miss fortune mystery (ff) - hiding in the bayou

by riley blake

  “Kind of comes with the territory. Fortune assumed Sandy-Sue’s identity, which means the dog is her responsibility until further notice.”

  Ida Belle sniffed. “Glad the two of you are getting along so well.”

  I made a fist and swung my arm back and forth in Popeye fashion. “We’re chummy for sure.” If that dog didn’t stop digging up everything he could find and leaving it on my doorstep, we would soon have a slight problem.

  Ida Belle wiped her nose on a tissue and stuck it in her front pocket. Dressed in a white robe, Ida Belle sported red and purple curlers which added a splash of color to the room.

  “How do you sleep with that mess in your head?” I asked, studying her. The bunched curlers looked as if they’d been placed in strategic areas.

  “She doesn’t,” Gertie said. “Why she goes to the market looking like that.”

  “I know. I’ve seen her.” And Ida Belle wasn’t the only one. “Do you feel like talking? We could come back.”

  “We didn’t come all the way over here for nothing.”

  “Two blocks, Gertie,” Ida Belle snapped. “It’s not like I live on the other side of Louisiana.”

  I helped myself to the fresh pot of coffee. Ida Belle shot me this pitiful look so I handed off my cup and poured another one. Gertie sighed, held out her hand, and waited. “You’re welcome.” I passed off cup number two before filling a third.

  “So what happened?” Ida Belle asked.

  Gertie hurriedly explained and ended by saying, “Then that unmistakable sound divided the crowd.”

  “Which sound is that?” Ida Belle blew her nose.

  “Come to think of it, the racket sounded a lot like that,” Gertie said.

  “Funny.” Ida Belle blew again. This time, she tossed her tissue in a nearby wastebasket. “Let Fortune tell the story.”

  “Be sure to tell her about the gun that malfunctioned.” Gertie rapidly combed her fingers through her hair, pulling at the white-blue strands until they were all in their appropriate place again—standing straight up.

  “Six shots were fired,” I said, already revisiting the recent past in an effort to remember anything that might prove helpful later. I didn’t agree with Gertie about the faulty weapon. I’d been in combative situations and the pinging sound was right on the money.

  “Peanut killed Rich right in front of Carter and then blamed him.” Gertie sighed and added a drawn-out “whew” sound, which may have been a Southern thing. Eventually, she added, “The nerve of that woman. Can you believe Peanut would do such a thing?”

  “Good to know you’ve switched sides again,” I said.

  Gertie scowled. “I was in shock, Fortune. You’re familiar with the concept. Whenever Carter is within kissing distance, you stutter and stammer all over the place. Half the time, I don’t know what you’re rambling about.”

  “Now isn’t the time, Gertie,” I said firmly. Normally I let Carter-jabs slide but lately Gertie had begun a more aggressive approach to matchmaking. She’d even gone as far as ordering books like The Fish are Drowning: Good Men Don’t Remain in the Sea and Preparing for your Dinner Date with Bedside Breakfast in Mind.

  The titles alone were enough to earn Gertie a few black roses signed from Celia. I smirked at the idea. Gertie, like Ida Belle, didn’t care much for Celia Arceneaux.

  A devout Catholic and the leader of God’s Wives, Celia stood as a formidable opponent in the banana pudding wars down at Francine’s Café. Every Sunday, the Catholics and Baptists left their pews and made a mad dash for the café in hopes of reserving the right to the tastiest dessert in town.

  “You left us for a minute,” Ida Belle said, studying me. “Care to share?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, not about to admit where my thoughts had strayed. I was thinking about pudding wars, books about catching a good man, and Celia when I should’ve been thinking about motive, opportunity, and likely suspects.

  “How did Peanut pop off six shots? Didn’t you say she was standing in front of Carter?” Ida Belle used both hands to shift the curlers in her hair. “That doesn’t make sense. Peanut is a little touched upstairs but she’s not a killer and she wouldn’t have switched weapons while gunning a man down. Why I’d be surprised if she even knows how to load a pistol.”

  “She’s not one of our shooters. Plus, her weapon of choice was an iron skillet,” I said, throwing that out there. I’d first suspected Peanut of clutching a small handgun, too, but when Rich collapsed, Peanut dropped the cookware and dumped the contents of a small silver box. As it turned out, she wasn’t packing a palm pistol. Instead, she’d been clutching the proof supporting her accusation—bandages.

  Talk about irony. Rich had been shot to death and the evidence behind the couple’s fight had landed on his chest.

  “Hard to believe she accused Carter,” Gertie said, shaking her head.

  “Carter didn’t kill Rich,” Ida Belle said. “What do you think, Fortune?”

  “Of course Carter didn’t do it. There were at least thirty people there to witness the shooting.”

  “And nobody saw anything.” Ida Belle grunted. “Typical.”

  “You got it,” Gertie said. “Carter was also at pointblank range. Once forensic experts take a look at ballistics and have all the information about the case, Carter will be cleared.”

  “Sinful has experts? I’m impressed.” Gertie and Ida Belle swapped glances. Then, they thinned their lips, a tactic that implied they didn’t have anything else to add. “Let me guess. You’re the experts?”

  “The Sinful Ladies Society will always keep the professionals honest,” Ida Belle said, sipping her coffee.

  “But of course they will.” One day I would leave Sinful behind and return to the dangerous days of a CIA assassin’s life and I would fondly recall these conversations.

  Maybe.

  From petty theft to murder mysteries, Gertie and Ida Belle loved solving crimes, but I wasn’t entirely confident about their level of expertise. Sure they possessed covert military training in clandestine operations which suggested they were intelligent and knowledgeable, but they were also older than the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

  Ida Belle rose to her feet, appearing stronger by the second. She went to her pantry and retrieved a few bottles of ‘cough’ syrup. She kept one for herself and placed the other two on the table. “Help yourselves.”

  “Look at you,” I said, opting to stick with coffee. “Moonshine and a murder to solve and what do you do? Shelf your illness for a more convenient time.”

  “I’ll rest when I’m dead. This town needs leadership right now,” Ida Belle said, swinging her gaze at Gertie. “You’re positive Carter was arrested?”

  Gertie nodded so rapidly her glasses slid down the bridge of her nose. Pushing them up again, she said, “You know how this town works. If there isn’t a suspect, they arrest the one who was standing closest to the victim. If Carter hadn’t been there, the town would’ve lynched poor little Peanut for sure.”

  I wasn’t ready to preface Peanut’s name with ‘poor little’ just yet. She’d been the one to drag her domestic disagreement straight into the streets of Sinful. Plus, my mind had already been churning with ideas. I didn’t know designer labels or high priced fashions but since moving to Sinful, I’d spent some time with Walter at the General Store.

  Walter had recently started stocking a few pricey items—Gator Hoppers which were cutoff boots, Bayou Britches which were cutoff shorts, and Fishnets which were… well, I wasn’t entirely sure what they were supposed to be but Peanut had worn hers as a double-layered shirt. Trashy attire didn’t come cheap.

  After a quick mental calculation, I blurted, “Gertie, you mentioned Peanut kept a part-time job.”

  “Yes.”

  Ida Belle added, “One town over.”

  “A few hours a day, three days a week,” I said, letting Ida Belle know that I’d already been informed. “Tell me something. How does someone manage to support t
heir family on a part-time job and still dress to the nines?”

  Both women blinked. Ida Belle said, “Since when do you know your brands?”

  “She’s been spending time with Walter,” Gertie explained.

  “Makes sense,” Ida Belle said.

  “I helped Walter with inventory last week. If Peanut didn’t buy her latest fashions from a second-hand store, she paid a lot of money for the clothes on her back and the boots on her feet.”

  “Hmm,” Gertie said thoughtfully. “Guess you need to call Walter.”

  She wasn’t talking to me.

  After a moment of silence, Ida Belle cursed under her breath and agreed. “I’ll speak to him tonight.”

  “Find out if she paid cash or used a credit card,” I said.

  “Consider it done,” Ida Belle said.

  “Find out if she shopped alone or had—”

  “A sugar daddy to pick up the tab?” Ida Belle asked.

  “You read my mind,” I said.

  “Back to basics.” Ida Belle liked staying on point. “Was Robert there?”

  “Our good sheriff rode up on his loyal horse about five minutes after the rookies arrested Carter,” said Gertie.

  “You wait until I get my hands around Robert’s neck.” Ida Belle pushed away from the table and left the room. When she returned, she removed her hair rollers and tossed them in a plastic container.

  “This is serious,” Gertie whispered, apparently under the impression that I hadn’t noticed a similar behavior pattern when Ida Belle was upset.

  Gertie and Ida Belle often treated me like Sandy-Sue in the flesh. A librarian and former beauty queen, Sandy-Sue inherited her Louisiana home from her great aunt Marge Boudreaux. As luck would have it, Gertie and Ida Belle had been close friends with Marge so when I stepped into the role of Sandy-Sue, I quickly inherited her great aunt’s friends, too.

  Ida Belle and Gertie had been on to me right from the start. After they realized I had assumed Sandy-Sue’s identity and the reasons why, they’d more or less appointed themselves as my personal bodyguards.

  Like two old maids could save a former CIA assassin from an arms dealer’s wrath.

  “Why would Robert throw the book at one of his own?” Ida Belle jerked one curler free and then another.

  “Want me to answer that?” I asked, not exactly fond of Sheriff Robert E. Lee’s practices for upholding law and order. Since arriving there, I’d helped Gertie and Ida Belle solve the town’s petty and more serious crimes.

  “Be nice, Fortune,” Gertie said.

  “This coming from the woman who can cut a man down to size by giving him a slice of cake and a piece of her mind at the same time?” I balked at that. “Sheriff Lee is out of line.”

  “Says the woman who has a thing for Carter,” Ida Belle said, grabbing her keys from the kitchen counter.

  “I’m not riding with you,” Gertie announced, wagging her finger at me. “And neither are you. I’ve seen her like this before. She’ll race to the edge of town in about three seconds, slam that car in reverse, do a three-sixty, bark her tires, and park that little sports car on Robert’s lawn.”

  “Going for the theatrical, I see,” Ida Belle said, leaving the house and calling out, “And I’ll lay on the horn, too, while I’m at it.”

  “Drama queen,” Gertie muttered, following behind her. I quickly followed suit. Around here, you followed the leader or you were left behind.

  Ida Belle waved. “I’ll see you at Robert’s.” A minute later, she sped away.

  “Hurry!” Gertie hollered, sliding behind the wheel of her Cadillac and acting like it took a great deal of effort to crank the darn thing. “You’ll want to see this.”

  “If we make it there today,” I grumbled.

  “Hush, Fortune. You’re starting to rattle my brains and right now, we need them.”

  A minute or two later, we were parked at a safe distance, watching Ida Belle as she struggled with her wheel, clearly losing control, but not about to give up the fight. Her tires squawked. Her car smoked. Locals gathered on their porches to watch the whole show.

  “She’ll really get with it now,” Gertie said, never acting concerned.

  I grabbed hold of the door, on the chance that I had to swing it open and leap from Gertie’s idling Cadillac to save Ida Belle from the remains of her crashed Corvette, assuming she’d crash. And she might.

  Gertie frowned. “Wonder where Robert is?”

  I turned my attention to his humble abode. Potted plants lined his porch. Boxwoods were well maintained and the white swing looked recently painted. By outer appearances, the sheriff’s house was another ideal setting in this Southern Louisiana paradise. “Doesn’t look like he’s going to show for Ida Belle’s public fit.”

  “Oh for pity’s sake,” Gertie grumbled, stepping away from the car.

  Ida Belle came to a screeching halt and rolled down her window. “What is it?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Well how do you know?”

  Gertie shook her finger at his house. “If he’d been here, he would’ve shown his face before now. Besides, his horse isn’t in the barn.”

  I peered around Gertie to acknowledge the single-car garage that had recently been converted into an air-conditioned stall for the sheriff’s favorite mode of transportation. The horse was older than a sea turtle but Sheriff Robert E. Lee was up in years, too. They were a suited pair.

  “Get in!” Ida Belle yelled.

  Gertie turned to me and shrugged. “She thinks her little sideshow was impressive and I’ll now jump at the chance to ride shotgun.”

  “I would,” I said, encouraging her. I jumped at the opportunity for a few moments alone. Besides, I could see the excitement burning behind Gertie’s wide eyes so I wasn’t shocked when she took off at a sprint-walk and rushed to the other side of Ida Belle’s car.

  Realizing I’d have to try to follow them in Gertie’s POS—also known as a priceless overused sedan—I slid across the seat, threw her car in drive, and waited to chase fumes.

  Affixing the seatbelt, I fiddled with the radio and readjusted the seat. Ready then, I gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead in disbelief. Apparently caught up in all the excitement, Gertie had tried to hop in Ida Belle’s car like a rebel without a cause. She’d thrown her leg over the side with apparent intentions of using the window for entry. Now, she was trapped.

  “Ouch! Help!”

  “Grief,” I grumbled, rushing to Gertie’s aid. Soon, I realized the seriousness of the situation. “Ida Belle! Roll down the window!”

  “I can’t!” she screamed. “It’s stuck.”

  “Help! I’m losing my leg!” Gertie screamed.

  “Hit the locks!” I tried to support Gertie’s weight. “Ida Belle, now!”

  “You can’t open the door,” Ida Belle said. “You’ll hurt her.”

  I didn’t mention the obvious. Someone had already taken care of that.

  “Window locks, Ida Belle!”

  “I’m going to be sick,” Gertie said, the color draining from her face.

  Ida Belle found the right buttons. Without additional moments spared, she finally unlocked and lowered the window.

  Gertie’s dangling leg caused tremendous alarm. “Call 9-1-1!”

  “Toss her in the car!” Ida Belle hollered. “We can’t wait for an ambulance!”

  I put Gertie in the passenger seat and tried to help her find a comfortable position. Before I shut the door, Ida Belle took off like a bat out of hell.

  Standing there in the middle of Main Street, I watched in wonder as Ida Belle went sideways in an effort to make a sharp right. It was a miracle that those two had ever made it out of Vietnam alive.

  Then again, the enemy had probably surrendered at the mere sight of them. Sometimes it was better to call a truce than to fight a losing battle with Southern women.

  Chapter Three

  “You broke my leg!”

  “And I apolog
ized for that.” Ida Belle stood at Gertie’s bed a few hours later, looking worse for the wear. “I didn’t roll up the window on purpose.”

  “You did,” Gertie said. “I watched you do it.”

  “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Must’ve been the moonshine,” I said, entering Gertie’s room. I’d had time to think about what had happened. Ida Belle shouldn’t have been driving.

  Then again, everyone pulled off the road when they saw Ida Belle or Gertie behind the wheel. It was safer that way.

  “About time you showed up, Fortune,” Gertie pouted. “I could’ve been on the way to the morgue by now and you wouldn’t have known.”

  “I would’ve known, Gertie,” I assured her. “The whole town is abuzz with Gertie updates.”

  “Really?” She wiggled her shoulders and sat a little taller. “Go on. Spill. What are they saying about me?”

  “Don’t tell her. It’s depressing.”

  “Francine said to let you know that she’ll make you some banana pudding and bring it over tomorrow.” I wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible. Ida Belle was right. Gertie didn’t need to know what Sinful’s residents were saying about her unfortunate accident.

  “I’d love to stick around for Francine’s pudding, but I will be released long before then.” Clearing her throat, Gertie clasped her hands and rested them in her lap. “In fact, Ida Belle is springing me tonight.”

  “Springing you?”

  “Getting me out of here, of course!”

  I shot Ida Belle a quick glance. She rolled her eyes and I translated with ease. Gertie wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Let’s talk about this rationally.”

  “Fortune, do I need to remind you that there’s a killer on the loose?” Gertie winced when she moved.

  “No there isn’t. Our town’s fine sheriff already caught him and locked him up. Remember?” The thought of Carter LeBlanc spending the night behind bars was bothersome, but I could use any Carter-topic to distract Gertie.

  “Carter didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Sheriff must believe he did,” I said, taunting her. “Even took a crazy woman’s word for it.”