Cajun Crazy

by Sandra Hill

  She was beginning to think that humor had been missing in lots of her other relationships. Love and laughter, that was the combination she should look for this time.

  If she was looking.

  Hah! How could she help but be looking?

  “Why do you have the loopy grin on your face again?” Gabe asked her.

  They were sitting in her office, she behind her Lucite desk, and he in the chair on the other side. She shoved a sheet of paper toward him. “These are notes from Mrs. Pitot on places her husband and his club members often hang out. I suggest we just try going to each of these until we make a connection. We don’t want to be overt in making contact. It has to appear accidental, at first.”

  “I agree,” Gabe said.

  “Let’s start with The Hangout, that bar up near the Pitot lodge.”

  Gabe nodded. “Y’know, Mrs. Pitot is going to an awful lot of trouble and expense to get the goods on her husband, just in case he threatens to leave her.”

  “She can afford it. And, frankly, she’s probably wise to get her ducks in a row for the time when he takes off with Suzy Snowflake, or the next sweet young thang. That’s what rich old guys do.”

  “Cynical, cynical!” Gabe chided.

  “A fact.”

  “And she doesn’t want us to go to the police or anything, right?”

  “Right. Although I have warned her that if I witness illegal activities of a certain type, I have no choice.”

  “Such as?”

  “Forced participants. Pedophilia. Danger.”

  Gabe nodded. “How far are we going to carry this thing? I mean, you and me. Naked? Shaking the sheets? Ménages?” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Whips and chains?”

  She laughed. “Not that far. Don’t get any ideas. We can pretend to be into whatever they do, but I personally don’t intend to do any of it. What you do is your choice.”

  “Livia would kill me,” he said. “So when do you want to do this thing?”

  “How about . . .” She checked her calendar. “How about next week?” She made that suggestion because she had a date—an actual date—with Adam for next Saturday. She figured that once they started the Pitot investigation, she might be spending several days away from Houma. She didn’t want to have to cancel at the last minute if something came up in New Orleans.

  “Oh, one more thing. If you’re going to be a doctor, what am I going to be?”

  “Hmmm,” Gabe said, then grinned as he surveyed her body. “How about a former stripper?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Give me that old-time . . . seduction . . .

  Adam was getting ready for his big date with Simone. And, man, did that make him seem old!

  Most single people he knew either hooked up for sex or traveled in groups to parties or bars where they then hooked up for sex. Hardly anyone under the age of thirty dated anymore, or so he was told by TV and the news media, and some of his bachelor friends. Of course, he was thirty-five. Not that his age should make any difference. Or should it?

  He didn’t mind giving dating a shot, though. He kind of liked the idea of an old-fashioned courtship. That has got to be a Tante Lulu word. Even Dad isn’t that behind the times. More like Little House on the Prairie–ish. Yeah, that’s me. A big ol’ Michael Landon. Not that this courtship with Simone was leading to anything serious, like marriage, God forbid. Yet. Never. Maybe never.

  Oh, hell, he was overanalyzing everything.

  He’d even had his hair cut . . . oh, not short short. But the little pony tail was gone. He was making some kind of half-baked declaration of new beginnings.

  “Dad-dy!” Maisie had said when he came in from the barbershop. “Ya look jist lak Justin Bieber.”

  What? That was not the look he was going for.

  His father had said, “Nah. He looks more like Ryan Gosling in La La Land. Ya goin’ ta trip the light fantastic t’night, son?”

  Also not the look he’d been going for. If there was any tripping to be done, it would probably be actual tripping, not some frou-frou dancing in the streets. Frou-frou? Oh, my God! Another Tante Lulu word! If anything, he’d prefer to be Christian Grey in Fifty Shades of Grey, but, no, his hair was too short for Adam’s taste. Whatever!

  The house was a mess of game equipment being put together for the Fourth of July pool party to be held in a few weeks, like pool ping-pong paddles and a net. Thus far, thirty people had indicated they would come. He feared it would be lots more than that.

  He was wearing a dark blue suit, pale blue shirt, and a blue striped tie when he picked up Simone at seven-thirty. He was taking her to a restaurant that featured fine dining and dancing. The last time he’d been on a date, it had been with Hannah, at Brennan’s in New Orleans, after which he went home to relieve the babysitter and she’d gone off to one of her other “dates.” Is it still a date if it involves more than one man?

  He might have been a little embarrassed over the extra care he’d taken with his appearance, but he soon saw after knocking on Simone’s door that she had done the same. Wearing a red dress with thin straps (She must not be wearing a bra.) that molded her body right down to her upper knees and black strappy high heels, she was dressed for a night on the town. Her dark hair was tucked off either side of her face with combs. Her make-up appeared to be nothing but pure Southern suntan (probably expertly applied cosmetics) but highlighted by crimson lipstick to match her dress. He noticed a light musky scent rising from her skin when he leaned forward (with her high heels she was almost his height) to kiss her cheek in greeting.

  “Don’t you look handsome tonight?” she said as he helped her with a hand under her elbow down the steps and over to his Lexus.

  He gave a little bow and a whistle. “Likewise, darlin’.”

  “Oh, that’s not fair. I never should have told you how I’m affected by that word.”

  Huh? Oh. She means the “darlin’” drawl. “All’s fair in . . . whatever,” he said.

  Simone had to laugh, staring at Adam as he slid into the driver’s seat. The fool couldn’t even say the word love aloud without breaking out in a sweat. “Where are we going?”

  “The Chateau. They have a band and a dance floor for after dinner. Is that okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  On the way to restaurant, he told her funny stories about the upcoming pool party that was getting out of hand. “My daughter has become a miniature Bill Gates and Martha Stewart combined. She uses her laptop—yes, my daughter has a laptop, a cheap one without bells and whistles—where she has all these files related to the party: guests, food, entertainment, fireworks, and so on. Then she’s been hitting Martha Stewart’s website for recipes.”

  “She knows how to maneuver around the Internet like that?”

  “Oh, yeah, with some help from my dad and a friend’s older sister. But that’s the good part. The bad part is that my father’s the cook in the family, and the two of them have been going at it like cats and dogs over the menu. Dad wants hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill, with some salads and a flag cake. Maisie wants crab-cake sliders, s’mores made on his grill with Godiva chocolate and homemade graham crackers, blueberry coleslaw, and tomatoes stuffed with shrimp-infused quinoa.”

  “Quinoa? I can hardly pronounce that myself.”

  “Yeah, quinoa. Which is just chewy rice, if you ask me. Anyhow, my dad’s fussy about his grill and marshmallows dripping onto those polished grates is enough to make his eyes roll back in his head, but when she mentioned his tomatoes . . . well, you have to know my father is possessive about his heirloom tomatoes.”

  “I saw how proud he was of his garden when I was at your house,” she interjected. “And especially those delicious tomatoes. He’s a Master Gardener, isn’t he?”

  Adam nodded. “Bottom line, I don’t need to buy any fireworks, there are enough sizzling in my house.”

  Simone was laughing so hard by then that she had to dab at the tears in her eyes with a tissue. “Whose idea was it t
o have a party?”

  “Maisie’s, of course. Egged on by my father. They supposedly got the idea from one of the numerous Food Channel shows that my father watches. Apparently, they heard one of the hosts say that when you move into a new home you’re obligated to have a housewarming party. Then Maisie decided it had to have a theme. Thus, the Fourth of July.”

  “She’s adorable.”

  Adam looked at her and smiled. “Yeah, she is.”

  “And you’re blessed to have your father to help you,” she added.

  “Don’t I know it!”

  When they got to the upscale restaurant, the maître d’ escorted them to a table on the far side of the room, away from the band, which would give them a chance to talk below the din. Adam guided her in front of him with a hand at the small of her back. It seemed as if the silk fabric of her dress moved slightly against her skin, under his palm. Sort of a caress. But she might be mistaken.

  She hoped he wasn’t looking at her butt, which more than filled out her tight dress. She should have borrowed her mother’s Spanx. Oh, well! Too late now.

  After sitting down, they placed their ordears . . . a shared Roast Oysters with Tarragon Butter appetizer and a Praline Bread Pudding dessert, a Gulf fish sampler entrée for her with a side of cheese truffled grits, and Steak Oscar for him, medium rare filet mignon topped with asparagus, lump crab meat, and hollandaise and a side of Cajun Quinoa, instead of the usual baked potato. They both laughed at the mention of quinoa.

  The meal, heightened by a bottle of red wine, was sublime, as would be expected at a five-star restaurant. And the conversation was equally excellent. There was never a lull.

  “Tell me about your marriages,” he urged, probably wanting to get the subject out of the way from the start.

  He watched her closely as she dipped a large crab claw in lemon butter and sucked out the succulent meat. She licked her lips just to tease him, and he smiled, giving her a little salute.

  It was a game they were both playing.

  “I married Cletus when I was seventeen, soon after I graduated from high school. My mother and I weren’t getting along, and I probably looked at him as an escape. I realized my mistake almost immediately and left after a couple of weeks. My divorce didn’t take place until a year later, but by then I was in college. I blame it all on humming hormones.”

  He propped his elbow on the table with his hand under his chin, studying her. His position caused the sleeve of his jacket to ride up, exposing more of his neatly starched dress shirt, highlighted by gold knot cuff links. She did like cuff links on a man. Like eye glasses . . . when a hot man took off his glasses or cuff links, while gazing at a woman with erotic intent, well, it just about melted her bones.

  “I’d like to see you with humming hormones,” he commented.

  It took her a second to realize that he was referring to her remark about blaming her early indiscretions on humming hormones. “Darlin’,” she replied, drawing out the word, “I’ve been humming around you from the get-go.”

  More of the game.

  His dark Cajun eyes danced with humor. But then he straightened and took another bite of his steak.

  She liked watching him eat, as much as he liked watching her. He chewed his food slowly, closemouthed, with an expression of pleasure on his face. Noticing her study, he stabbed a portion of steak with a sliver of asparagus and a lump of crabmeat and held it out across the table.

  She had no choice but to open her mouth for him, a blatantly sexual act of seeming surrender, which he clearly enjoyed as much as she did. In fact, several times during the meal he stabbed one of the items on her plate and ate with relish. Whether it be redfish or shrimp or scallop, the sharing was almost like an erotic ritual. At least she hadn’t offered food from her fork to his mouth.

  Yet.

  Oh, I am in deep trouble!

  All of her senses were heightened. The smell. The taste. The sounds. Even the feel of the velvet seat under her rump.

  So caught up in the intimate aura was she that at first she didn’t hear him ask, “So, what was wrong with Cletus?”

  She blinked several times to clear her head. It must be the wine. It had to be the wine. Otherwise . . .

  “What wasn’t wrong with him? I found out right after the wedding, which took place at a seedy justice of the peace in Alabama, by the way, that he already had a rap sheet for breaking and entering, and burglary. Small-time stuff then. He hasn’t stopped since, moving onto bigger crimes, like armed robbery and auto theft. In fact, he was only released from Angola a few weeks ago.”

  “I heard,” he said. “Your mother’s roommate for a week or so, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, and the reason I moved out of her trailer so quickly.”

  “Which brings us to husband number two,” he prodded. “The musician, Jeb Cormier, I think.”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  “A little.”

  “I married Jeb when I was a senior in college. Not as dumb as when I married Cletus, but totally naïve when it came to drugs. Sadly, Jeb was an addict. Especially sad because he was a gifted musician. When I play his CD Louisiana Lost, with that deep baritone and that wailing Cajun sound, it brings tears to my eyes.”

  “Sounds like you really loved him.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. But it died out before I left him, long before he died of an overdose. It’s probably why I ended up going into law enforcement, though, seeing the damage drugs can do.”

  “Sorry to have injected a sad note into our evening.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “A long time ago. Don’t you want to know about the perversions of my third husband, Julien Gaudet, the computer entrepreneur?” She waggled her eyebrows at him.

  He laughed. “Sure.”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you. Suffice it to say, when I found out where he was getting his big inflow of cash, I was out of there. If you count up the actual time, I spent with my three husbands, it amounts to about six months. Pathetic, I know.”

  They’d finished their meal and sipped at their glasses of wine while the waiter removed their dishes and brought out the dessert, a huge bread pudding with two spoons. Simone was stuffed but she had to try at least a bite, and then she sighed aloud and couldn’t stop herself from taking more.

  “Your turn,” she said then.

  He nodded. “My life hasn’t been quite so interesting as yours. One marriage, but it was a whopper.”

  She arched her brows.

  “I was a beginning assistant DA in Nawleans when I married Hannah. She was a psychologist specializing in couple counseling. That should have been a clue, I realize, in hindsight.”

  “Who was it that said hindsight is twenty-twenty?”

  “Billy Wilder,” he informed her. “The Hollywood director. And, yeah, the things we wish we could undo! Not that I would undo my marriage, because it gave me Maisie.”

  “Of course.”

  “You talk about being naïve when you married at seventeen. Hah! How do you excuse a grown man of twenty-six, falling brain-dead, head-over-ass in love with a woman, five years older, by the way, and marrying her, without knowing she was into extramarital affairs, ménages, sex clubs, and all kinds of perversions? Yeah, I know, you probably thought there wasn’t a perversion I didn’t welcome. Betcha I could match you perversion for perversion with Hannah and your Gaudet creep.”

  Simone’s jaw dropped open with shock. Yeah, she’d known about Adam’s wife being involved in a sex club, but to hear him tell it so bluntly was shocking.

  “I didn’t even know they had sex clubs like the one Hannah was into, that’s how clueless I was at the time. Now, I understand, there are tons of them around. You would probably know, having been a police officer.”

  “Um, did you participate in them?”

  “No!” He hesitated, then wiped his mouth with a napkin and placed it on the table over his plate. “I have to admit, I went to one of their parties . . . okay,
two . . . just to see what they were about. Not my thing!”

  “Because of their activities or on principle?”

  “Both. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not an angel. Far from it. After many futile attempts to get Hannah to give up her wild personal life, I began having affairs myself. One-on-one affairs, not orgies. Yeah, I know, I’m splitting hairs with my moral preaching.” He shrugged. “Guess I’m kind of an old-fashioned guy living in a modern world. I still believe in the sanctity of marriage, but not for me,” he was quick to add. “Once burned, twice shy.”

  There were so many things Simone wanted to ask, especially about the sex club, but she couldn’t begin her Marcus Pitot investigation based on info she’d gleaned from Adam. First of all, it was unethical. Second, he would believe she’d used him; he would never forgive her. So she tried to veer the conversation in another direction. “How did Maisie fit into this picture?”

  “Funny you should ask! She didn’t. Hannah never wanted a child. She alternately blamed me and some anonymous donor for the accident.”

  Simone gasped. “Are you saying that Maisie isn’t your child?”

  “Oh, she’s mine all right. But that’s how Hannah kept me from filing for a divorce and taking Maisie with me. She needed the cover of a respectable marriage to carry out both her legitimate couple counseling business and her personal orgies. So, she always implied that Maisie wasn’t actually my child and if I left, she’d get custody.”

  “Oh, Adam!” She reached across the table and covered one of his hands with hers.

  He turned his hand over and linked his fingers with hers.

  “It was only after her death that I had a DNA test done, which proved Maisie is mine, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Blood or not, Maisie was mine by then.”

  She squeezed his hand, speechless.

  “So, that’s my story.”