Killer Cousins (18 page)

No, no, Cealie. You are woman, remember?

He could have smiled, which would have made me angry and broken the moment. Gil might have smiled because he knew the dilemma jamming my mind. He knew me, and knew I wanted sex with him.

He was also a man, one with desire in his eyes and in his heavy breaths. He didn’t break the moment, dammit.

I stepped around the barstool. Moving close to him, I swallowed. Watched his eyes appear to darken while I stepped nearer.

Da-dunt, da-dunt, da-dunt.

“Does that make you want to dance?” I asked Gil, moving away from him and grabbing my phone.

Harsh eyes told all before he spoke. “You don’t have to get that.”

“Yes, I do.” I needed it for my salvation, to keep me from giving in to what my body wanted, but my mind knew better. It was increasingly harder for mind over body to function when it came to Gil.

I stepped farther from him and cheerily answered my phone.

“Where are you?” Stevie sounded worried.

“At a restaurant. I had lunch.”

“You’re just eating now?”

I eyed Gil, eyeing me. “Yes. Why? Are you home?”

“We’re having recess. I wanted to find out what you were doing.”

“Just—eating.” I broke eye contact with the man making me lust.

“And I wanted to find out what you want for dinner. Would you prefer for me to cook, or for us to go and eat at that Cajun restaurant?”

“No!” I watched Gil and took steps farther away from him, heading for the hallway where we’d entered. “That restaurant isn’t open today,” I said to explain my sharp reply to my cousin. I couldn’t tell her the food wasn’t the only tempting thing here. On second thought, I could tell her, but then she might expect to see a romance blossom, and that wasn’t going to happen. I waved good-bye to Gil and mouthed, “Thank you.”

No satisfaction touched his expression. He didn’t wave. Didn’t nod. Gil stood in place in the half-lit kitchen, watching me walk out.

“We could go somewhere else, or I could cook,” Stevie said.

“Don’t worry about cooking.” I made my way through the dim restaurant. “I can pick up something from a supermarket that we could throw in the microwave. I won’t need much to eat.”

“We’ll see. But don’t pick up any food. I need to go outside now and walk around. This is when I want a smoke the most.”

“Exercise is much better. See you later.” I reached the front door, discovered it locked, and grinned. I hadn’t noticed Gil locking us inside. I glanced back and listened for him.

No sound of his approach. He was probably still in the kitchen, unhappily cleaning my mess and putting away my used dishes.

I could at least do that myself, I considered, but only for a moment. And then I turned the lock on the door.

I rushed out and away from Gil’s restaurant.

The moment I drove off from Cajun Delights, my shins hurt.

This wasn’t funny. Had they been hurting all along, but being near Gil made me not notice? Or was the pain starting now, maybe from the position of my legs?

I shifted and gave both legs different angles.

The pain remained. About the width of a dead man’s thighs.

I wiggled my legs, trying to get rid of that feeling and lose the image. The feel of a dead person beneath them and the sight of him stayed. I had to learn more.

I connected with Information on my phone while I drove and had them get me the sheriff’s office. I got Detective Renwick on the line.

“People from your office came to my cousin’s house and took down that yellow tape,” I said. “I’m sure removing it means you have more information about Pierce Trottier’s death.”

“I do.”

“Please tell me.”

“When we’re sure about our findings, I’ll contact you and your cousin.”

“Couldn’t you share a little now? I won’t tell. Promise.”

“It shouldn’t be long. I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.

I needed to get my own information. A combination gas station and pancake house came into view. I hooked into its parking lot and bought a newspaper out front. Inside, I sat at a booth with coffee and turned to the obituaries.

More listings than I would have expected. Almost a whole page worth. Possibly this paper ran obits for longer than one day. I skimmed faces and felt sad for each of them but especially for their families.

Yes!
Pierce Trottier
.

His obit was brief with no picture. I knew what he looked like dead but would have liked to see him with his eyes open. Alive. Flecks of cut grass had been stuck to his shoes, I recalled now, wondering about that since Stevie’s grass was extra long.

He was fifty-three, a native of Tallulah, Mississippi. Survived by a son and a daughter and a cousin, Jenna Griggs. Jenna was his cousin? And curiously, his children weren’t named. Even more curious, his short obituary said no services were held. It did mention that he was studying to become a minister. It didn’t say a thing about his fiancée that Audrey Ray had told me about.

I had little connection to the people in The Quitters Group but knew I would speak with all of them.

A phone book was attached to the public phone. I looked for
Jenna Griggs
. She wasn’t listed. Maybe Stevie had numbers for all of her group members. I still didn’t know how Stevie had not seen Pierce Trottier in their small group. Didn’t know if I believed her.

From The Quitters Group, I had spoken to most of the people away from their meetings. I’d gone to see Father Paul Edward and Ish Muller. Ugh, I hated to think of that scene. Besides those men, there was one other man. And then Stevie and two other women. Fawn, the straw sucker, had come over. Maybe I’d talk to her again, maybe not.

In the phone book, I looked for the man I hadn’t spoken with, recalling his name was like an ice cream treat and started with
P
. I ran my finger down
P’
s.
Parfait
. I’d never eaten or seen a real one, but pictures of them always looked tempting.

The phone book showed no person with that name. It listed a business, Parfait’s Parlor.

I returned inside the pancake shop and asked for directions. A man told me which way to go but had never been to the business.

I drove off, hoping it wasn’t an old-fashioned parlor filled with antiques. I hoped it was an ice cream parlor. I really hoped its owner would be the man I was looking for.

Chapter 16

“Yeah,” I said, seeing that Parfait’s Parlor served ice cream. Even if the guy from Stevie’s quitters’ group wasn’t connected with it, I would enjoy being here. Not that I wasn’t already stuffed. But the pictures outside the building were super tempting.

Parfait’s appeared to be a perfect ice cream parlor. Extra clean outside. The pink, red, and white paint was bright. All of its windows were shiny. Pictures on the windows displayed long-stemmed glasses, wide on top and slender at the bottom. The glasses held tilted layers of multicolored ice cream and crushed fruit and syrup. Whipped cream piled on top. Adding to the temptation, tall plants growing on both sides of the parlor were trimmed to resemble parfait glasses.

My stomach made happy jumps. I parked near four other cars and went in.

Red leather barstools enhanced a counter. Small round tables created intimate eating spaces. A family of three appeared happy, gobbling their parfaits. So did the other eaters, mainly couples. A young guy and girl wearing shirts and caps with pink, red, and white stripes took the orders. No sign of the Parfait man I’d met at the stop-smoking group. Possibly he wasn’t connected to this place.

I really shouldn’t eat more, I told myself, but then convinced myself I should. I’d had gumbo for lunch. Gumbo seemed filling when you ate, but it contained lots of water. I’d probably get hungry again soon. My mind showed me the potato salad and French bread I’d gobbled along with that gumbo, but I blanked out that picture. I wanted a parfait.

“I’ve never eaten one of those,” I told the family at a table. “What kind is good?”

“Chocolate!” the young boy said.

“Chocolate!” the smaller girl repeated.

Both had layers of chocolate syrup with their vanilla ice cream. Chocolate surrounded the girl’s mouth.

“I like crushed pineapple best,” the woman with them said, using her long spoon to dig pineapple out of her glass. “Blueberry is great, too.”

So many choices. I wanted them all.

“I’ll try strawberry and banana,” I told the girl taking orders.

“Yes, ma’am, and would you like chocolate with that?” She must have noticed my indecision. “I’ll put in a little bit, okay?”

“Sure, why not?”

I sat at a table away from other people in case the Parfait man from The Quitters Group was here and I’d get to talk to him. If he wasn’t here, I’d have beautiful scenery through the window. Thriving trees and rolling hills made me think of Our Lady of Hope Church. Why would Father Paul Edward laugh at someone who hung an inflatable woman from his rafters?

“I hope you like it,” the girl who’d taken my order said. She placed a heavenly concoction in front of me. A large cherry topped the swirled whipped cream.

“I’ll blame you if my clothes don’t fit anymore, okay?” I asked her, and she nodded. “Oh, sweetie, is the owner here? And is he a Parfait?”

“Yeah, he’s here. And his name is Parfait. Isn’t that cute?”

“Adorable. Do you think I could talk to him?”

“I’ll check.”

I dug into my parfait. Yum. Sweet layers of red and yellow and white and brown soon lowered in my tall glass.

I was stuffed, but almost half of my parfait remained.

A man walked out from behind the work area. The first thing I noticed was his neat appearance. His extra-wide shoulders looked nice in his knit shirt, and his slacks fit well with no wrinkles. His shoes were highly polished. As he neared my table, I noticed his baby-smooth complexion. He probably didn’t eat the rich treats here.

“I’m Kern Parfait. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, hi. I’m Cealie Gunther. We met at your quitters’ group,” I said, and he looked curious. “I’m Stevie Midnight’s cousin, in town for a visit.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Would you join me a little while?” I waved to an empty chair.

“I’m kind of busy.” But he took a chair across from me.

“This is terrific.” I took another bite of parfait.

“Thank you.” He leaned forward, apparently wanting to return to whatever he was doing.

“You could have called this placed Parfait’s Parfaits,” I said. “That would have been cute. But then you’d have had to put an apostrophe in front of the
s
on the first
Parfait
but not the second one.”

He blinked a couple of times. I couldn’t tell whether he got it. I decided to hurry and get to what I wanted.

“That was so sad about the man from your group dying,” I said.

He nodded, his gaze leveled at me. “It was.”

“I never met him,” I said, and then thought maybe that wasn’t true. I’d found him under my legs. Surely that didn’t really count as a meeting.

Parfait watched me, waiting for my purpose. Which was…?

“Do you have any idea what happened to Pierce Trottier?” I asked. “Or why anybody would want to kill him?”

He leaned closer. “What’s your connection to Pierce? Are you a detective? Journalist?”

A nosy woman
. “He died in my cousin’s yard. I found him.”

This seemed to spark his interest. “Really?” He leaned back. “What did you want to know?”

“What can you tell me about the man? I find myself needing to know about him.”

“He wanted to quit smoking.”

“And did he?”

A corner of Parfait’s lips twitched like he wanted to grin. “Before he died? I don’t know. He didn’t come to the class after we were supposed to quit. I think that’s the day you showed up.”

“I arrived on your group’s quit day. Maybe somebody from the group got so angry after they quit that he or she wanted to kill someone and saw Pierce. Then he became the victim of stop-smoking rage.”

Parfait stared at my face. He did not find any humor in this.

Neither did I. “Please,” I said. “I need all the information I can get about him.”

“He and your cousin never came to class on the same nights.”

“How do you know that? How could you remember who attended each meeting?”

“We’ve been meeting once a week. I always set up the chairs. I open the exact number we’ll need. We’ve always had one extra. Twice, Pierce was absent. Twice, it was your cousin.”

I sighed. “Stevie told me she never met him.”

“And you didn’t believe her?”

“You believe all of your relatives?”

He grimaced. “My uncle’s been locked up for twenty-five years for a murder he told us he didn’t commit.”

“Sorry. What else can you tell me about Mr. Trottier?”

“Else?” His expression blanked. “I didn’t really know him.”

“Did other people from your group know him well?”

“I have no idea. We weren’t a social gathering.” He glanced at the front entrance, where the woman and kids went out. A group of teens headed inside. “I need to go,” he said.

“Thank you for talking to me.”

“I don’t know much to tell you.” He accepted my hand. His grip was firm, as I’d expected. Parfait went off behind the counter. The teens reached it and gave their orders to the young people working there.

I checked the concoction in my dish. The ice cream had melted. My slim lines of colors blended together. I took a bite. Liquid banana split. My stomach had time to know it was extra full. I’d avoided fatty foods like banana splits ever since I’d gotten older and put on weight. For some reason, my height did not continue to expand like my width. I stepped away from the table and stumbled as pain shot across my shins.

I grabbed a tabletop to stop my fall.

Teens looked concerned about me. I shrugged, smiled, and walked out.

The ache will go away. Cealie, you’re okay.

I was normally a positive person. I was positive now that I needed to discover what had happened to the man who’d lain dead under my legs.

Another possibility besides phantom pain came. Maybe when I fell over him, I chipped a bone. That would explain why my shins hurt and I’d almost fallen. I smiled. A bone would heal, and then the ache would go away.