Depth Perception (18 page)

“That's the only explanation that makes sense."

"Any idea who? Do you have any enemies? Did Ward?"

She shook her head. "I've been wracking my brain but there's no one."

"Maybe someone believed you were guilty and decided to help the investigation along."

She met his gaze. "You mean the police?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of Elliott Ratcliffe,"

“I can't believe he would do that."

"Maybe you should."

Nick knew it was counterproductive to feel too much when it came to this woman. Still, he couldn't deny the quick rise of outrage for what she'd been through. He knew firsthand how the police operated. He knew they had probably taken her into the interview room and hammered her with questions for hours. Ugly questions that would have ripped at her with all the violence of a knife. They hadn't let her rest or eat. Once they'd put her in a cell, grief-stricken and alone, she'd taken the only way out she could think of ....

"So why didn't the killer finish you off that night?" he asked after a moment.

"Because everything he did--cutting the screen, using one of my kitchen knives, even the injuries I sustained--was geared to make me look guilty."

"He wanted you to be suspect."

"And he gets off scot free."

Sighing, Nick rose. "
Le Bon Dieu mait la main,
" he muttered. God help.

Nat rose, too. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to talk to Travis Ratcliffe."

"I'm going, too."

Her eyes met his, and a silent communication passed between them. This meant they would be working together. Nick didn't know how smart that was, considering the way he was reacting to her. But he figured this was one of those things he didn't have a choice about.

Reaching for the keys, he hoped the prickly sensation on the back of his neck didn't have anything to do with the little voice inside his head telling him to stay the hell away from the Ratcliffes.

Chapter 15

The Ratcliffe estate was as magnificent now as it had been 150 years ago when Henry Howard Ratcliffe completed construction in 1846, just before the Civil War. Situated between downtown Bellerose and the bayou, the antebellum mansion sat on 240 acres of fertile farmland where four generations of Ratcliffes had farmed cotton and sugarcane and rice.

Six grand white columns rose out of the concrete porch like massive aristocratic fingers to stretch forty feet up, past the second level balcony, to the widow's walk on the roof. Live oaks and magnolias and sweet gums crowded around the front of the house like a group of Southern belles fussing over a new baby.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Nick Bastille's ancient pickup, Nat was invariably taken aback by the timeless beauty of the old plantation house. It was hard to believe a place could remain so utterly the same over 150 years when her own life had been changed so drastically in only three.

She tried to remember the last time she'd been here but couldn't. Not since Ward's and Kyle's deaths. In the years she and Ward were married, it was tradition for the three of them to come here for dinner after church on Sunday. But the time she spent with the Ratcliffe men had rarely been pleasant. For Ward's sake, she'd tried hard to fit in. But Nat was the daughter of a cotton fanner, and the Ratcliffes never let her forget it.

Not that she wanted to. The expensive clothes Ward had insisted upon might have changed the way she looked on the outside, but those clothes hadn't changed who she was on the inside.

If it hadn't been for Ward's insistence--and the firm belief that Kyle deserved to know his grandfather and uncles--she wouldn't have subjected herself to those torturous Sunday dinners. But while Ward's two brothers were hostile to Nat, they had doted on Kyle. The moment Kyle came through the front door, Travis or Hunter would sweep him into their arms. Kyle would giggle, and the house would be filled with the sweet music of a child's laughter ....

"Are you sure you're up to this?"

Nat started at the sound of Nick's voice and realized she'd been daydreaming. She glanced at him, saw concern on his features, and wondered if she looked as strung out as she felt.

"I'm sure."

"I can do this without you." He'd washed up before leaving her house, but it hadn't helped much. If the circumstances had been different, she might have smiled at the thought of Nick Bastille walking into the Ratcliffe estate with muddy boots, stained jeans, and a wrinkled shirt. She looked down at her own clothes and realized it had been such a long time since she cared about what she looked like, it hadn't even crossed her mind to change.

"I need to do this," she said.

"Let's get it over with," Nick said and opened his door.

They left the truck and went up the steps together. The afternoon was mild and humid, and the breeze felt good on her skin. A blue jay scolded them from atop the magnolia. As they crossed the porch to the door, Nat felt a moment of déjà vu. She'd walked this path a hundred times in the years she'd been married to Ward. Only now she was entering a world in which she no longer belonged. A world she'd never fit into. A hostile world she would not be welcomed back to.

She was keenly aware of Nick's presence beside her. She wasn't exactly sure when it had happened., but at some point he had become her ally. Two people working toward a common goal as a combined force. She wanted to believe that was all there was to it. But that didn't explain the way he looked at her sometimes. It didn't explain why every nerve in her body jumped to attention when he did.

They stopped outside the fourteen-foot cypress doors and he used the brass knocker to announce their presence. Nat waited, her heart pounding, one small corner of her brain hoping against hope that no one answered.

The door swung open, and Nat found herself looking at a young African American woman with pale caramel skin, bright blue eyes, and the cheekbones of a New York runway model. "Can I help you?" she asked with a thick Louisiana drawl.

"We're looking for Travis Ratcliffe," Nick said.

"Can I tell him who's calling?"

"Nat Jennings."

The woman's eyes swept to Nat and narrowed. "Mrs. Ratcliffe?"

Nat forced a smile. "I go by Jennings now."

The woman looked uncomfortable for a moment, then opened the door wider and stepped back. "Come in. Wait here, and I'll fetch Dr. Ratcliffe."

The woman's black-and-white uniform swished around her knees as she turned and left the foyer.

"Nice place," Nick commented.

Nat had always loved the old mansion, even though she'd never been comfortable inside it. The foyer was grand with black and white marble tiles that swept to a massive mahogany staircase. At the apex of the twenty-eight foot ceiling, a Belgian crystal chandelier cast prisms of light onto delicate egg and dart moldings. Through the arched doorway to her left, she could see the marble fireplace and mural in the great room where she and Ward and Kyle had spent many a Sunday evening lingering over coffee and beignets.

"Natalie?"

She looked up to see Travis striding toward them, his expression an odd mix of puzzlement and surprise. He was wearing his trademark polo shirt and khakis. "My God, what are you doing here?" His gaze swept from her to Nick and back again. "What is he doing here?"

Nat might have smiled at his expression if she'd been there for any reason other than to ask him about the death of a child. "Surprised to see me?"

He stopped a few feet away and put his hands on his hips. “I don't think it's appropriate for you to be here.”  Travis hadn't inherited the Ratcliffe good looks like his two brothers, but be was attractive in his own right. His sandy hair was swept back from a high forehead. His face wasn't classically handsome, but his features were interesting and well arranged, At an even six feet and a perfectly toned 180 pounds, he possessed the kind of charisma that could have landed him on the big screen if he'd so chosen. The elder Ratcliffe had wanted all three of his sons to follow in his lofty footsteps and join him in the televangelist circuit. Much to his father's chagrin, Travis had chosen medicine over the church and became a general practitioner with a small, but successful practice. Ten years ago, he'd been elected parish coroner. Hunt, on the other hand, had flunked out of college at Tulane and fallen into a job at the mill and spent most of his spare time at The Blue Gator. Nat had always suspected both sons were disappointments of varying degrees. Ward had been the only son to devote his life to the church. Elliott Ratcliffe's great hope, Maybe that was why he hated her so much ....

"We just want to ask you a few questions," she said.

Travis looked at her the way a man might look at a mongrel dog that was about to track mud all over his Persian carpet. "Questions about what?"

"I want to talk to you about my son," Nick said.

Travis shot him a decidedly unfriendly look. "You're Nick Bastille.” It was an accusation more than a question, and he didn't bother extending his hand for a shake.

"I wasn't around when Brandon died." Nick grimaced. "But I saw the autopsy report, and I have some questions."

Travis rubbed his chin as if trying to decide what to make of the unexpected visit. "Mr. Bastille, it's highly inappropriate for you to come to my home about this matter."

"I found a discrepancy on the autopsy report," Nick said.

"Discrepancy?" Travis made no effort to hide his shock. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the paramedic who was first on the scene."

"Rusty Burke? What about him?"

"He said there were bruises on Brandon's neck."

Travis blinked rapidly. "If there was bruising on that child's neck, I would have indicated it on the report. It would have been indicated on the police report as well."

"It wasn't."

"Well, then, Rusty was mistaken."

"Or maybe there were some bruises you didn't notice or failed to note-"

"Look, I'm not saying I'm infallible, but when it comes to my work, I'm meticulous. There are check-and-balance systems in place. I don't have to tell you how thorough Alcee is."

Nat knew exactly how thorough the chief was. Three years ago, he and his lead detective had nearly nailed her for a crime she hadn't committed. "Is there any way someone could have missed something?" she asked.

"No way." Travis shook his head adamantly, then looked solemnly at Nick. "I know that's not easy to accept, and I'm sorry for your loss, but the investigation was thorough. Bellerose might be a small town, but Alcee Martin is a top-notch professional. He did his job, and so did I."

"Travis,” Nat began, "can we take a look at the autopsy photographs?" Photos she'd been unable to obtain through the same channels she'd used to get her hands on the police and autopsy reports.

"Autopsy photos?" The doctor shot her an incredulous look. "Why in the name of God would you want to see those photos?"          .

"We think my son may have been murdered," Nick said evenly.

"Murdered?" Travis made a sound that that was part astonishment, part irritation.  “There's no way in hell that boy's death was anything but an accident. I performed the autopsy myself. Alcee Martin investigated the scene. I know it's a terrible tragedy, but your boy drowned.”

Nick looked away, his jaw working.

"We think someone may have tried to make Brandon's death look like an accident," Nat said. "Is that possible?"

“No, it's not possible. There would have been signs of a struggle. Bruising. Scratches—" Travis cut off the words abruptly, his eyes narrowing on Nick. "Is this about your ex-wife? You think she did something to that child?"

"This isn't about my ex-wife," Nick said.

"Look, I'm probably out of line for saying this, but if there's anyone who's at fault, Bastille, it's your ex-wife. Not because she's guilty of murder, but because she was negligent. She was in the trailer when it happened. The DA didn't pursue charges, but from all appearances, she'd been drinking. In my book that's at the very least neglect At worst. child endangerment. Maybe you ought to be looking at her instead of autopsy photos that will do nothing but tear you up inside."

"What about Ricky Arnaud?" Nat asked. ''Have you determined the cause of death yet?"     

His gaze flicked from Nick to Nat. ''What does this have to do with Ricky Arnaud?"

"We just want to know if there was any kind of foul play involved.”

“Look, I'm not going to go into the details with you. Discussing a closed case is one thing. But the police are still investigating the Arnaud boy's death. As parish coroner, all I can say at this point is that I did a preliminary exam at the scene. From all appearances, it looks like he succumbed to hypothermia,"

"Are you sure?" Nat asked.

"Of course I'm sure! There's no way to be positive before the autopsy and tox screen. But that's my preliminary find--"

He cut the words short as if realizing he'd already said too much. Suspicion flickered in his eyes, as cold and hard as a January freeze. Nat had seen that look before, and she felt the weight of it pressing down on her, chilling her inside. "What the' hell is going on here? Why all the questions about Brandon Bastille and Ricky Arnaud?"

There was a part of her that wanted to confide in him about their suspicions, but some inner warning stopped. her. She and Travis might have been family once, but time and circumstance had driven a wedge between them. She felt that wedge now as clearly as she saw the suspicion in his eyes.

"When are you going to perform the autopsy?" she asked.

"I'm not going to answer that, Natalie. In fact, I think you should leave. If Dad comes downstairs and finds you here, things could get ugly. He hasn't been the same since  . . ." His words trailed, then he sighed. "Since Ward and Kyle."

"None of us have been the same," she said.

As if realizing the conversation had strayed into territory best left alone, Nick spoke up. "Have there been any other suspicious deaths? Particularly of children?"

Travis's gaze cut to Nick. "Look, I don't know what you people are up to or what you think you know, but I don't like what I’m hearing. If either of you knows something you haven't told the police, I strongly suggest you do it now."