by Joanna Wayne
“You can’t stay at Suzette’s any longer, Cassie. It’s not safe. And you can’t just wander around the way you’ve been doing, strolling through isolated cemeteries and driving down deserted back roads.”
“It just doesn’t make sense. I’m not worth the trouble of being shot at or having my notes stolen. I’m just like the dozen or so other reporters who are in and out of this town every day.”
“Someone is convinced you know something.”
“You think I do, too, don’t you John? You wouldn’t keep bringing this up if you didn’t think that. You think I know something that can help you find Dennis’s murderer.”
John took the clean wet plate from her hand and dried it. “I think you could know something, and I do want something from you.”
“I knew it.”
“I want you to go back to the Magnolia Plantation, but this time I want you to go with me—unannounced and uninvited.”
“You mean break in?”
“That’s what I mean.”
She pulled her hands from the water and dried them on the towel he was holding. “I’m a reporter for a respectable magazine. I am not about to risk my job and end up in jail breaking into a medical clinic.”
“It was just an idea.”
“A crazy one. Breakfast was great, John, but I’m out of here.” She turned and headed back to the bedroom.
He followed her. “Okay, forget breaking in. I’ll do that on my own. But don’t move out.”
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I have never moved in. I spent one night here because I was too exhausted and exasperated—and probably too stupid to turn down your invitation.”
“Don’t move in. Definitely don’t move in. I didn’t mean to suggest that you do that. I’m just suggesting you stay here until you’re through with the Beau Pierre assignment. You’ll be safer. You’ll have clean sheets. And, hey, I’ll toss you for who cooks breakfast.”
“There’s no way I’m breaking into that clinic, John. So if that’s your motive for getting me to stay here, forget it.”
“It’s forgotten. I’d still like you to stay.”
“What do you hope to gain by breaking in there?”
“I want to find out for myself if there’s information somewhere about what really happened the day the preacher’s wife died on the table.”
“I’m certain if there was something incriminating, it’s either in the hands of Guilliot’s attorney or it’s been destroyed.”
“If it’s an official notation in with the official records, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t locate something unofficial that would help me figure out what went wrong.”
“Why would you need me for that?”
“Because if something we came across had a connection to whatever it is you know, you might pick up the clue that would make all of this fit together.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Maybe not, but someone with a gun thinks you do.”
“I’ll stay here until Wednesday, if your offer is serious and no strings attached, but I won’t even consider breaking into Magnolia Plantation.”
“Fair enough.”
Two more nights with Cassie in his bed. That would work out great for protecting her from a killer. He just wasn’t sure who was going to protect her from him. Or more important, who was going to protect him from himself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CLAYTON JACOBBI’S office was in one of the older buildings on Camp Street, a part of downtown New Orleans that was once inhabited primarily by derelicts who slept on the streets and lined up for free food from soup kitchens. The area had been cleaned up over the past few years, and what had formerly been known as the warehouse district was now officially called the Arts District.
Norman liked coming to the city. He liked visiting the gentlemen’s clubs on Bourbon Street, liked eating in the restaurants and going to an occasional Saints or Hornets game. He hated coming to Jacobbi’s office.
The law offices were stuffy with a kind of pseudo-sophistication that Norman found more stifling than the outside humidity. The walls were too dark, the carpets too plush, and everyone wore dark-colored business suits. It wasn’t natural to wear suits when the temperature outside was in the high nineties.
Mostly he hated coming here because the place intimidated him. Clayton Jacobbi worked for him, but the way the guy gave orders, you’d think Norman was his flunky. At Magnolia Plantation, the world revolved around Norman. In the law offices of Jacobbi, Frische and Caldwell, Norman was just another client who needed someone to save his ass.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Guilliot,” Jacobbi said, finally appearing in the small conference room where the receptionist had planted Norman.
“No problem, as long as I get back to the clinic by one o’clock. I have appointments this afternoon.”
Jacobbi glanced at his watch. “I’ll have you out of here by eleven. What we need to do this morning is go over how we’re going to handle the suicide of your anesthetist again. This is the biggest complication to the trial to date. Drake Pierson is going to play it as a blatant admission of guilt on Dennis Robicheaux’s part. We have to give the jury a believable alternative.”
“I told you he had a history of problems with alcohol and addiction to prescription drugs. He had both in his bloodstream the night he killed himself.”
“That’s still going to play into their hands. Either you had an addict working with you, or Dennis was so disturbed over some error of judgement made in the operating room on the fatal day that he went back to an old addiction.”
“He was upset because of the constant press.”
“Not good enough.”
“Ginny Flanders died on the operating table because she had an undiagnosed heart condition. She wasn’t aware of the condition herself, so there was no way I could possibly have known it.”
“That’s your contention. Drake Pierson is going to try to prove that you should have had a cardiogram run on a woman her age before you operated on her. Not only that, but he’s going to say that if you had stopped the procedure at the first sign of patient breakdown, she wouldn’t have died.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“I think we should sacrifice Dennis for the good of the rest of you. If there was any mistake made that day, let it be his, but not because of drugs, since that falls back on irresponsibility on your part.”
“You want to blame all of this on Dennis?”
“I think it’s the smart move. He’s dead. The rest of you are alive and you’re fighting for your careers and your futures. If you go down in this, the bad publicity is going to destroy you. You or Dennis. That’s how I see it.”
“What do you need on him?”
“A breakup with his girlfriend. A big gambling loss. A family problem.”
Sleeping with the surgeon’s wife. Getting her pregnant.
Guilliot felt his stomach tighten and he stared at the pattern in the drape until he could get his feelings under control again. He wasn’t going into court and admit that some guy half his age who Guilliot had thought a friend had knocked up his wife. But Annabeth might. If she got on that witness stand, she might get scared or angry and say anything.
“I know we talked about my wife taking the stand on my behalf,” Guilliot said, “but I’ve changed my mind about that.”
“You may need her. A trusting wife can go a long way with a jury—if we get the right jury.”
“She’s been upset since Dennis killed himself. I’m not sure she’ll hold up well.”
Jacobbi scribbled down some notes. “That could be a problem. What about Angela Dubuisson?”
“Use her to full advantage. She’s loyal to the core. We’ve been together twenty years and knew each other growing up. We’re both from Beau Pierre.”
“And Susan Dalton?”
“She’s still a go.”
“I’ll need to meet with both of them before the end of the week. Once the j
ury selection starts next week, things will move fast.”
“It’s been six months. I’m ready for fast, as long as you still think we have a good chance of winning this.”
“A good chance—as long as we play our cards right and nothing new pops up. And believe me, six months may be the shortest time on record for a case like this to make it to trial.”
“Back to Dennis,” Norman said. “If I can find a woman who claims she had broken up with Dennis and that he was distraught and begging her to get back together, would that help?”
“It would be perfect.”
Good. Money could easily buy that.
“Let’s go over the questions you’ll likely get from Drake Pierson again,” the attorney said. “I’ll ask. You answer just as if you were on the stand. And don’t forget to be careful of any body language that would make you look nervous.”
“Does the jury ever listen to the evidence?” Guilliot asked, feeling the frustration building like a giant fire-cracker about to blow in his head.
“They listen, but they gather as much subconsciously as they do consciously. It’s a show. You and Reverend Flanders will be the stars. Pierson and I will be the supporting cast.”
Norman’s cell phone rang. He checked the incoming number. “I’ll need to get that. It’s from my clinic.”
“Go ahead. Patients first.”
He answered the call. “Hello.”
“I think you should come back to the clinic as soon as you can, Norman.”
“Is there a problem with one of the patients?”
“No, everyone’s fine. The facelift patient from yesterday is sitting up watching television, and last week’s patients are all healing well.”
“I’m with my attorney, Angela. It’s an important meeting.”
“Then come in as soon as you can. This isn’t about a patient, but it is an emergency. A very serious emergency.”
His hands began to sweat. “I’ll be there by one.”
The rest of the meeting with Jacobbi was a wash. Serious could mean anything. Or it could mean everything. In which case, Dennis’s death wouldn’t be an issue at all.
IT WAS 12:35 p.m. when Norman drove through the gates of Magnolia Plantation Restorative and Therapeutic Center. He slowed the car in spite of the anxiety that rode every nerve. He’d sunk every penny he had into buying and restoring this place—his entire inheritance, and all the money he’d made by wise investments during his early years of surgery.
And then he’d made the money back tenfold because he gave patients what they couldn’t get anywhere else. There were a few other surgeons as talented as he was, a few who had his charisma, but no one else had a fully operating southern plantation for patients to live in while they recovered. Guilliot provided the services of a five-star hotel with the ambiance of Gone With The Wind. All they needed was cash and lots of it.
He’d reached the pinnacle of plastic surgery and he wasn’t going to take a plunge because of one lousy mistake, the kind any doctor could have made. He didn’t know what the emergency was that had Angela so upset, but if he was a betting man, he’d say it had something to do with Cassie Havelin Pierson or John Robicheaux.
Norman parked in his space near the back door and took the elevator to the third floor where he was sure Angela would be waiting. He went straight to his office. She was looking through a patient file at his desk, but she jumped up when he walked in.
“You have to do something, Norman. You have to stop her.”
“Stop who?”
“Susan.”
“Is that what you called me about? You had me downright panicky thinking something big was up, and it’s another spat between you and Susan?”
“She’s going to talk, Norman.”
“She can’t and you know it. She’s in this as deep as we are.”
“Then she plans to lie about her part in this.”
He shook his head. His surgery staff used to be a team. Now it was opposing armies trapped in the same foxhole. He dropped to his chair. “What makes you think she’s going to turn squealer?”
“I heard her talking on the phone when I passed her office. She was setting up an appointment to meet someone in New Orleans Saturday morning. It sounded suspicious so I checked the caller ID, then called the number back. It was the office of the National Enquirer.”
BY WEDNESDAY afternoon, Cassie’s primary fear had switched from worrying about being shot at to wondering what she’d do if her mother wasn’t at the airport the next afternoon. There had been no more incidents in Beau Pierre. In fact, the town seemed the quiet, safe community tucked away in the Louisiana Bayou country that tour books touted it to be.
Well, except that the hand that had been found in the mud along the banks of Bayou Lafourche had yet to be identified and the rest of the body had not been located. And while the town seemed safer, John was still convinced that she needed his protection.
She didn’t know how much longer she’d last taking moonlit rides in his pirogue, sharing morning coffee with him, watching him walk around the small house after a shower with his hair wet and him wearing only a pair of snug-fitting jeans. And sleeping in his bed.
The attraction she’d felt the day they’d met had grown steadily stronger until now it was as if the shock and awe of arousal started the second she walked in the door and didn’t cool until she finally fell asleep. Then it started all over again when she opened her eyes in the morning.
All it would take to push them over the limit of control was for her to let him know she was ready. And she was so far past ready that she’d come close to having an orgasm last night just watching him fry fish.
There was no reason for them not to make love. They were consenting adults with no ties. But every time she came close to stepping inside his arms or initiating a kiss, she panicked and walked away. What was holding her back? Fear? Doubt? Or just the inability to move on?
She parked in front of the combined food market, service station and barber shop and went inside to pick up something for dinner. It was her turn to cook. No problem. She was a whiz at opening cans. The store was practically empty. It shouldn’t take her but a minute to pick up what she needed and get out.
After that she had only to make a quick stop at Suzette’s and her work day would be over. If Celeste wasn’t working tonight, she wouldn’t stay, but if Celeste was working, she had a few quick questions to ask of the waitress.
“What you got there, Angela?”
“It’s a new kind of frozen peas, Maman.”
Cassie looked up to see Angela Dubuisson and her mother, in a bright pink warmup suit, standing a few feet away. “Hello, Angela. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Hello, Cassie.”
“How are things at Magnolia?”
“Busy.”
“I’ll bet, especially with the trial starting next week.”
“Been long enough getting here,” the older woman said. “Me, I don’ want nuttin’ ta do wit dem lawyers.”
“This is my mother,” Angela said. “Maman, this is Cassie Pierson.”
The woman looked her over. “You dat reporter lady what causing all the trouble?”
“I’m a reporter,” Cassie said. “I’m not causing any trouble that I know of.”
“I heard about you. You went to everybody’s house, you. You don’ come see old Cotildo. You think I don’ know. Me, I know.”
“She’s very busy, Maman. You can talk to Ms. Pierson some other time. I’m sure she needs to get started back to New Orleans. Why don’t you go and choose a box of cereal?”
“Hmmpf! Cereal. Just say you don’ want me around. That’s fine.” She walked off but stopped at a display of cake mixes, in listening range.
“I’m sorry,” Angela said, keeping her voice low. “You see what I mean about my mother. She’s a dear, but she gets more crotchety every day.”
“I understand. I’m sorry we didn’t get to know each other better, though. Why don’t we have l
unch one day?”
Angela hesitated. “I really don’t think I can.”
“Dr. Guilliot’s orders?” Cassie asked.
“Attorney’s orders. Will you be in Beau Pierre much longer?”
“This could be my last day, but I’d come back to meet you for lunch, or you could drive to New Orleans and we could do lunch up there.”
“Maybe when this is all over, if you still want to have lunch then.”
“Sure.”
“I’m sorry about having to go back on my offer of a place to stay.”
“Me, too. Your house looked much nicer than those cabins behind Suzette’s.”
Cassie had the feeling that talking to her was making Angela very nervous. She kept looking around as if someone was going to jump from behind a stack of cans and punish her for talking to Cassie. But if Angela had nothing to hide, why would any of that bother her?
“How’s the new anesthetist working out?” Cassie asked, hoping somehow this would lead to a discussion of Dennis.
“We haven’t found a permanent one yet. I have to go, Cassie. See you around.”
“You take care, Angela.”
Angela hurried away and Cassie saw her leading her protesting mother out of the store with no bags of groceries in hand. If Dennis knew something that had gotten him killed, then Angela must know it, too. Maybe that’s why she was so nervous. She could be afraid of going against Guilliot in any way.
But Dennis hadn’t gone against him, as far as Cassie could tell, and he was dead while Angela was still alive. That was what was wrong with John’s theory that the good surgeon was behind all of it. The theory left too many variables unaccounted for, and it definitely didn’t explain why Dennis had mentioned her name the last night of his life.
Like Cassie’s mother’s disappearance, the questions about the situation in Beau Pierre only produced more questions. And the answers, if they came at all, were always wrong.
“I HOPE YOU’RE CALLING with good news,” Butch said, taking the call from his newly hired private detective. “Have you located my wife?”
“Not yet. New Orleans is a big city, especially when you add the Northshore to the area where she might be.”
