Murder on Spirit Island

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Murder on Spirit Island - book excerpt

One

Saturday Night

Baton Rouge

Juliette d'Iberville had it all. She possessed a natural beauty that no woman could buy or any doctor sculpt. Long coal-black hair. Unblemished cream-colored complexion that was so smooth no wrinkles could penetrate. Symmetrical hour-glass body lusted after by men and envied by women. Powerful long legs. High cheek bones. A gracious smile.

As a descendant of Pierre Le Moyne d'Iberville and Spotted Doe, Juliette inherited the most envied features passed through generations. The best of them came to fruition in the young beauty.

Juliette won the Miss Teen contest in Louisiana. Then she won Miss Teen America, Miss Louisiana, and Miss America. Her picture appeared in fashion magazines, newspapers and television spots regularly. She blossomed as a feature speaker for national and local social functions and became a fixture at the most prestigious charity events.

The cream-skinned beauty also had stature. People knew her heritage, a descendant of the famous explorer and his striking Indian wife. They also knew her father, George, the governor of Louisiana. Before that, he held offices as a United States congressman and senator. Already, despite her age, rumors persisted that Juliette was next in line of the d'Iberville dynasty as a political dynamo in the Pelican State.

Tonight, Juliette felt unspeakable joy. More so on this day than any time in her blessed life. At a gathering of family and friends that ended only moments before, Dalton Bridgestone asked Juliette for her hand in marriage. With her father and mother looking on, the young senator knelt on the condo carpet and popped the question. Bridgestone, the most eligible bachelor in Louisiana, would become her husband. How could life get any better?

She was standing on the luxurious condominium balcony overlooking the mighty Mississippi River when she heard a light rustling behind her. Was it a guest who left an item at the party? Was it Dalton returning? She hoped for the latter.

She could not have been more wrong. 

Two

Saturday Night

Baton Rouge

Macy Harden thought her day had been exciting. Little did she know that the previous activities were mere props for the coming event.

The widow could not go to sleep. Not with the events of the evening still dancing through her mind. The elderly widow attended the party across the hall in the condo complex. She witnessed her United States senator propose to the governor's daughter. She and Juliette had become close acquaintances since the dark-skinned beauty moved into the same building. They often shared tea or coffee while discussing all the political events of the state capitol.

Macy's husband, Hank, served as a state congressman until he had a massive coronary on the capitol floor building while arguing against coastal erosion. Her invitations to the balls and galas that she loved became more scarce as time passed. When Hank was alive, they never missed one. Now she was lucky to attend two a year. And then she felt out of place with all the other couples in attendance. Even with that discomfort, she longed for inclusion.

That was why this was such a good evening. Juliette invited her to attend the private gathering with the elite of Baton Rouge. She was only a few feet from Dalton when he knelt to propose. Macy had not felt so alive in years. What a story she could tell her other widowed friends at the bridge party. They would be so envious.

A sound from across the hall brought Macy out of her thoughts into the present. More like a gasp or a cry for help. The old widow was not immune from curiosity. She crept to the door and cracked it open just an inch or two.

At first she saw nothing. Then Dalton Bridgestone burst from Juliette's condo. The initial thought Macy considered was that he had returned and asked for the ring back. She had no basis for these thoughts, but they were the first to enter her mind.

Then she saw the bloody knife in his hand. He looked up at her with wild eyes. She could not read his expression. Macy could not move. She wanted to. Her body refused. Bridgestone stopped in the middle of the hall. He looked over his shoulder at Juliette's door. To Macy's surprise, he dropped the knife in the middle of the hallway. Then he sprinted for the stairs.

Three

Early Sunday Morning

Baton Rouge

John d'Iberville gasped at the sight before him. The detective with the East Baton Rouge Sheriff's department stared at his cousin's dead body. The vibrancy that once defined Juliette abandoned the lifeless corpse. Her frame, though still spectacular, was an empty shell. He knelt down beside her, ignoring all the forensic techs in the room.

“I'm sorry.”

The deep baritone could only come from one person. John looked up to see the massive Chief of Homicide peering down. Samson Mayeaux possessed an imposing figure, his height augmented by his tremendous girth. But neither physical attribute brought the fear exhibited by those below him in the Sheriff's department and those above him.

Samson's driving force derived from his personality. The humongous Chief allowed nothing to deter him from the job at hand. The veteran cop disdained the political world more than the criminal habitat. To him, catching the perpetrator mattered. Nothing else.

Yet, here he was in the most politically sensitive murder in his memory. The daughter of the governor lay on the floor. The main suspect was her fiancé, Dalton Bridgestone, the son of a former governor and currently a United States senator.

His lead investigator, John, was related to the victim and attended the party only minutes before the murder. Policy dictated that he could not participate in the case due to the conflict.

“Thank you,” John replied. “She meant the world to me.”

“You and a lot of others in Louisiana,” Samson paused before continuing. “You know that you can't work this case.”

“I have to, Chief. She was part of my family. I have to nail that son of a bitch that killed her.”

“Exactly what I mean. John, you're too close to the victim. Besides that, you're a witness. I can't let you run the lead on this one.”

John rose from his kneeling position. He had to look up to Samson. But then, so did most other people.

“I have to work it. I'm your best detective, Chief. With all the press around this one, you'd be derelict if you didn't put your best on it.”

“Do you have any doubt that it was Bridgestone?”

“None,” John replied. “Miss Macy, the woman across the hall, saw him come out of the condo carrying the bloody knife. She saw him drop it in the hallway. We've got it and we'll get his prints off it. This one is as clean as we can get.”

“Okay, put out an APB for Bridgestone. Get a warrant for his house from whatever judge is on duty. Shouldn't be a problem in this case.”

“Already ahead of you, Chief,” John said. “His ranch is up in St. Helena Parish. It's actually an exotic animal farm. But I'm working with the judge up there for the warrant.”

“Do whatever you must. We need this wrapped up before the news hits this morning. With Juliette being the governor's daughter, we can't let this thing slip.”

“Don't worry. We'll have Bridgestone behind bars by lunchtime.”

If only life were so simple. 

Four

Sunday Night

Spirit Island

Henry Welker enjoyed the spotlight. Just not this one. He shaded his eyes from the bright glare of the huge beam aimed directly at him from the bank of the Mississippi River. His boat idled only twenty feet from the shore, but he could see nothing behind the focused ray.

“Hey, pardner,” Welker yelled from his boat in the channel between Spirit Island and the bank. “You're making it tough for me to see. Do you mind shining that light off to the side?”

Welker motored his boat sideways, glinting into the stream of light. “Pardner, I don't know who you are, but I asked you real nice to move your light. I'm not gonna be so nice when I get out of this boat unless you move it now.”

The light continued to point directly at Welker's face. Welker reached down in the boat to pick up his backpack containing his sunshades. The explosion from the first shot caught him squarely in the shoulder, blowing a huge exit hole out of the back of his jacket. Welker felt the hot lead tear the flesh and sinew as it passed through. Blood splattered over the steering console. The shock and surprise stiffened his body despite nausea developing in his stomach.

Welker reeled, his right hand instinctively going to his useless left shoulder, the entire left arm dangling at his side. Out of control, yhe boat swung back toward Spirit Island, creating a whirling eddy in the small channel. The second shot hit the side of the boat with a loud clank.

“Who are you?” Welker shouted above the noise of the motor as he tried to find cover in the small boat. “Why are you doing this?”

Henry grabbed the metal gun case with his good hand and tried to open it. He had locked the case, and buried it under some duffle bags to prevent too much movement and knocking his expensive scope off during the short trip from the island to the bank. The pain and the movement of the boat threw his body backward. He dropped the case to the side. Blood poured out of the hole in his back and sprinkled over the piles of clothes and equipment.

The last shot sent Welker over the edge into the eddy created by the out-of-control boat. The mighty Mississippi swallowed him up like a krill in a whale’s mouth. 

Five

Sunday Night

Baton Rouge

An argument surprised no one at the Sheriff's Office. Especially when it came from Samson Mayeaux's office. But this one caught the attention of all within earshot.

“I may need to take a little time from the case,” John said.

“The hell you say,” Samson roared.

Neither man was happy. Dalton Bridgestone was still at large. The Sheriff's deputies searched his huge ranch house and came up empty. There was no sign of the fugitive.

“I have to. It's almost midnight, and my father-in-law didn't make it home tonight,” John tried to explain.

“Are you kidding me?” the Chief roared even louder, spittle flying from his mouth. “We've got the body of the governor's daughter and you're worried about your father-in-law missing. He's probably getting his nob shined somewhere in the projects. You wanted this case, and now you've got it.”

“But it's Henry Welker. He's a big contributor in Baton Rouge. He owns half the politicians in this town.”

“Let me explain the facts of life to you, son. Until we either catch Bridgestone or bury him, nothing else amounts to a rat's ass around here. Do you understand me?”

“Who do you want me to assign to the Welker case?” John asked.

“You're not listening.” Samson rose out of his seat and towered over the detective. “There are no other cases until we’re satisfied that we've got Bridgestone, and he's the man who killed the governor’s daughter. Until then, I don't have any spare men for a missing person.”

“What do you want me to tell my wife?”

“Tell her you hope to find Bridgestone and keep your damn job. Or tell her you're ready to sell life insurance to the elderly. I don't care.”

“Chief, with all due respect, I—”

“I don't care,” Samson interrupted. “You've got your orders. Either do them or turn in your badge. Either way is fine with me.”

John slowly backed out of the office, resolving to find a way to keep the chief happy and find his father-in-law. 

Six

Monday Morning

West Feliciana Parish

Deputy Ed Dilsaver pulled his patrol car up to the landing, expecting little excitement.

He drew this assignment since he was the newest member of the West Feliciana sheriff's squad. The other two older officers were south of Baton Rouge in Sorrento where they discovered Henry Welker's boat. He heard over the radio they found blood in the hull and presumed that it belonged to Mr. Welker.

Dilsaver parked as close to the landing as he could. His three hundred pound body and suffering knees tolerated little walking. The half dozen donuts he consumed every morning and his absolute refusal to do any exercise contributed to his girth. If his uncle wasn't a member of the city council in St. Francisville, he would not have qualified because he did not meet the physical requirements.

He exited the patrol car, unsure of what he should look for along the muddy banks of the Mississippi River. He found fresh boot prints in the miry clay, and assumed Mr. Welker’s son made them when Bobby came to look for his dad earlier in the day.

The deputy walked out on the creosote dock and peered across the channel to Spirit Island. He saw nothing out of the ordinary on the small strip of land. He looked down at the swirling water and wondered if there truly was quicksand under the channel. His thoughts took him back to the stories his dad used to tell him about the mysterious disappearances from the quaint-looking isle rising out of the brown water. According to the legend passed down from generation to generation, anyone that attempted to stay on the island for any length of time was doomed to a nasty end, either through snake bites, accidents, drowning or disappearing never to be seen or heard from again.

Dilsaver knew four men killed while hunting on the island in his short life span. Welker was the first that had vanished with no sign other than the blood in his boat.

“Good morning.”

The voice behind the deputy startled him, almost causing his not so nimble body to fall into the water. He grabbed onto one of the creosote posts and held on.

“I didn't hear you come up behind me.” He said after regaining his balance and recognizing the man. “What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Same as you, I reckon. Looking for clues.”

The deputy wasn't sure how long the man had watched him.

“I was just looking at the island. As far as I know, Welker's son is the only one that's been over there this morning. As soon as he heard about the boat, he came back and went down there with everyone else.”

“So you haven't been across the channel yet?”

“No, and I don't plan to go. Too many things happen to people who go over there. I'm gonna stay right here on this bank.”

Dilsaver walked back down the wooden dock to the bank.

“I don't blame you,” came the reply. “But I have to go over there and at least look. I can't go back without saying I looked around the camp to make sure he isn't still there.”

“You gonna take that boat?”

The onlooker laughed.

“Beats swimming across. Will you come with me? I'd feel a lot safer if you were there to back me up.”

The deputy looked down at the Smith and Wesson Model 66 revolver in a .38 caliber in his holster.

“I ain't sure this pea shooter would be much protection. At least it's better than the Glocks most of the guys carry.”

The deputy scratched his chin.

“I'd have to get my 12-gauge shotgun if I'm going over there with you.”

“That'd be great. I'd feel a lot better if you were there in case anything happened.”

The large officer waddled to his patrol car and retrieved the pump-action shotgun. With great effort, he struggled back out of the car and waddled to the boat. The onlooker was holding onto the rope, and kept the boat right next to the dock.

“I'll hold it while you get in. Then I can push off and jump in after you get set.”

The deputy lifted his huge frame and almost fell into the vessel. The onlooker picked up the shotgun Dilsaver dropped getting into the boat.

“Why don't you get settled in the back of the boat and then I'll bring this back to you?” the onlooker said while holding the gun.

“Okay. I'm not as spry as I used to be when I played football in high school. It'll just take me a second or two.”

As soon as the officer turned toward the back of the boat, he felt it rushing away from the bank. He fell face first in the bottom.

“Hey, what's going on?”

Dilsaver turned over and watched the onlooker getting smaller and smaller as the boat drifted away from the landing. He looked above the driver's seat and saw there was no key in the ignition.

“Hey, this isn't funny.” He yelled. “Where's the key? Somebody's gonna hit me out here.”

That is when he felt the first sting on his leg. He jerked his head down and gasped. Another large water moccasin's mouth implanted its fangs in his pants leg. Then he felt another and another. The brown slithering reptiles covered the area under the seat, exposing themselves only after getting disturbed. Panicked, the deputy pulled out the.38 revolver and started firing at the attacking snakes. He emptied all six shots from the double-action revolver in quick succession. Water spurted through the holes in the boat’s bottom.

In desperation, the obese deputy dove overboard into the swift current and undertows of the mighty river. The man on the bank smiled, his mission for the morning accomplished. He had other steps to accomplish before he could rest.

Seven

Monday Afternoon

Central

Niki Dupre's life was about to get turned upside down.

The recent recipient of a degree in Criminal Justice from Southeastern Louisiana University had planned to become a Game Warden in East Baton Rouge Parish. Having graduated from Central High School in the suburbs of Baton Rouge, she could imagine living nowhere else that afforded the rich culture and heritage of south Louisiana. When she found the only openings for an entry level position were in Cameron in the far southwest corner of the state and in Cotton Valley in the furthermost corner of northwest Louisiana, she opened her own detective agency. She named it Wildcat Investigations in honor of her high school mascot.

The leggy strawberry-blonde detective struggled for the first two years, forcing her to seriously consider her choice of careers and explore the option of closing the business. Her competition overpowered her credentials, with most of them having experience in law enforcement or security details compared to the highlight of her resume highlighting being homecoming queen her senior year.

Little did anyone care that she was a Weapons Master in Kempo, the ancient Chinese martial art. The word Kempo is a Japanese translation of the Chinese word, quanfa. Ken translates into fist and po into themethod. The lean detective spent three hours every morning perfecting the discipline. On this morning, she never changed out of her leotard.

Lundi Gras, the Monday before Fat Tuesday, a depression like the fine mist over the swamps south of Baton Rouge engulfed her townhouse. She checked her iPhone frequently, wondering if the battery was dead. She thought someone must be in need of her detective services on this date before the culmination of Mardi Gras activities in the capitol city.

She knew, with the local schools closed, many of the residents took advantage of the opportunity for a ski vacation in cooler climates instead of fighting through and around the many street closures. Others were preparing to fight the throngs that wrestled over the beads thrown from the decorous floats. She witnessed people going bonkers over the cheap trinkets, and doing things they would never do other times of the year to entice one of the float riders to toss a strand their way.

Niki sighed as she gathered the large mound of bills on her desk, sorting them into two stacks. She put the ones in the right pile that she knew she had to make at least a partial payment to keep the business going. The bills on the left compiled the list of those she would call on Ash Wednesday and tell the Accounts Receivable departments they would have to wait until next month. She shrugged in disappointment as the right pile grew higher and higher. There was no money in the account to take care of even partial payments for the huge stack.

She decided to take her mind off of the debts. Kempo called for one hour spent training each morning going through the Daily Dozen. During these sixty-minute periods, Niki performed a routine of twelve stretching and agility exercises. One of these included spreading her long legs and touching the floor. Then she reached between her legs and placed both palms flat on the surface. Over time, she had extended her stretch to almost eighteen inches behind her body.

Niki jumped at the hard rap on the outer door of her office but the routine called for her to hold the position for two minutes. She assumed it was Miss Monroe, the elderly lady next door. Miss Monroe was a lonely soul and often retrieved The Advocate, Baton Rouge's daily newspaper, and brought it to the detective. Mostly, it was an excuse to share a cup of coffee.

The other thought: Uh Oh. Somebody didn't wait for me to contact them. They want their money now. What am I gonna tell them? What if they don't take 'no' for an answer?

“Come in.” she said a little too loudly, the nerves obvious in her voice.

She looked between her legs as the door opened, already formulating excuses for the late payments, her frown turning to a smile when John d'Iberville filled the void in the open doorway. The expression changed when she realized her butt was the only thing he could see.