Southern Comforts (8 page)

“Why don't I get back to you on that?”

“Why don't you just stay away? And let me do my work?”

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks and rocked back on his heels. “Does that mean you're going to write Roxanne's book for her?”

“I haven't made up my mind.”

“And now I'm making your decision more difficult by muddying the waters.”

There was no point in denying it. “Yes.”

Although he managed to restrain the smile, Cash couldn't
stop the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Roxanne can be a very persuasive woman.”

“As you no doubt have discovered for yourself. Since you've agreed to work with her on her beloved Belle Terre.”

“It was a beautiful home once. It could be again. And do I detect just a hint of jealousy in your modulated eastern seaboard tones, Irish?”

“Not at all. Why should I care who you're sleeping with these days? And stop calling me Irish.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Good night, Cash.” She literally pushed him out the door. “I'll suppose I'll have no choice but to see you tomorrow.”

She was unsurprised when her rudeness slid off him like rain off a mallard's back. “I'll be looking forward to it.”

That made one of them. Grateful to have this unsettling evening finally come to an end, she shut the door behind him, turned the latch and fastened the chain. Then she leaned back against the door and closed her eyes.

Which was a mistake. She could still see him, looking down at her with that cocky grin on his lips and devilment in his eyes. It just wasn't fair, she thought on a renewed burst of temper, that any one man could be so sexy.

She shook her head as she bit into an antacid and assured herself that the only reason she'd responded so strongly to Cash was that she'd been caught off guard. Forewarned was definitely forearmed. Now that she knew what she was up against, tomorrow she'd be prepared.

Feeling better, she went into the adjoining bathroom. After she'd washed her face and brushed her teeth, Chelsea gave herself a long unflinching look in the mirror.

“You're going to be strong. You're going to resist him,” she instructed her reflection. “You will remind yourself,
whenever your damn juices start flowing, that you managed to spend an entire evening with Mel Gibson and only once wished he'd shown up for the interview wearing a kilt.”

Her little pep talk concluded, Chelsea felt much better. She marched out of the bathroom, and was about to climb into bed when a white envelope lying on the table caught her attention.

The envelope was sealed; her name had been typed on the front. Deciding it must be a phone message that had come while she'd been at Roxanne's, Chelsea opened it.

A single line had been typed onto a plain white piece of paper. “She who sups with the devil needs a spoon with a very long handle.”

Chelsea stared down at the typewritten proverb, chilled at the idea of someone being in her room. She could not imagine who it might have been.

Her next thought, as she remembered Cash's wicked kiss, was to wonder which devilish dinner companion the note, which seemed like a warning, was referring to: Roxanne Scarbrough? Or Cash Beaudine?

Unfortunately, a call to Jeb failed to solve the mystery, although she was immensely relieved to learn he was the person who'd put the envelope in her room. Apparently he'd found it on the downstairs desk when he'd come in from watering the back garden.

Although she couldn't believe she was in any real physical danger, the warning, along with Cash's greedy kiss, left Chelsea feeling edgy. Finally, when she seemed destined to spend the long lonely night tossing and turning, she flicked on the bedside lamp, booted up her laptop computer and went to work on her novel.

Suddenly, the idea of murder in Raintree didn't seem so far-fetched after all.

 

George climbed stiffly down from the bus, ran his tongue against his fuzzy teeth and decided fuckin' Joe Camel must've died in his mouth while he'd been sleeping. And whenever he blinked, it felt as if half that damn Arizona desert grit was glued to the back of his eyelids.

He knew a little hair of the dog would take the edge off. But that one drink could, as it so often did, lead to another. And another. And pretty soon, if history was anything to go by, he'd land his ass in jail and be headed right back to the joint. Which would blow his genius plan to kingdom come.

No, George decided. He wasn't going to make any mistakes this time. This scheme was surefire. So long as he managed to keep focused. And when he was finally finished with Roxanne Scarbrough, he'd be standin' in high cotton.

“Guaran-goddamn-teed,” he said to himself as he studied the map of Raintree he'd bought when the bus stopped in Atlanta. Slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder, he began whistling an out of tune rendition of George Strait's “Ace in The Hole” as he headed off toward his wife's house.

A
lthough the crumbling antebellum mansion was in a terrible state of disrepair, and the exterior of the house was in the process of being sandblasted, Chelsea had no trouble seeing the marble-pillared structure as it could be, with a lot of hard work and money.

It would also take an architect with vision and a sense of history. Was Cash that man? Chelsea wondered, having never thought of him in such terms.

Apparently, Roxanne believed that he was. Although it was obvious Roxanne found Cash sexually appealing, Chelsea doubted she'd be willing to spend such a vast amount of money just to get the man into her bed.

Of course, any woman who'd experienced the incomparable sex Chelsea had shared with Cash could be excused for considering the idea, she thought as he came out of the house to greet them. “‘Morning, Roxanne. Jo. Miz Landis,” he called out as he crossed what had once been a lawn and was now matted brown turf. “Lovely day, isn't it?” He turned toward Chelsea. “Good morning, Irish. I hope you slept well.”

“Like a baby,” she assured him in a wintry voice that didn't fool Cash for a moment.

She was lying. The strain of a sleepless night—the increased pallor of her complexion along with telltale circles beneath her eyes—showed on her fascinating, one-of-a-kind face. Deciding not to call her on it, he turned to Roxanne.

“I've got some good news for you.”

“You know how I love good news.”

“We found a stone cellar beneath the kitchen floor that wasn't on the plans.”

“It must have been used to hide the family silver from the Yankee invaders.”

“That's what I figured. It's cool down there. And the stone walls are as solid as, well, rocks. I thought you might like to turn it into a wine cellar.”

“Oh, what a wonderful idea!” She placed her hand on his arm and turned to Chelsea. “Do you see why I absolutely adore this man?”

“Any architect who can conjure up a wine cellar is worth hiring,” Chelsea said mildly.

“Oh, I've come to expect miracles from Cash.” Roxanne turned back to him. “Speaking of which, I have some ideas about the master bathroom.”

They walked toward the house, Roxanne sharing her latest “brainstorm.” She might have arrived at the house carrying a Gucci briefcase instead of a pair of white gloves, but like any good southern belle worth her salt, when it appeared she might be losing ground about taking out what Cash insisted was a supporting wall, she fluttered her eyelashes and pulled out all her feminine wiles to try to win her point.

Roxanne possessed Scarlett O'Hara's beauty, brains and tenacity. Chelsea could easily imagine her running a lumber company or eating turnips, prepared in a nice champagne
sauce of course, or wearing drapes to the jailhouse, if that's what it took to save Belle Terre. But there was nothing fiddle-dee-dee about this woman who obviously knew her own mind so well.

“Federal troops occupied Raintree during the march to the sea,” Roxanne informed Chelsea as they made their way gingerly through the downstairs rooms, stepping over the holes where rotten pieces of flooring had been torn out.

“The occupation saved it from being burned. Unfortunately, Sherman's scoundrels did torch all outbuildings.” Roxanne waved toward the windows and from the scowl on her face, Chelsea guessed she was picturing those long-ago fires. “And then they had the unmitigated gall to turn the front parlor into a stable.”

“The soldiers brought horses into the house?” Chelsea asked disbelievingly.

“To protect them from rebel sharpshooters,” Cash explained. “It was common practice at the time.”

“And a distasteful practice it was, too,” Roxanne snarled. It was obvious that she considered this high sacrilege. “Do you have any idea what hooves can do to a good marble floor?”

“I can imagine,” Chelsea murmured, drawing a quick grin from Cash, who realized that his Yankee lover was just as out of her element here in the deep South, as he had been freezing his ass off in Connecticut.

“They even made blankets for their horses out of the oriental rugs. And turned the piano into a watering trough,” Roxanne continued. “And, of course they looted the place—all the chandeliers, the furniture, the crystal and china, why even the silver that had been in the family for generations!”

Her scowl deepened. “I'm certain, if you were to go to some of the so-called finest homes in New England today,
you'd find Yankees dining with pieces of Berry silver service.”

“Not that Ms. Scarbrough has anything against her northern fans,” Dorothy said quickly. Chelsea immediately recognized the statement as a veiled warning to her employer.

A warning that hit home. As if suddenly remembering Chelsea was one of those damn Yankees, Roxanne pulled her features back into a smooth, calm mask and smiled. “Well, of course I don't.”

Chelsea smiled back. “I can see how living among such constant reminders of the Civil War—”

“The War Between the States,” Roxanne corrected sharply. “I've never understood why northerners insist on calling it the Civil War. Since there was absolutely nothing civil about it.”

Chelsea had no intention of getting embroiled in old battles. “I can certainly understand how a person could be affected by the ghosts of all who have lived here.”

“Speaking of ghosts, dear, I must show you the bedroom. Where the Berry's poor daughter Rose Ann passed on from a broken heart when her dear James—that's James Boddie, from the Troup County Boddies—was killed at the Battle of Chickamauga.”

“I don't know if it's such a good idea for you all to go upstairs,” Cash said.

“Really, Cash,” Roxanne complained, “there are construction workers tramping all over the place—”

“That's the definitive term. They're workers, Roxanne. They belong here.”

Roxanne proved immovable. “I want Chelsea to see the room. And besides, Jo hasn't taken her
before
shots yet.”

Frustrated, but deciding that this was not exactly a hill to die on—he'd determined the stairs reasonably solid weeks
ago—Cash decided to give in. “I'm going first. To make sure it's safe.”

“Thank you, Cash,” Roxanne said demurely.

“Next time you come out here you're wearing a hard hat,” he instructed her over his shoulder as they climbed up the right wing of the double floating staircase.

“You're the boss,” she agreed without missing a beat.

Walking right behind Cash, Chelsea heard him mutter something that could have been agreement. Or a curse.

The bedroom had a marble-framed fireplace, more crown molding, and little niches set into the plaster walls. The windows were opaque; the faint amount of sunshine managing to make its way through the glass made the dust motes swirling in the air look like dancing yellow fireflies.

“This is where it happened,” Roxanne said. “In bed. After receiving the news, Rose Ann didn't speak to anyone for two months. Then one day the poor girl just closed her eyes and departed this life. Her mother later wrote in her journal that she believed her daughter had been united with her beloved James.”

Chelsea rubbed her arms. Although she knew it had to be her overactive imagination, she could have sworn that the temperature in the room had dropped at least twenty degrees.

“That's so romantic.” Jo sighed as she turned her camera on the four-poster bed that was draped in dusty curtains.

“It would be, if it was true,” Roxanne agreed. “Unfortunately, for some reason, Rose Ann's spirit has remained here. Right in this very room.”

Chelsea exchanged a quick, surprised look with Cash, who shrugged in return. “Are you claiming the house is haunted?”

“Of course.” Seeming not at all disturbed by how her would-be autobiographer might take this little news flash,
Roxanne said, “Let's go downstairs again. You haven't seen the ballroom. It's truly magnificent. I'm planning the most wonderful party there, as soon as Cash and I finish the restoration.”

Perhaps it came from seeing too many movies, but Chelsea had no difficulty at all picturing the immense, high-ceilinged room with its double hung windows, elaborate scrolled plaster detailing, and ceiling frescoes depicting southern life as it had once been. She could practically hear the music and see the men in frock coats and women in satin and lace, the women's hoop skirts looking like colorful hollyhock blossoms as they twirled gaily around the gleaming parquet floor.

“It's magnificent.”

“Isn't it?” Roxanne's eyes gleamed as her gaze roamed the room. “Ezekial brought the floor back from one of his trips to Italy before the war. It's no wonder Margaret Mitchell got her inspiration for Tara after visiting here.”

“Really?” Jo asked. The unmasked excitement in her voice made Chelsea think she was already considering ways to insert scenes from the movie into her documentary.

“Of course,” Roxanne insisted. “Why, everyone around these parts knows that Tara was patterned after Belle Terre. Which is what's going to make this restoration so much more meaningful.”

Not to mention lucrative, Chelsea thought, deciding that if this story was even remotely true, Roxanne truly had stumbled on a gold mine.

A sudden, tinny trill had Roxanne reaching into her handbag for her cellular phone. “Hello?” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “I'm sorry. It's my housekeeper.” She gave them a look that said, servants, what can you do with them? “What is it LaDonna? I happen to be busy at the moment.”

As she listened to the near hysterical housekeeper begin to stutter out the problem, Roxanne felt a cold fist of fear tightening around her heart. She forced a stiff, frozen smile toward the others.

“If you'll excuse me a moment.”

Her heels tapping briskly on the scarred marble foyer, Roxanne went back outside, across the lawn, stopping behind the huge construction Dumpster the contractor had delivered the first day on the job. Although the sun was rising high in the sky and the temperatures were slated to hit another record high today, she felt as if she'd suddenly found herself buck naked in the middle of a blizzard.

“What do you mean he won't go away,” she rasped. “Just tell him to leave. Then shut the door.”

“But you don't understand,” the usually composed housekeeper said on something close to a wail. “I tried that. And he just went around to the side door. He insists on talking with you, Miz Scarbrough.” The next words confirmed Roxanne's worst fears. “He says he has a business proposition for you.”

As frightened as she was, Roxanne couldn't resist a rich, ripe curse at that. Business? Blackmail was more like it.

“Shall I call the police, Miz Scarbrough?” LaDonna Greene asked.

“No!” She could deal with George, Roxanne assured herself. The same way she'd dealt with everything else in her past. She was right on the verge of achieving everything she'd struggled for. Everything she'd sacrificed for. She'd come too far to allow one miserable alcoholic wreck of a mistake to stop her now.

“Tell him he'll have to wait in the garden. I do not want that man in my house. I'm at Belle Terre. I'll leave immediately.”

“Yes, Miz Scarbrough.” There was a slight, hesitant
pause. “It's nearly lunchtime. Shall I serve him some iced tea and sandwiches? I was preparing the cold pesto chicken breasts for your guests, as you'd instructed this morning, but—”

“No!” She may have to speak with the bastard, but Roxanne was damned if she was going to play hostess. “Don't feed that man a fucking goddamn thing. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Feed him? Roxanne asked herself furiously as she lowered the antenna on the phone. Only if she could prepare an arsenic salad with cyanide dressing. And serve it to him herself.

She indulged herself with the momentary fantasy of George writhing on the floor in poison-induced agony, then pasted a smile on her face and went back into the house.

“I'm so sorry. But a pesky little problem that needs my personal attention has come up.”

Her smile was as brittle as glass. As were her eyes. Chelsea, observing her closely, noticed the bright spots of pink riding high on her cheekbones. But beneath that flush, she thought Roxanne's complexion looked oddly pale. Almost ashen. And her voice held a faint edge that was not quite anger.

Contrasts.
Chelsea had witnessed Roxanne holding court at her dining room table with charm and grace. On one of her bestselling videotapes she'd seen Roxanne down on her knees in the garden, planting daffodil and tulip bulbs.

And if the business statistics cited in a recent
Wall Street Journal
were even partly true, Roxanne Scarbrough the CEO was on track to someday equal Lee Ioccoca or Ross Perot in financial clout. And then, of course, Chelsea couldn't forget the rude, arrogant prima dona who'd terrorized the staff of “Good Morning America.”

Roxanne possessed more facets than the diamonds that
had glittered icily at her lobes in the candlelight during last night's dinner. Once again, despite last night's mysterious warning, or perhaps because of it, Chelsea was reluctantly intrigued. Discovering the core woman beneath all the glamour and hype could be a stimulating challenge.

“I've certainly seen enough to get a flavor of what you have in mind, Roxanne. Perhaps, once we get back to your house and you take care of your business, we can discuss our individual views on ghostwritten autobiographies. To see how compatible we are,” she explained, when Roxanne shot her a startled look.

“You want to come back to my house? To discuss the book?”

Chelsea sensed something was definitely wrong here. Why did the woman think she'd gotten on that plane yesterday and flown all the way down here from Manhattan? To discuss stabling procedures during the Civil War? War Between the States, Chelsea reminded herself.