by Tami Hoag
Murder was almost always stupidly, tragically simple when it came right down to it. It almost always made sense. Motives could pretty much all be boiled down to fit in one of three categories: money, love, or pride. Even the rare killer who seemingly chose victims at random had a kind of logic to his choices when all was said and done. There was no logic in any scenario Annie could conjure up casting a twelve-year-old babysitter as the killer. Maybe if the boy had died in her care, but he hadn’t. She would have had to go to his house in the middle of the night to do it. Nora, who was by all accounts lazy and irresponsible. Nora, who made bracelets for her friends and still slept with a teddy bear.
No. If Nora Florette was missing because of the murder of KJ Gauthier, it wasn’t because she’d killed him.
Annie ran back through the timeline as she hit her blinker and turned west. Monday afternoon Nora had left KJ at home with no one to supervise him but Dean the delinquent. She went off with Lola Troiano to the Quik Pik, where she tried to shoplift a Penthouse magazine. As payment to Dean? A bribe for her brother for leaving him with a hyperactive seven-year-old—something she had done again the next day? Had Dean even bothered to stick around?
It bothered her to think of little KJ getting shuffled around like a stray puppy nobody wanted. It was easy to imagine him frightened and confused and feeling abandoned. The idea stirred Annie’s maternal ire in a way that made her want to sink her teeth into someone. But who? The single mom who was trying her best to make ends meet? Jojean Florette for forcing the job of supervising a seven-year-old with ADHD on an immature twelve-year-old in hopes of teaching her responsibility? None of it had been done with bad intentions. People made their choices for their own reasons and just hoped for the best, refusing to imagine the alternative.
The only person with bad intentions in this story had been wielding a knife and had used it to deliberately kill an innocent child.
Annie slowed the car as she turned down the Florettes’ street. Her last text from Jojean had been a curt No in answer to Any sign of Nora yet? The house was ablaze with light, upstairs and down. She wondered if any kind of concern had begun to creep into Jojean’s psyche or if she was still choosing irritation over panic, mentally planning her next irate tirade to launch when her daughter walked in the door.
One more kid to interview, and if by the time she was done with Cameron Spicer there was still no sign of Nora, Annie would have to force the issue with Jojean. She wasn’t going to let the night pass with no sign of this girl. If Nora had run away, if she had somehow gotten herself out of Bayou Breaux, every minute was putting her another mile out of easy reach. If something else had happened to her, if she was being held somewhere, every second counted.
The street took a dogleg left then right, connecting to the wider, smoother, newer Blue Cypress Trace, which led into the Blue Cypress development. Like Quail Run, where the Troianos lived, Blue Cypress was a neighborhood for upper-middle-class professional people, people who could afford to buffer themselves from their neighbors with broad expanses of green lawn; people with gigantic RVs and bass boats who wanted a dock in their backyard connecting them to the vast network of bayous and marshes and swamps at the edge of the Atchafalaya Basin.
No more than a block from the Florette house, driving from one neighborhood to the other was literally driving from one century to the next, from the side-by-side homes built in the 1940s and ’50s to the quarter-acre middle-class estates of the new millennium. Annie remembered well the stink that had been raised when the real estate developer had come in and bought out the people who had lived along these banks when she was a kid—swampers and commercial fishermen and retirees—and razed their modest little homes to make way for progress and people willing to commute to jobs in Lafayette.
She pulled in the driveway of the first place on the left and cut the engine. The house was yet another brick Caribbean-style, the front entrance tastefully dressed up for fall with pumpkins and chrysanthemums. She didn’t know the Spicer family, had no idea what Sharon Spicer—the only parent listed with the school as a contact for the ninth-grader, Cameron Spicer—did for a living. Jaime Blynn, who had an uncanny ability to remember students long after they’d left the elementary grades, had said she thought the Spicers might be new in town.
“Welcome to Bayou Breaux,” Annie muttered as she pressed the doorbell.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I fail to see how this day could get any worse,” Kelvin grumbled as he came into the kitchen through the laundry room, a dark scowl twisting his face. “I’ve got a murderer loose. I’ve got a media circus with my lead detective smack in the middle of it. I’ve got lawyers threatening to sue the Sheriff’s Office.
“It’s an absolute mess. It’s a disaster. It’s a word I won’t use in polite company, that’s what it is,” he said. “I don’t know why people can’t listen and just do as they’re told.”
Cameron slid into his seat at the kitchen table, his head ducked, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself as small as possible. He watched from the corner of his eye as Kelvin washed his hands at the kitchen sink and dried them on one of Cameron’s mother’s dish towels—an act that would have gotten Cameron a scolding. His mother made no comment about it but took the towel as he finished and folded it smoothly.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Kelvin,” she said in her most soothing voice. “Please sit down and let me get you something to drink. What would you like?”
“For people to follow orders and use common sense. That’s what I’d like,” he snapped.
He stood in the middle of the kitchen looking twice his real size to Cameron, puffed up with anger and outrage. Dressed all in black with combat boots, his name on a brass plate pinned to his chest, brass stars on the collar of his shirt, he looked like a military movie bad guy, the evil commander of the special forces set to destroy the Resistance.
“I told Fourcade not to draw attention to himself, and what does he do? He gets into an altercation in front of TV news cameras! Now I have to clean up this mess! I’ve got to put together another press conference for ten P.M. to try to get control of the situation. Meanwhile, the Theriots’ lawyer is already threatening to sue for false arrest and excessive use of force.”
“Oh, my goodness. You poor man,” Cameron’s mom said, resting a hand on his arm and looking up at him with great sympathy. “You’ve had a terrible day! You need to take your seat and let me get your supper for you. I’ve got you a nice baked chicken breast and rice pilaf. Something not too heavy, as I was afraid you might have to work late tonight. Cameron is going to join you.”
Cameron’s stomach clenched as Kelvin’s attention swung toward him.
“You didn’t eat with your mother?” Kelvin asked.
“No, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“I wasn’t feeling well, sir,” Cameron mumbled, bracing himself against the expected reaction. Kelvin was generally disgusted by Cameron’s weak stomach. A weak stomach equaled a weak man. That was how Kelvin thought. That was how Cameron’s father had thought as well. Cameron didn’t see how he could help having a bad stomach. It wasn’t as if he wished for one.
Kelvin took his seat, and Cameron’s mom was instantly at his elbow with a heavy glass tumbler with an inch of amber liquid in it. Kelvin liked a whiskey in the evening. Cameron’s mother disapproved of hard liquor, but she never said a word about it. Whatever Kelvin wanted was fine by her.
What was going to happen when Kelvin wanted him gone?
The sheriff took a sip of his drink, seeming to hold it in his mouth as he looked at Cameron. Cameron wanted to crawl under the table. He hoped if he could keep his head tilted down, Kelvin wouldn’t be able to see the scrapes and bruises. Maybe he would be too preoccupied with his problems to notice—
“Look up at me,” Kelvin ordered. “You look a man in the eye when you speak to him. How many times do I have to tell you that?�
��
“Yes, sir. I don’t know, sir,” Cameron mumbled.
Slowly he raised his head. His heart seemed trapped at the base of his throat, fluttering like a bird’s wings. He tried to swallow it down, but it didn’t budge. He thought he might throw up.
His eyes met Kelvin’s. The man’s gaze seemed to burn right into him like laser beams.
“What happened to your face?”
Cameron tried to draw breath but couldn’t. Maybe he was going to faint, or better yet, die.
“Answer me when I ask you a question,” Kelvin demanded, the edge in his voice growing stronger and sharper.
“I told you he shouldn’t go out for sports,” Cameron’s mother said, putting herself between the two of them as she brought Kelvin his plate of food. “Sports are dangerous, and I love my son, but Cameron is not gifted that way. He should be allowed to excel at the things he’s good at.”
Kelvin slapped a hand down hard on the table, making the silverware jump. Cameron flinched like a whipped dog.
“Sharon, I am not having this discussion with you again!” Kelvin snapped. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times: sports build character. The boy needs character. He needs to grow a spine and a set of balls and become a man. If he gets a little scraped and bruised in the process, so be it! He won’t die from it!”
He didn’t know, Cameron realized with a wild rush of relief. He didn’t know Cameron was no longer in football. The lady detective hadn’t told him. Cameron felt almost dizzy. He could survive the night.
“You coddle him to the point he might as well start wearing skirts,” Kelvin said.
“As you said, we don’t need to discuss this tonight,” Cameron’s mother said. “You have enough to deal with, Kelvin. I never should have brought it up. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t need to add to your burden.”
“No, you don’t,” Kelvin said, still angry. He glanced at his watch, frowning darkly, then finished his whiskey in a quick gulp.
“Sit down,” he ordered. “I can’t stand you hovering that way.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and slipped onto the seat to Kelvin’s right. With knife and fork clutched purposefully, he set to aggressively carving the chicken breast on his plate as if it were a twenty-pound Thanksgiving turkey.
“I understand you visited our victim in the hospital today,” Kelvin said, cutting her a sideways look as he raised a bite of the chicken to his mouth. “Why was that?”
“I took her flowers on behalf of the auxiliary and offered condolences. Poor thing seems to have no friends or family in the area. I can’t imagine why she moved here, knowing no one.”
“She has an elderly aunt at Evangeline Oaks Assisted Living.”
“Does she? She didn’t mention that to me.”
“Why would she? She doesn’t know you. Does she?” he asked, shooting her another sideways look.
“Of course not,” Cameron’s mother said. “How would she know me?”
“She was a file clerk at Houma City Hall for a time.”
“Was she? I don’t know anything about that. I just took her flowers. To be kind,” she said. “Did you know her then?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I didn’t know this girl.”
“It’s just a coincidence that she worked in Houma.”
“A lot of people work in Houma. This one happened to have a relative in Bayou Breaux, and so she moved here. Much to her misfortune, as it’s turned out.”
“Yes.”
“I would prefer you didn’t see her again,” Kelvin said. “We believe her to be a drug addict and a possible suspect in the death of her son.”
“You think the mom killed the little boy?” Cameron blurted out. He would have grabbed the words with his hands and put them back in his mouth if he could have. It was stupid to draw attention to himself.
“It’s possible,” Kelvin said. “We don’t know yet.
“I’m sure you mean well, Sharon,” he said. “But the parish has social workers whose job it is to assist in these matters. If Miss Gauthier needs assistance, she can call on one of them.”
“Yes, of course you’re right, Kelvin,” Cameron’s mom said, getting up from the table and taking his empty whiskey glass. “Would you like something more to drink?”
“Coffee, if there’s any made.”
“I’ll start a fresh pot. It’ll only take a minute.”
The doorbell rang as she started across the room. Kelvin pushed his chair back from the table and stood.
“I’ll get it,” he said. “Better if the two of you don’t answer the door this time of night if you don’t know who it is. I don’t want you getting an unpleasant surprise.”
* * *
* * *
ANNIE DREW BREATH as the doorknob turned, ready to introduce herself to Sharon Spicer or to be greeted by the boy she’d met in the park that afternoon. Then the door opened, Sheriff Dutrow filled the space, and her mind went blank with confusion.
“Detective Broussard? What are you doing here?”
“Um—uh— Am I at the wrong house?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t know. Where are you supposed to be?”
“Is this 14 Blue Cypress?” she asked, looking right at the house number beside the door. “I’m looking for a Sharon Spicer.”
Inside the house, a woman’s voice called out. “Kelvin? Who is it?”
Dutrow ignored the question. His small, hard eyes were as dark and shiny as onyx in the muted yellow of the porch light. “What for?”
“I need to speak to her son, Cameron.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to,” Annie said, irritated. “Why are you here?”
“I own this house,” Dutrow said with an undercurrent of belligerence.
“Okay. Now I’m really confused. The school gave me this address for Sharon and Cameron Spicer.”
“Kelvin? Who is it?”
An attractive, auburn-haired woman peered around his shoulder. He shifted positions just enough to allow her a clear view.
“Sharon, this is Detective Broussard from the department,” he said. “Detective Broussard, this is my fiancée, Sharon Spicer.”
“Oh, office business?” Sharon Spicer said with a smile of relief. “I shouldn’t interrupt. I’ll leave you to it. Nice to meet you, Detective—”
“She’s here for you,” Dutrow said, giving her a long look.
Her smile faltered. “For me?”
“For your son, actually,” Annie offered. “I need to ask him a few questions.”
“Cameron?” she said, looking worried. “Questions? About what?”
“A friend of his from school is missing tonight. I’m hoping she might have said something to him about where she might have gone.”
“A runaway?” the sheriff asked.
“Remains to be seen.”
“I thought you were working the Gauthier homicide.”
“I am,” Annie said, swatting at a mosquito in front of her face. “The girl that’s missing was Gauthier’s babysitter.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Sharon said.
“I spoke with Cameron at the park today after school,” Annie explained. “Before we realized Nora was missing. I know they saw each other yesterday after school. They’re friends; they walk together. Maybe she said something to him—”
“You spoke with him in the park after school?” Dutrow repeated, his brow furrowing. “Today?”
“Yes.”
“What time was this?”
It seemed an odd question, Annie thought. What difference did it make to him what time? What difference did it make to him at all?
“Around four o’clock,” she said, swatting again at the mosquito.
“For heaven’s sake, Kelvin,” Sha
ron Spicer piped up, “invite the detective in before we’re all eaten alive. I swear, this nasty, muggy weather has got to break before we all lose our minds with it!”
Dutrow stepped back and held the door.
The house was lovely, reflecting, Annie supposed, the taste of the woman living in it—traditional with feminine touches, a color scheme that was vaguely beachy and soothing, flower arrangements and framed artwork she couldn’t imagine Dutrow noticing, let alone picking out. Everything was carefully arranged, down to the knife creases in the sofa pillows—also reflecting Sharon Spicer, Annie thought.
By this time in the evening Annie was usually in baggy sweatpants and a Ragin’ Cajuns T-shirt, barefoot and braless with her hair up in a messy knot, makeup—what little she wore—gone. Sharon Spicer was still on duty. A new-millennium twist on the 1950s housewife, every auburn hair was in place, lipstick fresh, small pearl necklace at her throat. She was in a flowing skirt and blouse and wore an apron. She had probably greeted Dutrow at the door with a cocktail and sympathy for his long, hard day.
Not that there was anything wrong with that. The level of formality and sense of role-playing didn’t suit Annie, but she could totally see Dutrow loving it. This was exactly the kind of woman he would order up as his perfect mate, and it was a role Sharon Spicer clearly enjoyed playing.
“May I get you something to drink, Detective?” she asked. “I have a fresh pot of coffee brewing. Or sweet tea, if you’d prefer.”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” Annie said. “I don’t want to keep y’all from your evening. I’m sorry for the confusion. The school listed only Ms. Spicer as the parental contact for Cameron.”
“Cameron is my son from my first marriage,” Sharon explained, as if that absolved Dutrow of any parental duties. “His father passed away several years ago.”
Just to make the point that her marriage hadn’t failed, Annie thought. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she said, then quickly shifted gears into mother mode. “You said you spoke to Cameron this afternoon. Why was I not notified?”
