"You aren't implying that it's one of us, are you?" Charlie Dupree ran two fingers under his tight collar.
"No one is implying anything," Booth said. "Ollie's telling y'all that each one of you is under suspicion, as are half a dozen other guys who have worked here at the house in the recent past."
"I think everyone knows what happens to anyone who betrays you," Jaron said. "Why would any of us be that stupid?"
"Damn good question," Ollie remarked.
"I wasn't working for Booth four years ago," Ronnie reminded them. "I don't even know who these people-the Beaumonts -are."
"We're aware of everyone's work history." Ollie directed his attention to Ronnie. "However, once inside the inner circle, like y'all are, you learn things, see things and become privy to all sorts of information. Sorry, Ronnie, but we can't rule you out entirely."
"How are you going to find out who it is?" Aric asked. "I know it's not me-hell, I'd die to protect you, Booth, and you know it."
Grinning like a Cheshire cat, his white teeth shimmering against his dark skin, Booth flicked the ashes from his cigar into a sterling silver ashtray on his desk.
"What none of you knew is that we had an informant who gave Ollie the information we needed about Beaumont and his father-in-law the night they were run off the road… an informant who had reason to want both men out of the way. That informant is still working for us."
Not by choice, Charmaine surmised. Once you did a job for Booth Fortier, you were never free from him, not ever. She wiggled to loosen the tension in her body, then switched from her right eye to her left eye as she continued gazing through the peephole.
"Our very helpful informant let us know about the letter to Grace Beaumont," Booth told them. "It seems our traitor has now telephoned the lady and wants to exchange proof of my connection to Lew Miller for five million dollars."
A hushed rumble reverberated around the room. Ronnie, Curt, Aric and Charlie shifted uncomfortably. Charmaine glanced at Jaron. He was sweating. Oh, Jaron, please, please, don't let it be you. But somehow in her heart she knew it was. Why would he risk his life for the money? Didn't he know Booth would catch him? Hadn't he learned anything after nearly twenty years with Booth? While she kept her gaze on her brother, he removed a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, then his hands, and returned the handkerchief to his pocket.
"We'll find our man before he can make the exchange," Booth said, "but that won't eliminate our problem. It seems Mrs. Beaumont has hired herself a private investigation team to dig into the accident that befell her family, as well as any connection between the governor and me."
"Grace Beaumont has to be stopped." Ollie looked directly at Booth.
"I want the lady warned. Tonight." Booth took a couple of puffs on his cigar, laid it in the sterling tray, then shoved back his chair and stood. "Charlie, I'm putting together a little package for the young widow and I want you to deliver it. Tonight."
"Yes, sir."
Charlie Dupree wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was loyal to a fault and he hero-worshiped Booth. Although he was good to his elderly mother and had a soft spot for his pet parrot, Feathers, the guy had a vicious streak a mile wide. Like Booth, he actually enjoyed inflicting pain.
"That's it for now," Booth said. "Y'all can go. And whoever our traitor is had better enjoy his last days on earth."
When Jaron's trembling hand grasped the doorknob, Booth called to him. "Jaron, wait up. I want to talk to you. Privately."
Charmaine held her breath. Did Booth already know that Jaron was the traitor? Was he going to question him, grill him, until he confessed? She couldn't just stand by and do nothing. But what could she do? Think, Charmaine, think!
You could kill Booth , an inner voice advised her. Yes, she could kill Booth. She had dreamed of murdering the bastard in his sleep, had planned and plotted his demise numerous times.
"Yeah, Booth, what do you need?" Jaron asked, and Charmaine marveled at how calm her brother's voice sounded.
Booth walked over to Jaron, gripped his shoulder tightly and said, "Jed's back in Louisiana."
"What?" Jaron's gaze darted up from the floor to meet Booth's steady glare.
At the mention of Jed, Charmaine's heart missed a beat. She hadn't been in love with Jed in a long, long time, but she'd never forgotten him. And a part of her had never forgiven him for leaving Louisiana without her.
"It seems my nephew works for the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency, out of Atlanta." Booth loosened his hold on Jaron's shoulder. "He's the one heading up the investigation for Mrs. Beaumont."
"Jed is? I can't believe… God, Booth, why would he-"
"Look me square in the eye, Jaron, and tell me the God's honest truth-have you or Charmaine heard from him since he came back?"
Jaron shook his head. "I swear on my life, neither I nor Charmaine knew Jed was back, that he was working here in Louisiana."
Booth slapped Jaron on the back. "You can stop sweating. I believe you. You've always been loyal, always knew your place. I like a man who realizes when I own him. And you know that I own you and your sister. Always have."
"Yeah, Booth. I know."
Booth laughed. The sound sliced through Charmaine like razor-sharp blades, creating deep, agonizing wounds. She hated his laughter because when Booth was happy, it usually meant he had just inflicted pain on someone else.
If Jed was back, if he was working against Booth, was it possible that he could help Jaron? Help her? If as she suspected, Jaron was the traitor, could Jed save him from Booth? There was no way she could contact Jed from the house, no way to get a message to him. If Ronnie would take her into town and allow her to make a phone call… But on what pretense could she leave the house again tomorrow when everyone knew she'd gone into town two days in a row?
Charmaine eased up on her knees, scooted the cardboard box over the peephole, then stood up and opened the door just a fraction. She peered out, looking up and down the upstairs hall. Empty. Good.
She opened the door all the way, hurried out of the closet and closed the door very quietly behind her. With her heart racing wildly, she tiptoed down the hall to her room. Once inside, she rushed to her dressing table, sat down and picked up her silver brush. She brushed her hair, counting the strokes as the bristles glided through her thick, curly mane. It was only a matter of time until Booth came into her room through the door that connected her room to his. She wanted him to find her sitting here waiting for him. Calm. Cool. Controlled. She glanced at the nail file lying atop the mirror-topped silver tray on the table. Could she kill him with the nail file? It wasn't very big, but if it went into his jugular vein…
Charmaine's hand trembled so badly that she dropped the brush. Oh, God, what was she thinking? Unless Booth was unconscious, passed out drunk or drugged, she'd never be able to overpower him. Besides, if she killed him, his syndicate associates would kill her, if his household entourage didn't do the job first. And that meant Jaron and Ronnie would die, too, because she knew both men would lay down their lives for her.
Restless, Jed meandered around in his room at Belle Foret, probably wearing a hole in the antique Persian rug beneath his feet. He had grown up in a nice home, surrounded by expensive things, but Booth Fortier's decor had nothing to do with good taste and everything to do with how much things cost. In Grace's home, the decor whispered timeless elegance, the very essence of what was once referred to as gentility. It was there in every room, in every stick of furniture, every painting. A style that had taken generations to cultivate. Just as Grace was quality, pure and simple, so was her home. Yeah, quality, that was the big difference between the two of them. She was; he wasn't. And the funny thing was, money had nothing to do with it. If Grace didn't have a penny to her name, she would still be quality.