"No. I don't ever want to forget where I came from and the community of people who embraced me. The people who live in the swamp are good people, whose only fault is being poor and having to fight prejudice. They begin their lives with a curse on their heads. Swamp rats." He spoke with a pa.s.sion that stirred Shelby.

"But that's changing, isn't it? Now there's the community center, and at least it's a beginning."

He nodded. "Yes, it's a beginning, but in the meantime somebody is trying to clean up the town by killing off the swamp community."

"Billy, we can't solve all the murders in Black Bayou. At the moment the top priority is to figure out who is responsible for Tyler's and Fayrene's deaths."

"At the moment my top priority is a bowl of Martha's seafood gumbo." He opened the restaurant door and ushered her inside.

They went to the back, into the same small room where they'd sat before. Shelby would have preferred the more open, less private area of the main dining room, but knew here they would both be safe from curious stares.

As she slid into the chair across from him, she tried to ignore how he filled the air with his scent. The walls of the room seemed to close in as if attempting to quell his overwhelming presence, contain his vibrating energy.

She should be thinking about the case. She shouldn't be thinking about how his lips had felt on hers. She shouldn't be remembering the taste of his skin, the feel of his bare flesh beneath her fingertips.

She sighed in relief as Martha entered, order pad in hand. "Heard you was in jail," she said, giving Billy a nudge with her elbow.

"I was, but I have a good lawyer." Billy's gaze was warm as it lingered on Shelby. It was a look devoid of s.e.xual insinuation, instead holding a touch of respect. Heat exploded in the pit of her stomach, making her realize she wanted Billy's respect, knew it was something he didn't give lightly.

She schooled her thoughts back to the matter at hand, aware that Billy's respect wouldn't be worth much if he wound up spending the rest of his life in prison.

Once Martha had departed with their lunch orders, Shelby leaned back in her chair, turning the facts of the case as she knew them around and around in her head. "There has to be something we're missing in all of this," she finally said. "Everyone has said this was a crime of pa.s.sion, that you killed Tyler and Fayrene in a jealous rage. If we take away that motive, then who wanted Fayrene dead?"

"If we knew that, we'd know who killed her and we wouldn't be here having this conversation," Billy said wryly.

"Maybe we're approaching this from the wrong angle," Shelby said. She paused as Martha returned with two cold sodas and steaming bowls of gumbo with chunks of thick corn bread on the side.

When Martha departed once again, Shelby continued her thought. "Jonathon LaJune said Tyler was a victim of circ.u.mstance, simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone is a.s.suming the killer was after Fayrene, and Tyler merely happened to be in the way. But what happens if the intended victim wasn't Fayrene at all and instead was Tyler?"

Billy stared at her. "That definitely puts a different spin on the situation." He broke off a piece of the corn bread and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he continued to stare at her.

It was difficult to concentrate on anything except the fact that his days of freedom were now numbered unless Shelby could somehow pull a rabbit out of a hat. A night in jail had brought home the reality of his situation, and he was suddenly struck with the sweetness of his present freedom and a frantic need to experience everything possible before he went to trial.

Billy had no illusions about himself. If the unthinkable happened and he was found guilty, he would die in prison. Whether from the heartbreak of being without Parker or from a homemade knife in the back because he'd smarted off to the wrong tough guy, he knew within a year he'd be dead.

And who would mourn his pa.s.sing? Not Parker, who was too young to understand the finality of death. Certainly not anyone in the town of Black Bayou would grieve for him. He looked at Shelby, wondering if she'd shed a tear at his funeral. Surely not. Longsfords didn't cry over swamp rats.

"So how are you going to get me out of this mess?" he asked, irritated by his thoughts and finding her an easy target.

She glared at him in unconcealed aggravation. "I was attempting to do a little brainstorming here, but you appear to be brain-dead."

He smiled. "Okay, let's try it again and I promise to do my part." She'd grown strong while away, and he was surprised to realize he was drawn to her strength, just as he was drawn to her softness.

He leaned back in his chair, trying to focus on the question she'd raised moments before. "I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill Tyler. Tyler was friends with everyone. He didn't know how to have cross words or create enemies."

"But he's dead, and there has to be a reason for his death."

"And that brings us full circle. Tyler was at the wrong place at the wrong time," Billy replied.

She sighed and focused on the meal. They ate in silence. Billy knew Shelby was still silently brainstorming. She ate slowly, methodically, her eyes holding the distance of deep preoccupation.

He didn't mind. It gave him an opportunity to study her, to catalog the ways she'd changed in the pa.s.sing years. Physically she hadn't changed much. Her eyes were just as blue, her hair the same cloud of darkness that had occasionally haunted his dreams. No, the changes he saw in Shelby had nothing to do with her physical appearance. They were subtle, more profound.

There had once been an untainted innocence in her eyes, but that was no longer there. Had he taken that from her on the same night he'd taken her virginity? He shoved this thought aside, not wanting to be responsible for that. He had been her first lover, and he found himself wondering how many she'd had since. He'd guess few.

One thing was certain. He wasn't about to risk a lifetime in prison without making love to Shelby one last time.

"CAN YOU TELL ME what kind of stories Tyler wrote for the paper?" Shelby asked Martin Winthrop, editor in chief of the Black Bayou Daily News. She and Billy had parted after lunch with the agreement that she would meet him later should she learn anything important.

"Since Mrs. Wilmington's death three years ago, Tyler mostly took care of the society news," Martin said as he led Shelby back to Tyler's desk. "I kept promising him that sooner or later I'd find somebody else to do the society pages, but with his name and connections he had an inside track to all the parties and hoity-toity events." A flash of guilt crossed Martin's face. "He wanted to do the hard stuff, but I hated to waste his background and breeding. A dozen reporters can do hard stories, very few get invited into the inner circles of society."

"And n.o.body has touched any of his things here?" Shelby asked, scanning the neat surface of the scarred wooden desk.

"Nah." Martin scratched his rotund belly. "I was gonna box it all up and send it over to his folks. Didn't know what else to do with it." He frowned and his fingers moved up to scratch absently at his chest. "d.a.m.n shame. He was a fine writer, a good kid."

"Do you mind?" Shelby gestured to the desk.

Martin shrugged. "Help yourself, but you won't find much here. Tyler did most of his work on his laptop computer."

"And you don't know where that is?"

Martin shook his head. "I a.s.sume it's at his parents' house." He looked at his watch. "Look, I gotta get back to work. You be all right?"

She nodded and waited until Martin walked away, then she sat down at the desk where Tyler LaJune had worked for the past seven years. A computer sat on one corner of the desk.

She punched the On b.u.t.ton and while it booted up she opened the desk drawer and scanned the contents. Paper clips, pencils, small notepads, all the tools of a writer neatly organized for easy access.

She had no idea what she was looking for, knew she could be chasing her tail, but she had to follow through on the possibility that Tyler was the intended victim and Fayrene the unfortunate victim of circ.u.mstance. In that particular scenario Billy's motive no longer played, and without a motive, the state's case was weak.

The desk drawers yielded nothing of consequence and Shelby turned her attention to the computer. In the word processing files she found story after story of weddings, charity dinners, b.a.l.l.s and gala events, but nothing that would make anybody want to murder Tyler.

It took her nearly an hour to go through all the files the directory held. Finally she shut off the computer and heaved a sigh of frustration. Nothing. There had been nothing in his files to provoke his murder. Disappointment weighed heavily on her shoulders as she left the newspaper building.

She'd hoped to find something, anything they could use as an alternative to the case Abe would build against Billy. She got back into her car and sat, waiting for the air conditioner to cool the stifling interior.

The dog days of summer were approaching, when the temperature and humidity would soar. Tempers would flare, pa.s.sions would rise and the furor over Tyler's death would escalate. Jonathon LaJune had tried to mete out his own brand of justice. Who else might try to harm Billy in a misguided attempt to balance the scales of fate?

She thought again of Martin's words. Tyler had used a laptop. The obvious place for the laptop to be was at his home. She frowned, dreading another meeting with Jonathon LaJune. His grief drained her, his anger daunted her, but she hoped his guilt over shooting her would prompt him to cooperate.

The LaJune mansion wasn't far from Shelby's home. As she pulled up in front, she noted the brown, withering flowers in the pots on the porch, weeds sprouting amid the untended lawn. It was as if Tyler's death had infected this place, bringing with it an aura of sorrow that surrounded the house.

Her knock on the door was greeted by a butler, who told her Mr. LaJune was not home but she could speak to Mrs. LaJune. As Shelby waited, she looked around the formal living room, her gaze lingering on a picture of Tyler.

Tyler and Billy. She'd never known exactly what had brought the two together. Billy was as taciturn as Tyler was gregarious. They had been seniors when Shelby had been a freshman and she could remember them walking together down the halls, the popular golden boy and the ultimate bad boy. In each other they seemed to have found a part of themselves that was missing, and the bond between them had been tangible and enviable.

She wondered if Billy had even had time to grieve for his best friend. What a tragedy, not only to lose a friend but to be charged for his death, as well.

Shivering, she remembered another night long ago when Billy had been grieving for the loss of a loved one. Had he sought asylum from his anguish in her arms? Had that been what had prompted that night of explosive pa.s.sion between them? If so, in whose arms was he a.s.suaging his grief for Tyler? And more important, why did she care?

"Shelby?"

She turned at the sound of the soft voice, her heart expanding as she held out a hand to greet Tyler's mother. "Mrs. LaJune, I'm so sorry."

Although Tyler's mother was impeccably groomed, her features were lifeless, trapped in the expression of heartache. "Thank you, my dear. They finally released him to us. We're having the funeral tomorrow. You'll come, won't you?"

"Of course." Shelby followed the older woman's lead and sat down on the sofa.

"And it is I who should be apologizing to you for my husband's actions." Mrs. LaJune looked down at her hands folded in her lap. "My husband isn't really a bad man, Shelby."

Shelby nodded. "I know that. Are you aware that I'm representing Billy?"

"I know." She looked at Shelby and for a moment a flash of life shone from her eyes. "I want the person who killed my son in prison, but I'm not convinced that person is Billy."

Finally, Shelby thought. Finally somebody else who believed in the possibility of Billy's innocence. "Do you have any idea who might have wanted Tyler dead?"

Mrs. LaJune shook her head and once again looked down at her hands. "My husband sees everything in black and white, with no room for shades of gray. He's decided Tyler was seeing Fayrene and Billy killed them both. But I know my son, and he would never be interested in a woman like Fayrene." She sighed, a deep, weary sigh. "I know my son had secrets. Tyler was hiding something before his death."

"How do you know?"

She placed a hand over her heart. "There are things a mother just knows. He was staying away more, sometimes not coming home for a day or two at a time. He told me he was working on an important story and was staying at the newspaper office, but that wasn't true. Unfortunately, I don't know what the truth is."

"I understand Tyler did most of his work on a laptop computer? Do you have it here?"

Mrs. LaJune frowned. "No...no, I haven't seen Tyler's little computer. It must be still at his desk at the paper."

Shelby shook her head. "I just came from there. It wasn't there."

"That's odd. Perhaps it's in his car." She stood and motioned for Shelby to follow her through the house and out the back door to the detached garage. "The police towed the car here the day after..." She let her words trail off, and Shelby felt the pain of the unspoken.

The laptop was not in the car, nor was it among any of Tyler's things. Shelby left the LaJune mansion mystified, entertaining the hunch that the laptop could provide the key to Tyler's murder.

She drove back to her house, parked her car, then took off walking across the expanse of lawn. She and Billy had made plans to meet to discuss what she'd learned in the course of the afternoon. Somehow she hadn't been surprised when he'd told her he was staying at Mama Royce's shanty. Although she knew he had an apartment m town, she understood his need to escape back to a place where he'd been happy and life had been less complicated. Or had life always been complicated for Billy Royce?

She left the manicured gra.s.s of the lawn, the air cooler as she entered the dense swamp. As if it had been only yesterday, she moved instinctively, her feet remembering where to step, when to jump to avoid pools of water or soggy marsh.

A rustling of the thick brush behind her shot a burst of adrenaline through her. Was somebody following her? Who was it? What? Evil. Evil in the swamp. Visions danced in her head...indistinct visions of a full moon and two figures. Blood in the water and the glint of a knife in the moonlight. A cry of rage...a m.u.f.fled scream. Evil. Evil.

Shelby ran, blinded by terror, operating solely on animal instinct. She clattered across the rickety bridge that led to Mama Royce's shanty, her fear choked in her throat.

The door to the shanty flew open and Billy caught her in his arms. "Shelby? What's wrong? Are you all right?"

She pressed her face against the hollow of his neck, trembling uncontrollably with residual, irrational fear. "I'm...I'm fine," she said, confused by her fear and not yet ready to release her hold on him. "Something frightened me...rustling in the woods." She tried to reach back, to capture the mental images that had provoked her fear, but they were gone, crowded out by the sharper reality of Billy's arms around her.

The collar of his cotton shirt smelled of the sun, the swamp and the heady scent that belonged to him alone. His arms held her securely, banishing the shivers that had chased up her spine.

"You sure you're all right?" His voice was soft, low in her ear. She nodded and reluctantly moved out of his arms.

"I'm fine. I don't know what happened. I heard something, probably an animal in the brush. I just suddenly got scared."

"Come inside." He touched her arm and she followed him into the shanty where years before she and Billy had shared an eruption of pa.s.sion that had changed Shelby's life forever.

She was surprised and relieved that the interior of the shanty no longer looked the same. Although it still had plank wood floors, electric lights had taken the place of the kerosene ones Mama Royce had used. A ceiling fan overhead stirred the air, cooling the room with a slight hum of the motor.

The furniture was different, except the chair in the corner. The sight of Mama Royce's rocking chair brought an ache to Shelby's chest. It sat empty, the shawl she'd always worn folded across the back as if awaiting her return.

Shelby walked over to the chair and ran her hand lovingly across the wool of the knitted shawl. "Do you still miss her?" she asked.

Billy nodded. "Not a day goes by that I don't think of her, hear her voice in my head giving me h.e.l.l about something or another."

Shelby smiled. "I used to envy you, having somebody like her in your life. She was so wonderful, so loving. Thank you for sharing her with me."

"She would have been proud of you, Shelby. She would have been proud of the woman you've become. She loved you."

Shelby nodded, for a moment her throat too full for words. She moved away from the chair, surprised to see a door to a room that hadn't been there years before. "What's this?" she asked curiously.

"Parker's bedroom. He's taking a nap." Billy sat down at the table and motioned her into the chair across from him. "I added it on the year he was born. Fayrene hated this place, but I wanted Parker to know it, think of it as his home away from home."

Shelby sat down across from him and relayed to him the events of the afternoon, explaining about the importance of the laptop. "I know it's a long shot," she said. "But Tyler's boss at the paper told me he wanted to write hardhitting stories. What if he was secretly working on something that put his life at risk?"

Billy frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose it's possible. Tyler hated writing the society news. He always told me he intended to write a story that would force Martin to take him off the society pages and make him front page material." Billy sighed and pulled a hand through his hair. "He made the front page, all right, but not in the way he'd hoped."

"The problem is the laptop is missing. It's not at the newspaper offices and it isn't at Tyler's home."

"I know where it might be," Billy said.

"Where?"

Billy's gaze moved to the closed door to Parker's room. "I'll have to take you there, but it will have to be tomorrow."

"Tyler's funeral is first thing in the morning," she reminded him.

"Then I'll meet you after the funeral and we'll go from there."

A plaintive childish cry from the bedroom interrupted any further conversation. Billy jumped up from the table. "He often has nightmares," he said, then disappeared into the bedroom.

Although Shelby knew she was intruding on his privacy, she couldn't help herself. She got up from the table and moved to the doorway of the bedroom.

The room was small, but cozy. A twin-size bed was against one wall, a long dresser against the opposite wall. On top of the dresser were shiny rocks and colorful leaves, bird feathers and other treasures of boyhood. But what captured Shelby's attention was the vision of Billy sitting on the edge of the small bed, the little boy curled in his arms. He spoke softly to the child, his words indistinct to Shelby, but his tone rea.s.suring.

He stroked Parker's hair and looked up, his gaze meeting Shelby's. In his eyes she saw an emotion so intense it stole her breath away. She knew in that instant that Jonathon LaJune had been wrong. Billy wasn't a man who didn't know how to love. Billy was a man who loved deeply, pa.s.sionately and, G.o.d help her, for just an instant she envied Parker for possessing Billy's love.

Chapter Eleven.