Cajun Crazy

  “Uh-uh,” she warned, reading the licentious thoughts on his face, apparently.

  Note to self: Don’t show licentious thoughts. “Sorry. It’s hard to stand so close to the fire and not get hot.”

  “Puh-leeze!”

  She wasn’t going to let him get away with anything. Switching gears again, he told her, “I also brought half of the fruit tart for dessert.”

  “Are you trying to sweeten me up?”

  “Oh, yeah!”

  She shook her head at him. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “I have some ideas.”

  “I bet you do.”

  They both went into the living room to watch Maisie play with the cat. In fact, Simone got down on the floor to show his daughter some of the cat’s tricks. Meanwhile he checked out her apartment.

  It was sparsely furnished with newly refinished cypress wood floors. Probably a work in progress since she’d only moved here a few weeks ago.

  A woven, gold area rug sat in the middle of the room, which was painted a warm rust color with a low sofa and two matching chairs upholstered in shades of tan, green, and orange, arranged about a circular coffee table. There didn’t appear to be a TV set, a must for any bachelor pad, but maybe there was one in the bedroom, which he could only see partially through a half-open door. A bay window, facing the street, held a window seat with soft red cushions . . . a perfect spot for reading that was probably the cat’s favorite spot. Maisie would have all her dolls spread out there like a private, little girl alcove.

  After they ate their dinner on the coffee table, he sat on the sofa next to Simone, watching Maisie cuddle with the cat and make little cooing noises that she probably thought the cat would understand. Maybe it did. Adam wasn’t a big fan of cats, but he would put up with one, if that was the pet Maisie decided on. His father was trying to influence her toward a black Lab, which had been the breed of Adam’s youth. Personally, he didn’t care, except he didn’t want a really big dog, or a really small one, either. His dad would be the one in charge of training the mutt, or cat, while Adam was at work. In other words, it would be whatever Maisie wanted, or whatever caught her eye, or heartstrings, the day they finally went to a shelter. Except for a pony . . . or rats.

  He could see that Maisie was practically asleep. They would have to leave soon. He reached over and ran a fingertip along the edge of Simone’s jaw so she would look at him. “Thanks for having us here. I know you would have rather we didn’t come.”

  “And I know you didn’t want to come . . . and no double entendres.”

  “I have reasons for wanting to separate my family life from my personal life,” he tried to explain.

  “Because you think I’m unsuitable company for your daughter.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! Be honest. I’m a woman who’s been married three times. Somehow that makes me kind of immoral. Certainly not the mother figure you want your daughter to look up to.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! No one said anything about mother figures. I have no intention of getting married again, and I was under the impression you felt the same way.”

  “I do, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be insulted when I’m considered a slut.”

  “I don’t know you well enough to consider you a slut. If I thought you were a tramp, that would definitely be reason to keep you away from my daughter. But there are other reasons for my rule.”

  “A rule now?”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Maisie tends to attach herself to people easily. It’s not so much that she’s needy, as overly friendly. She doesn’t understand when people don’t reciprocate, or suddenly disappear.”

  “Like your women do?”

  “Like they would if I introduced them to her. I’m not much of a long-term relationship guy.”

  “I’m not stupid, Adam. If I had a child and was raising it as a single parent, I would be real careful about introducing a third person into the relationship.”

  “So we’re good then,” he leaned over to kiss her.

  She ducked away and stood. “Hell, no, we’re not good. Let me ask you a question. These short-term relationships of yours . . . do they involves dates . . . you know, dinner, movies, concerts, that kind of thing? Or just wham-bam booty calls?”

  His red face gave him away, and she started to laugh.

  “Not always,” he protested.

  She continued to laugh.

  “Okay, Ms. Smart Ass, would you like to go out on a date sometime?”

  “I don’t know. Try me again after you’ve had a chance to stop hyperventilating.”

  “I am not . . .” He stood and tried to grab for her—he was laughing now, too—but the coffee table was between them. And Maisie began to whine as children did when they were overtired.

  “Say good night, sweetie,” he told his daughter as he picked her up.

  Maisie lifted her sleepy head from his shoulder and said, “Good night, Miss See-mone. Good night, Scarlett.”

  “Good night, Mary Sue. Sweet dreams.” With one hand she held the door open for Adam to pass through; in the other arm she held the cat who would probably dart out into a neighborhood she was still unfamiliar with.

  “Good night, Simone. Sweet dreams,” he whispered as he leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips. Even that light brush of lips on lips was erotic madness waiting to happen. If this is Cajun Crazy, then welcome to the funny farm, he decided with sigh of surrender. “We have a date . . . sometime. . . . right?”

  She hesitated, looking from him to his daughter and back to him. She could have cut him off at the knees then with one of her sarcastic remarks. Instead, she sighed, too. “Right.”

  If she was the honey, who would the bee be? . . .

  Simone was falling in love, which both exhilarated and scared her. Last night’s visit from Adam and his daughter only cemented the feelings that were already there.

  Love was nothing new to Simone, of course, being almost thirty years old and “dating” since she was fourteen. Married three times. Four long-term relationships (of more than six months). Innumerable dates. Just a few . . . okay, three . . . one-night stands.

  That was a lot of baggage for any man to take on.

  It was sad, really, this endless quest for a forever kind of love. Did she even believe anymore in the possibility of “true love”?

  The answer was yes. But she just wasn’t sure it was in the cards for her.

  As a result, she was going to tread carefully this time, not just because Adam was Cajun (her bane), or because any relationship they had would be short-lived (or not, which might be even worse), but she also worried about getting involved with a man who had a child. She didn’t want to hurt Maisie any more than her father did.

  That being said, she was keeping her emotions to herself. Not even her best friend could know. No more jumping impulsively into a new man’s arms . . . or bed.

  Simone and Helene were discussing the two most important cases on their schedule . . . Marcus Pitot and Mike Pham. They were sitting on the back patio of Legal Belles eating a take-out lunch from Sweet Buns Bakery next door . . . chicken salad on homemade croissants, replete with crunchy green grapes and walnuts, topped with leaves of crisp local arugula. The pitcher of sweet tea was from her own fridge.

  “I wish you could be the one working Pham, but I’m afraid he might recognize you,” Helene said.

  “My picture hasn’t been in the papers or on TV whenever Legal Belles was discussed,” she argued. “And he’s at least five years older than I am, so we didn’t go to school together or at the same time.”

  “Yeah, but you know what the bayou is like. A small community, in many ways, encompassing many towns. And the grapevine is a Ripley’s wonder.”

  “Guess you’re right,” Simone conceded. “And there’s that concern over a conflict of interest with LeDeux & Lanier.”

  Helene nodded, probably thinking of the ties with Simone’s half brother Luc, not knowing precisely how
close Simone was to “ties” with Adam.

  “Anyhow, I’m thinking about hiring that new woman, Cecile Bastian, to do some legwork, following the creep, checking out his personal contacts. CiCi has a remarkable talent for digging out the least detail that others might overlook. Years of detective type experience.”

  “Sounds good. I worked with CiCi a few years back on an embezzlement case.”

  “And the actual sting operation . . . well, Sabine would be good for that. In fact, she’s already started since she finished up that Sam Ellison case.”

  “The one where the wife suspected the husband of cheating, but he wasn’t?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wonders never cease.”

  “Tell me about it.” They both laughed. Then Simone asked, “Have you had a chance to check the public records on Mad Mike’s dealings?”

  “Oh, yeah. Kimly Bien has reason to be concerned on her sister’s behalf. The Pham business is solely owned by the Pham family, father and son only. Nowhere does Thanh have a share, either in ownership, stocks, or fixed assets. In fact, the home she lives in is listed only in her husband’s name. He, by the way, also owns a condo on Grand Isle.”

  “Surprise, surprise! What can she do?”

  “Lots. I’m going to prepare a lawsuit for her, seeking an appropriate share in the business, full ownership of her home, and other financial remuneration. But I won’t file until the Cypress Oil settlement is announced or until Mike Pham has filed for divorce, or both.”

  “It should come soon, according to this morning’s paper.”

  “Right. Also, I understand that he went to Las Vegas last weekend. That might just be a coincidence, but on the other hand, remember what I said about the six-week divorce available there. He could have been renting a short-term residence. I suspect he’s already started the divorce application process. I have a detective working on that now.”

  “He’s a piece of work,” Simone said, shaking her head with disgust.

  “Yes, but unfortunately not so unusual. Now, can you set up another meeting for us with Kimly and Thanh?” She checked her iPhone calendar. “How about Tuesday afternoon?”

  “I’ll put BaRa on that right away and confirm with you.”

  “Now, onto the Pitot case. Are you willing to do the groundwork yourself? To be the honey trap?”

  “I am.”

  “You’ll have to spend some time down in Nawleans where he lives and this club operates.”

  “No problem.”

  “Be careful. These are powerful men, and women, who don’t like being thwarted.”

  She shrugged. That was nothing new. Power corrupts, whether in politics or private life.

  “Maybe you and Gabe should work it as a couple.”

  “That’s a good idea. Let me talk to him and work out a plan.”

  “I would feel better in this particular op if you had a partner.”

  “You mean I would be safer with a man protecting little ol’ me?”

  Helene laughed and put up her hands in surrender. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you’ve been a cop and know better than most men how to protect yourself.”

  “I shouldn’t be so sensitive,” she said in response, not wanting Helene to feel bad.

  Helene checked her watch, then stood suddenly. “Damn! I didn’t realize it was so late. I have to be in court in a half hour . . . a contested will case. Call me.” Grabbing her shoulder bag, she rushed away.

  Her next appointment wasn’t for another hour, so Simone took a moment to just sit and relax, sipping at the last of her tea.

  She wondered what Adam was doing now. He might be in court, as well. What would he think of her posing as a swinger, looking to join a sex club with her husband, Gabe? He would probably want to halt her activity, a protective action much like Helene’s. Or he might just walk away in disdain, considering it another in her lifetime of wanton activities. Or he might offer to take Gabe’s place and take part in the sting with her. Now, that was a scenario that would never happen but posed lots of interesting possibilities.

  She had to smile at her mind wandering. Cajun Crazy again, that’s what her mother would say. Or was it just plain Cajun Love.

  Simone was cleaning up the lunch debris, still smiling, when she heard a voice call out from inside the office, “Yoo-hoo!”

  It was Tante Lulu.

  Simone did the only thing any sane woman would. She ducked through the back gate and down the alley. Suddenly, she felt the need for a noontime jog to the park. And it didn’t matter that she heard thunder in the distance.

  Chapter Ten

  There was something fishy going on . . .

  It was crazy. Adam knew it was crazy, and still he was driving down the empty streets of Houma in the predawn hours of Saturday morning with Maisie still half asleep beside him.

  They were going fishing.

  And the crazy part? He was heading toward Simone’s apartment to invite her to go with them.

  Sometime during the middle of the night when he’d been unable to sleep, it occurred to him that all his past relationships, once he’d been reality-checked by his wife with her liberal marital views, had been geared strictly toward sex with a permanent relationship, meaning involvement with his daughter, being an impossibility. And it wasn’t as satisfying as it should be . . . at least not after ten years of short-term, somewhat meaningless hookups. Part of it was probably due to his approaching thirty-sixth birthday.

  What if, his sleep-deprived brain had asked him, he went about this in the opposite direction? Invite a woman he liked into his family circle, then see where it led in terms of sex and a more permanent relationship.

  I know—crazy.

  And it would make a lot more sense if the woman he invited into his family cocoon was more librarian-ish or younger and therefore not so “experienced” or anyone but Simone LeDeux.

  It was what it was, he said to himself, and told Maisie, “Wait here, honey, while I go up and get Simone.” He parked his father’s pickup truck, which he’d borrowed, in the alley behind the office building, as the sun was just beginning to rise in a warm haze. It was going to be a scorcher by afternoon.

  Maisie awakened totally then, blinking her eyes with surprise at her surroundings. “Can I come, too? Maybe we kin bring Scarlett with us?”

  “No cats. And you stay here where I can see you so we can get out to the bayou before the fish go to sleep.” He’d told her the same old fish tale his dad used to tell him, that fish slept under rocks and deep underwater when the sun was hottest overhead. He didn’t know if it was true or not. Besides, they were going for crawfish as well as the usual bayou fish—bream, bass, catfish, or sac-au-lait (white crappies).

  He was wearing his usual fishing gear—a purple-and-gold LSU baseball cap that read “Geaux Tigers” in faded letters; his lucky denim shirt with the sleeves torn off and a fishing license clipped to his breast pocket; khaki cargo shorts with lots of pockets for hooks and line and even bait, which might not have been washed since the last time he’d hit the bayou; and sockless, tattered, once-white sneakers. He hadn’t bothered to shower or shave and he probably smelled kind of fishy. In other words, cool fisherman. He hoped.

  He leaned on the doorbell of her back door until finally it opened a crack, and then wider as Simone realized who it was. He’d obviously awakened her from a deep sleep. Her long, dark hair was a mess of waves and tangles and bed-mussed erotica (erotica being in the eye of the beholder). She wore no make-up and there was a sleep crease on her one cheek where she must have lain on a wrinkled sheet. She wore a pink sleep shirt that hit only mid-thigh and was saved from being Victoria’s Secret hot and sexy by the grouchy Garfield cat on the front with the caption “Seriously?” Her toes, painted a bright red, were curled against the cool floorboards.

  “Adam! What are you doing here? What’s happened?” Then she seemed to take in his attire and added, “Are you nuts?”

  “A little bit. What’s on your agenda for tod
ay?”

  “Huh?” She blinked sleepily and waved to Maisie who had opened the electric window of the car door and called out to her.

  “Hey, Miss See-mone? Where’s Scarlett? Kin she come out and play?”

  “Uh, not right now. She’s asleep.”

  “Do you have to work today?” He clarified his first question to Simone and reached over to tug on one of the long strands of hair that was caught on the drool by her lips.

  She slapped his hand away and said, “No. Not really. I was going to do laundry and wash my hair and . . .” Midway, she yawned widely and he got a good look at her even, white teeth.

  “We’re going fishing,” he declared. Then he thought of something. “Do you like fishing? I mean, have you ever even been fishing?” That wasn’t such an outrageous question. He knew—had dated—women who wouldn’t touch a fish, unless it came from a can.

  She straightened with affront. “Ah do declare, Mistah Lanier,” she said in an exaggerated Cajun drawl. “Ah was born ‘n bred on the bayou. We learn ta fish before we kin walk. Talk about!”

  He grinned.

  “What are you up to, Adam? Why are you here?” she asked, the expression on her face turning serious.

  “I have no idea.” He shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea.”

  She hesitated, staring at him.

  “Wanna go?” He prodded her big toe with the tip of his sneaker.

  She nodded, reluctantly.

  “Then get your ass in gear, darlin’.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her around, giving her a little push and a pinch on the butt. “Hurry up and get dressed.”

  She yelped at the pinch, but walked away from him, giving her hips a little extra sway, just to get the last “word” in. Smiling, he went down to the car and told Maisie, “I see the lights turning on in the Sweet Buns Bakery. What say we go over and see if we can talk them into some food for our outing?” He’d brought a cooler with bottled water and lemonade and several pieces of fruit that had been sitting in a bowl on the kitchen table—bananas, apples, and grapes. He’d figured to buy something more substantial along the way. Or else, Maisie would become bored before noon and they’d eat when they got home.