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  A Grievous Sin

  My car felt like an oven after sitting in the sun. Heat build-up doesn’t take long in ninety-five degree weather. I put the air conditioner on full blast and drove back to Megan’s office.

  The small parking lot had available space for four vehicles. There were presently three. In light of the close quarters, I decided to park on the street across from the office.

  After locking my car, I started to cross the street. A black pickup truck seemed to appear out of nowhere heading straight for me. The deer-in-the-headlights syndrome came over me. I couldn’t move. My heart raced. The driver wasn’t slowing down. Move! Get to the office.

  I heard a scream. My adrenaline kicked in. I scrambled across the street, ending up on the curb. The truck sped away with tires screeching.

  I lay on the sidewalk with eyes closed trying to slow my pulse and my breathing. Seconds later. I heard voices both male and female.

  “Susan, are you hurt?” I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  I opened my eyes to see Josh stooped beside me. “I don’t think so.”

  He helped me to my feet. “What happened? We heard your scream and tires squealing.”

  My scream? At the time I didn’t realize the sound had come from me.

  “Black truck…tried to run me over,” I panted.

  What They Are Saying About A Grievous Sin

  “A. C. Mason knows South Louisiana, both its pretty and its gritty side. She spins them together to create gripping mysteries you will enjoy reading.”

  —Lynn Shurr, author of A Taste of Bayou Water, Blessings and Curses, and The Courville Rose

  “Settle back and lose yourself to a good mystery set against the backdrop of a small bayou town in Louisiana. Susan Foret is off on another adventure that begins when she stumbles upon a murdered victim close to where her husband was previously killed. As she uncovers a criminal ring involved in smuggling drugs, ancient artifacts and the trafficking in illegal aliens, she soon finds herself a target. Will her tenacity and uncanny insight into those responsible be enough to save her?”

  —Sylvia Rochester

  Author of eleven published novels of various genres

  Her latest release is Deceptive Assassin

  A Grievous Sin

  A.C. Mason

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Mystery Novel

  Edited by: Jeanne Smith

  Copy Edited by: Joan C. Powell

  Executive Editor: Jeanne Smith

  Cover Artist: Trisha FitzGerald-Jung

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  www.wingsepress.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Arlene C. Messa

  ISBN 978-1-61309-357-3

  Published In the United States Of America

  Wings ePress Inc.

  3000 N. Rock Road

  Newton, KS 67114

  Dedication

  In memory of the “real” Katy the cat (2000-2017).

  Wiley and I miss you.

  Alas, a grievous sin have we determined to commit, in that for greed of sovereignty and pleasure, we are prepared to slay our brothers.

  —Bhagavad Gita

  One

  Allemand Parish, Louisiana

  Wednesday July 22

  Sunlight glistened on the water. Large cypress trees laden with Spanish moss lined the banks. Two egrets waded in a secluded cove among a patch of water hyacinths.

  A picturesque sight. In stark contrast, beyond the sunlit bayou lay the darkness and danger of the swamp. I knew full well the mystique of Louisiana swamps—full of life, yet often deadly.

  My heart raced in time with the boat engine. The thought of viewing the spot where Jim had been shot made my stomach flip. My hands tightened on the flower pot I held in my lap. I intended to plant these gerbera daisies on the site.

  Exactly one year ago today my husband was killed—murdered by people he thought were friends and brother police officers.

  I glanced at my neighbor Rachel Marchand as she expertly negotiated the bayou’s curve. I’m glad she drove because I would have probably crashed into the bank.

  Friends, including Rachel, had all urged me not to go to this isolated place. They warned me that the stress of revisiting the place where he was shot and left for dead would be too much trauma. Maybe they were right, but it’s too late now.

  I needed to come. Why? I didn’t truly know the reason. I felt compelled to bring flowers to plant on the spot and to say a prayer. Perhaps I hoped to contact his spirit or something ridiculous like that.

  Rachel slowed the motor to an idle and steered toward the bank. After cutting the engine, she turned to me and was quiet for a long moment. “Susan, are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  I nodded, hardly able to speak because my throat kept constricting. I placed the flower pot on the bank and caught hold of a low tree branch to keep us from drifting out into the bayou.

  Rachel, quite fit for a woman sixty-five, jumped onshore and tied a rope to the branch to secure our boat.

  My legs wobbled as I stood, trying to balance in the swaying craft. Rachel grabbed my hand and helped me onto the bank. I retrieved the flower pot and surveyed my surroundings. The area appeared pretty much the same as I remembered from my visit last year.

  Beyond the cypress trees, wide-leafed palmetto, tall grass, and other swamp plants swayed slightly in a meager breeze. However, much of the vegetation past there seemed trampled as if a herd of animals had run rampant through it. Packs of feral pigs have been reported out here from time to time.

  One thing for sure, the humidity and mosquitoes were still here. In the swamp, mosquitoes swarmed day and night. I swatted the buzzing pests away. A foul odor hung in the air.

  My eyes met Rachel’s anxious gaze. “Dead fish?” Sometimes lack of oxygen in the water caused huge numbers of fish to die.

  “I sure hope it’s only a fish kill.” She wiped perspiration from her forehead with her hand.

  “Me, too.” The sinking feeling in my stomach told me the odor wasn’t dead fish.

  The farther we walked, the stronger the smell. A pile of what appeared to be discarded clothing could be seen near some bushes ahead. Rachel and I both stopped short and exchanged a knowing look.

  I knew immediately without even looking closer. Inside those clothes was a decomposing human body.

  Why do I keep discovering dead bodies? Am I jinxed? I swallowed hard. What in the world ever possessed me to return to this place? Last year I promised myself never to come back again. But here I was looking at another dead person.

  We knew better than to disturb a crime scene. I didn’t know if I wanted to get a closer look anyway. Yet my curiosity almost got the best of me. With a great deal of restraint I stood frozen to the spot.

  From what I could see, the deceased person appeared to be a woman with long black hair or else a small male who wore his hair long.

  Rachel seemed to be having the same problem. Despite our age difference, she and I think alike. She wanted to see if she could identify this person as much as I did.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket and started to make a call. “No service. We’ll have to get back in the boat and ride until I can connect with the sheriff’s office.”

  As soon as we walked back to the boat, she made another attempt to get a signal on her phone and was successful.

  “I’ll call Danny first,” she said, referring to her husband, formerly the Allemand Parish sheriff, now retired. “If he doesn’t answer, I’ll go through nine-one-one.”

  Despite the smell, I was glad we didn’t have to leave. The victim had been out here alone for at least several days. I thought it cruel to desert the person now.

  Irrational perhaps, but times in the past when I discovered a dead body, rational thinking went out the window. Without a doubt this death was murder. I kept thinking of all the possible scenarios.

  Maybe he or she died alone because no one discovered the scene in time. Maybe this person died immediately. I didn’t want to think about suicide, although this place had been the location of one, and of Jim’s shooting which was staged to look like suicide.

  Rachel and I waited on shore next to our boat for the sheriff’s flotilla to arrive. We didn’t have to wait long. About fifteen minutes after her call to Danny, sounds of racing boat motors filled the air. Flashing lights appeared in the distance.

  Despite the heat I felt a chill flow up my spine. I knew I was about to jump off the proverbial cliff into a real life murder case, much different from the fictional murders I write about in my mystery novels...and much more dangerous.

  Two

  Several members of the sheriff’s office, including the newly elected sheriff Brad Theriot and Danny, Rachel’s husband, hopped off the two patrol vessels and headed toward me and Rachel.

  Danny reached us first, followed by the sheriff and four other men.

  He exhaled loudly. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you two come up here by yourselves.”

  Rachel stood with her
hands on her hips, looking up at him. “Nothing would have changed if you had been here with us. There would still be a dead body over there.”

  Brad Theriot gave me an amused look. I guess he intended to lighten the scene by focusing on the sight of a five foot three woman like Rachel giving a six foot four man what for. I didn’t feel amused. That’s one of many reasons why I could never make it as a cop. Finding something humorous at a murder scene might be the way a police officer could cope with seeing a body. I wouldn’t be able to think of anything but the person and imagine how horrible their last moments had been.

  Seeing my distress, Brad’s expression quickly turned serious. “Did you get close enough to the body to identify the victim?”

  I shook my head. “We didn’t want to disturb any evidence.”

  He nodded to me and Rachel. “You two, stay here. Danny, let’s go see what we’ve got.”

  The two men strode toward the crime scene. The others trailed along after them.

  “I don’t know about you, but I want to see if this person is someone I know,” Rachel said, focusing her gaze toward the location.

  “Me too,” I agreed. “I believe the body is that of a woman.” I pointed toward the scene. “See the long black hair?”

  “I noticed something shiny, like jewelry.” Rachel shrugged. “Of course, men do wear jewelry and wear their hair long.”

  The roar of a boat engine again cut through the air. Another vessel belonging to the sheriff’s flotilla pulled up. I recognized Dr. Devall, the parish coroner, on the deck, preparing to debark.

  Dr. Devall and two morgue attendants hopped off the boat and walked slowly toward the body as if they all wore lead shoes that impeded their movement.

  I couldn’t blame them. Even people like coroner’s office personnel and police officers who see death often get tired of witnessing the inhumanity of humans to their fellow man…or in this case woman. Yes, I was convinced this victim was female.

  Tired of standing, I sat on the ground in the shade of a Chinese tallow tree, which intermittently favored me with a breeze. After a few minutes Rachel joined me.

  “I guess we’ll be here for a while,” she said, keeping her focus on the deputies.

  “Maybe not. Dr. Devall might not be able to tell anything before an autopsy since there’s probably a lot of decomposition.”

  For fifteen minutes the coroner was hidden by a ring of men surrounding the body. Guess they didn’t want us weak women to see anything that would cause fainting. I’m being facetious, of course. Curiosity has been my downfall, but I wanted to know the identity of the victim. I had the awful feeling I knew her.

  Finally, the coroner’s assistants placed her in a black body bag, zipped it up, and transferred her to a hand-carried stretcher. The terrain was too rough for the usual gurney on wheels. The coroner trudged along behind them.

  When they neared the boat, I rose and strode over to them. Rachel followed me. “Dr. Devall, have you identified her yet?”

  “Sadly there wasn’t any identification on her,” he replied.

  “Can we take a look? We may know her.”

  The coroner grudgingly agreed. “Unzip the bag part way,” he ordered one of the assistants.

  The man lowered the stretcher to the ground and knelt beside it. He moved the zipper on the bag enough for me and Rachel to see her head and neck. The sight was not pretty. I almost wished I hadn’t asked.

  My assumption had been on target. The deceased person was a woman with long black hair. Her face had been disfigured somewhat from lying in the open for what may have been several days. I recognized the Native American style turquoise necklace she wore.

  I grabbed Rachel’s arm. “I know who she is…Celina Baum.”

  “Oh, my God! Miriam’s daughter.”

  ~ * ~

  “Why the hell did you have to shoot her?” He clenched his jaw in an attempt to restrain himself. He would have put the idiot’s lights out if this conversation were in person and not over the phone.

  “She saw me. I couldn’t take the chance since she knows me. I thought she might be after the package.”

  “Not my problem. You shouldn’t have gotten involved with her. Now because of your screw-up, the emeralds have disappeared. You better find a way to get them back.”

  “How am I supposed to accomplish that? I don’t even know where to look for the carrier.”

  “That’s what you signed up to do. Find him. You better hope you locate him before he gets picked up by the cops.” He narrowed his eyes even though his associate couldn’t see his angry look over the phone. That feeling would come through in his words. “I have a suggestion. Start with the man you saw kneeling next to her body. Find him.”

  Three

  Cypress Lake, Louisiana

  Thursday July 23

  I had that familiar sinking feeling in my stomach as I watched the news story on Channel 7’s morning show…the murder of Celina Baum in Allemand Parish. Why I continued to watch confounded me. I had seen the story last night. Not to mention, the real thing.

  Seeing the video caused a replay of yesterday in my mind and several other times when I discovered a body. The victim was always someone I knew. Heck, this time I even knew Remi Granger, the television reporter who did the story.

  Here she was again, updating the story live in the TV studio:

  “Yesterday we reported that the body of a woman was discovered by two fishermen in a wooded area off Bayou Jean Baptiste. The victim has now been identified by the Allemand Parish Sheriff’s Office in Cypress Lake as twenty-six year old Celina Baum of Foretville. At present there are no suspects or motive for the murder. Anyone with information about this incident is asked to contact the Sheriff’s Office…”

  Remi’s voice trailed off in my head as I turned my thoughts to the latest victim in my pantheon of murder victim encounters.

  Celina Ramirez Baum volunteered on a regular basis at a food pantry and mission established by several local churches. I also showed up over there occasionally to help wherever I could...mostly paperwork.

  She spoke fluent Spanish and afforded a great service to those from Mexico and Central America who didn’t speak English.

  Since my husband was killed, I’ve kept busy with my writing and doing volunteer work. Even with raising eight-year-old twins, days and nights sometimes seem to drag by.

  The pot of gerbera daisies I intended to plant yesterday sat on the kitchen counter. That was a stupid idea anyway. I’ll take them to the mausoleum tomorrow.

  A knock at the kitchen door interrupted my thoughts. I saw Rachel through the window and invited her inside with a wave. “It’s open.”

  “Susan, you need to go back to keeping your doors locked,” she admonished as she walked in.

  I smiled. “Yes, Mother.” Rachel and Danny were both in their mid-sixties—old enough to be my parents. We had been close friends since Jim and I moved to Cypress Lake from New Orleans.

  Rachel returned my smile, but her expression quickly turned serious as she glanced at the television. “Do you have any idea what she could have been doing out in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Not a clue. I wouldn’t want to be in Miriam Baum’s position right now. She must be beside herself.”

  Rachel nodded. “Miriam adopted Celina and her sister as toddlers, so even though they’re not her natural children, her pain is certainly deep. As you know, Miriam isn’t my favorite person, but I wouldn’t wish the loss of a child on my worst enemy.”

  “I didn’t really know Celina very well. I’d spoken to her at the pantry on occasion. She was very devoted to the cause of helping these people. From what I’ve heard, she practically lived there.”

  Rachel eyed me cautiously. “Do you know if all immigrants who receive aid at the pantry are in this country legally?”

  “I don’t know for sure, since I don’t personally accept them into the fold, so to speak. However, I suspect most are not. Priests and other church people don’t really question the paperwork of these individuals. Besides, not every person who comes to the pantry is an immigrant. There are a number of families in the parish who can’t make it on what they earn.”