Free Bayou Corruption by Robin Caroll Page A

shook her head and dialed the number listed in the white pages. In Shreveport, politicians didn’t have listed home numbers. Apparently in Lagniappe, they did. How convenient.
    â€œMouton residence.”
    They had someone to answer calls on a Saturday, too. Very cool. “This is Alyssa LeBlanc. I’d like to speak to Mr. Mouton regarding my mother, Claire LeBlanc.”
    â€œPlease hold.”
    Who had music on their home hold option? The Moutons, that’s who. Alyssa ran a finger over the scar under her lip, hoping the use of her mother’s name would at least get her a response. The kitchen counter dug into her hip.
    â€œMs. LeBlanc? This is Edmond Mouton. How can I help you?”
    Her stomach knotted. Oh, yeah, she’d gotten a response all right. From the senator himself. Alyssa gripped the phone tighter. “Senator Mouton, my mother was a photojournalist, Claire Le—”
    â€œYes, yes. I remember Claire very well. Lovely woman. Tragedy what happened to her. A crying shame. What can I do for you?”
    Every single line she’d mentally prepared flew out of her mind. “Er, well, I’m, uh…” Oh, she needed to snap out of this. She straightened her shoulders. “I’m a reporter with the Shreveport Times, and I wondered if you’d grant me an interview.” There, she’d said it.
    â€œAnd you thought using your mother’s name would encourage me to comply with your request?”
    Busted. What could she say? “Well, yes.”
    His laugh came as suddenly as his words. “Very good, young lady. Your mother had the same kind of spunk. I like that. How about Monday at ten, here at my house?”
    Alyssa scrambled to write down the address on a scrap of paper. “Thank you, Senator Mouton.”
    â€œDon’t disappoint me by being late.”
    She replaced the phone, adrenaline zipping through her veins. She had a scoop! That would prove her better than Jackson Devereaux and his single dimple. She danced a jig in the middle of the sunny kitchen, barefoot and all.
    â€œWhat’s got you in such a happy mood?”
    Alyssa spun and faced her younger sister. “Tara!” In two steps, she pulled the young woman into her arms and gave a stiff hug.
    Tara laughed, stepping out of the embrace. “What’s up with you, Al?”
    â€œI just got an exclusive interview.”
    â€œGood for you.” Tara moved to the icebox and grabbed a soft drink.
    Alyssa took notice of her sister’s outfit—a pair of ratty jeans and a T-shirt that had seen one too many washings. She would have thought Tara was in for the night, except that she wore a pair of scuffed sneakers, a telltale sign she planned on going out, since Tara never wore shoes if she could avoid them. “Where are you going?
    â€œOut.”
    â€œDressed like that?” The words jumped out of her mouth before she could insert any tact.
    A disgusted smirk crossed Tara’s pretty face. She set her can on the counter with a resounding thud. “Yeah, dressed like this.”
    â€œIs that really proper attire for a bookkeeper?” Why couldn’t she just shut up? Tara worked in a jazz club after closing, for pity’s sake.
    â€œFor me it is. Got a problem with my clothes?”
    Just. Don’t. Say. Anything. “Uh, no.” Alyssa ran a hand over her own jeans, with creases still neatly down the front. “Maybe we can do something together and catch up.”
    â€œAl, don’t tell me you’re going to get all mushy like CoCo. Don’t go there.”
    â€œI just want to visit with you for a little while.” Did her voice sound as whiny as she thought?
    â€œBefore you hoof it back up north, ya mean?” Tara flipped her long straight hair over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes. The rivalry between north and south Louisiana glared in her eyes. “You don’t care about what’s going on here in Lagniappe.