Grace slammed the office door behind her, then marched to her desk. Staring down at the stack of mail she'd never gotten a chance to look over this morning, her vision blurred momentarily. Oh, God, why had she drunk that third margarita? And why had she agreed to the celebratory lunch in the first place? She should have known that the memories would return like a tidal wave, washing over her, bringing with them the melancholy she continuously battled.
"You did it because you didn't want to disappoint Hudson," she said aloud as she plopped down in her swivel chair. Everyone, including Hudson himself, had expected the board to name him as CEO of Sheffield Media, Inc. After her father's untimely death, Hudson had run the company for ten months, handling everything with his customary competence. And no one, least of all Hudson, had dreamed that Byram Sheffield's socialite daughter would use her power as the major stockholder to claim the position her father had held during his lifetime.
No one had understood why she wanted the demanding job; and she had not felt compelled to explain her reasons. What could she have said? I desperately need something to do, something that will require most of my time and attention, something that will keep me from going stark, raving mad. For nine months after she had buried her husband, her father and her stillborn child who had existed inside her body for over five months, she had lived in limbo, little more than a zombie who went through the motions of living. She had cried until there were no more tears. She had ranted and raved and vented her anger. And she had gone through months of grief therapy with the best psychologist in the state. After all, money was no object. She was one of the wealthiest women in the South. She was Grace Sheffield Beaumont, who had once been the luckiest woman in the world.
Emotion lodged in Grace's throat. Damn those margaritas! She usually had complete control over her feelings, a hard lesson learned from necessity. For self-protection. To keep from going insane. But liquor had always affected her strangely, making her weepy and silly and- Damn the margaritas. Damn Hudson for celebrating her three-year anniversary as CEO. And damn Joy for talking so cheerfully about another woman's beautiful, healthy and very much alive four-year-olds.
Before she realized what she was doing, Grace swiped her hand across the top of her desk and sent the stack of unread mail sailing off the edge. Damn Sheffield Media, Inc. Her job was supposed to keep her so busy and wear her out so completely that she never had time to think about the past, to remember what had been and what would never be. It had been almost four years since her world had been turned topsy-turvy. Four long, lonely years where each day was much like the day before, a routine of mundane habits-eating, sleeping, bathing, working. Trying to make it through another night in a house filled with memories. Some had thought she should leave Belle Foret, buy a condo in town or even move the headquarters for her father's company to Baton Rouge or New Orleans. But she couldn't leave her family's ancestral home. It was the only thing she had left that she truly loved. Everything else had been lost that night nearly four years ago when a hit-and-run driver had crashed into their car and sent it careening over a steep embankment.
Don't do this to yourself. Self pity serves no purpose. Get on with what you have to do.
Grace scooted back her chair, stood and then bent down to pick up the scattered mail. Not bothering to neatly arrange the array of envelopes, she dumped them on her desk and began methodically going through them, sorting them into let-Elsa-handle, consult with Hudson, and take-care-of-yourself stacks.
Halfway through the chore that should have been done first thing this morning, she glanced at the return address on the envelope she held. New Iberia. Who did she know there? They had no business connections to that city. She studied the plain white envelope. No name above the return address. Elsa must have assumed the letter was personal.
Grace removed the single page of eight-by-eleven paper and unfolded it. Not handwritten. Typed. No signature. An odd sensation shuddered through her. What was that old saying? Ah, yes-she felt as if someone had just walked over her grave.
She read the letter all the way through once, but couldn't comprehend what she'd read. Then she read it again.
Mrs. Beaumont, I believe you should know that the accident that killed your husband and father was no accident at all, but a coldblooded, premeditated plot to destroy your entire family. Your husband had uncovered damaging information about our governor, Lew Miller, and was investigating the connection between Governor Miller and organized crime in Louisiana . Your husband believed our esteemed governor was in bed with Southern Mafia kingpin Booth Fortier. He was very close to finding the evidence he needed, and your father was set to go public with this evidence, using Sheffield Media's vast television, radio and newspaper resources in the state. The reason the hit-and-run driver who caused your husband to wreck his car that night was never found is because Fortier had the man executed so he could never tell anyone what happened. But I know. And my conscience will not allow me to keep silent any longer.
Grace held the letter in her trembling hand. Who could have sent her such a horrible letter? Who would be cruel enough to torment her with some fantastic story about the governor, a Mafia boss and her husband? Why would anyone tell her such wicked lies?
She balled her hand into a fist, crumpling the letter in the process. Lies. All lies. The car wreck had been a horrible accident. The highway patrol had believed some out-of-control drunk had smashed into them on River Road and just kept on going.
But wasn't it odd that they never found the drunk? They never even found the car the man had been driving. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.
Fortier had the man executed so he could never tell anyone what happened.
It was a lie. Every word in the letter was a lie! It couldn't be true. It couldn't be. Lies. Lies. All lies.
But what if it wasn't a lie? What if it was the truth?
Chapter 2
Jaron Vaden wiped his damp hands along the outer edge of his thighs, the threadbare denim cool beneath his sweaty palms. This May wasn't any hotter in South Louisiana than any other had been in the past, but then it wasn't the heat that had Jaron perspiring. Although his red T-shirt clung to his shoulders and chest with perspiration, a cold chill rippled along his spine as he passed Booth Fortier's home office. The door was shut, which meant Keep Out. No one dared to disturb Booth; no one entered his private domain without an invitation. Not even Charmaine, whom many outside the immediate household thought had her husband wrapped around her little finger. Jaron knew better. His sister might be the wife of the most powerful crime boss in the South, but her influence over Booth was insignificant. He'd seen his brother-in-law give in to Charmaine on several occasions, when it suited him to please her. But he'd also seen Booth slap Charmaine halfway across the room when she'd dared to interfere in one of his business decisions.
Jaron heard two voices talking behind the closed door, but he couldn't understand what was being said. He paused just past the doorway and listened. The louder, deeper voice belonged to Booth. He couldn't make out the other voice because it was much quieter and softer. Everyone spoke with reverence in front of Booth. Out of respect. Out of fear.
Jaron hated his life and hated himself for ever being stupid enough to get sucked into this sewage of corruption and mayhem. He wanted out. He'd been part of the syndicate operation since he'd been eighteen and had been looking for an easy way to earn a fast buck. He had brought Charmaine into this cesspool, this underbelly of society. He blamed himself that she was now tied to Booth Fortier for life. His wife. His whore. His slave.