Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [60]
I ignored his barb. “We need to talk. I’ve got some information about the Brown family you should know.”
“Figured as much. After your talk with Chase, the mother, Susa, and the Girard girl with the crazy hair, I had an inkling we’d need a consultation.”
“You’d probably get more accomplished on this case if you’d spend less time following me and more time working on your own leads.”
“Didn’t have to follow far, Ms. Ortiz. The bench underneath where you and Miss Girard stood has great acoustics. You know, when dealing with a family with this much prominence in the county, I’d be keepin’ my voice a li’l bit quieter if’n I was you. That’s a little piece of country-fried advice from Bubba Joe Bob himself.” His exaggerated Texas drawl mocked me.
A slow blush crept up my neck. “So, I guess I don’t need to tell you anything, then. Later.” I started to edge my way around a group of people bouncing on the balls of their heels to the music.
“Not so fast,” he said, grabbing for my elbow again. But I was quicker and used my small size to weave through the crowd, leaving him in the wake of swaying human bodies. I’d talk to him tomorrow and fill him in on everything he hadn’t overheard, but for now I decided to let him stew in his own juices. This continual feint and jab ritual we’d established was beginning to wear on me. Right now, the one person I really wanted to talk to was Gabe.
I finally spotted him across the open-air dance floor, sipping a glass of pinkish wine and talking to the mayor and a deputy district attorney who was running for DA next month. Next to him, looking very comfortable and happy, was Lydia.
He’s still your husband, I told myself. I took a deep breath and started along the edge of the dancing crowd toward them. Before I could get very far, a hand grabbed mine, and in an instant I was out on the dance floor.
“Hey, ange,” D-Daddy said, twirling me to the raucous, firecracker beat of a souped-up version of Hank Williams’s “Jambalaya.” “You ready to shake a leg?”
I laughed and fell in with his rhythm, letting him lead me into steps, twists, and twirls I didn’t know were possible while the wild Cajun fiddler pushed the crowd faster and faster with his impossible-to-follow riffs. One song moved into another with only a few seconds for people to catch their breath and start again. Early in our third dance, after D-Daddy had twirled me around three, four, five times, I felt his hand leave mine and another, larger one take its place.
“Hey, Mrs. Ortiz,” Detective Hudson said, smiling his Tom Sawyer smile. “Did I forget to tell you these were my dancing boots?”
“What?” I sputtered as he twirled me around three times and spun me around the crowded dance area. It took every bit of concentration I had to keep up with him. Somebody had taught this man how to dance. As we moved around the other couples, I glanced over the crowd, looking for Gabe, hoping with pure petty juvenile revenge that me dancing with another man would seriously annoy him. Naturally he was nowhere to be seen.
At the end of the song, breathing heavily, I jerked my hand out of Detective Hudson’s and pushed my way through the milling people. He caught up and fell into step beside me.
“Man, haven’t moved like that for months,” he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s like riding a bike, though. How about you? Did you enjoy it?”
“Where did . . .?”
“My mother owns a Cajun restaurant and dance hall in Beaumont, Texas,” he said, winking at me. “That’s where I was born and spent my delinquently formative years. Did I fail to mention I was half Cajun?”
Another exaggerated mother story. “Good-bye, Detective Hudson,” I said, disgusted.
He continued walking beside me, not speaking again until we reached my truck two blocks away.
“What is in those notes you and the Girard girl were discussing?” His face was dead serious now.
“I’ll call your office tomorrow and make an appointment,” I said, opening