DARK LEGACY

By

JONNI RICH

© copyright by Jonni, April 2001
Cover Art by Jenny Dixon
ISBN 1-58608-170-5
Rocket Edition ISBN 1-58608-337-6
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

DEDICATION

To my family, especially my parents, John and Florine Gonzales, for their continued interest in this story.

Special thanks to my husband, Roy, for his advice and constant encouragement.

CHAPTER ONE

The West Coast jet circled the New Orleans International Airport. Ember Ryan fastened her seatbelt for the landing. Through the thick cloud cover below Aunt Leticia Ellerbee waited to meet this flight. With the airplanes downward descent, Ember’s confession to Aunt Leticia that she’d sold the family mansion, The Colonnades, loomed nearer. How the elderly woman would take this unsettling news was anyone’s guess.

The airplane’s powerful engines whined from throttled speed, and after a bump and jolt, rolled to a stop on the tarmac. Pulling down her carryon from the overhead compartment, Ember filed out into the heat and humidity of the summer’s afternoon in the Deep South.

The busy terminal buzzed with milling passengers. Her aunt was nowhere in sight. Ember claimed her baggage and then moved back into the general waiting area.

Logically, she should’ve informed Leticia about selling the house the moment the transaction occurred. However, at the time, a telephone call had seemed so impersonal. At Leticia’s advanced age, who could determine her reaction? No, Ember decided then, she must come in person to inform Leticia about uprooting the octogenarian from the mansion. Leticia was her great aunt, and at least eighty years of age, if a day.

Ember’s boss, Owen Sterling, had reluctantly granted her two more weeks vacation, sufficient time to make things right with her aunt. The two weeks extra time was generous considering she’d only just returned from a Mexican Riviera vacation. The fact that Owen, himself, purchased The Colonnades had softened him, no doubt.

Ember frowned. Surely, during the span of two weeks she’d be able to settle Leticia into a modern apartment in town? If only her gentle relative would be sensible about all of this. Ember was counting on that response.

She glanced at her watch. Twenty more minutes had passed. She’d told Leticia over the telephone earlier that she needed a rental car down here. She’d hinted she had business to take care of in Graville, and since she’d have her own vehicle, there was no need to come in person and meet her flight. She’d see them all at the house. Still, her aunt had insisted that she and her friend, Charlotte Prewett, would be at the airport.

Impatience gnawed at Ember. Perhaps the two elderly ladies had misunderstood and were waiting for her at the car rental counter? Turning to make her way there, she never saw the out-of-control windmill of a man who plunged into her from nowhere. His energy was surprising in itself, considering the languishing heat in the hot terminal.

Reeling from the unexpected impact, Ember caught her breath and focused her attention on the man. Tall, and towering above her, he smiled; exposing perfect white teeth against his baked Miami-beach suntan. He reached out to steady her by wrapping his arms around her waist. Instinctively, she drew back.

"Lady, take it easy. I’m trying to be chivalrous here."

The heat flattened her damp bangs erratically across one eye, while her white linen jacket clung to her like the ugliest boy at a dance. She squinted up at him. Thanks to this stranger’s clumsiness, both her handbag and her briefcase’s contents were scattered to the four corners of the lobby. Her twenty-four buck tube of Apricot Shimmer lipstick was squashed beneath his soft leather shoes.

"Allow me to help you," he insisted, his six feet something frame dropping to the floor in an agile Cossack dancer’s squat. He gathered her belongings. From her towering position, the man’s broad shoulders filled his coat threateningly and his mass of dark, crisp curls invited, no begged a woman’s hand to run through them.

Rising, he handed her the clutch of legal papers pertaining to the mansion’s sale. In the process, his hand brushed hers. Contact with his warm, virile pulsating skin jolted her. What a touch!

"I’m sorry," he apologized, towering to his full height. "I didn’t see you. I was looking for someone."

Ember stuffed the papers in her briefcase.

"This is yours, too," he motioned, forking over her spare pair of private attire she’d stashed in the briefcase. Crumpled in his fist were her extra nylons. Oh no! These were the French cut jobs with a split crotch, and lace bottom. She hadn’t taken the time to do any sensible shopping. "You’re dangling my pantyhose like a fourth of July flag and people are looking at us," she hissed.

He ogled the racy pantyhose before exploding in a spasm of laughter. "Flags fly, and people look!" he grinned. "Do these wrinkled little things actually cover your body?"

Diving for the hosiery, she fell into his outstretched arms, her hands grazing his sturdy thigh. The solid mass of strength beneath her fingers jarred her as sharply as a jagged flash of lightning. For a split second the impulsive notion to extend the embrace flitted through her mind. Good Lord, Ember, are you losing it? "My body coverings are my own concern, thank you," she muttered with what modicum of dignity she could summon.

Where was Aunt Leticia? Now, why was this crazy man circling her like some Bedouin sheik claiming his harem prize? "Uh. . . if you don’t mind. . . .," she muttered moving back.

Falling into the Bedouin mold in earnest with one arm across his chest, and his other hand propped under his chin, the man squinted at her. "Hmmm. Say something else?" he demanded.

"Say something?" she croaked. "Like what?"

"Anything. I mean, you’re Ember Ryan. Aren’t you?"

Oh no! She’d crashed into a crazy Bedouin who was also a psychic. A very delectable Bedouin psychic to be exact, for girls who went in for brawn, muscles, and no brains.

"Do you have a 900 telephone prefix?" she asked guardedly.

He didn’t answer her.

She continued to gaze at the tall, commanding, and now slightly familiar man. How could he possibly know her name? She glanced around for airport security. An inner voice suggested, if you’re so frightened, run out of the man’s magnetic field. That was just it . . . his magnetism held her.

He smiled. "You don’t understand. I’m here to meet your plane. You weren’t in the main waiting area when I had you paged.

"You had me paged?"

"That’s right. At least, I had Ember Ryan paged. You’re Ember Ryan aren’t you? With that red hair, and those dark eyes, you must be Ember." Tingly excitement mirrored in his gray eyes. The sheik was as expectant as a kid before throwing on the Christmas tree lights. What was going on here? Should she know this man?

May as well humor the sheik in the lightweight summer suit. If the desert sun hadn’t cooked his brain, maybe the New Orleans heat had. "Okay, sent by whom to meet me?" she demanded, spotting security within shouting distance.

Falling strangely quiet, his smile faded. "Your au . . …" He paused tentatively. "Your family sent me." His changeable gray eyes registered an inward emotional shift.

This was no carefree Cossack dancer, nor a masterful Bedouin sheik. Instinct warned her she didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Leticia Ellerbee, her great aunt, was all the New Orleans family - well, not only New Orleans - but also all the family she had in the world except for a few distant cousins.

"You’re Ember Ryan," he repeated softly. "Why didn’t you say so in the first place?"

"You didn’t ask. Who’re you?"

Out of the blue he leaned over, scooped her up in his arms, and kissed her -- not a peck either. He planted one on her, a sensitive feather-light sugar-encrusted encounter that took her breath. For a brief moment, she drifted in his crisp after-shave and hot lips. Then, coming to her senses, she pushed him back. This was moving up the social contact scale a little too fast even for a Bedouin sheik.

"Of all the unadulterated nerve." she sputtered. "I should call airport security,"

"I don’t know how to tell you this," he began soberly.

Ember arched one eyebrow. "Just spit it out."

"You don’t understand. Ember, it’s me. Russ Paxton. I’m here to meet your plane. Well, I was to meet your plane, but with all the confusion back at the house and then the horrendous traffic, I’m lucky to be here at all. I didn’t see you until I bumped against you. As for the kiss, well it’s been seven years since I kissed you, and I couldn’t help myself," he added devilishly.

Russ Paxton, with the name zoomed back memories of high school football games and car dates. Was this man actually her high school sweetheart in the flesh? The silver-gray eyes were familiar - yes, they were the same. But, otherwise, what a metamorphosis! In seven years, Russ had changed from the gangly cute boy next door to a handsome man with rugged, nicely tanned features. Surely, he’d grown a foot since she’d last seen him.

"You are Russ Paxton," she declared. "I see it now."

"I didn’t recognize you either, not at first. I wasn’t even a hundred percent sure when we landed on the floor together."

"Okay, so you’re really Russell Paxton," she said, more puzzled than ever. "Where’s Aunt Ticia? And . . . why in the world are you meeting my plane?"

Russ lifted her carryon and, taking her arm, his expression suddenly solemn, he led her towards the door. "I’ll explain everything once we’re in my car."

She didn’t like this change in plans one bit. "I need to rent a car," she protested.

"You can do that later," he said grimly.

Falling into step with him, a queer apprehensive feeling churned in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t uneasy about leaving the airport with him; she’d known him all her life. He knew something he wasn’t telling her. "You didn’t answer my question," she persisted. "Where’s Aunt Ticia?"

"She’s uh . . . back in Graville."

"Has something happened? Is she all right?"

"I’ll explain everything the way Miss Leticia would’ve wanted it," he replied.

Would’ve wanted it, he’d used the past tense. The terminal door took Russ’s attention. Holding it open for her, she preceded him outside. The sultry humidity laden heat pressed down, enveloping them like a brass bowl of liquid steam. On the runway, the merciless mid-afternoon sun bounced in shimmering waves off a shiny 747 nosing down.

His gray Mercedes was parked nearby. At the car, he shoved her bags in the rear door and then helped her inside.

Russ switched on the engine and the air conditioner. Good Lord, she’d forgotten the heat down here, she thought, sinking back against the anonymity of warm leather seats. She didn’t blame Aunt Ticia for waiting back at the house.

The engine purring and the air conditioner finally spewing cold air, Russ turned, taking her hand. "Ember, there’s no easy way to tell you this. Your Aunt Leticia is dead. She died unexpectedly shortly after 11:00 o’clock this morning."

A knife twisted in Ember’s heart. Shock jolted through her like an electric charge. "No," she gasped in a small voice she didn’t recognize as her own. Leticia couldn’t be gone. "I talked to her from the Los Angeles Airport at 11:00 o’clock just before I boarded my plane. You mean Aunt Ticia passed away the moment I hung up the telephone?"

Russ squeezed her hand. "I know this is shocking news and I hate being the one to tell you."

She searched his face for some evidence that he was mistaken, or that she was dreaming. Stark reality met her questioning gaze. This was no mistake, nor was this a bad dream. He slipped his arm around her shoulder. Instinctively, she leaned her head back against the solid comfort of his body. Unchecked sobs welled up, shaking her shoulders. He allowed her to cry, pressing her trembling body now and then, offering his measure of sympathy and support.

After what seemed an eternity, she regained some composure. "I’m sorry. This is just . . . just so sudden. He squeezed her hand. "Cry all you want," he said, his own eyes misty. For awhile they sat in his car in the parking lot, two old friends discussing her aunt’s death, each sharing in the other’s sorrow.

"Are you going to be all right?" Russ asked after a length of time.

"Yes," she managed weakly, taking the handkerchief he fished from his pocket. She’d clung to his hand so tightly red marks marred his tanned flesh.

Easing under the Mercedes’ wheel, he turned his attention to the automobile. Shifting into gear, he eased the car into the stream of traffic. After negotiating a few skillful turns, they moved along on the straight-away.

Russ turned to her. "You’re mistaken about the time you telephoned," he said thoughtfully. "It’s two hours later here than West Coast time. If you called from the coast at 11:00 a.m., it would’ve been 1:00 p.m. here." He paused, his speculative gaze sweeping her. "Your aunt died at ll:00 a.m., central standard time . . . our time."

What was he saying? Though her emotions still roiled, she knew the exact hour she’d telephoned the mansion. She’d stood facing a large round clock in the Los Angeles terminal when she’d put the call through.

"I know when I made the call," she replied softly but firmly. "Aunt Ticia promised to be waiting for me at the airport. She and Charlotte Prewett," she added.

Russ didn’t belabor the issue. However she had the distinct impression he remained silent to humor her.

Insensitive of him to go on about her telephone call, she thought. Aunt Leticia was gone and her sudden death was too awful to believe. Fresh tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. All her life her aunt had been there for her, especially from the age of ten after her parents died in the plane crash.

Russ braked the automobile at a red traffic light. "You must’ve reached Jeanette LaBorde on the telephone. She’s Miss Leticia’s housekeeper. We’re all in shock," he added, turning his attention to the road when the traffic light flashed green.

His insistence about the phone call annoyed her. What was his problem? "Do you think I don’t know my own aunt’s voice?" Her voice was reedy with emotion.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, turning his knuckles white. "I miss Miss Leticia, too," he said. "She was like a second mother to me."

What was he doing back in Graville and on such close terms with her aunt? She recalled hearing that he’d moved away from the area to New Orleans and that he’d joined his uncle’s criminal law firm. At least he’d dropped the subject of the telephone call issue, and that was all right with her.

Out of the heavy traffic, he reached across the expanse of the car seat, taking her hand again. "Miss Ellerbee collapsed so unexpectedly that after the ambulance and medical people left the house, Jeanette didn’t have time to call off the Gumbo-Ya-Ya for your homecoming. One minute your aunt was rushing around overseeing things, and the next minute she was dead."

Had she heard him correctly? "What’re you saying? A party is still planned," she cried incredulously.

"Miss Charlotte, Dad, Jeanette, and I made the decision. Charlotte especially insisted that’s what Leticia would have wanted. Do you mind that everyone is at the house waiting for you?"

Of course, she minded. It seemed ludicrous. "This changes so many things," she began. "I’m still in shock." She didn’t elaborate, however, but, selfishly, she realized that now she was spared the confession to her aunt that she’d sold the mansion. This sense of relief made her slightly guilty. If Leticia had really wanted this gathering of friends and family, then she’d grant her that last wish. It was the least she could do.

"You must have realized time was short for Miss Leticia, being in advanced age as she was, and with that heart problem," Russ put in.

Heart problem! She hadn’t known about that. Guilt struck a hollow knell in her heart. How like Leticia to unselfishly sacrifice her health to continue performing the myriad tasks associated with managing the family mansion. Grateful for the silence that stretched between them, Ember leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

Jumbled thoughts sifted through her brain. Leticia dying, spared the knowledge that her great niece had sold The Colonnades, was a blessing. Now, her aunt would never know the house had passed from the Ryan family forever. But, surely Aunt Ticia had realized the elegant old house was fast falling into ruin? Ember had tried unsuccessfully numerous times placing it with the local historical society. The funds simply weren’t there. Even though a strange premonition of unfinished business troubled Ember, she realized that fate had acted with pity.

There were so many things to attend to now. A proper wake, a funeral, and finally closing the house for Owen to take possession.

They’d driven some miles in silence when Russ turned, studying her. "You’re awfully quiet. Are you still okay?"

"Yes, I suppose so," she said and sighed. "Only, now I realize I was the worst niece in the world."

"Stop," Russ interrupted. "Don’t be so hard on yourself. Your aunt was thrilled at the prospect of this visit. Her only complaint was you didn’t give her enough time to get everything in order at the house."

Ember bit her bottom lip. "I didn’t expect her to do anything," she said. "I knew the place was falling apart. There never was enough money to cover all the expenses." Her stabs at help in the past seemed hardly worth defending now. There was so much more she could have done.

"I thought your father left a trust," Russ said.

"He did. It’s dwindled to practically nothing in the past three or four years. Especially after your uncle’s law firm turned the trust over to Continental Investors."

"You’re certain of this?" he asked, turning to her. "I find it hard to believe that Uncle John would ever act in an inequitable manner toward one of his clients."

His assessment stunned her. Obviously from his tone of voice, he believed his uncle’s firm incapable of any mistake or errors in judgment. "Of course, I’m certain," she said defensively. "I personally called your uncle’s office dozens of times. I’ve never been able to find out anything. I’ve had lawyers, personal financial managers, private investigators, and the like digging into my affairs . . . without any success."

Though his expression was unfathomable, she sensed he perceived her legitimate concerns as merely a criticism of John Paxton. She wasn’t passing on vicious rumors. His uncle’s law firm had royally bungled her trust. If they weren’t out and out crooks, at the very best they were incompetent. Still, she had no concrete facts to back any of her suspicions.

They were in the countryside now, a few miles from Graville, the small south Louisiana town nearest the mansion. Tall green stalks of sugarcane marched in perfect formation on either side of the road. Her thoughts drifted as restlessly as the undulating cane fronds. A sharp turn in the road took Russ’s attention. After negotiating the turn, he glanced at her. "Would you like to stop at the mortuary before we go on to the house?"

Her mind raced. What was proper at a time like this? "Is it necessary? I mean, am I expected there?"

"The body won’t be ready for viewing until tomorrow morning. Miss Leticia’s affairs were in order. She saw to that herself." He paused. "Unless, you want an autopsy."

Ember shuddered at the thought of a coroner’s knife violating her aunt’s worn body. "No, of course not. I see no need for that."

"I agree."

"Where did she want to be buried?"

"The family cemetery, of course," Russ announced on a note of surprise. "Leticia told my father that the Ryan cemetery is where she wanted to be buried when her time came."

The old cemetery on the grounds beside the bayou’s bluff leapt to Ember’s mind. "Are burials legal nowadays on private property?"

Russ glanced at her sharply. "It’s a registered cemetery. Why? Does it bother you?" he asked incredulously. "I mean, that she’ll be buried there?"

"No, of course not. My parents are there." There was a factor Russ wasn’t aware of. The Colonnades now belonged to Owen Sterling, including the cemetery. He might object to a new grave. "Russ, there’s something you should know. I sold The Colonnades a short time back."

He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, his forehead deeply furrowed, weighing her words. Moments later, a soft chuckle escaped his sensuous lips and he shook his head slowly. "Well, I’m surprised," he said at last. "Miss Leticia never mentioned a word about the sale to any of us."

"She couldn’t," Ember explained softly, "because she didn’t know. That’s what this trip is all about. I came home to tell her in person. What if the current owner doesn’t want a new grave on the property?" she asked with a certain apprehension.

Russ glanced at her briefly with a fleeting, trapped expression. "The cemetery is registered," he said flatly. "That property is set aside."

Russ’s information settled her concerns about Owen Sterling. "I see," she said, relieved that Owen had no input in the cemetery’s current additions. Evidently it was a separate entity apart from owning the adjoining property.

Mr. Sterling’s interest in the one hundred and fifty-year-old mansion had baffled her from the first moment he offered to purchase the property. She’d played a video of the place at one of his parties. From viewing the video, he’d become obsessed with owning the old house. Owen had purchased the property sight unseen.

Though she couldn’t picture Owen as The Colonnades’s master, she owed him a lot. He was her mentor and chief executive at Sterling Starcraft Enterprises, the film Production Company where she worked. As desperately as she needed the money from the sale of the house, a factor about Owen’s properties stirred a bit of niggling unrest in the back of her mind. He had the reputation for selling the moment he became disillusioned, or if a better offer came along. She believed he was being sued by the State of Hawaii for zoning problems on one of his tracts of land there. Her concern about The Colonnades was late in the day . . . the papers had already been signed.

Speed limit signs loomed ahead. They were approaching Graville. Russ slowed the automobile, easing through the small town. She observed that very little had changed in the sleepy little community under its veils of Spanish moss. A few short minutes later, they once again came into open countryside.

The late afternoon sun streamed in through the automobile’s windshield, casting patterns of sunlight and shadow. The flickering light reminded Ember of a fast rolling silent movie. At any moment, she knew the house would loom ahead in all its glory — albeit faded glory — but glory nevertheless.

An expectant tremor trailed up her spine. Shading her eyes with her hand, she waited for the first sight of the hulking mansion in the low bayou country.

There it was! The grandiose old structure on the bayou’s bank standing as lovely and timeless as ever, a tribute to the first Ryan who’d envisioned its creation and to those who’d followed, preserving it. Framed in filtering shafts of afternoon sunlight threading through the ancient live oaks, the old house was everything she remembered. Mentally, she counted the identical Ionic columns as she had as a child . . . eight to a side.

She could never decide why the twenty-four columns looked blue from a distance. In all likelihood the deep shade from the canopy of live oaks cast the blue tint. Or, perhaps, the illusion stemmed from the reflection off the bayou directly in front of the great house. On closer inspection the neglected lawns were roughly cut and dotted with patches of dead grass. Most of the flowerbeds were gone and those that remained were choked with weeds. They seemed to struggle for existence.

Turning her attention from the sadness of the lawns, she saw the enormous central hall’s chandelier twinkling through the fanlight above the front door. It was a welcoming sight. If only this was a happy homecoming instead of a sad one.

The automobile moved up the long driveway. A white Cadillac was drawn up directly before the front door. Behind the expensive white automobile, a line of vehicles rounded the driveway. The mourners had gathered.

"Do you know all these people?" she asked, turning to Russ.

"I recognize most of the cars. The Cadillac belongs to Uncle John’s wife, Margo. Don’t worry, you should remember how supportive country people are," he added, turning the Mercedes onto the side driveway that wound around to the back of the house. He stopped the car beside a hedge of stunted camellias struggling under a ragged mantle of wild fox-grape vines. Exiting, Russ came around, opened her door and then took her bags. She fell into step beside him.

Under deep afternoon shadows, they approached the back gallery. The kitchen door flew open and a tall, full-bearded man in faded jeans stepped out onto the gallery. Startled by the man’s tattered clothing and unkempt hair, Ember turned to Russ. "Who’s that," she gasped.

"That’s Lemoine, the swamp man," he said with a shake of his head. "Don’t gawk. He’s harmless. He’s a bayou recluse. Rumor has it he killed a man in self-defense up Ville Platte way. After he did his time, he took to the bayous."

"Okay, what’s he doing here?"

"He brings fish and frog legs to your aunt, or he did," Russ explained, correcting himself. "Anything that swims, Lemoine can catch it."

"Allo, mam’zelle, m’sieur," Lemoine said, tipping his shapeless hat at them. Pulling the hat low over his wrinkled forehead, he slipped away in the gathering darkness beside the house.

The kitchen door opened a second time. A plump, dark-haired woman raced across the lawn toward them. Reaching them, she grabbed Ember’s hand, pumping it furiously. "You must be Miss Ember," she blubbered. "Your pictures don’t do you justice. You are much prettier in person." The woman’s eyes were swollen and red from weeping.

"And, you are Aunt Ticia’s housekeeper."

"Oh, oui. . . yes, Ma’am, I am Jeanette LaBorde. Cher, I’m so happy to meet you at long last, but under such sad circumstances . . . _" Jeanette’s words broke off in a torrent of racking sobs.

The woman’s emotions seemed as easily controlled as triggered, for in a matter of seconds the housekeeper wiped her eyes on her apron, released her tension with an infectious laugh, and preceded Ember and Russ into the kitchen.

Inside the kitchen, Jeanette rushed across the room to the restaurant-sized range. Removing the pot lids from a half-dozen simmering dishes and framed by steam from the boiling pots, Jeanette resembled a good witch practicing her incantations. The cooking under control, and her face rosy-red from the stove, she turned to Ember, "Miss Leticia planned this big party, no," she said in her Cajun dialect "Me, I been cooking for two days. I will spread the buffet supper for everyone like she wanted. The family and Miss Leticia’s good friends are in the drawing room. And, I tole you, there’s some long faces there, no."

The housekeeper’s concern seemed genuine, if dramatic, and Ember liked the Cajun woman at once. "Please call me Ember. None of this "Miss Ember" formality, okay?

Magnified behind her cat’s eye bifocals, Jeanette’s round, black eyes blinked. "Oui, mam’zelle Ember."

Russ placed Ember’s bags at the foot of the kitchen stairs. Glancing at her, his gray eyes were dark with a mixture of concern and something akin to impatience. Rustling across the room toward Ember, Jeanette brought her a cup of strong coffee diluted with foaming milk.

Coffee-au-lait, she’d forgotten this delicious New Orleans beverage. "Would you join me," she asked Russ.

"Of course," he agreed, his muscles taut. Crossing the kitchen, he joined her in the breakfast alcove. "Where in the house did my aunt die," Ember inquired of the housekeeper as the woman served Russ.

"In her room, Mam’zelle," Jeanette snuffled. "I found her on the floor by the open French door overlooking the bayou. Oh la, her spirit had easy access to fly away." Jeanette’s expression crumbled and the woman dissolved in a fresh flood of tears.

"There, there, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m in shock myself, but you must understand I have unanswered questions."

"Oui, mam’zelle."

"Had my aunt been happy?"

Jeanette managed a wan smile, exposing two gold inlaid front teeth. "Oh oui. . . yes, mam’zelle. She was very happy. So happy, indeed. When I cook my love potions, she would laugh at me. She say, Jeanette, you don’t miss much of the time."

"Jeanette is a legend around here," Russ said quietly, turning to Ember. "She’s the parish matchmaker."

"I see." The pleasant, sparkling kitchen through which they’d just passed portrayed a nurturing, caring individual. "I can see why my aunt was happy," Ember said to the housekeeper. "I’m glad you were here for her. Thank you for taking care of her."

The day had been long and taxing. It was necessary that she rest before greeting the others. Rising, Ember pushed her chair back. "I’m tired. I need a few minutes alone."

"Mam’zelle, I’ve made your old room ready for you. I’ll go with you."

"That’s not necessary. I know the way. Thanks again for everything."

Russ gathered her luggage.

"Don’t bother just now," she said, taking her carryon from him. "I can manage. Someone can bring the big bag later. Please, you go on in with the guests. And . . . explain that I’ll be down as soon as I freshen up." Turning quickly, she started upstairs, realizing she’d be alone for the first time with her grief.

At the top of the stairs the air reeked of heavy furniture polish and full-blown roses. Down the length of the hall at intervals, dim bulbs burned in the wall sconces. The pungent scent of old seasoned wood mingled with the acrid scent of mildew. Outside her bedroom door a large vase of roses centered a half-console table. Jeanette had gone to great lengths to make the old house presentable.

A peculiar sensation gripped Ember the moment she opened the bedroom door. Unexpectedly, a sudden draft of air from the open French doors across the bedroom rushed past her like spirits being exorcised, setting the crystal prisms on the bedside lamp to jingling. It was as if a presence had left the room.

Closing the door behind her, Ember looked around. The room was little changed from her childhood days. Honed to a satiny sheen by years of use, the mahogany furniture glowed. The same blue-lined pink silk bed hangings graced the mahogany half-tester bed. A matching silk jacquard counterpane stretched across the bed’s expanse.

These old mansions had a life all their own, from the enormous scale of the plantation furniture to the creamy pink patina time had wrought on the walls. Whether time had been a friend or an enemy, it had stopped here while the rest of the world moved on.

Appropriately, the door leading to Leticia’s adjoining bedroom was closed. Ember wondered if Leticia had died there or down the hall in the larger bedroom she’d used in later years. Her aunt had moved into the little adjoining room to comfort her frightened young niece after the plane crash.

At a knock on the door, Ember practically jumped out of her skin.

"Mam’zelle, it’s me, Jeanette."

"Come in."

"I have some refreshments," Jeanette said, entering bearing a tray whose contents, judging from the delicious scents escaping from under snowy white napkins, contained portions of the buffet fare. "You want to be alone for a time. I brought your supper." Jeanette placed the tray on a marble top table and removed the napkins. "Here’s gumbo, compote of fruits, fresh bread, and iced tea. Miss Leticia said to make the gumbo just as you like, with oysters. You eat well, mam’zelle."

"It smells divine. Thank you." Ember’s stomach was rumbling. She hadn’t eaten a bite since early morning when her plane left California.

"I will get the linens for your bath," Jeanette explained, moving to an armoire, digging among stacks of fresh towels and sheets.

Toying with a portion of the fruit compote, Ember thought again about Russ’s insistence that Leticia had died before she placed the telephone call from Los Angeles. His stand was troubling. He’d been so certain about the time she placed the call, so determined that she’d made a mistake. It occurred to her that the Cajun woman would remember. "Jeanette, did you by chance answer the telephone earlier today when I called from Los Angeles?"

Turning from her task of removing towels, a puzzled expression etching her expressive face, Jeanette shook her head. "No, mam’zelle. I am certain, I did not. Your aunt had so many calls. This one and that one, all morning the telephone rang about the last minute plans for tonight’s Gumbo-Ya-Ya." Jeanette lowered her voice. "It is as though she said goodbye to everyone."

Goodbye was an unusual comparison, but it struck a chord of truth. "Yes," Ember whispered, "it’s exactly like that."

Fearing Leticia’s housekeeper might think her uncaring toward her aunt, Ember said passionately. "I loved my aunt, even though I didn’t visit her often."

"Mam’zelle, I know that so well," Jeanette replied softly. "You speak of love. Love was returned to you, too. Miss Leticia said distance makes no difference in love. The heart knows no miles."

"She was right," Ember said slowly. "Though my absence was by choice, she was always in my heart. I thought of her as my real mother," Ember continued, more to herself than to the attentive housekeeper. "I was so young when my parents died."

"Oui, mam’zelle." Jeanette replied, dabbing at her eyes. "If you need anything ring the buzzer here by the door. Your family and guests are waiting in the drawing room when you feel ready to come down."

"Thank you, Jeanette, for everything."

The housekeeper turned to leave.

"Wait," Ember urged. "You said my aunt died in her bedroom. Was it her old room here next to mine or the larger one down the hall?"

Jeanette looked puzzled for a moment. "Here, Mam’zelle," she gestured to the adjoining chamber. "Miss Leticia slept here. It was much cooler than the big room facing the west."

Leticia’s death was difficult to understand. Just when she’d returned to see about the elderly woman and make her remaining years comfortable, her aunt was taken away. It still didn’t seem possible. But, when does tragedy ever seem possible? she wondered.

After a hot shower and donning a cool, white gauze dress, Ember brushed her hair and let it fall on her shoulders naturally. She started downstairs. Russ was waiting at the foot of the stairs, a somber expression darkening his attractive face. The loss of her aunt had touched him deeply, too.

"You look tired," he said, taking her hand.

"I’m better," she replied easily. The shower and food had revived her somewhat. "Besides, I must face everyone sooner or later," she said squeezing his hand as he led her toward the drawing room. This sense of being taken care of was extremely pleasant and comforting.

A tug of panic stopped her a few steps from the drawing room door. How would everyone react to her? Very likely in their eyes she’d appear neglectful toward Leticia. Seven years was a long absence, even if it was punctuated by a few brief visits.

"Are you all right?"

"I don’t know," she replied honestly. "I’m nervous about what these people will think of me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been home."

"Is that all that’s bothering you? Have you forgotten, this is your home? These people are your relatives and your old friends."

Despite his solicitousness, her shoulders tightened and tension corded her muscles as they paused in the drawing room doorway. The guests were unaware she’d arrived. She gazed around.

The large formal room appeared exactly the way she remembered it. Comfortable antique furnishings filled the long rectangular space. The carpet underfoot did seem more worn and the draperies somewhat bedraggled in spots, but for all the wear the same charming effect of a gracious home remained.

Russ leaned over. "That’s Margo, Uncle John’s wife, over there by the fireplace. She sees us," he said leading her across the room.

Ember glanced at the plump overdressed blonde woman. She appeared considerably younger than John Paxton. "Margo, this is Ember," he said to the woman.

The blonde woman took Ember’s hand, pulling her forward into an embrace. "I’m so pleased to meet you, even though it’s under such tragic circumstances," she gushed, releasing Ember. The unpleasant scent of stale champagne cocktail emanated from her person.

The ice broken, everyone in the room rushed forward greeting her. Her misgivings about facing these people had been in vain. They all seemed truly delighted to see her. After what seemed like hours of small talk and teary hugs, Ember selected a chair in the corner, content to sit apart and gaze about the room. It was comforting to physically be with those who’d known and loved Leticia. Ember knew that in time the pain of losing her aunt would dim. However, tonight, here in this place, with these people, her loss was sharp and poignant.

Some elderly Ellerbee cousins joined Ember. The women were charming, but sadly out of touch with the current times. Inwardly Ember sighed with relief when Russ appeared at her side with a glass of punch. She sipped the sweet drink, trying desperately to make the proper comments at the proper time. Gradually, one by one, the elderly ladies slipped away. Drawing up a chair, Russ sat beside her. She was grateful he didn’t want to make small talk.

On a side table at her elbow, rested a silver-framed photograph of herself as a child, with Leticia on the beach at Grand Isle. She was holding tightly to Leticia’s hand. Between the photograph and the day’s Times Picayune, lay Leticia’s eyeglasses. The impression being Aunt Ticia merely had stepped from the room.

Russ’s father, Dr. Bob Paxton joined them. "My condolences, Ember. Your aunt was a special friend of mine," he said extending his hand cordially.

She’d always held Russ’s father in high regard. His spirit of kindness touched her deeply. "I appreciate you saying that. She was fond of you, too."

Charlotte Prewett joined their small group, linking her arm in Dr. Bob’s. The two men, Russ and his father, engaged in conversation with Miss Prewett. Not concentrating on them, Ember’s mind wandered.

Perhaps she should excuse herself, she thought. She really was exhausted. Sitting in the corner on the perimeter of so many conversations going on at the same time, a surreal detachment overcame her. The room seemed to grow unnaturally stuffy and close. The row of lit tapers flickering on the mantle sputtered, their yellow-red flames reflecting in the gold-leaf mirror.

Her throat grew increasingly dry. Clasping and unclasping her clammy hands, she longed to fling open the French doors behind their swathes of lace panels and heavy gold drapery to catch a breath of fresh air. The doors to the gallery would be locked.

A chill swept the room. The candle flames on the mantle swept upward into thin elongated dancing red spirals. Ember’s gaze was immediately drawn to the mirror where the guest’s reflections spun like turning chambers in a kaleidoscope. The tapers blazed wildly.

Russ had joined Margo Paxton at the drawing room door. Lightheaded, she watched Russ and Margo’s images in the mirror. Beyond Russ and Margo, the mirror reflected the hallway’s blazing chandelier. Dazzling shards of rainbow colored lights flashed off the chandelier’s many facets. Something vapor-like moved in the far reaches of the hallway behind Russ and the Paxton woman. Slowly a shadowy transparent figure floated a few feet off the floor.

Rising, Ember whirled around, facing the door, clutching her throat. A specter resembling a woman in diaphanous dress hovered in the air. None of the guests appeared aware of the approaching ghostly figure.

Charlotte Prewett moved to Ember’s side. The woman took her hand, her brows two quizzical V’s. "Is something wrong, dear? You’re trembling. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost."

The phenomenon in the doorway shimmered, began to fade and then completely disappeared.

Wrenching free from Charlotte’s grasp, Ember fled into the hall. The long expansive hallway was deserted. No ghost was visible. Ember’s brain pounded. A high frequency signal drilled her ears. She clapped her hands over her ears. The cloying scent of patchouli overwhelmed her.

Approaching footsteps pounded from behind. "What’s wrong?" Russ called catching up to her.

He hadn’t seen the specter. She was certain of that. Her senses spun as if in the center of a whirling hurricane.

"What is it?" he demanded. "You’re as white as a sheet."

The ringing in her ears subsided gradually until it stopped altogether and the scent abated. "Did you see anything . . . or hear anything unusual?" she asked, keenly anticipating his answer.

"What’re you talking about?"

Taking a deep breath, she shuddered, before exhaling raggedly. The mint-like scent of patchouli oil was gone. No ghost stood in the doorway.

"Never mind," she managed. "It’s nothing." Perhaps, nothing out of the ordinary had ever been there. Her overwrought nerves were playing tricks on her weary overloaded senses. Withdrawing her hand from his, she started toward the stairs. "I’m tired. I’m not myself tonight. This . . . this day has been overwhelming," she blurted turning and running up the stairs.

At the stair head, she glanced below. Russ stood watching her ascent. Was that a crafty expression on his face or merely distortion from the dark at the foot of the stairs?

Inside the bedroom, she closed the door, turning the old fashioned lock. Dropping down on the side of the bed, she pressed her palms against her temples to collect her thoughts. Her racing pulse drummed wildly erratic. Could shock and over-excitement bring on a ghostly vision like the one downstairs?

She’d always believed herself level headed and sensible. Certainly, she was sensible. This anxiety and overwrought state was caused by the shock of Leticia’s death. Of course, her aunt’s death was the catalyst that spurred her imagination to running wild. There couldn’t be any other explanation. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

Too exhausted to ponder about the apparition any longer she sank back against the pillows on her bed. Gradually a weary numbness overcame her.

Just before drifting off to sleep, her eyes shot open in alarm. Aunt Leticia had a fondness for patchouli. She’d ordered it from a private perfumery in New Orleans.

CHAPTER TWO

The mortuary of The Three Sisters stood at the corner of Jackson and Peach Street, directly across from the parish courthouse and the modern newspaper archives building. A tiny city park separated the courthouse and the archives.

Russ’s office lay on Peach adjacent to the mortuary. A red closed sign hung in his office window. "You shouldn’t have closed your office for me," Ember said, turning to him. It never occurred to her he hadn’t a secretary or an assistant.

Intent on parking the Mercedes on the street directly in front of the mortuary, Russ reached over the back seat and, with a deliberate gesture, got his coat, pulling it on. "You need my support today," he said, levelly, his changeable eyes reflecting the aqua highlights from his silk tie.

Of course, she needed him. Never had she needed anymore more in her life. Without the mainstay of his presence she doubted she could have survived yesterday and last night, and this visit to the mortuary was bound to test her nerves to the limit. After last night and the ghost, vision, or whatever she’d experienced, her reasoning powers were uncontrollable

Undeniably attractive, his neatly brushed curls and sexy gaze made her catch her breath. His scent in the enclosed automobile was that of a stamping stallion, vigorous and accustomed to running with the wind. For the span of a moment his intense gaze locked with hers. The moment became intimate - - hazardous - - almost a visual seduction. She looked away. It was difficult concentrating on death in Russ’s presence. The oddest notion persisted that Aunt Ticia would approve of these disturbing feelings for Russ. Had her aunt purposely set up the party last night to bring them together again?

"I’m ready to go." She was reacting like a teenager with a hot crush. This witchery must stop.

With the grace of an athlete, he exited the car, came around and opened her door. Sliding across the seat toward him and his outstretched arms, her fluid silk dress rustled softly. Every instinct she possessed warned, don’t take this man too seriously. She wouldn’t be in town that long. Accept his support for what it was; one old friend reaching out to help another.

"Are you all right?" he queried with a puzzled expression.

"Yes," she whispered. "I mean . . . suddenly I’m not looking forward to visiting my aunt for the last time."

He squeezed her hand. "I understand."

With one lithe step she was at his side with him guiding her under the white drift of a blooming crepe myrtle tree to the Victorian house that had been converted into the mortuary. Her keenest awareness at the moment was his warm hand steadying her. "This is all like a bad dream," she shuddered the moment they stepped on the mortuary’s porch.

Russ turned the old-fashioned buzzer type doorbell. "If it makes you feel any better, I think your aunt knows you’re here today."

She shot him a questioning gaze. Before she could ponder his statement further, approaching footsteps sounded from within. Seconds later, the mortuary’s front door swung open and an impeccably dressed elderly man with snow-white hair and a boutonniere equally as white stood before them. With a gallant flourish, the man ushered them inside.

Introducing himself as the funeral director, the gentleman led them down a tastefully decorated central hall. He paused before a door that bore a formal placard with her aunt’s name. "This is Miss Ellerbee’s stateroom."

The chamber had a high ceiling and very dim lighting. Across from the door was a large bay window heavily draped with dismal tightly drawn curtains.

Ember entered first. Russ followed directly behind her. From the dozens of plants and floral arrangements, the small room reminded Ember of a shadowy rain forest in full bloom. The scent of patchouli wafting from the flowers put her on edge. On a sharp intake of breath, clasping Russ’s hand, she stepped closer to the bier.

The lying in state of Leticia Ellerbee’s mortal remains rested on a flower-covered dais. At both the head and foot of the coffin, bowl-shaped floor lamps beamed upward dramatically. Leticia reclined there serenely between the subdued lighting in her sleek blue and gold casket.

What mischief was afoot? Leticia’s gown! Her aunt’s burial dress was identical to the apparition’s trailing diaphanous dress last night in the drawing room. Ember clapped one hand over her mouth. "Who chose her gown?" she gasped breathlessly between trembling fingers.

Russ’s gray eyes widened questioningly. "Is something wrong?"

"Who chose my aunt’s gown?" she rasped, struggling to squelch the rising note of panic in her voice.

He smiled gently, as if reassuring a bewildered child that the dark at the head of the stairs wasn’t threatening in any real sense. "Jeanette sent it from Leticia’s things. Why?"

What force was at work here? She couldn’t expect him to understand the connection, or coincidence that initiated this particular dress being on her aunt this morning. "Her dress," she stammered. "It’s much too . . . too . . . fussy."

A solicitous smile played about his sensuous lips as he patted her hand. "Everyone did the best they could under trying circumstances. I wouldn’t complain about the dress. But . . . if you insist, I suppose it could be changed."

He was patronizing her with a sympathetic cheerful smile. On pins and needles, humoring was the last thing she wanted or needed. "No," she put in quickly. "Leave things as they are."

Leticia’s lovely mass of gray hair had been swirled stylishly in an upsweep and a pleasant expression eternally etched her once expressive mouth. The elderly woman appeared totally at peace and not given to haunting her great-niece. Though the scent of patchouli lingered, it wasn’t as pronounced now. By sheer force of nerves, Ember calmed herself. The next long minutes were given over to musings about Leticia’s constant influence on her life and genuine sorrow that the nurturing, kindly relative was gone. Tearfully, Ember whispered her good-byes.

The door to the room opened. Dr. Bob and Charlotte Prewett entered. Two women Ember didn’t recognize accompanied them. Behind the small group followed a distinguished somberly dressed man whom Ember was certain was Leticia’s minister.

Introductions confirmed her assumption. Coming forward, the minister shook her hand. In the company of these friends the visitation time with Leticia passed quickly enough.

On the drive back to the mansion, Ember huddled in the automobile’s front seat. Something supernatural was transpiring here and she didn’t know what or why. Her own unbelief in specters and ghosts visiting earthly persons added to her confusion.

She’d never put much stock in ghosts or visitors from the other world. She’d always attributed such experiences to sensationalism. Perhaps by some unknown force, she’d been granted a peek into the future by viewing the specter’s gown, which really was a premonition of Leticia’s burial dress. Some people claimed ectoplasmic sightings, or the ability to see into the unseen world. She never believed that possible.

On the other hand, simple coincidence might explain the similarity between Leticia’s burial gown and the one the ghost wore. However, that seemed highly unlikely. Convincing herself that coincidence played the major part in the two gown’s similarity taxed her reasoning ability to the limit. It was all too confusing. Coincidence had nothing to do with the cloying scent of patchouli permeating the drawing room last night or the funeral home today. Her head began to swim. Truthfully, she was worried sick over seeing the specter and smelling the patchouli for several valid reasons, the major one being she might be losing her own grip on reality.

The automobile drew up the circular drive in front of the mansion. Russ switched off the engine, leaned back against the seat, and reached for her hand. "I hope the hardest part is over," he said with genuine concern for her. "You handled yourself well back there."

If only he knew how jumpy and gun-shy she really was. She managed a weak smile. "I’ll admit I had misgivings." I still do, she thought. Actually she had more misgivings now than before. She’d convinced herself she’d imagined last night’s specter, but today’s scent of the odd perfume and the burial dress confirmed her experience.

He opened the automobile’s door, slid out, came around and escorted her to the gallery. Walking beside him, matching his enticing gait, a sense of having missed something very special filled her. His body promised sweet fulfillment that she’d only dreamed about. Why, in the past, hadn’t she appreciated how truly attractive he was? They’d been so young back then when they believed themselves in love. Was Jeanette weaving a spell of black magic over her in the form of a secret love potion? Could such a potion work without the subject’s willingness?

# # #

The next morning, a stiff wind from the gulf sang through the live-oak’s leaves, slanting the long beards of Spanish moss. Windy and fit to blow up a hurricane, the weather paid its final tribute to Leticia’s graveside services. Ember’s summer dress billowed in the blasty puffs and her hat’s veil tickled her face, tangling in her long hair as the procession walked to the small chapel.

After the simple touching services, the funeral party exited the chapel for the short walk to the family cemetery. With one hand, Ember held her flapping straw hat against her head and with the other she clutched Russ’s hand. When everyone was assembled at the graveside, the minister began the final series of prayers. From the number of the mourners attending the service, Ember realized just how many people had truly loved her aunt. Practically the entire town had turned out. Leticia’s eulogy over, Ember rode back to the house with Russ’s in the Mercedes.

Inside the dining room, the scent of fresh coffee and seafood canapés filled the air. Jeanette, with help from ladies of the church, had laid out a bountiful funeral buffet. In small groups of twos and threes, the funeral party filed inside. The soft chink of silverware against china, and restrained conversation filled the old room. Ember mingled with the guests, a thundering headache drumming against her temples. Murmuring apologies as soon as possible, she hurried upstairs.

Tossing her hat and prayer book on the bureau, she went to the window to close the curtains. Below, the bayou looked different today. . . silvery and rippling in the wind. Bright sun bounced off the blustery glistening surface intensifying her headache. Snapping the curtains closed, she kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the chaise.

Lying there, swirling gauzy mist began to rise from the floor, quickly obscuring the entire room. On the opposite wall, the blurred armoire and bureau disappeared behind the billowing haze. The room took on the appearance of a street corner in the past century.

In the background a creamy street lamp glowed. Beyond the lamppost were the outlines of old-fashioned buildings much like a cameo painting of another era’s street scene. Far in the distance, a carriage rumbled forward, sparkling stones skittering under its flying wheels. The carriage drew to a stop under the lamppost. A shimmering transparent figure emerged and materialized directly under the streetlight. The scent of patchouli rose. Ridiculous, a ghost arriving by carriage . . . even a ghostly carriage!

The figure levitated towards her. Long flowing hair the color of white wool cascaded down the specter’s back, spilling forward over its filmy transparent gown. The ghost’s vaporous and indistinguishable manifestation resembled a woman’s face and figures . . . not an elderly woman, but a young nubile woman with breasts.

More fascinated than frightened, Ember stared at the vaporous form. "Who’re you, and what do you want?"

"An important question," the charismatic creature affirmed in a voice that could be described as feminine, though it had an other worldly quality, much like an echo in a faraway valley. Lifting a wavering arm for emphasis, the specter spoke. "Listen well. You must heed quickly. My appearances are ordained by a higher power. You’re still constrained by time. That measure of marking events has ended for me. The evil of the present is overshadowed by the unfinished business of the past."

The word evil sent a prickling like spider’s legs trailing up Ember’s spine. "I don’t understand."

"You have many questions, Ember," the ghost continued.

An icy chill brushed Ember’s cheeks. Her teeth chattered. The specter knew her name! The transparent figure shimmered as though a breeze fluttered through its filmy personage. The ghost’s voice sounded familiar, not in its pitch or tone, but instead -- Ember, in her heart, sensed a familiarity. She perceived a knowing. If the wraith-like shadow was Leticia, she was manifesting herself at a much younger age.

"Are you Aunt Leticia?" Ember demanded suddenly.

"If you believe I am Leticia, then I am Leticia," the ghost replied calmly.

"But, you’re dead. I saw you buried barely an hour ago. Am I dreaming you’re here?"

"I’m vertically challenged in this form. There are dimensions of existence and spheres of orbiting the universe that you’re not aware of in your present form. It’s not your time to experience these things. However, that’s not the seat of your troubles. Your troubles will come full circle soon because you don’t know your own heart." The apparition faded slightly.

Emboldened, Ember rose from the chaise, stepping forward. She reached out her hand to touch the carriage. It was solid and as cold to the touch as an iceberg. "You’re in the distant past. What can I learn from the past if my trouble is future?"

"One thing at a time. My manifestation is limited. I repeat; I’m vertically challenged. The forces that govern you, gravity, time, and the like are difficult to penetrate from the realm I now occupy." The specter vibrated, fading until the faintest outline remained. "Be vigilant. The trouble directed against you isn’t all your own doing. However, some events are the result of your actions."

"What events? What are you talking about? Are you a dream?"

The specter faded completely. The filmy fog and the street scene vanished. Alone, Ember stood foolishly grasping the corner of her bureau. If this was a dream, it was frighteningly realistic.

# # #

Small craft warnings went out during the evening shortly after 7:00 o’clock, when it began to rain a torrential flood. Somewhere in the house, a loose shutter banged.

Jeanette stuck her head in the drawing room door. "Dr. Bob and Miss Charlotte Prewett are here."

"I can’t believe they’d venture out in such weather." Ember rose to greet the couple truly grateful they’d returned to the mansion. She needed the comfort of flesh and blood persons and not ghostly visions and dreams.

Russ’s father, with Charlotte on his arm, came into the drawing room. Flecks of raindrops clung to the doctor’s snow-white hair, and Charlotte was brushing her fashionable purple pants suit with her hands.

"Russ was called into town on business," Dr. Bob explained, "or he’d be with us. He asked us to drop in on you."

Charlotte straightened. "If you’d rather be alone tonight, just tell us so. We’ll understand." Outside the storm snarled.

Their company was a godsend. "Both of you must stay for dinner."

A few minutes later, Jeanette announced dinner. They went into the dining room where Jeanette had lit candles should the storm cause loss of power. She’d placed a tureen of delicious crayfish bisque in the center of the table. A platter of shrimp toast accompanied the rich soup. Despite the motional day, the food disappeared quickly. After they’d consumed the meal, Ember poured their coffee.

Settling back across the dining table from the doctor, Ember posed a question. He had no idea the intensity of her interest. "There are certain old stories that The Colonnades is haunted. Have you heard any of them?"

Dr. Paxton flashed an oblique glance at her. "I seem to remember a few. Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity, that’s all. Aunt Ticia wasn’t one to repeat ghost stores to an impressionable little girl."

The elderly man’s eyes twinkled. "I’m sure she didn’t want to frighten you. I do recall that old pirate’s tale. When your great-grandfather returned from an Indian uprising over in Texas, he discovered a pirate looting the house. He killed the pirate. The story goes, the pirate had only one sound leg and a wooden one. In the melee that followed, the looter lost his life and his wooden leg. In ghostly form, the pirate returns searching for that wooden leg."

Charlotte chuckled. "Have you two forgotten I pen a newspaper article? This would make great copy, resident ghost and all."

Ember had nothing to fear from Charlotte’s gossipy little column. River Rhythm, as it was called, reported social happenings, engagements, weddings, and the like. A sudden flash of lightening followed by a deafening thunder boom startled them. The lights flickered, dimmed, went off and then snapped back on.

Ember rose. "Let’s go into the drawing room. We’ll be more comfortable there in case we loose power." The doctor and Charlotte followed her. In the drawing room, Ember hurried to the French doors, closed them, and pulled shut the curtains. She lit the same tapers on the mantel that had heralded the specter’s appearance on her first night back here. They made themselves comfortable on the sofas.

"We won’t stay long, Ember. It’s just I was concerned about you over here in this rambling old house alone." Russ’s father was an older version of his considerate son.

"I won’t hear of you leaving in this storm. There’re some things I’d like to know about Aunt Leticia. I’m afraid I was a terrible niece. I didn’t keep in touch with her as I should have."

They discussed Leticia’s heart problem until well after ten. By then, the tropical storm had blown itself out.

# # #

The next morning, coming downstairs, for the first time the complicated task of closing the house seemed accomplishable to Ember. What an odd twist to her emotions, she mulled, especially since she’d just buried her aunt. She felt almost cheerful. She should be sad today, not hopeful that things would work out. Peering into the shadowy corners of the stairwell, she half expected the specter’s vapory form. Nothing unusual lurked there. Perhaps the ghost’s recent visit had been a good omen after all, and a warning to quell her overworked imagination.

From the kitchen, a woman’s shrill laugh stopped Ember in the hall. That high-pitched squeal was familiar. No, it couldn’t be! Impossible! What would Selma Cain - her boss, Owen Sterling’s latest love interest - - one in his long string of Hollywood starlets, be doing in Graville, Louisiana at her breakfast table? It was Selma, all right.

The performer sat next to Owen. Selma’s impressive breasts projected above her scooped neck lime tunic; her long shapely legs, encased in her trademark sprayed-on white spandex pants, twitched nervously. She slapped Owen’s arm playfully setting a half dozen ivory bracelets clacking like castanets.

Sitting beside statuesque Selma, Owen Sterling reminded Ember of a squat fair toad in his white yachting outfit. His suit was so white it glowed. They looked like Mr. and Mrs. Clean. Lifting her chin, Ember entered the room, approaching the table.

At the sideboard, Jeanette noisily rattled cups. "Good morning, Cher. Your friends just arrived." The housekeeper seemed visibly relieved to see Ember.

Moving forward to her unexpected guests, Ember extended her hand. "This is a surprise."

Owen hopped up, clasping Ember’s hand. "I’m truly sorry about your aunt. I didn’t know she’d passed away until Mrs. LaBorde, here, told us. I’d never have barged in on you if I’d known."

Owen would make demands if she were in a body cast drawing her last breath. His words and actions never matched. Perhaps that was why she suspected him of constantly lying.

"Thank you, Owen," she said, perfunctorily. "My aunt died the morning I arrived. It’s too bizarre for words," she whispered shakily, settling across from the couple. Jeanette placed a steaming cup of coffee-au- before her.

Owen seemed edgy and fidgety. Hyper described his mood on his best days. Surely Owen wasn’t here to take possession of the house. Not now, not today, there were a million things to do. He hadn’t traveled from Hollywood to Graville to inform her to come back to work. This was something else altogether.

Taking the initiative, and hopefully nipping any of his untimely plans in the bud, she pointed out. "I might be delayed here longer than I first thought."

Owen smiled magnanimously. "Sweetheart, take all the time you need." He coughed, clearing his throat. "True, I have a couple of red hot projects going."

"I’m glad to hear that."

"And . . . I did bring a teensy-weensy Cape Cod mystery for you to read in your spare time. It’s a sequel to the other two," he added by way of explanation. "That’s before I knew your aunt had passed away. If you’re not up to working, I understand." He thumped a manuscript on the table she’d not noticed before. "Money is no problem," he continued. "I have solid Middle East backing on this one."

"Leave it if you like." Reading a project would take her mind off some of the unnerving things happening here.

Jeanette moved toward the table with the coffeepot. Owen held up his hands in protest. "Thanks, no more for me." He turned to Ember, a crafty expression etching his pie-dough face. That cunning expression bore out the fact that underhandedness in his business dealings was a trademark with Owen Sterling. "We need to touch base on one point."

"What’s that?"

"That thirty-day waiting-period clause you inserted in the sales contract for this house . . .do you suppose you could waive it? Then, say, maybe in a couple of weeks or so, I can take possession."

"Why," she asked guardedly. There were reasons behind all of Owen’s requests.

Drumming his stubby fingers on the white linen tablecloth and effectively flashing the four-carat diamond on his right hand, he grinned crookedly. "What can I say, I’m impressed with the place. The videotapes you showed me didn’t come near doing this property justice. I promise you’ll be proud of the remodeling I have in mind."

Remodeling? The word struck a disdainful note of discord in her brain. He was moving too fast. She wanted the mansion restored, not modernized or changed. The Colonnades should never be changed. The old house was perfection as it was. . . well, as it would be if she had the money for restoration.

"You know I requested the thirty-day waiting period for a reason," she began cautiously. "If my trust fund is soluble, I have thirty days to negate the sale if I choose." She was on thin ice and she knew it. She’d done nothing about the trust fund. Aunt Leticia’s death had caused delays. "I haven’t had time to attend to anything," she continued, to fend Owen off. "There’s the matter of a title search and opening Aunt Ticia’s will."

Owen’s skin turned an unhealthy mottled purple. "You mean you took earnest money up front without a clear title. That’s outright fraud. I can haul you into court."

"I’ve no intention of backing out," she said, meaning it. "I don’t need this place any longer. I came back here to convince my aunt that selling was the right move."

He seemed not to hear her. "Do you know I can sue you for fraud . . . my own partner, committing fraud. This is ludicrous." He threw up his hands, grimacing. A number of emotions played across his face. "I must be crazy," he said at last, "but, I’m not worried about your honesty."

Her heart hammered. What was Owen’s motive for coming here?

"I warn you though, no one, and I mean no one, takes Owen Sterling for a fool!"

She knew that fact well. They seldom agreed on anything. Being able to work together never made any sense to her . . . but she admitted certain business chemistry existed between them. "I’d never cheat you," she said softly. "Things are done differently down here," she explained. "My father died before a proper will was executed. At the last minute before his fateful trip, he went to John Paxton, an old friend, who’s also a lawyer. A tentative draft was drawn up naming my mother as his estate executor. Unfortunately, she died in the same plane crash too. I’m mentioned specifically in that will, though not in the earlier ones. It was all unfinished, you see . . . temporary. Aunt Leticia was named as my legal guardian. I don’t know all the legal ramifications that might exist."

"The ball is in your court, sweetheart. Just make certain you get everything straightened out pronto."

"The wording was very tricky," she continued. "A portion of the estate might belong to Aunt Ticia, but I don’t think her signature was necessary for the bill of sale. She would never have opposed anything I decided." Or, would she, Ember wondered. "I’m Aunt Ticia’s only heir. Or, at least, I think I am."

"How does a person forget a point like that . . . whether they own something or not? What choice do I have except to go along with you?"

"None that I can see. I promise I won’t let this drag on forever."

Glancing at his Rolex, he slapped Selma on her sleek thigh. Sliding back his chair, it scraped noisily across the bare cypress flooring. "Backers don’t like delays," he hinted darkly. "These people can get nasty . . . I have my own plans too."

Selma squirmed and pursed her lips in a pout to Owen. "Sugar, you promised to show me New Orleans. Also, take me on a boat ride. I’m ready to go."

"Yeah, cupcake, I’m boring you with all this business stuff. We need to make like tourists," Owen grinned with forced lightness.

"Sugar, that’s what we are. . . . tourists" Selma giggled up the scale, ending on a wavering high note. Unfolding from the chair, Selma grabbed his arm.

Owen yanked his cap’s visor low over his forehead and grasped Selma’s arm firmly . . . the way he handled all his possessions. He propelled her towards the door.

After the pair left, Ember raised her cup in a hollow toast. To happier days, she thought. She should have toasted happy endings. Nothing here would ever be the same again."

# # #

The moment Owen and Selma left, Ember telephoned for an appointment with John Paxton about Leticia’s will. Fifteen minutes later, his secretary called canceling.

Irritated with John’s easy dismissal of her concerns, she settled in the drawing room with a box of old photographs. Thumbing through the pictures, she selected a fairly recent one of Leticia to display upstairs in her bedroom.

The snapshot fostered a twinge of guilt. Leticia would never approve of the house changing hands. This old white elephant bit the dust long ago, she thought defensively.

The Colonnades is priceless, she’d told Owen when he first offered to purchase the place. However, after the official appraisals, his offer was even more tempting. It was, in fact, generous.

Jeanette paused in the doorway. Ember looked up as the housekeeper entered with a tray of refreshments. "Mam’zelle, you must eat something." Jeanette was right. After seeing Owen and talking to Paxton’s office, her appetite had suffered.

Setting the box of snapshots aside, the tall cool tumbler of iced tea was very inviting. "You’re spoiling me. I’m not accustomed to anyone waiting on me hand and foot."

Jeanette placed the tray with sandwiches and the frosty beverage on the coffee table.

"You’re a treasure, Jeanette. Thank you so much."

Lingering, the Cajun woman seemed to struggle with her thoughts. "My husband is back from offshore," she began abruptly. "I usually spend nights at the cottage when Joe is in town."

It never occurred to Ember that Jeanette was married. "Feel free to do what you’re accustomed to doing. If you like, take your time coming back in the morning, or take the day off." She honestly didn’t know how long the estate could afford Jeanette’s services. However, until permanent changes were made Ember had no intention of firing the housekeeper.

Jeanette shook her head stiffly. "Thank you, mam’zelle. I’ll be back in the morning," she assured, still tarrying as skittish as a colt.

Jeanette had something on her mind. When she didn't say anything more, Ember closed the awkward silence between them. "So you and your husband live in the old caretaker’s house?"

"Oui mam’zelle. It’s roomy and all redone. My Joe is handy with a hammer and nails. You must come and see it."

The invitation rang sincerely enough. "Thanks, I will." Ember paused, then said reflectively. "It’s been years since I’ve seen that cottage. When I was growing up here, a family lived there, the Hopgoods. They had children, two girls and three boys, I believe.

"That’s right, Cher," Jeanette replied quickly, twisting her apron in her careworn hands. "Susie Hopgood died. That was some sad funeral, no? Two women came from the state welfare office and a nurse. That was all besides Miss Leticia and Miss Margo. At first, Miss Leticia refused to allow Susie to be buried here. She wanted her buried at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow Cemetery."

"You mean the Hopgood girl is buried here," Ember cried incredulously.

"Yes, mam’zelle."

"Why would Susie’s family think to bury her here? It’s been years since the Hopgoods lived on this place?"

Shuffling, Jeanette wrung the apron tighter. "I don’t know. Someone called Miss Leticia about permission. She never told me whom. Even Miss Margo took the Hopgood’s side."

"You mean Margo Paxton, John’s wife, interceded for Susie Hopgood?"

"Yes, Cher." Jeanette seemed eager to drop the discussion.

As startling as this information was, Ember saw no point in continuing the conversation with the housekeeper. "The matter is no concern of mine. I’m certain Aunt Ticia made the proper decision." Ember wanted to be on the Cajun woman’s good side.

A flickering expression of indecision crossed Jeanette’s face.

"Is something troubling you?" Ember asked.

Jeanette’s expressionless mask creased into a forced smile. "No, Cher." The housekeeper seemed to weigh her next words. "With Miss Leticia gone, though, are you sure you’ll be all right in this big house? I can come back over here tonight. Joe, too. We both stayed over when Miss Leticia was alive. Joe, when he comes back from offshore, he takes me out to Sonny’s to eat and then he plays a little booray. We can come back here afterwards."

"Enjoy your evening with your husband. I’m not accustomed to a lot of care," Ember said simply.

Jeanette turned to leave, then paused midway to the door. Turning, she gave Ember an endearing look. "Cher, you’re a good person."

The compliment was unexpected and pleasant. It did somewhat ease Ember’s conscience that she’d neglected her aunt.

"Joe brought me some fine big shrimp," Jeanette added. "I’m making a gumbo at the cottage. I’ll bring your supper before we leave."

"That’s not necessary. You need this time to be with your husband."

"No. I insist, mam’zelle."

Jeanette was a dedicated worker. She spent long hours each day caring for the old house. Refusing her offer bespoke of ingratitude. "You’ve been wonderfully helpful. The supper sounds delicious, and you know I’ll look forward to the gumbo."

"Oui, mam’zelle."

"There’s one thing before you go. Do you have any idea where my father’s private papers are stored, especially his diaries. I know he kept a daily journal."

Jeanette hesitated the slightest moment before answering. "Oui. Most of those things are in the attic in some old filing cabinets. But, you might look in the library too, no. Miss Leticia kept moving things about."

"And, why was that?"

Jeanette blinked. "She was afraid of mice. They’re very destructive." Ember sensed Jeanette had something more to tell. "If you go to the library, be careful in there," the housekeeper warned. "The ceilings aren’t safe. Miss Leticia never went in that part of the house. I don’t clean that part of the house regularly," she added defensively.

Ember caught the slight edge of self-defensiveness in the woman’s tone. "I understand. You couldn’t be expected to keep such a place as this alone."

Jeanette nodded. "My Joe, he helps me sometimes when he’s in town."

The woman seemed to warm up at times, and then become reticent. She was giving very conflicting signals. Knowing her better would take care of their personality differences. "About the diaries," Ember continued. "There’s so much about my past I don’t know. I was very young when my parents died . . . only ten."

"So sad, mam’zelle," Jeanette sympathized. Turning, she left the room.

Ember put the box of photographs aside. She ate one of the sandwiches and sipped the refreshing tea. When she finished the meal, she headed to her father’s library in the east wing of the mansion.

The ground level of this section of the house contained the music room and a long salon called the morning parlor. The upper floors were sealed and not used. Seeping water had caused severe rot damage in the upper levels. The earlier Ryans had lived grandly in this huge rambling mansion, she thought. But, that was long before her father’s time. .

In a belated spurt of refurbishment to the old wing, Jim Ryan had the roof repaired and the upper floors braced. However, his restoration attempts came too late. Extensive deterioration on the floors above forced him to close this section of the mansion. There was talk of tearing the entire wing down, but Jim Ryan’s untimely death ended the project.

Ember’s footsteps echoed hollowly on the bare floors. She made her way past the lovely spiral staircase called the gentlemen’s staircase. This set of stairs rose from a small private hall directly behind the library. The tight spiral rising three full floors had escaped time’s ravage. Ember had played here as a child, running up the old steps and staring into the eerie ruined chambers above.

Opening the library door, the scent of mildew was overpowering. Inside, peeling strips of old French wallpaper fell to the floor in ruined trailing swags. The fluttering sound of birds’ wings beating inside the brick fireplace took her aback. The old saying, a bird in the house brings death, flitted through her mind. Making a mental note to have the chimneys sealed, she hurriedly opened the windows, folding back the creaking wooden hurricane shutters. A flurry of dust accompanied this task.

A series of parlors adjoining the morning parlor behind the library could be turned into one long ballroom by opening sets of cleverly designed sliding doors. Ember tried the first door. It opened easily. She passed through the connecting chambers. Outside the last parlor, a pebbled carriage drive still existed that came up under the roof beside the gentlemen’s staircase. This private entrance allowed guests to slip upstairs unseen. The notion that today someone might still access the mansion unseen was unsettling.

She started up the first few steps of the gentlemen’s staircase. Peering above, now, in mid afternoon, the upper levels were shrouded in darkness. Retracing her steps, she closed the folding doors and went back to the library. It was almost sacrilegious to think that the house now belonged to Owen. You have thirty days, she thought.

What earthly difference would thirty days make, she sniffed, suspiciously expecting the scent of patchouli. However, only the scent of mildew, mold, and dust filled the heavy air. Still, the impression persisted that the specter didn’t want this place sold to outsiders.

Her father’s desk seemed the logical place to begin her search for his diaries. The middle pencil drawer was unlocked and empty. One by one she opened all the drawers. All were empty and lined with the same type yellow paper. A few shriveled mothballs rattled around for her effort.

A slight bulge under the paper lining of a bottom drawer caught her attention. She lifted the fragile paper. Underneath lay a yellowed newspaper clipping. The newspaper was French, a Paris edition. The clipping pictured Jacques Descartes, her mother’s art instructor. The man’s faded handsome face stared up at Ember.

The blurred news clipping had captured the slim man wearing a black beret and standing beside a sports car. He held a large trophy. Evidently the artist had won some sort of car-racing award. Her French was not good enough to read the article in its entirety. The date on the newspaper was 6 August 1967. The year before I was born, Ember thought, replacing the clipping where she found it.

The desk yielded nothing like a diary. She turned her attention to the bookshelves. Jim Ryan had been a voracious reader. His dusty book collection was mostly novels. Many were first editions with the author’s autographs inscribed inside. Probably some of the books would be very valuable to collectors. A random search of the bookshelves revealed nothing of a personal nature. An hour later, hot and thirsty and getting nowhere fast, she abandoned the search in the library and headed to the kitchen for something cold to drink.

At the kitchen door, she stopped short, clutching the door frame. A hulking man stood across the room, his back to her. He held something shiny in his hand. It was a long sharp knife.

"Who are you?" she blurted, her heart hammering. "What are you doing in here?"

Slowly, the man turned around, shooting her a look of surprise. His beefy fist clasped a long serrated bread knife. "You must be the Ryan woman."

"That’s right, and who might you be?"

"Joe LaBorde," he answered gruffly. "Sorry to startle you. I brought your supper. Thought you might be taking a nap or something. Jeanette sent all the bread over here by mistake. I’m slicing some for the cottage," he explained sheepishly.

Ember breathed a sigh of relief, however not for long. Jeanette’s husband was an extremely unpleasant looking man. Standing just less than six feet, his heavy square frame reminded Ember of a bear. The hulking build, swarthy complexion, black hair, and powerful frame gave him a menacing look. The fact that this man could be wandering around the house while she slept turned her knees to trembling pools of gelatin.

"That’s the gumbo," he said pointing to a black Dutch Oven on the stove. He turned back to cover the remainder of the homemade bread.

"Take the whole loaf," Ember insisted.

"Thanks, ma’am." Moving clumsily with an unpleasant lethargy, he repackaged the bread. Ember longed to push his fumbling fingers aside and rewrap the loaf herself. At last he completed the task and turned to leave.

"Jeanette shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble," she said.

He stopped near the kitchen door. "So, you’re from Hollywood. You make films, I hear." He tried to sound jovial, though Ember was certain the man was checking her out. Also, she detected the odor of alcohol on his breath."

"I’m in the film industry in a way. I’m a junior producer."

"Must be exciting. I bet you make lots of money."

She chose to ignore both comments.

Chuckling oddly, he stood his ground a few minutes longer. "You need anything, you know where we are."

"Yes," she said without enthusiasm. She didn’t recall Leticia mentioning Jeanette’s husband. She made a mental note to ask Russ about the man.

Joe opened the back door to leave. "We’re in for some rain." he called over his shoulder, going out on the back gallery.

Ember chose not to answer him. Instead, she nodded tightly, closed the door, and locked it immediately. Through the window above the sink, she watched him walk toward the cottage. A few yards from the house, he stopped on the footpath and, like a greedy animal, opened the package of bread, tearing at it with his teeth.

Joe LaBorde was right, a storm was brewing. Dark storm clouds roiled low in the southwest. A violent bolt of lightning split the sultry afternoon and booming thunder rattled the house. The front door banged. She’d left it open airing out the house.

Hurrying there, she closed the door against a powerful gust of wind. Past the lawn the bayou’s surface whipped into a frenzy by the wind. Under the force of the gale, heavy moss-draped branches of large trees dipped over into the water like pliable saplings.

Unexpectedly, a loud crash on the gallery made her cry out. The supporting chain holding an enormous fern had snapped. The old heavy pot crashed to the flooring, spilling the plant and wasting the soil. Blinding sheets of rain beat the house, obscuring all vision. She’d forgotten the fury of these Louisiana thunderstorms.

The front door securely closed and locked behind her, she hurried back to the kitchen’s cheerful fluorescent lights, grateful for that modern improvement. At the sink, she turned on the tap, splashing warm water over her hands and wrists. She put on a kettle for hot tea. These jitters over the storm were silly.

The rain didn’t last long. These summer storms blew out as quickly as they blew in. The rain mostly past, Ember went to the drawing room and snapped on the lamps. The sudden storm had left an early dark in its wake. Settling in an easy chair, she unfolded the newspaper. An odd sense of unrest settled over her. She couldn’t concentrate. More than once, she gazed around the room keenly, half expecting the specter to materialize. It was on the tip of her tongue to call out . . . Leticia!

There was no scent of patchouli in the air. On a sudden impulse, she got to her feet. Now, while she was alone in the house was the perfect time to search for the diary in the attic.

CHAPTER THREE

The attic stairway opened off a narrow hall behind the pantry. Ember pushed open this pantry door. Gray fading light filtered in through the high dingy windows. Years of stored spices and provisions permeated the stale air with aromatic scents.

She beamed her flashlight’s bobbing beam up the stairs. Ahead loomed darkness as black as a tomb. She began climbing upward, her shoes echoing hollowly in the stillness as they struck the bare boards underfoot.

At the second landing, a secret passageway opened into the east wing. She’d wondered about this old passageway. If it was accessible, anyone could enter the main part of the house unawares. Her fingers swept along the smooth-as-glass paneling delicately as a surgeon searching for a vital organ. A notch in the cypress paneling activated a door on heavy springs that opened inward. Her probing fingers located the slight indentation in the wood. She pushed. The door didn’t budge. Satisfied, it was sealed, she moved upward.

Old timbers creaked and popped overhead. Moving upward, close stale air enveloped her. Dead air, she thought, dead air laced with chill and dampness. Family legends of pirate’s contraband going up these stairs to secret chambers spun through her brain.

Reaching the door leading into the attic, the steady staccato of pattering rain drummed against the roof. Trying the door, it swung open easily. Cool fusty air rushed from the pitch-dark chamber. The flashlight illuminated a dangling cord hanging from the ceiling. A quick yank and yellow light from the single naked bulb lit the immediate area.

What a mess! Old furniture lay heaped in piles. At her feet, a rat scurried away under a pile of discarded carpet. Perhaps this search would better be left for another time. Finding an item as small as a diary up here would be an arduous task. No, she thought firmly. Time was one commodity she didn’t have in abundance. She must find answers and find them quickly. With Owen already circling to take possession of the property, if she had any chance to hold onto her heritage, she must act now. She shuddered. With Leticia gone, why would she even want to keep this place. She couldn’t deny a certain emotional pull to her old life here, though she’d believed all that was past since she’d moved on physically and emotionally. These vacillations weren’t like her.

Jeanette mentioned file cabinets. A number of large pieces of furniture crowded the slanted walls under the eaves. One narrow tall chest resembling an old wooden filing cabinet rested haphazardly against the wall to her right. Easing along behind the flashlight’s skittering beam, she picked her way across the debris littered floor. The piece of furniture she’d targeted as a file, was instead an odd chest. Adjacent to the chest leaned a cypress clothes press missing a leg and behind the clothes press were several more chest-like pieces of furniture.

A light clattering noise sounded behind her. She froze, her heart drumming in her ear. Scarcely daring to breathe, she turned toward the direction of the noise, playing the flashlight’s weak beam into the darkness. Inky blackness pressed ahead around the small circle of wavering light. Her hand was shaking. Overhead, rain broke the attic’s silence. Somewhere in the corner a timber sighed. Outside, the wind moaned and more rain beat against the roof. The storm was rising again, and old houses settle. Slowly expelling her breath, she turned, moving toward the files.

A floorboard creaked behind her. She stopped dead still. Another noise like a sneaking footfall rustled across the attic. . . the tread too heavy and too calculated to be a rat. She wasn’t alone up here. Spooked, her breath came in labored jerks. She started back toward the door to the stairwell. Wavering images danced before the battery-operated light, sending mocking shadows springing up the walls. Suspiciously, again, an ancient floorboard creaked somewhere across the room.

Her heart thrummed fit to burst the confines of her breast. With a trembling hand, she slanted the flashlight into the dark corner where the noise originated. Nothing was there. But . . . wait! Something moved! On a sharp intake of breath, she stopped, her gaze settling on a listlessly swinging bulky form hanging from the joists and rafters above. Peering into the dusky shadows of the attic’s farthest corner, she saw a ghastly dummy!

The suspended effigy wore white pants and a matching jacket. Rooted to the floor too frightened to move, she swirled the light in that direction. She’d seen apparel like that recently. Owen Sterling had worn a similar white yachting suit at her breakfast table.

Crash! A jagged slash of lightning illuminated the attic projecting the dummy’s face in cruel spotlight. It was Owen, his dead face whiter than the smart suit encasing his lifeless body. As black and ominous as the darkest midnight, blood stained the front of his jacket, pooling on the floor in his yachting cap. Owen Sterling was beyond mortal help.

A hoarse scream ripped through her throat, piercing the attic’s darkness. She must get help! Running to the stairs, she dropped the flashlight. It clattered to the floor just beyond her reach. In the dark, a heaped snarl of discarded carpet snared her feet. Plunging headlong into the abyss, she lost her balance, falling into a stack of rickety chairs. The chairs pinned her. Excruciating pain shot from her ankle. She screamed, her voice echoing in the cavernous chamber. Who’d hear her up here? There was no one.

Knowing she must free herself and get downstairs to summon help, she struggled against the chairs. The attic door leading to the stairwell seemed light years away.

Footsteps sounded on the uncarpeted stairs. Someone was coming! Moments later, a woman’s shadowy form appeared in the doorway. "Miss Ember, Cher, are you up here?"

"Jeanette?" Ember sobbed hysterically. Thank God! "Over here. I can’t move." Jeanette clattered over the bare floor making her way to the tumbled chairs.

"Hurry," Ember pleaded. "There’s a dead man over there."

Jeanette stopped a few feet from Ember. "Dead man?" she screeched. "Cher, you said a dead man, no?"

"Hurry Jeanette. Get me out of here."

Reaching Ember at last, the housekeeper’s eyes flared wildly. "Cher, you have a dead man in those chairs?"

"Of course not," Ember cried helplessly. "Try to move these chairs."

Cringing, Jeanette drew back. "Where then? Where, mam’zelle is a dead man?"

"In the corner." Ember pointed. "It . . . it’s . . . Owen Sterling. He’s hung himself. I dropped the flashlight. Get me out of here at once."

Jeanette picked up the battery-operated light, training its beam in the direction of Owen’s corpse. The housekeeper’s expressive face registered sheer terror. "Aieeeeeeeeee," she screamed, falling in a dead faint across an old settee. Minutes later she stirred, moaning and lamenting intelligible phrases in French.

"Jeanette! Jeanette! Wake up!"

Heavy boots thudded somewhere deeper in the attic’s recesses. Summoning all her strength, Ember pushed against the tangle of chairs. "I know someone’s up here. Help us!" The footsteps sounded again, moving deeper into the attic.

"What’s going on up here?" A man’s form appeared, silhouetted in the doorway. "Ember, is that you?"

"Russ?"

"Yes, where are you?"

"Over here," she sobbed, rattling the chairs.

Rushing to her side, he knelt beside her. Reaching down, he lifted the maze of chairs with his powerful arms, throwing them aside. "Don’t move. I’ll get you out."

"See about Jeanette," Ember cried hysterically, the moment he freed her. "She’s fainted."

A scrambling sound from the settee announced the Cajun woman’s revival. Once on her feet, Jeanette ran toward the door. "Mam’zelle, the dead man, the shock. . .the shock!" Racing downstairs, a torrent of French and English oaths followed the housekeeper’s descent.

Russ’s strong arms lifted Ember to her feet. The moment she tested her weight, everything around her became blacker. Waves of nausea racked her body. Pain from her ankle forced her to slump against his strong body. Despite the excruciating pain, she relished in his strength. Still fearful she might faint, she clung to him tightly. Easing her to the sagging settee that Jeanette had abruptly vacated moments before; Russ helped her to sit down. Easing down beside her, he placed his hands behind her head firmly.

"Lower your head," he urged. "It’ll stop the lightheadedness."

Taking his advice, she was relieved a few minutes later when the dizziness did indeed go away. However, sharp pain still shot from her ankle. "I can’t walk," she winced trying the tender joint with a measure of her weight. "I think my ankle is broken. Oh, my God, that’s not all," she cried. "Owen is dead . . . over there in the corner."

"Dead? Who is Owen?"

Blackness threatened, oozing around her. This time, remembering his directions, she lowered her head of her own accord, praying the fainting spell would pass. Gradually, the sickness dissipated and her senses returned by degrees. "Owen Sterling," she repeated. Of course, she thought limply, Russ had no idea who Owen was.

"I work for his film production firm in Los Angeles," she explained. "You remember I told you he bought The Colonnades. He was here earlier today." She shook terribly. "That’s him. That’s Owen, there," she rasped pointing in the corpse’s direction.

Russ unclasped his hands from hers and, taking the flashlight, walked the ten feet or so to the swinging corpse in the shadows. Watching him, Ember wept softly, finally closing her eyes, unable to control her hysterical sobs. This couldn’t be happening, not in her home. Who at The Colonnades bore a grudge against Owen Sterling?

Back at her side, his lips tightly drawn, Russ drew in his breath sharply. "The man’s dead all right," he said confirming the horrible fact. "Been dead for quite some time. There’s nothing we can do for him now. I’ll get you downstairs." Slipping his arms around her waist, in one strong motion, he lifted her up in his arms. Her head settled in the niche between his shoulder and neck. Warm pulsating flesh throbbed against her forehead. With her in his arms, he threaded through the debris, starting down the stairs.

"Did you touch anything near the body?" he asked abruptly.

"No, of course not," she replied alarmed, craning her neck to look up at him.

"Relax and lean against me," he ordered gently.

Shivers trailed down her spine, shivers having nothing to do with fainting. Settling against him, she relished the scent of his warm fragrant skin accented with a pungent lime after-shave. Swaying in his arms conjured up visions of dancing on a starlit night on some tropical beach. Instinctively, she tightened her grip about his neck.

He was affected by her nearness, too. "Don’t distract me, or we’ll both crash down these narrow stairs," he muttered huskily.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Jeanette paced the floor, wringing her hands, her expression that of a quarried animal. "Mam’zelle, that dead man is your friend, no?"

Russ nodded to the housekeeper. "Bring me a pillow and some ice," he ordered, settling Ember in a chair and propping her ankle.

The housekeeper returned with the requested items. The swollen flesh surrounding her ankle had turned a dark blue.

"A doctor needs to take a look at this," Russ said straightening.

"Mam’zelle, the dead man up there." Jeanette rolled her gaze upward.

"Neither of you are to discuss any of this. I’m calling the authorities. The sheriff’s department will take your statements." Her immediate needs taken care of, Russ dialed the authorities and then made a second call to the local clinic’s emergency room.

# # #

The trip to the emergency room over, Ember rested her bandaged joint on an iris-appliquéd pillow in the middle of her four-poster bed. Fortunately the ankle was merely badly sprained and not broken. However, the pain emanating from beneath the bandaging was very real.

Snippets of conversation floated around the room between Russ and Detective Mark Campo, the officer in command. Try as she might, she couldn’t make out the entirety of their low conversation.

The low buzz of masculine voices continued. A portly figure appeared in the doorway. It was the parish coroner. His gruesome job in the attic was completed. Russ and Campo joined the coroner in the hall. Moments later, she heard the ambulance draw away from the house bearing Owen’s body to the morgue. Almost immediately, Russ and the detective reentered her bedroom. The detective approached her bed and Ember sat up. Hovering in the background near the door, Russ gave her a reassuring smile behind the investigator’s back.

The detective was a dark-complexioned man possibly fifty-five, tall, with a high round belly, and long thin legs. His gold rimmed glasses intensified his dark splotchy skin, and exaggerated his normal expression that seemed to lean toward a dour frown.

"I’m Homicide Investigator, Mark Campo. Are you up to answering a few questions for me tonight?"

"I want to help," she said.

"What were you doing in the attic on such a stormy night?" he asked abruptly. He seemed to attach some sinister motive to her going up to her own attic.

"There was nothing significant about tonight," she answered more bluntly than she’d intended. She had nothing to hide.

Campo slowly retrieved a tattered notebook from his shirt pocket and thumbed through it. "When did you last see Mr. Sterling alive?" he asked, his long fingers splaying against the notebook’s black leatherette cover. He waited for her response.

The man was terrifying to her. "Owen and Selma left about 8:30 this morning," she replied. "Owen . . . that is, Mr. Sterling was sitting at the breakfast table with Selma Cain when I came downstairs.

Campo looked at her oddly, his eyes at once the furtive darting eyes of a ferret. "Who is Selma Cain?"

"She’s his girlfriend. I mean, was his girlfriend. That is, Mr. Sterling saw a lot of women. Anyway, she’s the actress who accompanied Mr. Sterling to Louisiana."

"Where is this woman now?"

"I have no idea. They left together to sight-see in New Orleans."

"Was Mr. Sterling in the habit of visiting you here?"

"No, he’d never been here before."

"Are you one of the many women Mr. Sterling saw from time to time?"

"No, of course not," she stammered. She was angry at herself for stammering. "We worked together, that’s all."

"I see," Campo said, snapping the pad shut and pocketing it. "Did you notice anything unusual about Mr. Sterling when he left the house?"

"No. . . no, I didn’t." Actually everything had been out of the ordinary, she thought. Owen and Selma’s visit itself was out of the ordinary. "I’m baffled why he would choose my attic in which to commit suicide," she added.

"Miss Ryan, this was no suicide. It appears Mr. Sterling was killed elsewhere, possibly shot, and then struck on the head with a blunt instrument before being brought to your attic and strung from the rafters. The body shows a great deal of trauma."

This was becoming more horrifying by the minute. But then, she’d seen the deadly gash and the blood with her own eyes.

"Were you two angry at each other? Did any type of grudge exist between you?"

Why would the detective think that? "Certainly not," she replied quickly . . . maybe too quickly, from the sharp look the detective gave her. Owen could be difficult, but nothing remotely suggesting a feud or grudge existed between them.

"If anything comes to mind, anything that you haven’t told me, get in touch with me immediately." The investigator nodded and turned. Pausing on his way to the door, he looked at her darkly. "If you hear from that actress, Selena Cain, let me know."

"Selma," Ember corrected. "Her name is Selma Cain."

"Yes, Selma Cain." Returning to her bedside, he leaned over and popped a business card between his second and middle finger like a magician. He offered her the card. "I’ll be in touch." With that he was gone.

Fumbling with the business card, she dropped it on the night table. Russ had moved from the doorway. Lying back against the pillows, she closed her eyes. How could she get through this?

Jeanette entered the room bearing a glass of water and a paper cup containing a pink pill. "Time for your medicine, Cher," she said kindly.

"I don’t need a pain pill," Ember declared.

"But, mam’zelle, the doctor said this mostly is for anxiety. You must get some rest."

She had resisted pain medication at the clinic. Jeanette was right. Her ankle throbbed terribly and her nerves were jumping. "You’re very kind," she said, taking the pill, she swallowed it. "I see why my aunt was so fond of you." The medication ingested, Jeanette turned to leave.

"Wait," Ember said. "Did you see Mr. Sterling around the house after he and Miss Cain left the breakfast table?"

"No Mam’zelle. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I only wondered."

A proud smile etched Jeanette’s kindly face. "Mam’zelle, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Miss Leticia Ellerbee was my dearest friend in the entire world. For her, I would do anything."

"Yes, I can see that you loved my aunt very much. Thank you for the good care you gave her . . . and now, me."

Russ eased back to her door. Sitting up in bed, she beckoned to him. "Come on in, I’m not asleep."

He moved to the side of the bed and sat down. Reaching for her hand, he enveloped it in his own. "I wanted to make certain you’re all right. I’m staying over here tonight after what’s happened."

"Would you? I’m grateful," she said simply.

He looked worried. His expressive mouth creased in a troubled smile. "Try and remember anything that could have a bearing on this investigation," he urged. "At this point they haven’t a clue what they’re looking for."

"A murderer, I hope," she countered quickly, longing to soothe the furrows between his brow. "I owe you a lot after tonight." Her gaze traveled down his sinewy body, then back to his face. A feeling of warmth centered in the innermost reaches of her body. "You might have saved my life too."

"Why do you say that?

"I’m not one hundred percent certain I was alone in the attic. It was very dark up there," she whispered as though the walls had ears. "I heard some suspicious noises, like someone moving around and then running away. But, it could’ve been my imagination. I admit I was spooked. The next minute you were standing in the doorway."

Russ listened to her intently. "I want to warn you. Keep your head with the Sheriff’s Department. Campo is one of the best in the state, even though his methods are sometimes a little unorthodox. At times, it might seem as though he’s harassing you, but it’s his job."

That Mark Campo was unorthodox came as no new revelation. She’d picked up on the man’s odd personality. "If he’s so good, hopefully he’ll catch the killer and end this nightmare." Her voice was laced with the slightest trace of sarcasm.

"He will. You can count on that."

"Russ, find Selma. I’m worried about her."

"Campo has an all points out on her. She’ll turn up. In the meantime, I’ll do all I can, too."

The potent sedative began to work. She was growing sleepy. Before nodding off, an alarming thought arrested her. Sliding up in bed abruptly, she realized that she did indeed have a motive for Owen’s death. In the sales contract drawn up for The Colonnades, she’d insisted on an untimely demise clause. If Owen died untimely, ownership of the house reverted to her. A nerve trembled in her lip. She had a motive for murder!

Tightness closed her throat. She swallowed. "Russ," she whispered. "There’s something else. This house reverts back to me now that Owen is dead. I demanded an untimely demise clause in the contract."

An expression of swift thought crossed his face. "I see," he said, narrow-eyed. "For the time being, I’d keep that information to myself. Do you have a copy of the sales contract?"

"No -- yes -- but not here. It’s in the wall safe in my California house." She thought a moment. "My attorney has a copy."

"Have him fax me a copy."

"He’s a she, and I will."

"Don’t think about anything more tonight."

"Russ, will anything ever be right again? I’ve been worried out of my mind about selling this place . . . and . . . breaking the news to Aunt Ticia. She’s dead, and now this murder." She was babbling and she couldn’t stop.

"Things will get better," he whispered reassuringly.

"I’m glad we’re in this together," she giggled squeezing his hand.

Good grief, did she say that, glad they were involved in a murder?

He returned the pressure lightly.

"You need to get some rest."

The pill was taking her to La-La land. "Russ, you should be a doctor, like your father. I love your bedside manner."

Wriggling his eyebrows Groucho Marx style, he leaned, whispering into her ear. "I’m a sucker for my prettier patients."

She giggled again. He looked gorgeous with his hair slightly mussed and tumbled across his forehead, like an appealing child. The dark stubble on his chin didn’t detract from his appeal, either. "Everything seems so simple when you explain it, Dr. Russ."

He twirled his imaginary mustache like a melodrama villain. "Actually, you’re building up this image that might be very hard for me to live up to," he warned lightly. "I could prove to be Dr. Jekyl. Or, was he the good one. I mean, Mr. Hyde."

The light behind Russ’s head fused into a fuzzy halo. "I’ve always wanted to live a horror flick," she teased, leaning back realizing she’d miss him terribly when he left. Left? He’d only be down the hall!

Abruptly, Russ tilted her chin upward and kissed her -- a chaste peck on the lips. "Get a good night’s sleep," he urged rising. "I’m nearby if you need me." The tight muscles rippled across his back under his casual knit shirt as he sauntered toward the door.

"Russ, I wondered, why were you over here tonight?"

He’d gone.

Sighing, she realized since being in his company these few short days, just how lonely her life actually was. It didn’t seem possible that he’d become an important part of her life in such a short time.

CHAPTER FOUR

Two disappointing weeks had passed since Owen Sterling’s murder and still no arrests. An uncertain dawn of deepest gray streaked the eastern sky when Ember woke. Rain swept across the upstairs gallery pelting the open French doors, fluttering the lace curtains. Hot damp air rank with the scent of wet vegetation filled the bedroom.

Shaking her hair out of her eyes, Ember yawned and stretched. She switched on the bedside lamp against the dull morning, drawing her knees under her chin, inspecting her ankle. The swelling was practically gone now. The injured joint looked good as new.

She’d dreamed about Selma. Where was the actress? Neither the starlet’s publicist, nor her family had heard from her since she’d disappeared from The Colonnade’s breakfast table. It seemed that Detective Campo was dragging his feet looking for the actress. If the man had a suspect, that knowledge was being guarded as the secret of the century.

Along the bayou, tongues wagged and fingers pointed at Ember. Even her old friends and neighbors treated her differently. With each icy glance, Ember realized she was a suspect in Owen’s grisly murder. This hurt her deeply.

The gallery door rattled and swung open. She could’ve sworn she’d locked the door last night. Or, had she? The old hardware didn’t fit flush. Perhaps during the night, the wind had blown it open. Again, her bad case of nerves and jitters might have caused her to think she’d locked up when really, she hadn’t. Unsatisfied that she couldn’t remember with absolute certainty about the door, she got out of bed and crossed the room to lock it.

What was going on below? Beyond the lawn, a caravan of cars in procession lined the service road leading up to the mansion. The cortege belonged to the media. A full size white van with the call letters, WTBS, on its side broke formation and eased along in front of the other vehicles. The van pulled to a stop and the door on the driver’s side swung open. A woman with long dark hair alighted. She wore a very short red mini skirt.

A soft knock sounded at the bedroom door. "Who is it?" Ember called, still intent on the scene below.

"Cher, it’s me, I have fresh towels." Jeanette replied, marching into the bedroom with a laundry basket. The housekeeper’s dark hair was tied in a white bandanna.

"What’s the hoopla out there," Ember demanded, nodding toward the lawn.

Placing the laundry basket on the floor, Jeanette lay the morning’s newspaper on the foot of the bed. "The reporters are here because of this morning’s headlines."

"What headlines."

"Here, Mam’zelle." Jeanette pointed to the early edition.

Slowly, Ember unfolded the paper. Bold headlines jumped out at her. COLONNADES’S HEIRESS LINKED TO HOLLYWOOD PRODUCER’S MURDER. Flinging the paper on the bed, her stomach in knots, she pointed to the offending article, she fairly shouted. "Lies, that’s all a pack of lies!"

The housekeeper’s work-gnarled hands trembled as she gathered the basket of towels and started toward the bathroom. She paused, turning. "Mam’zelle, I’m afraid."

"Of what?" Ember snapped. "Reporters?" Scanning Jeanette’s terrified face, she calmed. There was no need to frighten this woman. The Cajun housekeeper had no part in the trouble brewing below like a boiling cauldron around The Colonnades’s mistress.

"Forgive me, I shouldn’t lose my temper with you," Ember said. "I feel so helpless. It’s frustrating." She turned back to the French door. Jeanette followed behind her.

Down below, the striking brunette who’d alighted earlier from the WTBS van seemed in control of the other reporters. "Who’s the woman in the red skirt?" Ember asked.

"That’s Karen Whitt," Jeanette replied, her voice dramatic with awe. "She was Miss Leticia’s favorite TV anchorwoman. Miss Leticia said Karen made watching the news worthwhile."

Vaguely, Ember recalled seeing the newscaster on the evening news. The Whitt woman was a flashy dresser. This morning, Miss Whitt’s jet-black hair was longer than her red micro-mini. Prancing below like a young filly in the early morning light, the anchor moved through the disorderly group reveling in the confusion.

"How long have they been out there?"

Jeanette’s gaze shifted from the scene below. "Most of them long before daylight." Peering at Ember, she smiled limply. "I could call for Joe to come in from offshore. The Marine operators can reach him."

"That’s not necessary," Ember said quickly, preferring the swarm of reporters to Jeanette’s creepy husband.

"Yes, mam’zelle," Jeanette replied, sounding as though she’d been accused of something.

Turning from the proceedings below on the lawn, Ember thought gravely that the reporter’s presence could thwart her plans for the day. Now that her ankle had mended, she’d intended going into the city to surprise John Paxton in his office. Since he’d resorted to every trick in the book to avoid seeing her, she’d just barge in unannounced. Let him slam the door in her face, if he had the nerve. Now, if she left the house at all, she must slip out the back and drive the maze of back roads.

"I won’t be here for lunch or dinner today," she said to Jeanette. "I’m going into New Orleans."

"But, mam’zelle, the reporters."

"I’ve no intention of being controlled by a lot of reporters," Ember said forcefully.

"Yes, mam’zelle."

The moment Mrs. LaBorde left the room; Ember closed and locked the French doors. With an angry gesture, she snapped the curtains closed. Going to the closet, she pulled down the pale blue linen suit she’d selected last night. Laying the suit across the bed, she went into the bathroom to shower.

The shower’s stinging spray cleared her head and hardened her resolve of forcing John Paxton into an interview today. The man had manipulated her calls and thus far had managed to break every appointment.

She’d shown proper restraint with the lawyer, but her patience was at an end. Confronting the man early was complicated now by the hovering reporters outside her front door. The pesky media did complicate her plans a bit. Their presence forced her to cross enemy lines by taking a longer route into the city.

Downstairs and eager to be on her way, she brought her coffee to the drawing room for a final look at the activity before darting out the back door. The rain had stopped. From a break in the heavy gray clouds, a burst of sunlight, bounced, like a good omen, off a familiar automobile moving up the driveway. Russ’s gray Mercedes! If ever she needed a friendly face, this morning was one of those times.

Russ’s car moved around the double-parked white van and continued up the driveway leading to the front of the house. The moment his automobile stopped, Russ stepped out like a gladiator ready to do battle. He strode toward the house. Karen Whitt followed hot on his heels.

Hurrying to the front door, Ember opened it partially. Standing just inside, she waited for him to make his way up the walk. The newswoman stopped him before he reached the gallery.

Composed and controlled, Russ looked down at the anchorwoman. He smiled at her. They seemed chummy; such bonhomie suggested he might know Karen Whitt. The strains of their conversation didn’t reach as far as the house. Seconds later, Russ turned, starting forward.

Karen bounced along beside him on three-inch heels as she tried to keep up. Looking ahead, the woman spotted Ember standing in the doorway. The anchor made a beeline for the front door, the portable microphone poised in her left hand like a tracking device.

The other reporters closed ranks behind Karen, circling in a feeding frenzy. Ember huddled just inside the front door sensing she and Russ were fresh meat. Rushing ahead of Russ, Karen hit the door like a commando, thrusting her portable microphone in Ember’s face. "Good morning, Miss Ryan. We heard rumors you’d gone back to the West Coast. How’s that ankle of yours?"

Flashbulbs popped from the company trailing Karen. "Is it true you injured your ankle falling in the attic where you discovered Mr. Sterling’s body?"

The powerful cameras panned the upper level of The Colonnades. Pushing past the media, Russ entered the mansion’s door, an annoyed expression playing about his mouth.

Karen’s discerning gaze flashed at the two of them standing in the doorway and then swept upward. "That attic looks awfully big. Are you certain a thorough search was made up there for Selma Cain’s body?" The other reporters clustered closer.

"Why would you assume the attic hasn’t been searched?" Ember asked in a reasonable manner. The lot milling in front of her reminded her of a pack of dogs.

"Do you believe Miss Cain is dead?" Karen asked. The question caught Ember unaware. Also, it was one, she’d asked herself hundreds of times the past few weeks.

"No comment," Ember replied quickly.

A wide smile split Karen Whitt’s brilliantly frosted lips. Ember grimaced. Did everyone have the same number of teeth?

The reporter crammed the microphone in Russ’s face. "Mr. Paxton, isn’t it true your client and Mr. Sterling were embroiled in a heated conflict? And, according to statements from others, their business differences could be construed as a motive for murder."

"No comment," Russ seethed. He attempted to close the door. Karen planted her white pump inside the threshold.

Stepping backward in order to close the front door, he inadvertently bumped against Ember. Losing her balance, she reeled backwards. He pulled her forward into his arms in a provocative position. Facing one another now, their bodies connected in a full embrace. Flashbulbs went off. One of the mob yelled, showtime. Russ slammed the door shut. The white pump beat a hasty retreat.

Behind the closed door, Ember straightened to move from his embrace. Surprisingly, Russ didn’t release her. Instead, he drew her closer. Leaning into the security his body promised seemed the most natural thing in the world. Locked in his supportive arms, wild expectation filled her. He was so attractive, she couldn’t help herself.

He slipped his hand under her chin, tilting her head upward, brushing his lips against hers in a kiss that was as soft as the whisper of a butterfly’s wings. She kissed him back. Unable to pull away, the meeting of their lips intensified.

Long moments later, he unclenched his hold on her. The sexy expression in his changeable eyes challenged her. Closing her eyes, she offered her lips again, breathlessly anticipating the sweet brush of his touch. He pulled her deeper into his arm’s caressing circle. Lifting her arms, she clasped them tightly about his neck, savoring his body’s hardness against her own. His lips became her anchor, as she swayed against him, meeting the demanding promises and exploring this unbridled emotion.

Opening her eyes at last, she drew back slightly, struggling for composure. Russ still held her at arm’s length. "Are you okay now?"

"I think so," she mumbled, at last, the sound of her voice easing some of the tension. Their reflection in the hall mirror brought her to her senses. She drew back slowly. What had she been thinking? "Wouldn’t Karen Whit love to have this on film?" she giggled breathlessly. "I’m certain she’d love to pin a little garden-variety seduction on me."

"Is that what this is?" he drawled slowly.

Her head was swimming. She wanted the timeless sweetness of being in his arms to go on forever. He was danger, threat and sweet promise wrapped in one incredible package. Though he was irresistibly attractive, it was monstrous that she was experiencing this attraction at this moment. Talk about timing! She was suspected of being a murderess, for heaven sake! And, in New Orleans, John Paxton would be out to lunch.

"So much has happened so fast, I don’t know what to think anymore," she said easing out of his arms.

They stood in the center of the cavernous hallway. "You can’t imagine what it’s like when people believe you’re capable of murder," she continued. She wanted to fall into his arms and pour out everything to him with childlike candor. Too much was at stake though, perhaps her life. How did she really know she could trust him? Restraining this crazy vulnerability around him gave her goose bumps. Turning, she started toward the kitchen.

Russ caught her hand, placing his finger against her lips. "Ember, I can’t warn you enough about keeping your spirits up. Don’t let the reporters get to you, either. If you start thinking guilty, you’ll start acting guilty."

"Have you seen the morning papers?" she queried, trembling.

"I saw the paper," he admitted. "It all figures. That’s why the reporters are out here. Somebody leaked something to the press. It’s done all the time. Sterling’s body was found here. The police can’t afford to overlook any tactic that might flush out a suspect. Drop a little hint here and there and see who nibbles."

She stopped short, whirling around. "You mean Campo is responsible for this?" she asked incredulously, nodding her head toward the front door.

"I didn’t say that. What, I’m saying is . . . don’t be surprised at anything."

"It’s difficult when the finger is pointed at you," she countered.

"I know," he sympathized. Releasing her gently, he turned and took the few steps to the front door. Bending over, he retrieved a fast food sack he’d placed on the floor. "Know where a guy can get a cup of coffee to go with these biscuits?"

She expelled a long shaky breath. "I sure do. Follow me."

They made their way toward the dining room. At the dining room door, instead of following her inside, Russ stopped her with gentle pressure on her arm. Backing her against the wall, he enfolded her in his arms. "You’re a beautiful woman," he whispered in a honeyed tone, twining his fingers through her hair. "I always loved your hair. That soft shade of red cascading down your shoulder reminds me of a tawny waterfall. I’m glad you didn’t cut it."

Marveling at how perfectly their bodies fit together and the mounting bliss warming her, she knew she must slip from his embrace. As delightful and dear as these fond embraces were becoming, this wasn’t the time for sweet-talk. They weren’t a couple. Too, his endearments might be artful ploys implemented to confuse her. "Jeanette might see us and draw conclusion that aren’t true," she said, slipping out of his arms.

"Let her," he shrugged.

"It wouldn’t bother you if rumors got out that we’re lovers?" she teased with a coquettish glance. Now, why did she say that? One minute, she suspected him of ulterior motives and the next, she was flirting.

He threw his arms around her again. "Would it bother you?"

Extricating herself yet again, she didn’t answer. She honestly didn’t have an answer.

Accepting her rejection graciously, he grinned, took her arm solicitously and led her on into the dining room. "You handled yourself well out there with the reporters," he complimented. "I’m impressed at how cool you came across."

"I’ve never been more frightened in my life." she confessed grateful the intensity of the moment had shifted away from intimate attraction. All the sweet talk and the sweet nothings tempted her to throw herself at him in earnest.

A mischievous smile played about his sensuous lips. "How many murder investigations have you been involved in before this?" he asked playfully.

So her cozy friend wanted to play games, did he? "I’ve had a few encounters with murder investigations on screen, that is."

A grin chased crossed his face. He reached for her again, drawing her close. His lips closed over hers, this time, a sweet exploration with his lips and tongue. His body was hard heat pressed against her own. She’d snuggled close despite her better judgment.

Drawing apart, he stood beside her. "Ember - - why did you leave here like you did years ago?" he asked huskily "God, you could’ve at least given me some explanation. I think I deserved that much. Instead, you ran and never answered any of my letters."

A warning flashed. This preparing-the-way with hugs and kisses was leading to more emotional baggage than she was ready to carry. After all these years, his power over her was uncanny and while hungry for his lips and momentarily helpless in his arms, common sense must reign.

Thrown off center by the reporters, she’d numbed her brain this morning and followed her body’s lead. He, too, was shaken. Very likely he was exploring old feelings he’d had for her in the past. Perhaps they’d run deeper than she’d realized. There was the possibility they ran deeper than he’d realized. "We’d better get that coffee now," she whispered huskily.

"I’m here for you," he murmured against her hair still holding her hand.

"Thank you," she said sincerely. "I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried."

"You could trust me, instead."

"I could," she agreed. "I do want to trust you," she said clasping both his hands in her own.

"That’s my girl." He looked pleased. A quick smile and he turned to pull out a chair for her.

"No," she said, placing her hand on his arm, "you’re my guest. You sit down and I’ll go to the kitchen and pour our coffee."

Back with the steaming coffee and a sumptuous platter of biegnets, Ember noted that the dining room had never looked so lovely before. Sheer curtains drew a cheery ray of sunlight across the table. Jeanette had outdone herself setting the table this morning, the glossy waxed mahogany table fitted with snowy white linens, gleaming silver, bone china and sparkling crystal had never appeared more inviting. Was this sense of joy she was experiencing simply an illusion attributed to her present company?

Easing into the chair across the table from Russ and intoxicatingly aware of his eyes on her, she smiled brightly. This moment was so right, the two of them sharing a morning cup of coffee. She wondered what starting every day with him would be like.

"Where’s Jeanette?" he asked, setting his cup down and breaking the spell her imagination was nimbly weaving.

"She must be upstairs somewhere. She’s terribly frightened out here," Ember confessed recalling the housekeeper’s own words and offer to call her husband home. "Her husband is offshore right now and we are two women all alone out here."

Russ clamped his hand on her arm. "I’m coming back over here and stay until this mess is cleared. I’ve done my own share of worrying about you two ladies. I know you told me staying here wasn’t necessary, but, I think differently."

"I think that’s a very good idea," she admitted blushing.

"Agreed, then." He took a long swallow of the fragrant steaming coffee. "How long has the circus been out front?" he asked, his expression giving nothing away.

Smiling tentatively, she tried to read him, to understand him. "Do you refer to the animals in the white vans, or the ring-mistress in the red tights?"

Crinkly laugh-lines softened his expression. "Either one, or both."

"Jeanette said some of the reporters were out here before daylight. The white van pulled up just minutes before you arrived. That’s where Karen Whitt stores her Bourbon Street costumes, you know, her on-camera outfits," she quipped. A little surge of the old green-eyed monster filled her. Was she actually jealous that Russ seemed to know the attractive newswoman in the short red skirt?

"Don’t overreact to the reporters. If they got a tip and if it came from the investigator’s office, he’s merely doing his job. Pressure gets piled on him from his superiors. Campo can be unorthodox, but he’s one of the best in these parts."

A shiver went through her recalling the cryptic newspaper headlines. "So you’ve said before."

Some investigating officers resorted to intimidation and manipulation as tactics and not necessarily the evidence they uncovered. Well aware of that fact, she prayed Campo, with his dead-fish eyes, was honorable.

"I didn’t mean to bring on that serious expression," Russ pressed.

"I’m sorry. I was thinking and it wasn’t pleasant."

His gaze caressed her. "You look gorgeous this morning," he observed quietly, "why so elegantly dressed?"

"I had an appointment." Should she tell him she’d planned a trip to New Orleans to see his uncle? Deciding to sidestep that confession for the moment, she changed the subject. "Why are you out here on a Monday morning? Don’t you keep any kind of office hours?"

An expression akin to a forgetful schoolboy overstaying recess crossed his face. Rising, he pushed his chair back. "I completely forgot," he stammered. "Dad asked if I’d accept a material shipment over at Bayou Folly. He’s doing some renovating. I saw all the cars here and decided to stop to see what was going on."

"Don’t let me stop you," she laughed. "Your father would never forgive me."

She decided there was no reason to keep his uncle’s cold shoulder treatment of her a secret any longer. "To answer your earlier question, I was going into New Orleans this morning to Paxton, Paxton, Wallace and Devereaux to confront your uncle. He’s broken appointments and ignored my telephone calls. I want some answers about my trust fund." Russ might think her insane worrying about the missing Ryan money with everything else that was going on. Nevertheless, the trust fund was missing and it was her responsibility to discover what happened.

Shrugging, he sipped his coffee. "I wish I could help you. While I was with the firm, I never heard of your trust. The firm is a criminal firm. Trusts aren’t a routine thing there." Not a shred of wavering tinted his voice.

"Your uncle hasn’t denied handling the trust," she reminded him softly. She had no reason to believe Russ knew anything about her missing money. "You haven’t told me why you left his firm."

He frowned slightly. "Let’s just say defense lawyers have underbellies I don’t care for." There was the slightest hint of rebellion in his voice.

His expression didn’t invite further questions. She decided to drop the subject. However, his lack of ambition did strike her as odd. Under John Paxton’s tutelage, Russ could’ve made quite a name for himself. However, his values were his own business. Who was she to judge him?

Russ slid his chair back and eased up. She stood also. He headed into the hall and she followed. At the front door, a moment of silence passed between them. "Maybe, I can help you," he said at last. "That is, where Uncle John is concerned. I can ask him some questions and then get back to you?"

"Would you?"

"He can be an oaf at times. I ought to know."

Oaf wasn’t a term she’d use to describe John Paxton. He was more an oily-tongued backslapper. "Could you talk to him now?"

"My pleasure."

Ember brought him the portable telephone. Standing in the hall, he dialed the number. She returned to the dining room, gathered their dishes and placed them in the kitchen sink.

When she returned to the front hall, his conversation was over.

"My uncle is out of town all week. Urgent government stuff. No one has access to his private files."

"I see," she said, disappointed. She wanted to shriek gimme a break! At least, Russ was helping her and that was a comforting thought.

"Don’t worry about the media," he said his hand on the door. "Granted, they sometimes try to make the news as well as report it. Just remember that part of their job is to shock and jolt."

"I know that," she said, smiling.

He patted her hand supportively and was out the door.

The house seemed oddly empty after Russ left. The trip into town off, she wandered out to the kitchen, pouring a fresh cup of coffee. Carrying the coffee to the drawing room, she settled in a comfortable chair after peeking through the window. Most of the reporters were gone. Only a few cars remained. The WTBS van was gone.

Leaning her head back, she thought about the kisses she and Russ shared this morning. Being in his arms had been absolutely wonderful, almost magical. She realized anew how shallow her relationships had been. The problem was hers and her unwillingness to commit to anyone. The last thing she needed at the present was a rush job at romance. This seemed the most unlikely time for an emotional relationship. She owed it to herself and to Russ, also, to nip things before they got out of hand. If he’d been truly hurt in the past, she didn’t want her conscience burdened with the knowledge that she’d hurt him a second time.

Taking a deep breath and then exhaling slowly, she couldn’t deny the wonder of falling into his arms. Old memories flooded her mind. Once, she’d believed Russ was the man with whom she’d spend the rest of her life. Their youth and immaturity had prevented that taking place. She definitely was physically attracted to him . . . perhaps she was even beginning to care for him more than she realized. These emotions were confusing. Could it be, she’d always cared for him.

# # #

Cooped up in the house all day, Ember felt as though she’d explode with nervous energy if she didn’t get outside. No reporters lingered. The rain had stopped. At mid-afternoon, she struck out for a walk about the grounds.

Russ would be back at The Colonnades tonight. That was a pleasing thought and she realized she couldn’t wait to see him again. Drawing on her old sneakers, she rushed out the back door.

Making her way down to the bayou’s bank, a refreshing breeze lifted the hair from her neck. She stopped, inhaling the crisp scent of salt in the wind from the gulf. Overhead, mocking birds scolded and the sweet honeysuckle heavy with moisture from the morning’s rain attracted swarms of bees. On the spur of the moment, she defied the mud, veering off the footpath taking a shortcut to the family cemetery.

The iron gate at the cemetery was laden with thick Virginia creeper vines. Pushing open the creaking gate, she ducked to avoid the spray of trapped rainwater from the vines. Leticia’s grave lay between two cedar trees to the right. She made her way there, the damp spongy earth giving way under her tread.

At Aunt Ticia’s final resting place, she knelt and set to work removing wilted flowers off the crested mound much to the chagrin of a mass of drunken bees clinging to the shrunken blossoms. Her aunt should be at rest, she thought uneasily.. After the specter’s appearances, Ember couldn’t be absolutely certain just which world Leticia now inhabited. Continuing the task of removing more dead flowers, a fine glow of sweat streaked her brow. Satisfied with her efforts, she rose.

Wandering past Leticia’s grave, she amused herself by reading some of the epitaphs. A few minutes later, she remembered with alarm that the cemetery was located in a very isolated part of the grounds and out of sight of the house. She could be at risk out here. A murderer was on the loose. Spooked, she glanced over her shoulder into the thick fringe of woodland surrounding the cemetery. The rickety boathouse beside the bayou drew her attention. Could someone evil be hiding behind its blackened windows?

The boathouse seemed different. Something was oddly missing. Yes, of course, the plantation bell no longer hung in its frame. Instead, the frame jutted against the afternoon sky like a giant bird perch minus the bird. It struck her as unsettling. Turning, she quickened her steps across the miry ground toward the cemetery gate.

Stumbling forward, an object in the grass tripped her. In the nick of time before falling, she braced herself against a leaning headstone. Pushing the grass aside at her foot, she saw a small marble grave marker no more than a foot high. The marker was a kneeling angel with folded wings. It stood adjacent to Leticia’s grave. Kneeling, she inspected the statue for an epitaph. There was none, simply the engraving, baby. She visualized a tiny premature infant slipping from life without a name. Also, baby, had been Leticia’s pet name for Ember.

The stone was curious. It didn’t appear old enough to belong to a distant ancestor. Leticia would know, but her aunt’s answers died with her. Ember made a mental note to check the cemetery records and also to ask Jeanette if she had any knowledge of the tiny grave.

Back at the house, Ember let herself in, went upstairs, showered and settled back downstairs to read. A car drew up. It seemed too early for Russ. Surely the reporters weren’t back! Crossing to the windows and parting the curtains, she watched Margo Paxton exit her white Cadillac. The Paxton woman’s dyed blonde hair glinted in the late afternoon sun as she wobbled toward the front door on extremely high heels.

Ember went to the door and opened it before Margo knocked.

Momentarily startled, Margo blinked. Then, smiling, she sailed inside on a cloud of Joy perfume.

Entertaining the tiresome Paxton woman wasn’t a chore Ember relished. The woman both frightened and puzzled her. "What brings you out here?" Ember asked as gracefully as she could.

Margo paused before the central hall’s grand mirror, crooking her head to one side theatrically at her image. "I ran into Charlotte Prewett in town. You know how Charlotte is, a dear mother hen, if ever there was one. She told me that a barrage of reporters were out here bombarding you."

"How would Charlotte know about the reporters?" Ember asked, amazed at the speed with which information blitzed in the small town.

"Russ, darling," Margo chuckled. "Russ told us. Anyway, this is Charlotte’s afternoon presiding at the historical society’s preservation meeting. She insisted I come directly out here and be with you. We would have done the same for Leticia were she still living."

Ember’s jaw tightened as she closed the front door. It puzzled her no end how Aunt Leticia had found this woman endearing. If the unpleasant woman tarried too long, she’d ask her to leave and take her self-satisfied smirk with her.

"I’m fine, really," Ember stated hiding her irritation. "You should have telephoned and saved yourself a trip."

Margo shrugged. "There’s another reason for my visit," she hinted brightly flashing her vividly colored nails. She headed toward the drawing room without a specific invitation to visit.

Ember followed several steps behind. Each time they met, she and John’s wife, Ember had the impression that she’d met the woman somewhere before. But, that couldn’t be possible. Margo wasn’t originally from Louisiana. Russ said that she’d moved from the Carolinas to the area and became Mrs. John Paxton long after Ember left Graville. His information didn’t lessen Ember’s sense of familiarity to the woman. Russ also confided that Margo had a drinking problem and at one time was a much more attractive woman, actually quite sexy. That took a stretch of the imagination, Ember thought, entering the drawing room.

Inside the drawing room, Margo spun around, facing Ember. "I believe this is my favorite room in this magnificent house," she gushed with a sweeping gesture around the room. Pivoting, she clasped her hands together. "I have a big favor to ask?" she burst out suddenly.

"Would you like to sit down?" Ember asked.

"Yes, thank you."

If she had a choice, she’d never grant this woman a favor, Ember thought steeling herself from drumming her fingernails against the sofa’s mahogany arm.

Margo tugged her short skirt over her round knees. She beamed at Ember. "A wonderful idea occurred to me right after I saw those dreadful headlines this morning. Then, when I heard the reporters were out here, I knew I’d received a divine revelation."

"Oh," Ember managed, bracing herself for Margo’s brand of revelation.

Leaning forward, Mrs. Paxton straightened her plump shoulders. "I want to help you," she whispered with great force. "With public opinion going against you like it is at the moment, I insist on interviewing you on my radio program. I host an informal Saturday morning chat show. I showcase women from this area. You’d be perfect. You know - - local girl becomes a great West Coast success. I’ll focus only on your successes and attributes and nothing about this tiresome murder. It’s the perfect way to put you before the public favorably."

Ember stared in disbelief. The enormous chance she’d risk exposing herself to public scrutiny chilled her. Didn’t the foolish woman realize a murder investigation was going on and that she, Ember, was a prime suspect?

"That’s impossible." She bit her tongue to keep from adding, I think your timing is ludicrous.

Margo threaded her hand through her hair, smiling saccharinely. "Oooooooh, don’t say no, not just yet. At least say you’ll think about it. I’ve owned the radio station two years now and though I’m a novice at interviewing, my dear friend, Karen Whitt, from WTBS in New Orleans has taken it on herself to coach me. I must say my ratings are quite good. I do well by my sponsors," she boasted with a throaty chuckle.

"It’s out of the question," Ember said emphatically, the audacity of Margo’s invitation bowling her over.

Incredibly, Margo ignored Ember’s refusal. Lynx-eyed, the woman glanced around the room, allowing her gaze to rest on the neatly stacked manuscript pages Owen delivered the morning he died. "I know your job is demanding, but at least think about my invitation. There’s no need to decide today. Just promise you’ll call in a few days."

Margo’s whining voice raked across Ember’s nerves. Standing, Margo followed suit. The woman moved across toward the door, her small chin held high, exposing the crepe-like skin of her neck. At the door, she turned and half-smiled. "Please reconsider my invitation. It’s all ad-lib. No rehearsing. It’ll help you," she insisted.

Further astonished by the woman’s incredible crassness, Ember fixed a grim smile on her lips. "The answer is still no," she repeated firmly.

Margo glanced down toward Ember’s feet. "Forgive me, I forgot to ask. How’s your ankle?"

"Mending nicely," Ember replied.

"Your aunt was so worried about you," Margo purred, looking exactly like a cat about to lower its head into the forbidden cream pitcher. "Russ was interested in Karen Whitt for a time," she said slyly. "They made such an attractive couple. Of course their relationship nearly broke Leticia’s heart."

This tidbit about Russ and Karen’s relationship caught Ember off guard. "Why should Russ’s friends matter to my aunt?" she asked bleakly. The wretched woman had managed to find a crack in her composure.

"Really, Ember, don’t be no naïve," Margo simpered with a feigned saintly sigh. "You know Leticia believed you and Russ were destined for each other."

Leticia had never indicated any such thing. "That’s ridiculous," Ember replied chillingly amazed at how Mrs. Paxton fueled her rising rage with each word spewing from her painted mouth.

Margo shrugged. Opening the door, she swept out onto the gallery. The breeze off the bayou billowing the long white designer scarf around her neck. "Please. Let me hear from you, about you know what," she wheedled.

Determined not to loose a grip on her temper, Ember realized that Margo was bright enough to comprehend the word, no. Whatever the woman’s little game, Ember resisted granting her the satisfaction of appearing rattled or angry.

A cunning expression filled Margo’s slanted eyes. "Isn’t it wonderful that Russ is restoring Bayou Folly? she said smugly. "Of course, Folly is in no way comparable to The Colonnades. However, you’ll profit from his investment. You know, tourists by the droves will flock out here."

"Tourists?" Ember repeated blankly.

"Of course, tourists. Russ intends opening his house to the public," Margo replied airily. "Personally, I think it’s a wonderful idea. You should do the same."

With a click of the high heels, the woman turned and hurried to her automobile. Slithering behind the wheel, she started the engine and drove away. What a horrible creature! Ember couldn’t imagine suave John Paxton married to her.

Back inside the drawing room, the image of Russ and Karen Whitt smiling at each other this morning leapt to Ember’s mind. He did know Miss Whitt, after all, . . . and obviously quite well. I have no right to feel betrayed, she told herself . . . but, I do, a little.

The telephone’s shrill ring broke her unpleasant reverie. She lifted the receiver. "Hello."

No one spoke. The connected line hummed in her ear. A shuffling noise sounded over the wire.

"Hello," she repeated.

"You will not get away with murder," whispered a man’s cryptic voice. The caller disconnected. Dial tone droned in Ember’s ear.

CHAPTER FIVE

For days to come, the threatening telephone call unnerved Ember, until she gradually admitted it was a crank call perpetrated by some sick person’s idea of a cruel joke. However, whenever the telephone rang, a sense of fear enveloped her.

Coming downstairs a few days later, the telephone rang. Ember took the call on the dining room extension. A familiar male voice sounded.

"Miss Ryan, Detective Campo, here."

"Yes." Her voice held a note of caution.

"I have a few questions. Is half-past nine convenient?"

"This morning?"

"Yes. This morning. I’ll come out to The Colonnades."

Meeting with the detective would put a kink in a wild scheme she’d hatched. She hesitated. Refusing to see him might make him even more suspicious of her. "I’ll be expecting you," she said at last. Her voice held a note of forced confidence masking the sinking sensation welling in her stomach.

Campo clicked off without saying goodbye. Holding the dead receiver a few minutes, Ember’s mind raced. It was still early. If the detective took no more than a few minutes of her time, she’d be on schedule driving into New Orleans. Actually she should be relieved that the case was at the forefront again.

Pouring a cup of coffee from the silver service on the sideboard, she calculated quickly, estimating the time needed to drive into New Orleans, check into a hotel and get across town to John Paxton’s office before closing time. A shiver of dread trailed up her spine. What would Campo think if he knew she planned to slip into John Paxton’s office after hours? Too, what if the investigator picked up on her nervousness? Russ wouldn’t approve either.

Deep in these thoughts, Ember didn’t see Jeanette came into the dining room. "Fresh coffee, mam’zelle?" the housekeeper asked.

Startled, Ember dropped the fragile bone china cup shattering it.

"Mam’zelle, I didn’t mean to frighten you," Jeanette said, reaching to retrieve the broken shards of china.

"That was very clumsy of me. Here, let me help."

The broken glass and puddle of coffee cleaned from the floor, Ember sat at the table with another cup of fragrant amber liquid. Her hand shook when she lifted the cup to her lips. Was she imagining things, or had Jeanette’s sharp scrutiny picked up on her nervousness?

"You worry too much," Jeanette declared with concern. "You make the crow’s feet fly under your eyes."

"So, you’re saying, I’m a wrinkled shrew," Ember laughed wryly attempting to pass the uncomfortable moment off as a joke.

"No, mam’zelle. Only that you don’t eat enough to feed one crow. Miss Leticia said to feed you good so Ru . . . so a man would take you to a fais-do-do and never let you go."

"She actually said that, did she? What else did my aunt say?"

Jeanette shrugged. "Oh, this and that," she replied cagily, her sharp features curled in a half-smile.

"For heavens sake, Jeanette," Ember muttered suspecting her aunt and this housekeeper had some serious matchmaking scheme afoot before Leticia died suddenly. "I’m in no mood to listen to your foolish matchmaking hocus-pocus. I’m expecting Detective Campo shortly. You’re to let me know the minute he arrives." Pushing her chair back, she rose and started upstairs.

The Cajun woman called. "I’ll take the detective to Miss Leticia’s back parlor. Joe’s cleaning the drawing room."

"That’s fine. Just let me know when he gets here." Inside her room, Ember closed the door and locked it. When Joe LaBorde was in the house, locking her door was a given. She didn’t like the man and she certainly didn’t trust him.

Whisking through her outfits, she chose a casual blue cotton suit with a crisp white blouse. Stripping, she went into the bathroom and showered. Moments later, seated on the bureau stool, her hair damp from the shower, she applied her makeup, her mind wandering anxiously.

Brushing her hair, she stared into the mirror. Russ’s image filled her imagination. What had she done to her emotions indulging in kisses and anticipating bliss in his arms? Pulling at a snarl sharply in her long hair, she cried out? You’re to blame, Ember Ryan, she said to her image in the blue lacy bra and matching panties. You’ve broken every rule you’ve made for yourself. You know that intimate relationships, even if they’re platonic are dangerous. In the end, everyone gets hurt.

But, melting in his arms, enjoying his sultry kisses and wanting more of him - - oh so much more - - was tempting. Until now, she’d skillfully handled the men in her life by cutting off relationships before either party became too attached, or hurt. Thus far, her tactics had worked well. Attractive escorts were available to escort her to important functions and she offered the same to the men in her life, all without emotional ties.

She’d sworn after Derek Cole, that she’d never allow any other man to fasten himself so tightly in her heart. When she loved, she loved much too deeply. This desperate love pattern, she suspected stemmed from being emotionally neglected as a child. In any event, getting over a love affair drained her to the core of her being.

Why was she thinking of Derek now, she wondered, rising, jerking the skirt over her head. She hadn’t thought of the handsome actor in a long time. He’d claimed he loved her and she’d allowed herself to believe in his sincerity. Derek was shrewd and worldly and so diabolically clever until she doubted she could ever trust her judgment again where a man was concerned.

All along, she’d had doubts about Derek . . . like with Russ, now. Derek Cole was a rakishly handsome man in demand at every West Coast party. He’d molded her like clay and like clay, abandoned her to harden and shrivel when he was through with her. Dear God, her experience with Derek was an ugly, ugly picture. Closing her eyes, Ember shuddered. The unpleasant memories of her disastrous love affair and Derek’s ultimate betrayal cut her to the quick, still.

After buttoning the blouse, She slipped on a pair of soft flat shoes. Gazing into the mirror again, Ember drew her finger across her lips, outlining the pressure of Russ’s kiss. Allowing these daydream fantasies to continue was going too far. These disturbing feelings for Russ must stop.

If only he hadn’t matured into a man who seemed so easy to love, she lamented, drawing a bright coral lipstick across her mouth. Avoiding him altogether was impossible, especially since he was present in the attic the night Owen’s body was discovered.

Did she still love him, she wondered with a jolt, smearing the lipstick. Daubing at her botched makeup with a tissue, Ember knew one thing for certain. Suspecting that she might still love Russ had turned her secure world upside down. Loving him would prove disastrous for so many reasons; she couldn’t contemplate them all. She must avoid him as much as possible. But, was that possible, she sighed. Small towns were like small ponds . . . the same fish kept circling one another.

The two-way buzzer by the door sounded announcing Detective Campo’s arrival. She started downstairs.

At the foot of the stairs, Joe LaBorde, on his hands and knees, was applying an oily smelling wax to the hall floor. He grunted a greeting to Ember. "Jeanette’s taken that detective back there," he said, pointing toward the back of the house.

The man unnerved her. "Thank you," she murmured hurrying past him.

Leticia’s personal parlor was a large square room off the dining room at the back of the house. The walls were painted soft pale lavender. A white marble fireplace between two chintz-draped windows dominated the room. Scattered about on spindly legs were a number of small mahogany pie crust tables. A pair of camel back sofas in the same chintz as the windows stood at right angles to each other.

Outside the windows, a depressing rain pattered in rivulets against the old glass. Detective Campo stood with his back to the door engrossed in four of Harriet Ryan’s best watercolors.

"So, you’re an art enthusiast," Ember said with forced cheerfulness entering the room.

He half-turned, staring at her a moment, reminding her of a startled owl. "Good morning, Miss Ryan. These are very nice," he said, nodding toward the paintings. "A bit old-worldish, but they capture the four seasons well."

That he liked art gave them a common ground, or perhaps he paid the compliment to put her at ease, she thought, a trickle of anxiety tracing through her. "My mother painted those watercolors when she was an art student in Paris. In fact, they were her last works." Remembering her manners, Ember gestured to the sofa nearest Campo. "Won’t you sit down?"

"Yes, thank you." He crossed the short distance to the sofa facing the paintings. Seated, the detective crossed his thin legs, his uniform shirt straining over his chest. Perhaps the shirt covered a bulletproof vest. Ember moved to the sofa under the window.

Absently, Campo fumbled for the now familiar dog-eared notepad. Retrieving it, he thumbed its pages. Satisfied, his thumb marking the place in the notebook, he again gazed at the pictures. "I dabble in amateur art," he said. "Oils mainly, that way you can paint out your mistakes. Watercolors are too tricky for me," he admitted apologetically.

Ember didn’t comment.

"Your mother was very talented," he said at last taking up the silence that stretched between them. "It’s a pity she didn’t continue painting. Her lines are so strong for - - a - - a woman."

Detecting a chauvinist steak in him, Ember thought him a ridiculous figure. She fought the urge to goad him. Pompous toad, she thought, knowing she couldn’t risk insulting the man. Too, if something new had developed in either of the murder cases, she wanted to know.

Campo refused to be hurried. Pressing a stubby pencil against his pursed lips, he again consulted his notepad. At last, he lifted his gaze, pointing to the paintings. ". . . studied in Paris, you say."

"Yes and she had a master teacher. A man! Descartes, himself." Campo didn’t flinch. Her attempt at sarcasm was lost on him. Removing his glasses, the detective drew a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping at imaginary specks. "You don’t mean Jacques Descartes, the French Impressionist?"

"One and the same."

The gold rimmed eyeglasses back in place, he smiled. "Now, there was a master. Died tragically, I believe."

His cat-and-mouse interrogation tactics frightened her. "I have no idea," Ember replied, rigidly.

"I studied art in college. Descartes was my favorite painter."

The man’s beady-eyed gaze penetrated. How long had she been unconsciously clasping and unclasping her hands? Ember stilled her hands immediately. Come to the point she breathed in inward panic. There was no point to this visit other than frightening her.

The detective’s gaze narrowed. "Descartes painted a self-portrait. Our instructor exhibited a print in the classroom. He wore a beret and he had light red hair - - similar to yours."

Why was he talking nonsense about a painter she’d never met? Leveling an icy gaze, Ember asked pointedly. "Has something new turned up about the murder, or are you here about the telephone call?"

Campo chuckled, an affable gesture that didn’t warm his cold eyes. "Forgive me for reminiscing. I’m here about the telephone call."

Nodding curtly, Ember sought to mask her impatience. Why should she bother, she didn’t care if he saw that she was irritated. "What would you like to know?"

"What time did the call come through?"

"Shortly past five, but no later than five-thirty. Margo Paxton left the house about that time."

Campo’s black eyes flickered. "When you reported the call, you didn’t mention Mrs. Paxton’s presence. Did she hear your end of the conversation?"

Frowning, Ember sucked in her breath. "No, Margo didn’t hear the call," she answered, exhaling. "She’d gone by that time. I walked out on the gallery with her, stood and watched her drive away. Then, I came directly inside. The telephone rang almost immediately."

"I see."

Ember paused. What she must next say seemed ludicrous. Yet, she was certain that the information she was about to impart was important. "I’ve had time to think about the call," she began, plunging ahead. "I’m convinced the man used one of those voice altering toys."

"In the original report, you didn’t mention that either." Behind his shiny glasses, the detective’s midnight black eyes watched . . . watched and waited as cold as a reptile’s. The odious man was deliberately trying to intimidate her.

"You do understand the call unnerved me," she offered. "When I made the report, I hadn’t had time to analyze every detail," she added contemptuously.

Campo’s expression was superior, as though she’d played directly into his hands. "Naturally, I understand you were shocked. However, your recall is excellent." His full lips dipped down at the corners, pursing them even more than usual. "Sometimes, recall can be flawed, maybe by fear, or embellishment . . . you know . . . a means of making an incident more dramatic. Maybe the caller didn’t say exactly what you reported. A little embroidery here and there spices things up. I run into it all the time. It’s not that the victim is being deceitful purposefully."

He paused before continuing. "Fear can play tricks on people. Take this old house for instance. I imagine your aunt got a lot of strange calls out here. Stories say this place is haunted. There’re folks around town who’d be afraid out here in the daytime, let alone at night. Your arrival back here in Graville is viewed with suspicion. Many of the old-timers hereabouts don’t trust California types."

"What are you trying to say?" she demanded. When he didn’t answer, she continued. "I didn’t realize we’re as notorious as that. I’m a suspicious California type and my aunt was a dotty old woman living in a haunted house. How dare you bully me! Also, I haven’t embroidered my statement. And . . . and, for the record, I didn’t murder Owen Sterling."

"No one is accusing you of anything, Miss Ryan," Campo replied oily, studying her as one would catalog an insect specimen under glass. Regardless of what he personally thought of her it was shocking news that some local people believed her capable of murder. "Also, the caller sounded exactly as I reported just now. I’m convinced in some way the caller changed his voice."

"In that case, if the voice was changed by a machine, as you say, you can’t verify the caller was a man. A woman could’ve called."

A woman! A variety of conflicting emotions filled her. She’d never thought of that possibility. Did ghosts make telephone calls? The specter’s warnings about evil were vague and not threatening to her personally. Leaning forward, Ember clutched the edge of the sofa. Desperation laced her voice. "Do you realize what this murder investigation is doing to me as a person?"

Snapping the notebook closed, Campo rose. "Miss Ryan, it’s my job to suspect no one in particular and everyone in general. I deal in evidence and facts." Turning, he pivoted on his heel. "No need to bother, I’ll see myself out." Pausing on his way to the door, he turned, facing her. "If you don’t object I’d like another look at that old boat house."

Her instincts warned her to keep this man as far away from The Colonnades as possible. However, she couldn’t deny him access to the grounds without casting even more suspicion upon herself. If she refused, he’d simply come back later with a search warrant and how would that look? "Certainly. I have nothing to hide. See Jeanette about the key."

Campo breezed from the room with the force of an ill wind, his heavy footsteps echoing down the uncarpeted hallway. Rising, Ember crossed to the window, pressing her feverish cheek against the cool windowpane, gazing out over the grounds. The scent of mildew and old wood filled her nostrils. Somewhere out there, a murderer and a thief lurked. She must clear herself of suspicion in Owen’s murder, trace her missing fortune and leave here before she became the next victim.

She’d told no one about the ghostly appearances, not even Russ. Lately, she almost come to believe that she’d imagined the manifestations. Schizophrenia, what if she suffered from that malady? Didn’t that condition have to do with hearing voices and seeing persons who really weren’t present except in the afflicted person’s mind?

Closing the door to Aunt Ticia’s sitting room, Ember made her way upstairs. A short time later, immense relief flooded her when she saw the detective’s unmarked car move away from the house.

Going into the bathroom, she leaned against the door taking deep breaths to steady her nerves and gain a semblance of calm. She wasn’t insane. What happened, had happened . . . it was as simple as that. Taking a tissue, she cleansed her face. Staring woodenly into the bureau’s mirror, she reapplied her makeup.

Immediately after lunch, she’d leave for town. Neither Jeanette nor Joe must know that she planned on going into New Orleans. With a murderer on the loose, everyone was a suspect.

At lunch, Ember struggled to appear nonchalant, though she could hardly get a bite of the sandwich down. Jeanette didn’t seem to notice. Distracted by the flurry of housecleaning in progress, the housekeeper kept popping in and out of the dining room. After eating, Ember took a book into the drawing room to read. Reading after lunch was a routine habit.

Down the hall, Jeanette’s started the vacuum cleaner. The oily scent of waxing paste drifted from the dining room they’d just vacated. Joe was waxing the floors in there. Pretending to read, Ember watched the clock. Forty-five minutes later, she put her book aside and slipped upstairs.

Everything was ready. The form fitting black slacks and matching blouse waited in the closet. Pulling off the cotton suit and blouse, Ember quickly donned the pants and shirt. With a flick of the hairbrush, she drew her hair back into a ponytail. Going to the closet again, she drew out a black pair of crepe-sole ankle boots.

Working quickly, she dumped the contents of her handbag into an expensive briefcase. The same briefcase Owen gave her last Christmas . . . not that she was special, he gave a similar briefcase to all the executive staff. The case held a flashlight and a screwdriver she’d placed there earlier in case she got trapped in John’s office.

Going to her writing desk under the long window, in quick strokes, she penned a short note to Jeanette. On her way out, she attached the note with a paper clip to the doorknob. Unnoticed by either Jeanette or Joe, she slipped downstairs and out of the house.

The rain had stopped. A heavy mist hung under leaden skies like a gray veil. The rental car was serviced and waiting in the garage behind the house. Sliding under the wheel Ember started the engine. Once out on the highway, she headed the automobile toward New Orleans.

A few miles later, the sky grew darker. The rain wasn’t over. Glancing through the rear view mirror, Ember couldn’t shake the notion that she was being followed. Through the watery back window, a few blurry headlights trailed. What if the crank caller was a stalker, too? The cryptic telephone warning likely came from the murderer himself. Who else would systematically terrorize her?

So much about Owen’s murder puzzled her, however, one fact stood out. Why would Owen represent a threat to anyone here? Nothing tied him to this locale, except the fact he’d bought The Colonnades. Why would his buying the house target him for murder? She hadn’t a clue in the world.

Ruling out the irresponsible isolated act of a demented person because the murder was too cleverly orchestrated, Ember had reached a dead end. No pun intended. Not even an insane person would shoot their victim elsewhere and then lug the dead body to her attic and position the corpse to simulate a hanging.

Logically, she theorized that the mansion’s sale and the missing trust fund money must be connected. But, the connection eluded her. John Paxton had handled the trust before transferring the account. On the basis of her logic and John’s refusal to see her, the lawyer’s files seemed the perfect place to begin her search.

The sky darkened. Blinding rain drilled the car. The road ahead was a wash of wavy lines. Ember’s hands scrambled along the dash for the windshield wiper’s button. Clicking the wipers on, they squeaked, slapping against the windshield sluggishly.

Sparse traffic moved on this desolate stretch of road that twisted and snaked as it followed the general direction of the wandering bayou. Alongside the highway, she knew a deep sea-going canal worked its way to the gulf, separated from the roadbed only by a low treacherous levee. The road followed the natural winding watercourse. She shook with cold creeps. This wasn’t a spot to lose control of the car.

Past the Graville Exit, she entered the freeway and the rain slackened. Traffic increased. She reached the outskirts of New Orleans before rush hour traffic, her destination a fringe hotel in the French Quarter.

Traffic on the quarter’s narrow streets was always congested. Inching along, she spotted the hotel marquee two red lights ahead.

After checking in, she went upstairs to her room and freshened up. Minutes later, she went back downstairs and called a cab from the lobby pay phone. Her time frame was on target. She’d be at John’s office building shortly before workers left for the day.

Outside on the sidewalk, a general air of excitement buzzed through the milling crowd. Everyone seemed to be readying for another night in the Big Easy. Next door, a jazz band struck up, wailed a few notes, then faded off-key as it warmed up for the evening. After dark, these narrow streets would be filled with pleasure seekers and those who preyed on pleasure seekers.

A taxi drew up to the curb. A handsome Cajun driver alighted, sprinted forward and with a flourish opened the door. Comfortably seated, she gave the address to Paxton’s office. They passed the quarter’s horse-drawn sightseeing carts. The driver expertly threaded the cab through the rush-hour traffic. A short time later, the cab stopped before an exclusive building in the business district.

Ember paid the fare, exited the cab and entered the building’s atrium lobby. Everywhere massive blooming bird-of-paradise plants spilled over low marble planters. Exotic greenery seemed to climb the glass walls in rising tiers. An open elevator yawned. Entering the elevator, she punched the eighth floor button.

After what seemed mere seconds, the powerful elevator surged to a stop. She alighted. Lightning flashed through a panorama window across from the elevators. The storm had picked up momentum.

A trickle of perspiration started down her back. Was this such a good idea after all? Her heart pounded fit to burst and her knees were weak as a new colt’s. A Ladies Lounge sign jutted out several doors down the main hallway on her right. Past the lounge, a black arrow pointed to the Paxton, Paxton, Wallace and Devereaux firm. Ember started in that direction, ducking into the lounge.

The lounge was decorated to the hilt and thankfully, unoccupied. Two satin sofas as long as boxcars covered the wall space. Gold leaf mirrors hung above the sofas and all the surfaces were the same marble as the planters in the lobby. What opulence! The rent here must cost a mint.

She pushed open the ornate door leading to the restroom stalls. Her rubber-soled boots glided noiselessly over the marble floor. To her right, a mirrored wall above dozens of gleaming gold sink fixtures captured her movements and reflected the privacy stalls opposite.

Pushing open a stall door, she stepped inside. A cold clammy feeling covered every inch of her body. There still remained time to walk away from this and no one would be the wiser.

She swallowed the enormous lump forming in her throat. Becoming emotional or confused, could mean defeat, or worse . . . detection. Her best chance lay in slipping undetected inside John Paxton’s suite before all personnel left for the day.

Summoning a needed jolt of courage, she eased out of the stall into the lounge and then into the hallway. She had the hallway to herself. Underfoot, stain-proof carpet muffled her footsteps as she moved swiftly in the direction of the Paxton offices.

She stopped at the door affixed with a brass plaque lettered Paxton, Paxton, Wallace and Devereaux. Underneath in smaller print the sign read . . . Conference Room One. Taking a deep breath to jump-start her nerves, she tried the door. It was locked. Well, what did she expect - - a red carpet rolled out for her? Nothing to do now except bluff her way through the front door, or slip through, whichever opportunity presented itself first. She turned to leave.

The door swung open unexpectedly.

CHAPTER SIX

A woman with frizzy blonde hair clad in tight jeans and wearing a Walkman headset stood in the open doorway. She frowned at Ember.

Ember moved past her. Blinking, the woman stepped aside, a questioning gaze in her wide eyes. "I was asked to wait in here," Ember explained, striding briskly to a long conference table. She plopped the briefcase on the table and pulled out a chair.

Dropping the earphones to her shoulder, the cleaning lady squinted. "I couldn’t hear you. What did you say?

"I was asked to wait here," Ember replied in her best professional voice. She opened the briefcase, pulling out a thick file.

Staring at Ember a few seconds, the woman shrugged, then turned and began replacing cleaning supplies in a closet at the rear of the room. Gathering a large trash bag and the Walkman back in place, the charwoman shuffled past without a backward glance. The lock tripped behind her.

Exhaling raggedly, Ember rose, creeping to the door leading into the main suite. This door stood slightly ajar. Surely someone lingered in the inner offices, or else the cleaning woman’s suspicions would be more aroused. You’ve made it to first base, she said to herself.

At that moment, a telephone rang shrilly beyond the door. Paralyzed, Ember gasped, hugging the wall. What if she’d been heard?

A woman’s saccharine voice dripped into the telephone. "Paxton, Paxton, Wallace and Devereaux." Then silence. A desk drawer clicked. "Mr. Wallace has gone for the day," the same voice continued. The secretary then instructed the person on the other end of the line to call in the morning. The telephone clattered into its plastic cradle.

Next, a chair slid over carpet. Then, a file cabinet drawer scraped open. With a metallic bang, the file slammed shut. More muffled sounds and then somewhere in the suite, running water gurgled through the plumbing.

Seconds later, the pungent scent of a lit cigarette floated through the partially open doorway. Glued to the spot, Ember waited her heart a drumbeat in her ears. A desk drawer opened and closed sharply. Keys rattled. An outside door opened and closed. Keys rattled again, this time locking the door for the night.

Still rooted to her spot behind the conference room door, Ember waited. She was grateful the half-glass panels to the hallway were frosted. Her presence couldn’t be detected by anyone passing the suite. After a few minutes, she decided the secretary had left for the day. Since no goodnights or good byes were exchanged, she assumed all personnel had left the inner offices.

Stealthily, she slipped into the adjoining room, which from appearances was the receptionist’s area. Overhead recessed lights beamed dimly. At the room’s far end, heavy drapes were opened for the night permitting a view of the New Orleans skyline. The murky watery gray light from the window added to the gloom inside. Only a bird could view her here on the eighth floor and the bird must be one that enjoyed flying in the rain.

Directly before the window alcove, which contained a leather sofa and two decorative lamps, hallways led both north and south. Moving to the hall quickly, she turned south. By sheer luck, she’d chosen the right direction. John Paxton’s office was directly before her. The door to his office was ajar, as were all the doors in this part of the suite. Praying fervently that no motion devices were operating, she entered John Paxton’s office. In the corner an enormous grandfather clock ticked solidly, the sound loud in the quiet room. This area was an anteroom, or John’s private waiting room. Though sparsely furnished, his private space pushed opulence to the limit. Lush velvet carpeting cushioned her feet. Muted oriental rugs, with blue and orange the predominate colors, were thrown about by a designer’s skilled hand.

Through the open door directly before her, stood John’s massive desk. The huge heavily carved desk occupied the length of double windows behind drawn sheer beige drapery. On the desk, John’s personal computer scrolled like an infinity mirror.

A hasty survey of John’s inner sanctum showed this space bare of both file cabinets and law books. The top of his desk was polished to a high sheen and held nothing other than the computer. Hurrying behind his desk, she sat down in John’s high-back padded chair. Leaning forward, her fingers flew over the computer keys, hitting enter. She waited. Nothing happened. Of course, she needed his personal password. Trying several word combinations, nothing worked. She pulled the desk drawers . . . locked.

A thin bead of perspiration dotted her upper lip. Surely she hadn’t taken this terrible risk coming here only to leave empty-handed. She turned her attention again to the computer. There must be some generic way to access its files.

The clock in the outer office struck the quarter-hour. Looking up at the sound, Ember gasped, certain her peripheral vision had detected the slightest glide of a shadow passing the open doorway. Cold shivers traced down her spine.

She’d not been mistaken. The shadowy figure of a man approached through the outer office. Tensing her nerves to icy coolness, she called out. "Who’s there?"

"What’re you doing in here?" a familiar voice barked.

Russ stood in the doorway. What on earth was he doing in John’s private office? Rigidly, she stood.

"Step away from that desk before I call security," he ordered, hitting a light switch, flooding the room with overhead light. The light harshly etched the planes of his face, exaggerating the dark hollows under his eyes. His granite gray eyes glinted threateningly beneath tightly drawn brows.

"Russ, it’s me, Ember," she explained, realizing how her presence here must appear to him.

He moved toward her. "I know who you are." Pausing, he weighed his next words. "What I want to know is what you’re doing in here?

A flicker of suspicion raced through her brain. Russ had a way of conveniently turning . . . maybe too conveniently, whenever she was in trouble. He’d met her at the airport terminal and he’d rescued her in the attic when she’d discovered Owen’s body. And, now, here he was in his uncle’s office, when she’d taken every precaution to come here secretly. This string of coincidences seemed unbelievable.

"It should be pretty obvious what I’m doing," she returned hotly. "I’m trying to access your uncle’s computer files." Playing the moment for all it was worth, she continued before he could say more. "I could ask you the same thing. Why are you here, especially since Paxton, Paxton, Wallace and Devereaux no longer employ you? I believe you told me you don’t even like the underbellies of criminal law." Moving around the chair, she tried to walk past him, her head in the air, praying he’d fall for her little bravado act.

Instead, he caught her arm, swinging her around in front of him. Brushed against the sinewy hardness of his body, her gaze locked with his. The silver gray orbs under his threatening brows were hooded at close range. However, the glimmer focused on her wasn’t hostile. She saw weariness there.

His arm tightened around her waist. Wriggling, she tried to escape his grasp. "You can call security if you want," she said defiantly. "I’m sure they’re as crooked as your uncle. But, right now, unhand me and get out of my way."

Russ didn’t budge. "Whoa, little lady. Settle down, Ember. You know you shouldn’t be in here after hours. That’s breaking and entering. What’s got into you?"

She took a deep breath. "I did not break in, though I did enter - - right through the front door, thank you," she snapped. However, his logical questions had a calming effect and he had every right to question her presence here. More right, in fact, than she had to be here in the first place.

Raising her chin to protest further, until his lips mere inches from her own promised tempting bliss, she paused . . . caught again in that old magic of Russ’s charm. Her earlier resolution to avoid him and sultry kisses dimmed. This was a stupid moment to reflect on her attraction to him, but she couldn’t help herself. Did he realize how dangerously potent his appeal to her was? "I know you’re right . . . . __" she began.

Scowling, Russ eased his tight hold about her waist. "I’ve caught you in a pretty compromising position."

Did he think she didn’t know that? A hot sting of tears welled behind her eyelids. If she cried, she’d never look herself in the face again. Sniffing, she blinked back the tears. "Compromising! Since I’ve been back in this town, every experience here has been enough to drive a sane person crazy. My aunt dies the day I arrive. Next, my boss is found murdered in my attic. Mysteriously, my trust fund disappeared while your uncle managed it. Now, I’m receiving threatening telephone calls. Detective Campo wants to arrest me for murder . . . and . . . and, all you can think to say is that I’m in a compromising position. Spare me!" she screeched pressing both her hands against the wall of his chest, pushing away with all her might.

Relinquishing his hold around her waist, he caught her hands in both of his.

Before he could speak, she blurted. "It’s time I fought dirty, too. I intend to fight for what’s mine, Russ - - my life and my money. And my reputation, too," she cried.

Dropping her hands, he placed his hands on her shoulders, massaging them reassuringly with circular motions. "You have friends here. You can thank Jeanette for saving you from doing something you might later regret. She called me at Bayou Folly concerned about your state of mind when you drove off in the middle of a thunderstorm without a word."

"That’s not exactly true. I left her a note."

"She didn’t mention any note."

"See. All my actions here are circumspect. What I do and what I don’t do."

He ignored her reasoning. "I took it on myself to look for you.

She blinked. If Russ could follow her, the murderer could, as well. "You mean you’ve tailed me all day. I thought I had a stalker. Thanks a lot!"

Tenseness corded the muscles in his neck. One strong hand reached up, stroking her cheek. A caring smile endeared him to her. A corner of his lip dipped down, . . . the corner she wanted to kiss. Disconcerted, she lowered her head and closed her eyes.

"You didn’t make trailing you easy," he grinned.

She couldn’t afford to be taken in by his smooth delivery. "If you were so concerned about me, why didn’t you stop me before I got up here?"

"I tried, but I lost sight of your cab in the French Quarter traffic. When I finally bribed the right fellow, you were here. Once I knew this address, I had my own suspicions about your plans." He glanced at the door. "We need to get out of here before someone starts asking questions."

She didn’t budge an inch.

Releasing her, he turned, switching off the overhead lights. Covering the short distance to the door leading to the outer office in long strides, he leaned against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest. His piercing gray gaze danced in the semi-darkness. "Unless, you want to leave here of your own accord."

"I thought you were going to call security and report me," she challenged.

"How you leave is your decision. You can either go with me now, or, the door is open." Bowing, he gestured toward the outside hallway. "It’s your choice," he said, stepping aside.

Grandstanding! What a moment to grandstand! He was right and that fact infuriated her. She’d acted foolishly barging in John’s office. She should thank her lucky stars Russ followed her. Besides, treachery wasn’t her style. Surely, Russ must realize that. "I know coming in here was a big mistake," she admitted in a small voice. I’m ready to go with you."

Russ led the way to the outside door. Opening the door, he gazed up and down the hallway. "From appearances, we have this floor to ourselves."

They moved outside quickly. She sped her pace to keep up with him.

"I need some answers," he said, punching the elevator’s control buttons. "For starters, why do you think my uncle embezzled your money, now? He had fifteen years to steal from you, if that’s what you think he did."

What he said was true. But, he must listen to her side. "I’m suspicious because the dividends dwindled before the account was transferred from the Paxton firm. My accountant and lawyers never could get any answer, just a lot of legal mumbo jumbo and no information about the trust’s principal."

The elevator arrived, they boarded, starting down in silence.

There were many unanswered questions about her life. For an unknown reason, her father, shortly before leaving on the fatal European vacation had entrusted his friend, John Paxton, with setting up his only child’s trust. Why her father had left this important decision to such a hurried fragmented moment, she’d never known. Jim Ryan’s diary might shed light, that is, if she ever found the diary.

Russ barged into her thoughts. "My uncle, no matter what you think of him, isn’t a man with secrets. He’s the most open person I know. What did you expect to find in his computer files?"

"Do you know his password?" she asked with a glimmer of hope.

"Sure, why?"

"Wait," she hissed, as the elevator door opened at the ground level. He stepped out. "I left my briefcase back in the conference room. It has my initials on it."

"Some crook you make," he laughed, wheeling around, holding the elevator door. "Let’s go get the little lady’s calling card."

Punching the elevator’s button, they zoomed up again.

She’d not counted on Russ helping her. The door scrolled open and they hurried to John’s offices. Producing a key to the receptionist area, Russ held open the door. Ember stepped inside, went into the conference room and retrieved her briefcase, breathing a sigh of relief in the process.

Push your luck once, push it twice, she speculated. Stepping close to Russ, she challenged. "If you’re certain John Paxton has nothing to hide, would you have a look in his computer files?"

"Why not. The firm has nothing to hide."

In John’s inner office, Russ positioned himself at John’s desk and entered the computer password. Ember grinned. Russ’s fingers looked too thick to type, but he was doing a good job of it. Under his expert touch, menus, files and documents appeared, all legitimate and all pertaining to current cases. "There’s nothing here about your trust and I don’t have a key to the file room. We’ve done all we can for now. Clasping her hand in a steel-like grip, he led her to the door. "We’re leaving."

"Gotcha," she grinned.

At the back of the building, Russ keyed an ID card into the security system. She gazed at him questioningly.

"Okay, so I forgot to turn it in when I terminated."

Outside, the fog on the street swirled mysteriously. Taking her hand, he led her the few blocks away where his car waited under a glowing streetlight. Unlocking the Mercedes, he assisted her inside

Easing in beside her, the soft light highlighted tiny silver water droplets clinging to his dark hair and eyebrows. "Okay, where to?" he asked turning toward her.

"My hotel."

"And where might that be?"

She gave him the French quarter address.

The powerful engine purring, his hand brushed the back of her neck, as he leaned it across the back of the seat while exiting the parking spot. This innocent contact sent prickly sensations spidering out from his touch.

Gliding through the dark street, Russ glanced sidelong at her, before flipping the CD player to some impromptu jazz. "Have you eaten?"

"No," she admitted, the adrenaline rush of coming to New Orleans and actually breaking into John’s office crowding out basic physical needs. She was hungry. Lunch at The Colonnades seemed days ago.

"How many years has it been since you and I have done the French Quarter?"

She smiled in the darkness. "I remember high school graduation night, for one."

"Go to the head of the class, the girl has a memory," he grinned. "How about reliving some of our past, tonight? Food and music, Ember, you can’t beat that combination."

Inching closer to her, his nearness excited her. He was great company even after a night like tonight. "I think your suggestion is an excellent one," she agreed wholeheartedly. If nothing else, she needed some diversion from jangling nerves and deep-seated worry.

The club he recommended boasted the best Po-boys and the best jazz in the city. Parking off St. Peter Street, he alighted, came around and opened her door. Taking her hand, he escorted her across the dark street. Russ had a sensual walk. A sweet heat warmed her body walking beside him.

"It doesn’t look like much, but I swear they have the best jazz in town," he said pausing before a nondescript door with red Neon lettering under a Neon champagne flute.

"I’m with you." Tucking her hand into his, he drew her inside. A waitress met them at the door and led them to a tiny corner table. Ember settled back to enjoy the music while Russ ordered the house specialties. In no time at all, two dressed PO-boys were placed before them. She devoured hers with gusto.

Night people crowded the smoke filled bar. The usual clientele milled, red-eyed hustlers, prostitutes, strippers and the perverted fringe of society that fills the quarter and feeds off its vice. Tourists mingled with the regulars. Big-eyed, the out-of-towners, sauntered around soaking up the atmosphere and ordering high-priced watered-down drinks.

The house band struck up its first notes. A boisterous group of college students at the next table jammed to the hot jazz. Absorbing the music, Russ seemed lost in his own thoughts.

A few minutes later, he leaned across the minuscule table, a serious expression on his face. His words were partially drowned by the noise in the crowded room. "I’ve been thinking. I don’t know what happened to your money, but I’m beginning to become suspicious, also. Promise me you won’t go around breaking-and-entering again. Pursue that route and you’ll wind up in bigger trouble."

"Bigger than murder," she quipped skeptically?

"That’s another thing. There’s a murderer around and we don’t know what he’ll do next. That actress is still missing." Russ then grunted something unintelligible, lost in the club’s noise. Squeezing her hand, he turned his attention back to the musicians.

The floor show format changed. Cheers and catcalls swallowed up any further conversation. Two new horn men joined the band. The new group led off with a snappy rendition of The Lady Is A Tramp.

A stripper with below the waist auburn hair hit the tiny stage from behind a green velvet curtain. She twirled, bumped and ground her way across the floor playing to the crowd. Folded paper money whizzed like darts around the girl aimed at strategic points of her anatomy. The dancer was good, Ember thought. Too good for a place like this.

Ember’s attention was drawn to a couple entering the bar from the street. The well-dressed woman looked familiar. The man at the woman’s side seemed familiar, too, something about the way his tall large frame filled out his sagging sports jacket. The twosome stood at the far end of the bar. The light caught the woman’s bleached blonde hair. It was Margo Paxton.

Ember shook Russ’s arm. "That’s Margo Paxton over there, standing next to the bar. And, that’s not John with her. The man with her looks familiar, too."

A crowd of rowdy drunks cheering the stripper crowded the stage momentarily blocking vision of the bar area. Russ shrugged. "It could be Margo. She frequents the quarter. Drunks seek out bars and Margo is a drunk. What does it matter?"

The blonde and her companion moved toward the door. Ember jumped up. "Let’s follow them," she cried hastily. "I have this feeling they’re up to something." No time to try and explain her intuition to Russ. She ran after the couple.

"Ember, wait," Russ called, lingering behind to pay the tab. With a quick burst of hope Ember rushed outside the club onto the street. The couple was nowhere in sight. No one moved along the empty street. She peered into the fog. At the corner, a street lamp crowned with a ghostly halo cast an eerie light like a diffused spotlight on an empty stage.

The street took on exactly the old-world time frame that accompanied the ghost. Ember blinked. Were her eyes playing trick on her? The French Quarter was old. Lacy iron balconies rose above century old buildings. But, at this moment it seemed older than usual. Squinting through the fog, she watched the blanketed mist settle around the buildings.

This section of the quarter was cordoned off for pedestrians only adding to the illusion of an earlier time. Sniffing suspiciously for the lingering mint-like scent of patchouli oil, Ember satisfied her curiosity that the ghost wasn’t present at this moment. No diaphanous gowns drifted.

The platinum-haired woman and her hulking companion had disappeared into thin air along the foggy wet street. Ember ran as far as the streetlight at the corner. There was no sight of them there, either.

Russ caught up to her. Grasping her arm from behind and slightly out of breath, he lashed out. "Have you lost your mind, running out like that? This is a dangerous part of town after dark, especially for an attractive unescorted woman."

The force of his grip bit into her flesh. However, his offhand compliment an attractive woman, warmed her heart. She pulled her arm free. "You’re hurting me."

"I’m sorry," he muttered, releasing her.

Dejected, she slumped against the lamp pole. "No problem. Where could they’ve disappeared to so quickly?"

"Anywhere . . . dozens of places. Let’s get out of here."

If the specter orchestrated the swirling mist, was the specter capable of whisking Margo and her companion out of sight? Soundly irritated, Ember followed Russ back to his car and climbed in. She’d come to New Orleans for answers and instead of answers she’d encountered more questions.

She longed to tell him about the ghost whom she suspected was Aunt Leticia. Keeping this bit of information about the specter’s appearances to herself was bothering her. But, just blurting everything out could be a mistake. "Did you notice anything different when we ran outside the bar?" she asked. That question was generic enough, she thought.

He glanced at her. "Different? Sure, everything was different. It was darker. Fog was everywhere and you were belting it down the street like a bat out of Hades. What wasn’t different?"

His sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. For the time being, she decided it best to forego taking him into her confidence about the specter. "You’re right," she mumbled, slumping in the seat. So much for innocent questions!

The sound of his voice startled her. "Why was seeing Margo Paxton so important to you?"

Biting her bottom lip, Ember chose her words carefully. "I don’t honestly know. I was uh . . . sort of . . .compelled."

These cat-and-mouse tactics were getting her nowhere. If she was losing her grip on reality, she might as well loose it big time. "Russ, I don’t expect you to understand, but please try. Since Aunt Ticia died, I’ve had these . . . these experiences. At first, I thought they were dreams, only they happened in the daytime when I was awake." Pausing, she chose her next words very carefully. Please, let him understand, she prayed. "She visits me."

"Go on," he urged softly, the automobile’s dark interior concealing his expression.

What was he thinking? His body seemed to tense beside her.

"I’m sure seeing my aunt isn’t mere dreams. They are much too realistic for that. She’s trying to warn me about something. She warned me of evil to come before Owen was murdered. At first, I thought she might be an evil specter, deliberately trying to frighten me or worse, maybe do me harm. I don’t feel hat way now. I sense she’s trying to lead me to some truth she died before sharing. I believe she wants me to know something, something very important that her sudden death prevented."

Russ turned, facing her. A passing streetlight’s glow exposed his skepticism. She couldn’t stop now. "I know it sounds insane, but it’s the truth." There, she’d told him. If he thought she was losing her mind, that was his privilege. She couldn’t control his reactions or his thoughts.

He hesitated a moment. "Okay. So you think you’ve seen your aunt. Under the circumstances, I don’t think that’s too unusual."

"What circumstances?"

"Leticia didn’t know you’d sold the mansion. You’re carrying around a load of guilt about that. You’re uptight about your trust fund. There was a lot of unfinished business between the two of you. After seven years, you arrive back here a few hours too late to see your aunt alive. That’s bound to have a shock effect. Then, your boss turns up murdered in your house. A person can only take so much before breaking," he added not unkindly.

"I see." She clenched and unclenched her fists. "You think I’m having some sort of mental breakdown due to stress."

"Such things happen." His tone was soothing.

She didn’t regret telling him about the specter, only that he didn’t believe her. "Maybe you doubt Leticia could come to me from the grave. But, I tell you, she has. I know what I’ve experienced," she stated simply but firmly.

Russ shrugged. "Believe what you like, Ember."

"I have no choice."

# # #

A few stragglers milled in the hotel lobby when they arrived. Russ escorted her upstairs to her room. He waited patiently while she unlocked her door. "Are you sure you’ll be all right?" he asked.

"Why shouldn’t I be," she said, a cold sensation settling in her stomach. Unlocking the door, she pushed inside leaving him standing in the hall. "I’ll talk to you in the morning," he said. Pivoting, he turned and started toward the elevator.

Inside, she locked the door, careful to secure the deadbolt, before dropping into a wing chair beside the bed. This was a dreary hotel room. She massaged her temples with trembling hands. Russ didn’t believe her. He thought she was a victim of stress.

The warning he’d voiced earlier in the club haunted her now. We don’t know what the killer will do next. Fear became a metallic taste in her mouth. She was a sitting duck alone in an obscure French Quarter hotel room in the wee hours of the morning.

A diabolical personality was working against her. She was certain of that. Rising, she paced the length of the room several times. The musty chamber seemed to close in upon her. Her earlier headache thundered back in raging proportions. With icy cold fingers, she pushed her hair back, staring around at the unfamiliar surroundings.

Telling Russ about the ghost had proven a mistake. Now, he’d be watching her for signs she was cracking up. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. She’d even toyed with telling Jeanette about the ghost’s visits. If too many people perceived her as losing her mental balance, the scales would be tipped against her further.

Either her senses were leaving her by degrees, or she actually received a visitor from another realm. Certain now that the foggy French Quarter street had changed to the ghostly street accompanying the specter’s visits, however, something or someone had prevented the ghost manifesting herself.

Ember’s head pounded. She was worrying herself crazy, she thought wildly. Sitting down on the bed, a dark shadow seemed to hover near her. An hour later, she stirred. She must have fallen asleep. She was lying across the bed still clothed. She couldn’t remember rising from the chair or stretching across the bed.

It was really late now but still hours before dawn. Sleeping for real in this hotel room was out of the question. Too keyed up to relax, the very walls seemed to close in on her. Uneasily, she glanced over her shoulder in the depressing little room. Something was wrong - - very wrong. A foreboding shadowed her.

Was the specter trying to warm her now? She trusted the ghost more than the people surrounding her. Every fiber of her being wanted her away from this place. Someone or something aborted the ghost’s manifestation in the French quarter. The ghost was Leticia and not some evil entity. Sensing without a doubt that her great-aunt’s spirit had led her out of that club and onto the street, Ember trembled. What warring force or power prevented the specter’s full manifestation?

The specter had stated once that a higher power controlled her earthly visits. She’d hinted at opposing powers and also of being vertically challenged, whatever that meant. A more powerful being from the dark world could prevent Leticia from materializing in the street. It was all too preposterous to believe.

On leaden feet, Ember rose from the bed, moved into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Hurriedly, she brushed her hair. Back in the bedroom, she lifted the telephone and dialed the mansion to inform Jeanette that she was coming home tonight. Now! Should she tell Russ?

That was impossible. She’d not asked him where he was staying. There was no way to contact him. And, anyway, who made him her official keeper?

There was no answer at the mansion. The phone continued to ring. Maybe the housekeeper had gone to the cottage to be with her creepy husband. Joe had been there this morning. The telephone continued to ring in her ear. The Colonnades was a rambling place. Reaching a telephone could take an extra few minutes. She was prepared to hang up, when a woman’s voice answered, "Hello."

"Jeanette?"

"Yes, it’s me, Cher." Jeanette pronounced Cher, in the soft Cajun way, (Shah), endearingly. "Where are you? I was so worried when you drove away." Jeanette’s voice was thin and reedy.

"Is something wrong?"

"It’s awful what they’re doing. It’s just as well you aren’t here. Me, I was on the gallery watching the commotion."

"Doing? Who is they?"

"Detective Campo and his men. They’re searching the bayou in front of the house for your actress friend’s body."

"I’m on my way home."

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the hotel lobby, a lone attendant manned the desk. Approaching him, the young man took her credit card, glancing at her suspiciously.

"Couldn’t sleep," she said, smiling brightly and feigning cheerfulness as she handed him the signed receipt.

On the street, a valet brought her car around. After tipping him, she took the wheel and pulled away into the night.

The fog was really thick. The quarter’s street signs slipped past . . . North Rampart, Conti, St. Louis and Toulouse. Fearful she’d loose her way in the fog bound streets, she leaned closer to the windshield, a thin bead of perspiration lining her upper lip.

Headlights from other vehicles flared, flashing distorted shafts of suffused light through the nebulous drifts of mist. The other automobiles were welcome sights. Their presence meant she wasn’t traveling alone at this dead hour.

She was grateful that New Orleans never slept, that is, everyone in New Orleans never slept at the same time. Mournful dirges of foghorns moaned from boats on the Mississippi River. Why did the sound remind her of a funeral dirge from boats passing on the River Styx? Pressing the accelerator, a sharp sense of relief filled her when the road sign marking the interstate appeared. She turned onto the interstate.

Through breaks in the fog, darkened shells of warehouses loomed on either side of the road, many lit only by a single security light. They seemed to be lonely outpost sentinels.

The 1980 oil bust had hurt this area’s economy, but now the economy was improving with the opening of the Harvey Canal. She recalled reading about a giant offshore oil rig being drilled in over three thousand feet of water.

Headlights from behind flashed in her rear-view mirror. She slowed. A tailgater! The annoying vehicle didn’t pass. The inconsiderate driver could dim his lights! Slowing, believing the trailing vehicle would pass, she was surprised when that vehicle slowed, also. Must be a truck for the lights were high, striking her rearview mirror, blinding her. She adjusted the mirror. Perhaps that driver was encountering the same difficulties as she, struggling to see ahead through the fog.

Condensation blanketed the windshield. The fog was thick enough to cut with a knife. Ember brushed her hand across it leaving long streaking slashes that obliterated her vision even more. The rental car’s defroster had malfunctioned.

Her darting gaze spied the briefcase on the seat beside her. She had the cell phone! She wasn’t alone. Working the briefcase’s latch open with one hand, she fumbled for the telephone. Punching power-on, the dial tone hummed. Should she need it, emergency help was only a telephone call away, she thought placing the telephone on the dashboard.

Bright lights blitzed through the fog. The tailgater again! "Pass!" she said aloud. The truck dropped back. Someone was playing games with her. Spooked now, she swallowed nervously.

Nearing the turnoff from the interstate to the state highway, she slowed. Making her exit minutes later, she breathed a sigh of relief. She was rid of the truck. The road leading to The Colonnades was less than five miles ahead. She was almost home.

Wispy red lights glowed ahead in the fog. She was behind someone towing a boat trailer. Since the road was narrow, there’d be no passing. Closing the distance between the vehicle ahead, the ghostly outline of a large sea-going vessel bounced along in the fog. The car towing the boat was invisible as it crept along under the speed limit. Red directional lights on the trailer flashed, signaling a left turn. Ember braked. Easing to the left, the car towing the boat glided through its turn like a phantom.

She was just before the turnoff to The Colonnades. Slowing, she made her turn onto the Parish road. Bright headlights flared behind her. Startled, her gaze whipped to the rear-view mirror. The nut case truck, again! It was back and still playing games.

Anxiety prickled her neck. Automatically, she slowed. The truck slowed, as well. Her heart beat faster. Pushing the accelerator, she increased her automobile’s speed. The truck sped, too.

Keeping her speed over the limit, she knew she was driving much too fast for the weather conditions. Electric threads of fear sped her heartbeat. Floating through the fog ahead, she saw the triangular lit sign of a gas station. With a surge of relief, she prepared to stop. Fear niggled. Was it wise for the truck’s driver to know she was alone on this desolate stretch of road? No, her gut instinct warned, that might be dangerous. The station came into full view. It was locked down for the night. Stopping wasn’t an option.

Unexpectedly, the roadbed dipped into a low spot where extremely heavy fog enveloped her automobile. The tailgater’s lights disappeared. Thank goodness, he was gone. Her hands were numb from grasping the steering wheel so tightly.

Crossroads sign materialized in the mist. Pumping the brakes, Ember stopped the car. Being the only vehicle at the crossroads, she accelerated, then drove on. In patches, the fog had cleared some. On either side, the roadsides were dark and threatening. The night scent of wet vegetation filled the air. On her left, a mile or two off the road, blinked a subdivision’s inviting lights.

Grateful for the break in the fog, she made better time. Then, a stretch of deplorable road repair forced her to slow again. This was the section of road snaking around the deep canal. The road’s yellow centerlines needed repainting and the white reflective paint marking the shoulders were completely worn away. On her right, the running lights of a sea going vessel blinked in the canal. Shuddering, Ember feared becoming disoriented and driving off into the canal. Anxiety knotted her spine.

Like a whizzing meteor from behind, a truck, its horn blaring, passed her in a no-passing zone. Was this the same truck she’d encountered earlier? Had the driver lurked behind her with his lights extinguished?

Fighting the steering wheel, she struggled to keep the car from dropping off onto the road’s deep shoulder. Righting the automobile, she hunched forward, terrified . . . I should carry a gun.

Ahead, something blocked the road, something large and white. Slamming the brakes, the car screeched to a stop mere inches in front of a broken down wooden barrier. A crumbling death trap blocked her lane.

Accelerating quickly, Ember sent her rental car into the oncoming lane, avoiding the barricade. Past the barricade a hairpin curve whipped to the right. Going into the curve, she pumped the brakes dangerously.

A loud horn split the night. She heard the truck before she saw it. It shot out from behind a stand of trees in the curve. The tailgater! He’d waited, lights off, tucked behind the trees.

Coming toward her in her lane, the truck’s blinding lights blazed through the fog. The madman was shining a spotlight in her face. Mere inches before a head-on collision, the truck swerved. Flooring the accelerator, her out of control car whizzed forward. She didn’t see the deep pothole before her front wheel dropped into it.

Hitting the brakes, the drive shaft kept turning. Fighting against the motor’s acceleration, Ember smelled burning rubber filling the automobile. Something was wrong! The accelerator had jammed! Whining like a revving jet engine, her out-or-control vehicle plunged forward.

A crashing jolt slashed the car’s back bumper. Matching speed with speed, the truck’s monster grill rammed her. The tailgater was now behind her. Amid squealing tires, the truck careened to the left, speeding alongside her car and passed. How fast were they going?

A deep curve loomed ahead like a headsman’s falling ax. Amid squealing tires and burning rubber, the truck made a U-turn, then sped back, sideswiping her car. The ear-piercing shriek of metal tearing against metal filled the night. Her car was off the road charging through ragged underbrush toward the canal. Crunching steel ripped through vines and small trees before the car’s frame gave a final shudder. Jerking violently, the automobile plunged through the last stand of saplings before going airborne! Free falling! With a final ominous thud, the car stopped. A dizzying pattern of golden stars danced through Ember’s mind’s eye. Next, everything went black, flat-line black.

Was she alive? Disoriented, she struggled to snap her brain to consciousness. Where was she? Why was she here? Was she dead? Something lukewarm enveloped her body.

Water! The sickening whoosh of water rushed over her. She was alive! She was alive, but for how long? Water was rapidly entering the car through the motor. It gurgled against her legs. Listing curiously like a great snagged sea monster, the automobile bounced in the canal mysteriously held afloat by some submerged force. She was trapped in the canal inside the car.

Panic-stricken, she tugged at the seat belt. The latch held fast. Prying desperately at the restricting buckles, the mechanism refused to open. Don’t give up! Don’t give up! Heeding this desperate mantra, she clawed at the seat-belt latch again, more carefully, this time. Her perseverance was rewarded. The familiar snap sounded and the seat belt fell away. Moving was still impossible. She was pinned between the steering wheel and the car’s seat.

Horror dawned. The slightest movement set the canal water curling higher. Water lapped evilly around her knees. Grasping the dashboard, Ember felt an object there. The telephone! How had the telephone remained on the car’s dash during the wild plunge into the canal? As clearly as a bell, Leticia’s voice came to her. "Ember, it isn’t your time to go. There’s much you must accomplish yet."

Clutching the cell phone, she sobbed while punching 911, her only lifeline to help. The heavenly sounding voice of an Emergency Technician answered.

"The canal . . . my car’s in the canal!"

"What is your name and which canal? Where are you?"

"Ember Ryan. I’m Ember Ryan from The Colonnades and I’m somewhere on the Graville Road exit past the big curve. Please hurry." Realizing that help might not reach her in time to save her life, she was helpless to check the tears rolling down her face. "Please hurry," she sobbed emotionally. "When I talk, the water rises higher."

Silkily, the technician’s voice emanated calm reassurance. "You’re doing fine. Remain calm. Don’t hang up. Talk to me. If you’re in the canal, what’s keeping your car from sinking?"

"I don’t know. I don’t know," she wailed. "I’m hung on something. I don’t know what . . . but, whatever it is, it’s shifting . . . my car is slipping deeper into the canal."

As she spoke to the emergency technician in the dark, the water’s deadly stroking fingers inched higher, encircling her breasts. Lurching dangerously, the car plunged forward.

"What’s happening?" the dispatcher demanded.

"The car," Ember whispered. "It’s deeper in the canal."

"Are you free of the seat-belt?"

"Yes."

"Are you injured?"

"No. I don’t know," Ember cried. "I might have a bump on my forehead." How could this woman with the soothing voice expect her to continue speaking? "I’m being dragged to the bottom of the canal," she screamed.

"Why can’t you get out of the automobile?

"I’m wedged. I’m between the seat and the steering wheel. I’m afraid to move. Each time I move more water comes into the car."

"Help is on the way. It shouldn’t be much longer."

In the dark a solid object floated against Ember’s side. She gasped.

"What’s happening now? Urgency laced the dispatcher’s voice.

"My handbag just floated against me. I thought it was a snake or worse."

The female dispatcher was a saint. Her caring concern continued. "You’re doing great. Talk to me."

Obliging, Ember repeated shakily. "Okay, I’ll try."

"Give me your telephone number? We’ll notify your family."

"Thank you . . . oh, thank you." Ember’s jaw trembled as she repeated the number at the mansion.

The car tilted forward and fishy tasting canal water swept past her chin, filling her mouth. Clawing for the car’s roof, the telephone slipped from her hand. Metal scraped against wood. She fainted.

# # #

The small hospital in Graville was serenely quiet the following morning. "She’s waking," Jeanette husked tearfully. "Thank God. Thank God."

Russ cupped both Embers’ hands, kissing them.

"Good morning, darling. You’ve had a rough night."

Opening her eyes, Ember wondered if she was dreaming? Pristine white walls surrounded the strange bed. Jeanette and Russ hovered over her.

"It’s all right," Russ assured. "The doctor said you’re going to be fine. The bump isn’t a concussion. You escaped that horrible accident with only a superficial cut over your eye. It’s a miracle."

As he spoke, a young doctor entered the room and ushered Russ and the housekeeper into the hallway. After the doctor dutifully admonished her to rest a few days, Ember was discharged.

On the drive out to the mansion, Russ’s fingers curled around hers protectively. "I’ll never forgive myself for leaving you alone last night," he said, glancing sidelong, giving her hand an extra squeeze. His gaze was lucid and searching.

"Someone tried to kill me. They didn’t succeed," she replied with undisguised relief.

He shook his head in slow disbelief. "What do you mean?"

"I was forced off the road by a truck bent on killing me."

Her instincts told her that Russ found her statement worrisome. She was glad he didn’t press further. Sliding his hand across hers, the friction from his touch was both comforting and disturbing. Comforting that she wasn’t alone and disturbing in the upheaval he wreaked upon her emotions.

She had nearly died and he was willing to drop the subject. That fact was disturbing. Had he followed her from the hotel? She struggled to reason logically. She’d not told him she planned to leave the hotel in the middle of the night. Leaving was a spur of the moment decision. Nothing of the night before made any sense, seeing Margo in the French Quarter Bar and the specter’s unwillingness to materialize in the street. Then, the truck forcing her off the road, it was all too ludicrous to comprehend.

Did she owe her life to Leticia’s ghost? The specter had visited her in a miraculous way in that canal. It's not your time to go!

There was an illusion of safety riding in the car beside Russ. Turning to the window, she stared at the countryside absently. They were nearing The Colonnades. Turning up the broad drive to the house, shimmering shafts of early morning sun filtered through the live oaks in patterns of light and shadow, casting a magical timeless aura over the place.

Was it possible that some evil entity was at work in this beautiful place? The old house beckoned to her with a pull that wrenched her heart. How could evil exist in something as beautiful as the mansion and its surrounding grounds? She couldn’t deny that Owen Sterling was murdered, or that Selma Cain was missing and now, an attempt on her life. It the killer had followed her from New Orleans, how easy to slip a knife into her heart on the foggy street, or snuff out her life with a bullet as she slowly drove through the French Quarter. Was Leticia depending upon her to end the evil? There were many unanswered questions.

Her musings ended sharply when she spotted yards of billowing yellow police tape encircling a large portion of the front lawn. Jeanette had said the investigator was dragging the bayou for Selma Cain’s body. However, the housekeeper failed to mention that Campo had invaded the front lawn on a grand scale. "I can’t believe this," she cried, gesturing toward the official entourage camped out at the bayou’s edge. "This is an outrage,"

It was Jeanette who spoke quickly. "I told you, mam’zelle, the detective and his men are looking all over the bayou and the swamp. They are searching for that actress woman. It’s bad, no."

A travel trailer with a long tunnel shaped awning was parked near the bayou’s bank. Its limp awning reminded Ember of a giant caterpillar crawling down to the water. Parked adjacent to this trailer was a fleet of official vehicles. "How dare they!" she sputtered, ignoring the housekeeper and turning to Russ. "Who gave Campo permission to invade my property? It can’t be legal."

"It is legal. He has a search warrant and they’re doing their job."

"Yes, Cher, to look for that actresses’ body, they must put their boats in here. The underbrush is too thick past the house." Jeanette’s lip trembled. Soothing mam’zelle might prove a daunting task.

Ember sent the housekeeper a swift look. "You didn’t tell me they were in my front door."

Russ slowed, preparing to execute the turn toward the back of the house when Ember caught his arm. "Stop here," she demanded. "I’m getting out." His arrested gaze irritated her and a sick feeling rose from the pit of her stomach. "Someone tried to kill me last night," she said, mindful of his flickering gaze. And . . . and, all Campo and his incompetent deputies can find to do is orchestrate this showy investigation."

"Be reasonable," Russ urged. He seemed intensely aware. "You can’t interfere with an official search."

"I’m being reasonable," she snapped. "Reasonable enough to know this man has no right here."

The deep gray of his eyes accused her. However, she ignored his visual warning and the split second the automobile stopped, she stepped outside. Her feet hit the ground and a smothering sensation enveloped her. Inhaling deeply, she leaned against the car, drawing oxygen into her lungs to boost her internal grit. Her tight-as-a-fiddle-strings nerves threatened to snap at any moment."

Leaping from the automobile, Russ rushed to her side. "You’re out of your head. Let Campo do his job."

She seemed to be walking in a dream, but still determined. "You can’t stop me, Russ Paxton." Taking a step, her legs gave way to rubber motions. Swaying against his side, he caught her before she fell, tucking her close. Losing her courage momentarily, she leaned into his strong side, her blood pounding so hotly, she felt ill.

Striding across the lawn from the mansion came Joe LaBorde. Instinctively, Ember moved apart from the sweet temptation of standing so near to Russ.

LaBorde seemed even surlier than usual this morning. One look at Jeanette’s husband and Ember wondered how the housekeeper could tolerate living with such an obnoxious man?

"I’m glad you didn’t go down with your car," he announced gruffly, his eyes narrowing, when he came abreast of them.

The man’s concern didn’t ring true. Clinching her hands into fists, Ember didn’t answer him. Moving forward on wobbly legs, her head swimming slightly, she started down the lawn toward the police vehicles. Standing to one side, both Jeanette and Joe watched her like hawks.

Russ followed, catching her hand. His temper with her was evident in the dark expression creasing his strong face. There was an edge to his voice. "You won’t listen to reason, will you?"

Realizing she was determined to speak to Campo, he accompanied her. Shaking inside, she moved forward, grudgingly grateful that he was at her side.

Halting outside the tape barrier, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted in the morning air. "Hello, in there," Ember shouted toward the trailer. Her speaking was futile for a loud clacking gasoline generator masked all sound.

Tall shrubbery rustled beside the trailer and to her astonishment, Campo stepped from behind the stand of towering oleander bushes. Clearly, the odious man had watched their descent to the trailer. "That’s as far as you can go," he commanded brusquely. "Official regulations. We’re preserving the crime scene."

Her face set in congealed anger, she started to speak, when Russ interrupted. "Ember’s concerned if you’ve found anything significant?" His voice bore an edge.

Shrugging, Campo replied icily. "And, if I had, you know I can’t talk about it."

Not succumbing to the detective’s hard edge tack, Russ continued. "She’s worried and rightly so."

There was a moment’s silence as the men’s strong wills crackled. "Nothing new," Campo said finally.

Stiffening, Ember faced the interloper. "What gives you the right to camp out on my lawn?" Her voice was shrill and high, not like her at all.

"A search warrant, Miss Ryan." Pausing, his expression softened. "I’m truly sorry about your accident last night." Campo’s thick lips dipped down at the corners. Though freshly shaven, his dark complexion still bore an ominous four-o-clock shadow.

"Accident!" she scoffed, barely able to contain her anger. "What happened to me was no accident. It was a direct attempt on my life. You can add it to the growing list of unsolved crimes here at The Colonnades." Swaying and shaking inside, she prayed she wouldn’t faint on the spot.

Attune to her distress, Russ drew her into the circle of his arm, practically lifting her off the ground. Though he’d come to her defense, anger fused his expression. "Let’s go."

Summoning all her strength, she turned to the detective. "You say you have a search warrant, but is all this . . . this stuff necessary?" Hanging on to Russ for dear life, she gestured widely at the paraphernalia haphazardly strewn about the lawn; the trailer, air-tanks and rubber wet suits draped over a makeshift clothesline. The final straw was a row of utility-size garbage cans leaning against the side of a portable toilet.

Whatever opinion Campo truly had, he merely smiled weakly and said mildly. "Miss Ryan, we’ll disturb your property as little as possible. In the future, direct all your questions and concerns to Sergeant Smythe. He’s the department’s official spokesman. He’ll bring the search warrant up to the house."

The man’s overbearing voice commanded respect. Grudgingly, she granted it. She couldn’t fight city hall. She couldn’t fight anyone. Scarcely could she manage standing and clinging to Russ.

With an impatient gesture and squaring her shoulders, she turned, allowing Russ to lead her away, but not before she saw four divers in wet suits emerging from the trailer. Stopping, she pressed her fist against her mouth. The divers set to work checking gear and tying three-inch hooks to a pod-like attachment at the end of a long rope. Hooks! Ember’s throat filled with a round ball of nausea. She clasped her throat before she lost the coffee and juice she’d forced down at the hospital.

# # #

The house was quiet after Russ left for town. Stubbornly, she’d refused his suggestion that she go upstairs and rest. Instead, she’d settled on the sofa in the drawing room where she could watch the divers work. She prayed that Selma Cain’s remains wouldn’t be found in the bayou. Let Selma be alive somewhere - - anywhere.

Against her will, she dozed on the sofa. Scents of food being prepared awakened her. Jeanette was preparing lunch. Lunch was soup and custard that was Ember’s favorite. She picked at the food. The telephone rang as she was drinking her coffee. She took the call from a marine salvage company in Morgan City. The manager at the Salvage Company expressed disbelief that her car had miraculously landed on a partially submerged barge wreckage in the canal.

"Miss Ryan, just a few inches more and you’d have missed the old barge." His voice carried amazement.

"I’m thankful to be alive," she murmured, truly grateful.

"We couldn’t salvage the car. It sank to the bottom of the canal."

"I understand." A stranger’s murderous intentions caused the terrible accident, she thought, shuddering.

"I can’t pull that car up until I get a clearance from the authorities. Do you have proof of title and your insurance?" The man seemed to be fishing for information to feed his insurance company.

"No. The car was a rental car."

After giving the Salvage Company the proper information, she sat at the dining room table, lingering over a second cup of coffee. Jeanette came to the door, knocking lightly. "Cher, Sergeant Smythe is here. He’s in the drawing room. Shall I bring him back here?"

She hesitated a moment. "No," she said, rising. "I’ll see him in the drawing room." Making her way to the front of the house to see Campo’s man, she knew the search warrant was official and now regretted her insistence that she see it at all.

The officer waiting in the drawing room was tall. He appeared as vain as a peacock with very slick blonde hair and sporting a custom tailored uniform. Beneath cool blue eyes, the whisper of a mustache traced his lips.

He smiled the smile of a man who knew exactly how much sex appeal his person projected when she entered the room. Moving toward her, he handed her a copy of the search warrant. Quickly scanning the document, she saw that it was signed by a local judge and appeared to be in order. She didn’t doubt that it wouldn’t be.

Smythe then launched into a repetitious account of the bare bones information Campo had given Russ and her earlier . . . mainly that they were dragging the bayou and they had official permission to do so.

The briefing over, Ember showed Smythe to the door. Following him onto the gallery, she nodded toward the bayou. "How long will this search take?"

"It’s hard to say, Miss Ryan. As hot as it is now, the body should’ve surfaced three or four days ago. Unless it’s weighted."

"Weighted?" The word, weighted, stopped her in her tracks. Leaning for support against one of the columns, she listened with revulsion as Smythe continued in his swelled head manner. "How long we’ll search is an unknown," he continued pompously. "It’s murky down there. The divers are forced literally to crawl along the bayou’s floor and sift everything with their hands, feet, body, anything they can use."

She shuddered.

Warming to the subject, Smythe was oblivious to her discomfort. "It’s a slow tedious process," he continued. "A body sinks straight down after the lungs fill with water." Pausing, he cleared his throat.

Holding up her hands, Ember called a halt to his words. "I don’t care about all these gruesome details. I only want to know why you’re searching here in front of the house?"

Hooking neatly manicured fingers into his belt, the sergeant lowered his voice. "An informer, ma’am - - that’s all I can say at this point."

Her head snapped up. "An informer! It’s past three weeks since Selma was here with Mr. Sterling. Why would anyone inform the sheriff’s department now? Any crackpot could call the authorities." Any crackpot who wanted to make Ember Ryan look guilty.

Smythe looked down his prominent nose. "Ma’am, that’s all the information I have at this time. There’s a job to be done out there and the search is set up directly over the spot the body allegedly entered the water." Smiling like a matinee idol, he offered her his hand. Refusing to touch him, she clasped her arms across her breasts.

"Good day, ma’am," Smythe said, seemingly pleased with his accomplishment of enlightening her. Pivoting, he crossed the broad gallery and started across the lawn.

Past the officer’s sleek departing backside, stood Campo facing the rippling water, his eyes shaded with one hand.

A skin-prickling sensation enveloped Ember. This was a test of nerve and she vowed not to weaken. Inside, she went upstairs where she had an overview of the bayou.

The afternoon dragged. From time to time, she went to the window, watching the divers. A new respect emerged for them and their grisly task. They were the ones doing the real work here. Certainly not the laughing hyena public relations officer Campo had appointed, or Campo, himself.

Straight down while drowning played over and over in her mind. Someone had tried to drown her last night. Could the informer who called the sheriff’s department about Selma’s body be the driver of the truck who’d tried to kill her? When would it all end?

By three o’clock, the bedroom grew warm. Restless, Ember went downstairs, intent on going out to the back gallery where it was cooler. By chance, the door to Leticia’s private parlor stood open. Usually, it was closed. Inside, Jeanette was opening the curtains.

"I didn’t know you used this room?" Ember said going inside.

The housekeeper shot her a startled look. "I was about to take the curtains down to wash. This big house collects so much dust." A small stepladder stood under the windows.

"Leave the curtains for now. I think I’ll rest in here."

"As you wish, mam’zelle."

The moment Jeanette closed the door behind her, Ember dropped onto the soft chintz-covered sofa and gazed around the tastefully decorated room. Everything in here reminded her of Aunt Ticia. A white angel figurine kneeling on the mantle drew Ember’s attention.

Kneeling angel! Scrambling to her feet, she crossed to the fireplace, picking up the small statue. It was very familiar. This statue was a perfect replica of the kneeling cherub in the cemetery. However, unlike the larger version in the cemetery, this miniature had an inscription - - seek and ye shall find.

Chill from the carved marble piece made her hands unnaturally cold. As she turned the perfectly chiseled angel in her hands, the icy sensation crept up her arms. Her teeth chattering, she admired the exquisite work. Replacing the angel on the mantel, she wondered why was she so very cold? She hadn’t long to wonder for billowing mist started filling the room and the now familiar distant past street scene appeared. "Leticia," Ember whispered fiercely.

Quickly, the apparition materialized before her. Actually, in the blink of an eye. The shrouded face bore a decent and understanding expression. "The murderer has pointed a finger," the specter said clearly.

"Yes. I know. "Who’s the murderer?"

The specter’s diaphanous frock shimmered and danced. "There are things even I do not know. My habitat is not among the living. Knowledge of present deeds transpiring here is difficult to perceive from my present realm. I see the end results, not the process."

"What do you want?" Ember asked.

"To warn you. You’ve blinded yourself purposely. My evil, was allowing it."

"Blinded myself," Ember repeated. "I don’t understand."

"Everything will manifest in due time. Your guardian angel, Rebem, has the attention of the great one of the universe. But, Rebem can only guard, not intervene. To interfere in the course of history bears consequences so terrible you cannot imagine the abomination. However, limited unction has been granted to me."

"The duration of my time with you in this form is unclear. I have revealed before, the great vertical challenge I must overcome unbalancing eternity appearing to you this way. I am called onto this terrible path by one more powerful than myself. How long I will have this opportunity, I do not know."

The specter paused, raising both arms. "The war in this house is mighty. One of the greatest enemies of all that is light and good stands poised to strike. Because I withheld truth from you during my mortal life, I am forever prohibited from speaking clearly. In life and time, I chose riddles over truth with you and now in this form, I pay the ultimate price. I can only offer limited direction." Wavering, the apparition began to fade.

"No, don’t go," Ember cried. "Not yet. What riddles? What truth?"

Instantly, the apparition vanished along with the vaporous street scene. The room was as before, an elderly woman’s feminine sitting room with dusty curtains.

A noise sounded at the door. Jeanette stood there. How long had she been there? "Mam’zelle? I heard you talking to someone."

Frowning, Ember shrugged. Let the Cajun woman think what she would, she had no intention of explaining anything to her. Jeanette might be a part of the evil war unfolding in the mansion. Rising, Ember crossed to the fireplace mantel, holding up the small figurine. "What do you know about this statue?" Oddly, the earlier cold sensation wasn’t present.

"Nothing, Cher. I’ve never seen it before."

"It was here on this mantle," Ember persisted tightly.

Jeanette made the sign of the cross. "No, mam’zelle. I’ve never seen it before," she said in a rapid torrent of words. Saucer-eyed, Jeanette gazed at the angel and mumbled something unintelligible under her breath. "Sometime, I’m afraid here," she whispered.

Glancing at the woman sharply, Ember said pointedly. "That’s ridiculous. The entire Sheriff’s Department is camped out on the front lawn."

"For now, Cher. But, they might not remain here every night. That’s what Sergeant Smythe told me."

Perhaps she shouldn’t protest further about the housekeeper’s fear. If Jeanette became spooked and decided to leave, she’d be alone here except for late at night when Russ came to the mansion. He’d become almost a nocturnal phantom himself, slipping in and out before she had time to see him.

Masking her own fear, she smiled reassuringly at Jeanette. "I feel certain he’ll stay as long as we need him." She paused, before continuing. "What exactly are you afraid of?"

Confused, Jeanette rolled her eyes. She swallowed rapidly. "Now that Miss Leticia is gone," she began uneasily. "There are uh . . . noises at times late at night." The housekeeper’s soft olive skin took on a purplish cast. She seemed at a loss for words. Obviously, describing her fears was a difficult task.

"What sort of noises?" Ember pressed.

"I don’t know how to explain what I hear . . . noises from the other world." Jeanette’s voice trailed to a mere whisper. "But, I have used the antidote," she declared forcing a shaky note of bravado.

"The antidote?"

Visibly trembling, the housekeeper nodded her head anxiously. "Yes, mam’zelle. I make the X three times and I knock three times. Then, I ask the spirit’s favors."

Exhaling a breath of frustration, Ember refrained from arguing with Jeanette’s superstitions. There was a possibility that the noises weren’t the housekeeper’s imagination. A spirit was appearing at the mansion and not a long ago ancestor’s ghost haunting at random, but Leticia warning her niece about evil.

The specter had hinted about evil spirits poised to strike. Could such beings tamper with Jeanette? These speculations seemed like madness. Dropping the subject entirely seemed the best course. "That’s enough talk about spirits," Ember admonished. "You know my aunt was dead set against such things. The black arts she called them."

Sounding overly pious and hypocritical in her own ears, Ember justified her stand by sensing that indulging Jeanette’s superstitions might have dangerous repercussions that neither of them were prepared to face.

"Yes, mam’zelle," Jeanette agreed meekly. "There are things cooking in the kitchen." Scurrying away, she left the room as quietly as a mouse.

The encounter with Jeanette and the mystery of the odd statue still puzzling her, Ember made her way to the drawing room to watch the divers. Across the bayou on the opposite levee, stood a crowd of morbidly curious townsfolk, congregated to view the dragging activity. The Colonnade’s front lawn had taken on the aura of a three-ring circus.

Retiring upstairs to read, Ember spent the afternoon looking over the manuscript Owen left the night he was murdered.

Supper was early and light, shrimp salad and iced tea. After dining, Jeanette and Joe retired to Jeanette’s room off the kitchen. Their presence in the house gave Ember a measure of security, despite her dislike of Jeanette’s husband.

Ember brought her book to the drawing room. Intending to read, she instead fell asleep. She awoke with the sound of the hall clock striking ten o’clock. Scrambling to sit up, the book dropped to the floor.

She was pushing her hair out of her eyes and smoothing her skirt when Russ’s muscular form filled the doorway. Obviously, he’d just left town for he still wore gray dress slacks and had a navy blazer slung over his shoulder. A scattering beard darkened his face.

"This is a surprise," he said. "You, waiting up for me." He appeared tired. Dark circles ringed his gray eyes and his skin had the same gray tint as his eyes.

He’d misunderstood. She wasn’t waiting for him. Denying the fact was pointless. "Have you heard anything more about the truck that forced me into the canal?" she asked, still smoothing her tousled hair. He’d admired her hair the day the reporters were at The Colonnades. Why was that important, she wondered? And, why did she act so unnatural in his presence?

"No. Campo’s keeping a tight lid on this," Russ replied, dropping onto the sofa opposite her. "He isn’t talking. But, I get the impression this tip about the actress being in the bayou was big time."

Her posture went stiff. "And, you believe him?" she cried incredulously.

"If you’d stop glaring at me and listen to reason, you’d understand that he might be onto something."

"Now, you’re an expert on police work?" She viewed Campo as her enemy. Clearly, Russ was siding with the detective.

"I didn’t say that. What I’m trying to say is keep an open mind."

"What does that mean?"

Throwing his hands up in the air, he swore. "Damn, Ember, you’re becoming impossible. I come over here to console you and you make me want to shake you."

Why did he irritate her so? Longing to tell him about the specter, the strange angel statue and about Jeanette’s superstitious fears, she refrained, suspecting she couldn’t trust him. Hiding her inner turmoil, she said sarcastically. "Well, how do I manage keeping this open mind?"

"Go about your business. Only, be extra careful. Don’t leave this house alone and don’t let any strangers inside for any reason. Don’t even answer the telephone." Rising, he paced the room, much she imagined, as he would approach the judge’s bench in a courtroom. Halting, he eased down beside her. A sensual haze played behind his drawn expression. Slipping his arm around her shoulders companionably, he continued. "Go about your daily routine, but be careful. That way, you’re exhibiting no guilty behavior. Be aware of everything and everyone around you. You’re really protecting yourself, but it’s not obvious."

She sat beside him feeling warm and protected. He was offering advice that made sense. His arm draped about her shoulder offered friendship, nothing more. Why then, would moving even a few inches down the sofa seem some type of forfeiture?

"You’re shaking," he said softly, shadows playing across his face.

"I’m chilled from falling asleep."

He tightened his hold on her, drawing her closer. "You shouldn’t-----," she began and then stopped, remembering he’d never touched her in an inappropriate manner.

These special moments were so wonderful. Words weren’t needed. Accepting his comforting, she leaned back against the strength of his body. Gently, he lifted her hair back, tilting her head slightly. Lowering his lips to hers, the touch of soft demanding pressure drew her into the kiss. She met his lips with her own, inhaling his essence. A sweet heat sizzled in her innermost being. It was several long minutes before either spoke. Was he as affected by the kiss, as she? Or, was she merely a girl he once knew, who was in trouble? Why was life so complicated?

Drawing apart, she watched the muscles in his jaw tighten. Releasing her, Russ drew a breath, before exhaling. "I never meant to upset you," he said. "It’s . . . just . . . just that I want to protect you."

Lowering her gaze a moment to hide her undeniable need of him, she looked up at last. "I accept your protection. I’m glad I have you as my friend."

He leaned his head against the sofa. Closing his eyes, he folded his arms across his chest. He looked tired. She wondered where he’d been so late? Usually, if he’d gone to Bayou Folly before coming to The Colonnades, he’d shower, shave and change into casual clothing. Tonight, that wasn’t the case.

Opening his eyes, he leaned forward, gazing at her sternly. "I still can’t believe you left New Orleans and struck out alone in that pea-soup fog. You should’ve known an accident was bound to happen. The weather was too bad to be driving."

The aura of suffused warmth and sunlight she was blindly experiencing vanished. A stabbing of rage closed in on her. "What happened was no accident," she said succinctly. "That truck followed me from New Orleans, waited for the right moment and then rammed into my car. I was forced into the canal purposely."

So much for the tender moment. It was shattered by his accusing words. Could all his talk about protecting her be a manipulative ploy? Ploy, for what, echoed through her brain.

Russ had more to say on the subject. His expression hardened. "Don’t forget, I’ve got friends in high places and I’ve seen the police report."

She tensed. "Well, do you believe me?"

He chose his words carefully. "You’re correct in saying that someone ran you off the road."

"I know. Go on," she urged.

Taking unfair advantage, he massaged her upper arm gently. This was one time she wouldn’t give in to his touch.

"It’s possible the truck’s driver was out of control due to the weather. Or, it could’ve been a random malicious act, or it might have been a deliberate attack against you. The jury’s out. We don’t know for certain."

Her blood pressure rose. Jerking away from him, she glared. "I was targeted to die last night. Someone wants me dead."

Holding his hands up in protest, he shook his head. "Truce. I didn’t mean to set you off. But, stop and think for a minute. You placed yourself in some maniac’s path by leaving the hotel room. It’s a sad fact but our highways aren’t safe havens anymore."

With an ironic lift of her brows, she interrupted him. "And that’s what you think, that I was merely the victim of some random meanie out for cruel kicks?"

Catching her chin with his one hand, he drew the other forefinger down the side of her face slowly. "I didn’t say that, either. You’re purposely twisting my words."

This was hopeless. She moved his hand. "I was a target last night," she insisted heatedly. "And, it was no random act."

"Have it your way." Running his fingers through his hair, he stood. "I’ve had a terribly long day. I’m going to run upstairs and change."

She remembered her manners. "Have you eaten?"

"Not really, just a quick bite early this afternoon."

"I’ll rummage up something in the kitchen."

"I don’t want to trouble you."

"No, no trouble at all," she said hurrying off grateful to have something to do and doubly grateful he was at the mansion for the night.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"That was delicious," Russ whistled, pushing his chair back. Ember started to the sink with their dishes. "Wait, you wash and I’ll dry," he insisted, bringing along a greasy platter.

"Your skill is equal to any task," she laughed, running sudsy water. A delicious sense of stability filled her working alongside him. Was she ever a roller coaster of contradictions, angry at him one minute and suddenly finding him the desire of her heart the next. After the last dish was dried and stacked in the cupboard, Ember turned, looking him straight in the eye. "Want to go back to the drawing room awhile?"

"Why not."

Sitting down on the sofa, he patted the space beside him. Her invitation for him to join her in the drawing room hadn’t been a come-on, she thought, conflicting emotions coursing through her. Well . . . not an intentional come-on. Instead of siting beside him, she crossed to the window, shifting the curtains aside. The string of lights looped through the cypress trees reflected on the surface of the black water.

"The bayou is still a beehive of activity," she remarked, her casual tone masking the fear in her heart.

Slipping up behind her, Russ joined her at the window, deliciously close. Gazing out, they watched as one-by-one, the divers surfaced, slick as seals in their wet suits. The men clambered onboard the bobbing boat, water-sluicing silver-white from their form-fitting scuba suits.

Dragging her gaze up at Russ, she said evenly. "I refuse to believe that Selma is in that bayou."

He didn’t blink an eyelid. "They’re doing their job, Ember. That’s all."

"You’ve said that before."

"Just reminding you," he chided good-naturedly.

Silence followed. This search seemed unreal. Reality was fast receding to some secret place and she was living a nightmare . . . a nightmare of death, attempts on her life and visits from the other world. Russ slipped his arm around her protectively. His gaze warmed, resting on her. "I’m here for you," he whispered against her cheek.

She nodded, letting the curtains drop back in place. Rubbing her bare arms, she gestured outside. "I’m becoming more and more traumatized by all of this."

"I realize it’s not exactly a holiday for you," he remarked with his caring mannerism of smiling at her hot-blooded and sensually.

"No, it’s not and I can’t stop it," she said suddenly. "I’m forced to sit on the sidelines and wait for a madman to make his next move."

How could she continue living in this hotbed of horror and mystery? Functioning normally was out of the question.

"I feel so . . . so out of control," she elaborated, meaning more than the divers and more than Campo. She meant out of control with him, too. At this moment, especially out-of-control with Russ.

"You’re doing great. I’m proud of you," he said charmingly.

That’s not what he was supposed to say, she thought, facing the window, leaning against him. He was supportive, enticingly devastating, a perfect sanctuary. She sighed as he tightened his grip around her waist, rested his head on her shoulder and nuzzled her ear. Wondering what happened to her great strategy of taking matters slowly, she admitted he was irresistible. However, his body promised a step she wasn’t prepared to take, not in the face of so many unanswered questions.

An unsolved murder occurred in this very house, she reminded herself. And, an attempt had been made on her life. You came to The Colonnades to take care of business, not fall in love! Stiffening, she moved from his arms.

"You’re jumpy tonight," he said softly, gently, reaching forward, brushing back a strand of hair tumbling across her forehead. "I’ll bet you haven’t rested five minutes today."

"I . . . I couldn’t," she confessed.

He was standing very closely. A tide of longing washed over her. She wanted to walk past him. Just like that first day at the airport, but she couldn’t.

"I’ve noticed your light burning late every night," he said in a tone that made her almost giddy. "What’re you doing until all hours?"

"Aha, spying on me," she laughed, the moment releasing some of her emotional tension. She’d been working on her laptop readying Owen’s manuscript for production . . . a production that would never take place now. The work was a diversionary tactic and a very welcome one. "I’ve been working on a script," she explained.

"Oh."

Before he commented further, she rushed on, changing the subject. "Have you heard anything more from your uncle?"

"No. He’s still out of town. His meeting was prolonged."

The missing Ryan money seemed the lesser of evils now in the face of murder and attempts on her life. But, John Paxton was up to something shady . . . she’d stake her life on it.

# # #

Later, in bed, she couldn’t fall asleep. Images of Russ teased her imagination. He was exactly the fantasy man she’d always counted on meeting someday . . . someone kind, supportive and spontaneous. She’d dreamed of meeting such a man, someone willing to love her without reservation. Pressing her hands to her mouth in the dark in sheer delight, she tried to suppress the desire of having him beside her in her bed.

# # #

Coming downstairs the next morning, Jeanette met her at the landing. "Mr. Russ said to tell you he had to leave the house early."

"Thanks, Jeanette." A slight tinge of disappointment filled her. She’d anticipated them breakfasting together. Some mornings, he’d waited around until she joined him and she half expected this morning that he’d be waiting for her.

The clock in the kitchen struck the hour as she poured her coffee. Jeanette bustled at the stove, bringing a fresh stack of French toast to the table. "You sleep well, Cher?"

"Yes, once I got to sleep." That was almost the truth. Actually, her longings to make love to Russ forced her to get up and work awhile. When she finally retired, she’d tossed and turned for hours. But, once she dropped off to sleep, she’d slept soundly.

Too, she’d entertained much introspection about John Paxton and the man’s refusal to see her. Her father’s diaries could solve a few mysteries, if only she could find them. Should she go back to the attic? The attic had been off-limits since that fateful night Owen’s body was discovered.

Carefully placing the delicate china cup on its matching fluted saucer, Ember made a quick decision. "I want to go back to the attic today," she said to Jeanette. "I’d like you to go with me."

Jeanette tugged nervously at her apron strings. "Oui, mam’zelle," she agreed, without enthusiasm.

Immediately after breakfast, armed with a powerful flashlight, Ember climbed the steep stairs, the housekeeper following woodenly.

The better part of the day was spent rummaging through all the assorted clutter. They found no diary and none of Jim Ryan’s personal papers.

Emerging back downstairs, a frown of disappointment etching Ember’s face, she watched while Jeanette carefully locked the door to the attic stairs and hung the key on a peg in the pantry. Jeanette folded her hands. "I’m sorry, mam’zelle, that you cannot find your father’s writings."

# # #

The day passed in stultifying boredom. Supper was early that evening. Not waiting for Russ, Ember took a tray into the drawing room. Finishing her meal, she resumed reading a book on South Louisiana Indians that she’d found among her father’s things. The slim tome chosen from the library had seemed interesting.

Thumbing idly through the book, her concentration flagged. Her interest wandering, she put the book aside. Her breath stirred. It was becoming impossible hiding her feelings for Russ. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. She looked more and more to the times when he came to the mansion and she’d catch herself listening for him with rapt attention. Once he arrived, whatever dialogue passed between them was heightened with excitement.

Was she even doing the right thing trusting Russ? Margo Paxton told her that Aunt Leticia had believed that she and Russ belonged together. Also, Jeanette. A flicker of suspicion nagged. What if the ghostly Leticia considered matchmaking for her niece one of her incomplete earthly tasks?

Being more of a mother to Ember than a great-aunt, Leticia Ellerbee had known her niece well. This intimate insight very likely gave the elderly woman judicious discernment as to the man her niece should marry. Jeanette was reputedly a matchmaker. Suppose the two were in cahoots now, one from the grave and the other stirring up the proper concoctions in The Colonnade’s kitchen.

Leticia could be using her special powers from beyond the grave to draw Ember to Russ. Match makers! Love potions! Shaking her head, she couldn’t believe she’d succumbed to these local superstitions.

A car drew up outside. The front door opened and Russ’s tread sounded in the hall. Her heart quickened, longing to feel his strong arms around her, his hard thigh pressed against softness, she sighed. Smoothing her halter dress, she crossed her legs primly. A few minutes later, he sauntered into the drawing room, his sports coat slung over one shoulder.

"Well, a welcoming committee. I’m impressed."

He seemed in a good mood. "Hello, yourself," she returned warmly. Her greeting was considerably warmer than she intended. Much warmer. As warm as the erotic thoughts plaguing her imagination, she thought. He took her breath away.

"Sorry, I’m late," he apologized easing onto the sofa opposite her, stretching out his long legs across the worn Oriental rug.

This man was so gentle and undemanding, she thought, shifting in the easy chair. "Are you hungry? Jeanette planned enough food for you, too." What had come over her? She was as cordial as a widow woman with three spinster daughters.

Chuckling, Russ folded his coat over the back of the sofa. "You have to ask that, with Jeanette’s cooking? That’s one of the reasons I jumped at the chance to stay over here."

She paused. "Is that right?"

"Afraid so."

"That’s nice to know," she replied tartly. "And, all the time, I thought I was the reason." Good grief, she was flirting. He grinned, his eyes twinkling. She was lucky to have such a debonair bodyguard. Rising, her gauze halter-dress whispered softly as she turned, starting toward the kitchen. Russ got up, following her. She kept on walking.

In the kitchen, she busied herself pouring iced tea. Her back to him, she avoided eye contact. He might read her thoughts. Jeanette had left Cajun pork chops and cous-cous on the stove. Filling two plates, she popped them into the microwave, punching in the required time.

"What can I do?" he asked, straddling one of the chairs.

"Nothing," she said removing the plates and placing them on the table. Turning around, he eased into the chair, tying into the tasty food with gusto. "I’m getting spoiled with all this personal attention," he said, looking up. "Dad and I fend for ourselves over at Bayou Folly."

"You’re welcome to all the meals you want. If you feel you’re neglecting Dr. Bob by staying over here every night with Jeanette and me, it isn’t really necessary."

"I disagree," he countered, his fork poised mid-air holding a bite of pork chop. Studying her intently, his expressive gaze mirrored true concern. "Me being here is vitally necessary, for a number of reasons," he muttered.

She wanted him at the mansion. She wanted him, period. Gulping some air into her starved lungs, she made an attempt at lightness. "Jeanette feels safer with you here."

"How do you feel?" he asked, reaching across the table, stroking her bare arm.

Mesmerized, she stared at him. "I don’t know how to repay you," she said finally with a straight look. That was a lie. Not only did she know how to repay him, she felt she knew how to please him, as well. "You’ve done too much." She wanted to close her eyes and drift under his touch. Was this a flirtation or reality? Whatever she was experiencing, she savored every moment with him. He’d sacrificed by moving in here with them. His concern was over and above the call of duty, especially since Campo and his men were still on the premises.

"I appreciate everything you’re doing," she began. "But, your dad’s alone. I feel like we’re taking you away from him."

A frown drew Russ’s brows together. "I told you I’m staying," he said without inflection.

Smoothing the folds of her dress to keep her hands busy, she smiled. "The authorities are right outside my front door," she whispered.

A playful twinkle gleamed in his eyes. "Are you dismissing me?"

"Well . . . no . . . that is . . ." she babbled. Heat washed through her body. He was so devastatingly appealing when he teased her. At least, she thought he was teasing her.

"Joe’s offshore this week and next," he continued. "Trust me, staying over here is for the best," he said, his face handsome in concern. His tone of settled the matter.

"We’ll see how it goes," she conceded. Russ was right. With Joe gone for two weeks and if Jeanette truly was frightened, the housekeeper might refuse staying in the mansion without Russ’s presence. A murderer lurked somewhere . . . maybe nearer than she realized. In the meantime, she must suffer being in such close contact with Russ.

"When do you expect John Paxton back in town?" she asked, rising and refilling their glasses with iced tea.

"Shouldn’t be more than a few days. Dad played bridge at Margo’s a couple of nights ago and that’s what she told him." Briefly, he’d stopped eating the pork chops and cous-cous. He resumed eating like a starving man. It was enjoyable watching a hungry man eat.

"What?" he asked, looking up, after a few moments.

"Nothing. I like the way you devour Jeanette’s cooking."

"Oh that. What can I say? She’s a legend in these parts."

Taking a deep draught of the sweet tea, Ember placed the tumbler back on the table. Her erotic thoughts at bay for the moment, squared her slender shoulders. She’d had a lot of time to think about Jeanette. Pleasant as she was, there were things about the housekeeper and her husband that puzzled her. "What do you know about Jeanette?" she asked evenly. "I don’t remember her when I was growing up here."

Russ’s brows came together in vee’s. He seemed very alert. "She’s worked for your aunt since I came back to Graville. You can’t be suspicious of Jeanette," he added incredulously. "I’d stake my life she’s clean as a whistle."

Uncomfortable about casting any suspicion on the gregarious housekeeper, still Ember realized she must be practical and true to her gut feelings. The specter had warned of evil in the house. "I have reason to wonder about everyone . . . uh . . . here at the house," she pointed out. "I don’t care for Joe at all," she added in response to his wide-eyed curiosity.

Working his knife spreading fresh butter across a crusty slice of cornbread, Russ shook his head slowly. "I wouldn’t condemn him, either. He doesn’t appear to be the brightest guy around, but I think he’s harmless."

"Nevertheless," Ember insisted with a hard nod. "It’s odd that these two people befriended Aunt Ticia at such a vulnerable time in her life. And, why did they choose to live here in this lonely spot in the first place? I mean people don’t flock to Graville."

"I think Jeanette has relatives hereabouts. Want me to do a little digging?"

"I’d appreciate that very much."

"Consider it done. Dad might know more about them. Doctors pretty much know everyone. He’s lived here all along and was the only local doctor for years."

Despite his offer to seek information, Ember got the impression he wished the case closed on discussing Jeanette and Joe LaBorde. It was not to her liking that he’d defended the couple. Was he more knowledgeable about the Laborde couple than he let on? On the other hand, was she allowing her over-active imagination a field day?

He changed the subject. "I talked to Campo today. Do you know what saved your life in the canal?"

"A submerged barge," she replied archly. "I talked to the Salvage Company."

"You were one lucky lady."

"I realize that," she said, her expression tightening. "If being targeted by a murderer was luck in the first place? Don’t misunderstand," she added quickly. "I’m grateful to be alive and I’m thankful that sunken barge was there."

The attack on her life was a touchy subject with her, especially since both Russ and Campo had reservations about the truck’s driver trying to kill her. But, it wasn’t my time to go. Leticia told me that.

Sliding the chair back, Ember rose from the table and began stacking the dishes.

"I’ll do that," he offered cheerfully. "I should pay for my board and keep."

Scooting beside her, he tumbled the dishes pell-mell into the sink. Turning on the tap full blast, he whistled a jaunty tune as he worked.

There was nothing for her to do. He seemed to have the kitchen under control. And, it was late. Besides, she couldn’t take a chance with her emotions. It seemed each time, they found themselves alone, kissing followed.

"I’m going upstairs," she said, the words practically sticking in her throat. "You’ll excuse me."

"How about a game of Canasta. Dad said you’re a real pushover to beat."

"He did, did he? The very nerve," she laughed. To her relief, she had the strength to refuse. "Not tonight. I’ll let you beat me some other time," she said softly.

Preparing for bed, she couldn’t shake her thoughts about the maniac in the truck. Russ reminding her about her luck dredged that horrible memory up. If only she’d gotten a glimpse of the driver. But, she hadn’t. It was too dark and it was raining. The driver could’ve been anyone. She longed to talk to Aunt Leticia. Why had she died the very day I arrived, Ember thought bitterly.

Plumping the pillows a last time, she slipped into bed, extinguishing the bedside light. Slowly, the darkened room came into focus from the glowing green dial of her clock radio. Turning on her side, she stared into the shadowy corners of the bedroom.

An image of that first night in the attic flashed vividly in her mind. Could Owen really be dead? Since his violent death, she’d had time to recall the type of man he’d been . . . an abrasive person, prone to making enemies. However, he was a diamond in the rough and despite all his faults he’d been a true friend to her.

It was frustrating that Campo had failed to turn up any suspects in Owen’s murder. Russ’s theory was that since Owen had been the founder and CEO of Sterling Starcraft Enterprises and an internationally high profile person, this forced the investigator to move carefully. Owen was well known in film circles. Two of Starcraft’s films had taken first place awards in Cannes a few years back. Maybe, the public remembered some of his film’s names, but likely not. True, his murder had attracted the media in many countries, but the name Owen Sterling wasn’t a household name. She didn’t buy the fact that the investigator couldn’t afford the embarrassment of making mistakes. At this point, making a few mistakes seemed better than doing nothing.

Owen had relied on Middle East oil money for backing on a lot of his projects. There was a possibility that Campo could be a victim of pressure from these powerful foreign dignitaries wanting this bizarre case closed. The detective might be under more pressure than she realized.

A shiver skittered up her spine. Dragging the bayou for Selma Cain’s body could be an act of desperation trying to solve the case. Campo might be grasping at the straws some unknown informer tossed his way. She knew the investigator suspected she had a hand in Owen’s death. What if he was on the premises to watch her? Was the man waiting to trap her in some desperate act?

Innocent persons were accused of crimes. It happened every day. Policemen had been known to plant evidence where none existed. If Mark Campo was laboring under unknown pressure, he might do something desperate, even arrest her. Despite Russ’s confidence in the inspector, she didn’t trust the man any farther than she could throw him. All the while, the real killer was somewhere nearby watching the inept Sheriff’s Department.

Ducking her head under the sheet as if to blot out the many frightening possibilities, she started crying. A few minutes later, her throat hoarse from sobbing, she sat up in bed. She could swear she heard a voice saying, Ember, stop acting like a little girl.

There was one piece of information she’d withheld from the detective. She’d not been completely candid with Campo about having an enemy. She’d repressed those thoughts . . . put them to rest. There was someone who very likely wanted her dead.

Derek Cole! He’d have no qualms about seeing her dead. Her ill-fated romance with the high-profile Hollywood personality had taught her the bitter lesson of giving her trust to the wrong person.

Shifting the silk bolster beneath her head, she turned, gazing at the shadowy silk bed-hangings. Troublesome thoughts raced through her brain like spiders maneuvering a familiar web at lightning speed.

Her friendship and ultimate romance with Derek Cole began without her being aware of the man’s dark side. Recreational drug use was common in Hollywood. Derek had been into drugs heavily. She’d been unaware of his dependence. Little Miss Naivete! Looking back now, she realized she should have recognized the behavioral signs of such a lifestyle; broken dates at the last minute, abruptly planned weekends with questionable people at Owen’s hideaway suite up in the canyon. Always, Derek cunningly managed to explain his activities and hide his drug use from her. She had been the perfect ostrich with her head in the sand.

When she finally suspected Derek had a substance abuse problem, she’d confronted him. Derek made a big deal of going to rehab. After each session at the centers, he’d emerged clean and promised each slip would be his last. Time and again, he fell from grace. She learned the hard way that druggies don’t keep their word.

After much soulful deliberation, she told him their relationship was over. If Derek ever loved her, he’d long since replaced that emotion with baser needs. His final cruel act still shook her to the marrow of her being. Date rape! His vicious calculated revenge had been to attack her. She’d gone to the authorities, humiliated herself and for what, a slap on Derek’s wrists. The experience with Derek left her unable to trust her own judgment where men were concerned.

Through all that terrible time, Owen had supported her. For all of the man’s cantankerousness, he’d believed in her and refused to make her the victim. Nor would he allow her to make herself a victim. But, he’d also told her straight. She’d never work in Hollywood again if she blew the whistle in a society where cover-up was a way of life. He’d been right. Her projects had been few and far between since that time. Most of her work was done under Owen’s tutelage and with her behind the scenes.

Burying her face in the bolster, she sobbed. Had Owen’s support of her cost him his life? Was Derek evil enough to orchestrate such a heinous crime? For a long time after Derek, she’d avoided any contact with the opposite sex. Finally, she healed enough to see a few people . . . safe people. She established a rigid pattern of social behavior. Go out a few times with someone she’d decided was harmless and then break things off. This superficial lifestyle became a way of life. Until Russ, she’d believed things would never change . . . never believed that she could change.

If Campo probed into her background he might unearth the case involving her claims against Cole. Owen’s influence had quieted the gossipmongers. Not even one tabloid picked up the story. But, facts were facts and her statement was on record. There was the possibility Derek had turned on her again bent on destroying her. At the time, he’d seethed with the desire for revenge. Derek was a vicious shark adept at lying and deceit.

Campo desperately needed a suspect and her past made her vulnerable. The media knew how to twist facts and make her appear the guilty party. She was walking a tightrope. She must know if Derek was in any way responsible for Owen’s death. Russ knew her every move and would never agree to become a party to an amateur murder investigation. Seeking answers must be done under a cloak of anonymity.

It had all become so complicated. She was in a fishbowl at the mansion with Campo’s watchful eyes by day and Russ’s by night. Russ’s presence at the mansion was a hindrance in more ways than one. His nearness and virile body made her desire fulfillment. Frankly, her own runaway emotions around him frightened her. Then, he was able to keep close tabs on her whereabouts. There was no possible way she could keep anything from him, or from Jeanette.

This wasn’t like her, she lamented, pounding her pillow. In her dreams, she found rich delight in his strong arms, exploring the surface of his belly with trailing fingers. She was fast approaching a state where retreat would be impossible. She must put some distance between them. Drawing her nightgown under her knees, she vowed to never hurt him by involving him in her sordid past.

Increasingly, it became clear to her that she must go to California at once. There was the question of Campo allowing her to leave the state of Louisiana. While she was here in Graville, the detective could observe all her comings and goings. Hiring a private investigator to check on Derek’s whereabouts seemed the only answer.

Where would she get the money? After she filed charges against Derek, Owen had kept her going financially by finding piddling projects for her, projects she could accomplish behind the scenes. Of course, she could sell her place in California. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Without work, she couldn’t afford taxes on the house.

She didn’t trust using the mansion’s telephones. If she had access to a pay telephone, she could call the West Coast and try to hire an investigator. Certain that Campo had her movements watched, she wracked her brain for a way to leave the house discreetly.

A perfect solution dawned. She couldn’t imagine why she’d not thought of it sooner. The gentlemen’s staircase! That entrance to the mansion was never used. High shrubbery blocked the recessed door from the front of the house. The detective’s men were well out of view. Even Jeanette seldom ventured to that wing of the rambling house.

Falling into a fitful sleep at last, she dreamed of Russ pursuing her up the gentleman’s staircase. In the dream, she wore a long gown with a hoop skirt. She raced up the stairs with Russ in hot pursuit. Mere steps from the last landing, the burgeoning hoops tripped her. Reaching for her, Russ broke her fall. Kneeling at her side and easing her into a prone position on the landing, he kissed her passionately while his hands kneaded the flesh of her thighs under the cumbersome gown.

She awoke with a start. Slowly, the erotic dream faded. The ringing telephone drew her into consciousness. In one motion, she fumbled for the phone, switching on the bedside lamp. "Hello," she gibbered into the receiver.

"Ember, is this you?"

She came alert at once, recognizing Charlie Howell’s voice, her West Coast co-worker. "Yes, is this Charlie?"

"Right. Why the hell are you still hiding out in that God-forsaken place?"

She slid up in bed pushing her hair back from her face. "A lot has happened."

"Yeah, Owen getting murdered. Damnedest thing I ever heard of. Anything new about the murder?"

"No," she said softly, her senses returning slowly.

"But, hey, life goes on they say," Charlie brayed.

Charlie Howell could be an insensitive creep at best. She couldn’t forget he’d sided with Derek.

"What do you want, Charlie? It’s late here."

"That Cape Cod mystery script. You have a copy there?"

"I do," she answered suspiciously. "Why?" The fuzziness receded from her brain by degrees. She shook her head like a swimmer emerging from the deep.

"Well, it’s on. I’ve got a backer and he wants the shoot to roll in, two, maybe three weeks, at the most. It’ll turn some quick bucks. Sequels work."

Alert now, Ember hesitated. "I don’t understand. I expected Owen’s death to shut things down." She didn’t mention her own reputation problems. However, Charlie was well aware of them.

"We thought so too, baby, but Owen had a clause in his will - - evidently he loved his business. You know, he thought it was bigger than he was. Ain’t that a hoot . . . something bigger than Owen! Get it? Anyway, according to his will, work goes on as usual. He put us all in key positions. Legally, we run this business, even before the estate is settled. Guess who’s CEO now?"

"I give up."

"You, baby!"

"Me!" Ember’s grip tightened around the receiver. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled raggedly. Now, circumstantially, Campo had his motive for murder. Her new position! She had the opportunity and now the motive. What was left? "Charlie, are you certain?" she asked in a near whisper.

"Damn straight."

A half-hour of technical talks followed. She hung up after promising Charlie she’d fax the work on the mystery to him ASAP. The little creep even had a new note of respect for her in his voice.

No longer sleepy, she slid out of bed, went to the bathroom and splashed cold water over her face. She’d done some work on the mystery script; not seriously, mostly to keep her mind occupied from worrying about everything happening.

Did Owen have a premonition about dying, making a will like that? Her new position proved he believed in her one hundred percent. Back in the bedroom, she glanced at the clock radio. Charlie Howell’s deadline threw her in a major time crunch. How timely that the work she’d done on the manuscript simply to keep busy was actually needed.

Sitting down with her laptop, the old creative adrenaline pumped through her brain, energizing her body. It just might be what she needed to save her sanity. It was like the old days with Owen at the helm, working until all hours . . . working until the project jelled.

Who’d play Selma Cain’s part as the bumbling nosy next-door sexpot who got in the sleuth’s way? In her own unique way, the statuesque blonde made the series of mysteries work.

# # #

Ember worked at the laptop, while envisioning Charlie relaxing at his pool side, a stubby cigar clamped between his teeth. It was barely midnight West Coast time when the last sheet hummed through the fax to the coast.

Too tired for further work, she switched off the light and crawled between the sheets. Russ was in bed just down the hall. If he weren’t asleep, he’d have good reason to rag her about burning the midnight oil tonight.

For the oddest reason, a long ago date they’d shared when he’d proposed to her filled her weary brain. Had her leaving Graville back then hurt him? He’d told her as much. But, hearts heal. They’d both been caught up in the roller coaster emotions of coming-of-age years. But, still he’d proposed to her. As a very young man, he’d wanted her for his wife.

Exhausted, yet too keyed up to sleep, the adrenaline that pumped so freely earlier now refused to shut down. After what seemed hours of tossing about on twisted sheets, she rose, pulling her cotton robe around her shoulders. Slipping outside onto the upstairs gallery, the caressing velvety night vibrated with nature’s sounds. The divers still worked under the makeshift lights dangling in the bayou’s trees.

A sudden movement at the corner of the gallery surprised her. "Who’s there?" she called.

Russ strode toward her in the moonlight. He was fully dressed in dark slacks and shirt. "I’m glad you’re still awake. I have a surprise for you."

"What sort of surprise?" she questioned, looking down at her thin nightgown under the skimpy robe. His sanguine expression revealed nothing.

"Don’t ask questions, just follow me."

Taking her arm, he led her down the gallery to a seldom-used section of upper porch across the back of the house. The old boards creaked underneath their feet as she followed him into the night. Back here, the activity in the bayou wasn’t visible.

Pale moonlight bathed the huge columns silvery white. Soft night winds bearing the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle and frangipani caressed her face. Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the velvety semi-darkness.

Against the house stood a small table covered with a snowy white cloth. Two wide old-fashioned plantation chairs were drawn up to the table. The charming scene captured her imagination at once.

Russ pulled out one of the chairs and seated her. Lifting the globe of the hurricane lamp, he struck a match to its candle. The large scented taper lent its perfume to the night. Under the candle’s flickering light, the table came into sharper focus. Silver dish covers gleamed. A large bouquet of white roses rivaled even the candle glow in beauty. To one side wine cooled in a bucket. The ice had melted and the bottle of spirits floated in slush.

She gazed up at him. "I don’t understand. We had dinner earlier."

He chuckled, a richly masculine sound. "I had dinner. You merely picked at Jeanette’s delicious food. I’ve gotten the impression you aren’t too pleased having me here," he chided softly.

Squaring her shoulders, she didn’t deny his statement grateful that the night’s luminescence masked her heated face. If he only knew her true thoughts! She squirmed as the delightful scenes flickered through her mind.

"So," he continued. "This is my peace offering . . . a midnight dinner. At least that’s what I intended. You foiled my plans by working so late." He gestured. "This is what’s left of it," he said lifting one of the silver covers revealing a dish of plump shrimp.

"You cooked this?"

"You left me alone in the kitchen."

"So I did," she laughed.

"Jeanette had a slight hand in the preparation. Anything to appease your reluctance at my staying here," he teased.

"I’m flattered," she said gazing into his glowing eyes.

He’d gone to all this trouble while she worked. Impulsively, she caught his hand, giving it a warm squeeze. "This is absolutely elegant." His returning smile was ghostly in the moonlight.

Hovering beside her, dark and desirable, she longed to go into his arms and feel the texture of his hot flesh against hers.

"I’m trying to impress you," he hinted softly. Moving into position behind her chair, he inclined his head, kissing her lightly on the cheek. Their breathing mingled.

The heat of his lip’s touch created a deep need to feel his arms around her and his lips more firmly on her own. Her heart beat faster. A warm sensation circled her stomach and settled in her innermost reaches. Sweet hope filled her. Lithe and graceful, he dropped his arms from the back of her chair and sat down opposite her. Catching her hands across the table, he held her in his magnetic gaze. "Promise me, no dark thoughts about anything."

"I promise," she said breathlessly. A slight breeze rifled through the evergreen trees surrounding the gallery. Shadows flickered under the light of the candles. The night made reading his face difficult. Was he experiencing the same dizzying attraction she felt for him at this moment? What was in his heart? Wanting him so desperately, she waited expectantly.

Stirring from the embrace, Russ, with a deft flourish, opened the wine and filled two small flutes. He lifted his glass to toast.

She lifted hers.

"To us," he said simply.

"Here, here," she whispered. Under her breath, she breathed, to us, forever.

Sipping the sweet burgundy colored beverage; she laughed at his attempts of dishing some of the shrimp on her plate. They kept sliding off. Surprisingly, she ate heartily.

The simple meal over, Russ rose, moved to her side, sliding her chair back. She slipped up beside him. His arms stole around her shoulders and he leaned over, brushing her hair with his lips. Gently, he nuzzled her ear. "Come closer," he commanded, his voice as soft as the night. She was aware of only the sheer gown between their bodies.

Obeying his enticing command, her head found the perfect niche against his neck. As his body tensed, her self-imposed years of stoic resolve melted like the ice in the ice bucket. Instantly alert, she smiled up at him in the candle’s glow, near enough to see the play of emotion in his eyes. She wanted him to lock her in his arms and never let her go.

He was getting to her. Stroking his arm that held her, she wondered if she could take more of his nearness without yielding to the desire coursing through her fevered body. His chest was spicy heat against her and his body was as hot and demanding. In the tightness of his embrace, Russ tilted her head back, lowering his lips to hers. The feathery hot brush of his seeking lips sent shivery tingles through her. The kiss ended regretfully soon. Afterwards, for a long moment, she clung to him.

When they drew apart, he held her still, stroking her shoulders. She turned, leaning her back against his chest. They stood in the moonlight, nestled so closely, his arms encircling her waist. She’d struggled with her feelings and now she couldn’t deny them . . . couldn’t deny her emotions. She truly cared for him. This new tender feeling enveloped her senses. These sensations were more than moonlight, more than kisses and much, much more than desire. For the first time, their differences didn’t matter.

Her heart sang, I love you, Russell Robert Paxton. She could have burst for the longing of wanting to tell him. She couldn’t. Not yet . . . not now. Too much was yet doomed to happen. "Thank you for everything tonight," she whispered when she could control her voice.

For an answer, he turned her around slowly and kissed her again. "Look what you’ve done to me," he husked. "You’ve bewitched me."

Tilting her head, she met his gaze. Reaching for her again, he drew his lips across hers, more demanding this time . . . a wonderful capture that nearly convulsed her being. Nuzzling the bow of her mouth in nipping suckles, she opened her lips tasting the nectar of his body. The ridged muscles of his arms tightened around her and his tongue teased her mouth, before penetrating her parted lips. Giddy and hungry for more, she lost all sense of self, in the driving deepness of the kiss.

Her hair swung around her shoulders as she pulled away from him, denying her soaring desire, she drew back. He restrained his ardor, as well. Silently, they faced each other a few long moments. "Are you sorry about being bewitched?" she asked, finding her voice.

"I’ll take my chances," he managed, caressing her back. Without warning, his arms locked her tightly at her waist’s indentation. With his thumb, he slowly stroked her lips. "Ember," he whispered softly with labored breath.

She had to stop this but she didn’t want to leave him. "We mustn’t," she whispered miserably.

Ignoring her plea, his body settled rock-hard against hers. "Your name suits you with that fiery mane, you know." An intense expression burned in his gaze. She stirred to move away.

"No," he whispered, drawing her closer. His lips lightly brushed hers. She kissed him back, following his lead. He pressed his lips against hers, his hands moving up the length of her to finally hold her face between his hands. The fusion between them heated. Encircling her arms around his neck, she pressed against him. He embraced her so forcefully and so tightly, he literally took her breath away.

She had come into his arms so quickly this last time, she didn’t know who made the first move. Leading her to a wicker chaise in the porch’s shadows, she eased down and he slid down beside her. Holding her tightly, he rocked her back and forth while his lips seared her mouth, sending vibrating rays down her limbs.

Opening her eyes, the candle’s meager light illuminated his eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed with desire. Parting her lips at the sweetness of his kiss, his tongue sought hers. Each plunge of his tongue shot rays of hot pleasure throughout her body.

From the tasting contact with him, she knew she gave as much pleasure as she received. Closing the distance between them, he pulled her even closer. His ragged breathing pounded against her ear. Dizzy with desire, she pressed her body closer, attempting to absorb his essence. He lifted his head, planting feathering hot clinging kisses down the column of her neck.

His hand stole under her gown. She quivered as he freed first one and then the other round mound from her restrictive lacy bra. Her nipples peeked over the froth of lace. He stroked her breasts gently, rubbing the nipples with his thumb, evoking her passion even more. She moaned when he leaned down, kissing first one protruding nipple and then the other. Gently, he suckled.

His hand slid up along her thigh in circular motions, kneading the tender flesh. Her gown wound above her knees as she shifted her bare bottom into position to press against his arousal. She was damp and aching.

He moaned. She reeled at this primeval sound. Rapt in his attention she was anxious for him to touch her, take control of her. Sliding her legs apart, she welcomed the weight of his extended body on hers.

The fineness of his body delighted her. Clinging to his shoulders and lying in his strong embrace, the powerful ripples of his muscular body heated hers. His hands under her hips, he pulled her up to him. She wanted more of him. Caressing each breast, he drew each rosy areola to pointed buds of need.

Her hands took liberties, too. Gingerly she explored his body with her fingers. Timidly at first, she touched the solid sinews of his muscular legs. He was so sensual. Inadvertently, her hands touched his sex through his trousers. He shuddered. Then, playfully, she reached up and kissed his ear, toying gently around his earlobe with her tongue. She was rewarded by his lips seeking hers again. Prone over her now, their lips locked together like Velcro, she pressed up, rubbing her arched mound against his hot arousal.

A slow heat slid up her limbs centering in her feminine folds flattened against his hard body. He was sheer perfection, as they lay together, their legs tangled.

Her desire was intense now. The physical writhing they indulged in left her thighs exposed. He was still clothed. She raised a shaking hand to lower the thin gown.

"No," he whispered. "Don’t. You’re beautiful." At once, his hand worked up her thigh.

Just moments before, she’d believed she could pull away from him. Now, unashamed of the sensual sensations, she knew she had no control.

Something sounded behind them from the open French doors. Then, the urgent sharp click of approaching footsteps pounded. "Mam’zelle! Mam’zelle Ember, are you up here?"

Jeanette didn’t see them in the dark. "What in God’s name can she want this time of morning?" Ember whispered, scrambling apart, laughing like a kid. "We’re over here," she said, rising and whisking the robe together. "What do you want?"

"It’s the detective, mam’zelle. Campo is waiting downstairs."

CHAPTER NINE

A single lamp lit the drawing room. Stumped at how Campo came up with her promotion information, Ember pulled her robe more tightly, fumbling with the belt. The fish-eyed detective stared at her.

"I assure you my promotion has no relevance to this case," she insisted for at least the tenth time.

It was after two a.m. and the heavy-lidded detective continued to grill her. "You’re wondering how I learned about your uh . . . promotion," Campo continued, addressing her unspoken question.

"The thought did cross my mind." Cross her mind, it was plaguing her something crazy!

"I’m in extremely close contact with Los Angeles PD." Campo paused for this tidbit to sink into her tired brain. Sink, it did. "I find it incredible that you neglected telling me you’d become CEO of Mr. Sterling’s company in the event of Sterling’s death."

"How could I tell you when I didn’t know myself."

"So you’ve said. Yet, even you must admit that your meteor-like rise to the top position is puzzling," he remarking, laying a long finger across his lips.

Russ, who’d been listening intently, frowned deeply. Was it her imagination, or had he known about her promotion, too?

Her composure bubble threatened to burst. "This has absolutely nothing to do with anything," she blurted out finally.

"You’re aware I could have you arrested on suspicion of murder?"

Her first impulse was to shriek get out of my house. No, make that her second impulse, the first one was to wipe away his impudent expression. Standing her ground was taking its toll on her nerves. Abruptly, the detective shut down the questioning and left. Ember let out the breath she was holding.

# # #

The next two days passed uneventfully. She didn’t see Russ until Wednesday morning when she came downstairs. He was in The Colonnades’s kitchen drinking coffee. Dressed in a snappy gray suit, he was obviously on his way to work.

Was he waiting for her? "Good morning" she chirped, putting on a happy face and needing a caffeine jolt badly.

"Good morning yourself," he replied. His tone giving nothing away.

Debating what to say, she sat down opposite him. "I’m still furious Campo stormed into the house like he did," she began.

Russ’s mouth hardened. His expression wasn’t as accusing as Campo’s had been, but it wasn’t pleasant, either. "Your promotion came as a surprise to me, too."

"I’ve explained it isn’t important. I knew absolutely nothing about Owen’s will," she said, carefully keeping her tone neutral.

"So you’ve said. But, you kept your secret."

What did he mean . . . her secret? Derek Cole was her only secret and that terrible experience was personal. She wouldn’t share it; no, she couldn’t share it. It was much too painful.

"What secret?" she pushed.

"I’m late," he said, rising. He was gone.

# # #

Russ came to the house late that evening and the next morning he was gone when she came downstairs. She’d heard nothing more from Campo.

Pinched with nagging worry, she decided that the day was too nice to spend indoors. In fact, it was a perfect day for shopping. After dressing, she drove into Graville and picked up some necessary items at a discount store.

It was lunch time before she knew it. Graville boasted two tearooms, one with an antique shop on the premises. Opting to have lunch at the antique shop’s tearoom, she walked the few blocks over the brick inlaid sidewalk to the establishment and ate alone.

Still not ready to go back to the gloomy house, she purchased a ticket to the town’s one theater. It was late afternoon when she returned to the mansion. Jeanette was sweeping the front gallery, wearing a pink tee shirt emblazoned with the logo, Red-Hot-Mama. Underneath the logo danced two enormous chili peppers, a red one and a green one. The chili peppers really got with it when Jeanette manned the broom.

"Mam’zelle, dinner is ready," the housekeeper called, resting her chin on the broom’s handle. "If you like, I’ll place the food on the table."

"No, not now. Just leave it on the stove. I’ll serve myself later."

"Oui, mam’zelle."

Inside the old ceiling fan buzzed, cooling the dark hallway. Ember went upstairs. New faxes waited from Charlie. Revisions. Kicking off her shoes, she settled down to work. Time flew. It was long past dark when she turned off the computer and showered. Going to the French door to lock it for the night, two boats in the middle of the bayou drew her attention. The bayou was a hotbed of activity.

Switching off the lights, she slipped outside onto the gallery, her eyes slowly growing accustomed to the dark. The jargon of indistinguishable voices carried across the water. Then, a powerful boat motor revved and cut, its bobbing lights reflecting on the lake’s black surface. Something important had happened! She just knew it. Rushing inside, she quickly drew on a pair of shoes.

Downstairs, the house was dark and no one was about. No light shone under the door of the housekeeper’s room. Jeanette must be asleep. Easing the screen door open, Ember hurried outside. Darting across the lawn like a crazy woman, an unexplainable excitability propelled her to the bayou.

Keeping to the shadows of the overgrown shrubbery, she inched nearer to the cordoned off area. Stopping behind a huge magnolia tree mere inches from the working men, she hid behind the magnolia’s thick waxy leaves. She could almost reach out and touch the men.

A group of deputies huddled at the bayou’s edge. Short wave radios cracked and popped. From the middle of the bayou, a boat engine came to life. The boat sped toward the bank, stopping directly in front of her in a swell of backwater sloshing over the craft’s sides. Wading out, two of the deputies pulled the boat up onto the muddy bank. Hollow sounds vibrated against the floor of the boat as the divers lifted a dark bundle from the stern.

A body bag! Telltale white spandex pants gleamed from the bag’s open front. Long tangled blonde hair spilled forth as two men lowered the remains. For a horrifying minute, Ember stared at the blanched piteous creature that had once been Selma Cain. No mortal, dead or alive, could be that chalky white. A cry slipped past her lips. Quickly, she clasped her hands over her mouth. Had she drawn any attention?

The scent of an expensive cigar preceding him, a heavy-set man moved toward the boat. Ember recognized him as the Parish Coroner. Nausea racked her body as the coroner’s helpers lay the body bag mere inches in front of her. More deputies moved forward holding aloft piercing portable lights. Woozy, Ember struggled against fainting.

A hand clapped over her mouth. Strong fingers bit into the flesh of her upper arm and a man’s leg pinned her against the magnolia tree. Struggling, she managed to half turn. Russ! Tangling his free hand in her hair, he drew her head back, taking her lips against his own in a searing onslaught, drowning her scream. Pushing against him, she landed a sharp blow on his shin. Her soft flat shoes buffeted the blow.

Whispering against her lips, he hissed. "Quiet! If they spot us, they’ll think we’re just lovers stealing a kiss!" A firm grip on her arm, he propelled up back up the dark lawn and behind a stand of sheltering shrubs.

"What’re you trying to do, frighten me to death?" she spat the moment he released her from his deathlike grip.

He grinned wickedly in the half-light. "Don’t you see? Your presence out here could look suspicious. Trust me, I’m a lawyer. Your spying on the police goes beyond curiosity. At least, it could appear that way to the detective."

As angry as she was, she had to admit that what he said made sense. She’d played the fool lurking around the grounds this time of morning. Suddenly weak-kneed, she fell into his arms.

"You damn near fell into Campo’s arms," he said, leading her to the house.

In the kitchen, she leaned into his chest, biting her lower lip, desperately trying not to break into sobs. "That was Selma."

"Shh," he warned. "We don’t want to wake Jeanette. Let’s go to the front of the house."

Through the drawing room window flashing lights from an ambulance projected strobe like images across the walls. Russ held her in his arms until her trembling stopped.

"Will this horror ever end?" she sobbed.

"Don't do this to yourself. You must have suspected the Cain woman was dead."

"I did, but I kept hoping and praying I was wrong," she shuddered.

Russ's expression was grim, mirroring her agony.

The ambulance drew away from the house eerily reminiscent of the night not so long ago when an ambulance had carried Owen's body to the morgue.

"You need to get some rest," he urged. "Tomorrow, Campo will be out here and I want you rested when you face him."

He was right. Leaning on his arm heavily, he walked with her upstairs. Pausing at her bedroom door, he leaned forward, giving her a reassuring peck on the lips. Pivoting, without a word, he started down the hall to his room. Watching his stride, a tall proud figure, who'd done everything in his power to take care of her tonight, she knew she loved him with all her heart.

Inside her bedroom, though exhausted, she was too keyed up to sleep. Selma had been dead all this time, lying at her front door on the bottom of the bayou. The specter had spoken truth. Evil abounded at The Colonnades. Confused and shocked, she fell into a fitful sleep.

# # #

Two weeks later

The Ellerbee Family Reunion threw Ember and Jeanette into a frenzy of activity. Leticia, being an Ellerbee and that family’s matriarch, would expect Ember to attend the function. While a child, the elderly relative made certain that Ember attended the reunion each year.

The morning of the gala, The Colonnades' kitchen was already a beehive of activity when Ember came downstairs. Turned out in her favorite moss-green jumpsuit, Ember faced the distracted dynamo in a red and white polka-dot pants suit. She’d never seen Jeanette so dolled up and so frazzled.

"Mam’zelle, I’m so glad to see you, no." The polka-dot outfit covered with an enormous white chef's apron, Jeanette scurried around the kitchen. Huge picnic hampers lined the counters as the housekeeper checked off last minute items on her list. "I don’t think I have everything," she lamented. "This is the first time without Miss Leticia."

"Let me help," Ember said, taking charge of a hamper and platters of cookies.

"Cher, don't you look lovely."

"Thank you and red’s your color."

Jeanette grinned.

"Where's Russ?" A shiver of excitement skittered through Ember’s stomach at the mere mention of his name. He’d promised to go to the reunion with her.

Jeanette glanced up from an enormous tin of dirty rice that she was packing. "He left early this morning. He said to tell you he's in court today. But, he'll come to lunch if he can get away."

"Oh," she said, hiding her disappointment. She'd dressed for him this morning - - for the man she loved. The short jumpsuit suited her coloring perfectly and set off her red hair. She’d spent an hour putting on her eyeliner.

"Oui, Mam'zelle. I need one more basket," Jeanette announced, rushing out to the pantry to fetch the container.

All the cookies packed, Ember poured a cup of coffee and started toward the dining room. The telephone rang. Lifting the wall extension near the kitchen door, the housekeeper's voice carried. "No, no, I will not do this thing. This is a bad thing. Why do you ask such a thing of me?" Her Cajun accent thick and agitated, Jeanette slammed down the phone.

Guilty about eavesdropping, Ember made her presence known. "Who was that?"

Glancing at Ember warily, Jeanette smiled faintly. "My niece," she explained. "Her love life is going not so well, no."

"That's a shame," Ember replied suspiciously, not believing the housekeeper’s explanation. "It’s getting late. We must be going."

The Ellerbee Reunion was held at a family fish camp on the bayou. When they arrived, the grassy sloping campsite under graceful old trees was quickly filling with people. Jeanette nosed her Mazda under a moss-draped oak tree and alighted. Ember followed. Going around to the car’s trunk, they gathered the hampers of food.

The aroma of wood-smoke and the sweet smell of roasting pig wafted on the gentle breezes. The pungent scent of crawfish etouffe and oyster gumbo trailed from the camp kitchen.

A group of women approached them. The housekeeper passed the food containers to the willing ladies. Ember assisted them, carrying a roaster pan full of ice, upon which rested a Tupperware bowl of Jeanette's famous potato salad. She placed the potato salad on a long picnic table already holding an abundance of dishes attractively displayed atop its flapping white tablecloth.

A wooden pavilion erected in front of the camp house held a Cajun band. The music was in full swing, playing the old version of Jolie Blonde. Young and old alike stood around clapping and catcalling to the instrumentalists. Several energetic couples, defying the hot sun, moved in perfect time, expertly dancing the Cajun two-step.

Across the grounds, Charlotte Prewett was walking arm-in-arm with Dr. Bob. They were strolling and laughing. Catching Ember’s eye, the couple waved. She waved back. Selecting a lawn chair in a shady spot out of the main stream of people, Ember sat down. It was so pleasant out here and so beautiful. No other place on earth held such unique charm as this bayou country. Perhaps Russ had been wiser than she realized, making his home here.

Settled under the sun-dappled backdrop of old trees, visions of her childhood came to mind. Special nostalgic moments swirled in her mind’s eye. Picnics, boat trips and long walks through the woods were things she shared with her parents. Looking past the tragedy of their deaths, she remembered the happy times. She sensed Harriet and Jim Ryan's gentle presence in this beautiful spot. Especially was this so when the breezes from the bayou lifted the beards of gray moss on the ancient trees surrounding her.

A new kinship, a common bond, emerged in her heart with all the good folks present. These were her people, distant relatives and friends. Selling The Colonnades had been the wrong decision. A sense of indebtedness to Aunt Ticia, her parents and former ancestors who'd preserved this special place to this day, probably with great personal sacrifice filled her.

Smiling dreamily to herself, she realized for the first time in her life that there were many reasons to remain here. Being near Russ was one. He’d always live in her heart, even if he’d never be a real part of her future now.

Thinking of Russ, she opened her eyes, sitting up straight. What was keeping him? Court convened at noon. Scanning the crowd, she saw no sign of him or his Mercedes. A flash of red and white polka dots passed no more than three feet in front of her. The huge oak hid her from the housekeeper’s line of vision. Where was Jeanette going and in such a hurry?

Jeanette's eyes were wide in panic, as she hurried down the path toward the bayou. Every now and again, she turned, glancing warily over her shoulder as if to see if anyone was watching her.

Jeanette’s actions were strangely out of character. Something was wrong. Ember watched her a few minutes and then followed, careful to keep out of sight. Could that mysterious telephone call have anything to do with Jeanette rushing down the path? Quickening her pace, Jeanette turned off the footpath, heading toward a utility shed. There, she ducked out of sight behind the small ramshackle building.

Slipping to the opposite side of the shed, Ember heard a man’s muffled voice. She couldn’t make out his exact words. Inching closer, she was able to hear clearly.

"I tole you, no. That one, he killed the man and the actor woman." This time she had no trouble hearing the man for he was fairly shouting. He spoke with a heavy French accent.

"No, you lie," Jeanette replied vehemently. "You must never come here again. Never, do you hear me. Never, come here with these lies." Jeanette's voice rose hysterically.

Someone was coming. Sounds of youthful voices carried from the footpath. A group of teenagers approached chasing each other down the trail. Careful to stay out of sight, Ember ducked inside the dark windowless shed. From the shed’s interior, she couldn't see Jeanette's informer nor could she hear their voices. Her heart drummed. This man could be the same person who tipped off the authorities that Selma drowned in front of The Colonnades or the murderer himself. Or, the person who tried to kill you, she thought.

She huddled in the shed until she decided she could slip out. Peering through a crack in the shed door, she saw that the teenagers were nowhere in sight. Easing outside, she saw the housekeeper striding back toward the picnic grounds. Waiting until Jeanette was out of sight, Ember left the shed. Moving around to the back, she saw no sign of anyone. Whoever met Jeanette had slipped away into the thick fringe of woods. A crude path led into the woods. Throwing caution to the wind, Ember followed the tangled path. The undergrowth was so thick; she was forced to inch along, aware that anyone could hide here and never be detected. The trail ended abruptly at the bayou.

She knew this section of bayou well. It connected to the deep swamps. Gazing at the tree-choked waterway, she felt spooked even though no one was in sight. At her feet, an indentation in the mud told her a pirogue had been launched from here not long ago. Jeanette’s mystery visitor was somewhere in a pirogue in the trackless swamp. There was nothing more to do here. Turning, she made her way back to the others.

Jeanette was talking to a group of women. Skirting around the housekeeper, Ember hailed Dr. Bob and had him drive her back to the house on the pretext of having a headache. How could she trust Jeanette after the conversation behind the shed? Jeanette knew the murderer’s identity. She must get word to Russ.

At the mansion, Ember telephoned Russ’s office. There was no answer. An answering machine picked up. She hung up without leaving a message. Should she call Campo? Her dilemma deepened. If she informed the investigator about what she’d overheard, the housekeeper could lie and say neither of the conversations took place . . . not the suspicious one at the mansion with her niece, or the one with the man behind the shed. That could place her in a dangerous position, Ember speculated. With Jeanette knowing she was suspected, the woman and her accomplice might resort to immediate violence. No, better to talk to Russ first.

It grew later. Long purple shadows crept across the front lawn. There was still no answer at Russ’s office or at Bayou Folly. These bayou festivities lasted until long into the night and even the wee hours. What if Russ was at the reunion now looking for her? Uneasiness overcame her. She was alone at The Colonnades and Jeanette knew the murderer’s identity.

The bit of covert conversation she'd overhead was the first concrete link to the person responsible for two deaths and an attempt on her life. No one in their right mind would inform Jeanette of the murderer’s identity, unless the housekeeper had a hand in the murders.

Then again, perhaps not. She recalled Jeanette’s exact words. No, you lie. You must never come here again. Never, do you hear me? Never, come here with these lies. Jeanette had argued with the informer and was protecting someone, someone capable of murder. Now Jeanette must be watched. Should she confront Jeanette? No, she decided emphatically. She needed Russ's advice. Where was he when she needed him? The housekeeper’s kindness and helpfulness was only deception and deceit. This knowledge crushed Ember.

Now, using the telephone was doubly dangerous. What would prevent Jeanette from eavesdropping? She could listen in to all conversations at the mansion.

A car drew up to the back door. It was Jeanette’s Mazda. "Mam’zelle, are you feeling better, no?" the housekeeper asked coming into the kitchen with two large picnic hampers on each arm. "The hot sun gave you a headache."

"Nothing to worry about. I’m better. Have Russ come to my room the minute he gets to the mansion," she said, ignoring the questioning look on Jeanette's face. Turning, she ran upstairs.

The hour grew later. It was past nine o’clock. Russ hadn't returned to the mansion. The conversation between Jeanette and the unknown Cajun man played over and over in her mind. Pacing the floor, uneasiness ate away at her. What was keeping Russ? Downstairs, a door closed. Jeanette was puttering around. Could the housekeeper be responsible for Owen's and Selma's murder? She knew very little about Jeanette LaBorde. Her aunt had hired her approximately five years ago and seemed pleased with her services.

# # #

At ten o'clock, Ember gave up hope of seeing Russ and prepared for bed. Too jumpy to sleep, She switched on the portable television. Karen Whitt’s heavily made up face beamed, anchoring the New Orleans news. A few minutes past 11:00, the telephone rang. Grabbing the bedroom extension, Ember whispered. "Hello."

It was Russ. "I've been tied up in town all day. How was the reunion?" His voice sounded thin and tired.

Was Jeanette downstairs eavesdropping at this very moment? "Very nice," she answered sketchily.

"What's wrong?"

"I missed you, that's all," she lied. Purposefully, she lowered her voice. "I need to see you the minute you set foot out here."

"What about?"

She went blank a moment. "It has to do with the night on the back gallery." That was another lie. "It's very important," she added, forcing lightness to her voice.

"I'm afraid it'll have to keep until morning. I'm at Bayou Folly. Dad's not feeling well. Over did it at the reunion today. It's best I stay over here. I called the Sheriff's Department and they're patrolling your property tonight."

"We'll be fine, don't worry about us," she replied with a confidence she didn't feel. Replacing the receiver in its cradle, she shuddered. Her information must wait until the morning. Tonight, she and Jeanette would spend the night alone. Joe LaBorde was offshore.

CHAPTER TEN

The next morning Jeanette delivered a message from Russ. "He said to tole you that Dr. Bob is much better. Mr. Russ had to go to his office for an early appointment. He’ll call you later."

The housekeeper looked as though nothing out of the ordinary occurred the day before. At least that was a good sign that Jeanette didn’t suspect she’d overheard the conversation behind the shed.

"Thanks." Ember started to the kitchen and Jeanette followed. Pulling off her apron, the housekeeper hung it on a peg by the back door. "I’ll be at the cottage if you need me," she said.

"Take all the time you want." She really was uncomfortable around the Cajun woman now.

Jeanette left the house through the kitchen door. She hurried along the path to the cottage. She could be rushing to a fire, Ember thought, or meeting a murderer! Trying the telephone, there was no answer at Russ’s office. She left a message this time. "It’s Ember," she said, "give me a call as soon as possible. It’s important."

The house was so depressing she couldn’t catch her breath. She needed to get outside for fresh air. Checking the kitchen window again to make certain Jeanette was gone, Ember slipped outside, too.

The day was fine. The kind of invigorating day that begged to be enjoyed despite all the dark happenings. A refreshing gulf breeze rustled through the massive oaks, tossing the smoky wisps of Spanish moss in swinging gray arcs. Prodded forward by nervous energy, Ember struck out across the grounds in the opposite direction from the LaBorde’s cottage.

The footpath angled across the grounds. Rounding a ragged bed of orange and yellow day lilies, the unkempt path twisted through the woods meandering sharply downward toward the water. The intoxicating perfume of gardenias and honeysuckle filled the air. The unspoiled beauty of this part of the grounds put a spring in her step. She’d been blind all these years, not appreciating the wonderful heritage she’d had growing up here? The plants and shrubs were several hundred years old and had matured to a luxuriant state not often seen.

Rhythmically, she swung her arms, her fingertips brushing the hem of her micro-mini. At the edge of the tree line, the bayou’s glassy surface rippled in the morning sun. Ahead, down a steep incline, the ramshackle boathouse squatted near the water’s edge. The old fishing pier jutting out from the boathouse had collapsed leaving half of its rotting length dipping into the water.

Bayou Folly lay just around the bend. She and Russ had paddled down this stretch of waterway as teenagers. Cupping her ears, she listened for sounds from that direction. The only noise was the breeze soughing through the enormous pine trees above.

Cherokee roses and tall grass choked the path to the boathouse. She wound her way through the vines and stands of native iris brushing against her bare legs. On her left, delicate wild fern pushed their curled fronds up to catch the sun. A handsome brown pelican lit on a stump at the end of the pier. Perching as still as a statue, the large morose bird blended into another protuberance on the old wood.

Intent on the scenery, she wasn’t certain, but she thought she heard a branch snap behind her. The same stealthy crackle sounded a second time. Something or someone shuffled behind her. Whirling around, nothing was there. Maybe an animal, a deer perhaps, had darted out of sight in the dense woodland.

Spooked now, she stared at the boathouse’s dingy black windows. They were filthy from neglect. Someone could be inside the desolate building watching her. Why had she wandered so far from the house? Turning, she started up the trail, picking up her pace.

Her heart stopped cold. A few yards ahead, a smoldering cigarette butt glowed orange on the path. Someone had been watching her! Instinctively, she ground the cigarette out with her heel and ran back to the house.

Reaching the house, she hurled herself inside, slamming and locking the kitchen door in one motion. The pantry door closed sharply. Ember screamed. Jeanette ran into the kitchen, her arms loaded with canned goods, a smudge of flour dusting her cheek. "Cher, are you all right? You look white as a sheet."

"I thought you were at the cottage."

"I came back to bake some peach cobblers."

Ember glanced at the kitchen window. A blue bottle-fly fluttered between the screen and windowpane. The fly’s dilemma struck a nerve. Trapped! She was trapped, too. Trapped in her own house.

Walking to the sink, she shakily filled a tumbler with water. The tepid fluid slid down her throat. Turning, she faced Jeanette. "Someone was on the trail down by the boathouse."

The Cajun woman’s eyes narrowed. "Who Mam’zelle?"

"I don’t know."

"Cher, so many people cut across the property," she began without much conviction.

"Where’s Joe?" Ember asked not taken in by Jeanette’s easy answer.

"My Joe," she repeated, surprised. "He left fast, no. He’s offshore again."

"What time did he leave?"

Before the woman could answer, the telephone rang. Jeanette grabbed the receiver quickly. She nodded indicating the call was for her. She began speaking rapidly in French.

Ember flew upstairs, closing the bedroom door and locking it. Someone had spied on her. The killer! She’d never been more helpless in her life. Think clearly! Think clearly, she told herself. She must be rational. If anyone had wanted to harm her out by the boathouse, nothing stood in his or her way. She’d exposed herself to anything. She must be more careful in the future. Even Russ had warned her to be careful.

Why hadn’t he returned her call? She dialed his office again. The telephone rang in her ear. His answering machine kicked in. She didn’t leave a message this time.

Taking up the Starcraft portfolio, she crossed to the window hugging the manuscript to her breast. The cemetery was visible from up here on the mansion’s second floor. Old marble headstones glistened in the bright sun. Like death, they were always there, just a step away from life. Intuition told her someone wanted her there, permanently planted alongside Leticia and Susie Hopgood. Shuddering, she turned away.

Charlie Howell telephoned after lunch. "The memorial service for Owen is Friday morning at eleven o’clock. Selma’s is across town at two p.m."

"This is Wednesday. You mean this Friday?"

"That’s right."

She hung up promising to get back with him. First, she’d need Campo’s permission to leave the state. Campo was in, took the call and surprisingly granted her a one-week stay on the West Coast. No way could she mention the housekeeper’s conversation with the mysterious Cajun man and risk permission for her trip. She hung up remembering something Leticia had once said; saying nothing can be a lie, it’s the same as telling a lie! Yes, she thought, it’s a sin of omission.

She was in luck at the airlines. A cancellation put her on the next morning’s seven-a.m. flight. She’d be in Los Angeles by eleven o’clock, West Coast time, check into a hotel and get some rest before the next morning’s services. Also, she could seek a private investigator.

She’d called a Realtor a few days before to put her place on the market. Empty property could attract vandals or burglars. The Realtor suggested leasing her house. Ember wasn’t sure. She dialed the Realtor advising her she’d be in town for a week

The prospect of relaxing away from the tense atmosphere at The Colonnades exhilarated her, even if the circumstances were funereal. She put in another call to Russ, leaving another message for him to call her at once.

The flurry of new plans kept her busy. For the first time, she’d preside as CEO of Starcraft Productions. Owen had demonstrated extraordinary confidence in her ability by naming her CEO of his company. She’d thought about resigning the position. To resign, however, would be to fail the trust Owen placed in her.

Charlie called back. Disappointed that it wasn’t Russ, they talked shop awhile about the mystery film. When she hung up, she felt a little better.

The telephone rang. It was Russ. Certain she heard a stealthy hand remove one of the downstairs extensions her side of the conversation was about as clear as ditch water.

It didn’t matter. He was in a rush. "I’m leaving for Dallas in fifteen minutes," he interrupted before she could tell him about her trip to the coast. He continued with his news. "I’ve got an oil lease tangle that demands a hands-on approach. Gotta run. See you when I get back."

"I’ll be gone, too," she said, her voice trailing. But, he’d hung up.

At a quarter of eight, Jeanette left the big house for the cottage. Ember waited until the housekeeper was out of sight before she went down to the kitchen.

The old house creaked as it settled for the night. Seated at the kitchen table, she soothed herself with a generous helping of the peach cobbler, washing it down with milk. She’d never felt more alone in her life.

The telephone rang. Jumpy as a cat, she lifted the receiver. "Have you heard from Russ?" Margo Paxton questioned.

"He called minutes ago." She hated answering Margo’s questions.

"Did he forget he’s playing bridge with us tonight?" Margo sounded irritated. "Can we expect him later?"

"No. That is, I’m certain he won’t be there. He had to go out of town."

Margo hung up.

The telephone sounded again. It was Charlie Howell again. "The Japanese investor is vacillating. He’s threatening to pull out of the deal . . . . " Charlie was exhibiting as much spunk as a dead mackerel.

"Grab some creative financing somewhere," she shot back. It wasn’t like Charlie didn’t know whom to see. The three of them had worked closely for several years now, Owen, herself and Charlie. What was this sudden helpless act?

"You swung most of the deals, even for Owen. You know that," he wheedled. Charlie cleared his throat. "If Mr. Moto pulls out, Consolidated Foods will follow suit. That’s mega-bucks lost. Owen played hardball with these people."

"You can do the same thing."

"Hey, I’ve been busy on your behalf since I talked to you earlier," Charlie said switching the subject. "Your house might be leased as we speak. A couple of freelance screen writers were interested."

"That’s great. I’ll be out there tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" He sounded perplexed. "What’s going on down there? You been accused of murder or something and you’re running?" Charlie laughed at his own joke. Either it was a joke, or he smelled a rat, or someone had talked out of school. Or, maybe the West Coast papers had played her up as the murderer.

"No. . . no, nothing like that." She sounded so unsure she failed to convince herself of her own innocence. She wondered if Charlie knew anything about Derek’s wild accusations to Detective Campo. Over the telephone wasn’t the place to discuss her suspicions about Derek.

"Do the writers still have the script?" she asked, getting back to the business at hand.

"Yeah. All your recommendations were implemented. You saved Starcraft a bundle. Oh yes, before I forget, the talent agency sent a new blonde dish to casting. Her name is Wendy West. She looks good for Selma’s part."

"Good choice. I’ve seen some of Wendy’s work."

She hung up, slightly guilty at leaving Charlie to face the daily crisis Starcraft presented, but only slightly.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ferns and palms waved in the late afternoon sun and the crisp scent of eucalyptus trees teased Ember’s nose. Owen and Selma were laid to rest. Their memorial services, held in different parts of Hollywood, had necessitated a rental car.

She’d leased a Volvo with a sunroof and now leaving the funeral services she’d opened the top, enjoying the wind whipping through her hair. Brushing flying strands of hair back from her face with black gloved fingers, she negotiated the turn, winding the rental car into the hills onto the exclusive street where the small doll house she once called home stood.

The house was older, the old bungalow style and it had cost her a bundle. The surroundings struck a note of poignancy in her. In a way, she realized she’d missed this place and yet, she felt herself a stranger here.

Slowing the car, Ember turned onto the steeply inclined driveway. Applying the brakes, the automobile bounced to a stop. Setting the emergency brake, she alighted, her black heels clicking smartly on the terrazzo walkway leading to the front door.

This afternoon the house looked smart and fresh with its coat of sparkling new paint. The Realtor suggested the new paint to attract tenants. Charlie’s tentative lease with the screenwriters had fallen through.

The key worked. In one fluid motion, Ember stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Kicking off her uncomfortable shoes, she turned a searching gaze around the light airy living area. Barefoot, her toes sinking in the carpet, she made her way through the rest of the house.

The rooms appeared in tip-top order. On such short notice Charlie Howell had done an excellent job. None of her personal belongings remained not a picture and not a plant. All had been sent to storage, or otherwise properly disposed of. She wanted one last peek to see if he’d missed anything. He hadn’t.

Retracing her steps to the front door, she slipped on her shoes and stepped outside. Turning the key in the lock, she sensed she’d never be back here again. Like an exorcism, this part of her life was closing forever.

The remainder of her allotted week was spent in back-to-back meetings at Starcraft. She made a darn good CEO. Owen would be proud of her.

# # #

Through her hotel room’s panoramic window, the late afternoon sun streaked over the canyons like a tumbled box of children’s crayons. Feeling like Cinderella awaiting the stroke of midnight, she wished Prince Charming could enjoy this western sunset with her, only Russ wasn’t here and this trip hadn’t been a ball in any sense of the word.

# # #

The week passed as quickly as wild fire in one of the canyons. She’d covered a lot of ground in Los Angeles. Presiding at Starcraft had been hard work and then furtive meetings with a Private Investigator. After the PI located Derek in a rehab hospital, she’d consulted an attorney about forcing Derek into making a retraction of his false statement against her. Derek wasn’t reliable enough to consult or sue. On counsel’s advice, she dropped the proceedings, along with a hefty amount of the advance she’d received against the Cape Cod Mystery project.

Back from a last minute dash to a nearby mall for fresh nylons, she showered and clad in a silk teddy, applied her makeup. Checking her watch, there was less than an hour before dinner. And, she had yet to get across town to the restaurant.

On this, her last night, before her redeye flight to New Orleans, Charlie and Mr. Moto, insisted on taking her to dinner. Her makeup in place, she pulled a comfortable dress over her head. Flat shoes completed her traveling ensemble. Glancing around, a quick survey of the hotel room assured her that everything was packed. No, the black gloves were on the bureau.

Stuffing the gloves in her handbag jarred the funeral services to mind. They were very different. Owen’s services had been sedate and formal. She’d been asked to say a few words. She’d done her best, though she’d choked up a few times. Across town, the little clutch of people related to Selma Cain stood out like sore thumbs among the elite. Despite the actress’s brassy persona, she’d truly been loved. The image of Selma Cain’s two younger sisters wrenched Ember’s heart still. From the front row, the two towheads on the brink of womanhood wept the entire time.

The funerals aside, Hollywood was exciting. She’d missed the exciting pace of life out here. All in all, her career accomplishments had been phenomenal. Being needed was energizing, even if the focus was the workplace and not a personal relationship. She had an enviable career and friends in high places. Granted, the privilege of rubbing shoulders with the rich and the famous did nothing to fill the emptiness in her heart, a person couldn’t have everything. No person in their right mind wore their heart on their sleeve in Hollywood.

A wry smile crossed her face wondering how Campo would react if she told him she was staying in Hollywood. She could fill her life with the demanding job as CEO of Starcraft. If the investigator needed her legally, he could always extradite her.

Perish the thought, Derek was here. A chill swept over her. Derek might have done more damage than she originally realized. She might never be able to give her heart or her body to a man. Stop it, Ember, she thought. The disgusting episode with Derek Cole could have happened anywhere, anytime, or with anyone else of his ilk. The fault lay with her lack of good judgment. If she stayed here, in time, she’d forget how much she needed Russ. After all, she’d loved him once before and she overcame that love. Or, had she?

# # #

An hour later, Charlie and Mr. Moto were waiting in the bar of an Arab Restaurant that catered to dramatic Shish Kebobs and belly dancers. Dinner passed pleasantly and fruitfully. Mr. Moto’s financial support was in the bag.

After dinner, she hurried to the airport and boarded the flight home. Settled in a window seat, staring out into inky blackness punctuated below with a few twinkling lights in the sea of darkness, she entertained some serious soul-searching.

Maybe, she didn’t love Russ after all if she believed she could leave him and take up the reins of her old career. It made sense that she’d become so frightened and traumatized by the murders and attack on her life until she’d reached out to him for security and protection.

This trip had been important, if for no other reason than facing her feelings away from his delightfully distracting presence. A special tingle trailed through her when she thought about their almost making love. Why hadn’t she consummated that act? At least she’d have a beautiful memory to treasure. In the same breath, she silently vowed never to let it happen again.

# # #

Back home at The Colonnades she went directly to bed. It was late afternoon before she woke. Good Heavens! She’d slept the entire day away.

Pulling a robe around her, she went down to the kitchen. A tall corn plant’s fronds waved lazily under the ceiling fan’s undulating blades. Jeanette looked up from the sink where she was carefully rinsing a fragile teapot. "Mam’zelle, I was worried. You slept so long. You all right?"

"Perfectly fine. Just needed the rest."

"I’m playing booray tonight. Will cold sandwiches do for you and Mr. Russ?"

"Yes. I mean, is Russ coming out here?"

"Oui, mam’zelle."

Back upstairs, Ember showered and pulled on soft feminine lingerie. She needed fresh nylons. She’d stuck the bag of new hosiery she’d bought in California in the armoire. Crossing the room, she opened the armoire’s mahogany doors, digging under the stacks of sweetly scented linens. Jeanette must have buried the hosiery with the linens.

A peculiar doll fell to the floor. No ordinary toy, the doll was a gris-gris, a voodoo hex, used by practitioners of the black arts. Crumpled, its limbs akimbo, the bad luck gris-gris wore a white dress similar to Ember’s. Long red hair spilled across its face. A bloodcurdling scream split the air behind her. Ember spun around.

Jeanette stood in the doorway staring transfixed at the doll. Eyes wide with terror, she screeched again.

"Stop it! Jeanette, snap out of it! It’s only a doll. Someone with a sick mind stooped to play a game. The gris-gris is a wicked prank."

The housekeeper stopped screaming. "It’s a death-baby, she whispered, trembling violently. "Mam’zelle, the death-baby has come for you."

Stooping, Ember retrieved the doll from the floor. The gris-gris was well made, meticulously stitched and dressed. A very talented person had gone to great care and expense to fashion this particular doll.

Jeanette’e howling resumed. "Don’t be ridiculous. Be quiet," Ember snapped. "No one believes any of that old nonsense anymore." Ember had a notion to shake the woman. Rolling her eyes, Jeanette kept muttering low keening sounds.

"Stop that mumbling this instant!" Ember cried heatedly.

"What’s going on up here?"

Wheeling around, Russ stood in the open doorway, a brooding expression in his gray eyes. He was staring at the gris-gris in Ember’s hand accusingly. "What’s that thing doing here?"

The absurdity of the situation struck Ember . . . a grown woman frightened out of her wits by a bit of cloth and a tuft of hair. She almost laughed. "I found this voodoo doll planted in my armoire. Someone’s idea of a prank," she began explaining. Jeanette’s shrill voice cut her off.

"Oooooooooh. Oooooooooh," Jeanette moaned rocking back and forth on her heels.

Totally out of patience with the housekeeper, whose skin was pale and her eyes protruding, Ember beseeched her. "Jeanette, control yourself. You’re the only person beside myself with access to this part of the house. "Did you place this doll in the armoire?"

Cringing, Jeanette’s eyes widened. "Mam’zelle, by the blood of every saint, I don’t know about that thing. Anyone could open the doors." Terrified, she gestured at the armoire. "It’s not locked. Even the evil eye himself could open it."

"That’s enough mumbo-jumbo," Ember ordered, exasperated. Ignoring the woman’s performance, she softened a bit, realizing that she’d experienced her share of strange happenings in this house, it was within the realm of possibility that the specter could be responsible for the doll or even the mysterious man at the Ellerbee picnic.

"Cher, the gris-gris is strong magic. . . bad, bad, bad magic," the Cajun woman continued, wringing her hands helplessly.

"I don’t believe in the black arts. This doll is pure rubbish. I want it destroyed immediately." Ember threw the limp gris-gris onto the bureau.

Russ caught her arm. "No. Campo needs to take a look at it."

Reluctantly, Ember agreed with him. "Jeanette, take everything out of this cabinet. I want it cleaned from top to bottom in case it harbors other bad luck charms."

"Oui, mam’zelle."

Turning, Ember started downstairs, leaving the housekeeper to the task of searching the armoire. She seriously doubted anything more was there. The element of surprise was thwarted with her discovery of the doll.

"What a vicious creature Jeanette really is," she said once she and Russ were downstairs.

His heavy brows arched in surprise. "Why so hard on Jeanette," he asked. Clearly he didn’t agree.

"I don’t believe she’s telling the truth. There’s something you don’t know."

"What’s that," he asked, his voice shaded with a scant flick of annoyance.

"The day of the reunion, I overheard Jeanette talking with a man down by the bayou. The man accused someone they both know of killing Owen and Selma."

"What man?"

"I didn’t see his face and I didn’t recognize his voice. He was Cajun, though. He had a distinct accent."

He swore. "Why have you kept this to yourself?"

"Several reasons. There’s more. Jeanette received a very suspicious telephone call that same morning as we were preparing to leave for the reunion. When I saw her slipping away from everyone being careful that she was unobserved my suspicions were aroused and I followed."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"I couldn’t. You didn’t give me a chance. You were in court, remember."

"Wait a minute, I called you that night."

"Yes, you did. I was afraid to tell you over the telephone. Jeanette could’ve eavesdropped."

Clearly, he was annoyed. "I wanted your advice before I went to Campo. I couldn’t prove anything I’d heard. It’d be my word against Jeanette’s. If she denied the conversations, she’d know I knew about her. I was afraid."

"You need to see Campo as soon as possible and tell him everything."

"You’re right," she said. She didn’t mention if she’d gone to Campo then, doing so might jeopardize her trip to the coast. "I wasn’t thinking clearly. Campo had given me permission to attend the funerals and honestly I didn’t want to risk losing that privilege. I’ll see him tomorrow," she promised.

# # #

The next morning, dressed in a slim fuchsia skirt and a white scoop-neck tunic, Ember tucked the gris-gris in her handbag and started downstairs.

Halting in the dining room doorway, her heart skipped a beat. There, brooding at the table, sat Russ, freshly shaven and dressed for town in brown hounds-tooth and penny loafers. Was he waiting to accompany her on her unpleasant task of seeing the investigator? Perhaps he waited to be sure she followed through with reporting the conversation and the gris-gris.

The stark wash of early morning light proved Russ hadn’t slept well, either. "Good morning," she said, crossing to the coffeepot on the sideboard.

He looked up. "Good morning."

"I’m seeing Campo." She patted her handbag.

Running his hand through his hair, he gave her a faint smile. He seemed troubled. "Tell him you didn’t come forward because you couldn’t bring yourself to admit you’d spied on your housekeeper."

"That isn’t exactly the truth," she said, sitting down, her arm propped on the table. "I followed Jeanette for the express reason that I didn’t trust her, remember?"

"We know that. But, I’d make it sound as if you put no stock in what you heard. And, that you just happened to be down at that shed."

"You don’t believe me."

"I didn’t say that."

"But, Russ, her conversation with the unknown Cajun means she was an accomplice in the murders."

"You don’t know that for a fact. I’ll admit the conversation sounds cryptic and damning, but Jeanette’s an excitable person. Whoever met her might have accused someone she believed innocent."

Russ’s logic made sense, as much as she wanted to discount it. Too, he was Campo’s friend and knew the man better than she. Once she formally accused Jeanette of wrongdoing, her life might be in grave danger.

With a false sense of relief, she dropped the subject until she talked to the investigator. "I didn’t realize you stayed here last night," she said, giving him a long look. Her week-long absence only served to make her desperately want him to want her in the same way she wanted him.

"Force of habit," he said, with a grin. "I know the funerals were terrible," he sympathized, sunlight playing across his face.

She shuddered. "They were. Death is so . . . so, final." Fumbling with her spoon, she dropped it noisily against the saucer. "And, your dad, how’s he doing?"

"Great, just great. He couldn’t be better, in fact."

"I’m glad," she put in quickly. The small talk was taking a toll on her composure. She marveled at how she’d missed him. To think she’d considered remaining in California!

The hint of a smile shadowed the corner of his mouth. Did he sense her intense attraction? Was he toying with her? She’d never force herself on any man, not even Russ.

Lifting the steaming coffee to his lips, his gaze, mellow, she realized that her connection to him was a sweet blooming sensation-promising fulfillment. This attraction . . . this love wasn’t a simple feeling she could lay aside at will. Aware her face played like a moving screen of emotions, she fought to control the churning inside her. She was failing miserably and she knew it.

"About Jeanette," he began. "Couldn’t you be mistaken about what you overheard?"

"No. Absolutely not," she insisted.

"I know Jeanette’s hard to read sometimes, but, she seemed genuinely shocked by the gris-gris."

"You might defend her," Ember said haughtily. "But, I’m certain her shock was merely an act."

"It could be different than you suspect," he said disagreeably.

"Why are you looking at me so strangely," she challenged.

With a pent breath, a moment of indecision seemed to cross his countenance. He hesitated before speaking. "I’m not trying to start an argument."

"But, that’s precisely what you’re doing."

He shrugged and said succinctly. "Jeanette planting a voodoo doll is too bizarre."

A chill moved over Ember. His dogged defense of the housekeeper annoyed her. It didn’t seem possible that Russ couldn’t see what was right before his face. Let him think what he wished. She knew what she’d overheard.

"I talked to Margo while you were gone," Russ began, changing the subject. "She insisted the transfer of your trust came about by mutual agreement of all the members of my uncle’s firm."

"Margo!" Ember exploded, slamming her cup on the table with such force, coffee sloshed out, staining the damask. "Margo Paxton! I can’t believe you’d confide in that woman about my problems."

"Aren’t you overreacting?" he muttered, clearly confused at her show of emotion. "It’s not like you to be so close minded," he said, an expression of annoyance crossing his face. "Margo worked at the firm during the transfer. She’s really very competent."

Ember nearly choked on her coffee-au-lait. Drawing in her breath raggedly, she expelled it angrily. "I believe that woman put pressure on John Paxton to further her own personal interest in some way." Let Russ believe her the world’s worst shrew, she ruminated, at his shocked face. Certain the Paxton woman’s meddling had depleted her trust fund, she vowed to find a way to prove it.

"I fail to make the connection," Russ offered mildly, truly befuddled by her outburst. He appeared to be walking on eggshells and very careful of his words. "What could Margo possibly gain? If anything, the firm lost the commission from your account. Besides, you signed the transfer yourself, or either your power of attorney."

"I signed papers from time to time," she admitted defensively. He was making her uncomfortable. "I remember signing something about earning a higher percentage of interest." She’d been too trusting. It was possible she’d signed a transfer for the trust fund. During the traumatic legal battles with Derek, she’d been summoned to the lawyer’s to sign papers pertaining to The Colonnades. At that time, The Colonnades was the least of her worries. And, due to stress, she’d given her lawyer power of attorney.

Russ didn’t pursue the matter of her trust any further. Leveling his gaze at her severely, he continued. "Ember, before you get bent out of shape over the trust, there’s more and I’m afraid you don’t want to hear it."

"What?" She stiffened.

"Foreclosure is setting in. Uncle John heard from reliable sources that you can expect to be sued." Her mouth flew open in surprise.

"You’ll have time to answer the suit," he put in quickly, anticipating her barrage of questions. "I’ll do what I can if you want me to represent you."

"Foreclosure," she repeated in a small voice. "Why didn’t you tell me before now?"

"It’s privileged information. I only learned about it myself earlier this morning. That’s why I waited for you. I wanted to tell you in person. You should receive the certified copies sometime today, or tomorrow at the latest."

He slid up from the chair. "I hate to dump this on you and then leave. But, I don’t have a choice. My day is booked solid," he added sympathetically.

She wanted him to take her in his arms, draw her close and kiss her as though he’d missed her terribly. She wanted to stroke his chest with her hands, feel his strength. That’s what she desired, not this, this horrible deliverance of more bad news.

# # #

The foreclosure was no mistake. A short time later, Jeanette announced Sergeant Smythe’s arrival. Ember met the officer in the drawing room, closing the doors behind her to ward off the inquisitive housekeeper.

The officer handed her a thick stack of court summons. "Would you sign here?" he asked politely, indicating the place for her signature.

So pretty boy had a heart. Numbly, Ember took his proffered black pen, scrawling her signature on the dotted line.

"I’m sorry, ma’am," he said sincerely, folding the summons and delivering a thick sheaf of papers to her. Pivoting, he let himself out.

With trembling fingers, she ripped open the bulky envelope. The contents were as Russ predicted. The New Orleans creditors were suing her for nonpayment. An astronomical sum leapt into her line of vision, over five hundred thousand dollars. A half a million dollars! Where on God’s green earth could she come up with that amount of money? Making a fist, she pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

A chill came over the drawing room. The chandelier began swaying. Fog gushed from the empty fireplace. Suddenly, the shadowy form of a woman appeared across the room. "This is not the end of the world," the familiar specter chided. "The Colonnades has seen hard times before. There’ll be a way to survive. You must stand firm. You’ve delegated too much to others."

Startled, but no longer frightened by the other world visitor, Ember peered intently at the ghost. On closer scrutiny, the specter became more invisible and transparent.

"I’ve expected foreclosure for a long time," Ember said to the vaporous figure floating before her. "In fact, my creditors have been lenient, really. Frankly, I’m more embarrassed than anything. The main thing that’s hurt here is my pride," Ember admitted.

"Pride has ruined many," the ghost said with an accusing finger. "It’s the seat of much trouble in the world. False pride abounds. It mars my mission."

"Your mission? You don’t mean the foreclosure, do you?"

"You’ll know soon enough. Things are not as they appear. Evil surrounds you like a boiling cauldron. You’ll prevail only if your vigil is constant. The evil one wishes you dead."

"What evil one? Who’s trying to kill me? Is it Jeanette?"

"The name of the perpetrator is sealed from me. I only know intent, not the hand that will strike." A chill wind swept across the room whipping the drapery. Amidst the swirling curtains the specter vanished. It was the strangest thing, but the ghost’s visit didn’t upset her at all. Truthfully, she looked forward to the gallant specter’s incredible appearances. After the ghost disappeared, Ember waited a few minutes, giving the specter time to materialize again. Such wasn’t the case.

Locking the foreclosure documents away, she took her handbag with the gris-gris doll and drove into Graville. In Campo’s office, his secretary informed her that the investigator was out. Leaving, the abominable doll still in her handbag, she wondered if the devil-doll had cast an evil spell.

Graville was quiet this morning. Few cars moved along the narrow streets. Wandering around town, Ember visited several gift shops, searching for voodoo dolls. They were quite popular with tourists and collectors. One clerk told her the doll in her handbag came from New Orleans, from Madame Perez’s in the French Quarter. As Ember suspected the doll was expensive. There was nothing left to do except return to the mansion.

At the house, she let herself in. Jeanette’s vacuum cleaner whirred from the drawing room. For a murderess, the energetic housekeeper was intent on mundane tasks.

The afternoon was hot. Seeking refuge from the heat, Ember pulled off her hosiery and went to the back gallery for the breezes off the bayou. Settling on the chaise, she stared at the sky, reflecting on the intimate dinner Russ prepared weeks before. Dozing, she sensed Russ’s presence before she actually woke.

"Did I startle you?" he asked edging closer to the chaise. Still in his tie and dress shirt, she assumed he’d just come from his office.

Brushing her hair back from her face, she knew she must look a wreck. "What time is it," she asked, sitting up, tugging her skirt down.

"After five, " he said, loosening his tie. "Do you mind if I toss this torture chamber tie, it’s hot as a black cat."

"Of course not. Get comfortable, as comfortable as you like," she laughed with pleasure.

Removing his tie slowly, he unbuttoned the shirt’s top button, allowing crinkly curling dark hair to peek from the shirt’s neck. Tension radiated between them. Her arms trembled, making conversation difficult. Was he experiencing the same rush of desire? He’d been unresponsive this morning all tied in knots about the foreclosure and her reaction to his information about Margo.

Pulling out a wicker fan chair, he settled across from her, near enough, that their legs touched. Mounting pressure heated her.

"Did you report the doll to the detective?"

"I tried. The investigator was out."

"You could’ve talked to anyone in Campo’s office," Russ said kindly, leaning toward her. A strange smile played about his lips.

"I know. I didn’t," she put in, her gaze searching him. "Dragging that doll out for a group of deputies struck me as ridiculous," she added, uncertain what he was thinking and if he experienced the tumultuous emotions coursing through her.

"You believed the intent wasn’t ridiculous. Have you changed your mind that someone placed it in your room to frighten you?" Reaching for her hand, he drew it against his lips, the soft brush electrifying her. This was the first time he’d touched her since her trip. The span of time since she’d touched him only served to sharpen her response.

Her heart was twisting. She was helpless, mesmerized. "I don’t want to think about any of it tonight," she said, vividly recalling his lips tasting hers, the broad chest pressed against her needy body. How she longed to hear him whisper, I love you. Old memories crowded her mind, the fire in his changeable eyes, the scent of his heated body and the pleasure his sex would bring. She’d not experienced that, not yet. She’d lived for this hour, this moment, this man. She was losing control like an untried adolescent.

Overhead, the leaves rustled in a stray breeze off the bayou. She wanted to say I’ve had enough of this waiting. I want you. Instead, she realized she must direct her thoughts to safer waters.

"I did get the foreclosure papers this morning, just as you said."

"I’m sorry," he said, his inflection genuine. There was no shade where his chair sat. Dropping her hand, he rose and repositioned it nearer her chaise. Reaching forward, he took both her hands in his.

Her hands grew damp with moisture from the intense emotions playing through her. Holding her at length, his changeable eyes burned silver gray in the afternoon light as his gaze swept her body. The fusing between them grew. Dare she hope, she wondered her throat dry, that he was experiencing the same exultation as she. This couldn’t be pretense. Rising in a half-crouch, he shifted the short distance to the chaise, settling down beside her.

Stirring to sit up, a million endearments crowding her heart, she realized her skirt had ridden to her thighs. With a sure movement, she extracted his grip on her hands and reached to pull down her skirt.

"No," he whispered hoarsely, pushing the garment up, stroking the turn of her leg. "Do you have any idea how incredibly beautiful you are lying there?" Leaning over, his lips lightly brushed hers. She kissed him back, a rush of desire sweeping her. Drawing her closer, the dampness of her clothing the only boundary that kept them apart. Circling her arms around his neck, she arched upward, moaning under the kiss. He embraced her so forcefully and so tightly, he took her breath away. How could she have been so foolish to believe she could live without him?

With one hand, Russ gently lifted her blouse. Stroking her breasts gently, he rubbed her aching nipples with his thumb. They hardened into tight buds. Slipping beside her, his hard body seeking, his hand slid up along her thigh possessively. Her skirt wound above her knees.

She pressed against him, wanting more of him. Every essence of her being demanded gratification. Leaning, his lips tempted the flesh of her thigh. She shuddered with delight. His hands under her hips, he lifted her up to him. She arched upward. "Not yet." He whispered. "This mustn’t be fast."

Easing her gently back onto the chaise, he caressed her breasts, his hands kneading the tender flesh. Moving sensually in this dance of love, she stroked the solid sinews of his muscular legs. The physical writhing they indulged in left her thighs exposed, with only tiny sheer pink panties between them. The direction of his gaze taking in her dark feminine curls straining against the fragile fabric delighted her.

"You’re beautiful," he husked, his hand working up her thigh to the panties. Expertly, he rolled the crotch aside, drawing his fingers through her dewy parts.

Her taut moan sounded. Was she ready for this? Her brain cried, stop, but her body betrayed her, begging for his touch. Easing to his feet, Russ reached down, drawing her to a standing position. Then, he lifted her in his arms swashbuckling style and started inside the house.

Pausing at the end of the hallway leading to their respective rooms, he looked down at her, hardening at her exploring hands taking liberties. "Your room or mine?"

"Mine," she whispered. "It’s rumored that Jean Lafitte slept there once."

"Angel face, this has nothing to do with sleep." Russ stopped before her door. Leaning over, he kissed her, then his tongue traced the exposed cleavage across the neck of her blouse.

Sliding down to the floor while he maneuvered the door, she experienced infinite bliss, returning each caress he offered. She prayed she was doing the right thing. Russ led her inside and over to the tester bed. He settled her onto the counterpane, stretching his length down beside her. Cupping her chin with his hand, he kissed her thoroughly and sweetly. The kiss was a slow and heated, not rushed and not too eager. Then his lips traced the column of her neck, melting her resolve.

"Ember, are you ready for this?" he whispered against her ear, his heated body almost feverish.

"Yes," she whispered anticipating the beckoning fulfillment he offered. She’d been ready for him since time began . . . as every woman in love is ready for the man she loves. Russ hadn’t declared he loved her though. This might be only lustful passion on his part, a fleeting attraction. But, she loved him and that must be enough for the both of them.

Stretched alongside her, his strength overpowered her. His breathing husked, ragged and labored. Oh no! Burying her face against his chest, she’d feared this would happen! Her worse nightmare came to horrible reality. She was powerless to fully respond even to the man she loved with all her heart. It was her fault. She should’ve told him . . . everything . . . before this moment. Would he ever forgive her? Could she ever forgive herself?

"Russ," she choked. His body stiffened beside hers. "I want to give you pleasure. But, I’m not sure I know how."

He rolled aside, gazing at her in disbelief. "What do you mean? You’re saying you’ve never been with a man before?"

Her voice was small when she found it. "No. Not exactly." How could she explain her humiliating experience with Derek Cole? She’d been such a stupid fool believing the actor’s impassioned lies of loving her forever and wanting to marry her. All the time, Derek had been acting. He was a skilled manipulative liar. His declarations of love were merely ploys to seduce her. What puzzled her was the connection from this moment to the betrayal inflicted upon her in the past. How did giving herself now to Russ conjure up the old hurt?

Russ was peering at her anxiously. She had to give some sort of explanation. "Russ," she shuddered. "I had a horrible experience. I thought it was gone and forgotten, but it’s not. It’s here between us, now." He’d want nothing more to do with her. She was certain of that fact.

"Ember, what’s wrong. You can trust me."

"Can I?" she sobbed, cursing the emotions wracking her body.

"Of course," he crooned, lifting her to a sitting position and handing her a tissue from the box on the bedside table.

She dabbed at her streaming eyes and blew her nose, the most unromantic sound in the world. "It was Derek Cole. We were engaged for a time. He invited me to a party at Owen’s private place. The house was filled with dignitaries from the film world and other international guests. Derek arrived first. When I got there, he drew me to the front of the room and introduced me as the woman he loved and planned to marry." She hesitated.

"Go on." Russ urged solemnly, his expression inscrutable.

"I was uh . . . flattered and at the same time a niggling uncertainty troubled me. I remember protesting. But, all eyes in the room were fastened on me and on Derek. People began rushing toward us, congratulating us. I wanted to run."

Russ waited.

"I remember drinks being served and toasts made. I don’t drink, but I did take champagne that night. Something powerful was in that drink. I believe now that Derek placed a drug in the champagne that numbed my inhibitions. What came later is a blur. I remember Derek leading me to the elevator. Next, I recall being in one of the bedrooms, not the room I normally used when I was at Owen’s place." She buried her face in her hands, weeping bitterly. All the humiliation and pain from that terrible time pouring out. She couldn’t continue. It was too awful.

Russ pulled her into his arms. "Ember," he said softly. "You can’t keep this bottled inside you. You must tell me, not only for my sake but for yours, as well."

"Oh, God," she said shaking. "You’re right. The next thing I remember is being in bed with him. My clothes were crumpled on the floor in this pitiful careless little heap. Derek’s wet mouth was foaming all over me. We’d . . . never made love. No," she stressed firmly, "not love. We’d never had sex before that night. He was insatiable. I must have passed out. The next thing I remember, it’s the next morning and a hundred-dollar bill is lying on the bureau partially tucked beneath my handbag. Later, Derek said the money was a joke. But, it was no joke. He’d raped me and then treated me like a prostitute."

Russ swore under his breath. "I’ll kill him."

"He’s not worth it," Ember whimpered. He’s dead already. Dead on his drugs. He can’t hurt me anymore. I . . . was . . . stupid."

"How can you say that?" Russ growled. "What the man did was criminal."

"I know," she sobbed. "I went to Owen. I told him everything. He was supportive. He told me if I went to the authorities that I’d likely never work in Hollywood again. Derek is very powerful. Owen also told me that if I did go to the authorities that he’d stand by me."

Russ grabbed her shoulders roughly. "Tell me you reported the bastard."

"I did. Otherwise I couldn’t live with myself. What followed was ugly. Derek had witnesses who testified that not only was I a willing participant, but that I was overwrought that he’d broken our engagement and I seduced him. I was retaliating. The deal was that if I’d drop charges, he’d back off from giving his version to the tabloids."

Russ patted her hand. "I’m glad your case of cold feet has nothing to do with me. I mean, like I repulsed you or something."

"Are you disappointed I didn’t have the courage for us to make love?" She realized she’d risked everything even losing him by sharing her experience. How she loved him.

Russ tightened the circle of his arms around her, kissing her again, a slow heated precious kiss. When they drew apart breathless moments later, the compassionate glow in his eyes eased her fears. He hadn’t judged her. He was trying to understand everything she’d told him.

"I know my fear has become irrational, to a certain extent," she whispered. "But . . . please understand that I’ve created this incredible defense mechanism to guard my emotions."

He arm tightened around her. "Who doesn’t want to escape unpleasantness, mental or physical."

She couldn’t say much more. She was becoming too emotional. "Do you think I’m unstable?" she stammered, struggling to preserve what little dignity she had left.

"You did what you thought was right. You can’t second guess that decision now."

"After the attack, I was low on self esteem. Things are much better now. I’ve come a long way." She sighed. Had she come far enough for a real relationship? For the first time, she recognized Russ’s wonderful quality of empathy, his gift of listening and not condemning.

Also, he managed to get along in society, yet remain relatively independent of drawing unnecessary attention to his accomplishments. How very different he was from the egotistical Derek. This insight into Russ’s personality was refreshing and exciting. . .like a wonderful conspiracy.

Russ’s tender kiss answered all her misgivings and fears. He did understand. Relaxing, she rolled closer to him. Together, they eased down on the bed, her against the protective crook his body presented. Spent, she must have fallen asleep. When she awoke, it was morning and he was gone.

Russ didn’t mention her confession nor did he try to bed her. She sensed he was giving her time to heal. They met several times over the course of the next few weeks going over information for her rebuttal to the foreclosure. He was kind, sensitive and helpful, but also a little distant.

CHAPTER TWELVE

After the murders a black cloud of suspicion settled over The Colonnades. The curious stalked the house at odd moments. This suspiciousness made going into town increasingly uncomfortable for Ember. Making the secluded back gallery her haven, she spent most afternoons there away from prying eyes. The hours passed in lounging, sunbathing, or just watching the bayou snaking around in a sharp turn behind the house.

This afternoon she was too lethargic to sunbathe, instead, she stretched out on the wicker chaise, watching the sun play hopscotch over the bayou’s surface. An occasional soft breeze tossed the overgrown shrubbery lazily. She’d lain on the chaise until her limbs were growing stiff.

Stretching, she sat up, scrambling one foot along the floor for her slip-on sandals. Drawing her fingers through her hair, she rose, easing to the edge of the gallery, her movements as languid as the sleepy afternoon. Dark would be gathering soon. She didn’t want to go inside. Since the reunion, she’d avoided Jeanette as much as possible.

A humming insect flew about her face. Swatting it absently, she watched the day’s last light illuminate an ancestor’s tall grave marker. More shadows crept across the lawn. The bayou was a streak of muted silver.

A light twinkled on in the LaBorde’s cottage. Ember’s heart quickened. Something moved in the tree line beside the cottage. The movement was furtive. Instantly alert, her heart hammering, she peered into the gathering darkness. There was nothing. Had her eyes played tricks on her? No, she was certain something had moved in the shadows.

Darkness fell swiftly at The Colonnades. Almost instantly, the pines were black sentinels bordering the property. A mosquito whined about her head. Hugging her arms against her breast, she leaned forward, gazing into darkness, straining to catch a glimpse of movement. She saw nothing unusual. An arc of yellow light spilled from the kitchen, brightening a sliver of the grounds. The contrast of light from the kitchen and darkness beyond further obliterated the rather distant shrubs and trees. She had seen someone, she was certain of that fact. Uneasy, she went inside, marching down to the kitchen

"Where’s Joe," she demanded of Jeanette who stood at the sink running water over tomatoes in a blue granite colander. Turning, the housekeeper dropped the colander spilling the fat tomatoes onto the floor.

"Mam’zelle, you startled me," she said, stooping to retrieve the tomatoes. "He’s gone offshore. Left hours ago. Do you need him?" Jeanette’s expression was quizzical.

"No," Ember returned quickly, tempering her original question. "I saw a light go on at the cottage. I wondered if he was there."

Beaming proudly, Jeanette turned, slicing one of the tomatoes. "That’s the new timer Joe put on my lamp. It’s neat, no."

"Very ingenious," Ember mumbled. Glancing nervously towards the backyard, she continued. "I saw someone running across the back lawn."

"Many people cut through the property. Miss Leticia saw no harm in that. She said it was being neighborly. It is so far around the road to the main highway. They take a shortcut, no."

Not agreeing with Jeanette’s easy answer, Ember didn’t belabor the point. Starting upstairs, she wondered, had she locked the French doors to the gallery? The old house had too many exterior doors. Constructed at a time when access to the main house was necessary for the fleet of servants going about their daily tasks, The Colonnades’s floor plan wasn’t practical by modern standards. Or safe, she thought fastening the hasp in the old lock. She’d left the door open.

A sudden sound like footsteps overhead stopped her cold. The noise came from the east attic. Scarcely daring to breathe, she listened, her hearing sharpened like a wary animal’s at a dangerous water hole. The only sound was the erratic drumming of her heart.

A door closed sharply below. Jeanette was leaving the mansion. Easing to the French door, Ember slipped the lock open and eased out on the gallery. Below, Jeanette hurried down the path toward the cottage. Was Jeanette afraid of staying in the house? Or, was she meeting the shadowy trespasser scurrying through the concealing shrubbery.

Don’t do this to yourself, Ember thought, locking the door securely this time. Turning, she hurried to her room. Inside, she locked the bedroom door. A slip of paper on the floor caught her attention. It was a note. In the short interval of time since she’d questioned Jeanette in the kitchen, the housekeeper had pushed a note from Russ under her bedroom door. Quickly, Ember scanned the note.

Ember,

I’ll be working late. Dad is coming over to play cards with you.

Russ

Ember didn’t waste a minute getting back downstairs. She was at the door when Dr. Bob arrived. Greeting the elderly man, she refrained from alarming him with her concerns about a prowler. The shadowy movement could’ve been an animal, anything, or as Jeanette said, someone accustomed to cutting across The Colonnades’s grounds to the main road. As for the muffled noises, old houses settled when the cool of evening chilled the ancient boards.

Dr. Bob enjoyed Canasta. Taking two decks of cards and leading the way to the library, Ember dealt the hand, thankful this was a fast game that didn’t require much concentration. A good thing, her concentration was off. Way off. She played a terrible game.

"I’m beating the socks off you," Dr. Bob teased after a few hands. "Are you purposely allowing an old man to win?"

"Of course not," she returned, blushing at her lack of concentration. She was relieved a short time later when Russ’s father called it a night.

"I’m staying over," the doctor announced, rising. "If that’s all right with you. I don’t want to interfere."

"I’d love to have you. And, don’t think for a minute that you’re interfering." What a perfect solution to Joe being offshore and Jeanette trailing around outside. Maybe, she could actually sleep with someone supportive in the house. Otherwise, her nerves would keep her awake. It was shortly before ten when they retired for the evening, she to her room and Dr. Bob to Leticia’s big room down the hall.

The night passed uneventfully. Surprisingly, Ember fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. Awaking from dreamless slumber the next morning, she pulled on a robe and went downstairs. Dr. Bob was digging into a platter of biegnets.

"Good morning, my dear. I slept like a log," he announced cheerfully.

"So did I. You’re welcome overnight anytime," Ember replied. Moving to the sideboard, she poured her coffee. "What time did Russ get in," she asked, settling across from the doctor.

"He stayed in town. He’s involved in a very complicated oil lease case."

"Oh," she said, licking a dusting of sugar from her finger.

The doctor didn’t elaborate about Russ, so she let the thread of conversation drop. The meal over, Dr. Bob thanked her profusely for her hospitality and returned to Bayou Folly.

The moment the doctor left, Jeanette stepped into the room with fresh coffee. "Mam’zelle, if you don’t need me, I’ll go to the cottage to clean."

"Of course, go," Ember urged. She had no right to insist on Jeanette staying with her every waking moment. Also, she no longer trusted the housekeeper. Too, she must overcome being frightened in her own house. She’d grown up here and knew every nook and cranny of the rambling structure.

Once the housekeeper left, Ember rose, locking the back door. Alone, her imagination soared. She’d not explored the east attic. Was she wise ignoring the noises she’d heard there? What if Jim had stored his private papers there? Could someone evil be searching for the diaries, too? She could go up there now. Or, she could wait for Russ. But, would he come today? Tied up in town, his time was limited.

At the foot of the flight of steps, she armed herself with a long screwdriver and a flashlight. Her shoulders tightening, she started upward. At the second landing, she stopped, prying the screwdriver along the cypress paneling seeking the latch to the secret door. The hand tool struck the recessed slot concealing the door’s hidden mechanism. At once, the door swung open. Odd, she thought. The night she’d discovered Owen’s body up here, she couldn’t budge this door.

The secret door opened to a narrow passageway leading across the back of the house and around to the east wing. Following the flashlight’s beam, Ember moved ahead. Imagining pirates with torches lugging contraband through this secret passage, prickly bumps rose on her back and arms. The Colonnades had one ghost, what if there were other evil entities occupying this eerie space. Pitch darkness enveloped her except for the light’s wavy beam. Following the weak light, she made her way along the old narrow passageway.

Ahead, the door to the main section of attic stood ajar admitting light from the dormers. The scent of mildew and rotting wood was overpowering.

Stepping through the door, broken windowpanes and a faulty roof admitting rain and humidity met her gaze. This greenhouse effect nurtured prolific green vines thrusting their tendrils into the room from cracks in the exterior wall. Jagged water stains marked the rotten wood underfoot.

Moving cautiously across the uneven planking, she noticed the floor appeared to have been swept recently. Another oddity, this room was curiously empty, unlike the cluttered attic on the kitchen side of the house. The only furniture was a large dome-shaped trunk pushed under a window. She made her way to the trunk.

Kneeling, she tried the trunk’s rusty lid. It sprang open at her touch. The trunk’s lining of peeling floral wallpaper crumbled at her touch. Inside were several neatly folded men’s denim work shirts and two or three pair of jeans. A large man owned this clothing judging from the XXXL size tags on the garments. The shirts and jeans didn’t bear the musty odor of long stored fabric. Instead, the fresh scent of recently done laundry clung to the clothing. Why would an unknown person store changes of clothing in The Colonnades’ attic?

Several more items lay under the clothing, a shiny black flashlight similar to the ones used by the police and a neatly folded black knit seaman’s cap. The trunk held nothing else except a crumpled white paper bag.

She opened the bag. Inside were sheets of white tissue paper, the type used to wrap gifts. A price tag on a golden mesh stretch string fell to the floor at her feet. Elegant gold letters leapt out at her . . . Madame Perez’s genuine collectibles. The establishment had a Royale Street address, New Orleans, Louisiana.

Tucking the tag into her pocket, Ember closed the trunk. The woman at the gift shop in town had been correct. The gris-gris in the armoire came from Madame Perez’s shop and it was very expensive.

She crept across the room toward the gentlemen’s staircase. A portion of flooring near the spiral staircase was missing. Someone had laid new lumber over the rotting floor, another makeshift catwalk. At the stairwell, she peered below.

Stark ruin met her gaze. She could see the second landing and a small portion of the second floor. It was in deplorable decay. Shaking the staircase’s balustrades, the structure seemed sturdy as a rock.

Slowly, she stepped on the stairs and started downward, pausing on the landing. This wing had once been beautiful, majestic really and more striking architecturally than the rest of the house. Now, stripped of all former beauty, the massive chambers lay in various stages of decay. High transoms still hung over every doorway, though the actual interior doors underneath were gone. Wretched patches of mildew streaked down the once pastel walls like black waterfalls. The advanced ravages of neglect had taken its toll. Most of the flooring was gone exposing the slatted sub-floor. Her father had been right to want this wing of the house removed.

Interestingly, boards had been laid across the old floor, forming the same catwalk as up in the attic. A chimney swallow darted overhead, sinking below. Screaming, her voice echoed in the empty rooms. Afraid of a bird, you ninny, she said aloud.

The board walkway led to a large chamber. Testing the walkway gingerly, it appeared to be sound. Following the catwalk trail to a large room, she went inside. A yellow plastic bucket stood in the middle of the room. The modern container was out of place here. Inside the bucket, a lone can of beer floated in a few inches of water. Besides the bucket and the unopened beverage can, lay a crumpled gray sleeping bag. She’d been right. Someone had been up here recently.

A suffocating feeling filled her breast. She could barely breath. Someone was using her own attic as his or her lair. Her terrified gaze swept around the desolate chamber. She’d been foolish coming up here alone. If anything happened to her, no one would think to search here for her.

Fearful, she turned running back to the stairwell. Grabbing the newel posts, she flung herself downward, praying the old staircase was as sound as it seemed. From above, a shadow fell across the steps. Glancing upward, a dark form darted out of sight. Stumbling, Ember fought for balance. A boulder-sized chunk of plaster smashed around her. At the last minute, she leaned forward, avoiding the deadly missile by inches. The figure above was gone.

Back in the safety of her bedroom, she dialed the investigator’s office. Answer, she prayed. Please, please answer.

# # #

Campo arrived a short time later. "You have another complaint, I understand," he said in his blunt manner.

Closing the drawing room door, Ember faced the detective. "Someone is in this house. They tried to kill me." She was shaking so badly, her words came out in choppy sobs.

"Calm yourself, Miss Ryan," Campo urged mildly.

Trying to control the erratic pounding of her heart, she began. "I went up to the attic over the closed section of the house. Someone has been using that attic. There are things stashed up there, a sleeping bag, extra clothes and a flashlight. I saw a man. I was terrified and ran down the Gentleman’s Staircase. He threw heavy plaster at me."

At least, she believed the blur was human. If a ghost had attacked her, it was an evil manifestation and not the kindly personage she’d come to believe was her Aunt Leticia. She couldn’t tell Campo about the ghost. He believed her incompetent now.

Campo wasn’t buying her story. His sanguine expression mirrored resistance. "We did a thorough investigation up there when Sterling’s body was found. It’s impossible that anyone could maneuver around in that unstable place."

"Someone placed a walkway up there." She stared at him with cold eyes as he radioed for backup.

The detective was speaking to an officer when Russ came into the room. "What’s going on?"

She was accustomed to Russ turning up when she needed him. Rushing forward, she grabbed his extended hand. "You’ll never believe this newest development."

His shoulders tightened. "What now?"

She filled him in.

Two police cars arrived shortly; one with a canine officer leading a very energetic dog. When they got to the gentleman’s staircase, the plaster had been carefully removed.

"I tell you it was there," she insisted, the knot in her throat threatening to choke her. She felt extremely hot, her self-esteem dropping a mile. "I tell you the plaster was there," she said weakly.

On Campo’s orders, the officers trooped upstairs, the dog bounding ahead. Ember and Russ followed. Both the bucket and the sleeping bag were gone, vanished into thin air. The trunk still stood under the window. It was empty. She wasn’t surprised.

"I tell you there were men’s clothes in that trunk," she said, her throat hurting. Her mind was no longer under her control. "Look, I found this tag." She seized the Madame Perez store tag from her pocket.

Frowning, Russ examined the tag before passing it to Campo. "I’m telling the truth" she whispered softly against his ear. He didn’t answer.

Back downstairs, Russ’s face clouded and he was silent. A questioning frown stretched between his brows.

"I tell you, those things were there," she said trembling. "Someone is in this house and they’ve moved everything."

"You don’t have to convince me," he said grimly. "I believe you."

# # #

"I didn’t imagine that plaster, or the clothing," she insisted the moment the investigator joined them.

Campo gave a slow nod. "Miss Ryan," he said, warningly. "I advise you to keep your accusations quiet. Any number of things could’ve happened to the items you described. They could’ve been planted to frighten you and then removed to make you look as though you’re lying."

"How could anyone know I planned going to the attic this morning?" she demanded. "I didn’t know it, myself."

Campo’s hawk like features flashed. "The day you investigated isn’t important. Only the fact that you might."

A certain truth clung to his logic. However, his acerbic tone was insulting. She resisted further dialogue with the lawman. What was the use?

"I wouldn’t attach too much importance to the clothes up there, probably a prank like the voodoo doll you found….."

"Voodoo doll!" she cried, cutting him off. "That doll wasn’t a prank and that plaster was thrown deliberately to kill me."

"We didn’t find any plaster. However, falling plaster could easily be set off by moving around up there, walking, sets off vibrations. That entire structure is unstable."

"If the falling plaster was a natural occurrence as you suggest, why did someone sweep it away?"

Campo disregarded her comment with a dismissive gesture. He was stubborn, seeing things in his point of view only. "You said a man, yet you can’t describe him. The shadow was likely one of the barn swallows flying, or maybe an owl."

He didn’t believe her! Wordless at first, she recovered her spirit. "True, birds do come and go up there, but that doesn’t explain the plaster being removed." She wanted to say more, to explain further. But, that might be dangerous. How dare he bully her!

Campo’s eyes narrowed to slits. "There’s another matter I need to discuss with you," he began. "The autopsy report is back on Mr. Sterling. We had sent it to an out of state forensic lab. They’re notoriously slow. Sterling was shot twice before being carried to the attic and positioned to resemble a suicide hanging. The gun used was a deer rifle. The first bullet entered the back of his head killing him instantly, splattering brain matter. No brain tissue was found in the attic.

"After the fatal shot, he fell forward onto something hard, a wooden surface of some sort. That explains the wood fibers in the wound and the traces of paint. A second bullet went through the heart from the back. This bullet was fired at close range."

"How horrible," Ember cried.

"The killer knew what he was doing. It was a clean killing, but very ruthless. There’s something else, do you recall what type of shoes Mr. Sterling wore that day.

"Shoes?" Ember repeated. "Why?"

"Try and remember."

"I don’t know. I didn’t notice his feet at all. I was so surprised that he and Selma were at the house."

"He wasn’t wearing shoes when the body was discovered in your attic."

"What could’ve happened to them?"

"Any number of things. Maybe they were expensive and the killer took a liking to them. They could’ve been the correct size. Who knows."

"Owen suffered from foot pain. He wore soft half boots. You can’t believe someone killed him for his shoes," she cried incredulously. The detective seemed to be on to something.

"No. Robbery wasn’t the motive. His jewelry remained on the body. But, then jewelry is easy to trace, unless someone is a professional thief with sources to dump the hot stuff quickly. Shoes are another matter, usually they aren’t as traceable."

"What about Selma?" She glanced at Russ and Campo. "How did she die?"

"We might never know. The human body is fragile. It tends to disintegrate, especially submerged in water in this heat. Her body was extremely decomposed after that long time in the water. Not much was left to work with. The general public isn’t aware of this fact, Miss Ryan, but actually the woman’s clothes held her remains together. However, DNA made a positive identification.

Pressing her hands to her temple, Ember wept softly. Russ reached for her, embracing her reassuringly. "Ember, honey, it’s over. They’re gone."

"Mark, none of this makes any sense," Russ said, his tone harsh.

Campo smiled tightly. "None that we can discern at the moment."

# # #

That evening after supper, Ember was glad that Russ lingered in the kitchen sharing dessert. A comfortable silence fell between them. Thanks to him, she’d gotten through the afternoon. When she felt endangered, he reassured her. He was seeing to her financial affairs. How could she manage without him?

Sighing, she pushed her plate back, rubbing her temples. Would Owen’s and Selma’s deaths mar their lives forever? She longed for the innocence they’d shared long ago. Discovering she loved him was proving futile. She doubted they’d ever overcome the diabolic nightmare unfolding around them.

"Let me do that," Russ commanded softly, moving behind her chair. His fingers worked magic kneading her neck. His touch was firm, warm and oh so soothing.

"That feels good enough to bottle," she whispered closing her eyes.

Stopping the circular rubbing, he leaned over the back of her chair, feathering her neck with light kisses. It was the first time he’d kissed her since the night in her bedroom when she’d told him about Derek.

Her body tightened in response. Exquisite sensations pulsated, washing over her. A warm feeling trailed from her stomach to the center of her body. Her nipples hardened under the lounge set she wore.

"Are you still afraid?" he asked, his tone an octave lower than normal.

"Not when you’re here," she admitted truthfully, sliding her chair back and rising. A glance at his desire-glazed face revealed he wasn’t referring to her physical fear, but to the emotional fear that had scarred her in the past. Facing him, her hand brushing the iron-hard surface of his stomach, she confessed. "Can you believe I’ve designated you as my own personal knight in shining armor?"

Nuzzling her ear, he drew her arm around his waist, tightening his hold on her. "It’s about time I came up in the world."

Ember laughed, a deep seductive gurgle bubbling from hidden springs within her body. His tongue toying at her ear sent delicious quivers over her. Smiling, she eased into his open arms. Encircling him with her other arm, he drew her closer, clasping her tightly in an embrace. Lowering his lips to hers, he kissed her gently. The teasing kiss crossed the width of her mouth. Then his lips feathered the center of hers. His breath was hot and insistent.

Limp, she opened her mouth at his urgings. His tongue sought hers. A wild heat spread through her. The curve of her hip nudged his. Locked together in the middle of the room, he was ready for more than kisses.

"I’ve never been made love to on a kitchen table before," she reflected playfully.

Drawing her back at arm’s length, the wicked expression in his eyes, made her blood race through her veins. "Woman, are you propositioning me?"

Fluidly, his hand glided under the sheer top of her tunic, working inside her lacy bra. His thumb made music against the eager nub of her nipple. "You’re one beautiful woman, Ember Ryan," he whispered.

Her heart throbbed, dipping so dizzily, she gasped for breath. She wanted another kiss. Throwing her head back, she arched upward, seeking his lips. The kiss she initiated was all she hoped for. Wanting to tell him that she loved him, she couldn’t. Finding love was one thing, declaring it was another. Russ hadn’t committed that he loved her. For the moment sharing this moment with him was all she could hope for. Her thighs trembling, she pressed closer.

Slowly, she unbuttoned his shirt, wanting the erotic feel of his man’s flesh under that cotton covering. She stroked the fringe of dark hair that dipped down into his pants.

Chuckling at her daring, he gave a soft moan, unhooking her bra. "Little Lady, I declare, you’re singing my song."

"Am I?" she managed huskily, longing to hear him say he loved her.

"Let’s go upstairs."

She wondered if she could stop the loving now. She could, maybe . . . maybe not. This time she’d buried her past. She’d make her sweet memory. The sweet hiss of his breath made her wanton with a sense of power.

The telephone rang. Not another interruption! Should she answer it? It could be important. Stepping aside, she reached for the wall extension’s receiver. It was Margo Paxton for Russ. "It’s for you," she said, handing him the telephone.

The conversation went on at length. Or at least, Margo’s side of the conversation went on at length. Russ answered mostly in monosyllables such as . . . is that right . . . I don’t think so . . . are you sure.

Terribly disappointed, she left the room giving him privacy. The fragile moment between them was destroyed by the telephone’s intrusion.

Sooner or later their time together would come. She was certain of it. When it did, she’d never cheat him or herself again. When the right moment came, she’d be ready.

# # #

The next afternoon, the telephone rang at The Colonnades. Jeanette dried her hands on her apron and answered.

Detective Mark Campo’s voice came on the line. "Might I speak to Miss Ryan. It’s urgent."

"Miss Ryan has gone to town, no. She’ll be back late today."

"Did she say where she was going in town?"

"Non. She did not say this."

"Have her call me at my office the moment she returns." Detective Campo hung up. He swore.

Shortly after 2:30 p.m., Ember approached the small newspaper library. This archive was housed in a modern aluminum building next door to the parish courthouse. A small city park behind a black wrought iron fence separated the two buildings.

Ember glanced toward the courthouse. She’d always admired its impressive stone walls. Two militant black marble eagles mounted in niches on either side of the classic structure’s front doors kept vigilant watch on the proceedings of justice in the parish. Detective Campo’s office on the third floor, the third window from the left, stared down at her blankly.

Checking her watch, there was ample time to research the newspaper’s archives and then meet Russ at Sonny’s, a popular eatery on the outskirts of town as they’d planned. She pushed open the library’s tinted glass doors and went inside. A young woman acknowledged her. "Might I help you?"

"Yes, I want to see past copies of the Graville Crier."

"How far back?"

"The past five years for starters, then maybe thirty years."

"Sure, follow me."

Ember followed the girl’s tan chinos down the hall to the research room. They entered a long narrow room partitioned into waist-high cubicles. Each cubicle contained a computer. "Do you know how to use the microfilm program?" the girl asked.

Ember smiled. "Yes, I think so. Are these the directions?" She pointed to typewritten notes taped beside the computer’s screen.

"Yes, they’re plastered everywhere, on the machines, at the desk and even up here on the wall. If you need help, just let me know."

Ember moved to the designated cubicle. She logged on. The menu popped onto the screen. Under Subjects, she selected Arrests. After a few minutes of trial and error, she got the hang of the computer program and began scanning back copies of the Graville Crier for persons with arrest records. She typed in the name, Jeanette LaBorde. Nothing showed up.

Next, she entered the name, Joe LaBorde. Ember caught her breath. Jeanette’s husband had a long criminal record. Joe LaBorde’s true colors surfaced in these newspaper accounts. His run-ins with the law were frequent and well reported, but all were minor offenses. The first article bearing his name was a Disturbing the Peace arrest. Apprehended for starting a fight over a woman with the woman’s boyfriend, Joe became the article’s dark horse.

Aha! After several more misdemeanor type arrests, Ember hit pay dirt. . . . a forgery arrest! The article listed Joe LaBorde, arrested for passing stolen checks at a combination automotive-convenience store. The forged checks had been stolen previously in the residential burglary of a Miss Eunice Johnson of Baton Rouge and then passed miles away in Graville by Joe for tires and marine batteries. The monetary amount of the purchase made them a felony charge.

Interestingly, a later article in the Crier cleared LaBorde of implication in the burglary. The forgery charges were dropped, also. The most logical reason for dropped charges would be restitution of the money to the convenience store and Miss Eunice Johnson not pressing charges for the theft of her checks. That meant Joe had enough pull to influence someone to go to bat for him. . . an interesting theory. Had Aunt Ticia paid his fines and pled on his behalf? The elderly woman had had a kind heart.

Ember punched in the society section for five years ago, the approximate time when Margo Paxton came to Graville. A barrage of articles filled the screen. Ember read a few. The articles played up Margo’s glowing public service career. She seemed to have landed the chairman positions on most of the local charity boards.

Articles about Margo Paxton’s engagement and marriage to John Paxton were there. Ember entered infant deaths for the past five years. There was nothing in the archives about an infant being buried in The Colonnades private cemetery.

Punching in the proper date, Ember read her parent’s wedding announcement. Charlotte Prewett’s gossipy column, River Rhythm, announced Miss Harriet Ellerbee and Mr. Jim Ryan’s Parisian wedding. A later article covered the splashy reception when the couple returned home some three years later. I was two years old, Ember thought.

The last article Ember read was the obituaries of Harriet and Jim. The coverage of the small plane that went down on that barren Scottish coast with no survivors had changed her life forever. The details of that plane crash brought tears to her eyes.

She was crying when the young woman behind the desk approached her. "Miss Ryan, you have a message." She handed Ember a slip of note paper.

Meet me in the City Park at once. Something new has come to light. The note was signed. Russ.

Grasping her handbag, Ember rushed to the girl at the front desk. "Who brought this to you?"

"No one." The girl in the chinos looked perplexed. "A man telephoned. He said you’d understand. Is something wrong?"

"No. At least I don’t think so." It was odd that Russ realizing she was here in the library would ask her to meet him in the park. Something important must have come up. Hurrying from the library, her intuition told her something was wrong, very wrong.

Outside the afternoon heat hit her like a blast furnace. Overhead, the clouds appeared permanently painted on the blue canvas sky. Not a leaf stirred on the trees and not a blade of grass moved when she made her way down the sidewalk. Lifting the black wrought iron gate, she entered the park. She had some things to tell Russ, too. For starters, she'd been right not to trust Joe LaBorde. At best, the man was nothing more than a common criminal.

Russ wasn’t in the park waiting for her. Anxiously, she glanced down Main Street toward his office. The familiar gray Mercedes sat parked at the curb. She’d wait here for him. Undoubtedly he had his reasons.

An automobile drew up to the curb. It was Margo’s white Cadillac. Margo exited, running up the path toward Ember. Panting, the woman reached her, holding out her hand. She struggled to catch her breath. "Thank God, I found you," she cried. "I didn’t know if I’d get to you in time." Margo sobbed, wild eyed. "You must come with me at once."

"What’s wrong?"

Biting her bottom lip, Margo struggled for composure, "It’s Russ. It’s too horrible for words. Someone has tried to kill him. He’s waiting for you back at my office."

"Your office? I don’t understand."

"The killer would never think to look there."

"Campo," Ember rasped, pointing to the courthouse. "Let’s get help."

Margo’s flinty eyes narrowed under her heavy mascara. "Don’t be stupid. We can’t. We’re being watched. One of Russ’s conditions was to tell no one. If you don’t come as Russ asked, you might never see him alive."

The Paxton woman’s hysterical message shredded Ember’s sanity. The killer had Russ! "But, he called me at the library just minutes ago."

"Hurry!" Margo shrieked. "There’s no time to stand here discussing what’s happened."

Of course Margo was right. If Russ’s life was in danger, then every minute counted. Running with Margo down to the Cadillac, she prayed Russ would be safe.

"Get in?" Margo ordered, jerking the door open. Ember scrambled onto the front passenger’s seat. Margo slid under the wheel. The Cadillac’s powerful engine hummed. The car’s automatic locking system clicked. The automobile drew away from the curb recklessly.

Breaking the speed limit, Margo sped under a caution light without caution. She turned the automobile right on St. Francis Street. Then, unexpectedly, she turned the automobile onto Academy. They were going in the opposite direction from her radio station office.

"Where’re you going?" Ember questioned. "You’ve taken a wrong turn. We’re heading out of town."

Expressionless, Margo stared ahead. She seemed to be in another world. "It doesn’t matter. We can get there this way." At the next red light, instead of turning back into Graville proper, Margo exited Academy, turning onto the parish road leading to the coast highway.

"This is insane," Ember shouted. "You’re going out of town. This is the opposite direction from your office."

Margo remained silent. The car sped past the shrimp canneries where the women workers stood at long platforms gossiping and laughing while they decapitated the shrimp. Margo showered down on the accelerator. The Cadillac entered the desolate stretch of road through the swamp.

"Margo, where’re you going? Where’s Russ? You told me he was at your office."

"Trust me, Ember, I know what I’m doing," Margo replied grimly.

The Cadillac’s steel belted tires licked the hot pavement, taking them farther from Graville and farther from Margo’s office.

Where was the woman taking her? "Stop this instant," Ember screamed, ramming her foot over the brake pedal. The automobile lurched. Margo’s stiletto heel jabbed unmercifully against Ember’s leg.

The car veered sharply. "Take a look behind you," Margo shrieked.

Wheeling around, Ember stared down the black barrel of a nine-millimeter handgun. Joe LaBorde pointed the weapon at her head. "You!" she rasped. Horror shot up her spine in sickening jolts. Her shocked brain functioned in stages, like damned water being released in slow motion from a lock. Her worse nightmare sat behind her. Somehow Joe LaBorde had forced Margo to act as his accomplice in order to play out whatever deadly plan he’d hatched? "You monster! What’ve you done to Russ?"

The deadly weapon’s cold steel bit into the nape of her neck. "Keep quiet," Joe ordered malevolently.

"We’re cooperating," Margo snapped.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Joe slurred.

Ember had to hand it to Margo. Even though victimized herself, she’d kept her head and her bravado, as well. Concentrating, Ember turned, watching the road ahead, trying to memorize the route they were traveling.

Stealing a glance at Margo, Ember grudgingly admired the woman, though she’d never liked her. Talking down to Joe took guts. Margo must realize the danger this man represented. Why had Joe chosen Margo for the random pawn put into play to accomplish his violent intentions toward her? Was there a connection between Margo Hall Paxton of Charleston, South Carolina and Joe LaBorde of Graville, Louisiana? She was insane to imagine such a thing. The pieces didn’t fit.

Questioning thoughts persisted. She’d heard of scenarios similar to this where victims become so traumatized by their captor; they become part of the crime taking place around them. Was Margo reacting in such a way?

The human brain takes bizarre psychological twists to protect itself from nameless horror. The first film she did with Owen implemented such a plot twist. Had Joe LaBorde murdered Owen and Selma? If, so, why? Confused, she was becoming traumatized herself, allowing her wild imagination to implicate Margo.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Choking back the rising ball of fear in her throat, Ember realized her life depended upon alertness and keeping a clear head. Russ, wherever you are, be safe, she prayed as the Cadillac sped down the desolate stretch of coastal highway.

If only Campo had taken her seriously about Jeanette and the mysterious man at the Ellerbee reunion. Both the housekeeper and her husband were dangerous people. Now she and Russ were paying a deadly price for the investigator’s incompetence.

"Pull up to that store ahead," Joe growled. "I’m out of beer. You promised plenty of beer, Margo, remember?" Joe laughed oddly.

Joe’s sharp order stunned Ember. Did the drunken idiot believe that she and Margo would remain in the car while he shopped for beer? Surprisingly, Margo obeyed him stoically. The car slowed and bounced onto a convenience store’s parking lot.

Joe opened the back door. "No funny stuff while I’m gone, ladies. Remember Russ!" he taunted.

"Drive off, Margo, he’s gone," Ember hissed the moment the dangerous man moved from sight.

"I can’t. He’s the kind who’ll stalk us to the ends of the earth and cut out our hearts some dark midnight. Have you forgotten that Russ’s life is at stake? Joe has him at a fishing camp ahead."

The questions tumbled through her brain. When? . . . why? "Is he all right?"

Margo shot a laser sharp gaze at Ember. "Yes. Don’t worry."

"Oh, thank God."

"There are conditions though. We must follow Joe’s instructions," the woman warned.

"What does Joe want from us?"

"I’m not certain. But, he means business."

Joe pushed through the store’s glass doors swinging a six-pack of beer. The glint of the nine-millimeter stuffed in his pants flashed when he clambered into the automobile’s back seat. Shifting the car’s gears, Margo pulled away.

Terrified, instinct warned Ember that she couldn’t risk either Joe or Margo sensing the depths of her terror. Joe popped the top on another beer can. The man’s drinking might work in their favor.

Accelerating recklessly, Margo swerved the car, sending Ember slumping against the door. Had the woman lost her mind?

"Sit up," Joe ordered pushing the gun against Ember’s neck. "Whatcha tryin’ to do?" he slurred, his voice dripping with spite.

She obeyed the madman. "Where’s Russ?" she demanded, pushing her luck that he wouldn’t kill her in the automobile for several reasons. Margo might lose control and crash, plus bleeding all over the car’s plush interior would be difficult to conceal.

"Where’s Russ?" Joe mimicked. "Turn around, you."

"I warned you, Ember, no talking," Margo snapped in a clipped tone.

"Yeah, this wench talks too much. She’s put out incriminating lies about me." For emphasis, Joe pushed the gun barrel against the back of Ember’s head. "A man can only take so much, no," he rambled. "Defamation of character ain’t to be sneezed at. I had me one fine wife until this dame tipped off that detective."

Wife? Jeanette? What was Joe babbling about? The man was speaking in riddles.

The Cadillac’s turn signal flicked indicating a right turn. Margo slowed the car, exiting the highway taking a side road. They were traveling west into the blinding afternoon sun.

Approximately a half-mile down this road, the Cadillac bumped over a rough metal cattle guard in the roadbed. Beyond the cattle crossing, the road deteriorated to mere ruts on either side of a grassy median. Weeds slapped against the side of the car. Motor oil splotches stained the grass in spots. Someone had recently used this isolated pig-trail. A few miles farther, Margo slowed the automobile.

They’d reached the gulf. The Gulf of Mexico’s aquamarine waves washed over the small sandy beach in front of a camp house on high stilts. An anchored sea-going boat rocked in the restless surf. Ember shuddered. Was Russ being held captive in that dismal house? Margo drew the Cadillac up behind the shack, killing the engine. The cries of seagulls broke the silence inside the automobile.

"Is Russ here?" Ember blurted.

"You ask too many questions," Joe groused, his cold black eyes glimmering. The man seemed to be losing his patience. "Get outta the car. See that boat? We’re gonna take a little ride after dark."

Despite his bulky frame and heavy drinking, Joe sprang from the car nimbly, the gun trained on Ember and Margo. He was drunk and mean as a snake. Margo exited the car, walking ahead toward the cabin. Why didn’t she look back? Judging from Joe’s inebriated condition, between the two of them, they possibly might have a chance at overpowering him.

Stalking ahead without a backward glance, Margo made her way to the cabin. Her white fitted suit, high heels and heavy gold jewelry was out of place in these crude surroundings.

"What’re you waiting for," Joe slurred. "Follow her."

Saucer-eyed Ember obliged. The barren surroundings and steep house offered little hope of escape.

Reaching the camp’s rickety stairs, Margo started upward. Ember followed with Joe holding the gun against her back. She could feign stumbling and fall backwards. Maybe Joe would fall, too. No, from his plodding tread, the heavy man seemed rooted to the steps. If she tried something so reckless, she might endanger Russ. She couldn’t risk placing him in more danger.

Pushing the camp door open, Margo went inside. Ember and Joe followed. The musty scent of grime and neglect greeted them. The camp was a two-room structure. The living area and kitchen combination had tightly closed windows on all sides swathed under straggly blue curtains. Two soiled couches and a cheap kitchen table with four matching chairs were the room’s only furnishings.

Through the open door on the right, Ember saw an unmade bed and a ratty chest. There was no sign of Russ. What if Joe had already killed him?

"Where’s Russ?" she gasped, her voice shrill with alarm. Joe ignored her.

Margo reached through the curtains at the front of the cabin, switching on a window air conditioning unit. She strode to one of the couches, sat down, crossing her legs. "This place is a pig-sty," she snapped, her eyes narrowing in disgust.

"You sit there," Joe barked to Ember, pointing the gun barrel toward the couch opposite Margo.

Ember sat down. Something told her that Russ wasn’t here. Had he ever been here? What was really going on?

Shuffling toward the kitchen table, Joe scraped a chair back, slumped down, popping the top on another beer can. "Your boyfriend ain’t here," he said in answer to her unspoken question. "He’s never been here. This is your party."

What did he mean? Her party! He’d never been here. If Joe had brought Margo and her here to kill them, what was he waiting for?

"If you plan to kill me, I deserve to know why?" She was throwing caution to the wind. Too late, she realized that she might be putting ideas into the man’s head. She’d have only herself to blame if she set off the maniac.

Twisting his thick neck in Margo’s direction, Joe snarled. "Go on, tell her . . . tell her how much you hate her guts."

Margo hated her! What was Joe talking about?

Bolting up from the couch, Margo paced into the small kitchen area, her back to Ember. After a few minutes, she turned around, methodically pulling out one of the kitchen chairs. She sat down. The afternoon sun washed over her bleached hair, creating harsh shadows under her eyes.

Her expression hardened. The camouflage of friendship dropped away. Margo’s point of concentration seemed far away. The woman’s eyes narrowed to slits in her florid pink face. She resembled a magician throwing off a cloak, exposing another person entirely. "Yes, I suppose it’s time, isn’t it," she said at last, looking first at Joe and then at Ember.

"Suppose!" Joe hooted sarcastically, tipping the beer can to his mouth.

"Shut up!" Margo commanded, her lips curling in disgust. "I’ve heard enough of your idiot mouth to last me a lifetime."

"What does he mean, you hate me?" Ember asked, searching Margo’s face. Granted, she’d never liked Margo very much, either, but hate your guts?

Margo stared at her, raising one eyebrow superciliously. She seemed to relish this moment in some fanatical way. "You don’t recognize me, do you? You’ve forgotten. Privileged little Ember Ryan, born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Doors open for you and your kind like magic."

Recognize her! Privileged little Ember Ryan! "Of course, I recognize you," Ember said the moment she found her voice. "You’re Margo Paxton, John’s wife." From the berserk expression on Margo’s face, the woman had snapped totally.

Margo laughed hysterically. "John’s wife, indeed. Do you know what I had to go through before that old fool proposed to me? No, you wouldn’t know." She fell silent for a moment. "I’m getting ahead of myself. First things first. My marriage comes much later in this saga."

Ember chewed her bottom lip. Livid hate painted Margo’s features. She, Ember Ryan, was passing under Margo’s review and she’d failed. But why? Margo’s insane accusations made no sense at all.

Bracelets jangling, Margo shook her finger accusingly at Ember. "You’ve had Russell Paxton fawning at your feet for years. Only he wasn’t good enough for you, was he? You ran off to Hollywood. You Ryans make me sick, constantly running somewhere, anywhere, to spend all that Ryan money - - money you never earned. Your parents before you were the same, traveling here and there at the slightest whim."

"You never knew my parents," Ember cried defensively. "They died years ago, when I was a child." Her voice was shaking. "Today, I read about you in the Graville Crier. You came to Louisiana from South Carolina five years ago. There’s no way you could’ve known my parents."

"That’s exactly what I intended everyone to believe," Margo said rising like a shot from the chair. "How clever of you spying on my past. How intuitive, but also how futile. I’ve been very careful. Even Leticia never guessed who I was. That old crone with her morbid curiosity accepted me for the South Carolina belle I represented myself to be."

"How dare you speak ill of my dead aunt," Ember blurted.

"Leticia Ellerbee no longer matters," Margo said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "The dead aren’t my concern."

Joe rose, throwing his empty beer can in the sink. "Let’s get this over with, Mary. . . I mean Margo."

"Don’t interfere!" Margo spat back with the speed of light.

Ember’s heart raced. "Mary?" she repeated softly. Joe had called Margo, Mary. The name Mary fell across her memory like an icy dark shadow. The name Mary matched Margo’s eyes. Somewhere in Ember’s subconscious memories, she knew this Mary - - knew her - - and feared her!

Drawing herself up into a posture of superiority, Margo smiled evilly. "You’re beginning to remember, aren’t you?" Her voice bore the hissing venom of a viper. "Remember Mary Hopgood?"

Ember experienced the sudden feeling of holding back vomit. She was in the stables at The Colonnades. It was dark in the animal’s stall though it was noonday outside. Mary Hopgood stood over her. Stout and all bully, her greasy lanky hair stinking of sweat and her harelip mouth twisted in a threatening sneer.

They weren’t alone in the stables. A mouse of a child peered up from the hay . . . a little gray mouse with large staring eyes. The mouse child had gentian blue eyes that didn’t view the world quite normally. Susie Hopgood, Mary’s retarded younger sister watched. Susie seldom spoke and when she did it was mostly singsong garble. The same Susie Hopgood was now buried in the Ryan family cemetery.

JoJo, Ember’s pony reared and thrashed against the walls of his small stall. Blood streamed from an ugly gash on his muzzle. Mary Hopgood held the handle of a metal garden rake, its rusty prongs clotted with blood and hair. Again and again, the rake crashed down on JoJo’s head.

"You’re Mary Hopgood!" Ember spat with contempt. "You’re little Susie’s big sister. You threatened to kill me if I told on you for beating my pony. Do you realize the trauma you caused me then by your cruelty to a poor defenseless animal?"

Margo stared at Ember brazenly. "But, you told anyway, didn’t you? You went sniveling to your aunt. You wouldn’t allow Susie to ride the pony. She loved that horse. She’d sit at the fence crooning to it all day. Half the time, she wouldn’t eat; she was so crazy over that animal. Papa couldn’t afford luxuries like ponies."

Remembering the bottles of liquor that were more important to Mr. Hopgood than anything one of his children might need or want, Ember tried reasoning. "Margo this is insane. Your sister wasn’t allowed in the stables because my father feared she’d be hurt or worse. Susie did ride JoJo from time to time. You know you were forbidden in the stables after you nearly killed JoJo with that rake. It's your own fault Susie grieved and not mine."

Margo laughed evilly.

"My parents treated your family well while you lived in the cottage," Ember continued.

"Well!" Margo bunched her hands into fists. "You call hand-me-down clothes that didn’t fit, being well treated. We ate leftover food from your kitchen. I vowed to never take charity again and one day to take everything you had, little Miss rich girl!"

A chill ran up Ember’s spine. "Margo, that was then and this is now. You have a wonderful life. You’re one of the most respected women in Graville. You married a prominent wealthy man. You have every reason to be proud of yourself. You’ve achieved everything most people long for."

"Quit trying to confuse me," Margo snapped raising her chin. "I never meant for things to go this far. I had to own The Colonnades. That’s why you lost your trust fund money. I tried to buy the place, but you wouldn’t sell."

The woman was psychotic. "Why did you feel compelled to own my house? You have more money than most people in this parish. You own a radio station and your husband is a successful attorney."

Margo’s nostrils flared in a sneer. "You think money is the answer to everything, don’t you? Money isn’t the only answer, though it’s part of the answer. The real power is living in that genteel mansion. The Colonnades conjures up breeding. That’s it, breeding."

Ember took a deep breath. "Margo, you need help, professional help to sort out the things that trouble you." She exhaled raggedly.

Margo’s eyes became veiled portents. "It’s too late for that," she said raising one eyebrow triumphantly. "I said I wished you dead long ago and now, Ember, that wish is about to be fulfilled."

"What do you mean, it’s too late?"

Margo’s gaze was glassy. "Everything has gone too far. It’s out of my hands. There’s no way to call this off now."

"Never believe its too late to do what’s right. How can my death help you? Even if you were responsible for stealing the Ryan trust. . . well, that’s not the same thing as murder. Surely you can see that. What if I agree not to press charges and you get the professional help you need?"

For the slightest moment, Margo hesitated, uncertain. Ember watched her, the complexities of human nature swirling through Margo’s mind.

Successfully, Margo had played the part of loving wife, pillar of the community and all the while she’d secretly hatched this devious plot. The woman had acted on her dark side for so long, Ember suspected Margo couldn’t turn back. The hope that she’d listen to reason was a slim hope, indeed. But, it was all Ember had.

The Mary Hopgood of long ago had viciously attacked a gentle helpless animal. . .even so, that incredibly cruel deed didn’t compare to cold-blooded murder. The incident in the barn played across Ember’s brain. Had it been a disappointed child’s passionate crime of rage, born of jealousy and hatred? No, she silently admitted. Mary Hopgood’s act carried more weight than that. Trapped, JoJo’s beating spoke of underlying deep-seated psychosis. Mary acted devoid of feeling. The animal’s shock and trauma meant nothing to her except a way to vent her distorted vengeance.

For a split second, a feeling of pity passed through Ember for John Paxton, the flamboyant lawyer old enough to be Margo’s father. Surely he wasn’t a party to this madness.

It would be dark soon. The sky deepened from shadowy mauve to dark blue. How much longer? The infamous pair was waiting for dark to do their evil deed. Joe had promised her a ride in the boat after dark. Ember’s brain raced feverishly. How did Russ fit into this? "Does Russ know who you really are?"

"Do you think I’m a total fool?"

Of course, that was it. Something in Margo’s voice, an inflection perhaps, tipped Ember that the woman loved Russ. From the time they were children, Mary had been partial to him. Russ had never encouraged the girl whatsoever. Any attention he’d paid her had been compassion for someone less fortunate.

"You love him, don’t you?" Ember whispered softly. "Married to John, you were physically near Russ, weren’t you? But, even then, you couldn’t have him. He’d never stoop to an affair with his uncle’s wife."

"What do you know about love?" Margo gurgled, her voice tinged with menace. "You never loved Russ. It made me sick the way he mooned over you. The way he’s waited for you all these years until you decided to come back here and ruin things."

What was Margo saying? Russ had waited for her? "I do love him. I loved him then, too," Ember confessed simply.

"It no longer matters," Margo returned coldly. "Neither of us will have him."

The tension in the camp house mounted. Pacing the room, Margo strode back and forth on her short legs. Suddenly, she stopped, inching close to Ember. She laughed, an irritating raspy rattle. "You’re still wondering about a lot of things aren’t you?"

Uneasily, Ember looked up at her, her heart beating like a drum in her ears. There remained many unanswered questions. For starters, Margo’s appearance was puzzling. She no longer had the physical deformity that she’d been born with.

"You look so different," Ember began. Anything to stall for time or to distract Margo.

"There’s a doctor in South America. He’s a magician with a scalpel. He can repair any deformity and make anyone beautiful."

It seemed ludicrous that Margo would travel to another country, have surgery, return here and pretend she was Margo Hall of Charleston, South Carolina, instead of Mary Hopgood. If she’d wanted Russ, why didn’t she make a play for him? She was obviously intelligent and attractive in a blowsy sort of way. When she couldn’t have him, for whatever reason, she’d set her sights on his aged playboy uncle. What a strategist! What a trickster!

Margo tossed her head. "You need to know a little of the Hopgood family history after we left The Colonnades. Oh, we remained poor, dirt poor, worse off than before. Cheap food and cheap clothes from thrift shops and pitifully little of both was our lot. We drifted from town to town, a rag-tag entourage, beating the rent in one cockroach-infested dump after another. We were an odd sort, at least to your kind - - you’d describe us as living from hand-to-mouth." Margo paused, scowling.

Ember didn’t comment.

Standing a few feet away, Margo’s face took on a distant look. "My mother was a weak woman," she said continuing her story. "However, she did try to keep our family together on nothing. Each other, that’s all we had, she’d tell us. Now, Daddy, on the other hand, was another piece of work, a spendthrift drunk, with grandiose ideas. He couldn’t hold a job over a week or two at the most. Then, it was on to greener pastures."

Margo’s voice dropped. She whispered almost to herself. "My dreams kept me going through those hard years. I resented you and your family for having so much and us so little." Margo’s blue eyes blazed, her voice took on a shrill edge. "All wealthy people are the same underneath. You’re all alike, selfish and content only with perpetuating yourselves and growing your wealth at poor people's expense."

Ember dared not point out that Margo had become what she most hated . . . a wealthy selfish woman. The woman speaking now wasn’t the confident exquisitely dressed Margo Paxton, but instead the devil-incarnate whining personality of Mary Hopgood. The personality she’d kept hidden all these years.

"You have wealth in your own right, now," Ember gently reminded the disturbed woman. "You don’t need anything the Ryans’ owned. The Colonnades is nothing more than a run down hovel badly in need of repairs that I can’t afford."

Flustered, Margo gazed at her sharply. The woman’s face resembled a mask, her make-up blotchy, her lipstick worn away, leaving only the harsh outline of her lips. "You’re right, I have more money now than you do. You allowed the place to fall into ruin," she accused. "You cared about nothing here when you left. You don’t deserve to own The Colonnades. Mere money can’t buy into the inner circle of the likes of you. But, owning The Colonnades can. The big houses along the bayou with names that go back in time mean breeding. That’s the way in."

Nothing Ember could say would matter to this mad woman. But, she owed it to herself to discourage Margo’s insane plan. "I’m afraid neither of us will own the place. It’s in foreclosure. I’m being sued for back mortgage payments. Legally, The Colonnades belongs to a group of my creditors."

Margo seemed not to hear her. "My story isn’t over yet. Is it, Joe?" she leered.

"No way," Joe grunted.

"You must wonder how Mary Hopgood became Mrs. John Paxton. One day, it all came to me. I was struggling at LSU on a scholarship, working two part-time jobs. My grades were excellent. I made certain of that. Money became so tight, I feared I couldn’t stay in school. Remember how ugly I was back then? I suffered with that botched surgery on my lip. Remember how flat my nose pulled?"

Ember nodded, noting the pert aristocratic nose modern surgery had created upon Margo’s face. It truly boggled the mind to believe she really could be Mary Hopgood.

"Boys asked me out for only one reason back then and I think you can imagine the reason. I learned to date only older, preferably wealthy men. It’s amazing what a man with a flagging libido will pay to be seen with a young woman, even one with a physical deformity."

The woman continued the threads of her narrative, seemingly fascinated by the sound of her own voice. "A way out of my predicament appeared. One Christmas, I took a part-time job as companion to an elderly lady in Baton Rouge. Her name was Miss Eunice Johnson."

"Joe, you remember Mrs. Johnson?"

"Yeah," he drawled. "How could I forget that crazy old biddy? She damn near got me sent to the pen."

"Miss Eunice Johnson was very wealthy. She was a weird old bird though, really crazy enough to be institutionalized."

"Yeah, a real nut-case," Joe put in.

"She believed aliens were landing on the earth in droves and spreading outer terrestrial germs down here. She believed all the doctors in the United States were controlled by these outer terrestrial beings. She didn’t trust doctors in this country. Her only living relative, a nephew, living in Atlanta wanted no part of looking after her." Margo seemed to enjoy telling her story as she paused only long enough to take a breath.

"Miss Johnson managed her own affairs and paid her own bills. She wrote checks in a scrawling hand that was easy to duplicate. I played with her signature for hours while she slept."

Margo’s eyes glistened. "One day, quite by accident, I discovered Miss Johnson’s secret. She was addicted to all sorts of pills. I found this cache of medications in a locked cabinet in her private bathroom. She was careless enough to leave the key lying about. That explained her trips out of the country. She periodically flew to South America and brought back the medications. Other prescriptions would arrive in the mail. I confronted her about the drugs. I told her I must inform her nephew. She’d become real feeble by this time. She begged me to keep silent. She told me she trusted me and needed me.

From that time on she took me along on her out of the country trips. Oh, they weren’t pleasure jaunts by any means. I carried all her packages and made certain she took the proper medication. Nothing but cheap hotels and tolerating the old woman’s bad temper and lectures. I hated being with her."

Joe rose, filling a glass with tap water. Ember’s throat was parched, as well.

"Where was I? Oh yes. It wasn’t fair. I did all the work and took all her insults. Miss Johnson had keen caustic moments. I had to do something. I planned my revenge. I began slipping some of her precious medication into her beverages. I made certain the horrid woman slept when I was there. She became more and more forgetful and more hateful toward me.

She’d lose things everyday, keys, eyeglasses, handkerchiefs and accuse me of stealing them. I hated her. I increased her dosages to keep her asleep.

She became so fearful of alien germs until she wrapped all her furniture in paper towels. She kept antiseptic powder dusted all over the house. She began wearing a paper-towel cap full of the same powder. She insisted I do the same. She looked like an anemic white moth and I was her clone.

She became extremely dependent on me. She insisted I move to her place. I did. Staying there, I could live rent-free. Being with her around the clock suffocated me." Margo shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"On one of our jaunts to South America, I met a plastic surgeon who reputedly performed miracles. I went to see him. He assured me my face would present no problem at all to correct. When we returned to Baton Rouge, I feigned a family emergency. I told Miss Johnson, I must leave for a short time. She begged me not to leave her alone. She said hundreds of alien spaceships were orbiting the earth ready to land at any minute. She feared the paper towels and antiseptic powder might not be potent enough to repel this massive germ invasion. She needed me to send all the furniture to storage, strip the house and spray the walls down with bleach. We no longer wore clothing, which trapped germs. She had me order paper gowns for us from a surgical supply house."

Margo composed her thoughts momentarily. "The week of my trip arrived. For hours, Miss Johnson begged me not to leave her alone to face the alien germs. I didn’t. I brought my cousin, Joe LaBorde, over to meet her. She agreed to allow him to take my place - - but, only until I came back. I had everything I needed for my trip to see the plastic surgeon. I’d signed her name on some checks with ease. She was none the wiser. Joe saw to it that she took her daily pill cocktail."

"Margo’s a genius," Joe interjected without his usual biting sarcasm. "Who else would’ve thought of me wearing a beekeeper’s outfit as an alien germ repellent uniform, except her," he slurred from the table.

"Did the lady never suspect you drugged her?" Ember asked.

"No, of course not. Sit still, you’re making me nervous."

Margo seemed ready to come apart at the seams. Suspecting that her dangerous personality could snap at any minute, Ember watched her every move. Keep her talking, she must keep her talking. "How did you meet John Paxton?"

"If it’s any of your business, I worked at the firm after I left Miss Johnson and after my surgery. It was a snap. After my altered appearance, I had a world of confidence. I took a professional personality course to learn how to please others. I became an executive secretary. John was easy to conquer. But I went through hell before the old goat married me. And, the rest is history."

Margo’s piercingly blue eyes seemed set in a body without a conscience. The woman was going over the edge. Ember chanced a stab at playing on her sympathy. "Have you ever thought what this will do to John when he finds out what you’ve been up to all these years?"

For the span of a charged second, tension radiated between them. "Mind your own business," Margo snapped at last. "The Paxton’s aren’t so hot. You got rid of Russell, didn’t you? What makes you think I want John any longer?" Margo pulled a silver liquor flask from her expensive handbag. "Get some ice and water, Joe. I need a drink."

Joe rose, fishing ice and water from a grimy refrigerator. He handed the glass to Margo.

Margo poured a generous amount of the flask’s contents into the glass. She swirled the amber fluid around before taking several deep draughts. "Joe kept watch on you in the mansion. You never knew he lived in your attic. Jeanette thought he was working offshore. He spied on you regularly. He even saw you playing footsie with Russ."

Ember’s blood chilled. So Joe LaBorde had hurled the plaster at her head that day she’d gone to the east wing. The large clothing stashed there belonged to him. She’d been blind.

A grave suspicion grew in the back of Ember’s mind. What about Owen and Selma? Suddenly, she understood. It all came full circle, as clear as a bell. Owen had committed the deadly blunder of purchasing The Colonnades, property that Margo wanted. He’d threatened to thwart the woman’s plans. Selma was an innocent bystander. Her only crime was taking the unfortunate trip with Owen. She’d paid for that blunder with her life.

Why hadn’t the specter been more specific prophesying about the evil to come? God, why hadn’t she seen what was coming? The cold craftiness of the two people in the small room was insidious. At any moment, they’d deal the masterstroke and her life would be snuffed.

Margo intruded upon her horrified reasoning. "Joe killed that motion picture producer you brought down here to scare you away."

"Wait a minute, Margo," Joe blurted angrily. "Killing them was all your idea. You’d have it no other way."

"Shut up!" Margo warned. She turned to Ember. "Ignorant Jeanette never knew I’d set Joe up to marry her. I needed intimate knowledge of the goings on at the mansion. Who’d want her, besides my cousin, here. She’s old and fat, with those buckteeth."

"Leave my wife out of this, Margo," Joe pleaded miserably.

"Peculiar things began happening at the mansion. Someone was attempting to block my takeover. I suspect it was your aunt, Leticia Ellerbee. She was nice enough to my face. But, I didn’t trust her."

The situation was drawing to a macabre close. Ember sensed she couldn’t stall Margo much longer. Every word the woman spoke was laced with impatience. She was becoming jumpy and more irrational. She had no intention of backing down.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"It’s dark." Joe reported, glancing at Margo ominously. The slightest inflection of animalistic respect shaded his voice.

No . . . not yet, Ember thought with a suffocating sensation. Maybe. . . just maybe, Joe feared his demented cousin. That fear could be the chink in the unified front of armor the pair exhibited.

Joe’s feet! The killer! He was wearing Owen Sterling’s suede boots. The killer had stolen the dead man’s footwear just as Campo speculated. Joe ran his fingers through his greasy hair, the nine-millimeter within easy reach on the table.

Ember’s fevered brain raced. Judging from the distance between the couch and the table, there was no way she could reach the gun before he’d rush her. With him wielding an automatic weapon, her chances of jumping from the camp’s porch to the ground were slim. She’d be a target . . . a moving target. She’d risk that though, before following Joe and Margo into a boat to certain death. Joe was an overweight man and he’d been drinking heavily all afternoon, surely his reflex time would be slower. The ragged stand of weeds north of the cabin would offer some cover.

The tension in the small room mounted. It would all be over shortly. The twosome must make their move soon. Margo started pacing again. She folded her arms across her breasts, pausing in front of Ember, her short legs apart. "Staring out that window won’t help you. No one’s coming to your rescue."

The statement caught Ember off guard. Being rescued was too much to hope for. "I don’t know," she said quietly.

"Russ sees through you. He sees you for what you really are," Margo taunted.

Never in her wildest dreams could she expect Russ to rescue her. But, thinking of him brought her comfort. If it came to that, her last thoughts would be of him. "Russ is probably very suspicious now. I was to meet him for lunch. What if he went to Campo?"

"You’re deluding yourself, Russ suspects nothing. He believes I’m his friend."

"You’re talking too much, Margo. Let it alone," Joe groused from the table.

"Look who’s giving orders. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Joe, for me to be quiet," Margo baited. She turned to Ember. "Joe doesn’t want you to know his wife left him. Jeanette no longer respects him. Can you fancy that, the big lovable sweetheart that he is?"

Joe’s glassy-eyed expression turned meaner. "I’m tired of word games with this bitch," he slurred, nodding threateningly toward Ember.

"Don’t be so impatient, Cousin dear. You’re right, time is short. I’m hot and thirsty. How about fixing us all a cola . . . sort of a farewell gesture. Then, I’m heading into town. You know what to do next."

"Yeah." Joe rummaged through the cupboards, producing three plastic glasses. He divided soft drinks between the glasses.

While Joe served the soda, Margo turned to Ember. "You must admit I’ve thought of everything."

Clearly, Margo planned on leaving her here alone with Joe. Mary Hopgood was a coward, after all. "You need help," Ember pled. "There’s still time to stop this insanity."

The woman didn’t answer. Taking the glass that Joe offered, Margo sipped its contents. Joe placed a glass of cola on a small table before Ember. "That’s for you," Margo said pointing to the soda. "We’re not totally without heart."

Ember stared at the glass. The hot afternoon had drained her and her throat was parched. Reaching for the glass, she sipped a small amount of the beverage, probably the last drink she’d have on earth if Margo and Joe had their way.

They both watched her. Impulsively, she threw the glass and the remainder of its contents at Joe’s face missing him by a mile.

"Miss Hollywood’s got some fight in her. Don’t you think I knew you’d try that?" he sneered.

Standing, Margo reached for her handbag. A peculiar expression of anticipation swept across her face.

Margo was leaving. No, she couldn’t leave. Keep her talking. Keep her talking and live! "You can’t go through with this," Ember cried. "Stop it while you can."

"Don’t you think I showed a stroke of genius getting Susie buried at The Colonnades? We’ll do a memorial stone there for you. Russ and I will select it together. Of course, your body will never be found. Unfortunately, your flesh will be fish bait."

Horrified, Ember shook her head. The room’s walls seemed to undulate and rock. She couldn’t talk. Her tongue refused to budge. With effort, she loosened her tongue from the roof of her mouth. "You’ve drugged me!"

"Yes, dear Ember, but take heart, the drug only renders your limbs inoperable. It’s a potent South American concoction. Anyway, you wasted most of it. You know I can’t risk anything as foolish as sparing you. I’ve worked too hard and waited too long. Besides, if you live, those people from Hollywood have died in vain. It’s a pity the actress got in the way. She reminded me of myself at that age.

"There’s no turning back now. I’ve taken care of everything. Your precious trust fund has been diverted to a secret account. It was as easy as taking candy from a baby. I invented two dummy trust corporations and left such a complicated paper trail around the world, until an Einstein couldn’t point the finger at me."

Margo faced Ember shrewdly. "Without money, I knew you’d be forced to sell. I was ready to buy you out on my own terms. You ruined everything when you sold The Colonnades to your friend. In the truest sense, you’re responsible for Sterling’s and Selma’s deaths. You should have left them in Hollywood where they belonged."

"Tell her everything," Joe goaded. "It don’t matter now."

"You’re right for once, Joe. It’s over. You see, Ember, John and I haven’t been husband and wife in the biblical sense for a long time now. He suspected problems with the Ryan trust. He had the audacity to call in the auditors. They found embezzled funds. I told John his darling nephew, Russell was responsible and I’d been covering for him. Russ’s leaving the firm played right into my hands. He’s a stupid idealist. I knew John wouldn’t have the guts to arrest his own nephew, at least not for awhile. You people amaze me with your warped sense of loyalty to your own kind. I suppose it’s your breeding."

The room tilted slightly. A fuzzy aurora of light seemed to envelop Margo. The interior of the cabin began spinning. Opening her mouth, Ember tried to speak. No audible words came forth. Her tongue was too thick.

"She’s losing it," Joe rasped.

"It’s time," Margo snapped. "Be quick! The sleepy fool, I hadn’t got around to telling her about you running her into the canal, or about you sinking the pirogue in the swamp after you killed those Hollywood people."

A veil as black as a moonless midnight claimed Ember. She mustn’t pass out! Joe tucked the gun in his belt. Margo started toward the door, opened it and clattered down the wooden steps.

Ember winced when Joe grabbed her arm roughly, pushing her ahead of him. Once outside on the porch, she stumbled, wobbling. Lurching, she fell against the rickety porch banister, clutching it for support. She was too sleepy to think coherently. She’d forgotten to jump!

Below her, the Cadillac’s headlights flashed on. Joe nudged the nine-millimeter against her back, forcing her down the stairs. Miraculously, she didn’t fall.

On the ground he shoved her toward a path leading to the beach. Numbly she responded to his urgent prodding. Stumbling along in front of the gun wielded by a madman, her drugged brain kept repeating, this scene isn’t ending properly. No one will know what happened to me. I have unfinished business. There’s Russ! I love you, Russ! In a few minutes it would all be over. Her life, snuffed. Ember Ryan would be in eternity.

A blinding light swept her and Joe and a blast of amplified male voice split the night. "LaBorde, this is Detective Mark Campo. We have you surrounded. Let the woman go and no one will be harmed." The voice was coming from the gulf’s direction. Another powerful floodlight swept the beach in a searching arc. Campo was here! He was in a boat behind that light.

Dropping to his knees in the sparse beach grass, Joe answered Campo by blasting the nine-millimeter toward the light. Ember’s legs crumpled under her like snapped rubber bands. Instinctively she dove forward, rolling away from Joe, seeking the cover of marsh grass. Slithering on her belly like a snake she managed to put some distance from Joe. The drug had worn off some. It must be the fresh night air.

A hail of return gunfire pelted around her. It came from behind the cabin. They were in a deadly crossfire. Smoke from the firepower rose in the spotlight’s focus and the scent of gunpowder filled the humid night. Joe’s body jerked, lurching forward, he fell face down in the sand. The barrage of bullets had found their mark. He was down.

"Stop shooting! Stop shooting!" she screamed burying her face in the warm sand beneath the grass.

Someone was coming! Heavy footsteps raced toward her. The grass above her parted. "Ember, Ember, where are you? Answer me! It’s Russ!"

"Here, I’m right here," she cried weakly, trying to sit up. The powerful drug pulled her down. Rolling on her back, she waved her arms.

Detective Campo followed on Russ’s heels. Within minutes, a Swat Team in black uniforms surrounded them.

"Russ?" she whispered. "I’m alive. I can’t believe I’m alive."

"My God, Ember. What have they done to you?" Lifting her in his arms, he sobbed against her ear. "I thought Campo had waited too long before moving in."

"They drugged me," she sighed, cradling her head against the old familiar niche in his neck. Dr. Jekyl had saved her life once again.

# # #

The next afternoon, she sat in the drawing room at The Colonnades, flanked by Jeanette, Russ and Detective Campo.

"How do you feel?" Russ asked.

"Fine. Whatever they gave me has worn off." She squeezed Russ’s hand. "I can’t thank you and the detective enough for getting me away from Joe. How did you know to look for me there at that isolated cabin?"

"I can answer that," Campo interjected. "I called you yesterday. We were onto Joe LaBorde. We had evidence he was in the attic at your house. But, we couldn’t locate him and you were out of pocket. We didn’t know exactly how Mrs. LaBorde, fit into any of this. Especially after what you told Russ you’d overheard at the reunion. By the way, the man you heard that day was old Lemoine, the swamp man. He saw everything. He’s an eyewitness to Joe killing Sterling and drowning the actress."

"He’s the man I saw my first night here," Ember exclaimed, "the one who brought fish to my aunt."

"That’s right. He tipped us off that LaBorde had shot Mr. Sterling and then drowned the actress. We took a chance telling Jeanette. She had misgivings about her husband but had been too frightened to come forth. We suggested she get out of town.

"Yesterday afternoon, I was watching you when you ran into the park. It struck me as odd that you’d run, especially since the temperature registered over one hundred degrees. I saw Mrs. Paxton drive up. Running pell-mell up that embankment was a feat Mrs. Paxton would never attempt normally. I’ve had my suspicions about Mrs. Paxton all along, but nothing to back them up, until now.

"You followed her to the Cadillac. She drove off so recklessly; I was impressed to put a tail on her car. My deputy saw LaBorde in the back seat with a gun. At that point, we set up a sophisticated full-scale tail and then a stealth stake-out once we followed them to their destination."

Ember listened fascinated. "I want to apologize to you, detective. All along I believed you weren’t doing anything to solve all of this."

The detective adjusted his shiny glasses. "Don’t worry about that. I’m not a public servant to win friends. I’m there to do the work," he said sniffing self-righteously. "I found Miss Cain’s bracelet in the grass beside your boathouse. I suspected what had happened to her when I saw your plantation bell gone from its stand. At that point, I feared the killer had taken her deeper into to the swamp and we’d never retrieve her body. I was relieved when old Lemoine called us with his tip."

"And I thought you wanted to incriminate me." How wrong she’d been.

Campo inspected his fingernails. "Joe didn’t plan on Mr. Lemoine being a witness to both murders. Mr. Lemoine suffered a great deal in Angola State Prison many years back. He doesn’t want anything to do with the law. I’m just grateful, he trusted the legal system enough to come forward with his eyewitness report."

"Yes," interrupted Jeanette. "He’s a good man."

Campo nodded agreement. "After the tip-off, we found the gun that killed Sterling in your attic with LaBorde’s fingerprints on it. That proved he killed Mr. Sterling. We put out an all points to bring him in, but we couldn’t locate him. I tried to call you to warn you. The next thing we knew he’d abducted you. I’ve never trusted the Paxton woman." Campo shook his head in disbelief. "I still can’t believe she’s really that Hopgood girl."

Russ smiled, patting Ember’s hand. "Campo’s men even bugged the cabin while Margo and Joe had you prisoner there. They have everything on tape, all the incriminating evidence to send them to the electric chair or put them away for a long time. And, speaking of truth being stranger than fiction, the private investigator who owed me a favor came through this morning with direct evidence linking Margo to a complicated scheme to swindle your trust fund."

"She told me that herself."

"She’s a clever one, all right," Campo interjected with a morose attempt at a smile. "When she slowed down at that cattle-guard, my men moved in. LaBorde was DOA." Campo cleared his throat; thoughtfully stroking his five o’clock shadowed face. "Uh, for the record, Russ, Mrs. Paxton blames you for the missing trust fund money. Your uncle even believes you’re an embezzler."

"Yeah, I know," Russ answered. "This family allowed that woman to do a real number on all of us."

"She told me that, too," Ember put in. "She also said she no longer loves her husband, if she ever did."

"That feeling is mutual," Russ added. "He’s wanted a divorce from Margo practically since the day they married. Uncle John is crazy about Charlotte Prewett."

"Charlotte Prewett!" Ember exclaimed. "I thought Dr. Bob was sweet on her."

"The three of them are all old acquaintances. You know, Ember, like you and me. They’ve known each other all their lives. But, Charlotte and Dad are only very good friends."

# # #

It was over! Finally over! Her business here was finished, Ember thought. There was Russ. What about Russ? They’d both suffered so much. Did he still feel the same attraction for her? She couldn’t be certain. He’d avoided her the past few days.

The shoots for the Cape Cod film was due to begin in two weeks. She promised Charlie she’d return to Los Angeles. She owed that much to Owen. One thing was certain, picking up the pieces of her life and moving on certainly hurt.

At Jeanette’s urging, Ember accompanied the housekeeper to Aunt Ticia’s camp on Grand Isle for some R and R before the trip to the West Coast. The small fishing community was a welcome change from the events on the mainland.

The late summer weather was warm but unpredictable, exactly like her mood, in a word . . . troubled. Everything would be perfect, if only she knew a way to turn off her feelings for Russ. Too late! Tomorrow morning she was leaving Louisiana.

The camp was isolated this late in the season. She’d put on her white bikini for one last session with the elusive sun. There was no one to impress with the daring swimsuit. And, darn it, she couldn’t think of a single legitimate reason to call Russ.

The surf was extremely rough, beginning to white cap. Closing her eyes, her thoughts drifting. When she opened them a few minutes later, a vaporous bank of fog moved quickly in toward shore. Sitting up, Ember peered at the fog suspiciously.

At once, the familiar specter stood before her, its trailing diaphanous gown mingling with the wind swept surf. "You’ll be leaving soon," the ghost said. "I’ll miss you when you leave and, I’ll allow you to go only on one condition."

A ghost with conditions! "Oh?"

"The condition is that you’ll come home every chance you get. I don’t mean every seven years, either."

"That’s a promise I’ll gladly keep," Ember vowed sincerely.

The specter wavered fluidly not unlike the undulating water beyond.

"I’m allowed to speak but only of the one truth I withheld in my life."

"Truth?"

"Truth is imperative," the ghost declared emphatically. "A long ago promise to honor silence must be broken. The conditions of silence have been met."

Ember paid sharpest attention. "What promise and to whom?"

The specter waved its filmy arms, the transparent gown fluttering. "Listen. I bid you, listen. My time is very short in this form. There is much to say to you. The diary you sought is hidden. It is buried beneath the kneeling angel statue in the family cemetery. It was necessary to remove it from prying evil hands that would turn its information into their gain."

"I knew that little statue had special significance," Ember declared. "The replica was so incredibly strange in your . . . I mean, in Leticia’s parlor. It was some type of supernatural stone, wasn’t it?"

"Yes, its composition was otherworldly, but that is of no significance," the specter answered almost haughtily. The ghost continued speaking. "Jim Ryan wanted certain knowledge hidden until you were old enough to handle the deception."

"Deception?" Ember questioned, reaching for a towel. She was suddenly cold.

"Jim Ryan was not your father. Your father was Jacques Descartes, the French painter. He was your mother’s art instructor in Paris."

"But, I don’t understand," Ember began.

"When your mother arrived in Paris, Jacques fell headlong in love with his beautiful charming student. They tried to stay apart, but found their attraction for each other so strong, they couldn’t. Jacques was married to a German woman, Helga, who was confined to a mental institution. He’d never formally divorced Helga. Until he met Harriet, there’d been no need.

Jacques adored driving race cars. This passion was second only to art. He followed all the races and drove whenever he could. Your mother accompanied him to the Riviera the fateful weekend he went over a cliff at Monte Carlo. That weekend was the first and last time they spent together. You were conceived in a lovely villa overlooking the Mediterranean.

A few mornings after they arrived, Jacques went out to drive. Harriet stayed behind to prepare some of her paintings for an exhibit. When she heard the news of his death on the radio, she collapsed. Later, she was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in France.

"Of course, your biological father never knew of your existence. Jacques Descartes was reared in a Parisian orphanage. He was one of those brilliant children whom everyone would love to claim, but no one ever did. His wife, Helga, died later. It seemed cruel and served no purpose to inform that poor demented woman that her husband had fathered a child.

"As it turned out, Jim Ryan was sterile. Therefore you became more precious to him. A premonition warned him to go to John Paxton and set up the Ryan Trust leaving everything to you before their fateful vacation. He told John he’d set up a proper trust when he returned."

Tears filled Ember’s eyes.

"Jim Ryan always loved your mother. They’d planned to marry until the whirlwind affair with Jacques. He suspected Harriet had met someone in Paris. After Monte Carlo and Harriet’s mental collapse, Jim flew there at once. He nursed your mother back to health. When they discovered her pregnancy, she begged him to leave her and go back home. He refused. He loved her too much to desert her. They quietly married abroad and awaited your birth.

"No natural father ever loved a child more than Jim Ryan loved you. If anything, he loved you more because he realized the special support you’d need when the truth came out."

The specter’s windblown voice trailed far away. It became barely audible above the restless surf. Ember was so intent on the ghost’s incredible message, until she hadn’t noticed that the ghost was wavering and moving farther out over the ocean. "Don’t leave! Tell me more," she cried rising.

Seemingly for a brief moment, the specter hovered slightly nearer. "The one condition upon which Harriet insisted before marrying Jim was that he’d never tell anyone about your paternity. They swore eternal secrecy."

"Why tell me now?" Ember choked. "What changed your mind . . . their mind?" She was more confused than ever.

The ghost pointed a nebulous finger in Ember’s direction. "A strange thing happened one day. About a month before the Scottish vacation, Harriet came to the family cemetery. She’d been crying. She held a small black bound book, Jim Ryan’s diary. He’d given it to her to read. She’d read his account of their romance and his love for her and you. Jim had inserted a beautiful confession of the truth in a letter to you when you came of age. It began, Dearest Ember, Daughter of my heart, if not of my blood. Harriet became hysterically horrified. Suddenly, she believed her entire life had been a lie.

"In my mortal state, I calmed her, as best I could. We sat in the cemetery that day and talked a long time. She made me promise that if anything happened to her before I died, that I’d explain everything to you, if I thought it best."

"You are Leticia. I knew it," Ember said softly. "Please don’t go," she cried desperately attempting to keep the fading specter close.

"It’s a dark legacy," the specter replied. "We all are bound by our passions. We love, we hate, we build, we tear down, we laugh, we cry. It’s the fate of being mortal." The ghost’s form rose and became a shower of mist over the ocean. The beach’s stark silence was broken only by the cries of the swooping gulls.

Ember knew she’d never see the specter again. She sat on the beach until the long afternoon faded into mystic twilight. That night she slept, at peace at last.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It would be autumn soon. In her opinion, there was no place more forlorn than a summer beach at season’s change. The morning of departure for the West Coast had dawned with overcast skies and intermittent rain squalls. Leaving from Grand Isle suited Ember’s nostalgic mood.

Peering out the camp’s bedroom window, yesterday’s calm water was transformed into churning steel-gray white-capped waves crashing upon the small private beach. The blue and white beach umbrella flapped in the wind like a crippled heron. She’d forgotten to close it the day before.

She’d gone back to The Colonnades during the past week and closed the house, leaving Jeanette in charge until arrangements could be made with her creditors. Maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to keep the mansion after all. The historical place meant a great deal to her now.

She’d found Jim Ryan’s diary and the special letter to her beneath the small statue in a special waterproof box just as the specter predicted. Accepting the letter’s truth was easier than she’d first thought.

Glancing into the small round mirror over the dressing table one last time, she added another swath of cheerful peach lipstick to brighten her face. She might succeed brightening her face, but not her spirits.

Sighing, she rose, smoothing her crisply pressed beige linen suit. The warm color set off her glistening suntan. Gathering her handbag with trembling fingers, she closed the door behind her. The cab taking her to the airport was arriving at any minute.

With a steadying breath, she lifted her carryon, setting it outside in the tiny hall. The cab’s horn sounded. She rushed outside. The wind seemed to whisper, Ember, you promised to come back soon.

"I know," she voiced emotionally. "I promise."

Opening the door for her, the driver then went around and stowed her luggage. In the automobile, she sank back against the depths of the back seat. The car began to pull away. Dully, she watched the windshield wipers swish back and forth. Her heart was as heavy as the leaden skies and her emotions churning as wildly as the unsettled gulf. Behind her, the camp grew smaller until it faded from sight.

The murky gulf water no more than three feet above sea level peeked through the marsh grass, slapping at the road. Closing her eyes, she endured the ride into New Orleans.

New Orleans International Airport bustled with activity. At the customer service desk, she verified her departure time and headed for a snack bar and a cup of coffee. She’d been a wimp opting not to see Russ one last time before leaving. In fact, she could take wimp-of- the-year award, she’d not even told him she was leaving. He knew she had obligations on the coast, but he didn’t know when she planned fulfilling those obligations.

The coffee was hot and strong. Just what she needed. The sudden compelling need to hear his voice before leaving overcame her. This was bizarre. She’d made the decision days before not to say a formal goodbye. She’d thought it was better that way. Better for whom? Who was she trying to kid? She’d been courageous too long.

Bolting down the corridor toward a bank of telephones, determined to telephone him, she realized with a clarity that was unnatural that it no longer mattered if he loved her back or not. She loved him. He’d told her once to admit her own honest emotions. Well, this was honest and it sure was emotional. If he didn’t love her, she’d deal with that, too. Her stupid pride had ruled her far too long.

He might come to love her in time, she thought hopefully. He’d given her crazy mixed-up signals all summer. You’ve given him a few, too, she thought, fishing in her bag for her coin purse. Good grief! Where was her coin purse? It appeared she hadn’t a quarter to her name. Wheeling around to run back to the snack bar for change, she didn’t see the tall man rushing in her direction. She crashed against him; her open handbag flying out of her hand, spilling its contents across the floor.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, not looking up. "You won’t believe this, but this has happened to me before."

"Me, too," the man replied. "One of us must slow down."

The voice was familiar, heartbreakingly familiar. "Russ," she gasped, looking up. "Russ, is that really you?"

"You’re Ember Ryan, aren’t you?"

"That’s me, in the flesh."

"Where do you think you’re going?"

"Well, home . . . well, not exactly home. But back to work. Charlie needs me," she muttered.

"I have a message for you."

"You do! I mean, you’ve said that once before."

"This message is just as awesome," he drawled, his gaze begging her to humor him. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

"You came all the way down here to ask me that!"

"Well, that and other things. Damn, Ember, you’re not making this easy." He caught her arm, pulling her against him. The kiss was long and deep. She returned the kiss with all her heart.

When they drew apart, he said, a catch in his voice. "You know you’re not going anywhere, don’t you?"

"I know," she agreed tremulously. "I think I knew it all along."

"You know I’m head over heels in love with you?"

"You are? I mean, you really are?"

"Do you mind?"

Did she mind? She couldn’t think of a single protest. "Well, it’s about time. What took you so long to tell me?"

His gaze was liquid with love. "I’ve loved you for so long . . . for years actually. I thought you knew. I believed you didn’t love me. That was the reason you left here years ago. Also, it was the reason you stayed away. This torch I’m carrying is awfully heavy."

"Oh, Russ!" She fell into his arms again. This was one moment she’d never forget as long as she lived. He loved her. He’d loved her all along.

Questions buzzed around her brain while they gathered her purse’s scattered contents. "How did you get here so fast?"

"Let’s just say, it helps to have a friend who charters helicopters to the gulf oil rigs."

"You didn’t!"

"Oh, but I did."

"I tried to leave," she said on a sob of joy. "I honestly tried, but I couldn’t, not until I called you one last time." She was shedding tears of joy and her mascara was running. She didn’t care.

He pulled her tightly against his strong body. This second kiss swept her off her feet. "Let’s get out of here," he rumbled taking her hand, leading her outside. Rain pattered on them. Pulling off his sport coat, he held it over her head.

"You’re getting wet," she squealed snuggling under his coat.

"The car’s not far. If you want to go back inside and wait, I’ll bring the car around and pick you up."

"I thought you chartered a plane."

"I did. The same accommodating friend has a car, too."

"Let’s make a run for the car," she laughed, not willing to be separated from him even for the span of a few minutes.

"You’re sure?"

She started ahead, tugging on his arm. "Never more certain of anything in my life," she called over her shoulder.

Catching her hand, he led her into the parking lot. Extracting a key, he opened the door to another Mercedes. Once inside, she fell into his waiting arms. His lips found hers urgently. When they drew apart, she traced his strong jaw with her fingertips, rapt at the love she saw mirrored in his eyes. "What’s this again about ghosts? You asked me if I believed in ghosts?"

"I swear this is the truth," he declared solemnly. "It seems one late great-aunt of yours still has matchmaking on her ghostly mind. I saw her last night. That is, she appeared to me. You’re not going to believe this part. She arrived in my bedroom on a cloud of smoke in an eighteenth century carriage."

"I know," Ember snuggled closer. "She has a way of doing that . . . arriving by carriage. It blew my mind the first time I saw her dismount from that coach. Grandstanding old sweetheart!"

"You’ve seen her?"

"Of course, several times actually."

"Thank God. Then I’m not losing my mind."

"No, you’re not."

"I was praying I wouldn’t be too late," he whispered against her hair. "By the way, where were you going in such a hurry? Planes board in the opposite direction."

She giggled. "To call you, actually. To tell you that I loved you."

"You’re kidding?"

"No. That’s the honest truth. I found I couldn’t leave until I told you that I love you." It was wonderful telling him the honest truth at last. He was overcome with emotion. His mink thick lashes sparkled with droplets of water. Could this dream really be happening? She wanted to pinch herself.

Slipping his arm around her neck, his long fingers splayed the back of her head as he lowered his lips to hers, parting her lips with his tongue.

Shuddering with delight, she couldn’t have enough of him, or this soul-wrenching moment. Slipping his hand up her back, he expertly unfastened her bra. Then, methodically, he unbuttoned her jacket, caressing first one plump breast and then the other. "It’s broad daylight, Russ. We’re making out on a stranger’s car in a parking lot in broad daylight!"

"What stranger? I spent four years at the university with the gent that owns this set of wheels." Ignoring her protests, if he even heard them, he snuggled her closer. "I’ve always loved you, Miss Ember Ryan. I’ve never stopped loving you. You’ve got to do something about this love. I want a big Cajun wedding, with everybody from miles around," he laughed softly, a catch in his voice.

"You do?" she gulped. "I mean, you want to marry me?"

"Well, what did you think? You mean you don’t want to marry me?"

She was speechless.

"I’ve always been here for you. I’ve fought this fire in my heart and soul for years now. Damn, Ember, when you left, you stripped my ego to nothing."

Closing her eyes, incredible pain filled her that she’d hurt him. She’d hurt herself. She’d hurt Aunt Ticia. She’d inflicted emotional wounds on every person close to her. What a stupid fool she’d been running away from her own heart because she was afraid of her emotions.

It all came full circle in her head, Jim Ryan, Jacques Descartes and Harriet. They’d all followed their hearts. If they hadn’t, she wouldn’t be here this very moment sharing this ecstasy with her wonderful man. "Yes, Russ. Yes, I want to marry you. Thank you!" she whispered tearfully. "Oh, thank you for waiting for me!"

"Ember, don’t thank me for loving you. I’m the one who should be on my hands and knees thanking you for returning my love."

She snuggled against the spicy heat of his body, heated for her and her alone. "What I meant was, thank you for stopping me before I made another colossal mistake. Leaving here would’ve been the second biggest mistake of my life."

He leaned into her, resting his chin on top of her head. She felt his heartbeat. He clutched her so tightly, she lost her breath. She clung to him like a drowning woman. Tilting her chin, he drew his lips lightly across hers. "Do you regret we didn’t make love that night in your room," he husked.

"Yes. . .y . . . yes. . .," she stammered, her heart pounding like hammer blows. "And, I could’ve killed Margo the night we were in the kitchen. You remember she telephoned, interrupting us. I wanted you so badly and I was finally ready. I’d laid all my demons to rest. By the way, what did Margo want with you anyway?"

"She’d been drinking. She was on a talking jag complaining about Uncle John’s mistreating her. I should’ve had my head examined for listening to her." Shifting closer, he slid his hand up her thigh. "We could remedy that very serious mistake we made that night," he suggested sultrily.

"I’ve never been made love to in the front seat of an automobile," she giggled.

"How about the back seat?"

"Well, no, never there, either."

She wound both arms around his neck.

He slid the linen skirt as high as it would go. "Methinks the lady weareth wretched panty hose."

"They are expendable," she whispered.

"Ah, an aggressive woman. I can die happy."

Lifting her bottom, she worked the nylons down. Along her knees, Russ lent assistance. "A take-charge guy. I should live so long," she declared wantonly.

"You can thank me all night long," he grinned, scooting from under the wheel to her side of the seat. She slipped up onto his lap. Touching his body, she inhaled his essence, lost in him.

What happened next was unclear. At first, she didn’t hear the tapping sound. It originated above her head on the passenger-side window.

Russ looked up first. "Ember, that officer wants something."

"Ohmyhgodohmygodohmygod," she screeched, sliding from his lap. He hit the power button and the window scrolled down. "Yes, Officer, what is it?" she asked struggling for a shred of dignity.

The Security Guard pointed to the ground outside the car door. "Lady, your purse is hanging outside the car. You’ve shut the door on the strap."

Laughing hysterically, she struggled to speak. "Thanks Officer, I’d never have known it," she managed when she found her voice.

The officer pointed to Russ. "And, sir, your windows are fogged. It could be dangerous driving like that." Winking, the officer walked away.

They both convulsed in uncontrollable laughter.

"Lady, you’re one hot car date," Russ said, wagging his finger at her, as he slid under the wheel.

She nestled close, tucked beside him, hugging him. "Oh Russ, everything is going to be perfect, you and me. We were wise kids after all, weren’t we? We knew back then, that we were made for each other."

"Ssh, Ember, let me say it one more time. Ember Ryan, I love you, I have always loved you and I will always love you and only you. Oh!" he groaned. "To think I was stupid and proud enough to allow you time to come to your senses and give me some certain sign that you loved me. Instead, you were taking a plane out of my life."

Sitting forward, she searched his face. "I didn’t tell you I was leaving. You might have suspected it."

"If Leticia hadn’t contacted me from eternity, you’d be on your way out of my life right now."

He looked so wounded, she wanted to cry. "You said Leticia! I knew from the first that she was the specter. We can thank her that you changed your mind and came for me."

"If you were willing to let me go, what did she say that changed your mind?"

"Your aunt told me you were leaving for the West Coast. She made me see how foolish we both were by denying our love for each other. My only excuse was we were so young back then when you first went away. I’d tortured myself for years by believing we couldn’t have known true love."

"We did though."

"When you first arrived this summer, I prayed we’d still feel the same way about each other. Being with you again, I kept taking a pulse on reality, until I blocked what true emotion I felt. I must have blocked out what you felt for me, also. Does any of this make sense to you?"

"Not a word." She snuggled closer to him. "Russ, quit analyzing and just love me back." They’d denied their feelings for so long until this miracle was too precious to ever lose. She owed him so much. She’d have given him her soul.

"Are you offended that I needed a push to come for you?"

"No, I’m not offended in the least. I love you. I have more important things to think about, than worrying about what might have gone wrong."

"You’re a practical woman, Ember. I like that."

"I can be as wild and crazy as the next person when the occasion warrants," she teased.

"Like how?" he questioned with a grin.

"Like this," she said, scooping the pantyhose off the floor. Looping the hosiery around his neck, she caught both limp legs, drawing him down to her waiting lips. When they finally moved apart, she tied the hose in a loose bow around his neck. I like tying everything up all nice and legal, Dr. Jekyl."

"Gee, Lady, I thought you’d never say yes to my heartfelt proposal."

THE END

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