that. We don’t have it, remember? Now what about the journal? I haven’t heard from your two-bit grab-and-go man.”
“Right, right. I know. He was supposed to bring it to me, but he hurt his foot getting out of there.”
“So where is it?”
“At his house I guess.”
Paul gripped the cell phone so hard his hand cramped. “Well, get it for me! Now! That’s my journal and I don’t want your stupid SOB putting his hands on it. And by the way, when they run the prints from the tiara, you going to try to tell me that he’s not going to show up in the system?”
“Yeah. Okay, fine. I’ll call him again. I’ll get your damn book and bring it to you.”
“Don’t you dare come near my home. You call me and we’ll meet. And then I don’t want to ever hear from you again. Got that?”
“Hey. You going to bring me what you owe me?”
Paul laughed. “Maybe half of it, since you haven’t even delivered half the goods yet. Call me when you’ve got the journal.”
“No problem, but right now I’m going back to sleep.”
Paul hung up.
Shaking his head and thinking he’d have been better off picking up a homeless man to do the job for him, he figured he’d just give up on sleep and get up. He pulled on his sweatpants and sweatshirt and tied his running shoes. At forty-six, he was in good health. He’d been an outstanding long-distance runner in high school, and although he was beginning to feel the effects of his drinking, he’d kept up his routine of running every day, for the most part.
As he jogged along the neutral ground on St. Charles Street, he decided that it was time—actually past time—for him to make good on his offer to help Cara Lynn with the genealogy she was compiling on the Delancey and Guillame families. That would give him a chance to find the letter she’d hidden in her clutch and keep up with what progress was being made of tracking down the thief.
The papers and documents stored in the attic of Claire Delancey’s house would give him an excellent excuse to visit Cara Lynn at her apartment.
His next thought rattled him so much that he lost his jogging rhythm and almost stumbled. Not her apartment any longer. Their apartment. She’d shocked her entire family by eloping with that yokel, Jack Bush. A fake name if Paul had ever heard one. He couldn’t believe the entire Delancey clan had accepted Bush without a peep. But of course, as the baby, Cara Lynn had always been the favorite. Her brothers and cousins probably thought when she spoke that flowers and fairies spilled from her mouth.
Paul slowed his pace. Suddenly his heart was racing and his breath was short. He needed to stop his habit of keeping a glass on his nightstand. It was possible that a couple of fingers of bourbon first thing in the morning was bad for his stamina. He made a mental note to stop doing that.
Meanwhile, he needed to go digging in that box in the attic for birth records, marriage licenses and photos so he could make a fabulous first impression on Cara Lynn. Then, once he’d established himself as a regular visitor, he could search for the letter. He had to get his hands on it. He’d never have expected Claire to die so suddenly. She had never seemed old. Even in her seventies, she’d seemed enduring, immortal.
Now, he was desperate to get his hands on every bit of information Lili had given her about that dreadful day. Con’s death had haunted him for almost thirty years, and he knew he would never be at ease until he was certain there was nothing in writing from Lilibelle that could reveal what really happened.
He’d never harbored a lot of love for the baby of the Delancey family, Cara Lynn. But he didn’t want to hurt her if he didn’t have to. For that matter, he didn’t want to hurt anyone. But he would if he had to, to protect himself.
Chapter Four
On Sunday morning, Jack slept late. He was just getting up when Cara Lynn came in to tell him she was on her way to her studio.
“Right, right. I know. He was supposed to bring it to me, but he hurt his foot getting out of there.”
“So where is it?”
“At his house I guess.”
Paul gripped the cell phone so hard his hand cramped. “Well, get it for me! Now! That’s my journal and I don’t want your stupid SOB putting his hands on it. And by the way, when they run the prints from the tiara, you going to try to tell me that he’s not going to show up in the system?”
“Yeah. Okay, fine. I’ll call him again. I’ll get your damn book and bring it to you.”
“Don’t you dare come near my home. You call me and we’ll meet. And then I don’t want to ever hear from you again. Got that?”
“Hey. You going to bring me what you owe me?”
Paul laughed. “Maybe half of it, since you haven’t even delivered half the goods yet. Call me when you’ve got the journal.”
“No problem, but right now I’m going back to sleep.”
Paul hung up.
Shaking his head and thinking he’d have been better off picking up a homeless man to do the job for him, he figured he’d just give up on sleep and get up. He pulled on his sweatpants and sweatshirt and tied his running shoes. At forty-six, he was in good health. He’d been an outstanding long-distance runner in high school, and although he was beginning to feel the effects of his drinking, he’d kept up his routine of running every day, for the most part.
As he jogged along the neutral ground on St. Charles Street, he decided that it was time—actually past time—for him to make good on his offer to help Cara Lynn with the genealogy she was compiling on the Delancey and Guillame families. That would give him a chance to find the letter she’d hidden in her clutch and keep up with what progress was being made of tracking down the thief.
The papers and documents stored in the attic of Claire Delancey’s house would give him an excellent excuse to visit Cara Lynn at her apartment.
His next thought rattled him so much that he lost his jogging rhythm and almost stumbled. Not her apartment any longer. Their apartment. She’d shocked her entire family by eloping with that yokel, Jack Bush. A fake name if Paul had ever heard one. He couldn’t believe the entire Delancey clan had accepted Bush without a peep. But of course, as the baby, Cara Lynn had always been the favorite. Her brothers and cousins probably thought when she spoke that flowers and fairies spilled from her mouth.
Paul slowed his pace. Suddenly his heart was racing and his breath was short. He needed to stop his habit of keeping a glass on his nightstand. It was possible that a couple of fingers of bourbon first thing in the morning was bad for his stamina. He made a mental note to stop doing that.
Meanwhile, he needed to go digging in that box in the attic for birth records, marriage licenses and photos so he could make a fabulous first impression on Cara Lynn. Then, once he’d established himself as a regular visitor, he could search for the letter. He had to get his hands on it. He’d never have expected Claire to die so suddenly. She had never seemed old. Even in her seventies, she’d seemed enduring, immortal.
Now, he was desperate to get his hands on every bit of information Lili had given her about that dreadful day. Con’s death had haunted him for almost thirty years, and he knew he would never be at ease until he was certain there was nothing in writing from Lilibelle that could reveal what really happened.
He’d never harbored a lot of love for the baby of the Delancey family, Cara Lynn. But he didn’t want to hurt her if he didn’t have to. For that matter, he didn’t want to hurt anyone. But he would if he had to, to protect himself.
Chapter Four
On Sunday morning, Jack slept late. He was just getting up when Cara Lynn came in to tell him she was on her way to her studio.
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