Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 07 - The Swamps of Bayou Teche (3 page)

He barged inside. “Hey, Tony. What’s up?” He
spotted my sports bag and the open cooler on the
couch. “Going somewhere?”

I snapped the cooler lid in place. “Louisiana. Got a client over there, and I was just leaving,” I added, hoping he would take the hint.

He did, but not the way I expected. “Louisiana?
Great! How about company? Or is Janice going?”

Janice Coffman-Morrison was my on-again, offagain significant other. What prompted his question is
that Janice had once decided she wanted to partner
with me in the P.I. business. One case, and she backed
out. Probably because three triad goons came within
ten seconds of burying us in another guy’s grave.

Before I could reply, he prodded me. “Huh? Is she?”

That’s when I made my first mistake. I replied before I thought. “No. She decided she wasn’t cut out for
the private eye business.”

Jack grinned. “Fantastic. So then what about me,
Tony? I could use a break after the campaign. You
need the company”

I hesitated, which was my second mistake.

He begged, “Come on, Tony. Please. I need to get
away for a while. Diane is driving me nuts.”

Diane was my ex-wife who had shown up in Austin
the year before and hooked up with Jack. She worked
for the National Park Service at L.B.J.‘s boyhood home
over in Johnson City, Texas, and rented one of the
apartments in Jack’s complex on Austin’s west side.

I looked around at him, surprised.

He nodded emphatically. “I’ve never seen a woman
spend money like she does, and if I don’t buy her every
little thing she wants, she pouts.” He shook his head wearily. “And believe me, she has pouting down to a
science. Honest to Pete, Tony. I need a break, big time.”

Pausing to collect my thoughts, I nodded to his burgeoning belly beneath his garish Hawaiian shirt.
“You’re putting on weight.”

A rueful grin played over his fleshy cheeks. “Diane.
The woman thrives on steak and wine, pasta and wine,
anything and wine. She doesn’t gain an ounce, but
I’ve put on thirty pounds this past year.” He shook his
head. “I’m up to a forty-six in my slacks, and I don’t
even wear Levis anymore,” he said, gesturing to the
washed-out Levis I wore. “You ever see a fat man in
Levis? It’s obscene. If this keeps up, I’ll be forced to
start wearing muumuu Levis.”

I arched an eyebrow, trying to imagine muumuu
Levis. I shook my head and with a grin, replied, “Just
don’t get a red one. Red isn’t your color.”

He muttered a derogatory epithet. “Well, can I?”

For a moment, I studied the plaintive expression on
his face. It reminded me of my grandfather’s Bluetick
hound. With a sigh of resignation, I shook my head.
“How soon can you get packed?”

A grin wider than the Mississippi River split his
face. “I’m ready now. I’ll call my apartment manager
and tell him. I can pick up what I need along the way.
And, hey,” he added, “let’s go in my Cadillac. I just
bought a new convertible.”

“A new one? You bought one only six months ago”

“Yeah, but Diane didn’t like the color.”

All I could do was roll my eyes. Better him than me.
“Grab the ice chest then”

He hesitated, eyeing the ice chest skeptically.
“Beer?”

I looked around. “Yeah. Why?”

“I thought you were on the wagon. You know, A.A.”

“I am on the wagon. An occasional beer won’t hurt”

He hesitated, frowning. “Hey, I don’t know about
the beer, Tony. If you’re on the wagon, then-”

“Look, Jack,” I snapped. “There’s wagons and then
there’s wagons. This is my little red wagon. Now, are
you going with me or not?”

With a gleeful chuckle, he grabbed the ice chest
and scooted out the door. I paused in the doorway,
looking over my apartment. For the first time in years,
I didn’t have to worry about pets.

Oscar, my Albino Barb exotic fish, had died a few
months before, and Cat, the kitten that had taken his
place for a few days had vanished as mysteriously as
he had appeared. I was pet-free and intended to remain that way.

“Climb in,” he said, nodding to the Cadillac. “Just
throw the junk on the seat in back.”

In addition to a couple changes of clothes, my junk
included a laptop, a portable printer, and a small bag
of tools, tools I would have a hard time explaining to
any law officer if he found them in my possession.
The fact I was a private investigator was no excuse for
possession of burglary paraphernalia.

While I preferred driving pickups, the luxury of
Jack’s Cadillac XLR with the 4.6L V8 engine and
five-speed automatic could spoil a person in a big
hurry. So luxurious was the vehicle that even the clutter of wadded Kleenexes, gum wrappers, and crushed
beer cans on the floor didn’t faze me.

Before we pulled away from the curb in front of my
apartment, he lowered the top and grinned at me.
“Might as well enjoy the sun.”

I grinned back at him, and in Clint Eastwood’s
inimitable manner, I pointed my finger east and muttered, “Forward!”

As we sped along Highway 290 from Austin to
Houston, I briefly told Jack about the case, and then
for the next few hundred miles, listened to the cassette.

To my surprise, I learned that John Hardy, Johnny
as his mother called him, didn’t simply work at the
bank in Bagotville. He owned it with a partner, Marvin Gates. Although Hardy and Gates were not personal friends, as partners the two were ideal
counterpoints for each other. And, if the cassette were
to be believed, Hardy was Mr. Bagotville-but then,
mothers generally have a tendency to view their offspring through the proverbial rose-colored glasses.

By the time I listened to the tape the third time, I
knew the missing man was a major player in the community as well as an entrepreneurial businessman who
refused to permit past failures to slow him down.

In other words, John Hardy never allowed anyone
or any problem stand in his way. Of course, I reminded myself this was only his mother’s perspective,
and mothers do have a tendency to gloss over their
offspring’s bad habits.

That night Jack and I took separate rooms at the
Live Oaks Motel in Lafayette, Louisiana. Now, I’m
not a particularly fastidious or picky person, but Jack
is the consummate slob.

So later that evening, while I sat in my quiet room
working on an itinerary for the coming day, I could
hear the TV blasting from his room next door. And I
knew if I popped over there, I would find him sprawled
in bed scarfing down multi-topping pizza, gulping
beer, and watching X-rated movies on pay TV.

In developing my itinerary, the last thing on my
mind was that John Hardy might be dead.

When I reached Bagotville next morning, the first
person I planned to see was John Hardy’s girl Friday,
his secretary. I glanced at my notes taken from the
cassette Mrs. Hardy had provided. Laura Palmo was
the secretary’s name.

Bagotville was some fifty miles south of Lafayette
between Centerville and Calumet, a picture postcard
town of neat brick homes, moss-draped trees, and a
well-manicured park on the banks of the lazy Bayou
Teche.

“Pretty little town,” Jack observed as we drove past
the city limit sign shaded by an ancient live oak with
branches over fifty feet long and Spanish moss dangling almost to the ground.

“Yep” I pointed to a Texaco service station. “Pull
in over there. Let’s fill up”

“I just filled up back in Lafayette”

“I want to find out where the bank is.”

Jack topped off the tank while I went inside. The
smell of fish smacked me in the face. A tiny woman
with sun-weathered wrinkles, twinkling brown eyes,
and a friendly smile appeared in an open door behind
the counter. “Morning,” she said, coming into the
room while drying her hands on a soiled orange towel.
“Don’t be minding the smell. Me, I be bagging crawfish my old man, Tiburse, he bring in.” She shook her
head, her short brown hair bobbing behind. “We be
busy this time of year.”

“Good morning,” I replied, smiling at the unmistakable Cajun lilt in her voice. “My friend’s filling up.
We’re looking for the local bank”

She arched an eyebrow and her infectious smile
grew wider. “Which one? We have two”

“The one John Hardy owns”

She raised her eyebrows. “Bien! Mr. Hardy, he be
fine man. Gentilhomme, you know what I mean?”

My French wasn’t so rusty that I couldn’t understand her. I nodded. “A gentleman”

“Oui! Mafoi, a fine man.” She pointed out the window. “East side of town square. It be Bagotville National Bank” She jabbed her middle finger into her
chest. “My old man and me, we be customers of Mr.
Hardy. He treat us, all of us like we be his own chil dren,” she said, making a sweeping gesture with her
arm that encompassed the entire village.

Jack came in at that moment. “Didn’t take much,
only six gallons.”

He reached for his wallet, but I stopped him. “I’ll
get it. I’m on expenses, remember.”

Jack flipped open his wallet. “Yeah, but I’m a multimillionaire, remember? You helped make me one” He
pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and offered it to the
little Cajun lady. “And keep the change,” he added,
winking at her.

She stared at the bald pate of Ben Franklin on the
bill in disbelief, but only for a brief second before
quickly jamming it elbow-deep into her bra before
Jack could change his mind. With a crooked grin, she
eyed Jack’s expansive belly. “You must like the crawfish, hey? You wait. I give you some.”

We declined the crawfish, and five minutes later
pulled up in front of the Bagotville National Bank.
Jack grunted and glanced around the small town.
“Right out of `Gone With the Wind,”’ he observed.

I couldn’t argue with him there. The red brick and
white mortar, as well as the stately columns with intricate Ionic capitals, gave the Bagotville National Bank
the look of Tara. Giant live oaks spread throughout the
town. Spanish moss swayed from great branches,
brushed gently by the warm breezes that carried the
sleepy aroma of honeysuckle and jasmine.

I climbed out of the Cadillac. “You coming in?”

“Naw. You go” He gestured to the city square.
“Think I’ll look around.”

“Don’t get lost. Depending on what I find out in
here, we could be turning around and heading right
back home”

Laura Palmo was one of those petite ladies who
must have discovered the Fountain of Youth-one of
those intriguing women almost impossible to pin an
age on. Her raven-black hair fell about her shoulders,
combed so the shiny locks draped over her left cheek,
giving her the mysterious look of the old B-movie
femme fatale. She had the natural slenderness of an
eighteen-year-old high school senior, and her complexion, though flawless, was dark, which, complemented by her black eyes, proved striking.

I guessed her dress size was about a four and her
age around thirty-five or -six.

She smiled brightly up at me when I stopped in
front of her desk. “May I help you?”

I expected more of a Cajun inflection in her voice,
the lack of which told me that she, unlike my little
friend with the crawfish, had not spent her life in
Bagotville. I introduced myself, explaining I was trying to locate John Hardy.

When I mentioned Josepphine Hardy, a weary
frown flickered over her face. She closed her eyes and
shook her head wearily. A weak smile played over her
lips. “I apologize for your trip over, Mr. Boudreaux. I told Mrs. Hardy that John had called from the hunting
camp on the twenty-fifth. He and a client decided to
take a short jaunt to the Bahamas. He called back two
days later from the Bahamas and left a number where
he could be reached. He told me to call his mother and
inform her, which I did.” She sighed. “But since you
are here, then obviously Jos-I mean Mrs. Hardymust not have believed me”

I arched an eyebrow. That was a little tidbit of information Mrs. Hardy had failed to mention. “When
does he plan on returning?”

She grimaced. “He didn’t say” She paused, and
when she spoke, she had slipped into the mantle of
secretarial privilege regarding her boss’s behavior.
“I’m not sure. Sometimes, John-I mean Mr.
Hardy-is gone for a week or two”

“So, he has done this before”

Laura Palmo nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes. And
Mrs. Hardy is well aware of that,” she added, her tone
edged with catty impatience.

“Out of curiosity, Ms. Palmo. Did Mr. Hardy have
any enemies?”

“Enemies?” A frown wrinkled her forehead. “Why
are you asking that? Do you think something’s happened to him?”

“Mrs. Hardy suggested the possibility. Me, I don’t
know. I’m just trying to find him.” I gave her a smile
that was intended to be disarming. “So, can you think
of someone who might have had a grudge against him for whatever reason-being refused a loan,
foreclosure-that sort of thing.”

She arched an eyebrow and smiled. “People always
curse bankers, Mr. Boudreaux. They’ll curse them, but
usually that’s as far as it goes. I’ve known Josepphine
for several years. She’s always afraid something will
happen to her son” She hesitated, then added, “Probably because of what happened to her husband”