Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 13 - The Diamonds of Ghost Bayou (23 page)

After he disappeared around the first bend upriver, I turned
back to the house. I was tempted to call Jimmy LeBlanc down
in Terrechoisie Parish, but I didn’t want to take the chance that
he’d tell me to back off. Running down a missing person was
one thing; snooping around a case that could involve multiple
murders was something else.

No, I told myself, I had to do this on my own. If I could
find one piece of hard evidence that supported my little theories, I would bring it to Sheriff Lacoutrue. He’d take it from
there.

But what evidence? I had no idea.

When I found myself in such a situation in the past, I’d just
barged ahead, hoping I’d stumble over something that I could
use. I drew a deep breath. I knew I was fumbling in the dark, but
to be honest, I had no idea where else to go.

I paused at the base of the stairs to the gallery around the
house and admired the ornate balusters supporting the handrail
on either side of the steps. That they were hand carved was obvious, for none of the fleurs-de-lis decorating the stair balusters
matched those of the porch railing, all of which had been machined in exact detail.

Even though I wouldn’t have done it, I could see why Al Theriot had insisted on salvaging the material and reusing it. Such
artwork could never be matched or duplicated.

Jack was in his easy chair watching the national news on TV.
He looked up. “So, what’s on your agenda today?”

I hadn’t really made any plans. On impulse, I replied, “I was
thinking about going to the horse races. You and Diane want to
go?” I figured once we got there, I’d excuse myself and nose
around.

He sat forward gingerly. “Why not? Beats sitting around here”

Diane hesitated, then gave in to Jack’s pleading. “Sure! I’ve
always wanted to go to one.”

Being a Saturday, the track hosted both an afternoon and an
evening card. We arrived early, joining in with some of the more
adventuresome sightseers strolling the paddocks and stables
and taking in the pre-race preparations, a sight as entertaining
as the races themselves.

The sky was clear, and the sun baked down. Realizing we
would be at the mercy of the searing rays for two or three hours,
we wore long-sleeved shirts, broad-brimmed straw hats, and
sunglasses.

We toured the paddock and stable area for about half an
hour, stopping occasionally to watch handlers work with their
horses, all magnificent specimens. When Jack announced that
he was growing tired, we headed back to the grandstands, walking the edge of a broad concourse where the horses made their
way from the stables to the paddock.

I stiffened. Across the concourse, leading a feisty roan carrying a jockey in red and white silks, strode T-Ball. On the back
of his red shirt was the logo T-BALL STABLES. I watched as he looked around, his gaze sweeping over me. I stiffened, then
realized he wouldn’t be able to recognize me in the getup I was
wearing.

An idea hit, but first I had to figure out how to get rid of
Diane and Jack.

When we reached the grandstands, I noticed an expanse of
glass at least fifty feet high and as long as a football field above
the grandstands-the racetrack’s clubhouse. “That’s where
we need to be,” I said, motioning toward the air-conditioned
interior.

Neither argued.

The clubroom was laid out like stair steps, each level three
feet above the previous. The top level held betting windows and
two bars. The other levels were filled with tables, allowing customers to relax in air-conditioned comfort and observe the
races through expansive windows.

After paying the waiter for our pitcher of draft beer, three
mugs, and one straw, I excused myself and headed back down
to T-Ball’s concourse of stables. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, and I wasn’t even sure I would recognize it if I stumbled
over it.

Down in the paddock, I stopped a young man leading a prancing sorrel. “I heard T-Ball Stables had some nice-looking quarter
horses. You happen to know where they’re stabled?”

“You want fine quarter horses, mister, you come over to Chretian Stables north of Cankton. Up there, we got the finest horseflesh in the state,” he said, and then pointed me in the right
direction.

I made my way through the maze of stables until I spotted the
one T-Ball was using that day. Casually, I strolled past, searching for the big man. Although the stables were busy, he was nowhere around. Probably, I guessed, taking in the first race.

A couple of young men were walking two of the horses, a
strawberry roan and a gray. A third boy was hooking up a black
to a walker.

I looked on as they took their ponies through their exercises.
A fourth young man pushed through the stable door and nodded at me. “Hey.”

I held up my hand in greeting. “How you doing?”

“Great”

“These horses are all part of T-Ball Stables, huh?”

“Yep” He looked at the three horses proudly.

“Best-looking I’ve seen today.”

He threw out his chest. They should be.”

“I’m new in town,” I said. “Your farm around here?”

He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “A couple miles back
up the main road. Can’t miss it. A big sign out front, T-Ball
Stables.”

One of the walkers shouted to him. He waved back, then
looked up at me. “Well, see you around.”

“Yeah. See you around.”

After watching for a few more minutes, I headed back to the
clubhouse, a risky plan forming in my head.

At times in my line of work, I’m forced to don various disguises, a practice the profession calls pretext, a politically correct term for “lying.” In my repertoire of masquerades are city
workers, insurance salesmen, truck drivers, reporters, teachers,
and half a dozen other guises that enable me to ferret out information otherwise unavailable.

I hate to say it’s a sneaky business, but truthfully, sometimes
it is. It is usually worth the subterfuge. And to accompany each
of these personas, I have all the appropriate credentials-driver’s
licenses and other identification germane to the position.

The only contact I had had with the bearded giant, T-Ball,
was in a dimly lit bar filled with smoke. I had been across the
room from him, facing away.

I figured that if I donned a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, a floppy straw
hat like planters wore, sunglasses, camera, and the ID of a freelance writer, he’d never recognize me.

That night, I contacted T-Ball Stables under the pretext of
a freelancer wanting to do a story on small racing stables for
Louisiana Quarter Horse, a national magazine featuring topnotch quarter horses throughout the state.

Naturally, Jules Thibeaux, aka T-Ball, jumped at the opportunity.

I pulled up onto the shoulder of the highway outside of T-Ball
Stables the next morning and took a few photos of the layout
from the bed of my pickup. The complex of stables formed a
large L, which faced an exercise area beyond which lay the track.

Climbing back into my pickup, I paused at the entrance and
stared up at the arched sign spanning the drive. T-BALL STABLES was painted in bold, bright red letters on a white background. On
either side of the logo was the logo of the stables, a horseshoe.

I drove through the whitewashed gates and down a short asphalt drive, parking in front of a small office building. I drew a
deep breath, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me.

As I climbed out of the pickup, T-Ball strode from the office.
“Mr. Carson?”

Decked out in my tourist regalia, complete with sunglasses
and planter’s hat, I extended my hand. Would he recognize me
from Cocodrie Slough? “I sure appreciate your agreeing to see
me, Mr. Thibeaux. Especially on a Sunday.”

He took my hand in a bone-crushing grip and shook it until I
thought my arm was going to pop off at the shoulder. “It be my
pleasure, Mr. Carson, my pleasure. And you can just call me
T-Ball. All my friends do.” He gestured to the activity around the
stables. “This be a seven-day-a-week business. No Sundays off.”

He didn’t recognize me! A thousand-pound weight slipped off
my shoulders. “I’m Joe.”

The big man bubbled with excitement. “So, where do we start?
You want to take some pictures first?”

I laughed and fished my digital camera and miniature recorder from my pocket. “I’ll be taking pictures as we talk. I’ve
got enough room on this for five hundred shots.” I patted my
pocket.

“So, where do we start?” he asked again.

“Let me get a few shots of you in front of the stables, and then
you can give me the tour,” I said. “Afterward, we’ll go into the
office and finish up”

As a youngster on Grand-pere Moise’s farm, I’d ridden my
share of horses and cleaned my share of stables. I was no expert
on Thoroughbreds or quarter horses, but I knew enough to realize he had some fine animals.

During our tour, I discovered that T-Ball was a hard taskmaster, constantly barking orders and demands at the handful
of trainers and walkers working with his horses. I also learned he was a hard drinker, for it seemed that every time we turned
a corner, he pulled out a bottle of Southern Comfort stuck back
in a niche in the wall.

Remembering his manners after his first drink straight from
the bottle, he offered it to me, but I declined. “Thanks, but a
little too early for me.”

So two hours, a hundred and fifty-three pictures, and at least ten
shots of Southern Comfort later, we headed for his office. While I
was duly impressed by his operation, I was doubly disappointed in
the fact that while we visited and shot pictures of every stall with
their fancy Dutch doors, Thermos water buckets, and swing-out
aluminum feeders, as well as every tack room, I saw absolutely
nothing to link T-Ball to the deaths of the three town drunks.

The only thing he looked to be guilty of was excessive branding. There was a horseshoe etched into the wood everywhere I
looked.

I was disappointed and frustrated. I still had no explanation
for why he’d come after me at Cocodrie Slough or who had sent
him. But I had to play out my little charade.

The cool air in his office was a welcome respite from the
heat in the stables, where, despite massive cooling fans, the
humidity seemed to intensify the sweet pungency of the widely
renowned aroma of Horse Stable No. 5.

He opened a small refrigerator. “How about a cold Coke?”

“Sounds good,” I replied, plopping down in a chair beneath
one of the ceiling vents spewing out cold air. He handed me one,
pulled one out for himself, and chugged down several gulps, after which, naturally, he topped off the can with a healthy slug of
Southern Comfort.

I whistled to myself, wondering just what condition the big
man’s liver was in.

He took another long drink and eased into the leather chair
behind his desk. “So, now what?”

Continuing my lie, I replied, “I’ll put it all together. I’ll show
it to you before sending it off. Any changes or additions you
want to make, you can let me know.”

“When will it come out?”

I gave myself a little breathing room just in case he decided
to verify my story. “I haven’t contacted the magazine about the
article yet, but, given your reputation, I don’t see any problem.
There’s usually a six-month period before it comes out. This is
April. Probably October or November when it hits the streets.”

The jangling of the telephone interrupted us. T-Ball held up
his finger to excuse himself. He answered the phone. His eyes
danced. “Sounds good. Bring it over.” He hung up. “That be a
friend of mine. Me, I be a gun nut. Pete, he run across an old
revolver he wants me to look at. You know about guns?”

“Some. I’ve messed around with black powder.”

“Lord, Lord,” he exclaimed. “That be something.” He rose
and motioned for me to follow. “I got a black-powder revolver
in my truck. I use it on rabbits and varmints along the road.
Come see.”

I wasn’t particularly interested in the handgun, but I had to
play out my sham. “Okay.”

T-Ball strode across the hardpan to his Dodge Ram pickup,
bright red and white like his racing stripes. He opened the door,
slid the seat forward, and pulled out a gun belt wrapped around
a black holster from which he extracted a revolver. “Army Colt.”
He handed it to me, butt first. “It isn’t loaded. That one, it be my
favorite black-powder handgun.”

I turned the revolver over in my hands. It was not a genuine
Colt, but one of those Italian replicas. Still, it appeared to be
well made. I cocked the trigger and spun the cylinder. It purred
like a kitten. Gently, I lowered the hammer and handed it back
to him. “Nice piece of work,” I replied.

He swung it around, pointing to an imaginary target in the
distance. “I like to hunt rabbits with it.”

I whistled. “You must be pretty good.”

An odd look filled his eyes. “I usually hit what I aim at.”