Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (24 page)

She laughed nervously. “It can’t be soon enough for me.”

I laughed with her. “Don’t worry. It’ll all be over before you
know it. And then it will be worth it. I promise you.”

After she hung up, I sat staring at the receiver, trying to
decide if I should take my next step now or wait. I really wanted to see just how Janice’s investment turned out. Would the
guy skip with her twenty-five Gs, or milk her for more?

The gray kitten rubbed against my ankles. Absently, I picked
him up and scratched the back of his neck. He purred softly.

I thought about Alice Baglino. She was nervous. Obviously, she
was not a confrontational person, and the enormity of her action
frightened her. What if Nelson was extradited, and she dropped
the charges? The guy would vanish faster than my old man could
down a can of beer.

The smart move was to wait until the call from Phoenix, the
call telling me that Wylie Carey of Explorer Apartments had
indeed filed charges as he promised. Then I could move in confidence, knowing I had two shots at Vanderweg, knowing that
the judge had two shots at him. And if Alice Baglino knew
someone else had also filed against the creep, then she wouldn’t
be as likely to change her mind.

My stomach growled, and I remembered I’d skipped lunch.
The coffee at Janice’s had filled me up, and I’d been too busy
with the reports, and convincing Chief Pachuca to give me a
hand.

Except for beer, a half stick of margarine, a jar of pickles,
and a slice of dried bologna curling up at the edges, the refrigerator was bare.

“Well, Cat,” I muttered, holding the tiny kitten up to my face.
“At least you have something to eat. I’ve got to go to the store.”

I called Travis County Hospital after pouring Cat some
nuggets. Carrie Cochran remained in ICU. And still no visitors.
I crossed my fingers. But a nagging spark flickered to life in the
back of my head. What if the name she supplied was not
Harper Weems?

I shook my head. “It has to be.”

The night was raw. A fine mist decided to join the chilly air,
and between the two, even the short walk to my pickup left me
shivering. I flipped on the heater, and within four or five blocks,
warm air began filling the cab. Cold weather had always been
courtbouillon or gumbo or stew weather in my family. I decid ed to whip up a pot of beef stew with thick gravy. Hot stew over
steaming rice would take the chill out of anyone’s bones.

Usually, I shopped about once a month, stocking up on nutritious staples such as beer, chips, lunchmeats, TV dinners,
ketchup, and whatever happened to appeal to me as I pushed
the cart down the aisles. I even picked up food for Oscar, my
little Albino Barb exotic fish, when he was still alive. This time,
I picked up a couple of cans of Fancy Feast cat food for Cat.
Any items I needed in between, I purchased at a local drive-in.

Once back at my place, I tossed my coat on the couch,
flipped on the TV, put rice on to steam, fed Cat, and then
whipped up a chocolate-colored roux.

Roux is the Louisiana secret of delicious gumbos, jambalayas, courtbouillons, stews, and etouffees.

Roux

Stir CONSTANTLY over medium flame until chocolate
colored. If it’s black, it’s burned.

Add 4 cups water to roux

Then for the beef stew.

Boil beef cubes for thirty minutes, Until tender, then add
remaining ingredients and simmer for one and a half
hours.

Serve over steaming rice.

Now steaming hot beef stew can only be fully appreciated
with an ice-cold beer. That being the sacred tradition, I did not
consider imbibing a can as a violation of my efforts to stay
away from alcohol.

So, with beer in hand, I carried a plate of steaming rice
smothered with succulent beef stew and spiced with several
shots of Louisiana Hot Sauce into the living room where I
plopped down on the couch just as one of my favorite old flicks,
The Maltese Falcon, came on cable.

“Well, Cat,” I said, glancing at the kitten who was sitting on
the coffee table, sniffing my bowl of stew. “Cold outside. Warm
inside. Good food, good beer, good company, a good movie,
and tomorrow, nail the lid on the Holderman case. What more
could I ask for?”

Just then, a local news bulletin interrupted the opening credits of the late movie.

A grim-faced reporter stared at the camera. Behind her,
lights flashed in front of an apartment complex. The wind
whipped her blond hair in her eyes, and she drew her shoulders
together in an effort to ward off the cold. “Tonight,” she began,
“a teacher in a nearby school district was found dead in his
apartment by one of the maintenance men at Crystal Creek
Complex. Less than an hour ago, Amal Washington discovered schoolteacher Harper L. Weems dead in his condo at this exclusive complex. According to Mr. Washington, it appeared
Weems had been stabbed several times. He was pronounced
dead at the scene. Investigators have no comment.”

The reporter continued, but I heard nothing. My ears roared.
I stared at the blurred images on the screen in disbelief.

Abruptly, the daze enveloping me shattered when I saw
Chief Pachuca, wrapped in his topcoat against the weather,
stride purposefully from one of the condos.

Several reporters converged on him. He waved them away and
continued his hunched-forward, headlong stride to his cruiser.

I stared at the plate of beef stew on the coffee table in front
of me. I pushed it away. For the first time in over forty years, I
had no taste for stew.

Nor for beer.

The only drink that could handle the news of Weems’ death
was bourbon. I poured four fingers, downed it, and poured four
more. The idea of getting stinking drunk suddenly took on a new
appeal for me. For the last few months, I had been fairly temperate, which doesn’t mean I laid off the booze the way I had
promised AA, but that I didn’t get falling down drunk. So maybe
I was entitled. I knew I was rationalizing, but I didn’t care.

The shattering jangle of the doorbell followed by a pounding
at the door brought that idea to a screeching halt. I yanked the
door open, and my jaw dropped open.

Standing in the door, soaked to the skin, his teeth chattering
and shivering uncontrollably, stood Stewart Thibodeaux, my
cousin. “Tony,” he mumbled. “I … I …”

His words galvanized me into action. I pulled him inside.
“Get in here, Stewart, quick. Get out of the weather.”

He stumbled in, shivering and dripping water on the floor.
His teeth chattered as he hugged himself. “I … I’m freezing.”

“Stop talking. Get out of those clothes.” I tossed him a towel
and rummaged up some of my sweats. “Here. Put these on “

His whole body shivered as he managed to slip into the thick
sweatshirt and pants.

“Drink this,” I handed him my tumbler of bourbon.

He downed it in one gulp while I retrieved a blanket from the
bedroom and proceeded to wrap it about him. He plopped on
the couch and hunched over, trying to contain what little heat
his body was generating.

Hurrying into the kitchen, I returned with a plate of stew.
“Here. Eat some of this.”

With shaking hands, Stewart managed to gulp a few bites,
and slowly, his trembling body relaxed. Only then did I ask,
“What are you doing out in this weather without a coat? You get
sick, son, your daddy’ll kick my rear.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together.

“Stewart? What’s wrong?”

Finally, he shook his head and forced a weak grin. “Just cold,
Tony. Left my coat back in the apartment.” He hesitated, then
added, “then my car broke down a couple of blocks from here.
I can’t get it to the shop until tomorrow, so I figured I’d spend
the night here, if you don’t mind.”

Something didn’t sound right, but I decided not to push the
issue. In the morning would be time enough. “You’re welcome
here anytime, Stewart. You know that.”

I awakened with Harper Weems still on my mind. Rolling
groggily from bed, I stumbled into the living room and jerked
to a halt when I saw the couch on which Stewart had slept was
empty. “Stewart?” I glanced toward the dark kitchen. “Where
in the … ,” I muttered, turning on the kitchen light.

The only room left was the bathroom, and it too was empty.
Muttering a curse, I dialed his cell phone. No answer, so I left
voice mail, a stern rebuke for his not telling me he was leaving.

Dressing quickly, I scoured the neighborhood for several
blocks in every direction, but I couldn’t find his Pontiac. Maybe
he called a wrecker after I went to bed, I told myself. “But that
makes no sense either,” I mumbled as I headed for Safford High
School.

The drizzle had stopped, but the clouds remained.

Tim Briggs and Marvin Handwell were leaning against the
railing on the front steps of Safford High School when I drove
up at 7:15. They cut across the lawn toward me. The boys wore
tight jeans, Polo shirts, and letter jackets.

I remained beside my truck and waved.

They waved back, but there were no smiles on their faces.

“You heard about Weems, huh?” I said when they stopped in
front of me.

Marvin scuffed the toe of his Nike running shoe in the gravel. “Yes, sir. I couldn’t believe it “

“Yeah,” said Tim. “Why, I saw him in the hall just yesterday
in that squeaky wheelchair of his.”

“Me too,” said Marvin. He looked up from the ground at me.
“Sure hard to believe.”

“That’s what you get when you mess with drugs, boys.” I
hesitated, chastising myself. This wasn’t the time to preach.

Tim cocked his head to one side. “You think it had to do with
drugs, Mr. Boudreaux? Really?”

“I don’t know, boys. Honest. But, to be truthful, I don’t know
what else could have caused it. Drug dealers have short lives.
Sooner or later, a bigger one moves in and decides to take over
the turf. Something has got to give.”

Marvin kept his eyes on the ground. Tim shook his head slowly. “I don’t guess we can help you now, huh, Mr. Boudreaux?”