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GERTIE OPENED THE RICKETY gate, held to the post with only a nail. She lifted it a few inches from the ground so it wouldn’t scrape on the pavement, though a quick glance at the chewed-up wood at the bottom of the gate indicated many years’ worth of scraping.
“What a dump,” her Granny Magoo said loudly behind her.
Gertie turned to face her granny, who held up a shotgun. “What are you doing with that?”
“If the punk’s peeking out, I want him to see I’m armed.” She waved the shotgun in the air. “You mess with my granddaughter and you mess with me!”
Gertie sighed. “I’ll be fine, Granny. Please, wait in the car like I asked.”
Granny shook her head. “You have no clue what men are capable of. If you did, you wouldn’t have worn that strip of stretchy cloth across your bosom.”
“Since you recited a laundry list of the evils men do on the ride over, I now have an encyclopedic knowledge.”
Granny frowned. “What do you want with this fella anyway?”
“Just asking him to verify something I heard, that’s all.” Getting her Granny Magoo involved was something Gertie had wanted to avoid. This woman had an outsized opinion on everything and could veer off into crazy land in an instant.
“You want Buster Bussey to verify something? Did I ever tell you of the shoe thief of 1957?” She pointed to Buster’s house. “It was that boy; I just know it. One time I caught him staring at my shoes in church—”
“Granny. Car. Please. You need to be at the wheel in case we need a quick getaway. Okay?”
“You’re right. If it’s one thing I’m good at, it’s a quick getaway.” Granny turned and limped away, favoring her arthritic left knee. Granny slammed the gate shut behind her, the bottom of the wood screeching as it scraped the concrete. Before slipping inside the driver’s side of the Rambler, she yelled at a small tree in the distance. “What are you gawking at? Mind your own beeswax!” She then reached in her purse and pulled out her glasses and looked again. “Oh, you’re a tree. Forget it.”
Gertie took a moment to center herself, reviewing the information Myrtle had shared about Deputy Broussard’s interview with Buster Bussey. Buster had claimed he drove past the rental between 9:45 PM and 10:15 PM on his way home from the Swamp Bar. Hearing a coyote howling like someone had just died, he slowed down and saw a woman exiting the house before hopping into a convertible and screeching away. The description could have been that of Bonnie Cotton. In fact, according to Myrtle, Buster even made a point of saying the woman looked like Bonnie. Unfortunately, Bonnie and Louanne could look similar in the dark.
Gertie didn’t know much about Buster Bussey, but a glance around the yard and porch told her that he was a junker, someone who collected other people’s discards and fixed them up to sell. A couple of washing machines sat under a makeshift tent of plastic sheeting to protect them from any rain. Bicycles in various states of assembly were set up on the porch.
The sign on his lawn declaring that Solisiters will be shot told her something else. He probably never represented Sinful in the Louisiana spelling bee, and he would greet her at the door with a weapon. Gertie had brought firepower of her own just in case, a pistol that was discreetly tucked inside a scarf she was using as a decorative belt around her mustard-colored bell bottoms.
She noticed someone peeking through the blinds at the front window. Moments later the door opened, and Buster stepped outside, a pistol visible in his waistband. She had definitely wasted a designer tube top on this guy. His dark, stringy hair looked like it should be waving a “wash me” sign, as did his T-shirt that hung on his tall, skinny frame, boasting the silhouette of an anatomically impossible woman in a bikini. If real women had boobs that size, they’d have to wear iron-lined panties to balance their backsides and keep from tipping forward.
She held her hands up. “Don’t worry, I’m not soliciting.”
He ran his gaze over her body, paying particular attention to the stretchy cloth straining against her chest. “Too bad, though I think Ma Barker over there might kill the mood.”
“Oh, my grandma is harmless.”
“No I’m not!” she yelled from the front seat of her Rambler. She needed better glasses and a new knee, but her hearing was excellent.
He lifted his brows. “What do I owe the pleasure?”
Buster was another example why women made such great spies. Gertie had been extensively trained in hand-to-hand combat and psychological warfare, but all it took to overpower a guy like Buster was a set of boobs and a look in her eye as if she’s gazing at the grooviest guy on the planet. Heck, girls were trained all their lives for that.
“Well,” she said, flashing a smile, “you probably don’t know me. My name is Florrie. I live over on the other side of town.” Luckily, she and Buster hadn’t crossed paths much in the years before she went to Vietnam. “Anyways, I heard a rumor you saw some woman leaving the rental where Mr. Wade Guillory was tragically murdered.”
At the mention of Mr. Guillory and murder, Buster’s lustful gaze had altered slightly, replaced by a whisper of worry if his rapidly blinking eyes were any indication.
“Uh-huh,” he said with a note of caution to his voice. “That’s what I saw. Why?”
“Well, I had dinner at a friend’s house last night and took a bag of leftover bones home with me that I was going to share with my Collie... Wally. Anyways, I took a shortcut through the woods and wouldn’t you know but when I got to the street, some maniac almost ran me over. I jumped back, but the damn fool drove over my bag of bones. And the way I had to jump back I tore my dress on a shrub. So I want to know who that person was.”
He chewed on his lip. “You was out last night and saw a car?”
Gertie nodded. “Ran over my bones.” She giggled coquettishly. “Not the bones in my body, mind you, but the ones for my Collie Wally.”
He shifted on his feet. “I don’t know if the police would like it that I’m talking about what I saw.” His eyes took root on her chest. “So why don’t we talk about something else?”
Gertie nodded, noting that Buster’s reaction wasn’t characteristic of most men. A typical man would get all puffed up that he alone solved the crime of the century and would love to help a damsel in distress. Especially one in a sexy tube top. She was now sure that he was lying about what he saw.
“Oh, I understand,” Gertie said. “But I need to be reimbursed for my torn dress. And my poor Wally. Shouldn’t that driver also give my doggy some bones that aren’t all flattened?” Gertie made a point of adjusting her tube top. She heard Buster make a small noise in his throat. She continued, “You don’t know how relieved I am to find out you were there.”
“You are?” he asked her breasts.
She nodded. “Imagine solving two crimes in one night. My torn dress and a murder! You’re like a town hero or something.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding, a bit of cockiness returning. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“So the convertible... that would be around nine o’clock, right?”
“Thereabouts. Sure.”
Okay, first lie. According to Myrtle, Buster had sworn it was between 9:45 and 10:15.
“And there was also a cat that ran in the street right after the convertible peeled away. White cat. Did you see that too?”
He nodded. “White cat. Sure. Sure. Saw it.”
Another lie. Gertie just made that one up.
“So you saw a convertible too, huh?” he asked. His face took on an expression of wonder. And, perhaps, relief. As if he’d lucked out making up a story that was true.
Gertie decided to mess with him. “What was the... what you men call the make of the car? You know, like Ford or Chevy?”
A frown crossed Buster’s face. “Too dark to see.”
“If you don’t know, that’s okay. Most men know their cars. But it’s okay if you don’t.”
“I know cars,” he said defensively, as if she’d just taken a nutcracker to his masculinity. “I know more about cars than anyone in Sinful.”
“Of course you do. You probably know everything about my Granny’s Buick over there on the street.”
Buster craned his neck to see the car, parked in the shadows, away from the glow of the streetlight. He laughed. “You’re such a girl. That’s a 1963 Rambler Classic Wagon.” He folded his arms in triumph.
He was absolutely correct. And if there really had been a convertible parked in front of the rental that night, he would have probably been closer to it.
He didn’t know what make and model the convertible was because he hadn’t seen one last night. Gertie held his gaze and wondered—was he making up a story for the man seen running away, or was he that man? Was she looking into the eyes of the man who killed Wade Guillory?
Buster lifted his brows and ran his eyes down her body. “Why don’t you forget all about that dog and the bag of bones and your ripped dress? Get rid of your granny and let ole Buster give you some new memories?”
“Better yet, why don’t you let ole granny give you a new memory?”
They both looked over at the gate. Granny Magoo stood with her shotgun pointed at Buster.
“Keep your hands up where I can see ‘em, boy,” she said, prompting Buster to raise his hands in the air.
Gertie sighed. “As appealing as you are, Buster, I’m afraid it’s way past my curfew. If I were you, I’d slip back inside, and we’ll be on our way. But thank you so much for your advice. Maybe I’ll just forgive whoever’s responsible for my torn dress and Wally’s crushed bones. I’m sure that’s what the Lord would want, don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh.” Buster raced inside, where he promptly turned off all the lights. Good move on his part, Gertie thought as she joined her granny at the gate.
“Well, did the shoe pervert verify what you wanted?” Granny asked.
Gertie nodded. “He verified he’s a liar. He swore to Deputy Broussard he saw a woman leave the rental in a convertible last night between 9:45 and 10:15. But I tripped him up on time and a few other things. I could tell he was lying, but it’s that stupid convertible that keeps Sheriff Lee focused on Louanne Boudreaux.”
“Aw, heck, there wasn’t a convertible there between that time. I could have told you that if you’d just asked.”
Gertie stared at her grandmother. “Is this one of your strong opinions?”
Granny Magoo shook her head. “I was parked there during that time.”
“Where? By the rental?”
Granny Magoo nodded. “Across the street and over one house. I didn’t see Buster drive by, but I did see a woman. Only she was standing by a downed branch on the lawn leading up to the woods. And she had a dog with her. A white one. And she was smoking a cigarette. Standing in the shadows watching the house.”
“Are you certain of this?”
Granny Magoo nodded. “After leaving the Canasta game, I parked in my usual spot to have a smoke in the car and watch the bats flying around the streetlamp. And no, that’s not strange. Anyway, while I was smoking, I noticed a cigarette flare up in the dark. The woman had a bubble cut. Her damn dog must have fallen asleep standing up because it dropped down on the ground and she had to lift him back up. I thought that was kinda mean. Dog wants to sleep, let him sleep.”
“This woman. Did she look like Bonnie Cotton?”
Granny Magoo thought a moment and nodded. “Could have been Bonnie. She had a short hairstyle like Bonnie. She was lanky like Bonnie.”
“But there was no convertible,” Gertie said. “And you were wearing your glasses?”
“Nope and yep.”
“Why didn’t you tell the sheriff what you saw?”
“Hell, she wasn’t doing anything. And it’s not the first time I’ve seen her. The week before that, I saw her doing the same thing. Just smoking with her dog by the downed tree branch. I figure she can’t smoke at home either and has to sneak around like I do.” Granny’s eyes widened. “You think she’s the perp and not a witness, don’t you? Should I tell Sheriff Lee I saw her there?”
Gertie shook her head. “No, don’t do that.” She pulled in a deep breath and blew it out.
“What’s wrong?”
Gertie could feel her stomach churn. “Louanne Boudreaux has a new, short haircut like Bonnie’s. And a white dog.”