New Orleans Noir

by Joanna Wayne

  “It takes a while to get comfortable with any kind of weapon,” Eulalie assured her. “You’ll get the hang of it. Having respect for a weapon is smart.”

  “Actually, she did exceptionally well for someone who’d never held a weapon before,” Hunter bragged.

  “And someone who hopes to never shoot one again.” Helena walked over to where Eulalie was lifting catfish fillets from the skillet of hot grease.

  “That looks and smells great,” she said, eager to change the conversation from guns to food. “What can I do to help?”

  “You can put some ice in the glasses for tea if you want?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Hunter, would you check that corn bread? It should be done.”

  “I’ll be happy to.” He opened the oven. “If it’s black on top, does that mean it’s ready?”

  Eulalie looked over his shoulder and checked for herself. “That’s golden brown and perfect. You mess with me, I’ll take this spatula to your bottom and you know it.”

  “You can’t talk that way to law enforcement.”

  “You just try me.”

  They were all laughing by the time the food was on the table. Eulalie had them bow for grace and then Hunter wasted no time digging in.

  There wasn’t much talking until they were all stuffed. They finished the meal off with cake that was as moist and delicious as any Helena had ever tasted. If she ate like this every day instead of her usual lunch salad she’d have to get longer brushes to reach her easel.

  “You women have had a busy morning,” Hunter said. “I’ll do the gentlemanly thing and clean up the kitchen while you two go relax or take care of the swamp tour business if needed.”

  “I don’t have but one tour scheduled this afternoon and my helper Evan is handling that. Won’t take me but a minute to clean up the kitchen, and if you get more than one person working in that tiny space we’ll be bumping into each other.”

  “And I’m only one person,” Hunter said, “so that’s why my offer stands.”

  “I have a better idea,” Eulalie insisted. “You should show Helena around the area. Take the pirogue and give her a personal tour.”

  Hunter started stacking the dessert plates. “Have you ever been on a swamp tour, Helena?”

  “Not since I was about ten years old when Mia thought it would be a capital idea. It wasn’t. The tour guide got out of the boat, waded to a patch of dry land and picked up a baby alligator. He got back on the boat and handed it to me. I had nightmares for years about the mother alligator coming after me.”

  “I leave the gators alone,” Eulalie said. “They don’t bother me. I don’t go getting them all riled up. You can trust Hunter to keep you safe. Cory’s been bringing Romeo and Hunter up here to fish and hunt for years.”

  Robicheaux’s words came to mind. At the time, Helena had thought visiting the bayou near where Elizabeth had been killed was the last thing she’d want to do this afternoon. Now the idea intrigued her.

  She needed to know as much about Elizabeth’s killer as she could before he called again. The more she knew, the better her chance at helping to bring him down.

  “A personal tour sounds like a good idea if Hunter has time.”

  “Are you sure?” Hunter questioned. “We’ll likely see an alligator or several.”

  “Alligators won’t bother you,” Eulalie said. “They aren’t aggressive unless you try to hurt them or their babies.”

  “Which I definitely won’t do,” Helena said.

  “All right then,” Hunter said. “If you’re game, I’m in.”

  The bayou was a fifteen-minute walk, due south from the B and B. Again, she tugged on the swamp stompers.

  Within five minutes, she was thankful for them no matter how unbecoming they were. The earth became squishy beneath her feet. A few yards more and an inch or two of standing water greeted every footfall.

  The feeling of isolation was overpowering. Helena spooked at every rustle of the tall grasses and the branches above her. She imagined slithering snakes, rats, giant spiders or even scorpions crawling inside her boots or up the legs of her trousers.

  Finally, they approached the muddy banks of the murky bayou. The waterway was wider than she expected, a good fifteen feet across at this point. She had no idea how deep it was since the dark murkiness of the water prevented her from seeing anything below the surface.

  Scrawny cypress trees canopied the slow-moving water. Crows cawed as if warning they were invading their space. She startled a stately gray heron who took flight.

  Helena scanned the area for a pirogue without luck. She did see what was left of a gray, deteriorating cabin with a partly missing tin roof a few yards down the bayou. It had apparently once rested on stilts, but it was leaning so badly now that the one weathered chair that leaned against the front wall looked as if it would collapse if sat in.

  Helena took a couple of quick steps to catch up with Hunter. “Please tell me no one lives in that disaster.”

  “No, not for years, anyway. It’s survived strictly from Eulalie’s occasional intervention.”

  “Why would Eulalie want to save it?”

  “It’s a hit with the tourists, especially the youngsters. They get excited when she has one of her workers dress in a pair of ripped and faded overalls and sit in that warped chair. Her handy man Joe Bob is especially popular. His wiry white beard and corncob pipe don’t hurt any, either. He waves, and the tourists snap pictures like crazy.”

  “Sounds like a production.”

  “Like nothing you can imagine,” Hunter said. “When Eulalie starts telling those old Cajun tales about growing up on the bayou and wrestling alligators with her grandpa, she has them in the palm of her hand. Plus, she always locates a few alligators for them to take pictures of so no one leaves disappointed. It’s hard to be out here very long without spotting a gator.”

  “In that situation, I prefer disappointment.” She scanned the area again. “Where is the pirogue you talked about?”

  “Just a few feet away.” Hunter disappeared into a cluster of thick brush and cypress trees. Once he was out of sight, an eerie fear gripped her, and she was almost sorry she’d agreed to this.

  And yet if the theory was correct, Elizabeth Grayson had willingly come with a killer who’d brought her to a scene much like this one.

  Or had she been forced here, screaming for help with no one to hear her, by the monster who was now trolling Helena by phone?

  Helena struggled to push that image from her mind as Hunter approached with a narrow, flat boat on his back.

  “Let me help you with that,” she called.

  “No need. It’s not heavy, just awkward.”

  “Is it safe to leave a pirogue just stashed in the swamp?”

  “It can’t walk off by itself, especially when it’s chained and locked to the trunk of the biggest tree around here. Not likely to get stolen, anyway. If you got here by bayou as most do, you have your own boat.”

  “Makes sense. What can I do to help?”

  “Hold this rope so the dang thing doesn’t go floating off without us while I get the pole and paddles.”

  Minutes later, they were floating deeper into a world that a lot of Louisianans had only seen in pictures and movies.

  “Glad you suggested this,” Hunter said. “No place is as soothing and peaceful as this. Listen to those tree frogs. That’s as calming a serenade as you can get in any concert hall.”

  Soothing and peaceful were not the words she would have chosen, but it felt far less intimidating with Hunter so near.

  A snowy white egret looked up from its fishing stance on the bank of the bayou and watched them float slowly by. The only time Hunter used a paddle was to steer them away from an occasional clump of vegetation that clogged part of the waterway.

  They came
to a fork, a wider stream of water opening up to their right. Hunter steered the pirogue straight ahead.

  “How do you keep from getting lost out here?”

  “I’ve been down here enough with Barker that I could probably navigate these waters in my sleep.”

  “What do you do down here?”

  “Duck hunting is great in these parts. Good fishing, too, if you know where to go. Frogging is fun and good eating.”

  A splash to her left made her jump. She turned to see a large dog-sized rodent join a few buddies in the water.”

  Helena shuddered. “Are those rats?”

  “Nutria, but basically they are large rodents. They’re a real nuisance in these parts. They tear up the banks and cause unnecessary erosion.”

  “Don’t the alligators eat them?”

  “Yep and so do some people—no one I know, but a few adventurous souls.”

  Helena gagged. “I doubt I could ever eat again if I looked down and saw one of those giant rats on my plate.”

  “I’m with you. Check out the snake slithering across the water in front of us.”

  She sucked in a gulp of muggy air. The snake was at least five feet long and black or at least it looked dark-colored in the water.

  “Please give it lots of room,” she said.

  “That’s just a water snake. It won’t hurt you. You gotta watch out for water moccasins, though. They make terrible company.”

  “Thanks for sharing that with me.”

  “Just pointing out the facts. No need to worry when I’m around. I do know how to shoot.”

  “Do you have a gun with you now?”

  “Unless I’m asleep or making love, I’m toting. Even then the weapon is within arm’s reach. It goes with the job.”

  Helena felt something on her neck and swatted a large mosquito.

  “Had enough?” Hunter asked.

  She’d had more than enough, but she wasn’t quite ready to go back. “Is this near the place where Elizabeth was killed?”

  Hunter paddled them past the snake without even glancing at it. “So that’s why you wanted to come out here. Sometimes Romeo talks too much.”

  “I get phone calls from a serial killer, Hunter. I think I can handle a crime scene.”

  “The two don’t actually equate, but fair enough. Evidence indicates Elizabeth was killed and dragged into the bayou about ten minutes from here by boat.”

  “Then she didn’t drown?”

  “Are you sure you want to hear the gory details?”

  “I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth, I think. Stop if I start to lose my lunch.”

  “The body was found not far away, tangled in the roots of cypress trees, but according to forensics she was already dead from slash wounds on her chest before she landed in the water.”

  “Were all four of his victims killed near here?”

  “No. Just Elizabeth. The others were killed in Algiers swamps.”

  “Why do you think he changed his crime scene for Elizabeth?”

  “We’re not sure, but the killer made several changes in his modus operandi for Elizabeth. Look, I know you’re tough, Helena, but I don’t think we should take this conversation any further. What sounds like objective facts in the middle of the day can become fodder for nightmares when the sun goes down.”

  “I’m merely trying to get a handle on what my caller is truly capable of doing. It’s hard to believe a man could function and pass himself off as human in the real world with that much evil in his heart.”

  “The bright side of all of this is that most people are truly good and have never even considered what it would be like to take someone’s life.”

  “Yes, but I’m starting to understand how Mia became so fascinated by the workings of a serial killer’s mind.”

  “Your grandmother had amazing insight. I swear she might have figured out who the killer was if she’d gotten the chance to talk to him a few more times.”

  “Don’t count on that happening with me.”

  “I’m not.”

  Hunter paddled for a few more minutes before taking a fork to the left. He laid his paddle beneath the seat and took out the long pole to help guide him through some heavy vegetation that almost totally clogged the waterway.

  “The crime scene is just to your right. Take a quick look while I turn the pirogue around so that we can start back.”

  “I don’t see any crime scene tape.”

  “It’s been six months and several tropical storms ago.”

  “Then how can you be sure this is the exact location? Everything we’ve passed seems almost the same to me.”

  “There are lots of landmarks. You just have to know what to look for.”

  He pointed to a garden of cypress trees. “That bald cypress is one of the tallest trees in this area. If you look in the top branches, you’ll see the nest of a Southern bald eagle.”

  “You’re right. I see it.”

  “What you can’t see from the water is that there is an old logging road that runs almost to the bayou. We believe that the killer may have brought her here via that road instead of by boat. Easy in, easy out, for him.”

  “If he drove down here, couldn’t you match tire tread?”

  “We might have garnered a clue if we’d gotten here before heavy rains washed them all away.”

  The murky water rippled as Hunter slid the paddle beneath the surface and began to turn the small pirogue around. This time she didn’t object.

  Before they reached the B and B, Hunter got a call that he was needed back at the precinct ASAP.

  There had been a foiled abduction in broad daylight in the French Quarter.

  The killer may have attempted to strike again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hunter dropped Helena off at home and went directly to the hospital where Cory Barker was waiting for the medical staff’s permission to question today’s victim. He found Barker in the hospital cafeteria nursing a cup of coffee.

  “Still waiting, huh?”

  “Yep. The nurse has my cell phone number and she promised to text me the second the doc says I can talk to his patient—Celeste Fountain. In the meantime, I decided to come down here, feed my need for caffeine and touch base with the crew handling the even stickier parts of the investigation—like locating the suspect.”

  “I talked to Lane Crosby on the way here,” Hunter said. “He’s questioning the two men who came to her rescue. He says the way they describe it, this was a purse snatching that went badly when she fought back.”

  Barker sipped his coffee from a disposable cup. “Coffee’s out of a machine since the cafeteria’s not open for dinner yet, but it’s not too bad. Want me to grab you a cup?”

  “Not yet. What’s your take on the situation?”

  “I figure we’ll have the suspect in jail within twenty-four hours, but he’s not the French Kiss Killer unless he’s having a mental breakdown. Every move in today’s attack was careless or downright stupid.”

  Hunter nodded. “Which is why we need to arrest today’s would-be abductor as soon as possible and keep the hype that he might be the French Kiss Killer to a minimum.”

  “You’re right,” Barker agreed. “But wouldn’t it be a roaring shocker if it turned out he was our guy?”

  “Yep,” Hunter said. “Be nice if I won the lottery tonight, too, but I won’t start spending my winnings just yet.”

  Barker got a text from the nurse and the two of them headed to Celeste Fountain’s third-floor hospital room. The doctor was standing outside her door to greet them. He introduced himself, then pulled off his glasses and slipped them into the pocket of his white coat.

  “Mrs. Fountain has only minor injuries, a few bruises and scratches on her hands and knees. Nonetheless, she has been through a very traumatic experience
this afternoon. She’s convinced that she barely escaped a serial killer.”

  “We have no evidence of the serial killer aspect,” Barker said. “But witnesses verify she was attacked in a public parking lot by an unknown assailant.”

  Hunter took a step in the direction of Celeste Fountain’s room. “The most important thing right now is for us to get a description of the suspect so we can get him off the streets.”

  “She understands that,” the doctor said. “Just don’t push her too hard.”

  “Definitely not,” Barker said.

  The doctor left. The nurse ushered them into the victim’s room and introduced them. The first thing Hunter noted was that Celeste looked nothing like Elizabeth or any of the other victims attributed to the serial killer.

  Her hair was straight and coal black. She appeared slightly overweight and wore excessive makeup especially around her eyes.

  Barker pulled a hand-size recorder from his pocket. “Do you mind if I record our conversation? I have a rotten memory and worse handwriting.”

  “I want to be recorded,” Celeste said. “I have important things to say.” She pushed a button and raised her bed until she was in a sitting position. “Are you going to read me my rights?”

  An odd question. “We don’t need to,” Hunter explained. “You’re the victim and we don’t suspect you of doing anything wrong.”

  “I didn’t,” Celeste said. “I was just getting out of my car to go to my job.”

  “Where do you work?” Hunter asked.

  “Well, I wasn’t exactly going to my job. I got fired last week. I was going to look for a new job. I heard the Aquarelle Hotel was looking for waitresses and I’ve had lots of experience at that.”

  “For the record, can you give us your name, age, address and phone number?” Baker said.

  She did. She was twenty-eight, divorced, the mother of a three-year old daughter who was currently in the father’s custody. She lived in Gretna, a small town in the Westbank area.

  “Take your time and tell us exactly what happened,” Hunter said.

  The gist of her explanation was that she had just parked and was getting out of her car when a slow-moving black sedan drove past her. She thought nothing of it since she figured he was looking for a parking space.