Murder On Spirit Island (Niki Dupre Mysteries Book 1)

by Jim Riley

  Her heart ached for the man in her arms. He looked deep into her eyes with a smile.

  “Let's go to some place where we can talk.”

  “I know just the place and just what you need,” Niki beamed. “Let's go.”

  With the breaking of the bad news, the private investigator forgot to mention the sighting of Dalton Bridgestone.

  Wednesday Noon

  Watson

  John stuffed another fried chicken liver in his mouth with a big grin.

  “You're right. This is exactly what I needed. I haven't been here since high school.”

  Niki arched an eyebrow.

  “You don't remember, do you?”

  John paused, plucking a fried okra with the tine of his fork.

  “Remember?”

  When the strawberry-blonde did not answer, he laid down the fork.

  “I guess not. What did I forget this time?”

  Niki tightened her lips before breaking out in a grin.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. This is the first place we ever went on a date. Okay, maybe not a date, but it was to me. We ran into each other after football practice and you asked me if I ever had the best chicken livers in the world.”

  John nodded though he did not remember.

  “I thought you were crazy,” Niki continued. “C'mon. Is that any way to ask the head cheerleader out for a date? This is where we ended up, Linda's Chicken & Fish. Some romantic you are.”

  He forked a chicken liver and dipped it in a concoction laced with Tabasco sauce.

  “Do you regret going?”

  “Nope,” she laughed. “Now I make every first date bring me here. Been eating chicken livers ever since.”

  He popped the liver in his mouth and gave her a wry look.

  “And how many first dates have you been on?”

  Nike toyed with a fried dill pickle before answering.

  “Enough. I'm told they had to double their inventory of chicken livers since we came. What's the matter? Are you jealous?”

  “Honestly, yes,” John replied while wiping his mouth. “I hate to picture you in another man's arms.”

  “If you act right this time,” Niki ran a hand through her long strands. “Maybe you won't have to.”

  “I'll try,” the cop shrugged. “Not to change the subject, but I talked to my sister. She doesn't want any of the money back. She wants you to keep it.”

  “I've been thinking about that since you told me about Bobby,” Niki replied. “He paid me for five days. I owe him that much. That means I have four more days to figure out what happened to his dad.”

  “Bobby would not want you to do that.” John shook his head. “I've known him my whole life. We were like brothers. He would want you to take the money and go on with your life.”

  “This is something I have to do,” Niki shoved back from the table. “If I don't do this, I will become a victim also. I don't want to be a victim. I chose victory a long time ago. The only way to obtain victory is to solve this case.”

  “You don't need this.”

  “If I don't finish this, I'll never know if I'm good enough,” Niki said. “I have no choice.”

  “Where will you start? The guy with most of the answers is dead.”

  “Back to Spirit Island,” the lean detective replied without hesitation. “The solution to this case is on that piece of land. Don't ask me how I know that. I just know. I've got to go back to Spirit Island to find Mr. Welker.”

  John reached over and snagged the last chicken liver. After dousing it with the concoction, he ate it.

  “What did you find out there on the island to convince you to go back?”

  Niki hesitated. This is where she should tell him about sighting Dalton Bridgestone. Her instincts told her to keep that to herself. As a rule, the long-legged detective always followed her intuition. But this was different. She and John were back together. Why would she keep critical information from him?

  “I didn't find much this time,” she heard herself say as though another woman was saying the words. “Call it a hunch or whatever. I need to go back there tomorrow morning.”

  “I know when to not argue with a lady.” John threw up his hands. “I know when I'm beat. I'd go with you, but Samson is only a half-inch off of my butt with the other case.”

  “I understand,” she sighed and put a hand on his arm. “Just like I have to do my job, you have to do yours. Besides, I think I'd rather be alone for this.”

  “You can borrow my boat. Be careful. I've had some trouble with the engine. How long do you plan to stay there?”

  “I don't know,” she raised her palms. “I'm kinda playing this by the seat of my pants. I wish I could tell you I have a plan, but I don't.”

  “Sounds like the case I'm on,” John groaned. “We're staying busy, but getting nowhere fast. If something doesn't break soon, I'll be writing parking tickets on the midnight shift. Samson is getting pressure from all sides. He'll lose his job if we don't find Bridgestone soon.”

  Niki's heart strained. It was one thing to keep information about Dalton Bridgestone from John. It was quite another to hurt Samson. The huge Chief of Homicide took her in after an intruder killed her parents. He mentored her and protected her through college and the start of her career. Still, her instincts kept her from telling John the truth.

  The detective felt like she was always logical. There was nothing logical about obstructing John's high-profile case. She wanted for him to succeed. She wanted even more for Samson to rid himself of the pressure from all sides. But her mouth could not form the words, though her heart was breaking. The internal struggle must have shown.

  “What's wrong?” John asked.

  “Nothing,” Niki lied. “Don't get down. Maybe your missing guy is like Mr. Welker. Maybe they both got beamed up by little green men from Mars.”

  “I don't believe in little green men,” John replied.

  “Me either,” Niki said. “There is a good chance we will both fail.”

  “The difference is,” John said while putting down his napkin, “is that the whole world won't know if you fail. They will know if I don't find the senator.”

  Niki, her insides ripping apart, told him, “This isn't about what the world knows. This is about both of us doing our jobs and finding our targets.”

  Wednesday Afternoon

  Spirit Island

  Dalton walked up the stairs of the Welker camp trying not to make a sound. When he reached the top, he tried the doorknob. It was locked as he hoped it would be. One more sign that the leggy young lady had gone back to the mainland. He used Welker's key and quickly entered.

  The senator took a refreshing shower first. The hot water invigorated him and stimulated his mind. Soon, he would have to take Henry Welker to Baton Rouge. Doing so would thwart any attempts to find out the murderer of his fiancée, Juliette d'Iberville.

  Not that his efforts so far had paid much of a dividend. They had proved fruitless, and he had no idea why anyone would kill such a beautiful and kind girl.

  After dressing, he gathered some clothes for the elderly Welker, some food and a few magazines. The trip back to the bunker was uneventful until he crossed over a cypress log. The senator was only fifty feet from the concrete hide-away when he spotted Welker prone on the ground. Blood oozed from the old man's head and shoulder wounds.

  “You stubborn old man,” Dalton exclaimed after kneeling beside the wounded businessman. “Why couldn't you wait one more day and let me help you?”

  He expected no response and Welker met his expectation. With the food, clothes and magazines on the ground beside him, the senator felt the weak pulse.

  “Don't you die on me now, you old goat,” Dalton's voice rose across the swamp.

  Taking a shirt he got from the camp, the senator pressed it against the flow of blood from Welker's shoulder. While holding firm pressure on that wound, he used the other half of the shirt to stop the ooze from the old man's head.

  At first, h
e thought his efforts were to no avail. Slowly, the seepage slowed. Less and less soaked through the thin shirt. Welker pushed to get up, but Dalton held him down.

  “You're not going anywhere until I tell you to. Understand?”

  With his eyes still shut, Welker gave the slightest of nods. The old man opened his mouth only to have his words garbled. Dalton poured a bit of water down his throat, hoping that Welker would not slip back into unconsciousness. When Welker spit up the liquid, Dalton put the cap back on and watched his patient.

  “Why did you have to get shot out here now?” Dalton asked, shaking his head. “Of all the times and places in the world, why did you pick Spirit Island and Sunday night? You're really interrupting my plans. I want you to know that.”

  The senator cradled Welker's head in his lap.

  “I know you want to be here even less than me. Otherwise, you wouldn't have done something as foolish as you did. Now, I have to find some way to get you back down in the bunker without killing you.”

  Dalton looked around him at the threatening swamp.

  “And I thought the afternoon would be boring.”

  Wednesday Afternoon

  Baton Rouge

  Gary Dixon stared at his drink. He had not taken the first sip of the single malt. Only a couple feet away, Wayne LaBorde finished his and asked for another. Both sat at a private table at the Redstick Bar and Grill.

  “Gary, can you get on with this? I'm hungry,” LaBorde urged his companion.

  “We need to get out of this before anyone else gets hurt.”

  Dixon's voice sounded more like a twelve-year-old's than a grown man's.

  “I can't help it if Henry disappeared and Bobby played chicken with an eighteen-wheeler and lost,” LaBorde took another sip of his drink. “But if you think about it, we're in a lot better shape than we were this time last week.”

  “Huh?”

  Dixon stared blankly at his fellow owner.

  “Don't you see? Before, we were splitting everything six ways. With Henry taking two shares, we were only getting a seventh of the profits. With both of the Welkers out of the way, we only have to split the pot four ways. We'll make even more money.”

  Dixon slumped in his chair.

  “Henry put this operation together. He picked the jobs, and he was the one that got Oberlin to cooperate. Who will talk to Oberlin and see if he wants to keep going?”

  “Don't worry about that prick.” LaBorde sat his glass on the table. “What can he do? He'd lose his job and go to jail if our deal ever goes public. With that hanging over his head, I'd bet that Mr. Oberlin will continue to help us.”

  Dixon finally took a sip of his drink.

  “But what if he doesn't?”

  “Accidents aren't limited to the Welker family,” LaBorde stared at his glass. “Who knows? Something could happen to Oberlin and we'll have to find someone else in Procurement to work with. I'm sure there are lots of government employees that could use a financial boost.”

  Dixon dropped his drink on the table. He ignored the wet stain on his shirt and pants.

  “Are you talking about what I think you're talking about? Are you talking about murdering a government employee?”

  LaBorde held up one palm.

  “Of course not. But accidents happen to them as well. Who would have thought that Bobby would have gotten in one and turned up dead? The same thing could happen to Oberlin or any of us.”

  Dixon pushed his chair away from the table.

  “I don't like where this conversation is going. First, you think about killing Oberlin and now you're making threats against me. That doesn't sit well with me.”

  LaBorde leaned back in his chair, a wry smile on his face.

  “I'll be honest with you, Gary. You are the weak link in our partnership. If something happens, you'll be the first to squeal. That bothers me.”

  Dixon tried to rise, but his knees were too weak.

  “I—I never will tell anybody anything. Do you think I want to go to jail? Do you know what happens to people like me in there?”

  LaBorde toyed with his drink while staring at Dixon.

  “That is precisely what bothers me. You will give up all of us to protect yourself. One hour into an interrogation and the cops will know everything.”

  Dixon's lips quivered as he got to his feet.

  “I won't tell. You have to believe me. Please believe me.”

  “Relax, Gary. Whatever happened to the Welkers happened. I don't know why it happened, but it did. All we know is that Henry disappeared and Bobby had a tragic accident. There is no reason for us to panic.”

  “But what if something happens to one of us?”

  Wednesday Afternoon

  Spirit Island

  “You'd better not move around too much if you don't want those wounds to open up again,” Dalton told Welker. “It won't take much after the stunt you pulled this morning.”

  The senator stopped the bleeding and got Welker back in the bunker. He applied new bandages after cleaning leaves, dirt and twigs from the wounds. Dalton used liberal doses of medicated cream before securing the gauze.

  “You would have been able to walk out of here in a few days, but you had to push it.”

  He held a tablespoon of broth to Henry's lips. The old man greedily sipped the tasty liquid. He offered no sign of appreciation to the senator for saving his life once again.

  “You're the governor's son, aren't you?” Welker asked.

  “We've already been over this,” Dalton replied. “And my father was the ex-governor. He's dead now.”

  “You killed Juliette,” Welker said as more of a statement than a question.

  “Some people think so.”

  “Doesn't hiding out here on this island make you look guilty?” Welker asked.

  “Yeah,” Dalton nodded. “But so does my fingerprints on the knife that killed her and her blood on my clothes. Doubt if I could look much guiltier than I do right now.”

  “If they have that kind of evidence, then you're destined for a date with the electric chair at Angola.”

  “They don't use it anymore.”

  Dalton gave him another sip of broth.

  “It's still there, but they give guys the needle now. Supposed to be a more humane way to kill someone.”

  “Don't guess it makes a hill of beans one way or the other. You're gonna end up dead either way.”

  “That's why I have to find out who framed me,” Dalton grimaced. “I'm not ready to die.”

  “Can't say I blame you,” Welker chuckled. “I'm not ready to greet Saint Peter at the pearly gates myself. I gotta change a few things before me and him have that conversation.”

  “You barely missed the opportunity a couple of hours ago,” Dalton said. “If I hadn't come along when I did, you'd be trying to come up with a lot of excuses right now.”

  “That's not something I want to visualize if you don't mind.”

  Dalton gave him a quarter-sized piece of ham.

  “Try to get something solid down. We've got to get you healthy enough to move.”

  “You mentioned some government project out here that you were in charge of, but I don't remember the details,” Welker said.

  “They were studying air waves searching for signs of extraterrestrial communication. After the feds gave up, the state government took it over. As a junior senator, I got stuck with the job of monitoring it. I guess the state doesn't even bother anymore.”

  “Is that why none of our phones work?” Henry asked.

  “That's why,” Dalton nodded. “I guess when they quit the project, nobody turned off the program preventing sound waves to travel to and from the island. They blocked all the waves except those that could be caused by the Rougarou spirits.”

  “I always thought there was something fishy about that,” Welker nodded. “I shoulda knowed it was the fault of the government. Hell, I blame them for everything else. Don't know why I didn't get around to blaming them for the
phones.”

  “Funny thing is that there have been no signs of communication until yesterday. That old computer has been going crazy all night.”

  “Maybe the battery is dying or something,” Welker replied.

  “Nope,” Dalton shook his head. “This bunker is powered by a water turbine in the river. It could power ten of these things.”

  “And I thought I was being leading edge when I put one in for the camp,” Welker chuckled. “Hell, I should have tapped into the government's if I woulda knowed it was there. Will they send a fella down here to check on that contraption with the new activity?”

  “They won't know about it. Gore hadn’t invented the internet when this thing was installed. Never got hooked up.”

  Welker chuckled about the former vice president’s false claim.

  “Won't whoever replaced you come checking?”

  “Nobody replaced me,” Dalton laughed. “I doubt if there is a single person left in the state government that knows this bunker is here. It's the perfect place to stay until I find out who killed Juliette.”

  “You can't stay here forever,” Welker said. “Neither can I. I've got a business to run. Besides that, some asshole tried to kill me.”

  “I have heard of your company, Mr. Welker. I sent you a letter two weeks ago.”

  “That was you? I just thought it was some government idiot trying to make life tough on us guys down here in Louisiana.”

  “I'm that government idiot,” Dalton smiled.

  “I'm glad you're here. It'll save me a trip to Washington to tell you what you can do with that letter. I've got some good ideas.”

  “I bet you and the other contractors do. But the federal government pays over fifty percent of the cost of some of these projects in the state and the numbers aren't adding up.”

  Welker tried to sit up. The exertion was too much and he fell back on the cot.