Passion In The First Degree Part 12

"What's love got to do with marriage? I married Roger for lots of reasons, but love wasn't one of them." One of Olivia's finely penciled dark brows rose upward. "Oh, honestly, Shelby, I can see by your expression that you're one of those hopeless romantics who think marriage is some sort of legal soul-bonding between lovers." She laughed, a harsh, cynical sound. "You don't really believe Mother and Father have remained together all these years because they love each other, do you?"

She laughed again and looked at Shelby pityingly. "Good marriages are built on needs. Daddy had new money but no background. Mother knew politically he would go places, but he needed the cus.h.i.+on of her breeding and the good name of the St. Clairs behind him. Roger will probably someday be governor of this state, but he can't do it without the Longsford political machine supporting him." She pulled a slender hand through her sleek, shorn hair and smiled at Shelby. "I intend to be the s.e.xiest governor's wife this state has ever known. Even Big John will be proud if we make it to the governor's mansion."

"There are people who marry for love," Shelby observed.

"Only fools." Olivia got up off the bed and sauntered toward the doorway. "So, what are your plans for getting Billy off the hook?"

Shelby shrugged. "If I intend to catch the killer, then I'm going to have to retrace Tyler's steps, talk to the people he spoke with, go to the places he went while searching for the story."

"Just be careful that in following Tyler's footsteps you don't wind up a companion in his grave." With these words, Olivia turned and left the room.

FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS Shelby scarcely left her bedroom. Hours upon hours were spent reading, a.s.sessing and rea.s.sessing Tyler's notes and files on his computer. She took her meals in her room and slept in erratic spurts, completely absorbed in pulling together a defense for Billy, a defense built on reasonable doubt.

The list of suspects haunted her. Ten names, three of which were members of her family. Tyler had also discovered that four of the people on the list had airtight alibis for many of the murders. That left six people, three Longsfords and three others, as the most viable suspects.

Finally, with dusk falling on yet another day, she shut off the computer and stretched with arms over her head. Her back ached and her eyes burned from the long hours of reading the computer screen. Physically she was drained, but mentally she was disturbed by the information Tyler had compiled. The more she had read, the more she realized why Tyler had placed Roger, Michael and Big John's names on his list.

The murders had several things in common. First and foremost, none of the victims had shown signs of any struggle, implying that they knew their a.s.sailant. Everyone knew Big John, and Michael often ministered to the people in the swamp. Even Roger would be known to the victims. And she couldn't forget the night she had seen somebody go from the house into the swamp. Who had it been? And what had they been doing? Granted, no murder had taken place that night, but why would any member of her family venture into the swamp at night?

"Enough," she said aloud, knowing what she needed was a break from thinking about it all. Something about what she'd read in Tyler's notes bothered her, like the socket where a missing tooth should be. She knew the only way to bring whatever it was into focus was to get some distance from the whole mess.

As was usual in the late evenings, when she walked down the stairs the house was quiet. For as long as Shelby could remember the members of her family had sought separate s.p.a.ces after the evening meal. It was as if the act of sitting together for supper created a suffocating need for privacy.

She found Roger in the library, sitting in one of the easy chairs, a book open in his lap. She waved as she pa.s.sed the door. What she didn't need was to be cooped up in a room with her pompous brother-in-law. Instead she headed for the door in the kitchen that led to a back porch facing the swamp.

The outside air was heavy, humid and thick with pungent scents. Although it was still light, a half-moon was visible, peeking over the tops of the cypress trees as if waiting the sun's departure.

Shelby leaned against one of the wooden pillars, breathing deeply of the fragrant air. Shreveport had smelled much the same way, of mimosa and magnolias, and fresh gra.s.s and sweet mint. The difference was that here the scents were mixed with the ever-present smell of the swamp, of wildness and mystery, of shady cool and algae ponds. Shreveport had smelled Southern. This smelled like home.

A sound coming from the end of the porch drew Shelby's attention. She was surprised to see her father sitting on one of the wicker chairs, his gaze focused on the swamp. It was obvious he hadn't heard her step out of the house, apparent that his attention was absorbed in the dark, tangled growth in the distance.

For a long moment Shelby didn't move, but took the opportunity to study the man who had sired her. Did she love her father? It was difficult to sort out her snarled emotions where he was concerned. When she was younger he'd frightened her, with his booming voice and piercing eyes. She could still remember her childish need to please him, to gain a smile from him, a kind word of praise. She no longer feared him, nor did she feel the need to please him, and it saddened her that she felt so little connection to him.

She stirred as disconcerting thoughts filtered through her head. What was he doing out here in dusk's glory staring at the swamp? His face was devoid of expression, making it impossible to guess his thoughts. Was he simply observing the beauty of the moon rising over the cypress trees or was he planning somebody's murder?

She s.h.i.+vered, the motion drawing her father's attention. "Shelby." He stood and walked over to stand next to her. "You've been pretty scarce around here the last couple of days."

"I've been busy working on the case."

Big John grunted, as if to express his disapproval of the entire mess. "Why in the h.e.l.l did you ever decide to be a defense lawyer? With my connections I could have seen to it that you were district attorney."

Shelby shrugged and tensed, a remnant childlike reaction to her father as she fought against a lingering need to please him. "I decided to do something I believe in rather than please my father." She raised her chin and met his gaze.

Big John laughed, and she felt herself start to relax. "You always had your own mind, I'll grant you that." He looked at her with an expression remarkably akin to respect. "I think you're the only one who realized all along that my bark is worse than my bite."

Shelby smiled. "Your bark has always been frightening enough. However, I'm just doing what you taught us all to do, stick with our convictions and be the best that we can."

"Yes, but you were supposed to stick to my convictions, not develop your own."

Shelby was surprised to see a twinkle of humor in his eyes. Her heart twisted as she realized this was a side of her father she'd never seen before, a self-denigration and sense of humor he rarely displayed.

"Your sister tells me somebody put dead flowers in your room," he said, the twinkle gone, his expression somber once again.

"Yes, although I have to admit, I haven't lost much sleep over it. I have enough to worry about without being concerned about somebody's sick joke. The only thing that bothers me is how it got into my room."

"Huh, it's probably Angelique's doing. She's got long arms and wields a lot of power. Most likely she got one of our maids to put it there."

Shelby looked at her father in surprise. "You know Angelique?"

"Mostly through reputation." Once again Big John's gaze drifted back to the swamp, and Shelby could have sworn a flash of wistfulness crossed his features before he turned back to her. "I knew her sister, Marguerite. She worked over at Martha's restaurant, a cute little lady with big eyes and a spitfire temper. She died years ago at the hands of the swamp serpent." His face and voice were expressionless. He turned back to look at the swamp one last time, then, murmuring good-night, he went into the house.

Alone on the porch, Shelby sank onto one of the wooden steps and drew in a deep, cleansing breath. What had Marguerite meant to her father? She frowned, remembering Michael speaking about Big John's affairs. Had Marguerite been lover or victim? Was Big John guilty of infidelity or murder?

Shelby stared at the swamp, where night now reigned and no remnant of the day lingered. The moon was brilliant, fully risen and casting eerie silvery strands of light dancing on the tops of the trees. She remained seated for a long time, playing over her conversation with her father, mulling over Tyler's computer notes.

Marguerite Boujoulais. The name was familiar from the files Shelby had been reading for the past two days. The young woman had been the second victim of the swamp serpent. As with the other victims, she'd been stabbed twice, once in the stomach and again in the chest.

The first victim had been Layne Rocharee, a forty-sixyear-old man whose body had been found on May 13, a week after Shelby had left Black Bayou so many years before.

Two figures dancing in the moonlight...indistinct voices, a cry of pain. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples as images continued to flicker in her mind. Moonlight through trees, reflecting off a nearby pool. Then a sole silhouette lying in the light of the moon. Blood in the water. Death in the swamp.

"Oh, no." Shelby shot up off the step, a chill rocketing up her spine and setting the hairs at her nape on end.

Layne Rocharee's body had been found on May 13, but the official report stated he'd been dead at least three or four days.

Shelby knew exactly when he had been killed. It had been on the night of May 6, the night Mama Royce had died of a heart attack, the same night Shelby had made love with Billy Royce. She had to tell Billy.

Without pause, she took off running toward the swamp. She had to tell Billy what she now knew. That's what she'd seen in the swamp. The flashes of images weren't nightmares. They were pieces of memories...memories of murder.

Chapter Thirteen.

Shelby ran like the wind, her thoughts as tangled as the vegetation around her. Memories pressed heavily, a jumble of images and sensory details she'd forgotten or repressed until this moment.

With her nightmares so close to the surface, the swamp suddenly seemed alien and malevolent. Spanish moss, instead of draping from the trees, attempted to shroud her in its cobweb finery. Vines normally curled lovingly around the base of trees now reached out tendrils of green to trip her, impede her as she raced to Billy.

Evil...evil in the swamp. The very air around her seethed with it. The cloying scent of foliage rot and a distant memory of the coppery smell of blood filled her head. Evil in the swamp-her heart pounded the rhythm of the words. She'd seen the evil, had been an innocent voyeur to madness and murder. As Billy's shanty came into view, a beam of light slicing through the surrounding darkness, Shelby increased her pace and cried out his name.

Her footsteps echoed as she raced across the wooden walkway that led to his front door. As she reached the door it flew open and Billy stepped out, catching her as she catapulted into his arms.

"Shelby, what's wrong? What is it?" His voice rang low, urgent as he held her against his bare chest.

For a moment she didn't answer. She wanted to hide in the warmth of his skin, pull him over her and use him as a s.h.i.+eld against her thoughts. Wasn't that the same thing she had done years ago? Pulled him over her and hidden in him?

Drawing in a deep breath, she stepped out of his embrace and leaned against the wooden railing. She stared into the murky swamp waters below. "I saw a swamp murder. The night that Mama Royce died I saw the swamp serpent murder Layne Rocharee."

She heard Billy's swift intake of breath, felt his presence as he moved to stand directly behind her. Around them the swamp seemed to grow and swell with a life of its own, as if the evil of murder had animated it with energy.

"Are you sure?"

Shelby s.h.i.+vered despite the sweltering heat of the night air. Turning around, she rolled his question around in her head. Was she sure? All she had were pieces, fragments of a nightmare that had haunted her for years. "No...yes...I don't know."

"Come inside." He touched her arm. "It's cooler there and it sounds like you need to talk."

She followed him into the shanty, where the ceiling fan stirred the air but offered only a small measure of relief against the outside heat. "How about something cold to drink?" he asked as she sank onto the sofa. He opened the refrigerator and peered inside. "I've got colas, iced tea and grape soda." He flashed her a quicksilver smile. "Although I usually save the grape for one of Gator's visits."

"A cola is fine."

"Can or over ice?"

"Can is fine," she said, knowing the mundane conversation was his effort to give her an opportunity to calm down. She drew in several deep breaths as Billy joined her on the sofa and handed her the drink.

She closed her eyes and rolled the can across her forehead, the cold aluminum a welcome relief against her fevered brow. She jumped as the can was pulled from her hands. As she opened her eyes Billy popped the top and handed it back to her. "Take a drink, then talk," he said, his eyes darker than she'd ever seen them.

Dutifully she took a sip of the soda, then set the can on the coffee table before them. Before speaking, she glanced over to Parker's bedroom door. "Is Parker asleep?" she asked, not wanting to talk of murder and mayhem where a child might be able to hear.

Billy shook his head. "He's not here. He sometimes spends the night with Angelique and her son."

"Speaking of Angelique, do you know any reason why she might want to frighten me?" Shelby felt ridiculous even asking the question.

"Frighten you?" Billy's eyebrows danced upward.

Shelby flushed and picked up the soda can once again. "I found a dead floral bouquet in my bed the other night. I'm a.s.suming it was supposed to be some kind of a threat."

Billy frowned. "I can't imagine why Angelique would do something like that. She doesn't even know you, does she?" Shelby shook her head. "But that's not why you're here," he reminded her.

"You're right. That's not why I'm here." Shelby took another sip of the soda, knowing she was stalling, not wanting to dredge up the horrors her memory held. Once again she placed the can on the coffee table, her hand trembling slightly as she focused on the memories that had brought her here.

"For years after I left Black Bayou, I had nightmares...strange nightmares of the swamp. It was always the same dream. I'm walking through the swamp and something draws my attention." She slumped deeper into the couch cus.h.i.+ons, mentally reaching out to capture the nightmare that had haunted her on so many nights.

"Tell me, Shelby," Billy said. He reached out and took her hand in his. Once again, as in the days of years past, with her hand in his she felt safe...able to face whatever horrors the swamp and her mind held.

"It's all confused in my head." She closed her eyes, trying to pull into focus images she'd consciously kept at bay for years. "The moon is almost full, and I see two silhouettes in a small clearing. Voices murmur. Something glints in the moonlight. The two dance and one falls to the ground." Shelby's chest tightened and she squeezed Billy's hand. "Blood on the water. Evil in the swamp." She gasped and opened her eyes. "I thought it was just a nightmare, but I don't think it is. I think...I'm afraid it's a memory. Dear G.o.d, I saw...I saw."

"Shh." He released his hold on her hand and used his thumbs to softly swipe away the tears she didn't even know were falling. He pulled her against his chest, and willingly she went, needing his warmth, craving the security of his arms around her. "Let's see if we can sort out the memory and separate it from the nightmare. Tell me everything you can of that night, beginning with dinner that evening."

As Billy stroked her hair, Shelby reached back into the past, dredging up the memories of a night she'd spent half a lifetime trying to forget. "Dinner was traumatic. Big John was on a tear, angry with all of us kids for crazy reasons, yelling at mother as if all the world's faults were hers. By the time dessert was served, I felt sick to my stomach. The tension was too much and I asked to be excused. I went up to my room and stretched out on the bed."

She frowned, trying to remember everything, every moment of that night. "I guess I must have dozed off because the next thing I remember is it being dark and me wanting to talk to Mama Royce."

Shelby's thoughts jumped ahead to what had happened between her and Billy that night. As their lovemaking unfolded in her mind, she suddenly found the caress of his hand through her hair too evocative, too breathtaking. Moving away from him, she stood and tried to focus on those moments before she'd reached Mama Royce's shanty, the minutes preceding the explosion of pa.s.sion between them.

"The house was quiet. I didn't see anyone as I slipped out the back door and ran toward the swamp." She paced back and forth before Billy, her sandals slapping hollowly against the wooden floor. "I hadn't walked very far when I heard something and saw the two people." She frowned and paused in her movement. "I saw the moon glint off the metal of a knife, and one person stabbed the other." She closed her eyes, trying to separate nightmares from reality. "I-I must have pa.s.sed out or blacked out or something because the next thing I remember is the moon having moved in the sky and only one figure lying on the swamp floor. I could see his face in the moonlight...still and frozen in a death mask."

"Then what did you do?" Billy's voice made her jump and open her eyes. For a moment she'd forgotten his presence, forgotten everything but that moment in the swamp when she'd seen the man lying on the ground, the front of his s.h.i.+rt soaked in blood. "I...I ran home. Mama was on the porch, drunk. I tried to tell her what had happened but she was out of it." Shelby winced, remembering the gin on her mother's breath, the drunken wildness in her eyes. "And then she told me Mama Royce was dead. I didn't believe her. I ran here. And you were here and we..." Her voice trailed off and she averted her gaze from him. She wasn't sure which was more traumatic, remembering the murder or the power of Billy as he'd made love to her. Each memory had haunted her in its own way.

"Shelby." Billy stood and approached her, stopping when he was so close she could see the gold flecks in the irises of his eyes. "If you were close enough to see the man who was murdered, you were close enough to see the murderer. Think, Shelby. Who was it? Who did you see that night in the swamp?"

"I...can't...I don't remember." Her body trembled, her heart feeling as if it might explode at any moment. She gasped as Billy grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers biting into her skin.

"d.a.m.n it, try harder," he roared, his eyes flaming with anger as his fingers pressed harder.

Tears sprang to Shelby's eyes and with a muttered oath Billy pulled her into his arms. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I didn't mean to lose my temper. I'm sorry. It's just so frustrating." He stroked her hair, her back, his touch not sensual but rather an effort to comfort.

Slowly Shelby's sobs subsided, leaving her exhausted and wrung out. Willingly she allowed Billy to lead her back to the sofa, where they sank down with her still in his arms. The only sound in the room was the whisper of the ceiling fan, the muted chorus of the insects outside and the beat of Billy's heart against Shelby's cheek.

She didn't want to think anymore, was exhausted by the effort to remember something buried deep in her subconscious. She simply wanted Billy to continue to hold her. She felt safe in his arms.

His skin smelled of wildness, of sweet clean winds and hot endless nights. Shelby fought a sudden, crazy impulse to flick out her tongue and taste him, lick his chest and swallow the flavor of him. For years the events of that night so long ago had melded together in her head, making it difficult for her to separate the emotional shock of seeing a murder and the momentous event of making love to Billy.

Now, with the two events separated in her mind, she was able to remember the splendor of Billy taking her, possessing her, and she realized he'd been right when he'd said he would have her again. She wanted him again, somehow felt she needed to make love with him again and bring things full circle.

Only this time she wouldn't be a starry-eyed youth expecting love forever more. She was a grown woman, willing to accept that she wanted Billy, desired him on a physical level, needed to make love to him one last time to banish the power of the memories of that first time.

Her hands knew the way of her mind and slid across the broad expanse of his chest. At the same time she pressed her lips against his skin, giving in to her need to taste him. She felt his immediate response, a tightening of his muscles as the pace of his heartbeat accelerated.

"Shelby." It was a warning, his voice low and husky.

She knew he was giving her a chance to think...to stop what she was starting. She didn't want to stop. Again she moved her lips against his bronzed chest, tasting the slight saltiness of his skin.

"Shelby." This time it wasn't a warning, but rather a whispered, deep-throated moan. His hands, which moments before had been caressing to comfort, now moved differently-slower, languid and sensual.

She raised her head, her gaze meeting his, wondering if her eyes reflected the same kind of want, of need that his did. She'd thought it impossible that she'd ever want to make love to him again. Now she realized it was impossible not to. He'd been under her skin for twelve long years, like a chigger burrowing deeper and deeper. Surely as a woman making love to Billy she could finally put the act, the pa.s.sion in its proper perspective rather than building it to bigger-than-life proportions as she had so many years before.

His eyes flamed into hers, smoldering promises of pa.s.sion as his lips descended to claim hers in a kiss of fire. It was not a kiss to tantalize or cajole, but rather one to possess and consume.

Shelby returned the kiss fully, this time not afraid of his hunger but rather reveling in it, a responding hunger throbbing inside her. As the kiss ended, once again her gaze sought his. "Billy, make love to me," she said softly. It was important that this be her decision, a conscious choice, rather than an uncontrollable explosion as it had been before, where she felt she'd had no will.

If possible, his eyes appeared to darken at her request. "Are you sure, Shelby?" He trailed a finger down her cheek, following the curve of her jaw. "From what you've told me about the night of Mama Royce's death, you came here seeking comfort and instead got me. You came here tonight to share your memories with me. I don't want you to be confused about what you want. What we did years ago was a mistake, two kids lost in their grief reaching out to each other in a way neither of us knew how to handle. I don't want this to be a mistake."

Shelby frowned, knowing he was right. Making love to him years ago had been a mistake, an experience neither of them had antic.i.p.ated or completely understood. She'd come to him then, needing him to banish her fear, bury her memories of something heinous. But now the horror was separate from the desire and she knew exactly what she wanted. "Billy, it's not a mistake."

Eyes still darkened, features unreadable, he stood. "Not here," he said, and bent over and scooped her up in his arms. "I want you in my room. I told you the next time I have you will be in my bed."

Heat suffused her as she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips against the shadowed hollow of his neck. There was a sense of lightness, an inevitability, as if in her heart she had known from the moment she'd heard his voice on her phone that this was what was destined to happen between them.

In all the years she'd visited the shanty, she'd never been in Billy's room. It had been his private s.p.a.ce, a sanctuary even Mama Royce had respected. As he carried her across the threshold, she had a vague impression of stark masculinity. Like Parker's room, this one held a dresser and a bed, only the bed was a double one covered in navy blue sheets. A low-wattage lamp sat on the nightstand, the glow softening the starkness of the room. A four-blade ceiling fan stirred the warm air.

As he placed her in the center of the bed, she realized the sheets smelled of him, the wonderful, mysterious scent she found so intoxicating. He didn't join her, but rather stood at the side of the bed, his gaze as potent as a caress.

"Billy?" She raised her arms toward him, beckoning him to come to her.

He shook his head. "Just let me look at you for a minute," he said, his voice deep, husky with desire.