The patrons mostly sat one person to a table in the center of the room, either engrossed in their phones or with a laptop open in front of them. There were two women seated at a booth by the window who were actually having a conversation. A young man about eighteen or nineteen occupied the other booth, his fingers clicking on his laptop.

  I ordered a latte and a cranberry-orange muffin from the display case. The tables by the wall were still vacant when my order was completed so I grabbed a spot in the corner at the far right before any newly arriving customers could claim it. With my laptop booted up, I started searching for more info about the incident.

  I took a few small sips of coffee and broke off a piece of the muffin. I nibbled on the tart cake as I surfed the internet.

  The Picayune’s archives, usually a treasure trove of information, surprisingly had a brief reference to the event two years later. In fact, the only item of interest in this piece was a mention that the assailants escaped in their own boat and the case had grown cold because authorities were never able to locate the aggressors. To what authorities were they referring? Jamaican or United States?

  “Hello,” he drawled. “We meet again.”

  Startled, I looked up into the big blue eyes of Jack Holden. My breath caught in my throat. Was it fear or desire?

  “I figured you’d be back offshore by now.”

  He made a face. “Unfortunately, I will be by tomorrow afternoon. May I join you?”

  “Sure, I’m happy for the interruption.” I frowned. “My research isn’t going well at all.”

  Jack slipped in beside me and regarded me with a curious expression.

  “Research for a mystery novel?”

  “You could say that.” I should have closed the lid the moment he walked up. Don’t know if he saw the article on my screen. I hesitated to reveal the subject of my search. Maybe I could improvise and pretend an attack on a boat was part of my plot. He’s not from around here so he might not be privy to the real incident.

  Bad idea. Like I told myself before, I have no idea of this man’s past. I snapped the lid shut.

  “So what have you been doing since we last ran into each other,” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Riding around enjoying the scenery mostly.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled at me. “Including the ladies, one in particular.”

  Wow, was that a pick-up line or an indication he’s been following me? I began to rethink my attraction to him and feigned ignorance to his come-on, or whatever he meant. Rachel’s warning about him lurked in the back of my mind.

  I glanced at my watch. “Time has gotten away from me. I need to get moving.” I placed my laptop into its case and attempted to leave. The arrangement of the tables prevented me from leaving unless he moved over to allow me to pass.

  “Be careful out there on the rig,” I said, looking him straight in the face. His powerful gaze threatened to make me back down. I didn’t.

  He finally realized I intended to leave and moved over so I could pass without ending up in his lap. His expression seemed to be a combination of irritation and confusion. Obviously he had never been turned down by a woman and was still trying to figure out why I had brushed him off.

  My next thought sent heart and mind racing. “There is one other vibration I picked up from you concerning a man who seems to have a connection to the foreign man,” Taylor said. “He will appear to have a romantic interest in you, but I feel he’s not honest about his feelings.”

  Was he the man she meant? If so, what was his connection to Alex?

  Thirty-two

  The one black pick-up I saw parked in the vicinity of Coffee Heaven turned out to be a Dodge Ram. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. If Jack Holden owned this one, he wasn’t the person who tried to run me over unless he had another truck—a GMC.

  People around here don’t usually buy the same type vehicles of different brands concurrently, especially not someone who doesn’t have a permanent home in this area. But if there were two drivers in the household…

  Stop with the ifs. I’m making this situation more complicated than necessary. There was no way for me to find out if he really worked offshore and was leaving tomorrow as he claimed. I felt like an idiot for allowing myself to be attracted to him. Luckily, I never agreed to go on a date with him. My curiosity about his motives still intrigued me.

  I needed to speak to Willow, but I didn’t have a phone number for her. I could search social media sites and see if there was any way to get a message to her. If not, there were two other options. I could show up and ask to speak to her or I could mail a note to her by snail mail.

  She may not want to speak to me if she and Miriam believe Celina’s killer is in custody. My opinion differed from theirs. Any number of people present at the site could have shot Celina, but Alex conveniently happened to be the person with any connection that Brad could get his hands on.

  I sat in my car for a short moment with the air conditioner on high. The walkway along the shore of the town’s lake, also known as Cypress Lake, seemed like the ideal place for me to continue with the research on my laptop uninterrupted by Mister Romeo. Even if I got no results on my search, I could sit on a bench and enjoy the view.

  After parking my car, I found an unoccupied bench and sat for a while staring at the scene.

  The water was fairly calm, splashing gently against the trunks of a row of cypress trees. These trees marked a spot where the Allemand River flowed into the lake. A slight breeze ruffled beards of Spanish moss hanging from the trees.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of doing this months ago. The water and trees created such a peaceful atmosphere. I felt totally relaxed. Even the few joggers who ran by caused little interruption to this tranquility.

  Rebooting my laptop, I made another attempt to locate more information on the boat attack. There didn’t seem to be any. I couldn’t understand why. I could say that Claire paid off everybody in two countries to let the whole incident fade away. An irrational idea at best. How would she explain the deaths of two people?

  Any additional searching on the web this morning appeared to be a waste of time. The heat was beginning to get the best of me anyway. I felt perspiration forming beneath my tee shirt.

  I shut my laptop down and put it away. What a disappointment. There didn’t seem to be an answer forthcoming about Celina’s murder or the attack on the Claire G.

  I did a double take. In what could only be described as a contrived plot twist in a novel, the jogger approaching me turned out to be Willow Baum. She recognized me and trotted over.

  “I see you’re enjoying the view and the sunshine,” she said. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Definitely the view, but not the heat,” I replied, wiping sweat from my brow. “I’ve wanted to speak to you ever since the funeral. Can you sit awhile?”

  “Sure, I need a break.” Willow sat next to me on the bench and pulled a small water bottle from her fanny pack. After taking a few swallows, she eyed me with suspicion. “Why did you want to speak to me?”

  “You may not want to answer my questions. If you find them too painful to rehash, tell me and I won’t bother you again.”

  A frown creased her forehead. “Questions about Celina, I presume.”

  “Yes, but my question is about a statement you made. I said Celina was really dedicated to her work at the food pantry. You replied she may have been a little too dedicated.”

  She averted her eyes for a brief moment. “I’m not certain how or why she happened to be out there, but I strongly suspect the reason had something to do with helping undocumented immigrants like our birth parents.”

  “Then your Native American ancestry is of Mexican or Central American origin.”

  She nodded. “Guatemalan.”

  Now for the big question. “I didn’t imagine your adverse reaction to Kenny Verret. What’s the connection to you? Or was there a relationship between him and Celina?”

  Apprehension flittered in her eyes. “I can’t discuss the connection between him and Celina.” She jumped up and ran, not jogged, down the sidewalk.

  Once again I’ve either made an enemy or hurt feelings or both. I never meant to do that, but my obsessive need to find answers always managed to get me in trouble physically or emotionally. Willow was a nice person. She lost her sister in an act of violence. I felt terrible for upsetting her.

  Even though I didn’t get a lot of information, I have a better understanding of Celina’s mindset. She and Willow must have been born in the United States after their parents came to this country illegally. But the reaction I received from Willow about Kenny Verret did answer one question at least in my mind. He was not Willow’s boyfriend, ex or otherwise.

  Her reaction raised more questions. Why couldn’t she discuss the relationship between Celina and Kenny? Did Celina know about the immigrants being dropped off there? And if so, how did she know?

  I left a message on Remi Granger’s cell. Hopefully she would be able to get back to me soon. Time was not in Alex’s favor.

  As I told Megan, I firmly believe that reasonable doubt is not a good way to find a person not guilty of murder. Sure, the defendant is cleared legally, but unless the real killer is found and convicted, the defendant is always going to be under a cloud of suspicion.

  Steven is a good example. He never went to trial for the murder of his wife because there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him. Then the case went cold for ten years.

  For a decade the police still considered him the killer and his life was a living hell. He was eventually arrested after they reopened the case. If I hadn’t risked everything to find Anne’s killer, my brother would be in prison at Angola or on death row.

  As I pulled into my driveway, my cell rang. The caller ID indicated Remi returning my call. I answered still sitting in the car.

  “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

  “No problem,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m doing research on an incident that occurred ten years ago…an attack on a boat owned by Allemand Parish residents that happened in the Caribbean.”

  She spoke in a low voice. “You mean Claire Gallagher’s boat?”

  “Oh, you know about it.” I shouldn’t have been surprised. She is an investigative reporter.

  “I heard about the attack years ago, but never thought too much about it until now.”

  How interesting. “Why now?”

  “Rumors. I can’t talk about it over the phone, but I would love to meet with you. When is a good time?”

  “The kids are back in school now so any time during the day is fine.”

  “Can we meet for lunch in NOLA tomorrow?”

  “Sure, that would be great.”

  I wasn’t anxious to make a trip to New Orleans, but at least we would be away from the prying eyes of Cypress Lake people. We decided on a time and place and ended the call.

  Remi certainly seemed eager to meet with me. I wondered if she knew that Rachel and I had been the ‘fishermen’ who discovered Celina’s body. Could my intuition about a connection between Celina’s murder and the Gallaghers have been right all along?

  Thirty-three

  Thursday, August 6

  Remi met me at a little eatery on Canal Street named Cal’s Place. Established sometime in the 1930s, Cal’s looked like a dive, but I’d eaten here many times in the past and can attest to the delicious food.

  Although I was anxious to hear what Remi knew, I couldn’t help taking a few moments to drink in the ambience of the place.

  Red and white checkered tablecloths covered each table. Voices buzzed, along with periodic bursts of laughter amid the aroma of beer and fried seafood. The walls were lined with photos of the cafe owner posing with New Orleans celebrity musicians and Hollywood actors in town to film movies. Over the years, Louisiana had become known as Hollywood South because of the multitude of movies being filmed in the state.

  We managed to find a table toward the back of the crowded room and settled in to check out the menu. A waitress took our orders and scurried off to the kitchen.

  Remi’s expression seemed to be a cross between curiosity and caution. “First, let me ask you why you’re researching this particular incident.”

  I leaned forward in order to speak low, so other diners wouldn’t be privy to our conversation. One never knows who might be listening.

  “I believe there is a connection between Celina’s murder and the Gallagher family, either through the attack on their boat or some element of the family salvage business.”

  She smiled. “Straight to the point. I like that. So I’ll do the same.”

  “Good, because I haven’t been able to get much info about what actually happened on the boat.”

  Her expression grew serious. “Do you have any evidence to prove your theory?”

  “Not really. I do know there’s a connection between Celina’s murder and illegal immigrants coming into the country. Plus, I’m pretty sure that a couple who claim to be from Martinique are actually from Haiti. These people are currently employed by Claire Gallagher.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “What makes you so sure they are from Haiti? They might originally be from Haiti and moved to Martinique.”

  I told her about my visit and the conversation I overheard. “It’s still a possibility. However, from their body language after they discovered my presence, intuition tells me their papers from Martinique are false.”

  “I have to agree. Sounds like your instinct is right on.” Her expression changed to one of frustration. “From what little I’ve been able to uncover about the pirate attack, the whole incident was swept under the rug. I find it hard to believe, since two American citizens were killed and another seriously wounded.”

  “Wouldn’t Danny be in the know about it? I asked. “He was the sheriff back then.”

  “I asked him about it recently and he told me he wasn’t at liberty to discuss the incident.”

  “What made you question him now?”

  “My photographer…” The waitress interrupted with our food. After she left, Remi continued. “My photographer can read lips. He informed me after he lip read the conversation between Brad and a reporter from a rival TV station.”

  “How did this reporter come up with a connection between the Gallaghers and smuggling immigrants into the country?”

  “Good question,” she said.

  “What did Brad say?”

  “He turned his face so his lips couldn’t be read.”

  To mask my frustration at hitting another roadblock, I concentrated on my lunch. Breaking off a piece of French bread, I spread butter on it and savored the taste. I love bread and rolls, sweet or otherwise. Seafood dishes with rice like the Shrimp Creole in front of me can be healthy, but all this white bread negates the benefits.

  We ate in silence for a while until Remi’s phone rang. She retrieved the cell from her purse.

  “I can’t hear you,” she said. “I’m in Cal’s. I’ll go see if I can find a quieter place.” She excused herself. “Station’s on the line.”

  Breaking news? Sirens were going off in my head. Something told me Allemand Parish would soon be in the news again.

  Remi returned a few minutes later. “I’ve got to go catch this story.” She leaned closer to me and whispered, “Mike Doucet, Claire’s son, has been shot.”

  “Is he alive?” I whispered back.

  “The information we have is that he’s been transported to West Lake Memorial for emergency surgery.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Her words brought back Danny’s life changing announcement a year ago. Jim’s been shot. He’s at West Lake Memorial in surgery.

  Remi grabbed her purse and left money with me to pay for her meal. “Let’s continue this discussion soon.”

  “Definitely.”

  Had I been wrong in my assessment of Mike Doucet? Or had someone in the Gallagher family decided to take justice in their own hands?

  Thirty-four

  Heading for the hospital to find out Mike Doucet’s condition was tempting, but not a viable option. In a couple of hours the kids would be out of school.

  Rachel greeted me as I exited my car. “Have you heard about the latest shooting?”

  “You mean Mike Doucet?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I had lunch with Remi at Cal’s Place when she got the call.”

  She eyed me with concern. “What are you two cooking up? I’d hate to see either or both of you get into a situation you couldn’t get out of.”

  “Come inside and I’ll tell you about our discussion.” I unlocked the door and stepped inside, followed by Rachel. “Did Danny go to hold Brad’s hand?” I exhaled. “That wasn’t nice. I’ve got to stop putting him down.”

  “In answer to your question, Danny went to the scene, but he heard about it from Ronnie.”

  “Mea culpa, Brad,” I said. “Where was Mike Doucet when he was shot?"

  “He was in his truck out on Richard Road. I don’t know any other details.”

  “Remi told me he’d been taken to West Lake Memorial for emergency surgery.”

  Rachel sat at the kitchen table. “Okay, fill me in. Why did you have lunch with Remi?”

  “We talked about Celina’s death and a possible connection to the attack on the Gallagher’s boat.”

  “So she thinks the two incidents are tied in some way?”

  I nodded. “However, she’s having as much trouble as I am finding out anything. She overheard a reporter from another station ask Brad questions about illegal immigrants and a connection to Gallagher Salvage.”

  Rachel arched her eyebrows. “How interesting. What was Brad’s response?”

  “She couldn’t say. I suspect he either told the reporter he had no comment or he didn’t have any information on the subject.”

  We talked for about fifteen or twenty minutes and then she went back to her house. Feeling restless, I paced around, not knowing what to do with myself. I rehashed all the details I knew about the events of the last several weeks since Celina’s murder.