Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 04 - Vicksburg (2 page)

And to Gayle, my wife,

who adds a delightful mystery to my life.

Voltaire wrote, `the most uncommon sense of all is common sense,’ of which, I’m reluctant to admit, I displayed a
considerable lack of by not remaining in bed that Sunday
morning.

When the phone rang, I should have turned my back,
pulled the covers over my head, and slipped back into the
welcome arms of Morpheus.

But I didn’t.

Still, I could have avoided all the trouble by simply refusing Jack Edney’s request to drive him from Austin, Texas to
Vicksburg, Mississippi for his father’s funeral.

But I didn’t.

And I don’t know why I didn’t.

Maybe it was because I felt I needed to put some much
needed space between me and my Significant Other, Janice
Coffman-Morrison, or maybe because I couldn’t help feeling sorry for my old friend, Jack, who, within the last few
weeks, had found himself saddled with a broken arm when
he drunkenly stumbled off the stage during his after-hours
comedy routine at the Red Pepper Club on Austin’s Sixth
Street; a reassignment by a vindictive school administrator
to teach at the Alternative School in Austin; an ex-wife who
hated him; bill collectors hammering at his door; his driver’s license suspended by the Austin Police with the sworn vow
that he would get it back when the cow jumped over the
moon; and now had been kicked in the teeth by the unexpected death of his father.

Good, bad, or otherwise, Jack was on a roll.

Other than escaping Janice’s increasing penchant for control that had resulted in several rancorous arguments
between us, the only consolation I had for the inconvenience
of a few days off work without pay and the boring rigors of
an eleven hundred-mile round trip on the Interstate was the
self-satisfaction gained from helping a friend because he
could not drive with his left arm in a shoulder-high cast. But
I figured if the situation was reversed, Jack would do the
same for me.

Maybe.

That modicum of conceit lasted until we reached
Shreveport, Louisiana.

Jack, the burr-headed, ever-bubbly comedian and storyteller, had been strangely silent, uncharacteristically silent
since we left Austin just after midnight Sunday. All he had
done was continuously jab an emu feather inside the cast on
his arm to satisfy the itching. He was putting more mileage
on that feather than I was on my Silverado pickup.

“You’d be surprised how it can get in there and stop the
itching,” he explained after climbing in my pickup. He held
up the eighteen-inch long white feather with the double
plume. “It’s a tail feather of an emu,” he added with the condescending tone of a feather connoisseur. “They’re the best,
you know. Very flexible, which lets me almost reach around
my elbow. Isn’t going to bother you, is it?”

I shook my head. “Have at it”

Ruefully, I reminded myself of my remark later when we
strolled into a McDonald’s for breakfast in Tyler, Texas.
With Jack and his feather following, I headed for the counter. I heard giggles, and when I looked around, Jack, his face
intent with concentration, was parrying and thrusting the emu feather in and out of his cast with the dexterity and
vigor of a fencing master wielding a rapier.

“Why didn’t you leave that thing in the car?” I whispered,
embarrassed by the curious looks thrown our way.

“Because my arm itches even in here,” he whispered
back.

I just shook my head and tried to ignore the amused looks
folks were giving us. I reminded myself that after all, Jack
was my friend. And he needed help, feather or not.

Later, as Shreveport, Louisiana fell behind us, dark clouds
rolled in from the southeast in escort of a gray wall of rain.
That’s when Jack cleared his throat. Eyes straight ahead, he
cleared his throat and said, “Tony, I got a confession.”

I stiffened. I hated it when out of the blue someone started a conversation with “I got a confession.” I glanced at him.
Now, Jack had the habit of running his tongue back and forth
between his gums and lower lip when he was nervous. And
right now, his lower lip was undulating like waves in the
Gulf of Mexico during a hurricane. Warily, I replied,
“Confession? About what?”

He hesitated, then blurted out, “I had another reason for
asking you to drive me over here.”

Keeping my eyes on the road ahead, I frowned, growing
even more wary. “Another reason?”

Jack tried to scoot around in the seat to face me, but he
could only manage to turn halfway for the cast on his left
arm struck the back of the seat. He poked the feather down
his cast and scratched. Apologetically, he explained, “Truth
is, Tony, I asked you to drive me over here because I need
your help. I think someone killed my old man. I can’t
believe the fire was just an accident. I want you to find out
the truth”

Ahead, chain lightning exploded, its zigzag branches
lancing out across the dark sky from the sizzling white
trunk-a portent of the next few days, but I was too simpleminded to see it.

The unexpected confession raised the hackles on the back
of my neck. He had lied to me. He had deliberately taken
advantage of our friendship. I shot him a fiery glance.

Before I could utter a blistering retort, the rain hit, a blinding gullywasher that slammed into the windshield, rocking
the truck and cutting visibility to less than thirty yards.

Gripping the wheel tightly, I peered into the silver curtain
battering at us, my blood boiling with righteous indignation.
I resented anyone exploiting me, manipulating me. And
right now, I told myself, that’s exactly what Jack Edney had
donejust like Janice Coffman-Morrison. My sense of selfesteem was sorely offended by the idea someone would
think I was so shallow that I could be manipulated.

Jack saw the irritation scribbled across my face, so, brows
knit with remorse, he tried to placate me. “Okay, Tony. Now,
I suppose if you really, really wanted to, you could make an
argument that I took advantage of you. I-”

I looked around at him in mock surprise. “That’s mighty
big of you, Jack. Mighty big, seeing that’s exactly what you
did.”

He pleaded. “Look, Tony, I was desperate. Besides, you’re
the only one I can trust to find the truth. Don’t misunderstand. I wouldn’t dream to presume on our friendship by
asking you to look into this without pay. I’ll pay you twice
your hourly rate.”

The rain continued battering the windshield as I digested
Jack’s explanation. My initial anger at being lied to was suddenly tempered not only by my curiosity, but also by the
unbridled avarice $150 an hour can generate.

Keeping my eyes on the road ahead, I sneered, “Where
are you going to get that kind of money?”

A tinge of pink touched Jack’s plump cheeks. “I know this
sounds pretty cold, but my old man was well off. I figure my
share of his estate to be a couple million or so.”

I whistled silently, any degree of wounded self-esteem at
Jack’s deception now completely suppressed by full-blown greed. After all, I told myself in an effort to rationalize my
complete reversal of righteous indignation, I’d always wanted to visit the historic city of Vicksburg and the battlegrounds. Now I could not only pick up $1,200 a day, but also
fulfill a dream of several years.

By the time we crossed the Mississippi River and rolled
into Vicksburg just after 10 A.M., the rain, along with my
temper, had diminished to a foggy drizzle.

There’s an old superstition that cats have nine lives. It
should be modified to say cats and Tony Boudreaux have
nine lives, for later, during my second hour in Vicksburg, I
used up my first life. By the time the next few days were all
over, I would be down to my last one.

The first half-hour in town we spent trying to find the home
of Jack’s deceased father.

“What do you mean, you don’t remember where his house
is?” I demanded as we pulled to the curb on a hill overlooking the river. “You were born here. You grew up here”
Below, the foggy drizzle obscured the western side of the
slow-moving river.

All Jack could do was shrug. “I haven’t been back in
twenty years. Things have changed,” he replied, looking
over the hills of the old city. “I don’t remember all of the
streets. Try over there, Old Town,” he said, pointing to a
street that sharply descended a steep hill.

Muttering a curse, I followed his directions. Finally we
stumbled across the old house, a nineteenth-century twostory Victorian with a front and side gallery. Two Cadillacs
and a blue Ford F150 pickup were parked in front.

I shivered as I studied the house and grounds. Giant magnolias with plate-sized white blooms like the eyes of ghosts,
and massive oaks from which dangled witch’s fingers of
Spanish Moss surrounded the house, and the fine drizzle
falling from the leaden clouds enveloped it all like a malevolent, wet cloak.

“Spooky,” I muttered, parking my Silverado pickup next
to the Cadillac.

“Home,” Jack mumbled. He drew a deep breath. “Do me
a favor, Tony. I haven’t told my brothers and sister what I
suspect. I don’t want to tell them anything until I’m positive.
After all, I could be wrong. I hope so”

I studied him a moment. “So, what about me? Am I here
for any reason? Or just a means of transportation?”

“My old man restored Model Ts and Thunderbirds. I figured you might be a friend who volunteered to drive me over
so you could take a look at them” He gave me a conspiratorial grin. “Isn’t that what you PIs call a cover story?”

I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t crazy about cover stories.
Seems like someone always forgot a critical point at a critical time. “Why don’t we just keep it honest. I drove you over
because you can’t drive. On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind
taking a look at the old cars. I might even be interested in
buying one, if you decide to sell any.” Grabbing my windbreaker, I opened the door and stepped out into the thin, but
steady drizzle. I looked up at the old house. There was an
ominous presence about the white structure. I shivered once
again.