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Tillie’s sister had told them that Tillie had worked with Atta at a small hotel for a short time after she returned to the holler. Then they both quit. Figured they’d make more money cleaning houses, and for cash.
But someone might remember them. Have some information. Their hunt back in town had been a complete bust. No one would cough up a word about them other than they were good girls who worked hard and gave to charity and attended church on Sundays. Didn’t know anyone who’d want to hurt them, but best they let the holler folk handle it.
“You know,” John said as he strode to the front door, “if the holler did know who the killer is, he’d be dead. Their conversation wouldn’t be to let them take care of it but to move on, things had been dealt with and there would be nothing for us to do but go on ’bout our business.”
Asa grinned. “I hear the Hazard in you coming out.”
Like he often heard the Louisiana bayou dialect pop out of Asa. Not really Cajun, but it was a tone of its own, especially when he was frustrated. “I’m right though. They don’t have him. I don’t know if they know who’s doing it.”
“Then it’s a race to catch him first.”
“That it is. If they find him...we never will. That I can promise you.” They entered the lobby, and two customer service reps looked up with sunshine in their eyes.
Asa showed his creds. “I’m looking for anyone who might know Tillie LeBeau or Atta Atwater. They worked here about four years ago. Maid service.” He showed them photos on his phone.
“I remember Atta,” the lighter blonde said. “She was sweet. She was friends with Landra Robbins. Worked in housekeeping together.”
“Landra here today?”
The young woman nodded. “I can get her for you.” She picked up the phone, and about ten minutes later, a woman in her late twenties with jet black hair twisted in a bun and a housekeeping uniform stepped off the elevator with wary dark eyes.
Asa once again showed his creds and asked if they could sit and talk a moment, then they made their way to the lobby area table. “Sheila said this was about Atta. I saw the news. Didn’t really know Tillie.”
“We’re here about that,” Asa said.
“I thought for sure she’d end up dead, you know? But not by some serial killer. In the holler? How does that even happen?” Landra pursed her lips and shook her head. “I told her over and over she could get out. Do it on her own. I do. Work two jobs and have two kids because I refused to let a man put hands on me. Then she gets out and...this. Talk about being shortchanged.”
“Who put hands on her, Landra?” John asked. Why did Landra expect Atta to be killed?
“Her old man.”
John exchanged a glance with Asa. This was new. Nothing popped in the background check that she was married or divorced. “A name?”
“Bobby Lloyd. Atta said they were high-school sweethearts and eloped when she was seventeen. But he liked the sauce. She’d come in all bruised up. When she missed three days of work, I drove out to Night Holler. Found her place. She was seriously jacked up by him. Couldn’t get out of bed. She promised she’d leave him. But then she didn’t come back to work. That was last I heard. I tried to keep in touch but...you know how that goes.”
Not really.
John wasn’t sure her ex-husband was the Blind Eye Killer. Seemed like an impulsive, mean drunk. This killer was clever. He knew the holler, had taken the women’s eyes with some measure of skill and sewn their lids closed, was then able to transport them to the cave, which he was familiar with. Violet was right—he knew he had time to indulge in their fear before beating them within an inch of their lives then strangling them. The violence fit though.
“Can you tell us about Atta? About Bobby?”
Landra rubbed the hem of her apron between her index and thumb. “Atta was sweet and smart. I always told her she needed to get out of the holler and go to college. She laughed in my face.”
“Didn’t think that was an option? If she had wanted out, how would Bobby have felt about that?”
Landra low whistled. “I doubt Bobby would have liked that much. She buttered his bread. He drank more than he worked.”
“What about her brother? The pastor.” John wanted to know why big brother hadn’t intervened—or if he had.
“Atta wasn’t close with him. She went to church and all but...well, they didn’t see eye to eye on some things.”
“Do you know if he knew about Bobby’s beating on her?”
“I don’t know. Probably. She couldn’t hide the marks, and everyone knows everything up there. Trust me. It’s not like the police didn’t know,” she spat. “But all his cousin did was throw him in the drunk tank, dry him out. Atta knew he’d never be charged, and she’d never get to leave.” She checked her watch. “I really should be gettin’ on back to work.”
“Who’s Bobby Lloyd’s cousin?” John asked.
“I knew you’d ask that. I can’t remember. I think he’s a detective for Slate County.”
