Dead on the Delta (21 page)

God, what’s
wrong
with me? I’m becoming a cat lady. For real. Might as well paper my bedroom with kitten posters and buy a calendar. Or a mug with a kitten dangling from a tree with “Hang in there, it’s almost Friday!” in pink bubble letters underneath. Or maybe a flask is a better idea …

For the first time since last night, a nip or three doesn’t sound bad. Encouraging. Hopefully that
means my head is healing and I’ll soon be back to normal. Or close to normal, newfound soft spot for furry things aside.

Hmmm … furry things.

I turn back to the main room, crossing to the couch, eyeballing the red pillows. There, a medley of black and white hairs cover the fabric, just as they coated my tank top yesterday after I plucked Gimpy from the shuttle. There are no pictures or other hard evidence, but I’m willing to bet my next paycheck that
my
Gimpy is also the Breeze head’s Satan’s Helper.

As much as I hate to admit it, Skanky picked the better name.

“Well, he’s Gimpy now,” I mutter, feeling strangely territorial. Maybe it’s the way Gimpy nuzzled my hand for a split second this morning after I refilled his cooler with fresh ice and a few cans of Coke. Or maybe it’s just that I need something safe to love.

I swipe my hand across my forehead, determined to get out of here before the morning gets any hotter. Thankfully, my nose went numb after the initial stink-invasion, but the fairy shit in that trashcan isn’t getting any fresher. I shove my hands into my waders and dig out a pair of plastic gloves and a few Ziploc bags from my jeans pockets.

Perfectly prepared. It feels good.

I pull on my gloves and head for the cabinets above the sink and the surrounding drawers. If there’s a paper trail connecting this Breeze house to others in the area, I assume I’ll find it in there somewhere.
There isn’t any other place for it to hide. Aside from the couch, the Breeze-making setup, and a few laundry bins full of clothes stacked near the bathroom, the place is pretty spare.

I glance into the cabinets—empty but for cans of cat food and some cereal that rodents have already infested—then move on to the drawers. I tug open one after another, snapping pictures of their contents, but not bothering to shove anything into my baggies. Utensils, a collection of needles I’m not going to touch with a ten-foot pole, and a charger cord for a cell phone. There’s nothing that gives me any clue who ran this house or whether they’re connected to a larger operation. It’s as if someone’s been here before me to clear away the evidence.

But if that’s true, why didn’t that someone take the Breeze-making equipment or the fairy shit? Or at least the Breeze that’s already prepped and ready to sell?

Wait a second …

Ready-to-go Breeze would probably be in cold storage. It doesn’t have to be refrigerated, but it stays potent longer if it doesn’t get too hot.

I slam the final drawer closed and step back, scanning the tiny kitchen. There it is, a brighter square on the once-cream linoleum. It isn’t big enough for a full-sized fridge, more likely one of the mini numbers, but I still can’t imagine my scrawny Breeze head carrying it away. Even pumped on a toxic high, she wouldn’t get far with something so heavy. It must
have been someone else. Her partner, maybe? Or … or … maybe …

Where is it? Tell me, where did you hide it?
The invisible man’s words drift through my head.

What would a man wandering around near a Breeze house be looking for that would get him het up enough to start bashing heads? A few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Breeze—roughly the amount that would fit in a fully stocked mini-fridge—would probably do it.

My gut, the one that assured me I’d be safe out here today, cramps in silent confirmation. Fabulous. My invisible man could be a Breeze head dealer as well as a kidnapper. I won’t know the latter until Dom takes a look at my pictures and compares the footprints to the ones he found under Grace’s window, but selling drugs and ransoming rich little girls don’t seem like contradictory career paths. Maybe he didn’t intend to kill Grace, maybe something had gone wrong, maybe—

The rumble of an approaching engine cuts through the stale air inside the camper, making me reach for my gun. I hurry to the door, sticking my head out into the increasingly muggy morning only to curse and pull back inside. The sunlight is still
killing me
. I flick my glasses over my eyes as I hustle down the steps and through the clearing, but the light still makes me squint, which means my pupils are probably still as big as saucers. I’ll have to get Connie to run that MRI we skipped if things don’t improve by this afternoon.

Or if I’m not killed by Breeze heads looking for their stash.

I can’t see what’s coming down the road just yet, but by the sound of the engine, it’s big. Bigger than a police car or a pickup, but not as big as a shuttle bus. Which makes sense. The shuttles don’t come this way. Nothing does. That’s why the camper went undiscovered for so long. A body could go undiscovered just as easily, assuming you’re careful where you pitch it.

So why was Grace’s body laid out in plain sight, so close to the Beauchamp mansion? Where the patrol would be sure to see it from the fence?

Excellent question, brain. One I’ll have to think on if I get out of here alive.

D
eath isn’t in my future. At least not immediate death of the murdered-by-Breeze-heads-and-tossed-into-the-water-for-the-alligators-to-munch variety.

Even from my hiding place—crouched in the long grass across the water—I recognize the iron-sided van pulling into the inlet. It’s the Beauchamp family van, the one Barbara Beauchamp probably used to drive into Baton Rouge yesterday for whatever urgent errand pressed her into the city on the day her daughter’s body was discovered.

Today, however, there’s someone else at the wheel, an obviously distraught Libby Beauchamp, Grace’s much older sister. Even before she twists the key in the ignition, shutting down the roar of the van, I swear I can hear her sobbing.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she had the window down on the passenger’s side, but there’s no way she’d be that stupid. The fairies are drowsy and sluggish this time of day, but if they smell fresh blood
they’ll come swarming from whatever mud hole or hollow tree they’ve shacked up in. Rolling down the windows during a drive outside the iron gates is suicide.

But then … people have done crazier things after the death of someone they love.

There were times, after Caroline died, when I contemplated sneaking down to my parents’ garage and turning on all four cars, crawling into the tarp-covered boat in the corner, and taking a very long, very permanent nap. There were times when I think my parents would have preferred that I sentence myself to the ultimate punishment for the crime of getting my beautiful big sister killed.

Libby and Grace were adopted sisters, but did that really make a difference? From the grief in Libby’s sobs, I’m guessing it didn’t. Losing a sister is still losing a sister, and losing a sister to murder when she’s still so young and innocent and full of possibilities …

Well, I know how that feels. I also know there’s nothing I can do for Libby.

I move into the water with a deliberate splash, and begin the journey back across the bayou to the inlet. Libby must not have noticed my bike parked in the shade, but I’ll make sure she knows I’m coming.

In my peripheral vision, I see her pale blond head snap up, scanning the water. I can feel the second I’m spotted, prickles along my skin that make me want to cringe. Her last sob is swallowed by the sticky air. An uncomfortable silence, broken only by the water
sloshing against my waders, follows me onto the shore. I wait until I step out of my rubber pants and shake off the water before lifting eyes to the van.

I intend to give a wave, dash to my bike, and be on my way. I don’t anticipate that Libby will look so happy to see me. We’ve run into each other at Grapevine—the nicest restaurant in town, with the wine list Fernando adores—but we’ve never been officially introduced. Aside from a friendly smile or two, we’ve never exchanged pleasantries or names or
anything
that should make her feel obligated to wave me over.

But that clearly doesn’t matter. Libby seems eager to make contact. Her slender fingers flutter a few seconds too long, and a shaky smile twitches at her lips before fading into a look of such longing even
I
can’t ignore it.

I force a smile, cast a glance at where Gimpy lies curled around my cooler—obviously preferring me to his last owner as evidenced by the fact that he’s stayed in my trailer rather than jumped out to roam his old stomping grounds, take
that,
Skanky—and trudge toward the van. No matter how much I want to run for it, I can’t. The part of me that knows what it’s like to lose a sister demands more human decency than that, and the amateur sleuth in me wonders …

Why did Libby drive out to the middle of nowhere to cry? Surely, that giant mansion has a place where she could grieve in private. But instead, she’s driven out here, into fairy country, risking madness or death
if one of the Fey gets ballsy enough to push through the ventilation system into her van. She must need to get away from her house pretty badly. Benny’s warning that Cane should take a close look at everyone in the Beauchamp house swirls through my head, finishing the job of making me very curious.

Like that cat. The one that died.

I push aside the dramatic thought, do a quick check to make sure nothing winged and Fey is hovering nearby, and hurry into the van, slamming the heavy door closed behind me. Curiosity might kill me someday, but it won’t come stabbing in the form of Libby Beauchamp. The girl is the definition of non-threatening.

I know she’s in her early twenties, but with her white-blond hair swept into a ponytail and makeup-free face, she looks about fifteen. The steering wheel she clutches in her hands is bigger around than her wrist and I’m guessing the blue silk sundress she wears is a size zero.

Or maybe a double zero. Such things exist at the types of places her family shops.

“Hi.” I can’t think of anything better to say. I also can’t bring myself to offer the usual apologies or ask the expected questions about how she’s holding up. Obviously she isn’t holding up, and me being sorry won’t make her feel better.

“Hi.” She holds out her hand, Southern manners kicking in. “I’m Libby … Grace’s big sister.”

I take her hand, but end our contact as quickly as
possible. Libby has the dead-fish non-grip of many Southern ladies, that gentle lying down of a cold, limp palm that makes my skin crawl. “Yeah, I know, I’m—”

“Annabelle. I know.” There’s a trace of playfulness in her tone that hints at the sense of humor she has under normal circumstances. “I … We heard that you were the one … I just wanted to say thank you.” Her fingers worry at her ring finger, where a white circle marks skin usually covered by jewelry.

“You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job. I’m just … ” Hell. I’m going to say it; I can’t help myself. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” She sucks in a breath and her big, tear-filled blue eyes meet mine, punching me in the gut with her sadness, so eager to connect that I flip my sunglasses on top of my head. I can’t let her eyes be naked alone, despite the fact that the sunlight flicks at my eyeballs like the fingers of mean little boys. “I just can’t believe she’s gone. I thought she was playing one of her games … I thought we’d find her hiding out in the barn or the attic or … or somewhere.”

“She liked to play hide-and-seek?” I ask, partly because I’m curious, partly because I know it helps to talk about the person you’ve lost.

It’s one of the things I regret most about losing contact with my family. Maybe some day they would have forgiven me, and we could have talked about Caroline together. It’s no good remembering alone. It only makes Caroline feel more gone.

Libby shakes her head, a sad smile tugging at one side of her mouth. “No, she wasn’t much for hide-and-seek. She preferred magical adventures. She had such an imagination. She’d start pretending and forget there was a real world.”

There’s a wistfulness in her tone that makes me think she envied Grace’s ability to shut out the world.

“One time,” Libby continues, “she told me she’d pretended so hard that she could hear the song the mermaids in her game were singing. She sang some of it for me. It was a beautiful, original composition. I’m sure she would have been an amazing musician.” She breaks off with a breath that she holds as she fights another round of tears.

My chest aches with a combination of empathy and terror. Anxiety threads through my veins as I search for the right words and come up empty. I’m not equipped to counsel the grieving. Libby deserves better. I have to think of some way to get her in sturdy enough condition to drive out of here, and get myself out of this van.

“They’re going to catch the person who did this, Libby.”

“Is that why you’re here? Did you find something that will help them figure out who killed her?” Her words are so filled with hope that a part of me itches to tell her everything, but I can’t. I’m not supposed to be here without adult supervision myself, let alone spilling all to the victim’s family member.

“I definitely found some interesting stuff,” I say, “but … I can’t really share … if you know what I mean?”

“Right. Of course.” She twists her absent ring, and blushes, embarrassed. “I understand. I’m sorry, I—”

“No, it’s okay. Just know that the FBI is here and Cane and Abe are good at what they do and I’m going to help any way I can. We’re going to make sure this person is put away.”

She nods, sniffing. “I know. My mother said they already have a suspect in custody.”

“She did?” This is news. “Here in Donaldsonville?”

Libby nods again, and dread clutches at my throat. Fernando. He’s in custody here in Donaldsonville. But she
has
to be talking about someone else. Fernando would never hurt anyone, especially a child, and there’s no way Cane or Abe would have found evidence to the contrary. Still, I can’t help but ask, “Did your mother say who—”