by June Shaw
Reaching her street, I felt my anxiety soar.
Two police cars were parked in front of Stevie’s house.
Chapter 6
I stopped behind the squad cars and bolted into my cousin’s house. “Stevie, what’s wrong?”
No answer.
I dashed down the hall. Saw lights on in my bedroom.
“That’s her!” Stevie’s voice carried.
She and the police were going through my things. I knew because Stevie held my newest pastel yellow bra. A female deputy stopped rooting through dresser drawers. A young man in uniform didn’t stop fingering my outfits hanging in the closet.
“Where have you been?” Detective Renwick barked at me.
“Cealie, what happened to you?” Stevie grabbed me in a hug that snapped my breath. She stared at my head. “And what in the world happened to your hair?”
I sat on the bed. They’d even pulled back the covers, maybe checking for stray hair? Surely this must be part of the investigation for the dead man since I was the one who’d fallen on him.
“Let’s see,” I said, and all of them gathered round. I recounted my last hours, giving a detailed description of my experience at Beauty First. “And then I drove here.”
Everybody’s shoulders lowered. Expressions faded, from intense to “who cares?” Most of the cops backed away from me.
“That’s it? You only went to have your hair done?” Renwick lifted his gaze to my coiffeur.
I patted down the top a wee bit. “Was that a problem? Y’all don’t let a stranger get her hair fixed? Did somebody report me?”
Stevie’s hands fluttered around her sides. “Me. I called and told them you were missing.”
“Missing?”
“You just disappeared, and I thought whoever killed the man in my yard got you.”
Renwick stuck his pad in his pocket. “The only reason we came, with you seemingly missing for less than a day, was because someone died here. Your cousin made us believe something bad had also happened to you.”
“How nice of you to check up on me.” I patted his shoulder. “But if I ever have a problem, I have a cell phone. I’ll be sure to call you if I need help.”
All the cops turned to leave, except the young man who dug through my closet. He returned to it, stared inside, and fingered my low-cut, chamois-colored sweater that was hanging next to my short leather skirt. “Nice outfit,” he said, and for an instant, I imagined him wearing it. Maybe because of his shapely eyebrows. Possibly from his stance—one hand on his slim hip. I envisioned him wearing a push-up bra with my slut outfit he kept admiring.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” Stevie grimaced at me in the hall while the others went out. “I got so worried.”
“I knocked on that door.” I pointed to the one open now, emitting the smell of extinguished candles. “I told you where I was going and called your name twice, but you never answered.”
Her expression blanked. “You did? I was consulting…” She stared at the space beside me. Shut her mouth.
Obviously she wasn’t going to tell me with whom or what she’d spoken in that room. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Or possibly my cousin had a mental problem. Unless I could help, I’d just as soon not know about it. She seemed to function well enough.
I moved farther from the candle room. It started to give off strange vibes. Or maybe I imagined them. “You sure have nice police in Gatlinburg. They’ll come to see about you right away.”
Stevie trailed me to the kitchen. Under the bright fluorescent lights, she stood peering down at my hair.
“The hairdresser gave me a little touch-up,” I said, hinting for a compliment. “This shade’s natural. Nature’s Strawberry Highlights.”
“Let’s go eat,” she said.
“Already? Are you sure you want to eat again so soon?”
She grabbed her purse.
* * *
Stevie knew where to locate Cajun Delights restaurant. She wound her Jeep down the road, this time slowly enough for me to enjoy watching the water trickle along the mountain’s rocky side. We traveled near a bubbly tree-lined creek. I opened my window to hear water lapping against rocks, deciding tranquility tapes must have been made from such a place.
If I hadn’t found a dead person and if we weren’t headed to my former lover’s restaurant, I would have experienced perfect peace. My driver, annoying as she’d been, kept her thoughts to herself.
She turned onto a street with lush trees at the base of a mountain. The few commercial buildings blended with nature. My heart struck harder when Stevie pulled into a parking lot filled with cars and trucks. The tall wooden sign out front said Cajun Delights, its cayenne-red letters on a worn green finish unmistakable. The cypress exterior was gray. “Seems like lots of people heard about this place opening,” she said, “or the food is extra good.”
“It is,” I replied. Stevie glanced at me, and I had to think of a different response. “I mean, I like Cajun cooking. Cajuns prepare good food.”
She parked. I didn’t think she guessed I’d eaten in similar restaurants that Gil opened in other cities. No need for her to know about what had once been between us.
“Attractive,” she said. We walked near the aerated pond holding fish and ducks. People watched them from a wooden bridge. “This place has a comfortable feel.”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I said nothing. We stepped onto the porch where families sat on swings. Some strolled beneath the roof’s tin overhang. Welcome to Cajun Delights. We’re glad you’re here. Those words on a small sign posted on the leaded glass door sent my pulse into overdrive.
Gil might be inside.
Maybe he wasn’t.
Who knew where he might be at this moment? I struggled to get my ideas straight, but hormones raced. Darn, I wasn’t a teenager. Gil had probably stayed back around Chicago. Of course, he’d told me he was flying out this way soon. How soon? I fought with my thoughts in an attempt to straighten them out, but couldn’t. “Dammit,” I blurted.
Stevie glanced at me. I almost fibbed and said I’d stubbed my toe. Instead I tightened my lips and gave her a half smirk.
A man entering ahead of us peered back. I felt I should apologize for my language once I saw he wore a minister’s white-banded collar with a black shirt. He looked at me but not Stevie, and turned around to follow a pair of sultry young women through the doorway. He walked with a limp.
“He looks familiar,” I told Stevie, and then remembered. “Isn’t he Father Paul Edward from your stop-smoking group?”
She pulled back and spoke softly, “I hope he doesn’t spot me. I’ll want to see how he does without smoking after he eats.”
“Is that a difficult time to do without a smoke?” I asked, having forgotten Stevie and those others must be going through withdrawal pains.
“It’s when you want a cigarette the worst. After eating—and sex.” At my startled expression, she said, “At least that’s what people tell me, you know, about sex. They say a smoke’s especially good then.”
I’d never known Stevie to have sexual encounters. It surprised me to hear her mention them.
What surprised me most were those shapely young women Father Paul Edward seemed to be with. And his walk. One of his legs dragged and its foot dipped. He used a three-pronged cane.
“Does he really have trouble walking?” I asked Stevie.
“Mmm, smell that,” she said.
The food did smell scrumptious as we entered Gil’s restaurant. Tantalizing scents of fried seafood mingled with the smell of tangy crab boil used to pepper up the large red-shelled crabs I spied on waiters’ trays. Smiling customers ate at tables with black-and-white cloths holding tempting dishes. Every chair appeared filled, yet a hostess escorted us to a table near a far wall.
We sat near the knotty pine wall. I scanned the framed pictures of swamp scenes. Across the room I spied Father Paul Edward laughing with the women seated beside him.
I gl
anced around at all the faces, looking for Gil. Disappointment dropped in when I didn’t find him.
“I want a seafood platter,” Stevie told our waiter. “A large one.”
Without opening my menu, I asked, “Would you have boiled crayfish?”
“Sorry,” he said, “we haven’t gotten any yet.”
More disappointment. I sighed. “Then I’d like shrimp stew and lima beans. A cup of shrimp and corn soup as an appetizer, please.”
“How did you know they’d have dishes like that?” Stevie asked me.
“Lucky guess.”
She eyed the entrées and appetizers people surrounding us ate. “This does seem like a nice place. And all of the food looks great.”
I made noncommittal sounds. “Nice music.”
“Yes, that’s good, too.”
We turned toward a small platform holding a trio playing soft jazz. Right beyond them stood the most striking woman. Probably in her early thirties, she wore a magenta suit and similar makeup that showed off a willowy figure. Shoulder-length blond hair flipped in a fashionable style and surrounded a beauty-queen face pinched up in a scowl. She stared at her watch.
The musicians quit playing. The beauty queen turned to a man with extra-short hair who rushed to the platform. The cute man didn’t look at home stuffed into his tweed sports coat.
“Good evening,” he said into the mike, “and welcome. We hope you’ll enjoy your experience at Cajun Delights and come back again soon.”
Customers applauded. The man said, “I’d like to introduce our lovely daytime manager to you, Babs Jacobs.” He pointed to the woman, her scowl replaced by a bright smile while we all clapped. “And I’ll be overseeing things here in the evening,” the man onstage said. “So if anything’s wrong with your meals, you can take it out on me, Jake Bryant.”
I chuckled with others at his self-deprecating humor. I liked this young man.
He continued, “We wish the owner could be here.”
Yes, we do wish that.
“But he’s out of town. Come back again, and you’ll be sure to meet him,” Jake said.
The fluttering in my chest signaled my wanting to see the owner, yet I knew I shouldn’t.
Stevie spread butter on crackers we’d been served. She ate them, seemingly unaware of my anxiety.
I glanced toward the side to try to break up my thoughts. Father Paul Edward was laughing. So were the women at his table. Did that man of the cloth—apparently also a man of the world—know much about the man who died in Stevie’s yard?
“Right now we’ll have our joke contest,” Jake Bryant said. He flung out his hands. He didn’t wear a wedding band. “Please come up and share a favorite joke with us. They have to be clean. Cajun jokes are especially encouraged, if anyone knows any.”
Now, during the grand opening, joke contests would be held every evening. Later they’d take place at a variety of times. Contest winners would be chosen by customers and receive their meals on the house.
“I wish I knew some jokes to tell,” Stevie said.
I did. I’d heard many at Gil’s restaurants but could never imagine, as Gil sometimes suggested, that I’d ever get onstage to tell one.
The waiter served our appetizers. Stevie attacked her fried onion rings, and I dug into my corn soup. The shrimp were chewy, the creamy base well seasoned.
One brave soul took to the stage. The small middle-aged man began his joke.
Almost as loud as his voice through the mike, a woman’s angry tone could be heard.
The complaints came from Babs Jacobs. She stood near Jake Bryant, pointing her finger at him. This was her left hand. I noted her fingers also without rings.
“What is her problem?” I asked.
Babs must have realized how loudly she spoke. She lowered her voice.
Stevie swallowed an onion, her gaze aimed at Babs. “She can’t see well enough to drive in the dark. Jake came in late to take Babs’s place.”
I set my spoon down. “How do you know that?”
My cousin’s eyes did their mystic-thing—gazing as though not seeing, at least not through their pupils. “I read her vibes.”
Okay, this psychic seeing of hers spooked me.
Customers clapped as the jokester left the stage. Another man took his place. My interest held on the two managers, farther aside from the stage now and still talking. Babs continued to look annoyed. She held up her wrist and appeared to show Jake her watch. And then she stomped off.
“I think you’re right about her. I have problems driving at night, too,” I told Stevie. “So can you tell anything about his problem?”
“He likes her, but doesn’t think he stands a chance with her.”
“Amazing. How do you know that?”
She rolled her eyes toward Jake. “I saw the way he looked at her.”
“Oh.” So much for her intuitive knowledge. I checked Jake out and could see the way he peered soulfully at Babs’s trim departing figure. If he really did want to date her, I hoped he would give himself a chance and ask her.
If I stayed around town long enough, maybe I could make sure they got together.
People applauded for the joke-teller. No one else went on stage. Jake looked first resigned and then happy as he hopped up to the mike. “We’d like for all of you to decide on the winner,” he said.
Audience applause chose the first contestant. I watched Jake leaving the spotlight. His smiling face became serious. Of course Stevie could read signs such as a man wanting interest from a woman. I could also read that body language.
The trio resumed their music, and our entrées arrived. Stevie praised her fried oysters, fish, and shrimp, and the stuffed crabs and gumbo. Her meal looked appetizing, and mine tasted scrumptious. I tore into the stew. People everywhere smiled and ate. Father Paul Edward came toward our table, but didn’t glance at us. Cheerily following the pretty ladies, he leaned slightly on his cane, his foot drooping.
I’d seen a movie in which a killer faked a clubfoot. When Father reached my side, I had to squash an instinct to yank his cane away, then watch to see if he’d keep going without a foot problem.
Stop it, Cealie.
He walked off with the women, and I gave myself a mental head slap for my wicked thoughts.
“Well, he’s not smoking,” Stevie said. “At least not on a cigarette.”
“Ooh, you wicked person,” I said and gave her a good-girl hand slap.
“Of course, people can’t smoke in restaurants anymore,” she said, “but I looked for a cigarette-pack bulge in his pocket. None. No cigarette in his hand, either, ready to light up when he got outside.”
“What would he be doing with those ladies?” I asked, watching them sashay on spiked heels, their hips rolling.
“They look like ladies of the evening. Maybe he wants to take them both into the evening at home and see what happens.”
“Stevie, you really are wicked. I like that.” I felt comforted by seeing this playful part of her I’d enjoyed when we were kids.
“They sure ate fast. I guess they were in a hurry,” she said.
I finished my meal, sorry I’d have to leave Gil’s place, sorry he wasn’t here. Cajun Delights was a terrific restaurant, but without him lacked the spark I’d come to love.
“That was good.” Stevie wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Mmm, and that looks even better.” She stared at the entrance. The old Stevie was back, it seemed, since now she sounded like that young teen girl who, along with me, ogled older teen boys.
I looked where she did, ready to make a smart comment.
And faced Gil Thurman.
Chapter 7
Gil stood six foot three, with a well-muscled chest and broad shoulders beneath a white shirt and navy sports coat. A pinch of dark chest hair was visible where his shirt opened at the collar. His jeans were pale blue, hiding soft briefs probably the same shade.
Intimate parts of my body reacted.
I struggled to close my mo
uth.
My peripheral vision let me spy Stevie staring at my face. Maybe wondering why I didn’t speak. Or possibly I was drooling.
I ignored her, focusing completely on Gil.
His thick, steel-gray hair had grown a little near the temples, where a sprinkling of hair had turned silver. His eyes were deep gray. It took only a moment for them to survey his restaurant. His gaze met mine. A smile lit Gil’s face. He strode toward me.
I met him halfway across the room. We hugged. He was also glad to see me. Very glad, I could tell as we hugged tighter.
“What a surprise,” Jake Bryant announced in the mike. “Here he is, everyone. The man who gives us Cajun Delights, Mr. Gil Thurman.”
I pulled away from Gil.
He grabbed my waist and drew me partway in front of him. I smiled at everyone staring at us and clapping. I gave them a wave. I wasn’t sure what Gil was doing behind me. I was pretty sure he wasn’t waving. He probably awarded them his great smile. I liked the feel of him clinging to my waist.
“Would you like to come up here and speak to your guests?” Jake asked him.
I shifted aside so Gil could pass to the bandstand while people clapped.
“Stay here,” he said in a deep-throated whisper. He gripped me tighter and kept me in front of him.
I didn’t mind. Mmm, warm and comfy snug against him.
“We’re happy you’re all here,” Gil said in a loud tone, and I kept smiling at all the people. “We hope you enjoy your experience. Please let anyone on our staff know if there’s anything at all we can do for you.”
I raised my hand like I was telling them ’bye. And then Gil’s large hand tightened on my waist, nudging. We moved to a recessed area, away from everyone.
“Hello. How are you?” he said to me, his head leaning down. His lips that I knew to remain warm moved toward mine.
Heat flooded my body.
“So you know each other,” my cousin said.
I jerked away from Gil. “Stevie,” I said in a high-pitched tone. “Oh, this is the restaurant’s owner, Gil. Mr. Gil Thurman.”
Her eyebrows drew toward each other. “From what I just saw, I don’t think you ordinarily call him Mister. But I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Thurman.” She accepted his handshake.
