“There’s been no complaint,” Lieutenant Oliver assured me in a deep baritone, forming steel-wool coils. “We just want to know the nature of your conversation with him.”
Whew. I wasn’t in trouble. “But . . . why do you care what we talked about?”
“Raymond Strickland was murdered last night,” Deputy Blackwell said. Her brown eyes bored into me, curious and searching.
“Holy crap,” I breathed, shock dousing my body like ice water. “Those men at the bar . . . I thought they were just full of hot air. What happened?”
“It’s under investigation,” she said smoothly. “Now, if you could tell us what the two of you talked about?”
My face heated in embarrassment. “To tell the truth, I’d had one too many cocktails. I was with a friend, and she pointed out Raymond Strickland, reminding me that he was the one who’d murdered my cousin years ago. So I decided to confront him.”
“And your friend’s name?” the woman asked, taking notes on her cell phone.
“Dana Adair.”
“Go on,” she said, looking up from her phone.
I was conscious of Mimi in the next room and the fact that she could clearly hear every word of this. “Well, I—I told him who I was and that I wanted him to know how he’d pretty much destroyed my aunt’s life.”
Lieutenant Oliver cocked his head toward the kitchen. “Is that the aunt in question?”
“No, no. That’s my grandmother, Oatha Jean Delpeche. Her sister—my aunt Tressie Ensley—was the mother of Jackson Ensley, the man Raymond Strickland murdered.”
I could feel Mimi’s displeasure all the way from the next room. We never, ever talked about this old crime, and my grandmother sure as hell hated family business being paraded in front of strangers.
“How did he respond to that?” Blackwell asked.
I snorted a bitter laugh. “Just what you’d expect. He denied having killed Jackson. Typical con man, right? Said he was framed. Like I’d believe anything he had to say.” I stopped abruptly, wanting to bite my tongue. The guy, after all, was now dead. Murdered.
The two officers stared at me, willing me to continue.
I held out my hands, palms up. “That’s about it. We didn’t talk long before Eddie and them came over and started harassing him. I do feel bad about that. Maybe if I’d never confronted Strickland, he’d still be alive.”
Zach unexpectedly entered the room and took Deputy Blackwell’s hand. He tugged at it and she half rose, fixing me with a questioning look.
“Bye-bye,” Zach stated, trying to guide her to the front door.
“Not yet, Zach,” I said, hurrying to his side and trying to lead him back to the kitchen. “Wait a few minutes. Go eat your lunch, okay?”
He shook his head. “Bye-bye,” he said again, louder.
“Mimi?” I called out, beseeching her to come get him. Zach didn’t much cotton to strangers in his house either.
“Maybe it’d be better if we continued this on the porch,” the woman said, gently releasing her arm from Zach’s hold. The officers both rose from the couch, and I followed them out.
“Sorry about that,” I apologized. “My brother has autism and likes to stick to familiar routines and people. Strangers make him uncomfortable.”
“No problem at all,” she assured me. “Returning to last night, did Mr. Strickland indicate that he was worried about anything, or did he mention any enemies? Is there anything else you can tell us about his state of mind? You might be the last person to ever speak with him.”
The melting-ice-chip shiver returned to trickle down my spine. “He was angry. Disgusted with the world and everyone in it. Mentioned that he was only passing through and that his mom had recently died. Like I said before, he claimed to be innocent and that he was set up for murder. He also said something to the effect that people around this bayou have a way of disappearing.”
“Did he mention specific names?” Lieutenant Oliver asked, his tone sharp and intense.
“No, he kept it all vague. I assumed he was talking about the Cormiers, of course.”
“We’re familiar with the case. Anything else?” Blackwell asked.
I started to shake my head no, then stopped. “Oh! I almost forgot. He sort of implied that he had a secret deal in the works. A lucrative one that he needed to complete before leaving town.”
“Secret deal?” Blackwell’s eyes lit with interest, and she and her partner leaned in toward me.
“I’m trying to remember his exact words.” I racked my brain, picturing his sly grin at the bar as he mentioned it. “Private business was how he phrased it. I assumed he was talking about a drug deal or something else illegal.”
“Why did you assume it was illegal?” Oliver asked. “He could have been talking about finalizing his mother’s inheritance.”
My chin lifted. “Because he acted awful secretive, dropping his voice and glancing around the room as he spoke. He shot my cousin in the back in cold blood, his supposed friend. Call me cynical—I assumed the worst about him.”
The female deputy withdrew a card from her uniform pocket and handed it to me. “If you think of anything else, give us a call.”
The April breeze nipped into the thin fabric of my T-shirt as I watched the officers pile into their vehicle and back out of our driveway. I rubbed at the goose bumps on my arms, unsettled at the idea that I might be the last person Ray spoke to before he was murdered.
Welcome home, I thought sourly as I reentered the house. It suddenly felt too crowded, too stuffy, too warm. Mimi stomped into the den, Zach close behind. “They gone?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I had the feeling she was about to let loose on me.
Zach loped over to the window, staring after the cop car. “All gone,” he pronounced after their vehicle was out of sight. Although he spoke in his usual flat affect, I could tell he was pleased. He sauntered down the hallway to his room. Once he’d shut the door behind him, Mimi rounded on me.
“What the hell were you doing talking to Raymond Strickland, of all people?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time. I’d been drinking too much,” I admitted with a wry smile.
“You could ply me with all the whiskey in that bar, and I’d still never speak to that lowlife. He ruined my sister’s life. Don’t you have any family loyalty?”
Her words stung. “Of course I do. That’s why my besotted brain thought it was brilliant to confront the guy and let him know how his murder hurt Aunt Tressie.”
Mimi’s anger thawed; I could see it in the relaxing of tension in her shoulders. “Humph. Let that be a lesson to you. You hang with trash, it will bring you nothing but trouble. No good ever comes of it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We’ll speak no more about it.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Raymond Strickland got what he deserved in the end.”
I couldn’t argue with her logic. Nor could I fault her anger. Some might call my grandmother cold and unforgiving, but they didn’t see the soft side to her that I did. She’d nursed my mother through a terminal illness and then raised her challenged grandchild without a single complaint. I doubted I’d ever possess half her fortitude and compassion. Lately, I’d done nothing but throw myself a big ole pity party while moaning and groaning to Dana at every opportunity.
I resolved to do better by Mimi and Zach. They were family, and family stuck together. No matter what.
Chapter 5
JORI
I crept through the house, careful to avoid the wooden planks in the hallway and den that I knew creaked the loudest. I hadn’t sneaked out of the house since I was seventeen, yet I remembered every inch of these old floorboards and how to escape with no one the wiser. If I lived to be a hundred, I’d never forget my old, intricate tiptoeing choreography as I slipped out to be with Deacon. The weather was never too cold or too rainy or too humid for those late-night rendezvous.
Carefully, I lifted the latch and o
pened the door. The yard and trees were etched in silver shadows from the full moon. I probably didn’t even need the flashlight clutched in my right hand. Tonight held none of the wild, frantic excitement of my youth, when I’d exalted in temporary, stolen freedom and raced through the woods to meet Deacon in our secret place. Back then, I could never get enough of him.
But now there was only a gnawing hunger to revisit and remember.
I deserved this respite.
Despite my sincere intention, formed only this morning, to be more compassionate with Mimi and Zach, my patience was shot by evening. At long last, they slept soundly. As I’d lain in my old childhood bed, I’d been awash with a painful nostalgia that insisted I return to the old smoking shed on the Cormier property. Rather, what used to be the Cormier land.
Over the years, their showcase home had switched hands several times. Each time the house was resold and inhabited by new owners, its grandeur had sunk, until at last Uncle Buddy bought it and expanded his thriving tourism business to include vacation forays for fishermen. He’d bought it at a steal and restored the interior to cater to his clientele. But the upkeep, especially of the outside grounds, never lived up to the standard Clotille Cormier had set. Her old rose garden was reduced to weeds and patches of invasive saw palmetto. Only a few dead shrubs remained, pitiful brown stumps that did not flower, their branches barbed with thorns. The house itself was no longer the modern, gleaming structure of its heyday. Instead, it was decorated in a hunting lodge style, replete with mounted deer heads and bass, and lots of leather and dark paneling. A taxidermy wonderland that its former mistress would have despised.
Twigs and leaves snapped beneath my feet as I marched the abandoned dirt path. Vines and low-lying tree branches clawed at my clothing, scratching into my flesh. Years ago, the path had been wider, but now it was almost entirely closed in as nature did its work, expanding and creeping over man’s attempts to carve order. A pungent smell of damp earth combined with the briny air. It pressed upon me as thick as the smothering vegetation scraping against my body. Thorns, spindly branches, and the sharp edge of palmetto blades sliced my skin like a rebuke and a warning to retreat.
Even now, thirteen years later, I shuddered at the memory of that innocent, naive version of myself tromping about these woods by the Cormier house property, blissfully unaware of hidden danger. Had I missed the kidnapper—or killer—by mere seconds? Fifteen minutes? An hour? Or had he still been around, lurking out in the shadows—watching me—ready to slit my throat if I caught a glimpse of him?
I realized I should be grateful for having been spared whatever mysterious fate had been dealt the Cormiers that long-ago night. But even though I’d been spared the tragedy that had played out in their beautiful home, I lived with this omniscient unknowing, a vague uneasiness that anyone close to me, at any moment, could be snatched from my life—devoured in a black hole of silence, ripped from the fabric of my life’s familiar landscapes.
And I felt so much older, too—my emotions in sync with the bayou night’s atmosphere, weighed down by past pain and buried secrets. But I was determined. Resolved to remember the good, all that had been pure and innocent and hopeful. It was there that the memories still lived, despite the mysterious aftermath of my missing lover. And tonight, I wanted to relive each past meeting, each kiss and touch and murmured word of love that had passed between Deacon and me.
I’d been so absorbed in my thoughts that I almost collided with the ancient smoke shed. A mossy wall gleamed just a couple of feet ahead, illuminated by my flashlight’s elliptical beam. I reached out my hand, my fingers touching the wet condensation on the moldy concrete blocks. Arcing the flashlight to the right, I followed the outline of the structure to the front. A rotted wooden door angled against the opening. After checking for snakes, I pushed it to the side and aimed my light at the interior.
It was empty. All that remained was the old bricked-up pit in the corner used a century ago for smoking hogs and venison. Empty pine shelves lined one wall of the small building. The floor was in surprisingly good shape. Mrs. Cormier once had a grand whim to convert the building into a pottery studio, but after the expense of replacing the dirt floor with oak planks and ordering a kiln and supplies, she’d quickly lost interest in the project and left it abandoned.
I entered farther into the room. Whatever had happened to the kiln and pottery supplies, not a trace of them remained. I checked behind the pit, and sure enough, folded inconspicuously behind it was a rough wool blanket. Heat flooded my body, and my heart pinched. I kicked at it with my boot—who knew what kind of spiders, snakes, or critters might have bedded in there? When nothing scurried out of the material, I knelt down and picked it up. Could it possibly hold some faint scent of Deacon, left over from the many nights we’d lain together on top of this very blanket? Feeling foolish, I nonetheless held the coarse fabric to my nose and sniffed. It stank of wet rot and mold. Still, I refolded it carefully and returned it to its rightful home.
I sank to the floor and wrapped my arms around my knees, my head sinking onto my thighs. The cold crept up all the way from my ass to my spine. I thought of the first night I’d met him out here. The way, earlier, he’d lightly pecked my cheek when he dropped me off at the door to my home, the gleam in our eyes, knowing that in less than an hour we’d meet here, extending the kisses and exploring each other’s bodies until we sneaked home again before daylight.
It was a wonder we’d never been caught.
Although, in the end, there was always a reckoning.
I don’t know how long I sat there, remembering long, slow kisses and the heat and wonder of skin against skin. All the fervent vows and promises we’d made. All the plans and dreams. I’d never doubted Deacon’s love. In the years since, with all the rumors flying about the Cormiers still being alive and living incognito, I knew it wasn’t true. We were young and rash, but Deacon would never, ever have cut me out of his life so cruelly. He would have sent word to me somehow, sent for me to leave the bayou and join him wherever he was hidden.
At last, I slowly rose, my back and hips cramped from sitting so long in the cold. I considered extending my foray down this adolescent memory lane to the one spot in the woods I never revisited. Yet, no matter the years that passed, I was certain I could find that exact location even if I were blindfolded.
I straightened and walked across the floorboards, my footsteps echoing like gunshots in the ghostly silence. No, I decided. Not tonight. I didn’t think I was up to it yet. Perhaps I never would be.
Outside, I was shocked to find coral and violet rays bursting from the eastern horizon. Time to hurry home. My lips curled in sad irony. How many times had I said the same thing to myself as I’d left this shed and waved goodbye to Deacon? And the last time I’d said goodbye had been nothing special—there’d been no premonition or anything in his manner to indicate it would be the last time I saw him alive.
I tucked the small flashlight into my back pocket, not needing it anymore. As I turned to find the tangled path, a moving pattern of olive and gray caught the corner of my eye. I whirled around, and it was gone. I waited, and seconds later, I heard the faint sound of twigs crunching underfoot. Whoever or whatever roamed the woods was coming my way.
People have a way of disappearing around here.
Raymond Strickland’s words howled in my head with their unique color of eggplant purple edged in black. My throat clogged with sudden fear, and I froze where I stood—a frightened bunny exposed to lethal prey. My legs were rooted to the ground with a nightmare paralysis.
A figure emerged from the copse of pines. The man was decked head to toe in camo, a twelve-gauge shotgun propped against his shoulder. Judging by his gaping mouth, I guessed he was as surprised to run into me as I was to see him.
I let out a shaky laugh. “I forgot. Turkey season started this week, didn’t it?”
“Yesterday.” His voice was a boxy medium brown, the color of rich dirt. “Came in with some buddies
from Wetumpka. There’s three of us out here this morning. Be careful, Miss.”
“Right. Thanks for the warning.” With the start of turkey season and only six weeks out from the Blessing event, I should expect to see more hunters and tourists.
Bayou Enigma’s annual Blessing of the Fleet was our town’s biggest event of the year. And ever since Uncle Buddy was elected to the county commission four years ago, he’d made sure to throw business my way, including this event. My freelance event planning job had turned out to be profitable beyond my expectations, but the Blessing ceremony was a big deal for my bottom line too.
“I’ll be careful.” I threw up a hand, eager to return home before Mimi and Zach stirred and not particularly wanting to chitchat with this armed stranger. “Happy hunting.”
He tugged the bill of his camo cap, and in two seconds, he’d completely disappeared into the woods, silent and inconspicuous, with the skill of a practiced hunter. I blinked, slightly disconcerted at the speed with which he’d blended into the green foliage. Shaking off my bemusement, I headed down the path, a great deal noisier than the hunter, just in case his friends were around. At the bend in the trail, I glanced over my shoulder at the smoking shed, its outline visible in the emerging morning light.
Even with all the whispered promises and long conversations with Deacon held inside the old building, there had also been things left unsaid. Words that would never be spoken aloud.
Dead secrets that haunted.
Chapter 6
JORI
“He was adopted, you know.”
Mimi had slipped that little bombshell in today, totally out of the blue. I was dropping her off at the home of Rose Sankey, one of her oldest and dearest friends. Rose was the same age as Mimi. She’d never fully recovered from hip surgery last year, but her mind was sharp as a tack. Mimi helped Rose with the housekeeping while they gossiped and then settled in for a mammoth game of gin. Rose kept a steady eye on Mimi, providing my grandmother a safe outing for the day. The arrangement worked out perfectly for both of them.
Not One of Us Page 6
