“I don’t think the guy wanted me dead,” Samuel suggested. “It was a panic reaction. I caught him in the act, and he was armed.”
“Have you been inside your cottage?” Anthony asked. If any of the wall panels were torn down, they’d know the theory was bang on. Just like in Bayou Betrayal.
“Not yet,” Samuel told him.
Heather took a small half step in Samuel’s direction. “If we can avoid the reporters, we’re going over there to look around.”
“You want to come with us?” Samuel asked Anthony.
“Yeah,” Anthony replied with a nod. “But then we have to head for L.A.”
Heather looked at Joan and raised her eyebrows in a question.
“I promised to do Charlie Long Live,” Joan explained, carefully avoiding looking at Anthony.
Heather’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my God.”
“I know,” said Joan. “It’s not what-”
“We never called Mom.” Heather darted for the bedroom door, and Samuel quickly stepped out of her way. “She’ll have sent the jet to St. Martinville.”
Joan swore as she followed her sister out. Anthony still couldn’t get used to hearing that word come out of Joan’s mouth.
JOAN’S STOMACH cramped as she followed Heather and the men, slinking past the garage to the back door of Samuel’s cottage.
She’d fired Anthony.
She was making a point when she did that, an important point about him undermining her wishes. But she’d half expected him to fight for her. Completely expected him to fight for her. Desperately wanted him to fight for her.
But he hadn’t.
And now he was fired.
And she couldn’t take that back.
She started up the stairs and realized the others had come to a halt in front of her.
She craned her neck. “What?”
Samuel stepped inside, breaking the bottleneck.
Joan worked her way up next to Heather and froze.
Whoever had broken in wasn’t joking around. Closets were wide-open. Desk drawers were yanked off their tracks. And the doors of the entertainment center and kitchen cabinets were pulled halfway off their hinges, their contents spilled across the counters and the floor.
Samuel moved through the kitchen, glass crunching under his feet.
Joan swallowed as she silently followed behind.
If you looked past the destruction, it was obvious Samuel took pride in his surroundings. The living room walls and ceilings were painted a spotless cream, accented with exposed, redwood beams crisscrossing their length. She glimpsed a rich, gold-patterned carpet that covered a terra-cotta tile floor, and a redwood mantel finished off a stone fireplace.
The furniture was big and comfortable. Carved from white pine and covered in deep, muted plaid cushions, the sofa and chairs reflected Samuel’s stature.
Thankfully, the furniture at least seemed to be intact. And a giant portrait of Samuel’s parents still hung above the mantel. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but it was something.
“It looks mostly salvageable,” said Anthony, picking his way through the living room, surveying the layer of books, papers and kitchen utensils that covered the floor. He came to the bottom of the staircase and gazed up. After a minute, he put his hand on the rail and started to climb.
Heather hurried after him. “You see any broken panels up there?” she called. “Something on the wall that might…” Her voice trailed away as she disappeared down the upper hallway.
Standing next to Joan, Samuel drew in a huge breath. He glanced down at her. “I gotta tell you, my life was a whole lot simpler before you came along.”
“Sorry,” Joan whispered, her stomach cramping all over again. Disappointing people. There was no doubt she had a knack for it.
“I could hire someone to clean the mess up for you,” she offered. It was the least she could do, since this was pretty much all her fault.
He took a couple more steps into the room, shaking his head. “I have to go through everything myself anyway.”
Joan nodded in understanding. “You need to know if anything is missing.”
Samuel crouched down and flipped through a discarded photo album. “I doubt there’s anything missing.”
She glanced around at the destruction. “How could you know that?”
“I don’t remember the guy carrying anything.”
“Well, we know he didn’t find the money.” It had seemed like such a good plot twist at the time. Now she wished she’d used something else, anything else.
Samuel picked up a cracked picture frame, blew off the dust, and straightened to set it on an oak end table. “I have half a mind to hide some cash in the walls myself. Let them take it and put an end to all this.”
“A hundred thousand dollars?”
He turned his head and lifted his eyebrows.
“You have that kind of money?” she asked.
“I live a frugal life.”
He’d saved that much money on a carpenter’s salary? What was he doing working in Indigo, Louisiana? He should invest in the market, open his own business.
He reached down and picked up another leather-bound album. “Not that I want to blow it on some thief.”
“You know, Charlie Long says my stint on his show might reopen the investigation.” She wasn’t convinced Samuel’s father was innocent, but the possibility of looking at the case again might be a small consolation to Samuel.
“Might help me more if you told everybody there wasn’t any real money involved.”
“That’s true,” she said with a nod. It wasn’t a bad idea.
Samuel disentangled a lamp from the debris and straightened the shade. “I was joking. They’d never believe you. In fact, some people would take it as proof the money existed.”
“What makes you say that?”
“They’ll think you’re after it for yourself.”
“If I wanted it for myself, I would have stolen it before the book was published.”
“Maybe.” He paused. “Except that you didn’t expect people to ever find out you lived in Indigo.”
Wasn’t that the truth. She put a hand on his arm. “I really am sorry this turned out so bad for you.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Sure it is. I wrote the book.”
He cocked his head and gazed down at her. “You been beatin’ yourself up about this?”
She shrugged.
He cracked a smile. “Well, get over it, kid. Shit happens.”
Her eyes suddenly burned. With everything crashing down around their ears, Samuel had it in him to care about her feelings. He was an extraordinary man. She wished she’d taken the time to get to know him before this.
She sighed. “Sometimes I feel like everything I touch turns to crap.”
“You’re really not much like your sister, are you?”
Joan shook her head. No, she’d never been as capable as Heather.
“She got the confidence, and you got the guilt?”
“Maybe. But it’s only because everything she does turns out right.”
“That’s a laugh,” said Samuel.
“You should hear her play the violin.”
“It’s all an act.”
Joan rolled her eyes. “A person can’t fake playing the violin.”
“They can fake liking the violin.”
Joan shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Passion was what separated average musicians like Joan from great musicians like Heather.
“Heather fakes everything,” said Samuel.
Boy, did he have that wrong. “No, she doesn’t.”
“I think she hates her life.”
“Trust me, Samuel. Nobody hates a private jet, five-star hotel suites and first-run Broadway tickets.” Heather was vivacious, enthusiastic and happy doing pretty much anything. Joan was often envious.
Samuel’s smile turned speculative. “So, have you asked yourself why she’s still here? Instead of, say, taking in a Broadway play?”
“Because she wants to get me to Paris.”