It was then I knew I had won her over. Grandma Gaudet was an avid fan of true crime stories.
She told me about the trial. When she finished, Grandma Gaudet grabbed her gold handbag and said, “Come on, boy, we’re headed to the slaughterhouse to get breakfast. Everybody will be coming over soon.”
On Saturday mornings, locals crowded Eunice Superette & Slaughterhouse for fresh boudin. People lined up with coolers to fill with steaks and pork chops for grilling later in the day. We bought boudin for breakfast.
Grandma Gaudet spoke to everyone in line. They talked about the Friday night dance at the Knights of Columbus Hall and who drank too much and who left with who. She introduced me as Mari’s friend from college. After they shook my hand and moved on, she whispered to me juicy pieces of gossip about them.
Back at Grandma Gaudet’s house, I met her twin sister, Alice, and Mari’s uncles and their wives. The men worked on offshore oil rigs, one of the most dangerous jobs possible. They poked fun at me for being a liberal journalist but were impressed that I had spent the two summers before my newspaper internship working on road crews laying asphalt.
Their hands weren’t soft, and neither were mine.
Aunt Alice, the town librarian and family historian, gave me a quick tour of Eunice once we had finished our breakfast of boudin, saltine crackers, cracklin, and warm Pepsi.
The man who developed Eunice in 1884 had named the town for his wife, and in the center of town was a statue dedicated to its namesake. She looked like a Cajun Mary Poppins in a Victorian dress and hat.
Eunice’s claim to fame was the Cajun Music Hall of Fame. On Saturday nights, the locals headed to the Liberty Theatre for the best Cajun and zydeco musicians in Louisiana. WCJN radio broadcasted the performances across the state.
Alice showed me the town’s one-of-a-kind Nutcracker Museum, with a storefront that boasted the world’s largest collection of nutcrackers. We walked into a Cajun music souvenir shop located in between the theater and museum. The owner’s wife kept a sewing machine and spent her spare time making Mardi Gras costumes for everyone in town.
Around noon, Alice dropped me off at Mari’s home. I met her parents and the rest of her extended family. Grandma Gaudet kissed me on the cheek and gave me a warm hug.
Mari beamed when she saw me surrounded by all her relatives. She kissed me warmly and whispered in my ear, “Thank you.”
My alarm went off, and I awoke abruptly. I wanted desperately to go back to sleep and continue the dream, but no matter how hard I tried, I laid awake.
21
Over a pot of coffee, I read the Saturday edition of the Herald. Frost had successfully turned the media’s focus, and possibly the community’s, away from his top-heavy administrative payroll to my “sleazy tabloid journalism.” The daily published an almost complete transcript of the press conference and promised more tomorrow.
Summer texted to say she would bring Big Boy over around four o’clock. They were going to the beach.
I researched Amos Frost online and sent out emails and text messages to various sources asking for any information on the man.
While he was a decorated lawman, Lieutenant Frost’s personal life wasn’t as stellar. Married and divorced twice, his marital problems seemed odd for a church deacon and “outstanding Christian.” But this was Pensacola—Christianity and personal morality weren’t necessarily the same thing.
A Waffle House waitress shared online that Amos Frost was leaving wife number three for a much younger woman. She had heard the girl, barely out of her teens, was pregnant.
Gravy called mid-morning. He said, “Let’s talk about Eva Johnson.”
“Who?”
Gravy said, “Monte Tatum’s ex-bookkeeper who’s suing him.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not sure she will go on the record,” he said. “She’s a little nervous, and her lawyer doesn’t want to hurt her case. However, she will meet with you this afternoon when she starts her shift at three. You need to get there before the five o’clock crowd starts filling the bar. She’s worried Tatum will find out about her talking with you.”
“I’ll win her over with my charm.”
“You won’t get another shot at her,” Gravy warned. “Handle her gingerly. She does bookkeeping for a downtown real estate firm during the day and bartends at Intermission on weekends. She agreed to see you, but she’s jumpy.”
“Handling witnesses with care is my specialty,” I said as I hung up.
A little before four o’clock, I walked into Intermission. A white button-down hid the wrap around my ribs. My Dodgers cap covered the stitches on my head. My ribs and head ached only dully.
The place was nearly empty. A NASCAR race, women’s soccer, and a Miami Marlins game played on the televisions above the bar, and Aerosmith played on the speakers.
The bartender was a woman with black, curly hair and a dark complexion, maybe of Hispanic or Italian ancestry. As I walked in, she waved me to the corner of the bar away from a small group of drinkers.
I recognized her, not as Eva Johnson—her real name—but as Sparks Sinclair, the former Benny’s Backseat stripper who had played a supporting role in the short-lived career of Alabama’s head football coach a few years ago. The head coach had been in town for a celebrity golf tournament. When he left the dinner gala at Jackson’s the night before the event, the coach ended up at Benny’s with Sinclair and another dancer in the Champagne Room.
No big deal except he got drunk, mixed up his credit cards, and used his university one to pay the tab. An Auburn fan found out about it, and the coach got fired for misuse of university funds, and Sparks Sinclair got her fifteen minutes of fame. Benny loved the notoriety and even auctioned off what he claimed was the Champagne Room table where the coach had been entertained.
After she sold her story to People
