Not One of Us(17)

“There’s been no complaint,” Lieutenant Oliver assured me in a deep baritone, forming steel-wool coils. “We just want to know the nature of your conversation with him.”

Whew. I wasn’t in trouble. “But . . . why do you care what we talked about?”

“Raymond Strickland was murdered last night,” Deputy Blackwell said. Her brown eyes bored into me, curious and searching.

“Holy crap,” I breathed, shock dousing my body like ice water. “Those men at the bar . . . I thought they were just full of hot air. What happened?”

“It’s under investigation,” she said smoothly. “Now, if you could tell us what the two of you talked about?”

My face heated in embarrassment. “To tell the truth, I’d had one too many cocktails. I was with a friend, and she pointed out Raymond Strickland, reminding me that he was the one who’d murdered my cousin years ago. So I decided to confront him.”

“And your friend’s name?” the woman asked, taking notes on her cell phone.

“Dana Adair.”

“Go on,” she said, looking up from her phone.

I was conscious of Mimi in the next room and the fact that she could clearly hear every word of this. “Well, I—I told him who I was and that I wanted him to know how he’d pretty much destroyed my aunt’s life.”

Lieutenant Oliver cocked his head toward the kitchen. “Is that the aunt in question?”

“No, no. That’s my grandmother, Oatha Jean Delpeche. Her sister—my aunt Tressie Ensley—was the mother of Jackson Ensley, the man Raymond Strickland murdered.”

I could feel Mimi’s displeasure all the way from the next room. We never, ever talked about this old crime, and my grandmother sure as hell hated family business being paraded in front of strangers.

“How did he respond to that?” Blackwell asked.

I snorted a bitter laugh. “Just what you’d expect. He denied having killed Jackson. Typical con man, right? Said he was framed. Like I’d believe anything he had to say.” I stopped abruptly, wanting to bite my tongue. The guy, after all, was now dead. Murdered.

The two officers stared at me, willing me to continue.

I held out my hands, palms up. “That’s about it. We didn’t talk long before Eddie and them came over and started harassing him. I do feel bad about that. Maybe if I’d never confronted Strickland, he’d still be alive.”

Zach unexpectedly entered the room and took Deputy Blackwell’s hand. He tugged at it and she half rose, fixing me with a questioning look.

“Bye-bye,” Zach stated, trying to guide her to the front door.

“Not yet, Zach,” I said, hurrying to his side and trying to lead him back to the kitchen. “Wait a few minutes. Go eat your lunch, okay?”

He shook his head. “Bye-bye,” he said again, louder.

“Mimi?” I called out, beseeching her to come get him. Zach didn’t much cotton to strangers in his house either.

“Maybe it’d be better if we continued this on the porch,” the woman said, gently releasing her arm from Zach’s hold. The officers both rose from the couch, and I followed them out.

“Sorry about that,” I apologized. “My brother has autism and likes to stick to familiar routines and people. Strangers make him uncomfortable.”

“No problem at all,” she assured me. “Returning to last night, did Mr. Strickland indicate that he was worried about anything, or did he mention any enemies? Is there anything else you can tell us about his state of mind? You might be the last person to ever speak with him.”

The melting-ice-chip shiver returned to trickle down my spine. “He was angry. Disgusted with the world and everyone in it. Mentioned that he was only passing through and that his mom had recently died. Like I said before, he claimed to be innocent and that he was set up for murder. He also said something to the effect that people around this bayou have a way of disappearing.”

“Did he mention specific names?” Lieutenant Oliver asked, his tone sharp and intense.

“No, he kept it all vague. I assumed he was talking about the Cormiers, of course.”

“We’re familiar with the case. Anything else?” Blackwell asked.

I started to shake my head no, then stopped. “Oh! I almost forgot. He sort of implied that he had a secret deal in the works. A lucrative one that he needed to complete before leaving town.”

“Secret deal?” Blackwell’s eyes lit with interest, and she and her partner leaned in toward me.

“I’m trying to remember his exact words.” I racked my brain, picturing his sly grin at the bar as he mentioned it. “Private business was how he phrased it. I assumed he was talking about a drug deal or something else illegal.”

“Why did you assume it was illegal?” Oliver asked. “He could have been talking about finalizing his mother’s inheritance.”

My chin lifted. “Because he acted awful secretive, dropping his voice and glancing around the room as he spoke. He shot my cousin in the back in cold blood, his supposed friend. Call me cynical—I assumed the worst about him.”

The female deputy withdrew a card from her uniform pocket and handed it to me. “If you think of anything else, give us a call.”

The April breeze nipped into the thin fabric of my T-shirt as I watched the officers pile into their vehicle and back out of our driveway. I rubbed at the goose bumps on my arms, unsettled at the idea that I might be the last person Ray spoke to before he was murdered.