by Sandra Hill
Luc, one of Louisiana’s most successful lawyers, was anything but dumb, and he was enjoying the hell out of what he called John’s latest “scrape.”
“Scrape? Shit! You guys act as if I’m ten years old and still gettin’ into scrapes.”
“Earth to Tee-John. Ten-year-olds don’t sell their bodies for money. At least, most of them don’t.
Did you?” Luc blinked at him, as if his question was serious.
“Get real! And stop callin’ me Tee-John. I’m not little anymore.” He inhaled deeply for patience, a lost cause with these three. “Not that I’m admitting that article was about me, but the undercover cops didn’t actually have sex with anyone at that club.”
“Oh, great! Ruin a married man’s fantasy.” René pretended that he lived vicariously through John’s life, but it wasn’t true. Although he and Val, who used to be a Trial TV lawyer, had two preteens, Jude and Louise, and they’d been married for almost twelve years, a person only had to be in their company for a minute to see that they still had a hot sex life.
“Mon Dieu! I couldn’t believe it when I saw the newspaper,” Remy added. “In fact, I was still in bed when Rachel brought the paper up to me. She was laughin’ so hard she practically peed her pants.”
“I live to make women pee their pants.”
No one paid any attention to him.
“I for one would be really pissed if I was sent undercover and didn’t get any of the undercover benefits,” Luc said.
“I’d like to hear you repeat that in front of Sylvie. She’d roast your balls over one of her bunson burners and serve them to you in a hot gumbo.” Sylvie was a chemist, and the love of Luc’s life. About fifty, they’d been married forever, but were devoted to each other, like all the LeDeux men were once they settled down with their women, except for their father.
“Ouch.” Luc pretended to hold his crotch.
“Well, I’ve had enough of bein’ your joke pin cushion.” John got up from the rocking chair and walked down to help Tante Lulu and Charmaine set out some food. To his back, one of his brothers muttered, “Spoilsport.”
Charmaine was arranging food on the folding tables set about the back lawn. Every couple minutes she swiveled her hips and sang along in Cajun French to the zydeco music playing softly from the boom box near her feet. It was René’s band The Swamp Rats singing on a CD demo they’d made several years back.
He smacked Charmaine on the butt.
She yelped and jumped back. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Sex-for-hire, bless his heart. Tell me, sweetie, what did you charge for . . . ” Charmaine mentioned something so explicit she almost made him blush.
Almost. Then she wagged a long-nailed, red-enameled forefinger at him. “Tsk, tsk, tsk! Y’all better stay away from Tante Lulu. She’s been rehearsin’ a few words for you on the subject.”
“She already told me what she thinks.”
She smiled, knowing exactly what he meant.
“My name was never mentioned in that article, ya know.”
“Puh-leeze!”
“Why does everyone keep sayin’ that?” he complained.
Charmaine wouldn’t be working on this treasure hunt; she had more than enough to do with her dude ranch/beauty spas, and her three-year-old Mary Lou, who was a female clone of her daddy, Raoul Lanier. Everyone said that Rusty . . . or Raoul . . . was so good-looking women stopped on the street to gawk at him. He couldn’t see it himself, but then he was a guy. It was probably because he was a cowboy; women went apeshit over cowboys.
“You oughta let me dye your hair blond and stop wearin’ that silly wig,” Charmaine offered.
“Where’d you buy it? Wal-Mart?”
“No way! You are not touchin’ my hair. No offense, but you’d probably throw in a perm or dreadlocks.”
“You need long hair for dreadlocks.”
“See, you would’ve actually considered it.”
She slapped his arm. Then she turned serious. “Are you really in enough danger that you need a disguise?”
He shrugged. “These are bad guys.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “You be careful, hear?”
Charmaine wasn’t really a blood relative of Tante Lulu; nor was John, but they were both children of Valcour LeDeux, as were Tante Lulu’s three natural great-nephews, Luc, Remy, and René. To Tante Lulu they were all kin, blood or not.
Watching Charmaine and Tante Lulu bustle around the tables, he had to smile. In some ways, Charmaine, a former Miss Louisiana, could have been her daughter, so much alike were they in attitude. With big black Texas hair, tall as a model, and stacked like Pamela Anderson, she wore tight white capri pants, a leopard print halter top, and high-heeled wedgies.
This was probably the way Tante Lulu had dressed when she was young. Even though she was only five-foot tall and ninety-two years old, the old lady still dressed outrageously. Today she’d dyed her short, curly hair red, and she wore her favorite purple shorts with its matching lavender tank top with a built-in bra. Grandma Moses with cleavage! Her only concession to her age was the orthopedic shoes, but she’d painted red polka dots on them. Lots of people didn’t look past Tante Lulu’s appearance, but those here in the bayou knew her for the accomplished traiteur, or healer, that she was.
“Another great adventure, Auntie?” He gave her a hug.
She didn’t push him away, but she didn’t answer him either.
“Givin’ me the silent treatment, chère?”
Turning, she glared at him.
“My name wasn’t in that article. It might’ve been anyone.”
She gave him one of her looks. At least she didn’t say “Puh-leeze!” Then she sighed deeply. “How am I ever gonna find you a gal when yer gallavantin’ around with scarlet wimmen?”
Only Tante Lulu would refer to whores by that old-fashioned term.
“I don’t want you findin’ me a gal. I can take care of that myself.”
“Doan look ta me like yer doin’ such a good job. Gumbo doan make itself, ya know.”
Whatever the hell that means.
“By the way, I like that hair color on you. Sorta like Tab Hunter.”
“Who’s Tab Hunter?”
Ignoring his question, she went on, “Mebbe ya oughta let Charmaine do yer hair up proper.”
Yep, the two of them are clones.
“And now ya lost yer job,” she said with disgust.
“I didn’t lose my job. It’s just suspended for a while, ’til things die down. Besides, aren’t you glad I’m here to help on the Pirate Project?”
“Well, there is that.” Slowly, a smile broke the wrinkles on her aged face. “But I still say the thunderbolt is headin’ yer way.”
After another hug, he went down to the stream where the other members of the Jinx team were still gazing at Useless, tossing him the occasional gingersnap or cheese doodle. To Yankees, gators were a marvel; to those living on the bayou, they were just everyday pests.
“Hey, John. I’m so glad you’ll be able to join us.” That from Veronica Jinkowsky, owner of Jinx, Inc., the treasure hunting company she inherited a few years back from her grandfather Frank Jinkowsky. Ronnie was fascinated by, but keeping her distance from, Useless, even though the old gator was harmless. Well, fairly harmless, as long as he got his daily allotment of cheese doodles or gingersnaps.
“Hey, it should be fun. Thanks for lettin’ me jump in this late in the game.” And for givin’ me a hidin’ place.
“Not so late. We haven’t started yet. Besides, having a local diver will be helpful.”
“You again?” said Caleb Peachey, extending a hand to shake. He knew Caleb from two previous Jinx projects he’d been on. Caleb was an ex-Amish Navy SEAL. Talk about oxymorons!
“You can’t get rid of me that easily. Where’s Claire?” Claire was Caleb’s wife.
“She’s back in Pennsylvania, about to run her outdoor farm camp for children.” He rolled his eyes.
Caleb had an aversion to farm life,
thanks to his early years of hard work in a large Amish family, but Claire, some kind of fancy pancy historical archaeologist (which meant she obsessed over Indians), loved farms. Needless to say, they lived on a farm.
Adam Famosa, a Cuban professor of oceanography at Rutgers University and a diving expert, was on his cell phone, probably talking to some woman. You could say that John and Adam had a little friendly personality conflict. The numbnuts was gonna love John’s discomfort over the Playpen incident.
While Peach managed to overlook his appearance, Famosa glanced up at him and smirked.
“LeDeux,” he said, shaking his head. That’s all he said, but he continued to smirk. A big ol’ Yankee jerk of a smirk.
John shrugged and turned to Brenda Caslow, a former NASCAR mechanic, who had just arrived with her husband, Lance Caslow, a NASCAR driver. Lance would be leaving Brenda behind when he caught a plane later today for trial runs in Tennessee. NASCAR racing was big in the South. If Tante Lulu’s neighbors found out Lance Caslow was here, they would be mobbed.
“Hey, buddy, I know what bad press is like,” Lance said, patting him on the shoulder. “Just lay low for a while.”
John opened his mouth to protest, but gave up trying to convince them that the article wasn’t about him.
“Hah! The difference in your bad publicity, dear,” Brenda told her husband, not so sweetly, “is it usually involved a front page photo of a bimbo sitting on your lap looking at you as if she’d like to lube your engine.”
John laughed and Lance did his best not to laugh.
“Not anymore, honey.” Lance pulled Brenda into his arms, giving her a big wet kiss. When he was done, Brenda looked a little dazed.
Tante Lulu called everyone to the tables. “Come ’n eat, ever’one.”
They all dished up gumbo, Lazy Bread, sliced tomatoes warm from the garden, red beans and rice, corn on the cob, and a bushel of crawfish set by itself on a plastic cloth-covered table. On another table, she had arranged dishes, cutlery, napkins, glasses, a pitcher of iced sweet tea, and two Peachy Praline Cobbler cakes. There was also a cooler filled with ice and bottles of Dixie beer. An everyday Cajun feast.
“Everything looks wonderful,” Ronnie observed. “Should I wake up Jake?”
“Nah, let him and the little one sleep. Food will keep.”
Jake Jensen, Ronnie’s four-times ex-husband, was asleep on a nearby hammock with their three-year-old daughter Julie Ann sprawled over his chest. Jake was a professional poker player, taking a break from the circuit for a few weeks. Ronnie kept glancing his way, her eyes filled with love for the two of them. If Tante Lulu had her way, with a little help from St. Jude, Ronnie and Jake would be marrying again.
“You didn’t have to do this, Tante Lulu,” Ronnie said, even as she piled her plate with the delicious food. “Just because you’re an investor in the Pirate Project doesn’t mean you have to open your home to us rowdy folks.”
“Feedin’ my family and friends is a joy, dearie. Food, she is an important part of Cajun life. And I have plenty experience with rowdy folks, believe you me.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” He sneaked a peach off her cake and popped it into his mouth.
She smacked his hand away.
A companionable silence followed then as people dug in . . . until Tante Lulu made an offhand remark. “That newspaper story . . . it was written by Celine Arseneaux, weren’t it? I know her paw-paw, James Arseneaux. Her maw-maw died years ago.”
“Yeah,” he said hesitantly, not sure what direction his aunt was headed, but she had that wily gleam in her eyes which set up the red alert hairs on the back of his neck.
“She’s a good Cajun girl, ain’t she?”
John choked on his beer. “Part-Cajun, I think. She has blue eyes.”
His brothers and Charmaine burst out laughing.
“What’s up?” Famosa wanted to know.
“Yeah, share the joke,” Caleb added.
“No, no, no,” he said, but it was too late.
Tante Lulu grinned. “Me, I think I smell thunder.”
Chapter 4
Did anyone hear thunder? . . .
Tante Lulu gaped at her rascal nephew whose face was flushed with pure panic.
“What’s goin’ on? I was jist teasin’,” she whispered to Charmaine.
“Tee-John is a bit flustered. I wonder why,” Charmaine whispered back.
“I heard that,” Tee-John said. “Don’t get any ideas about me and Celine Arseneaux, either one of you. Celine hates my guts.”
“How do you feel about her guts?” Luc asked. He had come up behind Tee-John without his noticing.
Tee-John flashed him a look of disgust.
“Mebbe St. Jude sent you and Celine ta that hanky-panky club t’gether fer a purpose. Mebbe she jist needs a thunderbolt ta jump-start her heart.”
“St. Jude and a sex club? I don’t think so,” Tee-John scoffed.
“Stranger things have happened,” Luc pointed out. “The ol’ guy got me with a love potion Sylvie concocted in her lab.”
“I got feng shued.” Remy winked at Tee-John, who still wore a frowny face.
“Val got kidnapped and dropped in my lap.” You could tell how pleased René was to tell them about that.
“I’ve got you all beat. I had to become a born-again virgin before I landed Rusty.” Charmaine’s announcement was met with stone-cold silence.
The Yankee gang was staring at them all, open-mouthed. That was Yankees for you. No sense of humor.
“Listen to me, Tante Lulu. I want nothin’ to do with Celine Arseneaux. Not now. Not ever. Did you hear me?”
“Holy crawfish! They heard you in Biloxi.”
“I’m too young ta settle down,” the boy continued, looking around him for support.
No one agreed with him.
He glared at each of his brothers and Charmaine, in turn, then muttered, “Traitors,” and walked away, down toward the bayou.
“Deader ’n a doornail,” Luc remarked to Remy, who nodded.
“Best I be warmin’ up my frottir fer the weddin’ celebration,” René said.
“Me, I’m gonna get Tee-John’s hope chest started, right quick,” Tante Lulu decided.
Tee-John screamed. Which was really funny. Tante Lulu couldn’t recall ever hearing a man scream before, except maybe Valcour LeDeux the time she hit him in the privates with a baseball bat.
Just call me . . .
Celine got a call later that night, from John LeDeux, of all people. Good thing her grandfather hadn’t answered the phone.
“What do you want?” she snapped.
“Hello to you, too, darlin’.”
“I don’t have time for your nonsense, John. I’m in bed.” With a book. Darn it!
“Alone?”
Are you kidding? I haven’t had sex for so long I probably forgot how. “That’s none of your business.”
“Jeez, Louise! I was just askin’. I figured we’re sorta friends now that we both hang out at sex clubs. Do you have a boyfriend, Celine?”
“A boyfriend? What, are we in high school again?”
“Okay, a lover?”
“That is definitely none of your business. I repeat, what do you want? Talking to you twice in one day is more than my system can digest.” Actually, it’s kinda nice. Darn it!
“I am yummy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why are you whispering?”
“Because I’m callin’ from my aunt’s bedroom. I don’t want her to overhear me.”
“Are you afraid of your aunt?”
“Damn straight!” He paused, then asked, “What’re you readin’?”
“What makes you think I’m reading?”
“Because if I was in bed with you, I wouldn’t be lettin’ you talk to some other guy. Wanna know what I’d be doin’?”
Yes. “No.”
“So what’re you readin’?”
“The Red-Hot Cajun.”
“I’m a red-hot cajun.�
��
“How did I know you would say that? It’s a romantic humor novel.”
“Actually, I know that. One of the lieutenants on the force, Mollie Andrews, was readin’ it last week. Couldn’t stop laughin’.”
She yawned loudly. “Look, this is real pleasant and all, but why are you calling?”
“I just wanted ta warn you. If any of my family members approach you, run.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t pay any attention if someone mentions thunderbolts or St. Jude or a hope chest.”
“A hope chest? For who? Me?”
“Hell, no. For me. My great-aunt makes hope chests for all the men in our family.”
Celine couldn’t stop herself from laughing.
“It’s not funny.”
“Yes, it is. I never heard of a hope chest for a man.”
“It’s a LeDeux thing. Anyhow, just ignore anything they might say.”
“John, I haven’t seen any of the LeDeuxs, except for you, in years. And even with you, it’s been years.”
“Believe you me, baby, you’re probably gonna be seein’ a whole hell of a lot of them now. Just ignore the whole crazy bunch.”
With those words, he hung up.
Celine stared at the phone, and wondered if John had gone off the deep end. Maybe his job suspension was hitting him harder than expected. Or maybe he was just drunk.
But then an alarming thought occurred to Celine. She couldn’t have the LeDeuxs coming around here. For one important reason. Etienne.
Tomorrow she was going to send her grandfather and Etienne on a vacation to her cousin Julian’s ranch in Texas. They’d been talking about such a trip for ages. Now was definitely the time.
Damn those LeDeuxs.
Damn John LeDeux.
Avast, me maties . . .
Veronica was impressed with the work René LeDeux had done for them thus far on the Pirate Project.
Too bad the bayou ecologist, who taught school, didn’t want a full-time job.
They were all crammed around the table in Tante Lulu’s kitchen, except for Luc, Remy, and Lance, who’d already left. She and Jake would leave with Julie Ann after the project was launched, passing the reins to Adam. Project heads changed regularly so that eventually all team members got a shot at director. Jake had a poker tournament in Atlantic City, and she had work to do back in the Barnegat, New Jersey, office of Jinx, Inc.
