Alligator Moon Page 7

  “Are you all right?”

  Cassie’s voice managed to penetrate the stifling haze that had settled over his mind. “No,” he answered. “And I’m not going to be all right until Dennis’s killer is in prison. Put that in your article. And when you see your friend Norman Guilliot again, you can tell him for me that if he had anything to do with Dennis’s death, he better watch his back every second.”

  “I’m not your messenger girl, John. I’m sorry about your brother, really sorry, but you can’t dictate the content of my articles and you’ll have to talk to Dr. Guilliot yourself.”

  Tough woman. But she didn’t look tough. She looked soft, her skin all tanned beneath that white blouse. Her shiny auburn hair pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck. Full pink lips. And those eyes.

  He shook his head, fighting the lust that came from nowhere. He didn’t need a woman. What he needed was another drink, a stiff whiskey to dull the pain. He went back to the counter to pour another. “How about you, Cassie? Do you want another drink?”

  “No. I need to go now.”

  “Can’t say that I blame you. None of Guilliot’s charm around here. No big plantation. No servants. No bullshit.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” She took a few steps toward the door. “It’s none of my business, John, but you look as if you’ve had enough to drink.”

  “You’re right. It’s none of your business.”

  “It’s not going to be easy proving your brother was murdered. Going at it with liquor-dulled senses and a mind-dulling hangover isn’t going to help you.”

  “You did say you were leaving, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. Do what you like. I have a feeling you always do.”

  He watched her walk out the door and heard her footsteps as she raced down the front steps. His hand tightened on the whiskey glass. He’d drunk his way through the pain for nights on end following Toni Crenshaw’s murder. Drank until the images would finally fade and let him fall asleep.

  But Cassie was right. If he did that now, he’d be crippling his chances of proving Dennis was murdered. And there would be no way to drink himself past that.

  He swallowed hard, then hurled the empty glass against the wall behind the bookcase. Glass rained down on the worn wood floor, shimmering in the late-afternoon sun that poured through the windows.

  But John’s gaze fastened on the jagged shard that had fallen just in front of the photo of Dennis and him with their grandparents. The glass beneath his boots ground into the floor when he crossed the room and picked up the picture. All the people he’d ever loved, and now he was the only one left. The only one of them who had the least reason to go on breathing had survived them all.

  Proof again that there was no justice in life.

  But you’ll get your justice, Dennis. Someone pulled the trigger that night, and someone will pay with their life. I promise you that, little brother. And this time I won’t let you down.

  BUTCH HAVELIN pulled into the driveway of his rambling ranch-style house at five minutes before six. It was the earliest he’d made it back to suburbia since being promoted to CEO, except for the times he’d come by to change into formal clothes for a special function. He hadn’t planned on coming home tonight at all, but Cassie’s phone call had changed that.

  Piss-poor timing, but he had to try and figure out what was behind this foolish stunt of Rhonda’s. Aggravation ragged him as he opened the door and stepped inside the quiet house. He wasn’t the perfect husband, but he wasn’t the worst. Rhonda had never wanted for anything. And as for his affair with Babs, Rhonda had lost interest in sex long ago. If she’d found out about the affair, she was probably glad he was getting his rocks off with someone else.

  Butch dropped his briefcase on the sofa, then poured a shot of Glenmorangie over a couple of cubes of ice. Fortified, he walked to the master bedroom suite he’d shared with Rhonda since they’d bought the house ten years ago. Decorated to perfection with expensive furnishings and tasteful accessories. Rhonda had done it herself. She’d always been good at that, had never bothered with designers.

  She was good at a lot of things. He’d never denied that. That didn’t make up for the fact that she didn’t know him anymore and didn’t want to.

  Muscles tight, he finished his drink and lifted Rhonda’s daily calendar from the antique secretary in the corner of the bedroom. He scanned the pages for the days preceding her leaving for Greece. A dental appointment. Lunch with friends at the club. Contact lenses to pick up. Manicure and pedicure. So much for the calendar.

  He started to pick up the small Rolodex, then decided Rhonda’s cell phone would likely give better information. He found it tucked away in the top drawer, then used the menu key to get to outgoing calls. Some numbers he recognized. Some he didn’t, but there was no pattern of repeat calls to any unfamiliar numbers.

  Next he checked the incoming calls. Still nothing that looked amiss. He turned off the phone and yanked open the top desk drawer.

  Rhonda saved everything, which meant every drawer in the house was full. This one held an invitation to a friend’s fiftieth birthday party, receipts, menus for local restaurants and a dental appointment card.

  He returned the papers to the drawer and opened the one below it. At least he tried to open it. The freaking thing was stuck on something. He squeezed his big hand to the back of the narrow drawer and found the problem. A brown envelope had apparently spilled over from the top drawer and gotten lodged between the two.

  Butch pulled it out, then straightened the bent edges of the envelope. It had been sent to Rhonda but there was no return address. The postmark said Sifnos, Greece. He undid the clasp and shook the envelope. A brightly colored postcard fell out. A church painted white and trimmed in a vivid blue with the sea in the background.

  He turned it over to see who it was from. There was no message and no address. Strange that someone would mail an unsigned postcard in a brown envelope. Or perhaps Rhonda had just stuck it in the envelope.

  Using his thumb, he pressed the crease from the center of the postcard, then stuck it in his shirt pocket. He wasn’t sure why, but the postcard bothered him, added a dark shade of mystery to a situation that was already bizarre.

  If this sudden trip to Greece wasn’t about him and Babs, then Rhonda would have some explaining to do.

  And if it was about his affair… Well, he’d face that when and if he had to. With luck, that would be never.

  A LIGHT DRIZZLE was falling by the time Cassie reached Angela Dubuisson’s place. The house was a rambling wooden structure, three stories, with steep, wide steps leading to the second floor gallery. It had probably been a grand structure in its time, but its time was probably close to a hundred years ago.

  The light blue paint was faded and had peeled in spots, leaving patches of yellowed white paint showing through. One storm shutter was missing from the long windows along the second level, and the columns across the front of the house were seriously mildewed.

  Haunted. That was the word that came to mind as Cassie pulled her car to a stop in the shell drive. Odd, since she was not one to believe in ghosts, but if she had, this was the type of place she’d expect to find them. Maybe Dennis’s ghost would come calling and give her the insight she needed. Or the ghost of Ginny Lynn Flanders. Either ghost would probably have lots to say.

  Hopefully Angela would, as well. And if not, staying here would still beat the ambiance of Suzette’s bayou cabins.

  A flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky as Cassie rang the bell, followed by a rumbling roar of thunder. Summer thunderstorms blew in from the Gulf with almost predictable regularity in southern Louisiana, frequently intense but usually blowing over as quickly as they moved in. Hopefully this one would do the same, since Cassie’s luggage was still in the trunk of the car.

  Angela opened the front door as lightning struck again, this time close enough that the following clap of thunder seemed instantaneous.

  “Looks like
I made it just in time,” Cassie said.

  Angela stared at her, unsmiling, looking as if she’d eaten something that was threatening to pop back up.

  “I would have called you,” she said, her voice low, “but I didn’t have a phone number.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  She nodded. “It’s my mother. I told her we were having a guest, and she got really upset. She’s been like this ever since my father died last year. Sometimes she’s rational. Other times she’s disoriented and frightened of anything unfamiliar.”

  “So she doesn’t want me here?”

  “I’m afraid not. And when she’s like this, you wouldn’t want to be around her.”

  “Maybe she’d feel better about my staying if she met me.”

  “No. That’s not a good idea. I’m really sorry about this, Cassie, but your staying here just won’t work out.”

  And something about this whole scenario didn’t jive. It was clear the others at the clinic hadn’t approved of Angela inviting Cassie to share her home. Now it looked as if Angela had succumbed to pressure.

  “I called Suzette’s,” Angela offered. “She has a vacancy in one of the cabins. I asked her to get it cleaned up and to hold it for you in case you wanted to stay there.”

  “I’d much rather stay here. Fewer crawling creatures, I’m sure.”

  Angela managed a slight smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “On the bright side, Suzette’s has great food and a nightlife. That is, if you call smoke, beer and fiddle music a nightlife.”

  “I’m not much of a party girl,” Cassie said.

  “Me, either. I’m pretty much the town dud. I think you should take Suzette’s cabin even if just for the night. The TV meteorologist says there’s a line of severe thunderstorms moving in from the Gulf. Driving would be hazardous.”

  “Who are you talking to, Angela?”

  Cassie peeked around the door and saw the owner of the voice, a nice and very alert-looking woman somewhere around her mid-seventies standing a few feet behind Angela.

  “It’s a friend, Maman,” Angela answered.

  “What, you got no manners, shay? Tell your friend to get herself out of that storm. The crawfish stew is ready. There’s plenty enough for your friend.”

  Angela stepped out on the porch with Cassie, pulling the door shut behind her. “See what I mean. She’s forgotten all about telling me not to let you come here. Her moods are too unreliable for me to risk having a guest in the house. I don’t know what I was thinking when I invited you.”

  “I appreciate the offer anyway. Maybe we can have dinner together one night.”

  Angela shook her head. “I usually come straight home to be with my mother.”

  “Then lunch?”

  “We’ll see. I have to go now. I’m sorry I put you to the trouble of driving out here.”

  “No trouble. I’m just sorry I can’t stay. The house seems charming, and I’d love to get to know you better.”

  The drizzle had intensified to a downpour by the time Cassie reached the end of the driveway. Looked like Suzette’s Bayou Cabins were it—at least for one night.

  The prospect was downright chilling.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE RAIN didn’t let up, making the drive to Suzette’s slow and tedious. By the time Cassie arrived, she was more than ready for a soothing glass of red wine and willing to spend the night in her car if it came to that. A stiff back and a crick in her neck beat driving back to the city in this downpour.

  There were a dozen cars parked in front of the old clapboard restaurant in spite of the weather. Cassie pulled in between a couple of muddy, dented pickup trucks, both with hunting rifles mounted in the back window, though she doubted June was open season on anything.

  Unless maybe it had been open season on anesthetists who knew a dirty secret. The gruesome thought stuck in her mind as she opened the car door, grabbed her purse and made a run for cover.

  Raindrops pelted her face and hair and water spilled into her shoes as she sloshed through deep puddles. She ducked under the overhang and stamped off as much water as she could before pushing through the door.

  When she stepped inside, all eyes turned her way. Nothing like a clinging wet shirt on a stranger to grab an audience. She avoided eye contact with the gawkers and headed for the long bar in the left corner of the low-ceilinged, rectangular room.

  “Hello, reporter lady.”

  She let her gaze follow the voice and found Fred Powell at the end of the bar, beer in hand.

  He tipped his beer her way. “It’s a little wet out there.”

  “You think?”

  “Grab a stool and have a drink. It sure beats driving in the rain.”

  “A drink sounds good.” She grabbed a handful of thin paper napkins from the bar, mopped her face and the back of her neck with them, then slid onto the barstool next to Guilliot’s fellowship assistant.

  The night might not be a total waste after all, she decided. Fred Powell hadn’t said much when she was at Magnolia Plantation today but there was nothing like a beer and a smoky bar for getting men’s tongues to wag.

  “I thought you’d be snug and dry at Angela’s house,” he said.

  “There was a change of plans.”

  “Oh?”

  “Angela thought company might be hard on her mother.”

  He looked skeptical, but didn’t comment.

  “I had the feeling Susan and Guilliot didn’t think my staying there was a good idea anyway.”

  “Did you expect them to?”

  “I don’t know why they should mind. It’s Angela’s house.”

  “Entertaining the press is a big no-no these days.”

  “So you think Guilliot exerted a little pressure?”

  “I try not to even think of things that are none of my business. One of the big differences between being a surgeon and a reporter.”

  “We can’t all be surgeons. Somebody’s got to keep the public informed.”

  “Then good luck in Beau Pierre. You’ll need it.”

  The bartender showed up to take Cassie’s order. She would have preferred wine, but the offerings were limited and not to her liking, so she settled on a beer.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” Fred said. “Nature calls.”

  She watched him as he crossed the grease-stained floor to the men’s room. He was tall, lanky and lean with stylishly cut, sandy-colored hair and extremely blue eyes. Not a knockout, but nice-looking, as was everyone at Magnolia Plantation. She wondered if that was one of the qualifications for working there, part of the image Guilliot was going for.

  Fred didn’t ooze charm the way Guilliot did, but Guilliot wouldn’t want an assistant with the same level of charisma he possessed, especially one who also had youth going for him.

  Fred wasn’t part of the inner circle. She’d picked that up from the brief meeting in the lounge today. But he was at least on the fringes, and he’d known Dennis Robicheaux. Reason enough to linger over her beer and try to keep him talking.

  The bartender slid the bottle in front of her. He was a tall guy, muscular, with a crooked nose and acne-scarred face.

  “You’re new in here.”

  “My first time.”

  “You a friend of Fred’s, or just another reporter?”

  “Couldn’t I be both?”

  “Not likely. You could be a friend of mine, though. I got no loyalty to Guilliot.”

  “I thought he was the local legend.”

  “In his mind. Him, he ain’t done nothing for me.”

  He went back to chat with a couple of guys at the other end of the bar, and Cassie scanned the room. Most of the tables were empty, but there was a group of guys at a long table near the back, drinking beer and struggling with boiled crawfish. Clearly novices at pinching tails and sucking heads.

  There was also a family of six at a nearby table, a young couple holding hands and drinking sodas, and a group of teenage boys playing pool in the back of the r
oom. Brave souls who’d ventured out in the storm, or gotten caught in it the way she had.

  “The food’s great here,” Fred said, returning to his stool. “Love Suzette’s gumbo. And if you like oysters or softshell crab, they don’t come any better than you get them here.”

  “Do you eat here often?”

  “A couple of nights a week. My girlfriend works late Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I grab a bite before I drive over to Houma. Usually the place is a lot livelier than this. The weather kept most people at home.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone driving anywhere tonight unless they have to.”

  “Most of the people in here are probably staying in the cabins. Vacationers from the north come down here every summer for a taste of the bayou life.”

  “Actually I’m thinking of renting one of the cabins,” she said.

  “Have you seen them?”

  “Only from the road.”

  “I’d think twice about staying in one of them tonight.”

  “Are they that bad?”

  “They’re okay for a few nights if you don’t mind roughing it. I stayed in one the first week I was with Guilliot, but you’ll have to wade through mud and slush to get to them tonight.”

  “No walkway, huh?”

  “There’s a path, but it probably went under water about two inches of rain ago. But if you’re serious about renting one of them, there’s the woman you should talk to. Suzette herself.”

  Cassie watched as a middle-aged woman pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with hamburgers and fried fish for the family of six. She was pretty in the face and had a saucy gait, but the pants she wore pulled tight across her belly and derriere and she looked as if she’d had a few too many platefuls of her own cooking.

  Fred put up a hand and motioned to her when she finished serving the food. She walked over and laid her wrinkled hand on Fred’s shoulder. “Too bad about Dennis.”