by Joanna Wayne
“Yeah.”
“Pisses me off, you know. A good guy like that. Life ain’t fair. We shoulda seen it coming. Shoulda stopped it.”
“I don’t even know if he saw it coming,” Fred said.
“He was in here that night, laughing and talking, just like always.”
“I heard.” Fred nodded toward Cassie. “This is Cassie Pierson, Suzette. She’s a reporter with Crescent Connection.”
“Another one. Shoulda figured that. Every time we get a stranger by here, they looking for some gossip, them.” She glared at Cassie. “Why don’t you people leave us alone down here? We got enough troubles.”
“I’m not looking to cause trouble,” Cassie said. “I’d like to rent one of your cabins if you have a vacancy.”
“How many nights?”
“I’m not sure. One. Maybe more.”
“You ask me awhile ago, I give you a good one, but the fishermen, they stay another night now. ’Cause of the storm. I got one left, but I’m saving it for someone.”
“Is it the cabin Angela Dubuisson asked you to save?”
“Mais oui. You the one she called about?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. Last one. Way in the back, though.” She looked down at Cassie’s feet and frowned. “You got yourself some boots?”
Cassie shook her head. “These are the only shoes I have with me.”
The woman nodded, as if she expected no better from an outsider like Cassie. “No matter. I find you some boots. You’ll stay dry, you.”
They discussed price and that worried Cassie even more. What kind of place could she possibly be renting for so few dollars per night? But just as she thought of saying no thanks, a crack of thunder rattled the windows. The storm was far from over.
“I’ll take the cabin,” she said. “Do I pay cash or credit?”
“Cash is better.”
“I’ll need a receipt, for expense purposes.”
“Sure,” Suzette said. “You stay in here awhile. I’ll take you to the cabin when the rain lets up.”
“Good idea,” Cassie said.
She went back to her beer, thinking she’d need it to sleep through a fierce thunderstorm in a cabin stuck in the middle of the swamps. When she finished that beer, she ordered another and a bowl of gumbo that turned out to be every bit as good as Fred had said.
“So what’s it like working for Norman Guilliot?” she asked, wiping her mouth on one of the paper napkins.
“The work’s interesting.”
“And the man?”
“Norman Guilliot’s a brilliant surgeon.”
“His staff seem to like him. I get the impression they’re a very cohesive group.”
“It’s that kind of working environment.”
“How did Dennis fit in the group?”
Fred leaned forward, propped an elbow on the table and looked her in the eye. “What is it you’re looking for, Cassie? Dirt on Guilliot? Some reason to place guilt on him for Ginny Lynn Flanders’s death? Or is it Dennis Robicheaux you’re interested in?”
“I’m looking for the truth.”
“Truth comes in a million different shades.”
“It only came in blood-red for Dennis.”
“Don’t go after Dennis. Whatever his reasons were for killing himself, they don’t imply guilt in the Flanders’s death.”
“You sound awfully sure about that for a guy who wasn’t around that day.”
“He did his job and did it right. And that’s all I’m saying about that. Lawyer has an unofficial gag order on us.”
“Did anyone at Magnolia Plantation have a reason to want Dennis Robicheaux dead?”
Fred downed a long swig of his beer, then set the empty bottle on the table with a resounding thud. “Where would you ever get an idea like that?”
“He’s dead. His brother thinks he was murdered.”
“His brother’s a drunk.”
“Even so, he must have known his brother well.”
“John’s probably trying to manipulate the insurance company, find a way to a payout.”
That was always a possibility, but John had seemed far too troubled to be thinking of insurance when she’d talked to him. Besides, if money had been important to him, he’d have stayed an attorney. “Were you and Dennis friends?”
“Everyone who knew Dennis was his friend. He was that kind of a guy.”
“So you don’t think Dennis was murdered?”
“Can’t imagine who’d have a motive.”
She went back to her beer, but felt Fred’s gaze boring into her.
“Looks like the rain is letting up,” he said. “I think I’ll get out of here while there’s a break in the storm.”
“In that case, I’d better get to the cabin before it starts up again.” She scanned the room in search of Suzette.
“Sure you want to stay there alone? You never know what strange creatures may stalk the bayou on a stormy night.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
But the warning stayed on her mind as she went to find Suzette. She would definitely lock her door tonight and wish she were home in her own bed, where visions of swamp creatures would not dance in her head.
“HOW DID IT GO?” Norman asked, keeping his voice low so that Annabeth wouldn’t hear him over the television set that was blaring away in the next room.
“I felt terrible about turning her away in the storm.”
“It’s not as if it were a hurricane. She’ll be fine.”
“I guess,” Angela said. “I hate to think of her staying in those horrid cabins at Suzette’s.”
“If she finds it bad enough, then maybe she’ll go back to New Orleans and stay there. And from now on, let me handle the reporters.”
“We’re not just talking about a reporter, Norman. We’re talking about Cassie Havelin Pierson.”
“You’re not going to start panicking on me, are you?”
“I can’t help it. First Dennis. Now this.”
“I hate what happened to Dennis as much as you do, but it’s too late to do anything about it. And Cassie is just down here to do a story. So just stay cool, Angela. Everything is under control.”
“I still don’t understand what was so wrong in my asking her to stay here. If she were sleeping under my roof, we’d surely talk. Then at least we’d know what she’s up to.”
“Cozy chitchats with Cassie Pierson are not the way to handle this.” In fact he could think of nothing worse. He’d sooner have Cassie snooping around the center than staying with Angela. She was loyal to the core but this was hard on her. Too much stress could lead her to say something she shouldn’t and he could hear the anxiety in her voice over the phone.
“Get some sleep, Angela. And don’t worry about Cassie. I’ll handle her.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He hung up and went back into the living room. Annabeth was stretched out on the sofa, immersed in the sitcom she was watching. She didn’t look up until the commercial came on. “I think I’ll go with you to Dennis’s funeral tomorrow.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“I know, but I want to go.”
“Suit yourself, but don’t start crying and making a scene. It will just be fodder for the press.”
“Surely there won’t be reporters at the funeral.”
“Don’t count on it. Vultures don’t show a lot of mercy for roadkill.”
“Don’t talk like that, Norman. I can’t bear to hear Dennis referred to as roadkill.”
“It’s just an expression. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He sat down beside her and pulled her into his arms.
“Do you think he was murdered, Norman?”
“Absolutely not. There was no sign that anyone else was around, and he was shot at close range with his own pistol.”
“His brother doesn’t think it was suicide.”
“How do you know what his broth
er thinks?”
“I ran into him in town today.”
“Well, stay away from him. He’s nothing but trouble. If you want to go to the funeral, fine, but I don’t want to talk about this any more tonight.”
Didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to think about it. He’d be so damned glad when this whole thing was over. The funeral tomorrow would be tough. The whole town would be there, somehow blaming him that Dennis didn’t have the balls to take the pressure. Balls. That’s what made the difference. The Guilliots had always had balls.
He missed Dennis all the same and Norman dreaded the funeral as much as he’d dreaded anything in a long, long time.
THE CABIN was about what Cassie expected. Two twin beds with lumpy mattresses and clean but worn linens. A functional kitchen that would let her make coffee in the morning. And a bathroom with a toilet and a shower that was little more than a square of tile with a drain in the middle of it surrounded by a faded plastic shower curtain.
The structure looked as if it were about ready to collapse, but it was tight enough to keep out the rain and the larger swamp creatures, such as the ratlike nutrias and the alligators—and hopefully the water moccasins. But it was not pest free. She’d already killed a couple of two-inch black roaches with wings, a southern Louisiana speciality.
And a green-eyed bug she’d never seen before had been waiting for her atop the threadbare spread when she’d entered the cabin. Suzette had knocked it to the floor with her bare hand, then squashed it beneath her white rubber boot. Cassie only hoped there weren’t more surprises waiting for her the minute she turned off the overhead light—if she turned off the light tonight.
A far cry from the nights on the Adriatic Sea she’d hoped for. But her mother was there, somewhere beneath the stars. Living out a fantasy? Living out a lie.
Cassie’s cell phone rang, and she pulled it from her purse, saw the name on the caller ID and realized that as bad as the night was, it had just taken a turn for the worse.
“Hello, Drake.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Nice to know you haven’t lost that old charm.”
“Don’t start with me, Cassie. I know you were out at Magnolia Plantation today, schmoozing it up with Guilliot.”
Oh, geez. Just how many men were spending their time tracking her every move? “How would anything I do possibly be any of your business?”
“Norman Guilliot’s been avoiding reporters and refusing to grant any interviews until after the trial. Now all of a sudden he’s giving you a grand tour. You know good and well that’s only because you’re still using my name.”
“Actually it’s my name, Drake, until whatever time I see fit to change it. And talking to people in the news is what I do. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Are you telling me that you’re not trying to sway public opinion to Guilliot’s side, just to spite me?”
The man’s conceit blew her away—and made her furious. “I never gave you a thought, Drake.”
“Don’t get entangled in my case, Cassie. Guilliot and his surgery team committed malpractice and when I get through nailing him, his reputation will be shot! He won’t make enough money to pay someone to polish the gate on his little mansion. The fact that his anesthetist killed himself is just further proof of their guilt.”
“If your case is so airtight, why are you worried about what I’m doing?”
“I’m not worried. I just don’t like it. So why don’t you get back to New Orleans and quit flaunting your breasts in that smoky Cajun bar?”
The guy was unbelievable. No wonder she hadn’t been with a man since the divorce. How could she possibly trust her instincts where men were concerned after having married him?
“I’ll flaunt whatever I want, Drake, in front of whomever I want. You know me. I’m constantly picking up guys and screwing their brains out. And how could you possibly know where I am?”
“I make it my job to know about everything connected to one of my lawsuits.”
He was right. She did know that he was obsessed with winning in every area of his life except marriage. He’d let that go down the tube with seemingly little regret. But this was taking things too far. “So who do you have down here snooping for you, Drake? Suzette? The bartender? Or do you actually have a spy posing as a fisherman in one of these back-to-nature cabins?”
“That’s none of your business. Write your little article, but don’t try to manipulate the facts or make my client look bad.”
“Any other orders?”
“Yeah. Stay away from John Robicheaux. He was a slimeball when he was practicing law, and he’s still a slimeball. He’ll use you any way he can.”
“It’s a little late for you to worry about me being used, Drake.”
She broke the connection without waiting to hear his retort. Feeling as if she were suffocating in the tiny cabin, she opened the door and stared at the falling rain. Her insides shook from fury and remorse that she’d ever been taken in by Drake Pierson.
What hurt worse was that he was right. His name was the clout that had likely gotten her an interview with Guilliot. But she wasn’t doing this to mess up his case. She was merely doing her job, and if that swayed public opinion against him, so be it. She didn’t even know what it mattered, except that Drake was making the most of representing the man of God against the evil and filthy rich plastic surgeon.
It was all hype. Reverend Flanders was likely as rich as Guilliot, as Drake hoped to be someday. In the end, none of that would matter. It would all come down to his convincing a judge and jury that Dr. Guilliot and Dennis had made a mistake that caused Ginny Flanders’s death.
Something rippled in the bayou outside her cabin. She stared into the darkness, saw two gleaming eyes and trembled before slamming the door shut and locking it.
She kicked off her shoes, dropped to the bed and closed her eyes. John Robicheaux’s face floated through her mind. A drunk who’d thrown his life away, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t right about Dennis having been murdered. But if he was right about everything, it meant that someone in this peaceful bayou town would kill to keep Norman Guilliot from losing a malpractice suit.
It just didn’t add up. No more than her mother’s lies about Patsy David and her trip to Greece added up.
Noises filtered through the cracks and crevices of the old cabin. A bullfrog’s deep croak. A throaty, bellowing roar that she didn’t recognize but that gave her cold chills. The spine-tingling screech of an owl.
Cassie was certain it was going to be a long, long night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT when Cassie finally fell asleep, and she was sore, tired and irritable when she woke the next morning. She was not only aggravated with Olson for expecting her to stay in a town without a decent motel, but disgusted with herself for ever having the poor judgment to marry a self-serving jerk like Drake Pierson. And as for his name, she would drop it the way she’d dropped him, just as soon as she found the time.
Most of all she was furious with her mother for lying to her and her father. And not a spur-of-the-minute little white lie, either. She’d planned this in advance, gone so far as to give them the name of a nonexistent travel companion. The only thing her mother hadn’t given them was an itinerary.
But there had to be some way of tracking her down, even without an itinerary. If she was traveling, she had to be staying in hotels and eating and shopping. All of which meant she’d be flashing her credit cards. And charges to credit cards could be traced.
Cassie stepped into the shower—such as it was—and got ready for another day of life in Beau Pierre. Tuesday. The day of Dennis’s funeral. Suicide or murder?
It was a question that might never be answered. Fortunately, the question of her mother’s whereabouts would be.
JOHN CLIMBED the steps of the small house Dennis had rented and stopped at the front door, hesitant to push it open and walk inside. It would look like
Dennis. Things tossed around. A couple of pairs of shoes kicked off by the door. The guy never had been one for keeping his shoes on.
And it would smell like Dennis. A little heavy on the aftershave. Stale coffee. A few sips of beer left in a can somewhere.
It would be just as always, only Dennis wouldn’t step out to greet him.
John took a deep breath and pushed through the door. God, could he use a drink! A taste to wash away the possibilities burning in his mind. But one drink would only lead to another, and another—and when he became sober again, the evidence would be covered by a new layer of haze.
He had to think clearly, had to figure this out. This had Guilliot’s name written all over it, but doctors didn’t kill over a malpractice suit, not even one as big as this one. There had to be more. Some blatant act of irresponsibility that could cause Guilliot not only to lose the case Flanders had against him, but lose his reputation, maybe even his license to practice medicine.
A dirty secret that had eaten away at Dennis until he could no longer bear to work side by side with Guilliot. One that had him on the verge of leaving the life and the bayou country that he loved. Guilliot must have feared that Dennis would break under questioning during the trial and reveal the truth. So he’d silenced Dennis forever, or else he’d had him silenced.
Fury rolled inside John and if Guilliot had walked through the door right then, he could probably have wrung his neck like a squawking chicken’s. But Guilliot wasn’t there, and neither was Dennis.
He had to go and put his little brother in the crypt, had to watch him be laid out beside their father and Muh-maw and Puh-paw.
First the funeral. Then revenge.
CASSIE DROVE slowly past St. Mark Church, staring at the parking lot full of cars and the black hearse parked near the back door of the small wooden structure. She was certain there were reporters inside, trying their best to blend in with the legitimate mourners, but she’d never sunk quite that low.
She would like to be a fly on the wall, though. Not out of any need to experience grief vicariously, but to observe the faces of Dr. Guilliot and his staff. John hadn’t presented any convincing evidence to sway her to the belief that Dennis had been killed, yet she found herself leaning that way.
