by Mary Ellis
“Good morning, Nicolette. Hunter Galen.”
His smooth, creamy voice didn’t need identification. No other man she knew sounded like the male counterpart of a 1940s torch singer.
“Sure, I remember you. You signed the advance on my expense check. And the check didn’t bounce. I’m in gravy.”
He laughed good-naturedly. “Let’s hope we find the killer before I go bankrupt. Are you busy? I’m driving out to St. James Parish to visit one of James’s clients. I thought you might like to do some investigating. Maybe peek in his closets or listen in on his wife’s telephone conversations.”
Either the guy still had zero confidence in her abilities or everything was a big fat joke to him. The cops were convinced he murdered his partner, yet he still wore his happy face. “I’ve got nothing but time. You just saved me from jumping jacks that could put me into the hospital.”
“I’ll swing by Chalmette and pick you up, and then we’ll jump on the freeway—”
“No!” she nearly shouted. “I mean, I need to come into the city anyway. I’ll stop by your place. Be there in an hour.” She hung up before he could argue. No way did she want him to drive out to Chalmette. She didn’t want him to see where she lived. It would be impossible not to judge her by the neighborhood she called home.
Standing in a lukewarm shower, she considered what she’d gleaned from his company’s books. Nowak bought and sold constantly to generate personal commissions, while the company’s net worth had dwindled. If she considered every client who lost money under his management a suspect, her list ran to more than forty people. She wouldn’t know which one to start with. Next she pondered what to wear to visit Hunter’s client. St. James Parish sounded hot and buggy, so she selected a cool cotton dress and twisted her hair into a loose braid.
Less than an hour later she was climbing into Hunter’s sporty Corvette. “I wasn’t sure about the dress code for the occasion so I hope this outfit is okay.”
“You look just fine,” he said, barely glancing her way as they headed west out of the city.
Taking her cue from him, Nicki quietly studied her travel guide as they sped down the highway into the Acadiana parishes. According to the brochure, the French language and old-world traditions still dominated the Cajun culture.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re headed?” she asked when they turned onto a parish road following the Mississippi River. Nicki stretched her arms over her head, loving the open expanse in a convertible.
“To see Mr. Robert Bissette.”
“If we start making social calls to all of the clients your partner scammed, I’ll have to pack a steamer trunk of multiseason clothes.”
Hunter pulled down his sunglasses to stare at her before turning his attention back to the twisty road. A muscle tightened in his neck as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. “What do you mean by that?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Why didn’t you keep an eye on him? I mean, if it was my company, I wouldn’t have let him mess things up for so long.”
“There you go again, saying whatever comes to mind. Can’t you occasionally mince words, especially when you’re spending the day with your boss?” A tic appeared in his cheek.
“I am mincing words, Hunter. I know he was your friend, but James took advantage of a lot of clients. Any one of them could have come after him.”
Half a minute of reflection passed before he answered. “In the investment world, clients expect volatility in their returns. They don’t reach for a gun if their portfolios take a nosedive. Besides, the definition of a partnership is two people splitting the work down the middle and trusting each other to operate for the good of both. I had no reason to believe James had gone this far off track.”
“Off track is a major understatement. Robbery without a weapon would be more accurate.”
Hunter leveled her a look that said she was on thin ice, but as usual, Nicki didn’t change her tactics.
“Seriously, Hunter, if a punk goes into a mom-and-pop convenience store and robs the owner of sixty bucks at gunpoint, he’ll get twenty years in the slammer. But some stockbroker can steal from his clients with relative impunity because there’s no weapon of deadly force. If they get caught, they may have their wrists slapped.”
“James wasn’t stealing from our clients. He apparently made lots of unauthorized trades, which is called ‘churning.’ It’s unethical but not illegal. He should have researched the investments he steered people into and matched their—” Hunter stopped mid-sentence and rolled his eyes. “I don’t have time to teach you the investment world. You’re here to investigate James’s murder, and I would appreciate a tad of respect for my…dead…friend.”
That put a damper on chitchat for the remainder of the drive.
Settling back against the soft leather, Nicki was soon amazed by the passing scenery. They had driven into an area where time had not only stood still but had improved upon the bygone era. The houses she glimpsed along the levee surpassed any Hollywood reconstruction of antebellum life. Mansions sat at the ends of oak-lined driveways with manicured lawns large enough to reenact a cavalry battle.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmured softly. “People still live like this in the twenty-first century?”
Hunter followed her gaze, apparently accustomed to the sites. “Some do, but many of these old plantations are now museums owned by historical societies. They give tours and host weddings to pay for the expenses. Beautiful, yes, but nearly impossible to maintain as private residences these days.”
“Beautiful doesn’t begin to describe it. Six families could live in one and not get in each other’s way.” For a moment Nicki’s heart clenched from the deprivation she grew up with and still struggled to overcome. It was easy not to be envious when everyone else was in the same financial situation, but witnessing the copious wealth these people probably took for granted made her teeth ache.
“Mr. Bissette lives in a house like these?”
“Not quite this big, but it’s a lovely place. Personally, I prefer smaller, comfortable homes where I can find who I’m looking for.” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair, his demeanor indicating he’d never coveted anything in his life.
Nicki struggled to tamp down her resentment. “Well, I sure didn’t grow up in a place like this.”
A few moments later Hunter turned onto a road that wandered through some beautiful old trees. Mr. Bissette’s home may not have been a registered historical landmark, but its seclusion and coexistence with the environment appealed to Nicki more than the plantation mansions. They drove down the lane for two miles before the residence came into view. The house was Caribbean in architecture and sat on concrete pillars, ready for the Mississippi to overflow its banks. Wings and additions rambled off the main two-story section, as though added when the urge struck, yet the structure still possessed a cohesiveness that melded with, not battled against, its watery environment. A jungle of flowering plants surrounded the house, while bald cypress trees, live oaks, and swamp willows ringed the perimeter. Most of them dripped with Spanish moss. Morning glories and trumpet vines entwined porch rails and gutter boards. Windows were shuttered, French doors opened onto terraces, and balconies guaranteed family and guests were only a few steps from the morning sunshine or evening breeze.
“Nice, huh?” Hunter asked as he parked on the crushed shell turn-around. While she seemed mesmerized with the lovely home, he got out and went around the car to open her door for her.
“Nice is not the word.” Nicki smoothed down her hair as they climbed the staircase. At least she’d worn a print sundress that wouldn’t show nervous perspiration. She hid behind Hunter when he rang the bell.
Mr. Bissette, dressed in pressed slacks and a plaid shirt, appeared at the door. “Ah, Mr. Galen, thank you for making the trip. Do I have the pleasure of meeting your assistant at long last?”
“No, sir. This is Miss Nicolette Price, a private investigator from Natche
z.”
“How do you do, Miss Price?”
Instead of waiting for her reply, he turned and led them through several rooms, each more exquisite than the last. Unfortunately, Bissette walked too fast for Nicki to take in everything, but she spotted a fondness for African art, colorful textiles, and massive pieces of dark furniture. They exited the living room onto a terraced courtyard bathed in sunshine. The rambling wings of the house fully enclosed the flagstone courtyard and pool area.
“Please have a seat.” Bissette pointed at an umbrella table and several chairs.
Nicki gawked left and right like a tourist on holiday before turning her gaze skyward. They were outdoors, but a net ceiling high overhead sealed out mosquitoes. Huge fans mounted in tree branches kept the humid air moving. “No need to douse yourself with insect repellent. What a great idea.”
“Thank you, Miss Price.” Bissette offered her an unfriendly smile before turning to Hunter. “I’m curious why you would bring an investigator to my home, Mr. Galen.”
“Miss Price is helping me piece together Mr. Nowak’s dealings with his clients…um, my clients now, sir.”
Bissette’s expression sweetened dramatically. “In that case, welcome to Fenêtre sur l’Eau. I am at your disposal.”
“Thank you, sir.” Nicki swallowed down her impulse to gush about the place. Instead, she noticed Hunter said nothing about her investigating James’s murder.
“Shall we have refreshments?” asked Bissette.
As though on cue a butler in a starched white uniform appeared with a tray of Cokes and bottled water. Condensation dripped onto the tray’s linen cloth.
While Nicki sipped from a bottle of water, Hunter opened the conversation with social formalities: how he regretted not keeping track of Bissette’s portfolio himself. How unfortunate that the market hadn’t rebounded since the recession of 2008. How some of the investments James chose may not have served the intended purpose.
Bissette listened patiently, nodding at appropriate intervals until Hunter finished. Then he launched into his view of the world. “My portfolio isn’t down due to market corrections or even ill-timed trades by your partner.” His drawl deepened as his agitation grew.
Nicki watched him sip something amber from a heavy crystal tumbler. Only alcohol was served in glasses like that, and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock. Her hopes for a happy ending to the meeting dropped a notch.
“My portfolio is down because Nowak sold me a pack of worthless stocks of local companies that went bankrupt or should have thrown in the towel after the flood. Nowak assured me they were poised for a comeback after Katrina. What a pack of lies! Poised to make Nowak-Galen Investments a lot of money and nobody else.” Bissette finished off the contents of his glass.
Nicki observed two things: First, when referring to the partnership, Bissette had reversed the order of names. And second, he possessed the ability to convey fury without yelling, cursing, or throwing things. That was unheard of in her neck of the woods. She had to admit it was an enviable trait. Only the heightened color of his face and neck betrayed his utter contempt. Nicki stole a glance at Hunter. He sat stiffly in his chair as though ready to face whatever music Bissette cued on the jukebox.
“If that’s what our examination uncovers, I assure you I’ll make this right.”
“Have you heard of Ace Linen Supply over on Carondelet?” Bissette asked.
“Yes, sir. I was reviewing your portfolio in the wake of James’s death.” Hunter’s grip tightened on his bottle of water. “They’re a large commercial linen supply serving hotels and restaurants in the city, mainly tablecloths and napkins. Things that need to be pressed and starched.”
Bissette grunted in agreement. “Nowak told me they were the only linen supply left in the city after Katrina. They had exclusive contracts all over town and were slated to make money hand over fist as tourism returned to the Quarter. He said some Houston businessman infused significant capital to get the place back on their feet. Once the tourists came back, the sky was the limit.” Derision dripped from his words. “He didn’t ask me, he told me I was getting in on the ground floor. A family business was going public, an IPO. I would be at the right place at the right time.” Picking up his glass, Bissette glared upon discovering it empty. “Arnaud!” he called. “Bring the bottle, s’il vous plaît.”
A bottle of scotch appeared moments later, after which the white-haired Arnaud disappeared back into the house. Their host didn’t offer the libation to them as he refreshed his tumbler.
Hunter said, “Please continue, Mr. Bissette.”
“The offering was ten dollars a share. He said he would take me out at fifteen. He didn’t. I called him. He said I should be patient and trust him. He assured me he would get me out at twenty, doubling my investment.” Bissette clutched his glass with both hands like a lifeline, his left hand trembling. “When I returned from Europe, I read in the paper the price had hit thirty dollars per share.” With great effort Bissette settled back in his chair. “Thirty dollars a share! I would have tripled my money. I called Nowak and left a message on his machine telling him to sell my shares of Ace Supply. He never got back to me, but I assumed I was sitting on a barrelful of profits he had made in the sale. Nowak left me swinging in the breeze. I rode that stock up and back down again. Now it trades for under five dollars a share and I lost more than a million dollars. Tell me why I should have to keep tabs on a stock if I have a broker?”
“You shouldn’t have to, sir.”
“Now I either sell at a substantial loss or hold it until the next millennium to see if it recovers.” Beads of perspiration formed on Bissette’s forehead.
Nicki sat perfectly still, feeling a strange frisson of guilt even though she’d never heard of Galen-Nowak Investments when this took place.
Hunter rose to his feet. “I assure you, Mr. Bissette, if I find any malfeasance in the handling of James’s account, any wrongdoing at all on his part, my company will reimburse your losses.”
Nicki’s mouth dropped open. Without batting an eyelash, Hunter just promised to make good on a million dollars. My, my. The rich really are different.
“Oh, you’ll find malfeasance all right.” Bissette spoke with a slight slur, the scotch having found its mark. “You won’t even have to put your reading glasses on. Your partner was more than a bad broker, Mr. Galen. He was a thief. Un voleur.” Bissette stood and walked within inches of Hunter’s face. Nicki could smell the alcohol on his breath from where she sat. “Besides not selling my shares to lock up profits, I never authorized that large of an investment in a local company barely hanging by a thread before the storm. He mentioned fifty thousand dollars and I agreed to that, not half a million dollars.”
Nicki quickly pictured a number and then added zeroes to comprehend how much they were talking about.
“I call that more than malfeasance. I call him un coquin.”
Hunter could probably get drunk on the fumes, but he stood his ground and slowly drew a business card from his wallet. “Here is my office number, my cell, and my home phone. Call me if you need to but know that I’ll be devoting my full attention to this situation.”
Bissette’s face was growing darker by the moment. “Nowak was bad blood, mon ami. Don’t mourn his passing. He was a thief.” After his final summation, Bissette plucked the card from Hunter’s fingers, turned on his heel, and marched into the house. “Un voleur qui en vole un autre, le diable en rit,” he muttered in French.
Nicki and Hunter had no choice but to follow behind him inside. Considering Hunter’s expression, she chose not to ask for a translation of their host’s thoughts. Apparently, there would be no gracious offer of luncheon on the patio and no offers of bottled water for the drive back to New Orleans.
When Bissette turned down a hallway, Arnaud appeared in front of them. “I will see you out.”
Nicki was growing giddy from the drama. Unfortunately, Bissette’s dismissal curtailed any investigative work—no peek
ing into closets or eavesdropping on phone conversations. But as they exited the luxurious swamp house, she had an overwhelming feeling that repaying this client would be a wise thing to do.
Hunter started the car and they drove down the canopied driveway in a far more introspective mood than when they arrived. She waited until they reached the parish highway before expressing an opinion.
“Mr. Bissette seemed a bit irritated with James’s job performance.”
“You think this is funny, Nicolette? You find humor in your new line of work?” Hunter’s butter-on-hot-shrimp tone turned icy.
Nicki regretted the comment as soon as the words left her mouth. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out how I intended.” She turned to face him, but his focus remained on the road, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
“Apology accepted,” he said after a moment. “That little chat with Bissette left us both out of sorts.”
“Would you mind translating what he said about James?”
“ ‘When one thief steals from another, the devil laughs.’ And there’s more you need to know. While you napped on my dining room table, I checked into the Ace Linen Supply IPO. Do you know who owned the shares of stock that Nowak sold to Mr. Bissette and to a lot of other Galen-Nowak clients?”
“James Nowak?”
“Oui,” he answered. Visiting the Acadiana parishes seemingly brought out the Galen family roots. “James, his brothers, and several cousins up in Baton Rouge. A little get-rich-quick scheme.” Hunter stepped on the accelerator as the road straightened out. “They bought up the shares at the release and then resold those shares to investors led to the trough.”
“I don’t understand. How did James know the price would go that high?”
