What the critics said about No Mardi Gras for the Dead:
“Likeable protagonists, abundant forensic lore and vivid depictions of colorful New Orleans and its denizens…”
–PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Kit and Andy make a formidable team.”
–WASHINGTON TIMES
“Donaldson’s genre gumbo keeps you coming back for more.”
–BOOKLIST
What the critics said about Louisiana Fever:
“Delivers… genuinely heart-stopping suspense.”
–PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Sleek, fast moving.”
–KIRKUS
“Broussard tracks the virus… with a winning combination of common sense and epidemiologic legerdemain.”
–NEW ORLEANS TIMES PICAYUNE
“This series has carved a solid place for itself. Broussard makes a terrific counterpoint to the Dave Robicheaux ragin’ Cajun school of mystery heroes.”
–BOOKLIST
“A dazzling tour de force... sheer pulse-pounding reading excitement.”
–THE CLARION LEDGER (JACKSON, MS)
“A novel of… “terrifying force.... utterly fascinating... His best work yet.”
–THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (MEMPHIS)
“The autopsies are detailed enough to make Patricia Cornwell fans move farther south for their forensic fixes. ...splendidly eccentric local denizens, authentic New Orleans and bayou backgrounds... a very suspenseful tale.”
–LOS ANGELES TIMES
“A fast moving, ... suspenseful story. Andy and Kit are quite likeable leads ...The other attraction is the solid medical background against which their story plays out.”
–DEADLY PLEASURES
“If your skin doesn’t crawl with the step-by-step description of the work of the (medical) examiner and his assistants, it certainly will when Donaldson reveals the carrier of the fever.”
–KNOXVILLE NEWS-SENTINEL
“Keep(s) the reader on the edge of his chair and likely to finish in one sitting.”
–BENTON COURIER (Arkansas)
“Exciting reading… well planned… fast paced.”
–MYSTERY NEWS
“Tight and well-paced… Andy (Broussard) is a hugely engaging character… (the) writing is frequently inspired.”
–THE ARMCHAIR DETECTIVE
What the critics said about Sleeping With The Crawfish:
“Streamlined thrills and gripping forensic detail.”
–KIRKUS
“Action-packed, cleverly plotted topnotch thriller. Another fine entry in a consistently outstanding series. ”
–BOOKLIST
“With each book, Donaldson peels away a few more layers of these characters and we find ourselves loving the involvement.”
–THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (MEMPHIS)
“The pace is pell-mell.”
–SAN ANTONIO EXPRESS-NEWS
“Exciting and… realistic. Donaldson... starts his action early and sustains it until the final pages.”
–BENTON COURIER (Arkansas)
“A roller-coaster ride... Thoroughly enjoyable.”
–BRAZOSPORT FACTS
“The latest outing of a fine series which never disappoints.”
–MERITORIOUS MYSTERIES
What the critics said about New Orleans Requiem:
“Lots of Louisiana color, pinpoint plotting and two highly likable characters… smart, convincing solution.”
–PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (starred review)
“An…. accomplished forensic mystery. His New Orleans is worth the trip.”
–NEW ORLEANS TIMES PICAYUNE
“Andy and Kit are a match made in mystery heaven.”
–THE CLARION LEDGER (JACKSON, MS)
“Nicely drawn characters, plenty of action, and an engaging… storytelling style.”
–THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel
are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
NO MARDI GRAS FOR THE DEAD
Astor + Blue Editions
Copyright © 2014 by DJ DONLADSON
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by:
Astor + Blue Editions,
New York, NY 10036
www.astorblue.com
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
DONALDSON, D.J. NO MARDI GRAS FOR THE DEAD—2rd ed.
Originally Published by St. Martin’s Press, Date 1992
ISBN: 978-1-941286-36-4 (epdf)
ISBN: 978-1-941286-35-7 (epub)
1. Detective Duo —Murder Mystery—Fiction. 2. Fiction 3. Police procedural and forensic mystery—Fiction 4. —Fiction 5. —Fiction 6. American Murder and Suspense Story —Fiction 7 New Orleans (LA) I. Title
Jacket Cover Design: Ervin Serrano
This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.
For Doris and Don
Acknowledgments
I’m indebted to everyone who provided background information for this story. Special thanks to Drs. Hugh Berryman and Steve Syms, anthropologists in the Regional Forensic Center, Shelby County, Tennessee, for being so good at their jobs and for responding to my many phone calls and questions with cheerful good humor. A hearty thanks also to Dr. Jerry Francisco, Shelby County Medical Examiner for numerous helpful suggestions and for promptly returning my almost daily phone calls during the final stages of the writing. Thanks also to Dr. O. C. Smith, Assistant Medical Examiner for Shelby County; Dr. Allen O. Battle; Dr. Jim Mahan; Dr. John Schweitzer; Dr. Charles Wilson; Reid Withrow and Bob Paddock of the Aquarium of the Americas; Bruce Wheaton of the Crooked Creek Hunting Lodge; Doris Manning; Carol Green, and Max Grieg. The menu for the gourmet dinner was a creation of chef Jean-Louis Palladin. As usual, I would have been lost without June, my wife and in-house editor. Any errors are mine.
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for D.J. Donaldson
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Title Page
Introduction To This Ebook Edition
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
About The Author
No Mardi Gras for the Dead
D. J. DONALDSON
Introduction To This Ebook Edition
I’m extremely grateful to Astor + Blue for reissuing my Andy Broussard/Kit Franklyn forensic mysteries. Because we didn’t know how they would be received by a new generation of readers, we decided to start with the last three of the original six titles and release them in the order they were first published. Thus, we started with book #4, NEW ORLEANS REQUIEM, followed by #5, LOUISIANA FEVER, and then #6, SLEEPING WITH THE CRAWFISH. At this point, we introduced BAD KARMA IN THE BIG EASY, a brand-new entry in the series.
The results are in. Readers have given the return of Andy and Kit such an enthusiastic reception, Astor+Blue has decided to re-issue the remaining three titles. For character continuity, it seemed best to work our way
backward to the first book rather than jump to that one next. So we now present book #3, NO MARDI GRAS FOR THE DEAD.
I should mention that the farther back we go in the series, the less connected electronically the world is in each book. And I can’t really change that because I’m simply telling you what occurred in each adventure exactly how it all happened. To alter anything for the sake of “modernizing” the story would be like saying Henry Stanley kept his notes on an iPad during his African search for Dr. Livingstone.
In this book Andy and Kit become involved in a murder that took place many years before they met. As all detectives (and probably most people in general) know, cold cases are the worst. Solving them is usually impossible. But for a very specific personal reason, Kit absolutely will not accept that result. Broussard, of course, won’t allow himself to be beaten by any circumstances.
–D.J. Donaldson, 2014
1
The night air was warm and humid, but her skin was pebbly with gooseflesh. Usually talkative and outgoing, tonight she lay quietly, almost pensively, her back to the stars, her face turned to the side. A fly hummed out of the darkness and landed. It briefly explored the surface of her cloudy cornea, then began to tuck its eggs into the corner of her eye. Her respiration had ceased many hours earlier, but enzymes were still functioning, acting now without direction, turning on the organs they once served. One life had ended, but millions reaped the benefits, finding passage into previously forbidden chambers where in mindless celebration they multiplied.
She was lifted from the grass and dropped into a hole in the earth, her rigidity requiring the same fit she once demanded of her clothing. Then the dirt… filling… covering… hiding…
With the sun, life spilled into the streets and the ground warmed. Though it was cool below, her red cells eventually gave up their hemoglobin, which seeped from her vessels, staining her once-blemish-free skin with reddish brown trails. A shower brought smiles to the lips of the living, but also summoned forth delicate mycelial threads from germinating mold spores that began digesting her clothing.
Days passed into weeks and the gases came, lifting the dirt, creating pressures that rearranged… pushed… expelled. In life, she had been desired by many. In death, she was sought by more and they came to her, embraced her and became one with her. Then as the weeks blended into months, their ardor waned and one by one they left her, until she was very much alone.
*
* *
Yikes! She had forgotten Bubba.
Kit hurried down the hall and nudged the kitchen door open. Predictably, a small black nose appeared in the crack.
She slipped her hand inside and grabbed Lucky, the owner of the nose, by the collar. “Oh yes, you little varmint, you’d like to get into the new varnish, wouldn’t you?”
When she was safely into the kitchen with the door shut behind her, she let the little dog go. He responded by scampering happily about the room, his claws clacking on the linoleum like a little flop-eared flamenco dancer.
Watermelon. That’s why she had come inside… to get Bubba a piece of melon.
She washed her hands at the sink and looked out the window at Bubba Oustellette, hard at work digging the holes for the posts that would support the rose trellis in the center of her planned rose garden. Bubba was dressed as usual, in navy blue coveralls and a matching T-shirt. On his head was a dark green baseball cap bearing the logo of an ocean wave showing its teeth and carrying a football.
Poor Bubba. The posthole digger was bigger than he was and he was sweating terribly. She got the watermelon from the fridge and cut it in half. She lopped off a thick circle, put it on a dinner plate, and stuck a fork in the center, about all the culinary ability or inclination any kitchen was likely to see from her. On the way out, Lucky darted into the yard.
Bubba looked as though he’d taken a shower with his clothes on—his dark hair hanging in wet ropes from under his cap, his shirt sticking to him like a coat of blue paint. In the future, she was going to have to be more careful. She had merely asked whether he knew anyone she could hire to build a rose trellis and he had volunteered to do it for nothing. And she hadn’t been able to talk him out of it. Now, here he was, giving up his Saturday and courting heatstroke, as well.
“How about a little break, Bubba?”
Bubba chunked the digger into the hole and grinned through his bushy black beard. “Ah don’ need no coaxin’ for dat,” the little Cajun said, taking off his cap and wiping his forehead with his arm.
“Come on, sit over here in the shade and see if this melon is as good as it looks. Or, if you like, we can go inside where it’s cool.”
“Out here is okay.”
Kit led Bubba to a pair of folding lawn chairs under a young pin oak, where Bubba didn’t want to sit until she did.
“Bubba, get in that chair.”
Sheepishly, he did as she ordered. “Ah think you got a little Gramma O in you,” he said, taking the plate and the salt Kit held out to him.
Grandma O operated the restaurant where Kit usually ate lunch. She was Grandmother only to Bubba, but everyone called her Grandma O, mostly because that’s what she called herself on the restaurant’s sign and menu.
“A little of Grandma O? I’ll consider that a compliment,” Kit said.
“Well, Ah hope you don’ let it mushroom, cause Ah got all Ah can handle with da original.”
Bubba sprinkled his melon with salt and stored the shaker in the chest pocket of his coveralls. He carved a large piece from the melon’s seedless center, then paused. “Ain’t you havin’ any?”
“Maybe in a minute,” Kit said, enjoying the feeling of sitting under her own oak in her own backyard. The yard was small but was given a nice sense of privacy by the unusually tall cypress fence that a previous owner had put up.
The yard itself wasn’t much to look at now: a carpet of mangy Bermuda; some scraggly privet on each side of the back door in beds lined with three different shades of brick set in the ground to resemble the teeth on a saw, and, of course, those awful clothesline poles and all that cement around them.
She looked at Bubba, intending to ask his advice on methods for removel of the poles but realized he’d just want to help with that as well. What she needed was a…
Lord. She put her hand to her eyes in disbelief. For an instant, she had imagined she needed a husband. She looked warily at the house, alert now to a danger in its purchase that hadn’t occurred to her before. She didn’t need a husband. She didn’t need a man at all. She stood up. “Bubba, I want to dig the next hole. I’m going inside to change. Keep an eye on Lucky for me while I’m inside, will you? He likes to dig and I’m afraid he might try to go under the fence.”
“He’s good at it, too,” Bubba said, pointing.
Looking behind her, Kit saw Lucky’s front paws churning at the pile of dirt beside the hole Bubba had been working on. The little dog shoved his muzzle into the cavity he’d made and pulled out something white, which he dragged a few feet to the side. He lay down and began chewing on it.
Afraid that it might be something harmful, Kit hurried toward him. “No! Bad dog! Bad dog!”
Lucky’s ears lifted and he looked at Kit with big round eyes that said, playtime.
She leaned down to take the object from him, but he snatched it up and darted off. Lucky ran with abandon, leaping over the lumber Bubba had brought and making a three-quarter circle around the yard. He dropped to his belly, with the object between his paws and watched to see whether Kit would come after him.
“Bubba, I’m going to need some help here.”
Bubba put his plate under his chair and circled around behind the oak while Kit closed in from the front. Lucky’s eyes darted back and forth between them as he triangulated their approach.
Having grown up around animals of all kinds and knowing them well, Bubba was aware that Lucky would not let him get much closer. So he flung himself into the air, covering the last few feet in a daring surprise maneu
ver.
When Bubba hit, driving the salt shaker into his sternum, Lucky was ten feet away, his legs a blur as he ran, the object firmly between his teeth.
It was far too hot to play this game and Kit was about ready to get the hose after the dog, when he dropped the object and went after a blue jay that had landed near the fence. Kit hurried to the object and bent down for a closer look. Despite the bright sun beating on her back, she went gray and cold inside.
“What is it?” Bubba said, getting to his feet.
“Part of a jawbone,” Kit said.
“Somebody’s buried pet?”
“If it is, it’s been to the dentist.”
2
“Over here,” Kit said, leading her boss, Andy Broussard, chief medical examiner for Orleans Parish to the fragment of jawbone that Lucky had found. Despite the heat and the fact it was the weekend, Broussard was dressed for the office: slacks, short-sleeved white shirt with a bow tie, and mesh shoes, which, as he was fond of pointing out, were the only kind that kept his feet from sweating. Though they usually did not carry shoes in such a small size, the Big Man’s Shop on Canal, where Broussard bought his clothes, was more than happy to special order them for him.
“That’s it,” Kit said, pointing to the ground.
Emitting a sound like a tire that had just run over a nail, Broussard bent down and picked up the fragment. He tilted his head to bring the bone into line with the part of his glasses he used for close work and studied the fragment, turning it in his small hand. Surprisingly, he put it to his nose and sniffed it. “Which hole?” he asked.
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