Louisiana Lament

by Julie Smith

  She looked over the top of one of the wood plinths—which was about chest high. There were wooden boxes inside, and more piles of lumber. With some effort—and quite a bit of trepidation—she jockeyed one of the plinths far enough out of the way to squeeze into the hole it left between the door and the wall. It took maneuvering, but she finally found her footing on solid ground. Her pantyhose had run, but that was about the only damage. Someone like Rashad, she thought, could have just slithered in without moving anything.

  Once inside, she closed the hole to hide the tampering. Light came through various holes in the walls, on both sides—levee and river—but it was still semi-dark in the building. Momentarily, she wished she’d brought a flashlight, but her eyes began to adjust immediately.

  The space was huge—about as long as a city block—and there were so many piles of stuff Rashad could slip from one to another as he heard her coming, remaining unnoticed if he wanted to. Best thing was to announce herself as a friend.

  “Rashad?” she called. “It’s Janessa’s sister. Everybody’s worried about you.”

  There was no answer and not only that, Talba felt a stillness in the old building. Her intuition said she was alone.

  She walked rapidly towards the bridge and the Central Business District, thinking to turn around and go back toward the Jackson Street Ferry, searching methodically on the way. Every few steps she called quietly to Rashad, but the only answer was an occasional soft rustling, perhaps a rat outraged at the trespass. When she had reached the downtown edge of the building she slowly picked her way back, searching diligently behind each pile of merchandise and supplies.

  She’d gotten only about a quarter of the way when she found Rashad’s little nest behind a pile of boxes. She knew instantly it was his. A piece of splotched cardboard had been laid down for a floor, probably something he found in the wharf itself, and on the cardboard were some words written with a felt-tip pen—words that could only have been written by one person. There was also a balled-up shirt, a copy of yesterday’s Times-Picayune (the one with Cassie’s and Allyson’s pictures in it) and an empty coffee cup from PJ’s—the one on Camp Street, she was willing to bet. She pictured Rashad there, buying coffee and a newspaper, maybe a muffin, looking over his shoulder in case he was recognized, then returning to his nest to read about the death of his friends.

  If Janessa’s story was true, he might already have known about Allyson—that is, if he’d come back that night. But how could he have felt when he learned of Cassie’s death? She shivered, thinking about it.

  And realized she was assuming his innocence. If he was guilty, he’d have been reading to find out what the police knew.

  Much of the writing on the cardboard had been scratched out, but there was a title that hadn’t been: “Celeste Revisited.” He’d been writing a poem.

  But mostly what he’d written was a lot of false starts:

  If I could turn the clock back…

  Oh, Celeste, that other time was better!

  Floating lady, blank-eyed…

  This is like that time with mama… the nastier the history the quicker it repeats.

  Each phrase had a line drawn through it, and Talba could see why. None was a promising beginning. The poet was obviously suffering, but he hadn’t been able to focus well enough to take refuge in his art. Underneath the crossed-out phrases was a quote, in huge capital letters:

  POETRY IS EMOTION RECOLLECTED IN TRANQUILLITY!

  —Wordsworth

  And even after that, he had tried again:

  Tranquility just a memory now—

  Real life like bad TV

  And I gotta find the one-armed man.

  He had crossed that one out, too. She smiled, realizing it was a reference to The Fugitive, the television show in which a one-armed man frames the hero for murder. She wondered if she could take it as a sign he was innocent. She could just hear what Eddie would say: 1 wouldn’t take it to court, Ms. Wallis.

  She picked up the shirt and gasped as she shook it out. One arm had been torn off. What was left had big brown splotches on it. It had to be blood. The splotches on the cardboard did too.

  So perhaps he really had been shot. On the other hand, there wasn’t all that much blood. He could just as easily have hurt himself in some other way. But she could see that in a building as big as this one, with so many hiding places, shooting someone wouldn’t be difficult—as long as the shooter was there first.

  All he’d have to do would be wait for his prey.

  It was starting to get dark, but Talba had no choice except to finish the search—Rashad could be lying somewhere in the vastness of the warehouse, bleeding to death.

  She scoured the rest of the building, but found nothing more interesting than a couple of beer cans. She thought of waiting for Rashad to come home, but if he’d been shot here, he wasn’t about to return. The combined prospects of pitch dark and rats, no dinner, and probably no luck just didn’t add up to a reason to stay.

  Excited, she called Eddie as soon as she got back to her car. But for some reason, he didn’t answer—maybe he was still in Venice. She left a message detailing what she’d found.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eddie put his .38 and one other emergency item in the glove compartment of Audrey’s old Cadillac, wishing he had a less conspicuous car. But, against his better judgment, he’d let Ms. Wallis install a Global Positioning System in this one, and it had once come in handy. If Austin had murdered two members of his family, it might again.

  It was about a two-hour drive to Venice and Eddie had lots of time to think. Austin was a pretty good candidate, when you got right down to it. At the very least, he might have information that would allow the cops to eliminate his client and get Eddie out from under this money-loser.

  He simply could not bring himself to believe that Janessa had done it and, truth to tell, he was rooting for Rashad, too. Everything he knew about the kid made him want him to be innocent; and nothing he knew about Austin made him like him. He was a biker, he’d disappeared after his mother and sister’s murders, his other sister hated him—what was left to like?

  He drove across the Mississippi River Bridge and took the Belle Chasse Highway towards the Gulf. Venice was the jump-off place for the Louisiana offshore oil and gas industry. It lay at the bottom of a raggedy, narrow peninsula eaten away by erosion from canals built by the oil companies, though the land still retained its eerie marshland beauty, interrupted occasionally by small factories and seafood processing plants. It was big shrimp, oyster, and crab country, as well as a hot spot for sport fishing. Venice itself boasted two marinas and a huge number of support businesses for the oil companies. It was a town where you could easily get a crane or a helicopter, or some great fried seafood. But Eddie doubted you could find an Office Depot or a fresh vegetable other than iceberg lettuce and the random tomato. Stopping at a gas station in a little strip mall, he asked where he could find a bait shop.

  The old guy who waited on him looked at least eighty and wore a tattered straw hat against the sun, which was fairly punishing today. It was hard to believe a hurricane had come so close so recently. “Sure,” the man said. “There’s one right next door.”

  “Know who owns it?”

  “Don’t think I do.”

  But of course he did. Eddie realized he’d encountered small town America. “Well, thanks, and have a nice day.”

  “You have a blessed day yaself.” He figured the man wasn’t Catholic. That was something Baptists said these days. Eddie thought that kind of talk belonged in church. It made him feel itchy, like he’d invaded someone’s privacy.

  He drove the few feet down the parking lot to Joe’s Bait Shop, which Eddie figured had to be owned by a guy named Joe; at least the Baptist could have mentioned that much.

  The clerk was a tall rangy man with blue eyes, dark hair, and that good-natured aura all Cajuns seemed to have. Venice wasn’t really Cajun country, but wherever there’s fishing, th
ere seem to be Cajuns. “Hey, Joe,” Eddie said. “I’m Eddie Valentino. Fellow down at the gas station sent me.”

  “Good to meet you, Eddie,” the Cajun said, thus confirming he was Joe. Eddie asked his question.

  “Austin Edwards?” Joe said. “Now that’s a big fish. We’re just small fry here. Mr. Austin don’t run no shop, he’s got a packin’ plant, runs two great big pogie boats—crew of fourteen, each one of ’em—or anyway, he used to. Seems like I heard he had a little bad luck with one of ’em. Got a plane, too. Yep. Austin Edwards is the biggest fish you gonna see in the bait business round here—the Menhaden King of Louisiana, my wife calls him. ’Course she’s wrong—guy up in Empire’s got a fish meal factory, runs about a dozen boats. But you talkin’ bait? Austin is royalty. I mean, he is the Emperor—too bad he don’t operate out of Empire.” The guy cackled at his own joke. “’Course, he’s more like the wild man of Borneo than your average everyday emperor. Why’d ya think he might be here?”

  Eddie shrugged. “I heard he had a bait place in Venice. Got some news for him.” He pulled out one of his heir hunter cards.

  Joe looked at his card. “Somebody left Mr. Austin some money? Well, if the rich don’t get richer. Don’t misunderstand me, though—I’m happy for him—Mr. Austin’s a real good guy. But you heard wrong, Mr. Eddie. He lives in Venice, but his operation’s up around Port Sulphur—’bout a half hour’s drive north of here. Ya gonna pass Mr. Gregory’s factory first—you can stop there and get directions.”

  “Mr. Gregory?”

  “The one I mentioned with all the pogie boats—little fishmeal factory on a canal you can see from the road—real pretty place. Ya gonna see big old blue boats pulled right up to it.”

  “And these are pogie boats, you say?” Eddie was hoping Joe would clue him in.

  “Menhaden boats. You know what menhaden are?”

  Eddie nodded. “They’re a kind of trash fish. Good for pet food.”

  “And bait. Pogie’s another name for ’em. Austin calls his operation Great Bait.”

  Austin was turning out to be a damned interesting character. Eddie wondered about that trouble he’d had with one of his boats—Austin was probably heavily invested and couldn’t take a big financial hit. Which might mean he’d asked his mama for money.

  Eddie had one final question, though theoretically Joe had already answered it. “Austin’s a pretty nice guy, is he?”

  “Unless you get him mad,” Joe said.

  Eddie thanked him and turned his car back around, thinking this was the other side of small-town America—the good, gossipy side dear to a PI’s heart. He drove north to Empire, wishing he’d asked which side of the road the fish meal plant would be on, and eventually spotted it on the right. There was a little guardhouse in front. “Say,” he said to the guard, “I’m looking for Great Bait.”

  “Hey, that’s our competition,” the guard said.

  “Uh-oh. Sounds like bad blood between y’all.”

  “Naah, I’m just messin’ with ya. There’s plenty of fish in the sea. Place is about ten minutes away.”

  Eddie wrote down the directions and twelve minutes later, drove into the little parking lot of a compound with a big great bait sign. From what Eddie could see, this one was also on a canal, as it would have to be, and consisted mostly of a large loading dock that probably held a freezer. A couple of trailers joined together and a cinder block building of some sort completed the compound.

  A couple of men were lounging in the parking lot, having a smoke. Both were black and dressed like fishermen—rubber boots, baseball hats, jeans, grimy T-shirts—one with the sleeves cut out—and one wore suspenders. He got out and hailed them. “Either of y’all Austin Edwards?”

  One of the men merely looked indifferent. The other said, “Ya might try the office. Maybe somebody’s seen him.”

  “Where would I find the office?’

  The man pointed to the trailer building, where Eddie found a well-equipped fake-paneled office staffed by a woman about his age and at least his weight. She had hips that probably wouldn’t fit in a pirogue, a perm so tight her gray hair looked grizzled, and a face that had probably never seen more makeup than the random slash of lipstick, even when she was young. She looked like she’d raised ten or twelve children singlehandedly. She was probably what they call “good country folks” in rural parishes, and just as probably nobody to mess with.

  “How ya doin’?” Eddie asked.

  She didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Can I help you?”

  “Well, I think I’ve got some good news for somebody ya know. Austin around?”

  “Ya got an appointment?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t. I’m not even sure he’s the man I want to see, but if he is, he’s about to come into some money. Drove down from New Orleans just to find him. Name’s Eddie Valentino.” He handed her one of his heir hunter cards.

  The woman took a long time looking at the card, even rubbed it between her fingers, as if assessing its value. When she made no move to introduce herself, he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m glad to meet ya.”

  She regarded his hand with the same suspicion as she did the card, finally deciding to risk touching it. “Marie Broussard.”

  The conversation seemed stalled out. Eddie tried a jump-start. “Like I said, if he’s the right Austin Edwards, he might be about to come into some money.”

  “You could try back around two o’clock.” Broussard glanced at her watch. “He might be in about then.”

  “I was wondering—do you know if he’s related to the Edwardses out of Tallahassee?”

  For the first time, she looked at him with real interest. “I think his daddy’s in Florida. He didn’t die, did he?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t think so. Another relative did.”

  “ ’Cause I know he’s been sick,” she said cautiously. “Austin runs this place for him.”

  That would explain why Ms. Wallis hadn’t picked it up in her background search. “Oh. I thought he was the owner. Looks to me like you run things.”

  “Well, I been here a lot longer than the Edwardses. They bought it two years ago, and everything’s been downhill since. Weren’t for me, this place woulda closed down a long time ago. Austin takes off anytime he wants, leaves me to take care of things but…”

  This was what Eddie loved, an employee with a grievance. “Let me guess,” he said. “But no authority to make decisions.”

  “That’s right.” She smiled, showing him a set of nearly brown teeth. “How’d ya know that?”

  “It’s the way of the world, Ms. Broussard. It’s the way of the world.” He sighed for emphasis. “Tell me, isn’t it unusual to be coming in at two in the afternoon? That the way he manages his daddy’s bi’ness?”

  “That’s nothin’. He’s been away. Just radioed this morning to expect him in this afternoon to sign the payroll checks. Sure hope it’s a lotta money you got for him—or this company’s not gon’ last another two weeks.”

  Eddie raised an eyebrow to show he understood the seriousness of the situation. “Any way I can reach him before he comes in?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. He’s out on his boat. We haven’t heard from him since Tuesday.”

  “He was in Tuesday?” The day after the murders.

  “No, uh-uh. That was the day of the storm. Nobody was here that day. Austin left a voicemail sayin’ he was goin’ fishin’ for a day or two.”

  “Wait a minute—how could he go out in a boat? There’d be storm surge, right?”

  She shrugged. “All I know’s what he said. For all I know, he’s been up in New Orleans, shacked up with some girl. Turned off his cell phone and we didn’t hear from him again till this morning. Fishin’! Can you imagine? With the company in this kind of trouble.”

  Eddie said, “I gotta tell ya the truth. If it were me, I wouldn’t be worried.”

  “That mean it is a lotta money?” She showed him brown teeth again.


  “Means he probably thought he left the company in good hands. I do.”

  She kept on smiling, acknowledging the compliment. “Want me to tell him you were looking for him?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll catch him.”

  “All right, then.”

  He went back to the front of the building, hoping the two smokers had disappeared, and to his relief, found he was alone. Still, his car made a pretty big statement in the little parking lot. He moved it onto the road and parked on the shoulder, out of sight.

  Marie Broussard might seem more forthcoming than an employee ought to be, but you never knew. He figured he’d watch the parking lot, just in case. He might as well entertain himself in the meantime. He got out the second emergency item he’d brought along, which was a copy of The Great Gatsby he’d found in his own house. When Angela and Tony were growing up, he and Audrey had bought them a library of classics, which had come in handy for school reports, but which he’d never particularly perused himself. However, Ms. Wallis had made him curious the other day. He’d heard that title; he knew he ought to know what was in the book. So he decided to educate himself. He settled down to read.

  By noon, Austin hadn’t shown, so he took a chance on a lunch break, and at one sharp, he ambled back into the office. Broussard was eating a tuna fish sandwich. “Austin get back?”

  She pointed to her mouth and chewed before she spoke. “When he says two, he usually means three.”

  “I know what ya mean,” Eddie said, and turned to leave, then turned back—his best Colombo imitation. “Did you say he radioed this morning?”

  “Yeah, he was on his boat—said he lost his cell phone. Prob’ly he did go fishin’, once the weather cleared up.”

  “Well, thank ya, ma’am.” He left again.

  This time, however, he made his way to the back of the place, where the fishing boats came in. The air was heavy with a nauseating fish smell. Menhaden, he figured, probably smelled even worse than most fish, especially in quantity.