Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1) (13 page)

He was standing on a folding step ladder he found in one of the bins, using a long-handled brush and bucket of soapy water to scrub the RV’s top, when he heard the vehicle door open and close on the opposite side. Tension squeezed the back of his neck. Mandy was outside, maybe looking for him. And he didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry.

Seconds later, she rounded the front of the RV. He saw the top of her head first, the new golden brown curls shining in the sun with highlights of gold and caramel and a hint of rust-red. She’d put it up in a pony tail that bounced and swayed as she walked. For a top, she was wearing a sleeveless white shirt with only a few buttons done up and the tails tied in a knot above the waist. With it, she had on a pair of low riding jean shorts that exposed her flat abdomen and showcased her long, tan legs from upper thigh to her feet in purple flip-flops.

She looked like town-come-to-the-country, ready for anything, including a roll in the hay.

The ladder Lance was standing on wobbled, so he had to slap his splayed fingers against the side of the RV to regain balance. Even then, it was a close thing.

Just what he needed, to land in a heap at her feet.

“Geez, but you’re a busy man this morning,” she said as she came to a stop below him, using to one hand to shade her eyes against the sun. “Need any help with the wash job?”

“I’ve got it, thanks.” He also had a nice view down the neck of her shirt to the pale valley between her breasts. He could actually see where the tan lines left by her bikini ended, only a fraction above the lacy, bridal white bra she wore.

He was a jerk. One who needed his head examined.

“I don’t mind, really. I have nothing else to do.”

“I straightened the awning this morning, and set out a couple of Adirondack lounge chairs I found in the storage bin. You could sit and read.”

Her smile was sunny, but a little crooked. “I could do that, yes, if I was into motorcycle magazines and science fiction. Not my style.”

He wanted to think her style would be fashion mags and not much else, but somehow that didn’t fit, not anymore.

“Maybe—” he began.

“You have another brush? Or maybe rags for cleaning? I have to tell you, I’m dying of boredom here.”

Lance gave it up. “There’s a Squeegee in the bin in the back. You can do the windows.”

She started on those closest to him, where else? Maybe she wanted the company, he thought, or could be it was because he had the bucket of soapy water.

At least she didn’t chatter. He’d noticed that before, but thought it was because she was uncomfortable with someone she didn’t know from Adam. Now it seemed more a personality thing.

She did her job right, stretching high to reach the top of the windows, a move that did interesting things to the front of her shirt. It got even more interesting as water dripped down the long handle of the Squeegee, wetting the cheap cotton fabric. He didn’t have to imagine the lace pattern of her bra; it was there in plain sight.

“The motor home over there is a monster, isn’t it?” she said, nodding toward the rig parked at the site next to theirs. “They must look like a train going down the road with their extra trailer hooked on behind.”

The trailer was for storage, he saw at a glance, and had a special paint job that matched the burgundy and gray of the motor home. “Full-timers probably.”

She squinted up at him while brushing a stray curl out of her face. “Full-timers?”

“They live in their rig, stay on the road year round.”

“It’s their only home?”

“Most likely. A lot of full-timers go south for the winter, north or to the mountains for summer.”

“Nice. Or it might be if a person had no ties.”

He glanced at her, caught by the hint of desolation in her voice. “Could be. Could get old quick, too.”

“You don’t like traveling?” she asked.

“I like it fine. I just think I’d be bored without a job or something else to do.” On the theory that talking was better than letting his eyes wander where they shouldn’t, he went on. “You?”

“I don’t know, since I’ve never done much of it. Bruce had been most places before we married, so wasn’t interested. We did go to the Caribbean a couple of times.”

“To the islands? Which ones?”

“Only one really, Grand Cayman. You know it?”

It certainly rang a bell, an alarm bell, when he thought of Caret’s business dealings. The island was known for its international banks catering to those who wanted to stash money offshore.

“Not really,” he answered as offhand as possible. “I went to St. Thomas and a couple of other places on a cruise. Your trips were cruises?”

“Bruce wasn’t a good sailor. We only stayed at one of those resorts where everything is included.”

“Including scuba diving, maybe?” he asked, thinking of that bikini she’d been wearing.

“Nothing so adventurous, though we went snorkeling a couple of times. Other than that, I walked on the beach or lay out on it.”

“You, but not Bruce?”

“He didn’t like sand between his toes.” She was quiet for a minute. “We did go to the turtle farm last time we were on Cayman.”

“Turtle farm?” The idea didn’t exactly match his impression of Bruce Caret.

“It’s a big tourist attraction, though the turtles are raised to supply restaurants on the island as well as for conservation. The hawksbill tortoise, one of the bigger turtles, was almost extinct before. They were once used to make jewelry, dresser sets, hair pins and fancy combs, things that are antiques now.”

“Learn something new every day,” he said by way of encouragement.

“Bruce bought a real tortoiseshell hair clasp for me while we were there, a nice one with gold decoration. But after he gave it to me, I discovered it’s illegal to bring tortoiseshell into the States. Bruce wouldn’t let me leave it behind, though. He said it would be fine if I tossed the packaging and pulled my hair back with it like any discount store imitation. I was scared out of my mind while going through customs, but turned out he was right.”

“Nice.”

She gave him a rueful look. “I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you that story.”

“I’m a deputy, not a customs agent. Besides that, I’m out of my jurisdiction.”

She paused at her job, the gaze she turned on him turquoise with surprise. “I suppose you are, at that.”

“That hair clasp would be the one you’ve been wearing?”

“Sure.”

She turned her head and bent her neck, tucking her chin under. And there it was, in multiple shades of gold and brown, so close to her new hair color it was almost invisible. The gold that rimmed it shone in the sun, looking at if it might be eighteen karat, maybe even twenty-four.

“Good keepsake,” he said.

“Souvenir,” she corrected, “plus a reminder of what not to do when you go to the Caymans. I had bad dreams for a week about agents coming to the house and hauling me away.”

Was she talking about an attack of conscience, Lance wondered, or only a healthy respect for the criminal justice system? It could be either one, since she knew about the latter from personal experience. And yet, something in her voice made him wary of accepting the cynical view.

Maybe it was because he was trying to believe the best of her. When had that started?

They worked on into the morning, washing, rinsing and drying until the baby RV shone like new money. Both were a more than a little damp after the final rinse off with a water hose, but neither complained. The sun was creeping up the sky and the day growing steadily warmer. The wetness here and there made for natural air conditioning.

Lance went inside long enough to pour cold apple juice over ice for both of them. They lay in the lounge chairs under the awning, enjoying the rest and the warm breezes that wandered past. The only conversation for some time concerned the virtues of fly paper versus electric bug zappers for fly and mosquito control, and what they might have for lunch.

They were almost dry and down to a few slivers of melting ice in their drinks when they heard a rasping noise as someone cleared their throat. Lance, half dozing, opened his eyes a fraction to see an older woman walking up the section of asphalt that led to the concrete pad where they sat.

“Morning!” The visitor’s closed-mouth smile fell short of real friendliness, and her gaze darted over them as if looking for a place to light.

“Morning,” Mandy answered, her voice pleasant yet inquiring.

Lance let her do the hostess honors, since being sociable wasn’t on his agenda just now. She handled it with aplomb, exchanging polite comments on where they were from and where they were going, all vague enough to give away nothing important.

Their visitor, tall and lanky, with a silver helmet of short hair and wearing her shirt tucked in and belted over a pouching stomach, rambled on. She mentioned the heat, the mediocre fishing down at the lake’s public pier, and a Cajun family gathering taking place at one of the campground pavilions. Finally, she got around to the point of her visit.

“Would you folks like to buy a donation ticket on a quilt? Only two dollars each, with the money going for charity projects. It’s machine-pieced but hand-quilted, and a beauty if I do say so.” She leaned to hand Mandy a photo.

“Pretty,” Mandy said after a single glance at what appeared to be bed covering done from an old-fashioned geometric pattern in blue and red. “But we don’t really need a quilt.”

“Everybody can use a quilt!” the woman insisted. “Why I bet it would be great on your bed in there.” She waved at the door of the RV that stood open. “The two of you would be as snug as two bugs in a rug under it.”

“No, really, we aren’t interested in raffle tickets.”

Color rose in Mandy’s face as she spoke, Lance saw. She flicked a glance at him before looking away again. It was annoying as hell, but he thought his face might have turned a little red, too. Hot weather and images of cuddling under a quilt with Mandy were not a good mix.

“Oh, these aren’t raffle tickets.” Their visitor pulled a sheaf of paper tickets from her pocket that were obviously done on a home computer and cut out with scissors. “No, no, that wouldn’t be right since raffles are illegal without a license. The money will be strictly a donation.”

“I see. But we don’t get a ticket unless we pay?”

“Well, no.” The woman appeared uncomfortable at being forced to that answer.

“Then it’s a raffle, no matter what you call it,” Mandy said in even tones. “As I said before, we aren’t interested.”

“Well, I never!”

It was clear the woman wasn’t used to losing a sale or an argument. She stood for an instant with her mouth open and angry confusion in her eyes. Then she whirled and strode away, her shoulders stiff with resentment and arms paddling as if to increase her speed. Mandy stared after her a brief moment with worry and something like regret in her expressive face.

“Don’t sweat it,” Lance told her. “She’s no danger to us.”

“I know, but I should probably have kept saying no instead of pointing out her mistake.”

“She’d probably still be standing here then.”

“It’s just that hypocrisy rubs me the wrong way. If you’re doing something wrong, even if it’s for the right reasons, the least you can do is own up to it.”

Lance, watching Mandy as he drained the last drops of cool water from his glass, was disturbed again by her unexpected ethical view. Unexpected by him, anyway. It didn’t seem to go with the image he’d acquired based on her file.

He couldn’t accuse her of manufacturing it for his benefit, however. There would be no point. He knew her past, and what he thought could make zero difference to the investigation of her husband’s death.

It was possible his impression of Amanda Caret needed a serious readjustment.

A denim skirt was one of the options stuffed into the bags Zeni had sent. Waltz length, with generous fullness provided by three full tiers edged with narrow blue lace, it was pure country. Certainly, it didn’t look like anything Trey’s store manager, with her multi-colored hair, tats and piercing, would choose. It was also longer than anything Mandy had worn in recent years. Bruce had preferred miniskirts and made snide remarks if she wore anything longer—though there had been an extremely fine line between stylish and vulgar in his view of female fashion.

Bruce was gone. It was time she stopped thinking about what he did or didn’t like, and of how completely his dictates had ruled her life. The reasons she’d allowed it were many, not the least being gratitude, but that was over. It was time to move on.

She couldn’t do that completely until after the funeral. She had responsibilities there that couldn’t be avoided. At some point in the next day or two, she’d have to face them. But that didn’t prevent her from thinking about afterward. She needed to take serious stock of what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

The only clothing choices she had, other than the skirt, were the shorts she’d worn the day before and a pair of jeans. The last were heavy, and the day was going to be hot; she could feel the sun’s heat through the windows already. The skirt would definitely be cooler.