Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 04 - Vicksburg by Kent Conwell Page B

regard to his death.
Exactly what did you mean by that?”
    “One of his sons, the younger one, asked me to look into
the events surrounding his father’s death. That’s all I’m
doing. I found your sympathy card and saw your organization in his will, so I naturally wondered what he was doing
with a group of, of ah-” I hesitated, not knowing exactly
what to call them without offending her.
    She chuckled. “Birdwatchers?”
    I shrugged. “Yeah.”
    She studied me a moment. “Why would his son want the
death investigated? I heard it was an accident.” She leaned
forward, an inquisitive frown on her slender face. A flash of
excitement flared in her eyes. “He doesn’t believe it was an
accident?”
    I tried to sidestep her question. “He doesn’t know. He just
wants to be sure.”
    A tiny grin curled her lips as her twinkling eyes tried to
search deep into my own. She went for the jugular. “Let me
ask you. If it weren’t an accident, but deliberate-would that
change the will?”

    I shrugged. “Beats me. But I don’t see how.” I changed the
subject. “Apparently, Mr. Edney had given no indication he
was considering changing his will.”
    “That’s right.”
    “When was the last time you saw him?”
    She pondered my question. “At the last board meeting in
February.”
    “He didn’t mention a new will?”
    ‘No.
    “He have any close friends in the society?”
    She shook her head. “Not after Mr. Jenkins retired.”
    “How can I get in touch with Mr. Jenkins?”
    She quickly sketched a map and jotted some numbers.
“His place is on the Louisiana side of the river across from
the land we were promised. Here are the directions and his
phone number.” She paused. A slight blush tinged her
cheeks once again. “He’s such a sweet man. Tell him I said
`hi’ and not to be a stranger.”
    I pointed my finger at her like a pistol. “You got it.”
    Outside, I paused to study the facade of the Monticello
lookalike before climbing in the Silverado. Abby was right.
The building did appear to be three stories.
    I was never much of an historian, but in Louisiana
where I was reared, those of us with Acadian ancestries
always had a warm spot for Thomas Jefferson. After all,
had it not been for him, we might still belong to France.
“Perish the thought,” I muttered as I climbed into the pickup. I paused before starting the engine, chuckling over the
disclaimer French’s Foods had issued when the antiFrance sentiment swept across the country. The only thing
our mustard has in common with France is they are both
yellow
    Thank you again, Thomas Jefferson.
    Back on the interstate, I was too absorbed with my own
thoughts to see the eighteen-wheelers boxing me in.

     

When I’m working a case, I talk to myself as I drive. I
don’t mean I simply mull the situation. I actually talk, aloud,
asking questions and then answering them. Somehow the
spoken word creates a more solid impression in my peasized brain than a simple thought.
    More than once as I’ve been driving, I’ve had the uncomfortable feeling someone was staring at me, only to look
around square into the laughing eyes of those in a passing
vehicle.
    And that’s exactly what I was doing during the drive to
Wilson Jenkins’ home. I was deep into conversation with
myself about the motivations of my suspects-WR, Stewart,
and Annebelle-when I noted the eighteen-wheeler pulling
a car carrier ahead of me was slowing.
    I glanced in my side mirror in anticipation of pulling
around the rig, but staring me right in the eye was the blunt
nose of a howling Peterbilt coming up on my left. I pulled
back to await his passing.
    Except that when he drew even with me, he slowed.
    I was uncomfortable to be in such close proximity to the
two large rigs, so I started to back away until I spotted the
snarling grill of a Kenworth coming up behind.
    Muttering a soft curse, I maintained my speed. Then, to my alarm, I noticed the