Murder On Spirit Island (Niki Dupre Mysteries Book 1)

by Jim Riley

  “Do you understand now why I had to go look to make sure she was okay?” John asked.

  Samson nodded his massive head. “I do. But there is one thing.”

  “What's that?”

  “If you ever hear that Little Girl is in danger and you don't call me, I'll tear you a new asshole. You won't be able to fart for six months.”

  “Yes, sir. Any progress on finding Bridgestone?”

  “Nope. Looks like he went to ground. Lots of places a man with his money can hide.”

  “I doubt if he went far,” John said. “He's still got that ranch north of town. He won't stay away from that long.”

  “Why in hell would a kid like him that has everything in the world do something so stupid to someone like Juliette? Don't make a lick of sense to me.”

  “Sometimes people just snap, Chief. Ain't really no explanation to it. Just happens.'

  “I don't want you wasting any more time chasing after your friend's daddy. I want you after Bridgestone every second your eyelids are open. The mayor-president thinks we're a bunch of goober-eating morons already. You got to find that boy.”

  John nodded with a confident look. Inside he felt no confidence at all.

  Tuesday Night

  Spirit Island

  Henry Welker woke up with a sense of dizziness. At first he had trouble remembering where he was. Then it came back to him when he felt the steel coils of the cot beneath the thin mattress. When he tried to rise, his head exploded in pain. Falling back on the bed, he desperately tried to focus his eyes. He wanted a sip of that cool water which had brought so much relief before.

  The confined space was dimly lit, only one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. At the other end of the small room, he could barely make out another cot through his blurred vision. Old blankets were strewn across the top. Otherwise, it was empty.

  About three feet behind the second bed stood a gun rack filled with WWII carbines. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, not believing the message they sent to his brain. All the rifles were M-1's, the earliest model the American soldiers used against the Germans and the Japanese. Henry was certainly no expert, but he knew the government replaced the M-1 with the M-1 Gerand early in the conflict because of poor reliability and ever worse accuracy.

  He thought he might be dreaming. Even more bizarre, the specter of purgatory crossed his befuddled mind. He never really believed in the rest stop to heaven, but he figured if such a place existed, it would look something like this. But if he was truly in purgatory, why did his head feel like it split wide open? He closed his eyes and fought to stay awake.

  Another hour passed before the elderly man could open his sore eyes. He had no idea that it had been only an hour. Time meant little to him. When he focused, Welker better discerned the features of the room. Along the wall beside the rack of rifles stood shelves of racks. The packets appeared to be Meals-Ready-to-Eat, known as MRE's. They were not available during the second war, so someone had placed them there at a later date.

  From what he had read and seen, they were durable and easy to fix. Used in subsequent wars by the infantry, many outdoor enthusiasts as well as the survivor crowds stocked them for emergency uses. The modern versions were tasty, but he did not think the old ones were that good.

  When the old man turned to the other wall, he was surprised. Not only was there a set of WWII communication equipment but also a modern computer. All right, not quite up to the minute, but of recent vintage anyway. Who owned a desktop these days? There was more technology in his wrist watch than existed in the world during the Vietnam war. The desktop appeared to be from the early start of the century, not one of the blazing fast seen on the market. The old man did not know enough about navigating through the menu to find what was on it.

  Henry vaguely remembered the man talking to him. He had no idea the identity since the fellow never told him a name. His impression, though somewhat blurry, was a man of kindness, someone he could trust. The man obviously helped him with the soup and the bandages.

  But questions remained. Where was he? How did he get in this condition? Why was he not in the Lady of the Lake or the Baton Rouge General?

  Welker gave one more try to escape the confines of the cot. His left leg cleared the side of the bed. That was as far as he could go. A fog enveloped him and he fell hard back onto the cot. Henry closed his eyes and fell into a restful sleep.

  Tuesday Night

  Baton Rouge

  Gary Dixon eyed the other three men in the private room at Mansur's on the Boulevard, one of Baton Rouge's finest restaurants. The back room was known to host a variety of political, celebrity and business meetings that required a bit of discretion. Mansur's was renowned for its quality whether being served in the regular section or behind the closed door.

  Despite the fine food, Dixon's appetite was close to non-existent. Even the aroma of the signature dish, red-fish on a plank, aroused no pangs. His mind was on the missing Henry Welker.

  Wayne LaBorde had already downed a dozen oysters on the half shell and was working on a fine filet. The other two men, Phillip Kemp and Bill Swain, ate sparingly, though Phillip enjoyed some house spring rolls.

  The other three mostly watched LaBorde savor the marbled meat. Before the tall, fit man could finish, Dixon expressed his worries.

  “What are we gonna do?” he queried.

  LaBorde paused between bites. “About what, Gary?”

  “You know what, you bastard. We still don't know what happened to Henry.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  Wayne asked before placing another succulent piece of beef in his mouth.

  “We all knew the partnership wasn't gonna be the same forever. Let's look at the bright side.”

  “What bright side?” Phillip growled. He was a man of few words.

  “This little incident might improve our arrangement,” LaBorde responded. “We may not have Henry bossing us around anymore and taking two slices of the pie.”

  “I wasn't complaining about how Henry ran things,” Swain said. “We all benefited tremendously from his ideas.”

  “I ain't complaining either,” Kemp stated.

  LaBorde paused with a morsel of medium rare filet impaled on his fork. “Think how much more we all can make if we implement a few changes. This could be a fortuitous turn of events for all of us, gentlemen.”

  “I don't know if I want to call the disappearance and possible death of my friend 'fortuitous',” Swain laid down his fork. “It might take me a while to get on board with that.”

  “Me too,” echoed Kemp.

  Dixon looked like he had swallowed his napkin. “I agree with those guys, Wayne. We shouldn't be trying to figure out a way to get rich off this until we learn more about what happened. Hell, Henry might be at his duck camp in Delacroix. You know how Henry likes to shoot mallards.”

  “Except duck season closed a month ago, you idiot.” LaBorde threw his napkin down in disgust. “Henry isn't messing with us. Whatever happened to him is serious, deadly serious. The sooner we all admit that, the sooner we can take advantage of it.”

  “So you think Henry is dead?” Swain asked.

  “I sure as hell do,” LaBorde replied. “What about it?”

  “It's just that you seem so certain.” Swain stared at his calm partner. “Why is that?”

  “Only common sense. At least one of us is using some. I don't think Henry is coming back. I don't believe there is any way around that fact.”

  Dixon wiped his mouth with the napkin even though he had eaten nothing.

  “So what can we do? Each of us has a lot riding on this.”

  Kemp pushed back from the table.

  “I don't think we can decide anything tonight.”

  LaBorde glared at the terse man. “And why not?”

  “Because three members of our team aren't here,” Kemp calmly stated. “We're missing Henry, Bobby and Oberlin. I ain't doing nothing without them.”

  LaBorde re
laxed his gaze.

  “You're right, Phillip. I want to include Bobby and Oberlin before we go forward. I will state again that we can't include Henry.”

  “Then why weren't Bobby and Oberlin invited to this meeting? Besides that, the only time we discuss this stuff is at the camp where we can't be overheard. I'm not comfortable talking like this in a public restaurant.”

  LaBorde looked away and took another bite of filet.

  “The camp belongs to Henry. It was his idea to meet there. I never cared for the place, but I don't remember any of us getting to vote on it.”

  “It was quiet out there,” Swain spoke up. “I don't see any downside to meeting where we always did.”

  “Except after Bobby realizes his dad is dead, he'll get the camp. I'd rather that we meet on neutral grounds from now on. I don't want Bobby to think he's taking Henry's place.”

  “And who do you think the leader should be?” Kemp asked.

  LaBorde looked at each man in succession.

  “I believe that I am as qualified as anyone here.”

  “Is that the reason that Bobby wasn't invited to the meeting?” Swain asked.

  Before LaBorde could answer, the door flew open. Bobby burst inside.

  “Yeah, Wayne. Answer the damn question. Why wadn't I invited to this party?”

  The young Welker glared as he approached LaBorde with clenched fists.

  “Calm down, Bobby,” Wayne held up both palms. “You've been drinking. There's a reason I wanted to meet with the rest of the guys before we met with you.”

  “It'd better be a damn good one, Wayne, or you won't finish what's left of that steak.”

  A .357 magnum revolver appeared in Bobby's right hand.

  LaBorde paled and his hands shook.

  “Look, Bobby. It's not what it looks like.”

  Bobby raised the revolver and pointed between LaBorde's eyes.

  “You got one minute to explain. If I don't like what I hear, tell ol' Lucifer 'Hello' for all of us.”

  “C'mon, Bobby. We're friends. Holding a gun on someone is no way to talk to a friend. I've known you since you were a baby. Do you really think I would do anything to hurt you?”

  “I have no doubt about that,” Bobby slurred as he cocked the gun. “None whatsoever. You got about fifteen seconds left. Make it good.”

  LaBorde turned to the other three. “Are you willing to sit there and let him murder me? Aren't one of you going to help me out here?”

  Bobby squinted his eyes. “Goodbye, Wayne.”

  The bottle of wine crashed over the top of Bobby's head, sending him crumbling to the floor among the shards. When LaBorde glanced up, he saw Phillip Kemp holding the neck of the bottle.

  A waiter came rushing in the door and saw Bobby sprawled on the floor. Then he looked up at Phillip with a questioning gaze.

  “Don't worry,” Phillip told the young man. “Our friend got a little excited and tripped. He'll be okay in a few minutes, but he probably shouldn't be served any more alcohol.”

  The waiter did not back out. He looked at Phillip and then back down at Bobby. Kemp put the neck of the bottle down and stepped closer to the youngster. He pressed a hundred-dollar bill in his hand.

  “This is just between us friends. Understand?”

  The waiter slowly nodded and backed out of the room, his eyes still fixed on Bobby.

  “What the hell is that smell?” Kemp asked.

  Then as one, they looked at the front of LaBorde's pants. The tall man was standing, and urine still was dripping to the floor. Wayne tried to wipe the stain away and then tried to cover it up.

  “Uh—thanks, Phillip. I thought I was a goner there for a second. He was ready to kill me.”

  “Don't thank me yet, Wayne,” Kemp replied. “All things being equal, I probably should have let him pull the trigger.”

  “Why didn't you?” Dixon asked.

  “Because then the police would have come around and as drunk as Bobby is, he would've told them a lot more than is good for all of us. I couldn't let that happen.”

  Another smell rose in the room. This time there was no doubt of its origin.

  “Damn it, Wayne,” Swain said. “Did you have to do that in your pants too?”

  LaBorde paid Swain no mind. He looked at Phillip.

  “Would you really have let him shoot me?”

  “Without any doubt,” Kemp responded, picking the.357 from the floor beside Bobby. He put the gun in his own waistband, then helped Bobby into a chair. He dipped a napkin in a glass of water and rubbed the kid's face until young Welker was somewhat coherent.

  “Sorry, Bobby. I couldn't let you kill that piece of trash in this restaurant. We can drag him out into the swamp and light him up. I'll even supply the match.”

  Bobby rubbed the back of his head. Then he stared at LaBorde like he wanted to tear the man apart a little at a time.

  LaBorde looked at Bobby like he was a leper. Then he glanced at the other men in the room. “I don't understand all of this animosity. I was only trying to protect our future. All of our futures.”

  Swain shook his head. “The only future you've ever cared about is your own. Nobody else's. Every man in this room knows that if you live through this, you'll be the luckiest man alive.”

  LaBorde turned ashen and sank in his chair.

  “But—but—why me?”

  “Because something happened to Henry,” Kemp replied. “And I'd bet my last dollar that you had something to do with it.”

  LaBorde examined each face in the room. He found no outward support from any of them.

  “This meeting is over.”

  He stumbled out of the room in a cloud of stench on wobbly legs.

  Kemp sat down by Bobby and opened another bottle of wine. He poured himself a glass and then one for his young friend.

  “Now that the air in here smells better, let's enjoy some of the finest food in Baton Rouge.”

  The stern contractor paused.

  “And then face the fact that one of us is a murderer.”

  Tuesday night

  Baton Rouge

  Bobby left Mansur's shortly after drinking the glass of wine Phillip poured. He was not in the mood for company with the other owners. He needed some time to himself to decide how to proceed in Henry's absence. Bobby had never been without his father's guidance and he was not liking it so far.

  In an already inebriated state, Bobby subconsciously steered the new pickup truck to North Boulevard. There he could find his favorite bar, Shadow Bar and Grill. Though the establishment no longer grilled any food. Here no one cared who he was or what secrets he kept as long as he had enough money to pay for another drink. And money was no problem for the younger Welker.

  Locating the parking lot and picking out a spot took every bit of Bobby's impaired attention. He did not notice the truck trailing him from Mansur's. It parked in a space at the other end of the lot. Even as Bobby stumbled out of his truck, the other driver remained in his vehicle.

  As soon as Bobby was inside the dive bar, the driver got out and moseyed over to the brand new pickup truck. One glance told him that no one was paying any attention to his activities. He dropped to the pavement and slid under the frame. In less than a minute, he was back out from underneath and back in his own truck.

  Inside the Shadow Bar and Grill, Bobby ordered a double shot of his favorite single malt. He did not have to specify the brand because the waitress, Melinda, was more than familiar with the young Welker. After quickly downing the first drink, Bobby ordered another.

  “Is something bothering you, Sweetheart?” Melinda asked as she placed the second drink down.

  Without looking up Welker nodded. “Damn right it—is.”

  “Want to talk about it?” In the past, Melinda got her biggest tips from him when he was drunk and wanted to complain about how much control Henry had over him.

  Bobby slurred his reply,” N—o—p—e—s.”

  Melinda rested her bosom on his
shoulder. “It'll help you if you talk about it. That always makes you feel better. Remember.”

  “I—you—can't talk—about it. Too—many—assholes listening.”

  Melinda nodded toward the back of the bar. “Why don't we go back to my room? We'll have all the privacy in the world. You can get all those troubles off your chest.”

  Bobby burped in reply.

  “I won't be able to collect my usual tips if I'm back there, but I'm sure you'll make it up to me. Won't you, Baby?”

  To get his wallet from his rear pocket, Bobby struggled for over a minute. When he got it out, Melinda took it from him. She took two crisp Benjamins from him and stuffed in his front shirt pocket. “This will do for beginners to talk. If you want to do something else, it'll cost you more.”

  He nodded in a drunken stupor. She grabbed the wallet back and extracted five more hundred-dollar bills.

  “Now let's go in the back. You don't mind buying another bottle, do you, Baby?”

  Bobby was in no condition to nod. She grabbed the most expensive single malt bottle from the counter and half carried the young man back to her room.

  Ten minutes later, the bouncer helped her carry him to his truck. Melinda reluctantly gave him one bill for his efforts. And to tell no one that she had taken all of Bobby's money from him.

  “This guy's blasted,” the bouncer said. “Maybe we should get him a cab.”

  “Cabs cost money, and he doesn't have any more tonight,” Melinda replied while she fastened the seat belt loosely over his body. When it would not click in place, she left it drooped over his body. Even if he got a ticket, no cop would trace it back to her. She allowed the bouncer to escort her back inside the bar.

  Bobby struggled to get the key in the ignition. He cursed and slammed his hand on the steering wheel. He tried again. He failed again. After a few more attempts, he gave up and leaned back against the headrest. Soon, he was snoring.