William nodded. “Quite true, which is why Carter was tasked with verifying the daily presence of all the heirs. But Carter is Calais’s sheriff, and lately, that job is more than full-time. Not to mention that he has a new fiancée who lives with him, and it would be highly inappropriate for him to move in with her sister—even if only for two weeks and for the purpose of protecting her.”
Tyler’s parting shot faded into the distance, and he let out the sigh. If anyone but William had tried such a line on him, he would have accused them of attempting to guilt him into doing what they wanted, but that was something his father would never do. Which was why Tyler knew William was telling the truth when he said the woman’s safety weighed on his conscience. His father was a good man—the best, actually—and he wasn’t afraid to care about people.
Even if it cost him in the long run.
“Fine,” Tyler relented. “I’ll do it. But only for the two weeks the estate requires her to be there. If she wants to stay and redecorate or open a knitter’s colony or something, she’s on her own. And I have no intention of sitting and staring at her all day. You want me in the house, that’s fine, but I want to talk to the contractor and get a list of things I can work on while I’m there.”
William beamed at him. “Thank you, Tyler. I’m sure Zach can provide you with plenty of items that need attention.”
Tyler nodded. Zach Sargent was the contractor William had hired to make repairs on the house, but he’d had other reasons for coming to Calais. Zach’s father, a funeral director, was one of the many people Purcell had paid off, and Zach took the job in order to figure out exactly what his father’s attempted deathbed confession and the large cash deposit had entailed. Zach hadn’t gotten the answers he’d hoped for, but he’d formed a relationship with the youngest of Ophelia’s daughters and had moved back to New Orleans, with her in tow. He returned to Calais on weekends to continue repairs on the house.
“You don’t know how relieved I am that you’ll be my eyes and ears in that house,” William said.
“Why? Surely, it’s all over now.”
William’s smile faded away and he shook his head. “Much of Purcell’s evil intentions and those who carried them out have been exposed, that’s true.”
“But?”
“But I still have a bad feeling about all of it.”
“Of course you do. Purcell was a hit man for the New Orleans mafia who romanced Ophelia LeBeau for her money and a safe hiding place when his own employer put a hit on him. Then he killed her and sent her kids away like they were department store returns. I’ve got lots of feelings about it myself, and trust me, all of them are bad.”
“We don’t know for certain that Purcell killed Ophelia.”
“Then what was he paying all those people for?”
William nodded. “Oh, we’re certain Purcell was paying for silence, and I’d guess it’s exactly as you say and he killed Ophelia, but we still can’t prove it. And with everyone on his payroll dead, there’s no one left to ask.”
“And that’s exactly my original point—all the bad guys are dead.”
William stared out the plate-glass window of the café and looked across the street into the swamp. Finally, he looked back at Tyler and leaned across the table.
“I don’t think they are all dead.” William’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “The swamp is wrong. You don’t even have to enter it to feel it. Something is still out of balance, and I don’t think the swamp will rest until it churns up all its secrets.”
If it were anyone else speaking or if his father were talking about anywhere else but Calais, Tyler would suggest he needed professional help. But the swamps of Mystere Parish were different than any place he’d ever been. Although he’d been surrounded by them his entire childhood, and had traipsed through them thousands of hours, Tyler had never felt at ease in the dense cypress trees and foliage.
It was as if the swamp itself was alive.
Certainly, the swamp comprised lots of living things, but it was something more than that—as if the swamp were a separate living entity, with its own agenda. At times, it was pleasant enough, but he’d never found the atmosphere relaxing, even though parts of it were beautiful. At other times, it had been oppressive, the weight of it pressing in around him.
That oppressive weight had always aligned with something tragic, usually death.
If the swamp was out of balance, then something was still very wrong in Calais. Given that the only recent tragedies all centered on the LeBeau estate, Tyler understood why his father was so anxious to ensure that Ophelia’s middle daughter was offered the best protection he could provide. The swamp wouldn’t return to a peaceful state until a reckoning had occurred.
“What do you think is wrong?” Tyler asked.
“I don’t know, and that’s what bothers me the most. But we may get some answers soon.”
“How’s that?”
His father looked at him, his expression sad and haunting. “We’re exhuming Ophelia LeBeau tomorrow.”
Chapter Three
As she pulled through Calais, Joelle studied the old buildings, looking for something that appeared familiar. The weathered brick buildings were typical of any old small town, but none of them sparked even a twitch of memory. The café caught her interest as she pulled by, but only because she planned to spend her two weeks allowing others to cook for her. She hoped the food was good, as it appeared to be the only option.
Her stomach rumbled as her thoughts turned to food, and she realized it was well past lunch. She’d almost stopped several times, but each time she pressed the accelerator and continued down the highway, anxious to get the long drive over with. Unfortunately, she had arranged to meet the attorney at the house in about ten minutes, so eating would have to wait a bit longer.
As soon as she passed the last building on Main Street, she pulled a paper with directions from her purse. She’d gotten this far without referring to the attorney’s instructions, but when the directions started including items such as “turn right at the giant oak tree,” it was time to pay attention. The last thing she wanted to do was to get lost in the swamp.
She turned to the right at a four-way stop, directing her car onto a semblance of a road. The economy rental she’d acquired before leaving Jackson was no match for the bumps and holes that mostly made up the dirt trail that led to the house, and she gritted her teeth as the dashboard rattled. She swerved to miss a huge hole, but her right front tire caught the edge of it and the entire car dropped. Cringing at the sound of the bottom of the car sliding across rocks, she clenched the steering wheel and leaned forward to get a better look at the road.
The cypress trees that lined both sides of the road grew thicker, creating a canopy above the road that blocked most of the sunlight from entering. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have sworn it was late evening rather than mid-afternoon. Surely, the house couldn’t be much farther.
Fifteen minutes later, she rounded a corner and the house burst into view. Continuing her slow creep around what remained of the circular driveway, she looked up at the place she’d spent the first four years of her life, waiting for that spark of recognition to hit. She was disappointed when it never came.
A new pickup truck was parked in front of the house, and she pulled up behind it and parked, figuring it belonged to the attorney. She jumped out of the car and stretched her aching legs and cast a glance back at the car. She’d rented the economy vehicle to try it out, thinking she might purchase the same model to replace her totaled Honda. The tiny car would be a huge benefit in the city, where she rarely drove more than twenty miles in one stretch, but after hours on the road, she