Case of the Ragin' Cajun

by Jeffrey Poole

  The four of us leapt to our feet.

  “Where?” Vance demanded. His phone was out and he was furiously typing out a text message.

  “I don’t see him now. He could have been … there he is! Do you see him? He’s behind that group of tourists. I think … I think he’s wearing the same outfit from earlier. Why he’d be wearing the same freakin’ thing, I can’t say.”

  I spotted him moving purposefully through the crowd of people. He had to be at least two hundred feet away, and gaining. I caught a flash of the guy’s hair. Yes, his hair was red, and they were dreadlocks!

  “Follow him!” Vance cried, as he threw a fistful of bills on the cheque our waiter had just dropped off a few minutes ago.

  “Call it in!” I said, as I hurriedly snatched up Sherlock and Watson’s leashes. “We can’t let him get away!”

  FIVE

  “We let him get away,” I groaned, miserably, nearly thirty minutes later. “How is that even possible?”

  “I’ll tell you how it’s possible,” Vance began, and hooked a thumb at the sea of people filling the street. “There are just too many flippin’ people out there.”

  I grinned and turned to my friend. “Flippin’? You watch your language, young man.”

  Vance gave me a sheepish smile. “I’m really trying to cut down on the profanity. Do you know how much money I’ve personally had to add to the swear jar in my house?”

  Tori laughed. “It’s a lot.”

  “On the verge of being able to buy their own brand-new phones,” Vance grumbled.

  “You have no one to blame but yourself,” Tori scolded. “Besides, Vicki and Tiffany really appreciate your contributions.”

  “I’ll bet they do,” Vance pouted. “Oh, son of a … here comes Detective Martins …”

  “And his shadow,” I added, catching sight of his consultant, bringing up the rear.

  “… and we have nothing good to tell them. That’s just peachy.”

  “Detective Samuelson,” Martins said, by way of greeting.

  “Detective Martins,” Vance returned.

  “Our person-of-interest managed to slip away,” Detective Martins glumly reported. “I have five patrolmen scouring the area, but so far, there have been no further sightings.”

  “I still say he’s holed up somewhere,” Vance said, looking back at the many shops lining St. Peter Street. “He’s there, just biding his time. I swear it.”

  “For the record,” the New Orleans detective said, “I believe you. But, until he surfaces again, we simply don’t have the manpower to search each and every one of those addresses.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you see him again, you have my number,” Detective Martins said. “Call me at any time.”

  “Will do. I appreciate it.”

  Once the detective was gone, Vance let out a groan. “Man, that ticks me off. I haven’t lost a person in years. Years! Yet it happened, right under my nose.”

  “It’s not your fault, pal,” I pointed out. “Not even the dogs could follow him. There were just too many people out there.”

  “We’ll find him again,” Jillian assured him.

  My cell phone chose that time to start ringing. It was a generic ring, which meant the caller wasn’t among my list of contacts.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Anderson? Zack? It’s Richard.”

  “Hey there, Richard. Dare I ask what’s up? What can I do for you?”

  “It’s funny you should say it like that,” Richard slowly began. “I, that is to say, we at MCU have a request for you.”

  I nodded. A request. That was much better than trying to have them believe they could order me around.

  “What’s on your mind?” I cheerfully inquired. But, I will also mention that it felt like my guard was now up.

  “Have you ever heard of Charlie Goodman?”

  “I can’t say that I have, Richard. Who is he?”

  “She, actually. It’s short for Charlene. Anyway, Charlie Goodman is a very well-known New Orleans podcaster, with thousands of followers. She had a last-minute cancellation on her show for tonight, and once we told her you were available, she jumped at the chance to have you as a guest.”

  “A podcast,” I repeated. “There’s something I haven’t considered in a while.”

  “You’ve been on one before?” Richard asked. “I’m surprised that I didn’t know that.”

  “It was before I signed with MCU,” I explained. “It was years ago. I participated in a self-help for authors podcast. I really wasn’t a fan of it.”

  “Would you be interested in doing this one?” Richard hopefully asked.

  I briefly entertained the notion of turning him down, but then again, I don’t think I have ever had a disagreement with MCU before. I didn’t want any hard feelings, so, I suppose a little bit of appreciation couldn’t hurt.

  “Sure, I’ll do it, Richard. Just tell me where it’s being held, and what time I need to be there.”

  “Awesome! You rock, Zack! All right, do you have a pen? I’ll give you the address.”

  Tucking the sheet of paper with the address into my pocket, I promised to be at Charlie’s place at the duly-designated time. I just had to find out when her show was taking place.

  “At six p.m. tonight.”

  “Uh, Richard?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you happen to see what time it is now?”

  “Yep. It’s 3:45 p.m. That’ll give you just over two hours to get there.”

  “Richard?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re in Los Angeles, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m currently in Louisiana. What time zone do you think it is here?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Central?”

  “Correct. So, what does that make the current time?”

  “Let’s see, it would be … oh, no. It’s nearly 5:45 pm! How the heck did I miss that? Well, shoot. I suppose we could …”

  I flagged down the nearest taxi and showed the driver the address.

  “How quickly can you get me there?”

  A smiling black man glanced at the paper and nodded. “That’s in the Garden district, uptown. It’s about ten blocks away. I’ll get you there in less than ten minutes, sir.”

  “Richard? Did you catch all that?”

  “You bet I did. I owe you big, my friend.”

  “I wonder how long he’s known about this podcast,” Jillian quietly asked.

  “MCU just now asked me to call,” Richard said, overhearing Jillian’s question.

  “It’s short notice,” I admitted, “but we can make it.” Richard forgot that I’m currently two hours ahead of him.

  “Vance? Tori? Listen, we have to run. My publisher has set up a podcast I’m going to be on nearby. You guys shouldn’t have to be subjected to that, so I’ll do it on my own. Do you think you guys will be okay?”

  Vance waved us off. “No worries, pal. We’ll head back to the hotel. I was just thinking I’d like to go over my notes.”

  “At the pool, right?” Tori asked, raising an eyebrow. “You read your notes at the pool so I can go for a swim.”

  Thanking our friends, the two of us each grabbed a dog and hurried into the back of the waiting cab. Once we were on our way, I turned to Jillian and shook my head.

  “I have no idea how long this is going to last. For all I know, it could be several hours. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the hotel?”

  Jillian pulled out her phone and began tapping the screen. “Most book podcasts, my heavens, there are a lot of them, but as I was saying, most book podcasts are about an hour. That isn’t bad. And this Charlie Goodman person? Her shows typically last forty-five minutes. Wow, she’s everywhere. I think MCU did a fantastic job in setting this up.”

  “I’m here, right? Might as well get on MCU’s good side, I suppose.”

  “You think you aren’t?” Jillian asked. H
er surprise was evident in her tone.

  “Well, I’ve been kinda curt with them the last day or so. Then again, in my defense, I don’t like to be surprised. It puts me on edge.”

  “You liked the last birthday party I threw for you. You had no idea what was going to happen when we walked into Casa de Joe’s. And there you were, wearing that ridiculous birthday sombrero, while they all sang happy birthday to you.”

  “Family and friends are one thing,” I told her, “but surprises from strangers are something else entirely. I was glad to see everyone there. But, to have hundreds of people staring at me? It’s unnerving.”

  “I thought you handled yourself very well,” Jillian praised, as she took my hand in hers.

  “You heard how I deal with it, right?” I asked. “Eyes down, avoid eye contact, and maybe — just maybe — I won’t pass out.”

  Jillian giggled and swatted me on the arm.

  “Here we are,” the driver announced. As promised, he deposited us at our destination right on time. “Y’all have a nice day now.”

  I thanked the driver, added a sizeable tip to the digital checkout on my phone, and turned to discover we were standing in the driveway of a raised center-hall cottage. I discovered later that these types of houses were essentially urban versions of French-Colonial plantations. The house was two-story, had pillars on both the lower and upper floors, and had wrap-around porches on both levels as well. This particular house was a medium gray color, with dark charcoal highlights and white wooden outlines around the windows and doors.

  “Are you Zachary Anderson?” a female voice suddenly asked.

  I turned to see a brown-haired girl in her mid-twenties standing perfectly still on the upper porch. She was wearing a long sleeved, light blue shirt and a white pair of overalls, only they ended above her knees. Round, wire-rimmed glasses were perched on her nose and her brown hair was pulled up in a ponytail.

  “That’s me,” I confirmed. “Ms. Goodman?”

  “Please, call me Charlie. Come on in. I’ll meet you downstairs. Don’t mind the mess. It’s my housekeeper’s year off, and I wasn’t expecting guests.”

  Taking Jillian’s hand, and making sure I had a good grip on the dogs’ leashes, we stepped up, onto the porch. I was reaching for the doorbell when Jillian playfully slapped my hand away.

  “You heard her. We’re supposed to go on in.”

  “Do you usually waltz right into a stranger’s house?” I asked, surprised.

  “Of course not. But, in this case, we were invited.”

  We had only made it a few steps inside a very cluttered house, passing a kitchen with a sink full of stacked dirty dishes, when Charlie appeared in a doorway on the right.

  “Come on up. We’re about to get underway, so … wow! You have dogs with you! I didn’t even notice!”

  “Is that okay?” Jillian asked. “If not, it’s all right. I can wait outside.”

  “Where are my manners?” I chuckled. “Ms. Goodman, er, Charlie, this is Jillian, my fiancée. Down there are Sherlock, with the black on his coat, and …”

  “Watson!” Charlie cried. “Omigod, I don’t believe it! Sherlock and Watson! You guys are from Oregon, aren’t you? I love your dogs, Mr. Anderson!”

  Taken aback, I looked at Jillian, who smiled and shrugged.

  “All right, I’ll bite,” I said, as I grinned at the girl. “How? How do you know these two? And please, if I have to call you Charlie, then you can call me Zack.”

  Charlie turned and disappeared through the doorway. We followed, and were surprised to see a flight of steps going up. I turned to look back at the door and whistled. From the ground floor, it looked like this door should lead into a normal bedroom. However, the only thing behind this particular door was a staircase. A common occurrence in this type of house? I guess it’d be cool if I thought of it like a hidden staircase.

  “Welcome to my studio,” Charlene announced, as we emerged onto the second floor.

  Jillian and I came to a stop. The lower floor might have been a cluttered mess, but up here? Everything was pristine, organized, and meticulously clean. I saw a high-end computer tower, complete with a LED-enabled, specialized cooling case. There was a professional-looking microphone on a folding, moveable metal arm. Draped across it was a pair of over-the-ear headphones. At least three keyboards were splayed out next to each other, which made me wonder if there were several other computers present, only they were tucked away inside their respective desks.

  And speaking of desks, the biggest, fanciest desk I have ever seen ran the entire length of the northern wall. Based on all the computer desks I’ve seen, this one had to be at least four times larger than anything on the market. I nudged Jillian and pointed at the monstrosity.

  “Get a load of that. Now that is the desk for me.”

  “You don’t have room in your house for a desk that size,” Jillian pointed out.

  “If you ever do want something this size,” Charlene said, as she slipped behind the desk and took the only chair visible, “let me know. I had this one built especially for this house. I can give you the guy’s number.”

  We were directed to pull out several folding chairs from a nearby closet. Then, Charlene handed each of us a set of wireless headphones. She caught sight of the clock on the wall, cursed, and quickly slipped her headphones over her ears. She then started tapping away on her computer. After a few moments, she smiled, swung the microphone around until it was in the desired position, and then began to talk.

  “Good evening! This is Charlie Goodman, coming to you live from the Big Easy! Peeps, I have a treat for you today. I thought I was going to have to dig up some old book reviews, seeing how my scheduled guest ended up bowing out at the last minute, but instead, I’m very pleased to announce a special guest. Meet Zachary Anderson, author extraordinaire. He’s the author of the current best seller Heart of Éire, currently sitting at the top of the charts at practically every online book seller you can think of. Before you start blowing up my phone lines, let me just add that he wrote the book under his pseudonym, Jim McGee. Now, this book has become a USA Today best seller, and as of last week, cracked into the coveted New York Times best seller list, too. Zack, welcome to the show.”

  “Thanks for having me,” I returned. It was right about then that I noticed that, apart from the huge desk occupying a significant chunk of room in the upper floor, every other space was filled with bookcases. And, of course, those cases were filled to the absolute brim with books. “It’s an honor to be here, Charlie.”

  “Are you enjoying your visit to New Orleans?”

  “I’m quite sure I’ll never forget it,” I chuckled.

  “And with Zack today is his lovely fiancée, Ms. Jillian Cooper. Jillian, what’s it like to be engaged to such a talented guy as Zack?”

  Jillian took my hand as I felt my face flame up. Swell.

  “Oooh, good question. Well, I’d have to say that there’s never a dull moment. Zack is the most kind, thoughtful man I think I have ever known. It was love at first sight.”

  “Aww, how sweet!” Charlie exclaimed, shooting the two of us a beaming smile. “Let’s talk about Heart of Éire, shall we? I mean, I was lucky enough to receive an ARC copy, and I loved it the minute I first opened it up.”

  “ARC copy?” Jillian repeated, confused.

  “Advanced reader copy,” I translated. “My publisher will frequently send them out early in a bid to get those reviews in as soon as possible.”

  For the next twenty minutes, I regaled Charlie and her listeners with stories about how Vance’s anniversary present came to be. I made Charlie laugh when I brought up Vance and his penchant for finding himself on the receiving end of jokes gone wrong, and I made her coo with delight, after I told her about Tori’s first reaction once she realized what Vance had done for her.

  “And you’re sharing your sales with them?” Charlie asked.

  “Yep. It was only fair. That book wouldn’t have been written if i
t weren’t for them.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” Charlie decided.

  “It’s just the type of guy he is,” Jillian assured our host.

  “Why don’t we take a quick break, say five minutes or so, and then we’ll go to the phones. Peeps? Back in just a few.”

  Charlie made a show of clicking her mouse. “And we’re currently off. Well, what do you think so far?”

  “It’s no different from most interviews I’ve done,” I decided.

  “Can you tell how many people are currently listening to you?” Jillian asked.

  Charlie leaned forward and typed several commands on her computer. “Just then? About two thousand.”

  “People?” I sputtered. “Seriously?”

  “We’ll get way more hits once the show is uploaded to Apple, Spotify, and so on.”

  “Impressive,” I said, as I glanced around at the many bookcases. Everywhere I looked, there were books. “You’ve got quite a collection here.”

  “It’s amazing what people will do for some publicity,” Charlie said, shrugging. “But, I will say for the record, I have read each and every book you see. I only accept solicitations from authors whose books interest me.”

  “I’m glad mine did,” I told her.

  “I’ve been a fan of yours since Misty Rains,” Charlie admitted.

  “You knew Zachary wrote under another pen name!” Jillian exclaimed. “Good for you!”

  “When you’ve read as many books as I have,” Charlie explained, “you start to recognize similar writing styles. So, imagine my surprise when I started reading Heart of Éire, and I found myself comparing the flow of the story to several others I’ve read. That’s when I realized Jim McGee’s writing style matched up with another of my favorite authors. One who shall not be named, that is.”

  “Wow, I need to work on my anonymity,” I laughed.

  Charlie’s phone beeped. She hurriedly slipped her headphones back on and tapped a few commands on her keyboard.

  “And we’re back, sitting here with Zachary Anderson, aka Jim McGee, author of the best-seller Heart of Éire. Zack? It looks like we have a few people waiting to talk to you. I … all right, there’s a few more. Peeps, you’re awesome! Thank you for … wow, if everyone keeps calling at the same time, the wait time is gonna be horrendous. Take your time, people. We still have almost a half-hour. Now, first caller. State your name and your question.”