Loe raamatut: «Framed!»
Stay away from Max Pershing or you’ll be sorry
Ava gasped as she read the words. She dropped the note. Who would send such a message, and why? No one knew she’d asked Max for help, not even her mother.
Her gaze drifted to the paper again. Had Max told people he was going to help her—bragging that she’d come crawling to him for help with family business? Bile burned in the back of her throat. No, he wouldn’t do that. He sincerely wanted to help her, right?
Or did he?
ROBIN CAROLL
Born and raised in Louisiana, Robin Caroll is Southern to a fault. Her passion has always been to tell stories to entertain others. When she isn’t writing, Robin spends time with her husband of nineteen years, her three beautiful daughters and their four character-filled pets at home—in the South, where else? An avid reader herself, Robin loves hearing from and chatting with other readers. Although her favorite genre to read is mystery/suspense, of course, she’ll read just about any good story. Except historicals! To learn more about this author of Deep South mysteries of suspense to inspire your heart, visit Robin’s Web site at www.robincaroll.com.
MILLS & BOON
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Robin Caroll
Framed!
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Robin Caroll for her contribution to the Without a Trace miniseries.
Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
and lean not on your own understanding.
—Proverbs 3:5
For Colleen Coble, who taught me so much about
the craft of writing, believed I could do this, and has
been a cherished friend and prayer warrior. I love
and thank you, lady!
Acknowledgments
My most heartfelt gratitude to…
The other authors who worked on this series—thanks to each of you for taking the time to support and help me when needed. Your talent amazes me.
The editorial team at Steeple Hill—y’ all ROCK!
Kelly Mortimer, for being my fan, my sister in Christ, my agent.
My prayer group, for lifting me before the throne daily.
My family/friends for input without measure: BB, Camy, Cheryl, Dineen, Heather, Lisa, Pammer, Ronie and Trace. I couldn’t do this without you.
My family for continued encouragement: Mom, Papa, Bek, Bubba, Robert, Krys, Brandon, Rachel and all the aunts/uncles/cousins. Love you.
My daughters—Emily, Remington and Isabella—my best blessings from God. I love you so much.
All my love to my husband, Case, who was my wonderful collaborator on this story line.
All glory to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
PROLOGUE
Why couldn’t she have had the foresight to ask Max to meet her in a less conspicuous place?
Ava Renault worried the necklace she wore as she stared out the front windows of Bitsy’s Diner. Her mother drove her wheelchair right toward the door. If Max arrived while Charla was still there…
What was her mother doing here anyway? She normally didn’t deign herself to be seen in the common diner.
Charla wasted no time rolling right to Ava’s table. “Leah Farley’s gone missing.”
Ava covered her Mother of the Year pageant committee notes and stared at her mother. The buzz of conversation from the waitstaff in the diner must have made her hear Charla incorrectly. “What?”
“Leah Farley. You know, your brother’s previous secretary. She’s gone missing.”
What was this? More of her mother’s dramatics? Charla was nothing if not theatrical. “How, exactly, does one go missing in Loomis, Louisiana?”
“According to the news, she dropped her daughter off at her brother’s house yesterday, claiming she had an appointment, and hasn’t been heard from since.” Charla settled her Jack Russell terrier, Rhett, in her lap and guided her electric wheelchair around the small dinette chair. “And just days after her husband was found dead. Isn’t that curious?”
“Mother, you need to stop listening to gossip.”
“That’s not gossip, that’s fact. It was on the local news.” Charla stroked Rhett’s head. “I always knew that girl was trouble. Oh, my, yes. From the first day I met her.”
“Stop it. That’s just being snobby.”
Charla huffed. “Well, it’s true. I don’t know why your brother ever hired her.”
Ava lifted her cup and took a sip of coffee, cooled long ago. “Maybe because she was a qualified secretary with good recommendations?” She let her gaze flit around Bitsy’s Diner again. Tucking the heart medallion and chain inside her blouse, she focused on her mother’s wrinkle-lined face. Ava would never comment on that particular observation aloud. Charla Renault paid good money to look ten years younger than her birth certificate stated.
“Not hardly. That girl was nothing but trash.”
“Enough, Mother.” She set the cup on the edge of the table and lifted her pen. She didn’t have time for Charla’s rants right now—she needed to get her out of this diner before Max showed up and the real fireworks began.
But if she brushed Charla off too quickly, the antennae would come up and she’d never leave Ava alone. “Did the news give any other information?”
“Just that there are no leads, and Sheriff Reed is calling in the FBI.” Charla moved her wheelchair closer to Ava and lowered her voice despite the practically empty diner. “But people are saying she may have killed her poor husband and now has run off.”
“And just left her daughter here with her brother? I doubt that.” Ava couldn’t imagine leaving her child behind. If she had a child. She stared at her mother, the old bitterness returning. She’d once had a chance at love and happiness, a husband and children, but her mother had made sure that didn’t happen.
Now she waited on that particular man to waltz into the diner and put her mother in a tizzy at seeing them together. Even if they were just working together on the Mother of the Year pageant.
Weren’t they?
“I told you, the girl is trash. She’d run off and leave her child if it meant saving herself.” Charla spun her chair around and rolled toward the door. Bosworth, Charla’s butler and driver, opened the door, then assisted her from the wheelchair into the backseat of her waiting limo.
Ava let her mother leave without another word. What was the point? She’d learned long ago that arguing with Charla Renault was like trying to remove all the Spanish moss off the cypress trees in the bayou—useless.
Inside the diner, wait staff milled about. Dishes clanked from the kitchen. Ava stared absentmindedly out the window.
She let out a long sigh. What would make Leah Farley just up and leave Loomis? Ava snickered. Dumb question. Smart people left Loomis and never came back. Why hadn’t she?
Guilt. Duty. Family. Mainly because her father had died in the same auto accident that left her mother paralyzed from the waist down. Her family had needed her then. Charla needed her for a verbal punching bag when her recovery and physical therapy frustrated her. Plus, Dylan, her brother, needed her to take care of Charla so his social calendar wouldn’t be disrupted. Maybe Ava should’ve left when she could. But, no, she’d started her wedding planning business, I Dream of Weddings, and settled into being a business owner in Loomis, even though the majority of the weddings she planned took place in Covington or New Orleans. She continued to pray the Lord would show her His purpose for keeping her in Loomis. So far, He’d been pretty quiet on the subject.
Ava fidgeted with her papers as Lenore Pershing, Max’s mother, waltzed into the place. Ava couldn’t help slouching in the chair. Again, why had she agreed to meet Max here? She absentmindedly ran her finger along her neckline, finding the necklace outlined under her shirt. She cut her gaze from Lenore and stared at the notepad in front of her. Good thing Charla had left before Lenore arrived. With the old family feud alive and well between the two families’ matriarchs, that would’ve been a scene to end all scenes.
The notes she’d jotted didn’t make sense. Her mind kept going back to Leah Farley’s disappearance. On the heels of Earl’s alleged suicide…Ava shivered against the ominous cold finger trailing down her spine. Was something—or someone—evil lurking in Loomis?
ONE
It was too beautiful a day to bury Dylan Renault.
Nothing but blue skies hung overhead with the sun blazing down on Loomis Cemetery. Odd for a February in south Louisiana. Where were the bolts of lightning and rolling thunder? Shouldn’t the weather reflect the gloominess of the townsfolk? Not even a fog or mist to mar the beautiful Monday morning.
Ava stared at her brother’s polished coffin, trying to concentrate on the Scripture being read by Reverend Harmon. She fought back the burning tears and swallowed past the lump caught in her throat.
Dylan lay in that cold, lifeless box in front of her. He would never again tug her hair or shoot her his lopsided grin. Ava’s stomach roiled.
Whispers rose from the row behind her.
“Some say Earl wasn’t really Sarah’s father, and Dylan knew who was. And whoever he is, he’s the one who shot Dylan. Probably because he knew the truth.”
A different woman’s voice responded. “No, I think Dylan’s really that girl’s father. He and Leah had a torrid love affair that went bad and she got pregnant. That’s why she up and quit working for him. That’s probably why she ran off three weeks ago, too.”
Bile searing the back of her throat, Ava stiffened her spine and turned her head slightly to see who’d said such an outlandish thing—at the funeral of all places, too. Who’d do something so tacky?
Micheline Pershing, rumor queen of St. Tammany parish, stared back at Ava with a snooty air.
She didn’t even have the decency to blush and look away when Ava stabbed her with a vicious glare. No, she met the glare head-on, even having the nerve to give Ava a curt nod in response.
Disgust inched up Ava’s spine as she jerked to face the casket again and choked back more tears. Micheline was despicable. Dylan wasn’t even in the ground yet, and the woman already spread lies. Not that the whole town wasn’t rumbling with rumors and speculation.
Ava sighed. Who could blame them, really? Dylan had been shot in the back and left for dead in the overgrown backyard of Renault Hall, the abandoned mansion of Ava and Dylan’s grandfather. Her brother’s last words were what fed the gossipmongers…
“Sarah’s father.”
What could he mean? The only Sarah in Loomis was little Sarah Farley, daughter of the missing Leah Farley and deceased Earl Farley. What had Dylan been trying to relay? Nothing made sense, but it was hard to deny the little girl had haunting, green almond-shaped eyes, a trademark of the Renault family. Ava had racked her brain trying to figure out what her brother’s dying words meant. She was as clueless as everyone else in town. The difference was she wouldn’t give in to conjecture.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” Reverend Harmon’s words were drowned out by Charla Renault’s sobbing.
Ava patted her mother’s shoulder, but her mind continued to spin. Charla had retired to her suites as soon as she’d been told about Dylan’s murder, only venturing out today to attend the funeral. But to display her grief so publicly? It wasn’t like Charla Renault, not at all. Hadn’t she drilled into Ava over and over…Renaults don’t show emotion, Ava. We’re above that.
“Unto Him we lift Dylan…”
Ava’s heart thudded at Reverend Harmon’s words, recalling the last time she’d heard him utter them. Her father’s funeral. The kind, loving man who’d always done what he felt was best for his family…his life taken in that horrible accident. An unfortunate accident, an untimely death that left Ava with a bitter, resentful mother to take care of. Although, Charla Renault hadn’t taken long to adjust to being in a wheelchair. She’d soon been back to her usual controlling self, wreaking havoc in her children’s lives.
Ava let her gaze fall on the elaborate coffin poised over the open grave in the Renault plot. Her stomach knotted as she blinked furiously.
She. Would. Not. Give. These. People. The. Satisfaction. Of. Seeing. Her. Cry.
Especially not Micheline Pershing and her cohort.
Morbid curiosity had been the only reason the good folk of Loomis had shown up at the funeral. That, or fear of disappointing Charla, who held a lot of power in the little town. They all thought Dylan had been nothing more than a spoiled playboy. They didn’t know the sensitive brother she’d grown up with. The one who’d endured their mother’s unfounded rages and protected Ava by sneaking them out of the house when Charla would tear into her husband. The teenager who’d kept Charla away from Ava most of her formative years.
Ava ached for his protection from the rumor mill today.
A loud moan ground out beside her. Her mother had a death grip on that poor dog, Rhett, who endured the unfamiliar hold. Charla hunched over in her wheelchair and moaned as if she’d been stabbed.
Poor choice of words. Ava licked her lips.
Again, whispers rose from the row behind her.
“Can you believe she’s daring to show emotion?”
“I can’t believe she even has emotions,” Micheline replied. “I didn’t think people with ice running through their veins had any feelings.”
Ava narrowed her eyes and tossed a frown over her shoulder. The rudeness of people never ceased to amaze her. Especially here…now…barraging against her grief.
Charla let out another sob. Ava wanted to cry all the more. Never before had the matriarch of the Renault family deigned to allow anyone outside the family see even the slightest sign of weakness, perceived or real. Even when she was recovering from the auto accident, she put on a strong front, going into work everyday. Why was she giving the locals food for fodder now? Grief aside, couldn’t she hear Micheline and her followers whispering about the family? Guessing about the reasons why someone would take Dylan’s life?
Murdered. Ava couldn’t imagine someone hating Dylan enough to kill him. Shot in the back, like some mangy cur. Sure, he’d broken a lot of hearts over the years, but she didn’t think there had ever been a relationship so serious that it could’ve mustered enough feelings of regret or revenge to murder her brother in cold blood. As far as she knew in the business world, Dylan was a fair player. Maybe it was time she looked into the family business. Maybe Dylan had been a different kind of executive than she thought. Over the last few weeks, Dylan had changed. It seemed like he was finally growing up and becoming the man their father would’ve been proud of.
Even though Sheriff Bradford Reed had recently all but accused him of murdering his ex-girlfriend, Angelina Loring, who had been found dead in a swamp on the outskirts of Loomis—just after Leah Farley had gone missing.
Now Dylan had been murdered, his promising character cut down just as he was coming into his own. It was unfair, just like so many things in life. What in the world was happening to the quiet town of Loomis? Ava shuddered and shook her head.
“The peace of the Lord be with you.” Reverend Harmon approached the front row and bent to take Charla’s hands in his own. “God will comfort you in this time of loss.”
It was as if Charla didn’t even hear his words. Her tear-stained face focused on the coffin, her eyes red and glassy.
Ava swallowed, silently praying for the Holy Spirit to wrap her in peace and comfort. Why, God? Why take Dylan from me, too? Wasn’t Daddy enough?
People stood and milled about, whispering in small groups. Screams rose in Ava, begging to be released. How could they just stand around so casually, gossiping or discussing the latest episode of their favorite sitcom? Her brother was dead…gone. He left behind a mystery no one had figured out. Sarah’s father… Such cryptic words. It just wasn’t like Dylan, so what he’d been trying to say had to be vitally important. Critically so.
Ava’s friend and child psychologist, Jocelyn Gold, wrapped her in a hug. “I’m so sorry.” She squeezed her before releasing her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m holding my own.” Ava glanced at the tall, handsome man hovering over Jocelyn’s shoulder.
Sam Pierce. FBI.
Ava let out a slow breath, struggling to recall the weeks before Dylan’s murder. The FBI had been called in on Leah Farley’s case and worked the attempted kidnapping, but they’d only assisted Sheriff Reed with the murder of Angelina Loring. Had Sam also believed Dylan guilty as well, or had he just been doing his job?
Sam offered his hand. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” He couldn’t be all bad. Not if Jocelyn was in love with him, and by all appearances, Jocelyn was starry-eyed over him. The man had a job to do and had done it, that was all. She widened her smile. “I appreciate y’all coming.”
Jocelyn gave her another hug. “Call me if you need anything.” She looped her arm through Sam’s and headed toward the line of parked cars.
A few brave souls from her mother’s generation approached Charla, offering weak sentiments of comfort. Charla accepted their gestures amid tears and clinging to her trembling dog. Ava shifted away. How sad that her mother really had no one to confide in, talk with, share her grief with. For the first time, pity for Charla rose within Ava. Her mother had no friends or confidants. Only Bosworth, the son of Charla’s father’s driver, who’d served Charla since she was a young woman. He’d stayed with the family through Charla’s marriage, and remained her faithful servant today.
“Ava.” The voice reached right into her heart and pierced it.
She spun to face Maximilion Pershing. “Max.” Her gasp caught in her throat as her pulse raced.
“I’m so sorry.” His eyes were the color of hot cocoa and just as soothing. He laid a steady hand on her shoulder. “I know this sounds so lame, but if there’s anything I can do for you…” He paused, swallowed hard, then continued, “I hope you know I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”
Of all the people who offered condolences, Max meant the most to her because he knew the pain she felt. He knew her, and he understood. And maybe, just maybe, he still cared. He’d loved her once. Could he again, despite the history between them? Ava blinked back the tears threatening to spill. “Th-thank you.”
He leaned closer and pulled her into his arms, hugging her gently, yet firmly.
Her heart pounded as if she’d just done twenty laps in an Olympic-size pool. Ava allowed herself to melt into his embrace. The distinct smell of his familiar cologne wafted around her. It felt so good for Max to hold her. Then again, it always had.
“I mean it. I’m here for you.” His words were a caress against her ear.
For just a moment, time stood still and she was transported back to the day she’d been uprooted from her junior year of high school to go to boarding school, and she’d had to tell Max goodbye.
Wailing shattered the memory.
Ava withdrew from Max and spun around. Her mother caught sight of her. For a moment, Charla’s grief disappeared, replaced with the familiar frown of disapproval. “Avvvvvvaaaaaaaaaa!”
Only Charla Renault could make a two-syllable word draw out to ten. And in front of everyone, too.
Tossing a please-forgive-me look at Max, she mouthed “I’ll call you” and rushed to her mother. Poor Rhett, the little Jack Russell terrier that never left Charla’s side, quivered and whined.
She took her mother’s hand and squeezed, nodding to Bosworth hovering on the edge of the crowd. Ava gave the coffin a final glance. Her stomach twisted as her heart ached to shriek louder than Charla.
Goodbye, Dylan.
She turned and guided her mother’s wheelchair toward the waiting limo.
Although he hadn’t known it at the time, Max Pershing had given his heart to Ava Renault years ago. Fifteen years ago, to be precise. Now he knew she still had it.
Last month, fate had thrown the two of them together again when the Loomis governing body asked him to serve on the Mother’s Day pageant committee, representing the Pershing family. He’d had no choice—his mother would’ve been furious had he declined, so he accepted. Not knowing that his co-chair would be from the other prominent family in the small town—Ava Renault.
Holding her in his arms just now had confirmed it. No other woman had ever made his heart leap as Ava did.
She helped her mother into the car, gave him a final sad smile from across the cemetery, then disappeared behind the tinted glass. The Renault driver, Bosworth, shut the back door before slipping behind the steering wheel.
Every muscle in his body tensed to run after her. To hold her again. To try to smooth some of the pain etched across her face.
“Surprised to see you here.” Reverend Harmon offered his hand.
Max shook hands with the man. “It’s a shame what happened with Dylan. Of course, I wanted to be here for the family.”
Reverend Harmon’s bushy brows shot up. “The family, or Ava in particular?”
Busted. “Well, it’s no secret there’s no love lost between my mother and Charla, that’s for sure.”
“But between you and Ava?”
Reverend Harmon knew their history—knew how they’d been falling in love back in high school, knew how Charla Renault had been unable to accept such an idea and had sent Ava away to boarding school, knew how Charla had brought Ava back to attend the local university when she’d learned Max had been accepted at Louisiana State University. Everyone who knew the story seemed as bewildered as Max over why, when he returned from college, Ava had avoided Max like the plague. Too much parental influence, or had her feelings toward Max changed?
“That’s ancient history.”
One of the cemetery workers approached. “Reverend Harmon, most everyone has left. Is it okay to lower the casket now?”
The man’s demeanor changed in an instant. “Of course.” He nodded to Max. “I’m praying for you.”
How was he supposed to respond to that? He didn’t want anyone to pray for him. He’d learned years ago that God wasn’t listening. He hadn’t listened to Max’s pleas to bring Ava home and then had turned a deaf ear to Max’s requests to save his cousin, Michael Pershing, from pancreatic cancer at such a young age. But Max couldn’t fault Harmon for his faith. Everyone knew Reverend Harmon was a good man, had a good heart.
Max stood silently as the reverend said a final prayer over the casket containing Dylan Renault, then the casket was lowered into the grave. Max’s gut knotted.
People weren’t supposed to die so young. And murdered! In Loomis. The third one in a month. Plus, Leah Farley was still missing, although the general consensus was that she was dead as well.
The town fed on gossip and suppositions. FBI agents and investigators had barraged Loomis and set up base in the downtown area. Just two weeks ago, they’d focused on Dylan Renault as a suspect in Angelina Loring’s death. Now he’d been shot and killed. What was the city coming to?
Max headed to his truck, his steps dragging as much as his heart. With everything going on, all the deaths and Dylan Renault’s cryptic dying words, the town hummed with rumors of what was happening. The fact that his and Ava’s mothers continued to feud just added to all the tension.
And Ava Renault sat right in the dead center of it all.
He parked outside his condo, the property his mother owned. At least her condo was across the complex from his. He had to agree with Charla Renault on one thing—his mother had made the complex quite a sight with its baby blue paint and gaudy design. He still couldn’t figure out if his mother really had such bad taste or if she’d done it on purpose just to annoy Charla. Their generations-old feud, fueled by competitive business deals and now the lonely older women with nothing to do but stir up trouble, was never-ending.
Max unlocked the door, tossed his keys onto the buffet in the entry and headed to the kitchen.
“How was the funeral?”
Max startled and then faced his mother. “Why are you here?”
She sat at the dinette table, sipping tea as if she belonged. But she didn’t. This was his home, not hers. Yet she’d never seemed to have gotten the message. “I wanted to know how the funeral went.”
He opened the fridge and poured a glass of orange juice. “You don’t care. You hate Charla Renault.”
“Well, of course I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know who all turned out for the funeral. Anything interesting happen?”
“Mom, I can’t believe you’d stoop so low. I’m not going to gossip about the funeral.” He shook his head.
“Don’t make it sound like I’m some horrible person. Charla Renault would be just as curious if it were your funeral.” She sniffed and stood, taking her teacup to the sink and rinsing it out. “I wonder what the police are thinking now since Dylan was their prime suspect in that poor Angelina’s death.” She tsked.
Max slugged down the rest of the orange juice. “That’s not a very nice attitude, and you know it.”
“But it’s the truth.” She lifted her purse, sarcasm dripping in her words. “I’ve seen you with that Ava Renault several times in the last month or so. I recognize the look she’s giving you. She’s trying to get her claws into you again.”
“We’re working together on the Mother of the Year pageant committee, that’s all.”
Her eyes narrowed for a moment. “Awfully defensive, aren’t you? Maybe you know I’m right.”
Nope, she was wrong. Ava couldn’t get her claws into him again…she’d never retracted them.
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