Free Killer Cousins by June Shaw

her problem?” I asked.
    Babs must have realized how loudly she spoke. She lowered her voice.
    Stevie swallowed an onion, her gaze aimed at Babs. “She can’t see well enough to drive in the dark. Jake came in late to take Babs’s place.”
    I set my spoon down. “How do you know that?”
    My cousin’s eyes did their mystic-thing—gazing as though not seeing, at least not through their pupils. “I read her vibes.”
    Okay, this psychic seeing of hers spooked me.
    Customers clapped as the jokester left the stage. Another man took his place. My interest held on the two managers, farther aside from the stage now and still talking. Babs continued to look annoyed. She held up her wrist and appeared to show Jake her watch. And then she stomped off.
    “I think you’re right about her. I have problems driving at night, too,” I told Stevie. “So can you tell anything about his problem?”
    “He likes her, but doesn’t think he stands a chance with her.”
    “Amazing. How do you know that?”
    She rolled her eyes toward Jake. “I saw the way he looked at her.”
    “Oh.” So much for her intuitive knowledge. I checked Jake out and could see the way he peered soulfully at Babs’s trim departing figure. If he really did want to date her, I hoped he would give himself a chance and ask her.
    If I stayed around town long enough, maybe I could make sure they got together.
    People applauded for the joke-teller. No one else went on stage. Jake looked first resigned and then happy as he hopped up to the mike. “We’d like for all of you to decide on the winner,” he said.
    Audience applause chose the first contestant. I watched Jake leaving the spotlight. His smiling face became serious. Of course Stevie could read signs such as a man wanting interest from a woman. I could also read that body language.
    The trio resumed their music, and our entrées arrived. Stevie praised her fried oysters, fish, and shrimp, and the stuffed crabs and gumbo. Her meal looked appetizing, and mine tasted scrumptious. I tore into the stew. People everywhere smiled and ate. Father Paul Edward came toward our table, but didn’t glance at us. Cheerily following the pretty ladies, he leaned slightly on his cane, his foot drooping.
    I’d seen a movie in which a killer faked a clubfoot. When Father reached my side, I had to squash an instinct to yank his cane away, then watch to see if he’d keep going without a foot problem.
    Stop it, Cealie .
    He walked off with the women, and I gave myself a mental head slap for my wicked thoughts.
    “Well, he’s not smoking,” Stevie said. “At least not on a cigarette.”
    “Ooh, you wicked person,” I said and gave her a good-girl hand slap.
    “Of course, people can’t smoke in restaurants anymore,” she said, “but I looked for a cigarette-pack bulge in his pocket. None. No cigarette in his hand, either, ready to light up when he got outside.”
    “What would he be doing with those ladies?” I asked, watching them sashay on spiked heels, their hips rolling.
    “They look like ladies of the evening. Maybe he wants to take them both into the evening at home and see what happens.”
    “Stevie, you really are wicked. I like that.” I felt comforted by seeing this playful part of her I’d enjoyed when we were kids.
    “They sure ate fast. I guess they were in a hurry,” she said.
    I finished my meal, sorry I’d have to leave Gil’s place, sorry he wasn’t here. Cajun Delights was a terrific restaurant, but without him lacked the spark I’d come to love.
    “That was good.” Stevie wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Mmm, and that looks even better.” She stared at the entrance. The old Stevie was back, it seemed, since now she sounded like that young teen girl who, along with me, ogled older teen boys.
    I looked where she did, ready to make a smart comment.
    And faced Gil Thurman.

Chapter 7
    Gil stood six foot three, with a well-muscled chest and broad shoulders beneath a white shirt and