The Red-Hot Cajun

by Sandra Hill

  “Did she forget that her niece Sylvie is married to a LeDeux?” Rene asked Remy.

  “Convenient memory lapse. Anyhow, she has riled up her clan of Breaux bitches and they in turn have riled some politicians and news media.”

  He shrugged. No big deal. He wasn’t afraid of Simone Breaux or the politicians. Val, on the other hand...

  “I don’t think it’s just legal action you have to fear,” Remy said, as if reading his mind.

  Like I didn’t know that! “What else?”

  “J.B. and Maddie mentioned a highfalutin documentary, which if it does any good, could affect some of their pocketbooks. People fight dirty when money is involved. You might be in danger.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Dad already called to issue one of his usual threats.”

  “Like?”

  “He’s gonna beat the crap out of me if I don’t toe the line— his line that is. He’s not big enough to do it himself anymore; so, he’ll probably hire someone to do the dirty work.”

  Remy shook his head hopelessly. That about said it all when it came to their father. The bastard!

  “Besides, there isn’t going to be a documentary. It was all a fabrication J.B. and Maddie dreamed up in hopes of stirring the hornets’ nest.”

  “They did that, for sure.”

  “You don’t convince someone to do you a favor by kidnapping her. Talk about!” Nor do you have near-sex with her and expect her not to be suspicious of your motives... even if it was her idea. “I can’t fault J.B. and Maddie, though. Their hearts are in the right place.”

  “Their hearts, and other innards, may very well be in prison by the time Val is done with them. What about Val, by the way? Luc stands ready, if you need him. What’s she gonna say, or do, when she returns?”

  “I don’t have a clue. She’s made lots of threats, but my gut instinct says... I don’t know.”

  Just then, Tee-John came out with a catfish sandwich in one hand and a can of RC Cola in the other.

  Setting the soda on the porch rail, he took a bite of his sandwich, then said, “What is that?” Tee-John went down the porch steps and picked something up off the ground by the tent. It was pink but, oh my God, it was not a flower.

  Flashing a “gotcha” smirk, Tee-John held it up high and asked, “Been playin’ cops and robbers, have you, big brother?”

  Rene felt his face heat up as he stomped down the steps and walked over to grab the freakin’ handcuffs, which they must have forgotten last night. Tee-John danced away, still holding the cuffs out of reach. ‘Tee-John” was the Cajun diminutive for Little-John, which became a misnomer the more he grew; the boy was as tall as he was. That didn’t mean he couldn’t whup him good if he didn’t behave himself.

  “What is it?” Remy asked, coming up to stand by Rene.

  “Handcuffs,” Rene said. “I got ‘em from Tante Lulu, who got them from guess who?” He looked pointedly at Tee-John.

  “Tee-John!” Remy said with a laugh. “I’m surprised at you.”

  Hah! No one was surprised at anything Tee-John did.

  Then Remy looked at him and grinned. “Rene! I’m surprised at you, too.”

  Yeah, right.

  “They’re not mine,” Tee-John said.

  “They’s from Charmaine,” Tante Lulu said, coming through the screen door, lugging a wheeled overnight case behind her that was bulging at the sides, as well as her humongous purse, which was also bulging at the sides. “She got them fer me as a souvenir from the Lucky Duck Motel.”

  The three of them just gaped at their aunt.

  “It was jist the condoms ‘n’ Vaseline stuff and vibratin’ lips that I got from Tee-John. Jeesh! Doesn’t anyone ever listen to what I sez? What’re those red lips fer anyways, Tee-John?”

  “It’s a cigarette holder,” Tee-John said . . . with a straight face yet.

  Rene and Remy stared, open-jawed, at their brother. You had to be impressed with a kid who could come up with such impromptu crap.

  “Din’t I tell you not to be smokin’ those coffin nails?” Tante Lulu said, wagging a forefinger at Tee-John.

  “I won’t anymore.” Tee-John ducked his head with exaggerated shame. The boy was a real piece of work.

  Remy and Tee-John helped Tante Lulu carry her bags to the copter. Before he left, Tee-John stuffed the handcuffs in Rene’s back pocket with a little pat on his ass for good measure.

  Val came out then. And whoo-boy! This was the Val he used to know, not the one he’d gotten to know the night before. This was the model for the intimidating Ice Breaux. She wore the silver-gray business suit she’d arrived in with high heels. Her hair was brushed back and wetted down off her face into a knot at her neck. She wore a little bit of makeup, thanks no doubt to Tante Lulu. She looked good, but she looked as far removed from Rene LeDeux as caviar from crawfish. She was uptown Creole; he was low-down swamp Cajun. He’d forgotten that for a few blips the night before.

  “Rene...”

  “Val...” he started to say at the same time.

  “You go first,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  There was a sudden wounded look in her eyes at his words.

  “Not about last night. I’m not sorry about that. I mean, I’m sorry about this whole mess. I know you don’t believe me when I say I wasn’t involved. Still, I probably could have gotten you back sooner.” Like the first day.

  “Yeah, I figured that.” She studied him for a moment, then said, “I’m not sorry about last night, either.

  Oh, don’t go getting all worried. I’m not going to latch onto you now and make you feel obligated to see me again.”

  Idodged a big one there. “I never thought that.”

  She waved his protests aside. “I suspect I owe you thanks for not taking things further.”

  Oh, no, we are going to discuss this thing to death. Just leave it be. When will women learn?

  “But I’d rather just leave it be.”

  Surprise, surprise! “What are you going to do?”

  She cocked her head to the side, wondering what he meant. He could have meant any number of things. Was she going back to Trial TV? Was she going to file charges against them? Was there a remote chance she might help them? Was she going to see him again, ever? Was she now planning on ending her two-year celibacy?

  “I don’t know,” she said then. “I just don’t know.”

  That’s exactly what he had told Remy.

  “At least my two-year bout of celibacy is over.”

  What? What? “Uh, I don’t think so. I hate to break it to you, darlin’, but last night did not end your celibacy. Next time is when your celibacy ends. Part A goes into part B, that’s when celibacy ends.” I should cut off my tongue and feed it to that passing gator over there. Why don’t I just give her a sex education lecture?

  “Is that a fact?” She put a fist on one hitched hip in challenge.

  Practically a fact. “Definitely a fact.” Or maybe I should put a little Cajun lightning on it and eat it myself.

  Yep. Tabasco Tongue. I can’t wait to hear what I say next. Talk about!

  “Next time, huh? And what makes you think there’s gonna be a next time. What makes you think I would let you be the one?”

  “The thunderbolt.” I cannot freak in believe I said that.

  Val laughed. “You’ve been hangin’ around your aunt too long.”

  For sure. But he laughed, too. At himself.

  “Anyhow... good-bye.” She held out a hand for him to shake.

  He looked at her hand. He looked up at her still kiss-swollen lips. He shook his head and grinned slowly. Then he yanked her forward and kissed her soundly on the lips. In the background, he could hear Tante Lulu telling Remy and Tee-John, “It’s the thunderbolt. Bless his heart, he caint help hisself.” When he was done with his worldclass kiss—and, yes, it was world-class, if he did say so himself—he said against her ear, “That’s the way we Cajuns say good-bye, chère. And remember, nex
t time, guar-an-teed!” They oughta pick le my tongue and put it in the Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum.

  She didn’t say anything, just stared at him, speechless.

  But not for long.

  Val reached around him.

  He thought she was going to smack him on the butt. But, nope, leave it to Val to get the last word in, so to speak. She pulled the pink handcuffs out of his back pocket and waved them in his face before stuffing them in the waistband of her skirt.

  He arched his brows at her. “Souvenir?”

  She laughed. “Evidence.”

  Welcome home, baby . . . not!

  The copter landed at the far end of the private airport, but still a crowd awaited Val outside the small terminal as she prepared to disembark.

  “You must be really popular,” Tee-John, Rene’s too-cute-to-live younger brother, remarked.

  “Hardly,” she answered. “It’s just my mother and a few dozen of her closest friends. You know, politicians, police, oil execs, and sundry other people under her thumb.”

  “Betcha that Valcour is out there,” Tante Lulu said. “Betcha he’s gonna open his trap and say sumpin dumb. Betcha he’ll try to give me the evil eye. Betcha I could smack him silly and not break a sweat. He’s so thick with the oil people he smells like the back end of a diesel engine.” She looked to Tee-John and added, “No offense meant ta you, sweetie. He may be yer daddy, but he and I go way back.”

  Tee-John squeezed Tante Lulu’s shoulder. “I’m on your side.”

  The copter’s passenger door was opened by an airport attendant and they all stood.

  “Hey, Val, did you give Rene a hickey?” Tee-John threw that question at her out of the blue, then batted his sinfully long eyelashes at her with mock innocence.

  “I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it may be incriminating.”

  “Good answer, counselor,” Remy said, smiling at her.

  Remy was an extremely good-looking man, but on one side of his face only. Apparently he’d been injured in Desert Storm. Funny how easy it was after the initial shock to overlook his disfigurement.

  “Do I need to call Luc? They’re not gonna arrest us, are they?” Remy asked. He was serious, although he didn’t appear too concerned.

  “Not unless you do something stupid. Like open your mouth.” Before Remy had a chance to be offended by her brusque remark or in fact do something stupid, Valerie morphed into a role she knew how to play expertly. Back straight, lawyer non-expression on her face, attack-mode ready.

  Tante Lulu took in all the people and exclaimed, “I see the buzzards has come to feed.”

  How true!

  “You kin allus stay at my cottage iffen ya doan wanna go home jist yet,” Tante Lulu offered, surprising her. Then the old lady surprised her even more by giving her a warm hug. “Jist call me iffen ya feel the need.”

  Valerie couldn’t say why, but the old bird’s kindness touched her immensely. Walking away from the copter, Valerie headed directly toward the waiting crowd, instead of attempting to avoid them by going to the other side of the terminal.

  “Shelley,” she said, reaching out to shake hands with the local TV reporter. She and Shelly Thornton had attended Our Lady of the Bayou School together; she was married to Ronnie Eichenlaub, the station owner. “How are you? Let’s do lunch.”

  Her warmth and invitation seemed to throw Shelley off guard, but only for a second. “Valerie, is it true that you were kidnapped? Can we step over to the side and conduct an interview?” She motioned toward her cameraman whose film was already rolling.

  “Oh, not right now, hon. I feel so sweaty after being in the bayou without air-conditioning for four days.” She blew upward at the wisps of hair on her forehead. Before Shelley had a chance to protest, she said, “How about tomorrow at one p.m.? Shall I come to the station?”

  “Uh . . . yes . . . sure,” Shelley said, pleased to be handed an interview opportunity.

  “Hey, how about us?” It was a reporter from the Houma newspaper. The man next to him was holding up a copy of today’s Times Picayune from New Orleans, where she assumed he was a reporter.

  “Call me,” she said to both of them. “I promise to tell all, but not today, boys. I am beat.” Well, I managed to sidestep the kidnapping question. . .for now. Let’s see who’s next. Uh-oh!

  Simone Breaux broke through the rope barrier and rushed forward, arms outstretched. Her mother was fifty-five, but could pass for forty-something with all her plastic surgery, the same sleek upswept hairdo she’d worn for twenty years, trim figure, which she worked hard to maintain—not Richard Simmons, but some private trainer who kept her on a veggie diet and a five thousand dollar walking machine—and a silk pantsuit that had probably cost more than Rene’s cabin. The TV camera and newspaper photographers were taking it all in. Never miss a photo op, that was her mother’s slogan.

  “Darling, I’ve been so worried,” her mother wailed just before she put a hand on each of her daughter’s shoulders and gave her air kisses on either side of her face. How different from Tante Lulu’s sincere expression of comfort.

  Against her ear, her mother said, “Your suit is wrinkled, and you need more makeup.” She actually sniffed her then and crinkled her nose, as if she could smell the bayou—or God forbid—sex on her. Not that I actually had sex, as Rene had so aptly pointed out an hour ago. Just near-sex. Jeesh, my brain is melting in this heat.

  “Stand straight and let me do the talking,” her mother said through her plastered-on smile.

  “No way!” she said, stepping out of her mother’s pseudo embrace.

  “I’ve arranged a press conference in one of the lounges of the airport,” her mother said, hastening to catch up with her. “We should present a united front. Your aunt Inez will give the opening introduction.

  Your aunts Madeline and Margo will be in the audience for support, and your grandmother Breaux, too.”

  Valerie stopped suddenly and looked at her mother. “Don’t you want to know if I’m okay?”

  “Huh? Of course.”

  “You haven’t asked.”

  “Don’t be pert with me, young lady.”

  “I’m thirty-five years old, Mother. Hardly a young lady.”

  “This is not the time or place for you to have a breakdown,” her mother said in a hushed tone.

  “When would be a good time?”

  Her mother didn’t answer. Instead her attention was diverted to the area near the terminal where the LeDeux gang had gone. Tante Lulu was talking animatedly to someone while she pointed at Val. Val headed that way. Hopefully her rental car was still in the parking lot.

  “What is he doing here?” her mother asked, glaring at the latest addition to the LeDeux party.

  Now that they were closer, Valerie recognized Lucien LeDeux, a well-known Houma lawyer. You’d never know it by his attire, though. He wore a red, green, and white Hawaiian shirt over black shorts with sandals.

  “Hello, Auntie Simone,” Luc said. Luc was only related to them by marriage, but he delighted in reminding her mother of the relationship.

  Her mother growled and muttered something about “ambulance chaser.”

  Luc turned to Valerie then and winked. “Hey, Cuz. I hear the thunderbolt has struck.” He glanced at her, then Tante Lulu, then back again.

  “It did not,” she protested. She hardly knew Luc, even though he was married to her cousin Sylvie, whom she hadn’t seen in years. She recognized that Luc was just trying to needle them both. The fact that he expected her to turn her nose up the same as her mother rankled a bit.

  “What thunderbolt?” her mother wanted to know.

  “The love thunderbolt,” Tante Lulu informed her. “Dontcha know nuthin’? Val and my Rene is prob’ly in love by now.”

  Valerie’s mother bared her teeth at Tante Lulu, who just smiled innocently. “Over my dead body,”

  Simone said. Then she looked pointedly at Valerie and said, “I’ll see you at home.” She
spun on her heels and walked away.

  “Is my rental car still in the lot?” she asked Remy.

  Remy nodded. ‘Tee-John went to get it for you. He’ll be pulling up any minute now. He just got his driver’s permit and any excuse to drive is—”

  A black BMW pulled to a screeching stop just outside the chain-link fence. How he started the car without her keys, she didn’t want to know. Country music blared from the radio through the open windows and sunroof. Shania Twain was bemoaning the fact that it only hurt when she breathed.

  Yep. A perfect commentary on her life.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Home not-so-sweet home

  Val was back home in Houma.

  Here in her bedroom in the historic mini-mansion, the walls seemed to crowd her. Her mother’s family had lived here for 150 years or more. She wondered how she had managed to live here for eighteen or so years.

  The room was decorated the same as it had been when she was a toddler, the same as it probably had been before the Civil War. Red and black Aubusson carpet on the floor, dark mahogany four-poster bed with heavy gold brocade bedspread matching the tasselled drapes that hung about the narrow floor-to-ceiling windows. Carved plaster moldings around the ceiling with an ornate center medallion. Priceless antique furniture passed through generations of Creole families, mostly in the federal style using native cypress stained to resemble the satinwoods so popular in the nineteenth century. On the walls were original signed Audubon prints of bayou birds and a massive oil painting of a Southern belle having her fortune told by a black mammy.

  Formal and dark, that’s how she would describe it.

  Definitely not the warm, cozy room that a toddler would feel comfortable in. Not a teenager, either.

  And God forbid that she put a crayon mark on the museum-quality wallpaper or get a glass stain on the Hepplewhite nesting tables. Her eyes darted quickly to the closet, then away just as quickly, not wanting to be reminded of what happened when little girls were bad.

  Hard to believe that only twenty-four hours had passed since she’d been deep in the bayou. Even harder to believe that she actually wished she were back there. She was drowning in all the distasteful memories this showcase of a room brought back to her, not to mention the crap awaiting her this day.