Alligator Moon. Joanna Wayne

right?”

      “Patsy David, class of ’64. That’s her maiden name, but I understand she never married.”

      “That’s right. Patsy David from the class of ’64 never married.”

      “Do you have a current name or address for her?”

      “Patsy David is dead, Ms. Pierson. She died in a car accident her senior year of high school.”

       CHAPTER FOUR

      CASSIE PICKED UP the postcard, this time checking the postmark. It had been mailed from Athens, Greece, on the fourteenth of May, five days after her mother had left Houston. She picked up the second one. Santorini. Mailed May 20.

      Her mother had clearly lied about her traveling companion, but not her destination. But if she wasn’t with Patsy, who had she gone with and why had she felt the need to lie? Could this possibly be a romantic tryst far from the prying eyes of anyone who knew her?

      Cassie tried to picture her mother in the arms of a man other than Butch Havelin. The image was too ludicrous to jell. But then, how much did she really know about her mother these days? She’d been so caught up in her own problems with Drake that she’d seldom gone home for visits and she couldn’t remember the last time she and her mother had actually had a conversation about anything more important than plans for holidays or a sale they were having at Nieman Marcus.

      But, a lover? It was extremely unlikely.

      The phone rang, startling Cassie from her troubled trance. She grabbed the receiver. Surely it was the school secretary calling her back to say everything she’d told her a few minutes ago was a mistake.

      “Hello.”

      “Is this Cassie Pierson?”

      A male voice, rich with a Cajun accent. “Yes. How can I help you?”

      “I understand from Lily and Robert you were in Beau Pierre yesterday asking questions about the Magnolia Restorative and Therapeutic Center.”

      “I was. Who is this?”

      “Dr. Norman Guilliot. I’m assuming you’re interested in the center as a reporter rather than a potential guest.”

      “I’d like to do a story on Magnolia Plantation for the Crescent Connection. We’re a cutting-edge magazine that focuses…”

      “I’m familiar with the magazine. If you’re coming out in the hopes of digging up dirt, then don’t waste your time. There is none.”

      Yet he’d bothered to call her when she hadn’t even left a message. First John Robicheaux, now Dr. Norman Guilliot, both going out of their way to look her up. A suspicious happening when dealing with articles involving lawsuits and now possibly a murder.

      “No dirt,” she said. Unless, of course, she found some. “I’d love to talk to you and do a feature article on your clinic.”

      “In that case, I’ll be happy to meet with you and discuss the center. I don’t have surgery scheduled today, so I can see you this afternoon if you like.”

      “How’s one o’clock?” Cassie asked, wanting to act before he changed his mind.

      “Fine. Just press the call button and identify yourself when you arrive. I’ll alert the staff to expect you.”

      “Then I’ll see you at one,” she said.

      “I should warn you ahead of time that confidentiality is a basic tenet of Magnolia Plantation, so certain areas of the center will be off-limits. You won’t be allowed any contact with the guests.”

      “I understand.”

      Off and running, at least as far as the Beau Pierre investigation was concerned, but the planned meeting with Dr. Guilliot did nothing to allay her concerns about her mother. Touring Greece. Having a great time. The postcards said so.

      But if everything else about her trip was a lie, then the postcards could be more of the same. Having a great time. Wish you were here.

      Cassie wasn’t convinced that either statement was true.

      THE FIRST FLOOR had a large reception area and just past that a series of small offices. The back of the first floor was guest rooms, or so Cassie was told. She didn’t get to tour that part of the house.

      The second story had a large, airy sitting room with a TV, a baby grand piano and clusters of comfortable chairs. The dining room was there as well, with a long antique table and several small round tables. And once again there were patient rooms that she was not allowed to tour.

      But while the first two floors seemed a Lucullan holdout from the days when ladies had worn full skirts and binding corsets and had danced beneath candled chandeliers, the third floor left no doubt that this was a state-of-the-art surgery center.

      “So this is where the miracles take place,” Cassie said, as they departed the elevator and started down a spotlessly clean hall, one bereft of the elegant antique furnishings that had characterized the lower floors.

      “Interesting that you put it that way,” Dr. Guilliot answered. “Modern surgical procedures are nothing short of miraculous. Think how archaic medicine was at the time this old plantation was built.”

      “But apparently all cosmetic surgeons are not created equal. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have patients coming to a clinic tucked away in a little town like this.”

      “I like to think I’m worth it, and I’m sure our facilities for follow-up care are second to none in the world.”

      “Exactly how does that work? Are the patients required to stay here for a certain period of time after surgery?”

      “I require a one-week stay for major procedures such as face or forehead lifts. Many patients opt to stay longer, some until the swelling and bruises have completely disappeared. That can take as long as six weeks. Once the bandages and draining tubes are removed they’re basically guests in this beautiful, restful setting for the rest of their stay, though I do see them for regular checkups while they’re here.”

      “Do you have male patients as well as female?”

      “Certainly. Men like to look their best, too, especially those in the public eye. Entertainers, TV personalities, politicians. We get them all right here in Beau Pierre.” The doctor pushed through a set of double doors, then stood aside and waited for her to enter. “We have two operating rooms. This is the first one.”

      “You surely don’t operate on two patients at once.”

      “No, but occasionally Dr. Walter Gates uses this facility, as well.”

      “I didn’t realize that.”

      “See, you’ve learned something already.”

      “But doesn’t he ordinarily work out of Touro Hospital in New Orleans?”

      “Normally, but I feel that a surgeon must have a narrow field of specialization if he expects to be one of the very best at what he does. I stick to facial and neck surgery, but if a patient is interested in other types of cosmetic surgery, Dr. Gates will come here and provide pretty much anything else the patient desires.”

      “So a patient can get the works without leaving Magnolia Plantation.”

      “Exactly.”

      “Was Ginny Flanders planning to have additional surgery done?”

      He wagged a finger at her. “No discussing the case. Strict orders from my attorney.”

      When they left the operating room, Dr. Guilliot took her through the recovery area, then led her to a closed door at the end of the hall. “This is my private office,” he said, opening the door and revealing a sun-filled room with plush beige carpet and off-white walls.

      Obviously a second office, since she’d seen the one on the first