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Praise for the novels of
STELLA CAMERON

“Outstanding! I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. I wish I had written this wonderful book.”

—Fern Michaels on Kiss Them Goodbye

“If you haven’t read Stella Cameron, you haven’t read romantic suspense.”

—Elizabeth Lowell

“Stella Cameron is sensational!”

—Jayne Ann Krentz

Kiss Them Goodbye
Stella Cameron

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For the Seventy-Niners plus two,

adventurers all.

We were three.

We took our names for their meanings.

Guido, the leader.

Ulisse, the hater.

Brizio, the craftsman.

We were young and wild. We killed cheap. A trio of urban mercenaries.

A game? Yes. A game of hide, seek and destroy. It eased the boredom while we waited for a purpose and no one ever knew; no one ever found out.

Until Ulisse betrayed Brizio and Guido broke the pact. Guido found a conscience and confessed to another.

Guido died a perfect death: slow agony, a traitor’s reward.

Ulisse, ah Ulisse. He still plays the game of hide-and-seek, but waits patiently to destroy again, to avenge.

I am Brizio the craftsman. My skill is sublime, the results perfect. I open like a surgeon, swift and sure, but I never close the wound.

See them bleed.

I might stop, but I am forced by Guido’s confessor to continue. This so-called man of honor blackmails me to kill for him.

For now I enjoy playing his game.

Excitement swells, beats beneath my skin. My beautiful knife is ready to cut again. Already I see the fear, the blood, hear the pleading, smell the fecund odors of terror.

Kiss them goodbye.

Chapter 1

The first day

Hay-ell. Saved by the bell, or the egg he guessed he should say, the golden egg. That big and unexpected dude had gotten itself laid in the nick of time, and right at the feet of Louis Martin, Attorney At Law, of New Orleans, Louisiana.

Driving to Iberia, just about through Iberia until the parish all but ran out and melted into St. Martin Parish, wasn’t Louis’s idea of a good time, but he wanted to make this trip. He had good reasons, the best of reasons.

There’d been a fire in the Patins’ famous New Orleans restaurant and David Patin—owner and the glue that held the business together—had died. Nobody guessed David had hidden huge losses and brought the business so low it would have to be sold. Except for Louis, who had known all about it.

Louis rolled the driver’s window of his powder-blue Jag down a crack to let in a sideswipe of warm September afternoon air scented by the eucalyptus trees that arched over the roadway. To his left, Bayou Teche made its sluggish, slime-slicked way past banks where bleached cedars dripped Spanish moss.

An okay place to visit, he guessed, but he belonged in the city and the minute he’d given David Patin’s widow, Charlotte, and their daughter Vivian the good news, he’d be heading east once more. East and New Orleans before nightfall. He would lock himself away with his memories and dreams. There would be even more to think about.

His destination was Rosebank, the house David had inherited from his older brother, Guy, not more than a couple of weeks before his own death. Guy had planned to leave the property to a preservation society but changed his mind on his deathbed, possibly because he knew about his brother’s financial mess and wanted to help.

Louis slowed to a crawl to drive through a village bleached and dried by sun and etched with moss. Aptly named, Stayed Behind had died but no one had thought to bury it yet.

A general store with wide slat siding weathered to the color of bones, a scatter of single-storied houses, brown, gray, green, on blocks, their porches decorated with refrigerators, swings and dogs, and not a soul in sight. Louis itched to slap his foot down on the gas but figured that somewhere there were eyes watching and hoping he’d do just that. He surely didn’t see any way for the folks around here to bring in a little revenue other than from speeding tickets.

Honeysuckle or jasmine—he’d never been too good at recognizing flowers—or some such cloying scent made him think of hot honey dropped from a spoon. Sweet, golden and sticky.

He took a bite from the hamburger balanced on the passenger seat beside his briefcase and chased it with a clump of french fries.

In what felt like seconds, Stayed Behind receded in his rearview mirror. There wouldn’t be another settlement before he got where he was going. Occasionally he caught glimpses of fine old plantation houses set back from the road and surrounded by mature gardens. Trees shaded most of them and if you looked quick enough, each facade might have been a black-and-white photo missing only the stair-step lineup of parents and children dressed in white and posing out front.

The next perfumed attack was easy to recognize, roses, banks of white roses intended to be clipped into an undulating hedge but shaggy today. Louis slowed a little and leaned to peer over the wheel. The gold signet ring on his left pinky finger felt tight and he twisted it through a groove made by swelling. The heat made his head ache.

Rosebank. Guy Patin’s shabby pride and joy sat on a deep five acres surrounded by hedges like this one. Charlotte and Vivian had told him they intended to make the place pay. Something about a hotel. He didn’t remember the details exactly because he had other things on his mind, like how he’d make sure Charlotte remained his client. After all, he couldn’t see how two women alone would turn a rambling old house into anything, particularly when they had no money to speak of. Although Charlotte had agreed to the first loan he’d arranged, she wouldn’t hear of taking another and the money was running out.

But Guy’s treasure hunt had come to light exactly as the man had planned and the little ladies should have no financial difficulties once they secured their windfall. They’d have to find it—darn Guy’s perverse fascination with intrigue—but he had promised that the sealed instructions now in Louis’s briefcase would require only clear minds and perseverance to follow. The envelope, with a cover letter to Louis, had arrived from Guy’s lawyer two days previous. Apparently these would never have been revealed unless there was danger of Rosebank passing out of Patin hands. The lawyer had been left instructions to decide if this was ever the case and apparently took his duties seriously.

White stone pillars topped with pineapple-shaped finials flanked the broad entrance. Louis swung past an ancient maroon station wagon, a Chevy, and onto the paved drive. He braced his arms against the steering wheel to ease his cramped back. The quack said Louis needed to lose God knew how much weight. Garbage. He might be softer than he used to be because he was too busy to work out, but it wouldn’t take so much to tighten up those muscles.

Beneath the avenue of live oaks that framed the driveway, a tall figure walked toward him on the verge. He wore all black except for the white clerical collar visible at the throat of his short-sleeved shirt. Louis felt a pang of irritation at the man’s cool appearance. Then he remembered. The handsome face, dark curly hair and broad shoulders belonged to Father Cyrus Payne of St. Cécil’s Parish in Toussaint, a town just over the line between Iberia and St. Martin parishes. He’d been visiting Charlotte and Vivian the last time Louis came down.

Money-grubbing man of God. Probably fishing around for fat contributions. Well, Louis would find an opportunity to make sure the ladies didn’t waste money, or anything else, in that direction. It was his responsibility to guide them now.

Father Cyrus waved and smiled and Louis grudgingly stopped the Jag. He rolled down his window again. “Afternoon, Father.” Curtness would be wasted on this heartthrob ray of sunshine. Louis bet that those clear and holy blue-green eyes only had to look sincerely at all the sex-starved wealthy widows, or bored wives—and their daughters—around these parts to make sure he got plenty. Louis didn’t believe abstinence was possible.

“Good afternoon,” the priest said, ducking to look at Louis. “Mr. Martin, isn’t it? Louis Martin?”

Louis made an affable, affirmative sound.

“Well, welcome,” Payne said. “Charlotte and Vivian will be pleased to see you. They mentioned you were coming.”

The guy was too buddy-buddy with the Patin women who were both good-looking. He checked his watch. “That’s right. I’d better get along or they’ll be wonderin’ where I am. Afternoon to you, Father.”

“And to you.” The priest nodded and straightened his long, muscular body before setting off for the road.

Louis eased the car onward, but watched the man in the wing mirror, disliking every easy swing of those big, wide shoulders. Oh, yes, he’d surely have a word with Charlotte and Vivian. He drove around a bend and lost sight of Cyrus Payne.

DETOUR.

What the fuck? Sweat stuck his shirt to the soft leather seat. He closed the window and turned up the air-conditioning.

A homemade detour sign, nailed to a stake and stuck into the soil beneath a large potted laurel bush pointed in the direction of a side road through thick vegetation. The holy man could have warned him.

Crawling the car between brambles he was convinced would scratch his shiny new blue paint, Louis squinted through the windshield and sucked air through his teeth at the sound of scraping branches.

He stuck to the narrow, overgrown track, jogging right, then left, and right again.

DEAD END.

“Freakin’ crazy.” He stomped on the brakes. This wasn’t helping him get back to New Orleans before dark and he didn’t see so well at night.

Knuckles rapping glass, close to his head, startled Louis. He swallowed the bile that rushed to his throat, turned, and stared at the masked face of a man who hooked a thumb over his shoulder and indicated he wanted to speak to Louis.

Sucking in air through his mouth, Louis threw the car into reverse only to back into something. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a tall shrub falling, a tall potted shrub that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

The man hammered on the window and gestured for Louis to stop.

Louis put the car in Park and rolled the window down an inch.

“Allergies,” the man shouted, pointing to his covered head. “This thing works best for keeping stuff out. Damned hot though.”

Reluctantly, Louis lowered the window all the way. He felt sick.

The man pushed his head abruptly inside the car. Alarmed, Louis drew as far away as possible.

“You lost?” the man said, repeatedly scratching his face through the dark mask. “You—”

“Dead end.” Louis pointed to the freshly painted board and added, “Wouldn’t you say that’s a redundancy? I’m not lost, just pissed. I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for paper chases. I’ll just get that thing back there out of the way and turn around.”

“No need for that,” the man said and opened Louis’s door. He placed himself with the door at his back so Louis couldn’t attempt to close it. “Just follow my directions and you’ll get where you’re supposed to go.”

The voice was expressionless, serene even, and with the power to raise hair on the back of the neck. “I’ll do just fine,” Louis said. He screwed up the courage to say, “Can I give you a lift?” even as he prayed the fellow would refuse.

He did.

“I’m goin’ to be your guide, Mr. Martin.”

Louis shivered. “How do you know who I am?” Instinct suggested he should hit the gas and shoot backward out of there, no matter what he had to drive over, only he could likely kill this menacing nuisance. It might be hard to convince a judge that a person with no visible means of making trouble, had scared the shit out of Louis who then acted in self-defense.

“Pass me the briefcase.”

Louis’s throat dried out and he coughed. He moved his right hand to put the car in reverse.

“You don’t want to do that again. Turn the car off. Give me the briefcase and I’ll let you go.”

Louis didn’t believe him and his hand continued to hover over the gearshift. The inside of his head hammered.

The man reeked of rancid sweat and when he pressed even closer, Louis turned his head away.

What had to be a gun jabbed into his ribs and the sharp point of a knife, pressed gently against the side of his neck, ensured that Louis didn’t make any more moves. “Turn off the ignition.”

Louis did so.

“Good. Now the briefcase. Slowly. Keep your left hand on the wheel and pass over the case.”

That was when Louis saw that the man wore tight-fitting gloves.

“No. I’ve changed my mind. Put it on your lap and open it.”

Louis did as he was told. He shifted slightly and felt the blade open a nick in his skin. A trickle of warm, silky blood drizzled from the wound.

“Open it,” the man repeated in his soft voice. “Thank you. I want the envelope. You know the one.”

Oh, my God, I’m going to die. Louis’s hands shook as he opened the case wider. The Patin file and the envelope in question were all it contained.

“Good. Really good. Remove the envelope, then close the briefcase and put it back on the seat. Good. Now throw the envelope out of the car, backward, away from the door.”

Louis made himself chuckle. “I was bringing these to you all the time. Yes, indeedy, these would have had your name on them if I’d known it. You’re going to do what I should have thought of—find a fortune for yourself. The Patin women don’t know a thing about it, y’know. I was supposed to tell them today. I can be a friend to you. I can make it easier to get what you want.”

“Throw it out, please.”

“We need to study the map in there. Honestly, I’ve wanted to do this, to take what they don’t know they’ve got coming. You may not find it on your own, but with me it’s a cinch. I’ll—”

“You’re making this more difficult. I’d be so grateful if you’d do as I ask. Then we’ll discuss your kind offer.”

Hopelessness weighted Louis’s limbs. The freak’s painful deference only increased the menace. Louis tossed the envelope on the ground and the man kicked it away. “Now,” he said, returning his whole attention to Louis. “Why don’t you tell me all about how you can make my job easier?”

“There’s treasure. It’s hidden at Rosebank.”

Slipping the knife from his right to his left hand, the man settled it against the other side of Louis’s neck, the right side. “I’m sorry, but it’s news I want and you don’t have any, do you?”

There hadn’t been a gun. The guy had faked it just to make doubly sure Louis didn’t try too hard to escape.

“It’s not easy to think straight like this,” Louis babbled. “But I do know things you couldn’t know. Give me a chance to look at the map with you. Get in the car and we’ll go over things. Charlotte and Vivian know me. They trust me.”

“Stupid of them but never mind. They’ll have me and they already trust me.”

“But—”

There wasn’t a lot of pain. The knife blade sliced deep into his neck, just the right side of his neck, and he flopped slowly sideways. Thunderous pulsing roared in his ears and he saw red, red everywhere. His blood pumped from the carotid artery in gushes. It hit the windshield and splattered over the lovely ivory leather interior of the car.

Red and black. Bleeding to death. Life draining out.

Louis opened his mouth but couldn’t speak.

He slid until his head rested on the briefcase.

“I’m only doing my job,” a distant voice said. “Brizio always does his job.”

Louis convulsed. His mouth filled with blood. No pain at all now, just soft, gray numbness gathering him in.

“Sleep tight. This is your dead end, sucker.”

Chapter 2

“Vivian Patin, I’m your mother. You have absolutely no right to speak to me in that manner.”

Charlotte paused to peer down the passageway leading from the big, antiquated kitchens to the hall and the receiving room where their next-door neighbor, Mrs. Susan Hurst, waited for tea. After taking no notice of Charlotte and Vivian since they moved in months earlier, she had appeared on the doorstep today, just appeared without warning and invited herself for tea. Imagine that. With a plate of cookies in hand, she’d showed up to be “neighborly.”

“Mama,” Vivian said in a low voice but without whispering. “I’m a little old to be treated like a child. Now tell me what you’ve been up to. No, no, don’t tell me you haven’t been up to anythin’ because I can tell. Guilt is painted all over your face.”

Her mother’s pretty, fair-skinned face and innocent, liquid brown eyes couldn’t hide a thing from Vivian. Charlotte Patin feared nothing and would dare anything. Her close-cropped gray hair and petite frame added to the impression that she was a dynamo. In fact, she rarely stood still and she hatched a plan a minute. And Vivian adored her. She also knew that her mother was putting a great face on her grief. She and Vivian’s father had lived a love affair. Mama was brave, but David Patin had only been dead a year and Charlotte’s odd, empty expressions, which came and went without warning, made lumps in Vivian’s throat.

“Mama, please,” Vivian said gently. “I know whatever you’ve done is with the best intentions. But—and I’m beggin’ now—put me out of my misery.”

Charlotte hushed her and leaned out of the kitchen door once more.

“Just tell me what you’re up to,” Vivian said. “I’m worried out of my mind about Louis Martin. Where can that man be? That should be all you care about, too, but you’re up to something else. You got off the phone real quick earlier.” Her mother in a stubborn mode was a hard woman to break down.

“I’d better call Louis’s offices in New Orleans and see if he ever left,” Charlotte said, knowing she was going to be on thin ice with Vivian. “I don’t hear any hammerin’ or bangin’ in this house, do you? No? That’s because workers have to be paid and we’re about out of money.” A mother had to do what a mother had to do and right now this mother had to safeguard the little surprise she had planned for the evening.

Vivian shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. She decided they were better there than taking out her ire on some innocent dish—particularly since most of the dishes around here were actually worth something. “Don’t try to distract me with what I already know,” she said, raising her voice a little. “Tell me the straight truth.”

“She’ll hear you,” Charlotte whispered. “She’s only here because she’s a nosy gossip who finally decided to come and poke around. That woman will run straight from our house to chatter about us to her cronies. She behaves like the lady of the manor visiting the poor on her estates. I can only imagine what she’ll say about us.”

“If I shout at you, she’ll have a lot to say.”

“Oh, all right, I give up. You have no respect. I called that nice Spike Devol and invited him to dinner this evenin’. A handsome man like that all on his own. Such a waste.”

Vivian took a calming breath. “He has his daughter and his father,” she said while she turned to water just under her skin, all of her skin, at the mention of that man. “Anyway, I’m sure he didn’t accept. Why would he?”

For a smart woman who, until months ago, had managed an exclusive hotel in New Orleans, Vivian, Charlotte thought, could be plain stupid. “Well, he did accept and he’ll be here around seven. He may be a deputy sheriff and we know the pay’s not so good, but I hear he does well with that gas station and convenience store his daddy runs for him, and now he’s got his crawfish boilin’ operation.”

She watched for Vivian to react and when she didn’t, said, “He’s obviously not afraid to work and he’s had his hard times with his wife leaving him like that. For a body-builder. There isn’t a thing wrong with Spike’s body as far as I can see. Of course, I haven’t seen—” Vivian’s raised eyebrows brought Charlotte a little caution. “Well, anyway, he’s just about the best-looking single man in these parts, and quiet in that mysterious way some strong men are. I’m tellin’ you, Vivian—”

“Nothing.” Vivian hardly dared to speak at all. “You are telling me nothing and from now on you won’t make one more matchmaking attempt. Y’hear? I can’t imagine where you got all your personal information about him.”

“You like him, too. You have since you first met him. That had to be a couple of years back. I’ve seen how the two of you talk—”

“Not a thing, Mama. You will not do or say another thing on the subject. Give me that tea.” With that, she snatched up the pot. “Bring the cups and saucers and help me get rid of this woman quickly.”

“He had a disappointing thing with Jilly at the bakery in Toussaint—All Tarted Up,” Charlotte said from behind Vivian. “I guess everyone thought they were goin’ somewhere but it didn’t work out. They’re still good friends and I always think that says a lot about people.”

“I know that,” Vivian said.

“Father Cyrus and Spike are good friends so Spike must be a good man.”

Vivian faced Charlotte, pressed a finger to her own lips and said a fierce, “Shh,” before hurrying on, crossing the hall with its towering gold relief plasterwork ceiling and walls hung with faded chartreuse Chinese silk. She entered the shabbily opulent receiving room. With a big grin, she said, “Here we are, Mrs. Hurst. If I say so myself, my mother and I make the best tea I ever tasted.” She grinned even more broadly. “But then, I only drink tea when we’re at home together.”

Apparently Mrs. Hurst didn’t see any humor in what Vivian said. She looked back at her from a couch covered with threadbare gold tapestry and supported on elephant foot legs. Mrs. Hurst’s glistening pink lips hung slightly open and vague confusion hovered in her blue eyes. The woman could have been as young as forty or approaching sixty. It was hard to tell but everything about her was pretty tight, with not a wrinkle or sag in sight. She did have a nineteen-year-old daughter, Olympia, but that didn’t really give much of a clue to the woman’s age.

Vivian remembered to pour tea into three cups.

“Hot tea?” Mrs. Hurst said with horror in her voice. “Well.”

“We drink hot tea in the afternoon,” Charlotte told her. “My English grandmother taught us the right way to do things. Hot tea on a warm afternoon. The tea makes your body temperature higher. Brings it closer to the temperature of the air and you feel cooler. Anyway, Grandmama would turn in her grave if I served you iced tea at this time of day.”

Without further comment Mrs. Hurst accepted her tea. Vivian caught her mother’s eye and winked. Mama’s grandmothers had been French and Mama liked hot tea—that was all there was to it.

“We are so happy at Serenity House,” Mrs. Hurst said. With her younger, handsome husband she lived at the estate that bordered Rosebank to the north. They’d bought the place some months earlier and the building had swarmed with architects, contractors and workmen ever since. Susan Hurst reached for one of her own cookies but thought better of it. “We’re still renovating, of course, but the house is already beautiful. Do please call me Susan, by the way. Dr. Link would like me to take his name but when we were married I chose to keep Hurst because it’s Olympia’s name. Anyway, I believe a woman should have some independence, don’t you? Without appearing strident, that is.”

On the surface Susan’s accent was almost Southern, but that was forced and phony and spread on over something Vivian didn’t recognize. “A woman should never be strident,” she said, and found herself looking at her mother again.

“Never,” Charlotte said. She stood behind Susan. Making outrageous faces at Vivian, she took one exaggerated step backward, then another forward to her starting position. “Never strident.” Vivian’s mother had an irrepressible sense of fun. “I thought your house was called Green Veil.”

Susan managed a haughty toss of the head. “It’s called Serenity House now. Much more refined and appropriate. I’m sorry to see the work on this place slow down so. It’s huge. Such a maze of wings and outbuildings. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to get rid of this Asian jungle theme. Monkeys and pineapples everywhere.” She shuddered discreetly.

“Guy Patin was still in residence when we bought Serenity or we might have looked at this—even if it is in a terrible mess. And the grounds are horrible, you poor things. Give me the word and I’ll send my head gardener over to talk to you. I know he and his crew could give you a few hours a week, or suggest another crew who can. Make sure you don’t get those people who work on Clouds End. Marc and Reb Girard’s place. All that overgrown tropical look wouldn’t appeal to me.”

Vivian had seen Clouds End and her ambition was to have Rosebank look just as lush. The Girards were nice people and had welcomed Charlotte and Vivian to the area. Marc was an architect and Reb the town doctor in Toussaint.

“Rosebank was never on the market,” Charlotte said. “You probably noticed right away that we’re also Patins. Guy was my husband’s brother and the house was left to us.”

“Of course I knew that,” Susan said. “Silly me to forget. We’ve been so busy for such a long time these things slip my mind sometimes.”

“We like what you call the jungle theme, y’know,” Vivian said. She might as well show the woman they weren’t easily intimidated, especially by money. “We’re going to keep it. It’ll be made wonderful again, of course.”

“Poor thing.” Susan patted Vivian’s hand as if she didn’t take a word seriously. “I can see you’re overwhelmed. Let me help you. Did I tell you our pool house is just about finished? It’s all marble. Very Roman and wickedly decadent, but almost edible.” She hunched her shoulders. “Morgan and I want you to use it whenever you have a mind. We know the pool here isn’t usable.”

“Thank you,” Vivian said, making a note never to have a mind for a swim in Susan’s decadent pool. “We do have a gardener and we’re very pleased with him.” Gil Mayes might be seventy-two and a bit crippled by gout but he showed enthusiasm for the work. Unfortunately he moved slowly and the gardens were big, but more men couldn’t be afforded yet, not until some serious money came in.

Susan said, “Hmm,” and flipped back her artfully shaggy red-streaked brown hair. Good-looking, sexy even, her mannerisms were naturally provocative. “I hope you won’t think me too curious, but after all we are neighbors. There are rumors about your having some intentions about this place—not that I believe a word.”

“Of course you don’t,” Charlotte said. “And a very good thing, too.”

If Susan didn’t know their intentions perfectly well Vivian would be amazed. And Mama might enjoy her banter but afternoon crept toward evening and she glanced repeatedly toward the front windows. Vivian knew her own uneasiness was for the same reason that her mother was edgy. Where was Louis?

“It may be crude to say so, but I come from money,” Susan announced. “Might as well have honesty among friends. I’m accustomed to a quieter, more gracious mode of life. It’s true that I’ve had my share of the social whirl in Paris, London, Milan and New York, of course, but I need the life only a true Louisiana lady knows how to live. Quiet. Refined. I’m sure you know what I mean. Soon Serenity will be perfect and I expect a good many visitors—friends—who expect a certain atmosphere at a house party.”

Vivian said, “I thought you wanted peace and quiet, not a load of uppity visitors.”

Vivian spied Boa, short for Queen Boadicea, her hairless Chihuahua. The tiny dog had roused herself from some hiding place and stood in the middle of the green silk rug with one minuscule paw raised. Her black eyes shone while she watched Susan. Like her namesake, Boa just didn’t accept her limitations.

“I didn’t know you had an animal,” Susan remarked. “I prefer big dogs myself, not that I have any.” Her nose wrinkled. “They just aren’t clean.”

“That always depends on the dogs you hang around with.” Vivian made sure she sounded sweet. “Come to me, sweetie pie. Come to mama.”

Her daughter, Charlotte thought, could be charmingly snippy. “I’m sure you’re very happy at Green Veil, Susan.”

“Serenity House.” The woman corrected Charlotte firmly. “Just to put my mind at rest, tell me you don’t intend to turn Rosebank into a hotel with some sort of, well, trendy restaurant.”

With Boa under her arm, Vivian had strolled to the windows and peered out into the rapidly darkening grounds. She heard Susan’s question and winced a little, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything but Louis’s failure to show up. Anger had begun to replace concern. He obviously wasn’t coming now and the way he’d treated them was just plain rude. Louis had always been polite, kind even, but she guessed they might not be important to him if a more valued client needed attention.

She realized there was silence in the room and turned around. Mama was eating a cookie, toothful by toothful, with the kind of close attention that spelled avoidance. Vivian recalled the question Susan had asked. “This will become a hotel, a good hotel, and we will be opening a restaurant in the conservatory. We intend to pull in clients who aren’t necessarily staying with us. My mother and I have a lot of experience in the business. I managed Hotel Floris in New Orleans. My parents owned Chez Charlotte. They ran it together and it was a huge success. I thought everyone in the area knew our plans.”

“A hotel?” Susan set down her cup and saucer and pressed her fingers to her cheeks. “I thought it must be a joke. Say you aren’t serious. Why, at your time of life, Charlotte, you should be taking things easy and enjoying yourself.”

“I will enjoy myself—doing what I like best. Vivian, it’s five-thirty.”

The heavy significance in Mama’s voice meant she was reminding Vivian that they would have a guest for dinner and that Susan Hurst needed to leave.

Susan wasn’t hearing anything that didn’t relate to the reason she was here—to try to influence Charlotte and Vivian onto her side. They would, if she had her way, come to realize that Susan was a superior person who should not be thwarted in any way.

“We have traditions to uphold, we Louisiana ladies. The reason I moved here—what I want from life—is to recreate a way of living that’s in danger of disappearing. I know both of you understand what I mean. Louisiana ladies, and houses like this, are about grace and holding out against progress.” Susan turned up her nose and turned down her mouth. “It’s up to us to keep certain standards alive. With something like a hotel, you could get any sort of person wandering about and most of them just wouldn’t fit in.”

Charlotte sat beside Susan and rested her hand on the back of the woman’s right forearm. “Now you calm yourself and trust our good judgment. We intend to make sure our business doesn’t endanger anyone who lives around here.” The devil had gone to work on her. “Why, we”ve already started looking for a reliable firm of uniformed guards to patrol the grounds—especially when we hold outdoor concerts that will draw lots of young folk.”

“Concerts on the grounds?” Susan said weakly.

“Oh, yes,” Vivian said, her expression angelic. “We’ve already reserved dates with some of the best known zydeco bands around—and some swamp pop, of course. And we’re in negotiation with one or two popular groups—hip-hop will really bring in the crowds.”

Susan was no fool. She narrowed her eyes and cast suspicious glances at each of them. “I think you have very strange senses of humor.”

Vivian didn’t argue. She did look at her watch, then at her mother. They were running short of time if they were going to prepare dinner. Boa nuzzled her neck but repeatedly arched her little back to cast a suspicious glare at Susan.

The phone rang and Vivian went into the hall to answer.

“Vivian,” the voice at the other end said. “It’s Madge at the rectory. Father Cyrus asked me to give you a call.” Madge was Cyrus’s assistant.

“Is something wrong?”

“No! Why would there be? He said you were having a meeting with a New Orleans lawyer earlier this afternoon and you said you’d call and let him know if the news was good. He wanted me to check in with you.”

Vivian yanked on the bottom of her too-short T-shirt. “Now I feel guilty. I should have gotten back with him. We waited all afternoon but Louis didn’t show. Guess we’ll call his office in the morning. Maybe there was a muddle up over the date. Tell Cyrus we’ll talk to him tomorrow, would you?”

Madge agreed and hung up.

And the doorbell gave a rusty buzz.

Charlotte got to her feet at once. “Louis. He must have gotten lost, poor man.” She looked at her watch. “Oh, my, it’s almost six.”

“I’m going to the door,” Vivian said, frowning. “This is turning into a messy evening.”

Charlotte waited for Vivian to add that it was her mother’s fault but she didn’t, although the look in her green, almond-shaped eyes said it all.

“I suppose I should leave,” Susan said, her attention on the hall and curiosity oozing from her pores. “I’ll slip along now. Don’t forget how convenient that path between the two estates is. Come over anytime, anytime at all. You’ll fall in love with Morgan—and Olympia’s a charmer—” She didn’t as much as blink when Charlotte put a hand beneath her elbow and eased her to her feet. “Olympia is a beauty. She’s considering the Miss Southern Belle Pageant. I’ve tried to dissuade her but you can’t stand in children’s way, can you?” Her long sigh wasn’t convincing.

Vivian opened the front door.

Rather than Louis Martin, Deputy Sheriff Spike Devol stood there, a broad-brimmed black Stetson covering his hair, his eyes very blue in a tanned face, and with a bunch of flowers in each hand. Rather than say, “Hi,” or “Good evening,” or even, “Here’s looking at you,” he studied the flowers as if he’d never seen them before and raised and lowered them as if figuring out how to get rid of them.

Behind Spike, bands of purple streaked the setting sun, shading his face but backlighting him with gold. The deputy was in his thirties, with the mature, muscular body of a man who knew all about being physical. His shoulders and arms and his chest filled a crisp, dark gray shirt to capacity, but his hips were slim. His legs weren’t so slim. Once again long, well-developed muscles strained at his clothes, in the best possible way. Vivian felt a definitely sexual thrill.

“Hi there, Spike,” she said, making sure she sounded pleasant but detached. “Mama said you were coming for dinner.” She felt Susan Hurst arrive at her side and knew she’d heard what Vivian had said.

“I’m Susan Hurst. I live next door at Serenity House,” Susan said with a new, husky sound in her voice. “I’m just going to pop along the path and go home. So convenient.”

“That’s nice.” Spike had a deep voice, deep and soft and impossible to read. There was something a little different about him than Vivian had noticed on the previous occasions she’d run into him, but she wasn’t sure what—other than his being out of uniform.

Finally he grasped both bunches of flowers in one hand and took off the Stetson. “Evenin’, Vivian,” he said.

Susan Hurst still hovered.

“Take care,” Vivian told her. “Best make it home while there’s still enough light. It looks like it could rain, too.”

Susan didn’t look happy, but she gave a stiff smile and trotted off, her very nice behind swaying in tailored white slacks.

“C’mon in,” Charlotte said from behind Vivian. “You’re never going to believe this but Susan Hurst’s visit was a surprise. We haven’t gotten far with dinner yet, but it won’t take too long.”

“I’m early,” Spike said in that still voice of his. “I’m useful in the kitchen. I’ll give a hand.”

Vivian stood aside for him to enter and her heart—or the vicinity of her heart—squeezed. As he passed her he looked sideways and down into her face. The faintest of smiles pushed dimples into the creases beside his mouth. His sun-streaked hair, she noticed, had a way of standing up on end in front.

Down girl, down.

“We wouldn’t hear of it,” she said when she found her voice. “What do you like to drink? Make yourself comfortable and we’ll show you how quickly we can get things done.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, inclining his head and broadening his smile enough to deepen those dimples and show very good teeth. He actually made Vivian feel small and feminine and she’d never thought of herself as either.

The phone rang again and Charlotte hurried away, apparently to answer it in the kitchens although she could have done so in the hall. Mama was still in matchmaker mode, but then, she’d been trying to marry Vivian off for years.

“If it won’t upset you,” Spike said, “I’d like to help. I’m not good at sitting still and doing nothing.”

“Neither am I,” she told him emphatically. “I guess it’s because my parents were always busy.”

He only nodded and suddenly thrust both bunches of flowers into her arms. Boa had disappeared at the sound of the doorbell—guarding wasn’t one of her duties—but she chose this moment to skitter into the hall and make a dash for Vivian, screeching to a halt with all four feet braced in the forward position.

“Nice dog,” Spike said, with a look that suggested he wasn’t sure Boa was a dog at all.

“Thank you,” Vivian said, and smiled at him. “Nice flowers. I don’t remember the last time someone gave me any.”

His smile dropped away. “You should be given flowers every day.” Immediately he colored under the tan and the result was disarming. “I thought you could share them with your mother. How is she doin’?”

For an instant she didn’t understand. Then any last reserve against this man melted. He wasn’t just a tall, good-looking piece of manhood, he was thoughtful. And that was a killer combination. Almost no one here mentioned their loss. “Mama’s strong, but she and my dad just about grew up together. It’s hard and it’s going to be hard for a long time. Especially because of the way he died.”

Spike slid the brim of his Stetson through his fingers. “There’s nothing anyone can say to whitewash that. I’m real sorry. Not that it helps.”

David Patin had burned to death in the fire that destroyed Chez Charlotte. “Kindness always helps,” Vivian said feeling the too familiar desire to be alone again.

“Vivian!” Charlotte came from the kitchens and her face was too pale. “I don’t know what to make of it. That was Cyrus. He says when he was walking toward the road, to his car, he saw Louis Martin—driving a brand-new powder-blue Jag.”

Vivian’s mind became blank.

“Y’hear me?” Charlotte said, her voice rising. “That wretch Louis drove all the way here—Cyrus spoke with him—and then he must have decided he couldn’t be bothered and left again.”

Chapter 3

Charlotte marched back to the kitchens while Vivian and Spike shared an uncomfortable silence.

“Louis Martin is our lawyer,” Vivian said. “He was due here this afternoon but he never showed up. We decided he’d forgotten the appointment. Now I don’t know what to think.”

“I think your mother’s right. He drove here then changed his mind. Maybe he got a message and had to turn around.”

“Without taking the trouble to tell us?”

Spike looked at Vivian again and was uncomfortably aware that each time he did so was more disturbing than the last. He liked looking at her but she made him heat up. Ah, what the hell, he’d accepted her mother’s invitation because he wanted an opportunity to be with Vivian long enough to see if there was really a spark between them.

There was a spark.

“Should we check on your mother?” he said.

Vivian nodded and walked ahead of him. Her straight black hair slid around her shoulders. She was one of those women with a tiny waist but plenty of curves north and south. But it was her face he’d kept right on seeing from the first time they’d been introduced, at Bigeaux’s hardware store in Toussaint. Her eyes were unforgettable and he’d spent serious time considering her full mouth. Exotic might be a fair classification, not that he thought she’d fit too easily inside any boundaries.

His father’s sour reaction to this visit wouldn’t leave him. Homer Devol didn’t have much use for women and he didn’t think Spike had any reason to think of them kindly, either. Homer’s parting words this evening had been “Don’t listen to me, then. Go on and make a damn fool of yourself, you. They’re old money and anythin’ between you will look like you’re tryin’ to get above yourself.”

Spike had come anyway, even with Homer’s “Don’t you go bringin’ another woman around if she ain’t gonna stay. Wendy don’t need that.”

He wouldn’t do anything to hurt five-year-old Wendy, no way. But he was a man with a man’s needs and he’d been alone too long.

Charlotte Patin had heaped fresh vegetables onto an enormous and worn cutting block in the center of the kitchen. The room was big and at the apex of the high ceiling was an old-fashioned window that could be opened with a chain on metal cogs and pulleys when the heat got too much. What looked like the original spits were still in a fireplace that had to be more than six feet wide.

“Okay,” Charlotte said. “If you want to help, Spike, chop those.”

He started rolling up his sleeves. “No problem. I’m an expert.”

“Spike brought us flowers, Mama,” Vivian said, not liking the harassed expression on her mother’s face.

Charlotte gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you. They’re lovely. We need something bright and cheerful around here.” She returned to pulling food out of the refrigerator.

Foreboding slipped over Vivian like a cold shroud. What would make Louis turn away when he’d already gotten here? “Will you excuse me for a few minutes, please,” she said, avoiding Spike’s serious glance. “I’ll be right back.”

She hurried from the kitchens with Boa at her heels. Where she thought she was going, she didn’t know, but she had to get somewhere and breathe outdoor air while she thought.

On the other side of the main hall from the receiving room was a small, even more shabby sitting room with disappearing corners that made it seem rounded. Uncle Guy hadn’t been well for some years and he’d let Rose-bank go, but she and Charlotte would make it beautiful again. Vivian raised her chin. She couldn’t give up now. They’d find the money to carry on the renovations. This place was their only chance to make up for what they’d lost.

In the sitting room she picked up the phone beside a gilt chair with an unraveling cane seat. She called directory enquiries for New Orleans and gave the name of Louis’s firm—never expecting to get a response at this time of day.

“Legrain here.”

She almost hung up. “This is Vivian Patin. My mother and I are clients of Louis Martin.”

“Well yes, Ms. Patin. I know your name. I’m Louis’s associate, Gary Legrain. I believe we’ve met.”

She didn’t remember. “Did Louis set out to visit us today?”

A short silence. “Why, yes. He left this mornin’.”

“He didn’t get here.”

More silence. “That’s not possible. If something had happened, a car accident or whatever, we’d have heard.”

“I was hoping he’d gone back to his offices,” Vivian said, the cold feeling intensifying. She hadn’t considered Louis getting in a car wreck after he turned back.

Gary was quiet for too long before he said, “He didn’t come back,” and sounded funny.

“Could he have gone home? Felt ill perhaps and decided to call it a day? Maybe Mrs. Martin—”

“There isn’t a Mrs. Martin anymore. He has grown children but he lives alone—except for staff. Let me call them and get back to you.”

“Don’t call,” Vivian said. “My mother’s a bit anxious. I’ll call you in five minutes.”

They hung up and she waited, praying Mama wouldn’t come looking for her. Fortunately, when Mama cooked, she tended to forget everything else.

Vivian called Gary Legrain again.

“He isn’t there,” the man said and although he was obviously trying to sound unconcerned, she’d unsettled him. “Look, this isn’t too comfortable to talk about and the last person I should say anything to is a client but I don’t know what else to do.”

Vivian waited.

“Ms. Patin, recently I’ve been happy to know that Louis has a new companion in his life. Well, this is…hmm, apparently they don’t like to be parted. If I had to guess—”

“You’d say Louis got to our front door and was overcome by a mad need to bang his girlfriend? Yes, I understand. When you see him, Mr. Legrain, please let him know I’d like to hear from him.”

“Ms. Patin, I’m sure it wasn’t quite like that.”

“Are you? Thank you for your help.” She hung up, disconcerted by her own bluntness and embarrassed at her sharp treatment of Gary Legrain who had been doing his best to smooth things over.

She and Charlotte didn’t want to take on more loans, not without being certain Guy hadn’t planned this whole thing. He’d been principled, but a joker. It would be like him to let them have a taste of really wanting the place and not being able to afford it before help showed up in some form. When Louis had set up today’s meeting, he’d alluded to a considerable infusion of funds from Guy’s estate, “In a strange way.”

Each time Vivian confronted the mess that was her life she thought about her father. He must have been frantic to put his business to rights. Family, his wife and daughter, came first for David Patin.

She heard laughter, actual laughter from the kitchens and felt a rush of unfounded jealousy. Hearing her mother laugh should make her happy. Hearing Spike laugh did give her a lot of feelings, feelings she had no time for.

Snatching the flashlight they kept at the bottom of the staircase in the hall, Vivian slipped quickly and quietly through a maze of corridors lined with closed doors until she found the one that led into an overgrown formal garden at the back of the house, behind the south wing.

Warmth still clung to the evening and the sweet, sultry scents of honeysuckle and clematis blossoms sweetened the air. Crickets and frogs had taken over the soggy grass and sang out their raucous chant.

She walked around the perimeter of the south wing, continued to the end of the west wing and finally reached the front of the house. Rosebank was shaped like an “H” set out at an angle, and with what would be the cross stroke of the letter joining the north and west wings to the east and south wings. Outbuildings nestled into the central courtyards on either side. The original stables, their wide gates flanked with columns to match those at the front of the house, were used as the garage.

Susan Hurst had been right when she said the place was huge. But that would be useful if the renovations could start again and move ahead steadily. Just ten guest rooms were all she felt they had to deal with to get started. Ten rooms and the restaurant they planned for a detached, wonderfully preserved, conservatory.

Damn, damn. If only they’d get some breaks. Even little ones would lift their spirits. Vivian left the shadow of the house and headed down the tree-lined driveway on the left-hand verge. She could have made her way nicely without the flashlight but liked using it. One of the things she loved about being here, had loved since she used to visit Uncle Guy when she was a kid, was how safe it felt. Year to year nothing changed.

There was a softness out here that took some of the pressure off her chest.

What did she expect to find at the end of the drive? Louis Martin with some excuse about a flat tire?

She ought to go back.

Rustling overhead made her pick up Boa who continued to try to keep up with her mistress. Crows, Vivian’s least favorite birds, flew, black blotches against a leaden purple sky where the already set sun still threw up a faint patina from behind a hill.

Just to the gates and back. She needed a walk. Louis was with his lady friend, darn him. She tried to imagine him in the throes, so to speak, and shuddered, then felt nasty.

Only the crickets, the frogs, and a host of gentle evening sounds reached her through the first spatter of raindrops on leaves, but she didn’t linger. Once she’d looked up and down the road, and felt foolish for doing so, she walked back, swinging her flashlight from side to side.

The crows puzzled her. They tended to settle by now rather than go on the wing with such determination. Boa grew stiff in her arms. The dog moaned, then set up a thin whine.

Vivian’s spine prickled. Yelping, taking her by surprise, Boa shot from her grasp and took off between two trees and into the undergrowth.

“Boa? Sweetie? C’mon back.” Shoot, Boa never got it that any animal she decided to chase off was likely to be bigger than she was, and mean. She followed the dog and shone the flashlight where Boa seemed to have disappeared. The tangle of overgrown shrubs formed an impenetrable barrier, unless you happened to be a five-pound dog.

A side road toward the north turned off a few yards ahead. It was designed for a grounds crew to access some of the more remote areas. Vivian ran toward it. She might be able to head Boa off from there.

Where was it? Oh, c’mon, where was it? She began to sweat, and feel sick. It was small, not much more than a track that allowed for a single vehicle, but where was it? Ranging back and forth, she searched but couldn’t find where the track veered off.

Boa’s eerie wailing continued to reach her and she took some comfort in that. Then Vivian stood still and gauged where the track should be, and was, of course. She was too upset to be sensible.

“Boa,” she called, but without any energy.

She found it, the place where she could see the track pass through the verge. And it was exactly where she’d thought it was, only there was no break between shrubs anymore. Her stomach clenched and she looked toward the house, considered going for company if not for help. And she’d look stupid and everyone would think she was overreacting. She shone the flashlight carefully along the area. Three big laurel bushes in tubs stood, closely side-by-side, and hid the little road completely.

Gil must be experimenting with some different looks.

Vivian squeezed between two tubs. Layers of pewter-colored clouds darkened the purple sky and no hint of the dead sun remained. She swung her flashlight. Critters skittered away from the light. She saw the sleek, white body of a nutria, its long rat tail fat as it slithered out of sight. She hated this. In many ways she was a city girl, not a country girl. If an alligator showed up she really would lose it.

Boa’s complaints had grown quieter but they were still steady, and not too far away, Vivian decided. She would not leave her dog alone out here. “Boa? Come here, girl.” The dog didn’t rush to her and there was no choice but to go on. What could be so scary about walking through grounds she was growing to know well?

A glint. A flicker of light passed over a smooth surface, and Vivian aimed her light in that direction.

She stopped walking and peered ahead. The top of a car, pale and glossy and only yards away.

Boa, bursting from the bushes, barking wildly and rushing at her, raised Vivian’s spirits. She’d grab the dog and run for it.

Before she could reach Boa, the dog dashed away again, her barks changing to a wail.

“Is there anyone there?” Vivian called tentatively. “Hello, who’s there?”

Large raindrops beat hard on the top of her head and her face. Clouds extinguished a struggling moon and a breeze picked up.

She didn’t take foolish risks, but how could she be in danger here? For all she knew, there’d been an abandoned car here all along. She certainly hadn’t been all through the tangled grounds.

Sometimes snakes infested old cars.

That stopped her. She couldn’t stand snakes.

Snakes could kill Boa so easily.

Vivian discovered all that stood between her and the vehicle were two more tubs of laurel, one of which had fallen against the other. Boa ran out and away again as if she were trying to lead Vivian. She hesitated. The laurels were intended to hide something—the car.

“Okay, I’m coming, Boa.” Rain became steady and harder. She’d likely be soaked in a few minutes. “Boa!”

No one lay in wait. If they did, she’d feel their presence and she didn’t.

The car, a new Jaguar in a pale shade, stood with its nose into the scrub on one side of the track. Not a sound came from it. Why would it? But why would someone abandon a new Jaguar in…Hadn’t Cyrus said Louis was driving a new blue Jaguar?

Vivian backed away. She patted the waistband of her jeans, only to discover she didn’t have her cell phone.

Rustling made her skin crawl and she looked up to see crows, undaunted by the rain, lining the branches above. More birds perched on the rim of the driver’s door which stood open. These sentinels took it in turns, crying out and complaining, to hop down into the car. Each one then flew to the branches with something pale in its beak.

Vivian held her breath. The birds creeped her out. She could go to pieces, or she could keep calm and see what this was all about.

The flashlight picked up dark splotches on the car windows. Vivian had no idea what they were and walked gingerly around to the driver’s side.

She saw a trousered leg—already soaked—and foot, minus its shoe, trailing from the vehicle. Drawn on by determination and horrible fascination, she inched closer. Dripping, Boa sat by the foot and her wail became an unearthly screech.

Death, that’s what made dogs howl like that.

Vivian ducked to look inside the car, and immediately retched. She turned aside and threw up until she felt empty and weak. Despite the downpour, sweat slid over her skin, cold, clammy. Her legs trembled. Once more she made herself look in at what was left of Louis Martin.

The remains of a discarded bag of hamburgers and french fries added the smell of rancid fried food to other disgusting odors. This food was the crows’ spoils.

Louis’s neck had been slashed so deep his head rested at an impossible angle on top of his briefcase and the dark splotches she’d seen were his blood. Blood everywhere, blood that turned his shirt and jacket black.

Across his chest rested a single white rose.