Chapter 9
I had as much intention of going to the hospital to have my arm checked out as I did pressing charges against Quincy for assault.
So after lunch, Ida Belle and I headed to my house to fill Gertie in on what had happened to Petey and Quincy.
When we got there, Gertie was in the backyard, waving a package of Oreos at the bayou and calling for Godzilla.
“No luck?” I asked.
Gertie turned around and sighed. “Not so much as an air bubble.”
“Maybe he’s just hiding or sleeping off a casserole hangover,” I said, trying to sound sincere, but in reality, I hoped Godzilla was far, far away from my backyard and wasn’t planning on visiting anytime soon. If ever.
“You’re probably right,” Gertie said. “Maybe he’ll come out this evening. What’s wrong with you two? You both have this look like something bad happened. Was Francine out of food or something?”
“Let’s head inside,” I said. “It’s hot as hell out here and you might need a drink once we tell you what’s happening.”
We headed inside into the air-conditioned kitchen, and Ida Belle poured us all a big glass of sweet tea.
“Well?” Gertie asked. “Out with it.”
We filled Gertie in on everything that had happened with Quincy and Petey and my fake assault claim. Gertie listened without speaking until we were completely done, then after several seconds of complete silence, she exploded.
“What the hell is wrong with people?” She jumped up out of her chair and started pacing the kitchen. “That boy is no more capable than a small child. Besides, he’s scared to death of the water now. He couldn’t possibly have done this.”
“We know,” Ida Belle said. “I explained everything to Fortune, and trust me, no one here thinks Petey is the poacher, and I’m certain Carter doesn’t either.”
“Then why doesn’t he tell the state to stick it up their butt?” Gertie asked.
“Because then Celia would have a sure reason to fire him,” I said, “and if he loses his job, he can’t help Petey at all.”
My words seemed to mollify Gertie a little, but she still looked mad as heck.
“I know Carter’s between a rock and a hard place,” Gertie said, “and that he’s just doing whatever he can to stay above water because otherwise, he’s no help to nobody. But I swear, if I were him, I’d have already pulled a drive-by from here to the Gulf of Mexico.”
I nodded. I’d started a hit list my first day in town, and Gertie had been working on hers a lot longer than me. It probably took up a ream of paper by now.
“What about Quincy?” I asked.
Ida Belle shrugged. “What about him?”
“Well, you all claim Petey couldn’t be the poacher and based on what you’re telling me about him, I agree.
So if the state has enough evidence that they’re requiring Carter to hold him, then that means someone must have set him up.
I can’t see anyone having that big a grudge against Petey, so what about Quincy? ”
“That’s a lot of risk and effort just to get back at someone you don’t like,” Ida Belle said.
“True,” I said, “but we all know crazy doesn’t lend itself to logic. Clearly, Petey is Quincy’s weak spot, so someone trying to get to him would do it best by coming after Petey.”
“That’s downright evil,” Gertie said, “but I see your point. The problem is, I can’t think of why anyone would have a problem with Quincy.
He’s a computer programmer. Used to work in New Orleans, but ever since the accident, he works from home.
He buys groceries once a week and other than that, I don’t think he leaves the house unless it’s for a doctor’s appointment or he’s looking for Petey, who likes to wander. ”
I frowned. It didn’t sound like a good setup for creating an archenemy. “So no possibility of a fishing rival, someone who’s butt-hurt over losing some local contest, or something equally silly to all of us sane people?”
Gertie shook her head. “I make it a point to go visit Quincy once a month. If I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t have seen him since Reece’s funeral. I just can’t see how he could make someone that angry sitting inside his house on a computer.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It doesn’t sound like a promising angle, but I’m not quite ready to let it go. Is there anyone who is good friends with Quincy? Someone who might know more about his personal life than you do?”
“Ramona Barron,” Gertie said. “She’s Reece’s mother.”
“The boy who died?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Gertie said. “She has dinner with Quincy and Petey every Sunday night. If anyone knows something about Quincy that the rest of us don’t, it would be Ramona.”
“Then maybe we should talk to Ramona,” I said.
Gertie and Ida Belle looked at each other, and I got the impression that my suggestion wasn’t going to meet with any heel clicking.
“Is there a problem with talking to Ramona?” I asked.
Ida Belle sighed. “She’s not going to shoot at us if we pull up in her driveway or anything, but Ramona was always a hermit and an odd duck.
No one knows who Reece’s father was and as far as we know, there’s never been a man around.
Reece’s funeral was the first time I’d seen her in five years or better, and I haven’t seen her since.
Walter delivers her groceries, and he says she leaves money on the porch. ”
“We can try,” Gertie said, “but even if we manage to find her, there’s no guarantee she’ll talk to us.”
“Life holds no guarantees, right?” I said.
“But all the detective stuff I’ve been reading says the more you learn about the victim, the more likely you are to figure out the perpetrator.
I can’t talk to dead alligators, but now that Petey has been offered up as a sacrificial lamb, maybe finding out more about him and Quincy will give us another direction to move in. ”
“It certainly wouldn’t hurt,” Ida Belle agreed. “And it’s not like we have anything else to go on.”
Gertie nodded. “I’ll try anything to get Petey back at home where he belongs. And we’ve still got the Swamp Bar tonight. That’s two things that might give us something new.”
I held in a sigh. It wasn’t that I had forgotten about our Swamp Bar excursion. It was more that I’d intentionally blocked it until I couldn’t any longer, which would probably be right around the time Gertie pulled whatever horror she had in mind for me to wear out of her huge handbag.
“Then let’s get going,” Ida Belle said. “I need to put another coat of wax on my new baby’s bumper before we take it to the Swamp Bar tonight. I don’t want bugs sticking to it.”
Night bugs in Louisiana were more of the small reptile variety, and I didn’t know of any wax in the world that would prevent them from sticking to a bumper, even with two coats, but I also knew better than to make suggestions to Ida Belle concerning her personal transportation.
Besides, I was more concerned about myself sticking to the passenger’s seat than how the bugs would fare.
We piled into my Jeep and headed for the highway.
Ida Belle gave me directions that included Sinful classics such as ‘turn off the paved road,’ ‘watch for stray cows,’ and ‘as long as this bridge holds, this is the shortest route.’ Finally, we inched down a narrow dirt lane to a tiny house nestled in cypress trees.
The house itself surprised me a little. I guess I always pictured hermits living in some scary shack that you would expect to see in a horror movie, but this was a neat bungalow with fresh yellow paint and a row of flowers in front.
On the front porch were several hanging plants and a rocking chair with a pillow.
It was so inviting that it looked out of place in this dim, remote location.
“I hope she’s here,” Gertie said.
“I saw a curtain move as we pulled up,” I said. “Someone’s in there.”
“One hurdle down,” Ida Belle said. “If we can get her to answer the door and talk, we’ll be killing it.”
We walked up onto the porch, and Ida Belle knocked on the door. We waited for several seconds, listening for any sound of movement inside, but the house was eerily silent.
“She’s pretending she’s not here,” Gertie whispered.
Ida Belle knocked again, and this time she called out. “Ramona. It’s Ida Belle. It’s important that I talk to you. It’s about Quincy and Petey.”
Gertie gave her an approving look. “If she doesn’t answer for that, she won’t for anything.”
We heard footsteps inside, and several seconds later, the door inched open and a woman stared out at us.
Five foot three. One hundred sixty pounds. Wary expression. One arm hidden behind the door. Probably clutching a shotgun.
She stared at us for several uncomfortable seconds, then inclined her head toward me. “Who’s she?”
“She’s a friend of ours,” Ida Belle said. “Marge Boudreaux’s niece. You remember Marge?”
Ramona looked me up and down, then nodded. “Marge was really nice to me when Reece passed. I…still owe her for something.”
I tried to hold in my excitement, but it looked as if we had a crack in the dam.
“Can we come in and talk to you?” Ida Belle asked.
“Are Quincy and Petey all right?” Ramona asked.
“Physically, yes,” Ida Belle said, “but there’s been some trouble and we’re hoping you can help us sort it out.”
“I don’t know what I can possibly offer,” Ramona said, “but if Quincy and Petey are in trouble, then I want to help any way I can.” She pulled the door open and stood back so that we could enter.
The inside of the house matched the outside—both in stark comparison to the somewhat gloomy owner. The living room was painted a cheery blue, and original oil paintings of the swamp and shrimp boats hung on the walls. I stepped close to one and noticed the initials RB.
“Did you paint these?” I asked.
Ramona nodded. “I have an old friend who sells them for me in New Orleans. The money from the sales and the little bit my mother left me are what I get by on, but I don’t need much.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said. “You’re very talented.”
Ramona looked down at the floor, clearly embarrassed by the praise. “Please sit down,” she said.