Alligator Moon

by Joanna Wayne

  “Are you certain of that?”

  “That’s what’s coming up on the computer.”

  “Mrs. Rhonda Havelin, 2864 Jonquil Drive, Houston, Texas?”

  “That’s the address that’s listed. It would help to straighten this out if I had your reservation number.”

  “I’ll locate it and call you back.”

  Cassie slumped to the side of the bed, nauseous and confused, and wondering if she knew her parents at all. The anguish became a hard knot in her chest as she headed for a hot shower. If the airline was right, even the trip to Greece was likely a lie.

  FRIDAY, JUNE 11, three days since Dennis’s funeral and the first day they’d scheduled surgery since his death. That had been yet another mistake, Norman decided, as he tried to eat his lunch in the midst of the bickering that had started in the operating room and increased at a steady pace.

  “Why can’t we have normal chickory coffee like we used to instead of this flavored crap?” Fred complained.

  Susan poured herself a cup of the brew and added a pinch of sweetener. “You can have any kind of coffee you want if you weren’t too lazy to make it.”

  “And take away the only job you’re good at?”

  Guilliot tried to ignore the bickering and eat his sandwich, but it was getting damn hard to do. The entire surgery staff was falling apart on him, crumbling like that tasteless cake Annabeth had served him last night. The only good thing was that the new anesthetist didn’t hang around much once his day was through, so he didn’t know half of what was really going on on the third floor.

  “Doesn’t anyone around here put things back where they found them?” Angela said, sticking her head around the doorway and peering into the lounge.

  “Cut the anyone trash, Angela. We all know who you’re talking about so if you want to diss me, diss me.”

  “Okay, Susan, why isn’t Janelle Carson’s file where it belongs?”

  “Because I’m not through looking at it.”

  “Fine. I was just asking. You don’t have to snap at me.”

  “Why not?” Fred asked. “That’s all you two do anyway. This place sounds more like a kindergarten than a clinic.”

  Susan yanked the door of the refrigerator open and pulled out an anemic-looking salad. “You’re not exactly a barrel of fun yourself, monkey boy.”

  “I could just take the afternoon off,” Angela said. Her voice was shaky, and Guilliot hoped to hell she wasn’t about to burst into tears. If she did, he was taking the afternoon off, too. He’d drive the Porsche into New Orleans and get sloppy drunk in some two-bit strip joint.

  A nice thought, but he couldn’t do that. Sure as he did, a reporter would show up and snap his picture for the Times Picayune. He couldn’t even get drunk at Suzette’s. Drunks had a tendency to talk too much, and he couldn’t risk letting anything slip out. How many times had he warned Dennis of that?

  “Take the afternoon off,” he suggested, working to keep his voice calm. “You, too, Susan. Go shopping or just relax. Both of you do whatever it takes to make sure you have it together when the trial starts.”

  “I’m together,” Susan said. “It’s Angela and Fred who can’t speak in a civil voice.”

  “The trial has nothing to do with me,” Fred said. “I’m not named in the suit and I haven’t been subpoenaed as a witness.” He slammed his coffee cup down and glared at Susan as if daring her to say something else.

  Guilliot steamed. He’d had it with the lot of them. No longer hungry, he dumped the last half of his roast beef po’boy in the trash can and marched out. He went into his office and closed the door behind him, wondering if things would ever be the same again.

  His intercom buzzed. “Your wife is on line one,” the receptionist said.

  “Tell her I’m with a… No, never mind. I’ll take the call.”

  “Are you busy, sweetheart?”

  He exhaled slowly and let the sultry timbre of her southern drawl coat his ragged nerves. “I just finished lunch.”

  “How did surgery go?”

  “It went well. The patient’s in recovery.”

  “Good.”

  “So what are you doing today?”

  “I ran a couple of errands this morning. And this afternoon I’m getting a manicure and making crawfish pasta.”

  His favorite, and one of the few dishes Annabeth could actually do a halfway decent job on.

  “And for dessert, I’m thinking something hot and juicy and naked.”

  “Nice to know someone’s in a good mood today.” Especially since she’d been in a rotten one ever since Dennis’s death.

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  “The dessert sounds like surprise enough.”

  “No, it’s much better than that. But that’s all I’m saying until you get home. Will you be late?”

  “Not now,” he said. “How could I be?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. The only surprise he wanted was for all of this to be over.

  There was a soft knock at the door, hopefully not more whining. “Come in if you’re smiling.”

  “I could be,” Susan said.

  “What would it take to make that happen?”

  She stepped inside, stopping to close and lock the door behind her. “A little afternoon delight would help.” She sashayed across the room, her hips swaying and her blond curls bouncing around her baby blue eyes.

  His body hardened. She could be so damn sexy when she wanted to be, and she apparently wanted to be right now.

  “I thought you’d given up afternoon delight,” he said.

  “A temporary condition that I’m ready to remedy.” She pulled up her skirt and perched on the edge of his desk, giving him a peek of the good stuff. If she’d had panties on earlier, she’d shed them before coming in.

  He slid his hand under her skirt, played with her for a second, then dipped two fingers inside her. She was already wet, as if just thinking about him had gotten her juices flowing. That was a big turn-on for him. Always had been.

  Susan and Annabeth both knew how to push his buttons. And he knew how to push theirs.

  She put a finger beside his, feeling herself right along with him before she stopped to unbutton her blouse, slowly, letting the fabric fall away and exposing her bare breasts.

  He nibbled one and then the other, but he didn’t want to waste time on the preliminaries today. It was the first time in over a week that he’d been with Susan, and he wanted her mouth on him. He just wanted to get it off with her and feel the release.

  He unzipped his trousers and leaned back in his chair. “Take care of me, baby,” he whispered. “Take care of me.”

  And like a good nurse, Susan did.

  ANGELA BLEW HER NOSE, then wiped her face with the wet paper towel. She hated that she’d gotten upset. It just made this harder for Norman and this was difficult enough for him as it was. He’d done what he had to do. She understood that. He had such talent and skill. He couldn’t be expected to follow the same rules normal people did.

  She’d stop and apologize before she left. She stepped to the door, started to knock, then realized that someone was in the room with him.

  “Take care of me, baby. Take care of me.”

  She heard his words and the soft moans. But it wasn’t until she heard Susan’s voice paired with Norman’s moan that she realized what was going on.

  Her hands shook and fell to her side. She was shaking and fighting tears as she took the elevator to the first floor and rushed past the office staff without a word.

  Susan and Norman.

  How could he do this to Annabeth?

  How could he do it to her?

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT WAS LATE Friday afternoon and Cassie was driving south on Highway 308, back toward Beau Pierre and her rented cabin in the swamp. She still hadn’t heard a word from her mother or talked to her father about the round-trip flight the airline claime
d Rhonda had booked to New Orleans. She’d tried to reach him a couple of times in London, but hadn’t succeeded. Not that it mattered all that much. She was certain his response would be the same as it had been with every other complication. Wait and see.

  Besides, the more she thought about it, John could have touched on the truth the other night. She doubted seriously her mother was having an affair, but even though her father hadn’t admitted it, she and Butch could be having marital problems. If so, this could be her mother’s way of finding the time to think things through.

  New Orleans would make sense for that. It wasn’t that far from Houston if she’d changed her mind before the six weeks were up, plus it was where Cassie lived so it would be a logical choice for a permanent move if she decided on a divorce.

  If not New Orleans, which her mother had always found a little daunting, the bedroom communities of the Northshore had charmed her. It was easy to imagine her mother taking up residence in Covington or Madisonville—less than an hour outside New Orleans but miles away in terms of culture, entertainment and crime statistics.

  And if her mother had rented an apartment there to see if she could live and make it on her own, that would adequately explain her failure to get in touch with Cassie.

  A neat package. The problem was it was all conjecture. Nonetheless, it would all come to a head next Thursday when her mother was due to arrive back in Houston.

  Six days away and only four days before jury selection for the Flanders v. Guilliot case was set to begin. At that point, Cassie’s research in Beau Pierre would no doubt come to a close. The action would have moved to the courts. And Cassie would be back in her own town house where the water ran hot until she was out of the shower instead of jumping from scalding to icy and back without warning.

  Her sojourn in the bayou cabin hadn’t been as traumatic as she’d expected that first night. A couple of cans of bug spray had gotten rid of most of the six-and eight-legged creatures, and she’d almost gotten used to having a parade of alligators, snakes, nutria and ducks swimming past her door instead of the tugboats, barges, ferries and cruise ships that traveled the Mississippi River.

  The pressing problem of the moment was that she still hadn’t written the copy for the upcoming issue of Crescent Connection, even though her article was due on Olson’s desk by five o’clock, exactly—she glanced at her watch—ten minutes from now. Suicide or murder? Yet, how could she ethically plant the idea of murder in her readers’ minds when she hadn’t found one iota of evidence to back the claim?

  She hadn’t talked to John since Tuesday night. She’d left messages for him to return her call. He never had. He was brooding, mysterious and hard-edged, sociable only when he chose to be. He’d chosen to be that night, had given her a glimpse of the man behind the gritty facade. What she’d seen and heard convinced her he was not nearly as far from the astute, discerning attorney he’d once been as she and many others thought.

  But he still had provided no real motive for murder.

  Cassie slowed as she neared the cutoff for the road to the cemetery where Dennis was no doubt already decaying in the family crypt. She was exhausted, but still she was drawn to the place, as she’d been for the past three days. Each day there had been one lone white rose lying in the grass in front of the mausoleum. She felt compelled to see if one was waiting today.

  She made the turn then punched her boss’s office. As much as she hated to, she had to let him know that the copy was not going to be there on time.

  “FedEx delivery just came,” Olson said, not bothering with a customary hello. “I’m shuffling through your pictures as we speak. Love this lone white rose lying in the grass by the mausoleum.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Any idea who left it there?”

  “No, but there’s been a new one there every day.”

  “Could be the murderer. That would make great copy.”

  “And make for a stupid murderer.”

  “Hey, we’re talking copy, not police work. But you never know. He could have been killed by a jealous lover, caught in a twisted love triangle. Readers love that secret lover bent.”

  “So far no one’s admitted to being a lover. At least, not a current lover.”

  “You can still plant the idea in the readers’ mind without actually saying it. And speaking of the article, I hope this call is to say you’re about to fax it to me. I’d like to get the layout done tonight.”

  “That’s the bad news.”

  “I don’t like bad news, Cassie. Bad news gets me extremely agitated.”

  Then he’d just have to be agitated. “The article’s not written.”

  “So, go ahead. Tell me how you broke both arms and you’re having to type the article with your right foot.”

  “Actually, the right foot’s sprained. I’m typing with my left foot.”

  “You used that excuse last month. Did you interview that woman in Baton Rouge?”

  “Today, and one in Lafayette, as well. They both raved about Dr. Guilliot’s skill with a scalpel and I have to admit, they looked great. No sign of scars and both of them could have passed for being ten years younger than they are.”

  “No complaints, huh?”

  “Not a one. They both remarked on how professionally they’d been treated and raved about the excellent care they’d received during recuperation at Magnolia Plantation R & T.”

  “How’s that going to fit in with your murder/suicide question?”

  “It isn’t. And neither does anything else I’ve uncovered. There’s no evidence at all to suggest murder. I think we should trash that whole idea.”

  “Work with me here, Cassie. There has to be something. The guy’s dead from a bullet to the head.”

  “Which is the extent of the evidence.”

  “Does his brother still think he was murdered?”

  “He did the last time we talked.”

  “Then if nothing else, give his side of the story.”

  “Even if no one else in Beau Pierre shares his view?”

  “Why not? Build him up. An ex-attorney with a jaded past trying to see justice done. The readers will love it.”

  “You’re not going to dig up his past for the issue, are you?”

  “Of course. What’s the guy like now? As ratty and unkempt as I’ve heard?”

  Ratty, unkempt and so virile he fairly oozed testosterone. “He’s not so bad. I don’t think you should bring up John’s past. None of this is really about him.”

  “Sure it is. It’s about whatever you say it’s about. Say, you’re not falling for the guy, are you?”

  “Me?”

  “I’ve heard those hot-blooded Cajun guys are hard to resist.”

  “So you still want the focus to be on the murder/suicide question in spite of the lack of credibility?” she asked, changing the subject back to one that didn’t get her hot and bothered.

  “Do you think it’s possible Dennis Robicheaux was murdered?”

  She pondered the question and all its implications, trying to be honest. Was it possible that there was more to Beau Pierre than a friendly little Cajun town? Possible that Magnolia Plantation Restorative and Therapeutic Center held a cache of deadly secrets that someone would kill for rather than have them come to light? Possible that John Robicheaux of the dark, piercing eyes and whisker-studded face knew more about Dr. Guilliot’s potential for evil than anyone else imagined?

  “Either you do or you don’t,” Olson said insistently. “Which is it?”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “Then let’s go with it.”

  “Dr. Guilliot will be furious. He’ll cry libel.”

  “The louder he yells, the more readers we’ll pick up. Now get to work, Cassie. I need that article.”

  “You’ll have it before noon tomorrow.”

  “No later. I’ve got a magazine to get out.”

  Yes, Ogre, she mouthed as her phone started beeping. “Gotta go. I have another call com
ing in.” She switched to the next caller, as always hoping it was her mother but no longer expecting it to be.

  “Is this Cassie Pierson?”

  The voice was male, but so muffled she could barely understand him. “Who is this?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Her pulse quickened. “Does this have to do with Dennis Robicheaux?”

  “It’s related. I can’t talk about this over the phone. I need you to meet me somewhere.”

  The guy had definitely piqued her interest. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “There’s a marina in Cocodrie. Meet me there tomorrow morning at twelve. We’ll take a boat out.”

  “I’m not keen on meeting people who don’t identify themselves. If you expect me to show up, you’ll have to be more specific. What is this about?”

  “It’s about…Rhonda Havelin.”

  His voice had lowered to no more than a whisper, but it turned her blood to ice water.

  “What do you know about my mother?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow just before twelve and tell you where I am. Be in Cocodrie when I call. Alone. And don’t tell anyone about this call.”

  “What do you know about my mother?”

  The connection went dead.

  The cemetery was just a few yards in front of her, but instead of stopping, Cassie whirled the car around in the driveway and started back to Beau Pierre. All the conjecture about her mother’s being safe was just so much hogwash.

  Something was wrong. But what? And why?

  Cassie had heard of Cocodrie before, but she wasn’t sure exactly where it was. All she knew was that it was on the edge of the swampy land that dissolved into the Gulf of Mexico. It was not a place her mother would have ever willingly chosen to go.

  Tomorrow noon seemed an eternity away. She had to talk to her dad, had to let him know. Cassie’s heart was racing when she reached Suzette’s and her stomach churned so that she was afraid she’d throw up in the parking lot. Leaning forward, she propped her head against the steering wheel as the stranger’s voice echoed in her brain.