Bones on the Bayou: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Short Story by Carolyn Haines Page B

beneath the dark surface as the reindeer moved down the waterway. Two minutes later and ten yards downstream, a rounded derriere rose to the surface.
    Tinkie gripped my wrist in a vice. “There’s a body hooked to the float,” we said together.
    We weren’t the only people who witnessed the floater. All hell broke loose on the bridge. Tinkie and I hustled for the car.
     Shaw police chief Pret Parker, a former Ole Miss running back, allowed Tinkie and me on the crime scene only because Tinkie had casually dated him in college. “I’m not sure you ladies should be witnessing this,” he said as we stood on the bayou’s grassy bank, waiting for two Shaw Search and Rescue volunteers to wade out of the water with the body. “Sometimes floaters can be really gruesome. It’s not a proper sight for a lady like you, Tinkie.”
    “We can handle it, Pret,” Tinkie assured him. “Any idea who might have drowned?”
    “Nope. Not really.” He frowned. “One of those I-talians has been reported missing.”
    “Really?” I said. “Which one?”
    “The one that’s been climbing in and out of beds all around the county.” Pret scratched his ear. “I don’t much care what folks do in the bedroom, but that Enzo Aceto has upset a lot of people. I’ve had men calling and complaining. And women too. I’ll be glad when they pack it in and go back to Italy.”
    “Enzo is missing?” Tinkie wasn’t feigning shock.
    “Yep. Since yesterday. He never came back from that big shindig at The Club in Zinnia. But I can’t imagine this drowning has anything to do with him. More likely he’s found a honey pot he can’t stay away from.”
    A wild laugh came from the rescue workers in the water.
    “Pret, you gotta see this!” one of the men called out.
    They all laughed and began pulling the body toward the bank.
    “Why are they laughing?” Tinkie asked. “This isn’t funny. Someone is dead.”
    “Something isn’t right, Tinkie.” The body they had retrieved was unnatural. The arms and legs didn’t bend. And one man hauled it behind him with ease. “It’s a doll,” I said. “A life-sized party doll. The kind you blow up.”
    “You have got to be kidding.” Tinkie started forward.
    By the time I caught up with her, the men had the doll on the sloped bank.
    “Holy Christmas,” I said.
    “Would you look at that!” Tinkie was transfixed. The doll had a mat of black hair on its chest—rather ugly acrylic hair plastered down by the water. It had also been retrofitted with a black toupee and an elegant black mustache. And an erect appendage that waved in the freezing night.
    “Is that—” Tinkie stepped forward, and I followed, unable to look away.
    “Anybody want to try mouth to mouth,” a rescue volunteer said, eliciting hoots of laughter.
    “It looks like that guy from Italy,” another said.
    The rescue workers were snapping photos with their cell phones and laughing, punching each other. As inappropriate as it was, I whipped out my cell phone and took a few shots. Whoever had decorated the doll had made a clear point. A tiny little noose had been tightened around the plastic penis. Scrawled across the belly in magic marker were the words, “Casanova will die.”
    “My goodness, it does look like Enzo,” Tinkie said.
    And indeed it did.
      By the time we got back to Dahlia House, Tinkie had fallen asleep with her face smashed against the cold passenger window of my car. She was so petite, I almost carried her inside, much to the joy of her little Yorkie, Chablis, and my hound and black cat. Once she was tucked into bed in the guest room, all of the critters guarding her, I called Oscar. He didn’t answer, so I left him a message.
    “Enzo Aceto is missing and someone tied a male blow-up sex doll to a float in the Shaw Christmas on the Bayou. If you had anything to do with this, Oscar Richmond, you’d better call me. If you’ve done something to Enzo, tell me and I’ll get him back to Shaw. You and