Rebel Without a Cake (20 page)

The waitress was obviously friends with everyone there. She joked with customers about inconsequential things and argued mildly with the bartender about inventory and her schedule. She wanted Saturday off. He said their deal was one Saturday a month and reminded her she'd taken off the previous Saturday.

I swallowed a yawn and chided myself for forgetting to bring a book. Not that it mattered. It was so dark in there, I wouldn't have been able to see the words on a page. I briefly considered taking a nap, but I put my elbow in something sticky on the table and changed my mind.

I'm not sure how long I'd been sitting there when the door opened and Junior Laroche ambled inside. My day brightened considerably. At least now my eavesdropping had the potential to be interesting. Junior greeted his friends and neighbors and nodded to the waitress. He ordered a beer and perched on a bar stool.

Maybe I should strike up a friendly conversation with him. Or maybe I should just keep listening to see if he said something important. I contemplated the options for about three seconds, decided he'd probably say more to friends than he would to me, and scooted back into the shadows so I could implement Plan B.

For the first little while, the conversation was blindingly dull. The guys talked about hunting and fishing and debated the merits of different types of bait and the use of treble hooks when fishing alligators out in the open. Apparently the waitress also dipped her toe (figuratively) into the swamp now and then because she offered an opinion or two of her own between wiping down tables and sweeping the floor.

I found myself drifting off and trying to ignore the nudge from my conscience that told me I should check up on Miss Frankie and Bernice while I was in town. At some point the waitress stopped cleaning, and sat down beside Junior. I didn't notice until Junior raised his voice and thumped the bar with his fist, which pulled me rudely away from my daydreaming.

“You're not listening to me, Nettie. Kale needs boundaries. He's running around town like a loose cannon.”

The waitress was Nettie? Silas Laroche's widow? Well, well, well. I made a real effort to pay attention.

Nettie tried to placate her brother-in-law. “He's upset, Junior. I know you don't care about Silas, but Kale always cared about his daddy, for all the good it did him.”

“The boy's too damned soft,” Junior complained. “It gets him into trouble. So his old man never cared about him. So what? My mama always liked my brother best. Did I let that bother me? Hell no. That kid's got to toughen up, Nettie. He's got to start doing what's expected of him. That's not going to happen if you keep coddling him.”

Nettie left her seat and slipped behind the bar, where she started putting away a stack of clean glasses. I couldn't be sure, but I suspected she wanted to keep her hands busy so she wouldn't punch Junior in the face.

“I don't coddle him,” she said in a low voice. “But I don't expect him to just shrug off all the crap life has heaped on him either. He's got a lot to work through. It wasn't his fault Silas took off the way he did.”

“It wasn't my fault either,” Junior said. All at once his voice lost its angry spark. He leaned up from his stool and touched her cheek. “Taking care of the two of you wasn't my responsibility, Nettie, but I did it anyway. Why do you think I did that? For the fun of it?”

Nettie looked too stunned by his touch for me to think they'd been having an affair. I wondered what he had up his sleeve. “You know I appreciate all you've done, Junior. You've been better to the both of us than Silas ever was.”

“Then talk to Kale. Convince him to do the right thing.”

Nettie looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but she nodded slowly. “I'll talk to him but I can't promise he'll do what I say.”

Junior pulled his hand away from her face and smiled. “You can convince him, baby. I know you can. Just tell him how much it'll mean to you. And remind him that if he comes to work for me, he'll be building his future. He can help get things back on track for all of us. Isn't that what we both want?”

I don't know what Nettie's answer would have been because that was when Georgie arrived—thirty minutes late—and Junior beat a hasty retreat. He left so quickly I wondered if he was trying to avoid being in the same place with the sheriff's deputy. Maybe his rapid departure had nothing to do with Georgie's sudden arrival, but it looked that way to me. Gut instinct told me that Junior Laroche had more than one trick up his sleeve, and when my gut started speaking, I tried to listen.

Georgie didn't look twice at Junior. She just planted herself across from me and tossed a clipboard onto the table. With a heavy sigh, she tugged off her cap and dropped it beside the clipboard. I thought she looked tired. Even her freckles seemed faded.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I got tied up on a call.” She pulled a pen from her pocket and sat with it poised to write. “You ready to do this?”

“Sure.” I glanced at the door. “But before we get started, did you see that?”

Georgie followed my gaze. The bartender was watching something on a small black-and-white TV behind the bar. Nettie was chatting with the two men still bellied up to it. “See what?”

“Did you notice how quickly Junior left when you walked in? What do you know about him? Do you think he could have killed his brother?”

Georgie gave that a moment's thought and then shrugged it off. “Sure he
could
have, but why would he? Silas didn't have anything Junior wanted. Junior had it all. He had the money, the property. I mean, no, he doesn't have a wife or kids, but he has a good relationship with Silas's family. Way better than Silas did, that's for sure.”

“I suppose you're right,” I said reluctantly. There was something about the way Junior had touched Nettie's cheek—and her reaction to it—that made me uneasy. “You don't think he and Nettie are having an affair, do you?”

Georgie's eyes grew a little wider. “
You
think so?”

“Not really,” I said quickly. “It's just they were discussing Kale, and Junior—” I broke off and shook my head. “He touched her face but I could swear she seemed surprised by it. Do you think it's possible that he's been waiting for his brother to die so he could make his move?”

Georgie snorted softly, “Would he really wait around for twenty years? Why wait all that time to make his move?”

“It does seem unlikely,” I agreed. “Especially if it's true that their father cut Silas out of his will.”

“That's pretty much common knowledge around here. The way I hear it, the old man was furious when Silas turned his back on his legacy.”

“Junior said Silas did that because he doesn't believe that people can actually own property. Is that right?”

Georgie put down her pen and nodded. “Silas was a weird guy. In general, the people out here aren't too fond of rules and regulations, but most folks are real respectful of the rules when it comes to hunting and fishing. They know where they can go and they're careful not to encroach on each other's territory. But Silas didn't care. He had the idea that owning property was some kind of abomination against nature. He said that God made it for everyone to use. And he saw nothing wrong with taking the catch right off someone else's line or hunting out of season.”

“He forgot that God wasn't happy about stealing?”

“Oh, Silas didn't consider that stealing,” Georgie said. “In his mind, anyone who tried to claim ownership was taking away from everyone else. You know he and Eskil butted heads over that very thing, right?”

I nodded. “But Eskil says he's innocent, and I believe him. Was Silas ever arrested?”

Georgie put the pen down and pulled on her hair to tighten her ponytail. “He never took more than he needed to survive, so it's not like he was out there every day. We'd drive out to his place and make sure he knew we were watching, but it was hard to catch him at it. I tried for a while to pin him down on the other side, maybe selling hides or hauling a gator to the buyer, but I didn't have any luck. He lived off the land mostly, but you'd see him in town here from time to time picking up supplies from T-Rex. I don't know where he got the money to keep himself in chewing tobacco and coffee, but he always seemed to have a stash of cash.”

It was a puzzle for sure. Silas didn't seem to have anything that anybody wanted. Not only that, it seemed he hadn't wanted anything from anybody. Yes, there was Silas's habit of poaching from his neighbors. But if he'd been doing that for two decades, why would anybody go off the deep end and kill him now?

There was only one other motive I could see. For twenty years Eskil had believed that Silas was responsible for Uncle Cooch's disappearance. There seemed to be no reason for Eskil to suddenly go crazy and take Silas out—unless he'd recently found evidence he wasn't telling anyone about. The chances of getting Eskil to 'fess up were remote, but maybe someone else in Baie Rebelle could fill in the pieces. Of course, to follow up on that possibility, I'd have to stay in Baie Rebelle and talk to everyone I could.

And that just wasn't going to happen.

*   *   *

About an hour later I finished giving my statement and left the bar. Georgie stayed behind to talk with Nettie, and while I was interested in hearing what Nettie had to say, I didn't want to spend even one more minute in that musty-smelling place. I popped the lock on the Mercedes and was about to get inside when a white Ford Ranger sped past me on the road. It reached the intersection leading to Aunt Margaret's house and drove straight through.

From where I stood, I couldn't see the driver, but I sure wanted to know who it was. The way I saw it, I could do one of three things: Go back to New Orleans and ignore everyone and everything else, drive over to Aunt Margaret's and check on Miss Frankie and Bernice, or follow the truck. It was a no-brainer really. I couldn't just drive off and ignore the truck, and I was in no hurry to look Miss Frankie in the eye.

I backed out as quickly as I could and gunned the engine as I pulled onto the road. My tires spun, then finally found traction. The Mercedes shot forward, spitting dirt and tiny rocks behind me.
Yee-haw!

I'm no expert on tailing someone without getting caught, but how hard could it be? I'd just hang back a bit, but not so far that I lost sight of the truck. If the driver noticed me, I hoped he'd just think I was checking out the scenery.

Turns out tailing someone isn't as easy as it sounds. The Ranger and I were the only cars on the road, which made it difficult to disguise the fact that I was in hot pursuit. I held back as far as I dared but the truck barreled along at a fast clip, and that made it hard to keep up on unfamiliar roads.

We whipped past JL Charters and out into the country, where the houses were even fewer and farther between. The truck zipped over a narrow wooden bridge and I followed a few minutes later. On the other side of the bridge, the pavement ended and the road narrowed—a feat that I would have previously thought impossible. I wasn't convinced that the dirt road was even wide enough for all four tires to remain on the track at the same time.

I didn't want to slow down and lose the Ranger, but I wasn't confident enough in my driving skills to throw caution to the wind. And besides, the road dropped off sharply into deep ditches on both sides of the road. They reminded me of the terrain where I'd found Silas Laroche's body, and I did not want to end up in one of them.

Chewing on disappointment, I slowed down. That's when I realized that the Ranger was kicking up dust as it traveled on the unpaved road and the dust didn't settle immediately. That meant that I didn't have to keep the Ranger itself in sight. I just had to follow the cloud of dust.

That worked pretty well for a while, but eventually I dropped so far behind I was no longer eating the Ranger's dust and the trees were so thick I couldn't pick up the trail again. Hoping I'd spot the truck, I kept going for a few miles but the Ranger had disappeared.

I hate losing and I hate giving up, but even I knew it would be a waste of time and gas to keep going. Unfortunately, figuring out how to turn around and go back presented a problem. I'd passed a couple of narrow dirt cutoffs that I just knew headed straight into alligator country. It had been a long time since I'd seen an actual road. The Mercedes was too big to make a U-turn, and I was afraid I'd slide into a ditch if I tried to make a three-, four-, or even an eleven-point turn.

I wasn't all that familiar with the geography, but I knew that Baie Rebelle sat on a narrow piece of solid land in the middle of water and uninhabitable marshland. I didn't know how much farther the road would continue or what I'd find when I reached land's end.

After a while, I saw a slight widening in the road that I thought might indicate a path or a driveway. With a lot of concentration, I got myself turned around and headed back toward Baie Rebelle's version of civilization. I'd done my best. Now it was time to go home and do something productive. Instead of chasing trucks through the swamp, I should have been looking for recipes that would whet the appetites of New Orleans's elite.

Just over the bridge, where the road widened into almost two whole lanes again, something large and furry darted out of the trees and into my path. I slammed on the brakes, hit a patch of gravel, and careened out of control.

My parents died in a car when I was a girl, and I frequently have dreams of following them the same way. In a panic, I overcorrected and sent the Mercedes on a collision course with a stand of trees on the other side of the road. Time seemed to slow and my brain turned to sludge. Every thought in my head felt like it took half an hour to form.

I told myself over and over to stay calm, but it was a losing battle. I pumped the brakes and cranked the wheel as hard as I could toward the middle of the road, but my tires hit more gravel and I watched in horror as my worst nightmare played out in front of me.

The car slammed into a ditch, bounced from the impact, and hit the trees with a tooth-rattling jolt. The air bag deployed and the air around me filled with smoke and a strong sickly sweet smell. I reached for the car door, but I couldn't see well enough to find the latch. Disoriented, I felt around where I thought it
should
be, but either I was hopelessly confused or someone had moved it when I wasn't looking.

The air bag deflated a bit and the sweet odor gave way to the smell of burnt plastic. My lungs burned with every breath and my head buzzed. The seat belt strained to hold me in place and rubbed a spot on the side of my neck so that it felt raw. I desperately wanted out of that car, but from the angle of my body, I suspected that might not be possible without help.

A fresh wave of panic surged up inside and took over. I clawed at the door for what felt like eternity. I cursed and prayed and tried to rip off Mambo Odessa's beads, which I'd kept forgetting to take off when I had the chance. I didn't want to breathe, but holding my breath until help came wasn't an option. After a long time, my fingers brushed the automatic window panel and I felt a glimmer of hope.

I pressed, pulled, and hammered on the panel until one of the back windows eased down enough to let out some of that nasty chemical smoke. My vision cleared enough for me to see where I was. The good news was that my position wasn't as precarious as I'd first thought. The bad? I wouldn't be driving out of there.

I tried to open the door but it was jammed shut, making escape impossible, or at least more difficult. With effort, I got all four windows down at least partway before the engine coughed a couple of times and died. I mentally compared the partially open window with my hips and made a solemn vow to exercise more if I ever got out of there.

With no way out, I did my best to stay focused on the positive. I was alive. That was a big plus. I leaned my head out the window so I could gulp some air. It was cleaner than the air inside the car, but it was still filled with air bag powder. After a few minutes I regained enough presence of mind to check my cell phone. It took ages for me to make out what was on the screen, but when I did, I wasn't surprised. No service.

I did some more positive thinking, but it's not nearly as effective in a crisis as self-help gurus want us to believe. I didn't feel positive, only slightly less negative. Until, out of nowhere, I thought about Edie and the baby and my promise to be the kid's godmother. Sadness landed on my chest and pressed hard. I'd never had kids of my own, and now I might never even get the chance to see Edie's baby.

Tears burned my eyes and regret put a thick lump in my throat. I cried until my nose was too stuffed to breathe, which meant that I had to dig around until I found the stack of unused napkins I'd stockpiled from clandestine trips to fast-food restaurants. Yes, I'm a foodie but I'm not a snob.

Clearly feeling sorry for myself, I mopped up the tears and blew my nose, and then I decided to do something more productive than wallow in self-pity. I should take stock and list what I had on my side and what was working against me. Maybe that would help me find a way to escape.

Number one: I was stuck in the middle of nowhere in a car that wasn't going anywhere, holding a cell phone that didn't have a single bar of service. (I lumped them all together because I knew that separately they'd overwhelm me.) Either way, they landed firmly in the “against” column.