Danae nodded. Amos was the estate’s caretaker and no less than eighty years old, hence the general run-down state of the house and grounds. Her stepfather had refused to hire additional help, and the aging caretaker had been unable to maintain it all himself.
“I’d mentioned before that I’ve hired a contractor to address the problems at the house,” William continued. “He will arrive today and will stay in Amos’s cabin. His name is Zach Sargent. He’ll need daily access to the house, but I’m going to leave it up to you whether or not you provide him with a key, as you’ll also be working inside. If you’re uncomfortable with anyone else besides myself, Alaina and the sheriff having free access, I can arrange for someone to let him in daily.”
Her gut clenched a little at the thought of a strange man who could enter the house at any time. “Actually, I can let him in and out myself,” she said. “I’m an early riser and plan on spending full-time hours working on the files.”
William nodded and pulled another key from his drawer. “This is a key to the caretaker’s cabin,” he said as he pushed it across the desk to her. “I had it stocked with basic supplies yesterday, and I’ve already made arrangements with the general store for any supplies or tools he needs.”
“Great.” At least she didn’t have to manage the supplies end of things.
“The road—not much more than a path, really—to the caretaker’s cabin is at the north end of the main house’s driveway. The path leads straight to the cabin, so there’s no chance of his getting lost. Just point him in the right direction. I’m sure he can take it from there.”
Danae nodded. “You said he’ll arrive today?”
“Probably later this afternoon.”
“That’s good,” she said as she rose, the note she’d found on her doorstep weighing heavily on her. But despite her genuine fondness for the attorney, something prevented her from mentioning the incident to him.
“I better run,” she said, before she changed her mind and blurted out everything about the note. “I need to square things away with Johnny at the café. How do I handle the work for you?”
William rose from his chair. “Start going through the paperwork—your stepfather’s office is the logical choice to begin. Put everything you think relevant for my purposes in a box and keep a log of your time. I’ll check in periodically and we’ll cut you a check every Friday, if that is all right by you. Don’t worry about the hours. The estate is happy to pay for whatever you’re willing to work.”
“That’s great.” She extended her hand and clasped his. “Thank you...for everything.”
William gave her hand a squeeze. “It’s been my pleasure.”
She smiled and walked out of his office, giving Secretary Grim a nod on her way through the lobby. After she’d slid into her car, she clenched the steering wheel with both hands, trying to process everything that had happened that morning, but her whirling mind couldn’t put it all into neat little boxes.
She’d almost slipped up in there—almost broken down and given William and Alaina more information than she would have normally. It was so unexpected for her to feel that comfortable with other people that she was surprised at herself. Granted, her sister and William seemed to be perfectly nice and straightforward, but her natural distrust of everyone had saved her more times than she could recall. Now was not the time to abandon a way of life that had worked well for her. At least, not until she knew more about Alaina and William.
She blew out a breath and backed her car out of the parking space. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t told William about the note she’d found that morning. Someone had made a lucky guess and hoped to scare her away or create drama for her. Now that she’d announced herself and stolen their thunder, likely, they’d go away.
At least, that was what she was going to keep telling herself.
Chapter Three
It was almost three o’clock when Zach Sargent pulled into the tiny bayou town of Calais. He shook his head, still not believing his luck. Landing the repair job at the LeBeau estate was an opportunity he’d never even imagined existed, much less that he’d be the one to snag it.
Granted, most men would choose higher-paying construction jobs near the New Orleans nightlife before they’d sequester themselves deep in the swamps of Mystere Parish, but Zach wasn’t most men. Far more was at stake than a paycheck and a good time.
Somewhere inside the crumbling walls of the LeBeau estate, he hoped to find the answers to the questions his dad had left him with. Zach knew it was possible that his dad’s words had only been the ramblings of a man drugged up and near death, but something in his dad’s voice troubled him to the point that he needed to find answers.
He’d thought the words would fade after his burial, but they haunted Zach in his dreams and nagged at him while he was awake. Finally, he’d given up fighting it and started a thorough search of his dad’s records from the time his dad had spoken of. It had only taken a couple of days to come across the entry in his checkbook that had made Zach’s breath catch in his throat. A twenty-thousand-dollar deposit with no explanation noted.
What had his dad done?
What had he regretted so much that he’d laid on his son a garbled confession of some wrongdoing?
Zach had spent many hours since discovering the unexplained deposit trying to imagine what his dad’s secret could be. His father had been an honorable man, a good man, raising Zach alone after his mother passed when he was only eight. Zach simply couldn’t wrap his mind around his dad doing something so horrible that he felt he had to make it right before he died.
If only he’d spoken to Zach before that last stroke, before his speech was so impaired and before he was so drugged that he couldn’t maintain a semblance of coherence. But all of that was wishful thinking and a waste of time.
His dad had said only one name during his ramblings—Ophelia LeBeau.
Somewhere in that house were the answers Zach sought. He had to believe that. It was the only thing that allowed him to sleep at night. And now he had the opportunity to find out for himself.
When he reached the second crossroads outside of Calais, he checked the map the estate attorney had provided and turned to the right. His truck bumped on the sad excuse for a road, and the farther he drove, the denser the trees and foliage became. If he hadn’t known it was only noon, he’d have thought it was dusk. The faintest streams of sunlight managed to peek through the top layers of the cypress trees, but by the time that light penetrated the thick moss clinging to the tree branches, it was filtered to only a dim glow.
If he’d tried, he couldn’t have come farther from his Bourbon Street flat than this expanse of seemingly never-ending swamp. He’d expected remote, but he hadn’t expected to feel so enclosed, so claustrophobic. After all, he lived in an eight-hundred-square-foot flat. Miles of dirt and water should make him feel less confined, not more so.
He shook his head, clearing his mind of fanciful thoughts that had no place there, and ran through his plan once he’d gained access to the house and the records. With any luck, everything would be well organized and he’d find his answer quickly. Honor and loyalty would force him to complete the work needed on the house, even if he got his answer the first day, but the work would be easier and go more quickly without the distraction of the unanswered question hanging over his head.
His truck dipped into a large pothole and he cursed as he gripped the steering wheel more firmly, trying to maintain control of the vehicle as it lurched sideways. If he had to replace anything in the house that was breakable, he’d have to creep down this road to keep from destroying things before he even got them there.
Finally, when he thought he’d driven straight across the United States to Canada, he turned a final corner, and the house loomed before him.