by Joanna Wayne
A young, fun-loving anesthetist who was liked by everybody just didn’t seem the ideal candidate for suicide. Even if the surgery team was found guilty of malpractice, insurance would cover any settlement against Dennis. And unlike Norman Guilliot, he could move on easily enough. Magnolia Plantation wasn’t his baby, and he could likely draw the same salary or more at any hospital or clinic anywhere in the country.
She passed the church, made a few more turns and ended up on Bayou Road. It was narrow, bordered on both sides by boggy terrain. Her hands tightened on the wheel, and the muscles in her arms and neck bunched as she approached the spot near the bridge where Dennis had left the road. Someone had nailed a wreath of red plastic roses on a tree, and when she saw it, her eyes grew moist.
She imagined Dennis driving along in the wee hours of the morning under the influence of too many beers. His eyes would have been heavy, his concentration affected by the liquor and the hour. He could have easily drifted onto the shoulder, then gone into a skid and landed in the swamp.
She pressed the accelerator and sped by, turning at the dirt road where Dennis had lived. The house he never made it to. There were no addresses but the house was easy enough to find. The mailbox next to the road was adorned with the same type of plastic wreath that had hung at the crime scene, and someone had left a bouquet of flowers on the steps.
A photograph of the setting would provide a nice human interest touch to the article she’d eventually have to write. The heavy rains last night had left the yard and walkway to the front door a small lake. Cassie would have to buy a pair of boots today. They were a necessity in Beau Pierre, but for now she decided to take photos from inside the car.
Holding the camera outside the open window, she framed the shot so that she included both the flowers and the pirogue propped against the side of the house. Then she took a few more snapshots of the old shrimp boat in need of repair that sat next to the garage.
Cassie returned the camera to its case, jotted a few observations in her notebook, then took out her cell phone. It was as good a time as any to make a stab at reaching Butch. She punched in the number and left a message with Dottie when told her father was in a conference.
Butch called a half hour later.
“Dottie said you needed to talk to me.”
“I’d like you to check with the credit card companies for the cards that Mother carries and get a record of her spending. We can likely pin her down to a town with that, possibly even a hotel.”
“Why would I do that?”
“So we’ll know she’s okay and may even be able to talk to her.”
“It’s not as if your mother was kidnapped, Cassie. She planned this trip.”
“But it’s so unlike her. She’s never gone off like this before and certainly has never gone four weeks without talking to either of us. And she lied about who she was going with.”
“You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Okay. I’ve got to get back to the conference room now, but I’ll try to find out something after lunch and get back to you.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“In the meantime, don’t let this get to you. Your mother is a grown woman and perfectly capable of taking care of herself. I’m sure everything’s fine.”
“But you’ll check, right? And call me back?”
“I’ll call you as soon as I learn that your mother is traveling around Greece and charging up a storm.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He was right, of course. She was overreacting, but it was not like her mother to lie, and definitely not like her not to call.
“ARE YOU CERTAIN there are no foreign charges on that account?”
“Not since back in December.”
“What was that?”
“A piece of glassware from Milano, Italy. The charges were four-hundred-and-eighty dollars.”
Glass from Italy. Probably a Christmas gift, or that stupid colored bowl he’d broken while moving it off the dining room table for the New Year’s brunch. “Are there any charges for hotels or flights?”
“Not on this month’s bill. Actually, there are no charges on this month’s statement.”
“When was the last charge made?”
“May seventh. Dillard’s Department Store. The charge was eighty-two dollars and sixty-one cents.”
May 7. Two days before she left the country. Rhonda hadn’t gone that long without using her Visa since they’d had it.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Havelin?”
“No. Thanks for your help.”
He walked to the window and stared out at the view of Memorial Park. No charges on Rhonda’s Visa. No charges on their American Express. But she had to be spending, so that left cash or traveler’s checks. He walked back to his desk and punched his intercom button.
“Yes, Mr. Havelin?”
“Dottie, get my bank on the phone. I need to check the history on one of my accounts.”
“Yes, sir.”
The account Rhonda used was actually a joint account, even though for all practical purposes it belonged to her. All Butch did was transfer funds to it once a month, or more often if she ran low. He was exceedingly generous with her, always had been. She could have easily saved enough money to pay for this trip outright.
That was it. A perfect explanation for why there were no charges. This whole thing was some kind of show of independence. Somehow she’d found out about Babs and instead of confronting him with it, she’d taken off, probably hoping to have some kind of wild fling with a Greek playboy to get back at him.
“Line one for the bank, Mr. Havelin.”
Butch pushed the button, explained what he wanted to know, then listened while the woman on the other end of the connection rattled off the account history. The last transaction had been on May 6, a cash withdrawal in the amount of fifty-thousand dollars.
He let out a low whistle as he sank into his chair. He’d had no idea she had that much money in the account.
“Everything seems to be in order with that transaction, Mr. Havelin. Is there a problem with it?”
“No.” And yes. A real problem. A sane woman did not go to the bank and withdraw fifty-thousand dollars in cash and board a plane for Greece. This was about him and Babs. He was sure of it.
What if she’d left him for good, just walked out of his life never to return again? But she’d never do that for a mere fifty-thousand dollars. Half of all he had was rightfully hers and that would amount to several million.
Rhonda would have some kind of explaining to do when she got home. Patsy David. No itinerary. Traveling with that kind of cash. No matter how pissed she was that he’d had an affair, it was no call to pull a stunt like this.
Only, what if he was wrong? Suppose she was in some kind of trouble? Suppose she’d gotten mixed up in something and was afraid to tell him about it? What if she didn’t come home at all? What if she was…
Dead?
He wrapped his hands around his skull, squeezing as if they were a vice. God, he didn’t need this kind of worry now. He dreaded calling Cassie back with this information. She’d be more upset than ever and there wasn’t a lot he could say to make her feel better about this. He was about to make the call when Babs stepped into his office.
“You look like hell. What’s wrong?”
“This mess with Rhonda.”
“What now?”
“She took fifty thousand in cash out of her account and she hasn’t used her charge card since she left.”
“Why would she carry that much cash on her? That’s dangerous.”
“I don’t know why she’s done any of this.”
“I know you’re upset, but you better get your act together. We’ve got a meeting with the directors of Cabot in less than an hour, and you better be on your game if you expect this thing to fly. You’re the only one they listen to. Your future is riding on this merger.”
“Thanks for sharing that.”
“You know it’s true.”
“I know.”
His whole world had slipped right off its axis and was spinning out of control. But Babs was right. He had to get his act together and walk into that meeting in less than an hour as if he held all the aces. Never let them see you sweat.
Rhonda had been gone for four weeks. Even if something was wrong, another few hours wouldn’t make a lot of difference. He’d deal with that and with Cassie later.
CASSIE SPENT the rest of the afternoon playing the role of any good reporter. She had lunch at the Corner Café in town, making small talk with the waitress and another customer and catching scraps of every conversation she could while pretending to be immersed in a paperback book she’d read before.
All the talk was of the upcoming trial and Dennis’s suicide. As far as she could tell, no one else had reached the conclusion that Dennis had been murdered. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that the stress of the trial and accompanying publicity had driven Dennis over the edge.
Cassie kept a couple of interview appointments after lunch, one with an ex-girlfriend of Dennis’s who lived just outside of Larose, the other with a distant cousin who still lived in Beau Pierre but was old and ailing and hadn’t made the funeral. Both ladies had only glowing reports of Dennis. He was fun, smart and didn’t have a mean bone in his body.
But neither were all that surprised he’d caved under pressure. It was the Robicheaux curse. When she’d pressed for more information on that, they’d backed off, but she suspected they were referring to John’s giving up his law practice and moving back to the bayou country where he’d grown up.
Evening was coming now. The sun had started its descent and the temperature had dropped a few degrees but the humidity was over ninety, making the air feel like steam every time she stepped outside the car.
She turned off five miles out of town, taking the parish road that led down to St. Mark Church and the cemetery a half mile past it. The ground was drier here, and she parked under a sweet gum tree and stepped out of her car. There were a few in-ground graves, but most people were buried in stone mausoleums, probably to make sure the bodies didn’t wash away in a flood and go floating down the bayous.
Stepping carefully, she made her way through the cemetery to the only tomb covered in fresh flowers. The Robicheaux mausoleum was relatively small and not as elaborate as some of the others. It was a simple stone structure with a four-foot-high brass cross above the door and the names of the dead etched on marbleized plaques. Leon and Mary had died a year apart. One, two years ago, one, three. They had both been in their seventies, the grandparents whose names had been listed in Dennis’s obituary. Tommy Jo Robicheaux was their father. He’d died thirty years ago.
Cassie did some quick figuring in her head. Tommy Jo would have been forty-one at the time, and Dennis would have been only two. There were no other names, though she was certain the obituary had said both parents were deceased. But for whatever reason, Dennis’s mother did not share the family burial tomb.
There were several large bouquets of lilies and chrysanthemums and one smaller bouquet of daisies and mixed blossoms. But it was the one, long-stemmed white rose lying in the grass by the door that caught Cassie’s attention. It was fresh with drops of moisture still clinging to the stem, as if someone had come along minutes ago and dropped off the blossom.
Cassie felt weepy thinking about who might have left it, and wondering if they’d actually come back to the grave after everyone else had left to say a private goodbye. She took out her camera and snapped a half dozen pictures of it from several different angles.
She felt almost guilty, but she was a reporter on assignment. And if the rose touched her, chances were it would touch her readers.
Her cell phone rang as she started to walk back to the car. Her dad. Finally.
“Were you able to track Mother down?” she asked before he’d finished his hello.
“No, sweetheart. No luck at that.”
“But you did call the credit card companies?”
“I called them. The cards haven’t been used since two days before your mother left on her trip.”
“That can’t be. What is she using for money?”
“Cash.”
Cassie listened to the account of the fifty-thousand-dollar withdrawal as a new wave of apprehension swelled inside her. “Something’s wrong, Dad. Mom wouldn’t take that much money in cash. And she wouldn’t have lied to us, not unless something is really wrong.”
“She did it, Cassie. That’s all I can tell you.”
“What if she was coerced into this, or threatened?”
“There’s no indication of that. Your mother wanted to take a trip on her own and she did it.”
“What about the money?”
“It was hers to do with as she wanted.”
No. She wasn’t buying this. She couldn’t. “There must be more to this. Was she upset when you made the travel plans?”
“If she was, I didn’t know about it, and don’t lay this on me, Cassie. I’m not the one who left town. I’m here and trying to do my job.”
His job. How could he even think of that when they were discussing whether or not her mother could be in serious trouble, maybe even in danger?
“Does Conner-Marsh come before my mother?”
“You know better than that. Look, Cassie. We’re both upset but striking out at each other isn’t going to help. Your mother will be home next week and she can explain this herself.”
“What if she doesn’t come home, Dad? What then?”
“She’ll be here. Now, how’s the job going? Are you still in Beau Pierre?”
“Yeah.” She tried to talk about the situation with Dennis’s death and her interactions with John and Dr. Guilliot and some of the others in Beau Pierre, but she just couldn’t get past the newest news—or no news—on her mother.
“I need to go, Dad.”
“Okay. I have to fly to London first thing in the morning and I won’t be back until Saturday, but if you need me while I’m gone Dottie will track me down.”
“Do you have to go this week with all that’s going on with Mom?”
“It’s my job, sweetheart, just like being in Beau Pierre this week is your job. You take care. And don’t worry about your mother. I’m sure she’ll be able to explain everything when she gets home.”
But Cassie was worried and plagued with vague suspicions that refused to fully materialize but that clouded her mind. She brushed away the gnats that were flying around her face then looked up at the sound of the old black pickup truck bouncing down the dirt road.
John Robicheaux. The last person she needed to face at a point when she felt more vulnerable than she had at any time since her separation from Drake.
Even overcome with grief, John would still be pushy and demanding. She’d like nothing better than to disappear. Unfortunately that wasn’t an option, so she took a deep breath, stuck out her chest and struck a self-confident pose as he strode across the cemetery at a fast and furious pace.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CASSIE WAS PREPARED for some arrogant comment about her presence at the cemetery and for John to hurl accusations that she was using the circumstances surrounding Dennis’s death to build circulation numbers for Crescent Connection.
But he didn’t say a word as he approached. He just stared at her with those dark, piercing eyes until he stooped and picked up the solitary rose.
“Did you bring this?”
“No,” she answered. “It was here when I got here.”
Blood pooled on his index finger from the prick of a thorn but he didn’t seem to notice. “It all comes down to this,” he said. “In the end all of life comes down to a lonely graveyard. Did you write that in your article for next month’s edition, Cassie Pierson?”
“I haven’t finished the copy.”
“When you do, have the guts to stand to tell the truth even if
you’re the only reporter who does. Say that Dennis’s blood is on someone’s hands.”
“I know how hard this must be, but—”
“How would you know?” John stepped closer. The muscles in his face were pulled taut and his hands were clutched into fists as if he was about to slug someone. “How could you possibly know? Have you lost everyone in your life who meant anything to you? Have you just buried a brother who had no cause to die except some damn surgeon with an ego the size of the Superdome decided he was dispensable?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know what this is like for me, so don’t stand there and pretend that you do.”
Any other time she would have lashed back, but she didn’t have the heart to do it when she knew he had to be hurting so bad he could barely stand it.
“What will you do now?”
“What will I do?” He tossed the rose to the ground and wiped the blood he’d finally noticed on his jeans. “Go fishing, I guess. That’s a Robicheaux for you. Cram us between a rock and a hard place, slam us into the ground and kick our face in the mud, and we go fishing—or get drunk.”
“I meant, what will you do about proving this wasn’t suicide?”
He turned away from her and studied the new nameplate on the marble plaque as if it had the answers he was looking for. “Keep searching for evidence…and for someone who’ll talk. Dennis wasn’t the only person besides Guilliot in the operating room the day Ginny Flanders died. Hopefully at least one of them has a conscience not fully controlled by the great Norman Guilliot.”
“Then you’re still convinced this has to do with Ginny Lynn Flanders?”
“What else is there?”
“The usual reasons for murder. Money. Maybe jealousy. Everyone says Dennis had a way with the women. Could he have been fooling around with the wrong one?”