by Mary Ellis
“Jack Lejeune was a headache the entire time we partnered together. He’s very competitive and can’t tolerate the idea of a woman besting him at anything. When we both took the detective’s exam, I scored higher in every category. Yet when I made detective instead of him, he whined that my promotion came because of my…relationship with the chief.”
“Some men have more ego than intelligence. Surely other officers on the force recognized the truth.”
“People must have been nice wherever you worked last.” Beth forced a sad smile. “Anyway, thanks for understanding. No matter what happens today, this is the last time I go without you. Lock up on your way out,” she called over her shoulder.
Michael sat alone in Nate’s office, mulling over the case and his partner’s comments. When his thoughts drifted back to the last place he worked, he jumped to his feet. He suddenly had the urge to pound the pavement and burn up energy.
One person in particular at his last job was anything but nice.
TWENTY-ONE
Beth wasn’t sure why she’d made such a promise to Michael, but now that she had she felt better. She was tired of the innuendos and backstabbing for something that had never happened. Why should she be persecuted for something that existed only in people’s imaginations? Whether or not Jack Lejeune resented her until the day he died, she had a responsibility to Mrs. Dean and to Michael. With renewed determination, she drove to the station and marched up the front walk.
But before she could pick up the phone in the lobby, Sergeant Mendez walked through the door. “I take it you’re here to see the chief?”
“You take it wrong. I’d like to see Detective Lejeune, please.” Beth straightened to her full five feet six inches.
“You got an appointment?” Mendez spoke as though suffering with indigestion.
“I don’t, but is Jack here? This won’t take long.” She hiked her purse higher on her shoulder.
“Won’t take no time at all because he ain’t here.”
“In that case, I’d like to make an appointment.”
“If I remember right, Detective Lejeune has an opening a week from Tuesday. Does that work for you, Miss Kirby?” Mendez’s grin turned malevolent.
“It does not, but I’ll call and leave a message for him. Thanks anyway.” Feeling her face grow hot, Beth turned and hurried from the building. Before leaving, she checked the lot and saw that Lejeune’s vehicle was gone.
Because it was too early to go home, Beth bought the largest latte and stickiest cinnamon bun available and parked across the street from the station. Two hours later her patience was rewarded. Jack drove into the lot and parked cockeyed in a spot. As he strolled toward the back entrance, Beth intersected his path.
“Hey, Jack. Can a have a word with you?”
“I’m kinda busy, Kirby.” He pulled his sunglasses down with one finger. “Didn’t the sergeant make you an appointment for next Tuesday?”
“This can’t wait a week,” she said, unsurprised that news of her visit had already reached him. “My partner and I noticed some irregularities in your report of the Dean suicide.”
His smug grin vanished. “Oh, you did? You’re no longer on the force, Kirby, so nobody cares what you think. The chief had no business giving you the case file.”
“Price Investigations represents Mrs. Dean. She believes her husband was murdered and so do I.” Beth divided her weight between her feet as though ready for a fistfight.
“Based on what?” Jack spat the question. “You got me curious.”
“According to the police report, the rope was a braided natural manila that had been looped over the beam. I checked. That stuff picks up fingerprints, yet none were found. Also, Reverend Dean was meeting somebody at the house that afternoon, someone neither his assistant nor wife knew about.”
“That’s it? The lack of fingerprints and a mysterious visitor? Maybe the preacher had a girlfriend on the side. Maybe she’d broken up with him, and that’s what sent him over the edge.”
Beth’s hands balled into fists. “Look, sleazeball, Reverend Dean didn’t have a lover. What about the two parallel bruises on his neck? That would indicate two separate hanging attempts. You’re telling me an out-of-shape man, gasping for air, shortened the rope and tried again?”
“No, Beth. I’m not telling you anything.” Jack jabbed his finger into her collarbone, an action that surpassed audacious. “That’s the conclusion of the coroner who examined the body. If he says death by suicide, and I’ve got no evidence to the contrary, then that’s what we got.”
She knocked away his hand. “We need a second opinion on cause of death. Maybe the ME in Jackson can take a look.”
“Reverend Dean is already in the ground. It costs a bundle to exhume a body. The county ain’t going for that without probable cause, and we don’t have that.”
“Says you?” Beth was losing patience.
He glared down at her. “That’s right. Says me. I’m the lead detective on this case and you’re not. Oh, wait. You’re not even on the force anymore. Or did you happen to forget that?”
“I know exactly who I work for. I want you to run our concerns by Chief McNeil. Let him make the call as to whether or not we have probable cause.” Beth shifted her weight to the other hip, ignoring the attention they were drawing.
“You just won’t give it a rest, will you? Back off and leave the chief alone.”
Beth shook her finger in front of his nose. “This has nothing to do with Chris or me or even you. Other than the fact that you’re the laziest cop I know,” she added, her patience running out. “This has to do with Alice Dean’s suspicion that her husband was murdered. Will you talk to Chris or shall I?”
Jack offered an unexpected smile, which improved his bland features tremendously. Someone might even find the guy handsome if he didn’t have the personality of a toad. “Sure. I’ll talk to him before my shift ends. But if I were you, Kirby, I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” Ambling away, he entered the station without a backward glance.
Beth drove home, gritting her teeth as the double latte burned a hole through her stomach. That evening, all she wanted to do was eat and then curl up in front of some mindless sitcom on TV, but her mother’s sullenness at dinner was a harbinger of a coming storm.
“Good meat loaf, Mom,” said Beth, adding more catsup to the crust. “And these mashed potatoes are great.”
“Then why don’t you eat more?” Rita aimed her fork at Beth’s plate. “You haven’t tried any of my succotash. Have you got man problems on the mind?”
Beth choked on a burnt piece. “Man problems? I haven’t had a date in years.” She glanced at her father, but he was watching the ball game on the kitchen counter.
Rita took another spoonful of mixed vegetables and added some to Beth’s plate. “I heard from a friend that you went to see Chief McNeil. You can’t possibly think something good can come from that.”
“I hope the dispatcher didn’t put any 9-1-1 calls on hold while your friend called you five minutes after I walked out the door. Doesn’t anyone mind their own business anymore?”
“Barbara worries about you, the same as me. She’s known you since you were born.”
“Yes, and she’s always been nice. So you may tell Barbara that my visit was strictly connected to the case I’m on.” Beth added more gravy to her potatoes. “I’m a PI working in Natchez. I can’t avoid law enforcement if I want justice for my clients.”
“Then you should talk to Chief McNeil with his door open. Don’t give people a reason to gossip about you, not if you want your reputation to recover.” Rita dabbed her lips with a napkin. “And you wonder why you haven’t had a date in years.”
“I don’t wonder, Mom. Boys don’t like girls who are smarter than them, or shoot better, or run faster, or jump higher. Never have and never will.” Beth stuck her knife and fork into the meat loaf and pushed away her plate.
Stan switched his attention from the Atlanta Braves to his daught
er. “Pay no attention to those inferior specimens.” He patted Beth’s arm. “When a man worthy of your affections comes along, you’ll recognize him on the spot.”
“Thanks, Pops.” Beth buzzed his cheek with a kiss on her way to the sink.
The ring of the wall phone curtailed Rita’s initial comment. “Who would be rude enough to call during the dinner hour? Kirby residence,” she barked, and then in a gentler tone she said, “One moment, please.” Pressing the receiver to her chest, Rita said to Beth, “It’s Chief McNeil for you.”
Beth grabbed the phone, asked him to call back on her cell, and ran to her room. Sitting in a yoga pose between the wall and her bed, Beth stared at her phone as though she were in high school. When it rang, panic shot through her veins like electricity.
“Hello, Chris.”
“Hey, Beth. Sorry I interrupted your supper.” As usual, the sound of his easy drawl raised goose bumps on her arms.
“Your timing couldn’t have been better. Did Jack explain my request on behalf of our client?”
With his usual proficiency, Chris repeated her words to Jack practically verbatim.
“Wow, I didn’t think he was even listening to me,” she said.
“He listened, but he doesn’t agree with either your assessment or Mrs. Dean’s suspicions.”
“Actually, it was my partner at the agency who found the discrepancies.” Beth refused to take undeserved credit. “What do you think?”
There was a pause, as though he took a sip of something. “I didn’t like the double injuries to his throat either, but that, along with a lack of fingerprints, won’t be enough for a judge to order an exhumation. However, if Mrs. Dean requests another opinion and is willing to pay for it, that would take care of it. It’s unfortunate that it comes down to dollars and cents, but I must be realistic with you.”
“I appreciate that. I will talk to Mrs. Dean tomorrow and let you know.”
“Very good. In the meantime I’ll instruct Jack that if Mrs. Dean demands an exhumation, he will talk to the coroner along with you and Mr. Preston. You must work with Jack on this, Beth, because I want the letter of the law followed when the state medical examiner gets involved. Will you be able to put past differences aside and defer to him during your investigation?”
“Absolutely. I can behave as a professional on behalf of our client.”
“Fine. Then you’ll have no problems with Natchez PD. If foul play was involved in the death of Pastor Dean, we’ll help you find it. Jot down the number to Jack’s cell.”
Beth grabbed a pen and wrote the number on her palm. “Thanks, Chris, I appreciate your intervention.”
“No thanks necessary. It’s my honor to serve Natchez to the best of my ability. Good night, Beth.” He hung up without waiting for her reply.
It was just as well, because she couldn’t think of a single clever thing to say.
TWENTY-TWO
Bay St. Louis
Friday
Isabelle kissed her husband’s forehead and cheek without a response. Then she planted a kiss firmly on his lips and received only a sleepy grunt in return. Growing impatient, she shook his shoulder. “Na-ate,” she sang. “Time to get up.”
He turned over, pulling the sheet over his head. “No, Ma. I don’t want to go to school today.”
Isabelle took hold of his nose and twisted. “I am not your mother, and you’re getting up this minute.”
Nate bolted upright so fast Isabelle fell off the bed. “You little troublemaker. I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget.” He tickled her ribs through her cotton top.
She slapped his hands away. “I knew you were faking. Now go jump in the shower so we can be in position by zero seven hundred.”
Frowning, Nate crawled from the bed. “Mrs. Russo won’t even have breakfast on the table, and I’m starving.”
“I asked her to pack breakfast to go. We can eat while on surveillance.” Isabelle ignored Nate’s grumbling as she fluffed up their pillows.
Twenty minutes later, parked outside the Golden Magnolia, she pulled ham and egg croissants, two containers of fruit salad, and a thermos of coffee from a wicker hamper. “Mmm,” she said, opening one sandwich. “This smells delicious.”
Nate unwrapped his and took a bite. “What, no orange juice?”
Isabelle lifted out an orange plastic bottle. “Mrs. Russo thinks of everything. I wish I could live at her B and B forever.”
Nate took a long swallow and smiled. “Me too, sweet thing. That’s why I don’t like wasting our time with Craig.”
“Looks like we won’t waste much today.” Isabelle pointed at the entrance where Craig strolled from the casino, unaware of the approaching storm. She dropped her sandwich into the bag and jumped from the car.
Nate did the same, although with far less spring in his step.
“Good morning, Craig. Looks like another perfect day in paradise,” she said cheerily.
He sighed mightily. “Izzy, Nate. What are you doing here? I thought I made myself perfectly clear—”
“Relax,” she said. “We just want to buy you breakfast and see if you want to spend the day with us. Why don’t we take one of those fishing charters and catch a huge herring for supper?” Isabelle spread her hands to indicate a three-foot fish.
“No, no, and no. Just for the record, a herring is a tiny fish, barely enough for a pelican’s supper.” Craig slipped on his sunglasses and marched across the parking lot.
Isabelle quickly dogged his steps. “Please, Craig? I remember you once loved fishing but rarely had time for it. This is your big chance before your new job starts.”
“No thanks, Isabelle.”
As Craig dug for his keys, she cast her husband a pleading look.
“Come on, buddy,” said Nate, rallying to her cause. “Why not get away from the tables for a while? Let’s grab something to eat and talk sports. Izzy knows football like she knows fish.” Nate slapped Craig on the back.
“As appealing as that sounds, I’ve got to hit the sack. I’ve been up all night. Maybe before you two head back to Natchez.” Craig climbed into his car and lowered the window.
“Everybody’s got to eat. If you have breakfast with us, Izzy will stop dragging me out of bed before the sun’s up. You know how persistent she can be.”
“All right. One breakfast, but I pick the place. Follow me to the best food in Bay St. Louis.” Craig started the engine.
On the way to their car, Isabelle bumped Nate with her hip. “Later you’ll have to elaborate more on my personality. I’m utterly fascinated.”
“Just trying to convince him to join us. It worked, didn’t it?” With a wry smile Nate fell in behind Craig’s Toyota for the short drive.
Isabelle couldn’t argue with success, but their battle with Craig was just getting started. In the small diner with the biggest menu she ever saw, Craig gave his order the moment the waitress appeared.
“I’ll have three eggs, scrambled, bacon extra crispy, two flapjacks, wheat toast, and coffee,” he said.
Isabelle thought about her uneaten croissant in the car. Despite her aversion to wasting food, she ordered blueberry pancakes to be sociable. Nate selected shrimp and grits with a side of ham. While they waited for their food, the two men chatted about Saints and Titans football, and ran through the draft prospects for Ole Miss, Mississippi State, and LSU for good measure.
Isabelle tried to be patient, but when she started to nod off from boredom, she broached the topic on her mind. “The Gulf Coast has recovered nicely since Katrina. Why don’t you come sightseeing with us? We don’t mind company, and if you stay out of the casino, you’ll have money to take back to Nashville.”
“I’ll pass, Izzy.” Craig leaned back as the waitress placed a mounded platter in front of him. Then he picked up his fork and attacked the food as though he hadn’t eaten in days. Isabelle and Nate began to eat as well but with far less gusto. After several minutes, Craig took a slurp of coffee. “I’ve seen all
the attractions I came here for. I’ve played a few tournaments. Now I’m getting invited to serious games. If I drop out of sight, I might lose my chance to win big.”
Isabelle arched her back against the vinyl seat. “Well, perhaps after Cassie arrives, you can tear yourself away long enough to walk the beach.”
Craig choked on the piece of bacon he was chewing. “What? You called Cassie after I told you not to?” He threw his fork down with a clatter. “Why are you still tormenting me after all these years?”
“I didn’t call her. She called me.”
“If you would have minded your own business in the first place—”
“Wait a minute, Craig,” Nate interrupted.
“No, you wait. You have no idea what trouble your wife has caused. If there’s any way to stop Cassie, you must do so. It’s not safe for her here.” Craig looked so anxious, so desperate, that Isabelle felt a jolt of fear run up her spine.
“If it’s not safe for Cassie,” said Nate, dropping his voice to a whisper, “it’s not safe for you, either. Let us help you for old times’ sake, before you’re in over your head.”
“Man, you are totally clueless. I’m already in over my head. It’s too late for intervention.” Craig imbued the word with derision. “I know you mean well, Nate, but please talk sense into Izzy. Keep her away from me. I don’t want her, or you, or my wife to get hurt. Trust me when I say there’s no other way.” Craig jumped up from the booth and ran out the door.
Isabelle and Nate stared at each other. Then Isabelle started crying, unsure why she cared so much about her ex. “Well, that’s it. No matter what happens, we tried our best.”
Nate shook his head. “No, my love, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him. Not by a long shot.”
TWENTY-THREE
Natchez
Michael awoke to a ruckus below his window on the street. Either the trash haulers were trying to wake the dead, or someone irate was attempting to gain entry to his building. Stretching lazily, he padded to the coffeemaker in time to see a rock bounce off his kitchen window. A rock large enough to rattle the glass but small enough not to break the pane.