would see them that night at evening vespers.” He made eye contact with everyone in the room before adding, “It seems peculiar that a man in that mood, on a spiritual high so to speak, would go off and shoot himself.”
“Are you saying it was staged to look like a suicide?” Sayre asked.
“Now, don’t go putting words in Wayne’s mouth, Sayre,” Red Harper said, casting an uneasy glance in Huff’s direction. “All he’s saying—”
“What I’m saying is that the circumstances surrounding Danny Hoyle’s death warrant further investigation.”
“The parish medical examiner didn’t equivocate when he ruled it a suicide.”
“That’s right, Mr. Merchant, but the cause of death was obvious.” He glanced at Sayre. “I’ll spare you the graphic terminology that was in the ME’s written autopsy report.” Then to Beck he said, “It’s the method of death that, in my opinion, remains undetermined.”
“The method of death,” Beck repeated, his eyes narrowing on the detective. “The barrels of the shotgun were still in Danny’s mouth, indicating that he did not pull the trigger.”
“Right,” Scott said, nodding somberly. “Otherwise the weapon would have been knocked away from the body by the recoil. It’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that someone held the muzzle inside Danny’s mouth. It was a homicide.”
Red Harper winced as though in pain. “Which brings me to the question I’ve got to ask. Do y’all know anybody who would have wanted Danny dead?”
Chapter Six
T he afternoon heat had taken its toll on the floral arrangements that covered the new grave. Blossoms had withered. Petals had turned brown, curling downward upon their stems as though in total defeat.
Because there was no breeze to disperse it, the smoke from the blast furnaces of the foundry had formed a gray cloud bank above the cemetery. It hung there, an ugly pall.
Sayre thought of it as Danny’s shroud. She’d gone to the cemetery in the hope of finding some measure of peace, but after the session with Deputy Scott, she thought it unlikely that Danny’s death could be that easily reconciled.
Of Huff’s three children, Danny had been the least like him. He’d been mild-mannered, soft-
spoken, and to her knowledge had never committed a spiteful act or harbored any malice toward anyone.
When they were kids, Danny had always deferred to her and Chris, putting up token resistance if he was wronged, but eventually yielding, especially to Chris, who was the undisputed bully of the three. Chris was also devious and knew how to manipulate his younger brother. Danny invariably fell for Chris’s tricks, which were often cruel.
She’d had the fiercest temper. Whenever she unleashed it on Danny over some real or perceived affront, he bore her tirade with grace and didn’t hold a grudge later for the hateful things she had screamed at him.
Once, during one of her most vicious tantrums, she had thrown his favorite toy truck into the bayou. He had cried, and called her names, and ordered her to dive in and retrieve it. Of course she had refused and, instead, had described to him in tortuous detail how his shiny truck would rust and erode even before it reached the Gulf of Mexico.
Danny had wailed for hours, then lapsed into a funk that lasted for days. When Laurel demanded to know why he was so blue, he declined to tattle on Sayre. He never told what she’d done. If he had, she would have felt justified for having done it. But he had let her get away with it, which made her deeply remorseful for her meanness to him.
Their mother had doted on Danny because he was the baby of the family. Sayre remembered Huff saying often that Laurel was going to make a mealymouthed sissy out of the boy if she didn’t stop coddling him. Yet, despite their mother’s obvious favoritism, ironically it was Huff’s approval that Danny craved most.
Chris had automatically gained it by being the firstborn. His temperament and
“Are you saying it was staged to look like a suicide?” Sayre asked.
“Now, don’t go putting words in Wayne’s mouth, Sayre,” Red Harper said, casting an uneasy glance in Huff’s direction. “All he’s saying—”
“What I’m saying is that the circumstances surrounding Danny Hoyle’s death warrant further investigation.”
“The parish medical examiner didn’t equivocate when he ruled it a suicide.”
“That’s right, Mr. Merchant, but the cause of death was obvious.” He glanced at Sayre. “I’ll spare you the graphic terminology that was in the ME’s written autopsy report.” Then to Beck he said, “It’s the method of death that, in my opinion, remains undetermined.”
“The method of death,” Beck repeated, his eyes narrowing on the detective. “The barrels of the shotgun were still in Danny’s mouth, indicating that he did not pull the trigger.”
“Right,” Scott said, nodding somberly. “Otherwise the weapon would have been knocked away from the body by the recoil. It’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that someone held the muzzle inside Danny’s mouth. It was a homicide.”
Red Harper winced as though in pain. “Which brings me to the question I’ve got to ask. Do y’all know anybody who would have wanted Danny dead?”
Chapter Six
T he afternoon heat had taken its toll on the floral arrangements that covered the new grave. Blossoms had withered. Petals had turned brown, curling downward upon their stems as though in total defeat.
Because there was no breeze to disperse it, the smoke from the blast furnaces of the foundry had formed a gray cloud bank above the cemetery. It hung there, an ugly pall.
Sayre thought of it as Danny’s shroud. She’d gone to the cemetery in the hope of finding some measure of peace, but after the session with Deputy Scott, she thought it unlikely that Danny’s death could be that easily reconciled.
Of Huff’s three children, Danny had been the least like him. He’d been mild-mannered, soft-
spoken, and to her knowledge had never committed a spiteful act or harbored any malice toward anyone.
When they were kids, Danny had always deferred to her and Chris, putting up token resistance if he was wronged, but eventually yielding, especially to Chris, who was the undisputed bully of the three. Chris was also devious and knew how to manipulate his younger brother. Danny invariably fell for Chris’s tricks, which were often cruel.
She’d had the fiercest temper. Whenever she unleashed it on Danny over some real or perceived affront, he bore her tirade with grace and didn’t hold a grudge later for the hateful things she had screamed at him.
Once, during one of her most vicious tantrums, she had thrown his favorite toy truck into the bayou. He had cried, and called her names, and ordered her to dive in and retrieve it. Of course she had refused and, instead, had described to him in tortuous detail how his shiny truck would rust and erode even before it reached the Gulf of Mexico.
Danny had wailed for hours, then lapsed into a funk that lasted for days. When Laurel demanded to know why he was so blue, he declined to tattle on Sayre. He never told what she’d done. If he had, she would have felt justified for having done it. But he had let her get away with it, which made her deeply remorseful for her meanness to him.
Their mother had doted on Danny because he was the baby of the family. Sayre remembered Huff saying often that Laurel was going to make a mealymouthed sissy out of the boy if she didn’t stop coddling him. Yet, despite their mother’s obvious favoritism, ironically it was Huff’s approval that Danny craved most.
Chris had automatically gained it by being the firstborn. His temperament and
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