Secrets, Lies, and Crawfish Pies

by Abby L. Vandiver

  Chapter Thirty

  I waited until the next day to bring the paint into the house and had to lug it up to my bedroom all by myself. Where were Rhett or Catfish when you needed them? I did check out the kitchen, but there was no sight of them. J.R. was always by my side, though, although he wasn’t any help with getting those paint cans up steps.

  Speaking with Josephine Gail with her sidekick, Suzanne Babet Derbinay present, had worn me out. I had gone straight to bed afterward.

  After spending another night within my bare-walled room, the anticipation of redecorating had lifted my spirits tremendously. I had spent the morning picking up new linen, pictures for the wall, and ordering furniture for the sitting room. I got back to the house and went straight to my bedroom. I was ready to paint.

  I stripped out of my going-out clothes, swapping them out for a pair of jeans and an over-sized shirt I’d found in Auntie’s clothes closet from the inventory she kept for her clients. I pulled off my shoes and decided to stay barefoot. My southern habits were seeping back in one at a time.

  I stood in the middle of the room, my hands resting on my hips and stared at the walls. The job was going to take longer than I thought. I had bought primer because I wasn’t sure if those lavender walls could be fully covered by the Behr White Mocha I’d chosen. It was white, much to my auntie’s chagrin, but not stark. It had a soothing brown undertone. Crisp and calming.

  “Hello,” came with a knock on my bedroom door.

  I turned to find Rhett.

  “I heard you were painting your room,” he said.

  “You heard right,” I said.

  “You want some help?” he asked.

  I chuckled. “Would have been nice to have some when I lugged all this stuff up.” I pointed to the paint cans, plastic tarp, brushes, and paint trays.

  “I’ve got you some help downstairs.”

  My eyes questioned him. “Painters?”

  “Unless you want to tackle this all by yourself?” He waved his hand around the room.

  “How did anyone know I was painting today?” I said. “Oh wait,” I said. “Auntie Zanne.”

  “She just doesn’t want you smearing paint all over that pretty face.”

  “Yeah. Right,” I said. “And people volunteered? Or is it just you she wrangled into helping me?”

  “No. I said painters. With an ‘s.’ Plural,” he said. “They’re all downstairs.”

  “That’s not helping me any,” I said. “The room I want painted is up here.”

  “Babet was feeding them. C’mon down. You’ll see,” he said. He tilted his head and poked out his lips. “S’il vous plaît?”

  “That might work on Auntie Zanne,” I said. “But it doesn’t work with me.”

  “What?”

  “That pitiful look.” I wiggled a finger at his face. “And,” I shook my head, “speaking French.”

  “Your Auntie Zanne told me that you love French.”

  “I do,” I said. “But it’s like you’re using it to impress me.”

  “Ha! I don’t think that I can impress you,” he said. “You don’t seem to like anything I do. And I speak French because I love the language. It would be nice to have someone to speak it with.”

  “You’re not French.”

  “Did you think I didn’t know that?”

  “No. I didn’t think that.”

  “I studied it. In school,” he said. “And then for my job.”

  “And what job is that?” I asked. “Your secret one?”

  “You don’t give up, do you?” he said. “I told you, it’s not a job I’m doing any more.” He shook his head. “At least for now.”

  “For now?”

  “Do you want to meet your painters or not?” he asked.

  “Why are you so evasive when it comes to Houston and your job?” I asked. “It’s like you don’t want to tell me what it is you did.”

  He stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. He swallowed before he spoke. He seemed to try and arrange his words carefully. “It’s just I don’t like to talk about it much.” he said.

  “Well, if you didn’t want it talked about it, you shouldn’t have ever told my Auntie Zanne.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I see. What did she tell you that keeps you so interested in it?”

  “Yep.” I gave a firm nod. “She spilled the beans. Ex-FBI. Possibly even a certified spy. That’s the part that intrigued me.”

  “Certified?” he said and chuckled. “No such thing.”

  “Tell her that.”

  “So,” he clapped his hands together, changing the subject, “do you want to meet your help or not.”

  I took the hint. I twisted from side-to-side, and let my eyes scan the room, taking in the space. “Lead the way,” I said.

  We went down to the kitchen and it was full of people sitting around the table. J.R. didn’t seem to like the crowd. He gave out a bark and went over to his corner.

  Auntie Zanne was in her usual spot standing at the stove and stirring in a pot.

  “Hi Romie,” Catfish said. He sat at the head of the table with Spoon and Gus, the other members of Rhett’s zydeco band. And then there was Floneva. She was sitting in a chair pushed up by the wall, a grin on her face.

  “Hi Catfish,” I said and looked around the room. I stuck my hands in my jeans pocket. “Gus. Spoon.” I nodded my hello. “Floneva. Catfish, what are you doing here?”

  “He’s part of your help,” Rhett said.

  “And a member of our zydeco band,” Auntie Zanne said.

  “Catfish,” I said, surprised by him being there. “You’re in the band?”

  “Yep,” he said and blushed.

  “And what instrument do you play?” I asked. I’d never known him to be play anything.

  “He plays the frottoir,” Rhett said.

  Leave it to him to use the French word.

  “I didn’t know you played the washboard,” I said deliberately. Rhett was right, he didn’t impress me, especially with his French. “I’ve never heard you play.”

  “I just learned it,” he said and started grinning. “They needed one for the band.”

  “And I play the guitar,” Rhett said. “Not that you’ve ever asked.”

  “I was getting around to it,” I said and looked at him. “Although I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  “What? That I did something like your dad?”

  “I’m sure you don’t play anything like my daddy,” I said. “He was the best.”

  “They were practicing,” Auntie said. “Got in an early practice. Thought I’d fix them lunch.”

  “They are really good,” Floneva chirped in. “I listened in. Best music I ever heard.”

  Now I saw why she was grinning. She was over the moon with the band.

  “Then they agreed to paint your room,” Rhett said.

  “Oh really?” I said looking around the room. I wouldn’t expect anything less from Catfish. But I hardly knew the other two. “Why?” I asked. “What did you tell them Auntie?”

  “I didn’t tell them anything,” she said defensively. “And don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Sugarplum. You need the help.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  “We don’t mind,” Gus said.

  “I’ve never minded helping out Babet, or you,” Spoon said. Babet’s letting us practice here and I’ve been having a ball. Flannery said she ain’t seen me this happy since my mare gave birth to twin foals. Real nice of Babet to let us come to her home—”

  “Funeral home,” Gus interjected. I guess he felt a correction was needed.

  Spoon, Gus, and Rhett laughed. “Yes. Funeral home,” Spoon said, “for us to use as a rehearsal hall these past three months so we could whip this rag-team of country musi
cians into shape.”

  “T’wasn’t nothing,” Auntie said, putting a twang in her voice and taking a bow. “Hospitality is just one of my many gracious southern attributes.”

  I shook my head. Auntie Zanne loved being the center of attention.

  “Floneva,” I said. “You in the band, too?” She was dressed in cowboy boots, her usual tight pencil skirt and a frilly white blouse. “I thought you were new around here.”

  “Told you, I’m from Hemphill. Just up the road.”

  “She’s not in the band,” Auntie said. “She’s what you call a groupie.”

  That made Rhett and I both laugh. Floneva didn’t seem to get the joke.

  “So, I guess if the band is doing the painting that would exclude you, huh?” I said.

  Floneva pushed her glasses up on her face. “I wish I had known,” she said. “I would have been happy to help even though I’m not in the band. I’m just not dressed the part.” She gestured down at her clothes. “I just came in to see the guys.” I noticed her face went flush with that comment.

  “Can you play an instrument?” Auntie Zanne asked.

  “I thought about learning one,” Floneva said. “But to do it, my grandmother told me, you have to play the right note at the right time, and I just couldn’t seem to get those two things together.”

  “Everyone isn’t musically inclined,” Auntie Zanne said. “I’m sure you excelled at other things.”

  Floneva tilted her head back and blinked a few times. “Nope. Can’t think of nothing.”

  I shook my head. “So, you guys aren’t playing during the entire festival, are you? I asked. “That would be pretty tiring.”

  “No,” Auntie said. “Didn’t you read over that folder I gave you?”

  My eyes drifted up toward the ceiling.

  “If you had,” she said, “you would’ve have seen that a couple local radio stations are scheduled, we have a professional band that’s coming in, and a DJ.”

  “Professional?” Rhett said and chuckled. “What are we?”

  “A band of backwood players,” burly guy Gus said. “You heard Spoon. A ragtag team of musicians.”

  “Backwood players and well-fed painters,” I said. “You guys got energy to paint after eating?”

  “Sure they do,” Auntie said. “Good thing too. You couldn’t have painted that room by yourself.”

  “I was going to try,” I said.

  “You could’ve called me,” Catfish said. “I would’ve come.”

  Auntie waved her hand. “We know that, Catfish.”

  Rhett poked me, and leaned in. “Looks like you’ve got an admirer.”

  I blew out a breath and walked over to the table, ignoring Rhett’s comment. I didn’t like people saying anything about Catfish.

  “So, you guys don’t mind? I mean really?” I asked. “I know you didn’t think that you’d be roped into menial labor when you came over for your rehearsal.”

  “I’d do anything for crawfish pies,” Gus said. “I go wild for anything crawfish.”

  I laughed. “You sound just like Amelia,” I said.

  “Who?” Spoon asked.

  Auntie narrowed her eyes at me. “They are going to paint while you make pies,” Auntie Zanne said. “So, if we’re going to get it done, we need to get to it.”

  “Why would you promise them pies? I told you I wasn’t baking any,” I said. I glanced over at them. “Maybe I can just pay them?”

  “Don’t you start. You just said you were going to make them when we were in the hardware store,” Auntie Zanne said. “Don’t you remember?”

  I remembered. Amelia. Little sweet Amelia.

  “I do remember,” I said.

  “Finally! You remember something you said you were going to do,” Auntie Zanne said. “So, you make the pies, and they’ll paint.”

  “Okay, Auntie Zanne,” I said, defeated. “But I don’t know if I have everything I need.”

  “You do,” she said. “I made a list and Rhett went to the store.”

  The two of them always seemed to be in cahoots in something about me.

  “Well, before we get started,” Gus said and stood up, “I need to get a smoke.”

  “I’m with you on that,” Spoon said.

  “Smoking?” I said, louder than I intended. “That’s not good for you.” I hadn’t been around people that smoked in a long time. All of my friends in Chicago were health professionals. And those that weren’t were health nuts. Smoking hadn’t been a part of my social circle in years.

  Everyone looked at me.

  “She’s a doctor,” Auntie Zanne said as if she had to explain my comment. “People smoke, Sugarplum. Let them go do it and you get started on the pies.”

  Floneva stood up and raised one finger like she was in church. “If you fellows don’t mind, I’ll go out and take a smoke with you.” She cut an eye my way then patted the side of her chest. “Got a couple tucked away.”

  “Oh no. You too, Floneva?” I said.

  “Sorry,” she said. “But I enjoy the littler buggers.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Fine.” I put my hands up, palms out. “But, maybe I should remind you three,” I dragged my finger through the air at each of them. “Smoking kills.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “I’m going to go up and get started,” Catfish said after Gus, Spoon, and Floneva went out back to smoke.

  “You want me to go up with you?” I asked him.

  “No, I’m good,” he said. “Where’s the paint?”

  “It’s already up there,” I said. “Paint, primer, rollers, brushes, everything you need.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Rhett said. “Get started. You,” he turned to me, “can show Gus and Spoon up when they get back.”

  “Wait, before you go up, Rhett,” Auntie Zanne said. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Well, I’ll get started, too,” I said. I looked under the cabinet for the lobster pot I’d used to cook the crawfish for Aunt Julep’s étouffée. “I’m going to make enough to take tomorrow for Amelia.”

  “Who is Amelia?” Catfish asked.

  “You just go up and get started painting if you want any of Romaine’s pies,” Auntie Zanne said.

  “I’m going,” he said.

  “What do you need, Babet?” Rhett asked.

  “I wanted to let you know that Romaine and me are going to Houston tomorrow. Wanted to see if you had any instructions for us.”

  “What?” I said. I stopped what I was doing and turned to Auntie. “Don’t include me in that. I don’t need instructions on anything.”

  “Too late,” she said. “You’re already included.”

  “I did try to talk her out of trying to investigate after she told me the other night she was going to Houston,” Rhett said.

  “I just bet you did,” I said. I opened up the fridge and grabbed my vegetable trinity. I took them to the sink and rinsed them off.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “We just talked about this upstairs,” I said. “You know she told me how you told her you’d help her. Run any information she got past your friends in the FBI.”

  He held up his hands, his mouth dropping open. He looked at me then Babet.

  I just left him standing there speechless and went into the pantry to get the rest of the ingredients I needed for my pies. When I came back he hadn’t moved.

  “Auntie Zanne,” I said. “I’m going to need the stove. You have to move.”

  “Don’t be hard on Rhett,” she said, pulling her pot off and setting it on a dishcloth on the counter. She shot a glance over toward him. “He’s helping us.”

  “I’m not being hard on him,” I said. “I just said what you told me. And he’s not helping me.”

  “Don’t pay her any never m
ind,” Auntie Zanne said.

  Good. I didn’t want to get involved with him and his secret FBI stuff anyway. I grabbed a cutting board and a knife and thought about what Pogue said. She did have a knack for dragging me along with her.

  The back door swung open. “Hello,” Gus said as he, Floneva, and Spoon walked through the door.

  “You guys back?” Rhett asked.

  “Yep,” Spoon said. “All ready to paint.”

  “Okay. Good. I’ll show you guys my room,” I said.

  “They don’t need you to show them,” Auntie Zanne said. “You’re cooking. It’s just at the top of the steps. They can find it. Plus, Catfish is up there.” She looked at the three smokers. “Just call his name when you go up.”

  I knew Auntie Zanne did that because she wanted me to participate in the conversation she was having with Rhett.

  “Well, I’m sorry you can’t go,” Auntie Zanne said, picking up the conversation back where she’d left off. “It would be great to have you.”

  I cast a look at Auntie Zanne. “You know somebody put that casket with Ragland Williamson in the crematory. Someone who knew everything about this place,” I said. “Like someone that worked here.” I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe Mr. Secretive,” I pointed to Rhett, “is the one we should interrogate.”

  Rhett gestured a surrender and chuckled. “Still not ready to confess to this one. But when you get back from Houston, let me know what you found.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The further we got from Roble, the antsier Auntie Zanne got. By the time State Route 59 turned into I-69 after passing Cleveland, Texas, and she knew we were on the homestretch to Houston, I thought I was going to have to sit on her to keep her still.

  “Can’t you drive any faster, Romaine?” she asked me. “I don’t want to miss him.”

  “Miss him?” I asked. “The lawyer?”

  “Yes, the lawyer.”

  “Aren’t you worried about picking up your trophies?” I said.

  “They aren’t going anywhere.”

  “And where do you presume your Mr. Lawyer is going?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But I want to talk to him.”