Mallory Kane - Under Suspicion

He waited until she and Sandy drove away before he headed for his car, planning to follow them out to Sandy’s house. But he stopped. No. There was one thing he needed to do first. He turned and looked at the grave site. Most of the people had gone. The casket was on a wheeled cart and the caretaker was just about to roll it into the open DuChaud vault.

Taking a deep breath, he walked over and asked the man if he could have a moment. The man stepped a few feet away. Zach bowed his head and put his hand on the cold metal of the casket. He knew it was empty, and yet it seemed appropriate to touch it as he said the only goodbye he might ever get to say to his oldest friend.

* * *

MADELEINE TIERNEY WAITED as the Cajun woman who had stayed at Sandy’s house during the funeral fussed at Sandy. She turned the coverlet back on the bed. “Now you get under that cover, you,” the gnarled little woman said. “And I’ll tuck you in.”

“I’m not sick, Marie Belle,” Sandy had snapped irritably, but she lay down and let the woman tuck the coverlet around her.

Maddy had gladly stepped aside and let Marie Belle handle Sandy. Maddy hadn’t had much luck convincing Sandy that she needed to rest for a while. On the other hand, even though Sandy argued, she listened to the little Cajun woman. And it was obvious by her pinched nostrils, pale face and sunken cheeks how exhausted she was. Her too-bright eyes were proof of the shattering grief that weighed her down, and the way her eyelids drooped was a definite indication that she needed a nap. She needed all the rest she could get, for the sake of the baby, if not for herself, Marie Belle told her. Meekly, Sandy agreed.

Meeting Marie Belle had given Maddy hope that she wouldn’t have to deal with all the food that neighbors, friends and family had brought over. But no such luck. The Cajun woman needed to get home in time to boil a chicken for dinner.

Maddy told her to take some food with her, but the woman had shaken her head. “This food for Miss Sandy, yeah. T’ain’t for me. You take care of that girl now. She needs rest.”

Now, left alone in the kitchen, with Sandy resting in the master bedroom at the end of the hall, Maddy stared at counters stacked with pies, both homemade and bought, casseroles, bread and crackers and soft drinks and fruit. She opened the refrigerator even though she already knew it was full to bursting. She had no idea what she was supposed to do with all the food. She just hoped it was already cooked, because cooking was not her superpower. Sandy had taught her the basics of making scrambled eggs, but her best dish was still Marie Callendar’s Fettuccini Alfredo with extra Parmesan cheese. The extra Parm was her special touch.

Cursing whoever had come up with the brilliant idea of sending food to mourners then showing up to eat it all, she checked the front door to be sure it was locked. She didn’t want people coming into the house through two different entrances.

As soon as Marie Belle left, Maddy had gone into the guest bedroom and removed her Sig from her bag and placed it in the roomy pocket of her skirt, under the boxy jacket. An experienced law enforcement official or a seasoned agent might be able to tell that she was carrying a weapon, but it was unlikely that any of these folks could. She’d stowed her purse in the closet and headed back into the kitchen.

She was at a loss for what she could do to get ready for the onslaught of people who were on their way to Sandy’s house. As she looked around helplessly, her thoughts went to the two men who’d shown up at the graveside service, dressed in clean, pressed slacks and shirts and yet looking out of place. Sandy had told her they were a local fisherman and his son, Murray and Patrick Cho. What bothered Maddy about them hadn’t been their looks or their clothes. It was their attitudes that had worried her.

They’d avoided eye contact, seeming uncomfortable and yet almost defiant, as if they were expecting someone to ask them to leave. The son, Patrick, had stared at Sandy a lot. Once or twice his father had whispered something in his ear and Patrick had reacted with a sharp retort.

Thinking about them made her think about the other man who’d shown up at the graveside service but hadn’t been at the funeral. The man with the sunglasses and the intense green eyes. She’d noticed him as soon as he’d taken his sunglasses off, while he was still standing next to his car. He was one of those people who command attention no matter where they go. He was tall, with dark hair and a lean runner’s body. Just the type of body Maddy preferred in a lover. At least in a fantasy lover. She’d never dated a man with a body like that.

She blinked and shook her head. What had made her drift off into la-la land? She was on assignment—her first assignment. She hadn’t anticipated that babysitting a pregnant widow and serving pounds of food would be part of the job, but she was a professional and she could handle anything that came her way.

Maddy glanced at her watch. Speaking of her job, maybe she had time to check in with her handler before all the people started arriving. She pulled out her phone. As she waited for Brock to answer, she spotted several stacks of red plastic cups someone had brought and left on the counter. She pulled one of the stacks toward her and twisted the tie that held the wrapper closed, but she couldn’t get a good grip on it with one hand, so she stuck the package under her arm to hold it steady.

“Maddy, hi. How’s it going?” Brock said. She knew very little about him, other than after military service he’d been in the CIA and had worked for an antiterrorist undercover agency for several years out in Wyoming after he retired from government service. She didn’t know how he’d gotten from Wyoming to Washington, DC, or how he, as a federal retiree, could be working as a handler for Homeland Security undercover agents, but she did know she could trust him with her life, and that was enough.

“Hi. The funeral’s over. That’s the good news. The bad news is I have to be hostess for the entire town while they eat all the food they brought to Sandy’s house.” While she talked, she grasped the cups’ packaging in both hands and tried to rip it, since she’d failed at getting the twist tie open.

“Right,” he said. “You grew up in New Orleans. You ought to know Southern traditions,” Brock said.

“I know them. I don’t necessarily like them.” With a frustrated grunt, Maddy ripped the plastic bag with her teeth. It tore straight down the middle and sent red cups rocketing across the kitchen island and onto the tile floor.

“Damn it,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“Oh, sorry, Brock. I was trying to open a bag of plastic cups and they just went sailing across the room.”

“Do you have a report?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, then took a breath. “Of course, I don’t know everyone in town by name, but I do know their faces. I saw four people at the funeral that I’d never seen before.” She bent over and snagged a small stack of cups that had landed right side up next to the refrigerator.

“Your assessment?”

“Sandy knew them. They were all members of the DuChaud family. She introduced me.” Maddy rubbed her face and neck with her free hand. Tristan DuChaud’s death hadn’t left her unaffected. Although he was working undercover for Homeland Security just as she was, she’d never met him prior to coming to Bonne Chance.

After Tristan had reported that his cover may have been compromised and requested backup and protection for his wife, she’d been sent to arrange a spot inspection of the oil rig the Pleiades Seagull and slip him a secure satellite phone. But when she’d approached the rig’s captain, he’d put her off, claiming a stomach virus outbreak making them too shorthanded.