''This is your first day back," Faye said. "Give yourself time."
"Ward was a minister, Faye. He wasn't supposed to have an affair." But in her heart of hearts, she'd known something wasn't right. She'd seen it in the way he looked at her. The chasm between them. During. the last year of their marriage, Ward had suffered from impotency. He hadn't made love to her in more than a year ....
"Ministers are human," Faye said gently. 'They make mistakes."
"I think he was seeing Sara Wiley." Nat met the other woman's gaze. "Was he?"
"Honey, knowing isn't going to help anything. You need to try to put this behind you and get on with your life."
"You knew, didn't you? The whole town knew." Nat choked out a laugh, but she felt like a fool. How could she have been so blind?
Faye raised her hands, a conductor quieting a symphony that had gotten too loud. "Let it go, Nat. Please don't do anything stupid."
"Oh, for God's sake, Faye, you don't think I'm going to stomp over to her house and yank out her hair, do you?"
Faye didn't smile. "If it's any consolation, I didn't find out it was her until just a few months ago."
The confirmation of something she'd already suspected shouldn't have hurt, but it did. How could she have been so naive? She'd had Sara over to the house for dinner. Sara had watched Kyle a dozen times. Ward had talked about her a little too often, a little too fondly. "How did you find out?" she heard herself ask.
"I ran into Sara at The Blue Gator. We had a couple of beers, and she just started laying it on me. She was half drunk. Crying and telling me she'd loved him. I think she had a guilty conscience."
Nat's mind was reeling. "Did anyone bother to tell the police?"
“I told Alcee Martin. I heard later that Norm Pelletier talked to her. But nothing ever came of it." Her gaze met Nat's. "I know what you're thinking, honey, but you're wrong. Reno Wiley might be a mean-spirited jerk. but he's not a killer."
Nat thought of her meeting with Alcee Martin earlier in the day and felt a rise of anger because he hadn't bothered to mention Reno had already been considered and eliminated as a suspect. "I guess all the suspicion in this town was reserved for me."
"Some people just want to believe the worst. The people who know better are the ones who count." Faye reached out to touch her. "In case you haven't figured it out by now, that includes me."
Nat walked to the dining room table and sank into a chair. "What a mess."
"Honey, you're shaking." Faye set the bottle of wine on the table between them and took the chair across from her. "Are you okay?"
She nodded but figured both women knew she was a long way from being okay.
"How's your mama?" Faye asked. "She still living in New Orleans?"
Nat's smile was sardonic. "She's good at pretending everything is all right. I think she's in denial. She doesn't talk about it." Analise Jennings was the quintessential southern belle. Appearances were everything, and she worked hard to maintain them, sometimes at the cost of facing reality.
"People deal with grief in different ways," Faye said. "She lost a grandson. She almost lost you." She paused. "Does she know you're here?"
"No." Nat gave her a hard look. "I want to keep it that way."
"Why are you here, Natty? Of all the places you could have gone, why did you come back to a place that holds so much pain?"
To find a killer.
The words flitted through her mind, but Nat didn't voice them. She didn't trust Faye enough to tell her the truth. She figured the less people knew about why she was back, the better her chances of succeeding. "I just ... needed to face some old demons so I can put this behind me and move on with my life."
Faye nodded, but Nat didn't miss the instant of hesitation, and she knew the other woman suspected there was more to her arrival in Bellerose than the need for closure.
Because she didn't want the conversation to go in that direction, Nat moved quickly to change the subject. "Do you know Nick Bastille?"
Faye looked startled by the question. "I know enough about him to know he's trouble."
"How so?"
"Well, he's an ex-con, for one. A shame, considering he's so damn good to look at. Talk about a waste of man-flesh. I saw him pumping gas the other day out at Ray's Sunoco, and he really is something to look at, if you like the dangerous type, anyway. Emma down at the diner told me he took a job at The Blue Gator."
"I wonder why he came back to Bellerose," Nat said, thinking aloud. "I mean, there aren't many opportunities here, especially for an ex-con."
"Maybe he didn't have anywhere else to go." Faye's eyes narrowed. "Any particular reason you're asking about Nick Bastille?"
Nat lifted her shoulder, let it fall. "I had a run-in with him earlier," she said vaguely. "He was rude."
"Yeah, well, from what I hear, he's not the kind of guy you want to piss off. He went to prison for murder, you know." She lowered her voice. "Jenny Lee told me he has all sorts of shady friends down in New Orleans. He might even have ties to the Mob. You definitely don't want to run into him in a dark alley. When Nick Bastille showed back up, folks around here started locking their doors."
But Nat knew all too well about small towns and gossip. She knew how a story got bigger and more vicious every time it was told. And because she herself had been a favorite topic among Bellerose's gossipmongers, she resolved not to pass judgment on Nick Bastille.
"I drove up to see you a few times when you were in the hospital, you know," Faye said after a moment.
Nat didn't even try to hide her surprise. "I didn't know."
"You were still in a coma."
"If I hadn't been, I probably would have told you to leave."
Faye smiled, bur it looked sad on her face. "The first time was a week or so after ... you went in. At that point, the doctors didn't know if you were going to come back"
Some days Nat still couldn't believe she'd spent over two years in a coma. Months that had passed in the blink of an eye and were lost forever. She didn't remember much about the night she'd tried to commit suicide. Ward and Kyle had been dead for a week and life had seemed too bleak to bear. Nat had been sitting in a jail cell, and it had seemed as if her very soul had been ripped from her body. Her heart torn to bits and trod upon. She knew slitting her wrists had been a cowardly thing to do, but at the time she'd been too shattered inside to care ...
"I read to you mostly," Faye said.
Nat contemplated her, wondering if they could ever go back to being friends. "What did you read?"
"Whatever I was reading at the time. You seemed to enjoy Fanny Hill," she said deadpan.
Nat made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "For God's sake, Faye. you don't read erotica to someone who's in a coma."
"You moved your hand that night, Natty. You knew I was there."
Nat didn't know what to say and for a moment all she could do was blink back tears. How very like Faye to do something so utterly unorthodox. And so selfless and kind, a little voice added.
Because she didn't want to cry, Nat took a deep breath and focused on the bottle Faye had set on the table. "What kind of wine is that?”
"Blackberry. From my own patch. I thought you might appreciate some about now."
"I hate your blackberry wine."
"That was peach cognac you tried, spoilsport. And for your information, I've refined my wine-making skills since you last tried it."
Rising, Nat walked into the kitchen and snagged two wine glasses from the cabinet. At the bar, Faye uncorked the bottle. "I like to let this breathe for a minute or two."
Nat met her at the bar and set down the glasses. Faye looked at her, her expression sober. "It hurt when you refused to see me after you came out of the coma."
"I was a mess, Faye. Physically. Emotionally."
"You were angry."
"I was a lot of things, and none of them were good."
"Considering what you've been through, you have a very positive energy, Nat." A
smile whispered across Faye's features. "You look damn good for a woman who's spent the last two and a half years sleeping."
Nat thought of the months of grueling physical rehabilitation and grimaced. "It was tough, Faye. Even though I'd had quite a bit of physical therapy, my muscles had atrophied. I couldn't walk. I couldn't even sit up. It's taken me six months to get my strength back."
"Any lingering effects from the stroke?"
After her suicide attempt, Nat had gone into hypovolemic shock and suffered a minor stroke from blood loss. "I had some memory problems early on and some minor paralysis on my left side." She raised her left band and flexed her lingers. "My left hand is a little awkward. but since I'm right-handed, it's not a problem."
"That's good." Faye studied her face. "You look a little tired. A lot sad."
"I am. Both."
"But your energy is strong," The other woman's eyes narrowed. "Different somehow. Powerful. But good. That's the most important thing."
Nat had always been a skeptic when it came to things like personal energy and the woo-woo mumbo jumbo Faye subscribed to. The last six months had changed her view dramatically.
Faye raised her glass. ''To the healing energy of friendship," she said.
And the sweet promise of justice, Nat silently added, and clinked her glass against Faye's.
Chapter 6
The Blue Gator was hopping. the shift at the lumber mill had ended at four o'clock, and by four-fifteen half of Bobby O'Malley's crew were at the bar, their minds set on putting a dent in Mike Pequinot's supply of booze. A lively zydeco number blasted from the jukebox. Even though it was still early, several couples were already kicking up sawdust on the matchbox-size dance floor.
The boisterous atmosphere of The Blue Gator was a far cry from the jazzy elegance of the restaurant Nick had owned in New Orleans. The Tropics had been dark wood and candlelight, smooth jazz, Dominican cigars, and top-shelf liquor. But atmosphere was a relative thing, and Nick was in his element, no matter which bar he stood behind.
He'd always believed one of the things that made him good at what he did was his willingness to roll up his sleeves. Even back when he'd been wearing two thousand dollar suits, if a table needed busing, he jumped in and did it himself. Even after he'd had the money to hire the best bartenders in the city, he'd made it a point on occasion to elbow his way to the bar and serve up shots and drafts or whatever alcoholic concoction his customers wanted.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that he'd been bursting with dreams and ambition and the utter certainty that he was going to succeed if only by the sheer force of his will. Nick might have grown up poor, but be damn well hadn't liked it, and that discontent had bred ambition into his blood. At twenty, there had been no doubt in his mind that he would one day own a restaurant the same caliber as Arnaud's or Commander's Palace, and there wasn't a soul on this sweet earth big enough or strong enough to stop him. He hadn't counted on hooking up with a scheming partner and a two-timing woman ....
Trying hard not to think of what a blind fool he'd been, Nick twirled the shot glass, slammed it onto the scarred bar, and filled it to overflowing with cheap rum and a thick wedge of lemon. "Dark rum with a twist. Two bucks."
Someone shoved three dollars at him. Nick stuffed the tip into his fanny pack. placed the other two in the cash register. He glanced up to see a sunburned man wearing a muscle shirt and Tabasco cap ask for a draft. Nick snagged a mug from the ice machine, shoved it beneath the nozzle, and filled it to the rim.
It was his first day on the job, and the place was as hectic as Bourbon Street on Fat Tuesday. But once Nick had settled down and found his rhythm, his years of experience had come pouring back. He was good at the bar. He knew his drinks, knew how to hustle. He enjoyed the contact with people. And if he closed his eyes, he could almost make himself believe he was back at The Tropics ....
"You keep up that shit, and I'm going to fire all my help and turn this joint over to you."
Nick looked up to see Mike Pequinot lift the pass-through door and limp behind the bar. "Hell of a business you do here," Nick said.
"Helps that we're the only bar in town. Pequinot poured dark rum from a bottle of top-shelf stuff he kept hidden for his personal use and slammed it back. "Tanya came in a couple of minutes ago."
Nick didn't let himself react at the mention of his ex-wife, but he felt the quick rise of tension. She was the one person in Bellerose he didn't want to see. Especially if she was fueled up on cheap booze and God only knew what else.
"I'll watch my back," he said.
Pequinot slapped him on the back. "And your front."
For a few minutes Nick concentrated on his customers. A draft. A hurricane. Change the keg. Replenish the ice. Another shot of bourbon. Change for a ten dollar bill. But his thoughts kept going back to Tanya, and they were troubled. The last time he'd seen her was the day she'd walked out of the prison visitor's room after telling him she was filing for divorce. She'd been gripping little Brandon's hand so hard the boy's fingers were white. His son had looked at him over his shoulder and waved. Nick hadn't been able to do anything but stand there and let them go. He'd had no way of knowing it would be the last time he saw his son.
In the two years since, he'd been able to forgive her for walking out on him. As desperately as he'd needed those visits, he'd known prison was no place for a little boy. Nick had been able to forgive her for sleeping with his business partner. He'd even been able to forgive her for testifying against him and helping to convict him of a crime he hadn't committed. But the one thing Nick hadn't been able to forgive her for was letting their son die. For letting a little boy wander into the bayou and drown in a deep pool of water. He knew that wasn't fair; he knew sometimes bad things happened, no matter how careful a parent was. But right or wrong, he blamed her. He would never forgive her. And in some small corner of his mind, he hated her for it.
"I never thought I'd see Nick Bastille behind the bar at The Blue Gator serving up Mike Pequinot's cheap booze."
Dread snapped through him at the sound of his ex-wife's drawl. Nick glanced up to see her standing at the bar directly opposite him, and an emotion he couldn't quite identify rushed through him like a shot of bad whiskey. Tanya Bastille had once been beautiful, with vivid blue eyes, a sensuous mouth, and yards of blond hair that fell like silk halfway down her back. She was tall and slender with the kind of body that could drive a man just a little bit insane if he wasn't careful. Looking at her now, he barely recognized the young woman who'd once held his heart in the palm of her hand.
The years had not been kind to her. Skin that had once glowed with health had gone sallow and sagged like cheap leather from her high-cheekbones. The heavy makeup did little to accentuate eyes that had gone hard with bitterness. Her hair was still long, but she'd bleached it platinum, and it looked as brittle as her smile.
Nick knew the lines etched into her face were not from age. Grief gave a person a distinctive look that was hard to describe. He recognized it because he saw the same thing when he looked in the mirror. He knew firsthand how grief hollowed a person out. How it could age a person before their time. If not on the outside, then on the inside where the scars were visible only to those who shared them.
Tanya hadn't yet seen her thirtieth birthday, but she looked a decade older. There was a falseness to a smile that had once been guileless and engaging. A hard edge to a face that had once been soft. Eyes that had once been pretty were glassy with the effects of alcohol or whatever drug she used to get through the day. He could tell from the size of her pupils that even though it wasn't yet six o'clock, she was already well on her way to oblivion.
"You got anything stronger than alcohol back there?" she drawled.
"Just the usual legal stuff," he said with the same easy tone he used with all the customers.
"You always did make the best hurricanes, Nicky. Why don't you mix me up one like you used to?"
"You look like maybe you've had enough."
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"Honey, I'm just getting warmed up." She smiled a too bright smile. "Make it a double, will you?"
Turning away from her, Nick reached for a tall glass and began to mix, taking it easy on the alcohol. He knew from experience that even a sober Tanya could spell trouble. An intoxicated Tanya could make a tornado look like a Sunday picnic.
"So, how long you been out?" she asked.
"Two days."
"Hmmm. How long's it been, Nicky? A couple of years?"
Nick knew exactly how long it had been, right down to the hour. Some days he could still feel that internal clock ticking silently inside him, counting out the seconds to freedom.
He slid the tall glass across the bar. Never taking her eyes from his, she picked it up, puckered her lips around the straw, and drank deeply, ''Ah, that's good. You still got the touch, don't you?"
Nick didn't say anything, but he could tell from the look in her eyes that she wasn't going to go away. “That's three bucks," he said.
"How have you been?" she asked, digging into the tiny purse slung over her shoulder.
"I think you know how I've been."
"You're still angry."
"Look, we're busy as hell tonight—"
"Too busy for your ex-wife, huh?"
''That's three bucks for the drink," he repeated.
She smiled, but it was the smile of a piranha with evil things on its mind. She'd zipped the purse, and he knew she had no intention of paying. He figured three dollars was a small price to pay to get her the hell out of there. But he had the sinking feeling it wasn't going to be that easy.
"I didn't even know you were in town until Jo Nell Jenkins over at the bank told me you'd come in to straighten out Dutch's accounts." She suckled the straw. “I can't believe you let me hear it from a complete stranger."
"I didn't come back to Bellerose for you, Tanya. In case you've forgotten, we're divorced."
"We may not be married legally, but we've still got that bond, you know? I mean, come on, you were my first. We had a good time, Nicky. We had a son together."