by Mary Ellis
Hunter remained motionless on the dance floor. He’d been thunderstruck. Or lightning stuck. Or at least kissed by a woman who rocked him down to his Italian loafers. Kissing her had been a major mistake, but nevertheless something started to burn in his gut. Nicki was halfway to the door when he put tip money on the table and hurried after her. What happened to my bravado and sophistication?
“Wait up,” he called, catching her as she reached the sidewalk. A light rain had started to fall. Hunter took hold of her arm so she wouldn’t run off. “I have one more thing to show you.” He held up his palms when she started to protest. “It’s close by and won’t take long. Please humor me.”
“All right, but it had better not involve any more kissing. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“No more, I promise.”
They picked up their pace as the drizzle turned into a downpour, arriving at the steps to the Alcazar damp but not soaked.
Nicki stared up at the eclectic Spanish-Moorish building. “Good grief, have we left the USA? This looks like the set from an old Humphrey Bogart movie.” When the uniformed man swept open the door, she ran up the steps into the lobby.
“Here’s looking at you, kid,” Hunter murmured, his own enthusiasm growing.
The Alcazar’s lobby was a two-story hexagon, with a polished mosaic floor, fireplace, and a fountain sprouting from a fishpond. Tiled steps led to upper balconies. Doors from the suites opened from these galleries to overlook the extraordinary indoor courtyard. In the lobby, potted plants separated areas for conversation or quiet reading. Classical music floated on the air while even the lighting was soft and subdued.
“This looks like a movie set! I expect Lauren Bacall or Katherine Hepburn to stroll down those stairs wearing Coco Chanel.”
“I thought you’d like it. Take a peek in the lounge at the stained glass window over the bar. Louis C. Tiffany couldn’t have done better himself.” His hooked a thumb in the right direction. When Nicki took off through the swinging doors, Hunter headed to the reception desk. No way would he let her drive back to Chalmette tonight.
She joined him a few minutes later by the fountain, as excited as a child on Christmas morning. “What is this place? A hotel? Short-term apartments? They have bowls of peel-n-eat shrimp on ice in the bar for free. And I spotted the back garden. They have both a lily pond and a swimming pool. I would love to live here.”
“This is a boutique hotel, and tonight it will be your home.” Hunter held out an ornate, old-fashioned key.
Her expression turned wary. “What are you up to, Hunter? Is that a key to a room?” One hand perched on her hip. “If you think for one minute—”
“It’s to your room, not mine.” He pressed the key into her hand. “I’m going home and you aren’t driving back to Chalmette late at night in the rain. Don’t try to argue with me, Nicolette. You’ll find a robe to sleep in on the back of the bathroom door. In the morning, coffee will be delivered to your room, and breakfast is served through those French doors. You can come by for your car tomorrow, but then take the rest of the day off. Give me a day on the books alone.” Before she could argue, or before he lost his head and said something stupid, Hunter walked through the swinging doors. He didn’t look back until he reached the sidewalk. Nicki was staring at the key in her hand as though unsure of its use. But there was definitely a smile on her pretty face.
SIXTEEN
If it hadn’t been raining so hard, and if he hadn’t been formulating a plan to keep Nicki from driving back to Chalmette, Hunter may have noticed the two women huddling under an umbrella across the street. They watched him enter the expensive hotel with Nicki, but unfortunately they left before he came out ten minutes later.
Particularly unfortunate because both women were friends of Ashley’s. And one of the friends felt it her duty to inform Ashley of Hunter’s indiscretion.
The woman had Ashley on the line within minutes, only too ready to dispense the news. After all, Ashley had been acting much too haughty since landing Hunter Galen.
“Ashley, got a minute? I have the most dreadful news to tell you.” Justine wanted to draw out the drama for as long as possible.
“What could possibly be so important that couldn’t wait for morning? I was sound asleep.” Ashley didn’t sound pleased to be in the news loop.
“You’ll thank me when you hear this,” continued Justine. “I’m in the Quarter with Suzanne blowing off a little steam. Guess who we saw going into the Alcazar not ten minutes ago?”
A short pause and then a much-put-upon sigh preceded Ashley’s peevish reply. “I can’t possibly guess…Brad and Angelina? Why are you acting so juvenile?”
“Your boyfriend, that’s who. Checking in with Miss PWT, who got all dolled up for her night on the town.”
Ashley bolted upright. “Miss PWT? What on earth does that mean?”
“Well, Hunter’s pretty date dresses like she has no money and she’s Caucasian, so I’ll let you figure out the rest.” Justine and Suzanne broke into hoots and howls of laughter. “We gotta get out of this rain, but we’ll stop by to commiserate tomorrow.” They ended the call still laughing.
“Pretty, white…” Ashley jumped out of bed, fully awake. The hard plastic case on her cell phone almost crumpled between her fingers. It had to be that cousin of Nate Price’s from Mississippi. How could Hunter possibly be attracted to her? Her stomach roiled with acid thinking about him with another woman. A final fling before getting hitched? An act of kindness for someone new to town?
Ashley’s anger toward the love of her life faded. She needed to save some for the source of her troubles.
SEVENTEEN
When Nicki arrived to retrieve her car the next morning, she stared up at Hunter’s shuttered windows, perplexed as to what to do. Should she knock on his door and thank him for an evening in the loveliest hotel on earth? Waking up in that room was like waking up in paradise. Everything about the place screamed luxury, from the thick towels to the silky bed sheets to the dining room chef ready to make an omelet to your specifications. The orange juice was fresh squeezed, the bread warm from the oven, and the service impeccable.
Fortunately, Nicki spotted a note on her windshield tucked under the wiper blade, resolving her quandary. Nicki, I had some errands to run. Drive home safely. I’ll call later. Hunter.
She jotted down a thank-you note, dropped it into his mailbox, and headed to Christine’s trailer—an abode as far from the Alcazar on the comfort scale as you could find. Hunter’s errands gave her time to ponder those kisses on the dance floor. What had that been about? And what was she going to do about it? Unfortunately, she had enjoyed them more than she cared to admit.
Once she was in her room, Nicki stayed only long enough to change her clothes before heading back outside to get back in her car. She had more to accomplish on her day off than contemplate her client. She would have loved to take Nate’s and her mother’s advice to let the sleeping dogs lie, but she couldn’t. What kind of PI would she be if she didn’t at least talk to her grandparents about her dad?
After her father disappeared and her mother couldn’t pay the rent, they had moved from a quiet side street in Natchez to Red Haw, Mississippi, a town barely on local maps. Her mother had been laid off from her part-time job at the bakery. Food stamps, Aid to Dependent Children, and a pittance of Social Security only went so far, considering the cost of her mother’s medications. Mamaw and Papaw had taken them in without a second thought, but Rose had found the adjustment to rustic living nearly impossible.
“Might as well live out on the prairie with the pioneers.” If her mom said that once, she’d said it a thousand times. Nicki could still remember the tang of pine in the sheets and pillowcases. Cleaning house involved a broom, dustpan, and dust cloth. No wall-to-wall carpeting, no ceramic tile, and no granite countertops. But they always had plenty of food on the table, thanks to Papaw’s dead shot with a rifle, luck with a fishing pole, and Mamaw’s abundant garden.
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br /> Unlike her mother, Nicki had been happy growing up in the country. Everyone knew everyone at the small school she attended, and they all saw one another at church on Sundays. Life was slow paced yet sustaining. But Rose had found the isolation depressing, and her mother didn’t need another reason to be depressed. When Rose finally landed another job five years later, they moved back to Natchez into subsidized housing. Mom seldom visited her parents anymore, and now that Nicki was on her way to Red Haw, she realized she didn’t spend nearly enough time with them either.
As soon as she left southern Louisiana headed toward Mississippi, an ache began deep in her heart. Though she knew it was silly and had no foundation in reality, she experienced a sudden feeling of fear that her grandparents would die before she arrived, depriving her of a chance to say goodbye. But when she left the well-traveled interstate for the Mississippi back roads, she found new sources of distress that weren’t a figment of her imagination: fields abandoned or neglected; sharecropper cabins that should have been knocked down inhabited by sour-faced mothers and barefoot children; broken fence posts, littered ditches, and utility poles papered with ancient ads for boiled peanuts. It seemed as though the world had moved on while this part of rural America remained trapped in a Steinbeck or Faulkner novel. Swallowing hard, Nicki tuned the radio to a gospel station and sang along, loud and off-key, as a way to improve her mood on a cool and rainy day.
On the rutted lane leading to her grandparents’ home, she was struck by several incongruities. Vegetables grew in ruler-straight rows, while weed-free pansies and petunias encircled the house and bordered the pebble walkway. Yet rusty farm implements, a forlorn wheelbarrow, and an abandoned car still remained in the last spots they had been functional. Cracked window glass had been repaired with duct tape, and plastic sheeting covered a section of the roof. Of course, her grandparents existed on a small Social Security income, and trash pickup was expensive in rural areas.
Shaking off her critical appraisal, Nicki bounded out of the car. “Anybody home?” she crowed at the top of her lungs.
“Where else would we be, child?” Mamaw limped onto the porch and let the screen door slam behind her. A wide grin turned her papery skin into a roadmap of creases. “Come up here and let me see what the big city done to ya.”
“I hope you don’t mind my arriving unannounced, but I brought you something.” Nicki pulled a large white box from the backseat.
“You don’t need no invite, child. What you got there—dirty clothes to wash? Maybe a litter of kittens?” Mamaw leaned over the rail, her gnarled hands gripping the post.
“Even better. I brought beignets, pecan pie, and sweet potato pie. Mmm-mmm.” She rubbed her belly with a circular motion.
“Why would I need that stuff when I just baked a pan of cornbread?” Mamaw asked, wrinkling her nose. Nevertheless she extracted a sugary beignet and took a bite before Nicki had a chance to sit down.
“Hey, there, sweet girl.” Her grandfather walked into the kitchen, stiff and rumpled from his midday nap.
“Hi, Papaw! Look what I brought. Donuts and two kinds of pie.” Nicki pushed the box across the table.
“You know I don’t eat ’tween meals,” he drawled as he pulled out a beignet.
“I thought this might be a rule-breaking sort of day.” Nicki leaned back in her chair, trying to be subtle as her eyes perused the room. Everything looked the same. The same frayed dish towel hung on the exact same hook next to the dented stainless steel sink. Nothing had changed. Nicki half expected the wall calendar to be 1965 with ads for Bon Ami cleanser.
“How are you two getting on?” she asked, refocusing her attention on them. “Do you feel okay? Are there any errands I can run for you? How about a trip to Walmart? Do you need help with anything, Mamaw?” Nicki fired one question after another.
Her grandparents looked at each other and laughed. “We feel as good as we ought,” Mamaw said with a shake of her head. “We don’t need nothin’ from town. And if I can’t do a chore, it don’t need doin’ far as I’m concerned.” She set a cold glass of sweet tea in front of Nicki without her having to ask for it. “Why don’t you stop beatin’ round the bush and tell me why you’re here. It ain’t my birthday, and you ain’t lived in Orleans long ’nuff to get homesick.”
Nicki drummed her fingers on the scarred table while choosing the best approach. “I want to know how my father died, but I can’t get my mother to talk about it. It’s like this big family secret, so I’m coming to you.”
“What you want to know for? That was a long time ago, Nic’lette.”
“Because I’m an adult and I have a right.” She paused to take a sip from the striped plastic glass. “I understand Dad wasn’t much of a provider or husband, but he was always nice to me and the only father I had.”
“Your mama should have told you the truth long before this.” Mamaw stared out the window at chickadees twittering in the bushes a long while before answering. “That weekend wasn’t like the others. Your uncles usually spent more time chewing the fat ’bout nothin’ but hunting or fishing.”
“Half time they ain’t got nothin’ on their hooks,” interjected Papaw. “What fish can you ’spect to catch like that?”
“Kermit invited a bad sort to come along.” Mamaw’s lips pulled into a thin line. “Things go wrong when fools start drinkin’ and playing poker.”
“Which of Dad’s friends owned the cabin?”
Her grandmother squinted with a frown. “What you mean? Your Uncle Charles owned that cabin. That’s why they went there.”
“Uncle Charles?”
“Charles had that cabin for years till he caught the cancer and sold it to Andre.”
“What about the men Dad invited? Mama said it was three brothers from Clay Creek.” Nicki looked from one to the other, but they shook their head.
“Don’t know ’bout them,” said Mamaw. “You’re the investigator now, missy. If you’re so set on finding out, ask that sheriff who came out the next day. Maybe he filed a report. Get your hands on that interview and you’ll have those names.”
Nicki peered into her watery blue eyes and smiled. “Would you like to move to the big city for a spell? I could use you on my first case.”
Mamaw reached over to pat her hand. “Be patient, honey, and you’ll do fine. But if you get stuck, you can always come home for a visit.”
EIGHTEEN
Hello, Miss Price? This is Naomi Prescott, Mr. Galen’s assistant.” The woman paused as though to let the information sink in.
Nicki struggled to sit up, her morning floor exercises thus complete. “Yes, Mrs. Prescott, how do you do?”
“Fine, dear, thank you. Mr. Galen asked me to call you.” Her voice dripped with an accent unlike New Orleans, more like Savannah or Charleston, something Eastern Seaboard. “He would like you to meet him at a client’s home to review documents.”
“He told me he didn’t need me today and that he wished to spend time on the books alone.” Nicki shifted the phone to her other ear.
“Plans have changed. This must have just come up.”
“Am I going out to Robert Bissette’s again?”
There was a pause before she answered. “No, not Mr. Bissette’s. The place is called La Maison de Poisson. The client’s name is Michael Dennison, and he lives in Terrebonne Parish. Do you have paper and pencil? I’ll give you the address and what directions I have, but you’ll need to pick up a map. GPS may not work in that parish.”
Nicki fumbled for a pen while the woman rattled off the address. After she repeated it back, Mrs. Prescott clicked off as though in a big hurry. Nicki pictured all the phone lines lit up with clients wishing to buy or sell, or concerned about their investments with a murder investigation pending, but she knew switchboards like that only existed in the movies anymore.
“Terrebonne Parish? Why in the world couldn’t you wait for me?” Nicki spoke to no one in particular. She would have to travel alone into the swamps, a place she wa
sn’t particularly fond of. Visions of slimy creatures rising from the mist to surround her car while she studied a map flitted through her mind. If Hunter had waited they could have enjoyed the drive the way they did their trip to St. James Parish instead of wasting another tank of gas.
But she knew it wasn’t fuel economy troubling her. Hunter was rapidly growing on her. His wit, charm, and gracious manners were quite appealing, but most of all it was the way he treated her. As though she mattered. As though she was a valuable asset instead of merely Nate’s trainee.
Miss Ashley Menard, whoever you are, you are one lucky chick.
Nicki hurried to get ready because she had no intention of arriving in Terrebonne Parish when Hunter was ready to start back to the city. Then she dug out her map and examined it with a magnifying glass. Interstate 90 to Raceland, then hop on Route One. However, she suspected her parish map would be useless in finding the turnoff to La Maison de Poisson.
By the time Nicki was far out into the parish and looking for the road that would lead her to Michael Dennison’s home, she found Mrs. Prescott’s directions to be sketchier than those to the lost ark. After several wrong turns, quite a bit of backtracking, and asking directions from people whose English was barely decipherable, Nicki got lucky. A battered metal sign, attached to a rusty pipe with a single bolt, announced Maison de Poisson. A small red arrow pointed to the right.
“Oh, no,” she moaned. The hand-painted sign indicated a narrow dirt road filled with potholes nearly large enough to swallow her car. A heavy rain would turn this driveway into a minefield of mini lakes. Hunter’s client must crave privacy to put up with this every time he ran out for a quart of milk.
Nicki got out of her car and looked around. While she pondered a course of action, no vehicles passed by on the road. There was no mailbox or plastic tube for the newspaper.
