Death by the Riverside by J.M. Redmann

Author:J.M. Redmann [Redmann, J.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 9781931513050
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2010-11-12T06:00:00+00:00

DEATH BY THE RIVERSIDE

seeing my bosom buddy Karen Holloway, but it seemed a good idea for Frankie.

I found a pay phone and called Frankie and told him to get his dancing shoes ready for Saturday. He agreed. We discussed his wearing the dress and me the tails, but decided that it would have to wait for another ball. Torbin agreed to lend me a suitable dress, but warned me to find my own shoes. I got Frankie’s measurements to rent a set of tails for him.

I wasn’t going to go over to Torbin’s until Saturday, much as I would have liked to. Torbin is a great way to pass time, but I didn’t want the risk, however small, of someone following me there.

I prowled my way through the week taking care of the other case that had shown up on my doorstep—tracking down a missing eight-foot dragon’s rump from a Mardi Gras float. Why is it that I get the tail end of everything?

Finally, on Thursday, I decided to do something boring and practical and all too necessary. Get my car fixed. There was a garage here in town that my car was inordinately fond of visiting, but I decided, for financial reasons, to avoid the high overhead of city rents and taxes.

Azalea Decheaux’s oldest son had a garage out in Bayou St.

Jack’s. It seemed reasonable and practical to go out there and get him to fix my car.

These were the reasons I kept repeating to myself as I drove out of the city. Also, I told myself, I might try to find out where Ben was and how he was doing. And to visit my ghosts, but I didn’t let myself dwell on that.

I drove down the narrow road through the browns and muted green leaves of winter. The trees had always come to the edge of the pavement, but now they seemed smaller, less dense than in my memories. They were the same, but I had grown taller, tall enough to peer over the jumble of grass and weeds that had met the face of the child.

The sign for Bayou St. Jack’s appeared. It had only been put up in the last five years, but looked much older, bitten and buffeted by salt winds from the Gulf and the boredom of small boys with BB guns.

My dad had told me that no one was sure how Bayou St. Jack’s got its name. He’d wink and say, “Us Cajuns know it’s supposed to be Bayou St. Jacques, but the damned Americans can’t speak French, so

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