Courir De Mardi Gras

by Lynn Shurr

  Royal waved the Limoges cup, sprinkling the remaining droplets of Earl Grey in the air. Suzanne wished she had brought a recorder. Nancy Drew would have thought of that, but then, Suzanne Hudson, antiques detective, expected to purchase stolen merchandise, not elicit a confession. Not that what Royal said was a confession. If Virginia Lee commissioned him to do the sales and execute the replicas, they had a business deal, not a con job as George claimed, a business deal just shady enough to keep Royal quiet when the robbery occurred. After all, Virginia committed no crime in selling her own silver and replacing it with cheaper goods if she needed money and wanted to save face in the community. Only the possibility of insurance fraud made the deal dodgy.

  “If you ask me, George is the thief. Like mother, like son, a streak of cruelty in the both of them.” He thrust the cup at Suzanne and snatched it back.

  “How could Bobby compete all those years with her son, tall, athletic, successful accountant? Bobby never had a chance with his own father. Either his medical practice or her up on the Hill took up all the doctor’s time. You don’t know how that hurt Bob.” Royal leaned over his teacup as if he were about to cry into it.

  Time to go. She did not want to hear anymore. Suzanne started for the door, a failed sleuth, but then turned.

  “Where were you on the afternoon of the day of the theft, Mr. Royal?” she interrogated. Maybe she expected the full confession to come pouring out into the teacup. It did not.

  “Right here. This is a one man show, Miss Hudson. If I am ill, a big, red CLOSED sign hangs in the window. That day, the store was open. I lunched across the way, called a good friend in Port Jefferson. The telephone records will bear me out.”

  “Your ‘good friend’ could have committed the robbery for you.”

  “He dined with his parents and spent the rest of the afternoon at his place of business in full sight of several waitresses.”

  “So you have discussed this case with your ‘friend’ and worked out your alibis,” she said, vaguely aware of having seen this episode acted out on a mediocre crime show.

  “No alibis necessary, Miss Hudson, because we are not guilty.” Randy Royal drew himself up with dignity. “Please leave my establishment.” He must have seen the same show.

  She had to write a check to pay Willie for the taxi ride. Only the tip came in the form of cash. The disappointment showed on the cabbie’s round, brown face.

  “Checks. You got to pay on all them checks come tax time.”

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “Drop me off at the front of the lane, will you?”

  She did get the mail on the way up the drive. Birdie remarked her shoes must be soppy as a sponge by now if she had been standing in the wet grass all this time. Since Birdie could see her perfectly dry footwear, Suzanne did not bother to explain. She had bigger problems. Paul’s letter sat right on top of the mail. She shivered as if her feet really were wet. The crank notes seemed to be coming more frequently now that she’d blocked his e-mail addresses. They all said the same thing at the end. “I’m coming to get you.”

  ****

  Suzanne stayed close to George that evening. He came home late and remained preoccupied while eating the meal she reheated for him. Quiet herself, and unnerved by Paul’s persistence, she remained unwilling to open the touchy subject of the stolen silver. George did that over the coffee and the slice of pecan pie he barely touched.

  “Sheriff Duval never got in today.”

  “So you didn’t present our theory to him?”

  “No,” he said, mashing the thick bakery crust into crumbs with his fork.

  “Good—because we are wrong.”

  George gave her a grim look and speared a pecan, pushing it down into the gooey filling. He did not say a word.

  “I went into Opelousas today and had a long talk with Randy Royal.”

  “I knew you’d try that. Look, Suzanne, I’m trying to keep you clear of this mess.”

  “That’s not possible,” she said, taking his fork and pushing the pie away. She held his hand to keep it still.

  “Listen to me. Royal and his friend Bob both have alibis. In fact, Randy accused you. Like mother, like son, he said.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means your mother was not being deceived. She commissioned Royal to sell off her silver quietly and replace it with replicas. Royal assumed you knew, that you and your mother plotted this robbery before she died.”

  “Do you believe that, Suzanne?”

  From the intensity of his stare, she knew her answer meant more to him than the fact that she had defied him by going into town.

  “The part about your mother, maybe. She was no fool about antiques. I don’t believe she intended to involve you. But we get involved when we care about someone.”

  “Mother. Mother would have been capable of it. She would never tell me, of course. She knew I wouldn’t have the guts to carry out a scheme like this.”

  “I’d call it honesty or basic decency. Royal said you have a cruel streak. I haven’t seen it. You still put out cracked corn for that one-eyed rooster.”

  George looked away. “I guess in Randy’s eyes, I do. I gave in to the temptation to do to Bobby what the Patout boys did to me, especially after I convinced myself that Jeff Sonnier was my real father.”

  “That’s a little fantastic, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Not when you are fourteen and begin to notice every time your father is drunk at a party or dancing with another woman, Jeff Sonnier takes your mother home—and stays for a while. What a perfectly matched couple—both tall, elegant, graceful. At least I was tall enough to build a delusion for a boy. As Jeff Sonnier’s true son, it seemed okay to push Bobby around a little. Now it’s just a habit he lets me get away with, I guess. A bad habit.”

  “Do you still believe the doctor is your father?”

  “Of course not! Mother set me straight at the age of seventeen when I asked her outright. She said, ‘Any son of Jefferson would have had more breeding than to ask. Your question is purely St. Julien.’”

  “Somehow, I’m glad I never knew your mother.”

  “You could have handled her. Cherry was no match.”

  “Cherry?”

  “An old friend.” George colored slightly as if he were overheated.

  Suzanne could not resist a little innuendo. “Oh, yes. Odette St. Julien mentioned her and someone named LaDonna.”

  An expression so priceless crossed his face that she took a sip of her own coffee to keep from laughing and began to choke on it.

  “Let’s just say after the masquerade ended, I could tell you were no inexperienced virgin,” she managed to say, still trying to clear her throat of hot liquid.

  George did not miss the opportunity to change the subject. “Aren’t you overdue for a checkup with Dr. Sonnier? Those lungs sound a little rough to me. All that riding in the rain was probably bad for you.”

  “Come upstairs,” she teased. “I’ll show you how awful I feel.”

  George carried her in those long, strong arms up the grand Victorian staircase. He undressed her and slipped her into a warm flannel gown, which she hardly needed after he finished stroking everything into place. Then, he turned down the covers on the four-poster bed and tucked her in beneath the blankets. When Suzanne reached up to unbutton his shirt and draw him down, George kissed her forehead.

  “I think you should rest before your checkup.”

  He smiled and left the bedroom. Withholding sex for disobeying was so very petty.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Suzanne’s story

  George delivered Suzanne directly to Dr. Sonnier’s office the next morning. He parked by the white picket fence and watched her walk around to the back office. She strolled slowly and glanced back a few times. George waved and leaned against his seat as if he intended to be there all morning, so she gave up and followed the brick path around the house, past the iris beds showing their first green spears.


  Taking a seat in one of the rattan chairs on the rear porch, she settled in to enjoy the mild February morning. The azaleas showed plump pink buds, and early daffodils pushed up around an old, round brick cistern humping out of the grass near the copper rain spout. A tabby cat slinked from under the porch and leapt to the wooden lid of the cistern to loll in an early patch of sun. The lid teetered, and one crumbling brick slipped. The cat lifted a rear leg and began seriously licking its genitals. Too much early spring in the air had gone uncelebrated last night. Before her thoughts could go any further in that direction, the office door opened.

  “Our first patient of the day. The doctor will be down in a minute, dear. I’m Helene Sonnier. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  The gray-haired woman in old-fashioned nurse’s whites held out a small-boned hand puffed out of proportion by layers of fat. On her left hand, a gold wedding band lay embedded in the flesh of her third finger. That her small frame could support so much weight and her white uniform could contain it amazed Suzanne.

  “Suzanne Hudson. Dr. Sonnier wanted me to stop by for a checkup after my bout with some bug the other week.”

  “Of course. The girl from the Hill. I made a chart for you. Come in, and we’ll get started before the waiting room fills up.”

  She led Suzanne through a portion of the house furnished with vinyl chairs and old magazines to the single examination room and kept up a pleasant professional chatter while she took the new patient’s blood pressure, temperature, height and weight. Obviously a very nice person, but still Suzanne could not imagine Helene as the wife of the distinguished Dr. Sonnier. Perhaps, she was a distant relative instead of his next of kin.

  “Are you and Dr. Sonnier related?” she asked casually.

  “We’ve been married for twenty-eight years so you might say we’re related, dear. We met during his medical school days. I was a student nurse and so short he could tuck me under his arm. He used to call me Tiny back then. Oh, we were quite the couple. My daddy owned a pharmacy in Lake Charles, and he was so pleased to have a doctor in the family he made Sonny’s intern days a pleasure. We had this lovely apartment in Baton Rouge, and our daughter, Ellen, was born in the city. I would have liked to stay there forever, but nothing would do for Sonny but to come home to set up practice. When I saw this big old house from before The War, I could understand why he loved this town so. I wanted to fill every bedroom with children, but Sonny has very definite views on large families.”

  Mrs. Sonnier’s multiple chins quivered. “Are you taking any medication, dear?”

  “Only birth control pills.” She took the package from her purse and let the nurse copy down the brand and dosage.

  “Oh, the Pill. Well, Sonny will be glad to hear that. No woman should have more than two children according to Sonny. All of us should be on the Pill. Women in this town drag themselves down with childbearing, he says, and we must set an example for the community. Thanks to his restraint, we did. I didn’t fail him there.”

  Poor, overstuffed woman, Suzanne could see how Mrs. Sonnier had failed her husband in other ways.

  “He wanted me to work by his side, and I have for twenty-five years even when my feet were too tired take me to those dances he loved. But, I didn’t try to keep him home because of me. I’d fix his tie and send him off to have some relaxation. A doctor needs that. Bobby, Ellen, and I would all sleep in the big bed until he came home from the ball. Sonny has so much energy.”

  The buzzer attached to the waiting room door shrilled twice in quick succession. Nurse Helene heaved to the feet that, once petite, now looked like bread dough rising out of her shoe tops. “Busy day,” she sighed and left to listen to the woes of the two new patients.

  In the interval, Suzanne mulled over Helene Sonnier’s words and began to agree with Great-Aunt Esme about seeing a doctor in the city when Jefferson Sonnier appeared exuding his kindly bedside manner. She barely spoke to him as he checked her ears, eyes, nose, throat, and lungs.

  “No harm done by that little dip in the bayou or anything else between now and then, Miss Hudson. I’m glad to see you are on the Pill. I usually take the time to counsel women of your age and attractiveness about birth control, but you have good sense and intelligence as well as physical attributes. I can understand why George hovers at your bedroom door. Just don’t let him in if you forget to refill your prescription. Condoms are a good idea, too. Who knows where it’s been, right?”

  She recalled the day when the silver had gone missing, ashamed to remember that when half-feverish and half-drugged she thought Dr. Sonnier might be her handsome dark rider. The good doctor was just another man who cheated on his wife when she’d gained a little weight having his babies. Okay, Helene Sonnier had gained a lot of weight. Still, the doctor’s wife had a sweet personality and showed complete, unsuspecting devotion to her husband. Suzanne felt like making good Doc Sonny squirm a little.

  “If we married, I’m sure George would want lots of children. Such a pity his being an only child because his mother had a hysterectomy at such an early age. Was that because you botched his delivery?”

  Dr. Sonny’s bedside manner evaporated like the morning mist. “Actually, Ginny had a tubal ligation, not a hysterectomy, but that operation would have been unacceptable to her husband. Getting a woman pregnant again and again is a way men like Jacques St. Julien prove their virility.”

  Nearly snarling over past hatreds, Dr. Sonnier went on talking. “Ginny suffered terribly bearing her son. Jacques insisted on natural childbirth and a home delivery. I warned him that she wasn’t going to bear easily, too narrow in the pelvis, but he denied her the comforts a hospital and a good anesthesiologist could have brought her. He said his own mother had given birth in that same bed with no more trouble than a bitch delivers puppies and his wife could do it, too. Ginny screamed for hours and hours before I was able to deliver her safely. George’s vision problems might have been the result of that difficult birth. Ginny was one of my first obstetrical patients. When she asked to be sterilized, I carried it out.”

  Wow, so much for patient privacy, though Suzanne wasn’t sure if dead patients counted. She had jerked open a door to the past and several large boxes of information fell out on top of her, but she still couldn’t resist another turn of the knob. “And Virginia was eternally grateful to you.”

  By the tight look on his handsome, flushed face, she could tell she’d pushed too far and would be asked to leave an establishment for the second time in two days. Dr. Sonnier raised his voice and summoned the next patient.

  “You may go, Miss Hudson. You seem perfectly healthy to me.” He dismissed her entirely.

  Back in the waiting room, Helene Sonnier had blown up a plastic glove to make a balloon for an irritable baby fussing in her mama’s lap. She gave Suzanne a cheery good-bye, hope to meet you again. Poor woman. As Suzanne stepped out on the porch a new theory about the crime came rushing to her. She would go immediately to George’s office, brave his secretary, Lonnie Breaux, interrupt his work, and try out her new idea on him. Afterwards, maybe George would be up for an early lunch and a nooner. Feeling bubbly on this lovely spring day, she walked to his place of business.

  Looking through the glass window of the office, she noticed Miss Breaux already had a pained expression on her face. Maybe she was perpetually sour, Suzanne thought as she passed into the reception area. As it turned out, Lonnie had cause to be irked. The high-pitched laughter of a woman spilled from George’s inner sanctum. He laughed, too, a low rumble underscoring the female voice. George chuckled that way with Suzanne, but they hadn’t had much opportunity or much reason to carry on like the twosome in the office.

  “May I go in?” she asked Miss Breaux.

  “Mr. St. Julien is with—a client at the moment. I’m sure he’ll see you shortly. Take a seat.”

  “Oh, it can wait,” Suzanne said, willing George to come out of his office so she could see what went on in there. At that moment, the inner door did open,
and George asked Miss Breaux to bring coffee for Mrs. Angers. His new glasses must have been foggy because he did not appear to see his other visitor at first. Suzanne saw his client very well, however.

  Mrs. Angers sat perched on George’s desk, having shoved a calculator and several spreadsheets out of the way. She had red hair cropped fashionably at the sides and spiked into perky peaks on top of her head. The minimalist hairstyle brought more attention to her large, emerald green eyes and lashes thick with mascara. The woman wore a blouse of golden silk, boldly unbuttoned to show the top of a black lace bra and belted over black leggings displaying her long, long legs. Strappy high-heeled sandals encased her slim, pedicured feet with each toe painted a glowing coral. When the bimbo leaned forward to grab George’s arm, Suzanne could see the sparkle of a pear-shaped diamond dangling on a chain in her deep cleavage just above a small butterfly tattoo.

  “Rich divorcee or successful stripper?” she wondered. And George served as this woman’s accountant?

  “Miss Breaux, would you get us some coffee and pasties, I mean pastries, from the bakery, please. Take your time and get some for yourself, too,” George ordered generously. Then, he noticed Suzanne.

  “Suzanne! Great! It’s been a day for surprises. Get a cup of coffee for Miss Hudson as well, Lonnie.”

  Plucking her sweater off the back of her chair as if she were tearing the heart out of a sacrificial victim who had interrupted her office routine, the secretary left on her errand. As soon as the door closed, Suzanne stalked over to George so she would not have to shout at him.