Alligator Moon Page 16

  “Are you okay?” he asked for the second time that day, again dreading that her answer might be no.

  “I’m a little shaken, as you probably noticed when I hurled myself into your arms. But I’m not hurt.”

  “What happened?”

  “I found the cabin like this when I returned tonight. Well, except for the lamp. I was going to use that to smash the skull of whoever was at the door if it turned out to be my nemesis returning for more fun.”

  “Glad I identified myself quickly.” He glanced around the room. It had the look of teenage hoodlums looking for cash or something that would easily convert to cash. They didn’t get a lot of that down here, and even if they had, he’d have doubted this was random. “What’s missing?”

  “My laptop. All my notes. All my disks. Whoever broke in knew exactly what he was after,” she said. “I guess trashing the rest of my things just provided a little extra thrill.”

  “Or maybe someone wants to frighten you into leaving town.”

  “Then the shot may have been a warning, as well.”

  “Not with a bullet that missed by a fraction of an inch.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Cassie argued. “Danger would normally escalate, wouldn’t it? The warning would come first. Then, if I didn’t heed it, the action would become deadly.”

  “Always happens that way in the movies,” he agreed. “How long had you been away from the cabin?”

  “Most of the day.”

  “Then the burglar could have found something in your notes that made him think you know enough to be dangerous. That could have inspired the attempt on your life at the cemetery.”

  He walked about the room, examining the damage, trying to make sense of what this was about or who had been here, his attention caught by a pile of silky panties that had been dumped to the floor under a window.

  “He dumped all the drawers out,” Cassie said when she saw him staring at her intimate apparel.

  “Dumped them out, but it doesn’t look as if he even picked up one pair of panties for a closer look.”

  “So the thief isn’t a pervert,” she said. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Or it could mean that the intruder wasn’t a man.”

  He moved to the clothes that had been pulled from the hangers and thrown to the floor. Some were streaked with mud, as if someone had kicked them. He stooped and picked up a white dress.

  “Fairly clear footprint on this, and small.”

  “I may have stepped on it,” she said.

  He stared at her bare feet. “What kind of shoes did you have on?”

  “None. I slipped out of the mud boots before I even opened the door. And I’d lost my sandals in the swamp.” She walked over for a better look at the shoe.

  “Most definitely a woman’s shoe print,” she agreed. “But if the woman is the same person who took a shot at me, she’d have to be a very good shot.”

  “You could find a lot of women like that in Beau Pierre. But don’t jump to conclusions. The M.O. is very different.”

  “You sound like a cop,” she said, dropping to the bed. “No. A defense attorney. You think alike, just at cross purposes.”

  Her accusation hit him where it hurt. That was what he was doing, had been ever since he’d heard about Dennis’s death. He was falling into the old mind-set, getting pulled back into fragments of a life he wanted no part of.

  “I don’t see how any of this can be connected to my questioning people about Dennis. And yet it has to be,” she said.

  John stood there, hating that he was being sucked into all of this, but he’d vowed to find Dennis’s killer and he couldn’t just up and run away. And deep down he knew it was more. He’d never wanted to be needed by anyone again. Never wanted to care.

  But there sat this auburn-haired reporter in a scruffy white robe and there was no way he could walk away and leave her to face this by herself. Damn Cassie. How had she gotten to him without even trying?

  He took a deep breath, then joined her on the edge of the bed. “You must know something, Cassie, some scrap of information that has someone running scared enough to try to kill you.”

  “But I don’t know anything, John. If I did, I’d go to the cops. Of course, I will now anyway. I’ll have to report the shooting and break in.”

  “Maybe it’s part of something else and you don’t know you know it. The problem now is staying alive long enough to figure it all out.”

  “And I suppose you have answers for that, as well.”

  “I have a couple of ideas.”

  “I’d love to hear them, but not tonight. I’ve had just about all the fun and excitement I can take in one twenty-four-hour period. I want a glass of wine and a very soft mattress with sheets that crinkle when I crawl between them. I want my own things around me and no alligators and snakes outside my door. I’ll come back and report everything to the sheriff tomorrow, but tonight I just want to go home.”

  She was ready to go back to New Orleans. He should let her. It would make this a hell of a lot easier on him in the long run. But the danger for her wouldn’t stop at the parish line. The stakes were too high now.

  “Come home with me, Cassie. The sheets aren’t that great. The mattress has a few lumps. But come home with me, at least for tonight.”

  “And do you wash these sheets between guests, John, or do the women just run together like the stains left from making love?”

  He pulled away, as much from the change in her tone as her words. Both were edged in bitterness. “Did I deserve that?”

  She stood and walked to the window, staring out into the darkness instead of looking at him. “No. You can live your life as you like, have all the women you can get. It’s none of my affair.”

  “I didn’t invite you over because I was looking for a good lay, Cassie. But for the record, I haven’t been with a woman in almost a year. Now, is that loser enough for you?”

  She turned and finally met his gaze. “What about the woman who was at your house early this morning?”

  “So that was you who called and hung up.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you if you were in the middle of something.”

  “There was nothing happening to disturb. The woman you talked to was Annabeth Guilliot.”

  “Dr. Guilliot’s wife was at your house?” She turned her gaze back to the darkness outside her window. “You know what, John? I don’t really want to know the answer to that question. This is all far too complicated for me. So why don’t you go now?”

  “Annabeth spent the night, but it was because she was frightened and near hysterics.”

  “And she came to you?”

  “She’s pregnant and Guilliot isn’t the father.”

  “You’re not making this any better, John.”

  “Annabeth is pregnant with Dennis’s child.”

  “Oh, no. What will she do?”

  “I’m not sure.” He crossed the room and lay his hands on Cassie’s shoulders, as always reeling at the feelings that came from being so close. “Get some clothes on, Cassie—or not. We have lots to talk about. I’m too hungry to do it without food and there’s a pot of gumbo waiting at my place, and a mattress with nice, clean sheets.”

  NORMAN SURFED the channels, settling briefly on a late-night movie where a couple were going at it hot and heavy. Most nights he would have watched for a few minutes if only to ogle the half-naked female, but tonight even that didn’t interest him. He kept surfing, finally sticking with a tennis match being played somewhere where it was already tomorrow. Lucky them.

  Annabeth had come home midmorning. No pleading. No apologies. She’d merely strode into the house as if she’d gone to get her nails done instead of having spent two nights at that rundown shack in the swamp with John Robicheaux.

  She’d tried to make conversation with him a couple of times. He’d walked away, a far saner move than other options that appealed to him. She had him over a barrel, hitting him w
ith news like this right before the start of the trial. Kick her out and Drake Pierson would have her testifying for the Flanders team and making him look really bad, especially in light of John Robicheaux’s accusation that Norman had killed Dennis.

  So he couldn’t kick her out, not yet anyway. He switched channels again, then tossed the control to the coffee table when Annabeth joined him in the den, wearing a red, lacy teddie, as if she thought that would make a difference.

  She walked over and stood between him at the TV. “Can you turn that off for a minute, Norman? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  “You have nothing to say I’m interested in hearing.”

  “Don’t do this, Norman. Please. Don’t just shut me out.”

  “What happened?” he asked, tired of her standing there looking pitiful. “Did John Robicheaux throw you out?”

  “How did you know I’d been at John’s?”

  “Word gets around. I have to hand it to you, though. You did a great job of keeping your affair quiet before. I had no idea you were playing around in the slums.”

  “I never slept around. I was with one man.”

  “One man, a dozen. The number doesn’t change anything.”

  “You’ve been with other women since we’ve been married, Norman. I knew and I didn’t say a word. If I forgave you, why can’t you forgive me one mistake? Give me a chance to make this right.”

  “I never asked you to forgive me, Annabeth. This is my house, and my money keeps it going. You were free to walk out any time things didn’t suit you here.” He stood and walked to the kitchen for a tall glass of water.

  She followed him to the kitchen and grabbed his arm. “I love you, Norman. Please give me a chance.”

  “I love you, Norman.” He mimicked her words, then shoved her away from him. “I was just down in the swamp sleeping with the father of my baby, but I love you.”

  “John Robicheaux’s not the father.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear that.”

  “Dennis is.”

  The water glass slipped from his hand, crashing into the sink and shattering into fireworks of broken glass. “You’re lying, Annabeth. Dennis and I were friends. He wouldn’t have gotten involved with you.”

  “We didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.”

  He stared at her, wanting to slap her across the wall for lying, but one look in her eyes, and he knew she was telling the truth or else she was a very good liar. His wife and his friend.

  “Where did you do him? Here? At his place? Where?”

  She exhaled slowly as if pushing bad air from her lungs. “The first was here, the week you were at the conference in Las Vegas. He came by to drop off some paperwork Drake Pierson had asked him to fill out about the medications he’d used on Mrs. Flanders. We didn’t mean for anything to happen, I swear. It just did.”

  “In my own house. In my own bed, I guess.”

  “No.”

  “In one of the guest rooms?”

  “Don’t do this, Norman. I love you. I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll have an abor—” She started to cry.

  “Just don’t do this, not after all I’ve done for you.”

  He pushed past her and walked out the door. He hated Annabeth for what she’d done. Hated her and…and loved her. God help him, he did. But he would never forgive her.

  “Don’t go, Norman. Please don’t go.”

  But he was already gone in his mind and that was where all divorces started. Damn you, Dennis. I trusted you. We were a team.

  Norman started the engine of his Porsche, yanked it into reverse and spun out of the garage. Once on the highway, he gave Susan a call. “You got a spot in bed for me tonight, sweetheart?”

  “Norman?”

  “Yeah. It’s been a hell of a weekend.”

  “Bad timing.”

  Which meant she wasn’t alone. Sonofabitch. But that didn’t mean he was out in the cold. There was always the one woman who’d never turn him away. Twenty years of loyalty. Twenty years of waiting. She might get lucky tonight.

  But he changed his mind and drove to the edge of town, took the turn down the bayou road to the spot where Dennis had killed himself. Norman parked there, on the shoulder near the spot where Dennis had run his car off into the swampy bog.

  He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to bang his head against the steering wheel. Instead he just sat in the dark and thought back to the day it had all gone wrong.

  He had to get Cassie Pierson out of town and off this assignment for good, before she started putting all the facts together. She was the one person who could destroy them all. All but Dennis. He was gone, except for the part of him that lived inside Norman’s wife.

  The irony of that was the cruelest blow of all.

  CASSIE WOKE to the smells of fresh-brewed coffee and frying sausage. She stretched between the sheets, and her muscles protested. The run through the swamp had left its mark in more ways than the scratches on her legs, arms and face. And with the memory of the swamp, it all came back. The shooter. The trashed cabin.

  The fact that she’d spent the night at John’s place.

  She stretched again, slower this time, and tried to remember exactly how she’d ended up sleeping in the one bed alone. They’d eaten gumbo. She’d sipped wine while John had talked of schemes and conspiracies and ugly secrets. He’d talked on and on, and…

  She must have fallen asleep on his sofa. Her hands flew beneath the covers to check out her attire. She was still wearing the T-shirt she’d thrown on last night back at the cabin, and a pair of panties. No bra. No shorts.

  She flushed with embarrassment and an unexpected blast of desire as she imagined his hands reaching beneath her shirt and removing the bra. He’d also removed her shorts. Had he copped a feel? Or at least had a quick look? And did she care if he had?

  She slipped from the bed, found her clothes draped over a chair by the window and pulled them on. She decided not to bother with a bra. If he’d removed it last night, he could surely handle her coming to breakfast without one.

  “Something smells good,” she said, stepping into the cozy kitchen.

  “Boudin and eggs.”

  “And coffee.”

  “Lots of coffee. Hope you like it strong.”

  “Not particularly, but I can weaken it with milk—if you have milk.”

  “I’ve got some. Gave up beer for breakfast.”

  “What a man.”

  John poured her a cup of coffee, then pulled a half-empty gallon jug of milk from the refrigerator. “Smell it before you pour it in your coffee. I’ve been known to keep food in there until it starts growing.”

  She checked the date and smelled it. “Seems fine to me,” she said, adding it to coffee that was so thick she half-expected it to support the spoon on its own.

  “How do you like your eggs?” he asked. “Over easy? Scrambled? Blackened?”

  “Blackened eggs?”

  “Just teasing, chère.”

  “Over medium. Do you want me to fry them?”

  “No. I’ve got it covered.”

  “Then I’m going to go splash some water on my face.”

  “The bathroom’s all yours. There are clean towels on the counter and toothpaste by the toothbrush holder. I put your hanging toiletry bag in there so you could get to it easily.”

  “You are on top of things.”

  “There’s method to my madness. Or maybe it’s madness to my method. We’ll know better after we see if it works.”

  She should have known there was a catch to the excellent treatment she was receiving.

  SITTING ACROSS the breakfast table from Cassie was a lot more difficult than John had anticipated. Could be the hair, he decided. Long and thick and falling about her shoulders. Or the T-shirt with the outline of her nipples showing through.

  More likely it was the fact that it had taken all his control last night to undress
her and carry her to his bed and not crawl in beside her. The urges hit stronger when he thought about sliding those shorts over her hips and leaving those lacy little panties in place. Nice that he was sitting down with a table to block the view. Otherwise, it would be impossible not to let her see exactly how she affected him.

  And if she knew, it would spoil his whole plan.

  “You’re a good cook,” she said, sopping up the last bit of egg yolk with her toast.

  “Learned it from Muh-maw. She could take anything Puh-paw brought in from the marsh and turn it into a feast.”

  “Did you always live here?”

  “It’s all I remember. My mother walked out on us when I was eight. My dad quit his job working for a shipbuilder up in Bridge City and brought me back here to live.”

  “But Dennis is more than eight years younger than you. Is he only a half brother?”

  “Technically. It never seemed that way. Mostly we were both raised by our grandparents.”

  “Why did you come back to the cabin last night, John?”

  He leaned back in his chair. Too many reasons to count but they all boiled down to two. “I wanted to see you and I didn’t think you should be by yourself.”

  “I can never figure you out, John. At times I think you actually like me, and then you do or say something that makes me think I’m being manipulated by you, that whatever I’m mistaking for attraction is part of some game plan that you have for avenging Dennis’s death.”

  “I never figure myself out.” How was that for avoidance? A better answer might be to just jump her bones right here and now. Let all the sexual energy she generated loose and make love to her on the kitchen table. Or the floor. Or the sofa. Or the bed. Or all of the above.

  And if she kept looking at him with those big green eyes, he might not be able to stop himself from doing it. But she did stop. She pushed back from the table and started collecting the dirty dishes and carrying them to the sink.