Sandra Hill - [Jinx 03] (6 page)

“Snakes?” Caleb looked a little bit green.

“Ya cain’t come into the bayou without seein’ snakes,” John told him, adding a little too gleefully, “Actually, there are three hundred species of snakes here. After all, it is a tropical setting,
cher
, but not to worry, most of them are non-poisonous. Except for the water moccasin, of course. And the Slim Jim Viper and the Crimson Slitherer and—”

“Shush, yerself, Tee-John,” Tante Lulu said. “I been livin’ on the bayou all my life and never been bit.”

“Actually, most snakes avoid people, and most snake bites take place when alcohol is involved,” René informed them. “Usually preceded by the dumbass statement, ‘Betcha I could . . . ’”

“Stupid rednecks,” Adam muttered.

“Rusty says poisonous snakes can only strike their body length. So, you’re safe at five or six feet away,” Charmaine pronounced, as if that was good news.

“Not to worry. We have a fully-stocked first-aid kit, including snake bite antidotes,” Brenda told them.

“That makes me feel better,” Caleb said. “Not!”

“Now, all the legal details, permits, are taken care of, right?” Veronica asked.

Tante Lulu waved a hand dismissively. “I called my friend Easy Gaudet. Piece ’a cake.”

“She means Congressman Edward Gaudet,” René elaborated, obviously not happy that laws could be bent so easily.

“Thass what I said. Besides, finders keepers is what I allus say.”

“Oh, God!” Veronica murmured.

“I checked on all the environmental and historical requirements,” René elaborated, passing out some sheets detailing the dos and don’ts of their project.

“Who owns the property where we’ll be digging?” Caleb asked.

“No one,” Tante Lulu replied.

Several eyebrows rose at that.

“It probably belongs to the state. It’s hard to tell with some of these old deeds,” René told them.

“And that won’t be a problem?” Veronica was genuinely concerned. What they didn’t need was to find the treasure, then have someone file suit, claiming ownership.

“I tol’ ya. I got all the legal permissions ya need. Jist take my word on it.” Tante Lulu certainly looked confident.

Veronica glanced at John and René, both of whom nodded, apparently satisfied that the legal permits were in order.

They all agreed to meet at Remy’s the following day at eight A.M. Remy was a licensed pilot, a veteran of Desert Storm. He had a small hydroplane on the water and an honest-to-God copter on a helipad on his multi-acre property farther down the bayou. The hydroplane was one of those small Piper vehicles with floats or pontoons on each side, allowing it to land even on small bayou streams, provided there was tree clearance. He would be transporting the machinery and some of the team tomorrow, in two or three trips. Other than the hydroplane, the only way to reach René’s cabin was by pirogue, flat-bottomed canoes that could ride even in shallow waters, but that would take days.

After that, they toasted the new venture with Tante Lulu’s dandelion wine.

“Here’s to the Pirate Project, maties.” Veronica raised a St. Jude glass.

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Jake said, winking at Veronica. “Want me to show you how I bury
my
treasure, lass?”

“Behave, you scallywag.” Veronica winked back.

“
Merci.”
Tante Lulu bowed, thinking he had meant her when he referred to “cap’n.”

“God help us all,” John murmured.

“St. Jude help us all,” Tante Lulu corrected. “God, too, of course.”

Note to self: Make sure Tante Lulu doesn’t put St. Jude figureheads on the prows on the pirogues.

John stood at Tante Lulu’s kitchen sink, his arms in soap suds up to his elbows, washing dishes. How he got stuck hanging around was a puzzle. He’d gone into the bedroom to make a phone call, and when he came out, everyone had left. Oh, it wasn’t that they hadn’t offered to help clean up, but Tante Lulu, bless her heart, had volunteered him.

She was setting him up.

“Tee-John,” she said in that honey-sweet voice that had every fine hair standing to attention on his body.

“What?” he asked, even though his common sense told him to run.

“I mighta done sumpin’ today that yer not gonna like.” She had this mock sorrowful look on her face, like she wasn’t at all sorry about whatever she had done.

Uh-oh.
“Mighta?”

“Sorta?”

“Exactly what did you mighta sorta do today, Auntie?”

“Doan be mad.”

This is gonna be bad. Real bad. That look on her face . . . reminds me of the time she nominated me for
People Magazine
’s Sexiest Man of the Year . . . and I wasn’t even a finalist.
He took his hands out of the soap suds, dried them on a St. Jude dish towel, then placed his hands squarely on his hips. “Okay, spill.”

“I jist happened ta be talkin’ ta my ol’ friend Cletus ‘the snake’ LaFonte. He’s called ‘the snake’ ’cause of the way he kin flick his tongue. Whooee! The stories I could tell ya.”

Oh, please don’t.

“Cletus usta be an editor. Actually, I was over Houma way healin’ his grandson’s colic, which was the worstest case I ever—”

“Aaarrgh! An editor of what?”

Her face flushed. It took a lot to make his aunt be flushed. “A newspaper.”

Oh, this was not good. “Did you mention the Pirate Project?”

“Of course not. Whatcha think I am? Stoopid?”

That question did not warrant an answer.

“I was jist askin’ Cletus if he knew any reporters on the
Times-Tribune.
”

“Like Celine Arseneaux?” He groaned.

“
Oui
. See, that wasn’t so bad.” She beamed. “And the best part is that I found out she ain’t married, but—”

“I already knew that.”

“Doan be interruptin’ me. She ain’t married, but yer gonna have a real uphill battle with that gal.”

“Tante Lulu,” he said on a long sigh, “there is not going to be a battle with me and Celine of any kind. Would you get that out of your head?”

“Will ya let me finish? Cletus tol’ me that Celine moved back ta Houma a few months back ta live with her grandfather James Arseneaux after he had a stroke. What I learned from Cletus is that James Arseneaux hates all the LeDeuxs ’cause of somethin’ yer daddy done to James’s cousin Josie Lynn.”

John’s eyes about rolled up in his head. “Just about everyone in southern Louisiana has a gripe against my father. What else is new? Besides, what does any of this have to do with me?”

“Doan be dense, boy. I gotta find out if she’s
the one
.”

“She’s not.”

“We’ll see.”

“We will not see. Forget about it. I mean it.”

She must have sensed his fraying temper. “Doan go gettin’ yer skivvies in a twist. What will be will be.”

That’s what he was afraid of.

Chapter
5

“A treasure hunt? You want me to spend days, maybe weeks, covering some screwball search for Jean Lafitte’s buried treasure?”

“It’ll be fun,” her editor, Bruce Cavanaugh, told Celine as they sat in his office.

She said a foul word under her breath, something about what he could do with his fun. “Don’t you think my talents are best utilized on something more . . . serious?” Celine gritted her teeth. It was a constant struggle for women in journalism. They were assigned the fluff pieces while men got the Pulitzer Prize–worthy stories.

“C’mon, Celine, you’ve worked nonstop on hard news the past few months. There’s nothing wrong with lightening up on occasion. Besides, you’ll find a way of making it a good in-depth piece. Hell, you could make a PTA meeting newsworthy.”

“Bruce,” she said tiredly, “another Jean Lafitte treasure hunt? Do you realize how many of these halfbrained schemes there have been over the years? They’re scams.”

He shook his head. “Not all of them. One of his stashes was found on Jefferson Island. There are authenticated letters from Lafitte saying that he hid $240,000 in gold somewhere on Catouche Bayou.”

“Who’s the contact person?”

“Veronica Jinkowsky from New Jersey. It’s a legitimate business.” He shoved a folder across her desk, which she flipped through. It did appear to be a bona fide treasure hunting company, with some impressive finds under its belt. “Look, you can go along with them to Bayou Black. That’s in your home turf, Terrebonne Parish, right? All you would have to do is watch and see how they go about retrieving the treasure. Get some historical background on Jean Lafitte; there are plenty of his descendents around and enough historical data to fill a library. What do you say?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s your problem?”

“My problem is that I should be past fluff pieces.”

“That’s your opinion . . . that it’s a fluff story. C’mon, Celine, you’re a professional. Act like one.”

That hurt, and was totally unwarranted. “If I do this, Bruce, you are going to owe me big-time.”

“Agreed,” he said, reaching across to shake her hand.

She’d have liked to bite his toady hand, but she didn’t.

“Uh, there is one thing . . . or two.”

She stiffened.

“You would have to get permission from the Jinx people to observe their operation.”

“You didn’t get permission?”

“Not yet. We just heard about this last night. There shouldn’t be a problem. This organization has to have dealt with the media before.”

“Where did you hear about this project?”

“Someone who works over at Terrebonne Airport heard secondhand about a pilot who was going to be transporting a team over to some remote region on Bayou Black.”

“And based on that flimsy report, you think there’s a legitimate story here?”

Bruce’s jaw visibly tightened. “You’ve got your assignment, Celine. Take it or leave it.”

Okay, he was drawing a line in the sand. Over such a piddly story?

Was she ready to cross the line? Could she afford to lose her job? What was it Harry Olsen, her old journalism professor, used to say, “Pick your battles, whether they be in war or the newsroom.”

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

“You’ll probably need to go out on site with them for . . . I don’t know . . . maybe a week.”

This got worse and worse. Celine was glad she’d sent her grandfather and Etienne away for two weeks. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be back ’til she was done with this rinky-dink story.

Bruce made a big mistake then. He said, “Hey, maybe you and this team of treasure hunters could dress up like pirates for a photo shoot if they find the pirate loot. One of them could be a Johnny Depp version of Jean Lafitte, and you could be his pirate wench, like Anne Bonny. Ha, ha, ha.”

The sound of his office door slamming after her could probably be heard all the way to Lake Pontchartrain.

John was helping to load equipment onto the hydroplane for its second run to René’s cabin. It would probably take two more trips to get them all there. But it was a balmy day . . . well, balmy for southern Louisiana, only eighty today . . . and no one was in a rush.

The water plane was parked in the stream fronting Remy’s ten-acre property, some distance from the huge house he’d built to accommodate his family that included his wife Rachel and seven . . .
seven
. . . kids, both biological and adopted. He also had a houseboat down on the bayou which he used for guests.

Everyone was steering clear of Brenda, who was doing a final check of the supplies. She was in one snarky mood, probably missing her husband. Hey, if he was a woman, he would probably miss Lance Caslow, too, not because he was so good-looking, but because there’d be NASCAR tickets for life.

He and Famosa and Peach had thoroughly checked over the diving gear. The depth of the water at the spot they hoped to search was roughly fifteen feet, not so deep for free diving in short spurts, but they needed tanks to stay down for any length of time.

Tante Lulu would probably have lunch prepared by the time everyone arrived. He’d helped tote a half dozen grocery bags of food in the little VW this morning.

Jake was carrying Julie Ann back and forth across an open area, trying to soothe the fussy child, who was getting a cold and was not a happy camper. Who knew a body that small had lungs the size of a Goodyear blimp? There probably wasn’t a gator or egret left within a mile of the kid’s last bellow.

Ronnie was coming out of the house, heading this way, but she’d stopped to talk to . . . He squinted, then groaned. “No, no, no, no!”

“What’s the matter?” Famosa asked, coming up beside him.

John pointed. “Trouble. Celine Arseneaux.” Quickly, he reached for his athletic bag and pulled out the wig, jamming it on his head. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize him from there.

Celine was wearing white running shorts, a purple Mardi Gras T-shirt, sneakers with no socks, and a Saints baseball cap with her ponytail sticking out of the back. Nothing seductive. Certainly a far cry from her tart outfit. A laptop case was slung over one shoulder, and a camera case and a canvas carryall over the other.

“Is she married?”

John flashed Famosa a disgusted look. “You’ve got a one-track mind.”

“Like you don’t.”

“Not where Celine Arseneaux is concerned. She’s a newspaper reporter.”

“Uh-oh.” The two of them watched Ronnie and Celine; they appeared to be arguing. Jake, with Julie Ann thankfully asleep on his shoulder, finally, headed toward Ronnie’s side, sensing trouble.

“So, is she married?” Famosa persisted.

“No. But she’s not for you.”

“You want her for yourself, don’t you?”

“Hardly. You’re welcome to her. Not here on this project, though. You can call her later.”
In fact, I dare you, bozo. Go ahead. Pull one of your loser moves. I can’t wait to see Celine kick you in the nuts.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you being so generous?”

“She’s too hot for me.”
Ha, ha, ha.

Famosa was eyeing him suspiciously. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing. Honest. She was the reporter who was at the Playpen the night we did the raid. Man, you should have seen her in a push-up bra, stiletto heels, and screw-me red lipstick. I don’t know this for certain, but I think she was wearing a thong.”
If he repeats this to Celine, I am dead meat.

Famosa was practically salivating now as he gazed at Celine, picturing her in the killer bra and thong, no doubt.

Time to stick it to Famosa. “She’s kinda shy, Celine is. Likes guys that come on strong.”

Famosa nodded, using the fingers of both hands to comb his hair off his face and tidy the long swath he had clubbed at the neck with a rubber band. A Cuban Fabio.

John mentally wrung his hands with anticipation.

Ronnie was walking toward them now, leaving Celine talking to Jake. Ronnie motioned for them all to follow her over to a picnic table under an enormous live oak tree with its dripping Spanish moss. Once seated, Ronnie said, “That’s Celine Arseneaux. A reporter for the
Times-Tribune
. She wants to do a story on our project.”

“Celine Arseneaux?” Tante Lulu asked with surprise. She’d been sitting on a folding chair, taking a rest. Her surprise soon turned to glee. She whispered, “St. Jude.”

John put his face in his hands for a moment.

“I don’t see any problem if she does the article after we’re done,” Famosa said.

Ronnie shook her head. “She wants to accompany us. She has up to two weeks free from regular assignments.”

“Two weeks! Do you think we’ll be out there two weeks?” This was from an alarmed Brenda, even though two weeks wasn’t all that long for a Jinx project.

“She’s promised not to run any stories ’til after the search is completed,” Ronnie continued.

“How did she find out about the project?”

“Someone from the private airport in Houma that Remy sometimes uses,” Ronnie told them.

Something occurred to John then. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Does she know I’m part of this project?”

Ronnie frowned. “No. I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because she’s the reporter who did the no-name hatchet job on me.”

“Oh. Well, that settles it then. We can’t let her participate.”

“There’s somethin’ more important here. My whereabouts has to be secret ’til after the trial. Maybe I should just drop out.”

“No!” they all said.

Their loyalty touched him.

“I’ll tell her that she can’t participate, but we’ll give her an exclusive afterward,” Ronnie said.

“She’s a pit bull. Her reporter antennae are gonna shoot up instantly. Nope, Celine is not gonna give up,” John told them.

“So you don’t trust her?” Ronnie asked him.

“Hell, no.”

“I mean, if I tell her that we have someone on board whose identity
must
be kept secret for high security reasons . . . if I can get her to promise she won’t reveal that this person is here, would her word be good?”

John was uneasy.

“If there’s one thing I learned as a SEAL,” Peach said, “it’s better to keep the enemy in your crosshairs.”

“She ain’t Tee-John’s enemy,” his aunt protested.

“She could be, Tante Lulu. Whether intentionally or not, she could put my life in danger.”

His aunt’s face went white, and she sank back down to her chair.

He squeezed her hand, wishing he hadn’t mentioned danger. He didn’t want to scare her. Turning to Peach, he said, “So, you think we should invite her to come along?”

Peach nodded hesitantly. “As long as you set ironclad conditions. And watch her ass.”

Now, that shouldn’t be a problem.

No, no, no. I did not think that.

“Let me go talk to her,” he said. “If I don’t feel comfortable, I’ll drop out.”

He approached the place where Celine still stood talking to Jake, who caught his silent signal and walked off toward his wife.

Celine didn’t recognize him . . . at first. When she did, her eyes went wide. “You!” she accused, then she burst out laughing. “You look like that guy from
Dumb and Dumber.
”

“Jim Carrey?”

“No. The other one. The big blond no-brain.” She went suddenly serious. “You’re part of this Pirate Project?”

He nodded.

“And you’re going to blackball me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How willing you are to adhere to some conditions?”

Her body bristled with suspicion. “Like?”

“Like you cannot reveal in your article . . . or to anybody
at all
that I’m here. At least not ’til after the Mafia trial.”

“And that would be when?”

“Three weeks, or longer. Both sides are lookin’ for a speedy trial date.”

“Impossible. I can’t wait three weeks to write an article on the Pirate Project.”

“And you keep my name out of any articles you write.”

“Why should I?”

“You owe me.”

She raised her chin in disagreement.

“Celine, I have to go in hiding because you outed me.”
Not quite true, but, hey, a little guilt never hurt anyone.

“Will you give me an exclusive interview during the trial?”

He cocked his head in an inquiring fashion. “Double rewards, huh? An exclusive on the Pirate Project and the trial?”

“Yep.”

“You are not interviewing me on this project, though, not even as an anonymous person.”

“That’s unreasonable.”

“That’s the deal.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I drop out of the Pirate Project, and you get neither story. There’s one more thing, and this is non- negotiable. If we agree to let you follow us on this project, you have to stay here the entire time. No going home at night. We can’t risk someone following you out here, for my sake and the sake of our prosecution, but also to preserve the viability of this project.”

She gasped, as if he’d asked something horrifying, like nude treasure hunting.

Now, there’s a thought.

“Stay . . . stay here? With you?”

“Not me, precisely. You can sleep in the lodge, or in one of the tents.” He frowned. “What? Do you need to go home every night?”

“Why do you ask that?” Her voice was shrill and panicky.

What the hell is going on?
“Your grandfather . . . I understand he had a stroke. Does he need you home every night?”

Her shoulders sagged with relief.

Which was really odd.

“No. I mean, he’s better now. Still, I like to be home at night. However, they . . . I mean, he is out of town for two weeks.” She was stammering.

He affected women that way sometimes. “Then it should be no problem.”

He could tell she wasn’t happy, but she agreed to the terms, all of them, and he was soon helping her carry the laptop and camera case, leaving her with the carryall. He gave Ronnie a silent signal that she had agreed to the terms.

Ronnie introduced her, “I want you guys to meet Celine Arseneaux. She’s a reporter from the
New Orleans Times-Tribune.
She’ll be here for the duration. So, behave yourselves.”