Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 07 - The Swamps of Bayou Teche Read Online Free Page A

why”
    “And that’s it, huh?”
    “That’s it. At least, that’s what Mr. Hardy told me.
Just an affectation, nothing more.” She paused a moment, a quizzical arch to her eyebrows and a crooked
smile on her lips, “Satisfied?”
    I shrugged. “I suppose” I studied her a moment,
and with a wry grin, replied, “Makes you wonder why
someone would do something like that”
    She gave me a look that screamed you’ve-got-tobe-kidding. “You’ve met her. Why do you think? By
the way, is she still driving her white Mercedes convertible?”
    “Mercedes?” I shook my head, then chuckled as I understood just what Laura Palmo was implying. “She
was tooling through Austin traffic in a cherry red Jag
Roadster last time I saw her.”

    Laura held her hands out to her sides. “I rest my
case. She really is a sweet old lady, but she likes to be
noticed and wants to keep her son tied to her apron
strings. That’s the real reason she hired you.”
    I glanced at the notes in my hand. “Like you said,
the trip on down to Morgan City is probably a waste
of time.”
    By the time I reached the glass doors at the front of
the bank, I had made up my mind to head back to
Austin. There was nothing here except a worried
mother. I glanced back across the lobby at Laura
Palmo behind the railing separating her desk from the
lobby. She smiled and waved. I waved back, and as I
left the bank, I glanced at the telephone number she
had given me. The Dolphin Bay Country Club at
Freeport on Grand Bahama. Telephone 1-800-739-
xxxx, room 417.
    I would call John Hardy and insist he contact his
mother. And then my job was done.
    Folding the sheet of paper into my shirt pocket, I
started down the sidewalk to the Cadillac.
    Then I froze.
    Hastily, I fumbled in my pocket for the paper with
Hardy’s telephone number. I reread it, then stared off
into space, mixed thoughts tumbling through my head.

    But foremost was the idea that perhaps the trip to
Morgan City might not be a waste of time after allthat perhaps there was more to this case than simply a
doddering old woman wanting to keep her son tied to
her apron strings.
    I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the telephone number Laura had given me. I listened carefully as the operator at the Dolphin Bay Country Club
in the Bahamas answered. After a moment, I said, “I
beg your pardon. I have the wrong number.”
    For several seconds, I stared at the small silver
phone. Now I knew something was wrong.
    To confirm the gut feeling nagging at me, I called
information, then once again Dolphin Bay Country
Club. I asked for room 417. Moments later, I hung up,
my gut feeling verified.
    First stop-Benoit’s Hunting Lodge, Morgan City,
Louisiana.

     

Jack started the engine as I slammed the door. “Where now? Back home?” He grunted.
    I hooked my thumb south. “Morgan City.”
    A sly grin slid over his rotund face as he backed out
of the parking slot. “Found something, huh?”
    “I’m not sure,” I replied with a shrug. “But maybe
down there, I can make two plus two add up to four.”
    He just nodded and gunned the engine. The powerful car leaped forward, heading for Morgan City on
Highway 87, the scenic route, tagged by the state as
the Bayou Teche Scenic Byway.
    Not only could Jack live with absolute nonchalance
in the squalor of empty beer cans and greasy boxes
filled with pizza crumbs, he also was blessed with an intellectual curiosity equaled only by a toad frog. So
the fact he didn’t ask me to explain what I had discovered to send us on down to Morgan City gave me time
to sort my thoughts while we sped down the quaint
road, lined with mossy trees and dark, deep swamps.

    I didn’t have much information, but what little I had
only took a few minutes to organize. First, Hardy had
not returned on schedule. Second, the last verifiable
time he had been seen was at Benoit’s Hunting Lodge.
And third, he was not at Dolphin Bay.
    The wind