Mimosa Grove (18 page)

“Where are you seated?” Trigger asked.

“Second row, aisle seat,” Robert said as he gathered up his belongings and moved toward the gate.

First class. Should have known,
Trigger thought, and kicked himself for not thinking that far ahead.

“Have a nice flight,” Trigger said. “Maybe we can share a cab when we arrive.”

“I’m not staying in Houma,” Robert said. “I’m traveling on south.”

“Business?”

Robert shook his head. “No, I’m going down to see my daughter.”

Trigger’s smile widened. “Laurel! I haven’t seen her in ages. Has she moved?”

Robert’s instinct for privacy began to kick in, although, if he was truthful with himself, it was really too late. He’d already told more of his business to a man he didn’t respect than he’d meant to.

“For the time being,” he said. “Her grandmother recently passed away. Laurel inherited the family property and is in the process of deciding what to do with it.”

Trigger managed a proper frown, when in actuality he wanted to shout for joy.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “Please give Laurel my sympathies when you see her.”

“Yes, of course,” Robert said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m boarding now.”

“Certainly, and it’s been nice talking to you,” Trigger said, and stepped back into the crowd to wait for general boarding.

He waited impatiently, anxious to get off the ground and get to Laurel Scanlon. The sooner he put her on ice, the sooner McNamara would be free, which meant his ass was almost off the hook.

Robert forgot about the coincidental meeting once he was on the plane, when he realized he hadn’t even let Laurel know he was coming. He waved down the flight attendant assigned to first class.

“Miss…do I have time to make a phone call?”

“Yes, sir, but you’ll need to be quick,” she said. “As soon as everyone is on board, we’ll be asking for personal electronic devices to be turned off.”

“Thank you,” he said, then scanned the address book in his cell phone and quickly dialed the number of Mimosa Grove.

Laurel was sitting out on the veranda watching Elvis doing a fan dance for one of the female peacocks. Justin had been gone for a little over an hour, and she was waiting for Harper Fonteneau to come by and take her statement. She didn’t know how much she could tell him that he didn’t already know, but she was anxious to get the incident behind her. Marie had heard through the grapevine from Tula that the Clement family wanted to hang Martin Lewis. If Harper Fonteneau hadn’t already been on the scene, Martin wouldn’t have lived to be arrested. Laurel leaned her head back against the rocking chair and closed her eyes, welcoming the distraction of the sun’s warmth and Elvis’s intermittent screeches.

As she was sitting, she heard the phone inside the house begin to ring. Remembering that Marie was in the garden out back, she reluctantly abandoned her seat to go answer.

“Hello.”

“Laurel, honey, it’s Dad.”

Her lethargy shifted, allowing a small spurt of delight to seep in.

“Dad! It’s great to hear your voice. How have you been?”

“Never better,” he said, and realized that he meant it. “Say, do you have time for a visitor?”

Laurel’s heart lightened even further. “If it’s you, then definitely yes! When are you coming?”

“I’m already on my way,” he said. “I’m landing in Houma around two. I’ll rent a car and drive down. Should be there before dark.”

“I can come get you.”

“No, absolutely not. I’ve already got the car arranged. I’ll come to you.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Laurel said. “Don’t eat dinner. We’ll make something special for you.”

“We?”

“Mamárie and I. Oh, Dad…it’s so good to hear your voice. I can’t wait to see you. Drive safe.”

“Yes, I will. I’ll have my cell phone with me, so don’t worry.”

“See you soon.” Then, although it was out of character for both of them, something prompted Laurel to add, “I love you, Dad.”

He smiled self-consciously, then replied softly, “I love you, too.”

Laurel was still smiling when she heard the back door open. She hung up the phone and then ran toward the kitchen.

“Guess what?” she cried, as she took the basket of ripe tomatoes from Marie’s hands and carried it the rest of the way into the house.

Thankful to be relieved of her burden, Marie followed Laurel in, then began washing her hands.

“I don’t know,” she said. “You tell me.”

“Dad is coming. He’s already on the plane. He’ll be here tonight.”

Marie kept the smile on her face, but she was going to reserve judgment until she saw Robert Scanlon again. She’d only seen him once and still remembered the disdain with which she and Marcella had been treated.

“That’s just fine,” she said, and reached for the towel to dry her hands. “We’ll be needin’ to fix somethin’ special for supper, then. Does your daddy have any favorites?”

Laurel thought of the beef Wellington that her father favored, then shook her head.

“Yes, but I want to share Louisiana with him. How about some étouffée?”

Marie smiled. “Yes…I got plenty of shrimps. I’ll make some rice and beans and the étouffée. Maybe some blackberry cobbler for dessert?”

“Yes. Yes. Perfect,” Laurel said. “I’ll help.”

Marie frowned. “No. I don’t need help in my own kitchen. You go wait for Harper. When he’s gone, you can fix up one of the clean bedrooms for your daddy. Maybe take some fresh flowers up there.”

“Yes, all right,” Laurel said, then turned at the sound of a knock on the front door. Her shoulders slumped, and she made a face at Marie. “Rats. That’s bound to be Harper.” Quick tears shimmered in her eyes, but she blinked them away. “I’d rather do anything than relive Mattie’s death again.”

Marie put her arms around Laurel and gave her a hug.

“Want me to come with you?”

Laurel shook her head as she returned the hug.

“No, I’ll do it,” she said. “But you don’t know how much it means to me that you offered.”

“Then go on with you,” Marie said. “I’m gonna wash up these tomatoes and make some gazpacho for lunch. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful,” Laurel said, and hurried to answer the door.

As she’d suspected, it was Harper.

“Chief, come in,” Laurel said, and stepped aside for the man to enter.

Harper took off his hat and smiled.

“I just came by to tell you that there’s no need for me to take your testimony after all. Martin’s confession will be enough.”

“Thank goodness,” Laurel said. “I wasn’t looking forward to reliving that.”

Harper nodded, then eyed her curiously.

“Miss Scanlon, can I ask you something?”

“Yes, if you’ll call me Laurel.”

“Yes, ma’am… I mean, Laurel.”

“Then ask away.”

“How do you do it? I mean…see the future and all?”

“I don’t know.”

He nodded, accepting the answer as he glanced around the great hall.

“Does it scare you?”

Laurel sighed. “You mean the visions?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Then he frowned. “What else is there?”

She almost smiled. “Well, there are the ghosts, and the—”

He stuffed his hat on his head and began backing up.

“I’m real sorry I didn’t get Justin’s message in time to help Mattie, but I want you to know that I appreciate you just the same.”

Harper bolted for his patrol car.

Laurel waved, although it was futile. Harper was already gone.

She looked toward the mimosa trees beside the old fishpond and smiled. Elvis was strutting back and forth on top of the rock ledge while a small brown female pecked at the grasshoppers in the yard.

“Just like a male. I’m already old news.”

As she started into the house, she felt a cool breeze against her cheek, but when she glanced back at the trees, there wasn’t a breath of air stirring. She touched the side of her face, then looked around, although she knew there was nothing to see.

“I know, I know,” she said softly. “You’re reminding me you’re still here. Well, so am I. But I still don’t know what you want me to do.”

Having said that, she hurried back inside. She still had enough time to get ready for her father’s arrival, then read some more from Chantelle’s diary.

O
ne of Justin’s clients, an elderly man named Maurice, was going into the hospital for cataract surgery and needed to sell some of his stocks to pay for the procedure. Justin had just finished brokering the sale and was in the act of transferring the money to Maurice’s checking account when his phone rang. He typed in the last bit of information and clicked on Send, then picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Justin, it’s me.”

All the muscles in his body went slack as he kicked back in his chair and smiled.

“Hello, me,” he said. “Was it rough talking to Harper?”

“I didn’t have to, after all,” Laurel said. “Martin’s confession takes care of everything, so I guess my part in the discovery of her body was moot.”

Justin’s smile slipped. He could hear tension in her voice and knew that Mattie’s death had affected her greatly.

“Honey, are you all right?”

Laurel sighed. “I will be, but that’s not why I’m calling. My father is coming for a quick visit. I was wondering if you would come for breakfast in the morning. I’d like for you two to meet…if you don’t mind,” she added.

“Sweetheart, not only do I not mind, I look forward to it. Tell Marie to make plenty of biscuits.”

“You sure? I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you to—”

“It’s not pressure, Laurel. It will be a pleasure. Besides…he may as well get used to me now, because I’m not going away.”

Laurel shivered suddenly with longing. His rough-tender voice made her ache.

“And for that I am forever grateful,” she said softly.

Justin groaned. “Ah,
chère,
your gratitude is not what I’m longing for.”

Laurel grinned. “Hold that thought until next time.”

“Love you, baby.”

Laurel’s heart tugged. It was the first time either one of them had voiced what was in their hearts, and she could no more have denied a like answer than she could have quit breathing.

“Love you, too.”

“See you in the morning…about nine?”

“Perfect,” Laurel said. “See you then.”

She hung up, reluctant to break their connection, and shuddered lightly from the quickening she felt just hearing his voice. She had it bad, but that was good. Next thing on her mental to-do list was to put some fresh flowers in her father’s room and make sure there were clean linens, as well.

She hurried back into the kitchen, where Marie was already busy chopping ingredients for the evening meal.

“Mamárie…where would I find a flower vase?”

Marie pointed toward a small closet off the pantry.

“They’re all in there. Your grandmama used to love fresh flowers, but the sicker she became, the less she wanted them around. Said they made her feel as if she was viewing her own funeral.”

Laurel made a sad face. “If only our lives had been different. I think she would have been a marvelous woman to know, and I’m sorry I didn’t make the effort to stay in touch.”

Marie shrugged. “She understood. Your daddy didn’t hold with the sight and tried to deny it existed by keeping you and Phoebe away as much as possible. After your mama died, Miz Marcella began to withdraw. She quit trying, so don’t blame yourself.”

“Still, it would have been good to have someone who understood what happens inside my head.” Then she smiled. “But I have you.”

Marie’s eyes widened perceptibly; then she shook her head in denial.

“Don’t lay none of that ‘understandin” stuff on me. I don’t understand one single bit of what you can do. All’s I know is that you can do it, and of that I have no doubt.”

“That’s enough for me,” Laurel said, and headed for the closet. Moments later, she came out with a tall crystal vase, wiped it clean with a dish towel, then set it on the table.

“I’m going to cut some flowers. Be back in a jiffy.”

“Take your time, child. It’s too hot to rush.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Laurel said, snatched a pair of kitchen shears from a drawer and took a shallow basket from the back steps as she headed toward the newly manicured grounds and flower garden, compliments of Tula’s grandson Claude. She still had the exterior of the house, as well as the roof, to contend with, but it would wait until another day.

Down on her knees among the sweet-blooming flowers and the freshly turned earth, Laurel felt such peace and, at the same time, a sense of timelessness. How many women of Mimosa Grove had been in this same place, she wondered, doing this same thing for the men in their lives?

As she sat, a butterfly rode a faint current of air in front of her outstretched hand before settling silently onto the soft white petals of a gardenia. Laurel rocked back on her heels, watching as it drank from the nectar, its wings fluttering slowly now and then for balance. Near the base of the bloom, a pair of small black ants ran a race toward the ground, using the stem for a track.

“Run fast,” she said softly, and then sat very still until they were gone.

Movement near her left foot had her shifting her focus and brought a smile to her face. Her appearance in the flowers had obviously disturbed a large fat toad from his nap.

“Well, hello, Mr. Toad. Nice to meet you.”

At the sound of her voice, the toad hopped back beneath the deep shade of the gardenia bushes and then disappeared.

“Honey…you gonna stay out there all day? It’s past time you got yourself in outta that sun.”

Laurel looked up and waved at Marie, who was calling to her from the doorway. She glanced at her watch, slightly surprised that she’d been outside almost an hour.

“Yes, ma’am,” she answered, then picked up her basket of flowers and stood, wincing slightly from a small stiffness in her knees.

The unexpected pain was a reminder that she hadn’t followed her normal exercise routine. Maybe tomorrow morning early, before it became so hot, she would take a run. Then she glanced toward the grove behind the house. Of course, there was always the shade inside the grove. If she had time closer to evening, she might take a short run.

Shifting her basket to the crook of her arm, she tossed the scissors on top of the blooms and headed for the house. She was on the first step when a shrill, high-pitched scream sounded from the trees behind her.

She turned abruptly, her heart pounding.

“Marie!” She dropped the flowers and raced to the door. “Marie!” she shouted, then turned back toward the grove, half expecting to see a woman run screaming from the trees.

Within moments, Marie was there.

“What? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No, no,” Laurel said, her voice shaking as she pointed toward the grove. “I heard a woman screaming…out there!”

Marie frowned. “Ain’t supposed to be anybody—”

The scream sounded again. Marie’s frown deepened, but her posture relaxed.

“Honey girl…that’s not a woman. That’s a painter. Only they don’t usually come up in the daytime.”

Laurel grabbed the basket of flowers as she backed toward the door.

“A painter? What’s a painter?”

“Girl, don’t you know nothin’?” Marie shook her head, grabbed Laurel by the arm and yanked her into the kitchen before closing the door. “It’s a cat. A big cat.”

“Oh, do you mean a panther?” Laurel asked.

Marie shrugged. “I suppose some call ’em that.”

“What do we do?” she asked.

“We don’t do anything,” Marie said as she moved toward the phone. “But Tula got a cousin who can help.”

Laurel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Tula’s connections seemed endless.

“What on earth would we do around here without Tula and her kin?” she muttered.

Marie dialed the phone, ignoring Laurel’s comment.

A shiver raced through Laurel’s body as she set the flowers on the table, then went to the sink to wash her hands. Even as she was looking out the window, she was struck by the beauty of the pastoral scene beyond. Still, her gaze slid from the garden and flower beds to the thick grove of mimosa trees at the back of the property.

It was like looking at a grove of giant toadstools. The limbs of the mimosas, with their fernlike fronds spread like so many open umbrellas and the pink-and-white flowers adorning them, were not unlike the feathered topknots of the peacocks of which Marcella had been so fond. But the presence of a predator at Mimosa Grove was a reminder of the dangers that often lay beneath the calm, peaceful existence of ordinary life.

“He’s comin’ right over,” Marie said. “Name’s Manville, and he’s bringin’ some of his boys with him. Now, honey, don’t you worry none. They’ll find that cat. Just don’t be goin’ for any of your walks off the grounds until they kill it dead.”

Laurel shivered again. “Don’t worry about that,” she muttered. “I may never go in there again.”

Marie frowned, then slid a hand across Laurel’s shoulders and patted her gently.

“No, no, baby girl…don’t be talkin’ like that. That cat just got hisself lost, that’s all. It don’t want nothin’ to do with you any more than you want with it. Understand?”

“I guess,” Laurel said, then made herself smile. “Looks like I’m still a city girl at heart, with a lot to learn.”

“You’ll do fine,” Marie said, then wiped her hands on her apron and straightened her shoulders. “Now, fix your flowers and then go take a nap. I got me some étouffée and cobbler to make.”

“I really can help,” Laurel said.

Marie shooed her away. “You’ll be more help if you stay outta my kitchen. Make yourself pretty for your daddy, okay?”

Laurel frowned.

“I’ll stay out of your way, but I’m not some helpless female. Just because that stupid panther scared me doesn’t mean I’m going to faint away. I’ll do the flowers like we planned, then—”

Marie laughed, then patted Laurel on the cheek.

“Lord, honey…I didn’t mean you can’t take care of yourself. I just want you to enjoy your daddy’s visit, okay?”

Laurel made a face and then laughed, too.

“Okay. Didn’t mean to get all huffy. I’m not unaccustomed to two-legged intruders, but this is my first encounter with a hairy four-legged one. Next time I won’t overreact.”

“Let’s just hope there’s not a next time,” Marie said, then tucked a straggling lock of hair into the knot at the back of her neck before moving to the sink.

Laurel made quick work of the flowers, then carried them up to the room where her father would stay. Once she’d finished that task and put out clean sheets and towels, she headed to her room to pick out something to wear. But Chantelle’s diary beckoned instead, so she kicked off her shoes and crawled up into the middle of her bed. Moments later, she forgot about everything but the life and times of a woman long since past.

Laurel shifted restlessly on the bed, then scooted back against the headboard and pulled her knees up, using them, instead of her lap, as a place to rest the book. She turned the fragile pages with care as she read, already drawn into the drama of Chantelle LeDeux’s life. It wasn’t until she reached the month of October that she realized how fragile Chantelle’s existence really was.

Laurel held the small book to her heart and closed her eyes, well aware of the anguish that Chantelle had been suffering. In an odd sort of way, it gave Laurel comfort to know that she wasn’t the only one who’d had to endure ridicule and judgment because she saw things other people could not.

As she turned to the next page, it occurred to her that Chantelle had yet to make one believably positive mention of her husband or of her affection for him. It was then that she remembered that during this time in history, most marriages were arranged. Her heart hurt for the young French girl and her loneliness in the wilds of a new world. It began to make sense why a wife and a mother such as this might even consider running away.

She looked down at the next page, squinting to read the faded words, and turned on the table lamp beside her bed before continuing. Many pages later, another entry caught her attention.