Waters Run Deep. Liz Talley

of the porch and rubbed a finger along the spidering paint as she surveyed the wide span of lawn with its moss-draped twisted oaks and allowed the romance of the place to seep into her bones. Maybe Louisiana wouldn’t be so bad for the next month. It wasn’t palm trees and balmy ocean breezes, but its earthy beauty tugged at the soul. Plus, the quirky Picou Dufrene interested her. “Thank you, Mrs. Dufrene.”

      “It’s Picou.”

      “Annie! You gotta see this!” Spencer exploded onto the porch, nearly tripping over himself. Annie put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

      “Slow down,” she said, pulling his little hand into hers.

      “I saw a bear!” His brown eyes danced with excitement.

      Picou’s laugh was smoky. “That’s Chewie. My son Nate named him after the wookiee in Star Wars.”

      Annie allowed Spencer to tug her toward the house. “I’m hoping this one is stuffed?”

      Picou gave her a secret smile. “One can never be too sure at Beau Soleil. What seems benign can sometimes bite.”

      Picou’s words followed Annie into the house, dancing around her mind, making her wonder if the kooky owner had some otherworldly sense about life and the people who trudged through it. Annie didn’t believe in magic hoo-ha crap, but she knew from her late grandmother some people were more perceptive than others. Or maybe merely more observant.

      Better to heed Picou’s words and trust no one. Spencer’s life might depend on it.

      CHAPTER THREE

      NATE DUFRENE WATCHED Sandi Whitehall hurry out of the liquor store with two bottles of grain alcohol and a carton of Marlboros. Not good. Paul was drinking again and that meant the next day Sandi would likely be wearing heavy makeup and moving slowly. Not that the woman would ever admit to her husband beating the crap out of her every time he fell off the wagon. The whole damn town knew about the Whitehalls, but he couldn’t do anything if Sandi wouldn’t press charges. Which she wouldn’t.

      He shook his head and watched the traffic creep by, nearly everyone braking when they caught sight of him sitting in the borrowed sheriff’s cruiser under the truck-stop sign advertising cigarettes, video poker and boudin. It was almost comical.

      His mind flipped back to the brunette in the rental who’d pulled out of Breaux Mart a few hours before. She’d known he was law enforcement even if he’d been in his unmarked. He’d seen it in her expression as she’d pulled by him.

      At first he’d thought her a regular soccer mom, replete with a rug rat in the backseat, properly restrained, until he’d caught sight of the rental tag. Of course, nothing wrong with renting a car for a trip. But still, she’d given off a strange vibe, and it had raised a flag in his awareness. Likely she was halfway to Alexandria or Lake Charles by now, heading to Grandma’s house or something equally harmless.

      He settled into the seat and closed his eyes. He hated sitting out here, but Buddy Rosen’s wife had unexpectedly delivered a baby boy early that morning. Nate had “gifted” them with covering Buddy’s shift for the afternoon even though he’d sworn he’d never sit in a patrol car again. It hadn’t seemed like such a sacrifice until he’d had to change a flat tire on the drive from West Feliciana parish and then discovered Buddy had been assigned to watch a four-way. So much for his day off.

      His cell phone rang.

      Picou.

      He sighed. “Dufrene.”

      “I know very well who you are. I called, didn’t I?”

      He sighed again.

      “Get over here right now.”

      His mother sounded winded. Panicky. He hadn’t caught it in her initial greeting but now his Spidey senses kicked in. “Why?”

      “The boy has gone missing.”

      “The boy? What boy?”

      His mother sucked in a breath. “The director’s son. His nanny took a shower while Tawny was playing with him, but then Tawny got a call and went to another room. When she came back, he was gone. Just hurry.”

      The phone clicked. She’d hung up.

      Nate started the cruiser, but didn’t put the lights on. His mother had good reason to overreact to a missing child, a fact well-known to the Bayou Bridge Police Department and the Sheriff’s office. She’d called in his younger brother Darby as missing many times over the course of his childhood. This boy had probably done what most little boys do—traipsed off into the woods to explore or play a game of hide-and-seek in the many rooms of Beau Soleil. But, still, some children didn’t come home.

      Just like Della.

      Regret hit him hard, as it always did. Her disappearance had been partially his fault. But he didn’t want to think about that February day no matter how much it stayed with him, like Peter Pan’s shadow sewed onto his conscience.

      Della. Gone. His fault.

      He glanced down at the manila folder sitting in the passenger’s seat as he pulled onto the highway and headed toward his childhood home. Another detective had handed it to him when he’d left the station that morning, but he’d yet to open the file. Instead he’d allowed it to sit like a ticking bomb, afraid it would explode and crack the thin layer over the wound festering for the past twenty-four years. He refused to watch his mother crash and burn all over again. Because even though he was a big, tough St. Martin Parish detective, his mother’s tears brought him to his knees.

      Never again.

      His murdered sister was gone and there was little sense in digging it up again. Every other lead over the past had played out, and this new wrinkle would, too. But following up was his job—for both his family and this girl asking questions.

      He shrugged off the burn between his shoulder blades and increased his speed, hugging the twisting road. He’d not been to Beau Soleil in over a week. Not since the gypsy had visited Picou. Or was it a mambo? Either way the woman had given him the creeps. For one thing she was blind, and for another, she looked like one of the witches from Macbeth.

      Huckster. That’s what she was. Had his mother believing all sorts of nonsense about setting suns, righting wrongs, and prophesies about birds or some such crap. Picou’s quest for answers was ridiculous. He could tolerate the occasional trip to Baton Rouge to consult a palm reader because that incorporated a visit to her cardiologist, but bringing those sorts of people out to the house crossed the line.

      The gates greeted him before he bumped down the long, winding drive faster than normal. He needed to seem as if he were in a hurry. Otherwise, he’d hear about it for the next few weeks. The Arch Angels Feast Day was coming up and he’d been hoodwinked by the parish priest into serving on the church’s committee, so there’d be no escaping Picou, who was the chairwoman of the celebration.

      He rounded the corner and saw her. Not his mother. Or the actress. But the woman from the rental car he’d seen outside the Whiskey Bay gas station.

      She stood calmly in the center of chaos, hair damp, brow furrowed. All around her people scurried, left, right and in circles, calling out and craning their heads in that universal motion signaling something lost.

      In this case—a child.

      He rolled to a halt and climbed from the car.

      “Oh, Nate, thank heavens!” Picou called, drawing the attention of the people milling about. The woman who he now assumed was the freshly showered nanny caught his gaze. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t move.

      A well-endowed blonde tumbled toward him, and he recognized her from the pictures in the local newspaper.

      “Oh, God, please help us. My baby. He’s gone!”

      He placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder as much to keep her from crashing into him as to hold her up. “Okay,