John Ringo - Princess of Wands

It reminded her of the dinner she’d gone to with her parents. The people were friends of her father, Abyssinian exiles, and they’d hosted an authentic Abyssinian dinner. She couldn’t remember what any of the food was called, but it was good. However, it was also very hot. And the only thing to drink was small glasses of some high proof liqueur. Since she was being on her best manners, she ate everything that was put in front of her. And because she couldn’t handle the spice, she’d washed it down with glass after glass of liqueur. Before she knew it, she was tight as a tick and telling the hostess the woes of her life, often in quite graphic terms.

It was then she’d decided that she really needed to be careful with liquor. Fortunately, Mom had been doing much the same thing and hardly noticed.

To get to the small eating area of the restaurant required going through the bait shop, which was an experience she’d rather never have had. The live bait tanks appeared to never have been cleaned out and she suspected the dead shiners roiling in yellow foam had probably perished immediately upon entry to the tanks. The whole place was filthy with dead cockroaches in the corners and a layer of grime that would require a thousand gallons of bleach to fix. At least the cup was Styrofoam, and appeared mostly clean and she’d taken it without ice.

The woes she had laid upon the hostess were the woes of being a good Christian girl. Besides the usual, no sex until marriage, there was the whole “being a Witness” thing. If you were a good Christian, you couldn’t tell a person when they were being brain-dead. You had to subtly hint that an idea was as stupid as a slug at a salt convention. You couldn’t say things like “here’s a dime, buy a clue.” Or “why don’t you clean this place up, it’s filthy. And take a bath once in a while!” Or “what do you mean you can’t get the part? I want to talk to a district manager right now!” Or “learn to cook! It’s not that hard!” You just had to smile and hope that things would work out for the best.

It was a pain in the… it was frustrating.

She was contemplating the negative aspects to being a good Christian woman when the cop sat down.

He had the same look as most of the locals, large eyes set a bit close together, rounded chin, wide cheekbones that didn’t look classically Cajun. But his hair was shorter than the norm and he was at least clean. But there was something about his eyes. She really didn’t like the look in them. One look from him and her “creep-meter,” as Allison would say, went into overdrive.

“What’s a pretty lady like you doing in a place like this?” the cop asked, waving at the slatternly waitress. “Gimme a plate of jambalaya an’ a Coke, Noffie.” He was spending about half his time making eye contact and the other half examining her T-shirt. Or, more likely, what it covered.

“I was just passing through and my car broke down,” Barbara answered, taking a sip of Diet Coke and giving up on the jambalaya.

“You call your folks and tell them you’re all right?” he asked as the jambalaya was served. Barb noticed that he got quick service; she’d waited nearly ten minutes until the waitress had gotten done talking to one of the regulars.

“Yes, left a message for my husband,” she replied. “Told him where I was.”

“That’s good,” the officer said. “Oh, I’m Etienne Mondaine. I was the chief deputy ’til old Claude keeled over from a heart attack last month. You got any problems, you just give me a holler.”

“Thank you,” Barbara said, taking another sip of the rapidly warming Coke. “I usually can avoid problems, though.”

“Where you from?” the deputy asked, not looking up from his plate. He was rarely drinking and seemed immune to the spice.

“Algomo,” she said. “Little town outside of Tupelo. Wanted to take the weekend off, go see the sights.”

“Not many sights around here,” the deputy said with a wheezing laugh. “Ain’t much to do, neither. Can rent a boat and go fishing or frog gigging. Or… other distractions?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“I brought books,” Barb said, closing off that line of investigation. It was one of the less subtle come-ons she’d heard and she’d heard a lot of them. “I think I’ll just find a comfortable spot and read.”

She’d taken a seat where she could watch the door of the restaurant and wrinkled her brow as a newcomer walked in the place. He was tall and almost skeletally thin with long, frizzy, blond hair going a tad gray and a matching beard and mustache. He was wearing jeans, T-shirt and a jacket but there was a distinct bulge on his right hip. And he certainly didn’t look like a local. Nonetheless, he walked immediately over to their table.

“Deputy Mondaine?” the newcomer said, fishing out a badge and ID. “Detective Sergeant Kelly Lockhart, New Orleans PD.”

The bait and tackle store overhung the water and there only appeared to be one entrance. Inside, Kelly saw just about the nastiest live bait wells it had ever been his joy to examine; the forensics guys could spend a lifetime just cataloging the material in the tanks. There was a door to the left, though, that apparently led to a small restaurant and bar. When he walked through, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, then he saw the deputy sitting on the far side of the room talking to a rather good looking blonde.

As he approached the table he noticed that the… seriously stacked blonde was wearing a T-shirt with an inscription on the front but it wasn’t until he got over to the table that he could read it in the relative gloom.

“Aloof Elven Princess.”

His first reaction was to try not to laugh; he recognized the logo. It was from a website that lampooned the Lord of the Rings in quite humorous terms. His second reaction, which he hoped was unnoticeable, was total shock.

Don’t weird-out on me, he thought. Plenty of shirts around with princess on them.

“Deputy Mondaine?” he asked, showing the deputy his badge and ID. “Detective Sergeant Kelly Lockhart, New Orleans PD.”

Mondaine could lose some weight; he more than filled his black uniform, and he wasn’t wearing a vest. Of course, in a town like this they probably weren’t the utter necessity they were in New Orleans, either.

“Is that like, ‘I’m from New Orleans PD and I’m here to help you’?” Mondaine said, dryly. “The check’s in the mail?”

“I won’t c-” Kelly started to say then stopped at the expression on the blonde’s face. “Yeah, like that. I’m looking for a guy named Carlane Lancereau. Know him?”

“Lancereau?” Mondaine said, wrinkling his brow. “There’s some Lancereaus live up in the back bayou over Nitotar way. Carlane don’t ring a bell. Why?”

“He’s wanted for questioning in the Ripper murders,” Kelly said, pulling out one of the flyspecked chairs and sitting down. “Not a suspect, just a material witness. Last-seen person with one of the victims. An informant told me he’s come down this way. He may be staying with his family.”

“I’ll ask around,” the deputy said, taking a last bite of his jambalaya. “I’d say ‘you want to come along’ but people are probably going to tell me more if you’re not.”

“I understand,” Kelly replied. “You don’t mind if I ask around town, do you?”

“Not at all. I’ll be back in about an hour,” Mondaine said, standing up and ambling from the room.

“Hello,” Kelly said, looking at the blonde and wrinkling his forehead. “I suspect you’re not from around here, either.”

“No, I’m not,” she said, trying not to grin. “I was just passing through town last night. Stopped at the hotel and this morning my car wouldn’t start. Alternator. They can’t get the part until Monday.”