Not One of Us(58)

“Or if we’re lucky they’ll all get high together and someone in the group will confess to murder.”

“So far they’ve all hung together tight,” he said as we both climbed into the vehicle and buckled our seat belts.

“Do you still feel confident that Strickland’s and Ensley’s murders were both drug related?” I asked.

“It’s the only common thread between them. At least, that’s all we know of so far.”

I wasn’t convinced but realized we had to pursue any path that presented itself.

“Hmm.” Oliver’s noncommittal tone told me he wasn’t nearly as interested in solving the old Cormier case as that of the most recent homicide. We were only interviewing Buddy Munford because we were temporarily at a standstill with the current case.

Oliver switched on the air-conditioning. April in the bayou was sometimes surprisingly chilly, but today the temperatures had hiked. A prelude to the steamy summer season around the corner.

We arrived at Munford’s business headquarters in minutes. Before we got out of the car, Oliver cautioned me to let him take the lead in the questioning. “Don’t want him complaining to the mayor that we harassed him or insinuated he or one of his employees is in any way a suspect in the Cormier murders.”

“Got it.” We walked up the path, and I hoped Buddy was there and would let us inside. As much as I’d observed the house from the outside and watched it being built, I’d never seen the interior. Gravel crunched beneath our feet.

“It’ll be interesting to hear why he kept Johnson on after that complaint was filed,” I said.

“Could be Munford believes his partner wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing. That it was a case of him being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Right,” I scoffed. “Like there’s ever a good time for a man to go inside a woman’s public bathroom.”

“Keep an open mind,” he said mildly as we climbed the porch steps.

I mulled over my boss’s gentle warning. Had my past experience with Ensley that horrid night forever tainted my sense of fairness when it came to sex crimes? My track record with men was certainly not good. I’d become a promiscuous teenager, and my marriage to the twins’ father hadn’t even lasted a month past their second birthdays. None of my romantic relationships had ever lasted. Although I never voiced my suspicion of their love and commitment to me, I could never fully trust a man, and on some deep level they must have picked up on that. Eventually, I simply gave up on relationships, and my life became easier—even if a bit dull. But I never looked back on my decision. Give me peace over drama any day.

Two large hounds lay on the porch, and my right hand automatically reached into my pants pocket for the Mace can. They arose from their comfy pet beds, barking a friendly greeting, and walked to us, heads down and tails wagging. I removed my hand from my pocket and lowered to a knee, one hand extended. They sniffed and then rubbed against me as I petted their heads.

The screen door creaked open, and Buddy Munford filled the open doorway. “I see my guard dogs gave you a warm welcome.”

Oliver smiled and extended his hand. “Lieutenant Oliver. Pleasure to meet you.”

Munford shook his hand and turned to me, arm extended.

“Deputy Blackwell,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Y’all come on in.”

So far he’d displayed no surprise or curiosity as to why a couple of sheriff’s deputies had arrived at his front door. Johnson must have tipped him off we were asking questions.

The interior was as impressive as the outer facade. Despite the enormous square footage, the living area managed a warm, cozy vibe with its stone fireplace and gleaming oak floors. Leather sofas and chairs were arranged in intimate groupings. An abundance of sheepskin throws and knitted pillows were scattered over much of the seating. Glowing lanterns stationed at every table added to the hospitable atmosphere. Large-antlered deer heads and bass fish were mounted on the walls along with photographs of grinning guests proudly displaying their kill.

Munford led us to a seating arrangement and indicated for us to sit down. I sank into a recliner, my fingers skimming over the rich, smooth leather of its arm. I could envision the adventure-enthusiast guests at night, sipping whiskey from cut crystal tumblers and possibly smoking expensive cigars as they swapped stories about their day’s adventures.

“Johnson told me you paid a visit this morning,” Munford said, getting right down to business and confirming my earlier suspicion. “I expect you have a couple questions for me on that.”

Unlike Johnson and many other people we questioned in crime investigations, his tone was inviting rather than hostile. He sat leaning toward us, elbows resting on his knees and palms open, his expression one of candor. Frankly, it was refreshing.

Since I was the one who’d questioned his employee, I opened the discussion. “I spoke to Johnson. Quite routine, given the proximity of his cabin to this place at the time the Cormiers lived here. I asked him if he’d ever observed any unusual comings and goings back then, especially any that occurred at odd times. He told me he had not. Which I happen to know is . . .” It was on the tip of my tongue to say a lie, but I remembered we were supposed to be respectful of his political connections. “Untrue,” I concluded, opting for the less stark word.