Killer Cousins (24 page)

“We need another round of all this.” I pointed to the group’s half-filled glasses.

“Oh, yeah,” the biggest guy said.

“I’ll take water.” I glanced at all of the tables holding young people. “And let’s have refills for everyone.”

Cheers and whoops resounded.

I stood, moving my face close to Kern Parfait’s. “Again you’re dressed spotlessly,” I said. “And there’s not a speck of grass or dust on your shiny shoes. Why was there grass in the cuff of your slacks the day Pierce Trottier di
ed?”

His teeth clenched while he whispered, “Don’t ever come here again.”

“The grass was cut outside my cousin’s fence that day.” I pulled two hundred-dollar bills from my purse and shoved them at him, speaking louder than he did. “I’ll enter this joint any time I want.”

“Yeah, you’re right!” kids hollered. They were stomping their feet and pounding on tables while I strolled out.

Getting inside my car, I sat quietly. I didn’t know that I’d accomplished anything in there except making its owner angry. Oh, I did help feed the masses.

I grinned. Those growing young adults needed nourishment, although double doses of ice cream and syrup and surgery fruit might not be the first requirement on the food chart.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten a thing yet today. I always ate breakfast, but not today because of Gil’s visit to Stevie’s house. And now the sweet scent of ice cream remained with me. I needed food.

I also needed to see Gil and find out how he was doing.

Chapter 22

The parking lot at Cajun Delights held only nine vehicles. Nine. And it was almost noon.

I parked there and checked my car’s clock. Twelve-thirty.

Maybe they were closed. I strode to the front door, pulled it open, and went inside.

The vast room filled with black-and-white squares on tablecloths looked like it waited for massive checkers games. No music played. The restaurant was almost silent. No seafood scents.

A waiter stepped up to my side.

“You’re open?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am, we opened a couple of weeks ago. Would you like a table near a window? And will you be eating by yourself?” His voice was void of cheer.

We moved farther into the restaurant. Four men in work clothes ate together. I saw Gil, the only other person eating. He sat at his table, gaze down. He looked solemn.

“I’ll eat with him,” I told my waiter.

“Oh, yes, ma’am.”

Gil only glanced up when I stepped near. He didn’t smile—probably a first for him when he saw me. “Hello,” he said, tone lifeless.

“Hello.”

The waiter drew a chair back for me, the chair Fawn had sat in when she’d died last night.

I took a breath and sat in it. “I don’t need a menu,” I told the waiter. “I’d like seafood gumbo, please, with iced tea.”

He went off. I edged my chair closer to the table. Envisioned the white gumbo bowl at this place, Fawn’s face inside it.

I shoved the chair back and stood. “Four chairs at this table,” I told Gil. “I pick the one closer to you.” I took the chair beside his, leaned over, and kissed his cheek.

“I wonder if anyone will ever want to sit there again.” Gil gloomily stared at the chair Fawn had died in.

“Oh, sure,” I said with little conviction. “People will hardly even know about it.”

His gaze speared my eyes. He looked at Fawn’s chair that I’d left. He looked at me.

Enough said.

I drank some tea the waiter set in front of me. Its coldness going down accentuated how tight my throat had become.

Gil stared across the room, gaze vacant. His gaze had always held his vision for an even better life than he already had. And whenever he gazed at me, his gaze held love. Lust. A mingling of both.

But not today.

I touched his arm. “You could get rid of that chair. Put a new one there.”

“I’ll attach a sign—I’m brand new, not the chair a woman died on.”

“I see your point.”

“This is rush hour. Or should be.” He scanned his nearly empty building. “A birthday party was scheduled at noon. It was cancelled. So were three group reservations.” He scraped his fork alongside a flounder stuffed with crabmeat languishing in his plate.

“Last night I saw a waiter stop you when you were on your way to our table. And I heard raised voices exchanged between your managers.”

Gil shook his head. “Both managers seem competent, but there’s a problem. He often runs late. She voices her unhappiness in front of customers.”

“Customers did seem to notice.”

His expression darkened. “Those are situations I’ll need to deal with. I’ve spoken with both of them about those habits they need to break, or I’ll have to hire new people.”

“Hiring competent people to run your business can be tough, especially when you don’t even live in their state.”

“You know how that is,” he said.

I nodded. We quietly sat, hanging our heads. The waiter brought my gumbo.

“I need to wash my hands,” I told Gil. “They’re sticky.” The stickiness came from syrup on the table where I’d sat at Parfait’s. I didn’t need to tell him I’d gone there to nose around.

He didn’t seem to notice as I walked away.

I soaped my hands in the restroom. A toilet flushed. Good. Maybe new customers had come in, and one made a pit stop here.

A stall door opened. It was only Babs, the manager. She nodded at me and washed her hands.

I dried my fingers. “You don’t like to drive at night,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen you getting annoyed with the night manager. I’m Cealie, a friend of Gil’s. We met at the supermarket near the grapes,” I added to reassure her I wasn’t a person off the street trying out psychic mumbo jumbo.

“Yes. You’re right. I can’t see well driving when it’s dark.”

“I knew it. I’m the same way. Ever since I turned forty, I’ve had problems seeing to drive at night.”

She gave me a small smile, dried her hands, and walked toward the exit.

“I really think you should give him a chance,” I said, and she turned to listen. “Jake. He might frustrate you now and have faults, especially not being on time. But you could help him with that. He just seems like a good person.”

“Yes. Well…” She nodded briefly and went out.

I happily sighed. I loved to play matchmaker.

Gil didn’t think it was a good idea since he believed people meant for each other would find each other on their own. He probably wouldn’t like to know I’d tried fixing up people he’d hired, especially since he was having problems with them.

But he’d be pleased if they started dating and became happy with each other instead of miserable. Then this restaurant would become more cheerful when they were together.

I smiled as I walked out to meet Gil. Passing the bar, I heard muted voices from the wall TV and glanced there.

A national news station showed my face. I stood among others outside Cajun Delights, the restaurant where they were telling the world a woman had died with her face in a bowl of gumbo.

My legs wobbled. News stations were showing this everywhere. What might this coverage do to all of Gil’s restaurants?

I rushed to the table, hoping he hadn’t seen or heard that news. Maybe the cause of Fawn’s death, a natural cause, would be discovered shortly, and all of this horror would be over.

Gil sat, his expression still sad. I forced a smile and sat with him. I picked at my gumbo, which was cooler than I liked, but didn’t want to complain or send it to get reheated. Gil didn’t need any more complaints. I dreaded having him learn about making the national news.

“You aren’t eating?” I asked.

He didn’t hold any silverware or drink. His stuffed flounder, normally a choice entrée, was surely cold. “I need to go to the bathroom,” he said.

“The men’s one isn’t working?”

“It works fine.”

“Then why don’t you go?”

He grimaced. Took a deep breath. Bent forward.

“Oh, my gosh, you must be really hurt.”

Gil gave me a forced smile. Creases formed between his eyes. He let out a moan.

Tears warmed my eyes. “Can I do anything?”

His smile widened. Still didn’t get happy. “After the customers leave, I’ll try getting there.”

Ooh, how badly he must hurt.

There were customers at only two places—the four men and me. The men were paying for their meals. I gobbled my lukewarm gumbo so I could leave, too.

Gil’s face looked drawn and expressed pain when I tossed down my napkin.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He seemed to be gritting his teeth. Shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good luck. Call me.” I pecked a kiss on his cheek and went off.

Driving away, I imagined Gil shoving himself up with much effort, then hobbling and moaning to reach the bathroom.

My chest ached for what I had done to him. The more I envisioned Gil hobbling, the angrier I became. I’d only struck him out of fear—the fear that came from two people near me dying.

I needed to learn what caused at least one of those deaths. I needed more answers. At least one person—or group—that I didn’t trust should be available now.

People often made up excuses as crutches for their negative behavior. Some of them went to confession at churches. Maybe I could kick away one man’s crutch and draw out a confession on my own. I whipped my car around the corner and headed for Our Lady of Hope.

Chapter 23

Sunlight glittered against the church’s steep windows, momentarily blinding me as I drove near the church. No cars around. No people visible. No sound except my shoes patting on dirt while I got out and walked to the church.

I tried both doors. Locked.

Trotting to the side wall, I peeked in a long window.

The confessional door was closed. No motion. Not one person.

The house beyond the driveway looked extra small. Wooden frame, natural finish, a tiny porch. I walked across the dirt road, stepped onto the porch, and rang the doorbell to what I imagined was the priest’s house.

No response.

I rang and rang it again, more frustrated by the moment. I needed to question someone, needed some answers. Needed to get rid of the feeling that I’d caused Gil anguish. Stevie wasn’t happy with me, either.

The bell might not work, I decided, and slammed my fist against the door. Instead of finding solutions, I was bruising my knuckles.

I breathed in deeply and turned to go.

“Yes?” a woman said, holding the door open.

“You’re one of the twins.”

She nodded. “Lark.” Lark looked exhausted. Mascara smudged under her droopy eyes. Other makeup was bright red on her lips and cheeks. She wore a flimsy pink robe.

This didn’t look good. If this was the priest’s house, she probably wasn’t his housekeeper or the cook taking a brief nap before she washed the lunch dishes.

“I’d like to come in.”

“Father’s not here. It’s just me.”

“You’ll do fine.”

Unhappily, she let me inside.

Blue. Bright, in-your-face ice blue, the same color as the shirt Pierce Trottier had worn when he died. That’s what the little house held.

We walked directly into the petite living room with blue walls. Lark dropped to a cushioned blue chair and indicated I should sit on the blue sofa. I sat and scanned wall pictures—outdoor scenes in navy frames. The coffee table painted ice blue. Through a door I saw an old-time stove in what seemed to be a matchbox kitchen, reminding me I needed to buy Stevie one. The other door was shut.

“So Father lives here?” I asked.

“Yes. And sometimes he lets us stay.”

“Ah.” It was worse than I thought. He let how many stay? Both twins? All four women?

I didn’t want to envision that scene. I stared at the bright blue coffee table, my stomach churning from being engulfed with the solitary color, the color of the dead man’s shirt. “He favors blue, doesn’t he?”

Lark leaned forward, her face sincere. “He’s a good man, no matter what you think.”

I forced a half smile. “I’m sure he is.”

“I mean it. Father is a wonderful man.”

I kept nodding. I knew how it felt when a woman was convinced that a man was wonderful.

“We’re hookers,” Lark blurted.

“No!” I said in a shocked tone.

I wanted to gush about how I couldn’t believe it, but could not make myself utter one lying word.

“Me and Clark. I don’t know about Sue and Lois. I think so, but they won’t admit it.”

“Who would’ve guessed?”

“I worked last night and was taking a nap.” She rubbed at the mascara smudges under her eyes. “Father’s been trying to get us to stop our profession. He really is a good person.”

“Lark, did he know Pierce Trottier?”

“The man that died? I heard Father mention him once. Don’t remember what he said.” She reached out and squeezed my fingers. “Father Paul Edward always behaves like a gentleman.”

“Then why are you here and dressed like that?”

She stared at her robe. “I should’ve changed. But he left right after I got here. He lets us stay when we don’t have a place.” Seeing the accusation in my face, she said, “We don’t sleep with him. He sleeps in his bed whenever we need to come here to rest, and we get the sofa or bring a sleeping bag and stay in this room.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“He only has one bedroom. He offered his room and said he’d sleep in here. But the only way we’ll come is if he stays in his bed, and we crash in another spot.”

I leaned closer. Her stale liquor breath made me draw back. “I saw all of you getting condoms a few days ago. You were laughing and picking out condoms with a priest—who happens to also be a man.”

She shoved back against her chair. “He’s been trying to get us to quit hooking.”

I skimmed her tired face and pink robe. “It doesn’t look like he succeeded.”

She turned her eyes away. Kept quiet a moment. Then faced me. “No, me and the other girls have kept our profession that’s paid our rent for a while.”

“There are other professions. Other jobs.”

“I know. Father tells us about some of them. He was trying to help us that day. He insisted that if we wouldn’t change our ways yet, we needed to use condoms. He made sure we knew where to find them.”