LITMIR.BIZ

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I think is his name. Why?”

      “Were they at the church service earlier?”

      “I’m sure they were. I don’t remember seeing them, though.” He frowned at Zach. “What’s bothering you?”

      “Just wondering how they knew Tristan.”

      “From what I recall, when they first moved here, Tristan let them use his dock. They’re small-time fishermen.”

      “Commercial?” Zach asked.

      Duff nodded. “They bought the seafood-processing warehouse from Frank Beltaine. I’m not sure if they’ve gotten their commercial license yet, but they’re working on getting freezers installed. I understand they’re going to start selling to the locals soon.”

      So the two men were part of the community. If they just got started, they probably didn’t have much money. Maybe they were walking because they didn’t own a car.

      Zach thought about Madeleine Tierney, who had fed his suspicion of the two men. “So, who is this Madeleine Tierney? And why is she yanking Sandy around as if she was an untrained pup?”

      “She’s not yanking Sandy around. She’s been renting a room at Sandy and Tristan’s for the past few weeks.” Duff used air quotes around the word renting. “Since Sandy’s been pregnant, Tristan was working more and more hours on the rig. He was spending two, three weeks offshore and sometimes only a week at home.”

      “Aren’t there regulations that control how much they can work?”

      Duff nodded. “Usually, sure. But I’ve heard the rig is shorthanded right now because of some virus going around, and the crews can work overtime if needed. Tristan was trying to save money so he could quit offshore and go to work as a veterinary assistant. Madeleine and Sandy struck up a friendship and Tristan thought it was a great idea for Madeleine to stay with her because he didn’t like her being there alone.”

      “So who is she and where’s she from?” Zach asked.

      Duff shook his head. “I understand that she’s an oil rig inspector who’s been—”

      “A what?” Zach was stunned.

      “An oil rig inspector. Her dad was an inspector until he retired. Seems like I kind of remember a kid going on inspections with her dad. But I never paid much attention to the oil rigs before the British Petroleum spill.”

      Zach nodded. He understood. Bonne Chance was like many of the towns and villages along the Louisiana Gulf Coast between Mississippi and Texas. The townspeople were a mix of fishermen and oil rig workers, and the two sides had a kind of love/hate relationship with each other. The oil rigs attracted big fish, including sharks, but they were a strain on the delicate ecosystem of the sea. Plus, everyone was supersensitive since the BP oil spill, which nearly wiped out the entire fishing industry along the Gulf Coast.

      Zach hated the rigs. His dad had worked the rigs until the day he apparently got sick of work and marriage and took off when Zach was around eight years old, leaving his mother and him behind. Now a rig had taken the life of his best friend. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t seen Tristan in thirteen years. The hole left in Zach’s heart hurt just as much as if they’d never been apart.

      “Zach?” Duff said, drawing his attention back to the present. “I’ll be at Sandy’s in about twenty minutes, after I change clothes.”

      Zach nodded. Duff headed toward a new Mini Cooper. Zach turned his attention back to Madeleine Tierney, who was still hovering solicitously beside Sandy. She was looking up the road after the two men. As she watched them, she fiddled with the cross-body strap of the leather purse she carried. Something familiar in the subtle gesture, combined with the way she checked the clasp on the purse, stopped him cold.

      He’d seen that exact set of gestures before. His weapons-training class with the NSA had included two women with whom he’d worked every day for twelve weeks. He’d watched them tuck their weapon into a specially made handbag and retrieve it time and time again. They had developed the habit of subtly locking and releasing the clasp of the bag, just as Madeleine Tierney was doing.

      There was a concealed weapon in that bag. He’d bet a month’s salary on it. He’d throw in another month’s salary if carrying a concealed weapon were standard practice for rig inspectors.

      Who the hell was she and what was her relationship with Sandy and Tristan? Judging by the bag and her handling of it, plus the way she’d kept an eye out for anyone suspicious, his guess was that she was a federal agent. Duff said she’d been here more than a month. Tristan had died five days ago, so she wasn’t here because of his death.

      Until he knew for certain who she was and why she’d gone to Tristan DuChaud’s funeral packing a weapon, he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. She could be the key that would unlock the truth about Tristan’s death. Even if that chance was one in a million, he couldn’t afford not to take it. He’d stick with her until he knew everything about her.

      He waited until she and Sandy drove away before he headed for his car, planning to follow them out to Sandy’s house. But he stopped. No. There was one thing he needed to do first. He turned and looked at the grave site. Most of the people had gone. The casket was on a wheeled cart and the caretaker was just about to roll it into the open DuChaud vault.

      Taking a deep breath, he walked over and asked the man if he could have a moment. The man stepped a few feet away. Zach bowed his head and put his hand on the cold metal of the casket. He knew it was empty, and yet it seemed appropriate to touch it as he said the only goodbye he might ever get to say to his oldest friend.

      * * *

      MADELEINE TIERNEY WAITED as the Cajun woman who had stayed at Sandy’s house during the funeral fussed at Sandy. She turned the coverlet back on the bed. “Now you get under that cover, you,” the gnarled little woman said. “And I’ll tuck you in.”

      “I’m not sick, Marie Belle,” Sandy had snapped irritably, but she lay down and let the woman tuck the coverlet around her.

      Maddy had gladly stepped aside and let Marie Belle handle Sandy. Maddy hadn’t had much luck convincing Sandy that she needed to rest for a while. On the other hand, even though Sandy argued, she listened to the little Cajun woman. And it was obvious by her pinched nostrils, pale face and sunken cheeks how exhausted she was. Her too-bright eyes were proof of the shattering grief that weighed her down, and the way her eyelids drooped was a definite indication that she needed a nap. She needed all the rest she could get, for the sake of the baby, if not for herself, Marie Belle told her. Meekly, Sandy agreed.

      Meeting Marie Belle had given Maddy hope that she wouldn’t have to deal with all the food that neighbors, friends and family had brought over. But no such luck. The Cajun woman needed to get home in time to boil a chicken for dinner.

      Maddy told her to take some food with her, but the woman had shaken her head. “This food for Miss Sandy, yeah. T’ain’t for me. You take care of that girl now. She needs rest.”

      Now, left alone in the kitchen, with Sandy resting in the master bedroom at the end of the hall, Maddy stared at counters stacked with pies, both homemade and bought, casseroles, bread and crackers and soft drinks and fruit. She opened the refrigerator even though she already knew it was full to bursting. She had no idea what she was supposed to do with all the food. She just hoped it was already cooked, because cooking was not her superpower. Sandy had taught her the basics of making scrambled eggs, but her best dish was still Marie Callendar’s Fettuccini Alfredo with extra Parmesan cheese. The extra Parm was her special touch.

      Cursing whoever had come up with the brilliant idea of sending food to mourners then showing up to eat it all, she checked the front door to be sure it was locked. She didn’t want people coming into the house through two different entrances.

      As soon as Marie Belle left, Maddy had gone into the guest bedroom and removed her Sig from her bag and placed it in the roomy pocket of her skirt, under the boxy jacket. An experienced law enforcement official

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