“The bait shop’s got a bar that serves food,” Mr. Thibideau said, shrugging. “They do a fine jambalaya. You can get bacon and eggs and such as well, but I do recommend their jambalaya.”
She’d had pork fried rice any number of times for breakfast in Thailand, but jambalaya for breakfast would be a first.
“Could you drop me off?” she asked, sweetly.
It was a two hour ride from New Orleans to Thibideau, even in what was clearly an unmarked police car. The roads for the last hour were all two lane and twisted in and out among the bayous. There was very little in the way of signs of habitation and what there was tended to be rattle-down tar-paper shacks. It was hard to believe that no more than sixty miles away as the crow flies there was a major metropolis.
Thibideau was in keeping with the rest of the area, not much more than a wide spot in the eternal swamps. He parked by the courthouse in a spot marked for police vehicles and walked inside, passing an untended reception area and looking for any signs of life. He finally found it in the county clerk’s office where a harassed looking woman in her forties was sorting through paper.
“Detective Sergeant Lockhart, New Orleans PD,” he said, holding out his badge and ID. “Was wondering if you knew where I could find the local sheriff?”
“Died,” the clerk said, shrugging. “Last month. Heart attack. Deputy Mondaine’s doing his job.”
“Sorry about that,” Kelly said, unconvincingly. “Where can I find Deputy Mondaine?”
“Around now?” the clerk said, shrugging. “Maybe down at the bait store getting lunch.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know a Carlane Lancereau by any chance?” Lockhart said, smiling.
“Never heard of him,” the clerk replied. “Some Lancereau up Nitotar way, but they live out in the bayou. Gotta take a boat and asking them questions won’t get you nowhere. Maybe the deputy can help.”
“Could you, perhaps, call him on the radio?” Kelly asked, smiling again.
“Broke,” the clerk said. “I got to find this damned title, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Lockhart replied. “Thank you for all your help.”
The jambalaya was good but it was also fiery with spice and the restaurant didn’t serve unsweetened tea. So she was drinking Diet Coke, which was the best of a bad lot, to wash down the fiery jambalaya, then having another spoon of the jambalaya to wash out the taste of the Coke.
It reminded her of the dinner she’d gone to with her parents. The people were friends of her father, Abyssinian exiles, and they’d hosted an authentic Abyssinian dinner. She couldn’t remember what any of the food was called, but it was good. However, it was also very hot. And the only thing to drink was small glasses of some high proof liqueur. Since she was being on her best manners, she ate everything that was put in front of her. And because she couldn’t handle the spice, she’d washed it down with glass after glass of liqueur. Before she knew it, she was tight as a tick and telling the hostess the woes of her life, often in quite graphic terms.
It was then she’d decided that she really needed to be careful with liquor. Fortunately, Mom had been doing much the same thing and hardly noticed.
To get to the small eating area of the restaurant required going through the bait shop, which was an experience she’d rather never have had. The live bait tanks appeared to never have been cleaned out and she suspected the dead shiners roiling in yellow foam had probably perished immediately upon entry to the tanks. The whole place was filthy with dead cockroaches in the corners and a layer of grime that would require a thousand gallons of bleach to fix. At least the cup was Styrofoam, and appeared mostly clean and she’d taken it without ice.
The woes she had laid upon the hostess were the woes of being a good Christian girl. Besides the usual, no sex until marriage, there was the whole “being a Witness” thing. If you were a good Christian, you couldn’t tell a person when they were being brain-dead. You had to subtly hint that an idea was as stupid as a slug at a salt convention. You couldn’t say things like “here’s a dime, buy a clue.” Or “why don’t you clean this place up, it’s filthy. And take a bath once in a while!” Or “what do you mean you can’t get the part? I want to talk to a district manager right now!” Or “learn to cook! It’s not that hard!” You just had to smile and hope that things would work out for the best.
It was a pain in the… it was frustrating.
She was contemplating the negative aspects to being a good Christian woman when the cop sat down.
He had the same look as most of the locals, large eyes set a bit close together, rounded chin, wide cheekbones that didn’t look classically Cajun. But his hair was shorter than the norm and he was at least clean. But there was something about his eyes. She really didn’t like the look in them. One look from him and her “creep-meter,” as Allison would say, went into overdrive.
“What’s a pretty lady like you doing in a place like this?” the cop asked, waving at the slatternly waitress. “Gimme a plate of jambalaya an’ a Coke, Noffie.” He was spending about half his time making eye contact and the other half examining her T-shirt. Or, more likely, what it covered.
“I was just passing through and my car broke down,” Barbara answered, taking a sip of Diet Coke and giving up on the jambalaya.
“You call your folks and tell them you’re all right?” he asked as the jambalaya was served. Barb noticed that he got quick service; she’d waited nearly ten minutes until the waitress had gotten done talking to one of the regulars.
“Yes, left a message for my husband,” she replied. “Told him where I was.”
“That’s good,” the officer said. “Oh, I’m Etienne Mondaine. I was the chief deputy ’til old Claude keeled over from a heart attack last month. You got any problems, you just give me a holler.”
“Thank you,” Barbara said, taking another sip of the rapidly warming Coke. “I usually can avoid problems, though.”
“Where you from?” the deputy asked, not looking up from his plate. He was rarely drinking and seemed immune to the spice.
“Algomo,” she said. “Little town outside of Tupelo. Wanted to take the weekend off, go see the sights.”
“Not many sights around here,” the deputy said with a wheezing laugh. “Ain’t much to do, neither. Can rent a boat and go fishing or frog gigging. Or… other distractions?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“I brought books,” Barb said, closing off that line of investigation. It was one of the less subtle come-ons she’d heard and she’d heard a lot of them. “I think I’ll just find a comfortable spot and read.”
She’d taken a seat where she could watch the door of the restaurant and wrinkled her brow as a newcomer walked in the place. He was tall and almost skeletally thin with long, frizzy, blond hair going a tad gray and a matching beard and mustache. He was wearing jeans, T-shirt and a jacket but there was a distinct bulge on his right hip. And he certainly didn’t look like a local. Nonetheless, he walked immediately over to their table.
“Deputy Mondaine?” the newcomer said, fishing out a badge and ID. “Detective Sergeant Kelly Lockhart, New Orleans PD.”
The bait and tackle store overhung the water and there only appeared to be one entrance. Inside, Kelly saw just about the nastiest live bait wells it had ever been his joy to examine; the forensics guys could spend a lifetime just cataloging the material in the tanks. There was a door to the left, though, that apparently led to a small restaurant and bar. When he walked through, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, then he saw the deputy sitting on the far side of the room talking to a rather good looking blonde.