Secrets, Lies, and Crawfish Pies Read online

  Two rings. No answer.

  Pick up.

  I glanced at my watch.

  He should be home by now...

  By the fourth ring, I was holding my breath and starting to feel sad and dejected. I didn’t want to feel like that.

  Maybe I should just hang up.

  “Hello.” His picking up caught me by surprise. I had been so busy debating whether I should hang up or not.

  “Romaine? Baby,” he said. “I’m so happy you called. I was just thinking about you. About how much I miss you.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  Chapter Nineteen

  That couch was going to be the death of me. Just the two nights was putting a strain on my back that eight hours standing doing autopsies hadn’t made me feel. I felt as if I’d never be able to straighten my spine out again.

  The house was quiet, and as I made my way into the kitchen. I didn’t see Auntie Zanne anywhere. She might have been on a run. Picking up bodies wasn’t a nine-to-five kind of job.

  I heard my phone ring as soon as I walked into the room. I did a U-turn and went back to the Death Trap Couch where I had plugged it up the night before.

  “Hello,” I said as I headed back to the kitchen.

  “We got an ID.”

  “Oh, hi, Pogue.” I switched ears, pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. “How’s your trip going?”

  “Good. You were right. I am learning a lot.”

  “See. I told you. Although I don’t know how much you could’ve learned. You haven’t been there twenty-four hours.”

  He laughed. “So, did you hear what I said?”

  “You got an ID?”

  “Yes. They just called me.”

  “On your John Doe?” I asked. It had just clicked what he meant.

  “Yep,” he said. “His fingerprints were in the database.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Was it somebody local?” I hadn’t felt like it was because if Auntie Zanne hadn’t recognized the dead squatter, he couldn’t have been from around these parts. She’d met so many people in her line of business and participating in all her auxiliaries and clubs, and she was not one to forget a face.

  “They belonged to a Ragland Williamson. Last address they had for him is in Houston.”

  “Houston?” I asked. “Long way from here.”

  “Yeah. I know,” he said.

  “What was he doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” Pogue said. “All I have on him so far is the name and an address. Not even sure if it’s a current address. I’ll have to look into it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s good. That’s a start.”

  “But Romie...” I could hear the nervousness seeping into his words. “After I do that, I don’t know where I’d go from there.”

  He had assured Auntie Zanne that he knew what to do, but I knew my cousin. His mind at this point, with him being new on the job, probably wasn’t as analytical as it needed to be for such a big undertaking.

  “You’ll figure your way through it,” I said. I wanted to show my support. “Things will fall into place. And, don’t forget, while you’re in Reno, ask questions.”

  “Is that the way they do it in Chicago? They just wait until things fall into place? And ask other people questions?”

  “They have a lot of experience.” I stood up, reached for the teapot on the stove and filled it up with water at the sink. “You don’t have to do what anyone else is doing,” I said balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear. “But I would say, yes. That’s the way they do it. Those detectives in Chicago were new at one time too. They had to learn, just like you do.”

  “Yeah, but they had someone helping them. Mentoring them. I don’t.”

  “You’ve got me,” I said. I turned up the flame under the teapot. “I’ll help you. I already told you that.”

  “How?”

  “I’m the acting medical examiner on this case.”

  “Yeah, I guess you are. Doc Westin has a bad case of the flu. He might be out for a week or so, and with his age, maybe even longer. So, basically I’ma deputize you as the deputy coroner.”

  “I’ve already done the autopsy.”

  “It’ll be retroactive.” He paused. “If there is such a thing. I don’t know if I was supposed to fill out any paperwork.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. We can backdate if necessary.”

  “Good idea. So you’re officially my deputy coroner. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said resolutely. “See, I can help in that capacity and we can discuss any clues you find. I can help you check into anything that you need me to. Medical examiners can have good detective skills. Don’t you remember that television show Quincy, M.E.?”

  “No. And I thought we agreed television isn’t a good analogy for us.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot.”

  “And I want you to help me, I just don’t know,” he said and paused. “You have Babet nagging you, dragging you along with all of her craziness.”

  I thought about her in that motel room. And wanting to have a service so the whole town could view the body.

  “Yeah, about that,” I said. “Auntie is planning a funeral.”

  “A funeral!” he screeched. “Why?”

  “To see if anyone recognizes the body.”

  “Oh Lord, Romie! Please. Please don’t let her do that. That’s gotta be tampering with evidence or abuse of a corpse or something.”

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  “Don’t try, Romaine. Do it.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was thinking how I could stop Auntie Zanne from doing it. My thoughts were flitting around. I couldn’t think of one way to stop her.

  “Romaine! Are you there? Did you hang up?”

  “Yeah. No. I was just thinking,” I said.

  “You’re not helping her do this, are you?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “I know she can talk you into stuff.”

  “No, she can’t,” I said. “You know she’s can’t talk me into anything that I don’t want to do, right?”

  “There’s two sides to that coin,” he said. “And why does she want to do this? She already has it made up in her mind who the killer is.”

  “Humph,” I mumbled. “She says the same thing about you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I hung up with Pogue and sat cross-legged in the chair.

  His name was Ragland Williamson.

  He wasn’t a John Doe any more. He had a name. Lived in a big city. He’d had a life.

  And what was he doing in little ole Sabine County?

  The man who was registered at the motel, Herman St. John, wasn’t the man that had been found in my auntie’s funeral home. They were two different men and probably, like the owner of the Grandview said, the St. John guy had just gone off for a couple of days. Nothing fishy about that.

  I wonder, should I tell her about her being wrong?

  Not that I had believed Auntie Zanne. With her “universe settling in theory” making her able to find the one place that Dead Squatter Guy had been staying before he got to the funeral home. And her smelling formaldehyde, and trying to get me to smell it too...

  Okay, I might have gotten a whiff of it.

  Why would the smell of formaldehyde be in a motel room?

  She had been right about one thing though. He hadn’t been embalmed there. I shook my head. Dead Guy hadn’t actually been embalmed at all. Whoever put that embalming fluid in him, on him, or wherever they put it, didn’t know what they were doing. There was still blood in the arteries and veins and the organs inside the body cavity hadn’t been touched.

  I knew that when I watched her search that motel room. While she looked for clues that Aunt Julep had had some
thing to do with it. Then I had let her drag me off to do reconnaissance on my Aunt Julep’s funeral home.

  I blew out a breath.

  I can’t let Pogue know I did that. But, in my defense, I thought, I didn’t really have a choice. I was in her car, and if I wanted to get back to the house, I had to go with her.

  Yeah, but you didn’t have to get out of the car.

  All of that didn’t matter now because Auntie Zanne’s guy wasn’t the John Doe. And what I needed to worry about was making up to my Aunt Julep for going to her funeral home, snooping around and not even saying hello to her. Especially after I’d gotten caught.

  The whistle went off on the teapot and I popped up out of the chair. I went to the cabinet and swung open both doors. The shelves were stacked with canisters and jars full of herbs, teas, and sundry other items, most of them from Auntie Zanne’s greenhouse.

  “I’m not touching anything in here,” I said and closed both doors. “Darn it. I forgot. I meant to pick me up some coffee.” I looked around the room. “Maybe there’s some in the pantry.”

  “Howdy,” Floneva said as she walked in the room.

  I swirled around.

  “Hi Floneva,” I said. I’d been wanting to speak with her. She was one of Pogue’s suspects. “Keeping busy?”

  “Not much to do when everyone around is dead.”

  “True,” I said. “So. What do you think about working in a funeral home?”

  “Not my first rodeo,” she said.

  “No?” I asked. “You worked in a funeral home before?”

  “Yep. I like mortuary science. I started to get my license, but I didn’t do too well in school,” she said. “My grandmother said just ’cause I don’t mind being around dead people didn’t mean I should try to be a mortician.”

  “Really now,” I said. “So you went through the embalming classes and everything?”

  “Yep. That was about the time I flunked out. Ain’t ashamed to say it. Gotta know your own limitations my Aunt Bert used to say.”

  “So, did you stop by here before we got back?”

  “Got back from where?” she asked.

  “Chicago.”

  “Oh yeah. I left my sweater here when I came for the interview. Came back to pick it up.”

  “That’s all you did while you were here?”

  “Yep.” She looked at me. First time I’d seen her without a goofy look. “I just came in to get my lunch out of the fridge,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”

  I waved my hand toward the refrigerator. “Go ahead.”

  She got her lunch and walked out without saying another word.

  Suspicious, I thought.

  Floneva knew how to embalm. And, it appears, not very well since she hadn’t finished the classes. That was something Pogue needed to know.

  And I’d be sure to tell Auntie Zanne. Maybe it would give her someone else to go after other than my Aunt Julep.

  Poor Aunt Julep.

  I slung open the pantry door to find coffee and saw the tubs of crawfish Catfish had left.

  Auntie and her pies.

  Ugh!

  But then I got an idea.

  I didn’t have any plans on making pies for Rhett and his band of dissidents. I mean, what was the big deal in adding a different band member? That couldn’t possibly cause a revolt. From what I remembered while living with my parents, musicians were all one big happy family.

  I surveyed all the little mudbugs snapping their front claws and smiled. No need of letting all of Catfish’s catch go to waste. I’d make a pot of crawfish étouffée for my Aunt Julep. She loved it, and it would be a peace offering. I’d use it to smooth over things, even though Aunt Julep didn’t know I had anything to make up for.

  I grabbed a bucket and tried to lift it. My back couldn’t take it, and the muscular definition in my arms that I had worked hard to build wasn’t enough to compensate. I bent over, tugged at the tub and, walking backwards, pulled it out into the kitchen. I stood up, put my hands at the lower part of my back and stretched. Then I took my foot and pushed the tub of crawfish over by the stove.

  I found a big lobster pot, filled it three fourths full of water and filled it with spices I found in Auntie Zanne’s cabinet. Just the ones I knew for sure were what they were marked. Thyme. Black peppercorns. Salt. A little cayenne pepper. I turned on the fire underneath to get it to boil.

  I needed rice, tomatoes and the trinity of Creole cooking–onions, green peppers, and celery. I knew even though Auntie Zanne had gone all Texan on me, she wouldn’t ever let her kitchen be without any of those things. I pulled open the refrigerator and there, under the glow of the interior light, sat a shiny pepper, fresh celery stalks, and a ruby red Better Boy tomato. I grabbed them, put them on the table and found a clove of garlic and a white onion in a small basket on the counter. Auntie Zanne kept enough garlic to deter a drove of vampires.

  I rolled up my sleeve, and a smile spread across my face. The one thing I did better than death was cook.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  This was the second time I was going to visit one of my Aunt Julep’s properties since I’d been back in Roble. First to the funeral home. Now to her house. Both times on a mission. This one a little kinder.

  My peace offering, neatly wrapped, was still hot. My rice had come out perfectly: every grain separate. The crawfish étouffée was so aromatic and yummy smelling that it brought Floneva from the receptionist area to the kitchen while I was cooking. She told me the smell made her mouth water and could probably wake the dead.

  “Don’t be surprised,” she had said, “if a couple of those bodies rise to come in here just for a bowl.” I, of course, after such a compliment, couldn’t deny her a heaping helping of it.

  I took out a bowl for Auntie Zanne and Rhett, packed the rest and drove to Aunt Julep’s with a smile on my face. I sang along with the radio, happy to be in the car alone. I had found the keys to one of the older model Cadillacs that Auntie only used when there was a need to accommodate more family members than could fit into the late model cars she owned. I knew she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed it for the day.

  The Garden Grove Funeral Home, unlike Auntie Zanne’s, was housed separately from the living quarters. The Folsom’s family home was much smaller and located a couple of blocks from their business. I pulled up in the driveway and took in my surroundings before I got out of the car. I could see the house was in need of repair, not as well cared for as the business property.

  “I know Pogue isn’t too busy being sheriff that he can’t see to his momma’s house,” I muttered as I pushed opened the car door.

  I went around to the passenger side and pulled out the two pots–I didn’t want to mix the rice in until it was served. Still humming my tune, I went to the back door. But before I could even make it to the steps, I saw something that forced me to drop my little ditty and almost spill all of my morning’s work. There, by Aunt Julep’s trashcans, were four plastic, Air Force blue-colored jugs with FORMALDEHYDE printed across the front.

  What in the world...

  The first thing I thought about was Auntie Zanne. I was happy that she’d chosen to go to the funeral home to look for evidence rather than Aunt Julep’s house. This would have definitely been her “smoking gun.”

  Had someone taken some of the contents of one of these jugs and used it on Dead Guy? Was it someone that worked at Aunt Julep’s funeral home?

  This wasn’t good.

  I made a mental note to tell Pogue about the danger of his mother having formaldehyde in her backyard, and to have the lab check it to see if they could match the lot to what had been used on Dead Guy.

  Geesh.

  I shook off my discovery and thoughts of murder and walked up the steps to the back door. Aunt Julep never locked her doors. Most people around Roble didn’t. It was probably
how Auntie Zanne had gotten a stowaway at her house. Even so, most people who didn’t frequent a home often had enough manners to knock on the door before they entered.

  I was raised to have good manners.

  “Knock, knock,” I said as I turned the knob, pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen. “Aunt Julep? You here?”

  “Who is it?” The voice was faint.

  “It’s me, Aunt Julep. Romaine.”

  “Ah! Romaine, baby,” she called from the other room. “Here I come. Oh my goodness! You should have called, I could have fixed you something to eat.”

  I set the food down on the stove, my smile growing wider knowing I was going to surprise her.

  “Oh, I should have,” I said. “Because I’m starving.”

  She appeared in the doorway, her dentures showing evenly lined teeth.

  “Come give me a hug, baby.”

  I went over and hugged her.

  “I’m so glad you came by,” she said.

  “I told you I would,” I said. “You doing okay?”

  “Oh fair to middling.” She patted my cheek, her smile widening. “C’mon. Sit down.” She pointed to the kitchen table. “Tell me what’s going on with you. We didn’t have time to talk the other day.” She grabbed my arm and leaned on me as we made our way to the table. “What you been up to since you been back?”

  My Auntie Zanne was spry, but I couldn’t see that in my Aunt Julep. Only two years older than my Auntie Zanne, her health was in no way as good.

  Maybe all of the associations and societies Auntie Zanne was in kept her on her toes. Or maybe, as she’d probably say, it was all of her brews that kept her young. Whatever it was, she didn’t look anything close to eighty-two, while aging had definitely taken a toll on my Aunt Julep.

  Maybe I should swipe something from Auntie Zanne’s cabinet to give to her...

  Auntie Zanne could still probably walk a mile or two down a country road. But not Aunt Julep. It seemed she needed help making it across the room. She shuffled along, her shoulders and neck drooped. I knew she was diabetic. I had often helped her check her glucose and discussed her diet with her whenever I’d come to Roble, and the few times she’d made it to Chicago. As far as I knew, it was under control. She maintained her doctor appointments and so she always told me, kept up with all of her medicines.