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“WOULD YOU LIKE MORE mashed potatoes, Gertie?”
The dreaded dinner with Gill and his mother was finally here. Before Gertie could decline, Mrs. Girard scooped up a spoonful and dropped it on her plate.
Gertie glanced down at the dry, thick-as-mortar spuds. If there existed such a thing as the Food Police, Mrs. Girard would surely be arrested.
“I told you Mother was a wonderful cook,” Gill said, beaming. He directed his next comment to his mother. “And didn’t I tell you how wonderful Gertie was?”
“Yes, you did,” Mrs. Girard said. “And you are right. She’s the one.”
“Huh?” Gertie asked as she swallowed a gulp of water so that the cement Mrs. Girard called mashed potatoes wouldn’t solidify in her throat and cut off her air supply.
“Now, Mother,” Gill said, “you’re one step ahead of yourself.”
Gertie dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “Gill’s right.”
“I haven’t popped the question just yet.”
“Question?” Gertie asked, the napkin slipping from her fingers and dropping into her lap.
He held up a serving bowl. “Peas?”
Gertie laughed. “Oh, ha-ha, that question. That is the question, right? If I want more peas?”
Gill tossed a conspiratorial glance his mother’s way. “Oh, yes, that’s the question, right, Mother?”
She giggled. “More venison, Gertie?”
“No, I’m full, thanks.”
Mrs. Girard sat back in her chair and gazed at Gertie with her motherly X-ray vision, a smile that suggested she was peering into Gertie’s womb, imagining a brood of future grandchildren lining up inside it. “I hear you’re a fantastic cook in your own right.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
Gill’s mother pointed her finger at Gertie. “Mellette Blanchard said you were the most gifted home economics student she ever had the pleasure of teaching at Sinful High.”
Gertie found herself shuddering at the memory of Miss Mellette, a dreadful woman whose one mission in life was to prepare women to serve their husbands. She’d been quite vocal about her, Ida Belle and Marge enlisting in the Army. “Women have no place in the military,” had been her rallying cry.
Gertie had tried back in high school not to be Miss Mellette’s star pupil, but cooking, baking and sewing skills were in her genes. She was her mother’s daughter and totally incapable of turning out a bad dish or a crooked buttonhole, which was why this meal she was forced to eat now was such an assault on her senses.
Mrs. Girard reached across the table and touched Gertie’s hand, her eyes filled with enthusiasm. “If you like, I can go over some of Gill’s favorite dishes with you.”
“Well, another time, perhaps.” She nodded toward Gill. “Your son here is helping me with an important matter and I thought maybe we could discuss it.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Girard asked, glancing at Gill. “He’s a very important boy, my son. And modest. He didn’t mention he was helping you.”
Her “important boy” shifted again in his chair and stared at Gertie. “I thought we could talk privately. After dinner. And we still have dessert.”
“Which I can’t wait to dive into,” Gertie said, turning toward Mrs. Girard. “Gill mentioned something about your famous turtle drop mousse, and I have been thinking about it all day.” She had. The thought of it had become like an annoying song she hated yet couldn’t stop hearing inside her head.
Mrs. Girard’s smile widened. “And I’ve been dying to get your opinion on the entire presentation. I was thinking of entering it into the parish fair next fall.” She got up. “Now, you two just keep seated while I bring it on out.”
After Mrs. Girard left, Gertie gazed at Gill. “I hope you don’t mind I brought that up in front of your mother.”
“No, no, not at all.”
However, when he said it, Gill’s brows furrowed. It was definitely not okay. In fact, when she’d given him the hair samples from Bonnie’s dog on the ride over to his mother’s house, he seemed visibly shaken that Gertie thought Bonnie might be involved. She had to find out why.
“Your mother knows about the work you do, right?”
“Oh, yes, of course she does.” He lowered his voice. “It’s just, well, I know you have a little hunch that somehow Bonnie Cotton is involved. Which I disagree with, by the way. I just don’t think it would be a good idea to bring up Bonnie’s name in front of mother.”
“Why shouldn’t I mention Bonnie Cotton in front of your mother?” Gertie asked.
Gertie heard a gasp. Mrs. Girard stood in the entryway from the kitchen, holding a tray with her prized dessert, as well as several plates and forks. Gertie put on her best, “I’m so sorry” face to Gill when in fact she’d seen his mother approaching when she’d said Bonnie’s name.
“What about Bonnie Cotton?” Mrs. Girard asked as she set the dessert on the table. And what a horrible-looking concoction it was. She’d made it in a gelatin mold and turned it over onto a cake plate. The mass consisted of chocolate mousse on the bottom and green Jell-O on top, with dark chunks of something embedded into the jiggly gelatin. It was obvious she hadn’t given the mousse the proper amount of time to set, as the weight of the Jell-O was causing it to ooze out of the bottom.
“Nothing, Mother.”
“What about Bonnie Cotton?” she demanded, her lips pursed.
Gill sighed. “Gertie here has this silly notion that Bonnie Cotton was responsible for the murder of Wade Guillory.”
Mrs. Girard turned her focus to Gertie. “I knew she did it!”
“Oh, Mother, not you too.”
“Why do you think Bonnie Cotton did it?” Gertie asked, trying not to glance at the ugly, jiggly mass that served as a “reward” for eating a dinner that was still making its slow descent down to her reluctant stomach.
“Because she’s a tart, that’s why.”
“Can we not talk about this right now?” Gill asked, his eyes pleading with his mother.
“She almost got her hooks into my little boy,” Mrs. Girard said.
“Mother, I’ve said time and again that my relationship with Bonnie was a mistake. But I ended it long ago and I don’t really want to be reminded of her.”
Gertie felt the rush of adrenaline that only new intel could give. Gill and Bonnie had been an item.
Mrs. Girard pointed her finger at Gill. “Don’t you raise your voice to your mother, William Girard.”
William? Gertie felt her ears tingle. “Gill is a nickname?”
Mrs. Girard and her son stopped their bickering and stared at her.
“Um... yes, it is,” Gill said. “Is that a problem?”
“Of course not. I love nicknames. Especially yours.” Gertie shifted her eyes to the napkin on her lap. Beige, of course, but with a gold-colored “G” embroidered into the corner. Matching placemats. A “G” prominently displayed in gold script in the top right corner. Shifting her eyes to Mrs. Guillory, she noted the “SG” brooch she wore, remembering that Mrs. Girard’s first name was Shelly.
“I’m not raising my voice, Mother,” Gill said. “I’m just reiterating that it’s been over for me and Bonnie for quite some time.”
He nervously fiddled with his tie. For the first time that evening, Gertie took a good look at him, noting his tie and shirt cuffs. All monogrammed with a “WG.” She wanted to dance with joy but kept her body in the chair.
It had seemed odd to her that the monogrammed undies Marge stole from Bonnie’s laundry belonged to Wade Guillory. He just didn’t seem the type to have monogrammed underwear. But Gill, or rather, William Girard certainly was. He grew up surrounded with monograms. No doubt his underwear was monogrammed as well.
Gertie’s mind clicked into high gear. Had it really ended for Gill and Bonnie long ago? Or was he the man seen running from the house by two members of the Sinful Hookers? Was he there that night, killing Mr. Guillory as a favor to Bonnie as she stood behind a downed tree branch with her white dog at her side?
“Oh, for land’s sake, Gill,” Mrs. Girard said. “We shouldn’t let that tramp Bonnie spoil our dinner. You’re right, it was over long ago with you and that harlot.” She cast a side glance to Gertie and said to her, “A much older woman who took advantage of a young man and who could, in my opinion, kill someone. Now who wants dessert?”
* * * * *
MRS. GIRARD’S DISASTER of a dinner was still at war with Gertie’s digestive system as she and Gill made the drive back to her parents’ house. Though still visibly shaken that his mother had spoken of his past relationship with Bonnie Cotton, a good fifteen years his senior, he gave a rundown of his analysis of the dog droppings found the previous night.
“It was canine,” Gill said, clutching his steering wheel tightly. “Left by a dog with a diet that was typical of standard dog food. There was also evidence that the dog had ingested a small bit of plastic, perhaps from a dog toy. The most important bit of information, though, was the age of the sample. There’s no way it could have been left at the time of the murder. The sample was too old.”
Gertie nodded. The revelation that Gill and Bonnie had a romantic history threw his analysis into a new light. What if he were lying about the results so as not to implicate Bonnie? Though he vehemently proclaimed that he was over Bonnie, it was obvious he still felt something for her. How could she trust his analysis now? And what about the dog hair? Would he give those samples to his friend to analyze? Or would he lie and say the results proved Bonnie’s dog was not the dog in the woods?
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Gertie said. “I would hate to cause your friend a bother. Why don’t you give me back the dog hairs that we found near the rental and the ones from Bonnie’s dog, and I’ll take them to an independent lab?”
Gill frowned. “Do you know how much an independent lab would charge you to test the samples? That’s nonsense. Besides, my colleague Darren already has the hair samples from the woods and has agreed to do the analysis of it and the other sample. Why switch gears now?”
Gertie shrugged. “That won’t be a conflict of interest for you, will it? Because of your... past ties to Bonnie?”
“What?” he asked sharply. “I am a man of science. We look for answers. We don’t bring our own opinions to the mix to skew the outcome.”
You do if it also implicates you in murder, Gertie thought. Time to get a clearer picture of their past relationship. “So... you and Bonnie dated.”
He sighed. “Now, don’t go getting jealous, Gertie. It only lasted three months. I was on summer break from college and working odd jobs here in Sinful to save up money for my next semester. One of those jobs took me to Bonnie’s house. She wanted me to clean her pipes.”
“No kidding,” Gertie said.
“Well, imagine my surprise when I arrived to find out that she wasn’t being truthful.”
“She didn’t really want any pipes cleaned?” Gertie marveled at how a scientist could be so stupid.
“No. Now, you may not know this, but ‘clean one’s pipes’ is actually a euphemism for, and excuse me for being blunt, getting to know someone ‘biblically.’”
Gertie slapped her hands on her face. “No.”
Gill nodded. “That soon became apparent after she answered the door in a pink nightie. A sheer pink nightie. I’m not proud to say that I allowed that nightie to lead me into temptation. But she was an older woman and I was naïve enough to think that she would be my forever gal. That turned out not to be the case. Mother was right about one thing. Bonnie is a tramp.”
“How so?” Gertie asked. “Did she fool around with other men?”
“Well, she did say she wasn’t ready to commit to just one man. That to me spells tramp.”
“What about Wade Guillory? Was she seeing him?”
“I wouldn’t know. As I’ve said, I haven’t seen her for quite some time.”
But Gertie knew there was a pair of men’s monogrammed underpants that might tell a different story. She doubted that Bonnie had recently found them hidden behind the bed and suddenly decided to launder them after over a decade. No, they belonged to a recent visitor. And Gill had guilt written all over his face.
Gill glanced at Gertie as he pulled over in front of her house. “You don’t need to worry your pretty little head off about all this. I am a totally unencumbered man.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Of course, I’m hoping that won’t be for long.”
She stood on the porch, watching as he drove away, pondering his role in Guillory’s murder. Wondering. Was he really infatuated with her, or was he trying to draw attention away from his connection to Bonnie Cotton, who could very well be his partner in crime?
* * * * *
MARGE COLLAPSED ON Gertie’s bed in hysterics.
“It’s not funny, Marge,” Gertie said as she applied the proper amount of makeup to look like a girl wanting some action. Tonight was Half-Price Ladies’ Night at the Swamp Bar and competition for men’s attention would be fierce. “And don’t get your hooker makeup all over my bedspread.”
Marge sat up, still laughing. “His mother served turtle turds in Jell-O for dessert?”
“They weren’t real,” Gertie said. “They were more like little chocolate cookies. Very authentic looking, though. Turned my stomach even more than her mashed potatoes did.”
Ida Belle leaned against the door. Nodded. Gertie could tell her focus was half inside the room and half somewhere else.
“Want to share with us what you’re thinking about?”
Ida Belle shrugged. “Tonight’s mission, that’s all.”
Gertie raised her eyebrows, letting her know she wasn’t buying it.
Ida Belle raised her eyebrows back. “The important thing is we found out that Gill and Bonnie had a fling.”
“And may still be having one, if that underwear is any indication,” Marge said, brushing at her teased hair.
“I never should have let Gill know we were looking into Mr. Guillory’s murder,” Gertie said. “If he’s in on it, we could become targets.”
Ida Belle waved her off. “We needed his help with identifying the samples. Besides, we know how to take care of ourselves. And him knowing we’re looking at Bonnie could be a good thing. He’s liable to tip her off and she’s liable to start covering her tracks. Most of the time, people in those situations just make things worse for themselves.”
“I wouldn’t count on Gill really giving the sample of Bonnie’s dog’s fur to his buddy at Fish and Game,” Gertie said.
Marge shrugged. “We saved some of both samples. If worse comes to worst, we’ll have them independently analyzed. It’ll cost some bucks, but maybe Cole could use his connections to get us a deal.”
“Enough speculating,” Ida Belle said. “Inspection time.”
Marge sighed and stood up from the bed, smoothing down her mini skirt and patting at her hair. Gertie also stood at attention. Somewhere along the line during their time as spies, it had become apparent that Ida Belle was a natural-born leader. Marge and Gertie had never really questioned it. Ida Belle had always been on the bossy side growing up, so it just felt right. She’d make a good mob boss.
Ida Belle focused on Marge’s tube-topped bosom. “Straighten your bra. Your boobs look crooked.”
Marge looked down at her chest and shifted the strapless bra under the tube top to the left, which prompted a nod from Ida Belle.
“I think you could go for a shorter skirt.”
“Are you sure?” Marge asked. “’Cause I’m thinking this is pretty short.”
“Could be way shorter,” Gertie said, smiling. “I am in total agreement with Ida Belle. You need to show more thigh, soldier.” She placed her hand on her chin in thought. “How about that pink skirt of mine? That’s the shortest skirt known to womankind.”
The pink skirt was legendary. It had traveled with them from Vietnam. That pink skirt had loosened many a man’s lips.
Marge hated that pink skirt.
“Well, too bad it’s back at your house,” Marge said, smiling. “Otherwise, I would wear it.”
Gertie picked up the duffel bag she’d brought with her own outfit and makeup. “Luckily, I brought it with me.” Checkmate, she mouthed to Marge as she pulled the skirt from the duffel bag. Marge’s smile dropped from her face. Gertie and Marge loved each other like sisters, and, like sisters, they loved to needle each other.
“Oh, yeah,” Ida Belle said enthusiastically. “Pink skirt.”
“Oh, come on,” Marge said. “Those boys in the Swamp Bar are so pathetic I could wear my Granny Boudreaux’s church dress and still be asked for my phone number.”
“Remember, it’s ladies’ half-price night,” Ida Belle said, taking the skirt from Gertie and holding it out to Marge. “The bar will be filled with desperate women. And desperate women do not wear church dresses. You want Buster’s attention to be on you.”
Marge sighed, then yanked the skirt from Ida Belle’s hand. While she changed, Ida Belle turned her attention to Gertie. “Damn, it looks like you got stung on the lips by a hive of bees.”
Gertie smiled proudly. “I applied several layers to get just the right pucker effect. My shade is called Red Riot.”
Ida Belle frowned. Her eyes then wandered down to Gertie’s chest, straining under her tube top. Her frown deepened.
“What?”
“There is no woman on Earth with boobs that pointy. You’re likely to put an eye out tonight.”
“It’s an old 1950s bullet bra from Louanne Boudreaux’s collection. And you’re right, it can indeed poke an eye out. In fact, it did. Saigon, May of sixty-six. I’d probably be swimming with the fishes if it weren’t for this bra.”
“I thought you were going for the ‘sexy innocent’ look,” Ida Belle said.
Gertie placed a hand on her hip. “I am. A little Marilyn Monroe and a little Daisy Mae.”
Ida Belle ran her eyes up and down Gertie’s body. “Tone down the lips, lose the tube top and bullet bra and go for a crop top. You’ll be seeking intel about Bonnie from everyone, even women. Too trashy and the women won’t talk to you. Crop top and shorts will give men enough to pique their interest and loosen their lips but make you approachable to women.”
“Okay, how do I look?” Marge asked from across the room, modeling the pink skirt in such a way that clearly showed her disdain.
“Like you have gas. The skirt, however, is perfect,” Gertie said. “What do you think, Ida Belle?”
Marge and Gertie turned to Ida Belle, who once again appeared to be thinking of other things.
“What is wrong with you tonight?” Gertie asked.
Ida Belle snapped to. “What? Nothing.”
Marge waved her arms in the air. “I don’t like it, but what do you think?”
Ida Belle shrugged. “Like you don’t charge much.”
Gertie looked at Marge. “See? Perfect. Oh, don’t pout. If I had to have a date with Gill and his mother, you have to be the half-price hooker.”
After Gertie made her wardrobe and makeup changes, Ida Belle gave her a final inspection and cleared her for Swamp Bar duty.
“Try not to rip your clothes on the tree on the way out,” Ida Belle said.
Gertie frowned, removed her heels and tossed them out the window. “If we had our own place, we could leave through the front door.” She reached through the window and grabbed a branch of a tree that grew close to the house. Lifting her feet from the window frame, she swung over to a stronger branch that would support her body’s weight.
––––––––
IDA BELLE HURRIED DOWNSTAIRS and entered the living room. Acadia Boudreaux and her husband were huddled together watching a crime show.
“Hi,” Ida Belle said, getting their attention. “Just wanted to say we’re all walking over to Babs Babineaux’s house to play some Monopoly.”
“Babs? Is she the one who’s double jointed?” Acadia asked.
Ida Belle nodded. “That’s the one.”
“I think the whole family’s double jointed.” Acadia looked at her husband. “Aren’t the Babineaux’s the double-jointed family?”
Marge’s father shook his head. “Just the mama and two of the girls.” He scanned the room. “Where are Marge and Gertie?”
“Out front,” Ida Belle said. “You must have been so engrossed in your show you didn’t notice them walking through a moment ago.”
“My goodness, I guess we didn’t,” Acadia said. “Well, you girls have a nice evening. And you keep your eyes on that Babs. Her mama was a notorious cheat at Monopoly. She’d sneak a hotel on her property when you weren’t looking. Easy to do when you’re double jointed.”
Ida Belle nodded. “Yes, ma’am, we’ll keep an eye on her sneaky double-jointed fingers.”
Ida Belle exited through the front door and rushed to the back of the house where Gertie and Marge were making their way cautiously down the tree.
Gertie made it to the bottom branch and dropped down, landing on her bare feet. Once Gertie cleared out of the way, Marge dropped behind her. Ida Belle took a flashlight from her purse and shone it on the surrounding grass so her friends could find their shoes.
The girls gave a start as Ida Belle’s light landed on Granny Boudreaux who sat in a nearby lawn chair watching them.
“What are you doing out here?” Marge asked the old woman.
Granny Boudreaux held up a shot glass. “Having a nightcap from Louanne’s private reserve. My girl can’t make a bechamel sauce to save her life, but her firewater is sublime. Shame she’s giving it up. Shine that light on my granddaughter, would you, Ida Belle?”
Ida Belle did. Marge stared at the ground.
“I must say, this is a side of you I’ve never seen before,” Granny Boudreaux said. “I haven’t seen that little birthmark of yours since you were born.”
“Grandma, I have a perfectly good explanation. But you can’t tell my parents. You see—”
Granny Boudreaux held her hand up, stopping Marge. “I see nothing. I know nothing. Besides, I’m Louanne Boudreaux’s mama. I think I’ve seen her wearing that same hoochie mama skirt. So is all this—” She waved her hand at Gertie and Marge, “part of your investigation of Wade Guillory’s murder?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marge said.
“Will it help the sheriff stop his foolish notion that Louanne had something to do with it?”
“It could.”
“Then off you go.”
Ida Belle cleared her throat. “We have to borrow your family boat to complete our task.”
“Oh, hell, they won’t mind,” Granny Boudreaux said. “As long as you don’t take it to someplace like The Swamp Bar.” She pulled in a breath as the girls exchanged guilty glances. “Oh, Lord. I see nothing. I know nothing.” She took a sip of hooch. “As for this. You see nothing. You know nothing.”
The girls nodded their heads and were on their way.