Mimosa Grove (3 page)

“Look, Miss Peloquin, for now, let’s play this by ear. We’ll stay in touch. If we can corroborate your accusations, we’ll go from there.”

“Can you keep my name out of this?”

“Right up until the moment you testify,” Robert said.

“Then that will have to do,” she said.

Moments later, she was gone, leaving Robert and his staff with what amounted to a smoldering bomb.

A year ago, Peter McNamara had been named one of Washington, D.C.’s, most eligible bachelors, and four days ago he’d made the headlines again by being arrested for selling government secrets. Once his name and face had gone international, it hadn’t taken long for the new Russian regime to start denying any knowledge of his crimes.

The Russian ambassador had been caught between a rock and the proverbial hard place. Older than McNamara by ten years, he was well versed in the games his country had once played with the most powerful government on earth. But that had been then and this was now, and the Cold War was supposedly over. The Berlin Wall was long gone, and a half-assed order of democracy was trying to take root in what was left of the USSR. But having the truth of McNamara’s background emerge would destroy the ambassador’s tenuous credibility.

Bit by painful bit, that truth finally came out. McNamara wasn’t really Peter’s name. He was actually Dimitri Chorkin, and as a young man, he’d been planted in the U.S. by the old Russian KGB. It was still up in the air as to whether or not he’d been spying for his government all these years, but the accusations were strong enough for an indictment. Added to that, he had been making big bucks for the past eleven or so years by selling military secrets to enemies of the United States, which really put the ambassador on edge. He’d had two meetings with the President and was scheduled for a quick flight home to Moscow tomorrow to update his superiors there. He didn’t have any kind of news they were going to like and daily wished Chorkin to hell on a fast-burning boat.

During this time, Robert Scanlon had been officially named lead prosecutor, becoming part of the process that would bring an end to Peter’s charade. But by refusing to admit he was regretting his daughter’s absence, Robert was stuck with nothing but work to keep him occupied. Having gotten himself in this situation with his temper, he now decided to get a head start on things by reviewing the files on the impending case. There was no need worrying about a daughter who didn’t wish to comply with society’s standards.

Despite his public persona, Peter McNamara had always been something of an enigma. He owned a popular, upscale art gallery, which put him high on the party-circuit guest list. He enjoyed the popularity as well as the notoriety that went with being in the public eye. With district attorneys, senators, even foreign ambassadors, as friends and clients, McNamara had lived secure in the knowledge that his circle of friends represented the crème de la crème of Washington, D.C. But the truth of his existence wasn’t that simple. He was a rich, single, remarkably handsome and fit fifty-four-year-old heterosexual male who was living a lie.

Dimitri Chorkin was born in a small village outside of Minsk in the old Soviet Republic of Russia, and it had soon become evident to those around him that his intelligence was far beyond that of his humble parents’. At that point he’d been removed from his home by government officials and taken into a state-run institution for education. By the time he was eleven, he’d acquired the equivalent of two Ph.D.s, one in mathematics, the other in the sciences. At that point, another branch of the government had taken over his education, and by the age of eighteen, he knew everything there was to know about subversive activities. With forged papers and a new identity, he appeared on the campus of Harvard University in the fall of 1968 as a freshman named Peter McNamara and began to assimilate himself into American society, fully expecting to be called upon at any time to do what he’d been trained to do.

But the years passed without further communication from the government that had created him. During that time, the lines between reality and fiction began to blur. Dimitri liked the freedom of the United States as well as the opportunities. By the time he was thirty, he rarely thought of Dimitri Chorkin, and when he did, it was only in the past tense.

He lived as others around him lived, making friends, celebrating holidays and Christmases with his woman of the moment, but never letting anyone see past the obvious. Then he moved to Washington, D.C., opened an art gallery with money he’d made on a dot-com company before it went bust, and after getting drunk at a party with a general’s son and some hooker he’d been trying to impress, he became what he’d been trained to be.

Selling military secrets had been an easy and productive addition to his financial portfolio, and it had lasted eleven good years. When they’d arrested him, he’d been stunned. Even after he’d hired a lawyer and been told there was the possibility of a witness in the offing, as well as a traceable connection to the military, he’d scoffed. He was too brilliant to make mistakes like that and felt confident that there was nothing solid linking him to anything illegal, only the revelation of his true identity.

Except, of course, that general’s son.

I
t was nearing seven in the evening when Laurel drove into Bayou Jean. The heat waves coming up from the concrete hung like a curtain of steam between her car and the town’s only stoplight as she waited for it to turn green. An old hound lay immobile on the street corner, immune to everything, including the flies buzzing around his ears. A small child on the opposite corner of the street was so curious about Laurel’s presence that what was left of the Popsicle she’d been licking melted and ran between her fingers as she stared.

The light turned green. Laurel grinned and wiggled her fingers at the little girl. Startled, the child ducked her head and turned to run back into the nearby grocery store. As she did, she caught the toe of her sandal on a crack in the sidewalk and fell face first onto the concrete.

Laurel gasped, then winced as she witnessed the impact. She could see blood spurting from the child’s lower lip, and without hesitation, wheeled toward the curb and parked. By the time she got out, the little girl was bloody and screaming with pain. Laurel reached her just as the mother emerged from the store.

“Melanie! Melanie! What happened?” the mother cried.

“She tripped and fell,” Laurel said. “I saw it from the street.”

By now, several other people had come out of nearby stores to see what all the fuss was about. When the little girl, who Laurel now knew as Melanie, realized she was bleeding, she began to cry even louder.

“I’ve got some medicated wipes,” Laurel said, and ran back to the car. She dug through her purse for a small pack of aloe-vera-coated wipes, then hurried back to the little girl, who was now sitting in her mother’s lap.

“Easy now, darling,” Laurel said softly. “These will make it feel all better, okay?”

She pulled two separate wipes from the packet, unfolded them and laid them gently on the little girl’s knees, then handed the rest of the packet to the mother so that she could clean the child’s elbow and mouth.

“Thank you so much,” the woman said, then pressed a nervous kiss against her daughter’s cheek before easing the damp tissue against the child’s rapidly swelling bottom lip.

“Oww, Mommy. It hurts,” Melanie cried, then hid her face against her mother’s breasts.

Laurel delicately fingered a flyaway curl at the side of the little girl’s cheek, then asked, “Melanie? Your name is Melanie?”

The little girl nodded without looking up.

“So, how about a new Popsicle?” Laurel asked. “I’ll bet your lip would feel a whole lot better with something cold and sweet against it.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the little girl nodded.

“Cherry?” Laurel asked.

She nodded again.

“Be right back,” Laurel said, and hurried into the small grocery store. “Where is the frozen-food section?”

A curious clerk pointed toward the south wall.

Laurel found the small freezer section, picked up a box of Popsicles and headed toward the checkout counter. She tossed a five dollar bill toward the cashier and hurried toward the door.

“Hey, lady, your change!” the clerk shouted.

“Keep it,” Laurel said as she ran out the door.

When she got back to the curb where the mother and child were sitting, she eased down beside them and quickly opened up the box.

“Look, honey! Want to pick out one for Mommy, too?”

The little girl nodded as Laurel handed her a new icy treat. She took one long lick on the cherry-red ice, then took a fresh one out of the box and gave it to her mother.

“Mmm, green,” her mother said. “My favorite.”

“You, too,” Melanie said, and handed one to Laurel.

“Why, thank you,” Laurel said. “It’s orange…and that’s
my
favorite.”

She pulled the paper from the frozen treat and then wrapped it around the stick to catch the drips as she began to lick.

Laurel handed the box around to the remaining bystanders.

“Help yourselves before they melt.”

A couple of the older women shook their heads and smiled before walking away, but a teenage boy and his girlfriend, as well as a woman with two kids in tow, accepted the offer.

“This is good,” Laurel told Melanie as she tried to keep up with the quickly melting Popsicle. “Thank you.”

Melanie ducked her head but continued to lick, looking at Laurel only when she thought Laurel was not looking back.

Now that the small drama was over, the young mother also took time to assess the stranger who’d involved herself in her daughter’s plight. The Cajun accent was thick in her voice as she glanced up at Laurel and spoke.

“My name is Yvette Charbonneau. This is my baby girl, Melanie.”

Laurel smiled. “Nice to meet you, Yvette…and you, too, Melanie. I’m Laurel Scanlon.”

Melanie giggled once, then slurped noisily to catch a big drip before it fell on her T-shirt.

“You just passin’ through?” Yvette asked, then took a big bite of the green Popsicle, letting it melt on her tongue.

Laurel hesitated, took a bite of her own Popsicle, then did something she’d been taught not to do and talked with her mouth full.

“No. My grandmother lived just south of here. She died recently and left her property to me. I was on my way there when I saw your little girl trip and fall.”

Yvette’s expression fell. “Oh…I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“That’s all right,” Laurel said, and then finished off the last of her Popsicle before standing. “I’d better be going. I want to get to Mimosa Grove before dark.”

The shock on Yvette Charbonneau’s face was obvious. She stood abruptly, clutching her little girl against her breast.

“You goin’ to Mimosa Grove?”

Laurel nodded.

“Miz Marcella was your grandmama?”

Suddenly Laurel realized that the friendliness she had seen on the people’s faces was gone. She took a step back, bracing herself for judgment.

“Yes.”

An old woman who’d been standing nearby suddenly moved out of the shade toward the curb.

“You be Phoebe’s girl?”

Laurel nodded, and wondered if she was going to have to defend the honor of her family name down here, as well.

“Praise be,” the old woman said, and then made the sign of the cross.

The others who’d been staring at Laurel began to smile, echoing similar murmurs of encouragement and welcome as Laurel stared at them in disbelief.

“Miz Marcella was a good woman,” the old woman added. “We gonna miss her, yeah.” Then she eyed Laurel up and down, hesitating only briefly before asking. “You got the sight…like Miz Marcella?”

Between the shock of their obvious welcome and the thickness of the old woman’s Cajun accent, Laurel wasn’t certain what she was hearing. But if she wasn’t mistaken, not only had these people acknowledged Marcella’s psychic abilities but had revered her for them.

“Uh…um, I…”

The old woman saw the fear on Laurel’s face and suddenly understood.

“It be a great thing…dat gift of sight,” she said softly. “Miz Marcella and me…we friends, yeah, from way back. Been missin’ her somethin’ fierce. But you here now…so a piece of her still wit’ us after all.” Then her expression shifted to one of concern as she added, “You gonna stay, yeah?”

The muscles in Laurel’s throat tightened as she nodded.

The old woman smiled. “Ain’t no seer, me…but I heal some. If you get da malaise, you come see old Tula. I fix you up good, yeah?”

Laurel took a deep breath. “Yes. I’ll remember that.”

Then she glanced nervously around at the others who were still present. No one seemed wary or offended. She gave them a tentative smile, which they quickly returned.

Then Tula spoke again. “Marie LeFleur…she know you comin’?”

Laurel frowned. The name was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t remember why.

“Who’s Marie LeFleur?”

The old woman smiled. “You find out when you get to Mimosa Grove. When you see her, you tell her, Tula, she say hello.”

“Yes, all right,” Laurel said, and with a quick wave toward Melanie and Yvette Charbonneau, started to leave. But before she could get off the curb, a police car pulled up beside her car and parked. When a stocky, middle-aged man got out with a glare on his face, she stifled a groan.

“Somebody got trouble?” he asked, eyeing Laurel warily before looking at the others gathered on the sidewalk. Then he saw the little girl’s injuries and frowned. “What happened here?”

Melanie pointed at Laurel. “She gave me a new icy,” she said.

“Well, that’s right nice of her,” he said, then eyed the blood all over her clothes, as well as the cuts and scrapes. “How come you bleedin’ there, darlin’? You didn’t run into the street, now, did you?”

Laurel felt an angry flush spreading across her cheeks as she glared at the officer.

“I did not hit that child with my car and then try to buy her off with a Popsicle, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” she snapped. “The child fell. I saw it happen and stopped to help. Now, if you all will excuse me, I want to reach Mimosa Grove before dark.”

The policeman’s expression shifted instantly. Before he could ask, Laurel stomped toward her car and got inside.

Frowning, Yvette gathered her child up in her arms. “Now, Harper, you know what you just went and done? You insulted Miz Marcella’s granddaughter, that’s what.”

She shook her head at him in disgust, then hurried back inside the grocery, anxious to finish her shopping and get her little girl home so she could better tend to her injuries.

Harper Fonteneau paled, then shoved his hat to the back of his head, watching with unconcealed dismay as Laurel drove away.

“Now, why didn’t somebody introduce me before I shot off my mouth?”

“Ain’t nobody able to tink dat fast,” old Tula countered, muttering to herself as she shuffled away.

By the time she passed the city-limits sign, Laurel’s good mood had returned. She wasn’t certain what awaited her at Mimosa Grove, but it was obvious that the people of Bayou Jean were not of a mind to run her out of town on a rail. Just the thought of being accepted for who she was made Laurel smile, and she was still smiling as she glanced down at the map on the seat beside her. According to the lawyer’s directions, she should be close to her destination.

A short distance down the road, she saw a rural mailbox mounted on a rusting scroll of decorative wrought iron. She slowed down, then tapped the brakes, giving herself time to read the faded name on the side of the box.

Campion.

Her heart skipped a beat. This must be it! According to the lawyer’s letter, this marked the front boundary to Mimosa Grove. She turned the steering wheel sharply to the right, then accelerated slowly, maneuvering the car through a narrow drive bordered on both sides with overgrown bushes. Within seconds, she emerged onto the grounds with a slightly obstructed view of a massive, three-story structure.

Once it must have been majestic in its elegance, but no longer. Everywhere she looked, there were large, spreading mimosa trees in full bloom, as well as a solid wall of them surrounding the grounds on three sides. As she drove closer, she could see that the roof of the old mansion was in obvious need of repair, as were the railings on the second-story veranda. Four massive Corinthian pillars marked the length of the front of the house, standing three stories tall and doing what they could to hold up the slightly sagging roof. Paint peeled and flaked without prejudice, giving the entire house the appearance of having some horrible, scaly disease. Overgrown landscaping that should have framed the old house’s appearance only added to its encroaching demise.

Laurel sighed. It wasn’t what she’d expected, and it certainly wasn’t how she remembered it, but it didn’t change the fact that it was hers. As she drove farther, she noticed a pair of peacocks near a large, scum-covered pool of green water. She had a vague memory of standing near the edge and tossing bread-crumbs to a pair of oversize goldfish. Obviously the fish were no more, because that murky water couldn’t possibly sustain life other than bacteria and mosquitoes.

As she drove past, the peacocks squawked their disapproval, then fanned their tails before strutting toward the shade of a huge mimosa. A faint breeze shifted the fragile, spiky blooms on some trees near the road, causing a few of them to come loose and shower down on her car, while others were caught on the air and sailed past. Another memory surfaced, of standing beneath such trees while loose blossoms drifted down upon her face and hearing her mother tell her the blooms weren’t really flowers, but pink-and-white fairies. She knew if she closed her eyes, she would be able to hear the laughter that had come afterward.

Quick tears blurred her vision when she realized how long it had been since she’d thought of her mother in a positive vein. If only Phoebe hadn’t died. If only she hadn’t let her father control her life afterward, she might have known Marcella Campion as more than just a name.

“Oh, Grandmother, forgive me. I should have come back.”

Seconds later, a large parrot flew across her line of vision in a blurred swath of red, green and yellow, followed by a smaller blue one. Looking closer, she realized there were dozens of parrots, some perched in nearby trees, others flying from tree to tree in a colorful game of aerial hopscotch.

Moments later she pulled to a stop only feet from the steps leading up to the veranda. She killed the engine and got out, anxious to see if the interior of the house looked as abandoned as the exterior. She circled the car and had started up the steps when suddenly a large peacock appeared on the porch above her. Its tail fanned to full display as it let out a piercing and territorial shriek.

Laurel paused nervously, uncertain whether to broach the peacock’s territory or wait until it moved away. Before she had time to decide, the front door was flung open, and a tiny, cocoa-skinned woman of indeterminate age, wearing a red-and-white muumuu, her hair wound up in a bun and yellow flip-flops on her feet, came out on the run.

“Shoo! Shoo!” she cried, waving her arms over her head. “Get on with you!”