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AT FIVE O’CLOCK THE following morning, Myrtle, the night dispatcher, called Ida Belle with the news that Deputy Sheriff Carter LeBlanc was in the hospital. Ida Belle quickly rounded up the other ladies (except for Fortune, they were all early risers) and they were at the reception desk by 5:45.
Fortunately, Shonda was at the desk. Shonda was the granddaughter of one of Gertie’s friends, and knew better than to let privacy laws interfere with social obligations.
“You’re here to see Carter,” she said softly.
The ladies nodded.
“What happened?” Gertie asked.
Shonda leaned forward.
“Overdose,” she mouthed.
Carter had been sleeping, but roused himself and sat up when the women crowded into his room.
“Fortune?” he said. “Gertie? Wow, the gang’s all here. How did you—”
“Carter Le Blanc!” Fortune’s worry made her irate. “An overdose? What’s going on?”
Carter sunk back onto his pillow.
“Good to see our patient privacy laws are working. Look, I’m as surprised as you are.”
Fortune perched on the edge of the bed and took Carter’s hand.
“What happened?” she asked, more gently now.
He shook his head.
“That’s a great question. Breaux and I went into the store—”
“Harriet’s Books?” Gertie interrupted.
“Yes. Harriet’s Books. I remember I went in first, switched on the light, and then...Deputy Breaux says I started talking about how people don’t read enough these days and we should take Harriet’s books back to the station for safekeeping. Next thing he says I’m on the ground, having trouble breathing. I just remember waking up here. The ER nurse spotted the symptoms and gave me naloxone.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Fortune asked.
“Yeah. And Breaux’s just fine, fortunately. I was exposed somehow.”
“Any idea how?” Ida Belle asked.
“Not yet.” Carter turned to look at her. “And please don’t go trying to find out. I’ve asked Breaux to seal off the shop.”
“But what about the murder investigation?” Gertie asked. “You’re laid up, Sheriff Lee—where is Sheriff Lee anyway? I haven’t seen him for ages.”
“He took a vacation,” Carter said. “He went fishing. There’s no way to contact him. After the last case, he thought he deserved a break.”
Carter looked around at the women’s expectant faces.
“Look. I know you want to help. And I appreciate it. Do all the online research you want. If you find out anything that looks important, tell Breaux. But no interviewing witnesses, and no trespassing or B&E. We’re dealing with someone dangerous.”
“Deputy,” Mary-Alice ventured, “do you think Mr. Florentin Menard had something to do with all of this?”
Carter closed his eyes.
“I know you were looking into Menard for embezzling, but there’s no point bothering him now. All the Deale company files are at McIlvaney and Pine.”
“Who?” Gertie asked.
“The auditors. And don’t bother them either.”
“Why, Carter LeBlanc, we wouldn’t dream of—” Gertie began.
If there’s been any funny business, the auditors will catch it,” Carter interrupted. “If Menard is guilty, he’ll get desperate, and desperate people are dangerous. Stay away from him. I don’t need anyone else getting killed.”
“What about you?” Fortune asked. “Do you think whoever did this to you will try again?”
“I don’t know. Look, all of you just please just keep yourselves safe. If you really want to do something to help me, that’s it.”
A young man in scrubs came in with a blood draw kit, so the ladies said their goodbyes to Carter, left the air-conditioned hospital, and crossed the steaming-hot parking lot to get into the Jeep.
“McIlvaney and Pine?” Fortune asked as she cranked up the air conditioning.
“I’ve already got it on my GPS,” Ida Belle said.
The firm of McIlvaney and Pine, Certified Public Accountants, was located in a converted craftsman house on a leafy street in downtown Lake Charles. Mary-Alice, who had taken some bookkeeping classes at Mudbug Technical College, went inside with Gertie. Ida Belle and Fortune stayed with the Jeep, motor running and A/C going full blast.
Gertie explained to the receptionist that they had come on behalf of Harriet Hamilton, a tenant of Deale Properties. There had been some mix-up on the timing of her rent check, she said, and then there was Mr. Deale’s unfortunate and untimely death, and Harriet herself was having health issues and wanted to check—”
“I’ll get someone out here to help. Y’all please have a seat.” The receptionist picked up the phone, and before long a woman in a dark green skirt suit emerged from the back.
“I’m Sylvia Pine.” She offered a firm handshake to Mary-Alice and Gertie in turn. “How can I help you?”
Gertie began again with her story, and Sylvia Pine shook her head in a most discouraging way.
“I’m sorry, but those files are part of an active investigation. We can’t let you look through them. The company itself should have records of recent rent payments, though. I don’t know who told you to come here, but we really can’t help you.”
“Oh dear,” Mary-Alice lamented. “Poor Harriet. She’s in the hospital, you know. She got caught in a pileup during the big storm Monday night. And Mr. Deale’s passing has thrown everyone into such a dither over there at the company, why you can’t get them to do a single thing. We came all the way out here from Sinful, you see.”
“We were hoping we could just check the recent month’s receipts,” Gertie added. She actually didn’t know what they were looking for, but figured being able to look at the records might yield some kind of clue.
“Miss Mary-Alice, Miss Gertie, I don’t think you understand.”
Then Sylvia Pine’s expression softened.
“Look. I’m not supposed to do this, and I’m sure I’ll regret it, but...” She motioned with her head that they should follow her, and led them through a side door down a dim hallway. She stopped at the last door on the right, took out a ring of keys, and inserted a key into the bulbous brass knob. Then she pushed the door partway open, reached into the room, and switched on the light.
Unlabeled white banker’s boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling, packed in so tightly that they kept the door from opening all the way.
“These are the files from Deale Properties,” she said.
“Good heavens!” Gertie exclaimed.
“So it’s not just a QuickBooks file? Or a spreadsheet?” Mary-Alice quickly slipped her thumb drive back in her purse.
“No. You’d be surprised how many of our local businesses still run on paper. Some of our clients don’t even have email. Anyway, I hope I’ve persuaded you that practical as well as privacy concerns preclude our allowing access to these files.”
“Well, you’ve convinced me,” Gertie said.
“Thanks ever so much for your time,” Mary-Alice added. “And best of luck.”