Cajun Nights Read online

  What the critics said about Blood On The Bayou:

  “The bayou atmosphere is redolently captured…”

  –LOS ANGELES TIMES BOOK REVIEW

  “Donaldson combines an insiders knowledge with a real flair for making the reader’s skin crawl.”

  –BOOKLIST

  “It’s hard to beat his combination of cool science and explosive passion in the heart of humid Louisiana”

  –THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (MEMPHIS)

  What the critics said about No Mardi Gras For The Dead:

  “Likeable protagonists, abundant forensic lore and vivid depictions of colorful New Orleans and its denizens…”

  –PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Kit and Andy make a formidable team.”

  –WASHINGTON TIMES

  “Donaldson’s genre gumbo keeps you coming back for more.”

  –BOOKLIST

  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

  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)

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel

  are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  CAJUN NIGHTS

  Astor + Blue Editions

  Copyright © 2014 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 10036

  www.astorandblue.com

  Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

  DONALDSON, D.J., CAJUN NIGHTS.—2nd ed.

  Originally published St. Martin’s Press, 1989

  ISBN: 978-1-941286-39-5 (epdf)

  ISBN: 978-1-941286-38-8 (epub)

  Mystery—Thriller—Fiction. 2. Murder investigation—Fiction 3. Paranormal mystery—Fiction 4. Mid-life—Mystery—

  Fiction 5. Detective duo—Fiction 6.Police and medical investigation—Fiction 7. Louisiana I. Title

  Jacket Design: Ervin Serrano

  This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.

  Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated with love to my wife, June, who wasn’t expecting it and who contributed numerous helpful ideas and suggestions during the writing. It is also dedicated to the memory of James Spencer Bell, who generously provided me with many insights into the life of a medical examiner.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Praise for D.J. Donaldson

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Title Page

  Introduction To This Edition

  Chapter 1

  New Orleans—1738

  New Orleans—The Present

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  CAJUN

  NIGHTS

  D.J. Donaldson

  Introduction To This Edition

  This was my first published novel, so it occupies a special place in my heart. At the same time, I’m not completely comfortable with it, almost entirely because of the way it ends. As I’ve indicatedin previous introductions, I view myself as merely a reporter of events that really happened to my characters, so I never alter the story to suit my own tastes. I just tell it like it was. And the way this one went down was really weird… so bizarre that my scientific background made it very hard to accept. But I didn’t really have any choice… accept it or just walk away. Obviously, I chose the former. The result is a book that people either love or hate. So be warned. If you’ve enjoyed previous books in the series, after reading this one, you might say to yourself “What the h… was that?”

  –D.J. Donaldson 2014

  CHAPTER 1

  New Orleans—1738

  Albair Fauquel’s hands and feet were numb, their circulation cut off by
the leather thongs that bound them. His ears still smarted from their encounter with the rough rope that now chaffed the tender skin of his neck. Below the gallows, a jeering crowd shook a sea of raised fists in his direction. Someone in the back began to chant, “By the neck until dead, by the neck until dead!” The chant spread through the mob until the sound was deafening. Beside Fauquel, also wearing a rope was Malaqua, Fauquel’s Haitian slave. Malaqua’s eyes were tightly shut and his lips moved in silent communion with a god unknown to most of his tormentors. When the hooded hangman had slipped the rope over his head, Malaqua had fouled his clothing, and the smell now filled his master’s nostrils. Unlike Malaqua, Fauquel was not afraid. He was angry.

  A man in a powdered wig and dressed in a black cloak and black stockings and shoes mounted the gallows and unrolled the parchment he carried. The chanting stopped. In a sonorous voice that carried with ease to those farthest from the gallows, the charges were read.

  “Inasmuch as you, Malaqua the slave, and you, Albair Fauquel, have conspired with the powers of darkness to cause a productive member of this community to commit the most heinous acts against his family and humanity and then, contrary to God’s holy ordinances, take his own life, and whereas the evidence against you has been considered sufficient by a panel of your peers, you will this day be hanged by the neck until dead. Do either of you wish to speak?”

  Malaqua seemed to be in a trance and gave no sign that he wished to respond. But Fauquel did. In a voice as strong as that of the parchment reader, Fauquel said, “When my land was taken, it was wrong. And today you wrong me again. But I tell you this, one day I will return and right this wrong as I did the other. And the streets of this city will run with blood as friend slays friend, fathers slay their children, and rampant suicide sends the souls of men by the hundreds to everlasting hell.”

  With this threat, the crowd went mad. A month of heavy rains had turned the ground around the cobblestoned square into a quagmire of foul-smelling muck. A man on the edge of the crowd scooped up a handful of the stuff and molded it into a wet ball with some Spanish moss from a nearby cart. Pushing his way through the throng, he let fly toward the gallows. It missed its mark, but was an inspiration to others.

  Soon the air was thick with flying mud, and the ladies in the crowd screamed and fled to protect their dresses. A well-aimed handful struck Fauquel in the face, and the crowd cheered. Through a mouth full of grit, Fauquel spoke again as the cheer subsided. “Beware the songs you loved in youth,” he shouted, his eyes burning with hatred.

  Mud spattered the parchment reader’s shoes and he gave the sign. The hangman pulled the wooden lever connected to the holding pins of both trapdoors, and the floor fell away from the condemned men. As they fell, the din that a moment before had battered the parchment reader’s ears ceased as though cut with the blade of a guillotine.

  The sound of Fauquel’s neck snapping carried across the square like the crack of a whip. His eyes bulged grotesquely, and his face turned purple. The front of his trousers darkened with urine. Malaqua was a heavy man, and when he reached the end of his rope, his head was partially torn from his body.

  The sound of retching could be heard from several quarters as ladies in attendance found the sight more than they had bargained for. Quietly, the mob turned and went back to their homes and shops.

  New Orleans—The Present

  “Daddy, Daddy.” With her arms spread wide and her chubby legs tapping out a rhythmless beat on the blacktop, Lila Hollins, age two, gradually picked up speed. Oblivious to what it might do to his trousers, Barry Hollins, her father, dropped on one knee to catch her. Lila was a miracle, courtesy of the doctors at the Tulane fertility clinic. Before Lila, Barry and Pamela Hollins had felt incomplete. Now they were whole.

  “Hello, baby. How’s my sweetie?” Barry plucked Lila up in his arms and smothered her with exaggerated kisses. Eyes sparkling, she giggled and squeezed her daddy’s nose.

  “I swear. You act like you hadn’t seen her for weeks the way you carry on,” Mother Keltner said, wiping her hands on her apron. Pamela’s mother had been living with them for about a month, and it was not at all like his buddies at work had said it was going to be. She more than earned her keep by doing all the cooking and taking care of Lila while he and Pamela were at work. She knew when to express an opinion and when to keep one to herself. More important, she was likable, all of which made it hard to understand why Pamela’s sister was so set against taking her in.

  A second car pulled into the drive and Pamela Hollins waved at them through the windshield. With Barry’s help, Lila waved back. As his wife walked toward them, Barry took in every movement. His friend Aubrey’s wife and Sammy’s too still looked as good as ever… up close. But at a distance, it was obvious they were losing it. Calves and ankles beginning to thicken, once-firm buttocks now pushing acceptable limits, a subtle change in posture as though the years were pushing down on them like a winepress slowly being closed. But not Pamela. At forty-two, she still had the figure and carriage of a girl, and even now, standing here in the yard with the sun still up, he wanted her.

  “Hi, babe,” she said, kissing him lightly on the lips, and Lila on the forehead. “Have a good day?”

  “You make them all good,” he said, patting her on the fanny.

  Mother Keltner clucked her tongue and shook her finger at him in mock scorn. “You two! Next thing, the neighbors will be calling the police on us for public lewdness, and I’m too old to go to jail.”

  “Yeah, you’d look awful in stripes,” Barry teased. Turning to Pamela, he saw that she was troubled. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Boss still riding you about that contract mix-up?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s not that. Somebody went through the parking lot today and cut the antennas off all the cars. Ours, too.”

  Barry adjusted Lila in his arms, took a few steps to the side, and looked again at Pamela’s car. All that remained of the antenna was a six-inch stub. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, walking back to her. “I’ll fix it on Saturday. No real harm done.”

  Pamela’s face remained clouded. “But it was such a mean thing to do. I don’t understand people like that.”

  He reached up and put a stray curl of his wife’s hair back in place. “Forget it. They messed up your antenna, don’t let them ruin your dinner, too.” He looked at Pamela’s mother. “So what are we having? Venison? Squab under glass?”

  “Hamburgers and beans,” Mother Keltner replied.

  “Even better.”

  “It’ll be ready by the time you get back from the store.”

  “Meaning we’re out of…?”

  “Milk.”

  “No problem,” he said, handing Lila to her grandmother.

  Pamela reached into her purse and took out her car keys. “Here hon, take mine. It’ll be easier.”

  The car was not actually Pamela’s, but rather, belonged to her mother, who had insisted that it become family property when she came to live with them. Inspection of the vandalized antenna revealed that it had been lopped off at an angle with a pair of bolt cutters that left the tip clean and sharp. This evidence of planned destruction of property was more irritating to Barry than if the antenna had been broken off in an impulsive act.

  It was the first time he’d driven the car and he didn’t expect that the seat would be so close to the dash. His knee collided with the steering column, and the pain made him curse. Guiltily, he looked toward the house… Good… Lila was inside, out of earshot.

  His groping hand found nothing that felt like a seat-adjusting lever, and he had to practically stand on his head to find it. By the time he got underway, the pain in his knee had lessened to the point where he could appreciate how well the car handled. Much better than his, in fact. According to Pamela, though, it got lousy mileage. He nudged the blower on the air conditioner up to high and turned all the vents in his direction.

  A kid on a motorbike suddenly appeared beside him and then s
ped away. Surprised, Barry looked in the rearview mirror and tried to figure out why he hadn’t seen him coming. When he saw how little of the road was actually visible through the central oval and two portholes that served as a rear window, he understood. Better remind Pamela to be extra careful when changing lanes.

  Figuring it wasn’t worth driving all the way to Schwegmann’s just to save twenty cents, he headed in the direction of the 7-Eleven six blocks away. At first he drove without thinking of anything in particular, but soon his mind was on Lila, and then on his own childhood and his favorite toy. His jack-in-the-box. Jack had red cheeks and freckles and was dressed in yellow-and-black stripes. When you turned the handle, the box played “Pop goes the weasel. All around the cobbler’s bench, the monkey chased the weasel…” A trickle of saliva dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Puzzled, he studied his hand as though he’d never seen it before. There were no tissues in the car, and he was wondering what he could wipe it on when he thought of Jack. He could wipe it on Jack…

  “All around the cobbler’s bench…” The tune ran lazily through his brain, and he began to bob his head in time to the music. Two blocks from the 7-Eleven, he began to whistle the tune softly, and his head stopped moving. His eyes became fixed on the road ahead. Saliva filled his mouth, and soon he could only whistle a few bars before having to swallow. He was still whistling and swallowing when he went in one side of the store’s drive and out the other. At the Hebert Street intersection, he ran a stop sign. Over and over, between swallows, he whistled the tune… “Pop goes the weasel.”