Page 30 of Cursed
Morgan hurried upstairs, hoping that she wouldn’t bump into Janet because she was sure her face would give away her recent activities.
Her response to Andre had been supercharged. She didn’t like that—for a lot of different reasons. She had told herself nobody could take her husband’s place in her life—or in her bed. But she had certainly forgotten about Trevor in Andre Gascon’s arms. She was being disloyal to a memory that should have been sacred.
Clenching her teeth, she strode into her room and closed the door. After unpacking her laptop, she settled on the bed and connected to the Internet.
Then she quickly sent a message to Decorah, telling them that she had arrived safely. She debated what else to add and finally mentioned that men in town had exhibited hostility when she’d asked for directions to Belle Vista. She also noted that Andre Gascon seemed to be less than forthcoming in his answers to her questions about the presumed voodoo priestess who had been outside her window chanting the night before. But she also credited him with rescuing her from a flash flood—omitting any details that might alarm her friends back home.
A little smile flickered on her lips as she thought about their reaction to the voodoo part. Probably that would give them pause, but they knew she could handle herself. Right, if they didn’t think she’d lost her mind.
Of course, as far as she was concerned, a more urgent problem was not having a weapon. Her Glock had been swept away by the flood. Although she knew from her research that there was a gun shop in town where she could replace it, that would have to wait until she got her car back from the garage—and Andre checked it out for her.
Turning off her computer, she strode to the window. The view looked different in the daylight, of course. But she was pretty sure she could pick out the tree where she’d seen the woman last night. After stuffing some plastic bags and thin rubber gloves into her pocket, she headed downstairs again. On the first floor, she explored until she found a back door off the same hallway that led to the kitchen.
Outside, she breathed in the damp air, then looked down at the garden from the vantage point of the landing. The grounds had impressed her the evening before, although she’d hardly gotten to enjoy the view before Andre had hustled her into the house. In the bright sunlight, the garden was stunning, with carefully mulched beds that were almost devoid of weeds.
Descending the steps, she wandered among the flower beds. When she came to a stalk of grass that obviously didn’t belong among the begonias, she pulled it up, then wondered where she was going to get rid of it.
As she walked across the broad lawn and away from the house, she could see that Andre had different garden beds scattered around the lawn. Many were edged with bright annuals to provide continuous color. In the center were grouped perennials like iris, peonies or lilies that would provide varying bursts of color throughout the year.
The garden—and the house—said a lot about the owner of Belle Vista. He was supremely self-sufficient. He made long-range plans. He loved living in a beautiful setting. He was willing to work hard to achieve his goals.
At the margins of the garden, Andre had cultivated informal groups of natural plants. Under a live oak, just past a patch of spear-like ferns, Morgan found a rough circle of trampled earth. As she examined the spot, a shiver traveled over her skin, despite the heat. This must be where the voodoo priestess had been standing, although she saw no evidence beyond the trampled ground.
How often did the woman come here? Was her visit a special treat for Andre’s librarian? Along with the gris-gris.
Morgan glanced back over her shoulder. Without her gun for protection, she wanted to keep the house in sight. But she also wanted to do some more investigating. She began walking back and forth, checking the ground. About fifteen yards from the edge of the manicured area, she spotted something white among the leaves covering the ground. When she squatted down, she found several cigarette butts. Pulling on a rubber glove, she picked up the butts and shoved them into a plastic bag. Methodically, she looked for more evidence but found nothing besides bird droppings. The butts would have DNA evidence—from saliva. But there was a good chance the rain had washed it away. Still, she was going to send the evidence to Decorah for analysis.
The hair prickled on the back of her neck, and she looked quickly over her shoulder, expecting to find Andre staring at her. She saw no one. Yet the feeling of being watched persisted.
Before she’d come here, Andre had told her which books to read about the natural environment. Now she pretended great interest in a giant hooded pitcher plant as she scanned the underbrush around her. Although nothing stirred, the feeling of uneasiness persisted. And the house was out of sight now. But she knew the way back because bright sunlight marked the edge of the lawn.
Still, she kept her ears tuned for danger. When she heard something moving in the underbrush, she went stock-still, visions of jaguars playing through her head.
With part of her mind, she knew she was out to prove to herself that Morgan Kirkland hadn’t changed since coming to Belle Vista and meeting Andre Gascon. She still had the same reckless disregard for her own safety.
But she had enough sense to hesitate for several minutes stepping farther into the shadows, moving cautiously from tree trunk to tree trunk. It was a secret relief to find she could only walk another twenty yards before she came to the bank of what she would have called a small, lazy river, although she suspected the people down here would refer to it as a bayou.
She followed its course for another couple of hundred yards, moving farther from the house—farther from safety, until she came to a place where she could see an island about six feet from shore, with a fallen log lying across the banks, providing access. The log was about three feet above the water, the near end resting on a bed of sphagnum moss. It was too narrow to be a good bridge, but when she moved closer, she saw muddyfootprints in the moss and on the log top—suggesting that someone had crossed over. Someone with a secret to hide out here in the swamp?
It could be Andre. But what if it wasn’t him? What if someone else was hiding an illegal operation on his property and wanted everyone to keep out of the area? A murderous jaguar would certainly discourage trespassers.
She stared across at the tangle of vegetation on the island, trying to figure out if someone had been over there recently—or on a regular basis. Some of the saw palmettos and pond spice bushes looked trampled. But she couldn’t be sure if a person or an animal had done it.
The place seemed ordinary, yet it gave her a creepy feeling—as though something lurked on the other side of the log, waiting to grab her.
Nonsense, she told herself firmly.
Crouching in the shadows, the watcher on the island stayed very still—still as the nearest tree trunk.
Morgan Kirkland was standing on the bank, staring across the brown water, looking over here like she wanted to find out what was going on.
“Come on. Come on and try it. But watch out for the booby trap—and the gators.”
She’d come marching out of the house this morning and started poking around. Then she’d picked up something from the ground and put it in a plastic bag.
The bitch was much too nosy. In town, she had given out the story that she was a librarian. If so, why was she taking aninspection tour of the bayou? Why was she so damn interested in the island?
“Come on,” the watcher whispered again. “You want to cross? You’ve got to do it just right or you’ll give my pet gator a nice breakfast treat. Usually he has to make do with the chunks of meat I feed him. But maybe not today.” It was hard to repress a chuckle, but the watcher managed.
