Kiss Them Goodbye

by Stella Cameron

  Rather than shake Homer’s hand, Barker, as his nameplate announced, stuck his right thumb in his belt. “Where is he?”

  Homer felt Ozaire’s excitement. Maybe he’d hit him anyway. Even if the satisfaction was short-lived, it would be worth it.

  “Where—”

  “Workin’.” Homer cut Barker off. “Job’s never done for a small-town deputy with one assistant. Call the office. There’s always someone on the switchboard.”

  “This is personal.”

  “Oh, you’re friends.” Homer could handle a little thin ice.

  “Personal,” Barker said. “Between him and another jurisdiction. They want him in for questioning and there’s a pissed-off detective who isn’t takin’ much more from him. If you know where he is—and we both know you do—you’ll do both of you a favor by giving me the information.”

  Homer shook his head and caught Ozaire’s eye. Give the man his due, he was loyal enough and managed to look confused and out of it for Barker’s benefit.

  “You won’t tell me where he is?” Barker said, creaking louder. Everything from the leather strap across his body to his belt, holster, boots and probably things Homer hadn’t thought about, creaked as if the man was expanding inside his clothes.

  “I don’t know where that boy is,” Homer said, trying a smile. “If you got kids you know you can’t keep track of ’em even when they’re young. How am I supposed to figure out where a grown son is? He’s a busy man, I tell you. I’d help you, but I can’t.” He couldn’t on account of he wouldn’t.

  Barker shifted very slowly but Homer braced himself to look down the barrel of a gun. The motorcycle cop pulled on his gauntlets. “You better hope I don’t find out you’re deliberately holding back information.” He turned for the door.

  “You’ll need your receipt,” Homer said, holding it out.

  Barker took it from him gently enough to send a dart of cold up Homer’s back. Damn that kid of his anyway.

  With Ozaire at his elbow, Homer watched while the cop filled his cycle then went through his little rituals of checking this and that, hitching this and that and, finally, kicking off the stand.

  “Reminds me of a few of them baseball players at the plate,” Ozaire said. “Spit three times, hitch your jock, kick the dirt twice, hitch the jock again and cross yourself.”

  Homer smiled at that.

  “Look,” Ozaire said. “I know you think I’m only out for myself, but it ain’t true. We gotta stick together, us natives. We gotta look out for one another. You still gonna argue Spike’s not in any trouble? That boy may be white as driven snow, but someone’s out to get him.”

  Like that was news? “Spike can handle himself.”

  “But he could be set up,” Ozaire said, his face all puckered. “That might get worked out in the end but it’s gonna take time. I reckon that Errol Bonine—he’s a detective Spike worked with in—”

  “I know who Errol Bonine is.” Homer didn’t add, crooked cop taking graft to look the other way.

  “Yeah, well, there’s no love lost between those two and word has it Bonine thinks Spike’s interferin’ in the Rosebank case on account of he’s having a thing with the Patin girl. But it’s more than that. Bonine’s workin’ on provin’ she killed the lawyer and Spike’s tryin’ to help her cover.”

  Homer finished wrapping a batch of pastrami sandwiches and stacked them in a refrigerated case before saying, “That’s the second time you told me more or less the same thing.”

  “I could help you out, Homer. You not so young anymore.”

  “You, neither.” Homer wondered how many others around Toussaint had heard Ozaire and Lil Dupre’s speculations about Spike and the Patin girl. Just about everyone in town he’d guess.

  “I’m strong, me,” Ozaire said. “Constitution of an ox, Dr. Reb say. You and me could make a team, my friend. I’d put some money into this place. I got money, me. That’s between you and me. Suits my purpose to have folks think I’m poor. You gonna need help. I feel it in my bones.”

  Homer slammed the case shut, washed his hands, reached for his hat—taking his time over every move. “Gotta check around the place. I’ll be lockin’ the store while I do it.”

  “Time like this, you shouldn’t be out there on your own,” Ozaire said promptly and fell in with Homer on his evening rounds.

  Strolling, Homer looked at the pumps, then slid open the doors to the garage.

  “You don’t do no repair work out here anymore,” Ozaire remarked.

  “Never have since we’ve had the place. If someone’s in trouble we give ’em a tow to the repair shop in town.” He was wishing he’d had his wits about him enough to stay out of the garage while Ozaire was around.

  Too late.

  Spike’s truck with the boiler and the big barbecues for catering backyard parties, took up a good portion of the space and Homer could imagine his son’s reaction if he could see Ozaire openly sizing up the rig.

  “I gotta admit it’s nice,” Ozaire said. “Nothin’ but the best quality.”

  “Spike doesn’t mess around when it comes to business.”

  “No, he only messes around—” Ozaire laughed his neighing laugh and slapped his knees. He shook with mirth at his own wit and pointed a finger at Homer. “You know. The other kind of messin’ around.”

  “You got any particular point to make before you go?” Homer asked.

  “I told you what I heard about Spike for your own good,” Ozaire said, sobering. “You gotta make plans for the future and since he’s not around much now—it’s not too soon to get on with it. I got me plenty of help with the boilin’. Man can’t do everythin’ himself.”

  Homer pretended he didn’t get Ozaire’s drift.

  “Wouldn’t be no trouble for me to take on your rig, too. I be more’n fair with splittin’ the profits. O’course, you’d deal with maintenance and gas. Only other thing you’d need to do is give me your contact list to work off.”

  Maybe he should get himself a pair of those bug-eyed police specs, Homer thought. Might camouflage whatever made him look like a fool to folks like Ozaire Dupre.

  “How come you work at the church?” Homer said. “Man of your means and business expertise don’t need to mow between tombs.”

  “Contacts,” Ozaire said, sobering. “People trust you when you’re with the Church. And I meet everyone coming and going.”

  Settling his hat low on his forehead, Homer raised his head to look at Ozaire from under the brim. “If you’re patient, I can see them new babies comin’ into the world, growin’ up and maybe thinkin’ you’re okay. But I should think the revenue from the ones goin’ the other way would be about as high as anythin’ you’ll ever make trickin’ us out of part of our business.”

  Chapter 17

  “I’ve tried to talk him out of it,” Charlotte Patin said, “but Gary insists he wants to stay here nights and commute to New Orleans.”

  Gary Legrain and Charlotte stood side by side in Guy Patin’s office where they’d been going through drawers. A lamp with a monkey balanced on a pineapple for a base rested at the very edge of the desk top to give more light.

  Several of the bookcases were hinged and could be opened to reveal concealed filing cabinets and cupboards. The spaces stood open.

  “You’re a nice man,” Vivian said. “But you don’t have to do that. We’ll be fine.” And despite the tension between them she still had Spike to do anything that needed to be done in the way of security around here.

  Cyrus and Madge remained just inside the office door, each of them behaving as if they weren’t taking any interest in the conversation.

  “I’ve refused to be denied,” Gary said, his gray eyes smiling. He had a way of looking at her for a little too long and with too much interest. “So I’ll be stickin’ around. But I promise I won’t get underfoot. It’s for my peace of mind, Vivian. And I owe it to poor Louis who would have done the same thing in my place.” He indicated the desk with its open
drawers. “This is probably a useless exercise, but we’re starting to go through every piece of paper we can find to see if there’s anythin’ here about the additional inheritance Louis spoke of. He was excited, you know. Said you weren’t goin’ to have to worry anymore.”

  Vivian spread a hand over the front of her neck. She smiled but felt again the terrible disappointment that came with Louis’s death and the disappearance of whatever he’d intended to show them. Guilt plagued her. She should only think about the tragedy of Louis’s death and the urgency to find Gil.

  She, Madge and Cyrus, and Boa, who shot away into the house the moment the door was open, had arrived on the estate more than half an hour earlier. Spike expected to catch up with them unless the ice plant complaint turned into a bigger mess than expected.

  Again an officer manned the main gates to the estate and yellow crime scene tape decorated both sides of the driveway. The grounds were overrun by deputies from the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department and volunteers who were searching through the undergrowth.

  Detective Frank Wiley had seen them and reported that the search for Gil Mayes had widened but brought no leads. He’d warned them to be ready for more questions.

  At least Louis’s car had been removed.

  “That lovely green and gold room in the east wing, the one with its own sitting room and bathroom, should do nicely for Gary,” Charlotte said. “It’s a bit shabby-opulent but comfortable, and the plumbing works.”

  Charlotte’s relaxed manner relieved Vivian, but even though she liked Gary, she didn’t want him to stay—not when she wasn’t sure how Spike would take it.

  Spike and his opinions mattered to her, maybe too much.

  “It’s a lovely suite of rooms,” she said. “But you don’t need to stay here, Gary. We’re fine.”

  He looked down at her from his considerable height. A good-looking, intelligent face. “I know you’re fine,” he said evenly. “I just wanted to keep an eye on you. But I understand if you’d rather not have a stranger hanging around. All you have to do is call the offices in the Quarter and I can be down here in a couple of hours.”

  ”Vivian.” Truly, there were times when Charlotte didn’t understand her daughter or her manners. “I’ve already thanked Gary for being so kind and I, for one, will be hurt and disappointed if he doesn’t stay.”

  Gary looked uncomfortable.

  Without meeting her mother’s eyes, Vivian said, “Forgive me, Gary. I have this thing about not putting people out. We need you here so I hope you’ll stay.”

  “And you will, won’t you?” Charlotte said, smiling at Gary and nodding.

  Gary considered before saying, “Yes, I will. All of this is going to come clear. It’s early days but when the case is personal, the waiting is harder. Tomorrow I’m going to assign a member of our staff to search David Patin’s files, and see if your husband may have had any dealings with Louis that we’re not aware of, Charlotte.” He looked apologetic. “That’s unlikely but we can’t assume anything in a situation like this.” He indicated three triple file cabinets revealed by the open bookcases. “Those are going to take time. Supposedly they’re filled with research for a book Mr. Patin was writing but who’s to say there’s nothing of interest there?”

  Alone with Vivian, Cyrus thought about what he wanted to tell her. She was the one most likely to keep ego out of giving him an honest reaction.

  “Madge will get a look at more of the house,” Vivian said. Charlotte had invited Madge along when she took Gary to the east wing. “Has she ever been married?”

  “No,” Cyrus said. He shouldn’t feel any reaction at all to that question, but he did. One day the answer would change and he’d react to that, too.

  “Why does she live in Rayne? Wouldn’t it be easier if she was closer to St. Cécil’s? She could…no, I don’t suppose it would be a good idea for her to live at the rectory even though there’s so much room. They say you shouldn’t live where you work.” She turned the corners of her mouth down. “Oops, you live where you work.”

  “That’s different,” he told her. The subject had to be changed. “I don’t know how much time we’ve got but I wanted to run a couple of things by you. Has Spike said anything about actual findings at the scene of Louis’s death? Anything about the body?”

  “Nothing,” Vivian said. “I don’t know if he has any way of finding those things out.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Spike had ways of doing a lot of things we’d never even guess at.” Spike had been in law enforcement in the area for some years. He must have contacts. “Did you think Louis had put up a fight?”

  It was a warm night but Vivian shivered. “Well, I don’t guess so. I hadn’t thought about it. No. It was like he sat there, the person opened the door and cut his throat then Louis fell sideways.”

  “The killer was left-handed,” Cyrus said. There were plenty of pros looking at the case and they’d say they didn’t need him to move a single gray cell on the issue, but he sometimes wondered if those people got jaded and stopped noticing things, or caring as much.

  “You saw the body?” Vivian picked up a brass monkey paperweight from the desk. “I guess you must have. I can see it when I close my eyes. Sometimes it wakes me up.”

  “They let me go to him when I was on my way out. I told them I didn’t know if he’d have wanted a blessing but it couldn’t do any harm. That’s when I figured Louis didn’t put up a fight. Nothing. I didn’t even see any wounds on his hands like he’d gone after the knife.”

  Three deliberately separated taps on the open door announced Spike’s arrival. He’d rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt almost to his waist. Weariness hovered on his face. “You missed your calling,” he said to Cyrus. “Criminal investigation needs you. Did you figure out a reason why Louis didn’t fight?”

  “Because the killer had a gun on him,” Cyrus and Spike said in unison. Cyrus smiled and continued, “From the way it looked, with Louis’s face pointing up, and the wound deepest on the right side of his neck and fading away just past the windpipe, I’d say the gun was in the man’s right hand and shoved into Louis while his throat was cut.”

  Spike nodded and looked grim. “That’s my take, too.”

  “I was asking Vivian if you’d heard anything from the Iberia people.”

  Spike gave a lopsided mirthless smile. “They wouldn’t comment if a truck was about to hit me. I take that back. They’d probably keep me too distracted to notice the truck. Bonine should be here, lazy bastard. He’s doing his usual number, not putting himself out anymore than he has to.”

  “Why can’t they find Gil?” Vivian said, even though she didn’t expect an answer. “Where would he go without his car? Do they think he’s been murdered, too? They do, don’t they?”

  Spike stretched a hand toward her and, after a brief glance at Cyrus, Vivian took hold of that big, warm, workworn hand and felt comforted.

  He pulled her beside him and her eyes were on a level with his collarbones, with the toned muscle in his tanned chest. A little flip, a little tensing hit low in Vivian’s tummy and she looked at the floor.

  Spike squeezed Vivian’s fingers and he said, “At any other time I’d be thinkin’ Gil just walked off for some personal reason. But we’ve had one murder here, so jumping to conclusions about Gil is human nature.”

  “Louis’s body was left in his car,” she said, looking up at him, at the beard shadow on his jaw. A red mark, turning purple, hid just beneath his chin. Dried blood clung to a cut behind his ear. “What happened to you? Spike, you’re cut and there’s a bruise.”

  “Ice plant,” he said, rolling his eyes at Cyrus. “Those guys were really going at it. Everyone blaming everyone else. Poor Zeb Dalcour, he’s still the manager out there, he’s tearin’ his hair out. I ended up not charging anyone because I couldn’t even find out how much was supposed to be missing. They didn’t know, they just thought there’d been a theft.”

  “Please God they w
ere mistaken,” Cyrus said, smiling a little.

  “But one of them hit you,” Vivian said, outraged. “Tell me who it was and I’ll go say what I think about it. Worm.”

  “The worm was me,” Spike said. He grimaced and ran a hand around his neck. “I slipped and fell—hit myself on a pillar. Wow, did I feel dumb.”

  “Oh,” Vivian said, trying to frown and look sympathetic.

  “Go ahead and laugh,” Spike told her. “Cruel woman. But back to the topic on the table. I think Louis was left in his car because that’s where he was killed and he was a big man—not so easy to move. Speculatin’ about Gil doesn’t feel so hot but it wouldn’t be hard to lift him and take him away altogether.”

  “Is Spike your real name?” Vivian asked and felt ridiculous.

  He didn’t rush to answer.

  “Forget I asked,” she said. “The thought just popped into my head. It’s none of my business. Maybe you’re into sharp implements.”

  “Vivian!” Cyrus said.

  “Sorry. Again. I was just trying to loosen things up.”

  “Saul Paul Ike,” Spike said. “After my father’s father and my mother’s father and someone or other’s favorite statesman. You can call me Spike.”

  Vivian caught Cyrus’s innocent expression and wanted to giggle. She didn’t. “I like the name Saul. It’s very strong. Paul, too—sort of a feeling name. I wouldn’t think anyone would need to know about the Ike.” She cleared her throat and rushed on, “But Ike is distinguished. You don’t meet too many Ikes, do you, Cyrus?”

  “A teacher read off the whole name in the classroom one time,” Spike said, gruff. “I was stuck with the teasin’ till I got bigger and meaner than a lot of guys in school. Bye-bye, Ike, hello, Spike. Now, end of subject.”

  “I still think it’s really unusual…” Vivian patted a pocket in her dress until she found a tissue. “Louis’s car was kind of wedged in. Do you think someone guided him there like that?”

  “Yes,” Spike said. “Put the pots of laurel where the vehicle was found, then closed the driveway side off with more laurel afterward. Too bad they don’t have usable tire tracks because of all the rain. Not even the ones from Louis’s vehicle—if that mattered but it doesn’t really. I wanted to ask how far they’ve looked for signs that another car was parked somewhere. Whoever did this had to drive in.”