Midnight on the Mississippi

by Mary Ellis

“Because he orchestrated the whole thing.” Hunter slapped the wheel, his anger at a level to match Bissette’s. “James created artificial demand by touting the stock to every client on our roster. Most of those he contacted bought in. Why wouldn’t they? Why wouldn’t they trust him? And he sold a lot of shares to clients without their knowledge. They didn’t even know they were proud owners of Ace Linen Supply. Some clients give full control to their brokers. The stock was nearly worthless by yesterday’s closing.”

  “So what I learned in economics class actually happens in real life,” she said softly.

  “He prods our clients to buy into Ace Linen, and the demand drives the price up. He spreads the word around town about this red-hot stock tip. More people buy in, driving the price even higher. He encourages clients to take a larger position. They shouldn’t miss out. Eventually Nowak’s family and friends unloaded all the shares they owned, making substantial profits. Once Nowak stops touting the stock, the simulated demand dries up. No new suckers? The price drops to a realistic value.”

  “Is that legal?”

  Hunter exhaled a weary sigh. “No, the classic pump-and-dump boiler room scheme isn’t legal. James broke at least half a dozen SEC regulations, besides felony fraud and embezzlement too. Maybe I’ll go back tomorrow to talk to Bissette after he’s had a chance to cool off.”

  “You should absolutely not do that. I get that you need to straighten this out, Hunter, but it should be in a safer place than here.”

  “What do you mean?” He pulled the Corvette onto the hard-packed gravel of a berm where there were no antebellum mansions or remote hideaways like the one they just left.

  “Despite his gorgeous screened-in patio and pool area, Mr. Bissette is a dangerous man. He’s hiding something.” Nicki glanced at the road in the rearview mirror. “People don’t live in the swamp because they love alligators and water moccasins. Surveillance cameras hidden in the trees registered our license plate and probably announced who was coming before we opened a car door. What do you know about your client?”

  Hunter thought for a moment. “His grandfather made a fortune in the catfish industry. Then Robert took the money he inherited and invested it in Columbian coffee beans. He has since sold his foreign holdings and lives off investment income, a stream not as productive as it once was.”

  Nicki checked the mirror again as Hunter pulled back onto the pavement. “I’m willing to bet his Columbian investments weren’t just in coffee. You should stay away from him. At least don’t meet him out here. If men like Bissette get mad, they get even. James would have been better off ripping off the attorney general of the United States.”

  “That might be a stretch, Nicki. Bissette is retired now.”

  “If so, he has nothing to hide if the police check into where he was and what he was doing last Saturday night.”

  Hunter nodded. “Assuming Detective Saville can stop fixating on me long enough.”

  FOURTEEN

  The drive back from St. James Parish took considerably longer than the trip to the bayou because Hunter stayed on the road along the river. On a lark, they stopped at Oak Alley, an antebellum-plantation-turned-tourist-attraction, complete with costumed guides. After paying the admission, they wandered the manicured grounds but decided against the tour of the mansion. Nicki was astounded by the oak-lined driveway and the spectacular flower gardens. Viewing conspicuous wealth of bygone eras on the movie screen was one thing. Gawking at a place more impressive than the White House was something altogether different.

  When they grew hungry, Hunter bought them shrimp gumbo and crab salad at the restaurant on the grounds. They dunked warm baguettes straight from the oven in their soup while uniformed school children marched two by two across the lawn. Nicki read aloud facts from a brochure, but Hunter seemed distracted during the meal. His partner’s chicanery had to be a nightmare. How many clients had been scammed? After what happened at Mr. Bissette’s, Hunter probably wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep for some time to come.

  When Nicki asked if Galen ancestors lived in similar digs a hundred fifty years ago, his reply was curt and evasive. They owned a “place” out in Lafourche Parish that had been a land grant from Louis XV to his great-great-great granddaddy. She would have loved to hear why a French king would hand over a tract of land in the New World, but Hunter’s tightly set mouth discouraged more questions. She let the matter drop, not eager to reveal that her ancestors lived in a four-room cabin without indoor plumbing, running water, or electricity until almost the twenty-first century. Papaw and Mamaw carried water from the spring, did laundry in a wringer washer on the porch, heated their home with a woodstove, and read by kerosene lamps until the 1970s. They no longer needed the outhouse, but electricity was supplied by a gas generator, which ran only a few hours a day.

  On the drive back, Hunter kept a steady stream of blues queued on the CD player, rendering conversation impossible. Nicki rested her head against the seat and soaked up the mournful rhythms of B.B. King, John Lee Hooker, and Etta James.

  It was dark by the time Hunter dropped Nicki off at her car and very late when she got back to the mobile home village. Fortunately, with Christine at work Nicki didn’t need to be sociable. Unfortunately, the din of chaos in the neighborhood was at fever pitch. Apparently, everyone insisted on playing their TVs and sound systems at full blast. Between the revving cars and motorcycles, screaming babies, and arguments stemming from too many people confined in close quarters, Nicki would get little sleep that night. Her bones ached, her head pounded, and even her skin felt tired, but she lay in bed listening to the ticking of her clock add one more annoyance until the wee hours.

  You ain’t living at Oak Alley, folks, she thought as sirens in the distance rushed to another crime in progress.

  Nicki awoke to a quiet trailer. She again struggled through her exercise routine in the cluttered living room. Wouldn’t Christine find it easier to dust and run the sweeper if she would just throw half the junk into the trash?

  Christine emerged from her bedroom at eleven o’clock, clear-eyed, in shorts, T-shirt, and sequined flip-flops. Her curly strawberry-blond hair hung across her back like a shawl. Without makeup, her freckles stood out against her pale skin. In fact, her arms and legs were blindingly white, as though she never left the house during daylight hours.

  “You really need to get some sun,” Nicki teased, pouring her a cup of coffee.

  Christine looked down at her slim legs beneath the hem of her shorts. “You’re right. I’ll buy some fake spray-on tan at Walgreen’s. I don’t get to the beach anymore, not with my work schedule, and especially not with the kids gone.” She took the cup and immediately downed half its contents.

  Nicki noticed that the long acrylic nails she used to apply were gone. Her nails were short but clean. “Where are your old fingernails? You used to be able to weed-whack with those things.”

  “I got a write-up from my supervisor.” Christine held up her hands for inspection. “I decided I needed the job more. Domestic court judges don’t award children to unemployed parents.” She chanted the phase with a singsong inflection. Apparently, she’d listened to the warning more than once. Christine gazed out the kitchen window into the yard, where overflowing trashcans waited for pickup. Her features were pinched with pain just talking about her children. Nicki knew that everything in her friend’s life centered on the fact her kids had been taken away. And it would be no easy task to get them back.

  Nicki’s heart filled with compassion. Christine wasn’t a bad person. She just made bad choices. Actually, she seldom made cognitive decisions. Instead, she reacted to whatever landed in her path on the spur of the moment. Nicki could easily be her. In fact, she had been exactly like her in high school until the day she chose to reinvent herself.

  “Any good tales to tell about the case?” Christine’s energy level had ratcheted up with the infusion of caffeine. “What’s your new client like?” She positioned her hands on hips and stuck her el
bows straight out. Christine considered her slimness her best feature, yet her figure looked scrawny, not chic. A few pounds would have done her a world of good.

  Nicki refilled their mugs. “Hunter Galen isn’t bad looking. Nice hair, nice clothes, real nice car. We drove out to Saint James Parish in his Corvette with the top down.” She added extra r’s to Corvette and dragged “down” into two syllables for effect.

  “Tell me everything and don’t leave anything out. Don’t worry about Travis coming back. We had a huge fight and I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore.”

  Nicki tried to press her for details, but Christine only wanted to hear about yesterday’s excursion to the Cajun bayou.

  Nicki had been on the job as a professional investigator for all of two days, yet she couldn’t remember enjoying herself more. Robert Bissette probably had corpses buried under every cypress tree, yet all she could remember was Hunter’s hand on her knee, the smell of his aftershave, and his accent when he spoke her name. Even though she’d eaten crab salad hundreds of times, Nicki had loved every minute of lunch at Oak Alley.

  “Hellooooo. Earth-to-Nicki. I think I lost you for a minute.”

  “Sorry, I was trying to remember details for the case. I should start taking notes.”

  “This Galen guy, is he rich or something? I saw his picture in the paper. He looks like Mr. Slick.”

  “Yeah, you could say he’s rich. At least his family is. He’s in a financial mess right now, though.” In an instant, Nicki felt a stab of conscience. A licensed private investigator had an ethical code of confidentiality to uphold.

  “I would use that to your advantage. If he has money, plan to get some for yourself. We ain’t getting any younger, you know. I was twenty-five last month.”

  Nicki couldn’t help smiling. It wasn’t as if they were one step away from Medicare. “He has a girlfriend, Christine, and she’s doubtlessly a rich and beautiful woman. I work for the guy, that’s all.”

  “She ain’t hooked him yet. You still have time to reel him in. Those wealthy types usually keep a wife at home and another one on the side once they’re older, but this guy still looks young.”

  “And why would I go for such an arrangement?” Nicki didn’t try to hide her indignation.

  “Simmer down. It was just a joke. I know you’re the church-on-Sunday, stay-chaste-till-married type.”

  “I remember you used to go with me on Sundays. Don’t they have churches here in Chalmette?”

  “Not since they took my kids away.” Christine’s mouth pulled into a frown. “Anyway, we were talking about you and this Galen guy. I suggest you turn on the charm. It might be nice still having money in the account after paying bills. Think about the nice apartment he must have, maybe even behind one of those fancy gates that opens with the push of a button.”

  It amazed Nicki what amenities rated high with people. “I’ve nothing against living large. That’s why I went to college and got my degree, but I’m going to arrive there on my own.” She winced at her sanctimoniousness tone.

  Christine wasn’t offended. “Who says you gotta quit your job? You could have the best of both worlds. I would love to work for your cousin too. Is he still single?”

  The question caught Nicki off guard. A mental pairing of Christine Hall and Nate Price was too ludicrous to imagine. Nate had champagne tastes, whether he could afford them or not. “Yes, he’s still single and still a big pain in the neck.”

  “Not more so than Travis. That creep said he’d make me sorry one of these days.” Christine shivered. “The way I see it, you have one blue-ribbon opportunity here.”

  “And what would that be?” Nicki resumed her yoga stretches on the floor. She might as well finish exercising during her career assessment.

  “Make yourself in-dee-spensable to this guy, especially since he’s cute.”

  Nicki’s laughter broke her concentration with the yoga pose. “Do you have a self-help DVD for this? No man has ever found me indispensable before.”

  “Sorry. Wish I could help you there.”

  Nicki switched to sit-ups. “That’s all right. Since I’m not up to the challenge of competing with Hunter’s girlfriend, maybe I’ll just do my job.”

  “Okay, but wouldn’t it be nice if the guy fell in love with you?”

  Nicki sat up so fast she bumped her head on the coffee table. “You must be joking. Marrying the boss is the blue-ribbon opportunity you had in mind?” She rubbed her scalp gingerly.

  “You’re almost twenty-five too, Nic. Don’t you want to get married and have children in this lifetime?”

  Nicki took little time to decide. “Yeah, I’d like a couple kids someday, but I have plenty of hurdles to leap between now and then.”

  “If you wait too long your biological clock will run out of minutes. Do you think you’ll have patience for a couple varmints in your sixties? Girl, that’s the time for wearing purple hats and sitting in rockers on the porch.”

  Nicki smiled at the image. “Eating sweets and sipping cold lemonade?”

  “You betcha. We’ll finish off a bag of cookies every afternoon because we won’t care how fat we get.”

  “They’d better not bankrupt Social Security.” Nicki resumed her crunches.

  “Man, you worry a lot. When did that start?” Christine plopped down on the floor and started doing sit-ups too, her legs shooting down the hallway.

  “I suppose when my mom’s health started going downhill. That’s why I went to college so I wouldn’t end up in a dead-end job.”

  As soon as the words were said, Nicki wanted to bite her tongue. Hunter was right. She did have a habit of saying exactly what was on her mind, and that didn’t always come out as kind. “Sorry. That was mean and not what I intended.”

  “I know there’s not a hateful bone in your body.” Christine scrambled to her feet and reached down to pull Nicki up. The sit-ups hadn’t turned out to be much fun. “And that’s why you should marry Hunter Galen, grandson of the Grand Dame of the Garden District. You would be set for life.”

  “Grand Dame?” Nicki asked incredulously. “Where did you come up with that?”

  She shrugged. “I do read, and that’s what the newspapers called his grandmother. Just think, your little darlin’s would get to wear the latest fashions and live in a big house with a yard. No generic cereals on your breakfast table. Private schools, a good college, maybe even a nanny.” Christine’s face glowed as though she’d won the lottery. “And you could go to the mall anytime you liked.”

  Nicki offered a tired smile for her friend. She knew Christine meant well, but there was no way Nicki could begin to describe what was wrong with her idea. Even if you set aside the moral ramifications of stealing someone’s beau, she wanted to use her talents, not marry her way into a better economic future.

  “I appreciate your worrying about me, but right now I need a shower.” Nicki headed into the bathroom.

  What she needed to do was get out of there. Despite Christine’s generosity in letting her stay, Nicki needed to stand on her own two feet. It would be too easy to slip back into the low expectations of the path she’d once been on.

  FIFTEEN

  What are you doing, Nicolette?” Hunter called down and then watched Nicki nearly jump out of her bright yellow sandals. She had parked behind his car in the narrow alley. In a denim skirt and yellow T-shirt, she looked rather cute. With a straw hat perched on her head and a tote bag advertising Aunt Sally’s pralines on her shoulder, she also looked like the classic American tourist on vacation.

  “Good grief, Hunter. You nearly scared the life out of me.”

  “How could I scare you? I live here.” He leaned out the open window above her head. “But you can’t leave your car hanging over the sidewalk like that. Traffic enforcement will give you a ticket or maybe tow you away, your being a habitual offender and all.” For some reason, he loved to tease and bait her. Maybe because it wasn’t something he indulged in with Ashley.

>   “Why are you watching the alley? I would think you have better things to do.”

  “I thought I heard someone breaking into my car. Did you plan to block me in and not tell me?”

  “No, but I didn’t think you would be at home. I’ve been driving around and couldn’t find a place to park. If you were out with Ashley, I thought I could use your spot for a while.”

  “Ah, Saturday night in New Orleans. Everyone comes to town to party. Is that why you’re here? Perhaps you wish to experience the dangerous, decadent lure of the French Quarter?” He studied her face, so young and innocent, so full of expectation.

  “I would like to take a look around, maybe pick up a real estate magazine of available rentals.”

  “Is that how you spent your morning, checking out other places to live?”

  “Only online. Also, I tried to find out everything I could about Robert Bissette. I didn’t have much luck with that either. So here I am. I’ve never been on Bourbon Street or even in the Quarter.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You live in Natchez, just three hours upriver, and you never came down for Mardi Gras?”

  “Nope, and much unlike yourself, I almost never kid around.”

  “Here are my keys.” He tossed down the ring. “Move my car over and park next to me. But if you chip the paint, I’ll deduct it from your first check.”

  Nicki caught his keys easily. A few moments later he heard his car engine roar to life. He hoped she wouldn’t press down too hard on the accelerator or she’d push over a two-hundred-year-old wall that had withstood Hurricanes Betsy, Camille, and Katrina. Hunter held his breath while she parked the two cars. Then Nicki squeezed out of her little Escort as though her spine were made of rubber. Not more than eight inches separated his car from hers.

  “Ah, a perfect fit. You’ll do well in the city. And as I have no plans for the evening, come on up. We’ll start your tour of the Quarter off with something cold.” He pulled in his head and closed the shutters before she could argue.