Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (159 page)

Tracy looked at her mom then, her face a maze of angry lines. “You pushed me to this. You all did.”

Mom turned around, walked to the front door, and opened it wide. “It’s time for you to turn yourself in.”

Chapter Seventeen

Six Months Later

Montpelier, Vermont

The high-pitched sound of the alarm snapped Angela out of pleasant dreams of sandy beaches and warm sun. She thought about hitting snooze, but tapped the off button instead. It was Monday, and she had to be at work by eight.

As she waited for the coffee to brew, she scrambled an egg, then checked the phone for messages. No calls. She hadn’t heard from Jason in nearly three weeks.

After Tracy and Jason were both arrested, Angela had stayed with Mrs. Caldwell for a while. They drove together to the prison every few days and were vigilant about keeping the case in the media and pushing to get Jason out of prison.

Tracy was looking at life behind bars.

Jason had yet to be vindicated. His new lawyer assured Mrs. Caldwell that he would be cleared, but these things take time, he’d said. 

Upon returning home to Montpelier, Angela learned that Rob and Christine were no longer together. When Rob found out she was back home, he repeatedly asked her out. Finally, she agreed to meet him for coffee and made it clear it was over between them.

Since then, she’d been keeping busy. Unfortunately for the people who had passed away, work had picked up at the morgue. She’d also applied for re-entry to medical school. Being on the run with Jason had made her realize how short life was. There was no time like the present to aim high and fulfill her dreams.

After locking up the apartment, she made her way toward her Volvo parked at the curb. She couldn’t look at the car without thinking about Jason. She missed being with him. It didn’t take much for her to remember his smile, or how she melted when he looked into her eyes and held her close.

She was afraid she’d gotten a parking ticket when she saw a slip of paper tucked under her the windshield wiper. The note said: “You look beautiful.”

She whipped around, and saw Jason standing a few cars away. His hair had grown. His eyes were bright—that haunted expression was gone.

“I was in the area,” he said, coming her way, “and thought I’d stop by to say hello.”

She jumped into his arms. He smelled so familiar, so good. She pulled away to have a better look at him. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“I missed you.” He kissed her, his mouth a whisper on her lips until she pulled him closer and deepened the kiss. After she looked up into his eyes again, he retrieved an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to her.

“What’s this?” She ripped it open before he could answer. “Two tickets to Paris! You’re allowed to fly?”

“I’ve been fully exonerated, Angela. I’m a free man. I want to see the world, and I want to see it with you. I figured two weeks in Paris would be a good start.”

“How is that possible? I thought Tracy emptied your accounts.”

“I’m in the process of selling the house and everything else Tracy bought with the money. But that account only comprised half of my share of monies made from the sale of the company. Colin invested the other half in stocks, which happen to be doing very well.”

Stunned, unable to believe he was standing in front of her as a free man, she turned and ran down the walkway leading back to her apartment.

“Where are you going?”

“To call my boss. I think I need a day off.”

He laughed.

She laughed, too, and then ran back to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed his chin, his jaw, his lips. “I can’t believe this is happening.” Breathless, she looked into his eyes again. “You’re truly free. How does it feel?”

“Indescribable. For the first time in years, I have the power to choose…love, life, happiness…it’s all up to me.”

“I love you, Jason Caldwell.”

“I love you, too.”

About Theresa Ragan

New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author Theresa Ragan has garnered six Golden Heart nominations in Romance Writers of America's prestigious Golden Heart Competition for her work. Since releasing her first book in March 2011, she has sold over one million ebooks. In 2012 she signed with Thomas & Mercer.

Theresa writes medieval time travels, contemporary romance, romantic suspense, and thrillers under the name T.R. Ragan.
Click here
for a list of all her books in the bestselling Lizzy Gardner series.

Join her newsletter
so you don’t miss new releases and for a chance to win $50 each month! You can find Theresa on the web at
www.theresaragan.com
| Facebook:
AuthorTheresaRagan
| Twitter: @theresaragan | email:
[email protected]

by Erica Spindler

“Don’t forget in the dark what you learned in the light.”

—author unknown

Chapter
One

Noon

New Orleans, Louisiana

Detective Michaela Dee Dare’s stomach growled. Loudly. One of those deep rumbles that would’ve been heard clear to the back of church on a packed Sunday morning. If she went to church.

Micki had given up church and praying to an invisible father for help a long time ago. Now she put her faith in the tangible. Her own skills. The gun at her hip, the shield that gave her the power to protect herself.

These days, she would not go down without one hell of a fight.

Lessons learned the hard way.

Up ahead, the blue lights of a lone cruiser flashed in front of a big-ass mansion. She’d pulled a temporary assignment in the Second District. Uptown. Bounded by Louisiana and Orleans Avenues and the Mississippi River. The highest priced real estate in New Orleans. St. Charles Avenue, Tulane and Loyola Universities, Audubon Park and the Zoo.

Ritzy-titzyville.

She usually worked the Ninth District. Not quite down on its luck, not quite middle class. Which suited her just fine. People who dealt with real life everyday; people who knew who they were and where they belonged.

Here, the phony-factor ran high. Real high. Sort of like the crazy club she’d grown up in. Mama’s narcissism, Aunt Jo’s desperation. Grandma Roberta’s complete denial of reality.

And her Uncle Beau’s voice in her ear, deep and round from a third scotch:
“Come, Michaela, let’s play a little game of make believe.”

Micki shoved that memory deep into the dark recesses. The place nothing good lived. Certainly, nothing she was prepared to examine in the light of day.

She reached the scene, parked behind the single cruiser. Police tape stretched across the entrance, blending weirdly with the purple, green, and gold Mardi Gras swags adorning the columned mansion’s facade. Tinsel wreaths of the same colors hung on the double doors, sparkling fingers fluttering in the breeze.

The toot of a horn startled her and she glanced in her rearview. A man climbing out of his vehicle. Like her assignment, a temporary partner.  She grabbed her gear, climbed out, and went to meet him.

Her first impression was of an aging goodfella, softening around the edges but still intimidating. “Carmine Angelo,” he said, holding out a hand.

She took it. “Micki Dare.”

He smiled, a big toothy grin that changed him from crime boss to somebody’s daddy. “You’re new to the Detective Bureau.”

“I am.” They fell into step together. “Promoted the first of the year.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She’d beat out a number of other candidates—all men, some with more time in uniform—which hadn’t made her any friends. “What do you know about the vic?” she asked.

“Besides that she was rich and now she’s dead? Nada.”

They reached the first officer; Angelo greeted him by name. “Chuckles, good to see you, man. My partner du jour, Micki Dare.”

He nodded at her. “How’re ya?”

She returned the nod. “Okay. What do we have?”

“Housekeeper called it in. Found her employer, one Vivianne Stanley, in a pool of blood in her Queen’s room.”

Micki cocked an eyebrow. “Queen’s room?”

“You know. Mardi Gras. Rex’s Royal Consort. 1969.”

Angelo unwrapped a piece of peppermint gum and folded it into his mouth. “That’s N’Awlins,” he drawled, “once a queen, always a queen.”

Rex: one of the oldest, most exclusive of the Mardi Gras organizations. More phony bullshit.

“Housekeeper’s name?”

“Margaret Cook.” He shook his head. “Looks like Stanley was beaten to death with her scepter.”

Micki looked up from her notepad. “Excuse me, did you just say—”

“Yeah, I did. Her scepter.”

Angelo snorted. “Those things aren’t much more than tin foil and paste.”

“Not this one. Like everything else, stuff was made to last in the old days.”

Micki jumped back in. “The housekeeper’s here?”

“In the kitchen with the rest of the staff. Yardman and cook. Stanley’s personal trainer. Apparently, his arrival precipitated finding the body.”

Micki glanced at Angelo. He met her eyes and nodded slightly. The coincidence of the trainer’s arrival could be nothing—or everything.

“My partner’s babysitting. Called another cruiser, got nobody. It’s that time of year, I guess.”

Angelo grinned. “You’ve got us.”

Chuckles chuckled and Micki instantly understood the nickname. “Paramedics called?”

“On their way. Supposedly. We’ll see how long
that
takes.”

Angelo winked at her. “Mardi Gras; can’t live with it, can’t kill it.”

“We could try,” she muttered as they entered the house.

She moved her gaze over the opulent interior, taking in details, absorbing. Waiting for that one thing to jump out and shout at her.

“Where’re you from, Dare?”

“Mobile.”

“So you’re familiar with Carnival.”

“Intimately.”

“Hence the disdain.”

“You got it.”

More crime scene tape. The inner perimeter. They ducked under. The Queen’s room, essentially an office. Writing desk. Credenza. Discreet file cabinets.

Except for the eye catching, life-size display: Queen’s garb—beaded gown, faux fur stole; photographs of the young and lovely Vivianne; framed newspaper clippings; display cases filled with memorabilia.

So eye-catching she almost missed the real deal: Vivianne Stanley on the floor in a pool of blood. Stanley’s head was a mess. Scepter there, by the body, bloodied. Even from this distance she could make out fingerprints on the scepter’s staff.

“Looks like Chuckles called it,” Angelo said.

Micki murmured agreement and moved on. “Perp didn’t bother with stealth. Crime of passion. Unorganized.”

“Looks like first blow came from behind.”

“Stanley stumbled, turned—” Micki indicated the blood trail, spatter on the fancy-ass rug.“Our UNSUB kept at her.”

Fury. Hatred. Jealousy. Trifecta of ugly.

Personal. Very
.

In unison, she and Angelo fitted on gloves, inched closer, squatted beside the body.

The scepter had left a fleur-de-lis imprint on Stanley’s remarkably unlined forehead. A lone rhinestone had come free and imbedded there; it seemed to wink up at them.

“How old you think she was?” he asked.

“Queen of Rex in ‘69, that would make her seventy plus.”

He cocked his head and snapped his gum. “Pretty well preserved. Neither of my grannies looked like this.”

“My grandma did. All it takes is money. A lot of it.”

Micki felt his questioning gaze on her but didn’t acknowledge it, stood and crossed to the desk. She frowned slightly. Obviously, Stanley had been a neat and tidy sort, yet several files laid open on her desk. Drops of blood, bloody fingerprints. Perp was looking for something.

Micki thumbed through. Mailing lists. Returned RSVP cards. Several invitations to said event.

Queen’s Tea. Windsor Court Hotel. Today at four P.M.

“You found something?” he asked.

She looked at him. He had made his way from the body to the display case along the back wall. The lid of one case stood open.

“Invitations and RSVPs for an event today,” she answered. “Perp’s prints all over them. You?”

“Two things missing from this display.

“Scepter?”

He nodded. “And crown.”

She frowned, moved her gaze over the scene one more time. “So, where is it?”

“Good question.”

From the foyer came the sound of the paramedics arriving. More officers. She wouldn’t be surprised if the chief showed up. Vivianne Stanley wasn’t just any vic, she was New Orleans royalty.

Chapter Two

2:00 P.M.