Louisiana Longshot

by Jana DeLeon

  The alligator, apparently resenting the spotlight treatment, spun around in the water faster than I would have thought possible given the length of the creature and disappeared beneath the murky surface.

  “Well,” I said, not about to let him catch on to the panic that coursed through me at my near miss, “maybe I'll luck out and he'll eat the frog.”

  He shook his head. “You've got some attitude, lady. I'll give you that.”

  Suddenly, it occurred to me that I was standing next to a stream of killer-creature-infested water, in the middle of the night, barefoot and wearing my pajamas, a pink, fluffy garment that Harrison had picked out to match the luggage. But that wasn't the part that interested me. I knew why I was there, but why was Deputy Charming there?

  “So, you mind telling me exactly what you were doing hiding in the bushes?” I asked.

  “Bird watching.”

  “Bull. You think that person was murdered and someone might come here looking for more pieces.”

  “I thought it might be interesting to see if anyone turned up here after word about the bone spread around town.”

  “How can you be so sure it has?”

  He laughed. “The Sinful Ladies met tonight at seven. Likely, the entire town knew by eight.”

  “Uh-huh, and does that nice bunch of little old ladies know you're using them to flush out the guilty party?”

  “Ha. Nice bunch of little old ladies. That's a good one.” He turned his flashlight across the back lawn toward the street. “Well, since you've likely scared away any of the guilty or the innocent, stalking around in your pajamas and brandishing a shovel, I guess I'll head home.”

  I stared at his retreating figure as he crossed the yard and disappeared around the front of the house. I had no earthly idea what brand of crazy was being sold in this town, but I was going to make every effort to stay away from it.

  Right now, I was going to go back to bed, sleep in until I couldn't sleep any more, and wake up tomorrow pretending this day had never happened. I clutched the shovel with one hand and covered my yawn with the other, my body itching to crawl back on that fabulous mattress.

  Croak.

  ***

  I awakened the next morning to a repetitive dull thud coming from downstairs. I pulled the cotton balls out of my ears and realized someone was banging on the front door.

  At eight a.m.

  On a Sunday.

  Whoever was assaulting that door was lucky I hadn’t been able to travel with my guns, or brought the shovel into the house last night, but that wouldn’t stop me from improvising. If they didn’t go away quickly, I could probably find something to work with in the kitchen.

  I forced myself out of bed, trudged downstairs, and flung open the front door. A startled Gertie stumbled backward, and I grabbed her just in time to keep her from plummeting backward off the porch.

  “Should I even ask what you’re doing here this early?” I asked as I stepped back into the house and shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee. I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be fast or easy.

  “Well, it’s Sunday, of course,” Gertie said as she trailed behind me. “You’re probably just disoriented from the trip and all the excitement yesterday and forgot.”

  I filled the coffeepot with grounds and water and pressed the switch. “Sunday? Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  Gertie’s eyes widened. “Sunday’s church day, of course. I know some people think just any old day will do, but ‘progressive’ isn’t appreciated much in southern Louisiana. Unless you’re a heathen, you go to church on Sunday.”

  I opened my mouth to say I was absolutely a heathen and had no desire to attend church, here or anywhere else, but Gertie was on a roll and getting more animated by the second.

  “Word of your arrival has spread through town,” she continued, “so I knew I had to get over here early before the Catholics got to you.”

  “Sounds ominous.” I poured a cup of coffee and put it in front of Gertie, then poured another for myself. “What exactly do these Catholics do if they ‘get to you?’”

  “Invite you to their church, of course.”

  “And that would be bad?”

  “It would for me. I’m Baptist. Why, the last time I failed to get to a visitor first and get them into Sinful Baptist, the whole congregation prayed for me every night for a week—out loud. Sinful Catholic sent me a thank-you card. I don’t need that kind of embarrassment again.”

  I cringed. A whole week of praying out loud. No wonder she was desperate. “I guess it won’t kill me to attend, but do they really start this early?”

  “Service starts at nine. Used to be eleven, but everything’s changed since The Banana Pudding War.”

  “Was that anything like the Civil War?”

  “Oh, much worse,” Gertie said, completely serious. “You see, no businesses are open in Sinful on Sundays, because it’s a sin to work on the Lord’s day and all. But Francine makes the best banana pudding in the parish, so Pastor Don and Father Michael agreed to give Francine’s Café special dispensation to be open on Sundays without her having to go to hell.”

  “So the woman spends her entire Sunday cooking for everyone in town, and all she gets for it is a reprieve from hell? It sounds like she got shortchanged.”

  Gertie nodded. “You and I agree on that one. Anyway, Francine only has refrigeration for so much food, so she’s limited on how much banana pudding she can make.”

  “Let me guess—there’s not enough for everyone in town.”

  “Nope. Both churches used to start at eleven and run ’til noon, but the Catholics decided to start at ten thirty so they could get out early and ensure their banana pudding. Pastor Don retaliated by starting church at ten, and it went on that way until Mayor Fontleroy made it illegal to start church before nine o’clock or end before ten.”

  “I’m beginning to understand why this town is called Sinful. Everything is illegal.”

  “It sometimes seems that way. So you go get dressed, dear. I brought an extra purse big enough to carry your tennis shoes. We’ll change during the benediction so that we can sprint to Francine’s as soon as Pastor Don says ‘amen.’”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I didn’t have anything to do anyway. Besides, if the banana pudding was worth waging a war and giving someone a free pass on hell, it might be worth checking out. There was also the added bonus of seeing Gertie sprint. Besides, Morrow had told me to blend in with the natives. Apparently, skipping church would draw more attention than my pink luggage.

  Even given all the variables, the day had to be less complicated than the one before.

  I downed the rest of my coffee and hurried upstairs to find something suitable for God and running. The coolest, thinnest fabric I could find in my assortment of girly wear was a turquoise cotton dress with no sleeves and a skirt that sorta branched out. I figured that would allow air to pass as well as provide plenty of leg room for sprinting, although I doubted the actual need given the apparent median age of the town.

  Despite the fact that I was lean and not overly endowed, I tossed on a bra, figuring I’d burst into flames if I walked into church without one. Underwear was a given as you never knew when you might have to go into a fast drop and roll. Flashing people on Main Street was illegal most everywhere. In Sinful, it might get you the death penalty.

  I hopped into the bathroom, filled my hands with cold water and splashed it on my face. That was normally the extent of my morning routine, but before I could turn and dash out, I remembered that I was supposed to be acting like a girl. I sighed and walked back into the bedroom to retrieve the bag of makeup I’d left on the desk the night before when I’d unpacked.

  As I started to walk back into the bathroom, I saw a woman in the bathroom mirror.

  My hand swept to my hip, reaching for the weapon that wasn’t there, and a second later, I realized how fortunate that was. The woman in the mirror was me.

  I stepp
ed in front of the mirror and turned my head from side to side, watching the long blond extensions bounce across my shoulders. The high, narrow cheekbones that had made me look gaunt with a shaved head now looked exotic. The turquoise dress seemed to make my matching eyes glow, especially with the mass of blond framing it. Good Lord. I was actually pretty.

  Like Mom.

  The thought ripped through me before I could stop it. I dropped the makeup bag on the floor and clutched the bathroom counter with both hands, staring down at the sink. I hadn’t thought about her in years - hadn’t allowed myself to. Memories of my mother were the one thing that crippled me, and weakness in my line of work could get you killed.

  But I’m not working right now.

  That was true, but it didn’t mean I shouldn’t be on alert. I took a deep breath and shook my head, trying to clear the warring arguments. Gertie was waiting downstairs to take me to church. Thoughts about my mom always led to thoughts of my father. And those thoughts had no place in a church.

  I picked the makeup bag up from the floor and pulled out a pale pink lipstick, grabbed my tennis shoes, then hurried out of the room, applying the lipstick as I walked. That was as good as it was getting. I couldn’t look at that face—my mother’s face—any longer.

  “Sleeveless dresses aren’t illegal in church, are they?” I asked Gertie as I stepped into the kitchen.

  “Heavens, no. We’re devout, but we’re not barbarians. The humidity here is nothing to sneeze at.”

  Gertie handed me an enormous tapestry handbag that looked a lot like her own and I dropped tennis shoes and Tic Tacs inside. “Do I need anything else?”

  “Looks good to me. If you’re ready, let’s get going. I want to make sure we get the back pew.”

  I nodded and followed Gertie outside. I glanced around, but didn’t see a vehicle. “We’re walking?”

  “I had a bit of a fender bender,” Gertie said. “Wasn’t my fault, of course. It was a really stupid place to put a stop sign.”

  “Ah,” I said, figuring I was better off without the details.

  “Anyway, I’m supposed to get my car back this week.” Gertie looked over at me. “Marge has a Jeep, you know.”

  “Really? That’s great. I didn’t know if I’d have a vehicle while I was here.”

  Gertie nodded. “The battery’s dead because it hasn’t been used, but Walter, who owns the general store, ordered one for it last week.”

  “Cool.”

  Since Marge’s house was only two blocks from Main Street, it didn’t take long to arrive at church. I was amused to see that both churches sat on opposite sides of Main Street facing each other—like a religious standoff. I looked down the street and saw the sign for Francine’s midway down the block and on the same side as the Catholics.

  “They have a bit of a lead,” I said, “especially if we have to dodge traffic.”

  “It’s illegal to drive on Main Street when church is letting out.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course it is.”

  “And horses aren’t allowed at all on Sunday, due to the, er…mess. There was the incident with the mayor’s wife and a pair of fancy shoes she’d had shipped all the way from France.”

  I nodded. The sheriff's horse had taken care of business in my backyard the night before. You could lose an entire combat boot in that pile.

  Suddenly, I stiffened.

  I felt the woman’s gaze upon me before I located her, staring at me from across the block. She was probably Gertie's age, had silver hair, and wore a tan pants suit.

  Five foot four, one-ten, possibly born in the past century, a slight limp on the left side.

  We stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street to the Baptist church at the same time the other woman stepped off the curb to cross, presumably, to the Catholic church. As we passed in the middle of the street, she shot an amused smile at Gertie and let her handbag slip just enough from her shoulder so that we could see inside.

  Gertie sucked in a breath and the other woman’s smile broadened as she continued her march to the Catholic church.

  “Like getting to wear pants to church isn’t enough of an advantage,” Gertie said as we entered Sinful Baptist. “Celia Arceneaux’s bought the new Nike’s. We’re doomed.”

  “Don’t worry. I can take her.” Blindfolded and crawling.

  Gertie slid into the back pew and nodded. “I’ll let you take the outside seat to get a better jump. As soon as the preacher gets to the ‘A’ in ‘Amen’ on the last prayer, you make a break for it.”

  She dug in her purse and pulled out a pink bottle labeled “cough syrup.” She chugged back a good bit, then offered it to me.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m good.”

  And not likely to drink out of the same bottle as someone who’s sick. Didn’t they teach them anything in Sinful?

  I glanced around the church and realized no one else was there yet. A quick glance at my watch let me know we had quite a wait before service began. I yawned and then thought about the reason I wasn't all that rested—besides the whole church thing.

  “Hey, Gertie, something strange happened last night.”

  Gertie patted my leg. “I’m sure it seemed that way, but things in Sinful are never quite normal compared to other places.”

  “No, I mean after all that. I went out at midnight to kill a frog that was keeping me awake, and that deputy was hiding in my bushes.”

  Gertie frowned but didn’t say a word.

  “So I got to thinking, given the alligators and hunting accidents and the fact that all this is below sea level and probably floods in a good hurricane, there’re at least a hundred valid reasons for a human bone to be in that bayou. But I’ve got a deputy hiding in the bushes, and that just doesn’t say accident, flood, or four-legged predator to me.”

  “No, I guess it doesn’t.” She didn’t look the least bit happy about it.

  “To take that one thought farther, if he thinks a crime has been committed, then that means he must have some guess as to whom that bone belonged.”

  “I suppose he might,” Gertie hedged.

  I narrowed my eyes at her and summoned up my limited knowledge of biblical rules. “Are you going to continue to lie by omission? We are in church.”

  Gertie sighed. “I guess not. You’re right that plenty of accidents happen in the swamp. Usually, there’s a bit of something left behind so we know who the unlucky person was. But about five years ago, Harvey Chicoron disappeared without a trace.”

  “Did the police look for him?”

  Gertie nodded. “And a search party from town combed the swamp. Of course, Carter was still off in the Marine Corps at the time, but he would have heard all about it from his mother. Emmaline has always been a huge gossip.”

  My self-preservation radar clicked on. Marine Corps, huh? I was going to have to watch my step around Deputy Charming. He was turning out to be more complicated than he appeared. “So, what did everyone think happened to Harvey?”

  “Some thought a gator got him and dragged him under with a death roll, so there was nothing left to find. Some thought he ran off with another woman as there was a sizable sum of money transferred to an offshore account around the time he disappeared. He was always cheating on Marie, so running off with another woman wouldn’t exactly surprise anyone.”

  Gertie shook her head. “But mostly, no one cared. Harvey was the meanest, most disagreeable man in Sinful. After the initial surprise at his disappearance wore off, pretty much everyone was just happy he was gone.”

  “Even Marie?”

  “Oh, especially Marie. Her mother had been a tyrant when she was alive, and then she practically sold Marie into indentured servitude with that jackass the way she pressured her to marry him.”

  Gertie sighed. “And now I’ve gone and said ‘jackass’ in church. Five years past and that man still brings out the worst in me.”

  “I’m sure God knew he was a jackass.”

  Gertie nodded. “Th
at is a fact. Poor Marie went from living with her mother to being married to Harvey, who was even worse. After he disappeared, Marie actually had the freedom to think and act as she wanted for the first time in all sixty-nine years of her life.”

  “Sounds like it worked out well all the way around, so then why all the worry? What do you think happened to Harvey?”

  “Why, Marie killed him, of course.”

  Chapter Five

  Before I could even fire off the hundred or so questions that had flashed through my mind, the back doors to the church opened wide and a choir entered, singing. Good grief. Sitting here for an hour was probably going to add another couple hundred questions to the list.

  The first of which was exactly why did Gertie think her doormat of a friend had killed her husband? And a close second was, why didn’t that thought seem to bother her much? Even the murder of the king of jackasses should have brought a twinge of something—guilt, maybe—to a woman who insisted on being in church every Sunday.

  Gertie elbowed me in the ribs and I realized everyone was standing and singing. I sighed and rose along with the rest of the attendees. Civilians were so confusing. The CIA was made up of career agents and ex-military. Everything was structured, and emotion was forbidden during an operation, for good reason. Having a civilian-like emotional moment is exactly what had landed me in church in Sinful, Louisiana, contemplating some doormat of a wife becoming a murderer.

  CIA agents didn’t share their fears, thoughts or dreams—assuming they even had any—and they didn’t have layers to uncover. If they did, they were so well hidden, they were having a beer with D.B. Cooper. Everything at the CIA was about the work, and while the work itself might be complicated, everything surrounding it was black and white.

  Sinful, Louisiana, was so many shades of gray, I was going color-blind.

  Once the choir finished their somewhat off-key song, the preacher started talking and my mind faded away from his voice, thinking about my current situation and wondering exactly how long I’d have to stay in Banana Pudding World. Occasionally, the preacher pounded his hand on the pulpit, breaking me out of my thoughts. Finally, he finished dooming everyone to hell, and everyone rose to sing again.