“No, it’s not possible,” Yvonne replied.
“There’s only one way to prove it,” Theron said. “If we can exhume her body and test the baby’s DNA.”
“We can’t do that, without permission,” Max said. “The next of kin would have to—”
“Do it,” Clarice said as she tightened her hold on Nowell’s hand. “I’m Lisette’s closest living relative. I’ll sign whatever papers are necessary.”
“But why put yourself through the torment?” Georgette asked. “Parry has already admitted that he was the baby’s father.”
“Because Lisette Desmond had numerous lovers,” Jolie said. “My aunt could have told Parry he was the father, when in truth, the baby could have belonged to another man.”
“And this other man might have killed her,” Yvonne said.
“Aunt Clarice, if you truly are willing to give us permission to—”
“I am,” Clarice declared.
“Then tomorrow morning, we’ll contact Ike Denton and find out just what we have to do to have Lisette’s body exhumed,” Max said.
Jolie lay in Max’s arms, in the four-poster in her childhood bedroom. It was a young girl’s room with white eyelet lace curtains and bedspread edged in tiny pink satin roses, pale pink-and-white striped wallpaper, and a huge antique bookcase filled with expensive collectable dolls that had belonged to Audrey, Lisette, and Clarice Desmond when they were children. Max had come to her room long after everyone had gone to bed, when the house was quiet and dark. She had welcomed him into her arms and into her bed, and never for a moment considered turning him away. They had made love with a passion as hot and demanding as it had been the first time, then they’d slept for a couple of hours.
He nuzzled her neck. “I should go back to my room soon.”
She turned over and cuddled against him. “Stay awhile longer.”
“I could be persuaded to stay.”
She breathed in the scent that was Max Devereaux’s alone. Her lips painted wet kisses from his chest to his chin; then she rose up and over him, straddling him. She swooped down to lunge her tongue inside his mouth. Her movements brushed aside the sheet and light quilt, leaving her naked body exposed to the golden moonlight coming in through the windows…and to Max’s hungry gaze.
“Still want to leave me?” she asked.
“I never want to leave you.” Max lifted his hips, bringing his sex in direct contact with hers. “But what I want and what must be…”
Jolie positioned herself, circled his penis with her hand, and guided him into her. When she impaled herself on its hard length, he grasped her hips and together they set a steady rhythm. She rode him, placing pressure on the precise points of pleasure, while he catered to her needs with caresses and kisses. They climaxed simultaneously, falling apart with groans and moans and whispered words that were said in the heat of passion, meant to be forgotten in the cold light of day.
Yvonne woke with a start. She lay in bed and listened. Silence. What had awakened her? A noise? Theron? No, she’d heard nothing. She’d been restless for hours, tossing and turning, until finally exhaustion had claimed her. It was the smell that had roused her from a light sleep.
She sniffed. Smoke?
Yvonne kicked back the covers and jumped out of bed. She sniffed again. Definitely smoke. She ran to the door, and when she flung it open, billows of dark smoke attacked her.
Dear God, the house was on fire!
Theron!
Chapter 28
The household at Belle Rose had been awakened by the whine of sirens. Within minutes Georgette and Clarice were shrieking as they came running from their rooms. No one except Mallory, who gave them a hateful glare, seemed to notice that Max and Jolie emerged together from Jolie’s bedroom.
“It’s Yvonne’s house. It’s on fire,” Clarice said. “I could see from my bedroom window that the sky is lit up very brightly in that direction. I’m going to call Nowell and tell him to meet us at Yvonne’s.” As she returned to her room, she mumbled to herself. “Please, God, please let Yvonne and Theron be all right.”
Max took charge, issuing orders as he rushed to his room to dress. Jolie hurried back to her room, flung off her robe, and put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then slipped on a pair of sandals. By the time she went back into the hall, she saw Max, fully clothed, heading down the stairs.
“Wait,” she called.
He paused, then motioned for her. Aunt Clarice followed them within minutes, as did Mallory.
Parry flung open his bedroom door. “What the hell’s going on? Are we being invaded by Mars?”
“Yvonne’s house is on fire,” Georgette told him as she ran out of her room. “We’re going over there to see if Yvonne and Theron got out all right and to bring them back here with us.”
Five minutes later, Jolie pulled her Escalade up to the side of one of the fire engines, and she, Max, Aunt Clarice, and Mallory jumped out. Georgette had stayed to wait on Parry, telling the others that they would follow shortly. The cottage that had stood on Belle Rose property for well over a hundred years burned a glowing golden red, like campfire logs, shooting sparks into the sky. Smoke broiled from the crumbling structure, its swirls curling into the air like fat dark snakes.
Max and Jolie charged into the fray.
One of the firefighters blocked their path. “Please stay back!”
“Yvonne Carter and her son were inside,” Jolie said.
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Carter called us on his cell phone.” He nodded toward the ambulance parked on the far side of the burning house. “His mother got them out of the house. They’re both all right. They’re being treated for smoke inhalation.”
With Mallory supporting her, Clarice came toward them. “Where is Yvonne? Are she and Theron—?
“They’re fine,” Max replied.
“Where are they?” Clarice asked. “I want to see them. We must take them home to Belle Rose with us.”
By the time they made their way around the fire trucks and over to the ambulance, Georgette and Parry arrived. Max waved to them.
Theron sat in the ambulance’s open back doorway, an oxygen mask on his face. Soot stained his face, naked chest, and pajama bottoms, and when Jolie drew closer, she saw that his eyes were bloodshot and watery. As the Belle Rose mob descended on him, he jerked off the oxygen mask. Jolie and Clarice hugged him and asked him repeatedly if he was all right.
After assuring them that he was okay, he looked from one to the other and said, “Go find Mama, will you?”
“Where is she?” Jolie asked. “I thought she’d be with you.”
“She disappeared a few minutes ago,” Theron said. “I saw her head out on foot, going toward Pleasant Hill. Some of the firemen told us that it was pretty obvious that someone had set the fire. They’d poured kerosene across the front porch and probably struck a match. Once Mama heard that, she said, ‘I warned him. He should have listened to me.’ I’ve never seen her so upset.”
Clarice gasped. “Roscoe Wells. She thinks he’s responsible for the fire, doesn’t she?”
Theron nodded. “Please, go find her. Stop her before she…Damn, just make sure she’s safe.”
Max laid his hand on Theron’s shoulder. “Mallory and Aunt Clarice will stay here with you and when you’re ready, they’ll take you to Belle Rose. In the meantime, we’ll find Yvonne.”
Theron grabbed Max’s arm. “Mama might have taken the Beretta I keep in my car. I saw her inside the car, but I couldn’t get these medics to help me get to her in time to stop her.”
“You think she’s going to shoot Roscoe?” Max asked.
Theron’s gaze locked with Clarice’s. “What do you think? Will she try to kill Roscoe?”
Shivering as if she were suddenly cold on this hot humid July night, Clarice nodded.
“We’d better hurry,” Jolie said. “We should be able to catch up with her before she makes it to Pleasant Hill on foot.”
“I’m coming, too,” Clarice said.
“No, please, stay here.” Jolie grabbed her aunt’s hands. “I don’t want to have to worry about you, too.”
Nowell Landers parked his Harley behind the growing number of vehicles spread out across the lawn and marched straight to Clarice. Georgette and Parry followed closely behind him. The moment Clarice saw Nowell, she flew into his arms.
“He’ll look after her,” Jolie said. “Let’s go.”
Within minutes, Max and she headed her SUV out onto the weed-infested gravel road that stretched between Belle Rose and Pleasant Hill. They didn’t see Yvonne on the road, but when they parked in front of Roscoe’s mansion, they noted that several downstairs lights were on. At two-thirty in the morning. Just as they got out of the Escalade, a single gunshot shattered the predawn solitude.
“Oh, my God!” Jolie gasped, then broke into a run.
Max raced behind her. The double front doors stood wide open. Max grabbed Jolie’s arm, halting her outside the doorway. The sound of voices reverberated through the huge foyer.
“Hell, woman, you’re supposed to be dead,” Roscoe Wells said. “You and that son of yours should be toast by now.”
Jolie’s eyes widened; she looked at Max, who placed his index finger over his lips, a sign for her to keep quiet. He motioned her to come with him, and together they eased quietly along the side of the wall, slowly but surely making their way toward the sound of Roscoe’s voice, which had come from his study.
“You’re an evil man, Roscoe Wells. Clarice and I should have told Mr. Sam what you did. He would have killed you, and then you couldn’t have hurt anybody else ever again.”
“So you thought you’d come here and shoot me? Well, firing that damn pistol over my head ain’t going to get the job done.”
Hovering outside the door, Max and Jolie could see into the study. Yvonne’s back was to them, and from where he stood behind his desk, Roscoe couldn’t see them either. Suddenly footsteps thundered down the spiral staircase behind them. Garland Wells, a Colt revolver in hand, raced down the stairs and across the marble foyer.
“What the hell’s going on? I heard a gunshot.” He glanced from Jolie to Max; neither made a sound or moved an inch.
“Garland, is that you, son?” Roscoe bellowed. “Come on in here. We got us a situation that needs to be taken care of. You got a gun with you, haven’t you, boy?”
Max motioned for Gar to go into the study. Clutching Max’s arm, Jolie glared at him. Did they dare trust Gar? Max shook his head, warning her to do nothing.
Garland walked into the study, the gun in his hand pointing straight ahead, then he paused when he saw Yvonne.
“What’s going on?” Gar asked.
Yvonne whirled around, aimed the gun directly at Gar, and then backed up just enough so that she could keep both father and son in her line of vision. “Come on in, Gar,” Yvonne said, her voice deceptively calm.
“Yvonne, what are you doing here? Why do you have a gun?” Gar eased his hand holding the revolver down to his side.
“Shoot her, son. Shoot her now before she gets off another shot.” Roscoe’s eyes brightened as he motioned to Gar. “She just tried to kill me.”
“I don’t understand. Why would Yvonne want to kill you?”
“Damn it, boy, shoot her. We gotta kill her. If we don’t, she’ll destroy us. She’ll put an end to your political career before we can get it off the ground.”
Roscoe rounded his desk and took a couple of tentative steps toward Gar. Yvonne aimed and shot again; this time the bullet hit only inches from Roscoe’s feet.
“Goddammit, woman!” Looking straight at his son, Roscoe said, “See, she’s trying to kill me.”
“I should have killed you forty-two years ago,” Yvonne said. “Killing you now won’t change a thing, but it’ll rid this world of a monster. Clarice and I have lived all these years with what you did to us, but that was only one of your many sins, wasn’t it? You tried to have my son, Theron, killed. And you sent somebody to kill Jolie, too, because they wanted to find out the truth about the Belle Rose massacre. And tonight you had my house torched, hoping Theron and I would burn to death inside.”
“What’s she talking about?” Gar asked. “What have you done?”
“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to protect you.” Roscoe inched a little closer to Garland. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. Shoot Yvonne and we’ll tell the sheriff that she came here ranting and raving and tried to kill me. We’ll say you shot her in order to save me. That’ll be the truth.”
“What do you mean that everything you did was to protect me? Protect me from what?”
“Son, I know what you did.” Roscoe reached out for Gar but halted when Yvonne shook the Beretta at him. “But I made sure nobody ever suspected you. I called in a heap of favors and I paid off a lot of people. I made sure it looked like Lemar Fuqua killed Lisette and Audrey. There is no reason for anybody to ever know any different.” Roscoe glared at Yvonne. “If that damn boy of yours hadn’t started snooping around, and if Jolie hadn’t come back to town and joined forces with him, none of this would have happened.”
“Daddy, are you saying that you think I had something to do with Lisette’s death?”
“I know it wasn’t your fault. That Lisette was a vixen. The type of woman who could drive a man mad.”
“You think I killed her?”
“It’s all right.” Roscoe grabbed Garland’s shoulder and squeezed. “I understand. I know you went over there that morning. I suspected what was going on between you two. I don’t know what happened or why you had to kill her, but—”
“I didn’t kill anybody!” Gar shouted.
“Son, I saw you when you came home from Belle Rose that afternoon. You had blood on your shirt. And you were crying.” Roscoe ran his hand down Gar’s arm, patting him affectionately. “When I heard about the killings at Belle Rose, I knew then what had happened. I got rid of your shirt. Got it out of the garbage and burned it. And I started working behind the scenes to manipulate things, to make sure no suspicion ever fell on you. And lucky for us that prick, Parry Clifton, thought Lisette’s baby was his.”
“You killed Lisette and Audrey and my brother?” Yvonne focused on Gar. “You?”
“No, I swear, I didn’t—”
Roscoe grabbed the revolver out of Gar’s hand, aimed it at Yvonne and smiled. Max shoved Jolie aside, but before he could get to Roscoe, a gun fired. The sound echoed in Jolie’s head.
Yvonne!
she screamed silently.
Oh, God! Oh, God!
But then Jolie saw that Yvonne still stood, her pistol in her hand. And Roscoe Wells slumped to the floor. What happened? Had Yvonne shot Roscoe? Then when Roscoe hit the floor, exposing the back side of his head, Jolie screamed. The bullet had hit Roscoe directly between the eyes and took off the back half of his head.
Gar rushed to his father and dropped on his knees, crying and trembling. Yvonne’s death grip on her weapon eased and the pistol slipped from her fingers.
“I—I didn’t shoot him,” Yvonne said.
“No, she didn’t. I did.” Nowell Landers, rifle in hand, stood in the foyer, Aunt Clarice several feet behind him.