Blood on the Bayou (Miranda Marquette Mysteries Book 1)

Book summary

A self-made millionaire and former undercover cop, Miranda Marquette, is called back to New Orleans by her cousin Sabine to solve a mystery. As she digs deeper, Miranda uncovers family secrets that will alter her relationship with Sabine forever. BLOOD ON THE BAYOU is the first in J.T. Kunkel's Miranda Marquette Mysteries series.

Excerpt from Blood on the Bayou (Miranda Marquette Mysteries Book 1)

Chapter 1

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.