Not One of Us(55)

I glanced down the email subject lines, skimming past the majority of them, which were administrative matters. But one subject line grabbed my attention—Sandy Springfield, Family Social Services re: Ensley adoption.

My heart leaped with excitement that Ms. Springfield had so quickly answered my inquiry on the adoption. I opened the email and read the short message. There were no official, legal adoption papers on Jackson Ensley; at least there were none on record in the state of Alabama. I tapped my index finger against my lip. Perhaps it had been an out-of-state adoption? I’d have to pursue that further.

Sighing, I stretched back in my chair, enjoying the rare quiet of the office. I had it all to myself this early in the morning. I’d awakened early and decided to come on in to work and get a head start on the day. I left my desk to make a cup of coffee and returned a minute later. The information I’d sought on Johnson was up and running on my monitor. Scrolling through, I sipped my drink, only to inhale sharply and swallow burning-hot liquid.

June 12, 2013, Johnson arrested for voyeurism.

That was certainly an unexpected development. All the times Jori had run into Johnson as she’d left her boyfriend, had this man been trying to watch them together? I kept scrolling but found no conviction and no other arrests. This didn’t play into my theory of a drug connection between the Cormier and Strickland murders, but I wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d ruled out every other possible clue that came my way. After all, the leads were few and far between.

I walked downstairs to the basement, even though I wasn’t certain Ginger would be in this early. But sure enough, she sat at her desk munching on a sugar-laden breakfast.

She laid her doughnut on the messy desk and wiped her hands on a greasy napkin when she spotted me.

“Back again?” she asked. “Don’t tell me—you’ve already solved the Cormier murders and are looking for more cold cases.”

Ginger cackled at her own wisecrack, and the noise grated against my ears. Instead of responding, I handed her a slip of paper with a case number written on it. “I need the notes from this complaint.”

With annoying, deliberate slowness, she donned her eyeglasses and finally read the note. “June 12, 2013.” She rolled her eyes. “You got nothing better to do than look at these old files? Isn’t Enigma, like, supposed to be in the midst of a crime wave?”

“Yes. So I’m in a bit of a hurry. If you could be so kind?” My tone teetered between sarcasm and sweetness, confusing Ginger.

She narrowed her eyes and lowered her chin. “Are you messing with me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Humph.” Her chubby fingers tapped the keyboard. “There it is.” She nodded her head at the clipboard atop a stack of papers. “Sign your name, then write the date and time of your request. I’ll email you the scanned notes.”

“Thanks, Ginger. You’re a peach.”

She snatched her glasses off and scowled. “Now I know you’re insulting me.”

“Yeah. Calling you a peach really tipped my hand.” I waved at her and smirked. “I’ll let you get back to your doughnut.”

I strolled back to my office, happy I still had the place all to myself. I opened the notes and began reading, my early-morning calm dissolving as I read the case of a victimized teenage girl. I debated the wisdom of going to Johnson’s residence alone. I couldn’t see the harm in making a general check. If the interview got weird or confrontational, I’d return to the office and have Oliver accompany me for further questioning. Quickly, I left the office and got in my cruiser for the short ride to Johnson’s cabin.

Less than ten minutes later, the impressive Bayou Enigma Outdoor Expeditions headquarters shone like a jewel in the swamp as I slowed my patrol car and admired the place. Plate glass windows stretched floor to ceiling on the front of the structure. Back in the day, the Cormiers’ house had sparkled like a palace in this small bayou of fishermen, and the Cormiers were its first and only royalty. I was old enough to remember when it was first being built. My family and others would drive by the site almost daily to glimpse the massive construction and ooh and aah over the size and quality of materials. Mom used to sigh enviously and mutter, “I bet them spoiled rich folk don’t even appreciate this place.”

I’d recognized the sour grapes note in her voice and others’. Envy had led to mistrust before the family had even moved in. To add fuel to the fire, they’d eschewed the bayou’s local building company and hired a Mobile County construction team for all the work. Even more affronting, when the Cormiers finally hired a local landscaper for maintenance work on the grounds and a couple of women as housekeepers, the pay they offered was slightly lower than the standard wages offered in Enigma for the same types of services.

Resentment grew. It didn’t help that Louis and Clotille were unlike most of the townsfolk. They were instantly pegged as politically liberal, as well as artsy and pretentious. No matter their wealth, they were considered outsiders. Not one of us, people would sniff.

Whether or not the Cormiers cared about the locals’ assessment was debatable. Supposedly, they were in love with the view of the gulf the house provided, and Louis enjoyed fishing and hunting in his limited spare time.

The campgrounds in back of the headquarters featured a dozen rustic cabins that were kept fully occupied during hunting season. I continued on, driving another half a mile down the dusty road ’round back, searching for Cash Johnson’s residence.