Hair Extensions & Homicide / Supernatural Sinful Box Set

Miss Fortune World: Hair Extensions and Homicide

Frankie Bow

Published by J&R Fan Fiction, 2019.

Copyright © 2019 by Frankie Bow

All rights reserved.

This story is based on a series created by Jana DeLeon. The author of this story has the contractual rights to create stories using the Miss Fortune world. Any unauthorized use of the Miss Fortune world for story creation is a violation of copyright law.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author and the publisher, J&R Fan Fiction, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Stock art: Pixabay, Freepik

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Sinful Science

Chapter 1

I was on my feet before the echoes of the gunshots had died away. The other customers in Francine’s Diner were still seated, staring through the front windows at the empty street and Walter’s General Store across the way.

“Stay inside until I signal that it’s safe,” I said to Gertie, my breakfast companion. “Do not come outside. You understand?”

She swatted my hand away. “Of course I understand, silly. I’m old, not stupid.”

From the doorway of Francine’s Diner, I was able to get a visual on the situation.

Ida Belle. I might have known.

Once upon a time, say a month ago, I would’ve been surprised at the sight of an ancient woman in a turquoise track suit standing on the sidewalk with her hair in rollers, waving a .45 at someone. But that was before I started my undercover assignment in Sinful, Louisiana, population 253, and got to know Gertie and Ida Belle.

Ida Belle’s apparent target looked shaken, but he stood still, making no attempt to evade Ida Belle.

Male. Early twenties. Han Chinese ancestry. Five foot nine, one- thirty. Moderate myopia requires vision correction. Minimal threat.

“Ida Belle!” I heard Gertie cry. I reached across to bar the doorway, but before I could stop her, Gertie had limboed underneath my arm and scampered out.

I turned around to see the rest of the folks in the diner staring at me. I flashed them my best beauty queen smile and ran out after Gertie. We reached Ida Belle and the kid at the same time.

“Ida Belle!” Gertie scolded, “Who is this nice young man, and why are you shooting at him? Look at him, he’s as scared as a rabbit. What’s your name, dear?”

The young man cleared his throat and held his trembling hand out to Gertie.

“I’m Justin Lao,” he said. “Howzit?”

“He’s my new roommate.” Ida Belle dropped her Browning M1911 back into her handbag. “I just saved him from a copperhead.”

She kicked at the ground, launching the lifeless (and now headless) snake into the air. She was playing to the audience. Francine’s customers had all come crowding outside to gawk. They watched the parabolic trajectory of the copperhead’s carcass as it flopped into the tall grass that grew along the side of the road.

“Are you hurt?” I asked the kid.

“Nah, nah. I’m good. Little surprised is all.”

“Well, life in Sinful can be full of surprises,” I said.

“I never seen a snake before, that’s why, Aunty. Except in movies an' li’ dat.”

Did that kid just call me Aunty? I had maybe five years on him. He must have been talking to Ida Belle or Gertie. Unless being undercover in Sinful was aging me even faster than I thought. That was a possibility. For a town two hours outside New Orleans and halfway to nowhere, Sinful had a lot going on.

“Ida Belle,” Gertie said, “why don’t we bring your young friend into Francine’s? He looks like he could use some nice pancakes and a cup of coffee.”

With the snake-shooting spectacle over, the crowd shuffled back into Francine’s to finish their breakfasts. Ida Belle and Justin followed Gertie and me back to our table. I was happy to see that they hadn’t cleared away my plate during my absence. My pancakes were mostly intact, with just the one bite missing, and the whipped cream melting a little around the edges.

Francine, the proprietor, came over in person to refill our coffees and take Ida Belle’s and Justin’s breakfast orders. She lingered by our table to find out what all of the commotion had been about. Francine’s kindly but persistent questioning (I could think of some professional interrogators who could learn a thing or two from her technique) got Justin talking. He was a graduate student, he told us, here to do fieldwork for his master’s degree in conservation biology. He’d never been to Louisiana before. In fact, he’d never been out of Hawaii, except for a few trips to Las Vegas with his family. His friends back home were never going to believe he’d had a close encounter with a deadly copperhead his first day out. He wished he’d had the presence of mind to take a picture of it.

Ida Belle ordered the Big Bubba’s Belly Buster with pancakes, bacon, and sausage. Ida Belle eats like a hummingbird. By which I mean, several times her weight in food daily. I don’t know where she puts it all. She must have some amazing secret workout routine. Since I’d moved to Sinful, I’d been packing on weight as if I was planning to go into hibernation.

“Saving lives sure does work up an appetite,” Ida Belle announced, as if we were going to forget that she’d just shot a venomous snake fifteen minutes earlier.

“That sounds good, Aunty, what you got,” Justin said. “The Big Bubba da kine. I’ll have that too. I can get rice instead of potatoes?”

“I can get you a side of breakfast rice,” Francine offered. “You want some orange juice with that?”

“No thanks. Just coffee’s good.”

I couldn’t afford to give any stranger the benefit of the doubt, not even a harmless-looking graduate student. The notorious arms dealer known as Ahmad had put a ten-million-dollar price on my head. I’d eliminated Ahmad’s brother during my last field assignment, and it seems he took that kind of personally. If you’ve heard of Ahmad, I don’t have to explain how bad that is. If you haven’t heard of him, consider yourself lucky.

I watched Francine sashay back to the kitchen, and then smiled innocently at Justin.

“So why did you come all the way out to Louisiana? Why not stay in Hawaii?”

“I wouldn’t mind doing fieldwork in Hawaii,” Gertie said. “I think I’d have one of those big blue drinks with all the fruit and paper umbrellas every day for breakfast.”

“The oil spill was here, that’s why,” Justin said. “There’s nothing like it anywhere else. You get the volume of oil, yah? Unprecedented. Then get the additional contamination of the dispersant. Other people are researching the mutagenicity and toxicity in the immediate area, but we’re looking at the wider and more long-term effect on meiotic recombination in mammals—”

“He studies poop,” Ida Belle interrupted. “I already asked him.”

“He just said he’s studying oil,” Gertie said. “Poop and oil are not the same thing, Ida Belle. Even I know that, and I’m no car expert.”

“Nah, Aunty Ida Belle’s right,” Justin said. “That’s the method I’m using to track the animals’ DNA. That way I don’t gotta trap ‘em or nothing like that. It’s called fecal analysis. Minimally disruptive to the environment.”

I felt convinced by this time that Justin was who he said he was--a nice, nerdy grad student who’d had the misfortune to wander into the eye of Hurricane Ida Belle. His distinctive mixture of scientific lingo and island dialect would be hard to fake. I didn’t think that one of Ahmad’s henchmen would be able to pull off such an elaborate—not to mention brainy—cover story.

Also in Justin’s favor was the fact that Ahmad didn’t have any Hawaii presence. Even Ahmad knew better than to try to muscle in on “The Company.” My FBI pals tell the story of when two Las Vegas thugs were sent over to Hawaii to rough up a local Company leader. The two tough guys were returned from Hawaii to Vegas in a trunk, in little pieces, with a note attached: “Delicious, send more.”

“The nutria is ideal for my project,” Justin was saying. “It’s plentiful, and the generations are short, can be as short as 3 or 4 months. So evolution can happen real fast, yah? Get almost twenty generations already since the spill.”

“He’s wasting his time studying swamp rats,” Ida Belle grumbled. “Should be finding a cure for old age.”

“Swamp rats?” Gertie pressed a dainty hand to her leopard-print blouse. “Oh, we don’t need any more of those, dear. We already have way too many of them.”

“So how long have you been in Sinful?” I asked.

“I just picked him up at the bus stop this morning,” Ida Belle said.

“Ida Belle,” Gertie asked, “why do you need a roommate? If you get lonely, you have the Sinful Ladies’ Society to keep you company.”

“I’m not lonely, silly. I’m saving up for a new car. I’m getting five hundred a month in rent.”

“Sure, as long as your renter doesn’t die of snakebite,” Gertie said.

“Aw, now you got me worried,” Justin said cheerfully.

“You just had some bad luck this morning,” Ida Belle said. “Most snakes are more afraid of you than you are of them. Copperheads are a little unusual cause they won’t flee like other snakes. They’ll freeze, so sometimes you don’t realize they’re there until you’re right on top of ‘em.”

“Anything else I gotta know?”

“Stay out of the bayou,” Gertie said.

“She means don’t go swimming in the bayou,” Ida Belle added. “Some places you can only get to by boat. Watch out for things that look like logs. If you see a log moving, start running.”

“Because it’s not really a log,” Gertie explained. “It’s a gator. Logs can’t swim by themselves. Oh, Ida Belle, tell him about the leeches.”

Ida Belle snorted. “Leeches won’t hurt you. They’ll just suck a little of your blood is all.”

“Aw man.” Justin picked up a piece of bacon and put it back down again. “I can’t stay away from the water. My plan’s to go along the banks to collect my samples.”

“Well then at least stay away from Perd’ Espoir. That’s where they say all the—”

“Hush now,” Ida Belle interrupted Gertie. “You don’t need to fill his head with silly ideas.”

What was Perd’ Espoir, and why was it such a taboo topic? I’d have to ask Ida Belle and Gertie about it later. On second thought, no. This was one of those buried Sinful secrets that could stay buried, as far as I was concerned. From now on, I would follow Director Morrow’s instructions: Keep a low profile and stay out of trouble.

I looked up to see a commotion coming toward us. Leading the two-person parade was the six-foot two-inch Deputy Carter LeBlanc, looking weary and harassed. Behind him, a full foot shorter and ten times meaner, mayor-elect and all-around terrible human being Celia Arceneaux was pushing him ahead of her.

“Carter!” I exclaimed when they reached our table. “You’re supposed to be home recovering. What are you doing in uniform?”

I hoped my protective feelings toward Deputy Sheriff Carter LeBlanc weren’t too obvious. Against all of my training and better judgment, I’d done the one thing an undercover operative is never supposed to do: I’d gotten romantically involved. Things hadn’t progressed very far yet. Just a couple of dates, an innocent kiss, and me saving his life once or twice. On the plus side, Carter was handsome, goodhearted, and apparently attracted to me. On the minus side, I was living in Sinful under someone else’s identity, so our entire relationship was founded on a lie.

“It seems there’s been a disturbance nearby,” Celia sniffed, “and Deputy LeBlanc is assisting me in restoring order. Well. I see we have a newcomer here. I am Celia Arceneaux, the mayor of this municipality.”

“Self-proclaimed mayor, you mean,” Ida Belle muttered.

“Mayor-elect,” Celia conceded. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Justin.”

Justin wiped his hands on a napkin and proffered a handshake. Celia took his hand with her fingertips, as if it were something she’d just fished out of the toilet.

“I have a report of someone discharging a firearm,” Carter sighed. “Was that you, son?”

“It was me.” Ida Belle thumped her chest with a wizened fist. “I saved his life.”

“She killed a copperhead,” Gertie chimed in excitedly. “Shot the head clean off and then kicked it into the bushes. Justin is from Hawaii. They don’t have snakes there. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Hawaii!” Celia exclaimed. “Really, Ida Belle. First off, I don’t believe you have the correct permits to start taking in lodgers. And secondly, a foreigner of all things?”

“Ladies,” Deputy Carter intervened. “And gentleman. Let’s all try to keep things civil here. Celia, I mean Mayor-elect Arceneaux, has been under some pressure with the festival coming up, and she feels that at this time, keeping order is of paramount—”

“I’ve been working myself to the bone,” proclaimed the comfortably plump mayor-elect.

Ida Belle opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was a little yelp of pain. Gertie must have kicked her under the table.

“Ally’s been working hard on her nutria pie,” I said, trying to establish some friendly common ground. Ally was Celia’s niece, and my roommate. I wasn’t fond of Celia Arceneaux, but unlike Ida Belle, I didn’t see the point of provoking her.

“Ally’s been experimenting with fresh tabasco peppers,” I continued. “She says the nutria meat has a really gamy flavor.”

“Nutria pie?” Justin wrinkled his nose. “You eat ‘em?”

“What’d you think we did at the swamp rat festival?” Ida Belle snorted. “Put ‘em in a beauty contest? And yes Celia, I just called it the Swamp Rat Festival, like it’s always been called.”

“It’s the Annual Sinful Nutria Jamboree. The citizens of Sinful, Louisiana, do not eat swamp rat.”

“Fancy name’s not gonna make it taste any better, Celia.”

“Listen.” Deputy Carter LeBlanc’s patience was depleted. “All of you. Please listen to me. Don’t shoot anything unless you absolutely have to. And try to stay on the road and out of the woods.”

“Stay out of the woods?” Justin said.

“How come?” Ida Belle demanded.

Carter sighed.

“Someone found LeRoy Thibodeaux this morning.”

“Thibodeaux?” Gertie exclaimed. “Why, he and Thelma were right in the middle of that messy divorce.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Well Justin’s not in the middle of a custody battle with Thelma Thibodeaux,” Ida Belle said, “so I don’t think he has anything to worry about.”

Celia glared at Ida Belle. “It wasn’t poor Thelma that killed him. How could you, Ida Belle?”

“Well who did then?” Gertie asked.

“It wasn’t a ‘who’,” Carter said. “Looks like it was an animal attack. The M.E. thinks it was a big cat. Probably a cougar.”

“Cougars!” Gertie tapped the back of Justin’s hand excitedly. “Add that to your list.”

“I didn’t know there were cougars in Louisiana.” I’d read the official Louisiana state website, the USGS information, and even the Wikipedia page. According to the internet, Louisiana had man-eating alligators, venomous snakes, and leech-infested swamps with quicksand that could suck you under in a minute, but not cougars.

“Not supposed to be,” Justin said. “But you get climate change an’ da kine, you get all kine animals migrating out where they didn’t use to be. Like now, you get polar bears an’ grizzly bears hooking up and having babies. They call ‘em Pizzlies.”

“If I were a bear,” Gertie said, “I wouldn’t want to be called a Pizzly. It doesn’t sound very nice.”

“Well this thing caught Thibodeaux completely unaware,” Carter said. “He didn’t know what hit him, which was fortunate. He had no sign of defensive wounds on his hands, and his shotgun hadn’t been fired. The animal wasn’t even wounded as far as we can tell, so it’s still out there. You’ll need to exercise extreme caution until someone catches this thing. I mean it. All of you.”

Carter looked right at me. “I don’t want to have to tell you again.”

Did he just say that to me? I don’t want to have to tell you again?

Okay, Carter didn’t know that I was a trained CIA field operative. I was posing as a retired beauty queen turned school librarian. But with that scolding tone, he sounded just like my father. I felt a hot flush creep up my neck.

“You look a little peaked, Deputy,” Gertie said. “Would you like to pull up a chair and join us for breakfast? Celia, I’d invite you too, but I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your busy schedule.”

“He can have my place.” I stood up and grabbed my bag. The blood rushing in my ears drowned out most of the conversation around me. I heard Celia take a parting shot at “outsiders,” probably intended for both Justin and me. Then Ida Belle replied with that Bible verse about being kind to the strangers in your midst.

“Sorry, Celia,” Ida Belle taunted. “I forgot you’re Catholic, so you got no idea what’s in the Bible. Heck, I could start making stuff up right now and you’d have no choice but to believe me.”

I made my way out of Francine’s as the sounds of escalating holy war faded out behind me.

Chapter 2

I marched from Francine’s all the way back to my house, which was actually the home of the late Marge Boudreaux, whose niece I was impersonating. I hoped the long walk would give me a chance to cool down. There’s no room for anger, or any strong emotion, when you’re undercover. I was comfortably attired for my morning jog, in athletic shoes, sweats, and a cool cotton t-shirt. Fortunately, retired beauty queens are allowed to dress down for exercise.

“I don’t want to have to tell you again.”

I felt myself getting more, not less, infuriated as I thought about it. It was bad enough when my father used to tell me that I was stupid, or incompetent, or just a general disappointment for not having been born male. But my father was gone now. And I definitely didn’t have to tolerate that treatment from Carter LeBlanc.

I paused at the front porch of the house and took a deep breath. I had to monitor my emotional reactions closely. They go over this during training, and at every post-assignment debriefing. Undercover work is “physically, emotionally and intellectually demanding,” they tell us, and field operatives can be affected in unexpected ways. Case in point: the fact that I’d become romantically involved with that total Neanderthal.

No, I take that back. Comparing Carter LeBlanc to a Neanderthal wasn’t fair to Neanderthals, who (according to a documentary that I just watched over at Ida Belle’s house) were actually pretty advanced. Carter was more like some thick-skulled and not-very-evolved hominid. What was that one they just discovered? The one with the tiny brain? That one.

I let myself into the house, showered, changed into clean sweats and t-shirt, and went to unwind in Marge’s library. The late Marge Boudreaux had a magnificent library. The more I learned about Marge, the more I wished she’d really been my great-aunt.

I pulled down a book on Celtic weaponry, curled up in the chair by the window, and dozed off with the book open to the chapter about shillelaghs.

Loud banging on the door jolted me awake. I took my time getting to the door. If it was Carter, I figured he could stand to wait a bit.

It wasn’t Carter. Ida Belle and Gertie pushed their way in as soon as I cracked the door open. Justin trailed in after them.

“I’m going to make coffee,” Gertie announced, and then headed to the kitchen without waiting for my permission.

“More coffee?” Ida Belle complained. “We just had a bunch of coffee at Francine’s. What about your bowels?”

“You don’t have to have any if you don’t want it,” Gertie called from the kitchen.

“No, I’ll have some. “

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked.

“Ah, we’re wondering what to do about Celia,” Ida Belle said. “We thought you or Ally might have some ideas. I swear, we’ve known that woman fifty years--”

“We've known her lot longer than that,” Gertie called over from the kitchen.

“And in fifty years,” Ida Belle continued, “I still haven’t figured out what’s crawled up that woman’s—”

“You know what I used to tell my students,” Gertie interrupted. “It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice. That’s something Celia could stand to remember. Justin, sit down, dear. Standing there by the front door makes it look like you’re thinking about escaping”

“Gertie used to be a schoolteacher,” Ida Belle explained.

Justin nodded and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Gertie, what did you put in the coffee maker?” I reflexively wrinkled my nose. “Something smells awful.”

My roommate Ally came rushing in to the kitchen, tying her long brown hair into a knot as she ran.

“Sorry!” she lunged at the oven. “I shouldn't have left it at 375.”

Gertie stood by the coffee machine and watched as Ally yanked the oven open and waved at the billowing smoke.

“Still working on your swamp rat pie, dear?” Gertie asked.

Ally pulled on a pair of thick-knit safety mitts, snatched the smoldering pie out of the oven, and twisted the temperature dial to “off.” There was no door to protect us from the odor of the pie now. It smelled like someone was having a barbecue in the middle of a landfill. Ally turned around, with her back to the oven, and wiped her forehead with her sleeve.

“I shouldn't have tried cooking it on high heat,” she panted. “This isn't something I'd usually try. I'm more, you know, pastries, and pork ribs and stuff with more...mainstream appeal. But Aunt Celia's going to make my life miserable if I don't enter something in this cooking contest…oh, hello. I’m Ally.”

“Sorry, Ally, this is Justin, Ida Belle’s new roommate. He’s visiting from Hawaii. Justin, this is Ally, my roommate.”

“Howzit?” Justin grinned.

Ally beamed and gave him a little wave.

“Ally, you're the best chef in Sinful,” Ida Belle said. “What’s the matter?”

“I guess my heart's not in it.” Ally came over to the table and sat down in the chair next to Justin. “It's easy to get passionate about making the best barbecue ribs in town. It's been kinda hard to drum up the same enthusiasm over swamp rat pie.”

“Why on earth is that woman making such a big deal about the swamp rat festival?” Ida Belle pulled up a fifth chair to the kitchen table. Marge’s furniture was simple, sturdy, and tasteful. I was grateful for that. My stint in Sinful would have been a lot less bearable if I'd had to be surrounded by twee knickknacks and floral chintz.

“Oh, Aunt Celia’s got it in her head that Sinful needs to be on the map.”

Gertie poured out five mugs of her good, strong coffee and brought them over, three in one hand, two in the other, dribbling a trail of coffee behind her on my floor. Gertie needed glasses and refused to get them. There was no use arguing with her about it.

I stood up, but Ally was quicker. She grabbed a paper towel and wiped up the spilled coffee without Gertie even noticing.

“I like Sinful the way it is,” I took a cup of Gertie’s coffee, even though I’d had several cups at Francine’s and was already sloshing like a hot water bottle. “There are advantages to not being on the map.”

“Eh, Aunty Fortune, where’s the lua?”

“Justin, please don’t call me Aunty. Just ‘Fortune’ is fine. What’s a lua?”

“Bathroom,” Ida Belle said. “There’s one right around the corner there.”

Ally watched Justin saunter down the hallway, and then she turned her big eyes to me.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, Fortune, but in a way, I almost agree with Aunt Celia. I mean, I do love Sinful, but it truly is a small town. How am I ever gonna meet someone? I mean you all are great friends, but as far as someone to be with? The guys around here, some of 'em are nice enough, but they’re just not…I don’t know how to say it without sounding like a snob.”

“You don't need a man, Ally,” Ida Belle said.

“But if you want someone who's seen the big wide world,” Gertie added, “how about Ida Belle’s new friend? He's a graduate student, so he’s smart.”

“And poor,” Ida Belle added.

“I guess he seems nice. I’d love to spend some time with a man who's been somewhere and done something outside of fishing and shooting things. Sorry, Fortune, I know you and Carter… I didn't mean any offense.”

“None taken, I promise.”

Justin returned to the table.

“Eh, got all quiet all of a sudden.”

“We were just discussing adjusting to life in Sinful,” I said. “I’m a pretty recent newcomer myself.”

“So what’s the scoops? What else I gotta know besides watch out for all the wild animals?”

“I’ll tell you what you need to know,” Ida Belle said. “That Celia Arceneaux is a cast-iron—ouch!”

Ida Belle glared at Gertie.

“Ally,” Gertie said, “Ida Belle apologizes if she said anything unkind about your aunt. Now Justin, has anyone told you about the Rougarou?”

“Honestly Gertie,” Ida Belle groused, “ever since you started that creative writing class—”

“Gertie,” I interrupted, “I didn’t know you were taking a writing class. Where?”

“Online,” Ida Belle said.

“Ooh, I haven’t heard about the Rougarou since I was a little girl.” Ally smiled. “My mama used to tell me the Rougarou was going to get me if I broke Lent. But then my classmate Stella Guidry said no, they can only get you if you break Lent seven years in a row.”

“Not quite, dear. If you break Lent seven years in a row you become one.”

“The Lent rule doesn’t apply to Baptists though,” Ida Belle said.

“What are you all talking about?”

“I’m talking about a man that turns into a terrible beast.” Gertie widened her eyes and cast a dramatic look around the table. “He stalks the swamps and bayous by night, and gorges on human flesh, leaving behind mangled corpses with their throats torn out and their entrails chewed away. And those few who survive have a fate even worse than grisly death…they become a Rougarou themselves.”

“You told this to third graders?” I asked.

“Oh sure. As long as I stayed away from evolution, I was fine. Anyway, most of the kids already knew about the Rougarou from their parents. But did you know that different cultures the world over have their own stories about people who can transform into animals? Anubis, the ancient Egyptian god of the underworld, was depicted as a man with a wolf’s head. The Navajo skin walkers could turn into any animal they pleased. And of course the Hồ tinh, Hanoi’s nine-tailed fox. I was thinking I might write a story about the Hồ tinh.”

“Gertie, that’s a great idea,” Ally said. “Are you going to write children’s books?”

“Oh, my goodness no. There’s no money in children’s books. I’m thinking erotica.”

“Are there any stories about Hawaiian shape shifters?” I quickly asked Justin.

“Aw, sure. We get Kamapua‘a, who’s half man half boar.”

“Can he change from one to the other?” Ally asked. “Or is he just half and half?”

“Depends on what version of the story you got. But in all of ‘em he’s all grumpy and bitter, ah? Cause his father never wanted him, that’s why.”

“How sad,” Ally said.

“One day he fell in love wit’ Pele, the fire goddess, but she saw his ugly nature and ran away from him. So he could never find love.”

“I don’t like that story,” I said.

“That sounds so interesting.” Ally smiled at him. “I’d love to hear more.”

Next thing I knew, Justin Lao was a fixture in my house. At least when Ally was home. They spent most of their time cooking together, which I thought was sweet. Especially since I got to sample the results.

Justin taught Ally how to make lau laus, pork wrapped in taro leaves and encased in a ti leaf for long, slow cooking. Ally adapted the recipe to use locally available ingredients like collards and salt pork.

They seemed so chummy that I assumed they had a love connection. I was happy for Ally, who up until now had not had great luck with guys. Imagine my surprise, then, when one morning, as I was sitting in Francine's Diner with Ida Belle and Gertie, I saw Justin Lao walk in with a woman who most definitely was not Ally.

Childlike facial morphology –full cheeks, high forehead, large eyes--makes age estimation difficult. Somewhere between mid-twenties and early forties. Dark blonde hair, apparently natural, and light eyes, consistent with Acadian, (Cajun) ancestry. Movement and muscularity indicate high levels of strength and flexibility, consistent with a dancer or gymnast. Threat level: moderate, if she ever takes her eyes off her prey.

Justin glanced over at our table and gave us a nod but made no move to join us. He and the blonde kept walking toward a distant back booth, where they sat side by side.

“Well how do you like that?” Ida Belle complained. “They don’t even want to sit with us.”

I was glad Ally’s shift hadn’t started yet. Poor Ally—yet another disappointment in the romance department.

“Well there are three of us, and two of them,” Gertie said, “and the booth only seats four. Unless you want them to drag a chair over and block the walkway.”

The blonde was looking at Justin like he was her next meal. He'd only been in Sinful a couple of days and already his love life was orders of magnitude more exciting than mine and Ally’s put together.

Grow up, I scolded myself. I wasn't here to have fun. Unless it's explicitly part of our assignment, undercover operatives are not supposed to become intimately involved with the locals. It's emotionally and physically risky for us, and it can expose the agency to legal action.

I guess I should have thought of all that before I got involved with Carter LeBlanc. What was I thinking?

No need to answer that. Stupid hormones.

“One of the Roche girls,” Gertie whispered. “Has to be. She's the very image.”

“You know who she is?”

“Not her personally,” Gertie said. “But her people are well known around here.”

“I've never heard of them,” I said.

“When Gertie says well known, she's being nice,” Ida Belle said. “What she really means to say is notorious.”

I looked from one to the other.

“Let me guess. This notorious family has something to do with that thing you were talking about earlier.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ida Belle said.

“Perd’ Espoir, was that it?”

Gertie and Ida Belle exchanged a look.

“If memory serves, that's French for lost hope, isn't it?”

“Gracious, aren't you the smart one?” Gertie said sweetly.

“So what's the story with this Roche family?” I studied Justin's companion from across the crowded diner. Her teeth were white and even, and her round face radiated health. She didn’t look like a meth addict. “And how do you know this woman is one of them if you haven’t seen her before?”

Ida Belle swallowed a mouthful of biscuits and gravy. “We know her people. Not hard to spot 'em. Gene pool's about as deep as a birdbath, if you get my drift.”

“Their family tree looks like a braid,” Gertie added helpfully.

“Good looking clan,” Ida Belle said, “but trouble, all of 'em, and no more morals than tomcats.”

“You don't want Justin getting killed by a jealous boyfriend,” Gertie said. “Not before you’ve got the down payment for your car.”

I held my hands up. “Just leave me out of it. This is not any of my business. I'll buy Ally ice cream and watch Lifetime movies with her, if she needs consoling. But other than that, I’m not getting involved.”

“Well, Fortune my dear,” Gertie patted my hand, “it’s nice that you’re so optimistic.”

Chapter 3

After breakfast, the three of us walked across the street to The General Store. I had to buy some of that special shampoo that was supposed to be gentle on hair extensions, and believe it or not, the General Store carried it. I couldn't buy a decent pair of athletic shoes, a plate of sushi, or a drop of wine inside Sinful's city limits. But stuffed deer heads, 9-millimeter ammo, or special hair-extension-compliant shampoo? All three were available for purchase within easy walking distance of my house.

“I really hate these hair extensions,” I said as we approached the General Store. “Especially now they’re growing out. They look trashy. When is a former beauty queen turned school librarian allowed to cut her hair to a more practical length, anyway?”

“No, trashy’s a good look for you,” Ida Belle said. “Helps you blend in. You don’t want to go around dressing like you think you’re too good for us or anything.”

“Remember Celia’s daughter Pansy?” Gertie said. “Compared to her, Fortune looks like Grace Kelly.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Well speak of the devil.” Ida Belle paused with her hand on the General Store’s glass door. She bent down and peered between handbills announcing used boats and trucks for sale and the sun-faded poster advertising Mister Twister fishing lures. “There’s our mayor-elect herself.”

“What’s she doing?” Gertie asked.

Ida Belle raised her finger to her lips and pushed the door open slowly. The three of us slipped in and stood quietly by the General Store’s entrance. Walter saw us but quickly flicked his glance away. He was going to let Celia keep going.

“Look at that empty space over there.” Celia swept her bangle-laden arm toward a wall jam packed with shelves of waders, boots, breath mints, flashlights, jumper cables, maps, and pet food. “You could display at least fifty festival t-shirts there, and you could put a shelf of the snow globes right underneath. And you’d get three percent of every sale. It’s a sure thing, Walter. I don’t see why you’re acting so stubborn about it.”

“Celia, I’m telling you, I don’t have any more room in the store. Why not just sell all that stuff at the fair, at one of the booths?”

“Because this year we’re doing the Annual Sinful Nutria Jamboree right, and that means getting the whole town on board.”

“It’s not the Swamp Rat festival now?”

“Certainly not. The Annual Sinful Nutria Jamboree will be a coming-out party for the town of Sinful. I see it drawing in tourists from miles around. Along with their money. And when they go back home, they’ll be spreading the word with their Annual Sinful Nutria Jamboree t-shirts and Annual Sinful Nutria Jamboree snow globes, the ones that they’ve bought at your store. Oh, I almost forgot about the coffee mugs. You’ll need to clear a couple of shelves for the coffee mugs.”

“Coffee mugs are heavy and they take up a lot of room,” Walter said. “How about shot glasses?”

“Well it’s a good thing I didn’t put you in charge of the merchandising committee, Walter, honestly.”

“We’ve never had to do all this before. What’s the big rush this year?”

“You watch and see. By the time the National Watermelon Day picnic rolls around, I expect we’ll have record attendance. But to do that we have to make our branded merchandise available through as many outlets as possible. The General Store is a key part of our strategy because it’s often the last stop for people driving out of town.”

“Well now Celia,” Walter rubbed his white moustache thoughtfully. “First of all, I don’t see the point of the snow globes, considering as how it’s summertime, and even in the winter it only snows about every hundred years.”

“We got a good deal on them,” Celia huffed.

“And secondly, you’re going on about bringing in people from miles around, how's that square with what you were telling me before about what a terrible problem we were having with all these Yankees coming in?”

Walter winked at us.

“We want to attract the right kind of outsiders,” Celia shot back. “The kind that come over for the festival, spend their money, maybe stay a night or two at one of our fine bed and breakfast establishments, and leave. Not the ones that stick around and stir up trouble.”

“Well how do you like that,” Ida Belle whispered. “This 'outsider' saved that woman's sorry behind.”

I shrugged. “I don't think gratitude is one of Celia’s strong points.”

“So what'll it be?” Celia demanded. “You gonna set up my display or am I gonna have to take this once in a lifetime opportunity over to the taxidermist? Think carefully, now, Walter, before you pass this up.”

Celia must have been talking about that establishment on Sinful's main street, the pretty pink one with the lacy trim, the flower pots out front, and the sign in the window that read, “You kill 'em, we'll stuff 'em.” A giant deer head with crossed eyes hung next to the doorway, assuring the casual shopper that this was no idle threat. I'd walked by that Pepto-Bismol-pink storefront dozens of times, but I’d never gone inside, and I’d never seen anyone else go in there either. I wondered if they’d be setting up a window display of dead stuffed swamp rats for the occasion.

“Excuse me Celia,” Walter said with a smile, as if he’d just noticed the three of us standing there. “Looks like I got paying customers. Oh, listen, thanks for stopping by. Come by any time, y'hear?”

Celia Arceneaux stomped out of the General Store, glaring at us so hard that I half expected to see Ida Belle's hair burst into flames.

“What can I help you ladies with today?” Walter grinned at us.

“Well you look awfully happy,” Ida Belle said, “considering you were just getting chewed out by Celia.”

“I’m safe now,” he said. “She won’t come back as long as you’re here.”

“We’re the garlic to Celia’s Nosferatu,” Gertie said.

“Who?” I asked.

“Nosferatu the vampire,” Gertie said. “I’m working on my use of metaphor.”

“I thought Dracula was the vampire,” I said.

“Well there’s gotta be more than one vampire,” Ida Belle said. “Dracula can’t go flying around the world biting everyone all by himself. He’s not Santa Claus.”

“Santa Claus doesn’t bite people!” Gertie objected.

“Look, can I just get my shampoo? Walter, you said you carry this brand?”

I pulled out a sticky note with the name of the special shampoo and showed it to him.

“Sure thing, Fortune. Right back there.” He pointed me to the aisle filled with stomach remedies, first aid supplies, painkillers, hair dye, and propane generators. I found the shampoo and bought the matching conditioner, because it promised “smooth, silken shine.” That seemed like it would be a nice change from “matted, straw-like rat’s nest.”

As Walter was ringing me up, he said,

“Guess you won't be seeing your young visitor around your place much anymore. Hear he's got him a new friend.”

“Well that news traveled fast,” Ida Belle said.

“Ally was in here earlier,” Walter said. “She was saying something about having more time to work on her nutria pie recipe, now she doesn't have so many distractions. Came in to buy more pie tins. I guess she couldn’t get the burned taste out of her other ones.”

“You carry pie tins?”

“Sure,” Walter said. “Over there by the shop vacs.”

“I hope Ally's okay.” Poor kid. I hoped my bad romantic luck wasn't rubbing off on her. Of course I wasn’t going to say that in front of Carter’s uncle Walter.

“Oh, Ally seems like she's doing fine. Wasn't like her and that boy was gonna elope or anything like that.” Walter chuckled. “Not like you and my nephew, now.”

He handed me my change and the small paper bag with my overpriced hair products.

“You ladies should watch out for your young friend, though. I believe that girl’s one of that Roche clan.”

“Why is that a problem?” I asked. “What's this family involved in?”

“Well, I’m sure I can’t say.” Walter was suddenly cagey.

“Are they linked to organized crime?” I asked.

“Now, I don’t like to make accusations.” Walter seemed really uncomfortable now. “I just think we owe it to our young visitor to keep an eye out for him.”

“Drugs? Gambling? Human trafficking?”

“Don't worry about it,” Ida Belle said. “This romance is not gonna go anywhere. The kid got bored with Ally quick enough, he'll get bored with this one too. You know how men are. Flighty.”

I thought this was unfair, considering Walter had carried a torch for Ida Belle for the past five decades or so—not most peoples' definition of flighty.

“But Ida-Belle,” Gertie whispered. “What if she —”

“Oh hush, Gertie. Don’t be silly.”

“Well, I better go check on…the stockroom.” Walter disappeared into the back.

“I’m not going to butt into that kid’s personal life.” Ida Belle led the way out of the General Store. “As long as he keeps paying his rent and doesn't cause me any trouble, it's none of our beeswax what he gets up to in his free time.”

Chapter 4

Justin came by the house later with a present for Ally. It was white and cylindrical, like a small version of a liquid nitrogen container, but with pink flowers printed on the side. It turned out to be for cooking rice. I had nothing else to do, so I watched as he demonstrated it for us. He poured in the rice, and then stuck his thumb in to gauge the right amount of water.

“I don't understand,” Ally said. “How come you have a special rice cooker? Why not just use a saucepan?”

“It keeps the rice at just the right temperature all day. When you eat rice with every meal, it's real convenient. An' it gets the texture just right for the musubis. Every house in Hawaii got one, pretty much.”

“I'm learning how to make Spam musubis,” Ally explained to me. “They're like the official snack of Hawaii. It’s Spam, wrapped in rice, wrapped in seaweed.”

“Sounds delicious,” I lied.

“It is,” Justin said.

Ally got us sweet tea while we waited for the rice to cook.

“So what's new?” I asked Justin.

“Oh, I found a real interesting specimen today.”

“So soon?” Ally said. “How exciting.”

“Oh yah. Kinda gave me chicken skin cause thought it was a baby at first.”

“You thought it was a baby?” I said. “What was it?”

“Not sure. Looked like it died shortly after birth. Had the cord attached still.”

“How sad,” Ally gasped.

“Nah, that thing wasn't meant to live. Was real messed up. The snout was flat shaped,” here Justin spread his skinny brown fingers in front of his face to demonstrate, “so probably couldn't breathe even. That's how come I thought it was a human baby at first, cause the flat face.”

“Poor thing,” Ally said. “Did you bury it?”

“Huh? Nah, I sent it over to the university so they can do the DNA analysis. I got a picture, though. Wanna see?”

Ally's face scrunched with disgust. “I don’t know. Fortune, why don’t you look first?”

“Sure, I’ll have a look.”

Heck, I'd wolfed down an MRE with one hand while picking up pieces of a sniper with the other. A cell phone photo of a dead animal in the woods wouldn't bother me.

Or so I thought.

The poor creature was curled up as if asleep. It had probably been dead for two or three days. I saw why Justin had thought it was a human baby, with its large head, flat face and its mottled, almost hairless skin. The nose and mouth looked like those of a kitten, though, and the ear that I could see was pointed and near the top of the head. It had a naked tail like a possum’s, curled around its body.

“That's really interesting.” I handed Justin's phone back.

“I think this supports what I was saying before.” Justin dropped the phone back into his backpack. “Hydrocarbons are powerful mutagens. Lucky I found this guy over at the university gonna help me ID it. He's got the facilities to do the DNA analysis.”

“This is because of the hydrocarbons from the oil spill?” I asked.

“Can’t say for sure, cause it’s a single specimen. But personally, I think it’s likely.”

“The spill was way east of here, though,” Ally said. “I didn't think any of it got over here.”

“I think my research is gonna show that there are environmental effects this far west, especially in fast-reproducing organisms. I think we're going to find these novel environmental pressures affecting evolution.”

“How come you sound so happy about it?” Ally said. “Doesn't seem like something to be happy about.”

“Oh, sorry, no, it's not good. It's just, you know, I'm excited about my research getting somewhere. And I got LaRoquette interested.”

“Who is LaRoquette?” I asked.

“That’s the geneticist I got ahold of at the School of Medicine.”

“This LaRoquette isn't a young blonde woman by any chance?” I asked.

“Huh? Nah, he’s a dude. Toby LaRoquette.”

Ally laughed. “Fortune, you're thinking of Justin’s new girlfriend.”

I looked from Ally to the now-blushing Justin.

“I think I better check the rice.” He practically leaped out of his chair and ran over to the rice cooker.

“I thought you and Justin were an item,” I whispered to Ally when his back was turned. “You're okay with how things are?”

She shook her head. “Justin’s sweet. I like sharing recipes and hanging out. But it would be stupid to get attached to someone who's just gonna leave in a few weeks…I think I’ll help with the rice.”

Ally went over to join Justin, leaving me alone at the table.

She knew that I was planning to leave too, at the end of the summer. What she didn’t know was that after my assignment here ended I’d never see or speak to her, or anyone else in Sinful, again.

That's how is. This is what we do. Befriend and betray. I'd heard it a hundred times. It had never bothered me before.

“I'm not feeling well.” I pushed myself up from the table. “I'm going to turn in early. Have fun with the rice cooker. Save a Mikado for me.”

“Musubi,” Justin and Ally corrected me in unison.

I woke up early enough the next morning to see Ally before she left for her shift at Francine's Diner. She had actually saved me a Spam musubi.

“It looks like a huge piece of sushi,” I said. “Is it sushi? I haven’t had sushi in forever.”

“No, I thought it was too at first, but sushi has vinegar in the rice, and this rice is plain. Did you know, sushi doesn’t mean ‘raw fish’, it means ‘vinegar rice’.”

“I did not know that. So are you going to let me try it?”

“Oh yeah, sorry. Here you go. We fried the Spam with soy sauce and sugar, so it’s crispy and has a teriyaki flavor. Justin brought the nori wrap with him from Hawaii. Come on. Give it a try.”

I took a bite. “Hey, I like it. Tastes like it has all four food groups: starch, meat, salt, and grease.”

Ally grinned. “I thought the four food groups were sugar, fat, alcohol, and caffeine.”

“So you and Justin are really friends now.” I spoke with my mouth full, forgetting my beauty queen manners. “I’m glad to see it. I was a little worried about you.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Ally laughed. “I’m not such a delicate flower, Fortune, really. You know who I’m worried about, though, is Justin. Sounds like Desiree’s moving pretty fast.”

“Desiree is the blonde?”

Ally nodded distractedly as she patted the countertop. “I could’ve sworn I left my keys right here. Where are my keys? Oh, here they are.”

“Moving fast? How so?”

Ally plopped her keys into her purse and turned. “He told me she wants him to come out with her to Perd’ Espoir to meet her family. I think it’s a bad idea. I mean I get it, she’s probably on the wrong side of thirty, and her time’s running out, you know how it is, I mean sorry, no offense Fortune.”

“Ally, I’m twenty-eight. What do you mean no offense? How old did you think I—never mind, it’s not important. So you’re not really okay with Justin moving on, it sounds like.”

She reddened visibly. “I’m just worried about him. As a friend. I mean, I’m not the right one for him. I don’t have the education to understand half the stuff he talks about, all his hydrocortisone mutations and whatever.”

“You mean hydrocarbon mutagens?”

Ally blinked back tears.

“See? Everyone understands this stuff except me. Justin thinks it’s all the most interesting thing in the world, and it probably is, but I’m just a dumb waitress, too stupid to understand all this high-level science. And then this—this—blonde, no offense Fortune, comes along and acts all impressed with his story about that gross dead thing he found out in the woods, and suddenly she’s dragging him out to Perd’ Espoir to meet her family.”

“That does seem fast,” I said evenly. Too fast. Justin was a nice kid and all, but why was this Desiree trying to close the deal so quickly? “You know the family at all?”

“I kind of know who her people are. I’ve seen ‘em in town once in a while. Okay, I gotta go. I’m gonna be late for work. Sorry I got all weird and emotional.”

Ally rushed out and let the door bang shut behind her.

What did this woman really want with Justin? Was she trying to get to me—and Ahmad’s ten-million-dollar bounty—through Justin? If Ahmad already knew where I was, why didn’t he just send someone into Sinful to put a bullet through my head? I wasn’t hard to find. All the hitman had to do was hang around Francine’s Diner for a few hours, and I’d be bound to show up.

Something funny was going on here, and I wasn’t going to sit around and wait to see what was going to happen to me. I had to find out what was up.

My first impulse was to set out alone to tail Justin, but I quickly realized that wasn’t going to work. I hadn’t begun to learn all of the bayous and channels in this area. And Perd’ Espoir wasn’t on any map that I’d seen.

I’d have to ask Ida Belle and Gertie for help. Maybe they weren’t as young as they used to be, but I could do worse than two former counterintelligence operatives. And I knew they’d be up for an adventure. I pushed down my misgivings and picked up the phone.

Chapter 5

Ida Belle had borrowed a small aluminum fishing boat from one of her friends in the Sinful Ladies Society. It wasn’t fast, but it was perfect for steering quietly along the narrow channels and bayous, and it was low profile enough to hide in the vegetation at the edge of the bank. We even had fishing gear with us, so that we could look like we were out for a casual afternoon of relaxation.

Desiree Roche lived in one of those waterfront houses accessible only by boat. Before I moved to Sinful I had no idea that there was any place in the United States where so much of the traffic moved on water. It was kind of like Venice, but with alligators.

We followed around fifty yards behind Desiree and Justin. The hum of our boat’s tiny motor blended with the sloshing, chirping, and buzzing sounds of the bayou. Desiree’s blonde hair acted as a beacon, glowing in the green shade of the tall cypress trees.

“So why are we doing this again?” Gertie asked. “Are we going to bag Justin and bring him back to Ally? Will we have to knock him out?”

“No, silly,” Ida Belle said. “This has to do with Fortune’s drug dealer.”

“Arms dealer. I just think it’s suspicious that this Desiree Roche woman has latched on to your roommate so fast. I think she wants something from him. Like information about me.”

“Maybe not everything is about you, dear,” Gertie said.

“Well I agree with Fortune. Better safe than sorry.” Ida Belle maneuvered the boat deftly as we wended down the channel, the banks closing in on either side. “Besides, Gertie, you got something better to do? Maybe stay home getting ready for Celia’s stupid festival?”

“It’s not Celia’s festival,” Gertie pouted. “She’s just acting like it is and ruining it for everyone else.

She’s stealing the spotlight like a skunk, stinking it up so bad no one else will want to take credit.”

My cell phone buzzed in the back pocket of my camo pants.

I pulled it out to see Carter’s number on the caller ID. What did he want?

“Hello Carter.” My tone was neutral.

“Oh, hey. I stopped by to see if you were around, but you’re not here.”

Darn it. He picked now to stop by? When I would have had the house to myself? OK, stop that, Fortune. You don’t even like this man. Get a grip.

“I’m just out seeing the sights,” I said nonchalantly. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“Doctor Broussard cleared me to do some walking. In fact, he ordered me to get up and walk every hour. He said sitting around makes it more likely I’ll get a clot or something. Sightseeing, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I know Ida Belle isn’t home, and I’d bet my next paycheck that Gertie’s with you too.”

I didn’t have the phone on speaker, but in the humming stillness of the swamp Carter’s voice was loud enough that all three of us could hear him.

“He’s good,” Gertie whispered.

“He’s a condescending jerk,” I mouthed.

“Well, you got me, Carter. I’m out with my friends Ida Belle and Gertie.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, if you want to have dinner, give me a call when you get back.”

Was he actually going to let this conversation end without scolding me? Maybe I’d underestimated him.

“And I know you’re not gonna listen, Fortune, but I’ll tell you anyway. Whatever you and those two Geritol Mafia capos have planned, please, stay out of trouble, stay out of the woods, and don’t get mixed up in anything weird.”

No, I hadn’t underestimated him. The blood rose in my ears, so that I barely heard him say, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Fortune. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You too,” I said curtly. I snapped the phone shut and stuffed it back into my pocket. Jerk. Here I was trying to save myself from being gruesomely tortured and killed by the world’s most ruthless arms dealer, and Carter was scolding me like I was a naughty child.

“Don’t look like that, dear,” Gertie reached out and put her bony little hand on my shoulder. “He thinks you’re a civilian. He doesn’t know you have ten times the training he does. He’s just worried about you.”

“Don’t you take his side, Gertie,” Ida Belle snapped. “And Fortune, you stay strong. Those kinds of entanglements just slow you down.”

We were drifting along a channel that was narrowing, and the cypress trees overhead, choked with Spanish moss, blocked out the sunlight. Justin and Desiree’s little boat disappeared around a bend. We came around after them and re-established visual contact. I watched Desiree secure the boat and then scamper up the bank, as graceful as a cat. Justin followed, a little more awkwardly, holding his arms out for balance. Their destination was a little camp, a modest wooden shack on the edge of the water.

Ida Belle guided the boat to the edge of the bank. We peered through the reeds as Justin followed Desiree up the splintery steps of the front porch.

“What do you do if you have a medical emergency out here?” I whispered. “We’ve been on the water nearly an hour.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Gertie said.

“Me too,” I agreed. The swamp around here didn’t look particularly creepy as swamps go (a low bar to be sure), but I did have a feeling of foreboding.

In training, they tell us to listen to these feelings. Often what we think of as “intuition” is really the subconscious mind processing the subtle clues in your surroundings that your conscious mind doesn’t catch. Then again, sometimes intuition can steer you wrong. Your subconscious mind doesn’t know the difference between movies and real life. Or in this case, between real life and the last stretch of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland, which to me looked just like Perd’ Espoir.

“Did Marie Laveau ever make it out this far from New Orleans?” I joked. “I’m feeling some bad juju.”

Ida Belle and Gertie exchanged a glance.

“What?” I asked. “I know there’s something you two didn’t want to tell me about this place. What is it?”

“We didn’t want you to think we were superstitious,” Ida Belle said.

“I’m superstitious,” Gertie declared.

“Fine,” Ida Belle said. “You’re the teacher, Gertie. You give her the history lesson.”

“Well, you know who Marie Laveau is,” Gertie said.

“Sure. Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. Rumored to have lived to a hundred and fifty, selling potions and casting spells. Although some say that her daughter took her place at some point, making the hundred and fifty years a little more believable.”

“Sounds like someone’s been reading Wikipedia,” Ida Belle said.

“Anything wrong with that?”

“Very good, Fortune. Don’t let Ida Belle discourage you. Anyway, there was a man named Henry Roche Belaire. He fathered two children with Marie Laveau's grandmother, Catherine Henry. And then he sold Catherine.”

“Pig,” Ida Belle added.

“Oh, those were evil times, Fortune. You can’t imagine. Human beings used and sold, bred like cattle, children taken away from their parents. A master could do anything to a slave. The most monstrous behavior was tolerated. People just looked the other way.”

“No, I know exactly what you mean. Slavery’s alive and well, you know. They brief us about it, but it’s one thing to read the statistics on a PowerPoint slide, and another thing to see a twelve-year-old girl about to be sold to an old sheikh.”

“I can’t believe you let that happen,” Ida Belle said.

“I didn’t. In fact, that’s what aborted my last mission. I broke cover to save the girl. Sorry, Gertie, I’m listening. So these Roches? They’re related to Marie Laveau?”

“Well, now I’m not sure about that. I believe Catherine Henry had two children by that man, but she had Marie’s mother, Marguerite, by another man, possibly. Or maybe not. When Henry Roche Belaire sold Catherine, he kept the daughter, Marguerite. Now let me see...”

“They’re inside,” Ida Belle interrupted. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 6

We crept up the bank. Ida Belle led the way, because her eyesight was better than Gertie’s. I went last, in case either Ida Belle or Gertie lost their footing and started slipping back down into the water.

We found a position behind a clump of something I hoped wasn’t poison ivy, and settled in. Ida Belle had brought three hearing amplifiers and three portable folding chairs. These weren’t from Marge’s secret arsenal, as impressive as that was; technology had marched on since Marge’s death, making spy gadgets ever smaller and cheaper. Ida Belle had ordered them on Amazon during one of their daily deals for less than fifty bucks apiece. She’d been hoping to use them to eavesdrop on Celia Arceneaux and the rest of her Catholic crew on Sunday mornings. Unfortunately, by the time the sound waves got through the exterior wall of the Catholic church, across the street, and then through the wall of the Protestant church, the signal was too weak to pick up.

Conditions were better out here on the bayou. Only vegetation stood between us and the cabin, which conveniently had no glass in the windows.

Inside I saw the moving shapes of Desiree’s family members. I heard the hubbub of conversation—how many people were inside that tiny building? —but I couldn’t make out anything that was being said. It almost sounded like they were speaking French.

“You got it, Gertie?” Ida Belle whispered. Gertie made a shushing motion with her hand and stared hard at the open window. I made out Justin’s silhouette as he sat; I recognized his protruding ears and the short hair that stuck out from his head in a radial pattern. There was Desiree, sitting next to him. A young man—or a tall and very fit woman, hard to tell in the dark interior—pulled out a chair for what must have been the family matriarch. I could sense from the body language of the family members standing around that Mom was the one in charge. She settled in and the hum of conversation died down. Now Desiree was speaking. I could see her hands gesturing. I couldn’t understand a word.

“She’s talking about Justin,” Gertie said. “She’s telling Maman she shouldn’t worry, he’s not a Yankee.”

Maman nodded and said something, and then Desiree spoke again. Justin sat quietly, probably not understanding any better than I did.

A small hand reached up and touched Justin’s spiky hair. A child’s voice said something.

This was followed by a murmur of scolding voices. Someone picked the little girl up and whisked her out of sight. I still didn’t recognize the words, but the little girl’s plaintive tone was unmistakable. It was the “but MOM!” tone of a kid who doesn’t want to leave while something exciting is going on.

“What did the little girl say to Justin?” I asked. Neither Ida Belle nor Gertie answered me. They both stared at the cabin, avoiding eye contact.

“I think we should tell her,” Gertie said, at length.

“Tell me what?”

“You tell her then,” Ida Belle said. “If you think it’s so important.”

“It’s not something we like to discuss with outsiders,” Gertie said.

“Outsiders? How can you say I'm an outsider? You already know...my deal. And I know yours too.” Gertie and Ida Belle were the only two people in Sinful who knew I was a CIA operative in hiding, and I knew that Gertie and Ida Belle had spied for the U.S. Government during the Vietnam War. Even though we were out in the middle of nowhere, where no one but the alligators could hear us, we all knew better than to speak the details out loud.

“You're right, Fortune.” Gertie looked sheepish. “I apologize. I shouldn't have implied you were an outsider.”

“Knowledge can be a burden,” Ida Belle said. “You of all people should know that, Fortune. The value of plausible deniability.”

Gertie waved at us to shut up. Desiree was speaking again. Gertie leaned forward in her folding chair and stared at the little cabin as if she could will its walls to become transparent. The dithering-old-lady act had fallen away. I was watching Gertie the counterintelligence operative.

“Maman wants to know what his business is here,” Gertie said. Right after that I heard Desiree’s voice in my ear. She was translating for Justin: “Maman wants to know what brings you here.”

Justin cleared his throat. “I’m doing research for my master’s thesis on the effect of environmental hydrocarbons on a fast reproducing organism, in this case the coypu, also known as the nutria or swamp rat. We’ve already confirmed the presence of hydrocarbons using cyclohexane extraction and transmission measurement, which has the advantage of…uh, I’m studying swamp rats.”

“Maman” asked him a question, which of course I couldn’t decode.

“Not yet, Maman, but he’s gonna taste some at the swamp rat festival. Right, cher?” Desiree giggled.

“Oh yah, sure,” Justin agreed.

Maman leaned back and nodded. Desiree whispered something else, but I couldn’t hear it.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m looking at,” Justin said. “But reversing it? That’s a whole nother question. I’m not really...”

The rest of his answer was drowned out by excited conversation.

“Well this was a bust,” Ida Belle said. “Looks like we came all the way out here to spy on someone’s awkward meet-the-parents date.”

I shrugged. “You’re right. No one’s throwing Justin into the trunk of an Escalade or anything like that. I guess that’s a relief. So what was it that you were going to tell me? Or not tell me?”

“Wait.” Gertie was steadying her earpiece with her hand, frowning into the middle distance. Desiree was saying something else now. Her tone was serious.

“He can help us, Maman,” Gertie translated.

“Help us?” Ida Belle snorted. “Guess she thinks he’s rich.”

“They must not know many grad students,” I said.

“Cougar,” Ida Belle said.

“She’s not that much older than he is,” I said, a little defensively.

“Cougar!” Gertie repeated, and both of them were on their feet, scrambling down the bank.

Then I realized what they meant.

Standing beside the cabin, just five yards away and gazing directly at us, was a cougar. An actual cougar. This was nothing like Floyd Guidry’s pet bobcat. It was a beautiful animal; tawny, muscular, with alert, triangular ears and yellow-green eyes outlined with black.

I also happened to know that it was capable of clearing that distance in a single jump.

I stared at the ground to break eye contact and backed away slowly, then turned around and dashed to the boat. I took a running start and leapt in just as Ida Belle was pulling away from the bank.

I breathed a little easier when we’d been on the water for about fifteen minutes, with no sign of the cougar following us.

“Sorry about getting you two into this,” I said. “Wow, I couldn’t understand a thing they were saying. Was that Creole?”

“Cajun,” Gertie said.

“Gertie has a real talent for languages,” Ida Belle said. “You shoulda seen how fast she picked up Khmer.”

“What was it that the little girl said, when everyone shushed her and then someone carried her out of the room? Was it something rude?”

“Sort of.” Gertie shifted uncomfortably on the narrow aluminum bench seat. “It’s that Cajun legend I was telling you about. A man that can change into a beast. The Rougarou.”

“That’s right, Rougarou. I remember now. Did she think Justin was a werewolf?”

“Justin?” Ida Belle guffawed, “A werewolf? That kid’s as hairless as a nectarine. What? I only know cause he walks around the house without his shirt on sometimes.”

“Should we call Carter?” Gertie asked. “Let him know that we saw a cougar? Maybe it’s the same one that got LeRoy Thibodeaux.”

“I’m not going to call him. First of all, what’s he going to do about it? He’s the deputy sheriff, not animal control. And second of all, I don’t need him scolding me again and telling me to stay home and lock all the doors.”

“Fortune has a point,” Ida Belle said. “Carter wouldn’t be able to do anything about it anyway. And we don’t even know if that’s the one that got LeRoy.”

Something splashed into the water, and I felt my heart rate jump. My anxiety level was in the red zone, which wasn’t healthy, but was understandable. I was hiding out from an international arms dealer in a place teeming with snakes, alligators, and now carnivorous cats. Maybe I should just stock up on canned food and wine, go home, lock the doors, and stay inside for the rest of the summer.

“There’s one for Ally,” Ida Belle said.

A wet, furry brown thing glided alongside our boat and then ducked underwater.

“What was that, a beaver?” I asked.

“That’s a swamp rat,” Gertie said.

“That’s what Ally’s been trying to make into pies in my kitchen? It looks too cute to eat. And way too big to be a rat.”

“Don’t be fooled by how cute they are,” Gertie said. “Those cute little critters are an environmental menace. Some fur traders brought them here back in the thirties, but they got loose and now they’re out of control. They dig up roots and destroy river banks.”

“That’s why we get money from the state for the swamp rat festival,” Ida Belle said. “I guess I have to call it the nutria festival now, thanks to Celia.”

“There seems to be some kind of festival or fair every week or so in Sinful,” I said.

“Mostly we have them during the summer,” Gertie said. “There’s not much else for the kids to do when school’s out. Idle hands, you know.”

“I do know,” I sighed. “Maybe I need to find a hobby.”

The three of us repaired to Francine’s Diner in time for the early bird dinner special.

“So are you going to tell me now?” I said.

“Tell you what?” Gertie asked innocently.

“Whatever it was that you don’t tell outsiders.”

“The Rougarou,” Ida Belle said. “The half human half beast.”

“That’s your big secret? You told me that already.”

“I knew it was safe to tell her,” Gertie said. “See? She doesn’t even believe it.”

“And you become one if you don’t observe Lent,” I said. “I remember.”

“I believe the thing about Lent is just a myth,” Gertie said.

“You think?”

Gertie ignored me.

“It’s either blood or bite. Blood is when you’re born with it. And bite is when you get changed.”

“Really. Changed into what, exactly?” I figured I’d humor Gertie; this was probably something she had to do for her creative writing class. Ida Belle snorted and dug into her chicken fried steak.

“It’s impossible to predict what animal you’ll become when you make the change,” Gertie said. “It’s not like you get bitten by a wolf, you necessarily turn into a wolf. Some people think the animal you become has to do with what you’ve been eating, where you’ve been living, your personality and temperament, or where your ancestors come from. There was a Russian fur trader back in the thirties who got bitten by a gator and turned into a bear.”

A querulous voice nearly made me jump out of my seat.

“It was a cougar!” Celia Arceneaux exclaimed, from a few booths over.

For a mad moment I wondered if Celia had been following us and had seen our hasty retreat from the run-down cabin in Perd’ Espoir. But why would she be discussing it with a balding little man with a notepad?

The little man was saying something now, but his voice didn’t project as well as that of our mayor-elect. I motioned to Ida Belle and she took out one of the hearing amplifiers from her purse and passed it to me from under the table. I quickly hooked the gadget onto my ear and covered it with my hair extensions.

“...middle of a nasty custody battle over their four children,” the unidentified man was saying. “Don’t you think that’s real convenient timing?”

“You call yourself a reporter?” Celia sneered. “For your information, Thelma and LeRoy each wanted the other one to take the kids. Thelma was as sad as anyone when they found LeRoy’s body. Anyway, I thought you were here to ask me about the Annual Sinful Nutria Jamboree. We’re going to do it up right this year, Mister Santiago. I suggest you take notes.”

Celia then described at length all of the cooking contests and fireworks displays and other unique features of the upcoming Festival that, except for the swamp rat theme, sounded just like all of Sinful’s other summertime festivals. I saw the little man dutifully transcribing in his notepad. I removed my earpiece.

“That man’s a reporter. Celia invited a reporter here.” I slipped the hearing aid back to Ida Belle under the table.

“Not really what you want when you’re undercover,” Gertie observed.

“No. It’s not.”

That morning I’d gotten an email update from Harrison, my CIA handler.

Hoping for a break in the weather, but nothing yet. Dad’s doing OK. Hope you’re not having too much fun without me.

Someone who intercepted the message wouldn’t get much useful intelligence from it. I knew how to read Harrison’s communications, though:

No progress on tracking down Ahmad; Director Morrow is doing fine, no news about him; and keep your head down and stay out of trouble.

So the latest news was that Ahmad was still at large. With newspapers all online now, and everyone armed with a camera-equipped cell phone, it was a lot harder to stay incognito. And a lot easier to stalk someone using only a laptop, an internet connection, and some basic facial recognition software.

The diner door opened with a jingle. Justin Lao came in and beelined over to us. At least the cougar hadn’t gotten him. Ida Belle scooted in to make room for him.

“I got some news,” he said eagerly.

“Ally tells me you had a big date today,” I said.

Justin’s face fell. Did I say something wrong? I really wasn’t good at this casual small talk thing, was I?

“Oh yeah. I met Desiree’s family.”

I wondered if something bad had happened after we left, or if he had just been generally creeped out.

“So what’s your news, dear?” Gertie asked.

“Oh. Aunty Ida Belle. I know you said no visitors, but Toby LaRoquette wants to come talk story, about that specimen I found. I don’t gotta car, so he’s gotta drive out here. Is that okay? Oh, he’s the one I was telling you about, from the School of Medicine.”

I rested my forehead in my hand. Sinful, Louisiana Site of the Latest Big Scientific Discovery. I imagined reporters and scientists streaming in from every corner of the state. No, the world. Paparazzi would be swarming all over Sinful looking for photo opportunities. Celia Arceneaux would probably get herself interviewed by Ira Flatow on Science Friday.

“I suppose that’s all right,” Ida Belle said. “But if you invite him over, you have to clean up after him.”

“Are you hungry?” Gertie asked. “We just ordered. We can go tell Francine to put on another fried fish plate.”

“Nah, thanks Aunty. I gotta get back to work.”

Justin sprang up and sprinted out of the diner.

“He’s more excited about his research than he is about his new girlfriend,” Ida Belle said.

“Maybe Ally still has a shot,” Gertie said.

“I don’t think so. I know they’re cute together, but Ally told me she didn’t want to get emotionally attached to someone who’s just going to leave.”

“Well you’re going to leave,” Gertie said. “And you’re probably the best friend she has.”

“Why’d you go and say that, Gertie? Now you made her feel bad. Cheer up, Fortune. You might end up here longer than you planned.”

Chapter 7

The next day I was relaxing in Marge’s library again, curled up with a cup of coffee and a reference book on Louisiana wildlife, when my phone rang.

“Your house in good shape?” Ida Belle demanded. “We’re coming over.”

“Who? You and Gertie?”

“Not Gertie. Me, plus two more. Justin’s professor friend is gonna be here in ten minutes.”

“Why are you coming here? What’s wrong with your house?”

“We’re bottling a batch of Sinful Ladies Cough Syrup.”

“You only found that out this morning?”

“Forgot to check my calendar. Anyway, Gertie has to supervise, so we can’t use her place, cause she won’t be there. That leaves Marge’s house.”

The production schedule of Sinful Ladies’ Cough Syrup was not to be messed with. Sinful was a dry town, which meant that the men usually traveled outside city limits to the Swamp Bar to drink, while most of Sinful’s ladies kept a blameless bottle of cough syrup in their handbags. Of course the gender lines weren’t drawn that firmly. The Swamp Bar had its share of female clientele. And our postman was one of the Ladies’ best customers. In any event, a shortage of cough syrup could cause a riot.

“Fine,” I said. “I guess this means I have to brush my teeth and put on pants. But I’m not cooking. And don’t count on me for small talk.”

“I’m thinking if we run out of conversation we can show ‘em Marge’s library,” Ida Belle said. “Justin’s professor friend would like that.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “Who wouldn’t like Marge’s library?”

I don’t know what I was expecting a distinguished professor from one of the nation’s top medical schools to look like. But it wasn’t this.

Mid Thirties. Five eleven, one eighty. Excellent physical condition. Short scar on the left cheek that looks like a dimple. Brown hair, hazel eyes, wicked smile, no wedding ring. Minimal threat, except to my virtue.

I stood at the door and gaped at Professor Toby LaRoquette.

Geez, what was wrong with me? If the Company shrink were here, she’d probably tell me it was a rebound reaction. My backing away from my relationship with Carter had left a void, and my lifelong habit of distancing myself from my own emotions had rendered me ill-equipped to deal with the consequences. Knowing all that didn’t help. It was all I could do not to drool.

“Come in,” I managed to say, finally. I wished I’d worn something nicer than sweats and a tee shirt. My good camo pants, at least.

Over a lunch of reheated gumbo (Ally had left a big pot of it in the fridge) we chatted about this and that, mostly food. Unlike many of the accomplished men I’d shared a meal with, Professor LaRoquette wasn’t one of those blowhards who is the hero of every story he tells. Instead, he admired our new rice cooker, asked about life in Sinful, and genuinely seemed interested in what Justin, Ida Belle, and I had to say. And all of that charming conversation was delivered with a Cajun lilt.

“So Professor, are you married?” I heard someone say, and too late realized with horror that I was the one who said it.

Toby smiled easily, as if he’d fielded this question many times before. Well, of course he had. He was handsome, accomplished, intelligent, and charming, in a place where the bar for eligible bachelor was having a steady job and most of your teeth.

“I’m afraid work keeps me so busy I don’t really have time for that kind of thing,” he laughed.

Behind him, Gertie mouthed at me: “GAY.”

I gave her a nod. Good. A little disappointing, but fewer complications for me.

Even Merlin, my cat, adored Toby. From the moment Toby arrived, Merlin had been doing blissed-out figure-eights around Toby’s ankles.

After dinner I showed everyone around Marge’s house. It was sparkling clean, as I had little else to do all day but tidy up. Ida Belle had seen it all before, of course, but she didn’t want to be left out. I couldn’t help but notice how gracefully Professor LaRoquette mounted the stairs. Too bad he—well never mind. He must have some great workout routine. Probably did a lot of Zumba or something.

The last stop was Marge’s library. I saw LaRoquette’s pupils dilate at the sight of the walls of books—not that I’d been staring at those hazel eyes or anything. But he obviously liked what he saw. That made two of us.

“Why Fortune,” he said, “this is really something.” He walked over to a shelf and ran a finger down the spine of a volume on plant-derived poisons. Lucky book.

“You spend a lot of time in here?” he was still gazing at the shelves.

“It’s my favorite part of the house,” I said.

“Probably because she’s a librarian,” Ida Belle added, helpfully reinforcing my cover story.

“I thought you and Justin could have your meeting here,” I said. “Take as long as you like, Professor.”

“Please, call me Toby.” He flashed me a smile that I’d remember for a long time.

“Well, I gotta get back to the ladies,” Ida Belle said. “That cough syrup’s not gonna bottle itself.”

“Want to try some brownies before you go? Ally made these a couple of days ago and she said she wanted me to finish them so she wouldn’t be tempted to.”

“Do they have swamp rat in them?” Ida Belle asked, but she was already sitting back down at the table.

“I don’t think so.” I brought a plate covered with a checkered dishtowel over to the table and whisked off the towel. The chocolate smell bloomed, and Ida Belle and I attacked the plate.

“The gumbo had swamp rat in it, you know,” Ida Belle said, her mouth still full.

“What? We just ate swamp rat?”

“You didn’t realize, did you? That means the recipe’s a success. That’s good for Ally. Tell her congratulations if you see her before I do.”

“It did taste a little gamy,” I said. “That’s okay. I’ve eaten worse. You ever have snake?”

“Sure. You ever eat dog? Gertie and I did.”

Our conversation was interrupted by raised voices from upstairs.

“Are they okay?” I asked. “Should we check on them?”

The voices quieted down. Justin and Toby came down the stairs shortly after that.

“Think about what I said,” Toby was saying to Justin. “I know you want to go where the evidence takes you, but you gotta think about your career. Listen, stay in touch. Uh, Fortune? Ida Belle? I wonder if there’s a convenience store close by. I’d like to get a Coke or something for the drive back.”

“I’ll walk you over,” I said.

“I have to get going,” Ida Belle said, and I noticed she tipped the entire plate of brownies into her purse as she stood up.

“Me too,” Justin mumbled. “Eh, thanks for coming out, Toby. Too bad it wasn’t better news.”

“Don’t get discouraged,” Toby said. “Just stay focused. Stick to the coypu.”

“The what?” I asked.

“It’s the scientific name for swamp rat,” Justin said. “Nutria. Okay, thanks, ah? Safe drive back to New Orleans.”

Justin and Ida Belle left together. Ida Belle was in a considerably better mood than her renter. The poor kid seemed deflated.

“We can walk down to the General Store.” Gay or not, I relished the prospect of a pleasant stroll with Professor Dreamy. The fact that Walter, the General Store’s proprietor, happened to be Deputy Carter LeBlanc’s uncle bothered me less than it should have.

“I’d love a walk.” His smile activated the dimple on his cheek. “I’m gonna be sitting for two hours in the car.”

The afternoon Louisiana humidity hit me like a giant wet sock as soon as we stepped outside, making me feel like a contestant in the world’s least sexy wet t-shirt contest. Toby LaRoquette and I crunched our way down the shell-and-gravel-covered road to Walter’s General Store.

“So Justin’s discovery?” I asked. “Did you ever find out what it was?”

“A nonviable felid neonate,” he said. “A stillbirth. Poor Justin, thought he’d discovered a new species or something.”

“Felid? So something in the cat family?”

“That’s right.”

“Justin seemed so disappointed after he talked to you.”

“Well, he had this whole theory cooked up about the hydrocarbons and the dispersants accelerating evolution. Sure, that’d be an exciting discovery and all, but…” he swept his arm out, indicating the neat little row of shops on Main Street, the bayou beyond, and the green-gray summer sky. “This isn’t a laboratory. You can’t control all the variables.”

“No argument there.” I considered the events of the past few weeks. “Just out of curiosity, though, is it possible Justin is right? Do you think the spill could have affected the wildlife here?”

“It’s impossible to tell. There’s no evidence for it so far. And we researchers, we don’t usually come out and say something is ‘true’ or ‘false’. We’ll say the evidence supports it, or it doesn’t. And in this case, it really doesn’t. Not at this point, anyway.”

“That’s why he seemed so discouraged?”

“Well, there was something else. I felt like I had to be honest about this, cause the boy’s not from around here and he probably doesn’t know. If Justin publishes anything that makes the oil companies look bad, well, N’Awlins is a bit of a company town. If we’re fixin’ to publish something that’s gonna get us on the wrong side of one of our trustees, we better double check and triple check beforehand and make sure our evidence is solid. For someone like Justin, he’s still getting his degree—he doesn’t even have a job yet. I told him to save the risky stuff until his position’s more secure. I’d hate for him to kill his career before it even starts.”

“I didn’t realize your job was so political.”

“Name me a job that isn’t,” he laughed. “When I was just out of high school, I worked out on an oil rig. You’d think no one would have time for all of that mess out there. But that political stuff, the cliques, and the boss playing favorites, people ready to stab you in the back, I believe you’ll find that just about everywhere. Probably even here in Sinful.”

“It’s true. Our last mayoral election, for example. They’re still auditing the results, but you wouldn’t believe the lengths people will go to for the chance to run a two hundred-something person town.”

“I believe I saw something in the paper about Sinful’s mayoral race.” His teasing grin reminded me that the main city paper seemed to delight in publishing stories that made bayou folk look like savages. That girl out in Mudbug who made it to the statewide spelling championship? That story was tucked into the back of the lifestyle section. But the bayou meth lab that blew up and showered the neighborhood with body parts? That got on the front page.

“You like it here, Fortune?”

“Oh, sure. I’ve made some nice friends, and I enjoy learning about new places.” How’s that for staying in character? A real former beauty queen couldn’t have done better. “For example, I thought you guys already had your hands full here with the copperheads and the alligators, but I just found out you have cougars around here too. I actually saw one.”

Toby flashed me that dimpled smile and touched my shoulder, setting a pleasant shiver running from his fingers down to the tips of my toes. “You gotta be careful, Fortune. Louisiana has some dangerous wildlife.”

I looked down and the gravel and broken shells crunching beneath my feet. Indeed, Professor LaRoquette, I thought. Indeed.

Chapter 8

Walter looked a little surprised when I walked into his General Store accompanied by the handsomest man in the parish.

“Hi Walter,” I said, before he could ask me anything embarrassing, like what’s going on with you and my nephew Carter? “This is Professor Toby LaRoquette. He came out here to see Justin, the grad student who’s staying with Ida Belle. He wanted to get something for the drive back to New Orleans. Toby, Walter.”

Walter rubbed his hands on his overalls and shook Toby’s hand.

“A pleasure,” both men said at the same time.

“Well, your young friend Justin’s made quite an impression on us here in Sinful,” Walter said. “He’s very well liked.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Toby said.

“What can I get for you?”

“A Coke or an energy drink?” Toby said. “Something with enough caffeine to take me through a two-hour drive.”

Walter directed Toby to the drinks cooler. I made an effort not to ogle him as he strode away, and then turned back to Walter.

“Justin is well liked? Already? How did he manage that?”

Walter made a tutting noise.

“Now Fortune, you know you’re one of my very favorite people, but some folks around here find it hard to warm up to a Yankee. Sometimes foreigners have an easier time of it.”

“Foreigners? Walter, do people here not know that Hawaii—what is it?”

Walter was gazing past me.

“Sorry, Fortune. I was just looking at the store layout. See where the candy is?”

“Uh, sort of.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. My view’s partly blocked from here.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“My candy’s been disappearing.”

“Someone’s been stealing from you? Walter, since when?”

“I don’t know. Inventory never reconciles perfectly, but you’d expect to see some months up, some months down. Lately I’ve noticed that department is always coming up short.”

“That’s terrible.”

“There’s no call for that kind of thing, Fortune. Not at my store. If someone’s hungry for something sweet and they don’t have money? They can put it on their tab. Oh by the by, you been by to see Carter?”

“Not recently. His recovery’s going well?”

“Celia’s been bugging him about this LeRoy Thibodeaux incident,” Walter said. “She’s afraid with the nutria festival coming up, lots of people around, something else bad might happen. A cougar, here in bayou country. Hard to believe.”

“I guess it’s good to take precautions.” I didn’t mention that I’d recently seen a cougar with my own eyes. It was well out of town, I figured, and there was no point in getting people more panicked than they already were.

Toby came back and placed two tall black cans of energy drink on the counter, along with a package of pepper jerky, a bag of dried fruit, and a tin of mints. As Walter was ringing him up I sensed someone standing behind me.

I took a quick glance over my shoulder and recognized the reporter who had been sitting with Celia at Francine’s. He was holding a copy of the New Orleans paper.

Male, five foot two, early fifties. High percentage of body fat and low fitness level. Dark hair, what’s left of it, and café au lait complexion indicate Creole ancestry. Threat: negligible, unless you’re a plate of beignets.

I nodded and smiled at him, to let him know I’d seen him.

He nodded back. He seemed jolly, which struck me as strange. In my experience, journalists tend to wear a hunted look. On the other hand, I don’t run into many small-town lifestyle reporters when I’m out in the field.

“Morning Mister Santiago,” Walter greeted the man.

“Aw please. Call me Nick.” The reporter’s accent sounded local.

When Toby and I were almost out the door of Walter’s General Store, I paused.

“Just a minute,” I said to Toby. “I thought I heard a text message come in.”

I held the phone up, pretending to look for the non-existent text, and surreptitiously snapped a photo of the man who was calling himself Nick Santiago.

On the walk back to Marge’s house, Toby asked all about me—where I was from, how long I’d be in Sinful, how I liked the quiet life of a librarian, and speaking of that, what did I think of the trend toward open-access scientific journals? Just my luck. The only time I meet guys who actually seem interested in asking me about myself and my work is when I’m on an undercover assignment. I answered his questions as well as I could and steered the conversation to his research. He talked about his investigation into diseases of metabolism. A lot of it was outside my expertise, but he explained it in a way that I got the general idea. He even made it sound interesting.

He accompanied me all the way to the front door. Right before I stepped inside he kissed me on the cheek.

It wasn’t a romantic kiss. Just a friendly one. So there was really no reason for the pressure of his warm lips on my cheek to turn my insides to melted wax.

I sighed and went inside. I wasn’t going to see Toby again. He didn’t seem terribly interested in Justin’s “discovery,” and he hadn’t said anything about coming back to Sinful. Not that I wanted to get myself into yet another romantic entanglement. But our brief conversation had made me realize how much I missed the intellectual challenge of my job. Sure, in the past few weeks I’d had demands on my physical agility and marksmanship. But I missed discussing the particulars of a new assignment with the analysts, learning about the convoluted history and politics of whatever war-torn failed state I was about to visit, even processing events with the Company shrink afterwards.

Toby LaRoquette stimulated me. Intellectually, I mean. He was like Marge’s library, in a much more visually pleasing package.

Ally’s gumbo had made for a filling lunch, but that didn’t keep me from stopping by Francine’s for dinner. Ida Belle and Gertie had reached a pause point in the Sinful Ladies’ Cough Syrup distilling process, so they were able to join me. Ida Belle brought along the depressed Justin, making a party of four.

Ally was working the dinner shift, so she stopped by our table to catch up on the latest news. Justin gloomily told her about his conversation with Professor Toby LaRoquette.

“He said that thing I found was just like one dead baby mountain lion or li’dat,” Justin said sadly. “An’ he didn’t wanna help me wit’ the research for my thesis. He said he didn’t wanna make any waves or attract any negative attention. If that’s what it’s like to work at a university, I dunno if that’s what I wanna do.”

“Speaking of attracting attention,” I said. “There’s our reporter friend again.”

The man who was calling himself Nick Santiago was sitting by himself in a corner booth, busily typing on a small laptop. Harrison had put a rush on my request and run Santiago’s photo against the database of bad guys. No hits, so maybe that was good news. Or maybe it just meant that this guy hadn’t been added to our database yet. And posing as a reporter was a perfect cover if you wanted to go nosing into people’s secrets.

Ally glanced over at the man. “Oh, that’s Mister Nick, from the paper. Listen, much as I’d love to stand here chatting all night, I better take your order. You’re my favorite customers, but you’re not my only ones.”

“What’s in today’s seafood platter?” I asked. I’d noticed that much of the local cuisine seemed to consist of dragging a stick along the bottom of the bayou, grabbing anything that moved, and throwing it in the deep fryer. I’m not a picky eater, but if I’m about to crunch into something with a shell and eye stalks, I like to have advance warning.

Ally checked her notepad. “Tonight it’s catfish, crab cakes, and shrimp. Catfish is fresh.”

“Sounds great. I’ll take the seafood platter.”

Everyone else chose the seafood platter too. Ally went back to put in our order, and Justin excused himself to wash his hands.

“So this Nick Santiago,” I motioned with my head toward the squat man at the far booth, “What if this reporter thing is a cover?”

“For what?” Gertie asked. “If he was working for you-know-who, wouldn’t he have grabbed you already?”

“I’m thinking he’s with one of the oil companies. Toby was telling me they’re a little sensitive about their public image.”

“Are they ever,” Ida Belle said.

“I know, right? I’m sure they don’t want it to get out that that specimen Justin found might be a result of the oil spill.”

“If those companies don’t like getting bad publicity for the terrible things they do,” Gertie said, “then they should stop doing terrible things,”

I glanced over at Santiago again. He calmly sipping coffee and concentrating on his little laptop.

“It’s funny,” I said. “I’m used to being on the same side as them. Generally their interests have been aligned with ours. You know a village is harboring bad guys, and what do you know, it happens to be a good place to lay a pipeline. They’ll go right in and do the dirty work. I never did like that part of the job, honestly. I mean, it was always necessary to the mission, but…”

“Fortune, dear,” Gertie said, “we were in Vietnam. You don’t have to tell us. Oh, here comes Justin. Maybe we should talk about something else.”

“I’ll take it. Justin, we were just talking about getting used to life in a small town. How are you liking it here? It must be quite an adjustment moving to the South.”

“Not really.” Justin slid into the booth next to Ida Belle. “It’s more like home than I expected. Way more haoles than I’m used to, sorry, I mean Caucasians, but the weather’s about the same.”

“It’s this humid where you’re from?” I said.

“Oh. Yah. Guarantee. Don’t forget, Hawaii’s the South too. South Point, on the Big Island, is the most southern part of the United States.”

“I’m still not used to that,” Gertie said. “I keep thinking it’s forty-eight states.”

“Yeah, you still remember the original thirteen,” Ida Belle said.

“Are you from a small town too?” I asked Justin.

“Except for Honolulu I think they’re pretty much all small towns,” Justin said. “Mahina’s about forty thousand.”

“That’s a booming metropolis compared to Sinful,” Gertie said.

Ally brought our seafood platters over and we dug in. Fried fish, shrimp, and crab cakes were heaped next to salty hot fries and sweet cole slaw. The fried items were too hot to eat right away, so I started with the cole slaw.

After we had spent a few minutes wolfing down our dinners, Justin said,

“I talked to Nakamura.”

“Who?” I said.

“That’s his advisor,” Ida Belle explained. “She’s on Hawaii time, so she thinks it’s just fine to call us in the middle of the night.”

“I already told her eight thirty was too late for us, Aunty Ida Belle,” Justin said. “Anyways I got my cell phone working now, so it’s not gonna happen again. She’ll text me direct.”

“When did you talk to her?” I picked at the remaining French fries on my plate. I was already full, but you don’t leave a man behind.

“I called her right after you left with LaRoquette.”

“I didn’t leave with him. I just walked him down to the General Store. Anyway, what does she think?”

Justin sighed. “Nakamura agrees with him. She thinks I should stick with collecting the nutria droppings. Since that specimen turned out to be some kinda cat, it wasn’t part of my program.”

“It’s good to stay focused,” I said.

“And don’t get discouraged,” Gertie added. “You’ll find plenty of nutria droppings around here.”

“Oh, nah, I’m not discouraged. Talking to Nakamura was pretty motivating. She said don’t get distracted, cause when my part of the grant money runs out I’m on my own. Guess I needed to hear that.”

Justin gazed at his empty plate, as if he were considering telling us more.

“Did she say anything else?” I prompted.

“Just one thing that was kinda weird. She said she was kinda afraid to send me down here at first.”

“Why?” I was keeping Santiago in my peripheral vision.

“Snakes?” Ida Belle asked.

“Nah, nah, not the snakes. She said when she was in grad school, she heard about these researchers down here back in the 1950s. They were a husband and wife, she thinks. They found a specimen they couldn’t identify, course DNA analysis wasn’t available then. They thought they’d found something, a new species or li’dat.”

“That was long before the oil spill,” I said.

“They’ve been drilling in the bayous since the 1920s,” Ida Belle said. “Don’t let ‘em off the hook that easy.”

“Anyways, she said the researchers took all kinda notes, but it never got published in a scientific journal. Cause it was just this one of a kind thing, they couldn’t get it past peer review. And they didn’t have a camera with them, or a refrigerated container, or anything like that. There was no evidence, just their memory of it.”

“So why was your advisor afraid to send you down here?” I asked.

“Cause they never published anything after that,” Justin said.

“It ended their scientific careers?” Gertie said.

“That’s the best-case scenario,” Justin said. “All anyone knows is, no one ever heard from ‘em again.”

I saw Ida Belle and Gertie exchange a glance. Justin didn’t notice it.

Ida Belle, Gertie, Justin and I waddled out of Francine’s Diner, leaving Nick Santiago still typing away in the corner booth, probably on his twentieth cup of coffee. If he was surveilling us, he wasn’t being very subtle. Maybe he was trying to send us a message.

Or, maybe he really was a newspaper reporter, trying to soak up some small-town color for the features page, and Francine’s was the only place in town where he could park himself and drink coffee while he wrote. It’s not like Sinful had a Starbucks.

Geez, being paranoid was exhausting.

The fading daylight brought a welcome drop in temperature and made the humidity more bearable. Ida Belle complained briefly that we were keeping her up past her bedtime, but she seemed to be enjoying the cool evening walk as much as the rest of us.

Our conversation turned to LeRoy Thibodeaux, the man who’d been found mauled to death in the woods.

“We get wild boars back home,” Justin was saying. “But it’s pretty easy to avoid ‘em. Long as you stay away from the piglets. An’ you can hear ‘em coming. They don’t sneak up on you.”

If only my enemies could be like wild boars, I thought, warning me in advance by crashing through the underbrush before they struck. No, in my line of work it’s the harmless-seeming ones you have to look out for. The dorky graduate student. The cheerful general-store owner. The sweet waitress who befriends you and moves into your house.

This was ridiculous. There was no end to how paranoid I could get. When I got home I’d take a hot bath and go to bed early. I needed some rest. It wasn’t healthy for me to dwell constantly on the worst possible—

Oh, I forgot one. The charming college professor.

Justin thought he had gotten in got in touch with a professor from the university, but what if the call, or email, whatever it was, had been intercepted? Ahmad’s organization certainly had that capability. What if there was really a Toby LaRoquette, but the man who came to Sinful was an agent of Ahmad’s, selected for his hypnotic charm? If that was the case, though, why didn’t he just put a bullet in me as soon as we were alone? Or kidnap me, I thought with a shudder. After all, the price on my head was higher for me alive than dead.

My companions had moved on from talking about boars to trading recipes for regional delicacies. Justin had just finished describing how to eat raw ‘opihi, which I gathered was some kind of sea snail, and now Ida Belle was giving a tutorial on the best way to pick shot out of a squirrel.

“Hey, Justin,” I interrupted. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering. How did you initially get in touch with this Toby LaRoquette?”

Justin opened his mouth to answer when a snarling shape shot out of nowhere and sent Justin sprawling. I instinctively grabbed at the back of my waistband, but Ida Belle was quicker on the draw. Bang—a warning shot.

The big cat had its feet planted on Justin’s chest, and didn’t even notice.

Bang! A spray of gravel and broken shells exploded next to Justin’s head. The creature turned slowly to Ida Belle, baring its teeth.

Bang! A splotch of red appeared on the animal’s shoulder.

The cat slowly stood up and loped away, slightly favoring its left foreleg.

We all knelt around Justin. Ida Belle felt his neck for a pulse.

“Weak,” she said. “Probably shock.”

“Good thing you didn’t shoot the boy, Ida Belle.”

“Course I didn’t shoot him, Gertie. I know what I’m doing. Poor kid’s sure had a run of bad luck.”

“Getting an ambulance is going to take forever,” I said. “I’ll call Ally. She should be getting off her shift about—”

“Oh look,” Gertie exclaimed. “Aren’t we in luck? Here comes Carter’s truck.”

Chapter 9

The E.R. intake nurse took one look at Justin and parted the waters for him. He got to go in ahead of the Swamp Bar fight casualties and the drunken night-time fishing accidents.

Justin was worse off than we’d thought at first. He’d hit is head when he’d fallen, and blood soaked through Carter’s brown blanket in shiny black blotches.

“Thanks for the ride, Carter,” Ida-Belle said. “Maybe you can give Fortune a lift to her house so she can get Marge’s jeep and come back here, and we won’t be stranded.”

“No problem,” Carter said, unenthusiastically.

Carter hadn’t asked us a single question on the way over. It was as if he had given up on the idea of the three of us ever telling him the truth. The irony was that this time Ida Belle, Gertie, and I had nothing to hide, for a change.

Neither of us said anything as Carter pulled out onto the road. When we were up to speed, he finally spoke.

“So Uncle Walt said he saw you at the General Store today.”

“M hm,” I said.

“Guess he sees you more than I do anymore.”

I wondered whether Walter had told Carter that I’d come walking in with Professor Dreamy, and if so, whether that had made Carter jealous. I have no patience with jealousy. It makes me feel like a toy that two toddlers are fighting over.

“I don’t want to be a pest,” I said. “I know you have your hands full. You’re still recovering from the most recent attempt on your life, you’re trying to stay in Mayor-Elect Celia Arceneaux’s good graces so she doesn’t get into a snit and fire you, and now with the big Hamster Hootenanny or whatever it’s called coming up you have to worry about wild cougars coming in and gobbling up the tourists before they can spend their money.”

Carter laughed. “Fortune, you got one heck of a smart mouth for a beauty queen. I thought you all were supposed to smile sweetly and wish for world peace.”

“I never claimed I was any good at being a beauty queen.”

“Is there anything else you’re not telling me about this animal attack?”

“I wish I could tell you something useful. We were walking out of Francine’s, on the bayou side of the road, and this big cat came lunging out from the bushes, straight at Justin. It didn’t let up until Ida Belle shot it in the shoulder. Thank Heaven for Ida Belle.”

“Do you think Justin could tell me anything?”

“Like what? What would you ask him? ‘Do you know why this wild animal might have wanted to harm you?’”

“Look, Fortune, I’m doing what I can here. You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

“There was one thing I noticed. That guy that calls himself a reporter, Santiago, was hanging out at Francine’s right before the incident. And he’s been popping up everywhere, asking questions. He seems suspicious to me.”

“Well, unless you think Santiago turned himself into a cougar and ran out after you, that doesn’t help me.”

“Who’s being sarcastic now?”

“Sorry.” Carter slowed the truck and pulled into the driveway of Marge’s house. “Here we are.”

He sat and looked at me. “Fortune, when you’re up to it, I’d like to have dinner again. You just let me know when.”

I couldn’t process this right now. I had to get back to the hospital.

“Sure thing.” I hopped down from the cab and ran into the house.

Back at the hospital, I found Ida Belle and Gertie in front of Justin’s room, arguing with Mayor-Elect Celia Arceneaux.

“Celia, did you come to check on Justin? That was nice of you.”

I didn’t even bother to ask how she knew to come here. In Sinful, people just find out about things.

“No she didn’t,” Ida Belle said. “She came here looking for you, Fortune.”

“I just wanted to find out a little more about that man you came into the General Store with this afternoon.”

“Celia, this is Sinful, not Pyongyang. People are allowed to have out of town visitors without mayoral approval.”

“Oh no, no, Fortune, you misunderstand me.” Celia attempted a girlish laugh. The effect was chilling. “Walter tells me he was a very important researcher from the university. And he came all this way, just to visit our little town?”

“He is from the university,” I said.

“Why, that’s very impressive,” Celia purred. “That’s the kind of high-quality visitor we’d like to encourage here. Does he have any plans to return? I can arrange for a free pass to the Nutria Festival.”

“Really Celia?” Ida Belle said. “You know, Justin’s a researcher too. And he’s from a university. How come you weren’t so impressed by him? Cause he’s just some skinny Oriental kid who doesn’t look like a movie star?”

“I can hear you,” Justin called from his room.

“I’ll go see how he’s doing,” I said. “Sounds like he’s feeling a little stronger.”

I pushed past the three older ladies into Justin’s room and pulled the door shut behind me, muting the sound of their bickering.

Doctor Broussard was standing by Justin’s bedside, making notes on a chart. Justin had been cleaned and bandaged, and with most of the blood wiped up, he looked a lot better.

“How’s the patient?” I asked.

Doctor Broussard looked up. His thin face wore an even grimmer expression than usual.

“Gave him the tetanus booster, and we’re going to administer a rabies vaccination before he goes home.”

“He said likelihood of rabies is low,” Justin added cheerfully from the hospital bed, “Only one documented case of a human bitten by a rabid cougar, but better safe than sorry, ah? Cause once symptoms show, cannot do nothing.”

“That’s correct. Justin, excuse us?” Doctor Broussard took my elbow and guided me back into the hallway. Ida Belle, Gertie, and Celia had gone.

“Is he okay?” I whispered. “What is it? His health insurance up to date?”

“There’s no problem with payment,” Doctor Broussard said. “It’s just that—this reminds me of another case I had. It was years ago, but very similar circumstances. I’m going to ask you to keep an eye on him. If anything out of the ordinary happens—anything at all—bring him right back in. Not the next day, not in a few hours, but right then. You hear?”

“I’m not sure I’m the one you need to—”

“Ida Belle doesn’t have a car,” he said. “Gertie needs vision correction and she refuses to get it. And I hear you can keep a cool head in a crisis, Fortune. You’re a lot like Marge in that way.”

That was uncomfortably close to the truth, considering Marge herself had been a secret government operative.

“Believe me, you develop nerves of steel out there on the beauty contest circuit,” I said. “Compared to what goes on there, wild animal attacks are a piece of cake.”

“I don’t doubt it. Yes, may I help you, young lady?”

“I’d like to visit Justin Lao.” Desiree Roche smiled sweetly. “I hope I’m in time for visiting hours.”

Her caramel-blonde ringlets (real, not extensions) grazed her shoulders, and she wore a modest wrap sweater in a sort of pale orange over a yellow flowered sun dress. Desiree Roche had this girlie thing down. Maybe I should start taking notes on her style. I had the feeling that people weren’t entirely buying my former-beauty-queen cover.

Doctor Broussard nodded for her to go ahead, but his rimless glasses glinted disapprovingly as he watched her sashay into Justin’s room. He made sure to prop the door open. Doctor Broussard excused himself and I hung around outside, peering in every so often, but all I saw was Desiree and Justin talking. Desiree was sitting very properly in the chair next to the hospital bed, her slender hands folded in her lap. Well, what was I expecting her to do? I really had to stop suspecting everyone of the worst possible motives.

That reminded me, I still had to check up on Toby LaRoquette, to make sure the man I’d met really was the renowned professor of genetics that worked at the University.

“Excuse me, Justin?” I poked my head into his room. “Do you get data here? I was hoping I could check something on your phone.”

“Sure,” he said. “They got my stuff over there, in that bag on the chair. Fortune, you gotta be the only person I know without a smart phone.”

“I know. I’m so used to my little flip phone. I’m sure I’ll get around to buying a smartphone one of these days.” Sure I will. Most people know that your smartphone broadcasts your location, and they’ve heard of people getting their private photos hacked. What they don’t realize is that it’s not that hard to remotely turn someone’s internet-enabled phone into a bugging device. If you’ve ever felt your phone get warm in your pocket when you’re not using it, take that as a compliment. Someone out there thinks you’re interesting enough to listen in on.

I dug through Justin’s backpack and pulled out his phone.

“Be right back.” I went out into the hallway to see Gertie and Ida Belle coming from the direction of the hospital cafeteria.

“We just ate,” I said. “Francine’s seafood platter wasn’t enough for you?”

“We needed a little cough syrup,” Gertie explained. “After dealing with Celia.”

“We went down to get some Coke for a mixer,” Ida Belle added. “Do you know the cafeteria’s right next to the morgue?”

“I wonder if they use the same refrigerator,” Gertie said.

“Glad you’re both feeling better. I could use a shot or two of cough syrup myself. Anyway, here’s what happened while you were gone. Doctor Broussard thinks Justin will be okay, but he says we should keep an eye on him in case anything unusual happens, which doesn’t sound like he’s really fine at all. And now Desiree Roche is sitting in Justin’s hospital room with him.”

Ida Belle and Gertie both stuck their heads into the doorway of Justin’s room. Desiree and Justin waved at them. Ida Belle and Gertie waved back and then ducked back into the hallway.

“What should we do?” Gertie fretted.

“Whaddaya mean? We should mind our own business, that’s what,” Ida Belle groused.

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to see if Professor Handsome really is who he says he is. Hang on. Shoot. The screen’s locked.”

I went into Justin’s room and once again interrupted the tête-à-tête.

“Sorry to butt in again. Can you unlock the phone for me?”

Back out in the hallway, Gertie and Ida Belle craned over my shoulder as I pulled up the university website. I navigated over to the medical school and searched for Toby LaRoquette.

“He checks out,” I said.

“Does he ever!” Gertie added.

“Unless he has an evil twin,” Ida Belle added.

“A handsome evil twin.” Gertie fanned herself with her hand.

There on the faculty page was a photograph of Toby LaRoquette, and it was definitely the same man that I’d walked over to Walter’s General Store with. I’d recognize that cute scar/dimple thing anywhere. Toby LaRoquette was the real thing.

I cleared my browsing history, went back into Justin’s room, and dropped his phone back into his bag.

“You find what you need?” Justin asked.

“Yes, I think so. Thanks.”

As I was exiting the room I almost collided with Nick Santiago.

My first instinct was to physically block the entrance to Justin’s room. That wouldn’t have been hard; at five foot ten, I towered over the little reporter.

“He’s busy,” I said.

Santiago craned his neck to look past me, and then stepped back.

“Ah, the young man has company. I won’t intrude. Is he planning to go to the Festival tomorrow?”

“Why are you asking?” This was my polite version of “what business is it of yours?”

“He’s been through a lot already. He should take it easy. All of you should be careful, in fact. That’s my advice to you.”

“Thank you for the advice. Was there anything else, Mister Santiago?”

I considered threatening to call the newspaper to confirm his identity, but I didn’t want to put him on alert. Calling the paper wouldn’t help anyway. Even if I could get someone to talk to me, they probably wouldn’t share the newspaper’s personnel information.

Santiago shrugged amiably. “You’re suspicious. I’m glad to see it. Very wise.”

He turned and ambled down the hallway, his bald head reflecting the harsh fluorescent light.

“What an odd little man,” Gertie said.

“He’s no reporter,” Ida Belle folded her arms. “A real reporter would’ve run over all three of us to harass that poor kid in his hospital bed.”

Chapter 10

Doctor Broussard ordered Justin to stay in the hospital overnight, just to be on the safe side. When I picked him up the next morning, he was more than ready to leave, and looking forward to accompanying Ida Belle and me to the festival.

I was curious about his visit from Desiree Roche the previous evening, and I had some time to pry the information out of him. We were inching back toward Main Street in the festival traffic.

“You should thank your visitor,” I said. “She managed to repel a reporter who wanted to talk to you.”

“A reporter came by? I didn’t even notice.”

“No, you didn’t. So what were you talking about for all that time?”

“Oh. Desiree heard about what happened to me. I dunno how, but she did. She just wanted to see if I was okay, was asking me all about it. Did I see the thing that attacked me, what it looked like an’ li’dat. Shoot, I dunno. I never saw nothing.”

“That’s all? She was in there with you for a while.”

“She was asking me some more about my research too. I like that there’s someone I can talk to that’s interested in my work. Especially after I got the brush-off from LaRoquette.”

“It is nice when you can share common interests with someone. But Ally was interested in your work too, wasn’t she?”

“Ally’s cool. But I could tell she was trying to pretend like she was interested. I know what I do is pretty boring to most people. It’s not like I’m a secret government agent or li’dat.”

I gripped the steering wheel just in time to stop myself from driving into a telephone pole.

“What was that about a government agent? Why would you say that?”

“Oh, my new game I just got. You get to play a government sleeper agent who has to help restore order to a lawless society after a plague wipes out most of the population.”

“Ah. Listen, you hungry for breakfast? I know they don’t feed you that well at the hospital.”

“I’m not really feeling a hundred percent.” Justin patted his lean belly. “Maybe when we get over to Ida Belle’s I’ll just have a piece of fruit or something.”

“You sure you want to go to the festival? Maybe you should stay in and rest up.”

“Nah, I told Ally I’d buy some of her pie. I don’t wanna flake out on her.”

The Annual Sinful Nutria Jamboree was everything I’d expected. Blazing sun, suffocating humidity, and enough of a crowd to make me twitchy. At least there were only booths and not actual rides, which would have added screaming, vomiting children to the mix.

Celia was leading around a little parade of a note-taker, a photographer, and a videographer. Judging from their age and complexion, she’d probably press-ganged them from the local high school. Nick Santiago was never more than thirty feet away from us. With his short stature he managed to keep a low profile in the crowd, but I could see him, dictating his notes into a little handheld device.

Gertie had gotten dressed up for the occasion by donning a moth-eaten nutria coat over her pink pantsuit, and sporting lipstick in a shade of high-visibility fuchsia. Ida Belle thought taking her curlers out was a more than sufficient concession to fashion. I felt exposed in a light sundress (more so because I was unarmed). Justin was keeping up with us, but even in a tank top and nylon board shorts, he was sweating.

Celia and her entourage came marching up to us.

“I called your associate, Professor LaRoquette,” she said. “To invite him to the Festival, as a guest of the town of Sinful.”

“Celia, he’s not really my—”

“He sends his regrets and says he’s not feeling well. It must have been a sudden illness.”

“Yes, I can’t imagine what might have brought it on.”

“I think we should send him a get-well card. From the town.”

“I don’t really know him,” I said. “I’ve only met him once. But you should go ahead, if you want to.”

“You should tell him about our new video channel, Fortune. It’s called Sinful Moments.”

“Bad idea,” Ida Belle muttered.

“Tell him to spread the word around the university,” Celia commanded. “I think the college students would like to see how much Sinful has to offer.”

“I’ll make sure to mention that to him if I ever get a chance. But right now, we’re all headed to your niece’s pie booth. I can’t wait to see what wonderful pie varieties she’s come up with.”

“Me neither,” Gertie chimed in. “Come on, let’s go.”

That seemed satisfactory to Celia, and she graciously dismissed us.

The line at Ally’s booth was short, even though (or perhaps because) she was giving out free samples of nutria pie.

“What about the gumbo?” I asked. “That was pretty good. How come you’re not selling it here?”

“It was nice and spicy,” Gertie said, “and it had so many different ingredients you didn’t really know what you were eating.”

Ally shook her head miserably. “Aunt Celia said it had to be pie, cause that’s what she announced in the paper. Sorry you guys, I never was able to get the pie recipe worked out to where it tasted good.”

I’d eaten six-inch-long camel spiders in the Afghan desert. How bad could Ally’s swamp rat pie be?

Here was the answer: Bad. The nutria—swamp rat—had a pungent, earthy stench that seeped into my sinuses. At least roasted camel spiders tasted a little like shrimp.

Poor Justin was looking positively green now. He didn’t taste the pie. The mere sight of the oozing brown pie innards sent him running.

Ida Belle and Gertie followed him to the row of striped red-and-white tents that housed the games of skill, the fortune tellers, and the vendors selling cheaply-printed Sinful Swamp Rat t-shirts and trucker caps.

“Don’t take it personally,” I assured Ally. “He’s probably still shaken up from last night.”

“What do you mean?” Ally asked. “What happened last night?”

Ally had gone to bed right after the dinner shift at Francine’s. No one had told her about the cougar attack on Justin. I filled her in with the bare facts, leaving out the part about Desiree Roche rushing over to be by Justin’s side. Then I quickly excused myself and ran after Justin, Gertie, and Ida Belle.

They’d found a shady spot behind the row of tents, away from the crowd. Justin was soaked with sweat and breathing hard.

“Someone get him water,” I said.

“He doesn’t want any.” Gertie showed me the water bottle she’d been carrying in her bag. “I offered it to him.”

Justin had his hands on his knees now and was sucking in great gulps of air. His hair was sticking to his forehead; his shirt was soaked through and plastered to his skinny frame. I looked around to make sure we were away from prying eyes. We were, if you didn’t count the teenage couple a few tents down. They seemed to have their attention elsewhere.

“If you need to be sick, just go for it,” I said. “You’ll feel better afterwards. Then we can take you home.”

I heard the teenage boy shout something.

“You punks,” Ida Belle yelled back. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Yeah, check your privilege!” Gertie shouted.

“I should go give those two a talking-to,” I said. “Poor Justin is sick and all those little brats can do is stand there and—”

“Fortune,” Ida Belle interrupted me. “Gertie. A little help here.”

“Oh dear,” Gertie said.

I turned around to help Ida Belle, but Justin wasn’t there.

Justin’s clothes were crumpled on the ground. Standing on the pile, looking disoriented, was a something that was about Justin’s height, but covered in fur from head to toe.

Gertie placed her hand on the animal’s shoulder.

“Now listen,” she said. To the creature. “It’s like a hot flash. You just have to breathe through it.”

“That’s not gonna help,” Ida Belle scolded. “He doesn’t know what a hot flash is.”

I looked back toward where the teenagers were, but they’d apparently fled.

“Gertie? Ida Belle? Why are we standing here with Bigfoot? What happened to Justin? Are those two questions related? Tell me those two questions aren’t related.”

“We have to get him out of here,” Ida Belle said.

Gertie pulled off her nutria coat and draped it over the creature’s shoulders. Ida Belle fished around in her purse and pulled out a collapsible sun hat, a broad-brimmed number with a reflective silver finish. She stuck it on the animal’s head and pulled the brim down in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal its furry face. They positioned themselves on either side of the creature and escorted him back to the parking lot.

“Get his clothes,” Ida Belle commanded me. “When he shifts back, he’s gonna be naked.”

Chapter 11

Ida Belle, Gertie, and I sat around Ida Belle’s kitchen table, exhausted from wrangling a confused beast into, and then back out of, Marge’s Jeep and into Justin’s bedroom. Ida Belle had poured us all some sweet tea with a drop (maybe a few drops) of Sinful Ladies Cough Syrup. I knocked back my first glass in two gulps and pushed it over to Ida Belle for a refill.

“Does either of you want to explain what’s going on here?”

“Nope,” Ida Belle said.

“Not really,” Gertie agreed.

Ida Belle stood up and pulled a head of lettuce out of the refrigerator and went back to toss it into Justin’s room. I heard an appreciative snuffling sound coming from the back of the house.

“Doctor Broussard said if anything strange happens, we’re supposed to take him to the hospital,” I said.

“And just how are we gonna do that?” Ida Belle asked. “Fortune, you’re the one who doesn’t want to attract attention.”

“Good point.”

“Leave him be. He’ll be back to normal in a few hours. He’ll be better than new.”

“No he won’t,” Gertie said. “He’ll be really hungry. You know that.”

“Stop being such a worry wart, Gertie. We can go down to the General Store and pick up some instant noodles.”

“Instant noodles?” I said. “How do you know these things eat instant noodles?”

“I know college students do,” Ida Belle said.

“Right. Okay. Listen, did anyone see us at the fair? I mean, after Justin...do you think anyone in the crowd noticed anything out of the ordinary?”

“Those two kids,” Ida Belle said. “But they’re not gonna tell anyone, cause then they’d have to admit they were making out behind the tents.”

“There was that little girl with the phone,” Gertie said. “She took a picture of us. Remember, right before we got out to the parking lot?”

“Oh, great.” I rested my head on my folded arms. “I had one job. Don't draw attention to myself. How did this happen? What's going on here? Is this some real-life werewolf type of deal?”

“We're not supposed to say the w-word,” Ida Belle said. “It's not PC.”

“They want to be called ‘shifters’ now,” Gertie added. “It's more inclusive. I keep forgetting, though. I guess I'm old-fashioned.”

I sat up. “What was that word again? Rougarou. Why don’t people just say Rougarou instead of werewolf?”

“Some do,” Gertie said. “But if you want to be correct, Rougarou only refers to when they’re in their animal form.”

“So was that little girl out in Perd’ Espoir trying to warn Justin?”

“No,” Gertie said. “She was asking him, are you one of us.”

“Guess he is now,” Ida Belle said.

“One of us? There are more of them? Wait a minute. Is that the deal with the Roche family?”

“Maybe,” Gertie faltered.

“Desiree Roche’s family is a pack of werewolves, or whatever you’re supposed to call them?”

“Shifters,” Gertie said. “They're not wolves. They're cougars.”

Ida Belle snapped her fingers. “Desiree did this to him. She's set her sights on him for whatever reason, so she attacked him and turned him. Then she came to the hospital to make sure she'd done the job.”

“But Ida Belle” I said, “If she was the one who attacked Justin, remember, you shot that animal in the shoulder. Desiree had no visible injury when she showed up at the hospital.”

A knock sounded on Ida Belle's door.

“Little early for the mail,” Ida Belle grumbled, and went to answer it.

“It doesn’t make sense that it was Desiree,” I said to Gertie. “Unless werewolf—I mean, shifters can heal that fast. Can they heal that fast?”

“Why don't you ask her yourself?” Gertie said.

Standing at the door, wearing a sleeveless flowered green dress and a light sunburn, was Desiree Roche.

Ida Belle got Desiree a glass of sweet tea and poured Gertie and me a second serving.

“I was afraid of this,” Desiree sighed. She was disheveled but still lovely, her pink sunburn giving her a glow. Maybe Justin wouldn't mind being doomed to be her soulmate for eternity after all.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Fortune.”

“Madame.” She reached across the table and clasped my hand in both of hers. “Justin speaks well of you.” She pronounced his name with a soft “j,” as in “garage.”

“And I’m acquainted with the two other Mesdames,” she added, with a wry smile that indicated they hadn’t always been on the best of terms. “Little Aimee saw you walking with Justin out of the fair. She got a picture. You see?”

She took out a smartphone in a pink case and brought up a photo. The fairgrounds, including the row of tents, were clearly visible in the background. I was thankful to see that I wasn’t in the picture.

“I guess we weren’t that inconspicuous after all,” Gertie said.

“Well, you’re walking out of the fair in the company of a man-sized furry thing wearing a brown fur coat and a silver hat,” I said. “So probably not.”

Desiree examined the phone.

“Over five thousand views already. I think Mayor Celia will be very happy for the publicity.”

“Mayor-in-her-own-mind Celia,” Ida Belle snapped. “She’s not officially mayor yet.”

“Is Justin here? May I see him?”

“Desiree, you know Justin’s not a wealthy man,” Ida Belle said. “I know you think he can help your family out financially, but he really can’t. His prospects already weren’t that good. And now, with this condition, he’ll be lucky to get any job at all.”

“Oh no, Madame, you are mistaken.” Desiree looked shocked. “I am not interested in money.”

“Well what then?”

“Maybe he has a nice personality,” I suggested.

Desiree blinked rapidly and looked down at her half-finished glass of tea. “Justin made an unexpected discovery. Out in the woods.”

“Ew, that thing,” Gertie said.

“She was not a thing, Madame.” Tears were running down Desiree’s cheeks now. “Her name was Felice.”

Gertie pressed her lips together, embarrassed, as Ida Belle glared at her.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured.

“When I was en famille we were so happy. And then—ah, you know how it ended. A few terrible hours, then fin. This is not an accident, Mesdames. It is a curse on my family.”

Toby LaRoquette had said the specimen was a felid, a kind of cat. If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have said that Desiree Roche was delusional. But I’d just watched a man turn into a—a what? A Rougarou? Now I didn’t know what to think.

“And you think Justin can help you lift the curse?” I asked gently.

“Yes. I hope so.”

“What about…” I was about to suggest she go to the hospital, but I realized if she went in claiming that she’d given birth to a dead kitten-monster, they’d just lock her up.

“Yes, Madame Fortune?” Desiree turned her tear-streaked face to me.

“Well, there’s the…” The university? This could make someone’s career. Imagine the government grants.

The CIA would kill to have access to shifter technology.

Literally.

“On the other hand,” I said, “I can see the benefit of keeping a low profile.”

We heard a door open, and Justin wandered out, rubbing his face. He was back to his old self and dressed (thankfully) in sweatpants and a baggy Mahina State University t-shirt.

“I’m starving. Eh, Desiree. Howzit? Aunty Ida Belle, you get anything to eat?”

Ida Belle waved him to the refrigerator. Justin fixed himself a piled-high plate of strawberries, steamed cold sweet potatoes, and watermelon slices. He brought it over to the table and practically dove in face-first. We watched him suck down his meal. When everything on his plate was gone, he came up for air.

“I’m kinda scared to ask,” he said. “What happened to me exactly?”

“Oh, cher,” Desiree gently placed her hand on his.

“What? Aw man, I’m so hungry.”

“Help yourself,” Ida Belle sighed, and Justin got up to refill his plate. When he came back to the table, Desiree had the phone out.

“Look here, cher.” Desiree set the phone down in front of him. He stared at the photo for a few seconds before recognition dawned on his face.

“That’s me?”

We all nodded.

“Between Aunty Gertie and Aunty Ida Belle?”

We nodded again. Justin’s brow creased.

“I was a panda bear?”

“Didn’t you know?” Gertie asked gently.

“Aw, man. I felt like I was da kine, like, Kamapua’a. All massive an’ fierce. I felt all this animal energy like…I was a panda?”

“You were really cuddly,” Gertie said.

“Don’t tell him he’s cuddly,” Ida Belle said. “Men don’t want to be cuddly.”

“What did it feel like?” I asked. “When you changed?”

Justin shook his head. “I can’t explain it.”

“It’s like a hot flash,” Gertie said.

“I told you,” Ida Belle scolded, “he doesn’t know what that is.”

“The other nature takes over,” Desiree said. “You become truly yourself, and you feel so strong. We say that one is en forme.”

Justin shook his head. “It was kinda cool I guess, but kinda pilau too. When all that stuff happened on the fairgrounds I felt real sick to my stomach an’ like I couldn’t get enough air. Maybe the process required a lotta oxygen.”

“Do you know who did this to him, Desiree?” Ida Belle asked.

She shook her head.

“No. It was not me.”

“So what’s the deal?” Justin examined his hands. “Is it gonna happen again?”

“I do not know,” Desiree said. “Sometimes the episodes become less and less often, and finally they’re only now and then.”

“Like LSD flashbacks,” Gertie said.

“Honestly Gertie,” Ida Belle said, “you’re not helping at all.”

“Can I learn to turn it on and off if I want?” Justin asked. “Maybe it’ll come in handy one day.”

“Like when you got nothing left in the fridge but bamboo?” Ida Belle asked.

“I am so happy to see you have come back, Justin. Some people, the bite is too strong and they never come back to themselves.”

“You mean they stay in animal form?” I couldn’t believe that I was really asking this.

“Sure,” Gertie said. “That’s what happened to those two back in the fifties. What were they called? Remember, Ida Belle, the two scientists that were down here poking around? Real Yankee names, I remember.”

“Fordyce and Whittingdon,” Ida Belle said.

“You know what happened to Fordyce and Whittingdon?” Justin looked shocked. “Professor Nakamura was telling me about ‘em. She said they disappeared, no one knew what happened to ‘em.”

“Rumor is, they were turned into a pair of alligators,” Ida Belle said.

“Being an alligator sounds pretty good until you remember what the fashions were back then,” Gertie added.

“Is Justin in danger?” I asked. “Whoever did this to him, are they going to attack him again?”

“I do not know,” Desiree said. “Maybe he was just trying to send a message.”

“So you know it’s a ‘he’?” Ida Belle asked.

“Or she.”

Justin licked the empty plate, and then looked around the kitchen.

“You got any more salad, Aunty?”

I went back home to find Ally happily tallying up her day’s sales. To my amazement, all of her disgusting pies had sold.

“So there’s no swamp rat pie left?” I asked optimistically.

“Not a crumb.” Ally was radiant.

I got a Coke from the fridge and sat down at the table with her.

“Who bought them all?”

“I don’t know. Carter was watching my booth for a little bit while I was helping Aunt Celia with her TV makeup. I was sold out when I got back. I asked him, who bought all the pies, and he said no one in particular that stood out, just people coming up and buying them like you’d expect.”

“Why was he there at all?” I asked. “I thought he was supposed to be home resting.”

“Aunt Celia wasn’t about to let him off the hook. She said just cause he wasn’t healed up enough to resume all of his duties didn’t mean he couldn’t earn his keep at the jamboree. Of course, now that she got Carter and me and all those kids from the high school to help out, she’s taking credit for all of it. Oh, and someone even showed up in a panda bear costume. In this weather, that's what I call dedication. Fortune, are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Just a little clumsy, I guess.” I grabbed a stack of napkins to wipe up my spilled Coke. “So. A panda bear costume, you say?”

“Oh, yeah, it was real cute. Someone took a photo and it went viral. Didn’t Gertie and Ida Belle tell you? They were in the picture with him.”

“Were they, now. No, they didn’t mention it.”

“It's been getting all kinds of publicity. Someone tweeted that the Jamboree was going to be the next Burning Man.”

“Great. Whatever Burning Man is.”

“Aunt Celia's over the moon. This is a huge success for her. It's really got her all pumped up for the Watermelon Day Picnic. And now she’s putting all her energy into promoting her Sinful Moments video channel. She set it up so anyone can upload video to it.” Ally finished her calculations. “Five hundred ninety-five dollars and seventy-six cents. I’d say my pie booth was a success.”

“That’s great, Ally. I’m proud of you.” Six hundred bucks was nothing compared to what the Sinful Ladies Society cleared from selling their moonshine cough syrup, but I was happy for Ally. “Now what’s this about Aunt Celia's video channel? Is there going to be a camera set up or something?”

“Nah, she’s going to leave it open and let anyone upload stuff. She said the latest thing is tapping into the wisdom of crowds.”

Having been present at an uprising or two in my day, I had to wonder about that expression—whoever claimed crowds were wise obviously didn’t have much actual experience with them.

“Fortune, you want to be on video?”

“Nooo. I want to avoid it. I do not want my face out on the internet.”

“Oh, I remember,” Ally said. “That stalker problem you had when you were out on the pageant circuit.”

“What? Oh, right. Yes. That.” That was the reason I’d given for not having much of an internet presence despite being a former beauty queen.

A brisk knock on the door turned out to be Gertie.

I invited her in.

“How's Justin?” I asked. “Ally, I didn't mention it, but he still wasn't feeling that well today.”

“Oh, poor thing,” Ally said. “I had no idea. Come to think of it, he didn't look that good when I saw you guys at the pie booth.”

I didn't like hiding the truth from Ally (any more than I already was), but I honestly couldn't think of any way to tell her what I had seen. At least, not without sounding like a crazy person.

“He's doing a lot better,” Gertie said. “He has his appetite back. He cleaned out Ida Belle's fridge, so she had to go out for more. He's staying behind at the house, though, to be on the safe side. In case he has a relapse.”

“Maybe I should go over and see him,” Ally said.

“No!” Gertie and I cried at the same time.

“He might be contagious,” I said, exactly at the same time Gertie said, “He’s not up to company yet.”

Chapter 12

Nick Santiago was still around the day after the festival, and sticking to me like gum on the bottom of my shoe. When I stopped in for breakfast at Francine's I saw the top of his bald head sticking up from behind a newspaper in a corner booth. When I went across the street to the General Store after breakfast to pick up some toothpaste, there was Santiago again, studying a display of men’s support socks.

I still had no idea who he really was. That photo I’d gotten of him hadn’t brought up any matches. If he managed to sneak a picture of me, on the other hand, my face would immediately set alarms ringing from here to Langley.

I found my toothpaste and picked a catnip-filled fabric mouse for Merlin on my way to the counter. “Oh, Walter, I'm going to buy these too.” I pulled a big pair of rhinestone-framed sunglasses from a circular rack on the counter and slipped them on.

Walter stared at me.

“I’ll just wear them outside,” I said. “It’s important to protect your eyes from ultraviolet light.”

“Want me to take the price tag off before you go?”

I slapped his hand away. “Nope. I want to wear them like this.”

As advanced as facial recognition has become in the past few years, you can still confuse it with a big pair of sunglasses and a dangling price tag.

“Any news on your candy thief?” I asked as I counted out my cash. I had to peer straight down, below the bottom rim of the dark glasses, so I could see what I was doing.

Walter shook his head. “I was short again yesterday. With all the visitors for the festival, it was impossible to keep an eye on everyone. Hey, Merlin’s gonna love that little catnip mouse. I just got ‘em in, so it’s fresh.”

“What do cats do with catnip anyway?”

Walter chuckled. “It’s kind of like the Sinful Ladies Cough Syrup. Only it’s for cats.”

“Well, then, Merlin, you’re welcome.”

I smiled at Walter and then hurried out of the General Store with my head down and my hair extensions hanging over my face. If Santiago snapped a picture of me now, it would be useless for identification purposes.

I decided to stop in at Ida Belle’s. Let’s see Nick Santiago try to show up and spy on me there.

Gertie answered Ida Belle’s door.

“Fortune,” she exclaimed. “We’re sunglasses twins. I got a pair just like that in my bag. I bought ‘em at the General Store. I’ll show you.”

“No, Gertie, that’s okay.” I took off my own glasses and shuddered when I saw them in my hand. They were an outsize cat eye style, the frames encrusted with rhinestones in every color of the rainbow.

Ida Belle was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of sweet tea and a big plate of blueberry muffins.

“Tea?” Ida Belle stood to get another glass for me.

“No, I’ll just have water. I don’t need all that sugar. I wouldn’t mind a blueberry muffin, though.”

I’d just pigged out at Francine’s Diner that morning, but the human stomach always has room for blueberry muffins. It’s a scientific fact.

“So where’s Justin?” I asked. “And his friend?”

“Desiree only stayed for a couple hours.” Gertie sat down next to me.

“And Justin’s back in his room,” Ida Belle added. “He’s been sitting there all morning with his iPad, watching documentaries about panda bears.”

“Any more transformations?” I asked.

Gertie shook her head. “Not that we’ve seen. Ida Belle and I have been taking turns looking in on him.”

“What did you think of Desiree’s story? About the, uh, what Justin found?”

“I believe her,” Gertie said.

“She told us some more after you left,” Ida Belle added.

“Did she tell you who the father was?”

“No. And believe me, we tried to get it out of her. No dice. She did tell us they couldn’t get a proper Catholic burial, cause of, well, you saw it. So they buried it out in the woods. They think another animal must’ve dug it up, or maybe those heavy rains washed it out.”

“I can’t believe the Catholic Church would refuse to bury a baby because it had a birth defect,” I said. “This isn’t the Middle Ages.”

“It wasn’t a birth defect,” Gertie said gently. “The poor thing was a cat.”

“Part cat,” Ida Belle corrected her.

I opened my mouth to argue with them, but I remembered what Professor Toby LaRoquette had found. The creature’s DNA was “felid.” A cat.

“I can’t even process this. I’ve been all over the world, and I’ve seen things that most people wouldn’t believe, but all this magical swamp hoodoo is too much even for me. I feel like I’m getting pranked, and I’m waiting for someone to reveal the hidden cameras.”

“I suppose it’s hard to get used to when you didn’t grow up with it,” Gertie said.

“Hey, here’s something I’m having trouble getting used to.” I took a heavenly bite of muffin and swallowed. “I want to get your read on it. That man Nick Santiago is following me. I don’t think he’s working for Ahmad, but he’s up to something.”

“Justin’s the one who’s been poking around and stirring things up,” Ida Belle pushed her chair back. “He probably knows something about it. I’ll go get ‘im.”

Justin looked like he hadn’t slept well, and he might have lost a little weight, but otherwise he seemed back to normal after his shapeshifting episode.

I told Justin about being tailed around Sinful. Justin listened, gulping down sweet tea and stuffing blueberry muffins into his mouth.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Ono, the muffins, Aunty Ida Belle. Sorry, Fortune, you was asking about da kine?”

“I'm just wondering if you know anything about Santiago, and why he might be following me.”

“Toby, Professor LaRoquette, he said the oil company guys was gonna be after me cause my researching the spill. Maybe he's following you cause he thinks you're gonna lead him to me. No big deal. I got nothing to hide.”

“Yes you do,” Gertie said.

“Oh yah. Forgot about that.”

“Fortunately everyone is assuming that the panda in the photo is someone wearing a costume,” I said. “Good thing no one caught your first transformation on video. But now that Celia Arceneaux’s set up that video channel, you’ll have to be careful.”

“My first transformation,” Justin sighed. “Man. I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Maybe you should call the professor,” Ida Belle said.

“Don't tell him about the panda bear thing, though,” I added. “Just the Nick Santiago following us around thing. See if he has any ideas. “

Justin shook his head and devoured another muffin. “I don't wanna bother LaRoquette. I feel like I already wasted his time. He tested that specimen for me and drove all the way out here and everything.”

“Why Fortune,” Gertie said, “why don’t you call the professor?”

“Oh yah,” Justin brightened. “You should do it, Fortune. The Santiago guy was following you anyways, so you gotta good reason to ask about it.”

“Well.” I looked around at the eager faces. “I guess I could take one for the team.”

I called Toby from the landline in Ida Belle’s bedroom. I thought he might not remember who I was, but he did. Even better, he sounded happy to hear from me. I have to admit, the sound of that velvety drawl made my heart skip a little.

“I’m actually calling about Justin,” I said.

“Justin? Is he all right?”

“Um, sure, he’s fine.” I didn’t like lying to Toby, but telling the truth would have made me sound like a lunatic. “He did mention that you warned him not to get on the bad side of the local corporate interests.”

Toby laughed. “It sounds so ominous when you say it like that. The thing is, when you gotta keep bringing in grant money, you can’t afford to make the money people mad at you. It’s as simple as that.”

“Well, there’s something that has me a little worried,” I said. “This guy calling himself Santiago has been following us around. He claims to be a reporter, out here for the Swamp Rat Fair thing, but the event ended yesterday and the guy’s still here. The reason I’m calling is that we, I, was wondering if you had any advice.”

“Well, I doubt you have anything to worry about. I’ve dealt with my share of reporters and they are persistent, but you know what? They’re just people doing their job, just like the rest of us.”

“Oh.” I was disappointed, but what did I expect? This wasn’t Toby’s problem.

“But since you were concerned enough to call me, maybe I might could take a drive out to Sinful tomorrow afternoon.”

“Professor LaRoquette—”

“Toby, please.”

“Toby. I don’t want you to go so far out of your way.” Actually I kind of did want him to. Even if he wasn’t into girls, he was charming, brilliant, and extremely easy on the eyes. Although it didn’t feel right to make him drive a four hour round trip just so I could ogle him.

“Don’t you worry about it. I’ll be honest, I’ve been trying to think up an excuse to see you again, so you just made things easy for me. I hope you wouldn’t mind joining me for dinner. You can tell me all about it then. And if this Nick Santiago follows us, I’ll just invite him to pull up a chair and explain himself.”

I was no expert on flirty small-talk, but I was pretty sure that Toby LaRoquette just asked me out on a date. Maybe he wasn’t gay after all.

“Well I, um, okay. Sure. Sounds great.”

I really was going to have to work on my flirty small-talk. Geez.

I hung up in a daze. Objectively, I could see that I was experiencing the typical emotions expected in an undercover assignment. The isolation, the sudden, severe craving for intimacy, and worst of all, the recklessness. Something about living in another person’s identity can make you feel invulnerable, as if consequences don’t apply to you. It’s the reason masked Mardi Gras revelers can debauch themselves all night and then go to Ash Wednesday services the next morning with a straight face. If I wasn’t careful, my cover could become my Mardi Gras mask.

Maybe it was happening already.

The real me, Fortune Redding, would never compromise a mission by getting involved with the town’s deputy sheriff, much less throw him over for a gorgeous stranger who lived two hours away.

But “Fortune Sandy Sue Morrow” was going full speed ahead. And all she cared about right now was that tomorrow, she had a dinner date with the gorgeous Toby LaRoquette.

Chapter 13

Ida Belle and Gertie practically high-fived me when they heard that Toby was driving out to take me to dinner. Justin didn’t seem quite as thrilled, but he had a lot on his mind. I reminded him that the whole point of this dinner was to find out if he was in any danger, either from the omnipresent Nick Santiago or from anyone else.

Toby showed up at six pm on the dot, looking flawless in a tweed blazer, a white dress shirt, and no tie. I know the tweed blazer is a college professor cliché, but on Toby, it looked fantastic.

Of course Toby LaRoquette could probably show up wearing a garbage bag with a hole cut out for his head, and he’d still look amazing.

Merlin came bounding up and dropped the chewed-up catnip toy at Toby’s feet as an offering. Toby bent down to pet Merlin, and then picked up the catnip toy and pretended to take a big whiff. Merlin jumped up and snatched the toy back between his tiny jaws.

“You don’t have to humor the cat,” I said. “He’s spoiled enough.”

Toby chuckled and petted Merlin, who was now rolling on the floor in an ecstasy of catnip and attention.

“He’s a cute little guy,” Toby said, and stood up. Merlin sprang up and pounced. Toby gasped with pain, and his hand flew to his shoulder, where Merlin was sticking to him like a tick.

“Merlin! Bad kitty!” I pulled Merlin away, leaving fuzzy snags where Merlin had hooked his claws into Toby’s jacket. I threw my badly-behaved cat into the backyard, slamming the door shut before he could run back inside.

“Are you okay?”

Toby blinked a few times and took a deep breath. I asked. He looked pale, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“That little guy doesn’t know his own strength.”

“Toby, why don’t you take off your jacket, and I can get some disinfectant—”

“I’m fine.” He took both my hands in his. “He didn’t break the skin. Just took me by surprise is all. Anyhow, we need to get going. I have reservations at a little seafood place I think you’ll like, but it’s about twenty minutes from here.”

Toby had a dark green 1967 Sunbeam Tiger, a tiny British two-seater convertible. It was a nice change from those big, overcompensating macho trucks that some of the local guys drove, not naming any names or anything.

The restaurant that Toby had picked out was a step up from Francine’s in fanciness, perfect for a first dinner date. The Catfish a la Meuniere was superb, baked crisp on the outside, tender inside, and smothered in tangy, buttery sauce and pecans.

The pleasant conversation continued through dinner and the drive back to Sinful. If I had one complaint it would be that riding so close to the ground in the pitch dark on a narrow back bayou road, especially when a lifted pickup truck would roar past, was not relaxing. I noticed that Toby steered mostly with his right hand. Merlin must have really clawed his shoulder but good.

I tried to answer Toby’s questions about my librarian job and my late Aunt Marge as well as I could; I was on more solid ground when he asked how I was enjoying my summer in Sinful. I could tell him then about the various festivals, the Sinful Ladies’ Society, and the Sunday morning stampede from the churches down to Francine’s for her incomparable banana pudding. Toby told some entertaining stories about university politics, and we pulled up to Marge’s house just as he was finishing up a racy tale about a researcher who couldn’t figure out why his experiments weren’t turning out. The man set up hidden cameras around his lab. The next morning, he had a clear-as-day video of one of his distinguished academic rivals sneaking into the lab under cover of night and weeing all over the petri dishes.

Toby helped me out of the passenger seat and walked me up to the front door.

“And speaking of surveillance,” he said. “You see that Santiago guy at all tonight?”

“Now that you mention it, no.”

“Well, you see? If he’s stalking you, I guess he’s not making much of an effort.”

I laughed politely, but thought no, it might just mean he’s becoming better at hiding himself.

“Although I have been giving some thought to Justin’s situation,” Toby sounded serious now.

“Toby, would you like to come in? I can make coffee. I’m not trying to, I mean, I really do mean just coffee. I think this is important. What do you think about Justin’s situation?”

“I appreciate the invite. I’ve gotta head back, though, and I’m afraid if I come inside I’ll never want to leave.”

So we’d just stand out here on the front porch as a display for all the nosy neighbors. Oh well.

“I hate to be the bringer of bad news,” he said. “But Justin’s research program, the way it is now, there’s only two ways it can go. Number one, he finds nothing. No effect of the spill this far west. He’ll get his thesis written, but it’s almost impossible to get null results published, so he’s not gonna get any good pubs out of it. He starts out his academic career already behind the competition. Now that’s the best case. The other way it can go is he does find something. His rapid evolution or phenotypic plasticity or whatever he thinks he’s finding out there. He can make a connection between the spill and the effect on the Coypu population and pin the blame right on the oil companies. You think they’ll be happy about it?”

“I see what you mean. Do you think Justin’s in any danger now?”

Toby sighed.

“I sure hope not. I tell you. None of us wants to end up like Fordyce and Whittingdon.”

“Fordyce and…are those the two scientists who disappeared and wound up as handbags?”

“What?”

“I heard that from Ida Belle. Toby, what would you do? If you were Justin?”

“He hasn’t invested that much time here. If I were in his place, I’d cut my losses. I’d get on a plane tomorrow and go back to Hawaii as fast as I could. Find something else to work on. Heck, they got more endangered species there than anyone. He could do a lot of good there.”

“I’ll pass that along.” I dug in my bag for my house key. I hadn’t been planning to have Toby spend the night, but it was a little disappointing that he didn’t seem even slightly interested in the possibility.

“Fortune, wait.” He picked up my free hand and lifted it to his lips. “I had a wonderful evening.”

“Me too. Thank you for dinner.”

I stood out on the porch for a while after Toby drove away, staring into the dark and listening to the humming and chirping of the bayou at night.

A rustle in the bushes interrupted my reverie. I pressed myself back into the dark part of the porch, against the wall, and waited. I still wasn’t used to dressing like a civilian, and I felt vulnerable without my nine strapped to my thigh.

I watched a portly shape waddle out of the shadows and toward the front porch. The shape paused and looked up at Marge’s house.

I let my muscle memory take over and sprang.

“Who sent you?” I hissed, although the fact that the portly little man was pinned to the ground, with my forearm pressing on his windpipe, precluded a natural flow of conversation.

“I can explain,” he wheezed. “Please let me up.”

I stepped off him and watched warily as he stood, brushed the dirt and shell chips off his cheap brown suit, and retrieved his badge.

I sighed. “Why don’t you come inside?”

Ally was relaxing at the kitchen table, leafing through a cookbook. She looked up with a confused expression when we walked in.

“This is Nick Santiago,” I said. “NOLA PD.”

“What? I mean, how do you do. Care for some sweet tea?”

“Much obliged. Need to wash all that dirt down with something.”

When the three of us were seated, I said,

“Why were you sneaking around my house?”

“I believe I was simply walking up to the front door.” His voice still sounded a little raspy.

“What happened?” Ally asked.

“Little misunderstanding,” I said. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on here?”

Santiago looked at his glass.

“I can’t drink on duty,” he said. “But you ladies might want to pour yourselves a glass of something good about now.”

“I have some Chardonnay.” Ally got up to get the wine from the fridge.

“That’ll do. You ladies are acquainted with the Roche family?”

“I’ve met Desiree Roche,” I said warily.

“She’s a friend of Justin’s,” Ally added.

“You know the little one, Aimee?”

“Desiree’s spoken of her,” I said. “What about Aimee?”

“Aimee is the last.”

“The last what?”

“Since the spill, not one of the families has had a live birth to speak of. Not one that’s lasted more than a few hours.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “I’ve seen families around here with little babies. In fact at that Nutria fair…wait. Which families are you talking about?”

“Ohhh,” Ally glanced at me. “I know what you mean, Detective.”

“It’s okay, Ally,” I said. “I already know all about it. Wait. Justin was saying something about how the hydrocarbons in the environment were more harmful to organisms with fast metabolisms.”

“Bingo,” Santiago said. “Shifting from one form to another in a minute is about as fast as it gets. So Justin’s research is going to be very interesting to various parties, including those who have been…blessed with a peculiar gift.”

“So this is real? This werewolf thing?”

“They prefer ‘shifter’,” Ally said. “It’s not politically correct to call them werewolves anymore.”

“Sorry. I knew that.”

“So you’re saying Desiree and her people, they were looking at some kind of Children of Men scenario?”

“Some what?” I asked.

“It’s a book about when people stop being able to have children.” Ally gave me a funny look. “How can you not have heard of it? You’re a librarian.”

“So Detective,” I said. “Why would Desiree Roche approach some inexperienced grad student for help and not someone like Toby LaRoquette? Isn’t Toby a genetics expert?”

“Ah. LaRoquette. Now this brings me to my main point. No, I don’t believe LaRoquette can help them.”

“But he checks out,” I said. “He’s a world class genetics researcher. I looked him up on the university website. He’s legit. In fact, he seems to be one of their stars.”

“Oh, that he is. Brings in millions in grants. Mostly from an outfit called The Alliance for a Better Tomorrow.”

“That’s their actual name?”

“Sounds nice,” Ally said.

“No it doesn’t,” I said. “It sounds suspicious. So who exactly is behind this Alliance of Happy Yellow Smiley Faces?”

“It’s a consortium of chemical and petroleum companies,” Santiago said. “If LaRoquette wants to keep his grant money coming in, he can’t officially acknowledge that the spill caused any problems at all. He’s definitely not going to put his name on any research that incriminates them.

I sighed, the sound of my magical evening deflating. “Great. Now I understand why LaRoquette was so eager to discourage Justin from working on this. He said if he were in Justin’s shoes, he’d turn around and go back to Hawaii right now. I’m sure he intended for me to pass that along.”

“What a jerk!” Ally crossed her arms. “And Justin trusted him too. Meanwhile all along LaRoquette just wanted to discourage him from doing his research.”

“So Detective, what’s your interest in this?”

Santiago’s expression turned opaque.

“I’m investigating a murder,” he said.

“Are you working with Carter?” Ally asked.

“We’re not involving local law enforcement at this point in time.”

“LaRoquette’s involved in a murder?”

“I can’t tell you that. Officially. But I do want to tell you to be careful. Keep your doors locked, call the police at any sign of intruders. Although you do seem to be able to look out for yourself, Miss Morrow.” Santiago massaged his throat.

“Is Justin in danger?” Ally asked.

“I don’t know. One thing in his favor is that LaRoquette’s two hours away in New Orleans.”

“No he’s not.”

I looked from Ally to Santiago and back.

“Toby LaRoquette just took me to dinner. He dropped me off about fifteen minutes before you came by.”

It’s a testament to the man’s distracting charm that it was only now that something occurred to me.

“When Toby invited me to dinner, I mentioned that you were tailing me. And he said, if this Nick Santiago follows us, I’ll just invite him to pull up a chair and explain himself.”

“That sounds rather civilized,” Santiago said.

“Here’s the problem. I never told Toby your first name.”

Santiago and I rose out of our seats at the same time.

“Ally, call Ida Belle. Tell her LaRoquette might be coming after Justin. Then call Carter. Santiago and I are heading over to Ida Belle’s now.”

The whole dinner date must have been a ruse, so that Toby LaRoquette would have a plausible excuse for driving out to Sinful. He was after Justin. I was just the means to an end.

I could feel sorry for myself later. Right now, Detective Nick Santiago and I had a murder to prevent.

I ran upstairs to my bedroom and tucked my nine-millimeter into the waistband of my jeans. Not best practice as far as safety, but it’s always worked for me in a pinch. I led the way out, Santiago behind me. I picked up speed, then broke into a run. I could hear him wheezing behind me. I wasn’t going to wait for him. He’d have to keep up.

I heard a snarl coming from the side of the road. I slowed to a walk. Santiago had heard it too. Both of us were holding our guns now.

A tawny shape shot out of the bushes, straight at Santiago. It was a flashback to the night that Justin was attacked. I aimed, but before I could get a clear shot, another cougar came sailing out of nowhere. I aimed at it, and then lowered my gun.

The second cat sank its teeth into the neck of the first one. Nick Santiago rolled away from the fighting cats, stood up, and for the second time that evening, brushed gravel and crushed shells off his suit.

The two cougars struggled for a few moments, but the one that had attacked Santiago had been seriously wounded. We backed away slowly down the dark road, not wanting to draw the carnivores’ attention with sudden movements.

“I think this is what happened to Thibodeaux,” Santiago whispered.

“That’s exactly what the Medical Examiner said. Thibodeaux was attacked by a…”

The words dried up on my tongue. As we watched, the mortally wounded cougar shimmered and shifted.

A naked, bleeding man lay by the side of the road. He looked a heck of a lot like Toby LaRoquette.

A highlight reel ran in my mind. Toby bonding with Merlin, my cat. Toby holding Merlin’s catnip toy next to his face, inhaling the scent. Toby clutching his left shoulder, still sore where Ida Belle had shot him while he was attacking Justin. Of course he hadn’t been feeling well when Celia invited him to the Annual Sinful Nutria Jamboree. He’d been recovering from a gunshot wound.

How could I not have seen it? The only way he could have made it more obvious is if he’d coughed up a hairball at dinner.

Now, standing over Toby, was an equally naked Desiree Roche, her face smeared with blood.

She said something that sounded accusing, but I couldn’t understand the words.

“Can you translate for me?” I whispered to Santiago. He nodded.

“She says I’m sorry, Toby, but this stops now. Now he says you’re on the wrong side. I was gonna find an answer. She says No, you were never gonna give up the money. You don’t care about anything else. He says don’t tell me I didn’t care. I’m the one…” Santiago’s voice trailed off, and he crossed himself.

“What? Detective Santiago, what did he say?”

Santiago took a deep breath. “He says I’m the one who had to open a specimen bag and find my own daughter in there.”

Desiree was weeping now, shouting at Toby as he lay there and bled.

“She says Justin was the only one who could help us,” Santiago translated. I heard a catch in Desiree’s voice, and saw the glint of tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Now she says I’m sorry Toby.” Santiago whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Desiree bent down as if to kiss him. As her blonde curls covered Toby’s face and neck, his body convulsed, and then lay still.

I heard the siren, and Carter’s truck pulled up with an impatient crunch on the gravel.

Toby LaRoquette breathed his last in the glare of Carter LeBlanc’s headlights.

Chapter 14

Gertie, Ida Belle, Justin and Ally had missed the previous night’s excitement, so I had to fill them in over breakfast the next morning at Francine’s Diner. Ally was working the breakfast shift, so she hung out at our table, listening to my account of the evening’s events.

“You know, this gives me an idea for my next book,” Gertie said.

“Your next book?” I asked.

“I’ve been self-publishing my erotic romance novels.”

“They’re pretty steamy,” Ida Belle added.

“Novels, plural? Gertie, I’m impressed.”

“The first one was called Sinful Moments,” Gertie said.

“Isn’t that the name of Celia’s website?”

“And then the sequel was Sinful Interludes. I think my next one is going to be about a handsome but wicked university researcher who can transform himself into a deadly wild animal.”

“You should call it Sinful Science,” Ida Belle said.

“I don’t know,” Gertie frowned. “That doesn’t sound very sexy to me.”

Everyone was relieved that the ruthless Toby LaRoquette was out of the picture. Only Justin seemed troubled.

“So you’re saying Desiree was with Professor LaRoquette?” he asked. “They were, together, like?”

“Looks like it,” I said.

“So Desiree really was just interested in my research then?”

“Did she tell you any different?” Ida Belle asked.

“Well no, not exactly, but…shoot. And I sent LaRoquette his own dead baby in a specimen bag?”

“Justin,” Ally rested her free hand on his shoulder. “You couldn’t possibly know.”

“Aw man. No wonder he tried to take a bite outta me.”

“I don’t think it was personal,” I said. “I think he just wanted you to stop nosing around. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“We had a little episode last night,” Gertie said. “Right around the time all of your excitement was going on.”

Justin rested his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry Aunty.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ida Belle said. “I’ll just add the repair costs to your rent bill. We had Doctor Broussard come by. He said the condition will fade over time. His episodes will get further and further apart.”

“How long will that take?” I asked.

“At least a year,” Gertie said. “And Doctor Broussard advised against air travel. Especially that long flight over the ocean back to Hawaii. Just to be on the safe side.”

I shot a wary glance at Ally, who was still standing there, holding the coffee pot.

“I know all about it, Fortune.” She smiled at Justin.

“You do?”

“I told her everything,” Justin said. “About my, you know, whatevers.”

“It’s nice to know what’s going on around here for a change,” Ally said. “You know, I thought it was kind of weird when he started eating vegetables. Justin, I’m glad you’ll be sticking around for a while.”

Justin blinked at her as if coming out of a fog. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, me too, Ally.”

Ally smiled, blushed, and hurried away to attend to the other diners.

After breakfast I went across the street to Walter’s General Store. I thought I might pick up a fresh catnip toy for Merlin. He’d already loved the first one to death.

I didn’t see Walter behind the counter. But I noticed someone lurking in the candy aisle. I slipped out my cell phone and started filming. Then I jogged home and uploaded my footage to Sinful Moments, The Official Crowdsourced Video Channel of Sinful, Louisiana.

I showered and changed, and with nothing else on my agenda for the rest of the day, I thought I might check in on Deputy Carter LeBlanc. It had been a while since I’d seen him socially, so I called first. He was home and sounded reasonably happy to hear from me.

I found Carter and his uncle Walter sitting at the kitchen table, staring at an open laptop.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Carter just called me over here,” Walter said.

“I had some free time, and I thought I’d have a look at our town’s new video channel,” Carter said, “and first thing I saw was footage of the General Store.”

“Now Carter, don’t you do anything rash,” Walter said. “She’s still your boss.”

“Look at this,” Carter said. “There’s so many hits, they crashed the server. I can’t even get in now.”

“What about Carter’s boss?” I asked innocently.

“You won’t believe it,” Carter said. “Celia Arceneaux is Walter’s candy thief.”

“There she is, Fortune, plain as day, standing in my candy aisle, dressed to the nines and scooping peanut tortues into her handbag like a starving woman. Must have happened when I was back in the stockroom. I do wonder who could’ve filmed it.” He squinted at me.

“Gosh, could’ve been anyone. Carter, mind if I grab myself something to drink?”

Carter started to stand up.

“I got it. I’m right here.”

I opened the refrigerator and reached for a can of Diet Coke, but paused at the sight of the stacks of white pastry boxes filling the bottom two shelves. I leaned down and sniffed one of the boxes. The aroma was unmistakable.

“Carter?” I closed the refrigerator door and popped open the can. “Why do you have a fridge full of Ally’s nutria pies?”

“You liked those pies?” Walter asked his nephew incredulously.

“Tiny loves them,” Carter sighed. “But please don’t tell Ally I’m feeding them to my dog. I’m sure she intended them for human consumption. I probably shouldn’t have bought all of them, but no one else was, and I didn’t like seeing her so depressed about no one liking her pies.”

“Well that was a fine thing that you did, Carter LeBlanc,” Walter said.

“I agree.” I smiled at Carter as he pulled out a chair for me and I seated myself. “Like Gertie says, it’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.”

“Well,” Walter stood up. “Looks like I better get back to the store. I guess if I leave it too much longer I’ll come back to find it stripped to the studs, and Celia walking off with my cash register.”

“You don’t have to get going too?” Carter asked me.

“Not right away,” I said.

Walter flashed me an approving grin on his way out.

“So what’s the occasion?” Carter seemed wary.

I took a sip of cola to brace myself. Carter deserved at least some honesty.

“I was angry at you,” I said.

“No kidding. What for?”

“I don’t like the way you talk down to me. It reminds me of my father.”

“Your father? I know that’s not a compliment.” He sighed. “Fortune, have you ever watched someone die because of a stupid mistake?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. The answer was yes, but the details didn’t exactly fit with my school librarian backstory.

“If I have a choice between hurting someone’s feelings and watching them lose their life, I’ll go with the hurt feelings. Especially if it’s someone I…care a lot about. Fortune, if anything happened to you…look. I understand what you’re saying. I do. I’m sorry. I really am. And thank you for being honest with me. Honesty’s the most important—are you okay?”

I was choking on my iced tea, but I just nodded my head quickly and swallowed.

Carter’s phone rang.

“Sorry Fortune, I have to get this. It’s Detective Santiago.”

Chapter 15

That evening Nick Santiago, Carter LeBlanc, and I were sitting in Carter’s office, drinking terrible burned coffee out of Styrofoam cups. Santiago’s cheap brown suit looked shabbier than ever under the fluorescent light, caked with ground-in dirt where he’d hit the ground the night before. I guess he’d only packed the one suit.

“Now why would Toby LaRoquette want to kill a hunter he’d never met?” Carter was asking Santiago.

“I believe LeRoy Thibodeaux may have happened upon something that LaRoquette wanted kept secret.”

“And LaRoquette was prowling around the woods, waiting for people to stumble across things they weren’t supposed to see?”

“LaRoquette had divided loyalties,” Santiago said. “The consortium that was funding his research was also responsible for the pollution that was causing the health issues in his community.”

Carter rubbed his temples.

“Health issues. You mean the fact that since the spill, none of them could have kids.”

“None that survived. Correct.”

“And why did you request Fortune be present at this meeting?”

“Miss Morrow was the only witness, besides myself. She was with me when we came upon the male victim, who was suffering from injuries related to an animal attack when we found him.” Santiago slid his gaze to me. “I thought her recollections might be useful, at least as corroboration.”

So we weren’t going to say anything about seeing two cougars fighting and then turning into naked people and arguing with each other. Fine with me. That version of the story certainly made everyone’s job easier, especially Carter’s.

“I had gone to Miss Morrow’s house in the course of my investigation. She informed me that LaRoquette was not in New Orleans as I had believed but was in the immediate vicinity and that Justin Lao might be in danger. She agreed to accompany me to Mr. Lao’s residence.”

“Fortune, how did you know where LaRoquette…never mind. It doesn’t matter now. As far as facts that I can put into my report, all I have is a second fatal cougar attack. LeRoy Thibodeaux and now Toby LaRoquette. That’s in addition to the non-fatal attack on Justin Lao that required medical attention.”

Santiago nodded.

“The mayor’s not going to like this,” Carter said. “And I still don’t have a good explanation for why the victim was naked.”

“What if he had alcohol in his system?” I knew that he did; Toby and I been drinking wine earlier that evening, not that I was going to volunteer that fact to Carter. “Maybe you could test for that.”

“No, we discussed that earlier,” Carter waved a weary hand at Santiago. “I was advised to avoid getting the lab involved if I can help it. It could open a huge can of worms.”

“It could indeed.” Santiago’s mouth curved in a little smile.

“I’ll figure something out,” Carter muttered. “I guess I don’t have any more questions right now. Mind if I keep in touch?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Santiago stood up, and I did too. We walked out of the sheriff’s station together.

“I’m glad to be done with this,” Santiago said. “I’m looking forward to getting back to my family. I’ve been too long away. I miss Victorine and the little ones. In fact, they’re not so little anymore. It goes by so fast. Dommage, look at this. Suit’s fini.” He lifted his sleeve to show me where the gravel had scraped holes in the fabric.

“Well congratulations on wrapping up your murder case,” I said. “You know, if you’d asked me one month ago whether I believed—”

But Santiago wasn’t there.

I looked around the little parking lot in front of the sheriff’s station and saw a pile of cheap brown fabric crumpled on the ground by my feet.

“Hey,” I shouted into the darkness. “You’re just going to leave your old clothes here for someone else to pick up?”

I turned toward a rustling in the bushes; there stood the biggest swamp rat I’d ever seen. The creature bared its orange teeth in a sort of smile, winked at me, and then turned away and waddled off into the night.

Once Upon a Murder

Chapter 1

“You wouldn’t know we were in the middle of the French Quarter,” Ida Belle complained. “Heck, you can barely tell we’re in Louisiana. Why didn’t they get someplace with some local color, like the Ponchartrain?”

“Oh quit fussing,” Gertie scolded. “It’s very unbecoming for a woman your age. Anyway, we’re here for the conference, not ‘local color.’ You can go out and collect beads some other time.”

“I didn’t know you collected beads, Ida Belle. Do you make jewelry?”

Gertie whooped with laughter, Ida Belle glared at me, and they went back to bickering without answering my question. (It was only later that I found out that “collecting beads” during Mardi Gras meant something I couldn't possibly have guessed.)

I estimated how long it would be before we got to the front of the check-in line. Probably ten minutes, at least. No one else seemed to mind the wait. Most of the people in line seemed to be staring, transfixed, at their hands. I wondered whether I was the last person in the country under the age of thirty who didn’t carry a smartphone. I sure wouldn’t mind being able to look up information and check my email, but it would be too much of a risk.

The last conference I'd been to was in D.C. At a session called Intelligence and Technology: Emerging Threats I'd learned how easy it was to track someone using a smartphone or a laptop. Public networks, like the hotel Wi-Fi, made invading peoples' privacy even easier.

I took in my surroundings. No obvious threats, not that I was expecting to find any here. A sign posted next to the check-in desk read,

Welcome American Romance and Erotica Authors’ Convention attendees, and get ready to party with us New Orleans style! Here in the Big Easy we like to say Laissez Le Bon Temps Rouler, and we’re getting things rolling with an A.R.E.A favorite: Mimosas and bloody Marys, compliments of Saucy Minx Press, right around the corner from the registration tables! First-timers, don't miss the Virgin Orientation, designed to help you get the most out of this event. At only thirty minutes, this is a “quickie” seminar experience you'll never forget!

On the other side of the lobby, a line of middle-aged ladies waited to get books signed by a man wearing painted-on jeans, a black cowboy hat, and a red neckerchief.

Late twenties, five foot eleven, good strength and muscle tone. Moderately dehydrated from cutting water weight, a bodybuilder technique to enhance muscle definition.

Gertie jabbed my hipbone, which kind of hurt. She was probably trying to nudge me in the ribs, but I’m five-ten, and Gertie is barely five foot two in heels.

“Caught you staring.”

“I wasn't staring.”

“He’s famous,” she whispered, as if he might hear us talking about him clear across the lobby. “He started out as a personal trainer. Now he’s one of the top cover models in the industry.”

“If he’s such a big shot, how come he can’t afford a shirt?”

“Now there you go again, Ida Belle,” Gertie said. “We’re here to have fun and relax. Not complain about everything in sight. Right, Fortune?”

“Right. My mission is to enjoy myself and forget about my problems.”

Problems. I had a few of those. Here’s the short version. I’d been undercover in Sinful, (population 253, give or take a murder or two), posing as the niece of recently-deceased resident Marge Boudreaux. I was hiding out from an arms dealer who had put a bounty on my head, and my job—my one job, as my handler Harrison liked to remind me—was to maintain my cover and stay out of sight.

Well, I hadn’t been a great success. I wasn’t very convincing as a retired beauty queen, and I was having a lot of trouble laying low. From the moment I’d set foot in Sinful, I’d been caught up in the affairs of the town.

And speaking of affairs—let’s just say that this was a great time to get out of Dodge. This writers’ conference of Gertie's was the perfect opportunity to do that.

“Complimentary Mimosas and Bloody Marys?” Ida Belle placed her hands on her knees and leaned in to peer at the sign. “Heck, I know where I’m going first,”

“It’s kind of early to start drinking, isn’t it?” I asked.

Ida Belle stood up. “Don’t be a wet blanket, Fortune. We’re on vacation. Besides, it’s nine a.m. somewhere.”

“It’s nine a.m. here,” I said.

“Well there you go then. Oh, it’s our turn. Gertie, you have the reservation for him?”

I started to size up the hotel clerk—five foot six, early thirties, advanced male pattern baldness, irritable manner characteristic of acute stress or sleep deprivation—then stopped myself. I wasn’t on a mission here. I was supposed to be on vacation.

“Are you with the A.R.E.A. conference?” The clerk watched Gertie fumbling in her enormous bag for our room reservation information. “I don’t need your reservation number if you don’t have it handy. Your name will do.”

“Hebert. Gertie Hebert.”

He started typing on his terminal. “You should know that we're currently finishing up some minor renovations. We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience. If there's anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable, we hope you'll let us know right away.”

It was clear that he hoped nothing of the kind. He was obviously fatigued and must have given that little speech about the renovations about a hundred times this morning.

“This is our first A.R.E.A. Conference,” Gertie said. “We’re all so excited. But look at you, you must be exhausted! I could see the whole time we were standing in line you've not had a moment's rest. How are you holding up, dear?”

“Oh,” the clerk exhaled. “It’s been crazy. We just had another big group stay here right before you guys, and they completely trashed the place. Shot out the security cameras with BB guns, pitched a couch off a seventeenth-floor balcony, and one room tried to flush a pillow down the toilet.”

“What kind of group was that?” I asked.

“Doll collectors’ convention. Check-in time isn’t till noon, but…” the clerk tapped on his terminal keyboard, squinted at the screen, and tapped some more. “…as a courtesy we’re going to see if we can’t get you into your room right now. The registration tables are up on the second floor. You can’t miss them, top of the stairs. And make sure to check out the breakfast cocktails, compliments of Saucy Minx Press. And, here are your room keys. Do you need more than one apiece?”

“Maybe,” Gertie giggled.

“Absolutely not.” Ida Belle glared at Gertie.

“Early check-in, huh?” I held the elevator door open for Gertie and Ida Belle and then stepped in after them. “Good job, Gertie.”

“Well, as I always say, it's nice to be important...” Gertie pressed the seventh-floor button and gave Ida Belle a hard look, “but it's more important to be nice.”

Chapter 2

We deposited our luggage in the room and then hurried back down to the main registration area. The woman manning the “M” table smiled sweetly and handed me a burgundy tote bag with “American Romance and Erotica Authors’ Conference, New Orleans” written in white cursive text, over a drawing of a Mardi Gras mask and a quill pen.

“Sandy Sue Morrow? Here you go, Sandy Sue,” she said, calling me by the name I’d used to sign up for the conference. “My, what a lovely name.”

“Thank you.” I hated the name Sandy Sue, but my undercover identity hadn’t exactly been my decision.

The tote bag was surprisingly heavy. I peeked inside and saw that it was full of books.

“I didn’t order these,” I said.

“Compliments of our sponsors.” the woman beamed. “Now you’ll find your badge, badge holder, and lunch tickets in the white envelope. Enjoy the conference.”

“Fortune!” Ida Belle’s voice reverberated through the meeting area. “There you are. All set? Let’s go.”

I slung the bag over my shoulder and followed Ida Belle and Gertie around the corner to yet another long line, this time leading to a bar.

Gertie seemed excited about her first writer’s conference, and I was happy for her. I wished I could feel as happy for myself. I tried not to think about Deputy Sheriff Carter LeBlanc, or wonder whether he was thinking about me. Should I call him? No, I shouldn’t.

“Fortune, quit moping!” Ida Belle was frowning at me.

“I wasn’t moping,” I said. “I was just thinking about, uh, should I get a Mimosa or a Bloody Mary.”

“That lady in front of us, the one in the velvet coat, is getting her third Mimosa,” Gertie whispered. “She just keeps getting back in line.”

The woman in question leaned heavily on the bar, watching the bartender pour the orange juice and sparkling wine.

“I think I’ll go with the Bloody Mary,” I said. “The Mimosa looks dangerous. Anyway I’m not really in the mood for something sweet. Do they have coffee? I don’t see coffee anywhere.”

“You know what I don’t see?” Gertie said. “I don’t see Lexi Tingle. On the forums people were saying she’d be here.”

“Who is that?” Ida Belle asked.

“Who?” Gertie looked shocked. “She’s the one who’s teaching my Self-Promotion for Authors course, the number one independent author marketing course in the country!”

“Number one as measured by what? The number of suckers she can get to pay for her class?”

“Well, Ida Belle, if you knew anything at all about the industry, you’d know that Lexi Tingle is the author of the Bound for Love series, which has been on the New York Times bestseller list for forty weeks out of the last year.”

“Gertie,” I said, “I’ll help you keep an eye out for her. I’m good at recognizing people. Do you have a photo?”

Gertie rummaged in her gigantic carpet bag, which provided a counterweight to the conference swag bag on her other shoulder. “I think her picture’s on the back of her book. Here it is.” She pulled a paperback book out of her bag and held it up. “She’s very recognizable, with her cascading auburn hair and luminous green eyes.”

Ida Belle and I leaned in to examine the book

“I don’t think that’s going to help us find your author.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a drawing,” Ida Belle said. “How do you expect anyone to recognize…”

Ida Belle trailed off. She was staring across the room.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Ida Belle, do you see her?” Gertie stood on her tiptoes and peered across the crowded hall.

Ida Belle shook her head. “I thought I saw someone I recognized. Probably just tired after the long trip.”

“Yeah, napping while someone else does all the driving must be exhausting,” I said, a little ungraciously.

The woman in front of us turned around, clutching a fizzy orange drink in a stemmed glass.

“The mimosas are soooo good,” she announced in our general direction. “I might have to get back in line.” She tottered away, holding her mimosa aloft like a lantern. Ida Belle quickly took her place at the bar.

“Bartender, get me a mimosa and a Bloody Mary.”

“Thanks Ida Belle,” I said. “You didn’t have to order for me.”

Ida Belle took a mimosa in one hand and a Bloody Mary in the other.

“I didn’t,” she said. “Get your own.”

Chapter 3

Our room had two queen size beds. Gertie and Ida Belle conveniently pleaded feeble old age, and neither of them wanted to double up. My youth and robust health doomed me to the foldout couch.

“Let’s see what we got in our goody bags.” Gertie turned her bag upside down and shook the contents out onto her bed. Ida Belle and I followed her example. We each had some postcards and bookmarks, a shiny string of cheap Mardi Gras beads, and an assortment of paperback books.

“Ooh, look at all these!” Gertie was beaming. “And we all got different titles! When we finish reading through our own, we can trade.”

“These romance books sure look different than how they used to,” Ida Belle said.

“Ida Belle, you were a romance reader?” I was surprised.

“No, but they used to sell the paperbacks at the General Store. They were in this round rack right by the checkout counter. I remember the covers were all these sappy paintings of princesses and pirates or whatever. But most of these are just guys without anything on.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Gertie sighed.

Ida Belle hoisted her huge suitcase onto her bed and unlatched it. “Your sudden interest in literature is making a lot more sense now, Gertie.”

“They’re not all R-rated. How about this one?” I held up a copy of something called Lilydale Love Song, by Larry Lindgren. It had a picture of a quaint old well on the cover. To me, an abandoned well said “body dumping site” and not “romance,” but maybe I wasn’t the typical target customer.

Ida Belle glanced at the book in my hand and turned her attention back to unpacking. “Looks boring.”

“You know New Orleans isn’t dry like Sinful, right?” I watched Ida Belle unload dozens of bottles of Sinful Ladies Cough Syrup out of her bag.

“I came prepared for medical emergencies.”

“How much of that stuff did you bring?”

“Just a few boxes,” Gertie said.

“Just a few boxes? Is that why the Jeep was handling like that on the drive out? You were both asleep, so you probably didn’t notice, but I almost fishtailed twice.”

“It’s hard to travel light when you get to our age,” Ida Belle said.

“Well no one would accuse you two of traveling light. It felt like I was driving with a neutron star in the cargo area. How much moonshine do you two need for a four-day conference anyway?”

“It’s easy to catch a cold when you travel,” Gertie said.

“Drinking in a bar can get expensive,” Ida Belle added.

“In more ways than one,” Gertie giggled, and then the two of them started reminiscing about some misadventure they had had back in some bar in DaNang. I must have tuned out of the conversation as I was sorting out my new books because the next thing I heard was Ida Belle yelling at me.

“Fortune? Fortune!”

“What?”

“Quit staring at those book covers and help me find the ice bucket.”

“Nice, huh?” Gertie said.

“I wasn’t staring. I was just…thinking.”

“Sure you were,” Ida Belle snorted.

I took another look at the ripped male torsos adorning the covers. There was a muscular biker with full-body tattoos, a brooding cowboy with freakishly articulated abdominal muscles, and a guy who was supposed to be a Navy SEAL, flexing on the beach and wearing only his dog tags.

I sighed.

“Fortune,” Gertie asked gently, “is something wrong?”

“Look, this is kind of embarrassing to admit and you can't tell anyone. Just between us. I see all these sexy guys on these book covers and every one of them makes me think of Carter LeBlanc.”

“Even the black one?” Gertie asked.

“This isn’t your fault.” Ida Belle said. “You couldn’t tell him that you were undercover. He should know that. Unless he's a complete moron, he’ll realize he's being unreasonable.”

“I shouldn’t have gotten involved with him in the first place. It’s completely against official policy and common sense. And I had to get mixed up with the deputy sheriff, of all people.”

“Oh, pish-posh. Who follows the rules all the time? Ida Belle, remember that party at the French embassy, when you and I —”

“Gertie, don’t we need to get going?”

“Oh. I suppose we do. Yes. Let’s see.” Gertie held her conference program out at arm’s length and squinted at it. “What are we, Session One? I think I’d like to go to Write a Bad Romance.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said. “It sounds like it'll be fun. The last conference I went to, the highlight was Keynote Address by former KGB Major General Oleg Kalugin. Nothing against Major General Kalugin, of course.” Gertie disappeared into the bathroom. “Just give me a minute to freshen up.”

A few minutes later Gertie emerged from the bathroom. She wore flowing black trousers, gold earrings that dangled like mobiles, a tangle of gold necklaces, and a leopard-print silk blouse. Her white cotton-candy hair was secured with a glittering leopard-print headband.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Ida Belle asked.

“Lexi says an author has to eat, sleep, and breathe her brand, 24 hours a day,” Gertie declared. “And my brand is hot, sexy, seniors. Ready, ladies?”

The registration area downstairs had gotten a lot more crowded while we were settling in to our hotel room. The conference attendees were overwhelmingly female, generally north of fifty, and in a rowdy mood. It felt like a bachelorette party for grandmothers. Exhibiters were setting up book display tables in the meeting space outside the Mardi Gras Ballroom, but the big attraction was the bar. Two white-jacketed bartenders worked furiously to keep the drinks flowing and the line moving.

“We got time for another one before the session starts.” Ida Belle went to the end of the line. Gertie and I followed her, although I didn’t really need another cocktail at this hour. The man standing in front of us stepped backwards and then turned around to see what he’d bumped into. He ended up sloshing champagne and orange juice all over Gertie's blouse.

Gertie took it surprisingly well. Instead of clocking him with her giant handbag, she smiled and said it was the kind of thing that could happen to anyone. The man disappeared and returned with a stack of bar napkins, apologizing the whole time, started to dab Gertie’s blouse, realized what he was doing, and sheepishly handed her the whole stack of napkins.

His name was Larry Lindgren, he said, and he was from Minnesota. He looked like Santa Claus on his summer vacation, with his Hawaiian shirt, straw boater hat, and plush white sideburns.

“I write clean contemporary romance,” he said as Gertie dabbed the juice from her blouse and deposited soggy napkins into his hand. “No bad words, no bedrooms, no bloodshed.” Ida Belle and I nodded politely. Gertie and Larry were soon chatting away, debating marketing funnels and permafrees and other things that sounded like a foreign language to me.

“So where are you ladies headed for the first session?” Larry asked.

“We’re going to Write a Bad Romance,” Gertie said. “Larry, would you like to join us?”

Chapter 4

“Write a Bad Romance”

Galerie 3

Join Hungry Pen Press as we team up with your favorite authors to write a bad romance! Twenty lucky participants will be chosen in a drawing to win a spectacular Hungry Pen gift basket full of the hottest and hungriest billionaires, shifters, and more! What are you waiting for? The bad ones are the most fun, so come write a bad romance with us!

Gertie grabbed Larry’s hand and dragged him over to claim the remaining two seats at a table in the corner. This left Ida Belle and me to fend for ourselves. Abruptly, I found myself being hustled to an empty chair by an energetic little woman with bright red hair, about five pounds of turquoise-and-silver squash blossom jewelry, and a dyed turquoise rabbit fur jacket.

As the spry redhead pressed me into my seat, I looked around to see where Ida Belle had gone. I caught a glimpse of her exiting the ballroom.

Traitor.

Most of the occupants of my table were women who had at least two generations on me. The lone man was in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore square black glasses, and carefully trimmed stubble. He looked like my stereotype of a Serious Writer, and I wondered what he was doing at a romance convention.

My new friend, the tiny redhead, kicked off the introductions. Her name was Fel, she announced, and the other ladies all giggled knowingly, as if we were all expected to know who she was already.

“I’m a writer,” Fel added, which triggered another wave of merriment. I chuckled half-heartedly just to fit in, although I had no idea what I was laughing at.

“And of course this is my assistant, Danny.”

Danny, the Serious Writer, nodded politely. Fel then turned to me.

“And you are?”

“Me? I’m Sandy Sue, but everyone calls me Fortune. So please just call me Fortune.”

“Fortune, what a great name!” exclaimed a large woman in a bright red cashmere shawl and a matching pillbox hat. “Is that your nom de plume?”

“I’m sorry?”

“She means your pen name,” another woman explained.

“Oh, my pen name. No, I’m not a writer. Are all of you romance writers?”

“Except for Danny,” Fel said. “He thinks that if he writes anything except Serious Literary Fiction, Hah-vahd will take back his master’s degree.”

The young man rolled his eyes good-naturedly as the women at the table tittered.

“So Fortune, you’re a fan then,” said a woman in gray cornrows adorned with beads that clacked as she moved. “You a virgin?”

“What?”

The women all burst out in raucous laughter.

Danny gave me a knowing smile.

“Is this your first romance conference, she means.”

“Oh. I see. Yes, it is my first.”

The women at the table murmured their welcomes.

“None of us would be anywhere without our fans,” Fel beamed at us. “I’m so glad all of you are here. I know some of you already know each other, but why don’t we go around the table and introduce ourselves?”

As the woman to my left treated us to a lengthy chronicle of her bookish girlhood, I sized up my new friend. Judging from the clear admiration for her from the other women at the table, and the fact that she had her own assistant, this Fel must be a big deal. She was about Gertie and Ida Belle’s age, and except for the bright red hair, reminded me of Gertie: tiny, flamboyant, and ancient. I’d have to introduce them if I got a chance. The three of them would probably become fast friends. Now that I thought of it, Gertie, with her newfound interest in all things romance, probably already knew who this Fel person was. I’d have to ask her.

The room quieted as the emcee announced the rules of the game:

“Participants will sit at an author’s table and draw classic tropes and descriptions at random. Then comes the hard part – your team will have to come up with a romance using all of the cards selected and share with the room!”

Pillbox Hat drew from the stack labeled Hero.

“Law enforcement,” she read. “At least one of our lovers works as a police officer, FBI agent, IRS auditor, or similar.”

“Who’s going to draw the heroine?” Fel asked. “I know! Let’s have our virgin do it.”

I realized everyone was looking at me. I drew a card off the stack labeled “Heroine.”

“What does it say? Tell us!” someone urged.

“Beautiful All Along, aka Ugly Duckling,” I read. “Not conventionally beautiful, but in the course of the story changes her appearance by removing her glasses, doing her hair in a more flattering style, or getting a makeover from a sassy friend.”

“Or she just thinks she’s an ugly duckling,” cackled a woman in a magenta feather boa, “but she’s really tall, thin, hot, and blonde, and all she needs is a better haircut.”

“We have our hero and heroine,” Fel said. “Now we need to draw our Situation card. Shonda?”

Beads drew a card off the stack and read,

“Mistaken identity. One of our lovers is not what he or she seems. This allows the misunderstanding to continue for reasons that may or may not be known to the reader.”

“I’ll draw setting.” Fel picked up the stack of cards, shuffled them, and pulled one out with a dramatic flourish.

“Small town, rural setting,” she announced.

“Oh, I love small town romances,” gasped Feather Boa. “This is gonna be great!”

Chapter 5

“Don't forget,” Fel said. “This game is about making a bad romance. I know you’re all accustomed to producing work of the highest quality. Well, we’re here to do the exact opposite. Now, what do we have? A hero in law enforcement, an ugly-duckling heroine, a mistaken identity plotline, and a small-town setting. Go!”

“The hero is a government spy,” Beads volunteered, “so he’s undercover, and there’s your mistaken identity. And the small town is close to a secret military installation where something is amiss.”

“Oh, and the heroine is a data analyst at the military installation,” added Feather Boa. “The hero has to get to know her so that he can sneak in and steal the launch codes before the corrupt higher-up can sell them to the bad guys. But he doesn’t plan to actually fall in love with her.”

“Launch codes sound a little Cold War to me,” I said.

“Well it’s supposed to be bad,” Pillbox Hat said, “so if it's clichéd, that's good. Because it's bad. Wait.”

“I know what you mean,” Beads said. “Actually, speaking of clichés, why don't we have the heroine be a young, beautiful scientist?”

“The Victoria’s Secret model with the Ph.D. from MIT is a thriller cliché,” chimed in a dour woman with rimless glasses and masses of wiry gray hair. “Aren’t we supposed to be working with romance clichés?”

“We’re supposed to be having fun, Hanny,” said Red Hat. “I like our story. It actually sounds readable.”

“Maybe too readable,” Fel said. “If we want to win, we have to come up with a real stinker. Something bad. Now by bad I mean that the main characters lose our sympathy. What makes you lose sympathy for a character?”

“A heroine who’s TSTL,” said Beads.

“What’s TSTL?” I asked.

“Too stupid to live,” Feather Boa said. “It means she makes bad decisions, or she’s too much of a doormat.”

“Like if the hero treats her badly and she puts up with it without fighting back,” said Pillbox Hat. “Maybe he talks down to her or tells her what she is and isn’t allowed to do, and she just follows his orders even when it’s obvious he’s wrong.”

“That’s why I went off the billionaire books,” said Hanny. “I hate that. I need a heroine who sticks up for herself.”

“What if she’s the one who’s undercover?” I said.

“The ugly duckling is the one who’s undercover?” Feather Boa asked.

“Sure, why not? Say he’s a small-town sheriff,” I went on, for some insane reason. “And she’s a highly competent government agent.”

“You don’t have to say that she’s highly competent,” said Wiry Gray Hair. “Sounds like you’re overcompensating. Just say competent.”

“But maybe a bad romance writer would overstate it,” said Feather Boa. “Because she doesn't believe enough in her characters to let their actions speak for themselves. I think we should stick with Fortune’s original idea.”

I wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or insulted by Feather Boa's defense of my wording. “Sure,” I agreed, “highly competent it is. But she has to hide her amazing abilities from the hero, because she’s undercover.”

“Why would she be undercover in a small town?” asked Red Hat. “What’s in a small town that you’d need to be undercover for?”

“Meth manufacturing,” Feather Boa said.

“She’s looking for the woman who gave her up for adoption twenty-five years ago,” said Wiry Gray Hair.

“She’s hiding out from something herself,” said Beads. “Maybe there’s a bad guy who’s after her.”

“Wow, you’re good, I mean, sure, a bad guy, because that sounds very unrealistic and not like real life at all. Yeah, let’s go with hiding out from the bad guy. So the heroine who’s hiding out from the bad guy has to pretend that she doesn’t have any combat or survival skills, even though she does. And the hero keeps assuming she’s a ditz, even after she saves his life.”

“And then she kicks his hiney!” Beads exclaimed.

“No,” I said. “She doesn’t kick his hiney. But she does end up telling him the truth about who she is. And then he gets angry at her because she was dishonest with him. And then he disappears because that’s apparently easier than dealing with the situation.”

“But he’s a small-town sheriff,” said Red Hat. “He can’t just walk away from his job.”

“Deputy Sheriff, then,” I said. “Even a small town needs more than one person working in law enforcement.”

“Ooh, this is good,” Fel started writing excitedly. “We got a hero who’s a real jerk!”

“So how do we redeem him?” someone asked.

“I don’t know,” someone else said. “If he’s in law enforcement, he should know that if the heroine was on an official undercover assignment, she couldn’t reveal her identity to him. I don’t think she should get back together with him again after he’s acted like such a baby about it, do you? Maybe we should have the heroine end up with someone else.”

“But this is supposed to be a bad romance,” someone else said. “So she should end up with Sheriff Whiny pants.”

My life story had apparently sparked everyone’s creative energies. I was the only one at the table who wasn’t feeling the enthusiasm. Why had I started this in the first place? For the same reason you poke at a sore tooth, I guess.

“Fortune, you got some great ideas,” exclaimed Feather Boa. “You must’ve read a lot of bad romances in your time.”

“Something like that. Oh, I’m so sorry, someone’s calling me.”

My roommate Ally was on the Caller ID.

“Hey, no cell phones,” everyone shouted at me.

“Sorry. This is important.”

I pushed my chair back and ran out of the ballroom.

Chapter 6

The hallway was quiet, a relief after the raucous session I'd just escaped. A few people stood around the meeting area, checking their own phones or reading through the conference program. I ducked into an alcove, next to a housekeeping cart piled with dirty mimosa glasses from the morning session.

“Ally, is everything okay?”

“Fortune, were you running? You sound out of breath.

“Yeah, I really have to get back on my running program. You know how it is when your fitness routine keeps getting interrupted by murders and natural disasters.”

Ally laughed.

“Seriously. So are you having a good time?”

“Yeah, it’s interesting. They gave us goody bags full of free books, we got cocktails for breakfast, and they have these shirtless cover model guys everywhere. Not your typical, um, school librarian conference, that’s for sure.”

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“No, I was just in a session where we were playing a game called Write a Bad Romance.”

“Ooh, sounds fun! What did you come up with?”

“I guess it was kind of fun at first but then it got boring. You called at the right time. It was a good excuse to leave.”

“So you been bitten by the writing bug yet, like Gertie? Oh, Fortune, you should become a romance writer. Then you could stay in Sinful! And you could put people we know into your books! Wouldn't that be fun?”

“I don't think a literary career is in the cards for me, Ally. I'm just here to keep Gertie company and get a change of scenery.”

Ally didn’t know that I already had a full-time job with the CIA. Keeping up the deception was a hassle, and I felt a little guilty about it, but it was for her protection. If Ally ever did find out the truth about me, I wondered whether she'd handle it better than Carter had.

“I’m calling about Merlin,” Ally said. A young man in a maroon polyester uniform came in, nodded to me, and wheeled the dirty-dish cart away.

“Sorry, what was that? Merlin? Is he okay?”

“He's fine. It’s just that that catnip toy you got him right before you left? He’s wrecked it already.”

“That's what I get for turning my cat into an addict. Okay, listen. I have a stash of catnip toys in the top shelf of the pantry, in that big blue tin with the Danish cookies.”

“Oh, I know what you're talking about. I thought that was a sewing kit.”

“You think I own a sewing kit? Anyway, don’t let Merlin see where the toys are, or he’ll try to get to them himself. If you need to buy more at the General Store, let me know and I’ll pay you back. Um, have you seen Carter around, by the way?”

“No, now that you mention it. Not for a while now. Of course you know Aunt Celia and him don’t always see eye to eye, especially since she got elected Mayor. Maybe he’s still mad about that thing with Uncle Nelson.”

“Oh, that’s a good point. Maybe he’s on the outs with Celia.”

Ally’s horrible aunt, Celia Arceneaux, was Sinful’s new mayor-elect (pending an audit of the voting results). She’d already tried to fire Carter once, so that she could replace him with her idiot cousin. I liked the idea that Carter’s recent disappearance might be Celia’s fault and not mine. I already had enough to feel guilty about.

“You have a message for him?” Ally asked. “In case I do see him?”

Oh, no, nothing in particular. I just, you know. Just haven't seen him around, is all. So is Sinful falling into lawlessness and chaos without our star deputy sheriff?”

“No, actually now that I think of it? It’s been really quiet today with you and Gertie and Ida Belle gone. I mean, oh, that didn't sound good. Sorry Fortune, I didn’t mean to say—”

“It’s okay, Ally. I’m glad to hear things are nice and peaceful back home. How’s Justin?”

I could practically hear her blushing over the phone.

“We’re making dinner tonight over here. He wants us to try cooking something called squid luau.”

“Squid luau? What is that?”

“It's like a stew. I don’t know if I’m gonna like it. I looked it up online, and everyone says it’s green and fishy-smelling. Anyway, don’t worry. It can't be any worse than the swamp rat pie. And I'll make sure to air out the kitchen afterwards.”

“So sounds like things are going well with you two. That's great.”

“Yeah, the only problem is Aunt Celia. She keeps hassling me about carrying on with a foreigner.”

“Ally, Hawaii is one of the United States.”

“I know. I keep telling her that. Aunt Celia doesn't really buy it though.”

I heard a low rumble, and then an abrupt swell in the volume of voices as conference room doors flew open up and down the hallway. I checked my watch. The sessions were ending right on time. This was probably the best-run conference I'd ever been to.

“Listen, I gotta go. I have to collect Ida Belle and Gertie for lunch. I'm so glad you called. Give my love to Merlin and Justin.”

“And Carter, if I see him.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Chapter 7

I sat between Ida Belle and Gertie at lunch. I hoped they'd fill the time with bickering or gossip, anything that would take my mind off Carter. That “Bad Romance” game had put me in a bleak mood.

Unfortunately, Gertie was sitting next to her new friend Larry Lindgren, and they were busy making puppy eyes at each other. Ida Belle was busy too. As soon as she sat down, her phone hummed. She glanced at it and she disappeared back into the hallway.

I could tell that some kind of big news was rippling through the Mardi Gras Ballroom. I sensed scandalized whispers and indignant murmurs. No one was talking to me, though, which made me feel bored and left out.

“Excuse me Gertie,” I interrupted, “What’s going on? What's everyone talking about?”

“Oh,” Gertie exclaimed. “You haven’t heard?”

“If I had heard I wouldn’t be asking you about it, would I?”

Gertie was dying to share the gossip, it turned out, and Larry was happy to help. Between the two of them talking over each other and trying to finish each other’s sentences, it took me a few minutes to piece together the story.

The short version was this: A famous romance writer had stolen the work of a less-famous colleague, changed a few details, and published the stories as her own.

The villain of the piece was a bestselling author named Felicity Valentine. I hadn’t heard of her, but Gertie had. Felicity Valentine was a superstar in the world of romance writers, which made this a very juicy scandal.

“She wrote seventy-five books in five years,” Gertie said.

“More than a book a month? That sounds impossible.”

“It is quite a lot,” Larry said. “Her productivity was really something.”

“Well, now we know how she managed to be so productive, don't we?” someone said. “Just steal someone else's book and slap a new cover on it.”

“How did she get away with that for so long?” I asked.

“Destiny Davis wrote M/M romances,” Gertie said.

“What're M/M romances?” Ida Belle was back at the table now.

“Male-male,” Gertie said. “Romances with two men in the leading roles.”

“Well, times have certainly changed.” Ida Belle shook her napkin out and placed it on her lap. “I wonder what Quan would have to say about that.”

“That poor, sweet man.” Gertie shook her head.

“Who?” I asked.

“Someone we knew back in V—”

“In the Sixties,” Ida Belle cut Gertie off.

“Felicity Valentine must’ve thought there wasn’t any overlap in the readership,” Larry said.

“Oh, I think she’s wrong about that,” Gertie said. “Lexi says a good love story is a good love story. And she says ninety-five percent of M/M readers are women.”

The conversation quieted down when the lunch plates began to arrive.

“Gimme a fried seafood platter from Francine’s Diner any day,” Ida Belle grumbled. “I’ve never seen such tiny portions on such huge plates.”

“Small portions are supposed to be fancy,” I said. “That's how it is in D.C., anyway.”

“Hope there’s a good dessert at the end of this.” Ida Belle picked up her fork and poked at her jambalaya, which was about a tablespoon of teeny seafood fragments, thinly ladled over a little bump of rice. “Francine gives you so much food that you need a doggy bag.”

“I can’t believe Felicity Valentine has the nerve to show her face at this conference after all this,” I heard someone say.

“Felicity Valentine is here at the conference?” Gertie’s fork paused in mid-transit.

“What does this Felicity Valentine look like?” I asked. “I have good eyesight. I could scan the room for her.”

“I got her latest book in my swag bag,” said a rangy woman sitting next to Ida Belle. Her platinum-blond pixie cut framed a gloomy face with deep circles under the eyes. She reached into her bag and pulled out a paperback. The cover showed a man’s muscular, hairless chest under an unbuttoned policeman’s uniform.

“Wait, this isn’t it. Here it is.”

Back into the bag went the underdressed policeman. Out came a clean-cut young couple embracing on a beach with a lighthouse in the background. Pixie Cut turned the book around to show me the author’s photograph.

“That’s the plagiarist?” I exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, that's Felicity Valentine,” Pixie Cut said. “Why?”

“Also known as Fel. I was sitting right next to her.”

Chapter 8

“Felicity Valentine was at our Bad Romance session?” Gertie exclaimed. “I can’t believe I didn’t see her!”

“She was hosting my table,” I said. “She invited me over after you all abandoned me. She seemed nice enough. I mean, for all of the five minutes I talked to her.”

“Ooh, this is so exciting! It’s only the first day of the conference and we already have a scandal.” Gertie fanned herself with the napkin.

“How do they know that Felicity was the one who copied, instead of the other way around?” Ida Belle asked. “Cause sometimes the wrong person gets blamed for that kind of thing.”

“The pub dates.” Pixie Cut dropped the lighthouse book back into her bag. “You know, it’s kind of ruined it for me, knowing she stole another author’s work. I was totally in awe of her productivity. Now that I know how she did it, wow. So disappointing.”

“Are you an author too?” Gertie asked.

The woman nodded. “Contemporary. Similar to Felicity Valentine, actually, but with better representation. More diversity. You?”

“Well I know you’re not supposed to switch genres, but I can’t stay faithful to just one.” (Giggles around the table.) “I’ve done one contemporary and one shifter. My WIP is mature romance. I call it seniorotica.”

“Oh lordy,” Ida Belle clapped her hand over her face. “Gertie, you’re actually calling it that?”

Larry chuckled and shook his head in mock dismay.

“Larry doesn’t approve.” Gertie patted Larry's hand. “As far as I’m concerned, the hotter the better, but Larry writes squeaky clean. I suppose there’s room for all kinds.”

“Oh there certainly is,” Larry said. “Plenty of romance readers to go around.

“Romance is the largest single fiction market,” Pixie Cut said. “Over a billion dollars a year in the U.S. alone. So are you three virgins?” Her solemn expression stayed in place as she used the cutesy slang.

“Yes,” Ida Belle groaned. “It’s our first time at a romance conference, but about the hundredth time I’ve heard that stupid—”

I yelped as pain blazed in my ankle bone. Gertie placed her hand over her mouth.

“Oh sorry, Fortune. That kick was meant for Ida Belle.”

“How was that supposed to work, Gertie? I’m sitting right between you and her.”

“Well, I forgot you were there.”

“How could you forget that? Geez, I don't think I'm gonna be walking right for the rest of this conference.”

“Oh, Fortune, you're tougher than that. And Ida Belle, don’t be such a grumble guts. I’m having a lovely time. I’m meeting such interesting people”—here she gave Larry an adoring look—”and now we have a nice, juicy scandal on top of everything else. I think this is all absolutely wonderful. So much better than anything I expected. Of course I’m still hoping to meet Lexi Tingle.”

“I heard she was going to be at this conference,” one woman said. “I'm taking her online course. I think she’s a genius.”

“I enjoy some of Lexi’s work,” Pixie Cut said. “Her heteronormativity is deeply problematic, but she has a rich erotic imagination.”

“Now let’s not make poor Larry blush.” Gertie patted his hand protectively.

“It’s her!” Ida Belle exclaimed.

“Lexi?” Gertie gasped.

All heads at the table turned in the direction that Ida Belle was staring. Two tables away was the woman of the hour, the friendly little redhead from my Bad Romance session—Felicity Valentine. She was brazening it out, chatting with her tablemates as her assistant Danny moped quietly next to her.

“Felicity Valentine, huh?” Ida Belle sounded dangerous. “I might have known.”

“And just how might you have known? Five minutes ago you didn’t even know who Felicity Valentine was.”

“Don’t you recognize her, Gertie?”

“Well sure. That’s Felicity Valentine. I can see her red hair from here.”

“Felicity Valentine my—Gertie, if you weren’t blinder’n a big-eared bat, you’d a realized who that is.”

“What on earth are you on about, Ida Belle?”

“That’s Felicity Vigneau.”

Gertie’s little hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened.

“Felicity Vigneau!” she gasped. “No. Are you sure?”

Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of dessert, which was a tiny dab of tiramisu on an enormous plate, drizzled prettily with chocolate syrup. Ida Belle harrumphed and pushed hers away.

“Are you going to eat that?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Barely worth the effort.”

I picked up Ida Belle’s dessert plate and tipped the contents onto mine before she could change her mind. What can I say? I’m five-ten and used to regular workouts and a generous calorie allowance. These doll-sized conference meals weren’t going to do it for me.

“You know Felicity Valentine?” someone asked Ida Belle.

“Ida Belle,” I said, “that lady is having a bad enough day already, and we don’t know for sure that she really is who you think she is. Ooh, this tiramisu is pretty good. Ida Belle, sure you don't want some?”

“So she's using a fake name,” Ida Belle said. “That figures. She wouldn't dare show her face otherwise.”

“Why don’t we just ignore her and concentrate on having a good time at the conference?”

I didn’t even want to think about what kind of trouble Ida Belle and Gertie might cook up for this poor woman, whoever she was and whatever she’d done. The two of them could do some real damage if they set their mind to it, I knew that much.

“You know what would help me have a good time at this conference?” Ida Belle stood and pushed her chair back. “Not being in the same room as that woman.”

I watched her march through the maze of tables toward the ballroom exit, her carpet bag banging angrily against her hip with each step.

Chapter 9

“Sympathy for the Villain”

Bissonet Room

How do you make a villain understandable, even sympathetic, but still keep him villainous? Is there a ‘Hero’s Journey’ for villains? Get into your villain's head and learn to create characters that are not merely moustache-twirling bad guys, but fully developed individuals with a story arc of their own.

Gertie and I went back up to the hotel room after lunch to find Ida Belle sitting on the edge of her bed. As soon as we walked into the room she started coughing and hid something behind her back.

Gertie put her hands on her hips and gave Ida Belle a stern look. “Are you drinking our supply? And straight out of the bottle? I told you, that’s unsanitary.”

Ida Belle contemplated the little brown bottle with its old-style apothecary label. Sinful Ladies Cough Syrup. The All-Purpose Elixir that Gently Soothes the Worst of Coughs.

“And I told you, the alcohol kills the germs. Where’s your boyfriend?”

“He’s going to the session on Western romance. I'm heading down to the villain workshop. Fortune’s going with me, right Fortune? Ida Belle, you should come too. Forget about Felicity. I don’t think I need to point out that high school was a very long time ago.”

“Gertie, Miss LeBeau actually believed to the very end—”

“Miss LeBeau’s been dead for decades. You’re going to give yourself a hernia carrying around a grudge like that. And look what happened today. You should be happy about it. Felicity got caught out this time. Everyone at the conference knows she plagiarized Destiny Davis. Destiny's probably going to sue her. Her reputation will be ruined. She'll never live this down.”

“Felicity was nice to me,” I said. “After both of you ditched me at the Bad Romance session she brought me over to her table and made me feel welcome.”

Ida Belle glared at me, drained the bottle of cough syrup, and then lobbed it into the trash can where it landed with a clang.

Gertie darted over and retrieved it.

“This is a perfectly good bottle, Ida Belle. We can reuse it for our next batch. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, honestly. Come on, quit moping around the hotel room. Come downstairs with us.”

“Sure. I feel waaaaay better now,” Ida Belle slowly wobbled to her feet. “Let’s go.”

The session was already underway when we got there. We edged into the only empty seats left, which were in the middle of a row. The session had started right on time, and the leader was already describing the assignment. We were to take a “villain” from our own lives and try to construct a backstory for them that would make their actions more sympathetic.

“In their own mind, everyone’s a hero,” she said. “Everyone casts themselves as the good guy. Even murderers on death row. Use the worksheet you found on your chair when you came in. And please work by yourselves. At this stage you should be coming up with your own ideas.”

I was happy to work alone. I can’t stand depending on people less competent than me, which pretty much describes every group assignment I’ve ever suffered through. I’d loathed group work in school, and I hated it even more now that I was a grown-up.

At the last Company team-building retreat I’d elbowed my tablemates out of the way and constructed the stupid marshmallow-and-spaghetti-sticks tower all by myself. Our tower was the tallest and most structurally sound in the room. Frustratingly, our grade for teamwork was also the lowest.

I've always liked a challenge, so I started with the most villainous villain I could think of: Ahmad, the ruthless arms dealer who’d put a bounty on my head. He was the reason I was spending the summer hiding out in bayou country to begin with.

Unfortunately, Ahmad had no redeeming qualities that I could see. He was completely lacking in loyalty or compassion; he'd shot his wife for walking in front of the TV during American Idol. He had no principles, other than looking out for himself. He sold weapons to the highest bidder, often supplying both sides of the same conflict. He didn’t have a single redeeming quality that I could see.

Drumming up sympathy for a villain was going to be hard for me anyway. In my world, there were good guys like me and the people I worked for, and bad guys like Ahmad. I wasn’t used to thinking in shades of gray. The world would be better off with Ahmad gone. Period.

I took another look at the worksheet in my lap. I’d have to think of someone a little less evil than Ahmad. There was Celia Arceneaux, the new mayor-elect of Sinful. She was an awful person, but she was my roommate Ally’s aunt, and I liked Ally.

“Who are you writing about?” I whispered to Gertie.

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“Is it Celia?”

“Fortune, do your own.”

“How about you Ida Belle? Who’s your bad guy?”

“You, you traitor.”

“Me?”

“You said Felicity Vigneau was nice.”

Gertie leaned across me to scold Ida Belle.

“If you still hate Felicity so much, you should make her your villain, Ida Belle. Don’t pick on Fortune. You know, you always get combative when you overdo it on the cough syrup.”

“No one should be defending that woman. She’s a backstabbing snake.”

“That’s a terrible metaphor. How does a snake stab someone in the back?”

“Quit hassling me, Gertie. You heard the lady, we’re supposed to be doing our own work. Let me do my…”

Ida Belle’s voice trailed off as the door opened. Felicity Valentine/Vigneau strode in, weighted down with turquoise squash-blossom jewelry and an air of grim obligation.

“What’s she doing here?”

I picked up a copy of the program and scanned it for the session details.

“She’s one of the author panelists. See? Her name’s right here.”

“Whose stupid idea was it to come to this thing anyway?”

“Ida Belle, if you’re going to do nothing but complain, then you can leave.” Gertie glared sternly at her friend. Ida Belle crossed her arms and sat back in her chair.

“I’m staying right here. I paid to go to this thing, and I’m gonna get my money’s worth.”

Chapter 10

Felicity’s assistant Danny walked in behind her and quietly took a seat at the end of the front row. He looked miserable.

“Hello everyone,” Felicity’s voice had a little quaver. I looked up.

“I’m delighted to be here with all of you today in our session on villains.”

Felicity scanned the silent room.

“And speaking of villains, I understand that some of you may have heard that I am one.”

A nervous chuckle rippled through the audience.

“I would like to address the metaphorical elephant in the room,” Felicity’s bright coral lips were set in a firm line. “The claim that I copied the work of another author. There is no truth at all to these accusations. We are working on clearing up this whole nasty business. I was once a fledgling writer myself, and I am a big supporter of those of you who are trying to make your way. I would never—”

“You’re a liar, Felicity Vigneau!”

Ida Belle was on her feet beside me. Felicity blanched, a bright circle of rouge glowing on each cheek.

“You’re a liar and a thief and a backstabbing snake—a backstabber!”

“Why I’m sure I…” Felicity stammered. Danny, Felicity’s assistant, stood up, but looked unsure about what to do next. I stood too, equally uncertain about my course of action. I hoped this session of the American Romance and Erotica Authors’ Conference wasn’t about to degenerate into a chair-smashing brawl.

“And don’t pretend you don’t remember who I am,” Ida Belle shouted. Outside the open door, people walked by, oblivious to the drama. They probably thought we were doing some kind of character role play.

“I understand emotions are running high,” the other moderator interrupted. “But if we could get back on track—”

“Miss Lebeau’s class. Junior year.” Ida Belle planted her hands on her hips.

“Ida Belle!” Felicity mouthed, as if she were seeing a ghost.

“My reputation was ruint cause a you, you thieving—”

“Let’s go.” I locked my arm through Ida Belle’s and three ladies had to stand up to allow us to exit the row. “Gertie, you can stay here. Ida Belle and I are going out for some air.”

I hustled Ida Belle out the door as she fired off a stream of curses in both regular and spicy Cajun flavors.

I finally released my grip on Ida Belle’s arm when we were safely inside the elevator and headed back up to the room.

“What happened?” I asked. “She copied your English paper in ninth grade or something?”

“Eleventh grade. All I did was let her look at it, and only cause she said she was having trouble coming up with ideas and wanted to see what I’d done.”

“And this was worth busting up Gertie’s conference session?”

“Fortune, you don’t understand. We hand our papers in, and next thing I know Miss Lebeau asks me to stay after class. I expected her to tell me what a great job I did, and instead she accused me of cheating. She gave my paper a zero.”

“It should’ve been easy to prove that you were the original author.”

Ida Belle sighed.

“Yeah, I shoulda done that. Pushed back. But...I didn't want to contradict Miss Lebeau. And with that zero I still got a B-plus in the class. But Felicity? She woulda flunked. And then got the beating of her life when her parents saw her report card.”

“So let it go then. You broke the rules for a friend. Ida Belle, that was decades ago.”

“After that, though, Miss Lebeau never forgave me. Not to her dying day. I went from teacher’s pet to…she wouldn't even look me in the eye. Not even after I graduated, and I'd run into her in the General Store. Miss Lebeau had always been so proud of me. Until that happened. It was like I'd betrayed her. She took it personally.”

“And she died before you could redeem yourself in her eyes. I'm guessing.”

Ida Belle glanced at me.

“I guess you know what that’s like.”

I nodded. My father had been gone for years, but the subject was still painful.

“Old story, I guess,” she said.

“Here’s our floor.”

I slid the card key in a couple of times before the indicator light on the lock went from red to green.

“Gertie's gonna come back up here and chew me out for embarrassing her.” Ida Belle flung herself onto her bed, track suit, tennis shoes and all, and stared up at the ceiling. “I can hear it now. ‘You and your temper, Ida Belle, it's the Darlac Hotel all over again, blah blah blah.' I shoulda stayed here in the room.”

“I don’t think it was a total waste,” I said. “That was a pretty good backstory you gave me on Felicity Valentine”

“Felicity Vigneau.”

“Whatever. I think I understand her actions a little better now. Of course it wasn't right for her to copy your paper, but I can see why she did it. People do stupid things when they get desperate.”

“That still doesn't give her an excuse for plagiarizing that other writer.”

“No, that's true. She didn't learn her lesson. Or maybe she learned the wrong lesson. That she could steal other peoples' work and get away with it. Anyway, wasn’t that the point of the exercise? To get a sympathetic angle on a villain? I think we aced it.”

“You know, I think we did.” Ida Belle swung her sneakered feet onto the floor and started rummaging through the nightstand drawer. What do you say we drink to being the quickest studies in the class?”

Chapter 11

“Creative Yoga for Creative People”

Galerie 6

Those of us who love reading and writing spend a lot of time in front of the computer or curled up in our favorite chair. Are you feeling stiff from all that sitting? Are you already getting healthy and want to stay motivated while at the A.R.E.A. Conference? Then join Creative Yoga for Creative People. When the regular sessions are over, we'll gather to limber up and cool down. All ages and fitness levels welcome! And just to keep you motivated, we'll have two of our gorgeous cover model hunks helping out!

I'd been hoping to escape to the hotel workout room to run on the treadmill, but as the day wore on, my motivation dwindled. By five in the afternoon, the Creative Yoga session was about all I could face. I'd gotten up before dawn to make the two-hour drive from Sinful to New Orleans, and I'd consumed more alcohol in the last few hours than I normally did in a week.

On the way down to Galerie 6, Ida Belle and I passed a knot of pumped-up cover models hanging around the coffee stand. For some reason (probably breathing in all that testosterone) I found myself thinking about Carter LeBlanc. That reminded me of Carter's uncle Walter, who owned the General Store, and that reminded me to call Walter and check on catnip toys for Merlin.

“I’m going to call Walter,” I said, which got me a strange look from Ida Belle. To her, it probably sounded like that came out of nowhere, rather than being the result of a completely logical train of thought.

“You're calling Walter right now?”

“Ally told me that Merlin needs a new catnip toy.”

Ida Belle shrugged and I pulled out my phone.

Walter picked up on the second ring.

“Hi Walter, it’s Fortune.”

“Heya. How're things out there in the big city?”

“Great. We got early check-in, nice room, and Ida Belle and I are heading down to a yoga class right now.”

“Did you say a yoga class? Is Ida Belle wearing those yoga pants?”

Ida Belle was wearing her shapeless turquoise track suit, but I couldn’t resist brightening Walter’s day a little.

“She sure is. How’d you know? Listen, Walter, Ally told me that Merlin's going through those catnip toys like they were candy. She might stop by to get some more. Do you have any?”

“Hang on. I’ll check…just two left. Should I reorder?”

“Yeah, I think that’d be a good idea. I'll take a dozen, if you can get them.”

“You got that little guy hooked, Fortune.”

“I know. I’m such an enabler. Oh by the way, Ally tells me she hasn’t seen Carter around lately.”

“That so?”

“Do you know if he's okay? The doctor didn’t put him back on bedrest or anything, did he?”

“Well now, I thought you'd know where he was.”

“No, it's been a few days since we spoke.”

And what a conversation that had been.

It had dawned on Carter that I might not be exactly who I claimed to be. There was something unusual, he'd finally realized, about a retired beauty queen who could rescue a gunshot victim from a sinking boat, disarm a hitman, and completely trash the only toilet in the sheriff’s station. (Actually I can’t credit my CIA training for that last one).

He'd confronted me, and was upset when I didn’t have a good explanation for him. What could I say? “I admit that getting involved with you while I was undercover was a breach of procedure and a huge mistake. Sorry about that.”

The ladies at the Bad Romance session were right. Carter was being a big baby about the whole thing. Why was I even worrying about him? I should just cut my losses and move on.

“He told me he was taking a few days' leave,” Walter said. “Didn't say where, and I didn't pry. I figured you knew.”

“Okay.” I tried to sound casual. “Thanks Walter. Let me know when the catnip toys come in. I’ll stop by and stock up.”

I felt a twinge of unease. What if something happened to Carter? Then I felt annoyed at Carter for making me worry about him when he couldn’t even be bothered to call me. I snapped my phone shut and followed Ida Belle into the yoga class.

Chapter 12

Galerie 6 was packed with romance writers ready to engage, lengthen, spiral, and stretch. They were standing, bending, or sitting cross-legged. The chairs had been stacked off to the side, the tables folded flat and leaning against the wall.

Up at the front of the room, a wiry brunette fiddled with a boom box, switching between different soothing new-age soundtracks. On either side of her, two shirtless and flawless “Cover Model Hunks” preened and flexed in preparation for the class.

Frantic waving in the back corner led us to Gertie and Larry. Gertie was dressed in a magenta and yellow aerobics getup that she must have had since the 80s. Larry wore tight black bicycle shorts and a Mall of America t-shirt (“America’s Biggest and Best Mall”) that strained over his round belly.

“You two smell like cough syrup!” Gertie exclaimed.

“Cough syrup?” Larry put his hands up. “Whoa, better keep my distance. Don’t want to get sick.”

“Yer darn tootin’ you don't.” Ida Belle took her place next to Gertie.

“Where’ve you two been, anyway?” Gertie demanded.

“Resting,” I said. “Anything interesting happen?”

“Well there’s a new development on the plagiarism scandal,” Larry said. “Destiny Davis tweeted that she doesn’t mind Felicity Valentine ‘borrowing’ her plots. She says it’s a compliment.”

“Supposedly tweeted,” Gertie corrected him.

“Why supposedly?” I asked.

“Some people think it’s a fan of Felicity’s impersonating Destiny Davis,” Larry said.

A woman in front of us, encased in a bright red leotard and shiny black tights, turned around. I recognized her from the Bad Romance session as the feather boa lady.

“I’d take it as a compliment if Felicity Valentine copied something of mine. I bet Destiny Davis is getting a ton of exposure out of this, plus lots of sympathy besides. She's got nothing to complain about. Sounds to me like she hit the jackpot.”

“I agree.” Gertie’s voice came from the floor, where she was trying out some improbable stretching exercises. “Talk about discoverability! Everyone in the world knows who Destiny Davis is now.”

“Except no one really does know who she is,” Larry was still standing, balancing on one stocky leg while he pulled a foot up behind him with one hand.

“It happened to me,” said a pessimistic voice behind us. “Felicity stole my idea.”

The woman’s wiry gray hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Heavy sweatshirt and oversized sweatpants hung on her scrawny frame.

“Now Hanny,” chided Feather Boa, “you don’t know that for sure.”

“She wrote to thank me for my email,” Hanny sulked, “so I know she got it.”

“I don’t think she answers her own mail,” Feather Boa said. “I bet her assistant, that cute boy Danny? He does all that.”

Someone cranked up the volume on the serene yoga music, drowning out all conversation and signaling the start of class. The instructor and the Cover Model Hunks took their positions at the front of the room.

By the time class let out, I was exhausted and ready for bed. Ida Belle, Gertie, and Larry wanted to go out to dinner in the French Quarter. I said my good-nights, bought a muffuletta from the lobby sandwich shop, and headed back up to the room.

It felt nice to crawl into bed and nestle between cool sheets, even if the foldout couch was kind of lumpy. I tucked my hands behind my head (making sure not to get my fingers tangled up in my hair extensions) and stared up at the ceiling. I wondered whether my hair was grown out enough that I could get the extensions chopped off and still pass for a retired beauty queen. My fake nails were a mess, too. Maybe I could get them filed down at the hotel beauty salon.

I almost laughed out loud when I realized how trivial my worries were—hair and nails! This trip out of town had been a good idea. For the first time since that Greyhound bus had deposited me (and my hideous pink luggage) in Sinful, I could relax. Ahmad was on the run. Sinful, with all its weirdness, was a two-hour drive away. No hurricane threatened; no strange creatures prowled outside my door. My house and my cat were in Ally’s capable hands, and Carter LeBlanc and his big fat ego were no longer my responsibility.

The only thing ruffling anyone’s feathers was that sparky little redhead, Felicity. If our biggest problem on this trip was Ida Belle's decades-old grudge over an English paper, then I'd say things were going pretty smoothly. I smiled into the dark, closed my eyes, and sank into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 13

The next thing I knew, Ida Belle was shaking me awake. She was dressed in a bright red track suit, her white hair in big rollers.

“Get up, sleepyhead. We gotta get our run in before the plenary talk”

“Why do you care so much about the plenary talk? And where’s Gertie?”

“A) Free continental breakfast. B) Never came in last night.”

I sat up, instantly awake.

“Did something happen to Gertie?”

“If it didn’t, she’s gonna be awful disappointed. Her and Larry disappeared halfway through the Achey Breaky Heart lesson.”

“The what?”

“We all went to the country dance party after the cocktail hour.”

“I rubbed my eyes. Cocktail hour?”

“The meet-the-agents cocktail hour. We got all the industry scuttlebutt. Alphas like tycoons and ranchers remain as popular as ever, but heroes who are musicians or actors are gaining more acceptance.”

“What?”

“And historical's on the rebound, but it's gotta be Regency, Victorian, or Highland. No one's buying stories set in France.”

“So Gertie never came home. I could’ve slept in her bed instead of on this thing. I feel like I spent the night lying on a metal bar.”

Ida Belle patted a spot on the mattress.

“You were lying on a metal bar. That's the problem with foldout couches. They're never as good as a real bed.”

“When’s the session?”

“Nine.”

“What time is it now?”

“Six fifty.”

I flopped back down onto my pillow.

“Fine. We can go out at eight.”

“Fortune, this is summer in New Orleans. You do not want to be outside after eight in the morning, trust me. Come on. Get the lead out. Let’s burn off that muffuletta.”

“What muffuletta?”

“Nice try. You left the wrapper in the trash can and the bathroom reeks of olives.”

“Since when are you so interested in exercise, Ida Belle?”

“Since these pants started getting tight. Oh, Fortune, those desserts at K-Paul’s last night...”

“Just wear something with an elastic waist.”

“These have an elastic waist.”

I dragged myself out of bed, splashed off my face, tied back my fakey blonde hair extensions, and pulled on a pair of sweats. We exited the lobby through the sliding glass doors to the crowded sidewalk outside.

“I guess running’s out of the question,” I said.

“Why?”

“Why? Because it’s hot, humid, and jam-packed with pedestrians.”

“Let’s walk then. It’s better’n nothing. Good thing I got us started early. In another hour it’s gonna be downright hellish.”

“I don’t think we need to wait an hour for that.” I felt like I was breathing a blend of 10% air and 90% hot bus exhaust. “Let’s get this over with and get back into the air conditioning.”

Ida Belle and I dodged through the crowd. A few stores and diners were already open, forcing us to sidle around the clumps of people loitering at the shop entrances. We took a quick detour into a dark little shop called Jazz City. The air conditioning inside the store was a relief, but the shelves held nothing but tourist junk. Disappointed, we continued along Canal Street, then turned right into a narrow side street crammed with hole-in-the-wall restaurants, seedy apartments, and rickety fire escapes.

“Good thing you have me here with you,” Ida Belle said. “New Orleans is the murder capital of the United States, you know.”

“Not anymore. I think Detroit and Flint are ahead of New Orleans.”

“Are you kidding me? We dropped to third place?”

We made another right, and passed the un-glamorous back of the hotel, with its vast ground floor bay devoted to food delivery and laundry.

The next right turn led to a one-way alley lined with dumpsters, air conditioning units, and featureless doors painted beige to match the buildings. We stopped and stared. Police cruisers with flashing lights blocked both ends of the narrow street, and a knot of police officers and emergency responders obscured our view of whatever was going on.

“What’d I tell you?” Ida Belle said. “Betcha we almost walked right into a murder investigation right there. Let’s turn right at the next block instead.”

I surveyed the scene.

“I think you’re right, Ida Belle. There was a death.”

“I am? There was? How can you be so sure?”

“You can tell by watching the first responders.” Their movements were purposeful but non-urgent, their expressions flat and resigned. Whatever had happened on that little street, they had arrived too late to stop it.

We came back to the room to find Gertie’s still-untouched bed and no sign of Gertie.

“I'm sure Gertie's fine,” Ida Belle said.

“I guess you're right. What are the chances she managed to get herself murdered in an alley?”

I showered and dressed, and then leafed through the conference program as I waited for Ida Belle to get ready.

“Hey Ida Belle, we missed the Virgin Orientation. That means it's for first-time conference attendees.”

Ida Belle unrolled her curlers and brushed her crisp cylinders of hair into soft white waves.

“Yeah, I figured they didn't mean it literally. Was there booze?”

“Doesn't look like it.”

“Then we didn’t miss much.”

Ida Belle finished brushing, and then pulled sections of hair taut and backcombed until she’d added about three inches to her height. Finally she produced a tall can of hairspray and misted her head until the entire room was fogged with Aqua-Net.

“I bet Gertie’s downstairs waiting for us,” she said, finally. “Let’s get going before all the good stuff’s gone.”

Chapter 14

I was relieved to see a breakfast buffet instead of table service. If it weren't for the sandwich stand in the lobby, I could starve to death on the dainty portions we'd been getting. Ida Belle took two plates, so she wouldn’t have to go back and wait in line for seconds. I only used one plate, but put my engineering skills to use by constructing a retaining wall of bacon to hold in the maximum volume of grits, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes.

“There she is.” Ida Belle headed toward the far end of the ballroom, and I followed. I was relieved to see Gertie’s white cottony hair next to Larry’s straw hat at a table near the back. Ida Belle and I moved in and claimed the last two seats at their table.

I felt silly now for worrying about Gertie. She was clearly not lying dead in an ally. I also observed that she and Larry were sitting much closer than they had been yesterday. At least someone's love life was looking up.

The squeal of mic feedback caught me by surprise. I turned my chair around so that I could see what was going on at the front of the ballroom.

Felicity Valentine’s young assistant Danny stood at the lectern, looking disheveled. His rectangular glasses leaned askew, and his face was flushed, as if he’d been crying. One of the organizers stood next to him with her hand over the microphone and watched him with a concerned expression. Another woman hurried onto the stage and handed Danny a glass of water.

A uniformed police officer entered the ballroom and stationed himself by the back door. There was no mistaking him for one of the costumed cover models. With his jowly face and solid belly, he was obviously the real thing. At the other doorway, an unsmiling silver-haired man stood with his arms crossed. He wore a suit and tie, but he didn’t need a uniform. Everything about him screamed Law Enforcement.

The plainclothes man gave a nod. Danny took a sip of water. The woman took the glass back and patted his shoulder. Danny walked slowly to the center of the stage and braced his hands on the lectern.

The entire ballroom hushed; everyone watched Danny, who looked uncomfortable in the role of public speaker. He started to say something, but he was too far from the mic, and no one could hear him. He cleared his throat and leaned in.

“This morning there was a—” a squeal of feedback cut him off and he clapped his hand over the mic.

He tried again, and this time he got the volume right.

“Good morning A.R.E.A. attendees. I have some bad news. I’m sorry to say that, uh, I mean, there’s been an unfortunate, um…”

Restless murmurs filled the ballroom.

Danny leaned in again.

“Sorry.”

His voice caught, and he took a moment to recover.

“I'm sorry. I can’t ...Detective Jean-Baptiste Augustine, from the New Orleans Police Department...” he looked toward the door. “Detective Augustine will, uh. Yeah. Okay. Um, Detective? Could you…”

Danny stepped back, and the silver-haired man strode to the stage where I could get a good look at him.

Early fifties, five foot eleven, lean build. Probably trains in Krav Maga. Full head of hair. Either lucky genes or enough boozing to inhibit his liver’s DHT production. Dominant stance fills up his space. Vain. Gray tailored suit selected to flatter his physique and coloring. Threat level: to me, minimal. To bad guys, considerable. To the ladies around me...

“Ooh, a silver fox!” someone cooed.

“I confess, sweetheart! Come over here and put the cuffs on!”

“Do you think we could get him to take his shirt off?”

“Show your pecs!”

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Detective Augustine spoke into the mic at the right volume, with a precise balance of warmth and gravitas. “A good morning to you.”

The R-rated banter at my table dried up immediately. Augustine’s accent was pure “Yat,” the un-sexy city inflection more reminiscent of the Bronx than the bayou. This was a good thing, too. If the handsome detective had busted out some charming Cajun lilt, I think the ladies would’ve started slingshotting their panties at him.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news to report. Miss Felicity Vigneau, who some of you know as Felicity Valentine, passed away this morning.”

His words reverberated in the uneasy silence.

“The incident is currently under investigation,” he continued. “For the time being you will not be permitted to leave the hotel premises. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

The murmurs swelled again, loud and excited.

Detective Augustine stepped away from the lectern as about a third of the audience stood and surged toward the exit doors, pulling out their cell phones as they went.

The tragic news didn’t disrupt the conference schedule. The plenary talk went on as planned. Gertie insisted on staying. She seemed to want to give Ida Belle a chance to absorb the news of Felicity’s death. If they sat quietly and listened to the plenary speaker, they could put off talking about it.

Ida Belle agreed to stay for the talk and then stared at her lap, off in her own world. Larry stayed put too, probably because he didn’t want to leave Gertie. I was worried about Ida Belle, and had nowhere else to be, so I stuck around as well.

The plenary speaker, a famous romance blogger, found herself addressing a distracted audience. She soldiered on like a pro, covering discoverability and keywords and something called the thirty-day cliff. Apparently, a new book loses visibility about thirty days after its release date. You have to keep publishing books, month after month, or readers will forget about you and move on to the new releases.

If only people were always that distractible. I wished everyone could forget about Ida Belle’s outburst yesterday. I suspected that wasn’t going to happen.

Chapter 15

“Authors Got Talent”

Iberville Room

Here’s your chance to present your story to the people who can get your book in front of a publisher—literary agents! Agents aren’t just here to crush your dreams. We’re always looking for great writing, and we want to see what you have for us! In Authors Got Talent, our panel of agents will listen to your work being read aloud. As they lose interest they will raise their hands. The first author whose pages get read all the way through without any hands raised is the winner!

When the breakfast talk ended, Ida Belle, Gertie, Larry, and I meandered out to the crowded hallway.

“The next session is Authors Got Talent.” Gertie sounded sheepish. “I don't want to be disrespectful or anything, but I was so looking forward to having my chapter read.”

“It's not disrespectful,” I said. “Gertie, you should go ahead. I think I need to have a chat with Ida Belle.”

“Not necessary.” Ida Belle avoided looking at me. “I don’t need to talk about anything. Besides, I wanna support Gertie. I’m going with Gertie and Larry.”

“Fine. I’ll go too then.” I was worried about Ida Belle, and made up my mind to stick to her like a tick.

The four of us trooped up the wide carpeted stairs to the next floor, in search of the Iberville meeting room.

“So what do you think happened to Felicity?” Gertie asked as we reached the landing.

Ida Belle and I exchanged a glance.

“I'll go save us seats.” Larry said.

“Poor Larry.” Gertie watched him hurry off. “He's so sensitive.”

“Poor Larry?”

“We saw something this morning,” Ida Belle said. “Police and ambulance in the side street on the north side of the hotel.”

“It must've happened last night, then.”

“If that was her,” Ida Belle said. “Not sure it was.”

“Did you want to go in before they close the door?” I asked.

Gertie went up front to drop her sample pages off for the panel of agents, then returned to the back row, where Larry had held our places.

“This is so exciting,” Gertie sat down next to Larry and snuggled up next to him. “I hope the agents like it.”

“I thought you already had two or three books published,” Ida Belle said. “Don't you already have an agent?”

“No, I'm publishing independently,” Gertie said.

“You mean vanity publishing?”

“It’s not vanity publishing. It's independent publishing. But if I got an agent I'd have a shot at a traditional publishing contract.”

“I'm not sure you need one, Gertie,” Larry said.

“Oh no, I just thought of something. This will be the first time anyone hears this chapter. What if someone in the audience decides to copy it?”

“I think that kind of thing doesn't happen very often,” Larry said.

“Especially now that Felicity's out of the picture.” Ida Belle crossed her arms and scowled.

“Ida Belle!”

“Ida Belle what? She was an old fraud.”

“She's dead,” Gertie scolded. “You mustn't speak ill of the dead.”

“You know who else is dead? Hitler. Am I supposed to say nice things about Hitler now?”

“Oh, honestly, Ida Belle.” Gertie looked around the room. “Larry, I don't want to sound selfish, because of the terrible news about Felicity and all, but do you know, I still haven’t seen Lexi Tingle here. Do you think—?”

“Why do you care?” Ida Belle asked.

“That chapter I just dropped off up there, it started as an exercise for her course. The one I'm taking online. I was hoping she'd be here to hear it read out loud. Oops! Shush, everyone. They’re going to start reading.”

Since Gertie was the only one of us talking to begin with, complying was easy.

I had no trouble recognizing Gertie’s entry. My first clue was when the reader announced that the entry she was about to read represented a daring new genre called “Seniorotica.” My second clue was that Gertie blushed bright pink during the reading, and positively blazed crimson at the applause that followed.

I’d never tell Gertie, but I thought her scene was a little unrealistic. From the action atop a speeding train to the episode in the hot air balloon, I doubted that the acrobatics she described could’ve been accomplished by a pair of stuntmen, let alone a couple of retirees. But I’m more of a nonfiction reader, so probably not the best person to weigh in on a love scene.

Gertie’s entry didn’t win. She took her defeat graciously and applauded the winning entry, something about a fiery young schoolteacher being plucky and brave in Wyoming or Oklahoma or somewhere like that full of handsome, brooding cowboys.

When Authors Got Talent was over, we all trooped downstairs to Galerie B for the next session (“Multicultural Romance: When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong, and How to Make It Right”). There we were warned that using food to denote skin tone was both unfashionable and insensitive, and that no socially aware author would write about skin the color of coffee, chocolate, cinnamon, caramel, or honey. I found myself wondering how I’d describe Carter LeBlanc. Cookie dough? Biscuits and gravy?

I hoped no one could hear my stomach growl.

Chapter 16

On the way out of Multicultural Romance we passed Felicity’s assistant Danny in the hallway. He was chatting up a group of women and handing out his business card.

When we were safely past, Ida Belle said, “I think he did it.”

“Danny? Felicity’s assistant?” Gertie frowned. “What's his motive?”

“I don't know. I don't like him. Maybe he's Felicity's secret son and he has a grudge against her for never acknowledging him.”

“Well now you're thinking like a writer,” Larry chuckled.

“And he had gambling debts and was desperate,” Gertie chimed in, “and he knew she left him a bunch of money in her will, so he killed her!”

“Friend of mine worked as a personal assistant,” Larry said. “Tough way to make a living. No HR department, no rule book, you just gotta keep the boss happy no matter how unreasonable or unfair they are. It’s no fun depending on one person for your livelihood.”

“Yeah,” Ida Belle said. “Ask any housewife.”

“Wait a minute,” Gertie said. “If Felicity left her assistant a pile of money in her will, how come he seems so desperate to find another job?”

That was one thing I could be thankful for. As long as I was on the Company payroll, I had a salary, benefits, and a nice pension to look forward to. Assuming I didn’t get myself killed before I retired.

Gertie, Ida Belle and I repaired to the room. I brushed my teeth to wake myself up and clear out the taste of conference coffee. Ida Belle sat on the bed and stared out the window. We had an impressive view of the city, with the wide, toad-colored Mississippi snaking through it. Gertie spent a long time in the bathroom and emerged in a formfitting black lace tea gown.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Ida Belle asked. “You look like a slutty Sicilian widow.”

“I’m wearing black out of respect for Felicity’s passing. Besides, Goths are sexy.”

“Suit yourself, Morticia.”

Gertie ignored Ida Belle and fixed herself a glass of cough syrup and Coke. Quiet settled over the room as Ida Belle gazed out the window. Finally, she spoke.

“I hated Felicity more than I ever hated anyone. She took advantage of my friendship, and she ruined my reputation. I should be dancing on her grave right now.”

“I don’t think she has a grave yet,” Gertie said. “She’s probably in one of those refrigerated drawers down at the morgue.”

“That wasn’t my point, Gertie. My point was that now she’s gone, I see we were just two old women with a few moments left on this earth. I dreamed of this day, and now that it’s come, I don’t feel happy about it at all. It's kind of disappointing.”

Gertie absently touched the cameo brooch pinned to the black lace at her throat and gazed at a distant point. “Because you can feel the cold breath of the Reaper on your neck. And you wonder how long it’ll be before you, too are clasped in his chill embrace.”

“Is anyone else hungry?” I asked. “If you guys aren’t going to use your lunch tickets, I’ll take them.”

The morning’s bad news hadn’t ruined anyone’s appetite as far as I could tell. The tables in the Mardi Gras Ballroom were filling up fast. I fingered the conference ID tag in the clear plastic holder hanging around my neck and made sure, for about the fifth time, that my lunch ticket (beef) was safely tucked inside.

“Ida Belle,” I said, “I see a couple of empty—Ida Belle?” I looked around and saw that she was a few feet behind me, in conversation with Detective Jean-Baptiste Augustine.

Uh oh.

“You go on inside,” I whispered to Gertie. “I’ll stay here and make sure Ida Belle’s okay.”

“I’ll save your seats.” Gertie opened her big bag and showed me a wad of gallon-sized plastic freezer bags. “And your lunches, if I have to.”

I fought my way upstream against the lunch crowd to make my way back to Ida Belle and the detective.

“It’s not a formal interrogation at this point,” Detective Augustine was saying as I pulled up. “But if you want to start bringing lawyers into it, it could be.”

“Fortune,” Ida Belle exclaimed. “There you are! Tell him where we were this morning.”

“Detective Augustine.” I wondered whether my firm handshake was retired-beauty-queen-like enough to be convincing. Probably not. “I’m Fortune Morrow, Ida Belle’s friend. I was with her this morning. Is there a problem?”

With my wedge heels, I stood slightly taller than the detective. I could tell that annoyed him.

“We were just having a chat, Miss Morrow. Join us.”

Augustine led us over to a group of three plush chairs arranged around a tiny round table. It had been designed as a pleasant place to rest between conference sessions, but this was going to be anything but pleasant. I watched my fellow conference attendees disappear into the Mardi Gras ballroom for lunch. A woman walked out and pulled the door shut. I wondered if Ida Belle and I would have to go hungry until dinner.

“Now, Miss Morrow.” Detective Augustine interrupted my daydream of roast beef and fried potatoes. “I understand there was an incident yesterday between your friend here and the deceased.”

“It was a verbal exchange,” I said. “There was no physical contact, or threat of harm.” Again, not very retired-beauty-queen-like of me. If anyone asked I could always tell them that I watched a lot of detective shows.

“We had words,” Ida Belle said. “I’ll admit it.”

The “we” part wasn’t exactly right. Ida Belle had had words, lots of them. Felicity, though, had barely said a thing.

“She was a copycat and a cheat,” Ida Belle went on. “You must've heard about her stealing that other writer’s stories. You’re wasting your time talking to me, Detective. You should be looking for what’s her name.”

“Destiny Davis,” I said.

Augustine pulled a notepad from the breast pocket of his jacket and consulted it.

“Yep. Davis.”

He looked up from his pad. “And what was the exact nature of your disagreement with the deceased?”

“Felicity wasn’t doing too well in English class. So she asked to see my essay that I was gonna turn in—”

“You two were taking an English class?”

“It was junior year of high school. We were supposed to write about the election, and I had a number of opinions about it. Of course Felicity never picked up a newspaper, so she had no idea what to write about. Anyways, I finished my assignment early, and she wanted to see my paper, just to get an idea of what to write. Or so she claimed. And then that sneaky little skunk copied my work.”

“This happened when you were in high school?”

“That’s what I said. Anyway, when Miss Lebeau saw our two papers were similar, Felicity claimed that I copied her. Still makes me mad to think about it.”

“And you witnessed this?” Augustine asked me.

“No. It happened before I was born.”

“The argument that transpired yesterday.”

“Oh. Yes. I was there.”

“And what about early this morning? Where were you early this morning?”

“Fortune and me went for a walk.”

“What time was this?”

“We started out around seven. Took me a while to get Fortune out of bed.”

“Where did you go?”

“Just around the block.”

Someone pushed open the ballroom doors, letting conversation and food smells waft out. I hoped Detective Augustine would wrap this up quickly.

“Did you enter the parking structure?”

Ida Belle paused.

“No. We just walked around the block, like I said. We went into a store.”

“Name of the store?” he asked.

Ida Belle shrugged.

“Jazz City,” I said.

He wrote the information on his little pad without a glance at me.

“Did you notice anything unusual on this walk of yours?”

“Oh, sure,” Ida Belle said. “The side street was blocked off. Police cars everywhere. We had to keep walking and then turn down the next block. Was that Felicity in the middle of all that commotion? When we heard the news we wondered if that was her in the alley.”

Behind Detective Augustine, two shirtless cover models strolled by. Their masculine swagger reminded me of Carter LeBlanc. I mentally swatted away the unwelcome thought as if it were a gnat. Detective Augustine kept writing on his little pad.

“Do you remember where you were between five and six this morning?”

“Sleeping?” I wondered why Ida Belle sounded unsure.

“How about you?”

“I was asleep as well. Ida Belle and I are sharing a room in this hotel.”

“Either of you enter the parking garage?”

We both shook our heads no.

I was making my best effort to seem cooperative. I didn’t want to provoke Augustine into running my prints. Sure, Director Morrow could cover for me if he had to, but I’d already caused him enough trouble.

Ida Belle wasn’t as worried about making a good impression.

“You find who wrote those books that Felicity copied,” Ida Belle said. “That’s who you should be looking for.”

Augustine stood by way of dismissing us. He didn’t seem to appreciate Ida Belle’s telling him how to do his job.

“Thanks for your time, ladies. I’ll be in touch.”

Chapter 17

Ida Belle and I found Gertie in the Mardi Gras Ballroom and took our seats at the table.

“If you two’d taken any longer I’d have had to break out the plastic bags,” Gertie said. “I was putting it off as long as I could, because the tiramisu would’ve gotten all squished.”

“Thanks for saving our seats.”

“Food’s cold,” Larry warned.

“That’s okay. I’ll eat it.” I dug into the congealed étouffée. Larry was right. It had cooled to the temperature of the chilly ballroom.

“Big turnout for lunch.” Ida Belle picked up a fork and poked at her plate. “I guess that's cause we’re all stuck here.”

“I think people are curious to see how they'll handle the luncheon,” a woman piped up. Her soft gray curls and little spectacles made her look like a grandma straight from Central Casting. “What are they going to do now with their keynote speaker passed on?”

“Felicity Valentine was going to be speaking today?” I asked. “About what?”

“Do we have to stay here?” Ida Belle complained.

“This is the only place where you can get anything to eat,” the grandmotherly woman said. “The sandwich shop's clean out. I just tried to pop over to the liquor store across the way to get some brandy, I do like a little glass before I go to bed, but they wouldn’t even let me cross the street. Police are at every door. And they act like even trying to leave makes you suspect in their eyes.”

Ida Belle perked up and extended her hand.

“I'm Ida Belle. Pleasure to meet you. This is Gertie.”

“Verna. I'm not a writer, just a fan.”

“Me and Gertie here brought a limited supply of our Sinful Ladies Cough Syrup. Handcrafted and healthful. I think we could spare a bottle.”

“Oh, could you? I’d pay you, of course. I tried the gift shop and everything’s sold out. Even that funny vermouth that you always see on the bottom shelf. And do you know, I think I might feel a cold coming on.”

“We’ll be right back.” Ida Belle and the grandmotherly Verna stood up and left. I took Ida Belle’s untouched plate –she had the beef entrée that was supposed to be for me—and stacked it on top of mine.

“At least if no one can get out of this hotel,” Gertie said, “I still have a chance of meeting Lexi Tingle.”

“Lexi’s here?” another lady at the table asked.

“They said on her fan boards that she’d be here. Why would they make that up?”

“Wishful thinking?” someone else said. “I’d love to meet her too, but I heard she never makes public appearances.”

“So what did the detective want with Ida Belle?” Larry asked.

I swallowed my lukewarm mouthful of beef and recapped our interview with Detective Augustine.

“So you saw where it happened?” one woman gasped.

“I think so, although he wouldn’t come right out and tell us anything.”

“Maybe Destiny Davis found her.”

“No one knows what Destiny Davis looks like. She might not even be here.”

“She could be a man.”

“Some of the best romance writers are men,” Gertie squeezed Larry's bicep.

“Is plagiarism a motive for murder?”

“No,” I said. “No, it's not.”

“We writers are crazy, but we’re not that crazy.”

“Oh yeah? What about the guy that tracked down that girl who gave him a one-star review and hit her over the head with a wine bottle?”

“Yeah, but that was in Scotland.”

A squeal of the mic pulled everyone’s attention to the front of the room. Felicity’s assistant Danny was standing at the microphone.

“This kid has no stage presence,” someone muttered.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, good afternoon. I’m Danny Armbruster, assistant to the late Felicity Valentine.”

His voice caught, and he took a moment to collect himself.

“Felicity was going to talk to you today about her amazing career. I’d like to, not take up too much of your time, just a couple of memories and also a, uh, something else. Okay. First of all, anyone need an assistant? Because I’m available.”

That got a few nervous chuckles, followed by excruciating silence.

“Sorry. Just a little, just trying to lighten things up, some levity there. Felicity would’ve, wouldn’t have minded—Felicity and I, we had—she wasn’t just my boss. She was my mentor and my friend. We could talk about anything. She was, she had a great sense of humor.”

Good thing Ida Belle had left before the tribute to Felicity began. She'd probably be sitting there sticking her finger down her throat.

“And her career, her amazing career,” Danny continued. “Well. You all know that. New York Times bestseller. USA Today bestseller. FT bestseller.”

The audience erupted in cheers. When the room quieted down, he continued:

“So I’ll share a little bit of what she might have told you today, the advice I always heard her give. Focus. What is your brand? Who is your reader, and what is the experience she wants from your books? Felicity knew her readers wanted protagonists who surmounted obstacles and got their HEA every time.”

“That’s Happily Ever After,” Gertie whispered to me.

“Thank you.”

“But there’s something else I need to tell you. What I’m going to say right now might come as a surprise. I insisted on being the one to tell you. Because it’s going to come out anyway, despite what Felicity might have wanted.”

He glared in the direction of Detective Augustine, who stood with his arms crossed.

“Felicity Valentine was an incredible businesswoman,” Danny continued. “And an artist, of course. You have to be both. And like many of you here today, she had another pen name. Another author brand. One that you might know.”

Gertie gasped and mouthed “Lexi.”

Danny took a deep breath.

“I know people have been saying—terrible things about Felicity, that she’s a plagiarist, etcetera, and I know that that isn’t true. It’s not. And the reason I know it’s not true is…Felicity’s other pen name was…Destiny Davis.”

I couldn’t hear anything Danny said after that; it took Detective Jean-Baptiste Augustine stepping up to the lectern to quiet things down. Augustine announced that conference attendees were now free to come and go unless instructed otherwise. The lockdown was over.

Chapter 18

I went to look for Ida Belle, who had wandered off with the grandmotherly Verna. I wanted to tell her the news about Felicity's secret identity and let her know that we were no longer on lockdown.

I found Ida Belle standing outside our room, talking with two women I didn’t recognize. When she saw me coming, she quickly handed each of them a bag and shooed them away. The women each gave me a friendly little wave and then hurried down the hallway toward the elevator.

“Who are they?” I let myself into the room and Ida Belle followed me in. “Where’s your new friend Verna?”

“What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for you. Good news. Felicity Valentine and Destiny Davis were the same person.”

“Who’s Destiny Davis?”

“The author that Felicity Valentine plagiarized.”

“Did you just say they're the same person? She copied from herself?”

“That's what it looks like.”

“Why'd she do a dumb thing like that? She think she could sell twice as many books or something?”

“It wasn’t word for word. The Felicity Valentine books were clean, and the Destiny Davis ones were more explicit. Maybe she kept the two pen names separate because she was afraid that her Destiny Davis books would ruin her career as a family-friendly writer.”

“Or maybe the other way around,” Ida Belle said. “Maybe she didn't want the sappy stuff to ruin her cred.”

“Oh. I didn’t even think of that. Good point.”

“So if it was such a big secret, how'd you find out about it?” Ida Belle pulled open the top dresser drawer and started loading cough syrup bottles into her big bag.

“They just announced it downstairs... Ida Belle, what are you doing?”

“Don’t like to leave the room unprepared. If we're gonna be stuck in this hotel--”

“Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot. Quarantine’s cancelled.”

“What?”

“We can leave the hotel now. We're allowed to come and go. Ida Belle, what’s the matter? I thought you’d be glad to hear that.”

“Sure,” she sighed. “I’m thrilled.”

We found Gertie and Larry in the meeting area right outside the Mardi Gras Ballroom. Ida Belle and I pulled up two more chairs to join them.

“Now I just went ahead and used my real name,” Larry was saying, “but I mean, the stuff I write, I could walk up and hand it to my pastor. Now Gertie, I think you might want to think about a pen name—”

“I’m not ashamed of my writing,” Gertie declared.

“Good for you, Gertie,” Ida Belle said as she took her seat. “But not everyone’s that broad-minded. I agree with Larry. Pen name’s the way to go if you’re gonna write smut.”

“It’s not smut, Ida Belle. It’s seniorotica.”

“Hey, I have an idea. How about publishing your smut as Celia Arceneaux?”

“Celia Ars… sounds like the spelling would be tricky,” Larry said. “How about something like, oh, I don’t know, Gwen Hart. H-A-R-T, so it sounds like ‘heart.’”

“That’s your same initials, Gertie” Ida Belle said. “You should do that. That’d make it easier to remember.”

“You’re thinking of witness protection,” I said. “Oh, good afternoon, Detective.”

Detective Jean-Baptiste Augustine stood over our little party, peering down his handsome nose at us in a most disapproving way.

“Ladies. Mister Lindgren. Good afternoon.”

He checked his notepad.

“Mister Lindgren, please come with me.”

Larry turned and winked at Gertie as the detective led him away.

“You owe me dinner, Gert.”

“Oh dear,” Gertie sighed. “We were afraid this might happen.”

We all looked at her.

“Larry had a motive to murder Felicity?” I asked.

“Larry?” Ida Belle repeated. “What’d she do to him?”

“Oh, nothing. There was a little bit of a kerfuffle with Felicity on a romance author forum last year. Here, I’ll show you.”

Gertie pulled out her smartphone and traced her tiny fingers around the screen.

“I was surprised to learn of it, because usually romance authors are so supportive of one another. But I suppose Felicity had to go and make a big statement about how men should stay away from writing romance. And Larry writes romance, of course, so he replied.”

“Did he threaten her?” I asked. “What did he say?”

“Threaten her? Oh, no, he was as polite as he could be. Here, you read it, Fortune. You have young eyes.”

Gertie handed me her phone.

“I’m tired of men coming in and thinking that writing romance is simple or easy,” I read. “For all their talk, I’ve yet to see a man who can write a decent, clean romance. I think it’s time for the guys to back off and write about exploding helicopters or whatever, and quit making a mess of the genre and the stories that I love.”

“Felicity wrote that?” Ida Belle exclaimed. “She’s got some nerve. Telling people who’s allowed to write what.”

“L_Lindgren must be Larry. Here’s what he says: ‘Although I have yet to match Miss Valentine’s sales figures, I am proud of the modest success of my Cascade County series. My stories speak to the human heart, and to our universal desire to love and be loved.’ “

“That was awfully civil of him,” Ida Belle said. “Lot more polite than I’d have been, I can guarantee you that.”

“So what’s the problem?” I asked.

Gertie took her phone back.

“Well, I only hope that the police are as sensible as you are, Fortune. But it’s a little worrying to me that there’s a record online of him having a conflict with Felicity.”

“I think if you’re famous, you’re always going to find yourself having conflict with someone,” I said. “That’s why I treasure my obscurity. Remember the woman at our yoga session who thought Felicity stole her idea without crediting her? Anyway, let’s hope they’re just questioning everyone so that they can say they’ve dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s. Hey, everyone’s going downstairs. Are we missing something?”

Gertie yelped and struggled out of the pillowy chair.

“It’s starting! Come on, let’s go.”

Chapter 19

“Cover Shots: Pose with Our Hot Cover Models!”

Galerie 1, 2, 3

Meet your favorite romance authors and get your picture taken with our hottest cover model hunks! Come early to claim your spot in line, and make this your most memorable A.R.E.A. meeting yet!

This session was the most crowded one I'd seen so far. Exhibit tables lined the perimeter of the vast space. Attendees pawed through piles of new releases and pocketed free pens and bookmarks. Shirtless “cowboys”, tattooed “bikers”, and handsome men in suits (“billionaires?”) roamed the floor, stopping every so often to sign book covers for hyperventilating fans. Gertie stood on her tippy-toes and craned her neck, looking for Larry. There was no sign of him.

“Maybe he’s not interested in hanging around with a bunch of half-dressed twenty-year-old guys,” Ida Belle said. “If you’re worried, just call him on his cell.”

“I don’t have his number,” Gertie said. “We’ve been spending so much time together, it never occurred to me that I’d need it. Oh, I hope he's okay.”

Ida Belle rolled her eyes.

“It’s just NOLA PD, not the Ban An Ninh. Jeez, with you all gaga about Larry, and Fortune here mooning over Carter, seems like I’m the only one who’s still got her head on straight.”

Gertie looked puzzled. “Fortune mooned Carter?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not ‘mooning’ over anyone. Gertie, they're just going to ask him some questions, like they did with Ida Belle and me. Let's calm down and relax and enjoy whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing here.”

I had no idea what Detective Augustine had in mind for Larry, but Larry wasn't my problem. Ida Belle was off the hook for now, and that was all I was worried about.

Gertie sighed. “I don’t like to think that my Larry might’ve murdered someone.”

“It's possible that no one murdered anyone,” I said. “Gertie, you heard what Felicity’s assistant said. She'd been writing naughty books on the side. Maybe she ended it all when it looked like she was going to be exposed.”

“There’s nothing at all wrong with naughty books. I wish people would stop implying that there was. Oh dear. Maybe she died by her own hand after all. It’s terrible to think of anyone sinking to that level of despair, even if it was Felicity Vigneau.”

“Yeah, even I feel a little sorry for her,” Ida Belle grumbled. “Darn it.”

“Well I still don't see Larry...” Gertie stood on tiptoe again and took one last look around. “As long as we’re here, we may as well stand in line to meet the cover models.”

We took our places at the end of a very long line. Gertie nudged me. “Who’s up there, Fortune? I can’t see over everyone’s heads.”

I could easily see over the crowd to the “cover model hunks” posing with fans at the front of the line.

“Looks like they’re changing shifts,” I said. “A soldier and a, looks like a highway patrolman, I think, hard to tell cause they’re not wearing shirts, are leaving, and a cowboy and a biker are taking their place.”

“Great,” Ida Belle replied. “All we need is a construction worker and we got Village People bingo. Oh, wait, which kind of biker? The Tour de France kind with the spandex shorts, or the kind with the leather and tattoos?”

“The second kind. Leather and tattoos.”

“Of course leather and tattoos, Ida Belle. Have you ever seen one of those skinny guys in a bicycle helmet on the cover of a romance novel?”

“Well, why not? They can have Bigfoot on the cover, but they can’t have a guy in a bicycle helmet? Who invented that rule?”

“There are cover models all over the place,” Ida Belle said. “Like that guy with the jeans and all the tattoos. What's he supposed to be, anyway?”

“A stepbrother,” Gertie said, although how the casual observer was supposed to infer this was a mystery to me.

“Why can't we just go meet him instead of standing in this long line?”

“If this is too boring for you, Ida Belle, no one's forcing you to wait here with me.”

“Gertie,” I said, “what are we supposed to do when we get to the front? I didn't bring a book for them to sign or anything.”

“Just snuggle up and smile for the camera,” Gertie said.

“Camera? I can’t have my picture taken. You know that.”

Although snuggling up wasn’t an unappealing idea. Especially where that cowboy was concerned. His face was hidden by the brim of his hat, but the rest of him was visible, and extremely easy on the eyes. The biker was nice looking too, but it was the cowboy I couldn’t stop staring at.

That was an encouraging sign. If I couldn’t resist drooling over some random “cover model hunk” at a romance conference, maybe that meant I was finally managing to forget about Carter.

I must have gotten distracted thinking about Carter. Before I knew it, we were at the front of the line.

A woman in a pashmina shawl took my elbow and pulled me up next to the cowboy. Apparently, her job was to keep the line moving,

“Turn this way and smile for the camera,” she said.

“Wait, camera? No!”

I couldn’t risk my picture getting posted online. Ahmad’s people had facial recognition software as good as anything my agency had access to. I pulled my arm free, and the cowboy looked up from under his hat to see what the commotion was.

I froze.

“Fortune?” the cowboy mouthed.

“Carter?”

Chapter 20

I stared, speechless, at our deputy sheriff.

“Say threesome,” someone shouted, and then a camera flashed.

Carter pulled me close for the photo-op kiss, maneuvering me so that the flash caught the back of my head. My tacky half-grown-out hair extensions might end up on the conference website, but my anonymity was intact.

“Good thinking,” I whispered.

“Thanks.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Long story.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Shift ends at three. Concierge lounge. See you there.”

Pashmina Shawl yanked me away to make room for the next person in line, a slender young man with a stylish wool scarf and spiky bleached hair.

I waited in a daze while Gertie and Ida Belle got their pictures taken with the other cover model, a “biker” with manicured facial hair and a shaved chest.

“Fortune, I hope you don't mind me bringing this up,” Gertie said as the three of us exited the exhibit hall. “But that cowboy looked an awful lot like Carter LeBlanc.”

Ida Belle snorted. “Gertie, that was Carter LeBlanc. Still think you don't need glasses?”

“There's nothing wrong with my eyesight, Ida Belle. I knew it was him. I was just wondering what he's doing all the way out here in New Orleans without his shirt, that's all.”

“Yeah, me too. Fortune, what'd he tell you? You two were in a huddle for a long time.”

“No we weren’t.”

“Yes you were,” Gertie chimed in. “What's he say? He must be here investigating Felicity's death.”

We were in the middle of the session time, so there wasn't the usual crowd around the bank of elevators. We got an elevator car to ourselves.

“He told me was a long story,” I said. “That’s all. He didn’t tell me what it was. Why would they need to bring a deputy out from Sinful to investigate a murder in New Orleans?”

I could think of a reason, but I didn't want to say it out loud. The prime suspect must be from Sinful.

“So where are you meeting him?” Ida Belle asked.

“Meeting who?”

Of course I was planning to meet Carter in the Concierge Lounge, but I hoped to do it without Gertie and Ida Belle there. I wanted to do whatever I could--legally of course--to help Ida Belle. The thought briefly crossed my mind that Ida Belle might actually be guilty, but I dismissed it. Sure, Ida Belle could be a hothead, but she wouldn't do something like this.

Gertie placed her hands on her hips. “Fortune, we know you’re not going to run into Carter LeBlanc and just say, oh, fancy meeting you here, and go on your merry way. You are going to see him later, aren't you?

“I was hoping to have a private conversation with him. I think we have some things to discuss.” I’m not usually claustrophobic, but the elevator was suddenly feeling a little crowded for my taste.

“Where do you think you’re going to have a private conversation?” Ida Belle asked. “The three of us are sharing a room, and I bet the cover boys are doubling up too.”

“Fine. I might see him in the concierge lounge.”

“We don’t have a key to the concierge level,” Gertie said. “That would’ve been fifty dollars a night more for us to stay there.”

“Oh well.” I shrugged. Getting access to a restricted floor wasn’t going to be the hard part for me. Shaking Gertie and Ida Belle would be the challenge.

The doors slid open at our floor, revealing an unwelcome sight.

Detective Jean-Baptiste Augustine stood, blocking our exit. Next to him was a uniformed officer.

“Ida Belle—” Augustine started. Ida Belle leaped for the button panel and started mashing the “close” button. Augustine barked directions at the officer, a brief scuffle ensued, and within seconds Ida Belle was being cuffed.

“You can’t do that,” I began, but Augustine gave me a threatening look, and I clammed up. I didn’t want to get hauled in for interfering with arrest.

“Don’t say anything, Ida Belle,” Gertie called after her as the two policemen led her off in the direction of the service elevator.

Gertie and I looked at each other.

“I’m meeting Carter in half an hour,” I said. “Maybe you should come with me.”

“I thought you said you wanted privacy.”

“I was going to try to find out whether Ida Belle was in trouble. Now we have to figure out how to get her out of trouble.”

As soon as Gertie and I were back in our room, I pulled out my phone and called Carter’s number. He was still working the “meet the cover hunks” event, so I knew he wouldn't pick up. I left him a message detailing what had just happened to Ida Belle.

I snapped my phone shut and watched Gertie talking on her own phone, waving her black-lace-encased arms as she spoke. Both of us knew better than to use the hotel phone. Finally she finished and hung up.

“Who were you talking to?” I asked.

“Someone who can get us a good lawyer and a bail bondsman.”

“Great job, and please don't tell me any more.” For such a sweet old lady, Gertie had some amazingly sketchy acquaintances.

“Unbelievable.” Gertie plopped down on her bed. “They got a murder every other day in this city, and they go and arrest Ida Belle for something that might not even be a murder.”

“Well,” I sighed, “I guess it’s up to us to prove that.”

Chapter 21

Getting access to the concierge level required no elaborate spycraft. Gertie and I simply rode up and down on the elevator until someone came in with the right card key. After that we just followed them out as if we belonged. As useful as technology can be, many of the most effective security breaches rely on the human element.

Five minutes to three was a little early for cocktail hour. Even in New Orleans.

“Ooh, this is nice,” Gertie exclaimed as we entered the Concierge Lounge. There were snacks already set out, mixed nuts and chicken wings and raw veggies with ranch sauce. But aside from a server who restocked the wine bar and then disappeared into the back, the lounge was empty. Even in New Orleans, ten minutes to three was a little early for cocktail hour.

“Ooh, this is nice. I wish Ida Belle were here. She’d love it.”

Gertie and I took in the wall-length windows with a panoramic view of New Orleans.

“Let's sit over there,” Gertie said. “No, wait. How about right here?”

“Anyplace is fine with me.”

I followed Gertie to a round table next to the window.

“Gertie, you got her a good lawyer, right? Not some shady character?”

“I don’t necessarily agree that 'good' and 'shady' are mutually exclusive here. A good defense can require a flexible attitude. “

“Right. Whatever you did, please don't give me any details. I want to maintain plausible deniability. And I think I'm going to get a beer. Want one?”

Carter showed up at half past three. He’d put on a checked shirt but still wore the painted-on jeans from earlier. Not that I was paying attention to his body or anything.

“Where’s your cowboy hat?” Gertie asked.

“Dropped it off in the room. I’m going to get myself some coffee. Get you ladies anything?”

Gertie handed him her empty wine glass.

“You owe me,” were Carter’s first words on sitting down at our table.

“If it was that much of a bother, I could’ve refilled my wine by myself,” Gertie said.

“Not that. I had to break cover to talk to Detective Augustine.”

“You're not working with him?” I asked.

“No. And they had a good laugh at my… situation.”

“So what’s your mission?” Gertie asked.

“Right. My mission. My mission is to pay my bills.”

“So you're not officially undercover?” I asked.

“I'm officially broke. Our new Mayor-Elect Celia Arceneaux has made a mess of Sinful’s finances.”

“I still can’t believe she tried to fire you and hire her idiot cousin Nelson in your place,” Gertie said.

“So what does Celia’s mismanagement have to do with your current mission?” I asked.

“Not that we’re complaining,” Gertie added.

“My last paycheck envelope had an IOU in it.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“I’m not surprised,” Gertie added. “I wouldn’t put anything past that woman.”

“I couldn’t pay the bills on just my savings. So when I saw the announcement in the New Orleans paper about this acting job, I took some leave and drove out to audition. The pay was good, and I was kind of desperate. So here I am.”

“We all think you're a natural,” Gertie said.

“You sure were getting a lot of attention at the event this afternoon.” I felt an unpleasant twinge at the thought of all those romance fans pawing him. Was that jealousy?

“I wouldn’t want to do this full time, but it pays a lot better than a private security gig. And they’re putting me up here on the concierge floor, so I get free food too.”

“Sounds nice,” I said.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this. A writers’ conference two hours from Sinful, I kind of assumed there was no way I’d run into anyone I know.”

“You know what happens when you assume,” Gertie said.

“Why are you all here anyway?”

“I’m a romance author now,” Gertie proclaimed.

“When did that happen?”

“She took a creative writing class online, got hooked, and started writing romance novels.”

“I call it seniorotic--”

“Did you learn anything about Ida Belle?” I interrupted. “Why did they take her in? I thought the current theory was that it was suicide.”

Carter took a deep breath.

“They said there was a verbal confrontation between Ida Belle and the vic. In the presence of multiple witnesses. Is that true?”

Gertie snorted. “That’s absurd. You can’t arrest people just for yelling. Especially not Ida Belle. Why, she’d never walk free again.”

“Were you there?” Carter asked. “Any idea what it was about?”

“Gertie and I both were. It had something to do with when they were both in high school.”

“Ida Belle murdered someone over something that happened in high school?”

“Carter, Ida Belle didn’t murder anyone. You’re supposed to be on our side here.”

“Well I don’t blame Ida Belle for being mad about it,” Gertie said. “Felicity copied Ida Belle’s paper for English class, and—”

“Gertie,” I interrupted. “I don’t think we need to go into detail. Let’s hear what else Carter found out.”

“So the altercation already looks bad, but it gets worse. They just finished examining the footage from the working security cameras. They have Ida Belle in the parking garage around the estimated time of death.”

“Ida Belle was in the parking garage that morning? She told Detective Augustine she—never mind, go on. How do they know it's Ida Belle?”

“It's a clear shot of a woman in a track suit crossing Level E at 6:01 am. She has white hair.”

“A lot of women here have white hair.”

“But they don’t wear it rolled up in big curlers.”

Chapter 22

“Gertie, what on earth would Ida Belle be doing in the parking garage?”

Gertie shrugged.

“There's more,” Carter said. “At 6:07 am she’s crossing in the other direction holding something. A box or a package. Maybe something taken from the deceased.”

“But what about the suicide idea?” Gertie asked

Carter shook his head.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Felicity Vigneau would’ve had to strangle herself with her own necklace. And then jump afterwards.”

“Oh. Augustine didn’t share that little detail with us.”

“Fortune, they always keep back some information. That's standard procedure.”

“Yeah, I know. Okay, who gains from her death, then? Was there a will? Who were the beneficiaries?”

“Everything was in trust to charities. Animal shelters, literacy promotion.”

“Gertie!” a man’s voice exclaimed.

We all turned to the door, where Larry Lindgren stood, red-faced and sweaty. He clutched his straw hat in one hand and propped the door open with the other.

“Gertie, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Gertie leaped up and hurried over to Larry. While they were busy embracing, I turned back to Carter.

“That’s Gertie’s new friend Larry Lindgren. They were questioning him too, but I guess now they have Ida Belle, he’s in the clear. Boy, I hope I’m that spry when I’m her age. Anyway. Any other information?”

“Felicity Vigneau had tangled with quite a few of the people attending this conference. Besides that there were two ex-husbands. Not to mention a recent situation with someone else's husband. With so many potential suspects they’d almost given up on solving this thing. It was like a gift when they saw that footage of Ida Belle.”

“Wasn’t there anyone else in the parking garage during that time?” I asked.

“No one that the camera caught.”

“How sure are they about the time of death?”

“Body temp, rigor, lividity all lined up with about six a.m.”

“Was Felicity wearing a watch?” I asked. “If she fell from a height, maybe a broken watch—”

“She was wearing a watch, but it wasn’t broken. It was still running.”

“Oh boy. I hope Ida Belle can keep her mouth shut until her lawyer gets there.”

Larry and Gertie came over and seated themselves in the two empty chairs.

“After they released me, I saw them bringing Ida Belle in,” Larry said. “Gertie told me it’s serious. How can we help?”

Carter pushed himself up from the table.

“You all can help by getting Ida Belle the best lawyer you can afford and staying out of the way of the police. I know you all want to pitch in. The best thing you can do is get some money together for her legal defense.”

Carter slid me a quick sideways glance.

“The problem is, unless someone can find out who really killed Felicity Vigneau, Ida Belle could very well end up taking the blame. Now if you’ll excuse me, my break’s almost up. Oh, one more thing. I hear they’ll be collecting Felicity's effects from her hotel room. Probably by the end of today.”

“It’s already almost four,” I said. “Carter, where are you going to be?”

Carter muttered something.

“Where?” Gertie pressed. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Bad Boy Roulette. That’s the name of the session. You don’t need to go. It’s not going to be that interesting.”

I watched Carter rush out. Larry cleared his throat.

“I was planning to go to the beat sheet workshop,” he said. “Gertie, would you accompany me? Fortune, you’re very welcome too.”

Gertie held out her own conference program at arm’s length and squinted at it.

“Oh, that was one I wanted to attend. But what if Ida Belle tries to call me?”

“I’ll stay here and keep my phone on,” I said. “You go enjoy the session. We can meet up in the room afterwards.”

As soon as Gertie and Larry were gone, I jumped up and went out into the hallway. I went right toward the emergency exit instead of left toward the elevator, where I might run into Gertie and Larry.

It looked hopeless for Ida Belle. She'd lost her temper and yelled at Felicity in front of dozens of witnesses. The next day she was caught on camera practically at the murder scene. There had to be an explanation. One that didn't involve Ida Belle being the murderer.

My phone rang, the caller ID showing a New Orleans number I didn’t recognize. I did recognize the voice.

“Ida Belle! I was just thinking about you. What’s going on? Hang on, I’m going into the stairwell. Phone reception might not be too good.”

“Well, I got good news and bad news,” Ida Belle said.

“Let’s hear the good news.”

“That lawyer Gertie found convinced ‘em I wasn’t a flight risk, so they set bail.”

“That’s great. And fast! Do I want to know the bad news?”

“I had to use Marge’s house as collateral.”

“Marge’s house? You mean the house I’m living in?”

“That’s not a problem, is it? Cause you know it’s what Marge would’ve wanted.”

“You don't even live in that house, Ida Belle. I live in that house. How did you get them to—never mind. I’ll just have to make it my personal mission not to let you out of my sight.”

“I was gonna ask you to pick me up, but it sounds like you’re not in the mood.”

“I actually have something I need to do right now.”

“I’ll just take a cab.”

“Good. And get ready, cause I’m going to have a lot of questions for you when you get here.”

Right now I had bigger things to worry about than my house being put up for bail collateral. I had a hotel room to break into.

Chapter 23

Finding Felicity’s room was easier than I expected. I went down to the lobby, ready to deploy a complicated plan involving a story about a lost suitcase. When I approached the front desk, two clerks were complaining about the tenth floor being blocked off earlier. I turned around and went straight back to the elevator. On the tenth floor, halfway down the hallway from the elevator, yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed a doorway.

Unfortunately, the hallway was thick with passers-by. Groups of two or three would pause their conversation and stare as they passed. There was no way to let myself into the room without attracting attention. I certainly couldn't pretend that it was my room, not while it was marked with a big “X” of crime scene tape. I hung around by the elevator for a few minutes, but as soon as people stepped into the elevator, more people came out into the hallway. I’d have to go to Plan B.

I made a note of the room number, and then went up one floor and found the room directly above it. My plan B would have worked better after dark, but I didn't have the luxury of waiting until nightfall. I rapped on the door and listened. No reply. I looked up and down the hallway. Compared to the floor below, it was nearly deserted. One couple walked by and paid me no notice. This was going to work. Standing in front of a regular, unmarked hotel room door and fumbling in my purse for my room key looked a lot less suspicious than lurking around a marked crime scene.

I pulled my “hotel key” from my bag. Its electronics were fitted inside the shell of an ordinary dry-erase marker. If anyone went through my purse, they wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I swung my bag to my side so that it blocked any view of the door handle.

I pulled the cap off the “marker” and pressed the metal tip up into the bottom of the lock. I held it steady until I felt the reassuring buzz, indicating that it had read the lock code and fed it back. After a few seconds the handle yielded, and I pushed the door open.

Clothing, shoes, session handouts, and books were strewn around the room. At first I thought someone had tossed the place, but upon further inspection I realized that the occupant just wasn't very tidy. Also, judging by the brassiere hanging on the bathroom doorknob, she was rather formidably proportioned.

The balcony side of the room was right on Canal Street. If this were any other city, I would’ve aborted the mission. I was going to have to swing from one balcony to another in broad daylight, a hundred feet off the ground. I would almost certainly be seen.

But this was New Orleans’ French Quarter, a place so devoted to the pursuit of pleasure that it made Las Vegas look like Riyadh. If anyone caught me dangling from the eleventh floor I could just say I’d been drinking with friends and lost a bet.

I moved to the balcony and slid the glass door shut behind me. I pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses with lenses big enough to confound most facial recognition software. I put on a baseball cap and pulled my ponytail through the hole in the back. Then I folded my body over the metal railing and flipped over onto the balcony below. The metal creaked ominously, but held. The sliding door of Felicity’s room was unlocked. Who expects an intruder to come in from the outside when you’re on the tenth floor?

I realized that I’d expected Felicity’s room to be full of romance-writer things. Satin pillows, boxes of bonbons, and scented love letters tied with ribbon. For a moment I wondered whether I was in the right place. Then I spotted a chunky pair of turquoise earrings lying on the night table.

I pulled on a pair of gloves and started looking for Felicity's computer. It would have her email, her manuscripts, her sales information, and more. I hoped that somewhere in there I'd find the truth about who killed her. I started with the desk, then I went through the drawers, and finally I searched the wardrobe. It was packed with casual separates in tiny sizes and festive colors, which reassured me that I was in the right place.

I pushed up the mattress and checked underneath, but I found nothing there, just the box spring. Maybe Felicity was too old-fashioned to own a computer. Or maybe her killer had taken it. No wonder the police were so interested in what Ida Belle had been carrying in that box.

Just as I dropped the mattress back into place I heard voices out in the hallway.

I made a split-second decision: balcony, or behind the door? I darted behind the door just as two uniformed officers pushed it open and walked in. I grabbed the door handle so that the door wouldn’t slam shut immediately.

“She leave the balcony door open?” one of the officers said.

“Maybe she hadda beau sneaking in,” the other guffawed. While the two men went to check the balcony, I moved around to the other side of the door. They had taken down the tape, so I walked out into the hallway. I strolled down to the elevator as if I had every right to be there, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed me.

I wondered what Carter knew about Felicity’s computer. Or whether she’d ever even had one. I glanced at my watch, checked my conference program and headed down to the second floor.

I'd done all I could here. Now it was time for Bad Boy Roulette.

Chapter 24

“Bad Boy Roulette”

Carondelet Room

Oh how we love our bad boys! They break rules & hearts, yet the best romances dish up hot, naughty heroes who have secret hearts of gold--but only for the RIGHT woman. In this workshop, we'll spin the wheel & find out what REALLY happens to this relationship in the end. Will our heroine find herself in sensual ecstasy or six feet under?

I squeezed in among the standing-room-only crowd in the back of the room. In the front, Carter and another man (both shirtless) were spinning a game-show-style wheel. The emcee was talking, but the whooping and hollering in the room drowned her out.

I decided I'd be better off waiting outside for Carter to finish. I was about to walk out when I caught a frantic waving motion out of the corner of my eye.

It was Ida Belle, signaling from the other end of the room.

I turned sideways and inched through the crowd in her direction.

“I'm here,” Ida Belle shouted into my ear. “See? Haven't skipped town yet.”

I glanced around to make sure no one was listening. No one was. All eyes were on Carter and the other guy, who were now flexing in bodybuilder poses. I didn’t see what twitching pecs had to do with “transgressive heroes with secret hearts of gold,” but the audience probably wasn’t looking for thematic consistency.

“Ida Belle,” I shouted back at her, “when exactly were you planning to tell me that you were in the parking garage that morning?”

Ida Belle said something, which was drowned out by a burst of loud cheering. We sidled over to the doorway and out into the hall.

“You know my financial situation’s been a little tight,” Ida Belle said. “At the rate I’m going, I’ll be dead of old age before I can afford to buy a car.”

“That doesn’t explain why the security camera caught you in the parking garage right around when your high school nemesis was murdered. Oh, and what was in that box you were carrying?”

“It was a case of cough syrup.”

“What? Why?”

“We were running low. I wanted to have enough for the day, so I went out early to get it from the car.”

“Ida Belle, Detective Augustine specifically asked us if we’d gone into the parking garage. Why did you tell him no?”

“I didn’t tell him no. I just shook my head. Besides, it was none of his business.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me? And a whole case of cough syrup, are you insane? Who do you think is going to have to clean up when your liver explodes all over our hotel room?”

“It wasn’t for me. I might have been sharing our Sinful Ladies’ Cough Syrup with some of the other women at the conference.”

“I don’t believe for a second that you were giving away Sinful Ladies’ Cough Syrup.”

“Well, no. Not giving away, exactly. You see, that’s why I didn’t say anything about it. I’m no lawyer, but—”

“But cooking up moonshine and then selling it without a license out of the trunk of your car—sorry, my car—might not be, oh, what’s the word, I know, legal.”

“The type of sophisticated lady who would attend a conference like this, they love our product, Fortune. They appreciate the fact that it’s delicious, effective, and comes in a discreet and dainty bottle.”

“I’m familiar with the sales pitch, Ida Belle.”

“You know that morning they told us none of us could leave? Those few hours were a goldmine. We were getting ten times our usual price. If they coulda kept that quarantine going for just one more day—”

Two women hurried down the hallway, late to a session. Ida Belle and I stopped talking until they were out of earshot.

“Look, Ida Belle, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you killed Felicity. So did you tell them anything?”

“Not a word. I lawyered up. Come on, I wasn’t born yesterday. So what do you have?”

“I was able to look around Felicity's room,” I said. “Briefly.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“You don't need to know the details. Anyway, New Orleans’ Finest interrupted me before I could find anything useful. There are lots of people who have a grudge against her. Ex-husbands and jealous wives and people she fought with on the internet and that woman Hanny who thinks Felicity stole her idea and who knows what else.”

“What about that dweeby assistant? Maybe she left him some money in her will and he got tired of waiting for her to die.”

“That would be a great theory, except she left everything to charity. Animal shelters and things like that.”

“So what now?” Ida Belle asked.

“Keep our eyes and ears open. Listen for anything that could help us find out who really did it. Is this it? Are they wrapping it up?”

“Let’s give our Bad Boys a hand,” I heard the emcee shout. She was immediately drowned out by a roar of applause and wolf whistles. I ran back into the room just in time to see Carter and the other guy blow kisses to the audience as they disappeared through a side door.

I pushed my way through the crowd in pursuit, as the emcee announced an impromptu memorial for Felicity Valentine.

“We’ll be sharing our memories during dinner in the Mardi Gras Ballroom,” she was saying as I slipped through the divider door into the adjoining room.

Which, I realized too late, happened to be the changing room.

Chapter 25

I wish I could report that my appearance in the cover models’ changing room caused some kind of commotion. Unfortunately, it didn’t, unless you count a bare-chested “lumberjack” rolling his eyes and huffing, “Ugh, who let a girl in here?”

“Fortune?” Carter had his shirt on again and was slinging a gym bag over his shoulder.

“Walk with me?”

Carter nodded and followed me out the door.

“Ida Belle made bail,” I said.

“I saw her in the back of the room. How’d she get sprung to fast?”

“Gertie set up the lawyer and the bail bondsman.”

“I can’t believe she made bail. Even if she used her house as collateral, it wouldn’t be—”

“She used my house as collateral.”

“Fortune, that was generous of you.”

We stepped into the elevator and I waited for the doors to close before correcting him.

“No it wasn’t generous of me. She did it without asking.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know. I can’t do anything about it. It’ll be fine. As long as the real Sandy-Sue Morrow never finds out.”

“Right. The ‘real’ Sandy Sue Morrow.”

“Don’t start. Listen, Carter? Do the police have Felicity’s computer?”

Carter shrugged. “Haven’t heard anything. I guess it’s in her room. They’re going in to get her effects. Are we going up to my floor?”

“Or wherever you want to talk.”

“Okay. We can grab a beer at the concierge lounge now that my shift's over.”

“Felicity’s computer isn’t in her room.”

“Maybe whoever looked just didn’t see it because the computer was hidden somewhere.”

“The computer wasn’t there, Carter. I know how to search a hotel room.”

“Fortune, allow me some deniability here.”

“Sorry. Hey, here’s an idea. Maybe it wasn't Felicity Valentine who was murdered. Maybe it was, what was the other name? Destiny Davis. You know anything about her? Who might want her dead?”

“Actually I thought of that. But try picking through the thousands of hits you get when you Google Destiny Davis. I found a really basic website with the books on it. Not much else.”

“Who was the site registered to?”

“Dead end. Some kind of privacy company.”

“So whoever set it up registered for domain privacy. That's consistent with Felicity not wanting anyone to know about her alter ego. Are the police looking into it?”

“No one's looking into anything, Fortune. Unless it's to strengthen their case against Ida Belle. As far as they're concerned, they have their suspect.

“There must be something on that computer that could point to another suspect. Threatening emails, request for a restraining order.”

“Fortune, I can’t ask too many questions. They know Ida Belle and me are both from Sinful, so it’s okay for me show a little interest in the case. But I can’t overdo it. Why are you so sure she even had a computer? Did you ever see one?”

I closed my eyes and reconstructed the Bad Romance session in my mind. Felicity Valentine was sitting to my right. In front of her was a stack of index cards. A rollerball pen, the kind you buy in bulk from the office supply store. A copy of the conference program, open and folded back to the day's events. Under the conference program, almost entirely concealed by it...

“Yes, she had a computer. I remember. It was one of those little notebook ones, and it was bright blue. Turquoise. It matched her jewelry.”

“Oh. Good to know. What happened to your clothes?”

I looked down to see a smear of dirt across my stomach where I’d flipped over the balcony railing to let myself into Felicity’s room.

“Oh, how did that get there?” I made a show of trying to brush the dirt off.

The doors slid open on the concierge level and we started down the hall toward the lounge.

“Have you heard anything else, Carter? Anything at ...”

We passed a family heading toward the elevator. We smiled and nodded. The parents smiled and nodded back. The teenage daughter stared at Carter.

We watched the family disappear into the elevator before resuming our conversation.

“I don’t have anything for you, Fortune. We’ll just have to wait for the process to play out.”

“I’m not impressed by the ‘process’ so far. Come on, Carter, anything? Some clue that contradicts their theory? Someone else who had a beef with the deceased?”

“The worst drama I’ve seen here is with these guys I have to room with. You should’ve seen what went on this morning. The Case of the Missing Bronzing Powder. I thought we were gonna have another murder on our hands for sure.”

My phone rang in my bag just as we reached the doorway of the Concierge Lounge. I checked the caller ID. Gertie.

“Fortune, where are you? I’m trying to get Ida Belle to come down to dinner.”

I looked at Carter. “I was thinking I’d skip dinner tonight.”

“You can’t! They’re going to have that memorial service for Felicity Valentine. Fortune, you know how murderers love to show up at the funeral of their victims.”

“Gertie, I don’t think that’s a real—okay. Fine. I’ll be right down.”

I snapped my phone shut and dropped it back in my bag.

“Want to join us for dinner downstairs?”

Carter shook his head. “Thanks for the invite, but I’ll take a rain check. I’ve been ‘on stage’ practically all day. It's exhausting. I think I’ll just grab a beer and then go hang out in my room and catch up on email and stuff. Take advantage of the free Wi-Fi.”

“Wi-Fi.” I repeated. “Of course.”

“Of course what?”

“I didn’t even think of it because I don’t carry a Wi-Fi-enabled device. Hotel Wi-Fi is designed for convenience, not security. Wish me luck!”

I left Carter at the door of the Concierge Lounge and sprinted down the stairwell. I didn't have time to wait for the elevator.

Chapter 26

Gertie and I didn't have any luck convincing Ida Belle to come down to dinner with us.

“Ida Belle,” Gertie pleaded, “the real killer might tip their hand when they're talking about Felicity. We need another pair of eyes.”

“Aha! So you admit you need glasses.”

Gertie stiffened. “I admit nothing of the sort. Fine, Ida Belle, suit yourself. But if we miss an important clue because you decided you'd rather sit here sulking in the room, don't blame us.”

“I'm not sulking, Gertie. I just can't stand the idea of, okay. It'd be like, how'd you like to try to get your dinner down while people are up on stage going on about Saint Celia Arceneaux and how lucky the town of Sinful was to have her as our mayor?”

“Why, I'd positively gag.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay. I see your point.”

“Hey,” I added. “No dealing while we’re gone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Seriously, Ida Belle. You’re in enough trouble.”

“I’m with Fortune on this,” Gertie said. “It’s nice to make a few extra bucks, but we have to save some cough syrup for the drive back.”

“The drive back? You two can’t go without cough syrup for two whole hours?”

“Two hours seems like forever when you have a cold,” Gertie pouted.

“You do not have colds. No one has a cold. Geez. Gertie, is Larry going to meet us for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“And he has his laptop, right?”

Larry Lindgren had saved three seats for us using his hat, his conference swag bag, and his laptop as markers.

“Gertie, Fortune.” He stood and executed a half-bow. “Any news about Ida Belle?”

“She made bail,” I said. “She’s resting in the room right now.”

“She wasn’t really in the mood to sit through an evening of people saying nice things about Felicity,” Gertie added.

“Well, that is good news about Ida Belle,” Larry said.

I took the laptop from one of the chairs and sat down.

“Larry, can I use this for a second?”

“My laptop? No, Fortune, I really—”

“Oh Larry, she just needs it for a quick moment.”

“But couldn't she…”

“Oh, thank you,” Gertie gushed. “Now can you unlock it for her?”

Larry sighed.

“Here, Fortune, it’s password protected. Let me unlock it for you.”

As Larry and Gertie chatted, and Larry cast an occasional worried glance in my direction, I connected to the hotel Wi-Fi. Then I downloaded a wireless network analyzer and launched the free trial.

I held my breath and watched. After about thirty seconds, the software started capturing 802.11 packets and reassembling them into approximations of the original websites. I searched for anything that looked like login credentials, copied them, and pasted them into a text file.

The stream of data slowed when dinner service started, giving me an opportunity to examine what I'd just collected. I apologized to my tablemates for being antisocial and said something about deadlines. Everyone nodded sympathetically, except for Gertie, who rolled her eyes.

Like eavesdropping, poking around in other peoples’ email accounts is usually pretty boring. But once in a while, snooping pays off.

I saw a login with the username DannyAM. Felicity had talked about Danny's Hah-vahd degree. Harvard calls their Master of Arts AM, for the Latin artium magister.

DannyAM had to be Felicity's assistant Danny Armbruster. With any luck, his archived email might have copies of Felicity's correspondence. If I were really lucky, I might see something about a restraining order or a police report.

I checked to make sure no one was looking over my shoulder. No one was. Everyone was paying attention to the woman on stage. She was praising Felicity's generosity of spirit and love of life and other unobjectionable qualities. Her speech was exactly the kind of thing you come up with when you have to talk about someone you didn't know very well.

I turned my attention back to the laptop.

Enter your email: DannyAM

Password: DavidF0sterWallace!

Most of Danny’s in-box was junk mail from book promotion websites. There were a few form rejections from literary magazines for his short story, Speaking of Untoward Provenance. One message from Felicity, dated five days earlier, was a reminder to check something about a Library of Congress number.

I switched over to Danny's contact list. Nothing too interesting there. I moved on to the trash folder, which by default contained the last thirty days' worth of deleted email.

I read for a few seconds, and then I shut the laptop, tucked it under my arm, grabbed my bag, and sprinted out of the ballroom.

“Fortune, my laptop,” I heard Larry call behind me.

“I’ll bring it right back.”

I plopped down on a padded bench outside the ballroom, set down the laptop, pulled out my phone, and called Carter. When he finally answered, I could tell that I’d woken him up.

“Carter, it’s me. Can you get Detective Augustine?”

“What do you have?” I could tell he was instantly awake.

“It’s Felicity’s assistant. Danny. Danny Armbruster. He did it.”

“Why would the assistant want to kill her? She was his meal ticket.”

“Carter, Danny is lying. Felicity wasn’t Destiny Davis. That was Danny’s pen name.”

“Is he down there now? You have visual contact?”

“Yes. He’s about to take the stage. Didn’t they check the elevator footage? They should’ve seen Danny and Felicity together.”

“Most of the security cameras are disabled.”

“Oh, right. Doll collectors’ convention.”

“I’m calling Augustine now. Stay there and don't let Armbruster out of your sight.”

Dearest Danny,

It pains me so to write this. I must apologize for the medium of this message, but my thoughts are jumbled, and it is only with the possibility of revision, of cut-and-paste, of search-and-replace, that I may compose them.

If this was how Felicity Valentine wrote an email, I probably wouldn’t make it through one of her books.

I'd always considered you more than an assistant, Danny—you were my friend, and at times I thought of you almost as the child I never had. I have never wished anything but success for you. How painful, then, was this discovery—and how utterly, entirely, unnecessary.

Detective Augustine, along with two of his men, walked past without acknowledging me, and slipped into the dark ballroom.

If you had only confided in me. I would have kept your secret, had you deemed that necessary (although I believe your literary colleagues might surprise you with their open-mindedness. Then again, perhaps not). But to steal from me—without my knowledge, and without thanks. A work in progress is a premature infant, frail and vulnerable. You stole my babies from me —what betrayal!

I watched through the open door as Danny finished his eulogy to applause and stepped off the stage. The two uniformed officers converged on him and led him away.

I could have told you what a sin, a waste, it is to steal another’s words. I learned this lesson in the hardest way, many years ago. I lost a dear friend—something I will always regret.

Yet even now, I believe in Redemption. I cannot allow you to make the same painful mistake I did. We shall stay and face the music, Danny. No more deception. I believe that Honesty is always the better course, and I hope that I do not have cause to regret mine.

I forwarded the email to Carter LeBlanc.

I was about to shut down the computer when a file on the computer desktop caught my attention. I clicked it open and looked through the contents.

Danny Armbruster's public arrest left the Mardi Gras Ballroom in disarray. People were talking on their phones, uploading the news to their social media channels, and rushing from one table to the next. I pushed my way through the pandemonium back to where Gertie and Larry were sitting.

“Here’s your laptop, Larry. Thank you for letting me use it. You were more helpful than you can imagine.”

“Thanks, Fortune.” He reached for it without looking at me. I sat down next to him.

“Just tell her,” I whispered. He shook his head.

“You’d make her so happy.”

“What are you two talking about?” Gertie asked.

Larry looked at me, and then at Gertie. Then he sighed.

“Gertie,” he said.

“Yes, Larry?”

“You know how you came here hoping to meet some of your favorite authors?”

“Well, I know who my favorite author is now,” Gertie beamed at him.

“No, I know, and it's awful nice of you to say it, but wasn't there a particular author you were hoping to meet?”

“Lexi Tingle? That’s okay. I’m still glad I came. Very glad, Larry.”

“Gertie. Look.”

Larry opened his laptop and scooted it over so that it sat open in front of Gertie.

Gertie peered at the screen, her eyes widening as she read.

“Where did you get Lexi Tingle’s royalty reports? My goodness, she sells a lot of books, doesn’t she?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell anyone,” Larry said.

Gertie blinked as the news sank in.

“Larry, you’re...”Gertie lowered her voice to a whisper. “You're the New York Times bestselling erotic romance author? I’ve been hanging out with Lexi Tingle this whole time? “

Larry tugged his collar and blushed.

“Oh, Larry, you could teach me so much!” Gertie threw her arms around him, and although it didn't seem possible, he turned even redder. I excused myself and headed back up to the room.

Chapter 27

Carter joined Ida Belle, Gertie and me in the concierge lounge the next morning. We all loaded up on coffee and breakfast pastries. They were the same breakfast pastries that were on offer downstairs in the Mardi Gras Ballroom, but we didn’t have to wait in a long line for them. And we could sit and enjoy them with a beautiful view of the city, with the river winding through it.

Danny Armbruster, Carter told us, hadn’t planned to kill Felicity Valentine. But he had planned to leave the convention when the story about the plagiarism surfaced. Felicity insisted that he stay and come clean. Nothing good came of trying to deceive people, she had told him.

Danny disagreed, and decided to take the car and leave early in the morning. Felicity found out about this plan, followed him up to the parking garage, and tried to talk him out of leaving. He was insistent. She threatened to tell everyone the real story anyway, whether he was there or not. He panicked. Bad enough that he would be unmasked as a plagiarist. Intolerable, in his view, to be revealed as a romance writer.

“Going to prison’s gotta be worse than either of those things,” Ida Belle said.

“Well, that’s the funny thing,” Carter said. “He’s actually okay with how things turned out. He seems to think that writing a prison memoir will boost his cred.”

Ida Belle stood up.

“I gotta get going,” she said.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Got a sick friend.”

“I see. Your sick friend have a cold by any chance? Requiring large doses of cough syrup?”

“That’s my diagnosis,” Ida Belle said, and left.

“I should go too,” Gertie said. “I’m meeting Larry at the series writing workshop.”

“Do you have to leave too?” I asked Carter.

“I have a few minutes. I’m not back on duty till the Wild West Cowboy Party.”

“So stay and enjoy the complimentary breakfast with me.”

Carter grinned. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

“You know, you’re really good at this cowboy stripper thing, or whatever you call it.”

“Cover model. We’re cover models.”

“Are you actually on a book cover?”

“Not yet, but I’ve had a couple offers. If I keep getting IOUs in my pay envelope, I might consider it.”

“You’d be really good at modeling. If that’s what you want to do.”

“Thanks for saying so, I guess. And hey, thanks for doing whatever you did to get the information about this case.”

“Well, I—”

“And please don’t tell me what you did to get the information for this case. But whatever it was, you deserve the credit. They couldn’t have done it without you.”

I blinked, stunned. Did Carter just compliment me on my sleuthing?

“So they’re sure the killer was Danny Armbruster?”

“They found the vic’s computer hidden in his suitcase. He’d wiped it, but they’ll be able to reconstruct most of what was on there. It was just as you described it. A little blue netbook. And someone forwarded me a pretty incriminating email from Danny’s account. Of course I have no way of finding out who did that. Guess I’ll just have to put that down to my anonymous tipster.”

“You called in Augustine and his guys on my say-so. You trusted me enough to stake your reputation on what I told you. Before you had any solid proof.”

Carter grinned.

“So are you having a good time here? I wouldn’t have guessed you were a romance fan.”

“Ida Belle and I just came out to keep Gertie company. Something fun and different. An excuse to get out of town. I don’t know, I’m more of a nonfiction reader.”

“I’m glad you came, Fortune. Even though I just about died of embarrassment when I first saw you here. And speaking of embarrassment. Time to go earn my paycheck.”

Carter stood up, leaned over, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“You don’t really think this romance is that bad, do you?” he whispered.

He was out the door before I could think of a response.

I picked up a copy of the complimentary newspaper and leafed through it, looking for World Events.

I didn’t see anything about Ahmad’s capture, unfortunately, but a headline on the Lifestyle section caught my eye:

Passion, Parkour, and Murder: A most Un-conventional Convention.

Two color photos headed the story about the A.R.E.A. Conference. One was a head shot of the late Felicity Valentine. The other showed an unidentifiable person in a baseball cap and dark glasses, hanging from a balcony railing above bustling Canal Street. Just another day in the French Quarter.

Tabasco Fiasco

Chapter 1

“Nice T-shirt, Gertie.” I helped her into the front seat of the Jeep. “Bound for Love. The daring erotic masterpiece by Lexi Tingle. So how did you like your first romance conference?”

“Oh, I had a blast!” Gertie exclaimed. “And I’m going to wear this shirt to church next Sunday. Under my sweater. Then when we all start over to Francine’s for lunch I’ll whip the sweater off and give the Catholics an eyeful of the shirtless guy on the back.”

“Good thinking, Gertie,” Ida Belle chuckled. Gertie turned around and she and Ida Belle high-fived.

“Right? Celia Arceneaux and her Catholic crew are gonna be so stunned I bet they’ll trip over each other and we’ll get there first. All the banana pudding will be ours!”

I buckled in, started the engine, and shifted into reverse. I don’t like hotel parking garages. Escape routes are limited. There's no phone reception, which means you can't call for help in case of an ambush. But in the middle of New Orleans’ French Quarter, there aren’t a lot of parking options.

“So is your new friend going to come visit Sinful, Gertie?” I asked. “Or was this just a conference fling?”

“Sinful’s awfully far for him to travel,” Gertie said. “And you know I can’t get too serious about anyone. I don’t want to lose my place in the Sinful Ladies’ Society."

"I was worried we were gonna lose you there for a minute," Ida Belle added.

The Sinful Ladies’ Society, of which Ida Belle and Gertie are the only surviving founders, has strict membership requirements. You must be a woman of at least forty years of age. You must be an old maid, or if widowed, at least ten years must have passed since your husband’s demise.

The SLS believes that the close proximity of men clouds logical thinking. I have to admit, if my own experience is any guide, they’re not wrong.

"But I will keep up with the online writing course," Gertie said. "So we'll stay in touch that way. We’ll be pen pals. He's an awfully sweet man."

"And here I thought you’d left your heart in Beaumont," Ida Belle teased.

“Beaumont?” I asked.

"I believe it's possible to love more than one man," Gertie replied. "In fact, that's a major theme of Passion's Promise."

“What’s in Beaumont?” I repeated.

“Beaumont’s across the Texas border,” was Ida Belle’s non-answer.

“Fortune,” Gertie asked, “do you mind getting the large-print version of Passion’s promise? That’s what all the Sinful Ladies Society asked for, so I ordered a box of 24.”

"Anything is fine. I can’t wait to read it, Gertie."

That was me being tactful. To be honest, I’m not much of a romance reader. Nonfiction is more my thing. Give me a nice big book on Celtic weaponry or Roman military disasters, and I'm good for a whole afternoon.

I backed out of the narrow parking space and steered the Jeep around the twists and turns of the parking garage, unconsciously ducking my head to stay clear of the low concrete ceiling. I fought off a twinge of claustrophobia. I’d seen what an improvised explosive device can do to a structure like this.

That life was half a world away, I reminded myself. As far as anyone could tell, I was a law-abiding resident of the tiny bayou town of Sinful, Louisiana, living a normal life. More or less.

We made it to the parking booth without the ceiling crashing down on our heads. I handed over the validated parking ticket and enough cash to cover the expense. The attendant painstakingly counted out the correct change, leaving me to drum my fingers on the steering wheel. As the gate arm swung up I gunned the engine and pulled up to wait for a break in the thick morning traffic on Canal Street.

“It’ll be nice to get home,” I said. “Although I’m not looking forward to a two-hour drive.”

Ida Belle smacked her forehead. “We have to make a stop. I want to get something for Marie. And Justin asked me to pick up some dried tabasco peppers.”

“We don’t need to stop and buy extra gifts," Gertie said. "I’m just going to give people the books we got from the conference.”

“What about Pastor Don?” Ida Belle challenged her. “You can’t give a smutty romance book with a half- naked man on it to Pastor Don. And I’m not sure all of the Sinful Ladies would appreciate it either.”

“Oh dear,” Gertie sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“We’re buying presents now?” I said. “Well, if Ida Belle’s buying something for her roommate then I need to get something for Ally. I can’t be the only one to come back empty-handed.”

“Let's just stop somewhere quick on the way out of town,” Ida Belle said.

“If anyone lets me in.” I gripped the steering wheel impatiently. “Come on, people. We don’t want to spend all day in a parking garage.”

“I have to admit,” Gertie said, “I wasn’t sure about you taking in a lodger, Ida Belle. But Justin seems like a really nice boy. I mean, now that he's adjusted a little.”

“Oh, he’s a perfect housemate. Grad students are the best. He’s either in his room studying, over at Fortune’s place visiting Ally, or out in the field counting swamp rat poops or whatever he does. And five hundred bucks a month is five hundred bucks a month.”

“What's he going to use the peppers for?” I asked.

“He wants to make something called chili pepper water. He says it’s a Hawaiian specialty but it sounds to me like plain old pepper sauce. Peppers in vinegar, a little bit of garlic, some black pepper.”

“You’re making me hungry.” I spotted a break in traffic and peeled out onto Canal Street. It was broad and busy, with several lanes in each direction, lined with glittering high-rise buildings and shops. A row of palms ran down the center divider. It looked more like my idea of Los Angeles than New Orleans.

“So where should we stop?” I asked.

"How about the spice and tea shop?" Gertie tapped on her phone to access her GPS app. "Fortune, go right on Royal Street.”

“I can’t,” I said. “It’s one way.”

“Wait, don’t turn there. It’s a one-way street.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“Keep going, then turn right on Bourbon Street. I’m glad we’re stopping. I could use a break.”

“A break? Gertie, we’ve been driving for four minutes. I can still see the hotel in the rear view mirror.”

“Here it is,” Gertie said. “The famous Bourbon Street. Ah, memories, huh, Ida Belle?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gertie,” Ida Belle said piously.

I drove slowly behind a family in a rented Mustang convertible. The two and three-story Creole townhouses blocked the morning sun and threw the narrow street into twilight.

“I won’t take long,” Ida Belle said. “In and out.”

“No, it’s no problem. I'm fine with spending a little more time here. I can see why people make such a big deal about the French Quarter. This architecture is really beautiful. I’m not in any big hurry to get back. ”

What did I have to get back to? My on-again-off-again love interest Deputy Sheriff Carter Le Blanc was currently off-again. My roommate Ally was good company, but I had to be careful around her. She only knew me by my cover identity, Sandy-Sue “Fortune” Morrow, retired beauty queen and grand-niece of the late Marge Boudreaux.

Ida Belle and Gertie were old enough to be my great-grandmothers, but they were also my two best friends. They’d sniffed out the truth about me practically the minute I’d set foot in Sinful, where I’d gone to hide out from an arms dealer who’d put a price on my head. I could only be myself—literally—around Gertie and Ida Belle.

The spice and tea shop was tucked into the first floor of a two-story building. The walkway in front of the shops was sheltered by a balcony with a wrought-iron railing.

The soft lighting and spicy scent of the shop were soothing. I took a deep breath and mentally scolded myself for being such a stress case. This trip to New Orleans for the romance conference was supposed to be fun. Gertie had discovered a passion for writing late in life, and Ida Belle and I had come along to cheer her on and enjoy a weekend in the big city.

I turned and gazed through the shop window to the brick building across the way. A faded green awning bore the logo of a cooking school. I had nothing but time on my hands this summer, being undercover and unemployed. Maybe I could spend the rest of the summer learning to cook. It's not like I had a whole lot of other demands on my time lately.

"Fortune!" Gertie was tugging on my sleeve, like a kid. "Come help me pick out something for Pastor Don."

I followed Gertie to the back of the store, where shelves upon shelves of fragrant jars, bags, and packets were stacked. She finally chose a little sachet, wrapped in fine netting and tied with lavender ribbon.

“That looks nice,” I peered at the label. “What’s tulsi tea?”

“It’s a soothing blend. No caffeine, very calming. The thing is, every time I walk into church with the Sinful Ladies Society lately, poor Pastor Don looks so nervous. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“It’s a mystery,” I agreed.

“What are you going to get for Ally?”

“I don’t know if she would appreciate fancy tea. Let’s go see what Ida Belle’s doing.”

Ida Belle was at the cash register already, buying a dried pepper blend, pickled garlic cloves, and a glossy black bag of tea labeled “trà sen.”

Gertie gasped. “They have trà sen?”

“Costs a fortune here.” Ida Belle glared at the bespectacled young man behind the cash register as if he were the mastermind behind this appalling price-gouging conspiracy. “But yeah, they have the real thing.”

The cashier finished with Ida Belle and started to ring up Gertie’s purchases. I didn’t want to hold us up, so I hurried to the closest display shelf and grabbed a small jar of honey, a tea cup with an infuser, and, inspired by Ida Belle’s purchase, a jar of pepper flakes. Ally would know what to do with them. They were expensive, so I figured that meant they were probably good.

Chapter 2

Ida Belle insisted on stopping for coffee before we got back into the Jeep. Gertie agreed, but only if we went to Starbucks.

“We’re going to Starbucks?” Ida Belle groused. “You can get Starbucks anywhere.”

“Not in Sinful,” Gertie reminded her.

“Yeah, that's true. Okay. I guess there's a chance we won’t get struck by lightning for going to a Starbucks in the French Quarter. When we should be getting chicory coffee and fresh-baked beignets.”

“Just don’t get those huge cups,” I said. “I don’t want to be stopping for bathroom breaks every fifteen minutes.”

I ordered a “tall” (i.e. small) brewed coffee. Gertie and Ida Belle ignored my plea and got giant frozen mocha caramel concoctions topped with mountains of whipped cream.

Then they both made a show of how they were low on cash and reminded me that they were both elderly ladies on fixed incomes.

I paid for all three of us, trying to conceal my shock at the price of a tricked-out coffee milkshake.

As I turned to leave, something tripped my alarm.

A man sat in a corner, with his back to the wall. Most of him was hidden by the copy of Monocle Magazine he had opened in front of him. That in itself was suspicious. Who reads print magazines anymore?

Male. Gelled dark brown hair. Skinny, pale wrist. Gold Rolex. Strike that, fake gold Rolex. Threat assessment… moderate to high, based on his overall sleaziness.

“Let’s go.” I urged Gertie and Ida Belle out of the door onto the sidewalk, setting the bells a-jingle. I glanced back through the plate glass. The man was slowly setting down his magazine. I took out my phone and snapped a photo through the glass. The image quality would be terrible, but it was better than nothing. I’d send it to Harrison, my handler back at headquarters. Just to be on the safe side. It might be nothing, but with a ten-million-dollar bounty on my head, I couldn’t afford to get complacent.

I gunned the Jeep and lurched out into traffic before my passengers could get buckled in. I didn’t talk—didn’t even breathe, it seemed—until we were well outside New Orleans and practically halfway to Lafayette.

“You recognize that guy?” Ida Belle asked.

“I’ve never seen him before. Maybe he was just some hipster kicking back and enjoying his pretentious magazine. But Ahmad’s men were just in New Orleans, and Ahmad might’ve left someone behind.”

“You think he’s one of Ahmad’s crew?” Ida Belle asked.

“So every time you see a guy looking at you, you’re going to freak out and run away?” Gertie added.

“Not the worst plan,” Ida Belle said.

It took us four hours to make the two-hour drive. The rural byways were scenic as a postcard, overhung with cypress and Spanish moss. They were also full of ruts and bare spots where floods had washed the asphalt away, and at one point our progress was held up by a twenty-foot-long gator plodding across the road. Not only that, we had to stop at every gas station, diner, and general store on the way, thanks to Gertie and Ida Belle’s immoderate coffee consumption back in New Orleans.

As we were getting back into to the car after stopping at a particularly sketchy gas station, Gertie squealed.

“Forget something back there?” Ida Belle said.

“No, just got a text. Carter’s back in town."

“That’s good. How's he doing?” My tone was measured, hopefully not betraying my increased heart rate. The last time I’d seen Carter, we hadn’t reconciled exactly, but we’d sort of called a truce. Things might develop from there. Who knows?

“Any other news?” Ida Belle asked.

Gertie showed her phone to Ida Belle.

"Uh-oh," Ida Belle said.

"Uh-oh, what?" I asked.

Gertie and Ida Belle both buckled in quietly.

"Are you going to tell me the news about Carter?" I asked.

"No news," Gertie said.

"I can tell you're lying."

"She can tell, Gertie," Ida Belle confirmed. "Might as well tell her.”

“You do it then.”

“Fine. Fortune, Carter has a woman with him."

Chapter 3

My roommate Ally raced over and hugged me the minute I walked in the front door. I dropped my spice shop bag and Pepto-pink overnight case to return her embrace. (Pink luggage isn’t my taste at all, but the guys who set me up here seemed to think that that’s what a retired beauty queen would choose).

“I’m so glad you’re back,” she murmured into my shoulder. “I really missed you.”

She released me from her embrace and beamed at me.

“I got warm homemade brownies and ice cream. And I made coffee. Hot coffee. That’s what they call comfort food. Who couldn’t use some comfort food, right? Come on, Fortune. I don’t have to start my shift for another hour.”

I picked up my things and walked into my house, looking around warily. Everything seemed in order.

It’s nice to see you too, Ally. What’s up?”

“Merlin, look who’s home!” Ally gushed.

Merlin hadn’t bothered to come out from under the dining table to greet me. At the sound of his name, he glanced up and then resumed licking his paws.

“Here, I brought you some souvenirs from the big city.”

I handed her the spice shop bag.

“Ooh, Ponchatoula honey. That’s nice. What a pretty teacup! Whoa, Carolina Reaper! Thanks so much, Fortune. Okay, ready for those brownies?”

Ally wouldn’t tell me what was going on until we were sitting out back, each of us holding a big bowl of chocolate chip brownies topped with melting vanilla ice cream. We sat quietly and watched the bayou roll by just past the edge of my property line.

“Spit it out,” I said, finally. “Not the brownie.”

Ally sighed and gazed at her bowl.

“Carter came into Francine’s this morning for breakfast.”

“And?”

She glanced up at me and then back down at her half-empty bowl of ice cream and brownie wreckage.

“He was with someone.”

I shrugged as if I didn’t care and took a big spoonful of ice cream. I know how to act calm under stress.

“Breakfast, huh?”

“I know,” Ally agreed miserably.

“So what’s she like?”

“Real pretty. Blonde. Nice, but in a fake way. She was asking for all this stuff that wasn’t on the menu, like raw milk. Oh sure, never mind that the health department would shut us down in about five seconds if we served raw dairy. Why do you go into a restaurant and ask for stuff that’s not on the menu? Just seems to me like showing off or something.”

“She sounds kind of high-maintenance for Carter. Mm, these brownies are great.”

“Ally?” Justin Lao, Ida Belle’s roommate and Ally’s beau, came around the side of the house. “Eh, Fortune, howzit.”

“I made brownies,” Ally said, “and there’s ice cream. Go in, help yourself.”

We watched Justin disappear into the kitchen.

“What’s the latest with his advisor?” I asked.

“She’s still on his case to fly back to Hawaii and present his results. I think he's trying to delay it as long as he can.”

“He wants to stay here in Sinful, with you. I don’t blame him. I wish I didn’t have to…go back to my library job in the fall.”

“You should try to get a permanent job at our library.”

“With your aunt Celia’s buddy Lucy working as the head librarian? That’s not gonna happen.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Justin pulled up a lawn chair with one hand, his bowl of brownies and ice cream in the other.

“Eh Ally, I found out some more about da kine. You tell her? Fortune, sorry, ah?”

“It’s fine,” I said. “Really.”

“Guess what. She’s not his girlfriend.” Justin sat back in his lawn chair and took a leisurely bite of ice cream.

“No?” I said, as indifferently as I could manage.

"She's his agent."

“Carter has an agent?” Ally almost dropped her spoon. “Like he’s a movie star or something? Carter LeBlanc?”

“Fo’real. I was behind ‘em in line at the General Store. We was talking story an' she told me all about it. He didn’t say much. Seemed kinda shame."

"Our track record with the entertainment industry isn’t great," I said. "Didn’t we just have a disaster with a location scout?”

“The exploding coffin,” Ally sighed. “I guess we should be glad anyone wants to come here."

Justin shrugged and dug into his bowl. “Maybe Carter’s agent never heard about it. I never did till later, cause I was out in the field when it happened."

“Oh, Justin. Did you get the chili peppers from Ida Belle?”

Justin nodded without pausing his attack on the mountain of ice cream. “Already started the chili peppa water. Gonna be some ono wit’ the lau lau.”

“The what?” I asked.

The foodways of rural Louisiana and Hawaii were equally foreign to me. In fact, I found cooking to be something of a mystery overall. Fortunately, I had a strong stomach and what a fellow agent once enviously described as “taste buds of steel.” I could chow down on a roasted Uromastyx lizard and actually keep it down.

“Lau lau is meat wrapped in taro leaves,” Ally explained. “It tastes almost exactly like salt pork and greens.”

“Not,” Justin objected. “It’s totally different.”

“Does.” Ally shoved him and Justin landed a playful kiss.

“Justin!” Ally giggled.

“Oh.” Justin shot me a guilty look. “Sorry, Aunty.”

“You really don’t have to call me Aunty, Justin. I’m only three years older than you.”

“Sorry, Aunty.”

“How's the brownies?” Ally asked.

“Fantastic," I said. "Seriously, one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.”

"Mm!" Justin nodded enthusiastically, swallowed and patted his mouth with a napkin.

“Eh Aunty, I mean Fortune, heard your romance writers conference got real interesting.”

“Ooh, yeah, me too. I wanna hear all about it!”

“It was really Gertie’s conference. She’s the writer. Ida Belle and I were just along for the ride.”

“But there was a murder right in your hotel," Ally exclaimed. "I can’t believe you three didn’t jump in and try to solve it. I know that Ida Belle and Gertie always seem to be in the middle of things. And since you got here… sorry, I didn’t mean it in a bad way, it’s just that the three of you...”

“No offense taken. We had more important things to worry about.”

“More important than murder?” Justin said. “Like what?”

“Gertie’s literary career. She spent the whole time networking and picking up ideas for her next book.”

Ally and Justin wanted to hear all about the conference, so I told them the parts I felt comfortable sharing. We ended up talking well into the night, enjoying brownies with ice cream, and swatting at mosquitoes as the sky slowly darkened over the bayou. Before long I was thoroughly enjoying being home. I’d completely forgotten about Carter’s mystery woman.

Chapter 4

I saw Carter’s new friend for myself the next morning at Francine’s Diner, where I’d repaired after my morning run. The prospect of having buttery pancakes and endless cups of strong coffee served to me was irresistible. Or at least more appealing than going home and scraping together breakfast on my own.

I’m not a vain person. Nevertheless, when I heard the jingle that signaled a customer coming in, looked up, and saw Carter holding the door for a showy blonde. I felt painfully self-conscious.

Female. Five-foot-ten. One-twenty. Excellent physical condition. Blonde hair color expertly done, likely at significant expense. Threat level low. Unless you’re talking about a threat to my chances with Carter…

This woman wasn’t just pretty. She was stunning. Why hadn’t I taken the extra five minutes this morning to comb my stupid hair extensions out before I pulled them into a sloppy ponytail? I was acutely conscious of last night’s red wine stain on the right leg of my sweats.

Carter caught my eye and barely acknowledged me with a chin jut, not even a nod. His companion followed his line of vision to me and waved excitedly. Although I couldn’t hear them, I could tell she was urging him to bring her over to meet me. He didn’t want to, that was obvious. But his Southern manners prevailed. He reluctantly steered her in my direction. I gulped water to wash down my mouthful of pancake and surreptitiously ran my tongue over my teeth to clear them of any pancake globs.

I engaged my own Southern manners and invited them to sit my booth. Francine’s was packed now, so I was saving them a twenty-minute wait, minimum.

She slid in first. Carter reluctantly scooted in after her and introduced us. Her name was Claudia Hunter. She seemed personable and charming, as well as gorgeous. Well, Carter did have good taste. Or so I liked to think.

She reached across the table to hand me her business card. I reflexively accepted it with both hands, as I’d been trained in my international protocol course.

“Claudia Hunter,” I smiled at Carter. “Representing the world’s most beautiful people.”

Carter reddened.

“Now you have beautiful bone structure, Fortune.” Claudia traced her French-manicured finger down her own flawless cheek. “Very aristocratic, very American Royalty. I see you wearing Ralph or Calvin. I can set you up for a test shoot. Any time. Let me know.”

I had no idea what she meant by “wearing” people, but I played along.

“Who do you see Carter wearing?” I asked.

She aimed a knowing smile at him.

“Carter is so versatile,” she purred. “His potential is…unlimited, really. Carter can do anything he wants to.”

She probably didn’t mean it to sound dirty, but now it was my turn to blush. I wolfed down my pancakes and made some unconvincing excuse about how I had to hurry home. As I left, I said,

“It was so nice to meet you, Claudia.”

And then, inexplicably:

“Why don’t you and Carter come around for dinner?”

To my horrified amazement, she said yes.

I jogged back to the house, Francine’s pancakes and coffee sloshing around in my gut with every step. I pulled off my running shoes and left them on the porch to air out, then dashed inside to find Ally.

The light under the bathroom door told me that Ally was getting ready to leave for her shift at Francine’s. Justin sat at the kitchen table, reading.

“Hey, Fortune.” His voice was friendly, but he didn’t look up.

“Hi, Justin. Must be a real page turner.”

He held the book up so I could see the title.

“Sociobiology of Caviomorph Rodents: An Integrative Approach. I assume this is for your thesis on swamp rats?”

He set the book down. “I live, breathe, and dream ‘em. I still won’t eat ‘em.”

I pulled out a chair and joined him at the table.

“Yeah, I think Ally’s swamp rat pie was one of her less successful experiments. So what’s new with the nutria?”

“Eh, here’s something I learned. You know the babies, when they’re suckling, the males are bigger, yah? So they go for the higher yielding teats, the sisters gotta make do with the leftovers.”

“That’s boys for you,” Ally said, emerging from the bathroom. “You’re trouble from the get-go.”

“Aw man, you sound just like Ida Belle,” Justin laughed. He looked much better than he had a week ago. When he’d first arrived from Hawaii, he’d had some health issues. Dr. Broussard was keeping an eye on him, and Justin seemed to be recovering well. He’d progressed from scrawny to merely skinny, and his cheerful disposition had returned.

“Listen, Justin and Ally, I need your help.”

Ally stared at me.

“Fortune, what happened? Did Ida Belle shoot someone? Did Gertie drive into a tree?”

“Worse. I invited Carter Le Blanc and his new associate to dinner.”

Ally sighed. “What day?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Justin and Ally replied as a chorus.

“Look, Carter and I—I don’t know what happened. I guess I wanted to demonstrate that there were no hard feelings, you know? I wanted to be gracious and above it all, and next thing you know I hear myself inviting them up to dinner here at our place.”

“What time?” Ally asked.

“Eight.”

“My shift ends at eight. I’ll see if I can get away early. Justin can help you.”

“Huh?” Justin looked up from his book.

“Justin, we’re having people over for dinner tonight at eight, and Fortune can’t do this by herself. Fortune, how many?”

“You two, Carter and what’s her name, Claudia Hunter, and I’ll ask Ida Belle and Gertie. That’s six.”

“Seven. You forgot to count yourself. We can do it. Right, Justin?”

“No worries.” Justin closed his book and stood up. “How about a gumbo? I think we got time. I’ll start the rice cooker. We got it.”

Ally came over and kissed Justin’s smooth cheek.

“Thanks, sweetie. I’ll see y’all tonight.”

Justin left to shop for supplies, so I had nothing to do but set the table and straighten up my already-immaculate house. And mentally scold myself for this stupid dinner invitation. What was wrong with me? This was not the kind of tactical blunder you’d expect from an experienced undercover operative. There was no upside to this and lots of possible downside. What if Claudia started asking questions about my time on the pageant circuit? How did I mess up so badly?

I wondered if it was because my current assignment was so different from my normal gig.

Take a typical mission: I pose as an antiquities specialist working for a well-known auction house. My target is a key financier in a foreign fighter logistics network.

My script is straightforward: I bring the suitcase full of 500-Euro bills to the rendezvous point, under the pretext of making a purchase for a collector. At the rendezvous point, the target is neutralized. (I can’t tell you the details, but the next time you have a chance to handle a 500-Euro bill, you might want to wear gloves.) I return to the extraction location, mission accomplished, with a bonus: I’ve just recovered a priceless set of Assyrian ivories looted that had been looted from the National Museum. The whole operation has taken less than 72 hours.

Compare that with my current assignment: No clear mission other than “stay out of trouble,” and no definite end date. I was coming up on two months of trying to pass myself off as a retired beauty queen. It was frustrating to have to hide my real talents, especially when I was stuck in a town that seemed to have a higher per capita murder rate than Caracas. No surprise that I wasn’t on top of my game.

I decided to call Gertie rather than Ida Belle to let them know about tonight’s dinner plans. Either one of them would give me a hard time for unnecessarily endangering my cover, but I knew Gertie would be a little nicer about it.

My plan backfired. Ida Belle was over at Gertie’s, and Gertie simply handed the phone over to her. Ida Belle scolded me for letting myself get all in a dither over a man, and she even accused me of inviting Carter to dinner to show him that I was a better choice than Claudia.

Ida Belle may have been a world-class spy in her day, but she’d sure misread my situation. Even worse, she convinced Gertie to agree with her. All that proved was that anyone could make a mistake.

Chapter 5

I heard Justin clumping up the front steps, so I told Ida Belle and Gertie to come over at seven, hurried off the phone, and opened the door for him. His arms were full of bulging grocery bags.

“Okay, here’s what we gonna do.” Justin set the bags down on the counter. “Ally showed me how to make gumbo, an’ now I’m gonna teach you. All good?”

“I’ve cleared all my afternoon appointments,” I said.

“Awesome. First, we gotta prepare all the ingredients an’ set ‘em out. That’s called the mise en place. It means put all the stuffs in place. Ally got some chicken stock in the freezer, so we can use that. You wanna do the okra, or pick the shells outta the crab meat?”

What followed was a blur of rinsing, peeling, chopping, and lunging for the oven controls when anything seemed like it was about to boil over or burn. After a few hours of frantic activity, we’d tamed the ingredients into a bubbling, fragrant gumbo. At Justin’s urging, I dipped a clean spoon into the pot and took a taste.

“No good?” Justin asked.

“Ow! I just burned my tongue and can’t taste anything now.”

Justin pulled out another clean spoon and sampled the gumbo for himself. I noticed he blew on it first. I should’ve thought of that.

“Not bad. Little bland. You got any of those dried tabascos here, the kine Ida Belle got me from New Orleans? I can go back and get ‘em from my place if no.”

“No, I know we have some here.”

Ominous music sounded from Justin’s backpack under the kitchen table. Ally had told me that it was the “Imperial March” from Star Wars, which Justin had set as the ringtone for his thesis advisor. Justin was a little afraid of his thesis advisor.

“Oh no, it’s Nakamura. I gotta get that. Fortune, you can add the tabasco peppers. Just one for the pot, maybe two little ones, not too much, ah? Stir it around good, too, an’ fish ‘em out when you’re done.”

Justin scrambled for his phone and went out to the backyard. I dug through the spice cabinet and found the still-sealed jar of pepper flakes that I’d bought at the spice shop in New Orleans.

One or two peppers, Justin had said. But these were flakes. How many flakes to a pepper? Through the back door, I could see Justin on the phone, pacing. He looked agitated. I guessed his advisor was still giving him a hard time about the amount of grant money his stay was costing. He hadn’t told her that he’d had some health issues when he arrived here, so she didn’t understand why he wasn’t collecting his data faster. She kept threatening to end his stint in Sinful and bring him back to Hawaii, and he kept pleading for more time.

I could sympathize.

Justin’s trans-Pacific call was too important for me to interrupt. I could handle this on my own. I mean, if I could cook up an improvised explosive device from—well, never mind the details, but surely I could figure this pepper thing out without any help.

Okay, start again. One or two peppers. What size were the peppers? Was Justin talking about those crunchy green things with the thick stems, the vinegary ones I used to pick out of my sandwich from the Italian deli on Connecticut Avenue? Unclear.

Okay, forget the flakes-to-pepper conversion. Look at it another way. The pot of gumbo was enormous. Even dumping in the whole jar would barely make a difference.

On the other hand, I’d bought these pepper flakes for Ally, so it wouldn’t be nice to use up her whole supply on one meal. I decided to err on the side of caution. I screwed off the top, tapped half a jar of pepper flakes into the gumbo, and stirred them in. As the last flake sank into the thick liquid, I realized that I probably should’ve Googled a recipe. Oh well, too late now. As Ally likes to say, you can’t unbake the cake. I made sure all of the burners were on low heat and went to get dressed before the dinner guests arrived.

Chapter 6

I opened the front door to see Claudia and Carter standing on the front porch. Claudia was clinging to Carter’s arm, looking stunning in a black mini-dress. Her blonde hair was pinned up in a messy bun that looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. Her long, golden legs and swelling cleavage gleamed in the porchlight.

As soon as I let them in, Gertie complimented Claudia’s outfit and called her “Fortune.” This brought the conversation to a screeching halt. Ida Belle tried to smooth things over by scolding Gertie about needing glasses. This just annoyed Gertie, and the two started bickering.

Justin and Ally played host and hostess, for which I was immensely grateful. I kept myself busy tidying and refilling glasses, regretting my stupid dinner idea. Who cared if people thought I was sociable and generous and totally over Carter? I was actually none of those things. There was no point in pretending I was.

I was longing to talk to the Company shrink, which was weird because I’d always resented the mandatory sessions that followed each assignment. We all did. Why do they waste time putting us through this touchy-feely nonsense, we’d complain, when we could be back out there saving the world? But now I was starting to see the sense of it. My mind was an asset, and the Company had to keep its assets in top working order. I was clearly not in top working order. Just a short chat with Doctor Whatshername would have done me a lot of good about now.

I was carrying the bag from the kitchen trash out to the garage when I almost collided with Carter. He cleared his throat and paused, unsure of what to do next. This was the first time I’d been alone with him since he’d returned to Sinful from his leave.

“Nice of you to come tonight,” I said.

He sighed. “I wasn’t expecting so many people. It’s a little weird.”

“I have to say, I’m surprised you showed up in Sinful with a modeling agent. It doesn’t seem like you.”

“Modeling and acting,” he mumbled.

We heard Claudia’s vivacious laugh in the living room. Carter glanced up guiltily.

“Well,” I said lightly, “Sinful’s loss is Hollywood’s gain.”

Carter snorted. “Hollywood’s not breaking down my door yet. Claudia’s the one who wanted to come here. She said if she was going to invest in me she wanted to see me in my natural habitat.”

“Your natural habitat? That makes you sound like an exotic pet.”

He sighed. “I’m just trying to pick up a few extra bucks. Make hay while the sun shines, like they say. Look, Fortune, I’m thirty-…let’s just say I’m over thirty.”

“That’s not old.”

“Old enough that none of the special operations units will take me.”

“Why does that matter? What, four tours in Iraq wasn’t enough for you? You were planning to leave Sinful and join MARSOC?”

“No, not literally, but—don’t look at me like that, Fortune. I am not having a midlife crisis.”

“Hey, I didn’t say it.”

“What I’m having is a financial crisis. At this point in my life I should be…look, my latest pay envelope came with an IOU inside instead of a paycheck, thanks to our new mayor-elect. And I have a pile of bills that aren’t going to pay themselves.”

“Does your mother know about this?”

“Yes. And for your information, she thinks picking up an acting gig or two isn’t the worst idea. At least until Dr. Stewart clears me to return to work full time.”

“Well, Emmaline is a smart woman. I guess if she’s for it...” I shrugged.

“Here, let me get that. You go back and play hostess.”

Carter took the trash bag from me and headed to the garage. I washed my hands in the kitchen sink and returned to the living room just in time to hear Claudia laughingly make a Deliverance reference.

“I believe that movie was shot in Georgia, dear.” Gertie was using her schoolteacher voice, never a good sign. It was her way of not losing her patience. “This is Louisiana. They are two different states, you realize. Not even contiguous.”

“Oh, Fortune, here you are,” Ida Belle said. “Claudia was just telling us all about her special diet. She says suitable food’s real hard to find out here in the boonies.”

“Oh, I’m not that particular,” Claudia laughed. “I just like to eat whole, natural food.”

“She orders raw cheese from an organic farm in California,” Ally added. I could tell Ally was bristling at the implication that our local fare wasn’t good enough. Justin picked up on it too, and patted Ally’s shoulder to distract her. Great. My dinner guest was managing to offend everyone, even my easygoing roommate.

“And I eat raw whenever possible,” Claudia continued. “I mean, cooked food is fine. But the raw has all of the natural life force.”

Justin closed his eyes as if praying for patience. While he was hardly the type to jump in and correct people, he was getting his master’s degree in biology. I could tell that it was an effort for him to let the “natural life force” thing pass.

“Well, we do have some lively gumbo on the menu tonight,” I said brightly.

“That was lame,” Ida Belle muttered. I was standing behind the couch where she was sitting, so only I could hear her.

“Fine,” I hissed back. “You play social director, then.”

“I think everything’s ready.” Ally jumped up. “People hungry? Ready to eat?”

“I sure am,” Carter said as he returned to the room. We took our places around the table. Claudia next to Carter, Ida Belle with Gertie, Justin and Ally…and me. Alone.

I felt like a seventh wheel. I know people usually say “fifth wheel.” But there were seven of us around the table, and I was thinking of the six-wheeled Mine Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) Vehicle that we introduced in 2004 to protect our troops from IEDs.

But I digress.

I lifted the lid from the pot, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. It stung my eyes, which I thought was a little strange, but what did I know? Maybe it was supposed to be like that. I ladled a scoop of gumbo into each bowl.

“Smells great, Fortune,” Justin smiled encouragingly. “Spicy.”

“Couldn’t have done it without your help.” I smiled back

Ally wished everyone bon appétit. The guests dug in, so I followed suit. When the spoon was halfway to my mouth, the mood around the table shifted abruptly. I slowly set the spoon down.

Chapter 7

I watched in horror as smiles of anticipation turned to grimaces of torment. People grabbed for their water glasses. Someone shouted,

“Get some milk!”

I jumped up, pulled the milk carton from the fridge, and poured a little into each person’s water glass.

“Is the milk hormone-free?” Claudia gasped when I approached her. She was last, which wasn’t on purpose, I swear. Someone had to be last.

“Um…”

“Doesn’t matter.” She grabbed the carton from me and poured the milk straight into her mouth. She swallowed, shook her head, and waved her hand in front of her face.

“I want to go home,” she sputtered. Carter got up and placed his hand on the back of her chair.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“We’ll be fine.” Carter’s manner was sober despite the fact that he was drenched with sweat, as red and shiny as a boiled lobster. I walked them to the door.

“Well, thanks for coming.” I let them out onto the porch and watched them disappear into the warm night.

“Claudia!” I heard Carter cry. Then more loudly, “I’m taking her to the hospital. Someone call ahead.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” Ida Belle said. “A little spicy gumbo never killed anyone.”

“I’ll call,” Ally said. “Maybe she’s having an allergic reaction or something.”

“We can only hope,” Gertie said sweetly.

Ally, Justin, Ida Belle and Gertie were panting and dabbing sweat from their faces. I slipped on the heatproof oven mitts, pulled the cast iron pot from the table, stomped out to the front porch, and tossed the gumbo over the railing into the bushes. A rustling sound indicated I’d disturbed an animal. I was afraid I’d hit Merlin, but then I felt him winding around my ankles.

I went back inside with the empty pot, my cat trailing behind me. I know cats can’t literally laugh at people, but it seemed that Merlin was snickering at my disgrace.

“You threw the gumbo away?” Gertie exclaimed.

“I probably should have buried it in a lead-lined box, but we didn’t have one handy.”

“It was just a little too hot,” Ally said. “We could’ve mixed it down with veggies or something. It wasn’t bad otherwise, just over-seasoned. Fortune, don’t be discouraged.”

“Could you stick potato pieces in it to soak up the heat?” Ida Belle asked.

Ally shook her head. “I think that only works when it’s too salty. Hey, I brought home a pecan pie from Francine’s. And there’s ice cream in the freezer. Anyone up for dessert?”

Everyone was. We ate gooey pecan pie and sweet vanilla ice cream and chatted about Gertie’s latest romance novel. I started to feel a little better. In a few days, I told myself, I’d forget all about this disastrous dinner.

Chapter 8

I was enjoying a peaceful morning in Marge’s library. I had claimed my favorite armchair, and had a glass of sweet tea and a book on Soviet spycraft that I’d pulled down at random from one of the well-stocked shelves. Ally was working the morning shift at Francine’s, and Ida Belle and Gertie were going to meet me later for lunch. I was feeling good after a run and a shower. The embarrassment of last night’s failed dinner party was already fading. Maybe in a few days it would even seem funny, and I’d have an entertaining story to tell.

Furious banging on the front door interrupted the story of Georgi Markov and the Bulgarian Umbrella.

I yanked open the door to find Carter glaring back at me.

“You could knock like a normal person,” I said.

“I did. No one answered.”

“Why don’t you come in?”

Carter glanced around.

“Just so you know, people know I’m here.”

“Sure. What are you talking about?”

I stood aside and watched him walk in and then stop, craning his neck as if he were looking for booby traps or something.

“It’s okay, Carter. I deactivated the laser death cannons when I saw it was you at the door. Come on.”

He headed for the kitchen table, unsmiling, and sat down.

“Can I get you a glass of sweet tea?”

“No!”

“Whoa. Okay.”

I refilled my own tea glass and took a seat at the table across from him.

“What kind of weird game are you playing with me, Fortune? You don’t want to share my life, but you want to control it?”

“Carter, what is with you this morning?”

“Maybe you don’t approve of this acting thing, but it was my choice to make, not yours. You don’t just get to—”

“Look, I did not mean to ruin your date, or business appointment, or whatever that was. Believe me, I wouldn’t sabotage my own dinner party on purpose. How is Claudia, by the way? Did you really take her to the hospital?”

Carter’s mouth compressed into a line.

“What’s the problem? Your new girlfriend mad at me?”

“She’s dead, Fortune.”

“What?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

“What?”

“Look, I don’t know exactly who you are or what you do, and I don’t want to know. Hear that, whoever’s listening to this conversation? I don’t know what she does and I don’t want to know.”

“Carter, I—”

“You could probably drop me right now, dispose of my body so no one finds it, and not give it a second thought.”

“That’s absolutely insane. Do you realize how crazy you sound?”

What Carter was saying was actually fairly accurate. That’s exactly what I did for a living. Make people disappear.

“Fortune, you don’t get to come into my life and just…kill people you don’t like.”

“I didn’t kill anyone. How dare you. You really think I’m that petty? Besides, if I wanted to kill someone—”

“You’d make sure it looked like an accident? Well, congratulations. It did look like an accident. I’m the only one who thinks it isn’t.”

“Oh, and you’re telling me this? Careful, now.”

“You should know that I wrote everything down and sealed it in an envelope. It’s in my desk drawer in case anything happens to me.”

“Seriously, Carter?”

Carter was quiet for a moment.

“I know it sounds crazy. But everything with you has been crazy.”

“What was the cause of death?”

Carter looked uncertain.

“Their working theory is some kind of allergy.”

“They do a tox screen?”

“Oh, they will. I made sure of that.”

“Did Claudia eat anything that the rest of us didn’t?”

Carter’s expression hardened.

“Yeah. Whatever you dropped into her bowl when you served the gumbo. I’m sure you already washed all the dishes to get rid of the evidence.”

“Actually, Ally and Justin cleaned up. I’m going to ignore that ridiculous accusation and point out that you didn’t answer my question. Did Claudia eat anything that the rest of us didn’t? Justin was on his soapbox again last night after you guys left about the dangers of unpasteurized dairy. Maybe it was her handcrafted cheese that did her in.”

“You think I don’t know how to do my job?”

“Of course you know how to do your job. In fact, I’m sure you’ve already had someone check not only Claudia’s stomach contents but also her personal food supply. The one she was telling us about last night.”

Carter looked furious. In his rush to blame me for Claudia’s death, he neglected a basic step in his investigation. And that was no one’s fault but his own.

“She did have some food items in my fridge,” he said in a measured tone. “I guess I should get those checked out.”

It was my turn to be furious. That he was so eager to pin this on me.

And that Claudia’s food was parked in his refrigerator.

But all I said was,

“Glad I could contribute something useful to this investigation. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Chapter 9

Gertie and Ida Belle worked their Sinful Ladies Society connections to get as much information as they could about Claudia Hunter’s death. (I asked them not to tell me how they obtained the confidential, HIPAA-protected material. Plausible deniability is a beautiful thing). They found that Claudia Hunter had quickly developed a fever and died after a few hours in the hospital. A basic tox screen had come back negative.

It looked like I wasn’t in danger of being arrested for murder—at least, not yet. But the fact that Carter had decided I was guilty was intolerable.

The following afternoon Gertie and Ida Belle were over at my place. At one point Gertie looked up from her knitting and cleared her throat to get my attention. I was sprawled on the couch, reading Marge’s book on Cold War spies.

I set the book down on my chest.

“What is it, Gertie?”

“Fortune, you should just talk to him.”

“She’s right, Fortune,” Ida Belle said from the kitchen table, where she was cleaning her Browning M1911. She’d had the vintage sidearm since the sixties, and as she put it, as long as she took care of it, it took care of her.

I sat up on the couch. “Carter isn’t even speaking to me. I can’t believe he thinks I’m capable of killing someone. For such a stupid reason, I mean.”

“So go tell him he’s wrong,” Ida Belle said. “And by the way, I don’t wanna make you paranoid or anything, but given the fact that you have a price on your head, I think you should take people dying at your dinner table seriously.”

“Ten million dollars,” Gertie reminded me.

“It’s only one million if I’m dead, though.”

“A million dollars is still a pretty good payday,” Ida Belle said. “We got you the information about Claudia Hunter. But we don’t know what else Carter might’ve found out. You should make nice with him and find out what’s going on.”

“You’re right. I guess I should talk to him. Even though he did accuse me of murder.”

“I don’t see why you’re upset,” Gertie said. “After all, you’ve killed lots of people. Just not the one Carter thinks you killed.”

“He was at the station earlier,” Ida Belle said. “Might still be there. Maybe you should go over there now.”

“No time like the present,” Gertie added.

I crossed my backyard and hopped into my speedboat. The quickest route was along the bayou, which ran behind the East side of Main Street. I docked at the pier behind the sheriff’s station and went in to find Carter in his office, poring over a stack of files.

“Look,” I said. “I didn’t do anything to Claudia Hunter. My only crime here was trying to cook dinner for people.”

Carter sighed.

“Come in. Close the door.”

“Do they have a cause of death?”

“Still undetermined.”

“What’s all that?”

“Fortune. Please don’t share this with anyone.”

“Of course not.”

“I mean it.”

He removed a stack of papers from the top folder and spread them out on the desk, facing me. They were rap sheets. Each had a photograph of a different woman.

“Who are they?”

“They are Claudia Hunter.”

“No kidding. Really?” I looked closer. “Selena Gutierrez, Helena Nordbo, Manuela Respighi, Joelle St. Clair, Bitsy Crocker, and Rashida Jackson.”

Under the wigs and makeup and colored contacts, all of the women had the same basic architecture. High cheekbones, a pointed chin, large eyes, and small, delicately shaped ears.

“The ears,” I said. “They’re the giveaway.”

Carter nodded.

“Claudia was a con woman, Fortune. I can’t believe it.”

“Did you give her any money?”

“Not really. I mean, I paid for some meals. Put a deposit down for a photographer. And I gave her my bank deposit information. Did you know you can use that to make withdrawals too?

“I did know that. Yes. Anyone can take the information on a regular check and use it to drain your bank account.”

Carter rested his face in his hands. “I dodged a bullet. She could’ve cleaned me out.”

“So you still think I killed her, Carter? To control your life, or whatever you said?”

Carter rested his forehead on his hand.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Sorry about that? That’s what you say when you wrongly accuse people of murder? Sorry, no hard feelings, let’s move on?”

“I really am sorry, Fortune. About everything. What do you want me to say?”

“Doesn’t matter. Anyway, Claudia Hunter probably has quite a few people who would like to see her dead.”

Carter nodded.

“I feel like an idiot. I mean, this isn’t the kind of thing I fall for.”

There’s little as dangerous as wounded pride. Men will kill to make their egos whole. Even men who you thought were sane and even-tempered.

Claudia Hunter’s killer, I realized, might be sitting right across the desk from me.

I stood up.

“Well, thank you for sharing that with me, Carter. I’ll be on my way, and don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our little secret.”

I started for the door.

“What’s the hurry?”

“Gotta run, I know you’re busy.”

“Way, way, wait. Fortune…oh, no you don’t. Do you think I did this?”

“What? No, of course not.”

I was halfway out the door, my hand on the doorknob.

“I know how this looks. But I swear I didn’t know any of this until after Claudia was—gone. These other identities, this is all new information to me. These rap sheets just came in—”

“I believe you, Carter. Really.”

I pulled the door shut behind me.

“Hey, I didn’t have to show you that stuff,” he yelled through the door.

Unless he thought I was going to dig it all up anyway.

I ran back out to the pier, jumped into my boat, and gunned it so hard that I set a big wake rolling behind me. My heart was pounding all the way back to Marge’s house.

As soon as I was home, I told Gertie and Ida Belle everything.

They were skeptical about my theory that Carter had killed Claudia Hunter.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” is how Ida Belle articulated her doubts.

“Anyone is capable of killing,” I said. “Look at me. I’ve been out on so many assignments I’ve lost count.”

“You’ve lost count?” Gertie said.

“Company shrink said it wasn’t healthy to keep score. Anyway, if I’m capable of taking a life, so is Carter LeBlanc. Look, Claudia conned him. She hurt his pride.”

“We’ve known Carter since he was a boy,” Ida Belle said. “And his mother and grandmother. They’re good people, all of them.”

“You can usually tell early on,” Gertie added. “Most teachers know by kindergarten who the bad ones are gonna be. And Carter wasn’t one of the bad ones. He was a good boy.”

“Would you stake your life on that?” I asked.

Gertie and Ida Belle exchanged a glance.

“Fortune,” Gertie said, “you look tired. Maybe things will seem better after a good night’s sleep.”

Chapter 10

Carter was at my front door the following afternoon.

“Deputy Sheriff Carter LeBlanc. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gertie and Ida Belle had been right. In the clear light of day, after a proper ten-hour sleep, the idea of Carter LeBlanc having murdered Claudia Hunter seemed absurd. I was embarrassed that I’d even considered it.

Carter hovered uncertainly outside the front door.

“Why don’t you have a seat on the porch?” I asked.

“Sure. Okay.”

“Beer?”

“Can’t. I’m on duty.”

“Root beer then.”

I went to the kitchen to get a can of root beer for Carter, and a bottle of Abita Big Easy IPA for me. Heck, I wasn’t the one on duty.

“That’s some fancy beer,” he said.

I looked him in the eye and took a swig of the lemony pale ale.

“It’s delicious,” I said. “Perfect for a muggy afternoon. Too bad you’re on duty. I’d let you try it. So what’s new?”

“The food tests came back.” He popped the tab on the can of root beer and watched the foam swell and dribble onto my porch.

“The food tests came back. And?”

Carter slurped the foam from the top of the can, and I almost dropped my beer bottle. He wasn’t trying to be sexy on purpose. He just was sexy. It was extremely distracting.

“Milk sickness,” he said.

“What’s that?”

He looked into the distance. The late afternoon sun shone through the greenish haze that always seems to hang over the bayou. Crows chattered in the bushes off to the right.

“You get it from drinking milk. Or consuming contaminated dairy products. Those free-range cows on that farm where Claudia bought her fancy cheese? Most likely they grazed on white snakeroot. Humans drink the milk, it can be fatal.”

“I’ve never heard of that. It’s called milk sickness?”

“It was the leading cause of death and disability in the Midwest and Upper South for over two centuries. The medical examiner was telling me all about it. She was pretty excited. They don’t get these cases too often.”

“What’s the toxin?”

“It’s called tremetol.”

“Isn’t that a narcotic?”

“You’re thinking of Tramadol.”

“Isn’t that what you just said?”

“I said tremetol.”

“You pronounce your t’s like d’s. How am I supposed to know? So did you notify the FDA?”

He nodded. “Looks like they’ll shut down the dairy.”

“I hope they recall that cheese before it kills someone else. So are you going to apologize for accusing me, then? I mean really apologize?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry about what I said, Fortune. I was way out of line.”

“Thank you. I apologize for accusing you of murder, too.”

“What’s strange is, milk sickness doesn’t usually come on that quickly. Dr. Broussard asked me if Claudia had loss of appetite, foul breath, but she didn’t have anything like that.”

“How are you supposed to know what her breath smells like?” I shouldn’t have said that. It made me sound like a sore loser. “What I mean to say is, you shouldn’t blame yourself for not spotting the symptoms. You’re not a doctor, and you have enough to worry about. That’s what I meant.”

We sat for a moment and soaked up the afternoon warmth. The crows squabbled more loudly, and I turned toward the racket.

Something glinted in the bushes. I stood and went to the edge of the porch to investigate.

“Fortune,” Carter said behind me, “I am sorry I doubted you. It just seems like wherever you go, trouble follows. But you’re right. I shouldn’t be thinking that way. It isn’t fair to you.”

“Well, don’t speak too soon.”

I heard Carter get up, and then he was standing beside me. He swore under his breath, stepped into the bushes and shooed away the crows. They cleared out, flapping and squawking in protest. I went over to take a closer look.

A dead man—I was pretty sure it was a man—lay face up in my periwinkle bushes. On his wrist, a gold Rolex gleamed with the reflection of the setting sun. Shriveled brownish chunks clung to his chest and what was left of his face. I took shallow breaths to minimize the stench.

“Do you recognize this man?” Carter asked.

“Is that a trick question?”

“Sorry, I have to ask.”

“Maybe I could’ve answered that before the crows got to him.”

“He seems to have some kind of substance on him.”

“I believe that ‘substance’ is the gumbo I made the other night. See? That’s a piece of chicken right there.”

“This is your gumbo, huh? Mind if I ask the obvious question?”

I sighed.

“When you announced you were taking Claudia to the hospital, I came out right afterward and dumped the rest of it into the bushes. I mean, that kind of thing doesn’t exactly boost a girl’s confidence in her cooking skills.”

“You threw out the gumbo? Fortune, you didn’t have to chunk it. You could’ve just mixed it with rice or something.”

“A little late for that now.”

“At least this tells us something about TOD. We left around, maybe nine o’clock? So he must’ve been dead before then.”

The breeze shifted and wafted the odor of death into our faces.

“Uh, Fortune, mind if I…” Carter inclined his head toward the house. I nodded, and he dashed off.

I didn’t blame him. The sights and smells were a bit much even for me. While Carter was inside, I took out my phone and snapped pictures. I hoped Harrison wasn’t eating his lunch when the images came through. I shoved my phone back into my pocket when I heard Carter returning.

“I know this isn’t an easy question,” Carter said. “But think. Do you have any idea at all who this man is? At all?”

I forced myself to take a good look.

Male. Five ten. One-ninety. Facial features—Harrison’s gonna have to get someone from forensics to figure that one out. Threat level: Zero, unless you have a weak stomach.

“No. Although I did see someone in New Orleans wearing a watch like this.”

“And?”

“That’s it. He was reading a newspaper. I saw a hand and a watch.”

“Poor bas—poor guy.”

Carter was still watching his language around me. That was sweet. Or patronizing. Take your pick.

“Did you see anyone following you on the road back here?”

“No. I didn’t.”

That bothered me. If someone was following me, I should have been able to pick up on it.

“We’ll look for an abandoned car anyway,” Carter said. “Although he could’ve hitched a ride, taken a cab, got dropped off somewhere close. Okay, I have to call this in. Stay away from the body. Please. Don’t walk around it.”

Carter descended the stairs and walked back to his SUV, and I surreptitiously clicked a few more photos. I thought Ahmad’s men had all cleared out after that last episode in New Orleans, but maybe Ahmad had left someone behind. This John Doe had straight brown hair, unlike Ahmad or any of his men, but hair can be altered. I myself had gone from buzz-cut to flowing tresses in less than a day, thanks to the miracle of hair extensions.

I ran into the kitchen and got a sandwich bag. Then I ducked into the bathroom and dug out a cotton swab.

I made it back onto the front porch, just as Carter was coming back up the steps.

“You didn’t go near the body, did you?” he asked.

I casually slid my hand into my pocket, concealing my makeshift DNA kit.

“Of course not.”

“Fortune, why don’t you go on inside? I can’t leave the scene yet, but you don’t need to hang around.”

As usual, Carter didn’t want me getting underfoot with his investigation. Fine. I’d just have to collect my samples later.

I brought the drinks back inside, surprised by how badly my hands were shaking.

Chapter 11

There was no question of calling an ambulance. It was too late for our John Doe. Instead, Carter called the Medical Examiner in New Orleans. She wouldn’t leave for Sinful until the next morning, so Deputy Breaux was posted in my yard overnight.

Deputy Breaux came over late that afternoon and set up a tarp over the section of the front yard with the body. Ally and Justin came out to say hello to him, then retreated into the house. There they sat on Marge’s sturdy couch, huddled side-by-side, drinking hot cocoa.

I keep forgetting how fragile civilians are. Ida Belle, Gertie, and I were used to this kind of thing; but for Ally and Justin, a corpse in the front yard was a little out of the ordinary.

After Justin went back home I took a plate of Ally’s brownies out to Deputy Breaux. We made small talk as curious neighbors strolled by, trying to gawk at the body without being too obvious about it. I figured Deputy Breaux wouldn’t doze off until well after dark. That was okay. I’d wait.

Deputy Breaux sat straight in his lawn chair next to the body. His steel coffee thermos stood proudly in the chair’s cup holder. He’d set up a blue tarp to shelter him and the corpse in case it rained.

It was a horrible job, but I’d never seen Deputy Breaux look happier. This was probably the most important assignment he’d ever had.

It wasn’t until after midnight that I heard his breathing become slow and rhythmic, with a faint rattle on the inhale.

I slipped back inside to where I’d stored my supplies. In my “great-aunt” Marge’s secret arsenal behind the bedroom closet, I’d found a set of tiny glass jars with screw-on tops. I had no idea what they were originally meant for, but they’d do for now. I took them into the bathroom, along with a butter knife from the kitchen, and wiped everything down with the rubbing alcohol that Ally used to clean her earrings. Then I wrapped everything in a clean paper towel and snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

Outside, the gentle buzzing of the deputy’s snoring mingled with the clicks and croaks and humming of the bayou creatures. I tiptoed down the porch steps, through the periwinkle bushes, over to where Breaux was guarding the corpse. I ducked under the tarp and got to work, using the butter knife to scrape tissue samples from the body. Fortunately there was already enough damage from scavengers that my minor incursions wouldn’t be noticed. I wiped the tissue into the little jars like peanut butter, and screwed the tops on tight to minimize contamination. Deputy Breaux stirred and mumbled. It sounded like he said “Shania, darlin’” but it was hard to tell.

I stood up, and tiptoed back up the porch steps—just in time to hear an ominous motoring sound coming down the road. I backed into the shadows.

It was a cloudy night and I could barely make out the silhouette of a three-wheeled scooter. It had to be Delphine. Sure enough, as she came closer I could make out the flags fluttering from her handlebars, and then the bulk of Delphine herself. She was at least as old as Gertie and Ida Belle, and though her mobility was limited, she hadn’t let that stop her from riding out to my house in the middle of the night to rubberneck. Right behind her, urging on her motorized wheelchair, was Delphine’s mother Cookie.

“Quit bumping me, Mama!”

“You’re going too slow!” Cookie shrieked as she rear-ended her daughter. “Get the lead out!”

Deputy Breaux snorted and woke up.

“Who’s there? Oh, evening, Miss Delphine. Miss Cookie.”

For an agonizing second, Delphine’s single headlight raked the porch. I held my breath and froze until the light passed. Deputy Breaux tried to stand, bumped his head on the tarp, ducked, and stepped out from under it.

“Where’s the dead body?” Cookie barked.

“Right here, but I can’t let anyone—”

“Is it Gertie?” she interrupted.

“It’s an unidentified male, Miss Cookie.”

“I told you, Mama, it ain’t Gertie,” Delphine yelled back at her.

A window lit up across the street. Then a few more.

“You said it was Gertie!” Cookie shrieked.

“I never said that, Mama!”

“Why’d I come all the way out here? Take me home, Delphine.”

Miss Cookie wheeled around and motored off, leading Delphine away in a slow-motion chase.

Deputy Breaux settled back into his seat. I waited for him to drift back to sleep, and then quietly let myself back into the house. I slipped the little jars into an insulated foil envelope that had contained one of Ally’s gourmet spice orders, and popped the package into the refrigerator. I’d figure out a way to get it over to Harrison tomorrow.

The next morning was a swirl of activity in my front yard, what with the Medical Examiner and the gawking neighbors and the shrill voice of Mayor-Elect Celia Arceneaux piercing the din. Ally had left to work the first shift at Francine’s, so it was just me and Merlin at home. I pulled the drapes shut, made some coffee, and got my phone out to call Harrison.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Thanks for the warning, Redding. Those pictures almost made me lose my breakfast.”

“Yeah, I was wondering if you could get me an ID on him.”

“That’s funny.”

“It’s no joke. This guy just turned up dead in my front yard. I—listen, I gotta go. Deputy sheriff’s knocking on my door.”

“Fortune?” I heard Carter calling.

“Get back to me when you can,” Harrison urged.

I opened the door just enough to let Carter inside. He squeezed in and slammed the door shut behind him. If he hadn’t, half of Sinful would’ve surged into my living room behind him.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“Too hot. Got a root beer?”

“Sure, I’ll get it for you.”

“Nah, I know where they are.”

“No, really I…”

Carter was already opening the fridge. I prayed he wouldn’t notice my improvised DNA kit.

“What’s this?” He pulled the insulated foil package out and examined it. “U.S. Restaurant Supply?”

“That’s Ally’s,” I said. “See? That’s her name on the address label.”

Carter reached in and pulled out one of my jars.

“Carter, put it back! Ally doesn’t like people messing with her cooking stuff.”

“What is this?”

“It’s, uh, meat paste.”

“Why’s she keeping it in an insulating envelope? It’s already in the refrigerator.”

“Carter, I don’t know. You’d have to ask her. Can you put that back, please? I assume you have more questions for me. You didn’t just come by to inspect the contents of my refrigerator, did you?”

Carter put the package back (finally!), popped the root beer open, and joined me at the kitchen table.

“We found his car. At least, we think it’s his car.”

“Really?”

“A black Escalade. It was registered to a Bernard Césaire Mercier, age thirty. Ring a bell?”

“Not even a little. Where’d they find the vehicle?”

“Gravel lot behind Royal Cobbler.”

“That empty shoe repair shop?”

“Yeah. Royal Cobbler’s been in Sinful since 1926. They were part of my growing up here. It’s a shame.”

“Well, people don’t get their shoes fixed anymore. Nowadays it’s cheaper to throw them away and buy a new pair than to get them repaired. Did you know China manufactures as many pairs of shoes each year as there are people in the world?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

Where had I heard it? Oh, that’s right. It came up during the briefing I got before my Xinjiang assignment.

“I’m a librarian,” I told Carter. “I read things. Anyway, I don’t know any Bernard Mercier, and I have no idea why he chose my periwinkle bed as his final resting place. You find out anything else?”

Carter stared at his can of root beer.

Chapter 12

“Look, Carter, I’m not trying to hijack your investigation or anything. But the fact is, I am involved in this, whether you like it or not. It’s my front yard that’s a circus right now. Tell me what’s going on. Maybe it’ll jog my memory.”

“There was one detail. Looks like TOD was after you threw out the food.”

“How do they know?”

“You’re not going to like this. They found gumbo inside his nasal cavity and esophagus. So Mercier, or whoever this man was, was still alive and breathing when you threw dinner on him.”

“You’re not saying my spicy gumbo was the cause of death.”

“No. It wasn’t enough to asphyxiate him. They’re still working on figuring out what killed him.”

“I threw spicy gumbo on a dying man. Good to know.”

Carter stood up.

“Fortune, if you think of anything at all that could be helpful, call me. And please don’t put yourself or any innocent civilians in harm’s way.”

“I would never do that.”

“I’m serious. We don’t know what this Bernard Mercier was up to. What if he meant you harm?”

“Well, if he did, someone killed him before he had a chance to do anything.”

“Yeah.” Carter shook his head. “Looks like you might have a guardian angel.”

The crowd had dissipated by the time Carter left. I grabbed the insulated package from the fridge, hopped in the Jeep and sped over to Gertie’s house. Ida Belle was there too, so I only had to explain things once. I gave Ida Belle the insulated package and an address. She made a quick phone call and slipped out. Within the hour, she returned. She reported that she’d handed the package off to someone in the Sinful Ladies Society who owed her a favor, and that it would arrive at the shipping center in Mudbug by the deadline.

I called Harrison and told him everything I’d learned so far.

“How do you spell Bernard Césaire Mercier?” Harrison asked.

“LeBlanc didn’t spell it out for me. But here’s something. The John Doe was wearing a fake Rolex. And so was a man back in a coffee shop in New Orleans who I think was watching me.”

“That’s not much to go on. Which coffee shop?”

“Starbucks.”

“Great. That narrows it down.”

“No, it’s the Starbucks in the French Quarter, close to the hotel where Gertie had her romance conference. There’s only one in that area.”

I told him the street and cross street, date, and approximate time.

“Okay, we’ll see if we can pull some surveillance footage.”

“Harrison, you think that’s safe to ask NOLA PD for a favor? Ahmad might’ve gotten to someone while he was in town. The guy’s got all the money in the world.”

“We don’t need to work with the police. Most of these stores have those inexpensive surveillance systems now that are connected online. The internet of things, Fortune. It’s a buffet of data.”

“Got it. Oh, hey, you know, the first one was a con woman.”

“First what?”

“The first fatality. Claudia Hunter.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know.”

Of course he didn’t. Harrison was keeping an eye out for me where he could, but a case of food poisoning in little Sinful would never make it into the papers. And Mayor-Elect Celia Arceneaux, image-conscious as she was, would hardly put it on the town website.

“Why don’t you catch me up?” Harrison asked.

I did, giving Harrison every detail I could think of concerning the mysterious death of “Claudia Hunter.”

“The official cause of death is milk sickness,” I said. “From contaminated cheese.”

“Sounds like you don’t buy it.”

“I don’t know. It’s possible. I mean, yeah, maybe I’m just surrounded by people who have really bad luck.”

“I hear you. So you know anyone who would want Claudia Hunter out of the way?”

“Any of the people she scammed.”

“Including Barney Fife?”

“His name is Carter LeBlanc. And to answer your question, I don’t think so.”

Okay, I’ll let you know when I have something. In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid. Stay safe.”

“Oh, I will. Believe it or not, I seem to have lost my taste for adventure.”

Harrison got back to me two days later, when I was having lunch in Francine’s Diner with Gertie and Ida Belle. I glanced at the caller ID, excused myself and went out to the front. I stood in the parking lot and watched the General Store, which was directly across the street.

“The vehicle owner and the stiff are the same,” Harrison said.

“You ran the DNA already?”

“Yeah. We put a rush on it. The John Doe is Bernard Césaire Mercier. Event promoter, graphic designer, marketing consultant, and the local college students’ go-to guy for fake IDs. And we pulled the surveillance footage and compared it to the picture you sent. He’s your man in the Starbucks too. We have you and your two friends pulling out in the Jeep, he leaves the coffee shop thirty seconds later and follows in the Escalade.”

“So he’s in the system. What’s he in for?”

Harrison paused. “Uh, no. He’s not in CODIS or anything like that. Actually, he’s one of ours.”

Chapter 13

“Bernard Mercier? The dead body in my front yard was working for…us? Are you sure about that?”

“Unfortunately, yes. He was an important asset, I understand. Well tied in to the International Lowlife Scene.”

“I guess that explains why he knew how to follow me from New Orleans to Sinful without me realizing it. But why? If Morrow’d meant to send me a bodyguard, he’d have told me.”

“Morrow doesn’t tell me everything. But if this Bernard Mercier was sent to protect you and someone killed him, that means you’re in danger.”

“Yeah, that’s bad.”

“But if Mercier was turned, and he meant you harm for some reason, then someone who’s protecting you is still out there and I don’t know about it.”

“Yeah. A guardian angel. Which is good, except for the part where one of our colleagues followed me out from New Orleans to kill me. Or maybe this has nothing to do with me at all.”

“One of our guys follows you from New Orleans, turns up dead in your backyard, and you think it has nothing to do with you?”

“It wasn’t my backyard, Harrison. It was my front yard.”

“Yeah, that makes all the difference.”

The summer humidity hung heavy in the air. I glanced up at the greenish-gray sky and was rewarded with a drop hitting me right in the eye. I crunched across the gravel parking lot and huddled under the short roof overhang of Francine’s Diner.

“Maybe he was following Claudia Hunter,” I said.

“Listen, I don’t know what this means, Fortune, but we found a high level of capsaicin on the tissues. That’s the active ingredient in hot peppers.”

“I can explain that. I cooked a batch of gumbo and it didn’t really turn out. So I threw it into the bushes. I guess it landed on him.”

“Gumbo?”

Harrison made a sort of choking sound as he tried to suppress a chuckle.

“Harrison? Harrison! It’s not funny.”

“Sorry,” he gasped. “I know.”

“Listen. Maybe my cooking isn’t the greatest, but it’s not bad enough to kill on contact.”

That sent Harrison into convulsions of laughter.

“It’s not funny.”

“I know. You’re right.” He sobered up, with some effort. “Oh, one more thing. One of Ahmad’s men was found in a Dumpster in the French Quarter. Shot in the head, one bullet.”

“When?”

“Looks like time of death was right around the time you were at that romance writer’s conference with your friends.”

“You know, I was thinking Ahmad might leave someone behind in New Orleans. So who killed him? My guardian angel again?”

“No idea. Listen, Morrow says avoid New Orleans and lie low until we figure out what’s going on.”

“So what do I do in the meantime?”

“Stay out of sight and out of trouble.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“Any chance it’ll sink in this time?”

“Sure. Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’m keeping my lunch dates waiting.”

Gertie and Ida Belle had been considerate enough to order dessert for me from Francine’s limited but exquisite menu. The vanilla ice cream had started to melt, and the peach cobbler beneath glistened invitingly. I sat down and started to dig in.

“What’s the news from headquarters?” Gertie asked.

“Huh? Oh.”

I put my fork down and dabbed my mouth. “Good work with the courier service. They were already able to run the DNA.” I quickly filled them in on the rest of what Harrison had told me.

“Three dead bodies,” Gertie mused. “Claudia Hunter, this Bernard Mercier guy, and now one of Ahmad’s men. This is getting interesting.”

“Getting interesting? A dead body in my front yard wasn’t already interesting? Which reminds me, I need to find out more about this Bernard Mercier.”

“Like what?” Ida Belle asked.

“I won’t know until I find it. Maybe there was something in his car the police missed. Okay. We have to find out where the car’s impounded. Carter told me it was a black Escalade. We’ll have to break into the sheriff’s computer. I know they’ve recently changed the alarm code, so we’ll have to make it quick, in and out. Now once we know where the vehicle’s impounded, we’ll have to make a plan—”

“It’s at Walter’s,” Ida Belle interrupted.

“What?”

“The black Escalade’s at Walter’s garage. Carter’s having him hold on to it until they can figure out what to do with it.”

“The dead man’s car is right across the street from us?”

“It’s not an official murder investigation,” Ida Belle said. “So far as anyone knows, the guy’s a peeping Tom who got more than he bargained for and dropped dead.”

“So when can we go see the vehicle?” I asked.

Ida Belle shrugged. “Soon as we finish dessert.”

We found Walter in the General Store, rearranging a shelf of Swamp Rat Festival souvenir caps.

“I thought Mayor Celia insisted on calling it the Nutria Jamboree, or something,” I said. “Swamp Rat Festival wasn’t classy enough or something, as I recall.”

“Don’t call her Mayor Celia yet,” Walter said. “She’s still mayor-elect. Until the recount comes in, I’m gonna try to stay optimistic.”

“Mind if we have a peek in the garage?” Ida Belle asked.

“What do you want to go in there for?”

“We heard you had the dead man’s car,” Gertie said.

“Oh, heck, I’m not letting that thing take up valuable space in my bay. I towed it over here as a favor, to get it off the Monroes’ property. It’s out back behind the building.”

“Has anyone claimed it?” I asked.

“It’s leased from a car dealership in Metairie. I’m waiting for them to get out here and take it off my hands. Until then, it’s not my problem if a bunch of nosy women wanna poke around. Although I should warn you, you’re not gonna find much. The Deputy Sheriff’s already been through it. And you know my nephew. He’s thorough.”

Chapter 14

The Escalade was parked outdoors, next to Walter’s garage. Mercier had probably kept it clean and polished, but after sitting in the outdoors, the black paint sported a pale film of bayou gunk.

The car was unlocked, and just as Walter had warned us, empty. Carter had removed everything from the glove box, and to make matters worse, Mercier had kept the car ridiculously neat. There were no fast-food wrappers, old receipts, forgotten papers, none of the mess that a normal, well-adjusted person might have.

“Look at this,” Ida Belle exclaimed. She had climbed into the driver’s seat and was caressing the dashboard. “A Wi-Fi hotspot in the car. How do they do that?”

“Yeah, real tough assignment Mr. Mercier had.” I ran my fingers around the door panels, starting with the front passenger door. “I’m sleeping in the desert and chowing down on camel spiders, meanwhile, this guy’s in New Orleans, letting les bon temps roulez in an Escalade. I wonder why he picked a black interior, though. That’s gotta be hellish when it’s ninety degrees out and ninety percent humidity.”

“Maybe it’s because black hides blood stains,” Gertie pointed out.

I searched the headliner for a slit or a hidden compartment, but I found nothing. I lay down across the back seat. It was wide enough to fit three comfortably, but at five foot ten, it was a little cramped for me. I moved my shoulder forward and slid my hand under the passenger seat, feeling for something out of place among the metal supports and the spaghetti tangle of wires.

“Found something.” I tugged a corner of something that felt like card stock, moving it this way and that until I managed to slide it free without tearing it. I sat up and Gertie and Ida Belle climbed into the back seat on either side of me.

I was holding an ordinary white #10 envelope. The flap was tucked in, not sealed.

“This car is so comfy,” Gertie said. “Of course, I’ve always been partial to Cadillacs. Ida Belle, you should save up for one of these.”

“Let’s see, I’m getting five hundred a month rent from Justin, plus my Social Security…I guess I’ll be able to buy an Escalade by the time I’m seven hundred and eighty-one years old.”

The envelope contained a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds. It looked like an ordinary letter. Until l unfolded it.

“What’s that squiggly writing?” Gertie leaned in close to peer at the paper, which had the waxy sheen of a color printer. “Is that Arabic?”

Ida Belle snatched the paper away, dealing me a nasty paper cut.

“Fortune! Is that a picture of you?”

“Yes,” I said.

It was sweltering inside the Escalade, as you might expect. We were sitting in a black car, around noontime, in southwestern Louisiana, in the summertime. But my hands and feet felt cold.

One of my own had been turned against me by the bounty Ahmad had put on my head. And he’d come extremely close.

“You don’t suppose he was coming out to warn you?” Gertie asked.

“No,” Ida Belle and I said in unison.

“So he’s not your guardian angel.” Gertie looked disappointed.

“Can we go somewhere else to talk about this?” Ida Belle complained. “I’m sweating buckets.”

“Just a minute. Let me think.”

“Fine. I’m gonna open the door at least.”

Ida Belle patted the door.

“I can’t find the handle.”

“Not on my side either,” Gertie said.

I reached for the door panels. Gertie and Ida Belle were right. The handles had been removed and replaced by flat black disks.

“I can’t believe Carter didn’t notice this when he searched the car,” I said.

“I can,” Gertie retorted. “It’s all black in here. You can’t make out anything.”

“Glasses might help,” Ida Belle suggested.

I heard Gertie stirring behind me as I climbed over the center console to the driver’s seat. She was probably making an obscene gesture at Ida Belle. Gertie was kind of sensitive about her eyesight.

I let myself out—thankfully the driver’s door handle was still in place—and then opened the back door. Ida Belle hopped down quickly. Gertie scooted out behind her and looked down as if she were about to jump off the high dive.

I lifted her to the ground and pushed the heavy door shut. Even with her giant handbag, Gertie felt as light as a hummingbird.

“Escape-proof back seat,” Ida Belle said. “Looks like he was going for the bigger bounty.”

“You mean because Fortune is worth one million dollars dead,” Gertie asked, “but ten million alive? Was he planning to take her alive? My goodness, that’s terrible.”

I pulled my phone out and dialed Harrison again.

“Try to keep it down,” I said. “My handler went to a lot of trouble to get me a secure line, and he won’t like it if he thinks someone’s listening in.”

I looked both ways, waited for a red pickup truck to pass, and crossed the street. By the time we reached the other side I had already told Harrison what I’d found in Bernard Mercier’s car.

“So it looks like Mercier was coming for me,” I said. “And something, or someone, killed him before he could finish the job. Who, or what, was it? Don’t say my gumbo.”

“We still don’t know. Although Mercier’s death is a big setback for us, I did learn that. He’d made his name as the go-to guy for passports, state ID’s, birth certificates, anything. All he had to do was party and mingle in the Big Easy, and when a dirtbag of interest came to him for a fake ID, he routed the information back to us.”

“So he was the king of fake IDs. But he had his real ID in his car?”

“Why not? The truth is easier to remember. Like you, using your real first name when you’re undercover posing as Morrow’s niece.”

“Yeah. By the way, no one here calls it the Big Easy.”

I was making my way back through the gravel lot to the Jeep. Gertie and Ida Belle followed quietly.

“Fortune, I can barely hear you.”

“We’re next to Francine’s Diner,” I said. “In the parking lot. Can’t talk too loud. Prying ears everywhere.”

“It’s prying eyes,” Gertie corrected me, as if that somehow made more sense.

“Is someone there?” Harrison asked.

“No." I waved at Gertie to keep it down. "So what else? What about Ahmad’s guy? The one who turned up in a dumpster?”

“We think he was killed somewhere else and dumped. They couldn’t find a bullet. It went right through.”

I unlocked the Jeep to let Gertie into the back seat, then climbed in and unlocked the passenger side from the inside for Ida Belle. Ida Belle didn’t like being helped into cars.

“Maybe he was taken somewhere in a car with no interior door handles?” I suggested.

“You know something about it?”

“I had a chance to look through his car.”

“Fortune, I hope you didn’t—”

“Don’t worry, it was parked outdoors and unlocked. There was no problem getting access. But you should know that Mercier removed the rear door handles.”

Chapter 15

Harrison swore. We were in close enough quarters inside the Jeep that Ida Belle and Gertie could hear both sides of the conversation now. I saw Gertie in the rear view mirror, eyes wide.

“So Mercier might’ve planned to have the bounty all to himself,” I said, “and somehow he thought Ahmad wouldn’t figure out what happened to his guy?”

“That’s possible.”

“Any connection between Mercier and Claudia Hunter?”

“Your food poisoning case? She was in New Orleans, and she’d use fake IDs for her aliases, so, it’s possible they crossed paths at some point. No connection I know of, though.”

“So we’re at a dead end.”

“Yeah. You’re real lucky Mercier dropped dead in your flower bed. Hey, that rhymes.”

“Harrison, I’m not that lucky. Whoever killed Mercier might be my secret guardian angel, but I think it’s more likely that whoever it is, they’re after the ten-million-dollar bounty too. In fact, that’s probably the only reason I’m still alive. Because I’m worth ten times as much alive as dead.”

“Hang on a second, Fortune.”

The phone went silent.

As I waited for Harrison to return, Ida Belle said,

“Ten million dollars is a lot of money. Enough to change people.”

“I don’t like where this is going, Ida Belle,” I half-joked.

“I’m just saying. Imagine never having to take in a boarder so you can make ends meet. Or tie your bumper to your car with rope ‘cause you can’t afford a proper new bumper. Imagine you’re someone like Delphine. Wouldn’t you like to be able to hire someone to look after your mother? Especially if she was as difficult as Miss Cookie?”

“I’d hire someone to smother her in her sleep,” Gertie muttered.

“Ten million dollars would set you up for life,” Ida Belle said.

“Or it could ruin your life,” Gertie countered. “Remember that security guard over in Mudbug who won the Mega Millions? He’s living in a trailer again, not even as nice as the one he used to have. And he doesn’t have anywhere to go for Christmas or Thanksgiving because his whole family hates him now.”

“Doesn’t stop people from trying,” Ida Belle said.

“Hey. Before either one of you gets any ideas. Ahmad isn’t just going to hand over ten million dollars and let my kidnapper go on her merry way. Ahmad doesn’t leave loose ends.”

“I’m coming down.” Harrison was back on the line.

“What’s your ETA?” I asked.

“Five PM.”

“And your story?”

“I’m a teacher you know from the school where you’re working as a librarian. I’m passing through on my summer break. We’ve only known each other for a couple of years, because any farther back than that, people might ask me questions about your beauty queen days. And that is not my area of expertise.”

“What do you teach?”

“Social studies.”

“Good. No one knows exactly what social studies is.”

“I’m a substitute teacher. That’s why my name’s not listed on the school website. If anyone’s ambitious enough to look it up.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Ben Harrison.”

“Oh. Your actual name. That’s one less thing to remember. Meet me at Francine’s Diner. It’s easier to find than Marge’s house, and no one will think it’s weird if you ask how to find it. See you at five.”

“He’ll be in time for the early bird special,” Gertie whispered excitedly.

“You don’t have to whisper now, Gertie. He hung up.”

I backed the Jeep out of its spot. The gravel and crushed shells crunched softly under the tires.

“Where to now?” Ida Belle asked.

“Home, I guess. I don’t know what Harrison’s going to do here besides be a glorified bodyguard. What’s he going to find out here that we don’t already know? I can’t see him getting the locals to open up to him.”

“Doesn’t he call Carter ‘Barney Fife’?” Gertie asked.

“That’s his term for Sinful law enforcement in general. Who is Barney Fife, anyway?”

“It’s from an old TV show,” Ida Belle said.

I pulled out to the edge of the parking lot and looked up and down the main road. I was about to turn toward home when Gertie exclaimed,

“Go that way!”

“What?”

“She’s right,” Ida Belle chimed in. “Go the other way. Gertie, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, why didn’t we think of it before?”

Chapter 16

“This is it,” Gertie said. “My, it’s been a while. I don’t remember them having internet access last time.”

A wooden sign stuck in the roadside foliage read

BEAUMONT PLANT NURSERY and CAFÉ.

Tacked to that was a smaller sign, also hand-painted: INTERNET.

The Beaumont Plant Nursery and Café was around ten miles past the town of Beaumont, Texas, just over the Texas-Louisiana border. Apparently Gertie and Ida Belle had an old friend out here—and I do mean old, as in Cold War relic.

I turned up the unpaved road. Stiff oleander branches scraped the sides of the Jeep as I miscalculated a sharp turn.

“Good thing we have the Jeep,” I said. “I hate to think what this road would do to a car with a normal drive train.”

The narrow road opened into an unpaved parking lot. At the far end sat a low wooden structure. A large sign mounted on the roof once again announced BEAUMONT PLANT NURSERY and CAFÉ. The cursive lettering was in a flaking red paint on a weathered white background.

I parked in a far spot with a lot of empty space around me and we crossed the dirt lot to the building. Behind the café building, rows of greenhouses gleamed in the hazy Texas sun. A low hedge sat in front of the entrance, studded with little yellow and red peppers that were exactly the size and shape of Christmas lights.

Inside was a dining room and hostess station to the left, and a little gift shop to the right with souvenir t-shirts, hats, and potted live plants. I scanned the dining room for potential threats.

“What do you think of those two guys in the back booth?” I asked.

“Which ones?” Ida Belle asked.

“The shady looking ones.”

“They all look shady,” Gertie said.

“Except that family over there.” Ida Belle countered.

“Look again, Ida Belle. See the shifty eyes on that kid? And you keep saying I’m the one who needs new glasses. Ha!”

“No offense,” I said, “but this place is sketchy. Plant nursery off a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, and they’ve got a bunch of fifty thousand dollar greenhouses.”

Ida Belle gave me a look.

“Sounds like you know a little something about agriculture. Afghanistan?”

I nodded.

“I’ll never forget it. It’s where I ate my first camel spider. So is your friend expecting us? Or are we just going to have one last meal together before Harrison snatches me away and I never see you two again?”

“Snatches you away?” Gertie’s eyes widened.

“I was thinking about it on the drive over. I think Harrison’s coming here on an extraction mission.”

“Wouldn’t he tell you?” Ida Belle asked.

“Not necessarily. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The cost of hiding me in Sinful is now outweighing the benefit. Someone’s ID’d me. I’m compromised.”

“There he is. Tran. Tran!”

Gertie waved frantically. An elderly man in full cowboy kit was approaching us from the direction of the kitchen doors.

Male. Age late seventies to early eighties. Southeast Asian ancestry. Five foot three, 110 without the American flag belt buckle, 115 with. Overall good physical health despite old orthopedic and neurological injuries, which he covers well. Threat level: Ambiguous.

Ida Belle and Gertie took turns embracing him. Gertie’s hug lingered much longer than Ida Belle’s.

I glanced at Ida Belle. She shrugged as if to say, “I’ll tell you later.”

“And you must be Fortune. I’m Tran.” He flashed me a toothy smile (dentures, but good ones). His Texas drawl was nearly perfect.

Tran led us back through the kitchen door, past the bustle of the kitchen, down a hallway.

“Oh, Miss Gertie,” he said. “I’m reading your latest.”

“Why Tran, I didn’t know you were a romance reader.”

“Are you kidding? I love it. Hot stuff. Practically burned a hole in my Kindle.”

“I aim to please,” Gertie said coyly.

“Don’t I know it, darlin’,” he chuckled, and Gertie slapped him playfully on the arm.

The next thing I knew I was blinking in the sunlight. We’d come all the way through to the back of the building. We were standing out in the bare lot. At least back here we were in the shade. The air was dry and hot, thick with dust and pollen.

At Tran’s invitation, Ida Belle, Gertie, and I sat down on a blue-and-white cooler. Tran pulled four tall brown cans out of a rusty mini-fridge and handed them out. Then he sat down on the fridge. We sat and sipped cold Southern Star Pine Belt Pale Ale.

“Go ahead and tell him,” Gertie said.

Ida Belle nodded encouragement.

I hesitated. I trusted Gertie and Ida Belle, but I didn’t know this man from Adam (assuming Adam was an eighty-year-old Vietnamese cowboy).

“I hear our man in New Orleans came to a bad end out in your neck of the woods,” Tran said.

“Our man?”

“Sure. Well, I retired in seventy-four.”

“Oh.”

“Uncle Sam set me up with a very generous, if somewhat unconventional, pension plan.” He waved at the greenhouses. “So I’m mostly done with official government work. But I still like to keep up with current events. When y’all got people dyin’ that got no business dyin’, why, that’s my particular area of interest.”

Tran reached behind him and switched on a rusty stick fan. The feeble breeze was a welcome relief from the hot, stale air.

Gertie motioned for me to start talking.

Heck, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I told Tran the whole story. Tran drained his beer, took a can of chew out of his back pocket and took a pinch. He pensively spat tobacco juice into the beer can as I told him of the deaths of the fake modeling agent Claudia Hunter and the crooked Bernard Mercier. I was vague about my situation with Ahmad, telling Tran only that I’d gotten crosswise with one of the many bad guys I’d dealt with in my job.

At no point did anyone say the letters C-I-A. No one had to.

“You got a tissue sample from either one?” Tran asked. “I can do the basic alkaloid screen right on the premises. Can’t promise it’s state-of-the-art, but it’s not bad.”

“I did get samples from Mercier,” I said, “but I sent them all to my employer. The police took the body. The Medical Examiner from New Orleans looked him over. No one found any plausible mechanism for his death.”

“Well, those fellas got the same equipment I do, so I don’t believe I’d be able to find anything they didn’t. Tell you what this reminds me of. Gertie, you remember Georgi Markov?”

“The Bulgarians are in Sinful?” Gertie exclaimed.

“No silly,” Ida Belle corrected her, “Tran’s saying that Mercier could’ve been killed with some kind of unusual poison delivery system. Something the ME might not know about. Remember, Markov’s ricin pellet was the size of a speck.”

“If I recall correctly,” I said, “Markov took four days to die. Maybe Mercier’s problems started back in New Orleans.”

“Well, Markov was 1978,” Tran said. “I reckon there’s been some progress in the technology since then.”

“But who can get ahold of that kind of weapon?” Gertie asked. “A poison umbrella?”

“Not me,” I said glumly.

Chapter 17

I’d heard rumors of exotic weapons, James Bond-type things like matchbooks and hatpins that enabled you to kill someone in a crowded elevator without attracting attention. But I’d never been allowed to take any of those neat gadgets into the field. I was expected to rely on ordinary tools like my nine millimeter sidearm. Or I could improvise with everyday objects if I had to. A stiletto heel, a roll of duct tape, a piece of hard candy.

My bosses didn’t want their fingerprints on our work, not if they could help it. The fancy stuff was reserved for very special occasions.

“If the technology exists,” Tran said, “you can be sure the bad guys’ll get it. Heck, if there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that the bad guys have a lot more spending money than the good guys.”

“Okay, let’s say Mercier killed one of Ah—killed a bad guy’s henchman,” I said. “To get back at him, the bad guy uses a slow-acting poison on him. Mercier thinks he’s fine, he comes after me for the bounty, thinking he’ll make it up to the bad guy by bringing me in. But he drops dead before he can finish the job. In the meantime, bad guy’s followed him to find out what he knows, and is out there waiting to grab me. Does that scenario make sense?”

“It does, if your bad guy’s one of those careful planning types. Is he? Or would you say he’s more of a hothead?”

“Definitely a hothead,” I said. “I mean, he gunned his wife down when she walked in front of the TV during American Idol.”

Tran’s eyebrows shot up.

“American Idol? Are you talking about Ahmad?”

I nodded warily.

“Young lady, I shouldn’t even be seen with you.” Tran chuckled. “Gertie, you have always have been a magnet for trouble. I daresay not a thing has changed. Now, Fortune, do an old man a kindness and run the whole thing by me again.”

“The whole thing?”

“I’ll try to stay awake this time.” Tran’s tone was whimsical, but he was serious. He was paying close attention, his eyes bright with interest.

“You forgot to tell him about the gumbo,” Ida Belle said.

“The gumbo didn’t kill anyone.”

“Why, I’m rather partial to gumbo,” Tran said. “I’m with Ida Belle. Let’s hear the story with the gumbo this time.”

I went over the whole thing again. This time, I included the disastrous dinner, Claudia storming off in a snit, me throwing the uneaten gumbo into the bushes. Every humiliating detail.

“You gotta be careful with peppers,” Tran said. “I love ‘em myself. I got tabascos growing out front. They’re the ones that look like Christmas lights, and they’re nearly ten times as hot as jalapenos. And half a jar is quite a bit, even in a large cooking vessel. What kind of pepper was it?”

“I’m not sure. The jar said Carolina Reaper, I think.”

I thought Tran was going to fall off his little fridge.

“Did you say Carolina Reaper?”

“I believe that’s right. Why?”

“The Carolina Reaper is no ordinary pepper, Fortune. You got your hands on the hottest pepper in the world.”

“Fortune!” Ida Belle exclaimed. “You fed us the world’s hottest pepper? No wonder I couldn’t taste anything for a whole day.”

“How was I supposed to know? They were selling in a spice shop. If I’m not supposed to put it in food, don’t sell it in a spice shop. What’s so hard about that?”

“Didn’t it say anything on the jar?” Gertie asked.

“What, like a skull and crossbones, or a biohazard symbol? Or a label that said Do Not Use This in Food? No, it did not have any of those warnings.”

“Over one point five million Scoville Heat Units,” Tran mused.

“I don’t know what that means,” I said.

“You know Jalapenos, like you get in Mexican food? Those are only about five thousand Scoville Heat Units. Tabasco’s about forty thousand. But one point five million? And half a jar? Why, I believe you cooked yourself up a nice pot of chemical warfare.”

“I didn’t taste it,” I said. “I was about to try it but I saw everyone choking and turning red and…sorry. You know what? I’m never cooking again. So I basically fed my guests pepper spray?”

“I’d say that sums it up.” Tran’s leathery cheeks dimpled with amusement.

“Did you say pepper spray?” Ida Belle perked up. “Gertie, speaking of pepper spray, do you remember…”

Gertie and Ida Belle both shot me a wary look. Tran shook his head and laughed.

“Let me tell you about a story we read about in the newspaper,” Ida Belle said.

“It was back in the nineties,” Gertie added. “In the newspaper. That’s where we heard about it. Right, Ida Belle?”

“A pair of innocent women were being threatened by a man with a gun,” Ida Belle said.

“For no reason at all,” Gertie added.

“No, the women were just minding their own business,” Ida Belle agreed. “Not asking for trouble or anything.”

“But Ida—I mean, one of the women, had a can of pepper spray. She blasted him with it and the guy clawed at his face and ended up shooting himself.”

“Everyone thought it was a suicide,” Ida Belle said proudly.

“If ‘everyone’ thought it was a suicide,” I asked, “how did you read about it in the paper?”

“I think we better get going.” Ida Belle stood up. “If we’re gonna make it back by five. You know what? I’m glad we came out here. Good thinking, Gertie.”

Tran stood too. “A pleasure to meet you, Fortune. Nice to see you again, Ida Belle.”

Gertie stood and embraced him. Gertie and Tran looked good together, I thought. Like wizened little salt-and-pepper shakers.

“Gertie, I’ll be reading Passion’s Promise in bed tonight.” Tran winked.

Chapter 18

The long drive back to Sinful gave me an opportunity to mull over the implications of my having cooked up a batch of pepper spray in a pan.

“So let’s say I go out on the front porch to throw my gumbo out,” I said. “Mercier’s standing there, waiting for me, pointing a gun. Only it’s not a gun, it’s something that shoots some kind of obscure, undetectable poison. I hit him in the face with the gumbo, he shoots himself instead of shooting me. I can’t see any of it cause it’s too dark out.”

“How far’d you throw it?” Ida Belle asked.

“Pretty far, I think. I have decent upper body strength.”

“You couldn’t see him,” Gertie asked, “But he could see you?”

“There’s that porch light,” I said. “It’s one of those yellow bug lights, so it’s pretty dim, but it would’ve been enough. We should call Carter and ask him to look through Mercier’s effects. Glasses, pens, lighters, anything that could have been retrofitted with a firing mechanism.”

Ida Belle pulled out her phone and dialed.

“I hate those bug lights,” Gertie said. “They’re so dim, and they wash all the color out. I can’t see anything.”

I waited for Ida Belle to needle Gertie about getting glasses, but she was already talking to Carter.

“I don’t know,” Ida Belle was saying. “I think you might want to talk to her directly.”

Ida Belle held her phone to my ear.

“Hey, Carter,” I said. “You have Mercier’s things?”

“Yeah. The ME’s preparing to release the body to next of kin, if anyone can find them. His personal effects will go with the body.”

“Did he have anything that looked like a gun? Or a blow dart?”

“What? No. I don’t remember anything like that.”

“How about a pen?”

“I think I picked up a pen near the body. Why?”

“It might be important.”

“A pen? Really?”

I drove over a pothole where the asphalt had washed away. The Jeep bucked, and Gertie and Ida Belle shrieked.

“Fortune. What’s going on there?” Carter sounded worried.

“Sorry. I need to pay closer attention to the road. Listen, Carter, do me a favor. All of Mercier’s stuff, anything you have, anything at all, please put it in a box, and bring it to Francine’s Diner at five-thirty.”

“Fortune, this sounds completely insane.”

“Yeah, I know. And be careful. Don’t drop anything. So are you going to be there?”

“You shouldn’t talk and drive. And yes, I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.”

“Only to make sure you haven’t killed yourself and everyone else in the car.”

“You shouldn’t talk on the phone and drive,” Gertie said when I’d hung up. “Carter’s right.”

“I know.” Thinking about Gertie’s eyesight reminded me of something else. “Listen, I have to ask you both something. This is a question that I can’t answer for myself because I don’t have enough distance to be objective. Do you think I look like Claudia Hunter?”

“Not at all,” Ida Belle said.

“Certainly not,” Gertie agreed.

“Don’t worry about my feelings about being replaced in Carter’s affections or whatever. This is important. Gertie called Claudia ‘Fortune’ and I know we keep bugging her to get glasses, but still. Is it possible Claudia could have been mistaken for me at a distance? Especially on that poorly lit front porch?”

The two were quiet for a moment, and we rode in silence along the single-lane road. On either side of the road, trailer homes cropped up occasionally on patchy lawns. Trees and telephone poles threw long shadows across the slender strip of asphalt.

“You know,” Ida Belle said carefully, “there might have been a slight similarity…I mean, in a dim light—”

“I’m just gonna say it,” Gertie interrupted. “That woman looked a lot like you. I think that’s why Carter was attracted to her in the first place.”

“Now calm down, Fortune,” Ida Belle warned.

“No, no, I’m okay. This might explain what happened to Claudia Hunter. Yes, she was eating that contaminated cheese, but it wasn’t enough to kill her.”

We hit traffic on the way back in. I dropped Gertie and Ida Belle off at my place with an invitation to help themselves to whatever was in the fridge, and a promise to come back and tell them everything as soon as I was done.

I arrived at Francine’s by a quarter after five. Harrison was already there. He had managed to get himself a table in the back, far from the other diners. Ally was working the dinner shift. Her eyes widened as she watched me walk to the back of the dining area to join the nice-looking stranger in the dark suit.

“You’re here to bring me back, aren’t you?” I asked as I sat down.

“Good to see you too, Fortune.”

“You didn’t just stop by for a visit. So is this an extraction?”

“I don’t see that we have any choice. Your cover was compromised.”

“I see.”

I took a sip of decaf.

“So you think you have a better place for me?”

“Oilmont, Montana.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey, good male-female ratio, if you’re worried about your social life.”

“This extraction is not necessary.”

“Really.”

“Harrison, listen to me. I’m going to recap everything I know about this.”

I did.

“And?” Harrison asked.

“Look, here’s how I figure it. Ahmad clears out of New Orleans but leaves a guy behind. Just in case. Ahmad’s guy gets friendly with Mercier, through one or more of Mercier’s activities. Parties, fake IDs, phony green card, whatever. So Mercier finds out about the ten-million-dollar bounty and decides he wants it. All of it. He takes Ahmad’s guy for a little ride, finds out what he can, shoots him in the head, dumps him. He’s trying to figure out how to find me when he has a stroke of luck—I walk right into his favorite Starbucks. He follows me out to Sinful. You saw that part on video, right?”

“And somehow he gets ahold of this state-of-the-art weapon?”

“I’m thinking Ahmad’s guy used it to pay him for services. Harrison, Ahmad’s an arms dealer. Poison spy pens are probably like party favors for him.”

“Then what?”

“Mercier waits for me outside my house, thinking he’s gonna shoot me with a dart and bag me. But dinner’s a disaster, Claudia Hunter storms out, Bernard Mercier sees her, thinks she’s me—”

“He thinks Claudia Hunter is you?”

“There’s a slight resemblance. And the front porch lighting is bad. Just stay with me on this. So Bernard Mercier’s just shot Claudia, thinking she’s me. Carter takes her to the hospital, where she dies. Not from cheese poisoning, or my terrible cooking, but from whatever Mercier shot her with. Not even a minute later, I come out and toss the gumbo out. I hit Mercier in the face. Accidentally, of course, because I have no idea he’s hiding there.”

“Yeah?”

“Turns out the spices I used turned the gumbo into pepper spray, pretty much. So Mercier gets a face full, his hands go to his face, he’s still holding the pen, he accidently shoots himself.”

“And as he’s dying, breathes in some more spicy gumbo.”

“Exactly.”

“Didn’t you hear anything?”

“I did, actually. Something rustling in the bushes. I thought it was my cat at first.”

“Bad way to go.”

“Harrison, don’t feel sorry for him. He tried to kill me.”

“You have a cat? Never mind, not important. For the record, I do not feel sorry for him. He deserved everything he got.”

“One thing I don’t understand is why he used something lethal. My price is ten million alive, only one million dead.”

“Maybe he’s playing it safe. One million isn’t nothing. Let’s get back to where you’re staying, you pack up what you need. We have to be at Lake Charles Airport by seven-thirty.”

“Harrison, no. This extraction is unnecessary. And dangerous.”

Harrison looked skeptical.

“I’ll tell you why. Unnecessary because everyone involved in this is dead. Ahmad’s guy, killed by Bernard Mercier. Bernard Mercier, killed by…mistakenly shooting himself. There hasn’t been any sign of anyone else coming after me. But if I disappear, there are two very persistent and resourceful old women who will move heaven and earth to try to find me. Oh, and here’s Deputy Sheriff Carter LeBlanc. I think he has something for you.”

Chapter 19

Carter was standing in the doorway of Francine’s Diner. I waved until I got his attention, and he started in our direction. I was relieved to see that he was carrying a small cardboard box. He’d actually listened to me.

“You can’t let two old ladies decide issues of national security,” Harrison hissed.

“What do you propose to do, kill them to keep them from talking?”

“I can pay them off.”

“Won’t work. Anyway, who’s to say that Oilmont is any safer than Sinful?”

“Look, Fortune, someone followed you here and tried to kill you. I mean, that’s not my theory, it’s yours. This was way too close for comfort.”

Carter set the box on the table, stuck his hand out, and introduced himself to Harrison. He was dominating the space, trying to take control of the situation. To make up for the fact that he felt helpless and had no idea who Harrison was or what was going on.

“I brought what you asked for.” He slid onto the bench next to me.

“Mind if I have a look?” Harrison asked. Carter nodded, and Harrison carefully picked off the single piece of cellophane tape holding the flaps shut. Carter and I watched him as he examined the contents of the box without touching anything.

“May I take these two pens?” Harrison asked, finally.

“Which ones?”

“The blue and the red.” Harrison pointed, but he didn’t put his hand inside the box.

Carter peered in and frowned.

“Those? We have a bunch of those around the office.”

“Then it won’t be a problem if I take them,” Harrison said. Carter bristled.

“Please, Carter,” I said. If Carter this it as a favor to me, that could let him save face. He could convince himself that he wasn’t deferring to Harrison.

“I don’t even know who this guy is, Fortune. He walks into my jurisdiction—”

“He’s just some guy who wants a couple of one-dollar pens. Let him take the pens, Carter.”

Carter looked at me, and Harrison, and then me again.

“Sure. Go ahead and take the pens. As a personal favor to Fortune.”

Harrison nodded. “Appreciate it. We’ll take the box, too. You can remove the other items. We just want the pens and the box.”

Carter gave me a strange look. A “who are you?” look. He stood up and picked out the unwanted items from the box: paper clips, car registration documents, a hairbrush, a wallet, and a fake gold Rolex watch.

“Is that all?” Carter asked.

Harrison stared into the box. Then he looked at me. I could tell the wheels were turning.

Carter watched us warily.

Finally, Harrison reached into his jacket and produced a bulging manila envelope.

“We appreciate your cooperation, officer.” Harrison handed the envelope to Carter.

“What’s this?” Carter looked at the envelope in his hands as if Harrison had just handed him a dead fish.

“Our thanks for your assistance. We insist that you accept it.”

Carter lifted the flap of the envelope and peered inside. He tried to keep a poker face, but I could tell it was a struggle for him. I’d handled envelopes like that before, and I had a good idea how much cash Carter was holding.

“Thank you. I’m going to donate this to the treasury of Sinful.”

“Aren’t you going to keep anything for yourself?” I blurted out.

“No. Sinful needs this. That’s where this will do the most good. The town’s in a bad place financially. They’re behind on their payroll. This’ll help.”

When Carter left, I said,

“Can I see it?”

“Look. Don’t touch.”

I stood up and peered into the box. Lying on the bottom were two ordinary clicker pens.

“That’s it? I think we have a package of those back at the house.”

“Look pretty harmless, don’t they? The red one’s equipped to shoot fine needles of a marine-derived toxin. The needle itself dissolves completely. The toxin does its job, and then it denatures. Within an hour or two there’s nothing to trace. No amount of analyzing the bodies would have yielded any useful information.”

“I didn’t know you were going to give him money,” I said.

“It’s always nice to spread a little cheer around.”

“How did you know he needed money?”

“Look around. Everyone in these little hick towns is scraping by.”

“Where’d you get it? What was it for?”

“That was to smooth the way for your extraction. It was my get-Fortune-out-of-Mayberry fund.”

“What’s Mayberry? Wait a minute. Did you say was? Does this mean you’re not pulling me out?”

Harrison exhaled.

“Fortune, what you got us here? This is gold. Now that we have this, we can check our records and trace how it got into Ahmad’s hands. This can help us find the mole. We’re closer to an answer. Thanks to you.”

“You’re letting me stay. What’s Morrow going to say?”

“He tasked me with weighing the pros and cons. I think I’ve done that. Relocation carries its own risks, as you pointed out. And your story makes sense. Your would-be killer is dead, and there have been no further attempts on your life. There’s no immediate threat right now. You’re safest where you are. As long as you agree to stay put. No trips to the big city, no selfies on the internet. Can you do that? Lay low until it’s safe to come out?”

“Yes. Yes, I can do that.”

“Good.”

“So Mercier had two pens, huh? And I’ve never been able to get even one.”

“Actually, the blue one is something else. Step Two.”

“An antidote?” I asked.

“It’s not technically an antidote, because there is no antidote. But it’s similar. Slows the metabolism so that the victim has a chance of recovery, something like that. Don’t ask me the details.”

“So he was planning to bring me in alive.”

Harrison nodded. “He just never had a chance to administer Step Two.”

From across the room, Ally caught my eye and gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled back at her.

“My roommate’s going to ask about you,” I whispered. “And FYI, you don’t look like a schoolteacher on vacation.”

Harrison glanced at Ally. “Tell her I’m eccentric.”

“Convince her that the guy wearing a dark suit in the middle of summer and carrying around a cardboard box is eccentric? I think I can pull that off.”

Harrison stood up.

“Guess I’ll get going. You can still come if you want. Last call for Lake Charles Airport.

“Maybe next time. You just gave away all your money, so this is my treat.”

“Three coffees. Big spender.”

Harrison clasped my hand and then pulled me into a hug. He released me, and I watched him stride out past the gawking diners and through the front door, setting the bells jingling. He didn’t look back.

As soon as I was at the front counter. Ally came rushing up.

“Who was that?” she asked breathlessly. “What a sharp dresser!”

“Oh, just a friend from work. He was passing through. Ally, can I get three fried chicken dinners to go, and a pecan pie?”

“Aw, are you having a party without me?”

“Just dinner and a chat with Gertie and Ida Belle. Hey, we’ll save you some pie.”

Ally disappeared, and returned with a bulging, gravy-stained paper bag and a white bakery box with “Francine’s Diner” stamped on top in purple.

“A chat? Honestly, Fortune, you spend so much time with Gertie and Ida Belle, don’t you three ever run out of things to talk about?”

I smiled and paid for the coffees and the dinner, adding on a nice fat tip.

“I’m sure we can think of something to talk about. By the way, Ally, have you ever heard of a place called Mayberry?”

Schooled

Chapter 1

It wasn’t just the Louisiana humidity that was making me sweat.

I shifted on the seat of the metal folding chair in a useless attempt to find a comfortable position.  An ancient desk fan rattled away on the table, pushing the damp air around the tiny interrogation room.

“So, we’ve established that you were in Mudbug last night.”

Sheriff Robert E. Lee peered at me from under his bushy white eyebrows me as if I were a freak show exhibit. With my current cover identity, I sure felt like one. Sandy-Sue “Fortune” Morrow, children’s librarian and former beauty queen. Now pushing thirty and sporting the tackiest hair extensions this side of RuPaul’s Drag Race.

“That’s correct, Sheriff. I was at Mudbug Technical College.”

I didn’t know why Sheriff Lee had brought me in for questioning. But I did know that he—and much of the town— were wary of the new Yankee (that would be me). It didn’t help that since my arrival, the murder rate in Sinful, Louisiana (population 253, give or take) had skyrocketed to approximately that of Bogotá.

“What were you doing way over at Mudbug Tech, Miss Morrow?” 

“I was enrolled—am enrolled—in a class there.”

Lee squinted skeptically. I shrugged.

“I’m thinking about a career change,” I said truthfully.

“Don’t like working with children?”

I was surprised Lee remembered that detail of my cover story. 

“Getting a little tired of it.”

In fact, I worked for the CIA, doing the nasty and necessary jobs that you won’t find in any want ad or official position description. Director Morrow hates it when I call myself an “assassin,” so let’s just go with “operative.”  My real name is Fortune Redding, and my most recent assignment had earned me the undying enmity of a particularly nasty customer named Ahmad. Morrow had stuck me undercover deep in bayou country until things cooled down. So far so good, but if Sheriff Lee ran my prints, things could get complicated.

“Can you tell me what this is about, Sheriff?”

I could see why I might be brought in for questioning on some flimsy pretext. I was the newcomer in town. But what were Ida Belle and Gertie doing here? My two closest friends in Sinful were old enough to be my grandmothers. They were far from harmless, having been Vietnam-era spies and all, but Sheriff Lee didn’t know that. What on earth merited hauling in all three of us at once?

And where was Deputy Sheriff Carter LeBlanc, who normally did most of the actual law enforcement in Sinful? Why wasn’t Carter the one interrogating me? My mind drifted back, once again, to that kiss at my front door…

 “It’s about Celia Arceneaux.” Sheriff Lee jolted me out of my pleasant reverie.

“Ah. Celia. I should have known.”

Celia Arceneaux had been on my case since the moment I set foot in Sinful, braying to anyone who would listen that I brought nothing but trouble with me. She wasn’t wrong about the timing, but none of it was actually my fault. In fact, I, along with Ida Belle and Gertie, had actually solved a few crimes together, dispatching some bad guys in the process.  I’d even saved Celia’s life at one point. But Celia had been feuding with Ida Belle and Gertie for the past fifty years or so, and she wasn’t about to stop now. Apparently, gratitude wasn’t in her vocabulary.

Worse, Celia had recently won (or “won”) the Sinful mayor’s office in an election with a margin so thin that the town was now in the middle of a recount. In the meantime, Celia was allowed to stay on as mayor-elect. It turned out that the only thing worse than Celia Arceneaux was Celia Arceneaux with a little bit of power. She could now enforce Sinful’s arcane laws (or not) as she pleased, declare holidays on a whim, and drain the city coffers by hiring her idiot relatives and generally mismanaging everything. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she started printing money with her picture on it and renaming the months of the year after herself.

“So Celia filed another complaint about me? What is it this time? Washing my car on a Tuesday? Wearing off-white before Labor Day?”

Sheriff Lee fidgeted and cleared his throat. Come on, Sheriff, spit it out.  How bad could it be?

“Celia Arceneaux is dead, Fortune.”

I could almost feel my jaw hit the top of Lee’s desk.

“What?”

“I said Celia Arceneaux is dead,” he shouted.

“No, I heard you the first time. She’s dead? How? What happened?”

“She was the victim of a hit-and-run last night.”

“Oh. That’s terrible. But what does this have to do with—”

“In the upper parking lot of Mudbug Technical College.”

I instinctively went on high alert. Someone had killed Celia Arceneaux and was trying to pin it on me. But who? This wasn’t Ahmad’s style; too subtle. Anyone else I could think of with a grudge against me would have the decency to refrain from murdering an innocent bystander. Even Celia herself, rest her cranky soul, would never have done something so ruthless.

“Sheriff, I didn’t run Celia down. You can check my Jeep if you don’t believe me.”

“Never said you did.”

“Really? Okay.”

“Now why don’t you tell me about the incident?”

“The incident?”

“The altercation. Between the deceased and your associate Gertie Hebert.”

Uh-oh.

“Um. Which altercation, would this be, exactly?” That was the wrong thing to say, I realized immediately.  

 “I’d like you to tell me in your own words what happened on Sunday,” Lee said.

“Sunday? What do you know about Sunday? Why are you asking me about Sunday?”

Sunday was the last time I’d seen Carter LeBlanc. When Carter told me it would kill him to lose me. And then he pulled me close and his lips…

“I’d like you to tell me what transpired in the General Store.” Lee was looking at me strangely.

“The General Store,” I repeated. “Of course. I did visit the General Store on Sunday. Now let me think.”

Chapter 2

Last Sunday

Carter LeBlanc climbed into his truck and drove off.  As soon as he was out of sight, I pulled out my phone and called Ida Belle, to invite her and Gertie to join me at Francine’s Diner. There, I planned to share my happy news with them while stuffing my face with one of Francine’s deep-fried, gravy-drenched specialties. 

I had no food so speak of in my house.  Not since Ally had moved out. Losing my culinarily-gifted roommate meant that all meal preparation was now up to me. Which was unfortunate. I have many talents, but most of them involve killing people, not feeding them.

Gertie, Ida Belle, and I met up at the General Store, across the road from the diner. We had a half hour to kill before Francine’s Early Bird Special started, so we’d decided to get some shopping done before we ate. My overpriced just-for-hair-extensions conditioner was running low again, Gertie wanted a new push-up bra, and Ida Belle needed motor oil.

Fortunately, Sinful's little General Store stocked everything we required (along with gas cans, barbecue grills, shop vacs, sunglasses, fishing supplies, boat fuel, kitchen implements, t-shirts, and more kinds of beef jerky than I knew existed). As I browsed the cluttered shelves, I marveled at that fact that I had not one, but two actual friends. It was a first for me. Growing up with the Company hadn’t exactly been conducive to forming normal friendships.  Not that I’d ever accuse Gertie and Ida Belle—retired spies, amateur detectives, and professional bootleggers (heard of Sinful Ladies’ Cough Syrup?)—of being “normal.”

And not only had I made friends here in Sinful, I had an honest-to-goodness romance going on. A blend of dread and euphoria (mostly euphoria) churned in the pit of my stomach as I recalled the morning’s conversation with Carter. 

Deputy Sheriff Carter LeBlanc had finally figured out I wasn’t actually a children’s librarian. It could have been any number of things that tipped him off. He might have become suspicious that time I singlehandedly saved him from perishing in a sinking boat. Or maybe it was when I was caught on social media parkour-ing down the front of the New Orleans Marriott after searching a murder victim’s hotel room.  (At least my face hadn’t been visible, thank goodness.)  Or maybe it was the time—

My train of thought was interrupted by the jingle of the General Store’s door bell. Mayor-Elect Celia Arceneaux pushed her way in. Behind her trailed a mouse-like woman with blazing red hair.

Early seventies, five foot nothing, slight build, moderate frailty. Threat level: zero in hand-to-hand combat, but since I moved to Sinful, I’ve learned not to let my guard down around old ladies.

“Well, Mary-Alice,” Celia was saying, “You know I’m not one to brag, but she says I have a natural presence. She invited me personally—practically begged me, if I’m being honest—to sign up again.”

Celia was so wrapped up in her narrative that she barely had time to glare at me as she muscled past on her way to the candy aisle.

“Oh, Miss Tauzin, I said to her, you mustn’t let me get greedy. What about all the other deserving students waiting for a spot in your class? Now don’t you worry about that, Celia, she told me. Did I tell you, Mary-Alice, she says I have a natural presence. Some actors spend their whole lives learning to project, she said, and she told me they can hear me all the way in the nosebleed seats. That’s theater lingo for the back row.”

I picked up my hair conditioner, along with the matching shampoo because it was on sale, and made my way to the cash register. Celia and her friend had gotten there first, so I took my place behind them as Walter prepared to ring them up.  (Walter happened to be Carter’s uncle and the nicest man you could ever hope to meet. He’s also been in love with Ida Belle for about a hundred years.)

Gertie and Ida Belle joined me in line as Celia continued to brag (frequently adding “I’m not one to brag, but…”). I felt sorry for Celia’s little redheaded friend, whose job was apparently to smile and nod and say nothing.

“The next summer session is starting tonight,” Celia was telling her silent companion. “Maybe Miss Tauzin would let you sit in and watch me do Blanche’s monologue. I, I, I took the blows in my face and my body! All of those deaths! The long parade to the graveyard!”

Celia was telling the truth about one thing—she really could project to the nosebleed seats. Standing behind her I found myself wishing for my protective shooting earmuffs.

As encounters with Celia Arceneaux went, this wasn’t particularly bad. Celia was too busy boasting to cause any trouble for us today. She’d buy her stuff and leave, and the rest of us could get on with our evening. As long as Ida Belle and Gertie behaved themselves, we had nothing to worry about.

Chapter 3

“Fortune?” Sheriff Lee prompted me. “I believe you were going to relate the events of last Sunday.”

“Yes. Of course. I was just collecting my thoughts. Gertie, Ida Belle and I went to the General Store. While we were there, Celia Arceneaux came in with Mary-Alice.”

“Who, now?” Sheriff Lee leaned forward and squinted at me like that nearsighted character in those old cartoons Ally used to watch when she had a Saturday morning off. What was his name? Mister Moodle? Mister Maglev? Something like that.

“Mary-Alice Arceneaux. Celia’s deceased husband’s cousin’s wife, I believe. No blood relation.”

Sheriff Lee slooowly dragged a notebook over and started writing in slow, shaky fashion.

“Handwritten notes?” I asked. “You’re not recording this?”

“Don’t believe in that newfangled business. Now how’d you get all that information about this Mary-Alice?”

“She volunteered it when Celia and Gertie were getting into it—I mean, having a discussion…”

I didn’t like to put my friends in a bad light, especially where law enforcement was concerned. To be honest, though, Gertie had been the instigator.

“Walter tells me there was a verbal disagreement involving Celia Arceneaux. His account was a little light on detail. Maybe you could fill me in.”

Of course Walter’s account was “light on detail.” As the owner of Sinful’s General Store, Walter was expert at not getting caught between the warring factions of Sinful women. The Sinful Ladies’ Society—or the “good guys,” as I knew them—ran Sinful, and Ida Belle and Gertie ran the Sinful Ladies' Society.  Celia Arceneaux had her own group, arch-rivals of the SLS. Celia's crew modestly called themselves the GWs, or God’s Wives. 

Every Sunday, the conflict between the groups was reignited by the race to Francine’s Diner. The doors to the Catholic and the Protestant churches would fly open the minute services ended. On either side of the road, a herd of sneaker-shod old ladies would stampede from their respective places of worship. They raced toward Francine’s Diner,   hoping to secure the day's limited allotment of banana pudding.

I'd learned in one of my Company briefings that competition for scarce resources was at the root of most conflicts. It was as true in Sinful as it was in Tajikistan.

Chapter 4

Last Sunday

After a solid minute stuck in line behind the pontificating Celia, Gertie had had enough.

“Why Celia,” Gertie chirped, “I can’t imagine why you’d have to take a drama class. Everyone in Sinful knows you’re the queen of drama.”

Celia stopped talking to her friend Mary-Alice and turned slowly to face Ida Belle and Gertie.

Walter didn’t quite duck behind the counter like the bartender in those old Western movies when the bar fight breaks out. He did the next-best thing: quickly busied himself rearranging the beef jerky display next to the cash register. I feigned intense interest in the rack of ten-dollar sunglasses. 

“Why Gertie, as a former schoolteacher, you of all people should appreciate the value of education,” Celia cooed poisonously. “In fact, I hear they have beginner writing classes over at Mudbug Technical. Maybe you should think about signing up.”

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Celia twisted the knife:

“I was in Harriet’s bookstore the other day and happened to read a few pages of your latest—what is it called, Passion’s Promise?—and I thought, why, bless her heart, our Gertie may turn out to be a fine writer one of these days.”

This is what Gertie should have done: Nothing. Let it go. Instead, she turned red to the roots of her cottony-white hair, clenched her tiny fists, and pressed her lips into a dangerous line.

Celia had hit her where it hurt. Gertie had just started a second (or third, if you count her time a spy) career as a self-published romance author.

“Why Celia,” Gertie hissed through a stiff smile and clenched teeth, “I never imagined you as a reader. What a surprise. Well, glad to hear you’re having fun in your playacting class. How does that saying go? I hope you break your neck?”

“It’s break a leg,” Celia snorted. “I might have thought someone who called herself a writer would know—”

Mary-Alice spoke up.

“Celia, dear, we’re holding up the line.”

Celia harrumphed and dumped the contents of her shopping basket onto the counter: hemorrhoid cream, dandruff shampoo, and a pile of candy bars.

As Walter rang Celia’s items up, Celia’s companion turned around and introduced herself to us.

“I’m Celia’s cousin. Mary-Alice Arceneaux.” She extended a manicured hand, the nails painted a demure peach. I was surprised that someone so well-mannered could be related to Celia, but she went on to explain that they were actually cousins-in-law. Celia’s late husband had been cousin to her own.

“It’s so important to stay active and social at our age,” Mary-Alice said. “Isn’t it wonderful that Celia’s found a creative outlet? I could never go up on stage in front of all those people. But I do enjoy my gardening. And my crafts.”

She lifted up the glasses chain she was wearing to show us. It was made of pale-green plastic, studded with pearls and faceted plastic stones. A pair of thick-lensed reading glasses with cherry-red frames dangled from it.

“I took a class at the big craft store out in Lake Charles to learn how to make these.  This one is my first, and it’s still one of my favorites. When I get a few more done I think I might get a vendor booth at the Mudbug Festival.”

 “That’s very nice.” I was less impressed with the gaudy glasses chain than with Mary-Alice’s deft de-escalation of the Gertie-Celia conflict.

“Looks real useful,” Ida Belle said. “Gertie, you like the color? It looks like it’d go with your chartreuse pantsuit.”

“Oh, you noticed?” Mary-Alice beamed with pride. “This was my own idea. The chain is made of a material that glows in the dark. You can go online and buy a whole spool of it directly from the Chinese. It’s quite inexpensive.”

She peered at me. “You’re young, dear, and you might not understand, but when you’ve mislaid your reading glasses in the dark, it’s nice to have a way to find them.”

“That is clever,” Ida Belle agreed. “Gertie, you should get one of those. That way you won’t keep forgetting your glasses. In fact, maybe that’ll be your Christmas present.”

Ida Belle knew very well that Gertie never “forgot” her glasses. The trouble was that Gertie didn’t think she needed glasses in the first place.

“I don’t need glasses,” Gertie proclaimed. “I have the visual acuity of a forty-year-old.”

“A forty-year-old bat,” Ida Belle muttered.

Celia whipped around again.

“We’re done here, Mary-Alice.”

She snatched her bag off the counter and marched out without a word, leaving Mary-Alice to follow her.

“Nice to meet you.” Mary-Alice smiled and gave us a little wave, then hurried out after Celia.

“Break a neck,” Gertie called after them as the door closed behind them. Then to us: “That woman chaps my hide. How dare she say I ‘may’ turn out to be a fine writer? I’d like to see her try to sit down and write an entire book without changing any of the characters’ names halfway through by accident. I’ve a good mind to—”

“Careful now, Gertie,” Walter warned. “Don’t do anything that’s gonna get you arrested. I don’t wanna lose one of my favorite customers.” He seemed more relaxed now, with Celia gone.

“I wasn’t thinking of doing anything illegal,” Gertie huffed. “I was just going to say, I’ve a good mind to show her up. Drama classes. Hmph.”

“Don’t worry about her, Gertie. She’s just jealous. I thought Passion’s Promise was a terrific read.” Walter smiled as he rang up our purchases item by item. The General Store must be one of the last retailers in the United States without scannable bar codes.

“You read Passion’s Promise?” Ida Belle exclaimed.

“Didn’t you read it, Ida Belle?” Walter asked.

Ida Belle’s cheeks turned pink and she changed the subject.

“Walter, I couldn’t find the Pennzoil 10w-40. Are you out?”

“I believe I just got a case in. You wait right here. I’ll get it for you.”

“Gertie,” I whispered as Ida Belle watched Walter stride into the back, “Isn’t Passion’s Promise the one with the main characters ‘William’ and ‘Ida Mae’?”

Gertie nodded. “They grow up together in the same small town, and William is hopelessly in love with Ida Mae. Ida Mae loves him too, but she’s holding back, afraid to lose her independence, and then when Ida Mae’s about to celebrate her seventy-fifth birthday—”

“Don’t spoil it,” Ida Belle interrupted. “I haven’t gotten to that part yet. Oh, here’s William. Walter. Here’s Walter with my motor oil.”

Chapter 5

“Maybe Mary-Alice did it,” I blurted out to Sheriff Lee.

“What’s that, Miss Morrow?

“More than half of murder victims in the United States were killed by someone they knew.”

Sheriff Lee squinted at me.

“How do you happen to know that?” 

I shrugged.

“I'm a librarian. Facts and figures are my thing. Celia and Mary-Alice were related through marriage. They’ve probably known each other for many years. And now that they've both lost their husbands—”

Sheriff Lee scratched his mustache.

“Lost their husbands...Are you telling me Celia Arceneaux killed Mary-Alice’s husband?”

“What? No. Wait. I mean, huh. I don't want to throw accusations around, Sheriff. But isn't it possible that there was some long-standing grudge between Celia and Mary-Alice? Maybe things finally boiled over, and Mary-Alice lost her temper and ran Celia down with her car.”

I honestly didn’t believe my ridiculous and completely improvised scenario for a second. But if it could take the heat off Gertie, at least temporarily, it was worth a try.

Sheriff Lee frowned.

“Well, I suppose I can talk to this Mary-Alice. She seem like the type to you?”

“They don’t always ‘seem like the type’, Sheriff.”

“So now what was the nature of the altercation at the General Store, between Gertie and Celia?”

“I wouldn’t call it an altercation. Gertie said she was surprised to hear that Celia was taking acting classes. Celia said Gertie might be interested in taking classes also. That was about it.”

“Sounds pretty tame. That was it?”

“Pretty much.”

“Anything else remarkable or noteworthy that you can recall?”

“No. Not that I remember.”

Sheriff Lee wrote something on his pad.

“So are we done here?” 

“Not so fast, Miss Morrow. I’d like to hear how you came to be enrolled at Mudbug Technical College. If you would oblige me.”

Chapter 6

Last Sunday

Ida Belle, Gertie, and I walked across the road to Francine’s and put our names down to be seated. The post-church rush for banana pudding was long over, but the Early Bird specials were starting. Ally spotted us and waved as she hurried from one table to another. I was happy she’d finally gotten her house fixed up, but it was a little lonely around my place with her gone. Of course, after what happened this afternoon with Carter, my place might not be lonely for long…

Ally appeared at the front counter.

“Hey, y’all. I can seat you now. We only have three servings of our seafood special left, so—”

“We’ll take it,” we said in unison.

“Any leftover banana pudding?” Gertie asked. Ally rolled her eyes.

“Sure. Like that’s ever happened.”

Ally led us to the one empty table in the restaurant. I inhaled the comforting aroma of pancakes, frying oil, burned coffee, and banana. Now that we were finally at Francine's, I was having second thoughts about spilling the beans.  On the one hand, I was dying to share my news with my two best friends. On the other hand, Ida Belle and Gertie were no great fans of serious romantic relationships. Membership in the Sinful Ladies’ Society was limited to never-married women and established widows.  They believed the presence of men clouded logical thinking. And in my experience, they weren't exactly wrong about that.

So I wasn’t sure whether they’d approve of the latest development in my relationship with Carter.

 “Out with it, Fortune,” Ida Belle commanded as soon as we were seated and Ally had left.

“Out with what?” I tried to look innocent, but it was no use. They were on to me.

“You’ve had this weird look on your face,” Gertie agreed. “Something’s up.”

“Now, what makes you think something’s up?”

“And we’re not gonna let it go until you tell us what it is.” Ida Belle lowered her voice to what she thought was a whisper. “Are they calling you back to D.C.?”

“No, it's nothing like that. I was trying to figure out how I was going to tell you anyway. It’s not about headquarters. It’s about Carter.”

“What about him?” Ida Belle prodded.

“Okay, you both know how Carter and I have been at an impasse because yes, he likes me but he doesn’t want to get into a relationship with someone with a dangerous job like mine.”

Ida Belle and Gertie nodded.

“Well, I talked to him about it earlier today, and I realized, I'm not married to the CIA. When all this is over, I don’t have to go back. I can stay here.”

Gertie and Ida Belle were perfect illustrations of astonishment, mouths dropped open.

“You’re gonna quit your career for Carter LeBlanc?” Ida Belle gasped.

“No, no, no, it’s not like that. I realized I like it here. I mean, D.C., it’s got a lot of great museums and restaurants that I never go to anyway, but it’s not home. Here feels like home. And it’s not just Carter. There’s both of you.”

“Well that’s wonderful, Fortune,” Gertie said. “Can I be a flower girl at your wedding?”

“Wedding? Whoa, wait a minute. I thought the Sinful Ladies’ Society believed in women being independent of men. Are you saying I should marry Carter?”

“I’m not saying it,” Ida Belle interjected.

“You’re young.” Gertie reached across to pat my hand. “You have plenty of time yet to enjoy married life. It goes by so fast, Fortune. Before you know it, Carter will die, you’ll start the obligatory five-year waiting period, and then you can join the Sinful Ladies’ Society. You’ll have the best of both worlds.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Fortune,” Ida Belle asked, “what are you gonna do when the real Sandy-Sue Morrow shows up in Sinful?”

“I’ve already thought about that. Director Morrow can work something out with her. He’s her uncle, after all. She’ll understand.  I bet she’d be thrilled to get the proceeds from the sale of her Aunt Marge’s house.”

“Can you afford to buy Marge’s house?” Gertie asked excitedly.

“I believe I can swing it, yes.”

“So you’re gonna stay here and help us run Sinful,” Ida Belle said. “Sounds great to me, but are you sure it’s enough for you? What else would you do with your time?”

“What else? What do you mean, what else—”

Ally interrupted us with our food. I smiled at her, wondering if she could tell we’d cut off our conversation at her arrival.

It wasn’t until Ally left that it dawned on me what Ida Belle was talking about.

“Are you saying I have to get a hobby?”

Ida Belle nodded.

“Some kind of outside interest, anyway. You don't want to be one of those people who retires and then drops dead of boredom.” 

“I already have a hobby. I study weapons.”

“We all know our weapons, dear,” Gertie said. “That’s not a hobby. It’s a basic skill.”

“I work on my motorcycle,” Ida Belle said. “Gertie writes her smutty novels. Even Celia has her acting classes, as we just found out. Although maybe if she spent a little less time with Tennessee Williams and a little more time with QuickBooks, our town finances wouldn’t be decimated right now.”

 “Decimated isn’t the word,” Gertie corrected her. “Decimated means lessened by one-tenth. Celia’s done far more damage than that. Besides, Ida Belle, I don’t write smut. It’s seniorotica.”

“Hey, I never said it wasn't classy smut. Let's not get off-topic. I believe we were talking about Fortune.”

“Yes, of course. Ida Belle has a point, Fortune. When you retire, you have to do something to keep your mind active. Whether you’re twenty-eight or eighty-eight. What are you good at?”

“Killing people.”

“What else?” Ida Belle pressed.

I thought about it for a minute and shrugged.

“Um, devising ways to harm people to the point that they are no longer living?”

They were right. Everyone had an interest but me. For most people, an exhaustive knowledge of weapons ancient and modern would count as a hobby. For me, though, it was simply part of my job.  You never know when you might have to use a museum artifact to dispatch a bad guy.

Ida Belle pulled out her phone and started typing into it. Then she nodded.

“What are you doing?” Gertie asked.

“Believe it or not, Celia might be onto something. Second summer session at Mudbug Technical College is starting tomorrow. And they’re still taking registrations.”

Chapter 7

Sheriff Lee was watching me, his pen poised above the pad. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Any time you’re ready.”

I shifted on the hard metal seat of Sheriff Lee’s folding chair. The few pounds I'd put on since moving to Sinful (thanks mostly to Francine's Diner) still left me in the “underweight” category of the BMI charts. I was not blessed with much in the way of natural upholstery.

“Just trying to recall as best I can. Let’s see. After we left the General Store, we went over to Francine’s to get the Early Bird Special. Sheriff, is there any way to open up the A/C vent a little? It’s awfully hot in here.”

Sheriff Lee glanced up at the air vent.

“Been stuck in that position since ’74. We’re almost done here. Just one more thing. What are y’all taking over at Mudbug Tech?”

“I’m enrolled in their analytics course.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s a computer class.”

“What about Gertie and Ida Belle? They taking the computer class too?”

“No. You’d have to ask them what they’re taking.”

I like to take a minimalist approach when I’m being interrogated. It’s always best not to volunteer extra information.

I wouldn’t have minded informing Sheriff Lee that Ida Belle was taking auto shop. But I didn’t want to tell him that Gertie had enrolled in Celia’s drama class. Gertie’s excuse was that she wanted to become a more dynamic public speaker in anticipation of all the book signings and author talks in her future. But I suspected that her real motivation was to try to outdo Celia and be a general thorn in her side.

 ”A computer class, you say.”

“That’s right.” I glanced at the door, wondering how long I was going to be in here, and whether Gertie and Ida Belle were managing to eavesdrop through the thin wall.

“And how’s this computer class going?” Lee said, with the air of a man who has nothing else to do for the rest of the day, and is settling in to hear a good yarn. “I’m assuming you are in fact attending this class.”

“Of course I’m attending the class.”

I realized I sounded impatient, and took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to get snippy with the sheriff.

“What would you like to know, Sheriff?”

“It’s my job to verify your statements. No need to take it personal. Tell me about the teacher. No, no, you could always look that up. The students. Tell me about the other students.”

“What about them?”

“Anything you can remember. Who, how many, anything a-tall.”

“Monday night there were sixteen students in attendance. Going from left to right, front row to back. First row, seat one: Male. Mid-twenties, five foot eight, weight three-ten to three-twenty-five. MPB—that’s male pattern baldness—indeterminate as subject wore a hat. Hair color reddish-brown, based on beard color. Moderate to severe myopia, no corrective eyewear. First row, seat two: Male. Early twenties, five foot eleven, one-forty to one-fifty. Severe cystic acne on face and neck. Hair—”

“That’ll do. What was Celia Arceneaux’s reaction to Gertie Hebert showing up in her class?”

“Oh. So you know about that. I couldn't say, Sheriff. Gertie would be able to answer that question better than I could.”

According to Gertie, Celia was fit to be tied when Gertie walked in. Celia made a point of ignoring Gertie, and in Gertie’s words, “sucking up to the teacher harder than a top-of-the-line Hoover.” 

My phone rang in my purse. I hoped Sheriff Lee was too deaf to hear it. I didn’t want to antagonize him in any way. The one thing I had to avoid was him running my prints.  If that happened, my cover would be blown, I’d have to be extracted immediately, and I’d probably never see Ida Belle, Gertie, or Carter again.

“Why don’t you go ahead and get that?” Lee said. 

“I think it stopped.” 

It started again.

“I’ll wait,” Lee said.

I sighed and dug my phone out. 

“What’s taking so long?” Ida Belle said loudly enough that I could hear her through the wall and through my phone at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” I mouthed to Sheriff Lee.

“Keep your shirt on, Ida Belle,” Lee shouted at the wall.  “Your turn’s coming soon enough.”

Lee braced his hands on his desk and eased himself into a standing position.

“You can go now. Tell Ida Belle to come in. Oh, just one more thing. Do you know how Gertie Hebert’s Cadillac got that big dent in the front end?”

“I wasn’t aware of any damage to Gertie’s car,” I said, although as beat-up as it already was, I’m not sure I would have noticed.

Ida Belle barreled past me into Sheriff Lee’s office. I took a seat on the folding chair next to Gertie. She was writing on a lined yellow pad.

“I’m making a journal of my observations,” she explained. “Like Katherine Mansfield. The writer. Virginia Woolf said that Mansfield produced ‘the only writing I have ever been jealous of.’”

“You have a dent in your front end?” I hissed.

Gertie’s hands flew to her chest.

“Of your car, Gertie!”

“Oh. That. It was a terrible coincidence, Fortune. I was driving out of the parking lot at school, and you know I’m not that familiar with Mudbug Technical, and this fire hydrant just popped up out of nowhere.”

“That sounds like a suspicious coincidence even to me, and I’m on your side.”

Gertie shrugged.

“At least you’re not harassing me about wearing glasses like Ida Belle’s been doing.”

“Ida Belle is right. You shouldn’t be driving without your glasses, especially not at night. Are you absolutely sure that was a fire hydrant you hit? And not Celia Arceneaux?”

Gertie gave me a frosty look.

“I may have been a little distracted. I’m not an idiot.”

I raised my hands and let them fall in my lap. Gertie was having a bad enough day already. My badgering her wasn’t going to help anything.

“You heard from Carter?” Gertie asked. I shook my head no.

After that glorious moment in my living room, the promise of a future together, the kiss, and then…nothing.

“I’m surprised he’s not running this investigation,” I said. “In fact, I haven’t seen or heard from him since last Sunday. I wonder what’s going on.”

“Well, since everyone knows you two are involved, maybe he’s staying out of it. What do they call it? He’s, oh, probably recusing himself.”

“Gertie.”

Gertie didn’t make eye contact.

“Gertie, you know something, don’t you? What aren’t you telling me? I know that tone of voice. You’re hiding something.”

Gertie’s little hands fidgeted on the yellow pad. 

“It might not mean anything, Fortune.”

I watched her. Silence and direct eye contact can be more effective in getting someone to talk than any threats or promises. 

“Oh, fine. I saw a woman go into his house.”

“What kind of woman?”

“Young. Redhead. Pretty.”

“Did you recognize her? Had you seen her before?”

“No, it was from a distance.”

I tried to ignore the cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“You think Carter’s sitting out the investigation of the mayor’s murder because he found himself a new side piece?”

That came out sounding a little shriller than I’d intended.

“No, that’s not what I said, Fortune. I wasn’t even going to tell you. But you were looking at me like you knew I knew something and you weren’t going to let up until I spilled everything. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent explanation.”

“Sure.” Just like there was an innocent explanation for the damage to Gertie’s car. “Gertie, I told him I was willing to give up my CIA work, it seemed like we had a future and now…nothing. No attempt to get in touch. I left a message on his voicemail, no reply. I haven’t even seen him around Sinful. Did he lose interest when he realized I might not leave at the end of the summer? Is that what happened?”

Gertie sighed.

“I didn’t think Carter was one of those men. The ones who go after unavailable women so they never have to commit. But perhaps I was wrong about him. Well, maybe this is a good thing, Fortune. You can look at your situation more clearly. Without Carter in the picture, do you still think it’s worth it to give up your career to stay here in Sinful?”

Ida Belle burst out of Lee’s office and jerked her head at Gertie. Gertie sprang to her feet (she’s amazingly spry) and hurried through the door. Almost as if she were glad to get away from me.

“Well, you’re in a black mood,” Ida Belle remarked as she sat down in Gertie’s recently-vacated spot.

“I can’t think of any reason I should be in a good mood right now.”

“Yeah, I guess it’d be bad manners to celebrate just yet.”

“Come on, Ida Belle. I know you didn’t like Celia, but no one’s celebrating.”

Ida Belle slumped in her chair.

“I know. I told Gertie she shouldn’t be driving at night.”

“You think Gertie ran over Celia and honestly thought she hit a fire hydrant?”

“Yeah, you’d think she’d know the difference. One’s a squat hunk of cold, unfeeling metal and the other one’s a fire hydrant.”

“Why didn’t Gertie carpool with us last night? Do you know?”

“Oh, she wanted to suck up to Miss Tauzin. The drama teacher. She said on Monday Celia gave her one of her cousin’s glasses chains as a gift, so Gertie found out what kind of coffee Miss Tauzin liked and last night went out of her way to get some.”

“Gertie was competing with Celia to be teacher’s pet?”

“Yep. Gertie used to be a teacher, so she thinks she should have the inside track. It bugged her how chummy Miss Tauzin and Celia were.”

“That’s not good, Ida Belle. If she and Celia were competing for the teacher’s attention, that gives Gertie a motive. A motive that the other students in the class could verify pretty easily.”

“I know.”

“Listen, Ida Belle, do you know anything about a strange redhead visiting Carter at his house?”

“Oh. Gertie told you about that? I wouldn’t pay it any mind.”

“You think there’s an innocent explanation?” I asked, inwardly cringing at the pathetic note of hope I heard in my voice.

“No, I just wouldn’t pay it any mind. Carter's a man. It’s how they are. Besides, you can’t count on Gertie’s eyewitness testimony. The woman’s blind as a brahminy snake. Maybe she saw a stop sign and thought it was a redhead.”

Gertie emerged from Lee’s office, looking pale. Ida Belle and I stood up.

“I’m not supposed to leave town,” she quavered. “Sheriff Lee thinks I killed Celia.”

Chapter 8

Gertie, Ida Belle, and I returned to my house (the house had belonged to “my” late Aunt Marge, but I was starting to think of it as mine) to strategize. I set out glasses of sweet tea for all three of us. Ida Belle reached into her purse for a dainty little bottle of Sinful Ladies’ Cough Syrup. She dosed Gertie’s tea and then her own. I declined. I wanted to keep my head clear for the time being.

We decided right away that we would keep attending our night classes. Celia’s murder—or accidental death—had happened on the campus of Mudbug Technical Institute. Our being enrolled in classes there gave us a perfect cover for snooping. At this point we didn’t know what we were snooping for, but we agreed it would be a good idea to keep our eyes open for anything out of the ordinary.  

That night, at the start of class, Professor Jackson read an announcement from the Mudbug Technical Institute Office of Community Relations about pedestrian safety. There had been a tragic accident, the announcement said. Mudbug Technical Institute wished to remind drivers and pedestrians to stay alert. They made it sound like the tragedy was entirely the fault of the accident victim and/or the unnamed driver, and not in any way the responsibility of Mudbug Technical Institute.

Aside from the safety announcement, class proceeded as usual. In the back rows, students played on their phones or dozed off; in the front row, the fat kid with the hat and the skinny one with the pimples kept derailing the class with topics that only they cared about.  I had very little patience with people who asked questions not to get an actual answer, but simply to show off how smart they were. I’d seen way too much of that behavior at briefing meetings.   

After class Gertie, Ida Belle, and I met up in the parking lot.  Mindful of the recent announcement, we carefully looked both ways as we crossed the lanes of the parking lot on the way to my Jeep. Ida Belle rode shotgun and Gertie climbed into the back seat.

“So, anyone make any discoveries?” Ida Belle asked as I pulled out (cautiously, lest I unwittingly mow down any pedestrians). “Anything out of the ordinary? The only thing I found out was I should’ve enrolled in a more advanced auto shop class. The stuff they’re covering is really basic. Fortune?”

“Nothing really relevant to our case. I was actually trying to pay attention and learn something, but these loudmouths in the front row kept interrupting and trying to show off how smart they were. It was kind of funny, actually. One of them tried to correct the professor about something, but he’d actually misread what she’d written on the board. So then his friend said, maybe if you…”

“Maybe if you what?” Ida Belle prompted.

“Nothing. It seemed funny at the time, but now I can’t remember it.”

Maybe if you wore your glasses, was what had said.  The story seemed a lot less entertaining when I remembered that Gertie’s refusal to wear her glasses may have cost Celia Arceneaux her life. I hoped it wasn’t true, but so far we had no alternate explanation.

“Your turn, Gertie. How was drama class? I imagine the news about Celia’s gotten out. Anyone miss her?”

“Dear me, no,” Gertie said. “Everyone’s already fighting over who’s going to take over the part of Blanche DuBois in the Student Showcase.”

“Well, there’s a motive for Celia’s murder,” I said.

“Yeah, now we’re talking.” Ida twisted around in her seat to face Gertie. “Think, Gertie. Was there anyone who wanted to play the part of Blanche bad enough to kill for it?”

“Only every woman in the class and at least two of the men.”

“What did the teacher do about all this?” I squinted at the short patch of asphalt illuminated by my headlights. This stretch of road between Mudbug and Sinful didn’t have street lights. “I hope she wasn’t encouraging it. It almost sounds like it’s…”

“Unseemly,” Gertie offered.

“I was thinking incitement to violence, but unseemly works too.”

“You know I’m the last person to stick up for Celia Arceneaux,” Ida Belle added, “but even I think that’s a little disrespectful. At least wait till the woman’s in the ground before you start fighting over who’s gonna get her part in the school play. You’re right, Fortune, the teacher should’ve shut that down.”

“Miss Tauzin wasn’t there tonight,” Gertie said. “I expected everyone to go home when she didn’t show up, but they all wanted to stay and practice their lines.”

“That is a serious level of commitment,” I said. “Suspiciously serious. Good thing you’re embedded in the class, Gertie. You’ll need to keep a close eye on this.”

“Speaking of eyes,” Ida Belle chimed in. “Maybe this would be a good time to start wearing your glasses.”

“Gertie, did you just kick the back of the seat? I’m trying to drive here.”

“Sorry, Fortune. That was meant for Ida Belle.”

“Yeah, okay. Well, this is good as far as your case is concerned, Gertie. We found out something useful tonight. There’s a class full of people with a motive to murder Celia Arceneaux.”

Chapter 9

That night I drifted off to sleep feeling optimistic. There was a good chance we’d find Celia’s killer among Gertie’s classmates. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized we had overlooked an obvious suspect. 

Marie.

Marie was not only Ida Belle and Gertie’s good friend; she was also Celia Arceneaux’s challenger for the mayor’s office. With Celia dead, there was no need to continue the vote recount. Marie was in.

I couldn’t imagine that the gentle Marie had resorted to foul play to get into the mayor’s office. Still, a good investigator follows every lead. Even—especially—if she finds it distasteful.

As soon as I was done brushing my teeth, I called Ida Belle.

 “Fortune,” Ida Belle scolded me, “do you really think Marie is capable of running someone over with a car? I don’t think she’s any more capable of running down Celia Arceneaux than Gertie is.”

“Less,” I heard Gertie shout in the background. “There’ve been a few times I’d have actually done it.”

“She’s right,” Ida Belle said. “Marie wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“We should still talk to Marie,” I said. “I don't think she’s guilty either, but we need to be thorough. Besides, someone should tell her what’s been going on.”

“Good point,” Ida Belle agreed. “Marie’s gonna end up mayor of Sinful now whether she likes it or not. She should get some warning.”

Marie hadn’t heard the news about Celia’s death. She didn’t believe us at first. We sat her down, and let Gertie tell her the whole story, concluding with the fact that Gertie herself was now the prime suspect.

Marie sat quietly, absorbing the news.

“I didn’t want to win like this,” she said finally.

“We know.”  Gertie reached over and gave Marie a hug.

“Well, where to now?” Ida Belle asked as soon as we were back outside. “That was a bust. Pretty obvious Marie didn't have anything to do with Celia's death.” 

“Well, I certainly didn’t kill Celia.” Gertie folded her arms. “Maybe a little more investigation into the victim is in order. Celia’s house isn’t far from here—”

“Gertie, you’re in enough trouble,” Ida Belle scolded. “You wanna add B&E to your murder charge?”

“Ida Belle’s right, Gertie. We really need to keep our noses clean on this one.”

Yet somehow, without actually agreeing to anything, the three of us found ourselves detouring right past Celia Arceneaux’s house.

Chapter 10

We stood in the gathering dusk, gazing across the road to Celia’s dark house.

“This is kind of spooky.” Gertie hugged herself.

“It was your idea, Gertie,” Ida Belle said.

“You wanted to come here too.”

Something flickered in my peripheral vision.

“Do you see that?” I interrupted the bickering septuagenarians. “Someone’s in the house.”

We stared at the blank windows for a long time, and I wondered if I’d imagined it. And then, there it was.

A greenish glow hovered briefly in the in the window and then flickered out.

“Maybe we should go in and investigate?” Gertie sounded a lot less confident now that we were faced with an actual intruder.

“What we should do is not be idiots.” Ida Belle dug out her phone and called 9-1-1.

Apparently, the emergency dispatcher was not impressed.

“I know it’s just a light in the window, but it’s a light in the window of a murder victim,” Ida Belle insisted. “Yes, it is an emergency! No, I don’t—”

She swore at the dispatcher, who had already hung up on her.

“How about the sheriff’s office?” Gertie suggested.

Ida Belle furiously punched the number into her phone as the sky darkened above us. The light in Celia’s house trembled, disappeared, and then reappeared in a different window.

“What do you mean, he’s gone for the day?” Ida Belle queried. “Well then, what about Deputy Breaux? No, not if he’s all the way out at the Swamp Bar. How about Carter Le Blanc? Really? Who are we supposed to call in an emergency, then? No, I just called 9-1-1. Okay, thanks, Myrtle. No, it’s fine.”

Ida Belle sighed.

“She doesn’t know where Carter is, hasn’t seen him for a few days. You know his home number?”

I did. I recited it to Ida Belle.

“No answer. Goes straight to voicemail. You wanna leave a message?” Ida Belle handed me her phone.

No, I did not want to leave another message on Carter’s voicemail like some kind of pathetic stalker. I pressed the hang-up button and gave the phone back to Ida Belle.

“What’s the point of leaving a message? The intruder’s not going to hang around until he calls back. We have to do something now.”

Ida Belle and I went around the back of the house, leaving Gertie to stand watch in front. I had my phone on vibrate in my hand. If Gertie saw someone coming, she’d call and alert us. Also, holding the phone gave my fist a little more heft in case I needed to punch anyone.

Fortunately, the back of Celia’s house was mostly in shadow. Better yet, the kitchen door was open a crack on its hinges. This was going to be less a “breaking and entering” than a “strolling in and looking around.”

Ida Belle and I edged into the dark kitchen, paused, and listened. Sure enough, we heard floorboards creaking. The sound came closer. It sounded like someone walking slowly and dragging something. Ida Belle and I positioned ourselves on either side of the doorway.

I felt the presence of the intruder before I saw anything, and my muscle memory took over. A blur of action and yelling, and the intruder was instantly on the ground, face-down and shrieking bloody murder.  I was straddling her back, holding her arm locked in a disabling position. Ida Belle had her legs pinned so she couldn’t kick.

Ida Belle was the first to realize that we might have been applying excessive force. She sprang up and dusted off her pants, and switched on the kitchen light.

It took me a little longer. I released the arm and slowly rose to my feet, and then extended a helping hand.

Mary-Alice Arceneaux gratefully reached out and stood up.

“Mary-Alice!” I exclaimed. “You? You killed Celia?”

“Killed her? Good heavens, I should say not.” She reached down and righted her suitcase, which had been knocked over in the scuffle. I spotted her reading glasses on the floor next to the stove. I picked them up and handed them to her, and she reattached them to the festive-looking chain draped around her neck.

“Your glasses holder really does glow in the dark,” I said. “We saw the light through the window.”

“Oh, my. I didn’t think of that.”

“Fortune, watch her,” Ida Belle said. “I’m gonna call 9-1-1. And this time—”

“Put the phone away.”

Celia Arceneaux stood in the doorway.

Chapter 11

“What is going on here?” I looked from Mary-Alice to Celia and back to Mary-Alice. “Well?”

“I don’t know what you all are doing in my home, but I’ll thank you to leave and keep your big fat mouths shut.”

Gertie burst in through the back door.

“Ida Belle, I saw the light come one. Are you—” she spotted Celia and her concern immediately turned to fury.

“Celia Arceneaux! Why, you lying—”

I placed a hand on Gertie’s arm to restrain her. We didn’t have time to stand around and wait for her to exhaust her (admittedly impressive) store of English and Cajun swear words. 

 “You framed me!” Gertie shook my hand off her arm, red to the roots of her white hair. “You faked your death to get me in trouble.”

“It wasn’t just to get you into trouble, Gertie,” Ida Belle glared at their nemesis. “This was a neat way to leave someone else holding the bag now that our town’s broke. Framing you for murder was just the icing on the cake.”

“How dare you, Ida Belle!” Celia’s knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the suitcase handle. “Come on, Mary-Alice. Let’s go.”

“I promise it isn’t like that,” little Mary-Alice pleaded. I’d nearly forgotten she was still standing there.

I studied Celia’s face. Behind her bravado, she was terrified.

“Celia,” I said, “believe it or not, we want to help.”

“You can’t help me,” she hissed. “Someone wants me dead.”

“Yeah, that’s a convenient story,” Ida-Belle challenged. “I think you put on this big charade so people would forget about all the money that's disappeared from our town.”

Celia marched into the kitchen and hefted her suitcase up onto the kitchen table. Then she unzipped the suitcase, pulled out her laptop, and started it up.

“I thought you were in a big hurry,” Gertie goaded her.

“It seems I have no choice but to prove myself to you people. Now I’m not going to read these messages again. They’re disgusting. But because you people don’t trust me…”

Celia pulled up her email account and displayed the messages for us to read.

She was right. The emails were disgusting. All of them had the same subject line: Your Days Are Numbered. Each contained a different, and explicit, description of the harm that would befall Celia if she didn’t “cooperate.”

Little Mary-Alice averted her eyes and twisted her hands together.

“Have you seen these messages?” I asked her. She nodded.

“Drop what?” Ida Belle asked. “What is this about?”

“You have to promise not to tell a soul. If this gets out, it’ll shake people’s faith in the town’s financial stability.”

Gertie rolled her eyes. “Pretty sure that ship sailed when the town’s employees started getting IOUs instead of paychecks.”

“Someone hacked into Sinful’s bank account. I’ve been doing what I can to keep it together, but the money’s just been drained away.”

“Nice try, Celia,” Gertie said. “We all know this all happened because you can’t manage your way out of a—”

“No, look. I’ll prove it,” Celia cut her off. She pulled up the Mudbug Credit Union website and navigated over to the city account. Sure enough, there were several withdrawals of $9,999. Just under the ten thousand dollars that would trigger mandatory reporting to the IRS.

“How do we know you didn’t make those withdrawals?” Gertie persisted.

Ida Belle rested her hand on Gertie’s shoulder to calm her.

“Celia, if this is true, why didn’t you report it to someone?”

“Because Celia is the thief,” Gertie fumed.

“How is this related to the threats you’ve been getting?” I asked.

“It wasn’t enough for them to empty our regular bank account. The thief wanted the Sinful employees’ pension fund too. I don’t know how they found out about it, but they did, and sent an email demanding the password. So I wrote back and said I hired a detective and we were going to find them out and hand them over to the police.  That’s when the threats started.  So don’t you three blab any of this to anyone. The thief thinks I’m dead, and that’s fine with me. Come along, Mary-Alice. I can’t stay here.”

“Did you actually hire a detective?” I asked.

Sudden banging on the door made all five of us jump.

“Sheriff’s office! Open up!”

Celia looked around wildly.

“I called Myrtle again and talked her into calling Deputy Breaux back from the Swamp Bar,” Gertie said, looking innocent. “I convinced her that this was more important. There’ll always be another brawl at the Swamp Bar.”

“In here!” Ida Belle shouted.

Celia stood frozen with fear, but she didn’t look one-tenth as scared as Deputy Breaux. He stopped in his tracks when he spotted Celia. The color drained from his face, exactly as if he were seeing a ghost. He opened and closed his mouth several times before he was able to get any words out.

“I think you should all come with me,” he stammered, finally.

“I don’t think we’ll all fit in your car,” the ever-practical Ida Belle pointed out.

I could see the wheels turning (slowly) as Breaux counted Celia, her accomplice Mary-Alice, and then Ida Belle, Gertie, and me.

“I’m not sure you need to come, Miss Ida Belle.”

“We’ll meet you at the station,” Ida Belle said. “Believe me, I want to get to the bottom of this.”

In addition to scaring up Deputy Breaux, Myrtle had also managed to convince Sheriff Lee to stay up past his bedtime. Lee was at the station when we arrived, and we all crowded into the tiny interrogation room.

Gertie, Ida Belle and I sat along one side of the rickety wooden table; Celia and her cousin Mary-Alice took their places on the opposite side. Celia managed to look bored and put-upon, like she had somewhere more important to be. Mary-Alice fidgeted like a little red-haired mouse; I half-expected her to start nibbling on a giant sunflower seed.

Sheriff Lee took his seat at the head of the table.  Deputy Breaux wasn’t in the room. This was apparently above his pay grade.

“Well, Miss Celia.” Sheriff Lee settled back in the wooden chair and steepled his gnarled fingers. “You’ve certainly stirred up some trouble here. Now I gave Miss Gertie here quite a time about your demise, which in retrospect I realize was somewhat hasty of me. What with you being alive and well and all. Which brings me to the question, who’s the body Mudbug PD is holding?

Like an exploding grenade, Celia Arceneaux abruptly burst into tears.

Chapter 12

“It was Miss Tauzin,” she sobbed. “They got Miss Tauzin.”

“Our drama teacher?” Gertie exclaimed.

Celia blubbered out the story in bits and pieces:

Celia had gone to the sheriff’s office for help with the online thefts, and they told her they couldn’t do anything. (Here Sheriff Lee shifted uncomfortably in his chair but didn’t deny what Celia said.) She’d then contacted the FBI, but they told her they didn’t have the resources to pursue such a “small” infraction. They advised her to change her passwords and consider hiring a private investigator and a lawyer.

“Did you do that?” Sheriff Lee asked.

“Sheriff, you know I—I mean, our town couldn’t afford any of that. But I thought if I could make the thief think I’d hired a private investigator, that’d put the fear in him.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, not exactly, Sheriff.  That’s when I started getting the threats.”

“From who?” I asked.

Lee glared at me.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions here. From who?” 

“From whom,” Gertie whispered.

Celia shook her head.

“I don’t know. But his messages were vile. Utterly vile.”

“Blanche DuBois couldn’t have said it better,” Ida Belle muttered.

Celia sniffled, and her lower lip trembled.

 “Sheriff Lee, I will tell you what happened. But I do not wish to be a spectacle. Some privacy would be appreciated.”

Lee nodded to us.

“You three may as well go on home,” he said.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” I said. “On our way.”

The three of us stood up, already knowing what we would do next.

“Sheriff,” Gertie said, “I’m just going to stop in the ladies’ room first. I trust no one will mind.”

The ancient air-conditioning ducts in the building doubled as a perfect intercom system. And the best and most private place to listen was the little bathroom.

“Don’t break the toilet again,” Gertie reminded me as we filed down the hallway.

“That wasn’t my fault. What kind of low-budget toilet can’t handle a person’s weight?”

“I don’t think they’re designed for people to stand on them,” Ida Belle said. “Now. If we can keep still and keep our mouths shut, we can probably…okay, here we are.”

As the most limber of the three, I stepped into the tiny bathroom first and wedged myself between the sink and the wall. Gertie followed, and Ida Belle came in last and slid the flimsy little bolt to lock the door.

The sounds from the interrogation room came through muffled and echo-y, but we could hear most of the conversation. Celia’s voice, of course, came through loud and clear.

“No, I did call it in, you old—I mean, Sheriff. That’s what I was telling you. I called 9-1-1.”

“Don’t get huffy with Sheriff Lee, Celia,” Gertie whispered.

“And you’re telling me you can’t describe the vehicle?”

“Well, it was, I don’t know, it was a car. A dark one, I think. It was night time, and it all happened so fast.”

“Darn,” Ida Belle hissed. “What’d we miss?”

“Well now,” Sheriff Lee’s voice echoed down the air vent. “What with all this jumping around, you’re making it difficult to follow the story. Start from the beginning, if you would.”

Ida Belle and Gertie exchanged a mini- fist bump (we were all wedged in too tight to move much) and looked up at the air vent expectantly.

“Tatienne and I were walking out to the parking lot after class.”

“Tatienne?”

“Miss Tauzin.” Celia’s voice broke and she started to sob.

“Sheriff,” this was Mary-Alice’s quiet voice. “Is all this necessary? Celia has been through so much in these last few days—”

“Celia was going to let an innocent woman hang,” Sheriff Lee’s voice had a hard edge to it. “It’s the least she can do. Please continue, Celia.” 

“Hang?” Gertie squeaked.

“Shh!” Ida Belle glared at Gertie.

“We were in the parking lot, and had come to the place where she was going to her car, and I to mine,” Celia whimpered. “I had given Tatienne—Miss Tauzin—one of Mary-Alice’s glasses holders. They glow in the dark, so you can find your glasses.”

“Why Celia,” Mary-Alice exclaimed. “What a lovely gesture.”

“It was the worst thing I ever did.” Celia collapsed into sobs.

“I believe I’m getting the picture,” Sheriff Lee said. “Can you describe Tatienne Tauzin?”

Celia was bawling loudly enough to rattle the fixtures. Finally she gasped,

“A lovely woman. Simply a lovely woman.”

“I understand what you’re getting at, Sheriff,” Mary-Alice said. “Tatienne and Celia did look somewhat alike. They were about the same height and figure, and Tatienne wore her hair a bit like Celia’s. In a poorly-lit parking lot, one could be mistaken for the other.”

“Especially if Tatienne Tauzin was wearing Celia’s glow in the dark glasses chain,” Sheriff Lee said.

“Oh, my.” Mary-Alice sounded horrified. “Oh, dear.”

“Celia, did you witness the hit-and-run?” Sheriff Lee persisted.

“I only heard the car at first. It was speeding. It was going so fast. Too fast. And when it was gone I saw something…glowing. On the ground, very faintly. I went over to look.”

The conversation paused; I assumed Sheriff Lee was getting Celia a tissue. I was getting a cramp in my leg. We probably didn’t all need to cram into the bathroom to eavesdrop, I realized. It was too late to do anything about it now.

After a few moments, Celia picked up her story again.

“I called 9-1-1 for help right away, Sheriff. Immediately. But I could see for myself that it was too late. Tatienne was gone.  And the thing is, Sheriff, I knew it wasn’t Tatienne they were after. It was me. I was certain of it. And I knew they’d try again once they knew they’d gotten the wrong person. So I…I did what I had to do to save myself. I took Tatienne’s wallet from her handbag and put mine in. Then I called Mary-Alice. Mary-Alice, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to have to hear all the sordid details. But that’s the only way I could make the killer think he got me.”

Mary-Alice was silent.

“I bet Mary-Alice did it,” Gertie whispered. “Who could hang around Celia that long and not want to murder her?”

“Don’t be silly, Gertie,” Ida Belle said, “you’re saying she ran down Miss Tauzin, and then as she was driving away she got a call from Celia, thought, oops, missed, and then came back to get Celia while she was still driving the murder weapon?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “Although, Gertie, it seems like your drama class is full of suspects. And there’s something else we haven’t thought of. Maybe Miss Tauzin actually was the target from the beginning.”

“And Celia thought it was about her, because Celia thinks everything’s about her,” Ida Belle finished my thought. “That’s likely.”

 “What a harebrained plan,” Gertie huffed. “To try to let everyone think she was dead. How long was Celia planning to keep this up? Until after I got the chair?”

“Shh,” I said. “Sound goes both ways. Besides, Lee said you were going to hang, not get the chair.”

“So what were you doing sneaking around your house with the lights off?” Sheriff Lee asked.

 “I was running out of cash,” Celia said. “And I didn’t have my credit cards, you see. They were all in my wallet.”

“The wallet you planted on the dead woman.”  

“I told her she should come to my house,” Mary-Alice said. “She couldn’t stay in that motel forever.”

“Well, I think I need to have a little chat with Mudbug PD,” Sheriff Lee said. “We need to straighten some things out. No, no, don’t go. You ladies stay right there. I’d like you here for this conversation.”

Chapter 13

Friday was a new day.

Gertie was off the hook for Celia’s murder, as Celia was clearly alive and well. Once Sheriff Lee related Celia’s story to Mudbug PD, they quickly confirmed that the dead woman was indeed Tatienne Tauzin, drama instructor at Mudbug Technical Institute. 

The murder was no longer any of our business.   There was still the case of the missing town funds. Gertie had convinced us that it was probably a friend or distant relative of Celia’s, if not Celia herself, behind the thefts. After all, nothing like this had happened before Celia took over the mayor’s office. Not even during the reign of the corrupt Herbert Fontleroy, Celia’s predecessor.

I went for my morning run and stopped in at the General Store to buy…well, I didn’t really need to buy anything. But Walter was Carter’s uncle. Pathetic as it was, I was hoping for a scrap of information, a clue. Where was Carter? What had happened between that magical afternoon and now? 

I chose to think of the Carter LeBlanc situation as a mystery that had to be solved, but deep down I suspected it was no mystery at all. Carter was interested in a no-strings-attached flirtation, knowing that “Sandy Sue” was going to disappear at the end of the summer. The minute I suggested I might stay on permanently, he lost interest. And now he was avoiding me.

I pushed into the General Store. Even though it was only mid-morning, the chilled air inside was a welcome respite from the sultry Louisiana summer. Walter looked up at the jingle of the bell. 

“Morning, Fortune. Heard the news about Celia. What can I help you find this morning?”

“Oh, I just stopped in for, well, you know…um…”

“Can’t make up your mind?” he chuckled.

Your nephew’s the one who can’t make up his mind, I thought.

“What did you hear about Celia?” I was stalling, trying to think of something to buy. I would’ve loved to pick up a six-pack of Abita Golden, but Sinful was still a dry town.

“That the rumors of her death were greatly exaggerated. She was in here yesterday evening purchasing groceries. Sheriff Lee’d convinced her it was safe to move back home. Guess Gertie’s off death row for the time being.”

I wanted to ask Walter whether he’d seen Carter recently. But my pride wouldn’t let me. Carter knew my number, knew where I lived, and had an unanswered message from me sitting in his voice mail. I picked up a bottle of Pepto-Bismol pink nail polish and set it on the counter. My own manicure was looking pretty ratty, so it was a plausible purchase.

“Just this,” I said.

“How’s your classes going?” Walter asked as he rang me up.

“Oh, over at Mudbug Tech? Fine. It’s a really compressed schedule, five nights a week. Keeps me busy. Which is good, I guess. I don’t understand some of the other students, though. Some of them spend the whole class period sitting and playing on their phones. Or worse, they think they know more than the professor and argue with her, even though they always turn out to be wrong. Why even bother to go to school if you’re going to take that attitude? Drop out and let us serious students learn in peace.”

“You shouldn’t let the knuckleheads get to you, Fortune. Don’t take it personally.”

“No, you’re right.”

But I did take it a little personally. In Afghanistan, I had tried to protect girls who risked their lives to go to school. And I knew families who had lost their daughters because they took that risk. It bothered me that I couldn’t do more for them without endangering my mission.

I wasn’t about to share any of that with Walter, of course.

“I don’t like to see people throwing their opportunities away. And I feel sorry for the professor when the students are so rude.”

“I’m sure you’re a model student, Fortune.”

 I smiled. “You know it.”

I pushed my way back out into the muggy air and let out a sigh. That had been a useless little expedition. No information whatsoever about Carter. Normally Walter would say something about his nephew. Maybe Walter was avoiding the topic because he knew that Carter had lost interest in me. How humiliating.

It was getting too hot and humid now to run comfortably, and I was debating whether to push myself anyway, when my phone rang. It was Ida Belle.

“Get over here now,” Ida Belle commanded. “We have an emergency. It's Celia.”

Filled with new energy, I broke into a sprint.

Chapter 14

Ida Belle’s front door was locked. I knocked and waited for her to let me in.

Inside, Gertie was sitting at Ida Belle’s kitchen table with a weeping Celia Arceneaux. Celia’s laptop was open on the table. The jaunty “Celia the Great” sticker on the side was a sad contrast to the defeated-looking woman herself. 

“Celia was right,” Ida Belle said.

 ”What’s going on?” I asked. “Right about what?”

Gertie motioned me over to look at the open laptop.

The “from” address was a string of what looked like nonsense letters to me. The message was clear, though:

You have one more chance. Reply to this message with the account info and login.

Next time I won’t miss.

Under that was a street address in Sinful.

“Isn’t that your address?”  I asked. Celia nodded.

“They want her to know that they know where she lives,” Ida Belle explained.

I studied Celia. She hadn’t sent the message to herself, I was pretty sure. Behind her defiant expression, she seemed genuinely terrified. The fact that she’d actually reached out to her nemeses Ida Belle and Gertie for help was proof of that.

“Did you contact Sheriff Lee?” I asked.

“That old fool was no help at all! He tried to put me off, so I told him if he couldn’t do anything about it, the least he could do was let me talk to someone who still has their prostate. Then he got that dimwit Deputy Breaux, who stood there and scratched his head and asked me if I knew who sent it.  I said of course I didn’t and he said then how did I expect him do anything about it if I didn’t even know who sent it.”

I noticed she didn’t say anything about the other deputy. Carter. I certainly wasn’t going to ask.

“What about—” I started.

“We called ‘em all,” Ida Belle interrupted.

“But now that there’s an explicit threat—”

“You’d think,” Gertie said. “But no.”

“Even the—”

“Yep. They told us they didn’t have the resources. They said the same thing as before. Celia could hire a detective and then find an attorney and try to sue this idiot. If she can find out who he is.”

“Let me see that,” I sighed.

I read through the email and then, with a few keystrokes, securely forwarded the email to my partner at headquarters, Ben Harrison. Then I erased my electronic tracks and pushed the computer back to Celia. The threat wasn’t aimed at me, so it probably wouldn’t be a high priority for the CIA. But Harrison might pass it along to someone who’d know what to do with it. It was worth a try.

“What now?” I asked. 

“Mary-Alice said I could stay with her,” Celia said.

“That’s awfully nice of Mary-Alice,” I said. “So, what did you need me for?”

“She won’t go in Gertie’s car,” Ida Belle said. “Not with Gertie driving.  Not that I blame her.”

“Oh, what nonsense,” Gertie sulked.

“And she doesn’t want to ride on the back of my motorcycle. So we thought you could drive the Jeep.”

Chapter 15

Celia rode in the passenger seat next to me, with Gertie and Ida Belle in the back. I’m a good driver, but Celia’s running commentary almost ran me into a ditch. When she wasn’t yelling things like “Watch out!” “That one’s gonna hit us head on!” or “Idiot!” she was sucking in her breath sharply and crossing herself. I was relieved when we pulled up to Mary-Alice’s little one-story house in the suburbs of Mudbug.

Mary-Alice hurried out to meet us, almost unrecognizable in baggy overalls and a giant straw hat. She pulled off thick canvas gloves with daisies printed on them.

“I was just tending to my strawberries.” She beamed at us. “Come in, and we’ll have some sweet tea.”

We followed Mary-Alice inside.  She seemed to be in a much sunnier mood than she had the night we’d tackled her in Celia’s house.

“Your house is lovely,” Gertie remarked. She was right. It was a little too fussy and floral for my taste, but neat and bright. Thanks to the generous windows and wispy lace curtains, the interior was drenched in sunshine. 

“I do love it here. And the best thing about it is, it’s paid off. Here, there’s room at the kitchen table. Please, sit down. I’ll get us some tea. No, no, sit.”  Gertie, Ida-Belle, Celia and I settled around the table as Mary-Alice set out our tea. “It’s so important for women to be prudent with our finances. There are always unexpected expenses, aren’t there? Water heater goes out, fender-bender, roof repair. We don’t make as much as the men, and we live longer. Our money has to stretch.”

“Mary-Alice, you have anything to eat?” Celia got up and began to rummage in Mary-Alice’s fridge.

“Oh, help yourself, dear. You must be famished.”

I wondered how long Mary-Alice’s saint-like patience would last, with Celia staying in her house.

“So do you ladies make it out to Mudbug often?” Mary-Alice asked.

“We do lately,” Ida Belle said.

“We’ve been coming out every night for classes at Mudbug Tech,” Gertie added. “I’m in Celia’s acting class. I don’t know what they’re going to do for the rest of the session, though.”

“Now that poor Miss Tauzin has passed.” Mary-Alice crossed herself demurely and sat down to join us at the table.

“If they keep the class going, I’m going to stay in. Celia, you should’ve seen how people were fighting over your part in the play when they thought you were dead. It was like a pack of gators going after a swamp rat.”

“Once the news about Miss Tauzin gets out,” I said, “they’re going to suspect that Celia’s not dead. If her would-be murderer is in that class, they’re going to try again.”

“Yeah, I better keep my eyes peeled in class tonight,” Gertie said.

“Peel your eyes all you want. Won’t do much good if you don’t wear your glasses.”

“Shut up, Ida Belle,” Gertie suggested sweetly.

“My grandson is enrolled at Mudbug Tech.” Mary-Alice volunteered. “He’s taking a computer class. His name is Caden. Caden Wilson. He’s a smart boy.”

“Caden Wilson?” I said. “I think I know who he is. On the husky side, reddish beard, wears a fedora?”

“Why, yes! Don’t call it a fedora, though. He’ll be sure to remind you that it’s a trilby. Oh my, you must be the Blonde.”

“Possibly,” I said.

“Why, you look perfectly intelligent to me. And I don’t think you’re ‘too tall’ at all.”

“No? Oh, good. That’s a huge relief.” I stood up. “Thanks so much for the tea, Mary-Alice. We’ll head back and let you and Celia settle in. Celia, if you get any more of those threatening messages, save them, and pass them along to Mudbug PD. They’re the ones handling Tatienne Tauzin’s murder now. Or they should be. Since the murder occurred in Mudbug.”

Ida Belle drove the Jeep back to Sinful while I called Harrison. He picked up immediately.

“I just wanted to check if you got the email I forwarded you.”

“I got it,” he said. “You’re not the target of this, right?”

“No. The recipient was Celia Arceneaux. The mayor-elect of Sinful. She’s—”

“I know who Celia Arceneaux is.”

“Of course you do. This is the latest one. There have been others. Every time she’s tried to report the threats, she’s been brushed off. Now someone’s dead and it looks like the person sending the threats is either the killer or knows enough about Celia’s movements to make her think they’re the killer.”

“As far as the previous threats, yeah, in a lot of cases the laws haven’t really caught up to the technology. But sure, I’ll pass this along. Maybe someone’ll have some time to work on it. Glad to hear you’re not in the middle of it. For once.”

I put my phone away. Harrison had been there for me since the beginning of my career, and I hoped we could remain friends after I retired. I’d still have fun visiting Harrison’s upstate property for a day of target practice and blowing stuff up. I could see Carter enjoying it too. Assuming he was still interested in a future with me. 

“You didn’t have to do that for Celia.” Ida Belle steered around a washed-out part of the skinny one-lane road. “She wouldn’t lift a finger to help you.”

“Fortune’s a better human being than Celia is,” Gertie said.

“Not really,” I said. “But whoever is behind this is destroying the town of Sinful. If I’m going to make my life here, which I still want to do, then I want to do what I can to protect it.”

“If you’re really going to stay on here, there’s one loose end you need to tie up,” Gertie declared.

“I’m not calling Carter again, Gertie.”

“I didn’t say call him. I say we pay him a visit, and make him forget all about that redhead.”

“You know what?” Ida Belle said. “Gertie’s right. I can’t stand seeing you moping around.”

“I have not been moping.”

“Yes, you have. Let’s get this thing settled one way or another.”

Chapter 16

Two retired Vietnam-era spies. One CIA operative. All of the tricks of spycraft at our disposal. So this is what we did: We drove to Carter’s house and knocked on his front door.

Sometimes you get your best intelligence just by talking to people.

As I had feared, a woman answered the door. It took me a moment to recognize her.

“Emmaline!” I exclaimed.

Carter’s mother looked tired, but she managed a smile.

“Why don’t you come in?” Her voice was almost a whisper. “We need to keep it down. He’s resting.”

“Your hair,” I stammered. “It’s red.”

“It’s called balayage. I thought I’d try something different.” She touched her hair. “In fact, I had just come out of the beauty parlor when I got the call from Doctor Stewart—anyway. Would you like some sweet tea?”

We all declined politely, still full from Mary-Alice’s hospitality.

“So, Emmaline. You’re a redhead now,” I repeated when we were all seated in Carter’s living room. Gertie, I noticed, was very deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“I’ve been kicking myself for sitting in the salon while Carter was…well, how would I have known?”

“What is going on with him?” I asked.

Carter’s mother sighed.

“Fortune, the doctor doesn’t want Carter to have any exertion in his state. He doesn’t even want me to bring him his mail or play his phone messages until he recovers some.

“What state?” Gertie asked. “None of us has seen Carter at all lately. And with all due respect to Sheriff Lee and Deputy Breaux—”

“Sinful is falling apart without Carter,” Ida Belle interrupted.  “Some hacker’s been draining Sinful’s accounts.  And they’ve been threatening Celia, trying to get into the pension fund.  Sheriff Lee and Deputy Breaux are completely useless. And an innocent woman is dead, probably because the murderer mistook her for Celia, and no one knows who killed her.”

“Oh!” Emmaline gasped.

“Carter must be quite ill,” Gertie said.

“What’s wrong with him, anyway?” Ida Belle asked.

“It’s called post-concussion syndrome,” Emmaline explained. “The injury from, well, from that time you saved his life, Fortune. Doctor Stewart said that we can’t predict when or whether PCS will happen. But for Carter, it came on suddenly and hit him hard. He gets terrible nausea and dizziness, he’s very sensitive to light…”

“Sounds like a hangover,” Ida Belle said.

“Much worse than a hangover, I think,” Emmaline sighed. “It’s awful, watching him go through it. And I can tell he hates being shut up in his room, but Doctor Stewart insisted…”

Emmeline appeared lost in thought.

“You know, there’s a reason why they say ‘in sickness and in health.’ Fortune, do you believe in that?”

“I…what?”

“If you love someone, doesn’t that mean you’ll stick with him in sickness and in health?”

“Of course.” As I said it, I realized I meant it.

Emmaline stood up.

“Come with me. Gertie and Ida Belle, maybe I’ll just have Fortune visit for now. Carter’s still quite ill, and not ready for a lot of company. Please help yourselves to some icebox cake.”

“Works for me.” Ida Belle stood up and headed to Carter’s refrigerator.

Carter’s bedroom had a close, sour smell. The shades were drawn and the lights were off. Carter was in bed, covers drawn up to his chin despite the stuffy warmth of the room.

“Carter?” Emmaline murmured. “You have a visitor.”

Carter turned his head toward me, squinting.  I don’t know what propelled me, but I moved to his bedside and took his hand. When I looked back at his face his eyes were closed.

“Carter, I’ll be right back,” Emmaline said, and disappeared.

I perched on the edge of the bed. Carter didn’t let go of my hand.

“I’ve been a little under the weather,” he murmured. “Did I miss anything?”

“Did you miss anything? How much can you handle?”

“Tell me everything. Doctor Stewart told my mother to lock me in a lead-lined box until I was all better, and she’s a stickler for following doctor’s orders. They both think I need to be handled with kid gloves. No excitement, no bad news. It’s like sensory deprivation in here. Except for the headaches.”

I brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“Here’s the short version. Gertie was arrested for Celia’s murder. It looked bad for Gertie, but then Celia came back from the dead.”

A smile played around the corner of Carter’s mouth. His eyes were still closed.

“That’s funny, Fortune. Seriously, though, something must have happened in Sinful over the last few days. Sorry for not getting up. I have to lie here with my eyes closed so the room doesn’t start spinning.”

“Well, I guess this explains why you didn’t return my call.” Carter still looked handsome to me, although his dark hair was plastered to his forehead, and his skin looked a little waxen.

Carter’s eyes opened. “Your call? What call?”

“Nothing urgent. Just saying hello.”

His eyes drifted shut again.

“So no news is good news?”

“I actually wasn’t kidding about Celia and Gertie. Let me tell you the whole story from the beginning.”

I did. Emmaline came into the room at one point. Carter was sitting up by now, and listening raptly. She flashed me a radiant smile and drifted out again.

“So we thought it was over when they established the victim’s identity,” I said. “But then this new threat to Celia came in. They know where Celia lives.”

“You should notify the FBI,” Carter said.

“We tried. They told her to hire a lawyer and try to sue them.”

“Celia’s not staying at her house, is she?”

“No. We drove her out to stay with her cousin-in-law or whatever you want to call her. Mary-Alice Arceneaux. Out in Mudbug.”

“Near Mudbug Technical College. Where you said the hit-and-run happened. How do you know this Mary-Alice isn’t the one who’s been threatening her all along?”

“That is an excellent point,” I conceded. “I don’t know that Mary-Alice is blameless.”

“And you just delivered Celia right to her.”

Carter leaned back and closed his eyes again.

“This is the one thing I hate about civilian work. In a war zone, it’s usually pretty clear who are your friends, and who’s the enemy.”

“Usually,” I said.

“Well, yeah.  But out here… Listen, Fortune, is this Mary-Alice in any financial trouble?”

“Good question. She said her house was paid off. Could’ve been lying. Or she could’ve paid it off with stolen money. I don’t know.”

“Nice of you to worry about Celia. I doubt she’d do the same for you.”

“That’s exactly what Ida-Belle said.”

“I’d tell you to stay out of it, but I doubt you’d listen.”

“It would be nice if someone stopped this person before they managed to drain Sinful’s pension fund too.”

“The pension fund? They got the pension fund?”

“No. They want it, but they don't have it.”

I could tell the conversation was tiring Carter out. In sickness and in health. It was kind of an alien concept to me. In my line of work, you were like a bullet. When you were expended—say your cover was blown, or you were disabled—then you were done.

But I liked the sound of it. In sickness and in health.

“I’ll let you rest,” I said. “Need some help with the pillow?”

“I got it.”

Carter relaxed back into the pillow, still holding my hand tightly. I watched his breathing become slow and regular, and felt his grip loosen. I started to pull my hand away, certain he was asleep.

“Are you going back to Mudbug Tech tonight?” he mumbled.

“For class? I think so. Yeah. We are.”

“Be careful.”

Chapter 17

The analytics class seemed particularly well-behaved tonight. Maybe the students were finally learning to act like grownups.  I didn’t hear any side conversations starting up.  If anyone was goofing off on their phone, they were doing it quietly.

The relative silence made the sudden buzzing of my phone all the more noticeable. Professor Jackson paused her lecture at the sound. I excused myself quickly and darted out into the hallway.  

Harrison was on the line.

“We know where the email originated,” he said. 

“And?”

“Mudbug. Not far from Sinful. You know where Mudbug is?”

“I’m in Mudbug right now. That was fast. Good work. Now what?”

“Know anyone there with a grudge against Celia Arceneaux?”

“Everyone in her drama class, for one.”

“Did you say her drama class?”

“Harrison, could they narrow it down to a specific location?”

“Sorry. There was some complicated technical reason why they couldn’t, which they were kind enough to explain to me in detail.”

“Okay. Gertie’s enrolled in the drama class, and she’s keeping her ears open. I’ll see what I can find out from her.”

“Great. Let me know how that goes.”

I slipped back into class just in time to be dismissed for our break.

I was halfway out the door, on my way to meet Gertie and Ida Belle at the cafeteria, when I heard Professor Jackson say,

“Cody, where’s Caden tonight?”

That’s why class had been going so well.  Mary-Alice’s trilby-wearing grandson wasn’t there to sigh and roll his eyes and contradict the professor.

“His grandma’s car got in a wreck so he’s been taking the bus,” Caden’s friend said. “Anyway, he texted me to tell me he missed the bus so I’m taking notes for him.”

I made a U-turn, marched back into the classroom, and inserted myself into the conversation.

“There was a car wreck?” I inquired with all the sympathy I could muster. “That’s terrible. When did it happen?”

Cody’s neck flushed a mottled red and his pimples blazed like warning lights. 

“Uh, he told me about it Wednesday, I think?” His voice cracked. 

“Was anyone hurt?” 

“Nah. His grandma’s fine, but Caden can’t drive the car till it’s fixed.”

Tuesday was the night Tatienne Tauzin had been run down in the parking lot.

“Well, I do hope Caden’s grandma is okay,” I said breezily as I left the classroom a second time. The minute I was out the door I pulled my phone out and called Ida Belle.

Inside five minutes, the three of us were in my Jeep, speeding toward Mary-Alice Arceneaux’s house.

“So it was Mary-Alice after all?” Gertie asked from the back seat.

“Either that, or this is the world’s biggest coincidence. And we just delivered Celia right into her would-be murderer’s hands,” I said.

“What’s her motive?” Ida Belle asked. “I mean, apart from the obvious. I’m certain everyone who meets Celia Arceneaux wants to murder her sooner or later, but no one actually does it.”

 ”If Mary-Alice is the one who’s been draining Sinful’s funds,” I said, “that would explain how she paid off her house.”

“Pretty brazen of her to brag about it to us,” Gertie said. “You think she’s planning to murder Celia?” 

“If she’s smart, she’ll just get Celia drunk and get the password from her that way,” Ida Belle said.

“Then why hasn’t she done that already?” I asked.

We were in the suburban outskirts of Mudbug now.

“Okay, which way was it? I’m usually pretty good at navigating by landmarks, but these little suburban houses all look the same. Can we call the house? Anyone have Mary-Alice’s number? Or Celia’s?”

No, no one did.

“Can someone call Directory Assistance to get Mary-Alice’s home number?” I squinted at the dark road lined with cookie-cutter houses. “I hope I can find this place again in the dark. I might remember how to get there coming from Sinful, but this is a different direction.”

“We don’t know Mary-Alice’s last name,” Gertie objected.

“Arceneaux,” I said.

“Really?” 

“Yes, Gertie.” Ida Belle's voice sounded strained. “You were too busy arguing with Celia to pay attention.”

Gertie dialed Mudbug Directory Assistance and got Mary-Alice's number. There was no answer when she called it.

“I think the house is that way,” Ida Belle said. “Where that orange glow’s coming from.”

“Orange glow?”

Gertie was dialing 9-1-1 before I could finish speaking.

We pulled up in front of the blazing house, and I got the fire extinguisher out of the back of the Jeep. It wouldn’t be enough to vanquish the flames that danced behind the oversized windows of Mary-Alice’s living room, but it was all we had.

I sprinted up the front porch and peered into the window. The flames lapped along the bottom of one wall, exactly as if someone had poured out something flammable. I didn’t see anyone in the living room, but that didn’t mean no one was in the house.

“Here!” I heard Gertie yell from the side of the house. She was standing by a small window, on top of an overturned pail. I peered in through the window.

There, wrapped in duct tape and sitting on the closed toilet, was Celia Arceneaux. Her eyes were wide and terrified over her tape-covered mouth.

“What a monster,” I muttered.

“Go easy on her,” Gertie said. “She’s having a bad day.”

“I was talking about Mary-Alice. Get back.”

I used the bottom of the fire extinguisher to smash the glass out of the bathroom window. I could fit through the opening to get Celia, but I wasn’t so sure about being able to push Celia back out. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

Ida Belle ran up and joined us.

“I called the dispatcher again. Told them to get a move on—is that Celia in there? She looks like a big silver caterpillar.”

“Should we try to find the hose?” Gertie asked.

“No. Water could make things worse. See what you can do with this. It’s rated for grease and electrical fires at least.” I handed the fire extinguisher to Ida Belle and hoisted myself up through the window. I landed hands-down on the bathroom tile and tucked into a roll to absorb the impact. Then I stood up and brushed the bits of glass away. Celia was staring at me, wide-eyed.

“Sorry Celia. This is going to hurt.”

It turned out she wasn’t taped to the toilet. She was just wrapped up like a mummy. I picked the edge of the duct tape at her ankle and started to pull. It made a ripping sound as it went. Whoever had tied Celia up had used one continuous piece of tape, making it easy to unwind. Easy for me, that is. Celia was making a lot of noise behind her duct tape gag.  I ripped that off last, with a flourish.

“Okay, Celia, I came in through the window, so we should be able to push you out.”

She opened and closed her mouth as if to make sure it was still working.

“No!” she gasped, finally. “What about Mary-Alice?”

“We can worry about her later. She’s probably miles away by now.”

“No she’s not, you Yankee dimwit! She’s in the house!”

“The house is on fire, Celia. Come on, let’s go.”

I heard sirens get louder, impossibly loud, then squelch to a stop right out front. Help had arrived.

I picked Celia up and faced her toward the little bathroom window.

“Arms out in front of you like Superman,” I said.

“I am not—”

“Arms out.”

Celia thrust her arms out in front of her, and I guided her through the opening until she got stuck.

“Suck it in!” I yelled.

“I am!” she called back.

“I got her!” Ida Belle shouted.

I pushed, Ida Belle pulled, Celia hollered up a storm, and finally she popped out and fell on top of Ida Belle. I waited until they had rolled out of the way so I wouldn’t land on top of them.

“Get away from the house,” I shooed Celia and Ida-Belle toward the front yard. “Where’s Gertie?”

A monstrous groaning sound was followed by a crash. We turned around and watched the entire roof collapse in a slow-motion cascade of sparks and splintering wood.

“Mary-Alice!” Celia shouted.

“Let’s go talk to the nice first responders. Here, Celia. I’ll get this side, Ida-Belle, you can support her other side—”

“Unhand me. I can walk just fine.” She shook us off and hurried toward the whirling lights and noise and crackling radios.  “Mary-Alice!”

A small shape on the sidewalk stirred and stood up. Mary-Alice let the blanket drop from her shoulders as Celia rushed to embrace her.

 ”Well this is a plot twist,” I said. “Come on, let’s go find out what’s going on.”

Chapter 18

Carter was feeling well enough to sit up at the kitchen table and drink sweet tea with his mother and me.

“I’d kill for a beer,” he muttered.

“Doctor Stewart said no alcohol,” Emmaline reminded him.

“I know.” Carter took a sullen swig of tea.

“Well, Fortune,” Emmaline said, “you certainly lived up to your name as far as Celia Arceneaux is concerned.”

“Yes, it was lucky we happened to stop by after class to check on her.”

“So it turned out to be the grandson that did all those terrible things? The thefts? And the threatening messages?”

“Not to mention the murder of Tatienne Tauzin, Celia's drama teacher. So we have one premeditated murder, two attempted murders, arson, extortion, unauthorized computer access. And a few other things. He’s going away for a long time.”

Emmaline’s hand flew to her chest.

“My goodness. And he was going to let those poor women burn to death?”

“What was his motive for trying to kill Celia?” Carter asked.

“Money. And desperation. Mary-Alice told us that Caden had been interested in these alternate currencies. There was one, KawaiiCoin.  Its value tanked about a week before our mayoral election. He lost everything.”

“And when Celia became mayor, he saw his chance to make up the loss?” Carter asked.

“Exactly. He was acquainted with Celia through his grandmother and was able to get her passwords. They think he installed a keystroke logger when she visited and left her computer unattended.  The Mudbug police are looking at Celia’s computer now. If they can show that he tampered with her computer that’s good for an additional five years.”

“But if he wanted money,” Emmaline asked, “why resort to murder? Why not just ask his grandmother for help?”

“It wasn't just the money. Celia tried to bluff him, and it backfired. She told Caden—not knowing who he was—that she’d hired a detective and they were getting close to finding out his identity. He panicked. He was afraid Celia would tell his grandmother everything, and she’d kick him out of the house with no money and nowhere to go. So he ran Tatienne Tauzin down with his grandmother’s car, thinking she was Celia Arceneaux. Only to find out later that he got the wrong woman. The two were similar in size and appearance, the lighting in the parking lot was poor, the victim was wearing Celia’s glow-in-the-dark eyeglass holder, and the perpetrator needs glasses but doesn’t like to wear them.”

Emmaline gave me a thoughtful look.

“Fortune, you seem to have a knack for this. Have you ever thought about going into law enforcement?”

I exchanged a glance with Carter.

“I don’t know about that.” I gave Emmaline a big smile. “Law enforcement seems kind of dangerous. Maybe I’ll just see where this computer thing leads.”

Also by Frankie Bow

Miss Fortune World: Hair Extensions and Homicide

Once Upon a Murder

Tabasco Fiasco

Schooled

Hair Extensions & Homicide / Supernatural Sinful Box Set

Miss Fortune World: Supernatural Sinful

Sinful Science

Miss Fortune World: The Mary-Alice Files

Mary-Alice Moves In

Bayou Busybody

The Vanishing Victim

Aloha, Y'all

The Two-Body Problem

Black Widow Valley

The No-Tell Motel

Vampire Billionaire of the Bayou

The Pajama Murder

The Lost Weekend

The Mary-Alice Files Books 1-4

The Mary-Alice Files Books 5-8

Professor Molly Mysteries

Trust Fall

The Musubi Murder

The Cursed Canoe

The Black Thumb

The Invasive Species

Mother's Day

The Nakamura Letters

The Perfect Body

The Fever Cabinet (Coming Soon)

The Case of the Defunct Adjunct

Watch for more at Frankie Bow’s site.