Gator Aide (Rachel Porter Mysteries)

by Jessica Speart

  “I’m just throwing Hillard a little rope, is all. I thought he might have been paying her rent, but that theory went up in flames.”

  “Why is that?”

  Santou flashed a smile. “I paid a visit to Vaughn’s landlord this morning. He said he always got a check from her promptly on the first of the month. So, there’s no proof there. And Hillard swears he stopped seeing her when he announced his candidacy for mayor and became a soldier for Christ.”

  “Do we have any reason to believe anything Hillard says?”

  “I don’t know, chère. We have here a former poacher whose previous partner still conducts his business out of a social club in Queens. Then there’s Vinnie Bertucci, who’s playing butler but looks like he cracks heads for a living. And all this is without even taking into account Hillard’s so-called advisor on foreign affairs, Adolph or Gunter or whatever his name is. That guy strikes me as any number of things. Unfortunately, a liaison for business isn’t one of them.”

  The sun had just set, dousing the sky a fluorescent shade of purple as we pulled up to a plain concrete building in Breaux Bridge. The pounding of music telegraphed the fact that there was more to the place than could be seen from outside. The soaring strain of fiddles and the honky-tonk notes of an accordion filled a parking lot jammed with pickup trucks, complete with hound dogs lying in the back, parked next to Grand Ams with couples necking in the front.

  We made our way through the door, squeezing past countless bodies to enter a rustic room lined with long picnic tables set end to end, where the crowd sat together family-style. Overhead fans twirled as men, women, and children two-stepped around the floor in an oblong circle. A flock of business cards tacked to the ceiling fluttered in unison in the artificial breeze, their clatter mimicking an invading army of locusts. The ceiling was low enough so that, by looking up, you could take a survey of who generally occupied the place. If you lay down on your back for a few hours with pencil and paper in hand, you’d have been able to fill a couple of Rolodexes with the names and numbers of plumbers, carpenters, electricians, fishermen, hardware stores, bait and tackle shops, and traveling salesmen. Cartoon murals of the swamp decorated the walls with chartreuse alligators, jaws looming wide open in readiness to swallow up the giddy crowd.

  The band onstage, playing loud and nonstop, consisted of three generations of women costumed in red-and-white polka-dot dresses that flared out like bells, while the men wore blue-and-white striped shirts, with white pants held up by flame red suspenders. A lanky reed of a man with a drooping mustache and dark, soulful eyes sang in French, the melancholy lyrics soaring up to the rafters in a blend both piercing and nasal.

  Santou grabbed my hand and pushed his way through the crowd until he found a spot big enough for one, squeezing us both in at a long wooden table. A giant bowl of steaming red crawfish and a pitcher of beer appeared just as a Cajun square dance began.

  Feeling a tap on my shoulder, I swung around to face a sprightly old man decked out in a string tie and green suspenders who asked me to dance. I tried to bow out as gracefully as I could, but the old man refused to take no for an answer.

  “If ya gonna eat Cajun, ya gotta dance Cajun.”

  “He’s right, Porter. It’s the rule in this place.”

  Taking a quick drink of beer, I headed out onto the floor. I grew up in a time where dancing meant rarely touching your partner, but Cajun dancing was exactly the opposite. Holding me in a tight embrace, with enough complicated twirls thrown in to keep me off-balance, the old man had a charitable amount of patience. But by the time the dance was over, I was panting from exertion while my senior citizen partner was still raring to go. Finally taking pity on me, he allowed me to return to my table, where bowls of jambalaya and another pitcher of beer had miraculously appeared. But more food brought more music, and the challenge seemed to be to get me up on the dance floor as much as possible. It wasn’t until a waltz began that Santou stood up, locking his eyes on mine as he held out his hand.

  “Come on, chère. This one is mine. We’re going to fais do-do.”

  “Fais do, what?”

  “Dance, chère. You know how to do that. You just relax and give yourself over to me.”

  Out on the dance floor, his hand burned into the small of my back as I told myself it was too soon to get involved again. The stubble of his chin bit into my cheek, and a surge of heat rushed through me. Pushing slightly away, I caught my breath. I’d been hurt far more in my last relationship than I had ever wanted to admit. It had been enough to make me leave my home. Santou pulled me close again, his hand tightening around my waist as our bodies moved together in slow, quiet rhythm. Closing my eyes, I let myself sway up against him, enjoying the sensation until his hand began to work its way down my back. Pushing away harder this time, I still felt the heat from his body against mine, even though we were inches away. In an effort to rein in my pulse, I turned back to business.

  “So, where do we take it next on trying to nail Hillard?”

  Santou stopped abruptly in place, looking at me with a dark brooding that I hadn’t expected.

  “Hillard’s right. You need to lighten up. You don’t know when to relax and have a good time.”

  “Listen, I just want us both to keep in mind that this is still business. Let’s not forget that.”

  “I don’t think there’s any problem there.”

  Releasing me, Santou walked off the dance floor over to the other side of the room, where a game of darts was in progress. Taken aback by his abrupt change of mood, I stood alone for a moment before moving over to join him. Santou kept his eyes on the game as he spoke.

  “Darlin’, I get the feeling you like challenges, so I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll make you a deal. We’ll play a game of darts. If you win, I’ll tell you everything you want to know about Hillard this evening.”

  “And if I lose?”

  Santou turned to me and stared for a moment, once again leaving me with the impression of a hawk in search of its prey. It was enough to dampen whatever heat I’d had left, as I warned myself that this was a man not to be trusted.

  “If you lose, no more business tonight. We just have fun. That too threatening for you, chère?”

  “Not at all.”

  I waited for the game in progress to end as I drank another beer. I had discovered that, as a rule, men tend to take it for granted that women are automatically bad at darts. It was a notion I always enjoyed dispelling. Darts was a game I’d excelled at ever since I was a kid, and people at the bar I’d frequented in New York had learned not to waste their money betting against me. If I didn’t get one bull’s-eye after another, I considered it an off game. Beer tended to focus my aim, and I’d had more than my fair share tonight. I knew, taking the darts in hand, my aim was as good as ever.

  “Your turn, Santou.”

  By the time our first game was over, the few spectators had turned into a crowd. Having lost hands down, Santou looked over at me as if silently revising a premature judgment.

  “You must have beginner’s luck, Porter. Let’s try again.”

  There was nothing I preferred to do. With the second game as much a wipeout as the first, Santou insisted on a third, but by now my aim was deadly. I scored one bull’s-eye after another, until he threw down his darts in defeat.

  “You win, Porter. It’s business as usual for the rest of the night.”

  His voice held a hard edge that led me to believe he wasn’t used to losing. Back at the table I bought a pitcher of beer, and Santou polished off a glass before leaning in toward me.

  “You conned me, Porter. I won’t let that happen again.” Pushing himself back in his chair, he stared out at the crowd.

  “It’s your own fault, Santou.”

  Glaring at me, he poured himself another beer. “How do you figure that?”

  “You set yourself up by taking it for granted I was a rank amateur who wouldn’t know how to play the game.”

  Santou down
ed the second glass and drew close, causing my pulse to soar as he placed his hands just above my knees. “But that’s exactly what you are, Rachel. You’re a stubborn novice who’s burning with something to prove. That’s what makes you so dangerous.”

  His palms seared my skin, and I felt his breath on my face as I tried to collect my thoughts. On the one hand, I wanted to slug him. On the other, Santou was the most fascinating man I’d met in a long time. Pulling my eyes away from his stare, I shifted my chair so that his hands slid off my knees, breaking the heat of the moment.

  Santou leaned back and studied his glass. “So, what do you want to know?”

  With my pulse once more in check, I quickly assessed the situation. If he chose to think of me as a novice, so be it. I wasn’t about to back out of this case.

  “What is Vinnie Bertucci doing down here?”

  Santou poured himself another beer before answering. “I’m not sure. But if I were to take a guess, it probably ties in with Frank Sabino, Hillard’s former business partner. They were in the gator business together, big-time. Had a racket trucking illegal skins up to a warehouse in Newark, where they were stockpiled and then shipped over to Japan. Sabino was busted on it years ago. Hillard managed to slip out of any charges. Supposedly there was bad blood between them after that, but I wouldn’t bet on it. It’s a good ruse that’s used to cover up a multitude of sins.”

  Santou poured the last of the beer into my glass.

  “Next question.”

  “What’s the story on Dolores Williams?” I hadn’t told him of my appointment with her for tomorrow, and I didn’t intend to.

  “She used to perform synchronized water skiing at Cypress Gardens in Florida a lifetime ago. Had a body not to be believed and a vocabulary to match. Stories differ as to how she hitched up with Hillard, but she’s been in an alcoholic haze ever since.”

  Santou slowly held up a finger. “One last question chère, just like Aladdin and his magic lamp.”

  I asked him the question Hickok had skirted. “Was Hillard the head of the Nazi movement down here at one time?”

  “Hillard was, is, and always will be involved in the movement, and anyone who tells you different is outright lying. It’s the man’s religion.”

  The band started up again, playing a slow tune. Looking over at Santou with his burning eyes and unruly mop of hair, as crazy as it was, I knew what I wanted to do.

  “Let’s dance.”

  We moved across the floor and this time I relaxed, dismissing any thoughts as to how unprofessional I was being, only too glad that Charlie Hickok was nowhere in sight.

  As we drove home along the twists and turns of the bayou, stars illuminated the night, looking like handfuls of iridescent confetti that had been tossed up into the sky. A breeze fluttered through dead cypress trees along the road, and their shawls of Spanish moss glistened like finely spun spiderwebs caught in the glow of the moonlight. The country was quiet except for the sound of Santou’s car, his muffler a jarring and discordant note out of tune with our surroundings.

  “You’re more dangerous than I first thought.”

  The sound of his voice startled me. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re deadly with darts.”

  A truck roared by the other way and for a moment I thought of home. “In all fairness, I probably should have warned you.”

  “You’re dangerous in other ways, too.” Santou kept his gaze straight ahead.

  “How’s that?”

  “You ask too many questions. If you’re not careful, you’re going to find yourself in a lot of trouble.”

  “Are you telling me not to ask questions, Santou?”

  I heard a light clicking sound against the steering wheel, and turned to see Santou’s rosary beads moving between the fingers of one hand.

  “People play their games differently down here, chère, and you don’t understand the rules yet.”

  “What are the rules?”

  “Pay attention to warnings and take them seriously. They’re only given once, and then it’s out of Southern courtesy.”

  So far I’d received my fair share of warnings from everyone involved in this case—Marie, Hickok, Hillard Williams, and now even from Santou himself. The beads continued to hit against his steering wheel like a tongue clucking a steady stream of disapproval.

  “Why the rosary beads, Santou?”

  He held them up to the moonlight. “My grandmama gave them to me, saying they would keep me safe. I find they help me to think straight.” Clenching the strand tightly in his fist, he held them for a moment before slipping them back into his pocket.

  It was late by the time we reached my car at the police station. Santou reached over to unbuckle my seat belt, his hand grazing the bare skin of my legs.

  “I’ll drive along with you just to make sure you get home safe.”

  It was an offer I felt best to decline. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

  As he walked me to my car, I fought off the overwhelming desire not to spend the night alone. “You’ll give me a call if you find anything else on Hillard?”

  Santou draped his lanky frame against the car door. “Until we find something solid linking him to Vaughn, there’s not much more we can do at the moment. Besides, keep in mind that just because Hillard fits nice and easy, it doesn’t necessarily make him our killer.”

  “Then where do we go from here?”

  Reaching out, Santou wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me tightly against him. Kissing the lobe of my ear, his lips brushed against my cheek in a slow move toward my mouth. I intended to stop him. But I didn’t. Not until I felt myself balancing on that delicate ledge along with my good intentions. Pulling away from temptation, I slid in behind the wheel, turning on the car’s engine as he leaned in the window. Dropping his rosary beads into my lap, Santou turned and headed back toward the station.

  Five

  I was at Prytania Street by twelve o’clock sharp the next day. Though my car looked out of place in the neighborhood, with its badly dented front fender and a taillight that had given up and died months ago, I had dressed carefully for the occasion, wearing one of the two skirts I owned. My intention was to look presentable yet conservative. After Hillard’s fawning attention toward me yesterday, I didn’t want Dolores getting the wrong impression. With my finger on the buzzer, I waited in the heat for Vinnie to answer the door.

  Just as yesterday, his manners were impeccable.

  “You again?”

  His uniform today consisted of baby blue polyester pants and a maroon-and-navy sports shirt. His hair looked as if it hadn’t been slept on, with every pomaded strand arranged perfectly in place.

  “Mrs. Williams is expecting me. Mind if I come in?”

  “Couldn’t stop ya yesterday. Why should today be any different?”

  I stepped inside.

  “Wait here.”

  A familiar rat-a-tat-tat bark announced Dolores’s presence as she tottered in, with Fifi growling under one arm and an amber-colored drink held in her other hand. Her sunglasses were lodged on top of a puffy swirl of blond hair, allowing me full view of hazel eyes swimming in a sea of red. A soft nest of pouches formed downy pillows beneath, highlighted by white concealer that had been applied with a heavy hand. She had come a long way since her days as a performer with a body to kill for. Neither time nor Hillard had treated her particularly well. She was dressed in hot pink capri pants, and a long sequined top, gathered into a large knot in front, fell past her hips.

  “This way, sugar. We’ll talk out back in the garden.” She leaned toward me, carefully covering Fifi’s snout. “Less chance for prying ears to hear anything that way. What’s your poison?” She gave her glass a swirl, but after all the beer I had consumed last night, the thought of anything alcoholic sent my stomach plunging.

  “I’ll just have an iced tea, if you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? Why should I mind? Vincent!”

  Little Italy stuck his
head out from around the corner.

  “Waddaya want?”

  Dolores rolled her eyes as if her life consisted of one trial and tribulation after another. “Bring an iced tea outside and another bourbon while you’re at it.” Turning around, Dolores came close to losing her balance as Fifi yipped out a warning. But with a remnant of grace from her past, she caught herself at the last moment, managing not to spill her drink as she continued to walk outside. “You’ll love the patio. It’s great.” She pulled a lounge chair into the sun. Settling into it, she leaned back, angling her face to the left.

  “I need another fifteen minutes on this side to even out my tan.”

  Her skin already looked like an expensive Coach leather bag. Lying across her lap, Fifi pulled back her lips in a jagged-tooth grin that dared me to come close to her mistress. Ignoring the suggestion, I dug inside my purse in search of sunglasses as I turned my chair away from the sun.

  “Do you know how I knew that Hillard was screwing around on me?”

  I twisted my chair back around to catch her expression.

  “How?”

  “Because the old fool kept sneaking off with my jewelry, giving that bitch one piece at a time. Do you have any idea what it’s like to find something missing every week and wonder if you’re losing your mind?” Dolores barked out a loud laugh that sent Fifi flying into the air. Grabbing the pooch, she held Fifi tightly against her chest as the dog panted rapidly. “That’s what he used to tell me, you know. It was all in my mind—that I was drinking too much and should check myself into some rehab center. The old goat.”

  “How did you find out it was Valerie?”

  “In this town? Are you kidding? I had people banging down my door to tell me Hillard was involved with some cheap coonass stripper. After that, finding her was easy. I just had Hillard followed.”

  “You hired a private detective?”

  “Damn straight! You think I’m going to have my jewelry disappearing on me only to end up on some little whore? I did hard labor for those stones.”