and smiled at her. The expression transformed his handsome face and gave him a boyish look. “Good.” Flipping the top to a computer, he entered the information from Gwendolyn Taylor’s license.
She leaned to her left to view the screen. “I have no outstanding warrants or citations.”
Shiloh inhaled the floral scent of the soft curls brushing his cheek. “Just procedure, Miss Taylor.” He stared at the photograph on the screen. Gwendolyn’s hair was much shorter, the style too severe for her face. She would turn thirty-five in November, and he’d just celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday the month before.
Gwen watched as he entered the information on her car’s registration. The commonwealth of Massachusetts DMV had listed Gwendolyn P. Taylor as the owner of the car.
“What does the P stand for?”
“Paulette.”
“Pretty,” Shiloh said without any emotion in his voice.
“Can I go now?” she asked after he’d given her back her documents.
He noted the time on his watch and entered it into the computer. It was seven-forty-five. In fifteen minutes he would be officially off duty. “Yes, you can, Miss Taylor. I’ll come around and help you down.” Shiloh stepped out of the Suburban at the same time a police cruiser pulled up, lights flashing.
Frank Lincoln got out, right hand resting on his firearm. “You all right, boss?”
Shiloh stared at the overzealous young deputy. Frank’s father was a special agent with the FBI, and his grandfather a retired Louisiana state trooper. He’d hired the new recruit because he was ambitious, honest and dedicated to his profession.
“I’m good, Frank.”
There was just enough sunlight left to discern the flush creeping up his face, the bright color matching his orange hair. “I saw your flasher, then I noticed the perp sitting in the front seat, so I thought you were in trouble.”
Now Shiloh knew why Frank had stopped. “Miss Taylor is not a perp. I stopped…”
His explanation died on his lips. He didn’t have to explain to a subordinate what he was doing and why Gwendolyn Taylor was in the front seat instead of in the rear behind a heavy mesh partition where perpetrators were handcuffed when they were taken to the station house for questioning or locked up before they were arraigned at the courthouse.
“It’s almost time for your shift, Lincoln.” Whenever he addressed his deputies by their last name it was usually followed by a reprimand.
Frank saluted Shiloh. “Good night, sir.”
He returned the salute. “Good night, Frank. Don’t forget to turn off your lights.”
“Yes, sir.”
Waiting until the cruiser disappeared from view, Shiloh came around the SUV and scooped Gwen off the seat, then set her gently on her feet. Cupping her elbow, he led her back to her car. He released her arm and opened the door to the BMW.
“If you follow me, I’ll show you how to get to Bon Temps.”
Gwen studied his face, feature by feature, with a curious intensity as the gold-green eyes darkened with an unreadable expression. She liked his eyes and strong chin. There was just a hint of a cleft, as if nature hadn’t quite made up its mind whether to give him one.
“Thank you, Sheriff Harper.”
He touched the brim of the wide hat with a thumb and forefinger. “You’re welcome, Miss Taylor.”
Shiloh waited until she was seated before he returned to his SUV, turned off the flasher, executed a U-turn and headed southward. He glanced up at the rearview mirror. She was following him.
He decelerated and drove onto a paved road leading to a smaller version of the half-dozen restored antebellum mansions offering tours. Live oaks formed a natural canopy as he approached the house known as Bon Temps—meaning “good times” in French.
Shiloh wondered if Gwendolyn Taylor was aware of what had gone on behind the doors of the infamous mansion. He also wondered how well she’d known her namesake, Gwendolyn Pickering. A knowing smile parted his lips. If she didn’t know, then she would once the gossips came to introduce themselves to the newcomer. His first instinct was to warn her, but he changed his mind. There was something about Gwendolyn Taylor that said she could hold her own with anything and anyone. She had with him.
He waited in his vehicle, watching Gwendolyn as she parked her car, walked to the entrance of the house, and unlocked the front door. She disappeared inside and seconds later the first floor was flooded with soft light.
Shiloh smiled when she waved to him. He returned her wave, waiting until she closed the door. It wasn’t until he’d left Bon Temps and headed in the direction of his own house that he chided himself for not checking to see if she was safe—that no intruder or squatter had taken up residence.
Flipping a signal, he drove back to Bon Temps.
Gwen stood in the entryway, staring up at a cobweb-covered light fixture overhead. Muslin slipcovers were draped over all of the tables and chairs and a layer of dust coated the parquet floors bordered in a rosewood-inlay pattern.
Gwendolyn Pickering had passed away in late February, and it was now early May. It was that apparent no one had come to clean or air out the house. She pretended she didn’t see the stained and peeling wallpaper. Walking across the living room, she saw a massive chandelier resting in a corner on a drop cloth, the sooty remains in the brick fireplace, and the threadbare carpeting on the staircase leading to the second floor. Despite the disrepair, she recognized the magnificence of the mansion, which dated back to the 1840s.
Bon Temps was home, and not the three-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a turn-of-the-century town house she’d occupied for the past decade.
Heading for the staircase, she flipped on the light switch on a wall panel and illuminated the landing and the hallway at the top of the staircase.
Her footsteps were slow and determined as she climbed the stairs to see what awaited her. Her late aunt’s attorney had mailed her an envelope filled with photographs of the exterior and interior of Bon Temps, floor plans, copies of the original architectural drawings, and a description of the furnishings with authentication of every inventoried item.
The five-thousand-square-foot house contained four bedrooms, five-and-a-half bathrooms, a kitchen, a pantry, a laundry room, a formal living and dining room, and a small ballroom for entertaining. The floor plans also included a second-story veranda that overlooked an orchard and formal garden.
It took several hours after a lengthy conversation with Gwendolyn Pickering’s attorney for Gwen to digest the information that she now owned a house that if restored, would be granted historic landmark status. Mr. Sykes said she could either turn Bon Temps into a museum or live in it, so she’d opted to claim it as her home.
Gwen stopped as she reached the last stair when the chiming of the doorbell echoed melodiously throughout the house.
