Authors: Amanda Stevens
But which one?
And why did she now regret it?
After Reid had carried Rachel inside, he’d immediately left to go find the body. Angelique had wanted to go with him, but he hadn’t allowed it. Surprisingly, she’d submitted to his wishes without a quarrel, and had sat the whole time he was gone staring first at Rachel and then at me. When our gazes had met once, my stepsister had given me a cold, knowing look that had turned the blood in my veins to ice water.
At the time, I’d had just one thought:
She knows something. Angelique knows something.
I remembered seeing her dancing with Lawrence Crawford at the ball. When he’d walked away from her, almost shoved her away, I’d never seen such a look of pure hatred on anyone’s face. I’d wondered if it had been
directed at me, but now I thought of other, more horrific possibilities.
Hell hath no fury…
For some reason, my gaze went back to Rachel. She, too, had been dancing with Lawrence. And earlier in the day, I’d seen them together in her office. I’d thought then that they’d seemed cozy. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with Reid, I might have been more observant, might have seen other telltale signs.
As it was, I was left with brief, confusing impressions. And one phrase kept rolling around in my mind. Angelique had said it herself: “What have we here? An intriguing ménage à trois, I must say.”
A motive for murder? I had no idea. But I’d been immeasurably relieved when Reid had returned with the police.
Even now the policemen were combing the woods while Captain Baptiste questioned us, the “immediate suspects.”
I shivered violently at the thought that someone in this room might be capable of murder.
Reid avoided my gaze. He’d done so ever since returning with Captain Baptiste. Once or twice, I thought I felt his eyes on me, but when I looked up, he would be staring out the window, a brooding frown marring his perfect features.
I wondered if, like me, he was remembering Rachel’s tortured scream.
“Murderer. You murderer.”
Or was it my own accusation that he remembered?
“I’m saying he’s dead. I’m saying you killed him.”
Oh, Reid, Reid, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know you didn’t do it. You couldn’t have. You couldn’t have made love to me so passionately and then gone into those woods and killed so brutally…so violently…so triumphantly.
At that precise moment the blue eyes lifted and stabbed me with a look so cold and so sharp, I felt the
impact all the way to my soul. His message could not have been clearer had he screamed the words aloud.
You betrayed me, Christine. I’ll never forgive you.
And then he looked away, once again closing me out.
But what was I supposed to have thought when it had all seemed so real, when the body I’d found
had
been real? Someone had blown something into my face. I’d had the dream, and Reid had been there.
But only in my dream, I reminded myself.
After I’d found Lawrence, I’d been drugged, but was left unharmed. I could think of no reason for that unless someone was slowly trying to drive me out of my mind. But why? Why was I a threat to anyone?
And then the answer came to me.
Because I was trying to find my father.
Because I would not let the matter rest until I did.
“Miss Greggory, tell me again how you happened to find the body?” Captain Baptiste paused beside my chair as I looked up at him. His arms were crossed, and on his left hand, the gold snake ring gleamed obscenely. My assailant had worn a ring exactly like that. Could Captain Baptiste…? Was it possible…?
Stop it!
I commanded myself.
Get a grip. You suspect everyone, and maybe rightfully so, but you have to remain calm. Rational. You still have to think of Father.
“What I really want to know,” Captain Baptiste continued, “is why you were wandering around in the woods in the middle of the night. Were you having another sleepwalking episode?”
The dark eyes gleamed like a snake’s as he studied me. I shuddered at the image, at the memory. “I was wide awake, I assure you. And the reason I went into the woods was because I was looking for my father.”
Silence dropped over the room like a pall. I had the impression that everyone, even Angelique, was listening intently to what I said.
“Just on a whim you went into the woods to look for
your father,” the captain said with a taunting smile. “Forgive me if I find that a little…odd.”
Crazy. Insane.
Say what you really mean, Captain.
I could read his expression so well. He wanted me to know that my credibility was being questioned.
Questioned? How about
massacred?
I folded my arms around my waist as I glared up at him. “It wasn’t on a whim. I
saw
him.”
Someone gasped. Angelique, I think. Or perhaps Mrs. DuPrae. I couldn’t be sure because suddenly all I was aware of was Reid’s intense gaze on me once again. Our eyes met briefly, but this time I was the one to look away first.
“You saw him,” Captain Baptiste repeated. “You saw Christopher Greggory?”
“Yes. I saw him at the edge of the woods. He…wanted me to follow him,” I finished, realizing suddenly how truly crazy I did sound. Yet I was telling them nothing but the truth.
“I see. So you followed him into the woods, to the clearing. Did the two of you talk?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Meaning?”
“We didn’t talk, but I knew he needed my help. He’s in danger, Captain Baptiste. Just as surely as Lawrence Crawford was in trouble. You have to help him. You
have
to believe me.”
“Where is your father now, Miss Greggory.”
“I don’t know. He…disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes. Just before I found the body.”
“How convenient.” Captain Baptiste moved away from me then, and began to pace again. “He can’t exactly come forward, then, to corroborate your story.”
“Do I need corroboration?” I asked incredulously. Surely he didn’t suspect
me?
What possible motive
could
I
have for killing Lawrence Crawford? Except maybe…insanity.
Dear God, was someone trying to frame me? Set me up? Why wouldn’t they believe me?
The walls seemed to close in on me then. My head pounded from the pressure. I could hear Captain Baptiste’s voice, but I couldn’t focus on the words. What was he saying? More accusations? More doubts?
Someone wanted me to leave Columbé. I was sure of it now. Someone wanted to drive me back to Chicago. No one here cared about my father, anyway. With me gone, his disappearance could be hushed up, soon forgotten. If my credibility were destroyed, no one would ever believe me.
“The murder weapon has not yet been found,” the captain announced to the room, but I knew the drama was mainly for my benefit. “Yet you say you saw that, too?”
“I saw a knife on the ground beside the body.”
“And now it’s disappeared, too, more’s the pity. It could have been a very incriminating piece of evidence. No one has seen it but you, Miss Greggory.”
“No one except me…and the murderer,” I said.
The dark eyes flickered ever so briefly. Then he said, “Perhaps the nightgown you were wearing is our only evidence. The bloodstains will need to be analyzed.”
I’d changed clothes as quickly as possible before the police had arrived, and someone had already collected the nightgown from the guest house and placed it in a plastic bag. It lay on the coffee table now, a gruesome reminder of what I had found.
“I’d like to see you in my office this afternoon at your convenience, Miss Greggory. I may have a few more questions then. Until we find our man—or woman—I must ask that no one leave the island without my consent.” His voice dropped as he took a few deliberate
steps toward me. “I hope this doesn’t upset any plans you may already have made for returning to the States.”
“No,” I said, pleased to find my own voice sounded normal, almost convincingly so. “I won’t be returning to Chicago until I find my father.”
“Ah,” he said, so low I didn’t think anyone else could hear him. “Then perhaps I should wish us both happy hunting.”
* * *
There was one thing I had to do before I went back to the guest house.
I had to somehow get into the library without being noticed, and look at the collection of knives—in particular, the intricately carved dagger—that hung on the wall.
If it was gone, then I would know.
Someone in this house had killed Lawrence Crawford. Someone I had talked with, shared meals with…had maybe even loved…had deliberately, viciously…
The door clicked softly behind me as I slipped inside the library. Both Angelique and Rachel had gone to their rooms. Mrs. DuPrae had retired to the kitchen, and Reid had walked Captain Baptiste outside. I could hear the sound of engines outside as the police cars and the hearse—carrying its hideous passenger—backed out of the drive and headed down the mountain toward Port Royale. Reid would be coming in any minute. I had to hurry.
The drapes had been drawn over the window, shutting out the pale dawn light, but I didn’t dare turn on a light. Someone might notice.
I hurried across the room and examined the wall. The knife was in its place, exactly where I’d last seen it. I let out a long breath, not realizing just how tightly my nerves had been strung. Thank God it was there….
The door opened and the light switch clicked. Yellow
brilliance flooded the room. I turned, and Reid and I stared at each other for a long, heart-thundering moment.
“What are you doing in here, Christine? I thought you’d be getting some rest by now.” He shut the door and walked into the room. My gaze flew to the closed door then to him. He stood between me and the only way out of the room.
He may have sensed my mood, but he didn’t try to alter it. Instead he walked over to the collection of knives and stared at them, frowning. In the harsh light, he looked indescribably weary. With the tip of his finger, he traced the blade of the knife I’d been looking at, and I shuddered. That same finger had traced the curve of my lips….
“This was my father’s collection,” he said, almost absently. “He had a great fondness for Columbé’s unique history. Almost an obsession, I think. Perhaps that’s where Angelique gets her intense fascination.”
“Was Stephan a true believer?”
Reid shrugged, but there was still a sort of abstract look in his eyes, as though my presence really didn’t register. “Not at first. Not for years. Later, after everything fell apart…I think he must have been.”
“What happened to your father, Reid? How did he lose everything?” I inched away from the weapons, toward the door.
Reid looked up, but didn’t try to stop me. Instead he smiled, a rather wistful, almost haunted, smile as he answered. “He gambled it all away. Everything. We lost everything. But it had started before that. He was fascinated with vodun, with all the ancient traditions that his own father had scoffed at. He became involved with a young island woman who worked at the St. Pierre and who had great power in one of the secret societies that still flourished back then. Because of her light skin, she was one of the elite. Devotees worshiped her, held her in the highest reverence. She was being groomed to become
a high priestess, then she became pregnant by my father and was ostracized from the community. She lost her status and her power, and my father refused to leave my mother to marry her.
“He gave the woman a great deal of money to leave the island, which she did. But some say my father’s downfall was because either she or someone in her family placed a powerful spell on him. That was why his gambling compulsion worsened. That was why his wife fell in love with another man. That was why he shot himself in the head one day.”
The emotionless, matter-of-fact recitation chilled me with deep foreboding. A man who could so easily detach himself from his family’s tragedies might never be able to love anyone. Might even be capable of…violence.
What had Mrs. DuPrae told me? Reid blamed his father for everything. They’d had a terrible falling out.
Had Reid then blamed himself for his father’s death? Did he feel responsible? Was that why he remained so remote, so aloof from emotion?
I stared up at him, and my heart seemed to stop for a moment. “But you don’t believe that,” I said, denying it to myself as much as to him.
Reid looked at me, still with that odd little smile. “No, Christine. I believe there’s a logical explanation for everything that happens. Even if the reason is sometimes hard to accept.”
Everything? There was a logical explanation for everything? Even for what had happened between us?
My heart began to pound as our gazes held, and the words of passion, the heated caresses and deep, soul-shattering kisses were like a shimmering vision between us.
What was he thinking at this moment?
What was he regretting?
“Reid.” My voice was a breathless whisper. “I’m
sorry about what I said earlier. I was so scared, so confused—”
“That you said the first thing that came to your mind,” he supplied coolly. “I understand, Christine. Believe me, I do.”
“Do you? Do you really understand me?”
“From the moment I first met you I understood everything about you. I always have.”
And I knew at that moment that what he said was true. No one knew me better than Reid St. Pierre. I’d let him get closer to me than anyone else ever had. God help me, he knew my weaknesses and how to use them against me….
“The funny thing is,” he said slowly, “you don’t understand me.”
“I want to.”
“Do you?” His eyes held a sort of wounded intensity as he looked at me. “I don’t think you do. I think you’re afraid to understand me. I think you’re afraid of what you might learn.”
He took my arm then, and his fingers tightened around me. He stared down at me, his eyes full of deep, dark mystery. And then he said in a ruthless whisper, “And you’re right, Christine. You’re right to be afraid of me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
T
he package from Lawrence Crawford was delivered that afternoon just as he’d promised.