Not One of Us Page 17

  “Sounds horrible,” I offered. “But you were the adult. You should have kept your temper.”

  “You think I don’t know that? You think a day goes by that I don’t remember our fight?”

  The anguish in his voice shamed me. What was past was past. I had no right to judge.

  He pulled himself together with an effort. “Jackson threatened to run away if I sent him to military school, and he meant it. I realized there was nothing more I could do. He had no respect or love for me. I’d tried showing love, being understanding, talking to him, sending him to counselors, enforcing tough love—not a damn thing worked. It didn’t help that Tressie always took his side and made excuses for his behavior. So I threw up my hands and quit trying.”

  “How old was Jackson when this happened?”

  “Sixteen. He died one week later.”

  Had Jackson’s rebellion led Ardy to kill his own son? To finally end the pain and struggle?

  Ardy frowned and shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking. That I had a motive to want my son dead.”

  I didn’t confirm or deny his statement.

  “I didn’t do it.” Ardy’s voice finally broke, and he drew a deep breath before continuing. “I loved Jackson, no matter how bad he treated me. I tried to blame his bad behavior on the drugs, but he’d been trouble since he was a little kid.”

  “How old was he when y’all adopted him?”

  “Less than a month old.” His eyes filmed over. “Cute little thing with a mop of dark hair and dark-blue eyes.”

  “I understand it was a private adoption?”

  The unshed tears quickly dried. “Said who?” Ardy asked sharply.

  “I heard it mentioned once. And I saw the birth certificate with the birth mother listed. Tressie still has it.”

  “Tressie was infertile from severe endometriosis. Adoption was our only option for children.”

  “Why did you go the private route?”

  “Because she was adamant that she wanted a baby and wasn’t willing to wait for years.”

  “How much did it cost you?”

  “Fifty grand.” He stood, collecting his file and laptop. “If that’s all?”

  “Who made the arrangements?”

  “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”

  He was lying. But why? I didn’t budge from my chair. “You keep excellent records. I’m sure you must remember who handled the adoption or have paperwork with that information.”

  “I told you I didn’t.” Ardy shoved off toward the door, turning his back to me.

  “What’s your hurry?” I asked. “What are you so afraid of?”

  “Nothing. Plenty of people go the private route for adoption.”

  “Did you know that Jackson’s mother recently died of a drug overdose?”

  Ardy stilled, then slowly faced me. “You’re full of all kinds of shocking updates from Enigma,” he said, frowning. “All I want to do is forget that place and everyone in it.”

  “You can’t run away from the past or ignore it,” I said. “It always comes back to bite you in the ass.” Lord knows I’d tried to do much the same as Ardy. In my case, it was to block out the sinister mystery of Deacon’s disappearance.

  “It’s best to leave some things buried,” Ardy grated out. “Digging it up can be dangerous.”

  I rose from the chair. “Is that a threat?”

  “A warning,” he countered. “Stay the hell out of it. It’s none of your damn business. No good can come from poking your nose around what happened decades ago.”

  “So I should let dead dogs lie?”

  “Exactly.” He regarded me evenly, as though those particular words held no special significance to him. Ardy nodded his head once, then left me alone in the room.

  I took my leave as well and walked to the parking lot. I’d learned nothing new about the adoption, the whole reason I’d come, but I couldn’t count the trip as a total failure either. My eyes had been opened about Aunt Tressie, and I could never again look into her faded, confused eyes without remembering her vile threats to Ardy and his family.

  As I got in my car, I glanced at the front office window of Ensley Construction and noticed the blinds twitch to one side. Ardy stood in the sliver of the opening, watching me take my leave. Despite his protestations to the contrary, the man was scared of something. Or somebody.

  Or it could be he was afraid of a murderous past catching up to him at last.

  Chapter 21

  TEGAN

  I checked the notes on my cell phone for the name Jori had provided me earlier when I’d questioned her about the Cormier family. Cash Johnson. Hunters roaming the woods weren’t that unusual in Enigma, but his close proximity to the Cormier’s home with a weapon and the fact that he’d made Jori uncomfortable were enough to raise a red flag in my mind. Might as well run him through our database and see if he had any prior arrests or convictions. I entered his name and checked my email while awaiting the results.

  I glanced down the email subject lines, skimming past the majority of them, which were administrative matters. But one subject line grabbed my attention—Sandy Springfield, Family Social Services re: Ensley adoption.

  My heart leaped with excitement that Ms. Springfield had so quickly answered my inquiry on the adoption. I opened the email and read the short message. There were no official, legal adoption papers on Jackson Ensley; at least there were none on record in the state of Alabama. I tapped my index finger against my lip. Perhaps it had been an out-of-state adoption? I’d have to pursue that further.

  Sighing, I stretched back in my chair, enjoying the rare quiet of the office. I had it all to myself this early in the morning. I’d awakened early and decided to come on in to work and get a head start on the day. I left my desk to make a cup of coffee and returned a minute later. The information I’d sought on Johnson was up and running on my monitor. Scrolling through, I sipped my drink, only to inhale sharply and swallow burning-hot liquid.

  June 12, 2013, Johnson arrested for voyeurism.

  That was certainly an unexpected development. All the times Jori had run into Johnson as she’d left her boyfriend, had this man been trying to watch them together? I kept scrolling but found no conviction and no other arrests. This didn’t play into my theory of a drug connection between the Cormier and Strickland murders, but I wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d ruled out every other possible clue that came my way. After all, the leads were few and far between.

  I walked downstairs to the basement, even though I wasn’t certain Ginger would be in this early. But sure enough, she sat at her desk munching on a sugar-laden breakfast.

  She laid her doughnut on the messy desk and wiped her hands on a greasy napkin when she spotted me.

  “Back again?” she asked. “Don’t tell me—you’ve already solved the Cormier murders and are looking for more cold cases.”

  Ginger cackled at her own wisecrack, and the noise grated against my ears. Instead of responding, I handed her a slip of paper with a case number written on it. “I need the notes from this complaint.”

  With annoying, deliberate slowness, she donned her eyeglasses and finally read the note. “June 12, 2013.” She rolled her eyes. “You got nothing better to do than look at these old files? Isn’t Enigma, like, supposed to be in the midst of a crime wave?”

  “Yes. So I’m in a bit of a hurry. If you could be so kind?” My tone teetered between sarcasm and sweetness, confusing Ginger.

  She narrowed her eyes and lowered her chin. “Are you messing with me?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Humph.” Her chubby fingers tapped the keyboard. “There it is.” She nodded her head at the clipboard atop a stack of papers. “Sign your name, then write the date and time of your request. I’ll email you the scanned notes.”

  “Thanks, Ginger. You’re a peach.”

  She snatched her glasses off and scowled. “Now
I know you’re insulting me.”

  “Yeah. Calling you a peach really tipped my hand.” I waved at her and smirked. “I’ll let you get back to your doughnut.”

  I strolled back to my office, happy I still had the place all to myself. I opened the notes and began reading, my early-morning calm dissolving as I read the case of a victimized teenage girl. I debated the wisdom of going to Johnson’s residence alone. I couldn’t see the harm in making a general check. If the interview got weird or confrontational, I’d return to the office and have Oliver accompany me for further questioning. Quickly, I left the office and got in my cruiser for the short ride to Johnson’s cabin.

  Less than ten minutes later, the impressive Bayou Enigma Outdoor Expeditions headquarters shone like a jewel in the swamp as I slowed my patrol car and admired the place. Plate glass windows stretched floor to ceiling on the front of the structure. Back in the day, the Cormiers’ house had sparkled like a palace in this small bayou of fishermen, and the Cormiers were its first and only royalty. I was old enough to remember when it was first being built. My family and others would drive by the site almost daily to glimpse the massive construction and ooh and aah over the size and quality of materials. Mom used to sigh enviously and mutter, “I bet them spoiled rich folk don’t even appreciate this place.”

  I’d recognized the sour grapes note in her voice and others’. Envy had led to mistrust before the family had even moved in. To add fuel to the fire, they’d eschewed the bayou’s local building company and hired a Mobile County construction team for all the work. Even more affronting, when the Cormiers finally hired a local landscaper for maintenance work on the grounds and a couple of women as housekeepers, the pay they offered was slightly lower than the standard wages offered in Enigma for the same types of services.

  Resentment grew. It didn’t help that Louis and Clotille were unlike most of the townsfolk. They were instantly pegged as politically liberal, as well as artsy and pretentious. No matter their wealth, they were considered outsiders. Not one of us, people would sniff.

  Whether or not the Cormiers cared about the locals’ assessment was debatable. Supposedly, they were in love with the view of the gulf the house provided, and Louis enjoyed fishing and hunting in his limited spare time.

  The campgrounds in back of the headquarters featured a dozen rustic cabins that were kept fully occupied during hunting season. I continued on, driving another half a mile down the dusty road ’round back, searching for Cash Johnson’s residence.

  When the road dead-ended into swamp water, I realized I’d driven straight past the place. I turned the car around on the narrow road and then slowly cruised it again. This time I found it, a small nondescript cabin so nestled against a tree line of pine and cypress that it almost blended seamlessly into the woods. There was no driveway or even a mailbox on the side of the road to make it easier to locate.

  I called in my location to the dispatcher and approached the cabin with a can of Mace in my palm, my trigger finger on the nozzle, at the ready. Thankfully, I was relieved not to hear the sound of loose dogs barking. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, least of all my fellow officers, but I had a real fear of stray dogs, which was odd since I’d never had a bad encounter with one. But I’d almost rather face an armed assailant than a wild bayou beast.

  An old Buick was parked at the side of the house, and I hoped that meant Johnson was home. I’d rather question him here than at his place of employment.

  Before I could knock on the door, it was opened by an older man with a short, wiry stature. Physically, there was certainly nothing intimidating about his looks. My grandma could probably beat him in a fight.

  “Mr. Cash Johnson?” I asked, pasting on a bright smile. Last thing I wanted was for him to report me to Oliver for harassment.

  “Yes?” His voice was so soft it barely registered over the fresh morning breeze.

  “I’m Deputy Blackwell with the Erie County Sheriff’s Office.” I kept my smile firmly in place. Nothing to fear from me, just a casual-chat kind of smile. “I’d like a minute of your time, sir.”

  He didn’t even ask why. Just stood there, hands in the pockets of his plaid shorts, and regarded me impassively with flat eyes, as though he wasn’t even curious about my reasons. It was disconcerting.

  “We’re reinvestigating the Cormier case. As their nearest neighbor, I wondered if you might have any information on regular visitors at the house—that sort of thing.”

  He spat at the ground, only a foot from my polished black uniform shoes. “Told the cops then that I didn’t know nothin’ about them fancy-ass folks. Ain’t nothin’ changed over the years neither.”

  “Is that so?” I acted puzzled as I withdrew a notepad from my shirt pocket and pretended to scan notes. “Are you saying that you never observed anyone coming and going on the grounds? Maybe even at odd hours during the day or night?”

  “Ain’t none of my business what people might have come and gone.”

  “Surely you’d let us know if you saw something unusual around the time of their disappearance, something that might give us a lead to solve the murders.”

  He deliberately hesitated a moment before answering. “Yeah. Right.”

  “Excellent. I’m glad to hear it. So perhaps you’d like to reconsider your answer. Did you ever observe anyone sneak onto the Cormier property?”

  “Maybe.”

  I stared him down. Johnson sighed. “Used to sometimes spot a teenager sneaking ’round to the smokehouse to meet up with her boyfriend.”

  “Her name?”

  He gave another exasperated sigh. “Jori Trahern. There—you happy now? I work for her uncle and don’t want no grief. It’s the best job I ever had.”

  “What is it that you do around here?”

  “I manage the campgrounds, plus I’m over all the tour guides during the busy season.”

  “How long you been doing this work?”

  “Started working for Buddy almost twenty years ago. Got promoted a few years in, seeing as how I’m such a stable employee and live so close. It’s been a convenient arrangement for both of us.”

  “I can see why you don’t want to rock the boat. So Jori would meet up with Deacon Cormier in the smokehouse some evenings?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How often?”

  He snorted. “Several times a week.”

  “And how did you happen to observe these meetings?” I gestured to my left. “That old smokehouse is far enough away from your place that you can’t see it from here.”

  His face flushed, and he looked truly uncomfortable for the first time. “I’m a hunter. I’m up early in the mornings roaming the woods.”

  “Did you ever speak to Jori Trahern or Deacon Cormier when you came upon them?”

  “Nope. I reckon if they was sneaking around, they weren’t in the mood to chitchat with an adult.”

  “Did you ever tell either of their parents that these two were rendezvousing in the woods?”

  “Weren’t my business. They weren’t my kids.”

  “So you didn’t think you had any responsibility as an adult to speak to their parents?”

  “Hell, no. Nobody likes the messenger of bad news. Besides, they were just being normal kids. Wasn’t like I was no saint at their age.”

  “What exactly did you see in those early mornings?”

  “Seen them both leaving the smokehouse and head their separate ways.”

  “Did you see them kiss?”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked over my shoulder, as though unwilling to look me in the eye. “I guess. A time or two,” he admitted reluctantly.

  I took a deep breath, deciding to take the plunge. “Is that why you were really in the woods most mornings, Mr. Johnson?” I asked softly. “To try and catch them together?”

  Johnson’s eyes snapped back to me. If he’d been unusually passive earlier, now he was riled, his sense of preservation on the alert. “What’s that supposed to mean?”


  “It’s a simple question.”

  “Course not,” he denied at once.

  I didn’t believe him for a second. “You sure about that?”

  His jaw set in a hard line. “No. I done told you everything. Ain’t nothing else to tell.”

  “So you say.”

  His gray eyes pierced me with sudden suspicion and a hint of fear. “Why? Did she tell you I did? If so, she’s a damn liar.”

  “Ms. Trahern has told me nothing,” I lied.

  “You got any more questions?” he asked stiffly. “I got work to do.”

  I stuffed my phone back in my pocket and gave him a wide grin. “That’s all I’ve got for now, Mr. Johnson. Let’s stay in touch, shall we?”

  The door slammed shut as I walked back to my vehicle.

  I made the short drive back to the office, which was now bustling with employees. Straightaway, I strode to Oliver’s office, where I found him at his desk, intently reading his computer monitor. “What’s up?” he asked, his gaze still on the screen.

  “Thought you might be interested in some information I dug up on this guy.” I held up a sheet of paper I’d copied from the electronic file Ginger sent. “He works at Enigma Outdoor Expeditions. Their headquarters is the old Cormier house. Cash Johnson lives within a half mile of it. In fact, he lived there at the time of the Cormier disappearances.”

  That got Oliver’s attention. He pushed the monitor to the side, faced me, and then held out a hand for the paper. “Whatcha got?”

  “Guy’s a pervert. A Peeping Tom.” I handed him the old incident report. “I had a talk with him this morning.”

  “So? He works there, right?”

  “Yes. But Jori Trahern used to run into him late at night or just before dawn when she was sneaking out to meet Deacon Cormier. He always carried a gun, claiming to be out hunting. She thought it odd enough to mention it to me. I checked; he’s been reported before. Voyeurism.”

  A teenage girl had been using the camp shower facilities when she spotted a man watching her. He’d entered the open doorway and had stood there staring. When she screamed, he’d run off—but unfortunately for Johnson, he’d run smack dab into the girl’s father.