“This is your fault, Luc. If you hadn’t opened your big mouth at my mother’s party, none of this would have happened.”
“My fault? My fault? If you hadn’t been poking around with human nature, inventing a jelly-bean aphrodisiac, none of this would’ve happened. And if your friend Blanche hadn’t blabbed to a newspaper reporter, we wouldn’t be in this fix,” he declared icily, moving to the French doors, where he examined the broken glass on the floor, being careful not to handle anything that might have fingerprints. “And, by the way, it works just fine, in case you were wondering.”
“What works just fine?” She was having trouble following his rambling train of thought. Was he talking about the doors, or who was at fault, or
…oh, my God!
“I’ve been drinking nonstop since Friday night, and I don’t even like to drink all that much anymore. Despite being snockered, I still kept
…keep
thinking about you.” Sheepishly, and with way too much candor, he explained, “I’ve had a hard-on for you the past forty-eight hours straight.”
She looked down, without thinking, at the flat denim area near his crotch.
“Believe me, it’ll be salutin’ any minute now. And its national anthem ain’t no ‘Star-Spangled Banner.’ It’s ‘Star-Spangled
Red
-Hot,
White
-Heat,
Blue
-Flame’ Sylvie. Put that on your Bunsen burner, babe, and think about it.”
“You are the crudest man I have ever met.”
“Yeah. Maybe that’s what you need in your life,
chère
. Maybe you’ve had too many la-dee-dah, polite namby-pambies in your life. Men who say, ‘Can I?’ and ‘May I?’ when what they should’ve said was, ‘Park your ass on my lap, sweet buns, and let the good times roll.’”
“I hate you.”
“Likewise.”
They were practically nose to nose now, gritting out their insults to each other, when a loud cracking noise erupted just above their heads. Another pane of glass shattered, followed by a whizzing noise, then a thud against the far wall.
Startled, they turned as one to see a bullet hole the size of a quarter in the cream-colored plaster wall.
“Duck!” Luc shouted, and shoved her to the floor, just before another bullet winged its way through the French doors.
Sylvie was too stunned to scream or cry, even though one of her palms was grinding against a sliver of glass…even though Luc was lying on top of her with his full weight.
“Oh, I forgot,” she said in a panic. “Samson and Delilah. I left them by the front door.” Sylvie shoved him off her and proceeded to turn and make a snakelike path back through the living room.
He grabbed her by the back collar of her blouse, halting her progress. “Are you nuts? You can’t go back there…not yet. And who in blazes are Samson and Delilah?”
“Rats.”
“Rats?” he repeated incredulously.
“Yes, I brought Samson and Delilah, my two main lab rats, with me yesterday when I left the company.”
“Holy shit!” he muttered. The woman was risking her life for rats.
She stared at him, wide-eyed with unspoken supplication.
Oh, hell!
He was the one doing a snake dance then, making his way on his belly to the foyer, then back again carrying a Happy Meal carton that made tiny squealing noises. He handed it to Sylvie, who checked to see if the occupants were okay. The two little rodents squeaked with delight, but he wasn’t sure if it was because they were happy to see Sylvie, or happy to be able to hump in peace once again.
Sylvie was making cooing noises at the animals as they shook the wax paper in their usual erotic frenzy. They were real sex machines, these two were…a regular X-rated Mickey and Minnie.
“You are really weird, Sylv. No kidding.”
The most important thing, though, was that there were no more shots. He pushed the Happy Meal carton to the wall and motioned for her to follow him, crawling on his belly to the far side of the room. Finally, they made it to the dining room, still lying low on their bellies, and gazed at each other in amazement.
It was the craziest situation Luc had ever been in…and there had been a few humdingers. He propped his elbows on the floor and braced his chin in his hands, staring at the witch who’d conjured up this unbelievable plot.
“Why is someone shooting at us?” Sylvie, also propped on her hands, was wearing black pleated trousers and a white silk blouse. The top few buttons of the wispy shirt must have come undone when he’d thrown her to the floor at the first gun
shot, or when he’d pulled on her collar. Not that he noticed her exposed skin. Or cared. Or even looked.
Hah!
“Not
us
, necessarily. It could be me. Maybe someone followed me here,” he suggested.
She tilted her head in puzzlement, causing the blouse to gape wider.
I’m not looking. I’m not looking
. “They would have no reason to shoot at you, Sylv. They’d never get the formula, then. Me, on the other hand,” he said, with a shrug. “They’re banking on the fact that the fishermen might give up without an advocate. They’d probably never find another lawyer dumb enough to represent them.”
She thought for a moment, worrying her bottom lip with her small, even, white upper teeth. She had really nice teeth…thanks to a good orthodontist, no doubt. And really, really nice lips. Not that he noticed. Or cared. Or—
“Luc?” Sylvie prodded.
“Huh?” She must have been talking to him while his mind was on…other things.
“I said, how about the gris-gris doll? That was surely a threat to me.”
“Yeah, but voodoo practitioners are more likely to use poison. Or kidnap you and employ slow torture with a knife during one of their rituals. Or drop you in a snake pit.”
“You’re making that up.”
Despite her accusation, he saw a flicker of fear in her wide blue eyes. She had really nice eyes. This was the second time he’d noticed how pretty her eyes were.
Stop it
, he chastised himself.
Stop noticing nice things. Hate Sylvie like you always do.
Hate, not like. Or love. Definitely not love
. He answered her, then, with the definitive male response: “Am not.”
“God, you are so juvenile!”
“Some women like a man with a sense of humor.”
“Aaarrgh!”
“You say that a lot. Is it a speech impediment?”
“Do you have a death wish?” She tried to swat him on the shoulder, but he rolled away onto his back.
It was fun baiting Sylvie. It always had been. But this was no time for fun and games. “Look, it’s been swell, but I better get out of here while I still can. If the Cypress Oil people don’t get me, you will.” He rose to his feet and walked into the living room and over to the French doors. Carefully, he checked the front yard and street. Empty. Amazing that none of the neighbors had heard the gunshots. Well, it was a Monday afternoon…a workday for most folks.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Sylvie asked, rising, too.
“I sup-pose,” he said slowly, rubbing his chin in contemplation.
“What? Why do you hesitate?”
“Well, I hate to draw the Houma police into this till we know for sure what we’re dealing with.”
“You’re saying they’re corrupt, too?”
He shook his head decisively. “No, but there would be publicity if we call them to investigate. It’s hard to keep a lid on it, especially when we’ve garnered as much press as we have so far, with so little effort. Putting ourselves in the limelight even more will make it all the harder to find out who’s
behind this crap. Besides that, it will be awfully hard to continue my investigation or your experiments under a spotlight.”
Sylvie’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “So we do nothing?”
Luc was a little concerned about the way both of them were using “we,” but he could address that later. “No, we have to do something. Make a record of this incident, if nothing else. I have a fishing pal who’s a P.I., a former police detective from Dallas. We need some expert advice.”
Sylvie brightened visibly.
Luc wasn’t feeling so bright, though. Too many things were happening too fast. Still, he reached for the phone.
“What’s your friend’s name?” Sylvie asked enthusiastically as he punched in the digits.
The P.I.’s number was ringing, and Luc looked up at her, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Claudia Casale.”
Claudia Casale was a six-foot-tall blonde with the sharply honed physique of a female bodybuilder. None of her assets were hidden by her crisp white T-shirt, proclaiming “Extreme Exercise,” or her tight designer jeans. Sylvie couldn’t help wondering what type of fishing she and Luc engaged in. She’d bet it was strenuous stuff. Extreme to the max. And, for sure, Ms. P.I. wasn’t the type who would need a man to bait her hook.
Claudia had already dusted for prints; there were none. She searched for but found no physical evidence that would identify a suspect. She took photographs of the crime scene, regardless, and made a call to a locksmith and window glazier to
come and secure the broken French door. She checked the bullet holes and gathered bullet casings, preserving them in little plastic zip bags. A small but efficient tap had been discovered in Sylvie’s phone, and photographic devices planted near her front and back doors.
The gris-gris held some interest for Claudia, which was surprising since Sylvie had expected a detective to dismiss the importance of voodoo. Claudia planned to show it to an ancient swamp woman who still dabbled openly in the voodoo arts. Everyone knew a gris-gris held a powerful curse that could only be removed by a certified exorcism of the spirits. Sylvie only hoped she wouldn’t be required to burn black candles every night, or carry around a bat’s eye, or make an animal sacrifice or some such thing. Perhaps the purchase of some magic charm would do the trick.
Geez, she couldn’t believe she was even contemplating such nonsense.
“Motives,” Claudia said, plopping down on the sofa next to Luc. Sylvie, sitting on a nearby upholstered chair feeding bits of bread to Samson and Delilah, noticed how Luc’s arm immediately went up over the top of the sofa—sort of, but not quite, embracing the woman. “Without evidence, the only way we can narrow down the suspects you’ve already mentioned is to examine their motives,” Claudia went on. “I can look for witnesses, though I doubt there will be any, and I’ll check police computer files for a similar M.O., but motive is our strongest working element right now.”
“We’ve already told you everything we know,” Sylvie reminded her. “Can you figure out anything from that?”
Claudia’s big brown eyes gave her a thorough sweep from head to toe. It wasn’t really an insulting examination…almost clinical…like it was part of her job. “Possibly,” she concluded, then glanced at the Happy Meal container, where the paper was rattling noisily. It was clear to everyone what was going on
…again
. With a grin, Claudia asked, “Did you really invent a love potion?”
Sylvie shrugged.
“And Luc swallowed it by accident?”
Sylvie shrugged again.
Claudia’s eyes shifted to Luc and lingered in a questioning fashion. “Are you feeling as…uh, feisty as ol’ Samson is?”
It was his turn to shrug. And blush.
“Wow!” Claudia threw back her head and laughed. “You two are a piece of work.”
What? What does she mean by “you two”? Is her investigative mind seeing something neither of us do? Hey, I’m an investigator of sorts, too. I don’t see a thing. Definitely not
.
“Can you help us?” Luc grumbled.
“Well, I agree with you, Luc, the break-in was probably done to find her chemical formulas. The gunshot was to frighten Sylvie, not to kill her.”
“That’s a relief,” Sylvie said sarcastically.
Claudia just raised an eyebrow and continued. “I can’t rule out the possibility that you weren’t followed here, Luc, and that the gunshot wasn’t intended for you…as a threat, mind you. The person firing into this unit was using a sophisticated weapon. If he, or she, had wanted, they probably could have hit either of you.”
She and Luc both nodded.
“With regard to you, Sylvie, the suspects thus
far, as I see it, are industrial espionage agents, who often move in quickly when they hear of promising new products; parties at Terrebonne Pharmaceuticals, who want to ensure they hold all rights to a potential financial windfall; your aunts, who’d like a piece of the action; voodoo fanatics, upset over your possible use of their dark secrets; and the media, snooping for a hot story. How does that list sound to you?”
“It seems unbelievable, but I guess I would have to include all of them, even though I refuse to believe that my aunts or anyone at Terrebonne would harm me.”
“Honey, anything is possible when money is involved.” The P.I. then directed her attention to Luc. “You are a different matter, my friend. Hell, you’ve pissed off half the state at one time or another. It could be Cypress Oil. Your father. Some corrupt EPA or law enforcement official. Just about anyone. Even an old lover.” That last she offered with a grin.
Luc fake-jabbed her on the upper arm with a fist and laughed. “Darlin’, ‘old’ would be the operative word here. I’ve seen so little action lately that there’s rust on my zipper.”
Sylvie doubted that very much. And so did Claudia. Sylvie could tell by her raised eyebrows and husky chuckle. It was more likely Luc had a speed control on his zipper. Both women made a deliberate effort not to look down.
“This is my private number,” Claudia said then, giving them a Houma cell phone number. “Memorize it, and call me if you get into any further trouble. In the meantime, I would suggest that both of you go into hiding for at least a few days till I do
some preliminary investigative work. No need to provide a target till we know what we’re dealing with here.”
Just before Claudia left, she looked directly at Luc and said, “Call me.” There was no doubt in Sylvie’s mind that she had plans for his zipper.
Not that Sylvie cared.
Much.
“Where are you going?” Sylvie asked a short time later as Luc gathered his jacket and looped it by one finger over his shoulder. He was preparing to leave.