8

Bubba Oustellette waved at Kit through the window of the booth guarding the entrance to the New Orleans Police Department vehicle-impoundment lot. Believing he’d be right out, she left the rental car running.

The day after she’d explained about her “accident” to the insurance company, they’d called back to say the car was indeed a total loss and their claims adjuster had set its value at $2,500. Thinking this was criminally low, she’d called Bubba to ask his opinion.

Bubba was Grandma O’s grandson. He was the one who kept Broussard’s fleet of T-Birds running, and he knew just about all there was to know about cars and engines. When she’d told the insurance company Bubba believed they were a thousand too low, they’d suggested she and her adviser meet with the adjuster and negotiate, which meant she’d have to drive all the way back to Courville. As she was in no position to write off a thousand dollars, and since Bubba was willing to use some of his accumulated overtime leave to go, she’d reluctantly agreed.

A man in a gray shirt and pants came out of the lot and went into the booth. He and Bubba exchanged a few words and Bubba came out and walked to Kit’s car. He opened the passenger door and looked in.

“Hey, Doc Franklyn, how’s it goin’? You sure we’re not gonna need da gun?”

He was referring to the times Kit had asked him to accompany her on expeditions where there was an element of danger. In such cases, he always brought a pistol with a very long barrel.

“Today, we’re just going to talk to a claims adjuster.”

“So we are gonna need da gun.” His bushy black beard parted, revealing enough white teeth to rival Teddy Roosevelt’s smile on Mount Rushmore.

“We’re negotiating, not committing armed robbery. Come on, get in.”

He did as she asked and settled into his seat, his short stature causing his feet to barely brush the carpet. Kit backed up, slipped the car into drive, and they were off.

For most of the time Kit had known Bubba, his clothing had consisted of many copies of the same outfit—blue T-shirt, blue coveralls, and a green baseball cap bearing the Tulane logo of an ocean wave showing its teeth and carrying a football. A few months ago, after reading a Cosmo article on personal growth, he had abruptly discarded this combination in favor of a brown T-shirt, brown coveralls, and a purple Saints baseball cap bearing a fleur-de-lis. Today, he was back to the old costume.

“What happened to your new look?”

“It jus’ wasn’t me. Nice car . . . could use some new shocks, though. You see dat piece in da paper yesterday about somebody stealin’ a body from Andy?”

“I saw it. Nick Lawson’s byline, of course. I swear I don’t know where that man gets his information. You can’t keep anything from him.”

“He sure made it soun’ like Andy was runnin’ a sloppy operation.”

“It wasn’t Andy’s fault at all. It’s not as though stealing bodies from a morgue is something you always have to be on guard against. I’ll bet that’s the first time it’s ever happened anywhere.”

“Why you figure somebody did dat?”

She hesitated, wondering if she should tell Bubba what she knew. Lawson apparently was still in the dark over the reason for the theft, and with an investigation now under way, it was best he stay that way. Bubba certainly knew how to keep quiet, but if Lawson found out the rest of the story, even she might wonder if the leak had been Bubba. To spare him that, she dodged the issue.

“Good question.”

She hadn’t lied, not by the strictest interpretation of the word. But that didn’t make her feel any better about the path she’d taken, especially since Bubba was doing her yet another huge favor. Her discomfort over this lasted all the way to Courville, where the tire marks her car had made as it had flown off the road into Snake Bayou generated other thoughts.

On the way over, they’d seen a wreath on some skinned trees near the highway, obviously the site of a fatal accident. If she’d drowned here, would there be a wreath for her? No. She’d just be dead.

Bubba noticed her interest in the water and the marks on the road. “Is dat where you almos’ slept with da crawfish?”

“That’s the place.”

“Ah saw a drowned person once. It ain’t somethin’ Ah’d recommend . . . drownin’, Ah mean.” He thought a moment, then added, “Seein’ da victim wasn’t da most fun Ah ever had, either.”

Long before leaving New Orleans, Kit had decided that if she saw Henry, the mechanic who had likely been part of the scheme to delay her departure on her first visit, it would be best to say nothing. She reminded herself of that a few minutes later as she rolled into the garage’s driveway for their one o’clock appointment.

Her car was sitting out front by an old cement mixer. Standing beside it was a man with a leather folder the size of a legal pad.

“That looks like him,” she said, pulling in so the front bumper nearly touched the cement mixer.

Apparently realizing who they were, he moved toward their car as they got out.

“Dr. Franklyn?”

Kit walked over and offered her hand.

“Ah’m Dewey Lancon, your claims adjuster.”

Lancon had black hair and a full black beard that looked as soft as cat fur. His smile was forced and unnatural, like the fit of his suit.

“Before we proceed, Ah should warn you dat Ah have been generous in mah assessment of dis vehicle’s value. So Ah’m afraid you have made an unnecessary trip. Ah tried to explain dat to da people in New Awlins, but city folk don’t listen. However, Ah am willin’ to hear you out.”

Bubba stepped up beside Kit.

“This is Bubba Oustellette, my mechanic. He’ll tell you why we think the car is worth more than your assessment.”

While the two men shook hands, Kit took a moment to glance at her poor car, which was covered with a dried scum.

“Lancon,” Bubba said, trying the sound of the name on his tongue. “Where are your people?”

“Plaquemines Parish mostly,” Lancon said, “aroun’ Delacroix.”

“Your daddy’s name wouldn’t be Cezaire, would it?”

“Sure is.”

“Mama’s name Oline?”

“How’d you know all dat?”

“You remember fishin’ for buffalo an’ gaspergou with Alcide Oustellette an’ his two boys in Coon Lick Swamp?”

“Well kick me an’ turn me aroun’. Bubba Oustellette. You remember how your momma used to clean da nasty out of dat buffalo meat in a washin’ machine?”

“Lot of folks today don’t know how to clean buffalo or cook gaspergou.”

“Didn’ we used to have some fine Christmas boucherie?”

Bubba looked at Kit. “Dat’s a crawfish boil.”

“You know what Ah remember most bout your momma?” Lancon said. “Dat awful alligator-fat cough syrup she gave me one day.” Lancon’s smile was now genuine.

“It stopped you from coughin’, though.”

“Least in front a her it did.”

Feeling about as out of place as she ever had, Kit said, “If you two will excuse me, I’m going across the street and wait. Bubba, when you finish, come on over.”

Kit crossed the road and went into Beano’s restaurant. Since it was a little after one, the place wasn’t crowded. Two men wearing overalls were sitting in the booth she’d chosen the last time she was in, so she went instead to one nearer the back, where if she looked between the O and S on the name Beano’s written in red across the front window, she could see Bubba and the claims adjuster in animated conversation.

“It’s you, ain’t it?” a voice said. Belle, the waitress. “The artist from the other day.”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“Not really. Ain’t been long enough to forget anything.”

“Did your husband make parole?”

Belle’s face fell. “Those tight asses on the board? No.”

Kit had doubts that parole was a useful concept. But the situation called for some expression of sympathy. “It’s hard to have your hopes crushed like that.”

“Our trouble was, we let our lives get in the hands of other people. I’m just afraid if he stays in there long enough, he may never get out.”

“I know what you mean. Prisons are dangerous places.”

“This one more than most, and it’s not only the other inmates you have to worry about.”

This perked Kit’s interest. “What do you mean?”

Apparently sensing that Kit was no longer making casual conversation, Belle shied. “Nothin’ . . . I didn’t mean nothin’. What can I get you?”

“I’m expecting a friend. So for now, coffee.”

While waiting for Belle to return, Kit looked out the window and saw Bubba heading for the restaurant. He located her as soon as he came inside.

“Well, what happened?” she asked even before he got seated.

“Thirty-five hundred. Check should arrive in a couple days. You can keep da rental car till da money comes.”

“You’re a genius.”

“Ah’m jus’ well connected. An’ hungry, too.”

“Lunch is on me.”

“Might not be much left of dat thirty-five hundred after Ah order.”

“I can handle it.”

They had a good lunch and were lingering over pecan pie and coffee when, during one of Kit’s frequent glances out the window to make sure the rental car wasn’t in anybody’s way, she saw something that sent a jolt of current down her spine.

“We’ve gotta go,” she said, digging in her bag. She found a twenty and a five and threw them on the table. “Come on.”

Bubba took another mouthful of pie and hurried to catch her, but it wasn’t easy. Once she was out the door, she broke into a dead run. Bubba was sure she’d hold up at the road to wait for the oncoming dump truck in the near lane to pass, but she didn’t, scooting across its path in a perilous maneuver that made him close his eyes in horror.

By the time the truck had passed and Bubba could cross, Kit was already in the rental car. She backed up in a tight turn and waited for him to get in. As soon as his legs were clear of the door, she dropped her foot onto the gas. Spitting dirt, the car surged forward, slamming Bubba’s door closed.

“What are we doin’?” Bubba said, wide-eyed.

“No time to explain.” The car bounced onto the road and fishtailed before she got it heading in the direction of the funeral home.

In a few minutes, she caught the dump truck, which was dropping little clay bombs onto the asphalt from the mountain of dirt it was carrying. She swung out to pass, hoping to see—yes, there it was, about a hundred yards ahead: the pickup she’d seen tailing the hearse that night at the Hublys’.

Not wanting to attract the pickup driver’s attention, as soon as she was clear of the dump truck, she pulled back into the proper lane and eased up on the gas. She followed the pickup for about a mile and then it turned right, toward the Courville business district. When she reached the turnoff, she followed.

This road was lined by single-story houses and there were numerous side roads that emptied an exasperating number of cars into her path, so her view of the pickup was soon blocked.

The street eventually dumped them onto the Courville town square, whose focal point was a military figure astride a bronze horse. Fearing she’d never lay eyes on the pickup again, she proceeded around the square, checking the cars and trucks parked nose-in to the curb.

Then she saw it . . . same color, with elongated crescents on the door, primer spot on the rear fender . . . no question. She continued around the square and eased into the first available parking place.

Now what?

The same question was on Bubba’s face.

Her pursuit of the pickup had been an instinctive act flaring from the smoldering anger she’d felt since realizing her off-road adventure at the bayou had been no accident. Sure, there was an investigation under way, but she wasn’t involved in it. This was personal.

She turned to Bubba. “I have reason to believe the pickup I followed over here was involved in the theft of that body from Andy.” Now Bubba surely knew she’d held back when they’d discussed the theft earlier. But he gave no indication of it. “I’m going to look through its glove compartment. Will you come with me?”

“Ah had a hunch dis trip wasn’t gonna be as simple as it sounded. Le’s go.”

There was no way to know how long the driver would be away from the pickup. That made Kit want to reach it as quickly as she could. But since no one else in town seemed in a hurry, she and Bubba tried to blend in by strolling to it on the sidewalk.

When they were nearly there, Kit waited for an aging Marlboro man and his Irish setter to pass, then gave Bubba his instructions. “You wait on the sidewalk and keep an eye out for the driver.”

“How am Ah gonna know who dat is?”

“Body language—the direction he’s looking, car keys in his hand, things like that.”

“An’ the gun he’s pointin’ at me?”

“And position yourself so if he’s in that hardware store, he can’t see me through the window.”

Bubba took up his post. Wishing it was Broussard’s far more ample frame shielding her, Kit stepped off the curb and reached for the pickup’s door handle.

Locked.

She returned to the sidewalk. “It’s locked. Can you open it?”

“You sure we oughta be involved in dis? Dese rural towns, police can do anything to you. Ain’t no civil liberties union here.”

“I’ll take full responsibility.”

“Ah can see it—ten years from now, Ah turn to my new cellmate an’ say, ‘She tol’ me she’d take full responsibility.’”

“It’s okay. We’re investigating a crime.”

“An’ you won’t have any trouble provin’ dat?”

“Just open the door.”

Sighing, Bubba reached into his pocket for his Swiss army knife and stepped off the sidewalk.

Kit checked the door to the hardware store, then looked to her right. Coming toward her a block away were two women with a little kid between them, hands linked like cutout paper dolls. Nothing to her left. When she turned to scope out the square, she found Bubba back beside her.

“Did you get it?”

He looked sincerely hurt. “You thought maybe Ah couldn’t?”

There was no time for verbal sparring. “Take over here.” She hurried to the truck and climbed in.

Surprisingly, the glove compartment actually contained a pair of Isotoner gloves. She removed them and began sorting through the other contents—some maps, a yellow receipt for an oil change, a page torn from a list of motel phone numbers, a couple of packs of Kleenex, and a small spiral pad with nothing in it. That was all.

Very disappointing.

She put all the papers back and was about to do the same with the gloves when she noticed the edge of a white envelope mixed in with the maps. She extracted a plain number ten envelope with no addresses on it. The flap was tucked in, not sealed.

Inside was a candid head-and-shoulders snapshot of a man partially framed by a doorway trimmed in cut stone. He was square-jawed, but with a face far from sculpted. His curly brown hair covered his ears and he wore Clark Kent glasses. Noting shadows of writing on the back, she turned the picture over, where she saw in neat block printing the name Anthony Hunter. Under that was a street address: Peyton Road, Coldwater, Miss. Below that: University of Tenn., Dept. of Physiol.

Thinking there might be some connection between this man and the body stolen from the morgue, Kit placed the envelope in her lap, put the Isotoners back, and closed the glove compartment. She slid out and relocked the truck, the fear of being caught already lifting.

Even before she hit the sidewalk, she was telling Bubba, “Go . . . go.”

The contraband white envelope felt hot in her hand, as though it were glowing, telling everyone they passed that she’d filched it. She shoved it into the pocket of her slacks, leaving her hand in there with it so her arm would hide the part still visible.

When they were safely in the car, she gave Bubba the envelope and her handbag. “I’m going around the square. When we pass that pickup, write down the license number. There’s a pen in my bag.”

“Ah already memorized it. Can we please go?”

“Okay. Write the number on the envelope for me.”

All the way back to the road where they’d turned off to follow the pickup, Kit kept one eye on the rearview mirror, but she saw nothing to indicate they were being pursued.

“We did it,” she said, turning the car toward home.

“Did what?”

“Got away clean.”

“What with?”

“I’m not exactly sure. . . . I mean, I know it’s a picture of a man . . . who I think lives in Coldwater, Mississippi, and works at the University of Tennessee in Memphis.”

“An’ dat’ll lead to da body snatchers?”

“You ask too many questions.”

A few miles later, Bubba said, “Uh-oh.”

She glanced at him to see what was wrong. He was looking at the side mirror.

Checking behind them, Kit saw an oscillating blue light atop a police car.