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upstairs?”
    “Whenever you are.” Vanessa folded her napkin and set it on the table. “I hope there’s a breeze so we can sit out on the gallery and listen to the band at Breaux’s. It’s relaxing.”
    Ethan put his hand on hers. “You feeling any better about the situation out at the house?”
    “Not really. The sheriff deputies didn’t have any answers, and I got the feeling they think it was you-know-who’s imagination talking. I’m glad they’re going to patrol the area a few times a day. But it’s not like the intruder is driving a car and parking it out front.”

    Zoe strolled along rue Madeline , hand in hand with Pierce, the street still radiating warmth from the afternoon sun. The delicious aroma of caramel corn flavored the night air and might have made her mouth water had she not eaten her fill at Louie’s. She had a flashback of Vanessa Langley’s hourglass figure and suddenly felt chagrined that she no longer had a defined waistline.
    “I’ve never seen so many tourists,” Pierce said. “The numbers are always more noticeable this time of night, when the street’s closed off. I sure hope we’re getting our fair share of business.”
    Zoe surveyed the row of quaint shops on the south side of rue Madeline and the people waving amidst a garden of blooming plants on the galleries above. She moved her gaze to the building painted deep gold and trimmed in black and read the matching sign suspended from the gallery just above the entrance:
    Zoe B’s Cajun Eatery
    Pierce and Zoe Broussard, owners
    Would the excitement of owning the eatery ever wear off? Wasn’t it her dream come true, even more today than ten years ago when she started out by renting just half of the first floor from Monsieur Champoux? Even then she was persnickety about the whole dining experience, scraping up every cent she could to ensure that the ambiance as well as the food was something people would talk about. She refinished the wood floor herself, painted the walls, found a fantastic closeout on French country tables and chairs, and made tablecloths and curtains to match. She had an up-to-code kitchen installed and hired a worthy chef to prepare a collection of Cajun recipes she’d fallen in love with and perfected. And hadn’t it paid off? Zoe B’s was an instant hit in Les Barbes.
    She smiled, remembering the sweet elderly customer who first walked through her door …
    “Ah, dis is nice,” the old man said as his gaze flitted around the room. “So you da propriétaire?”
    “Yes, I’m the owner, Zoe Benoit.” She shook his hand, careful not to let her elation overpower her professional demeanor. How long had she waited to say those words? Not bad for poor white trash from Devon Springs, Texas. As far as anyone here was concerned, she was as Cajun as the crawfish étoufée on the menu. “Welcome. And what is your name, Monsieur?”
    “Da name’s Hebert Lanoux.”
    Zoe smiled. “Please come in.”
    She made sure Monsieur Lanoux was seated, and she watched from a polite distance, pleased that he seemed to savor every bite of the étoufée and then ordered bread pudding. She expected him to eat only half the entrée and take the other half home with him. But he ate every bite of it and his dessert, too!
    Finally he wiped his mouth and put his napkin on the table and motioned for the waitress to bring him his check.
    Zoe sauntered over to the table. “And how was your dinner, Monsieur Lanoux?”
    “Ah, c’est bon.” He grinned, his hands patting his lean middle. “I tink dat was even better dan mamere’s cooking. And please call me Hebert. You’ll be seeing a lot of me—”
    “Zoe …? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
    Pierce’s resonant voice brought her back to the present.
    “Sorry, cher . My mind was wandering.”
    “Where were you?”
    “Oh … standing at the door at Zoe B’s on opening day. Do you realize that Hebert has come in almost every day—at least once—for the past