Page 6 of Gerard

“I need you to find out who killed Bernie Bellamy’s goose.”

Gerard frowned. “I’m sorry. Did you say...” he covered his mouth and whispered into the phone, “goose?”

“I did,” Remy said.

“Uh. Okay. I guess,” Gerard said, not exactly sure how he could be of assistance, never having been around farm animals. “When do I start?”

“No time like the present,” Remy said.

“Gotcha.” Gerard sat in stunned silence as Remy gave him the address of Bellamy Acres.

“Your client is Bernie Bellamy. Good luck. I know you’ll do the Bayou Brotherhood proud.”

“Yes, sir.” Gerard ended the call and pushed back from the table.

“Did you get your first assignment?” Beau asked.

Gerard nodded and slipped his cell phone in his pocket. “I’m to investigate a murder.”

Romeo grinned. “I swear I heard you say goose. Is your first solo client a goose?”

Gerard frowned. “Yes, and no. My client is a Bernie Bellamy. I’m to investigate the murder of her goose.”

The men at the table burst out laughing.

“Oh, this is going to be rich.” Sin rubbed his hands together. “Do we get to come along and watch the master sleuth at work as he discovers the identity of the killer?”

Gerard shook his head. “No way. Stay and drink your beer.”

“You look worried,” Romeo said. “Afraid you’ll be chasing a wild goose?” He chuckled. “No, wait. The goose is dead. Not much chasing there.”

Gerard ignored the hecklers and left the Crawdad Hole, climbed onto his motorcycle and keyed in the address of Bellamy Acres.

The directions sent him driving through the small town of Bayou Mambaloa and southeast along the edge of the bayou. Eventually, he came to the turn off the highway and stopped at a gate with an arched sign with the words BELLAMY ACRES carved out of sheet metal.

He rolled across the cattle guard and followed the gravel road to a white, two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch. A large, spotted hound dog lifted his head, assessed Gerard and laid back down to sleep.

Two trucks were parked in front of the house. One was a one-ton, white work truck with mud splattered up to its axles. The other was a vintage truck with shiny green paint and black wheel fenders. The rear of the old truck had been retrofitted with handy produce bins and shelves labeled for jellies, preserves, pickles and honey. BELLAMY ACRES had been stenciled across the doors of the vintage truck, but the produce bins and marked shelves were empty.

A tall, slender woman stepped out of the house onto the front porch, shading her eyes with her hand. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Mr. Bellamy,” Gerard said.

She stiffened. “He’s not here.”

Undaunted, Gerard walked to the base of the porch steps. “Remy Montagne sent me to talk to him. Could you tell me where I can find him?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Head back the way you came and turn at the Bayou Mambaloa Cemetery Road. You’ll find him there.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Gerard started to turn.

“Wait.” The woman descended the steps. “He’s there, but you won’t be talking to him.”

“Why?” Gerard asked. “Is he busy?”

She shook her head. “No. He’s dead.”

Gerard frowned. “I don’t understand. Remy said I was to come to Bellamy Acres and ask for Bernie Bellamy.”

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