Chapter Five

      Instead of walking out the front door, Stephanie slipped into the courtyard at the side of her house. From there, she went into the alley where her car was parked. Before she’d gotten two blocks from home, she looked in the rearview mirror and saw that she was being followed—by the men who had been sitting out front.

      How did they even know she’d left the house? Apparently there was some mechanism for spying on her that she didn’t know about and didn’t understand.

      As she drove to her father’s Garden District mansion, she kept glancing in the rearview mirror, checking the men behind her who were making no attempt to hide the fact that they were following. She drove around the block, partly to make the men wonder what she was doing and partly to have a look at the house. Once it had been painted in shades of cream, purple and green to create the classic “painted lady” effect that was so popular in the Garden District, with different colors used to accent different parts of the trim. But the paint had faded, making the house look sad instead of distinctive.

      And the shrubbery was overgrown, contributing to the general air of neglect. She hadn’t really looked at the exterior in ages, and it was a shock to see how much the property had gone downhill in the past few years.

      When she finally pulled into the driveway, the men stopped on the street in front of the house, watching her through the screen of shrubbery as she walked to the wide front porch. She knocked to let her father know that she was there, then used her key to let herself in.

      Once again, she stopped to notice details that she hadn’t paid much attention to in years because they were simply part of the environment. Now she looked around at the familiar furnishings, many of which had been handed down through several generations.

      The front hall boasted a long, antique marble-topped chest, centered under an elaborate gilded mirror. Both of them needed dusting. And in the sitting room to her right, she saw the old sofas and chairs that had been in the house since before she was born.

      “Dad?”

      “Out here,” he called.

      She walked through the kitchen that hadn’t been updated since the seventies and into the sunroom that spanned the back of the house. It had always been her favorite room, filled with blooming plants and wrought iron and wicker furniture. And she noted that her father must be keeping it up because the plants all looked healthy.

      He was in his favorite wicker chair, where he could look into the room or out at the formal garden. Although the plants in the sunroom were well tended, the back garden was more bedraggled than the front. When she was little, they’d had a crew come by several times a week. Now it was probably once a month, and the neglect showed. Really, she should come over here to trim some of the bushes.

      In her spare time, she thought. She was plenty busy with her shop and with the wedding preparations.

      She had given the house and garden a critical inspection. Now she did the same thing with her father, who was in his early seventies. Once he’d been a vigorous man. Now his broad shoulders were stooped, and his white hair was thinning on top. His complexion had always been ruddy. The color hadn’t faded, but the lines in his face were more prominent.

      He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, a blue-and-red-striped tie, a navy sports jacket and gray slacks as though he might be ready to receive company. The sartorial statement was a holdover from the old days. The world might have switched to casual dress, but her father had stayed with his traditions.

      He looked up to meet her gaze.

      “You were just here a couple of days ago. Now what?”

      It wasn’t a very warm welcome. No “Hello” or “How are you?” But she was used to that kind of reaction from him. She and her father had never had that great a relationship, and it had deteriorated after her mother had died five years ago of ovarian cancer. It had been a quick death because her mother had kept her symptoms to herself until it was too late to do anything about the cancer.

      When Stephanie had been a kid, Mom had tried to keep up the appearance of a warm, close family, and maybe she fooled some people who didn’t know them all that well. Dad had always done his own thing. He’d had a sales job that had taken him out of town frequently. Being away from his family had given him the opportunity to gamble. He’d retired several years ago, but since his wife’s death, there had been no one to pull him back from his gambling obsession. Which was how he’d gotten into debt and almost lost the house—until John Reynard had approached him about marrying his daughter.

      Dad had always been a pretty decent poker player. In fact, there were many times when he’d won instead of lost. In her more cynical moments, Stephanie wondered if John had somehow arranged for her father to lose—so he could approach him with the offer of financial salvation.

      “You know I like to stop by and see how you’re doing,” she answered.

      “I’m doing fine,” he said, his brittle voice a counterpoint to the claim.

      “That’s good.”

      “What’s bothering you?” he asked bluntly.

      She might have taken the time to work up to her question, but since he was forcing the issue, she asked, “Are you gambling again?”

      He sat up straighter in his chair when he answered, “I agreed not to.”

      “That wasn’t the question,” she said, determined to meet his words with equal force.

      “I’ve abided by my agreement. Is there some reason why you’re asking?”

      “Two men came to my shop and threatened me,” she said.

      “What