Not One of Us(52)

I stayed seated.

“Did you hear about the murder of Raymond Strickland?” I asked, hoping the news might pique his interest long enough for me to get in a few questions before he stormed away.

Ardy slowly sank back into his chair. “When?” he asked simply.

“A week ago. Shot in the back of the head, same as your son.”

“Damn it.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I saw the news on TV about the Cormier remains being found—it’s made headlines all over—but this is the first I hear about the Strickland murder.”

The brash businessman who’d walked in two minutes ago, ready to size up a new business proposal, was replaced by a shaken shell of a man.

“I’m surprised the sheriff’s office never contacted you about Strickland.”

Ardy grimaced. “No reason for them to—unless I was a suspect in the murder. I cut my ties with Bayou Enigma decades ago. How did Tressie take the news?”

“According to my grandmother, surprisingly well. Mimi told her in person what happened, but I’m not sure Aunt Tressie fully understood the news. She’s . . . not doing great.”

For the second time today, Ardy surprised me. If I’d been expecting a remorseful man, ashamed of his shabby treatment of his ex-wife during her time of need, I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

He snorted. “Don’t let the old gal fool you. She’s doing better than anyone gives her credit for. Tressie has always been clever. She’ll deliberately lead you down a twisted, merry path to suit her own needs.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said slowly. “She’s in her own little world. I don’t know what happened when the two of you were married, of course, but these days she hardly even leaves the nursing home except to get her hair done once a month. Most of the time she’s in a mental fog.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Mental fog? Tressie?”

I gaped at him, astounded at this reaction.

Ardy pulled himself together and regarded me with a frown. “I see she’s really got you hoodwinked.”

“I think you’ve let the acrimonious past cloud your judgment,” I said at last. “Ever since I can remember, Aunt Tressie has been, you know, off. That’s why she’s living in the nursing home.”

“She’s in that damn place to bleed me dry. It costs me a pretty penny.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” I snapped. “Uncle Buddy pays whatever her Medicare and SSI doesn’t pick up.”

“Who told you that? Your Uncle Buddy’s a tight-fisted bastard who doesn’t give a shit about his sister.”

“That’s not true. He’s helped my family out for years.”

Ardy shot me a sly look. “If he’s helping out Oatha Jean, then it’s because she’s got something she’s holding over that damn tightwad. Your grandmother always was a tough old broad.”

I bristled at his characterization of Mimi. “She’s strong. She’s had to be. Life hasn’t dealt her the best hand, you know.”

Mimi was closemouthed about her past, but I knew she’d taken care of her husband the last few months of his life after he’d suffered a heart attack. After that, she’d dealt with her daughter’s cancer and death, and then she’d shouldered caretaking responsibility for an intellectually challenged grandson. Yes, she was outspoken and rough around the edges. But if I could pin a damn medal of honor on the old gal, I would.

“Believe what you want.” Ardy barked out a bitter laugh. “I don’t give a damn what you or anyone else in that godforsaken bayou thinks of me. I have a new life.”

“So I see. A new wife, new kids. Does that mean you don’t ever think of your first son? Of the devastated wife you left behind?”

He banged a fist down hard on the table. “You think I’ve ever forgotten that miserable period of my life? Not a chance. I pay for it every damn day. Tressie makes sure of that.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Ardy pulled a phone out of his back pocket and punched in a number. “Ella, bring me the Magnolia Oaks file.” He laid the phone on the table and regarded me with hooded eyes. “You want proof? You’ll get it.”

This conversation wasn’t going at all as anticipated, and I was determined to get it back on track. “Tell me about Jackson,” I demanded. “No one ever wants to talk about him.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to understand. I feel like if I know what he was really like, what happened to him before the murder, then maybe I can understand who killed Raymond Strickland and why they did it.”

“What’s it to you? You never knew Jackson or Strickland. You don’t have a dog in this fight.”

“Because I might be in danger too.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ve been warned not to go poking around in the past. So there’s something there that someone wants to keep hidden.”

“Then maybe you should back off.” His voice held a quiet warning that sent chill bumps down my arms. We regarded one another in wary silence. Suspicion created a thick miasma, the room a pressure box of tension.

Was I face to face with the man who’d left me the threatening note pinned to a dead snake? Maybe Ardy was even a killer. He’d been fed up with Jackson’s antics and killed him. Then years later, he killed Raymond Strickland.