He put the screwdriver in his back pocket and got hold of the cloth with his fingers. It seemed oddly heavy when he pulled on it and as it slid out of the duct, something hard fell from its folds, bounced off his foot, and hit the carpet. Descending from the stairs, he bent down and retrieved the object—a black egg-shaped stone worn so smooth it felt like it had been honed and polished. A cross within a circle had been scratched on one side.
His thoughts turned to the blue towel in his other hand. He felt certain this was the cause of his symptoms. Since the mice obtained for the experiments on the Hollins car were also still in the garage, he was able to verify that feeling very quickly. Someone did not want the investigation of the toxic Escadrilles to continue. The realization that a prowler had entered his home and made an attempt on his life affected him in a curious way. He was, at once, angry and excited. How dare they walk across his carpets and touch his things without permission! It was contemptuous. At the same time, he found the danger stimulating. He sealed the toxic towel in one of the five-gallon cans in the garage and went into the kitchen.
But why the stone? He took it from his pocket and turned it over and over in his hand, then thought, What am I doin’? He put it down on the kitchen counter, knowing he had probably already ruined any prints that might have been on it.
Suddenly he recalled Grandma O’s story about suicides and stones and finally the phrase she had used… how did it go? “Beware the songs you loved in youth,” sank in. The story of the man hanged long ago in a public execution… what was his name… Albair Fauquel. Could there be some connection? Was someone trying to make it appear as though the Fauquel prophecy was coming to pass? But to what end? And how were they able to develop a toxin to fit the story?
Mentally sifting recent events and testing them for relevance, he thought of what Kit had told him that afternoon about nearly being electrocuted. He’d thought at the time it was an unusual set of circumstances. Now he believed it was more than that and he dialed her number. She answered on the first ring. Five minutes later, without making any attempt to cover the damaged window, he was on his way to see for himself the appliance that had so conveniently sprung a leak and developed a frayed cord at the same time.
The T-Bird slipped through the night air like a phantom and its gears meshed with liquid precision, sensations he ordinarily prized as highly as the pungent gumbo Grandma O occasionally sent his way. Tonight, they went unnoticed.
As she opened the door to him, Kit said, “I’m not clear on exactly what…” When she saw the tendrils of ruptured blood vessels in his eyes, her mouth gaped. “God, are your eyes ever bloodshot. What have you been doing?”
He brushed past her. “Time for that later. Right now I want to see your refrigerator.” In the kitchen, he dropped to his knees and squinted at the leveling legs on the fridge. “These were up on rubber supports of some sort the other night?”
She knelt beside him. “Yes, why?”
He didn’t answer but instead began crawling around the room, looking along the baseboard and under the cabinets, accompanied by Lucky who kept trying to push his wet nose into the old pathologist’s hand. Presently Broussard pressed his index finger against the floor where the kitchen door molding met the wall, then tried to get up using only one hand, an act requiring Kit’s help. Breathing heavily, he placed his hand, palm up, on the kitchen counter and gave her his penlight. “Shine this on my finger,” he panted. From his pants pocket, he produced a small magnifying glass and began to study the end of his finger through it. “More light,” he said.
Kit moved the light closer. He turned his finger from side to side and his alarming respiratory sounds gave way to satisfied pathologist noises.
He offered her the glass. “Take a look.”
They traded tools and she bent over his finger eager to see what he’d found. “Looks like salt,” she said, seeing the geometric crystals that littered the hills and valleys of his fingerprints.
“There’s a ring of these crystals around the entire room. I don’t suppose you recently dropped a box of salt in here?”
“No.”
He nodded wisely. “You said the power cord on the refrigerator was damaged. Has it been repaired?”
“They replaced it today.”
He peeked into the grocery bag she’d been using as a wastebasket and with a grunt of satisfaction, pulled out the damaged cord. After examining the plug with his naked eye and the missing insulation with his pocket magnifier, he said, “Got a flashlight?”
Proudly, Kit produced her new flashlight and Broussard went out the back door with it, where he played the beam around the small cement stoop. Abruptly, he brought the beam to a halt and asked for a saucer. When she brought it, he had her hold the light while he teased a smooth stone into the saucer with the back of one finger. Inside, he didn’t even have to turn it over to see the cross and the circle etched on one side.
“Just like mine,” he said.
Bewildered, Kit replied, “What do you mean, ’just like yours’?”
He led her into the living room, sat her down, and explained what had actually taken place in her kitchen. “… your refrigerator up on insulating casters, the fact that someone added salt to the water on your kitchen floor to make it a better conductor, and razor cuts that exposed only the hot wire on the old power cord show that your adventure the other night was no accident.” He then related his own experience earlier and told her Grandma O’s tale.
“Jesus,” she said when he finished. “Sounds like someone is trying to act out that story. You don’t think Bubba or his grandmother…”
Broussard shook his head. “Absolutely not. He’s the most guileless man I ever met and I’ve known him and Grandma O for years. I guarantee you they’ve got nothin’ to do with this.”
“That leaves Bert Weston, the guy at Crescent City Industries. He lied when I interviewed him and it’s pretty clear that the toxic fabric in the Escadrille in your garage was manufactured by his company. Maybe he’s trying to cloud the issue with this Fauquel thing so he won’t get sued for the deaths those cars caused.”
“I thought he assumed control of CCI after North American Motors quit makin’ Escadrilles. I hardly think he could be held liable after the fact. And if he isn’t liable, why would he want our investigation stopped?”
“Maybe he took over after the fact and maybe he didn’t. For all I know, he lied about that, too.”
“You think he’s capable of murder?”
“You should have seen his face when he told me he’d do whatever was necessary to keep his company profitable.”
“He said that? Those exact words?”
“Not verbatim. But it’s close.”
“I’m gonna talk with Phillip and see if I can get a tail put on Weston. And I think I’ll suggest he let the man know he’s bein’ watched. That should put a crimp in any future shenanigans he might feel like initiatin’ when he discovers the first ones didn’t work.”
Kit frowned. “You sure you want to put this in Phillip’s hands?”
“Maybe not. I’ll talk to him and then decide. In the meantime, want to spend the night at my place? I’ve got plenty of room.”
The thought of being left alone was not a pleasant prospect, but neither was playing the frightened female. With definite misgivings, she said, “No thanks. I’ll be okay.”
“You’re sure? It’ll be no trouble.”
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll get the patrol car for this area to keep an eye on you tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“You got somethin’ to put that stone in so I can take it to Phillip without smearin’ any prints that might be on it?”
With the stone safely secured in a small snap-top freezer container in one hand and his other on the doorknob, Broussard paused. “By the way. I’ve got to be in Hammond all mornin’ tomorrow. Vogel’s forty-eight hours will be up at five-thirty and I think you ought to drop by his lab sometime before noon a
nd let him know how anxious we are for his results and how disappointed we’ll be if they’re not ready on time.”
After shutting the door behind him, Kit found herself wishing she lived in a time when women could admit they were afraid without concern for their image. With Lucky in her lap and her big overstuffed wing chair enveloping her in its protective embrace, she turned to page forty-two in Understanding Electricity: A Primer for Every Homeowner and tried to get back into it. Finding that her mind would rather dwell on shadows in the night, she put the book down, placed Lucky on the carpet, and went to the telephone, thinking she might ask David to come over and spend the night. But when she thought about how helpless that would make her look and how David might use it to pressure her about moving in with him, she hesitated.
Relax, she told herself. The attempt on her life and on Broussard’s had been indirect and sneaky. Nobody was going to attack her in her own home. That just wasn’t Weston’s style. Just the same, she was not going to let herself fall asleep.
Had she not been watching TV earlier and therefore knew it to be safe, she wouldn’t have turned it on now with her bare fingers. With Lucky in her lap, the late show came and went, followed by another of those endless Godzilla things that she watched with little interest until nodding off.
*
Phil Gatlin lived in Kenner on a winding street lined by modest little homes that tried unsuccessfully to disguise their kinship to each other by insignificant architectural variations. In their long friendship, Broussard had never been inside the Gatlin house and had spoken barely a dozen words to Mrs. Gatlin, a raw-boned woman with sharp disapproving eyes. And while Gatlin often spoke of his daughter Shelby, Mrs. Gatlin (Broussard wasn’t even sure of her first name) might never have existed at all.
Phillip answered the door dressed in a robe. One side of his face looked like he’d been lying on a tennis racket.
“C’mon in,” he said. Then with his back turned, leading the way from the cramped foyer, said, “You look like hell.”
The living room was lit by a single floor lamp, a spindly creation with its brass pole threaded through a circular wooden table. Within the feeble light the room was orderly, but on the dim fringes, newspapers and magazines littered the carpet. Phillip waved his guest to an early-American sofa that looked as limp as its owner. Fearing that the sofa wasn’t up to the job, Broussard went to an armchair with a shallow, firm seat.
Phillip dropped into the sofa, folded his arms, and looked at his slippered feet stretched out in front of him. “Andy, I’d like to offer you somethin’ but I… that is we… you caught us with a bare cupboard. We been eating out a lot lately. You know… hardly worth cooking for only two people.”
“No apologies necessary, Phillip. This is more business than social. I need your help. A few hours ago, someone tried to kill me.”
“Kill you? Come on, who’d want to do that?”
Disappointed in Phillip’s reaction, Broussard pressed on, telling of the recent increase in murder-suicides, its relationship to Escadrilles, and the organic explanation for the symptoms. The more he talked, the less wilted Phillip looked. He described his own close call and Kit’s experience with the shorted-out refrigerator, then related Grandma O’s story and gave him Kit’s stone. He finished by naming their number-one suspect. “So what I need now is for someone to catch the responsible party and put him away before he scores. So far, he’s battin’ zero. I don’t want to give him a chance to better that record. I want the best detective I ever knew workin’ on this. I want the old Phillip. The one we’ve all seen lately might get me killed. It’s up to you. Give me the best that’s in you and I’ll be satisfied. If you can’t do that, I’ll get it assigned to Ed Hilton.” It was a lie of course. He would never have put his life in the hands of the police chief’s incompetent nephew.
The suggestion that Ed Hilton was preferable to the current Phil Gatlin in a life-threatening situation had its desired effect and Phillip stiffened as though the sharp end of one of the sofa’s springs had worked its way through his robe. His eyes, which earlier had all the luster of those on a manikin, were now active and bright. He sat up straight, smoothed the lapels on his robe, and ran a palm over his rumpled hair.
“You forget about anyone else,” he said. “This is my case. I’ll be out first thing tomorrow to take a look around. Unless you’d like me to come now and help you close up that window.”
A warm feeling spread through Broussard’s tired body. “Appreciate the thought, but I can manage. I’ve got to be in Hammond early, so I may not be there when you arrive. I’ll put a key…”
“You got deadbolts on the doors?” Phillip interrupted.
“No.”
Phillip shook his head. “Andy, you know better than that. Get some installed. If you’d had them, your visitor probably wouldn’t have gotten in. Never mind the key. If I need to get inside, I’ll do it the way he did. Where you spending the night?”
“Home.” Then responding to Phillip’s critical expression, he added, “Don’t worry about that. He won’t know for awhile that he failed. Oh, before I forget, would you arrange for a patrol car to keep an eye on Dr. Franklyn’s place tonight. She wanted to stay there and it’s been long enough for that failure to be noticed.”
After Broussard left, Phillip called the west precinct, then ironed a shirt and shined his shoes.
With his eyes fixed on the white center line flashing by, Broussard took pleasure in the knowledge that some good was going to come out of a bad situation. If what he had already endured was all it was going to cost to get Phillip straightened out, it was a bargain.
He was due in Hammond the following day at 9 a.m. to testify in a murder trial. The fifty-mile drive would require that he leave no later than eight. There would not be time in the morning to get the broken window covered.
When he got home, he went to the kitchen telephone and called Bubba. While waiting for him to arrive, he put on his respirator and opened all the study windows to air the place out. By the time Bubba’s old Ford pickup came up the drive with a sheet of plywood and Bubba’s tools in the back, the room was safe.
Broussard met him at the truck and took him around to the destroyed window.
“Whooee! What da devil you been doin’?” Bubba said, clapping both hands to the orange Pennzoil cap perched on his head. “Somethin’ explode in dere?”
“You get that plywood nailed up and we’ll talk. I’ll put on some coffee.”
With the damaged window secured, Broussard set a cup of chicory-laced coffee in front of Bubba and brought him up-to-date. Then he showed him the stone that had been on the table the whole time under an upside-down coffee cup. The sight brought Bubba out of his chair, a reaction that Broussard was sure was genuine.
“Don’t worry my friend,” Broussard said, “It’s not Monsieur Fauquel come back to make good on his threat.”
“Den what is it?”
“Right now I can only tell you what it isn’t.”
“Please don’ take dis personally, but Ah’m gonna use some of ma vacation time and stay out on da bayou till you do know what it is. Why don’ you come, too. Jus’ for awhile till we see if somethin’s about to happen.”
“I can’t do that. I’ve got responsibilities here.”
“It’d be better if you come with me, but since you won’t, at least you got Gramma O’s luck ball to protec’ you. Hadn’ a been for that, you might not have figured out somethin’ was wrong in time to save yourself.”
Broussard nodded noncommittally and wished he could admit to Bubba that he had thrown the ball away days ago. It was not luck that had saved him, it was his own quick wits. But to say anything was to risk hurting Grandma O’s feelings. Still, it would have been good for Bubba to see that the ball couldn’t have anything to do with his escape.
In the garage, Princess lay on her belly trying to retrieve her newest toy, a vinyl bag with a drawstring, from under the garden tiller where she had batted it. Catching
the drawstring in her claws, she pulled the bag out in the open and picked it up with her teeth. Holding it firmly, she jumped to her feet and disappeared through her personal door to the outside.
CHAPTER 15
Phil Gatlin hitched up his pants and took a deep breath. Where Broussard’s circular drive curved back toward the road, it was bordered for a short distance by a white brick wall covered with honeysuckle whose fragrance hung heavy and sweet in the morning air. The first breath was so good that he helped himself to another and marveled at how bright the flowers were in front of the house. The canopy of huge oaks that clothed most of the property served as a great natural air conditioner, and Phillip was happy to be there. Having shed the shackles of depression, he had found a new sense of optimism. He hadn’t suddenly learned to live with the absence of his daughter but had become convinced she would be back unharmed, if not this week, the next.
He set off on a tour around the house, looking for footprints in the flower beds and handprints on the windows. When he came to the window that Broussard had gone through the previous night, he shook his head in wonder that his friend hadn’t been badly injured by that alone. Turning to complete his circuit, something on the ground near the brick wall bordering the drive flashed the early morning sun into his eyes. The object lay under a small flowering tree whose upper branches he had admired earlier from the opposite side of the wall.
When he reached the spot, he dropped on his haunches and saw that it was a piece of red plastic, smooth on one side, textured on the other. The tree nearby had many trunks growing from a common base. Some of them had been cut off and their ends sealed with black paint. On one stump, which jutted out almost horizontally, the paint was scuffed and raw wood showed through. Looking back the way he’d come, Phillip saw faint evidence of tire tracks.
With a twig, he flipped the piece of plastic into a zip-top baggie and placed it in his jacket pocket. As he stepped from behind the wall, the front door opened and Broussard emerged rump first, briefcase in one hand, suit coat pinched under his armpit while he locked the door.
Cajun Nights Page 17
