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?”
“If we were, I didn’t know it.”
“Did she seem upset when she left? Distant? Aggravated?”
“No more than usual.”
“What do we do?”
Nothing as far as he was concerned, but he knew Cassie wouldn’t settle for that. “The postcards all say she’s having a wonderful time,” he said. “And she’ll be back in two weeks. I say we just wait until then to try to find out why she felt she had to lie to us.”
“But what if something’s wrong?”
“Why would you think something’s wrong?”
“She lied to us about who she went with. She didn’t leave an itinerary, and she hasn’t called.”
“That’s your mother for you. Sometimes it’s hard to figure out why she does things the way she does. But it sounds to me as if she wanted some time alone. I think it’s only fair we respect that.”
“I’d feel a lot better if I could talk to her.”
“She knows where we are if she wants to talk.”
“So you think we should do nothing?”
“Right. Just let it ride. If I hear from her, I’ll give you a call. If you hear from her, you call me. And in the meantime, don’t worry.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Try. So, tell me, what big story are you scooping now?”
He only half listened as Cassie told him about Dennis Robicheaux’s death. His mind was on Rhonda. He wasn’t worried, not in the sense Cassie was, but he did wonder what the hell was going on with his wife.
She could have found out about him and Babs, though he didn’t see how that would inspire a trip to Greece. An argument, maybe even a showdown, but not a trip to Europe—unless this was a prelude to divorce.
Talk about gumming up the works. He had no interest in splitting up his 401K at this stage in his life, and if Babs was named in the divorce proceedings, it could cause a lot of talk at Conner-Marsh, a company that wouldn’t want even the whisper of a scandal involving its CEO and one of its female supervisors.
An old Beach Boys song knocked around in Butch’s head after he’d hung up the phone. Help me, Rhonda. Help, help me, Rhonda.
He wasn’t sure just what form that help should take, but for starters, she could find happiness and fulfillment in Greece and just not bother to return. He’d miss her sometimes, but he could live with it.
CASSIE TRIED to adopt some of her father’s optimism but decided the only way she’d be able to get her mother off her mind was to jump into the job at hand. So as much as she dreaded dealing with the sexy, arrogant Cajun, John Robicheaux was her next logical interviewee.
She had an idea that anyone in town could tell her where he lived, including the fishy-smelling guy inside the store. She finished her drink, tossed the empty can into a rusted trash barrel and walked back inside.
Maybe the fallen attorney would be in a better mood today. And maybe Jupiter would collide with Mars or the bars on Bourbon Street would stop selling liquor on Mardi Gras Day.
CHAPTER FIVE
CASSIE SLOWED as she passed Suzette’s. The roadhouse was a low-slung, wooden structure with a tin roof. It looked as if it might have been a bright yellow at one time, but the paint was faded and peeling and the facings around the windows were literally rotting away.
There was a row of rental cabins along the bayou just as Susan had said, half-hidden by cypress trees and palmetto plants. They were rustic at best, but some looked to be bordering on total ruin. She imagined them crawling with spiders and stinging scorpions, with slimy black water moccasins slithering through the swampy grass just outside the doors. Definitely not a place for a city gal like her.
She wondered if John Robicheaux’s habitat would be much different. The guy in the bait shop had referred to it as a trapper’s shack and warned her to be careful with the same level of caution to his tone she would have expected if she’d said she was going skinny-dipping with a family of alligators.
From being one of the hottest defense attorneys in New Orleans, and probably the state, to living in a shack in the swamp was quite a backward jump. Penance, she suspected, for unleashing a fiendish sex