His cell rang. He pulled the phone from his pocket and answered. This particular cell was a disposable—one nobody could trace back to him. He disconnected after receiving a short message.

  One of his men reported visitors at the Foret home—a known attorney and a man identified as a private detective. He knew then she had no intention of giving up searching for her husband’s killer, no matter how hard her friends and family might try to dissuade her. He needed to get rid of her soon before she figured out a connection between him, the murder, his big money maker, and his addiction.

  Marchand wasn’t getting very far in his investigation due to intimidation tactics by his men against several witnesses. But who knew how long before they decided to talk. The sheriff would need to be dealt with sooner or later, preferably before State Police or federal agents got in on the action.

  Twenty-two

  Wednesday, August 7

  My morning started off with a phone call to Megan, informing her about the Hansons and their whereabouts. Her response was encouraging but at the same time annoying.

  “Josh already reported this to me and at present is doing a stake-out to determine their activities.”

  “It’s nice to know he’s earning his money.”

  “You’re still miffed with Steven about his hiring me, aren’t you? It’s really…”

  “Don’t you dare say it’s for my own good.”

  “Okay, I won’t say it, but you know it’s the truth. You came very close to being killed twice in the last few years.”

  “You’re right, but it’s still irritating to have my hands tied.” I closed my eyes for a brief moment and sighed. I must be a terrible person for putting my life in danger when I need to be thinking about what this is doing to my children.

  “Susan? Are you still there?” Her voice sounded concerned. “I hope you aren’t angry with me.”

  “I’m here, and I’m not mad at you. More annoyed with myself. Not being able to find out the truth about Jim’s death is painful. I want to find his killer now. Patience was never one of my virtues.”

  “I know the feeling,” she said.

  “You?” I said, surprised. “You’re the personification of patience and diplomacy.”

  “With the extremely slow pace the wheels of justice turn, patience is something I’ve had to work hard at. About the diplomacy part…I have a reputation for being diplomatic, but in some situations I have to grit my teeth.”

  “Guess I’ll have to work harder at developing those virtues.” I glanced at my watch. “Oh, I’ve got to go. There’s an orientation at the school this morning, and I need to make sure the kids look decent. We’ll talk later. Oh, wait. I received a couple of photos and military papers from Jim’s aunt. Do you want me to forward them to you?”

  “Yes, please do. I’ll let you know what Josh finds out about the Hansons from his stake-out.”

  “Thanks.” I ended the call and went to check on the twins.

  ~ * ~

  Angie Ducote pulled her Dodge Ram pickup into a parking space behind city hall, ready for her shift at the police station. Her cell phone buzzed before she could exit the vehicle. She glanced at the number on the display and pressed the button to answer.

  “Nice of you to return my call.” Her tone of voice showed her irritation with the caller. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Nothing has gone the way it should so far.” She paused to listen to the other party’s response. “I’m worried about the situation.”

  “What’s the problem?” the man asked.

  “Susan Foret isn’t going to let the matter drop. Apparently she’s hired a private investigator to look into the chief’s death.”

  “I see. This could be a problem.”

  “You know she’s good friends with Megan Whitehall, the defense attorney,” Angie said. “They’ve been in contact several times recently. She may have also hired her.”

  “I’m not sure how significant a problem hiring a defense attorney is.”

  “If Susan discovers who killed her husband, there’ll be a big problem for her and us if she resorts to vigilante justice. She’ll require an attorney and could be getting herself prepared.”

  “She’s an amateur. More than likely she’ll need the coroner.”

  Angie frowned. “Wow, that’s rather blunt.”

  “Yes it is, but, this business is not for the faint of heart.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll see about getting someone to shadow her. We might be able to keep her out of trouble and out of our hair.”

  ~ * ~

  The school orientation didn’t go well. Matthew and Caroline hardly said a word to the teachers and spoke only a few words to several children who greeted them. They clung to me as if today were their first day of kindergarten and they’d never been away from home.

  Many parents eyed me with caution and basically steered clear if at all possible. Guess they felt awkward and didn’t know what to say.

  Mrs. Carpenter, the principal, wanted to separate the twins in different second grade classrooms. I strenuously objected. A separation at this time would be too traumatic for them. She finally acquiesced to my request.

  I arrived home feeling irritable and most of all helpless. The need to pursue the investigation into Jim’s death pulled at me like a magnet. I had to uncover evidence sooner rather than later. I decided to make a visit to Andre LaBauve and his son. If they refused to take me out to the scene of the crime, I’d find a way to get there myself.

  Locating a sitter was my first priority. Steven had gone into New Orleans on personal matters—his words—and wouldn’t be back until late that afternoon. In a way I was glad he wasn’t here. He would have insisted on coming along with me.

  Tina, our usual sitter, declined because of a previous commitment. After a few more calls, I got a yes from Tina’s cousin, Carly, who had sat for us several times last year.

  I changed clothes after getting the sitter arrangements completed. Dress pants and flats weren’t exactly designed for tromping around in the woods. Thank goodness for jeans and sneakers.

  An hour later, Carly arrived and I left for North Bayou Pierre Road. I’m certain Steven would be upset with me if he returned before I did and found Carly. He would know I was off investigating on my own.

  Too bad. North Bayou Pierre Road wasn’t a dangerous area. The twins were safe at home and this was all that mattered. Besides, what could possibly go wrong? I should’ve known better than to ask such a question.

  Twenty-three

  As the name implied, North Bayou Pierre Road ran along the north side of Bayou Pierre. Most of the structures at the head of the road were fishing camps used on weekends and holidays. They were spaced far enough apart to allow me a view of the water and the land far into the distance.

  The south side of the bayou and beyond could only be accessed by boat, including the Bayou Jean Baptiste area, where Jim was shot. Cypress trees, several deciduous species and palmettos cast shadows across the water and presented a dark and ominous picture in my mind.

  A chill skittered up my spine at the thought of entering the place again. Bad memories stemmed from my narrow escape last year in the swamp. I considered turning around and heading back home, but I had to go forward…for Jim.

  About a mile down the road, I spotted a small cluster of buildings and slowed the car to a crawl. Wooden houses sitting atop ten or twelve foot pilings lined the banks. Down here a majority of the mailboxes bore the name LaBauve. No doubt Andre LaBauve’s married children and their families lived next to each other. Family compounds like these were not unusual in rural South Louisiana.

  Two men who appeared to be mending a large fishing net stood in the yard of one house. I believed I’d located Andre LaBauve and his son T-Boy, or at least one of Andre’s sons. I stopped the car in front, lowered the passenger side window and called to them.

  “Mr. LaBauve?”

  Both men turned toward me, still holding the net they were dealing with. The older man answered. “Which one? I’m Andre LaBauve. This is my son T-Boy. Can we help you?”

  A slight fishy smell wafted in my direction as I exited the car. The old familiar lump in my throat returned. I cleared my throat as if such action would make the lump disappear. “I’m Susan Foret, Chief Jim Foret’s wife.”

  Andre slowly released the corner of the net, allowing his side to touch the ground. He gave a silent signal to his son with his hand. T-Boy draped the heavy net over a couple of wooden sawhorses. Both men walked over to greet me.

  “I wanted to thank you for staying with my husband until help arrived.”

  “No thanks are necessary,” Andre said. His large brown eyes held a measure of sadness despite the smile on lips peeping through a bushy white beard and mustache. He reminded me of Santa Claus even without the red suit. His short stocky body made a sharp contrast to T-Boy’s tall, lanky physique.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t find him sooner.” T-Boy’s tone of voice sounded sympathetic, almost apologetic. “He was a good man.”

  “Yes, he was.” My voice choked.

  “Can we do something for you?” Andre asked.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I drove all the way out here just to thank you. I afraid my motives are a bit ulterior.”

  They both eyed me with curiosity and perhaps a little suspicion.

  I took a deep breath. “Hopefully my request won’t be an imposition on you, but I would like to go out to the site where you found Jim. Can you take me?”

  Andre’s frown made a furrow on his brow. “You sure you want to go out there?”

  I nodded. “Quite sure. I need to see the place where he was shot.”

  He still seemed reticent to grant my request. I suppose neither man wanted to return to a spot where they’d discovered a man shot and close to death.

  I hated to plead, but…“It would mean a lot if you would take me out there.”

  Andre turned to his son. “T-Boy, go get the engine on that big boat started.”

  Adrenaline pumped through me. I felt excited, and at the same time, fearful.

  The elder LaBauve told me to pull my car out of the road into the yard, which I did. A short time later we were on their boat heading south down Bayou Pierre.

  ~ * ~

  Scott Hanson turned away from the window. The motel parking lot didn’t provide much of a view. He was tired of hanging around doing nothing. He glared at his father. “Dad, when do you intend to do this?”

  Rick tightened his grip on the arms of his wheelchair. “Don’t rush me. I need time to plan.”

  “Don’t you mean to get up the courage?” Scott growled. “I can’t take off any more days from work. We’ve got to get this business taken care of so we can get the hell out of this swamp.”

  “Courage doesn’t have anything to do with this. I need to catch her when her brother isn’t around and she’s alone.”

  “Dad, she has kids. It’s not likely she’ll be completely alone.”

  He shook his head. “The kids won’t be a problem.”

  Scott blew out an exasperated breath. “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  Twenty-four

  Sunlight glinting on bayou waters, cypress trees laden with Spanish moss, and white egrets wading along the banks provided perfect subjects for artists or photographers. Too bad I wasn’t either.

  Maybe one day in the future I would be able to enjoy a boat ride like this. Considering my present situation, I could hardly believe a leisurely ride on the water would ever be possible. Right now my heart pumped hard and fast. My emotions seemed to be spinning out of control.

  Andre tapped me on the shoulder, startling me. He didn’t seem to notice my jump. “We’re coming up to the spot. About a half a mile ahead.” The engine’s roar partially drowned out his voice.

  I simply nodded. I didn’t know if my voice would even work.

  T-Boy slowed the boat down and steered it toward the bank. “Here’s where we tied up that day.”

  I must have looked as disoriented as I felt. T-Boy’s explanation provided me a sense of direction.

  He pointed a finger to a distant spot. “A mile or so up there is where Bayou Pierre runs into the Allemand.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand back toward the bank. “Walking through here will take us to Bayou Jean Baptiste…and the spot where we found Chief Foret.”

  Wide-leafed palmettos grew thick along the edge of the water. A tiny path where people had trampled on their way toward a more favorable fishing spot or photo opportunity seemed to be the only break in the foliage. About fifty feet farther inland, tall grasses, cattails, and a few trees known as swamp myrtles crowded in front of a mixture of cypress and oaks.

  Not quite as dark as the area near the home of Gibb Romaine and his traiteur mother, but equally as dangerous. I imagined water moccasins and their slithery friends hiding under every bush or rotting log. Snakes give me the creeps.

  T-Boy secured the boat and leaped onto the bank. He extended his hand to me to help me on shore. Andre followed close behind.

  The breeze from the water abruptly stopped as we walked farther into the woods. Humidity as high as the ninety-five degree temperature left me feeling like someone was holding a wet rag over my face. I kept a watchful eye along the pathway in case a water moccasin decided to confront me. “Are there many snakes in here?”

  T-Boy laughed. “Sure, there are. Some big ones, too.” He extended his hands to indicate how big.

  I knew he was joking, but still… “Don’t joke about something so scary.”

  “Aw, don’t worry about them snakes. They’re more scared of us.”

  “He’s right,” Andre agreed. “When they hear us coming…whoosh.” He gestured with his hands to indicate how fast the snakes supposedly took off when they heard people thrashing along the path.

  “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” I noted a twinkle in his eyes and allowed myself a small smile. Too soon the levity faded. Light diminished as well the farther we walked. Birds or other critters I knew to be plentiful around there were silent. I guess they didn’t like all the visitors going in and out of their normally quiet neighborhood.

  Mosquitoes sure weren’t hiding. I swatted away several pesky insects buzzing around my face. They came right back. Too bad I didn’t think to wear insect repellant.

  T-Boy slowed his pace and turned to me. “Right up there next to that tree was where we found him.”

  Scraps of yellow crime scene tape hung limply from a small bush near the tree he indicated. My heart thumped. In my mind, I could see Jim lying on the ground, gravely wounded. I forced back my tears and moved closer to the spot.

  What exactly had I expected to find here? It wasn’t likely birds or squirrels would reveal what they witnessed. I slowly surveyed the surrounding area and searched for any landmarks in case I decided to return on my own. There was nothing but trees and brush everywhere.

  Bayou Jean Baptiste flowed just beyond a clearing to my left. I felt an unexplainable urge to take a look at the water and started walking in that direction. The LaBauve men followed me at a distance. They must have thought I’d lost my mind.

  I wondered about it myself. I must be insane to continue on this path my close friends and family believe to be destructive to me. Shaking off the assessments of my mental health, I inspected the area around me.

  Footprints, both human and animal, crisscrossed the bank of the bayou. Unlike the information Danny had spouted off to me, most of these prints appeared fresh. Then again, what do I know about footprint forensics? Anybody could have come to this spot to fish after the crime scene had been cleared.

  One human footprint large enough to be a man’s caught my eye. The athletic shoe’s brand name emblem was perfectly etched in the damp ground. Someone I knew or maybe someone I’d seen recently wore this brand of high end shoes, but at the moment I couldn’t recall the person.

  Whoever this person was, he must have ruined his expensive shoes in this muck. Maybe he could afford to simply go buy another pair. The heel appeared to have sunk deeper than the rest of his shoe.

  Long gashes in the mud suggested a small boat or perhaps some sort of pallet loaded with heavy items being pushed to or from the water’s edge. Being South Louisiana, those marks could just as easily have been someone dragging a cooler full of beer back to their boat.

  I turned to the men. “Do many people come here to fish?”

  “Not anymore,” Andre answered. “That’s why me and him come here now.”

  “Everybody and his brother used to come to dis spot,” T-Boy said. “Rumors about drug smuggling made a lot of people stay away.”

  Andre made a quick glance at his son. “But we ain’t seen nobody like drug smugglers up in here, so we do our personal fishing right where you’re standing.”

  I doubted either one of them wore this expensive brand of shoes, but I asked anyway. They stared at me blankly. Finally T-Boy spoke.

  “We don’t make the kind of money to buy those kinds of shoes.” He stuck one leg out to display his rubber footwear, known affectionately as Cajun Reeboks.

  “We wear these lil white boots when we go shrimpin’ and crabbin’.”

  “But what about when you come here to fish?”

  “Just like what you see right now,” Andre said, eying his son with curiosity. “Mais, how you know about them expensive shoes?”

  T-Boy grinned sheepishly. “I saw an ad in a magazine at the barber shop. They’re some mighty fine shoes, made of calf leather.”

  I beckoned them to come closer. “Are any of these other footprints made by somebody wearing white boots like yours? Or could they belong to either of you?”

  Andre studied the ground where I indicated. He shook his head. “I don’t see any. The last time we came up in here was the day we found your husband. There was plenty that time, too, but more than this, mostly old ones. These all look like a day or so old. See how the mud is starting to dry up and crack around the prints. We ain’t had no rain in a couple of days.”