Normalcy. How she craved it right now.
“Thank God we’re home,” moaned Heather from the cramped backseat. “My massage has been completely obliterated.” She stretched her neck back and forth.
Anthony shut down the engine, set the brake and opened his door. He unfolded his body and flipped the seat forward so Heather could escape.
Joan hopped out her own side and retrieved her purse and the boutique bag from the floor behind her.
“You left your door open,” said Heather.
Joan pushed it shut. “Give me a second here.”
“No. I mean that one.” Heather pointed to the house. “Your front door is open.”
Anthony stilled, twisting his head toward the house. “Stay here,” he ordered.
“It was probably just the wind,” said Joan, but an unsettling twinge shot up her spine. In ten years of storms off the Gulf, her door had never once blown open.
“I’m not staying out here,” said Heather, trotting behind Anthony.
Joan rounded the hood of the car, following suit. She wasn’t timid like Heather, but it was dark now and she didn’t relish the thought of standing outside amid the sound of the cicadas and sway of the hanging moss, wondering what might be lurking around the cypress trees.
Anthony strode up the stairs to the open doorway.
“You should really get a gun,” Heather muttered.
“Quiet,” said Anthony. He paused in the doorway and cocked his head.
Joan could hear the ticking clock, the gentle hum of the fridge motor and the wind rustling the oak leaves-no footfalls, no voices.
Anthony stepped inside. The floor creaked under his shoes. He reached to the right and flipped a light switch.
Joan blinked at the bright light, then gasped as the room came into focus.
Her bookcase had been tipped over, and papers were strewn across the living room floor. The kitchen looked intact, but her writing nook was in complete disarray. Worst of all, there was a gaping hole where her computer had stood.
Anthony reached for his phone and dialed 911.
“I need to look upstairs,” said Joan, moving around Anthony. She kept backup disks in her bedroom closet.
Anthony grabbed her by the arm and pinned her to his side. “This is Anthony Verdun,” he said into the phone. “I’m at Joan Bateman’s house on Amelie Lane. There’s been a robbery.” He paused. “Yes.” Another pause. “I think they’re gone. Okay. We will.”
He closed the phone.
“You are not going anywhere,” he said to Joan.
“My backup disks,” she told him. “They’re in my bedroom.” She had to know if her work was safe. That computer represented hours and days and months of her life. She had a manuscript in progress and hundreds of research files stored on it.
If anybody could understand her panic, it was Anthony.
He glanced at her writing nook and gritted his teeth. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Heather shrieked. “You’re going to risk her neck for the backup disks?”
“I’ll go first,” said Anthony.
“Wait for the police,” said Heather. “They have guns.”
Anthony glared disdainfully down at her. “I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t care about you. I care about Joan.”
“I’m not going to let anything happen to Joan.”
Heather folded her arms over her chest. “Of course you won’t. She’s your meal ticket.”
Joan was mortified. “Heather!”
“Do the interview,” Heather mimicked. “Do the interview and everything will be all right. Does this look all right to you?”
Joan went cold. The interview. Could the break-in have something to do with the interview?
She scanned the disordered room once more. Priceless works of art were left untouched. Her hall closet door was closed. The kitchen hadn’t been disturbed. Only her desk. Her computer. Her writing.
She blinked up at Anthony. “Is this because of the interview?”
“No,” he said. But she could tell he wasn’t completely sure.
Joan backed away from him.
He’d been wrong.
She’d been wrong.
She should have gone with her own instincts and stayed out of the limelight. This would probably make the news, too. Soon her father would be storming Indigo with court orders and bodyguards.
She felt Heather’s thin arm go around her. “We’ll go to Paris,” her sister whispered.
Joan’s heart-rate sped up, and her breathing deepened. Maybe she should have gone to Paris in the first place.
POLICE CHIEF Alain Boudreaux concluded what Anthony had already guessed. A fan had broken in looking for souvenirs. One of the neighbors had reported a cluster of people in front of Joan’s house while they were away in Lafayette. And there were several gushing messages on Joan’s answering machine.
A fan was a whole lot better than a psychopathic criminal, and it was unlikely the fan would be back now that he had the souvenirs. Still, Anthony wasn’t taking any chances with Joan and Heather’s safety.
Over their halfhearted protests, he checked them both into La Petite Maison, Heather on the second floor and Joan in the attic suite.
“You don’t need to stay,” said Joan, sitting primly in the rocking chair in the corner of her room. The French doors were open to the small balcony, and the oak leaves rustled in the midnight breeze.
“I don’t want to go,” said Anthony honestly. It had been a long, roller-coaster of a day for both of them.
Their host, Luc Carter, had settled Heather into her room and promised to double lock the front door. Anthony’s room was directly below Joan’s, next to the attic staircase, and he fully intended to keep his door open all night long. Still, he wasn’t ready to have her out of his sight just yet.
“Alain said the break-in happened this morning.” Anthony was desperate to get the cool, distant look out of Joan’s eyes.
She darted him a glare. “You’re staying to defend yourself?”
He moved to the wicker chair that was positioned on the opposite side of the stone fireplace. “I’m staying because I’m worried about you. I’m simply pointing out-for future reference-that the interview and the break-in were two separate events.”
She started rocking. “Right. Who knows what kind of sicko a national television spot will bring out of the woodwork.”
“Joan.”
“Do you know what Alain just asked me?”
“What?”
“He asked me to endorse the music festival.”
The change of topic was abrupt, but Anthony didn’t point that out. His mind started clicking through the promotional opportunities of the music festival. He should give Lesley Roland a call. She was one of the best publicists in the business.
“Stop!”
He glanced up. “What?”
“You’re already scheming.” Joan stood up and took a couple of paces forward. “I’m not endorsing the music festival. I don’t want the music festival.”
He stood with her. “Why not?”
“It’ll ruin the town. Crowds will converge-”
“It’s Cajun culture at the old opera house. We’re not talking heavy metal.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “And it would be good for my career.”
Anthony moved in front of her. “What’s wrong with something being good for your career? Publicity is not a four-letter word.”
Her cheeks flushed, and her green eyes smoldered in the dim light. “Just once I’d like you to think about what would be good for my life instead of my career.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive.”
She waved a hand. “It’s all about the sales to you.”
“That’s because I’m your agent.”