Alligator Moon

by Joanna Wayne

  And still he’d been there for her these past two days in a way she’d never expected of him. Not as a brooding loser who’d given up on life, and not solely as a lover. He’d been there as a friend. She’d have made it without him, but not nearly as well.

  They drove past the road that led to the cemetery and an involuntary shudder slithered up her spine. The night of the sniper and the snake would live in infamy in her mind and no doubt lead to an article somewhere down the line. Right now it was just freaky.

  “Do you think Annabeth left the white roses for Dennis?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You sound sure about that.”

  “Annabeth’s too extravagant to be sentimental. If she’d left roses, she’d have made it at least two dozen and a card so she’d get credit for them.”

  “You took her into your house, but you don’t seem to like her very much.”

  “It’s the Cajun way. We never turn out a friend, especially one who claims to be pregnant with our dead brother’s child.”

  “But if it isn’t Annabeth who leaves the roses, then who?”

  “Could be half the single women in the parish and a good number of the married ones. All Dennis had to do was smile and they were fighting to get in his pants. He didn’t turn too many of them down.”

  “My boss suggested it might have been the killer who left the roses, that the death could have been the result of a lover’s quarrel.”

  John grimaced. “I thought about that. Or a woman scorned. I tried to catch the person in the act. That’s how I ended up at the cemetery the night you were so intimately engaged with the snake.”

  “Hooray for the white roses. They probably saved my life.”

  “The white roses and me. The gate to Magnolia Plantation is just ahead,” John said. “Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready to find out Mom’s there. I’m not ready to deal with anything else.” But ready or not, the newest moment of truth was upon them.

  John stopped the truck, lowered his window and pushed the call button. A few seconds later, a woman with only a trace of Cajun accent responded.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes,” Cassie said, leaning over John to be closer to the speaker. “I’m here to see my mother, Rhonda Havelin. She’s a post-surgery guest.”

  “Could you give me the name again?”

  “Rhonda Havelin.” Cassie spelled out the last name so there would be no confusion.

  “I don’t find that name on the list. What was the date of her surgery?”

  “Approximately six weeks ago.”

  “No. I’m quite sure we haven’t had anyone by that name registered as an extended-stay guest.”

  “I know she was here on the ninth of May.”

  “If she was in for a simple procedure, Dr. Guilliot may have seen her as an outpatient. I don’t have a record of those names.”

  “Who does?”

  “The business office, but they’ve already left and won’t be back until Monday.”

  “Please, just check your records again? Rhonda Havelin or possibly Mrs. Butch Havelin.”

  “Could she have used her maiden name?” John asked.

  “Try Rhonda Clarkson,” Cassie said, reminding herself that her mother could have used any friggin’ name she wanted since she’d obviously paid cash for this.

  “I’m sorry. We don’t have a guest by any of those names. Perhaps if you call back Monday between nine and five someone in the business office can give you more information.”

  “What about the surgery staff?” Cassie asked. “Are any of them still available? Dr. Guilliot? Angela Dubuisson? Fred Powell? Susan Dalton?”

  “No. They’re all gone for the day.”

  “Let it go,” John whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Cassie scooted back to her side of the seat while John thanked the woman for her trouble and gunned the engine.

  “Do you think she was lying?” Cassie asked as John threw the car in reverse, then turned around in the driveway.

  “I doubt it.”

  “But Mom was here. This is where the driver dropped her off.”

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but you’re not going to get any answers from that woman. So, buckle your seat belt, chère. It’s time to pay a visit to the surgeon.”

  CASSIE JUMPED OUT of the black pickup truck the second John stopped in front of the Guilliot home. She could deal with problems, but not situations that were so bizarre as to defy reason. She’d finally obtained what she thought was an answer to her mother’s whereabouts only to be given the runaround by the keeper of the gate.

  She was really starting to hate this town.

  “Stay calm,” John said, reaching around her to push the doorbell. “Give Guilliot a chance to talk. I’d like to hear his side of this.”

  “I am calm.”

  “About as calm as a trout caught on a fishhook.”

  Norman answered the door. He stared at both of them, clearly not pleased to see them. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for my mother,” Cassie said, unable to stop herself from blurting out everything. “Her name is Rhonda Havelin and she came to you for an operation on May ninth.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m looking for my mother, Rhonda Havelin. And don’t start with the confidentiality policy. It’s urgent that I speak with her at once.”

  “I’ve got to hand it you, Cassie. You do try some unusual angles to get a story. Unfortunately, you’re wasting my time.”

  “This has nothing to do with my being a reporter. I know that my mother is either at Magnolia Plantation now or was there recently, so just level with me.”

  “You’re talking nonsense, and I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

  “My mother, Rhonda Havelin.”

  Guilliot shook his head. “Never heard of her, and I think you both know that. So what is the real reason you’re here? Never mind. I don’t even want to know. I’d just like for you to leave.”

  He started to close the door.

  “No, please,” Cassie pleaded, desperation stealing the accusatory edge from her tone. “Just look at this.” Cassie’s hands shook as she took the photo of her mother from her handbag and stuck it in front of Dr. Guilliot’s face. “She may have used another name, but this is her picture.”

  He stared at the photo for a minute, then shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve never seen that woman before.”

  “I have proof she was dropped off at Magnolia Plantation on May ninth.”

  “She may have come to pick up a friend or to visit a friend who was recovering, but she wasn’t my patient.”

  Annabeth appeared at the door behind Guilliot. Her eyes were red and swollen as if she’d been crying. Guilliot turned and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  “Please go now and leave us alone. As you can see, my wife isn’t feeling well.”

  He closed the door in their faces.

  John took Cassie’s arm as they left.

  “There’s something evil in this town,” she said when they reached the car. “It may look like a peaceful bayou setting, but it’s inherently evil.”

  “It’s not the town, Cassie.”

  “Then why do I feel as if I’m being dragged into the depths of something debased and perverse?”

  He didn’t answer. There was no answer. This time when Cassie collapsed into the passenger seat of the truck, she didn’t try to stop the tears.

  NORMAN GUILLIOT was lying. The signs were all there; body language that John had learned to read as a defense attorney. The shifty eyes, the flexed muscles, the rattling keys, the way he’d tried to turn everything back to Cassie’s being a reporter.

  The guy was definitely hiding something. That was no surprise, but John couldn’t comprehend how Cassie’s mother fit into this. Surely her being in Beau Pierre and her disappearance weren’t related to Ginny Flanders’s death.

  John drove toward his house, thin
king of the strange turn of events and how complicated his own life had become. Two weeks ago he’d been a simple fishing guide, taking tourists into the choppy waters of the Gulf to fish for tuna, amberjack, wahoo and whatever else they might sink a hook into. Now his boat lay idle and he was caught in a mystery that had more twists and turns than the Mississippi.

  Worse, he was being dragged back into a situation that was far too similar to the ones he’d dealt with as a defense attorney. Deception. Lies. Murder. The images crept into his mind the way they always did when something lured his thoughts into the past. He saw Toni Crenshaw’s tortured body. The tiny arms and legs twisted and broken. The smashed-in skull.

  He took a deep breath and willed the images to recede to the dark corners of his mind where they hid but never vanished. When this was over, he could go back into the miserable existence he’d lived before and try to convince himself it was a life, but first he had to make sure his brother could rest in peace. The killer was going to pay. One way or another he was going to pay.

  And as for Cassie… As for Cassie, she’d see him for what he was soon enough. But she couldn’t see it now, and there was no way he could walk away from her as long as she needed him. He’d already let her crawl under his skin, stir him back to life, make him remember what it was like to experience emotions that didn’t begin and end with regret.

  She sniffed into a tissue and turned to face him. “What now, John? What do I do now?”

  “I think it’s time you pay a visit to the cops. File a missing person’s report and see what comes from it, but don’t file it in Beau Pierre.”

  “Why not? This is where Mom was last seen.”

  “I don’t trust Babineaux any more than I trust Guilliot, which is about as far as I can spit.”

  “I guess even Dad will be ready to take the next step now.”

  “You have to call him.”

  “I know. I dread it. I just gave him the good news. Now I have to hit him with this.”

  “He’s her husband. He has a right to know.”

  “To know that his wife has disappeared without a trace from the sleepy bayou town of Beau Pierre. A town where… Oh, God!”

  He knew what was coming because the same terrifying possibility had already crossed his mind. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Cassie.”

  But she’d already jumped.

  “That could have been part of Mom’s body that was found along the bayou.” Her voice trembled and she turned deathly pale.

  John reached across the seat and took her hand in his. “Don’t start thinking like that.”

  “How can I help it? Mom was here. Now she’s nowhere. I can’t go on like this, John. I have to know where she is. I have to know the truth.”

  The truth. Whatever that might be. The truth about Dennis. The truth about Cassie’s mother. The truth about Dr. Norman Guilliot.

  He only hoped the truth was not as bad as he feared. But then he always expected the worst. That way life seldom surprised him.

  “I’M OUT OF HERE,” Norman said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find someone I can be with who hasn’t betrayed me.”

  Annabeth stared at him with that pouting, pleading look that used to get her anything she wanted. “I wish you’d stay in tonight.”

  He turned away and yanked his keys from the hook by the back door.

  “What do you want from me, Norman? I’ve told you I’m sorry. Dennis meant nothing to me.”

  Cheating on him meant nothing to her. Maybe it had meant nothing to Dennis, either, but it was killing Norman. He’d trusted both Dennis and Annabeth completely, and both had betrayed him. They’d cheated on him with each other. Above all, he hated them for that. And now there was Cassie Pierson to deal with, the jagged blade in the two-edged sword that was slicing his life apart.

  He couldn’t go on this way much longer.

  Once he’d cleared the driveway, he dialed Susan’s number. They hadn’t scheduled surgery today and both Susan and Angela had taken the day off, which had been great. Norman couldn’t take much more of the constant bickering between them. Angela didn’t trust Susan. Susan didn’t trust Angela. A ridiculous situation, considering that they were both in this too deep to walk away.

  Susan’s answering machine clicked on and Norman broke the connection without leaving a message. He turned at the next corner and headed toward Angela’s house. She wasn’t sexy like Annabeth or fun like Susan, but she worshiped the ground Norman walked on and had for twenty years.

  Sometimes a man needed that.

  WHERE IN THE HELL ARE YOU, Rhonda?

  The question echoed in Butch Havelin’s mind as he turned the steak he’d started grilling before the call from Cassie had burst his mood and spoiled his celebration dinner. He was supposed to be meeting with and entertaining Cabot Drilling’s executive officers this weekend. Now he’d be flying to New Orleans to go with Cassie to talk to the cops.

  As for the mixup with the records at that bayou clinic, what more could you expect if you went to some quack who was accused of letting another patient die on the operating table? Rhonda had probably gotten there and backed out.

  He took the steak off the grill and plopped it onto a plate. It was rare, barely hot through and through, the way he liked it. Carrying the plate in one hand and a drink in the other, he settled at the outdoor table next to the pool. He took a few bites, then tossed his fork to the table. The damn steak tasted like glue, or else he’d lost his appetite.

  He was basically a nice guy but this had gone on long enough. He wanted his life back. He wanted his damn life back the way it was.

  Was that too much to ask?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SERGEANT BOSCO RYAN walked into his supervisor’s office at the NOPD and dropped the latest missing person’s file on his desk. “You gotta take a look at this. It’s the weirdest damn case I’ve ever seen.”

  “Weirder than that transvestite with the three breasts?”

  “Different kind of weird. The husband of the missing woman is Butch Havelin, the CEO of Conner-Marsh. The man’s got to be pulling down some major money, but he’s got a doozy of a wife—that is if he can find her.”

  “A certified nut?”

  “I don’t know yet. Rhonda Havelin is either a few raisins short of a fruitcake or one really smart cookie. She concocted some bizarre tale about a trip to Greece with a dead friend, even had postcards sent from there in her own handwriting, but according to airline records, she never left the country.”

  “The plot thickens.”

  “Gets thick as cold grits. The guy who was along with them for moral support and who I’d guess is banging the daughter, is the brother of Dennis Robicheaux.”

  “Guilliot’s anesthetist, the guy who killed himself?”

  “You got it. John Robicheaux, the illustrious ex-defense attorney.”

  “The media is going to have a field day when this leaks out. So what’s the deal on the missing woman? Do they suspect foul play?”

  “The daughter’s worried that it could be. The husband’s harder to figure. He didn’t say much for one of those corporate honcho types, but he seemed a little nervous.”

  “Do you think he’s behind the disappearance?”

  “That would have been my guess if the woman hadn’t told them all she was leaving, then withdrew fifty-thousand dollars from her personal bank account when she left town.”

  “And they have no idea where she went?”

  “That’s the real kicker in this. Butch Havelin hired a detective who located a driver who claims he picked Mrs. Havelin up at the New Orleans airport on May 9 and drove her and her luggage to the Magnolia Plantation Restorative and Therapeutic Center in Beau Pierre. The company he works for has records that verify that.”

  “It should be simple enough to find out if she had plastic surgery in Beau Pierre.”

  “Dr. Guilliot claims he’s never laid eyes on the woman and that she’s never had an appoi
ntment with him.”

  “So she went to Beau Pierre and that’s the last anyone’s seen or heard of her?”

  “Except for the postcards that she may or may not have mailed herself.”

  “What about that body part they found along the bayou the other day? Have they matched that with anyone?”

  “No, and this is where this case gets really interesting. The missing woman’s daughter, Cassie Pierson, works for Crescent Connection and was down south researching a story on Dennis Robicheaux’s death the day that partial hand was discovered. Get this. She happened to be driving by at the very time the troopers were there investigating.”

  “And, of course, she stopped.”

  “Of course.”

  “Hope you’re writing this down, Bosco? You can sell this to Hollywood.”

  “Guess that all depends on the ending. If we get a DNA match on that body part and Rhonda Havelin, this thing is going to blow sky high.”

  “Do you have DNA on the missing woman?”

  “I’m sure we can get the Houston police to dig some up at her house if we have to. Hairs from her brush, that sort of thing, but we’ll know before that. Cassie Pierson volunteered to provide a sample of her DNA, and if the match comes back positive, we’ve got ourselves one hell of a case.”

  “Someone has one hell of a case,” the boss said, looking over the notes. “The FBI could come in on this since the woman lived in Texas, flew to New Orleans and was last seen in Beau Pierre.”

  Bosco nodded, his thoughts already switching back to Cassie Pierson. She was a nice-looking woman, smart, too, and she was really worried about her mother. Bosco figured she had a reason to be, but he sure hoped he was wrong.

  Odds were, he wasn’t.

  CASSIE AND JOHN dropped Butch at the airport after the meeting with the NOPD and started the drive back to Beau Pierre.

  “Your father was quieter than I’d expected him to be,” John said.

  “I don’t understand how he remains so calm about all of this.”