Cursed (Decorah Security #21) - Rebecca York Page 0,29
impressed her the evening before, although she’d hardly gotten to enjoy the view before Andre had hustled her into the house. In the bright sunlight, the garden was stunning, with carefully mulched beds that were almost devoid of weeds.
Descending the steps, she wandered among the flower beds. When she came to a stalk of grass that obviously didn’t belong among the begonias, she pulled it up, then wondered where she was going to get rid of it.
As she walked across the broad lawn and away from the house, she could see that Andre had different garden beds scattered around the lawn. Many were edged with bright annuals to provide continuous color. In the center were grouped perennials like iris, peonies or lilies that would provide varying bursts of color throughout the year.
The garden—and the house—said a lot about the owner of Belle Vista. He was supremely self-sufficient. He made long-range plans. He loved living in a beautiful setting. He was willing to work hard to achieve his goals.
At the margins of the garden, Andre had cultivated informal groups of natural plants. Under a live oak, just past a patch of spear-like ferns, Morgan found a rough circle of trampled earth. As she examined the spot, a shiver traveled over her skin, despite the heat. This must be where the voodoo priestess had been standing, although she saw no evidence beyond the trampled ground.
How often did the woman come here? Was her visit a special treat for Andre’s librarian? Along with the gris-gris.
Morgan glanced back over her shoulder. Without her gun for protection, she wanted to keep the house in sight. But she also wanted to do some more investigating. She began walking back and forth, checking the ground. About fifteen yards from the edge of the manicured area, she spotted something white among the leaves covering the ground. When she squatted down, she found several cigarette butts. Pulling on a rubber glove, she picked up the butts and shoved them into a plastic bag. Methodically, she looked for more evidence but found nothing besides bird droppings. The butts would have DNA evidence—from saliva. But there was a good chance the rain had washed it away. Still, she was going to send the evidence to Decorah for analysis.
The hair prickled on the back of her neck, and she looked quickly over her shoulder, expecting to find Andre staring at her. She saw no one. Yet the feeling of being watched persisted.
Before she’d come here, Andre had told her which books to read about the natural environment. Now she pretended great interest in a giant hooded pitcher plant as she scanned the underbrush around her. Although nothing stirred, the feeling of uneasiness persisted. And the house was out of sight now. But she knew the way back because bright sunlight marked the edge of the lawn.
Still, she kept her ears tuned for danger. When she heard something moving in the underbrush, she went stock-still, visions of jaguars playing through her head.
With part of her mind, she knew she was out to prove to herself that Morgan Kirkland hadn’t changed since coming to Belle Vista and meeting Andre Gascon. She still had the same reckless disregard for her own safety.
But she had enough sense to hesitate for several minutes stepping farther into the shadows, moving cautiously from tree trunk to tree trunk. It was a secret relief to find she could only walk another twenty yards before she came to the bank of what she would have called a small, lazy river, although she suspected the people down here would refer to it as a bayou.
She followed its course for another couple of hundred yards, moving farther from the house—farther from safety, until she came to a place where she could see an island about six feet from shore, with a fallen log lying across the banks, providing access. The log was about three feet above the water, the near end resting on a bed of sphagnum moss. It was too narrow to be a good bridge, but when she moved closer, she saw muddy footprints in the moss and on the log top—suggesting that someone had crossed over. Someone with a secret to hide out here in the swamp?
It could be Andre. But what if it wasn’t him? What if someone else was hiding an illegal operation on his property and wanted everyone to keep out of the area? A murderous jaguar would certainly discourage trespassers.