“I think so.”
“You’re a freaking dangerous man, you know that?”
Samuel chuckled again. “It really doesn’t seem to be my week.”
“All this and Heather, too.”
Samuel straightened on the branch. “Who says I’m involved with Heather?”
Anthony had seen the intimate look that passed between them when they left the shack. “Do I look stupid?”
Samuel considered Anthony’s position in the tree. “At the moment? To be perfectly honest…”
Anthony groaned and shook his head.
Thunder rumbled above them.
He looked up to see that the clouds had thickened and closed in. The temperature dropped, and a few fat raindrops landed on the leaves around them.
“This just gets better and better,” said Samuel.
“I think you’re a jinx.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve survived a shooting and an alligator attack. What have you done lately?”
Good question. What
had
Anthony done lately?
A lightning bolt crackled above them, and he wondered if it was meant to punctuate Samuel’s question.
“Well?” Samuel prompted as the rain grew harder.
“I convinced a certain bestselling author not to fire me,” Anthony offered.
“Joan tried to fire you?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I booked her on
Charlie Long Live
.”
Samuel nodded. “I think Heather wanted to fire you for that one, too.”
The light was fading, and Anthony had to squint to see Samuel. “You sure you’re okay?”
Samuel took a deep breath. “I’m hurt, but I’ll live.” Then he nodded toward the ground. “Look.”
Apparently gators weren’t wild about lightning storms, either. While the two men watched, the gator turned tail and ambled down the bank, slipping silently into the rain-speckled bayou.
Anthony would have been lying if he didn’t admit climbing down to the ground again made him jumpy. But he needed to get back to Joan. And they needed to take a close look at Samuel’s ankle. And they needed to look somewhere else for clues.
B
Y THE TIME
the last of the daylight faded, Joan was a jumping mass of nerves. The lightning provided sporadic flashes, but that just made things worse. The wind whipped at the hanging moss, creating fleeting, ghostly images that made the atmosphere even more eerie.
“Where
are
they?” Heather’s disembodied voice asked from the other end of the couch.
Joan was beginning to worry something had gone terribly wrong. What if they’d found the murderer? What if he’d killed both men? What if he was on his way to the shack right now?
Something bumped against the door, and she let out a squeal of fear. Heather launched herself from the other end of the couch to press up against Joan, gripping her arm tight.
The door opened, and a lightning flash illuminated Anthony’s face. Joan could have wept with relief.
But then another flash illuminated Samuel, leaning heavily on Anthony.
She jumped to her feet. “What happened?”
“Why didn’t you light the lamps?” asked Samuel.
“What lamps?” asked Heather, the creak of the couch indicating she’d stood. “Where
were
you?”
“Ran into an alligator,” said Anthony through the darkness.
The lightning flashed again, and he quickly sat Samuel down in a chair before they were plunged into total darkness all over again.
“Matches are over the stove,” Samuel wheezed. “Oil lamp on the windowsill.”
Joan could hear Anthony feeling his way across the room.
“You’re hurt again,” Heather whimpered, brushing Joan’s shoulder as she made her way toward Samuel.
Anthony struck a match, and Joan instantly felt better. He put it to the wick of a hurricane lamp, and light filled the little shack.
“There’s another on the front window,” said Samuel, and Anthony took care of it.
“Let me look,” said Heather.
“I’ll get one of the water bottles,” said Joan, somewhat surprised that Heather was offering to play nurse-maid. Her sister didn’t have the strongest stomach in the world, and an alligator bite might be pretty horrific.
She prayed that it wasn’t serious and took comfort in the fact that Samuel was conscious and at least walking with help.
Water bottle in hand, she brushed past Anthony. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. “I got the tail end. Samuel got stuck with the head.”
“What
happened?
”
“There was a gator hiding in Old Man Barns’s shack,” said Samuel. “We scared him up.”
“I thought you were just going to look around?” Joan peered into Anthony’s face, the yellow light flickering off its planes and angles.
He was the rugged Anthony once again, sweaty, streaked with dirt and scratches. The feelings she’d had in her living room the first night of the intruder rushed back. She wanted him. Right here, right now.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Joan quickly neutralized her expression and took the new water bottle to Heather.
Her sister looked up worriedly from Samuel’s leg.
Joan commandeered the second oil lamp, moving it to the floor for a better view. The cuts were deep and jagged.
“I’ll try to find a clean bandage,” said Anthony. He peeled back the dust cover on one of the beds, unzipped the knapsack and dumped everything out.
They had water bottles, beignets, cinnamon rolls and a half bottle of French wine.
“Luc runs a classy outfit,” said Samuel.
Anthony checked the side pockets and found some cloth napkins.
“Those will do it,” said Joan. She turned to Samuel. “You want to drink a little of the Médoc before we pour it on the wound?”
“Hell, yes,” he said.
Heather blinked and turned away.
Anthony crouched down beside Joan. “How does it look?”
“Wish I had more medical training,” she said. Quite frankly, it looked terrible. But she wasn’t about to say that out loud.
“You’ve had medical training?” asked Anthony.
“No. I said I wish I had.”
Samuel chuckled above them.
A sob escaped from Heather.
“Hey.” Samuel’s voice was soft. “Come here.” He held out his hand to her. “It’s not that bad.”
“It
is
that bad,” she sobbed. “I don’t know how you can joke about it.”
“If I can joke about it, then it can’t be that bad.” He motioned with his hand.
“I’m certified in first aid,” said Anthony.
“Really?” asked Joan.
“Really,” said Anthony, and she quickly moved out of the way.
“It looks worse than it is,” he said to Heather.
Samuel nodded his agreement.
“It’s got to hurt like hell,” said Anthony. “But that old boy didn’t cut anything vital.”
Heather took a couple of hesitant steps toward Samuel. He wrapped his big arm around her and pulled her against him.
“I need you—” he said.
Joan blinked at the pair in amazement.
“—to hold my hand while they pour on the wine,” Samuel continued. “That part
will
hurt like hell.”
Heather gave a hesitant smile, and the intimate moment was over, making Joan wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing.
“W
E HAVE TO STOP
meeting like this,” said Samuel from the narrow bed in the clinic’s surgery room.
Heather smiled as she stroked her fingertips across his forehead, hoping she was being of some comfort. She suspected the codeine and Novocain the doctor had administered were giving him a lot more comfort than she could.
Back at the bayou shack, they’d lain side by side all night long in one of the little beds, listening to the storm crash above them. Samuel hadn’t slept much. He’d tried to stay still, but his muscles were tense and his breathing mostly shallow.
“You have to promise me you’ll stop taking chances,” she said.
“You’re holding me responsible for the behavior of an alligator?”
“I’m holding you responsible for disturbing said alligator.”
“I don’t see how that’s fair.”
“Who said anything about fair, bucko? I’m trying to have a wild sex fling with you, and you keep messing up your body.”
He chuckled at that. “Lie down beside me.”
“Here?”
She glanced around. They were alone in the room, but the nurse or the doctor could walk in any minute.
“What? No discovery fetish?”
She frowned. “Now that’s just creepy.”
“Strike that one off the list.”
“Definitely.”
He reached for her hand, gently kissing her palm. “I’m just messing with you. I want to ask you something.”
He shifted to one side. “But it’s gonna be a letdown if you were expecting a proposition.”
She grinned and lay down on the bed beside him, absorbing the heat and strength of his body. “This is no time for propositions.”
He put his arm around her and cradled her on his shoulder. “I was wondering.” He paused. “You planning to be in town for a while?”
Heather shrugged. She hadn’t given it that much thought. She should have gone back to Boston days ago, but she couldn’t seem to tear herself away.
It was nice to see Joan, of course. And she’d pretty much given up on Paris. For better or worse, Anthony was a big influence on Joan’s life. Heather hadn’t quite figured out how far it went, but she was kidding herself if she thought she’d get Joan to leave him.
Plus there was the murder mystery. And then there was Samuel. She’d only been with Samuel a few days. She knew deep down in her heart it wasn’t enough.
His fingertips stroked her hair. Despite the circumstances and the location, she felt her body respond to the touch.
“See, thing is…” he said.
She tilted her head to look at him.
“If you were to stay for the music festival…”
“Isn’t that still a few weeks away?”
He nodded. “I thought… I’d appreciate it if you’d play my dad’s fiddle.”
Heather turned and rose up on her elbow, her chest tightening with emotion. She was unbelievably touched by the request. “You want me to stay here? For a few more
weeks?
And play your dad’s music at the festival?”
“Or you could come back for it.” He shrugged, his focus going to the far wall. “Either would be great.”
Either
would
be great. But staying would be greater. Staying here in Indigo with Samuel for weeks, and then introducing the Ambrogino to the world along with his father’s music.
“Yes,” she said in a rush, meeting his gaze. “Yes, I’ll play. Yes, I’ll stay.”
His face lit up with a broad smile, and he eased her down to gently kiss her lips.
Even that insubstantial touch left her breathless.
“But you’re going to have to tell me,” she breathed.
“Tell you what?”
“When this thing we’ve got going is over. You’re going to have to tell me. Otherwise, I might hang around for a very, very long time.”
He kissed her again. Longer, deeper, wrapping his arms around her and holding on as if he were never going to let go. It might have been the effects of the codeine, or it might have been some deep emotion.
“Okay by me,” he finally whispered, his voice thick.
A
T
S
AMUEL’S
kitchen table, Joan flipped the final page of the final photo album that she and Heather had located in his closets. There were pictures of Samuel at all ages, pictures of his mother, pictures of his father, and pictures of many younger versions of Indigo residents that she recognized.
The older pictures were all from his mother’s family. Some were captioned, showing that they’d emigrated from Mississippi in the early 1900s to settle in Indigo. Other members of her family had then left the town in the Sixties, but Maisie had stayed to marry John Kane. Samuel was their only son.
There were almost no pictures of John as a child, and nothing that showed any members of his family.
“Has Samuel told you much about his father’s family?” she asked Heather.
Heather turned from where she was replacing framed photos on the fireplace hearth. She shook her head. “No. And it’s weird.”
“Weird how?”
Heather glanced guiltily around the cottage. They were alone while Anthony picked Samuel up from the clinic.
“You have to promise not to tell anyone,” she said.
Joan stood up. “Tell them what? You know something?”
“Not about the murder,” said Heather, heading for the stairs. “But, quick, come and look.”
She led Joan up the staircase to Samuel’s bedroom. There, she glanced out the window, then crossed to the closet and took out an old violin case.
She set it on the bed and flipped the catches.
“I don’t understand,” said Joan.
“It belonged to Samuel’s father. He used to play it on the porch.”
Joan stared down at the instrument. It was richly grained and beautifully arched, obviously of very fine quality.
“It’s an Ambrogino,” said Heather in a hushed voice. “And I played it.”
Joan glanced up to see Heather’s eyes shinning with excitement. “You think there was money in his father’s past?”
Heather shook her head. “Samuel doesn’t know. He just remembers his father playing it on the porch.”
“This is an incredibly fine heirloom.” Joan ran her fingers over the classic varnish.
Heather nodded her agreement. “And that’s not all.” She crossed to the closet again and came back with a leather-bound book. “His dad wrote music. Cajun tunes.”
She set the book down next to the case and carefully opened the cover.
The aging paper was impressive, and Joan’s piano training allowed her to read the music. The songs themselves were catchy, but unremarkable.
Joan looked through the pages, picking the fragile paper up by the corners and turning it face down. There was song after song.
“Somebody should copy these,” she mused.
“I’m going to suggest it to Samuel.” There was something in Heather’s tone, a repressed excitement.
“What?” asked Joan.
“Nothing,” said Heather. But it was obvious from her expression that it was something.
“What else do you know?”
Heather shook her head.