False Pretenses (13 page)

CHAPTER 12

Vanessa Langley leaned on the filigree iron railing on the gallery outside her apartment, observing the diversity of tourists milling about on the street on a Thursday night.

A kaleidoscope of creative neon signs and the smell of mesquite wood, popcorn, and homemade fudge gave
rue Madeline
a festival-like atmosphere. Near the outdoor tables at Breaux’s, children waltzed to the sound of the fiddle and accordion that were as much a part of the Cajun culture as beignets and étoufée.

On the other side of
rue Madeline
, a sleek black horse, its hoofs clicking the pavement, pulled an open carriage filled with T-shirt-clad tourists. From the galleries neighbors watched and waved, some nearly hidden by the abundance of lush greenery and flowering plants. And on the sidewalks scores of buyers and browsers ambled from one shop to another, toting everything from camera bags and kids to plastic bags and cotton candy. Two little boys were marching in place in a puddle left by today’s storm.

Les Barbes was fascinating—such a quaint, engaging community with a distinctive old-world charm. Could she have ever imagined when they moved here that they would end up in the middle of another murder investigation? What if the sheriff discovered the mysterious intruder at Langley Manor was involved in Remy Jarvis’s hanging? What if they never figured out how the man got in or out with dead bolts in place? How could she ever feel safe there?

She felt Ethan’s arms slip around her as he placed his cheek next to hers. “A penny for your thoughts, Mrs. Langley.”

“I was just reveling in the festive spirit of
rue Madeline
after dark,” she said.

“And …? Maybe wondering whether Sheriff Prejean is going to discover something that will complicate our lives?”

“You know me too well. But even if he can’t connect our intruder to the hanging, Ethan, we still have to deal with the fact that this man got in and out when we had the placed locked up tight as a tick.”

“Or accept that he doesn’t exist and is merely the figment of our son’s vivid imagination. Carter’s going through a huge adjustment not having his grandparents and Aunt Emily doting on him all the time. We’ve both heard him talking to imaginary characters.”

Vanessa sighed. “But he seems very sure this man is real and not pretend.”

“Honey, he’s four. Unless the sheriff finds something, I think we have to go on the premise that Carter’s ‘candy man’ isn’t real—unless you believe in ghosts.”

“Of course I don’t. The paranormal thing is ridiculous. But I know I didn’t imagine that someone was watching me when I went back out there.”

Ethan brushed the hair away from her eyes. “Vanessa, there’s so much going on in your head, it’s hard to gauge whether the threat was real or whether you were reacting to past traumas.”

“My struggle with your cousin’s murder has absolutely nothing to do with this.”

“Actually it does. We both know that my dad and uncles wouldn’t have given us the deed to Langley Manor if Drew were still alive—or the money from his trust fund to help with the renovation. Ever since we moved here, Drew’s death has been on our minds, especially when we’re out at the house. That has to have an effect on you.”

“For heaven’s sake, Ethan. I heard a twig snap, and it scared me. That doesn’t equate to post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“No, but wouldn’t you agree that your reaction to speed away from there was extreme? All I’m saying is that our moving here has brought the reality of Drew’s murder full circle. And it’s possible that you’re reacting to it on a subconscious level.”

“You’re psychoanalyzing me.”

He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Just don’t be surprised if your PTSD rears its ugly head. Even though Carter can’t remember Drew’s murder or your panic afterward, at least not on a conscious level, I think that may be why he creates these imaginary characters—nice men who make him feel safe. Especially now, since his environment has changed.”

“Why are you just now telling me this?”

Ethan pushed his round glasses up higher on his nose. “I didn’t really consider PTSD until you overreacted to hearing the twig snap. You fled—like you did when Drew was shot and you were trying to protect Carter.”

“You’re right.” She put her hand to her chest. “I can feel my heart racing, just thinking about it. That was the most horrible thing I’ve ever been through. I was terrified the shooter was coming after us. I don’t know that I’ll ever be completely over it.”

“Maybe not completely, but you haven’t had any anxiety episodes in the past year. That’s why I’m saying that moving here has brought back memories of Drew’s death, and you may be reacting to things that wouldn’t normally evoke that kind of fear.”

“That’s not what this feels like.”

“Honey, I’m not sure you’d be able to tell, if it was. But it’s the best explanation I have for what’s happening.”

“Well, if Sheriff Prejean doesn’t call tomorrow to tell us what he found, I’m going to call him and push for answers. If he can match DNA on the lemon drop to anything at the murder scene, we’ll know Carter and I are not imagining things.”

Ethan turned and paused. “I heard a door close in the hallway. I wonder if Zoe made it home.”

Zoe no sooner stepped inside the apartment than Pierce was at the door, putting his arms around her.

“I’m so glad you’re home, babe. Thanks for calling when you left Morgan City. I didn’t think you’d be this late.”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” she said. “What a day. I’m spent.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Zoe buried her head in his chest. “Not really.”
Not ever!
“There’s not much to tell. The priest said a funeral Mass, and the church had a nice luncheon afterward. Shelby’s ashes will be put in the family mausoleum with her husband’s grandparents.”

“Shelby? You mean Annabelle.”

Slow down, Zoe, before you blow it.
“Uh, yes, Annabelle. Sorry, it’s hard to think clearly right now. Shelby is Annabelle’s cousin, and she sort of took me under her wing for most of the day.”

“That was nice of her. Was Annabelle’s family glad to see you?”

“They seemed to be. But being with them was a bit sobering. Her death was such a loss to her husband and two children. It was hard to know what to say.”

“I’m sure you could’ve done without the tropical storm. I heard it rained five inches in New Orleans with sustained winds of forty miles per hour.”

“It wasn’t that bad in Morgan City, but the weather was definitely a pain.” Zoe left his arms and flopped on the couch. “How’d it go at the eatery?”

“Fine.”

Pierce sat next to her. At least she didn’t have to look into his eyes. She hated lying to him.

“Hebert and the guys stayed most of the morning,” he said, “rehashing the details of Remy’s murder. Even though the coroner says the blow to the head would have killed him almost instantly, it hurts us all to think of how Remy might have suffered before he died. He had to have been terrified.”

Zoe shook her head, anger heating her face. “Poor Emile. He must be heartbroken. I can hardly wait until they arrest whoever did it.”

“There’s talk of retaliation.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know, but Dempsey knows some guys out at the sugar refinery who told him there might be trouble.”

Zoe turned to Pierce, his prominent nose a reminder of his French heritage. “Did he call Jude’s office and report it?”

“No, but I did. I called the police, too. Chief Norman has asked for reinforcements from the Lafayette and New Iberia PDs.”

“Good heavens, all we need is for someone to strike a match in this racial tension and set off a firestorm. That won’t bring Remy back.”

“Well, the police chief and sheriff have cruisers everywhere. Any trouble that starts will be ended quickly.”

Zoe’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I can’t bear to think of Remy being hanged. He was like a child. Why would anyone want to hurt him?”

“The authorities haven’t released any more details, other than to say they think he might have been chosen at random in the predawn hour when he was delivering papers. But the media hasn’t reported that any witnesses have come forward. As far as I know, no one saw or heard anything—except the creep who called the radio station, and nobody knows who he is.”

“For some reason Remy’s death hit me a lot harder than Annabelle’s. I just can’t believe he’s gone.” Zoe wiped a tear off her cheek.

“His obit was in today’s paper. No funeral date was given, since the autopsy isn’t completed yet and Remy’s body hasn’t been released to his dad.” Pierce took Zoe’s hand and held it. “This was a double whammy for you, babe. Sorry I told you right before you left this morning, but you would have been even more devastated to hear it first on the radio.”

Zoe nodded.

“Is there anything else about the funeral or your time with Annabelle’s family you want to talk about?”

No!
“Honestly, Pierce, there’s nothing to tell, other than I’m glad I went and paid my respects. But I couldn’t get Remy off my mind. I’m exhausted.”

“Why don’t I crank down the air conditioner so you can take a nice hot bubble bath?”

A great place to hide!
“That sounds wonderful, though I may never cool off again. I think it’s still ninety outside with a hundred-percent humidity.”

“I’ll crank it way down,” Pierce said. “It’ll help you relax.”

Zoe eased into the warm bath and stretched out under a thick blanket of white bubbles scented with honeysuckle. She closed her eyes, aware that her heart was beating too fast.

Why didn’t she feel relieved, now that she had confessed everything to Adele? Was it because their agreement wasn’t a “done deal” until the papers were signed? Or because the man who had left her the notes still had to be dealt with? Or was it because Adele might be right, that Zoe would never be free as long as she was living a lie? What difference did it make? Hadn’t she been living with secrets for as long as she could remember? Wasn’t there a point of no return when it came to lying—a point when telling the truth would do more harm than the cover-up?

She’d imagined dozens of times how betrayed Pierce would feel if he found out she’d been lying to him from the beginning. He was a proud man. Would he be able to forgive her—ever? And what if he knew that the woman who took his name, who was going to bear his children, wasn’t Cajun after all—and that her own father had sexually abused her? What if he saw her as she had seen herself all those years—defiled and unworthy of love? Would she be left with only lies and brokenness?

Zoe blinked to clear her eyes. Hadn’t she cried enough for one day? Shouldn’t she be satisfied that Adele had agreed to let her discreetly pay back the money—and without involving the insurance company until after the debt was paid? Thirty months was a long time to be taking that kind of money out of the eatery’s income. But how many times in their marriage had Pierce even looked at the checkbook? She would just have to rely on his trusting her to handle the finances and hope she could find ways to cut expenses so the bottom line still showed a substantial increase. Wasn’t it ironic that now, when the eatery was finally making a healthy profit, she literally had to
pay
for her mistake?

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the foam bath pillow. How different might things be now if she hadn’t lied to Pierce when they were just getting to know each other. But would she, even in her most vulnerable moment, have had the courage to tell him about the abuse she suffered? Her father had stolen more than her innocence; he had stripped away her dignity and self-worth. Pierce’s love and acceptance helped to silence the taunting fear that somehow the abuse had been her fault. She couldn’t lose Pierce. She just couldn’t.