All Hats on Deck Read online

  All Hats on Deck

  Books by Sandra Bretting

  MURDER AT MORNINGSIDE

  SOMETHING FOUL AT SWEETWATER

  SOMEONE’S MAD AT THE HATTER

  DEATH COMES TO DOGWOOD MANOR

  ALL HATS ON DECK

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Table of Contents

  Books by Sandra Bretting

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  All Hats on Deck

  Sandra Bretting

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Sandra Bretting

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: September 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0578-6 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0578-8 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: September 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0575-5

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0575-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter 1

  The stand of cedars parted naturally up ahead, their ridged trunks half-submerged in the river, while their branches soared skyward to create a leafy canopy overhead.

  We glided along the Atchafalaya in our pirogue, the wwwhhhiiirrr of the Honda outboard motor only occasionally broken by a spoonbill’s cry.

  “Look at that one!” I pointed to a particularly large bird we’d flushed from the treetops. Pure white feathers covered the spoonbill’s torso, but its wings wore pink fringe, thanks to the bird’s steady diet of grass shrimp. It looked like a small flamingo had wandered away from its home in Florida and somehow landed on a bayou in southern Louisiana.

  Beatrice smiled and returned her attention to the tiller. My assistant and I had come to this enchanted place to find a certain mobile home nestled on the riverbank here. The owner, Ruby Oubre, was known far and wide for crafting magick potions on a rusted Kenmore stovetop she kept in the tumbledown home.

  But it wasn’t her voodoo skills that summoned us out today; it was a favor I owed the old woman.

  A few months ago, one of my best friends, Detective Lance LaPorte, discovered a body out here on the bayou. At first, I thought it was Ruby, so I dashed to the river basin all willy-nilly, only to find her safe and sound and right in the middle of mixing a complicated potion for hexing one’s enemies.

  Ruby lost track of her ingredients when I arrived and ended up two spoonfuls shy of comfrey root, which ruined the entire batch, so I agreed to make it up to her. The elderly Cajun came to collect on the debt last night when she showed up at my hat studio unannounced.

  “Bon ami,” she’d greeted me, as she stepped through the front door of Crowning Glory. “Ya gone make good on dat favor?”

  “My what?” I’d innocently replied, since I’d forgotten all about my earlier faux pas.

  “Ya offered up da lagniappe. Ma boy done need some help.”

  The “small gift” Ruby wanted from me was a business lesson for her grandson, Hollis. The boy lived with her, and he’d decided to open an alligator farm for tourists who come to this part of the river to visit the antebellum homes nearby. Ruby wanted me to teach him the finer points of marketing, budgeting, and whatnot, given my success with the hat studio.

  Now, milliners and alligator wranglers have about as much in common as spoonbills and wood ducks, but I agreed anyway. Not only did I owe Ruby that favor, but heaven forbid I should be on the receiving end of one of her hexes.

  So here we were, my assistant and I, navigating a pirogue down the Atchafalaya River on this beautiful October morning. Although I normally favored Lilly Pulitzer shifts for work, I decided to dress comfortably in khakis and a teal oxford that complemented my naturally auburn hair.

  “We don’t have far to go.” Beatrice’s voice rose above the wwwhhhiiirrr. “It’s just past that huge stump.”

  Thank goodness Bea agreed to help me. She offered access to a pirogue, which was a flat-bottom boat designed to ply shallow waters, and reliable directions. I, on the other hand, agreed to compensate her with some hot beignets when we returned to town.

  She handled the boat’s tiller now, while I scanned the shoreline for signs of life. The homesteads here were few and far between, ever since a lumber company gobbled up most of the land for its old-growth cypress trees. The sale angered a lot of locals, who nursed a deep and abiding mistrust for anyone not born in these parts, so the lumber company wisely agreed to let a few old-timers stay. They even deeded the land over to one or two of the elderly folks as a goodwill gesture.

  “There it is.” Beatrice pointed to a mobile home limned with mold, which sat off the boat’s starboard side.

  It was easy to recognize Ruby’s place. A large plaster-of-paris grotto, studded with blue-painted river rocks, perched tipsily on a stump beside the mobile home. The baby-blue grotto protected a faded statue of the Virgin Mary, who spread her arms wide to welcome folks to her part of the river.

  Beatrice expertly guided the pirogue to a dock nearby. Once she cut the engine, I pulled an oar from under my seat and began to row, timing my strokes to a song that immediately popped into my head.

  “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” set a rhythm as I plied the shallow water. By the time life was but a dream, we’d arrived at the listing dock.

  “Uh-oh.” I cut the last stroke short and balanced the paddle on the edge of the boat. “Looks like the welcoming committee’s back.”

  Sure enough, a spotted mongrel waited for us at the end of the dock. Just like last time, Jacques, the dappled mongrel, hid behind a rotted piling, his white-tipped tail splayed sideways. Helping Ruby out was one thing, but sacrificing my ankles to her snarling dog was quite another, so I let the oar lay idle.

  “You mean Jacques?” Beatrice sounded surprised, although I had no
idea why. “He’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad? How can you say that?” On my last trip down the river, the self-appointed watchdog nearly tore apart my favorite pair of ballet flats.

  “Watch.” Beatrice wobbily rose and then she pulled a Glad baggie from the pocket of her blue jeans. “Bon jour, Jacques. Déjeuner!” She waved a rawhide bone in the air—what she called the dog’s breakfast—as if it was a Coast Guard flag.

  The mutt noticed immediately. After sniffing the air, he emerged from his hiding place, his tail whirling around like a propeller that threatened to lift him right off the dock.

  “Butter my biscuits.” I grudgingly returned the oar to the water. “If that doesn’t beat all.”

  After one more quick stanza of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” I brought the pirogue alongside the dock and tethered it to a rusted cleat. “How’d you know it’d work?”

  “You mean the rawhide? Every dog loves ’em. And I brought a ton of them, so he won’t bother us anymore.”

  “Hallelujah and pass the mustard.” I waited for Beatrice to toss out the bone, and then I confidently hopped onto the dock and stepped around the slobbering pooch. Once I reached the front door of the mobile home, after first climbing some rickety steps, I rapped against the mesh screen with my knuckles.

  “Ouch!” The screen chafed my skin as I knocked. “I sure hope Ruby’s home.”

  “You mean you didn’t call first?” Beatrice waited for me on the ground, since the landing was too small to fit both of us.

  “She told me not to bother. Said I should just drop in. Apparently, she and Hollis are always here on Thursday mornings.” I prepared to knock again when the door slowly creaked open.

  “Hello?” It was a teenager’s voice, all raspy and low.

  “Yes, hello. Is that you, Hollis?” I waited for the boy to emerge from the house, only nothing moved in the darkness. “Your grandmother asked us to stop by today for a visit. Is she home?”

  Finally, Hollis showed himself. He stepped from behind the screen door, wearing a wrinkled T-shirt from a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert and some baggy Nike shorts that reached his knees.

  “I dunno.” When he yawned, the black T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. “I just got up.”

  “Hollis…it’s almost ten.” I threw Beatrice a look. Normally, she and I arrived at work at eight in the morning, if not sooner, and today was no exception. Typical teenager. “I’m sorry we woke you, but can we come inside?”

  “Sure.” He swung open the door and took a few steps back, which allowed me to pass through the entry and make my way to the living room.

  Nothing had changed since my last visit. Crosses of all shapes and sizes studded a thin wall that separated the living room from a small kitchen, and old copies of the Bleu Bayou Impartial Reporter dusted a flowered couch. The smell of fried onions and cayenne pepper tinged the air, which was a bit much for midmorning.

  Beatrice hung back by the door, as if she couldn’t quite decide whether to enter or not.

  “Okay,” she finally said, “I’ve gotta go. I promised my aunt I’d pay her a visit while I was out here. She’s about a mile downstream.”

  I threw her another look. “Can’t you stay a few minutes?”

  Hollis obviously wasn’t ready for visitors, and it’d be nice to have some company in the meantime.

  “I’m sorry, but I promised Auntie. It’d hurt her feelings if I didn’t show up. It was nice to see you, Hollis. Tell your grandma I said hey.”

  With that, she disappeared down the steps, leaving me alone with the groggy teen.

  Since there was no point in both of us nodding off in the dark living room, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

  “So, Hollis, tell me how you’re doing.” I brushed the sports section off the couch’s armrest and took a seat.

  “Fine, I guess.” He watched me push the newspaper aside. “I graduated high school with a GED this summer. Hey…is that an engagement ring?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “You noticed that, huh? And they say teenagers don’t pay attention.”

  “Well, it’s huge.” He moved in for a better look. “Kinda hard to miss it.”

  “I got engaged in August. And you know my fiancé. It’s Ambrose. Ambrose Jackson.”

  “Awesome!”

  That perked him up a bit, like I knew it would. He and Ambrose became fast friends a few years back when my fiancé provided some much-needed help during a particularly stressful time in the teen’s life.

  It all began a few years ago, when someone died at Morningside Plantation, the place where Hollis’s grandmother worked. A few of the locals pegged Ruby as the murderer, so Ambrose took Hollis under his wing to protect him from the gossip.

  Of course, everything worked out in the end, and now Ambrose could do no wrong in Hollis’s eyes.

  “I knew you’d be pleased,” I said. “And you’ve had a big time lately too. I’m so proud of you for getting your GED.”

  “Thanks. I made mostly six hundreds on the test, which was good enough for me to go to college, but I don’t wanna go.”

  “I heard about that. Your grandma said you’d rather open a business, and she asked me to help you out a little.”

  “So that’s why you’re here.” Recognition sparked behind his eyes. “I wondered why you’d come all the way down the river.”

  Since he was wide awake now, I decided to take full advantage of the situation. “As a matter of fact, why don’t we get to work? We can use the kitchen table over there.”

  I pointed to a pine picnic table placed inside the small kitchen. Unlike the front room, where shadows lurked in every corner, the kitchen was bright and airy. Hollis led the way and I followed, after I first paused to admire a cat-shaped clock balanced on the old Kenmore stove.

  “Yep,” I said. “Now’s as good a time as any. We’ll just have to start our lesson without Ruby.”

  Hollis pulled out one of the benches by the table, and I scooted onto its end.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s start with the basics. Do you know anything about writing a business plan?”

  The blank look on his face told me he didn’t, so I motioned for a pen and a pad of paper that lay near the stovetop. No need to make the boy feel bad for being a beginner.

  “It’s okay, Hollis. I’ll show you how it’s done.” Once he passed me the supplies, I began to sketch a bell curve. “First, I’ll show you something called the normal distribution curve.”

  Before long, I’d drawn a passable rendering of a bell, which I used to explain supply and demand. Then, I taught him how to write an executive summary. After watching him struggle for a minute or two, I jumped in to help him, and together we wrote a document any business owner would be proud to call his own.

  By the time we came up for air, the paws on the cat clock pointed straight at twelve.

  “Holy-schmoley!” I jumped up from the bench. I’d planned to spend an hour with Hollis, not two, and there was no telling who—or what—was waiting for me back at my hat studio. “I’m sorry, Hollis, but I have to go.”

  His eyes widened when he saw the clock too. “Wow. It’s noon already. Thanks for coming out here, Miss DuBois. You really saved my hide.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. A lot of this information is on the Internet.” No need for the teen to think I invented the bell curve. “Check out the Small Business Administration’s website. There’s lots of good information out there, if you know where to look.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He walked me out of the kitchen, but he paused by the screen door. “I wonder where Granny went? She’s gonna be disappointed she couldn’t see you off.”

  “I’m sure she’s okay.” To be honest, I’d completely forgotten about Ruby. Once I got to talking about supply and demand, everything else went right out the window.
r />   “But this isn’t like her.” His face darkened a tad. “She usually lets me know if she’s gonna be late.”

  “I think she would’ve called you if there was trouble.”

  “Yeah, but the cell phone reception around here sucks.” He tried to shake off his worries with a shrug. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe she got tied up somewhere.”

  “That’s it. I’m sure that’s it. No need to worry just yet.”

  The last time I visited Ruby, back when I thought she was a goner, she’d insisted she could handle herself out here on the bayou.

  “In fact,” I added, “she’s probably visiting with one of your neighbors and forgot all about the time.”

  “You’re right. She might’ve even taken our pirogue down the river.”

  He pronounced it “pee-row,” and it reminded me of something else I’d forgotten. “Oh, shine! Beatrice took off in our pirogue a while ago. She’s probably waiting for me by the dock.”

  I hurried past Hollis and stepped through the screen door. Oddly enough, I didn’t hear the rumble of the boat’s motor as I scrambled down the steps. The only sounds came from a soft breeze that whooshed through the tupelos overhead and then a faint flap from something clear and plastic that bobbled on one of the dock’s pilings.

  Thankfully, there was no sign of Jacques, the property’s self-appointed watchdog, so I took a step toward the dock. The shiny plastic flag on the piling looked like the Glad baggie Beatrice had used earlier. She must’ve tied it to the dock when she finished doling out the dog’s treats.

  Call it instinct, or call it intuition, but something about the odd placement of the baggie, not to mention the quietness of the bayou, set my teeth on edge. As if everything and everyone but us had already fled the scene. It didn’t seem natural, and it made me wonder what everyone else knew that we didn’t.

  Chapter 2

  I glanced over my shoulder at Hollis as I strode toward the dock. “I wonder where Beatrice went?”

  “Too bad you can’t just call her,” he said. “Like I told you, the cell service sucks out here.”