Marisa Carroll - Hotel Marchand 09 (4 page)

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. “Hush,” Yvonne warned.

“Hello, Yvonne, Cecily, Marie.” Marjolaine entered the room just as Yvonne slid the last casserole into the big oven. “Henry told me you’d arrived. I see you have everything you need.”

“Gabriel has everything laid out for us,” Cecily said, patting the braided bun that hung heavily on the back of her neck. Marjolaine had long, straight hair the same as she did, but she always wore hers in an intricate French braid that Cecily had never had the patience to learn how to produce.

“He’s a good boy,” Yvonne approved.

“He tries hard.” Marjolaine smiled, but her eyes were troubled as they usually were when her mentally challenged younger brother was the topic of conversation. “The tables are set up in the Ladies’ Parlor. I’ll have Gabriel start the coffee as soon as Father Joe finishes the prayer service.”

“Bon.”

Just then Estelle Jefferson and Helen Simone, the sixth and newest member of the Lagniappe Ladies, came through the back door of the kitchen, both laden with casserole dishes in padded baskets. “Sorry we’re late,” Estelle said.

“How’s Willis doing today?” Marjolaine asked.

“Fair to middlin’,” Estelle responded.

“He’ll feel better when the weather breaks.” Marjolaine set the plate and glass she’d carried into the kitchen with her in the big double sink and exited the room, leaving the Lagniappe Ladies alone.

Estelle and Helen placed their casseroles in the oven alongside the others and turned to Yvonne. “Are we ready?” she asked.

Yvonne nodded, pulling her rosary out of her pocket. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s go say
au revoir
to Maude, and then we’ll figure out how we’re going to sweet-talk Sophie Clarkson into letting us inside the opera house without my grandson finding out what we’re up to.”

Marie didn’t budge from where she was standing. “I say after the funeral we just walk up to her and ask for the key to get our stuff out of the shop. I mean, it’s not like we’re smuggling heroin or something like that. We paid for it. We have receipts and everything.”

“But we still smuggled it into the country,” Helen pointed out, biting her lip. “It’s against the law to bring prescription drugs over the border and you know it.” Helen was a timid woman and their activities had never set well with her. “Especially one like Willis’s that’s banned in the States.”

“Banned is right,” Cecily hissed. “Why do you think we’ve been doing it like this for the past two years?”

“I was never so frightened in my life as when I got that letter from the government people saying they’d confiscated Willis’s pills and we could be arrested if we tried ordering them from Canada again,” Estelle murmured.

Cecily lowered her voice to a whisper, but even then it vibrated with emotion. “We have to get our shipment out of the opera house and that’s all there is to it. It’s not just the six of us. There’s another dozen people waiting for their medications, remember.” She wasn’t ashamed of what they were doing, but she was worried about what might happen to all of them, and to Alain, if they were caught. “But we’ve got to be smart about this. We can’t just walk up to Sophie Clarkson and ask straight out for the shipment unless—”

“Unless what?” Marie demanded.

Cecily gave up; she couldn’t let Willis and the others down. “Unless we absolutely have to.”

S
OPHIE SMOTHERED
a yawn behind her hand. The music playing on the funeral home’s PA system, a mixture of Cajun ballads and folk tunes instead of the somber classical or religious orchestrations she’d expected, wasn’t loud enough or lively enough to keep her awake. It was almost midnight but there were about twenty people scattered throughout the viewing and refreshment rooms, eating, drinking, talking and even laughing softly now and then. Someone, it seemed, was always at her side, everyone friendly and solicitous, trying hard to include her in their conversations. But her connection to Indigo had been tenuous at best the last several years and she found herself only truly engaged when someone was speaking of Maude.

Sophie had eaten her fill of Blue Moon Diner gumbo and Yvonne Valois’s sweet potato pie when the buffet was set out an hour ago, and had drunk what seemed like a gallon of coffee, but the intake of sugar and caffeine hadn’t helped. She was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. And at the moment she felt like kicking herself for not accepting Marjolaine’s invitation to go upstairs and take a short nap. How would she ever make it through the entire night and half the next day without falling asleep on her feet?

“You know there’s no rule that says you have to be here every minute,” a masculine voice said from behind her.

Sophie spun around. The man now standing before her was young, a quality which had been in short supply that evening. He was probably in his late twenties, broad-shouldered, blond and blue-eyed. When he smiled, Sophie’s breath caught in her throat for a moment or two. He was so handsome it was an absolute sin.

He held out his hand and Sophie took it automatically. “Ms. Clarkson, my name’s Luc Carter.” He wasn’t a native of Indigo, she could tell that right away. His vowels were clipped, his words too precise. She guessed he had grown up in the north, or possibly out west. “I moved to the area about ten months ago. I didn’t know Maude Picard as well as the others here, but we were becoming friends. My condolences.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carter.” Sophie had recovered her breath and her poise.

Luc Carter smiled and released her hand. “I meant it when I said protocol doesn’t demand you stay here all night. You look beat.”

“That bad?” she asked. She restrained herself from raising her hand to pat her hair. It was blond—naturally—shoulder-length, curly and flyaway, the bane of her existence.

He had the grace to look chagrined. “Sorry, I phrased that badly. I know you drove all the way from Houston today. It will be another long day tomorrow. No one expects you to be here every single moment in between. You should get some rest if you have the chance.”

“As a matter of fact, Marjolaine offered me a bed upstairs, but—” This time it was her turn to stumble to a halt.

“But you don’t exactly feel like napping in a funeral home, right?”

“I know it’s silly, but you’re right, I do feel that way. Unfortunately I have nowhere else to go.” A little spurt of annoyance sharpened her words. “Alain Boudreaux has the keys to my godmother’s house and he hasn’t seen fit to show up here and give them to me yet tonight.”

Luc angled his head a fraction. “Why don’t you come home with me?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Sophie hoped she didn’t sound as shocked as she felt. Who was this guy?

He saw her confusion and smiled. “That’s an invitation, not a proposition. Marjolaine can vouch for me. I run La Petite Maison. The Little Cottage,” he explained when he saw her bewildered expression. “It’s a bed-and-breakfast.”

“I had no idea there was a bed-and-breakfast operating anywhere near Indigo,” Sophie said, relaxing a little. She began to register the friendly smiles and waves of greeting directed toward Luc Carter and dismissed the unworthy thoughts of ax murderers and gigolos that had stampeded through her tired brain moments earlier. “My godmother never mentioned it.”

“We’re located not quite a mile out of town, on the bayou road. I’m the manager, plumber, gardener and concierge, but the property is actually owned by my grandmother.”

“Have I met her?” Sophie asked politely. Family connections were important in Indigo, one always inquired.

“I doubt it,” Luc said a little abruptly, then softened the sharp words with a smile. “She’s lived in New Orleans for decades, but La Petite Maison was the family’s summer getaway many years ago.”

“And you’ve always dreamed of running a hotel, right?”

His easy smile faltered for a moment. “Actually I’ve been in the hotel business for several years.”

“Ah, but you always wanted to open a place of your own,” Sophie amended.

“Something like that.”

“You have a room available for the rest of the night, then?”

“Not just tonight. I’ve only been open a few weeks. I can accommodate you for as long as you wish to stay in Indigo. As a matter of fact, if you don’t mind climbing an extra flight of stairs, you can have the attic suite. It has a whirlpool tub and a private bath. The other four rooms share.”

“A Jacuzzi. That sounds like heaven.” Her exhaustion was fast overcoming her guilt at leaving the wake.

“And the view from the balcony’s not bad, either. It overlooks the gardens and the Bayou Teche. It’s a little early for the gardens but I never get tired of watching the river roll by.”

“Do you really think it’s okay for me to leave?” Marjolaine had told her the same thing, but Sophie felt uncomfortable just walking away from Maude’s wake. She looked around the room. Three of Maude’s friends—the Lagniappe Ladies, Marjolaine had called them—were sitting on chairs to the left of the casket. Two of them were Alain’s mother and Estelle Jefferson, whom Sophie had met earlier. The third was Alain’s ex-mother-in-law, Marie Lesatz. If Sophie stayed, she would be expected to join them at their vigil.

And then there was Alain himself. She was coward enough to be happy to avoid seeing him at all if she could manage it. She turned back to Luc, willing a smile to her lips. “I would love to stay at La Petite Maison. Can you wait a moment while I get my coat?”

Five minutes later they were standing on the wide verandah of the funeral home. The rain was still coming down, cold and relentless. Fog rose from the low places in the rolling lawn that surrounded the building and wreathed the streetlight overhead. Sophie shivered. It wasn’t as cold as it sometimes got in Houston, but the dampness crept into your bones if you lingered outside too long.

“Is your car nearby?” Luc asked her. He was holding the huge black umbrella that Marjolaine had pressed on Sophie when she’d sought out the funeral home manager to tell her of the change in plans. Marjolaine had seemed pleased with her decision, stating that she was looking forward to seeing the improvements Luc Carter had made to La Petite Maison, and laying to rest any last doubts Sophie had about driving off into the night with the handsome stranger.

“I’m parked in the church lot.” She pointed across the street to St. Timothy’s.

“If you give me your keys I’ll bring your car around.”

Sophie opened her mouth to assure him she could find her own way to the bed-and-breakfast when a big black SUV with a reflective Indigo Police Department decal rolled to a stop beside them. The door opened and Alain Boudreaux got out. Sophie would have known him anywhere, the tall lanky build, the easy athletic grace with which he moved, the way he tilted his head a little to the left when he walked. He was still in uniform, and aside from the plastic-covered gray Stetson on his head, dressed all in black—shirt, pants, shoes and leather bomber jacket. “Speak of the devil,” Luc said quietly under his breath. “I believe it’s Chief Boudreaux himself come to pay his respects to the dead.”

“C
ARTER
.” Alain touched his fingers to the brim of his hat.

“Chief,” Luc responded in a neutral tone. “Busy night?” he inquired pleasantly enough.

“Always is when it rains this hard. Some people just never get the hang of driving on wet roads.” Alain turned his head slightly to bring the woman standing beside Indigo’s newest citizen into view. “Hello, Sophie,” he said. Her face was shadowed by the big black umbrella Carter held over both of them, but he didn’t need to see the expression in her slanting, gray-blue eyes to know she was wary of him.

“Hello, Alain,” she said in a polite, distantly friendly voice, as if he were only another of the near strangers who had already offered her condolences that night. He didn’t attempt to shake her hand because he didn’t quite trust himself to touch her. Would that old snap and sizzle of awareness still be there between them? Or was it gone, withered away with the passage of time and neglect? He wasn’t prepared to find out just then.

She didn’t offer her hand either, keeping both of them shoved deep into the pockets of her expensive-looking suede trench coat. She had belted it close around her slim waist, showing him she still had the kind of figure that stirred a man’s blood.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier to pay my respects. There was an accident out on the highway. Three-car pileup, and the parish sheriff couldn’t see his way clear to send a deputy this far south just for roadblock patrol.” That kind of neglect of Indigo and its environs was all too common an occurrence, and one of the reasons he was thinking of running for sheriff himself come the next election.

“You don’t have to apologize for doing your job, Alain. I hope no one was seriously hurt.” Her voice was softer this time.

“No fatalities,” he said.

“I’m glad.”

“I’m taking Ms. Clarkson to La Petite Maison so she can get a couple of hours rest,” Carter inserted smoothly. Alain cut a glance at the younger man. He was dressed in a dark suit and white shirt open at the throat. The shirt was silk and the suit had a European cut and looked to be imported. He and Sophie made a striking couple. A remnant of his old insecurity stirred inside Alain, surprising him with its resurrection. It had been a long time since he’d felt he didn’t measure up.

He turned his attention back to Sophie. “I was bringing you Maude’s effects,” he said, angling his head toward the SUV. “I meant to get them to you several hours before this. I’m sorry I didn’t make it.” Rain dripped off the brim of his hat and found its way down the collar of his coat. He hunched his shoulders slightly against the chill.

“Your duty comes first,” Sophie said once more in that polite but distant tone that told him she didn’t want any more to do with him than she had to.

“I can give you a lift to Maude’s place if you don’t want to make the drive out to the B&B.” The offer came out of his mouth without his thinking of it. It was an automatic response, a learned behavior. She was unfamiliar with the area. It was late at night, raining hard. It was his duty as an officer of the law to make sure she didn’t come to harm. Nothing more.

“La Petite Maison’s only a mile out of town, but I was about to offer Ms. Clarkson a ride if she’s too tired to drive her own car.”

Again Alain turned his attention to the other man. It was the look in his eyes, he decided, something that told him the suit and the shirt and shoes might be expensive, but Luc Carter hadn’t always been rolling in dough. And then there were the unanswered questions about his past. The trouble in New Orleans that had landed him in enough hot water to get him sentenced to probation for two years and exiled to a place like Indigo.

“What I’m too tired to do is stand here in the rain arguing about where to spend the night.” Sophie’s sharp words cut into his musings about Luc Carter’s recent brush with the law. “I thank you both for your offers to drive me to my night’s lodging, but I think I can manage to get to the B&B on my own. Chief Boudreaux, I’d appreciate it if you’d have my godmother’s effects ready when I pull up.” She gave him a look that even in the dim light was easy enough for Alain to read: she’d had a long day with another one looming before her and she had no intention of becoming the bone in a dog fight. She ducked out from under the sheltering umbrella and headed for her car.

“I think we’ve been put in our places,” Luc said, watching her slim, straight back disappear into the shadow of St. Timothy’s.

“Without a doubt.” Alain kept his attention focused on the other man. Maybe it was time to dig a little deeper into Luc Carter’s past. The B&B was owned by Celeste Robichaux, Luc’s grandmother. Luc’s father had been her son, Pierre, though Luc had chosen to go by his mother’s maiden name for some reason. To the old-timers of Indigo, Celeste Robichaux was a well-known figure. But few people, except those such as Alain’s own grandmother, to whom family ties and blood lines were all-important, knew that Celeste’s daughter had married a man named Remy Marchand and now owned a hotel in New Orleans.

A hotel that had been in the news a lot a year or so ago.

“I can see the wheels turning in your head, Boudreaux,” Luc said. “I haven’t stepped one foot out of line or been as much as five minutes late meeting my parole officer since I got here.”

“I know.”

Carter raised an eyebrow. “Professional courtesy between the New Orleans PD and Indigo?”

“Something like that.”

“No need to start hassling me just because I offered the lady a place to stay for the night. It’s my job, remember.”

“No hassle, Carter. Just doing
my
job. You were charged with felony theft, criminal mischief, fraud and conspiracy. Not exactly a ringing endorsement of your good citizenship. Sending a woman off alone with an accused felon wouldn’t be fulfilling my obligation to serve and protect the citizens of Indigo, now would it?”

“Look, what I did back in New Orleans wasn’t smart, but I’ve spent the last ten months working my fingers to the bone on the cottage to make restitution to the Marchands.”

“Your family, you mean.”

When Luc didn’t say anything, Alain decided not to press the matter.

Luc’s eyes glittered in the reflected light of the streetlamp. “I’m serving two years probation. After that, three more years of model citizenship will get me a clean record. It will sure as hell be easier to accomplish if the whole town doesn’t know about me.” A car engine purred to life in the church parking lot. Carter angled his head in that direction. “Here comes Ms. Clarkson. What am I supposed to tell her?”