Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1) (28 page)

“Mandy? You okay? Mandy?” He ran his hands along her arm and shoulder in a hasty search for injury.

“Fine. I’m fine.” Her voice was strong, though not quite even. “But I think—Granny is trembling all over.”

“Here, let me.” He eased Mandy from under the shelving and helped her to stand. Then he scooped Granny Chauvin out and lifted her against him. His heart seized up inside him as he felt the tremors that wracked her frail body.

“Beau,” he yelled. “Over here!”

“Oh, my!”

At that tickled yet impressed exclamation, he looked down again.

Immediately, he relaxed.

The redoubtable Miss Myrtle Chauvin was only laughing, half from nerves, half from unalloyed satisfaction at being in the middle of the action.

Twinkling up at him, she rubbed the hair clasp she still held back and forth across the wall of his chest. “Just look here at me, being fussed over by all three Louisiana Knights. Why, this is the most fun I’ve had in years!”

Bedlam transpired for the next several minutes. Zeni and a gang of customers crowded in to see what the noise and excitement was about. An ambulance pulled up beyond the back door with lights flashing, and EMTs carried the injured perp away. Deputies stuffed the second man into a patrol car and took him off to jail.

After that, Sheriff Tate cleared things out in short order. When the coffee shop was empty of all except Trey and Zeni, Lance and Mandy, Beau and Granny Chauvin, the parish’s elected sheriff pulled out a chair from a table and sat down. Dropping the hat he’d retrieved from the floor over the napkin dispenser and ketchup in the center, he heaved a wheezing sigh.

“Okay, folks, let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Zeni gave him a look with one eye half closed before turning back to the river of red-tinted pickle juice on the floor of the back room behind her. “What we have is an unholy mess.”

“It can wait,” Trey told her.

“Says you, boss man,” she returned at once. “You don’t have to clean it up.”

The sheriff kicked a couple of chairs from under the table by way of invitation for them all to sit. “Later, if you don’t mind, Zeni. Folks?”

Lance had an idea of what was coming. He sat anyway, after holding chairs for Granny Chauvin and Mandy.

“What I want to know, first off,” the sheriff began, “is how long you all have known these goons were here, fouling up my jurisdiction, without letting me in on it.”

It went downhill from there.

Lance stepped into the role of spokesperson, since no one else seemed inclined. Besides, he had his ideas lined out in his head, and didn’t mind sharing them.

“Trey noticed them a couple of days ago,” he said easily. “Turned out they were registered at the motel down the road, though under aliases. We talked to the desk clerk, collected fingerprints, tapped into their communication, and so on. I’d have gone through your office for the op but had no access—but the NOPD has searched Caret’s office, dug into his accounts and phone records since his disappearance became a murder investigation. I might have shared what I discovered, but other things got in the way.”

The sheriff cleared his throat, a sign of his understanding those other things included his suspicion and arrest of Mandy. “And you found out what?”

“Turns out the two that were here, as well as the guy still in the hospital after the parking lot incident, are known enforcers for the Dixie mafia. I was outside the door back there long enough to overhear them admit to killing Caret after forcing him to spill what he’d done with the money he’d skimmed from their accounts.”

“What accounts would those be?”

“I’m getting to that,” Lance answered. “But the whole thing seems to have started with the money Caret received to finance his political ambitions. That favor put him into debt to the wrong people. Granny first mentioned his lost senatorial bid, and turned out she was on to something.”

“The man was an out and out crook,” Granny put in with a nod. “I never did like the look of him in his commercials.”

Lance tipped his head in recognition of her judgment before he went on. “My guess is Caret resented being forced to use his legal expertise to benefit men he felt were beneath him. He cultivated them, however, and managed to penetrate their financial system. Once in, he apparently siphoned off millions using minute electronic transfers from gambling operations, credit card scams, immigrant trafficking, you name it.”

“Gutsy of him to even try that,” Trey said from where he sat lounged back at ease in his chair.

“Or stupid, however you want to look at it.”

Mandy gave a small shake of her head. “Bruce always believed he could think circles around everybody else. He used to say he was the most intelligent man he knew.”

“If he had that kind of money, why didn’t he leave the country while he could?” Beau asked, his gaze on Mandy.

“Nothing he said or did suggested he had it. But saying it’s true, I’d guess taking it was the main point, to prove he was smarter while making them pay for his expertise.”

“And considering the good opinion he had of himself, no amount was ever going to be enough,” Lance said. “Meanwhile, records show he stacked it up in offshore bank accounts, mainly in the Cayman Islands, accounts which could only be accessed by a series of number codes. To avoid a paper trail, so it seems, he had the bright idea of engraving the codes on a tortoiseshell hair clasp he bought for Mandy.”

“Dear me, this pretty thing?” Granny dropped the clasp on the table with a clatter.

The sheriff reached out and picked it up, squinting as he turned it back and forth. “Seems a chancy way of doing things.”

“It would have been, except he also had a miniature tracking device added. He meant to know where that clasp was at all times.”

Zeni snorted. “And his wife, too.”

“Exactly,” Lance said with a twist of his lips. “He was possessive to the point of mania already, and this deal just added to it. But the trick put Mandy in danger once Caret’s former business associates beat the info out of him.”

Beau sat back in his chair. “So that’s how they were able to track down you two every time.”

“You got it. I thought for a while Mandy might be leading them to us.” Lance met her gaze, holding it with an effort. “I was wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her smile was brief, but clear enough that he felt the lift of guilt he hadn’t known he was carrying.

“You were actually right,” Trey pointed out. “It was the method that threw you off.”

“Not that it matters a hill of beans,” Zeni said in stringent tones. “Go on, Lance.”

It was a moment before he could gather his thoughts again. “Anyway, it appears the mafia discovered the drain on their accounts, and wanted their money back. Mandy knew how to get it for them, or so they thought. They tried kidnapping her, but that didn’t work. She went into hiding then, but was tracked to the safe house once they figured out Caret’s method. Killing her for the info seemed an okay deal.”

“Shooting you to get to her didn’t bother them overmuch, either,” Beau said, his face grim.

Lance conceded the point with a shrug. “But then Zeni muddied the waters by separating the clasp from its owner.”

“An accident, I swear!” Zeni protested.

“One that could have got you killed,” Trey told his manager.

“You wish,” she shot back at him.

The sheriff gave the bickering pair a repressive look. “Speaking of which, I’ll be keeping this hair thing. It’s evidence, as are the bazillions, or however much, in the island accounts.”

Granny Chauvin gave him a look of outrage. “You mean Mandy doesn’t get to keep her clasp after me risking life and limb for it?”

“I don’t want it, really, I don’t.” Mandy folded her arms across her chest with a shiver. “I could never wear it again knowing it was bought because of—of blood money.”

The thought created a moment of silence. Lance broke it as he took up the story again.

“So the two goons tracked the hair clasp to the coffee shop, but apparently weren’t sure of its exact location, maybe because the old building has double brick walls and a metal roof, maybe because the clasp was no longer in Mandy’s possession. They saw her here this morning, and must have figured she could lead them to it.”

“Looks to me like they saw her because Jackson Stout’s old man tipped them off about Granny’s celebration,” Trey pointed out.

“Something Paul Stout will have the pleasure of explaining to a judge when the perps come to trial,” Lance said with grim satisfaction. “That’s if he doesn’t wind up an accessory to attempted murder.”

Zeni got to her feet. “This is where I came in, since I missed all the back room excitement. Now I have the mess to deal with.”

“Wait a minute,” Granny Chauvin said, glancing around the table with a frown before her faded gaze settled on the sheriff. “What about that ridiculous stunt last night where Mandy was arrested? It’s sure as shooting she had nothing to do with her husband’s murder, Sonny-Boy Tate. The charges you thought up need to be dismissed.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The sheriff sighed as he tucked the hair clasp into his shirt pocket and buttoned it in to keep it safe. “I’ll straighten it all out.”

“That’s nice, but you owe her an apology.”

“Now, Granny, I was just doing my duty.”

Lance crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s right, you know.”

“All right, fine.” The sheriff reached for his hat and clapped it on his head. He glared around the table, letting his gaze come to rest on Mandy. “I’m sorry for any grief I caused, Mrs. Caret, sorry you had to go through this business, sorry you’ve had such a bad stay in Chamelot.”

“Very handsome,” Granny Chauvin said with approval.

The lawman ducked his head and turned toward the door. “I’ll see you get your check back, too, Benedict.”

“Good,” Lance called after him, “But I’m still running against you in the next election!”

Mandy propped her elbow on the table and supported her head in the heel of her hand. The murmur of conversation continued around her, but she tuned it out.

She was so tired. It was the sudden letdown of adrenaline from days of stress and her terror in the back room, plus lack of sleep from her night in jail. It was a good thing Lance had taken over the burden of explaining things, because she could barely think, much less move.

She was free. She could go home. Yet where might that be? Bruce’s big house outside New Orleans was a place where she’d lived for a time, no more, no less. A designer-decorated mausoleum, she’d never been allowed to change so much as a kitchen towel. It was the last place she wanted to be.

The safe house next door to Granny Chauvin might still be available as a temporary refuge, but nothing about it had ever been particularly welcoming.

The only place that called to her was the baby RV. She had been happy in it for a short while, or as happy as someone could be while shut up with a stranger and running from the mafia.

The mafia. How melodramatic that sounded. That Bruce had been involved with organized crime was incredible. Looking back, however, she could recall a few signs. The phone calls he’d taken while shut away in his study, the late nights and unexplained absences. Legal business, he’d said, no concern of hers. It was far too boring for someone so young and beautiful.

Fake, self-serving flattery. Anger shifted through her as she thought of it.

Bruce had treated her like a bimbo. It hadn’t seemed to matter at the time; she was with him solely for Clare and the promise of security for them both. She would have put up with anything that might make that happen. She had, for what good it had done.

She should hate him. Sometimes, she did. At others, she saw him for the deluded, insecure little man he was, so certain he could manipulate everyone around him, so positive he was superior in every way. He’d died a horrific death because of those beliefs. That was vengeance enough.

She’d called Lance a stranger, but he hadn’t remained one for long. She would always remember the days spent with him, the moments of laughter and tears, of fear and comfort. It would have to be enough. His life was here and hers was—somewhere else.

She’d be okay; she’d always been okay. There was an insurance policy in her name, or so Bruce had once told her. Whatever portion of his estate might be left after the police were done would also be hers if Lance was right, and it had all been put into her name. She couldn’t find the energy to care too much. Maybe one day, but not now.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder, and Granny Chauvin spoke near her ear. “Mandy, honey, you need to go lie down somewhere. You don’t, you’re going to fall out right here.”

She straightened, summoned a smile. “I’m fine, just resting my eyes for a second.”

“I don’t believe so, dear. It will be perfectly acceptable for both of us to have a nice, long nap now this is over.”

Trey must have heard the last part, for he got to his feet. “Let me run you home, Granny.”

“Oh, I can drive myself.”

“I know you can, but humor me.”

“I can do it,” Lance said, standing as well. “The RV is closer for you, Mandy, if you want to crash there.”