“No, I’ve suddenly gone brain-dead and lost interest,” Gatlin growled.
Ignoring Gatlin’s sarcasm, Franks said, “Nine o’clock last night.”
“An hour after Jordan did his swan dive. Okay, thanks.” Gatlin opened his little black book and scribbled himself a note.
“Is that it for me?” Jamison asked.
“Yeah, you can take off,” Gatlin said, still writing. When he finished, he looked at Bordelon and pointed at the syringe. “Louie, see if you can get anything off that”—he shifted his finger to the bottle on the desk—“and that. And cap the bottle before doing anything. We don’t want to lose the contents.”
A faint hint of annoyance passed across Bordelon’s face at what he apparently considered unnecessary instructions.
Gatlin turned to speak to Broussard and found him with his rubber-gloved hand in the corpse’s left pocket. He came out with a pocketknife. “I was wonderin’ what he might have used to cut Jordan’s phone wire,” he said, carrying the knife to the desk.
“Don’t know why,” Gatlin said. “There was a set of steak knives in Jordan’s little kitchen.”
“True,” Broussard said. “But it’s comfortin’ to know that somethin’ in his pocket supports what he wrote in his letter.”
Gatlin looked at Bordelon. “Do the knife, too, will you?”
“Charlie, I’m curious,” Broussard said. “You bothered by the fact that Halliday just cut the computer off after he was through rather than shuttin’ down in a more conventional manner?”
Franks shrugged. “A little. But for a guy that’s about to kill himself, the conventional behavior train has already departed.”
“I’m not crazy about typed suicide notes,” Gatlin said, “but at least he signed it. I’m sure we’ll be able to find some samples of his signature for the document section to compare with the one on the note. You’ll take responsibility for the bottle and syringe?”
“We’ll send ’em to the lab soon as we get back,” Broussard said. “Should have somethin’ this afternoon.”
“When can you do him?”
“We already got a customer from Woodsy Newsome…. Charlie, can you take that one?”
Franks nodded.
“Check with me about two-thirty.”
Gatlin looked at Bordelon. “Anything?”
“A good one from the bottle, but other than that, nothing to write home about.” Bordelon lifted the print from the bottle with a piece of adhesive tape, then proceeded to print the corpse.
“You know whose fault all this is, don’t you?” Gatlin said to Broussard.
Knowing Phillip almost better than Gatlin knew himself, Broussard said, “Kit Franklyn?”
Gatlin pointed his finger at Broussard like a gun and fired it with his thumb.
17
Barataria Boulevard begins at the West Bank Expressway as a major city artery. A few miles south of its origin, where the new section is not yet open, the road narrows. A couple of miles farther it enters Jean Lafitte National Park and there is a distinct increase in the number of furry or armored carcasses flattened on the pavement. When it emerges from the park, the road joins Bayou Barataria and, from that point on, the bayou is its constant companion. With each succeeding mile, the houses seem increasingly to belong to people who work the bayou and who advertise the yield of their labors in hand-lettered yard signs:
CRAWFISH… SHRIMP… TRAWLS DIPPED.
Kit shook her head, totally puzzled at that last one. According to the number on the mailbox she had just passed, she was only a few minutes from the home of Eugenie Sonnier. After such a long trip, she fervently hoped that it wasn’t all going to be a waste of time. She briefly considered what it would take for it to be otherwise: Eugenie must still live at the address in Isom’s files, she must be home, and she must have saved what would seem like a lot of worthless papers from her sister’s estate, not to mention the fact her sister must have kept those same papers long after they’d become dated. She saw now with greater clarity than she had at any point so far how tenuously she’d hung her hopes. Had she not been so close to her destination, she might have turned around and gone home.
On her right, the masts and rigging of two battered veterans of many shrimping seasons sat bobbing on the waves created by a passing motorized skiff, the rubber tires across their sterns and along their sides keeping them from scraping the dock. A little farther on, she had to cross into the oncoming lane and slow to a crawl to safely pass a small knot of nearly naked children gathered around a tanned young man holding an alligator snapping turtle up by the tail.
Then, she was there.
The original part of the Sonnier house was a low rectangle with its narrow dimension facing the street. Considering how tiny the original house was, the shedlike addition halfway back on the right must have been a godsend. The house was covered with a film of apple green paint so thin the almond-shaped plugs in the plywood sheathing were visible even from Kit’s car. Like all homes in the area, it was built on cement blocks to keep it a safe distance from bayou floodwaters. They were well out of the running for “yard for the month,” because there was litter everywhere: a pile of sand, a wooden stepladder, old timbers arranged like a tepee, buckets and wire, a folding lawn chair, a lawn mower, a bicycle with no wheels, two huge spools from some electrical cable, and a sign offering HARD-SHELL CRABS 4 SALE, painted on the hull of an aluminum boat upside down on three fifty-five-gallon drums. Beside the house, weeds grew around a dozen rusting vehicles. Kit found all this heartening, because it suggested that the Sonniers were savers.
To the left of the house, beyond the display of dead rolling stock, was Gautreaux’s Grocery, clothed in unpainted board and batten. On the store’s front porch, two hulking men wearing canvas hats and dirty T-shirts sat on an old car seat, their sneaker-clad feet sprawled out in front of them, each with one big hand wrapped around a beer bottle.
To the right of the house, there was a tall metal building with a sign over the wide door opening: S AND S BOAT REPAAR. FIBERGLASS OUR SPECIALTY. So what if they couldn’t spell, Kit thought. If you needed your boat repaired, you’d know where to come.
Resting on oversized sawhorses in front of the metal building was a large boat with a deck cabin. Beside the boat, a woman wearing goggles, jeans, and a sweat-stained blue T-shirt that profiled breasts whose dimensions could best be expressed in length rather than cup size was working an electric sander over a patch below the boat’s waterline.
Kit’s attention returned to the Sonnier house, which did not possess a driveway but, instead, had a swath of oyster shells spread across the front so there was room for five or six vehicles to park nose-in. Since there was a station wagon and two pickups in front of the house, Kit figured somebody had to be home.
She pulled in beside the station wagon and got out, the humidity making it feel as if there was almost as much water in the air as in the bayou. Already sweating, she crunched across the shifting oyster shells and followed a sandy path to the house. Through the aluminum storm door, she saw a long-handled scrub brush hanging on the front door. Puzzled, she wondered whether this was some sort of seasonal decoration, like a Christmas wreath. But what season would be celebrated by a scrub brush? Something to do with fish, maybe. She opened the storm door and pressed the doorbell.
“It don’t work,” a voice said from close behind her.
Startled, she turned and saw the two men from the grocery.
“That’s why this is here,” the closest one said, reaching past her, so that his armpit came within an inch of her nose. She recoiled from the smell, a combination of sweat and shrimp. He picked the brush off its nail and banged on the door with the back of it, then looked at her with a beery grin that showed more tongue than teeth.
“I don’t think anybody’s in there, Floyd,” the other one said with sly insincerity. He was a few inches shorter than Floyd, but his mouth was bigger and gaping, like the beaky jaws of the snapping turtle she’d seen ea
rlier. Both of them had tiny porcine eyes and bad skin that made a clean shave an impossible dream. It suddenly dawned on Kit that they were related, probably brothers.
The one with the brush banged on the door again, then cocked his head to listen. “I believe you’re right, Boyd. They ain’t nobody home.”
“There are three vehicles out front,” Kit said. “So they have to be somewhere close. Any idea where?”
Floyd rehung the brush and scratched his neck. “Think I know where one of ’em is.”
She waited for his answer, but he obviously wanted to be coaxed. “Where?”
“Right there.” He pointed to Boyd, who pointed back and said, “If I ain’t mistaken, there’s another one.”
“Them’s our trucks,” Floyd said. He laughed, looking at the ground and shaking his head as though he’d pulled off one of the world’s great gags. Laughing, too, Boyd hit Floyd lightly on the shoulder with his fist.
“Then you two would probably know where I can find Eugenie Sonnier,” Kit said.
Floyd got control of himself first and pointed next door at the woman with the sander. “That’s Ma over there.”
“Thanks.” Kit pushed past the two lummoxes and made her way next door, Floyd and Boyd following.
Eugenie was covered with a film of gray dust and her sweat made muddy trails as it meandered down her cheeks. The sander was making so much noise that Kit couldn’t get Eugenie’s attention. Holding her breath, Kit stepped into the dust and touched the woman’s back. Eugenie looked up and cut off the sander. She pulled her mask down around her neck, the relatively clean skin beneath it making the rest of her look even dustier.
“Mrs. Sonnier, my name is Kit Franklyn. I work with the police in New Orleans and we’re conducting a murder investigation that could be helped by your sister Shirley’s old business records. I’m here to determine if you have any of those records and, if so, to ask if I might examine them.”
Without replying, Eugenie pulled the mask up, turned on the sander, and went back to work. Puzzled, Kit moved away from the dust and noise to where Floyd and Boyd were waiting. Seeing them a few feet away instead of in her face, she noticed that both had guts so big their navels sucked at their shirts like open mouths.
“Coulda told you she wouldn’t talk to you,” Floyd said.
“Why’s that?”
“Last two years, she ain’t spoke to nobody that can’t talk French… less it was me or Boyd, ’cause we don’t, or somebody wantin’ their boat worked on.”
“She makes a exception for biness,” Boyd said. “On accounta when she didn’t, there wasn’t hardly no work.”
“Why aren’t you two helping her?”
“She fired us this mornin’,” Floyd said.
“But she’ll put us back on tomorrow,” Boyd added. “It’s her way.”
“Did you hear what I told her?” Kit asked.
“Sure, we ain’t deaf,” Floyd said. “You a cop?”
“No, but I work with the police. Since you heard what I said, maybe you could tell me if your mother has any of her sister’s papers.”
“We got some stuff used to belong to her,” Floyd said. “Dunno why we’re savin’ it.”
“It’s Ma’s way,” Boyd explained.
“Papers… that sort of thing?”
“Mostly papers,” Floyd said.
“And some furniture,” Boyd added.
“Would one of you talk to your mother for me and ask if I could see those papers?”
Floyd pulled his little eyes back in his head until they were almost covered by the fatty folds above them. “Might be we could work out somethin’….” He glanced at Boyd, who casually began to edge around behind Kit. Before she could react to these danger signals, Floyd grabbed her at the elbows. Quickly, she brought her forearms up inside his, came over the top and down, breaking his hold. Reversing the motion of her arms, she brought them up in a sweeping arc and clapped him on the ears with her open palms. She bolted for the car, surprised that the moves she saw on TV actually worked. When she sped by, foot hard on the accelerator, Floyd was still bent over, holding his head. Boyd simply looked bewildered.
*
* *
Kit pulled into Grandma O’s parking lot shortly before noon, intending to get more than lunch. Grandma O met her at the door.
“Doc Franklyn, how you doin’? City boy got here a few minutes ago. What you gonna have?”
“What’s the special?”
“Half a ham and cheese po’ boy and a bowl a duck gumbo.”
“Sounds good.”
“An’ a glass a iced tea?”
“Yeah, and maybe a favor if you could manage it.”
“Depends on what it is and how fast you can talk. Ah gotta lotta hungry folks waitin’.”
Kit explained what she wanted and warned her about Floyd and Boyd. Apparently unafraid, Grandma O agreed to help, providing they made their little expedition the next day after she had seen the kitchen off to the right start for the evening meal. She said that 3:30 sounded about right, then went off to get Kit’s food.
Hoping that Broussard wouldn’t quiz her about where she’d been, Kit threaded her way between the rapidly filling tables to where he was having two specials and two lemonades.
“I see you ordered for both of us,” she teased.
“Man does not live by half a po’ boy alone,” Broussard said, “least I can’t. Sit down, I’ve got some news.”
He proceeded to tell her about Kurt Halliday. When he finished, she said, “Have you done the autopsy yet?”
“First thing after lunch,” he replied, taking a bite of his sandwich.
“You said his letter mentioned Arthur Jordan. Anybody else?”
Mouth full, Broussard shook his head.
“The signature on the letter, has it been verified?”
Broussard took a drink of lemonade. “Phillip called just before I left to come over here and said that Doyle Fleming, their document examiner, swears it’s genuine.”
Kit shook her head. “Not only is this too convenient but it leaves too many—”
Grandma O arrived with Kit’s food and put it in front of her. “Doc, you need anything else, jus’ holler. City boy, you still content over dere?”
“I’m fine.”
Grandma O left and Kit continued her thought. “It leaves too many loose ends.”
“For instance?”
“Paul Jarrell, for one. The letter didn’t mention him.”
“There’s still no proof he was ever part of it.”
“Are you still clinging to that fantasy?”
“So there is proof? Somethin’ I haven’t heard about? Somethin’ more than a hunch?”
She shook her finger at him. “You watch. When this is all over, you’ll see that I’m right.”
“You said loose ends. What else?”
“You wouldn’t like those any better than Paul Jarrell, maybe less.”
“Try me.”
She told him about Clay Peyton, Walter Browning, and Haley Dagget.
“Interestin’, I’ll give you that,” he admitted. “You’ve told Phillip all this?”
“In the greatest detail. By the way, who was it that first mentioned me as a guest for the gourmet dinner?”
“Arthur Jordan.”
From over Kit’s shoulder, Grandma O said, “Doc Franklyn, somethin’ wrong with your food?”
“No, it’s great.” Under Grandma O’s stern look, Kit tried the duck gumbo and made appreciative noises, which wasn’t hard, because it was sensational. Satisfied, Grandma O cruised off to check for other slackers.
“Are you taking Halliday’s suicide at face value?” Kit said.
“I’m not givin’ it any value until all the data are in.”
“When will that be?”
“Phillip is comin’ over at three.”
“Mind if I eavesdrop?”
“Not at all. I’d appreciate your views.” He took a long pull on his lemonade
and looked at her innocently. “Knowin’ how you like to get after a problem, it must be hard sittin’ on the sidelines.”
Their eyes met briefly and she saw in his that he knew what she was doing with her personal time. This was a relief, because the thought that she was doing things behind his back caused her considerable anguish. She wanted now to discuss it openly with him but realized that to do so would put him in an awkward position with his friend Gatlin. To get their relationship back on an honest footing without compromising him, she said pointedly, “Well, one does what’s necessary.”
To show that he understood, he said, “Will you be needin’ any more personal time?”
“Matter of fact, yes. I need to go somewhere tomorrow at three-thirty.”
He nodded and sipped some more lemonade. “You know best. ’Least I hope so.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be going alone.”
For the next few minutes, they concentrated on their food, then Broussard said, “By the way, when you get back to the office, you’ll find a note I left on your door. This mornin’, a patrol car answered a call about a man with a gun terrorizin’ the customers in a K Mart. When the cops confronted him, he raised the gun as though he was gonna use it and they killed him. Come to find out, the gunman was only sixteen and the gun wasn’t real. Case like this, there’s gonna be a lot of different versions of what happened and those cops’ll take a lot of heat. How about seein’ what you can turn up on the victim.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
Returning to her office, Kit found not one note on the door but two, the extra one being a message to call Adrian Iverson. After calling around and getting the information she needed to begin her investigation of the police shooting, she called Iverson, who, like Tully the day before, wanted her opinion on some hybrids that had recently bloomed. Though she was growing a bit weary of making these visits to the two men and she had a great deal to do with this new case, it was only fair that what she had done for Tully, she should do for Iverson. Therefore, she agreed to stop by around five o’clock, hoping she could tie that visit in with one related to the new case.
No Mardi Gras for the Dead Page 17