Grace Under Fire Read online

  "You think he's got somebody on his payroll?"

  "Maybe. But it could be someone in the St. Camille police department, since the Garland Industries warehouse is in the city limits," Jed said. "No way to know for sure."

  "So, you think Fortier ordered his goons to leave the guy's face untouched so that you'd recognize him? If that's the case, then it means your uncle knows you're back in Louisiana and that you're working for Grace Beaumont."

  "Yeah, it looks that way, doesn't it?"

  The distant sound of a siren told them the law wasn't far away. Jed wished there was some way to protect Grace from being questioned, but since she was directly involved, that wouldn't be possible. He could shield her from only so much, despite his desire to save her from more pain.

  "So, how dumb do we play?" Dom asked. "Just how much information do we share with the sheriff?"

  "Almost everything. No reason not to. After all, it's obvious that Booth knows almost everything. "

  "You still think someone close to Ms. Beaumont is feeding Booth info?"

  Jed nodded. "I've pretty much ruled out the Rowleys and I don't think Joy Loring is bright enough. Besides, she has no motive. My gut instinct tells me that Elsa Leone would never betray Grace."

  "So that leaves the uncle and the rejected suitor."

  "The report Sawyer sent on both of them didn't give me a clue." Jed had hoped a red flag would pop up in either Willis Sullivan's or Hudson Prentice's life, but that wasn't the case. "Uncle Willis is a solid citizen. He's respected and admired by all who know him. And Prentice is a golden boy, with an almost genius IQ. The guy's never gotten so much as a speeding ticket."

  "They both sound too good to be true, if you ask me."

  Before Jed had a chance to respond, two patrol cars pulled up in front of the open gate. Three men emerged from the vehicle. One, older, dressed in civilian attire, issued orders, then walked over to Jed and Dom.

  "I'm Sheriff Adams. Want to tell me what happened here?"

  * * *

  "Are you sure I can't get you anything, Miss Grace?" Laverna asked for the fourth time in the past thirty minutes.

  "Nothing, but thank you." Grace peered through the window in the front parlor, wondering how long it would take Jed and Dom Shea to finish up with the sheriff's department.

  "Why don't you and Nolan go on back to bed. There's really nothing you can do for me."

  Kate Malone cleared her throat. Grace looked at her questioningly.

  "They might want to stay up a bit longer," Kate suggested. "My guess is the sheriff or one of his deputies will come on up to the house and ask all of us some questions."

  "Oh, my!" Gasping, Laverna clutched the neck of her cotton housecoat.

  "Don't fret," Nolan told her. "We don't know anything and we'll tell them so."

  "Perhaps I should put on some coffee." Muttering to herself, Laverna meandered out of the parlor and down the hall.

  "If you don't need me, Miss Grace, I'll go with Laverna. This whole murder thing, right at our doorstep … well, almost at our doorstep … has rattled her something awful."

  Grace patted Nolan's shoulder. "You go on with Laverna. I'm all right. And after she fixes coffee, go to your quarters. If the sheriff needs to speak with y'all, I'll come get you."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Once the elderly couple was out of earshot, Kate said, "They seem to be very devoted to you."

  "They've been with our family for over three decades. They were here at Belle Foret before I was born." When she moved, Grace swayed slightly, her equilibrium momentarily unbalanced. Stress, she thought. The calm, orderly world in which she'd existed for over three years now had abruptly exploded into danger and violence.

  "You look a bit unsteady on your feet. Why don't you sit down? If you'd like a drink, just point me toward the liquor cabinet."

  "You've been so kind." Grace glanced out the window. Again. "But I don't think I can sit. And if Sheriff Adams is going to question me, I don't want him to smell liquor on my breath."

  Kate laughed. Grace gave her an inquisitive stare.

  "Sorry," Kate said. "I've lived in Atlanta for so long that I've almost forgotten what it's like to live in a small town and be concerned with what everyone thinks."

  Grace smiled. "One's good reputation is priceless."

  "I suspect that's a direct quote from your mother or grandmother."

  "My grandmother," Grace said. "My mother's mother. I barely remember her. She died shortly after my sixth birthday, but I distinctly remember her imparting little pearls of wisdom whenever she came to visit."

  "With me, it was my aunt Bernice. Pretty is as pretty does was one of her favorites."

  "Where did you grow up?"

  "A little town called Prospect. It's in Alabama, but it's not thirty miles from the Georgia border. A lot of the Old South remains, you know. Kind of like here in St. Camille."

  "Sounds like we may have some things in common," Grace said.

  "We probably do, only I've never been as rich as you are, Ms. Beaumont." Kate grinned. "My husband's family had money, but after our divorce I had to return to work to make a living."

  "Do you have children?" Grace asked, then when she noted the sad expression in Kate's eyes, she regretted having asked. "I'm sorry. That was a personal question and none of my business."

  "It's a perfectly normal question." Kate eyed one of the twin sofas that faced each other in front of the fireplace. "Let's sit down. Okay?"

  When Kate sat, Grace joined her. But the nervous tension dancing along her nerve endings made her antsy. She felt as if a thousand tiny feet were jitterbugging inside her. It was all she could do to simply sit still.

  "I don't have any children," Kate said.

  "Nor do I."

  Kate hesitated, as if she were uncertain she should reveal anything more personal about herself. Finally she said, "You and I do have something else in common. I lost a child, too. Years ago."

  Grace studied Kate Malone and surmised that the woman was near her own age of thirty. "You must have been very young."

  "I married at twenty-one, gave birth to my daughter when I was twenty-two and lost her before I turned twenty-three. That was eleven years ago. I'm thirty-four now."

  "My daughter was stillborn." Grace placed her hands in her lap. The pain was still there, only dulled slightly by time and by sensing Kate's true understanding—the type that only another woman who had experienced such a loss could know.

  "I guess people are always telling you that you should marry again and have another child," Kate said. "I heard that for years. I still get that type of advice every once in a while, from some well-meaning acquaintance."

  Grace sighed. "Ms. Malone … Kate … I was wondering…?"

  "What were you wondering?"

  Kate faced Grace, who saw only compassion and caring in the other woman's honey-brown eyes. She knew why this shrewd Dundee agent had begun talking to her about personal things—it was to get her mind off the fact that a man had been murdered and deposited at her front gate. Her motives didn't really matter, although they were completely kind, because Kate had, for a few brief moments, succeeded. But she'd done more than that, she'd shared a painful part of her past, which couldn't have been easy for her.

  "Is the reason you've never remarried, never had another child, because you're afraid of being deeply hurt again?" Grace watched Kate closely, hoping to see the truth in her expression. She believed that she wasn't alone in her fear; that her thought process wasn't totally irrational.

  "That's one of the reasons," Kate admitted. "I'd like to think that if the right man ever came along, I'd deal with the fear. To be honest, I don't know what I'd do. I'm more afraid of having another child than I am of loving another man, but…" Kate's voice trailed off. She glanced away, then cleared her throat.

  "I appreciate your sharing your feelings with me. I don't suppose you meant to get so personal when you decided to try to take my mind off what's going on down
at the front gate tonight. But if it makes you feel any better, your being here and our talking has helped me a great deal."

  "Service with a smile." Kate turned around and offered Grace a fragile smile.

  "You know, I think I'd love a drink now. Do you like cappuccino? If you do, I'll fix us some."

  "I love cappuccino. My absolute favorite is the flavored kind."

  "Name your poison."

  "You wouldn't happen to have raspberry flavoring, would you?"

  Grace grasped Kate's hand. "Vanilla, cinnamon, caramel, cherry and … raspberry."

  "Ms. Beaumont, I'm your friend for life," Kate said.

  "Please, call me Grace."

  Twenty minutes later when Jed and Dom walked into the kitchen, with Sheriff Adams in tow, Grace and Kate were seated at the table, just finishing off their cappuccinos.

  * * *

  Jed didn't know what he'd expected, but it hadn't been this. Grace and Kate appeared to be best buddies, acting as if they'd known each other for years. He was surprised to find Grace so calm. When he'd left her over an hour ago, she'd been a nervous wreck.

  "Sorry to bother you, Ms. Beaumont." Sheriff Adams removed his baseball cap. "Sure am sorry to hear about what's being going on. Mr. Tyree here explained things and I must say I'm mighty shocked."

  Grace rose to her feet and held out her hand. "Thank you, Sheriff. I suppose we should have let you and Chief Winters know what was happening, but I thought it best to try to handle things on my own until we had some sort of evidence."

  He shook hands with Grace, then said, "Yes, ma'am, I understand." Adams shuffled nervously, and once again Jed was amused by the way even the law in LaDurantaye Parish kowtowed to Grace. "But now we've got ourselves a murder, and a damn brutal one at that."

  Jed cleared his throat. Adams turned beet red. "Sorry, ma'am."

  "That's all right. Now, may I offer you some coffee?"

  Adams's eyes rounded in surprise. "No, thank you, ma'am."

  "Well, perhaps you'd like to get straight to your questions."

  "Just got a couple. Mr. Tyree and Mr. Shea have filled me in on just about everything. And we already got us an ID on the dead man."

  Grace paled instantly; her lips parted and her gaze flashed to Jed. "Who is … was he?"

  "Booth Fortier's right-hand man," Adams replied. "Mr. Jaron Vaden himself."

  "Fortier's right-hand man betrayed him?" Grace asked, a dubious tone to her voice.

  "It's a nasty business." Adams scratched his head. "So, I gotta ask—did you know Mr. Vaden?"

  "No," Grace replied. "I'd spoken to him … or at least I think it was him … on the phone. Twice. But I never knew his identity."

  "Mmm-hmm. And you were here at your house with Mr. Tyree when somebody called to tell you there was a present waiting for you at the gate?"

  "Yes."

  "And you and Mr. Tyree have been in all evening?"

  "Yes."

  "Sorry, ma'am, but I had to ask."

  "Believe me, Sheriff Adams, I wanted that man alive. Neither I nor Mr. Tyree had any reason to kill him."

  "Oh, I know that, Ms. Beaumont. Like I said, I had to ask."

  "Is that all, Sheriff?" Jed took a solid stand beside Grace.

  "Yeah, that about covers it. For tonight. Guess there's no reason to question your staff."

  "No, there isn't. The Rowleys are elderly and I assure you they know nothing."

  Adams looked pointedly at Jed. "I want to be kept informed from now on."

  "Certainly," Jed agreed.

  "I'll see the sheriff out." Kate stood, then motioned to the kitchen door with a sweep of her hand, and Adams followed her without a backward glance.

  Grace released a pent-up breath and turned to Jed. "What happens now?"

  Before Jed could reply, Dom interrupted. "Kate and I will head on back to the hotel."

  "Thanks," Jed said. "I'll talk to y'all in the morning about that other matter."

  As soon as Dom left the kitchen, Grace asked, "What other matter?"

  Should he come clean with her now? Jed wondered. Should he confess everything? At least about his personal life? "I'm going to pay a visit to Booth Fortier tomorrow and I also plan to attend Jaron Vaden's funeral."

  "What?" Grace glowered at him, disbelief and a hundred questions in her blue eyes.

  "If I asked you to take me on faith, to not question my motivation, would you?" When he reached for her, she side-stepped his grasp. "Yes, I'm keeping things from you. And yes, there's more to this situation than you know about, but—"

  "But what? Don't ask any questions, don't expect to be fully informed by the agent and the agency I'm paying—and paying damn well—and take you on faith? Why? Because we slept together last night?"

  "Damn it, Grace, can't you just trust me to take care of things, to take care of you?"

  "No, I can't. I let Dean and Daddy do all my worrying and a lot of my thinking. I let them take care of things. But that was the old Grace." She tapped her index finger on her chest. "This Grace Beaumont takes care of herself."

  "I'll have to get permission from my boss—" he didn't mention the FBI or Dante Moran "—before I can explain."

  "Then get permission."

  "I'll call him in the morning."

  "Call him now."

  "Now?"

  "Yes," Grace said, a determined expression on her face. "Now."

  * * *

  Charmaine lay in bed, wide-awake. She had spent all evening wondering when Booth would come to her room, waiting for him to tell her Jaron was dead. The sadistic bastard would take great pleasure in detailing every moment of her brother's last hours on earth. Oh, Booth hadn't done the deed himself, but he had watched. Watched and enjoyed. Fresh tears sprang free; she didn't bother wiping them away. No doubt her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. Along with her bruises and cracked lip, she probably looked like hell. But what did that matter? With Jaron gone, it was only a matter of time before Booth killed her, too. He would try to beat the truth out of her, try to make her confess that she'd been involved in the plot all along.

  Oh, God, what would Ronnie do? He was a strong, rugged man, but he was no match for Booth's unparalleled power. She had to find a way to protect Ronnie. She couldn't let Booth kill him, too.

  As she racked her brain trying to think of some way to protect the man she loved and coming up with nothing short of killing Booth herself—a well-worn fantasy of hers—she heard a ruckus downstairs. The doorbell rang, then loud voices filled the house and the sound of footsteps, walking hurriedly, running. She crept from the bed and tiptoed to the closed door that connected her room to Booth's. She tried the knob, and when she found the door unlocked, she eased it open. Before even entering the room, she heard Booth snoring. Aric had no doubt carried him to bed after he'd passed out. Drugged to the gills. It would take a damn tornado to waken him.

  Kill him now! an inner voice commanded. You're going to die anyway, she told herself. Do the world a favor and get rid of Booth Fortier. It would be one way to save Ronnie.

  A weapon. She needed something more than her nail file. A knife? A gun? She stood at the foot of the bed and watched Booth. Suddenly she noticed the pillows stacked all around the head of the bed. Smother the bastard! Filled with a courage she'd never before possessed, Charmaine walked quietly toward her sleeping husband. Just as she reached out to grab a pillow, she heard someone calling her name. Nola was in her room!

  Charmaine backed away from the bed, then whirled around and fled. By the time she returned to her room, Aric had joined Nola.

  "You've got to come downstairs right away, Mrs. Fortier," Nola said. "The sheriff's here and he wants to talk to you."

  Charmaine's gaze linked with Aric's. "If they want to see Booth, you'd better tell Sheriff Long that Mr. Fortier is sick and on medication and can't be disturbed."

  "Ronnie's handling things with the sheriff right now," Aric said. "But the sheriff's wanting to see you. He says it's about Jaron."
>
  Yes, of course it was about Jaron. Undoubtedly his body had been found. The law had come here to tell her that her brother was dead. Strange. Everyone in this house probably already knew that Booth had ordered Jaron's execution.

  "Is Charlie back yet?" Charmaine asked, amazed at her calmness.

  "No, ma'am. We're not expecting him back for a while," Aric replied.

  "Is Curt here?"

  "Curt's at the warehouse tonight."

  Charmaine nodded. "I'd appreciate it if you stayed up here to keep an eye on Booth. We can't have him waking up and making a scene in front of the sheriff." Charmaine looked directly at Aric and saw from his expression that he understood her meaning.

  "Yes, ma'am, I'll see that Mr. Fortier stays put. And you let Ronnie handle things with the sheriff."

  She caught an odd look in Aric's black eyes. Sympathy? Yes, that was it. Aric knew the sheriff was going to tell her Jaron was dead and Aric felt sorry for her.

  "Nola, get me my robe, please." Charmaine allowed Nola to help her into her robe, then she belted it tightly, put on her house slippers and marched into the hall. She took her time, bolstering up her strength as she made her way downstairs. She found Ronnie in the living room with Sheriff Long. Both men turned to face her when she entered the room. Ronnie watched her intently and she could tell that he wanted to hold her, comfort her. The sheriff's eyes widened when he noticed her battered face. If he asked, she knew what to say. I tripped over a stool and fell into the door. Wasn't that the standard response for abused wives?

  "What brings you out to our neck of the woods, Sheriff?" Charmaine asked, as if she didn't have a clue.

  "I hate to be the one to deliver bad news, Mrs. Fortier, but I don't suppose bad news is anything you haven't heard before … considering…"

  "Please, deliver your news and forget about preaching a sermon on the evils of crime. It's wasted here."

  "Yes, ma'am, you got that right." Eugene Long removed his hat and held it at his side. "No easy way to say it, so I'll just tell you straight. Your brother, Jaron Vaden, is dead. He was knifed to death and his body dumped outside the Belle Foret estate belonging to Ms. Grace Beaumont, over in La Durantaye Parish."