Swamp Santa

by Jana DeLeon

  “Naturally. But they aren’t murderers and they would never do anything that could damage children. They’re big on family. And given what Santa did to Rollie, they’d already made up their minds on the sketchy part.”

  He sighed. “So how did you get from them doing you a favor to hiring you to investigate a murder? Where does covering their butts come in?”

  It was pointless to play dumb. Carter was not going to let this go and the reality was, the Heberts couldn’t care less if I told him what they’d hired me to do and the somewhat fake reason why. After all, they’d been doing me a favor. It was only a ‘real’ job in the legal sense of the word.

  “They knew Cooke,” I said, “and had used him for some side work. Mannie recognized the car and had the license plate on file from when they met. They have strict security at their office.”

  “I’m sure they do. So they hired Cooke for some stuff. Why does that matter?”

  “They want to know who they were associating with and what he was into. For reputation management, let’s call it.”

  “Potential damage control. You’re telling me they’re really worried about what other people might think because they hired some two-bit PI and he turned out to be shady? I’m sure they already knew he was shady or they wouldn’t have hired him.”

  “They hired me.”

  “You’re not exactly by the book.”

  “But no one’s looking to kill me.”

  “Give it time.” He shook his head. “So you want me to believe that you had nothing to do with the explosion at the motel Cooke was staying at?”

  “That’s exactly what I want you to believe. A motel? Really?”

  He nodded.

  “What exploded?”

  “A vending machine.”

  “So tell me how I would get the name of the motel Cooke was holed up in from his license plate? If I was reading you correctly earlier, you didn’t even get Cooke’s name from the license plate.”

  His jaw flexed and I knew I was right. Which meant that I had no way of knowing where Cooke was based on his license plate alone. And that was all he thought I had.

  “Maybe the Heberts knew where he was staying,” Carter said.

  “Why would they? He wasn’t working for them at the time and hasn’t in a while, according to what they told me. So unless he’s always lived at that motel, they wouldn’t have cause to know about it. Did you find out how long he’d been there?”

  “Two weeks.”

  I put my hands up. “Then I don’t know what to tell you. This is Louisiana. Sinful is not the only place where weird things happen and Gertie is definitely not the only person walking around with explosives. There’s probably far more people than either of us want to know about with explosives shoved in their purse or tackle box or on their person.”

  He sighed.

  “Besides,” I said, “blowing up a vending machine sounds like something kids or someone on drugs and with the munchies would do. If Gertie did it, she would have been in the middle of the mix collecting candy. I saw her trip a woman at church last month when she went for the last bag of M&M’s in the leftover Halloween candy jar.”

  “You won’t drop this case with the Heberts?” he asked.

  “No. They hired me to look into things and given the circumstances, I think they have legitimate concerns. Quite frankly, so do I. If Cooke was as shady as it appears, then whoever he was looking for might be in a mess of trouble. Because I seriously doubt someone of Cooke’s caliber was working for law enforcement. Shady PI. Shady client.”

  Carter didn’t say anything but his silence implied his agreement.

  “Let me make it clearer,” I said. “Someone is stalking a Sinful resident and they were using Cooke to do it.”

  “We don’t know that it’s a stalker situation.”

  “Why don’t we? Cooke was looking for someone and clearly that person did not wish to be found. Killing someone sends a strong message. If he was working for an attorney looking for an heir to a fortune or perhaps a Publishers Clearing House winner, I don’t think the outcome would have been the same.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “That someone in Sinful might be in danger. Cooke was a hired gun. He’s easy enough to replace.”

  “Someone in Sinful is also a murderer.”

  He said it quietly and I could hear the exhaustion in his voice. It had been a rough year for Carter. Too many violent crimes had come home to roost. He was tired of looking for a killer among the people he’d been raised around.

  “If the person Cooke was looking for knew enough to kill him,” he said, “then they know enough to clear town so whoever is after them can’t find them here.”

  “But if they disappeared, especially right before Christmas, wouldn’t that be the same as painting ‘I did it’ on Main Street? Might as well just fill out their own arrest warrant.”

  “So let’s just say you figure out who that person is. What do you plan on doing about it?”

  “I want to know why. And I want you to arrest them.”

  “Even if someone paid Cooke to hunt them down like a wild animal?”

  “Yes. Cooke might have been shady but we don’t know what he was told by his client, either. He might not have known what he was getting in the middle of. Although it sounds like he was the kind of man who would have taken the job even if he’d known.”

  “Probably true enough.”

  “So do you know who he was looking for?”

  “No.”

  I nodded. I already knew he was telling the truth because he didn’t get more out of Cooke’s room than I did. And it would take time for the computer guys to run down anything. Assuming they could to begin with. Most people up to no good were smart enough to create fake email and reroute the IP address in order to remain anonymous online. Even if they identified the real source of origin for those emails, it could end up being a library or a Starbucks or even someone parked in a neighborhood where people who were foolish enough to have unsecured networks lived.

  “I don’t want this to be a problem with us,” I said. “Not now and not in the future. But I don’t see any way around the situation and it’s bound to come up again. Probably far more often than either of us would like. So is your problem really with me working this case or is it because of my clients?”

  “I can’t champion the Heberts or your involvement with them, but my bigger problem is that someone was desperate enough to kill a man at a public event. How do you think they’ll handle you if they find out you’re onto them?”

  “More bodies mean more clues, right?”

  He frowned.

  “Too soon?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

  “Probably. But what a way to go.”

  Chapter Nine

  Main Street was a madhouse. We had to park one block over because the street was blocked off for the sleigh ride and then walk over to the chaos. A line of trailers attached to horses and four-wheelers stretched single file down the center of the street and people milled around, chatting. The kids all clustered around the horses.

  We checked in with Marie Chicoron, one of Ida Belle and Gertie’s oldest friends and Sinful’s current mayor, and she gave them their assignments. Gertie was the storyteller in the second trailer. Ida Belle was driving the four-wheeler pulling the third trailer. She grumbled a little about not being first, but my guess was they had stuffed her in the middle to keep her from taking the kids on a Daytona 500 sleigh ride.

  “There’s Dorothy,” Ida Belle said. “We should try to talk to her now.”

  “But I don’t want to,” Gertie said. “Dorothy’s a—”

  “We already know that,” Ida Belle said. “But if we talk to her here then we don’t have to go to her house and take her a food offering.”

  Gertie perked up. “If I don’t have to give that witch one of my casseroles, then I’m all for it.”

  We headed ov
er and Dorothy frowned as she saw us approaching. “What do you three want? I was rather hoping after that Christmas program debacle, you’d all stay at home.”

  “Technically, I had nothing to do with the debacle,” I said. “Neither did Ida Belle.”

  “You encourage that one,” Dorothy said, and pointed to Gertie.

  “You’d be surprised to know just how inaccurate that statement is,” I said. “But that’s another conversation. Right now, we were hoping you could tell us about what happened in the cafeteria before Santa kicked off.”

  Dorothy drew her head up and looked down her nose at me. “That’s hardly appropriate terminology for a man’s death.”

  “You can say ‘kicked off,’” Gertie said. “They’re not curse words.”

  “You don’t curse?” I asked Dorothy.

  “It’s illegal to curse in public during the month of December,” Gertie said.

  “Of course it is,” I said. “Anyway, did you talk to Santa?”

  “No,” Dorothy said. “I was busy with setup and of course, I thought it was Rollie, so speaking wasn’t necessary or desired. By him, I mean.”

  “So who directed him to his area?” Ida Belle asked.

  “I think it was Megan Prejean,” Dorothy said, then narrowed her eyes. “Why are you asking all these questions? You’re not going to stick your nose into police business again, are you? Because I’m not helping you with that.”

  “I spent most of last night in the ER,” Ida Belle said. “All because I gave a man who’d been poisoned mouth-to-mouth. I could have died as well. Let’s just say I have a burning desire to know who could have killed me.”

  Dorothy’s eyes widened. “That imposter was poisoned?”

  “Yes,” Ida Belle said. “Which is why Carter rousted me at an indecent hour and hauled me to the ER.”

  “I’d heard you went to the ER,” Dorothy said, “but no one seemed to know why exactly. I just figured it was old age.”

  I held in a grin. Even when outraged, Dorothy still had no problem getting in a dig.

  “Nope,” Ida Belle said. “It was being a good citizen and Christian that sent me there.”

  At the word ‘Christian,’ Dorothy drew herself up. “Well, that’s just wrong. For goodness’ sake, we spend all this time in church hearing about how we’ve got to help others, then you do it and this happens.”

  “It is wrong,” I agreed. “Which is why we’re trying to figure out why it happened. We have to assume that man was looking for someone who didn’t want to be found, otherwise why hide behind a Santa costume? But what if he’s not the only one? What if the next one comes calling and things go south again? I don’t want the next good citizen to end up in the morgue instead of the ER.”

  “Neither do I!” Dorothy said, getting worked up. “This whole thing is simply outrageous.”

  “So did you see anyone else talk to Santa?” I asked. “Maybe give him something to drink or eat?”

  “I see where you’re going with this,” Dorothy said. “But unfortunately, I can’t help. I didn’t see anyone speaking to him after Megan pointed out his spot. I think he might have helped himself to some punch but that couldn’t have been what poisoned him or we’d have had a mass murder on our hands.”

  She scrunched her brow. “I did overhear him on his phone.”

  “Did you hear what he was saying?” I asked.

  “Yes. He said, ‘I think I found him.’ Then he said ‘You heard me right. Let me make sure and I’ll get back with you.’”

  “You’re sure about that?’” I asked.

  “Positive,” Dorothy said. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I mean, that conversation could have been about anything. But then, I also thought it was Rollie.”

  “You didn’t realize the voice was wrong?” I asked.

  She frowned. “You know, I guess I didn’t. He must have sounded enough like Rollie that I didn’t notice. Or maybe I was so busy I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

  “Did you hear anything else?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said. “I was called over to help get the snowflakes hanging right shortly after and that was on the other side of the room. I didn’t venture back that direction until all the trouble happened.”

  “Can you tell us who else was working the cafeteria when Santa was there?” I asked.

  She nodded and rattled off the names we had already gotten from Beatrice and added one we didn’t have.

  “Seth Prejean brought their baby in while we were setting up. Myrna was preparing to do those cute paintings on the kids’ cheeks. Both he and Zach Vincent had her do their babies before grabbing something to eat. Probably smart, as Myrna had a long line after the show.”

  Ida Belle nodded. “The face painting was a big hit. I heard she worked the Mudbug festival as well. We’re lucky to have her in Sinful now.”

  “We certainly are,” Dorothy said. “Especially as she’s a good Catholic. Now, if that’s all, I’d like to get back to my duties and try to wash all this sordid business from my mind.”

  Without even waiting for an answer, she headed off toward a table set up with armbands to give to the kids to indicate which trailer they would ride on.

  “Well, that just muddied the waters even more,” Ida Belle said. “It sounds like Cooke found whoever he was looking for. Or at least, thought he did.”

  “Assuming Dorothy got the conversation right,” I said.

  “Dorothy’s a pain in the butt, but her hearing’s just fine,” Gertie said.

  I shook my head. “I guess we have to assume Cooke was poisoned before he had time to verify and call back. I’m sure Carter will trace the calls on Cooke’s phone, but I doubt that will go anywhere.”

  “Probably a burner,” Gertie said.

  “We are getting nowhere fast,” I said.

  “We might get some help soon,” Ida Belle said. “I’ve got a line on getting that email account traced.”

  “Really?” I perked up. “I figured it would take one of those cyber geniuses in order to figure out anything.”

  “We have one,” Ida Belle said. “The Sorcerer has reappeared.”

  “That’s great!” I said.

  The Sorcerer was one of Ida Belle’s online gaming buddies. He was maybe ten years old and so smart he scared the daylights out of me. He owned a huge plantation home in Mudbug and lived there with his parents, who I gather were allowed to be there because he still needed help with life things—like laundry and cooking and reaching the top shelf in the pantry. He’d helped us with a previous problem and had disappeared shortly after. Speculation was that the government had nabbed him and given his ability, it wouldn’t have surprised me. Quite frankly, what surprised me more was that they gave him back.

  If anyone could track down the origin of the emails, it would be the Sorcerer.

  “Where has he been?” Gertie asked.

  Ida Belle shrugged. “He hasn’t said and no one will ask. I think the gamers are afraid to know.”

  “They’re probably thinking they might get a knock at their own door by the Men in Black,” Gertie said.

  “That’s only for aliens,” I said. “Which, come to think of it, the Sorcerer might be.”

  Gertie’s eyes widened. “You can verify the Men in Black are alien hunters?”

  “She’s joking,” Ida Belle said. “I’m sure if our government has alien hunters, they’re not letting the CIA in on it. You know how law enforcement agencies are—all peeing on their territory.”

  “God, isn’t that the truth,” I said.

  “Carter give you a hard time?” Ida Belle asked.

  “Yeah, but he’ll get over it,” I said. “I think he’s more frustrated by who my clients are than the actual case.”

  “He really needs to get over this issue he has with the Heberts,” Gertie said. “They’re not going anywhere and they like you. There’s a lot worse positions to be in where they’re concerned.”

  “I don�
�t think he’s worried about them setting me up or anything,” I said. “More like he doesn’t like them hiring me because he’s afraid it fulfills my wishes and entertains them.”

  “Which is exactly what they did,” Gertie said.

  “Probably,” I said. “I mean, that’s mostly it, I’m sure. But they do get their back up when things get too out of line in their neck of the woods. And this is the definition of out of line.”

  “That’s true,” Ida Belle said. “Hey, there’s Myrna and Becca.”

  “Cool,” I said as we headed that direction. “I wanted to ask Becca about the break-in as well.”

  Chapter Ten

  Becca was the photographer from Mudbug and according to Ida Belle and Gertie, Myrna—the face painter—was her mother and lived in Sinful. I’d seen Myrna around town before. She was your typical classic Southern grandmother-looking type. Sixtyish. A bit of extra weight. Colored her short hair a slightly unnatural brown and picked it out in that kinda poufy thing that so many women her age seemed to favor. But I didn’t know Becca at all, so I gave her a good look as we approached.

  Thirtyish. Five foot seven. One hundred thirty pounds. Needed some more muscle mass. Right forearm had been broken in the past year or so. No threat unless she had her camera pointed at me when I was doing something I shouldn’t.

  Myrna was helping Becca with her equipment and smiled as we approached. “Hello, ladies,” she said.

  “Hello,” Ida Belle said. “Have you met our friend Fortune?”

  Myrna extended her hand. “Not officially, but I’ve heard a lot about her.”

  “Don’t believe everything Celia says,” I said.

  “I don’t believe most of what Celia says,” Myrna said. “And this is my daughter, Becca. Becca, this is Ida Belle, Gertie, and Fortune. Ida Belle is in charge of things from the Baptist perspective. Celia hates her.”

  Becca looked up from her equipment bag and gave us all a smile. “Then I’m sure I like you. Nice to meet you all. Please excuse me if I keep working. I was running late and need to get these lenses in order so I can get night shots.”

  “Go right ahead,” Ida Belle said. “We’re the ones interrupting.”