Sleeping With the Crawfish

by D. J. Donaldson

  In the attic, the boxes tilted another five degrees.

  Eyes still shut, his chin fell onto his chest.

  In the attic, the boxes tilted a bit more.

  He brushed at a mosquito buzzing in his ear and the boxes collapsed, spilling and mixing their contents.

  His small eyes popped open.

  “Oh my God.”

  23

  Before running out the door, Kit paused to think. In the past, whenever her investigations had led her into potentially dangerous situations, she took Bubba along for protection, which he provided by bringing his revolver. But with the Ladysmith, she could now protect herself.

  Still, it didn’t seem wise to do this without letting someone know where she’d gone. But to tell a friend like Nolen would just drag him into the whole mess. That eliminated Teddy as well. The logical choice was Tabor, who would, of course, order her to desist.

  Unless . . .

  She went to the phone and punched in Nolen’s number. Please be home . . . please. “Hi, Nolen, this is Kit. Would you do me a couple of favors?”

  “Depends,” Nolen said. “If it’ll cost me money, probably not.”

  “There’s no money involved. I have to go out, and I probably won’t be back in time to walk Lucky. Will you take him when you walk Mitzi?”

  “Sure, what’s the other favor?”

  “I want to give a friend of mine a message, but I only have his pager number, and I can’t wait for him to call back. Could I leave your number for him and have you relay the message? He usually returns calls within fifteen minutes.”

  “What message?”

  “Tell him I decided to go to that meeting, too. He’ll understand.”

  “No problem. Just drop Lucky by as you leave.”

  She thanked him and broke the connection with her finger. She started to enter Tabor’s number, then paused. He was likely already on his way to La Place, so he’d probably return her call on his cell phone, which meant he might be on the line exactly when she reached Nolen’s apartment. Not wanting that to happen, she grabbed her bag, whisked Lucky up in her arms, and headed downstairs, where she made the call to Tabor on Nolen’s phone.

  It was a good plan. By not giving Nolen the address where she was headed, he was not being sucked into anything. Of course, Tabor would be angry when he heard where she’d gone, but he’d have to agree that under the circumstances, with him so far away and her so close, she’d made the right decision.

  Traffic was light all the way out of town and she made good time. Having never been to La Place, when she hit its city limits, she stopped at an Exxon station for directions. The clerk there was apparently still so much in shock over the Exxon Valdez incident, he couldn’t yet handle anything that complex.

  She tried again at a Shell station, with good results. At least it seemed that way at the time. After following those instructions to a desolate road with another of those damn duckweed-carpeted bayous constantly nudging its right shoulder and the only sign of civilization on the left an occasional run-down bait shop, she began to wonder. But then the dry side of the road produced a prosperous-looking Our Lady of Prompt Succor church. Beyond that was something behind a fancy brick wall too tall to see over. Hoping it wasn’t the parsonage, Kit drove on, following the wall for about 150 yards to an iron-gated entrance with a guardhouse just inside. On an illuminated plaque beside the gates was the address she sought.

  She tried to get a look down the driveway, but a uniformed ape came out of the guardhouse and scowled at her. Giving the car some gas, she followed the wall for another fifty yards, to its end. Beyond that, the land reverted to inhospitable scrub and stands of willow.

  She drove on until the shoulder allowed a U-turn, then headed back the way she’d come, maintaining a businesslike speed and making sure she kept her eyes straight ahead when she passed the gates. The frontage between the wall and the road contained a row of Bradford pear trees, so when she turned into the church driveway, she was confident the guard at the gate didn’t see it happen.

  In front of the church, a parking lot ran right up to the wall of the adjacent property. Visible as it would be from the road, it was no place for Kit’s car. She therefore followed the drive around to the back of the church, where there was another paved area.

  The sun had fully set, but the rear of the church was illuminated by an arc light mounted high over the back door. In its harsh illumination, she saw a volleyball net suspended between two metal poles anchored in cement-filled tires. The surrounding asphalt had yellow boundary lines painted on it—not the greatest place to go to your knees after a ball. This paving stopped several feet short of the wall next door, with a grassy strip intervening.

  Kit maneuvered past the volleyball net to the grassy strip, where she eased the car forward until the front bumper was an inch from the wall. A glance to her right verified that the bed of crepe myrtles and shrubs between the church and the brick wall effectively concealed her car from anyone passing out front.

  She switched off the lights and the engine, then took the car key off the ring holding her other keys and put the key ring in her handbag. She tucked the bag under the passenger seat, got out, and eased the door shut until it latched. She locked the door and pocketed the key.

  She walked to the front of the car and gingerly tested the bumper to see if it’d support her. Convinced it would, she used it as a step to help her onto the fender. The added height allowed a good view of the grounds on the other side of the wall, where to her left, about a hundred yards away, her attention was drawn to a huge Greek Revival mansion with welcoming warm light spilling from all the windows. Almost as soon as she looked that way, she ducked.

  There were people on the front porch.

  Heart racing, she dropped to one knee. Had they seen her? With the church arc light behind her, it probably wouldn’t have been hard to do. Hell, her head must have been at least a foot above the wall.

  She climbed down and dug in her pocket for the car key, feeling as though she should run for it. But there were no whistles, no shouts coming from inside. Maybe they hadn’t seen her—or maybe, right this minute, the guard was running along the outside of the front wall, coming her way.

  On the verge of panic, she unlocked the car, got in, and started the engine. Without turning on the lights, she yanked it into reverse and backed up fast, nearly taking out one of the volleyball poles. She cut a sharp turn, shoved it into drive, and headed for the road.

  As she cleared the church, she looked for the guard.

  Nothing.

  Nor was he in sight when she reached a position where she could see along the front wall. No cars coming her way, either.

  She sat there for about thirty seconds, waiting for them to come for her, but they didn’t. Believing now that she hadn’t been seen, she turned around in the front parking lot and went back to the wall.

  Afraid to look inside again with that light behind her, she searched the area for a better spot. About ten yards behind the paved area, out of the glare of the light, she saw a small grove of trees. There, she found one whose branches permitted a manageable ascent to where she could once more see over the wall. Hidden now from view of the gathering on the porch, she took her time and looked the place over.

  The mansion was ringed with columns supporting a second-floor balcony that also circled the house. Two lines of giant trees, most likely live oaks, with lights in their boughs, formed a canopied walkway leading from the front door to the front wall. The guard she’d seen was posted on the opposite side of the treed walkway, a position that gave him an obstructed view of the grounds. Between the walkway and the wall in front of her, the estate was too dark to make out any detail beyond a few scattered trees whose leafy branches were mere suggestions against the night sky. As her eyes turned back to the gathering on the porch, the group adjourned to the house.

  If she was ever going in, now was the time. But was it the place? Neither the trees she was in nor any of the ot
hers nearby were close enough to the wall to assist her over it. And she couldn’t go schlepping around the dark perimeter looking for one she could use. She’d have to go in here or forget it.

  She climbed down from the tree and went back to her car, telling herself that even though she’d be backlit by the church light, no one would see her. And even if they did, she was armed.

  My God but it was hot. Her blouse was already sticking to her skin and her moist panties were eight miles up the Amazon.

  Before climbing onto her car again, she realized if she got in, she’d need some help getting out.

  For once, an answer came as a gift.

  She went to the volleyball net and untied it from its supports. She dragged the net to the bed of crepe myrtles and tied one end to the tree nearest the wall. After twisting the net into a rope, she threw the free end over the wall.

  By now, she’d perspired so much into her hair, it felt like a wet rag against her skull. And her bra was soaked.

  Returning to her car, she climbed up on the left fender and carefully looked over the wall to make sure the situation hadn’t changed. Satisfied that nothing had been added to the equation, she hoisted herself onto the wall and dropped into a crouch.

  Get up there and jump down—that was the plan, but the height made her hesitate. What if she should sprain an ankle?

  She slapped a mosquito on her cheek and brushed it from her skin.

  Get off the wall.

  But it was so high.

  GET OFF.

  The net . . . She could . . .

  She crouch-walked as quickly as she could to the volleyball net and eased herself down onto the deep grass inside.

  No alarms went off; no shouts rang out. So at least they didn’t have pressure sensors on the lawn.

  Needing to stay out of the lights, she made her way along the wall, back to the point where she’d first climbed up. As she continued in that direction, a line of dim shapes far across the lawn momentarily blocked her view of the mansion. Then, as her angle changed, the big home reappeared.

  Soon she was directly opposite the mansion. Using the scattered trees for cover, she zigzagged across the grounds until she reached a grape arbor about thirty feet from it. There, she paused to reconnoiter and catch her breath, which the humid air reluctantly provided.

  The first-story porch also circled the house. It was ringed by a wide bed of flowers that in the light spilling from the windows appeared to be begonias. The porch was only about a foot above grade and there were no obstructing balustrades to navigate. Nor did she hear evidence of anyone lingering outside.

  Apart from her own fear, which had given her a few bad moments, everything had actually gone very well up to this point . . . almost too well. Maybe this was nothing but an innocent dinner party. Either way, hiding in a grape arbor wasn’t the way to find out.

  She took a deep breath and darted to the house, where she stepped over the begonias and onto the porch, then tried to blend with the paint on the mansion’s outside wall, bracing herself for the sound of sirens.

  Still nothing happened.

  She turned to the wall and edged her face out so one eye could see through the window. A moment later, she pulled back.

  Innocent dinner party?

  Dinner, maybe.

  Innocent, no way.

  Inside, facing her over a long table in the room across the hall, she’d seen Warden Guillory and his brother. Woodley was at the head of the table and Tom Ward was seated against the wall to his left. Another man at the table had his back to her.

  This seemed like a major discovery, but then she remembered what Tabor had said when they’d first met—that he had evidence of a connection between Agrilabs and the funeral home in Courville. So, by itself, this was nothing new. She needed to hear what was being said. And she wanted a look at the other guy.

  Hoping their conversation would carry through glass, she left her post and circled around to the back, intending to creep up to a window on the other side. Reaching the far corner of the house, she encountered two obstacles to that plan. First, there was a clear visual trajectory from this side of the house to the front gates and the guard out there. Second, even if there was no risk of being seen, there were three central air-conditioning units behind her making such a racket, she’d never be able to hear anything from inside.

  Now what?

  Go home and butt out? Let Tabor handle it?

  But she was so close. What were they talking about?

  Unwilling to cave just yet, she returned to her first position and gave the matter some thought.

  She soon noticed that the windows on the front of the house were actually French doors. This explained why, when she’d seen the conspirators go inside from the porch, they hadn’t appeared to use the home’s main entrance. Staying well to the side, she looked again through the window, directing her attention to the door they had used.

  There were two sets of French doors on the front wall, one on each side of a chest that sat under a painting depicting a fox hunt. She was sure Woodley and his cronies had gone through the pair on the left. She figured the odds on those doors still being unlocked were at least even.

  Jesus, what was she thinking? Walk right in?

  Even as she dismissed the thought as lunacy, she stared at a tall Chinese screen that formed a hypotenuse with the room’s far-front corner. It was mesmerizing, that screen.

  Under its spell, she retreated to the grape arbor and fell back to the protection of a tree beyond the house lights. Even here, the screen spoke to her.

  Responding, she ran to another tree that stood opposite the second oak in the row that formed the canopied walkway. Faced with leaving the night’s dark embrace, she nearly fled deeper into it. But the weight of all she’d suffered at the hands of those inside pushed her from its safety into a mad dash toward the big oak flanking the walkway.

  She reached it breathing hard and sank against its rough bark. A minute later, with her wet panties soaking into her slacks, she ran for the first tree in the row. Well short of it, a root caught her foot and she stumbled the rest of the way, nearly ramming the tree with her head.

  A final sprint took her from that oak to the mansion’s nearest column.

  The porch contained several white wicker sofas and a couple of fan-back wicker chairs. Dropping to her knees, she crept behind a nearby chair and crossed a small open space to a settee by the pair of French doors she thought might be unlocked. With the decisive moment at hand, she saw with greater clarity what a chance she was taking. It seemed very unlikely that opening those doors would set off an alarm. But a squeaky hinge, a loose floorboard, Tom Ward wandering around to stretch his legs—any of those things would do her in.

  A sensible voice urged her to leave the job unfinished and go home. Indignant, its stubborn sister demanded she stay. They compromised. If the doors were locked, she’d leave. If a hinge squealed, she’d leave fast. If a floorboard squeaked, she’d run like hell. If Tom Ward got up to wander and discovered her, well, she’d deal with that when she had to.

  The first test would be the French doors. Were they locked?

  When she could breathe without sounding like a dying buffalo, she reached up, took hold of the doorknob on the right member of the pair, and slowly turned it.

  So silently that it might have been in league with her, the door opened.

  24

  A man was speaking.

  Even here on the porch, she could tell it was Woodley. For a scant moment, she thought she might be able to hear everything without going any farther. She paused, listening hard but a few words here and there were all she could decipher. She’d have to go in.

  This was even worse than her invasion of Woodley’s lab. There, the place had been empty—at least she thought it had been. Here . . .

  Contemplation of what she was about to do sent waves of gooseflesh down her back and onto her arms. Sensible Kit made a final plea for an end to this reckless behavior. Ignori
ng her, Kit got up and slipped inside.

  The room’s cooled air against her hot skin put gooseflesh on her gooseflesh. Fearing everyone in the next room could hear her heart beating, she almost broke and ran, but was restrained by stubborn Kit. Before a dissenting opinion could be filed, she crept into the hidden pocket behind the Chinese screen, where she leaned her back against the wall, folded her arms, and tried to concentrate on what was being said next door.

  “I can’t give you a definite timetable,” Woodley said.

  “Suppose there’s no way to separate the side effect from the beneficial effect?” a voice that sounded like Warden Guillory’s said.

  “I think that’s highly unlikely. It’s a big molecule. The odds that the two effects reside in the same amino acid sequence are remote.”

  “Considering what’s happened, we may not have much more time,” Warden Guillory said.

  “That’s all being taken care of,” Woodley replied. “Which brings me to the main purpose of this meeting.”

  Eager to hear what was coming, Kit concentrated harder. Then, as Woodley began to explain, she felt something brush her leg. Alarm bells clanging in her head, she looked down, to see a small white dog sniffing her. Jesus, if it should bark . . .

  She knelt and saw from his collar that his name was Bobby. Desperately afraid he’d give her away, she scratched him under the chin. With this attention, he looked up at her, mouth open, panting happily. It was a Westie. Continuing to scratch him, she also listened.

  “Because of that increased risk, our remaining partner feels he’s entitled to a larger share.”

  This brought angry murmurs from the others.

  “Nevertheless, that’s what he’s demanding. In fact, he now wants half.”

  “There’s no way I’m agreeing to that,” Warden Guillory said. “We’re all taking a risk. He agreed to the existing terms. Let him abide by them.”

  The Westie began to wag his tail, hitting it against the Chinese screen. Afraid the sound might bring someone to investigate, Kit lifted his hind legs off the floor and replanted him so his tail merely fanned the air.