Mischief in Mudbug (Ghost-in-Law, #2)(7)

Assuming Raissa had her facts—and her visions—straight.

He was two cups of coffee down and halfway into a story about an alleged UFO sighting when the door to the café opened and a young woman walked in. Raissa’s description hadn’t done the woman justice.

Certainly she was tall and thin with long black hair, but Raissa hadn’t mentioned the perfect skin with a beautiful tanned glow, or the grace with which she walked, almost like watching a dancer. Get a grip, Beau. Women are not part of the equation. Not then, not now, not ever. You don’t need the money. You should turn down the job.

Against his better judgment, he raised a hand as she scanned the café. The vision nodded and headed toward his table. Beau felt his heart rate increase with every one of her choreographed steps. Maybe she isn’t near as impressive up close. Maybe she has buck teeth and a speech impediment. But when she reached the table, she gave him a shy smile, her pale blue eyes not quite meeting his own.

“I’m Sabine LeVeche,” she said, the words rolling off her tongue like music.

And that’s when Beau knew he was in serious trouble.

[page]

Sabine slid into the booth across from the detective, her heart racing because of the task at hand and the appearance of the man who was going to perform it. He was so young, so rugged, so manly. Sabine had no idea what she’d been expecting, maybe some gray-haired man wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat…but that was ridiculous. Still, she’d only worked with a private detective once before and the chain-smoking, mid-fifties burnout hadn’t even remotely resembled the gorgeous man across from her.

She took a deep breath, hoping to slow her racing pulse, and pushed a folder across the table, praying that her hands didn’t shake. “Mr. Villeneuve, I know Raissa gave you some information about my family, but this is everything I have. Twenty years of research.”

He reached for the folder and flipped through the sparse set of papers Sabine had given him. “Not a lot to show for twenty years.” He looked over at her. “That must be very disappointing.”

“You have no idea.”

Beau studied her for a moment, a contemplative expression on his face. Then his expression shifted back to business mode, and whatever it was that Sabine had thought he was going to say was apparently pushed back. “So tell me what you do know,” he said. “I like to hear the story firsthand if I can. It gives me a better feel for the situation and sometimes opens up avenues of investigation that might not have been explored.”

Sabine laughed. “If you can find an avenue I haven’t explored, then you’re the best detective in the world, Mr. Villeneuve.”

“Call me Beau.”

“Okay, Beau. I guess I’ll start at the beginning, what I was told of it anyway. I was only six months old when my parents had a fatal car accident.”

“You weren’t in the car?” Beau asked.

“I was in the car. Some folks around here called it a miracle, and I suppose it was, but apparently they were riding with the windows down and I was thrown clean when the car rolled. The fireman who worked the scene probably wouldn’t have found me at all, except they’d brought their dog with them. He set up a howl, and they found me perched in a clump of marsh weeds, not a scratch on me.”

“Wow! That’s incredible.”

Sabine nodded. “The police did a search to locate the closest relative, trying to find someone to care for me until the state could decide what to do. They came up blank on my father. His name didn’t appear in records anywhere except for a driver’s license that had been issued a little over six months before. They finally got lucky with my mother and came up with my greataunt in Mudbug.”

“And she took you in?”

“Yes. Aunt Margaret was a nurse. She never married and, to hear the talk, never even dated much. All I know is she took me in. Gave me a home, food, clothes…took care of me.”

Beau nodded. “And your mother? What did your aunt have to say about her?”

Sabine frowned. “Not much. She didn’t really know my mother or her parents that well. Apparently they were from the dirt-poor branch of the family that lived deep in the bayou—in huts, really. All Aunt Meg knew was that my mother’s parents had died young, probably when she was a teenager, and she didn’t know of any other children at all.”

“Was there any other family?”

“Not that Aunt Meg was aware of.” Sabine frowned, recalling her recent conversation in Dr. Breaux’s office.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, my whole life Aunt Meg always said she had no other living relatives, but I just found out this week that was a lie.”

Beau leaned forward and stared at her. “Why would she lie?”

Sabine shrugged. “Since my aunt passed away years ago, I can only guess it’s because the relative she failed to mention was her nephew, a loser of monumental proportions. Harold is in jail right now for an assortment of charges, attempted murder being two of them, and who knows what else the cops will find now that they’re looking.”

“Then it’s just as well you weren’t obligated to exchange Christmas cards or anything.”

Sabine smiled.

“I need to tell you up front that I journal all my cases from start to finish, but I promise any documentation I acquire or create will always remain confidential. Writing things down helps me reach logical conclusions, and I tend to remember things more easily if I write them longhand.”