Unmasked by Ingrid Weaver Page A

nephew, Jackson, the rest of the Armstrong family had steadfastly refused to acknowledge their existence. None of that had mattered in the least to Charlotte, but her grandmother hadn’t been able to look past it.
    Celeste had approved of Adrian. She’d been the one to introduce him to Charlotte and she’d been so delighted at their wedding reception that she’d actually waltzed in this very room.
    It had been Mardi Gras then, too.
    Charlotte could only hope that this year’s Mardi Gras wouldn’t be the occasion for another disaster.
    “Mama! Auntie Charlotte!”
    Charlotte pulled herself from her musings to see Daisy whirling in circles toward them, one arm flung out from her side, still clutching her make-believe wand.
    “I thought you were a fairy, chère , not a helicopter,” Sylvie said.
    “Look at my wand,” she cried.
    Charlotte stared at the gold star on the end of the stick. It was a trick of the lighting—or perhaps a side effect of the moisture that had sprung to her eyes—but a trail of gold appeared to stream from the tip.
    “Make a wish, Auntie Charlotte,” Daisy said, waving her wand as she passed. “It’s magic!”
    Magic? Oh, no , Charlotte thought. Even in a game, she wasn’t going to risk asking for that again.

CHAPTER FOUR
    “D O YOU KNOW WHY THEY say doctors make the worst patients, Jacques?”
    “Because we never pay?”
    “It’s because you insist on diagnosing and treating yourselves.” Dr. Yves Fortier jabbed his finger at one of the X-rays that was clipped to the lighted display board beside him. “I told you to use the hand within reason. What have you been doing since you got to town? Delivering refrigerators for your papa’s store?”
    “I couldn’t have if I’d wanted to,” Jackson replied. “He moved the business to Des Moines after the last hurricane.” He peered at the film. He couldn’t spot any difference from the set of X-rays that had been among the diagnostic scans he’d had couriered to Yves last week. “Don’t try to scare me, Yves. The hand’s no worse.”
    “It should have been better.” He moved his fingertip to the outline of one of the bones that had been chipped by the shrapnel. “I would have expected this to show some sign of absorption, but it’s still intact.”
    “That bone isn’t the issue. It won’t impair any movement.”
    “It will if there are other fragments left that have blocked the nerve pathways. You should have come to me for theinitial work. Whoever did this must have used a poker and barbecue tongs.”
    “There wasn’t much left of the hospital after the bombing. You know how it is, Yves.”
    “Only too well. I shall need to ask Marie to fix you a gris-gris to counteract this butchery.”
    Jackson restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Yves’ wife, Marie, was a fully qualified surgical nurse, but she was also a little eccentric, occasionally supplementing medicine with voodoo. It was a harmless hobby, and for some people it even provided comfort, so Jackson humored her when he could. “Will the charm cost me extra?”
    “I thought you never paid, my friend.” He studied the X-ray for another minute, then stepped back. “Okay, enough wasting of my valuable time with chitchat. Let’s see how badly you’ve mucked yourself up.”
    The small room that served as Yves’ combination examining room and research lab was tucked into a corner of the top floor of Tulane University’s medical arts building like an afterthought, although this private lab was the primary reason the university had been able to coax him into joining their staff. Every available inch of space along the walls was crammed with shelves full of books, journals and electronic equipment—if there had ever been windows, they’d long ago become buried. Yves led the way to the only clear surface—a stainless-steel worktable in the center of the floor—and rolled a stool in front of it.
    In spite of his gruff manner, he was gentle as he