The Devil Has Dimples

  THE DEVIL HAS DIMPLES

  by Pepper Phillips

  Published by Lagniappe ePress at Smashwords

  Copyright 2011 Pepper Phillips

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  You knew Maudie Cooper was really dead when you read her funeral invite listed in the Boggy Bayou Chronicle.

  I’m T-Jack Couvillion, newspaper owner and reporter of ‘The oldest family-run newspaper in Louisiana.’ I can’t report all the news, else I’d be sued every week after the paper came out. So, I just ramble my thoughts down in case I need to jog my memory later on. You never know when some bit of information might sell more papers.

  Back to Maudie. There had been talk, of course. Someone said Maudie was dead, but I couldn’t print her obit, ‘cuz I couldn’t find out if it were true.

  Some figured she finally found a salesman gullible enough to believe her blarney about being rich. Heaven knows, she cornered every male that ate their lunch at Hank’s Hole-in-the-Wall, her hunting ground. Most never came back. Maudie could talk them to death. Fact is, she talked so much they didn’t notice she put her lunch on their tab. Or they didn’t care. It was a small price to pay for their freedom.

  Two or three were of the opinion that Maudie wasn’t dead. They thought old Sedgewick Jeansonne had finally caved in to her amorous overtures and that the two were holed up at his place doing the naughty. No one had seen him much since Maudie closed up her antique store about two weeks ago.

  We all missed Maudie.

  Silas Moreau, the town’s fix-it man, figured that she could wear out any one human being in three to five hours.

  When the boys who sit in front of the courthouse questioned how he knew that fact, he just turned beet red and left. Silas hasn’t lived that down yet.

  The boys (the youngest being seventy-seven and the oldest being Mackie Marcotte, who lies about his age, but everyone knows he’s ninety-three) at the courthouse spent most days speculating where she might have gone. They missed Maudie telling them all the news, gossip, and trash on everyone in town and the ten miles that encircle Boggy Bayou. She gave most of the juicier leads to me.

  Our number of tidbits really dropped when she disappeared. Wasn’t hardly anything to talk about. Excepting Maudie, of course.

  No man dared fool around in Boggy Bayou. Maudie always found out. And after she called the man’s wife, the rest of the town knew before he could zip up his pants.

  I was in my office finishing the last details on the newspaper, when Grant St. Romain, Maudie’s attorney, brought in her funeral invite. That was a shock. I said a silent prayer for her and almost busted a gut getting the revised paper out on time.

  Maudie would have loved the layout. Hearts and flowers danced around the corners and inside big bold letters spelled out ‘Maudie Cooper - Last Rites.’ She died in late October and her wishes were to be buried on Halloween night.

  Yeah, at night.

  According to the notice, everyone was invited to dress in costume and bring a candle to light during the service in the cemetery. Since kids were invited, candy would be available for the trick or treaters. Afterward there would be a pig roast and beer bust at the local V.F.W. Hall. Most everyone thought that was a nice touch.

  All her friends and most of her enemies decided to dress up and go. It’s not every day you get to wear a costume to a funeral.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen quite so many people at a graveside service.

  Silas dressed up as a pig, complete with a snout, and went around grunting and snorting at all the ladies. He got a lot of teasing about being dinner. Silas didn’t need any padding, and many of us wondered why he owned a pink jumpsuit.

  Bitsy, Silas’s wife, ran an apple dunking contest by the front gate, welcoming everyone and thanking them for coming. You would have thought it was the social event of the year, but then, she and Silas don’t get out much.

  Mackie Marcotte, Grant St. Romain, and I stood watching the goings on.

  “Mackie, you ever been to a funeral on Halloween?”

  He thought for a moment, most likely turning the decades over in his mind searching for an answer.

  “Nope. This is the first night funeral I’ve ever been at. Makes me think it might be a good idea when my time comes.”

  “Never for me either, although I did attend a Halloween wedding once. It was a bit over the top,” said Grant.

  Maudie’s casket was perched on a roller parked next to the grave hole.

  “Her casket looks like it cost a handsome dollar,” I said.

  Mackie nodded. “They should have given her a kid’s coffin, since she was so small. If’n I die in the next ten minutes, stuff me in there with her. There’s more than enough room.”

  Grant chuckled. “I don’t think your wife would like that, Mackie.”

  Mackie shook his head, “You’re most likely right. Maybe I can get us a double wide and we can sleep together ‘til the end of time. That would jolt her.”

  Grant and I couldn’t help but laugh, the visual alone was hilarious.

  We watched as kids, busy munching on treats, and bobbing for apples, threw apple cores and candy wrappers all over the ground.

  The more serious-minded adults brought lawn chairs and ice chests to get a head start on the beer bust.

  When the time for the service arrived, everyone lit their candles. I have to tell you that was a show. The candlelight sure was pretty. Some of the kids had their candles in hollowed-out pumpkins, so there were orange and white lights all over the place. It was dark enough that you couldn’t see the empty candy wrappers anymore. A few placed candles on the built-up burial sites, making the area rather festive, even for a graveyard.

  Silas managed to burn his snout almost off with his candle. Bitsy threw a bucket of apples and water over him and his cronies and managed to put that fire out quite nicely.

  Reverend Benny Gagnard stood at the head of the casket. Drawing his fist up to his mouth, he coughed to clear his throat, then said in his loud, hearty sermon voice, “She’s dead. Thank you, Lord.”

  Mackie turned to me. “That was the shortest eulogy I’ve ever heard.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “He must be still ticked off ‘cause of Maudie telling his wife about his indiscretion with the choir leader.”

  Mackie nodded. “Just goes to show you. What goes around, comes around.”

  Then the choir led out the song. Angie Tassin, the choir leader and Maudie’s arch-enemy, raised a little triangle and whacked it twice. The choir, all Angie’s friends, began to sing, “Ding dong, the witch is dead, the wicked, wicked witch is dead.” Angie finally got her revenge. They continued the song while the rest of us hooted, hollered, and laughed so hard, tears rolled down our faces. Sil
as fell out of his lawn chair and lost what was left of his burned snout, but didn’t spill a drop of beer.

  The only person who seemed to take everything serious was Sedge. He was dressed up in a new black suit complete with the label still on the sleeve, a hat in his hand and even carried a bunch of yellow flowers he’d picked that grow wild along the roadside during this time of year.

  Mackie said, “I’ve never known Sedge to dress in a suit. Didn’t even know that he had one.”

  “Maybe he’s in costume.” I replied.

  “As what? A funeral director?” Grant asked.

  “He could be a mourner, what with the flowers and all. He and Maudie have been friends for a quarter of a century.”

  Sedge placed his hand on the casket and started to cry.

  The three of us stood there, uncomfortable, not knowing what to do.

  Someone dressed up in a witch’s costume walked over to him and patted him on the back, giving him what comfort she could and handed him a handkerchief. He was so overcome with grief that he almost toppled into the grave.

  Finally, the singing stopped, and while everyone wiped tears and smirks off their faces, the casket was lowered, and old Sedge dropped his bouquet on top.

  Then Silas threw in Bitsy’s candle and that started a candle throwing frenzy. Needless to say, there was a really big blaze going in no time.

  The grave diggers got hopping and shoveled dirt in fast. Eventually the blaze was buried and so was Maudie.

  The town’s sure going to miss that old gal. She sure knew how to enjoy life, and her death wasn’t so bad either.

  Then came the biggest surprise of all.

  The next day, the daughter no one knew existed showed up in Boggy Bayou.

  * * *

  I checked the envelope again. My name centered in the middle: Sara Elizabeth McLaughlin. Or was that my name? That’s what I thought for twenty-seven years, but apparently, I was wrong. Hesitating before the door, I shook off the feeling that I should jump back in my car and head home to Baton Rouge. That would be easier than the few steps it would take me to reach Mr. Grant St. Romain’s law office and find out the truth.

  But I needed to know the truth. Drawing in a deep breath, I opened the door that led to a foyer with stairs in front of me.

  I thought I would fall trekking up the steep stairs in my three-inch heels. Obviously, a bad choice in footwear for hiking, but they were cute as could be, and sometimes that’s all you get out of life. Great shoes.

  At the top of the stairs were two doors. The one on the left was what I was looking for, St. Romain, Attorney at Law, painted in gold leaf across beveled glass.

  I dug in my purse and pulled out a peppermint for courage and to get a little moisture in my dry mouth. Then I twisted the doorknob and entered the office.

  It reeked of money. Lots of it. A mahogany forest was destroyed to furnish this baby.

  A large-busted black woman, in linen creased within an inch of its life, sat behind a secretary’s desk and looked at me expectantly.

  “May I help you?” Dark brown eyes roved over me, checking me out as I did the same to her.

  “Is Mr. St. Romain in?”

  Just saying the words made my heart speed up, I could hear pounding in my ears. My hands shook, so I gripped my Balenciaga handbag tighter. Good grief. I thought my fingers were liable to push through the leather, but the shaking stopped.

  She hesitated, then ran a long red fingernail down a column in an appointment book. She glanced up at me, raising one thin pencil-drawn eyebrow.

  I need to practice that move.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  My heart sank. I wondered if I could bluff my way into his office, but I couldn’t think fast enough. I cleared my throat and almost swallowed my peppermint. So much for dignity.

  “I asked if he was in.” I croaked like a rusty frog.

  “And I repeat. Do you have an appointment?” Her voice was snippy, as if she held the scissors and would cut me out of any appointment.

  Oh, snarl, snarl. It didn’t take much to press her attitude button.

  “No. Obviously, I don’t have an appointment, but apparently you didn’t comprehend ‘is he in?’” I have an attitude button, too.

  Her eyes narrowed. If looks were knives, I’d be bleeding on the carpet. “Yes, but you need to make an appointment to see him.” The secretary looked at the book again and began flipping pages. She was going to show me who was in control of the situation.

  And I had enough. I must talk to the old goat. Today.

  “Is he with a client?”

  “No!” She slapped her hand on her desk like a gavel, as if her spoken word was law.

  Finally, an answer. He was in, but not with a client.

  She flared one nostril at me. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that. It shows real contempt.

  “You still need to make an appointment. I can schedule you in for tomorrow morning at ten. May I have your name?” She ground out her words like they were dirty bits of gravel. I was glad she wasn’t the attorney.

  Enough was enough. I was going to see Grant St. Romain today, or else. Deciding that being direct wasn’t getting me any-where, I turned on my heel, stalked over to the door with his name on it, twisted the knob, and slipped in before his secretary could stop me.

  I hurried to lock the door behind me and turned to see a man dressed only in his boxers and one sock.

  Pastel pink boxers and sock.

  He wasn’t an old fart. He was magnificent.

  His knee was raised while he pulled a sock over his bare foot. His gaze averted to me and he grabbed a white shirt from the back of his desk chair and hid his pink boxers. Every muscle rippled and danced. A tall man, a few inches above my own five feet, eleven inches without three-inch heels. He was built like an athlete. He was gorgeous, deeply tanned, and buff. I am pretty sure I drooled on my shoes.

  I placed my handbag against my chest, like a shield. I slipped into lust, and wondered if I should move my handbag further south. As if that would protect me.

  I could have torn off my clothes, but I couldn’t tear my eyes off him.

  Someone banged on the door. “Open this door! You can’t be in there now. Mr. St. Romain is busy!”

  He shouted, “It’s okay, Alice. I’ll talk to her.”

  He lowered his voice, a husky bourbon drawl that just oozed Pappy Van Winkle. I know because I’ve tipped it back once or twice myself. It’s warm and inviting, drawing you in, to have just one more taste. And all the while, you know you’re going to pay for it the next day.

  “Obviously, you didn’t understand my secretary. I didn’t want to see anyone this afternoon--or have them see me.” He slowly buttoned his shirt, never moving his deep brown gaze from mine.

  I could feel the heat rush up my neck into my face, the curse of being a redhead.

  I snapped my mouth closed, which I’m sure had been hanging open since my first glimpse of Mr. Adonis Perfecto and coughed slightly.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s urgent I talk with you today.”

  I couldn’t stop staring at him.

  I tried to focus my thoughts, to make my mind think about something else. But he was mind-boggling. It was taking him forever to button his shirt. A man with slow hands. Very big slow hands. I wondered how would they feel caressing my skin, touching my hair , fondling my... My brain finally woke up, but it wasn’t thinking clearly at all.

  He smiled as he reached for his trousers hanging over the back of his chair. “Mind turning around for just a second?”

  I stood there, then realizing I was still staring much too hard, abruptly turned around.

  “Sorry. I didn’t think I would see a man in his underwear, especially pink underwear.” I wondered what his backside looked like. If it was as good as the front, I was missing something. Something luscious.

  I resisted the urge to peek.

  I closed my eyes and listened to the rustle of clothing as he steppe
d into his pants. I almost wanted to scream at him to stop, but a bold move like that wasn’t going to happen. I couldn’t help asking. “Why are you in your underwear?”

  There was a pause, then I heard a zipper.

  “Oh, I assist the coach with the wrestling team at the high school one day a week depending on my schedule. Today was a heavy workout day, so I needed to shower here at the office.” He hesitated for a moment. “Couldn’t let the guys see my pink stuff.”

  “You’re a wrestler?” Was that my voice that squeaked?

  “Oh, you think I can’t wrestle?”

  “Well, no.” I stopped, then I put my size ten foot in my mouth. “Aren’t you a bit over-educated to be a wrestler?”

  “Now that is a typical response.” He let out a deep sigh. “I’ll have you know that I was the state champion in college. You can turn around.”

  I did and was impressed. As the old saying goes, he cleaned up nice. Very nice. Too bad he was a jock. I’d had my fill of athletes, thank you very much for that crappy marriage. They could all croak and get crispy crunchy in Hell as far as I was concerned.

  He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. I walked over and sank in the soft burgundy leather. The room was decorated in deep forest green with Audubon prints and framed diplomas hanging on the mahogany paneled walls. I doubt the walls were impressed, but I was.

  The air smelled clean and faintly of soap and freshly applied cologne. Old Spice. I was sure of it. It was my yearly Father’s Day gift to my dad and I loved the smell because it always reminded me of him.

  “Why pink underwear? It doesn’t seem...um....” My mind grappled for the correct word.

  “Manly?”

  I grinned. He grinned back.

  Oh, my, my, my. He flashed me dimples to die for.

  “I do my own laundry, and I have quite a few pink things now that I didn’t have before. I didn’t expect to be modeling them. But as you’re so taken, I might consider pink in the future.” He held out his hand to me. “My name is Grant St. Romain.”

  I took his hand. It was warm and firm. Mine was cold, clammy, and way too big to claim Southern Belle status. I started to blush again. My mind reeled with sensations. He held it a few seconds longer than was proper (like I cared at that point!), and when he let go, I felt unsettled. As though I was missing something important, essential. Which was strange, since I’d just met the man. Plus, he was a jock. But still, that didn’t stop the tingling in my palm where our hands touched, nor the awareness within me that lingered.