False Pretenses - Kathy Herman [7]
“This place is going to make a wonderful bed-and-breakfast,” he said. “I can picture us living here. What a great way for Carter to grow up. He’ll charm the guests and learn some important people skills in the process. I can hardly wait to see the blueprints.”
“Me either. But the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that all the guest rooms should have a private bath.”
“I agree.… Honey, what’s wrong? You look flustered.”
“I am.”
“What happened?”
Vanessa fanned herself with her hand. The heat was suddenly oppressive. “Oh, I mentioned something I read in Augusta Langley’s diary about her feeling bad that the British had mistreated the Acadians, and Pierce went off.” She told Ethan everything she could remember about the uncomfortable exchange. “I totally agreed with Pierce about how awful it was. But I was floored at how prejudiced he is toward the British. I didn’t see that coming.”
“I haven’t noticed it.”
Vanessa arched her eyebrows. “You will if you ever get into a discussion about Cajun history. Be forewarned.”
“The last thing we need is a Cajun landlord who resents us. It’s going to be a long time before we move in here.” Ethan looked over her shoulder, seemingly distracted by something. “Is that a marble on the floor?”
He walked past her to the dining-room table, got down on all fours, and stretched out his arm underneath it until he had something in his hand.
“No way,” he said. “You’re not going to believe what this is.”
“Tell me.”
Ethan crawled out from under the table and rose to his feet, holding a tiny yellow object between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes wide. “It’s a lemon drop.”
“Very funny.”
“See for yourself.”
Ethan walked toward her, the object in his open palm.
“It’s obviously a lemon drop,” she said. “I just think you put it there.”
“What? Why would I do that?”
“As a prank. To make me think Carter actually saw some guy in the upstairs closet. I don’t think it’s funny.”
“Neither do I. And I’m not into cruel pranks. I have no idea where it came from.”
She studied his stony expression, half expecting him to break into laughter at any moment. “Well, I’m sure Carter didn’t put it there.”
“Honey …” Ethan gently gripped her wrist. “I didn’t. I promise.”
“We had all the locks changed. No one else has a key to the house.”
“Well”—Ethan pursed his lips and looked up the white staircase—“if Carter did see a man up there, the guy got in without a key.”
“How? The doors are all locked. Windows, too.”
Ethan shrugged. “I don’t have an explanation. Yet. But it wasn’t the ghost of Josiah Langley. Besides, I doubt they had lemon drops in 1839.”
“Don’t kid around, Ethan. This is creepy. How will we ever be safe here if someone can get in and out without a key?”
“Take it easy, honey. There has to be an explanation.”
“It terrifies me that Carter might actually have been close to this … this … trespasser.” Vanessa glanced up at the oil painting, a chill crawling up her spine. “Let’s not say anything to Zoe and Pierce. I don’t want anything else added to the ghost stories about this place.”
“Agreed. We need to talk to Carter again and start taking his description of this character seriously. And we need to report it to the sheriff.”
CHAPTER 2
The next morning, Zoe Broussard hurried down the stairs from her apartment above Zoe B’s Cajun Eatery and walked through the alcove and into the cozy dining area. The aroma of warm beignets, oven-hot bread, and freshly brewed coffee filled her senses.
The place was starting to fill up with customers, the hum of their voices the perfect background music. Could it really have been a decade ago that she opened this place? Little had changed, other than the size, the color scheme, and the addition of a few oil paintings from local artists. The same French country furnishings still flavored the ambiance.
Two of her longtime customers sat at the table next to the window, where she’d hung her prize fern. She unfolded a red and gold fleur-de-lis print tablecloth that matched the curtains, shook it, then spread it evenly across the table,