“I know you don’t want to listen to what I have to say, but I’m your mama and you owe me the courtesy of hearing me out,” Yvonne said.
“You’ve already given me your arguments against my trying to get the case reopened. I understand your fears, but believe me, I know how to take care of myself.” Theron grabbed his mother’s hand and squeezed tenderly. “I realize there are remnants of the Klan still around these parts, but the days when they could get away with murdering a black man are long gone.”
“It’s not so much the Klan that I’m worried about.” Yvonne looked deeply into her son’s hazel eyes—eyes identical to her own. “Since we know that Lemar wasn’t the murderer, that means the real murderer might still be alive and still living in Sumarville. Don’t you think he’s going to feel threatened? If he believes there’s any way you can unearth the real truth, he’s going to try to stop you.”
“Good.” Theron hit the table with his fist, rattling the dishes and silverware. “I’d like nothing better than for my investigation into the Desmond sisters’ murders to smoke out the real killer.”
“Son, why now?” Yvonne asked. “It’s been twenty years and—”
“You know I’ve wanted to prove Uncle Lemar’s innocence all these years, but I needed enough time so that I could reach a point in my life where I felt confident that I could do it without being stopped by the local authorities. I’m a wealthy respected lawyer, with a lot of powerful connections. The time is finally right. That’s why I’ve come home. The time is now.”
Jolie Royale locked the door of her condo, then tossed her purse and keys on the table in the small foyer. As she meandered slowly into the living room, she kicked off her red three-inch heels and padded barefoot across the beige carpet. Her date with Gene Naughton had ended on a sour note. She’d been seeing the Atlanta investment broker for over a month now and he expected their relationship to move on to the next stage, which for Gene meant sex. She liked Gene well enough and enjoyed his company, but she thought of them more as friends than lovers. He was attractive and virile for a man of forty-five, but he didn’t arouse any unbridled passion in Jolie. Maybe she expected too much; maybe she had always expected more from relationships than she’d ever found. It wasn’t that she was a simpering virgin, but even at thirty-four she didn’t have a long list of former lovers. In fact the exact opposite was true. Not counting any girlhood infatuations, she’d been in love twice. Or thought she had. Both relationships had ended years ago. The first affair had occurred when she’d attended Instituto Marangoni in Milan, Italy. She’d been twenty-one when she’d lost her virginity to a gorgeous young Italian named Arturo.
She’d been in love the way only the young and foolish can be in love. He’d broken her heart, of course, when she’d discovered him in bed with another woman. Five years later, while still working in New York, she’d convinced herself that she was in love with a brilliant, struggling actor who swept her off her feet. Paul Judd had sprinkled stardust in her eyes, and it had taken her nearly a year to realize she wasn’t in love with the man, but with the man she thought he was.
After making her way into the kitchen, Jolie opened the refrigerator to retrieve a can of diet cola. She popped the lid and lifted the drink to her lips before returning to the living room. Sinking down into the overstuffed white damask sofa, she felt between the cushions for the remote control and punched the ON button. The nightly newscast appeared on the TV screen. Jolie hit the MUTE button, then lifted her feet to rest atop the glass and wrought-iron coffee table.
What was the matter with her? Why hadn’t she just invited Gene home with her? What horrible sin would she have committed by sleeping with a perfectly charming man who wanted to advance their relationship to a more intimate level?
Remember what Cheryl says, “You’re just going to have sex with the guy, not marry him.”
But the trouble was that she wasn’t Cheryl Randall. The woman who’d been her personal assistant since she’d moved to Atlanta and started her own fashion design business six years ago was a free spirit who went through men the way some women go through Kleenex. Jolie was a far cry from a free spirit. She took things seriously—her personal life as well as her professional life. Talent alone had not made her one of the premiere designers of children’s wear in the United States. A lot of hard work, determination and a very serious, focused personality had made her a success.
But was a successful business all she wanted from life? Didn’t she want more, need more? At thirty-four her biological clock had begun ticking a little faster, so if she wanted a husband and children… But did she want a husband? Did she want children? Maybe. If she could find the right man. Someone she could envision spending her life with, growing old with and loving with a mindless passion unlike anything she’d ever known. Was that asking too much? Probably. Most people simply settled for what they could get, for whatever came along that passed for that once-in-a-lifetime love.
As Jolie finished off the cola, she chuckled at her own romantic stupidity. Love never lasts.
Okay, so for a few really lucky people, it did last. But for the majority, it didn’t. Most of her friends were either divorced or had gone through a series of unsuccessful live-in relationships. At least she’d never made those mistakes; she’d never married and she’d never lived with a man. She had always liked her independence far too much.
More than one man had told her that she kept a protective shield around herself and sent out negative vibes, rejecting a guy before he ever made an advance. She wasn’t consciously aware of being an ice queen bitch—something she’d overheard one acquaintance telling another about her at a party a couple of years ago—but maybe she was. Maybe, despite years of therapy, she had never truly recovered from the trauma she’d experienced twenty years ago. Even now there were times when she awoke in a cold sweat after dreaming of discovering Mama’s and Aunt Lisette’s bodies. In those horrid nightmares, she could feel the sting of the bullets that had entered her body. Thank God the killer had thought she was dead.
Stop this! Stop it right now! Just because Aunt Clarice called last week to tell you that Louis Royale had a massive heart attack is no reason for you to dredge up the past. The painful, better-off-forgotten past
. What did it matter to her that a man she hadn’t seen in twenty years might be dying? She had stopped thinking of Louis Royale as her father a long time ago. The day he married Georgette Devereaux, she had cut him out of her life forever. She could never forgive him for bringing that woman into her mother’s home less than a year after her mother’s murder.
Leaving the empty cola can on the coffee table, Jolie stood and made her way to the bedroom, pausing en route to lift her discarded high heels from the floor. In order to get a good night’s sleep, she should probably take a sleeping pill. She seldom resorted to drugs to sleep, but in the past week, she’d taken something twice. Tonight would make three times. Lifting her arm, she reached behind her and clasped the zipper tab on her dress, but before she could yank it down, the phone rang. God, don’t let it be Gene. She hadn’t broken things off with him tonight and she should have. Ending an affair before it began had become her trademark. What the hell was she so afraid of?
Jolie sat on the edge of the bed as she picked up the telephone receiver. “Hello.”
“Jolie Royale, please.”
Her heart skipped a beat. After all these years, she recognized the voice. Deep baritone, thick Southern accent, and undeniably commanding.
“This is she.”
“Jolie, this is Max Devereaux. I’m sorry to inform you that your father passed away tonight.”
Her breath caught in her throat. What could she say? What should she say? No one, least of all Max, would understand if she told him that Louis Royale might have died tonight, but
her
father had died nineteen years ago, on the day he married Georgette.
“Did you hear me?” Max asked, his tone sharp with displeasure.
“Yes, I heard you. You said that Louis Royale passed away tonight.”
“Visitation is planned for Saturday night and the funeral for Sunday afternoon, but I can change those plans if—”
“No. There’s no need to change the plans for me.”
“You will come home for the funeral, won’t you?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Damn it, woman, the man was your father. If you couldn’t show him any love and respect while he was still alive, the least you can do is show up for his funeral.”
“Go to hell, Max!”
Jolie slammed down the receiver, then fell across the bed and curled into a fetal ball. Tremors racked her body as she tried valiantly to control her emotions. But suddenly, uncontrollably, she cried. Tears of regret. Tears of loneliness and hopelessness. Tears for herself. Her mother. Aunt Lisette. And yes, tears for her father, too.
Chapter 2
There were days when Eartha Kilpatrick hated everything about Sumarville, and on those bad days, she found herself being less than charitable toward others. At thirty-nine, she felt trapped in a life that wasn’t anything like the one she’d once dreamed of having. A teenage pregnancy, then marriage to a real louse had set her on the wrong path. Raising two kids after her divorce hadn’t been easy, nor had taking care of her father, who’d died four years ago, after suffering from Alzheimer’s since he was fifty. She supposed she should be thankful for her blessings. She’d inherited the Sumarville Inn from her parents and had taken over the management of the town’s only hotel/ motel after her father’s illness made it impossible for him to continue running the business. Both of her daughters were away at college on scholarships. And she had an interesting man in her life, even if their relationship was pretty much a backstreet affair.
As she passed the mirrored wall in the lobby area of the hotel, she caught a glimpse of herself and smiled secretly. Unlike a lot of women approaching forty, she hadn’t lost her figure. Men still found her attractive. Men like Max Devereaux. Of course she knew the limits of their relationship. Friendship and sex. He’d been totally honest with her from the very beginning. The guy had been burned badly by his one and only marriage. And it didn’t help that the rumors about him having killed Felicia Wells Devereaux still surfaced from time to time. Although she knew Max was no saint and he possessed a dark, dangerous side, she had never believed him capable of murder.
Eartha entered the restaurant and walked straight to the bar. Glancing around, she inspected her employees as they swept the floor and set the tables for breakfast the following morning. Only two customers remained at the bar, which would close in thirty minutes. A couple of regulars, both middle-aged men who didn’t want to go home to their wives.
“What’ll it be, boss lady?” R. J. Sutton, her recently hired young bartender asked.
She smiled at him. The guy was damn good looking, and if her instincts were right, a bad boy to the core. If she were a few years younger, she’d be tempted to find out just how bad he was. Perhaps that was the reason she found Max so irresistible—she’d always had a weakness for hellions.
“Whiskey and water.” Eartha watched R. J. as he lifted a bottle of Jack Daniels from the shelf. He was tall, lanky, and broad shouldered, with thick blond hair that hung almost to his shoulders.
After he filled her glass halfway and added the water, he turned and set it in front of her. Just as she started to say thanks, she noticed his gaze leave her face and settle at the restaurant’s entrance.
“Trouble’s back,” he said.
She glanced over her shoulder, then groaned when she saw Parry Clifton, shirt halfway unbuttoned and dark hair rumpled, leading a woman half his age through the doorway. “Well, that didn’t take long.” She’d checked Max’s uncle and his latest “lady friend” into the hotel less than an hour ago.
“That guy’s been here a couple of times a week since you hired me,” R. J. said. “Why do you put up with him? You’ve got to know that the women he brings here are hookers.”
“Sumarville doesn’t have hookers. Our little town has two-bit whores. Well, actually, probably twenty-dollar whores might be more accurate.” As Parry approached, Eartha took a couple of sips from her glass, then turned to face him. “The bar’s closing in a few minutes. Maybe you should take your friend over to the Firewater since they stay open until one o’clock.”
“Trying to get rid of me?” Parry plopped down on a bar stool, then yanked his companion down onto the stool next to him. “Candy here will think we aren’t welcome.”
With an aggravated expression forming on her face, Eartha glanced at R. J. “Get Mr. Clifton and his guest a drink, then close the bar for tonight.” With her glass in her hand, she rose from the stool, made her way around to inspect each table, then headed for the kitchen.
Sipping leisurely on her drink, she surveyed the entire room, checking to make sure everything was clean and sanitary. Here she was going through her nightly routine, bogged down in mundane chores, when what she wanted—what she’d always wanted—was to run away to Nashville. Silly woman! She was too old to start a singing career. All the new country singers were young, just kids. She’d lost her chance, thrown it away in the backseat of Trent Kilpatrick’s daddy’s old Mercury more than twenty years ago.
On Friday and Saturday nights when the restaurant provided live entertainment, she always sang a couple of songs to an appreciative audience. And every time she heard the applause, she pretended she was at the Grand Ole Opry.
“Miss Eartha?” R. J. cracked open the kitchen door and peeped inside. “Phone call for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Devereaux.”
“I’ll be right there.” Why would Max be calling her on a Thursday night at nearly eleven o’clock? Her heart caught in her throat. Lord, maybe old man Royale had died. Poor Max would take it hard when his stepfather passed away. He thought the world of his mama’s husband.
Eartha entered the restaurant, slipped behind the bar, set down her glass, and lifted the receiver from the counter. “Hello.”
“Is my uncle there?” Max asked.
“Yes, he’s here.”
“Do me a favor, will you? Get one of your guys to drive Uncle Parry out here to Belle Rose. Do whatever you have to do to get him here. He’s needed at home. Mama needs him.”
“Has Mr. Royale—?”
“Louis died a couple of hours ago.”
“I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do…”
“Just get Uncle Parry home as soon as possible.” Max paused, sighed loudly, and said in a long quick rush, “Make sure that whoever he’s got with him tonight doesn’t come home with him.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see to it.”
“Thanks, Eartha.”
“Sure, Max. Anything for you.” As she listened to the dial tone she realized just how true that last statement had been.
Anything for you
. She had warned herself not to fall in love with Max, warned herself that there was no love in the man. He was a passionate lover, but an unemotional one. He gave her physical pleasure and took his own but kept his heart—if he had one—hidden and well protected.
“We’re closing up a little early tonight,” Eartha said, glancing at the two male customers, who quickly finished off their drinks and left.
“You’ll lose your loyal clientele doing stuff like this,” Parry told her.
“Mr. Clifton, my bartender, R. J., is going to drive you home tonight.” Eartha glanced at Candy. “Has he taken care of you?”
The twenty-something bimbo blushed and nodded. “Yeah. I get my money before…” She cleared her throat. “In advance.”
“Fine.” Eartha came out from behind the bar, laid her hand on Parry’s shoulder and squeezed. “Max just called. Mr. Royale died a couple of hours ago. Max wants you home. Now.”
“Louis died?” Parry stared at Eartha, his eyes bloodshot and glazed with tears. “Poor old bastard. I’m going to miss him.”
“R. J., leave everything. I’ll finish here and lock up.” She delved into her pants pocket, retrieved her car keys and tossed them to R. J. “Drive Mr. Clifton to Belle Rose in my car. See him inside and take him straight to Max.”
“I’ve got my own car,” Parry said.
“Your car will be safe here overnight,” she told him. “You’ve been drinking and don’t need to drive. Max and Mrs. Royale and Mallory are going to need you in one piece. The last thing they could handle right now would be your having a wreck.”
Parry heaved his thick broad shoulders, then sighed as he slumped over in defeat. He eyed R. J. “Boy, you know where Belle Rose is, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” R. J. replied. “I reckon everybody knows where Belle Rose is.”
“I sure as hell hope Louis did right by my sister and her children in his will,” Parry mumbled. “Guess we’ll be seeing something of Miss Highand-Mighty Jolie Royale now. She’ll be coming home to claim Belle Rose.”
As R. J. led Parry out of the restaurant, Eartha busied herself with clearing away the dirty glasses, washing them and wiping the bar clean. Jolie Royale. She barely remembered the girl. Plump. Blonde. High-strung. And totally spoiled. The princess of Desmond County. Only months after his first wife’s death, Mr. Royale had sent his daughter away. Folks had said how sad it was that the girl has survived the Belle Royale massacre only to lose her mind and have to be sent away to an asylum. Of course, later on, they’d learned that Jolie had never been in the nuthouse at all; she’d been sent to an expensive boarding school in Virginia.
Eartha had asked Max once about his stepsister, but she’d never asked again—not after the deadly glare he’d given her and the sharp response, “I don’t discuss Jolie with anyone.”
Parry Clifton snored like a freight train roaring down the tracks. The guy had talked nonstop for the first fifteen minutes, then he’d quieted and fallen asleep. The snoring was a great improvement over the jabbering. R. J. instinctively didn’t like the man. His drinking and womanizing reminded R. J. too much of his own worthless father. After his mother’s death when he was six, he’d been at his old man’s mercy. He’d learned to steer clear of him as much as possible, to become invisible. That way, he didn’t get knocked around as much. He had no idea if Jerry Sutton was alive or dead and didn’t give a damn either way. He’d run away at fifteen and had stayed on the move ever since. For the past seven years, he’d drifted from one town to another, picking up whatever job he could. He’d lucked out when he arrived in Sumarville. Eartha Kilpatrick’s bartender had up and quit on her that very day. Fate had dealt him a winning hand three weeks ago.
The huge white wrought-iron gates came into view, the entrance to Belle Rose. He could see the old plantation house from the road, although it set way back at the end of a long tree-lined drive. He’d learned pretty fast once he arrived in Sumarville that a couple of old families still ruled the roost in these parts. He hadn’t learned all the players or their roles in this antiquated Mississippi town’s drama, but he knew that Louis Royale was the richest and most respected man in the county and that his stepson, Max Devereaux, wielded the power of a prince.
When he drove up to the gate, he noticed the security cameras and realized he’d have to identify himself before he would be allowed inside. He rolled down the car window and said, “I’m delivering Mr. Clifton home.”
Suddenly, without any response or any warning, the gates opened. He shifted gears on the five-speed sports car and zipped through the entrance and up the drive. As he drew closer to the house, he noted the grandeur of the mansion. Tall double columns flanked the two-story portico that divided the two wings of the house. A huge wraparound veranda spread out across the front and down the sides. The twin second story balconies, graced with intricate white wrought-iron latticework topped the veranda. He knew what kind of people lived in houses like this. Over the years he’d picked up odd jobs from the rich snobs who lived in luxury and were suffocating from breathing such rarified air. These people were wealthy, ancestor-worshiping snobs who considered themselves better than the rest of the world.
R. J. stopped the car in front of the house, right in the middle of the circular drive. He hopped out, rounded the hood, and opened the passenger door. Mr. Clifton sat there, his head thrown back, his mouth wide open. R. J. shook the guy. His eyelids fluttered several times before he forced open his bleary gray eyes and glared at R. J.
“You’re home, Mr. Clifton.”
“Home?”
“Belle Rose.”
Parry Clifton struggled to get out of the car, bumping his head in the process. “Damn!”
R. J. slid his arm around the man’s waist and lifted him to his feet. Where the hell was Max Devereaux? He sure could use some help with this guy. Clifton was six-feet tall and probably weighed a good two-sixty. R. J. headed Clifton toward the veranda. Thank God, there were only half a dozen steps up to the porch.
When he finally managed to half-carry half-lead the guy up on the veranda, the massive double front doors opened and Max Devereaux appeared. Devereaux sized up the situation and seeing his uncle’s condition, scowled before he came forward.
“Well, you’re a sorry sight,” Max said, then turned to R. J. “Thanks for bringing him home.”
“No problem. He slept most of the way.”
Placing his arm around Clifton’s waist, Max took his uncle from R. J. and all but dragged him into the house. Max paused in the doorway, glanced over his shoulder, and said, “Tell Eartha thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
The front door closed in R. J.’s face, effectively dismissing him. What had he expected? He was nothing more than a servant who’d done his job. Hell, at least Max Devereaux had said thank you, which was more than most of his kind ever did.
R. J. headed down the steps to Eartha’s car, but before he reached the bottom step he thought he heard someone crying. Stopping abruptly, he listened. The sound came from the side of the house. A rather loud, mournful weeping. So what? he thought. The lord of the manor has just died. It was only natural that the family would be mourning. But what the hell was somebody—some woman from the sound of the crying—doing outside on such a hot, humid night?