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of the porch.
Detecting just the slightest hint of censure in his tone, Charlotte felt her temper rise in response. Whatever time she chose to come home was really none of his business.
You’re overreacting, a little voice whispered in her head. And you’re just tired.
She was tired, she suddenly realized. Weary to the bone. Too weary to spar with Louis Thibodeaux. Ignoring the detective’s question, she asked one of her own as she trudged up the steps. “How’s the house coming along? I figured you’d still be working on it late tonight.”
“I ran into a snag and left early,” he told her. “The Sheetrock and paneling were supposed to be delivered early this morning—or so I thought. After a few calls, I found out different. Now they aren’t being delivered until tomorrow afternoon.” He shook his head. “It’s times like this that I wish I had a truck. If I’d had a truck, I could have gone after the stuff myself.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Tell me about it. But hey, the day wasn’t a total loss. Since there wasn’t much point in hanging around the camp, I was able to stop off at Home Depot and pick up some tile and carpet samples, and some brochures on cabinets and fixtures. And—I might add—I had time left over to cook up a fresh pot of seafood gumbo. Have you eaten supper yet?”
“Supper? Ah…Why, no—no I haven’t.”
“Well, I make a mean gumbo, but I never figured out how to make just a little. I’ve got enough in there to feed the whole neighborhood. So how about it?”
The backhanded invitation caught her completely off guard, and Charlotte hesitated. So what’s the problem, Charlotte? He’s only asking you to share a meal with him.
The problem was Louis Thibodeaux. And the problem was her mixed emotions concerning the aggravating man.
But food was food, and there was nothing she liked better than a good seafood gumbo, so Charlotte forced her lips into a smile. “Let me get this straight. Are you inviting me to eat supper with you, or are you offering me leftovers?”
Louis chuckled. “Since I haven’t eaten either, there are no leftovers yet, so I guess that means I’m inviting you to eat supper with me.”
“In that case, give me about ten minutes and I’ll be over. I should check my answering machine,” she explained, “and I promised Sweety I’d let him out of his cage for a while tonight.”
“Sure, no problem. I still need to warm the French bread and heat up the gumbo anyway.” Louis shoved out of the swing and stood. “And speaking of that bird, how is the savage little beast?”
A smile pulled at her lips. “Aw, come on now. You’re not still holding a grudge, are you?”
“Nope, but it will be a cold day in—Let’s just say I won’t be sticking my finger back inside his cage again any time soon.”
Louis’ remark made her grin. The first time he had been introduced to Sweety Boy, the little bird had taken an instant dislike to him. To Charlotte’s acute embarrassment, Sweety had attacked the detective and tried to bite a plug out of his finger. The only excuse Charlotte could come up with for the bird’s behavior was that something about Louis must have reminded Sweety of his previous owner, a deadbeat tenant Charlotte had rented to. The tenant had not only mistreated the little parakeet but had trashed the place before skipping out on Charlotte without paying the two months’ back rent he’d owed her.
Louis snickered. “I’m tempted to buy a cat and let him loose inside, just to aggravate the little sucker,” he continued.
Charlotte gave him her sternest look. “That would be grounds for immediate eviction.”
“Hey—” He threw up his hands. “Just kidding.”
Charlotte nodded. “Good. Now, is there anything I can bring over when I come?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Just bring yourself.”
“Be there in ten then,” she said. With a parting nod, she walked briskly to her front door, and Louis headed toward his side of the double.
As she unlocked the door, she wondered if she had time to take a quick shower. After working all day, then tramping through the dusty Devilier house, she felt as if she were carrying around half the dirt in the world.
All of her life, Charlotte had been blessed with the ability to accomplish a lot in a short space of time. Some called it having good organizational skills, and most of the time she considered it a plus, especially in her line of work. But at other times, like now, when she was dog tired, she considered it a curse, simply because her mind never stopped categorizing and organizing.
She’d told Louis ten minutes. Would that be time enough? “Why not?” she muttered. Since she didn’t have to wash her hair, she could be in and out of the shower in five minutes…if she hurried. Checking her messages could wait until after supper, she decided. That way, once she’d checked them, she could go straight to bed.
The moment she entered the house, Sweety Boy burst into a series of chirps and whistles as he pranced back and forth on the perch in his cage. It was his usual routine, one meant to attract her attention.
“As for you”—she shook her finger at the little bird—“just be patient a few minutes longer, and I’ll let you out when I leave again.”
“When you say ten minutes, you mean ten minutes,” Louis told her at the door. “And you changed clothes—” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you took a shower too—not in just ten minutes.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Okay, I won’t tell you.”
With a chuckle, he motioned for her to come inside. “That has to be a record of some kind, especially for a woman.”
Charlotte was able to bite back the sharp retort that came to mind, and she did her best to ignore his chauvinistic remark, but only because she was curious and much more interested in what he’d done in the way of decorating his half of the double than in chastising him.
It was the first time she’d been in the half he was renting since he’d moved. Though she’d rented it to him furnished, she noted that he’d added several pieces of his own furniture—a well-worn recliner, a bookshelf, and a gun cabinet—along with some paintings and sculptures. And it was hard to miss the large-screen television and state-of-the-art stereo system that took up almost a complete wall.
But the paintings were what really interested her. All but one, which was a portrait of a young girl, were magnificent wildlife scenes. Though the identity of the angelic child certainly stirred her curiosity, she was equally fascinated by the wildlifes.
She walked over to one in particular that depicted a Louisiana swamp scene. The artist had used various shades of grays, greens, and browns to capture just the right mood and essence of the murky, still waters of the swamp and the cypress trees dripping with lacy gray moss.
“These are breathtaking,” she told him. “And so realistic,” she added. Then she noticed the signature in the lower left-hand corner, and she frowned. “S. Thibodeaux. Any relation?” she asked.
Louis nodded. “My son.”
“Your son painted these? I didn’t realize you had children.” Or even a wife, for that matter, she silently added.
“I don’t,” he retorted. “Not anymore.”
Charlotte frowned. “You don’t?” What on earth did that mean? she wondered as a sinking feeling of dread filled her. Was his son dead?
“What happened? An accident?” The second she asked, she immediately wished she hadn’t. For a fleeting moment, so fleeting that she almost missed it, his dark eyes radiated pain and something else she could only describe as torment. Then, as if she’d dreamed it, the look was gone, replaced by a mask that was devoid of emotion.
“Sorry,”