Bayou Hero

by Marilyn Pappano

  As she drove away from her house, she considered the information. Was it coincidence, two old friends being murdered in the same manner less than a week apart? Possibly, but everything in her doubted it. Wallace’s death wasn’t a robbery gone bad. Burglars might kill if surprised by the home owner, but take the time to inflict extensive stab wounds? To sever his tongue? No way.

  Like Jeremiah Jackson, Brad Wallace’s murder was a rage killing. It was personal. Given their friendship, it very well might have been committed by the same person.

  So they had four murders—she said a silent apology to Constance Marks and Wilma and Laura Owens, whom she was convinced had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Camilla Jackson’s death had been cruel but not in the sense of her husband’s or his friend’s. It didn’t take nearly as much anger or strength to lock a woman away where she would likely die as it did to viciously, repeatedly stab two grown men. As for Miss Viola, hell, her murder had been simplest of all: a hand on her frail back, giving her a shove.

  The two men, though...that had been overkill. They had been the real targets, while the women had died because... Maybe because of something they’d known about the two men?

  What had Jackson and Wallace done?

  If Alia hadn’t made plans with Landry, she would head to the Wallace house, seek out Murphy and get his permission to wander through and look at the crime scene. She would talk to Mrs. Wallace and the couple’s grown children and the people the new widow had called to comfort her. She would find out what kind of man Wallace was—husband, father, businessman—and she might even warn Mrs. Wallace to take up residence elsewhere for a time.

  But she had made plans with Landry, and it was her first day off in nearly a week, too, and it was Murphy’s case, not yet officially tied to her own. She could get a report and/or talk to Murphy tomorrow.

  Today she was just going to be a woman having lunch with a man she liked a whole lot.

  And, knowing herself, finding out everything he knew about the newest victim. Unsolved puzzles just didn’t go away and leave her alone. She’d been that way a long time and didn’t expect to change anytime soon. But she would still have plenty of attention for Landry and lunch and whatever he had in mind after lunch.

  Pulling to the curb on Bourbon Street, blocking Landry’s car in its reserved space, she shut off the engine and opened the door just as he walked through the gate. His cargo shorts were dark gray, his T-shirt white, his flip-flops looking as if they’d passed the thousand-mile mark a long time ago. Dark glasses shaded his eyes, an Ole Miss ball cap covered his hair and beard stubbled his chin. He looked... Damn!

  “You can park in my boss’s space if you want to walk,” he said as she slid out. “It’s just down that way. The restaurant, I mean.”

  She moved the car to the space on the right, locked up, then slid her keys into her pocket. “I’m hungry. Lead the way.”

  They walked the first block in silence. It was barely noon, but all the detritus from last night’s partying had been swept up. The street was fairly quiet, waiting for today’s revelry to start once everyone had recovered from last night’s.

  Though she usually found silence between them comfortable enough, that wasn’t the case today. Her mouth kept opening, questions about his father and Brad Wallace trying to spill out. It could wait until after they’d eaten, she silently insisted. She hadn’t had a home-cooked Vietnamese meal in a long time, and Mama’s Table was the closest she was likely to get. She intended to enjoy it.

  Then share the news.

  Don’t let the place fool you, he’d said when he’d first told her about Mama’s Table. It was in the middle of the block, a narrow storefront between two abandoned shops. The menus had hung in the windows so long that the food in the photographs was washed-out and strangely hued, but the smells when he opened the door were heavenly.

  “I’ve passed this place dozens of times. How did I miss it?”

  Landry shook his head. “I thought you could track food like a bloodhound.” He pulled off his glasses and ball cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “I usually sit there.”

  He directed her to a small table for two halfway to the back and not ten feet from the cash register. Did Mama and Huong like to keep an eye on him?

  Alia opened the menu and gave a happy sigh. “I think I’ll start with one of everything and see where to go from there.” Catching his amused look, she grinned. “Such a goal might break a lesser person, but I am strong. I will survive.”

  The waitress—not Huong, apparently, and far too young to be Mama—brought them glasses of ice water and took their orders for tea and appetizers. Alia chose goi cuon tom, shrimp and rice noodles wrapped in rice paper with veggies and peanut sauce, while Landry asked for dau hu chien.

  “You get points for eating fried tofu,” she told him with her best teasing smile.

  “I’ve eaten stranger things.”

  “I lived in Hawaii. I’ve eaten SPAM. On purpose. For breakfast, lunch and dinner. In tacos. With gravy. As sushi. Fried, baked, grilled and cold from the can.” She gave him a top that sort of look, then turned back to the menu as the waitress arrived with drinks. For lunch, she decided on tom rang muoi tieu, crispy in-shell shrimp stir-fried with bell peppers, onions, garlic, chili and other seasonings.

  The waitress turned to Landry, and so did Alia, curious about his order since she would likely end up tasting at least a bit of it. She always did.

  “Now she’s going to make fun of me.” He directed his words to the waitress, lifted his menu and pointed. “I want that.”

  Alia stretched to see. “What is it?”

  “Bun thit nuong,” the girl said.

  “Ooh, pork vermicelli noodle bowl. I love noodles. And pork. And pickled daikon.”

  Landry handed the menu to the girl, then asked, “Is Huong here?”

  “No, she comes in late on Sunday because of church. But Mama’s in back. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Alia touched one hand to her tightly braided hair. She hadn’t acknowledged it while getting dressed, but she’d wanted to look good for meeting Landry’s ex-girlfriend. Hence, the clothes a few steps above her usual summer outfit of shorts and tee, and jewelry and brain cells fighting hard against the tug of hair roots.

  It wasn’t that she was jealous of... Well, yes, she was. She was jealous of every woman who’d had a relationship with Landry, or who could have one if she wanted. Every time she felt a jolt of pure womanly appreciation for the man, she envied every female, available or not, whose job didn’t stand in the way of a relationship.

  Hers didn’t have to. If she were no longer assigned to this case...

  “It’s about time you showed your pretty face here.” Mama Tranh’s voice echoed in the small space an instant before a short, lean gray-haired woman grabbed Landry in an enthusiastic hug.

  “I was here last Tuesday.”

  Mama made a dismissive gesture. “And where were you Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and yesterday?” Her gaze shifted from him to Alia, and her dark eyes lit up. “It’s about time you brought a pretty friend,” she said slyly. She offered her hand and gripped firmly when Alia took it.

  “Chào, bà Tranh. Tôi Alia.”

  The old lady’s eyes widened, then crinkled as a smile split her face. “Ah, Landry, you found a girl who speaks to my heart. Nó là tốt đẹp để đáp ứng bạn.”

  They spoke a few moments more, Alia’s Vietnamese slower and not as sure as Mama’s. It felt good to be speaking it, though, bringing back sweet memories of her childhood. When Mama returned to the kitchen, Alia slid the paper from her straw and used it to stir sugar into her tea. “My mother’s parents own a restaurant in Chicago. Every summer when Mom and I visited them, I hung out in the kitchen and practiced my Vietnamese with the employees. I don’t get to use it much t
hese days.”

  “Mama’s tried to teach me a few words, but I have no talent for languages. She thinks I should at least be able to pronounce the names of the dishes I order, but I figure that’s what the pictures are for.”

  Alia wondered as he sprawled comfortably in his seat if he’d ever called Camilla mama, or if he’d ever spoken of her with such fondness. He was obviously generous with his affection. How hard had it been for him growing up in the Jackson household? How hard had it been to leave?

  Not very, she suspected, especially since he’d had Miss Viola’s support.

  But what had prompted a fifteen-year-old boy, even with support from a surrogate grandmother, to move out and basically turn his back on his parents? What had made life at home so unbearable?

  And did it have anything to do with the murders?

  She didn’t bring up the subject until they’d left the restaurant, her stomach full, her taste buds’ cravings happily satisfied. They’d strolled along the sidewalks, talking little, dodging foot traffic, until they found themselves at Jackson Square. She didn’t know if it was because she’d been speaking her mother’s language or eating her mother’s food, but she found herself copying her mother’s pastime: people-watching, admiring some outfits, coveting a few others and wondering what in the world possessed some people to dress the way they did. It made her homesick.

  They wandered into the square and off the sidewalk into a patch of shade, where they settled on the grass. Despite the warm temperature, every bench in the park was occupied, and plenty of people sat or sprawled on the lawn. The sidewalks surrounding the square were crowded, as well. Life as usual in the Quarter.

  Landry plucked a blade of grass, flattening it between his fingers. “So you’re half-Vietnamese.”

  “And half-Nebraskan. Dad wanted to see someplace besides the plains, so he joined the navy right out of college. Mom’s parents wanted to see something besides war and strife, so they immigrated to the USA when she was seven. We’ve still got family in both places, though, so we visit.”

  “And you like most of them?”

  She thought about his parents, the grandparents he’d hardly known, the aunts, uncles and cousins he’d hardly seen since moving out. Would he have had more sympathy from them if they’d known the details? Or less?

  “I adore most of my family. We have some odd ones—the hellfire-and-brimstone preacher, the hypochondriac, the serial marry-er, the my-kids-are-geniuses moms. But mostly they’re good. My dad’s brothers are farmers. My mom’s brother is retired from the Marine Corps, and her sister runs an internet jewelry business. They’re decent people, and for the most part, their kids are decent people.”

  She watched a diaper-clad baby with sweet blond curls circle his family’s quilt on his tiptoes, grinning at every person who looked his way. She had this vague impulse to think, aw, how cute, the way she did with puppies, but it was never in an I want one sort of way. “The good thing about family is if you don’t like the one you’re born into,” she said quietly, “you can always make one of your own.”

  “Advice I got from Miss Viola.”

  “Did you take it?”

  He tilted his head to one side. “Yeah, I guess I did. I’ve got friends—good friends. And I still see Mary Ellen and her family a lot.”

  But judging by his expression, a surrogate family left something lacking. Letting go was the key. He had to let go of his past and everyone in it to fully accept his present and future. Murders, she imagined, made that hard to do.

  So it was time to bring up one more. “Do you know anyone around here by the last name of Wallace?”

  * * *

  The name echoing in his head, Landry watched the kid Alia had focused on earlier. Skinny body, long legs and arms, rounded belly and a perpetual grin, he—or she, hard to tell—was apparently comfortable in his role as pampered prince in his own family. He was cute enough to make Landry smile. Not cute enough to stir a longing for a little prince or princess of his own.

  As he forced his gaze back to Alia and her question, his jaw tightened fractionally. His shrug was jerky, his casual tone phony. “There was a great blueswoman named Sippie Wallace. Given that she died of natural causes in the ’80s, I doubt she’s the person you’re asking about.”

  In fact, he knew she had to be asking about Brad Wallace, or maybe his wife, Adelina, or his children, who had played with Mary Ellen and Landry when they were kids. The whole family had been at the funerals last week, minus the youngest. Adelina had cried a lot, the two girls had been stone-faced and Brad, the lying bastard, had been strong and stoic.

  Landry had wished more than once that Wallace would drop dead before the services were over.

  The grass he’d been messing with was limp, its color broken down to dark green, its chlorophyll smell on his fingers. He tossed it aside, drew his knees up and rested his arms on them. “You want to know if I remember Brad Wallace. The answer is yes. I haven’t seen any of the Wallaces in years, except for Jeffrey, the youngest kid. Last time I saw him, it was winter and he was sleeping in a doorway a few blocks from here. Why?”

  “He was homeless? Or just sleeping off a drunk?”

  “He had skipped out of rehab for the fourth or fifth or tenth time, so he wasn’t welcome at home. I took him home with me, fed him, let him crash on my couch for a few days. I came home from work at four one morning, and he was gone. I haven’t seen him since.”

  It had been a shock when he’d recognized the dirty, barely coherent man as his childhood friend. Jeffrey was younger than Mary Ellen but looked twenty years older. He’d been scrawny and twitchy, and his eyes... They had been uncomfortable, flat, empty.

  Ten years ago Landry had seen that look in his own eyes too many times to count, that desperate need to escape. Sometimes it got so bad, living in his own head, that he’d been tempted by booze and drugs. Instead, he’d seen a shrink.

  Another deep, deep debt he owed Miss Viola.

  Alia’s voice came, soft and sympathetic. “Did he get along with his father before the rehab?”

  He smiled faintly. “The short answer is no.”

  “And the long answer?”

  “You’d have to ask Jeffrey or the old man.”

  “Do you know where to find Jeffrey?”

  “Nope, but anyone in town can tell you where to find the old man.” Living in a mansion in the Garden District, working in a luxurious penthouse office on Canal Street, partying with the rich and respectable, when he ought to be burning in hell.

  Alia hesitated, her eyes going dark and shadowy, her mouth thinning. “Actually, I doubt many people can. Brad Wallace was stabbed to death sometime between last night and early church services this morning.”

  Something twisted in Landry’s gut—not regret, damn sure not sorrow. It wasn’t even shock. Just a vague satisfaction that common sense said he should feel guilty for but couldn’t. “Good,” he murmured. “He got what he deserved.”

  Alia’s shadowy look and thinned lips didn’t change as he glanced away from her. He didn’t care whether she heard his next word but said it anyway, just for himself. “Finally.”

  Too late for Jeffrey. Too late for a lot of people. But hallelujah, the son of a bitch wouldn’t hurt anyone else in this world.

  “Do you think it’s connected to the other murders?”

  Alia’s shrug was so tiny, he would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching her from the corners of his eyes. “Do you believe in coincidence?”

  Landry lay back in the grass, staring at the leaves above him. His gut was still tight, and he was getting twitchy like Jeffrey—his body responding to what his mind didn’t want to acknowledge. Coincidence was a marvelous thing...but two best friends, two sick bastards, dying within a week of each other, both stabbed?

  Justice, vengeance, a good thing
for everyone who knew them—sure. Coincidence? Not likely.

  Alia laid her hand on his arm. “Landry, were Jeremiah and Brad Wallace guilty of something that led to their deaths?”

  He didn’t want to talk about this, not to anyone, but especially not to her. People were allowed to keep secrets, weren’t they? No one was obliged to share all the ugly details of his life. And these weren’t his secrets alone. They included, affected, other people. They weren’t entirely his to tell.

  Except people were dying because of them. Jeremiah and Wallace had deserved it. Camilla bore some responsibility, too, but by God, Miss Viola had done what she could. She hadn’t deserved a shove down the stairs.

  Would telling Alia everything stop the killings? Maybe not. Maybe Jeremiah and Wallace had been into things Landry knew nothing about, things equally worth killing over.

  Before he figured out whether he was rationalizing so he could stay silent, Alia’s cell rang. He considered his cell phone a convenience for himself. He didn’t make a lot of calls, rarely texted and always screened his calls. He had no desire to be reachable on a whim. Alia’s phone, on the other hand, was a business tool. She was probably getting more information about Brad Wallace’s murder, more gruesome details, more questions.

  And she was probably going to ask some of them of him.

  He sat up, mimicking her position, though he deliberately focused on not listening to her end of the conversation. He’d had pretty much nothing on his mind but murder the past seven days. He wanted to be done with it. Wanted to go back to life as normal. Wanted to work and fend off overly friendly tipsy tourists and play with his nieces and maybe even go on a date or two.

  With Alia. And date wasn’t exactly where he wanted to go. Bed had a really good sound to it.

  She ended the call, easily stood and offered her hand. “That was Detective Murphy. He’s investigating Brad Wallace’s death. We’re going to meet at his house to talk for a few minutes.”

  Landry laid his hand in hers and pushed himself up, bearing most of the effort himself. “You can leave your car where it is as long as you want.”