Night Watchman (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 8) (13 page)

The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway calls itself the longest bridge in the world, at 24 miles, though other bridge builders— in China and Turkey for instance— have challenged the claim. It is, however you measure it, inarguably long, and it crosses the wide, brackish inland sea that makes New Orleans almost an island. It provides an option for urban sprawlers who, if they don’t mind the distance, can spread out into the rolling piney woods of St. Tammany Parish to create gated communities, Christian schools, and golf courses wherever they like. The drive to get to and from the Northshore gives thousands of daily commuters the opportunity to meditate, to explore books-on-tape, or to read all of their text messages while gazing over the long miles of blue crab trap floats running beside the bridge. They could stare at the distant white sailboats, cruising in the sun’s glare and captained by people far more fortunate than the working stiffs behind the wheel.

The morning drive northward was opposite to the commuters’ direction and therefore quite peaceful. There was a light chop in the lake. Its sparkling waters stretched to every horizon. The morning sun was off to the right, not blinding, but golden. White birds searched for trout, and Tubby cranked up Chuck Berry singing “Johnny B. Goode” on WWOZ.

To get to Folsom, once off the bridge, you had to pass first through miles of strip malls and traffic lights, which gave drivers time to ponder questions like who might St. Tammany have been, until at last the Walmarts and subdivisions gave way to “Acreage For Sale” signs. Tubby realized that he was still running a bit early, so he poked along, even stopping at a fruit stand to encourage local food by buying some fresh honey. It would end up in his pantry back home with all the rest of his unopened jars of country honey, craft-fair chow-chow and mysterious jalapeno salsas.

He followed his MapQuest directions to a narrow blacktop road that wound around rolling pasturelands and past the occasional polo club. Tubby had never watched a polo match, but he knew it to be a pastime for the wealthy. Peggy O’Flarity’s driveway was gravel, and he slowed to spare the paint job on his restored Camaro. A large split-level brick home surrounded by hedges and trees with bright flowers appeared, and his hostess was in a porch swing waiting. He suppressed the temptation to fishtail as he came around her circular drive.

“Here you are,” she said happily, rising to greet him as he climbed out of his car.

He gave her the proper kiss on the cheek.

She offered Sangria from a pitcher afloat with orange slices, which he naturally accepted, though it wasn’t his drink. He sat down on the porch rail facing her in the swing— all very much as he imagined a proper country squire would do. The sun was on his back. It lit up her face and brightened her white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Are you hungry or would you like to see my place first?” she asked.

“I’d like to see your place. It’s very nice to be out of the city.”

“Isn’t it? Coming here is just so invigorating. Do you smell the hay?”

“Yes, now that you mention it.”

“They just cut it yesterday,” she said proudly.

“How many horses do you have?”

“Only six. And one is too old to ride.” He thought six was quite a large number.

“What do they all do?” he asked.

She smiled at the question. “Oh, I ride them. I also have friends who join me for what we call ‘expeditions.’ I have a groom who takes care of the stables and all that.”

“Do you have a cook and a butler, too?”

“No,” she laughed. “My horses are cared for far better than I am. I actually have to cook and dress myself.” She was wearing jeans, with the white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and a substantial gold necklace with a green stone that fell about where the top button of her shirt would have been.

After they finished their beverages, she took him walking around the estate. They visited a hay barn, the stables, the head of a trail she said stretched for miles over the farms of the other landed gentry, and a spot she liked where you could look over a pond at a long green horizon of trees. She said it was a special place for sunsets. Then they went back to the house for lunch, Tubby nodding while she chatted away like a tour guide.

Lunch would be nothing fancy, she said. Just a lump crab salad with an aioli dressing made of garlic, olive oil, lemon juice and egg yolks, served on crispy tortillas, which she admitted she had made. He was quite bowled over, and he also appreciated her simply and tastefully furnished house. The furniture was contemporary. There was incredible art on the walls, oils, watercolors, photographs, and glass art pieces. They sat in the kitchen, and she served them more wine.

“What do you really do for a living?” she asked at one point.

“Mostly I represent people whom I find interesting and try to get the best possible results for them. I’m a problem solver.”

“Are you an ethical lawyer?” she asked, coyly flashing her eyes at him.

“I never lie to the judge,” Tubby said. “And I never screw a client. But I do try to get paid.”

“That all sounds very sensible.”

She cleared the plates into the sink, and he helped. They talked again on the porch, and he learned that she had gone to school at the University of Arkansas, where one of her daughters was now enrolled. Another daughter was about to get married in Nashville. The ex-husband, the attorney in New Orleans, was bending over backwards to pay for the wedding in ways too splendid to comprehend. Tubby was amazed that he didn’t recognize the guy’s name, but the fact was he didn’t travel in the same circles as most of the big-firm guys.

“So would you like to go riding?” she asked.

Rashly, Tubby said yes. It will all come back to me, he thought. Apparently his willingness to have an adventure had been anticipated, because two of the horses were already saddled and waiting outside the barn.

“You won’t want to push Ramses very hard,” Peggy said. “He’s getting so old and lazy.”

“All the better.” Tubby managed to mount without assistance. Peggy did so far more gracefully and she knew comforting words to whisper in her nag’s ear.

They took off on a leisurely trot across a wide field, and Tubby found that a measure of his teenage horsemanship did come back. They followed a farm lane over the hills that had views of far-away mansions and miles of green pine trees. More than two hours passed this way, and the sun began to set. Tubby regretted that the day was ending and told her so. She had obviously enjoyed herself, too, so he took a chance.

“Can I take you out to dinner?” he asked.

“Tonight? You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to if there’s somewhere you like. Where do people eat around here?”

“There are a couple of choices.”

“Do they sell wine?”

“Are you kidding? Even the gas stations around here have full bars. Gus’s is the best food in Folsom, but it’s mostly breakfast and po-boys. We’re only a hop and a skip from Covington, and we could get a table at Del Porto or Ox Lot 9.”

* * *

The meal at the Ox Lot, named for an earlier, more rustic period in the town’s history, was over the top. They drank chicory-infused Manhattans and Premiere Cru Bordeaux, and they ate Oyster Patties, Whole Roasted Red Snapper, and Grilled Colorado Venison, which was prepared with the sort of things that make a chef’s eyes sparkle, like rutabaga puree, roasted baby turnips, Tangipahoa Parish kale, beech mushrooms, and green pepper
jus
. Tubby was feeling pleasured beyond belief. Peggy was stroking his ankle with the pointy toe of her high heels. This restaurant was in an old and beautifully restored railside hotel, once the town’s center, and Tubby was leaning closer to suggest that they get a room. But before he could pounce, she got a grip on herself and said, in a tone not to be argued with, that it was time to go home.

Almost always a gentleman, he steered them to his black muscle car, and they set off on the two-lane blacktop northward. They laughed most of the way while listening to greatest hits on the radio. He was proud of getting her home without incident, though he had some doubts whether he could sail through a sobriety test.

Pulling into her driveway, she asked, “Do you think you can make it back to New Orleans?”

“Oh, yeah,” he proclaimed, before realizing it was a trick question. “Honestly, I do think I can. But would you like to do this again sometime?”

“I’d love to.”

Peggy popped out of the car. “Let’s see whether you can get out of the driveway.”

As a matter of fact, he did very well, only flirting with the lawn twice.

“I should have handled that differently,” Tubby told himself as he drove down the dark lonely road. But he was actually quite satisfied with the evening. Important groundwork had been laid. She wanted to see him again. The black sky was full of amazing stars. You couldn’t see a show like this in the city.

These country people drive like maniacs, Tubby thought. There was a pick-up truck, or maybe a large SUV, racing from behind him. Tubby braced himself, afraid that he was going to get rear-ended. The crazy driver slowed just in time. He was prevented from passing by a sharp curve in the road and a double-yellow line and settled in a few yards behind the Camaro’s rear bumper. Tubby drove erratically, almost blinded by the high-riding vehicle’s blazing headlamps.

“What the hell!” he cursed. The blacktop straightened out and the truck could pass, but it hung onto Tubby’s tail for another painful quarter-mile before suddenly pulling around. For a few seconds it travelled beside the Camaro, long enough for Tubby to see that he was aside a black Lincoln Navigator. Then the Navigator tried to force him off the highway into a ditch. Tubby swerved to avoid contact and floored it. The Camaro was old, but it was fast. The Lincoln, however, effortlessly kept pace. It swerved to tap his front fender, knocking Tubby off-kilter and onto a nonexistent shoulder. Tin cans and rocks banged against the Camaro’s undercarriage. He was zooming straight at a row of mailboxes marking the turnoff to a side road.

A loud crack and a flash in the night. “They’re shooting my tires!” he thought. Right before crashing into the mailboxes he yanked the wheel hard to the right. He took out at least one of the posts, doing untold damage to his car’s bodywork, and gyrated madly down the side dirt road with all four tires still in commission.

Tubby simultaneously cut his headlights and gave it lots of gas. Sightlessly he went flying into a web of farms and fields with no illumination other than the moon and the dots of burglar floodlights standing watch over distant garages and tractor sheds. Thick woods crowded in from both sides. There were no people here.

He stuck to the middle of the rutted roadway, hearing stones ricochet off his pan, seeing and then not seeing the headlamps of the pursuing vehicle. He picked the left fork at a crossroads, then took another left into a grassy path marked “No Trespassing. Occidental Tree Farm.” He quickly bashed into a dense stand of scraggly pine plantings, where the car came to a rest. Tubby turned the engine off.

The pursuing vehicle was out there somewhere. Tubby could almost hear it. Far away a semi downshifted and gunned its engine on the highway. In time, these human sounds faded away. Insects and cicadas buzzed.

Tubby gave his car a good long rest. The night’s noises, crickets and tree frogs, and what might have been a barn owl, got louder. Way off, he thought he heard a woman’s voice calling— maybe telling someone it was time to come inside for bed. He got his breathing under control and swatted a bug.

After another fifteen minutes he turned the key and was a little surprised that the Camaro started up. It was almost buried in the shrubbery. Backing out without lights, he no longer cared about scratches on his paint. Worse things could and probably would happen. Very slowly he tried to retrace his steps, but was soon lost on the dirt roads. At least he was alone. Finally, aided by luck, he reached Highway 25 and had a decision to make. He did not believe that his assailant was an insane stranger who just liked shooting at people. He believed him to be a calculating murderer from New Orleans who intentionally wanted to kill him. If so, danger was to the city in the south, and refuge was to the horse farm in the north, back toward the protective arms of Peggy O’Flarity.

Tubby made his turn and went a mile in the dark before an oncoming truck beeped at him until he flipped on his headlamps. Driving slowly, checking all his mirrors, he found himself again at the O’Flarity driveway. Carefully and cautiously, he turned in. The house was dark when he parked out front, but a security lamp automatically switched on when he got out of the car.

There was a rustling noise inside when he rang the bell. A curtain by the door parted, then the door opened. She was wearing a plush white robe, and her hair was mussed up.

“Uh,” he said and held out his hands.

“You want a cup of coffee?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen the
loup-garou.
”

A lot happened while Tubby was away. On that same Saturday morning while he was lingering over eggs at the diner, Cherrylynn found out that her boyfriend, Rusty, had not come home during the night. She knew he wasn’t in her bed, obviously, but neither was he on the sofa, where he sometimes crashed if he came in plastered. She thought about calling him up and speaking her mind then and there, but it dawned on her that she just didn’t care. This had been going on for too long, ever since he quit his offshore job. To say it straight, she was over him. This was a liberating revelation.

Delivering the news to Rusty wasn’t going to be much fun though. He had never dared to get violent with her, but he sure could get loud. Cherrylynn pondered this over a cup of herbal tea and made up her mind. She stuffed all of her boyfriend’s clothes and junk into the suitcase and duffle bag he stowed in a closet, then put them outside onto the apartment’s tiny front porch. She set the deadbolt on the front door so that it could only be opened from within.

Suddenly she was in a hurry to get out of there and avoid a confrontation, with all the yelling and door-pounding that might entail. She ran to grab her purse, a banana, and a yogurt and exited out the back. She had never given Rusty a key to that door.