me know when he’s here,” she said. “I’m going to start setting up in the library.” She refilled her cup of coffee and left the kitchen before Brian could clue in on her sudden case of nerves.
DESPITE THE THIRTY-MINUTE reprieve she had while setting up in the library, Justine felt a lump in her throat when Brian called to her from the front entry that the sheriff had arrived.
He’s just going to ask some questions. Olivia told you he was useless. He’s nothing to fear.
If she kept telling herself that, maybe she’d start to believe it.
She walked down the hall into the entry, assessing Sheriff Blanchard as she shook his hand. He was older, probably late fifties, if his silver-and-black hair was any indication. His expression was one of clear annoyance, even though he politely shook her hand and addressed her as “ma’am.”
Brian directed them to the kitchen, and Justine took a seat across the table from the sheriff while Brian leaned against the kitchen counter to her left.
Sheriff Blanchard studied her for a moment and she struggled not to look away. Finally, he spoke. “Mr. Marcentel says you had a bit of trouble here last night. You want to tell me about it?”
Justine looked over at Brian and he started telling the sheriff about the figure standing in the courtyard.
“Standing in the middle of the storm wearing a dress?” Sheriff Blanchard stared at Brian as if he’d lost his mind. “Someone would have to be crazy and have a death wish. Besides, how did they get here and where did they disappear to afterward? You said yourself there were no tracks.”
Justine saw Brian’s jaw flex and knew he was getting angry. “Are you saying I imagined what I saw?”
Sheriff Blanchard shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time people saw stuff that wasn’t there. This house has a history that can play with the mind. All I’m suggesting is that, maybe with everything that happened to your friend before, you’re looking for something to be wrong now.”
Brian straightened up, but before he could respond, Justine said, “So, did we share a delusional vision, Sheriff? Because I saw the same thing that Brian did. I might agree with a diagnosis of collective insanity if Brian and I shared a close past raised by people rooted in those beliefs. But considering I just met him yesterday, I seriously doubt we formed that sort of bond while unpacking.”
“Now don’t get your back up,” Sheriff Blanchard said. “I wasn’t trying to suggest—”
“Yes, you were,” Justine said, “and you’re wrong. Tell me, Sheriff, if that figure outside was just our imagination, then who hit me on the back of the head? I’m not imagining the gash or the headache, and I fell in the middle of the entryway where there is nothing for me to strike my head on.”
Sheriff Blanchard sighed. “What would you like me to tell you? That you hit your head somewhere else and wandered into the entry before you collapsed? That you and your friend here spooked yourselves and imagined it all? I don’t have any other answers. Until Olivia Markham came to this house, hadn’t nothing untoward happened here for a hundred years. Maybe that should tell you all something.”
Justine felt heat rise to her face as the sheriff talked, and she was ready to attack when she felt Brian’s hand squeeze her shoulder. She looked up at the former Marine, who gave her an imperceptible “no.”
“I understand your position,” Brian said to the sheriff. “Cypriere being such a close-knit town and us being outsiders, you don’t want to get involved. I’ll be happy to call the state police to look at the situation. That should relieve you of the duty of investigating your friends and family, which would probably be a conflict of interest, anyway.”
Sheriff Blanchard rose from the table and glared at Brian. “Are you saying I’m not capable of doing my job?”
“No. I’m saying it’s inconvenient for you to do your job.”
“Fine,” Sheriff Blanchard said, his jaw clenched. “You want me to see if some kids are pulling pranks on you, I will. You want me to figure out how she got that knot on her head, I’ll need to go over this entire house to find what made that cut. But as my only deputy is on his honeymoon, I can’t manage that sort of investigation for a couple of days. I still have a town to protect.”
Sheriff Blanchard shot one final look of disdain at Justine and Brian, then spun around and left the house. As the door closed behind him, Justine realized Brian’s hand was still on her shoulder. Suddenly the room was too small or he was too close, or both. Before she could move, he dropped his hand and stepped away from the table.
“I don’t think he’s going to be much help,” Brian said.
“Doesn’t look like it. What do you think the problem is?”
Brian shrugged. “No telling, really, but my guess is he’s probably getting ready to retire and doesn’t want this mess interfering with his coasting along to those pension checks. He’s probably turned a blind eye to things happening out here for years, dismissing it as kids or thrill seekers.”
“He doesn’t believe us.”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you tell him you were a cop? Don’t you guys have some kind of unspoken code where you have to believe each other?”
“I don’t trust the man. Maybe he’s just incompetent and lazy, but either way, I’m not offering up any information. If he wants to know anything about us, he’s going to have to ask or run a background check.” Brian grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator. “I’m going to start installing the security system. If you need me, I’ll be within yelling distance.”
Justine watched as he exited the kitchen through the sitting room. He was clearly aggravated with the sheriff’s attitude, but he hadn’t pushed the issue. In fact, he’d prevented her from causing a scene, and for that she was glad. The last thing she needed was the sheriff digging into her past and determining he had a good reason to accuse her of imagining things, but the way Brian had left things, that may be exactly what the sheriff did.
Instantly, her mind flashed back to the photo of her mother and the message she’d found in her room the day before. Someone in Cypriere already knew who she was or someone had followed her to Cypriere. But who? And why?
Justine touched her shoulder where Brian’s hand had rested. It was almost as if he’d sensed her discomfort as soon as she felt it and stepped away from her. Was he really that intuitive?
If so, Justine had to be very, very careful around Brian Marcentel.
JUSTINE PLACED the two stacks of journals on the table in the library and plugged in her laptop, ready to get to work. She’d organized by date the journals written by Marilyn Borque, the murdered mistress of laMalediction, and the journals written by her personal maid, Sissy Dubois. She hoped that by reading them together, she could form a clear vision of the events during that time.
Olivia had already filled her in on Marilyn Borque’s background. The poor woman had essentially been sold to Franklin Borque just before the Civil War by her father to seal a business deal. Franklin built the monstrosity, laMalediction, when no town existed within a hundred miles, effectively cutting his young wife off from civilization. The remote location made it easy for him to beat
