Blood Ties in Chef Voleur Page 12

  Cara Lynn studied him. “I don’t think you’ve got anything.”

  “Oh, I’ve got something. It’s a big something, too. Huge. It could give me the proof I need.”

  That she believed, because his dark eyes were glittering with excitement. Whatever he had, he was placing a lot of hope in. What he didn’t know was that her secret could give him the proof he needed, too, or at least put him on the right track. And that was Cara Lynn’s dilemma. Could she just hand him an important piece of the puzzle he was looking for? The puzzle that could easily rip her family’s hearts out? “Okay, well if that’s the case, then, you certainly don’t need anything I’ve got. You’re ready to go, right?”

  Jack’s eyes lost a bit of their shine. “I actually do need one thing, in order to—” He stopped himself and shrugged. “But I’ll get it. You just sit back and watch. I’ll get the proof I need, because it is out there.”

  “Okay, then,” she said, glancing at the clock over the sink. “I’ve had a long and horrible day, so I think I’m going to go to bed early.”

  “Cara? Answer one more question for me. Why are you so sure you know the man who attacked you?”

  She turned back to look at him. “Because he knew about the letter.”

  Jack nodded, crossing his arms and leaning against the refrigerator. “And how could he know about the letter?”

  “Because he was there and saw it?” she ventured.

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody else saw it. I didn’t. I wouldn’t have suspected a letter if it hadn’t been for that scrap of paper you dropped.” He studied her for a moment. “What about your mom?”

  Cara Lynn frowned. “What about her?”

  “Had she seen inside the box before it was opened at the reception? Your mom doesn’t seem like the type of person who would stage something that dramatic without checking out everything ahead of time.”

  She smiled. “You’re right about that, but apparently, my grandmother gave Aunt Claire specific instructions about how she wanted the presentation made, and that included putting the items in a lockbox, just like we saw them, and putting the lockbox in a safe deposit box until I got married.”

  “So when the box was opened by that banker guy at the reception—”

  “My mother said the box was sealed and the reception was the first time it had been opened since my grandmother gave the journal and the tiara to Aunt Claire.”

  “It’s been here, in the bank, all these years?”

  Cara Lynn nodded. “What are you trying to figure out?” she asked. “Whoever attacked me had to have seen me slip the letter into my purse. But if he saw it, then a bunch of people must have.”

  “No. They didn’t. I didn’t see it. It’s a stone-cold cinch that your brothers didn’t see it or we’d know about it. And I haven’t heard a single person talking about it. Have you?”

  He didn’t wait for her answer. “I think anyone who’d seen the envelope would have been asking about it and questioning whether the envelope had been taken by the thief along with the journal and tiara.”

  “You’re right about that. So nobody saw the letter except the thief and me.”

  Jack’s gaze slipped away from hers and focused on something far away. He shook his head. “Right. The thief had to be somebody close.”

  “That’s what I meant. Everybody there was family or friends, so whoever did this has got to be somebody I know.”

  “I’m talking about position. He had to be close enough to see what you did.”

  “Well, whoever he is, he has the letter now.”

  “No he doesn’t,” Jack said.

  “What?”

  “The letter’s not in the briefcase. I gave it to the lawyer.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, good.”

  Jack’s face was somber as he looked at her. “Yeah. I think it was good. If the attacker had known the letter was not in the briefcase—”

  “What?” Cara Lynn’s stomach sank.

  “He might have tried to get you to tell him where it was.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  Jack put his hand on hers. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t worry. He’s gone now.”

  She nodded doubtfully. “But now he still doesn’t have it.”

  “True. But I don’t think he’ll try breaking in again. For all he knows, we’ve called the police.” He reached out and almost touched her cheek before he checked his movement and pulled his hand back.

  His aborted gesture reminded her of what he’d said earlier, in their bed. “Jack? Why did you say what you did earlier?”

  “Hmm?” he said, his brows furrowing in a small frown. “What did I say?”

  She shook her head and sighed. “Nothing. I’m tired. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got work to do— Oh, hell! I don’t have my briefcase.”

  Cara Lynn stepped across the threshold from the kitchen to the hall, stared down the long, unlighted corridor for a second, then turned back. “Jack?” she said.

  His face showed his frustration at not having his briefcase. “What?” he answered shortly.

  She paused. “Never mind. Good night.”

  She forced herself to walk down the hall to their bedroom. As she climbed into bed, she remembered. Jack had changed the sheets. Grateful tears gathered in her eyes as she slipped under the clean, crisp, freshly washed covers.

  She turned out the bedside lamp and closed her eyes, trying to blot out the bad memories. She’d almost drifted off to sleep when she felt Jack’s weight on the bed, and then his warm, strong body spooned her. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close.

  “Oh,” she sighed. “I thought you had to work.”

  “I do. I’d left my drawings on the coffee table where I’d been going over them yesterday, but I thought I’d lie here with you until you fall asleep.”

  Cara Lynn snuggled back against him and closed her eyes. She sighed, thinking there was nowhere in the world she’d rather be than spooned against the very obviously aroused body of her husband, who loved her.

  But that wasn’t where she was. She was in bed with her husband, but he didn’t love her. And as soon as he got what he wanted from her, he’d be gone.

  * * *

  CARA LYNN SPENT the next morning at her studio. She’d been sketching a new piece. It was to be a large wall hanging, predominantly black and spiraling out from the center. In each spiral, she wanted to add more and more colors to the black, until the outer edges were brightly colored and nothing was left of the black except a meager background.

  It was her interpretation of Jack’s dark, dark eyes when he was angry or excited or turned on. Privately, she called it His Eyes, but she couldn’t call it that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  After a few hours’ work, she quit, frustrated. Her mind kept wandering back to the journal, and what her grandmother might have been scribbling so furiously in it on that fateful day.

  On her way back to her apartment, she called her cousin Ryker, who worked at the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office as a detective.

  “Hi, Cara Lynn, are you feeling better?”

  For an instant, Cara Lynn thought Ryker was talking about the attack of the day before, that neither she nor Jack had told anyone about. “I’m—I’m—” she stammered.

  “What’s wrong, kiddo? That bump on your head confusing you?”

  “Oh,” she said. Bump on the head. Of course. He was asking about the night of the reception. “The bump. I forget about it until I look in the mirror and see the little cut or absently touch my forehead. I’m doing fine,” she said, hearing in her own ears how nervous and deceptive she sounded.

  “Okay,” Ryker said, a tinge of doubt in his voice. “What can I do for you?
Did you remember something?”

  “No. Nothing like that. I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  She heard a rustling of clothes that sounded like he was sitting up straight.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Is there any way you could get me copies of a couple pages from Grandmother’s journal? Or—do you know how long they’re going to keep it? There’s some information I need for my genealogy research.”

  “That journal is evidence in your case right now. So the timing couldn’t be worse. Can’t you work on something else until the crime lab’s done with it? You’ll get it back.”

  “I’m afraid it could be years. And I thought maybe right now, before trial starts, it might be easier to get a little leeway. Ryker, this is really important or I wouldn’t ask. I feel like I can’t move forward until I get it.”

  “What’s going on, Cara Lynn? By now you should have piles of papers and documents and letters to work with. The journal can wait.”

  “But Ryker—”

  Ryker sighed. “What pages?” he asked.

  “I don’t know the page numbers,” Cara Lynn said, a bit hesitantly, “but I do know the date. It’s the day our grandfather was killed.”

  “What?” Ryker sounded genuinely shocked. “The day—? What do you need that for?”

  Cara Lynn pushed her left hand through her hair. She was finding it easier to lie these days. What did that say about her, much less about her sham of a marriage? “I’m working on Grandmother’s side, the Guillame side of the family,” she said. “And I feel like I need the whole thing, but under the circumstances, I’ll take whatever I can get. Maybe I’ll have enough information to estimate the number of pages I’ll need to put aside for that section.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but the detective in charge of the case, Charlie Phillips, is not very fond of me.”

  “What about Reilly or Lucas?”

  “My twin brother? Charlie’s not too happy with him, either. Reilly and I were instrumental in proving that his partner, Dagewood, had killed Reilly’s wife’s sister several years ago. Phillips has never forgiven us. I don’t think he knows Lucas, but I doubt he’ll be thrilled with any of the Delanceys.”

  “I’m sorry. Is there anything—?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t get your hopes up too high.”

  “Oh, Ryker. Thanks!”

  * * *

  JACK HADN’T MEANT to be so late getting back to the apartment, but after going by the police station and being put off yet again by Detective Phillips, he’d driven over to Biloxi to take care of some personal business. At his own apartment on Biloxi’s Back Bay, he picked up copies of his grandfather’s letters, then he swung by the landlord’s apartment to pick up any mail and packages that had been delivered, and while he was there, he went ahead and paid the next three months’ rent.

  Then, on his way home, he went by the police station again, and what Detective Phillips told him that time made him furious. He drove home with his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel and his brain whirling with everything he wanted to say—no, shout at Cara Lynn.

  So when he burst into the house and found her in the kitchen cooking jambalaya, the little domestic scene sent his anger spiraling out of control.

  “Hi?” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him with a smile as she stirred. When she met his glare, her smile faded. “What’s wrong?”

  “Have you got no sense whatsoever?” he yelled, throwing his mail and the file folder down on the kitchen table.

  Cara Lynn frowned at him, blinked a couple of times, then said, “I’m fine, thank you. You don’t seem to be doing so well.”

  “Stop it!” he cried. “Just stop it. What the hell were you thinking, going to your cousin about the journal?”

  She frowned. “How do you know—”

  “I know because I went by there this afternoon to see if Detective Phillips, who is in charge of the investigation, not your cousin, had decided to allow me to see the journal.”

  “He was going to let you see it? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “No, he wasn’t going to let me see it, at least not any time soon. He was just stringing me along so I’d be cooperative. He might have eventually allowed me to read a page or two, depending on how he was feeling and how well the case was going. And depending on how cooperative I was being until he decided what to do about me.” Jack huffed. “But now—”

  “Now what? I didn’t do anything different from what you did. I called Ryker and asked him if I could see certain pages. I told him I was working on the genealogy and needed to look at a few pages around the date that our grandfather died, because I thought that Grandmother’s handwritten notes might give me some insight into what happened that day.”

  “That’s the problem! How could you possibly think that siccing a Delancey on Detective Phillips, whom I understand hasn’t been too fond of the Delancey twins since they proved that his partner was guilty of murder a few years ago, was a good idea?”

  Cara Lynn glared at him, her hands propped on her hips. “You didn’t tell me you were trying to get a look at the pages.”

  “I told you I was going to the police station to see if I could get any new information. What did you think that meant?”

  “How should I know!” Cara Lynn shot back at him. “So, did Phillips give you anything?”

  Jack suddenly felt deflated. “No. What about you?”

  She shrugged. “Ryker said he’d see what he could do, but he wasn’t very encouraging. Do you want some jambalaya?”

  “Yeah, please. It smells great,” he said, abandoning his argument for the moment, because he really was hungry. “Anything I can do? Pour some wine?”

  Cara Lynn shook her head. “Sit down.”

  Jack sat and flipped through his junk mail and flyers, and tossed them into a pile next to him. He started to open the folder Phillips had given him, but Cara Lynn set a plate of rice and shrimp and sausage in front of him. She poured two glasses of chardonnay, then sat down next to him.

  “This is great,” Jack said around a mouthful of rice. “What kind is it?”

  “What kind?” she repeated. “Oh, you mean like a brand. I made it from scratch.”

  He glanced up at her. “Impressive. What’s the occasion?”

  She shook her head. “I got frustrated with my current fiber-art piece, so decided I’d cook.”

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  She sent him a little smile as she started in on her plate.

  Jack ate a few bites, watching her the whole time.

  “Why are you staring at me?” she asked, reaching for her wine.

  “Not staring. I’m—” he paused “—sorry about earlier.”

  “The screaming fit?”

  He winced and nodded briefly in acknowledgement. “It’s just that if your brothers find out what I’m doing, I’ll lose—” He cut himself off. Lose everything.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t say things like that to her. He might as well just flay himself open and invite her to eviscerate him. He’d be better off just packing his bags and forgetting his doomed quixotic dream to clear his grandfather’s name.

  In fact, when he’d walked into his apartment in Biloxi that afternoon, he’d felt an almost overwhelming urge just to close and lock the door and pretend he’d never even heard of the Delanceys.

  But he knew that wasn’t an option. Unfortunately, there was more at stake now than there had been when he’d first cooked up this harebrained scheme.

  “You’ll what?” Cara Lynn said. “Lose—?” Her gaze narrowed and a small furrow appeared between her brows.

  “Nothing,” he said, standing and taking his plate and glass to the sink. “Forget it. I’ll do the dishes.”


  She tossed back the last of her wine, then stood as well, picking up her plate. “Thanks. I’ll put the food away.” She gestured back toward the table with her elbow. “What’s in the folder?”

  “I ran over to Biloxi and got copies I’d made of my grandfather’s letters,” he said as he rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.

  She was quiet as she put the food away and wiped off the table. She picked up the bottle of wine. “We almost finished this,” she said. “Want the last of it?”

  He shook his head. “You go ahead.”

  She held up the bottle to the light to measure what was left. “Not even half a glass. I don’t need any more after that migraine yesterday.” She tossed the bottle into the trash.

  Jack dried his hands. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, then turned the nod into a shake of her head. “I can’t stop thinking about that man.”

  He heard the stress in her voice. “I get it, but you need to try. You’ll just drive yourself nuts if you dwell on him. Trust me, he’s not worth it, whoever he is.”

  She shuddered. “Maybe not, but there’s something... I can’t quite figure it out. It’s stuck right at the edge of my mind.”

  “What is?” Jack asked.

  “I’m not sure. I think it’s something about the man. I didn’t recognize anything familiar about him, but then my head was buried in the pillow.” She took a long breath as if still suffocating. “Ugh. I can’t put it into words. It’s right there, you know?” She held her hand out about three or four inches from her temple and wiggled her fingers. “That close.”

  “Sleep on it. Maybe you’ll know in the morning.”

  Cara Lynn shook her head. “I slept on it last night, but I sure didn’t know anything this morning.” She sighed. “It’s after nine. I think I’ll lie down and read for a while. My head still feels strange.” She started for the bedroom, then stopped. “By the way, I got a new battery for my phone and there was a message on it from Reilly. We’re invited for drinks and hors d’oeuvres at their house. I have it on good authority that he and Christy are going to announce that they’re pregnant.”

  “I don’t think I’ll go,” Jack said.