Sleeping With the Crawfish

by D. J. Donaldson

  Bubba stepped up beside Kit.

  “This is Bubba Oustellette, my mechanic. He’ll tell you why we think the car is worth more than your assessment.”

  While the two men shook hands, Kit took a moment to glance at her poor car, which was covered with a dried scum.

  “Lancon,” Bubba said, trying the sound of the name on his tongue. “Where are your people?”

  “Plaquemines Parish mostly,” Lancon said, “aroun’ Delacroix.”

  “Your daddy’s name wouldn’t be Cezaire, would it?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Mama’s name Oline?”

  “How’d you know all dat?”

  “You remember fishin’ for buffalo an’ gaspergou with Alcide Oustellette an’ his two boys in Coon Lick Swamp?”

  “Well kick me an’ turn me aroun’. Bubba Oustellette. You remember how your momma used to clean da nasty out of dat buffalo meat in a washin’ machine?”

  “Lot of folks today don’t know how to clean buffalo or cook gaspergou.”

  “Didn’ we used to have some fine Christmas boucherie?”

  Bubba looked at Kit. “Dat’s a crawfish boil.”

  “You know what Ah remember most bout your momma?” Lancon said. “Dat awful alligator-fat cough syrup she gave me one day.” Lancon’s smile was now genuine.

  “It stopped you from coughin’, though.”

  “Least in front a her it did.”

  Feeling about as out of place as she ever had, Kit said, “If you two will excuse me, I’m going across the street and wait. Bubba, when you finish, come on over.”

  Kit crossed the road and went into Beano’s restaurant. Since it was a little after one, the place wasn’t crowded. Two men wearing overalls were sitting in the booth she’d chosen the last time she was in, so she went instead to one nearer the back, where if she looked between the O and S on the name Beano’s written in red across the front window, she could see Bubba and the claims adjuster in animated conversation.

  “It’s you, ain’t it?” a voice said. Belle, the waitress. “The artist from the other day.”

  “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “Not really. Ain’t been long enough to forget anything.”

  “Did your husband make parole?”

  Belle’s face fell. “Those tight asses on the board? No.”

  Kit had doubts that parole was a useful concept. But the situation called for some expression of sympathy. “It’s hard to have your hopes crushed like that.”

  “Our trouble was, we let our lives get in the hands of other people. I’m just afraid if he stays in there long enough, he may never get out.”

  “I know what you mean. Prisons are dangerous places.”

  “This one more than most, and it’s not only the other inmates you have to worry about.”

  This perked Kit’s interest. “What do you mean?”

  Apparently sensing that Kit was no longer making casual conversation, Belle shied. “Nothin’ . . . I didn’t mean nothin’. What can I get you?”

  “I’m expecting a friend. So for now, coffee.”

  While waiting for Belle to return, Kit looked out the window and saw Bubba heading for the restaurant. He located her as soon as he came inside.

  “Well, what happened?” she asked even before he got seated.

  “Thirty-five hundred. Check should arrive in a couple days. You can keep da rental car till da money comes.”

  “You’re a genius.”

  “Ah’m jus’ well connected. An’ hungry, too.”

  “Lunch is on me.”

  “Might not be much left of dat thirty-five hundred after Ah order.”

  “I can handle it.”

  They had a good lunch and were lingering over pecan pie and coffee when, during one of Kit’s frequent glances out the window to make sure the rental car wasn’t in anybody’s way, she saw something that sent a jolt of current down her spine.

  “We’ve gotta go,” she said, digging in her bag. She found a twenty and a five and threw them on the table. “Come on.”

  Bubba took another mouthful of pie and hurried to catch her, but it wasn’t easy. Once she was out the door, she broke into a dead run. Bubba was sure she’d hold up at the road to wait for the oncoming dump truck in the near lane to pass, but she didn’t, scooting across its path in a perilous maneuver that made him close his eyes in horror.

  By the time the truck had passed and Bubba could cross, Kit was already in the rental car. She backed up in a tight turn and waited for him to get in. As soon as his legs were clear of the door, she dropped her foot onto the gas. Spitting dirt, the car surged forward, slamming Bubba’s door closed.

  “What are we doin’?” Bubba said, wide-eyed.

  “No time to explain.” The car bounced onto the road and fishtailed before she got it heading in the direction of the funeral home.

  In a few minutes, she caught the dump truck, which was dropping little clay bombs onto the asphalt from the mountain of dirt it was carrying. She swung out to pass, hoping to see—yes, there it was, about a hundred yards ahead: the pickup she’d seen tailing the hearse that night at the Hublys’.

  Not wanting to attract the pickup driver’s attention, as soon as she was clear of the dump truck, she pulled back into the proper lane and eased up on the gas. She followed the pickup for about a mile and then it turned right, toward the Courville business district. When she reached the turnoff, she followed.

  This road was lined by single-story houses and there were numerous side roads that emptied an exasperating number of cars into her path, so her view of the pickup was soon blocked.

  The street eventually dumped them onto the Courville town square, whose focal point was a military figure astride a bronze horse. Fearing she’d never lay eyes on the pickup again, she proceeded around the square, checking the cars and trucks parked nose-in to the curb.

  Then she saw it . . . same color, with elongated crescents on the door, primer spot on the rear fender . . . no question. She continued around the square and eased into the first available parking place.

  Now what?

  The same question was on Bubba’s face.

  Her pursuit of the pickup had been an instinctive act flaring from the smoldering anger she’d felt since realizing her off-road adventure at the bayou had been no accident. Sure, there was an investigation under way, but she wasn’t involved in it. This was personal.

  She turned to Bubba. “I have reason to believe the pickup I followed over here was involved in the theft of that body from Andy.” Now Bubba surely knew she’d held back when they’d discussed the theft earlier. But he gave no indication of it. “I’m going to look through its glove compartment. Will you come with me?”

  “Ah had a hunch dis trip wasn’t gonna be as simple as it sounded. Le’s go.”

  There was no way to know how long the driver would be away from the pickup. That made Kit want to reach it as quickly as she could. But since no one else in town seemed in a hurry, she and Bubba tried to blend in by strolling to it on the sidewalk.

  When they were nearly there, Kit waited for an aging Marlboro man and his Irish setter to pass, then gave Bubba his instructions. “You wait on the sidewalk and keep an eye out for the driver.”

  “How am Ah gonna know who dat is?”

  “Body language—the direction he’s looking, car keys in his hand, things like that.”

  “An’ the gun he’s pointin’ at me?”

  “And position yourself so if he’s in that hardware store, he can’t see me through the window.”

  Bubba took up his post. Wishing it was Broussard’s far more ample frame shielding her, Kit stepped off the curb and reached for the pickup’s door handle.

  Locked.

  She returned to the sidewalk. “It’s locked. Can you open it?”

  “You sure we oughta be involved in dis? Dese rural towns, police can do anything to you. Ain’t no civil liberties union here.”

  “I’ll take full res
ponsibility.”

  “Ah can see it—ten years from now, Ah turn to my new cellmate an’ say, ‘She tol’ me she’d take full responsibility.’”

  “It’s okay. We’re investigating a crime.”

  “An’ you won’t have any trouble provin’ dat?”

  “Just open the door.”

  Sighing, Bubba reached into his pocket for his Swiss army knife and stepped off the sidewalk.

  Kit checked the door to the hardware store, then looked to her right. Coming toward her a block away were two women with a little kid between them, hands linked like cutout paper dolls. Nothing to her left. When she turned to scope out the square, she found Bubba back beside her.

  “Did you get it?”

  He looked sincerely hurt. “You thought maybe Ah couldn’t?”

  There was no time for verbal sparring. “Take over here.” She hurried to the truck and climbed in.

  Surprisingly, the glove compartment actually contained a pair of Isotoner gloves. She removed them and began sorting through the other contents—some maps, a yellow receipt for an oil change, a page torn from a list of motel phone numbers, a couple of packs of Kleenex, and a small spiral pad with nothing in it. That was all.

  Very disappointing.

  She put all the papers back and was about to do the same with the gloves when she noticed the edge of a white envelope mixed in with the maps. She extracted a plain number ten envelope with no addresses on it. The flap was tucked in, not sealed.

  Inside was a candid head-and-shoulders snapshot of a man partially framed by a doorway trimmed in cut stone. He was square-jawed, but with a face far from sculpted. His curly brown hair covered his ears and he wore Clark Kent glasses. Noting shadows of writing on the back, she turned the picture over, where she saw in neat block printing the name Anthony Hunter. Under that was a street address: Peyton Road, Coldwater, Miss. Below that: University of Tenn., Dept. of Physiol.

  Thinking there might be some connection between this man and the body stolen from the morgue, Kit placed the envelope in her lap, put the Isotoners back, and closed the glove compartment. She slid out and relocked the truck, the fear of being caught already lifting.

  Even before she hit the sidewalk, she was telling Bubba, “Go . . . go.”

  The contraband white envelope felt hot in her hand, as though it were glowing, telling everyone they passed that she’d filched it. She shoved it into the pocket of her slacks, leaving her hand in there with it so her arm would hide the part still visible.

  When they were safely in the car, she gave Bubba the envelope and her handbag. “I’m going around the square. When we pass that pickup, write down the license number. There’s a pen in my bag.”

  “Ah already memorized it. Can we please go?”

  “Okay. Write the number on the envelope for me.”

  All the way back to the road where they’d turned off to follow the pickup, Kit kept one eye on the rearview mirror, but she saw nothing to indicate they were being pursued.

  “We did it,” she said, turning the car toward home.

  “Did what?”

  “Got away clean.”

  “What with?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. . . . I mean, I know it’s a picture of a man . . . who I think lives in Coldwater, Mississippi, and works at the University of Tennessee in Memphis.”

  “An’ dat’ll lead to da body snatchers?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  A few miles later, Bubba said, “Uh-oh.”

  She glanced at him to see what was wrong. He was looking at the side mirror.

  Checking behind them, Kit saw an oscillating blue light atop a police car.

  9

  Kit fanned her hand at Bubba. “Put the envelope under the seat.”

  “Ah can’t be arrested. Ah’m goin’ fishin’ tomorrow night with Bobbie Dupree,” Bubba said as he hid the envelope.

  Kit pulled onto the shoulder, her mind chockablock with half-baked explanations of why they’d broken into the pickup.

  The patrol car eased off the road and stopped. Heath Hubly got out and walked toward them. Still unprepared, Kit rolled down the window.

  “Dr. Franklyn, what brings you back to town?” Hubly asked, his face filling the window opening.

  “A meeting with my insurance company’s claims adjuster to settle on my car.”

  Hubly looked around her at Bubba.

  “That’s my friend Bubba Oustellette. He’s also my mechanic. He helped negotiate the final figure for my claim. The car was a total loss.”

  Hubly’s eyes roamed over the car’s interior.

  Guilt whispered in Kit’s ear: He knows . . . he knows.

  “Did I say my car was a total loss?”

  “I believe you did.”

  That was smart, Kit thought. Get a grip. . . . “Is this a social stop, or did we break a traffic law?”

  He studied her without speaking, probably preparing to recite the section of the Courville legal code for breaking and entering.

  “Didn’t break any law,” he said finally. “Just repaid the kindness I showed you the other night by conspirin’ against me with my wife.”

  “I’m not following you.” It was true; she didn’t know what he meant.

  “You called her last week and advised her to leave me.”

  Of course . . . “You have no right to hit her . . . none at all. And she doesn’t have to take it.”

  “Well, that’s none of your business, is it? I’m gonna get in my car and see you to the edge of town. And when you’re gone, don’t come back.” He shoved a nightstick and his arm past Kit’s nose and pushed on Bubba’s shoulder. “That goes for you, too, little man. Now leave.”

  He stood there while Kit started the engine and pulled back onto the road. He then returned to his patrol car and tailed them to the city limits.

  As they put distance between themselves and Hubly, Bubba said, “Dat ‘little man’ remark makes me want to come back. You gonna take his advice?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Kit heavy-footed it all the way back to New Orleans, eager to get with Broussard and discuss what she’d found. She dropped Bubba off at the impoundment lot at 4:40 and was knocking on Broussard’s door fifteen minutes later. Happily, he was in, sitting at his desk. “Kit . . . I sure wasn’t expectin’ to see you.”

  “I suppose it’s too soon to have heard anything from the prison board.”

  “Actually, I called ’em late yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “Nothin’ out of order at the prison. End of investigation.”

  “That’s ridiculous. How long’s it been?” She thought a moment. “Six days, including a weekend. It’d take that long to get the authorization paperwork done. What kind of investigation can you conduct in four business days?

  “Same reaction I had.”

  “Well, I did a little investigating on my own today.” She explained why she and Bubba had gone to Courville, then told him about her conversation with the waitress in Beano’s.

  “I remarked that prisons were dangerous places and she said something like, ‘This one more than most, and the other inmates aren’t the only ones you have to worry about.’ When I asked her what she meant, she seemed afraid to say any more . . . worried, I think, about her husband, who’s still in there.”

  “She must have meant the guards are dangerous, too.”

  “That doesn’t seem like something you’d be afraid to talk about. Of course guards are dangerous—they have guns. But I have the feeling it was more than that. And I found this.” She reached in her bag and pulled out the white envelope. She gave Broussard the picture and explained how she’d acquired it. “Think it means anything?”

  “Can’t say yet. Did you get the license number of the truck?”

  “It’s right here.” She handed him the envelope.

  “You’re gonna get tired, you keep standin’.”

  While Kit pulled one of the two wooden chairs for
visitors closer, Broussard reached for the phone. He entered the number for Homicide and had them run the plate number. After a brief wait, he nodded and expressed his thanks.

  “Guess who owns the truck?”

  Kit shrugged.

  “Trip Guillory.”

  Broussard picked up the receiver again and punched in the number for information. “Memphis . . . the University of Tennessee, Department of Physiology.” He wrote down the number and called it. “It’s five o’clock. Hope somebody’s still there.”

  Someone was. “May I speak to Anthony Hunter please.” He listened, his head nodding slightly. “I wasn’t aware of that. Do you know what the circumstances were? . . . I see. What did he do there? . . . Was he a member of the department long? . . . Yes, it is. . . . I’d rather not say, but I appreciate the information.”

  He hung up and stared at the phone, ignoring Kit until she rapped on the desk to remind him she was there.

  “Anthony Hunter is dead. He died two days ago while joggin’. They found him by the road, half a mile from his home. The woman I talked to said he had a heart attack.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Somebody does. I don’t have enough information to judge.”

  “Come on, admit it. This can’t be a coincidence.”

  “No, probably not. But there are two possible explanations. You’d like to believe he’s dead because his picture was in the truck. Could be his picture was in the truck because he’s dead.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Suppose Hunter once lived in Courville and the local paper wanted to do an obit. That picture could be the one sent to Guillory so he could take it over there.”

  “I’ll give it a one, and that’s generous.”

  “I’m not sayin’ that’s the actual explanation. It’s merely an example.”

  “All right, you’ve paid homage to the god of reason; now pick . . . door one or door two.”

  “I can’t.”

  Kit blew air through her lips in exasperation. “Okay, let’s put Hunter in context. Who was he?”