Alligator Moon. Joanna Wayne

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 floor where he examined and met with new patients. This one was smaller, cozy actually. The large mahogany desk was polished to a brilliant shine and a silver frame held a snapshot of two girls who appeared to be in their early twenties. She guessed them to be the daughters he’d fathered with his first wife.

      They talked for a few minutes about the center, including its excellent reputation. When the talk turned to staff, Cassie saw her opportunity. “You must be very upset about the death of your anesthetist.”

      “What do you know about Dennis Robicheaux?” he asked, his eyes narrowing and taking on an intensity that intrigued her.

      “Basically what was in the newspaper, that he shot himself in the head. That he’d been the one to administer the anesthetic to Ginny Flanders.”

      “Both true, I’m afraid.”

      “Had he been with you long?”

      “Five years, but I knew him before that. He did a clinical with me before while working on his CRNA. He was an excellent anesthetist and a good friend.”

      “You must have been shocked to hear of his suicide.”

      “I was quite upset and still am. We’re all very close here at the center, Cassie. Is it okay to call you that?”

      “Cassie’s fine.” He didn’t, however suggest she call him Norman. She started to anyway, just to see how he reacted, but didn’t want to do anything to aggravate him before she got everything out of him that she could. “Did you have any suspicion that Dennis was contemplating suicide?”

      “Certainly not. If I had, I would have seen that he got counseling—and that he hadn’t gone out drinking with his brother that night. If he’d had more family support instead of…” Dr. Guilliot hesitated as voices and laughter drifted in from the hall. “Better if I don’t get started on John Robicheaux. And it sounds as if the rest of the surgical team is in the lounge. I’ll introduce you to them.”

      Cassie would have loved to hear more about Guilliot’s theories on John Robicheaux, though in the end she’d make up her own mind about the man, as she would about Norman Guilliot.

      They joined the staff in a small lounge area at the very end of the hall. It was basically an oblong kitchen, consisting of a long wooden table with eight chairs, a counter, cabinets, a microwave and a refrigerator.

      Cassie made mental notes as Guilliot introduced the staff. Angela Dubuisson was the instrument technician, a registered nurse who’d been with Guilliot for twenty years. Cassie guessed her to be in her mid-forties. Her hair was the color of onyx, and she wore it in a square cut that fell just below her cheekbones, with long bangs she’d pushed to the side and caught in an amber-colored barrette.

      Her eyes were slightly darker than her hair, her lashes long and natural, her complexion smooth. She didn’t wear any makeup, except maybe a light dusting of powder over her nose and a pale pink lip gloss. She didn’t say much except to agree with anything Dr. Guilliot said.

      Susan Dalton, the circulating nurse, was pretty much the opposite. She appeared to be in her early thirties and had short blond hair that curled about a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a deep blue and seemed to be dancing behind mascara-laden lashes. Her nose turned up ever so slightly at the end. Perhaps some of Dr. Guilliot’s handiwork. She talked with her hands and eyes, as well as her mouth, and her voice sounded as if she might burst into giggles at any second. Where Angela’s femininity was understated and gentle, Susan’s was exaggerated, like sparks from Fourth of July fireworks.

      Roy Baskins was the temporary anesthetist. At least forty and slim with a face that looked as if it might actually break if forced into a smile, he was clearly not part of the group and seemed to prefer it that way.

      Fred Powell was the most difficult member of the staff to get a handle on. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, a fellowship assistant who’d been with the group since January. He was nice-looking, polite, but seemed a tad stuffier than the rest of the group. She knew from media coverage of the trial that he hadn’t been at work the day Ginny Lynn Flanders had died. Lucky him.

      “Anyone know where I can rent a room for a week or so?” Cassie asked when the conversation lagged. Guilliot’s expression went from friendly to guarded in a matter of heartbeats, but he didn’t respond to the question.

      “I’m not looking for anything fancy,” she added. “Just something clean and convenient.”

      “I don’t think you’ll find anything in Beau Pierre,” Susan said. “There’s nothing but those cabins back of Suzette’s. I’m sure they smell like dead fish, and you’d have alligators to greet you when you came home at night.”

      “Why are you looking to stay in Beau Pierre?” Angela asked.

      “We’re doing a feature article on the town. I’d like to get a feel for the place and get to know the people who live here.”

      “That should take about an hour,” Roy said.

      “You can drive back to New Orleans in about two hours,” Susan said. “That is where you live, isn’t it?”

      “I drive over from Houma every day,” Fred said. “That’s not a bad drive and you can find decent places to stay there.”

      “I’d rather be closer,” Cassie said, though she didn’t care for a cabin that smelled of dead fish, or for the company of alligators.

      “Will you only be here for a week?” Angela asked.

      “Maybe less.”

      Angela looked to Guilliot then back to Cassie. “My mother and I have a large house. It’s old, nothing fancy, but it’s only about ten minutes from here. You can stay with us for a week if you like.”

      The lounge grew quiet at Angela’s offer. Evidently the others were as surprised by it as Cassie.

      “I’m certain Cassie would prefer a place of her own,” Dr. Guilliot said, his tone tinged with authority.

      He was right. She’d have much preferred a place of her own, but an invitation into the inner circle of the surgery team was too good to pass up, especially since it was obvious Guilliot didn’t like the idea.

      “I’d love to stay with you, Angela.”

      Angela directed her gaze to a half-eaten salad that sat on the table in front of her. “On second thought, it’s probably not a good idea. My mother has a tendency to wander the house at all hours of the night. She’d probably keep you awake.”

      “I can sleep through anything. And I won’t be any trouble. I’ll take my meals at the café in town and I’ll be out most of the day.”

      Angela looked to Guilliot again. He nodded as if giving approval, providing Cassie with additional insight into the workings of the interpersonal dynamics of the staff. Guilliot was king. The others were loyal—or maybe not-so-loyal—subjects.

      At any rate, it was clear Cassie’s visit to the plantation had come to a close. Guilliot was still charming on the surface, but Cassie felt a chill now that hadn’t been there earlier, and the conversation went from a lull to stone silence.

      Suicide or murder?

      Suddenly the question seemed to have as many facets as