Stranger, Seducer, Protector

She motioned for them to join her upstairs. Nick led the way, his confident swagger making him look perfectly at home in this house that still made Jacinth feel like a trespasser from time to time.

The cops flashed their badges and identified themselves. The young one was Jordon Sims. The older one was Mike Jones. His expression held a tinge of aggravation as if he expected this was some kind of teenage hoax.

She introduced herself and got what sounded more like a grunt than a greeting in return. Mike immediately turned his attention to Nick.

“You never get too far from trouble, do you?” Mike snapped.

Nick smirked. “I’m lucky that way.”

“I take it you two know each other,” Jacinth said, as the tension between them spiked.

“Too well.” Mike let it go at that and scanned the area. “Where’s this body part that you claim fell from the wall.”

Claim, as if her version were in doubt. “On the floor in the guest bathroom where it fell. Follow me.”

She opened the door, pointed at the head and immediately started coughing. The dust had settled in the room like a milky cloud of poisonous smoke. Both Mike and Jordon stepped over the worst of the debris to reach the decomposing body part. Neither she nor Nick crowded into the space with them.

Mike stooped for a closer look. “You have any idea how this got in the walls?”

“Not a clue,” Jacinth answered. “The house has been standing since the Civil War.”

“The head hasn’t been hanging around for nearly that long,” Mike quipped.

“How long has it been hanging around?” Jacinth asked.

“Can’t say for sure, but my guess is that the victim was living and breathing this time a year ago. We’ll get a more accurate estimate from the forensics team.”

If the officer was even close to right, the decapitation took place after her grandmother had died or at least after she’d gone to live in the nursing home. It was a relief to know she couldn’t have been involved in any way.

The frightening part was that the victim could have been killed in this very house after Jacinth and Caitlyn had inherited it.

“Are you the current owner of the house?” Jordon asked.

“Yes. Well, my sister and I own it together. We inherited it from my grandmother.”

“How long have you lived in the house?”

“Eleven months. We’d planned to fix it up and sell it, but then we fell in love with it and decided to stay.”

Of course they didn’t realize then that it came with spare body parts. Or that the constant repairs needed to keep it livable would drive them to the edge of bankruptcy.

She went over the facts about the inheritance from her grandmother, Marie Villaré.

Jordon made notes. “Did your grandmother live alone prior to moving into the Sunnydale Retirement Center?”

“As far as I know,” Jacinth said. “We weren’t close. In fact, I hadn’t seen her since I was small child.”

Mike used the cuff of his shirtsleeve to wipe a smear of dust from the tip of his nose. “Why is that?”

“My mother had issues with my father’s family and had severed all ties with them when I was just a toddler.”

“Maybe for good reason,” Jordon said. “What about your father?”

“He was murdered here in New Orleans over twenty years ago. I don’t really remember him.”

“How old was Marie Villaré when she died?”

“Seventy.”

“Cause of death?”

“She had a heart attack. She’d been diagnosed with coronary problems and diabetes just before moving to the Sunnydale Center.”

Jordon continued to stare at the head as Mike stood and stepped away from it.

“Helen Fizelle will have a field day with this one,” Jordon said. “Decapitation and missing body parts in a crumbling mansion on the edge of the French Quarter. Right up her alley.”

“Who’s Helen Fizelle?” Jacinth asked.

“She heads up the skeletal recovery team. Worked with the FBI’s Body Farm up in Knoxville a few years back. Nothing she likes better than a case like this.”

“You won’t have to leave the head here until she can see it, will you?”

“Nah,” Mike said, scrunching his mouth into a bizarre shape. “We’ll take pictures and then deliver the skeletal remains to Forensic Sciences. The CSU investigation can wait until morning to take a look around, seeing as how the crime scene is already polluted and not how the killer left it.”

“But we’ll tape off the bathroom,” Jordon added. “You’ll need to stay out of it and leave things exactly as they are until the detective gives you the okay to clean it up. I’m sure a house this size has plenty of other bathrooms.”

“Yes.” Unfortunately, none of the other four had been completely remodeled as this one had. One step forward, ten steps back.

“You’ll need to close the door and keep that cat out of here, too,” Mike added, turning and scowling at Sin, who had crept into the room and scooted beneath the antique claw-foot tub.

“And, of course, the homicide detective assigned to the case will want to question you further.”

“Question me about what? I’ve told you all I know.”

Mike ignored the question and avoided eye contact with her, instead studying the ceiling as if he expected a new rain of additional body parts at any moment.

“Why not have the CSU team come out and investigate tonight?” Nick asked. “They might be able to locate the rest of the body inside the crumbling cavity and hand over all the remains to Helen at once.”

“Anything they’ll find has been here for months,” Mike said. “I don’t reckon it’s going to deteriorate that more much by morning.”

“Just trying to help.”

“If I need your help, Bruno, I’ll ask for it. Wouldn’t stand around waiting if I was you.”

Hostility fired like flint between the two men.

Mike pulled a small camera from his shirt pocket.

“Let’s give them work room,” Jacinth offered in an attempt to keep the peace. She swooped up Sin and she and Nick left the two men alone to take their pictures.

Sin cuddled in her arms for all of a minute before she squirmed her way free and pranced to the door of Marie’s old bedroom. Without a look back, the silver-gray Persian disappeared into the dark, antique-filled room that still held the lingering fragrance of lavender.

“What’s with you and Officer Friendly?” Jacinth asked as soon as they were out of Mike and Jordon’s earshot.

“It’s a long story.”

“How about the condensed version?”

“We had a run-in a while back.”

“About what?”

“His failure to adequately protect the integrity of the evidence in a case I was hired to investigate.”

So the conflict between them was at the professional level. That relieved her mind a bit.

“Whatever he does tonight is fine with me,” Jacinth said, “as long as the decapitated head leaves with him.”

“Not a chance he’ll leave that behind,” Nick assured her. “The chief would have his head.”

“Do you think he’s right about the approximate date of death?”

“Close. Temperature variances and humidity make it difficult to estimate, but forensics will get a handle on it.”

Jacinth stopped on the bottom stair and leaned against the polished mahogany banister. “I really appreciate your coming to my rescue tonight. But I’ve taken enough of your time. You should get back to your boxes.”

“If you’re still nervous, I could hang around, have a beer and keep you company until Jordon and Mike are finished.”

“I’m fine,” she said. And she didn’t have a beer in the house.

She walked him to the door. Nick lingered, leaning against the door frame, his gaze locked with hers. Awareness slithered through her, warm and a tad unsettling.

“Thanks again,” she whispered, hating that her voice held a throaty rasp. Just the dust, she told herself.

Yet when he leaned in closer, a tingling sensation danced up her spine. Instead of a kiss, he trailed a rough finger down her cheek. “I’m not quite through moving in, but I’m staying in the carriage house tonight. If you need anything at all, just call.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

She closed and locked the door behind him, leaning against it to regain the equilibrium his touch had destroyed. Seconds later, she stepped to the front window in the stuffy parlor, pulled back the heavy drapes and watched Nick swagger back to his truck.

When he turned toward the house, she stepped away quickly, feeling a bit like she used to when her mother had caught her reading under the sheet with a flashlight long after her bedtime.

The imagery evolved and instead of a book cuddled beneath her sheets, she imagined Nick there. She closed her eyes and willed it away. She had just inherited a whole new set of problems and the last thing she needed was a sexy neighbor she knew absolutely nothing about to complicate matters.

Chapter Three

Nick shucked his jeans and hung them on the back of the antique rocker in his new bedroom. The bedroom was larger than what he was used to, more windows, higher ceilings, newer carpet. And neater. He hadn’t had time to litter the place with his newspapers, shoes and dirty clothes yet.

The bed looked comfortable, not that he ever slept soundly or long. He’d be lucky if he got more than a few hours’ sleep tonight.

Nothing wrong with the Findleys’ carriage house, except that he hated the strangeness, especially when he had a perfectly good house on the Westbank.

But when he’d spotted the Furnished Apartment for Rent sign on the Findleys’ front yard, he’d jumped at the chance to rent it. It was perfect for what he needed.

Jacinth’s leaky pipe couldn’t have fit better with his plans if he’d taken a monkey wrench to it and released the deluge himself. The decapitated head he could have done without.

The last thing he’d expected or needed was a new murder to intersect with the old one. The situation would complicate matters, but at least it had gotten him inside the crumbling mansion and closer to Jacinth. It was a start.

Which was why he couldn’t let Jacinth get to him on a personal level.

He just had to remember she was a Villaré. That should be enough to quell any lustful vibes she inspired, as long as he didn’t look into those bewitching dark-chocolate eyes of hers.

He shook his head as he threw back the sheet and collapsed onto the bed. Thinking of Jacinth’s eyes—or any other of her body parts for that matter—would not help him get to sleep. And he’d have to be up at dawn for the one date he always kept.

A date that would serve as a bitter reminder that Nick was running out of time.

JACINTH WOKE WITH A START as the piercing ring of her cell phone broke through the layers of sleep. She’d lain awake until after four. That seemed only minutes ago, but already slanted rays of sunshine pushed through the half-closed blinds.

Jacinth fumbled for the phone, knocking her paperback novel to the floor. She cringed at the thud. Her head hurt. Her sinuses were clogged. Her mouth was so dry it was difficult to swallow.

She mumbled a hello.

“Jacinth?”

Caitlyn. Jacinth took a deep breath and tried to sound enthusiastic. “What are you doing calling this time of the morning? Don’t tell me the honeymoon’s grown boring.”

“The honeymoon is sheer perfection, and the beach condo we rented has a marvelous view. When the sun hits the water, the Gulf appears striped with the most regal shades of emerald and turquoise I have ever seen.”

“Sounds divine.”

“It is, and you sound hoarse. Are you coming down with something?”

A case of crumbling drywall overload. Jacinth would have loved to spill the whole story and get her sister’s take on last night’s gore.

But Caitlyn had been through her own nightmare mere weeks before, barely escaping with her life before she married Marcus. She deserved this period of unadulterated happiness.

“I feel fine,” Jacinth said, “but my allergies are kicking up. Probably some fall-blooming plant we didn’t have in Ohio.”

“Maybe you should see the doctor.”

“I will if it gets worse. Now tell me about the Florida Panhandle. Is the sand really as soft and sugar-white as they say?”

“Absolutely.” Caitlyn raved on, excitement and happiness radiating from her voice. Jacinth only half listened, her mind already jumping ahead to the promised visit from a homicide detective and the CSU unit.

And hopefully a visit from the plumber. She needed a shower in the worst way.

As soon as they’d said their goodbyes, Jacinth threw her legs over the side of the bed, tiptoed to the window and stared out at the dew-kissed lawn. The St. Augustine grass was still green and growing in spite of the scattering of leaves that had fallen from the aged live oaks that grew on her and the Findleys’ property.

Her gaze moved to the carriage house where Nick had said he’d be if she needed anything at all. A tinge of awareness titillated her senses, just as it had when he’d leaned in so close last night.

It was a schoolgirl response brought on by over-wrought emotions. She did not get giddy over men she barely knew, no matter how helpful and sexy.

At any rate, his promise to be there if she needed him apparently didn’t extend to the daylight hours. His truck was gone from the driveway. If he was working, he’d definitely gotten an early start.

She needed to, as well. But first, caffeine. The stairs creaked and groaned as she shuffled down them. When she’d first moved into the house, she’d reacted to every ghostly rasp and moan, thinking someone was behind her.

She thought of them as the whispered secrets of the Villarés who’d lived and died in the house for generations. At least she had until last night. Now she wondered if the walls were merely preparing to drop another body part on her.

And this after the building inspector she’d hired had assured her the foundation was sound and that with loving care and timely repairs the house might stand another hundred and fifty years.

Sin indulged in a kind of purring yowl and walked to her empty feeding dish as Jacinth stepped into the kitchen.

“I know. Time for breakfast. As if you’d let me forget. My grandmother obviously spoiled you rotten.”

From the cabinet Jacinth took a can of the fishy-smelling canned food that Sin loved, opened it and filled the cat’s bowl. She gave her fresh water, as well, and then started a full pot of coffee. She had a feeling she’d need it before the day was over.

Her thoughts went back to her grandmother as the enticing odor of brewing coffee filled the cozy kitchen. Marie Villaré had never been a part of Jacinth’s life. Jacinth didn’t remember one birthday card or phone call from the woman. Her name was never mentioned by Jacinth’s mother. Yet the inheritance that Marie Villaré had left Jacinth and Caitlyn served as a golden binding, reaching from beyond the grave to connect Jacinth with her Villaré ancestors and especially with her grandmother.

Yet numerous questions still went unanswered.

Had Marie ever wondered about her granddaughters? Why had she made no attempt to contact them even after their mother had died of cancer? If she had no interest in knowing them, why will them this house?

Had Jacinth’s mother left New Orleans because of her husband’s murder, or had Marie Villaré done something to cause Sophie to leave Louisiana and never return or even want to speak of the city or this house again?

The phone rang as Jacinth poured her coffee, jerking her back to the present. A drop of hot liquid spilled over her fingers.

“I’m Detective Ron Greene,” said the voice on the line as soon as she’d identified herself. “I hear you had a little excitement at your place last night.”

“Shock might be a better word.”

“Yeah. I’m reading the police report now. Some of the details are a little fuzzy. I’ll need to talk to you as soon as possible. Do you have any problem with me coming over this morning?”

“No. I’m available anytime.”

“Then I’m on my way. The Crime Scene Unit will get there at approximately the same time.”

“That will be fine.”

The sooner they got this over with the better. Grabbing her coffee cup, Jacinth headed back upstairs to get dressed.

She hesitated a few seconds in front of the closed door to her crime-scene bathroom. Maybe this old house was cursed after all and had stealthily lured Jacinth and Caitlyn into its web of evil.

And maybe Jacinth had been sniffing too much plaster.

She shook off the mood and hurried to get dressed for her own reality CSI.

NICK TOOK THE hard plastic chair in front of the pane of thick glass. As always, this place, with its institutional gray walls, armed and aloof guards and acrid smell of cleansers and sweat, created a hard knot in the depths of his gut.

He’d been ten years old when he’d come here the first time. It was also the first time since he was a first grader that he’d laid eyes on the father he’d been told was out of county on a special mission for his country.

His boyhood superhero instantly dissolved into a flesh-and-blood disillusionment, leaving a hole the size of a bowling ball in his heart.

Nick hadn’t said a word to the stranger staring back at him. Finally his mother dragged him back to their old Chevy and he’d thrown up all the way home, soaking the backseat with vomit. His mother had cried hysterically and just kept driving.

He hadn’t returned to the prison until he was sixteen years old, two months after his mother had remarried and moved to Pennsylvania, leaving him to live with his paternal grandparents while he finished high school.

The second visit to the prison had been at the urging of his grandfather. No pressure, Gramps had promised. Nick only had to go and make up his own mind if he wanted to engage. If not, they’d leave and nothing would be lost except the morning.

Nick hadn’t walked away and the sluggish, agonizing process of building a relationship with his father had begun that day.

Nick watched a woman walk across the floor of the visitor center flanked by two preschoolers. The girl’s short ponytail was tied with a bright pink ribbon that matched her shirt. A worn teddy bear with one arm missing was clutched in her right hand.

The boy was tugging at his mother’s skirt, as if trying to slow down her progress across the scuffed tile floor. An action figure dangled from his fingers.

Nick swallowed hard, aching for the kids. If they were here to visit their father, they had a tough road in front of them.

A slight tapping on the window got Nick’s attention. His father smiled broadly as if they were meeting for lunch or to go to a Saints game. Nick saw past the smile to the dark bags around his father’s sunken eyes, the pall of his complexion and the swollen jowls.

The chemo was doing a number on him.

Nick picked up the phone in front of him. “How you doing, Dad?”

“I’m hanging in there.”

“Are they taking care of you?”

“Yep. Dr. Singleton makes sure of that.”

Tom Singleton was his oncologist, the one making the decisions on Elton Bruno’s medical care. Nick had talked to him by phone a couple of times and checked out his reputation on the internet. He was a well-respected doctor.

That didn’t make it any easier for Nick to watch his father go through the treatments knowing they might be in vain and that his father could die in this prison. Knowing he might die waiting for a parole that wouldn’t come for a crime Nick was certain his father hadn’t committed.

“What’s going on with you?” Elton asked. “Any interesting new cases?”

“One. I can’t talk about it yet, but when it’s solved, I’ll feed you all the details.”

“Sounds good. Weather’s great today. You going fishing when you leave here?”

“Not today.”

“Got other plans?”

“Thinking of volunteering to fix a busted pipe for a friend.” Unless the plumber had beat him to it.

“A lady friend?”

“How’d you guess?”

“You never liked plumbing when you were working with your grandfather. I figured you had to have some pretty good motivation to make you volunteer your services.”

“Not the kind of motivation you’re thinking. She’s just a neighbor.”

“Then you should blow the plumbing off and go fishing. The day is too nice to waste hanging out with rusted metal.”

“Good point.”

Elton curled his hands around the back of his head and leaned back, balancing his chair on the two back legs as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “I’d like to go pole me a pirogue down a lazy bayou and pull in a couple of spiky, mustached old catfish. Fry them right there over an open fire. Down them with a six-pack of cold ones for a chaser while the gators float by and the blue jays squawk overhead.”

For most men, that wasn’t much to ask. Nick planned to do everything in his power to see that Elton had the chance to live that dream before he died.

“Any word from your attorney on the parole hearing?”

“I’m nowhere near the top of the list. But if I do get out of here, we’re going to take that fishing trip.”

“I’ll be ready,” Nick said.

“I want me some boiled crawfish, too. Some days I can almost smell them.” Elton smiled. “Course it always turns out it’s just the spices in the heartburn chow I’m smelling.”

Elton sat up straight again. “You know what else I’d like?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“To touch a woman, a real woman with curves and soft skin and hair that smells like flowers in springtime. You know the kind of woman I’m talking about?”

An image of Jacinth slipped into Nick’s consciousness. A Villaré—of all people to think of here in this place. “Yeah, I know the kind of woman you mean. They usually spell trouble.”

“Just a thought,” Elton said, this time chuckling into the phone. “Hell, even if I had a woman like that I probably couldn’t get it up with all this chemo they’re shooting into me.”

Probably not the best place to go with this conversation. “Did you give any more thought to what I asked you about last time I was here?” Nick asked.

Elton rubbed his jaw as all sign of his forced smile vanished.

“I’ve thought about it for the last twenty-two years. I’ve come up with a thousand different theories about who might have killed Micah, but none of them holds water. Truth is, with all the scenarios I’ve considered, I don’t even trust my memories any longer. But it’s all in the trial notes.”

Notes that Nick had been over a thousand times before and gotten nowhere with. But the trial had been manipulated by lawyers and layered with rules, objections and emotions. Truth could get tangled up in that.

“Just think about it again, Dad.”

“It won’t help. I don’t have anything new to tell you, son. I wish I did.”

But Nick was not about to give up, not while his father had a breath left in his cancer-wracked body.

Someone had gotten away with murder and his father was paying for the crime. He had a good idea who that someone was.

But he needed more than supposition. He needed proof. That’s where Jacinth came in.

RON GREENE WOULD NEVER be cast as the lead on a TV detective show. His face was pocked and treaded, likely the result of teenage acne gone mad and apparently untreated. His scowl was perpetual, the lines in his brow permanent, the wrinkles deeply furrowed though he was probably no more than mid-fifties.

But he definitely had that detective air about him, authoritative and intimidating. Even Sin had gone into hiding when he showed up.

That was two hours ago. Now the CSU was done and gone, leaving Ron Greene time to focus all his attention on Jacinth.

Just looking into his piercing eyes inspired guilt and gave her a compelling desire to confess something. The worst offense she could think of was running a yellow light on her way to work last Tuesday. She doubted the detective would be impressed.