Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 15 - The Mona Lisa Murders (5 page)

The parking lot was empty, probably because at least a foot of water covered it.

He looked at me, a puzzled knit to his brow. ‘What’s going on here, Tony? What happened? Where did all this water come from?’

I made a couple circles in the parking lot while explaining. ‘There’s a storm in the gulf. It’s pushing the water in. The lodge has evacuated. They must have pulled out during the night.’

‘Not everyone. Look!’

Two figures stood on the porch at the front entrance of the lodge. They were waving us to them. I circled away.

‘Where are you going? They want us to come in.’

‘After all that’s happened, I don’t trust anybody, Antone. Not even you. I’m getting us out of here while the getting’s good.’ Straightening the jonboat, I headed up the flooded road.

A shot rang out from behind, and a slug exploded the water beside us.

‘They’re shooting at us!’

‘Duck,’ I shouted, leaning forward and guiding the small aluminum boat in sharp zigzags until we reached the first bend in the submerged road.

The powerful roar of a screaming motor came from our port side. From what I remembered, there were deep-water bayous on either side of the road, deep enough for the draft of the powerboats those goons were driving.

A second motor joined in.

Clenching my teeth, I gave the small twenty-horsepower engine a full throttle. Somewhere ahead, the road rose, ascending the levees protecting the villages along the coast.

The sudden ripping and smashing of cane jerked both of us around in time to see a yellow Stratos tear through the canebrake and scrape across the road less than twenty feet in front of us.

When the lower unit of the powerful engine slammed into the shell road, it shot up, ripping the transom from the powerboat, sending the craft tumbling and its occupants spinning head over heels.

We shot through the falling debris without a backward glance.

Seconds later, I ran us up on the road, and even before the flat-bottomed craft had stopped sliding, I was out running.

Antone was right beside me.

Shouts cut through the pounding of our feet. I glanced around as a yellow tri-hull bounced ashore and three grim-faced bozos took off after us.

Just as we rounded a bend, a gunshot cracked. Antone screamed and fell.

I slid to a halt.

A woman’s voice called. ‘Tony! Antone! Hurry.’

I looked around and saw a woman wearing jeans and a plaid shirt astride a four-wheeler. I blinked in surprise. It was Latasha, frantically gesturing for us.

Antone pushed to his feet. ‘Let’s go. Hurry. It’s nothing.’

I dashed for the four-wheeler.

Latasha screamed. ‘Antone! No!’

When I looked around, the small man was disappearing into the canebrake lining the road. ‘You dumb little—’ The shouts were growing louder. I raced to the four-wheeler and jumped on behind as Latasha took off up the shell road, disappearing around a second bend.

Chapter Eight

Holding onto the seat, I shouted into the wind. ‘Where did you come from?’

She shook her head. ‘Later.’

Around two more bends, the road straightened and ran along the base of a thirty-foot levee. ‘Grab me around the waist. We’re going up,’ she called out, cutting off the road and angling up the slope to the summit.

I hesitated, but when we started up, I started grabbing. Leaning forward, I yelled into the wind. ‘What about Antone?’

‘I don’t know. I hope he makes it.’

I glanced over my shoulder at the sea of cane spreading along the base of the levee. A sense of guilt washed over me. ‘Me too. Who are those bozos chasing us?’

‘I don’t know. Same ones that tried to run me in the ditch back in Miami, I suppose.’

The road along the levee was well used.

‘Where we going?’

‘Ahead. There’s a cabin we can hole up in out of the storm.’

Knowing absolutely nothing of the area, I simply nodded, putting myself in her hands. The gusty winds from the northeast rolled dark clouds ahead of it, carrying occasional bursts of rain.

On the summit of the levee, we were at the mercy of the wind. Some of the blasts struck us at an unforgiving fifty and sixty miles an hour. I’ve got to hand it to that cousin of mine; she could handle that four-wheeler.

She yelled over her shoulder. ‘Last weather report put the eye between Terrebone and Lafourche Parishes. Eleven miles an hour.’

I muttered a curse. ‘That puts us on the dirty side of the storm. I figured that with the water rising so fast.’

‘That’s why.’ The screeching wind caught her words and snatched them away.

‘Where is this place you’re taking us?’

‘Not far.’

Ahead, a gray veil of rain swept toward us. Moments later, it struck, almost blinding me. Latasha slowed the small Yamaha and turned on the lights. The driving rain sluicing through the beam looked like silver icicles.

The levee angled back to the northwest. On the river side, the coming storm had pushed water to the base of the levee, inundating the vegetation along the shore.

She slowed even more. ‘Down there,’ she said. Peering into the pounding rain, I made out a cabin perched in a thick stand of hardwoods on a high ridge intersecting the west side of the levee.

An old Indian swamp ridge. I’d heard about them from the old timer Acadians reminiscing around the fire at night, but this was the first one I’d ever seen.

Natural ridges throughout the swamps, they provided the first aboriginals and their descendents village sites in which to raise their children, grow their crops, and provide security from their enemies.

Through the heavy curtain of rain, I glimpsed two shadows near the cabin. When I looked again, they had vanished.

‘Here we are,’ she announced, pulling under the cabin.

The small structure sat on six-foot piers, providing space underneath the floor to park the Yamaha four-wheeler. It was a relief to get out of the rain. The headlight beam cast a glow under the cabin.

Latasha climbed off. ‘Let’s get inside and batten down the hatches. If the storm cuts back northeast, we’re in for a beating.’

I looked at my watch in the dim light. Eleven a.m., but the big storm had turned day to night.

A figure rose from the darkness at my feet. Two smaller shadows appeared behind the first.

‘What the—’ I started to take a swing at him.

Latasha spoke. ‘Stop! It’s only Claude. And his dogs.’

‘Claude? Dogs?’  I glanced at her then turned back to the slender man staring at me. He wore a gimme cap over hair that hung to his shoulder. Behind him stood two huge dogs that looked to be a mixture of Alaskan Malamutes and German Shepherds with a touch of elephant thrown in.

‘A neighbor. He lives on the ridge with his family. We all look after each other.’

I relaxed. ‘Sorry,’ I said, offering him my hand. The two dogs just stared at me. I had the uncomfortable feeling they were measuring me for a pre-dinner appetizer.

Even in the shadows beneath the cabin, I could see Claude’s skin was dark. He grunted and took my hand.

‘What do you know of the storm,’ she asked.

His face impassive, he replied. ‘Water come soon. Six, seven hours, storm go. We have no trouble. Sleep well.’

‘Thanks, Claude. Tell Alcee hello for me.’

With one last glance at me, he turned and vanished along the ridge into the rain. ‘Chitimacha,’ she said. ‘A tribe of Indians who were here with the first Acadians came. Just about all gone now,’ she added, a touch of sadness in her voice.

Then she brightened. ‘We look after each other. They watch the place for us when we’re gone; we bring in supplies when we come back. Works okay for everyone.’

She knelt and opened her arms. ‘Isn’t that right, Victor, Pierre?’ The two wolf-like animals scampered up to her like puppies. She laughed while scrubbing their heads.

The two-room cabin was spare, but neat. The windows were shuttered and barred as was both front and rear doors. ‘We own it, me and my brothers,’ she announced, flipping a switch on the wall. The lights came on, pushing away the shadows of the storm. ‘Generator. Claude turned it on. It’s on the deck behind the cabin,’ she said. ‘The only bad part is we have to fill the tank every twelve hours.’

I glanced at the rear of the cabin. I couldn’t hear the hum of the small generator over the rain pounding the steep roof and the wind howling around the eaves.

She gestured to the rear door. ‘Not to worry. It’s in a small room a couple steps out that door.’

‘Comfortable place,’ I observed. ‘At first, I wondered what kept vandals from tearing it up out here in the middle of nowhere, but when I saw Pierre and Victor, I had my answer.’

She laughed, a crisp tinkling like crystal. ‘They’re good company.’ She pulled out her cell phone, then flipped it shut. ‘Nothing. No signals at all.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Oh, well, how about some coffee?’ She fired up a propane stove and put water on to boil. She nodded to a bookshelf. ‘There’s a emergency radio. Find out where the storm is while I make the coffee. She held up a bag. ‘How does beef stew sound? Freeze dried, but it’s filling.’

I laughed. ‘Sounds fine.’ The radio crackled to life, crackled being the operative word.

‘Thertule and Euclide, they have some clothes in the bedroom closet if you want to change.’

‘They your brothers?’

‘Yes. Your cousins.’

I whistled softly. Uncle Theophile had been busy.

Outside the wind shrieked and the rain battered the sturdy little cabin. Inside, we were dry and snug, filling our stomachs with warm food.

Finally I found a station. Through crackling interference, I learned the storm was continuing northeast at twelve miles an hour.

I sipped at my coffee. I couldn’t help thinking about Claude and his family. ‘Are there many Chitimachas on the ridge?’

She looked up at me curiously from where she was sitting cross-legged on a battered couch, her long hair on her shoulders and a bowl of stew cradled in her lap. ‘A dozen or so. Why?’

‘Just wondering.’

A knowing smile played over her lips. ‘Don’t worry about them. They’re nice and comfy in their own cabins. Don’t forget. They’ve lived out here for over two hundred years. ‘It’s us, the newcomers, white and black, who should worry.’

I laughed, then grew serious. ‘Look. Whether I like it or not, I’m involved in this Mona Lisa stuff right along with you. So, I want to know everything that’s going on, everything.’ I paused. ‘I kinda like my life and way it’s going. I’d like to stick around for another fifty or so years.’

She pursed her lips, studying me. ‘Did Antone tell you anything?’

‘Not much. Not much at all, and certainly not enough to know why some Thai joker named Parnchand Nemo wants us dead because of some stupid model for da Vinca’s Mona Lisa.’

‘Lisa Gherardini.’

‘Yeah. Lisa Gherardini. So big deal that her remains were discovered and somebody planned to reconstruct the face of the woman and compare to the picture. So what?’

Her words were a sharp rebuke. ‘Painting. It’s a painting, not a picture, and it is a fine painting.’

I shrugged. ‘You know what I mean,’ I replied testily. ‘Picture, painting, they’re all pretty much the same to me.’

I supposed she figured my reply was uncouth for she curled a lip. ‘And that’s all he told you?’

‘He mentioned Bianchi, the one you told me about.’

She sipped her coffee, then reached for a cigarette. She offered me one. I declined. She put them away. ‘I don’t mind,’ I said.

‘Don’t hand me that. I remember what it was like when I didn’t smoke. I won’t die. I’ll go under the cabin if I have to.’

‘With the snakes?’

She gave me a wry grin, and we both laughed. ‘Well, back to the story. Giorgio Vasari, a Sixteenth Century artist and biographer wrote that da Vinci had painted a portrait of a rich Italian merchant’s wife. Supposedly Lisa Gherardini modeled for a portrait called ‘La Giocondo’ in Italian and ‘La Joconde’ in French. They think she was also the model for the Mona Lisa.’

I nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Using sophisticated electronics, they located her grave at the St. Ursula Convent in Florence. The remains were verified through various tests to be those of Gherardini.’

‘So far, I don’t see any problem.’

‘There wasn’t one as far as I knew. I met Bianchi’s broker, a man named da Luca, in Miami. I signed a contract to deliver the box and headed out. Just after I left the city limits, a pickup tried to run me off the road, but Antone ran them into the ditch instead.’

When she saw the puzzled look on my face, she explained. ‘I didn’t know him from Adam. Out of nowhere, this black car showed up and cut in front of the pickup. It swerved into the ditch. Antone waved me to keep going.’

She lifted both eyebrows. ‘And that’s all I know except I ran into him in New Orleans and he offered to help me get the package to Texas.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why should he help a stranger?’

‘Naturally, he appreciated art. He wanted to see the right party received the remains for the Mona Lisa model.’

Sounded fishy to me, but then, I have run across some odd, very odd art patrons. ‘How’d you end up calling me?’

‘I tried to call da Luca and tell him what had happened, but his line had been disconnected. So then, I called Leroi. He said to find you.’

‘You ever hear the name Bumper?’

‘Bumper?’ She frowned. ‘No. Who’s he?’

‘One of the goons that planned on whacking Antone and me.’

‘Never heard of him. The only one I met was Mister da Luca. The only other name I know is the one who gets the package in Texas, J.B. Buckalew.’

J.B. Buckalew. I would have given odds J.B. stood for Joe Bob, one of Texas’ most ubiquitous monikers. I waited for her to continue. She remained silent. ‘And that’s it? That’s all you know?’

‘What about a joker named Parnchand Nemo? You heard of him?’

She frowned. ‘No.’

‘Nothing?’

With an indifferent shrug, she replied. ‘What else is there?

I studied her a few moments. ‘That’s it?’

‘Yeah. Why?’