Blood Ties in Chef Voleur (11 page)

Cara Lynn’s mom and dad had stayed home because her father had
an infection and Betty was taking care of him.

“Reilly,” she said, taking his hand and proffering her cheek
for him to kiss. “And Christy. Congratulations! You look really good!” she said,
bussing Christy’s cheeks European style. “Although I’ve got to say that Reilly
is the one glowing. I mean, look at that face.”

She and Christy laughed while Reilly, cheeks red, endured some
good-natured ribbing from his brothers and cousins.

In the crowd she saw Paul talking with Shel Rossi, a second
cousin on the Delancey side who was a firefighter. Shel was with a striking
woman she’d seen with him at the reception.

She looked at Paul, thinking about Armand Broussard’s assertion
that he was present when her grandmother shot Con Delancey. As she took Jack
around and introduced him to the few people he hadn’t already met, she tried to
calculate Paul’s age. She knew he’d been very young when his parents had been
killed and he’d been taken in by her grandmother and grandfather. Lilibelle had
always called him “her third son.”

But Cara Lynn had no idea when he’d been born. Judging by his
looks, he was likely in his mid to late forties.

So if he was forty-five today, then twenty-eight years ago when
Con Delancey was murdered, he’d have been seventeen. A teenager. But why had
Lilibelle not mentioned him in her letter—or for that matter, left him part of
the Guillame estate, as she had her sons Robert and Michael? In fact, Cara Lynn
had heard Paul talk all his life about his aunt’s journals. She left Jack’s side
and approached Paul. He turned to her in greeting. “How is your research coming
along?”

It amazed Cara Lynn that the world outside her apartment was
apparently going on just as though nothing had happened. The family was aware of
the theft of the journal and the tiara, of course, but nobody except Jack and
her and the thief knew about the letters or Jack’s true identity, or her
attack.

“Cara Lynn?”

“Oh, Paul, sorry. I’ve had a headache for the past few days. I
guess I’m zoning out a little. You’re talking about the genealogy? I haven’t
done a thing with it since the last time you asked. I’m just so impossibly
busy.” She shrugged.

Paul smirked. “Ah, newlyweds,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. “Well—that’s part of it.”

“You know, Claire always told everyone they could store photos,
tax records and other household papers too numerous to store in a safe deposit
box on her third floor. She had a tin roof and heart-pine floors, nearly
impermeable. Those rooms are as crowded as a spinster’s attic. Boxes everywhere.
But the one I’ve been talking about might be the biggest box of all. It’s full
of old letters, cards and old documents. I rifled through it, but it’s crammed
full. Some go back as far as the mid-eighteen hundreds.”

“Wow,” Cara Lynn said. “That might give me some insight into
Con’s mother’s family. Her maiden name was Jones, but nobody seems to know what
her mother’s maiden name was. That makes it pretty difficult to get any further
back on that side of the family. I’d love to have that box.”

“I’ll bring it over one day.”

“Great,” Cara Lynn said, smiling at him. “I can’t wait to dig
into it. Just give me a call.”

“I’ll do that.” Paul gestured with his head for her to come
closer. He put his left arm around her shoulders and reached for her right
hand.

“Ow,” she uttered. She lifted her hand and looked at her index
finger. There was a tiny scratch on the inside of her knuckle. “Something
scratched me.”

“Oh,” Paul said. “Sorry. It’s this silver ring with the
Austrian crystals. It catches on my clothes, too.”

“It’s okay,” she said, touching her tongue to the scratch.
“What were you saying?”

He was staring at her finger. “Hmm?”

She chuckled. “You seem as scatterbrained as I am. You were
about to tell me something.”

“Oh, right.” He sent a glance around, then whispered to her. “I
just want you to be careful. Every time I see your new husband, he looks as
though he’s casing the joint.”

“Wha—?” Her chuckle turned into a nervous laugh. “Casing—?
Paul, what are you implying? You make him sound like a jewel thief.” Then,
hearing her words, she recoiled. “Whoa! I hope you’re not suggesting Jack may
have hired that thief. That’s ridiculous.”

“I just know he was paying a lot more attention to where the
thief was running than to his injured wife.”

“Ryker and Ethan and Reilly did the same thing. They chased the
guy instead of staying with me. They knew the others would check on me.”

“Yeah, and also, they’re cops. That’s what they’re trained to
do. Jack’s your husband.” Paul gave her a sharp look. “Unless he is a cop?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. He’s an architect.”

Paul spread his hands and shrugged exaggeratedly just as Lucas
walked up to them. “Paul,” he said, nodding at the other man. Then he turned to
Cara Lynn. “Hey, sugar. How’s married life?”

She smiled. “Not bad. I’m hanging in there.”

Lucas laughed. “I wanted to let you know that the guy we picked
up after we ran the prints on the tiara may be about to break.”

“Break?” Paul said. “You mean confess?”

“Not exactly. We’ve got him. His prints matched the partials on
the tiara, which pretty much seals it, since we know the tiara had been sealed
in that box until a couple of minutes prior to the lights going out. Plus he had
the journal in his house.”

“Right, right,” Paul said.

“So what you want is who he’s working for, right?” Cara Lynn
said.

Lucas nodded. “Yeah.”

“Of course,” Paul said, waving a hand. “Cop Show 101. I
forgot.”

Cara Lynn chuckled. “I guess it’s nice to know that the cop
shows get some of it right.”

“Hmph,” was Lucas’s only comment.

At that moment, Jack walked up with a glass of mint-julep punch
for her.

“That looks good,” Paul said. “I’m going to grab a glass, then
I’ve got to go. Claire’s lawyers are killing me. They want to see receipts for
every dime I spent in the last twenty years. I’ll be digging in boxes and bins
all night long.” With an absent nod in their direction, he hurried off.

Lucas watched Paul leave. “Claire’s lawyers are on the right
track, I’d say,” he commented.

“Lucas,” Cara Lynn admonished.

He shrugged. “He’s lived the high life for all this time, with
Aunt Claire footing the bill. If he’s been on the up and up then he won’t have a
problem with the lawyers.”

Cara Lynn took a sip of the punch and made a face. “I don’t
want this. I’m still queasy from that headache.”

“Still?” Jack said. “I think your problem is you’re a nervous
wreck from everything that’s happened.”

She sent him an ironic look. “You think?”

Lucas kissed her on the forehead. “Bye, sugar. I need to go
find the wife. I’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

“We’re going, too. I just need to go by and tell Reilly and
Christy one more time how excited I am that they’re pregnant.” Cara Lynn was
glad to be going home. She was exhausted, and there was still something nagging
at her brain. Something she should remember about the man who attacked her, but
couldn’t.

Chapter Eleven

Cara Lynn slept late the next morning. When she woke, the sun was shining in the bedroom window. She automatically squinted, then realized that squinting wasn’t necessary. The headache that had been lingering ever since the reception over a week before had finally disappeared.

She smelled coffee, but when she went into the living room, Jack wasn’t there. He’d folded the sheet and blanket he’d used and stacked them on the end of the couch.

He hadn’t mentioned what he planned to do today, but it wasn’t hard to guess. If he had a lawyer, and she was pretty sure he did, then they were probably looking for a judge sympathetic to Jack’s grandfather’s story.

Cara Lynn considered the question she’d asked herself time and time again since finding out Jack’s true identity. What would it do to her family if a judge agreed to reopen the Con Delancey murder case?

“I guess we’re about to find out,” she muttered.

Cara Lynn looked around. There were newspapers and unopened mail strewn on the coffee table. Jack had rinsed the dishes, but hadn’t put them in the dishwasher. She needed to wash clothes. The hamper was full.

Today was definitely a day to spend at home, since her car was in the shop. She’d clean up, wash and fold some clothes and just generally take it easy. She might get to finish reading that novel she’d started a few weeks ago. And if she still felt good later, she could fix another nice dinner for Jack. She smiled, thinking about puttering around in the kitchen like a housewife.

But the word housewife echoed in her head like a ghostly wail in a haunted house. She wasn’t a housewife. She wasn’t a wife at all. Not really. Her marriage was a sham. Her husband wasn’t even who he said he was. She had no doubt that as soon as he was able to clear his grandfather’s name, he’d be gone and she’d be left alone and humiliated. Suddenly, puttering about her apartment and waiting for Jack to get back from a meeting with his lawyer was starting to sound sad and pathetic.

She set her coffee cup down half full and headed to the bathroom. She’d shower and wash her hair. Then she’d see what she really wanted to do today. There was plenty to choose from. She had a new piece she was working on at her studio, and last night at Reilly and Christy’s, Kate had asked her if she wanted to go to lunch one day. Maybe Kate would want to do that today.

She got into the shower and turned on the hot water so it cascaded over her head and body. The steam felt wonderful. She felt as though she could stay there, letting the hot water sluice tension, heartache and exhaustion down the drain. If she could manipulate time as easily as she could the shower knobs, she’d turn it back to the day she met Jack.

By skipping the rest of her show to go with him that night, she’d set all this in motion. If she could go back, she would refuse his outrageous request. Would he have kept trying, she wondered? In thinking about the answer to that, which was yes, she accepted the truth, which was that no matter what the outcome of all this was, no matter if she were left alone and heartbroken, she was glad she’d known Jack Bush.

She wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Her throat tightened and her eyes stung as she poured some shampoo and started washing her hair. The soap stung the right side of her neck, just at the curve of her shoulder, and she remembered Jack telling her she had tiny scratches there. She touched the place that burned. Her fingers were slick with water and soap but she could still feel a patch of tiny scabs where the scratches had been. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten it. Maybe she’d left a cardboard tag or a pin in a dress.

She quickly finished, dried off and wrapped a towel around her head, turban-style, and slipped her arms into a terry cloth bathrobe, then walked into the kitchen to get her half-drunk coffee.

While she was topping off her cup, she heard a noise that sounded like it was coming from her office. “Jack?” she called, walking down the hall. “Jack, is that you?”

But it wasn’t Jack who appeared at the office door.

“Paul!” she cried. Her hand jerked and coffee spilled over the side of the cup. Luckily it wasn’t too hot. She covered her pounding heart with her other hand. “Oh, my God. Wh—what are you doing here? You nearly scared the life out of me.”

Paul smiled at her.

“How did you get in?” She glanced in the direction of the living room. “Did Jack leave the door unlocked?” She knew better. Jack wouldn’t do that.

Paul still didn’t speak.

Cara Lynn didn’t like the look on his face. He was still smiling, but it wasn’t a nice smile. And it didn’t go with his dark eyes, which were too hard, like a brittle piece of black glass that would shatter at the slightest blow.

She caught the lapels of the terry cloth robe and pulled them together at her neck. “What’s going on, Paul? How did you get in here?”

He stepped toward her and she recoiled automatically, but he merely passed her and walked up the hall toward the kitchen. She followed him.

“Remember I told you about the big box of legal documents and letters dating back to the eighteen fifties? I thought I’d bring it over for you this morning. If you want to, we can go through some of it together. It’s really interesting.” He gestured back toward the office. “I set it in your office so you wouldn’t have to carry it,” he finished amiably, as if they’d planned to do this today.

Cara clutched the lapels of the robe more tightly. With every second that went by she was more convinced that there was something very wrong about Paul showing up like this. She didn’t for one second believe he had come out to Chef Voleur at this time of the day just to bring her a box and talk about genealogy.

But what bothered her most was that he had
broken
into her home. He had never had a key and there wasn’t one hidden outside.

“Paul, how did you get in?” she asked again.

Paul smiled at her. “Oh, I have a few tricks up my sleeve from my delinquent youth,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just tell my friends to come on into the house if I don’t hear the doorbell. And you know, time was that none of us locked our houses.” He walked over to the living room window and looked out. “It really looked like rain earlier, but now I see the sun’s out. That’s good. I thought I’d go out and take some photos of gravestones this afternoon. I’m so tired of digging through boxes and sorting receipts for those damn lawyers. I’d much rather be helping you with the genealogy. Do you want to come with?”

Those words, coming from cynical, sarcastic Paul sounded ludicrous. He wasn’t a
come with
kind of guy. In fact, he wasn’t a
taking photographs on a nice afternoon
kind of guy, either. No. Paul disliked the sun. According to family members who knew him better than she did, he did most of his renovation work on Claire’s house at night.

“I told you last night that I don’t have time to work on the genealogy. I’m much too busy right now.” Then she gestured toward her towel-wrapped hair and her terry cloth robe. “Thanks for the box, but I need you to go now.” Her uneasiness was fast moving toward fear. This was probably the longest she’d ever talked to Paul, and with every second that passed, he was acting weirder and creepier.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, sweetie. I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.”

She thought about the missing bottles of water. “Have you been in my apartment before when we weren’t here?”

He looked affronted. “Of course not. Why would I?” He gestured toward the office. “I only just brought that box of papers down from Claire’s attic.” He put the smile on again, but it still wasn’t real.

“Okay,” he said on a sigh. “I’m going to go now. I do apologize. I should have kept my little lock-picking secrets to myself. I certainly didn’t mean any harm.” He gave her a hangdog look and headed for the door.

Cara Lynn was torn between
good riddance
and being politely grateful for the box, which really would, admittedly, make her job a lot easier.

But as soon as Jack got home, she was going to demand that he go out and get the best double-locking deadbolt they made—or whatever kind of lock would completely protect them from Paul’s
lock-picking
skills.

“Oh, by the way,” Paul said, turning at the door. “Where’s Jack?”

Cara Lynn shook her head. “He left early. He had some business—in Biloxi, I think.” The lie came quickly and easily to her lips. They hadn’t talked to anyone in the family—except Ryker—about Jack’s efforts to have the DNA examined. So she didn’t want to tell Paul, who was known to be a huge gossip.

Paul nodded. His gaze shifted from her to the couch, then back to her again. “Trouble in paradise?” he asked.

“What?” She followed his gaze. “Oh, no.” She held up a hand to ward off any misconception, hoping he wouldn’t spread the word about Jack sleeping on the couch. “No. He’s been working late on some architectural design he’s doing for a casino company.”

“Damn things are ruining the coastline.”

Cara Lynn shrugged. “I suppose so.” She stood there, waiting for him to leave. She watched him. He had a permanent slump, the type some very slender men get as they grow older. His hair was that ridiculous black that had never existed in nature, and she saw that the elbows of his sport coat were worn. Was that neglect or lack of money? She’d always heard that he lived off Claire’s money while he kept her house in a perpetual state of renovation. Maybe he didn’t live the high life as much as everyone thought he did.

“Call me if you decide you want to go look at gravestones,” he said, disappointment obvious in his voice, as he reached for the doorknob.

Despite her uneasy feeling, despite her irritation at him for picking the lock and walking into her apartment, her natural kindness and graciousness took the place of her good sense.

“Paul, would you like some coffee?” she asked. As soon as the words left her lips she regretted them. She didn’t want him here. She’d never really liked him.

Paul turned, his arms thrown out for a hug or a grand gesture, she supposed. His right hand hit hers and something scratched her wrist.

“Ow!” she cried, recoiling. She looked at her wrist and saw a thin scratch across the inside of it. It hardly raised a drop of blood but it stung. Like her knuckle, she thought, remembering when his Austrian crystal ring had scratched her at Reilly and Christy’s party.

That sense of something important hovering just outside the reach of her conscious mind came over her again and she swayed, vision going dark and sparkly for an instant.

“Cara Lynn? What’s wrong?” Paul asked in a solicitous voice.

She shook her head to clear it. “Oh, nothing, really. I’ve had this headache clinging on for days. I thought it was gone this morning, but now it’s starting back up again. I probably should call my doctor and get him to prescribe me something for it.”

Paul was watching her closely. “I’m sure those headaches can be a bitch,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

For a brief moment, Cara Lynn thought he might finally leave, thinking she needed to lie down because of her headache. She put her hand to her temple, hoping he’d take the hint.

Instead, he released the doorknob and said, “Why don’t you change clothes and I’ll pull out some of the more interesting documents from the box.”

“Paul, I told you I’m too busy.”

He gave no indication that he’d heard her and instead headed toward her kitchen.

Cara faced the choice of spending the morning in a wet robe and towel or changing. She wished for a third choice—Paul leaving, but apparently that wasn’t going to happen, at least not any time soon.

She wasn’t comfortable leaving Paul in the kitchen alone. But she went into the bedroom and changed in record time. Grabbing a comb, she hurried back into the kitchen.

Paul was still at the table. He had a selection of items—her items, from her hiding place behind the baseboard, spread out around him and was fingering them with his right hand. Each time he moved his hand, light glanced off the ring he wore.

Cara stared—not at the items, but at the ring. When she did, a flash of memory slammed her. She remembered the man’s hand pushing the barrel of the gun into her flesh, remembered its weight on the side of her neck and now, thinking about it, she remembered the tiny scratching sensations that she hadn’t noticed at the time because of her fear. She touched the scratch on her knuckle and the new one on her wrist.

“Paul—” she gasped. “You? That was you?” she whispered, stepping backward, away from him. “You attacked me. You put a gun to my neck. That ring scratched me. Oh, my God—and how—how did you find my hiding place?” she cried. Now, she was afraid. He’d come into her house. He’d attacked her. He’d found her hiding place and gone through her purse. What else had he done? What else was he capable of doing?

“I’m taking some of the things that should have been mine,” he said calmly. “Or at least some substitute for what my Aunt Lili always promised me.”

“You need to leave,” she said. “Now. Or I’m calling Ryker.”

He shook his head. “Do you know how long it took me to find your secret hiding place? Well, it took a long time.”

“You have been in here. You drank our water.”

He shook his head. “Cara Lynn, why did you hook up with Broussard? Did he really seduce you? Were you that easily duped?”

“You know? You know who he is?”

“Of course. I’ve known from the beginning. Well, almost the beginning. I mean really—Bush? Broussard? That’s amateur. I could have come up with something a lot better. Hell—
you
could have.”

Cara Lynn stared at her cousin, trying to figure out exactly what he wanted. His ironic voice had turned as hard and brittle as his eyes. A nauseating dread hit the pit of her stomach. “What do you want? I don’t care. Take anything you want. I’m not that into the great big flashy stuff. You want the emeralds? Be my guest.”

“What I want is Aunt Lili’s last journal and your grandmother’s letter. Claire’s letter, which I found tucked into your purse, thank you very much, is not enough by itself. I need the one that was handwritten by Aunt Lili.”

“Why?” she asked, trying to understand. Then she remembered what Jack had told her. “You were there at the fishing cabin when Con was killed.” She looked at him. “Did you kill my grandfather? And how did you manage to get Lili to cover up the fact that you were there? The police didn’t even know you were there. Nobody did, except Jack’s grandfather.” She stopped.