Not One of Us Page 9

  “Let dead dogs lie.”

  Mimi sat on the edge of the bed, drawing in a labored breath.

  Guilt immediately sluiced through my gut. She was as upset about the invasion as me. Maybe I shouldn’t have even told her about it.

  “Rose wouldn’t have done such a thing.”

  “I agree.” I walked to the window and lifted the sash. As always, it wasn’t locked. That would change. Outside, the miniature boxwoods and surrounding mulch looked undisturbed. If the intruder had entered this way, he’d covered his tracks well. I clicked the latches shut with a resounding snap.

  “He must have sneaked in while I was here,” said Mimi.

  “Were you in the house the whole time?”

  She nodded her head, then stopped abruptly. “Except for when Rose helped me hang out the wash.”

  “We need to start locking all the doors and windows.” I shuddered to think what might have happened if Mimi had stumbled upon him in my room. Would he have hurt her?

  “To think it would come to this,” she muttered, shaking her head.

  The remark seemed odd. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mimi placed her hands on her knees and slowly stood, looking all of her many years and then some. “Never thought we’d have to lock our doors like city folk.”

  “Crime’s as rampant in the country as anywhere. Nobody’s safe.” But Mimi appeared even more upset than me, and I wanted to reassure her. “Maybe this was a onetime fluke, someone who just gets his kicks from scaring folks, but we should be careful.”

  I didn’t believe my own words. I’d have felt more optimistic, less violated, if the intruder had stolen items of value. Maybe then I could convince myself it was merely a random crime of opportunity, motivated by greed. But the particularly deliberative nature of his acts, the singling out of my sentimental possessions, and the cruel, disgusting message for me pinned to a dead animal . . . well, it shook me.

  But I forced a smile and patted Mimi’s arm. “I’m calling the police to file a report. Try not to worry too much.”

  Her eyes darted to the closet. “I want that—that . . . thing out of my house.”

  “I’ll take care of it after I talk to the police,” I assured her. “Go back to your gumbo.”

  She shuffled from the room.

  “Lock the doors first,” I called out, grabbing my phone. Revulsion snaked over my body, but I squared my shoulders and walked to the closet. There it was, bloody and sinister. I snapped a photo. One picture was worth a thousand words when it came to describing this over the phone.

  I’d left the officer’s card in my nightstand, so I opened the top drawer and pulled out the plain black-and-white card Deputy Blackwell had given me. My mouth went dry as cotton as I dialed the number and listened to it ring. Doubts swirled through me. Would she laugh it off as a childish prank someone had pulled? Was this important enough to bother her with? After all, she was involved in a murder investigation. I pulled the phone from my ear, ready to disconnect the call, when she answered on the second ring.

  “Deputy Blackwell speaking.” Her tone was crisp and firm, but not unfriendly.

  I cleared my throat. “This is Jori Trahern. You may not remember me, but—”

  “Of course, Ms. Trahern. You were the one who spoke with Raymond Strickland hours before he was murdered. Have you recalled anything else about the conversation you think might help us with the investigation?”

  “It’s not about him.” I swallowed hard.

  A heartbeat of surprise followed. I could picture her brows rising with interest. “Oh?”

  “I’d like to report a break-in at my house.”

  “I see. Was anybody hurt?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But it was creepy. We’re a little freaked out.”

  “Understandable. I can have an officer at your house immediately to investigate.”

  “I want you. It’s, um, complicated.” I hurried to my bedroom door, listened to Mimi puttering in the kitchen, and then shut it.

  “How so?” she asked. The woman didn’t waste words.

  “They didn’t steal anything valuable. It was more of a threat. He—or she—ransacked and vandalized my personal stuff, and then they left a note.”

  “What did the note say?”

  “Here, I’m texting you a photo. That’ll be easier than trying to explain.” I selected the disgusting photo from my gallery and clicked send.

  “Got it,” she confirmed moments later, then added, “Is that a . . . a snake?”

  “Yep. Sliced down the middle.”

  “What does the note say? The paper’s bent, and I can’t quite make it out.”

  “Let dead dogs lie.”

  “I can be at your house in ten minutes.”

  “Here’s the thing. I’d like to speak with you in private. My grandmother’s already agitated enough about this, and if she overhears everything I want to tell you, she’ll only get more upset.”

  “You’d rather come to our office?”

  “Yes—only, I hate to leave her and Zach alone. What if the intruder sees me leave and then decides to return?”

  “I’ll arrange for a police cruiser to drive by your house while we talk and then sporadically after that for the next few days. If you’re being watched, the presence of the cruiser should act as a deterrent.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a rush of breath.

  “As soon as you see the cops going by your place, come on down. After I get your statement, I’ll send someone over to get photos and prints.”

  “The sooner that snake is out of here, the better we’ll all feel.”

  I hung up the call and headed to the door. Zach was seated at the kitchen table, tasting a small bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream Mimi had placed before him.

  “How’s it taste, Zach?” Mimi asked. “Is it good?”

  “Good,” he confirmed, shoveling down spoonfuls. He held out the empty bowl. “More.”

  “Coming right up.”

  As always, there was something very comforting about Zach. No matter my level of anxiety, Zach’s focus on the here and now was a beacon of calm.

  The sheriff’s office was in the same location it had been all the years I’d grown up in Bayou Enigma, one block east of the courthouse downtown, a redbrick, two-story, no-nonsense type of building with a modest sign out front and a parking lot filled with patrol cars. I’d never had reason to visit until now.

  Inside, the place was brightly lit from unforgiving fluorescent fixtures. The walls were a dull green, and the floors were a worn, speckled linoleum. I walked into the lobby and noted the metal folding chairs where nearly a dozen people slouched, sporting various expressions of boredom or anxiety. Across from the chairs was a glassed-in booth where a receptionist sat.

  “Got an appointment?” she asked in a bored tone when I walked over.

  “Deputy Blackwell is expecting me.”

  “Name?”

  “Jori Trahern.”

  Without responding, she pressed a phone button and murmured a few words before speaking to me again. “Deputy Blackwell will escort you back in a moment. Have a seat.”

  I took my place among the weary, the despondent, and the agitated. Evidently, there was no happy reason to be in this place. The only person immune to the atmosphere was a young boy who ran back and forth from the water cooler to his mama’s lap, shrieking with laughter.

  The door off to the side opened, and we all turned expectantly. Deputy Blackwell scanned the crowd, then nodded at me. “This way, Ms. Trahern.”

  I stood, catching the scowl of a young man decked in camo and exuding a surly attitude. His lower lip protruded farther. “I been here two hours. This ain’t right.”

  Pretending not to hear, I quickly strode to Deputy Blackwell and followed her down a long hallway. The farther we walked, the louder the muffled noises emerged. She caught my puzzled look. “We share a wall with the county lockup. It can get really rowdy at times. This way.”<
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  She beckoned me into a small office devoid of everything but a metal table and chairs. Not even a window to dispel the stark institutional vibe.

  “What’s this? An old prison cell?” I joked.

  “Sorry. It happens to be the only room where we can have a modicum of privacy at the moment.”

  I gingerly took a seat, the cold, hard metal unwelcoming to my bones. “Is this where you interrogate criminals?” I asked, serious this time.

  “Sometimes,” she admitted, smiling kindly. “Certainly not the case now, though.”

  Sitting only a foot apart from one another in the cramped space felt surprisingly, uncomfortably intimate. A slight citrus smell wafted in the air, refreshing and incongruous. She wore no jewelry, only a touch of mascara and a subtle lip color. In spite of the shapeless uniform and the hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, I was surprised to discover she was quite beautiful, even though she seemed at pains to downplay it. Couldn’t blame her, though, in this type of job.

  “How did you get interested in law enforcement?” I blurted. “I mean, I know it’s not unusual for women these days, but you must get sick of dealing with all the creeps.”

  My question didn’t faze her. She must have been asked hundreds of times before. “Same reason any person, male or female, chooses this for a career. We want to catch the bad guys and help the good guys.” I flushed at the asperity in her tone, but she shot me a conspiratorial grin. “Plus, it pays the bills. I have two kids and a mortgage.”

  Kids. She appeared only ten years older than me. Not for the first time, I wondered if my life had been in a state of perpetual hold since high school. These days, a woman didn’t need children for validation, but I had to admit my life often felt pointless, as though I was merely going through the motions. College, then work. It wasn’t that I still grieved for Deacon, even if I thought of him often in odd, lonely hours of the night, but none of my relationships had ever lasted more than a year. I felt as though I floated from one day to the next, planning events that other people went to and enjoyed and returning to my solo apartment in the evenings. Hell, I didn’t even own a cat.

  Blackwell placed a manila file on the battered table and opened it up. The photo I’d sent her was printed out, blown up to eight-by-ten size. “We’ll send an officer to your house to dust for prints and take photos. We’ll remove the carcass and secure it in our evidence room in case we discover any suspects.”

  “Thank you.” I was relieved I didn’t have to deal with getting rid of the thing.

  Blackwell folded her hands on the desk and regarded me soberly. “What was written in those journals?”

  “The usual teen stuff. Nothing earth shattering.”

  “No potential blackmail material?”

  “None.” Relief washed over me again that I’d long since destroyed the pages that were the most painful. Keeping my secret buried deep inside felt right. What had happened was nobody’s business. Just my own private grief.

  Blackwell tapped at the photo. “Why do you think you were sent this message?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She stared at me, waiting for me to start talking. I’d requested a private meeting, after all.

  “Where’s your partner?” I asked. “Why isn’t he here?”

  “Lieutenant Oliver is my boss, not my partner. We’re only working together on the Strickland case. He’s out interviewing this morning, but he should be back shortly if you need to speak to us both together.”

  “No. That’s okay. I’d rather speak to you alone.” I found her less intimidating than the older man.

  “Tell me, Ms. Trahern, do you think this threat is related to the Strickland murder?”

  I blinked in surprise. “No.”

  A brow rose. “A mighty big coincidence, then. And I, for one, don’t happen to believe in coincidences. Is there something you haven’t told us about your conversation with the victim? Do you know anything that would help solve this case? If you do, speak up now.”

  Her voice had taken on a hard edge, and her eyes sharpened on me. Had I thought her less intimidating than Oliver? Now I wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know anything about it,” I protested. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dana warned me it was stupid to go talk to Ray. I wish I never had.”

  “You must have some idea why an intruder targeted you and your private belongings. The threat he left was very specific.”

  “I think this is about my cousin,” I said with reluctance. “Not Raymond Strickland.”

  Blackwell stiffened, then leaned back in her chair. “Jackson Ensley?”

  “Right.” Something about the faint tinge of dislike as she spoke his name made me wonder if she might have known Jackson. He would have been about her age, had he lived. “Hey, did you know my cousin?”

  Was it my imagination, or was there a slight hesitation before she answered? “We were in the same grade at Enigma High.”

  “What was he like?”

  “He had a reputation.” White lines etched the contour of her pursed lips. Like everyone else in town who knew him, Blackwell was clearly not a fan.

  “Yeah, I’ve always heard he was a bit wild.”

  “Wild is one way to put it,” she said crisply. “Explain why you think there’s a connection between this threat and Ensley.”

  “Because this happened the day after I went to Mobile to speak with his biological mother.”

  “I didn’t realize he was adopted. Why did you go see her?”

  “Because it’s weird. Mimi and the rest of my family are so closemouthed about him. I didn’t even know he was adopted until Mimi let it slip yesterday.” I drummed my fingers against the battered table, trying to explain my compulsion to dig into his past. “I’ve heard the rumors about him. That he used and dealt drugs, that he’d had a few minor scrapes with the law and was generally not a . . . not a nice person. Nobody ever has anything good to say about the guy. And with his former best friend also being found dead with a bullet to the back of his head, hours after talking to me, well, I just . . .” I cleared my throat. “I got curious.”

  “And you think this visit with his mother got someone upset.”

  “What else could it be?”

  Blackwell folded her arms and tapped an index finger against her mouth. “Did she tell you anything that bears a relation to these two murders?”

  “I don’t know if it has any bearing, but Grace claimed she was paid ten thousand dollars for her baby.”

  Blackwell let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of money, especially way back in 1975. Who paid her?”

  “Says she doesn’t remember the details of the private adoption, and I believe her. Grace was a drug addict who took the money way back when and ran with it. For all it’s worth, she’s recently got her life back together and is remorseful.”

  Blackwell slowly nodded. “I’ll check into that with my contact at Family Social Services. Private or not, the adoption had to have been registered. It’s illegal, of course, to pay for a child. But the adoptive parents can provide money for maternity expenses.”

  I frowned. “That wasn’t the impression I got from her. I asked if she had any adoption records, but she didn’t.”

  “Illegal or not, it’s a stretch to say that the matter might be related to either murder.”

  “It’s the only dredging up of the past that I’ve been up to,” I pointed out. My stomach flipped as I pushed on with my next theory. “Other than mentioning to Dana and a few family members what I told you when Ray’s body was discovered.” At her blank face, I pushed on. “That Ray brought up folks had a way of disappearing in the bayou. Like the Cormiers.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” she assured me. “I’m reviewing the old Cormier files. Seems you were also the last person to see Deacon Cormier alive.” She paused a moment, eyeballing me curiously. “You were the last to see Raymond Strickland and Deacon Cormier alive.”

  Blood pounded in my ears, and my heartbeat pul
sed madly. I hadn’t made that uncanny connection. Silence stretched between us, drumming a loud pulse of swirling vermilion and gunmetal tension in the cramped room. “Wh-what are you implying?” I managed to croak.

  “Just making an observation.”

  “If you’re reviewing the case, then you know Deacon and I were dating. Those notebooks I told you that the intruder went through and tore up? Those were my old high school journals. They were filled with, you know, silly stuff a teenage girl would write.”

  “Angsty poems about true love and endless details about your dates?” she guessed.

  “Exactly. Why would the intruder be interested in them? Unless . . . unless it was a message to stop bringing up the subject of Deacon and his parents.”

  “Your theory tying the Cormiers to Strickland’s murder is still a stretch.”

  “I know, but just in case there is one, I feel bound to tell you everything.”

  “And have you?”

  “Yes.” I faced her dead on, my voice steady. Certain things from the past would stay buried there, too private and painful to be shared.

  “I’m going to ask again. What was written in your old diary pages that are missing?”

  “It’s been so long since I wrote them, I can’t give specifics. But it was in the time frame I was seeing Deacon.” My face twisted in embarrassed chagrin. “So I feel confident in saying those pages were all about him. After all, he was the subject matter of at least ninety percent of my scribbles.”

  “No secret from the past you aren’t telling me about?”

  “Absolutely no secrets.”

  “There could be a more current, more logical explanation. Are you currently seeing someone?”

  “No.”

  “Have you had a past romantic relationship that ended badly?”

  The notion was laughable. All my relationships since Deacon had ended amicably, dying a slow, neglectful death for which I was entirely to blame. There’d been no explosive breakups, no jealous stalking or recriminations from either party. Only my failure to completely commit.

  “There’s nothing of the sort,” I assured Blackwell. “I don’t have some psycho ex-boyfriend out to intimidate me. And if I did, I’d report him.”