by Mary Ellis
Jeanette appeared to be chuckling. “Go on. Get it all out. Those folks will take all morning.”
“When I told my grandmother we call those ‘free-range chickens,’ she said that there was nothing free about them. She paid a fair price for her hens at the grain elevator and just let nature take over.”
Jeanette’s web of wrinkles deepened with her smile. “Your granny sure right about that.”
“This is the twenty-first century, but Mamaw still uses a woodstove to bake biscuits and oatmeal raisin cookies just for me.”
“Don’t fix something that ain’t broken.” Cocking her head, Jeanette peered up. “Don’t you go to see her no more?”
“Of course, as often as I can.”
“Her cookies any good?”
“They’re the best. I eat a dozen each time I’m home.” Nicki swallowed, trying to loosen the lump in her throat.
“Why then do you care if your kin are poor? Whether your people came on the Mayflower or a slave ship like mine, it don’t make you who you are. You make you who you are. Don’t worry ’bout nothing but what to say to your Maker when you die.” Jeanette tightened her grip on Nicki’s arm. “You’re better than that yellow-haired scarecrow, but telling you won’t do you no good, O’lette. Not till you believe it in your heart.”
The crowd thinned as mourners whispered final words to Clotilde and headed to their cars or the streetcar. They would regroup at a French Quarter restaurant, where a lavish meal would be served. Only the immediate family remained at the crypt—and one yellow-haired scarecrow.
“Why don’t you take our flowers up while I wait here on level ground?” Jeanette nudged Nicki in her ribs. “And go say something to Hunter. That boy is hurting and could use a friend.”
After she had been elbowed a second time, Nicki approached the Galen family behind Ashley’s father.
“This might be tough going right now, Hunter,” said Philip, “but everything will work out better for you and Ashley in the long run.” With that, Ashley collapsed into Hunter’s arms.
Nicki’s opportunity was lost. She’d waited too long.
If she stayed a minute longer, she would scream like a banshee. She placed their flowers on the crypt’s steps and returned to the elderly woman, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Are you ready, ma’am? Let’s get you back to your granddaughter. These walkways are a nightmare and it’s probably a hundred degrees out here.”
As they moved in tandem away from the ornate Galen tomb, Nicki distinctly heard a clucking sound. Without a shadow of a doubt, Jeanette was clucking like one of Mamaw’s free-range chickens.
THIRTY-FOUR
Funerals had a way of putting things into perspective, of allowing a man to see his life as it was and implement necessary changes while there was still time. Grandmere’s funeral forced Hunter to see what a mess he’d made of his professional and personal relationships. When the SEC finished their investigation, he most likely wouldn’t have a client still willing to invest their lunch money. He had brought disgrace to the Galen family, a proud and respected name in New Orleans for more than two hundred years. His family had used their wealth to help rebuild after Katrina. Now with the stigma of James’s murder and his recent indictment as a white-collar thief, his mother wouldn’t want to show her face in society.
But it was his personal quagmire troubling him today. He should have told Nicki he loved her and taken his chances. And he should have told Ashley not to attend the funeral. Now Nicki neither trusted nor believed in him and he couldn’t blame her. She was probably on her way back to Natchez. Working as a greeter at a discount store had to be better than getting a two-timing swindler off the hook for murder.
Alone in his apartment, Hunter stripped off his jacket and tie and then draped them over a kitchen chair. He considered getting drunk but nixed that idea. Nicki’s influence had changed him in more ways than one. How could he wallow in self-pity while James’s murderer remained free to walk the streets, eating fried catfish and hushpuppies all day long? Although Nicki claimed she had the evidence from a handwriting expert to get his fraud charges dropped, they were no closer to finding the killer.
Reheating a cup of coffee in the microwave, Hunter watched heavy clouds darken until the sky opened with a deluge. Two hours later, elbow deep in the same financial papers that weren’t getting him anywhere, a knock on the door distracted his attention. The knock didn’t sound friendly.
Detective Saville was waiting with an unpleasant smile. “Afternoon, Mr. Galen. Mind if I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, he stepped into the foyer.
Hunter sighed in frustration. “By all means, Detective. Make my bad day complete.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. I read in the paper your grandma died. Sorry ’bout that. I heard she was a fine old lady. Must have been pretty upset with you lately.” Saville swaggered into the living room, his eyes assessing every detail.
Hunter chose not to take the bait. “If she was, she never said. What do you want, Saville? I’m sure you didn’t come down to the Quarter to express your sympathy. You could have just sent a card like everybody else.”
Saville feigned a shocked expression. “Man, I couldn’t send what I’ve got through the US mail. There are federal laws against that.”
“What exactly shouldn’t be sent through the mail?”
The detective’s grin stretched from ear-to-ear as he pulled a manila envelope from his pocket. “Take a look, lover boy. See what that sweetheart of yours has been up to while you were robbing and pillaging your clients.” He tossed a glossy five-by-seven on the coffee table with dramatic flair and dumped the remaining photographs into a heap.
Hunter picked up one to peruse. It was of his late partner and his former fiancée sitting in a booth with glasses of wine in front of them. James had his arm around Ashley’s shoulders and both were smiling. Hunter felt his gut tighten. “Ashley met James for a drink to discuss something. So what? They were friends.” Even though Hunter spoke the words, he didn’t believe them.
“Come on, Galen. You’re supposed to be a smart man.” Saville selected a couple of others from the stack and held them up: Ashley undressing in James’s living room; Ashley and James locked in a sensuous embrace. Both photos were grainy in quality, as though taken with a telephoto lens, but they left no doubt that the two had been involved in inappropriate activities for friends.
Hunter couldn’t hide his revulsion that Ashley and James were lovers. He was nothing but a gullible fool who had been duped financially and romantically by the people he trusted most. The sandwich he ate after the funeral churned in his stomach. Uttering an oath, Hunter smashed his coffee cup against the fireplace bricks.
“My, my, you have a temper.” Saville clucked his tongue. “There’s no telling what a guy like you would do with something stronger than coffee under his belt.”
“Where did you get these?”
“I sure didn’t take them or I would have waited to get close-ups of Miss Louisiana au naturele. Get my drift?” The detective snickered like an immature adolescent.
Hunter lunged at him and grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket.
“Easy there, Galen.” Saville shoved Hunter away. “I’d hate to arrest you for assaulting an officer when I got bigger plans for you, rich boy.”
“The last time I checked, it’s not illegal to be cheated on by your girlfriend,” Hunter said through clenched teeth.
“True enough. I’ve got other charges in mind. Say, that Miss Menard is one fine lookin’ woman. I might hang on to one of these after logging them into evidence. You know…to keep under my pillow for sweet dreams.” Saville stuffed the photos back into the envelope.
“I don’t think so.” Hunter reached for the envelope, but Saville jammed it into his pocket. “Who took those?”
“That’s a real good question. Some upstanding citizen sent them anonymously to my attention at the precinct. They must not know ’bout the obscene mail laws.” Saville patted h
is jacket pocket. “And what these are, besides highly entertaining material, is proof of motive.” His happy-go-lucky tone turned malicious. “Now we’ve got motive coming out the ears. You and the deceased were caught in a flimflam operation that went sour. Then you found out your little beauty queen was getting her toast buttered by both partners.”
“Get out of my house, Saville. You turn everything dirty and perverse to suit your incredibly low standards.”
“I’m going, Galen, because I have an appointment with the DA. I just stopped to pay you a courtesy call and give you a chance to confess and save the taxpayers of Orleans Parish the price of a trial.” Saville laughed heartlessly on his way out the door. “And it’s not me adding a dirty spin. These pictures speak for themselves.”
As Saville went down the steps to the courtyard, Hunter punched in Nicki’s cell number. The photographs the detective so enjoyed were evidence all right. Ashley was the one with motive because she didn’t like not getting her way. He had been blind to what was going on between his partner and the so-called love of his life. Ashley may have slept with James, but she never would have married him. Nowak didn’t bring enough to the table to satisfy her expensive tastes. Something had gone wrong between them; something had upset the apple cart. Maybe James had threatened to expose her secrets, so she did what any frantic social climber would do—eliminated the obstacle.
The call went straight to voice mail. “Nicki, we need to talk as soon as you get this. Don’t play games with me, O’lette.”
Hunter ended the call and began pacing the room. If Ashley killed James, she had nothing to lose by hurting Nicki. In desperation he called Nate, who picked up on the first ring.
“Hunter, what can I do for you?”
“Thanks again for coming to the funeral, Nate,” he said. “Do you know where Nicki is? It’s urgent I talk to her now, not when she gets around to checking her voice mail.”
“I haven’t seen her since the graveside in Lafayette Cemetery. She was in some serious discussion with Jeanette and then marched back to her car without saying goodbye to anybody. So very like my cousin—temperamental and impetuous. What’s going on, Hunter? Has she been any help whatsoever with this investigation? I only believe half of what she reports back.”
“Yeah, she’s a big help, but I need to make some changes, ones Nicki isn’t going to like. Things are getting out of hand, and I don’t want her getting hurt. I can’t go into details now, but I need her off the case. Can’t you send her on assignment to Timbuktu for a while?”
Nate exhaled through his teeth. “Her license won’t be good in Mali, and Nicki sure won’t like getting fired from her first job.”
“Then don’t tell her. Let me do that. If you hear from her, just have her call me.”
“I’m sorry, man. I knew we shouldn’t have handed your case over to a greenhorn—”
Hunter shook his head impatiently. “That has nothing to do with it. Just have her call and tell her not to go anywhere near Ashley!” He hung up before Nate could pepper him with more questions. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was fire Nicki. He would prefer having her close twenty-four seven, but knowing her knack for blundering into things, how could he protect her?
The ring of his phone spiked his heart rate, but one glance at the display indicated it was not the woman he was hoping to hear from.
“Hunter? It’s me.”
“I’m in a hurry here, Ashley. What do you want?”
“We need to talk.” A note of panic affected her cultured drawl. “There are a few things I would like to explain.”
“No doubt there are, but I don’t have time or see the point. It’s over between us. I don’t know how to make it any plainer than that.”
He heard a deep intake of breath. “I know that Detective Saville came to see you.” She waited several moments for him to respond.
But Hunter had nothing to say. Ashley Menard already felt like an unpleasant memory from the distant past.
“I haven’t seen the photos he said he had, but I can just imagine.” She sounded indignant, as though shame rested with the photographer instead of with her. “You have to hear me out! I tried to tell you about James, but you wouldn’t listen. You didn’t want to know what evil your best friend was capable of.”
“Let it go, Ashley.” Hunter tried to stem the tide of useless excuses. He didn’t care enough to listen to her reasons for her actions.
But she refused to be deterred. “James knew about my past, about the mistakes I made after college. He was blackmailing me to get what he wanted.”
Is there no end to the “poor me” spin she puts on everything? “I saw the pictures. You didn’t look like an innocent victim to me.” Hunter gritted out his words in frustration.
“I did it for us! James would have told everyone just to spite you. He wanted everything you had, even me. He was so jealous, but it was just a game to him.” Her voice cracked with emotion.
“You slept with my best friend so your tidy life would remain the same?” Hunter couldn’t tell if she really believed she’d behaved nobly or if this was simply more manipulation. He’d already stomached enough of the conversation, along with her lying and cheating.
“I know I made bad decisions and then my world careened out of control. But that’s over with. James can’t hurt us anymore.”
A cold shiver ran up Hunter’s spine. Did she just admit to murder?
“What are you talking about? Did you kill James to stop his blackmail?” Hunter couldn’t believe any woman was capable of such cruelty.
“Of course not, but I told him I wouldn’t pay another dime. Now the problem has been eliminated.”
Hunter was trying to talk rationally to a madwoman—a woman who already killed one person who stood in her way. “I gotta go, Ashley. Let me think it over, and we’ll talk in a few days.” He planned never to talk to her again, but inciting a psychopath wouldn’t be smart.
The last sound he heard before ending the call was “I love you, Hunter.”
His disjointed feeling of doom fanned into a full-fledged nightmare. He had to get Nicki far away from New Orleans. If Ashley killed once to save her grand plan, she would do it again. Hunter would stop at nothing to keep Nicki safe. She was the reason Saville’s photos generated no emotion other than disgust. Nicki had filled his life with joy.
He could deal with his grandmother’s death. He could even deal with the SEC trying him for fraud and embezzlement. But he wouldn’t lose Nicki. For the first time in his life, he was in love. He just hoped he hadn’t waited too long to tell her.
Ashley dried her tears on an Hermes scarf. She wouldn’t waste time feeling sorry for herself. If she was going to win Hunter back, she had to act. He had changed. He had never been vindictive and unforgiving before. And when she pondered what might have caused his change in personality, only one possibility came to mind: Nicolette Price—that cheap little tramp from Natchez or whatever lay outside of nowhere along the Mississippi.
Ashley reached for her phone as a plan galvanized her to action. Ms. Price had ignored the first warning and continued to interfere. Although her old pals had tried, they had failed to deter Nicki’s interest in Hunter. The two of them had been spotted dancing in the Quarter at one of Ashley’s favorite haunts. When Hunter took her sailing on the Queen Antoinette, it was more than she could bear. This time her friends needed to utilize more forceful persuasion. Too much was at stake to allow Hunter the time to tire of tacky Nicki and come home where he belonged. Her girlfriends were already whispering behind her back. Even worse, they were starting to cluck their tongues in pity. Poor Ashley. Hunter dumped her for a woman who worked for him. Tsk, tsk.
And pity was something Ashley couldn’t tolerate.
On the third ring the biggest and meanest of her former boyfriends from Forrest High picked up the phone. “Bobby?” she asked in her sexiest voice. “It’s Ashley Menard. Are you busy? I have another job for you and the boys.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Typical of her luck lately, the moment Nicki stepped into the shower, her phone rang. She fumbled with it, trying to answer without dripping water on the tiles. “Hello?” she said after a long pause.
“Good morning, Miss Price. Did I catch you at a bad time? Forgive me for calling on a Sunday, but this had just slipped my mind until today,” said a singsong voice.
“It’s fine, ma’am, but who is this?”
A hearty chuckle preceded introductions. “And here I thought you sat by your phone night and day, waiting for my call. It’s Sophie Godrey from St. Landry Parish. You gave me your business card.”
Nicki stopped worrying about puddles on the floor. “Yes, ma’am. I remember. Did you contact Sheriff Latanier on my behalf?”
“I did. He said you should come see him if you wanted to ask questions. He doesn’t like discussing open cases over the phone. Old school, you know. He said he would be home this weekend.”
“I would be happy to drive out this afternoon. May I call him to confirm the time?”
“No, he told me to just give you his address and directions. You can arrive anytime. He no longer attends Mass since his wife passed on. Poor dear,” she added. Her accent deepened with her final assessment.
Unsure which Latanier was the “poor dear,” Nicki pressed on. “If you could supply an address, I can use my GPS.”
“Just jot down my directions. GPS won’t do much good where he lives.”
Without further argument, Nicki wrote down every landmark and twist in the road, thanked Mrs. Godrey, and ran to her closet. She had never got dressed and out the door so fast in her life.
It proved fortuitous that Nicki had noted every detail from the helpful dispatcher. The route to the home of the retired sheriff of St. Landry Parish was trickier than Dorothy’s yellow brick road. She didn’t know what kind of house she expected for a retired public servant, but it wasn’t a double-wide trailer set half a mile from the road. The plastic flower boxes beneath the windows were filled with dead geraniums, and rolled supermarket flyers sat in a pile next to the steps. It looked as if the sheriff simply retrieved them from the driveway and tossed them into the weeds.
