A Secret Life (14 page)

He crossed the floor to Joan’s side of the bed, looking calmer than he had since he’d heard the news about Samuel. He smoothed her hair with his broad palm, then leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. “You’re hopeless.”

Heather snickered.

He straightened, looking Joan straight in the eye and sending a shiver right down to her toes. “No more accidental screaming, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed.

He gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment, then grabbed the rifle and headed out the door, clicking it shut behind him.

Heather turned to raise her eyebrows. “Explain to me again how you’re not sleeping with him.”

CHAPTER NINE

S
LEEP WITH
Anthony?

This morning, Joan was seriously considering killing Anthony.

How could he have set her up like this?

“Ms. Bateman?” prompted Charlie Long from the other end of the line. His voice was as smooth and melodious on the telephone as it was on the television. “I asked if you’d consider flying to L.A. for Friday’s show.”

Joan scrambled for an excuse. “I…uh…have to—”

“You’d get top billing,” he continued.

She closed her eyes and tried to think clearly. A network talk show was a really bad idea. But Charlie Long seemed like a very nice person, and who wouldn’t be flattered to get a call in person?

“I’d like to talk about your book, of course. Maybe take the slant that an injustice has been done to the Kane family. It might help to get the case reopened,” he added, sweetening the deal.

Joan hadn’t thought of it from that angle. But it made sense. Her appearance on
Charlie Long
might actually help Samuel. And she certainly did owe him after yesterday.

But her mother. Oh, her mother.

“I read
Bayou Betrayal,
” said Charlie Long. “Loved it.”

“Thank you,” said Joan automatically. “And I admire your show, too.”

“You
do?
” He sounded genuinely pleased. “So…how about helping out a fellow artist? My producers are putting a lot of pressure on me over this one.”

“I hear you,” said Joan, with genuine empathy. She knew all about pressure. Then she grew angry at Anthony all over again. How could he have put her in this position?

“What do you say?” asked Charlie.

“I need some time—”

“Afraid I’ve got to have an answer right now. I’m in makeup, and we’re promoting Friday’s show today.”

He was in makeup. Charlie Long was in makeup before his live network show, chatting with her on the phone. Joan went hot, then cold again.

“Help me out, Joan?”

“Sure.” Even as she said the word, she couldn’t believe she was doing it.

“Great! You’re a trouper. I’ll see you on Friday.”

The line went dead.

Joan clamped her hand around the phone. Deep down, she knew she should be angry with herself. But Anthony made a much more appealing target.

A
NTHONY WAS
on his feet at the first knock.

“Anthony?” Joan’s voice echoed through the door panel.

“Here!” His voice was hoarse as he grabbed the gun and crossed the bedroom, wrenching open the door, checking both ways down the hallway.

But Joan was alone. She stood hale and hearty, eyes squinting at him, arms crossed over her chest. “That was a low-down, dirty rotten trick you pulled.”

Anthony lowered the gun and raked back his messy hair, struggling to get his bearings. He checked both ways down the hall again just to be sure. “Huh?”

She stormed past him into the room. “Charlie
Long?
”

Anthony turned, setting the pistol down on a table and pointing it toward the wall. “Charlie Long what?”

“He
called.
”

Anthony went stone-cold. “He called you?”

“Yes, he called me. Did you know?”

Anthony didn’t answer. He’d asked Bo to test the waters. But he never expected Charlie Long to make the call without giving him a heads-up.

“Anthony!”
Joan cried.

“It was
before
Samuel got shot.”

“That’s your excuse.”

Not exactly. “It was—”

“You’re fired.”

For a second, Anthony thought he’d misheard. But Joan’s expression left no doubt.

She pointed a finger, her voice all but shaking with emotion. “I mean it, Anthony. I’ll go to L.A. and do the show, because I promised—”

“You said yes?” He couldn’t believe it.

Her voice went shrill. “That’s
so
typical.”

“It was just a question.” If she’d said yes, why was she firing him?

“It’s all about business with you, isn’t it? Every second of every day. No matter what’s going on—bullets flying, nooners with your clients.”

Now that wasn’t fair. “We never had a nooner.”

She glared at him, and he shut up.

“I must be pretty damn important to have Mr. Long call me himself.”

“Of course you’re important.”

“You knew I wouldn’t be able to say no. You
knew
it.”

“I didn’t—”

“Forget it. You can turn it off now, Anthony. In case you missed it, I’m no longer your client.”

“Fine,” he said.

“Good,” she retorted.

“After L.A.,” he qualified.

Like it or not, she needed him in L.A. Charlie Long was the big time. She needed his advice, and she needed his protection. They had a ten-year relationship, and he couldn’t turn his instincts off like tap water.

“You are no longer on the payroll,” she declared.

“I’m still coming to L.A.”

“You are not going to change my mind.”

“I never thought I would.”

“Suit yourself.” She flounced toward the door. “But after that, we are done.”

“Your choice,” he said, schooling his features, pretending there wasn’t a hot knife slicing its way through his guts.

“Joanie?” came Heather’s cheerful voice, her running footsteps sounding on the staircase.

Joan took a deep breath and carefully evened out her features. “Up here, Heather.” Her voice was unnervingly composed.

Heather appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Samuel.

“That was fast,” said Anthony, suppressing his own emotions and checking out Samuel’s stark white sling. The man was obviously one tough bastard.

Samuel shrugged his good shoulder. “I told them if I wasn’t bleeding to death, I wasn’t staying. Nobody tried to stop me.”

Anthony guessed not.

Heather strode into the room, either oblivious to or ignoring the undercurrents between Joan and Anthony. She perched on his unmade bed. “Samuel has a theory.”

“What kind of a theory?” asked Joan. You’d never know from her tone that their relationship had just crumbled into a thousand pieces.

Samuel leaned against the doorjamb, his gaze seeking out Anthony. “I think we may still be dealing with a fan.”

“I’m listening,” said Anthony, struggling to focus on Samuel.

She’d fired him.
Fired
him.

“When I first read the book,” said Samuel, “I thought a lot of it was true.”

Heather stood up and paced across the room in her miniskirt and high heels. “Which got us thinking—”

Samuel jumped back in. “Maybe somebody else thought
all
of it was true.”

“I’m not following,” said Joan.

“The money.” Anthony couldn’t bring himself to look at her yet. “In your story, there’s money stashed in the walls of Samuel’s cottage. Somebody thinks it’s really there.”

Heather snapped her fingers and pointed at Anthony. “Give the man a gold star.”

“But I made that up,” Joan argued.

“They don’t know that,” said Samuel. “And I bet they broke into your house first looking for clues.”

“They did steal my research notes,” Joan conceded.

“Have you talked to Alain?” asked Anthony.

Samuel shook his head. “Thought I’d run it by you first.”

Anthony had to admit there was merit to the theory. And if it was true, Joan was in no danger from the shooter. “So you
were
in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, parroting Alain’s words from last night. His faith in the chief was restored.

“I don’t think the guy wanted me dead,” Samuel suggested. “It was a panic reaction. I caught him in the act, and he was armed.”

“Have you been inside your cottage?” Anthony asked. If any of the wall panels were torn down, they’d know the theory was bang on. Just like in
Bayou Betrayal.

“Not yet,” Samuel told him.

Heather took a small half step in Samuel’s direction. “If we can avoid the reporters, we’re going over there to look around.”

“You want to come with us?” Samuel asked Anthony.

“Yeah,” Anthony replied with a nod. “But then we have to head for L.A.”

Heather looked at Joan and raised her eyebrows in a question.

“I promised to do
Charlie Long Live,
” Joan explained, carefully avoiding looking at Anthony.

Heather’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my God.”

“I know,” said Joan. “It’s not what—”

“We never called Mom.”
Heather darted for the bedroom door, and Samuel quickly stepped out of her way. “She’ll have sent the jet to St. Martinville.”

Joan swore as she followed her sister out. Anthony still couldn’t get used to hearing that word come out of Joan’s mouth.

J
OAN’S STOMACH
cramped as she followed Heather and the men, slinking past the garage to the back door of Samuel’s cottage.

She’d fired Anthony.

She was making a point when she did that, an important point about him undermining her wishes. But she’d half expected him to fight for her. Completely expected him to fight for her. Desperately wanted him to fight for her.

But he hadn’t.

And now he was fired.

And she couldn’t take that back.

She started up the stairs and realized the others had come to a halt in front of her.

She craned her neck. “What?”

Samuel stepped inside, breaking the bottleneck.

Joan worked her way up next to Heather and froze.

Whoever had broken in wasn’t joking around. Closets were wide-open. Desk drawers were yanked off their tracks. And the doors of the entertainment center and kitchen cabinets were pulled halfway off their hinges, their contents spilled across the counters and the floor.

Samuel moved through the kitchen, glass crunching under his feet.

Joan swallowed as she silently followed behind.

If you looked past the destruction, it was obvious Samuel took pride in his surroundings. The living room walls and ceilings were painted a spotless cream, accented with exposed, redwood beams crisscrossing their length. She glimpsed a rich, gold-patterned carpet that covered a terra-cotta tile floor, and a redwood mantel finished off a stone fireplace.

The furniture was big and comfortable. Carved from white pine and covered in deep, muted plaid cushions, the sofa and chairs reflected Samuel’s stature.

Thankfully, the furniture at least seemed to be intact. And a giant portrait of Samuel’s parents still hung above the mantel. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but it was something.

“It looks mostly salvageable,” said Anthony, picking his way through the living room, surveying the layer of books, papers and kitchen utensils that covered the floor. He came to the bottom of the staircase and gazed up. After a minute, he put his hand on the rail and started to climb.

Heather hurried after him. “You see any broken panels up there?” she called. “Something on the wall that might…” Her voice trailed away as she disappeared down the upper hallway.

Standing next to Joan, Samuel drew in a huge breath. He glanced down at her. “I gotta tell you, my life was a whole lot simpler before you came along.”

“Sorry,” Joan whispered, her stomach cramping all over again. Disappointing people. There was no doubt she had a knack for it.

“I could hire someone to clean the mess up for you,” she offered. It was the least she could do, since this was pretty much all her fault.

He took a couple more steps into the room, shaking his head. “I have to go through everything myself anyway.”

Joan nodded in understanding. “You need to know if anything is missing.”

Samuel crouched down and flipped through a discarded photo album. “I doubt there’s anything missing.”

She glanced around at the destruction. “How could you know that?”

“I don’t remember the guy carrying anything.”

“Well, we know he didn’t find the money.” It had seemed like such a good plot twist at the time. Now she wished she’d used something else,
anything
else.

Samuel picked up a cracked picture frame, blew off the dust, and straightened to set it on an oak end table. “I have half a mind to hide some cash in the walls myself. Let them take it and put an end to all this.”

“A hundred thousand dollars?”

He turned his head and lifted his eyebrows.

“You have that kind of money?” she asked.

“I live a frugal life.”

He’d saved that much money on a carpenter’s salary? What was he doing working in Indigo, Louisiana? He should invest in the market, open his own business.

He reached down and picked up another leather-bound album. “Not that I want to blow it on some thief.”

“You know, Charlie Long says my stint on his show might reopen the investigation.” She wasn’t convinced Samuel’s father was innocent, but the possibility of looking at the case again might be a small consolation to Samuel.

“Might help me more if you told everybody there wasn’t any real money involved.”

“That’s true,” she said with a nod. It wasn’t a bad idea.

Samuel disentangled a lamp from the debris and straightened the shade. “I was joking. They’d never believe you. In fact, some people would take it as proof the money existed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They’ll think you’re after it for yourself.”

“If I wanted it for myself, I would have stolen it before the book was published.”

“Maybe.” He paused. “Except that you didn’t expect people to ever find out you lived in Indigo.”