After the Night (18 page)

A woman’s voice answered on the second ring. "Rouillard
residence."

"Gray Rouillard^ please," Faith said in her most businesslike tone.

"May I say who is calling?"

"Mrs. Hardy," she replied.

"Just a moment."

No more than ten seconds later, the line clicked and Gray’s velvety dark voice purred, "Is this
the
Mrs. Hardy?"

She could hear the mocking amusement in his voice, and her hand clenched around the receiver so hard, it was a wonder the plastic didn’t crack. "It is."

"Well, well. I’ll bet you didn’t think you’d be asking for favors so soon, did you, sweetheart? What can I do for you today?" He didn’t even try to disguise the satisfaction in his
tone.

"Not a damn thing," she said coldly. "I just wanted you to know your childish little tricks won’t work. I’ll have my
groceries shipped in from Dallas before I’ll give you the satisfaction of seeing me leave!" She slammed down the receiver before he could reply, and marched to her car. She hadn’t really accomplished anything, other than blowing off some steam and letting him know that she realized who was behind this latest development, and that it wasn’t going to work. It was satisfying anyway.

At Rouillard House, Gray chuckled as he sat back in his chair. He’d been right about her redheaded temper. He’d have liked to see her just now, with those green eyes snapping fire. Maybe his maneuver had made her dig in her heels rather than prompting her to go to a friendlier locale, but one thing for certain, it had gotten a reaction! Then his eyes sharpened. Dallas, huh? Maybe he should do some checking there.

Faith allowed herself to stew for a minute, then put her anger aside as a waste of energy. She refused to let this town, and Gray Rouillard, get the best of her. She would change their opinions of her if it took twenty years! The key to changing their minds, she realized, was proving that Guy Rouillard hadn’t run off with her mother. For whatever reason he had left, it couldn’t be blamed on her family. Taking that into consideration, she had far more reason to hold a grudge than did the Rouillards or anyone else in the parish.

Knowing that Guy hadn’t been with Renee and proving it, however, were two different things. Perhaps if she could get Renee to talk to Gray, he would at least be curious enough to start searching for his father. Maybe he already had, and Mrs. DuBois at the library simply didn’t know the result of the search. If Guy was alive, though, there would be a traceable paper record somewhere.

She drove to New Roads, where she filled up the car and bought the few groceries she had needed. So much for Gray’s effort to starve her out, she thought with satisfaction when she returned home and carried in the bag. She hadn’t even had to go that much farther afield.

After she had put up the groceries, she went into her office and called her grandmother Armstead in Jackson. As before, Renee answered the phone.

"Mama, this is Faith."

"Faith! Hi, honey," Renee said in her lazy, sultry voice. "How’re you doin’, baby? I didn’t expect to hear from you again so soon."

"I’m fine, Mama. I’ve moved back to Prescott."

There was a moment of silence on the line. "Why’d you do that? From what Jodie told me, them folks didn’t treat you right."

"It was home," Faith said simply, knowing Renee wouldn’t understand. "But that isn’t why I called. Mama, everyone here still thinks you ran off with Guy Rouillard."

"Well, I told you that isn’t so, didn’t I? It’s no skin off my nose what they think."

"It’s causing me a little bit of trouble, though. Mama, if I can get Gray Rouillard to call you, would you talk to him and tell him that you didn’t run away with his father?"

Renee gave an uneasy laugh. "Gray wouldn’t believe a word I said. Guy was easy to get along with, but Gray… No, I don’t want to talk to him."

"Please, Mama. If he doesn’t believe you, that’s up to him, but – "

"I said no," Renee interrupted sharply. "I’m not going to talk to him, and you’re just wastin’ your breath. I don’t give a shit what those bastards in Prescott think." She slammed down the receiver, and Faith winced at the crash in her ear.

She hung up the phone, frowning in thought. For whatever reason, Renee was nervous about talking to Gray, and that meant Faith didn’t have much chance of changing her mind. Renee had never been one to go out of her way for anyone, even in a matter as simple as a telephone call.

Well, if Renee wouldn’t talk to Gray, then Faith had to find some other way to convince him, and the best way to do that was find out what had really happened to Guy.

How did you go about finding out if someone who had disappeared twelve years ago was alive or dead? Faith wondered. She wasn’t a detective, didn’t know the procedures to follow to gain access to the records that would
normally be examined if you were looking for someone. The thing to do, she supposed, was to hire a real private detective, one who would know those things. It would be expensive, though, and she didn’t have much extra money after spending her ready cash on the house.

Where to find a detective? There wasn’t any such animal in Prescott, but she supposed they could be found in any moderate-sized town; Baton Rouge was a city of almost a quarter million people, but it was also a little too close to Gray’s sphere of influence. New Orleans would probably be safer. Maybe she was being paranoid about Gray’s power, but she would rather be paranoid than caught unawares. A man who would try to stop a woman from buying groceries was diabolical! Her mouth quirked at the thought, and she allowed herself a tiny smile. On a more serious note, she had a healthy respect for the lengths to which he would go to follow through on his promises, and his warnings.

She would find a good detective and hire him to search credit card and bank records, things like that. If Guy was alive, surely he would have used some of his vast financial assets to support himself; she couldn’t see him washing dishes at minimum wage. Perhaps it would be possible to find out if he had filed an income tax return. Surely any decent detective would be able to do that in a short amount of time, maybe a week, so the cost should be manageable.

What if the detective did find a paper trail? If Guy had used a credit card, Gray would have known about it, seen the charge on the monthly statement. Had Gray known where his father was all these years, and not said anything? The possibility was intriguing… and infuriating. If Gray
had
found Guy, wouldn’t he have contacted him? And if he had done that, then he would know that Guy hadn’t left with Renee. It followed, then, that for whatever reason, Gray had never tried to find his father, otherwise he would know there was no reason for this vendetta against her.

She couldn’t forget what she considered the most likely scenario: Guy was dead. She could see him leaving, though divorce would have been a more logical step, but she couldn’t see him never contacting his kids again, or walking away from the Rouillard money. That just wasn’t human
nature. She had to give the private detective a chance to find Guy, but she didn’t think he’d succeed. After that, she would start asking questions around town; she didn’t know what she could discover, but the answer to the puzzle was there, if she could just figure out how to put the pieces together. Someone had to know what had happened that night. The truth was there, waiting for someone to find it. She pulled out a sheet of paper, paused for a moment, and unwillingly wrote her mother’s name at the top. It was asking too much of coincidence for Renee to have left the same night Guy had disappeared and not know anything about it. Maybe they really
had
run away together, and something had happened to Guy afterward, something that Renee didn’t want known. Though the only circumstances under which Faith could imagine Renee stirring herself to violence would be to protect herself, she had to put Renee’s name at the top of the list.

Beside Renee’s name, because he had the motive, she wrote "Gray" in block letters. She looked at the two names. One of them, possibly both of them, knew what had happened to Guy. She would bet her socks on it. Nausea roiled in her stomach. Between murder suspects, which did she choose as the most likely: her mother, or the man she had always loved?

Stricken, Faith stared bitterly at the paper. Self-knowledge was seldom sweet. She must be the biggest fool alive, for no matter how Gray had wrecked her life or tried to make things impossible for her, no matter that she thought he might be involved in his father’s death, she couldn’t run from, destroy, or even ignore that bone-deep, compelling attraction to him, like metal shavings to a magnet. Just the sight of him made her go weak inside, and when he touched her she felt the electricity of it in every cell of her body. He had never touched her except in anger; v;hat would it be like if he came to her as a lover, with pleasure his intention? She couldn’t imagine it. Her blood would boil, her heart stop.

What would she do if she found that Gray had indeed killed his father, or had him killed? The thought caused a sharp pain in her chest, and she barely stifled a moan. She
would have to do the same thing she would do if it were anyone else. She couldn’t live with herself otherwise. And she would grieve for the rest of her life.

There were other suspects, though less likely. She listed them under the two top names. Noelle. Amos. Perhaps Monica. Thinking laterally, the list widened to the other men Renee had slipped around and slept with, as well as Guy’s other women. For two people infatuated with each other, they had been remarkably unfaithful. Ed Morgan had to go on that list, and Faith wrote his name down with pleasure. She racked her brain, trying to think of more names, but twelve years was a long time and most of the men had been eminently forgettable. Maybe town gossip could supply them, as well as some of Guy’s conquests. From his reputation, he had cut quite a swath through southeastern Louisiana. Probably she could list quite a few of Prescott’s society ladies, which would also make their husbands legitimate candidates for the list. Wryly she tossed down the pen. The way this list was going, she might as well take a phone book and start at the
A’s.

"You don’t look like a private detective."

Francis P. Pleasant looked like a prosperous, conservative businessman. There were no ashtrays in his office; it was neat, and his light gray suit fit well. He had sad, dark eyes, but the expression in them lightened and warmed as he smiled at her. "Did you think I would have a bottle of bourbon on my desktop, and a cigarette with an inch-long ash dangling from my mouth?"

"Something like that." She returned his smile. "Or that you’d be wearing a Hawaiian shirt."

He laughed aloud at that. "Not my style. My wife always picked out my clothes – " He stopped, and the sadness returned to his eyes as he glanced at a photograph on his desk.

Faith followed his gaze. The frame was set at an angle to her, but she could still see that it was a picture of a pretty middle-aged woman, her expression so cheerful that it invited smiles. She must have died, for that sadness to be in his eyes. "Is that your wife?" she asked gently.

He managed another smile, but it was strained. "Yes, it is. I lost her a few months ago."

"I’m so sorry." She had just met him, but her sympathy was genuine.

"It was a sudden illness," he said, his voice a little jerky. "I have a bad heart; we both thought I would be the first to go. We were prepared for that. We were saving as much money as we could, for the time when I wouldn’t be able to work. Then she got sick, just a cold, we thought, but forty-eight hours later she was dead from viral pneumonia. By the time she realized she was really sick, that it wasn’t just a cold, it was too late."

Tears swam in his eyes, and Faith reached across the desk to put her hand on his. He turned his hand to squeeze her fingers, then blinked in bewilderment.

"I’m sorry," he apologized, blushing. He took out his handkerchief and blotted his eyes. "I don’t know what came over me. You’re a client, we’ve just met, and here I am crying on your shoulder."

"I’ve lost people I loved, too," she said, thinking of Scottie and Kyle. "Sometimes it helps to talk about it."

"Yes, it does, but that was still inappropriate of me. My only excuse is that there’s something very warm about you, my dear." He realized that he had added an endearment, and blushed again. "Well! Perhaps I’d better ask what has brought you here."

"A man disappeared twelve years ago," she said. "I’d like you to find out if he’s still alive."

He picked up a pen and rapidly scrawled something on a legal pad. "Your father? An old boyfriend?" "Nothing like that. He was my mother’s lover." Mr. Pleasant glanced up at her, but didn’t appear startled. Probably in his business he had received requests far more bizarre than hers. Thinking that he would have a better chance of finding something if he knew all the details and circumstances, rather than just the bare facts of Guy’s name, age, and description, she related everything that had happened twelve years ago, and why she wanted to find out if Guy was still alive. "I have to tell you," she said, "I think he’s dead. Maybe
my imagination is running away with me, but I think someone killed him."

Mr. Pleasant carefully placed the pen on the legal pad, positioning it between the blue lines. "You do realize, Mrs. Hardy, that, considering what you’ve told me, your mother is likely involved. For her to have left the same night… well, you understand how that looks."