Authors: Beverly Barton

Tags: #Suspense, #Contemporary romance, #Fiction

What She Doesn't Know (23 page)

BOOK: What She Doesn't Know

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“I’ve got a secret,” Clarice said.

“What sort of secret?” Yvonne immediately knew that
the secret
must have something to do with the man sitting astride the motorcycle just now pulling to a stop in the driveway. “Something about Nowell?”

“We’ve always shared all our secrets, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” Yvonne replied. “All our secrets, all our lives.”

Clarice turned to Yvonne, rushed over to her and grabbed her hands, urging her to stand. When Yvonne came to her feet, Clarice fidgeted, her whole body dancing with delight.

“You’ll never guess who Nowell Landers really is.” Tears of happiness flooded Clarice’s eyes.

“Who is he?” A pang of apprehension jolted Yvonne’s stomach.

“He’s Jonathan, of course. My sweet Jonathan come home to me at last.”

Jolie glanced across the table at Garland Wells. He smiled. All through dinner it had been apparent that Gar was under the misimpression that Max had set up a double date in order to bring Gar and Jolie together. And Max whisking Sandy off and onto the dance floor only added evidence to the case Gar had already built in his mind.

“Gar, we need to talk.”

He reached over the table and grasped her hand where it rested on the white linen tablecloth. “I suppose Max told you how I feel about you.”

Oh, shit! “He mentioned that you’d thought about asking me for a date.”

Gar turned her hand over, palm up, and caressed it tenderly. “I’m glad to see you and Max on speaking terms. After all, he’s not only a client but a good friend. I wouldn’t want—”

“I’m not interested in dating anyone right now,” Jolie said, doing her best to project a friendly caring tone. “Max and I have joined forces, more or less out of necessity, to do everything in our power to have the Belle Rose massacre case reopened. We’ve been questioning everyone that might know anything about what happened that day.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re getting at.” He released her hand hurriedly, his own hand jerking in the process.

He seems unnaturally nervous
, Jolie thought. The color drained from his face as if he’d suddenly taken ill.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“This dinner tonight, it wasn’t a double date, was it?”

She shook her head. “No. And I’m sorry if Max led you to believe it was.”

“Poor Sandy.” Gar shook his head.

Jolie glanced at the people on the dance floor, quickly focusing on one couple in particular. Sandy was smiling at Max, a lovesick expression on her face. Dear God, did he have that effect on all women? Sweeping her gaze across the restaurant, she paused on the redhead behind the bar. Eartha Kilpatrick watched Max and Sandy, a forlorn expression on her face. Not jealousy. Not anger or hatred. More a look of heavyhearted acceptance. Another of Max’s conquests realizing how futile loving Max was, how unlikely it was that she would share a future with him.

“Funny thing,” Jolie said, “when we were kids, I had no idea that Sandy had a crush on Max. We were best friends, but that was one secret we never shared.”

“She knew you had a crush on Max, too,” Gar said. “That’s why she never told you.”

“She knew? But how did—”

“You weren’t very subtle. Every time Max was anywhere around, you’d moon over him. He never knew, of course. But Felicia suspected and she used to torment Sandy about it, telling her that Max would never want her, not when he could have his pick of either Felicia or you.”

“Felicia was cruel to have treated Sandy that way.”

“Felicia was a cruel person.” Gar sighed. “I always regretted that I didn’t try to warn Max before he married her.”

Jolie suddenly felt guilty. Guilty that she’d been in Max’s arms. Guilty that she had kissed him. Guilty because she knew he wanted her in a way he would never want Sandy.

“Loving someone who doesn’t love you is a real bitch,” Jolie said, more or less mumbling to herself.

“Yes, it can be,” Gar agreed.

Jolie looked directly at him, a stricken feeling knotting her insides.
Oh, please, God, please, don’t let him mean that he’s in love with me
.

A pitiful smile tweaked the corners of Gar’s lips. “Don’t look so upset. I wasn’t referring to you. I had a major crush on someone once, years ago. She was older, more experienced, and I fell madly in love with her.”

“Oh, Gar, what happened?”

“She died.” He closed his eyes as if the pain was still fresh.

“I’m sorry.”

Gar shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Besides, she didn’t love me. She was engaged to someone else.” Gar opened his eyes and stared at Jolie. “You remind me of her. Physically. You look so much like she did then. I guess you’re about the same age she was twenty years ago.”

“My God! You’re talking about my aunt Lisette. You—you were in love with Lisette?”

Gar snorted. “Yeah, me and half the men in Desmond County.”

Jolie’s mind whirled with a myriad of puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit. But one thing fit: Roscoe Wells was somehow connected to the Belle Rose massacre. And Roscoe’s son had been in love with one of the victims. Meaningless? Maybe. Maybe not.

“I hate to ask this, but…” Jolie hesitated. “Did you and Aunt Lisette have an affair? And if you did, did your father know about it?”

“I’ve never told anyone. Not even Max.”

“Then you were lovers?”

“Yes, we were lovers, but…What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything,” Jolie assured him. “Just trying to fit some puzzle pieces together. So, you and my aunt had an affair, but she wasn’t serious about you. She planned to marry Parry Clifton and you—”

“Wanted her to marry me, but she laughed when I asked her. She told me that I was just a kid, that we’d had fun together, but…” Gar closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re wondering. I couldn’t have harmed a hair on her head.”

“What about your father?”

“Daddy? He didn’t know anything about Lisette and me.”

“Are you sure?”

“You think—My God, you and Max think my father had something to do with the Belle Rose massacre, don’t you?”

“We believe he was involved in the cover-up, in the disappearance of the old files from the sheriff’s department, and—”

Sandy and Max returned to the table before Jolie could finish her explanation. Max seated Sandy, then took the chair across from her, beside Jolie.

Sandy glanced back and forth from Jolie to Gar. “Well, I’d say you two had the same conversation Max and I did.” She looked at her brother. “So, what do you think, brother dear, is our father capable of murder?”

“Probably,” Gar said. “But what motive would he have had to kill Lisette and Audrey? Their families had been friends for generations.”

“That’s what I asked Max.” Sandy focused on Jolie. “God knows I’d never defend the old bastard if I thought he was guilty, but in this case, I can’t figure out a motive.”

A tense silence fell among the four of them. Jolie’s heartbeat drummed noisily in her ears. Even if Gar was wrong and Roscoe had known about his affair with Lisette, that wouldn’t have given him a motive to murder her. No, no, that wasn’t it. There had to be something else. But what? What small significant piece of information were they all missing in their calculations?

Suddenly Max’s cell phone rang. Jolie gasped. Sandy jumped. Gar groaned.

“Excuse me.” Max removed the phone from his pocket. “Devereaux here.”

Jolie waited while Max listened and then grunted a few times. He kept glancing at her during the one-sided conversation. Finally he said, “Yes, thanks. This could be the break we’ve been looking for.”

“Max?” Jolie grabbed his arm.

“Wait a minute.” Max took a small notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his sport coat and scribbled something down, then returned both items to his jacket.

“Well?” Jolie glowered at him.

“Just a business call.”

Gar rose to his feet. “It’s been…interesting. But I’m ready to call it a night. How about you, sis?”

Sandy nodded. “Sure, me, too. I think I’ll drop by the hospital and see Theron. I’m sure Amy’s there. She’s been spending a couple of hours with him every evening since he went into a private room.”

When Sandy stood, Max got up. She kissed his cheek, then leaned over and hugged Jolie. “I hope you two can find out what really happened the day Miss Audrey and Miss Lisette were killed. And I pray to God that my daddy didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Gar shook hands with Max, then patted Jolie’s shoulder. “Be careful, you two.”

The minute Sandy and Gar were out of earshot, Max grabbed Jolie’s arm and jerked her to her feet.

“What the—”

“The call that just came in on my cell phone—that was Hugh Pearce, the private investigator I hired,” Max told her. “He’s found Aaron Bendall.”

Chapter 22

Max hired a private plane to take them straight from Sumarville to Key West. They left after breakfast the next morning and arrived in the Keys before lunchtime. They had agreed to share their news with Theron and Yvonne and no one else, letting Yvonne explain to the family only that they’d gone out of town together as part of their ongoing investigation. It wasn’t that they distrusted anyone at Belle Rose, but if somebody accidently let it slip that they were on their way to Key West to question Aaron Bendall, that information could easily find its way to Roscoe Wells.

The hot tropical sun, the humidity, and the ocean breeze welcomed them to Key West. A rental car awaited them, along with directions to their hotel, an inn in the heart of Key West’s historic “Old Town” district. The manager, a thin, hollow-cheeked, leather-brown man of indiscernible age, greeted them graciously; and it quickly became apparent to Jolie that he knew who Maximillian Devereaux was. Or at the very least, Mr. Fritz knew how wealthy Max was.

“Your suite is ready, Mr. Devereaux. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to let us know immediately. I’m at your service twenty-four hours a day.”

The decor of their two bedroom suite was Caribbean with rattan and bamboo furniture, the walls pastel shades of green, yellow, and blue. Paintings of local scenes hung on the walls, probably done by Key West artists. Bouquets of lush tropical flowers resided on every table. Everything worked to create a cool, serene, vacation-perfect atmosphere. Only they weren’t here to lounge on the beach or scuba dive or rent a catamaran.

The bellhop deposited Max’s bag in the bedroom to the left and hers in the room to the right. By the time Jolie had visually inspected her bedroom and opened the doors leading to the balcony, laced in gingerbread trim befitting the Victorian structure, waiters were bringing in lunch and setting it up on a white linen-covered table in the lounge between the two bedrooms.

“Just something light,” Mr. Fritz said, motioning the waiters away. “Fruit salad, Key Lime bread, grilled shrimp, and a bottle of Chablis.”

Jolie checked the wine.
A 1999 Francois Raveneau Chablis Montee de Tonnerre
. Only the best for Max Devereaux. Mr. Fritz personally uncorked the bottle of
grand gru
Chablis.

“Thank you.” Max shook hands with the manager. “And I’ll need directions to get from here to Maloney’s Marina. After lunch, Ms. Royale and I plan to visit a friend who keeps his cruiser docked there.”

“The marina is very easy to find and only minutes from here. I will jot down the directions for you and have them waiting at the front desk.” Mr. Fritz all but bowed as he left the suite.

Jolie eyed the delectable lunch items. Max lifted the bottle of Chablis and filled two crystal flutes.

“We could have gone straight to the marina,” Jolie said.

“You barely touched your breakfast,” Max told her. “And it could be quite some time before we eat dinner, so I thought it best for us to have a light lunch before we go in search of Mr. Bendall.”

“When we find him, what are the odds that he’ll tell us anything?” Jolie allowed Max to seat her, then she lifted the white linen napkin from the table and spread it across her lap.

“If our assumptions are correct and someone, probably Roscoe Wells, paid off the former sheriff, then I’d say it’s possible that, for the right price, he’ll tell us whatever we want to know.”

“You’re saying we’ll have to pay him for information.” Jolie lifted her fork, speared a piece of fruit and lifted it to her mouth.

“Oh, we’ll have to pay him all right,” Max said. “The only question is how much.”

An hour later, Max parked the rental car at Maloney’s Marina; then he and Jolie got out and began their search for the
Mississippi Magnolia
, a small cruiser, where Aaron Bendall reportedly lived. A wide variety of yachts, ranging from top-of-the-line beauties that would sleep a dozen to cruisers that bunked two, lined up in the slips along the pier.

The
Mississippi Magnolia
turned out to be a twin-engine, midpriced cruiser that slept four, which would have cost at least a hundred and fifty thousand. Not too shabby for a retired sheriff from Desmond County, Mississippi. A large heavyset man, with a scraggly gray beard, wearing a faded red baseball cap, a loose-fitting floral shirt and baggy cutoff jeans stood on deck.

“Aaron Bendall?” Max called.

The man turned, looked at them and grinned, then threw up his hand and waved. “Well, as I live and breathe, if it’s not Max Devereaux and Jolie Royale.” He motioned to them. “Come on board. I’ve been expecting y’all.”

Theron closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, knowing it was the only way he could get his mother, Aunt Clarice, and Amy to stop hovering over him. The minute the threesome tiptoed out of the bedroom, he breathed a sigh of relief. Not that he didn’t enjoy having three women waiting on him hand and foot, but enough was enough. After his release from the hospital this morning, his mother had insisted he stay at her house until he was fully recovered, and considering the fact that he could do little more than feed himself and use a wheelchair to get to the bathroom, he didn’t argue with her. But he thought he’d lose his mind if any one of them asked him again if he needed anything.

With the bedroom door half-closed, he could make out most of what they were saying.

“I’m going to run on, Mrs. Carter,” Amy said. “I’ll be back tonight.”

“You come for supper,” Yvonne told her.

“It’ll be after seven,” Amy explained.

“Whenever you get here will be fine,” Yvonne said. “Just your being around seems to cheer Theron a lot.”

The front door closed quietly, then the roar of a car’s engine told him that Amy had started her Mustang.

“She’s such a sweet young woman,” Clarice said. “And you can tell she’s just crazy about our Theron.”

“I think he’s fond of her, too.” Yvonne sighed. “Nothing would make me happier than to see him married to a fine girl like Amy. It’s high time I had me some grandchildren.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful. Babies at Belle Rose again.”

Theron closed his eyes, letting the drone of his mother’s and aunt’s voices lull him into a semiconcious state. It would take some getting used to, this notion that his mother was a half sister to Clarice Desmond, that his grandfather had been a white man, the descendant of slave owners. As he let his mind wander back to his childhood, he managed to bring to the surface a vague memory of his grandmother, Sadie Fuqua. She’d been a slender, small-boned woman, with fine features and large black eyes. He remembered her singing to him. He couldn’t recall the tune, but he could feel the laughter inside him bubbling up from the memory. Mr. Sam Desmond had died before Theron was born, but he’d seen the portrait of him in the front parlor at Belle Rose. A large commanding man, with brown hair and bright hazel eyes.

Theron sighed and let his mind continue wandering through his childhood. Fuzzy, hazy thoughts. Lethargy claimed him. And moment by moment he drifted off into a light sleep.

Later in the day, Theron woke, rousing slowly, languidly. He could hear his mother’s voice. She was speaking quietly to someone. Was Aunt Clarice still here? He gazed out the window and noted that the sun was shining, which meant it was still daytime, then he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. He chuckled to himself. He’d slept only an hour. Using the techniques the physical therapist had taught him, Theron managed to maneuver himself out of bed and into his wheelchair. Someone had closed the bedroom door while he slept; that’s why he couldn’t make out what his mother was saying or to whom. After opening the door, he eased the chair from the bedroom and into the narrow hallway. His mother stood in the middle of the living room, the telephone to her ear.

“Yes, this is Yvonne Carter.”

He wheeled closer, intending to let his mother know he was awake and up, but before he caught her attention, her next words froze him in place.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “But you should fear me.”

Who the hell is she talking to?
Theron wondered.

“You’re wrong if you think I won’t do whatever is necessary to keep my son safe. I can’t prove that you hired someone to kill him, but I promise you this—if anyone tries to hurt him again, Clarice and I will go to the sheriff and press charges against you.”

Theron had never heard his mother speak to someone so fiercely, with such anger and hatred in her voice. His mind whirled with questions, but he tried to quiet his puzzled thoughts so he could eavesdrop on her conversation.

“I’m talking about another crime,” Yvonne said. “One where Clarice and I were the victims.”

Theron’s heart leaped to his throat.

“No, it won’t be your word against mine. It will be your word against my word and Clarice Desmond’s word.”

What the hell was his mother talking about?

“It doesn’t matter that people think Clarice is touched in the head or that I’m just a
colored woman
with a racial ax to grind. Even if you never serve a day in a jail, do you think any black person would ever vote for you again, if they knew what you did? And quite a few white folks would doubt your innocence. Your political career would be over. And any future hopes you have for Garland would come to an end.”

Garland? Garland Wells? Good God Almighty, his mother was talking to Roscoe Wells. And she knew about something he’d done that could put him in jail, something she and Clarice had witnessed.

“You think long and hard about what I’ve said.” Yvonne slammed the receiver down on an end table by the sofa.

Her hand shook as she removed it from the telephone. Theron wheeled into the living room. When she heard him, his mother gasped, then turned to face him.

“I—I didn’t know you were awake,” she said, her gaze meeting his, her eyes questioning him.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked.

She hesitated, and he wondered if she would lie to him.

“Roscoe Wells,” she replied.

“Why would you talk to that son of a bitch?”

“I called him to warn him.”

“Warn him about what?”

“I told him that if he’d hired those men to kill you, that he’d better not try it again.”

“Why would Roscoe Wells be afraid of you? What do you and Clarice know about him that could put him in jail?”

Yvonne tensed so suddenly and so solidly that she seemed to have turned instantly to stone. Even her breathing slowed.

“Mama?”

No response.

“Answer me.”

Silence.

“I heard you say that it was a crime where you were one of the victims. What the hell did Roscoe Wells do to you?”

“I’ve got to get back up to Belle Rose and start dinner.” Yvonne turned toward the kitchen. “But I need to put on a pot roast for us before I leave. Amy’s coming to eat with us. Do you need anything before I—”

Theron caught up with her, reached out, grabbed her wrist, and said, “Dammit, tell me what he did to you!”

“Please, don’t use bad language when you speak to me.”

“Mama…”

“I’ll send one of the day girls down here to stay with you until I get back. I won’t be gone long.”

“I don’t need anybody,” Theron said. “I’ll be all right alone for a couple of hours.”

“All right. But call me if you need me.”

Yvonne walked off into the kitchen. Theron balled his hands into fists and scrunched his face in a frustrated frown. He knew his mother well enough to realize that she was not going to tell him what he wanted to know. Not now or ever. Not unless and until she wanted to.

He wheeled over to the phone, lifted it and dialed.

“Royale residence.” A voice he didn’t recognize but assumed to be one of the daily maids answered.

“May I speak to Clarice Desmond, please.”

BOOK: What She Doesn't Know

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