Page 122 of The Cajun Doctor

“Angus!” Samantha and Lily Beth both said at the same time.

“Okay, okay, I guess that was pushing it,” Angus conceded.

“A bit of advice, son,” a somber-faced Brad said then, “cut the gambling.”

“I already have. I haven’t even played online poker for two weeks.”

They all rolled their eyes at that.

After this was over, Samantha was going to find out if Angus had a gambling addiction, and, if he did, he was going to land in a rehab center quicker than he could say, “Royal Flush!”

You’d think the chaos of their lives with its peculiar ups and downs these past few days would be over. Not a chance.

Just then, Fred Olsen, the other FBI agent, in country club attire again . . . i.e., slacks, golf shirt, and even an Augusta National cap . . . came into the doorway, the one leading through the hall to the ground floor verandah. “You won’t believe who just arrived.”

“Oh, no! Did Tante Lulu come back? How did she get here? Her car’s still parked out front,” John said.

Luc grimaced and replied, “Are you kiddin’? She could have hitchhiked if she wanted ta come bad enough.”

“It’s not Tante Lulu,” Fred told them with a wide grin. “It’s Braveheart and Florence ‘Hatchet Face’ Henessey.”

And in walked her father in full Scottish dress, complete with kilt, tartan, and sporran, attire which didn’t surprise her or Angus, but must be a bit of a shock to the rest of them in the room. And beside him walked a frowning Florence, his wife, who apparently was also known as “Hatchet Face.”

“What the hell is going on here?” her father asked at the same time Brad asked, “How did you know these folks were here? It’s supposed to be a friggin’ secret.”

Her father waved a hand airily. “I have a friend in the police department.”

Brad shook his head with disgust, then put up his arms in surrender. “Well, our cover is blown here now. You all might as well go home.”

So, it was over, Samantha thought. In more ways than one.

Turns out it had been a one-night stand, after all.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Saved by Braveheart . . .

Daniel knew something was different at Bayou Rose when he returned from the hardware store. His first clue was that there were no vehicles parked in the front driveway. Not Aaron’s truck, though he was probably still at work. Nor the FBI or police unmarked cars, which meant the meeting was over. Even Samantha’s BMW was missing.

Daniel felt a sudden lurch of despair. For some reason, he’d thought Samantha and her gang would be staying another few days. Something must have happened.

He drove around the side of the house and parked as close as he could to the slave cabin, rather “the cottage,” which he supposed was more politically correct. Edgar, who’d stayed behind, came out to help him unload all the plumbing and paint supplies he’d purchased. The celery green paint for the walls . . . not moss green, nor sage green . . . but celery green, as ordered by Tante Lulu before she’d left. As if she was some kind of bleepin’ construction foreman for this project.

Even though he kept emphasizing that this was only a one cottage venture, Tante Lulu was making plans, he could tell. In fact, she’d called his cell phone this morning and without preamble declared that all the cottages should be painted a different color, like Sunshine Yellow for the first, and others could be such cornball colors as Bluebird Blue, Grassy Green, Pansy Purple, and so on. Apparently she’d had a dream about them. Samantha would have a fit about the historical inaccuracy of the colors, if she ever found out.

Edgar asked Daniel to come inside and see what he’d been doing while Daniel was out shopping for supplies. Edgar, his face flushed with pride, paused in the act of tossing some cushions onto the sofa.

Daniel glanced around at the used furniture arranged on a green-and-black area rug, and he had to admit that the room looked nice. The oak coffee table with matching end tables, brass lamps, even a bookcase. Once the walls were painted, a few pictures hung, and maybe some curtains put on the windows, it would be a cozy little retreat for the parent of a sick kid. Just what he’d envisioned, but more.

It occurred to Daniel that, if Samantha and Angus and Lily Beth were no longer here, he could call the workers to return for work on the mansion. Somehow, the thought wasn’t heartening. More pounding and scraping and power tools!

“Where is everyone, by the way?” he asked with as casual a tone as he could manage.

“They all left after that meeting with the police and FBI goons. Man, don’t think I wasn’t nervous with all those police cars around?”

“So, the FBI said it was safe to leave here now that the arrests were made.”

“Well, not exactly. It was when Samantha’s daddy showed up and raised hell.”