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“I’m here to see Mrs. Mercier.”
She looked puzzled for an instant. “Mrs.?”
“Melissa Mercier.”
“Oh! Melissa!” She waved a hand at him, laughing. “We just aren’t so formal here!”
“I’ll just go back to her office, then,” Nick said, as if he had been there many times before. The receptionist let him go, turning her attention to a ringing telephone.
“Bayou Realty, Shavon speaking. How can we help you to have a great day today?”
He passed through an open area of comfortable couches and chairs and coffee tables strewn with glossy real estate ads, then went down a hallway past a pair of small conference rooms with open doors. Laughter floated out into the hall several doors down—a man and a woman sharing a joke.
“What would I do without you to cheer me up, Will?” the woman asked in an accent not from Louisiana.
Nick stopped outside the open office door. The man stood near the window, tall, lean, and handsome, in his mid-thirties with a full head of deep auburn hair and a wide white smile. The woman sat behind the desk, just a few feet away, beaming up at him. They looked like a toothpaste ad. Her honey-blond hair was swept back from her delicate face in a ponytail that bounced when she laughed. She caught sight of Nick in the corner of her eye and turned and looked at him expectantly.
“Can I help you?” she asked pleasantly. She was pretty with a heart-shaped face and big green eyes. Her mouth tipped up slightly higher on one side than the other, a charming quirk.
“Melissa Mercier?”
“Yes?”
“Lieutenant Fourcade with the sheriff’s office,” he said, holding up his badge. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
What was left of her smile fell away and the color left her face. She sat up straight.
“Oh, my God, has something happened? Is it Marc? He’s crashed that stupid truck, hasn’t he?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Is he in jail?!” she asked, incredulous.
“Maybe let the man speak, Miss,” her friend said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder. “This could be nothing.
“I’m Will Faulkner,” he said to Nick. “I’m the boss around here most days.”
“Mr. Faulkner.” Nick acknowledged him with a nod, noting that his hand lingered with comfortable familiarity on Melissa Mercier’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Mercier, have you been in contact with your husband today?”
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“When was the last time you spoke with him?”
“I really wish you’d answer my question,” she said anxiously. “Has something happened to Marc?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Nick said. “His family is concerned, though. They say they haven’t been able to reach him.”
“Oh, my God,” Melissa muttered, suddenly exasperated as she sat back in her chair. “They called the sheriff’s office? Seriously?”
“They say they haven’t heard from him since Saturday. Have you?”
“No, I haven’t, but—”
“And is that normal?”
“I wouldn’t call it normal, no.”
