by Jana DeLeon
“So all we know is that the ATF thinks you might have stumbled into their investigation,” I said, “but we have no idea what that investigation is about.”
“Well,” Ida Belle said, “we know it’s alcohol, tobacco, or firearms. Tobacco seems a stretch. There’s plenty of illegal stills around here, but I can’t imagine the ATF cares about them.”
Carter shook his head. “The sheriff doesn’t even care about them.”
“That’s because one of them is his,” Ida Belle said.
Carter stared at her in dismay.
“Oops,” Ida Belle said. “Anyway, I suppose someone could be running the high-end stuff through the Gulf from Central and South America.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but they could be running any of the three, or even from Cuba. The ATF is on high alert in Florida. Someone smuggling cigars may have decided on an alternate drop point.”
Carter studied me for a moment.
Crap. That sounded way too much like law enforcement and not at all like a librarian.
“I saw this special on television,” I lied.
Carter blew out a breath. “Most of television is crap, but I happen to know that tidbit is accurate.”
“So we’re back to not having a clue what we’re up against.”
Carter straightened up in his bed. “Wait a minute. We are not up against anything. This is a police matter. How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of the way of law enforcement?”
Ida Belle raised one eyebrow at him. “You mean like you intend to do?”
“That’s different,” Carter argued. “I am law enforcement so that makes it my business.”
“Agent Douche Bag told you to stay out of it,” I pointed out. “I don’t think he believes it’s your business.”
Carter’s face turned a bit red. “That’s not the point. The bottom line is that something big is going on in my town—apparently right under my nose—and no way in hell am I letting some Fed screw up the investigation.”
Emmaline gave him a stern look. “No way in hell are you running around chasing criminals until your brains are unscrambled.”
“But—” Carter started to protest.
“The way things are right now,” Emmaline said, “you could walk right up to the bad guy and not even know it. You have to wait until you remember.”
“She’s right,” Ida Belle said. “Whoever took a shot at you isn’t going to know that your memory is fuzzy. Any proximity to them or whatever they’re hiding, even accidental, would prompt a repeat performance.”
I could tell Carter wanted to argue, but he probably couldn’t find a line of reasoning good enough to trump logic. He shook his head. “So you just want me to sit here while anyone in Sinful could be at risk from an unknown enemy with an unknown agenda?”
“I’m sorry,” Ida Belle said, “but until your memory returns, I just don’t see any other way.”
“There’s got to be some way to hurry this up,” he said. “Call that doctor back in. Surely they can make the swelling go down faster, right?”
“The only way to make the swelling go down faster,” Emmaline said, “is for you to rest.”
“Great,” Carter groused. “So the only contribution I can make is to do nothing. That’s not what I get paid to do.”
Emmaline put her hands on her hips. “I don’t remember ‘getting shot and almost drowned’ being in your job description either, but you managed that one. I worried and prayed every day of your military service. And you know I wasn’t happy when you decided on law enforcement when you left the military. When you settled in Sinful, I thought, ‘How bad can it be?’ Now…”
Emmaline sniffed and Ida Belle put her arm around her shoulder. “It’s going to be all right,” Ida Belle said. “I know things are strange here lately, but they also have a way of working themselves out.”
Ida Belle glanced at me and I gave her an imperceptible nod. They had a way of working out all right.
This was another mission for Swamp Team 3.
Chapter Six
All three of us started talking at once when we got into Gertie’s car.
“With Carter’s memory fuzzy, we have no place to start,” Gertie said.
“If only we could figure out what the Feds are after,” Ida Belle said.
“Agent Riker knows me.”
Gertie yanked her head around so hard that her arms followed and the ancient Cadillac lurched onto the shoulder of the road. Ida Belle clung to the headrest and stared at me, her eyes wide as Gertie forced the car back onto the pavement, apologizing the entire time.
“Holy…wow,” Ida Belle said. “I never saw that one coming.”
“Me either,” I said. “When I walked into Carter’s room and saw him without those sunglasses, I almost bolted out the window.”
“That might have been a bit suspicious,” Gertie said.
Ida Belle rolled her eyes. “I take it you met on a professional basis?”
“Yeah, an arms dealer established in Florida was moving product in from Cuba on cigarette boats. He had a tourist business as his cover, but drew attention with his lifestyle. Most guys running boat sightseeing tours don’t live in ten-million-dollar estates in Miami.”
“And this Agent Riker was on that case?” Ida Belle asked.
“The ATF was the agency of record. It was American soil, but included international waters, so we were able to insert ourselves into the investigation.”
“Do you think he recognized you?” Gertie asked.
“I don’t think so. I mean, I look completely different than I did then, and I played up the ditzy girlfriend as much as I knew how to.” I cringed a little at the memory.
“I would have paid money to see that,” Gertie said.
“Me too,” Ida Belle agreed.
“Carter stared at me like I’d lost my mind,” I said, smiling at the memory, “but then he figured out I was trying to get rid of them. I think he enjoyed the show.”
Ida Belle snorted. “I bet he did.”
“I called Riker a douche bag at the hospital, and I have a perfect memory, so I know I’m right on that one. But he’s not incompetent.”
“The advantage we have,” Ida Belle said, “is that Riker has no expectation that he would run into you here.”
“True, but the more time he spends around me, the more likely he is to lock in on facial structure or the more likely I am to slip with my voice affectation. He won’t make a connection immediately, but if he latches onto the idea that he knows me from somewhere else, he’ll keep working on it until he figures it out.”
“Just like a dog with a bone,” Gertie said.
“And that’s not all,” I said. “The guy we busted in Florida…he worked for the arms dealer who has the bounty out on me.”
Ida Belle and Gertie exchanged worried looks.
“That ups the stakes even more,” Ida Belle said. “We need to make sure we keep you off Agent Riker’s radar.”
“Yeah.” I flopped back against the seat. “I have a feeling that’s going to be harder than we think. Riker and Mitchell are going to be all over this, and Sinful isn’t exactly a metropolis. Everywhere we need to be, they’re going to be.”
“We’ve worked around Feds before,” Ida Belle said, “and Riker may not be incompetent, but in Sinful, he’s definitely out of his element.”
Gertie nodded. “We got this!”
I felt my spirits rise. I’d worked with some of the best in the world at infiltration and combat, but I’d never been as confident as I was now. Gertie and Ida Belle were unconventional and way past their physical prime, and had little regard for rules, other than Southern etiquette, but they got results. The steps taken to resolve a case mattered to the CIA, but here in Sinful, results trumped everything.
I smiled. “Damn right, we do.”
“So what’s first?” Gertie asked.
I pulled out my cell phone. “First is asking Deputy Breaux to see if he can get Carter’s boat u
p from the bottom of the lake.”
“Why the boat?” Ida Belle asked.
“Because it might have taken a hit from whatever was used to shoot Carter. If I can identify the weapon it might help us profile our bad guy.”
I punched in Deputy Breaux’s number and told him what I wanted. It took several minutes of detailed explaining, but finally, he agreed to send some local shrimpers out to the lake to see if they could get the boat up.
I disconnected and shook my head. “That was so much more work than it should have been.”
“Young Deputy Breaux has never set the world on fire,” Ida Belle said, “and he’s never going to.”
“He set the chemistry lab on fire once,” Gertie said.
“Anyway,” Ida Belle continued, “the good thing is that Riker and company aren’t going to get anything out of Deputy Breaux either. Even if he thinks he knows something, he won’t tell without getting permission from Carter.”
“He’s sorta afraid of Carter,” Gertie said. “On account of Carter threatening to shoot him.”
“Why would Carter threaten to shoot him?” I asked.
“Because as long as Deputy Breaux is worried about being shot,” Gertie explained, “he never questions anything Carter asks him to do. Deputy Breaux is terrified of being shot.”
“Probably because someone shot him once,” Ida Belle said.
“That was an accident,” Gertie protested.
“Regardless,” Ida Belle said, “the bottom line is that Deputy Breaux won’t be a factor. If a clue flies into his face—which is the only way he’s going to find one—it will go straight to Carter and nowhere else.”
“Perfect,” I said. “So next up is figuring out what Carter saw Saturday that made him suspicious. Without knowing what he was after, we have no idea where to start.”
“That makes sense,” Ida Belle said, “but how do we do it?”
I leaned forward. “Deputy Breaux said Carter came into the office yesterday morning to get the boat keys and headed straight out to the dock, right? So he already knew where he was going and why when he got up that morning.”
“Yeah,” Ida Belle said, “but how does that help us?”
“What that tells me is that Carter did all his thinking at his house. His mind was already made up when he arrived at the sheriff’s department. When I’m contemplating a mission, I sometimes make notes, look at maps…”
Ida Belle’s face brightened. “You think we might find some clues about Carter’s thought process at his house.”
“There’s no guarantee, but it’s a better place to start than aimlessly cruising the bayous with the potential to be shot at ourselves.”
“Carter’s not going to let us in his house,” Gertie said. “He’ll know right away why we want in.”
“I don’t recall saying we would ask permission,” I said.
“All kinds of ways into a house,” Ida Belle agreed.
“We could always ask Emmaline for the key,” Gertie suggested.
I considered it for a moment, then shook my head. It would definitely be easier to stroll right in the front door, especially given that Carter’s rottweiler, Tiny, guarded the backyard, but it opened the door for too many risks.
“The more people we involve,” I said, “the more likely Riker or Carter will find out what we’re doing.”
“She’s right,” Ida Belle agreed. “Emmaline wouldn’t think twice about keeping something from Carter if it was for his own good, and she’s used to our meddling around in things, but Fortune is new in town and dating her son. If she gets even an inkling that Fortune isn’t exactly who she claims to be, Emmaline has the contacts to track down the real Sandy-Sue. And then the gig is up big-time.”
“Crap,” I said. “I hadn’t even thought about Emmaline checking up on me.”
Gertie frowned. “If she thinks Carter is serious about you, sooner or later, she’s going to. That’s what mothers do.”
I sighed. “Why couldn’t I find a nice, orphaned fisherman to date?”
“You could always stop dating Carter,” Gertie said.
That was true, and the easiest solution to both current and future problems. But the thought of turning Carter loose now made my heart clench with a tiny feeling of loss that I hadn’t experienced since my mother passed.
“I don’t like that option,” I said finally.
Gertie grinned. “I wouldn’t like that option either if I were you. If ever there was a man worth risking your life over, it’s him.”
“We’re going to be careful,” Ida Belle said. “No one’s life needs to be at risk.”
“It wouldn’t take much to jimmy Carter’s front door,” I said. “Give me an ice pick and a credit card, and I can get the door opened in a matter of seconds. Do you think someone will notice?”
“Of course,” Gertie said. “Sinful is full of the nosiest people in the world, but by now, everyone has heard about what happened to Carter. They will just think we’re picking up some things for him at the hospital. Likely no one will ever mention it to Carter or Emmaline.”
“And even if they do, we can deny it,” Ida Belle said. “With everything else that’s going on, no one’s going to dwell on the questionable musings of a nosy neighbor.”
“Great,” Gertie said. “We can swing by my house for an ice pick and I can change clothes. I’m starting to smell.”
“You’re probably molding, you old coot,” Ida Belle said.
Gertie shot Ida Belle a dirty look and wheeled around the corner into the neighborhood. As she was about to turn onto her street, I grabbed her shoulder. “Keep going.”
Gertie yanked the steering wheel back straight and continued on down the road before pulling to the shoulder and stopping. “What’s wrong?”
“Riker and Mitchell are parked in front of Carter’s house.” Which also meant they were parked across the street from Gertie’s house.
“What for?” Gertie asked. “They know where he is.”
“I bet they have a warrant to search his house,” Ida Belle said. “Looking for the same thing we are.”
“Well, they can’t show it to him if he’s not there,” Gertie said.
“They don’t have to,” Ida Belle replied. “They can present it to the sheriff and force their way in.”
“We have to get inside before the sheriff gets there,” I said. “And our easy front door entry is out, which only leaves the back door. Unless Tiny is off visiting relatives for the summer or has had counseling for that killer disposition, then I’m afraid the life-threatening part of this plan is now unavoidable. And I’m going to need a change of clothes and tennis shoes, which will take up even more time we probably don’t have.”
“You have a spare pair of yoga pants, socks, and T-shirt in my laundry room,” Gertie said. “We wear the same size tennis shoes, so you can borrow my new Nikes.”
“We can’t just pull up in your driveway without Riker and Mitchell seeing us,” I said, “and I’d rather they didn’t.”
“We can park around the block,” Ida Belle said, “and get in through the back door.”
“Isn’t it just easier to go to my house?” I asked. “And there’s still the issue of the dog to address.”
“I’ve got the dog covered,” Gertie said. “I got a whole slab of meat on Saturday. Put most of it in my freezer, but there’s a plate of steaks in my refrigerator.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Why would you buy an entire slab of meat for one person?”
“I didn’t really plan to?”
“You can’t accidentally buy half a cow,” I said.
“You can if you hit it with your car.”
Ida Belle shook her head. “Is that why your bumper is duct-taped on again?”
Gertie’s eyes widened. “No. The bumper fell off when I hit Big Leonard Vincent. He didn’t budge so much as an inch.”
I pondered the details of a man who tore a bumper off a car without moving an inch versus the cow, who didn’t get
nearly as good a deal, but I couldn’t form a decent mental picture of such a giant.
“Okay, so we use the steaks to distract Tiny, and I jimmy the back door. Ida Belle comes with me to handle Tiny, and Gertie will keep watch up front, but some distance from Riker and company in case they recognize you from the hospital.”
“I’m telling you they won’t,” Gertie said.
“She’s probably right on that one,” Ida Belle said. “Aside from a quick glare, they barely looked at her.”
“Let’s hope that’s the case,” I said. “Gertie will alert us when the sheriff arrives.” I looked at Gertie. “If necessary, distract him for as long as possible so Ida Belle and I can make a clean getaway.”
“Perfect,” Ida Belle said as Gertie wheeled the car around the corner and parked behind her house, one street over.
We hurried in between the houses and into Gertie’s backyard. Gertie let us in the back door and we split off in three different directions. I ran to the laundry room and threw on my own clothes, then headed into the kitchen for the ice pick and meat. Gertie went upstairs to change clothes, and Ida Belle practically sprinted for the downstairs bathroom, grumbling something about daily water requirements and old bladders. A box of Nikes sat on the kitchen table, so I pulled them out and tried them on. A perfect fit.
Five minutes later, we reconvened. As Gertie bounced down the stairs, I drew up short and stared. Ida Belle exited the hallway, took one look up the stairwell, and uttered an “Oh my.”
During some era—one before my birth—the outfit Gertie had on was probably considered sexy. But a historical artifact worn on a, well, historical artifact, didn’t elicit the same response. The bright red fabric was more suited for a brothel than the sidewalks of Sinful. The fitted waist strained against fat forced into the restrictive fabric, creating creases where I was pretty sure it was supposed to lie flat and smooth. The poofed-out skirt hit just above the knees and looked oddly like a tutu. I was fairly sure the scoop neckline was supposed to provide a hint of the cleavage below, but the currently inserted cleavage and gravity had conspired to tug it down a good two inches below optimum range.