Fisheries.”
“Front porch.” The voice that answered was what Gentry thought of as a bedroom voice—a woman with a natural whiskey-and-cigarette rasp. At least, he guessed it was natural. Nashville entertainers might suck down Jack Daniel’s and puff on unfiltered cigarettes every dusk until dawn. Probably did, now that he thought about it.
They rounded the corner of the wraparound porch, and Gentry fought off a wave of déjà vu at the sight of the weathered cypress planks. What looked like a scrubbed bloody shoeprint lay near one of the rotted-through patches. Might have even been his; the soles of his shoes had been coated in crimson despite his best efforts to stay out of it. They’d cost a fortune, but he’d thrown them away.
“Ms. Savoie?” Jena held out a hand for a shake. “I’m Agent Jena Sinclair, and this is Senior Agent Gentry Broussard. The parish sheriff’s office said you wanted to talk to us?”
Standing behind Jena, Gentry didn’t get a look at Celestine Savoie until she stepped around his partner and offered him a hand to shake. “Ceelie Savoie,” she said in that bedroom voice. “Thanks for coming.”
Yeah, he was definitely a sexist pig, because he was here to answer dark questions about a horrific death and yet this woman took his breath away. It wasn’t just the voice, which he realized had been her singing and not a recording; a beat-up guitar stood propped against the side of a rocking chair. She looked way too wholesome and sexy to have spent much time smoking and drinking.
In other words, whatever mental image he’d had of a Nashville singer, Ceelie Savoie was not it. “You’re the entertainer?” He purposely avoided looking at his partner.
“Well, I was a singer-songwriter. I guess I still am. ‘Entertainer’ is a matter of opinion.” She turned toward the door. “You guys mind coming inside?”
He and Jena exchanged glances. Hell no, he didn’t want to go inside, but Ceelie had already grabbed her guitar and disappeared through the doorway.
“You okay?” Jena had assumed a mother-hen expression, so he clenched his jaw and strode into the cabin following Ceelie, failing to avoid noting her petite-but-curvy figure in her black tank top and worn jeans. Why had he expected the woman to be wearing sequins and have enormous, teased-out platinum hair?
Red kept telling him he needed sensitivity training, whatever the hell that meant. Maybe she was right.
Eva Savoie’s great-niece defied show-business stereotypes. She had the olive-tan skin so common in this corner of the country, home of the true American melting pot. Almost three centuries ago, French-speaking Acadians exiled from Canada had begun hooking up with members of two different Native American tribes and French-speaking free people of color. The result was today’s distinctive gumbo of locals, where race was rarely either clear-cut or relevant.
Ceelie’s jet-black hair was woven into a thick braid pulled to the left side, giving her the look of a warrior princess, yet her eyes were the dark blue-gray of a summer day when a storm was moving in from the Gulf.
“You got a problem?” Ceelie propped her hands on her hips and speared him with a look that brought the storm clouds closer to the surface. Yep, the woman had a temper.
Had he been staring that hard? From his peripheral vision, he saw Jena mimicking Ceelie’s stance, giving him a perplexed look.
He cleared his throat. “No, sorry, I just expected you to be . . .” Damn, how was he going to get his foot out of his mouth? Flashier? Better dressed? “Taller.”
Jena made a rude noise and shook her head. “Sorry, Ms. Savoie. Agent Broussard heard you were a singer from Nashville, so I think he was expecting cowboy boots and big hair.”
Gentry frowned at Jena, who ignored him.
“Ah, gotcha. Well, I never quite figured out how to fit in in Nashville. Maybe I should have tried that.” Ceelie propped her guitar against the wall and sat
“Front porch.” The voice that answered was what Gentry thought of as a bedroom voice—a woman with a natural whiskey-and-cigarette rasp. At least, he guessed it was natural. Nashville entertainers might suck down Jack Daniel’s and puff on unfiltered cigarettes every dusk until dawn. Probably did, now that he thought about it.
They rounded the corner of the wraparound porch, and Gentry fought off a wave of déjà vu at the sight of the weathered cypress planks. What looked like a scrubbed bloody shoeprint lay near one of the rotted-through patches. Might have even been his; the soles of his shoes had been coated in crimson despite his best efforts to stay out of it. They’d cost a fortune, but he’d thrown them away.
“Ms. Savoie?” Jena held out a hand for a shake. “I’m Agent Jena Sinclair, and this is Senior Agent Gentry Broussard. The parish sheriff’s office said you wanted to talk to us?”
Standing behind Jena, Gentry didn’t get a look at Celestine Savoie until she stepped around his partner and offered him a hand to shake. “Ceelie Savoie,” she said in that bedroom voice. “Thanks for coming.”
Yeah, he was definitely a sexist pig, because he was here to answer dark questions about a horrific death and yet this woman took his breath away. It wasn’t just the voice, which he realized had been her singing and not a recording; a beat-up guitar stood propped against the side of a rocking chair. She looked way too wholesome and sexy to have spent much time smoking and drinking.
In other words, whatever mental image he’d had of a Nashville singer, Ceelie Savoie was not it. “You’re the entertainer?” He purposely avoided looking at his partner.
“Well, I was a singer-songwriter. I guess I still am. ‘Entertainer’ is a matter of opinion.” She turned toward the door. “You guys mind coming inside?”
He and Jena exchanged glances. Hell no, he didn’t want to go inside, but Ceelie had already grabbed her guitar and disappeared through the doorway.
“You okay?” Jena had assumed a mother-hen expression, so he clenched his jaw and strode into the cabin following Ceelie, failing to avoid noting her petite-but-curvy figure in her black tank top and worn jeans. Why had he expected the woman to be wearing sequins and have enormous, teased-out platinum hair?
Red kept telling him he needed sensitivity training, whatever the hell that meant. Maybe she was right.
Eva Savoie’s great-niece defied show-business stereotypes. She had the olive-tan skin so common in this corner of the country, home of the true American melting pot. Almost three centuries ago, French-speaking Acadians exiled from Canada had begun hooking up with members of two different Native American tribes and French-speaking free people of color. The result was today’s distinctive gumbo of locals, where race was rarely either clear-cut or relevant.
Ceelie’s jet-black hair was woven into a thick braid pulled to the left side, giving her the look of a warrior princess, yet her eyes were the dark blue-gray of a summer day when a storm was moving in from the Gulf.
“You got a problem?” Ceelie propped her hands on her hips and speared him with a look that brought the storm clouds closer to the surface. Yep, the woman had a temper.
Had he been staring that hard? From his peripheral vision, he saw Jena mimicking Ceelie’s stance, giving him a perplexed look.
He cleared his throat. “No, sorry, I just expected you to be . . .” Damn, how was he going to get his foot out of his mouth? Flashier? Better dressed? “Taller.”
Jena made a rude noise and shook her head. “Sorry, Ms. Savoie. Agent Broussard heard you were a singer from Nashville, so I think he was expecting cowboy boots and big hair.”
Gentry frowned at Jena, who ignored him.
“Ah, gotcha. Well, I never quite figured out how to fit in in Nashville. Maybe I should have tried that.” Ceelie propped her guitar against the wall and sat
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