Relentless Pursuit: A Novel (Secrets of Roux River Bayou) (8 page)

“Yes, you told me. Impressive. And he’s certainly good looking.”

Emily laughed. “Do you think? He’s a marathon runner too. If he wasn’t so geeky, the gals would flock around him. Actually he’s awkward around most women.”

“But not around you?”

“No. We speak the same language. I have a lot of geek in me too. That’s probably why we hit it off.”

“I have a feeling your big blue eyes and long sandy curls had something to do with it.”

“I wish I had dark hair like yours. And your drop-dead figure.”

Vanessa reached across the table and took Emily’s hand. “You’re beautiful, just the way you are—inside and out. Don’t ever think you have to
settle
for anyone.”

“I’m not settling. I like Chance. I just don’t know if he’d be as interested in me if other gals were falling all over him.”

“I have a feeling he would. You’re a real catch, kiddo. And for a guy like that to find a woman who’s an intellectual equal is a major plus.”

“I don’t know that we’re intellectual
equals,
but I can hold my own.” Emily sighed. “Any hope we had of building a romantic relationship probably went out the window with this tragedy. I just need to be a friend. Chance will spend the rest of the summer grieving and dealing with legal matters. I just hope he can get his head clear enough to keep up his grades so he doesn’t lose his scholarship.”

“I hope so too. I’m glad he has you to help. But remember, you have another obligation.”

Emily nodded. “I want to wait tables at Zoe B’s every chance I get. I need the money. I just hope this cyanide scare doesn’t wreck the tourist trade. You and Ethan took a big hit two summers ago when that nutcase was on the loose. It’s not fair that you should have to go through it again.”

Chapter 8

Zoe changed Grace and Tucker from church clothes into play clothes and then left both children in Maddie’s care and went downstairs to the dining room at Zoe B’s. She stopped abruptly in the doorway, shocked to see every table filled and people in the waiting area.

Savannah hurried over to her. “I don’t know what’s going on, but we need another waitress to keep up with this crowd. It’s busier than a normal Sunday, even without the Sunday brunch! One customer said something about Sheriff Prejean giving us the green light. Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

Zoe moved her gaze across the bustling dining room. “Pierce said Jude was on the eleven o’clock news and mentioned that he and Colette ate here last night. I missed it.”

“Any chance you could get another waitress to come in?” Savannah’s blue eyes were pleading. “Nanette and I are running our socks off. I thought we’d be twiddling our thumbs.”

“I’ll call Emily. She said she would come in anytime we needed her. Do you think she’s ready to handle
this
kind of busy?”

“Yes, she’s great,” Savannah said. “It’s obvious she’s waited tables before.”

Zoe walked out to the kitchen and spotted Pierce at the worktable, his chef’s hat tall and proud, his smile as wide as the Mississippi.

“Can you believe this?” he said. “It has to be because of Jude’s plug on the news last night. Can you get the girls some help waiting tables?”

“I’m on it.” Zoe hit the speed dial for Vanessa’s cell phone.

“How’d you do at church by yourself?” Pierce said.

“Fine. Grace colored pictures, and Tucker fell asleep.”

The phone rang three times, and then Vanessa came on the line. “Hey, Zoe. What’s up?”

“My dining room is overflowing with customers, and I need Emily ASAP. I could go down the hall to the office and look up her cell number, but I thought I’d check with you first to see if she’s back from church.”

“She and Carter went to early church. I think they’re playing a video game. Hang on …”

Zoe turned and looked through the window in the kitchen door to the dining room. She saw families dressed in touristy T-shirts. That was a great sign.

“Hello, Zoe? It’s Emily. Vanessa said you need me to come in.”

“Could you come—like
now
?” Zoe noted all the customers reading menus. “I don’t think this crowd is going to clear out for a while.”

“Sure. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks. You’re a doll.”

Zoe caught Savannah just as she was coming into the kitchen. “Emily will be here in about fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, I’ll take care of seating people. Let me know if you need me to help take orders. Isn’t this an exciting twist?”

Savannah laughed. “If it doesn’t kill us.”

Kill us
. An image of the food bar at Marcotte’s Market popped into Zoe’s mind, and she dismissed it. They couldn’t just retreat in fear and let some crazy person or group hold the town hostage. She and Pierce would be diligent to make sure no strangers wandered into their kitchen. But they weren’t closing their doors unless they were forced to.

Jude set a cup of coffee on the conference table in his office and then sat at the head of the table and thumbed through the file on the cyanide poisonings. He heard a knock and looked up as Aimee walked in, her uniform pressed, her makeup flawless, and her bleach-blonde hair neatly coiffed.

“Mayor Theroux, Chief Norman, and Dr. Jensen from DHH just arrived,” Aimee said. “I’ve got us set up in interview room one—anytime you’re ready.”

“I’m ready. I was just about to review the file again, but I could recite it in my sleep.”

Jude got up and followed Aimee across the detective bureau and out into the far hallway. He caught up with her and stopped at the first interview room, holding the door and making eye contact with the mayor.

“Good morning, Sheriff.” Mayor Oliver Theroux nodded from the oblong table, where he sat between Chief Norman and Dr. Jensen. “You look rested.”

Jude smiled politely. Was the mayor being sarcastic? “Looks are deceiving, sir. I rarely get a good night’s sleep when I’m up to my ears in a case that isn’t moving fast enough to suit me.”

Jude came into the room and shook hands with each of the men and then sat at the table next to Aimee, facing them.

“Thanks for giving up part of your Sunday,” Jude said. “I promised this meeting would be quick and to the point. So here it is: we have six dead. Ten hospitalized but expected to recover. No suspects yet. Marcotte’s Market has been closed. Chief Norman’s people and mine are working around the clock to contain this threat and stop whoever’s behind it.

“I wanted to bring some new information to your attention. The lab has now confirmed that the chocolate pudding on the food bar at Marcotte’s was the only food item poisoned with cyanide. And the poisoned bottles of Gaudry water that claimed five of the six victims were contaminated through a tiny hole made in the bottom of the plastic bottle, where we believe the cyanide was injected, and then the hole patched with a clear, hard adhesive.

“Gaudry bottled water has been removed from the grocery shelves in Les Barbes, and state officials are working to determine which bottles have been tampered with and/or contaminated. There’s now a statewide recall on bottles with the same bottling plant code and expiration date as the contaminated bottles.” Jude glanced over at Dr. Jensen, who nodded in affirmation.

“What about fingerprints?” Oliver said.

Jude folded his hands on the table. “We were able to identify a few fingerprints on the bottled water but found none that shouldn’t be there. We’re looking closely at every employee of Marcotte’s—and especially the delivery boy, Adam Marcotte, who is the great-nephew of the owner.”

“Adam?” Oliver said. “I’ve known him all his life. My son Stephen is on the swim team with him. There’s no way he’s involved in this.”

Jude pursed his lips. “You’re probably right. But Friday afternoon he delivered groceries to three residences, resulting in the five bottled-water fatalities. We can’t afford to pass him over just because of his family ties.”

“But didn’t he take the bottled water off the shelf when he filled the grocery order for those folks?” Ollie said.

“That’s what Adam told us, and that’s the normal procedure.” Jude bounced a pencil eraser on the table. “Judging from the computer records, this water came in Thursday afternoon, was checked in shortly after midnight, and was set out after three p.m. on Friday. We’re talking to everyone who would’ve handled it, starting with the transport driver and his crew and every person who works in the stockroom or has access to it.

“In addition,” Jude said, “we’ve thoroughly reviewed Saturday’s security tapes of the food bar at Marcotte’s. From 10:33 until 10:56 a.m., three female employees in uniform—all have been confirmed by the manager—were busy setting up the food bar, which opens at 11:00. They finished the job at 10:56 and went back into the kitchen. Sixty-three seconds later, a male, dressed in what appears to be denim shorts and a white collared shirt, walked up to the end of the food bar, his back to the camera. We couldn’t tell what he was doing, but twenty-three seconds later, he picked up a big spoon and stirred what we now know is the chocolate pudding that was poisoned. The suspect walked away a few seconds later, his back still to the camera. We enhanced the image of the man from behind, but truthfully, it shows little detail. The man appears to be either Hispanic or Caucasian, dark hair, medium height and build. Pretty generic.”

Oliver sighed. “That’s it?”

Jude nodded. “So far. We’ve questioned the three female workers at Marcotte’s food bar. None of them remembers seeing the man in the tape. They seem devastated, especially the older lady who set the pudding out. We can’t yet eliminate them as persons of interest, but my gut tells me they weren’t involved.” Jude looked over at the official from DHH. “Dr. Jensen, would you give us your thoughts?”

The sixtysomething man with gray hair and a beard coughed and then tented his fingers. “Since no cyanide was found in any of the other food-bar selections—or in the covered tub of chocolate pudding in Marcotte’s kitchen—we can conclude that cyanide was added either just before or right after the pudding was set out. From what I observed on the security tape, it’s very plausible that this man dumped a vial of cyanide into the pudding and stirred it in. Law enforcement searched the trash receptacles inside the store, including the restrooms, and outside the store—but found no empty vial. He could have concealed it as he left the market.

“Another interesting fact—” Dr. Jensen continued, “the bottled water taken into evidence contained ten times the lethal dose of potassium cyanide for an adult male, while the pudding had only about one half the lethal dose. We can only speculate about why the perp did that. Perhaps he decided after he poisoned the water to add the last of the cyanide to the pudding, and there just wasn’t enough to do a lot of harm. But I will say that unless he knew the exact size of the stainless steel tubs used on the food bar, he would be guessing how much cyanide to add to make a portion of pudding lethal. Not so with the cyanide injected into the bottled water, since he knew each contained sixteen fluid ounces. He could easily determine what would be a lethal dose after drinking just a few ounces. My opinion is that these were random acts of malice intended to harm or kill as many people as possible—and not directed at a specific victim or victims. But I’ll leave that judgment to law enforcement.”

Jude nodded. “I’m inclined to agree, but I’ve got a lot more investigating to do before I come to that conclusion.”

“Same here,” Chief Norman said. “We need to question every male who handled the bottled water from the warehouse to the stockroom, and every employee who had access to the kitchen. Since we can’t identify the man in the security tapes, he could be an employee.”

Sax strolled through the flower garden at Langley Manor, his hands in his pockets, and then walked up on the wood bridge that spanned the pond and relaxed for a moment in the shade of a live oak that was probably older than he was.

He leaned on the railing, looking out across the sprawling green lawns dotted with dogwoods, magnolias, and weeping willows, to the manor house standing as tall and elegant as it had been since before the Civil War. It was tranquil out here—serene and natural. So why couldn’t he just relax and enjoy it and think positive thoughts? He was already preparing himself for the possibility that Adele Woodmore wouldn’t agree to contact Shelby. He had sensed the woman’s disgust that he had abandoned his little sister when she needed him most. What if Mrs. Woodmore simply said
no
? It wasn’t as though he could force her to divulge Shelby’s whereabouts.

Maybe it was for the best. The closer he got to the potential reunion, the more afraid he was of Shelby’s rejection. As determined as he was to earn her trust and forgiveness, he wasn’t sure he had the fortitude to push beyond her defenses if she had no interest in building a relationship.

Coward.
He had run once. Was he about to do it again? Was he still that spineless teenager at heart? Had guilt taught him nothing?

He sighed. Why did he do this to himself? He had read enough about dysfunctional families to know that his self-recrimination was a black hole. So why did he fall back into it over and over again?

Seven white ibis landed next to the pond and began foraging through the grass for insects and grasshoppers or whatever else suited their fancy. They seemed focused on feeding and oblivious to his presence, which was fine with him. He felt “tucked away” here. Invisible. With space to think, without the distractions of everyday life.

Not that he minded playing gigs seven days a week for months on end. When he had too much time on his hands, his depression got unbearable. But his search for Shelby had come to a head, and it was the only thing that had kept him going for the past three years. If it ended badly, what else was there? He was either going to confront Shelby and work things out—or put an end to all of it.

What purpose did he have for existing? He hadn’t made anyone happy. Certainly his ex-wives thought he was a loser.

His playing with the Smooth Blues had been a contribution of sorts. Music helped make others happy. But if he were dead, the band would just replace him. There were plenty of saxophone players out there who could step into his shoes—younger guys with more talent and energy and a more positive outlook. The other musicians tolerated his mood swings, but none understood the desolation he lived with day in and day out. He almost envied the cyanide victims. At least death came quickly for them. He was dying one breath at a time.