A Blooming Fortune

by Stephen John

  “Who are those folks?” I asked. “I’ve never seen them in Sinful before.”

  “Before you walked in, Isabella was telling me about them. It’s a group of people on some vacation adventure excursion. They all hop on a bus and go fishing, hunting, hiking and skeet shooting together.”

  “And they came to Sinful?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “On purpose?”

  “No, not really. Apparently, the bus broke down just outside of town. They were on their way to New Orleans. From what I heard, there was some damage to the wheel and axle. They’ll be here several hours.”

  “Can’t imagine the delay is fun for them.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Gertie said, padding up to the table.

  Ida Belle checked her watch and frowned.

  “This is getting to be quite the habit with you, Gertie.”

  “I’m starting to move just a tad slower in my old age,” Gertie replied.

  “A tad?” Ida Belle scoffed. “If you were any slower, you’d be moving backwards.”

  “I see Isabella coming with your food,” Gertie said. “I guess you couldn’t be bothered to wait for me?”

  “Forgive us, Gertie. We chose rudeness over starvation,” Ida Belle shot back.

  Isabella sat our plates in front of us and Gertie ordered. As Gertie told her what she wanted, I watched Ida Belle dump the contents of an entire gravy bowl over two biscuits. The smell of it was making me ill. For the last two days, I felt like I might be coming down with something, but this morning confirmed it. I was not feeling well. I don’t know what it was about the gravy at Francine’s that made my stomach churn, but watching Ida Belle drench her biscuits with it was certainly making it happen this morning. I was just about to ask her when she last had her cholesterol checked when I heard a loud noise.

  Celia Arceneaux stormed into Francine’s, angrier than a rattlesnake and looking like she was packing twice as much venom. Her abrupt arrival startled most of the patrons in the restaurant, especially the group from the excursion bus. Carter LeBlanc was closely following Celia, who seemed to be oblivious to people staring at her. Carter was my boyfriend and I’d learned to read his moods instantly through his body language and facial expressions. This morning . . . let’s just say I would not be springing to my feet and greeting him with a public display of affection.

  I’d seen Celia angry on many occasions, but never had I seen her this upset. Her face was beet red.

  That meant one thing.

  Gertie.

  Gertie was the only person capable of making Celia this angry.

  Celia’s charge came to an abrupt stop about five feet from our table. I caught a whiff of a putrid smell and this time it wasn’t the gravy. It was coming from . . . Celia. It smelled like rotted fish. My stomach was already giving me fits. Whatever funk Celia was carrying almost made me hurl right then and there. She pointed a stubby index finger directly at Gertie.

  Ida Belle grimaced, “What the hell is that smell, Celia Arceneaux? You positively reek.”

  “There she is Deputy LeBlanc!” she barked, ignoring Ida Belle’s comment. “I want Gertie arrested.”

  Carter looked exasperated, “Settle down, Celia,” he said. “We’re here to talk. We’ll get to the bottom of things.”

  “Just arrest her, Carter,” Celia insisted.

  “What’s this about?” Ida Belle asked.

  “Why don’t you ask Gertie?” Celia hissed; her face twisted in anger.

  Gertie waved her hand dismissively, “I have no idea what she’s talking about. I’m just sitting here having a little breakfast with my friends.”

  “How long have you been sitting here, Gertie?” Carter asked.

  “Let’s see. We decided to meet for breakfast at eight o’clock, straight up.”

  Carter glanced up at the clock on the wall; it was 8:42 am.

  “So, you’ve been sitting here for over forty minutes?” he asked.

  “I didn’t say that. I said that’s what time we were supposed to be here. I think I may have been a tad late.”

  Carter looked at me, “Fortune, is that right? Was Gertie just a few minutes late?”

  “I didn’t look at the clock,” I replied. “I don’t know for sure.”

  “She’s lying to protect her friend,” Celia exclaimed.

  I didn’t lie. I really didn’t look at the clock so I wasn’t positive . . . technically.

  “How about you, Ida Belle?” Carter asked. “Did you notice how late Gertie was?”

  “Would someone please tell us what in blue blazes is going on here?” Ida Belle snapped.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Celia interjected. “This no-good friend of yours slipped a box filled with rotted fish guts under my car and set it off with cherry bombs. The stench inside of my car is the worst thing I’ve ever smelled.”

  “Right now, you’re the worst thing I’ve ever smelled,” Gertie jibed.

  I heard what I thought was a truck backfiring earlier. The noise sounded like it was coming from more than a block away. There are dozens of old trucks rambling around in Sinful, all coughing and wheezing, so I didn’t think much of it.

  “Oh, for heaven sakes,” Ida Belle shot back. “What makes you think it was Gertie?”

  “The Smiths were coming out of the gift shop across the street and saw Gertie walking away from my car,” Celia said. “Less than a minute later they heard the cherry bombs going off.”

  “How do you know rotted fish guts were in the box?” I asked.

  “The hundreds of pieces of fish all around Celia’s car was our first clue,” Carter replied. “The stink would make a Billy goat pass out. Gertie, did you hide a box filled with rotted fish and then set off cherry bombs underneath Celia’s car?”

  Gertie opened her mouth, preparing to reply.

  “Wait a minute, Gertie,” I interjected. “Don’t answer that.”

  Carter looked at me incredulously, “What are you doing, Fortune? I’m talking to Gertie.”

  “What evidence do you have it was Gertie?”

  “An eyewitness account, Miss know-it-all,” Celia snarked at me.

  I shrugged, “Really, Celia? Because what I heard you say was that the Smiths saw Gertie walking away from your car. Nothing else. Carter, did anyone see Gertie slipping a box under her car or setting off a cherry bomb?”

  “Not that I know of,” Carter admitted.

  “And what do your other witnesses say?”

  “The Smiths were the only witnesses.”

  I turned to Carter, “That’s it? They’re all you have? Then we are done here.”

  Gertie chuckled, “You go girl.”

  I froze Gertie with an icy stare.

  “Let me handle this, please.”

  “What are you talking about, Fortune?” Carter asked.

  “I’m talking about due process, Carter,” I replied, glaring at him. “The Smiths said nothing about seeing Gertie slip a box of anything under Celia’s car. They also didn’t say they saw Gertie lighting a fuse. All they saw was Gertie walking in the vicinity of Celia’s car.”

  “That, in itself, is pretty suspicious, given the history between the two women.”

  “We’ve had this breakfast planned for two days, Carter,” I insisted. “Gertie was simply walking to the restaurant to meet us. Her path would have taken her right past Celia’s car. She had no way of knowing Celia would be parked there.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Celia bellowed. “You know darn well Gertie did it.”

  “I don’t know anything of the like,” I snapped back. “I do know that you need a lot more than one eyewitness who happened to see Gertie walking down the street near her car to arrest her for vandalism.”

  “No one said anything about arresting her,” Carter said. “We came in here to question Gertie about this situation?”

  “It doesn’t sound like questioning to me, Carter,” Ida Bell chimed in. “It sounds like an accusation.”

 
; “Carter, was any damage done to Celia’s car?” I wanted to know.

  “The entire undercarriage of Celia’s car is covered in rotted fish guts. Her car is more than a block away but if you step outside of Francine’s, you can smell the aftermath from here.”

  He was beginning to get irritated with me.

  “But there was no physical damage done to the car?” I stated.

  “I don’t know, yet. The car stinks too bad to sit inside. The best we could manage was opening the windows to let it air out for a while.”

  “That stench will never come out of my car,” Celia proclaimed. “The carpet and upholstery all smell like fish guts. The smell makes me want to vomit. I sat in the car for only a minute assessing the damage and now I smell like fish guts, too.”

  “I just thought it was your latest French cologne,” Gertie said. “Essence d'éléphant.”

  Ida Belle tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. Gertie grinned at her.

  “Laugh it up now, Gertie,” barked Celia. “You won’t be laughing long.”

  I glared at Gertie. Her smile disappeared instantly.

  “Fortune, this is not the big city,” Carter said. “This is pretty cut and dried. The Smiths see Gertie walking around Celia’s car and a moment later . . . boom! Everyone knows about the bad blood between Gertie and Celia and the Smiths are credible witnesses . . .”

  “The Smiths? Credible witnesses?” I interrupted. “You mean the one couple in Sinful set to donate money toward Celia’s community statue project? Those Smiths?”

  Carter froze. His mouth gaped open, “Well . . . yeah.”

  “Carter, Mattie Smith is one of Celia’s best friends. She dislikes Gertie almost as much as Celia herself. That is your credible witness?”

  It’s not often I catch Carter off-guard, but he looked stunned.

  “Well . . . she seemed . . . sure about it . . .”

  I turned to Celia, “Anyone else see this happen?”

  “Oh, hush, Fortune. This is all poppycock. We all know Gertie did it. Carter, arrest her?”

  “Yeah, Carter,” I agreed. “Go ahead. Arrest her.”

  Gertie’s jaw dropped, “Now wait a minute.”

  “Don’t worry, Gertie,” I said. “Carter has no intention of arresting you . . . do you Carter?”

  Carter was steaming at me, but turned his attention back to Gertie, “I’ll ask you again. Did you set off a cherry bomb under Celia’s car?”

  “Don’t answer, Gertie,” I insisted. I glanced at Carter once again. “You either charge her with a crime, or leave her alone.”

  “Fortune, don’t make this difficult,” he replied.

  “You can’t arrest her, and you know it,” I told him. “You don’t have enough evidence to arrest her.”

  “I could certainly take her in for questioning,” Carter shot back. “I can hold her for twenty-four hours.”

  “And I will instruct her to not say a single thing until I find her a lawyer. And based on the lack of evidence, a good lawyer will have a field day with you. So, what good would it do to haul her in for questioning? Give it up, Carter. You don’t have enough. You know it, and I know it.”

  Carter glared at me, clearly stewing. I returned his glare with one of my own. Finally, he broke off the stare and looked at Celia.

  “Come on, Celia, let’s go,” he said.

  Celia looked shocked, “What? You mean, you aren’t going to arrest her?”

  “No, I’m not. Fortune is right.” He glared at me again, “As much as I hate to admit it.”

  “That’s not acceptable,” Celia barked. “I demand that you arrest her this instant, Deputy LeBlanc.”

  “Celia, I know your upset,” Carter reasoned, “but Gertie isn’t answering questions, which is her right. The Smiths did not say they saw Gertie placing anything under your car, nor did they see Gertie setting off a cherry bomb.”

  “Celia, why don’t you take a breather,” Ida Belle said. “Have a seat and let’s talk about this.”

  “No way. You mess with the bull, you get the horns,” Celia said.

  “Always knew you were horny,” Gertie spouted.

  Ida Belle chuckled; I suppressed a grin; Celia’s face was turning purple with rage.

  “Carter . . . make her talk,” Celia barked.

  I noticed several of the passengers had pulled their cell phones from their pockets and were snapping pictures and making a video of the scene.

  “Celia, lower your voice,” Carter cautioned.

  “I will not lower my voice,” Celia bellowed. “Everyone knows Fortune is your girlfriend. You’re in cahoots with them.”

  “Now, hold on, Celia,” Carter said. “That’s uncalled for. I would never . . .”

  Celia grabbed a glass from our table and slammed it to the floor. The glass exploded, sending dozens of sharp bits flying in all directions. The patrons around our table collectively gasped.

  The tourist contingent continued to snap away with their cameras. Great, I thought. The town of Sinful was going to shine tonight throughout the world of social media.

  “Celia Arceneaux!” Ida Belle gasped. “You get a grip on yourself right now.”

  “Get hold of myself?” she screamed back. “My . . . self? You get a grip on this!”

  Celia grabbed another glass and smashed it to the floor as well, with even more force than before. Several guests stood and began to leave. A few people from the bus snickered. They were enjoying the show. She shot a wicked stare their way and the snickering stopped.

  “Celia, I need you to stop this instant,” demanded Carter. “Or else.”

  “Or else what? Are you going to arrest me?”

  “If you don’t stop, I’ll do just that,” Carter threatened.

  “I’m the victim here. You’ll do no such thing.”

  “You break one more glass and I’ll show you.”

  Celia looked down at our table. Gertie had the only remaining empty glass on our table in her hand. She smiled and offered it to her.

  “You’re not going to let him get away with talking to you like that, are you Celia?” Gertie asked.

  Celia, took the glass from Gertie’s hand and smashed it to the floor within inches of Carter’s feet. She then stood erect and glared at Carter, almost daring him to do something.

  “Okay, that’s it,” Carter said, moving toward Celia. I heard glass crunching under his boots. He reached for Celia’s arm. She recoiled, jerking her arm away from him.

  “Get away from me, Carter,” she snapped.

  “I warned you, Celia,” he replied. “Now, come on, let’s go.”

  “Where do you think you are taking me?” she demanded to know.

  “You’re under arrest,” he informed.

  “Me? On what charge?”

  “Public disturbance, destruction of private property, and if you’re not careful, resisting arrest. Now, let’s go.”

  Carter grabbed Celia by the elbow of her right arm and attempted to lead her away.

  “You get your hands off me,” Celia screamed. She jerked her arm away from Carter’s grip . . . hard. The force created by Celia yanking her own arm away caused her to lose her balance and stumble backward toward our table. Specifically, she was falling toward Ida Belle’s plate of biscuits covered in a mountain of gravy. Ida Belle pushed away from the table with a quickness that belied her age.

  Carter reached for Celia but it was too late. She’d already backed into the table, butt-first. The backs of her upper thighs, slammed against the table top, just below her amply-sized butt cheeks. Her behind landed squarely in the middle of Ida Belle’s mountain of biscuits and gravy. Projectile gravy spurted everywhere, but mostly . . . all over me—face, hair, chest . . . everywhere. I felt another wave of nausea. I coughed and gagged before realizing Celia’s momentum was continuing to carry her backward . . . toward me.

  The next five seconds passed in ultra-slow motion. I became acutely aware of every detail: Carter yelling and lunging toward C
elia; Gertie clapping her hands together and laughing; Celia’s feet leaving the ground, propelling upward as she continued to fall backward across the table; her arms flailing; Ida Belle gasping in horror; me feeling the ick of gravy in my hair, in my eyes and on my face; Celia’s legs splaying in the air as her back made contact with the tabletop and her reverse somersault continued; a dozen passengers snapping pictures; me noticing Celie’s knee-high stockings, seeing her dress over her waist as her feet continued their path upward; Gertie laughing even harder and pointing at Celia’s peach-colored granny underwear.

  The momentum of Celia’s reverse somersault continued. There was no stopping it now. Her legs were now swinging up and over the table. In another second, Celia would be plummeting, head-first, to the hard tile floor, covered in broken glass.

  I jumped to my feet and stood, helplessly watching Celia’s dress now slipping up to her shoulders and around her head. I could have just backed away and let her fall. Part of me wanted to, because I knew what the alternative was. I saw it coming toward me . . . in all its glory.

  I couldn’t back away, though. Instinct kicked in. As much as I loathed the woman, I couldn’t bring myself to stand by and watch her crash onto the floor, head first. I stood my ground and braced for impact as the bottom half of her body headed for my face. I extended my arms as Celia’s thighs came into contact with my shoulders. I slipped my arms around her waist to catch her and to prevent her from falling, head-first, off the table. The result was catastrophic . . . but for me, not Celia. By catching Celia in that unique and compromising position, I found myself holding her, upside down, around the waist, with her legs draped across my shoulders and my face mere inches from her . . . unspeakable parts. The smell of gravy and rotted fish assaulted my senses.

  A dozen bus passengers moved forward, shamelessly snapping photos and shooting video. I felt numb. The aroma created by the blending of greasy gravy and fish guts caused me to finally lose it. I tried to hold it back—I really did, but there was too much. I puked, and puked hard. I felt like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, with vomit gushing down my shirt and all over Celia’s legs and nether regions. There I stood, frozen in time, holding Celia Arceneaux . . . upside down, covered in gravy and my own vomit.