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“We can make lunch and decide what we’ll take with us tonight.” Remy held open the passenger door of her truck.
Shelby and Remy returned to her house and made sandwiches with deli meat, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes. They decided on taking cornbread and baked beans and laid out the ingredients for when they got back from signing the papers.
By the time they got to the real estate agent’s office, LaShawnda had the offers prepared with the amounts Remy had agreed on. He signed the documents and thanked LaShawnda for her prompt work.
“I’ll let you know what I hear as soon as they make a decision.” The agent smiled. “Cross your fingers.”
Shelby crossed her fingers. If the deals went through, Remy was one step closer to staying in Bayou Mambaloa for good.
She couldn’t stop the joy from welling in her chest at the thought of Remy being around on a permanent basis.
Now that they’d gotten him squared away with a lodging alternative and a place he could convert into headquarters for the Bayou Brotherhood Protectors, they could return their focus to catching a killer. Hopefully, they’d learn something at the Fontenot’s party that evening.
If they were that familiar with everything going on in the bayou, they ought to have seen something that would lead Shelby to the people or person who’d attacked her.
She looked forward to talking with the family. They needed to find the local connection who could be working with the cartel if the cartel was actually involved with those who’d attacked her.
Shelby hoped they’d find that connection before whoever had tried to kill her tried again with better success.
Chapter 12
Remy and Shelby arrived at Pierre Fontenot’s home in the bayou via the boat Mitch had set aside for them to rent.
The boat had a bigger engine, getting them there a lot faster than the boat they’d used the day before.
Dusk had settled in, casting the dock in deep shadows. Several boats were already tied to the moorings when Remy helped Shelby out of the boat onto the dock. She held the cornbread wrapped in foil. Remy carried folding chairs in bags over his shoulder and the container of baked beans. They walked along the dock and up to the house.
People filled Old Man Fontenot’s front porch and spilled out into the yard on either side.
A small band had set up on a makeshift dais in the grass to the left side of the house. A group of men gathered around a propane-powered burner with a huge pot of seasoned water on top, just beginning to boil. One of the men dumped a bucket of crawfish into the water, the others nodding their approval.
People had brought their own folding chairs, ice chests and beer and were scattered across the front porch and the yard, laughing and talking over the band playing zydeco.
Remy chose a spot on the grass to drop the chairs. Then he and Shelby carried their food offerings to the long tables set up against the house overloaded with everything from fried catfish and hushpuppies to big pots of gumbo.
They found a spot for the cornbread and baked beans.
“Shelby.” Gisele appeared from around the corner of the house. “Come wish Old Man Fontenot a happy birthday before he falls asleep in his chair.” She grabbed Shelby’s hand and led her around the back of the house and up onto the back porch.
A wrinkled old man sat in a rocking chair with a party hat perched on his head, his rheumy eyes staring out at the people milling about his yard. When Gisele and Shelby stopped in front of him, he frowned up at them.
“Happy Birthday, Grandpa Fontenot,” Gisele said loud enough to be heard back in town.
Remy remembered visiting Old Man Fontenot when he was a teen. The man had been eighty then. He was still old but appeared to have shrunk a foot more in twenty years.
He gave Gisele a toothless grin and patted her arm. “Thank you, young lady.”
Shelby touched the old man’s hand. “Happy Birthday, Grandpa Fontenot.”
He looked up at Shelby and thanked her.
The whole scene just reinforced in Remy how beautiful and special Shelby was. She’d worn a pale purple sundress dotted with tiny white roses. She’d pulled her hair up into a loose, messy bun on the crown of her head with tendrils handing down around her ears. She smiled sweetly at the old man and treated him with kindness and respect.
Remy’s heart swelled. He was almost jealous of the centenarian.
When the two women came back down the steps, Remy walked up to the old man. “Mr. Fontenot, happy birthday.”
The oldest Fontenot stared up at Remy. “Who are you?” he asked in a gravelly voice Remy could barely understand.
