Alligator Moon

Yet he’d bothered to call her when she hadn’t even left a message. First John Robicheaux, now Dr. Norman Guilliot, both going out of their way to look her up. A suspicious happening when dealing with articles involving lawsuits and now possibly a murder.

“No dirt,” she said. Unless, of course, she found some. “I’d love to talk to you and do a feature article on your clinic.”

“In that case, I’ll be happy to meet with you and discuss the center. I don’t have surgery scheduled today, so I can see you this afternoon if you like.”

“How’s one o’clock?” Cassie asked, wanting to act before he changed his mind.

“Fine. Just press the call button and identify yourself when you arrive. I’ll alert the staff to expect you.”

“Then I’ll see you at one,” she said.

“I should warn you ahead of time that confidentiality is a basic tenet of Magnolia Plantation, so certain areas of the center will be off-limits. You won’t be allowed any contact with the guests.”

“I understand.”

Off and running, at least as far as the Beau Pierre investigation was concerned, but the planned meeting with Dr. Guilliot did nothing to allay her concerns about her mother. Touring Greece. Having a great time. The postcards said so.

But if everything else about her trip was a lie, then the postcards could be more of the same. Having a great time. Wish you were here.

Cassie wasn’t convinced that either statement was true.

THE FIRST FLOOR had a large reception area and just past that a series of small offices. The back of the first floor was guest rooms, or so Cassie was told. She didn’t get to tour that part of the house.

The second story had a large, airy sitting room with a TV, a baby grand piano and clusters of comfortable chairs. The dining room was there as well, with a long antique table and several small round tables. And once again there were patient rooms that she was not allowed to tour.

But while the first two floors seemed a Lucullan holdout from the days when ladies had worn full skirts and binding corsets and had danced beneath candled chandeliers, the third floor left no doubt that this was a state-of-the-art surgery center.

“So this is where the miracles take place,” Cassie said, as they departed the elevator and started down a spotlessly clean hall, one bereft of the elegant antique furnishings that had characterized the lower floors.

“Interesting that you put it that way,” Dr. Guilliot answered. “Modern surgical procedures are nothing short of miraculous. Think how archaic medicine was at the time this old plantation was built.”

“But apparently all cosmetic surgeons are not created equal. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have patients coming to a clinic tucked away in a little town like this.”

“I like to think I’m worth it, and I’m sure our facilities for follow-up care are second to none in the world.”

“Exactly how does that work? Are the patients required to stay here for a certain period of time after surgery?”

“I require a one-week stay for major procedures such as face or forehead lifts. Many patients opt to stay longer, some until the swelling and bruises have completely disappeared. That can take as long as six weeks. Once the bandages and draining tubes are removed they’re basically guests in this beautiful, restful setting for the rest of their stay, though I do see them for regular checkups while they’re here.”

“Do you have male patients as well as female?”

“Certainly. Men like to look their best, too, especially those in the public eye. Entertainers, TV personalities, politicians. We get them all right here in Beau Pierre.” The doctor pushed through a set of double doors, then stood aside and waited for her to enter. “We have two operating rooms. This is the first one.”

“You surely don’t operate on two patients at once.”

“No, but occasionally Dr. Walter Gates uses this facility, as well.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“See, you’ve learned something already.”

“But doesn’t he ordinarily work out of Touro Hospital in New Orleans?”

“Normally, but I feel that a surgeon must have a narrow field of specialization if he expects to be one of the very best at what he does. I stick to facial and neck surgery, but if a patient is interested in other types of cosmetic surgery, Dr. Gates will come here and provide pretty much anything else the patient desires.”

“So a patient can get the works without leaving Magnolia Plantation.”

“Exactly.”

“Was Ginny Flanders planning to have additional surgery done?”

He wagged a finger at her. “No discussing the case. Strict orders from my attorney.”

When they left the operating room, Dr. Guilliot took her through the recovery area, then led her to a closed door at the end of the hall. “This is my private office,” he said, opening the door and revealing a sun-filled room with plush beige carpet and off-white walls.

Obviously a second office, since she’d seen the one on the first floor where he examined and met with new patients. This one was smaller, cozy actually. The large mahogany desk was polished to a brilliant shine and a silver frame held a snapshot of two girls who appeared to be in their early twenties. She guessed them to be the daughters he’d fathered with his first wife.

They talked for a few minutes about the center, including its excellent reputation. When the talk turned to staff, Cassie saw her opportunity. “You must be very upset about the death of your anesthetist.”

“What do you know about Dennis Robicheaux?” he asked, his eyes narrowing and taking on an intensity that intrigued her.

“Basically what was in the newspaper, that he shot himself in the head. That he’d been the one to administer the anesthetic to Ginny Flanders.”

“Both true, I’m afraid.”

“Had he been with you long?”

“Five years, but I knew him before that. He did a clinical with me before while working on his CRNA. He was an excellent anesthetist and a good friend.”

“You must have been shocked to hear of his suicide.”

“I was quite upset and still am. We’re all very close here at the center, Cassie. Is it okay to call you that?”

“Cassie’s fine.” He didn’t, however suggest she call him Norman. She started to anyway, just to see how he reacted, but didn’t want to do anything to aggravate him before she got everything out of him that she could. “Did you have any suspicion that Dennis was contemplating suicide?”

“Certainly not. If I had, I would have seen that he got counseling—and that he hadn’t gone out drinking with his brother that night. If he’d had more family support instead of…” Dr. Guilliot hesitated as voices and laughter drifted in from the hall. “Better if I don’t get started on John Robicheaux. And it sounds as if the rest of the surgical team is in the lounge. I’ll introduce you to them.”

Cassie would have loved to hear more about Guilliot’s theories on John Robicheaux, though in the end she’d make up her own mind about the man, as she would about Norman Guilliot.

They joined the staff in a small lounge area at the very end of the hall. It was basically an oblong kitchen, consisting of a long wooden table with eight chairs, a counter, cabinets, a microwave and a refrigerator.

Cassie made mental notes as Guilliot introduced the staff. Angela Dubuisson was the instrument technician, a registered nurse who’d been with Guilliot for twenty years. Cassie guessed her to be in her mid-forties. Her hair was the color of onyx, and she wore it in a square cut that fell just below her cheekbones, with long bangs she’d pushed to the side and caught in an amber-colored barrette.

Her eyes were slightly darker than her hair, her lashes long and natural, her complexion smooth. She didn’t wear any makeup, except maybe a light dusting of powder over her nose and a pale pink lip gloss. She didn’t say much except to agree with anything Dr. Guilliot said.

Susan Dalton, the circulating nurse, was pretty much the opposite. She appeared to be in her early thirties and had short blond hair that curled about a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a deep blue and seemed to be dancing behind mascara-laden lashes. Her nose turned up ever so slightly at the end. Perhaps some of Dr. Guilliot’s handiwork. She talked with her hands and eyes, as well as her mouth, and her voice sounded as if she might burst into giggles at any second. Where Angela’s femininity was understated and gentle, Susan’s was exaggerated, like sparks from Fourth of July fireworks.

Roy Baskins was the temporary anesthetist. At least forty and slim with a face that looked as if it might actually break if forced into a smile, he was clearly not part of the group and seemed to prefer it that way.