by Jana DeLeon
Honor and respect wouldn’t allow me to leave a stack of military triumph rumpled on the floor in the attic, so I scooped the uniforms back into the box and picked the whole thing up, encircling the broken side with my left arm. Tomorrow, I could press all the clothes and find a more suitable container for them.
I headed back downstairs to the bedroom and set the entire box of items on the desk. One glance at my watch had me groaning. Two a.m. Only five hours left to get some sleep before my internal alarm clock went off and I started another day of bliss in Sinful. Louisiana was hell on the sleeping population. I was starting to wonder if the people living here were vampires.
I reloaded the pistol and picked up the headphones, ready to make the most of the little bit of sleeping time I had left. But before I got them on, someone started banging on my front door. What in the world was the problem now?
I stomped downstairs and flung open the door. Deputy LeBlanc stood on the front porch, looking rumpled, exhausted, and not any happier than I was.
“What now?” I asked.
“I got a call about shots fired in this area.”
“And naturally, you assumed it was me.”
“Naturally.”
I started to deny it, but as I was going to have to hire someone to repair the roof, I figured it would get out anyway. “There was something in the attic. I fired some shots at it, but it got away.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Got away how?”
“Darn thing opened the window and shimmied down the tree outside. I wasn’t aware that monkeys were native to the swamp, but then I’ll admit I don’t know much about the state.”
He sighed. “The only monkeys in this state are in a zoo or holding political office. If it opened the window, it was a raccoon. They have opposable thumbs and are very clever. They are also essentially harmless.”
“The thing attacked me! Jumped on me, then ran me over.”
“It didn’t attack you. You startled it and it scrambled to get out of the attic when you tried to kill it. The real question is, where did you get the pistol?”
Uh-oh. “Walter sold me a rifle.”
“And if that’s what you had fired, I wouldn’t have as big a problem. People here know the difference between a rifle and pistol shot. And as I personally removed all the weapons from Marge’s house after her death, I know it wasn’t readily available.”
“You removed the weapons? That’s my inheritance! What gave you the right to take it?”
“The guns are safe and sound and locked away at the sheriff’s department, but I wasn’t about to let an empty house sit around with loaded guns in it, especially when everyone in town knew they were here.”
“Okay, but what’s your excuse for keeping them now?”
“I was going to return them when you arrived, but once I met you, I had second thoughts…and thirds, and fourths. Turns out I was right as you’ve probably shot a hole in your own roof.”
I tried to come up with a good argument, but had to admit, he sorta had me on this one, which didn’t do anything at all to improve my mood.
“I’m going to assume,” he continued, “that Walter, in his misguided attempts to take care of a pretty woman, loaned you his pistol. I expect you to return it to him tomorrow or both of you will be hearing from me.”
He pulled out a pad of tickets and I felt my blood pressure rise.
“You’re writing me a ticket? Let me guess—it’s against the law to startle wild animals in your own house on Tuesdays?”
He ignored me completely and kept writing, then tore the paper off the pad and handed it to me. I looked down at it, but all it had was the name “Buddy” and a phone number.
“Buddy will fix the roof,” he said. “Make sure he’s sober when he starts or he’ll fall off and his wife will have to put up with him underfoot for the six weeks it takes that bum leg of his to heal. I’ve known Buddy my whole life, and trust me, no one deserves that aggravation.”
“Sober. Got it. And thanks.”
He nodded. “Now, please put on your headphones and go to sleep before something ends up injured or worse. At least unload that pistol until I get some backup that’s not half blind and hard of hearing. I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep since you showed up.”
He stepped off the porch and crossed the lawn to his truck.
“That makes two of us,” I yelled as he pulled away from the curb.
I looked across the street and saw curtains drop back into place. Bunch of nosy people in this town. I slammed the front door, just because I could, and heard something in the bedroom above me hit the floor with a thud. I hurried back up the stairs to find the box from the attic dumped over on the floor. I must have left it too close to the edge of the desk, and the vibration from my slamming the door like a degenerate had caused it to fall over.
Bones, who hadn’t awakened for the noise upstairs, the killing of the roof, or Deputy LeBlanc’s visit, chose that moment to start howling. I walked out of the bedroom and looked down the stairwell to see him trying to come up the stairs. He wasn’t even remotely successful, and the second time he slipped, I decided I’d better go downstairs and restrain him before I had another death on my hands.
It took two treats and the twenty minutes Bones gummed them to get the dog calmed down and back to sleep. I trudged upstairs again, thinking that I got more rest and had less drama when I was on an assassin job. I stopped short and sighed when I saw the contents of the box still scattered across the bedroom floor.
Completely over the worn-out box, the raccoon, the “borrowed” pistol, and the entire loss of another night, I started stacking the uniforms in some semblance of order on the desk. When I pulled the last one up from the floor, a set of bundled envelopes fell out and onto the floor. I picked them up, expecting to find letters from family and friends to Marge that were sent during the war, but was surprised to find the front of the envelopes blank.
I removed the heavy rubber band from the bundle and opened the flap on one of the envelopes to slip out the paper inside.
September 7, 1961
Things are dire here in the jungle, but I remain safe as long as I stay focused on the job I’m here to do. Despite the attention I give my work, I find myself thinking of you at the oddest times. Sometimes I think of the way we walk down Main Street every year for the Fall Festival. Or the look on your face when we got stuck on the top of the Ferris wheel at the county fair. I miss your smile when we take a boat ride and the way you laugh at old silly black and white movies.
I’ve always loved you. The distance between us and the sacrifices I make every day for the sake of freedom have not diminished that certainty. Would that I could but tell you my deepest feelings, and my heart would not be as heavy as it is now, carrying this secret alone.
Marge
I pulled the paper out of the next envelope and found a similar letter. The thoughts and dreams of a soldier who missed her loved one. Flipping through the stack, I realized there had to be fifty envelopes, but not a single one was addressed.
Marge had written all those letters to the man she loved, but never mailed them.
I put the envelopes on the desk next to the uniforms, turned off the lamp, and crawled into bed. But as I lay in the dark, my mind whirled instead of relaxing into sleep. What must it feel like to love someone so completely? To be in the midst of a horrible war, but have your mind wandering to the smile of that person you left behind?
I’d never cared about anyone like that. I wasn’t even sure that I could.
There had been men, but I wouldn’t even call what I’d had with them relationships, much less undying love. I couldn’t even wrap my mind around writing all these letters but never having the courage to mail them. What could possibly be lost in doing so? If someone didn’t feel the same as you, then surely knowing that was better than never knowing. And if they did return your feelings, then you might have a future.
I blew out a breath and forced myself to shut my ey
es and start counting hand grenades. I was already neck deep in things I was unqualified to handle and had no business being involved in. The last thing I needed to add to the mix was the mystery of a fifty-year-old unrequited love affair.
But even as I slipped off to sleep, I found myself wondering if Marge had ever told him her feelings and if his answer was why those letters had remained unaddressed and in her possession all these years.
Chapter Fourteen
The glow of daylight peeked through the curtains of my bedroom, and I opened one eye to look at the clock on the nightstand. Nine o’clock! Surely that wasn’t right. I opened the other eye, but there it was, nine a.m. staring back at me in big white numbering.
I wasn’t sure whether to be appreciative or worried.
On one hand, I’d finally gotten decent sleep. On the other hand, I’d expected Ida Belle and Gertie to be pounding on my door hours before now and wondered why they hadn’t. How sad was that? I’d been in town all of three days and was already conditioned to having people wake me up at the crack of dawn.
I sat up and removed the headphones, then stretched. Bones would want his breakfast and a bathroom break, so I went downstairs to roust him from his bed.
I roused Bones, who wandered into the living room instead of outside and stood at the bottom of the stairs braying again.
“What is up with you?” I asked as I struggled to pull the hound out of the living room and back into the kitchen.
I finally managed to get him turned around and out the back door, then opened the refrigerator. A whole lot of blank space glared back at me. After we'd returned from Number Two, I'd nabbed my headphones and the other miscellaneous supplies from Walter, but only lingered long enough to grab bread, lunch meat, and the cookies I’d lost yesterday. After my mad dash for the shower, I’d intended to go back and shop more extensively for staples, but the day had gotten away from me after that, and I'd never made it back.
As I had to return the pistol to Walter, a trip to the general store was in order, assuming I wanted to eat on a semi-regular basis without paying Francine. I could check on the car battery situation while I was there. I needed that Jeep running so I could make a trip to New Orleans, and I wasn’t about to trust Gertie to take me, especially as she’d played Noah-and-the-flood with her car yesterday. Besides, Ida Belle had alerted me to the fact that Gertie needed glasses to drive but wouldn't wear them.
My stomach rumbled as I closed the refrigerator door. I remembered CIA Assistant Reynolds saying once that it wasn't a good idea to go shopping on an empty stomach, so I made the executive decision that breakfast at Francine's was a requirement for making good decisions later on.
I grabbed some money from my sock drawer, threw on jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, grabbed my book, and headed out in a slow jog for Francine's. I figured jogging the two blocks might make up for a tenth of what I was likely to eat.
There were only four other customers in the café—two older couples—but a long table in the corner looked as if it had seen a food fight just before I’d arrived. Crumbs of whatever that was littered every square inch of the checked cloth and the surrounding floor. Tipped glasses of milk appeared every couple of feet across the tabletop. Someone clearly needed better table manners.
I took a seat at the corner table where I'd sat the day before and vowed this time not to get so absorbed in my book that anyone could sneak up on me again. The door to the kitchen swung open and I expected Francine to walk out, but instead, a young girl with long brown hair and pretty green eyes walked toward me, an order pad in her hand.
Mid-twenties, five foot six, good muscle tone and flexibility.
Easily the third healthiest person I'd seen in Sinful behind me and Deputy LeBlanc. She stepped up to the table and smiled.
“You must be Marge's niece. I've heard about you.”
“Whatever Deputy LeBlanc said about me is an exaggeration. Probably.”
She laughed. “Wasn't him that was talking, but you've definitely piqued my interest now. Celia Arceneaux is my aunt. She had plenty to say about your banana pudding dash on Sunday.”
I looked up at her, a bit dismayed. “You're not going to refuse to serve me, are you?”
“Lord, no! I don't mix myself up with anything that silly bunch of old women have going on, which aggrieves my aunt to no end. She thinks because I work here I should have some sort of pull with Francine.”
“You don't?”
“Nobody has pull with Francine, not even her husband. The woman is as practical and hardheaded as the day is long. She takes not getting involved with the townspeople's drama to a whole new level.”
“Probably smart of her,” I grumbled, thinking how much easier the past three days would have been if I had stayed out of the local drama.
“Heavens, I've totally forgotten my manners,” the young woman said. “My name is Ally.” She extended her hand.
I shook her hand, my opinion of this direct, fresh woman favorable so far.
“I'm Sandy-Sue,” I said, trying hard not to blanche, “but everyone calls me Fortune.”
“I like that,” she said.
“Thanks.” I pointed to the messy table. “What happened over there—they didn’t like the food?”
“It was the mommies.” Ally rolled her eyes. “They all come in here with their toddlers after dropping the older kids off at school. I’m afraid to think what their houses look like.”
“What time is that?” I asked, a bit horrified. “I want to make sure I’m never here then.”
Ally laughed. “They usually show up around eight and are gone by nine. So anytime before or after and you’re good. Fortunately, the café and the park are usually the only places they frequent, so it’s easy to avoid the fray.”
I made a mental note.
“Well,” Ally said, “I guess I best get your order in. I go on break in a couple of minutes and Oscar, the cook, will fill in for a bit. He's not exactly a people person.”
I don't know what possessed me—maybe it was because she was friendly and didn't seem to have an agenda. Maybe it was loneliness. Most likely it was because I figured I could pump her for information on the townspeople. Regardless of the reason, I found myself inviting her to eat breakfast with me.
She smiled again. “I'd love to. I had a bagel this morning before we got started, but I burned it off hours ago. Let me get your order, and I'll bring it all out when it's ready. Then we can have us a nice chat.”
She handed me a laminated card with the breakfast items, and I laughed at the list: Sinful Special, Without Sin, Mortal Sin, The Seven Deadly Sins, Create Your Own Sin.
“The lunch menu doesn’t look like this at all,” I said.
“The lunch menu is different since we serve that one meal on Sunday. But as no breakfast is served on Sunday, we get to use the irreverent menu. Francine’s got a wicked sense of humor.”
“And really good taste in food. Give me the Seven Deadly Sins.” Eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits, gravy, pan-fried potatoes, and pancakes. I could practically hear my arteries hardening.
“You got it. Give me about five minutes.”
I opened my book, figuring I could probably get in a couple of pages before the food was ready. I was several pages into the chapter on explosives when Ally returned with a tray of food fit for an army. She started shifting plates from the tray to the table, and my mouth watered as I took in all the southern goodness.
“Is it all going to fit on the table?” I asked.
“Oh, sure,” Ally said. “We may look like we’re at a buffet by the time I’m done, but it will fit.”
When she eased the last plate onto the table, there was only a tiny hole left for the ketchup that she pulled out of her apron.
“You don’t know what a treat it is,” she said as she took a seat across from me, “to have a meal with another single woman under the age of sixty.”
“Based on the last couple of days, I understand completely,” I said and
then stuffed a huge forkful of pan-fried potatoes into my mouth and closed my eyes while I savored the incredible combination of perfectly-cooked potato slices, seasoning, and onions.
I swallowed and let out a sigh before opening my eyes. Ally looked amused.
“Do I need to get you and the potatoes a private room?” she asked.
“No. I’ll settle for public display of affection with the potatoes, but I may take you up on that offer when I get to the pancakes.”
Ally laughed. “When I heard about you coming to Sinful, I didn’t imagine you’d be so entertaining.”
“Why not?” I asked, curious about what was said before my arrival.
“I guess I heard beauty queen and librarian and didn’t put the two together as fun or someone I’d enjoy having breakfast with.” She looked a bit sheepish. “I went to school with a beauty pageant girl. We didn’t exactly get along.”
“I think I saw her Facebook page,” I replied. “I don’t blame you for not getting along. It was insipid. And for the record, all the beauty pageant stuff was my mother’s doing. I haven’t had anything to do with that since I started paying my own bills.”
“Fair enough.”
“So, I noticed there doesn’t seem to be an abundance of younger people around here,” I said. “I guess the mommies are at the park or closed in houses with their little darlings, but where are their men?”
“There’s not a lot of employment here, so a lot of the men work construction in New Orleans during the week, or on oil rigs. The construction guys are usually around on Saturdays at the general store. The oil workers usually do two weeks on, two off, and right now, they’re gone. The women are tied up with kids and making ends meet, so you don’t see them out much. It’s an old-fashioned town when it comes to women and careers.”
“And the single ones?”
“Not many single men worth speaking of. Girls tend to snap up the decent ones, and any girl that’s not looking to settle down or didn’t get paired up by high school leaves town for a bigger pool of fish.”
