Midnight on the Mississippi

by Mary Ellis

  Mrs. Nowak began to sob, her face twisting in anguish. “I want this nightmare to end so James can rest in peace. I hate what the newspapers are saying about him, that he was some kind of flimflam man. I hope my son’s name will be cleared once this is over.” She looked at each of them in succession and then hurried toward the door, tears streaming down her face.

  “Let us know if we can do anything else.” Mr. Nowak followed his wife. They obviously couldn’t wait to leave the dismal place.

  Nicki sorrowfully watched them go. Their son was a thief, but how did you tell parents that? Mrs. Nowak didn’t see the damaged man. She remembered a little boy who picked bouquets of dandelions for her on Mother’s Day.

  “This doesn’t look good,” she said softly.

  “He had to know his house of cards would come tumbling down eventually.” Hunter spoke with little emotion.

  “I don’t mean for James. I mean for you.”

  He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  She sighed heavily. “Your signature is on all currency transfers, Hunter. Your name appears as often as Nowak’s on every financial transaction.”

  “That’s impossible!” He pulled the papers from her fingers and perused them for less than a minute. “He forged my name, Nicki,” he said with less vehemence. “I assure you I wasn’t part of this. I had no idea what he was up to. No doubt I should have, but I didn’t.” He tossed them down on the coffee table.

  “The signature looks exactly like the one on my last paycheck. Maybe homicide doesn’t have enough to indict you for murder, but there’s plenty of evidence linking you to Nowak’s fraud. Federal investigators have access to these buy and sell orders.”

  Hunter stared at her without blinking. “I don’t care what it looks like. I didn’t sign those contracts.”

  “I don’t think you’re grasping the seriousness of this, Hunter. It’s not me you need to convince,” Nicki said, trying to soften her tone.

  “What are my chances of avoiding prison when I can’t even convince the woman trying to clear my name?” Hunter shook his head. “Let’s pack this stuff up and get out of here. We can work at my apartment.” He began inserting the papers into an already bulging briefcase.

  Nicki had a bad feeling in her gut. All the wonderful moments they shared in St. Martinville evaporated like fog in sunlight. Hunter was everything she wanted in a man, everything she needed. He made her feel feminine and desirable, besides having faith in her ability as a PI. Yet every time they were together, she stuck her size-eight foot in her mouth.

  “I’m on your side, boss, but we need to act fast before your reputation gets tarnished.” Nicki followed him out the door, as usual voicing whatever came to mind. “People invest money in your company because of who you are. Innocent until proven guilty sounds nice in the movies, but the real world operates differently. Even if the feds don’t indict you, any hint of scandal could ruin you forever. What’s more, any connection to the scam could give Detective Saville what he wants—a motive to arrest you.”

  Hunter stopped midway down the steps. “You have my attention. What do you think we should do?”

  She hesitated only a moment before answering. “If you examine the facts, all roads lead to Ashley.” Nicki saw his expression of incredulity but forged ahead. It was now or never. “First, Nowak ripped off her father’s investment account for a ton of money. And second, Ashley paid Nowak thousands of dollars during the past year. Maybe there’s a logical explanation for this, but I found proof she paid it.”

  He shook his head, sighing deeply. “If there is a logical reason, I’m not aware of it.”

  “I’m sorry, Hunter, but this smells like blackmail from where I come from in Mississippi.”

  “That sounds like motive down here in Louisiana too,” he said, but his expression revealed little joy in the supposition.

  “Maybe Nowak demanded more money or maybe she got tired of paying it. Or maybe something was going on between them, and Ashley decided to end it. A bullet between the eyes is a handy way of removing a thorn from your foot.”

  “No way, Nicki.” Hunter went down the rest of the steps with her at his heels. “Ashley hates squishing a bug with her shoe. Besides, she was on the Queen Antoinette at the time of his murder.”

  “Maybe if Nowak broke off with her—”

  Hunter turned to face her. “Hold up there. Instead of spinning this into a daytime soap opera, let’s go find out the truth.”

  “Sure, but where exactly would that be?” Nicki glanced at her watch and then at his weary face.

  “Where else? Ashley’s apartment. If she’s not home, I still have my key.” He clicked open the doors on his car and, like the gentleman he was, held hers open for her.

  Nicki climbed in and buckled her seat belt. His little debutante could be a murderer, and they were on their way to the Bates Motel.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Nicki checked the passenger’s side mirror for the tenth time to make sure no one was following them. Then she said a prayer that Ashley wouldn’t be home. The last thing she wanted was an ugly scene. Nicki wanted to stay focused on solving the case while keeping a safe distance from Miss Fashion Plate. Assault and battery from a tacky hair-pulling incident wouldn’t look good on her background check. And if she failed to get Hunter off? Say, Mr. Galen, would you write to me while serving ten-to-fifteen for fraud, and another twenty-to-life for homicide? Maybe we can schedule non-conjugal visits the third Tuesday of every month. No, she needed to keep her mind on the case.

  “Any thoughts about your signature appearing on every fraudulent financial transaction Nowak was conducting?” Nicki stole a glance at Hunter from the corner of her eye.

  “Only that it does look like my signature.” He kept his focus on the traffic ahead. “I know only know one person who can write my name as well as I do, and that’s Ashley.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve seen her practicing it more than once. When I questioned her, she scribbled a ‘Mrs.’ in front and said she was preparing for when she became Mrs. Hunter Galen. The second time I caught her, she said she wanted to be able to cash my paycheck at the bank—except I don’t draw a paycheck like the other brokers.”

  “You think she’s desperate for spending money?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t think so. Her chain of hair salons is supposedly doing very well. According to my sister, new customers wait weeks to get an appointment.”

  “So what did you make of her writing your name like that?”

  “At the time it was just another unexplainable female mystery, but now who knows?”

  “Hunter…could she have been James’s real partner?”

  He worked his neck from side to side at a red light. “I doubt it. Ashley knows every fashion designer in America and Europe. She can recite who is dating whom in the television and movie star world with perfect accuracy. And she can describe the latest trends in hair, makeup, and cosmetic procedures in great detail. But could she get involved in a scam to swindle client portfolios? I think she would view that as somehow beneath her.” Hunter stepped on the accelerator as the light turned green. “She once told me that ‘dwelling on money in any manner other than how to spend it is boring.’ That was her assessment of my chosen career.”

  “Perhaps you were blind to her true nature.” Nicki winced slightly once that was out of her mouth. Investigating a lead was one thing. Sounding like a jealous woman was another.

  A muscle in Hunter’s neck tightened. “Well, we’re about to find out just how naive I’ve been.” He came to a stop behind Ashley’s warehouse district townhouse.

  Nicki jumped out without waiting for him to open her door. At the front door, she steeled herself for an unpleasant encounter as he rang the bell. When no one answered, Nicki rang the bell again and then knocked, all to no avail.

  “She must still be visiting friends and shopping in Baton Rouge. She’d planned to stay a few days to give me a ch
ance to come to my senses.” He spat out the words like bad tasting food. “Apparently, I proposed to a complete stranger.”

  “What do you want to do? You make the call, boss. Breaking and entering is a class C felony if she gets mean over your breakup.”

  Hunter pulled out his keys from his pocket. “You’re the one with a decision to make, Miss Price. At this point I couldn’t care less about adding to my already lengthy list of crimes. But you’re at the beginning of what I’m sure will be a long and successful career.” He inserted a key into the lock.

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me out.” Nicki looked over her shoulder and then followed him inside.

  He paused in the foyer. “Come to think of it, I’ve never been here before. Ashley usually came to my French Quarter apartment or I went to her father’s house in the Garden District.”

  Nicki peered with interest at the preferences of a woman unknown to both of them. Ashley’s decor was expensive but strikingly austere: an Italian leather sofa, silk side chairs, glass end tables and étagère. A teak entertainment unit concealed a large TV and sound system. Persian rugs covered polished hardwood floors, and modern pieces of art hung on the walls. There was no clutter, no dust, and no knickknacks. There was no warmth or humanity. The room felt like an upscale furniture showroom or a model home in a gated community.

  Hunter walked to a wall where a pastoral watercolor hung amid contemporary art. “My sister painted this to emulate the style of Alfred Sisley, an English impressionist. Do you think it looks out of place?” Sadness underscored his question.

  “I don’t know much about art, but I think it’s beautiful,” she said softly. “Everything in this place looks way too perfect. I’ll bet you no one ever watched a Saints’ games or ate a plate of nachos in here.”

  Hunter nodded as he scanned the room. “She spends most of her time at her father’s.”

  Nicki walked into an equally spartan kitchen. Silk magnolias bloomed on the Tuscan country table, but there was no blender, toaster, or microwave on the counter and no glasses drying in the dish drainer. In fact, there was no dish drainer. Hunter started opening cabinets and drawers as though curious about the woman he had been engaged to. They found a small microwave hidden in a cupboard and the coffeemaker in the pantry. It was unplugged but had a paper filter ready to go. Ashley took meticulous to a new level.

  They wandered down the hallway peering into the streak-free bathroom with towels stacked with military precision. The Martha Stewart guest room probably never enjoyed a single overnight guest, but there were signs that someone lived in the home in the master bedroom. Although the bed was perfectly made, one high heel peeked out from beneath the dust ruffle. Her armoire stood polished and dust-free, but a bit of lace hung from the third drawer.

  And to think Hunter had considered marrying this slob.

  They discovered further signs of life in the bathroom. Only in this large, windowless room did Ashley reveal her true identity. Cosmetics, toiletries, and accessories littered every surface. Rattan shelves from floor to ceiling were jammed with framed photographs, mementos, jewelry cases, photo albums, and newspaper clippings of Ashley in various pageants. Stacks of paperbacks waited beside her Jacuzzi tub, along with more bath and body products than at a mall kiosk. Empty wine glasses and Evian bottles were lined up around the tub like sentinels. Towels overflowed her hamper, while another basket was mounded with clothing headed for the laundry. A pair of socks was balled up under the pedestal sink, and shoes of every color, shape, and heel height were scattered across the floor.

  Ashley behaved like a human being in this room.

  Nicki experienced a pang of guilt for spying into the secret world of Hunter’s former love.

  “We’re not going to find anything in here to connect Ashley to James’s scam,” said Hunter.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. If any mysteries will be revealed, it’ll be in this bathroom.”

  “Then go for it, but I can’t invade her privacy like this.” He abruptly left the room.

  Time for burying your head in the sand is long past. Nicki put aside her misgivings and began snooping through the woman’s stuff. It didn’t take her long to find a few interesting items. On the rattan shelf was a prom picture of Ashley and her date. The young man was powerfully built, with a sunburned face and thin goatee. He didn’t look quite relaxed in his white tuxedo with boutonniere and cummerbund, but who felt comfortable in formal clothes at eighteen? Ashley wore a beauty queen smile and a daringly low-cut dress for a high school dance. Another photo sharing the frame piqued Nicki’s interest as well. Taken about the same time, Ashley faced the camera surrounded by her friends. Everyone wore jeans and flip-flops and held up cans of beer on a boat dock in the bayou. The same boyfriend as prom night, with plenty of tattoos and a ball cap proclaiming the Muskrats, had his arm around Ashley’s waist.

  Nicki rummaged through the scrapbooks and the high school yearbook with a bad feeling about the skinny, vapid-faced woman smiling from all the photographs. Ashley had attended Forrest High School in Terrebonne Parish, a rural district that encompassed a great deal of geography. Their football team was called the Muskrats, and the team colors were orange and white.

  I couldn’t see much from where I was hiding, but one of them wore an orange ball cap with a picture of a muskrat on it. If Nicki hadn’t voiced her recollection to Hunter aloud, she never would have remembered details from that night in La Maison de Poisson. Perhaps more than one team used a muskrat logo in the Cajun parishes, but as she studied the photo of Ashley’s high school pals, she could easily imagine them in the back of a pickup with shotguns. But why would Ashley remain friends with her former cronies from Terrebonne? Surely they didn’t possess the necessary social class she reached for now. And what possible ill will could they harbor toward a new PI from Mississippi?

  Nicki replaced the yearbook and photographs and then searched through stacks of more recent pictures. She found many from the engagement party at Ethan Galen’s, and an equal number of candid shots of Hunter and…herself. Nicki’s uneasy feeling about privacy invasion morphed into fury as she held up photo after photo: One of her parking the Escort in Hunter’s driveway, another of her on the steps of Christine’s trailer, another of her studying a tourist map in the French Quarter, one of her and Hunter dancing in the dance hall, and recently their meeting in Lafitte’s the day he visited Philip in Terrebonne.

  “Hunter! You need to see this.” Nicki lined up the photos on Ashley’s vanity.

  A minute later he was peering at the montage with an ashen face. “Ashley or someone on her payroll has been stalking you.”

  “That’s for certain, but for what purpose? To gather proof that I work for you? You already told her that. And who actually has prints these days with digital cameras and smartphones? None of this makes any sense.”

  “I don’t know, but we need to tread lightly. Let me find out what this is about. Ashley is up to something and I don’t want you in danger. Put everything back exactly where it was except for the ones of you and me.”

  “Do you still have the evidence you gathered at the fishing camp?” she asked. “I’m calling Nate. His license may have been suspended until the hearing, but I’m sure he still has contacts with local forensic labs. It’s time to find out if those good old boys in the bayou are Ashley’s friends.”

  “Fine, but you’re not going anywhere without me.” Hunter selected Nate’s number on his phone and put it on speaker. “Nate,” he said when the man answered. “Hunter Galen. I need to drop over with some beer cans and—”

  “Bring a bucket of chicken as well or don’t bother coming at all. Man, it’s been a while since I heard from you. Call your brother and bring him too. Ethan can’t be a perfect husband all the time.”

  Nicki smiled in spite of herself.

  “I’ll look forward to male bonding some other time,” said Hunter. “Right now, we need some DNA work done, and you know which labs are the quickest. We need to
identify who drank the beers at the fishing camp if they’re in the system.”

  “Quick is going to cost you, Hunter. And why isn’t my delightful cousin making this request? Did you fire her for sleeping on the job already? I tried to warn you.”

  Nicki didn’t want Nate spooked about a potential stalker when it might amount to nothing. She had no real proof—yet—that Ashley knew the thugs from the bayou. Taking pictures of her might be nothing more than catty behavior. Debating how much to divulge, Nicki spoke up. “I’m just fine, cousin. Thanks for asking. And I’m handling the investigation just fine too, but we need your discretion with this.”

  “You’ve got it, Nicki. Come on over and tell Hunter to bring his checkbook. DNA work costs an arm and a leg. Even so, the quickest you’re looking at is a week. Everything you see on TV is pure fiction.”

  They retraced their steps in the townhouse, Hunter locked the door behind them, and they drove to his apartment as fast as traffic would allow. On the way, Nicki mulled over scenarios of what might have happened in the bayou. No matter how she looked at it, she couldn’t think of how it had anything to do with James or his death.

  Once they were inside Hunter’s home, he immediately went to the kitchen and rummaged under the sink. Behind a bag of recyclable newspapers he took out the sack of beer cans and shell casings.

  “So that’s where you put those. Thank goodness Jeanette didn’t throw them out.”

  “So unlike her nosy self to overlook something,” Hunter murmured.

  “Did I hear my name, mes petites?” Hunter’s housekeeper wandered into the kitchen carrying a basket of folded towels.

  “Yes, ma’am. I was hoping to see you again, Mrs. Peteriere.” Nicki produced her friendliest smile.

  “Good day, O’lette. Would you like a Diet Coke? I bought you two six-packs and hid them from you know who.”