Not One of Us

by Debbie Herbert

  Zach piped up his familiar refrain. “Mimi knows.”

  She smiled and patted his shoulder. “You tell her, Zach. Jori should listen to her old grandmother.”

  But I couldn’t let it go.

  The ripples of that fateful night Deacon disappeared had again been stirred, and they were as far reaching and devastating as ever. I’d always believed he’d been murdered. I felt trapped in the middle of a mystery that would forever consume me until I had the truth.

  I strolled to my room and tried to think of another avenue to explore. My family was no help. Mimi refused to discuss Jackson. Aunt Tressie was lost in la-la land, remembering only the sweet boy Jackson had been before hitting his teenage years. And Uncle Buddy would only shake his head sadly whenever Jackson’s name was mentioned. “Poor kid,” he’d say, then immediately change the subject.

  I did have another uncle—or at least he used to be when we were related by marriage. Aunt Tressie’s ex-husband, Ardy Ensley. I had no memory of him, just old faded photographs of a man in the background of Jackson’s numerous birthday pictures and other snapshots. No one ever brought up his name. I only knew it by point-blank asking Mimi the name of Aunt Tressie’s ex. Mimi only ever referred to him as “that son of a bitch who skipped town.” The only other piece of information I’d gleaned was when she’d once added, “Too bad Ardy isn’t another hundred miles away from Enigma. Gulfport is too close.”

  Was it possible Ardy still lived in Gulfport? The town was only about an hour’s drive from the bayou. His name was unusual; surely there couldn’t be that many people named Ardy Ensley in Mississippi. On a whim, I entered his name in a search engine and came up with fewer than half a dozen hits, three of which were old obituaries. I read those first, but they were written long before my Ardy was even born. His was an old-fashioned southern name, years out of popular use. On the next-to-last lead, I hit gold. A Mr. Ardy Ensley of Gulfport owned a construction company that had recently completed a strip mall project in Harrison County.

  Pretending to be an electrical subcontractor, I called and arranged a meeting with him to discuss a commercial building project. A mere two hours later, I strode into the office of Ensley Construction sporting an attitude of assertive confidence to mask my extreme nervousness.

  What is the worst that could happen? I asked myself. If he got angry and tossed me out on my ear, so what? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Maybe I’d at least garner a scrap of information that could prove useful to Tegan. Something that would make her want to officially interview Ensley for herself.

  I sat at the conference table in the empty room while I waited for Ensley to show. He appeared to have done well for himself after leaving Bayou Enigma. The table was polished mahogany, the floor a plush carpet. On one wall, several mounted photographs featured a man I assumed must be Ardy Ensley. In them, he wore a hard hat and business suit, appearing at several groundbreaking sites with politicians, who also held shovels, decked in hard hats and suits. As if those men had ever done a day of manual labor in their lives.

  My eyes caught sight of a credenza that held a few personal photographs, and I got up and walked over. There was a handsome silver-haired woman in pearls, Ardy holding a baby in a pink blanket, and a family photograph of Ardy with the same silver-haired woman and three adults who all bore the unmistakable stamp of family with the similar slope of their noses and large mouths full of shiny white teeth.

  I lifted the group family photo and examined it closely. While my aunt had been left grieving after Jackson’s death, slowly losing touch with reality, Ardy had evidently moved on with his life, creating a new family and business. By all appearances, a happier family and a more successful business than the one he’d abandoned in Enigma. Adding a final insult to injury, he’d skipped town with no advance notice, leaving behind three workers unpaid for their last two weeks of labor and a devastated, confused wife.

  I reckoned I should be glad for Ardy that the tragedy hadn’t wrecked his life like it had his ex-wife’s. But all I could picture was Aunt Tressie sitting in her recliner at Magnolia Oaks, a ratty afghan wrapped over her thin legs, gazing forlornly out the room’s small window with its view of the wild bayou wetlands.

  “J. T. Jenkins?”

  I jumped at the voice behind me and spun around, still clutching the photo.

  I’d been expecting a big, burly man with eighteen-inch biceps and a tan, weathered face, but Ardy was nothing like that. At five feet eight inches, he was only an inch taller than me. A few wrinkles creased the sides of his eyes and forehead, but he appeared at least a decade younger than Aunt Tressie. His face and arms were lightly tanned, but the shade was uniform and subtle, likely the result of a self-tanning spray rather than hard labor in the sun. The man evidently took pride in his appearance—probably to please his second wife, I imagined, with a small pang of bitterness on my aunt’s account.

  He regarded me with a raised brow. Clearly, I hadn’t been what he was expecting either. When I’d made the appointment, I’d lied about my name and used vague details about my nonexistent company so he couldn’t check me out ahead of time.

  I raised the photograph in my hand. “Your family?”

  He smiled smoothly and slid into the seat at the head of the table, a predictable power move for potential business negotiations. “My wife, Lonnie, and our kids, David, Linda, and Beth. The beautiful baby in the other photo is my granddaughter, Tiffany.”

  “Good-looking bunch,” I said, placing the picture back on the credenza and taking a seat on Ardy’s right side.

  “My pride and joy,” he answered, flashing the familial grin that bared a mouthful of teeth. He folded his hands on the tabletop and waited expectantly. A gold wedding band gleamed on his left hand. So much for preliminary chitchat. The man was ready to get down to business.

  Under the table, I dug my fingernails into my palms, the pain a distraction from my nervousness. It was showtime. I’d rehearsed my opening over and over on the drive to Gulfport.

  “The initials J. T. stand for Jori Trahern,” I began. His eyes remained blank and questioning. My name meant nothing to him. “I’m from Bayou Enigma.”

  That name he did recognize. His body jolted as though he’d been delivered an electric shock. “Jori Trahern,” he said slowly. “Of course. You’re Oatha Jean’s granddaughter.”

  “And at one time your niece, though I was only two or three when you left.”

  Ardy’s blue eyes grew cold and distant. “Why are you here?”

  “Sorry for the deception,” I said. “I couldn’t get a meeting with you unless it was a business appointment, so . . .”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “To talk to you about your son. Jackson.”

  The man went pale beneath his tan. He rose on unsteady feet. “I’ve got nothing to say. You have no right lying your way in to see me and then dredging up the past.” His voice turned hard; each syllable spewed at me like chunks of gravel. “Get out.”

  I stayed seated.

  “Did you hear about the murder of Raymond Strickland?” I asked, hoping the news might pique his interest long enough for me to get in a few questions before he stormed away.

  Ardy slowly sank back into his chair. “When?” he asked simply.

  “A week ago. Shot in the back of the head, same as your son.”

  “Damn it.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I saw the news on TV about the Cormier remains being found—it’s made headlines all over—but this is the first I hear about the Strickland murder.”

  The brash businessman who’d walked in two minutes ago, ready to size up a new business proposal, was replaced by a shaken shell of a man.

  “I’m surprised the sheriff’s office never contacted you about Strickland.”

  Ardy grimaced. “No reason for them to—unless I was a suspect in the murder. I cut my ties with Bayou Enigma decades ago. How did Tressie take the news?”

  “According to my grandmother, surprisingly wel
l. Mimi told her in person what happened, but I’m not sure Aunt Tressie fully understood the news. She’s . . . not doing great.”

  For the second time today, Ardy surprised me. If I’d been expecting a remorseful man, ashamed of his shabby treatment of his ex-wife during her time of need, I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

  He snorted. “Don’t let the old gal fool you. She’s doing better than anyone gives her credit for. Tressie has always been clever. She’ll deliberately lead you down a twisted, merry path to suit her own needs.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” I said slowly. “She’s in her own little world. I don’t know what happened when the two of you were married, of course, but these days she hardly even leaves the nursing home except to get her hair done once a month. Most of the time she’s in a mental fog.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Mental fog? Tressie?”

  I gaped at him, astounded at this reaction.

  Ardy pulled himself together and regarded me with a frown. “I see she’s really got you hoodwinked.”

  “I think you’ve let the acrimonious past cloud your judgment,” I said at last. “Ever since I can remember, Aunt Tressie has been, you know, off. That’s why she’s living in the nursing home.”

  “She’s in that damn place to bleed me dry. It costs me a pretty penny.”

  “Now I know you’re lying,” I snapped. “Uncle Buddy pays whatever her Medicare and SSI doesn’t pick up.”

  “Who told you that? Your Uncle Buddy’s a tight-fisted bastard who doesn’t give a shit about his sister.”

  “That’s not true. He’s helped my family out for years.”

  Ardy shot me a sly look. “If he’s helping out Oatha Jean, then it’s because she’s got something she’s holding over that damn tightwad. Your grandmother always was a tough old broad.”

  I bristled at his characterization of Mimi. “She’s strong. She’s had to be. Life hasn’t dealt her the best hand, you know.”

  Mimi was closemouthed about her past, but I knew she’d taken care of her husband the last few months of his life after he’d suffered a heart attack. After that, she’d dealt with her daughter’s cancer and death, and then she’d shouldered caretaking responsibility for an intellectually challenged grandson. Yes, she was outspoken and rough around the edges. But if I could pin a damn medal of honor on the old gal, I would.

  “Believe what you want.” Ardy barked out a bitter laugh. “I don’t give a damn what you or anyone else in that godforsaken bayou thinks of me. I have a new life.”

  “So I see. A new wife, new kids. Does that mean you don’t ever think of your first son? Of the devastated wife you left behind?”

  He banged a fist down hard on the table. “You think I’ve ever forgotten that miserable period of my life? Not a chance. I pay for it every damn day. Tressie makes sure of that.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  Ardy pulled a phone out of his back pocket and punched in a number. “Ella, bring me the Magnolia Oaks file.” He laid the phone on the table and regarded me with hooded eyes. “You want proof? You’ll get it.”

  This conversation wasn’t going at all as anticipated, and I was determined to get it back on track. “Tell me about Jackson,” I demanded. “No one ever wants to talk about him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to understand. I feel like if I know what he was really like, what happened to him before the murder, then maybe I can understand who killed Raymond Strickland and why they did it.”

  “What’s it to you? You never knew Jackson or Strickland. You don’t have a dog in this fight.”

  “Because I might be in danger too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’ve been warned not to go poking around in the past. So there’s something there that someone wants to keep hidden.”

  “Then maybe you should back off.” His voice held a quiet warning that sent chill bumps down my arms. We regarded one another in wary silence. Suspicion created a thick miasma, the room a pressure box of tension.

  Was I face to face with the man who’d left me the threatening note pinned to a dead snake? Maybe Ardy was even a killer. He’d been fed up with Jackson’s antics and killed him. Then years later, he killed Raymond Strickland.

  But I needed a motive for why Ardy would kill Strickland. Ray’s words about a business deal echoed in my brain. Had the ex-con been blackmailing Ardy Ensley?

  A woman entered the room and silently handed a file to Ardy, casting me a curious glance through her bifocals.

  “Thank you, Ella. That will be all. Close the door on your way out.” Ardy opened the file and then nudged it toward me. “Take a look for yourself.”

  I glanced down at the spreadsheet and frowned. Then I went through the thick stack of papers that showed copies of cancelled checks and invoices from Magnolia Oaks. They went back several years.

  “Why did you pay for her care if you hate her and think she’s lying about her mental illness?”

  Ardy took the file from me and pointed at the spreadsheet. “If you’ll notice, I went three months in 2014 not paying her bills.”

  I stared at the figures and nodded. “Okay.”

  Ardy removed a manila envelope from the file, extracted a thick stack of papers, and placed it in front of me. I stared uncomprehendingly at the phone log record. “What’s this?”

  “During those three months I didn’t pay her bills? She called every day, several times a day, to harass either me or my wife. When that didn’t work, she resorted to calling my kids.”

  Hot damn. Tressie? I couldn’t picture her having either the malevolence or presence of mind to mount a methodical campaign of vindictiveness against her ex. Perhaps she’d been pleading with him to return home or . . .

  “I have written transcripts of every call,” he said, as though reading my mind. He indexed through the papers and rapped his knuckles on the table. “They start here on this page.”

  Obediently, I began reading.

  You bastard. You left me when I needed you most. How can you just forget all about our son? Our life together? You have to pay. I’ll never let you forget. I don’t care if you live to have a dozen kids. You belong to me and Jackson. Forever.

  Every phone transcript was some variation of the same message. Particularly heinous were the calls to Ardy’s children telling them that their father could never love them like he had his first child and all they would ever be in his eyes were inferior replacements.

  “I-I can’t believe it,” I said at last. “This doesn’t sound like Aunt Tressie at all.”

  “Oh, it’s her all right. Believe me—she’s very careful how she portrays herself to the world. You don’t know the real woman behind the smiles and the vague, confused facade she likes to present. Inside, she’s the devil.”

  “Did you ever speak to a lawyer about filing a harassment lawsuit against her?”

  “Of course. That’s why I kept the transcripts. But in the end, it costs less to meet her blackmail demands than get embroiled in court battles. Besides, I don’t want to put my family through any more of her bullshit.”

  “It’s unreal. I still can’t believe she’d say these terrible things. Could someone else have used her phone without her knowledge?”

  “I know her voice.”

  Of course he’d know the voice of his own ex-wife. I sat back, too stunned to speak. Finally, I gathered myself together. “No wonder you left town in the middle of the night. I don’t know how you lived with her as long as you did.”

  “You become numb. Immune. I didn’t even realize how miserable I was until I left and started my life over.”

  I nodded and cleared my throat. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring you more pain. But it would help me a lot if you could talk about Jackson. No one else seems willing. There’s been a copycat murder and . . .” I let my voice trail off. “And I’m trying to stay safe.”

  No need to fill him in on my suspicions that both m
urders were related to what happened with Deacon. I’d keep that to myself. For all I knew, Ardy might hide a secret, vicious side that was more than a match for Aunt Tressie. Suspicious facts raced through my mind: he’d been known to have rows with his son; he might have killed Strickland in revenge; he might be the one threatening me because I asked too many questions about the past and the private adoption. Aunt Tressie acted vague and confused about the arrangement, but surely Ardy knew what he was getting into.

  Ardy stretched and gazed out the office window, his face heavy with sadness. “Jackson was a sweet kid. Or so we thought at first. Tressie and I adored the boy. But he’d started doing bad things by the time he entered elementary school. It got progressively worse. We couldn’t have pets because Jackson was cruel to animals. He had fights with other kids. No one wanted to be his friend. Once he started junior high, we lost him for good. He was rebellious, confrontational; his grades plummeted so bad I was afraid he’d flunk out his junior year. We tried to set curfews, but he came and went as he pleased, no matter what kind of discipline we tried to enforce. We pleaded with him and even tried to bribe him to do better, but nothing worked. I finally reached the end of my rope with Jackson and enrolled him in a military school. When I demanded that he pack his bags, we had it out.”

  He stopped talking and swallowed hard.

  “What happened?” I asked softly.

  “Jackson said he just wanted to drop out of high school and get a job. I pointed out he couldn’t get a decent job without at least a high school diploma. He insisted that he didn’t need to graduate, that he had ways of making good money. I told him that was impossible, that he had no work ethic or ambition. My son only laughed at me. ‘Think I want to work a nine-to-five job? That’s for losers like you,’ he’d countered.”

  Ardy briefly shut his eyes, then opened them again. “It got ugly. Blows were exchanged,” Ardy admitted. “I grabbed his arm, determined to drag him to the car and return later for his bags of clothing. Jackson hit me in the stomach.” Ardy’s face twisted in pain. “At that point, I lost it. We scuffled and began throwing punches, crashing through the house with Tressie screaming at us to stop. I threatened Jackson that I’d have him arrested for assault, and he threatened to have me arrested for child abuse.”