Bayou Judgment (2 page)

He didn't respond, just continued driving.

Felicia took her house key from her purse, clutching the cold metal in her palm. This wasn't like Jolie. Even mad, she wouldn't avoid Felicia. Jolie would have answered the phone when she saw the center's number on the caller ID. If she'd been able.

Sucking in air, Felicia silently prayed.

What had happened? Had someone picked Jolie up from the apartment? Nothing made sense. The ten-minute drive dragged out to an eternity, each turn of the tires as slow as a debutante's descent on the stairs. Jolie could be passed out on the floor right now, waiting for help.

Felicia tightened her fist over the key. Her nails dug into her palm, but the sinking feeling didn't leave the pit of her stomach.

Spence parked in the spot next to Jolie's car. Wesley paced curbside. He rushed to help Felicia. “I've been pounding on the door and calling her name. Nothing.” Deep lines dug across his forehead into his handsome features.

Felicia moved as fast as she could. She dropped the key. Wesley, a regular Johnny-on-the-spot, handed it to her. She jabbed the key at the slot several times. Sweat slicked her palms.

“Here, allow me.” Spence took the key from her and slipped it into the lock, twisting the knob. He stepped over the threshold.

A strange coppery smell hung in the air. Felicia swallowed hard. “Jolie? Jo, are you here?”

Silence hung over the apartment like an ominous cloud.

Wesley passed Felicia in the foyer, striding to the living room.

“Oh, sweet mercy, no!”

What? Felicia hobbled toward the sound of Wesley's wails, only to have Spence step in front of her, blocking her path. She could barely make out Wes kneeling on the floor.

“You don't want to see this.” Spence drew his muscular arms around her, turning her in the direction of the kitchen.

“Where's your phone?”

She stiffened in his embrace. “What is it? Is it Jolie?”

“We need to call 911. Where's your phone?” He kept maneuvering her away from the living room.

“There's an extension in the kitchen. She needs an ambulance?”

“No,
sha,
not an ambulance. We need the police.”

“Police? For what?”

“Jolie's been murdered.”

H
ow could she have failed Jolie so badly?

Felicia stared at the kitchen table, shredding tissues with trembling hands. Jolie had been her best friend. The grief would come, she knew from experience, but for now, guilt battered into her. It'd been her job to take care of Jolie, and she'd failed miserably.

“Felicia?” Sheriff Bubba Theriot limped into the kitchen, the badge on his chest glaring under the bright fluorescent lights. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Raw emotions knotted into a lump in the back of her throat. She forced a cough. “Please, have a seat.”

He lowered himself into the chair next to her and ran a hand through his auburn hair. “I called Luc for you. He's on his way.”

“Merci.”
She glanced over his shoulder to the foyer. She couldn't see Spence amid the tangle of uniformed men. Where could he be? An uncanny need to see him gripped her. He provided her with a strong sense of security. Stability. Hope.

“I need to ask you about tonight.” The sheriff whipped out a small notebook from his front pocket.

She fisted the shredded tissues into a tight ball and breathed deeply.

“Can you walk me through all your contact with Jolie this evening?”

She licked her lips. “I arrived at the center around six or so, half an hour before my shift.” She ran a finger along the silver-handled cane. “I always allow a little extra time before I'm supposed to plug into the phones.”

“I can understand.” The sheriff's eyes softened behind his glasses. He, too, had to endure grueling physical therapy to get his life back after an attack last year. She knew—she'd seen him at the clinic several times.

“Jolie greeted me like normal, as soon as I came in.”

The sheriff wrote on his notepad, head bent. “Did you notice anything unusual about her attitude or frame of mind? Had anything happened lately that'd upset her?”

“I suppose. She and her boyfriend had a spat two nights ago. He'd been trying to get her to talk to him, to let him explain. He'd called the apartment several times today, asking me to talk to her on his behalf.”

“That would be Wesley Ellender, yes?”

“Yes. They've been dating exclusively for about three months, I'd guess.”

“Do you know what they argued about?”

While the details would come out—Wesley would surely explain everything to the police—Felicia hated to repeat rumors. But someone had murdered her friend. She couldn't hold back on anything that might be important. “Somebody told Jolie they saw Wes with Sadie.”

“Sadie Thompson?”

Felicia nodded. “Jolie got upset. She avoided his calls and wouldn't answer the door when he came by.”

“So, he asked you to plead his case for him?”

“Not exactly.” Though Wes's voice
had
taken on a whining tone. “He just told me there was an explanation and asked if I could try to get Jolie to at least hear him out.”

“Uh-huh.” The sheriff scribbled the pen against the paper.

“So, you told her he'd called?”

“Yes. I asked her to listen to him. Give him a chance.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why would you advise her to listen to him?”

Felicia glanced around the kitchen. If she sat still enough, quietly enough, she could almost hear Jolie's laughter as they concocted something on the stove. Felicia the teacher, Jolie the student. The memories assaulted Felicia, a lingering and constant reminder that she had failed to protect her friend. She knew it'd never be all right again. She couldn't bring Jolie back.

But she could make sure her killer was caught and brought to justice.

“Felicia?”

She darted her gaze back to the sheriff's face. Right, get back on track. Don't let her emotions control her. Focus on Jolie and Wesley. “They were happy before. Then some woman called Jolie at the center and told her that she'd seen Wesley with Sadie. When Jolie asked Wesley, he said he'd met with Sadie, but could explain the circumstances. Jolie was too hurt at the time.” Felicia gave a soft sigh. “I thought it'd all been a misunderstanding, and she should at least give him the chance to explain. Happiness in romance doesn't come around every day, Sheriff. When you have something special, you should fight to protect it.”

His expression became tender. “I understand.” He cleared his throat. “What'd she say?”

“That she would call him.”

“Anything else?”

Felicia told the sheriff about Kipp's situation.

He stopped writing notes when she mentioned the loan sharks. “Did she give you a name?”

“No. I don't think Kipp told her.” She tossed the tissue ball on the table. “She did tell me Kipp said they threatened her if he didn't pay up.”

More scribbling in the notebook. “Was she frightened?”

“Not really. She implied Kipp might be making that up just to get her to give him the money.”

“Did Jolie happen to mention how much money he owed?”

Felicia shrugged. “She never really said, for sure, but indicated it was several thousand dollars.”

“She was a single gal, working at the center for low wages—how would she have that kind of money?”

“She doesn't…didn't. But I do.” Her heart twisted.

“Why wouldn't Kipp just come to you?”

“I don't know. I guess he knew if
she
asked me, I'd gladly give her money. I didn't know him very well, didn't approve of his methods. I wouldn't have given the money to him, but I would've to Jolie. I've done it before.” She blinked back tears. “I'd have paid anything to keep Jolie safe.”

“She didn't want to give him the money?”

“No. She wanted him to go to the police. Report these loan sharks.”

“He didn't want to?”

“I don't know for certain, but it's my guess he wouldn't.”

“Anything else?”

Her shoulders tensed, and she wanted to cringe. The beginnings of a headache pounded behind her eyes. “Around eight-forty-five, Wes called me at the center. Jolie was supposed to meet him for supper at the Crawfish Café at eight-thirty. She never showed.”

“Why'd he call you?”

“He didn't know about the meeting with Kipp. He thought she might still be at the center, talking to me.” Aspirin—she needed something for the pulsating at her temples.

“Uh-huh.” Sheriff Theriot flipped the page in his notebook, the sound drowning out the hum of activity in the living room.

“I called Jolie on her cell. She answered on the second ring. She said she was running late from meeting with Kipp and planned to have supper with Wes.” Felicia glanced at the clock—3:10, no wonder exhaustion dragged at her. She blinked, forcing herself to focus. “I told her Wes was looking for her. She said she'd call and tell him to pick her up at the apartment.”

More writing. “And then what?”

The lump in her chest crept slowly up to stick at the base of her throat. “I told her I was proud of her. For meeting with Wes, hearing him out. She told me she loved me and hung up.” Just when she thought she'd stifled her pain, Felicia found tears on her face. “I never heard from her again.”

He wanted to check on Felicia. No, he
needed
to, but Deputy Gary Anderson persisted with his questions. Spencer glanced around the small living room. A sofa, coffee table, chair with ottoman and TV on a stand. Simple furnishings. Jolie's body had been removed, but the blood and the tape outline remained, a chilling visual of the crime. How would Felicia ever be able to stay in this apartment again? She'd probably move back home with her mother and brother. It would be for the best.

“Pastor Bertrand, c—”

“Spencer. Please, call me Spencer or Spence.”

The deputy smiled. “Spencer, can you tell me about your contact with Ms. Landry this evening?”

He walked the deputy through his limited contact with Jolie tonight while Deputy Anderson made notes in a little spiral notebook.

“Now, tell me about the center.”

“We take calls from anyone having emotional or spiritual problems. Our counselors advise accordingly, but if anyone feels they can't handle a person's issues, they pass the call to me.”

“Bet you get a lot of weird ones.”

“We get our fair share.”

“Any that cross the line?”

“Sometimes.” Where was the good deputy heading with this line of questioning?

“Did Ms. Landry take any of those type calls?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Nobody she had to pass off to you?”

“Not lately.”

“Mmm.” Deputy Anderson looked up from his notebook.

“Have there been any threats against any of the counselors?”

“A time or two. Normally an abusive husband who's mad because we advise the battered wife to seek help at a women's shelter.”

“Recently?”

“No.”

“Maybe no one told you?”

Spencer shook his head. “Those situations are immediately brought to my attention.”

“I see.”

But he didn't. Nobody understood what it took out of Spencer each time he had to handle one of those calls. Memories resurfaced, ones that kept him awake in the middle of the night.

“I think that's about it for now. The sheriff will have more questions for you tomorrow. We'll need you to come by the station in the morning and give an official statement.”

Spencer nodded, but his heart raced. He knew the routine only too well. “Did you find the murder weapon?”

“We're looking.” Deputy Anderson shoved to his feet and passed Spencer a business card. “If you think of anything else, give us a call.”

“Will do.” But he wouldn't.

He'd avoid the police as much as possible. He had too much to lose—experience had taught him that.

Felicia crammed clothes into her suitcase. In his commanding way, her brother Luc had shown up and ordered her to pack. He'd take her back to the Trahan home.

How long until she could come back? Would she ever be able to return without memories and pain? Luc's tone implied she wouldn't be returning. Not with a killer on the loose.

But she would.

The apartment was her home now. She wouldn't allow some murderer to send her running away with her tail between her legs. Felicia dropped to the bed, her emotions warring within. She'd fought too hard to move out on her own, gain some sense of independence. Be in a position to help someone. That person had been Jolie, and look what had happened.

Even though she'd known Jolie for years, after the incident that had robbed Felicia of Frank, the two had bonded, despite all odds. Jolie, related to the men who'd killed Frank; Felicia, fiancée of the victim. But the two women had forged a relationship built on the shared grief of loss.

Why hadn't she begged Jolie not to meet Kipp? In her heart of hearts, Felicia felt certain whoever had killed her best friend was connected to the people Kipp owed money to. They'd probably followed him, seen him with Jolie, then exacted their revenge. Jolie had been murdered. While she hadn't been able to save Jolie, Felicia would do whatever it took to find her killer.

A soft knock on the bedroom door interrupted her thoughts.

“
Boo?
Ready to go?” Luc hovered in the doorway, his presence reassuring but authoritative. Her protector. She appreciated his support, but resented that he was not able to comprehend her need to stand on her own two feet.

Well, not really. She grabbed her cane. Not yet, but soon.

Luc lifted her suitcase with one hand and gripped her elbow with the other, leading her down the hall to the front door. They passed two officers talking with Wes in the little sitting area.

She should look away, she knew, but couldn't resist a glance in the living room as they headed out the front door.

The blood, now a deep brown, stained the floor.

Felicia's gagging reflex activated. She jerked free of Luc's hold and hobbled to the front door, cane tapping against the floor. She needed cool air.

The hint of honeysuckle blended with the early-blooming azaleas, filling the predawn air with sweetness. Too syrupy. Leaning over the sidewalk, Felicia lost her supper behind the box hedges.

A gentle hand pulled back her hair.

She straightened and wiped her mouth with the back of her good hand. Her gaze met Spence's.

“It's okay.” His voice came out soft.

She gave a shaky smile.