Mud . . .
She looked at the beige carpet and saw a trail of little mud smears.
Beverly returned with an armful of clothes, which she took to the big iron bed. “Here’re a pair of pajamas, a robe, and slippers. We’re about the same size, so I think they’ll fit.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kit said. “I’ve tracked mud all through your house.”
“It’s nothing my husband doesn’t do every day of the week. I’ll put a pot on for the tea. Leave your clothes outside the bathroom door and I’ll throw them in the washer.”
When Beverly was gone, Kit took off her muddy shoe and carried the dry clothes across to the bathroom, trying to walk only on the clean part of her mud-caked feet. From all the clutter on the bathroom sink and in the niches of the tub and shower surround, it was obvious this was the bathroom the Hublys used. Beverly had been given practically no warning of Kit’s arrival, so in order to shower, Kit had to overcome not only her reluctance at once again being immersed in water but her aversion to other folks’ pubic hair, which decorated the tub like characters in a foreign alphabet.
All that was forgotten as the hot, cleansing water banished even the most stubborn of her bayou souvenirs to the drain. Instead of getting out when she was clean, she explored the settings on the shower head until she found one whose pulsing jets hitting the nape of her neck sent ripples of pleasure down her back. Civilized water, she concluded, was far better than its wild cousin in Snake Bayou.
She dried on a clean towel she found in a small linen closet tucked into one corner of the bathroom, then combed her hair with her fingers. She slipped into the cotton pajamas Beverly had provided, added the terry-cloth robe, and put on the slippers.
Less than an hour ago, there’d been a good chance she would die in Snake Bayou. When she’d been fighting that seat belt wrapped around her shoe, survival had been all that mattered. She’d have given anything, stripped herself of every possession, if that’s what it took to live. When she’d surfaced and taken that first lungful of air, the joy had been indescribable. Now, some thirty minutes later, she was suddenly engulfed in a cloud of self-pity. Not only was her apartment in New Orleans a dump; she’d used up her savings, nearly maxed out her credit cards, and now had no car. Worse, she was standing there dressed in someone else’s clothes.
Despite all this concern for her own welfare, she remembered that Nolen had agreed to feed Lucky and keep him inside after dark until she got home. She needed to call and tell him what had happened.
She unlocked the bathroom door and stepped into the hall, noting that Beverly had taken her dirty clothes to be washed, as promised. She went to the head of the stairs and was about to start down when she heard a sharp sound like a single hand clap, followed by Heath Hubly’s angry whisper.
“I told you to put her in the back bedroom, not the front.”
“Donna didn’t say anything about the back bedroom,” Beverly said, on the verge of sobbing.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Besides, the back bedroom has that big water stain on the ceiling and the bed’s not comfortable.”
“All right, what’s done is done. It wouldn’t look right to move her into a worse room. We’ll just have to deal with it.”
4
Not wanting the Hublys to know she’d overheard their conversation, Kit retreated from the stairs and went to her room, where she tried to imagine why Hubly didn’t want her there. It didn’t look like a room being kept just as it had been when a child died. It seemed like an ordinary guest room. Maybe it was next to the Hublys’ room and he was afraid she’d hear them making love. But was that any reason to slap Beverly, for that’s what the sharp sound almost certainly had been.
There was a tapping at the door.
“Come in.”
It was Beverly with a small tray bearing a teapot and a cup and saucer. “I thought you might prefer having this up here,” she explained. Her left cheek had a distinctly ruddy hue.
“That was very thoughtful.”
Beverly put the tray on the dresser.
Feeling partially responsible for what Hubly had done to Beverly, Kit wanted to reach out to her. Puzzled over how to do this without revealing what she’d heard, she said, “Beverly is my mother’s name.”
“Really. . . . Do you and she get along well?”
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid.”
This quick reversal into Kit’s troubles and Beverly’s apparent reluctance to pry terminated that line of conversation. At a loss for another thread, Kit said, “I need to make a phone call . . . to New Orleans. I’ll reverse the charges.”
“We’ve got a portable phone downstairs. I’ll bring it up.”
While waiting for the phone, Kit went to the tea tray, which also held a small plate of cookies. She poured herself some tea and took it to the window, still wondering why Hubly was so upset that Beverly had given her this room.
Outside, streetlamps she hadn’t noticed until now were on, set so far apart, the dark patches between them made the illuminated areas look like a series of translucent tents. A car whose muffler was so loud that she could hear it through the glass rattled by, making her think Hubly’s time would be better spent out ticketing loud cars than at home hitting his wife.
Down to her right, beyond a line of trees that blocked her view of the funeral home, she could see its illuminated sign. TAKE YOUR FINAL TRIP WITH TRIP. When she’d first read that, she had no idea how close she was about to come to her final trip.
Beverly tapped on the door and came in with the phone,
“I’m afraid I’m being a terrible burden,” Kit said.
“Not to me,” Beverly said, putting the phone by the tea tray. “After you’ve made your call, you’ve got a number of options. You can come downstairs and watch TV, I can bring up an extra set that will get only three channels, or I could find you some books.”
“Let me make my call and see how I feel. By the way, the tea is excellent. Darjeeling, isn’t it?”
Beverly nodded, obviously pleased at the compliment. “It’s imported.” Then, realizing what a silly comment that was, she added, “Like we grow a lot of tea in this country. I’ll let you make that call.”
When Beverly was gone, Kit picked up the phone and carried it to the bed.
Nolen picked up on the second ring. When asked if he’d accept the call, he said he would.
“Nolen, I’m afraid I won’t make it back until tomorrow.”
“Nothin’ wrong, I hope.”
“Not much. My car just sank in a bayou, with me in it.”
“You don’t sound dead.”
“How would you know?”
“You got me there. Are you dead? ’Cause if you are, I’m takin’ your dog.”
“How is he?”
“You’ve only been gone a few hours. What could have happened to him?”
“He could have gotten out of the courtyard and run off.”
“He didn’t run off. He’s right here. Want to talk to him? Never mind, he’s gone after Mitzi. You sure he’s been disarmed? I may have to charge you a stud fee.”
“I think you’ve got it backward.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Guess you won’t be openin’ the gallery for me tomorrow.”
“I don’t know when I’ll get back.”
“Don’t worry about Lucky. He’ll be safe. I might even feed him. Seriously, is there anything I can do?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll see how things develop in the morning, and if I need anything, I’ll let you know.”
She sat with the phone, thinking she ought to call Broussard and maybe her boyfriend, Teddy LaBiche, who ran an alligator farm in Bayou Coteau, 125 miles from New Orleans. Upon further reflection, she decided those calls would accomplish nothing except disturb the recipients. Teddy would probably want to come right over and get her, but she needed to stay, at least until they found her handbag.
God, what all was in there that would have to
be replaced? Driver’s license, Visa card, hospital ID . . .
There was a knock at the door, different from the way Beverly had announced herself. She pulled her robe closed more tightly. “Come in.”
It was Heath Hubly, with another man behind him.
“Miss Franklyn, this is Dr. Chenet. I thought, just to be safe, he should take a look at you.”
Kit believed there were two kinds of doctors—young ones who didn’t know what they were doing and old ones who had been in the dark a lot longer. Chenet was the latter.
“Heath told me about your narrow escape,” Chenet said, coming toward her.
He was short and heavy, with a face that reminded her of Danny De Vito as the Penguin. He seemed mesmerized by the lump on her head, his small eyes fixed on it as though it were a holy relic.
Hubly walked over and pulled the drapes. When Kit glanced his way, he said, “If they’re left open at night, we get a lot of condensation on the inside that runs down the glass and pops the paint.”
“Please look this way, miss,” Chenet chided.
Kit turned back to the doctor, who bent down and studied her lump. He placed his fingers gently on the surrounding skin. “Does that hurt?”
“No.” She didn’t tell him about the aspirin.
“Have you been experiencing any dizziness?”
“No.”
He took a penlight from his pocket. “Please look straight ahead.”
Rather than argue with him, Kit did as he asked. While Chenet examined her eyes, Hubly remained at the window, fiddling with the drapes.
Chenet put his penlight back in his pocket and picked up her arm by the wrist. The whole time the doctor was taking her pulse, Hubly stayed by the drapes.
“I don’t think there’s any problem here,” Chenet said finally, releasing her. “But . . .” He moved his cracked leather bag from the floor to the bed, opened it, and began clattering through it, eventually producing a bottle of pills from its interior. He picked up Kit’s hand and tapped two tablets from the bottle into her palm. “I want you to take those. What you need now is rest. They’ll help you sleep, and there’s also a little something in them to reduce that swelling.”
Kit shook her head. “I don’t need—”
“Miss, you’re in no position to know what you need. But I am. Trust me. I know what I’m doing. I graduated from medical school and everything.”
He turned and walked to the dresser, where he poured some more tea into Kit’s cup and took it over to her. “Here you go. Be a good girl.”
“I think you should listen to him,” Hubly said from his post by the drapes.
Kit lifted her hand to her mouth, threw her head back, and reached for the teacup. She took a sip, swallowed, and handed it back.
“Very good,” Chenet said, his Penguin face beaming. Hubly moved away from the drapes.
Chenet snapped his bag shut and looked at Kit. “And there’s no charge.”
“You don’t have to stay in here,” Hubly said. “Beverly’s watching TV downstairs. I’m sure she’d like some company. I’m going back out.”
“Maybe it’s those pills,” Kit said. “But I’m suddenly feeling very tired. I think I’d just like to turn in.”
“That’s probably best,” Chenet said.
When they were gone, Kit went to the door, opened it a crack, and listened until she was sure they were downstairs. Then she darted across the hall and into the bathroom, where she flushed the pills she’d tucked into a fold of her robe when the two men weren’t watching.
From the way Hubly had hovered around the drapes and the interest they’d both shown in getting those pills into her, it was obvious Hubly was afraid she’d see something through that window.
Back in her room, Kit looked to see if it was possible to lock the door. She found a thumb bolt below the knob, but the mechanism was too crusted with paint to move. No matter. Since they thought she’d taken the pills, they’d probably assume she’d soon be asleep and wouldn’t check on her.
She pulled the armchair by the dresser over to the window. She then tied the drapes together at eye level, using the tassels on the edges. She tossed the pillows from the bed onto the floor beside the chair and flicked off the lights.
Returning to the chair, she sat and propped the drapes open with the pillows, trusting that with the panels tied at eye level, the small opening below wouldn’t be noticeable from the street even if Hubly should check. She hadn’t the faintest idea what she was looking for, but from Hubly’s actions, she believed it should be obvious.
For the next few hours, she watched the road out front diligently, her curiosity staving off boredom. In that time, probably thirty vehicles went by. Other than seeing the car with the loud muffler again, nothing jogged her interest. She was sure, though, something was going to take place she wasn’t supposed to see.
With her watch broken and no clock in the room, there was no way to judge time. So she couldn’t say whether it was passing slowly or quickly. But she did feel that whatever was supposed to happen was still in the offing. Or was it? Maybe Hubly had overestimated her. Maybe the event had already taken place and she’d been too dense to see it.
Having allowed that wedge into her thinking, it was a lot harder to keep looking. She stayed alert for a while longer; then her eyelids began to droop. She fought back by lifting one leg and holding it up until it hurt. Then she switched legs. A little water on the face would help, but as soon as she ran across the hall, that’s when it would happen.
Soon her eyes felt like the zoom lens on a camera unable to find the right focus. Chenet had been right. She needed rest . . . sleep. Nothing was going to happen. It had all been in her imagination.
The bed beckoned . . . soft and warm.
As she bent to pick up one of the pillows, a vehicle unlike any she had seen since beginning her vigil came into a light tent to her left.
A hearse, and behind it, a silver pickup.
The hearse passed in front of the house and then the pickup went by. The hearse was a different model from the one Trip Guillory drove—taller and boxier. The truck was jazzed up with elongated red crescents that crisscrossed on the door panels.
When the hearse reached the driveway of the funeral home, it turned in and the pickup followed. The trees prevented her from seeing any more.
Was that it? Could that be what Hubly hadn’t wanted her to see?
It couldn’t be. It meant nothing.
Unable to fight off sleep any longer, she got up and turned on the lights. She threw the pillows onto the bed, untied the drapes, and pulled the armchair back where she’d found it. With her foot, she erased the drag marks the chair had made on the carpet, then headed back for the light switch. She was asleep practically before she hit the bed.
5
“I think we could use a few more flies here,” Charlie Franks, the deputy ME, said over the noise of the compressor for the pneumatic chisel.
Ten feet away, a fireman in full gear was using the chisel to cut a steel drum from the block of concrete inside. Nearby, two other firemen stood next to a gasoline-powered concretecutting saw.
The flies were attracted to the decomposing human feet and ankles protruding from the cement. Each time the chisel struck the drum, they rose in a throbbing mass, only to settle again quickly on the exposed flesh. The fireman paused in his work to chase a few flies away from his nose.
“I recognize some of those flies,” Broussard said. “And they’re not even from around here.”
Suddenly, over the compressor noise came the sound of a chopper. Looking up, Broussard saw the traffic helicopter from Channel 3 hovering over the site.
“Looks like were gonna be on the news again,” Broussard said.
Franks shaded his eyes and looked up. “I thought the wall around this place would let us work in peace.”
“There’s no mind more devious than a reporter’s.”
“I’d never let my sister marry one.”
; “I’ve got an appointment with Phillip for lunch,” Broussard said. “So I’m gonna head over to Grandma O’s.”
“I hope the next case you get makes you wish you’d drawn this one.”
“Nobody’s that unlucky.”
As he passed the cop guarding the entrance to the parking lot where they were working, Broussard pointed at the chopper. “You got my permission to lock up that whole crew when they land.”
Broussard owned six 1957 T-Birds, all with the original paint. With his large girth, he didn’t so much drive them as put them on. Today, he’d worn the white one. As he pulled away from the curb, with the steering wheel wedged against his shirt, a rental truck equipped with a pneumatic boom turned onto the same side street. When it passed, the driver, Nick Lawson, crime reporter for the Times-Picayune, gave him a big grin. Having already lost site security to the chopper, Broussard allowed them to proceed with just a resigned shake of the head.
Phil Gatlin, oldest homicide detective on the force, was waiting at Broussard’s perpetually reserved table in the rear of Grandma O’s when he arrived. Even seated, Gatlin was tall.
“Where you been?” Gatlin said. “My stomach has been saying some rotten things about you.”
“Pretty big enemy to have,” Broussard replied, sitting down.
“Guess you don’t put much faith in what mirrors tell you.”
“Keep that up, you’re gonna hurt my feelin’s.”
“’Bout time you got here, city boy.”
The rustle of Grandma O’s trademark taffeta dress had alerted Broussard to her arrival well before she spoke.
“Dis fella here’s been starin’ at other folks’ food so hard, dey’re beginnin’ to think he’s dangerous.” She smiled broadly, showing the gold star inlay in her front tooth, poised to swat away any defense Broussard might offer.
“I’d tell you where I’ve been, but I don’t think you’d want to know.”
Sleeping With the Crawfish Page 5