Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 07 - The Swamps of Bayou Teche (2 page)

Folklore had it that the cauchemars made Cajun
women spin and knit and weave all night long. The
myths also warned that cauchemars turned men into horses and rode them through the bottoms, through
bogs and swamps. And in the morning when the Cajun awakened feeling all worn out and “hag-ridden,”
he would exclaim, “C’est mon cauchemar! I had a
nightmare.”

Naturally, I didn’t believe in curses or the old stories, nor the eerie ones about the Jack-O-Lanterns that
led the unsuspecting victim deep into the unfathomable swamps along the Bayou Teche, nor the whispers of the devilish coquin 1’eau or the feu follet, nor
the hushed stories of the innocent men turned into
Loup garous, unfortunate beings that take the shapes
of various animals and roam the swamps during the
dark of the moon.

Still, it’s unsettling how so unexpectedly the phobias, the fears, the fright of youth can come back to
haunt a personjust like last spring when my boss,
Marty Blevins, called me into his office and announced that I was heading back to Louisiana on a
missing-person caper.

The hair on the back of my neck bristled, not from
fear, but from anger.

Missing persons was the bailiwick of neophyte P.I.‘s,
and I was years beyond that. At the time I was egotistical enough to figure such an assignment was like hitching a thoroughbred to a breaking plow. “Find someone
else, Marty. What about your cousin over in Baton
Rouge? He’s always after you for a gig. I’m tied up with
the insurance scam at National Life and Guaranty.”

He shrugged. “Untie yourself then. This old lady is
paying more than enough to cover your salary for the
next three months. Besides, that cousin of mine is a
lying jerk.”

I rolled my eyes. I had just lost my argument.
Money drove Marty, and I knew I had no chance in
winning a dispute with him when he was holding a
poker hand worth three months of my salary. I responded with a pointed quip, “That’s means I get a
raise, huh?”

“Besides,” he added, ignoring my witty repartee,
“you’re from the swamps over in Louisiana. You know
those people. You’ll feel right at home with the gumbo
mud squeezing up between your toes” His chair
protested with squeaks and groans when he leaned
back and gave me a smug grin at what I suppose he
considered a humorous retort to my question.

I stared at him, not laughing. He wouldn’t know
gumbo mud from concrete. The phone rang before I
could respond. Marty grabbed at the receiver, jammed
it in his ear, and mumbled unintelligibly. Finally, he
nodded. “Certainly, Mrs. Hardy. Come right on up.”
He cut his eyes up to me. “We’ll be waiting in my private office.” He replaced the receiver and gestured to a
chair. “Sit. That was our Louisiana client. She’s coming right up.” He struggled to button the collar around
his fleshy neck, but quickly gave up and tightened his
tie.

Frowning, I sat. I wasn’t crazy about driving back to Louisiana. I’d been there a couple months earlier to
visit family, so I hadn’t planned on a return trip until
late summer. “What are we doing with a Louisiana
client? I might be mistaken,” I replied, sarcasm coating my words thicker than cane syrup from St. Landry
Parish. “Last I heard, they do have private security
agencies in Louisiana.”

Marty grunted. “She’s an old lady. She lives here in
Austin. She says her boy’s missing. She wants us to
find him. And she’s loaded. I checked,” he added
smugly, with a gleam in his eye.

That still didn’t answer my question, but before I
could reply, an elderly woman wearing bright pink
sweats and carrying a lime green purse bounded
through the front door, paused, looked around, and
when she spotted us through the office door, waved
and strode across the room.

Her white hair was neatly coiffed, and from what I
could tell, not a strand was out of place. She appeared
frail enough to be ninety, but she moved with the ease
of a forty-year old.

I opened the door to Marty’s office as she drew near.

She beamed up at me. “Thank you, young man,” she
said in a soft, cultured voice. “That’s very sweet of you.
It is gratifying to see that there are still some gentlemen
left,” she added, cutting her blue eyes sharply toward
Marty, who remained slouched in his chair.

By the time he recognized the implication in her remark and struggled to lift his bulk to his feet, the tiny lady had seated herself primly in one of the chairs in
front of his desk. Red-faced, he cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Hardy?”

She nodded sharply. “Mrs. Josepphine Hardy, with
two p’s, Mr. Blevins.” Then in short, terse words that
rat-tat-tatted like a machine gun, which told me she
was used to having her way, she proceeded to tell us
that her son had not returned to work at his bank in
Bagotville on Bayou Teche, south of Lafayette. With a
sniff, she added, “Of course you might not know, but
Bagotville was named after my ancestor, Lucien
Bagot, who settled the area along the Teche in the
early nineteenth century, 1821 to be exact. My husband and I left Bagotville forty years ago. We were
thrilled when Johnny wanted to go back”

Marty and I glanced at each other. I arched an eyebrow. He frowned at me.

She continued. “My boy had been turkey hunting
down by Morgan City, Mr. Blevins,” she explained.
“He was due back at his bank last Monday, but he
didn’t return.”

Turkey hunting? Morgan City? I’d never heard
about turkeys around Morgan City, but then I’d been
away from Louisiana for years except for occasional
visits. I glanced at Marty skeptically, then cleared my
throat. “How old is your son, Mrs. Hardy?”

Without hesitation, she replied, “Fifty-seven”

Fifty-seven! I arched an eyebrow at Marty and
made an half-hearted effort to allay her concerns. “He probably decided to stay over, Mrs. Hardy.” I really
wanted to say “hey, the guy’s almost sixty-years old.
He can take care of himself,” but I didn’t. Her distress
was obvious.

“Did he notify anyone he would be staying over?
Perhaps his wife.”

She sniffed and drew herself erect. “Johnny isn’t
married. He could never find the right woman. He did
call his secretary, but I don’t believe her,” she snapped.

Now she had me confused. Her son told his secretary he would not return as planned, and yet his
mother still believed something was wrong. “What
did he say to her? His secretary, I mean.”

She fixed her cold blue eyes on me. “That he was
going to the Bahamas”

I pursed my lips. “Then that must be where he is.
Don’t you think so? Or do you think his secretary lied
about his whereabouts”

Her eyes narrowed. “No, Mr.-” She frowned. “What
is your name, young man?” She cut her eyes accusingly
at Marty. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”

Marty’s cheeks turned red, and my ears burned as I
replied, “Boudreaux, Mrs. Hardy. Tony Boudreaux.”

She nodded in satisfaction. “No, Mr. Boudreaux. I
do not believe he went to the Bahamas,” she replied,
emphasizing “do not” “In fact, I am positive he did
not, but in all fairness to Ms. Palmo-that’s his
secretary-I do not believe she lied.”

Marty cleared his throat. “I don’t-I mean, we don’t understand, Mrs. Hardy. If you don’t think she
lied, then why don’t you believe your son went to the
Bahamas?”

With a touch of exasperation, she explained, “Because Johnny always tells me where he is going. He
knows how I worry about him, so even though he lives
over four hundred miles away, he e-mails or calls
when he is away from Bagotville” Her eyes flickered
with impatience when she saw the amusement in my
own eyes. “For your information, I have a heart condition, Mr. Boudreaux. Johnny knows that a sudden
shock could cause me problems. That’s why he keeps
me informed.”

Her explanation embarrassed me. I nodded. “I
apologize, Mrs. Hardy.” I paused. “We can look into it
for you, ma’am, but, why us? It would cost you considerably less if you retained a local agency near Morgan City.”

“Because, Mr. Boudreaux,” she replied, her icy blue
eyes fixed on mine, “I don’t trust anyone I can’t confront to face to face. I don’t mind driving about
Austin, but I’m too old to drive to Louisiana.” Studying me a moment, she shifted her piercing gaze on
Marty. “I’m a pragmatist, Mr. Blevins. My son is
missing. I want him found, one way or another.”

The tone in her voice when she said “one way or
another” piqued my curiosity. Before I could respond,
she continued, her eyes defiant. “Johnny has made enemies in his business. Banking, gentlemen, is not a gentleman’s business. Hard, impersonal decisions
must be made, and consequently, over the years, some
tragedies do occur. My own husband, Johnny’s father,
was a banker. An irate investor shot and killed him.”

Marty frowned at me, clearly confused. I wasn’t
much better off, but at least I managed to stammer out
a question. “What are you trying to say?”

“Just this. My son is missing. I want him found. If
he has been hurt or..” She paused, tears glittering in
the corner of her cold blue eyes. She cleared her
throat. “Or worse, then I will triple your fee to find
those responsible.”

Before I could respond, she opened that lime green
purse and extracted a matching lime green checkbook.
She cut her eyes to Marty, and in a cool, businesslike
voice, stated, “Will ten thousand be enough of a retainer, Mr. Blevins?”

Without giving him a chance to respond, she
briskly wrote out the check, fished a small cassette
and a snapshot from her purse, and handed them to
Marty. “I know you people always want background
about your subjects. At least, that’s what I see on television. I have all the pertinent information you need
about Johnny to start your investigation.”

“Just a moment, Mrs. Hardy,” I hastily interjected. “If something has happened to your son, that will be a
matter for the local law enforcement agencies. We
can’t simply walk in and investigate any infractions of
the law”

Nodding briefly, she replied, “I know, but I also
know you people can always find a way around the
law.” With that, she rose, smiled brightly at each of us,
and strode from the office.

When she closed the office door behind her, Marty
and I exchanged expressions of weary relief. “I feel
like a steamroller just ran over me,” I muttered.

“Yeah,” he muttered back.

I eyed him threateningly. “I hope you don’t plan on
me doing more than a missing persons on this case. I
don’t want to get crossways with the Louisiana law.”

He shrugged. “Stay legal.” He waved the check.
“Play it by ear. You can’t tell what will happen”

“As long as you understand,” I replied, stepping to
the window and peering down into the parking lot.

Marty didn’t answer. In the reflection from the window, I saw him staring greedily at the ten-thousanddollar check in his hand. I could almost see the drool
running down the side of his lips.

“Would you look at that,” I mumbled, taken aback
when Mrs. Josepphine “with two p’s” Hardy climbed
into a cherry red Jaguar XK Roadster.

By the time Marty reached my side, the spry little
lady had pulled onto Lamar and was racing north.

We watched silently as she wove through the traffic
skillfully. With his eyes still fixed on the Jag, Marty
handed me the cassette and snapshot. “When do you
plan on leaving?”

Without taking my eyes off the red bullet speeding
down the crowded thoroughfare, I replied, “Soon as I
can. Maybe I can beat the afternoon traffic jams.”

He grunted. “Six one way, half-dozen the other.
Miss the Austin jams, you catch the Houston jams”

I couldn’t argue with that nugget of wisdom anymore than he could argue with ten thousand dollars.

After the little sports car disappeared, I turned to
Marty, and tapped the corner of the card-sized cassette against the palm of my hand. “I have a funny
feeling about this case, Marry”

He shrugged and folded the check into his shirt
pocket. “Probably those Tex-Mex burritos you had for
breakfast. Now, get home and pack. The sooner you
get over there, the sooner you’ll get back.”

I stared at him, and for some inexplicable, but foreboding reason, the words “c’est mon cauchemar”
flashed through my mind.

On the way to my place on Peyton Gin Road, I listened to a portion of the tape, ejecting it when I reached
the apartment and playing the remainder of it while I
packed a sports bag and gathered the rest of my gear.

I still couldn’t get over the feeling that something
wasn’t quite right. And it wasn’t the Tex-Mex burritos.

Just as I dumped ice around the Old Milwaukee beer
in my small cooler, the doorbell chimed. I opened it to
the grinning face of my one-time teaching pal, Jack
Edney, burr haircut and all-a nouveau millionaire
who had just lost his campaign for city council, a campaign, which I am ashamed to admit, I had managed
for him. (I still think if he’d taken my advice and let
his hair grow, he would have won the election. For
some reason, bald-headed fat men turn off voters.
Probably because they look like bankers.)