Lucky's Lady (24 page)

“Of course, if you made more money in your law practice or if your parents hadn't lost their fortune in that silly oil bust, we wouldn't be in this mess.”

Mason hummed a noncommittal note.

“I wish we could just pretend Serena had never come here,” she muttered, resuming her pacing. She ran her fingers through her hair again and again, dislodging pins that fell silently into the drift of fabric she waded through. “I wish she would just disappear. Gifford should have given that power of attorney to me. It's my future that's tied to this place, not Serena's. He should have given it to me, but no, he gave it to her and she doesn't have sense enough to see what's right.”

“Let's not fret over it now,” Mason said softly, standing and reaching for her hand. He drew her across a bright pink suit that still bore the price tag and pulled her into his arms. “Let's sleep on it,” he said, brushing his lips against her temple. “It'll all work out, peach. You'll see.”

“Yes,” Shelby said, suddenly utterly calm as she leaned against her husband. “I will see.”

CHAPTER
                        

16

“
TELEPHONE CALL, MIZ
'
RENA,
”
ODILLE ANNOUNCED
as she stepped into the dining room.

Shelby's head snapped up from a brooding contemplation of her crawfish bisque. “Honestly, Odille, you know better than to interrupt dinner—”

“It's all right,” Serena said, pushing her chair back from the table with unseemly haste. “I was finished anyway.”

She dropped her napkin over the plate she'd barely touched and turned to the housekeeper, who was giving Shelby a smug glare. “I'll take it in the hall, Odille. Thank you.”

Walking out of the dining room and into the hall, Serena felt as if she'd just left a pressurized chamber. She'd never been so glad to escape a meal in her life. The day had been an especially trying one. She'd spent hours with the insurance investigator and the state fire marshal going over the particulars of the fire, walking through what was left of the machine shed. She'd spent another few hours on the telephone in Gifford's office soliciting aid in the form of equipment from neighboring planters. Then there had been the trip to the bank to really brighten the day. In addition to these pleasant chores she'd had to contend with Shelby's fire and ice moods and Mason's diplomatic lobbying for her to change her mind about selling the land.

Dinner had been the crowning glory. How anyone in that dining room had managed to choke down a single bite of food was beyond her. Serena was more than happy to have an excuse to get away. She could have kissed Odille's feet for interrupting.

She stopped at the hall table and picked up the receiver, expecting to hear the voice of one of the planters she had spoken with that day.

“This is Serena Sheridan. How may I help you?”

“You got it backward,” the man said in a hushed voice. “I want to help you.”

A chill ran down Serena's spine. Her hand tightened on the receiver. “Who is this?”

“A friend.”

The voice was dark and rough, not the voice of a friend, but the voice of a stranger. Serena steeled herself against the tingles of fear running through her and spoke in the most businesslike tone she could manage. “Look, either you give me your name or I'm hanging up.”

“You're not interested in information that could tie Burke to your fire?”

Serena's heart picked up a beat. She swallowed hard. “I'm listening.”

“Meet me at the back edge of that cane field that runs along the bayou in half an hour.”

“Isn't there some other way of doing this?” she asked. The idea of meeting an anonymous caller in the middle of nowhere held no appeal at all. “Can't you tell me what you know now?”

“You can't see evidence over the phone, lady,” he answered impatiently. “Do you want it or not? It's no skin off my nose if the insurance company never pays off.”

In the end Serena agreed to the meeting. She decided she would have James Arnaud follow her at a distance in case there was trouble. She didn't like the idea of meeting the man behind the voice, but she couldn't take the chance of dismissing evidence that would clear the way for the claim to be settled. The future of Chanson du Terre rode on getting that money. The plantation had become Serena's responsibility. She would do whatever she had to do.

She left the house without a word to anyone and walked to Arnaud's house only to be informed by a gum-chewing teenage daughter that the manager had gone to the hospital to visit the two men who had been injured in the explosion. Serena thanked the girl and wandered down the drive, wondering what to do. She could ask one of the other hired men to go with her, but she had no way of knowing which one of them might have been Burke's accomplice. She thought about skipping the meeting, but there was no guarantee her informant would try again.

The claim had to be settled. There was no question of that. Gifford wouldn't be able to cover even a fraction of the cost to replace the machine shed, let alone the machinery that had been burned inside it.

There was no choice for her to make. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she set off for the rendezvous spot with determined strides.

No one was waiting for her when she arrived ten minutes later. Serena found herself standing at the end of the canebrake, shifting her weight nervously from one foot to the other. She didn't like being there. Even if it had been the middle of the day, she wouldn't have liked it. This particular field wasn't far from the plantation buildings, but the buildings were out of sight, giving one the impression of total wilderness. The money-green stalks of cane were already tall and grew thickly across the field to the south. To the north, Bayou Noir made a dog-leg cut into Sheridan property, partially isolating this field from the others. The mass willow trees along the bank of the bayou increased the sense of isolation.

Even at high noon this wasn't a place she would have chosen to be. It wasn't noon. The sun had begun its fireball descent. It would be night soon and she stood alone at the end of an equipment lane between a cane field and a black bayou, listening to the melodious call of a red-winged blackbird as the setting sun spilled orange light over everything.

She swung around, her breath catching hard in her throat at a rustling in the tall reeds along the bank. A blue heron rose, eerily silent, its long, spindly legs stretching out behind it as it sailed away. Serena forced herself to exhale slowly. It wasn't an alligator. It wasn't a snake.

It wasn't her informant.

Serena stroked her fingers along the canister of Mace inside her purse. Her ex-husband had given it to her as a gift when she'd begun her pro bono work at the mental health clinic. Romantic devil. The neighborhood where the clinic was located was a bad one, and she occasionally worked late. Paul had been concerned for her safety and Serena had to admit there had been times when she'd been concerned herself, but she had yet to use his gift. She touched it now only to reassure herself. She didn't really believe she would need protection.

She had already considered the possibility of a trap and dismissed it. Burke wouldn't be foolish enough to try something so close on the heels of the fire. It would point directly to him. Still, it didn't hurt to be prepared.

She heaved a long sigh and scanned the ground around her, looking for snakes. There were long black indigo snakes out here that hunted mice among the cane stalks. They weren't poisonous, but she had no desire to encounter one just the same. There were cottonmouths along the bayou that came out at night and copperheads that commanded the floor of the woods. The idea of them made her skin crawl and fear knot at the back of her throat. They wouldn't come looking for her, Serena reminded herself, doing her best to swallow the impending panic attack.

Where was her damned informant?

The sound of an outboard motor idling down drew her attention to the north. She tried to peer through the tangled ribbons of willow branches to make out the boat and its occupant, but it was impossible to see well. Already the light was fading along the bayou, and all she could make out was bits of color and shape.

She had for some reason assumed the man would be coming the same way she had, by foot down the lane. In the back of her mind she had decided he was an employee of Chanson du Terre. She had imagined he had chosen this spot for the meeting because it was near the plantation buildings and yet secluded enough so they wouldn't be seen. She had given no thought to the bayou or a boat, and she cursed her lack of foresight as a sudden chill swept over her from head to foot.

“Well, lookee here, Pou,” Gene Willis said, a leering smile twisting the hard line of his mouth as he parted the weeds and willow branches and stepped into the clearing. Pou Perret scuttled along at his heels like a pet weasel, his droopy eyes darting furtively all around, his mustache twitching as if he were scenting the air for danger. “If it ain't Lucky Doucet's lady. Fancy meetin' you here, Miz Sheridan.”

Serena eyed the pair warily, her hand closing around the Mace. She recognized them from Mouton's. She doubted she would ever get the scene out of her head: Lucky with a knife in his hand, this big red-haired man lunging for him, the little scruffy one swinging a broken bottle, a wild gleam in his eye. They might have been the kind of men one would hire to start a fire or commit any number of other criminal acts, but they didn't seem like the sort to come forward with information—unless it was for a price.

“How much do you want for the information?” she asked, trying to sound calm and businesslike despite the way she was beginning to tremble from the inside out.

“You hear that, Pou?” Willis went on smiling, sauntering closer. He moved with all the grace of a bear and looked nearly as strong. Serena's gaze focused on his hands. They were huge and ugly, raw-looking with fingers like sausages. “The lady wants to pay us. I can't remember the last time a
lady
wanted to give me anything, can you?”

Pou apparently took it as a rhetorical remark. He said nothing, but Serena could feel his eyes on her, hot and feral like an animal's. He moved slowly toward her and to her right, his hands behind his back.

“Isn't that what you came here for?” she said, trying to buy time. She forced herself to stand her ground and gripped her can of Mace with a sweaty hand. “Money?”

Willis grinned, an expression that had undoubtedly looked evil even when he'd been in the cradle. One sinisterly arched red brow climbed his forehead while the other hung low over a narrow eye. “No, Miz Serena. We're already gettin' paid. And hell,” he added with a nasty laugh, “this is a job I'd do for free.”

They were moving closer, slowly, menacingly. Serena took a half step back. Fear climbed high in her throat. “I'll pay you double.” She wasn't sure how they were supposed to be earning their money, but she was fairly certain it would be worth paying them double
not
to do their jobs.

Pou shot a glance up at Willis, looking for a reaction. Willis pretended to consider her offer, humming and making an exaggerated face. After a minute he shook his head and smiled at her again.

“Naw, I don't think so,” he said, rubbing one of his ugly hands across his massive jaw. “You see, the perks of this job are so much better than money. Ain't that right, Pou?”

Perret flinched a little at the sound of his name, tearing his gaze off Serena once again to look up at his partner. “Jesus, Willis, let's just do it,” he whined, suddenly nervous again. “Me, I don' wanna be hanging 'round here if that son of a bitch shows up. He'll kill us!”

“If you're looking for Lucky, he could be here any minute,” Serena said. It wasn't much of a threat, but she was beginning to feel a little desperate.

Willis just smiled and inched a little closer. “Nice try, sweetheart, but I know exactly where Doucet is. He's at Mouton's with a whiskey bottle and a peroxide blonde who could suck the brass off a doorknob. I don't think he'll be joining us any time soon. Too bad for him. He's gonna miss one hell of a party.”

Serena felt a painful lurch in her middle at the thought of Lucky with another woman. Her concentration broke for just an instant, and in that instant Gene Willis reached out and grabbed her, his big ugly hand manacling her left wrist.

She reacted instantly, pulling the Mace from her purse and hitting the button as she swung it wildly toward Willis's face. He knocked her hand aside with a swift, hard blow that numbed her arm to the elbow and sent the can and her purse sailing, but he was a split second late. The spray caught him in the left eye and he let her go and reeled backward, howling like a wounded beast.

Serena turned and ran. Her heart was in her throat. Her blood roared in her ears. Her body felt as if it belonged to someone else, someone who didn't realize the kind of danger she was in. Her legs wouldn't move fast enough. Her lungs wouldn't draw enough breath for her to scream. She ran down the lane, stumbling because the loafers she wore weren't designed for flight.

Behind her she could hear Willis swearing and shouting at his partner, “Get her, damn you!” Then came the pounding of feet.

She couldn't hope to outrun him. The lane stretched before her, looking longer and longer with not a building in sight. Her only options were to jump in the bayou and swim for it or try to lose herself in the cane. The cane led back to people. She thought of snakes and hesitated. There was no other choice. As Perret's footfalls rushed up on her, she veered suddenly to the left, diving for the cover of the sugarcane.

Perret tackled her from behind, his shoulder hitting her in the middle of the back, driving her forward and knocking her off her feet. She hit the ground with a thud that jarred every part of her. Her captor landed on top of her, the force of his weight blurring her vision and knocking the air from her lungs. Before she could even think of moving he had his knee planted between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the hot, moist earth.

He used a dirty bandanna for a gag, tying it roughly behind her head, incorporating strands of hair into the knot so that no matter how still Serena tried to be, it pulled. Tears of fear and pain flooded her eyes as Perret bound her hands tightly behind her back. They rose up in her throat and she choked and gagged, discovering very quickly that she wouldn't be allowed the luxury of crying. The bandanna with its foul, sour taste hindered not only speech but breathing and swallowing.

Perret rose and pulled her up with him, using the gag like a bridle on a horse. He curled his fingers into the back of it, pulling it unbearably tight, twisting her hair along with it, and jerked her to her feet and steered her back toward Willis.

The big man had regained his feet, but stood half doubled over, one hand pressed to his injured eye. The glare in his good eye was murderous, and Serena suddenly understood why some self-defense instructors preached cooperation rather than aggression. Whatever Willis had had in store for her was nothing compared to what was going through his mind now.

She tried to stop before she got too close to him, but Perret shoved her forward and she had no way of catching herself. Willis knocked her to her knees with a single backhanded blow across the face that brought more tears and the taste of blood.