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Authors: Beverly Barton

Tags: #Suspense, #Contemporary romance, #Fiction

BOOK: What She Doesn't Know
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“I heard you,” she replied.
Max scanned the reserved pews. His mother and Mallory sat side-by-side on the first bench to the left. Uncle Parry, bleary-eyed but thankfully sober, kept his arm around Mallory’s shoulders, occasionally patting her affectionately. A handful of Louis’s distant relatives congregated in the second pew; some of the people Max had never met. Aunt Clarice occupied the first bench on the right, along with Nowell Landers. Yvonne Carter sat on the other side of Clarice, her bright hazel eyes ever watchful. He suspected she was as wary of Nowell’s attentions to Clarice as he was and was equally incapable of dissuading her from continuing her relationship with the man. Max had the greatest respect for Yvonne, who was as devoted to Clarice as any mother or sister might have been. He had no idea what deep bonds joined the women, but he suspected that their abiding friendship superceded the normal bounds of servant and mistress. Indeed, he’d never seen the two act in any manner other than as friends. Even when Yvonne waited on Clarice and fussed over her, they acted and reacted as if they were family.
On the second pew to the right various Desmond relatives, none of whom bore the surname, sat proudly, their southern aristocratic noses in the air. Not a one of them were closer kin to Clarice than a second cousin once removed.
As Max made his way up the aisle, he spotted the Wells family—father and son—seated together. Roscoe Wells was an old reprobate. A former Klansman who had changed his ideology to adapt to modern times and today’s voters. At nearly seventy, he still tried to maintain a level of authority over his two children, neither of whom paid him much heed. Garland, affectionately called Gar by his friends, resembled his father physically, being short and stocky with a loud infectious laugh; but he was a quieter, softer version of his charismatic father. And a better man by far.
Sandy sat two rows behind her father and brother, the distance between them making a bold statement. Sandy was for all intents and purposes her now-deceased mother’s daughter, a friendly, outgoing do-gooder, who had taken it upon herself to right many of the wrongs her father had perpetrated before his well-known change of heart. Max had always been fond of Sandy, as was everyone who knew her, and a part of him regretted that he could never return the affection she felt for him. He’d known for years that she was in love with him or at least thought she was. She was absolutely nothing like Felicia. If only he had fallen in love with the younger Wells daughter instead of the elder. If he had, his life would have been so much simpler. And a great deal happier. But he’d been mad about Felicia, and she had used his wild passion against him. By the time she disappeared, shortly before their third anniversary, he had not only stopped loving her, he had grown to despise her. Felicia had been her father’s daughter—a conniving, manipulative, self-serving monster.
As he passed the pew where Sandy sat on the end, she stood and held out her hand to him. He paused long enough to give her a hug and accept an affectionate kiss on the cheek, then he hurriedly broke away and continued down the aisle. Two o’clock was fast approaching and he wanted to double check with McCoy Trendall to make sure all the arrangements he’d made for today’s service would be carried out just as he had instructed. Louis deserved only the best. Making sure his funeral was an unforgettable event was the last thing he could do for his stepfather—a final tribute.
A squad of talented bagpipers had been flown in to play “Amazing Grace” directly before the minister spoke. The choir from the black Sumarville Freewill Baptist Church would take turns with the white First Methodist’s choir, both singing their own style of spirituals. Mississippi’s governor would offer the eulogy.
McCoy met Max in the vestibule and pulled him aside. “We have things under control. No need to worry. I promise that everything will go off without a hitch.”
“Do you have the outdoor loudspeaker system working?” Max gazed through the open doors to where a large crowd waited on the steps and sidewalk below.
“I’ve checked it myself. It’s working just fine.”
Max nodded, shook McCoy’s hand, and made a mad dash through the crowd in the vestibule. After being forced to pause and shake hands with several people, he escaped into the men’s room. Thankfully, the room was empty. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, along with a small black notebook, looked up the number he needed and dialed.
“This is Maximillian Devereaux,” he said. “I’m calling to check on—”
The voice on the other end of the line assured him that the New Orleans jazz band he’d hired to play at the reception at Belle Rose following the funeral was in fact already at the mansion. He breathed a sigh of relief. Louis had loved jazz and the two of them had often driven down to New Orleans for a boys night out. Max thought it only fitting that the music played this afternoon for Louis’s mourners be the music he had loved.
Max glanced in the mirror over the sink area and noticed his tie was slightly crooked. He straightened his tie, braced his shoulders, and swung open the rest room door. In a few hours this would all be over, all the pomp and circumstance, and then he would be faced with the reality of Louis’s death.
Just as Max returned to the sanctuary and was nearing the front pew, he heard a buzzing hum rising from the crowd. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and instinct cautioned him that something was wrong. The murmurs grew louder until he distinctively heard someone say
Jolie
. His gut tightened. He stopped at the end of the third pew to the left of the aisle and slowly glanced over his shoulder. He swallowed hard and cursed softly under his breath.
The woman, dressed in a simple beige linen suit, walked down the aisle, her head held high, her expression solemn. She didn’t look much like the plump teenager he remembered. But he would have recognized her anywhere. This fashionably dressed curvaceous woman bore a striking resemblance to her mother and her aunts. She was without a doubt a true Desmond. Golden blond hair swept up into a French twist. A square jaw, full pouty lips, and an air of superiority that all but oozed from her pores. Only her eyes declared her a Royale. They were the same intense blue that Louis’s had been and identical to Mallory’s.
So, the prodigal had returned at long last and had managed to make a grand entrance. Every eye in the church kept watch as lips spread gossip like wildfire flying destructively through summer dry grass.
Do it whether you want to or not
, Max ordered himself.
Everyone will expect it of you
.
As if his shoes held heavy lead weights, he turned around and took several tentative steps toward Jolie Royale, who didn’t even glance his way. She was headed straight for her father’s casket. Any minute now his mother would see her and so would Aunt Clarice. Their reactions would be totally different, poles apart, and yet each equally dramatic.
Forcing himself into action, Max moved directly in front of Jolie, halting her progress toward the altar. Pausing, she stared directly at him, her expression daring, her facial muscles tight.
“Jolie, I’m Max Devereaux, your stepbrother.” He didn’t touch her; he didn’t dare. If he did, he might find himself wrapping his hands around her long white neck and strangling her.
She glared at him, pure animosity evident in her eyes. “I know who you are.”
“Would you like to say a proper good-bye to your father?” he asked. “If you’d like, I can walk with you the rest of the way.”
“How very nice of you to offer, but I think I can do this without your assistance.” An icy tone edged her words.
“As you wish.” He stepped out of her way, then added, “You will, of course, sit with the family for the service and ride with us to the cemetery.”
Her lips curved into a fragile fleeting smile, so quickly concealed that he thought he might have imagined it. “Of course.”
“And you’ll come to the reception afterward at Belle Rose?”
Ah, he had her there. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes. If she came to Belle Rose, she would have to be civil to his mother and he knew how that would gall her.
“I hadn’t planned on—”
“You might want to change your plans,” he told her, then leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Garland Wells is going to read Louis’s will to the family this evening. Don’t you want to find out whether your daddy left Belle Rose to you or to my mother?”
Chapter 6
 
Jolie managed to make it through the funeral service. Seated between Aunt Clarice and Yvonne, both women overjoyed to see her, she drew strength from their love and concern. Aunt Clarice kept saying, “I knew you’d come home.” The extravagant tributes to Louis Royale were probably well deserved, but the minister’s condolences to her were wasted. In her mind and in her heart, she had buried her father long ago. If anyone questioned why she hadn’t shed a tear, she wouldn’t have a problem telling them. But then again, she didn’t owe anyone an explanation. What the people in this antiquated one-horse town thought of her didn’t matter. She’d be gone soon enough. Once the will was read.
Thankfully, Trendall Funeral Home provided two black limousines for the immediate family, so Jolie wasn’t forced to ride to the cemetery with Georgette and her children. The chauffeur parked, then got out and opened the door for them. Yvonne emerged first, then Nowell Landers, who assisted Aunt Clarice. Jolie hesitated momentarily before joining the others. Not once had she given any thought as to where her father would be buried. Somehow she had managed to block the question from her mind. Would Louis Royale be laid to rest alongside his first wife in the Desmond family section of the Sumarville Cemetery? Or had other arrangements been made? Odd that she should care, but she did. What difference would it make now? Perhaps it mattered to Louis’s new family, but certainly it shouldn’t matter to her.
Within minutes, she realized that they had not stopped at the Desmond family’s burial site. As she walked beside Aunt Clarice, she looked ahead to the dark green tent over the open grave. This was the Royale family plot, where Louis’s father and mother were buried. A huge decorative stone, embellished with angels on either side, rested at the head of the open grave. As they drew closer, Jolie saw the inscriptions on the monument. Inscribed in the gray marble was her father’s name and date of birth. Her heart sank when she read Georgette Royale’s name beside his.
Joining Aunt Clarice and Yvonne, Jolie took her seat on the second row of folding chairs near the grave. Nowell Landers stood behind her aunt, his large tanned hands resting on Clarice’s shoulders. Her father’s second family occupied the first row—Georgette and her children. And even her brother Parry.
“Dear family and friends of Louis Royale, our hearts are heavy today,” Reverend Arnold said, and went on to sing her father’s praises, to list his many accomplishments and to offer condolences to the family as well as hope for a reunion in the hereafter.
Twenty years ago she had been in the hospital, hovering between life and death and unable to attend the funerals of her mother and aunt. In the years since, she had avoided funerals, finding excuses not to attend. But here she was at the funeral of a father she hadn’t seen in twenty years. She would get through this final graveside service and make it through this day. Somehow. Some way.
While the minister continued his praise of a fine and honorable man, rays of the hot June sun bounced off the burnished gold metal casket. Once Reverend Arnold finished his oratory, he turned the service over to the Shriners, who proceeded to perform the Masonic burial rites for their brother who had at one time been a Potentate.
As the ceremony continued, Georgette’s weeping grew louder, until she was finally unconsolable. Jolie carefully watched the black-clad widow, whose performance was quite convincing. Was it possible that Georgette had truly loved her husband for himself as much as for his money and social position? Odd, Jolie thought, that she should consider that possibility now, when she’d never before given the second Mrs. Royale the benefit of the doubt.
But what did it matter if Georgette had loved Louis? It changed nothing. The two had indulged in an adulterous affair before her mother’s death and had married nine months after Audrey Royale had been murdered. Both acts were unforgivable.
“Poor Georgette,” Clarice murmured softly. “She would never survive this loss if not for Max. He will be her strength and her comfort. He’ll take care of all of us, just as Louis did.”
Hearing Max Devereaux praised so highly by her aunt didn’t surprise Jolie. She’d listened to Aunt Clarice singing the man’s praises on numerous occasions over the past few years.
Max did this. Max said that. Max, the magnificent
.
The image of Max cooling himself in the pond this morning flashed through Jolie’s mind. She cringed.
No more flights of fancy
, she cautioned herself. She would not fall victim to the spell Max apparently wove around every woman who knew him, young and old alike. She was no fourteen-year-old in the throes of her first mad crush on an older boy. Max Devereaux was
persona non grata
to her. As far as she was concerned, the man was the devil incarnate.
The pipers had come from the church to participate in the Masonic burial rites and now they played again as the family departed. The mournful wail of the Scottish bagpipes spread through the cemetery and lingered in the soul. Max ushered his mother, sister, and uncle into the first limousine, then stood by the car and glanced back at Jolie. Their gazes met and locked for a split second. The look he gave her chilled her to the bone. Did she have more to fear from Max than she thought? Was that hatred she’d seen in his eyes? Or had it been a warning?
“Come, dear girl,” Clarice said from inside the second limousine. “We must go straight to Belle Rose and be there to greet our guests.”
Jolie nodded, then hurriedly slid into the limousine beside her aunt. She would rather walk over hot coals or swallow a cup of glass slivers than participate in the postfuneral reception. Of course, she could skip the grand affair, make an excuse to return to the hotel and then come back later for the reading of her father’s will. But what excuse could she give Aunt Clarice? No, it was too late to back out now, too late to have second thoughts about her return to Sumarville—and to Belle Rose.
So Jolie Royale had shown up after all, and looking enough like her mother and aunts so that everyone recognized her immediately. She’d grown up to be a beautiful woman, more beautiful than her mother or Clarice and every bit as beautiful as Lisette, who’d been the fairest of the Desmond sisters. In fact, her resemblance to Lisette was uncanny
.
Why was she here? Why hadn’t she stayed away? She had washed her hands of Louis, of Belle Rose, and of Sumarville years ago. Undoubtedly she expected to be named in the will, perhaps given a huge slice of the Royale pie
.
Damn her for coming back, for dredging up all those old memories. People would start talking again, recalling the Belle Rose massacre. Word had it that Yvonne’s son Theron was stirring up trouble, probing into the old murder-suicide case. That boy needed to be stopped now before he stirred up a really big stink. Handling him might prove difficult, but it could be done. Handling Jolie Royale would be a different matter entirely. It was possible, wasn’t it, that she might already have remembered something significant about the murderer? Was that the real reason she’d finally returned to Sumarville? In the past, two attempts on her life had failed. If another attempt became necessary, failure wasn’t an option
.
What I did, I did because I had to. I had no other choice. It had been the only way. God forgive me, I hadn’t planned to kill them all. But the others had gotten in the way. I couldn’t let them live, not when they knew what I’d done
.
Yvonne moved from room to room, her presence subtle and nonobtrusive. Except for a warm hello from a few people close to the family, she was ignored, as all good servants were. It had long ago ceased to bother her that outsiders considered her nothing more than a housekeeper at Belle Rose. She had learned to accept what could and could not be in her life—something her son would never have to accept. Theron had no limitations, no unholy moments from his youth to taint his life or obligations that would hold him back from achieving his goals. She only hoped and prayed that his determination to prove Lemar innocent of the Belle Rose massacre wouldn’t ruin his political aspirations in Mississippi.
Yvonne had hired the catering service from Vicksburg that she’d used on numerous occasions, but despite always having been totally satisfied with their work, she kept a close watch on every aspect of today’s reception, from food preparation to the waiters’ and waitresses’ appearances and performances. She prided herself on perfection. She was good at her job. Clarice had pointed out to her once that with her managerial abilities she could have been a company CEO. Even now the thought made her smile.
Approximately two-thirds of the people who had attended the church service put in an appearance at the reception, filling the house to capacity. Of course, a few had already come and gone and more entered the front door every few minutes. The house would be a disaster once the crowd left, but she’d hired extra help to assist the daily maids to clean up tonight.
Clarice had already told her that she was expected to join the family when Gar Wells read the will. Yvonne supposed Louis had bequeathed her a small sum to show his appreciation for her loyal service. It would be expected. She sincerely hoped that he had left Clarice enough to live well for the rest of her life. Of course, Clarice still had some money of her own from when she’d sold her dress shop twenty years ago. Yvonne knew to the penny exactly how much. She and Clarice had no secrets. Not now. Not ever.
As she made her way through the back parlor, she heard Clarice’s voice, slightly agitated, the pitch an octave higher than normal.
“But you must stay here,” Clarice pleaded. “It’s ridiculous that you checked into the Sumarville Inn when there’s more than enough room for you at Belle Rose. After all, this is your home. Your old room is just the way you left it.”
“There’s no point in my leaving the inn,” Jolie said. “I’m returning to Atlanta in a few days, maybe even tomorrow, unless something in the will requires me to stay on.”
“Of course there will be something in Louis’s will that will require you to stay on. You’re his daughter. I’m sure he’s left an equal share of everything to you.”
“I doubt he did that. He had a new family to think about, to take care of. I’m sure he put their needs first in death as he did in life.”
Clarice slipped her arm around Jolie’s waist. “You’re still so bitter.” Clarice
tsk-tsked
and shook her head sadly. “Audrey was like that. Unable to forgive. Unable to understand human foibles. You mustn’t be this way, dear, dear Jolie. Don’t you know that in the long run hatred turns on you and causes you pain?”
“I’m sorry if you can’t understand why I feel the way I do, but I can’t accept the fact that Georgette took my mother’s place in this house less than a year after her death or the fact that she took my mother’s place in my father’s bed before Mama died.”
“Hush up!” Clarice tapped her index finger over her lips. “Someone might hear you.”
Yvonne hated seeing Clarice upset, and if this conversation went any further, she’d have a difficult time dealing with Clarice later. Everyone in the household made an effort to keep things on an even keel for Clarice, to keep her content and smiling. She simply wasn’t emotionally strong enough to deal with confrontation. Everyone here at Belle Rose was aware of that fact. Why wasn’t Jolie? It was for this very reason that Max hadn’t already kicked Nowell Landers’s ass from here to Jackson and back.
“Clarice, Mr. Landers is looking for you,” Yvonne said as she approached. A little white lie to calm the situation was in order.
“Nowell is looking for me?” Clarice’s eyelashes fluttered, youthful flirtation in the gesture.
Yvonne hadn’t seen Clarice react this way to a man since Jonathan. “Come on. Let me take you to him.” She hoped that Nowell Landers wouldn’t contradict her.
“But I haven’t persuaded Jolie to stay here at Belle Rose. She’s checked herself into the inn and says she’s leaving Sumarville in a few days.” Clarice hugged Jolie to her side. “Now that she’s home again, we can’t let her leave.”
“I’ll tell you what—you go find Mr. Landers and I’ll talk to Jolie,” Yvonne said. “How will that be?”
“Yes, of course. What a good idea. You have such a persuasive way about you.” Clarice kissed Jolie’s cheek, then released her and shook her finger in Jolie’s face. “You listen to Yvonne. Do you hear me? You won’t disappoint us, will you, sweet child?”

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