Alligator Moon

Fred Powell was the most difficult member of the staff to get a handle on. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, a fellowship assistant who’d been with the group since January. He was nice-looking, polite, but seemed a tad stuffier than the rest of the group. She knew from media coverage of the trial that he hadn’t been at work the day Ginny Lynn Flanders had died. Lucky him.

“Anyone know where I can rent a room for a week or so?” Cassie asked when the conversation lagged. Guilliot’s expression went from friendly to guarded in a matter of heartbeats, but he didn’t respond to the question.

“I’m not looking for anything fancy,” she added. “Just something clean and convenient.”

“I don’t think you’ll find anything in Beau Pierre,” Susan said. “There’s nothing but those cabins back of Suzette’s. I’m sure they smell like dead fish, and you’d have alligators to greet you when you came home at night.”

“Why are you looking to stay in Beau Pierre?” Angela asked.

“We’re doing a feature article on the town. I’d like to get a feel for the place and get to know the people who live here.”

“That should take about an hour,” Roy said.

“You can drive back to New Orleans in about two hours,” Susan said. “That is where you live, isn’t it?”

“I drive over from Houma every day,” Fred said. “That’s not a bad drive and you can find decent places to stay there.”

“I’d rather be closer,” Cassie said, though she didn’t care for a cabin that smelled of dead fish, or for the company of alligators.

“Will you only be here for a week?” Angela asked.

“Maybe less.”

Angela looked to Guilliot then back to Cassie. “My mother and I have a large house. It’s old, nothing fancy, but it’s only about ten minutes from here. You can stay with us for a week if you like.”

The lounge grew quiet at Angela’s offer. Evidently the others were as surprised by it as Cassie.

“I’m certain Cassie would prefer a place of her own,” Dr. Guilliot said, his tone tinged with authority.

He was right. She’d have much preferred a place of her own, but an invitation into the inner circle of the surgery team was too good to pass up, especially since it was obvious Guilliot didn’t like the idea.

“I’d love to stay with you, Angela.”

Angela directed her gaze to a half-eaten salad that sat on the table in front of her. “On second thought, it’s probably not a good idea. My mother has a tendency to wander the house at all hours of the night. She’d probably keep you awake.”

“I can sleep through anything. And I won’t be any trouble. I’ll take my meals at the café in town and I’ll be out most of the day.”

Angela looked to Guilliot again. He nodded as if giving approval, providing Cassie with additional insight into the workings of the interpersonal dynamics of the staff. Guilliot was king. The others were loyal—or maybe not-so-loyal—subjects.

At any rate, it was clear Cassie’s visit to the plantation had come to a close. Guilliot was still charming on the surface, but Cassie felt a chill now that hadn’t been there earlier, and the conversation went from a lull to stone silence.

Suicide or murder?

Suddenly the question seemed to have as many facets as the plantation had rooms. This might prove to be a very interesting week, but as Cassie was escorted out of the plantation, she had an idea that it was the last time she’d be welcomed into the inner sanctum.

The king had granted her one audience, no doubt to make certain she presented him and the center favorably. Now she was on her own.

CASSIE WAS STILL pondering the suicide or murder question as she left the plantation grounds and started back into Beau Pierre. The almost two hours Cassie had spent with Dr. Guilliot had done little to further her investigation into the matter and had given her nothing to spark the article Olson wanted by Saturday.

She needed some real insight into Dennis, needed someone who knew him well to open up and tell her what had really been going on in Dennis’s mind before Friday night.

Her best bet would be an ex-girlfriend, someone who knew all and was no longer emotionally connected with Dennis or involved in the Flanders v. Guilliot case.

And she needed to talk to John Robicheaux. There was clearly no love lost between him and Dr. Norman Guilliot. That in itself had the potential for a fascinating cover story if she could get facts and anecdotes to back it up. The darkly handsome fallen Cajun attorney. The prestigious, charismatic Cajun surgeon who was in the middle of the most publicized lawsuit since the Edwin Edwards trial that sent the former governor to prison. This was as good as it got in the world of reporting.

Yet it didn’t fully claim Cassie’s mind. Nothing would until she found out why her mother had lied to her and Butch about her trip. She’d put off calling her father, but she couldn’t put it off any longer. She drove until she came to the bait/convenience shop she’d spotted on her way out. Her throat was dry, and she needed something cold to drink before she got her father on the line and hit him with the news.

She walked into the shop, took a diet soda from the cooler and exchanged a few words with a gnarly clerk in a stained white T-shirt and baggy jeans before walking to a slightly lopsided picnic table outside the shop. From there she could see the still, murky waters of Tortue Bayou. A row of turtles sat along the bank as if waiting for their ship to come in and a stately blue heron fished in the muddy water, lifting its feet high with each careful step.

Cassie slapped at a mosquito that had settled on her arm, then punched her dad’s office number into the keypad of the cell phone, silently praying that for once he’d be in.

“Conner-Marsh Drilling and Exploration. Butch Havelin’s office. May I help you?”

“It’s Cassie again, Dottie. Tell me Dad is in.”

“He’s on the other line. If you can hold on, I’ll see how long he’ll be.”

“I can hold, but tell him the call is urgent.”

“How urgent? Have you been in a wreck?”

“Not that urgent, but I need to talk to him as soon as possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

A minute later Dottie informed her that Butch would return her call momentarily. She lingered at the picnic table, drinking her cold soda and wondering if her mother had to go through Dottie every time she wanted to talk to her husband. If so, that could explain why she hadn’t bothered to call from Greece. It didn’t, however, explain why there was no itinerary and no Patsy David.

BUTCH STARED at the phone, dreading making the call to Cassie. He was almost certain this had to do with her mother, a subject which he’d much prefer to avoid. “What’s up?” he asked, once he had her on the line.

“It’s Mom, Dad.”

He groaned inwardly. “Did you talk to her?”

“No. I never located an itinerary. I don’t know how to tell you this, Dad, but Mom didn’t go to Greece with Patsy David.”

“Of course, she did.”

“Patsy David is dead, has been since their senior year in high school.”

“You must have her confused with someone else, Cassie.”

His irritation grew as Cassie detailed her discovery. He’d never thought the Greece trip fit his wife’s personality, but he hadn’t questioned Rhonda too much about it. He’d been too glad to see her go.

“If you know what this is about, Dad, just level with me.”

“I don’t have a clue. Not a damn clue.”

“Were you and Mom having problems?”