Bayou Justice (7 page)

CoCo walked up the stairs to the old family plantation. She stopped on the porch, taking a minute to notice the condition of the house. The gutter hung lopsided from the eaves. Paint cracked and peeled over the entire home. Nails had worked themselves loose on the railings and the stairs. How long had she neglected to call someone out to do some handiwork? Grandmere usually called Toby, a neighbor's grandchild to help out with the odd jobs, but it'd been weeks upon weeks since anyone had done any upkeep. Now that the threat of losing the plantation sat very real, she realized how much she loved the old house. It'd been her home for thirteen years and she couldn't imagine being anywhere but here.

Not to mention that her grandmother would die if taken from the bayou. While CoCo couldn't condone her traditions any longer, she accepted that it was the way of life for Grandmere. She wouldn't be able to function anywhere else. All her herbs and plants grew wild in the bayou, and some of them weren't available to purchase in stores. At least, not fresh or organic.

She turned to pull open the door, but a flash of light from the blue shed caught her attention. Dropping her hand, she bounded off the stairs toward Grandmere's workshop. The smell of burning plants filtered to her. She jerked the door open, and felt her gut clench at the sight before her.

“Grandmere, what're you doing?”

Her grandmother jumped with her hand at her neck. “Sakes,
ma chère,
you nearly scared the spirits outta me.”

Wouldn't that be nice? CoCo took in the herbs lying on the worktable beside the burner on which a glass beaker simmered. The overbearing stench of burnt roots filled the small and close building. She registered the names of the ingredients present, automatically flipping through her mental recipe book of potions. Her heart stilled, and she turned her glare on her grandmother. “A death
gris-gris,
Grandmere?”

“See,
ma chère,
you are a natural. You were able to instantly pull up the potion recipe.”

“Stop! Why are you making a death curse? And who is it aimed at?”

“I'm just cleaning up in here,
ma chère.
Don't be getting yourself all worked up.” Grandmere waved her hands toward CoCo. “It's nothing, yes?”

“Tell me the truth, Grandmere. Who are you cursing?” She took a weakened step toward her grandmother. “Or who did you curse? Did you put a death
cunja
on Beau Trahan?”

“That's none of your business, since you turned your back on your heritage.”

CoCo gripped her grandmother's shoulders and gave a gentle shake. “It
is
my business. Someone murdered Beau Trahan. I need to know—did you curse him?”

Grandmere's face turned ashen, but her eyes practically shone like neon lights. “Unhand me, child.” Her expression looked chiseled in granite, never described as gentle or nonthreatening.

Dropping her hands immediately, CoCo covered her mouth. Had she really just manhandled her grandmother? Horror and guilt pushed the tears into her eyes. “I'm sorry, Grandmere.”

Her grandmother turned to her table, her back facing CoCo.

“I said I'm sorry. You have to know how horrible this looks. I just need to know, Grandmere. Did you put a hex on Beau Trahan?”

Grandmere spun around so quickly that CoCo took a step backward. “Yes, I did. What do you care?”

Mortification shoved itself into CoCo's heart. “You really did it, Grandmere? You wanted another human dead so badly you'd conjure spirits to help you?”

Why, God? Why won't You bring her to You now?

“Beau Trahan wasn't about to take our home from us,
ma chère.
Not while there's a breath left in this old body of mine.”

“I can't believe you. This is wrong beyond belief. It's— it's despicable, that's what it is.” With tears flooding her vision, CoCo turned and fled from the shed into the house, up the stairs and then slammed the door to her bedroom.

She flung herself across her bed, the stinging tears washing down her face. No, it couldn't be. God was more powerful than any
gris-gris
or
cunja
Grandmere or anybody else could cast. Besides, she'd never heard of a spirit getting a gun and blasting someone in the back. Yet the tears wouldn't stop.

CoCo flipped to her back and stared at the ceiling. The fan rotated on medium speed, making a subtle ticking noise. She closed her eyes, blocking out everything but welcome darkness.

God, I don't understand. You said You would never leave me. I'm feeling rather alone right now. Grandmere's attempted to conjure up dark spirits, and You're letting it happen! Why? You called me from it, why aren't You calling her? And Tara, too?

Unlike most times when she prayed, CoCo felt no peace surrounding her—no unconditional love wrapping around her and giving comfort.

A knock on her door interrupted her crying jag. She sat upright, jerked away her tears and called out, “Come in.”

Tara stuck her head through a crack. “Luc's on the phone for you.” She pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. “Why've you been crying?”

“No reason.” CoCo sniffed. “Look, I really don't feel up to talking to Luc right now. Can you tell him I'll call him later?”

“Are you two talking again? Newsflash to Tara.” She crossed her arms over her chest, still studying CoCo.

“No. Yes. Kinda.” She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “I don't know,
Boo.
”

“He sounds like it might be important.”

CoCo shook her head. “Not right now. It's not a good time.” She locked stares with her baby sister. “Please? For me?”

“Fine. I'll tell him you'll call him later. I'm coming back, and you're going to tell me what ‘no yes kinda' means.”

CoCo pushed off the bed and meandered into the bathroom. She splashed her face with cold water. It wouldn't do to let Tara know the real reason she'd been crying. Maybe, God willing, she could distract her sister from asking more questions about Luc. Questions CoCo had no intention of answering—especially when she couldn't figure out the answers herself.

L
uc's hospitality couldn't muster up to playing nice while his name sat at the top of the suspect list. He waited under the trees for Sheriff Bubba Theriot to finish barking orders at the crime-scene technicians. They'd been in his house for over an hour. His mother made fresh lemonade and passed around tall iced glasses like she was some hostess of a cotillion. He didn't much feel like socializing with the police. He'd called CoCo, but Tara had said she couldn't take the call. What did he expect, a friendship now? Hardly. The urge to talk to her laid heavy in his gut.

Reaching for his cell phone, he then pressed the number to speed dial his Uncle Justin. Might as well keep him in the loop.

“Hel-lo.”

“Uncle Justin, it's Luc.”

“Any news?” Leave it to his great-uncle to cut right to the chase.

“Actually there is something new. The sheriff has a crime unit over here at the house.”

“For why?”

“They determined a twelve-gauge shotgun killed Grandfather. Bubba heard about our argument and came by to question me. I showed him Grandfather's gun cabinet, and wouldn't you know it, a gun's missing. They're doing whatever it is they do to try to pin this on me, I suppose.”

“Did they have a warrant?”

Luc watched the sheriff make his way over to his mother on the veranda. “No.”

“Mercy, boy, why'd ya let them in Beau's office then?”

“I have nothing to hide, Uncle Justin.”

His uncle snorted over the phone. “Listen, I'm on my way. Don't say another word to them, ya hear?”

Before Luc had a chance to reply, the connection died. He let out a sigh and slipped the phone back to its clip, willing CoCo to call him back. Soon.

Sheriff Theriot caught up with him at his SUV. “I don't like this, Luc.”

“It's not exactly a day at the carnival for me, either.”

“I don't believe you shot Beau, you know, but I have to do my job.”

That whole forgiveness thing smacked him upside the head again. “I understand, Bubba. It's just really frustrating for me.”

“I get you. Who else has access to the house? Besides you, your mom, your sister and Beau?”

“I don't know. Frank Thibodeaux. He's been dating Felicia and has been over several times. Let me think.” Luc wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve. “Mom had a couple of friends over a time or two. And Uncle Justin.”

Bubba scribbled on his notebook. “We'll release the body this afternoon. Want it to go to Roland's Funeral Home?”

Luc scrubbed his face. He hadn't considered funeral plans. He let out a sigh. Something else he'd have to handle. “Yeah. I'll go by later and make the arrangements.”

Breaks squealing on the dirt road captured their attention. Justin's pickup shot down the driveway like a bullet.

“Oh, I called Uncle Justin.”

“Good. I need to talk to him anyway.”

Justin slammed his truck door and made a beeline for them. Loose rocks crunched under his work boots. Stains covered his denim coveralls, but his expression drew Luc's attention fast.

His pudgy face marked ruddy, Justin jabbed a sausagelike finger in the sheriff's face. “What're ya doing, Sheriff? Bringing out a team when ya didn't have no warrant to begin with.”

“Uncle Justin, I let Bubba into the house.”

His uncle tossed him a keep-your-mouth-shut look, then went back to glaring at Bubba. “Don't know what game you're playing, but this ain't right and ya know it.”

The sheriff took a step back and held up his hands as if to ward off the older man. “Look, Justin, I'm just trying to eliminate suspects.”

“By accusing Beau's grandson?”

“No, by eliminating him.” Bubba glanced up as the crime-scene technicians made their way to their van. “I didn't know I'd find evidence of a gun missing.”

“I watch
CSI
—I know ya can't prove the missing gun is the one that killed my brother.”

Luc pressed his lips together as he cut his gaze to Bubba. How many times had his friend lamented over the unrealistic forensics presented in the television series?

Bubba, bless him, kept a straight face. “I'm not at liberty to discuss the forensics of this case with you, Justin.” He lifted a pen over his ever-present notebook. “I do, however, have a few questions for you.”

“Fire away.” Justin leaned against the vehicle and crossed his arms over his chest. The vehicle gave a slight shift.

“Do you remember the last time you were here at the house and saw the gun cabinet?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Do you remember the last time you were here, period?”

“Can't recall.”

“Uh-huh. How about this one—when was the last time you saw your brother?”

“Yesterday.”

Bubba's expression perked up a bit. “What time yesterday?”

Justin shrugged. “Yesterday morning, I believe it was.”

Luc opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Last night, Uncle Justin had told him he'd seen Grandfather late afternoon. Then again, it didn't matter. He was probably confused last night, what with the tragic news.

“Where did you see Beau?”

“He came by my place.”

The sheriff stared at Justin, who returned the look with an open expression. Bubba cleared his throat. “And?”

“And what?”

“What did he come by your house for?”

“He's my brother. Families do visit and such, ya know.”

Now Bubba's face turned as red as Justin's. “Was there anything in particular he came by to discuss with you?”

Justin lifted a casual shoulder. The strap to his overalls slipped, and he yanked it back in place. “He did mention evicting the LeBlanc family.”

“Did he give you any more details about that?”

“Just told me that Marcel LeBlanc signed over the deed years ago to clear a gambling debt.”

“Any idea why Beau decided to pursue the matter all of a sudden? As you said, Marcel allegedly signed over the deed years ago. Why did Beau decide to act now?”

“Way I heard it, Beau needed a place to live when he officially resigned at the casino. He couldn't move back here with Hattie and the kids.” He shrugged again. “Guess he thought it best. He never did tell me outright.”

“You and Marcel were friends back in the day, weren't you?”

The redness of Justin's face deepened. “We were friends, yeah.”

“Did you ever hear about him signing over the deed?”

“Now, I knew Marcel had a gambling problem. By the time he started hanging out at the casino, we'd already parted ways.”

Bubba scrawled in his notebook and then looked back up into Justin's face. “Can you think of anybody who'd want to kill your brother?”

Justin let out a whooping laugh. “Beau's a retired politician. The question you should be asking is who
didn't
want to kill him?”

CoCo lifted her binoculars, scanning the banks of the bayou. Where could Moodoo be hiding now? She nudged the trolling control with her knee, moving the airboat about two-hundred feet. Still gazing through the lenses, she realized where she'd drifted—the back side of Grisson Landing. Her heartbeat raced. She lowered the binoculars and glanced about. Sure enough, a piece of yellow police tape hung from the cypress tree, caught in the thick Spanish moss. It looked so much more ominous now than when she'd been here with Luc.

A splash sounded behind her. She turned and caught sight of a big reptile submerging into the murky waters. He surfaced a few feet away. CoCo let out the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. From the orange mark on his tag, she recognized Moodoo.

She noted his location on her sheet. Now if she could just find a couple more of the long-time tracked alligators, she'd be happy. Her report was due to the Wetlands Preservation Center by the end of the week. If she couldn't prove the reproduction decline, she'd lose her grant. And if she lost the grant, she'd be out of a job, which meant out of an income. Grandmere's social security certainly didn't bring in enough to pay the plantation's expenses. How they'd pay the bills, she hadn't a clue.

A bump hit against the airboat, sending it into a gentle rocking motion. Had the young bull returned? She froze, listening for the growl or the grunt, but only heard the katydids and birds.

Moodoo swam around to the front of the airboat, his tail tipping at the front. She lifted her binoculars again, following his quick movements. Only when an alligator had something in its sights did it move in such a way. Moodoo darted to the left, toward the place where the yellow tape danced in the hot breeze stirring the still air. He banked, his short legs making a flapping noise as he climbed up the mound. He opened his massive jaws and snapped them shut, capturing a crane. Keeping his mouth closed, he slipped back into the water.

The wind lifted, moving shadows that had filled the bank. Something glinted under the newly revealed sun. CoCo steadied her binoculars, twisting the knob to focus. There, on the ground beside a fallen tree. The sun played peek-a-boo behind a cloud. The object blinked in the changing light again. She zoomed in on it, then gasped as she made it out. A gun.

Oh, God, not again.

Lowering the lenses, CoCo fired up the airboat's main engine and steered the craft toward the gun. She banked the boat and turned to locate Moodoo. No sign of the big gator. Surely the sheriff had searched this area? How could he have missed a gun? She and Luc had just checked it out as well. Now that she went over their trip in her mind, had she really looked in this particular area? What if the gun was the one that killed Beau?

She lifted the radio and reported her find. The dispatcher ordered her to stay put until the sheriff could arrive. Déjà vu. While she waited, she made notes on her run. If the tracking kept on schedule as she predicted, she estimated the limit on alligators during hunting season could drop by two per hunter. That's
if
the representative from Wildlife and Fisheries would take her report into consideration. Alligators were a great hunt, but if her research showed the decline of their natural population, then the limits would go down. Not so good for the alligator meat market. But, what did she care about the hunters? She preferred getting more grant money to expand her current tracking system. Very few naturalist environmentalists were willing to work the bayous. She was the sole exception for this parish.

Sirens whirred in the distance. CoCo stood and, shielding her eyes with one hand, watched as the police boat came up beside her. Surprise nearly knocked her into the water as she recognized Luc and Justin Trahan sitting beside Sheriff Theriot.

“Where's the gun?” the sheriff asked before the engine died.

She pointed. “I saw it through my binoculars.”

“You didn't go up there and move it or touch it in any way, did you?” The sheriff stepped gingerly onto the bank.

“Of course not.” As if. She darted her gaze away and caught Luc's stare. She could tell he wondered the same thing she did—had the gun been here earlier when they checked? Something crept into his face. What was it? Her limbs froze. Did he think she'd come back here and planted the gun? Surely he didn't believe her to be that stupid. Actually, by the look in his eye, maybe he did. She never should have asked him to help clear her name. He didn't trust her, and she sure-as-shootin' didn't trust him. Trying to form a truce of any sort with Luc Trahan was a big waste of time. She turned her attention back to Sheriff Theriot, who hustled toward the weapon but kept jerking his gaze right and left.

With latex gloves, he grabbed the shotgun and then all but ran back to the boat. He held up the gun, inspecting it for a moment before looking at Luc. “This your grandfather's?”

“I don't know. I've never even shot a gun before.”

The sheriff nodded at Justin. “You recognize it?”

Luc's uncle squinted as he stared at the weapon. “Looks like it could be, but I couldn't say for sure.”

“Uh-huh.” The sheriff set the shotgun inside the boat. “Did you notice anybody in this area before you saw the gun?”

“No. And when Luc and I came by here earlier, we didn't notice the gun, either.”

“Luc?” The sheriff pivoted, sending gentle waves into the bayou.

“Right. We were here. And no, we didn't see anything.” He lowered his eyes, not meeting her stare. “I don't know for sure if either of us really looked up there.”

The sheriff sighed. “We'll run a check on it to see if it's registered.”

The desire to slap Luc made her fingers itch. He wouldn't even look at her. Guilt? Had he agreed to help her, only to set her up? Maybe he was the one who came back and planted the gun.