Sandra Hill - [Jinx 03] (16 page)

She snorted again. Honestly, she had the cutest snort. “They haven’t had chain gangs for ages.”

LeDeux raised a finger in the air. “Correction. Some prisons in the South still do chain gangs.”

“Well, for teenagers, then,” Grace amended.

“Okay, so it was a reform school farm,” Angel said, walking over to tug on one of her red curls. She hated when he did that.

“I can attest to that,” Peachey interjected. “I grew up on a farm. Ugh! Chain gang, for sure.”

“Did you hear about the Mother Superior who ordered one hundred and twenty bananas for the convent?”

Grace groaned.

“When the grocer said he could give her a discount if she took one hundred forty-four, the Mother said she supposed they could
eat
the other twenty-four.”

“You are weird, do you know that, Angel? Weird.”

“And dontcha just love it?”

“Break’s over, people,” Famosa said. He was project leader and a pain in the ass. The Cuban dirtbag had taken a special interest in Grace. And Grace was returning the interest, dammit. Apparently, Grace had visited Cuba one time in her nun capacity.

He had known Grace for about ten years, and she had already left the convent by then. As close as they were, as friends, even he was in the dark about what had happened. But then, he didn’t talk about his younger days either. All those years of friendship had caused him to be protective of Grace when men were putting the moves on her.

Who was he kidding? He had been in love with her for so long he ached with it. She didn’t suspect a thing, and he didn’t intend to ever tell her. She’d been a nun, for the love of a Harley. He, on the other hand, had been things he never wanted her, or anyone else, to know about. A buried past, which would hopefully stay that way.

“Got it bad, do you?” LeDeux remarked, coming up to shovel next to him.

That jarred him a bit . . . that he’d been so obvious. He must be slipping.

“No one else noticed,” LeDeux assured him, as if that was any assurance. One word to LeDeux’s wacky aunt, and he would have the Cajun matchmaker riding his tail.

“You should talk,” he countered. “You watch Celine like she’s private property.”

LeDeux’s face got red.

Who knew the bayou stud could blush?

“You’re wrong. I was just watchin’ you hittin’ on her, and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I was not hitting on her. We were just talking about a newspaper series she did on Hells Angels.”

“Stay away from Celine.”

He chuckled. “Likewise on Grace.”

“Not that we’re a couple or anything.”

“Same here.”

“I feel a responsibility for her.”

“Ditto.”

The two of them glared at each other, then burst out laughing.

Chapter
15

They were sitting around on the porch of the cabin that evening, except for Caleb who’d volunteered to stay behind at the work site. No way was Celine going to risk alone time with John again.

Speaking of whom . . .

John sank down into an Adirondack chair next to her, propping his booted feet on the porch rail. She was safe, though; Adam, Grace, and Angel were at the other end of the porch playing poker. Grace had agreed to play on the condition Angel wouldn’t tell any nun jokes. A Cajun radio station played softly in the background. René had gone back to Houma with Remy.

“Are you gettin’ enough information for your story?” he asked, taking a slow sip from a longneck bottle of Dixie beer.

“Absolutely.” She had her laptop propped on her knees, her feet also up on the low rail. She noticed John noticing her legs and the fact that she had shaved them after dinner in the small bathroom. Not that they’d really needed it!

Before dinner, they’d all bathed in one way or another . . . the interior shower or the bayou stream. The massive amounts of mud and sweat made it a necessity.

The boy did clean up good.
Mentally fanning myself here.
It wasn’t just his even features, his being tall and lean, it was more his personality showcased by his dark Cajun dancing eyes.

Like Etienne.

Oh, God!

“In fact, I have material for several newspaper features once this project is completed, and none of the subjects is dependent on finding a treasure.”

He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Not about you. Get over yourself. That line was crossed and crossed out.”

He nodded. “So tell me, what do you find so interesting here?”

“Your aunt in herself would make an outstanding human interest feature. Good grief! Her
traiteur
work for more than six decades is fascinating. Historically important, actually.”

“You’re right. You oughta read her journals sometime. The people she’s met and healed. Unusual remedies out the kazoo.”

“Do you think she’d agree to an interview?”

“Are you kiddin’? My aunt, she loves to talk . . . and she loves bein’ the center of attention.”

She nodded. “Then there’s Adam. He’s fascinating, too.”

John didn’t like that assessment at all, as evidenced by the tightening of his jaw.

“You disagree? How well do you know him?”

“Well enough. I’ve been on two previous Jinx projects. You could say we have a personality conflict.”

“Adam gives the impression of being a slimy womanizer, but after talking with him, I see lots more. There has to be a story in how he got to this country. And no denying, he’s a well-respected professor of oceanography, an accomplished diver and treasure hunter, and a philanthropist . . . did you know he volunteers for Make-A-Wish?”

“I didn’t know about the volunteer work. So, you gonna hook up with him?”

“Please! Must you be uncouth? Does everything have to be about sex with you?”

“With you, it seems to be.”

She stared at him. What did you do with a guy who came out with stuff like this? And what did you do with yourself when you got goose bumps over his words?

He rubbed a hand over his day-old whiskers, staring back at her.

She ought to make a snide remark about his needing to shave and her own whisker burns, but she wasn’t going to step into that minefield, knowing full well that he would speculate on which intimate body parts were affected.

“Sorry, Celine, I promised myself not to harass you anymore.”

“Oh, really?”

“Keep goin’.” He waved his bottle toward her. “Who else rocks your boat?”

She frowned at him.

“Picky, picky! Who do you think is newsworthy?”

“Caleb, the ex-Amish Navy SEAL treasure hunter, of course, though I doubt he would want any publicity.”

“Didn’t stop you with me.”

“Are you ever going to forgive me for that?”

“I don’t know. Whatcha got to offer?”

“I thought you weren’t going to sexually harass me anymore.”

“That wasn’t sexual harassment.”

“Besides, I think I’ve given you more than enough.”

“Now who’s bringin’ up sex?”

She ignored his comment. “Then there are the two arrivals today. An ex-nun poker playing treasure hunter . . . gotta be a huge story there. And Angel Sabato spells human interest out the wing wang.”

“Bet you’re gonna go back to your office and pull up the picture of him in
Playgirl
magazine. Just to see his wing wang.”

“Of course.”

They smiled at each other then, and an open smile from John LeDeux, without any sexual motivation, was still a potent thing.

“Tell me about yourself, John. Oh, don’t get your hackles up. I’m not going to write about you again.”

“What do you wanna know?”

“Have you ever been engaged or married?” She paused. “Any kids?”

“No, no, and thank God, no.”

She winced, which he thankfully didn’t notice.

“What did you study in college? What did you do after you graduated?”

“Man, this
is
an interrogation,” he said with a grin. “Criminal justice. I really wanted to work for the FBI and even started training classes, but I hated living up north. So, I came home, went to the police academy, and became an officer.”

“Why police work?”

He seemed to hesitate, then said, “This is gonna sound hokey.”

“I love hokey.”

“Finally something she loves about me.” He inhaled, then exhaled. “My father would never be voted Father of the Year. One time when I was about seven, I had a broken arm, and, well, some other stuff. Tante Lulu called the police, and I can still remember how it felt when that cop arrived. It was like one of those historical romance novels where the hero comes riding in on his white charger to save the heroine. A superhero to a little kid, I guess.”

Celine’s heart ached at his words, and those he didn’t say. Valcour LeDeux had a reputation as a mean alcoholic, but she hadn’t realized he abused his kids, too. “You could have become a teacher.”

“I like guns.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Plus, women love guys in uniform.”

She could have pointed out that he no longer wore a uniform, as a detective, but she knew he deliberately veered her away from his revealing words.

“Your turn. What have you been doin’ since we last . . . met? See how couth I can be,
chère?
I didn’t even say . . . since we last did the dirty. Anyhow, why journalism?” He leaned over and flicked her chin playfully.

“I’m good with computers . . . have a double major in computer arts and journalism . . . but I’ve loved writing since I was a kid. And, despite your opinion of journalists, I think I can do good.”

He nodded. “And your personal life, Lois Lane?”

“Hey, you didn’t give me the scoop on your personal life.”

He set his beer down and threw his hands out. “Ask me anything.”

“How many women have you . . . uh, made love with?”

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you? Not as many as you would think. And never married women.”

“Oh, yeah? How about engaged women?” she countered, pointing to herself.

“You’re not engaged.”

“No, I’m not.” She surprised herself with the admission. “How did you know?”

“His name kept changing. When you asked to make a phone call, you never asked to phone him. You don’t act like a woman in love.”

“And how does a woman in love act?”

“Same way as a man in love, I guess.”

She cocked her head at him. When he didn’t answer, she went on, “You’re sugarcoating yourself. You have to know you have a reputation for being wild.”

“That was in my younger days. My wild gene, she is gone rusty.”

“You are so full of it.”

He grinned at her. “Wanna play strip poker?”

The next afternoon, they found the treasure. Actually, the first of the treasures.

John could barely restrain himself from getting on the phone and calling his family . . . hell, everyone he knew. But the team members had decided to keep the find to themselves for now . . . mainly because, amazingly, it appeared that the pirate treasure was buried all over the place in small lots. Well, small lots was a relative assessment. The small box of doubloons they found today could easily be worth a half mil on the rare coin market.

A decision had been made to put off a public announcement ’til they were done with the project. So, Tante Lulu and Ronnie were the only ones who had been informed, and his aunt had sworn on a stack of Bibles not to tell anyone.

In the meantime, smiles and dandelion wine toasts were in abundance. To say the team members were jubilant would be a vast understatement. Sabato and Grace were claiming to be good luck charms. Celine even initiated a happy hug with John, and only pulled away when he put a hand on her butt.

He handed his satellite phone, already predialed through the chief, to Celine, who was sitting on the living room sofa. Then he went over to check out the gold coins soaking in pans on the kitchen table. Unlike silver and other metals, solid gold did not tarnish or corrode, even after a hundred and fifty years, give or take; so, all these needed was a good cleaning.

“Pretty exciting for a first day, huh?” he said to Grace, who was using a soft brush to clean off the dirt.

“Pretty exciting for
any
day, I would think.” She smiled at him companionably. Grace was a petite redhead with pretty green eyes. About thirty-five, he would think. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you, John.”

He tilted his head in question, even as he picked up another brush and started to help her. Rusty and Doug Kershaw were waxing poetic musically about Louisiana men on one of René’s CDs. Unlike Charmaine, René’s tastes were pure Cajun.

“Now that I’ve quit poker, I need a new profession.”

“Treasure hunting?”

“No, I don’t think so . . . at least not long term. I have a PhD in alternative medicine and I’ve taught on the subject. What I was wondering is, well, do you think your aunt would take me on as an apprentice?”

Now, this floored him. He put down his brush and stared at Grace. She was serious. John didn’t think he’d ever met anyone, other than family, that voluntarily spent a long stretch of time with his aunt. She would drive most people insane.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “She
is
ninety-two.”

“All the more reason for me to glean all the herbal wisdom from her that I can before . . . well, before it’s too late.”

“Funny that you should bring this up now. Celine was telling me just this afternoon that my aunt would make a great subject for a feature story on her long history as a
traiteur.
I even mentioned the record books of herbal recipes that my aunt has collected over the past fifty years.”

“She has written records?” Grace practically swooned. Then, something else he’d said must have struck her. “You and Celine . . . are you a couple?”

“
Mon Dieu!
No!”

She looked skeptical. “Look how she watches you. She’s jealous. She thinks you’re hitting on me.”

“No shit! I mean, no kiddin’?” He glanced toward Celine, who had shut off the phone and was, indeed, staring at them.

He gave her a little wave.

She bared her teeth at him.

He was pleased in a perverse sort of way that Celine might have some feelings for him.

“Don’t be gloating, big shot,” Grace said with a laugh. “You look at her the same way.”

“I do not,” he said indignantly.

Do I?

The next day, Tante Lulu and Luc stood outside the door of the house on Crawfish Lane. Luc couldn’t remember ever seeing his aunt so nervous.

She’d just heard this afternoon that the Pirate Project had made a hit, and that it might be the first of many. She was going to be a rich old lady. And none of it mattered more than the kid.

“Let me handle this,” he said.

“I jist have a bad feelin’.”

The door swung open suddenly, and a little boy stared up at them.

The kid was the spitting image of Tee-John when he was that age. What were the chances of this just being a coincidence? About a million to one, he suspected.

“Grampa!” the boy yelled. “We got company!”

An old man . . . presumably James Arseneaux . . . came rushing forward from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Dint I tell ya to never open that door ta—” His words broke off. “You!” he said, glaring at Tante Lulu.

“James,” she said with a dignity that would befit the queen of England. Without an invitation, she sailed past the guy and the kid and entered the living room.

“Ya got some nerve . . . ,” Arseneaux sputtered.

“I’ll tell ya who’s got nerve,” his aunt said, looking pointedly at the kid. Her voice softened then and she hunkered down. There were tears in her eyes. “Hello, Etienne.”

“How ’bout you take Etienne out to the backyard,” Luc suggested to his aunt. “I think I saw some swings there. Mr. Arseneaux and I need to have a talk.”

The minute they were gone, Arseneaux pointed a finger at him. “You have no right!”

“Actually, I do have a right . . . or at least my brother does. Now, we can talk amicably here, or we can do it in court. Which would you prefer?”

Arseneaux put his face in his hands. “This is gonna kill Celine.”

“Tell me what happened,” Luc encouraged.

When he was done, one thing was abundantly clear. James Arseneaux hated the LeDeux family.

“You’re tellin’ me that the reason Celine never told my brother is because you insisted on it as a condition for your help when she was pregnant . . . and when she came to stay here with you?”

The old man’s face flushed. “It weren’t ’zackly like that.”

“What do you have against my family? Oh, wait, my father, right?”

“Damn right! He screwed around with my cousin’s girl one time, promised ta marry up with her, then skedaddled off to marry yer mother. She committed suicide.”

Tante Lulu had told him earlier today about Celine’s father . . . James Arseneaux’s son . . . committing suicide. That must have been a double whammy for the old guy.