Wild Man's Curse (Wilds of the Bayou #1) by Susannah Sandlin Page A

First on the agenda was convincing herself to reopen the doors and windows and let in some fresh air. The sun was already bright, but the morning held a touch of coolness that caressed her skin when she finally worked up the nerve to step onto the porch. Nothing looked out of place, but she tensed at the sound of an outboard motor.
    After an agonizing ten or twenty seconds that felt more like an hour, a boat came into view and Ceelie let out a whoosh of relief. She could tell by the gear and the two guys throwing casual, disinterested waves as they passed that they were fishing. Maybe they were fishing for gators, maybe for gar, maybe for catfish. But not for Eva Savoie’s heir.
    She needed to stop being a paranoid idiot. Other than the appearance of a common predatory bird and her own rampaging imagination, there was no reason to think Tante Eva’s killer would have any interest in her. He had been looking for something specific, or such was the consensus of the authorities, since money had been left lying around and the cabin had been turned inside out.
    The killer had probably gotten what he wanted. After all, he’d been leaving when Gentry Broussard had spotted him. Otherwise, the sexy warden would’ve caught him in the act, still on the prowl for whatever he sought.
    Even if the killer hadn’t found what he’d been looking for, the murderous SOB should have done his homework. So he’d know Celestine Savoie hadn’t set foot in Louisiana in ten years. If he had half the brain God gave him, he’d realize that she couldn’t have any useful information.
    Last night, she had let superstition get the best of her, plain and simple. Her days back in Terrebonne had been filled with charity-funeral arrangements, legal matters, cleaning up bloodstains, and running from memories. Time to get real and decide what to do with the rest of her life. She sure didn’t plan to spend it around Whiskey Bayou, sleeping with an ax.
    After a tepid shower, Ceelie downed two cups of Eva’s nasty instant coffee made with water boiled on the ancient white GE stove. She’d kept her clothes in her suitcase since arriving, not wanting either to stain them with blood and bleach or, maybe, to admit to herself that she might be here a while. Now she admitted it. She doubted that people were lined up to buy a spit of land in a place that turned into an island practically as soon as the skies turned dark.
    Until she sold the land, she couldn’t afford to leave.
    Now, she dumped out her pathetic excuse for a wardrobe on the bed and surveyed her options. What hadn’t fit in the suitcase, she’d bagged up before leaving Nashville and set in the hallway for Goodwill to pick up. Only the two pieces of furniture remained in the apartment.
    Which meant, on some level, she’d known this move was permanent, at least as far as Tennessee was concerned. She didn’t know where she’d go next, but without rent to worry about and with the money she’d found scattered around Tante Eva’s cabin— her cabin—she could survive long enough to decide. Austin had a healthy music scene, and Texas might look more kindly on Cajun hippie music than Nashville.
    Her best jeans were clean, so she pulled those on, along with one of her few tops that weren’t long-sleeved, T-shirts, or tanks. The scoop-necked knit was black with three-quarter sleeves, which meant it would hold every bit of heat and she’d be sweating like a wild boar by the time she coaxed the dinosaur of a pickup all the way to Houma. Shopping was on her to-do list, but for food, not clothes. Clothes were a luxury.
    At a quarter of ten, she grabbed her purse and the set of keys she’d found in Tante Eva’s tattered black handbag that the woman must’ve been carrying around since the 1960s. In a nod to her paranoia of the previous night, Ceelie closed and locked all the windows and tried odd keys on the key ring until she found one that fit the front door. In her earlier outings, she hadn’t