Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 15 - The Mona Lisa Murders

Table of Contents

• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-One
  
• Chapter Thirty-Two
  

Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

The Mona Lisa Murders

Taking a well deserved fishing vacation after a frantic two weeks of herding twenty cats while stepping over dead bodies, Tony Boudreaux finds himself neck deep in the proverbial quicksand when a stubborn and sassy black woman who claims to be his cousin pleads for his help to deliver a package containing the cremated remains of Lisa Gherardini, the alleged model for the Mona Lisa, to a ranch in Texas.

The only problem is that three international cartels are after the package. They pursue Tony and Latasha through a-flooded New Orleans with its alligators and snakes and across Louisiana and Texas, coming to a startling climax on the Brazos River when Tony learns the package actually contains the world’s largest uncut diamond.

THE MONA LISA MURDERS

By Kent Conwell

Copyright © 2013 by Kent Conwell

First Kindle Edition: December 2013

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Published by Arrangement with the Author.

Chapter One

Holding an ice-cold mint julep, I leaned back in my chaise lounge and gazed out across the mighty Mississippi River, watching gaily-decorated riverboats and rusty merchant ships churn up and down the muddy river.

Life was good.  And I deserved it. At least, that’s what I told myself.

After two weeks baby-sitting a harem of cats out in the obscenely rich Old West Austin District, I needed a break, big time. The irony of that whole situation was the cat gig was supposed to be a break itself.

Some break!

Instead I found myself neck-deep in murders, big time drug dealing, secret tunnels, spoiled rich girls, and twenty temperamental cats. After I managed to wade through that morass of mayhem, I told my boss at Blevins Security I was taking a much-deserved vacation.

Marty didn’t argue. He couldn’t. He had conned me into the cat job in the first place.

So I headed for New Orleans, the Big Easy, the City that Care Forgot, Hollywood South.

Looking back, I should’ve stayed in Austin and spent my time down on Sixth Street, but hey, ‘should have’ is an all too common expression in our vocabulary, isn’t it?

Anyone familiar with New Orleans knows the humidity is suffocating, the panhandlers obnoxious, the drinks too weak, and the whole thing exhilarating. There was no answer for any of the problems except the first which I solved by leaving the French doors to the balcony open and placing my chaise lounge right in front of them.

Okay, so I was wasting energy. I’m sure most environmentalists will hate me for saying this, but since I was paying for it, the energy was mine to waste.

Enjoying the cool air, I sipped my mint julep. In deference to my AA vows, it was more mint than julep.

New Orleans is a magical city that sits on the east bank of the river, facing the small community of Algiers on the west bank, behind which the sun rises every morning.

I said rises, not sets. Maybe that’s why they call it a magical city. You think?

With the sun setting behind me, shadows from my high rise were beginning to creep across the river. The air seemed to become heavier, and below, the clamor of traffic began to take on that subtle shift in resonance signaling the coming night.

I planned on a steak at Jimmie Bonham’s, then a stroll through the French Quarter before turning in early. The next morning, my schedule had me heading for the Wetlands Hunting and Fishing Lodge outside of Venice for a week of lazy angling for sea trout.

My stomach growled. Steak time!

I took one final sip on my drink, then pushed to my feet.

By the time I reached the five-star restaurant across Canal Street from Harrah’s, dusk had settled over the city. Denizens of the night materialized from wherever they holed up during the brightness of the day.

Excitement and anticipation of the bizarre and unexpected filled the air, palpable as the heavy aroma of honeysuckle and jasmine.

I’d dined at Jimmy Bonham’s several times. I was no connoisseur, but the food was delicious and the service was efficient and gracious.

They treated their customers like kings and queens, and with tabs to match such treatment. But, it was worth it, and I entered the brightly lit restaurant in anticipation of a leisurely supper.

Yeah, I know fancy venues like Jimmie Bonham’s cringe at the word, ‘supper’, but that’s how I was brought up in Louisiana, a ‘supper’ guy, not ‘dinner’.

I had not even taken my first bite of steak when the young black woman appeared. Glancing over her shoulder, she pulled out the chair across the table and sat. She leaned forward, her dark hair hanging to her shoulders and her just as dark eyes standing out from her olive complexion. ‘Are you Tony Boudreaux?’

Before I could catch my breath, she shot a startled look over her shoulder, gasped, jumped to her feet, and rushed to the rear of the restaurant, leaving me in a state of utter confusion.

Two men in sport jackets hurried after her. One paused before disappearing down the hall to the lounges and stared at me. I stared back, still wondering what was going on.

A hand touched my shoulder. I jerked around and peered up into the concerned face of my waiter. ‘All you all right, sir?’

‘What was that all about,’ I asked.

He frowned. ‘Sir?’

‘That woman.’

His frown deepened. ‘I thought she was with you, sir.’

I shook my head. ‘Never saw her before.’

Concern replaced the frown on his face. ‘I’m sorry for the trouble. May I do anything for you?’

Staring at the hall down which she had disappeared, I shrugged. ‘No. No, thank you.’

I had no idea what was going on. To be honest, the brief, but bizarre encounter so occupied my mind, I don’t even remember how the steak tasted or what dessert was served.

I couldn’t shake the idea of a very attractive black woman in her mid-twenties appearing out of nowhere, addressing me by name, then just as abruptly, vanishing, followed by two well-dressed men who looked out of place in their expensive suits.

I strolled up Bourbon Street. I tried to enjoy sights and sounds, but too many questions kept popping up—one of the drawbacks of being a P.I.

By the time I reached Jackson Square and ambled on over to the Café du Monde’, I had picked up a nagging feeling that I was being followed.

But in New Orleans, who wasn’t being tagged?

After coffee and beignets, I hired one of the local surreys at the square and paid the driver an extra twenty bucks to take me back to my hotel.

At the front entrance, I climbed from the surrey.

Two behemoths in sleeveless shirts and bulging muscles lumbered up, blocking my way. One growled. ‘Mind your own business, buddy.’

The other leviathan chimed in with an eloquent, ‘Yeah.’

Without another word, they turned and vanished into the partygoers crowding the sidewalk, but not before I spotted a strange tattoo on a forearm of each goon, a tiny octopus with a tangle of tentacles.

I dropped off to sleep with the two Godzillas and the petite woman on my mind. All were a complete puzzle.

The former two could have well been brothers to the monster, Grendel, who was slain by the hero Beowulf. The woman—well, I decided she had some Melungeon heritage from her fair complexion and high cheekbones, results of the multi-racial mixtures with whom I had been reared.

Most Melungeons were without distinguishing racial features and very light skinned. They were accepted as white in many communities throughout my neck of the woods in Louisiana. All with whom I had been acquainted were smart, wise, clever, and possessed the memory of the proverbial elephant.

A couple years back, I had worked a case for a classy lady named Emerente Guidry, a Melungeon with an obsession for revenge, which she satisfied with a high-powered explosive in the right place.

She was from a parish over on the Sabine River. Perhaps she and the unidentified young woman were acquaintances. That would explain how she knew my name.

I pulled out early next morning driving a rented Nissan Altima. My pickup had been rear-ended in Baton Rouge on the way over from Austin, so the insurance company, with great reluctance, provided me transportation.

After my pickup, the Altima was like sitting in a hole, but I quickly adjusted.

The drive south was pleasant. I drove leisurely, enjoying the scenery. I pulled into Venice just before noon for a sandwich and directions.

The narrow shell road to the lodge twisted around and through vast canebrakes. About a mile down the road, I glanced in the side mirror and spotted a red Camaro convertible boiling up behind me.

A woman wearing sunglasses that almost covered her face and a white cap under which she had tucked her hair sat behind the wheel. She stayed right on my bumper, honking her horn. Cursing under my breath, I slowed and waved her past.

Without even a sidelong glance, she shot by and cut sharply in front of me, forcing me off the road. I cursed and slammed on the brakes, inches from the brown water lapping at the shoulder. The Camaro quickly disappeared around the next curve, leaving only a cloud of dust to mark its passage.