The Cajun Doctor

by Sandra Hill

  Which brought up a pet peeve of Daniel’s. Why did happy people always try to make everyone else happy?

  “If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

  “If a door shuts, open a window.”

  “Life is just a bowl of cherries.”

  “Miracles do happen.”

  “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

  Bullshit! These Pollyannas needed a good dose of reality. Personally, he believed there was a lot to be said for being grumpy. A good shield against the crap side of life.

  Forget Jimmy Fallon and Justin Effin’ Timberlake and goofball gladness. Now there was an infomercial blasting away on the TV. No, I do not need a supersonic toilet plunger that doubles as a concrete mixer, thank you very much.

  The phone continued to ring in the middle of his jaw-cracking yawn. A quick check of his watch showed it was only nine o’clock. What a boring life he led, fast asleep when he could be out on the town, like Aaron, or wherever the hell he went when he disappeared every night. Who would be calling me on a Sunday evening?

  — Aunt Mel? She called whenever the mood hit her, but they’d already talked to her today. When Tante Lulu had dropped her bomb that afternoon about Aunt Mel possibly moving here, Daniel had called Alaska, and Aunt Mel said there was nothing definite, but a Realtor was bringing by a hot prospect. Maybe she’d come for a visit sometime to see if she would like it, before making a commitment to move.

  — Speaking . . . rather thinking . . . of Tante Lulu, maybe it was her calling. The old bird had no sense of appropriateness when it came to anything, whether it be time or subject. For example, her constantly telling people that he wasn’t gay. As if that were even a possibility! Yep, she could very well be calling for something as simple as asking if he wanted any more okra from her garden. The answer was “Hell, no!”

  — An emergency? Oh, Lord, don’t let it be one of those “patients” I served today. I don’t care what Tante Lulu says, I am not licensed to practice in Louisiana. Yet. If ever.

  — Or, most likely, it was just a wrong number.

  Rising groggily, he followed the sound of the phone. Not his cell phone ringtone, he belatedly recognized, rather Aaron’s raucous Zydeco music. Daniel had no idea what time Aaron had left . . . Didn’t Aaron mention a late night date? One of his mysterious bootie calls? But this was early yet. An early bootie call then? As in an extra long bootie call? . . . but he must have forgotten his phone.

  — Maybe it was just Aaron trying to find his phone. If it was, Daniel was going to demand to know where he went on these nightly jaunts. What if something urgent came up, like angry snakes returning in hordes to overtake the plantation house, or a miraculous appearance of St. Jude at his namesake birdbath, or Publishers Clearing House knocking on the door?

  I must be losing my mind.

  The ringing stopped, finally, and the phone pinged, indicating it was going to voice mail.

  Daniel scrambled to dig the device out of the side crease in the recliner and checked the caller ID. To his shock, he saw that it was Samantha Starr. Huh? Without any hesitation, he fumbled around and eventually clicked on “voice mail,” hearing a female voice: “Hey, Aaron, this is Samantha Starr. We talked this afternoon about the possibility of an animal rescue operation at Bayou Rose. But that’s not why I’m calling. Aaron, something has come up here. Something very . . . dangerous. Can you call me right away? I need help!”

  Daniel couldn’t help but notice the nervousness, maybe even fear, in Samantha’s voice. Was it that loser ex-husband of hers? Daniel had heard rumors about the guy. A slimeball, to say the least. Or maybe she had an intruder.

  And, frankly, why would she call Aaron, and not him? That really pissed Daniel off. He wasn’t sure why.

  Quickly, he hit reply to Samantha’s call on Aaron’s phone, but got a busy signal. He tried again three more times. Still busy.

  Maxine sidled up and rubbed against his leg. “Meow, meow!” Was the cat trying to tell him something? Some hidden message about Samantha? Yeah, right. More like, where’s the rest of that canned tuna fish? That’s all Daniel had been able to find for a cat in his meager pantry. Samantha had brought along a box filled with kitty litter, but no kitty kibble.

  He glanced out the window toward the big house and saw only a dim lantern on the outside wall of the main floor verandah. The mansion itself was dark, indicating no one was home. Aaron left the exterior light on if he was out for the night. Usually. But then, his pickup truck was missing from its usual parking spot, as well.

  Daniel hit reply on Aaron’s cell phone a few more times, to no avail. Next, he made a visit to the head, then splashed cold water on his face. Looking in the mirror, he saw that he looked like hell. Bed head, day-old whiskers, bleary eyes. With a sigh of resignation, he went into his bedroom and replaced his wrinkled, cat-hair-covered khakis and golf shirt with a pair of faded jeans, a plain gray tee, and ratty athletic shoes. Five minutes later he was on his way to New Orleans.

  “Siri, give me an address for Samantha Starr in New Orleans,” he said, clicking the Bluetooth button on his steering wheel. Once it gave him an address, he ordered, “Siri, give me directions.” Easy peasy, as Tante Lulu would say.

  There was very little traffic; so, it took him only half an hour to get to the city. Cruising through the upper-class Garden District neighborhood, he soon found Samantha’s home. A brick, two-story dwelling surrounded by a chest-high brick wall. Not much of a front yard, but there was probably more property in the back, which he couldn’t see from here.

  Getting out of his car, which he parked on the street, he noted there were no other vehicles around. They must be parked in driveways or garages. Not many parties or visitors on a Sunday evening, he guessed. But wait. There was a dark-colored car down the street a ways. He couldn’t tell through the tinted windows if there was anyone inside, or not.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting . . . maybe an ultra-modern penthouse condo . . . but definitely not this. It was so . . . so . . . traditional.

  Expensive, though. Samantha’s house was smaller than the antebellum mansions surrounding it, probably an original carriage house, but worth a fortune nonetheless. Daniel didn’t know much about real estate, but he would bet his favorite stethoscope that this structure was in the million-dollar range. Which wasn’t surprising with Samantha’s monied background. Spoiled rich girls did not rent condos in the ninth ward. Which was probably unfair of him, but no more unfair than her sweeping generalization about doctors.

  He opened the front gate, which caused motion detector lights to go on . . . Good for her! . . . and walked up the short sidewalk to the front door. Since there were lights on inside, he had no qualms about ringing the doorbell. He probably would have even if the lights were out. He took perverse pleasure in needling Samantha all the time. Like some adolescent kid who pulled on a girl’s pigtails, or teased her incessantly, in an asinine attempt at seduction. The sort of stunt Deke Watson might have pulled, if he’d lived long enough.

  Oh, crap! Where did that thought come from? He did not allow himself to think about the boy, even after all these years. It was pointless, and, frankly, hurt too much.

  Even so, he sometimes wondered if Jamie Lee, Deke’s father, had stayed clean and stuck around to console his estranged wife, Bethany? And did they have other children? Daniel couldn’t imagine taking such a second chance on grief, but that was him. And wasn’t it interesting . . . or telling . . . that he remembered their names after more than two years, when he’d dealt with hundreds of parents of sick kids in his career?

  He shook his head to clear it of those disturbing memories, which wasn’t really necessary since the noise on the other side of the door would have shocked the dullest brain. It appeared that his doorbell ringing had awakened a menagerie. Loud dog barking and cat meowing. And somewhere more distant inside the house, the yip yip yipping of puppies. At least he didn’t hear any goats bleating. Samantha had mentioned a goat, and geese or d
ucks, hadn’t she? But, no, she’d claimed to have gotten rid of those other animals earlier in the day. And a pig . . . he seemed to recall something about a depressed pig.

  He pressed the doorbell again.

  “Oh, damn!” he heard Samantha say on the other side of the door. She’d probably looked through the security hole to see who was there. His assumption proved true when the door swung open suddenly, and Samantha gaped at him. “You! What are you doing here?”

  “Thanks for the warm welcome.” Before he had a chance to say more, a German Shepherd the size of a small pony limped up to him and barked loudly, practically in his face. He would have been alarmed except the dog’s tail was wagging and it had a loopy grin on its face. On the other hand, there was more danger with the long-legged cat with spotted fur that resembled a cheetah, which arched its back and hissed at him, but then it seemed to sniff the air . . . probably smelled Maxine on him . . . and ambled off to do some cat thing. He also heard other dogs barking somewhere else in the house, and two more cats prowled by, scarcely paying him any attention, and was that a pig sitting on a low stool before the window? Yep, the animal was oinking. It didn’t look depressed to him, but how did one recognize pig depression?

  Holy fricking animal house!

  “Seriously, Daniel, what are you doing here?”

  “You wound me,” he said, clapping a hand over his heart. “I come as Prince Charming to the rescue, and you treat me like the Prince of Frogs.”

  “Some prince!” She surveyed the area behind him as if expecting someone lurking on the street. Seeing something, she flinched and murmured with dismay, “Still there.”

  He assumed that she referred to the car with the shaded windows. “Who’s still there?” he asked.

  Before he could turn around and check the object of her distress, she stepped back, allowing him entrance to her home. In fact, when he hesitated, she grabbed his arm and yanked him in, slamming and locking the door behind them.

  Ooookay!

  A quick glance around showed the foyer of the house with a central hallway going forward into some kind of windowed great room. A staircase in the hallway led upstairs. To the left was a library/office, and to the right, a living room where a gas fireplace provided the only light. It was to the latter that she led him.

  There was a sepia-toned, framed photograph on one wall of a Civil War officer. Robert E. Lee or someone equally important, he guessed. “One of your ancestors?”

  “Pfff! My ancestors were running around the highlands in kilts chasing sheep during the American Civil War. What are you doing here, Daniel?”

  He didn’t like her tone. Not one bit. And decided to ignore her rudeness. “Oh, that’s right. I heard about your family’s Scottish ancestry. In fact I met your father at one of the Hope Foundation board meetings. He was wearing a kilt. At the time, I thought it was odd, but then I’ve seen odder in the French Quarter on a Saturday night.”

  “Hah! You see lots odder just being around Tante Lulu,” she remarked.

  “You have a point there.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

  “You better not be thinking of a bootie call, just because we shared a few dreams.”

  What the hell? Talk about a hit from the left! “More like sexual fantasies. And the thought of a sexual encounter never occurred to me,” he said defensively, but then added, “But now that you mention it . . .”

  She put her hands on her hips in consternation and tapped her bare foot with impatience.

  But then he noticed her attire. Flame red pants with a black camisole type top (sans bra), edged in red. Both in some kind of silky material, that moved when she did, delineating her buttocks and the curve of her breasts right down to the nipples. Her dark red hair was down, spilling over her shoulders in disarray. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her in anything other than a sophisticated upswept hairdo. She must have been in bed, or getting ready for bed.

  Oh. My. Dormant. Libido! Daniel thought, then immediately amended. Not so damned dormant!

  “What are you grinning about?” she asked, pivoting as she motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs, while she dropped down into a low sofa.

  Just to be contrary, he sat down next to her.

  She frowned but said nothing.

  “Was I grinning?” he said in answer to her question. “Maybe I’m just happy.” Good Lord, Jimmy Fallon must be rubbing off on me.

  “You? Happy? That would be a switch. Why?” she scoffed.

  Ooh, she was going to pay for that insult. “To see you, Samantha darlin’.” Holy hell! Am I developing a Southern accent? “In all your sexy clothes.” And, yeah, she does look damned sexy. “Were you expecting to greet my brother like that? All decked out and ready for . . . whatever?” Not if I can help it. He waved a hand as if lost for words. “Sexy lady.”

  “Holy shit!” a male voice said from one of the other rooms.

  “Another visitor?”

  “No, it’s Clarence. A bird. Another rescue I can’t get rid of. Mainly because that’s the only thing it can say, and people won’t adopt him because of the bad language around kids.” But then she addressed his observation. “Are you crazy? This is not sexy. It’s a sleep outfit, for heaven’s sake,” she said, glancing downward. Then, “I am not sexy.”

  “Believe me, Samantha, you are sexy.”

  Her face bloomed with color matching her attire, which, incidentally, hugged her body as she sat. Pulling taut over her breasts. Outlining her belly and thighs.

  He ran a fingertip over her bare skin from her shoulder to her wrist, and grinned some more. Just to tease her. Or was it to test if her skin was as soft as it looked.

  She shrugged his hand off before it could make a return foray and made a tsk-ing sound, which he found seductive in a contradictory sort of way. Prim and proper on the outside, wild and wanton inside.

  Well, he could hope. Not that he really wanted a relationship with Samantha. On the other hand, there were those arousing wet dreams he’d been having of her. But then an unwelcome thought hit him. “You haven’t been having sex dreams about my brother, have you?”

  “Holy shit!” Clarence said.

  “Get real!” Samantha said.

  “Does that mean you don’t have the hots for Aaron?”

  “Get real,” she said again. Then, “Speaking of your brother, why isn’t he here? I called him, not you.”

  “Aaron is otherwise occupied,” he said enigmatically, but then explained about his missing brother and the lost phone. “But I could be available.” A generous offer, if he did say so himself. “So, what’s the dangerous situation you needed Aaron for? Won’t I do?”

  She gave him a narrow-eyed glance to see if he’d meant that as a double entendre.

  He had.

  “Aaron is a pilot, and I need transport out of the country.”

  His eyes went wide. “Whaaat?” Not at all what he’d expected! With as much patience as he could muster, he told her, “You need air transportation? Louis Armstrong International Airport is only ten miles away. Can you say 1–800-DeltaAir?”

  “It’s not for me, but . . .” She shrugged and proceeded to tell him the most amazing story about Angus, her stepbrother by marriage . . . the son of one of her father’s numerous wives by a previous husband, or some such thing . . . and a young pregnant woman. It was a convoluted tale about gambling debts and the Dixie Mafia and Samantha’s ex-husband who was selling babies. Bottom line was, Angus and the girl wanted to go to Costa Rica to hide out for a while.

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t it enough?” she asked, failing to hear his sarcasm.

  “The mafia, a baby selling operation, pit bulls, gambling debts, an advanced pregnancy. Seriously?”

  “I know it sounds unbelievable.”

  “You think?” When she didn’t back down from her story, he homed in on something else. “Where
are Angus and the girl right now?”

  She raised her eyes upward. “Upstairs. Sleeping.”

  “Of course they are,” he said.

  “They were exhausted and, frankly, I’m worried about Lily Beth. Her ankles and hands are really swollen. I don’t suppose, since you’re here . . .”

  “Samantha! I’m not an obstetrician.”

  “You’re a doctor,” she said, as if he needed a reminder.

  “How swollen?”

  “Very.”

  “She better see an OB-GYN asap.”

  “She claims that Nick, who happens to conveniently be an OB-GYN, by the way, has been giving her regular exams. And she’s on prenatal vitamins.”

  “And you think that’s enough? You trust your ex?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then she needs to get checked by another physician. No, not me. A baby doctor.”

  “Not gonna happen. At least not right away.” Samantha shook her head adamantly. “I already told them that, as well as suggesting they go to the police, or John LeDeux, or Luc LeDeux for help. They refused all of those. They’re really scared. In fact, I’m beginning to get scared myself.”

  “All the more reason to get help.”

  “That’s exactly why I called you . . . I mean, Aaron.”

  “Yeah, Aaron knows a lot about pregnant women.”

  “I need Aaron for something else. But since you’re here, and you’re a doctor . . .” She pulled at her own hair with frustration. “Jeesh! I’m not asking you to do brain surgery, Daniel, or even deliver a baby. Can’t you stop being so selfish and come out of your self-imposed pity party exile for a medical crisis? All I meant was . . .”

  “Pity party exile? Why don’t you tell me what you really think? Makes me really want to help you.”

  “Sorry. My nerves are shot. I hate that I’ve been pulled into this mess. And I hate asking anyone else to help.”

  “It’s hell losing control, isn’t it?”