Page 93 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

“I know,” he agreed. “Though Mrs. Donnigan is an innocent in all this.”

“Yeah, and so is Gloria Arbuckle, but they have lousy taste in family members. Even if this was a mistake, I wouldn’t put it past Leon to post some of the pictures on the Internet.” Her stomach soured at the thought.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t by reminding him about all the laws he’s broken.”

“If I don’t get to him first. I think I could get some good shots of him smoking a—controlled substance—if I really tried.”

Reed actually laughed and said, “We’ll talk later. I gotta run now.”

“Much later. I’ve got a hot date with a private detective.”

“Holt Beauregard?” He let out a low whistle. “Good luck with that. I don’t know what his feelings on the matter are, but let’s just say Deacon isn’t taking Blondell O’Henry’s release all that wel

l. Thinks it’s a travesty of justice and is taking it as a personal black eye for not only the department, but especially his old man.”

“He’d better get over it.” She thought about telling him her suspicions about Flint Beauregard but decided against it. So far it was just a theory, with nothing much to back it up.

“Not happening,” Reed said. “At least not today. Oh, and the garage called. The lab’s finished going over your car. I can pick it up anytime.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll do it. I can get a ride from the rental car agency.” She was thinking of her uncle’s set of keys that she’d had to abandon in the car. If she could avoid it, she didn’t want to explain to Reed how she’d ended up with them. Until the key ring was returned, she’d basically stolen Uncle Alex’s personal property, no matter how much she sugar-coated it to herself.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” she said and decided she’d better return the keys at the first chance she got. “I’ll take care of it. You keep on chasing the bad guys.” Her uncle’s warning flitted through her mind.

She’s dangerous . . . Leave this alone!

Had his words been just the delusions of an older man battling with reality? Or had the warning been a ploy to keep her from finding out the truth—that he was romantically involved with his client? There was also, of course, potentially another more dire implication in his words: that Blondell O’Henry, the woman about to be released from prison, truly was a cold-blooded killer and that digging up her past was only asking for trouble.

CHAPTER 27

Sometimes things just seemed to work better without a man involved, Morrisette thought as she eased the nose of her Chevy off Victory Drive and into the neighborhood where Deacon and Holt Beauregard had grown up. She’d done some digging about their father, Flint Beauregard, and learned that he’d gone to school here, in Savannah, the very same high school Blondell O’Henry—well, actually Blondell Rochette, at that time—had attended, though, of course, years before.

Still, it was a little detail that had nagged at Morrisette for days. Today she was going to do a little poking and see what she could find. Sliding a pair of sunglasses onto her nose, she headed her car to Stevenson Street.

With aging post–World War II bungalows lining the streets, this part of Savannah could have been Anywhere, USA. Basketball hoops had been bolted to garage roofs, and cars were parked against the curbs. The sidewalks were lined with shade trees planted so long ago that their branches were tangled in the electrical wires overhead and their roots had buckled the cement.

The Beauregards’ house was in the middle of the block, painted khaki green, the decorative shutters the same brown as the trim; a walkway split the scraggly lawn, its mortar chipped and cracked, and weeds sprouted between the faded bricks. Morrisette walked up to the front door, rang the bell, and waited on the outside of an aluminum screen door.

As she dropped her sunglasses into her pocket, footsteps heralded the arrival of someone on the other side, and seconds later Flora Beauregard, in a sweater and jeans a size too tight, opened the sticking front door with an effort.

Morrisette flashed her badge and introduced herself. “I’d like to come in and ask you a few questions,” she said.

Flora’s hand reached for the latch to the screen door but paused. “I don’t know . . .”

“It won’t take long. I promise.” Morrisette managed a “we’re just girls here talking” smile.

“Well . . . I suppose,” Flora said in her soft Southern drawl as she unlatched the screen. She was thick in the middle, her hair a carefully styled blond bouffant, stylish glasses bridging her nose. “I’ve been expecting someone like you would be coming by ever since the talk started about that woman.” She held the door open for Morrisette. “I can’t believe she’s being released. I just can’t believe it. After what she did!” Latching the screen behind Morrisette with one hand, she motioned her into the living room with her other.

The room, dominated by a big picture window, looked as if it had been redecorated around 1975 and not touched since. The heat was blasting—the temperature had to have been pushing eighty degrees—and an underlying odor of cigarette smoke and bacon grease lingered in the air.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Flora offered. “Sweet tea? Coffee?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, then.” Waving Morrisette into a striped side chair, Flora took a seat in what seemed to be her favorite rocker, positioned to face the television, a knitting bag overflowing with balls of yarn at its side. Several tabloid magazines were strewn across the worn carpet, though she gathered them up and tucked them into a rack that also served as an end table. On the muted television set, a cooking program was in progress, a stout woman frying some kind of sizzling meat while furiously chopping bell peppers and onions, from the looks of it.

“Deacon said someone would probably show up,” she admitted.

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