plantation, like so many of the small towns around here. People moved where the jobs were, and there was an indigo plantation here. At the time, the dye was vital to the country. It’s the blue in our flag, as well as the blue for half of the flags in the original thirteen states.”
“That’s pretty cool. Tell me more.”
“It’ll cost you,” she said, grinning.
“How about a hundred points?” And a kiss, he wanted to say, but didn’t. Even as his hand strayed near hers. Even as his mind replayed how she’d felt in his arms
“Indigo also became the color of Levi’s jeans,” Marjo went on, clearly not aware of what was running through Paul’s mind. “Also, police uniforms, army and navy uniforms.” She slowed her pace a little as she spoke. “Blue was the color of nearly everything back then, and the slaves who worked the plantations practically became blue themselves, both in spirit and in skin color. The songs they sang on the indigo plantation came to be known as the blues.”
“And that music formed the foundation of much ofLouisiana’s music,” he said, putting together what little he did know about the area. “Jazz, R&B, everything.”
She nodded. “It’s amazing what impact one little plant can have on a community. A country.”
“Same as the impact of one person, one building.” His gaze slid toward hers. “Is that what you’re trying to do, Marjo? Make a big impact with one building?”
“We’re here,” she said, avoiding his comment, and stopping in front of a small cottage home that Paul would swear had less square footage than some of the hotel rooms he’d stayed in over the years.
The house was bathed in darkness, blending into the inky night so it was almost invisible. “The lights are out.”
Marjo hesitated on the sidewalk. “That’s not a good sign. Hugh is a night owl. He’s always staying up until three or four in the morning to finish a good book. He says there’s not enough time to read everything he wants.”
Paul chuckled. “A man after my own heart. No matter where I go, I always have a book with me.”
“We better go in and check on him. He could be asleep but…”
“You doubt it.”
“Yeah.” Marjo pressed a hand to her stomach, as if trying to quell a bad feeling. Paul knew, because he had the same feeling in his own gut.
They made their way down the small stone walkway and up the stairs to the front porch. The oldwood creaked beneath them, as if protesting the intrusion. Marjo rapped on the door, called Hugh’s name. No response. She did it a second time, and still, only silence.
She moved to a small window, cupped a hand over her eyes and peered inside the house. “I see him. Oh, God. He’s not moving.”
“Probably just fell asleep in his chair,” Paul said, but he didn’t believe that. “We’ll have to break in.”
“This is Indigo. Most doors are unlocked, particularly if someone is home.” Marjo took in a breath, then reached for the door handle. As she’d predicted, the door was unlocked and swung open with a squeak of the hinges. “Hugh?”
She and Paul entered the house and approached the old man. As they got closer, Paul could see Hugh was slumped over.
And sure as hell wasn’t asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
M ARJO GASPED , obviously drawing the same conclusion as he had. She put a hand over her mouth and stopped on the braided rag rug. “No, not Hugh.”
Paul stepped forward, put his fingers on the elderly man’s carotid. Nothing. Not even a flicker of life. His body was cool, edging toward stiff. “He’s been dead for a while.”
Marjo turned away, then seemed to center herself and turned back. The glimmer of grief and shock had been pushed aside as she took charge of the situation. “We’ll have to call Alain, the coroner and Hugh’s children,” she said, checking off the necessary steps on her fingers. “When Hugh arrives at Savoy, I’ll make sure he’s taken care of the way he deserves.”
She was
“That’s pretty cool. Tell me more.”
“It’ll cost you,” she said, grinning.
“How about a hundred points?” And a kiss, he wanted to say, but didn’t. Even as his hand strayed near hers. Even as his mind replayed how she’d felt in his arms
“Indigo also became the color of Levi’s jeans,” Marjo went on, clearly not aware of what was running through Paul’s mind. “Also, police uniforms, army and navy uniforms.” She slowed her pace a little as she spoke. “Blue was the color of nearly everything back then, and the slaves who worked the plantations practically became blue themselves, both in spirit and in skin color. The songs they sang on the indigo plantation came to be known as the blues.”
“And that music formed the foundation of much ofLouisiana’s music,” he said, putting together what little he did know about the area. “Jazz, R&B, everything.”
She nodded. “It’s amazing what impact one little plant can have on a community. A country.”
“Same as the impact of one person, one building.” His gaze slid toward hers. “Is that what you’re trying to do, Marjo? Make a big impact with one building?”
“We’re here,” she said, avoiding his comment, and stopping in front of a small cottage home that Paul would swear had less square footage than some of the hotel rooms he’d stayed in over the years.
The house was bathed in darkness, blending into the inky night so it was almost invisible. “The lights are out.”
Marjo hesitated on the sidewalk. “That’s not a good sign. Hugh is a night owl. He’s always staying up until three or four in the morning to finish a good book. He says there’s not enough time to read everything he wants.”
Paul chuckled. “A man after my own heart. No matter where I go, I always have a book with me.”
“We better go in and check on him. He could be asleep but…”
“You doubt it.”
“Yeah.” Marjo pressed a hand to her stomach, as if trying to quell a bad feeling. Paul knew, because he had the same feeling in his own gut.
They made their way down the small stone walkway and up the stairs to the front porch. The oldwood creaked beneath them, as if protesting the intrusion. Marjo rapped on the door, called Hugh’s name. No response. She did it a second time, and still, only silence.
She moved to a small window, cupped a hand over her eyes and peered inside the house. “I see him. Oh, God. He’s not moving.”
“Probably just fell asleep in his chair,” Paul said, but he didn’t believe that. “We’ll have to break in.”
“This is Indigo. Most doors are unlocked, particularly if someone is home.” Marjo took in a breath, then reached for the door handle. As she’d predicted, the door was unlocked and swung open with a squeak of the hinges. “Hugh?”
She and Paul entered the house and approached the old man. As they got closer, Paul could see Hugh was slumped over.
And sure as hell wasn’t asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
M ARJO GASPED , obviously drawing the same conclusion as he had. She put a hand over her mouth and stopped on the braided rag rug. “No, not Hugh.”
Paul stepped forward, put his fingers on the elderly man’s carotid. Nothing. Not even a flicker of life. His body was cool, edging toward stiff. “He’s been dead for a while.”
Marjo turned away, then seemed to center herself and turned back. The glimmer of grief and shock had been pushed aside as she took charge of the situation. “We’ll have to call Alain, the coroner and Hugh’s children,” she said, checking off the necessary steps on her fingers. “When Hugh arrives at Savoy, I’ll make sure he’s taken care of the way he deserves.”
She was
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