mean complaining about stuff? I don’t think so. But I think she regretted having him on the property.”
“Why?”
“I think she was afraid of him.”
“Why?” she asked again.
“She said he was secretive. I tried to tell her that maybe he just wanted to keep to himself. He could have lost his job or his wife for all we knew. Who can say why a man moves into an isolated cottage in a new location?”
“Because he’s hiding from the law?” Gabriella asked, putting a different spin on the speculations.
“I don’t know, but I do know she kept going on about him. He was stony. Aloof. Abrupt. He was always in there working on the computer. And there were papers scattered all over the place. When she’d come in, he’d hide them.”
“Hide them?”
“Well, gather them up. And there was something about him that she just didn’t trust.”
“Did he have a lease?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she thought he was all right at the beginning. Or … you know … she was …”
Paula let the sentence trail off, and Gabriella was sure her mother’s friend was referring to her recent mental problems, although she wasn’t willing to come out and say it.
Gabriella glanced out the window toward the Cypress Cottage. “Should I be worried?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But you might want to watch out for him while you’re here. You know, keep the doors locked.”
“If he’s so much of a loner, I probably won’t run into him.”
“Maybe, but you’ll have to deal with him eventually. I mean, now he’s renting from you.”
Gabriella nodded, realizing that she’d inherited this property and would have to decide what to do with it.
“How long are you staying here?”
“Just a few days.”
“Your mom would want you to get back to your career.”
Gabriella made a soft sound. Her career. She’d made it the most important thing in her life. Until today.
If it wasn’t for her ambitions, she might have stayed home, but then what? Work as a short-order cook in Lafayette? That wasn’t why she’d gone to the Culinary Institute of America in New York state, then come back to Louisiana to look for a job in the best restaurants in New Orleans. Creating wonderful food gave her a satisfaction nothing else did. Or it had.
“I’d better get to the funeral home,” she murmured.
“Your mom didn’t want to be a burden to you, so she had everything spelled out—before …” Again Paula stopped.
“But I’m going over there anyway.” Gabriella stood and carried her coffee mug to the sink. “Thank you for being here.”
“Just tell me if you need anything.”
“Thanks. I will.”
BEING CAREFUL NOT TO STEP ON anything that would make a crunching noise, the man watching from the shadows of the trees saw Gabriella Boudreaux hurry back to her car. Probably going to the funeral home.
He waited another minute for the other woman to get into her vehicle. When they had both driven away, he made a satisfied sound.
With the two of them gone, he could finally have a smoke. He was starving for one. After quickly using his pocket lighter, he took a deep drag on the fag, grateful for the nicotine rush. He’d broken the habit out of necessity in prison. As soon as he’d gotten out, he’d started again.
While he smoked, he reviewed the day’s events. The old lady had darted upstairs, and he’d followed, knowing that if he pushed her down, the daughter would come running home.
He was an expert at digging into people’s backgrounds, and he knew that she was one of the children from the Solomon Clinic in Houma.
It had been set up to help infertile couples conceive children, but that was only a cover for something else. The guy who’d hired him had wanted to know what had happened there. Not the covert purpose, the unintended consequences.
The doctor had kept records of his activities, of course, but those had been destroyed in a fire long ago.
A few people in Houma had talked to him about the clinic. Which was how he’d gotten Marian Boudreaux’s name.
She’d been a good place to start, but his real objectives were the children, like Gabriella. She was the one he really wanted, out here in the country, where there was more privacy and little chance of her screams being heard.
Chapter Two
Gabriella was already wiped out by the time she met with Burt LeBlanc from the funeral home.
He’d gone to high school with her, although they hadn’t known each other well. She hadn’t been really close to anyone, except one girl named Julie Monroe. It was as if she and Julie were on the same wavelength, although she wasn’t sure what that meant exactly. They’d spent time together, until Julie had moved away in their sophomore year, leaving Gabriella feeling more alone than ever. Because she’d never been great at making friends, it had been easier to keep to herself than to try and work her way into any of the established groups.
Burt LeBlanc, who’d inherited the business from his dad, greeted her as if they’d been buddies.
She shook his hand, getting through the physical contact the same way she was getting through everything else.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said in the deep, reassuring voice that he must have cultivated.
“Yes—thanks.”
“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured toward one of the padded leather chairs across from his broad desk. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thanks,” she answered as she lowered herself into one of the chairs.
“I read about your pastry chef career in that airline magazine.”
She blinked. “You did?”
“Yes. Very impressive. People in town were talking about it.”
Again, she was surprised that anybody in Lafayette would take notice of her.
After relaxing her with a little more small talk, Burt addressed the arrangements that her mom had spelled out—in an envelope full of instructions that she’d given him several years earlier.
“Your mom wished to be cremated, like your dad,” he said. “There’s a place waiting for her in the columbarium, next to him.”
The
