Depth Perception (5 page)

He settled into the chair behind his desk. "I'll hand it to you, Nat, it took a lot of nerve for you to walk in here."

She wasn't feeling particularly brave at the moment, but she didn't correct him. She figured the less Alcee Martin knew about her frame of mind, the easier this would be.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

If the circumstances had been different, she might have smiled. Southern good manners had taken precedence over that tough-cop facade Martin was so good at. He had a reputation for being by-the-book. In terms of his being top cop, that was probably a good thing. In terms of what she needed from him, she wasn't so sure.

"I'm fine," she said.

"How long have you ... " He looked uncomfortable for a moment. "You know ... "

"Been back in the land of the living?"

He cleared his throat.

Nat did smile then, but it was wry. "About six months now,"

"When did you leave the ... hospital?"

She didn't want to answer, but didn't see a way to hedge. "Yesterday."

He looked pained. "You sure you ought to be here? I mean, so soon?"

"I was born and raised in this town, Alcee. Why wouldn't I come back?"

Niceties out of the way, he slipped back into cop mode. "Because you're smart enough to know there are some people in this town who don't want you here. A few who might even try to do something about it."

"I can't control what other people think or do."

"I don't want any trouble, Nat."

"I have every right to be here."

Martin leaned hack in his chair and studied her as if she were a mongrel dog that had surprised him with an impressive trick despite its scruffy appearance. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

She rolled her shoulder, her eyes never leaving his. ''I want to know how the case is progressing."

"The case is cold. I have a detective assigned. He's working it."

            "Do you have any new leads?"

"We're pursuing any and all leads."

"That's a canned answer, Alcee."

"That's all you're going to get."

"What about suspects?"

"Nat, I'm not going to have this conversation with you."

"You owe me, Alcee."

Something she couldn't quite read flickered in his eyes an instant before he masked it with an indignant scowl, and Nat knew she'd scored a hit. “I don't owe you a damn thing," he snapped. "It's an open case. I'm not obliged to share information with you. If you want to know what the status is, read the goddamn newspaper."

“The only thing I've read in the newspaper is your bullshit story about the transient that came through here about the same time they were killed.”

"And disappeared that same night," he shot back.

“That transient didn't do it."

"Nat, I've got two witnesses who saw him ride in on the railway car the day before. Joe Rossi was fishing in the river and saw him under the bridge just a mile from your place."

"What was his motive?" she asked. "He didn't steal anything."

"I don't know what his motive was. As far as we know he could have been watching the place. He could be a child predator or rapist. If he did intend to rob, maybe Ward came downstairs and surprised him. He panicked, picked up the knife." As if realizing he was getting into details best left alone, he sighed. "We won't know what happened until we get him."

Blinking back images she couldn't let herself dwell on now, Nat took a deep breath and went to the next point she wanted to make. “I think the man who murdered them is still here in Bellerose."

Martin groaned. "Nat, you need to be concentrating on getting your life back. Getting yourself  healthy again. Not digging into things that are only going to drag this tragedy out."

"What I need is justice."

He came forward in his chair, his expression fierce. "Half of the people in this town think you murdered your husband and son. How do you think they're going to react once word gets around that you're back?"

"I don't give a damn what they think."

"Maybe you should." He tugged on his shirtsleeve and glanced at his watch. "I have to go over to city hall."

“The bastard is here in Bellerose, Alcee, Living right under your nose."

"You don't know that!"

Nat did know, but there was no way she was going to convince Alcee Martin in the next five minutes, so she said what she had come here to say. "I think Ward was having an affair," she blurted.

"An affair?" he said. "With whom?"

"Sara Wiley."

"Sara Wiley?" Martin looked to the heavens as if to ask for patience. "Now how do you know?

“I found some letters when I was going through his things." Nat reached into her bag and pulled out the manila folder. "I made copies."

Alcee grimaced at the sight of her shaking hands, but he didn't say anything as he took the folder and opened it. His expression remained impassive as he read, then he raised his gaze to hers. “There are two letters here, and they're not signed."

"It's her handwriting.  I recognize it. They worked together for four years."

"That doesn't mean they were having an affair. He was a minister, for God's sake."

"I'm not laying blame, Alcee. I'm just ... trying to work through this as best I can."

"Nat ... "

"It's a possibility and you know it. Ward and Sara were close. Add Reno's temper to the mix, and you have a viable suspect."

''Those are some powerful charges, Nat. Reno and Sara Wiley are upstanding citizens." But for the first time since she'd set foot in his office, he wasn't looking at her as if she were some mental case who'd escaped the local institution. He was looking at her like she had something important to say, even if it was something he didn't want to hear.

 "Are you telling me you believe Reno Wiley flew into a jealous rage and murdered your husband and son?"

She closed her eyes briefly at the mention of her son. ''I' m saying it's a possibility you should consider."

"I think it's one hell of a stretch. I've known Reno since high school."

"Will you at least look into it? See if he has an alibi?"

"I'll do what I can." But he didn't look happy about it.

Feeling drained, Nat rose on legs that weren't quite steady and started toward the door.

"Nat?"

She turned and looked at him over her shoulder.

"Do me a favor and stay out of trouble, will you?"

"I’ll do what I can," she said and walked out.

Chapter 5

West Hill Episcopalian cemetery was located on a two-lane parish road a few miles from Interstate 12. Nat made the thirty-mile trip from Bellerose in half an hour, her thoughts twisting between her conversation with Alcee Martin and her confrontation with Nick Bastille. By the time she drove through the wrought iron gates. her stomach was in knots.

The uncertainty that had been eating at her for weeks now had succeeded in putting a hole in her conviction that she was going to be able to find the person responsible for murdering her husband and son. That she would be able to keep him from killing again. She'd known before leaving Baton Rouge that the task would be difficult. Three years had passed since the murders and, as Alcee had pointed out, the case was cold. Facing the suspicion of a hostile town, she couldn't count on a single soul to help her.

But Nat was as adept at overcoming obstacles as she was at beating the odds. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to hunt down the son of a bitch and make him pay.

Light rain fell from an angry sky as she followed the curved road to the rear of the grounds. Fingers of steam rose off the hot asphalt and hovered like ghosts in the shadows. Beyond, massive live oaks and magnolias stood like sentinels sent from heaven to watch over the dead.

She had wanted Ward and Kyle to be buried in the tiny cemetery behind Saint George's Catholic Church in Bellerose, where her father and grandparents were buried. But Ward's father, retired evangelist Elliott Ratcliffe, wouldn't hear of his son being buried in a Catholic cemetery and, despite Nat's wishes, he'd buried his son and grandson here. Nat had been in no condition to argue. By the time the parish coroner had finished the autopsies and released the bodies, the grief had swallowed her whole. Her mother, Analise, had driven up from New Orleans, but Nat barely remembered her mother's presence. She had almost no recollection of the double funeral. To this day she didn't know how she got through the ordeal. She'd been like the walking dead herself. The viewing. The funeral. The wake. Somehow, she'd survived. Then when it was over and her husband and son were in the ground for eternity, Alcee Martin and his star detective Norm Pelletier had come into her home and arrested her for murder.

Shaking off the memories, Nat left the car and started down the stone path. It was so quiet she could hear the raindrops striking the leaves of the magnolia as she passed by it. West Hill was lovely as far as cemeteries went. But the knowledge that these grounds housed the dead never left her as she made her way to the Ratcliffe family plot.

The gate squeaked as she opened it. A tall statue of Jesus Christ, His face serene, His arms open, stood in welcome. A dozen aboveground crypts bore the Ratcliffe name. The letters had been worn down by the years and elements, but Nat could still make out a few of the names: Edwin Ratcliffe, born 1826, died 1878; Marie Ratcliffe, born 1837, died 1857.

Kyle's and Ward's crypts were smaller and set in the rear. Their names were etched into sparkling gray granite. Ward Edwin Ratcliffe July 17, I 967-July 20, 2002. Kyle Alan Ratcliffe December 9, 1995-July 20, 2002.

Gripping the bouquet of magnolia blossoms she'd picked up at the florist, Nat went to her knees and set the flowers on the ground in front of the crypts. Her hand trembled when she leaned forward and brushed her fingers over her son's name. "Kyle ... I've missed you so much."

The grief came with the force of physical pain and was so powerful a sound of pure agony escaped her. Covering her mouth, Nat doubled over and waited for the worst of it to pass. When she could finally breathe, she lifted her head, then set her hand against Ward's name. “I know you'll take good care of him,” she said.

She barely noticed when the skies opened up. Sitting back on her heels, she watched the water cascade over the crypts. And as the rain mingled with her tears, she made a silent promise to her dead son and husband. It was a promise she would keep, no matter what the cost, because she had absolutely nothing else left to lose.

#   #  #

Nat had just stepped out of the shower when the doorbell jangled. Uneasiness rippled through her at the thought of a visitor. Only a few people in the entire town knew she was back, but she knew word would spread quickly. Still raw from her trip to the cemetery, she wasn't sure she was up to a confrontation.

Wrapping her hair in a towel, she grabbed her robe and took the steps to the living room. In the foyer she checked the peephole. A quiver of uncertainty went through her when she saw Faye Townsend standing on the porch, a brown paper bag in one arm, a bottle of wine in the other. Nat stepped. back, feeling gut punched by the sight of the woman she'd once considered her best friend. For an instant, she contemplated not answering the door. But she knew that sooner or later she would have to deal with her. Better to get it over with now.

Taking a deep breath, Nat opened the door. For several long moments the two women simply stared at each other, two deer caught in the headlights of a speeding eighteen-wheeler, too stunned to flee what would surely be a deadly collision.

Then with her usual vivacity, Faye pushed past her and walked into the foyer, her orange sarong and purple shawl swishing around her like a flamenco dancer's skirts. "You could have told me you were back in town," she said airily.

Nat smelled sandalwood and lavender and wondered how a woman who claimed to be so in tune with everyone's energy could be blind enough to miss the fact that she was not welcome.

"What are you doing here?" Nat didn't close the door.

Faye spun to face her. "Making things right, since evidently you're not going to."

''There are some things that can't be made right."

"We've known each other too long to let this be one of them."

Because it hurt to think about it that way, because Nat was sick and damn tiled of hurting, she went for something generic. “This isn't a good time."

''Well, then get dressed. I don't mind waiting."

"That isn't what I mean."

Faye lifted the bag, which appeared to be groceries. and the bottle of wine. "Is there someplace I can put this stuff?"

Nat ignored the question and continued holding the door open.

Faye contemplated her the way a teacher would a willful child. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

'The one telling me I'm not welcome here."

"You're not." A moth flew inside. Muttering a curse, Nat swatted at it, missed, then slammed the door. "How did you know I was back?"

Faye rolled her eyes. "Who doesn't know you're back?"

"If I wanted to see you, I would have called. I didn't."

“That would be fine and dandy if the world revolved around what you want, Natty. But it doesn't. You should know that by now."

Natty.
Of all the weapons she could have used to inflict pain, the endearment was the most brutal. Faye had been calling her that since their first day of kindergarten when Mrs. Skelding put them at the front of the class for talking when they were supposed to be napping. Their friendship had survived grade school and high school, first dates and weddings, Faye's struggle with infertility and her ensuing divorce. The night Kyle and Ward had died, it had been Faye who held her while she'd sobbed and raged and weathered the violent storm of grief.

But it had also been Faye who'd later told the police that Nat's marriage had been a troubled one. Of all the betrayals that had taken place during those black, terrible days, that her best friend would turn on her when she'd needed her so desperately hurt the most.