Heather shook her head as they climbed the front steps to the porch. "The curator's not going to let you in with those swords."
"That is the least of my worries." Jean-Luc knocked on the door.
As they waited, Heather admired the elaborate gingerbread work around the covered porch and the wicker furniture. "They've maintained the place well."
Jean-Luc knocked again.
Heather frowned. "She said she would keep it open."
Jean-Luc turned the doorknob, and the door swung open slowly. "She has kept it open." He entered the dimly lit foyer, followed by Robby.
"Hello?" Heather called out as she stepped into the house. No answer. She gazed about, taking in the flocked wallpaper and Oriental rug on the wooden floor. "Maybe she's in the bathroom."
Robby obviously didn't believe in such convenient reasoning, for he drew his claymore. He entered the dark parlor on the right, his sword clenched tight in his fist.
He halted abruptly. "Lord Almighty," he whispered.
"What is it?" Jean-Luc rushed in, then stopped.
Heather couldn't see what they were looking at, so she fumbled along the wall and flipped the light switch. "Good Lord."
The light was aimed at the far wall, where a giant oil painting spread five feet across. Heather swallowed. No wonder Fidelia recognized this painting. Who could forget it? A curvaceous blonde reclined on a velvet chaise, completely nude while she pleasured herself, one hand on a plump breast and the other between her spread legs. Judging from the look on her face, her hands could work miracles.
"Sheesh. That doesn't leave much to the imagination." Heather turned away to look at the rest of the room. Red velvet chaises like the one in the painting lined the walls. She wondered if the prostitutes had reenacted the scene for paying customers.
Robby's head tilted as he studied the painting. "I suppose its purpose is to help a man be prepared."
Jean-Luc stood beside him, his gaze also glued to the painting. "That makes sense from a business point of view. If the men are ready to perform, then they can move the customers through more quickly."
"And make more money," Robby concluded.
"Hello?" Heather waved a hand in front of their faces to get their attention. "We're looking for a homicidal maniac, remember?"
Robby jerked as if coming out of a trance. "I'll take a look around." He returned to the foyer and clambered up the stairs.
Heather glanced at the painting, then frowned at Jean-Luc. "Are you done?"
His mouth twitched. "I feel a bit sorry for her. All the men who came through here, and still, she needs to find pleasure by her own hand."
Heather shrugged. "If you want a job done right, you gotta do it yourself."
He arched a brow. "Has it been that way for you?"
She scoffed. "I wasn't talking about myself."
"Are you sure? Didn't your ex have only three steps?"
Heather felt her cheeks grow warm. "I wonder what happened to Mrs. Bolton." She headed toward a closed door and knocked before cracking it open. "Hello?"
"Allow me." Jean-Luc withdrew his foil, then entered the room first.
Heather smoothed a hand over the wall and found the light switch. A small crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, circled by a mirror edged in a gold, ornate frame. The mirror reflected the lights, making that part of the ceiling sparkle, but Heather suspected the mirror had other purposes as well, seeing that it was situated over a large bed.
The bed and windows were lined with red satin and lace. Red wallpaper, flocked with black cupids, covered the walls. A large desk with pigeonholes sat in the corner.
"The madam's room, I believe." Jean-Luc looked inside a closet. "Though it looks like she did some entertaining herself."
"Yep." Heather motioned to a pair of handcuffs linked through the bed's wrought-iron headboard.
"Looks like she needed to be in charge all the time."
Jean-Luc frowned. "I could never submit to that. I don't like to feel powerless."
Heather snorted. "You would have to trust me not to hurt you." She winced. "I mean whoever was with you." Her face grew hot.
He smiled slowly as he approached. "Are you inviting me to your bed, cherie?"
"No. I was speaking theoretically." She crossed her arms. "Though I doubt I would need to chain you to the bed."
"No, you would not." His eyes twinkled. "Would I need to chain you? Theoretically speaking."
She shoved her hair back from her damp forehead. This theory was getting too hot to handle. "I need to feel that I'm in control."
"Ah, now you have given me a challenge." He stepped closer. "To make you lose control."
She swallowed hard. "I think we're getting off course. We need to find Mrs. Bolton." She strode toward another door.
Jean-Luc went through first, and she followed. It appeared to be a less formal parlor, a place for the ladies to relax when off duty. It opened onto the foyer and the next room, which was the kitchen. There they found the door leading into the cellar.
Robby joined them and insisted on going down first. He flipped the light switch. Nothing happened.
"Could be a blown fuse," Jean-Luc said.
Heather retrieved her flashlight from her purse and lit the stairs. Robby went first, followed by
Jean-Luc and Heather. At the bottom she shone the flashlight around, illuminating a small storeroom with shelves. The cellar was obviously divided into more than one room.
"Do you smell that?" Robby asked quietly.
"Yes." Jean-Luc grabbed Heather's arm. "I'm taking you back to the car."
"What? Why?" She saw Robby going into the next room. She sniffed the air but could smell nothing but dust.
"Lui's not here," Robby called from the next room. "But I need the torch."
"Merde." Jean-Luc wrapped his left arm around Heather. "Stay with me."
She shivered, and the light wavered as they entered the next room.
"The wall to your left," Robby's voice came out of the darkness. "That's where I smell it."
She pointed her flashlight at the wall and gasped when letters in red appeared. It was a message, but not in English.
"It's French." Jean-Luc took her flashlight and panned across the words. "It says, 'We will meet at the time of my choosing. Signed with an L."
"Louie," Heather whispered and stepped back. "He was here."
Robby stepped close to the wall and examined the red letters. "'Tis fresh."
With a gasp, Heather realized it wasn't paint on the wall. It was blood. Fresh blood. She stepped back, her skin crawling with gooseflesh. "He left the message for us. He knew we were coming."
"Yes." Jean-Luc continued to study the message.
Bile rose in her throat. Where did all that blood come from? She stepped back and tripped.
"Aagh!" She fell back and landed on something bulky. She screamed again.
Jean-Luc quickly turned the beam of the flashlight on her. And the dead body.
"Oh my God!" She scrambled away.
A woman's body lay on the cellar floor, her throat slit. Jean-Luc and Robby rushed forward.
Heather slapped a hand over her mouth. Jean-Luc grabbed her. Everything went black for a second, and she blinked, nauseated and dizzy.
A breeze wafted over her face, and she realized she was in the parking lot next to Jean-Luc's BMW. She must have fainted for a minute because she couldn't recall getting there.
"Let's get you home," Jean-Luc bundled her into the car.
With shaking hands, she dropped her purse onto the floorboard. Poor Mrs. Bolton. She'd become Louie's first victim in Texas. With a shudder, Heather realized she'd thought the word first.
They couldn't let Louie kill again. Especially when she and her daughter were on his list.