back of Regan’s hand. “’Cause she just turned up one day.” He glanced up as Josh appeared on the front gallerie. “She was a stray. Just like some kid I know.”
“You just missed her,” Josh announced as they approached.
“Missed who?” Nate asked.
“That social worker. Isn’t that what you’re doing out here?”
“Actually, I came to do some carpentry work. Didn’t even know Judi was coming out today. So, I don’t suppose your memory happened to make a comeback?”
“Nope.”
Nate shook his head. “Terrible thing, amnesia. Who knows, you might turn out to be a spy, just like that Matt Damon character in The Bourne Identity. Sure would hate for Blue Bayou to be overrun with international assassins.”
“Like that’s goin’ to happen.” He smirked.
“Never know,” Nate said mildly. “You have any talents you don’t remember learning? Like maybe some martial arts or driving a getaway car?”
“No, but if I did have any, I wouldn’t have time to notice, since the famous fuckin’ author’s been making me sand woodwork ever since you dumped me here.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to keep thinkin’ on it and keep alert for any clues. Meanwhile, sanding is an important job. Can’t stain without getting the wood all smooth first.”
“It’s boring.”
“I suppose it can be if you do too much of it for too long. So, how’d you like to switch to something a little larger?”
“Like what?”
“I’ve got to build a stage for the band and could always use an extra hand.”
“Shit, this is turning out to be like prison.”
“The detective here might know better than me about jailhouse fashion, but I’ve driven past prisoners workin’ the fields up at Angola, and can’t recall ever seein’ anyone wearing an Ozzie Osbourne shirt. They all seem to favor stripes. So, what do you say?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“I’m not real sure. But it’s always good to learn a new skill, just in case it turns out you’re not a secret agent. Plus, it could just look good on your juvie report in case you’ve got some police problem that’s slipped your mind.”
Nate glanced over as another teenager appeared in the doorway. This one was a girl, tall and willowy, with pale hair down to her waist and thickly fringed green eyes. Looking at her, Regan had a very good idea what Dani had looked like at thirteen.
“Hi, Uncle Nate.” When she went up on her toes and gave him a peck on the cheek, Regan noticed a flash of something that looked like old-fashioned envy in Josh’s eyes. “Guess what? Ben and his mom moved into the guest house last night.”
“Good for them, Holly.
“Ben’s Misty’s boy,” Nate explained to Regan. “He’s a sophomore.”
He glanced over at Josh, who was staring at the girl as if she were a gilt angel atop a Christmas tree. “Guess you and Ben’d be about the same age.”
The only answer was a
shrug.
“They both play ball, too.” Holly Callahan’s revelation drew a sharp warning look from Josh, but she appeared unaware that she’d just given away something he hadn’t wanted them to know.
“Is that so?” Nate said casually. “I played a bit in my day.”
“I told him that you played third base for the Buccaneers and went to Tulane. Josh plays shortstop.”
“Must have some fast moves.”
“I get by,” Josh mumbled. Regan was amused when he began rubbing the worn toe of his sneaker in the dirt like a shy six-year-old.
“We usually end up playing a softball game while the Mardi Gras supper’s cooking. I don’ suppose I could talk you into bein’ on my team,” Nate said.
Josh was tempted. Regan could see it. But once again trust didn’t come easily, and she knew he was looking for the catch.
“You gonna be the cheerleader?” he asked Holly.
“No.” Her eyes flashed in a way that suggested a bit of steel beneath that cotton-candy blond exterior. “I play first base. When I’m not pitching, that is.” Her smile was sweet and utterly false. “If you don’t want to be on Uncle Nate’s team, we could always use a mascot. Maybe you could dress up like a pirate. Or a chicken.”
The gauntlet had been thrown down.
Josh narrowed his eyes. His cheeks flushed with anger, embarrassment, or both. “I’ll play,” he told Nate with all the enthusiasm of a death-row inmate on the way to the electric chair.
“Great.” Nate threw an arm around both Josh and Holly’s shoulders in that easy way he had. Regan saw the boy stiffen again, but Nate ignored it. “Let’s keep the fact that you played back home our little secret,” he suggested. “No point in helping the other team with the point spread.”
“You fixin’ softball games again, cher?” a deep voice rumbled from inside the house.
Jack Callahan emerged from the shadows, looking even more rakish than he appeared on the back of his books. With his dark hair tied with a leather thong at the nape of his darkly tanned neck and that gold earring, Regan thought he could easily be a buccaneer in the flesh.
