Passion In The First Degree Page 2

  Almost three o’clock. It was silly to go back to sleep when her alarm was set to go off at five. She had a seven-o’clock flight to New Orleans, then an hour-and-a-half drive on to the little coastal town of Black Bayou.

  She went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Sitting down at the table, she waited impatiently for the chicory-laced brew to fill the glass carafe.

  In eight hours she would be home. It must have been the anticipation of returning to Black Bayou that had prompted the recurrence of the old nightmare. She’d suffered them nearly every night for months after first leaving home. Nightmare images of moon slivers on swamp waters, fragmented visions of macabre creatures dancing in the distorted moonlight. None of it made sense, and she’d long ago given up trying to find logic or reality in the dark dreams.

  Getting up from the table, she poured herself a cup of coffee. But even her hands wrapped around the warmth of the cup couldn’t stop the shiver of apprehension that raced up her spine as she thought of returning to Black Bayou…and Billy.

  SOMEBODY HAD ONCE SAID you can’t go home again, but as Shelby drove down Main Street she had a sense of time displaced. Nothing had changed. It was as if she’d been away from the little town of Black Bayou for only a single day, an hour, the momentary flicker of an eye blink.

  Yet, there were subtle changes…changes that reflected her own growth rather than the town’s. She’d always thought the Longsford Tower business building was one of the biggest in the world. She now realized the ten-story structure was merely the biggest building in Black Bayou, and was small by most standards. Main Street seemed smaller, more narrow than she remembered, and it was disconcerting to fit reality into her childhood perceptions.

  She drove down Main Street twice, although it was already a few minutes past eleven. She needed a little more time to prepare for her meeting with Billy.

  Billy. She’d thought of him often in the passing years. Always those thoughts brought a combination of anger and pain, and the overwhelming feeling that she’d lost something to him…something special that she could never regain.

  She consciously shoved these thoughts aside, not wanting to remember that single night when passions had flared and emotions had tangled, resulting in lost innocence and the end of girlhood.

  She didn’t know if she could defend him or not, didn’t know if she could get past all the emotions he stirred in her. She’d consciously driven into town with no time to buy a newspaper, hear the local gossip or listen to any information that might taint her ability to make a decision to defend him or not. She needed to hear it all from him before she could make a decision.

  Pulling into an empty parking space before Martha’s Café, she turned off the engine but didn’t move to leave the car. Martha’s Café had been a favorite place for Shelby and her junior high school friends to hang out. The main attraction had been that Billy Royce worked there as a busboy. As the darkly handsome, older Billy had cleared tables, Shelby and her friends would watch, and giggle in adolescent fascination.

  Billy was forbidden fruit. Swamp trash. It was rumored that he was wild, that his father had killed his mother, then hung himself from one of the trees deep in the swamp. But despite the rumors, Shelby knew that each and every young girl of Black Bayou had at one time or another entertained thoughts of making love with Billy. She’d had the reahty of that particular fantasy, and once had been quite enough.

  She picked up her briefcase from the seat next to her, realizing it was time to put the past behind her. Time to move ahead and see what had happened to Billy Royce in the passing years.

  Getting out of her car, she was instantly hit with the sultry heat of the town. She’d forgotten how oppressive, how thick the air was here. Underlying the scent of hot concrete, the fragrance of blooming flowers, the aroma of Cajun cooking, was the pervasive odor of the nearby swamp waters…the smell of something mysterious and rotten.

  Stepping into the cool, dim interior of the café, she waited a moment for her eyes to adjust from the glare of the sunshine. Here the scent of Cajun spices and frying fish filled the air and caused Shelby’s stomach to rumble in hunger. There was nothing better than Martha’s spicy gumbo.

  “Shelby?”

  She turned and immediately found herself enfolded in a fierce hug. Being embraced by Martha was like sinking into a warm foam mattress. “It’s about time you got your skinny butt back here where you belong,” Martha said as she finally released her. “Let me have a look at you.” She stepped back and looked at Shelby, her dark eyes holding the wisdom of more than one lifetime. She looked long and hard into Shelby’s eyes, then nodded, as if pleased with what she saw there. “You home to stay?”

  Shelby shook her head and smiled affectionately at the big black woman. “I’m surprised to see this place still here. I figured you’d be retired by now.”

  “Huh, what am I going to do? Sit on a porch and rock till the good Lord takes me home? Bah, why make it easy for him?” Her dark eyes sparkled. “He’s gonna have to catch me to take me through them pearly gates.”

  Shelby laughed, then sobered as her gaze darted around the room. Half a dozen of the tables were occupied, but at none of them was the man she had come to see. “Is Billy here?”

  Martha nodded and pulled Shelby closer. “He’s in the back. Since the murder he’s not too popular ’round town. He thought it’d be best if you meet him there. Go on. He’s waiting for you.”

  The back room in Martha’s Café had entertained a colorful past. According to local rumors, at one time or another it had served as a meeting place for bootleggers, the rendezvous point for an affluent businessman and his mistress, and the hottest spot on Friday and Saturday nights to find a high-stakes card game.

  And now it was where a prospective defense lawyer would talk to a man who was on the verge of being charged with a double homicide, Shelby thought.

  She saw him the moment she walked through the doorway that led into the small room. He sat at a table for two, the chair tipped on its hind legs as he leaned back against the wall. As she walked toward him, the only things that moved were his eyes. Dark and hooded, they followed her progress like a wild animal eyeing prey.

  He was just as she remembered him. Darkly handsome with an intensity that was both compelling and off-putting. The years had done nothing to diminish the animalistic quality that radiated from him. If anything, age had chiseled his features, ridding him of any minute vestige of boyhood or innocence that he might once have possessed.

  “Hello, Billy.” She stopped just in front of his table, fighting to control her pulse rate, which had picked up in the moment she’d seen him.

  His chair fell forward, the front legs landing with a dull thud against the tiled floor. One eyebrow lifted and a corner of his mouth curled sardonically. “Well, well. Shelby Longsford, all grown up.”

  She pulled out the chair across from him and sat, placing the briefcase on the table between them. “People tend to grow up in the course of twelve years,” she replied briskly. She snapped open the case and withdrew a notepad and pen, intent on keeping this meeting as professional as possible. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her glasses and slipped them on, then looked at him expectantly.

  When he didn’t say anything she cleared her throat, selfconsciously aware of his dark gaze studying each and every one of her features. She finally sighed impatiently. “Billy, I’ve come a long way to be here. If you want my help, then you’re going to have to tell me what this is all about. Why do you think you’re about to be charged with a double homicide, and who was murdered?”

  He leaned back in his chair, for a moment his eyes reflecting the look of both the hunted and the haunted. It was there only a moment, then quickly gone as he rubbed a hand across his lower jaw. “You remember Fayrene Whitney? Two days ago she and Tyler LaJune were found dead in Tyler’s apartment. They’d been stabbed to death.”

  “Oh, Billy,” Shelby gasped, knowing how close Tyler and Billy had been wh
en growing up. Despite the differences in their backgrounds and physical appearance, as boys they had been like bookends, always together. She fought the impulse to reach out and take his hand, knowing instinctively that Billy would grieve as he’d always done everything else…alone.

  “They were viciously stabbed in what the police are now characterizing as a crime of passion.” His voice was dispassionate, as was his face. “There were no signs of a break-in. Nothing was stolen. No clues, no leads.”

  Shelby frowned. “Then why do you think you’re a suspect in this case?”

  He smiled, a bloodless, caustic smile. “Because Fayrene Whitney was my wife.”

  Chapter Two

  Shelby stared at him for a moment, searching for something to say. In all the years, in all her fantasies, she’d never once considered that Billy might have married.

  Fayrene Whitney. Shelby had a vague memory of a sullen blonde in tight jeans with a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Fayrene had come from the wrong side of the swamp and had had a reputation for being promiscuous. However, the penalty for teenage abandon wasn’t murder.

  “We’d been separated for a couple of months,” Billy said, filling in the silence that hung heavily between them.

  Shelby pulled off her glasses and rubbed her forehead. “And am I right in guessing that it was not an amicable separation?”

  “That would be a fair assumption,” he agreed, a mocking smile curving his lips. He tipped his chair back once again. “At least I don’t have to worry now about a nasty divorce,” he added.

  She drew in a sharp breath. She’d forgotten about his wicked irreverence, the taunting chip-on-the-shoulder attitude he’d always worn like a shield.

  Shelby threw her notebook back into her briefcase. “I can’t defend you if you aren’t going to take all this seriously.” She slammed the briefcase shut and was about to lock the clasps but gasped as his hand tightly encircled her wrist.

  “Don’t walk out on me, Shelby.” Gone was the mocking smile. His chair crashed to the floor with a resounding bang. His grip on her wrist was painfully tight. His eyes once again reflected the look of the hunted. “Everyone in this town has already judged me guilty. For once in my life, I need somebody on my side.”

  She tore her wrist out of his grasp, rubbed it unconsciously as she noted that once again his eyes were as black, as enigmatic as the darkest swamp water. The momentary flash of vulnerability was gone, making her wonder if she’d only imagined it.

  Averting her gaze from his, finding it difficult to think, she focused on the top of the table, scarred with cigarette burns and knife cuts.

  “If you won’t do it for me, Shelby, then do it for Mama Royce.”

  Jerking her gaze back to him, she glared, resenting his overt manipulation of her emotions. “Damn you,” she said through clenched teeth. “You play dirty.”

  “I play to win.”

  Once again she put her glasses on, as if the lenses could protect her from old memories, past pains and a burning bitterness that ached inside her. “Billy, I just don’t think it wise that I represent you.”

  “You have to. I can pay, Shelby. Whatever your price I can meet it. I’ve been lucky with some investments.”

  She didn’t ask him about his finances, didn’t want to know how he’d supported himself through the years. Whatever it was, she had a feeling it would fall into a gray area of the law. “Billy, I’m not going to give you an answer now. I just got into town. I need to check with the police, find out more about what’s happened.” She locked her briefcase and stood. “Why don’t we meet back here tomorrow morning about nine?”

  “And what happens if I’m arrested tonight?”

  “Call me.”

  He stood and walked with her to the front of the café. She frowned, aware that he walked too close, invading her space with his flagrant masculinity. They stopped at the café door. “You’ll be at the mansion?” Again she was aware of his proximity, the evocative heat of his body.

  She nodded curtly and took a step back from him.

  His gaze bored into hers, then pointedly traveled down the length of her throat, lingering a moment on the thrust of her breasts, then swept the remainder of her body. “You’ve grown up mighty fine, Shelby.” His voice was softly insinuating, brazenly sexual.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Without waiting for his reply, she turned and stepped out the door into afternoon sunshine.

  She gulped in the stifling air and realized that she hadn’t drawn a normal breath the whole time she’d been in his presence.

  Getting into her car, she decided that before she investigated more deeply into the crime she needed to go to the mansion and get settled in.

  The mansion. Funny how she’d never referred to it as her house, although it was where she had been raised. Everyone in town thought of the Longsford place as “the mansion.” Built by Shelby’s grandfather as a young man, it rose at the edge of the swamp, an arrogant affront to the primal wildness at its back door.

  It had been twelve years since she’d been home, but as she pulled up in front of the huge antebellum house she noticed once again that it was as if time had not found Black Bayou. The mansion looked exactly the way it had looked the last time she’d seen it, as an eighteen-year-old going to live with her aunt in New Orleans. At that time, all she had wanted was to get away from this place and the people in it.

  Her parents had agreed, obviously wanting to get her away from the swamp and its influences. Shelby had a feeling her father feared she’d embarrass him, become a hindrance to his political aspirations. Shelby’s mother had intimated as much when she’d agreed to Shelby going to stay at her aunt’s.

  Now, as she sat in the car and stared at the pristine white house with the wide wrapping veranda and the fat columns that supported a balcony, she felt a curious pang of homesickness. Huge urns of vivid flowers dotted the veranda, and she knew their sweet, cloying scent would enter the house with each opening and closing of the front door.

  She should never have allowed that single night with Billy to drive her from her home so many years before. Although she’d maintained contact with phone calls and letters, the contact had been casual, like that of an acquaintance rather than a family member. As she looked at the house where she had been raised, she realized she’d missed her family.

  She got out of the car, wondering how she’d be greeted. She wondered if her father still controlled the family like a dictator, if her mother still had a tendency to drink too much. She pushed these thoughts away, wanting to make a fresh start with no preconceived ideas, no festering, bitter seeds of the past tainting her homecoming. Funny, it was as if for the past twelve years she had allowed herself to feel nothing, and now that she was back, her mind and heart were flooded with emotions too intense to sort out.

  The humid air, as thick as syrup and scented with fragrant flowers and the underlying odor of the nearby marsh, wrapped around her as she walked toward the massive front door.

  Although most of the family members and friends used the back door, Shelby felt that after twelve years’ absence, the formality of the front door was more appropriate.

  She raised her hand to knock, but before she could, the door swung open and Shelby found herself engulfed in a bear hug that squeezed the breath out of her. “I thought I heard a car and when I looked out, I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  “I should have called.” Shelby moved out of the embrace and stepped back, eyeing her brother with genuine affection. She reached up and touched the clerical collar at his thick neck. “Father Michael.” She smiled and shook her head. “Mother wrote and told me you’d become a priest, but I found it difficult to believe.”

  He grinned. “Believe it, little sister. It’s one of the few things in my life that makes sense.”

  Shelby studied her brother. At thirty-four, Michael Joseph Longsford had the brilliant blue eyes, the sensual full lips and the widow’s peak that were maternal gifts and St. Clair characteri
stics.

  Out of all of her siblings, Shelby had always felt closest to Michael, who, despite his towering height and bulging muscularity, had always been gentle and sensitive.

  “Ah, Shelby, it’s about time you came home where you belong.” He wrapped her up in another bear hug, then led her from the foyer into the living room.

  As Michael walked to the wet bar, Shelby hesitated in the doorway, surprised by the changes that had taken place in the room. “Wow. When did this happen?” She skirted the edge of the large, overstuffed sofa. Decorated in navy blue and burgundy, with oversize furniture, the room had a distinctively masculine feel.

  “Big John finally got his way.” Michael held up a bottle of brandy. Shelby shook her head and he poured himself a splash in the bottom of a snifter. “He carted all of Mama’s things up to her suite, said, ‘A man can’t plant his rear on them spindly-legged chairs.’”

  Shelby laughed at his perfect parody of their father’s smoky, blustering voice. “So, where is everyone else?” she asked, sitting on one of the bar stools.

  Michael shrugged, then sipped his brandy. “Mother is napping, who knows where Olivia and Roger might be, and Big John and Junior are in New Orleans on the campaign trail. They should be back by suppertime.”

  “How’s the campaign going? Does it look like Junior is going to be able to fill Big John’s shoes?”

  “Hmm, too early to tell. Personally, I don’t think Big John will be satisfied with Junior just filling a seat in Congress. He won’t be happy until Junior is seated in the White House and everyone sings ‘Hail to the Chief’ each time he passes by.”

  Shelby smiled ruefully. “At least nobody can accuse Big John of not having grandiose dreams for his children.”