Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 07 - The Swamps of Bayou Teche by Kent Conwell

me.
And the gas receipt in Williams’ Jeep dated April 26th
screamed opportunity. “What kind of payoff?”
    “Five hundred thousand,” she replied simply.
    I whistled softly.
    “But John refused. You see, Fawn didn’t know just
how connected John Hardy is, I mean-” She hesitated, frowned, then continued, “Is all up and down
Bayou Teche, from Morgan City to Lafayette. All John
had to do was call the Terrechoisie Parish Sheriff’s
Department, and they brought about some pressure on
her.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what, but when they
did, that little woman backed away in one big hurry”
    “That was the last time she spoke to him?”
    She gave her head a brief shake. “As far as I know.
Oh, he did say that she called him back and swore to
get even with him for turning the law on her.”
    Nodding slowly, I mentally went back over the questions I had planned to ask. More and more the answers
and the facts, what few there were, seemed to be focusing on Fawn Williams, a.k.a., Sophie Mae Brown.
    Laura drained the last of her coffee and stubbed
out the Virginia Slim in the ashtray. She looked up at
me questioningly, as if asking if the Q & A session
was over.

    I decided to see if I could sandwich Gates in before
I visited Fawn Williams. “I’ve asked all I can think of.
I know this has been a strain on you, but I do appreciate your time. One more favor. What are the chances
of Mr. Gates seeing me on a Sunday?”
    A faint sneer touched her lips. “Gates? Who knows,
but let’s find out.”

     

I went back over our conversation on the way to
Gates’ place. Palmo had filled in a few gaps, but I was
still muddling about with no clear direction in mind.
    Call it serendipity, call it chance, call it blind luck,
but I’ve noticed that sometimes during investigations
ideas or information surface unexpectedly from unanticipated sources. Sometimes I know what to do with
it; other times, I have absolutely no idea, and that was
the feeling I had now.
    In visiting with Laura, every time Marvin Gates’
name came up, I sensed an undercurrent of resentment on her part. And I noticed while she addressed
Hardy as either John or Mr. Hardy, she simply used
Gates’ surname when referring to him. I had the dis tinct feeling there was something out of place between
Marvin Gates and Laura Palmo.

    Thinking back to the cassette tape given to me by
Hardy’s mother, I remember she alluded to the fact
that while Hardy and Gates were not personal
friends, they did make a winning partnership. A
vague idea tumbled about in the back of my head, but
every time I thought I had it, it slipped through my
fingers.
    Wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt, baggy khaki
shorts, and flip-flop sandals, Gates met me at his front
door, his craggy face filled with alarm. “Come in,
come in.” He stepped back and held the door open. He
glanced past me at Jack in the Cadillac. “Your friend
is more than welcome to come in, it’s cool,” he said.
    “Thanks, but he has the air going.”
    The tone in Palmo’s voice every time Gates’ name
arose intrigued me, so I decided to get a grasp on what
sort of relationship the two shared. As I entered the
foyer, I said nonchalantly, “By the way, I’d like to
compliment you on your secretary, Laura Palmo. She’s
very knowledgeable, and she’s been very helpful.”
    His eyes hardened. “John hired her, not me,” he retorted sharply. The icy edges on his words were palpable, so palpable that I knew immediately the two never
met after work for drinks.
    “But she works for both of you”

    He nodded sharply, and then led me down a hall.
“Is it true? About John? They found his body?”
    “Like I told Ms. Palmo, it’s too soon to know, but if
it is Mr. Hardy, we’ll find out soon enough.”
    He invited me into a living area large enough to
take in three of my apartments with room left over to
park my Silverado pickup. Two walls sported extensive