Soul Man

by Shari Hearn

  Cootie nodded. “She told me it was her favorite photo. That’s her dad.”

  “When you said you modified it, I thought you just painted a bikini on her or something.”

  “That’s what I wanted to show Jo. My way of telling her I’d changed my ways.”

  Marge raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Okay, maybe not all my ways. But ever since I found out I was sick, I set out to make things right. I painted over Jo’s nude and several others. I had three more paintings to alter, but death grabbed me first.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Jo what you did with the painting?”

  Cootie looked down at the floor. “I was afraid if I told her I repainted it she’d just ask me to send it to her. I wanted to see her face when I revealed it because I thought that would be the last time I saw her.” Cootie looked back at the painting. “Jo’s the one that got away. My unrequited love.” He looked back at Marge. “You ever have one of those?”

  She took a deep breath and nodded slightly.

  “You ever come clean and tell the person?”

  “Yes and no. I wrote letters and never sent them. Eventually, they got read.”

  “After you died?”

  She nodded.

  “And I thought my brother Billy throwing away my favorite mug would be hard.”

  “It actually wasn’t bad. In fact, it turned out okay. I found out how true my friends were.” She still felt bad about keeping that secret from Ida Belle and Gertie all those years, although, when Fortune had read the letters to them, they didn’t look surprised. “Well, I have somewhere to be.”

  “See you in the morning then.”

  Marge walked through Cootie’s door and a smell made its way into her memory. Garlic. Her “traveling” abilities were hit or miss, but at that moment they were spot on. Marge instantly found herself standing in Marie’s kitchen while her dear friend prepared dinner. Marge took a whiff, the pungent garlic in Marie’s spaghetti sauce filling her with lovely memories. Marie used to make the sauce special, just for her, once a month. When Marie’s no-good husband Harvey was alive, Marie would even risk Harvey’s ire to sneak a container over and leave it by Marge’s porch swing. Everyone in town knew Marge wasn’t much of a cook. Still, she ate well. Between Gertie, Marie and every Sinful Lady who took pity on her, Marge had meals coming her way several times a week.

  Bones, Marge’s old hound dog who now lived with Marie, sauntered into the kitchen. Marie looked down at him and smiled. “Yep, it’s your mommy’s favorite spaghetti sauce. I was just thinking about her. Maybe I’ll take some of the leftovers to her niece, Fortune.”

  Ah, Marge thought, that explained the pull she’d felt and her just popping over. She still didn’t have the power to resist a strong pull of someone’s thoughts about her. Though, to be honest, she had been thinking about Marie as well, especially after talking with Cootie about Jo. Marie, of course, was oblivious to her presence.

  “Hey, Bones,” Marge said.

  “I tried a new dog biscuit today, Marge. Something new from the General Store. Liver. Now, normally I don’t like liver, but this was pretty good.”

  It just sounded like excited barking to Marie, who looked down at him from the stove. “My goodness, Bones, what gets into you sometimes?”

  Marge bent down and petted him. “You tell Marie I said ‘hi.’ Do it the way I taught you.”

  Bones padded over to Marie and nudged his nose into her hip. Marie petted him and smiled. “Well, I love you too.”

  “Goodnight, you two,” Marge said softly. “I’ll be back again tomorrow night.”

  Sometimes a ghost doesn’t need a medium to communicate with loved ones.

  Chapter Ten

  MARGE

  REDNECK STOOD IN FRONT of the packed bleachers and thanked the crowd of people gathered at the Sinful Rec Center for attending Cootie’s impromptu memorial service. Marge and Cootie sat on the floor under one of the basketball hoops.

  “I know memorial services usually are held a few days later, but, damn, Cootie was an important part of this community. I had to do something now.” Redneck looked over at a cork board he’d propped up on a chair, on which a few photographs had been pinned. “I was supposed to be out there with you, Cootie. I’m sorry I overslept.”

  “Not your fault,” someone called out from the stands.

  Redneck shook his head. “Yeah, but maybe if I’d been there, I don’t know, maybe I would have heard something before the killer shot him. Maybe I could have pushed him out of the way of the bullet. I should have been there.”

  Others in the audience shouted support to Redneck. “You can’t blame yourself.” “Not your fault.”

  Cootie whispered, “I didn’t think there’d be so many people show up.”

  “You don’t need to whisper,” Marge said. “No one can hear you.” Then a thought crossed her mind, And they never will again. She shivered at the thought. She had to keep working on Barb. Somewhere inside that sourpuss there had to be some spark of humanity. As if she could read Marge’s thoughts, Barb shot them the stink eye from where she sat in the second row.

  Marge pulled her attention from Barb to the first row, where a group of men, many of them Marge’s former hunting buddies, sat trying hard not to show emotions. Ida Belle, Gertie and Fortune sat several rows up on the left side. Walter, Emmaline and Jolene sat on the right side.

  Seated in the front row, opposite Marge’s hunting buddies, were Sheriff Lee, Carter, Deputy Breaux and Marie.

  “Cootie and I knew one another growing up,” Redneck told the crowd. “And we ended up enlisting at the same time. Served in Vietnam as many of you did. He saved my life over there. Him being murdered...” Redneck pulled in a shaky breath. “This ain’t right.”

  Marge turned to Cootie. “You saved his life? I thought he saved yours.”

  “Neither,” Cootie said. “To be honest, we never went to Vietnam. We served in the Marine Corps band.”

  “So all those combat stories you two told...”

  “Total crock.” He laughed. “Hell, no one wants to hear stories of two guys playing in a military band. I did bruise my lips once blowing the trumpet, so the wounded-in-combat story wasn’t too off the mark.”

  The only reason Marge had tolerated Cootie and Redneck on hunting trips were the war stories. She tried to control her emotions, but the more she thought about it, the more steamed she got. Her energy spilled over and the lights in the gym flickered, catching Redneck’s attention.

  “See that,” Redneck asked, pointing up at the lights. “I bet that’s Cootie. He’s one pissed-off dude right now. Someone is getting away with murder and needs to pay.”

  “You got that right,” Bobby Wells shouted from the front-row hunting group. Marge had never liked that boy. He was in his early seventies now and slowing down, but in his heyday, Bobby was a major pain in the butt to Sheriff Lee, who had to ride his horse over to the Swamp Bar more weekends than not to break up fights that had Bobby’s name all over them. Bobby stood and stared at Deputies Breaux and LeBlanc. “Cootie was my best friend. I appreciate you two being here and all, but you should be out solving his murder.”

  Several of the hunters nodded and verbalized their agreement. Bobby dropped back into his seat. Marge reminded herself that Bobby and Cootie had argued the night before his murder. Was Bobby’s display real or a cover-up for murder?

  Redneck nodded at Bobby’s remark. With clenched jaw, he told the audience that although he hadn’t been at the lake to save Cootie’s life, he was now devoting his own life to making sure the killer was found and prosecuted.

  Bobby led the audience in a cheer.

  Redneck shot a look at Sheriff Lee and Deputies Breaux and LeBlanc. “What IS being done about it? I mean, it could be one of us next. What are you guys doing to catch his killer?”

  Sheriff Lee pulled himself up from his chair. “Boy, we’re doin’ what we always do. Our jobs.”

  Deputy Breaux stood. “I didn’t
know Cootie very well, but I can tell you we’re working with the Mudbug Sheriff’s Department, interviewing people and going where the evidence leads.”

  “We’ll catch him,” Sheriff Lee said. “We always do.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  Marge turned around to find a beaming Elder Sheriff Lee seated on his mule next to them.

  “Except when we don’t,” Sheriff Lee added, his brow furrowed. “We still haven’t caught the perv who opened his barn door and flashed his private parts at Miss Emily.”

  Deputy Breaux’s face flushed in embarrassment.

  “Flashers are the hardest to solve,” Sheriff Lee said to the crowd. He looked back at Deputy Breaux. “Miss Emily was so focused on what was sticking outside this fellow’s pants, she failed to take note of his face. Not like we could bring in a sketch artist for what she saw. Wanted posters with a man’s privates would violate Sinful obscenity laws. Let that be a lesson to you all.”

  Sheriff Lee sat down. An embarrassed Deputy Breaux quickly followed suit and sat. Carter held his face in his hands.

  “My boy seem a little foggy to you?” Elder Sheriff Lee asked Marge.

  “He’s been foggy for the past five years,” Marge said. “In case you’ve lost count, your boy is approaching a hundred.”

  Redneck glanced at Carter. “Maybe catching the killer would be easier if both of our deputies were working the case.”

  Carter stood. “As much as I would like to, there’s still a town that needs a deputy ready to respond to problems as they arise. This time, it’s me.” Several people in the crowd murmured their displeasure. Carter looked back to address them. “But we have some fine deputies both in Sinful and Mudbug who are examining every piece of evidence with the help of state laboratories. The murderer will be brought to justice.”

  As mild applause broke out, Carter sat.

  Bobby stood and glanced back at Jo. “Kind of a coincidence, isn’t it? Deputy LeBlanc’s Aunt Jo shows up out of the blue and Cootie gets murdered? And now Deputy LeBlanc is kept off the case and she’s brought in for questioning? At least, that’s what I heard.”

  People turned and stared in Jolene’s direction. Poor girl froze, as if she were in a lineup.

  Carter stood again. “Sit down, Bobby.”

  Walter stood. “What are you getting at, Bobby?”

  Jolene gripped Walter’s arm, pulling him back into his seat.

  Carter turned to his Uncle Walter. “He’s not getting at anything. I think he was just sitting down.” Carter looked back at Bobby. “Isn’t that right?”

  Several of Marge’s hunting buddies urged Bobby to sit and shut up.

  Bobby looked up at Jo. “I meant no disrespect to you, Miss Jolene. And I’m glad you didn’t go fishing with him like he wanted, because you could have been shot as well. So good decision on your part.” Bobby plopped down in his seat. One thing about Bobby, Marge recalled, he knew to pull out of a fight when things weren’t going his way. But the damage was done. He’d gotten the accusation out. Judging by the expressions on some of the faces, it worked.

  “Hey, Bobby,” Cootie called out, “I know you’re hurting about me getting killed and all, but I can tell you, it wasn’t Jolene. She might have been mad about the painting and misunderstood my message, but she’d never kill me.” He sighed in frustration. “Damn, this not being heard thing stinks.”

  “Look,” Redneck told the crowd, “I never intended this memorial to throw blame around. I just wanted to honor my buddy. A friend to many of you. I considered him my brother.” Redneck stopped and held a hand over his mouth, trying to keep his emotions in check. He looked up at the crowd. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the microphone. “I don’t mean to get emotional. I thought I could do this. Maybe I should just go.”

  Marie stood from her place next to Carter and walked over to where Redneck stood. She touched his shoulder and took the microphone away from him.

  “Sorry,” he muttered to the crowd before walking across the floor and pushing his way through the exit.

  Marie addressed the crowd, which had grown restless. “Hello, I’m Marie Chicoron, your new mayor. I share with you the sadness and disbelief regarding Cootie’s passing and assure you our Sheriff’s Department, along with Mudbug Sheriff, will devote everything we have to solving this horrible crime. Now, I know we’re all on edge with grief and anger, but I don’t think we want to start pointing fingers of blame or accusations until all the facts are known. Why don’t we all take a deep breath and have some refreshments provided by my office.” Marie gestured to a refreshment table set up against a wall. “Share some stories among yourselves. Look at the photos Redneck provided and remember Cootie for the man he was.”

  Marge couldn’t help it. She stood and clapped. “Bravo, Marie!” If there was one thing that could break up tension in Sinful, it was the word “refreshments.” The promise of coffee and donuts was enough to cause a minor stampede as people scrambled to the refreshment table before all the chocolate donuts were taken.

  Jolene descended the stands with Walter and Emmaline. Cootie turned to Marge. “Nobody really thinks she did it, do they?”

  “Doesn’t matter what other people think. It matters what the evidence shows. They found a size fourteen Irish Setter boot print in the mud where the shooter stood. I think it’s time you and I start snooping around the closets of some of your enemies.”

  “What then?” Cootie asked. “Even if we find the killer we can’t tell anyone.”

  Marge watched as Barb Geroux grabbed a chocolate donut and stuck it in her sock puppet’s mouth before snagging another one for herself. “You let me worry about that part,” Marge told him.

  Chapter Eleven

  IT HAD BEEN HARD FOR the three of us not to intervene when Bobby was shooting his mouth about Carter’s aunt, but we’d decided ahead of time to keep a low profile where Jo was concerned. The less connection she had to us, the better for her.

  We approached the refreshment table. We needed to make it look as if this were the first time we’d seen Carter’s aunt since she arrived in Sinful.

  “As I live and breathe...” Ida Belle said.

  Jolene turned at the sound of Ida Belle’s voice. Her face lit up as she saw us approaching, and she let out a squeal, as if she were just greeting old friends she hadn’t seen in years. I was impressed.

  She hugged Ida Belle, then Gertie.

  “How long has it been?” Jo asked.

  Ida Belle thought a moment. “Too long.”

  Jo turned to me. “You must be Fortune, my nephew Carter’s friend.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand and shaking hers.

  “How are things?” she asked Gertie and Ida Belle.

  “What?” Gertie cupped her hand to her ear. “It’s too loud right here. Why don’t we step aside?”

  Jo hooked one arm around Gertie and an arm around Ida Belle, asking all the typical “catch-up” questions as we headed toward the vacated bleachers. I could feel several pairs of eyes on us as we walked away. Bobby. Walter. And Carter.

  “Well?” Jolene asked as soon as we got out of earshot of the others. “Did you find the painting?”

  Ida Belle shook her head. Jolene’s shoulders slumped. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Maybe Cootie destroyed it,” I said.

  Jolene raised her brows. “I doubt it. He said in his message that he had something I wanted. That painting is the only thing I would want from him.”

  “Can you think of any other place he would store the painting?” Ida Belle asked.

  “I did think after I left your place yesterday that Cootie had a studio in Lafayette. He sent me a flyer about one of his showings two years ago. It’s an old warehouse called The Lafayette Connection that was converted to galleries and artists’ studios.”

  “We’ll look there,” Ida Belle said.

  Jo shook her head. “I can’t ask you to go break into his studio. I checked the place out o
n the Internet. I’ll go there this afternoon.”

  “You know we can’t let you do that,” Ida Belle said.

  “Let’s just say we’re pot committed,” Gertie added.

  Jo glanced around to check no one was watching and reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper with the address. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you.”

  I reached over and patted Jo’s shoulder, as if consoling her, and let my hand brush against hers, transferring the paper from her hand to mine in a nice, fluid movement, before slipping it in the pocket of my jeans.

  “Is it true? Were you interviewed?” Gertie asked.

  Jo nodded her head. “Deputy Breaux wanted to know about the phone call. I said I thought Cootie was coming on to me, and I wanted to get it through his head we were over.”

  “You didn’t mention the painting?” Ida Belle asked.

  Jolene shook her head. “Are you kidding? He also asked me about Bruno Guerin. I guess he also left a threatening message on Cootie’s voicemail. Just my dumb luck that I also had several calls to him and went to his office.” She sighed. “I just want the painting back. Then I’ll relax. I’ll be able to mourn Cootie the way I should.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “He had his faults, but he didn’t deserve to be killed.”

  From the corner of my eye I spotted Emmaline and Walter approaching us. “Emmaline and Walter,” I whispered.

  “We’ll check the gallery,” Ida Belle whispered. “Tomorrow, Francine’s, eight AM for an update.”

  Emmaline smiled at us. “Ladies.”

  Walter cut to the chase. “Why didn’t you tell us you were interviewed?”

  Jolene shrugged. “It was nothing. I may have left a message on Cootie’s voicemail they didn’t like.”

  Emmaline held a hand over her mouth.

  Walter shifted his gaze toward the ceiling, shaking his head. “Was it a threatening message?”