Wild Jinx

by Sandra Hill

  Brenda shot right back with: “Mental anxiety. Mental dysfunction. Menopause. Menstrual Cramps.

  Notice how all women’s problems begin with men?”

  Adam, who’d been sitting on the front steps with Caleb, jumped in with, “Did you hear about the redneck who thought Taco Bell was a Mexican phone company?”

  “No, but do you know what to do if you see a dumb Yankee throw a pin?” Tee-John batted his long eyelashes at Adam. “Run. He’s probably got a grenade in his mouth.”

  “Are you people nuts?” Celine asked.

  Tee-John winked at Celine, and even Tante Lulu could see that the boy did have a sexy wink.

  Those long black eyelashes, no doubt. “Didja hear ’bout the half-Cajun gal who confused her Prozac with her birth control pills? No? Well, she had a dozen kids, but she doesn’t give a damn.”

  Celine tried but couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

  Tee-John had that effect on women, bless his heart.

  Which was puzzling. Tante Lulu could swear she had seen thunderbolts zig-zagging between these two. Even when the girl had written that newspaper article about him, even if it didn’t mention him by name, Tante Lulu had sensed that Celine had done it to get his attention. How could she have been so sure that Celine was the one for Tee-John if she was already taken? Could she be losing her matchmaking instincts? Was she getting so old that her powers were weakening? If that was so, would she be losing other talents as well? Like healing? Or heading the family? Or being a hottie?

  “Are ya sure yer engaged?”

  Celine’s face got all pink and splotchy. “Um . . . why?”

  “I was so sure.”

  Celine frowned in confusion.

  “Best ya doan frown so much. Girl yer age could get wrinkles.”

  The frown disappeared, but the pink splotches remained.

  “Yer glistenin’, Celine. You want I should get you a wet wipe?”

  “Glistening?”

  “Yep. Dint ya ever hear it said here in the South that pigs sweat, men perspire, and women glisten?”

  Celine just shook her head as if Tante Lulu was hopeless. Hah! She wasn’t the one hopeless on this porch. Which reminds me. I best pull out that St. Jude birdbath from the storage shed tomorrow. The girl was wiping off her face now with a tea towel that a laughing Tee-John had thrown her way.

  “Ya ever wear makeup, honey? My niece Charmaine has a beauty spa in Houma. She could give ya tips. She could help ya get rid of those splotches, too, lickety-split.”

  “Of course I wear makeup sometimes, but why would I wear makeup here in the boonies?”

  “Hah! I know some wimmen who wear makeup jist ta take the garbage out. But then, they probably have hunky garbage men.”

  “Aaarrgh!”

  Lots of people said that around her.

  “What were you sure of?” Celine asked Tante Lulu testily.

  “I was sure the thunderbolt had finally come fer Tee-John.”

  “What thunderbolt?”

  “The thunderbolt of love.”

  “I’m probably going to regret asking, but what has this thunderbolt of love to do with . . . oh, no!

  You couldn’t possibly have thought . . . ? Me and John LeDeux?”

  “Are ya sure yer engaged?”

  “Yes.”

  “When’re ya gettin’ hitched?”

  “Um, when Duane gets home.”

  “I thought his name was Darryl.”

  “Um . . . Darryl is his first name, but he prefers to use his middle name.”

  “His name is Darryl Duane?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Whass his last name?”

  “Um . . . Dalton.”

  Tante Lulu arched her eyebrows. “Darryl Duane Dalton?”

  “Um . . . yes.”

  Tee-John snickered.

  Celine glowered at him.

  There are a bunch of ums comin’ outta that girl’s mouth. Hmmmm. “When’ll it be?”

  “What?”

  “The weddin’.”

  “Um . . . next year.”

  “Next year? Holy moly, there’s lotsa time yet.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Fer the thunderbolt ta work . . . and St. Jude, of course. Do ya have a St. Jude statue, honey?”

  Celine just stared at her, like she was dumb . . . or dumbfounded. Same thing.

  “Why dontcha come into the kitchen with me, sweetie. I’m thinkin’ what a gal like you needs is . . .

  ” She beamed with inspiration, “ . . . a cup of my famous juju tea.”

  Everyone else on the porch said, “Uh-oh.”

  Youʼre out in the bayou with WHO? . . .

  “Holy shit! Only you would go into hiding with the enemy.”

  “She’s not the enemy, Chief.”

  “She sure as hell isn’t your friend . . . or that of the department.”

  “I’ve told you that she promises—”

  “Screw promises. Get the hell out of there. I’ll call the FBI. We’ll have you set up in a safe place by tomorrow.”

  “No!” he barked, then softened, “I mean, let me case the situation out. There’s no way to leave here unless Remy comes in by hydroplane, or someone spends days traveling by pirogue.”

  “What happens if this project ends in a week or two? She’ll be coming back then.”

  “She promises that my name won’t be mentioned.”

  “LeDeux, LeDeux, LeDeux. Even now, she could call her newspaper.”

  “No, she can’t. Cell phones don’t work here. I’m calling on a secure satellite phone. So, there’s no way she’s chit-chatting with anyone.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Trust me. You won’t find a safer place than this remote cabin. But if you still insist, I can go to my brother Luc’s fishing camp. It’s even more remote.”

  “Is being on this treasure hunt that important to you?”

  He hesitated. “Yeah, it is.”

  “Let me talk to the DA tomorrow morning. See what he thinks.”

  “Remy’s flyin’ in about noon to take the owners of Jinx, Inc. back. So, try to make a decision by then.”

  “Okay.”

  “Boss, I can handle Celine Arseneaux.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Hit me with your best shot . . . in the WHAT? . . .

  The old lady was giving her the heebie-jeebies, one of Etienne’s favorite words.

  All evening long Tante Lulu had been pushing some pungent-tasting herbal tea on her . . . that was when she wasn’t hinting about some thunderbolt nonsense . . . or when she wasn’t giving her a mini plastic St. Jude statue or a St. Jude key chain or a St. Jude medal.

  The senior citizen dingbat thinks I’m hopeless.

  I’m not hopeless.

  I’m hopeful.

  Well, okay, a little bit hopeless, but only in certain areas.

  Aaarrgh!

  So far, she, the old lady, and the pregnant Brenda had to go pee ten times.

  Meanwhile, she was having the strangest, most unwelcome thoughts about John LeDeux. Way more than her knees were involved.

  Now, she was lying in one of the three single beds in the second of two loft bedrooms, pretending she was asleep so that Tante Lulu would finally shut up. The old lady, who was in the middle bed, with Brenda on the far bed, had an opinion on everything in the world, and asked the most intimate questions.

  “Do ya wear a thong, dearie?”

  “Are ya on the pill?”

  “Didja ever wear fishnet stockings?”

  “I wonder if Richard Simmons wears boxers or briefs.” Tante Lulu had a crush on the exercise guru. Celine didn’t know what was more unbelievable: that a ninety-two-year-old woman still got crushes, or who the object of that attraction was.

  Celine really didn’t mind the old woman. In fact, overall, she was kind of charming. And her family certainly loved her, and vice versa.

  To her surprise, Celine had enjoyed her first d
ay on the Pirate Project. They hadn’t discovered any treasure yet; they hadn’t even tried, for that matter. It had all been set-up and planning.

  “Clark Gable kissed my knee one time,” Tante Lulu said out of the blue.

  Celine turned on her pillow to stare at Tante Lulu. By the moonlight streaming through two large windows, Celine could see that Tante Lulu was lying flat on her back with a sheet pulled up to her neck. Pink foam curlers adorned her hair which she’d dyed blonde earlier that night. On the other side, Brenda was staring at the old lady, too.

  “What is it with you LeDeuxs and knees?” Celine exclaimed.

  “Huh?” Tante Lulu said.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Ya cain’t stop there.”

  “It’s just that John said something to me about licking the back of my knees. He was just teasing.”

  Tante Lulu murmured something that sounded like “Merci, St. Jude,” while Brenda started to giggle.

  “So, what were you saying about Clark Gable?” Brenda asked.

  “Jist that he kissed my knee one time. I was visitin’ the set fer Gone With the Wind when I tripped and fell. He came over and kissed the boo-boo. Whoo-ee, did that mustache tickle! Talk about! I dint wash my leg fer a week.”

  Celine thought a moment. “That movie was made in 1939.” She knew because it was one of her favorites on DVD.

  “So?”

  “You must have been some hot chick at one time,” Brenda observed while both of them made mental calculations of how old she must have been in 1939. About twenty-five.

  “I’m still a hot chick.”

  Celine didn’t need to glance over at Brenda to know she was smiling, just like her.

  “Ya know the one thing I’ll regret when I die?”

  Celine was becoming used to the sudden bends and twists in the old lady’s conversations. “What?”

  “I never found my G-spot.”

  Oh. My. God!

  Brenda made a choking sound, probably trying to suppress laughter.

  “Ya found yer G-spot yet, Brenda?”

  Zap!

  “Lance found it for me.” There was outright laughter in Brenda’s voice.

  Celine knew what was coming next but didn’t know how to deflect it.

  “Ya found yer G-spot yet, Celine?”

  “I’m still looking.” She thought that would be the end of it. Foolish me!

  “Maybe Tee—”

  “We had an interesting article in the paper last week,” Celine interrupted before the old lady could suggest what she was sure to do. “Doctors can give women a shot so their G-spots are more prominent.”

  “I read that article,” Brenda said. “Something about how the injection causes that area to plump up.”

  “Sounds painful to me,” Celine said.

  “Hey, women stick needles in their lips to attract men,” Brenda pointed out. “Why not needles in their va-gee-gee?”

  “It’s a little bit different. Ouch!”

  “Charmaine was gonna have her thingamajig sewed up one time,” Tante Lulu told them.

  Celine couldn’t not ask. “What thingamajig?”

  “You know, the virginity membrane whatchama- callit. That was when she was gonna become a born again virgin. But then Rusty got outta jail, and that idea went out the window, kapooee. He had her in bed faster’n she could say ‘Your bed or mine, sugar?’”

  “This is the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had,” Celine commented.

  “Ain’t this nice, though? Jist like a sleepover them teenage girls has. If it was earlier, we could put makeup on each other and practice dance moves. Or watch Richard Simmons tapes and do jumpin’

  jacks. Mebbe tomorrow.”

  Not if I can help it.

  “Well, best I be goin’ to sleep. Tee-John’ll be leavin’ early, and I wants ta give him a good breakfast before he’s gone.”

  Celine went on red alert. “Where’s he going?”

  “I doan know. It’s a secret, I suppose.” The old lady yawned loudly and rolled over.

  “Is he leaving because of me being here?”

  “Prob’ly.”

  Celine lay awake pondering, even after soft snores came from Tante Lulu’s mouth. Finally, she got up and pulled on her sandals. She didn’t bother changing her clothes since she was decent in the fake-silk tank top and tap pants she slept in, or fairly decent.

  “Where you going?” Brenda asked sleepily.

  “To knock some sense into an idiot.”

  Chapter 8

  When dumb chicks stroll into the foxʼs den . . .

  She crept through the living room, not wanting to disturb Jake, Ronnie, and their little girl who were sleeping on a pull-out sofa. The three of them planned to leave tomorrow after the project was officially launched; Remy would be coming for them in his hydroplane. That’s probably how John intended to leave.

  Caleb and Adam slept in bunk beds in the second bedroom upstairs. John had told them over dinner that he planned to sleep in a self-enclosed tent outside, nature’s way.

  “You’ll be covered with mosquito bites by morning, Nature Boy,” Adam had scoffed.

  “Not inside my tent,” Tee-John had insisted.

  “Hope an alligator doesn’t chomp you for a tasty snack.” Adam had clearly meant the opposite.

  Tee-John had gotten the last word in. “Me, I’m too sweet for any ol’ gator. They prefer tougher meat . . . Yankee meat. Yep, Yankees make good gator kibbles.”

  Luckily, the loud whirring of the ceiling fan covered the sound of Celine opening and closing the screen door. She had thought he would be on the porch, but a quick survey under the light of a full moon showed that instead he had put up his small tent down near the stream, across from the island.

  Although Celine hadn’t moved to southern Louisiana ’til she was in tenth grade, she had a strong appreciation for the bayous. Probably the Cajun in her blood. Even when dark, like it was now, there was a beauty in the silence, which wasn’t really silence at all. And the sense of mystery! Surely there were ghosts lurking about . . . the spirits of southern belles and their handsome gentlemen, escaped slaves, and, yes, pirates like Lafitte. Even outlaws, like Bonnie and Clyde, who were rumored to have met their death here in Cajun Louisiana.

  A sturdy affair, the tent appeared to have thick screening on three sides and fabric on the fourth side and the roof. When she got closer, she hissed, “John! Wake up!”

  Nothing. He slept soundly on his side, his back to her. It appeared as if he was wearing boxers and nothing else. That was okay. It wasn’t his body she was after.

  “John!” she whispered again.

  Nothing.

  She went to nudge her shoe against his behind which was backed up against the tent screening, but she slipped and instead kicked him.

  “Hey!” He shot to a sitting position. Then, peering outside, he said, “Celine?”

  “Yes, let me in. I’m being eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

  “You want to share a tent with me?” His incredulity was rather insulting.

  “Just let me in, dammit, or I’ll really kick you this time.”

  “I’m the fool, I reckon.” Swearing under his breath, he unzipped the tent and moved over to make room for her. It was a tight squeeze.

  Lying on his back, propped on his elbows, he grinned at her.

  She smacked his chest.

  “Ouch!”

  “I didn’t hurt you. Yet.”

  “First a kick, now a slap. You into S and M or somethin’, chère?”

  “You wish!” She managed to lie down beside him by shoving her hip against his. He was still grinning. Braced on her elbows now, too, she turned and asked him, “Are you quitting this project?”

  “Yeah. Probably.”

  “Because of me?”

  “Mostly.”

  “You are not quitting this project.” She smacked his chest again.

  “Are you sure about the S and M?”

  “Just be
glad it’s not your head. Then again, I suspect you’ve got a concrete brain.”

  “You’re orderin’ me around like a dominatrix. And those sexy slaps? Oooh, baby!”

  “Like I would even know what a dominatrix does!”

  “Really, Celine, you’re way too uptight. How about releasing your inner sex kitten? You’re halfway there in that screw-me red outfit.”

  She gritted her teeth, then released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d inhaled. “This is perfectly respectable sleepwear.”

  He shrugged, as if that was debatable.

  “Furthermore, I have not ever been or want to be a sex kitten.”

  “Your loss, baby.”

  The jerk really, really annoyed her. Which had probably been his goal. Yep, he lay back, his arms folded under his neck, a silly grin on his mouth.

  Glancing over, she saw his eyes glued to her breasts.

  Even worse, she noticed some movement in his shorts.

  She did blush then.

  He chuckled. “What’re you doin’ here, Celine?”

  “I told you that I wouldn’t write any more articles about you. And I promised Ronnie I wouldn’t print a story on the project ’til after it was completed. So, what’s the problem?” When he didn’t immediately answer, she exhaled with disgust. “You don’t trust me.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Not just me. My boss says we can’t take a chance. I either drop out, or they’ll force me into a boring as hell witness protection kind of set-up . . . probably in some seedy motel in Bodunk, Mississippi.”

  “And your boss reacted this way all because of me?”

  “Bingo!”

  “They don’t trust me?”

  “Pfff! Why should they? The press and police are rarely bedfellows these days, although . . . ” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  She ignored his suggestive eyebrow waggling. “Do you trust me?”

  “Hell, no!”