Relentless Pursuit: A Novel (Secrets of Roux River Bayou) (10 page)

“Well, I never …” Reba Littleton exhaled into the phone. “If Chance didn’t want me to come and stay, why didn’t he just tell me himself?”

“He tried, ma’am. But when you insisted, he didn’t have the heart to hurt your feelings. He appreciates how nurturing you are and how natural it is for you to jump in with both feet. But he’s been hit with a brutal blow, and he’ll do better with some down time to think without anyone else around.”

“Well, I’m glad you know the breadth and depth of my nephew’s thoughts and feelings. So what about you, missy—are
you
around?”

Emily felt the heat flood her cheeks. “I check in on him when I’m not working. I assure you he’s coping as well as can be expected. But he would never have made this phone call and risked hurting your feelings. I probably overstepped, but I thought you should know that he really needs space right now.”

“You made your point, Evelyn.”

“Emily.”

“Tell Chance I will make arrangements to stay elsewhere. But he’s going to need help when people start bringing food to the house—assuming they even bother, what with the cyanide scare and all.”

“I’m sure he’ll welcome your help with that, ma’am. The women at Saint Catherine’s will be coordinating the effort. Thanks for understanding his need for privacy.”

“I never said I understood. I’ll respect his wishes. I suppose I do still think of him as a boy. He’s certainly earned the right to be treated as an adult.”

“Would you like me to make a reservation for you,” Emily said, “at one of the nicer motor inns or a bed-and-breakfast?”

“I’m quite capable of doing it myself, thank you. Good day.”

Emily heard the phone go dead and disconnected the call. “I’m not sure that conversation could have gone any better, considering your aunt’s feelings were probably hurt.”

“Sorry,” Chance said. “I doubt she’ll warm up to you after this.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll live with it. Do you feel better now?”

“Definitely.”

“Now that you don’t have to worry about Aunt Reba, what else can I help you with?”

“I need help picking out clothes for the mortician. And also writing the obituaries for the newspaper. They want it before five. We can email it.”

Emily glanced at a photo on the refrigerator—Chance was standing arm in arm with his parents in front of the Eiffel Tower. She imagined his mom and dad lying on the kitchen floor, gasping for air, and his poor mother making that desperate 911 call before she died of cyanide poisoning. The only blessing in this nightmare was that Chance’s parents died quickly—and he wasn’t there to see it.

“Sure,” Emily said. “Let’s read some of the obits in the newspaper and see what wording was used. We can use that as a model and write something nice. Once that’s done, we’ll get the clothes laid out. It’ll be a load off your mind to have it done.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Chance opened the refrigerator. “You want something to drink? I’ve got Sprite, Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper. And there’re a couple bottles of water I found in the pantry—don’t worry, it’s
not
Gaudry.”

“Thanks”—Emily held up her palm—“but for now I’m drinking tap water.”

Chapter 10

Jude watched the activity in the detective bureau and wondered when he had ever seen it busier. He walked into his office, a cup of coffee in his hand, and sat at his desk. He glanced out the window to where the media had camped out on the sidewalk outside the courthouse. A knock broke his concentration, and he looked up.

Aimee stood in the doorway, a folder in her hand. “Got a minute?”

“Sure. Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

Aimee sat in the vinyl chair next to his desk. She opened the folder and handed him a chart. “This is the lab analysis of the Gaudry water pulled from the shelves in Les Barbes. Only ten bottles contained cyanide—all from Marcotte’s Market—and that includes the eight bottles delivered to three households via Adam Marcotte.”

“That’s good news,” Jude said. “Do we have any idea how much Gaudry water was out there in the first place?”

“Sixty thousand cases of water with the June sixth date on them were shipped from Gaudry’s Lafayette plant; approximately two thousand of those cases went to outlets in Les Barbes. Each case had twenty-four bottles.”

“So we’re talking somewhere around … forty-eight thousand bottles?”

Aimee nodded. “That’s right, and the lab’s recovered and tested about forty thousand, which leaves approximately eight thousand bottles that might have already been consumed and were perfectly safe, or—”

“They’re still out there,” Jude said. “I know it’s been pulled from the shelves and recalled. But it’s imperative that we keep reminding the public that, if they possess Gaudry water, not to open it, but to turn it in to us for analysis. The bottles in question could have been stashed in backpacks, coolers, cars. Tourists could have bought it and taken it with them. It’s really critical that we make sure the media gets the word out.”

Aimee mused, “Don’t you think it’s odd that in all that water, there have been so few poisoned bottles and only six deaths?”

“Well, the jury’s still out on that,” Jude said, “since the remaining bottles are unaccounted for. There could be victims that haven’t even been found yet.”

“But this guy could have taken out a lot more victims on the food bar,” Aimee said. “Why do you suppose he didn’t?”

“You heard Dr. Jensen’s opinion that he was guessing at the size of the container and didn’t know how to measure a lethal dose—or just didn’t have enough cyanide left. Why? What are you thinking?”

Aimee shrugged. “Just that it’s odd he was so precise in the amount of cyanide injected into the bottles. But not the food bar, where he could’ve taken out a lot more people. Do you think he’s happy with only six dead?”

“We have to assume he isn’t.” Jude tapped his fingers on the desk. “If he’s determined to kill people with cyanide, the only way to stop him is to catch him. Until he’s behind bars, no one is safe.”

Emily hit the send key on Chance’s laptop, sending the combined obituary for Huet and Lydia Durand. “I hope you’re happy with it.”

“It’s fine.” Chance’s voice was flat, and she noticed tears had welled up in his eyes again.

“Why don’t we pick out the clothes later?” Emily said. “This is pretty overwhelming.”

“That’s why I’d just as soon get it all over with.”

Emily glanced at the almost-perfect yellow roses outside the window. It didn’t seem right that nature should be so glorious when Chance’s world was so dark.

“All right.” Emily pushed away from the computer desk and stood. “Let’s get it behind you.”

She followed him down a hallway to what was obviously the master suite. A king-size bed with an ornate cherry and wrought-iron headboard was centered on the far wall, a family oil portrait hung above it. The three Durands were sitting in the grass, barefoot, a flower garden of some kind in the background. Chance looked like he might have been about four—adorable, but this didn’t seem like the right time to say so. Saturday’s newspaper was neatly folded on one nightstand, a CPAP machine and mask set on the other.

“One of your parents had sleep apnea,” Emily said.

“Yes, Mom did a sleep study recently and was diagnosed. She didn’t like wearing the mask, but she was finally sleeping better. I know Dad was.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I never understood how anyone so delicate and so feminine could snore like a lumberjack. It was something we joked about—with just the three of us. I mean, when we traveled and shared a room, Mom’s snoring rocked the walls.” He swallowed hard and stared at his hands. “I can’t believe she’s gone, Emily. This should never have happened.”

“I know. The sheriff will find whoever’s responsible. Justice will be served.”

“So what? She’s not coming back! Even if they give the creep the death penalty, it won’t make up for what he took from me.”

Emily cleared her throat, mentally groping for something profound to say—and drawing a blank. “No. Nothing will ever make up for the loss of your parents.”

“Why don’t I feel sad about my dad?” Chance looked up at the family portrait. “I should, but I don’t. All I can think about is Mom.”

“You weren’t close to your dad.”

“He and I tangled a lot. But he’s still my dad.”

Emily played with the bottom button on her blouse. “Chance, you told the sheriff’s deputies that everyone loved your mom and dad. Was your dad really that well liked? From what you told me, he sounded like a bully.”

“He always put on his best face for other people. And he was good to my mom. He just rode me pretty hard, and I never really knew why. It never seemed to make any difference when I succeeded at something. He would always point out where I needed to improve.”

“Too bad he didn’t realize you needed his approval. Maybe he thought pushing you was the way to make a man out of you.”

“Yeah, I suppose. But Mom …” Chance’s voice cracked, and he paused to gather his composure. “She always believed in me. She told me I was smart and encouraged me—even before I got glasses, when I had failing grades. I loved her
so
much. I feel like my heart’s been ripped out …”

Emily fought not to get emotional. Not here. Not now. How could she stay objective and focused if she let herself feel the full weight of what had happened? “Is that their walk-in closet?” she said.

Chance nodded and opened the door wide, the light coming on automatically. “Mom’s stuff is on the left. Dad’s is on the right.”

Emily went inside, stood at the far left of the rack that belonged to Lydia Durand, and moved the hangers to the left as she worked her way down the rack of dresses. She pulled out a light blue silk dress with fluttery cap sleeves and ruffles on the bodice. The iridescent oyster shell buttons reminded Emily of shells she’d collected on the beach in New Orleans.

“This is really feminine and dressy,” Emily said. “What do you think?”

Chance seemed lost in thought for a moment. Finally he nodded. “I loved that on her.”

Emily handed him the dress and turned around to the other rack, where she spotted a charcoal-gray suit hanging next to several light-colored suits. She stepped over to it and felt the fabric. “This is perfect. Do you have a shirt and tie in mind?”

“A white dress shirt. You pick the tie.”

Emily looked through the ties and chose a red, navy, and gray silk tie that looked great.

“You pick out shoes and socks for your dad,” Emily said. “And I’ll pick out shoes and hose for your mother. And some jewelry. We’ll be done.”

Emily got what she needed and followed Chance out to the dining room table.

“That was easier than I thought it would be,” Chance said. “Thanks for being here. I’m not sure I could’ve done it by myself without losing it.”

“You’re welcome. But you do know that losing it is okay, don’t you?” Emily faced him and held his gaze. “It’s good to cry. Or scream. Or whatever else you have to do to let go of the pain. Everyone’s different. No one else can tell you how to grieve. Just don’t hold it in. It’ll take a physical toll. And I know your mother would want you healthy and ready to start classes again at the end of August.”

Chance actually smiled. “Yeah. She would. I think she knew I was going to be a surgeon way back when I aspired to be an ice cream man.”

“An ice cream man?”

“Absolutely. I thought driving that little truck that played music and eating ice cream all day was about as good as it gets.”

Emily laughed. “Listen, mister, I wouldn’t rule it out.”

She relished this lighthearted moment, knowing these would be few, and that the darkness had not even begun to settle in.

Sax followed a cute gal with chestnut hair and intriguing blue-gray eyes to a table across from the window at Zoe B’s.

She smiled and handed him a menu. “Your waitress will be right with you. The specials are clipped inside. Is this your first time here?”

“Actually it is,” Sax said. “Adele Woodmore suggested I try eating here. She knows the owner and felt comfortable recommending Zoe B’s, even with the cyanide scare.”

“How do you know Adele?” The woman arched her eyebrows.

“I don’t really
know
her,” Sax said. “But she seemed pretty sure I would like the food here. I’m here on business. I live in New Orleans.”

“I’m a bit partial, since I own the place, but if you like authentic Cajun food, you’ll like ours. My husband is the head chef, and his gumbo has won the Copper Ladle award three years running.”

“Then you must be Zoe Broussard?” Sax took the business card out of his pocket and held it up. “Mrs. Woodmore gave me your card.”

Zoe smiled. “I’m not surprised. Adele’s our biggest fan. I assure you we will do everything we can to live up to her recommendation.”

“By the way, I’m Sax Henry.” He held out his hand, and she shook it, a familiar quizzical look on her face. “Sax is a nickname. I play the saxophone with a jazz band called the Smooth Blues.”

“Then it fits perfectly,” Zoe said. “I admire people who are musically inclined. I don’t have that talent but love listening to it. I’d better let you read the menu. Also, each of the oil paintings you see on the walls was done by a local artist and is for sale.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Zoe walked away, and Sax moved his gaze around Zoe B’s. What a quaint place—hanging plants, wood-plank flooring, one brick wall to complement the dark gold painted walls and blue-and-gold tablecloths. French country furnishings. Some of the accessories looked as if they might be antiques. Were those genuine D’Arceau Limoges collector plates on the corner cupboard? His second wife had loved them and had the credit card receipts to prove it. At least she’d found a way to fill the emptiness of their failed marriage.

He decided not to let his mind go there. Why wallow in what he couldn’t change? Sax opened the menu and saw the house special was crawfish étouffée. Always his favorite. He reviewed the list of what came with it and closed his menu just as a twentysomething woman, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, appeared at the table.

“My name’s Savannah. I’ll be serving you this evening. What can I get you to drink?”

“Iced tea. I’m ready to order.”

Savannah held up her pad and pencil. “What did you decide on?”

“I’ll have the crawfish étouffée, extra spicy. Cobb salad, house dressing on the side. Cornbread. And a cup of seafood gumbo.”

“Would you like your salad and gumbo at the same time?” Savannah took his menu.

“Sure. That’s fine.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be back shortly.”

Sax looked around the room, never quite sure what to do with his hands when he was waiting for an order. The three older gentlemen at the table by the window lowered their voices, which piqued his curiosity. He played with the saltshaker and eavesdropped on their conversation.

“I’m telling you, dey aren’t going to tell us everyting dey know,” said an elderly man with unruly gray curls and a thick Cajun accent. “Dis could be a terrorist attack. Why
would
dey tell us? People would panic fuh shore, and den we be in a real mess.”

A bald man swatted the air. “Hebert, my friend, you’re always lookin’ at the negative side. That’s not helpful. The authorities are gonna tell us what we need to know to stay safe.”

“You so sure about dat, Tex?” Hebert leaned forward on his elbows. “Last I heard, dey don’t have a clue who’s doing dis. Dat means dey can’t take terrorism off da table.”

“Gentlemen,” said a white-haired man in a black-and-white cleric shirt, “we have to trust someone. Right now, that’s the authorities—and God.”

“Father Sam’s got a point,” Tex said. “Have a little faith. And let’s trust the authorities to fill us in as we go.”

“Trust is not my strong suit.” Hebert scratched the stubble on his chin. “Don’t tink dere’s much chance I’m going to change at ninety-nine years old.”

“I don’t see another choice, do you?” Tex arched his silver eyebrows. “The authorities have been forthcomin’ about what we should do and not do. I trust Zoe and Pierce to patrol the kitchen. They’re not lettin’ anyone back there who shouldn’t be there. The food’s safe here. But I’m not drinkin’ bottled water of any kind until they’re sure this crisis is over.”