“Frankly…I need you to deal with Mitch. You have a way of getting through to him, and he seems to be on his best behavior when you’re around.”
“If you think so.”
“Good, it’s settled. Meanwhile, I’ll need to find Mitch another lawyer. While I’m flattered by his faith in me, and I’m licensed to practice in Louisiana, I think he needs someone local who knows which cops and judges are corrupt.”
“You’re thinking of bribing someone?” Beth asked, only half kidding.
“Beth, of course not. I want to know which might have already been bribed, who owes favors to whom, that sort of thing. This whole affair smells like something is going on behind the scenes. Grudges, revenge, you know.”
“Agreed. First place we should look for a grudge is Mitch’s half brother. He seemed way too complacent about his brother’s arrest.” Sergeant Dwayne Bell hadn’t been involved directly in Mitch’s interrogation—that wouldn’t be kosher even in a backwater town like Coot’s Bayou. But he’d been hanging around, lurking.
“You know who would give some background on that situation? Mitch’s mother. Let’s go pay her a friendly visit. She might want to know her son is in jail.”
“MYRA? SOMEONEHERE to see you.”
The man who answered the door was neatly dressed in pressed khakis and a plaid shirt, and he looked mildly annoyed to be bothered by strangers in the middle of the afternoon. A black Labrador retriever mix hid behind his master’s leg, peeking out and looking worried.
Mitch’s mother lived on the outskirts of town on a little piece of land that backed up to a creek. It was kind of pretty, especially this time of year when everything was green and blooming.
The small house was run-down. It had once been painted white with brown trim, but it desperately needed a new coat of paint. The roof appeared to be patched and repatched, and several boards on the creaky front porch were rotted.
But someone had tried to make the place homey. A huge pot of blooming geraniums sat near the front steps, and a morning glory vine added a note of cheerfulness to the sagging porch railing. The front door sported a straw wreath festooned with small wooden ducks and bunnies peeking out from silk flowers.
From the little Beth had gathered during Mitch’s interrogation, she knew he’d grown up pretty poor.
The woman who appeared at the door looked too old to be Mitch’s mother. Her shoulder-length hair had been dyed reddish-gold, but a good inch of brown and gray roots had grown out. She wore a garish shade of orange lipstick, and her low-cut blouse and tight jeans were less than flattering.
Her shoulders slumped in that peculiar way of people who had lost any enthusiasm they once had for living.
The man lingered nearby. Mitch had made no mention of a stepfather in the picture, but these two appeared to be a couple.
“I’m Myra LeBeau. Can I help you with something?”
LeBeau, not Delacroix. This man probably was her husband, then. Beth and Raleigh introduced themselves and explained that they worked with Mitch at Project Justice.
Myra, no idiot, immediately guessed there was a problem. Her hand fluttered at her breast. “Has something happened to Mitch?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s in jail.”
Myra actually looked relieved. “In jail. Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were going to tell me he was dead. I mean, jail’s not good, of course… Won’t you come in? It’s warm for this time of year. I’ll get you some iced tea.”
They stepped into the creaky little house, and Myra showed them into her small kitchen and asked them to sit down. “So what trouble has Mitch gotten himself into this time? I thought we were past all that, but some boys never grow up. His daddy sure didn’t.” A surliness entered her voice at the mention of Willard Bell, but by the time she brought glasses of tall, sweetened tea to the table, her smile was firmly in place.
The husband, who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, had returned to the living room, where he was watching a game show on TV. Apparently a grown stepson in jail wasn’t his concern.
“So what’d he do?” she asked again.
“He didn’t do anything,” Beth said, a note of challenge creeping into her voice, but Raleigh shot her a warning look and she clamped her mouth closed.
“There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs. LeBeau. He’s been arrested for murder. They think he killed Robby Racine.”
Myra, halfway to joining them at the table, fell the rest of the way into her chair, a hand to her mouth stifling a gasp. A genuine reaction, Beth thought, though she was no body language expert.
“I heard about the body they found on my land…it was Robby?”
Raleigh nodded. “He was killed soon after he and Mitch stole a car together. Probably that same night.”
“Why do they think it was Mitch? He and Robby were friends! There’s no way—no way my baby would do something like that. And, anyway, all those years ago, I didn’t own that land. It belonged to my great-aunt, Robby’s grandmother. Robby and Mitch were second cousins.”
“So the land was connected to Robby, not Mitch.” Raleigh pulled her phone out of her pocket and made a few quick notes. “That’s one damning piece of evidence we can easily discount.”
Beth couldn’t stand it anymore. “Mrs. LeBeau, Mitch’s father owned some guns. Do you know what happened to them?”
At the mention of guns, Myra’s demeanor changed dramatically. She sat up straighter and started fidgeting with a paper napkin. “I don’t know. I’m sure I don’t know. I never touched his guns.” She looked over her shoulder at her husband, still watching TV. “Davy! Do you know what happened to Willard’s guns?”
“I have no clue,” he answered in a deadpan. “Never saw ’em.”
“Do you own any firearms yourself, Mrs. LeBeau?” Raleigh asked casually.
“No, ma’am. No guns.”
“If you don’t remember what happened to Willard’s guns, how can you be so sure you don’t still have them around somewhere?” Beth asked.
Myra’s eyes narrowed. “After Willard died, I cleaned this house top to bottom. I’m sure if there’d been any guns, I’d have noticed them. Are you here to help Mitch? ’Cause you don’t sound that helpful.”
“We’re on his side, I promise,” Beth said. “The police are going to want to know about the guns.”
Myra settled back into her chair. “I wish I could help, but I just have no idea.”
“Did Mitch know how to use a gun?”
“His daddy tried to teach him to shoot. You grow up around here, you learn how to hunt and that’s that. Every boy does. That doesn’t mean anything. Mitch never took to it and Willard gave up.”
“Okay.” Raleigh set her iced tea to the side and blotted her mouth with the paper napkin she’d been using as a coaster. “We appreciate your time, Mrs. LeBeau.”
“Thank you for telling me about Mitch,” she said a little stiffly. “Lord knows he wouldn’t go out of his way to tell me anything. Have they set his bail?”
“The hearing is tomorrow morning at nine. It would be good if you could be there. They might deny bail, given the seriousness of the crime. But if we show the judge he has a supportive family, that he’s not a flight risk, it might help.”
Myra cast a worried glance toward her husband. “I’ll try to come.”
They said their goodbyes and returned