As he’d been talking, she’d sat down on the arm of an upholstered chair that had been in that spot for as far back as John could remember. She asked, “Does the clan still gather?”
“No, my grandparents, aunts, and uncles are all gone.”
“Your parents?”
“Alive and well. After Dad retired, they moved to Natchitoches and opened a gift shop.”
“Really?”
“It was a dream of my mom’s. They’ve made a slew of friends. Dad has fishing buddies. They’re happy. They worry about me,” he added wryly.
“You’re lucky to have someone who does.”
Her tone was telling, but her bearing and facial expression advised him not to go down that path. “Anyhow,” he said, “the cousins scattered. You know how it goes. I regret the years that I skipped those family gatherings.”
“Why did you skip them?”
“Roslyn, my ex, had ruined it for me. She didn’t take to the culture the way my dad did when he met and married my mom. Dad fit right in. Roslyn didn’t, and didn’t want to. Said it was all too rowdy, too redneck, too Cajun.” He took another look around and reached up to jangle the multiple strands of Mardi Gras beads hanging from a wall sconce. “It was that. I wouldn’t trade for the memories.”
Having cleaned his bowl, Mutt wandered over to John. “Need out?” John opened the door for him. “Don’t go far.” When he turned back into the room, he asked Beth if she was hungry.
“Considering the scare I’ve had, I can’t believe it, but I’m actually starving.”
“Do you like gumbo?”
“I love it.”
“I made some the last time I was here.”
“You?”
“Using Grandma’s recipe.” He took a container of gumbo from the freezer section of the refrigerator and set it on the drainboard. “Let’s give it a little time to thaw before heating it up. We need to talk.”
He got two beers from the fridge and, without even asking her, uncapped both. He passed one to her and motioned her into a chair at the dining table. He sat down across from her.
Then, her eyes on the bottle label, she scraped it with her thumbnail. “Are you ready to tell me who you saw at your house and why he was there?”
“His name’s Frank Gray, but everybody calls him the ogre. Big, lumbering guy. Shoulders like an ox. Large round head. Ugly as sin, knows it, and uses it to frighten people.”
“How do you know him?”
He took a sip of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He’s a detective. But he’s one of Tom Barker’s henchmen.”
She gave a start. “Surely you don’t mean that literally.”
He steadied a look on her. “Listen carefully, Beth. I wasn’t kidding when I told you that nobody knows where I live except for the one friend I mentioned earlier. He’s my former partner, and he wouldn’t betray me under pain of death.”
“How is it possible that no one knows where you live?”
“I’ve never given out my address or even an indication of the general area. As far as the department knows, I live in a PO box.”
“Driver’s license?”
“The pre-divorce address. I never had it changed. What this means is, the ogre went to a hell of a lot of trouble to find me tonight.”
“Why was he looking for you?”
“Us. He was looking for us. Under orders from Barker, I’m certain.”
“How did the ogre know where to look?”
“Best I can figure, he tracked your cell phone.”
“My phone? No one had the number.”
“It would have been easy enough to get. I did.”
“True,” she said thoughtfully. “But why track mine? It would have been easier to track yours.”
“Oh, I’m sure they tried that first. They would have found it in the bottom drawer of my desk where it’s kept on perpetual charge. That’s the number they have. But that phone routes my calls to this one,” he said, fishing one from his pants pocket. “It’s a burner, they don’t have this number, and I get a replacement for it every few weeks.”
“You go to a lot of trouble not to be located.”
“I do, yeah.”
“Any particular reason why?”
He rested his forearms on the edge of the table and leaned toward her. “This is going to sound paranoid, but it’s the part you must understand. The ogre wasn’t paying us a social call.”