by Laura Childs
“Should I bring Mimi in?” Ava asked as she pushed open the car door. “For protection?”
“Why not.” Carmela gazed at the little pug Ava was cradling. Mimi didn’t exactly inspire confidence as a guard dog, but she did have her charms.
As they pushed open the front door of Bumpers, the smell of beer, whisky, and vapes quickly overpowered the humid swamp air.
A wooden bar ran the entire length of one wall. It was scarred from years of bottles, glasses, ashtrays, and maybe even skulls being slammed against it. The walls were hung with trucker caps—or gimme caps, as they were more often called. The caps were emblazoned with logos from the New Orleans Saints, Cajun Navy, LSU, Louisiana National Guard, and even a few slogans such as “Wassup?” and “Who dat?”
Two men who’d been shooting pool straightened up and their eyes widened at the sight of the two pretty ladies who’d just waltzed in. One of the men, a tall, good-looking blond guy in plaid shirt and faded jeans, walked over to Ava and gently bumped his hip against hers. “Welcome to Bumpers, pretty lady.”
Ava grinned and bumped right back. “Sorry, honey, but I’m above your pay grade.”
The other pool shooter suddenly looked interested and started over to join in the game. Heads turned and throats were cleared by the other half dozen denizens in the bar.
But Carmela had already grabbed Ava and pulled her away from Plaid Shirt. “Directions, remember?” she hissed.
They turned toward the scuffed bar where the bartender, a short, round man in a grimy white apron, leaned forward to greet them.
“Dogs aren’t allowed in here,” he said. His voice was high and slightly hoarse.
“That’s not a dog, it’s my purse,” Ava said.
The bartender shrugged. “In that case, what can I get for you ladies? We got a two-for-one special on Hand Grenades.”
“Say what?” said Ava.
The bartender grinned and squeaked out, “Vodka, gin, rum, grain alcohol . . .”
“And melon liqueur,” Plaid Shirt said. He’d come over to join them.
“Shaken not stirred?” Carmela asked.
The bartender cocked a finger at her. “Sassy. You’re right with the program.”
“What we really need is some help with directions,” Carmela said.
“Where you goin’?” Plaid Shirt asked. “What’s your hurry?” He eyed Mimi carefully.
Carmela focused on the bartender. “I’m trying to find a friend who lives on Royalton?”
“Come to the right place, you have,” the bartender said. He pointed to a skinny guy in blue and white ticking stripe overalls who was hunched over his beer at the bar. “Slaney there worked at the post office for a while.”
Slaney looked up from his drink. “Mostly during the holidays. When the regulars couldn’t keep up.” His eyes drifted back to his beer, and a look of sadness came over his face. “Course that’s all changed. Now it’s all texts and e-mails.”
“But you could direct me to Royalton?” Carmela asked.
“I could drive you,” Plaid Shirt offered.
“Ooh,” Ava squealed. “Or we could stay and have a drink?”
Carmela raised an eyebrow until it quivered. “What do you think?”
“No?” Ava turned to Plaid Shirt. “I guess that’s a no. Sorry, big guy. We’ll try to make it back some other time.”
Carmela huddled with Slaney, listening carefully, trying to commit his directions to memory while he mumbled on about following Weeks Island Road and passing Stumpy Bayou.
* * *
* * *
“Those guys were nice,” Ava said when they were back in the car. “And friendly.”
“That they were,” Carmela said as she pulled back onto the road.
“So you know where we’re going?”
“I think so. We follow this road for a few miles, then hang a right on Shell Road.”
“And you know where that is?”
“Somewhere past Stumpy Bayou and Warehouse Bayou,” Carmela said as she clicked on her brights.
“How do they come up with those names?” Ava wondered.
It was full-on dark now. And lonely as sin as they hurtled down a narrow road that got even narrower the farther they ventured into the bayou.
“Scary out here,” Ava said. “Lonely. A UFO could crash-land, and nobody would be the wiser.”
“We’re okay, just keep your door locked.”
“We could have had a nice strong man to guide us . . .”
“Here’s Shell Road,” Carmela said. She slowed way down and made a cautious right-hand turn.
“This isn’t really an actual road,” Ava said as they crawled along, dirt and rocks clunking against the undercarriage of the car. “This is nothing but a dirt track.”
“Or in highway department lingo, unimproved,” Carmela said.
“It needs to be improved. This road is starting to jostle the fillings loose in my teeth.”
They drove deeper and deeper into the bayou, the road closing in on both sides with thick, dark foliage. They crossed a shaky single lane wooden bridge, dipped down a hill, and, just like that, their headlights shone on a morass of mud directly ahead.
“Are you sure your car can make it through all that muck?” Ava asked.
“I’m giving it my . . . ugh . . . best,” Carmela said as they lurched and twisted through the sticky pit of mud. The car’s back wheels spun and whined noisily.
Ava groaned. “Please don’t tell me that . . .”
“We’re stuck,” Carmela said as the car shuddered and she felt the left rear tire sink into a deep rut. “Rats.” She opened her door and glanced around. “We pretty much have to keep moving forward. There’s no spot to turn around.”
Ava deposited Mimi in Carmela’s lap. “Not to worry, I got this.” She stepped out of the car and into the mud, then flexed her arms in a weight lifter’s pose. “I’ll push us out of here. This is where my Pilates finally pays off.”
“Okay, now,” Carmela called out once Ava had positioned herself at the rear bumper. “I’m going to rock the car. Push real hard on the forward bounces, okay?”
“Got it,” Ava called back.
Carmela put her car in first gear and rocked. Gave a little spurt of gas, then let the car settle back. Then another spurt. With Ava pushing and Carmela rocking they managed to gain about ten inches of forward progress.
“This isn’t working very well,” Carmela yelled above the grinding of the engine.
“Tell me about it,” Ava called back. “I can’t get much traction with these stupid boots!”
Carmela jumped out to survey the situation. “Probably because you’re not wearing boots. Those are just skinny straps of leather with a miniature brass buckle attached.”
“They’re cage boots. They give the illusion of boots but technically they’re not really boots,” Ava said.
“How about you get in and drive. I’ll push.”
“Your car’s a stick shift?”
“You know it is. Just put it in gear and then . . .”
Ava crossed her arms and shook her head. “I can’t drive a stick shift. Not very well, anyway. My cousin Emerson tried to teach me once on his brother’s Camaro that had a welded chain for a steering wheel, but we ended up in . . .”
“Ava?”
“Huh?”
“I’ll put it in first for you,” Carmela said. “Then you just give it a shot of gas while I push. Got it?”
“Natch,” Ava said as they traded places.
Standing behind the car, Carmela widened her stance and grabbed hold of the bumper.
“Okay, Ava, give it a touch of gas,” Carmela called out as she pushed with as much force as she could muster.
There was a high-pitched whirring sound, and the car’s tires began to spin
wildly. Huge clumps of mud flew everywhere. A torrent of juicy brown slime spattered Carmela’s clothes, her face, and her hair.
Stunned, Carmela just stood there as she watched her car fishtail forward onto drier ground. Swearing to herself, wiping mud from her eyes, she stormed up to the driver’s side and yanked the door open. “Ava, what were you thinking!”
Ava gaped at her. “Cher, what happened to your face? Your clothes?” She blinked. “Oh no, did I do that?”
“Yes, you did!”
“The wheels started spinning a mile a minute and we shot forward,” Ava cried. “But that’s a good thing, right? I mean, we’re not stuck anymore.”
“Ava, look at me!”
Ava bit her lip as she dug in her purse and pulled out a miniature pack of tissues. “Tissue?” She looked and sounded extremely contrite.
Carmela wiped her face and hands. Then she reached in the back seat and pulled out Mimi’s blanket. Wiping herself with the dog blanket helped dislodge the larger hunks of mud that were stuck to her.
“We could exchange clothes,” Ava offered. “This was all my fault, so I’m prepared to take responsibility.”
Carmela shook her head, still wiping. “Thanks. I’ll be okay.”
“I guess I’d better not drive anymore, huh?”
“Honey, you just said a mouthful.”
Carmela took the wheel and drove until they reached a signpost that was leaning halfway into a ditch.
“This must be Royalton,” Carmela said.
“Sounds better than it looks,” Ava said.
Carmela turned onto an even narrower road and bumped along slowly.
“This makes me nervous,” Ava said. “Mimi’s worried, too.”
“That makes three of us,” Carmela said.
They crawled along in the dark until they came to an old-fashioned one-and-a-half-story wooden house. It was set back from the road in a shroud of weeds and trees.
“Is this it?” Ava whispered.
“I don’t know.” Carmela coasted to a stop. The house was half falling down, and there was a junky fishing boat parked in the yard.
“This reminds me of that scary movie The Last House on the Left.”
“At least somebody’s at home.”
“Yeah, I see a faint glow through the drapes,” Ava said. “Maybe a lantern? Or actual electricity?” She let loose a shiver and said, “Now what?”
But Carmela wasn’t exactly sure what to do, either. Was this even the right address? And who lived here, for heaven’s sake? Her eyes searched the old place, looking for a mailbox with a name, or numbers over the front door. But there was nothing. Then her eyes landed on a vehicle that was parked behind a grove of trees.
“Maybe we took a wrong turn,” Ava suggested.
Carmela stared at the blue SUV that was the mirror image of the one that’d chased them last night. And her heart skipped a beat.
“No,” Carmela said. “This is it. We’ve come to the right place.”
Chapter 30
“YOU see that?” Carmela asked.
Ava peered around anxiously. “See what? Who’s out there? Please don’t tell me there’s an escaped maniac with a hook for a hand.”
“Calm down and take a look at the SUV that’s parked over there.”
“What? Where?” Ava craned her neck and glanced around. “Oh yeah, back in the bushes. What about it?”
“Recognize it?”
“You’re scaring me, Carmela.”
“You should be scared. Because I’m pretty sure that’s the same SUV that chased after us last night.”
Carmela’s words were like an electric shock to Ava.
“Then we have to get out of here!” she cried. “This is dangerous! Just like that trip wire thing Babcock warned us about.”
“Not so fast. Right now, we’re the hunter,” Carmela said. “Closing in on our prey.”
“Don’t you mean pray? Like in asking baby Jesus to please help us? Because this is not only scary, it’s super hazardous to our health!”
“I need to get out and take a look,” Carmela said.
“You don’t need to, you want to,” Ava said. “And that’s such a bad idea, I can’t tell you how bad an idea that is.”
“I need to find out who’s in there.”
Ava swallowed hard. “We know it’s not T.J. There’s no way he could have driven any faster than you did.”
“Agreed. And Babcock already eliminated Richard Drake.”
“Could it be Roy Sultan or Colonel Otis?” Ava asked.
“Too old.”
“Then who?”
Carmela stared at the SUV and then at the camp shack. “You wait here, Ava. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.” Carmela’s nerves strummed wildly, but she was excited at the prospect of finally getting one step closer to ferreting out Devon’s killer.
Ava grabbed Carmela’s hand. “Don’t go,” she pleaded. “I hate the idea of you stumbling around out there all covered with mud. Looking like one of those wild mud men from Borneo.”
“Take care of Mimi,” Carmela said as she pulled free. “I’ll be back in two shakes.”
* * *
* * *
Carmela crept slowly across the yard, letting her eyes become accustomed to the dark, trying desperately not to trip on a fallen branch or a root. She ducked under an old clothesline, still heading for the shack. She’d spotted a window, and it seemed like a good place to start. Maybe if it was unlatched, she could even crawl inside and take a quick look around.
Carmela’s fingers had just touched the rough wood of the windowsill, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. With her heart nearly beating out of her chest, she spun around wildly to find . . .
“Ava! You scared me to death!”
“I had to get out and follow you,” Ava said. “Sitting in the car all by my lonesome, I thought . . . well, if we’re going to die, it’s better that we die together.” She gazed past Carmela’s shoulder. “Did you look inside? What did you see in there?”
“Nothing yet.”
They both stepped up to the window, stood on tiptoes, and pressed their noses to the glass.
“Dark in there,” Ava said. “But I can see shapes. Furniture, though, not actual people.”
Carmela stared in, too. “Looks like a really messy office.”
“Do you think drug dealers work from an office? That they have, like, files and invoices and stuff like regular people?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Carmela seized the edge of the window frame and slowly pushed the window up. A creak sounded and they both held their breath. But no one came rushing to investigate.
“Give me a boost,” Carmela said. “So I can crawl inside.”
Ava backed away. “No way, it could be a trap. We’re out here in the middle of nowhere. Even if Babcock circulates a million missing person posters, no one will ever find our poor mangled bodies.”
Carmela held up an index finger. “One quick look. You stay out here and be my lookout. Now come on, hurry up and give me a boost.”
Grudgingly, Ava laced her hands together and hoisted Carmela through the window.
As Carmela landed quietly, her first impression was of dust and mildew. Awful. Made it difficult to draw a breath. Stifling a sneeze, she crept over to an old-fashioned rolltop desk with a scatter of papers on top. She reached out and stirred the papers around, looking for something—anything—that might give her a clue as to who lived here. Her fingers touched an old leather-bound address book.
This could be something.
Picking it up, Carmela thumbed through the pages but didn’t recognize any of the names or addresses.
A noise in the next room made Carmela jump. Her throat went Gobi Desert dry, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled and rose up.
>
Fear. This is what fear feels like.
She tried to swallow her feelings and dig down deep for some courage. She was here, maybe even inside the killer’s house. She had to come away with something!
When nothing happened, when nobody came flying into the room to attack her, Carmela rifled through the papers again but couldn’t find anything that seemed related to drugs or even to Dulcimer Antiques.
Did I make a bad call on this? Please, no.
She glanced around the dreary room and, off to one side, noticed an ancient Remington typewriter sitting on a timeworn metal stand.
Typewriter?
Something clicked in Carmela’s brain. Hadn’t Babcock told her that all the anonymous notes sent to the NOPD had been typed? Yes, he had.
Carmela searched around the typewriter stand, looking for scraps of paper filled with jottings or cryptic notes. There wasn’t a thing. She stood there, feeling as if she’d somehow let Babcock down, let Devon Dowling down, too. She frowned and shook her head, disheartened, ready to concede.
That’s when her eyes landed squarely on the typewriter ribbon.
Without hesitation, Carmela reached out and ripped the two spools out of the typewriter. As she started to unwind them, she stepped closer to the door where a thin crack of light shone through. Squinting, she tried to read the words that were imprinted and overprinted on the old cloth ribbon. As she eased the ribbon through her trembling fingers, bit by bit, she was shocked to discover a number of key words.
Colonel Otis. Knife collection. Richard Drake.
Carmela stared at the typewriter ribbon that was smudging her fingers. Suddenly, she had no doubt that the anonymous notes left on Babcock’s and Gallant’s car windshields had been typed on this machine!
The sound of a ringing phone in the next room startled Carmela and caused her to drop the ribbon on the wooden floor. THUNK! She froze, praying that whoever was in there hadn’t heard the noise.
Five, ten, twenty seconds dragged by, but no one came to check. Carmela bent down, scooped up the ribbon, and tucked it in her jacket pocket. She felt shaky and knew she should get the hell out of there. Beat feet back to civilization. And Babcock. But her curiosity was still amped to a fever pitch.
