Creole Belle (66 page)

“Maybe, but we’re not sure of any of this,” I said.

“He’s got plans for Alafair, too. Don’t lie to yourself.”

“I’m not. What I’m saying is we have to think.”

“They couldn’t nail us at the gig on the bayou, so they’re going to kill our kids,” he said.

“You’re losing it, Clete. The guys who tried to clip us behind my house were cremated. We’re dealing with an entirely separate bunch.”

“The hell we are,” he said. “If there’re two drunks on a ship, they’ll find each other. If there’re two scum-sucking bottom-feeders in the state of Louisiana, they’ll be in the same pond in twenty-four hours.”

“Bobby Joe Guidry said the two gumballs were talking about an amphibian.”

“Forget all the international intrigue and stuff about mysterious islands. These bastards are homegrown.”

“Yeah, but where does that leave us?”

“I’ll let you know,” he said, taking off his coat. He knelt down and placed it over Julie Ardoin’s face. When he stood up, there was a tear in the corner of his eye. He coughed before he spoke again. “We pick up Pierre Dupree, but this time out, it doesn’t make the jail.”

“What if we’re wrong?”

“You want to wait around here for Helen and the coroner? Wake up. Nobody wants to screw with St. Mary Parish. There’s an old man in that plantation house who probably stuck whole families in ovens. Blue Melton floated up on the beach in a block of ice, and nobody could care less. You know how many unsolved female homicides there are in this state? You know what Alafair and Gretchen might be going through while we’re playing pocket pool up here?”

My head felt like a piece of ceramic about to crack. “You’re sure it’s Dupree?”

“Take it to the bank.”

“We’re leaving something out. I just can’t put my hand on it.”

“Like what?” he said.

“I told you, I don’t know. It’s something about a song. I can’t remember.”

“Bad time for a memory blackout,” he said.

I heard footsteps on the stairs behind me. Clete and I turned around. Varina Leboeuf had climbed the steps and was standing halfway inside the loft, as though partially disembodied, her hair sparking with confetti, her face as heartbreakingly beautiful as it was when she was a young girl. “What are you two doing up here?” she said.

“What are
you
doing here?” Clete replied.

“I was talking to the ice-cream man. He told me y’all were looking for Alafair.”

“Why would you be talking to the ice-cream man about Alafair?” I asked.

“Pierre and his father own part of the frozen-food company. They deliver to offshore rigs. What’s going on?” When we didn’t answer, she glanced at the loft floor. “Where’d this blood come from?”

“There’s a lot more of it behind those boxes,” Clete said. “It belongs to Julie Ardoin. Take a look-see if you like.”

Her face seemed to wrinkle like a flower exposed to heat. “She’s been murdered?”

“Her throat was cut almost to the spine,” Clete said.

Varina pressed her hand to her mouth. I thought she was going to fall backward to the floor below. Clete reached down and helped her
the rest of the way up the steps. She looked steadily into his eyes, as though reaching back into an intimate moment they shared. “I wish you’d killed him,” she said.

“Killed who?” Clete asked.

“Lamont Woolsey. I wish you would kill Amidee Broussard, too.”

“What do Broussard and Woolsey have to do with this?” I said.

“They’re evil. They use young girls. They deceive people with religion. It’s white slavery. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? Is Julie behind those boxes?”

“She told me she hardly knew you,” I said.

“That’s not true. I want to see Julie.”

“This is a crime scene. You need to leave, Varina,” I said.

“Why were you down in the hallway?” Clete said.

“I sponsored the western band. I was going to write them a check,” she said.

“Where’s Pierre?” he asked.

“I have no idea. We’ve settled all our business affairs. I hope I never see him again,” she replied. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

She turned and descended the steps, her small hand tightly gripping the rail, the hem of her prairie skirt bouncing on her calves. Clete stared into my face. “Can you read that broad?” he said.

“Not in a thousand years,” I replied.

I
TOLD
M
OLLY
what had happened and asked her to go home and wait by the phone. It was a foolish request. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “Where is Pierre Dupree?”

“I don’t know. I can’t find him,” I said.

“Why would they want Alafair?” she said.

“They were after Gretchen. They only took Alafair because the two of them were together.”

“Who is ‘they’?” she said.

“Clete thinks this is all about payback. I don’t agree. I think Gretchen knows too much, and some people in Florida and probably here want her off the board.”

We were standing at the rear of the audience. The swing orchestra
had been called back for an encore and was playing “The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B.”

“Dave, this isn’t happening,” Molly said.

“But it is. They’ve got my little girl.”

“She’s my ‘little girl,’ too. I didn’t believe you before. I wish I had,” she said.

“Believe what?”

“That you were dealing with something that’s diabolic. I wish I had believed every crazy story you told me.”

“Have you seen Varina Leboeuf in the last few minutes?” I asked.

“She was going out the front door. She stopped and put her hand on me and said, ‘I’m so sorry.’ I didn’t know what she meant. You think she’s involved?”

“I gave up trying to figure Varina out. She reminds me of Tee Jolie in some ways. I’d like to believe in her, but faith has its limits.”

“Forgive me for saying this, but I hate both those women,” Molly said.

Up on the stage, three female singers imitating the Andrews Sisters went into the chorus of a song that, with the passage of time, had somehow made the years between 1941 and 1945 a golden era rather than one that had cost the lives of thirty million people.

Clete and I waited outside in the cold while at least eight emergency vehicles began to turn in to both the north and south entrances of the park and thread their way through the oak trees. Clete wore no coat and was starting to shiver. I used my cell phone to call the St. Mary Parish Sheriff’s Department and ask that a cruiser be sent to the Croix du Sud Plantation.

“What are we supposed to be looking for?” the deputy asked.

“We have a homicide and a double abduction in New Iberia,” I replied. “I want y’all to find out who’s home and who isn’t at the Dupree place.”

“What would the Dupree family know about an abduction?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why we’re requesting your assistance.”

“You’d better talk with the sheriff about this.”

“Where is he?”

“Duck hunting at Pecan Island. Problem is, I’m not supposed to give out his private number.”

“What does it take to get you to do your job?” I said.

I didn’t get to hear his reply. Clete Purcel tore the phone out of my hand. “You listen, you little piece of shit,” he said. “You go out to Croix du Sud and knock on their door and look in their windows and crawl under the house if you have to. Then you call us back and tell us what you find. If you don’t, I’m going to come over there and kick a telephone pole up your ass.”

Clete closed the phone and handed it back to me. He looked at my expression.
“What?”
he said.

“We need these guys on our side. I thought I was making some progress,” I replied.

“With St. Mary Parish? Progress for those guys is acceptance of the Emancipation Proclamation,” he said.

“Bring your car around. You’re going to catch pneumonia.”

“You coming?”

“You’ve got to give me a minute, Clete.”

He looked at his watch. “We need to do this together, Streak. Don’t depend on the locals. We’re the guys with the vested interest. We take Pierre Dupree into Henderson Swamp.”

His skin was prickled, and he was jiggling up and down, but it wasn’t because of the cold. His eyes were wider than they should have been, his breath sour. He rotated his head on his neck and straightened his back, his shoulder rig tightening across his chest. When I touched his back, I could feel his body heat through the fabric.

An ambulance pulled to the rear of the Sugar Cane Festival Building, and two paramedics got out and removed a gurney from the back. Three cruisers pulled in behind the ambulance, the light from their flashers bouncing off the buildings and the oak trees. I looked for Helen Soileau but didn’t see her. A moment later, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I was surprised. It was the deputy Clete had threatened. “Robicheaux?” he said.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“I had a deputy do a check at the Dupree place. Nobody is home.
The only light on is the porch light. The deputy walked around back. Nobody is home.”

“You’re sure?”

“What did I just say?”

“One of the abduction victims is my daughter. If I don’t get her back, I’m going to be looking you up,” I said. I broke the connection. I looked at Clete. “That was St. Mary Parish. Nobody is home at Croix du Sud.”

“I don’t buy it,” he said.

“Because you don’t want to,” I said.

“No, I scoped the place out. There was a guard standing in back by the gazebo. I took my eyes off him for two seconds and he was gone, and I mean
gone
. There was no way he could have entered the house or walked around the side without me seeing him. He never moved ten feet from that gazebo.”

“So what are you saying?”

“There’s got to be a subterranean entrance somewhere close to the gazebo. You ever hear stories about tunnels or basements in that place?”

“No. But the house is over a hundred and fifty years old. There’s no telling what’s under it.”

“I’m going out there. You coming or not?”

I knew what would happen if I stayed at the Sugar Cane Festival Building. I would have to take charge of the crime scene and wait on the coroner and coordinate with Helen and make sure all the evidence was bagged and tagged and the scene secured and the body removed and taken to Iberia General. Then I would have to send someone, if not myself, to notify Julie’s family. In the meantime, word would leak out that a woman had been murdered in the building, and the next problem on my hands would be crowd control. While all this was taking place, my daughter would be in the hands of men who had the mercy of centipedes.

A deputy got out of a cruiser holding a video camera and a Steadicam. “I found these by the entrance to the park, Dave. They’d already been run over. Does this have anything to do with Alafair being kidnapped?”

“Give them to the tech. We need any prints we can lift off them,” I said. Clete was already walking toward his Caddy. “Wait up!” I said.

W
E HEADED OUT
of the park and, in some ways, I suspected, out of my career in law enforcement. At a certain age, you accept that nothing is forever, not even the wintry season that seems to define your life. I began dialing Molly’s cell number to tell her where I was.

“Don’t tell anyone where we’re going, Dave,” Clete said.

“That makes no sense.”

“If nobody is at the Dupree place, if I’m all wrong, we come straight back. But if we can get our hands on Pierre or Alexis or any of their hired help, we can get the information we need. We can’t blow this one, partner. Rules are for people who want to feel good about themselves in the morning. They’re not for people who want to save their children’s lives.”

Clete had turned on the heater but was still shivering. I took off my coat and put it over his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I’ve got a corduroy shirt on. I don’t need it,” I replied.

“I’m not cold. My malaria kicks into gear sometimes.”

“You’ve got to go to the VA.”

He coughed deep in his chest and tried to pretend he was clearing his throat. “I’ve got to tell you something, big mon. I haven’t done right by you. Because of me, you protected Gretchen and have probably gotten yourself in a lot of trouble with Helen.”

“I’m always in trouble with Helen.”

“When this is over, we’re all going down to the Keys. I’m going to pay for everything. It’s going to be like it used to be. We’re going to fish for marlin in blue water and fill up the locker with kingfish and dive for lobsters on Seven Mile Reef.”

“You bet,” I said.

He was looking straight ahead, the soft green glow of the dashboard lighting his face, hollowing his eyes. “I got this sick feeling in my stomach,” he said. “Like everything is ending. Like I’ve been full of shit for a lifetime but I never owned up to it.”

“Don’t say that about yourself.”

“Gretchen paid the tab for my mistakes. When you steal a little girl’s childhood, you can never give it back.”

“You’ve tried to square it for years. Don’t blame yourself, Clete.”

“I’ve got an AK in the trunk.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s modified, but it’s untraceable. No matter what else happens, the guys who killed Julie are going down.”

“Can’t let you do that, podna.”

“You know I’m right. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

I kept my eyes straight ahead. We were speeding down the two-lane toward Jeanerette, the bayou chained with fog under the moon, the Angus in the fields clustered under the live oaks. I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he clicked on the FM station from the university in Lafayette. The DJ was playing “Faded Love” by Bob Wills. I stared at the radio, then at Clete.

“You said Gretchen was whistling ‘The San Antonio Rose’ the night you saw her clip Bix Golightly?”

“Do you have to put it that way?”

“Does it make sense that a girl from Miami would be whistling a Western tune written seventy years ago?”

“I asked her about that. She said she heard it on a car radio, and it stuck in her head.” He was looking at the road while he spoke.

“She heard it on a car radio in Algiers?”

“Yeah.”

“And she didn’t do the hit on Waylon Grimes?”