The Lost Girls of Johnson's Bayou Read online

  She hustled back to the kitchen, and Paul turned his attention to the omelet. The festival was the perfect cover, and it provided an excellent reason for him to ask some questions about Ginny, both to Ginny and to others.

  Less than one day in town and he already had a lead. Not bad at all.

  THE MAN WATCHED HER from across the town square as she unpacked jewelry from cardboard boxes and arranged it on a folding table covered with black velvet draping. She didn’t appear different from what she did any other day, but he knew something was different. He’d noticed her staring out the window of the café lately, looking toward the abandoned school.

  After all these years, she’d never seemed to care. Never wanted to talk about her past when people, even specialists like doctors and counselors, tried to bring it up. So why did it seem her curiosity was developing now? What had changed? Nothing in town or within her immediate family and friends. He was sure about that, as he knew everyone in Johnson’s Bayou.

  Was she starting to remember?

  He hoped not, because he liked Ginny. Liked the young woman she’d become. It would be a shame to have to kill her now.

  GINNY TOOK THE CASH from another happy customer and handed her a bag of jewelry in exchange. The woman thanked her and hurried off to meet her husband, who’d waited almost patiently for the thirty minutes the woman had taken to pick out the perfect pair of earrings. Ginny tucked the cash into her apron and smiled at Mrs. Foster, who was giving her a thumbs-up from her table of baked goods across the brick walkway.

  With her table empty of customers for the first time that day, Ginny decided to walk across to Mrs. Foster’s table and grab up something good before it was all gone. Mrs. Foster’s baking was famous in Johnson’s Bayou, and Ginny didn’t want to miss out.

  “You been doing some good business today,” the silver-haired Mrs. Foster said as Ginny approached. “You might sell out before me.”

  Ginny laughed. “That will be the day.” Ginny scanned the table of picked-over goodies. “No more coffee cake?” she asked, trying not to let her disappointment show in her voice.

  Mrs. Foster reached beneath the table and brought up a coffee cake, a big grin on her face. “I saved one for you.”

  “Bless you,” Ginny said and pulled some money out of her apron.

  Mrs. Foster shook her head. “Your money’s no good here. Those earrings you made me are still the most coveted at bingo night.”

  Ginny smiled. “Then we’re even, because I might have a matching necklace tucked under my table for you.”

  Mrs. Foster’s face lit up and she clapped her hands. “That old biddy Adelaide will never get over it. You’ve made my day, Ginny.”

  Mrs. Foster’s gaze shifted past Ginny and she pointed. “Got a new customer. Nice-looking one, too.”

  Ginny looked back at her table, then froze. It was him.

  She supposed Mrs. Foster was right. He was good-looking, when she could manage to separate the man standing at her booth from the man who’d scared her half to death the night before. He studied the jewelry with more interest than she would have expected from a guy, but she immediately chided herself for such a sexist thought. For all she knew, he may have a wife or girlfriend at home whom he was purchasing for. She knew she should go back to her table, but she hesitated. He made her uneasy in a way she’d never felt before.

  Finally, she took a deep breath and began to cross the walkway. Suddenly, he stiffened, then reached for a custom metal necklace at the end of her table. He stared at the piece, his expression a mixture of surprise and confusion.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  He whirled around to face her and shoved the necklace at her. “Where did you get this design?”

  Surprised by his obvious agitation, she took a step back. “I…I didn’t get it anywhere.”

  He waved one hand at her table, his frustration apparent. “You used it in half of your jewelry. Why? What does it mean to you?”

  Ginny stared, not certain what answer he was looking for, but clearly she didn’t have the right one. “It doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s just a design I thought of. It was popular with the customers, so I adopted it as a sort of signature.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “You just thought of the design? Just like that?”

  Ginny bristled, done with his attitude. “Yes, that’s what artists do. They just think of things then create them. If you’re not interested in purchasing that necklace, please return it to the table and be on your way, Mr....” She trailed off, realizing that he’d never given her his name.

  “Stanton. Paul Stanton.”

  He studied her face with an intensity that was almost alarming. Ginny got the distinct impression he was trying to decide if she was lying, although about what she had absolutely no idea.

  “I’ll take this necklace,” he said and pulled out his wallet. “How much?”

  Ginny’s initial instinct was to refuse to sell him the necklace and demand that Paul Stanton leave her table, but she was afraid he wouldn’t be put off that easily. More than anything, she wanted this angry, suspicious man out of her personal space. “Twenty dollars.”

  He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to her. “You’re certain you’ve never seen this design somewhere before?”

  “What do you want me to say—that I stole the design from someone? Well, I didn’t. I had that image in my mind years before I began designing jewelry.” Since the day I walked out of the swamp and into Johnson’s Bayou.

  “How long?”

  Ginny frowned. “How long have I been designing jewelry?”

  “No. How long have you had that image in your mind?”

  “I don’t see—”

  “Just tell me.”

  His voice had a desperate edge to it, and Ginny began to see something behind the frustration in his expression. Fear?

  “Sixteen years,” Ginny replied. As long as I can remember.

  He stared at the swirl of metal that lay on his palm. “Sixteen years,” he whispered and clutched his hand around the necklace before he turned and walked away.

  What in the world? Ginny stared at his retreating figure, at a complete loss over their exchange. She didn’t think the design was stolen. Surely, she’d have seen it before now if that was the case, but Paul Stanton had acted as if he’d seen the pattern before. Seeing the design on her jewelry had clearly bothered him.

  But why?

  She watched as he disappeared into the festival crowd, somehow knowing she hadn’t seen the last of him. Turning to her table, she looked at the rows of metal pieces, many fashioned in the same swirl of circles with one circle in the middle, giving the design a flower-like appearance. She’d never questioned where the design had come from. It had always been there.

  Even though it was at least eighty degrees outside, she felt a chill run over her. Was the design part of her past? The single item she’d brought out of the woods with her?

  And if so, what did it mean to Paul Stanton?

  Chapter Four

  Ginny placed what remained of her jewelry in the plastic storage container and strapped it on the dolly she’d borrowed from the café. It had been a good day for sales, and despite her somewhat unnerving run-in with Paul Stanton, she felt upbeat as she pulled her purse strap over her shoulder.

  “Need any help?” Madelaine’s voice sounded behind her, and she turned to smile at her mother, who was laden down with bags.

  “Looks like I should be asking you that question.” She pulled the top off her storage container and collected some of her mother’s shopping bags, dropping them inside. Her mother unwound more bags from her other arm and continued adding to the container until it was full. She was still clutching two more bags.

  “Whew, that’s a relief,” Madelaine said, rubbing her forearm with her free hand.

  Ginny secured the top on the container, shaking her head. “What in the world did you buy? You live here year-round with everyone sell
ing their wares. You don’t have to buy everything at one time.”

  “Carol’s aunt was here—the one I told you about, remember?”

  “The seamstress?”

  “That’s the one. When we chatted at Carol and Glenn’s anniversary party, I mentioned wanting new tablecloths and such for the café but not being able to find what I was looking for premade. I was going to call her to get some pricing, but one thing led to another, and well, you know how it is.”

  Ginny swung the dolly around behind her and they started walking down Main Street toward the café. “You forgot.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what’s with all the packages?”

  “The aunt had an idea for the café based on what I’d described and made up some tablecloths and napkins, figuring if I wasn’t interested, she’d sell them at her shop in New Orleans.”

  Madelaine dug in one of her bags and pulled out a napkin fashioned from patches of bright patterned materials in turquoise, pink, green and yellow. She handed the napkin to Ginny. “How perfect is that?”

  Ginny looked down at the splash of colorful fabrics and smiled. “It is perfect and totally you.” She handed the napkin back to Madelaine. “What about valances? That blue gingham with the sunflowers has been hanging there since I was a little girl.”

  “She’s coming by tomorrow to measure the windows. I’m also thinking it’s time for a fresh coat of paint, maybe a sunny yellow to match that color in the napkins. What do you think?”

  “I think it sounds like a lot of work…but nice.”

  Madelaine waved a hand in dismissal. “I’ll hire Saul Pritchard to do the painting. He finished up Carol’s bedroom last week, so I know he’s got the time. So I guess the almost-empty container means you had a good day.”

  “It was an excellent day. I sold everything but ten pieces, and a couple of buyers for bigger shops bought pieces and took pictures and business cards.”

  “Whoo! I’m telling you, one day you’re going to be famous and you’re going to buy me a nice beach house in the Bahamas, with one of those cute guys who bring you fancy drinks.”

  “A cabana boy?” Ginny laughed. “If I get rich and famous, it’s a deal.”

  “Carol said she saw a likely candidate at your booth today when she passed with her grandkids. From her description, I thought it might be that good-looking young man who was in the café this morning.”

  Ginny nodded, struggling not to frown. “He bought a necklace.”

  “That’s it?” The disappointment in Madelaine’s voice was clear.

  “Yes, that’s it. What was he supposed to do?”

  “Well, he said he had family that owned a store, but maybe he plans on taking the piece to them to see. And I thought…well…oh, never mind.”

  “You thought since he was over ten and under sixty, I should jump him at the festival?”

  “Of course not, but a nice lunch wouldn’t be out of line. Oh well, he said he was taking a bit of a vacation. Maybe you’ll see him again before the festival is over.”

  Ginny stopped in front of the café and pulled her keys from her purse to unlock the front door, trying not to think about what Madelaine had said. She’d bet everything she owned that Paul Stanton was not on vacation. He had far too much intensity for a man who was supposed to be relaxing. Ginny was certain he was in Johnson’s Bayou for a reason, but she didn’t even want to know what it was. She just wanted him to leave her alone.

  “You coming in?” Ginny asked.

  “No. I’m pooped. I’m gonna take a long shower and go to bed early.” She gave Ginny a kiss on the cheek. “Just leave my bags in the kitchen. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”

  Ginny pulled the dolly into the kitchen and unloaded her mother’s bags on the desk in the back corner of the kitchen. She grabbed the almost-empty container and hauled it upstairs with her to refill for tomorrow’s display. She balanced the wide container on her hip and the wall to unlock her apartment, but the instant she stepped inside, she knew something was wrong.

  She stood stock-still just inside the front door and felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She listened for sounds that would indicate anyone was there, but all she heard was the quiet ticking of the kitchen clock. Scanning every square inch of the room, she tried to find something out of place. Something that would explain her fear, but everything appeared as it had when she’d left that morning.

  She started to move, but then a scent wafted past her nose. The faint smell of musk, like a man’s aftershave. Without a sound, she placed the container on the floor next to the door and walked toward her bedroom, leaving the door to the apartment wide open in case she needed to make a run for it. She stopped just outside the bathroom and reached around the wall with her hand to flip on the lights. Light flooded the tiny room, and one quick look was all it took for her to know it was empty. The curtain was pulled back on the bathtub, just as she’d left it that morning, so no one could be hiding inside, and the tiny bathroom didn’t have a linen closet.

  Easing down the hall, she reached inside her bedroom and turned on the lights. The room appeared undisturbed, and she was glad she’d left in a hurry that morning and left her closet door open. It was so small that she could see every square inch from the doorway, and no one lurked inside. Her bed was platform style with drawers for storage underneath, so no one could be hiding there.

  Relief washed over her and she plopped down on the bed, chiding herself for scaring herself half to death over nothing. She needed to get a grip on her overactive imagination. It had been getting worse for some time, but ever since her trip into the woods and her run-in with Paul Stanton, it seemed to be in overdrive. She pulled open the drawer on her nightstand to retrieve lip balm she kept inside and froze.

  Her diary had been moved.

  She leaned over for a closer look, but she knew it wasn’t where she’d left it. It wasn’t off by much, but she was almost anal about fitting it exactly into the corner of the drawer. Now, it lay about an inch from the side. Lifting the journal from the drawer, she inspected the bookmark. Just as she suspected, it was off. The pink flower that she always left peeking out from the top of the journal was buried halfway in the book.

  Suddenly, she remembered that she’d left the front door wide open and she jumped up from the bed, dropping her journal on the bed as she dashed out of the room. She slammed the door and slid the dead bolt into place, then leaned back against it, trying to slow her racing heart.

  No one but Madelaine had a key to her apartment, or the café, for that matter. And she couldn’t think of any reason at all that someone would break into her apartment to read her journal. She didn’t have much of value, but she kept a stash of cash in the same nightstand as the journal, and it was still there. It didn’t make sense. Why would anyone go through the trouble of finding an undetected way into the café and her apartment just to read the ramblings of a waitress?

  Paul Stanton!

  Ever since he’d grabbed her in the woods last night, he’d shown up everywhere she was. Granted, it was a small town, so that wasn’t hard to do, but Ginny didn’t believe for a moment that he’d picked Johnson’s Bayou at random for a vacation and then went roaming around the woods at night carrying a gun for relaxation.

  Then there was that scene at the festival today. She’d seen his expression when he asked her about the necklace. He was surprised and agitated and afraid, all at the same time, just as he had been when he’d found her in the woods that night. But why?

  Ginny crossed the room to the kitchenette and pulled a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator. She had moved past scared to angry. A glass of wine and a hot bath were in order. It had been a long day of work between the café and the festival, and she had to do it all again tomorrow.

  She took a sip of the wine and stared out the kitchen window into the woods. If Paul Stanton had the nerve to show up at the café or the festival tomorrow, she was going to give him a piece of her mind.

  In
fact, she was almost looking forward to it.

  PAUL TIMED HIS ENTRY into the café just after the locals had cleared out to set up for the festival. He’d barely slept, his mind rolling around every possibility associated with the jewelry he’d purchased from Ginny the day before. The jewelry laid out in the same swirl of circles that his sister used to draw on everything—her signature, she used to call it. Their mother had even helped her paint the design on her bedroom walls in bright pinks and blues.

  It wasn’t impossible that two people would have the same idea, but it was highly unlikely. And if Ginny was the girl who had wandered out of the woods the day the LeBlanc School had burned, then Lord only knew what might be locked in her memory. If her lost memories contained anything to do with his sister, he intended to figure out a way to access them. Surely, she would understand…would help, if he explained the situation. She’d seemed nice enough, despite his less-than-polite behavior, and her mother had definitely shown all the signs of Southern hospitality.

  He slipped into an empty booth at the back of the café, as far away as possible from the few patrons who were still lingering. Until he had a better idea of exactly what had happened at that school all those years ago, it was best to keep his purpose in town hidden from the masses. Plus, if he asked Ginny personal questions and she got uncomfortable, locals would probably jump in to protect her. That was typical small-town behavior.

  The couple sitting nearest to his booth rose right after he’d taken his seat and left some money on the table. Perfect timing. Now all he needed was for Ginny to come over with her order pad. He hadn’t seen her when he walked in, but she was probably in the back plating food or running dirty dishes through the wash.

  The door to the kitchen swung open and he took a deep breath, mentally preparing the words he wanted to say. A second later, he let out the breath in a whoosh of disappointment as Madelaine approached his table, a big smile on her face.

  “Morning,” she said. “You want coffee?”