Though Bobby still couldn’t see a face, he sensed when the man’s gaze turned in his direction. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Detective Bobby Doucet, from New Orleans.”
Mr. Larsen continued to stand inside, his expression shrouded by the night.
“Chief Johnson sent him over,” Raye added.
Her father pushed open the screen. Would Bobby have been invited in if not for Chief Johnson?
Raye reached for the door. Bobby’s hand, already doing the same, connected with hers. Silvery blue sparks leaped through the silent night. They both pulled back, and the screen door banged.
“Sorry,” Raye and Bobby blurted at the same time.
“Get a move on,” Mr. Larsen said. “I was just about to head to bed.”
Considering the barn and the early bedtime, Bobby wondered if the Larsens had once been farmers. Though if they had where were their fields? He doubted trees this big sprouted up like beanstalks.
Raye led him into a kitchen that appeared rustic. Butcher block. Large handcrafted table with matching chairs. Frilly, seemingly handmade curtains. However, the appliances were state-of-the-art. The countertops and the floor covering might appear old, but they’d been made to.
“Detective Doucet, this is my father, John.”
If Raye hadn’t already told him she was adopted, he would have wondered. John Larsen was a short, squat man with silvery-blond hair, a florid complexion, and eyes of so light a blue Bobby thought it must hurt them to be exposed to the sun. Which might explain why he lived in shadow.
“Mr. Larsen.” Bobby held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
They shook. “I suspect you’re here about the dead woman.”
“I—” Bobby began.
“First murder in New Bergin in several lifetimes.”
“You’re very lucky,” Bobby said. He had several lifetimes’ worth of murder a week in New Orleans.
“And what are you?”
“Homicide detective.” Bobby figured that was obvious but maybe not.
“No. I mean…” The man waved his hand, indicating Bobby’s head, chest, feet.
Bobby glanced down. His fly was zipped; his shirt was buttoned. His shoes were a little scuffed, and he’d taken off his tie on the plane but— He lifted his gaze to Raye, who was rubbing her head as if it ached. “I don’t—”
“Thanks, Father. I’ll show him his room.” She grabbed Bobby’s arm and practically dragged him through the door and toward the wooden staircase.
The steps gleamed with varnish, as did the hand-carved newel post and railing. Bobby ran his palm over them.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. The craftsmanship was equal to some of the best restorations in New Orleans, and there were a lot of them.
“Father did all the work himself. Carved the tables and chairs too.”
“He’s a carpenter?”
“And a teacher.”
“You followed in his footsteps.”
“Didn’t help.”
He frowned. Help what?
“He was a high school shop teacher. Retired before he was phased out.”
“Phased out?” Bobby echoed.
“Younger teachers cost less, and shop teachers aren’t necessary.”
“I enjoyed shop.”
“Enjoy isn’t on the program these days. Math. Science. Advanced placement.” She held up a hand. “Don’t get me started.”
He understood the frustration in being a public servant. He’d gone into law enforcement to help people. Instead he spent a lot of time fighting the system instead of the bad guys.
“But my father’s a lemonade maker.” Her lips curved, though her expression was more melancholy than amused. “Turned what he taught into a second career, and he’s doing pretty well.”
“Your mom?”
“Gone,” she said. “Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” He resisted a bizarre urge to take her hands in his and warm them. “That’s rough.”
“It was.”
They reached the landing. She opened the second door on the right and flicked on the light. Every shade in the green spectrum appeared to live within—lime, pine, grass—there were more but Bobby had exhausted his color vocabulary.
“Let me guess.” He shaded his eyes. “The green room?”
“There’s also a blue room and a yellow room.”
“No red room?” He ran the words together so they sounded like redrum, and she smiled. A Stephen King fan. He liked her even more.
“They considered it. Then I showed them the movie. My father’s still traumatized.”
“About your father … I’m not sure what he was trying to ask me.”
“He didn’t mean to be rude.”
“He was being rude?” Now Bobby was really confused.
She bit her lip. “He might ask again.”
“Whatever the hell he asked in the first place,” Bobby muttered. “What am I?”
“He was asking where your ancestors came from.”
The light dawned. “As in Africa?”
“Around here, the only nonwhite people are Indians.”
He waited for her to laugh but she didn’t.
In New Orleans a lot of folks were something as well as a little something else. The shades of skin varied widely and no one cared, or if they did, they didn’t mention it.
“In New Bergin, most of the names end with some variation of son or man,” she continued.