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  “From who, Grammy?”

  “Mrs. Roux, down at Roux’s Drugs.”

  “But Mrs. Roux’s not a doctor,” Birdie said. “She’s not even a pharmacist. She just runs the gift shop at the front.”

  “Don’t be snotty,” Grammy said. “Like those horrible Kroniks. Is that what the world’s coming to?”

  “They weren’t that bad,” Birdie said. “And the whole visit was kind of fun in a way.”

  And then, all of a sudden, they were both looking at me. Why? I had no idea. And as if that wasn’t enough of a surprise, the next thing I knew they were both laughing. Here’s something very strange you might not have guessed: Grammy’s laugh sounds like the laugh of a young person—actually, almost identical to Birdie’s. As for what was funny, you tell me.

  No idea how long this laughfest might have lasted, but the door opened. Snoozy? No. A paying customer at last? Not that, either. Instead, this was Snoozy’s uncle, Lem LaChance, who sometimes dropped in to sell us crabs or crawfish but never bought anything. He was a pretty big dude, but of the lumpy sort, and rocked a long, grayish ponytail. Grammy called him a one-man revenue stream for every bar in town, so he must have been spending money somewhere, just not here. I couldn’t take it further than that.

  “Hi, y’all,” he said. “Miz Gaux. Birdie. And the best-lookin’ pooch in the whole stinkin’ swamp.”

  Did I mention what a fine man Uncle Lem was? Forget all that other stuff about him.

  Grammy rose, a little unsteady, but only for a moment. “Just the man I want to see.”

  “Really?” said Uncle Lem. “Well, that’s nice to hear—not too often I—”

  “Actually not,” Grammy went on. “But you’ll do. Now where’s that no-good nephew of yours?”

  “Nail on the head,” said Uncle Lem. “Exactly why I’m here. Good to be on the same page right from the get-go. Doesn’t always work out that way, I can tell—”

  Grammy’s voice rose. Now she was back to her old self for sure. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why, Snoozy, ma’am. My nephew—not my only nephew, by any means, why, I’ve got three locked up at this very moment, just to account for the incarcerated nephews—and your employee. Snoozy sent me to fill in for the rest of the shift, plus the next day or two. Three tops.” He caught an expression on Grammy’s face and hurried on. “And don’t you worry, ma’am. I’ll work for the same wages as Snoozy, not a penny more, despite me having so much more experience on the business side of life.”

  Grammy’s mouth—and Birdie’s—both seemed to have fallen somewhat open. And what was this? My mouth, too? I took advantage of the moment to give my muzzle a good, thorough lick. Neither Grammy nor Birdie thought of doing that themselves. Sometimes ol’ Bowser’s way ahead of the game.

  “Lem?” Grammy said, her voice quiet in a way I knew meant danger.

  “Ma’am?” said Lem, in a bright, unaware-of-danger kind of tone.

  “Where—is—Snoozy?”

  “At this particular moment in time, ma’am? Or in a more general—”

  “NOW! Where is Snoozy right now, this very second.”

  Uncle Lem raised a hand, like someone blocking a thrown object. “Why, where I just left him. No way they’d be finished so soon.”

  “Finished with what?”

  “His new tattoo.”

  “He’s getting another one?” Birdie said.

  “Sizable,” said Uncle Lem. “But Matisse thinks there’s room on his chest to squeeze it in.”

  “Lem?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “You stay here.”

  “That was my plan. Gonna sell my butt off, don’t you worry. You know the LaChance family motto.”

  “I don’t,” Birdie said.

  “Turn it into lemonade,” said Uncle Lem.

  I smelled no lemonade, no lemons. What was going on today?

  Joe Don Matisse’s World Famous Tattoo Parlor and Spa was in a little strip mall on the road out of town, not the main road but the other one—that led into farm country and then petered out. We started in—Grammy, Birdie, me—but by the time we were actually inside, somehow it was me in front. I’m lucky that way.

  My first time in Joe Don Matisse’s World Famous Tattoo Parlor and Spa, but I’d seen Joe Don around town. A hard dude to forget: so enormous, and with such an enormous shaved head that it seemed too enormous for that enormous body. And don’t forget the tattoo of a snake on his shaved head, a snake that meant business, fangs extended and tail coiling down to disappear in his huge beard. Not the snake’s huge beard, of course—I mean Joe Don’s huge beard.

  Joe Don was at his workstation, bent over a customer in the chair, a customer with his back to us. The tattoo pen looked tiny in Joe Don’s huge, meaty hand. He glanced up.

  “Miz Gaux? This is a surprise. Although why, come to think of it? I did a lovely little butterfly on a ninety-three-year-old lady from over in Houma just the other day.”

  “Then the world’s gone mad,” Grammy said. “I want Snoozy. Snoozy! On your feet and make it snappy!”

  The customer raised her head over the headrest of the operating chair and turned our way. Her head—meaning this wasn’t Snoozy. And not only that: She was someone we knew, namely Mrs. Roux from Roux’s Drugs.

  “Why, hello, Claire!” said Mrs. Roux. “Birdie—how are you, darlin’? And no leaving out the handsomest pooch on the bayou.”

  Hadn’t I just heard that very thing somewhere else? No problem—it never got old. My tail hit top speed in no time flat, stirring up the air inside Joe Don’s place in the nicest way, cooling things off and spreading inky smells all around. Plus hints of blood, no missing that.

  “Um, yes, well, hello indeed,” Grammy said. “But … but where’s Snoozy? I was told he was here, treating himself to one more ever-lovin’—here on company time, is what I mean.”

  “You were told right, Miz Gaux,” Joe Don said, “although the company time aspect is news to me. Fact is, we were right in the middle of our pièce de résistance when Snoozy had to up and go. When I say ‘we’ it’s because I consider the customer to be an equal partner in my art, the living canvas, if you catch my drift.”

  “Oh, Joe Don,” Mrs. Roux said, “that is truly beautiful.”

  Joe Don tapped his chest, right over his heart, one of my favorite human moves. “And although this particular canvas is only half done, I could show you the design sketch if you’re interested.”

  “Design sketch?” Grammy said.

  “Yes, please,” said Birdie.

  Joe Don turned Birdie’s way and blinked. “Uh, Birdie? How old would you be now, exactly?”

  “Going on twelve.”

  “Hmm. Technically too young to actually be inside a tattoo establishment in this jurisdiction.”

  “I’m not getting a tattoo,” Birdie said. “Although—”

  “Don’t even go there, young lady!” Grammy said.

  “As for technicalities,” Joe Don went on, “no point in getting bogged down in them.” He picked up a big sheet of thick paper, brought it over. “Here’s the design.”

  We looked at the design, which turned out to be a pencil drawing.

  “A shark?” Birdie said. “You’re tattooing a shark on Snoozy’s chest?”

  “By request. Specifically a bull shark. Note the huge head, hefty snout, and that mouthful of long white sharpies. And those killer eyes! Had to be a bull shark, Snoozy said. We did some back and forth on whether it should be in profile or straight on. Ended up going with straight on, like it’s comin’ atcha. There are times for subtlety in art, but there are also times to bring the hammer. With a bull shark, you bring the hammer.”

  “Snoozy requested a bull shark?” Grammy said.

  “A bull shark with a lopsided grin,” said Joe Don.

  “A lopsided grin? Why?”

  “The lopsided grin part or the whole concept?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “Couldn’t tell you, ma
’am,” Joe Don said. “In this business, you don’t ask. Did Leonardo ask Mona Lisa why she was smiling like that? Don’t want to kill the moment.”

  “How come it says ‘Mr. Nice Guy’ at the bottom of the page?” Birdie said.

  Joe Don laughed. “Just thought I’d name the critter.”

  “You tattooed ‘Mr. Nice Guy’ on Snoozy’s chest?” Birdie said.

  “No, no—that’s just on the sketch. Although, when Snoozy comes back to finish up, I might run the idea by him.”

  “And when would that be?” Grammy said.

  “Day or two, depending.”

  “Depending on what?”

  “Snoozy didn’t say. He just said depending.”

  Mrs. Roux piped up. “That’s true. Heard it myself.”

  Grammy turned to her. “You were here?”

  Mrs. Roux gestured toward a couple of chairs in the corner. “Waiting my turn. But then Snoozy’s ride showed up and honked.”

  “Hate to stop when the juices are flowing,” Joe Don said, “but the customer is always right.”

  “Snoozy’s ride?” Grammy said. “Who are we talking about?”

  “He didn’t say. Just said he had to split and would be back in a day or two.”

  “Depending,” Birdie said.

  “Yeah, depending.”

  “For goodness’ sake,” Grammy said. “Did you see who was driving the car?”

  “A green pickup, actually,” Joe Don said. “Moss green—I’m particular when it comes to color description. But from where I was, by the chair, I couldn’t see the driver.”

  “Me neither,” said Mrs. Roux. “But it was a pickup, all right. The kind a serious fisherman would drive, maybe the commercial type.”

  “Why do you say that?” Grammy said.

  “On account of all the nets and buoys and traps in the back,” Mrs. Roux said. “I spotted those details as they drove off. I’ve always had an eye for details.”

  “Which explains the eagle,” Joe Don said.

  “What eagle?” said Grammy.

  “The eagle Joe Don’s putting on my shoulder this very morning.”

  “Like it’s sort of perched there,” Joe Don said. “What we call trompe l’oeil. Care to see the sketch?”

  “What’s trompe l’oeil, Grammy?” Birdie said as we drove back across town. “Something Cajun?”

  “More like just plain French,” said Grammy. “It means ‘fool the eye.’”

  “That oeil sound is hard to make.”

  “Just put your lips like so—like you’re getting ready to sneer.”

  Birdie made a very strange face and said “oeil, oeil, oeil, oeil” a number of times.

  “Enough,” said Grammy.

  I was with her on that. It was starting to drive me crazy.

  We passed the turnoff to the Lucinda Street Bridge, where Wally Tebbets always parked his food truck. I caught a glimpse of Wally—a sweaty man with an apron around his middle and a do-rag on his head—hard at work behind the counter. Junior was lying in the grass nearby, gazing at the sky. I heard Wally yell something at him, but Junior didn’t seem to hear.

  “So,” Grammy said, “not too hard to deduce what’s going on here.”

  “With Junior and his dad?” said Birdie.

  “Where did you get that notion? I’m talking about that good-for-nothing Snoozy. What can we deduce?”

  “Not sure I know what deduce means, Grammy.”

  “Like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Not sure I know who he is, either.”

  “Good grief. What do they teach you in school? Don’t they make you read anything?”

  “Sure—we read lots.”

  “Like?” said Grammy, then quickly added, “Forget it—I don’t want to know. Sherlock Holmes was a storybook detective. He was great at deducing—meaning figuring out what was going on from a handful of clues. Follow?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then what’s happening with Snoozy?”

  “Maybe he decided the shark tattoo was a bad idea after all and texted a buddy to come rescue him.”

  There was a silence. Grammy glanced over at Birdie. Then she reached out and rumpled Birdie’s hair. That was a first! I had no idea what was going on, and neither did Birdie.

  “What, Grammy, what?”

  “Not a thing,” said Grammy. “Stay just like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind. Here are the clues. A two-bit, corner-cutting charter boat captain name of Deke Waylon comes looking for Snoozy. Then we find out some big shot from up north is putting out a fifty-thousand-dollar bounty on this bull shark. A bull shark that doesn’t exist, but ignore that for now. After that comes Snoozy, all eager to add a bull shark tattoo to his gross collection—a bull shark with a lopsided grin. Followed by Snoozy taking off in a pickup full of commercial-style fishing gear.”

  “Deke Waylon hired Snoozy to help him catch Mr. Nice Guy?” Birdie said.

  “There is no Mr. Nice Guy, no bull shark of any kind up the bayou!” We pulled into Gaux Family Fish and Bait. “But yeah, that’s the deduction.”

  “This is all because of how good Snoozy is at finding fish?” Birdie said.

  “Yup,” said Grammy. “Proof that some higher power can be pretty careless when it comes to handing out talent.”

  “How come, with all his talent for finding fish, Snoozy never got rich?”

  “Because,” said Grammy, “you have to get off your butt. Talent isn’t enough. In fact, it’s worse than nothin’ for them that don’t get off their butts.”

  We piled out of the car. None of Grammy’s windows go up anymore, so piling in and out’s a snap for me.

  “Do you think Deke Waylon will split the bounty with Snoozy, fifty-fifty?” Birdie said.

  “Bounty? Ain’t gonna be no bounty. There’s no bull shark! For heaven’s sake! Did you not get enough sleep last night, child?” Grammy’s eyes shifted, like she’d had a new thought. “No bull shark,” she said again, but much more quietly. I myself had enjoyed a very nice sleep the night before. A special farewell steak dinner for Mama and then beddy-bye. I paused inside my head, came very close to figuring something out, actually … deducing? Deducing something on my own! Wow!

  We went into the store. Uncle Lem stood behind the counter, a cigar stuck in his mouth. He seemed to be counting stacks of money.

  DID I MENTION THAT LEM’S CIGAR WAS long and thin, the kind called a stogie? Lem twisted his lips around it in funny ways, moving the cigar back and forth across his mouth, almost like he was fixing to chomp on it. Ever spotted a cigar butt in the gutter, snapped it up for a quick taste test? My advice to you: Don’t!

  “Hey there, boss lady,” Lem said. Or something like that. With his mouth so busy on that stogie, Lem was a little hard to understand. “Get everything all sorted out with the Snooze?”

  “Lem?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “What’s all that cash?”

  “Ah, cash,” said Lem, blowing out a huge smoky cloud. My coat was going to smell cigary for days. “Cash on the barrelhead, big green, dead presidents. Although, come to think of it, Hamilton wasn’t a president. Or was he? What do they tell you in school, Birdie?”

  “Well,” said Birdie, “I’m not sure we’ve gotten to that part yet. I think Grammy wants to know—”

  “About that money!” Grammy interrupted. “ASAP!”

  “Not much to say,” Lem told her. “It’s yours.” He pushed the stacks of cash closer to Grammy. “Or more accurately, the property of Gaux Family Fish and Bait, depending on how you do your books.”

  “But … but where did it come from?” Grammy said.

  “Sales. What I’m here for. Actually, just one.”

  “One sale? What on earth did you sell?”

  “Take a guess.”

  Grammy and Birdie scanned the store. “I don’t see anything missing,” Birdie said.

  “Heh, heh,” said Lem. “Didn’t come from in the store
. Come from the storage shed, out back.”

  “You sold the Entire Wilderness Camp in a Box?” Grammy said.

  “What’s that, Grammy?”

  Lem checked a sheet of paper. “‘The Entire and Complete Deluxe Wilderness Camp—in a Box That Turns into a Genuine Pioneer Outhouse,’ to give it its full name.”

  “But how did you even know it was there?” Grammy said.

  “Snoozy told me all about it. Said the thing’s been in that shed since 1972.”

  “Worst darn product I ever took on,” Grammy said. “Practically bankrupted me. Someone actually bought it?”

  “Very nice tourist couple,” Lem said.

  “Tourists from where?” said Grammy.

  “China.”

  “China?”

  “I think so. Very nice couple but they didn’t speak any English. We used sign language!”

  Grammy gazed at Lem. He shrugged in an aw-shucks sort of way. “How come they didn’t pay with a credit card?” Grammy said.

  “I told them we prefer cash. That’s right, isn’t it? Certainly how we LaChances roll, going way back.”

  “Well, yes,” Grammy said.

  “But how did you tell them if they don’t speak English?” Birdie said.

  Lem raised his hand, rubbed his thumb and finger together. “Universal language for moola.”

  Grammy thought for a moment or two. “Good job, Lem.”

  Lem smiled and puffed out another smoke cloud.

  “Maybe we should celebrate,” Birdie said.

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Lem. “How about we—”

  “Gettin’ ahead of ourselves,” Grammy said.

  An ice cube arced through the air and fell right into my mouth. No one could toss ice cubes like Nola Claymore, Birdie’s best friend—and therefore mine, too. We sat on the shaded porch of Claymore’s General Store, Birdie and Nola sipping cold drinks, me chewing on ice cubes.

  “Is Junior going to be famous someday?” Birdie said.

  “Only if he robs a bank,” said Nola.

  “He thinks he’s a genius.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So how come you agreed to do this stupid song project?”

  “Music, girl!” Nola said. She picked up her guitar. “And what if we actually win and get on the radio?”