Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 02 - Skeletons of the Atchafalaya (15 page)

“Together?”

“Oui.II

“You didn’t go to A.D.‘s room?”

‘No.’

Remembering Patric’s assertion that she had discovered
the body, I asked. “Who found A.D.?”

She hesitated. “Me, I don’t know. I was downstairs when
someone say A.D., he dead.” She shook her head. “I never
go in room.”

I closed my notebook and, with a grin, said, “See? That’s
all there is to it.”

But, as far as I was concerned, that wasn’t it. Already
stories were contradicting each other.

Next, I visited Kay Miller, Uncle George’s daughter, and after her, a dozen other family members. I came away with
nothing.

In the kitchen, Janice handed me a thick ham sandwich
and a heaping mound of potato salad. Giving her a light
kiss on her cheek, I opened a cold soft drink and plopped
down at the table. Leroi and Sally were polishing off their
lunch. Giselle was drinking a beer.

I took a large bite and groaned. “I didn’t realize I was
so hungry.”

“Tastes good, huh?” Janice asked.

“And how.” I washed the mouthful down with a gulp of
Dr. Pepper.

“Well, I hope you like it.” She gestured to her oversize
tanktop. “I spilled mayonnaise on my shirt making it.”

I laughed. “Sorry. What’s the storm up to now?”

Giselle grimaced. “Still heading west along the coast.”

“Maybe it’ll move over into Texas.”

“Those Texans are praying it’ll come in over here.”

“The rain isn’t as hard,” Leroi said. “You think we need
to check the compressor?”

I thought about the alligator down below. “It has plenty
of gas.”

“I was thinking about the oil.”

Sally laid her hand on his arm. “Don’t go out there, baby.
If the power goes off, it goes off.”

The howl of the wind grew fainter, and the rain didn’t
drum the shutters as hard. “I don’t know. I’m not any too
anxious. I think your wife is right. Besides, there’s alligators down below.”

As if to emphasize my reluctance, a gust of rain jolted
the house, and the howling wind swept in like a banshee.

“Then maybe we should wait.” Leroi laughed nervously.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “We should wait.”

“Finally,” Sally remarked, her voice filled with sarcasm.
“I don’t care what the family says, you two boys are getting
smart.”

After I polished off my sandwich and potato salad, I
booted up my laptop and began transferring my handwritten scribbling to a file that I would later send to the Lafayette Police Department.

Some modern criminalists scoff at the old-fashioned
habit of note taking, but Al Grogan, the top P.I. at Blevins
Investigations, taught me the value of the technique.

Handwritten notes on three-by-five cards provide the opportunity to juxtapose evidence to support or refute various
theories. Often, a card from one witness will contradict another, providing other avenues of exploration for solid evidence. And many times, the simple movement of a
particular card can trigger a different perspective of the
situation.

And that’s exactly what happened when I laid out the
cards under each name. According to Ezeline’s story, she
and Marie descended the stairs together, contradicting Marie Venable’s assertion that she had left Ezeline up in the
bedroom.

I reread both cards.

Different scenarios played through my head. Why had
Ezeline remained behind-if indeed she had? And why did
she tell me she and Marie had come down together? Was
it simply a senior moment? Or was she trying to hide something?

On the other hand, Marie’s remark, “when I come down,
Osmond, he go up,” could have meant both Marie and Ezeline.

I decided to find out exactly what she meant.

Pushing back from the kitchen table, I made my way to
the parlor where I spotted Marie and her family gathered
against the north wall.

She smiled when she saw me approaching. “Hello,
Tony,” she said, a cheerful smile on her lips. “You got
more questions?”

I grinned sheepishly. Uncle Walter and several of her
family looked up at me. “Just one, Aunt Marie.” I hesitated, wishing she and I were alone. On the other hand, whatever
I asked her, she would relate to her family. “You remember
when you told me about coming down the stairs yesterday
and seeing Ozzy going up?”

“Oui. I remember.”

“Was anybody with you?”

She frowned, then shook her head. “No. I come down
alone.”

“Ezeline stayed behind?”

“Oui. She straighten suitcase. Bailey, he make big mess
of it.”

“Then what?”

With a shrug, she gestured to her family. “I come down.
We talk, we visit. Not much.”

“Giselle said you saw the blood on Pa’s shoes?”

Her face paled. She nodded almost imperceptibly. “Oui.
John Roney, he sleep on couch. I see blood on his shoes,
on his hand. So, I go upstairs. Maybe someone be hurt.”
She pressed her quivering lips together.

I laid my hand on her arm. “You don’t have to say any
more, Aunt Marie. I got all I needed to know.”

My brain swirled with possibilities as I went back to my
computer. Ezeline had remained behind. Why? Could it be
that Uncle Patric was closer to the truth than I thought?
Was Ezeline so driven by her hatred for A.D. that she
would commit three murders?

I poured a cup of coffee and plopped down at the kitchen
table, reluctantly realizing that there was indeed some logic
to the theory that she might be the killer.

Working on the assumption she was after money, A.D.‘s
to be exact, Ezeline would have realized there were several
obstacles before her. So, she set about eliminating them.
After A.D., there was Ozzy the son, lolande the sister, and
the only one left between her and the money-Bonni, the
thirty-something daughter who had vanished three years ago. Where she was now, no one had an inkling. Dead as
far as we knew.

Ezeline’s next step was to place the blame on her husband, Bailey. He would be shipped off to the Louisiana
State Prison up in Angola, the playground of the South for
rapists, murderers, and a various assortment of psychotic
criminals.

I was no estate lawyer, but with everyone dead, in prison,
or whereabouts unknown except Ezeline, her chances of
being appointed executrix of A.D.‘s estate appeared mighty
solid. Especially with the good-old-boy judicial system in
some of the Louisiana parishes, where a barbecued possum
and pint of moonshine would buy you a sheriff’s job, and
a goat and a quart of the liquid fire would put you in the
mayor’s chair.

Pursing my lips in concentration, I wondered if Ezeline
was smart enough to put together such a devious plan. Or
was I giving her more credit than she deserved? The screwdriver and the poison, she could handle. But the cottonmouth? I couldn’t imagine Aunt Ezeline within twenty feet
of a cottonmouth.

Still, there were several pieces of evidence pointing to her.
Motive, opportunity, means. What if she had entered the
room, saw Pa passed out, maybe A.D. also. She could have
driven the screwdriver through his neck, taken his money
clip, hid the cash, and put the clip in Bailey’s suitcase.

I gazed into space, considering the possibility. It could
have happened, I decided. It most definitely could have
happened.

And the icing on the cake for Ezeline would be if Bailey
were indeed included in A.D.‘s will. Of course, I reminded
myself, there was still Bonni, wherever she might be.

I shook my head and returned to the transcribing of my
notes.

Then I started on Uncle Bailey. I didn’t figure him for
the killer, yet he had the motive-the same as Ezeline’s-
the opportunity, and the means. He was more likely to at tempt to handle a cottonmouth than his wife, but either
could have slipped one into the mansion in a container
concealed within his suitcase.

Common sense pointed to the fact that someone would
have had to provide the snake. I couldn’t imagine either
one snaring it on his own. Once off this island, I knew I
could probably find whoever sold them the cottonmouth.

Eunice, Louisiana is a small town. Chances were half the
population would be well aware of any of its citizens who
could fill orders for snakes.

Suddenly, a far-fetched idea hit me. I pulled out my cell
phone and, using my data connection kit, hooked it to my
laptop. “Now, let’s see if all this technology is worth what
I paid for it,” I muttered, attempting to connect with my
server. To my surprise, I connected.

Don’t ask me how I managed the feat in the middle of
the storm. The computer is still like magic to me. I have
no idea how they work or even why they work. What is
even more puzzling is that two identical ones with identical
software operate differently.

The most logical explanation a computer-challenged individual like me could come up with for that particular
phenomenon is goblins. I firmly believe there are goblins
disguised as chips in computers. That’s why those devious
little machines act as they do at times.

Nevertheless, I quickly accessed the website for the city of
Eunice, found the chamber of commerce, and in the comment window, informed them that I purchased live snakes
for research and my supply was dwindling. I requested any
vendors who might be able to supply my needs.

I paused to reread my request. It sounded professional,
so I clicked the submit button.

For a moment, I stared at the screen. It was a long shot,
but then, sometimes long shots paid off. Mostly, like the
lottery, they don’t, but even if this one did not, I wouldn’t
be any worse off than I was now.

I turned my attention back to Uncle Bailey. A longtime alcoholic, he operated on impulse. I could visualize him
driving a screwdriver through his brother’s neck in a burst
of rage, but there was no way I could see him deliberately
and calmly planning three murders. Poor guy, his brain
cells couldn’t maintain focus long enough to plan one murder. Sometimes they couldn’t even stay focused long
enough to remember to pop open another beer.

No, whoever pulled off these murders was cool and deliberate, not impulsive. Still, how did the money clip get
in Bailey’s suitcase? And where was the wad of bills A.D.
had wagged under my nose?

I realized then that if I could find the money, I probably
had the killer. For a few moments, I gloried in smug satisfaction over my latest theory. Find the money, then find
the killer, but the smugness quickly disappeared when I
realized that it had taken me several hours to come up with
the idea when Al Grogan and probably half the staff back
at Blevins’ Investigations would have come up with the
same theory instantly.

Outside the kitchen window, the storm shutter banged.

A hand touched my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts.
I glanced up to see Janice smiling down at me. “Why don’t
you take a break?” She looked over her shoulder. “I need
to talk with you.”

I rolled my shoulders to work out the cramps. “Sure.
What’s up?”

“Not here.” She glanced nervously around the kitchen.

“Something wrong?” I pushed back from the table.

She pressed her finger to her lips. “Not here. Come on.”
She took my hand and led me from the kitchen.

“Hold on,” I said, pulling her back to me. “What’s so
secretive?”

She hastily scanned the parlor, then stretched up on her
tiptoes to whisper in my ear. “I think I know who might
be the killer.”

In record time, I shut down the computer and slipped the
disk into my shirt pocket.

After hearing her words, I would have followed Janice
Coffman-Morrison anywhere.

Outside, the wind and rain kept a steady beat against the
storm shutters. I crossed my fingers, hoping the storm
would continue moving west. Texans were always bragging
that everything was larger in their state. Let them have this
one. I’d be happy to admit Texas had larger hurricanes than
Louisiana.

She led me to a deserted corner of the parlor. I glanced
over her shoulder just as Leroi and Sally went into the
kitchen. The rest of the family had gathered in clusters in
the parlor and library.

“So?” I prompted her. “Who is it? How did you find
out?”

A worried frown knit her brow. “It might be nothing,
Tony. I don’t know.”

“What?”

She hesitated, obviously nervous.

“Come on, Janice. Tell me what you know.”

Lifting her eyebrows like a naive child, she said, “Promise you won’t get mad.”

Nodding emphatically, I replied, “I promise.”

“Say it. You won’t get mad.”

I held my temper, reminding myself that she was in unfamiliar surroundings, dealing with individuals far removed
from the country club set. “I promise. I won’t get mad.”

With a sheepish grin, she whispered, “Well, you know I
spilled mayonnaise on my blouse when I made you that
sandwich. Later, I went back up to Giselle’s room to
change into another blouse.” She paused and glanced
around nervously.