Louisiana Longshot Read online

  Fake hair? Fake nails? Someone touching my feet? Oh, God, they were going to paint my toenails pink, weren’t they?

  I groaned and placed my head on the table, covering it with my arms. This was going to be even harder than the time I killed that drug lord with a Tic Tac.

  And not nearly as satisfying.

  Chapter Two

  On a hot and humid Saturday evening, I stepped off the bus in Sinful, Louisiana, and was fairly certain I’d gone straight to hell. Forrest Gump had gotten it all wrong. Life wasn’t a box of chocolates. It was a box of ex-lax, and I felt like I’d consumed the entire thing.

  I stared down Main Street and grimaced. It was a cross between a Thomas Kinkade painting and a horror movie. A pretty, pink store with lacy-looking trim sat at the end of town. Pots of flowers rested along the sidewalk in front of the store. The sign in the window read, You Kill ’em—We’ll Stuff ’em. A giant deer head with crossed eyes hung next to the entry.

  The shop next to it was all brick, painted pale blue with navy edging. No potted plants there, but ivy with cute, little white flowers grew up the front of the building to a terrace on the second floor. The sign in that building’s window had an arrow pointing to the pink store and read, Give ’em the Skin—Give Us the Meat. I hoped to God it was a butcher shop.

  “Here’s your luggage, ma’am.” The voice of the bus driver sounded behind me and shook me out of my Alice in Wonderland moment. I looked back at the two bright pink suitcases with silver, tinsel tassels and choked back a wave of nausea. While I’d been tortured by the women at that salon, Harrison had been sent luggage shopping. This was his final parting shot.

  I’d have rather it came from his nine millimeter.

  I thanked the bus driver and handed him a big tip. If I never returned from here, I needed someone to remember where they’d seen me last. I extended the roller bar for the large case and placed the smaller one on top of it, trying not to notice my long, painted nails. I’d asked for black polish, but Morrow had called ahead and warned them. They’d offered me wine and little froufrou cakes and thought they’d get me to go along with “Delicate Mauve” or “Sunshine Tangerine,” but I was onto them. We finally compromised on “Ravishing Red,” a shade I picked because it was the exact color of freshly-spilled blood.

  I pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of my ghastly purple suit and studied the directions. My “great-aunt’s” house was probably a mile from here, which wouldn’t have been a problem under normal circumstances. Under normal circumstances, I’d single-handedly overturned dictatorships in less than a mile. But in a linen suit, in the dead heat of Louisiana, and wearing high heels, I’d be lucky to make it down Main Street without stabbing myself with that deer head’s antlers just to end it all.

  Sighing, I grabbed the handle of my luggage. I managed two steps before my ankle twisted and the heel broke right off the damned shoe. Two hundred dollars for that piece of crap. I didn’t even want to think about the silencer I’d been looking at for less than that, or the black market grenades I could have added to my illegal collection.

  I picked up the broken heel, pulled off both shoes and chucked them into a stream of dirty water that ran the length of the town behind the kill-’em-and-eat-’em shops. Yet another pair of fancy, overpriced shoes that Hadley would never get to wear.

  “I’d hate to see you arrested for polluting the bayou your first day in town,” a man’s voice sounded behind me.

  I whirled around, angry that someone had managed to get so close to me and I hadn’t even been aware of his existence. The fact that he was driving a huge truck with obscenely large tires just reinforced my belief that after five minutes in Louisiana, I’d already lost my edge.

  I gave the man a quick assessment—mid-thirties, six foot two, about twelve percent body fat and has a blind spot forty-five degrees off center in his left eye. A weakness I could capitalize on.

  “Polluting?” I inquired. “I just increased the value of that mud stream.”

  He smiled—one of those patronizing, fake smiles that men used only on what they mistakenly assumed was the weaker sex. “That mud stream feeds half the people in this town.”

  “I’m on a diet.”

  “You must be Marge Boudreaux’s niece.”

  It took me a moment to realize that the “Boo-drow” that came out of his mouth equaled the “Boudreaux” I’d read in the obituary, but I’d never have gotten that right. “Yes.”

  “Bet you’re wondering how I knew.”

  “Well, the whole town is probably comprised of fifteen people and whatever they shot yesterday, and since none of them walk down Main Street with pink luggage—at least I hope not—I’m not exactly amazed that you realized I was a stranger.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Marge described you as a lot nicer. Guess she meant compared to her. Well, since you’re here...and barefoot, I’ll be happy to give you a lift. That gravel is rough on the feet.”

  I looked down at the road, realizing for the first time that I wasn’t standing on pavement. Instead, my feet were firmly planted on some strange mixture of dirt and shells. Thank God that pedicure hadn’t made pansies out of my feet. “I’m fine, really.”

  He didn’t look the least bit convinced, but apparently figured he’d done his southern duty. “Okay. Well, see you around.” He pulled away, the ridiculously huge tires of his truck stirring up more dust than a desert storm.

  For a shot of whiskey and a pair of combat boots, I’d have grabbed the tailgate of Bubba’s truck and rode my luggage to the other side of town. But then that might have stood out. Likely, librarian ex-beauty queens didn’t ride luggage.

  Twenty minutes later, I strolled up the walkway of my new residence. It was a huge Victorian, and I sighed in relief that it was painted a sensible navy blue and contained no flowers in pots or in the front landscape that I’d likely kill. Now if only the inside was fern- and ivy-free, I was in business.

  Fifteen more steps and I could get inside, out of public view, change into normal clothes and wait until midnight to burn the luggage in the backyard. I could already smell the smoke. But when I placed one foot on the porch, the front door opened and a little, white-haired, old lady stepped out.

  Five foot two, a hundred and ten pounds with the purse, older than Christ, too many weak points to name.

  “You must be Sandy-Sue.” The woman stepped forward to clutch my hands. “I’m so happy to finally meet you. I was afraid your bus had been delayed.”

  “Nope. Right on time.” Like rushing toward death.

  “Wonderful. I’m Gertie Hebert, one of your aunt’s oldest friends.”

  I nodded. The emphasis was on old.

  Gertie reached into a huge handbag that looked like it was made from tapestry and dug out a Baggie. “Caroline had a chicken incident over at her place and didn’t get to making the welcome basket, so I had to improvise.” She held out the Baggie. “Prune?”

  “Maybe later,” I said. Like when I’m ninety.

  “Well, then come on inside and meet Bones. Maybe we can dig you a pair of shoes out of that interesting luggage of yours. You know, women haven’t been required to go barefoot in Sinful for at least forty years.”

  I stared. “Are they still required to be pregnant?”

  Gertie waved a hand in dismissal. “Only if you were born on the first Tuesday of the crawfish festival, and then only if there was a full moon. But there’s probably an exception with you being from out of town and all.” She turned around and entered the house.

  For the first time in my life, I felt a small tremor of fear trickle down my spine. I’d obviously crossed into enemy territory, and darned if I hadn’t tossed my only weapons in that muddy water.

  I stepped inside the house, relieved that there weren’t a bunch of antiques or glass sitting around and surprised by the understated furniture and light tan walls. Not a tassel or bit of lace in sight. I just might be able to manage this.

  “This is pleasant,” I
said.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Yes—No…Well, I figured, given that the rest of the town looks like a pastel painting…”

  Gertie nodded. “You know Marge wasn’t exactly a follower. She didn’t like gardening or cleaning, so she wasn’t about to have ‘shit that needed watering or dusting’ around her place.” Gertie grinned. “Marge was a bit of a feminist. Ahead of her time, really, but then I’m not telling you anything new.”

  I felt my spirits rise a bit. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t turn out to be awful.

  “I made coffee,” Gertie went on as she waved for me to follow her down a hallway off the front living area. “Marge was always worried about you, dear.”

  “Me?” I walked through a doorway behind Gertie and stopped short to look at the bright, sunny kitchen. The walls were painted off-white; the cabinets were oak and real hardwood, not the fake crap like I had in my apartment back in D.C. Miles of granite countertops covered the cabinets forming an L shape around the kitchen area.

  “Yes, dear,” Gertie poured a cup of coffee and sat it on the countertop in front of me, then placed a wooden box of sugar and cream next to the coffee.

  I ignored the sweetener, took a big sip of the coffee, and sighed with pleasure. Gertie made coffee that would strip paint off a bumper.

  Gertie watched me for a moment, then poured herself a cup of coffee. “Marge was concerned that you wouldn’t live up to your potential as a woman. She thought you had some old-fashioned ideas.” Gertie looked at the unused sweetener, then back at me, and smiled. “Maybe she was wrong.”

  Uh-oh. I scrambled for an explanation. I hadn’t even been in Louisiana thirty minutes and already someone was onto me. If I couldn’t fool Mother Time, how was I supposed to fool anyone else? “My, uh, mother, had a different view of things than Aunt Marge.”

  Gertie nodded in understanding. “And you did what good daughters do and went along with her. Of course, dear, I understand that completely. My mother had ideas of her own, too. I was a constant trial to her.”

  “You? What in the world did you do?”

  “I didn’t get married and give her grandchildren. Why that was a mortal sin to Mother. A woman who couldn’t find a man was to be pitied.”

  “You don’t strike me as someone I should pity.”

  Gertie’s eyes twinkled. “Smartest thing I ever did was not have a man. I’ve had seventy-two years of doing what I please.” She patted my hand. “You and I are going to get along just fine.”

  I felt a shift somewhere in the universe, and smiled at Gertie. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad after all. I was just about to ask for a second cup of coffee when a lump of blankets in the corner of the kitchen shifted and rose from the box they were in. I barely kept myself from reaching for the weapon that wasn’t there and instead pointed to the corner.

  Gertie glanced at the box, then the clock. “Five p.m. on the dot. Time for Bones to get some exercise.” Gertie walked over to the corner and pulled the blankets off the box. Finally, a hound dog’s head emerged. He stared at me for a moment, and I wondered if he was a trained attack dog, but when he took the first shaky step out of the box, I realized the dog was old.

  “I guess I know why they call him Bones,” I said, taking in his thin, bony frame.

  “Oh, that’s not why,” Gertie said. “He was a magnificent piece of hound in his day, but Bones is getting up there.” She opened a door at the back of the kitchen and the dog strolled outside. Gertie motioned to me and we stepped out behind him.

  Bones did the whole sniffing routine at the edge of the bushes, then leaned against the side of the back porch to prop himself up and hike a leg. The necessary business completed, he then headed toward the dirty stream that ran across the back of the lawn.

  “Is that the same dirty water running through town?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s Sinful Bayou. Creates a bit of a problem with mosquitoes, and snakes but alligators rarely come into the lawns, so you probably won’t have to worry about that.”

  Oh goody. I might not have to kill anything my entire visit.

  Bones waded at the edge of the bayou and stood there as if he were soaking his feet. His head was down, with his nose close to the surface, but he wasn’t drinking. Thank goodness. Lord only knew what was in that water besides my shoes.

  Gertie frowned. “There he goes again. That dog.”

  “What’s he doing?” I asked, just as Bones began to dig. “Is he going to be all right? He looks like he’s going to drop any minute.” The dog wobbled like a drunk, throwing water and dirt around him at a faster pace than I would have thought him capable of.

  Gertie waved a hand in dismissal. “He does it all the time. Tracks mud everywhere.”

  All of a sudden, he stopped and put his nose right up to the surface of the water, then completely submerged his head in the murky mess. A couple of seconds later, his head popped up with a large white object in his mouth. Looking extraordinarily pleased with himself, he trotted back to where we stood, dropped the object at our feet, and shook bayou water on us.

  I put one hand up to shield my face and looked down as Bones dropped on his belly and began gnawing on one corner of the object. “Gertie? That’s a bone.”

  Gertie lowered her hand and looked down at the hound. “Well, of course it is. We had to install cement footers around the entire cemetery because of that dog. How do you think he got his name?”

  I narrowed my eyes at the object between Bones’ paws, making certain my initial thought was correct. “You sure those footers went around the entire cemetery?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Because that bone is human.”

  Chapter Three

  Gertie stared at the bone, then back up at me, and for a moment, I was afraid the prunes were going to repeat on her. The color drained from her face and she whispered, “What do we do?”

  “Did you kill him?”

  Gertie's eyes widened and she sucked in a breath. “Lord no! I…I don't…I can't…”

  “Then we call the police. You have police here in Mayberry, right?”

  “Of course. We have the sheriff and a deputy.”

  “Then let's head inside and dial them up.”

  “What about the...you know? We can't just let Bones keep gnawing on it. I mean, that's someone's family.”

  I took a look at the hound, who was stretched out on the lawn, gnawing the bone in slow motion and about to nod off to sleep. “I don't think he's going to do much damage. He probably doesn't even have any teeth left.”

  Gertie didn't look convinced, but she trailed after me as I headed back inside the house. I located the phone at one end of the kitchen counter and passed it over to Gertie, then proceeded to fix myself another cup of coffee. It was going to be a long evening.

  Gertie took the phone, then bit her lower lip. “Maybe I should call Ida Belle.”

  I paused before taking a sip of coffee and looked over the cup at Gertie. “Your sheriff's name is Ida Belle?”

  “Of course not. Robert E. Lee has been the sheriff here forever.”

  I blinked. Surely she meant figuratively. “So why would you call this Ida Belle before you called the sheriff?”

  “Ida Belle is the president of the Sinful Ladies Society.”

  I waited a couple of seconds for more information, but apparently Gertie thought that one sentence had explained it all. “So, this Ida Belle will call the sheriff—measure the bone for a slipcover…or what?”

  “Ida Belle will do whatever is necessary. The Sinful Ladies Society has been running Sinful since the sixties. I know the mayor likes to think he and the city council have a say, but everyone's just humoring them.”

  “Of course,” I said, even though I had absolutely no idea what was going on in this town. “Maybe call the sheriff first, then Ida Belle. Keep up the illusion for the men?”

  Gertie nodded. “That's a sound plan. Keeping men in line requires a delicate
balance.”

  She started pressing numbers on the phone, then paused. “I'm wondering…why did you ask me if I'd killed that person?”

  “Because I needed to know whether to call the police or help you hide the body.”

  Gertie's face cleared in understanding and she smiled. “Of course.”

  I didn't know whether to be relieved or afraid.

  ***

  Apparently, Tuesday afternoons were a hotbed of criminal activity for Sinful, so we had to wait almost an hour before the sheriff showed up. He looked nothing like the pictures of Robert E. Lee from my history books, but he did ride up on a horse. Ida Belle, on the other hand, had shown up within minutes, her white hair wrapped around giant rollers and covered with a bright green scarf that clashed with her purple robe and pink slippers.

  She’d asked to see the bone, which was still out back next to the now-sleeping hound dog, and after a brief look, exchanged a glance with Gertie that seemed to convey an entire conversation I wasn’t privy to.

  “But—” Gertie began.

  Ida Belle lifted a hand to cut her off. “Not now. I need to take these rollers out of my hair and get some blood flowing back to my head. Then I’ll be able to think clearly.”

  “Of course,” Gertie said.

  “Tonight,” Ida Belle said and spun around on her pink slippers and exited the lawn by a hedge on the side that she’d walked through earlier.

  “What’s tonight?” I asked.

  “Oh, er…nothing, really. We just meet sometimes—the society ladies, that is.”

  I studied Gertie for a moment, intrigued by her sudden discomfort. She hadn’t seemed the least bit disturbed by the discovery of the bone, and her call to the sheriff had lacked any of the normal drama that would have been present in most people. But a mere glance from a five-foot-two ancient woman, with a slight limp and wearing a bathrobe had her unnerved.

  “What exactly do you do at these meetings?”