by Mary Ellis
Hunter pulled her close and kissed her as though this was their last night on earth. He wouldn’t worry either, not about rebound relationships, professional decorum, or anything else. He knew what he wanted, and it was Nicki.
After several exquisite minutes, she stepped back and cleared her throat. “Wow, must be something in the air tonight.”
“Are you ready to do more dancing? We could try the blues combo on the fishing dock.”
“Although the spirit is willing, my legs and feet are not. I’m exhausted. Could you walk me to the house?” She hooked her arm through his.
“I had a feeling the dancing-till-dawn promise was a smoke screen.”
They quietly slipped into the laundry room and headed up the stairs. None of his family remained in the kitchen washing dishes or refilling ice buckets.
Nicki paused at the top of the steps. “I don’t remember which room your aunt assigned me. All of the closed doors look the same.”
“Probably that one.” Hunter pointed at the last room on the left.
“Do you think people are already asleep?” she asked as they tiptoed down the hall. “The house seems too quiet considering the constant chaos all day long.”
“Some certainly are. Everyone is welcome at parties in the bayou, from newborn babies to age one hundred and five. No adult receptions, none of those show-your-invitation-at-the-door events. Guests eat and sleep, arrive and depart on their own schedules.”
“What about the atheists?” she whispered.
“I believe I spotted a pair near the punch bowl. Donna must be softening up.” Hunter leaned over and kissed her.
Suddenly three teenaged girls came loudly up the steps and invaded their private world. Nicki pushed Hunter away as he scowled at the trio. “Settle down, you hooligans.”
“Hey, cousin, what’s happening?” asked a girl Nicki remembered as Adeline. Her friends broke into a fit of giggles as they piled into the opposite room.
Rolling his eyes, Hunter tried to pick up where he’d left off, but the fragile moment had been lost. Nicki patted down her clothes and hair, which hadn’t been remotely mussed.
“Don’t worry, your reputation is safe. They won’t tell anybody about us. They’re Galens.” Hunter reached behind her and turned the doorknob of her room.
Nicki raised her hands to fend him off, holding her ground like a statue. “That’s enough kissing. Lock your door, say your prayers, and hope for the best. I’m off duty and so tired I wouldn’t hear if giants storm the place.”
“Good night, O’lette. I’ll see you at breakfast.” He kissed her forehead and started down the hallway.
“Hunter? Thank you.”
“For what?” He whispered in case the teenagers were listening.
“For not being mad when I followed you, for bringing me to the party, and for being so nice.”
She looked so earnest he thought his heart would break. “You’re an easy person to be nice to, Miss Price.”
After she smiled sweetly at him and then closed her door, Hunter walked to the second-floor screened porch where he would sleep. One of his cousins from Lafayette was already snoring up a storm. Hunter thought he would toss and turn for hours about whether he should date Nicki this soon after his breakup. Stripping to his boxers, he stretched out on the metal twin bed and listened to night sounds in the swamp. An hour or two later the music and revelry dwindled in the barn. Car doors slammed and friends called good night, leaving only the mercury vapor light emitting a low, steady hum.
Hunter felt oddly content despite the fact a murderer was still at large and Philip had issued a serious ultimatum. Nicki thought he was a great guy.
He shut his eyes and slept like a baby.
TWENTY-NINE
Nicki parted ways with Hunter after an early breakfast Sunday morning, saying she needed to visit kinfolk.
Despite her aversion to watery environs, she wanted to drive straight to the cabin formerly owned by her Uncle Charles, now owned by her Uncle Andre, though not because she thought evidence overlooked by trained deputies and forensic experts seventeen years ago still existed under a palmetto frond. For the sake of needed closure, Nicki wanted to see firsthand the place her father had dealt his last hand of marked cards, but her acute survival instinct soon kicked in. She knew approaching a trapper’s cabin unannounced and uninvited wouldn’t be a good idea, so she called her mother for Andre and Rita Martin’s home address and plotted her course for the fastest route.
She’d lost touch with this particular aunt and uncle over the years, the cost of stamps and the expansive list of Price and Martin relatives limiting her Christmas card list. Her mother hadn’t talked to her brother in months over some sibling disagreement as to whose turn it was to spring for a tank of gas. Uncle Andre lived in Louisiana—West Feliciana Parish, to be exact. His house wasn’t in the expansive Atchafalaya River basin, but at least it was closer to New Orleans than Natchez. After all, Nicki had her own tank of gas to worry about. She wouldn’t be on Hunter Galen’s expense account for this pleasurable country drive.
Although Nicki had called ahead and left a message on their answering machine, the Martins didn’t seem overjoyed to see Rose’s only daughter.
“Would you like to come in?” Aunt Rita asked after uncomfortable moments of hesitation at the front door.
“Yes, ma’am, I would. Mama sends her love to you both.” Nicki handed her a tin of cookies she’d bought at a drug store along the interstate. Add six bucks for shortbread to the price of a tank of gas.
“Your message said you needed to talk to Andre. He’ll be right down. He was cutting grass after Mass this mornin’ and needed another shower if we were having company.” Rita pointed out the window at the freshly mown lawn. “Your uncle sets great store by his yard.”
“I noticed how nice it looked when I drove up.” Nicki hoped her little white lie didn’t set a precedent for the afternoon.
“Why don’t you sit on the couch?” Rita perched on the edge of a chair. “The last time we talked to Rose she said you were in school, some kind of police academy.” Her aunt seemed to search for appropriate topics of chitchat.
“Yes, ma’am. I recently graduated as a licensed private investigator.” Nicki glanced toward the stairs, hoping Uncle Andre didn’t indulge in long showers. “I work for Nate in New Orleans now.”
“Oh, my…New Orleans,” she drawled. “Did Charlotte’s boy ever get married? So good looking, that one, and such a charmer! I had hoped to fix Nate up with my hairdresser’s girl, Corrine.”
Usually Nicki wouldn’t agree with Rita’s such-a-charmer assessment regarding her cousin Nate, but as her uncle padded barefoot into the room, she nodded her head politely. “He’s single, so there’s still hope for Corrine.”
“What’s this about, Nicolette?” Andre didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Rose called me and said you wanted to know ’bout the night your dad disappeared.”
“Good to see you again, Uncle Andre. Yes, I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.” Nicki scooted to the edge of the low sofa.
“What for? That was twenty years ago.”
“Seventeen, to be exact. I’m just curious as to how my father died.” She placed special emphasis on the word “father.”
Andre muttered a vulgar word with a scowl. “Your father wasn’t worth half a minute of your time, niece.”
Aunt Rita scrambled to her feet. “Why don’t I get us some iced tea?” She bolted from the room before anyone could respond yea or nay.
“You’re certainly entitled to an opinion, but he was my dad.” Nicki struggled to control her temper.
“Yeah, I get that, but Kermit was no good.” Andre lifted his chin, as though he had a God-given right to judge his fellow man.
“Be that as it may—”
He didn’t allow her to finish. “Don’t go pokin’ around in things you don’t understand. Let the past stay buried.”
“I have a right to make my ow
n decisions, Uncle Andre.”
“Kermit may have had a soft spot for you, but he beat your mama, Nicki. He beat Rose for no reason a’tal because he was a mean drunk. What’s more, he was dealin’ from the bottom of the deck that night in the swamp. Kermit tried to win big by cheatin’ those fellas from Clay Creek.”
“I saw the coroner’s report.” Nicki jumped up, no longer concerned about her temper. “My father was shot and dumped in the bayou. Even if he was a wife beater and cheat, he didn’t deserve that.”
Aunt Rita flinched as she returned with a tray of drinks. “Anyone ready for something cool?”
Andre ignored the suggestion. “I was there, young lady. If there had been gunfire, I would have heard it. Your daddy got mad because he got caught in a crooked game. That’s why he took the pirogue out. If Kermit got himself murdered, it was someplace else. He probably paddled to the next bar down the bayou.”
“No shots?” Nicki glanced over at her poor aunt, standing there with full tray. She took a glass of tea and turned her attention back on her uncle.
“None, and believe me, Eugene and Charles and me were listening. We had a bad feelin’ from the minute those Cheval brothers showed up. We heard nothing when Terrence and Junior followed Kermit outside. Pretty soon Junior strolled back inside. He said he’d had it out with Kermit and your dad took off in the pirogue. Junior told Terrence to go after Kermit and get back what he stole, but Terrence came back not fifteen minutes later soaking wet. The older of Charles’s pirogues had a leak. Terrence was furious but couldn’t do a thing about it. We all went to bed soon after that.”
“Was my dad wearing his alligator belt that night—the one with the two cowgirls carved on the buckle?” Nicki took a long sip of weak tea.
Andre’s forehead furrowed as he thought a moment. “I ’spose he was. He always wore that belt to play cards. Don’t know why he loved it so much. Kermit never went to a Texas ranch or saw a real cowgirl in his life.”
Nicki set the glass on an end table. “When they found my dad’s body in St. Martin Parish, they didn’t see the belt, even though he still had most of his clothes.”
“Nobody came back into the cabin wearing it if that’s what you’re getting at.” Andre narrowed his eyes. “The sheriff searched the place. There was no belt, no wad of cash, and no gun that had been recently fired.”
“Just the same, I’d like to drive out to the cabin. You can come with me or I’ll go alone. Just point me in the right direction.”
Andre tossed a lock of graying hair off his forehead. “I’d be happy to oblige, niece, but that cabin is long gone. That last hurricane sent a surge up the Atchafalaya, and those old piers just gave way. I drove there when the floodwater went down, and nothing was left but splintered posts and busted furniture caught in a logjam downriver. I got a letter from the government saying I had to clean up the debris or pay a fine. My insurance covered the cleanup, but there wasn’t enough money to rebuild. You won’t find Kermit’s belt or anything else where that cabin used to be.”
Nicki peered out the window and saw neighborhood children kicking a ball down the street. “I appreciate the information.” She offered her aunt a warm smile. “Thanks for the iced tea, Aunt Rita. I hope to see you at the holidays if not sooner. Let’s stay in touch.”
Eager to be on her way back to New Orleans, Nicki fled from her aunt and uncle. The walls of their modest home had started to close in on her. She was still determined to find the answers she sought, but she knew now they wouldn’t be coming from Uncle Andre or his cabin on the Atchafalaya.
THIRTY
The air was stale, dead ficus leaves littered the carpet, and a faint odor of something spoiled drifted from the refrigerator. Nicki had never been in a dead man’s apartment before. When Hunter had called that morning, she’d been daydreaming about the best weekend of her life—friendly people, delicious food, dancing under the stars with the world’s most attractive man, all in the wild Louisiana bayou. Who would have figured?
Funny how love changed your outlook on everything.
Falling in love with Hunter would doubtlessly be a mistake, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. He’d been so attentive, so gentle. She would gladly listen to his slow drawl for the rest of her life. And then there was that high-octane kiss that sent every nerve-ending on red alert. She felt so safe and protected with him, even without her new nine millimeter Beretta.
Something bad is just around the next corner.
The ax is about to fall.
Don’t get too comfortable because disappointment is just a stone’s throw away.
Those were the maxims her mother had taught her. This was how Nicki lived her life until coming to New Orleans.
Hunter had changed everything. Hunter Galen—the man Detective Saville thought was a murderer. The man James Nowak thought was a cash cow in his self-enriching scheme. The man Ashley Menard now thought was a sewer rat.
In St. Martinville, Nicki had glimpsed a life she yearned to be part of. His aunt’s house wasn’t flashy like the French Quarter apartment or elegant like his brother’s mansion. It was warm, friendly, and relaxed. His relatives had welcomed her despite the fact the last they heard he was engaged to someone else. Memories of his passionate kisses on the boat dock would carry her through her golden years, but was she striving for the impossible? She certainly didn’t want to be a mere amusement to help him recover from his breakup with Ashley. Nicki tried not to think about how many society girls were waiting for their chance at bat.
“What you got goin’ for you, Nicki? A dead shot with a squirrel rifle?”
“Rich people—they marry their own kind.”
“Old lady Galen ain’t inviting you to no tea party in the Garden District.”
Detective Saville’s words had stung, cutting her right to the bone. They still brought a flush of shame to her cheeks days later, but she tried to take comfort in the thought that because Saville was wrong about Hunter, maybe his romantic prognostications couldn’t be trusted either.
Unfortunately, now that she was with him in Nowak’s condo, Hunter was all business. “We’re missing something, Nicki, something not on the office computer or his laptop,” he said. “James’s parents gave me permission to look at everything, so let’s get started.”
Nicki peered around the forlorn room. “What more do we need than the computer files of his scams and the phony statements? We already have a complete picture of Nowak’s creative accounting system.”
“I don’t know, but there has to be more. I’ll take the bedroom.” Hunter flexed his fingers. “Why don’t you start with his desk?”
“You got it, boss.”
It didn’t take long before she uncovered something unexpected and something she knew Hunter wouldn’t like. Nowak recorded in his checkbook register the source of every deposit to his account. He listed notations such as “April commission check” or “parents’ birthday gift” or “expense reimbursement.” Nicki supposed it had made yearly income tax preparation that much easier.
It also made it easy to spot a series of deposits from Ashley. Why would she have given James a thousand dollars a month for the past year? Perhaps James had loaned Ashley money to buy a car or pay off an expensive credit card debt and she was simply paying him back. Then again, why wouldn’t she go to Hunter or her father for the loan or the old-fashioned route—a bank? Nicki rubbed the bridge of her nose and then massaged her temples. She decided to keep looking and not run to Hunter with the information quite yet
James’s parents had given Hunter the key to his home safe, so a few moments later Nicki had the contents spread out in front of her on the dining room table. After perusing several contracts, an alarming picture began to emerge. If these documents were to be believed, James hadn’t worked alone in his quest to separate clients from their money.
Hunter’s masculine scrawl, complete with a flourish on the final n, was on every major financial transaction for the past two years. She recognize
d the signature from their contract and her recent paycheck. Either the man monopolizing her dreams was a liar and a thief, or James was also a world-class forger.
Nicki was praying for the latter when the doorbell rang. Hunter emerged from the den and opened the door to a middle-aged couple with weary faces and the body language of the defeated. She knew who they were without introductions. Mr. and Mrs. Nowak walked into their son’s townhouse looking as though they hadn’t enjoyed a decent night’s sleep in weeks. She rose from the table to greet them.
“Nicki, these are James’s parents, Elizabeth and Stephen Nowak.” Hunter shook hands with James’s dad. “Mr. and Mrs. Nowak, this is my investigator, Nicolette Price.”
“Good morning,” she murmured, stepping forward. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
Mrs. Nowak accepted her hand but didn’t meet her eye. “Thank you, Miss Price.” An uncomfortable silence ensued.
“Thank you again for allowing me access into your son’s private life. Would you care to sit down?” Hunter gestured toward the sofa.
Mr. Nowak shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “We want his killer caught, Hunter. The longer the police focus on you, the longer his killer gets away with it.”
The man looked tired but sounded angry. Nicki remembered Hunter mentioning James was their only child.
“There’s something else. Our son had recently retained legal council. He knew he was being investigated for securities violations. He said these check-ups were routine and assured us he had done nothing wrong, but he didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.” Looking uncomfortable, Mr. Nowak withdrew a packet from an inside pocket. “According to these papers, he was about to be indicted for fraud and other…crimes. We don’t understand how this happened. How did things get so out of control?” Mr. Nowak looked to Hunter for an explanation, as though all they were going through was due to some grievous misunderstanding.
Hunter scanned the three-page document and turned back to the couple, his posture sagging. “Miss Price and I are still piecing together what James was involved in. Whatever it was, he didn’t deserve to die. We will bring his killer to justice.” He passed her the packet of papers.
