Killer Cousins

by June Shaw

  “Not yet.” He leaned back against the wall. Gave me a smile filled with anguish. “You know how to hurt a guy.”

  “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. Let me put something on you. Some ice or medicine.”

  “No!” He put up a hand, maybe making sure I didn’t try to touch his privates. “I’m good. Really.” His nostrils narrowed while he inhaled. Then he pushed himself off the wall. “I’ll be going.”

  He took tiny steps out of the bathroom. Gil let out little oohs along the way.

  I cringed, wanting to take away his pain. I shrugged into my robe and followed. “Why did you come over?”

  “I felt so bad about having someone die in my restaurant last night. I wanted a friend, a shoulder to lean on.”

  “Ah, Gil.” He’d tugged at my heart. I threw my arms out to hug him.

  He cringed and leaned forward, allowing only the top portion of his body to touch mine. “Ow.” He stepped away and used baby steps toward the front door.

  “You really should see a doctor,” I suggested. “I could probably get you in with the one I saw yesterday, Dr. Wallo.”

  Gil stopped. “Dan?” He said the doctor’s first name like ice dropping off his tongue.

  “Yes. He seems like a nice guy. It’s a shame he couldn’t save Fawn.”

  Gil’s eyes crimped with sadness. “He tried. He knew she was gone, but still kept trying.” Gil nodded, admiration in his face.

  “So maybe you should let him check you.”

  “No way.”

  He walked out the front door. I went with him to the porch. Suffering etched his expression. He gave me a light kiss. “Maybe you should only attack vulnerable body parts on enemies.”

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  It was a good thing Stevie had a railing for him to hold onto as he hobbled down the stairs. Otherwise, he might have tumbled.

  “Oh. Oh-oh.” Gil descended each step like it was a major hurdle, and he was a ninety-year-old man.

  And I had done that to him.

  “Be careful!” I called. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  He shook his head. Getting into his car at the curb caused him to release more yelps.

  “Wait!” I called. “It doesn’t have to be him. There are other doctors you could see. Let me phone one and bring you in.”

  He gunned his motor and sped off.

  I considered what I’d done. I’d caused him major damage. I hoped it was reversible and would soon heal.

  Oh my gosh, suppose I’d caused Gil long-term difficulty. Suppose his sexual ability was over?

  I leaned against the porch wall, considering how I had maimed him. No, no, no, Cealie, what have you done now?

  “Hey. Nice to see you,” a woman said.

  I quit shaking my head.

  Two women with white hair stood on the sidewalk. Their jogging suits made me recall that they were the ones we’d seen walking behind Stevie’s fence.

  “Hi,” I told them.

  “We saw you out here last night,” the one wearing pink said.

  “Yes, well…it’s nice outside.” Okay, and yesterday a cop followed me here. And just now you both saw my former lover hobbling away. And I caused his hobble.

  They started walking, arms swinging briskly.

  “Wait,” I said, and they turned. “A man died here a few days ago. Did you see anything?”

  “No,” the one in pink said. The other one shook her head. They strolled off, faces ahead, arms swinging.

  Directly across the street, a young woman walked out of her front door and grabbed the newspaper from her porch. She spied me and gave a big wave.

  I waved back. Were all of Stevie’s neighbors so friendly?

  Back inside, I slipped into slacks and a dressy shirt and flats. I made a pit stop in the bathroom. The liquid makeup glob now staining the lavatory made my heart sink. I’d hurt Gil.

  I should stop aiming for vulnerable body parts whenever I felt threatened, I told myself, swiping a little mascara on my lashes. I shook my head. Body parts became valuable things to hurt when no weapon was around and I needed help. I dabbed on tinted lip gloss, grabbed my purse, and went out.

  Somebody somewhere had information about the man who’d died. Could his death be connected to Fawn McKenzie’s?

  Probably the same medical examiner was trying to discover why she and Pierce Trottier had died. Nobody could convince me his death stemmed from natural causes.

  I was going to investigate one person from the stop-smoking group again. I had an idea he knew much more than he was saying.

  * * *

  More cars were at Parfait’s Parlor than I’d thought I would find during the late morning. I parked, and the sweet smell of chocolate drew me inside.

  College-age youths sat in clumps, their voices loud. They ate from tall glasses, the swirls of their parfaits attractive. I wanted one.

  I shook my head, reached back with both hands, and patted my butt—ammunition for avoiding temptation. I poked my stomach way out, feeling how extremely tight my slacks’ waistline had become since I’d arrived in this town and eaten so many rich foods.

  “Mrs. Gunther, do you have a problem?” Kern Parfait stepped up to me.

  “No, why?”

  He stared at my belly, then leaned toward my butt. “You seemed to have problems with getting some body parts to stay in place.”

  That was rude. Nearby kids heard and snickered.

  I looked at them. Looked at him. Raised my voice. “Don’t you ever feel like your ass has gotten too big?”

  Kids guffawed.

  Parfait’s grimace intensified. His hands at his sides clenched into fists. “Did you come over here to check yours?”

  “Maybe.” I pulled in my stomach as hard as I could. Then poked it out. I pulled in and poked out. “This is really good exercise. You might try it.”

  I stopped my stomach workout and shoved my butt way back, then tucked it in. I repeated the motion, while young people howled with laughter.

  Parfait grabbed my arm. Not gently. His teeth clenched. “Unless you order something and sit, you’re loitering.”

  “Come sit with us,” a guy in a red T-shirt yelled. He shoved over in his already-crowded booth.

  “Yeah,” other teens said. Young people in the place cheered.

  I smiled and slid into the space close to the boy. I winked at all the others in the booth.

  Kern Parfait seethed. “What can I get you?” he asked me. “I’ll have someone hurry it to you.”

  “We need another round of all this.” I pointed to the group’s half-filled glasses.

  “Oh, yeah,” the biggest guy said.

  “I’ll take water.” I glanced at all of the tables holding young people. “And let’s have refills for everyone.”

  Cheers and whoops resounded.

  I stood, moving my face close to Kern Parfait’s. “Again you’re dressed spotlessly,” I said. “And there’s not a speck of grass or dust on your shiny shoes. Why was there grass in the cuff of your slacks the day Pierce Trottier died?”

  His teeth clenched while he whispered, “Don’t ever come here again.”

  “The grass was cut outside my cousin’s fence that day.” I pulled two hundred-dollar bills from my purse and shoved them at him, speaking louder than he did. “I’ll enter this joint any time I want.”

  “Yeah, you’re right!” kids hollered. They were stomping their feet and pounding on tables while I strolled out.

  Getting inside my car, I sat quietly. I didn’t know that I’d accomplished anything in there except making its owner angry. Oh, I did help feed the masses.

  I grinned. Those growing young adults needed nourishment, although double doses of ice cream and syrup and surgery fruit might not be the first requirement on the food chart.

  My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten a thing yet today. I always ate breakfast, but not today because of Gil’s visit to Stevie’s house. And now the sweet scent of ice cream
remained with me. I needed food.

  I also needed to see Gil and find out how he was doing.

  Chapter 22

  The parking lot at Cajun Delights held only nine vehicles. Nine. And it was almost noon.

  I parked there and checked my car’s clock. Twelve-thirty.

  Maybe they were closed. I strode to the front door, pulled it open, and went inside.

  The vast room filled with black-and-white squares on tablecloths looked like it waited for massive checkers games. No music played. The restaurant was almost silent. No seafood scents.

  A waiter stepped up to my side.

  “You’re open?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, we opened a couple of weeks ago. Would you like a table near a window? And will you be eating by yourself?” His voice was void of cheer.

  We moved farther into the restaurant. Four men in work clothes ate together. I saw Gil, the only other person eating. He sat at his table, gaze down. He looked solemn.

  “I’ll eat with him,” I told my waiter.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.”

  Gil only glanced up when I stepped near. He didn’t smile—probably a first for him when he saw me. “Hello,” he said, tone lifeless.

  “Hello.”

  The waiter drew a chair back for me, the chair Fawn had sat in when she’d died last night.

  I took a breath and sat in it. “I don’t need a menu,” I told the waiter. “I’d like seafood gumbo, please, with iced tea.”

  He went off. I edged my chair closer to the table. Envisioned the white gumbo bowl at this place, Fawn’s face inside it.

  I shoved the chair back and stood. “Four chairs at this table,” I told Gil. “I pick the one closer to you.” I took the chair beside his, leaned over, and kissed his cheek.

  “I wonder if anyone will ever want to sit there again.” Gil gloomily stared at the chair Fawn had died in.

  “Oh, sure,” I said with little conviction. “People will hardly even know about it.”

  His gaze speared my eyes. He looked at Fawn’s chair that I’d left. He looked at me.

  Enough said.

  I drank some tea the waiter set in front of me. Its coldness going down accentuated how tight my throat had become.

  Gil stared across the room, gaze vacant. His gaze had always held his vision for an even better life than he already had. And whenever he gazed at me, his gaze held love. Lust. A mingling of both.

  But not today.

  I touched his arm. “You could get rid of that chair. Put a new one there.”

  “I’ll attach a sign—I’m brand new, not the chair a woman died on.”

  “I see your point.”

  “This is rush hour. Or should be.” He scanned his nearly empty building. “A birthday party was scheduled at noon. It was cancelled. So were three group reservations.” He scraped his fork alongside a flounder stuffed with crabmeat languishing in his plate.

  “Last night I saw a waiter stop you when you were on your way to our table. And I heard raised voices exchanged between your managers.”

  Gil shook his head. “Both managers seem competent, but there’s a problem. He often runs late. She voices her unhappiness in front of customers.”

  “Customers did seem to notice.”

  His expression darkened. “Those are situations I’ll need to deal with. I’ve spoken with both of them about those habits they need to break, or I’ll have to hire new people.”

  “Hiring competent people to run your business can be tough, especially when you don’t even live in their state.”

  “You know how that is,” he said.

  I nodded. We quietly sat, hanging our heads. The waiter brought my gumbo.

  “I need to wash my hands,” I told Gil. “They’re sticky.” The stickiness came from syrup on the table where I’d sat at Parfait’s. I didn’t need to tell him I’d gone there to nose around.

  He didn’t seem to notice as I walked away.

  I soaped my hands in the restroom. A toilet flushed. Good. Maybe new customers had come in, and one made a pit stop here.

  A stall door opened. It was only Babs, the manager. She nodded at me and washed her hands.

  I dried my fingers. “You don’t like to drive at night,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve seen you getting annoyed with the night manager. I’m Cealie, a friend of Gil’s. We met at the supermarket near the grapes,” I added to reassure her I wasn’t a person off the street trying out psychic mumbo jumbo.

  “Yes. You’re right. I can’t see well driving when it’s dark.”

  “I knew it. I’m the same way. Ever since I turned forty, I’ve had problems seeing to drive at night.”

  She gave me a small smile, dried her hands, and walked toward the exit.

  “I really think you should give him a chance,” I said, and she turned to listen. “Jake. He might frustrate you now and have faults, especially not being on time. But you could help him with that. He just seems like a good person.”

  “Yes. Well…” She nodded briefly and went out.

  I happily sighed. I loved to play matchmaker.

  Gil didn’t think it was a good idea since he believed people meant for each other would find each other on their own. He probably wouldn’t like to know I’d tried fixing up people he’d hired, especially since he was having problems with them.

  But he’d be pleased if they started dating and became happy with each other instead of miserable. Then this restaurant would become more cheerful when they were together.

  I smiled as I walked out to meet Gil. Passing the bar, I heard muted voices from the wall TV and glanced there.

  A national news station showed my face. I stood among others outside Cajun Delights, the restaurant where they were telling the world a woman had died with her face in a bowl of gumbo.

  My legs wobbled. News stations were showing this everywhere. What might this coverage do to all of Gil’s restaurants?

  I rushed to the table, hoping he hadn’t seen or heard that news. Maybe the cause of Fawn’s death, a natural cause, would be discovered shortly, and all of this horror would be over.

  Gil sat, his expression still sad. I forced a smile and sat with him. I picked at my gumbo, which was cooler than I liked, but didn’t want to complain or send it to get reheated. Gil didn’t need any more complaints. I dreaded having him learn about making the national news.

  “You aren’t eating?” I asked.

  He didn’t hold any silverware or drink. His stuffed flounder, normally a choice entrée, was surely cold. “I need to go to the bathroom,” he said.

  “The men’s one isn’t working?”

  “It works fine.”

  “Then why don’t you go?”

  He grimaced. Took a deep breath. Bent forward.

  “Oh, my gosh, you must be really hurt.”

  Gil gave me a forced smile. Creases formed between his eyes. He let out a moan.

  Tears warmed my eyes. “Can I do anything?”

  His smile widened. Still didn’t get happy. “After the customers leave, I’ll try getting there.”

  Ooh, how badly he must hurt.

  There were customers at only two places—the four men and me. The men were paying for their meals. I gobbled my lukewarm gumbo so I could leave, too.

  Gil’s face looked drawn and expressed pain when I tossed down my napkin.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  He seemed to be gritting his teeth. Shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good luck. Call me.” I pecked a kiss on his cheek and went off.

  Driving away, I imagined Gil shoving himself up with much effort, then hobbling and moaning to reach the bathroom.

  My chest ached for what I had done to him. The more I envisioned Gil hobbling, the angrier I became. I’d only struck him out of fear—the fear that came from two people near me dying.

  I needed to learn what caused at least one of those deaths. I needed more answers. At least o
ne person—or group—that I didn’t trust should be available now.

  People often made up excuses as crutches for their negative behavior. Some of them went to confession at churches. Maybe I could kick away one man’s crutch and draw out a confession on my own. I whipped my car around the corner and headed for Our Lady of Hope.

  Chapter 23

  Sunlight glittered against the church’s steep windows, momentarily blinding me as I drove near the church. No cars around. No people visible. No sound except my shoes patting on dirt while I got out and walked to the church.

  I tried both doors. Locked.

  Trotting to the side wall, I peeked in a long window.

  The confessional door was closed. No motion. Not one person.

  The house beyond the driveway looked extra small. Wooden frame, natural finish, a tiny porch. I walked across the dirt road, stepped onto the porch, and rang the doorbell to what I imagined was the priest’s house.

  No response.

  I rang and rang it again, more frustrated by the moment. I needed to question someone, needed some answers. Needed to get rid of the feeling that I’d caused Gil anguish. Stevie wasn’t happy with me, either.

  The bell might not work, I decided, and slammed my fist against the door. Instead of finding solutions, I was bruising my knuckles.

  I breathed in deeply and turned to go.

  “Yes?” a woman said, holding the door open.

  “You’re one of the twins.”

  She nodded. “Lark.” Lark looked exhausted. Mascara smudged under her droopy eyes. Other makeup was bright red on her lips and cheeks. She wore a flimsy pink robe.

  This didn’t look good. If this was the priest’s house, she probably wasn’t his housekeeper or the cook taking a brief nap before she washed the lunch dishes.

  “I’d like to come in.”

  “Father’s not here. It’s just me.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  Unhappily, she let me inside.

  Blue. Bright, in-your-face ice blue, the same color as the shirt Pierce Trottier had worn when he died. That’s what the little house held.

  We walked directly into the petite living room with blue walls. Lark dropped to a cushioned blue chair and indicated I should sit on the blue sofa. I sat and scanned wall pictures—outdoor scenes in navy frames. The coffee table painted ice blue. Through a door I saw an old-time stove in what seemed to be a matchbox kitchen, reminding me I needed to buy Stevie one. The other door was shut.