Alligator Moon

by Joanna Wayne

  He’d never wish anything bad on Rhonda. He just didn’t like her company much anymore and didn’t get the feeling she cared too much for his. She didn’t laugh at his jokes or show interest in anything he enjoyed. It had been years since she’d gone with him to an Astros game, years since they’d gone mountain biking or deep-sea diving or taken walks in the moonlight. And making love with her held about the same thrill as watching the cracks in the hard Texas dirt dry up after a rain.

  “There’s more, isn’t there?” she asked, reading his mood the way she always did.

  “There’s more.”

  She listened without saying a word until he’d reached the point where Cassie had waited for an hour for the man’s phone call before she’d given up and driven back to Beau Pierre from Cocodrie.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I contacted a detective in New Orleans. I’m flying there on Monday to meet with him.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait until Thursday and see if she’s on that flight?”

  “Cassie doesn’t think so, and I’m inclined to agree with her. If something is wrong then the sooner we act on this the better. It’s already been almost six weeks.”

  Babs scooted closer and laid her hand on his arm. “Do you think this has to do with us, Butch? Could she have found out that we’re seeing each other and planned this scheme to pay you back?”

  “That’s crossed my mind.”

  “You don’t think she’s in real danger, do you? She hasn’t been kidnapped or…”

  “I can’t imagine that she has, but I don’t know. If all she wanted was a separation, I don’t understand why she didn’t just say to. But then Rhonda’s always had her own way of looking at things and they seldom make sense to me. One time they found a lump in her breast, and she wasn’t even going to tell me about the biopsy—she wouldn’t have if she hadn’t had an allergic reaction to the anesthetics and almost died.”

  Even Babs looked worried now. “Suppose it’s something like that again? What if she has cancer and doesn’t want you and Cassie to know she’s going through chemotherapy?”

  “I’d hate to think she’d go through something like that alone, but I wouldn’t put it past her. That’s why I hired the detective. I just don’t know what to believe right now.”

  “What do we do about us, Butch?”

  He cradled her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. This was hard, so much more difficult than he thought it would be when he first became involved with her.

  “I think it’s best if we don’t see each other outside the office until this thing is settled, Babs. I hate for it to be this way, but I think it’s best for both of us.”

  She nodded but held on to him so tightly he could feel her fingers digging into the muscles in his arm. He’d expected an argument from her, maybe even hysterics or tears. But hysterics weren’t Babs’s style.

  “I know you’re right,” she whispered, “but stay tonight, Butch. Give me one more night in your arms and then don’t wake me when you leave. I don’t want you to see me cry.”

  “One more night,” he agreed.

  He didn’t mean the parting to be forever, but he couldn’t get past the feeling that it would be, or that he’d never again feel as needed or as loved as he did in Babs’s arms right now.

  CASSIE STOOD on the narrow front porch of the rented cabin, coffee in hand, observing the Sunday morning activity along the bayou. A blue heron stood on the bank, one leg up, as if waiting for the next beat of a dance tune. Four baby ducks swam in a row behind their mother and one more straggled behind. One log was lined with turtles sunning themselves in the morning sun. Another log floated in the tall grass in the boggy area a few yards from where she was standing.

  She stepped toward the bank, and the second log came to life, swishing through the weeds and diving below the surface.

  An alligator. Shivers slithered up her spine and she stood frozen to the spot, not moving until the gator surfaced again. He was farther down the bayou now, but close enough that she could still see the bony armor along its back and the shovel shape of its gray-green snout.

  John had indicated they weren’t all that dangerous, that they’d choose easier meals than an adult, but the badly chewed and decaying hand that the boys had found was adult-size. The image stuck in her mind, and she lost all taste for the coffee and the day.

  Not that she’d had much taste for the day to begin with. There was no getting her mother off her mind anymore. Cassie was relieved that Butch was hiring a detective, but the fact that he was that concerned only increased Cassie’s fears. They could both be overreacting. If her mother was on Continental flight 622 to Houston next Thursday, all would be well.

  If she wasn’t…

  If she wasn’t, the real fear would set in.

  Cassie poured the coffee onto the ground and went back inside. She stepped out of her shorts and wiggled the T-shirt over her head. A quick shower and then she’d find a more constructive way to spend her day than watching alligators take their breakfast swim and worrying about things she could do nothing about.

  Cassie pushed back the plastic shower curtain, stepped onto the cracked tile floor and twisted the knobs. She adjusted the temperature toward hot, then jumped back as a blast of near-scalding water pounded her on the back. Too hot or too cold were the only temperatures available in the cabin. Add that to the ever-growing list of things she wouldn’t miss when she left Beau Pierre.

  As to the things she would miss, that was easy, though ludicrous. She was going to miss John Robicheaux. Actually she missed him already. She’d half expected him to call when he’d heard the news of the body part that had been found in the bayou.

  He hadn’t.

  But then she’d been the one who had walked away Friday night, so maybe he was waiting for her call. Sunday morning with John Robicheaux. It had interesting possibilities. Tingling sensations not associated with the water temperature danced along her nerve endings, and she knew that if she went out to his house again, they’d make love.

  The sex would be great, but after that, things would get awkward. They had nothing in common but the situation in Beau Pierre and a super strong case of lust. It couldn’t be more. Their lives were at opposite ends of the spectrum. There was nowhere for the relationship to go.

  She stepped out of the shower and grabbed one of the thin white towels, rubbing her body vigorously. The mirror over the sink was cheap glass that gave her face and the wall behind her a wavy appearance. She leaned closer to get a look at her eyes. Not nearly as wrinkled as John’s but he probably had ten years on her. Ten hard years.

  Still, here she was at thirty-two, afraid to kiss a man because it might go further. Afraid to make love with John even though her desire for him on Friday night had all but consumed her.

  Marriage had done this to her. Living with Drake had robbed her of self-confidence and made her afraid to trust her judgement or take chances.

  It was time to move past that, and she wanted to. She really did, but it seemed a lot easier said than done. Like falling off a horse, Janie had said. You fall off, you get back on. You lose your confidence with one guy, you find it with another.

  Cassie didn’t expect a guy to give her back her self-confidence, but the divorce was final. She was a free woman—a free and horny woman who hadn’t been touched in any kind of intimate way since she’d walked out on Drake fourteen months ago. And she’d never needed a man more than she did right now.

  Hurrying before she backed out, she called John’s number and waited. The phone rang six times. Her finger was on the button to end the call when someone answered.

  “Hello.”

  The voice was soft and breathy. And female.

  Cassie broke the connection and hurled the phone to the bed. Sonofabitch! All that emotional haggling with herself about whether or not she should risk seeing him again, and he was home going at it with someone else.

  As far as she was concer
ned, fate had stepped in and kept her from making a big mistake.

  Cassie sat at a back table in Suzette’s, nursing her iced tea and occasionally spooning bites of warm, rum-covered breaded pudding between her lips. Mainly she was people watching. Suzette’s was always a good place for that and Sunday noon was no exception.

  There were several family groups, a few singles and some couples. Most people who came in seemed to know each other and thought nothing of yelling out greetings or even making conversation with someone at the next table or across the room. A few even waved and spoke to her, but no one approached her table. In spite of what Olson had said, spending her days and nights in Beau Pierre had not kept her from being an outsider.

  “You want more tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You’re that reporter lady staying down in the cabins, huh?”

  “I am. My name’s Cassie Pierson. What’s yours?”

  “Celeste.”

  The waitress was young, sixteen at the most, with long black hair and incredibly thick lashes. Cassie had noticed her in here before, usually working nights and always in a pair of low-riding black shorts and some kind of stretchy top that showed a lot of cleavage for a girl that young.

  She wore a short denim skirt and a cotton shirt today, not nearly as revealing as her usual attire, but she still got stares from half the men in the place.

  “Do you live in Beau Pierre?” Cassie asked when the girl continued to stand at her table.

  “In Galliano. It’s not far. My husband brings me to work and picks me up. He don’t trust these guys down here.”

  “You’re married? You seem so young.”

  “I’m seventeen in two weeks.”

  Which was very young, not that Cassie had made a great choice in husbands by waiting until her twenties.

  “Have you worked here long?”

  “Just a week. I started the night that guy killed himself.”

  “Dennis Robicheaux?”

  She nodded. “I waited on him and his brother that night.”

  The girl glanced behind her then turned back to Cassie, tangling her hands in her hair. “I heard ’em talking.”

  Keep it nice and friendly. The girl’s nervous enough. Don’t frighten her into silence. “You must have heard something interesting.”

  “I don’t guess it means nothing now, with him killing himself and all, but the man that killed himself made a phone call while his brother was in the men’s room.”

  “What was the call about?”

  “He told someone not to worry about Cassie Pierson, ’cause you’d never figure things out. I saw your name on the list of people staying in the cabins later. That’s when I remembered what he’d said.”

  Cassie tensed and squeezed her hands around the glass of tea.

  “Are you sure he said Cassie Pierson?”

  “I’m sure he said Cassie. That’s my sister’s name, and that’s when I started paying close attention, but I’m pretty sure he said Cassie Pierson. I remembered ’cause I don’t know no Piersons and I was wondering who he was talking about.”

  This was too bizarre. She’d never been in Beau Pierre back then, didn’t know Dennis, hadn’t been assigned to this case. And yet Dennis Robicheaux had mentioned her name the night he was murdered—said not to worry about her because she’d never figure things out.

  The dirty secrets of Beau Pierre. They’d become personal now, reached out and pulled her inside. Only how could they? She struggled to hide the apprehension and fear that swelled inside her and made it difficult to breathe.

  “Did Dennis’s brother mention me?”

  “No, just Dennis, and he stopped talking and put the phone away when his brother came out of the bathroom.”

  “Was anyone else at the table with Dennis when he made that phone call?”

  “No.” She glanced behind her again. “I got to get back to working. Suzette don’t like it if I talk too long to the customers when we’re busy. Told that to me two times today already.”

  “Thanks for the information,” Cassie said, striving to keep her voice calm. “And if you think of anything else Dennis said in that phone conversation, call me. It’s important that you call me.”

  “That’s all I heard.”

  Reeling from Celeste’s words, Cassie finished her tea and was about to leave when Norman Guilliot stepped through the door. The room grew quiet and all eyes went to him. He waved and shouted greetings to everybody and the noise level shot up again.

  He worked the room like a politician, stopping to talk to everyone and ruffling the hair on kids’ heads. Cassie watched the show and wondered just how much of it had to do with the trial. The people in here couldn’t influence the jury, but what they said about him to reporters did influence public opinion, and he was out to do more than win. He needed to come out the wounded hero in all of this. That was tough work when he was facing a well-loved TV evangelist like Flanders and a high-profile attorney like Drake.

  “Nice to see you again, Cassie.”

  “Thanks, but you could have seen me anytime. All you had to do was return my calls.”

  “I’ve been busy. And so have you. Word is you’ve talked to pretty much everyone in town.”

  “I like to be thorough.”

  “Some folks think you’re stirring up trouble by buying into the trash John Robicheaux’s been talking. I guess you’ll give his side of all this in the next edition of Crescent Connection.”

  “John has a right to his opinion. I have a right to report it. Crescent Connection has the right to print it.”

  “Dennis wasn’t murdered.”

  “How can you be so sure, Dr. Guilliot? You weren’t there. No one was, unless there was a killer.”

  “I knew Dennis well. He had lots of problems.”

  “Like what?”

  “I know he dropped out of school for a year after he did a clinical with me. I think he went to get help with a drug problem. Were you aware of that?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.” And John certainly hadn’t mentioned it. “No one else in town mentioned a drug problem.”

  “And they never will, not to an outsider.”

  “They admitted to me that he was a womanizer.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t use that word. Drinking too much, liking the women. It’s not that big a deal down here. We tend to pass a good time here.”

  “So what’s your point, Dr. Guilliot? What does a drug problem in the past have to do with Dennis killing himself? Was he on something here? Did he screw up with Ginny Lynn’s anesthetics? Is that what killed her? Because if that’s what you’re saying, you’d best settle your case with Reverend Flanders out of court.”

  “Make no mistake, Cassie. Dennis’s work was always impeccable, as is everyone else’s on my staff. I’d never have let him into my operating room if I had suspected differently.”

  “Then why tell me about the drug problem?”

  “Because Dennis tried to kill himself then, too. And he would have, if a good friend hadn’t stepped in and stopped him.”

  “Who was the friend?”

  “It damn sure wasn’t John. He was off wallowing in self-pity and drinking himself into oblivion. I was the one who saw that Dennis got proper care and stayed with him until he came to his senses. He checked into a drug rehabilitation center in New Orleans the following week.”

  “And you think it follows that if he tried to kill himself before, he’d try it again.”

  “He would if he was having the same problem.”

  “What makes you think he was?”

  “The autopsy that John insisted on showed prescription painkillers in his blood. Ask John about that when you see him again, Cassie. Ask him for the whole truth. I just thought you should know all the facts before you write your article and send it out to the public.”

  “It’s a little late for that, Dr. Guilliot. Why didn’t you mention any of this when I met with you last Monday?”

  “I d
idn’t see the autopsy report until I met with my lawyer yesterday.”

  That made sense. All of this made sense, but none of it explained enough.

  “I feel I have to warn you to be careful around John Robicheaux, Cassie. He manipulates and lies and he can’t be trusted. Dennis would have been the first to tell you that.”

  “More tea?” Celeste asked, stopping by the table again.

  “No, I’ve had enough.” Had enough of everything about Guilliot, and John and body parts in the bayou. Had enough of Beau Pierre.

  “I hope I didn’t ruin your dessert,” Guilliot said, glancing at her half-eaten bowl of bread pudding.

  “I was through with it,” she said.

  “Then I’m glad I caught you before you left.”

  “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “I was driving by and saw your car.”

  He stood, ready to leave now that he’d said what he wanted to say.

  “One question, Doctor.”

  “I’ll be glad to answer if I can.”

  “Why is it that I’m getting all this attention? There are countless reporters in this town every day trying to dig up a story. Why didn’t you go to them with this instead of taking the trouble to look me up?”

  “I like you, Cassie. You have spunk. And I think you’re letting John Robicheaux influence you.”

  But this was about more than manipulation. For some reason she’d been singled out both by John and Dr. Guilliot. At first she’d thought it was because she’d been married to one of the attorneys involved in the trial, but that wouldn’t explain Dennis’s comment about her the night he’d died.

  What had he been talking about? Who had he been talking to? The questions were disturbing and filled her with a cold fear she couldn’t shake, not even when she’d left Suzette’s and stood in the bright noonday sun.

  Whatever the mystery was, Dennis had claimed that Cassie Pierson would never figure it out.

  She was determined to prove him wrong.

  IT WAS NEAR DUSK when Cassie drove to the cemetery. Shadows were deepening to the point that it was difficult to see where she was stepping as she got out of the car and followed the path to the mausoleum where Dennis was buried. Cemeteries didn’t bother her at all during the day, but they became eerie just before dark, and she kept looking to make sure no one else was around.