Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) (5 page)

“Where else have you lived?” Cal asked.

“Just Louisiana. But I know it’s the greatest place to live on earth. More fishin’ and huntin’ than you can shake a stick at.”

“Sounds like a great place … if you like that sort of thing.”

Potter paid the parking attendant and steered his truck toward the Interstate.

“You hunt and fish much, Mr. Murphy?”

“Please, call me Cal.”

“Okay, Cal it is. Do you hunt and fish much, Cal?”

“Not very often. I used to do some hunting and fishing when I was a kid but I haven’t had much time for it lately.”

“Work keep ya busy?”

“You could say that?”

“So, you comin’ to Saint-Parran to reconnect with your childhood?”

“No, actually, I’m coming here on business.”

“Business? What kind of business does anyone have in Saint-Parran other than fishin’ and huntin’?”

Cal paused before answering. He’d just met Potter and wasn’t sure how much information to divulge.

“I’m a sports writer and I’m writing a story on some big-time college football recruits.” It was a safe response.

“Well, that’s good to know. I assume you want to talk to Dominique Dixon then.”

“That’s what I’d like to do. Do you know him?”

“We’re goin’ to Saint-Parran, Cal, not the boomin’ metropolis of Atlanta. I know everybody that lives within twenty miles of Lagniappe Café.”

“Is that in the center of town?”

Potter nodded. “And the best coffee in Louisiana.”

Potter turned west onto Highway 90 as the signs of big city life began to disappear in the rearview mirror.

For the next hour and a half the scenery shifted from metropolitan skyline to swampland, as Cal gathered a healthy background of Saint-Parran from his well-versed chauffeur. For starters, most residents in the area believed the city was cursed when it was founded by a handful of runaway slaves a few years before slavery was abolished. A witch doctor cast a spell on the place when he learned his cousin had escaped there and refused to take him along. Since the city was founded, at least one person had been killed by either an alligator or a black bear every year. Potter said the people of Saint-Parran never much minded the curse since the people who usually ended up dead were hunters and fishermen who “weren’t usin’ their noggins.” It was rare for Saint-Parran to go this late into the year without such a death, though Potter said many of the townspeople believed Tre’vell Baker’s mysterious death would fill that spot if no one else ended up dead in the swamp due to a wildlife attack.

Potter also went on to explain how the town’s economy was fed primarily through adventurous outdoorsmen and marine biologists. The bayou’s unique ecology made for both a fertile laboratory and a diverse place to fish and hunt. Peppe’s Outfitters employed the most guides followed by Geaux For It Outfitters and Billy’s Bayou Adventures, the latter of which employed Potter. Cal hadn’t seen a single picture of Billy’s Bayou Adventures, but he didn’t have to use much imagination after meeting his chauffeur.

As they turned south onto Highway 1 and slipped deeper into the bayou, Potter divulged a few things that were more important to Cal’s potential story. For starters, Saint-Parran was the part-time home to quite a few wealthy boosters from a number of major colleges in the south, including Alabama, Bryant University, Louisiana State, Ole Miss, Mississippi State, Arkansas, and Tennessee. However, none of the worthy student athletes ever went anywhere but Louisiana State, thanks to Wesley Tucker. Tucker owned a regional bank that had branches all along the coastal areas of Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. He used his influence and money to steer recruits in the area to Baton Rouge to play for Louisiana State.

According to Potter, Randall Blackledge, owner of Geaux For It Outfitters, was languishing near bankruptcy until his son Bobby became one of the most sought-after quarterbacks in the southeast. Louisiana State was eager to attract Bobby since the best quarterback they had was an accused rapist that had been kicked out of Tennessee and couldn’t throw a pass longer than forty yards. In a development that shocked recruiting analysts, Bobby spurned Alabama, Florida, and Texas for Louisiana State. In a development that wasn’t as shocking, Geaux For It Outfitters moved from near bankruptcy to rival Peppe’s in grandeur and staffing almost overnight. The story went that Tucker would forgive Blackledge’s debt if he nurtured his son in the direction of Louisiana State. The Florida coaches pitched a hissy fit and reported the allegations to the NCAA, but no wrongdoing was ever proven.

“That Wesley Tucker always covers his tracks,” Potter said. “It’s hard to find dirt in the swamp.”

Potter told several more tales of recruiting coups for Louisiana State, all at the hands of Wesley Tucker. He retold these stories with pride, hinting that he felt such actions were justified if it meant getting those hometown boys to play for his team.

“So are you a big Louisiana State fan?” Cal asked.

“We say LSU down here,” Potter corrected. “Now, I don’t drive to Baton Rouge every Saturday in the fall to watch the games, if that’s what you mean. I work on the weekends. But I always bring a radio to listen to the games while we’re out on the water. It passes the time, especially when the fish ain’t bitin’.”

They rode along in silence for a few minutes before Cal went on a little fishing expedition of his own.

“So what do you know about these two kids, Baker and Dixon?” Cal asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, were they good kids?”

“All the kids around here are good.”

“I mean, were they into anything that you know of?”

“Like what?”

“Drugs? Gangs? Illegal activities?”

“Well, Cal, there ain’t none of that to get into around Saint-Parran. It’s fishin’ and huntin’ and football. And from what I know of those kids seeing them around town, ain’t nothing but model citizens.”

“Good to know.”

Potter wasn’t done.

“That’s what made Tre’vell’s death so shockin’. Nobody would hurt that kid if they knew him. He was a saint, always helpin’ people. His mama worked her tail off to support those four boys and Tre’vell always did what he could to help her. He would’ve been a star in the NFL, no doubt in my mind. He coulda rescued his whole family out of the poor house.”

“What about Dominique?”

“He’s a good kid, too. Not quite as helpful as Tre’vell, but good all the same.” Potter paused for a moment before continuing. “It’s just a shame what happened, a plumb shame.”

Just as Potter looked like he might cry, his countenance suddenly changed. He kept both hands on the steering wheel but gestured with his right index finger toward the sign along the side of the road.

“Welcome to Saint-Parran, Cal,” he said. “Home of the best fishin’ and huntin’ in all of Louisiana.”

“And coffee, too,” Cal added.

“And coffee, too,” Potter said. “Nothin’ gets by you does it?”

Cal smiled. Nothing better get by him if he wanted to uncover the truth behind Tre’vell Baker’s death. Cal was on high alert from the minute he stepped off the plane two hours before.

“So, where you wanna go?” Potter asked. “I’m yours for the whole week. Just say the word and I’ll take you wherever you wanna go. Wanna get settled in first?”

Cal shook his head. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” he said. “Why don’t you take me to see the sheriff?”

“You’ve been in town two minutes and you want to see Sheriff Mouton?” Potter asked incredulously. “You don’t mess around, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, hold on. You ain’t ever met a sheriff like Sheriff Mouton.”

CHAPTER 6

THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE for Toulon Parish lacked attention to detail from top to bottom. The two windows flanking the front door allowed both wind and sunlight in, yet not too much of either one. Cal thought he might fall through the floor as the boards beneath him squeaked with the weight of each step. The calendar tacked to the wall behind the receptionist was two years behind, though Cal wasn’t sure if he was stepping into a law enforcement office or a time warp.

If they handle their cases like they handle their upkeep, no wonder they haven’t arrested anyone for Baker’s murder.

Potter, who led Cal into the sheriff’s office, wasted no time in making small talk with Bernice Grant, the bespectacled aging receptionist. For what Potter lacked in professional appearance, he made up for it with surprising aplomb. He looked comfortable on his own turf. The conversation meandered from the weather to Louisiana State football to a recipe for gator tail soup. This went on for several minutes before Potter introduced Cal to Bernice and stated the purpose of their visit.

“Is Sheriff Mouton around?” Potter asked.

“Are you kiddin’ me? Monday mornings are all about paperwork around here,” Bernice said as she shuffled papers on her desk. “And when it comes to paperwork, Sheriff Mouton is about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle.”

Cal snickered at Bernice’s wisecrack but realized she wasn’t laughing—or even smiling.

“So, what brings you down to our parts, Mr. Big City Reporter?” Bernice asked.

“I’m working on a story about Tre’vell Baker’s death,” he said.

“Oh, what a shame that is. That boy could’ve been a star in the NFL one day. Just tragic.”

Cal slipped his notepad out, hoping to get some background worthy fodder from the sassy secretary. “Did you know Tre’vell?”

“Know Tre’vell? Look, Metro Man, I know everybody in this town, just like Potter here. We’re like a family. It’s a little different than your big city life.”

Cal resisted the urge to match her sardonic wit. “So, what can you tell me about him?”

“He was a heckuva kid with a heart of gold. Is that what you’re looking for?” Bernice said. She yanked open a filing cabinet and shoved some papers into it without hesitating. “I mean, he was classy, just like his mama. You’d be proud to have a son like him one day.”

Cal paused for a moment as Bernice’s last comment sank in. He would’ve been proud to have
any
son at this point in his life, part of the reason for his trip here in the first place. Yet he couldn’t let such thoughts distract him. “Did Tre’vell have any enemies?”

Bernice stopped her busy work, something Cal figured was unnecessary and designed to impress him. She looked up at him over the top of her glasses. “Enemies? In Saint-Parran? Son, you’ve got a lot to learn about this place. We all need each other around here. We might have a few family spats here and there, but the residents who live here year-round would never do something like this to one another—I don’t care if they are drunk as a skunk sliding off their stool at Wahoo’s Watering Hole. People don’t kill each other around here.”

Cal took note of Bernice’s careful word usage. “What about residents that don’t live here year-round?”

Bernice threw her hands up in the air as she answered. “Oh, now, I can’t vouch for them. Who knows what they’d do? We sure do appreciate their money, but not their company. Most of ’em are harmless, enjoyin’ their dwindlin’ days here on earth. But there are a few jokers I wouldn’t invite to my Aunt Lettie’s Christmas brunch, if you know what I mean.” She gave him a little wink.

Cal was pretty sure he knew what she meant. He gave her a little wink back. “I appreciate your help, Miss Grant.”

“Please, call me Bernice,” she shot back. “You let me know if I can help you with anything else or if you want to know where the best place to get a sweet tea is in this town.”

“Wouldn’t that be Lagniappe Café?” Cal asked as he looked back at Potter, who remained quiet throughout their conversation.

“You’re either a quick learner or Phil here’s already told you that Lagniappe Café is the only restaurant in town.”

Cal nodded and smiled. “I do have one more question for you.”

“Shoot, honey.”

“Where can we find Sheriff Mouton?”

“You won’t find him around here, but ole Phil can take you to him. He’s most likely shootin’ up a few targets out at Willie’s old place.”

Cal looked at Potter as if to ask if he knew where this location was.

Potter nodded. “I can take you there. Let’s go.”

Cal smiled and thanked Bernice again for her help.

After they exited the office, Potter chuckled to himself as he unlocked his truck.

“What are you laughing about?” Cal asked as he pulled himself aboard.

“That Bernice,” he said as he fired up the engine. “She’s a character now. But I think she warmed up to you right nice.”

“I wasn’t sure at first. I thought she was going to bite my head off.”

Potter eased the truck on the road and glanced over at Cal. “She still might.”

***

Fifteen minutes later, Potter wheeled his truck onto a piece of property that looked more abandoned than Cal imagined. Rotten fence posts struggled to hold strands of rusty barbed wire. A dirt driveway riddled with potholes led them to a house that looked like it might not survive the next strong breeze. With an auburn-colored tin roof leaning into the interior of the house, the structure looked more like a scrap heap.

“Welcome to Willie Hebert’s old farm,” Potter announced. He slowed down as they neared the house.

“Somebody lives here?” Cal asked.

“Shoot, no. Somebody
lived
here. The late great Mr. Willie Hebert.”

“And what happened to Willie?”

“Gator got him. He already had one bum leg from an alligator attack as a kid. Guess it came back to finish the job.”

“He died from an alligator bite?”

“I wouldn’t call it a bite—more like a maulin’. Nobody knows for sure how long his body was sittin’ out in the sun. Or if he looked so bad because of the alligator or the other wild critters that munched on him after he was dead. Either way, ole Willie’s funeral was a closed casket service.”

“I didn’t think alligators were all that dangerous.”

“Stick around—and watch yer back. You’ll find out soon enough just how dangerous they are.”

Potter parked and exited the vehicle with Cal in tow. The eerie silence soon vanished amidst an eruption of gunshots. Cal jumped and ducked, fearing someone was shooting at him. Potter chuckled before grabbing him by the arm.