Slice, Dice and Die

By James Wyche

Slice, Dice and Die is a sequel to Wyches first Novel, Onions Make You Fry and features the same cast of characters, but in different adventures in South Louisiana and Texas wherein Flint Malone finds himself up to his neck in hair-raising events that threaten his life and that of his side kick, Boo Worthy. Flint and Boo again become Gator and Pepper, respectively assuming the personas of reprobate Louisiana alligator trappers as they squelch both a drug ring and the remnants of a satanic cult, also a carry-over from Onions.
Within the pages of Slice, Flint finds his soul mate who helps him solve the murders of his business partner, Lila and her husband, Dutch. The intrigue of Flints escapades in the Attakapas Basin swamp of South Louisiana as Gator and in Lafayette, Louisiana as British oil tycoon, Harold Wintergarten, is exceeded only by his ardor for his soul mate, Sharon and devotion to his vocation as owner and head chef for his newly built, Gumbo You and his already successful catering business, It Dont Matter. Flints culinary expertise was becoming legendary and yet his plans are constantly interrupted by his allegiance to a group simply called the Task Force, dedicated to the destruction of satanic cults in south Louisiana.
Dive into this adventure and romance filled novel and follow the complex character of Flint Malone as he cooks his way through unbelievably dangerous events while at the same time finding the contentment and true love that he hopes will flavor the rest of his life. You wont be disappointed. I guarantee it!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481777285

James Wyche

Slice, Dice, and Die is the sequel to the tasty mystery Onions Make You Fry, by the author. James Wyche is a formerly ordained minister and a chef with award-winning gumbo and other recipes. A true Southern gentleman, Jim was born and raised in New Iberia, Louisiana. His characters are based on the colorful neighbors and friends that Jim has known over the years. When he’s not writing, you might find Jim fishing out on the reefs south of Marsh Island. Then it’s back to the kitchen, creating the best yet recipe for the red fish or speckled trout caught that day, using a selection of spices, ranging from Tony Cacheries to Slap Yo Mama to turmeric or cardamom. You also might find Jim cutting up with his best friend from high school, in one of the local eateries, at lunchtime. Any waitress will tell you that Jim is as much rascal as he is saint, and his characters reflect that multifaceted personality. You’ll discover more about Jim’s Cajun recipes in Slice, Dice, and Die. The author lives on Belmont plantation that’s been in his family for generations, in New Iberia, Louisiana. Jim’s passion for cooking began at an early age and his personality is replete with equally creative seasonings of writing and painting (as evidenced by the front cover). His works are filled with memories of his childhood on the plantation and of the vivid characters he has known as he travelled across the United States as a motivational speaker and lecturer in communication techniques. Now semi-retired, much of his life is relived in his novels and short stories. His mantra is: “Life is given to us as a gift meant to be enjoyed one day at a time.”

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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Three months have passed since my last foray into Louisiana’s swamp country where death breathed its sour breath in my face. The memories of Elaine Robicheaux removing her own heart as she wilted onto the sacrificial altar in the secret room of Bon T-Boy’s Saloon on the banks of Lake Dauterive near Loreauville, Louisiana haunt me still. I’ll never forget her naked glory as she gasped her last, holding her own heart out as an offering to Gator, the fictitious reprobate responsible for busting South Louisiana’s most insidious satanic cult.

My return to Sugar Land, Texas and my catering business called It Don’t Matter heralded many changes in my life and the lives of those surrounding me. Any day now, I was awaiting a summons from John Breaux, Sheriff of Iberia Parish to testify at the trial of T-Boy Thibodeaux, one of the leaders of the cult that was directly responsible for several deaths within the account I have scribed as Onions Make You Fry.

That harrowing portion of my existence began when Jim Hammer, the President of Hammer University asked me to cater a dinner party he was giving in his Sugar Land mansion some six months ago. Jim’s business was in trouble. The industrial espionage Jim had suspected was anything but! It was more insidious than anything we could have imagined having developed into full scale involvement with a satanic cult as two of his directors were found murdered with large gaping holes in their chests where once beat their individual hearts. One catering event led to another in which dark connections were made to cultic activity. Travels interviewing a replacement for his deceased Vice President, Bill Lynch eventually led me to my hometown of New Iberia, Louisiana to meet with John Truxillo. John became Bill Lynch’s replacement as Vice President of Hammer University while the activities centered on the investigation of Bon T-Boy’s gave genesis to Gator, my alter ego. I even hesitate to mention that the cult was utilizing a huge alligator named Moses to dispose of the victims of their human sacrifices. The story is long and involved nevertheless, another complication that developed was a personal one between me and two beautiful and very different women. Confusion regarding the fairer gender has plagued me for as long as I can remember.

The battle between good and evil has been waged since the beginning of time as we know it and its history fills the pages of virtually every spiritual book ever written, including the one best known as The Holy Bible. It was into this fray that I found myself launched as the reality of evil and its henchmen threatened my personal well-being and that of my friends and family. I barely escaped open-heart surgery without benefit of anesthesia myself had it not been for a clever disguise and a temporary tattoo that marked me as one of the cult’s highest echelon. Nothing could have been farther from the truth except the role I was playing was one in which I found myself almost without choice in the matter.

My role as Gator, a reprobate alligator trapper from the innermost reaches of the Atchafalaya Basin Swamp allowed me to infiltrate the inner circle of a cult run by Elaine Robicheaux as its High Priestess and the group of terrorists with whom she surrounded herself. One of those henchmen was Sam Marcotte, the estranged spouse of Lila Marcotte, my brand new business partner in Gumbo You, which was to become a full-fledged Cajun catering establishment, Cajun store, seafood shop, and culinary school. Its inception came as a result of a large monetary settlement from a secret Task Force founded to thwart cultic activities. My membership in that clandestine group remains one that might call me to yet another foray into the dark world of evil. I hope with all that’s holy that another episode like this last one either never happens or waits until I regain something resembling normalcy in my life.

My name is Flint Malone. Up to this juncture my life has been comparable to anyone else’s who have been searching for that special life style providing both happiness and a comfortable living. Whereas I once traveled the country as a motivational speaker and trainer in communication skills for the automotive industry, I am now the dubiously proud owner of both It Don’t Matter and Gumbo You. My reputation as a first-class Cajun caterer is growing and I can only hope and pray that my role as detective doesn’t repeat itself.

CHAPTER TWO

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Whatcha doin’, Cher’e? asked Lila as she sauntered into my upstairs quarters above It Don’t Matter. The sounds of hammers and electric saws had worn my level of patience paper thin as construction continued on the two wings we were adding to our business venture. Patience has never been my strong suit anyway.

I’m sitting here wishing all that danged noise would go away for a little while, I answered. I almost never get a headache, but the incessant banging and whining of construction noises wore through my natural defenses and ate away at my resolve. It was slowly driving me nuts and lately that has become a very short trip.

We gonna eat tonight, or you just gonna sit there fuming? You got smoke comin’ from you’ ears, Cher’e! Lila exclaimed as she tried to elicit a smile from my dour countenance. Lila’s share of the Task Force windfall allowed her to become a full time, though minor partner in the business that had captured my heart and the major portion of what was left of my mind.

Cooking something might get my mind off this noise, I suggested. What are you hungry for tonight? I almost slapped myself for asking a question that might be deemed suggestive. Not only was Lila still occupying my spare bedroom until her new digs could be constructed above the new cooking academy, her intense femininity was becoming disturbing. In addition to this confusion on my part was the presence of Jim Hammer’s beautiful assistant, Sharon Palomino. Sharon had made it known in no uncertain terms that she was available should I develop any romantic notions.

Romantic intentions make me gun shy due to my poor track record. Nonetheless, one simply can’t deny physical needs that never reach satisfaction without a willing partner. It seems like us men-folk are just made this way. There was no doubt that Lila would gladly succumb to a physical relationship. On the other hand, despite Lila’s obvious attributes, it was Sharon who appealed to my particular physical tastes. Lila stood five feet six inches tall with dark hair and gray eyes, by no means heavy, but certainly not petite. Sharon stood maybe five feet two inches, dark blond hair and eyes as dark as the inside of a deep hole. Her figure was not nearly as voluptuous as Lila’s, rather, very petite and worn in such a way that most males would deem a hard body. Both women possessed a sensuous nature that caused stirrings long ignored in this middle-aged body. Sooner or later I suspected that I would discover which woman fit my life-style better but also know that I am not in any hurry to get there. Two dissolved marriages have managed to teach me a lesson or two.

Lila was an excellent partner possessed of certain natural business acuity. She was a tremendous asset in the planning of my business expansion, and had proved to be a very good friend. Regardless, it was Sharon, her voice, her smile, and her delicious countenance that captured my subconscious thoughts. When I found myself dreaming about Sharon’s possibilities, I also felt pangs of guilt about Lila since she was such a good friend and beautiful in her own way. The confusion was to me as heat is to smoke and the smoke was clouding the clarity of my thinking.

Lila brought me back to the present noisy conditions of my small office space above It Don’t Matter. You know, I t’ink I’m hungry for some good shrimp Creole. How ’bout you? Lila queried.

Just that morning I had received a shipment of succulent gulf shrimp from my favorite fishmongers on Galveston Island. I usually like a 24-30 count shrimp for gumbos and the like because of their tenderness and flavor. However, Frank had sent me some larger 9-12 count Tiger shrimp as a gift along with my usual order.

I walked down to my walk-in cooler and retrieved about four pounds of the succulent delicacies and brought them back upstairs to my living quarters. Lila headed, peeled and de-veined the huge shrimp as I made a roux, the basis of most delicious Cajun dishes. A roux is nothing more than almost equal portions of oil and flour browned slowly over medium low heat until the mixture achieves a dark, rich brown color. When making Shrimp Creole, the roux is cooked to a more golden brown color than dark brown. Emeril calls this the blonde stage. Roux’s are best cooked in a cast iron, deep sided pot like a Dutch oven.

To the roux I added the Trinity; onions, celery and green bell peppers and just a bit of fish stock garnered from boiling the shrimp hulls and heads added to the roux until the consistency of the mixture became about the same as good brown gravy, though slightly thinner. When the Trinity cooked until tender, I seasoned with sea salt and white pepper, added canned diced tomatoes with green chilies and tomato paste and then re-seasoned with a pinch of cayenne pepper and added a large dollop of minced garlic. After thirty minutes of good simmering and my consumption of a couple of cold beers, I added shredded dry shrimp and tasted the concoction. One has to be careful about the addition of salt to any seafood dishes because the shrimp, for example, might be salty already from the seawater in which they resided a few days before. Only when the sauce tasted just right did I add the peeled and de-veined shrimp. Shrimp have a delicate texture that over cooking will ruin. The shrimp should be firm and tasty whereas overcooking renders them mushy and tasteless. The Creole was ready in another twenty minutes and the aroma was intoxicating.

Shrimp Creole is best served over steamed rice with a side of green salad or potato salad, and fresh French bread. Lila and I enjoyed the odors emanating from my upstairs stove when I detected a faint knocking at my front door.

The door to my private quarters was a heavy two-inch thick slab of Louisiana cypress. I disdain doorbells and the knock at the door was almost inaudible to me due to my failing hearing. However, I had somehow managed to hear the dainty knocks above the cacophony of the hammers on the new additions to the main building.

I opened the door to feast my eyes on a dainty oval face and obsidian eyes framed with dark blonde, shoulder length hair. There stood Sharon Palomino, smiling with her tiny little white teeth.

What’s for dinner, big boy? she flirted.

Shrimp Creole and you are most wanted, I mean, welcome to share some with Lila and me, I stammered, hoping Sharon wouldn’t notice the Freudian slip.

Sharon crooked her finger at me as a signal to bend down so she could whisper in my ear. Sharing anything with you will be a pleasure, she whispered softly, causing just enough air to blow past my ear that I felt an unavoidable stirring. This stirring was accomplished completely when I caught a whiff of Sharon’s sweet breath and vanilla scented perfume as I lifted my head.

Well then, come into this house, I offered huskily. Maybe Lila needs another set of hands with the salad she’s fixin’

Uh, Flint, after dinner could we have some privacy? Sharon whispered as though she either didn’t want Lila to know about our being alone, or maybe Sharon had something else riding her bright little mind.

Sure, sure. We can go into my study and have a talk after dinner, I agreed wondering if talking was what Sharon had in mind.

CHAPTER THREE

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The sweetness of the shrimp reminded me of the reason I used the Franatelli Brothers almost exclusively for my seafood. Just a couple of doors down from Galveston’s famous Pier 21 Seafood Restaurant resides a tiny little seafood shop owned by three Sicilian brothers. Shrimp boats glide right up to their rear door and provide customers with some of the best and the freshest seafood imaginable. I have never been the least disappointed in their wares.

Dinner was delightful. Only the beauty of my dinner guests exceeded the quality of the Creole. Sharon’s dark eyes and lighter hair contrasted Lila’s dark hair and olive skin nicely. Lila’s larger-boned frame was contrasted nicely by Sharon’s petite curves. Lila’s hearty laughter was contrasted by Sharon’s bell-like giggles.

After dinner Lila offered to wash the dishes. I allowed that Sharon had some information from Hammer University to share thus allowing us some privacy in the confines of my office study and library.

No sooner had Sharon and I entered the little room I called an office than she gently closed the door and folded into my arms. She tilted her lovely face to mine and our lips met as hungrily and as naturally as blue is to the clear sky.

I’ve wanted to do that for weeks now, Sharon moaned.

Yeah, me too, I stammered as I held her closely marveling at the tightness of her tiny body against mine. The fit was perfection. Her chin rested nicely against my beating chest and my excitement pushed expectantly against exactly where it was supposed to push.

Where do we go from here? I asked hesitantly.

Anywhere you want it to go, she replied with an earthiness that tickled my heart. I knew she was speaking the truth. From what I knew of her past, she had had as much heartbreak as I and seemed almost as reluctant as I to enter into a relationship, that is, until now. What to do with an opportunity that feels real and right at the same time? Should I run or should I grab on and hold on for the ride?

"I gotta tell you, Sharon, that our being together complicates things here.

There’s Lila…"

Sharon interrupted, Look Flint, there’s you, me and Lila. As for me, I’ll take whatever you feel free to give, no strings attached. Sharon stated her case succinctly while playing with the hair on the back of my neck. Geeze that felt good! No one I was ever involved with knew how big a turn on that was.

I had no idea what she might see in a man almost twenty years her senior.

This woman was lovely in a simple and understated way that might ensure a lack of Playboy centerfold contracts for her. She did not have extravagant beauty, but no man could look at her and fail to be pleased. When she pulled away from me I could not help but notice that certain body parts were trying to poke holes in her underwear. I was completely turned on and hopelessly snared. The mood quickly dissipated, though, when she sat down and started to weep.

Oh hell, what have I done now? I asked feeling completely impotent, wilting in the presence of her tears.

It’s not you and has nothing to do with us, she allowed. "It is the craziness happening at Hammer University. Jim’s behavior isn’t at all consistent with his professed taking charge of the business at hand. We’re beginning to lose customers despite everything John Truxillo is trying to do. One man can’t hold the business together. It’s like Bill and Wendell’s deaths took all the wind out of Jim’s sails and morale amongst the employees is going to hell in a hand basket."

Jim Hammer had long been a dear friend. In fact the nest egg that got me started in It Don’t Matter was severance pay from Jim. The division I had been managing just over a year ago now had failed because we were trying to attract the wrong crowd. The advice offered by Bill Lynch was completely erroneous and Jim Hammer had fallen for it hook, line and sinker, as had I at Jim’s insistence. As a result I was out of a job and into a different career in one felled swoop. Divine providence has always had a hand in everything I have done which cements my faith in the One higher than I. Without that faith I would be as a rudderless ship at the whims of whatever winds were blowing at the time.

What in the world is he doing? I quizzed as wisps of memories crossed my mind like fog drifts in from the Gulf of Mexico on a cool, humid morning.

It’s more like what he isn’t doing that worries me, she said. I just refuse to believe he doesn’t care anymore.

Sharon continued, He doesn’t get to the office until late in the morning and leaves by mid-afternoon on most days. During those five hours he doesn’t take any calls, and frankly, without John there to take those calls we’d be dead in the water already. John is now doing sales as well as supervising the company’s operations. But his sales efforts aren’t garnering enough new business to compensate for the clients we are losing. There’s just not enough time in a day or money in the bank. Overhead at the University is enormous and John is just one person.

How much of this would you attribute to the satanic stuff and its negative publicity? I asked. The spaghetti had hit the proverbial fan a few months ago and the survival and future of Hammer University was definitely at stake.

I truly don’t know, she answered. "However, I wish you’d have a talk with him. Maybe you could talk to Dudley and arrange a special lunch for Jim and John in Doodle’s private dining room so the two of them might be able to clear the air."

It’s worth a try, I added. However, I don’t want to get involved in the intricacies of Hammer University again. I’ve got so much going on with this expansion that most of my time is already tied up. Add to that all the catering gigs I have booked for the next two months and I barely have enough time to break wind. Don’t forget to make time for me, too, Sharon whispered as she caressed my face in her tiny and beautiful little hands. Then she leaned down and brushed my lips with hers and inserted her firm little tongue between my lips and our tasters danced the waltz of intrigue and delight for what seemed like an endless time in those select seconds of our embrace. It had been a long time since I had felt this strongly about someone, emotionally, or physically for that matter.

I want you, Flint and will wait for you until you tell me otherwise, but it is Jim who needs your help again. What’d he once call you? Barnabas?

Yeah, Barnabas was the biblical companion of the Apostle Paul. And the last time this old Barney got involved he very nearly got his you-know-what bitten off by a huge old alligator in the Louisiana swamps. I’ll try to arrange something. Meanwhile, let’s give Lila a hand in the kitchen and get the place straightened up, I said pensively.

Sharon and I left the office together. She glided down the short hall as though lubricated by unseen oil and I limped a bit trying to make less obvious the effects of my ardor. She looked sideways at me and gave me a sly wink as we entered the kitchen to find it both completely cleaned up and empty. Had Lila heard our toying with one another or did she just suspect that something was up? Why had she just left like that? The kitchen was clean and the food put away, but no Lila.

CHAPTER FOUR

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Where Lila had gone we could only guess. The only clue was the open door through which Sharon had entered only an hour before. I could have sworn that I closed it earlier. I was completely puzzled.

Sharon told me that she had to get back to a late night at Hammer University where she was making some business travel arrangements for their crew of trainers. She was one dedicated lady for sure. I wondered that if indeed Jim were floundering again in his self-imposed savior complex, exactly where he would be if Sharon would be elsewhere. Sharon was more important to Hammer U than Jim was, I was thinking. Sometimes I thought he couldn’t find his rump by Braille with both hands if he was sitting on them palm up. I had no idea what he was paying Sharon but whatever it was it wasn’t nearly enough!

Jim had developed his savior complex while he was super involved with his church work. Gradually he had relaxed his hold on his own company allowing his control to be snagged by Bill Lynch and his evil minions. Lynch had become involved with a gorgeous co-worker named Rebecca Golden who had lured him and several of his followers into a cult that had eventually cost him his life. Rebecca was also known as Elaine Robicheaux, a long-time cult member and High Priestess from South Louisiana. The publicity given the incidents surrounding the deaths of two of his directors had no doubt cost Jim Hammer dearly, yet evidently had not been enough of a wake-up call to cause him to actually regain control of his own company. My God, was history repeating itself? Albert Einstein once said that doing something the same way over and over again while expecting different results is the definition of insanity. Was Jim Hammer insane, plain stupid or simply blind to reality?

I made a stiff drink of aged single malt scotch over ice with just a splash of bottled water, and felt waves of weariness waft over me after drinking its smooth smoky flavor. I headed to the old pecan cannonball bed in my bedroom and laid down intending to try to think things through. I was awakened the next morning to the annoying sounds of a power saw ripping its way through a two by four as the framing of Gumbo You continued. I arose in yesterday’s clothing expecting Lila to comment on my laziness. However, Lila was nowhere to be found. The kitchen was just as empty as it had been the night before when Sharon and I had exited the office together. Her behavior was strange indeed as well as disconcerting.

Had Lila heard our amorous comments and gotten her feelings hurt? Had I managed to insert my foot in my mouth again? I was still unclear regarding Lila’s feelings towards me whereas I was certain that mine towards her did not include any romantic inclinations. The old adage about never dipping your pen into company ink has always proved to be a truism in my understanding. Lila had bought her way into It Don’t Matter with the twenty thousand dollars I had given her from a much larger windfall I received from the Task Force in Louisiana for having helped them curb the cult led by Elaine Robicheaux, the lovely seductress who had also lured Bill Lynch into an early grave. Lila’s financial contribution had earned her a ten percent interest in my combined little companies. It was indeed strange that she had just disappeared like so much smoke. It wasn’t like her. I was sure that had she gotten her feelings hurt somehow, she would have had something to say about it. She could be a mighty outspoken woman when she wanted to be.

I busied myself fixing coffee and biscuits. There’s nothing like strong Louisiana coffee and hot biscuits smothered in butter and fresh honey to start your day. As I munched on the sweet morsels I recalled my old grandmother’s saying whenever she served hot biscuits, Take two and butter ’em while they’re hot!

After breakfast I showered and shaved and changed into fresh Dockers and a cotton sweater, my uniform of choice these days. Another hour was spent poring over the books, digging through the accounts receivable and payable respectfully. Financially, my company appeared to be quite solvent. I had little doubt that the months ahead would prove fruitful. The expansion I had planned just couldn’t fail. It was as close to a perpetual motion machine as a Cajun cook like me could muster. The culinary school would be self-sufficient and its kitchen would double for my catering activities. Gumbo You’s students would naturally want to buy fresh Cajun delicacies from the seafood market and boucherie wing and would shop in the Cajun storefront with all its spices and cooking paraphernalia, cookbooks, utensils and anything else even remotely associated with the Cajun culture. The storefront would be both the first and last stop on the student’ tour through my bayou country culinary academy.

Visitors to the storefront would also be enticed by the classes offered and the seafood and boucherie wing. There was simply nothing like it anywhere else in the world. Not even Emeril Lagasse had thought about this marketing masterpiece. Long ago, when first venturing out on my own, I had claimed the scriptures that say that God wants us to prosper and not to fail. The idea of Gumbo You had not come from my own brain but put there by Himself.

Nine o’clock rolled around and I gave John Truxillo a call. Needless to say, my call was automatically routed through Sharon Palomino’s cubicle since she served as receptionist both for Jim Hammer and his new Vice President, John Truxillo.

Mornin’, honey man, she purred as she tempted me with her sensuality. How is my favorite chef this lovely day? Are you missing me or do you want to talk to someone else?

Ignoring her seductive pretense I stated, I have decided to give your suggestion a try just because I owe it to both Jim and John. John would not be there unless I had suggested his candidacy for the position and I hate to leave him in the lurch. Jim, on the other hand, shouldn’t ignore his business, either. I’d hate for things to fall apart and leave poor old John flapping in the breeze, I pontificated.

I feel better already, baby. Do you want to speak to John? Jim isn’t in yet, as usual. I could not help but think that Sharon’s sweet voice had the same qualities as the tinkling of a beautiful little bell.

Yeah, John seems to be the place to start whatever it is I am trying to start, I answered. Sharon transferred the call to John’s opulent office, the same one I had occupied in my temporary stint as Hammer University’s Vice President just a few months ago.

Truxillo here. Good morning, John said with his usual upbeat personality.

What are you up to, old dog? I quipped.

Flint, you rascal. Good to hear from you. How’s everything in the culinary world? When are we going to get together?

Old buddy, I’ve been busier than a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest. These business additions are keeping me busier than I really want to be, but we are just about all framed up. Next we’ll do the interior finishing on the school wing and move my kitchen and dining room into their respective places. Then we’ll remodel the former dining room into a Cajun store while we also put the finishing touches on the boucherie and seafood market. The logistics will probably put me out of business for a few weeks here in the near future. However, when it is finished and we’re up and rolling again it ought to pay off nicely, I stated as precisely as possible ignoring temporarily his question about our next meeting.

Sounds like you have a pretty good plan working, John stated.

So how’s your Vice Presidency shaping up, old friend? I probed.

Silence flooded the conversation for a full fifteen seconds. Fifteen seconds is a long time to listen to nothing.

John, you still there?

Silence still, then, Well Flint, things could be better. It’s almighty frustrating to be here trying my best to accomplish something worthy of the stupid money I am being paid and yet I feel like I have been thrown to the wolves. Nothing’s going right, and quite frankly, I almost regret taking this position. Jim has been absent more than present and I did not sign on to run this ship by myself. I just don’t know enough about the nature of the training business to make it work. I feel like a fish out of water.

Wow, John. Where has Jim been these last couple of months? Hasn’t he been there to coach you through your duties, I asked.

He was here and we worked closely for the first month or two. Then I saw less and less of him until now he barely shows up for work and I haven’t even been able to talk to him in more than a week. It’s like he’s shutting down inside, John allowed. The frustration and disappointment in his voice was evident.

Sounds like the two of you need to get away from the office and have a sit down somewhere and hash things out. Worse comes to worst you still have the sign-on bonus he gave you and the severance package from Diane, right? Jim had been generous when he added John to his roster of executives. Diane had given John fifty thousand dollars as a thank you for his years of service when she sold the Chevrolet agency her family had owned for years in New Iberia. Together with Jim’s bonus, John and his wife had a little over a seventy thousand dollar nest egg upon which he could fall should worse come to worst without considering their savings account that John had allowed was sizable.

Flint, money is not the problem. It’s my failure to get done what I was hired to do. There’s just something fishy here that I can’t put my finger on, and it is pestering the devil out of me, John related.

"Look, old buddy. Why don’t I set up a little lunch for you and Jim over at Doodles and you two can hash everything out. That is, if I can get Jim to talk to me. What does your schedule look like for the rest of the week?" I asked.

What schedule? You just set something up and I’ll adjust whatever looks like a schedule around it, John suggested.

CHAPTER FIVE

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After I ended the conversation with John, I returned to my empty kitchen for another cup of intense Louisiana dark-roast coffee. Lila had returned, thank goodness and was filling her own cup with the strong brew. My relief at seeing her freed me from worry but allowed me to be a bit peeved that she had just left like a thief in the night. Where did you go last night? I asked as though I were some kind of pseudo-parent. Sharon and I have been worried! Just walking out isn’t like you, girlfriend!

Flint, I left because I was so confused with my own feelings and not wanting to disappoint you in any way. Besides, it looked like you and Sharon needed some time alone, and that helped me come to a decision, of sorts. There has been something on my mind for weeks now and I haven’t had the courage to talk with you about it, she whispered.

Kiddo, you need to talk up. I am getting so deaf that I can’t hear myself think these days, I said rather gruffly above the noise of the circular saws. I knew in my heart of hearts that some sort of confrontation about Sharon was looming on the immediate horizon. I dreaded entering this conversation but it was unavoidable. It was more than time to clear the air, and I needed to be less thoughtful of my own feelings than Lila’s at this juncture.

So what is bothering you so much that you run out on a dinner party and a guest? I asked incredulously.

Lila approached me with her head hung low and said, I don’t know how to tell you this, Flint. There has been another man in my life for a couple of months now. He’s not much to look at and I don’t think he makes much money, but he is honest and he treats me like a lady and makes me laugh. Lila shut her eyes and a big tear trickled down her cheek. I’ve wanted to tell you and just didn’t know how, she continued softly.

Lila, what’s so terrible about that? If you are ashamed of him enough to make you cry, maybe you had better dump him and find someone who will make you hold your head up high and be proud to be with him, I offered as confusion swirled around me. I wondered who this lothario might be, like I had some right to be protective.

Flint, I’m not ashamed of him in any way. I was just worried about how you were going to take it. I’ve been wondering if you and I… if maybe I had done something wrong.

Lila, there’s no way I can get around my own business ethics. You and I started our business relationship when you were still married to Sam and you know that I do not mess around with married women. Now that you and Sam are no more, I still don’t believe in carrying on with a co-worker. Besides you are too good a friend. It would be like putting too much salt in a sauce piquant! I stuttered as I fell all over my words, torn between relief in my newfound freedom from Lila’s interference with Sharon and me, and concern about whoever Lila’s new fella was. I wanted to tell her about Sharon and me but thought better of it. The time would come at a better time, like the three little words that are never wrong, Time will tell.

So, where’d you meet Mr. Right? I asked on a more upbeat note.

"I’ve known him for years, Flint. He was once a roustabout working for Sam’s fishing tool company. There was an attraction even then, but my own set of ethics prevented any hanky-panky. Dutch understood and honored my feelings, but kept in touch in a platonic way. Our friendship grew deeper and then all this crap with Sam and the cult happened and I lost touch. Now Dutch works as a delivery driver for UPS and showed up at It Don’t Matter a couple of months ago and again a couple of weeks ago with a package for you and we just hooked up. Now, with Sam out of the picture, we… . Oh my God! Flint, the package! I forgot to give it to you. It was marked perishable and I left it in the freezer. I am so sorry!" she exclaimed.

Look, not to worry. I am glad Dutch treats you well and you seem to have something going. I hope everything works out and I’d like to meet him soon. Now, let’s go see what is in that package you forgot. Nothing is more important than our open communication.

We walked down the outside stairs into the commercial kitchen area of the business operation on the first floor. There in the freezer was a small package wrapped in butcher paper and sealed in a plastic covering. We extracted the small box and opened it on the large butcher-block table we used for chopping vegetables and the stench of spoiled meat filled the room. There wrapped in cotton batting was an alligator tooth and a severed human finger with a ring precariously attached near where once the digit had been affixed to a hand!

Jesus Christ! Who sent this nasty thing? I asked to no one in particular.

I got no idea, Cher’e! Lila exclaimed. She had turned as white as a sheet. Know what? I bet Dutch has some sort of tracking chart that would tell us who sent it, she explained.

This stinks in more ways than one, I said in utter disgust. We need to get the authorities involved pronto! I carefully replaced the batting and put the severed digit back in the freezer. We opened the large window on the back wall and one in the front of the large room and a warm summer breeze washed the slight stench from the kitchen and dining room in a matter of seconds. My next step was to call Hank with the Fort Bend County Sheriff’s