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“I’m an ally here, Izzy,” Annie said. “Keep an eye on her for me, will you?”
“Sure.”
Annie walked out of the barn, escorted by three of the farm dogs to her vehicle. She started the engine and sat there for a moment, looking around at the place Tulsie and her jerk of a husband had built. It wasn’t fancy by any measure, but it was clear they had worked hard on it and took pride in it. The fences were mended; the weeds were cut. Two half whiskey barrels flanked the entrance to the barn, planted with well-tended red and white geraniums.
We’ve built this business together.
Even if her marriage wasn’t worth saving, all Tulsie’s hard workhad gone into this place. She didn’t want to risk losing it, even if it meant risking her life. She no doubt believed she could work around her husband’s ego and his temper, stay under his rage radar, and keep riding her horses and living her dream, even if the other half of her life was a nightmare.
She might get half of what they owned in a divorce, Annie thought, but what did that amount to? The place was probably mortgaged to the hilt. Nonc Claude had always been fond of saying if you wanted to make a small fortune in the horse business, you had best start out with a large one. If Cody went to jail for assault, there went his income from his construction job, and where would Tulsie be? Selling up.
Those were her choices: a knuckle sandwich or a shit sandwich.
She was left starving either way.
16
“Oh, myGod in heaven,what have I done to deserve this?”
Nick chuckled low in his throat. “Donnie Bichon, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you?”
It was Bichon’s turn to laugh. “Like you give a bright shiny fuck!”
They went back. Their history had begun with the brutal murder of Donnie’s estranged wife, the case that had eventually brought Annie into Nick’s life, making it a twisted thing to be somehow grateful for. He admitted to making Donnie’s life a particular sort of hell during it all, not that Donnie hadn’t deserved most of it. He’d been a legitimate suspect right up until he wasn’t. The ne’er-do-well cheating husband on the brink of losing everything if his wife had divorced him. The perpetual screwup who had never missed the chance to make a wrong choice.
“Don’t tell me you still have hard feelings,” Nick said, prowling the office like a restless cat.
Donnie’s personal space in the Bichon Bayou Development offices looked the same as he remembered—like the office of a genteelhunt club with antique oak furnishings and expensive wildlife prints in frames on the burgundy walls.
Donnie hadn’t changed much either, though hard lessons had etched some lines into his perpetually boyish good looks. He was tall and lean with sun-bleached brown hair and a tan that spoke of excessive time on the golf course. He had played basketball in college and still had that slight hunch to his shoulders that made him look like he was ready to drive to the basket at any moment.
“Why would I have hard feelings?” he asked affably, spreading his arms wide. “I remember so fondly that time you stuck my head in a toilet and flushed. Those were the days!”
“You came out all right in the end,” Nick said.
“I did indeed. Truth to tell, I turned my life around after that, though you’ll forgive me if I don’t thank you effusively. I’m not so evolved that I can’t still hold a little grudge.”
“Fair enough,” Nick conceded. “How’s Josie?”
“She rules my life, that little girl,” Donnie declared with a broad smile as he leaned forward and tapped a finger on the framed photo of his now-teenaged daughter. “Look at that. Pretty as her mama, and she’s on the A honor roll every quarter. Fixing to take her SATs, if you can believe that. Obviously got her smarts from Pam.”
“Obviously.”
“She straightened her daddy out, that’s for sure. She’ll rule the world one day. I have no doubt.”
He settled into the oxblood leather chair behind his desk and swiveled back and forth.
“Please have a seat, Detective. You’re giving me motion sickness, prowling around like you do. Do you need to be on Ritalin or something?”
“I’m looking for Dozer Cormier,” Nick said, running his fingertips over the head of a carved wooden mallard on the credenza. “I’m told he works for you.”
“Dozer? Sure. He works on Tommy Crawford’s crew, framingand whatnot. I try to hire those Sacred Heart boys when I can. You know, support the alma matter. Why? What’s he done?”
“Why would you think he’s done something?”
“In my experience, you specialize in accusing people of crimes they didn’t commit,” Donnie said without any rancor at all. “Whose murder do you want to pin on him? That body y’all found yesterday? Or are y’all trying to clear cold cases?”
“He’s not a suspect in anything,” Nick said evenly. “I’m told he’s a friend of Marc Mercier.”
