Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 13 - The Diamonds of Ghost Bayou (24 page)

After driving out the main entrance of T-Ball Stables, I
slapped the steering wheel in frustration. I’d gone out to the
stables hoping to find something to link T-Ball with Benoit and
the deaths of his two drinking buddies.

I’d found nothing.

“Maybe I was completely wrong,” I said aloud, as I pulled
back onto the highway into Priouxville. I glanced at my gas
gauge. A quarter of a tank left. I decided I might as well fill up,
so I pulled into Doquet’s Stop N Shop in Priouxville. I spotted
old Rouly’s rusty truck at the gas pumps. He was inside.

While my tank was filling, I noticed that the bed of the old
man’s pickup was full of scrap metal. Had I not just come from
the stables, I would never have recognized the branding iron
sticking up from the pile. It was a horseshoe.

“Howdy.”

I looked around as old Rouly approached. “How you doing
today?” I asked.

“Can’t complain.”

“Looks like you got a full load.”

“Yep. Going to haul it over to Lafayette tomorrow.”

I nodded to the horseshoe. “You even got T-Ball as a customer, huh?”

He frowned, at first not understanding what I meant until I
pointed to the branding iron. “Oui. Me, I picked up that stuff
last night.”

My pump clicked off. I started to turn to it when I took a second look at the branding iron. A tiny bell rang in the back of
my thick skull. There was something familiar about the iron.

Replacing the nozzle in the pump, I asked, “All that came
from the stables, huh?”

He started around the back of his old Chevrolet. “Oui.”

“That looks like one of the branding irons T-Ball uses on his
stock,” I said, pointing to it.

“The handle got run over and bent up,” Rouly replied.

I reached over and pulled it from the top of the heap. Sure
enough, the handle was bent almost in half. I brushed the dirt
from the horseshoe. There was something familiar about it, but
what? “It shouldn’t be hard to straighten. I wouldn’t mind something like this on my wall back in Austin. You take five bucks
for it?”

On the way back out to Jack’s, I glanced at the bent branding iron beside me on the seat. What was it that seemed so
familiar? I could have sworn I’d seen it before, but I knew I
hadn’t. In fact, the only horseshoes I had seen recently were
those burned into the wood at the stables and the glossy pictures Emerente Landry had shown me down at the Priouxville
Bayou News.

Then it hit me!

I slammed on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. I
picked up the branding iron. I studied the shoe, staring in disbelief at the leg that was bent out a few degrees.

Trying to still the pounding in my chest, I glanced at my
watch: almost two. The newspaper would be open.

I turned around on the narrow road and raced back into town.
It couldn’t be, but then, what else would explain it?

At the Priouxville Bayou, I asked Emerente for copies of the
two glossies, offering to pay for them.

She waved me off as she scanned the photos to her computer
and printed them up on her photo printer. “Just you tell me for
what you want them. That be the only pay I care about.”

I figured she’d spread the word all over town. I didn’t want to
lie to her, but if I were wrong, I’d hate for the whole town to see the egg on my face. “I’m not sure,” I replied. “I had an idea. If
it pans out, you’ll be the first to know.”

She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Oui”

Back in my pickup, I compared the pictures to the branding
iron. The horseshoe was identical to the tracks in the glossies. I
brushed at the grime and dirt on the shoe once again. Three of
the nail holes were filled with black dirt that clung to the metal.
I looked closer, and my heart leaped into my throat. With a
thumbnail, I scraped dirt from one of the holes, catching the
black substance in the palm of my hand.

I leaned over and, working up a dribble of saliva, spit it into
my hand. I worked the black dirt around.

I felt the blood drain from my face as the thick saliva took on
a reddish tint. I leaned back in the seat and realized the importance of what I had just discovered. Maybe T-Ball was not involved in Benoit’s death, but the stables were neck deep in it, for
not only was there blood on the branding iron, but this branding
iron appeared to be the very one that had made the imprints in
the dusty road.

I tried to still the pounding in my ears, reminding myself
that the blood could have many sources. But I didn’t think so.

Of course, I couldn’t positively link O’Donnell with the murder, but T-Ball Thibeaux would start squealing like a pig to
dodge a charge of murder.

Now what?

Go to Sheriff Lacoutrue?

I wasn’t sure, so I decided to contact Jimmy LeBlanc down
in Terrechoisie Parish. I felt more comfortable with him than
the sheriff, although the latter had always been cooperative and
helpful.

But, before I contacted Jimmy, I reminded myself, I wanted
to make certain I had all my facts in order so he wouldn’t think
I was playing Chicken Little.

First, those who had worked Jack over had demanded the
location of the diamonds. Prior to that incident, three men, all
close acquaintances, were killed, ostensibly for the diamonds. One of the men, Benoit, was the cell mate of C. K. Judice, one
of the three who’d pulled off the heist. Benoit was beaten to
death, and someone left horse tracks at the scene, tracks made
by the branding iron at my side.

One of the provisions of Benoit’s parole was a job at T-Ball
Stables. That and the branding iron linked T-Ball with the killing.

Clerville Naquin had told Anthony O’Donnell that Valsin had taken me across the swamp to Cocodrie Slough. Other than
Clerville, O’Donnell was the only one who knew I was at the
swamp village. T-Ball came looking for me specifically. According to Dolzin, the Cajun Neanderthal said he was looking
for someone named Boudreaux. The only way he could have
known I was there was if the casino owner had told him.

When I didn’t scare, the casino owner sent Buzz and Turk to
try again. I remembered their chilling conversation. “Well, that
don’t make no difference,” Buzz had said. “He tells you to whack
her, you whack her-or you get it, understand? He’s already got
three under his belt.”

Three! Vitale, Primeaux, and Benoit?

O’Donnell had enough money. He wouldn’t kill just for the
diamonds, but he would to cover a murder or three murders.

I reached for my cell phone and then remembered it was
down in some bayou along Plantation Road, along with Jack’s
Cadillac and Diane’s purse.

Starting the engine, I headed out to Ghost Bayou. I’d call
Jimmy from Jack’s.

Jack and Diane were sitting on the porch in the shade, sipping
cold Tom Collinses and enjoying the breeze from off the bayou.
She offered me a drink, but I declined. “Later. First I need to
make a phone call. Long distance. I’ll have it charged to my
number in Austin.” I glanced at Jack, who laid his hand on his
waist, an indication he was packing the .38.

The phone rang. Diane picked up the portable. Jack snorted.
“It’s been like that all day. Neighbors calling. My cell’s on the
snack bar. Use it.”

“Long distance?”

“It’s free. Besides, last time I talked to my banker, he said I
can afford a few bucks.”

I hesitated, hoping LeBlanc wouldn’t take offense that I was
butting into police business. After a couple of minutes wrestling
with whether I should call him or not, I punched in his number.

He answered on the first ring. Before he could stop me, I
outlined what I had learned and suggested I come down and go
over it in more detail. I could be there in an hour.

To my surprise, he seemed amenable to my suggestion, although I could hear a hint of skepticism in his tone. Unfortunately, he had other obligations. The next morning would work
for him, so we arranged to meet at his office at eight A.M. “But
you know,” he added, “you’re going places where you shouldn’t.
If I didn’t know you, I’d be tempted to hit you with an ‘interference with public officials’ charge.”

“I know. Believe me, I didn’t go out looking for this. It just
seemed to fall on me.”

He laughed. “Like things always fall on you?”

“Yeah.”

After hanging up, I headed for the porch, where I found Diane
still on the phone. When Jack spotted me, he motioned to a
chair. “Sit. Might as well have a drink. Phone’s been ringing off
the hook: different groups at the church, around town, the ones
who visited me in the hospital,” he explained. “You know how
small-town people are.”

“Yep,” I replied, plopping down in a chair and thinking of
old Benoit. “Salt of the earth.”

He pointed to the road. “Cops have been dropping by every
hour or so. Nice guys. Diane feels a lot better.”

I passed the next couple of hours on the porch with Diane
and Jack, nursing a Tom Collins and filling them in with what
little I had learned about the diamonds. I said nothing about the
murders, for in truth, there was nothing to say until I had definitive proof.

Diane leaned forward, her hair falling over her forehead. She
brushed it back behind an ear. “You really think those diamonds are around here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. From what I’ve learned,
everyone and his uncle has looked for them, with no luck. If
they’re here, Theriot hid them awfully well.”

Jack grunted. “I don’t think they are. I figure he hid them
somewhere else, and they’ll probably never be found unless
someone just comes across them.”

“Dumb luck, huh? You really think so?”

“Why not? It works for me. Just wait. Some lucky idiot will
stumble over them.”

At the time, I had no idea just how prophetic those words
would be.

The sun was dropping below the treetops, brushing the evening sky with wide swathes of purple and gold.

As far as I was concerned, the search for the diamonds had
been pushed to the back burner with the discovery of the branding iron.

I was so anxious for the next morning, when I could lay out
my evidence to Jimmy LeBlanc, that I almost jumped out of my
skin when the phone rang.

Diane picked up the portable receiver by her chair. “Yes?”
After listening for a moment, she handed it to me. “It’s Sheriff
Lacoutrue.”

Puzzled, I took the receiver. “Hi, Sheriff. What’s going on?”

He explained he had just spoken with Jimmy LeBlanc, and
the Terrechoisie Parish lawman had been ordered to take part
in a massive drug sweep down in one of the parishes along the
coast. “He asked me to take a look at what you got, Boudreaux.
Why don’t you come on up here, and let’s see what old Jimmy,
he was talking about.’

I listened carefully for any hint that I had offended him by
going straight to LeBlanc. Some lawmen in smaller parishes are
extremely sensitive about such matters. More than once, I’ve
witnessed solid evidence made inadmissible by lawmen whose
ego was greater than their dedication to their job.

44Sure, Sheriff. No problem. I didn’t want to bother you over
nothing. I figured Jimmy could tell me if it was worth your
time.” It was a half-truth, and I knew Sheriff Lacoutrue realized it. Still, I had followed the obligatory liturgy of deference to local power.

I replaced the receiver and pushed to my feet. “Got to run in
and see the sheriff,” I announced.

Jack looked at me. “The sheriff?”

“Yeah. You remember hearing about that old man they found
dead along the road sometime back?”

Diane’s face grew pale. Jack frowned.

“Well, I might have run across something that was part of it.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Well, maybe the club the killer used on the poor old guy”

Diane grimaced and shook her head. “I don’t want to hear
about it.”

“I won’t be long.”

As I headed up the road toward town, I glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted Diane placing the receiver to her ear
once again. One thing about small towns, they look after their
own, even the newcomers to their little village.

By now, the sun had set, and thick shadows filled the woods
and settled over the countryside as I sped along the narrow
macadam road. I had spent many years driving the backwoods
of Louisiana, but still the narrow tunnel of light burning a hole
into the darkness ahead of me filled the interior of my Chevy
Silverado with a feeling of claustrophobia. The darkness was so
intense, the headlight beams were nothing but narrow cylinders
of light without any side spill.

As usual, Main Street in Priouxville was empty except for
two or three pickups down at Doquet’s Stop N Shop convenience store. Old Rouly’s battered ‘49 Chevy was one of them.
The sheriff’s cruiser was parked in front of his office. I pulled
in beside it and climbed out.

With the glossies from the newspaper office in one hand and
the branding iron in the other, I pushed through the door. The
door leading back to the cellblock was closed.