by DJ Donaldson
“Teddy warned you it probably wouldn’t work,” Olivia said.
“Teddy LaBiche?” Kit said.
“Yes, do you know him?”
“I met him coming in.”
“He’s a nice boy, isn’t he?”
Already fond of Olivia, Kit was heartened by her good opinion of Teddy and the fact that no probing had been required to discover it.
“But such a peculiar occupation,” Olivia said. “Still, if it wasn’t for people like him, we wouldn’t have all those nice shoes and bags, would we? Well, let’s go inside where it’s comfortable.”
“Oh, I brought you something.” Kit returned to the car and got the champagne.
“Happy anniversary, with Dr. Broussard’s compliments,” she said, handing the bottle to Olivia. “When exactly is the big day?”
“Tomorrow,” Olivia said, going inside as Claude held the door.
Kit was relieved at her answer. From the way they both were dressed, she had feared that it might be today, a circumstance that would have made it very awkward to leave them for Teddy. “How will you be celebrating?”
“Quietly,” Claude said.
“We don’t go out much,” Olivia added.
The entry hall took Kit’s breath away, especially the stairs, which swept down from two sides to unite in one wide expanse of turned balusters and plush carpet. For a moment, Kit almost could see Scarlett pausing halfway down, her hand on the rail, her eyes searching the throng of partygoers below for Ashley. Olivia led them into a parlor, where she tugged on a braided cord beside a mantel whose glistening finish reflected off intricately carved garlands of flowers and berries.
So quickly that he must have anticipated her, Martin appeared in the doorway. About the same age as the Duhons, he was a large man with prominent ears and a simple, open face. His dark suit had been with him a long time and needed pressing.
“Yes Mrs.?”
Olivia gave him the champagne. “Please see that this is served with dinner. Right now, we’d like some iced tea.”
Olivia looked at Kit. “With or without sugar?”
“Without please.”
“And when you have a moment, would you get Dr. Franklyn’s suitcase and put it in the blue room?”
Kit reached in her pocket for her keys. “You’ll need these.”
Martin left the room and Kit turned to Olivia. “Your home is magnificent.”
“It was built by my great-grandfather,” Olivia said. “He made his fortune in lumber. The house has never been out of the family.”
Aside from the natural aging process, Kit thought she saw the effects of strain and worry on Olivia’s face. As she was given a tour of the house, Kit believed she detected the cause of this concern. The furniture was all elegant, but the flow of its placement was wrong, like a suicide case that didn’t quite hang together. When she saw a rectangle of wallpaper that was faintly brighter than the rest, she understood. The Duhons were in financial trouble. The furniture flow was wrong because they had been selling it off piece by piece. The lighter wallpaper used to be under a painting that might this very minute be hanging in a gallery on Royal Street. Feeling like a participant in ill-intended gossip, she averted her eyes from the wallpaper and complimented Olivia on the drapes.
The last stop on the tour was Kit’s bedroom, a palatial space with plush blue carpet, a marble fireplace, and a Prudent Mallard canopy bed, typical right down to the carved egg on the headboard. After a long, cool shower, she joined the Duhons in the dining room for a meal of Cornish game hens, wild rice, and a sparse amount of conversation—most of that from Claude, who didn’t seem interested in anything but oil: what the price used to be, what it was now, and what it was likely to be by the first of the year. Kit thought she did a good job of appearing interested, but she was actually considering the various ways she might tell them she had a date.
After dinner, when they went into the parlor for coffee, she still hadn’t broached the subject.
“Refill?” Olivia asked, the china coffeepot poised for pouring.
Wanting to appear appreciative of Olivia’s attention, Kit held out her cup even though she didn’t particularly want any more. When it was half full, there was a long roll of thunder directly over the house. Olivia jumped at the sound and the coffeepot slipped from her hand. It crashed into Kit’s cup and both cup and pot fell to the floor, shattering when they hit. Olivia’s hands flew to her face and she began to cry.
Claude jumped to his feet and tugged on the braided cord by the fireplace. He went to Olivia and put his arm around her shoulder. “It’s all right, dear. There’s been no harm done. Dr. Franklyn didn’t even get her clothing soiled. And here’s Martin to set things right.”
While Martin picked up the broken china, Claude patted Olivia’s hand and cooed into her ear—but to no avail, because she just couldn’t seem to get control of herself. Finally, Claude led her from the room, reappearing a few minutes later alone.
“It was the thunder,” he explained. “It reminds her of…” He pointed to a picture mounted in a shadow box on the wall beside the fireplace. Also in the box was a medal and a little explanatory note. “Our son. Killed in a helicopter crash in Vietnam. That’s the medal they gave him for bravery in the face of fire. He carried his wounded platoon leader through a mile of VC-infested jungle to get to an air rescue site, but the pilot was hit on takeoff and they crashed, killing everyone on board. I always assumed Olivia would eventually get over it, but now I don’t know. It’s been so long. Sometimes thunder doesn’t bother her, other times… well you saw for yourself. The sound makes her see the crash… the explosion. She’ll be fine in the morning. But I’m afraid we’ll have to do without her the rest of the evening. It’s a sorry way to treat a guest I know, but…”
“Actually, Teddy LaBiche asked me to go to a dance with him but I…”
Claude’s grave expression brightened. “By all means, you must go. Then perhaps you’ll have pleasant memories of your visit rather than unpleasant ones.”
“I don’t want to be…”
“Go. Go. It’ll make me happy.”
Kit looked at her watch—8:30. “We thought we might leave around ten—”
“No need to wait that long on my account.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Maybe if I called him…”
Teddy arrived in his red pickup shortly after Kit made the call. He was dressed about the same as earlier in the day, but without the mud and duckweed. It was the first time since she was a kid that Kit had gone on a date in a truck. But he did open the door for her.
“Why the change in plans?” Teddy asked, climbing into the driver’s seat. The cologne Kit had smelled when they first met filled the cab with a light spicy aroma.
“Olivia wasn’t feeling well and Claude thought I’d enjoy myself more if I went out.”
“And so you shall.”
“What does Claude do… for a living I mean.”
“Oil.”
“That explains his conversation at dinner.”
“One-dimensional was he?”
“Sort of.”
“If he’d given you a chance to talk about what you do, what would you have said?”
“As little as possible, I suppose. It doesn’t make very good dinner conversation.”
“Intriguing. Go on.”
“I’m primarily a suicide investigator for the medical examiner in New Orleans. I do psychological profiles of all decedents when there’s some question as to whether the death was accidental, a suicide, or murder. Sometimes I get loaned to the police as a psychology consultant on murder cases and I help develop a profile of the perpetrator.”
“You know how many conversations you can have in this part of the country and never hear someone say perpetrator?”
“Which reminds me. When I walk into this dance, is the music and all conversation going to stop while everyone turns slowly toward the doorway?”
“Feeling out of place?”
“Like I’m in another country. By the way, what the devil is boudin?”
“It’s pronounced boodanh. It’s a sausage mixed with rice. There’s an old saying around here that a seven-course meal to a Cajun is a six-pack of beer and a pound of boudin.”
“They say that about themselves?”
“We say it. LaBiche, remember? Sure, Cajuns are open, fun-loving folks with no hang-ups. You’ll see.”
“Who was that with you today on the road?”
“Carl Fitch. Been with me since I started in gators five years ago.”
“Partner or employee?”
“Employee; why?”
“As unhappy as he was about you talking to me, I thought he might be the boss.”
Teddy laughed, a gentle sound that wrapped around Kit like a soft blanket. “I honestly think he does believe he’s in charge.” Teddy’s grin faded. “But I’ve got to get rid of him. He’s started drinking on the job again and the other day he fell down in one of the pits. You just can’t be doing that. With some exceptions, a wild gator won’t attack people. But you take a farm-raised gator or one that’s been in captivity awhile, anything falls in the pit, they think it’s food. Carl won’t carry a gun even though I’ve warned him dozens of times to do it. And when he cleans the pits, he lets them get behind him.”
Lets them get behind him. Until that moment, Kit had been carrying a sanitized version of alligator farming in her head, imagining that it was all mechanized, with no real danger. Apparently, she was wrong.
“One day, I’m going to walk in and find nothing left of Carl but his boots.”
“I had no idea of the risks involved,” Kit said.
Teddy stiffened against the floorboard and pulled a tiny pistol from his pocket. “I never go anywhere without this,” he said. “Fires twenty-two longs that’ll make short work of a gator. I make it a habit to put it in whatever pants I’m wearing, even if I’m not planning to go in the pits. That way when I do, I won’t be caught without it. Sometimes, though, even that won’t help.”
“For instance.”
“Friend of mine who’s got a lot of breeders lost an arm collecting eggs. The way it’s done, you approach the nest and when the female comes at you, you work her with the pole the way you saw us do with that gator beside the road. Then when she wears herself out, you get the nest. Well, he went after this one nest and the female charged him just like he expected. Except the nest he was after wasn’t hers. Hers was behind him and he hadn’t seen that one. Well, he works her with the pole until she can’t move, then he reaches for the nest he thinks is hers. The female for that nest was just under the water a few feet away. She’s got her tail all curled up under her like a coiled spring. When they get their tail coiled like that, they can launch themselves almost their full length, which she did and got him across the elbow. One good twist and she tore off his arm.”
Kit shuddered. “So did he give up alligator farming?”
Teddy looked at her perplexed. “Why would he want to do that?”
A few miles farther on, Teddy turned into a grassy field full of cars and trucks beside a whitewashed clapboard building that didn’t look like anything special. He parked next to a van with a beach scene painted on the side and hung his hat on the pickup’s rearview mirror.
Leaving the parking area on foot, they picked their way between rutted tire tracks of matted grass and mud until they came to a large puddle that stretched from the bumpers on one side to those on the other. While Kit was looking for a way across, Teddy swept her up in his arms.
Before she could stop herself, she slapped him.
Horrified at what she’d done, her hand went to her own cheek, which felt as hot as though she had been the one slapped. “Oh Teddy… I’m so sorry…. It was a reflex. I really didn’t mean to do that.”
“Then you don’t want to be put down?”
She did and she didn’t. The part of her that had slapped him felt violated. To snatch someone off their feet like that, make them helpless and dependent without warning, it was unforgivable. Not an act of chivalry at all but a chauvinist reminder of which sex ran things. But it was the part of her that had memorized all the dialogue in the last five minutes of Casablanca that said, “The other side of the puddle will do.”
After Teddy paid the two-dollar cover charge, which was collected at the door by an old lady in an old-lady dress, Kit found herself in a dark, low-ceilinged room packed with people. Around her, couples were doing strange steps with so much fervor, she could feel the floor vibrating. Considering all the straw hats in the room, Teddy needn’t have left his behind. Of course, with all their feathers, these were probably dancing hats.
To her right, on a low plywood riser, the lead singer in a small band was wailing an upbeat Cajun song with no discernible melody into a sound system that couldn’t possibly have been set any louder. Near the far wall, people stood three deep at a long wooden bar. On her left, those not dancing were seated at rows of picnic tables covered with checkered tablecloths. Scattered around the room, on little platforms hanging from the low beams, electric fans made sure everyone got their fair share of cigarette smoke and beer fumes.
Teddy guided her through the dancers to a pair of empty seats. Judging from the reception they got from the other couples at the table, Teddy was a regular. Despite music so loud that conversation was nearly impossible, everyone wanted to introduce themselves. She met the Thibodeauxes, the Fontenots, the Theriots, and the Delahoussayes.
Now Kit saw what Teddy had meant when he said it wouldn’t matter what she wore. It was a most unusual mixture of people: octogenarians, twenty-year-olds, men in ties, men in polyester jumpsuits, women dressed to go out, and women dressed to stay home. There seemed to be no age or class distinction at all observed by those present. In the space of three dances, a wiry little lothario in denim coveralls and knee-high rubber boots worked his way through an attractive young brunette in a pink sunsuit, a fat woman in a tight red dress with a big sash at the waist, and a thin woman old enough to be his grandmother.
We shouldn’t let them have all the fun,” Teddy said, standing up. “Come on.” He took Kit’s hand and pulled her toward the dance floor.
“I don’t know how to…”
“I’ll teach you.”
Teddy was a good instructor and Kit was soon giving a fair approximation of what he was showing her. After a couple of dances, the band took a break and Kit and Teddy went back to their table.
Scanning the crowd, Kit saw a striking blonde coming their way. Tanned and smooth as a mink, she was wearing a tight black miniskirt that showed off her long legs, and a sleeveless white pullover that fit tightly enough for Kit to see with some satisfaction that she was small-breasted. Teddy was watching her, too.
“Bonjour, Teddy,” the girl said, letting her hand rest on Teddy’s shoulder.
“Hello, Maria. Enjoying the dance?”
The girl replied in rapid-fire French, in which Kit caught the phrase L’Americaine as the girl gave her one of those looks she’d been expecting from everyone else there.
“Maria, this is Kit Franklyn, Kit… Maria St. Julien.”
As Teddy introduced them, he gestured at Kit with his left hand. Ignoring Kit, Maria’s eyes went to Teddy’s hand and her expression progressed from mild annoyance to anger. Without taking a breath, she began to give him a verbal shellacking.
Teddy put his hand over hers where it rested on his shoulder. “Maria, as terrible as it sounds, the truth is, I lost it.”
Maria pulled away as though burned by his touch, and uttered two sharp words. Both hands went to her hips and she lit into him again. Finishing with a stamp of her foot, she flipped her hair and stormed away.
“Sounds like you’re in trouble,” Kit said.
“She’s upset because I lost the bracelet she gave me for my birthday. Understandable reaction. Not like me to be so careless. She’s not a girlfriend or anything. We’re j
ust regular friends.”
“Doesn’t she speak English?”
“As well as I do. She just wanted you to feel left out.”
“I guess ‘L’Americaine’ was me.”
“That’s what Cajuns call anybody that doesn’t speak French, even if they were born here.”
Kit couldn’t remember when a tiff between two people had made her feel so good.
The evening ended before Kit was ready. All too soon, she found herself at Oakliegh’s front door, which Teddy opened with the key Claude had given her.
“This was fun,” Kit said.
“I’m glad,” Teddy replied, taking her hand and pressing the key into her palm. “I’d like to see you again.”
“Me, too, but how?”
“No problem. New Orleans is only two hours away and I’m there all the time. In fact, I just got back this morning from taking a load of skins to the auction house on Dryads. Is your name in the book?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you next time I’m in town.”
“Do that.”
As Teddy was getting in the truck, Kit said, “Don’t let ’em get behind you.”
Teddy waved and Kit watched the truck until it turned onto the road out front
CHAPTER 4
While Kit slept soundly in the Duhons’ canopy bed, Deke Barnes was standing under a balcony on Bourbon Street, his fingers plucking out the first bars of “Dueling Banjos” on a guitar he’d bought from a guy that said it once belonged to Les Paul.
Deke finished his part and the old man responded on his harmonica. The old man didn’t have a name, or at least Deke didn’t know what it was. Nobody on the street did, either. He was just the “old man.” If you wanted to find him, you could just ask a regular where the old man was, and they’d know who you were talking about. The old man finished his part and waited for Deke to come in.
