Uncle Joe had been so good to him when he needed a lifeline to survive the empty feeling that had threatened to consume him after his parents were killed. That kind of compassion certainly justified better behavior than years of not even calling the man to see how he was.
Broussard carefully poured the finished sauce over the chops. He carried the meat into the dining room and put the plate on the white tablecloth in front of his place setting.
The least he could now for Uncle Joe was help find the man who’d killed him.
He returned to the kitchen and put the spinach croquettes into hot olive oil.
But what could he do to further the investigation?
When the croquettes were fully cooked, he spooned them onto a plate and took the dish to the dining room, where after setting it beside the chops, he filled his wine glass with room temperature Gevrey-Chambertin. He then sat down, picked up his glass, and swirled the wine inside. After deeply inhaling the wine’s bouquet, he took a small sip. The hot liquid not only warmed his soul, but showed him what he could do to help solve the mystery he’d been so cruelly drawn into. And along the way, he would also learn a lot about all the relatives he had ignored for so long.
Phil Gatlin sighed and looked at the furry object in his hand.
The hobbies of most people are things they’re good at. But Phil Gatlin was terrible at the one he chose; fly tying. His hands were too big and he just couldn’t get the hang of the whip finish knot, the final step in making a fly. That meant he often had to discard a specimen after wasting fifteen minutes and a lot of material on it. He’d practice just that knot over and over until he was sure he had it, but then when it counted, he’d mess it up. He kept at it because he was by nature an impatient man and figured that fly tying would teach him self-control. Being a perpetual novice at the craft also meant he had to concentrate fully on the process. That in turn enabled him to forget for at least a few minutes the constant clamor in his brain that demanded results in whatever case he was working on. And quieting that voice was important, otherwise he’d try to work 24 hours a day, killing himself and making his wife complain even more about the time he spent on the job.
He picked up a fresh hook and put it in his vice. Then his phone rang.
It was Andy Broussard. “Hey Andy. What’s up?”
“Find out anything from Joe’s bodyguard?”
The question instantly propelled Gatlin back into the world he loved.
“Joe had been receiving death threats.”
“Who from?”
“Not sure, but I’ve got a possible.”
“How good a lead is it?”
“Could turn out to be bupkis.”
“I want to help.”
“Okay. The bodyguard said Joe’s daughter, Amelia, visited him once a week. You know her last name?”
“It’s Hebert. She was the one who organized the birthday picnic. At least that’s who signed my invitation. For some reason there was no return address on the invitation, so I don’t know where she lives, but I’ve got the RSVP phone number. It’s probably hers, but if it isn’t, whoever answers could probably put me in touch with her.”
“See if she can tell you anything about Joe’s will. If not, maybe she could point us toward someone else.”
“I’ll do that. I’d also like to follow up on Kit’s suggestion that we get a list of who was invited to the picnic and who wasn’t there. Surely Amelia has the invitation list as well as those who said they were comin’.”
“I don’t think we should. . .”
“I agree. Just because someone said they were comin’ doesn’t mean they were present.” A pause ensued, then Broussard said, “Shortly before the shootin’, Amelia carried a birthday card around the picnic and got everybody to sign it. I wonder if she finished the job and if she still has the card?”
“That’s something worth pursuing. But you sure you’re alright with snooping around your own relatives.”
“Could be that some people who were invited weren’t Broussard blood.”
“If you’re gonna do this, you have to accept what the evidence tells you, wherever it points.”
“I been livin’ that way for a long time. Doubt I could change even if I wanted too.”
Chapter 14
Kit woke Sunday morning to the sounds of Fletcher barking and a key turning the lock in her front door.
Oh my God. Teddy.
She leapt from the bed and ran to the bathroom, where she tried to repair her hair with her fingers. As she embarked on an economy tour of her teeth with her electric toothbrush, she realized her head felt like she’d been in Gator Willie’s all night.
“Hellooo,” Teddy called out to her from beside the bathroom door.
They’d awakened next to each other so many times over the last few years seeing her sleep-disheveled wouldn’t be anything new for him. But their recent engagement seemed to reset the clock for Kit, which meant this morning, she wanted to look her best. Of course that was no longer possible. But she certainly didn’t want him to hear her pee. “Morning,” she sang. “I’m running late. Would you make the coffee please?”
When she was sure he’d had time to reach the coffee maker she dropped onto the toilet wanting to be quick and quiet. A moment later, when the flood gates were open, Teddy knocked on the bathroom door and said, “Columbian or Breakfast roast?”
Oh great. “Columbian.”
With hopes of a new beginning flushed away, Kit walked into the kitchen in her nightie. “Are the gators all snug now?” she said, referring to the emergency fence repair he had to make around his breeding stock yesterday.
Teddy looked up from the coffee maker and his dark eyes caught fire. He was across the room in an instant. He took her in his arms and whispered in her ear, “Tu es la femme de mes reves!” Knowing that she didn’t understand French, he translated in a husky whisper. “You are the woman of my dreams.”
He then kissed her gently on the lips. Fletcher barked his approval.
Teddy spoke Cajun French as fluently as English. He came from an aristocratic lineage as evidenced by his fine features and the capital B in his last name, the small b Labiches being less fortunate people.
Kit looked into his eyes and said, “Amour de ma vie.” (Love of my life.)
Teddy laughed and spun her around, causing Fletcher to jump out of the way. “Where’d you learn that?”
“From my computer yesterday morning.”
“Have any other surprises for me?”
“Actually, I do. Let me get dressed and I’ll tell you.”
Still holding on to her, he said, “I was hoping the next one might not require clothing.”
She gently pulled free. “It’s not required . . . more like a temporary condition.”
She returned in ten minutes wearing a pink three quarter length collared shirt and white ankle pants that nicely complimented the Silver Millie slings showcasing her shapely feet. She had also taken the time to put on a pair of oversized silver hoop earrings.
“Now that’s a nice outfit,” Teddy said. “What’s the surprise?”
She fished her new badge from her pocket and held it up for Teddy to see. “You’re under arrest.”
Teddy wouldn’t have looked more confused if she’d said she was queen of the alligators.
“I don’t understand.”
“The NOPD is temporarily understaffed. I’m now an acting homicide detective.”
“As of when?”
“Yesterday around five o’clock.”
He squinted slyly at her. “Does that mean now I have to do everything you say?”
“The badge means I’m in complete control, but that’s nothing new.”
He moved in and again took her in his arms. “I never kissed a detective before.”
“Sure you did. Just a few minutes ago.”
“I mean before today.”
“Well, I think you should take full advantage of the opportunity.”
They kissed again, long and deep, stopping only when Fletcher began tugging on the leg of Teddy’s denim jeans.
“I think he’s jealous,” Teddy said, stopping to give him his favorite treat; a knuckle-rub on the top of his head.
“Remember how we agreed a moment ago that you had to do everything I asked?”
“Vaguely,” Teddy said.
“How about making breakfast for us. I’ve got everything you need for mushroom omelets, and there are some English muffins in the fridge too.”
“And what will you be doing, detective?”
“I’m not sure you want to know.” She reached into a nearby drawer for some small pink plastic bags decorated with cartoon paw prints.
“Oh right,” Teddy said. “Poop patrol. Seems like a detective shouldn’t have to do that.”
“Are you saying . . .”
“No ma’am. I wouldn’t presume to tell an officer of the law what to do.”
Some might think that Kit had gone to a lot of trouble, dressing so well for breakfast at home. But those holding that view would be people who’d been married for many years and had no memory of ever being in the grip of unseasoned love. Kit couldn’t imagine that such a time would ever come for her and Teddy.
During breakfast, she told Teddy about the case Gatlin had given her. She described everything she’d done so far to further the investigation, finally saying, “And I stayed up practically all night watching those surveillance videos. But I didn’t see a thing that was useful. I’m worried though that I might have missed something. And a girl’s life could be at stake.”
“Maybe another pair of eyes would help.”
“You’d do that . . . watch them again with me?”
“Can I be a deputy?”
“How about I make you deputy superintendent of surveillance video review.”
“No man could turn that down.”
“It’s going to be boring, that’s actually the problem. It’s hard to keep alert.”
“Let’s do it.”
Andy Broussard stood in his huge garage, looking at his fleet of six T-Birds. Was he guilty of ranking things before people? Offhand, he couldn’t think of any people as beautiful as his cars. Suppose someone stepped out in front of him when he was driving. Would he wreck the car to save the person? No question he would. But in the back of his mind he remembered something Bubba once said, “Anything one man can break another can fix.” So that wasn’t a real test. Not satisfied that he had answered his own question, he went inside and headed for his study.
At his desk, he picked up the phone and called the RSVP number at the bottom of his invitation to Uncle Joe’s birthday picnic. Sunday morning was an impolite time to bother anybody, but it was also a good time to catch people at home. After four rings a woman picked up the phone.
“Amelia? This is Andy Broussard.”
“Oh, yes, hello, Andy. My God, wasn’t yesterday horrible? I’ll never get it out of my mind.”
“I know exactly what you mean. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the loss of your father.”
“He was getting on in years, and it was natural to start thinking that he wouldn’t be around forever, but I didn’t expect anything like that.”
“Why would you?”
“I remember when we were all kids, you were around a lot. But then . . . what happened?”
“I been askin’ myself the same thing.”
“I heard on the news that the man who did it escaped. Do the police know who he is and why he did it?”
“No to both questions. But they’ll get to the bottom of it. The police would like a list of everyone who was invited to the picnic and also want to know who all was actually there.”
“Why ever do they need that?”
“It’s just the way these things are done.”
“I’ve got a list on my computer of everyone I invited. I printed it out and when someone called to say they were coming or not, I marked that on the printed list. Right now, I have no idea where the response list is. I may have thrown it away after I made the catering arrangements.”
“If I give you my e-mail address, could you send me the invitation list as an attachment?”
“I’ll do it as soon as I hang up.”
Broussard was determined that no Russian or Chinese computer hacker would ever steal his identity. He was likewise unwilling to have anyone spy on his purchasing habits. In his mind, the best way to avoid both those possibilities was to not have a home computer and do all his shopping either in person or by mail from catalogs. Financial transactions were done in person at his bank. But the ME’s operation was fully computerized, because it had to be. So that’s the e-mail address he gave Amelia.
“Got it,” she said.
“At the picnic, you circulated a birthday card for everyone to sign. Were you finished with that before . . . the trouble started?”
“At least ten minutes before.”
“Think you got everybody’s name who was there?”
“I might have missed some of the children, but I’m sure all the adults signed it.”
“What happened to the card?”
She didn’t answer.
“Amelia . . . you there?”
“I haven’t thought about that card until just now. I have no idea what happened to it. In all the confusion, I may have lost it.”
“Was it attached to the clipboard you sent around to give people a smooth signin’ surface?”
“No. After everyone signed it, I put it on the picnic table and sat the board on top to keep it from blowing away. I didn’t clip it to the board, because I didn’t want a pinch crease on the envelope. I certainly don’t sound very responsible do I?”
“Under the circumstances, I think you can excuse yourself for losin’ track of it.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Sorry to keep botherin’ you,” Broussard said, “But there’s one other thing the police wanted to know. Did Joe have any life insurance?”
“No. He cancelled it all when Annie died.”
“Did he ever talk to you about his will?”
“As a matter of fact, he did, because I’m named as the executor. That’s why I’m so sensitive about losing that card and looking incompetent.”
“Do you know the terms of the will . . . who the heirs are?”
“Andy, I don’t understand why you’re asking these things.”
“It’s not me. It’s the police. They have procedures to follow, reports to be filled out. I’m only askin’ to give them a hand.”
“Okay, I guess I can tell you. My father’s assets are to be liquidated and the proceeds distributed equally among his four children.”
“Do they all know that?”
“It’s what they assume, but I haven’t verified it yet to any of them.”
“Now I have to ask somethin’ that’s probably gonna seem really nosy and I apologize for that. Are any of Joe’s kids havin’ money problems?”
“I have no idea about Julien’s family and Sarah’s. But I saw Kay . . . Lewis’s wife a few weeks ago, and she was very worried about his business. I think they have a lot of debt, and the last few years his income has dwindled considerably. Scott and I are fine . . . not that I’m comfortable telling you any of this.”
“You’ve been very helpful. I apologize again for the things I’ve asked you, but sometimes life gives us difficult tasks.”
“Tell me about it. I’m just getting started on the funeral arrangements. I guess the quickest way to let all the relatives know what’s going to happen and when, is to put it in his obituary. Exactly where is he?”
“Still at my facility. But he’s ready to go. If you’ve got somethin’ to write with I’ll give you a number the funeral home can call to make arrangements for pick up.”
Broussard gave her the number, then said, “Amelia, I’m so sorry this happened.”
“Do the police have any idea who might have done it?”
She had alr
eady asked him that earlier, but not wanting to point it out, Broussard simply said, “Right now . . . no.”
Broussard’s hacking paranoia also extended to his new cell phone, which he had refused to enable for receiving e-mails. Therefore, the only way he could get his hands on the picnic invitation list was to head for the office. But without the signed birthday card, the other list wasn’t of much use. So . . . Away he went to his big garage.
Chapter 15
Phil Gatlin was back on the job. And all it cost him to get out of the house on a Sunday was to take his wife to the Golden Corral for breakfast. He was on his way to see Howard Karpis, the guy who’d threatened to kill Uncle Joe. The price for showing up with no warning at a suspect’s home was that the guy might not even be there. Such was a detective’s life.
Karpis lived about 20 miles south of New Orleans on Bayou Barataria Boulevard, a two lane road that for miles at a time was flanked by scrubby trees and wild vegetation that made the asphalt seem like an avenue to nowhere. As he drove, he idly wondered if Karpis was a relative of the infamous Alvin “Creepy” Karpis, gangster from the 1930’s. Alvin was one of only four people the FBI had ever called ‘public enemy #1.’ If they were related would this Karpis even admit it?
Using his home computer, Gatlin had run a background check on Howard Karpis yesterday. He’d found that ten years ago, the guy had done three months in jail followed by a mandatory six weeks in an anger management class after assaulting another driver who’d damaged Karpis’s car in a minor traffic accident. Though it had been a decade since that happened, Gatlin felt that even if Howard wasn’t related to Alvin Karpis, Howard likely still had those tendencies in him. So, even though he’d already seen the photo on Howard’s driver’s license, he was eager to get a look at the man in person.
The vegetation abruptly thinned on the right, replaced by a small church clothed in what looked like old time asbestos shingles. Beside the church was a little graveyard enclosed by a low iron fence made to look like cornstalks. Inside the fence the various inhabitants had been placed in a variety of aboveground white marble tombs that would keep the remains from being submerged in ground water.
Assassination at Bayou Sauvage Page 8
