False Pretenses (4 page)

CHAPTER 3

Early Monday evening Vanessa Langley waited with Ethan and Carter in the dining room at Langley Manor while sheriff’s deputies searched the premises. Through the window, beyond the live oaks draped with Spanish moss, she could see a hawk soaring above the cane fields and a huge billowy thunderhead forming in the eastern sky.

“I wonder what’s taking so long.” Vanessa turned to Ethan, who was sitting next to her at the dining-room table. “At least they’re being thorough.”

“We’ll eat out when we’re done here,” he said. “Don’t worry about making dinner.”

Carter sat on the floor, creating something yet undefined with his building blocks. “I want a giant hot dog—with lots of pickle welish.”

A grin spread across Ethan’s face. “I love it. We finally move to Louisiana, where we can order any delectable Cajun dish in the known world, and our son wants a hot dog.”

The sound of footsteps echoed from the staircase, and then sheriff’s deputies Stone Castille and Mike Doucet came into the dining room.

“We’re finished,” Stone said. “We’d like to visit with you for a few minutes. Is it all right if we sit here at the table?”

“Of course. Tell us what you found.”

“That’s just it”—Stone glanced over at Mike—“Deputy Doucet and I didn’t find anything that suggests forced entry. Or even a
port
of entry, for that matter. Your doors and windows seem to be secure.”

“They should be,” Ethan said. “We recently had the locks changed. So how could someone get in here?”

“We do have a growing number of homeless in the parish.” Stone pursed his lips. “And it’s a well-known fact that the place has been vacant for years. It’s always possible someone saw you and Mrs. Langley enter the house and sneaked in while you were looking around, hid in the house, then stayed after you left.”

“On the other hand,” Mike said, “if a squatter had been in here, there should be trash, a blanket, bucket, candles—some telltale sign. But except for the dusty footprints on the wood floors, it’s hard to tell anyone’s been in the house at all.”

“A lot of those footprints are ours.” Vanessa tented her fingers. “And the contractor’s people.”

“Would you mind if we spoke to your son?” Stone said.

Ethan motioned for Carter to come sit in his lap. “Carter, this is Deputy Stone and Deputy Mike. They’d like to ask you some questions about the man you saw upstairs. I want you just to tell the truth.”

Carter nodded, clinging tightly to Georgie. He held up one hand, his thumb tucked behind his fingers. “I’m four.”

“My little boy is four”—Stone put on a pair of nose glasses—“and he’s really smart. I’ll bet you are too. Can you tell me about the man you saw?”

“He was nice. He gave me lemon dwops. And his face was whiskery.”

“By whiskery, do you mean he had a beard?”

“No, he had white pwickles on his chin—like a cactus.”

“I see. And what color was his skin?”

“Bwown.” Carter smiled. “He said he was chocolate, but he was just being silly. People can’t be chocolate. He looked like Doctor Ben.”

“Doctor Ben was Carter’s pediatrician before we moved here,” Vanessa said. “He was African-American.”

“Good, this is very helpful. Carter, what color was the man’s hair?”

“Black. He had itty bitty curls like Gi Gi. That’s my gwandma’s poodle.”

“Was the man skinny like Deputy Mike? Or was he rounder like me? Or was he just medium, like your daddy?”

Carter shrugged. “He wasn’t fat.”

“Was he young like your daddy or older like me, or did he seem like a grandpa?”

Carter cocked his head and looked at Stone questioningly.

“Deputy Castille,” Vanessa said, “Carter’s grandfathers are youthful-looking and fit as a fiddle. I’m not sure he knows how to gauge young and old that way.”

“Let’s skip that. We already know the guy had white stubble on his chin. Carter, can you remember anything else the man said to you?”

“Uh-huh. He said”—Carter put his index finger to his lips—“‘Shh. I’m the candy man.’ Then he showed me his pocket was empty … but then out came the lemon dwops. It was funny.”

“Is there anything about his voice that you remember?”

“He whispered all the time.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said if I didn’t tell I saw him, he would give me more candy next time. But I told Mommy and Daddy anyway. I’m not supposed to talk to stwangers.”

“Do you remember what the man was wearing?”

“Um … his shirt was blue. It had a pocket where all the lemon dwops came from.”

“Do you remember anything else about him?”

“He wasn’t pwetend.”

“Can you tell me the difference between real and pretend?”

Carter paused for a moment and then set Georgie on the table. “Georgie’s a pwetend dog. He can’t bark or wag his tail. I have to do it. If he was a weal dog, he could do it all by hisself.”

“I’d say you definitely know the difference between real and pretend.” Stone wrote something on the clipboard. “I think we’re finished. Carter, you’ve been very helpful. But your mom and dad are right about not talking to strangers—or taking candy or anything else from them. If you see this man again, don’t even talk to him. Run straight to your parents or a grown-up you know and tell them.”

“We should have taken Carter seriously,” Ethan said. “We just thought the upheaval of moving here had caused him to create a fantasy world. But Vanessa and I never buy lemon drops, and there’s no other explanation for our finding one on the floor right after Carter told us about the man giving him some. I suppose he could have sneaked in here while we were in another part of the house. It wouldn’t be that hard to do.”

“There is a possibility we haven’t addressed.” Mike folded his arms on the table, his gaze moving from Vanessa to Ethan and back to Vanessa. “I assume you’re aware of the reports of paranormal activity at Langley Manor over the years?”

“Who isn’t?” Vanessa said. “But since there’s no such thing as ghosts, those stories are all hype. Even Carter knows that.”

Carter nodded. “Ghosts are just made-up stories. Mommy and Daddy and me looked everywhere in this whooole house, and we didn’t find any ghosts.”

“You’re absolutely right, but some people believe they’re real. In fact”—Mike’s gaze seemed probing—“I just saw a TV program about haunted houses being big business. If a place can practically guarantee that their guests will bump into a ghost, it’ll stay booked all the time.”

Vanessa tapped her fingers on the table and tried to hide her indignation for Carter’s sake. “Deputy Doucet, do you think we’re making this up as some sort of stunt to rouse curiosity and drum up business?”

Mike sat back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. “A harmless ghost story on the record certainly couldn’t hurt future business.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ethan said. “But if we
were
going to make up a ghost story, we could’ve come up with someone a lot more convincing than an unshaven African-American man who told a four-year-old he was made of chocolate and gave him lemon drops. Give me a break. There’re plenty of ghost stories about Josiah Langley wandering the halls. That would’ve made a lot more sense if we were trying to draw curiosity seekers.”

Stone put down his pencil. “Mr. and Mrs. Langley have a good point.”

“Actually what we
have
,” Ethan said, “is an unwanted intruder and no explanation for how he got in or what he wanted. Our four-year-old might understand the difference between what’s real and what’s pretend, but he’s not so discerning between who’s dangerous and who isn’t. We want to make sure this man doesn’t get back in here. What do you suggest we do?”

“You might consider having security lights installed,” Stone said. “Motion detectors would be even better. An alarm system would be better yet.”

Ethan sighed. “We’d be throwing away money if we sank it into security measures when we know the renovation crew is going to be in here, knocking out walls.”

“How soon do you anticipate the work starting?”

“We still have to approve the blueprints,” Vanessa said. “But sometime in the next few weeks.”

Stone put his reading glasses back in his pocket. “Since this plantation house has historic significance, I doubt we’d have trouble convincing Sheriff Prejean that a temporary patrol check a couple times a day would be in order. Once the renovation starts, the constant flow of trucks and workers will be all the deterrent you’ll need.”

Zoe walked up the stairs from Zoe B’s, went in the apartment, and closed the door. She picked up the mail on the breakfast bar and went through the arched doorway into the living room. She set the mail on an end table and went out on the gallery, one of many that extended out over the sidewalk on either side of
rue Madeline
.

The evening air was thick with humidity and the faint scent of mesquite smoke coming from the Texas Cajun Grill on the corner. Swirls of blazing orange and purple painted the western sky. She stood at the wrought-iron filigree railing, savoring the evening breeze just beginning to stir, and watched the tourists stroll the sidewalks where dozens of shops and eating establishments vied for their business.

She smiled. Had business at Zoe B’s ever been better? She went inside and sat in the overstuffed chair, propping her feet up on the ottoman, and started looking through the day’s mail. The electric bill. The water bill. The cell phone bill. A credit card solicitation. An envelope with her name typed on the front. This didn’t come through the mail. Was the Merchant’s Association trying to save postage again?

She slit open the envelope and unfolded a piece of white 8 ½ x 11 paper, on which letters had been cut from a magazine and glued to form five words:
I know what you did.

Zoe stared at the words, her mind racing with the implication. Was this a prank? How could anyone know what she had done? And why now, after ten years—

“I thought I heard you come in.”

Her pulse quickened. She turned to see Pierce’s tall frame filling the arched doorway. “You startled me,
cher
. I thought you were taking a nap.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Pierce yawned. “I’m starved. Dempsey’s overseeing the kitchen tonight. I thought maybe we could walk over to Market Street and eat at Louie’s. Don’t tell anyone, but your number-one chef is craving a big juicy cheeseburger and fries.”

“All right. Let me change into something cooler.” Zoe fumbled to get the paper back in the envelope and quickly slipped it on the bottom of the stack.

“Anything interesting in the mail?”

“Just bills. I’ll keep them with the others and pay them all next week.”

“I don’t know why you don’t learn how to pay them online and save yourself the trouble.”

“Do we have to have this conversation every other week? I like writing them out! Okay?”

“I’m just trying to save you time.” Pierce’s thick, dark eyebrows formed a bushy line. “Would you rather not go out for dinner? I can make us something here.”

“Actually I’d like to go out.” She shot him an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I had another run-in with one of the waitresses for coming to work with cleavage showing. Why don’t these girls understand what’s appropriate attire for work and what isn’t? I’m fed up with having to police them.”
Nice save!
“Anyhow, I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Let me go change. It’ll just take a minute.”

Zoe went into the bedroom and flopped on the bed, her gut already starting to churn. Was she jumping to conclusions about the meaning of the note? Did it matter? The statute of limitations had run. The law couldn’t touch her.

So what might the bearer of the note hope to get from her—money? Was she willing to pay for someone’s silence? Could she afford to? Then again, could she handle what it would do to Pierce if he learned the truth about her? The thought of losing his love and respect terrified her. And so did the thought of losing her business and her reputation. If she agreed to pay money, would that be the end of it? Or would she be trapped into paying someone for the rest of her life? This was never supposed to happen!