The Unmistakable Scent of Gardenias (Haunted Hearts Series Book 6) Read online

  “Jordan is a cop… Well, an ex-cop, but he still has connections.”

  “Really?” She wasn’t sure that was good enough. An active duty detective would probably serve them better if things got nasty with Les Wakefield or whatever his real name was.

  “He wants to get a good look at Les to see if Les and Brandon are the same man. We’re gonna set it up where Les doesn’t know he’s being watched.”

  “Let me know how that goes, would you?” Her curiosity had hit a fever pitch.

  Relief spread across his face. Dylan reached across the wrought iron table and grabbed her hand. “Are we in this together, then?”

  “Sure.” She studied the man she used to love with all her heart. He was back in her life, for better or for worse.

  She allowed her hand to rest in his for a minute before she pulled it away. Her withdrawal seemed to amuse him more than anything. She hated being played. If he was pulling something on her, he was going to wish they’d never met again.

  ****

  Later that day, Jordan lifted binoculars to his eyes and focused his gaze down the street. “What does Les do when he’s not inheriting the family trust?”

  Dylan smiled at the way Jordan had worded his question. The man’s mind had latched onto his doubts and was refusing to let them go.

  “He says he’s an investment manager.”

  Jordan chuckled. “Aren’t they all?”

  “You’ve already decided the guy is a con artist, haven’t you?”

  Chelsea piped up from the back seat. “If it wallows like a hog…”

  Jordan pointed out the window without removing his eyes from the lenses. “Is that Les?”

  “Let me look?” He took the binoculars and adjusted the focus. “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Les Wakefield had just emerged from the office building across the street on the next block.

  “I’m gonna need a closer look.”

  “You’ll get it. He’s headed this way.” Dylan slid further toward the floorboard.

  Jordan did likewise. He shook his head when Les was directly across the street from them. “I don’t know. He looks like Brandon. I haven’t seen the guy for a few years, so he could have changed his appearance, but if that’s Brandon, something is off about him. He walks different. Same arrogant swagger, but his gait is different. There’s something else… I’m not sure how to describe it. Very similar facial features, just different.” He turned his head away from Wakefield as he passed. “If that’s not Brandon, then he’s someone related to him.”

  Chelsea leaned forward and whispered as if the man might hear them. “Could it be a whole family of con artists?” The woman seemed to absorb drama like a sponge.

  “I guess that’s possible.” Dylan twisted in his seat to catch a glimpse of Wakefield as he continued down the other side of the street away from them. “I think we should talk to Moreau.” Did he really just say that? And after he’d rejected the idea when Sophia suggested it.

  Jordan hooted. “I’d think you’d want to avoid him.”

  “At least I’m already acquainted with his opinion of me. His attitude will be no surprise.”

  “I have an idea.”

  “Yeah, I remember what it was like to live through one of your ideas.”

  Jordan tossed him an amused grin. “I want to walk past him as if I don’t know him. Watch us and see how he reacts.”

  Dylan turned the ignition key and shoved the gear into drive. “I’ll get ahead of him then.”

  It took them a few moments to set up the pass, but once Jordan was in place and waiting for Les to walk the short distance, Dylan studied Les’s face. As he approached the point where the two men would meet, Les seemed distracted, involved in his inner thoughts. Jordan started moving toward him. Les didn’t glance at Jordan until he was right on him.

  No sign of recognition on his features. Jordan nudged the guy’s arm and pointed toward the street. What was he doing?

  Chelsea narrated as if she could read Jordan’s twisted mind. “He’s pretending to ask for directions.”

  Jordan and Les conversed for a few more moments before Jordan walked on and left Les behind. Les continued on his path without glancing back at Jordan. A few minutes later, Jordan yanked the car door open and slipped into the passenger seat.

  “He didn’t seem to recognize you.”

  “No, he didn’t. No sign that he knew me or even cared who I was.”

  “Then, he’s not Brandon Wakefield.”

  Jordan stared out the windshield. His jaw muscles worked as if to a silent beat. “That’s the funny thing, though. I’m certain he’s Brandon. I can’t believe he didn’t recognize me. Either something’s wrong with him or he’s a good actor.”

  “He’s headed into a parking garage. When he pulls out, I’m going to follow him.”

  ****

  If she was going to continue to contract clients like Les Wakefield, Sophia was going to have to acquire an office away from where she lived. Convenience had always played a significant part in her determination to keep her office in the spare bedroom of her apartment. She always held meetings elsewhere, so there were no worries about clients intruding on her personal space. Besides, she enjoyed working in her pajamas. But it was time to make a change.

  She sipped a cup of coffee and studied the sketch she’d made of the front elevation of Wakefield Manor. Although the exterior was not part of her job, she wanted the interior and the exterior to be enjoyed as one cohesive unit, drenched in historical accuracy, of course. The sketch she’d made portrayed the house in much better condition than it appeared in reality.

  How long before Dylan would allow her to enter the structure? She couldn’t begin the real work until she could evaluate the condition of the existing furnishings. Her mouse clicked with a steady rhythm as she pulled up one website after another in an effort to get a feel for the materials used during the era in which the house had been built. Resources on the internet were incredibly limited. She could see a trip to several libraries in her near future. Her nose itched when she considered the hours she would spend digging into archives of old publications and handling antique documents. She added contacting the state library of Louisiana to her to-do list.

  She tapped her chin with her mechanical pencil. Did St. Denis Parish have a public library with a trove of historical documents she could search for clues as to what the interior of Wakefield Manor might have looked like during its antebellum years?

  Les Wakefield was demanding authenticity. Even down to the patterns and paper of the wall coverings. She’d have to find someone who could replicate the original with minimal differences. That was always a difficult task with these old houses.

  Her first job had been as an intern to a man who restored antebellum homes. The experience had fired her passion for doing the same kind of work. Once the man retired, he’d given Sophia his list of contacts. It was a good start, but she was well aware she’d have to build her own reputation for excellence.

  Her phone vibrated, bouncing on the desk next to her cooling coffee. She glanced at the display and groaned.

  “Yes, Mr. Wakefield? How are you this morning?”

  His voice sounded even huskier than normal. “Terrific. And how are you?”

  She mumbled her answer. “Fine.”

  “I apologize for last night.”

  Hmmm… He hadn’t requested that she call him by his first name. The conversation was starting off way more awkward than she had imagined it would.

  “I might have seemed a bit pushy.” His pitch had dropped another octave.

  He laughed and the sound of it raced up and down her spine. Not in a good way.

  “I didn’t intend to come on so strong. I was only suggesting we have a drink together. Nothing more.”

  Why did that sound like a backwards explanation? His apology sounded as if he was expecting her to apologize for refusing his attention.

  “It’s all right. Don’t worry about it.” Her s
tiff tone rang loud and clear. No, she wasn’t apologizing for his scummy behavior.

  A long uncomfortable pause ensued before he spoke again. The usual authoritative tone was back. “I’m making it up to you by taking you to lunch.”

  Not a request. A demand.

  “My stomach is still paying for last night’s partying. Maybe another time.”

  “Really, Sophia?” The smile in his voice sounded like it held a bite. “If you don’t join me for lunch today, you’ll regret it.”

  There was only one way to play out the scenario. Act amused. “I think you’d regret it more if I puked on you.”

  “Okay, then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” His amused tone matched hers. Perfectly.

  Oh yeah, the guy was a con artist. She shivered. Creepy had a definition, and it belonged to Les Wakefield. She hoped she wouldn’t have to get a restraining order. If he forced a lunch meeting, she’d make sure Dylan accompanied her.

  As soon as the call disconnected, her phone vibrated again.

  She groaned. “Oh please, leave me alone.”

  A glance at the screen assured her the caller was not Les Wakefield.

  “What do you want, Dylan?”

  “Do you have a meeting with Les Wakefield this morning?”

  Odd question. “No. Why?”

  “He’s parked across the street from your apartment complex, but he’s not getting out of his car.”

  Anger coiled in her insides. “What are you doing outside my apartment?”

  “What’s Les doing across the street from where you live?”

  She counted to three before she answered, trying hard to address his question instead of plowing into him for invading her privacy. “He did the same thing yesterday. Weren’t you listening when I told you that?”

  “Sorry, Soph. I guess I was concentrating on the bar incident.” He sounded contrite, but was he?

  Her suspicions were like red flags waving in the wind. “Why are you here? Are you doing the same thing he is?”

  “I followed him from downtown.” His defense spluttered on the other end of the call.

  “Why would you do that?” Her ire had reduced to a slow boil. There was more to his presence at her doorstep than an unwanted intrusion into her life.

  “Jordan wanted to see if he was the same guy his sister was going to marry.”

  “Is he?”

  A siren on the street outside echoed on the call. Dylan wasn’t lying. He was right outside. She glanced at her door, wondering how safe she was.

  “Jordan says it’s the same guy.”

  Her heart thudded in her chest. What had she gotten herself into? “There’s no reason he should be watching my apartment.”

  A long silence made her nerves jumps. Dylan was about to suggest something she wouldn’t like but couldn’t argue with.

  “The way he’s been acting toward you I don’t think you should be alone until we figure out what this guy is up to.”

  She agreed, but she didn’t think Dylan was the guy for the protection job.

  “Do you think Jordan and his girlfriend could stay with you for a few days?”

  Strange that his suggestion would disappoint her. He hadn’t even hinted that he wanted to stay with her.

  “He’s not going to let you out of your contract, you know. And the New Orleans police aren’t going to do anything about him until he proves he’s a legitimate threat.”

  She ran trembling fingers through her hair. “He’s sitting outside my apartment. Isn’t that proof enough?” She knew the answer before he stated it.

  “You know how that works.”

  She did.

  “Let me bring Jordan and Chelsea in. She really wants to meet you.”

  Sophia expected his voice to resonate with amusement and just a smidgeon of victory, but instead it vibrated with sincerity and concern.

  “Okay.” Her whispered agreement barely passed her lips. If they stayed with her, where would she put them? Her spare bedroom was an office. Maybe they could use her room while she slept on the sofa.

  Tears welled in her eyes. Just when she thought her life was settling into the right track, along come Les Wakefield and Dylan Hunter to shove it right off the rails.

  Chapter Six

  Charlotte put her cell phone on speaker and held it away from her head. When Bobby answered his phone, he was usually loud enough to cause ear damage.

  After three rings, he shouted his standard greeting. “Talk already.”

  “Get over here right now. You gotta see this.”

  “Charlotte, is that you? Where are you? Are you in trouble? Should I bring my shotgun?” Bobby smacked each question mark hard as it passed his lips.

  She stared at her phone as if he could see her roll her eyes. The shotgun went with him wherever he went. Of course, he should bring it. Why was that a question?

  “Yes, it’s me. At the Wakefield place. No, not yet. And that’s why I called you. Something weird is going on over here, and I might need extra firepower.”

  She could practically hear Bobby’s glee over the airwaves. “Aw, talk dirty to me.”

  “Put your pants on and get over here.” She disconnected the call before he could say something crude, rude, or disgusting.

  Five minutes later, Bobby startled her from behind. She jumped about a foot and left her skin behind, figuratively if not literally.

  She gasped and placed a hand on her chest. “Why’d you sneak up on me like that?” It was never a good idea to creep up on a person with a gun. Bobby should know that. He had the scar to prove it.

  He grinned and moonlight glistened off his teeth. “I thought you might need me to be extra quiet, so I left the truck halfway down the drive and walked in the grass.”

  “That was good thinking.” She pointed toward the woods on the far side of the house. “You see that.”

  He peered into the darkness. “I don’t see anything unusual, Char. Wait a minute… See that?” He pointed in the opposite direction toward a spot on the near side of the house.

  A ball of bright white bobbed and floated along the walk that led from the back of the house to the front and then seemed to retrace its path.

  Charlotte kept her voice low. “It’s like the thing is pacing or something.”

  Bobby remained quiet longer than Bobby ever stayed quiet. Calm was not part of his personality.

  His whispered voice bounced in the cool night air. “That is odd.” He rubbed the stubble on his chiseled chin and turned his head toward her. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “You reckon that’s swamp gas?”

  “Naw, I’ve seen swamp gas. This is something else entirely. You wanna get closer?” The lust for adventure raged in Bobby’s question.

  She smiled. She could always count on Bobby to dive right into trouble. “That’s why I called you.”

  He snorted in good-natured derision. “You’re a cop, Charlotte. Just the other day you faced down Jimmy Hornbeak, and he’s mighty scary when he’s mad drunk. You can’t handle a little ole ball of light all by yourself?” The tease in his tone was heavy with years of familiarity.

  “This is different.” She considered the phenomena across the few hundred feet of yard. “That isn’t human.”

  He had moved three steps ahead of her before she shifted into high gear to catch up with him. Charlotte was no sissy, but the prospect of facing down the inexplicable rattled her nervous system like the unknown was playing jump rope with her spinal cord. Criminals she understood to a certain extent. Strange balls of light floating above the ground? Not so much.

  “Slow down, Bobby.”

  He increased his pace. “We aren’t gonna get there if we dawdle.”

  Dawdling was fine with her.

  By the time they reached the walk, the orb had disappeared.

  “You smell that?” Bobby’s words floated out of his mouth on puffs of heavy breath like it was cold outside.

  Surely the fast pace hadn’t
winded him. Bobby was fit in all the right places. No, more than likely the thrill of adventure had excited him to the point he was near speechless. A truly unusual phenomenon. Stranger than the ball of light.

  Charlotte drew in a deep whiff of a strong, cloying fragrance. “Smells like my grandma’s bedroom. You know she used to buy that body powder that smelled like flowers.”

  “That’s a strong smelling flower.”

  “Gardenias, I think.”

  Bobby stopped and crinkled his nose. “Remind me not to buy you any of those for your birthday.”

  Had Bobby ever bought her a birthday present? Never. As if.

  He turned on his heel and rushed toward the front of the house.

  Charlotte stayed right on his tail. “What are you doing?”

  As much as she wanted to see what was inside the house, she couldn’t just bust in without probable cause.

  He dodged holes in the wood deck to pound on the heavy front door. “Les Wakefield, are you in there?”

  No answer. The night was still. No animal noises ruptured the quiet. No wind rattled tree limbs and rustled bushes. It was as if the earth had ceased rotating. Charlotte imagined floating off the surface.

  “I guess no one is home.” Bobby mumbled his evaluation, but based on his body language, Bobby was already planning his next move.

  Charlotte had remained on the short flight of steps from the ground to the front porch, her hand perched on the top of her service weapon. After her conversation with Dylan Hunter, the thought had lodged in the back of her mind that the woman she had seen in town had been pretending to be Celia Wakefield. If he was running a con, he could have an accomplice.

  Bobby retreated from the door and took the steps to the ground two at a time. “I haven’t seen either one of them since you asked me to watch the place. It feels weird. Like no one lives here.”

  “The contractor that’s doing the renovations said Les Wakefield hasn’t been out here.”

  “But I saw him. I heard him shouting at his wife. He must have scared the pee out of her because she couldn’t get away from him quick enough.”