- -
- 100%
- +
She glanced around, taking stock of her surroundings. No one had followed them from Baton Rouge. Whoever had been sending threatening messages to the Keene family was likely back in California, but she couldn’t be too careful. Her job was to protect Spencer while helping to investigate the threats. That’s what she was getting the not-so-big bucks for.
Annie set the gas handle in its cradle and screwed the lid on the tank. She had to stop beating herself up. She’d gotten herself into this situation and she’d have to make lemonade from the lemons. She could always toss in some vodka to make it less painful.
But not on the job. Never on the job.
She slid behind the wheel and started the engine, determined to have a better outlook—after all, she’d avoided vomit on her new shoes, hadn’t she?
Just as she pulled forward a government car swung in front of her. She held one hand over the horn, but pulled it back as the car slid into a parking spot in front of the gas station/deli. The door opened and one long leg emerged followed by its owner.
The man wasn’t in uniform, but Annie knew automatically he was a cop. Or a detective, more likely. Something about him had that aura. Smart. Disciplined. Sexy.
She shook her head at the last thought and inched forward, wondering if the heat had gotten to her.
The man turned toward her, giving her a nice view of a strong jaw, dark hair and crooked nose. The nose, whether acquired in a bar fight or merely a hazard of the job, made him more interesting. He worked out, that was certain. His chest was broad, but he looked quick enough. He must have felt her perusal because he zeroed in on her as the car swooped by him.
She saw the antenna raise and bleep in his mind. Awareness of something different. Rental car. Note license plate. File away in recesses of mind for later use if necessary. It was exactly what she’d have done.
Spencer started humming as she pulled onto the highway, glancing at the GPS affixed to the windshield. Twenty-two more miles until the turnoff for Beau Soleil, the plantation home where Carter and Tawny Keene waited for them. The mansion served as a backdrop for the movie Carter was directing, some mystery or horror movie starring Spencer’s mother as the dumb blonde who ironically doesn’t get axed in the opening. Or something like that. Annie hadn’t paid too much attention—horror films didn’t interest her. She liked period pieces, so maybe the old house would be interesting. She would be staying there with the Keene family while the rest of the cast and crew stayed at a local motel.
The drive to Bayou Bridge, the town nearest the plantation home, was uneventful. Tangled woods with palmetto lurking beneath branches lined the highway with the occasional pasture interrupting. Then there was the long bridge over the mysterious swamp basin with thin trees and brackish waters giving rise to the flight of the odd egret. It had a unique beauty that drew Annie’s eyes from the monotonous asphalt more times than it should.
The cell phone sitting in the cup holder chirped. She looked down. Tawny again. The woman was a high-maintenance nightmare, but she worshipped her Spencer. Annie ignored the jittering phone since they would be there in ten minutes and she didn’t want to pull over and waste time.
“Is that my mom?” Spencer asked.
“Um—” She didn’t want to lie. The books had said be truthful with children. “Hey, we’re almost there. Then we can see about getting some of those crawfish for dinner, huh?”
“Really? Cool.”
Mission accomplished.
She exited the interstate and drove through the charming Bayou Bridge before taking the turn on the highway that hugged the Bayou Tete. Annie wanted to stop the car and indulge in the sight of colossal live oaks fanning their branches over the snaking river, but didn’t. Beau Soleil sat on the bank of the bayou so there would be plenty of time to contemplate the land of Evangeline later. She could only imagine the breathtaking sunsets and her footfalls on the hidden paths beside the water. Maybe she could sneak a run in that very evening.
“Am I gonna get to see a real alligator, too?” Spencer interrupted her yearning for tranquility and a good sweat. She never knew kids asked so many questions, but they did. Lots.
“I don’t know.”
“But this is Wouisiana. I gotta see an alligator.” Spencer allowed a little whine into his voice. She’d given him a picture book about the bayou state when she found out they’d have to go. He’d studied the thing on the plane, pointing out Mardi Gras floats, crawfish and his absolute favorite subject—alligators. Then she’d found a book called Mr. Breaux Bader and his Ghost Town Gator at the airport and read it three times while they waited on their luggage.
“It’s Louisiana, and I’m sure we can find someone who will take us to see an alligator.”
“Cool. I can’t wait.”
The trees hung over the road, blocking out the afternoon sun, and as Annie took a big curve, she saw the iron gates opening to Beau Soleil. First impression was stately, old and very Southern. Annie felt a shiver as she drove through. She wasn’t sure if it was a sense of homecoming, which would have been weird, or a sense of foreboding, which would be alarming. But something snaked along her spine.
“We’re here.”
She heard the iPod touch thump against the seat.
“What’s that?” Spencer asked.
“What’s what?”
“That.”
Annie swiveled her head to see a small patch of ground ringed with an old iron fence laced with rose bushes. Concrete tombs surrounded a huge mausoleum sitting in the center. “Um, a cemetery.”
“What’s that?”
The questions the kid asked. Jeez. They hadn’t addressed death in those books she’d studied. Wasn’t that a parent’s job? Be truthful. “It’s where they bury people when they die.”
“They put you in a box like that? I thought you got put in dirt or something. That’s where they put my gram. They covered her up with dirt.”
“Well, usually they do, but this area is below sea level so they can’t do that here in South Louisiana.”
“What’s sea wevel?”
Lord, help me. She glanced in the mirror. He looked perplexed. “Ask you mother.”
Explaining death, burial and the fact bodies would float if they were buried below sea level wasn’t in her job description. She had to draw the line somewhere.
The car crunched down the gravel road framed by thick woods on either side. Finally, the view opened to reveal a huge yellow plantation home.
“Wow,” Spencer breathed from the backseat.
His response was an understatement. The home sitting at the end of the drive was beautiful in the way a grand old dame was. Clinging to the vestiges of beauty, showing the good bones beneath but helpless against the ravages of time. It was the perfect house for a Southern Gothic horror flick.
Spencer bounced around in the backseat.
“Hey, are you out of the booster?”
“Yeah. We’re in the driveway.” He said it with a teenager’s “duh” tone.
“Doesn’t matter. If I applied the brakes, you could get hurt.” She tapped the brakes a bit to show him. Spencer flew forward and smacked his head on the console.
“Owwww!” he cried.
Crap. She smothered another stronger curse under her tongue and stopped in the middle of the drive. She turned to the boy who had started wailing. “Oh, Spencer, I’m sorry. Let me see.”
“No!” He cupped a small hand over his forehead. “You’re mean.”
Great. Just what she needed. Tawny and her accusing blue eyes. Frankly, after four nannies in a year, the family was lucky to find even someone as childcare-challenged as Annie to take on the job. Tawny had a reputation, especially when it came to her son, but she had no clue Annie was undercover security for her child. Only her husband, Carter, knew the truth. Ace wanted everyone in the household to react naturally to better her chance of identifying the person threatening the child. The police thought the threats were perpetrated by a crazy fan and recommended standard precautions. But Annie’s boss had agreed with Carter Keene—they would take no chances.
“Come on, Spencer, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She reached back and tugged at his arm.
“Don’t,” he snuffled, finally removing his hand. There wasn’t even a mark on his forehead.
She cupped his chin, angling his head left and right. “It looks fine. I’m sorry. Okay?”
He nodded.
She let out a sigh. “Now get your fanny back in the seat and buckle up. We don’t want you to get hurt again. Never know when a driver might need to brake for a squirrel or dog.”
The little boy wiggled his hind end into the booster seat and swiped at the tears. The child had beautiful chocolate eyes with envy-inspiring lashes. “So can I have the Skittles in your purse since you hurted me?”
Damn. Swindled by a five-year-old. She glanced at the purse she’d bought when she’d taken on the nanny assignment. It was big and floppy. She hated it, but it allowed her to carry things Spencer needed, like wipes, hand sanitizer, extra socks, bandages and the ever-present iPod touch with charger. She’d hidden her Skittles in the zipper pocket. “It’s ‘hurt,’ not ‘hurted,’ and you can have them.”
She glanced in the rearview mirror. He smiled. “Cool.”
Annie pulled into the large circular drive in front of the mansion. As she put the car in Park, the double doors flew open and Tawny emerged and clacked down the porch steps heading for her child.
“Mom!” Spencer struggled against his seat belt, kicking his legs and squirming.
“Birdie!” Tawny shouted, flinging open the back door and climbing in. “Oh, I’ve missed my boy so much.”
Tawny smacked noisy kisses on Spencer’s cheeks and neck as the little boy laughed and threw chubby arms around her neck. Annie couldn’t contain the smile twitching at her lips. Those two were totally gaga for one another. If it hadn’t been so damn sweet, it would have been nauseating.
“Hello, Tawny,” Annie said, pulling her purse along as she climbed out of the cool car and into the moist heat of the Deep South. Her breath caught and immediately she felt sweat pop out on her upper lip. Why did sane people live in such oppression?
Tawny looked up. “Hi, Amy, and I thought I asked you to call me Mrs. Keene.”
Spencer slid from the car. “Her name’s not Amy. It’s Annie.”
Tawny blinked. “You’re such a smart boy. Of course, it’s Annie. I forgot.”
Spencer ran up the grand stone steps of the large home. “Where’s the alligators? I wanna see them. Annie said maybe we’d eat some crawfish.”
Tawny followed, her platinum-streaked hair swishing with the rhythm of her steps. She wore towering stilettos paired with itty-bitty blue-jeaned shorts and a halter top and looked as if she’d tumbled from a Hooters ad.
Annie tucked a piece of brown frizz behind her ear and climbed onto the wide veranda of the house that Tawny and Spencer had disappeared into. She hesitated a moment, stretching her toes in her running shoes, dropping the bag at her feet and rolling her head side to side in order to work out the kinks the torturous hours of travel had given her.
“I can work that out for you if you want.”
The voice came from Annie’s left. She flinched, appalled to have been caught unaware, and turned toward the person standing stock-still in the shadows.
The older woman was about as odd a sight as Annie had ever seen. Dressed in a pair of faded black yoga pants and a skintight tank top, she stood poised like a crane. Her long thin legs bent at odd angles while her sticklike arms curved in midair. Thick silver hair lay in a fat braid over one shoulder as if it grew from the bright green bandana wrapped round the woman’s head. Serene violet eyes stared unflinchingly at Annie.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” Annie said, trying to tamp down the alarm in not sensing someone within her immediate perimeter. Were her skills that rusty?
“That’s the point,” the woman said, unfurling and moving into another unnatural position. “That is the essence of Tai Chi—to ebb, flow and become centered. At one with the universe. A calm fixture within chaos.”
“Right,” Annie said, rehoisting her bag onto one shoulder and moving toward the open doorway.
“I’m serious about the massage. I’ve studied tension points in the body,” the older woman called. “Your aura is deep red. You need untangling.”
Annie turned around. “Untangling?”
The older woman smiled. “Or maybe a mint julep?”
“Who are you? And do you really serve mint juleps on the veranda down here? I thought that was a touristy trick.”
“Ah, maybe. I prefer good bourbon straight up, myself. Oh, and we call it the porch.”
“Me, too. On the bourbon.” Annie stuck her hand out. “I’m Annie Perez, Spencer’s nanny.”
The older woman smiled, but didn’t move toward Annie. She flowed into another position. “You don’t seem like a nanny.”
Unease pricked at Annie’s nape. “Yet I am.”
The older lady unwound, placing both bare feet on the planks of the porch. She took Annie in from head to toe. “I’m Picou Dufrene and this is my home. Welcome to Beau Soleil, Annie Perez.”
The woman seemed to possess the uncanny ability to see beyond the outer wrapping. Most people saw a young Hispanic woman and put her in a category. For the past few weeks, no one questioned her being the worst nanny to ever hold the position. Annie walked to the rail of the porch and rubbed a finger along the spidering paint as she surveyed the wide span of lawn with its moss-draped twisted oaks and allowed the romance of the place to seep into her bones. Maybe Louisiana wouldn’t be so bad for the next month. It wasn’t palm trees and balmy ocean breezes, but its earthy beauty tugged at the soul. Plus, the quirky Picou Dufrene interested her. “Thank you, Mrs. Dufrene.”
“It’s Picou.”
“Annie! You gotta see this!” Spencer exploded onto the porch, nearly tripping over himself. Annie put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Slow down,” she said, pulling his little hand into hers.
“I saw a bear!” His brown eyes danced with excitement.
Picou’s laugh was smoky. “That’s Chewie. My son Nate named him after the wookiee in Star Wars.”
Annie allowed Spencer to tug her toward the house. “I’m hoping this one is stuffed?”
Picou gave her a secret smile. “One can never be too sure at Beau Soleil. What seems benign can sometimes bite.”
Picou’s words followed Annie into the house, dancing around her mind, making her wonder if the kooky owner had some otherworldly sense about life and the people who trudged through it. Annie didn’t believe in magic hoo-ha crap, but she knew from her late grandmother some people were more perceptive than others. Or maybe merely more observant.
Better to heed Picou’s words and trust no one. Spencer’s life might depend on it.
CHAPTER THREE
NATE DUFRENE WATCHED Sandi Whitehall hurry out of the liquor store with two bottles of grain alcohol and a carton of Marlboros. Not good. Paul was drinking again and that meant the next day Sandi would likely be wearing heavy makeup and moving slowly. Not that the woman would ever admit to her husband beating the crap out of her every time he fell off the wagon. The whole damn town knew about the Whitehalls, but he couldn’t do anything if Sandi wouldn’t press charges. Which she wouldn’t.
He shook his head and watched the traffic creep by, nearly everyone braking when they caught sight of him sitting in the borrowed sheriff’s cruiser under the truck-stop sign advertising cigarettes, video poker and boudin. It was almost comical.
His mind flipped back to the brunette in the rental who’d pulled out of Breaux Mart a few hours before. She’d known he was law enforcement even if he’d been in his unmarked. He’d seen it in her expression as she’d pulled by him.
At first he’d thought her a regular soccer mom, replete with a rug rat in the backseat, properly restrained, until he’d caught sight of the rental tag. Of course, nothing wrong with renting a car for a trip. But still, she’d given off a strange vibe, and it had raised a flag in his awareness. Likely she was halfway to Alexandria or Lake Charles by now, heading to Grandma’s house or something equally harmless.
He settled into the seat and closed his eyes. He hated sitting out here, but Buddy Rosen’s wife had unexpectedly delivered a baby boy early that morning. Nate had “gifted” them with covering Buddy’s shift for the afternoon even though he’d sworn he’d never sit in a patrol car again. It hadn’t seemed like such a sacrifice until he’d had to change a flat tire on the drive from West Feliciana parish and then discovered Buddy had been assigned to watch a four-way. So much for his day off.
His cell phone rang.
Picou.
He sighed. “Dufrene.”
“I know very well who you are. I called, didn’t I?”
He sighed again.
“Get over here right now.”
His mother sounded winded. Panicky. He hadn’t caught it in her initial greeting but now his Spidey senses kicked in. “Why?”
“The boy has gone missing.”
“The boy? What boy?”
His mother sucked in a breath. “The director’s son. His nanny took a shower while Tawny was playing with him, but then Tawny got a call and went to another room. When she came back, he was gone. Just hurry.”
The phone clicked. She’d hung up.
Nate started the cruiser, but didn’t put the lights on. His mother had good reason to overreact to a missing child, a fact well-known to the Bayou Bridge Police Department and the Sheriff’s office. She’d called in his younger brother Darby as missing many times over the course of his childhood. This boy had probably done what most little boys do—traipsed off into the woods to explore or play a game of hide-and-seek in the many rooms of Beau Soleil. But, still, some children didn’t come home.
Just like Della.
Regret hit him hard, as it always did. Her disappearance had been partially his fault. But he didn’t want to think about that February day no matter how much it stayed with him, like Peter Pan’s shadow sewed onto his conscience.
Della. Gone. His fault.
He glanced down at the manila folder sitting in the passenger’s seat as he pulled onto the highway and headed toward his childhood home. Another detective had handed it to him when he’d left the station that morning, but he’d yet to open the file. Instead he’d allowed it to sit like a ticking bomb, afraid it would explode and crack the thin layer over the wound festering for the past twenty-four years. He refused to watch his mother crash and burn all over again. Because even though he was a big, tough St. Martin Parish detective, his mother’s tears brought him to his knees.
Never again.
His murdered sister was gone and there was little sense in digging it up again. Every other lead over the past had played out, and this new wrinkle would, too. But following up was his job—for both his family and this girl asking questions.
He shrugged off the burn between his shoulder blades and increased his speed, hugging the twisting road. He’d not been to Beau Soleil in over a week. Not since the gypsy had visited Picou. Or was it a mambo? Either way the woman had given him the creeps. For one thing she was blind, and for another, she looked like one of the witches from Macbeth.
Huckster. That’s what she was. Had his mother believing all sorts of nonsense about setting suns, righting wrongs, and prophesies about birds or some such crap. Picou’s quest for answers was ridiculous. He could tolerate the occasional trip to Baton Rouge to consult a palm reader because that incorporated a visit to her cardiologist, but bringing those sorts of people out to the house crossed the line.
The gates greeted him before he bumped down the long, winding drive faster than normal. He needed to seem as if he were in a hurry. Otherwise, he’d hear about it for the next few weeks. The Arch Angels Feast Day was coming up and he’d been hoodwinked by the parish priest into serving on the church’s committee, so there’d be no escaping Picou, who was the chairwoman of the celebration.
He rounded the corner and saw her. Not his mother. Or the actress. But the woman from the rental car he’d seen outside the Whiskey Bay gas station.
She stood calmly in the center of chaos, hair damp, brow furrowed. All around her people scurried, left, right and in circles, calling out and craning their heads in that universal motion signaling something lost.
In this case—a child.
He rolled to a halt and climbed from the car.
“Oh, Nate, thank heavens!” Picou called, drawing the attention of the people milling about. The woman who he now assumed was the freshly showered nanny caught his gaze. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t move.
A well-endowed blonde tumbled toward him, and he recognized her from the pictures in the local newspaper.
“Oh, God, please help us. My baby. He’s gone!”
He placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder as much to keep her from crashing into him as to hold her up. “Okay, Mrs. Keene, take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”
The blonde burst into tears, shaking her head and swiping at the streaking mascara on her cheeks. Her thin shoulders shook and she covered her face with both hands and sobbed. The presumed nanny stepped forward and took the actress’s elbow. “Go sit down, Tawny. I’ll talk to the deputy.”
Her voice was nice. Kind of low and gravelly. It had quiet authority, probably from all the nannying she did.
Tawny nodded and allowed a pale Picou to lead her away. Nate looked hard at his own mother. She looked shaken and he felt every tremble of her hand as it stroked the actress’s back. His mother’s clouded eyes met his and he tried to convey reassurance in his nod, but as usual, he failed to comfort her.
He turned his gaze back to the nanny.
“I’m Annie Perez,” she said, stepping forward without extending a hand, as if recognizing the situation didn’t call for niceties but rather expediency. “I work for the Keenes as Spencer’s caretaker.”
People still scrambled around them. Many looked to be part of the production crew, if their sweaty T-shirts and baggy parachute shorts were any indication. He would expect the nanny to be searching desperately, but she wasn’t. Her calm struck him as peculiar.
“Lieutenant Nate Dufrene.”
“Dufrene?”
“Picou’s my mother.”
“Oh.”
“Time is of essence…”
She stiffened. “Right. Tawny took Spencer to her room to spend some time with him. She said he fell asleep while she read to him, so she stepped out to make a phone call. When she hung up, he was gone. I’ve searched the rooms on the second floor, top to bottom.”
“Closets? Bed—”
“Thoroughly,” Annie interrupted, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear. Sweat beaded her upper lip, reminding him to wipe the sweat from his own forehead. Too hot for mid-September.
“The first floor?”
“Your mother and Mr. Keene searched the bottom floor—”
“Third floor?” he interrupted.
“The housekeeper—I’ve forgotten her name—and the production assistant are searching now. Mr. Keene brought some of the crew to search the grounds and outer buildings.”
“Lucille.”
She frowned. “What?”
“The housekeeper’s name is Lucille.” He realized that had nothing to do with the task at hand. “What about personal security? Does Keene have it?”
“His name is Brick, but he was with Carter on set. He’s out there searching now,” she said, with the slight lift of her shoulder. Any other time and he would have thought it sexy, but not in the middle of a crisis. Or that’s what he told himself.
“Where do you think the child is?”
“If I knew, you wouldn’t be here.”
Okay, it had been a dumb question. “Best guess?”
“I don’t know. We had a long flight from L.A., and he could have gotten up to look for me or Tawny and fallen back asleep somewhere. He’s done that before, but if he dozed off elsewhere, it’s somewhere very strange.” She averted her eyes and he knew there was something she wasn’t saying. Something darker and more worrisome.