As he stepped into the room, he threw a cautious glance at Jim. His expression clouded. I could sense the depths of his sadness at the event leading up to his friend’s current condition. He greeted me with a hug, then pulled back, but continued to hold on to my hand.

  “I caught Doctor Rayborn on his way down the hall,” Bill said. “What little he could tell me didn’t sound good. Are they giving you any encouragement?”

  “Not really. The doctors are hoping the blood replacement will get him back on the right track.”

  “But they can’t say for sure.”

  “No, but I have to be positive. He will come out of this and reveal what really happened out there on the bayou. There’s no way Jim tried to kill himself.”

  A trace of a frown wrinkled his brow for an instant. “Is that the official theory?”

  “According to Danny, the evidence at the scene indicated attempted suicide.”

  “Like you, I can’t imagine why he would commit such an act.” He gave me a smile of encouragement. “Staying positive is the way to go.”

  Bill’s cell phone buzzed softly. He took a quick look at the display. His raised eyebrows suggested a problem or at least an important message. “My secretary.” He squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry this is such a short visit, but my mayoral duties call. I’ll come back soon.”

  “Thanks, Bill,” I said. “I appreciate your coming by.”

  He paused at the foot of Jim’s bed. “Come back to us, buddy.”

  After Bill left the room, I stood beside the bed staring at Jim. You have to be able to tell me what happened. Wake up, please, I silently begged. I kept repeating the latter phase as if my plea would force him awake. My mantra didn’t work.

  His eyes remained closed. Only the slight up and down movement of his chest let me know he was still alive. Or was he? His face had taken on a bluish tinge. His chest ceased to move or else the movement was so minute it became undetectable.

  A panicked feeling in the pit of my stomach froze me in place. Alarms abruptly sounded and numbers and lines on the machine displays seemed to go berserk. The line showing his heartbeat began to straighten. Two nurses burst into the room and rushed to his bedside.

  Another nurse brushed me aside. “You need to leave the room, Mrs. Foret.”

  Stepping backwards toward the door, I watched in horror as the nurses frantically called for assistance. More hospital personnel ran in. An aide gently escorted me out of the room.

  Doctor Rayborn ran down the hall toward me, the tails of his starched white coat flapping like wings. He dashed into the room. Hospital personnel blocked my view so I couldn’t see what went on. The scene seemed surreal. I couldn’t breathe.

  The frenzied activity in the room came to an abrupt halt. From the dejected stances of all the personnel, I knew something had gone terribly wrong. Everything afterwards seemed to be happening in slow motion.

  Doctor Rayborn stood in front of me. His lips moved, but in my dazed mind no words emerged from his mouth. Words I knew without hearing them.

  ~ * ~

  James Matthew Foret, the Cypress Lake chief of police, a native of Lafayette, Louisiana and a resident of Cypress Lake, died on July 22 at West Lake Memorial Hospital. Prior to his eight year tenure as head of the Cypress Lake Police Department, he was a member of the New Orleans Police Department where he held the position of detective in the Homicide Division. He is survived by his wife Susan LaGrange Foret, son Matthew James Foret, daughter Caroline Ashley Foret, an aunt, Eileen Morgan Landry of Lafayette, and numerous cousins. He was preceded in death by his parents, Francis M. and Julia Morgan Foret, and grandparents, Joseph and Ellen Foret and Julian and Sally Morgan. Visitation will be held at Cypress Gardens Funeral Home on Saturday July 27 from 9:00 a. m. until the Mass of Christian Burial at 11:00 a. m. at St. Paul’s Catholic Church. Pallbearers will be members of the Cypress Lake Police Department. Entombment in Cypress Gardens Mausoleum to follow.

  Three

  Sunday, July 28

  The autopsy was wrong. It had to be. The pathologist ruled his death as suicide. I couldn’t believe it. I would never believe he killed himself.

  In a way, the findings didn’t make a difference; Jim was still dead. I wasn’t certain Danny would dig deeper into the case to discover the killer I knew was out there somewhere. I shook off the idea—just my dark mood talking.

  Although Danny never would admit his true feelings, I sensed he didn’t believe the report either. He would do his best in a search for Jim’s killer. At the same time, he’d do his darnedest to keep me from becoming involved. We shall see about that.

  Getting involved in the investigation would be difficult, both physically and emotionally. Death and its counterparts had followed me around for years, clinging to me like cat hair on my good black pants. Loss still attached itself to my being—this time stronger than ever.

  The whole event seemed surreal. I felt like a person on the outside looking at someone else’s life. Unfortunately, the life was mine and very real.

  After my sister-in-law’s murder, I assumed nothing could top the horror of discovering her body, but I was wrong. Last year, a murder victim died within a few feet of me as the local Mardi Gras krewe’s parade ended. And now this…

  Naturally, Jim’s death hit harder than either of the others. The love of my life had been shot and killed. No official investigation would go forward. Not unless someone, either Danny or I, found new evidence to disprove the coroner’s ruling on the manner of death.

  The killer or killers were clever enough to make his murder appear to be suicide. Even the location had been carefully selected—the area where his father had committed suicide. Who would have wanted him to follow in his father’s footsteps?

  I made a vow to myself. I would do everything I could to make certain the people responsible would be brought to justice.

  ~ * ~

  The wall clock displayed the time as 9:30 p. m.. Caroline and Matthew had finally fallen asleep. The past week had been especially grueling for them. I’m not certain they truly comprehend what had happened. Dammit, I don’t understand why this happened either.

  About eleven, I climbed into the empty bed and put my head down on the pillow. Sleep didn’t seem imminent. My mind flipped through images in an erratic slide show.

  Normally when a police officer is killed in the line of duty, his funeral procession had lines of police and sheriff’s vehicles from all over the state. This time only law enforcement personnel from Allemand Parish and several from NOPD who knew Jim personally wound through the streets, moving from the church to the cemetery in honor of a fallen comrade.

  I’d seen these motorcades before at funerals of officers killed in the line of duty, never believing that one day the officer would be my husband, although officially he wasn’t killed in the line of duty.

  Once the facts about Jim’s death reveal the truth and his killer is named, I intend to hold a memorial service so my husband can receive the honors he deserved.

  Images flashed back through the funeral and the get-together my neighbor Rachel held. Traditionally, the family of the deceased throws the post funeral gathering, but she put a wonderful buffet together at her house—at least the family and friends who attended said everything was wonderful. Not to take anything away from Rachel’s cooking—she’s a great cook, but what little food I ate seemed tasteless. However, I’ll be eternally grateful to her for everything she did for me. I don’t believe I could have managed without falling apart.

  I made it through the funeral and the directly after. An old saying goes “everything is over except the shouting.” I would continue shouting until that miserable excuse for a human being received the punishment he deserved.

  My parents wanted me and the twins to come home with them, but I declined. Steven, my twin brother, insisted on staying over for an indefinite time and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He bunked down in the guest room last night. This morning he returned to his condo in New Orleans to pick up some clothes and personal items.

  Even though I originally objected to his staying, I’m glad he did. His company might keep me from a complete breakdown. I’m sure he wouldn’t want me involved in another private investigation. Tough tootsies—I planned to investigate anyway.

  Questions flowed through my mind about the timing of Jim’s shooting. How long after Jim had left the house that morning had he been shot? At what time did these fishermen call 911? Who were they?

  After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, I finally gave up on sleep and sat on the side of the bed for a few minutes. Katy, my cat, nudged open the door which I’d left ajar. She mewed softly.

  I patted a spot on the bed next to me. In an instant, she hopped up on the bed. She sniffed around on the covers. She stopped short, seemingly surprised by an empty space on the other side.

  “No, he’s not here. He won’t be back.” My voice choked up on those words.

  People say animals don’t have compassion or feelings like humans, but I disagree. She looked at me with sadness in her big green eyes. I reached out to pet her, but she began licking my hand.

  If I didn’t get out of bed right now, I’d stay forever and get sympathy from the cat. I forced myself to my feet, shrugged into my robe and went into the kitchen to get something to drink. The cat followed me there.

  I decided on a glass of milk. Maybe the tryptophan would help me get to sleep. Too bad I didn’t have any turkey slices. I could use a double dose of those sleep-enhancing properties.

  After refilling Katy’s water bowl, I grabbed a notepad and a pen from the junk drawer and sat at the table with my glass. Writing a list of people who attended the funeral would give me a better idea about whether Jim’s killer was in that group.

  The ten members of the Cypress Lake Police Department were all in attendance. I doubted any of them would commit such a crime. Jim was well liked by his officers. But one never knows what’s truly in a person’s heart. I listed all ten names, including Jim’s most recent hire, Angie Ducote, who joined the force back in February.

  The Cypress Lake mayor Bill Kaufman and his wife Tracy attended the wake and the funeral services. I hesitated to put their names on the list as they were close friends. In fact Bill had known Jim since their childhood here in Allemand Parish. Reluctantly, I added their names.

  Then there was a man in a wheelchair, a Vietnam veteran, as I recall, who came with his son. I don’t remember their connection to Jim or their names.

  I saw Gibb Romaine at the cemetery. He stood a good ways off from the rest of the crowd. Guess he thought his presence might not be welcome. Gibb was an ex-con who once saved my life. His mother called herself a traiteur—a Cajun healer—but most locals thought of her as a witch.

  Steven’s voice startled me.

  “Tell me you’re writing up a grocery list and not murder suspects.” He pulled out a chair and sat next to me.

  My defensiveness kicked in. “What if I am listing murder suspects?”

  He placed his hand on my arm. “Don’t make the ordeal harder. I realize it’s difficult to accept the suicide of someone you love. Let the cops handle it.”

  I glared at him. “I cannot believe you of all people would advise me to leave the investigation to law enforcement. Besides, there won’t be any investigation.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “NOPD closed in on me without any physical proof, because I was the usual suspect in a wife’s murder. They didn’t have anybody else to blame. Danny won’t drop the ball on this. I don’t believe he agrees with the coroner.”

  I averted my gaze for a moment. “I know he’ll dig further, but this investigation can’t go on for ten years like Anne’s. I couldn’t take it. That said, I can’t simply sit back and do nothing.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “I plan to make some inquiries and make a nuisance of myself down at City Hall until I get results.”

  “Heaven help us all.”

  Four

  Monday, July 29

  I spent an hour and a half with John Wilson, a local attorney, giving him all the information needed to take care of my husband’s affairs. Jim had a will on file at the court house. I showed a copy to Wilson. The procedure seemed pretty straight forward. There shouldn’t be any problems with the process, Mr. Wilson told me.

  My next stop was to see the agent who wrote the policy. His office was about a block down the street. I left the car parked at the Wilson Law Office and started walking.

  Dealing with the life insurance company might be a different story. Reading the legalese of insurance policies seemed like trying to read Greek or Russian.

  Some people probably thought I was dealing with this way too soon after Jim’s death. To them I appeared unfeeling or at the very least money-grubbing. Even Attorney Wilson commented, “I didn’t expect to see you this soon after Jim’s funeral.”

  If I had waited around longer before taking care of this business, I feared I would fall into a deep depression and never get out of bed. I had two children to raise and support. My grieving would be done in private.

  Deep in thought, I almost collided with a wheelchair-bound man who exited the shop next to the insurance office in a big hurry. A younger man rushed up behind him. He grabbed the back of the chair and pulled it to a stop. I recognized the pair from Jim’s service and the post-burial get-together at my neighbors’ house.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the younger man said with a Southern drawl. “When he gets ready to leave a place, he just up and goes.” He looked to be over six feet, in his late thirties or early forties, maybe—somewhere around my age, anyway.

  The man in the wheelchair tipped the bill of his olive drab baseball cap upwards and narrowed his dark eyes at me. The inscription on his cap revealed his status as a Vietnam vet.

  “You’re Jim Foret’s widow, aren’t you?” His well-developed upper body indicated he’d been using the manually operated wheelchair for years—probably for the three plus decades since the end of the Vietnam War.

  I gave him a weak smile. “Yes, I’m Susan. You attended the funeral. I’m sorry I don’t recall your names.”

  “Rick Hanson.” He pointed to the other man. “This is my son, Scott.”

  Scott nodded and smiled. “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”

  I couldn’t imagine any connection my husband would have with these two. Other than at the funeral, I’d never seen them before in my life. “How did you know Jim?”

  Rick Hanson centered an intense gaze on my face for a long moment. He started to creep me out.

  “I didn’t know him personally,” he said finally. “I served in ‘Nam with his father. Franko showed around a lot of pictures of his baby boy. He was real proud.”

  I didn’t believe they were from around here. “It was very nice of you to come to the funeral. Where are y’all from?”

  “We live in Enterprise, Alabama.” Rick motioned with his head toward his son. “He works on the base there.”

  “Base? Are you in the military?”

  “No, a civilian contractor,” Scott said. “At Fort Rucker.”

  I’d never heard Mr. Foret referred to as Franko. “Sounds like you knew Jim’s father well.”

  “You might say so.” Rick lifted his hand, apparently a signal to his son. “We need to get moving again. Nice talking to you.” He turned the wheels on his chair and started moving away.

  Scott exhaled. “Good thing this chair isn’t motorized. But he’s got one ordered.”

  “Good luck.” I watched them cross the street. Amazing how fast that man could manually move his wheelchair.

  My curiosity about the connection between Rick Hanson and the man who would have been my father-in-law fueled a desire to see if I could locate any information about Frank Foret’s military service. As a Vietnam vet, Danny could probably give me insight on Frank Foret’s frame of mind at the time of his suicide.

  Could there be a connection to the Hansons and Jim’s murder? Or is my imagination working overtime?

  Five

  There was one more place I wanted to go before stopping in at Danny’s office. I felt the need to speak to the pathologist who performed the autopsy on Jim’s body.

  I parked in front of the new morgue-coroner’s office complex where Dr. Hadley, the elected coroner, held his official office.

  Dr. Hadley had hired pathologist Dr. Richard Breaux last fall because his employment would prevent the necessity to transport bodies to New Orleans or elsewhere to be autopsied because he, not being a pathologist, wasn’t qualified to perform the procedure.

  Somehow, Dr. Hadley had not only managed to talk the parish council into hiring this expensive new employee, but to build a brand new complex to house the facility. I wondered if there would be a great need for autopsies in the parish. I hoped not, but the way Allemand Parish was growing, murders might unfortunately be a wave of the future.

  I must admit the new building was impressive. Dr. Hadley designed the building himself, a very modernistic structure, located several blocks away from City Hall. Who could imagine that this seventy-five year old coroner, who was also a general practitioner and still maintained his practice, also had a talent for architectural design?

  Hopefully I wouldn’t run into him before I got to speak to the pathologist. Dr. Hadley was more like a sweet old country doctor than an elected official. He would most likely try to talk me out of such an interview.

  I didn’t intend to be deterred. My first roadblock turned out to be the receptionist, Sarah Daigle, so her name plate read. “I’d like to speak with Dr. Breaux.”

  Tucking an errant strand of gray hair inside a bun near the nape of her neck, she peered at me over her wire-rimmed spectacles. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I thought perhaps I could just have a few words with him concerning my husband’s autopsy results.”

  “He’s quite busy at the moment. I suggest you make an appointment.”