by Joanna Wayne
“I thought about that. But when a man kills out of jealousy, he usually finds you with his woman or finds out you’ve been with her and goes ape. He’ll bust open your head with his fist or shoot you in the parking lot. He doesn’t work things out to the tiniest detail. A man crazed with jealousy doesn’t steal your gun ahead of time and wait for you in the swamp in the middle of the night.”
“Some men might.”
“Not this time. The timing is too critical. The trial starts in less than two weeks. This is premeditated murder, planned and carried out without the slightest hitch. But I don’t expect you to believe that.”
“I’m trying to keep an open mind.”
“Mais, yeah. Reporters do that all the time.”
She ignored the comment, but this time it took more effort. “I don’t see the motivation for Guilliot to commit murder. Doctors face malpractice suits all the time. The insurance pays off the claim and they go on with their work. They don’t kill people.”
“This is no ordinary suit. It’s the story of the decade. You people made it more that way with your hype. If Guilliot gets a guilty verdict, the whole world will know, and they’re not going to flock to his bayou resort and pay exorbitant prices to risk dying on the table.”
“You people?” There was a limit to how much she could take without calling him on it. “So you just lump all reporters into one barrel and label them poison?”
“I don’t print the labels.”
He met her gaze again, and the hurt in his eyes sucked the ire right out of her. “I don’t want to argue with you, John.”
“Might be a good time. The way I’m feeling right now, you might actually win.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m getting out of here.”
“Are you really going fishing?”
“Why not? See you around, Cassie Pierson.”
She nodded and watched him walk away. He shouldn’t be alone tonight. He should have family around to share old memories of Dennis, should have friends to touch his shoulder when they passed and be there if he wanted to talk.
But he had no family. And he’d evidently shut the old friends out of his life, probably when he’d come home to drown in remorse.
So he was alone. Like she’d be tonight, wondering where her mother was and fighting the fear that something was dreadfully wrong.
“John. Wait up.”
He stopped and she ran to catch up with him. “Take me fishing with you.”
His eyebrows arched. “Business or pleasure?”
“Neither.”
“Then why do you want to go?”
Because she was hurting, too. Because she hated the thought of going back to the cabin on the bayou and spending the evening alone. “I like fishing.”
“Sure you do. Dressed for it, too.” He stared at her feet, then shrugged. “Come along if you like,” he said. “If you start acting like a reporter, I can always throw you overboard.”
There wasn’t the slightest indication that he was joking.
JOHN POLED the narrow pirogue almost silently through the still, murky waters of the bayou, but the night was far from quiet. The background sounds were ever-changing—the high-pitched hum of tree frogs, the deep-throated croak of bullfrogs, the screeching call of owls out looking for their prey.
The splash as an alligator slithered from the swampy banks into the water. Cassie kept a wary eye on it. “Aren’t you frightened of the alligators at all?” she asked.
“No.” He looked as if even asking him were an insult.
“Would that one attack you if you jumped in the water right now?”
“Most likely he’d swim away. But he might attack, if he felt threatened.”
“Or if he was hungry?”
“There’s easier meals for them to find than a grown man.”
“Then they’re not usually aggressive?”
“No. Unlike humans, they don’t just go after everything that gets in their way.”
“The way you think Dr. Guilliot does?”
“A man doesn’t get to the top of his game unless he goes after it relentlessly and without mercy.”
“Were you like that once, John?”
He nodded. “A million years ago.”
“Yet it still eats at you and controls your life?”
“You sound like a reporter looking to find out the answer to your own question about swimming with a gator.”
“So what subjects am I allowed to talk about?”
“Fishing is a silent sport.”
They didn’t talk again for a good thirty minutes. Neither did they fish. John just poled through the water, turning as one bayou fed into another. At times the poling seemed to go easy, but at other times the waterways were so clogged with water hyacinths, irises and other plants that he seemed to be pushing across dry land. And all the time they were going deeper into the dark swamp.
“I can’t imagine how you ever learned to navigate these waters.”
“I grew up here. It’s my hood, you know.”
“Have you ever gotten lost?”
“A couple of times, when I first started taking the boat out on my own.”
“What did you do?”
“Kept poling until I found something that looked familiar.”
He was talking again, and this time she’d be careful to avoid any mention of his having ever been an attorney. “How old were you then?”
“Seven or so.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Mais, non, chère.”
“Now I know you’re putting me on.”
“Not so much. My roots run deep. My grandfather was a trapper back in the days you could make a decent living at it. After that he got him a shrimp boat and took to the bays. Brought in enough money to keep us fed and clothed and somehow saved enough to put both Dennis and I through college.”
“What did your dad do?”
“He did some fishing during the week. Spent his weekends gambling away what he’d made at the card tables or playing craps.”
“That must have upset your mother.”
“I didn’t have a mother.”
The tone of the response let her know the question-and-answer routine was over. She wondered if it would be different if she weren’t a reporter, or if the barriers were always in place so that there was no chance anyone ever got too close.
“Not you, huh, Cassie.”
“Not me, what?”
“No drunken, gambling dad. No runaway mother.”
Missing. The word cut into her, sharp as a knife. It was far too close to the truth.
John stared at her, no doubt reading her distress. “Now I’m overstepping my bounds. Forget it. Your past is your business.”
But she couldn’t let go of the thoughts that tumbled through her mind now. They came to life and took hold, more confusing than ever. It might actually help her get a handle on the situation if she spoke her suspicions out loud.
“My mother is missing,” she said. “Or maybe she’s not. But there’s no way I can get in touch with her.” She shook her head, already sorry she’d brought it up. Said out loud, the situation sounded even more bizarre than it did tumbling around in her brain.
“Then I take it she’s not living at home.”
“She was until four weeks ago. She flew to Greece for a six-week vacation, and no one’s heard a word from her, except for postcards.”
“She’s probably having too much fun to call.”
“I’d like to think that.”
“But you don’t.”
“There’s more.” She outlined the scenario with the few facts she actually knew, including the lie about the old high school friend. “It’s probably nothing. I’m just a little paranoid about the whole thing.”
“I wouldn’t call that paranoia. I’d say you have reason to be concerned. What does you father think about the situation?”
“He doesn’t seem too concerned about it.”
“Does your mother
travel a lot?”
“She used to go with my father on business trips, but she doesn’t do that much anymore. When her parents were alive, she’d fly to Florida to visit them occasionally, but she’s never been out of the country without Dad, and never been anywhere for more than a week or two without him.”
“Odd that all of a sudden she’d take off for six weeks and lie about her traveling companion.”
“Even more odd, since I’ve never known my mother to lie about anything.”
“Then she must have a good reason for doing it now—or else she thinks she does.”
“I wish she’d shared that reason with me.”
“Obviously she didn’t think she could.”
“Obviously. The only explanation I can think of is that she’s going through a middle-age crisis or having a tough time with menopause.”
“You wouldn’t be so worried if that’s all you’re thinking.”
John Robicheaux surprised her. Not only had he listened to her concerns, he saw straight through to the apprehension beyond her words.
“I can’t help but think she could be in some kind of trouble,” Cassie admitted.
“Any chance she’s having an affair?”
“She’s almost sixty.”
“Women in their sixties still have sex, Cassie.”
“Not Mom.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.”
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m sure she and Dad have sex, but she’s not the kind to screw around.”
“Sometimes the quiet ones surprise you.”
“Well, she’s not buying thong panties at Victoria’s Secret. I can assure you of that, though she does like to shop. That’s another thing that really puzzles me. Why isn’t she using her charge cards?”
“She has fifty-thousand dollars in cash. I take it your father’s not worried about the money?”
“He says it was hers to do with as she wanted. He’s too involved in his career to worry much about anything else.”
“What’s his career?”
“He’s the new CEO of Conner-Marsh.”
“A man at the top of his game,” John said.
There wasn’t a hint of accusation in his tone but John’s earlier comment still hung in the air.
A man doesn’t get to the top of his game unless he goes after it relentlessly and without mercy.
John stopped poling and sat down on the narrow wooden seat across from her. “Have you checked with all the airlines to see if your mother actually left the country?”
“She’s sent postcards with Greek postmarks.”
“That only proves that someone mailed them from Greece. It doesn’t prove your mother did.”
“The messages are in her handwriting. I’m almost certain of that. And her neighbor took her to the airport.”
“If it were me, I’d still check with the airlines.”
John reached across the space that separated them and lay his hand on top of hers. The touch was unexpected and the warm rush of heated awareness caught her off guard. Still she turned her hand over and clasped his, letting their fingers tangle so that she could hold on tightly. A quick squeeze and then she let go.
John was too much a man for her not to feel some sexual awareness but she couldn’t let it go beyond that. They were both needy tonight, their emotions raw and their vulnerabilities exposed.
But when this situation was past they’d have nothing in common. She was determined to hit life full-stride, recover the self-esteem she’d lost in the marriage and put Drake Pierson totally behind her.
John’s life was a wrecked train that would probably never get back on track. He had too many old demons to fight and he drank too much to put up much of a battle.
Only, he wasn’t drinking tonight. He was focused, dealing with his grief straight-on and even that hadn’t kept him from noticing how upset she was or listening attentively to her problems.
John Robicheaux was a complex man.
“I’m a little hungry,” he said, apparently not dealing with any of the issues his brief touch had broached for her. “What about you?”
She looked around. “If I were hungry, what would we eat?”
“Suzette’s is just around the bend.”
That surprised her. She’d thought they’d been traveling deeper into the swamp and never dreamed they were near civilization. “Are we on the bayou that runs behind the cabin I’m staying in?”
“We are now. It’s not nearly as far by boat as it is by car.”
She was hungry, but doubtful that spending more time with John tonight would be a good idea.
“I had a big lunch,” she lied, “and I need to get home.”
“I can drop you off by pirogue.”
“What about my car?”
“I’ll bring it over in the morning.”
Dinner with John Robicheaux. A glass or two of wine, and then he’d walk her back to her cabin. He might even kiss her, though surely men in the throes of guilt didn’t think of having sex.
Who was she kidding? Men thought of sex no matter what they were facing. And if his almost casual touch had affected her, there was no telling what a kiss would do to her in her current emotional state. It was far better not to find out.
“I’d rather go back to your place and get my car tonight.”
“Suit yourself.” He turned the pirogue around and headed away from Suzette’s. He didn’t say anything else, but the mood had changed. He withdrew into the brooding silence she’d come to associate with him.
Moonlight painted silvery streaks across the murky water and the tree frogs still filled the night with their serenade. But the bayou seemed far more mysterious and frightening now. The water was alive with alligators and the screeching of an owl sounded almost ominous as John took a narrow offshoot that brought them into an area where the cypress trees grew so thick that the needled branches all but blocked the rays of the moon.
Something cold and heavy settled inside her. It was almost tangible, yet still shadowy and foreboding, like a surreal premonition that the news from the airlines would not be good.
ANNABETH STEPPED into the bathroom and tugged her black bikini panties down to see if she’d spotted yet. She was two weeks late getting her period, and that hadn’t happened since she was a teenager.
Good news. There was no sign of blood.
Pregnant. She was almost afraid to even think the word for fear it might jinx her. She’d given up hoping for it, but people always said that when you gave up working on it, that’s when it happened.
And she definitely wasn’t too old. Women in their late-thirties had babies all the time, and she was only thirty-six. If she needed help she could hire a nanny, but she was going to do the fun things herself. She’d rock it and feed it and play with it.
If it was a girl, she could buy all sorts of adorable out-fits. And she’d seen the most terrific nursery furniture on the E channel. She couldn’t remember whose baby it was for, but it was one of the stars they’d interviewed.
And here she was getting all excited when being late might not mean anything. All the stress could have messed up her system, but being pregnant and having a baby would help her get over it.
It would take Norman some time to adjust to the idea of being a father again after all these years, but once he did, he’d be excited, too. It would give him something to look forward to when the trial was over and their lives got back to normal.
As it was, he was a walking time bomb. The only time he ever seemed his pre-Ginny Lynn self was when they were having sex and not always then.
But a baby would change everything. She’d wait a few more days, then she’d go to the drugstore and buy one of those pregnancy tests. Or maybe she wouldn’t wait. She could get one tomorrow.
She rubbed her flat stomach and thought of it swelling to the size of a beach ball. Gross. But a baby would be worth it. And she wouldn’t be one of those women who just let themselves go after giving birth. She’
d exercise and get her figure back. Life would be good again, just the way she’d planned all along.
She pulled up her panties and went back to the living room where Norman was waiting for the start of the ten o’clock news. Watching it was a ritual now that he was mentioned almost every night. She’d love to crawl in his lap right now and tell him that she just might be pregnant.
But better to wait until she was sure.
“I’D LIKE TO RECONFIRM a flight returning to Houston from Athens, Greece on June eighteenth.”
“Can I have your name?”
“Rhonda Havelin.”
“Is that connection through London or Amsterdam?”
“London.” She had a fifty percent chance of being right.
“Do you have the confirmation or flight number?”
“I don’t have that with me. I was hoping you could find the information from my name.” Actually she knew they could. She wasn’t even sure she needed to lie about her identity to check a reservation, but she wanted to avoid any unnecessary hassles.
“I’ll need to put you on hold for a minute while I check for that reservation.”
“That’s fine.” Cassie squirmed in her chair and doodled on the pad at her fingertips while she waited, too nervous to sit still. This was the fourth airline she’d called. The first two had no reservations for Rhonda Havelin. The third explained that their computers were down and she’d have to call back in an hour.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing in your name, Mrs. Havelin.”
“Oh, dear. Maybe it is Amsterdam where I catch that connecting flight.”
“No, I checked that, as well. Are you certain that June eighteenth is the correct return date?”
“Fairly certain.” It was definitely the date her mother had given her. She knew because it was the day before Butch’s birthday, and she’d said she wanted to be home to celebrate it with him. But then her mother had lied about other things, so she may have lied about her flight, as well.
“I do have a return flight for a Rhonda Havelin on June eighteenth, but it’s a direct flight from New Orleans.”
“Could that be the last leg of the trip?”
“No. This is part of a round trip. The outgoing flight was Houston to New Orleans on May ninth.”
