by Emmy Grace
“Madness,” I quip. “What makes you think she’d be a suspect?”
“Oh, honey, they fought like cats and dogs. And from what I hear, he had quite the wandering eye.” In the mirror, she raises her eyebrows. I raise mine, too.
“Oh. So, it’s like that.”
“It’s like that.”
Mrs. Leslie Vickerman just edged out everybody else. If Vickerman were cheating on her, she’d have motive on top of motive on top of motive. A woman scorned and all that.
Eye Patch and Philbin are still close to the top. Tied for second, I’ll say. All three are gunning for Most Likely to Kill Martin Vickerman, though. I’ll have to do some more digging before I decide which one will score that malevolent honor. At least now I have a plan for the rest of my day.
10
After a lengthy appointment with Suzie, I head home to do some research. It’s a good thing, too. My attention is definitely needed there.
Before falling into a sleep coma last night, I managed to look into pig behavior. I learned all about how pigs root and nudge with their snouts for different reasons. I assumed it would be a while before I got any firsthand experience with either.
When I unlock the door and step into the disaster that has become my living room, I realize I assumed wrong.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have given Gumbo the run of the place just yet. The moment I see the backyard, I understand that my biggest mistake was in introducing him to the dog door so soon. The dog door leads to the yard, and the yard is like nirvana for a new little pig.
Gumbo has rooted up an impressive amount of sod, if I do say so myself. I mean, he was only left alone for just over two hours. And he’s not that big of a pig. Yet, somehow he managed to root every cushion on my couch, both armchair throw pillows, the covers on the guest bed, two rugs, a basket of Mr. Jingles’ toys that sits by the fireplace hearth, and the entire left half of the back lawn.
When Gumbo hears me at the back door, staring in semi horror at the ruination of my yard, he makes a squeak-snort sound and flies toward me. His entire face is caked with reddish clay dirt and his feet are almost as bad.
The instant he reaches me, the pig starts nudging my leg. I coo to him and bend down to give his head a scratch. When I do, he calms and makes a soft snuffling sound as he pushes his head into my hand. He missed me.
My heart melts into a puddle right around his dirty little feet, and just like that, his destructive behavior is forgotten. It’s just stuff. Just pillows and rugs and a yard. It’ll all fix. This little piggie is worth the aggravation.
“Had yourself a ball, didn’t you, Gumbo?”
I hear a bell behind me and turn to find Mr. Jingles half in and half out of the dog door, watching me suspiciously. “How’d you get out?” I ask. “I put you in the bedroom before I left.”
Momma Leona always thought it was crazy that I speak to animals like they’re human. She argued that there was no way for them to answer me. For me, it just seems natural. They’re like people to me. Heck, sometimes I like my animals more than people, so why not speak to them as such? But Momma thinks it’s creepy.
I have wondered what I’d do if one of them ever answered me. After I picked myself off the floor from passing out, I might just decide it’s nice to hear their thoughts. Then again, I might go right out and buy a straitjacket and check myself into a mental facility. It’s anybody’s guess.
By the time I bathe the pig (again) and straighten up the house, I’m whipped. Being electrocuted really takes it out of a girl, I suppose. It’s well after lunch when I grab an egg burrito from the fridge and sit down on the couch with my laptop. When I power it up, it makes a musical sound that functions sort of like a turkey call for rescue animals, only with chimes instead. I spend a lot of time on the computer, and each member of the zoo has his or her own response to it.
Mr. Jingles is the first to show up. He makes his way to a spot at my feet and curls up. He immediately falls asleep, an enviable trick that I’d love to share. Lucy-Fur is next. She slinks in and winds her body into a little ball on the hearth (which is her favorite place, even when the fire isn’t lit). Bringing up the rear is Squishy. He flies in to perch on the swing I hung for him in the corner beside the window (far away from all the doors). Most of the time I bring Gator’s cage out here, too. He doesn’t like the free world as much as his cage, so he’s content to stay put if I change the scenery a few times a day. If the fish could come, they would, I feel sure. All my critters like to be with me just as much as I like to be with them. It seems Gumbo will be no different. He walks into the living room, looks at me for a few seconds, makes his way around Mr. Jingles (gives him a comically wide berth, which is smart until he knows that my dog wouldn’t hurt a fly), and then hops up onto the couch. He pauses to stare over at me like he’s asking permission. When I don’t discourage him, he walks carefully across the cushions, tucks his head, gives my hip a couple of nudges, and then curls up right beside me.
I smile.
You’ve heard all the crazy cat lady stories and stereotypes, I’m sure. Well, I’ve decided to kick that up a notch and go full-on Wild Kingdom.
Lucky Boucher style.
With animals settled all around me, making various sounds of sleep and relaxation, I dive into detective mode. I search out any and all information I can find about Martin Vickerman, and follow any thread, no matter how thin, that might lead me to his associates. Two hours later, I hit pay dirt.
Joseph DeLuca of DeLuca Enterprises. He’s the contractor who signed a multi-million-dollar deal with Vickerman to develop the land outside Salty Springs. And when I go chasing down information on him, I find (among other questionable things) that he wears an eye patch. That has to be him. I mean, what are the chances of there being two men in association with Vickerman who wear eye patches? Ten zillion to one, surely. Unless Vickerman was a member of a hot poker society, or maybe a jousting or fencing team in college that I can’t find a trace of. No, DeLuca is the man who was seen with the victim. I feel it in my gut. The question is, what happened between them that would’ve been motive enough for murder?
I look through DeLuca’s website. He doesn’t operate out of a brick-and-mortar office. It seems that his business travels with him from location to location. That might actually work out in my favor, though. It would be much easier to sneak into a jobsite trailer at night than into an office building. The kind of information I’m after isn’t stuff that’ll be easy to find through legal means. It’s the things he’s hiding that I’m interested in.
I find a list of his projects, both completed and in progress. There’s only one that’s underway, since the land hasn’t even been secured for the mall site yet. It’s not far from here either. Maybe forty-five minutes or so.
Suddenly, my plans for the evening take on a different shape. And that shape looks like a jobsite trailer.
My phone rings from the arm of the couch, startling me. I jump, Gumbo jumps, Jingles barks, and I hold my breath to see if the rest of the band is going to kick in. It seems that Lucy-Fur is too tired to do her part, though, so it gets quiet again within a matter of seconds. The cat is probably worn out from spending the morning outside.
I smile when I see Regina’s name on the screen of my phone. “What up, sis?”
There’s a long pause. “Lucky?”
“Of course, it’s Lucky. Isn’t that who you called?”
“I did, but never in the fifteen years that I’ve known you have you ever said, ‘What up, sis?’”
“Just trying something new.”
“Please don’t. Don’t ever, ever do that again.” She pauses, then whispers, “Ever.”
I can’t help giggling. "What can I do for you, Ms. LaFayette? Is that better?”
“Now you’re just being weird.”
“Ugh! What do you want?”
“Okay, now that’s better. Wanna go grab some dinner tonight?”
“Uhhhh.” I glance at the pig curled up at
my side. I hate leaving him alone so much when this is all still new to him, and I’ll be away from him later when I go to check out DeLuca, so... “Why don’t you come over? I’ll cook. I don’t want to leave Gumbo alone much yet.”
“Gumbo? Who’s—” She stops herself. “You named the pig Gumbo?”
“I did. In honor of Beebee. And because I saved him from being put in gumbo. It’s a twofer.”
“Good grief,” she mutters. “Why don’t I bring something then? What would you want? Italian? Mexican?”
“Momma Leona sent me a new recipe. I told her I’d try it out. I’ll cook. It’s no trouble.”
“But...but...you’ve been through so much lately.”
“Meh, I’m fine. Cooking soothes me. You know how much I love it.”
“Yeah, I know.” I can almost hear her gulp. “Fine. What time do you want me there?”
“How about seven?”
“Can I bring anything? Wine? Tequila? A lot of tequila?” She mumbles the last, but I hear it.
"Oh, come on. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“My sense of adventure is right where it should be, just shy of the food poisoning end of the spectrum.”
“Oh my God, drama queen. My cooking isn’t that bad.”
There is a protracted pause. “Maybe I could come and help you.”
“You’re not a much better cook than I am.”
“No, but I don’t burn water, so there’s that.”
“Is my cooking really that bad?” She doesn’t respond. “I guess I’m lucky that you love me enough to weather it then.”
“I love you enough to weather anything. For God’s sake, I just helped you steal a pig. That’s the stuff of fairy tales.”
“What kind of fairy tales did you grow up to? Petty Crime Junction?”
“Don’t knock Petty Coat Junction. I watched many a rerun of that show with my mama before she died.”
I feel a little pang of envy. I wish I had memories like that with my mother, but most of mine are...darker.
“So, you’ll be here at seven?”
She sighs. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“See you then.”
I flip through my phone and find the recipe Momma Leona sent. I read it over, then read it over again. The ingredients are straightforward, and so is the method. It’s basically seafood over rice. How hard can it be?
After enjoying an early-evening walk to Chester’s to pay him and collect my car, I drive to the grocery store to stock up on the last of the ingredients I’ll need for this particular étouffée. I head back in plenty of time to make my dinner deadline.
But by ten minutes until seven, I am in culinary hell.
I froze the crawfish I’d bought for the recipe, and I didn’t know whether to thaw them first or just put them in after I made the roux, so I chose the latter. I didn’t think about the shells, though, which have started to soften and come apart in the soup. I overcooked the rice because I was trying to dig out pieces of shell, so I took it off the eye and put it in the oven to stay warm. By the time I got the main dish somewhat squared away, I noticed smoke filling the air. I’ve opened the oven door and am fanning the smoke with my oven mitt when Regina appears behind me.
“I think there are better ways to smoke a pig.”
I gasp. And then start coughing. “I can’t believe you said that! Apologize.” I glance over at Gumbo where he stands in the makeshift pigpen I free-styled from four dining room chairs and two blankets. He’s staring out at me, his pug little nose wiggling. He must like the scent of burnt rice. “She was just kidding, Gumbo. Ignore her.”
He snorts once and flickers his tail.
Regina looks over at him. “That’s just weird, you know.”
“Isn’t he the cutest? It looks like he’s smiling at me.” I wave and murmur to the pig. He tosses back his head and gives me a good, loud snort and another jiggle of his tail. It’s not really long enough or straight enough to wag, but it does something. Maybe I’ll call it a piggle.
I snort at my own thoughts, and it draws Regina’s attention. When I look over at her, she’s staring at me like I’ve grown a third eye. “The transformation is complete,” she says. “You’ve become one of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“You just snorted. I think you’ve taken communication with animals to a whole new level.”
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, which is obscured by a heavy blanket of smoke. “You’re just a cold fish.”
“Am not. I just don’t go overboard like some people do.”
I shrug, returning my attention to the meal. This is a conversation we’ve had more than once. A few times with Regina, and, before that, with Momma Leona. The only person who has ever really understood my affinity for animals is Beebee. If she weren’t my adopted grandmother, I’d swear I get many of my personality traits from her. But that’s a good thing. I think Beebee is one of the most wonderful people in the world. Momma Leona, too, but I’m just closer to Beebee for some reason.
I take the pan of rice from the oven and use my wooden spoon to rake the black layer of rice from the top. Underneath the grains are white. “Oh, it’s not ruined. Just the top layer burned. It’ll be fine.”
I separate the burned from the unburned rice, and fill our bowls with the salvageable part. On top, I ladle two big scoops of the crawfish soup. I hand one to Regina and stick a spoon in it. I grab mine and hold it up to smell the steamy aroma. “Smells like it needs salt.”
Regina sniffs hers. Her nose wrinkles. “Yeah, it does.”
I grab the saltshaker, and we head to the dining room table to claim the two remaining chairs. I salt and then hand it to Regina. She does the same, staring into her bowl as she shakes.
“What did you say this was again?”
“Étouffée. Didn’t your mama ever make it?”
“Not like this.”
“How very unLouisianan of her.”
“She made edible things.”
I take up a spoonful and blow on it to cool it off. I watch Regina over the steam. She picks through hers, pushing things aside and poking at something with her finger. “Is that...?” She shudders a little. “Never mind.” She fills her spoon, looks up at me, and says, “Etu... Brute!” instead of étouffée, and downs it one gulp.
Her eyes start to tear immediately, and her golden complexion takes on an unhealthy red tint. “You probably shouldn’t have done that. It’s really hot.”
I watch her throat move as she swallows convulsively. A tear leaks out from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t say anything. She isn’t really even moving. And she’s staring at me kinda funny.
I reach out and put a hand on her forearm. “Are you okay?”
Slowly, she shakes her head from side to side. It starts to go faster and faster until she looks a lot like Lucy-Fur when she pretend-kills one of her mouse toys.
Regina starts to wave her hand in front of her mouth and make a grunting sound. She points and waves as she rises from her chair. I stand, too. “What? What is it? Are you choking?”
She tries to turn and run, but she stumbles over her chair. She half falls her way to the kitchen and goes straight to the sink, where she slaps on the faucet and sticks her mouth under the flow. She laps the water into her mouth with her tongue like Lucy-Fur does.
“What are you doing? You could’ve just asked for some water. I have cold bottles in the fridge.”
She’s now making squealing noises that probably make Gumbo feel right at home. She’s waving one hand and stomping her feet.
I stand in the doorway, watching her. After a minute, Lucy-Fur comes to watch, weaving her slinky body in and around my feet as she eyes my best friend. She's probably insulted that Regina is putting on a cat show.
After a solid five minutes with her face stuck under the cold water, Regina straightens, wipes her mouth, and shuts off the spigot. When she finally turns to me, her eyes are red-rimmed.
“You look like you’
ve been crying for a month. What on earth happened?”
When she replies, her voice is scratchy and hoarse. “Lucky, what did you use as the base for that soup?”
“It called for a white roux, but Momma said hers turned out better the second time with a brown one, so I—”
“That’s not what I mean. The red part. Was that tomato sauce?”
“Uhhhh, no. Why?” I fiddle with the hem of my shirt, seeing for the first time where else I might’ve gone wrong with the dish.
“It’s...” She clears her throat, swallows, and tries again. “It’s Tabasco, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it called for Tabasco.”
“As the entire base? Or just in addition to it? Wasn’t there something else to make the soup, like chicken stock or shrimp stock or tomato sauce?”
“As the... I think it said...” I think back to exactly how the recipe was worded. “Well, now I’m not sure. You’re confusing me.”
Regina steps over to me, pats me on the arm, and wheezes, “I don’t think it’s me, Lucky. Anyone who thinks it’s a good idea to make an entire soup base from massive quantities of Tabasco should never be allowed in a kitchen.”
With that, she walks over, grabs her purse, and heads for the door.
“You...you’re leaving? But I made dessert.”
It’s just instant chocolate pudding, but still.
Regina holds up her hand as she opens the front door with the other. “I’ll have some tomorrow. One thing at a time, my friend. One thing at a time.”
She leaves without another word. I wait a few seconds for her to come back. When she doesn’t, I shrug and head back to the table. More for me. I have to fuel up for later. When I extend my criminal activity to breaking and entering private property.
11
I get a text from Regina just before I leave to head to Stafford, the town where DeLuca is currently constructing a hotel high-rise.
