White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (White Trash Zombie 5)

Main Street bustled with a strange mix of parade goers and Zombie Festers, and it wasn’t easy to tell which was which. Plastic beads and fake rot. Only in Louisiana.

I walked past Le Bon Décor and the zombie carnival masks, then stopped, went back, and peered at the sign beside them. 40% off.

Ooooooo. That put them in the “not stupidly expensive” territory. Nick had bought VIP tickets for the Zombie Fest, so it was only right for me to give a little back in return. And, it would be fun to surprise Nick and use the masks for part of the day. Besides, I wanted them. Grinning in delight, I marched into the shop, plopped my debit card down, and became the proud owner of unique zombie Mardi Gras mask awesomeness.

With my treasures boxed and bagged in a fancy-schmancy artsy bag, I continued on my way. A pair of jugglers were entertaining a crowd in front of the Bear’s Den and Wyatt’s Butcher Shop, so I ducked around the corner and into the alley to hit the back entrance. Judging by the number of new paintball splodges on the practice wall at the end of the alley, Bear was no doubt making a killing from sales for the festival.

I set the bells on the back door jangling as I entered the butcher shop.

“Be with you in a minute,” Mr. Wyatt called out from the processing room.

“Take your time,” I called back as I strolled to the front display cases. A sign on the wall advertised game processing—everything from whitetail to alligator. Every hunter I knew brought their kills here.

Mr. Wyatt emerged through swinging doors, wiping his hands on a blood-covered white apron. Stocky, with hair the color of dark steel, the first impression was that he wasn’t someone to be messed with. Yet he always had a ready smile, like the one he sent me now.

“G’morning, Miss Angel. What can I do for you today?”

“Hey, Mr. Wyatt. I need calf brains.”

He shook his head solemnly. “Fresh out. Cletus Crowe picked up the last of them this morning. Got some nice pig brains, though.”

I hid a wince. “Can I see what they look like? I mean, how big they are?”

He moved behind the right display case and tapped the glass. “That’s them in the front. This for special effects?”

“Nah, for eating.” I peered at the brains nestled in crushed ice. Damn. They were a quarter the size of a human brain, if that. “Any idea when you’ll get more calf brains in?”

“I can order them special, but Wednesday would be the soonest.”

My plan could still work, though I’d need more than I’d thought. “I’ll take four of the pig brains for now.”

The fr

ont door bells clanged, and Mr. Wyatt looked up. “Mornin’, Miss Savannah,” he said with a broad smile. “Be right with you.”

Savannah. I glanced at the woman who’d entered. Shit. Savannah Prejean. Allen’s wife. And, outside on the sidewalk, the boss-man himself watched jugglers with the rest of the crowd.

“Take all the time you need, Wyatt.” She smiled at me. The kind of polite smile you give to strangers. “Angel, it’s nice to see you.”

Damn, so much for hoping she wouldn’t remember me. I’d only met her twice before—at the Coroner’s Office Christmas party and a crawfish boil at Derrel’s place last spring. I managed a nice smile in return. “Good to see you too, Mrs. Prejean.”

Wyatt prodded a brain with his gloved finger. “Miss Angel, you want me to special order for next week?”

“Uh.” I stole a glance at Allen. I needed to order three calf brains, but having his wife listen in while I schemed made me more than a little antsy. “Lemme get back to you. I’ll cook these up for my dad, and we’ll see how that turns out.”

“Good enough. Call me by ten Monday.” He flopped the pig brains onto butcher paper, wrapped them.

Savannah lifted her chin toward the display case. “Allen tried to talk me into taking a bite of his sandwich at the diner.” She gave a prim shudder. “I can’t get past the thought of them being brains.”

I shoved a ten across the counter. “I had the same problem the first time I had brains, but they grew on me.”

Wyatt passed me a bag with the brains and my change.

The jugglers had moved on, but Allen remained on the sidewalk in front of the shop. No way was I going to carry contraband pig brains past him. Sure, I was being paranoid, but he—

My gaze froze on a man across the street, phone to his ear as he looked straight at the butcher shop.

Philip.