5

“I think we could use a few more flies here,” Charlie Franks, the deputy ME, said over the noise of the compressor for the pneumatic chisel.

Ten feet away, a fireman in full gear was using the chisel to cut a steel drum from the block of concrete inside. Nearby, two other firemen stood next to a gasoline-powered concretecutting saw.

The flies were attracted to the decomposing human feet and ankles protruding from the cement. Each time the chisel struck the drum, they rose in a throbbing mass, only to settle again quickly on the exposed flesh. The fireman paused in his work to chase a few flies away from his nose.

“I recognize some of those flies,” Broussard said. “And they’re not even from around here.”

Suddenly, over the compressor noise came the sound of a chopper. Looking up, Broussard saw the traffic helicopter from Channel 3 hovering over the site.

“Looks like were gonna be on the news again,” Broussard said.

Franks shaded his eyes and looked up. “I thought the wall around this place would let us work in peace.”

“There’s no mind more devious than a reporter’s.”

“I’d never let my sister marry one.”

“I’ve got an appointment with Phillip for lunch,” Broussard said. “So I’m gonna head over to Grandma O’s.”

“I hope the next case you get makes you wish you’d drawn this one.”

“Nobody’s that unlucky.”

As he passed the cop guarding the entrance to the parking lot where they were working, Broussard pointed at the chopper. “You got my permission to lock up that whole crew when they land.”

Broussard owned six 1957 T-Birds, all with the original paint. With his large girth, he didn’t so much drive them as put them on. Today, he’d worn the white one. As he pulled away from the curb, with the steering wheel wedged against his shirt, a rental truck equipped with a pneumatic boom turned onto the same side street. When it passed, the driver, Nick Lawson, crime reporter for the Times-Picayune, gave him a big grin. Having already lost site security to the chopper, Broussard allowed them to proceed with just a resigned shake of the head.

Phil Gatlin, oldest homicide detective on the force, was waiting at Broussard’s perpetually reserved table in the rear of Grandma O’s when he arrived. Even seated, Gatlin was tall.

“Where you been?” Gatlin said. “My stomach has been saying some rotten things about you.”

“Pretty big enemy to have,” Broussard replied, sitting down.

“Guess you don’t put much faith in what mirrors tell you.”

“Keep that up, you’re gonna hurt my feelin’s.”

“’Bout time you got here, city boy.”

The rustle of Grandma O’s trademark taffeta dress had alerted Broussard to her arrival well before she spoke.

“Dis fella here’s been starin’ at other folks’ food so hard, dey’re beginnin’ to think he’s dangerous.” She smiled broadly, showing the gold star inlay in her front tooth, poised to swat away any defense Broussard might offer.

“I’d tell you where I’ve been, but I don’t think you’d want to know.”

“Well, Ah hope you washed your hands.”

“Excuse me, are you the owner of this restaurant?” a man who’d come up behind Grandma O asked.

“After a few hundred more payments to da bank,” she replied.

He flashed a shield. “I’m Special Agent Willis, state Fish and Wildlife. Did you know it’s illegal to kill a pelican?”

Grandma O glanced at the mounted pelican on the shelf over the bar, which also displayed a couple of stuffed armadillos and a nutria. “Ah didn’ kill it,” she said. “Ah bought it jus’ like you see it from an antique shop on Royal Street.”

“Well, it’s also illegal to possess a pelican carcass. I’m going to have to confiscate it.”

Grandma O pulled herself up to her full height, seemingly also to increase in circumference. “How come you didn’ confiscate it before Ah bought it?”

Inflated like that, she was a magnificent sight, towering over the Fish and Wildlife agent by at least six inches and vastly outweighing him. Unlike most who were confronted by this wall of defiance, the agent never faltered.

“You are required to appear in court, where it is quite likely you will be assessed a hefty fine.” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Grandma O. “You can find all the details of your appearance and the charges in there. I’ll be back in thirty minutes. That should give you time to get the pelican down from its shelf. Please have it ready.” He turned and made his way between tables, heading toward the door.

For the first time since Broussard had known her, Grandma O was speechless. “That’s a bit of bad luck,” he said. “I’ve heard those fines can run in the thousands.”

“Is dat fair? Ah didn’ kill da bird. Though Ah wouldn’ mind gettin’ mah han’s on dat agent.”

“Don’t you see,” Broussard said, “by buyin’ it, you create a market for stuffed pelicans. Havin’ sold it, the dealer you bought it from will buy another to replace it. The person he bought it from will do the same and so on, until somebody goes out and kills another pelican to satisfy the demand. As much as it hurts me to see a good friend in this kind of trouble, I’m afraid the law is correct.”

Grandma O dropped her chin and looked menacingly at Broussard from the tops of her eyes.

“Yes, I’d have to agree,” Gatlin said.

“Ah didn’ know about any of dis.”

“They can’t let you off for that,” Gatlin said. “The burden for being properly informed has to lie with the people.”

“Open the envelope,” Broussard prodded.

Her face wrinkled with disgust, Grandma O tore open the envelope. She removed the single sheet of paper inside and unfolded it to read, “Not everyone who says he’s a Fish and Wildlife Agent really is.” It was signed “Andy.”

Growing even larger than when she’d tried to intimidate the fake agent, Grandma O turned on Broussard. “Well, ain’t you a million laughs. You two mus’ like to live on da edge, doin’ somethin’ like dis to someone who could put jus’ anything dey wanted in your food.” She smiled angelically. “Now, what can Ah get you?”

“Roast beef po’ boy, alligator chili, and iced tea,” Broussard said quickly.

Gatlin hesitated, apparently considering what she’d said.

“Come on, funny boy, Ah ain’t got all day.”

“A muffaletta, gumbo, and tea,” Gatlin said. “And hold the strychnine.”

“Dis ain’t Burger King,” Grandma O said. “Here, you have it my way.”

After she was out of earshot, Broussard said, “I was afraid I was gonna get here too late to see the show.”

“She was kidding about putting something in our food, wasn’t she?”

“Of course.”

“But you know she’s going to get even somehow.”

“Wouldn’t be any fun if she didn’t.”

Thinking the joke didn’t seem as funny now, Gatlin began playing with a sugar packet. Noticing that Broussard’s expression had grown serious, he said, “She’s got you worried, too, huh?”

“Who?”

“Grandma O.”

“It’s not that. I sent Kit up to Angola yesterday to work on resolvin’ the identity of that John Doe I’ve got. She was to take a picture of the inmate in question, print him, and come back. Shouldn’t have taken more than a day. I expected to hear from her this mornin’, but I didn’t. I called the photo gallery where she’s been workin’ and learned she’s been in a car accident. The gallery owner said she called him last night. Apparently, her car went into a bayou. He said she didn’t sound hurt.”

“She wasn’t.”

“How do you know?”

He pointed toward the door. “There she is.”

Broussard turned and, sure enough, there was Kit, heading for their table. Both rose to greet her.

“I heard you had some trouble,” Broussard said.

“Who told you that?” Kit replied.

“Owner of the gallery.”

“He told you right. I don’t know where to begin. . . .”

Broussard pulled a chair out for her and they all sat.

“I can start by giving you these,” Kit said, handing Broussard a manila envelope and the metal cylinder.

“What are they?”

“I’ll get to that.”

“Hello, Kit darlin’,” Grandma O said, arriving with the food. “Ah ain’t seen you in awhile. You doin’ okay?”

“No, I’d have to say I’m not.”

Grandma O put her tray on the edge of the table and started setting out its contents. “Soun’ like you got a story.”

“I was just about to tell it.”

“Oh, chil’ Ah’d love to siddown, but Ah got to keep movin’. Will you tell me some other time?”

“If you like.”

“What can Ah get you?”

Kit looked at Broussard’s sandwich. “That looks good. I’ll have one of those and a Coke.”

“Comin’ up.” Grandma O looked slyly at Broussard. “Course it won’t be exactly like his.” Then she was gone.

“What did she mean by that?” Kit said.

“It’s just a game,” Broussard said. “She’s tryin’ to make us think she’s gonna poison us for a prank we pulled on her. It’s nothin’. So what happened?”

Gatlin lifted the top of his sandwich and poked suspiciously through the contents.

“First thing is, the warden doesn’t let me in, but he comes out to meet me. And he says Ronald Cicero died of a heart attack night before last.”

Hearing this, Gatlin suspended inspection of his muffaletta and listened harder. Broussard’s interest, too, sharpened.

“But that didn’t keep you from photographin’ and printin’ him,” Broussard said.

“It wouldn’t have, except that due to a miscommunication, the body had been cremated by the time I arrived.”

Gatlin’s heavy eyebrows jigged together. “That’s two.”

“Two what?” Kit asked.

“Pieces of bad luck,” Gatlin replied. “I’m just keeping track.”

“At this point, I didn’t know what else to do, so I went over to the funeral home where the cremation took place, thinking I could at least bring back Cicero’s remains, for whatever good it would do.”

“That’s not him in the metal cylinder, is it?” Gatlin said.

“I guess that’s what we have to find out.”

The old couple at the next table had been trying hard to eavesdrop. Hearing they were having lunch next to the remains of a dead man, they pushed their plates back and began waving for the check.

“How were you treated at the funeral home?” Gatlin asked.

“Pretty well. The owner had to check with his brother before he’d release the cremains.”

“Who’s his brother?” Gatlin said.

“The warden.”

“Tidy little arrangement,” Gatlin remarked.

“But they did turn the cremains over to me.”

Grandma O arrived with Kit’s food and put it in front of her. She eyed Gatlin’s and Broussard’s untouched meals. “You know you two ain’t leavin’ here ’til you finish dat.”

“We’re just caught up in Kit’s story,” Broussard explained. “We’ll eat.”

“You better.”

Grandma O then went over to deal with the two eavesdroppers.

Gatlin raised his sandwich and took a small bite.

“I was ready to come back to New Orleans, but when I left the funeral home, my car wouldn’t start.

“That’s three.”

“The owner took me to a garage and the mechanic there put in a new battery while I had dinner at a restaurant across the street. When I finally got on the road after dark, a car with its brights on came up behind me and hit my bumper. I lost control and flipped over in a bayou.

“I must have hit my head, because I was knocked out for a few seconds. When I came to, the car was sinking. Everything was black. . . . I couldn’t tell up from down. . . . I managed to get out of my seat belt and open the door, but the water rushing in knocked me down and I got disoriented. I thought that was it for me . . . that I’d had it. But I was able to get out. I’ll tell you, whatever troubles you think you’re having, they don’t seem very important when you’ve just escaped death.”

“Don’t suppose you got a look at the car that shoved you off the road,” Gatlin said.

“Its lights were too bright.”

“That’s four.”

“I flagged down a car that turned out to be the sheriff’s.”

“Any other cars pass you before that?” Gatlin asked.

“No, why?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“Not much more to tell. The sheriff took me to his home and he and his wife put me up for the night.” She paused, wondering if she should mention Hubly’s odd behavior about the window. Deciding that it hadn’t amounted to anything, she skipped it. “In the morning, they pulled my car out. The guy at the garage, the one who fixed it earlier, thinks it’s a total loss.”

“Were you present when they retrieved your car?” Gatlin asked.

“No.” She waited for him to reply, but he said nothing.

“They found my handbag and the cremains, but the photo and the prints the warden gave me were ruined. The sheriff drove over to the prison and got me another set. I know they’re not what you wanted, but I felt like I should bring them. I wish I could have replaced the camera you gave me as easily. It’s ruined, too, I’m afraid.” Not wanting to give Broussard time to think about the camera, she hurried on. “The sheriff took me to a place where I could rent a car, and here I am.”

Still worried about losing the camera, she tried to cover it up by putting Broussard on the defensive. “Thanks for sending me on such a simple assignment.”

“Who could have known it’d turn out like that?” Broussard said. He picked up his sandwich, took a big bite, and chewed thoughtfully.

Kit had awakened that morning with no appetite and had politely declined Beverly’s offer of breakfast. Now famished, she turned her full attention to her food.

They all ate for a few minutes without talking. Finally, Gatlin broke the silence. “Kit, you know everything that happened to you was choreographed, don’t you? Your car not starting when you came out of the funeral home was intended to keep you in the area until dark, so you wouldn’t be able to get a look at the car that forced you off the road. Whoever was responsible probably pulled one of your battery cables off or loosened it. . . . And let me guess, the guy who sold you the new one had to go somewhere to pick it up, right?”

Kit nodded.

“And the first person you encounter when you need help is the sheriff? Unlikely.”

“That all crossed my mind,” Kit said. “But why . . . why’d they do it?”

“I don’t think they necessarily wanted to kill you,” Gatlin said.

“Well, they almost did.”

“That would have been a bonus. Running you off the road to kill you is like that crap they do in those James Bond films—put a snake in his hotel room and hope it bites him, when it’s just as likely to go under the door, down the hall, and look for mice under the ice machine. No, it’s more likely—”

“They wanted her separated from the cremains they gave her,” Broussard said.

“I know I’m saying this a lot, but why?” Kit asked. “If they hadn’t wanted me to have them, why give them to me in the first place?”

“They didn’t want to appear uncooperative,” Gatlin suggested.

“So why not just tell me the cylinder was lost in the bayou? They gave it back to me. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Gatlin said. He looked at Broussard, who could often fill in the blanks when blanks were about all they had. Kit, too, waited for a sage pronouncement.

“I think that . . .” Broussard began.

His two companions waited expectantly, the detective side of Gatlin wanting an answer, the competitor in him hoping Broussard hadn’t beaten him to the explanation.

“. . . we should go back to the morgue and examine those cremains.”