by DiAnn Mills
“I can wait.” It had to be as tasty as it smelled. “Ah, reminders of home, the joie de vivre, joy of life.”
She tilted her head as though deliberating his request. “I’d chat, but we’re getting ready for a community carnival tomorrow.”
“I saw the flyer on the clinic door. I could help.”
“We don’t have a clown if you want to volunteer.” There was the dancing smile again.
“I had that one coming.”
“Alex, I believe you’re wanting to interrogate me further and in my own home. What would your mawmaw say?”
He cringed at the thought of what his grandmother wouldn’t say but do. “I’m starved. If a question pops up, I’ll warn you.”
“How gracious.” Her tone indicated she didn’t believe him. “I won’t turn away an extra hand, even from a man who’s yanking my chain.”
Whitt peered up from stirring the pot. “Taking in another stray, Miss Stacy?”
Alex laughed. “You two have to be related.”
“Nah,” Whitt said. “I’m a neighbor and help out at the clinic.”
Alex made his way to the stove and breathed in the aroma of spices and the reminders of home, specifically the cooking. “And you made it in a cast-iron pot.”
“Dutch oven. My grandmother says it’s the only way to make gumbo. She said God gave man Jesus to redeem their sins and gumbo to redeem their stomachs.”
He laughed. “Mine would agree.” He took inventory of the modest home, decorated in off-white furnishings that looked like someone had beaten them with a chain. She liked fake flowers and green things. And bird nests.
“What is it you want to know? Ask me nicely, help us finish with these bags, move a few items into my truck so I can pull it halfway into the garage, and I’ll make sure you don’t leave with an empty stomach.”
“You drive a hard bargain, but okay.” Something about the woman intrigued him, and it was more than those cute freckles on her nose and cheeks.
She handed him a plastic bag and pointed to the items on the kitchen counter. “Question one?”
“Has anyone contacted you about the crimes?”
She glanced at Whitt and frowned, but he waved her away. “Miss Stacy, you’re not in the presence of a child unless you mean the guy in the sport coat packing a Glock.”
Alex stuffed a brochure into a bag. “Are you always such a wise guy?”
“Yep.” He grinned. “I’m twelve and have an IQ higher than most of my teachers. No, I don’t want to be recruited into the FBI. I’m going to be a vet or a shrink. Haven’t decided.”
What had Alex gotten himself into?
“Whitt, behave yourself,” she said. “I received calls from the Houston Chronicle and Channel 5. I declined them. That’s when I turned off my phone. Now I have a question. Why am I now the only witness to Todd Howe’s murder? Can I have the statement retracted to say I’m simply the woman who discovered the body? You’d mentioned the FBI issuing a press release.”
She had a point. “Our press release will go out around seven thirty tonight. But I admit the first media report sticks in the public’s mind. I’ll do my best to clear it up.”
“I’m not ready to be the next victim.”
“Let me know if you’re threatened.”
“Great.” Whitt huffed. “The FBI won’t ensure her security after her name’s smacked across the media? Does it matter she refuses to own a gun?”
Alex turned to the kid. “I understand your wanting to make sure she’s safe.”
“I’m looking out for her well-being, which you can’t do unless she’s been threatened, beaten, or killed.”
Stacy clasped both hands on the kitchen counter. “Stop it, you two. The crime will be solved, and I’ll be fine. I have more important things on my mind than someone thinking I saw a murder. Question two?”
“We’d like to have the clothes you wore today for blood traces.”
She raised a brow. “Really. They’re in the laundry. My boots have traces of horse manure.”
Whitt chuckled, but Alex refused to glare at him. Puberty at its finest. “May I have them?”
She nodded. “Why not? They smell and have Xena’s blood on them. Guess you’re looking for DNA, which means I’m your leading suspect. Thrills. Question three?”
“Is there anything you haven’t told me? Like frequenting a Green-to-Go restaurant?”
“Never been to one. Question four?”
“Do you own a handgun?”
“Whitt just told you I don’t do guns. I carry a pocketknife, which you have. Question five?”
“No more questions. I’m ready to load your truck.”
After squeezing what Alex believed had to be half the carnival supplies into the back of Stacy’s truck, he washed up while she ladled gumbo with potato salad into huge bowls and set a plate of hot corn bread on the table.
“This is like home,” he said. Even if he had to work for it. “Thanks.”
Her spoon rested in the bowl, and her fingers wrapped around a glass of iced tea. Preoccupied with what? The crime or something else?
She shook her head. “Incredible.”
He didn’t get it and tossed her a quizzical stare.
“Consider today,” she said. “Everything about it is insane, and now you’re eating gumbo in my kitchen when I should have tossed you out on your rear.”
He chuckled, but reality hit, and his gut twisted like an angry gator. The media’s declaration that she was the only witness to Todd Howe’s murder could put her life in danger. She was wading through a murky swamp. . . . Killers and domestic terrorists played for keeps.
ALEX FOUND HIS MANNERS, thanked Stacy for dinner, and helped clean up before leaving her home.
The media coordinator at Houston’s FBI issued a press release about the morning’s crime, and the report would be aired again on the ten o’clock news. It announced the FBI and HPD had formed a task force regarding Howe’s murder and the quadcopter, labeling the case as possible domestic terrorism. Fortunately, the release indicated Stacy had found the body and nothing more.
Stacy had given him an earful about the merits of airport rangers. She’d marched into the volunteers’ arena and waved her banner of citizen’s pride and the number of drug busts attributed to the organization. She neither raised her voice nor embellished the facts, and he’d researched the group prior to knocking on her door.
“I’m proud to serve my city,” she’d said. “I’ve been a part of the volunteer program for six years. And it was far better for me to ride into that scene today with Todd Howe’s body than a drug addict who’d have stolen his clothes for a hit of cocaine.”
“I won’t argue any further about it, but you know where I stand. We could have found both your bodies today. The person operating that quadcopter was on a mission, a deadly one.”
They’d sprinkled Cajun, the lifestyle, relatives, and great dogs into the conversation. He enjoyed her company, although Whitt tossed him poisonous darts all evening. Alex would have to increase his vocabulary to keep up with him. Just when the kid sounded his age, he’d use a ten-dollar word.
“What do your parents do for a living?” Alex had said.
A strange look passed over the kid’s face as though he’d been caught stealing. “Whatever is necessary. They aren’t home right now. Miss Stacy’s often my babysitter.”
Alex simply nodded. Earlier he’d observed her neighborhood had far too many abandoned properties, weed-infested yards, junk cars, repossessions, and broken windows. A handful of homes were the exception, as though defying the others. Stacy’s brick ranch fell into the responsible category with upkeep and landscaping. He admired her willingness to rally the community with a carnival.
Once inside his Jeep, he pressed in Ric’s number. Background noise reminded him that his partner was attending a family birthday party.
“Hey, bro,” Ric said. “Hold on a minute. I want to take this outside. Do you have an update?”
“I suppose.” Alex used his hands-free device and drove away from the curb before Ric got back to him. “Just came from Stacy Broussard’s.”
“Did you eat crow?”
“Gumbo. The real thing, straight out of my mawmaw’s kitchen. And yes, I apologized. I doubt she’s a suspect. She brought up the media naming her as a witness, but that was retracted by our office.” Alex relayed the conversation. “Media has said nothing about a composite drawing or a suspect, so that’s to her benefit.”
“The estimated time of death is between five thirty and six this morning. She made the 911 call at 6:47. If whoever controlled the quadcopter and killed Howe reads the full report, he’ll realize she’s not a threat.”
“I’ll text her when we’ve finished and give her your insight.”
“Is she afraid?”
“Body language showed some fear, but she denied it.”
“Any leads on the second man?”
“His shoe size is a 121/2 wide. No match with Howe. Did you see the Lab?”
Alex stared at the dark street. “She’s doing fine. No ID chip. Can’t be a stray with the circumstances.”
“How did the dog get there? And if it belonged to the killer, why leave the dog behind?”
“We’ll have the fingerprint and blood analysis in the morning. See what we have on file. And I have Stacy’s clothes for DNA testing. The blood on her clothes is probably the dog’s or even a trace of Howe’s, but I want to be sure. One more thing,” Alex said. “Her clinic is hosting a carnival tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to show up. Might offer to help.”
“Thought you didn’t believe she was involved?”
What were his conclusions? He liked the woman, was attracted to her striking blue eyes and dark hair. Her smile was incredible, but something about her mannerisms seemed off. “Remember the case we had a few years ago when our prime witness committed the crime?”
“Don’t tell me you’re still beating yourself up over that witness, bro. This isn’t the same scenario.”
“Dexter said pretty much the same thing today. Told me to move on. I promised myself I’d never be used like that again, especially by a woman. Today’s crime has mastermind stamped on it. If the quadcopter was scheduled to blind a pilot and take down an aircraft, then the area had been staked out to ensure success, which should have occurred before she got there.” His mind settled on the potential of hundreds of people meeting their death. “The airport rangers use the trail every Saturday morning. So did Stacy figure into the plan?”
“What about Todd Howe?”
“He’s our variable. Howe either found himself at a crime scene while taking a morning ride, or he had a hand in something that went south. My gut tells me Stacy and Howe are innocent, but I’ve got to keep an open mind.”
STACY WOKE EARLY SUNDAY MORNING. Sleep should have evaded her. Instead, exhaustion had drawn her into a perfect dreamworld, no nightmares about finding Todd Howe’s body or a drone chasing her. Or the unexpected visit by Alex LeBlanc. The verdict on him balanced on a scale with his Louisiana charm on one side and his irritating opinion of airport rangers on the other. But he had called instead of texting about his partner’s thoughts that she wasn’t in danger. Nice gesture.
She glanced at the clock—5:30. Ten more minutes . . . The scent of coffee wafted from the kitchen, luring her to grab a robe.
Whitt had brewed a pot of coffee. What a sweet boy. Would he one day call her Mom? This neighborhood grew worse by the day. She’d been looking for a home and clinic site in a top-notch school district. Whitt deserved a fresh start, new home and school. With God’s help, she could learn the mothering thing.
He must have heard her coming down the hall because a mug filled to the brim and laced with cream sat on the counter. He grinned, a sofa pillow imprint on his cheek. She ruffled his bedhead hair. Was it wrong to love someone else’s child and want him for her own? If so, she was guilty. She shoved aside a deep longing to hold him close. With what she’d read about twelve-year-old boys and their changing bodies and minds, she certainly didn’t want to approach him as anything but a mother figure. When the adoption was final, she’d hug him long and hard.
“You’re spoiling me,” she said.
“After last night’s dinner? You’re crazy.” He sobered. “You’ve been there for me when I was alone. You’ve encouraged me to be more, do more, and not be a product of my environment. You claim God has a purpose for me and urged me to not settle for less. Yeah, you push a few of my buttons, but it’s for my own good.” He wiped a dribble of coffee from the counter. “You don’t make fun of me when I cry.”
Stacy wanted him to have friends his own age. He hid behind his intelligence and humor, afraid other kids would find out the truth about his home life. Because of his small stature, he’d become the target of too many kids. In God’s timing his life would improve. . . . Perhaps she could afford a Christian school, as long as it offered advanced classes. For that matter, she’d need to enroll in Christian parenting classes.
She carried her mug to Xena and examined the dog’s paw. No swelling. Had to be a positive sign for the busy day ahead.
“Let me shower, and I’ll make French toast and bacon.”
He gave her a thumbs-up. “We should take Xena with us today. Neither of us wants to come home and find she’s been suffering or eaten everything that is and isn’t esculent.”
“I agree, and we can keep an eye on her. The kids will love her. Do you think she could handle the petting zoo?”
“I’ll keep her separate from the other dogs and not leave her alone. Gives me something to do.” He sat beside Xena. “You know, having the FBI guy here last night was weird. What’s up with that?”
She couldn’t quite label the emotion in his voice. “He’s doing his job, I guess. The crime is serious and unsolved unless there were new developments while we slept.”
“Maybe he thinks you’re hot,” he said.
“He’s not my type. Too opinionated. We won’t see him again.”
A car horn blared and Whitt groaned. When it didn’t let up, he hurried to the door. “The parents are home and Dad’s probably inebriated. Must have passed out on the horn again.”
The child in him was hurting, when raw emotions surfaced and he couldn’t use his mind to soothe his heart. “I’m coming with you,” she said, grabbing her phone. The last time Whitt tried to get his drunken parents into the house, his dad blacked his eye. Time to call the police and pray social services didn’t hear of it until he was officially placed in her care.
Whitt’s attention swung to the time—6:05 on a Sunday morning? He opened Miss Stacy’s front door to the ear-blasting sound belonging to his parents’ battered Ford parked in his driveway. A screaming guitar from the eighties penetrated his skull. Paint-scraped dents, a broken passenger window covered with duct tape, and a dangling fender reminded him of the many times his dad had driven home high and out of control. He never let Mom drive, even when he was in worse condition. At least the car contained a new battery, courtesy of Whitt.
Whitt made his way to the driver’s side, his insides burning at the thought of his scumbag parents. Why couldn’t they drink at home? Dad’s bloated cheek flattened the horn, mouth agape. Totally out. Whitt glanced into the backseat for Mom’s curled-up, undernourished body. Not there. Maybe she was in the house.
At least no one was driving by or walking the streets this early to spread the news. He hated it when word got out. The other kids were the worst. As if their houses didn’t have secrets. Most of them didn’t wear the battle scars like he did.
He jerked on the car door, ignoring its groans and Miss Stacy’s pleas to let her help him. Pity was another thing he despised, and when he felt like this, his mind swirled with inadequacy.
“Whitt, you aren’t alone,” she said.
Her light scent of peach met his nostrils, fresh and new, representing how life should be. A home . . . A family . . . What was wrong with him that he�
��d been given this loser’s hand? He used to dream about the parents cleaning up their dirt, but no longer.
He turned off the radio, then touched his dad’s shoulder. The big man didn’t budge. “Dad, the horn’s waking the neighborhood.”
He shoved an elbow into Whitt’s chest and cursed. “Leave me alone. Have a little respect for a man’s privacy.”
Whitt rubbed where Dad’s elbow hit him.
“Whitt,” Stacy said.
“I got this.” He tried to lift Dad’s head and breathed in a whiff of his breath, reeking of booze and garlic. A syringe and hypo needle had been tossed to the floorboard of the passenger side. Even an idiot could figure out this scenario. “Get up or someone will call the cops.”
“Touch me again, and I’ll kill ya. You—”
What should he do? Would this work for or against the custody hearing? “Wish I had the fifty grand they wanted from you.”
“Wait a minute. They told you about the money?” Miss Stacy said.
“Of course. Mom wanted me to apply a little pressure, see if you’d come through with the cash.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Never wanted you to find out.”
“Look at it this way. Your attorney can use it to our advantage. The judge will think the parents can’t be rehabilitated into the model mother and father.”
Dad coughed. “When I get outta this car, I’m gonna beat you, boy, for talkin’ family business.”
“Whitt, I’m calling the police. He’s violent, and you’ll get hurt.” Miss Stacy pressed in numbers on her phone. “This is Stacy Broussard. Ace McMann is passed out in his car. Yes, that’s the horn.” She gave the local precinct operator the address as if the cops hadn’t been there enough times to have it memorized.
He bit back stinging tears, more embarrassed than afraid. Should he pick up the drug stuff? Dad would be furious later if he left it.
“Leave the evidence intact.”
He whirled to face her. Had she read his mind? “Then what will happen?”
“Anything’s better than this. My lawyer can use it to your benefit. You can’t save them.” Her words were kind, and he swallowed the familiar lump in his throat. “Your parents have to make their own decisions.”
