Blood on the Bayou E-Book

J.T. Kunkel

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

A self-made millionaire living in Malibu, Miranda Marquette is summoned by her cousin Sabine, to return home to New Orleans and solve a mystery.

Miranda, an ex-undercover vice cop, jumps in with both feet to help her cousin. While investigating the case, she learns more about her family than she ever wanted to know, including a secret that will change her relationship with Sabine forever.

No matter what you think, when you go below the surface, things are seldom what they seem.

The first book in J.T. Kunkel's Miranda Marquette Mysteries series, BLOOD ON THE BAYOU is set against the beautiful backdrop of the Gulf Coast.

Leseprobe

Blood on the Bayou

MIRANDA MARQUETTE MYSTERIES

BOOK ONE

J.T. KUNKEL

Copyright © 2024 by J.T. Kunkel

Layout design and Copyright © 2024 by Next Chapter

Published 2024 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Contents

Acknowledgments

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

Next in the Series

About the Author

I dedicate this work to Susan, the Love of my life. You have worked for years to make one family out of two. While it hasn’t always been easy, you have been the glue that has held all of us together. I will never forget all the selfless efforts you made through the years, seeking no reward, just to make others happy. I will Love You forever.

Acknowledgments

I thank Mercedes Rothwell for editing this book and bringing Miranda Marquette to life, as well as Miika Hannila and the Next Chapter team for picking up the Miranda Marquette Mystery Series and having the vision to continue the series, and to Donna Eastman for providing ongoing assistance even when she didn't have to.

One

SPRING 2007

I finished typing my latest blog entry as my blackberry rang. I didn’t recognize the number flashing across the screen. I said a prayer and pressed the answer button, bracing myself for another complaint call from a provider that I rejected or an angry patient whose surgery didn’t go as planned. Who knew that a blog about my plastic surgery journey would turn into a booming business in just three years? Soon, my recommendation of a plastic surgeon was akin to an author getting on the Oprah Book Club. After six months, I had so many daily hits on my site that I decided to try selling advertising to generate income. As it turned out, physicians had no problem paying me a percentage of their fee to increase their market share. I’d like to take all the credit, but in some ways, I was just in the right place at the right time.

When I started my plastic surgery journey, I never would have anticipated such drastic changes in my life. After being shot in the face while on duty with the State Police in North Carolina several years ago, I needed multiple surgeries. The circumstances of the shooting left questions about the orders that had sent me into harm’s way without backup. In the end, a sharp old attorney settled for a nice bundle on my behalf, and I walked away from police work forever.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Startled, I realized I hadn’t yet spoken into my Blackberry, so in a forced professional tone, I said, “Miranda Marquette speaking, how may I help you?” I cringed at the feedback of my voice echoing back at me; it always came out higher when I spoke on the phone. Sometimes I worried that the person on the other end thought I was fourteen rather than thirty-three.

A woman with a vaguely familiar accent asked, “Miranda?

Is that you?”

My heart lurched. The voice took me back to a safer place and time, but I still couldn’t place it. My mouth went dry. “Yes, it is, and who am I speaking to?” I knew I sounded distracted, and I was. My shrink told me I needed to work on staying in the moment.

The woman sounded taken aback by my dismissive tone. “Wow . . . I knew you had stepped up in the world, but I didn’t think you would have forgotten me, mon amie.”

The realization clicked, and I exclaimed, “Sabine!” My eyes widened, and so did my grin. “It’s been so long.”

She laughed and clicked her tongue with pretend disapproval. “Remember, for every day I didn’t visit you, there’s a day you didn’t visit me.”

I chuckled. “I get it. The road goes both ways.” Then I sobered. “Hey, is everything okay? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Does something have to be a matter for me to call my favorite cousin?” She forced a laugh.

“Well, the last time you called it was because hurricane Katrina came through, and the two times before that were to tell me about Grandpapa Marquette’s dementia and then to invite me to his funeral.” I tapped my nails against the desk in apprehension.

She sighed. “Which you didn’t attend.”

“Did you call me to rehash the reasons I couldn’t be there?” “No, no. I’m sorry. I understand you had your own problems.”

I drew a deep breath. I loved my cousin, but sometimes . . . “So how are you, and where are you?”

“Things have been better, but I can get into it later.” Her voice took on a more hopeful tone, and she said, “I’m actually in town, and I’d love to get together.”

Her revelation floored me. “No Way! Miss ‘I will never step foot on the West Coast’ is here? How did that happen?”

I could tell she was scowling the way she did when we were kids. “Well, smarty pants . . .”

Ha! She only called me that before begrudgingly complimenting me.

“You know how you have always told me I needed to get in touch with the fishing community if I ever wanted to expand the business?” Her voice sounded smaller and less confident than usual.

“Yeah?” I said, pressing my blackberry to my ear with my shoulder so I could type in the tags and publish the post before something happened and I had to rewrite everything.

“Well, I listened to you.” She laughed but sounded serious. I held my ‘I told you so’ and let her continue uninterrupted. “I’ve become part of an online community of shrimp fishermen worldwide, and their annual convention is in L. A. this year, so I wanted to see if you had time to get together.”

Sabine took over our grandfather’s shrimping business after his diagnosis and moved downriver from Meraux to Venice, Louisiana to be closer to the shrimp in the Gulf. That was a smart move, but she still had a lot to learn. I was glad to hear she took my advice about expanding her knowledge base. It was the least I could do to repay her for her guidance during my formative years.

“I can’t wait. Do you want to drive up to Malibu, or do you want me to meet you down there somewhere?” I was thrilled she’d be visiting; I saw her as the big sister I never had. “Of course, I’d love for you to see the house, but I don’t want you to get too jealous.” I made a face before remembering she couldn’t see me.

“I thought you’d never ask, mon amour!” I could hear the excitement in her voice as she said, “I’d love to see it, and I can’t wait to see you.”

“I can’t wait to see you either.” I was practically jumping with excitement myself. “When do you think you’ll be coming by?”

In typical Sabine fashion, she said, “I would hope so, my dear! How does tonight work for you? Around seven?”

“How about six? I’ll cook dinner,” I suggested. “I hope my cooking skills can still impress your delicate French palate.” I laughed at my joke, thinking about all the intense spices they used back home.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she threw back at me laughing. Then she said, “Yeah, that sounds great!” Her voice took on a sour note of disapproval. “The food at this conference leaves a bit to be desired. See you at six!” I heard a click, and then she was gone.

I set the phone on my desk, closed my brick of a laptop, swiveled in my desk chair to survey my living room, and gasped at the mess. To the untrained eye, it wouldn’t look like much of a mess at all. However, I knew the books were out of place, blankets and pillows were askew, and I swore I could see a few crumbs strewn across the carpet. All I cared about was making everything completely spotless, regardless of whatever magazine on my end table that got caught in the crossfire.

* * *

When I finished vacuuming the russet brown carpet, I flopped on the couch and exhaled deeply, trying to settle my racing heart. Speed cleaning should be an Olympic sport—it was utterly exhausting. The calming breaths I took didn’t help much; I was going crazy with anticipation. I hadn’t seen Sabine in five years and that I barely remember. I was still in the hospital, my head and face wrapped in bandages. Another lifetime ago. Suddenly, I felt guilty for not going back home much. The last couple of times I went back, I blew in and out of town after a quick dinner with my mom and stepdad. As far as my dad went, I hadn’t seen him since my parents got divorced when I was thirteen.

I mulled over what I would make for Sabine and tried to remember what I had in my kitchen, groaning when I realized that I was severely lacking anything remotely resembling a full meal, except perhaps for the several bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon in my wine cellar. If my housekeeper were around, I’d have asked her to pick something up for me, but her husband was ill, so I told her to take the week off. I snatched my keys off the coffee table and then scrambled around for a few minutes looking for my purse, not realizing I’d hung it up while cleaning. Eventually, I found stashed it in the downstairs closet, after wasting precious time lifting the same three pillows over and over.

With my purse slung over my arm, I sped out the door and climbed into the red convertible waiting in my garage. A few minutes later, I pulled into the Pavilions. I parked as close to the entrance as I could. Luckily at 2:30, I was only competing with retirees and stay-at-home moms for a parking spot. I started a mental shopping list while I speed-walked toward the door.

“What do you cook for someone who grew up in France? It’s like the cooking capital of the world,” I muttered. “I bet she’s tired of shrimp by now, so that’s out . . . what’s left?”

Suddenly, the only recipes I could think of involved shrimp as the main ingredient. As I passed through the sliding doors, the fans, meant to keep bugs out, hit me with a blast of air, and I had to run a hand through my hair to make it lay flat again.

As I scanned the signs atop each of the aisles, my eyes landed on the produce section and inspiration hit me in the face.

“Where are we? California.” I clapped my hands and laughed to myself. “What do Californians eat? California Cuisine!”

A woman passing by gave me a strange look as if she’d never seen someone talking to herself. I smiled at her and pushed my cart over to the leafy greens and scooped up plenty of salad makings—romaine, butter lettuce, fresh spinach, and some kale for good measure. Before leaving the section, I picked up avocados and a bag of chopped walnuts. I also grabbed the ingredients for a spicy dressing. Growing up in the Big Easy meant food wasn’t food unless it had some spice.

Before going to the checkout, I stopped at the meat counter for some fresh organic ocean-caught salmon. I carried the groceries out to the car, leaving the cart near the front door. After sliding into the front seat, I took a moment to lower the roof.

I headed up the Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH as the locals call it, which was my favorite way to go home. I loved it because if I looked to the left, I could see crystal waters glistening in the sun, tiny sailboats on the horizon, and crying gulls circling the beaches in search of an unsuspecting beach-goer’s lunch. If I looked to the right, I saw gorgeous homes sitting on the hilltop. I’m still not used to it, and I hope I never am. The ocean views, the smell of the air, the laid-back feeling—even though it’s not that far from bustling LA, it was like night and day.

I pulled into my gated driveway and raised the roof again as I pulled up to the garage doors. I gathered my groceries and took a moment to admire the exterior of my home, with its light orange stucco walls and the delicate white accents. I adored my house; it had everything I ever dreamed of in a home, including a gourmet kitchen with French doors opening to a large deck that ran the whole width of the house, overlooking the Pacific. The view spoke to me when I first walked into the house—but the high vaulted ceilings sealed the deal.

* * *

I could have been happy in my kitchen all day, chopping veggies, and marinating salmon, but I didn’t have all day. By the time I finished the preparations, it was already 4:30 and I had yet to shower and figure out what to do with my hair, put on some semblance of makeup, and get dressed. I set down the paring knife and looked down at my clothes. My everyday wear of jeans and a t-shirt wouldn’t do. I guessed Sabine wouldn’t dress to the nines to see me, but since she was there for a conference, I wasn’t entirely sure, and I didn’t want to feel underdressed in my own home.

I ran up the stairs to my bedroom, ever aware that time was ticking by and opened the closet. A dress was an easy way to look put together without much effort on my part. However, it was usually windy in the evenings, and I was hoping to hang out with Sabine on the deck that served as my backyard. I decided to go with an in-between look by wearing light jeans and a dark blue blouse paired with gold gladiator sandals. I laid out my clothes on the bed and headed to the bathroom.

After letting the water warm up for a minute or two, I climbed into the glass shower, letting the water run on my hair before lathering it with shampoo.

I glanced at my alarm clock when I got out and had been in the shower for ten minutes, which was five minutes longer than I could afford, but at least I didn’t have anything on the stove yet. Luckily my flat iron worked on wet hair, so I didn’t have to eat up a lot of time by blow-drying my long hair.

After I finished doing my hair, I moved on to getting my makeup done. As I did that, always self-conscious of the fine scar lines, I thought about Sabine and how she always looked great no matter what she wore. I struggled for years trying to compete with her. It didn’t help that she always seemed far more mature than I was, despite the three-year difference. Everything just seemed so effortless for her, while I barely managed to look half as good as she did. I wondered what she would think of the new me.

When we were in high school, because we were in different grades and never in the same classes, it was easy to avoid being around my drop-dead gorgeous cousin. When I was a gawky freshman and she a prom queen junior, I chose to go Goth. I didn’t feel pretty, so I preferred having a look that put people off. I didn’t get asked out much except by scary-looking guys and geeks and when I said no, it seemed to add to my mystique. People weren’t sure if I was a snob or just had particular tastes. What they didn’t know was that I was scared to death. On the other hand, Sabine wore mini-skirts and mixed with the cool crowd. Boys and girls, everyone loved her.

As soon as boys started looking at me like that, I made sure it wouldn’t happen again. That was what drew me to the law enforcement field. Since it was a career that traditionally attracted males, I figured I would be one of the guys. That didn’t quite work out; I didn’t realize most male/female partners end up either dating, hating each other, or both. I ended up living with mine even though he was twenty years my senior. But, eventually the age difference and the stress of a law enforcement lifestyle was too much for me to handle. My shrink always said it was because of unresolved issues with my dad. She was probably right.

* * *

I carefully pulled my shirt over my head to avoid messing up my hair and makeup. I ended up facing my nightstand and I let out a gasp as I caught sight of my alarm clock. It was already 5:45 and I hadn’t even started the salmon. My sandals slapped on the kitchen tiles as I raced in to finish up. Knowing Sabine, I figured she’d be early, but with any luck, LA traffic would be on my side for once. I quickly got out a pan and threw in some oil, placed the salmon skin-side down and allowed it to crisp.

Once that was done, I stepped into the hall to look at myself in my floor-length mirror and to double check that I wasn’t going overboard. I decided I looked good but not too good, which was what I was aiming at because the last thing I wanted was to turn things into a competition; I knew I’d lose. Ever since the reconstructive surgery, I’d been self-conscious about my appearance. That was something my therapist and I had been working on. That and my distinct lack of interest in having a relationship with a man. I’d have my fun when I did the two- year criminal justice program at college in North Carolina. After that, I was recruited by the police and there I stayed for six years until . . .

The doorbell rang and brought me out of my thoughts. I quickly ran into the kitchen to flip the fish and then raced down the stairs two at a time, wishing at that moment the house was just a bit smaller. I made it to the door as the bell rang a second time.

I opened the door and managed to puff out, “Sabine!”

She chuckled as I worked to catch my breath. “I knew you would be excited to see me, mon amour, but I don’t want you having a coronary.”

“Come in, come in! You look fabulous!” I laughed and took a few breaths before saying it. I was secretly hoping that she’d begun to look older than me by now, but no. Quite the opposite; at thirty-six, she looked younger than me. “Oh, speaking of having a coronary, my salmon is about to burn!” I turned and dashed back up the stairs.

“Do you want me to lock the door?” she asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” I called over my shoulder. “And then you can make yourself at home in the living room.”

I heard the click of Sabine’s heels as she followed me and her impressed whistle as she reached the top of the stairs. I grinned, but then picked up speed as the smell of smoke began to waft out at me from the kitchen. I made it to the stove just as ugly black smoke was starting to billow up from the pan. I quickly grabbed a spatula and put the salmon on my cutting board before the fire could ruin the filet.

Sabine called, “Did you make it?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. It just gives new meaning to the phrase ‘crisped salmon,’” I called back as I dropped the blackened pan into the sink.

“I’m not surprised; you always were a firecracker!” I heard her chuckling.

I playfully tossed back, “It takes one to know one!” Then I left the salmon to cool and walked into the living room to join her. “Do you want to eat out on the deck or in the dining room?” Her jaw dropped as I came around the corner and she finally got a good look at me, “Who the heck are you and what have you done with Miranda?”

Before I could say anything, she added, “I wasn’t sure what to expect after everything you went through. That must have been horrible.”

“I’m still working through it. My shrink says it’s post- traumatic stress disorder. But, most days I’m just happy to be alive.”

She paused for a moment, looking a little uncomfortable, then said, “Anyway, you look wonderful!”

“You saw me when I answered the door,” I chuckled, trying to lighten up the moment, and reached for a hug.

“Barely, before you flew up the steps to rescue dinner.” She hugged me for a moment and then stepped back to inspect me. I spun around, and she continued to gape to the point of leaning close to examine my face. “When I last saw you all wrapped in bandages, I had no idea how amazing the outcome would be. Who would have thought you could turn into such a beauty queen!”

I’d never sent photos to my family, afraid of how they’d react to the changes. I pulled her close again and said, “Thanks.” I pushed back the tears momentarily reliving the scariest days of my life. She held me at arm’s length. The look on her face told me she noticed my tears, but she didn’t comment. She kept it light. “Nice digs by the way. You’ve done good, kid!”

Someday I would tell Sabine about everything, but this wasn’t the time. I replied with another heartfelt, “thanks,” and then changed the subject. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“How about some of that famous California wine everyone is always raving about?” She asked, setting her purse on the couch. “I sure could use some.”

“How does red sound?” I offered, hoping she’d jump on the Cabernet Sauvignon train with me.

“Sounds great!” She grinned, and I did a mental arm pump of victory.

“Come to the kitchen with me and I’ll get you a glass.” I beckoned. “We can catch up a little while we’re waiting for the salmon to cool since I’m planning to put it on salad.”

I picked two large wine glasses and filled them with my favorite cabernet. Then I led Sabine onto the deck.

“Wow, what a view,” she said with a sigh as she sat down in one of my wicker chairs gazing out on the Pacific. “I could use a view like this when I get up in the morning.”

“Sometimes I miss the sight of the mist drifting and the fireflies dancing across the muddy river water back home,” I replied, taking the seat opposite her and wrapping my cardigan around my body to keep out the marine wind.

She took a sip from her glass. “I guess you heard I moved down to Venice, so my commute wouldn’t be so long. I was spending all my time on the road after I moved the operation. Granted, there’s not much going on down there, but I don’t really have a social life anyway.” She set her glass down on the table between us. “Shrimping is my life now, for better or for worse.” I laughed. “I’ll bet you still have those shrimpers coming after you like they always did. You certainly always did know how to put them in their places, though.” I took a deep sip as well.

We sat in silence for a while, staring at the ocean and watching the sun make its final descent below the horizon. I could tell she was working up the nerve to tell me something, but I wasn’t in a rush; the ocean always made me feel peaceful and grounded. I was also subconsciously avoiding the conversation for as long as I could; I didn’t want to ruin the moment.

My cousin tried to make her voice sound deep and impressive like a CEO in the Board Room. “You’re probably wondering why I called you all here.” She started laughing halfway through; typical Sabine, always trying to lighten the mood by making terrible jokes.

I laughed too. “I was, but I figured you’d get to it eventually.”

She closed her eyes as if she was trying to think of the right place to start. After a few moments, she asked, “Do you remember when the doctors diagnosed Grandpapa with dementia?”

I nodded, trying to hold back a new set of guilt-riddled tears. By the time I got down to see him, Grandpapa had no idea who I was. “It must have been horrible to watch him going downhill like that.”

She looked down at her hands. “He was well on the way to killing the business and I couldn’t bear for him to sell it to someone outside the family.” She sighed. “He got plenty of offers, but they were all too low to even consider. When he made me an offer three years ago, I bought him out. Well, he pretty much gave it to me, but I needed to invest my own capital in the business almost immediately because I figured out pretty quickly that I needed to expand, or I’d be bankrupt within a year.” She paused briefly, and then continued. “Grandpapa believed in the more traditional method of shrimping in the riverbeds.” She turned to me. “I’m not sure how much you remember about how it all works, but river shrimping is a seasonal activity governed by the locals along the river. It only occurs during the summer months.”

She paused to take a sip of cabernet, and then continued, “However, shrimping in the Gulf is a year-round activity, and the Federal Government only loosely governs it. They don’t have a lot of time to pay attention to us because they have other problems. They mostly monitor how we’re protecting sea turtles.”

The more Sabine drank, the grander her gestures became. “We don’t want to get in trouble with the Feds and, quite honestly, never bother the turtles!” She thumped on my glass table so hard, I cringed, hoping it wouldn’t break. I considered taking the glass away from her; if she was that worked up about turtles, who knew what she’d do by the time she got to the point. But I kept my concerns to myself.

“Anyway, with the three boats we have, we have been doing pretty well.” She struggled to regain her laid-back demeanor. “I’m not sure if you knew, but we bought out two smaller shrimping companies. The owners got older, and their children decided not to continue operations.”

“Wow, that’s great.” I was impressed.

She smiled, but there was still a small furrow between her brows. “Anyway, things have been going pretty well. We’ve had the typical issues: turnover, bad employees, petty theft and of course, Katrina.”

“I was glad you called after Katrina pushed through,” I said. “I was worried sick that something happened to you.”

She nodded. “We were really fortunate. The boats were all in dry dock out in Hackberry, just east of the Texas border, getting overhauled for the fall season. Luckily, they didn’t take a direct hit. I was renting a house and dock-space at the time, so I had no financial loss, and I was the first one ready to do business when there were docks rebuilt to tie up to.” She looked out at the ocean, but I could tell that her mind was in another time. She whispered, “Yes, I was lucky.”

I felt terrible how out of touch I had been with everyone.

All I could say was, “You’ve always been the lucky one.” “Yeah, me and your parents.” She paused and retracted at her gaff. “I mean your mom and stepdad . . . theirs was like one of five houses in Meraux that wasn’t obliterated. It was eerie walking around the old neighborhood with all that destruction and rebuilding going on with their house looking as if the storm had never hit.” She shook her head and shuddered, then asked, “How are your parents doing anyway? I haven’t seen them since I moved.”

I bit my lip. “Um, I haven’t seen them in a while.”

“You had better get out there, Miranda” she scolded. “Have you even been back since Katrina?”

The only thing I’d done was call them as soon as I’d heard. I felt guilty about not going to help, but I told myself that my own recovery was still too recent, and I couldn’t face more pain by seeing the destruction of the places where I grew up.

I looked at the floor feeling like the ten-year-old I was when Sabine and I first met. “Um, nope.”

She gasped and muttered, “L'enfant est gâté.”

Frowning, I said, “I am not a child, and I am certainly not spoiled!”

She gestured around, and I sighed in resignation. She pushed her dark brown mane behind her right ear and crossed her legs. “I know you are busy, ma chère, but you need to get back there.” I nodded absently and she continued, “Well if I have my way, maybe you can kill two birds with one stone.” She smiled and winked, then continued, “Okay, let’s get to the point.”

Finally! I thought but didn’t say it aloud.

“I’m in trouble,” then she added, “well, I’m not in trouble yet, but I’m going to be if I don’t get this figured out.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “I thought you said things were going pretty well?”

She nodded. “Things have been going great—until now, that is.”

“What changed?” I asked, intrigued.

She placed her glass on the table and leaned forward. “I recently secured a contract with Costco to buy all the shrimp I can catch at a premium rate.”

“That’s great,” I commended her.

“Yes, except almost immediately after getting that contract, my volume started to dive. “Two months ago, we were averaging over a thousand pounds per day per boat. Some days we would take as much as twenty-five hundred, so I was conservative when I guaranteed Costco at least twenty-two hundred and fifty pounds per week in my contract. That’s only seven-hundred and fifty per boat per week.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I said, trying to cover up that I’d wiped most of the information about the shrimping industry from my memory.

“Yeah well,” she continued. “Since I signed the contract, my take has been less than five hundred pounds per boat, some days less than two hundred!” She threw up her hands with a groan and leaned back in her chair again. Then she gripped the edge of the chair and slid herself forward. “I’m technically not in trouble with them yet because my contractual obligation is based on a three-month average, but if this continues, they will drop me.” Her voice took on a frustrated tone. “Miranda, this contract was a game-changer for me! At twelve hundred per day, I’d be grossing close to three million dollars a year. That’s ten times what I grossed my first year in the business. What’s worse, is my business can’t survive at this volume even selling locally at wholesale or retail. It just isn’t enough volume to be profitable.”

I could tell her rant was winding down, and I got increasingly anxious the closer she seemed to get to her point.

She paused. “This is where you come in.”

I would have liked it if Sabine had come solely for a social visit, but my gut told me she needed something. But after all she had done for me over the years, it was only fair.

“Okay,” I said, intrigued.

“I believe there is foul play going on.” She crossed her arms. “Can’t it just be a coincidence?” I asked. “Something to do with global warming?”

“Right when I got the Costco contract?” She glowered and shook her head. “It’s fairly predictable how long it’ll take to get the greatest amount of shrimp out of a bed before we move on to the next one. Lately, we’re depleting the beds in about half the time that we would expect.”

She stood up and looked out at the Pacific. For a moment, everything was silent, and all we could hear was the ebb and flow of the waves down on the beach.

She turned to me and said, “I believe that someone is informing a competitor where we are finding the shrimp, allowing my competitor to fish them in the off-hours, thereby depleting the potential catch quickly. They may also be selling shrimp out the back door to a competitor after catching them.”

I frowned. “Can’t you just go back out to where you fished, after hours, to see if someone else is fishing there?”

She gave me a look that told me she’d already thought about it. “It’s not illegal or even a bad business practice to shrimp where someone else has recently been. Law enforcement couldn’t do a thing, even if I did find a competitor out there. It’s also very dangerous; bad things happen out there at night, especially when someone doesn’t want to be discovered. That’s why I need you. I don’t have the money or the inclination to hire a private investigator, and I’m losing more every day.” She sat back down and looked me in the eye. “I need you to be my eyes and ears for a while in Venice. I know you worked undercover back when you were a cop, so you’ve got experience. No one knows you down there especially the ‘new’ you.”

“Why me, Sabine?” I leaned back and crossed my arms and legs. “I’m sure you know plenty of people in the area who could help.”

“I don’t.” She shrugged and said, “You are my last resort.” “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I exclaimed.

She looked a little more relaxed now that she’d finished her pitch.

My cousin rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean, mon amour.”

“You think you can just speak French and I will fold just like when I was little.” I crossed my arms. “Well, let me tell you, I’ve got responsibilities here, and I just don’t know if I can drop everything.” I protested too much.

“Miranda, the little I know about your business is that you can operate it from anywhere, isn’t that true?” She grinned, and I knew she’d caught me. She could sell gator-skinned boots to a gator. “Come on, sweetheart, don’t make me beg!”

“Well, I suppose . . .” I paused and took a deep breath, “Okay, all right, I’ll do it.”

She squealed with excitement. “I knew you’d help!” Louisiana was the last place on earth that I wanted to be. As she jumped up and kissed me on both cheeks, I had a sinking feeling that I’d made a deal with the devil in high heels.

Two

The doorbell rang, and I glared at my alarm clock. “Oh my gosh, it’s nine o’clock already!” I rubbed my eyes, stretched, and hopped out of bed all in one motion.

“Coming!” I threw on some running shorts and a t-shirt, dragged a brush through my hair, and ran for the door.

There stood Heather, my assistant, all five foot two and one hundred pounds of her. She looked me up and down and laughed. “Did you oversleep again?”

I turned and leaped up the stairs two at a time. Over my shoulder, I yelled, “Guilty as charged! Make some coffee; there’s some of that cinnamon swirl bread you love so much in the bread drawer.”