“I’m ready to write.”

  I told her my e-mail info and repeated it for her. Her lack of computer knowledge surprised me. My parents both used computers on a daily basis. Then again, Eileen was in her early eighties, much older than they.

  “Now don’t expect these today,” she warned. “I know you’re anxious to discover information about this Hanson fellow, but I’m not sure when I can get these over to one of the kids to do whatever it takes to send the papers to you.”

  “I understand.” Patience wasn’t one of my virtues, but one I sorely needed to develop.

  After we ended the call, I sat and stared at the computer, not really paying attention to what happened to be on the screen. Doubts about my actions floated through my head. The note I discovered yesterday brought back the thought that had flashed through my mind at the time. What if Jim did have an affair and couldn’t face me?

  No, no, he wouldn’t have. I knew in my heart he wouldn’t hurt me, just like I knew from the beginning he would never commit suicide. The image of him lifeless in the hospital bed broke my heart. I had to find his killer, regardless.

  I had no intention of waiting patiently while law enforcement did nothing. By law enforcement I meant Danny. No one else appeared to be interested. However, I needed to be cautious so the scenario he suggested didn’t come to pass—my children left without their mother as well as their father.

  At the moment, finding the killer seemed like an impossible task. Maybe the path of investigation I had started on was all wrong. Was I wasting my time delving into a Vietnam veteran’s past? Jim’s killer might be closer to home. I should check out some of the other names on my suspect list. But when and how would I be able to do so?

  A noise from the kitchen of a pot or pan clanking reminded me of my other responsibilities. Steven had gotten up, so the kids would soon follow.

  Ten

  Steven looked up from his breakfast when I walked into the kitchen. “I gather you’ve been up for a while. Did you get any sleep at all?”

  “A little, but mostly my night consisted of a lot of tossing and turning.”

  “Take it from one who knows. Sleep will come, things will get better, but it may take a while if you give in to despair like I did. Don’t give up.”

  Hard to believe Steven had changed so much in the last few years. “Hmm…I believe we have a role reversal here. You’ve become the voice of reason to my insanity.”

  He chuckled. “Well, not quite. I doubt you’ll be drowning your sorrows in booze or dressing in the same clothes for weeks and not keeping yourself up.” He pointed to the fry pan sitting on the stove—the one I’d rinsed off and placed in the dishwasher. “I noticed you used the skillet to scramble eggs, so at least you’re eating.”

  “I needed my strength to deal with all this.”

  “And with the two dynamos.”

  As if on cue, Matthew walked into the kitchen, yawning and stretching. Caroline followed close behind.

  Breakfast seemed to be going well; nothing unusual except that the twins ate the food I prepared quietly without complaining. Considering the current situation, I guess their lack of complaints wasn’t so odd. Somehow I knew the bliss wouldn’t last. What happened next proved their silence was only the calm before the storm.

  “Mommy,” Caroline said. “Is Daddy in Heaven?”

  I smiled, but it was difficult to keep from crying. “Of course he is.”

  Matthew jumped from his chair and shouted, “That’s a lie. He can’t be in Heaven ‘cause it’s a sin to kill yourself. And he killed people too.”

  I lost it.

  “Don’t you dare talk about your father in that way ever again. He was a good man and a good father. Go to your room!”

  He turned and ran down the hall. Caroline looked down at her plate briefly, then pushed her chair away and followed Matthew out of the kitchen.

  I needed some air. I strode over to the sliding glass door, yanked it open and stormed onto the deck. My view of the wooded area behind our property looked like a green blur through the tears welling in my eyes. The high humidity felt like a wet blanket wrapped around me. Gray clouds and the threat of a storm added to my feeling of desperation.

  Once again Matthew had made clear his opinion of his father and the circumstances of his death. Caroline more or less internalized her feelings. Undoubtedly the reports on television and overheard conversations confused them both. First suicide, then someone killed him.

  I never yell at the kids. I’m no psychiatrist but I didn’t believe any of those methods were good for them or me.

  The whoosh of the door being opened sounded behind me. Steven must have come out to check on me. I kept my gaze forward.

  “Susan?” A female voice called out softly.

  My neighbor Rachel Marchand walked up next to me and put her arm around my shoulder.

  “Things do get better. The kids are each coping with the loss in their own way.”

  “How…” My voice cracked.

  “Steven called me and told me what happened. I know the situation seems hopeless right now; it really does get better.”

  “Funny, that’s what Steven said to me.” I turned to face her. “Under the circumstances I’m not so sure about my life or the kids’ getting any better anytime soon. Matthew hates Jim for leaving us. I don’t know what Caroline thinks. She’ll hardly talk about the event at all. Today was the first time since the funeral.”

  Rachel steered me over to the wrought iron table and chairs. “Sit and we’ll talk about this.” She sat in one of the chairs and I followed suit in one facing her.

  “I don’t know which way to turn. Jim knew his killer. I know he did. It wouldn’t make any difference how we feel about his death. Even if I discovered his killer, Jim would still be gone.”

  “You’re probably not going to like what I have to say, but…”

  “But you think I’m crazy to look for evidence myself.”

  “No, I didn’t intend to say anything of the kind.” Her stern look reminded me of a mother about to scold her wayward child. After all, she was about the same age as my parents. “I think you jumped in to this investigation way too soon. You haven’t had time to grieve.”

  “If I wait until I’ve done all my grieving, it might be too late to catch Jim’s killer.”

  Her brow creased. “I don’t see how. Your sister-in-law’s murder was solved ten years after her death.”

  “Every one of those suspects lived in the area,” I came back.

  “And in this case, someone doesn’t?”

  “Yes, there’s a strong possibility an out of town person killed Jim.”

  “You mean Rick Hanson?”

  I nodded.

  She lifted her hands palms up. “But why would he do such a thing? And was he physically capable of doing the job?”

  “His son could have done it for him.” I leaned forward in my chair. “Rachel, tell me the truth. What do you think about Jim’s death and my looking into his case as a murder?” I feared she really did believe I’d lost my mind. I scrutinized her face and tried to determine her answer before she spoke it. Her answer made me realize I could definitely never become a mind reader.

  “Personally I understand your reasons for doing so,” she said in a soft voice. Her face reflected a pensiveness—a long ago memory perhaps. “I can’t understand why Jim would kill himself. On the other hand, I can’t believe Danny, his detectives, and the Cypress Lake police department wouldn’t have discovered evidence to dispute the coroner’s ruling.”

  “What about my investigation? Do you think I stepped off the deep end?”

  “I believe this is your way of coping with your loss.”

  Eleven

  Wednesday, July 31

  I sat in my security blanket chair in the family room trying to center my thoughts. The quiet house seemed eerie. Steven had gone into New Orleans to take care of some business connected to his work as a free-lance computer programmer and software designer. The kids were each in their own room. When I checked on them earlier, Matthew was occupying his time playing Angry Birds. Maybe he would aim his own anger at a target other than his father. Caroline sat at her desk with a coloring book and crayons.

  My raw emotions would stick with me for a long time. Perhaps I should concentrate on healing instead of keeping myself riled up by searching for a killer.

  Rachel hit the nail on the head. We each coped with our loss in a different way. I worried about Matthew’s method of dealing with his loss by saying he hated Jim. He and I had made peace with each other, for the time being at least. I knew he was hurting—we all were.

  School would be starting in two weeks. Would he begin acting up in school? Evidently other neighborhood kids had said something derogatory to him about a police officer’s job, making it sound like all of them went around killing people. When I first told the twins about their father’s death, I only said he had been shot and nothing about the circumstances.

  Maybe I should consider sending them to school in New Orleans. I could look into the possibility of getting them enrolled at St. Theresa, the school I attended all the way from kindergarten through twelfth grade.

  But removing them from here would be another upheaval. Not good. Besides, if I sent them to live in the city they really would believe I had deserted them.

  I wish I could talk to Jim. If only I could communicate with the departed. He would tell me who killed him. Ha, wouldn’t that be great? I sat up straight when I remembered what I could do.

  ~ * ~

  Taylor Evans, a New Orleans psychic I’d consulted several times in the past, might not be able to tell me who killed Jim, but she probably could give me a few clues. At any rate, she could tell me whether he committed suicide or not. If she told me he killed himself, I would stop my attempts to find his killer.

  I looked around for my purse, which I usually bring out to the family room from its overnight home in my bedroom. Guess the bag is still where I left it last night. There were too many thoughts on my mind—all racing through at the same time. I retrieved the huge tote bag and returned to my chair.

  Rummaging through this gargantuan bag reminded me I should clear out some items or else get a smaller purse. So many things in there—a holdover habit from the twins’ infant days—I can never find what I’m looking for. Finally I pulled my cellphone out and enlisted the help of my contact list to locate Taylor’s number, hit the listing, and waited for her to answer.

  To my disappointment, a recorded message came on informing me Taylor was out of town and wouldn’t return until Sunday evening. Her voice invited me to leave a message and she would get back to me on Monday. I left a message and my phone number and told her it was urgent I speak to her.

  A loud meow sounded from the kitchen. Oh, dear. I forgot to feed poor Katy this morning. She greeted me with another comment as I walked into the room, this one a little louder.

  “I’m so sorry, girl. Your food’s coming right up.”

  I filled her food bowl with her favorite dry morsels and refilled the automatic water dispenser.

  She ate a few bites and then came to my side, brushing against my legs. I bent over and stroked her long ginger-colored fur. She ran back to her bowl and began crunching away on the food. I guess she was thanking me and also needed a little attention.

  Another little voice—Matthew’s—caused me to turn around.

  “Mom?” His expression looked like the one he usually gets on his face when he’s been involved in some sort of mischief.

  I was almost afraid to ask. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry about what I said about Dad.” His eyes watered. I could tell he was trying hard not to cry. “I didn’t really mean I hated him. Why did he do it?”

  I pulled him close and held him tightly. “I know you didn’t mean what you said about hating him. We’re all hurting.” I pulled away slightly and looked down at his face. “What did you mean when you asked why he did it? What do you think he did?”

  “Hunter told me cops kill people and that’s the reason Dad killed himself.”

  Furious, I couldn’t speak for a moment. Ten year old Hunter Caldwell lived down the street. His parents were staunch gun control advocates.

  “Your father has never killed anyone. It’s not like you see on television. Not every officer has shot someone. Considering how many members of law enforcement there are in this country, only a small percentage has ever shot someone.

  “Right now we don’t know why he shot himself. All we can do is remember what he meant to us. He was a wonderful father to you and Caroline and a great husband to me.”

  I noticed Caroline standing in the doorway and motioned for her to join the group hug. With my arms around my children, I felt stronger. I had to continue my search for the killer.

  The thought of another person, even a child, filling my child’s head with ideas that his father was a killer made me furious all over again. I should go to their house and give them a piece of my mind. I guess confronting them wouldn’t serve any purpose. Their kid was undoubtedly confused. Surely his parents don’t believe police should not be armed.

  Later in the afternoon, I sat on my bed with the list of suspects and tried to determine a motive any of these people might have had to murder Jim.

  Rick Hanson and his son? I knew of no motive except a connection to Jim’s father and his Vietnam tour or tours. That infamous note worked its way into my thoughts. He wouldn’t have lured Jim out to Bayou Jean Baptiste with a note.

  The next people in line were the members of the Cypress Lake Police Department. I had my doubts about most of them having anything to do with the murder. Jack LeBlanc and Angie Ducote topped the list. But were there any others?

  Twelve

  Thursday, August 1

  Attorney Wilson had telephoned me earlier and asked for additional papers regarding the purchase of our home. I thought I had turned over all the documents to him, but apparently I had missed one. I discovered the overlooked item stuck in the back of our file cabinet.

  I headed downtown to deliver the document. After turning over the paper to Mr. Wilson, I checked in with the insurance agent to find out the status of my claim.

  His name was Barry White. Yes, just like the sexy voiced singer from the seventies. But this man was nothing like singer Barry, physically or vocally. Insurance Agent White was thin and wiry. He spoke with a nasal-sounding voice as if he were pinching his nose while speaking.

  The insurance company hadn’t approved my claim yet. The sticking point must be with the suicide ruling. I couldn’t understand why.

  There was an exclusion of payment for a suicide in this policy, but only if the act occurred during the first three years after the insured purchased the policy. Jim had taken out this new one right after becoming police chief—eight years ago.

  Mr. White had informed me when I originally visited his office there shouldn’t be any problems, but I still worried about it.

  “This is standard procedure,” he told me today. “Nothing to worry about. The check’s in the mail.” Trying to be funny, I guess.

  Then he added, “Well, not today, but soon, I promise you.”

  I smiled and thanked him for his part and left the office wishing to be done with this depressing business.

  I understand why insurance companies write these rules. Logically, if someone takes out a policy for four hundred thousand dollars one day and two weeks later kills himself, he planned the act before he bought the policy.

  It still irked me, because under many circumstances, the victim only wanted to make sure his loved ones were protected. However, the fact Jim’s death wasn’t suicide angered me more than the whole issue about insurance exclusions for it.

  Not anxious to return home, I stopped in at the Court House Café for coffee. The place was practically empty. Lunchtime was over and most café patrons had returned to their offices.

  Shortly after I arrived, three CLPD officers walked in and came over to the booth where I was seated.

  “Miz Foret, how are you?” Chris Riley was the last officer hired by the previous police chief shortly before Jim took office.

  “I’m doing well, thank you,” I said, looking up at him.

  The other two men, Tony Messina and Brad Theriot, greeted me with smiles and nods. All three were in their late twenties or early thirties, if I remembered correctly. Jim used to give me the pertinent facts about each one after each hiring. Funny, I don’t recall being ‘briefed’ by him about Angie.

  Chris and his companions left after a few minutes of small talk and joined a deputy I didn’t know, who sat at a table in the rear of the café.

  I sipped on my coffee for a while, trying to decide if I should approach them at some point and ask a few questions. But what would I ask?

  The front door opened and in walked Angie and Jack. Silence filled the room. The officers stopped talking. One by one, all but the deputy rose from their seats and casually walked out of the café.

  Were they not supposed to be out of the office? From their actions, it didn’t seem likely. None seemed too much in a hurry to return to duty, even under the watchful eye of their new boss.

  I glanced at the spot where Angie and Jack had taken seats. Jack frowned as he eyed the men hanging around outside. Interesting. I do believe the officers were giving the interim chief a not too subtle hint. They didn’t like him. Or was Angie the one they didn’t care for?

  I placed money on the table for a tip and left. I joined them outside.

  “Those two certainly know how to clear a room.”

  “You noticed,” Theriot said, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Kind of hard not to,” I replied.

  “Yes ma’am. We just want LeBlanc to know how we feel about him being selected to take over. Wallace would’ve been a whole lot better choice.”

  “He would have been Jim’s choice. I wish the circumstances hadn’t caused Bill to make any choice.” Seeing the sympathy in their eyes, I quickly changed the subject. “Angie is a very attractive woman.”