by Mary Ellis
This Monday morning, Nicki had the evidence from the handwriting expert proving Ashley had forged Hunter’s signature. And the fingerprints on the shell casings and beer cans came back to her old pals from high school. The same old pals had left their prints on the photos taken of her and Hunter. But was Ashley a murderer? What she needed was a recorded admission, and the woman might just hate her enough to provide one. Women like Ashley loved to rub defeat into the face of their adversaries. Nicki decided to stop at home to pick up her micro recorder. She would get the truth from the conniving Ms. Menard and prove how formidable a foe she could be. After all, what did she have to lose?
Smoke started filling her nostrils while still blocks from Christine’s trailer in Chalmette. In an area of bizarre and often noxious odors following Katrina, the smell of smoke was unusual. And this wasn’t the familiar scent of wood smoke, evoking campfires, marshmallows, and s’mores. This was the acrid smell of burnt plastic, rubber, and electrical components. As sirens wailed in the distance, traffic slowed to a crawl. Ducking down a side street, Nicki wound her way into the trailer park. Each street looked like every other except for flags, pennants, and decorations used to point the way home for the confused.
As she approached Christine’s street, her throat tightened. For no apparent reason, goose bumps rose on her arms in the sweltering heat. Cars from local residents, spectators, and various police, fire, and rescue vehicles blocked her access. Nicki pounded the wheel in frustration and laid on her horn until a few cars moved from her path, but the street remained blocked. No one would get through this traffic jam anytime soon.
In exasperation Nicki parked in a driveway where no one appeared home—or were uninterested in the commotion—and left her name and cell number under the windshield wiper. Oddly, as she drew near to her temporary home, the crowd of rubbernecks parted. Toddlers and their weary mothers watched her from doorways. While her eyes burned and watered, Nicki fought the impulse to gag from the foul metallic taste in her mouth.
The police had erected a perimeter of wooden barricades where she usually parked her car three trailers away. White smoke hung heavy in the air, obliterating the scene beyond their cordon. Nicki saw no fire, no flames, and no fireman scurrying with their hoses and ladders. Only red and blue lights on the police cars spun eerily in the thick air.
Nicki squeezed between two barricades until stopped by a strong hand and a gruff voice. “Ma’am, stay back! You can’t go any farther.” The fireman tightened his viselike grip on her arm.
“I live here!” Nicki pointed in the direction of Christine’s trailer, struggling to free herself from the man’s grasp. “Please, I must see if my roommate is okay. Her name is Christine. Christine Hall.” Her voice sounded unrecognizable in her own ears as fear crawled up her spine.
“What unit number, miss?” The question floated from the smoke before a thin, middle-aged man appeared. “I’m Mike Merrell, the Chalmette fire investigator.”
Nicki tried to stop gagging, but the more she coughed, the more the smoke irritated her lungs. “Number…number twenty-eight. Please let go of me!” She wrenched free from the fireman.
Merrell looked down at the clipboard in his hand. “Looks like number twenty-eight is where the fire originated. The blaze had already spread to adjacent trailers before fire personnel arrived.”
Just then the breeze partially cleared the air, allowing the outline of three windowless and roofless trailers to appear, their smoke-blackened walls puckered and warped from the intense heat. The middle trailer, the one Nicki had called home, was nothing but a mass of twisted metal and smoldering debris. Although her lungs ached from coughing, she couldn’t leave the surreal dead zone.
“Did you say you’re Christine Hall? Do you live in number twenty-eight?” Merrill’s voice brought Nicki’s attention away from the horror.
“No,” she rasped. “I’m Nicolette Price. I’ve been staying with Christine for a few weeks.”
“You weren’t with Miss Hall this afternoon?” Merrill jotted something down on his soot-spotted tablet.
“No, but I talked to her a couple hours ago. She wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”
The fireman and arson investigator exchanged an odd glance—or maybe it was her imagination. Nicki felt on the verge of hysteria.
Just then two firemen in breathing apparatus stepped from the smoke and herded the crowd back, trying to get everyone behind the barricades.
“Let’s step away to talk, Miss Price. The fumes from these trailers as well as much of their contents are toxic and can cause short-term respiratory distress in addition to long-term problems.” Merrill pulled her into a yard five trailers away from Christine’s. “Fire personnel have the blaze contained. All we can do is wait for the debris to cool. I assure you, any victims of smoke inhalation have already been transported to the hospital.”
“Where’s Christine?” Nicki demanded. “Send your men to find her. She may be wandering around the village hurt or confused.”
“We’ve searched the general vicinity, ma’am.” The investigator waited until she met his eye. Then, more gently, he said, “I’m afraid we brought a body out of unit twenty-eight. It appears to be female, but I’m afraid positive identification will take a while. We’re waiting on the county medical examiner. I will also have the fire marshal called in due to the fatality.”
When she swayed on her feet, Merrill reached out to steady her. Fighting back the impulse to wretch, Nicki’s eyes felt like dry cinders that peered through slits in her face. She cleared her throat and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Only one body? You didn’t find two little kids?”
“Only one body, Miss Price. Rest assured, the firefighters found no one else in the trailer. No children.”
Nicki heard the words as though deep underwater. Her roommate, confidante, and friend was dead. She clenched her eyes shut, trying not to envision the final minutes of Christine’s life. She had been frightened of fire. She wouldn’t even burn candles. She didn’t buy her first box of votives until after she moved to the trailer park. “After all, tin cans don’t burn,” she had told Nicki.
“How did this happen?” Nicki dug in her tote bag for her water bottle. The first sip hit her stomach hard. “How can a tin can burn?” she asked through tears of frustration.
Merrill shook his head as he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket. “Please take this, Miss Price. And because you also lived in the unit I’ll tell you what I know, but all facts are unsubstantiated until the investigation is complete and an autopsy performed. I’m fairly certain we’re looking at foul play…arson with murder or manslaughter specifications. I believe an incendiary device was tossed into the home that ignited whatever combustibles lay nearby. Apparently, the device landed near the water heater, which may have had a small propane leak, one Miss Hall wasn’t aware of. We’re lucky that tank didn’t blow up or the number of casualties would have been much higher. A propane explosion could have leveled the block. That leak probably caused the rapid acceleration.”
Staring at the wiry man, Nicki wiped her eyes and nose with different ends of his pristine hanky. “This wasn’t an accident?” She sounded like a bullfrog.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Somebody torched that trailer. Whether or not they planned to kill Mrs. Hall, the end result remains the same.”
With her face streaming with tears, Nicki heard someone calling her name.
“Nicki!” A terrified voice wafted through the smoke and mist.
“I’m here!” She answered, unsure if it was she they sought.
A few moments later Hunter’s handsome face was visible through the haze. “Hunter!” she choked out, going to him. “The firemen think Christine is d-dead.”
He enveloped her in his arms and pulled her against his chest. “Oh, Nicki. I’m so sorry.” His words were soft as a prayer.
“I mean, some poor soul is dead, and most likely it’s Christine because that was her trailer,” Nicki rambled, incoherent w
ith grief.
He just held her, and Nicki was grateful he didn’t offer pointless phrases like It’ll be all right, or Let’s hope it’s not her because they both knew it was Christine, and things wouldn’t be all right for a long time.
Nicki drew back a little. She blew her nose and then peered into Hunter’s blue eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I called Nate, but he only knew you were on your way home from Natchez. I left several messages for you, but when you didn’t call me back I became worried and couldn’t wait any longer. I had to come looking for you.” He pulled her close again, resting his cheek on her hair. “What else did the fireman say?”
“They think it was arson. Somebody tossed something into the trailer that set off a gas leak on the hot water tank. Whatever happened, someone did this on purpose to poor Christine—”
Hunter had a bad feeling, but he tried to keep his voice calm even though his heart raced as he asked, “Who would want to kill Christine?”
“I don’t know. Maybe her ex-husband? It could have been Preston Hall. He lost his temper with his kids more than once.”
“Did Preston ever threaten her? What do you remember?”
She pulled away from him. She saw that his demeanor had changed from comforting to something fiercer. “I don’t know exactly. Hunter, why are you—”
“Think, Nicki. Were Christine and her ex fighting? What did she say?”
She tried to recall everything Christine had mentioned about the father of her children. “No, Preston had been more reasonable lately. He’d even talked about unsupervised visitation and possible joint custody down the line. Apparently, full-time parenting wasn’t as much fun as he thought it would be.” Her words trailed off as reality hit home. As of today, Preston’s custody would be one hundred percent.
Hunter turned from her and approached Mr. Merrill, who was interviewing other witnesses. “Excuse me,” he interrupted. “I’m Hunter Galen, Miss Price’s employer. This wasn’t an accidental fire? Are you talking murder?” Hunter handed the investigator his business card.
“We won’t know until the fire marshal completes his report. In the meantime, Mr. Galen, you need to step behind the barricades. This is a police matter that doesn’t concern Miss Price’s employer.”
Hunter leaned forward so that they were nose-to-nose. “If this was attempted murder, Mrs. Hall may not have been the intended target. And that concerns me plenty.”
Merrill jotted that down on his clipboard and summoned a policeman with a wave of his hand. “There will be a full arson investigation, I assure you. Although I can’t discuss the case with you, you may report your suspicions to a police detective. Miss Price will need to give a full statement as well. This policeman will point you in the right direction.” With that, Merrill strode toward a cluster of gawkers at the barricades.
“What is the matter with you?” Nicki hissed. “Why would you bully him?”
“Let’s get away from these trailers.” He took her firmly by the hand. “I want to keep you safe until we give our statements, and that won’t be here.”
Nicki had had enough people poking, pushing, and pulling her for one day. She yanked her hand free and glared at him. “Stop dragging me around! I’m not leaving. I will stay here because this is where I live.”
His determination softened. “There’s nothing left, Nicki. Christine’s home, your possessions, they have been destroyed. You can stay with me until you make other arrangements—”
“You’re not the Red Cross, Hunter Galen. I can take care of myself. I will stay here until I find out if the person who died was Christine, for one thing. It could be an unfortunate Avon lady for all we know. And if it is her, I’m going after who killed her. So stand back and let me do what you pay me for!” She took a final swipe at her nose and stuffed the handkerchief in her pocket, certain Mr. Merrill wouldn’t want it back. “I’m tired of everybody treating me as though I’m a nincompoop in need of coddling.”
“I never said you were a nincompoop, and I only coddle you because I thought we are…we were…” Hunter curtailed what he planned to say as Merrill returned with his clipboard and a police detective. “Have it your own way,” said Hunter, his expression suddenly thunderous. “Give your statement to the detective and help with the arson investigation. Once they learn you may have been the target, they will probably put you under police protection. But as of this moment, you’re off the Nowak murder case. Only people who can follow orders work for me.” He stomped away as though suddenly in a big hurry.
Nicki turned to the investigator. “Could you give me a minute? A personal emergency just came up.”
She ran after Hunter without waiting for an answer. “You’re firing me? My best friend gets killed, everything I own is incinerated, and you pick now to can me? Of all the insensitive, poorly thought out…”
But Hunter wasn’t listening as he maneuvered his way through people with nothing better to do than watch trailers smolder.
“Hunter! Stop! Why would you think this has anything to do with me? It could have been that creep Christine dated. She and Travis broke up on bad terms.”
Nicki had to dodge residents and ambulance chasers all the way back to Hunter’s car. The shiny black Corvette was coated with a heavy layer of soot. Coughing, out of breath, and afraid he would leave, she threw herself in his path and put her hand on his chest. “What is the matter with you? Talk to me.”
He stopped fumbling with his keys and looked her in the eye. “From the day we met, you never trusted me or gave me a chance. Always ready to believe the worst, that’s your motto.” Hunter shrugged off her hand. “I’m sorry about Christine, but now you know how it feels to lose a friend. James was my friend, despite everything that happened. Remember? You, on the other hand, never wanted my friendship or cared about me. This was nothing but a job to you.” He jumped into his car and lowered the window with a press of a button.
“Where is all this coming from?” Nicki slapped her hand down on the convertible top in sheer frustration. “Let’s give our statements to the police and find someplace to talk.”
“No. I’ve already said my piece. Go prove yourself, O’lette. Show the world what a great private investigator you are. But you’ll be doing it on someone else’s dime. You’re fired.”
Hunter didn’t hear her gasp as he started the engine with a roar of horsepower, offered her one last scowl, and drove away.
Flummoxed, Nicki stood in the street until his taillights disappeared around the corner, thinking that maybe three little words—words she had never bothered to say—may have changed her run of bad luck forever.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The hardest thing in the world was not looking back. Hunter drove away from the chaos and confusion without looking in his rearview mirror at the woman he loved more than he thought possible. Had he looked at her tear-stained face a moment longer, witnessed her grief from losing her friend in an awful twist of fate, he couldn’t have done what he had to do. Foreboding tied his stomach into knots, heightening his awareness of the grim neighborhood as he drove away from the cruel and senseless murder. He didn’t want to fire Nicki, but no rational explanation would keep her from danger. She could sniff out trouble like a beagle after a fox.
Nicki Price…no artificial sweeteners, no hidden agendas. What you saw was what you got. And what Hunter saw he wanted for the rest of his life.
Besides, it was time for him to take a stand. No more trying to keep everyone placated. No more pleasing people to keep the peace. That was what got him into this mess in the first place. If he had confronted James after his initial not-quite-kosher stock trades, maybe he would still be alive. If he had confronted Ashley at his grandmother’s wake with the truth—that no amount of feminine machinations would get them back together—maybe Christine would still be alive. He couldn’t stand around trying to convince Nicki that a psychopath had her squarely in her sights. Better to hurt her feelings, even if she ended up hating him, tha
n allow anything to happen to her.
Hunter knew with certainty that Ashley hadn’t acted alone. Maybe she could kill a lover who knew her secrets—a man who held all the aces in a rigged game. Maybe she could manipulate Hunter’s assistant into sending Nicki on a wild chase into the swamp that was meant to scare her off the investigation. But construct an incendiary device and then use it to kill an innocent woman? For that Ashley would need a little help. And who better as an assistant than the man who had lost a fortune at the hands of James Nowak? Daddy Menard—the man who lived and breathed to make his daughter happy after his wife died.
Hunter wasted no time getting out of Chalmette and back to town. He drove down North Claiborne back to the Garden District, every mile fueling his own personal fire. He thought about calling Nate, knowing he owned several firearms; he even contemplated calling his brother. Ethan had the uncanny ability of getting whatever he needed in the blink of an eye. But when Hunter pulled into the cobblestone driveway of the Menard Garden District home, he was alone and armed with nothing but his rage.
It was high time for him to make a stand.
He parked on the crushed oyster shell drive and headed toward the front door. Since their breakup he could no longer go around back, walk into the enormous kitchen, and greet the household staff with a casual “How ya doin?” Instead, he knocked and waited for someone to open the carved wooden door.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Galen,” said the housekeeper curtly. The familiar “Mr. Hunter” was gone.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Taylor.”
“Miss Ashley isn’t home. I suspect she’s at one of her salons or her townhouse.” The housekeeper tried to shut the door, but Hunter wedged his foot against the frame. “I’ve come to see Mr. Menard. Would you please tell him I’m here?”
