Creole Belle (Dave Robicheaux 19)

“I don’t know. On this one, I’ve been in the dark since Jump Street, Clete.”

“Join the club,” he said. We came around a bend covered with shadows; he clicked on his brights. “I don’t believe it.”

“Pull over,” I said.

“What’d you think I was going to do? Run her down?”

“It’s a thought,” I replied.

Parked by the side of the road was a Saab convertible, its frame mashed down on a collapsed rear tire. Varina Leboeuf stood next to the Saab, drenched in the glare of Clete’s high beams. Behind her, inside a stand of persimmon trees and water oaks, was a cemetery filled with whitewashed brick and stucco crypts, most of them tilted at odd angles, sinking into the softness of the mold and lichen and wet soil that seldom saw daylight.

I got out on the passenger side. The headlights were in her eyes, and it was obvious she could barely make out who I was. “You sure have bad luck with tires,” I said.

“Yeah, and I told you why. My ex-husband has tried to screw me out of every dime he could,” she said.

“Want a lift?”

“No, I was just about to call AAA,” she replied.

“The AAA service in this area not only sucks, it’s nonexistent,” I said. “You’re headed for Croix du Sud?”

“No, I’m not. If it’s any of your business, I’m supposed to meet friends at the Yellow Bowl for supper. I wanted to cancel, but I couldn’t reach them.”

“Hop in,” I said.

“I don’t like the way you’ve treated me, Dave.”

“Get in front, Varina,” Clete said. “Dave can ride in back. It’s time for a truce, isn’t it?”

While I got in back and Varina got in front, Clete stepped outside the Caddy and removed my coat from his shoulders and tossed it to me.

“You need this,” I said.

“I’ve got a blanket in the trunk,” he replied.

CLETE POPPED THE hatch on the trunk, blocking the view of anyone looking through the back window. He strapped his Marine Corps KA-BAR knife high up on his left calf and pulled his trouser leg over it. Then he lifted a blanket out of the trunk and draped it over his shoulders and picked up his pistol-grip AK-47 and held it in his left hand and covered it with the blanket. When he got back in the car, he tightened the blanket around him and looked into Varina’s face and smiled. “We want to talk to Pierre. Want to help us with that?” he said.

“No,” she said, staring wanly through the windshield.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I don’t know or care where he is.”

“Think Pierre is capable of kidnapping or hurting our daughters?” Clete said.

“He’s a sick man, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“How about his grandfather? Does he qualify as sick?” Clete said.

“Why ask me?”

“Because you lived with him. Is Alexis Dupree a sadist?” Clete asked.

“I’m really tired, Clete,” she said. “I’m sorry about what’s happened. I wish I never met the Dupree family. I don’t know what else to say.”

Clete dropped the gearshift into drive. “You’re quite a gal,” he said.

She stared uncertainly at the side of his face as the Caddy inched off the road’s shoulder onto the asphalt, gravel clicking under the tires.