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THAT EVENING, MARY-Alice stopped by Francine's Diner to pick up a family dinner of fried chicken and biscuits. Then she headed over to Fortune's house for their scheduled “Council of War.” (Only Mary-Alice called it that, and only to herself. She had borrowed the phrase from the Amelia Peabody mysteries.)
Gertie reported first, telling Fortune about the trip out to the Swamp Bar. Most of what Gertie related was familiar to Mary-Alice, of course, as she had been there. But Gertie had held back one detail. She had learned that Leonie had been about to crack Victorin over the head with a perfectly good bottle of Early Times when Deputy Breaux had arrived just in time to stop her. It was unclear whether Gertie's informant had been more concerned about Victorin, or the bottle.
“So we know Leonie was mad enough to hurt him,” Fortune said. “Was there anything else?”
“Only that Mary-Alice and I looked spectacular,” Gertie said. “Mary-Alice can really rock the leopard leggings.”
“You’re certainly very kind, Gertie. Now how about when we had to hightail it out of there at the end of our evening?”
Fortune seemed surprisingly...unsurprised by this revelation.
“Do I want to know?” she sighed.
“Sometimes I don’t realize the sensual power I hold over men.” Gertie patted her hair, and Fortune rolled her eyes.
“Gertie,” Fortune said, “you were flirting with Junior Baker again, weren’t you? You were supposed to be focused on your mission.”
“I was focused on my mission. Where else do you think I came by all this intel? Junior's one of Leonie's drinking buddies, as it happens.”
“How could Leonie have hit poor Mister Lowery over the head with a bottle at all?” Mary-Alice asked. “He must be a foot taller than she is, at least.”
“Well, it just so happens that Leonie was standing on the bar at the time,” Gertie said.
“Mary-Alice,” Fortune asked, “did you find out anything in the records office?”
Mary-Alice pushed her plate aside and opened her journal.
“Why, yes, I did. I managed to find some old school records. It turns out that Victorin Lowery is forty-three years old. His mother’s name is Eulalie Lowery. His father was...a Bobby Sherman? Although I didn’t think that sounded quite right for some reason.”
“Who?” Fortune asked.
“Bobby Sherman the singer?” Gertie exclaimed.
“The same name, yes,” Mary-Alice said.
“Sounds like she didn’t know who the father was and had to put down some name or other,” Gertie said. “You find anything else?”
Mary-Alice shook her head. “No, I did not. I thought I might turn up some arrest records, and those would tell me whom he might have tangled with. But there was nothing like that.”
“The Sheriff’s Office would have those,” Fortune said. “And their files are a little harder to get into. Anything else?”
“There is one thing.” Mary-Alice glanced at Gertie. “Celia's cousin Dorothy was working at the Records and Permits counter.”
“Celia’s taking nepotism to a whole new level,” Gertie said. “I know for a fact that Dorothy can barely read. So, tell me, did my plan work?”
“What plan?” Fortune asked suspiciously. “There was a plan?”
“I didn't want Dorothy to know why I was really there,” Mary-Alice explained “So Gertie suggested I tell her that I was writing a history of Sinful.”
“Sounds like it worked,” Fortune said.
“You’re welcome,” Gertie crowed. “I thought that was a genius idea.”
“Well, yes, I was able to get access to the records. But Dorothy was so excited about the project that she waylaid me on my way out, and told me she wanted to reserve a copy of my book.”
“Guess she'll be waiting a while for that,” Gertie scoffed. But Fortune didn’t see the humor in the situation.
“Gertie, if Mary-Alice doesn’t come up with the book, Dorothy and Celia will wonder what she was doing in the records office.”
“Wait, are you suggesting that I actually write a history of Sinful?” Mary-Alice exclaimed.
“Well, that’ll be a nice little side project, don’t you think?” Gertie said.
“Gertie, I don’t know the first thing about writing a book. You do, though. You’re a published author.”
“That’s right, Gertie,” Fortune repeated, amused. “You’re a published author.”
“Passion’s Promise is not history,” Gertie insisted. “It’s a fictional work of seniorotica.”
“I don’t know about that,” Fortune mused. “The star-crossed lovers ‘William’ and ‘Ida Mae’ do remind me of two people I know.”
“Oh, Walter and Ida Belle!” Mary-Alice exclaimed. “It took me until I was almost halfway through Passion’s Promise, but I figured it out. Fortune, are you saying Gertie can write the history book for me? I must say that sounds like a splendid idea! Thank you ever so much, Gertie. I simply had no idea how I was going to go about doing that.”
Before the perplexed Gertie could answer, there was a knock on the door.
Fortune returned to the kitchen with Deputy Sheriff Carter LeBlanc in tow. Mary-Alice could tell he was troubled; he didn’t even seem to notice the foil tray that still held a few pieces of Francine’s succulent fried chicken.
Fortune sat back down without offering Carter anything to eat or drink.
Mary-Alice was shocked by this. When someone called, it didn’t matter whether they had come to tell you they shot your dog, ran off with your husband, or stole your cable. You offered them at least a glass of tea.
But this wasn’t Mary-Alice’s home; Fortune was the hostess. Besides, Carter was probably used to her strange Yankee ways by now.
So distracted was Mary-Alice by Fortune’s lapse in protocol that she missed part of the conversation.
“How did you find him?” Fortune was asking.
“Someone called in a tip. He, uh...” Carter sent Mary-Alice an uneasy glance. “Contact shotgun wound. It took a while to ID him.”
“Leonie blew him away with a shotgun, huh?” Gertie took an enthusiastic bite of her chicken. “That girl always was a little wild. Did you hear she was trying to bash his head in with a bottle of Early Times the night before? And screaming that she was gonna kill him?”
So they’d found Victorin Lowery.
“Does the girlfriend own a shotgun?” Fortune asked.
“Yes, ma’am, she does. Just like pretty much everyone else around here.”
“Well, that’s your case closed, then, son,” Gertie said. “It was Leonie. Too bad. She’s a nice girl. When are we going to be able to get Ida Belle out?”
Carter shook his head. “No one’s getting Miss Ida Belle out.”
“Carter LeBlanc, what are you saying?” Gertie demanded. “Why ever not?”
“If you recall, Leonie Blanchard was in custody at TOD.”
“Time of death estimates aren’t accurate to the second,” Fortune said.
“The ME gave me a two-hour window based on body temp, Fortune, and Leonie was in jail for that window of time and beyond.”
“Maybe Leonie hired someone,” Gertie said. “Did you ever think of that?”
“Miss Gertie, you’ll recall that Miss Ida Belle flat out admitted she shot him. And her shotgun had been fired. And she had gunshot residue on her hands. The time that you called in on behalf of Ida Belle was right within the TOD window. The cause of death was a close-range shotgun blast to the head—”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Gertie grumbled. “But can you prove it was Ida Belle's gun that killed him?”
“It's hard to do ballistics analysis with a shotgun wound,” Fortune interjected. “Especially when—sorry, Carter, were you going to say something?
Carter sighed.
“I was going to say it's pretty near impossible to trace shotgun pellets, especially if you don't have the cartridge.”
“Why, then, a shotgun is a perfect murder weapon!” Mary-Alice blushed as Carter, Fortune, and Gertie stared at her.
“Well, it’s an effective murder weapon, anyway,” Carter said, finally, as he stood. “Especially at close range. Look, I’m going to keep on looking into this. It’s not like there’s a whole lot else to keep us busy. If you hear anything, y’all be sure to let me know right away. Please.”
Carter shot Fortune a meaningful look. “I didn’t have to tell you that we found Lowery. But I thought you’d want to know.”
After Carter left, the women sat glumly around the kitchen table, letting the last of the plump chicken pieces sit uneaten.
“I’m just wondering if y’all can think of any way I might could help,” Mary-Alice said, finally.
“Invite Celia to lunch,” Gertie said, “and slip rat poison into her tea.”
“No, I don’t think we could do that,” Fortune mused, as if going down a checklist of perfectly reasonable alternatives.
“Maybe Celia shot Victorin Lowery,” Gertie suggested.
“Now, Gertie, why on earth do you think Celia would want to go and kill Victorin Lowery?” Mary-Alice asked.
“To incriminate Ida Belle, of course, “Gertie said. “And he makes a convenient victim, because he's been such a nuisance for everyone in town. No one is going to miss him all that much.”
“His mama missed him enough to report him missing,” Mary-Alice said.
“And let’s not forget that either he shot Ida Belle, or someone else shot both of them,” Fortune said. “Unless there’s something Ida Belle isn’t telling us. Did either of you see Leonie Blanchard interacting with anyone in particular when you two were at the Swamp Bar? Maybe the girlfriend’s side piece saw an opportunity to get rid of the boyfriend while she was in jail?”
Mary-Alice thought she might look up the term “side piece” later, although she was fairly certain she could guess the meaning from the context. Once again, she found herself wondering what sort of children’s librarian Fortune was.
“No, Fortune,” Gertie said, “I already told you. She was sitting with a tableful of men. But no one stood out as special. Mary-Alice, how about you? Do you have any ideas? Maybe from all those murder mysteries you read?”
“Gertie,” Fortune said, “this is real life. Murder mysteries are fiction. No offense, Mary-Alice.”
“Fortune, I’m surprised at you,” Gertie said. “You’re a librarian, remember? Books are your lifeblood, your reason for living. And Mary-Alice's insights have helped us in the past.”
“Good point,” Fortune conceded. “What do you think, Mary-Alice?”
Mary-Alice scrambled to think of something useful to say.
“Well, now, the one thing that occurs to me is they always say you can solve the crime if you know enough about the victim.”
“We know Victorin Lowery was a drunk who fought with his girlfriend,” Gertie said.
“And stole cooking sherry from Francine,” Mary-Alice added.
Fortune wrinkled her nose. “Cooking sherry. He must’ve been desperate. That stuff is nasty. Okay. We want to know more about Victorin Lowery. We hit the Swamp Bar already, and we hit City Hall. What else can we try?”
“Ooh, I know,” Gertie raised her hand. “Mary-Alice, why don’t you arrange a quiet dinner with Boon St. Clair and get him to talking? Between getting people’s plumbing up to code and fixing termite damage, I estimate Boon and his crew have been inside most of the houses in Sinful.”
Mary-Alice loved being asked to help with the investigation, but she was reluctant to drag Boon into it.
“Well now, I don’t know. It may sound old-fashioned to you, Gertie, but I’m not in the habit of asking men out on dates.”
Gertie rolled her eyes.
“Mary-Alice, do I have to take away your Southern Lady card?”
“What are you talking about?” Fortune asked.
“Of course she’s not going to ask him out directly,” Gertie explained. “She will arrange to let him ask her out. And he’s going to think the whole thing was his idea. C’mon, Mary-Alice, don’t look like that. You’ve already been out with him. It’ll be a piece of cake.”
“But Boon and I have only engaged in pleasant small talk. I don’t know him well enough to bring up crimes of passion and close-range shotgun wounds over dinner.”
“So how do you think you’ll get to know him better?” Gertie countered. “I’ll tell you. This is how. Do you want your relationship to ever get past the superficial stage? Talk to him about the murder, ask him about Victorin Lowery, and just watch and see what he knows and how he reacts. Anyway, it’s for a good cause. Don’t forget we’re doing all this to help Ida Belle.”
Mary-Alice thought about it.
“I suppose you’re right. It wouldn’t do any harm to mention it to Boon. He saw Ida Belle getting arrested, after all. Gertie, you are very persuasive.”
Gertie patted the giant handbag that hung off the back of her chair.
“'Course I’m persuasive. No one’s taking my Southern Lady card away.”