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Detective Northcutt spread the newspaper open on his desk. Read the brief article on page two about the death of Attorney Richard Gravois. His housekeeper had found him slumped in his chair. “Bitten by a snake,” she told the authorities.
Gary never had the opportunity to question Gravois about the house on Caulfield.
“And now I never will.”
Many years ago a friend of his died of a snakebite when they were on a camping trip. There was no forgetting how the guy’s body looked when Gary found him in the woods lying on the ground next to a pile of leaves.
He pulled his mind away from the gruesome death that easily could’ve been his own if he had been the one who’d gone to collect firewood instead of staying to assemble their tents.
It’d been a long time since he talked with BJ. But first, he needed to come up with a valid reason for calling her other than saying he just wanted to hear her voice.
He dialed her number.
She told him about the email and the flowers.
“Which florist sent them?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “I didn’t look at the label. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Do you mind looking at it now?”
“I’m sorry. How careless of me. I burned the box. Flowers, ribbon, and all.”
A moment of silence.
“I think it’s time for you to go somewhere safe. Someplace better than a hotel,” said Gary.
He brought a Rolodex closer to him. Searched for Laertes Sonnier’s number. After a brief conversation with his old friend on another phone line, he got back to her.
“Somebody I know and trust has agreed to let you stay at his place, BJ, but I’m sorry to say, you won’t be allowed to bring your dog. One of the detectives here, Dylan Dirck, is a serious animal lover. And he’s about to start a one-week vacation. He said he’s just going to hang around the house, so I’m fairly certain he’d be happy to take care of Tomi for you, and you won’t have to board him at the kennel again.”
“Sure, ask him,” she said.
Gary gave a heads up to several uniformed officers about where he’s taking Mrs. Donovan. Asked them to keep an eye on her if they patrolled the area.
Officer Jacob Wentzel wrote Sonnier’s address on the palm of his hand.
There’s a house in New Orleans, Northcutt said, which belongs to a renowned archeologist who’s out of the country for an indefinite stay. Sonnier had given Gary the key a long time ago with the request that the house and yard be inspected occasionally.
* * *
BJ Donovan didn’t care for her new accommodations.
Thank goodness she had her old standby. The new novel. She re-read the part where she’d left off before moving on.
––––––––
Alma LeVeaux was quite inebriated when she called Detective Boutin, but she managed to get the words out without slurring her speech too much.
“I’m on my way,” he told her.
When he arrived at her door, he automatically tested the knob before knocking. Was somewhat dismayed to find Alma didn’t have it locked. He entered, looked back to see if he’d been followed. Standing still in the foyer, he tuned in to the sounds in the house.
Mick entered the living room. Alma sat cross-legged in the middle of the couch. Barefooted. Dressed in a red T-shirt and blue jeans. A little glass in her hand. Assured she’s okay, he poured himself a shot of tequila from an open bottle.
She put her glass down, and slumped against decorative pillows.
He dropped down on the cushion beside her. Knocked the drink back in one gulp, set his glass next to hers. He pulled her into his arms. Put his feet on the coffee table. Alma laid her head against him. He caressed her face and forehead.
“Nice. No one’s ever done that for me,” she said in a distinctly girlish way.
Mick gave her a light affectionate squeeze, leaned his head on the back of the couch, and stared at the ceiling. “Talk to me, baby. Tell me of all the events in your life that led up to you sitting in front of a computer trying to find someone to love you.”
She drew in a ragged breath to keep the anger out of her voice over that badly worded last sentence of his. “Rex isn’t the affectionate type. Every time I needed him to comfort me with a hug, he’d barely wrap his arms around me. Or he’d say I know what you need, nod his head at the bedroom door and wink at me.”
Mick tightened his arm around her.
“I’ve spent most of my life being shuffled from one doorstep to another. I lost myself in a fantasy world of books. They saved my life after years of physical and emotional abuse, having an empty belly most of the time, and living in abject poverty all of the time. I think I was seven when I was put into foster care. Chana, the oldest daughter of my foster parents, was a hateful, spoiled brat. She was jealous of my long hair, so she made her mama chop it off. Once a week, every week, Chana loved to force me to sit on the closet floor in her bedroom, put her shoes together with their mates, and line them up in a neat straight row. I didn’t understand why she needed so many pairs of shoes when she only had two feet.” Alma sat up. Sipped her drink.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There isn’t anything to say. It happened,” said Alma. “I’ve learned to accept things as they are. I don’t care as much as I used to. All I want now is something, just some little thing, I can call my own. Something no one can ever take away from me. My whole life, every time I ever got something, I had to pay a price for it. I’ve never been able to ask and immediately receive. And when I did finally get whatever it was I wanted, somebody would either take it away or figure out how to spoil it for me. I’ve had to spend my life kissing ass just to keep people from messing with me. I’ve seen the worst the world has to offer, and little to none of the best. I don’t have a clue how it feels to be spoiled and pampered the way Chana was. To have someone wait on me hand and foot. Nor do I want to. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
She flicked the tears off her face with her forefinger. Drained the glass, stared at its thick bottom. “Jeebus. I’ve spent a lifetime standing on the outside looking in,” she murmured more to herself than to him. “But not any more.”
“I can’t undo the harm that’s been done to you, but I can do everything within my power to try to keep anything else bad from happening to you. All my years as a cop, I’ve seen many women trapped in a world of misery, and left with nothing but unleashed anger. But you, Alma. You are different. I can’t explain it. I don’t think you realize how special you are. You’re not a nobody.”
Alma got up to fetch the bottle of tequila to keep from rolling her eyes in front of the dumb stupid idiot.