Light of the World (Dave Robicheaux 20)

“He has the waitress with him?”

“I don’t know. Can I help you, Ms. Louviere? You don’t look well.”

“You’ve actually talked to this man?”

“He’s called me on my cell phone.”

“Did he say anything about Angel?”

“No. I think you should come inside.” Gretchen stepped between two of the horses and took the bag of carrots. “You shouldn’t give treats to horses with your fingers. You let them take it from the flat of your hand so they won’t accidentally bite you.”

“Thank you.”

“Did something happen that you want to talk about?”

“I shouldn’t have bothered you. What time is it? There’s no light in this valley until after nine, is there? Or is it dark most of the time? It seems Montana is like that. Often dark.”

“I’m going to the health club in a few minutes,” Gretchen said. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“That’s very nice of you, but I’ve probably already bothered you enough.”

“Ms. Louviere, I don’t have great experience in these things, but I think you’re blaming yourself for something that happened recently, or something you just found out about. Is it related to your daughter’s death?” The hollowness in Felicity’s eyes was such that Gretchen could hardly look at them. “I know Clete would like to see you,” Gretchen said. “Stay awhile. We can have breakfast together.”

“Maybe another time. Thank you, Ms. Horowitz. I think you’re a nice woman.” Felicity got into her Audi and drove away.

Gretchen went back into the cabin, packed her workout bag, and went to the health club, thinking that her strange encounter with Felicity Louviere was over. Early on in her life, she had come to believe that the differences in human beings were not of great magnitude and had more to do with appearance than motivation. The exception was the difference between the sick and the well. Some people glowed with sunshine and health; others seemed stricken in body and spirit, as though they had walked through an invisible cobweb and their pores could not breathe.

Three hours later, when Gretchen emerged from the dressing room at the health club, her skin ruddy, her hair damp from her shower, she was convinced that Felicity Louviere carried a form of perdition with her wherever she went.

Felicity was standing by the registration desk, her bag on her shoulder, oblivious to the club members who had to step around her to swipe their membership cards. Gretchen put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s have a bagel and some cream cheese,” she said.

“I’d like that,” Felicity said. “Is Clete with you?”

“He’s at the ranch. It’s just you and me. I’ll put in our order. Sit down over there on the sofa, and we’ll talk.”

After Gretchen had ordered, she checked her phone for messages, then sat down next to Felicity in a quiet area by the fireplace.

“I have to confide in somebody,” Felicity said. “I feel worse than I’ve ever felt in my life. I don’t want to burden or hurt Clete any more than I have.”

“What is it?”

“My husband left his financial statement from Vanguard on his desk. In four months, he’s made withdrawals of eighty-five thousand dollars from his money-market account. I thought maybe he was gambling again. I looked at the accounting book he keeps in the bottom of his desk. He enters every expenditure and deposit and transaction in ink and never puts information in a computer. The Vanguard withdrawals were there. Beside each of them were the initials A.S.”

“Asa Surrette?”

“That’s what I asked him. He went into a rage.”

“Why would he be paying Surrette?” Gretchen asked.

Felicity stared into Gretchen’s face without replying. Felicity had put on no makeup; her lips were cracked.

“Surrette is blackmailing him?” Gretchen said.

“I think he paid Surrette to murder our daughter. I think I shut my eyes to what he did. I think I’m responsible for my daughter’s death.”

“You mustn’t say that,” Gretchen said. “You had nothing to do with your daughter’s death. Where’s your husband now?”

“I don’t know. He’s frightened. He was drunk last night, and I saw him doing lines on a mirror this morning. I don’t think he’s bathed in days. He hates Clete and he hates Dave Robicheaux. He killed our daughter. The man I have slept with for years killed Angel.”