Joanna Wayne - Alligator Moon

“She lied to us about who she went with. She didn’t leave an itinerary, and she hasn’t called.”

“That’s your mother for you. Sometimes it’s hard to figure out why she does things the way she does. But it sounds to me as if she wanted some time alone. I think it’s only fair we respect that.”

“I’d feel a lot better if I could talk to her.”

“She knows where we are if she wants to talk.”

“So you think we should do nothing?”

“Right. Just let it ride. If I hear from her, I’ll give you a call. If you hear from her, you call me. And in the meantime, don’t worry.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

“Try. So, tell me, what big story are you scooping now?”

He only half listened as Cassie told him about Dennis Robicheaux’s death. His mind was on Rhonda. He wasn’t worried, not in the sense Cassie was, but he did wonder what the hell was going on with his wife.

She could have found out about him and Babs, though he didn’t see how that would inspire a trip to Greece. An argument, maybe even a showdown, but not a trip to Europe—unless this was a prelude to divorce.

Talk about gumming up the works. He had no interest in splitting up his 401K at this stage in his life, and if Babs was named in the divorce proceedings, it could cause a lot of talk at Conner-Marsh, a company that wouldn’t want even the whisper of a scandal involving its CEO and one of its female supervisors.

An old Beach Boys song knocked around in Butch’s head after he’d hung up the phone. Help me, Rhonda. Help, help me, Rhonda.

He wasn’t sure just what form that help should take, but for starters, she could find happiness and fulfillment in Greece and just not bother to return. He’d miss her sometimes, but he could live with it.

CASSIE TRIED to adopt some of her father’s optimism but decided the only way she’d be able to get her mother off her mind was to jump into the job at hand. So as much as she dreaded dealing with the sexy, arrogant Cajun, John Robicheaux was her next logical interviewee.

She had an idea that anyone in town could tell her where he lived, including the fishy-smelling guy inside the store. She finished her drink, tossed the empty can into a rusted trash barrel and walked back inside.

Maybe the fallen attorney would be in a better mood today. And maybe Jupiter would collide with Mars or the bars on Bourbon Street would stop selling liquor on Mardi Gras Day.

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