T-Boy glanced at the footprints. “Right, these are recent. But Poppa, don’t you remember the time before that day when we came out here? They had a lot of prints which we thought was unusual.”

  Andre nodded. “Yeah, you right.” He moved his gaze to me. “I thought to myself all them people must be comin’ back here to fish and we gonna lose our good spot again.”

  “What time of the day do y’all usually get here?”

  “Early morning,” T-Boy said. “About five-thirty, quarter to six maybe. It was just gettin’ light.”

  “The ones you saw the first time, were they recent?”

  “As near as we could tell.” He paused a moment and appeared to be considering another element of the event. “Like Poppa said, they had plenty footprints the day we found your husband—so many you couldn’t tell one from the other. Drug smuggling might not just be a rumor.”

  Andre’s expression clouded. “We would know if that was going on. Drug smugglers come at night. The sound would travel over the water. Don’t you think we would hear something?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” T-Boy said.

  “There ain’t no drug smuggling going on in Allemand Parish.” The older man sounded adamant. “Those footprints were why we thought the fishin’ crowd might be coming back.”

  T-Boy clenched a fist at his side. He changed the subject as if to agree with his father. “One time last year, we came out to this spot and they had four people fishin’ here and from the looks of it, there had been a lot of others before. They come here and throw their beer bottles and Coke cans and trash all over the place and in the bayou.”

  This conversational detour appeared to be T-Boy’s way to put an end to an argument with his father. Even though one of my pet peeves had always been the careless disposal of trash on the streets and waterways of our state, environmental matters would have to wait for another day or maybe even another lifetime. A more important mission awaited completion—finding my husband’s killer.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and snapped a photo of the prints. Then I surveyed the bayou and its environs once again, burning into my brain the image of footprints, past and present, and remarks made by the two LaBauves about other fishermen intruding on their spot and their odd exchange about drug smuggling.

  “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go back.”

  Two loud pops echoed through the trees. Dirt kicked up in several spots very close to my feet. I jumped back.

  Andre yelled, “Somebody’s shootin’. Let’s get out of here!”

  T-Boy grabbed my arm and pushed me in front of him. We ran.

  Another déjà vu moment in my life. My heart pounding, three pairs of feet thudding through the brush sounded like a dozen bongo drums beating in my ears.

  Someone had sent us a message. They didn’t want us poking around out there. But who? And why?

  Twenty-five

  My heartbeat didn’t slow down until we arrived back at the LaBauves’ house. Even then it thumped faster than normal.

  T-Boy looked concerned. “You goin’ to be all right?”

  I raised my hand to my throat and exhaled. “I believe so. What a close call! Do you have any idea who might have shot at us?”

  Andre spoke up quickly. “Probably some fool just shootin’ to be shootin’.”

  “Like target practice?”

  “Yeah, it happens all the time,” T-Boy said. “Nobody ever gets shot, though. One time my parrain’s dog got hit. Boy, Parrain was mad.”

  I decided to let the subject drop. Obviously they wanted to downplay the incident.

  “You need to sit down for a while to calm yourself before you pass out,” Andre said. “Come on inside, and Mah-ree will fix us some cold drinks,” Andre said.

  “What a wonderful idea. Thank you.” I realized how shaky I felt—sort of like a person feels after a traumatic event. Strong during the incident, only to fall apart after the whole deal is over. No sense in tempting fate more than I already had for one day.

  The inside of their house brought me back to the day my father took us to see a camp he’d purchased near Madisonville on the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain. What little furniture remained from the previous owners of our camp had made Mother cringe. She then insisted on having an interior decorator come in and doll up the entire place. After which, she never visited the camp again.

  Andre’s and Marie’s home and furniture presented a cozy image, not as stark as the original interior of our Madisonville camp, but of the same vintage. I began to relax as soon as I entered.

  A large gas range and a refrigerator dominated the combination kitchen and living room. Several ceiling fans twirled silently, moving the cool air blowing from two window air conditioners. An array of framed photos on a wall in the living area caught my eye. I walked over to have a closer look.

  Most of them appeared to be family pictures, perhaps his kids and grandkids. One showed a bateau decorated in a Christmas theme. A plump man wearing a Santa Claus hat stood next to a large burlap sack on the pier. A few toys protruded from the top of the sack.

  Andre stepped up next to me. “Das me as Papa Noel.” He fingered his beard. “I let it grow longer for Christmas Eve. Too hot for summertime.”

  “You do this every year?” No wonder he reminded me of Santa Claus.

  “Yes, indeed,” he said. “We got to keep up the tradition.”

  “I heard about the reenactment of the legend in a part of the parish, but I’ve never been able to attend. My kids would love it.”

  Cajun tradition related the story of how Papa Noel, the French name for Santa Claus, come up a river or bayou, which depended on the particular area, on Christmas Eve to deliver toys for good little boys and girls. Around here, Papa Noel traveled up the Allemand and a few local bayous. Other parishes along the Mississippi River created elaborate bonfires on the levees to symbolically light the way for the jolly old elf.

  “You must come to see the pageant this Christmas,” a female voice came from behind us.

  Andre introduced me to his wife. “Dis is Mah-ree.”

  Marie LaBauve stood at least three inches taller than her husband, her body thin as a rail. I could see from whom T-Boy inherited his physical traits.

  I agreed to attend, but I hated to think about how miserable Christmas would be without Jim.

  “Come on and sit at the table,” Marie said. “I’ll get us all some cold drinks.”

  She removed a blue deco style pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator and poured three glasses over ice.

  I sat with them, sipping my lemonade and joined in the friendly chat. No mention of the gunshot incident or drug smugglers, or my husband’s death. It was a relief not to talk about murder and other criminal activities.

  There’s a Cajun saying, we passed a good time, meaning we had a good time. I certainly did enjoy the time I spent in conversation with the LaBauves. Although at first I silently fretted about their reaction to the shots fired at us, I laughed a little at Andre’s funny stories and warmed to the company of those down-to-earth people.

  I left their home feeling comfortable—until I remembered those two bullets with my name on them, but missing their mark...today.

  Steven hadn’t returned from New Orleans when I arrived home. I paid Carly for her sitting duties and watched as she walked to her car. Matthew and Caroline continued to occupy themselves in their rooms after Carly left.

  Barring any emergencies, I might be able to have a little quiet time so I can process what I observed in the swamp. I settled into my favorite chair and mentally went over the entire encounter with the LaBauves. My adrenaline started pumping again just thinking about the incident.

  Why did Danny lie about the evidence at the scene? Well, in his defense, he really hadn’t lied. He said there weren’t any usable prints. The LaBauves more or less confirmed the overabundance of overlapping footprints.

  Someone I knew owned a pair of those expensive shoes. But who? Maybe he or she was only someone I happened to see on the street or met briefly. I tried to visualize the footwear of Angie Ducote on Friday evening when she returned my debit card.

  No, the print appeared to belong to a man. The men I had met up with recently who also attended the funeral were the Hansons, Bill Kaufman, and a few members of CLPD. I would have to concentrate on them later.

  Drug smuggling was another issue entirely. Could either or both LaBauves be involved? Or had they been intimidated by the smugglers? Those criminals might be threatening them and their families. The shots might have been fired by someone connected to drug trafficking.

  Something T-Boy said came back to me. He said they went out to their fishing spot early. I racked my brain in an attempt to remember what time Jim may have left the house that morning. It must’ve been about the same time.

  Could Andre and T-Boy have witnessed Jim’s murder? Or were they part of the crime? I hated to consider the latter possibility.

  I should talk to Danny about what I saw and heard. Ask him about the LaBauves. As sheriff, he should be notified about the possibility of illegal activities in his jurisdiction.

  I sighed. He’d probably dismiss any information I gave him…except for the shots fired. Then he’d be furious with me for putting myself in a precarious position.

  The sun eased its way down toward the horizon. This would be a good time to take the kids for a walk. The temperature had dropped slightly so we wouldn’t be sweltering. Matthew and Caroline needed to get out of the house more, and if I was lucky, I would make a decision about what to tell and ask Danny while having some time with my kids.

  An hour later, the twins and I returned home. A brisk walk in a safe environment relieved most of the stress from my earlier brush with death. Most…not all.

  We’d only been back a few minutes when I heard a car pull into the Marchands’ driveway. I peered out the kitchen window to check and saw Danny exit his vehicle. He walked much slower than his normal gait, like a man who’s sixty-something years had suddenly caught up with him. Or perhaps like the old cliché, he held the weight of the world on his shoulders. I should wait until later to drop the drug smuggling info on him. Maybe after supper.

  Speaking of supper, I didn’t feel like cooking. Pizza delivery sounded like a winner.

  Just then Steven came through the door. He set his laptop and briefcase on the breakfast bar.

  “Why don’t we order pizza for supper?” he suggested. “I know you don’t feel like cooking.”

  I smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

  Not all fraternal twins think alike, but Steven and I have been on the same page many times, mostly for something minor like this and occasionally on major issues. However, not on all major issues, like his hiring Megan and the private investigator.

  “What have you been up to while I slaved away in New Orleans?”

  Knowing him as well as I do, I figured out his motive for asking. He wanted to find out what kind of trouble I might have gotten into. “Slaved away? Working at something you love isn’t a job.”

  “You’re right, but you conveniently didn’t answer my question.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. I went out to the site where those men found Jim.”

  He frowned. “I thought you could only access that place by boat.”

  “True. I asked Andre LaBauve and his son T-Boy to take me in their boat.”

  “They’re the ones who found Jim?”

  I nodded.

  “Why would you even want to see the place?” His voice held a mixture of anger and concern. He shook his head. “Never mind. You figured you could find evidence the cops missed.”

  “Would you care to hear what I found?” I should have expected his reaction, but it still annoyed me.

  He took a seat on a bar stool. “You’re irritated with me for asking. I’m sorry but I can’t help remembering two other times when you almost died because you set out to find a killer. The first time was because of me. I don’t want you to get hurt…or worse.”

  His statement wasn’t entirely accurate. My curiosity had gotten the better of me the second time, but not because of any overt investigation like I did in Steven’s case. The killer took a liking to me and decided to kidnap me.

  “Sit down and tell me about your visit to the crime scene.”

  I pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat facing him. After a short pause to gather my thoughts, I relayed the whole story of my trip to Bayou Jean Baptiste, even being the target of a few bullets.

  “Whoa,” he said. “Could’ve been someone connected to drug traffickers shooting at you. They aren’t people you want to tangle with.”

  “Don’t you think I know? I plan to speak to Danny tonight about what I discovered.

  “I’m no expert on drug trafficking,” I continued. “But seems to me, shooting at someone out there in broad daylight would only draw attention to them.”

  “Maybe so, but you could’ve been killed. You must be an adrenaline junkie.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Not anymore. I learned my lesson.” He tilted his head slightly. “Isn’t all the area around there considered the jurisdiction of the sheriff’s office?”

  “Yes, what’s your point?”

  “If there was a major drug smuggling ring out there, seems like he would already know.”

  “He probably does.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know and Jim went out there on a tip.”

  “It’s certainly a possibility, but not probable.” I shook my head. “As close as the two of them were, Jim would have gone to Danny with the information, especially since the sheriff’s office was in charge of the area.”

  “Could he have been under orders not to reveal any information…say like an undercover operation?”

  “Perhaps so. I still believe even if his silence involved undercover work, Danny would have been included. Jim and his officers don’t have jurisdiction out there.”

  Steven frowned. “What if this undercover operation had something to do with one or more of Jim’s officers?”

  Twenty-six

  Steven’s remark stayed with me through supper and beyond. Even as I walked across the yard to the Marchands’ house, my brain still calculated possibilities. Angie Ducote and Jack LeBlanc certainly make good candidates for investigation.

  Could one or both of them be under suspicion for an illegal activity? The drug smuggling? This might involve federal agents like DEA. I couldn’t help believing Danny would at least be privy to undercover action, if nothing else, especially if the Feds were involved.

  The motion detector under the eaves of the Marchands’ house came on and flooded me with light. I didn’t have to wait long after knocking before Rachel answered the door.

  “Hey, come on in,” she said with a smile.

  “I hope I’m not bothering y’all by dropping in.”

  “Since when have you ever been a bother?”

  “Well, I wanted to talk to Danny about something, but earlier I saw him walking up to the house when he made it home. He looked pretty tired.”

  Rachel lowered her voice. “Lately he has been irritated or annoyed about something going on at city hall. He wouldn’t tell me what. Also, he’s still deeply saddened by Jim’s death.”

  “I know how close they were.” A small twinge of guilt pulled at me. Would I be making a big mistake by bringing up the drug smuggling issue? Perhaps, but I needed to find the truth about what had happened to Jim. The truth about drug smuggling and my husband’s death might be one and the same.

  “Tired or not, for you he’ll discuss whatever you have on your mind.” Rachel turned away and started walking. “Come on in the kitchen. I made a pot of coffee…decaf,” she called over her shoulder. “Can I get you a cup?”

  “As long as it’s decaf, I’m up for one.”

  Danny was seated at the kitchen table, an oval honey-colored maple piece I’d admired since the first time I saw it. He greeted me with a smile. “What’s going on?”

  “I wanted to speak to you about a visit I made to Andre and T-Boy LaBauve.”

  I suspected his frown meant he hadn’t expected me to follow through with a visit to them. He should know me by now.

  “So you did go out and talk to them.” He directed me to have a seat at the table. “Did something happen while you were there?”

  “Not at their house. I talked them into taking me out to the place where they found Jim.”

  With an elbow resting on the table top, he placed his hand over his mouth. Probably to keep from shouting at me. His eyes looked angry. “Did you find an item we missed?” he asked, with an indignant tone.

  Rachel came to the rescue, intervening with the coffee pot, and poured a cup for me and one for him.

  “Nothing that wasn’t there on the day Jim was shot,” I said. “There were a lot of recent footprints on the bank of Bayou Jean Baptiste, and evidence someone pushed a small boat or something toward the water.”

  He shrugged. “The public was allowed back when we cleared the crime scene. What else?”

  “One of the shoe prints had clear markings of very high end athletic shoe.” I showed him the photo on my cell phone. “I believe this one was fairly fresh.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Not something the average fisherman would wear to go tromping around in the swamp, but some people aren’t too smart.”

  “T-Boy mentioned rumors about drug smuggling occurring around there. Andre claimed quite adamantly there was no such thing going on.” I related the conversation and my impression of the exchange between father and son.

  Danny frowned. He didn’t say a word for a lengthy time. Or what seemed like long to me. His expression suggested he might be trying to decide how to respond.

  He directed his gaze to Rachel, who stood leaning against the counter. “Come sit over here. I’m going to tell you both something and it should not go beyond this room.” He turned to me. “Including Steven.”