Blood Ties in Chef Voleur (10 page)

“I’ll see what I can do, but the detective in charge of the case, Charlie Phillips, is not very fond of me.”

“What about Reilly or Lucas?”

“My twin brother? Charlie’s not too happy with him, either. Reilly and I were instrumental in proving that his partner, Dagewood, had killed Reilly’s wife’s sister several years ago. Phillips has never forgiven us. I don’t think he knows Lucas, but I doubt he’ll be thrilled with any of the Delanceys.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything—?”

“I’ll see what I can do, but don’t get your hopes up too high.”

“Oh, Ryker. Thanks!”

* * *

J
ACK
HADN
’
T
MEANT
to be so late getting back to the apartment, but after going by the police station and being put off yet again by Detective Phillips, he’d driven over to Biloxi to take care of some personal business. At his own apartment on Biloxi’s Back Bay, he picked up copies of his grandfather’s letters, then he swung by the landlord’s apartment to pick up any mail and packages that had been delivered, and while he was there, he went ahead and paid the next three months’ rent.

Then, on his way home, he went by the police station again, and what Detective Phillips told him that time made him furious. He drove home with his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel and his brain whirling with everything he wanted to say—no,
shout
at Cara Lynn.

So when he burst into the house and found her in the kitchen cooking jambalaya, the little domestic scene sent his anger spiraling out of control.

“Hi?” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him with a smile as she stirred. When she met his glare, her smile faded. “What’s wrong?”

“Have you got no sense whatsoever?” he yelled, throwing his mail and the file folder down on the kitchen table.

Cara Lynn frowned at him, blinked a couple of times, then said, “I’m fine, thank you. You don’t seem to be doing so well.”

“Stop it!” he cried. “Just stop it. What the hell were you thinking, going to your cousin about the journal?”

She frowned. “How do you know—”

“I know because I went by there this afternoon to see if Detective Phillips, who is
in charge
of the investigation,
not
your cousin, had decided to allow me to see the journal.”

“He was going to let you see it? And you didn’t tell me?”

“No, he wasn’t going to let me see it, at least not any time soon. He was just stringing me along so I’d be cooperative. He might have eventually allowed me to read a page or two, depending on how he was feeling and how well the case was going. And depending on how cooperative I was being until he decided what to do about me.” Jack huffed. “But now—”

“Now what? I didn’t do anything different from what you did. I called Ryker and asked him if I could see certain pages. I told him I was working on the genealogy and needed to look at a few pages around the date that our grandfather died, because I thought that Grandmother’s handwritten notes might give me some insight into what happened that day.”

“That’s the problem! How could you possibly think that siccing a Delancey on Detective Phillips, whom I understand hasn’t been too fond of the Delancey twins since they proved that his partner was guilty of murder a few years ago, was a good idea?”

Cara Lynn glared at him, her hands propped on her hips. “You didn’t tell me you were trying to get a look at the pages.”

“I told you I was going to the police station to see if I could get any new information. What did you think that meant?”

“How should I know!” Cara Lynn shot back at him. “So, did Phillips give you anything?”

Jack suddenly felt deflated. “No. What about you?”

She shrugged. “Ryker said he’d see what he could do, but he wasn’t very encouraging. Do you want some jambalaya?”

“Yeah, please. It smells great,” he said, abandoning his argument for the moment, because he really was hungry. “Anything I can do? Pour some wine?”

Cara Lynn shook her head. “Sit down.”

Jack sat and flipped through his junk mail and flyers, and tossed them into a pile next to him. He started to open the folder Phillips had given him, but Cara Lynn set a plate of rice and shrimp and sausage in front of him. She poured two glasses of chardonnay, then sat down next to him.

“This is great,” Jack said around a mouthful of rice. “What kind is it?”

“What kind?” she repeated. “Oh, you mean like a brand. I made it from scratch.”

He glanced up at her. “Impressive. What’s the occasion?”

She shook her head. “I got frustrated with my current fiber-art piece, so decided I’d cook.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

She sent him a little smile as she started in on her plate.

Jack ate a few bites, watching her the whole time.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked, reaching for her wine.

“Not staring. I’m—” he paused “—sorry about earlier.”

“The screaming fit?”

He winced and nodded briefly in acknowledgement. “It’s just that if your brothers find out what I’m doing, I’ll lose—” He cut himself off.
Lose everything
.

What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t say things like that to her. He might as well just flay himself open and invite her to eviscerate him. He’d be better off just packing his bags and forgetting his doomed quixotic dream to clear his grandfather’s name.

In fact, when he’d walked into his apartment in Biloxi that afternoon, he’d felt an almost overwhelming urge just to close and lock the door and pretend he’d never even heard of the Delanceys.

But he knew that wasn’t an option. Unfortunately, there was more at stake now than there had been when he’d first cooked up this harebrained scheme.

“You’ll what?” Cara Lynn said. “Lose—?” Her gaze narrowed and a small furrow appeared between her brows.

“Nothing,” he said, standing and taking his plate and glass to the sink. “Forget it. I’ll do the dishes.”

She tossed back the last of her wine, then stood as well, picking up her plate. “Thanks. I’ll put the food away.” She gestured back toward the table with her elbow. “What’s in the folder?”

“I ran over to Biloxi and got copies I’d made of my grandfather’s letters,” he said as he rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.

She was quiet as she put the food away and wiped off the table. She picked up the bottle of wine. “We almost finished this,” she said. “Want the last of it?”

He shook his head. “You go ahead.”

She held up the bottle to the light to measure what was left. “Not even half a glass. I don’t need any more after that migraine yesterday.” She tossed the bottle into the trash.

Jack dried his hands. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, then turned the nod into a shake of her head. “I can’t stop thinking about that man.”

He heard the stress in her voice. “I get it, but you need to try. You’ll just drive yourself nuts if you dwell on him. Trust me, he’s not worth it, whoever he is.”

She shuddered. “Maybe not, but there’s something... I can’t quite figure it out. It’s stuck right at the edge of my mind.”

“What is?” Jack asked.

“I’m not sure. I think it’s something about the man. I didn’t recognize anything familiar about him, but then my head was buried in the pillow.” She took a long breath as if still suffocating. “Ugh. I can’t put it into words. It’s right there, you know?” She held her hand out about three or four inches from her temple and wiggled her fingers. “That close.”

“Sleep on it. Maybe you’ll know in the morning.”

Cara Lynn shook her head. “I slept on it last night, but I sure didn’t know anything this morning.” She sighed. “It’s after nine. I think I’ll lie down and read for a while. My head still feels strange.” She started for the bedroom, then stopped. “By the way, I got a new battery for my phone and there was a message on it from Reilly. We’re invited for drinks and hors d’oeuvres at their house. I have it on good authority that he and Christy are going to announce that they’re pregnant.”

“I don’t think I’ll go,” Jack said.

“Oh, no. You’re not bailing on me,” Cara Lynn insisted. “You will go. You married the Delanceys when you married me, no matter what the reason was, and you will show up for at least some of the family events until you—” She paused for a beat. “We turned down my mother the evening of the gallery opening and so we need to go to this.”

“You turned her down.”

She lifted her chin. “With good reason. We should leave here around six o’clock.” She turned to head for the bedroom again.

“Cara?” Jack said.

“What?” She stopped.

“Thanks.”

She looked at him. “For what?”

“For dinner. For—” he shrugged and felt his cheeks warm.

She stood still for a few seconds, then turned around. “Jack, sit down.”

“What? Why?” he asked.

“Please,” she said. “I need to show you something.”

He pulled out a chair. “What is it?” he started, but she shushed him.

“Jack, please just wait, okay? This is not going to be easy.” She walked to the foyer and picked up her purse, then came back and sat at the table. She opened her purse and retrieved a folded piece of thick blue paper from an inside pocket.

She set her purse on the floor and unfolded the piece of paper and just looked at it for a moment, her lips compressed. At one point the fingers of her right hand tightened where they were holding the edge of the sheet. Jack saw her knuckles whiten.

He had a strong feeling he knew exactly what she was holding. It was killing him not to just reach out and take it from her, but he restrained himself. He felt as if he were watching a feral kitten. He didn’t want to move suddenly or do anything that would make Cara Lynn change her mind about what she had to show him.

If that piece of paper was what he thought it was, then he couldn’t blame her for hesitating. She could very well be holding the tool he needed to clear his grandfather’s name.

It occurred to him that if she gave it to him, she’d also be giving him his ticket out. She’d be saying, in effect,
I know that as soon as you use this and manage to clear your grandfather’s name, you have no further use for me, nor I for you.

Was that true? Was he ready to leave, once the truth came out?

Chapter Ten

The truth
.

Suddenly, he realized that not only was he assuming that the
sheet of paper contained the truth, he was also assuming that it was going to
contain
his
truth. It only made sense considering
Cara Lynn’s hesitation. If it stated that Armand Broussard was guilty, why would
she hesitate? That would be good news for her family and a punch in the gut for
him.

He forced himself to curl his hands into fists and keep them at
his sides while he waited for her to either give him the paper or fold it up and
say
Never mind
.

She folded the sheet, which sent his pulse racing, then held it
in her left hand and tapped her right knuckles with it. Finally she looked up at
him and he saw tears glistening in her eyes. For herself or for him?

“I know this is the right thing to do,” she said, “but I hope
you realize it’s not an easy decision for me. In fact it totally sucks.” She
threw the paper down on the table in front of her, then interlaced her fingers
and pressed her clasped hands to her lips.

“Are you—?” he started, then found he had to take a breath
before he could finish what he was saying. “Are you sure, Cara?”

“Oh, damn it!” she cried. “Take the thing and read it before I
change my mind.” She vaulted up, sending her metal dining room chair screeching
across the floor, and went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of
sparkling water.

Jack’s mouth was so dry he wasn’t sure he could swallow, but he
wasn’t going to ask her to give him something to drink. In fact he wasn’t
planning to move a muscle until he’d read everything on that piece of paper. He
unfolded it and for a moment, he felt as though he couldn’t see anything. His
vision was blurred. It took a few blinks before everything became clear. He
blinked again and focused on the handwritten words on the sheet.

Dear Cara Lynn,

Somehow, when you’re young, you never believe these days that you
fear will ever come. I certainly didn’t. It was only a few months ago, when my
beloved Ivan died, that I actually believed that death was real. I was so lucky
to have him for all these years.

Your mother wrote me that you’ve gotten married and sent me a
snapshot of you and your husband, and has requested the items your grandmother
left you.

Lilibelle wrote a holographic will after Con’s death,
specifying her wishes that you receive her two most precious items, but only
after you were married. If I can, I’ll be there soon after the reception at
which you’re reading this. I wish I could be there to celebrate with you, but as
you may know, my beautiful granddaughter Hannah and her fiancé, Mack, have been
here in Paris, visiting with me. I would love to see my daughter as well, but
neither she nor I can travel right now. I hope to be able to see her after she
recovers from her liver transplant.

Lilibelle was always my best friend. When she told me her
secret and asked me to keep it, I had no choice but to follow her wishes. You
will find, in her journal, her confession that she, not Armand Broussard, killed
your grandfather, her husband. She couldn’t bear the humiliation of him running
for governor while he lived with his mistress, Kit Powers. I have not read the
journal. I only read her letter to you and the note she wrote me. She wants you
to read the entire journal, then make up your own mind what to do with the
information.

Cara Lynn, I know you’ll carefully study and assess everything
you have just received and will do the right thing. I don’t know what made her
choose your marriage as the statute of limitations on this information, but I
suppose she knew what she was doing.

Now, back to the photo of you and your new husband. He is
quite handsome. As I...

Jack automatically turned the sheet of paper
over, but there was no writing on the back. He looked up and caught a look on
Cara Lynn’s face that he’d never seen before. When he met her gaze, she gave him
a sheepish shrug. “There’s another page,” he said.

She nodded. “There is. But you have everything you wanted,
right there.”

“But she was talking about me.”

“Just because it may be about you doesn’t give you the right to
see it.”

Jack turned the sheet back over and read the entire page again.
When he came to the part that said, point blank, that Lilibelle had killed Con,
he read the words over and over.

You will find, in her journal, her
confession that she, not Armand Broussard, killed your grandfather, her
husband.

Each time Jack looked at those words, his heart rate sped up
another fraction of a second. And to be perfectly honest, now that he had
Lilibelle’s confession, albeit secondhand, the relief of knowing that his
grandfather was truly innocent nearly brought tears to his eyes.

He felt like jumping up and shouting and pumping his fists in
the air. But, while the letter was a triumph for him, those few words were going
to cut like a knife into the hearts of Con Delancey’s family. So he restrained
himself.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You could have kept it,
and there’s no telling when I’d have been able to get the journal. Hell, I might
have never gotten it.”

“Why am I showing it to you?” she said, spreading her hands.
“Because it’s the truth. Or at least the closest thing to the truth you’ll get,
outside of the journal.”

He nodded. “But it’s going to tear your family’s hearts to
pieces. You had no obligation to give me this.”

That appeared to shock her. Her brow furrowed and she sent him
an odd look. “We had a bargain,” she said. “We agreed to find the truth.”

That surprised him. He’d never expected her to share anything
that would reflect badly upon her family.

“Jack?” Cara Lynn said. “What are you going to do?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “I’m going to take this letter to the
police and use it as probable cause to petition the court to run DNA on blood
from the evidence file.” He fanned the letter. “With any luck, this letter will
be enough to convince the judge to reopen the case. And when he does, I believe
the blood on the gun will turn out to be Lilibelle’s.”

“Blood?” Cara Lynn echoed. “What blood?”

“You’ve heard about the cases where wrongly convicted people
are being freed because the court has allowed a review of DNA evidence in cases
where the technology wasn’t available when the case was originally tried?”

“Oh, well yes. I just didn’t think about how old the evidence
really was, I guess.” She gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment. “From what I
understand from listening to Harte talk about these things, isn’t Aunt Claire’s
letter hearsay? I mean, her letter can’t be entered into evidence, right?”

“It depends on the lawyer. I’m sure going to try to have it
entered. We’ll see what the judge says.”

“But what about my grandmother’s journal? If it says the same
thing as Claire’s letter, is that considered a confession? Will it be considered
evidence in court?”

“I don’t know. I’m playing this by ear. I’d like to think so,
but I’m afraid it won’t be. After all, even though the journal is handwritten
and dated, and probably signed, I’m not sure it can be proven beyond the shadow
of a doubt that it was your grandmother that wrote it, or that she was acting of
her own free will when she did.”

“So you have to get the approval for the DNA.”

Jack nodded.

“Oh, my God. I have no idea what to tell my family.” She looked
at Jack. “How do I tell them?”

“Cara, there’s no need to tell them at all. No need to worry or
upset them until we have something conclusive.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I’m pretty sure this
should be presented to Harte—he’s the Delancey attorney.”

Jack puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath in frustration. “I
can guarantee you that within minutes of the petition’s filing, your family will
know.”

“So you’re not going to do anything? That seems sneaky.”

He studied her for a few seconds. “If you feel that strongly,
go ahead and tell them.”

She looked back at him as doubt clouded her face. He knew
exactly what she was thinking. She was weighing telling her family about
Claire’s revelation against her humiliation at being duped by Jacques Broussard.
Then her brows drew down and her eyes narrowed.

“Jack, what if your grandfather’s DNA is in the blood
evidence?”

“It won’t be.”

“You don’t know that. It was just Con and Grandmother and
Armand Broussard up at the fishing cabin that day.”

“That’s not what my grandfather said.”

“What do you mean?” Cara Lynn asked.

“Your cousin Paul was there,” he said.

“Paul? Are you sure? I never heard that.”

“Yes. It’s what my grandfather said.”

“But—he could have lied. I’ve never heard anyone talk about
Paul. My grandmother didn’t mention him in her letter and neither did Aunt
Claire.”

Jack stiffened. “He didn’t lie.”

“Come on, Jack. How do you know? You’ve never heard but one
side of the story.”

“He had no reason to lie.”

“No reason? What about appeals? What about trying to get a new
trial or parole?”

“Your family saw to it that his appeals failed and that someone
was there at every parole hearing talking about the tragedy of Con Delancey’s
death and the grief of his poor widow.”

“Sounds like you were there.”

“I was. Ever since they finally let me in when I was eighteen.”
He stood and walked over to the refrigerator, opening it and staring at the
contents. After a moment, he pulled out a bottle of sparkling water and opened
it.

Cara Lynn wanted to tell him how sorry she was that he’d had to
see his grandfather in prison orange. That he’d never had a father figure in his
home with him and his mother, but she couldn’t. He was angry.

Well, so was she. The two of them were like knights of old,
jousting, using their own versions of the truth as weapons to dismount the
other.

So instead, she took a deep breath to calm herself and asked
what she thought was the next logical question. “But what if your grandfather’s
blood is on the weapon?”

He turned and stared at her, holding the bottle of water ready
to turn and drink. After a brief, frowning silence, he answered. “Then, that’s
it. It’ll be over.”

“You’ll be done with—us? With the Delanceys?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, then lifted the cold bottle to his lips.
Once he’d drunk his fill, he turned around, looking at the back of Cara Lynn’s
bowed head. She was looking at her hands. He had a feeling she was thinking
about whatever was written on that second page of Claire’s letter.

* * *

E
VER
SINCE
HIS
misspent youth from
which his Aunt Lilibelle had saved him, Paul had been fascinated with the
police. He’d had a police scanner since the first Christmas he’d lived with her,
and over the years he’d spent many hours listening to it.

Also, among his drinking buddies were a few friends from the
old days. One of them was a dispatcher for the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s
Office. He kept Paul abreast of everything that went on in the county,
especially having to do with the Delanceys, and in return, Paul picked up his
bar tab.

So when the word got around that a petition had come in to
reopen the Con Delancey murder case for comparison of DNA evidence, Paul found
out within minutes. He went into a panic.

He’d done what any of the Delanceys would have done. He had
protected his family, whatever the cost. But had his idea of protection gone
outside the bounds of accepted behavior for law enforcement? And more
importantly, for the Delanceys?

But right now, there was nothing he could do. He was going to
have to wait and see what happened.

Cara Lynn had lied to him. There was a lot of interesting stuff
in Jack Bush’s briefcase—or to be accurate—Jacques Broussard’s briefcase. But
her letter from Lilibelle wasn’t there. He should have been harsher. Maybe he
should have hurt her or fired a shot into a pillow to scare her.

In a way, he admired her. She either had more courage or was
more foolish than he’d given her credit for. While she’d known he’d have a hard
time getting into the case, she hadn’t had any idea how long it would take. She
hadn’t known that he would not come back and kill her as he’d promised. And now
he needed that letter more than ever. It was obvious that Jack had used it to
file a petition for DNA testing.

Paul was too nervous to sleep, too anxious and distracted to
take his usual daily run. He spent day and night drinking coffee, often boosted
with bourbon, and going through his receipts and invoices and bank statements of
the past two decades, trying to cook his books so that it appeared that the
majority of Claire Delancey’s money that he’d spent had been on her house and
not for his personal use. It was all he could manage to concentrate on as he
waited for the journal and the letter’s information to come out. As he waited
for the police to come to arrest him.

* * *

T
WO
DAYS
LATER
, on Friday evening, Cara Lynn and Jack took her car to their
mechanic for regular maintenance scheduled for the next day, then headed to
Reilly and Christy’s house, getting there at around six-thirty in the evening.
Nicole, Ryker’s wife, who was a professional chef, had prepared a spectacular
array of light hors d’oeuvres, and made a mint-julep punch. Reilly had a full
bar of wine and liquor, as well as iced tea and coffee.

Cara Lynn took a quick look around and saw that most of her
brothers and cousins were there. Her cousin Hannah and her fiancé, Mack, were
missing, because as soon as they had returned from France, they’d discovered
that her mother’s doctors were on alert that they might receive a liver within
the next twenty-four hours. Then they’d heard of Claire’s sudden death.