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her gut. Especially when it involved murder and mayhem and raving maniacs. More troubling, she was thinking that if the murder had occurred near her boat, and when she was probably there, was it somehow connected to her? Nope, Black was not going to be a happy camper when he heard about this case.
Chapter Two
Ten minutes later they were barreling down a bayou road on their way to the LeFevres property, dust billowing up behind them like a tornado riding their tail. The LeFevreses had lived in a remote corner of the parish, on a bayou stream that most people never got to see, much less dwell on, but to Claire it was a quiet, beautiful sanctuary. Wooded and full of birds and wild animals, true, but she had felt safe there when she was a girl, after living in a host of foster homes where she hadnât felt safe at all.
When the LeFevres brothers offered her a chance to stay on their houseboat, sheâd jumped at the opportunity but hadnât used it overnight until Black left for Europe. Fate had brought her back to the swamps again. Now death had returned there as well, probably following her around, which was usually the case.
âThereâs the turn, Nancy,â she said, pointing out a gravel road up ahead.
Nancy took a hard left into a rutted entrance that wound through a stand of two-hundred-year-old live oak trees, all draped funereally with the coarse and creepy, gray Spanish moss so prevalent in the bayous. Once the road opened up onto the grassy yard surrounding the old Caribbean-style house with its wide veranda and open breezeway, she saw the two white Lafourche Parish patrol cars sitting there. Beyond the driveway covered with white shells and down farther on the banks of the slow-flowing bayou, the houseboat sat silent and undisturbed. Other than the police cars, everything looked exactly the way it had that morning when Claire had left for Thibodaux.
They pulled up beside the other vehicles and then got out and walked across the front yard. The house was a big two-story structure, clapboard, once white but now peeling and gray. Some of the roof had collapsed, but most of the bottom floor was still intact. The giant river stone chimney was crumbling some now, but it had been a wonderful home once, full of laughter and love and happy children. Bobby and Kristen LeFevres had made it warm and safe for their own two children and the multitude of foster kids theyâd taken in through the years.
Bobby LeFevres had been an NOPD detective then and had found Claire, her face and arms bruised, hiding in a city park pavilion after she had wandered away from her abusive foster family. He had taken her home with him and fought for her to stay there, until Family Services had seen fit to move her to a new family up around Baton Rouge. But the LeFevres house held only good memories. Until now.
Inside the house, they found the first floor was still in pretty good shape, but the second floor, where Claire had slept in a bedroom with the LeFevresesâ darling little daughter named Sophie, was in ruins, the roof caved in, the wood floor water damaged. They stopped outside the front door, put on protective booties and blue latex gloves, and then moved carefully through the living room and joined the officers at the dining room pocket doors. They stood there a few minutes and observed the crime scene. It was not a pretty sight. In fact, it was downright shocking.
The victim was a woman. She had on some kind of long white velvet robe. Her hands had been placed in her lap, but were completely hidden inside the robeâs wide flowing sleeves. Her face had been painted to resemble a skeleton. White paint had been applied all over her facial skin except for the eye sockets, nose, and chin, which were painted black, but that wasnât the worst part. The killer had pierced a needle through her white lips and sewn her mouth shut with large black vertical stitches. White thread had been sewn in a large X on each of
Chapter Two
Ten minutes later they were barreling down a bayou road on their way to the LeFevres property, dust billowing up behind them like a tornado riding their tail. The LeFevreses had lived in a remote corner of the parish, on a bayou stream that most people never got to see, much less dwell on, but to Claire it was a quiet, beautiful sanctuary. Wooded and full of birds and wild animals, true, but she had felt safe there when she was a girl, after living in a host of foster homes where she hadnât felt safe at all.
When the LeFevres brothers offered her a chance to stay on their houseboat, sheâd jumped at the opportunity but hadnât used it overnight until Black left for Europe. Fate had brought her back to the swamps again. Now death had returned there as well, probably following her around, which was usually the case.
âThereâs the turn, Nancy,â she said, pointing out a gravel road up ahead.
Nancy took a hard left into a rutted entrance that wound through a stand of two-hundred-year-old live oak trees, all draped funereally with the coarse and creepy, gray Spanish moss so prevalent in the bayous. Once the road opened up onto the grassy yard surrounding the old Caribbean-style house with its wide veranda and open breezeway, she saw the two white Lafourche Parish patrol cars sitting there. Beyond the driveway covered with white shells and down farther on the banks of the slow-flowing bayou, the houseboat sat silent and undisturbed. Other than the police cars, everything looked exactly the way it had that morning when Claire had left for Thibodaux.
They pulled up beside the other vehicles and then got out and walked across the front yard. The house was a big two-story structure, clapboard, once white but now peeling and gray. Some of the roof had collapsed, but most of the bottom floor was still intact. The giant river stone chimney was crumbling some now, but it had been a wonderful home once, full of laughter and love and happy children. Bobby and Kristen LeFevres had made it warm and safe for their own two children and the multitude of foster kids theyâd taken in through the years.
Bobby LeFevres had been an NOPD detective then and had found Claire, her face and arms bruised, hiding in a city park pavilion after she had wandered away from her abusive foster family. He had taken her home with him and fought for her to stay there, until Family Services had seen fit to move her to a new family up around Baton Rouge. But the LeFevres house held only good memories. Until now.
Inside the house, they found the first floor was still in pretty good shape, but the second floor, where Claire had slept in a bedroom with the LeFevresesâ darling little daughter named Sophie, was in ruins, the roof caved in, the wood floor water damaged. They stopped outside the front door, put on protective booties and blue latex gloves, and then moved carefully through the living room and joined the officers at the dining room pocket doors. They stood there a few minutes and observed the crime scene. It was not a pretty sight. In fact, it was downright shocking.
The victim was a woman. She had on some kind of long white velvet robe. Her hands had been placed in her lap, but were completely hidden inside the robeâs wide flowing sleeves. Her face had been painted to resemble a skeleton. White paint had been applied all over her facial skin except for the eye sockets, nose, and chin, which were painted black, but that wasnât the worst part. The killer had pierced a needle through her white lips and sewn her mouth shut with large black vertical stitches. White thread had been sewn in a large X on each of
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