A Time to Keep (28 page)

Gwen wanted to tell the woman that she did not know why
she'd become so intrigued with the cold case, but now that she'd opened the door to the past she had to see it to its conclusion.

“I'm going to give you my cell phone number, so if you remember anything please call me. I don't care how insignificant it may seem, I still want you to call me.”

Janet nodded as she gathered the St. Martin Parish High School 1964 yearbook off a shelf, running her hand over the dusty cover. She picked up a shoebox, handing both to Gwen.

“Thank you, Miss Taylor.”

It was Gwen's turn to nod. She hadn't solved the case, but the fact that she had made an attempt was enough for the woman to feel a measure of gratitude.

* * *

Gwen pressed several buttons, activating her car's cruise control before she pressed a button on her cell phone. Lauren answered with a friendly greeting.

“I'm calling to tell you that I've changed my wedding date.”

“Why, Gwen?”

“I decided I didn't want to wait until December to become Mrs. Shiloh Harper.”

“Are you in the family way?”

“I don't know.”

“When will you know?”

“In another week,” Gwen admitted.

“You know there's a new home pregnancy kit that will tell you if you are even before you miss your period.”

“Ease up, Lauren. I'm not in that much of a hurry to find out whether I'm pregnant.”

“You don't sound too happy about this, cuz. What's up?”

“I had a heart-to-heart with my father last night, and I realize that I've stood in my own way when it came to personal happiness. I had a time for this and a time for that. And if what I planned didn't work out, then I revised my plans
over and over until I didn't know what I wanted. I want to grow old with this man I find myself so in love with.”

“I've never known you to talk like this, Gwendolyn.”

“That's because I've never felt like this, Lauren. When are the kids finished with summer camp?”

“August 8. That's on a Wednesday.”

“Can you and your family come down that Saturday for a wedding?”

“Of course we can. If you want I can take the kids out of camp early—”

“No, Lauren. Let them finish the season. I've already selected my dress. What I'll do is scan it and e-mail it to you. There's a store in Boston that carries the designer's gowns, so you should be able to find something similar to what I'm wearing. I'm going to ask Shiloh's sister-in-law to be in the wedding party, which means I want Caleb as a groomsman. I want Drew, Kayla and Royce included, too.”

“What is your color scheme?”

“Pale pink and lime green.” They were her sorority colors.

She told Lauren that Shiloh's brother Ian who was to be the best man had offered to prepare the food for the reception which would be held at the newly restored
Bon Temps.
The plantation shutters were in place, the walls repapered with the patterns she'd selected, moldings were scraped and painted, along with walls and ceilings. All that remained was scraping the floors and applying polyurethane and painting the mansion's exterior.

“I can't believe how much my life has changed since I've learned not to try and control what I can't control.” Gwen glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Look, cuz, I'm going to have to end this call. I'll call you either later tonight or tomorrow. And look for the dress whenever you go online.”

She ended the call and pressed another button. “Hey you,” she crooned when she heard Shiloh's voice.

“Where are you?”

The sparkle in her eyes faded as a frown creased her forehead. “Ex-cuse
me.
” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in the two words.

There came a pregnant pause before Shiloh said, “Sorry about that. I called you more than two hours ago and left a message for you to call me.”

“I'm calling you back, Shiloh.”

There was another pause, only the sound of his heavy breathing in her ear. “Look, baby. I'm not checking up on you, but when I called the house and
Bon Temps
and didn't get an answer I sort of lost it.”

“Who else did you call?”

“Nash. I thought that maybe you'd gone in even though it's not a day you're scheduled to work.”

“Did you say anything to my folks?”

“No. I didn't want to alarm them in case something had happened to you.”

“What's going to happen to me—” Her words trailed off when she heard a siren and saw a flash of lights in her rearview mirror. Her pulse accelerated when she realized she was being pulled over. “Shiloh, there's a cop behind me. I swear I wasn't speeding.”

“Stop, then let me speak to him.”

Signaling, she slowed, and pulled onto the shoulder. She'd lowered the driver-side window and had the cell phone out the window when the officer got out of his cruiser and approached her.

“Sheriff Harper wants to speak to you,” she said, preempting whatever it was he wanted to say to her.

The deputy took the phone and put it to his ear. “Yes, I found her. She appears to be all right, sir. You've got it.” He handed Gwen back her phone. “I want you to follow me, Miss Taylor.”

“What for? Am I being arrested?”

The deputy smiled and shook his head. “No, ma'am. But Sheriff Harper wants me to bring you in. He said if you resist, then I should bring you in the cruiser. It's your choice, ma'am.” He touched the brim of his wide straw hat.

“Mine!” she spat out like an impudent child.

“Please follow me.”

She sat motionless, teeth clenched, her hands clutching the steering wheel in a death grip, seething. Shiloh had used the power of his office to put out an APB—an all points bulletin—for her car. He was nothing more than a tyrant, despot and a bully.

Waiting until the police cruiser drove around her, Gwen shifted into gear and followed him. She was grateful he'd turned off his lights. And for the second time in as many days she was given a personal police escort to her destination.

Deputy Caulfield moved closer to Gwen as the ferryboat pulled away from the pier. She sat, arms crossed under her breasts, as she stared out at the brown, brackish water. It was apparent the deputy didn't have much to do if his orders were to take her to his superior officer.

“What a waste of taxpayers' money, Deputy Caulfield,” she whispered harshly. “Don't you have better things to do than escort me to your boss?”

The deputy stared straight ahead as he affected a stern expression. If he'd removed his sunglasses, then Sheriff Harper's fiancée would've seen the amusement in his eyes. Everyone at the station house was used to seeing Gwen when she came in on Tuesday mornings to gather information for her column with the
Tribune.
He'd found her to be wholly professional, because she never used her personal relationship with Shiloh to advance her position with the newspaper. Some of the deputies and those who made up the civilian staff had begun
placing bets on the date she would eventually seek out the sheriff's office.

The ferryboat pulled alongside the wharf to the Outlaw. Gwen stood up and made her way down the gangplank, the deputy following. “Thank you for the personal escort,” she said, smiling.

“Sorry, Miss Taylor, but I have orders to take you directly to Sheriff Harper.” He cupped her elbow and led her up the wooden steps to the restaurant.

She lifted a shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

* * *

Shiloh stared at Gwen as she entered the Outlaw with one of his deputies. A hint of a smile deepened the lines around his eyes when he noticed the stiffness in her back and the stubborn set of her jaw. She was not happy. Gwen was upset and he'd been scared stiff that something had happened to her.

He nodded to his deputy. “Thanks, Caulfield.”

“No problem, boss.”

Shiloh lifted an eyebrow at Gwen who'd folded her arms under her breasts while tapping the toe of one of her high-heeled patent leather sandals.

“We were waiting for you before…” His words trailed off when his cell phone rang at the same time a voice crackled through the two-way radio attached to the deputy's left shoulder. “Harper,” he said, answering the phone.

Gwen heard “explosion” and “fire” and a chill shook her like a fragile leaf in a storm. Her annoyance with Shiloh evaporated, replaced by a fear that squeezed her heart. He'd survived one fiery explosion only to race off to confront another one.

She blinked back tears.
Come back to me, darling.

Shiloh's eyes searched her face, reaching into her thoughts. “I'm coming back to you. Tell the others I have to answer a nine-eleven call.”

He was there, then he was gone. Her gaze fixed on the space where he'd been. She closed her eyes and still his image lingered, the scent of his distinctive cologne, the breadth of his broad shoulders, the gold and green lights in his eyes, eyes that reminded her of pinpoints of sunlight coming through leaves and yards of Spanish moss.

The noise and activity in the restaurant pulled her from her private musings, and she opened her eyes to find Ian coming toward her. She affected a smile she didn't feel at that moment. Her gaze lingered on his grim expression. Instead of his customary tunic and black pinstriped chef's uniform, he wore a colorful Hawaiian print shirt and jeans.

Ian Harper saw fear in his future sister-in-law's eyes. He reached for her hand. “What's going on, Gwen?”

“Shiloh had a nine-eleven call.”

Ian drew in a lungful of breath when he registered her flat, emotionless tone. “What is it?”

Gwen shook her head. “All I heard over a deputy's twoway radio was something about a fire and explosion.”

Gritting his teeth, Ian muttered a savage expletive. His moss-green gaze swung back to Gwen. “Please don't say anything to my mother. Let's get back to the others.”

They hadn't taken more than half a dozen steps when a young woman with raven-black hair, equally dark eyes and a rich olive complexion bore down on Ian.

“I have an emergency at home,” she said in a French Creole dialect.

“Good luck,” Ian replied in the same language.

The undercover agent had used an agreed upon code. He knew Inez's abrupt departure and Shiloh's nine-eleven call were drug-related, and that the explosion and fire had come from a meth lab.

Gwen smiled at her father when he stood up and pulled out
a chair for her at a round table in a corner of the crowded restaurant. “Thanks, Daddy.” She stared at the six people staring at her, nodding to Augustine Leblanc, whom she hadn't seen since the night of the fund-raiser. “I'm sorry that I kept everyone waiting. Shiloh said to tell you that he had to answer a nine-eleven call.”

Paulette Taylor stared across the table at her daughter. “Where were you, sweetheart? It's not like you to keep folks waiting.”

Gwen picked up her menu, pretending interest. “I got tied up working on a story,” she said in a quiet voice that belied her annoyance with her mother chastising her as if she were a child.

Her head came up and she waved away the carafe of wine as Millard attempted to fill her wineglass. She didn't intend to drink anything alcoholic until she verified her physical condition.

“Does everyone know what they want?”

Moriah smiled sweetly. “Yes. Just tell Ian what it is you want.”

“I'll have the broiled seafood platter.”

Paulette, waiting until Ian retreated to the kitchen to add Gwen's request to their party's order, laced her manicured fingers together. “What is it you're working on?”

Gwen wished she were sitting next to her mother so she could kick her under the table. “It has nothing to do with my column.”

Natalee flashed her toothpaste-ad smile. “I hardly ever read the
Tribune,
but I read it now because I want to see if I can recognize any of the names of the people who are behaving badly.”

Attractive lines fanned out around Augustine's dark eyes when he smiled. His graying straight black hair, brushed off a high forehead, lay in precise strands on the nape of his neck. His khaki-brown complexion, narrow face, high cheekbones and full sensual mouth were the result of a blending of races so indicative of the region.

“You've single-handedly done what our sheriff's department has been unable to do for years. And that is curtailing the proliferation of prostitution over near the Bienville waterfront.”

Gwen smiled at the man who appeared completely enthralled with Moriah Harper. “No married man wants his wife or children to see his name in the paper because he was picked up for soliciting a prostitute.”

“I don't know why a man would want to pay a woman to have sex with him when he has a wife at home,” Moriah said, frowning. “Don't you agree, Mills?”

Millard picked up his glass of water and took a sip. “I'm going to pass on that one,” he mumbled.

“What do you mean you pass, Millard Taylor?” Paulette practically shouted.

“Stop looking at me like that, Paul. I've never solicited a hooker. But I understand why men do it, and especially married men.”

“Please pray tell me why?” Paulette drawled sarcastically.

“Because…because some wives don't…won't…” Millard did not finish his statement.

Gwen gave her father a sidelong glance. “You just put your foot in your mouth, Daddy.”

“Won't do what?” Paulette asked.

Gwen glared at Paulette. “Let it go, Mama.”

“I will not let it—”

“I said to please let it go,” Gwen said between her teeth, interrupting her mother. “We're all adults and we know what Daddy wanted to say.”

Paulette opened her mouth to argue with her daughter, then closed it as if realization had suddenly dawned.

Eyes downcast, she smoothed out the tablecloth next to her place setting. “All I'm going to say is that I've never given my husband a reason to pay for
sex.
” She'd stressed the last word.