Shadow of Doubt (8 page)

She hoped they'd take her fears seriously, before he tried again.

T
he police station wasn't that busy this time of day, when the biggest crimes were being committed by speeding drivers on their way home from their daily commute to New Orleans. Jill found Sid slumped at his desk, and took a deep breath to sustain her.
Take the offensive,
she reminded herself. If she let Sid get the upper hand, he could probably even convince
her
that Celia was a raging murderer.

She had stopped by her office and made the police department another copy of the transcript, so that she could get the little surprises out of the way. She made her way across the room, between desks and around chairs, to where Sid sat.

“I have something for you.” She dropped the transcript on his desk and plopped down wearily in the chair across from him.

“You look rough,” Sid said.

“I feel rough. You don't look so good yourself.”

“I did go home and get a couple hours of sleep.” He sipped from a coffee mug that said something about cluttered desks being the sign of genius, and glanced down at the transcript. “Hey, where'd you get this?”

“I went to Jackson and got it.”

“We were told it could take two weeks.”

“No, the court reporter had it on file, because the defense attorney had requested daily copies of the transcript during the trial.” She sat up rigid in the chair and locked eyes with him. It was very important that she choose her words carefully, so that the motive the prosecution had used and the way the trial ended wouldn't seem so important.

“I spoke to the defense attorney about the evidence that led to the dismissal, and he told me there had been a cop who'd said some despicable things about Celia—”

“Wait a minute.” Sid's words cut her off, and he began flipping through the transcript. “Dismissal? I thought she was acquitted. That's what she said.”

Jill knew she was going out on a limb, since she couldn't remember exactly
what
Celia had said. “I don't think she said that, Sid. What she told us is that she was not convicted. That was true.”

She could see that Sid didn't like it. He turned to the back page of the transcript and found the motion to dismiss.

“I brought this to you so you'd be closer to clearing this up,” she said. “And I also wanted to give you the name of a possible suspect that you need to check out. One of the guys questioned in the first murder was a man named Lee Barnett. He had an alibi, so the police didn't pursue it. But I find it interesting that just a couple of weeks ago he was released from prison after a five-year term for manslaughter.”

Sid's bloodshot eyes returned to her. “Lee Barnett, you say?”

“Yes. Will you at least try to locate him? Find out where he was on the day of Stan's poisoning?”

Sid blew out a breath. “All right, Jill. I'll see what I can find out. But that don't explain why Celia led us to believe she was acquitted. That's important information, Jill. She coulda cleared that up any time, and you know it.”

Jill knew it was true. She'd spent the last few hours fuming about that, herself. Still, she had to defend her. “She's beside herself worried about Stan, Sid. She's doing the best she can.”

“To what? To cover up?”

“Look for Lee Barnett, Sid. I think that will answer a lot of our questions.”

“Give me a motive,” he said. “Why would this Barnett guy want to kill Stan right after he gets out of the slammer?”

“I don't know,” she said. “But if you find him, maybe you'll find out.”

“Don't hold your breath, Jill.” He leaned up on the desk, bracing his elbows. “I know you gotta believe in your client and everything, but what if she's guilty?”

Jill didn't have the energy to fight him. She had to save it for Celia.

She headed out to her car just as she saw Dan's Acura pulling out of the Midtown fire station's parking lot. He spotted her and pulled his car over, got out, and came to her passenger door.

She smiled as he slipped in beside her.

“Hey there, Counselor,” he said in that deep voice of his. Those stark green eyes had a smile in them, and he leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss on her lips.

“You smell good,” she said, touching his face.

“I just showered,” he told her. “We had a fire at the feed mill today, and I smelled like a smoke bomb. I'm off, so I was just about to start looking for you and see if you wanted to have a bite.”

Jill remembered that she hadn't eaten at all today. She didn't have time for it, but if she took the time, maybe it would give her the energy she needed to confront Celia. “I can't spare much time,” she said. “I've been in Jackson, and I really need to get over to Aunt Aggie's and talk to Celia.”

“You gotta eat.” He pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. She wasn't sure why that jolt went through her every time he touched her. “Come on. We'll go to Maison de Manger and have a couple of po' boys.”

Though the deli sounded like a five-star establishment to anyone not familiar with French, it was really a glorified fast-food place whose name really meant “House of Hunger.” But it was one of the favorite places in Newpointe, third only to McDonald's and Burger King. “Okay,” she said. “I'll meet you there.”

She watched as he got out of the car and headed back to his own. A strong breeze whipped up his hair, and she bit her grin as he got into the car, flipped the visor, and finger-combed it back into place. Then he pulled the car out onto the street.

She suspected that his vanity had more to do with insecurity than pride. He hated his receding hairline. Though he'd never mentioned it to her, that seemed to be what kept him constantly looking at his reflection in windows and mirrors. That preoccupation served him well, though. She doubted he knew how good-looking he really was. His body testified to the amount of jogging and weight lifting he did, and if he wasn't aware of it, every woman in Newpointe was.

But it wasn't just his looks that attracted women, she thought. It was also his money. Dan was the only fireman she knew who owned acreage just outside of town and could afford a house that was bigger than the fire station itself. The word around town was that his father had moved heaven and earth to try to direct him into a more lucrative line of work, but Dan had a passion for fire, a passion that drew some firefighters no matter how little they got paid or how much they had to give up. His father had eventually given up and offered his blessings, along with a sizeable inheritance when he'd died two years ago. Dan Nichols would never hurt for money, which was just one more reason he was number one on the eligible list of every single woman in town. The fact that he showed any interest at all in her was a phenomenon she couldn't quite fathom.

She pulled into a parking space in front of the cafe that was perched on a bayou, and he was at her door in an instant. “Dan, have you heard any word on Stan?” she asked as they headed around to the back deck, where bullfrogs croaked and crickets chirped, and the breeze whispered through the cypress leaves.

“Nope. He's still in a coma.”

She moaned.

“So what did you find out in Jackson?” he asked as they took a table.

Wearily, she set her chin in her palm. “Nothing. Everything. I really can't talk about it.”

He looked offended, but he didn't press. “No problem. But don't expect me to tell you about the fire over at the feed mill.”

She grinned, glad that she had taken the time to spend with Dan.

J
oe's Place had a sparse crowd, and a smoky haze floated over the room that vibrated with the too-loud sounds of zydeco music. R.J. Albright sat at the end of the bar, relaxing for the first time since Stan Shepherd keeled over. He had thought of going home and falling into bed, but he'd decided that one drink might be in order just to help him unwind. He scanned the familiar faces in the room—the same ones that were here every night—and noted that there was no one here he particularly wanted to talk to.

The door opened and a stranger came in—a tall, sandy-haired guy who looked like a close cousin of Brad Pitt, only cleaner cut. After standing at the door for a moment and looking around, he headed for the bar and took a seat a few stools down from R.J.

Not too interested, R.J. went back to nursing his beer.

A newspaper lay folded on the counter between R.J. and the stranger, and R.J. saw the man glance down at the headline: Newpointe Detective Poisoned by Arsenic. He frowned and picked the paper up, unfolded it, and his eyes lingered on Celia's picture in the center of the article, next to one of Stan.

R.J. wondered if it was just his imagination or if the stranger's face drained of color.

“Where y'at?”

The man kept staring at the paper, but Joe, the bartender and proprieter, tried again.

“Where y'at, pal? You want somethin', or not?”

The man looked up into Joe's scruffy face, and for a moment, R.J. considered interpreting the Cajun greeting for him. Rapid-fire Cajun was a strange mixture of French and southern American, and not many outsiders could understand it.

“Uh…Gimme a beer.” The man turned back to the paper, frowning as he read. Joe set a cold beer bottle on the counter in front of him, then waited for him to pay. As he reached into his wallet for his cash, R.J. saw a tattoo just under the man's shirt sleeve. It looked like a tally of some sort—four short lines and a fifth crossing diagonally through them. He'd tallied twelve.

R.J. breathed a laugh, wondering if the man kept a running score of the women in his life. The man pulled out a ten and set it on the counter. “Listen, you know anything about this case here?” he asked, pointing to the article.

Joe glanced down and rolled his eyes. “Don't arrybody? She killed her first husband, you know.”

When Joe looked at him, R.J. nodded that it was true.

“When did this happen?”

“Last night. He ain't dead, though. They got him over to the hospital. He ain't woke up yet.”

“And where's his wife? In jail?”

“Nope, not yet. She ain't been arrested yet.”

“So she's home?”

“Guess so.”

He looked back down at the article, reading the words with a little too much interest. “So where would that be?”

Joe had already turned away and was wiping the other side of the bar.

“'Scuse me,” the man said louder. “Where does she live?”

Joe turned around. “Who?”

“Celia Shepherd.”

Joe paused and glanced back at R.J., as if asking him if he'd heard all that. R.J. nodded.

The man saw the look pass between them and quickly tried to explain himself. “See, I know her. Or I used to. We went to school together.”

“You from Jackson?” Joe asked him, growing interested now.

“That's right.”

Joe leaned down on the counter. “What you know 'bout her first husband? The one died of arsenic?”

“I know she ain't a killer.”

R.J. got up and hiked up his pants. Slowly, he ambled around to take the stool next to the stranger.

“R.J. Albright,” he drawled, extending a hand.

The man shook. “Lee Barnett.”

R.J. slipped onto the stool beside Lee, and brought his mug halfway to his mouth. “Celia Shepherd wouldn't be one o' them notches, would she?” he asked, pointing to the tattoo.

Barnett looked down at his arm, as though he'd forgotten the tattoo was there. “No, man. Those ain't for women. They're for deer.”

“You shot twelve deer?”

“Fifteen, actually. But my tattoo's behind. It'd be more, but I ain't hunted in five years.” He tapped the newspaper article with a calloused finger. “So do you know Celia Shepherd?”

R.J. nodded. “Stan's a good friend o' mine. Celia, too, I reckon. Downright shame.”

“Is he gonna die?”

“Don't know. Hope not.”

Barnett stared down at the article, reading over it again. He was still too shaken up…too concerned. He threw his beer back, as if trying to calm down.

“I always thought there was somethin' fishy about her,” R.J. said. “She was too good-lookin' to marry a small-town boy like Stan. She looked Hollywood. We all knew there was somethin' wrong there.”

Barnett stared down at the paper again, his eyes scanning the article.

“Where'd you say you knew her from?” R.J. asked.

“From Jackson,” he said. “We went to high school together.”

“Was she always devious?”

Barnett glanced up at him, his eyes laced with disgust. “Devious? No! She's always helpin' people. She may be a heartbreaker, but she ain't a killer.”

R.J. and Joe exchanged looks. “She break
your
heart?” R.J. asked.

“Once. Long time ago.” He gestured to Joe for another beer. When Joe slid it to him, he guzzled it a little too fast. “Ain't seen her in years.”

“Is she what brings you to Newpointe?”

The question didn't amuse or surprise Barnett like R.J. might have expected. “I don't mess with married women. I came for the huntin'.”

“She may not be married for long,” R.J. said. “Not if Stan dies. And if he wakes up, he'll be smart to cut her loose.”

Barnett threw back the second bottle. “Where did you say she was livin'?”

“You gonna get in touch with her?”

“Maybe. Just check on her. Give her some moral support.”

“I wouldn't eat anything she fed you, pal. You might wake up dead, too.”

The man's face was tense, thoughtful, as if reeling from what he'd just heard. “You don't have her phone number, do you?”

Again, Joe shot R.J. a look.

“Really, man. I need to get in touch with her. It's important. We go way back.”

R.J. grinned and Barnett grinned back. Barnett had had enough to drink now that R.J. knew Barnett's talk would come a little more freely.

“Almost married her,” Barnett confessed.

R.J.'s grin collapsed, and his eyes grew bigger. “You pullin' my leg?”

“Nope. We were tight.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So why don't you know her number?”

He chuckled and brought his third bottle to his lips. “Been a while, and I'm new in town.”

“So where you stayin', bein' so new to town?”

“Bonaparte Court apartments.”

“You work in town?”

“Not yet.”

“Then what brings you here?”

The man chuckled. “What are you? A cop?”

They all laughed raucously, and Barnett collapsed at his own humor. Man, he had trouble holding his liquor, R.J. thought. Three drinks and he was practically wasted.

As though the man realized it, he dug out another bill and paid Joe again, then slid off the stool. “It was nice chewing the fat with you two gentlemen,” he said, “but I have an appointment.”

“An appointment? It's almost dark. What kinda work you do, anyway?”

“Consultin',” he said.

“Consultin' about what?”

“Computers,” Barnett said. “I'm a computer consultant. And I never let the clock dictate my hours.”

“You stayin' in town for a while?” R.J. asked as he started back to the door.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He saluted them both, then hurried out the door.

R.J. set down his mug and looked at Joe. “I think maybe I need to get back over to the station and check out this fella.” He paid his tab and hurried out the door.