Sleeping With the Crawfish
What the critics said about Sleeping with the Crawfish:
“Streamlined thrills and gripping forensic detail.”
—KIRKUS
“Action-packed, cleverly plotted topnotch thriller. Another fine entry in a consistently outstanding series.”
—BOOKLIST
“With each book, Donaldson peels away a few more layers of these characters and we find ourselves loving the involvement.”
—THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)
“The pace is pell-mell.”
—SAN ANTONIO EXPRESS-NEWS
“Exciting and . . . realistic. Donaldson . . . starts his action early and sustains it until the final pages.”
—BENTON COURIER (Arkansas)
“A roller-coaster ride . . . Thoroughly enjoyable.”
—BRAZOSPORT FACTS
“The latest outing of a fine series which never disappoints.”
—MERITORIOUS MYSTERIES
What the critics said about New Orleans Requiem:
“Lots of Louisiana color, pinpoint plotting and two highly likable characters . . . smart, convincing solution.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (starred review)
“An . . . accomplished forensic mystery. His New Orleans is worth the trip.”
—NEW ORLEANS TIMES-PICAYUNE
“Andy and Kit are a match made in mystery heaven.”
—THE CLARION-LEDGER (Jackson, MS)
“Nicely drawn characters, plenty of action, and an engaging . . . storytelling style.”
—THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)
“Donaldson has established himself as a master of the Gothic mystery.”
—BOOKLIST
“The tension will keep even the most reluctant young adult readers turning the pages . . .”
—SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL
What the critics said about Louisiana Fever:
“Delivers . . . genuinely heart-stopping suspense.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Sleek, fast moving.”
—KIRKUS
“Broussard tracks the virus . . . with a winning combination of common sense and epidemiologic legerdemain.”
—NEW ORLEANS TIMES-PICAYUNE
“This series has carved a solid place for itself. Broussard makes a terrific counterpoint to the Dave Robicheaux ragin’ Cajun school of mystery heroes.”
—BOOKLIST
“A dazzling tour de force . . . sheer pulse-pounding reading excitement.”
—THE CLARION-LEDGER (Jackson, MS)
“A novel of . . . terrifying force. . . . utterly fascinating . . . His best work yet.”
—THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)
“The autopsies are detailed enough to make Patricia Cornwell fans move farther south for their forensic fixes. . . . splendidly eccentric local denizens, authentic New Orleans and bayou backgrounds . . . a very suspenseful tale.”
—LOS ANGELES TIMES
“A fast moving, . . . suspenseful story. Andy and Kit are quite likeable leads . . . The other attraction is the solid medical background against which their story plays out.”
—DEADLY PLEASURES
“If your skin doesn’t crawl with the step-by-step description of the work of the (medical) examiner and his assistants, it certainly will when Donaldson reveals the carrier of the fever.”
—KNOXVILLE NEWS-SENTINEL
“Keep(s) the reader on the edge of his chair and likely to finish in one sitting.”
—BENTON COURIER (Arkansas)
“Exciting reading . . . well planned . . . fast paced.”
—MYSTERY NEWS
“Tight and well-paced . . . Andy (Broussard) is a hugely engaging character . . . (the) writing is frequently inspired.”
—THE ARMCHAIR DETECTIVE
SLEEPING
WITH THE
CRAWFISH
D.J. Donaldson
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
SLEEPING WITH THE CRAWFISH
Astor + Blue Editions
EBook Copyright © 2012 by D.J. Donaldson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by:
Astor + Blue Editions
New York, NY 10003
www.astorandblue.com
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
Donaldson, D.J. Sleeping with the Crawfish—3rd ed.
Originally published in 1997 by St. Martin’s Press
ISBN: 978-1-938231-41-4 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-938231-39-1 (epub)
ISBN: 978-1-938231-40-7 (epdf)
1. Detective Duo—Murder Mystery—Fiction 2. Police procedural and forensic mystery—Fiction 3. Crime and Investigation—Fiction 4. Death and Deception—Fiction 5. American Murder and Suspense Story—Fiction 6. New Orleans (LA) I. Title
Book Design: Bookmasters
Jacket Cover Design: Ervin Serrano
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
Acknowledgments
They say to write what you know. My problem is that I don’t know much, certainly not enough to fill a book. This means I’m constantly relying on the kindness of strangers and friends for information. For this book, I’m indebted to Dr. Mel Park for filling in my almost-nonexistent knowledge about guns and for taking me to the firing range that appears in this story. Thanks also to Bob LeNoue for a thorough discussion of the cremation process, to Nancy Loggins for instruction on embalming procedures, and to Dr. Harry Mincer for information on dental matters. I particularly enjoyed talking dart-poison frogs with Charles Beck, curator of reptiles and amphibians at the Memphis Zoo. And yes, his office was very warm. It was fun, too, learning a bit about signing for the deaf from Dr. Jennifer Lukomski. My apologies to anyone who told me things I’ve used in this book but who wasn’t mentioned here. As much as I want every fact to be correct, sometimes things go awry. If that’s happened anywhere in this story, the blame is all mine.
Introduction to this Edition
Following up on New Orleans Requiem and Louisiana Fever, this marks the third Andy Broussard, Kit Franklyn mystery reissued by Astor + Blue Editions. And I’m still excited over what they’re doing. According to what I’ve heard from Bubba Oustellette, the little Cajun mechanic who keeps Broussard’s fleet of ’57 T-Birds running, Kit and Andy are just as happy about it as I am.
If you’ve read Louisiana Fever, I’m sure it comes as no surprise when I say that at the start of this story, Kit has lost all confidence in herself because of things that happened to her in that earlier book. She’s so confused and ashamed she’s taken a leave of absence from Broussard’s employ to work as a clerk in the French Quarter. A CLERK . . . with her ability.
But Broussard has an idea that may coax her back to work. He gives her what seems like
a simple assignment, but in Andy and Kit’s world, things have a way of spinning out of control. Things go so wrong, Broussard even ends up in Memphis, where if I’d known he was here, I’d have taken him to dinner. And while he’s here, he . . . oh-oh. . . . I’d better stop now and let you read it all for yourself before I spoil things.
—D.J. Donaldson
1
“All right, Warden Guillory . . . thanks. It’s a puzzle, no question. But if he’s there, he can’t be here, too. I’ll be in touch.”
Chief Medical Examiner Andy Broussard hung up and stared into space, his hand remaining on the phone. Then he picked up the file that had come over from Central Records and looked again at the mug shot of Ronald Cicero.
The man in the picture and the guy on the table downstairs in the morgue were obviously the same person. The photo had been taken nineteen years ago when Cicero had been booked for killing a clerk in a liquor-store robbery. Now, at sixty-eight, he didn’t look much different . . . and his prints matched. He’d been sent to the state prison at Angola for life, and the warden had just said he was still there.
Broussard closed the file and tossed it onto his desk. He reached into the fishbowl of lemon drops next to the wooden sign that read THOSE WHO DON’T BELIEVE THE DEAD CAN COME BACK TO LIFE SHOULD BE HERE AT QUITTING TIME and popped a candy into each cheek. He then rocked back in his chair and folded his stubby fingers over his ample belly, his mind going back to the odd lesions he’d found in the depths of Cicero’s brain—clean holes of degeneration without signs of inflammation. That was perplexing enough . . . one puzzle to a customer. Now the warden at Angola says he’s got Cicero.
Broussard reflected on the situation for about ninety seconds, the lemon balls in his cheek clicking around his mouth like marbles in a sack. Hitting on a way to solve two of his problems at the same time, he rocked forward in his chair and reached for the phone book.
“OH, IT’S GONE,” THE woman moaned, stomping her heel on the floor. She turned to Kit and pointed at the wall. “Yesterday, in that spot there was a scene of Jackson Square right after a rain, with the light reflecting off the wet bricks . . . kind of eerie.”
“I remember it,” Kit Franklyn said.
“Is it in the back somewhere?” the woman asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid it’s sold.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“People give us money, we give them pictures—it’s kind of a business thing.”
“You don’t have to be snotty about it.”
She was right, of course. The customer should always be right, even if they ask stupid questions. It was just hard for Kit to adapt to her current status. Five weeks earlier, she’d been the medical examiner’s suicide investigator and psychological profiler for the police. Now . . . a clerk.
No one had forced this on her. It had been her choice. To Broussard and everyone else who knew her, a totally puzzling one. Of course, they hadn’t been degraded and humiliated by a pair of psychotic kidnappers. It was all still fresh in her mind—the Ph.D. . . . the big psychologist . . . totally dominated by two bottom-feeders. Who wouldn’t suffer a loss of confidence after that?
She’d felt like a fraud—like if she had a CAT scan, they’d find that the ventricles in her brain were hugely enlarged and she was getting by on a thin shell of gray matter. It could happen—had already, in fact—to another woman in this country. You could look it up. Such a person shouldn’t be investigating anything. They should be a clerk. And right now, she wasn’t even doing that well.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the irritated customer. “Would you like to order a print of that photo? I’m sure the owner has the negative and would be happy to make one for you.”
“Tell him he can take his negative and shove it.”
As the woman stormed out, the phone rang.
“Boyd’s Gallery.”
“Kit, is that you?” Andy Broussard said.
“Sometimes I wonder myself.”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
“You, too.”
“Say, I’ve got a problem over here I was hopin’ you’d be willin’ to help me with.”
“I’m not good at solving problems.”
“This one is pretty straightforward. I just don’t have anyone I can put on it.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Please. As a personal favor.”
He was hitting below the belt now. After all they’d been through together and how much she respected and, yes, loved the old curmudgeon, granting him a small favor didn’t seem like too much to ask. Still . . . “I’ve got responsibilities here at the gallery.”
“I understand, but maybe you could get free for a while and drop by the office.”
She hesitated, wishing she was the person Broussard thought she was. She pictured her office, sitting there empty, the chapters of her unfinished manuscript on suicide languishing in her desk.
A book. She’d actually had the nerve to believe she could write a book. Utterly self-delusional.
“Kit, you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“What do you say? Will you help me?”
“Umm . . . I don’t know if I can. . . . Maybe . . . I don’t know. I’ll call you.”
She hung up without giving him the opportunity to coax her again. Remaining by the phone, she watched the foot traffic pass by the window on Toulouse. Andy needed help.
Outside, a kid on his father’s shoulders looked at her through the glass and waved happily. She waved back, envying the child, his life stretching before him, no choices yet made, a fresh, unstained existence, everything to come, his potential still a mystery.
Nolen Boyd, the owner of the gallery, came through the door, eating a Lucky Dog from the pushcart on the corner, a Coke in the other hand. He was a big, overweight guy with a soft, slack face and a deep, resonant voice Kit suspected could do a killer rendition of “Old Man River.” He subsisted, it seemed, on Lucky Dogs blanketed with chili that frequently dripped onto his paunch, where the stain usually disappeared into the psychedelic floral pattern on the Hawaiian shirts he favored.
“Did I see a woman come out of here empty-handed?” he asked.
Kit pointed at the blank spot on the wall. “She wanted that rainy Cabildo scene.”
“You tell her I’d make her one?”
“I did, but we sort of got off on the wrong foot.”
“Whose fault?”
“Mine. She asked a goofy question and I didn’t handle it well.”
“Done that myself from time to time. Trouble with having a business open to the general public is, that’s who comes in. Forget it. She obviously didn’t deserve one of my pictures.”
He took another bite of his hot dog.
Andy needed help.
“Nolen, would you mind if I left for an hour or so? There’s something I have to do.”
He waved his hand theatrically. “Away, then.”
“Thanks.”
She picked up the phone and called Broussard.
“Hi, it’s me, Kit. I’ll come over and listen, but I can’t promise anything. I should be there in twenty minutes.”
She hung up and left by the back door. Like most buildings in the French Quarter, there was a courtyard behind the gallery. Two hundred years ago, the place had housed a single family, the owners living in the wrought iron–decorated two stories facing Toulouse, the servants occupying the two floors of plain brick that formed the left and back boundaries of the courtyard. The rear wing had recently been declared structurally unsafe and there was a chain-link fence across that part of the courtyard to keep people a safe distance away. Kit’s apartment and one other were on the second floor of the refurbished left wing. Because there was so much street noise at night, Nolen had put his darkroom above the gallery and lived in the apartment below Kit.
Avoiding the drops of blood from Nolen’s miniature dachshund, which had been menstruating all over the place for the last
three days, Kit walked to the gray cypress stairs that led to the second floor. “Lucky . . . here, boy.”
Her own little brown dog wiggled out of a tall patch of straw grass and bounded toward her, tongue lolling. At the steps, he skidded to a stop and sat down, his hind feet facing forward like a child, waiting for her to tell him what she wanted.
“I’m going out for a while and I want you to be a good boy.” Brown eyes glistening, Lucky cocked his head, trying so hard to understand.
“Can you do that? Can you be a good boy?”
Jesus, he was cute. She stepped off the stairs, knelt, and ruffled the fur on Lucky’s head with both hands. When she started to go, he grabbed her shoelace.
“No, Lucky . . . no.”
He released the lace, sat again, and watched her go up the stairs.
As Kit passed the apartment before hers, the door flew open and the occupant came out holding a tray filled with disturbing objects.
“Kit, dear. I’ve just developed a new line and I wanted your opinion. It’s been so long since I’ve seen one, I wasn’t sure I got it right.”
It was Eunice Dalehite, a rail-thin woman with straight gray hair and eyes that functioned independently of each other, like those of a chameleon.
“What do you think?” she asked, one eye looking at Kit, the other glancing over Kit’s shoulder. She thrust the tray at Kit’s face, forcing her to take a step backward. Eunice made erotic candy for the Naughty but Nice shop two blocks down Bourbon Street. On the tray were six chocolate erections, complete with shaved chocolate pubic hair.
Kit was speechless.
“Is it accurate?” Eunice said.
“I . . . I’m no expert, but they look good—Ah . . . accurate to me.”
Eunice beamed. “It’s my own special blend of chocolate. Try one.” She thrust the tray forward.
Even if she’d wanted to sample one, Kit hadn’t the slightest idea how one would do it and retain a shred of dignity.
“It’s tempting . . . but I’m allergic to chocolate,” Kit said.
“Oh dear. How terrible for you.”
“It’s a burden, but I manage.”
“Maybe I’ll make you some nice open-zipper cookies instead.”