by Shari Hearn
“’Scattered.’ How do you come up with them?” Gertie asked, tossing her friends a roll of her eyes.
“Actually, I was going to call you, Gertie,” Gill said. “I took a look at those dog...” He stopped. “How do I put this delicately?”
“Poop,” Gertie said.
“Uh, yes. Okay. That’s what I meant.”
“That’s wonderful, Gill,” Gertie said. “I suppose your friend hasn’t had an opportunity yet to look at the dog hair sample.”
“The white fur?” Gill asked. “No, not yet. I believe he’ll take a look at that the day after tomorrow. He has a number of primate fur samples he’s backlogged on. Some would say he’s ‘harried.’”
Gill was silent. “Did you hear me? I said, he’s ‘harried.’”
“Hah,” Gertie said with little enthusiasm. “Well, actually it’s a good thing that he hasn’t started on the dog hair sample because I have the comparison sample I’d like him to run as well. I could bring in the samples to your office today or drop them in an after-hours slot if you have one. That way I wouldn’t interrupt your day.”
“I’ll go you one better, foxy lady,” he said, chuckling. “I’m driving into Sinful and having dinner with Mother tomorrow night. She’d love to meet you.”
“Oh, no, I don’t want to intrude on your time with your mother.”
Marge snickered, which prompted Gertie to hold up a hand and give Marge the finger.
“Nonsense. In fact, I would prefer it,” he said in a way that meant having dinner with him and his mother would be the only way they were going to get the samples compared.
“Just one moment, Gill,” Gertie said, frowning. She placed her hand over the receiver and glared at her cohorts. “I have to have dinner with him and his mom tomorrow night,” she whispered. “You two owe me a ride in the Wienermobile. I don’t care if you have to steal it to make it happen.” She took a deep breath, forced a smile on her face and resumed her conversation with the male version of decaf coffee. “I would love to meet your mother and you for dinner.”
“Great! I’ll have Mother make her famous turtle drop mousse. She created it in my honor.”
“I’m sure it’ll be as delicious as it sounds.”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at six, then.”
Gertie waited until she heard him hang up before slamming the receiver onto the phone. “Your Aunt Louanne owes me some of her finest moonshine from her reserve stock,” she said to Marge. “And I want Cole to deliver it with his shirt off.”
Marge smiled. “Thanks,” she said.
“Not as if I have a choice. But I was serious. I want a ride in the Wienermobile.”
“I’d like one of those myself.”
They all turned to find Granny Magoo entering the living room from the hallway, carrying a tray of Velveeta and crackers, her curly gray hair sticking out of the bottom of a baseball cap she was wearing. “I thought you could use some snacks.”
“What’s with the hat?” Gertie asked. She’d never known her grandma to wear baseball caps. This one was blue, boasting an Atlanta Braves logo.
Granny Magoo set the tray on the coffee table. “It was in one of the goodie bags that Dolly Harkins left for me to pick up.”
“Why’d she do that?” Marge asked.
Granny Magoo shrugged her shoulders. “I’m the only hooker willing to spend some one-on-one time with her to help improve her technique.”
Gertie rolled her eyes. “Knitter. You’re a knitter.”
Granny Magoo rapped Gertie on the head with her knuckles. “You know what I’m talking about.” She tapped the cap on her head. “I don’t ordinarily wear baseball caps, but maybe I’ll start.” She turned her head, modeling the cap.
“Very becoming,” Gertie said. “But don’t you think it’s odd?”
Granny Magoo rolled her eyes. “What’s odd?”
“For starters, Dolly lives behind the crime scene, right where the guy with the cap appeared from the woods behind her house.”
Granny Magoo folded her arms and glared at Gertie. “If you’re thinking Dolly had anything to do with Wade’s murder, you can stop right there. That Dolly might be strange, but she’s left some good stuff for me over the years. Just last month she left me a jigsaw puzzle of Jesus holding a baby lamb. And only one piece missing. Jesus’s thumb. Puzzles like that don’t come to pickers often.”
“I imagine they wouldn’t,” Gertie said. “It’s just odd is all I’m saying.”
Granny Magoo started making her way to the kitchen, stopping to adjust the Hebert’s own homage to Jesus, a needlepoint of Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount created by Gertie’s great-grandmother Leger. It hung on the wall below the pink poodle clock, a reminder in the Hebert household that any time is a good time for Jesus.
Once Granny Magoo disappeared into the kitchen, Ida Belle turned to Gertie. “You’re not thinking that baseball cap is related to the murder, are you? My daddy owns a ton of baseball caps, but I would venture a guess that he didn’t kill Wade Guillory.”
“I just think Dolly is weird, is all,” Gertie said. “I believe the killer is Bonnie Cotton, but I could see Dolly finding a baseball cap on her property and giving it to my granny just so she’ll continue giving her knitting tips. But I know if I ask Dolly where she got it, my granny would blow a gasket.”
Ida Belle cut a slice of Velveeta and placed it on a cracker. Luckily, Velveeta was one luxury they didn’t have to go without in Vietnam. “I guess it’s possible. We could take a trip to the Swamp Bar tomorrow night and ask around, see if anyone knows of anyone who wears Atlanta Braves caps. We should take a trip out there anyway, just to feel people out about Guillory’s murder.”
Gertie started thinking of disguises they could wear to the Swamp Bar. When it came to undercover in a bar, the sleezier they dressed, the looser the lips. “So Marge, hot pants or bells and tube top?”
Marge sighed. “Why do we always have to sex it up? I was hoping we were done with all that.”
“Because nuns don’t go to the Swamp Bar,” Gertie said. “Listen, Marge, I know you’re getting into all this women’s lib stuff and that’s great. But a trained spy knows she’d rather give the men something to focus on other than her face that they could identify later. And that ‘something’ certainly isn’t our brains.”
“Where’s your dignity?” Marge asked, cutting herself a slice of Velveeta.
Gertie reached over and plucked the Velveeta from Marge’s hand and popped it in her mouth. “Well, tomorrow night it will be in my boobs and my butt.”
Chapter Sixteen
IDA BELLE WAS THE FIRST to hear the noise outside the window in the upstairs bedroom she was currently sharing with Marge. She was on her feet and grabbing her pistol from the bedside drawer when Marge shot up in her bed and whispered, “What’s that noise?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” Ida Belle crept forward in the dark, her gun aimed at the window. Moments later Marge was up, her gun drawn as well.
Ida Belle signaled for Marge to go to the right of the window, while she hung to the left. A shadow of what appeared to be someone’s head broke the moonlight that shone through the sheer curtains. Followed by shoulders. That someone had used a ladder, the upper torso now blocking the moonlight.
A hand reached out.
And rapped on the window.
What the hell? thought Ida Belle.
The hand rapped again.
“Girls,” a familiar voice whispered. “It’s Louanne. Let me in.”
Marge lowered her weapon and then handed it to Ida Belle. She rushed forward, flung open the curtains and lifted the window.
“What are you doing here?” Marge whispered.
“Inspecting your roof,” Marge’s aunt replied with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “What the heck does it look like I’m doing here? I’d like to come inside.”
Marge reached a hand to Louanne and helped her aunt through the window and inside the room.
; “Evening, or actually, early morning,” Louanne said smiling. She glanced at Ida Belle, who held two pistols in her hands. “Nice to see you have protection.”
“You could have been shot,” Ida Belle said.
Louanne snickered. “And wouldn’t you have felt the fool when you realized it was me you put a hole through?”
“What time is it?” Marge asked.
“Last I checked it was about ten to three.”
Marge lifted her brows. “Is something wrong? Please don’t tell me you’re hiding out from the sheriff.”
Louanne dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “If I were hiding out, I wouldn’t choose my brother’s house.”
“Is it Cole?” Ida Belle asked. “Is he okay?”
“Well, he’s on assignment right now, so we’re incommunicado.”
“Your prisoner, Gabby? Did she escape?” asked Marge, throwing her hands in the air.
“Oh, I wish.” Louanne flicked her thumb toward the window. “I did bring her with me, though. She’s outside waiting in the old Dodge I use for surveillance. With the keys in the ignition, I might add, and a wallet filled with cash and a Mudbug bus schedule. I’m hoping she’ll take the opportunity to take the bus north and escape to Canada.”
“So you came over here and woke us from a sound sleep to give Gabby an opportunity to escape?” asked Ida Belle.
Louanne shook her head. “No, I came to share some information. If Gabby escapes, that’s just a bonus. Although I’ll miss her. She gets my whites whiter than white, and her sweet potato pie is divine.”
“Back to why you came, then. This is something that couldn’t wait till morning?” Marge asked.
“You know me. When I get something in my head, I have to act on it.” She glanced at Ida Belle. “Besides, this may be something you might want to act on soon.”
Ida Belle flopped back on her bed. “What is it?”
Marge gestured to her own bed. “Have a seat.”
Marge sat up against her headboard with her knees drawn up to her chin while Louanne sat down on the bed. Ida Belle was getting the sinking feeling that this visit primarily involved her.
Louanne sighed and began. “After you told me that Buster Bussey saw a woman running from the house, a woman who may have resembled me, it got me thinking about Buster. There was something about him. Damn boy was a splinter in my brain.”
“I take it that splinter finally worked its way through the surface,” Ida Belle said.
Louanne nodded. “I don’t know why I hadn’t written it down in my local spy notes, but I finally remembered it. It actually brought me out of a dead sleep earlier tonight. Buster Bussey was fired from his job at the oil rigs for breaking the nose of a fellow worker.”
The oil rigs. Ida Belle sighed. Her father was a supervisor on an oil rig. “Go on.”
“Well, turns out that fellow worker had had an affair with the wife of another guy.”
“But Buster was the one who broke his nose? Not the guy with the wife?” asked Marge.
Louanne nodded again. “Rumor had it that Buster was paid to do it by the man whose wife was cheating on him. Rumor also had it that it wasn’t the first time things happened on the job that Buster had a hand in yet was not personally affected by.”
“Are you saying people paid him to cause trouble on their behalf?” Ida Belle asked.
Louanne nodded. “Word is that you can pay Buster to do almost anything. The supervisor on the oil rig must have agreed because he fired Buster after the nose-breaking incident. And I thought...”
Louanne brought her gaze to Ida Belle, who felt her stomach sink.
“The supervisor is my father, right?”
“’Fraid so,” Louanne said. “And if I’m not mistaken...”
“His shift begins tomorrow afternoon,” Ida Belle said, finishing Louanne’s thought. “If I go over there in the morning before he leaves, I might be able to get some information from him about Buster.”
Louanne shrugged. “It’s a thought”
“I’ll go,” Marge said.
“You don’t like my daddy.”
“Well, neither do you.”
“I don’t mind going,” Louanne said. “Your daddy and I have known one another for decades. I just thought I’d see if you had any desire to do it yourself.”
Did Ida Belle have a desire to see her father? Absolutely not. They’d always been distant from one another, even when living in the same house. But she would be a sorry former spy if she had to send in someone else to talk to him.
“I’ll do it,” she said glumly.
Louanne came over and sat next to Ida Belle in her bed. “Are you sure?”
Ida Belle nodded. Louanne leaned in and pulled Ida Belle into a tight hug. “You’re the daughter he missed out on, sweetie,” she whispered. “He never knew how lucky he was.” Ida Belle nodded. Of course, her father would never admit his parenting had been lacking. In his mind, the only thing wrong was that Ida Belle had disappointed him by being born a girl.
Louanne released Ida Belle and stood. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a sound at the window.
Ida Belle tossed one of the pistols back to Marge and sprang up from the bed, aiming her own handgun toward the window. Louanne whipped out a pistol as well and the three stood at the ready.
“Hello,” a voice from outside the window called out.
Louanne shoved her pistol back into her waistband. “Gabby?”
Gabby started to crawl through the window, got a look at the two guns still pointed her way and immediately fell backward, her hands grabbing onto the window frame. She screamed as Marge, Louanne and Ida Belle rushed forward and helped pull her back inside the room.
“What are you doing here?” Louanne asked as she helped a shaky Gabby to Marge’s bed.
“Well, you forgot the cookies I made.” She smiled at Ida Belle, then Marge. “You would have loved them, too. My famous coconut crumbles. And now they’re all over your lawn.” She looked down at her blouse and picked a few crumbs and tossed them in her mouth. She stood and produced a wallet from her pants pocket and handed it to Louanne. “But I did manage to hold onto your wallet. You left it in the car.” She reached in again and pulled out a set of keys. “Keys too. Honestly, dear, you have to be more careful than that. If I wasn’t the honest sort, I could have driven away with your car and your money.”
“Well, yes you could have,” Louanne said. “It would have saved you from a prison term.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” Gabby said, reaching out and touching Louanne’s shoulder.
Knocking at the bedroom door commanded everyone’s attention.
“Marge, honey, are you two okay in there? Your mommy and I heard a scream.”
“Yes, dad, we’re okay,” Marge said.
“Actually, my ankle is starting to feel a little sore,” Gabby said, lifting one foot up to inspect it. “I think I may have sprained it. I’m not so sure I can climb down that tree branch.”
Louanne’s brow furrowed. “No, we’ll have to go out the front.”
“What on Earth is going on in there?” Marge’s mom asked. “Are there other people in there with you?”
“Is someone holding you captive?” her dad’s voice called out.
“No, dad,” Marge said. “No one’s holding us captive.”
“Here, lean on me.” Louanne put her arm around Gabby’s shoulder.
Marge opened the door.
“Honey, what is...” her mother asked before catching sight of Louanne and Gabby as Ida Belle helped them through the doorway. “Louanne?”
“Hello, Acadia. Wes. Gabby, this is my brother and sister-in-law.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Gabby said. “I woulda had some cookies for you, but I had to let them go when I almost plummeted to my death.”
From down the hallway, Granny Boudreaux stormed out of her room carrying a baseball bat. “Who is it? Did someone hurt my girls?”
Acadia sighed, “No, Mama Boudreaux. It’s your daughter Louanne. And a friend.” She glared at Louanne. “What are you doing here? And with HER.”
Louanne smiled. “Well, we were in the neighborhood, thought we’d stop in for a visit.”
Acadia didn’t return the smile. “It’s three in the morning.”
“Yes, so we best be on our way.” Louanne looked at Ida Belle. “I can take it from here.” Ida Belle released Gabby and the two women hobbled past Acadia and her husband. “Louanne kissed Granny Boudreaux on the cheek as she passed. “Morning, Mama.”
“Who is that woman with Louanne?” Wes Boudreaux asked his wife, Acadia.
“A fugitive. She murdered her husband.”
Wes’ brows shot up.
“Attempted murder, Mama,” Marge said from the hallway. “And all she did was shoot part of his backside off. And maybe that’s something that should just stay in the family, okay?”
Acadia started to answer, but Marge gently eased her back toward her room. “Night, Mama. Night, Daddy. Night, Granny Boudreaux.”
Ida Belle and Marge slipped back inside the bedroom. Marge closed the door and shook her head at Ida Belle. “Can you believe my dad actually thought we were being held captive in here?” They stared at one another a moment, then both broke out in laughter. Marge collapsed on her bed and Ida Belle plopped down on hers, laugh tears spilling from both their eyes.
A knock was heard on the door.
“Girls, it’s late,” Marge’s mother said. “Settle down and go to sleep.”
Marge shook her head, the laughter gone. “We really need a place of our own.”
“Yeah,” Ida Belle said, slipping under the sheets. Her thoughts quickly turned to her mission of tomorrow: question her father about Buster Bussey. She knew she’d faced worse missions the past ten years as a spy, but right at the moment she couldn’t think of any.
Chapter Seventeen
IDA BELLE SLOWED HER pace as she walked down Boyette Street and spotted that familiar gray shotgun house sitting four lots in. Surprised to see what looked like a 1968 Chevy truck sitting in the driveway. She thought her father would never get rid of his old, beat-up ‘51 truck.