Mimosa Grove (26 page)

The moment he got in his car, he reached for his cell phone and punched in a number. Moments later, his caller answered.

“Mr. President, this is Clausing. We need to talk.”

Cherrie Peloquin had changed her mind twice, delaying her trip home by days. But she knew the moment the cab turned down her old street and pulled up to her parents’ home that she’d made the right decision. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was gone, and if she didn’t look too closely in the mirror at the shorn pink hair and weird clothes, she could still believe that she was the same fresh-faced college graduate she’d been when she first left home to make her mark in the world.

Her parents knew she was coming. She’d called them from the road, but she hadn’t told them why, only that she wondered if they would mind her staying in her old room until she found a job and a new place to live.

Her mother had started crying and laughing all at the same time, then told her that her old boyfriend had asked about her just the day before.

It had been all Cherrie could do not to cry with her. And now that she was here, she couldn’t hold back the tears. Green Trees, Oregon, population 723, had one more to add to the count. A prodigal daughter had come home.

She paid the cab driver as he unloaded her suitcase, then turned toward the house. The door was opening. Her mother was coming out on the run, with her father not far behind.

“Cherrie…Cherrie…you’re home! You’re home.”

A short while later, she was at the kitchen table, listening with rapt attention to her parents rattle off the news of the day, while in the background, the national news was being broadcast on a small portable TV on a sideboard that had once belonged to her great-grandmother Mabel. It had shocked, then delighted her that neither of her parents had even mentioned her looks, although she was anxious to take a shower and wash the pink hair spray away.

In the middle of her mother’s story about the waitress down at the diner who was getting married for the third time to the same man, a picture of Peter McNamara’s face was flashed on the TV screen.

“Daddy! Daddy! Turn that up! Quick!”

“…was found murdered in his cell two days ago. He had been in solitary confinement ever since…”

Cherrie’s heartbeat skipped a few beats as elation dawned. There was never going to be a trial. The fact that she’d run out on the federal prosecutor’s office was never going to be an issue. They would not come looking for her after all.

“Oh. Oh, my,” she whispered, then started to laugh.

Her mother stared at her as if she’d just lost her mind.

“Cherrie! I taught you better manners than that. You shouldn’t be laughing about that poor man’s demise, even if he was a criminal.”

“You’re right, Mother. I don’t know what I was thinking. For a minute there, I thought I knew him. When I realized I’d made a mistake…that I didn’t really know him after all, I laughed. But not because he’d been murdered. Only that I’d been so foolish.”

Her mother’s expression lightened. “Well, I wondered,” she said, then chuckled. “I should have known it was something like that.” Then she glanced at her husband and giggled. “Imagine…our Cherrie thinking she might know a criminal.”

Cherrie leaned back in her chair and smiled.

“Yes, Mother. Imagine that.”

A similar sense of relief was taking place at the Russian embassy in Washington, D.C. The Russian ambassador was about to set out for a meeting with a group of farmers from Iowa about exporting their wheat to his country when an aide hurried into the room and handed him a folded note. He took it without comment, opened it absently, then stopped in his place.

Dimitri Chorkin is dead.

He folded up the note again and slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t care how it had happened, or who’d done the deed. All he knew was that the killer had done them a huge favor. With this man dead, the conversations regarding old spies and Cold War secrets would certainly die a death on its own, if for no other reason than that there was no one left to remind them of their international faux pas.

Robert Scanlon was propped up in bed and watching the national news when Peter McNamara’s face flashed across the screen. He fumbled for the remote control and managed to up the volume just in time to hear of the man’s demise.

Startled, his hands went limp, his lips slack, as he listened to the news anchor retell the story that was ricocheting all over the world. Then he thought of Trigger DeLane, wondering how he’d gotten caught up in McNamara’s web, and wondering how things would have played out if the news of McNamara’s death had aired two days earlier. No one had known of Trigger’s involvement. The facts would have died with McNamara. Instead, according to the anchor, who thought he was reporting the unrelated death of another Washington, D.C., resident, the son of General John Franklin DeLane had died in a tragic hunting accident in Louisiana.

Robert immediately recognized the political spin that had been put on the story and couldn’t have cared less. It was still unclear what Trigger had hoped to accomplish by doing Robert in. But it was certain that whatever his reason, it had died with him.

What Robert did know was that he had his daughter to thank for his life. He didn’t understand it, but he was going to have to learn to accept it. Call it crazy, call it the most phenomenal guesswork of the century, but there was no way anyone would have found him unless—

“Daddy?”

He looked up. Laurel was standing in the doorway.

“Laurel…darling, you didn’t have to come all this way. Didn’t they tell you I was fine?”

Laurel stared at the bandages on his head, the machine that they’d hooked up to register his heartbeat and the IV connected to his arm, and then shivered, thinking how close they’d come to being too late.

“I’m more like you than you might like to believe, okay?”

He grinned, then winced at the pain that shot through his jaw and across the bridge of his very broken nose.

“And how’s that?” he asked.

“I like to see things for myself, too, you know?”

Suddenly he understood that she was giving him an out for never having believed her before. He thought of all the years he’d ridiculed, belittled and, in her youth, even punished her for being different.

“Come here,” he said softly.

She crossed the room, then, very carefully, put her arms around his neck and started to cry.

Justin watched from the doorway for a moment, then closed the door and left them alone. He knew just enough about their situation to know that what was happening inside was what could only be construed as Robert Scanlon’s first act of contrition, as he finally told her the truth about Phoebe’s death.

A week later: Mimosa Grove

It had been raining for three days straight. Flood warnings had been issued, and people who lived in the lowlands were preparing for the worst.

Whatever else Jean Charles LeDeux had been, he had been a wise man in picking a building site for his home. It sat on a rise about a half mile from the river, and never once since the last nail and peg had been driven had it been underwater. The river had run over its banks plenty of times, but never coming close to the mansion. Even when it receded, it was doing the place a favor by leaving the silty loam from the bottom on the higher ground. And over the years, the few mimosa trees that had been growing wild on the land had grown into the green jungle that now surrounded the place.

Justin had absented himself from Mimosa Grove over the past two days, only because his sister and some of her neighbors were close to losing their homes. With his own house in no danger, he’d moved his sister and the baby there; then he’d moved in with her husband, Tommy, and, along with a good portion of the residents of Bayou Jean, continued to build a temporary levee.

He called Laurel every time he got a chance, and she could hear the loneliness and exhaustion in his voice. More than once, she’d sensed his fear that they were fighting a losing battle, but this was one time when she didn’t have an answer. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t see into the future of Bayou Jean, because she was too locked into the past of Mimosa Grove.

She had but a few pages left to read in Chantelle LeDeux’s diary and had intended to finish it last night, but the power had gone off during the storm. By the time it had come back on, she and Marie were sound asleep in their beds. Then, this morning, there had been so much to do in cleaning up the grounds. Limbs from the trees had broken off during the high winds and were scattered all about. The fishpond had overflowed, giving up what appeared to be an ancient padlock, heavily encrusted with rust and with a single link of chain still attached.

Laurel had been elated by the small find until she’d read of it in the diary.

Laurel’s chest hurt too much to breathe. The horror of the simple words in the diary brought home but a small bit of the truth of what being a slave had entailed.

She laid the diary facedown on her bed and walked out of the room. When she came down the stairs, there were unshed tears in her eyes.

Marie was coming out of the library with a dust cloth in her hand when she saw the expression on Laurel’s face.

“Laurel…honey…is something wrong? Are you ill?”

Laurel stopped and, for a moment, experienced such a feeling of déjà vu that she staggered.

Another face, darker and younger than Marie’s, superimposed itself over her image. The plain green-and-white seersucker house dress that Marie was wearing seemed to morph into a long gray duster with a white, full-length apron tied around her waist and a white kerchief tied around her head to keep nappy black ringlets away from her face.

Laurel gasped, then shuddered. The woman started to cry, holding her hands out to Laurel in a begging, beseeching manner, and in that moment Laurel knew she was seeing Joshua’s wife—the mother of the child whose life Chantelle had saved. And she knew, as sure as she was standing in this place, that these ghosts had been resurrected when the pond had regurgitated the lock from its depths and Laurel had brought it back into this house.

Marie frowned.

“Laurel…are you havin’ yourself a vision? Is everything all right?”

Laurel shuddered, then made herself focus as she pulled away from the image.

“Yes, I was, and no it’s not, but it will be soon enough,” she muttered.

Marie’s frown deepened.

“You’re not makin’ any sense. I’m gonna get you some iced tea and something to eat. You skipped lunch. That’s what’s wrong. You just need to eat.”

“No, Mamárie…I’m not hungry. I’m just sick to my soul. What did we do with that padlock that washed out of the pond?”

“Why…it’s in the kitchen on a saucer. It’s so rusty and all I didn’t want it stainin’ my counter so—”

“I’ll be right back,” Laurel muttered, and strode out of the foyer. Moments later, she was back, the padlock and its single link of chain dangling from her fingers.

“What you gonna do with that old thing?” Marie asked.

“Put it back in its grave.”

Marie’s eyes widened, and she crossed herself out of habit, although, having lost faith with the priest who’d reviled Marcella for being a witch, it had been more than thirty-five years since she’d set foot in a church.

Laurel yanked open the front door and then ran down the steps. At that point Marie came to herself and followed her out onto the veranda.

“Baby girl, you get yourself back in this house before you get struck by lightning. Can’t you see it’s comin’ down a strangler?”

Laurel recognized the reference to the heavy downpour as another one of Marie’s colorful phrases, this one about it raining so hard it would strangle a toad, but she was not amused.

The rain was warm, almost hot, in spite of the wind whipping through the trees. The pink-and-white blossoms from the mimosas lay plastered to the grass and stuck to her feet as she ran. The rain flattened her hair to her head and her clothes to her skin within seconds. The soaked ground could absorb no more, and water was ankle deep and splashing into her tennis shoes as she dashed across the grass.

The padlock was heavy in her hand, the thick casing of rust rough against her skin. The closer she got to the pond, the more overwhelmed she became.

Then she was standing at the pond, looking down into the black, murky depths, and it hit her that once, almost two centuries ago, a young woman not unlike herself had come here from another place and had stood in this very spot, with this same padlock in her hand.

Laurel could only imagine the despair that Chantelle must have felt and the pain that had been inflicted upon so many people by the fact that they’d been fastened to a whipping post with this very lock and chain.

“God help us,” she said, and when she looked down at the hunk of metal, saw not the iron-red rust of time but the coppery color of blood.