Buch lesen: «The Reunion»
An heiress comes home to terror in New York Times bestselling author Jana DeLeon’s Mystere Parish: Family Inheritance miniseries.
Bodyguard to an heiress is Tyler Duhan’s idea of hell. The steely, sexy ex-marine has heard—and dismissed—the gossip about the haunted old LeBeau mansion and its “cursed” heiresses. Now the middle sibling—headstrong Joelle—has arrived to comply with her mother’s will and reunite with her long-lost sisters.
But no sooner does she move into the house, than Joelle falls prey to terrifying threats and mysterious visions. Tyler, though he’s sworn off femme fatales, can’t deny his feelings for the Creole beauty. Nor can he let passion distract him. Because falling for Joelle could be a fatal mistake—for them both.
Finally, she slumped against him, her body spent.
She stayed there for a while, relishing the comfort of his strong arms around her, until she mustered the strength to regain control. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t you dare apologize. Anyone in your position would be upset. I’m a half step away from losing it myself.”
His expression was a mixture of sympathy, worry and frustration, and Joelle’s heart leaped at this man’s honor and compassion.
He looked down at her and lifted one hand to wipe a tear from her cheek. “He will not hurt you or your sisters. I won’t let that happen.”
“I know,” she said, and believed every word.
He stared at her a moment more and his expression shifted from frustration to something else… Something she hadn’t seen before. A shiver of excitement ran through her as she realized he was going to kiss her.
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author JANA DELEON grew up among the bayous and small towns of southwest Louisiana. She’s never actually found a dead body or seen a ghost, but she’s still hoping. Jana started writing in 2001—she focuses on murderous plots set deep in the Louisiana bayous. By day she writes very boring technical manuals for a software company in Dallas. Visit Jana on her website, www.janadeleon.com.
The Reunion
New York Times Bestselling Author
Jana DeLeon
MILLS & BOON
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CAST OF CHARACTERS
Joelle LeBeau—The social worker specialized in helping women escape situations of domestic abuse, but her job was not without risk. One man will do anything to find his wife, whom Joelle helped hide. When she finds out that her stepfather died and the terms of her inheritance require her to spend two weeks at her childhood estate, it seems like perfect timing for her to disappear.
Tyler Duhon—He’s back from the Middle East and attempting to gain his footing in the civilian world. His father, William, has other ideas. William wants Tyler to play bodyguard to the last of the LeBeau heirs. Tyler knows his father wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, so he can’t say no. But he hopes the time passes quickly and the heiress doesn’t bring as much trouble down on Calais as her sisters did.
Victor Brant—The abuser wants to find his wife in the worst way possible, and he’s not going to let up on Joelle until he does exactly that. But did he follow her to Calais, or is someone else responsible for all the odd things happening at the LeBeau estate?
Mayor Dupree—The only time the old windbag isn’t gossiping is when he’s sleeping or eating, but does he know even more about Trenton Purcell and the situation with the inheritance than he’s saying?
Bert Thibodeaux—Purcell promised the trucker he’d get a new rig when Purcell died, but the money wasn’t Purcell’s to give away and he knew it. The trucker is beyond angry, but is he angry enough to try to get revenge on the legitimate heirs?
Doctor Picard—The now-deceased physician had treated the heiress’s mother over twenty years ago and had clearly been hiding something all these years. Was his secret worth killing over?
To my husband, Rene.
We’ve come a long way, baby!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Chapter One
The woman stared out the second-story window of her mansion, looking across the overgrown driveway and down the lonely dirt road that led into town. Where had her children gone? Two were here before, then there were none. But the third...the third had never returned. Did she not know how much her mother loved her? Did she not know that only the thought of seeing her again kept the woman tied to this place?
A tear slid down the woman’s cheek as the house began to fade away.
“I grow weak. Come to me, soon. Before it’s too late.”
* * *
JOELLE LEBEAU STOOD next to her ancient Honda Accord, certain it was totaled and not even wanting to think of replacing it. The two Jackson, Mississippi, policemen documented the vandalism, one with pen and paper and the other with a camera.
It was only 6:00 p.m., but the fall sunlight was already fading, leaving the parking lot behind the Office of Social Services building dim. Joelle had been working late, as usual, when she heard a noise outside. By the time she’d removed her pistol from her desk drawer and peered out the back door into the parking lot, the vandal was already gone.
But he’d managed to do so much in so little time.
Every tire had been slashed and all the windows were shattered, leaving shards of glass littering the parking lot and the interior of the car. The windshield had a huge crack in the center that splintered out in every direction, and a message in dark red paint sprayed across it.
Destroyer.
That one word left her no doubt who had done the damage, and if she’d had trouble guessing, the note on the dashboard cinched it.
Give me what’s mine.
One of the officers stepped up next to her. “You said you had someone in mind for this?”
She nodded. “Victor Brant.”
The officer made a note. “Is he a client of yours?”
She almost laughed at the thought of the abusive, narcissistic Victor Brant admitting he needed help. “No. His wife is.”
“And I take it Mr. Brant is unhappy with that?”
“He’s unhappy with anyone who doesn’t bow down to his every word or whose thoughts differ from his own. He’s the worst type of abuser—successful, good-looking and adored by his colleagues and in his community.”
“So you’re saying it would have been unlikely that people believed Mrs. Brant when she said her husband was abusive.”
“She wasn’t believed. The police were dispatched twice to their home. Both times, they declined to even take Mr. Brant in for questioning. In fact, the last time all they did was schedule a round of golf with Brant the following week at his country club.”
The officer frowned. “The Jackson Police Department?”
“No. The Brants’ estate is in Willow Grove. It was their local department. The mayor is Mr. Brant’s first cousin. The chief of police is his uncle. Are you getting a clear picture?”
“Yes, ma’am, and I don’t like it, but I can assure you that neither the mayor of Jackson nor the chief of police are interested in playing flunky to Mr. Brant. If he’s responsible for this threat, he will be prosecuted. What I don’t understand is this note.”
He held up the note in a plastic baggie. “What do you have that he thinks belongs to him?”
Joelle took a deep breath and blew it out. “His wife.”
The officer’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“In addition to my counseling job at the crisis center, I volunteer with an organization that helps women...quietly relocate, let’s just say.”
“An underground railroad?”
Joelle held in her frustration at the officer’s obvious displeasure. Dedicated, honorable law enforcement professionals didn’t like the vigilante-like tactics that the underground railroad organizations often used, but they had yet to offer a solution when their own departments couldn’t keep women safe.
“There were no children,” Joelle assured him. “And Ms. Brant left only with the clothes on her back and a watch that belonged to her mother. What we did was in no way illegal.”
“Maybe not, but it’s still not the usual way to get divorced.”
“Look,” she said, unable to control her aggravation any longer, “if any of us thought for a minute that Ms. Brant could simply file and get a divorce, like normal people do, she’d be staying at a Hilton, not hiding in a ten-by-ten room, afraid to even look out a window. Victor Brant said he’d kill her before he let her go. We have no reason to think he’s lying.”
The officer sighed and shook his head. “Assuming all of that is true, you haven’t solved the problem. You’ve simply momentarily shifted Brant’s focus from his wife to you. What makes you think you’re any safer than she was?”
Despite the somewhat warm temperature of the fall evening, a chill passed over her and she crossed her arms across her chest. What he said was entirely correct, but it wasn’t something she wanted to dwell on at the moment. When she’d decided on this profession and her volunteer work, Joelle invested time and money into her own safety. She lived in a well-lit condominium with a good security system. She spent at least an hour a week at the gun range and was a black belt.
“I’m safer, because I’m more qualified to handle this,” she said finally. “It’s my job to be prepared for these kinds of threats.”
The officer didn’t look convinced, but he closed the notebook and handed her a card. “If you receive any more threats, please contact me immediately. And be careful, Ms. LeBeau. Even the best trained among us can be gotten to. Can we give you a ride home?”
“No, thank you. A friend is coming to pick me up.”
He nodded and climbed into his car with his partner. Joelle watched them exit the parking lot, then cast one more baleful glance at her junkyard-bound automobile. Sighing, she turned toward the office building, and when she did, she caught sight of movement out of the corner of her eye.
She spun around to peer at the Dumpster that rested in the corner of the parking lot against the fence. Nothing moved now, but she was certain something had just a second before.
You let that cop spook you.
Blowing out a breath, she hustled toward the back door of the office and let herself inside. Likely, it had just been an alley cat. Two or three regularly hung around the Dumpster, looking for an easy meal.
She pulled the dead bolt on the back door and hurried to the front of the office. Lisa would be here any moment to pick her up, and she didn’t want her waiting too long. Her friend was an incredibly nice woman but a bit prone to dramatics and quite fearful of everything. Joelle had omitted the truth when she’d asked Lisa to give her lift, only citing car trouble as the reason for needing help.
As she walked through the office, she grabbed her purse from the desk where she’d dropped it earlier and continued through the reception area. As she approached the frosted glass door, a shadow moved in front of it and she drew up short.
The shadow stood for several seconds and Joelle dipped her hand into her purse and gripped her pistol. Then the shadow rapped on the door, causing her to jump.
“Anyone here? It’s Myer’s Courier Service. I have a package.”
She hesitated just a second before releasing her pistol and stepping up to the door to unlock it. Myer’s had delivered packages to the office many times before, but they usually made deliveries before the office closed for the day.
Peering out a tiny crack, she was relieved to see the same tall, skinny young man who always delivered. She pulled open the door and smiled at him.
“Hello, John. You almost missed me.”
John handed her a legal-sized envelope and produced a clipboard for her to sign. “I know I’m late,” he said, flushing a bit. “I had a flat tire and it took longer to change it out than I thought it would.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re fixed now. How’s Janey doing her first semester of college?” John’s sister had volunteered at the crisis center her senior year of high school.
“She’d doing fine. She’s working with disabled kids two days a week after class.”
Joelle smiled. “That’s great. Tell her we miss her and good luck.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said and left.
She closed the door and placed the package on the secretary’s desk, but as she started to walk away, the name on the package caught her eye. Joelle LeBeau.
Frowning, she picked up the package again. It was unusual for her to receive a courier delivery. The secretary usually dealt with all incoming paperwork and orders. She glanced at the return address and sucked in a breath.
Calais, Louisiana.
She studied the return address more closely. What in the world would an attorney in Calais want with her? She was only four years old when her mother died and she was sent to live with distant cousins in Mississippi, but certain moments of her childhood on the LeBeau estate were etched in her mind, with recall so vivid it was as if she were watching it take place on a television. For years, she’d tried to convince herself to visit Calais—to confront her stepfather, the man who cast off the three sisters—but every time she approached the entry for the highway to New Orleans, she drove past it.
Not ready to face those vivid memories yet.
She tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter, already certain she didn’t want to hear anything her stepfather had to say. If Trenton Purcell was on his deathbed and begging forgiveness, she’d raise a glass and toast, but she’d never accept an apology for what he did.
As she began to read, her pulse ticked up until she could feel it beating in her temples. Her evil stepfather was dead. He had been much older than her mother, so Joelle knew the day would come sooner than later, but she’d never expected to be notified of the event.
Then she read the second paragraph and sank down onto the desktop, her knees weak. It was all theirs. The estate, the fortune—everything her mother and her mother’s ancestors had built—it all belonged to Ophelia LeBeau’s three daughters. Purcell hadn’t been able to control the fortune after his death.
She continued reading and frowned. In order to inherit, she had to spend two straight weeks on the estate, to be verified by the local sheriff. Her two sisters, Alaina and Danae, had already completed their two weeks and were anxious to meet her.
A wave of excitement rushed over her, then a flash of anxiety. All these years, she’d wanted to meet her sisters, but hadn’t even known where to start looking. Now they were waiting for her at their childhood home—waiting for her to come fulfill a rather bizarre inheritance request so that they could finally claim their birthright.
But that meant not only returning to Calais, but staying in that house. The house with bad memories.
A mental image of her vandalized car flashed through her mind. Maybe leaving Jackson for a couple of weeks wasn’t a bad idea. It might give Brant a chance to realize that the Jackson Police Department wasn’t for sale like the one in Willow Grove. She had plenty of vacation coming. In fact, she hadn’t taken more than a day off at a time since she’d started working at the crisis center over five years ago.
A horn honked outside and she stuffed the letter into her purse and swung the strap over her shoulder before hurrying out of the office. She’d call William Duhon, the attorney who’d sent the letter, first thing in the morning. Then she’d call her boss to say she was taking a long overdue vacation...for the long overdue purpose of addressing her past.
Chapter Two
Tyler Duhon stared in dismay across the café table at his father, William, Calais’s resident attorney. Not even Johnny’s absolutely stellar banana pudding could sweeten Tyler’s disposition toward what his father had just asked him to do.
“No way,” Tyler said. “Look, I promise I’m not going to be lying around on your couch all day for months on end. I’ll be starting my own security firm as soon as I get all the permits and approved formation documents.”
William pushed his empty bowl to the edge of the table and took another sip of coffee. “I’m not worried about my couch. Your mother picked it out and I never liked it much—all those roses. And I’m well aware of your business pursuits as I filed the corporate formation documents for you last week.”
“Then what’s your angle?”
“I don’t have an angle. What I have is a spooky, partially repaired old house that has three deaths attached to it in as many months, and an heir who needs to occupy that house for two weeks in order to gain back everything that was stolen from her. I’d really like her to have an easier go of it than her sisters did.”
Tyler frowned. The happenings surrounding Trenton Purcell’s death and the subsequent arrival of two of Ophelia LeBeau’s daughters had set off a chain reaction of threats, break-ins, stalkers and eventually, three deaths—one murder and two in self-defense. But the facts paled in comparison to the sheer amount of disturbance that had rocked the sleepy bayou town.
“I’m not sure what you think I can do,” Tyler said finally.
“You plan on opening a security firm, don’t you? I expect you can protect the heiress and her assets. I’m not expecting you to do so for free. The estate will be happy to cover the cost of on-site security—in fact, in light of recent events, they’re requiring it.”
Tyler shook his head. “I’m opening a firm, but I’m not going to do any of the face-to-face work. I’m focusing solely on hardware and administration. I’ll hire some of my military buddies for the groundwork.”
William scrunched his brow. “You plan on sitting behind a desk all day? You’ll be bored within a week.”
I don’t think so.
“If I get bored,” Tyler said, “we’ll go shopping for a new couch. Mom’s been gone for years. It’s time you got some manly furniture in the place.”
William studied him, and Tyler forced himself not to squirm under his father’s scrutiny. Apparently, his attempt at levity hadn’t distracted his father for a moment. Tyler had never been able to hide anything from the shrewd attorney, who seemed to possess the ability to read minds. And more than anyone, his father knew how much Tyler hated sitting still—hated concentrating on paper and numbers and words. He was smart, but it had been a struggle to get him out of high school. He’d sit in class almost twitching with anxiety, wanting desperately to jump out a window and run until he sated his body’s always-demanding call to action.
It’s why he’d joined the Marine Corps as soon as he graduated.
The Marine Corps had immediately recognized that Tyler was able to sit still long enough to take a flight to where they needed him for action. Beyond that, and you risked a fidgety bored adult, carrying a weapon and expertly trained at using it. When Tyler wasn’t on maneuvers in the Middle East, he worked in the villages alongside the occupants, helping them rebuild their homes. He hadn’t sat behind a desk since high school, and he already knew he was going to be bored.
But you rarely saw people die when you sat behind a desk.
And that was the bottom line. He’d seen too much sadness, too much tragedy, and he needed to get away from it all. Which was why he was digging in his heels over the issue with the heiress. The last thing he wanted to do was sit all day in that monstrosity of a house with some fainting violet of a woman.
“I don’t know what happened overseas,” William said quietly, cutting into his thoughts. “I’d like to think that someday you’ll tell me. But I wouldn’t ask this of you if I had other options. The reality is, you’re the best person for the job and I need the best. This woman’s safety is on my conscience. I can’t rest if she’s not protected.”
Tyler held in a sigh, knowing he’d just lost the fight, but determined to give it one last parting shot. “What about Carter? He’s definitely capable, and his mother would make him do anything for you.”
William nodded. “Quite true, which is why Carter was tasked with verifying the daily presence of all the heirs. But Carter is Calais’s sheriff, and lately, that job is more than full-time. Not to mention that he has a new fiancée who lives with him, and it would be highly inappropriate for him to move in with her sister—even if only for two weeks and for the purpose of protecting her.”
Tyler’s parting shot faded into the distance, and he let out the sigh. If anyone but William had tried such a line on him, he would have accused them of attempting to guilt him into doing what they wanted, but that was something his father would never do. Which was why Tyler knew William was telling the truth when he said the woman’s safety weighed on his conscience. His father was a good man—the best, actually—and he wasn’t afraid to care about people.
Even if it cost him in the long run.
“Fine,” Tyler relented. “I’ll do it. But only for the two weeks the estate requires her to be there. If she wants to stay and redecorate or open a knitter’s colony or something, she’s on her own. And I have no intention of sitting and staring at her all day. You want me in the house, that’s fine, but I want to talk to the contractor and get a list of things I can work on while I’m there.”
William beamed at him. “Thank you, Tyler. I’m sure Zach can provide you with plenty of items that need attention.”
Tyler nodded. Zach Sargent was the contractor William had hired to make repairs on the house, but he’d had other reasons for coming to Calais. Zach’s father, a funeral director, was one of the many people Purcell had paid off, and Zach took the job in order to figure out exactly what his father’s attempted deathbed confession and the large cash deposit had entailed. Zach hadn’t gotten the answers he’d hoped for, but he’d formed a relationship with the youngest of Ophelia’s daughters and had moved back to New Orleans, with her in tow. He returned to Calais on weekends to continue repairs on the house.
“You don’t know how relieved I am that you’ll be my eyes and ears in that house,” William said.
“Why? Surely, it’s all over now.”
William’s smile faded away and he shook his head. “Much of Purcell’s evil intentions and those who carried them out have been exposed, that’s true.”
“But?”
“But I still have a bad feeling about all of it.”
“Of course you do. Purcell was a hit man for the New Orleans mafia who romanced Ophelia LeBeau for her money and a safe hiding place when his own employer put a hit on him. Then he killed her and sent her kids away like they were department store returns. I’ve got lots of feelings about it myself, and trust me, all of them are bad.”
“We don’t know for certain that Purcell killed Ophelia.”
“Then what was he paying all those people for?”
William nodded. “Oh, we’re certain Purcell was paying for silence, and I’d guess it’s exactly as you say and he killed Ophelia, but we still can’t prove it. And with everyone on his payroll dead, there’s no one left to ask.”
“And that’s exactly my original point—all the bad guys are dead.”
William stared out the plate-glass window of the café and looked across the street into the swamp. Finally, he looked back at Tyler and leaned across the table.
“I don’t think they are all dead.” William’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “The swamp is wrong. You don’t even have to enter it to feel it. Something is still out of balance, and I don’t think the swamp will rest until it churns up all its secrets.”
If it were anyone else speaking or if his father were talking about anywhere else but Calais, Tyler would suggest he needed professional help. But the swamps of Mystere Parish were different than any place he’d ever been. Although he’d been surrounded by them his entire childhood, and had traipsed through them thousands of hours, Tyler had never felt at ease in the dense cypress trees and foliage.
It was as if the swamp itself was alive.
Certainly, the swamp comprised lots of living things, but it was something more than that—as if the swamp were a separate living entity, with its own agenda. At times, it was pleasant enough, but he’d never found the atmosphere relaxing, even though parts of it were beautiful. At other times, it had been oppressive, the weight of it pressing in around him.
That oppressive weight had always aligned with something tragic, usually death.
If the swamp was out of balance, then something was still very wrong in Calais. Given that the only recent tragedies all centered on the LeBeau estate, Tyler understood why his father was so anxious to ensure that Ophelia’s middle daughter was offered the best protection he could provide. The swamp wouldn’t return to a peaceful state until a reckoning had occurred.
“What do you think is wrong?” Tyler asked.
“I don’t know, and that’s what bothers me the most. But we may get some answers soon.”
“How’s that?”
His father looked at him, his expression sad and haunting. “We’re exhuming Ophelia LeBeau tomorrow.”
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