by Laura Childs
Suddenly, the water on the opposite side of the fence from them began to bubble like mad. Then the dorsal fins of several large fish broke the surface.
“Those are fish!” Carmela cried as several more fish swam along the fence line. Cooter, squished in beside her, let out a series of high-pitched yips.
“This isn’t right,” Squirrel said. “There’s something wrong here. This is supposed to be a free fishing area.”
“What kind of fish are these?” Carmela asked suddenly.
Squirrel cut the motor, grabbed onto the fence, and hoisted himself up.
“Don’t fall in,” Moony warned. “There’s probably snappers in that water. We don’t want to haul you out with a few chunks missing.”
Squirrel hung on tightly as he peered intently at the swirl of fish for a few moments. Then he eased himself back down, looking puzzled. “Those fish are what you’d call your Gulf sturgeon.”
“Sturgeon,” Carmela said.
Why was an idea suddenly pinging in her brain like crazy? Shaking her neurons and sending a tumble of messages to her prefrontal cortex. Maybe because she’d suddenly realized that sturgeon were a rich source of . . . caviar?
“Oh no!” Carmela cried. “Are these the kind of sturgeon that you can harvest for caviar?”
Squirrel looked thoughtful. “Well . . . yeah . . . I guess they could be. But, you see, these particular sturgeon are supposed to be protected. I mean, these fish, what you call your Gulf sturgeon, are pretty much untouchable. They’re on the National Fish and Wildlife’s endangered species list.”
“Are you sure about that?” Carmela asked.
“Pretty sure.” Squirrel took his cap off, smoothed his hair, and put his cap back on. “Whenever you go into a local bait shop or fishing supply place, they hand out these little cards from the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries that tell you which fish are okay or not okay to hook or net.”
“That’s right,” Moony said excitedly. “He’s right.”
“And these guys”—Squirrel hooked a thumb toward the roil of sturgeon in the enclosed area—“you’re not supposed to touch a single whisker on their slimy little heads.”
“I guess that’s why they’re in a pen,” Ava said. “Because they’re protected.”
“I don’t think so,” Carmela said. “I think these poor creatures are being exploited.”
“What?” Ava said.
“Pull the boat over to shore,” Carmela said. “We need to take a closer look.”
Chapter 28
COOTER hopped out of the boat first, happy to be back on dry land, delighted to be running around. Ava, unfortunately, didn’t share Cooter’s boundless enthusiasm. The heels of her rhinestone-studded slippers sunk into the mud the minute she stepped off the boat.
“Help!” Ava cried. “My feet are getting sucked down. I think I’m caught in quicksand or something.”
Squirrel grabbed her under the arms, gave a quick tug, and hoisted her back up and out of harm’s way. Both her legs were streaked with mud up to her knees and one dainty shoe was missing.
“My Capezio dance shoe,” Ava cried. “It got sucked under.”
“Oh dear,” Carmela said. “You’ll never dance Swan Lake again.”
Squirrel stuck his hand down into the mud and poked around for a few seconds. “I think I . . . got it.” When the shoe popped out, the mud made an ugly sucking sound.
“My poor shoe is totaled,” Ava mourned.
“Naw,” Squirrel said as Moony tromped on ahead of them. “Just rinse it off and it’ll be good as new.”
“If it was good as new, I’d take it back to the store,” Ava grumped. She shook the mud off her shoe, slipped it on, and turned toward Carmela. “Now what?”
“Let’s just follow along after Squirrel,” Carmela suggested. “He went ahead to . . .”
“Ah!” Ava screamed. She was suddenly batting her arms wildly, dancing a crazy jig, as if she were being attacked by a swarm of bees.
“What’s wrong now?”
“Spiderweb,” Ava said, sputtering. “I walked right into the dang thing.” She shook her head. “I tell you, Carmela, I’m a city girl. I’m just not cut out for the wilds of Louisiana. It’s . . . it’s a jungle out here.”
“Technically a bayou,” Carmela said.
“Hey,” Squirrel called as he came splashing back to them. “I found another one of those fish pens.”
“Is it full of sturgeon?” Carmela asked.
Squirrel nodded. “Looks like.”
“There’s something really wrong here,” Carmela said.
“Yeah,” Ava said, curling a lip. “We should have never gotten out of the boat.”
“No, I mean . . .”
A sudden crashing through the undergrowth had them all turning to stare. That’s when Moony popped out, looking all red-faced and breathless.
“There’s some kind of building back here that you-all should take a look at,” Moony shouted.
Moony pivoted and headed back the way he’d come. Carmela and Squirrel were right behind him with Ava stumping along as best she could.
A metal Quonset hut–type building was perched in the middle of nowhere. They approached it cautiously.
“This looks pretty new,” Squirrel said. “Like it was just built.” He thumped the back of his hand against the metal door. It sounded rock solid.
“I wonder how it got here,” Moony said. He grabbed the door handle again and shook it hard, but the door didn’t budge. “It’s locked up tighter than a drum.”
“I guess that’s it.” Ava shrugged. “No way in. Time to say adios to all the spiders, bugs, and squirmy things.”
“Not so fast,” Carmela said. “We have to somehow get inside there. I have an idea of what’s going on, but I need actual . . . proof.”
“Wait. What?” Ava said.
There was a loud grunt from behind them and they all turned to see Squirrel hoist a giant hunk of scrap metal onto his shoulder. He drew a quick breath and then ran full tilt at the door. “Waaaaatch out!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.
“Holy cheese curds,” Ava cried as Squirrel collided with the door in a cataclysmic crash. At which point the door bowed inward as if it had been struck by a moving freight train and was suddenly rent from top to bottom.
“You did it,” Moony cried, jumping up and down. “Squirrel, you’re a monster! You could star on WrestleMania!”
When Carmela saw that the shattered door was barely hanging from its damaged hinges, she said, “Come on, what are we waiting for?”
Moony shoved the door aside and they all tiptoed in. The place was dark, cavernous, and carried a distinctive fishy odor.
“Eew,” Ava said.
“Fish,” Moony said.
“And it ain’t fresh,” Squirrel added helpfully.
Taking a quick glance around, the first thing Carmela spotted was the generator. “There’s a generator,” Carmela said. Seeing it pretty much confirmed her worst suspicions.
“Why a generator way out here?” Ava wondered.
But Carmela was slowly working herself into an ice-cold rage. She was finally putting the pieces together. “Look at all the large metal tables. And the plastic coolers that are stacked up, waiting to go.”
“I don’t know,” Moony said. “It looks to me like a place where’s you’d clean fish.”
“Not clean them,” Carmela said. “This is a kind of processing plant where they extract the fish roe. You know, the caviar.”
“Caviar?” Ava suddenly yelped. She was still confused. “Wait a minute. You mean like in the Jewel Caviar Company?” She stared at Carmela and wrinkled her nose. “I guess I still don’t know what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you what I think is going on,” Carmela said. “Harvey and Jenny Jewel are a c
ouple of thieving snakes. They’ve been stealing caviar from protected Gulf sturgeon and passing it off as their fancy, imported brand. They’ve been making money off a bunch of innocent fish!”
“Holy mackerel,” Ava said.
“No,” Squirrel said. “That kind of fish would be legal.”
Moony stood there with his hands on his hips. “This is a conspiracy,” he said. “Just like Area 51 or Bigfoot.”
“It’s worse,” Carmela said. “Because it’s real.”
Squirrel grabbed one of the coolers and tossed it aside with a clatter. “Outrageous,” he snorted. “They keep this up, there won’t be any Gulf sturgeon left alive.”
“Just like overharvesting destroyed all the sturgeon in the Caspian Sea,” Carmela said.
“So what are we gonna do to about it?” Moony asked.
Carmela thought for a few moments, staring at the metal tables that looked like autopsy tables to her now. Clenching her jaw so hard she just about popped a filling, she said, “For one thing, we have to put a stop to this. Like . . . now.”
“We’re with you on that,” Squirrel said. “This is poaching of the worst kind. It’s one thing to take a gator or two out of season. But this . . .” He looked around the building, at the metal tables, the generator. “This is poaching on an industrial scale.”
“I’m afraid we actually have an even more pressing problem than just the illegal harvesting of fish,” Carmela said.
They all stared at her.
“I believe that Harvey and Jenny Jewel probably committed murder to keep their little gold mine going,” Carmela said.
Squirrel squinted at her. “No shit?”
“I’m betting that Martin Lash, the executive director of the Environmental Justice League, was in on this illegal operation, too,” Carmela said. “But they probably killed him to get him out of the way.”
“Whoa,” Ava said. She clapped a hand to her chest and took a step backward.
Carmela continued. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if the Jewels murdered Trent Trueblood as well. Just because he was going to build down here and had major plans to fund a research study in these very waters.”
“Where do you think they take this caviar?” Moony asked.
Carmela thought for a minute. “I remember Jenny Jewel said something about an old shrimp processing plant over in Gretna.”
Squirrel put one hand over the other and cracked his knuckles. “What are we waiting for?” he said. “Let’s go close it down!”
* * *
The ride back to Squirrel’s camp shack was a bit of a blur, but somehow they made it. Then, of course, Squirrel and Moony wanted to come along to mix it up at the caviar processing plant. So they all jammed into Carmela’s small sports car (Cooter included—she never could seem to ditch old Cooter) and headed back to New Orleans.
All the way back, Carmela struggled to keep the car on the road as she fought to keep Cooter from slobbering on her shirt while she tried to get hold of Babcock on her cell phone. But no luck. For some reason he wasn’t picking up. So she found herself leaving about a million voice mails for him, each one more frantic than the last one.
Just as they’d finally reached New Orleans and were hurtling across the Route 90 cantilevered bridge, closing in on Gretna, Carmela called Babcock’s office and his phone was finally picked up.
“Yeah? What?” came a familiar voice. She recognized it as Detective Bobby Gallant, Babcock’s right-hand man. He sounded like he was ready to call it a day and head home.
“Bobby, this is Carmela!”
“Hey, Carmela,” Bobby said, his voice instantly warming. “What’s shaking?”
“I’ve been trying to get hold of Babcock,” she said. “It’s kind of an emergency.”
“What’s wrong?” Gallant asked.
“Stop that!” Carmela cried. Cooter had his front paws on the shift column and was trying to downshift from fourth to second.
“Carmela, what’s going on?” Gallant asked.
Cooter suddenly spun around, his tail whipping across Carmela’s face, nearly blinding her and sending her lurching into the next lane over.
“Cooter,” Carmela screamed, “you’ve got stop this.”
“Who’s Cooter?” Gallant cried. “Carmela, don’t tell me you’ve been kidnapped!”
“Please, Bobby . . . just tell Babcock to send a couple of cruisers, lights and sirens, to the Jewel Caviar Company in Gretna!”
“Carmela . . . what?” But she had already hung up.
* * *
“We need a plan,” Moony said. “We can’t just go cowboying into that plant and disrupt the whole shebang.”
“Why not?” Squirrel demanded. They were in the parking lot outside the Jewel Caviar Company. The building was low and dark, hunkered on a flat piece of cracked concrete a block or so from the Mississippi. Tendrils of fog drifted in, the mournful hoot of a tugboat floated back to them. Night had stolen in to shroud what was a gloomy industrial area.
“Because . . .” Moony hesitated. He really didn’t have a good, logical reason.
They debated what kind of approach to take and, after a few minutes of arguing, basically gave up and went storming into the Jewel Caviar Company, full steam ahead. The whole lot of them: Carmela, Ava, Squirrel, Moony, and Cooter.
Carmela had expected a well-lit plant bustling with busy workers and officious clipboard-wielding managers. Instead, all she saw were a handful of workers in white smocks and hairnets who barely even glanced up as their convoy came roaring in.
Still, the production line was humming away, with small glass jars bouncing down a rubber conveyor belt where they were being filled with drips and drops of precious caviar.
Thirty seconds later, an officious manager did turn up. A chubby, frowning, bespectacled man in a bad polyester suit that had the sickening green sheen of a barn fly.
“What’s the meaning of this intrusion?” the manager demanded as he set his feet wide to block their advance.
“Who are you?” Carmela asked.
“I’m J. R. Teasdale, manager of this plant,” the man said. “Who are you?”
“We’re here to see Harvey Jewel,” Carmela said. “We have important business with him.”
“Important business,” Squirrel reiterated. He was back to cracking his knuckles, trying to look intimidating.
Teasdale gave Squirrel one imperious glance down his knobby nose and said, “Get out of here, the lot of you, before I call the police.”
“We’re not leaving,” Carmela said, “until we speak to Harvey Jewel.”
Cooter gave an angry bark as if to underscore their words.
Startled, Teasdale glanced down and was met with Cooter’s toothy grin. “You can’t bring a dog in here,” he thundered. “It violates all health regulations.”
“Cooter’s been cleared,” Moony said. “He’s working undercover.”
“Are you people plum crazy?” Teasdale screamed. “Get out.”
“Where’s Jewel?” Carmela demanded. “Is he in his office?” She glanced around Teasdale toward the back of the plant.
“You’re not setting foot back there!” Teasdale screamed.
“Watch me,” Carmela said, darting forward, trying to push her way past him.
But Teasdale was ready for her, throwing a shoulder out, blocking her passage with his wide hips.
“Come on, Squirrel,” Moony shouted. “Let’s take this goober!”
That sent Teasdale backpedaling away from them, fists bunching as if ready to fight, his face as dark and threatening as a thundercloud. “I’m calling the police,” he threatened. “Gonna have you people arrested!” He spun on his heels and waddled toward the back of the plant.
“Go ahead and do that,” Ava said, darting in to add her two cents. “Call the police. We’ve been trying to
get hold of them for the last hour!”
One of the workers, a skinny guy in a white apron and paper hat, who’d been watching the whole exchange, said, “Mr. Jewel isn’t here.”
“Do you know where he is?” Carmela asked.
The skinny worker shrugged. “I heard something about a fancy caviar tasting.”
Carmela rocked back on her heels and clapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh my gosh. That’s right! There’s a wine and caviar tasting tonight—a black-tie event—over at the Hotel Vendue!”
Squirrel grabbed her by the elbow. “Come on, girl. What are we waiting for!”
* * *
They all squished into Carmela’s car again and roared back across the bridge. This time Moony wanted to drive with Carmela riding shotgun. Ava got stuck in the backseat next to Squirrel with Cooter alternately licking her knees and trying to curl up in her lap.
“Hurry up,” Ava cried. “I’m going crazy back here. It feels like I’m riding in some kind of clown car.”
“That’s because you are,” Carmela said.
They zipped their way through the CBD, the Central Business District, Carmela waving her arms and shouting directions. At Canal Street, they almost collided with a streetcar, the driver wildly clanging his bell at them, chastising them. Finally, Moony brought them into the French Quarter.
“Lookie this!” Squirrel shouted as they turned down Bourbon Street. The colorful neon lights, the wall-to-wall bars and clubs, made it look like a fun house arcade for big kids. “They even got bars here with topless dancers. Ain’t that something? Look at that one . . . Scarlett’s Cabaret. Sounds classy. Think we got time to stop?”
“No, we don’t have time to stop,” Carmela yelped. “And get your mind out of the gutter.” She glanced at Moony, who was driving but craning his head in a million different directions, clearly dazzled by the sights and plinkety-plink music that spilled out of the raucous clubs. “You, too, Moony. Stop looking around for loose women and keep an eye on the pedestrians and stoplights. This isn’t some jerkwater town, you know, this is New Orleans.”
