Free Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats by Kent Conwell Page B

“What’s wrong? I saw you running out here.”
    I glanced up. A burst of lightning revealed her short hair hanging like limp noodles. Mud covered her soaked jeans and blouse. I rose and handed Henry the flashlight and umbrella. “Let Henry tell you. I left my cell upstairs. I’ve got to use the house phone to call the cops. When I get back, then you two can get out of the weather.”
    Five minutes later, I returned. “They’re on the way. You two get on back out of this mess. I’ll wait here.”
    Henry handed me the umbrella and flashlight. They both looked as bedraggled as wet cats. “What happened?” I gestured to Gadrate’s muddy clothes. “Fall?”
    She hesitated, then quickly replied. “On the way out. I’ve got to get inside and get cleaned up.”
    Five minutes later, a cruiser with flashing overheads pulled up in front of the mansion. Henry was waiting on the porch. He pointed me out to the officer, and I waved the flashlight.
    Garbed in his rain gear, the officer trudged through the mud and rain. When I shined the light in his face, I recognized him, Ross Wehring. He hit me with his light. “Boudreaux? Is that you? Jeez, what happened to your head?”
    I held out my arms. “Believe it or not, I ran into a tree,” I said, for some reason feeling a touch of shame that my injury was not the result of a more heroic effort, like saving a drowning person or something. “Sorry to get you out in this kind of weather, Wehring.”
    “All in a night’s work,” he said, glancing at the well-lit mansion. “Hey, how come they got lights and everywhere else the power’s off?”
    “Generators.”
    “Stands to reason. Rich folks, huh,” he muttered, squatting and shining his light on the body. “What do we have here?”
    “I was standing on the third-floor balcony over there,” I said, pointing to the mansion, “when I spotted three jokers down here. Looked like they were fighting. Next thing, two had split, and this guy was lying right here.”
    Wehring looked at the mansion, then up at me in disbelief. “You’re staying there? In that place?”
    I frowned. “Yeah. Why?”
    He pushed to his feet. The rain pounded on his hat and dripped from the bill. With a crooked smirk, he said, “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve known you for fifteen years, and—well, this just don’t fit you. You’re still with Marty, aren’t you?”
    “Of course I am,” I replied indignantly. “This is a job. They’re our client.”
    “OK, I see. What’s the job in a fancy place like this, a food taster?” His smirk grew wider.
    I was beginning to grow suspicious. “You been talking to Bob Ray Burris?” He burst out laughing, and I burst out cursing. “I’m going to break that no-good’s neck, I swear.”
    Wehring looked at the mansion. “He said it was a regular casbah. Sure looks like one.”
    Before I could reply, an unmarked car pulled through the driveway, ending our conversation, but not Wehring’s snickers. Somehow, I promised myself, I’d get even with Bob Ray Burris if it took ten years.
    Lieutenant Patrick Fenster, one of the Austin PD’s finest for the last two decades, slogged through the water to Wehring and me. He shined the light on my face. “Boudreaux! What the blazes are you doing here at this place?” He whistled when he saw my forehead. “Looks like someone got the best of you.”
    Officer Ross Wehring snorted. “Yeah. Joe Tree.”
    I shot him a withering look that was lost in the rain.
    “He’s the one who found the guy, Lieutenant. He—”
    “Let him tell it,” Fenster interrupted. “Search the corpse, Sergeant.”
    So, I related the same story to him that I had to Wehring.
    He grunted. “What were you doing up there?”
    I knew he was going to ask the question. He had to. Standard procedure. “Just relaxing before going to bed.”
    “Bed.” The tone in his voice reflected his surprise. “Here? At this place?”
    Wehring stood, holding the dead man’s belongings. With a straight