Chapter 6

LACHE PAS LA PATATE*

(*Don’t give up; literally, don’t drop the potato)

“Restructuring”: The euphemism for destroying people’s lives, and in some cases, taking them. What company wasn’t restructuring in this recession? Restructuring was the norm, not an anomaly, especially in Louisiana. Louisiana and Texas were probably hit hardest after the oil economy collapsed with the stock market in ‘79. The standing joke in Lafayette, a city that subsisted on oil profits, was, “Will the last one to leave, please turn out the lights?”

I ducked into the car quickly to escape the rain, steady and persistent now. When I checked my rearview before backing up, I recognized the black Chevy Blazer parked behind me. Those two guys from the diner this morning were hunkered inside the Blazer. Odd coincidence, it seemed to me. Opting not to let them know I had made them, I eased out of the parking space, keeping an eye on the rear view. The Blazer pulled out about three car lengths back. They had remembered who I was after all. But how could they know I was nosing around? Unless they had some connection to Morton, the only person I had spoken to besides Marlisa. I wouldn’t put anything past Morton. And how did they happen to find me here? Not that anyone could successfully hide a vehicle in a parallel parking space on East Main Street in downtown New Iberia.

Well, no matter. I still had enough time to head up to Lafayette and go through Father’s condo this afternoon, and I didn’t have any afternoons to waste. I’d have to ditch these two jokers first. I headed around a few residential blocks and back to Center Street. I backed into a tight space between two cars in a strip mall and cut the engine. After several minutes with no sign of the Blazer, I eased out and drove to Highway 90, smugly proud of myself for losing those assholes, at least for the time being.

A few miles north, I relaxed as the hypnotic four-lane lulled me through the miles of wide, flat terrain, dotted on either side by oil field equipment sales and repair companies, pipeline companies, an occasional gentleman’s club, numerous greasy spoons. Where would Louisiana be without big oil, I wondered? And how many businesses did it support? But to what lengths would big oil take Louisiana and its people? And what polluted ditch would big oil dump us all in once it had its way with us? And Father wondered why I avoided his business. Yet, irony of ironies, here I was relying on profits from Father’s oil drilling business to investigate his death, which was a direct result, I was pretty sure, of that same oil drilling business.

Just past the Broussard city limits, traffic got heavier, the usual work vehicles and oil equipment and repair trucks heading into and out of the big metropolis of Lafayette. I settled back in the right lane and switched on the radio, then grabbed the knob to tune out Ethel’s zydeco station and see if I could find the Lafayette oldies station I remembered from years ago. But in the brief moment that I glanced at the dial, the jolt and crash of metal on metal, my metal, knocked my head into the door frame before my brain could even register that I’d just been rear-ended. Another harder smack to the driver’s side, and my car careened out of control on the wet pavement and slid sideways across the shoulder as I pulled helplessly at the wheel and pumped the brakes with no positive result until Ethel’s old Grand Prix sat in the shallow grassy drainage ditch facing back in the direction I had just come from. “You son of a bitch!” I said to the empty air. They had damn near rolled the car! If it hadn’t had such a wide wheelbase, I was pretty sure they would have flipped me. These assholes meant business. I might not be so fortunate next time.

An oil field equipment repair truck pulled off into the grass and stopped beside me facing the opposite direction, so our driver’s windows lined up. I finally had the presence of mind to roll down my window to see what this dude wanted. Tipping his cowboy hat to reveal a head as round and bald as a bowling ball, he smiled down at me and said, “Y’okay, sha?”

“Yeah, I think so. The jury’s still out,” I replied, holding my neck and rolling my head slowly from side to side, relieved that apparently, this guy was trying to help me rather than to finish off the job someone else had started.

“I seen the whole thing if you need a witness. That fool sped up outa nowhere and run you right off the pavement. Smacked you twice, hard! On purpose, looked like to me. Looked like he wanted to flip your car over.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Hey, you didn’t happen to catch his plate number, did you?” I asked, still rubbing my neck.

“Nah. Happened too fast. He must have been doing ninety. I was several vehicles back. He come flyin’ around me. Then he took off like a shot after he hit you. A shiny black Blazer. Aieee, that’s some crazy fool driver!”

“Yep, crazy,” I mumbled, brushing off my shirt absently and beginning to get my bearings. A black Blazer. They must’ve figured I’d be heading north. I guess it was no great mystery, after all. They were fully expecting me to snoop. Well, they’d get their expectations confirmed. “Hey, thanks for stopping, man. I think I’m OK, though.”

“Sure thing, sha. Here, take my card. In case you change your mind about a witness,” he said, handing me a crumpled business card that smelled of the oil field. “Jake Richard,” I read.

“OK, Jake, I might just take you up on that. I’m H. Doucet, by the way. Doucet Drilling.”

He clucked his tongue. “We sure hated what happened to the old man.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said.

“A’ight. Call if you need me. Lache pas la patate.” He tapped his hat, then merged back onto the highway.

If those two goons thought they could discourage me, they had accomplished just the opposite. That stunt just made me all the more determined to get to the bottom of this, even if my life hung in the balance. And apparently, it did.

I jumped out to assess the damage to Aunt Ethel’s rear bumper and driver’s side door, then ducked back in out of the rain. I’d need to replace the whole bumper and the door. I faced the car in the right direction, crawled out of the ditch, spinning mud and water, and merged back onto the highway.

I wondered why they didn’t stop and finish off the job they had started. They clearly hoped to get me out of their hair once and for all. Whatever they were hiding ranked high on the priority list if they were willing to risk their own skins, even risk getting caught pulling a stupid stunt like that. I was pretty sure that little caper fell outside their professional purview.

I was still seething when I got to Father’s condo on Jefferson at Vermilion, still cursing under my breath. I opted to park on the street instead of pushing my luck in the parking garage, imagining deadly garage car chases from watching too many action movies as a kid. Fortunately, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. I flashed my I.D. to Bobby, the doorman, who tipped his hat in recognition. “So sorry for your loss, H,” he said as he pulled back the door to the garish mirrored and fresh-flower-strewn lobby of the posh condo complex. I rode the elevator to the top floor, Father’s penthouse apartment. It was nothing like a New York penthouse, of course, but boasted a few amenities. At the door, I was rudely greeted by yellow crime scene tape. Maybe they just forgot to remove it. No one answered my knock, so I stepped over the tape, then used Father’s security code that I still knew by heart to let myself in.

The condo felt eerie with Father gone. Somber and silent as a tomb, the ambient Muzak I was used to hearing no longer greeting me. A picture of Mother, still smiling her ageless smile, sat on the end table beside Father’s L-shaped leather sofa. She was a beauty, immortalized at age 35. I paused and picked it up to peer into those eager hazel eyes, awaiting whatever the future held in store for her. Here she was, the picture of youth and naiveté, probably less than a year before her death, maybe already pregnant with my baby sister. I couldn’t help wondering how things might have turned out if she hadn’t lost her life in her prime. Father’s life, my life, Victor’s life would all have been different if we’d had some normal family ties. Father might have been less anal retentive. Hell, he might even still be alive. Victor and I might have ended up with less resentment and fewer neuroses. When Mother died, the family was no longer a family, and now the straggling remnants had been shattered again. I cringed at the thought that Victor and I were all that was left.

I set the picture back on the table, brushed off the lingering nostalgia, then walked into Father’s makeshift office. No danger of finding any feminine touch here, I thought. Strictly utilitarian. The Commodore computer, his pride and joy, had been confiscated, along with all the floppies. The file cabinet was cleaned out except for a half dozen or so empty manila folders scattered in the drawers and strewn across the floor. I shuffled through the few loose papers left on his desk: Nothing but some random copies of old invoices tossed around. Nothing related to Oka Chito Island or anyone involved. I opened the top desk drawer: just a few pencils, paper clips, a blank legal pad, the usual. Clearly, the cops had confiscated anything remotely useful. But useful for what purpose? To get to the bottom of Father’s death? Or to cover their own asses? It must have taken a concerted effort to wipe out Father’s entire existence.

Still hopeful that Father had outsmarted them, I walked into his bedroom. The bed was stripped. I stood there imagining how Earlene must have felt when she found Father’s body. I’d have to find out why Earlene and not Placide had walked into his bedroom that morning. I opened the drawer of Father’s bedside table: a TV remote and a box of condoms. Leave it to Father to be prepared, I thought, wondering why the cops hadn’t confiscated the condoms along with everything else. I checked the dresser drawers. His clothes had been rifled through, some of his socks and T-shirts scattered on the floor around the dresser. I even lifted the mattress and checked underneath. Nothing. Father was no fool though. I’d still bet he left a clue somewhere that the cops had overlooked.

I walked out to the kitchen, which he had used solely for heating up a TV dinner or a can of Chef Boyardee Ravioli. His go-to place instead was always the wet bar in the living room, to pour himself a shot of single malt Aberlour Scotch before he went to Café Vermilionville for dinner.

I pulled open the “forbidden” junk drawer in the utility room off the kitchen, where he kept a few screwdrivers, pliers, and nails for minor repairs. He used to call the drawer his “personal business drawer,” and Victor and I were permanently denied access. He was probably afraid we would impale each other in one of our sibling “battles.” Of course, that just insured that Vic and I would rifle through it every chance we got, which now I realized could have been the reason for the ban. He just let us think we were pulling something off.

The drawer looked neatly intact, so I was reasonably sure the cops had either overlooked it or determined it was benign. I searched through every one of the plastic containers Father had painstakingly filled with screws, picture hangers, and electrical connectors. Nothing out of the ordinary. But feeling around in the back of the drawer, I latched onto one of those little magnetic key caddies designed to hide a spare under a fender. Inside, I found a folded slip of paper with the name “Gremillion,” a phone number, and an extension number scribbled in pencil. I was pretty sure that was the name Aunt Ethel had mentioned, the guy Father had called from the hall phone. I tucked the scrap in my change pocket, satisfied that I was onto something, however insignificant.

Walking back through the living room, I grabbed Mother’s picture on the way past the sofa. Before leaving, I peeked through two slats in the vertical blinds that covered the sliding door to the side terrace. Parked about two car lengths behind Ethel’s Grand Prix sat the black Chevy Blazer. Damn them! They must have figured out exactly where I was heading. What were they concocting, anyway? Did they just hope somehow to scare me off the trail? Fat chance that would happen.

Devising a plan to elude them, I stepped back over the tape and into the hall. But at the moment my shoe touched the floor, a hand grabbed the neck of my jacket and yanked me around to face a side of beef with a shoulder holster under the jacket of his raised arm. A second hulking ape stood at his elbow.

“This here’s off-limits. I suppose you can’t read,” said the one who had grabbed me, his face squeezed at the neck by the collar on the dress shirt that he’d outgrown. He pulled out the badge of a local police detective, which gave me an ironic sense of relief at this point.

“I apologize, sir,” I said. “I’m Major Doucet, Harvey’s son. I drove all the way up here from New Iberia just to pick up this picture of my mother. My Aunt Ethel told me she had her heart set on getting it,” I lied, playing for sympathy.

“Look, Doucet, I don’t care if you drove up here to meet the King of Spain,” the beefiest one snarled. “This crime tape specifically means stay the hell out. That means you! You’ll get your daddy’s stuff once the investigation is over, hear?”

“Do you suspect foul play?” I asked innocently.

“If we did, we wouldn’t need no one messing anything up now, would we?” he growled as he jerked my mother’s picture from my hand. I was glad I had picked it up, warding off suspicion of a deeper motive for my visit. “Don’t let us catch you nosing around here again until we notify you, got that?”

“Yes, sir,” I agreed, straightening my jacket after he let go. Not wanting to get in deeper or waste time getting questioned at the station, I opted not to tell them about the two goons waiting outside. For all I knew, they could all be working together.

“See that you don’t.” Chests puffed, they stepped over the tape and into Father’s condo.

“Macho assholes,” I muttered under my breath.

But I still had those two thugs outside to think about, and I really didn’t want another run-in with them. Father’s office was located in a building across Jefferson and a block down, so I used the door facing Jefferson. I didn’t see anyone but the security guard at the parking garage entrance on the next corner, so I hurried toward him, greeted him as I passed, then crossed over to the office building. Several employees milling around the suite greeted me and offered their condolences when I walked in. Marc Leblanc waved from his office. I stuck my head in his door and asked how he was getting along.

“We’re trying to get reorganized after the inundation,” he said. “Lots to sort out, a lawsuit to fight, and one to file. Earlene keeps me informed about what’s going on. But be sure to let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do. Let me know if I can help you in any way, too.”

“Of course, H. Thanks.”

“Good morning, Earlene,” I said when she walked up front. “I might have found some new information. Can we go to your office? Or to the lunchroom?”

“Sure thing, H. Let’s go to the lunchroom. I haven’t had time for lunch yet. They should still have some coffee down there. Strong as Mississippi mud by now, though.”

“Put hair on my chest. Thanks, Earlene.”

The lunchroom was vacant now, between lunch hour and afternoon coffee breaks. Placide followed us and found a seat just outside in the hall. Earlene told him, “Tell anyone who passes by that we’re in a private meeting,” then closed the lunchroom door behind us.

I sat at the ‘60’s Formica table, which I remembered from Ethel’s kitchen as a child, and where now I sipped on a cup of joe long past palatability. Earlene sat down and slurped spoonsful of the gumbo she heated in the microwave.

“Earlene,” I said, unsure where to start, “I guess you could say I’ve had a rather eventful morning.” I told her about my meeting with Morton and about the two guys who smacked my car and were still on my ass. “Keep that part about Ethel’s car under your hat, though. I don’t want to worry her.”

“H, boy,” she said, sotto voce. “I’m pretty sure your daddy didn’t commit suicide. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“No shit!”

“H, language!”

“Father wouldn’t have taken his own life, Earlene. He was a devout Catholic, despite some of his more questionable practices.”

“Don’t elaborate.”

“Don’t worry. But Father sure didn’t want to spend eternity in hell!”

“I agree. But we don’t have proof. As the police keep reminding me, he was depressed after the inundation.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s the snow job they’re pushing.” I fished the slip of paper out of my pocket and handed it to her. “This anyone you know? I think Father called this guy from Aunt Ethel’s house after the inundation to set up a meeting.”

She looked at it for a few seconds. “Your daddy made an appointment with someone for the Monday after Thanksgiving. He asked me to put a file together on the inundation for him to pick up Monday morning. But he died Sunday night. I figure he knew how much danger he was in. Otherwise, he would have had me put the appointment on his calendar like I always did. As it was, he left me with nowhere to turn.”

“I’m pretty sure he wasn’t planning to bite the big one. But he had this number well-hidden for some reason. I was wondering, Earlene, how did you happen to wander into Father’s bedroom and find him?”

“Placide called me Sunday evening. He told me your daddy was sending him on an errand in Jackson, Mississippi. I thought at the time, it wasn’t like your daddy to send Placide off alone like that. When Harvey was late to work the next morning, I called his apartment. No answer, so when he still hadn’t shown up a while later, I headed over there. You can imagine my shock!”

“I’m so sorry you’re the one who got stuck with it,” I said, placing my hand on her forearm. “Did you find out why Placide had to go to Jackson?”

“Placide said your daddy told him a guy with alligator cowboy boots would meet him outside the Big Boy Drive-In on Commerce Street to give him some important information regarding the inundation. That’s all any of us knew. It was a long trip, so your daddy reserved him a room up there for the night.”

“What did Placide pick up?”

“Placide wouldn’t open anything of your daddy’s unless he was told to. But I believe the meeting was in Jackson just to keep Placide out of the way long enough to pump those sleeping pills into your daddy. The murderers knew he wouldn’t be alive to read it. And of course, that envelope was confiscated like everything else. I’m guessing it was just a trick to get Placide out of town for the night. Anyway, the police were convinced enough to let him off the hook.”

“So, the police must have had an interest in that envelope. That could implicate them, too.”

“One other thing, H. Your daddy has a safety deposit box. I have a key to it, and he gave me power of attorney. He told me years ago only to open it for you if anything ever happened to him. I was waiting to tell you until all this family stuff settled down. I’m sure he wasn’t expecting anything like this at that time, though. You ask me, he just didn’t want your brother getting his paws on it.”

“After seeing Vic, I understand Father’s concerns! Of course, Vic informed me he’ll be running the company. No complaints here, but I wonder if Father really wants Vic holding the reins.”

“H, your daddy went to his attorney just a few months ago and changed his will. I suspect he wrote Vic out of it, or at least gave him a smaller cut. But CEO of Doucet Drilling? Oh, mais, non! Your daddy would’ve never put it in that boy’s hands. Your daddy was a shrewd businessman, and Vic’s gambling has gotten much worse, H. Your daddy has bailed him out on the QT several times I know of. Who knows how many times I don’t know about.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Far as I know, you, Ethel, Louis, and Victor all have joint ownership in Doucet Drilling, though Vic might even be written completely out. Your father’s attorney has delayed sending the will to probate until they’ve ruled out foul play. Vic’s scared, but he would never hurt his daddy, though a lot of folks have speculated that he did. My guess is he’s just in an all-fire hurry to get his hands on the business to cover his gambling debts, especially since his papa won’t be helping him anymore. Don’t you worry, H, the Board of Directors isn’t fixin’ to let Vic take over! But we do need to get the contents of that safety deposit box, see what that’s all about. Right now, you, Placide, and me are the only three that know about it.”

“Can we get to it today? I’m on a tight schedule. But my car is indisposed at the moment, with a couple of thugs surveilling it.”

“Let’s go right now,” Earlene said, getting up to rinse her bowl and spoon. “We’ll get Placide to carry us over there.”

“Great! Let’s take two cars, though. I don’t want to put you in any more danger than you’re already in. As far as we know, they’re just gunning for me.”

“Aren’t you the suspicious one!” she said. “OK, I’ll meet you over there in fifteen minutes. Placide can drive you. I’ll take an alternate route.”

I rinsed the dregs out of my cup while Earlene stepped out to speak to Placide. A few minutes later, he stuck his head in and signaled me to follow him. In the parking garage, he had me wait until he rooted around under the frame of Father’s car and under the dash for any random explosive devices. After he cranked the engine, he motioned, and I slid in the passenger side.

Earlene was already finishing the paperwork when we got to the bank. The guard checked my I.D., then unlocked the gate and led us toward the safety deposit boxes, Earlene’s heavy Red Cross shoes clacking decisively on the marble floor ahead of me. She unlocked the box and removed a thick manila folder.

“We’ll carry these to the office to make copies,” she said, handing me the folder while she locked the box. “See you back there in a few minutes.”

Placide pointed out the Blazer still parked behind Ethel’s car when we passed Vermilion. “Placide,” I said, “after we finish this, how about driving me to New Iberia? I’m not up for tangling with those two assholes again.”

“Sure thing, H,” he said.

When we got back, Earlene began copying the large stack of files. I walked out front to Marc’s office to keep him abreast of the latest while I waited.

“Come on in, H,” he said.

I helped myself to a chair. “Marc, things are happening so fast it’s hard to keep up. I just wanted to let you know two goons damn near flipped my car this morning. They were at the wake, and they’ve been following me ever since they learned who I am.” I told him about the Blazer and the business suits they wore. “Let Earlene or me know if you hear anything from them.”

“Of course, H. I noticed two serious-looking businessmen at the wake, but no one seemed to know who they were.”

“Yeah, I wish I’d taken them more seriously at the time. I’m going to ask Placide to be my bodyguard now that this happened. If they know anything about his marksmanship, they might think twice before sending me off to meet Father.”

“Good idea, H. By the way, we just landed a new drilling contract in the gulf, so we’ll be getting more men back to work. I’m working on a couple other possible contracts.”

“That’s great news! I know some of these fellows are hurting now.”

When Earlene finished making copies, she brought one set to me in Marc’s office.

“Thanks, Earlene. My car is still being surveilled, so I’m going to borrow Placide to drive me back to New Iberia. Then I’m going to ask him to be my bodyguard. Can you do without having him here all the time?”

“Of course, H. Placide’s been wandering around here like he’s lost his last friend. He’ll be glad to have a purpose again.”

“Great. Those thugs will think twice before they mess with him. I’ll be talking to you, Marc,” I said as I carried the files out to where Placide waited in the hall.

“Ready to drive me home?”

Placide nodded.

“I need to make a couple of stops on the way. First, I want to drop by the police station. After that, I’d like to see the best body man in town. Know who that might be?”

“Robert Dumont fixed plenty of dents for your daddy, mostly on Victor’s cars. And your daddy was not an easy man to please.”

“So I’ve heard,” I laughed. “OK, let’s go.”

~

I introduced myself to the patrolman at the front desk and asked to speak to someone familiar with Oka Chito. A few minutes after he buzzed someone, a middle-aged man with a flat-top and a rumpled brown suit came to the front, looking impatient.

“Major H. Doucet,” I said, sticking out my hand to shake his. “Harvey Doucet’s son. Could we talk for a minute about the investigation?”

“Captain Broussard,” he said meeting my handshake, but with no softening of his countenance. “This way, Major.” He led me down the hall to a cluttered office with papers strewn across the desk and on every flat surface. He moved a thick manila folder off the chair so I could sit.

“I’m trying to learn what I can about the investigation,” I began. “I happen to know my father would never have taken his own life.”

“I believe that investigation has been closed. We found no evidence of foul play. Suicide, pure and simple.”

“I don’t buy it, Captain,” I blurted. “I’m just as sure he didn’t kill himself. He believed suicide was a mortal sin.”

“O.K., look, Major Doucet, I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, looking up at me for the first time. “We just don’t have the evidence to reopen the case. We’ve already moved on to some more recent and pressing cases. I’m sure you’ve kept up with the local crime news. More than enough crime goes on around here every night to keep us occupied. Of course, if any new evidence turned up, we’d probably take a look. But I don’t see that happening, frankly.”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” I said indignantly. “But I haven’t moved on. This is my father you’re being dismissive of! And a powerful leader in the community, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m still going to be digging a little deeper than your department thinks necessary.” I started to rise.

“With all due respect, Major Doucet, I’d advise you to stay out of police business. I already got word that you broke into the scene earlier. Don’t make the mistake of opening yourself up to possible arrest. If those detectives hadn’t been in a good mood, you’d be sharing a cell with Big Bubba right now.”

“Yeah, well, I’d hate to see those two in a bad mood. And if it’s still a ‘scene,’ why are you saying the case is closed? Somehow, they didn’t act to me like the case was closed. And if it is closed like you say, then why can’t I get my mother’s picture, for chrissakes?”

“Watch yourself, Doucet, you’re on thin ice. That Doucet name don’t buy you any more privilege than the average poor ole widow who gets robbed. And I’m not obliged to fill you in on every little piece of police business. I meant what I said about arresting you if you continue to take things into your own hands. You can bank on it.”

I was aware that it had not been in my best interest to lose my temper or let him know I was snooping. So, I just bit my tongue, thanked him as politely as I could through clenched teeth, and returned to the front where Placide sat beside a couple of unsavory-looking characters on a straight wood bench slammed up against the wall.

“Any luck?” he asked when we got back in the vehicle.

“Well, I learned we can’t rely on the police for help,” I grumbled. “In fact, I think they’re as much a threat as the thugs who ran me off the road. I haven’t figured out why, yet, but I believe they’re all covering something up.”

“No surprise there,” Placide said.

Next, we drove to Dumont’s Paint and Body Shop, where a classic ‘67 Mustang was being spray-painted candy-apple red. The shop was in an old tin repurposed warehouse next to a fenced auto salvage yard that also bore the name Dumont on a crooked hand-painted sign out front.

“This here’s Harvey Doucet’s boy, Major Doucet,” Placide said when the man in coveralls looked up at us through red-splattered goggles.

“Hello, Placide. Major,” Dumont said, straightening up and sliding his goggles to the top of his paint-encrusted cap, but sparing me a handshake with his work glove. “Sorry to hear about your father. Harvey was one of my best customers. Had lots of scrapes on his various vehicles. Damn shame what happened. What can I do ya for today?”

“Some yahoo decided my rear bumper needed some rearranging. Decided the same was true of my driver’s side door. So I’m going to need some body work, and I’m hoping for a rush order because I need to get it back to my aunt ASAP.”

“I hear ya,” he said. Setting the sprayer on the floor, he hollered over to his assistant, “Right back, Dwayne.” He pulled off his gloves and said, “Let’s go talk in my office.”

He took down the make and model on his desk organizer. “Doubt if I can find new ones for a car that age, but I have a few Grand Prix’s out in the salvage yard that should work.”

“Yeah, brand new would probably be more obvious anyway.”

“I can have Dwayne start on it right away, and of course I’ll do the final painting. And you’ll probably need an alignment, too, after that jolt,” he said.

“OK, I’ll get the car over here first thing tomorrow morning. Thanks!”

While Placide drove back to New Iberia, I leafed through the copies from the safe that Earlene had given me. I stopped when I came upon Warren Armstrong’s CV, previously CEO of Ideal Tractor in Memphis. I wondered how on God’s earth Father ever managed to get this copy. Did he have a mole in Sapphire? Why was he suspicious in the first place? And what possessed Armstrong to want to move to Sapphire Salt in South Louisiana?

Thumbing through more pages, I came across a geological map of the Oka Chito Island oil drilling operations. I made a note to compare it tomorrow morning with the one in Morton’s office.

When Placide dropped me off, I told Aunt Ethel the partial truth about how her car needed an alignment and I was getting it serviced for her over the next few days. I wouldn’t have minded telling her it had been in an accident; I just didn’t want her to know someone wanted to make lunchmeat out of me.

“Can you get a ride to church with a friend, Ethel? In case we don’t get it back in time?”

“Oh, sure, ‘Tee. My friend Gladys will be happy to pick us up. We always sit with her and Harry anyway.”

I hurried upstairs before she had a chance to ask too many questions and combed through the pages more closely in my room. I learned that Armstrong had unloaded his shares in both Ideal Tractor and Sapphire Salt shortly before the inundation. I felt as if Father were telling me that somewhere within these pages lay the motive for murder. Clearly, he had been going down the same path I was stumbling down now.