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  Once she had the number, Cassie called the school and made her request.

  “Could I ask why you need that information?”

  “I have a lost mother,” she said, teasing, but was immediately sorry she’d put it that way. The words had an ominous ring to them and they seemed to hang in the air after she’d blurted them out.

  She explained about the trip in as few words as possible, focusing on the fact that she couldn’t locate an itinerary. Then she gave them both her mother’s maiden name and Patsy David. “I’ll feel better if I can talk to my mother and be assured that the trip is going well. So if I can get a contact number for Patsy David, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “I understand. I’d be worried half to death if it was my mother, but then she’s never gone farther than Shreveport without Dad. Did you check the Minden phone directory for a phone number for Patsy David?”

  “I did. There was no such listing. That’s why I thought I’d see if you had some kind of alumnae records that include a current contact number.”

  “We don’t that I know of, but I’m new here. Give me a few minutes and I’ll see what I can find out. Would you like for me to call you back?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll hold.”

  Cassie scribbled a few notes as she waited, her mind shifting back to John Robicheaux. She tried to picture him pleading a case in front of a jury, imagined that hard body in a suit, the tie a little loose around his neck, his dark eyes peering into those of the jurors.

  “Are you certain you have that name right?”

  “Patsy David, class of ’64. That’s her maiden name, but I understand she never married.”

  “That’s right. Patsy David from the class of ’64 never married.”

  “Do you have a current name or address for her?”

  “Patsy David is dead, Ms. Pierson. She died in a car accident her senior year of high school.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CASSIE PICKED UP the postcard, this time checking the postmark. It had been mailed from Athens, Greece, on the fourteenth of May, five days after her mother had left Houston. She picked up the second one. Santorini. Mailed May 20.

  Her mother had clearly lied about her traveling companion, but not her destination. But if she wasn’t with Patsy, who had she gone with and why had she felt the need to lie? Could this possibly be a romantic tryst far from the prying eyes of anyone who knew her?

  Cassie tried to picture her mother in the arms of a man other than Butch Havelin. The image was too ludicrous to jell. But then, how much did she really know about her mother these days? She’d been so caught up in her own problems with Drake that she’d seldom gone home for visits and she couldn’t remember the last time she and her mother had actually had a conversation about anything more important than plans for holidays or a sale they were having at Nieman Marcus.

  But, a lover? It was extremely unlikely.

  The phone rang, startling Cassie from her troubled trance. She grabbed the receiver. Surely it was the school secretary calling her back to say everything she’d told her a few minutes ago was a mistake.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Cassie Pierson?”

  A male voice, rich with a Cajun accent. “Yes. How can I help you?”

  “I understand from Lily and Robert you were in Beau Pierre yesterday asking questions about the Magnolia Restorative and Therapeutic Center.”

  “I was. Who is this?”

  “Dr. Norman Guilliot. I’m assuming you’re interested in the center as a reporter rather than a potential guest.”

  “I’d like to do a story on Magnolia Plantation for the Crescent Connection. We’re a cutting-edge magazine that focuses…”

  “I’m familiar with the magazine. If you’re coming out in the hopes of digging up dirt, then don’t waste your time. There is none.”

  Yet he’d bothered to call her when she hadn’t even left a message. First John Robicheaux, now Dr. Norman Guilliot, both going out of their way to look her up. A suspicious happening when dealing with articles involving lawsuits and now possibly a murder.

  “No dirt,” she said. Unless, of course, she found some. “I’d love to talk to you and do a feature article on your clinic.”

  “In that case, I’ll be happy to meet with you and discuss the center. I don’t have surgery scheduled today, so I can see you this afternoon if you like.”

  “How’s one o’clock?” Cassie asked, wanting to act before he changed his mind.

  “Fine. Just press the call button and identify yourself when you arrive. I’ll alert the staff to expect you.”

  “Then I’ll see you at one,” she said.

  “I should warn you ahead of time that confidentiality is a basic tenet of Magnolia Plantation, so certain areas of the center will be off-limits. You won’t be allowed any contact with the guests.”

  “I understand.”

  Off and running, at least as far as the Beau Pierre investigation was concerned, but the planned meeting with Dr. Guilliot did nothing to allay her concerns about her mother. Touring Greece. Having a great time. The postcards said so.

  But if everything else about her trip was a lie, then the postcards could be more of the same. Having a great time. Wish you were here.

  Cassie wasn’t convinced that either statement was true.

  THE FIRST FLOOR had a large reception area and just past that a series of small offices. The back of the first floor was guest rooms, or so Cassie was told. She didn’t get to tour that part of the house.

  The second story had a large, airy sitting room with a TV, a baby grand piano and clusters of comfortable chairs. The dining room was there as well, with a long antique table and several small round tables. And once again there were patient rooms that she was not allowed to tour.

  But while the first two floors seemed a Lucullan holdout from the days when ladies had worn full skirts and binding corsets and had danced beneath candled chandeliers, the third floor left no doubt that this was a state-of-the-art surgery center.

  “So this is where the miracles take place,” Cassie said, as they departed the elevator and started down a spotlessly clean hall, one bereft of the elegant antique furnishings that had characterized the lower floors.

  “Interesting that you put it that way,” Dr. Guilliot answered. “Modern surgical procedures are nothing short of miraculous. Think how archaic medicine was at the time this old plantation was built.”

  “But apparently all cosmetic surgeons are not created equal. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have patients coming to a clinic tucked away in a little town like this.”

  “I like to think I’m worth it, and I’m sure our facilities for follow-up care are second to none in the world.”

  “Exactly how does that work? Are the patients required to stay here for a certain period of time after surgery?”

  “I require a one-week stay for major procedures such as face or forehead lifts. Many patients opt to stay longer, some until the swelling and bruises have completely disappeared. That can take as long as six weeks. Once the bandages and draining tubes are removed they’re basically guests in this beautiful, restful setting for the rest of their stay, though I do see them for regular checkups while they’re here.”

  “Do you have male patients as well as female?”

  “Certainly. Men like to look their best, too, especially those in the public eye. Entertainers, TV personalities, politicians. We get them all right here in Beau Pierre.” The doctor pushed through a set of double doors, then stood aside and waited for her to enter. “We have two operating rooms. This is the first one.”

  “You surely don’t operate on two patients at once.”

  “No, but occasionally Dr. Walter Gates uses this facility, as well.”

  “I didn’t realize that.”

  “See, you’ve learned something already.”

  “But doesn’t he ordinarily work out of Touro Hospital in New Orleans?”

  “Normally, but I feel that a surgeon
must have a narrow field of specialization if he expects to be one of the very best at what he does. I stick to facial and neck surgery, but if a patient is interested in other types of cosmetic surgery, Dr. Gates will come here and provide pretty much anything else the patient desires.”

  “So a patient can get the works without leaving Magnolia Plantation.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Was Ginny Flanders planning to have additional surgery done?”

  He wagged a finger at her. “No discussing the case. Strict orders from my attorney.”

  When they left the operating room, Dr. Guilliot took her through the recovery area, then led her to a closed door at the end of the hall. “This is my private office,” he said, opening the door and revealing a sun-filled room with plush beige carpet and off-white walls.

  Obviously a second office, since she’d seen the one on the first floor where he examined and met with new patients. This one was smaller, cozy actually. The large mahogany desk was polished to a brilliant shine and a silver frame held a snapshot of two girls who appeared to be in their early twenties. She guessed them to be the daughters he’d fathered with his first wife.

  They talked for a few minutes about the center, including its excellent reputation. When the talk turned to staff, Cassie saw her opportunity. “You must be very upset about the death of your anesthetist.”

  “What do you know about Dennis Robicheaux?” he asked, his eyes narrowing and taking on an intensity that intrigued her.

  “Basically what was in the newspaper, that he shot himself in the head. That he’d been the one to administer the anesthetic to Ginny Flanders.”

  “Both true, I’m afraid.”

  “Had he been with you long?”

  “Five years, but I knew him before that. He did a clinical with me before while working on his CRNA. He was an excellent anesthetist and a good friend.”

  “You must have been shocked to hear of his suicide.”

  “I was quite upset and still am. We’re all very close here at the center, Cassie. Is it okay to call you that?”

  “Cassie’s fine.” He didn’t, however suggest she call him Norman. She started to anyway, just to see how he reacted, but didn’t want to do anything to aggravate him before she got everything out of him that she could. “Did you have any suspicion that Dennis was contemplating suicide?”

  “Certainly not. If I had, I would have seen that he got counseling—and that he hadn’t gone out drinking with his brother that night. If he’d had more family support instead of…” Dr. Guilliot hesitated as voices and laughter drifted in from the hall. “Better if I don’t get started on John Robicheaux. And it sounds as if the rest of the surgical team is in the lounge. I’ll introduce you to them.”

  Cassie would have loved to hear more about Guilliot’s theories on John Robicheaux, though in the end she’d make up her own mind about the man, as she would about Norman Guilliot.

  They joined the staff in a small lounge area at the very end of the hall. It was basically an oblong kitchen, consisting of a long wooden table with eight chairs, a counter, cabinets, a microwave and a refrigerator.

  Cassie made mental notes as Guilliot introduced the staff. Angela Dubuisson was the instrument technician, a registered nurse who’d been with Guilliot for twenty years. Cassie guessed her to be in her mid-forties. Her hair was the color of onyx, and she wore it in a square cut that fell just below her cheekbones, with long bangs she’d pushed to the side and caught in an amber-colored barrette.

  Her eyes were slightly darker than her hair, her lashes long and natural, her complexion smooth. She didn’t wear any makeup, except maybe a light dusting of powder over her nose and a pale pink lip gloss. She didn’t say much except to agree with anything Dr. Guilliot said.

  Susan Dalton, the circulating nurse, was pretty much the opposite. She appeared to be in her early thirties and had short blond hair that curled about a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a deep blue and seemed to be dancing behind mascara-laden lashes. Her nose turned up ever so slightly at the end. Perhaps some of Dr. Guilliot’s handiwork. She talked with her hands and eyes, as well as her mouth, and her voice sounded as if she might burst into giggles at any second. Where Angela’s femininity was understated and gentle, Susan’s was exaggerated, like sparks from Fourth of July fireworks.

  Roy Baskins was the temporary anesthetist. At least forty and slim with a face that looked as if it might actually break if forced into a smile, he was clearly not part of the group and seemed to prefer it that way.

  Fred Powell was the most difficult member of the staff to get a handle on. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, a fellowship assistant who’d been with the group since January. He was nice-looking, polite, but seemed a tad stuffier than the rest of the group. She knew from media coverage of the trial that he hadn’t been at work the day Ginny Lynn Flanders had died. Lucky him.

  “Anyone know where I can rent a room for a week or so?” Cassie asked when the conversation lagged. Guilliot’s expression went from friendly to guarded in a matter of heartbeats, but he didn’t respond to the question.

  “I’m not looking for anything fancy,” she added. “Just something clean and convenient.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find anything in Beau Pierre,” Susan said. “There’s nothing but those cabins back of Suzette’s. I’m sure they smell like dead fish, and you’d have alligators to greet you when you came home at night.”

  “Why are you looking to stay in Beau Pierre?” Angela asked.

  “We’re doing a feature article on the town. I’d like to get a feel for the place and get to know the people who live here.”

  “That should take about an hour,” Roy said.

  “You can drive back to New Orleans in about two hours,” Susan said. “That is where you live, isn’t it?”

  “I drive over from Houma every day,” Fred said. “That’s not a bad drive and you can find decent places to stay there.”

  “I’d rather be closer,” Cassie said, though she didn’t care for a cabin that smelled of dead fish, or for the company of alligators.

  “Will you only be here for a week?” Angela asked.

  “Maybe less.”

  Angela looked to Guilliot then back to Cassie. “My mother and I have a large house. It’s old, nothing fancy, but it’s only about ten minutes from here. You can stay with us for a week if you like.”

  The lounge grew quiet at Angela’s offer. Evidently the others were as surprised by it as Cassie.

  “I’m certain Cassie would prefer a place of her own,” Dr. Guilliot said, his tone tinged with authority.

  He was right. She’d have much preferred a place of her own, but an invitation into the inner circle of the surgery team was too good to pass up, especially since it was obvious Guilliot didn’t like the idea.

  “I’d love to stay with you, Angela.”

  Angela directed her gaze to a half-eaten salad that sat on the table in front of her. “On second thought, it’s probably not a good idea. My mother has a tendency to wander the house at all hours of the night. She’d probably keep you awake.”

  “I can sleep through anything. And I won’t be any trouble. I’ll take my meals at the café in town and I’ll be out most of the day.”

  Angela looked to Guilliot again. He nodded as if giving approval, providing Cassie with additional insight into the workings of the interpersonal dynamics of the staff. Guilliot was king. The others were loyal—or maybe not-so-loyal—subjects.

  At any rate, it was clear Cassie’s visit to the plantation had come to a close. Guilliot was still charming on the surface, but Cassie felt a chill now that hadn’t been there earlier, and the conversation went from a lull to stone silence.

  Suicide or murder?

  Suddenly the question seemed to have as many facets as the plantation had rooms. This might prove to be a very interesting week, but as Cassie was escorted out of the plantation, she had an idea that it was the last time she’d be welc
omed into the inner sanctum.

  The king had granted her one audience, no doubt to make certain she presented him and the center favorably. Now she was on her own.

  CASSIE WAS STILL pondering the suicide or murder question as she left the plantation grounds and started back into Beau Pierre. The almost two hours Cassie had spent with Dr. Guilliot had done little to further her investigation into the matter and had given her nothing to spark the article Olson wanted by Saturday.

  She needed some real insight into Dennis, needed someone who knew him well to open up and tell her what had really been going on in Dennis’s mind before Friday night.

  Her best bet would be an ex-girlfriend, someone who knew all and was no longer emotionally connected with Dennis or involved in the Flanders v. Guilliot case.

  And she needed to talk to John Robicheaux. There was clearly no love lost between him and Dr. Norman Guilliot. That in itself had the potential for a fascinating cover story if she could get facts and anecdotes to back it up. The darkly handsome fallen Cajun attorney. The prestigious, charismatic Cajun surgeon who was in the middle of the most publicized lawsuit since the Edwin Edwards trial that sent the former governor to prison. This was as good as it got in the world of reporting.

  Yet it didn’t fully claim Cassie’s mind. Nothing would until she found out why her mother had lied to her and Butch about her trip. She’d put off calling her father, but she couldn’t put it off any longer. She drove until she came to the bait/convenience shop she’d spotted on her way out. Her throat was dry, and she needed something cold to drink before she got her father on the line and hit him with the news.

  She walked into the shop, took a diet soda from the cooler and exchanged a few words with a gnarly clerk in a stained white T-shirt and baggy jeans before walking to a slightly lopsided picnic table outside the shop. From there she could see the still, murky waters of Tortue Bayou. A row of turtles sat along the bank as if waiting for their ship to come in and a stately blue heron fished in the muddy water, lifting its feet high with each careful step.