Deadly Bayou

By A. C. Mason
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Mystery/Crime, 357 pages
Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

Blurb:
Cypress Lake Chief of Police Jim Foret is found critically wounded near the place his father committed suicide and dies later at the hospital. Evidence at the scene suggests his gunshot wound is also self-inflicted. His widow, Susan believes he has been murdered. Will she end up a victim herself before the killer is brought to justice?

Excerpt: Cypress Lake, Louisiana, Monday, July 22

I took one look at Sheriff Danny Marchand standing in the doorway and knew immediately something was terribly wrong. My usually easy-going neighbor had the most somber expression I’d ever seen on his face.

“You look so serious. What’s wrong?”

He took a step inside, ducking his head slightly to accommodate his over six foot height as he came through the doorway. “Jim’s been shot.” His voice sounded official.

My heart thumped loud and fast. I could hardly breathe. “How…?”

“He’s at West Lake Memorial in surgery. Come on. I’ll drive you there.”

“The kids are across the street…”

“Don’t worry. Rachel will take care of them.”

I moved in a daze out the door. Before I realized, the city had whizzed by the car windows in a blur.

The siren sounded muted in my ears. Danny refrained from speaking; I was thankful for his consideration. Even though I wanted to know how this had happened, I wouldn’t have been able to carry on an intelligent conversation. All my thoughts centered on this nightmarish scenario. My husband Jim, the Cypress Lake police chief, had been shot and was lying on an operating table. Maybe those were also Danny’s thoughts.

Hospitals with their stark and sterile environment always depressed me. Today West Lake Memorial Hospital seemed even more austere. I wanted to see Jim, to know he was still alive. Touching him wasn’t possible at the moment. All I could do was say prayers.

Several of Jim’s officers, along with a couple of sheriff deputies, milled around in the hall outside the waiting room. Their facial expressions conveyed sympathy for me. I didn’t want sympathy—I wanted my husband.

I took a seat in one of the padded chairs in the waiting room. Danny sat next to me and clasped my hand in his much larger one.

Finally summoning the courage, I asked, “Tell me the truth. How bad are his injuries?”

“Pretty bad,” he said. “Critical, in fact—a shot to the abdomen.”

Chills ran up my spine. The worst nightmare a policeman’s wife could imagine was her husband getting wounded in the line of duty.

“Where did this happen?”

Danny averted his gaze for an instant. “Out by Bayou Jean Baptiste.”

My heart raced. The location his father had chosen to commit suicide. “What happened?”

“We don’t know anything right now.” He looked uncomfortable.

“What do you mean? Was he alone?”

“As near as we can tell. The scene’s still being investigated. A couple of fishermen discovered him and called nine-one-one.”

“How’d he get out there?”

“We found his boat tied up nearby.”

“His boat?”

“You didn’t notice it was gone?”

I shook my head. “He kept the boat in that little shed in the back yard. I had no reason to look over there.”

He nodded. “So he left the house before you woke up.”

“Yes. In fact I didn’t even hear him leave.” Something about Danny’s demeanor told me he wasn’t telling the whole story. “Danny, I want to know everything.”

“There’s nothing more I can tell you right now,” he said in a gentle, but still official voice.

I persisted, “I know you’re not telling me everything.”

Mardi Gras Griss Gris

By A. C. Mason

Mystery, 317 pages

Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

Blurb:

Susan Foret is thrust into a murder scene when one of the town’s wealthiest citizens dies near her as the local Krewe’s parade is ending. A gris-gris bag containing tarot cards and several other fetish items is left dangling from the knife in his chest.

Excerpt:

A horn blared and two twerps of a siren sounded from the fire truck, a signal the Mystic Krewe of Helios parade had come to an end. A lone street sweeper followed to clear the streets of broken beads, other discarded throws, and more important, any poop left by the horses belonging to the Allemand Parish Mounted Posse. Some of the revelers on the opposite side of the street started strolling off on their way back to homes or vehicles.

I inhaled the delectable aroma of jambalaya steaming in a huge black iron pot under a canopy behind Lucky Jack’s Café. Laughter, upbeat voices and the celebration of carnival were just what I needed to raise my spirits.

The long ordeal for me and my twin brother was finally over. Dealing with a couple of killers and the slow court system had taken a toll. Justice took sixteen and a half years to officially vindicate Steven and convict his wife’s killer. The voice of my neighbor, Rachel Marchand, broke into my thoughts.

“No matter how old I get, I always enjoy Mardi Gras.” She removed a multitude of colored beads from around her neck and stuffed them into a plastic grocery bag.

“What’s with all this talk about getting old?” I teased.

Rachel laughed and pointed to her salt-and-pepper hair. “Susan, I’m not exactly a spring chicken.”

“Age is only a frame of mind.”

“So true.” She surveyed the area with her gaze. “This day couldn’t have been better. The morning started out a little chilly, but at least the sun’s shining. And to think you didn’t want to come today.”

“I know. I know.” I slipped an array of beads from around my neck and placed them in my own bag. “I’m glad I came. Too bad the parade didn’t last longer.”

“All good things must come to an end,” Rachel said with a joking tone.

Her remark turned out to be prophetic and no joking matter. A man wearing a full-face rubber mask staggered out from behind the fire truck and directly in front of the street sweeper.

I stared at the man. My brain didn’t quite register what my eyes observed. Did I actually see an object protruding from his chest? No, he’s in costume. Or else I’ve been out in the sun too long.

“Crazy fool,” Rachel muttered. “Is he drunk?”

In the back of my mind, I thought I’d seen a second man wearing a short black mask some distance behind the man who ran into the street. I checked again, but didn’t see another person wearing a mask. Confused, I returned my gaze to the man staggering across the street and tried to make sense of the scene unfolding in front of me.

The street sweeper swerved and came to a screeching halt, but not before the side of the vehicle clipped the man and knocked him to the pavement face first. Rachel and several men in the crowd rushed over to where he lay. I took a few wary steps closer. Even from this distance, I could tell the man was dead.