Bayou Hero. Marilyn Pappano

into sight, a smile creasing her face. “This is my lucky day, seeing you again so soon after the last time.” Her gaze shifted from him to the investigator, but he had no intentions of providing introductions. He wasn’t here to make things easier for Alia.

      “Ms. Fulsom, I’m Special Agent Alia Kingsley with NCIS. That’s the Naval—”

      “I know what it is. I watch TV. That Special Agent Gibbs is a fine-looking man, isn’t he?” She sighed, then turned serious. “I assume you’re here about Jeremiah.”

      “Yes, ma’am. Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

      Miss Viola’s frail hand fluttered in his direction. “Oh, honey, Landry knows everything I do. Jeremiah was his father, after all. We’ll go into the library.” She gestured to the door behind Alia. “The furniture is much more comfortable than the antiques in the rest of the house. Landry, will you bring us iced tea, please?”

      Why couldn’t she just ask the housekeeper to bring it? he groused. But for the most part, when Miss Viola asked, he obeyed. After giving Alia a sharp look, he went down the hall to the kitchen.

      * * *

      Landry didn’t want to leave her alone with Miss Viola. Alia considered that as she followed the woman into the library. Was it just distrust? Or because, turning Ms. Fulsom’s words around, she knew everything about Jeremiah that Landry did? Including what had come between father and son.

      “You have a lovely home,” she said as she took a seat in a black leather chair. The sides curved around, almost like a cocoon, and the cushions had just the right amount of give. It was quite possibly the most comfortable chair she’d ever sat in, and as a bonus, it swiveled and rocked, too.

      “It is. I’d give you a tour, but the interesting parts are upstairs, and I don’t go up there anymore. Broken hip. Last year. My children turned the ladies’ parlor and a few other rooms into a bedroom suite for me, and I haven’t been upstairs since.”

      Her stab at being social taken care of, Alia went right into her questions. Maybe she would learn something before Landry returned. “Ms. Fulsom—”

      “Oh, call me Viola like everyone else.”

      Alia smiled politely. “Miss Viola, how long have you known the admiral?”

      “All of his wo—” Viola stopped, grimaced, then finished. “Life.”

      What had she been about to say? His worthless life?

      “You don’t regret his passing.”

      “That would be unchristian of me, wouldn’t it?” Then the woman shrugged. “I’ve been a good Christian my entire life. God will forgive me this lapse, don’t you think?”

      “Why did you dislike him?”

      “Did you know him?” she asked in a manner that suggested that would be explanation enough. “The way he treated Camilla, the children, everyone he thought was somehow inferior to him—which included pretty much everyone he ever met.”

      Alia glanced toward the open doorway. “You know he and his son were estranged at the time of his death.”

      “A lot longer than that,” Miss Viola corrected her. “The boy’s been on his own since he was fifteen and would have been better off if he’d left ten years earlier.”

      “What happened between them?”

      Miss Viola’s gaze went distant while she fingered a massive ruby ring on her left hand. There was regret in her dim eyes, along with a touch of anger, a bigger touch of shame and definitely some sorrow. After a moment, she sighed. “Landry learned early on that he wasn’t cut out for life in Jeremiah’s home.”

      That could mean a dozen things. Had Jeremiah wanted Landry to follow in his footsteps? Had they disagreed on career, education, religion, the life expected of a Jackson in this city? Had Landry refused to kowtow to his father, or had he demanded the old man treat Camilla and Mary Ellen better?

      “In what ways?” Alia asked as voices—Landry’s and the housekeeper’s—sounded faintly down the hall. “What expectations did Jeremiah have that Landry wouldn’t meet?” Answer quickly, please, she silently urged as the voices faded and a lone set of steps headed their way.

      Again Miss Viola’s gaze drifted before she gave herself a shake and said, “You know how it is with children and their parents.”

      As the last word came out, Landry came in, carrying three tall glasses of iced tea. He handed one to his cousin, then offered Alia one. The glass was delicate, the kind of stemware her mother saved for special occasions, the tea freshly brewed, sugary and flavored with mint. As she savored a sip, he moved behind her, feigning interest in the books open on the ancient oak table there.

      She asked Miss Viola a dozen more questions and couldn’t help but notice that before she answered even the simplest one, her gaze went to Landry. Delaying to be sure she worded her answer just so or seeking his approval before offering any answer at all? Alia looked at him, too, several times, but his expression never told her a thing. He could be part of the decor for all the overt interest he showed, but Alia was certain he was guiding Miss Viola.

      Which made the interview pointless.

      After a few more questions, Alia set her glass on a nearby table and stood. “I appreciate your time, Miss Viola. If I think of anything else, I’ll stop by again.” Preferably without any warning so Landry couldn’t control the next interview.

      “That would be fine.” Miss Viola also stood. “If you give me a half hour’s notice, I’ll have Molly fix one of the desserts she’s famous for. The doctor tells me to limit my sweets and fried foods and salt and fat, but heavens, I’m eighty-one years old and in perfect health. If I can’t eat what I want, what’s the point of making it to eighty-two?”

      The three of them moved to the front door, where she and the old lady exchanged goodbyes. Alia walked outside, unsurprised that Landry followed her. He took the steps beside her before asking, “You want a ride to your car?”

      What ulterior motive did he have for offering? Was he just making sure that she did, in fact, leave Miss Viola’s house? Did he want to see the home where he’d grown up, where his father had died a violent death? Did he think she might offer him an under-the-police-tape visit?

      Regardless of his motive, she accepted. With the temperature and humidity both hovering close to one hundred, the couple blocks’ walk would sap a good chunk of her energy.

      Again, the trip was made in silence. This time he didn’t pull into the driveway, even though the young officer waiting there would have let them pass. He parked across the street and didn’t even glance to his left.

      “It’s a beautiful house,” Alia said, watching him closely.

      His only response was the twitch of a taut muscle in his jaw.

      “You haven’t been here in twelve years?”

      Another faint twitch. “Closer to seventeen.”

      “Miss Viola said you left home when you were fifteen. Was that the last time you saw the place?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Going out on your own at fifteen...” Alia gave a shake of her head. At fifteen she’d thought she was grown-up and competent, but her parents had known better. She wouldn’t have made it two days on the street all by her lonesome. “Why did your mother let you do that?”

      “She had no choice.” He glanced at her, then at the street ahead, and murmured, “He never gave any of us a choice.”

      The words were soft, not meant for her to hear, and the expression on his face was bitter, resigned. She knew from cases she’d worked that some parents lived to make their children’s lives miserable, but she didn’t understand it. Why bring a child into the world if all you intended to do was torment it?

      Obviously