«What do you propose to do about this, Talbot?» Burke demanded in a low, rough voice, his glare bearing down on Mason like a spotlight. «You blow this deal and you can just bend over and kiss your political ass good-bye.»
«Now, Len,» Mason said in his most soothing tones. He gamely resurrected his smile and turned toward the sideboard to pour his guest a drink. «I'm sure I can get Serena to see reason. She just needs a little time, that's all. She's allowed Gifford to manipulate her. Once she realizes that and looks at the situation from a fresh perspective, I'm confident she'll see things our way.»
Burke gave him a long cold look. «She'd better.»
Shelby paced the bedroom, her agitation showing in every step. The room was a shambles. At the peak of her rage she had tipped over every chair, torn die coverlet from the bed, pulled every article of clothing from the closet and dresser and flung them everywhere. Her path was now littered with designer-label suits and dresses that had been worn no more than twice. She ground the delicate fabrics beneath the heels of her pumps as she stalked the floor.
«Damn her. Damn her. I hate her!» she ranted, snatching a bottle of Chanel from the dresser and hurling it against the wall. It shattered, immediately engulfing the room in a sickening cloud of fragrance as the perfume soaked into the wallpaper in an oily stain.
Mason sat on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped lightly between his knees. He watched his wife's awesome display of temper with a properly concerned look knitting his brows and curling down the corners of his mouth. She whirled toward him, her eyes wild, her face contorted in a mask of rage.
«Do something!» she screamed, then lowered her voice to a hissing whisper. «Do something, damn you! Don't just sit there looking pretty while Serena ruins everything I ever wanted!»
«Now, Shelby sweetheart, calm yourself-«
«Don't tell me to calm myself. If everyone calmed themselves as often as you said, we'd all be catatonic. This isn't the time to be calm! This is the time for action. We have to do something. Our future is riding on this.»
«I know that, peach,» Mason said, his gaze drifting wistfully over the expensive wardrobe Shelby had trampled into the floor.
«Of course, if you made more money in your law practice or if your parents hadn't lost their fortune in that silly oil bust, we wouldn't be in this mess.»
Mason hummed a noncommittal note.
«I wish we could just pretend Serena had never come here,» she muttered, resuming her pacing. She ran her fingers through her hair again and again, dislodging pins that fell silently into the drift of fabric she waded through. «I wish she would just disappear. Gifford should have given that power of attorney to me. It's my future that's tied to this place, not Serena's. He should have given it to me, but no, he gave it to her and she doesn't have sense enough to see what's right.»
«Let's not fret over it now,» Mason said softly, standing and reaching for her hand. He drew her across a bright pink suit that still bore the price tag and pulled her into his arms. «Let's sleep on it,» he said, brushing his lips against her temple. «It'll all work out, peach. You'll see.»
«Yes,» Shelby said, suddenly utterly calm as she leaned against her husband. «I will see.»
CHAPTER 16
«TELEPHONE CALL, MIZ 'RENA,» ODILLE ANNOUNCED as she stepped into the dining room.
Shelby's head snapped up from a brooding contemplation of her crawfish bisque. «Honestly, Odille, you know better than to interrupt dinner-«
«It's all right,» Serena said, pushing her chair back from the table with unseemly haste. «I was finished anyway.»
She dropped her napkin over the plate she'd barely touched and turned to the housekeeper, who was giving Shelby a smug glare. «I'll take it in the hall, Odille. Thank you.»
Walking out of the dining room and into the hall, Serena felt as if she'd just left a pressurized chamber. She'd never been so glad to escape a meal in her life. The day had been an especially trying one. She'd spent hours with the insurance investigator and the state fire marshal going over the particulars of the fire, walking through what was left of the machine shed. She'd Spent another few hours on the telephone in Gifford s office soliciting aid in the form of equipment from neighboring planters. Then there had been the trip to the bank to really brighten the day. In addition to these pleasant chores she'd had to contend with Shelby's fire and ice moods and Mason's diplomatic lobbying for her to change her mind about selling the land.
Dinner had been the crowning glory. How anyone in that dining room had managed to choke down a single bite of food was beyond her. Serena was more than happy to have an excuse to get away. She could have kissed Odille's feet for interrupting.
She stopped at the hall table and picked up the receiver, expecting to hear the voice of one of the planters she had spoken with that day.
«This is Serena Sheridan. How may I help you?»
«You got it backward,» the man said in a hushed voice. «I want to help you.»
A chill ran down Serena's spine. Her hand tightened on the receiver. «Who is this?»
«A friend.»
The voice was dark and rough, not the voice of a friend, but the voice of a stranger. Serena steeled herself against the tingles of fear running through her and spoke in the most businesslike tone she could manage. «Look, either you give me your name or I'm hanging up.»
«You're not interested in information that could tie Burke to your fire?»
Serena's heart picked up a beat. She swallowed hard. «I'm listening.»
«Meet me at the back edge of that cane field that runs along the bayou in half an hour.»
«Isn't there some other way of doing this?» she asked. The idea of meeting an anonymous caller in the middle of nowhere held no appeal at all. «Can't you tell me what you know now?»
«You can't see evidence over the phone, lady,» he answered impatiently. «Do you want it or not? It's no skin off my nose if the insurance company never pays off.»
In the end Serena agreed to the meeting. She decided she would have James Arnaud follow her at a distance in case there was trouble. She didn't like the idea of meeting the man behind the voice, but she couldn't take the chance of dismissing evidence that would clear the way for the claim to be settled. The future of Chanson du Terre rode on getting that money. The plantation had become Serena's responsibility. She would do whatever she had to do.
She left the house without a word to anyone and walked to Arnaud's house only to be informed by a gum-chewing teenage daughter that the manager had gone to the hospital to visit the two men who had been injured in the explosion. Serena thanked the girl and wandered down the drive, wondering what to do. She could ask one of the other hired men to go with her, but she had no way of knowing which one of them might have been Burke's accomplice. She thought about skipping the meeting, but there was no guarantee her informant would try again.
The claim had to be settled. There was no question of that. Gifford wouldn't be able to cover even a fraction of the cost to replace the machine shed, let alone the machinery that had been burned inside it.
There was no choice for her to make. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she set off for the rendezvous spot with determined strides.
No one was waiting for her when she arrived ten minutes later. Serena found herself standing at the end of the canebrake, shifting her weight nervously from one foot to the other. She didn't like being there. Even if it had been the middle of the day, she wouldn't have liked it. This particular field wasn't far from the plantation buildings, but the buildings were out of sight, giving one the impression of total wilderness. The money-green stalks of cane were already tall and grew thickly across the field to the south. To the north, Bayou Noir made a dog-leg cut into Sheridan property, partially isolating this field from the others. The mass willow trees along the bank of the bayou increased the sense of isolation.