Crepe Factor (26 page)

Chapter 26

M
OONY,
really Eddy Moon, was a swamp rat that Carmela and Ava had run into a few years ago. He had helped them when the widow of a crooked tycoon had pulled them into a tangled web of lies and jewelry heists.

Moony lived down in Venice, Louisiana, close to his buddy Jake Ebson, also known as Squirrel, who was even more of a swamp rat. Squirrel, a sort of swamp hermit, lived in a tar paper shack where he poached alligators, trapped illegally, and probably cooked up vats of blow-your-brains moonshine whenever he felt like it.

Still, they were decent guys. Well, they were if you didn't put too much stock in them being upstanding, card-carrying, law-abiding citizens.

Carmela dialed Boomer's Boat and Bait, where Moony worked on a semi-regular basis. He answered on the second ring as “Hotel California” played in the background.

“Carmela, darlin', long time no hear.”

“It has been too long and I apologize,” Carmela said.

“We need to get ourselves to a
fais do do
one of these days and do some dancing.” A
fais do do
was a Cajun party.

“That's what I'm thinking, too. But first I need your help.”

“What trouble did you get yourself in now?” Moony asked.

Carmela quickly explained about the two murders. And how they might or might not be connected.

“Murder,” Moony said slowly. “That's serious business. A person crosses that line, they end up with a life sentence. Not just a slap on the wrist for poaching. So why call me when your boyfriend is a hotshot police detective?” He pronounced it
po-lice
.

“I have kind of a strange request,” Carmela said. “I need a guided tour through the swamp down in your parts. Just a little south of Boothville where that developer I told you about was going to build some townhomes, called Parson's Point.”

Moony was instantly accommodating. “Why didn't you come right out and say that in the first place? Cruising around the swamp? That's what I do best. Better yet, I'll give Squirrel a holler and tell him to gas up his flatboat. Of course, if we happen to trap a couple of nutria or shoot us an alligator along the way, that would be what you'd call your lucky strike extra.”

“Just as long as we don't get arrested.”

“Say, is that hot chick girlfriend of yours coming along, too?”

“You mean Ava?” Carmela glanced at her friend, who'd just dumped her entire cosmetic bag on the table and was dabbing on eight coats of bulletproof mascara in preparation for a foray into the swamp.

“That's the one.”

“She's coming.”

There was pure delight in Moony's voice. “So what are
you waiting for? Get on down here—I'll close up the bait shop and see you gals in an hour or so.”

*   *   *

Flying down Louisiana's State Road 23, Carmela violated the speed limit about twenty-seven times before she skidded into the gravel parking lot at Boomer's Boat and Bait. Moony's place of employment, if you could call it that, was a rickety cabin built on stilts. It was located on the swampier side of Tide Basin Road right on the edge of Venice, deep in bayou country.

Carmela pulled in behind an ancient Silverado with a rusted-out truck bed and honked her horn.

Moony burst out the front door and flew down the half dozen steps, waving and hollering, “How do!” the whole time. He wore a plaid shirt, tied at the waist but hanging open, to reveal his suntanned chest. His cutoff jeans were slung low on narrow hips. A tangle of sun-bleached blond hair completed his bayou biker look.

“I forgot how cute Moony was,” Ava purred as she watched him boogaloo across the parking lot. “Look at those high cheekbones, that cute nose.”

“We're here on business,” Carmela reminded her. “Keep your mind on Roman Numeral and off present company.”

“But will Roman Numeral keep his mind on me?”

Then Moony was leaning into the car, smiling broadly, his green eyes flashing. “You two are looking finer than a Mardi Gras float on Fat Tuesday,” he proclaimed.

“Hey there,” Ava said, batting her eyelashes.

“Hello, beautiful,” Moony said. Then he gestured to his truck. “We best use my vehicle if we're fixin' to get to Squirrel's place in one piece. I hear his road is pretty torn up.”

They piled into Moony's truck and took off. Two minutes
later, they were bumping down a rutted road while the swamp closed in around them.

“Peaceful down here,” Ava observed. “A person could get . . . lost.”

They humped along, twisting and turning, following what was barely a trail as brackish water lapped up on both sides of the road. Clumps of tupelo trees, at least fifty feet high, stretched upward to block out the sun, their roots intertwined like ancient sculpture. In some spots, swamp water had seeped across the road, turning it to mud. Still they muscled on, past stands of bald cypress, once clattering across a narrow wooden bridge. Drifts of grayish-green Spanish moss hung down from the trees, swishing against the windshield, making it feel like they were clawing their way through some kind of strange, primordial world.

When they finally went from bumpy to rutted to no road at all, the trees parted and a clearing seemed to magically open up. They'd arrived at Squirrel's place.

“I see Squirrel is still using the same decorator,” Carmela remarked.

Squirrel's house was a weathered silver-gray cabin with a corrugated metal roof that was tarnished and corroded in so many places, Carmela was sure it probably leaked like a sieve during even the lightest sprinkle. Animal hides and antique traps were tacked to the walls. Shoved up against one side of the building (helping to prop it up, perhaps?) an old truck rested on cinder blocks. Brown and white hound dogs barked and spun all over the place and two boats were anchored at a rickety dock that stuck out into a small lake.

Moony clambered out of the truck and waved a hand. “Howdy, Squirrel.”

Squirrel waved back from where he was lounging in a torn canvas hammock. He was drinking an Abita Beer and eating
crawfish that were liberally sprinkled with Pleasure & Pain Hot Sauce. When he saw the three of them ambling toward him, he hopped out of his hammock, pulled a baseball cap on his head, and grinned.

“Bless my soul,” Squirrel said. “Moony brought me a gift from heaven. Two fine ladies.” He gave a deep bow. “How you been. Anybody want some crawfish?”

Ava murmured “yum” and Carmela had the feeling it wasn't the crawfish she was eyeing. It was Squirrel in his cutoff jeans and tight T-shirt. At least three days' worth of stubble on his face gave him a bad boy action hero look.

Squirrel grabbed Ava in a giant hug and swung her around so hard her feet flew off the ground. “Girl,” he said, “you are hot as fish grease.”

“Aren't you the sweet talker,” Ava giggled.

“Honey, that's why they call me the Cajun Casanova.”

After grabbing a six-pack of Abita Beer—“For emergency purposes only,” Squirrel said—he led them onto a shaky dock and they all gingerly stepped aboard an ugly green boat.

“What kind of boat is this?” Ava asked as she sat down.

“This is your basic sixteen-foot aluminum flatboat,” Squirrel told her. “With a Mercury outboard engine.”

“That's good, huh?” Ava asked as Carmela sat down next to her.

“The best,” Squirrel said.

“Does that mean we . . .” Carmela began, just as a floppy-eared hound dog took a flying leap from the dock and landed in her lap. “Whoa. Nice doggy,” she said as his pink tongue tried to wiggle across her face.

“That friendly guy is Cooter,” Squirrel said. He cast off from the stern while Moony jumped into the bow of the boat. “He likes to ride along.”

“What about his buddies over there?” Carmela asked.
Two other mangy dogs had padded out onto the dock and were gazing at them with crazy, rolling eyes.

“Lobo and Bufford,” Squirrel called out to the dogs as he pulled the starter cord and the engine roared to life. “You guys stay home and take care of Dixie, Dolly, and Banjo.”

“How many dogs do you have anyway?” Ava asked.

“Uh . . . six,” Squirrel said.

“What about that spotted one lying under the porch?” Carmela asked.

“Seven,” Squirrel said. “I forgot about Mateo. He isn't home all that much. He's what you'd call a part-timer. Likes to wander. Visit the lady coonhounds.”

“I can identify,” Moony said.

Squirrel guided the boat out into the middle of the lake, where a green flotilla of water lilies bobbed on the waves.

“Gorgeous out here,” Carmela said.

“There's nothing like it,” Moony agreed.

“So where we headed?” Squirrel asked.

Carmela turned around to face him. “I want to look around just a little south of here. Where a developer by the name of Trueblood was supposed to build a neighborhood called Parson's Point Townhomes.”

Squirrel bobbed his head. “I know where that is. Too bad somebody's going to throw up a bunch of ticky-tacky houses and ruin all that natural beauty.”

Ava rolled her eyes at Carmela. “
He's
worried about ticky-tacky houses?” she said under her breath.

Carmela shrugged. Then, “We're not sure he's going to build the town houses after all. But I still want to look around over there.”

“Then hang on to your hats, folks.” Squirrel goosed the engine, there was a deafening roar, and they were suddenly flying across the lake.

“This is terrifying,” Ava shouted, trying to make herself heard above the thunder of the engine.

But Carmela, speed demon that she was, found the trip totally exhilarating. The wind whipped her hair, the prow of the boat practically lifted up and hydroplaned across the water, tiny beads of water spattered her face. She was having the time of her life even though . . . oh my . . . they did seem to be closing in on the shore at a most alarming rate.

“Are we going to hit the . . . ?” Ava cried.

At the very last moment, Squirrel throttled back. There was a high-pitched whine as he cranked the boat hard left into a dizzying one-eighty-degree turn and they suddenly found themselves spinning down a narrow creek.

“Wheee!” Moony called out. “I think I lost my sunglasses back there.”

“I almost lost my lunch,” Ava said.

But Squirrel was dialing back his speed even more, floating them gently down the narrow waterway as if they were on an adventure ride at Disneyland. Tupelo trees rose like silent sentinels while bald cypress poked bulky knee-like knots out of the water to capture oxygen for their underwater systems. A brown and black marsh hawk flew low over their heads, causing Cooter to look up and growl. The hawk circled their boat complaining, “
Pee-pee-peeeee
.”

They cruised down one channel and then another, Squirrel seeming to have some kind of bayou GPS embedded in his head.

“This is very spooky,” Ava said. She swatted at an insect. “And buggy.”

But Carmela loved it. Being in the bayou reminded her of the times she used to spend with Shamus, back when they were first married and actually got along with each other. They'd paddle a pirogue out to his camp house in the Baritaria
bayou and spend the weekend. Light a fire, cozy up in the loft, fish for redfish. But that was then and this was . . .

“We're getting close,” Squirrel said. The narrow channels, the press of bright green flora and foliage, had caused everyone to reflect inward and speak a little more quietly.

“You sure you know where we're going?” Moony asked. “Because I would've thought we had to veer more to our left.”

Squirrel nodded at something just ahead of them. “We gotta go past that capped energy pipe up there.”

They were all silent as they glided past a white standpipe that rose out of the brackish water. A battered sign on it said,
WARNING DO NOT TOUCH
.