“No, only shadows.” And a face Eden couldn’t erase from her mind no matter how hard she tried. She brought her gaze around. “Who might have wanted him dead?”
“A better question would be, who wouldn’t? Anyone he knew could be on the list.”
Eden didn’t buy that. “Few people would resort to murder, Lucille. Nasty phone calls, maybe, but killing’s a drastic last step. The list can’t be long.”
Lucille shrugged. “How long does it need to be? Would there be twenty names on it? Easily. Thirty? I’d say yes. As many as fifty? Possibly. Disgruntled employees have been known to commit horrific crimes. Push the right button and a mind, already badly strained, snaps.”
Eden conceded the point. And yet… “How many disgruntled workers do you figure would look like Lisa and me?”
“Ah, yes.” Lucille sat back. “The witness.”
Mary snorted. “For witness, read real murderer.”
“I’m sure the police have considered the possibility, Mary. At any rate, Eden has rendered his testimony useless, so it’ll be back to basics for now.”
Mary made a sound like a growl. “I’m getting Lisa.”
When she was gone, Eden stood. It was either that or curl up on Lucille’s sofa for the night. “Is Dolores okay about Sunday then? She didn’t sound happy when I called.”
Lucille rose as well. “She’s fine with it, Eden, but I’ll warn you now, she’s on a tear about the family curse.”
Eden tipped her head back to ease the tension in her neck. “Tell her I’ll watch my back.” She glanced at the terrace. “Is Mary shouting at me?”
“Such a loving sister. Eden, wait.” Lucille wrapped a hand around her wrist. “I want you to promise me you’ll let the police handle this.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you. You don’t trust them. You have a stubborn streak, and you love Lisa almost as much as the family you grew up with.”
No, she didn’t. She wanted to, but she didn’t—which was undoubtedly the reason she’d gone along with Mary’s scheme. Guilt was an amazing weapon, as effective as it was destructive.
“Talk to me about this tomorrow, okay?” Eden headed for the terrace door. “My brain’s processing on low right now. I need sleep and time to think.”
She heard Mary outside, ordering Lisa to forget about Lucille’s flowers and worry about what really mattered.
“Don’t let Mary bamboozle you, Eden,” Lucille warned. “Lisa’s freedom is imperative to her, but not for reasons of love. It’s all about money. Mary might not control the bank account, but she controls the next best thing—Lisa herself.”
Setting a hand on the door frame, Eden glanced back. Mary was right, Lucille did look like hell. “She doesn’t control Lisa, Lucille. Plays on her emotions, yes, and there’s no question she loves money, but I think she also cares deep down.”
Lucille’s gaze strayed to the river. “Mary is Maxwell’s daughter, his blood by birth. Circumstances fashion much of who and what we ultimately become, but sometimes bad blood just plain wins out. I’ll leave it at that. Good night, chère.”
Eden hesitated a moment longer, but couldn’t think of anything to say. She did marvel, though, at how quickly a person’s life could go from simple to complicated. One incomplete dinner, one man dead, one nightmare commenced.
She only wished that a large part of that nightmare didn’t involve a dark-eyed police detective.
THIRTY MINUTES PASSED before Lucille did anything more than stare at the flashes of lightning still visible on the river. The club would be empty now except for the tables behind the back rooms. Mary didn’t know about those. None of them did.
There were other things they didn’t know, some important, some not.
She shifted her attention to the wall safe, the most cleverly hidden of the three she’d installed when the club opened. There were bankbooks inside, as well as stock certificates and money. There was also an unmarked envelope.
“No!” She shook her head. “No.”
Touching a sore patch in the crook of her elbow, she moved to her desk. It was late to be phoning people, but then again, not everyone who lived and breathed could be called people. Some were vultures. Others were vermin. And at least one person she knew of—the only one still alive—could more appropriately be called a serpent.
Chapter Three
Eden hadn’t made it through dental college without a great deal of self-discipline. She regrouped on the drive home and told herself she would hold together until the investigation into Maxwell Burgoyne’s death was behind her.
She spied bluish headlights twice in her rearview mirror before she dropped Mary and Lisa off, but not again after that. Determined, she put the sightings down to imagination and tried to concentrate on molar extractions until she reached her apartment.
Someone close by was humming a song. The voice slid through the darkness like a vapor. Listening was almost as effective as yoga for mental relaxation.
Armand LaMorte’s face hovered on the edge of her mind. It was 2:30 a.m. If she went straight to bed, she could squeeze in six hours of sleep. A good dentist could drill and fill just fine with six hours under her belt. Of course, that precluded any worry time for Lisa, and she absolutely could not let herself delve into the paradox that was Maxwell Burgoyne.
He was an X chromosome, she reminded herself as she unlocked the gate, nothing more. Well, except he was also dead, and that was both unfortunate and problematic.
With the exception of the distant singer, the complex was silent. If she listened hard, she could hear remnants of thunder, but the rain had long since departed. Only the humidity remained, air so heavy with moisture she might have been walking underwater.
Street lamps guided her. Her neighbors were either asleep or out. Two of them had left New Orleans for the summer.
Eden gave the front door a bump with her hip while she twisted on the key. To her surprise, it opened. She switched on the table lamp and, picking up her mail, headed for the kitchen to check Amorin’s food dish.
“Bills and junk. What else is new?” She tossed the envelopes on the staircase and called, “I’m home, Ammie.”
The sound of shattering glass halted her.
Before she could call Amorin again, a man hurtled out of the darkness. He knocked her sideways with his shoulder and kept running. In his haste, he slipped on the wooden floor, collided with the hall table and sent her lamp crashing to the ground.
Once the initial jolt subsided, Eden scrambled to her feet and rushed after him.
He couldn’t open the door. The knob kept slipping out of his hands. He resorted to kicking it and grunting like a pig.
Eden caught him easily—at least she caught his shirt. “You broke my lamp…” she began, but got no further. The door burst open and both of them were flung backward into the wall.
The intruder’s elbow plunged into her ribs. Panicked, he took off in search of an alternate exit. Eden knew he hadn’t found one when she heard a thump followed by a howl of pain.
Careful not to get kicked by flailing feet, she eased her arm up the wall and located the light switch. When she saw the man pinned on his stomach, she breathed out a disbelieving, “This night can’t be happening,” and sank back to the floor. “What,” she demanded with as much energy as she could muster, “are you doing here,