Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats by Kent Conwell Read Free Book Online Page A

when I entered, decked out today in a blue T-shirt with a new declaration, “See, I Told You So.”
    Remembering the previous day’s T-shirt, I arched an eyebrow, noting the ironic reflection of the previous night’s incident. His eyes went to the knot on my head. A faint grin ticked up one side of his lips. “Hear you had a run-in with one of our live oaks.”
    With a rueful smirk, I replied, “It was stronger than me.” I fished a cup from the cabinet and poured some coffee. I sipped it and sighed. “Tastes good.” I sat across the table from Henry. “How are things going today?” The question was perfunctory.
    He shrugged. “Nothing any different. Edna said you saw someone on the grounds last night.”
    “Two someones.”
    “Happens a lot,” he said, taking another bite of his sandwich. “Like I mentioned yesterday about Skylar’s ‘ghosts.’ People from outside are curious and wander through the gate. Most mean no harm.”
    “At night?”
    “No.” He shook his head. “At night, they’re usually up to no good.”
    “Why don’t you close the gate?”
    “You’ll have to ask Skylar. I wanted to, but she refused.” He paused and added. “And she pays my salary.”
    “I know what you mean.” My gaze slid from his slender face down to his T-shirt. “You’re a big fan of Murphy’s Law, huh?”
    “Some.” He paused. “There’s a lot of truth in it.” He pointed to my forehead. “You learned that the hard way.”
    “I can’t argue that, Henry. No, sir.” I looked around the kitchen. “This old place has a lot of history, huh?”
    “It’s over a hundred and fifty years old.”
    “Frank and I were talking last night. I remember hearing about the Watkins case years ago. They never did find the one who did it.”
    Henry’s eyes clouded over. “Everyone knows who did it, but they couldn’t get no evidence.”
    “Bill Collins?”
    With a sneer in his tone, he said, “Old Frank talks an awful lot, doesn’t he?”
    His sudden hostility surprised me. “I don’t understand. You don’t think he should have mentioned it?”
    Leaning forward, the butler said, “It’s over and done with, Mr. Boudreaux. Let the dead bury the dead.”
    I’d heard that last remark a thousand times, and I never could figure out how the dead could bury the dead. “I don’t mean to pry. I’m a PI. I’m naturally nosy. An unsolved crime like this one is begging to be investigated. Not that I would, understand. But it is intriguing.”
    For several moments, he stared at me, then sighed. “I see what you mean. Yeah, it is a puzzle.”
    “You were here then, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You mind telling me about it?”
    He stared at me for several moments. I could see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he said, “I don’t mind.”



CHAPTER SEVEN
    Running his hand over his bald head, Henry began, “Mr. Watkins was giving a party, a Christmas party.” He related the same story I had heard from Frank, down to the fact that not even tearing down some of the walls had revealed how the killer escaped from the library.
    Gadrate came in at that moment. She hesitated when she saw me. Her eyes flicked up to my bandage, then away. “Morning.”
    “Good morning,” I said.
    “Sandwiches in the refrigerator, Gadrate,” Henry said. He glanced at me. “You hungry, Tony?”
    I hadn’t been, but now I was. “Yeah. I’ll take one, if it’s no trouble.”
    “Ham and cheese, or turkey and cheese?” the slight maid asked from behind the open refrigerator door.
    “Turkey and cheese. Thanks.”
    When Gadrate slid in at the table, Henry said, “I was telling Tony here about the night Mr. Watkins was killed.”
    Her small face darkened a moment. She shook her head, her short brown hair bobbing behind her. “Me, I don’t like to talk about the dead. I hear stories about the dead coming back to make sure nobody talks about them.”
    Henry snorted. “That’s hogwash, Gadrate, and you know it.”
    She shook her