Sunset Motel

By Joe Hilley

When the bodies of Margo Doucet and Paul Elliot are found in a motel room, everyone thinks Margo's husband, Willie Gene, killed them in a jealous rage. Evidence seems to point to him, too, and he's charged with their murders. Willie Gene turns to Mike Connolly for help. Mike soon learns the dead man was an engineer set t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dunlavy Gray
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736410592

Joe Hilley

Joe Hilley holds a Bachelor of Arts from Asbury College, a Master of Divinity from Asbury Theological Seminary, and a Doctor of Jurisprudence from Cumberland School of Law, Samford University. In 1999, he quit the practice of law to write. A lifelong observer of politics and social issues, Joe is the author of five critically-acclaimed novels, including Sober Justice, Double Take, Electric Beach, Night Rain, and The Deposition. He lives in Alabama where he spends his days writing and encouraging others to follow their dreams.

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Sunset Motel

A Mike Connolly Mystery

by

New York Times Bestselling Author

Joe Hilley

Dunlavy + Gray

Houston

Sunset Motel

Dunlavy + Gray ©2022 by Joe Hilley

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022941433

ISBN: 978-1-7364105-8-5

E-Book ISBN: 978-1-7364105-9-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations in books and critical reviews. For information, contact the publisher at [e-mail] or Dunlavy + Gray, PO Box 3121, Houston, TX 77253.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover design and typesetting by Fitz & Hill Creative Studio.

First Printing, 2022

Printed in the United States of America

I had a picture of you in my mind

Never knew it could be so wrong

Why’d it take me so long just to find

The friend that was there all along

Picture of You

Boyzone

CHAPTER 1

Sometimes, when I consider who I really am, I think of myself as four or five different people—each unique and distinct from the others, yet somehow woven together into one. As if a mystical thread of personality and experience connects the versions, binding them together and making me Mike.

At other times, I think of myself as the collective memory of bits and pieces left over from all the Mikes I used to be, unconnected by anything. The Mike of childhood who lost his father much too soon, then lost his mother to alcohol and a nomadic truck driver. Followed by the Mike who lived with his uncle and spent his days on an oyster skiff or a shrimp boat. Then there was the Mike who married Barbara and became a lawyer. And the Mike who drank himself to the bottom of a gin bottle and didn’t emerge until nothing remained of anything that had gone before.

In living it, though, I was always simply me. Those bits and pieces of earlier versions existed mostly in the minds of the people who knew me at an earlier time. People who knew me and dropped me when the disorder and ambiguity became too much. The ones who defined me in the present by a snapshot of the past. But I didn’t live in a snapshot. I lived in the now of every day, taking life as it came, one moment to the next.

From inside looking out, my life was a seamless succession of moments that formed a constant now. And I was always only Mike. No bits and pieces of an earlier self. No fragments of a disconnected past. Only always the present, though the present changed constantly. Even so, the past—at least, memories of the worst moments—lurked around every corner of every minute of every day.

Most days, I kept my mind focused on the issues at hand and avoided thinking about the past or how it might fit into the present, but that morning in June, it was on my mind. I had awakened early and attended morning prayer at St. Pachomius Church, located a block behind the courthouse. Afterward, I drove over to the building on Dauphin Street where my office was located, parked the car at the curb, and started up the street on foot toward the Port City Diner. It was not yet seven but already the sun beat down with a brilliance and intensity that made even a short walk a test of endurance. So, I allowed my mind to wander as a diversion from the heat and humidity and let the contemplation of my inner self overtake me for a moment. But only for a moment. I could endure only so much self-examination and before I was halfway to the diner, I reached my limit on introspection.

As I passed The Oasis, a bar that was famous for having launched the national careers of several mid-grade local bands, I noticed a sign hanging above the door. It featured a stylized rendering of a scantily clad, artistically curvaceous woman and it reminded me of Marisa, a girl I knew. She was a dancer at a club near the state line and, once upon a time, we shared the pleasure of each other’s company. Despite an almost seamless alcoholic stupor that pervaded those days, I remembered the time with her in vivid detail. Legs that flowed seamlessly into thighs that men dreamed of. Hips that ran high and made her legs seem even longer. And breasts that—

Thinking about her took my mind off the weather but focused on a topic almost as toxic for me as alcohol, so I resolved to surrender to the heat and slogged my way, step by step, up the street with my eyes cast mostly downward, looking on the sidewalk. That mindless, thoughtless state didn’t last long, though, and soon my mind began to wander. My eyes were focused on the sidewalk, and I wondered—When did they build the sidewalk? How old was the crew? Who finished the concrete? What had their lives become? My mind rarely stopped, and that morning was no different.

By the time I reached the diner, my jacket was draped over the crook of my arm and my light blue shirt was marked with dark splotches beneath my arms and down the center of my back where sweat had soaked through. A rush of cool air greeted me as I pushed open the door, sending a welcome chill down my spine.

Someone was seated at my regular table, so I took one on the opposite side of the room, near an air conditioner vent by one of the front windows. Most of the time I avoided that side of the building because the air that poured down from the overhead ducts cooled off the food too quickly. That morning, though, after walking from the church in the oppressive heat, I didn’t care how cold the food became. I welcomed the cool air.

About the time I settled into place at the table, a waitress appeared—one of the younger ones who actually wore the white uniform the owner wanted them all to wear. She had a green name tag, too. It identified her as Jenny, but everyone called her Annie, and I never knew why. She held an order pad in one hand with a pen in the other and said, Having your usual this morning, Mr. Connolly?

Yes, I replied. I think I will. I smiled at her, but she didn’t respond, except to ask, Coffee or hot tea?

Too hot for either of them today, I said. I’ll have a glass of ice water.

She grinned. Nothing like a change of routine.

At a younger age I might have thought she was flirting with me, and I might have replied with something embarrassingly vain. But I was no longer a young man, and I understood her gesture of friendliness to be precisely what it was—friendliness.

As she moved away from the table, I glanced around the room again to see if there was anyone I recognized. A couple of lawyers sat near the back. I couldn’t remember their names but one of them waved and I acknowledged him with a nod.

Before long, the door from the sidewalk opened, and George Barbour appeared. He locked onto me from the moment he entered and started toward me with a purposeful stride. When he reached the table, he pulled out a chair opposite from me, and took a seat in it without asking permission. We knew each other.

George and his brother owned five or six trucks that they operated from a lot in St. Elmo. Rumor had it they made a fortune hauling scrap to the steel mill at Axis, but if that rumor was true, you couldn’t tell it from his appearance. Dressed in blue jeans, work shirt, and scuffed boots, he appeared like a regular guy.

Though we knew each other, we had never really talked much, except once when a friend of his was working off community service hours as part of the sentence in a criminal case. A conviction for shoplifting, I think. The friend was supposed to do the service hours by helping the volunteer fire company in Grand Bay but while he was there, he got caught stealing tools from one of the fire trucks. George and I had several conversations about that before we got it resolved. He was related to the chief of the fire department—I never understood how, precisely—but it took a while to convince him to let the guy go. I think George ended up paying the department to buy back the tools that had been taken.

That morning in the diner, George scooted his chair close to the table, propped his elbows on the tabletop and leaned toward me, then said in a low voice, My wife has a cousin named Willie Gene Doucet.

I recognized the name. One of the Doucets from Bayou la Batre?

Yeah. You know him?

Not him in particular. I didn’t know Willie Gene at all, but I knew plenty of Doucets and a lot about Bayou la Batre. Too much, in fact, and the mention of it brought back childhood memories, some of which I alluded to earlier.

When I was ten—and my brother was seven—our father unexpectedly died. Mama, never a strong person in her own right, was overwhelmed by the loss and turned to alcohol to escape the worries of raising two children alone. Often in a drunken haze, she was frequently gone for days at a time, leaving us to fend for ourselves. Then, she met a man at a truck stop in Loxley and we thought she was gone for good.

We stuffed all we could carry into a pillowcase and hitchhiked to Bayou La Batre, a fishing village on the coast south of Mobile, where we arrived unannounced at the home of our uncle, Guy Poiroux. He did his best for us, and we loved him for it, but our life with him was one of grueling work on oyster skiffs and shrimp boats.

All of that came flooding back to me as George took a seat across from me. I forced the memory from my mind and looked over at him. What’s up with Willie Gene? I asked.

He’s in jail, George replied.

How did that happen? He was going to tell me anyway, but I thought it polite to ask.

They have him charged with two counts of murder.

A frown wrinkled my forehead. Who do they think he killed?

George seemed unfazed by it. His wife and a man named Paul Elliot. He said it with a matter-of-fact tone. As if describing a load on one of his trucks.

What do they think happened? After years of hearing about other people’s trouble, the answer seemed obvious. Willie Gene found his wife with another man and, in a fit of anger and indignation, killed them both. Or so the police would say. Very few defendants ever admitted their crime.

In my experience, most people charged with a crime had done something wrong. It might not have been the crime they were accused of, but they’d done something wrong just the same. And nine times out of ten, they had a story already prepared about why they weren’t guilty. Because I always represented the defendant in those cases, I trained myself to give them the benefit of the doubt and let them have the dignity of their own delusions until closer to the first court date. And besides, according to the gamesmanship of the system, they weren’t guilty until a jury said so. That morning in the diner, I was sure George had a story about why Willie Gene wasn’t guilty of murder, so I let him tell it.

Supposedly she was having an affair with him, George explained. He had a questioning expression. Didn’t you read about it in the paper?

Mobile still had a printed newspaper, one of the few on the Gulf Coast, and now that he mentioned it, I seemed to recall reading about the incident. Sounds familiar, I replied. Someone found the bodies in a motel room in Irvington?

George nodded. If it was me, I would have unloaded the gun on her and let the man go, but that’s Willie Gene’s business. The tone in his voice and the look in his eye made it obvious he cared little for Willie Gene’s wife.

What do you need from me? I knew what he needed but I asked anyway.

I need you to represent him.

Does Willie Gene know you’re asking me? The choice of lawyer belongs to the defendant, regardless of who pays the fee, which I was sure was the reason George was talking to me.

Yes. George nodded. We told him we were coming to you with it.

And he’s okay with that?

He ain’t got much choice. George reached into the pocket of his blue jeans and pulled out a strap of hundred-dollar bills. That ought to get you started. He placed the money on the table and pushed it toward me.

I covered the money with my hand and drew it toward me. Have they set bail for him yet? I asked.

Yeah, George replied with a smirk. But I’m not posting bail. I’ll pay your fee because my wife wants to help him, but I’m not paying a dime to get him out of jail. He pushed back his chair from the table and stood. I don’t know how much of your time that money will buy, but when it runs out give me a call. Without waiting for a response, he strode to the door, jerked it open, and disappeared up the sidewalk. I put the money in the pocket of my jacket.

Not long after George was gone, the waitress appeared with my breakfast. I ate it in peace and wondered about Willie Gene and the things that might make a man do the things he was accused of doing. Most people could understand the emotion and maybe even sympathize with him, assuming he did what they said, but killing his wife and her paramour did nothing to address the problem. In fact, it only made matters worse. He could have divorced her with little effort and been rid of her. Depending on what they owned, evidence of her unfaithfulness would have assured she received almost nothing. Now, he was in jail facing the possibility of spending the remainder of his life in prison. Or worse. But I was thinking like a lawyer. Willie Gene, if he did what they said, wasn’t thinking that way.



After breakfast, I left the diner and walked back to the lobby of our building, then rode the elevator to the third floor. Myrtice Gordon, my receptionist, secretary, and legal assistant, was seated at her desk near the door when I arrived.

At seventy-five, she was long past retirement age, but she refused to quit. Always at her desk by eight-thirty each morning, she remained there until five-thirty each evening. A routine she had followed for thirty-four years. I hired her when I opened the practice. She was the only secretary I had ever had.

Good morning, Mrs. Gordon, I said as I passed her desk. Did you prepare those motions I left for you yesterday?

On your desk. She replied without looking up.

And the letters?

The question provoked a snarky response. Do you think I sit here wasting time when you aren’t around?

Just checking.

Well check yourself back to your desk and sign those papers so we can get them filed today.

I took the strap of hundred-dollar-bills that George Barbour had given me from my pocket and handed it to her. See if you can get that deposited today.

She took the money from me with a look of surprise. What’s this for?

The fee on a new case.

What case?

A murder case, I replied. Double murder, actually.

She looked disappointed. We need more civil cases, she groused. The kind with clients who pay by the hour. These criminal cases take twice as much time as we can bill for.

Well, this will have to do for now, I said.

Who’s the defendant?

Willie Gene Doucet.

She frowned. From Bayou La Batre?

You know him?

No. But I know they have lots of Doucets down there.

A grin lifted the corners of my mouth. I told George the same thing.

George?

George Barbour.

What’s he doing mixed up in this?

Willie Gene is his wife’s cousin.

She flipped the edges of the bills. This is a lot of money.

Make sure it gets to the bank.

Make sure you sign those pleadings, she called as I moved toward the hall.

Get to the bank.

Maybe now we can pay some of those bills you’ve been avoiding, she said.

I ignored her last comment and continued up the hallway toward my office. On the way I passed the break room. It had all the things one might expect—refrigerator, coffee maker, a shelf with cups and bowls. It also had one of those combination office machines—printer, scanner, and fax in a single unit. I had resisted getting it and had consistently turned away salesmen who tried to sell us one. Then a young female salesperson showed up with a hard luck story about a child and a divorce and how difficult it was to make ends meet. When she left, we had agreed to purchase one of the biggest machines the company offered.

Afterwards, when the monthly bills started to arrive, I accused Mrs. Gordon of tipping off the company to my predilection for helping people in trouble. And my appreciation of women. She denied it, of course, but I still believe that’s what happened. Regardless, though, it’s a good machine to have, and we topped it off with a wireless office system that connects everything to everything else. When people see it, they think we’re smart. Mrs. Gordon really is.

In my office, I took a seat at my desk and glanced over the papers stacked on it. Despite our move toward office interconnectivity, we still used those yellow preprinted forms for messages and a number of them lay conspicuously at the top of the stack. I flipped through them to see if any were urgent, then opened my laptop and checked the email.

Before I finished with that, Mrs. Gordon appeared at the doorway. How was Barbara last night?

Barbara was my ex-wife. Mrs. Gordon liked her more than she liked me and often asked about her, which I found both reassuring and aggravating. She’s fine, I replied.

Where did you take her for dinner?

The Silver King. It was a nice restaurant on the causeway at the northern end of the bay. One of those local favorites one might read about in a travel magazine. We’d been going there for years.

Mrs. Gordon frowned. You go there all the time.

It was her idea. She likes it. I noticed Mrs. Gordon didn’t reply immediately and I glanced in her direction, then noticed the look on her face. What?

You should never have let her do that. She meant the divorce. When it happened, Mrs. Gordon was as distraught about it as I was. Maybe even more. And though several years had passed since then, and even though Barbara and had I found our way back to each other, the whole thing was still a sore subject.

Not much I could do about that back then, I replied.

You could have treated her better.

We can’t change the past. I didn’t want to sound rude, but not a day had gone by that I didn’t beat myself up over it.

Well. She sighed. At least you’re headed in the right direction now.

Look, I said. I know you like her. I like her. Everybody likes her. But this thing between us has been going on for a long time and I really don’t know where it’s headed. Or whether we’ll ever get to anything more than what we have right now.

I know. She had an apologetic tone. But that’s just it. It’s been a long time. You don’t want her to think you’ll never … you know … do something about it.

Just don’t get your heart set on how this should turn out.

Mrs. Gordon folded her arms. Why not?

Because it may not work out.

Do you think getting back with her would be bad?

I think a lot has happened between us and while we care for each other, getting back into a permanent relationship is a really big deal right now.

Mrs. Gordon grinned. I think it’s already permanent.

She was right and hearing it from her provoked a smile, but I didn’t want to take the conversation any further. We have a lot to do today, Mrs. Gordon. I stood and came from behind the desk to collect my jacket from the chair by the door where I laid it when I came in. I’m going down to the jail to see Willie Gene Doucet.

Mrs. Gordon moved aside to let me pass. Think about someplace new for dinner next time.

Like where?

She followed me up the hall. I hear Kafana’s is nice.

That place on Halls Mill Road?

Yes.

We were at her desk by then and I paused to straighten my jacket. We’ll see, I said. Then I opened the door, stepped into the corridor, and was gone.

CHAPTER 2

The elevator seemed slower than usual that morning, but I decided long ago to avoid the stairs whenever possible. Using them made me sweat and most days it was hot enough already. No point in adding to it with extra exercise.

When I finally reached the lobby, I walked out front to the sidewalk where my car was parked. A 1959 Chrysler Imperial. I received it from a lady who lived on Japonica Street as part of my fee for settling her husband’s estate. It was one of my earliest cases and I remembered the experience fondly. The car ran well, too, and it had a cold air conditioner, which I valued more and more every day.

As I steered the car from the curb, I thought again about my conversation with Mrs. Gordon and her suggestion that Barbara and I should try a different restaurant. She had a point. Our dinners had been limited to only a few locations. Familiar places where the staff knew us and treated us like regulars. We seemed to like it that way. I know I did, and I thought Barbara did, too. But Mrs. Gordon mentioned Kafana’s. It was a nice restaurant. At least, the online reviews made it seem so. I had never eaten there and, as far as I knew, Barbra hadn’t either. Maybe we should give it a try. Perhaps we could use the occasion to discuss our relationship in greater detail. That was the other thing Mrs. Gordon was suggesting. That we should address the nature of our relationship in a direct manner. At least elevate the topic to a conversational level. Not to suggest anything definite, of course. Merely to float the idea.

That didn’t sound good, even as a thought rattling around in my head, and it made me grimace. I didn’t know much about women, but I knew Barbara wouldn’t want a subject as personal as our relationship floated as an item of conversation. That sort of thing required a decisive stance with a clear indication of commitment. And that was the irony of the whole thing. I would have married her that morning—re-married her, to be correct—but I wasn’t sure of her position on the subject and, given our history, the risk of proposing seemed too great. What if she said no? What if proposing and being turned down changed everything and she never wanted to see me again? I couldn’t stand it if that happened.

And that made me laugh right there in the car. Probably everyone who has ever known us knows how we feel about each other, I said to myself. But we never talk about it.

Kafana’s, maybe. As to the topic of our relationship—I would have to think about that. But there was little time to dwell on the subject further that morning. If news reports of the incident at the motel were correct, Willie Gene faced serious charges. He needed my full attention.

By then I was in front of the courthouse, and I decided to stop by the clerk’s office to check the court files on Willie Gene’s cases before seeing him at the jail. I parked out front and, with the car still running and the air conditioner blowing on high, used my phone to call Hollis Toombs. I would need his help with this case.

Hollis was a different sort. As an enlisted man in the Marine Corps, he survived three tours in Vietnam. After discharge, he came home to find his uncle had died and left him a shack in the swamp near Fowl River along with a few hundred acres of marsh. The bequest was unexpected and rankled several of Hollis’ cousins, who thought they should have received it. The cousins contested the uncle’s will, which is how Hollis and I became acquainted. I defended Hollis’ claim to the property and after we were successful, Hollis became my investigator. It began as a payment-in-kind arrangement—I helped him, he helped me—but he had long since settled any payback for my help on the issues with his uncle. Now, he did it for the thrill of having something to do, and for a nominal fee.