by B J Bourg
“Well, I was able to scrape together a quarter million dollars from my savings account and the company checking account, and I offered it to him. I’d been saving to buy a little place out on the beach I’d been eyeing, and it was all I had. He took the offer. We shook on it.”
“And how much did you get for it?”
“Um, let me see…”
He allowed his voice to trail off and I wanted to call bullshit. There was no way he’d have to think on that amount. He knew exactly how much he received for it.
“Yeah, I think it was about a half mil,” he finally said.
“Half a million dollars?” I blurted.
“Um, maybe a little more.”
I whistled. “And where’d you sell it?”
“To a dealer in La Mort.”
“When?”
“The next day.”
As I sat at the table idly watching Susan shovel tiny spoonfuls of grits in Grace’s direction, my mind worked. Carl Duval sold a gold coin he’d found to Bill Welch for 250 thousand dollars. Bill sold it to a dealer in La Mort for over 500 thousand dollars. Bill more than doubled his money, so I didn’t see where he might be mad at Carl—unless he thought there was more to be had. Of course, Bill didn’t seem to be the greedy type.
“Tell me, Bill, were there more coins where that one came from?”
“He didn’t say, but I suspect there were more.” Bill cleared his throat and spoke softly. “I believe he might have stumbled upon something evil.”
“Evil? Like what?”
“That coin,” he said, “it was old Spanish gold. My collector friend tells me it was minted in the 1700s. He believes it was brought over here on Spanish ships.”
My face scrunched up. “When I was in school I heard about a fleet of Spanish ships that went missing off the coast of Florida during a hurricane. Wasn’t that in the 1700s?”
“It was, but this coin could not have been from those ships. That would be a major discovery and it would be hard to keep something like that quiet. Besides, those ships went down off the coast of Florida, not Louisiana. No, my friend believes this coin was from something else. He believes this coin was from the Death Shadow Massacre.”
I blinked. “The what?”
CHAPTER 28
“In the early 1700s, a group of marauding pirate ships terrorized the coast of what is now Louisiana. There were three ships in all, run by ruthless captains who had banded together for strength, and they would gang up on unsuspecting vessels that were sailing toward the Great River—which is now the Mississippi—intent on making it to the fledgling city of New Orleans to trade and find wealth in the New World.”
Although he couldn’t see me, I nodded and waved my hand impatiently, wanting him to hurry and get to the point. What this had to do with Carl Duval’s murder, I had no idea, and I was hoping he was going somewhere pertinent with his story.
“Women were scarce back in those days, so the pirates took to raiding Indian villages in search of female companionship. They’d carry some away as slaves and others as entertainment, and this caused quite a stir among the Kamakic Tribe, which was a subdivision of the Chitimacha. Well, one night—and against the will of the elders—a young Kamakic warrior, who had been off hunting during the most recent raid on his village, put together a war party of thirty strong and fierce braves and set out to exact revenge. According to recorded history gathered from tribal informants, one of the women captured was to be the young warrior’s wife, and he was filled with rage and hatred.
“After four days, the group of warriors found the pirate ships backed into a swampy cut just off the coast that was called Death Shadow Marsh. Under the cover of darkness, these braves slipped aboard the ships and dispatched the pirates with extreme prejudice. Ninety pirates in all were slaughtered that night, their scalps taken and their bodies severely mutilated. Afterward, all three ships were set ablaze with the bodies still aboard.
“The young warrior never did find his wife, but he rescued twenty other tribal women and recovered barrels of gold doubloons that the pirates had looted from Spanish ships. Legend has it he buried the gold deep in the swamps of Louisiana, someplace where it would never be found, because he believed it to be cursed.”
When Bill Welch paused to take a breath, I asked—not so skeptically—if the gold coin Carl Duval found could be from the same cache of gold. I was far from superstitious, but I would not argue if someone told me the gold coin he found was cursed. How else could I explain the horror that had befallen him and his family?
“My friend seems to think this coin was from the loot taken during the Death Shadow Massacre,” he said quietly, as though worried someone might overhear him. “Mr. Duval might’ve stumbled upon this buried treasure. If so, it would be worth billions and might draw the attention of some very bad and greedy people.”
I shook my head. “No, the fellow who was with Carl when he made the discovery said they found a single coin in a box hidden in a wall. There were no other coins and it wasn’t buried. Your friend must be mistaken.”
“He could be, or he could not be. All I know is this—Mr. Duval knew the coin was worth a lot more than I gave him for it, and he was happy to do so. He was acting like someone who won the lottery.”
“Meaning?” I asked.
“I mean he was acting like he had lots of free money to throw around. He was being extremely charitable. He told me to get as much as I could for the coin and he wished me luck. People aren’t usually that charitable unless they’re spending someone else’s money. He didn’t act like a man who thought the quarter mil I gave him would be the last of it. If he didn’t have more coming, I think he would’ve tried to get as much as he could for that one coin.” He grunted. “No sir, I believe he found it all. Sure, I could be wrong, but I’m betting not. In fact, when I heard he had been murdered, I was sure of it.”
“How’d you hear about the murders?” I asked.
“Like everyone else, I imagine. I heard about it on the news. I called my son the next day and he confirmed it.” I heard him shudder. “I thought whoever did that to him and his family might come after me, but then I figured no one knew about our business dealings.”
“Did you tell anyone at all about the gold?”
“Not a soul. Not even my wife. All she knows is that I finally saved enough money to give up the shop and retire.”
“You’re still living off of that one coin?”
“I live modest, you understand? A little carries us a long ways. Sure, I still get a cut from my kids, and social security finally kicked in, so that helps out a lot, but we could go the rest of our lives on what I got from that gold—as long as we don’t live to be 150 years old.”
We talked for thirty minutes longer, and he swore up and down that he never told a soul. He also claimed he never heard a whisper about it in Chateau Parish.
“In a small community like that, word gets out, but it didn’t. That could only mean that Mr. Duval never told anyone either.”
I frowned. Carl supposedly hadn’t told anyone, Bill swore he didn’t tell anyone, and Philip denied telling anyone. I was reminded of that old saying the mafia stole from Benjamin Franklin: Three people can keep a secret…if two of them are dead.
If these were the only three people who knew about it, then one of them had to have told someone. What about Annie? Had she known? If so, what if she told one of her friends? Jennifer—I frowned, poor Jennifer—had driven out to Carl’s house that night. Why? Was it a coincidence, or had Carl told her about the gold? Had someone threatened him and he needed her help?
I had so many questions and not enough answers, and I was running out of witnesses to interview.
“What about the man who bought the coin from you?” I asked Bill. “Would he have told anyone?”
“No, he’s a discreet man and he’s a professional. In any event, he didn’t even know where I got the coin, so the most he could’ve done was told someone he bought it from me.” I thought I heard Bill shudder.
“Had he done so, I might be the one dead today, rather than Mr. Duval.”
I thanked him for his time and he told me to call back if I needed any more information. Sighing heavily, I ended the call and placed my phone on the table. Grace was now holding the spoon, although it was upside down, and trying to scoop up some grits. She dipped the spoon in the bowl, lifted it to her mouth, and frowned when nothing was there. She then slammed the spoon on the top of her highchair and voiced her objection loudly, albeit unintelligibly.
As Susan and I laughed, I began filling her in on what I’d just learned. She listened with great interest until I was done.
“It’s a fascinating story, but gold?” she asked in exasperation. “Here in Mechant Loup?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Clint, we have to keep this quiet for as long as we can,” Susan said. “This can’t get out to the press. All we need is a bunch of treasure hunters joining the hordes of tourists who already come here searching for Godzator. Before you know it, we won’t even recognize our peaceful little town anymore.”
She was right. After Godzator had taken old man Boudreaux’s arm four years ago, tourism had risen exponentially. The swamp tour companies had begun flourishing, hotels and motels were always full now, and most restaurants had to take on extra help to keep up with the demand. The extra attention had been good for the town, but I imagined treasure hunters would bring trouble and cause problems. We couldn’t have strangers tramping around on private property trying to find the treasure from the Death Shadow Massacre—if it did exist.
I told Susan I needed to find out who else knew about the gold coin. “I’m going to start with Nathan Baxter and then I’m going to grill Philip some more. It’s possible Crenshaw’s lying about how much gold they found.”
“I’m coming with you,” Susan declared. “Wait for me at the office. I’ll head that way as soon as my mom gets here.”
I nodded and fixed a plate of breakfast. I forced myself to push the case far from my mind, focusing instead on Grace and Susan. I wanted to cherish these moments with my family. Sad as it was, I knew even the smallest of children weren’t guaranteed tomorrow.
CHAPTER 29
An hour later…
Nathaniel Baxter had a short criminal record, but it was a bad one. I didn’t have access to his juvenile file, but by the age of seventeen—when he became an adult in the eyes of the Louisiana justice system—he was arrested for aggravated assault with a firearm. He was sentenced to probation, which did nothing to dissuade him from criminal activity. A week after he had been sentenced, he was popped for possession with intent to distribute marijuana. While awaiting his first court appearance for that charge, he was involved in a shooting over drugs and was arrested for attempted first degree murder. In lieu of going to trial, he entered a plea of guilty one year later and was sentenced to twelve years. He did eight hard.
I had already reviewed his record at the station, and Susan was now reading it aloud as I drove toward his house.
“I guess he didn’t waste any time,” she muttered. “He’s only been a free man for two years, and he’s about to head back to the big house.”
“When you’re twenty-nine, life in prison is a long, long time.” I pursed my lips. “Of course, if he’s involved, he deserves the death penalty.”
Susan nodded her agreement, but said nothing. Her expression was a somber one, and I knew she was thinking about our victims. It was hard not to. I’d seen a lot of death and destruction during my law enforcement years, but the sight of that entire lifeless family lined up on the sofa—it would never leave me.
I turned left onto Haven Drive, which was in lower Chateau Parish and out of our jurisdiction, and cruised toward the back of the street. According to his last contact with the law, Baxter lived midway down the street, on the right. It seems he moved here from a small town north of New Orleans a few months ago.
“There.” Susan pointed. “The house with the gray awning and the shit brown pickup truck.”
I slowed and pulled as far as I could to the right side of the street. It was a narrow lane, with sharp drop-offs into ditches on either side, and I didn’t want to go over that edge. My Tahoe might bottom out and we’d find ourselves in quite a pickle.
I shut off the engine and we stepped out into the brilliant sunlight. The sun was to our back, which served as an advantage for us if Nathan peered out of his house and up the street. We each eased our doors shut and waited, studying the neighborhood around us. All was quiet, except for a few birds singing.
Susan stared ahead.
“Do you see anything?” I whispered.
“Nope.”
I nodded and walked forward, heading for the front door. Susan had fanned out a little to my right, and I knew she was going to approach the side door under the carport. We didn’t have anyone to cover the back, but we also didn’t have a warrant, so we didn’t have the right to go tramping all over his property. This was an exploratory mission. I just wanted to see him face-to-face and ask him some questions. With luck, he might say something incriminating and I’d be able to take him into custody. I was banking on him being easier to break than Crenshaw, but he had a saltier record so I might be wrong.
Using hand signals, Susan and I coordinated our movements and I was soon standing to the left side of the front door. I could no longer see Susan, but I knew she would be in position. I listened for a moment before knocking, but heard no movement from inside. I rapped three times, hard and loud, and then waited. There was still no movement from inside. I began to wonder if Nathan had seen our approach and run out the back door. If he had, he hadn’t slammed any doors, because there had been no such sound.
Everything was quiet in the neighborhood. Other than a lawnmower droning in the distance, there were no other human sounds. Had I not known better, I would’ve figured this for a ghost town. I knocked again, this time harder. The birds stopped chirping, as though sensing something wasn’t right with the tone of my knock.
“Anything?” Susan’s whispering voice brought my head around. She was standing at the corner of the house, an inquisitive expression on her face.
I shook my head. “Not a sound.”
“The truck engine is as cold as river water.” She indicated the back of the house with her head. “I’ll walk around and see what’s going on back there.”
When she disappeared, I knocked again. While waiting, I pressed my face against the window and tried to peer through the slits in the blinds that hung on the inside of the door. It was too dark inside. I couldn’t see anything.
I was about to knock again when my radio scratched to life.
“I’ve got an open door,” Susan called in a low voice. “Meet me in the back yard.”
I hurried from the concrete steps and made my way around to the side of the house, taking the opposite route as Susan just to be sure that side of the house was clear. I didn’t encounter any problems on my way to the back yard.
When I rounded the last corner, I saw Susan standing to one side of a partially open door. It was a flimsy door made of plywood and it hung on rusty hinges.
“It’s some type of closed-in carport,” Susan whispered. “I can see inside, but I can’t see the back wall of the house because the carport is cluttered.”
A dark feeling came over me. Things seemed too quiet. I had seen a pair of work boots near the front steps, which told me Baxter had returned home from work yesterday. Had he left home for work again, his boots and his truck would be gone now. However, with Crenshaw in jail, he probably wouldn’t have gone to work today. So, where in the hell could he be?
Susan made a motion to let me know she was going in. “It’s a carport, not his house,” she explained. “I’m just walking to the back door to knock, so there’s no need for a warrant.”
I shrugged and followed, my head on a swivel and my mind working. Was he inside waiting for us? Was this some sort of trap? Whoever killed the Duval family was a ruthless person.
If there was more than one, they were ruthless people.
The closed-in patio looked like it had been set up for a garage sale that never happened. Thick walls of clothes hung from ropes that crisscrossed the air space. Pieces of furniture, an old tiller, four chrome rims, and a riding lawnmower cluttered up the walking space. An army of grizzly bears could be hiding inside and we’d never know it.
I followed Susan as she carefully picked her way through the maze of junk. She had almost reached the back door when she inadvertently bumped into a chest of drawers that had a glass vase resting on top of it. The vase rocked precariously—as though in slow motion—and then tipped over. I didn’t even realize I’d moved, but my hand was out like a snake’s strike and I caught the vase in midair, just as it tipped over and fell from the dresser.
Susan sighed when she saw me catch the vase and mouthed an apology. I waved her off and she carefully covered the last few yards to the back steps. Mounting them, but staying off to one side, she gave me a second to get in position before knocking.
I had wormed my way between the exterior wall of the house and some shelving units—careful not to rock them—and stopped when I reached a window. I peered inside and could see an empty bedroom with a dull light beaming from the ceiling. The room complemented the back patio. Clothes were piled high on the bed and dishes littered the floor. An open pack of cigarettes rested on the nightstand and I saw a burned out cigarette shoved into an edge indentation on a red ashtray. A long, thin finger of ash extended jaggedly from the butt and rested like a dead snake in the ashtray. It appeared the cigarette had been sitting there unattended, as though the smoker had gotten up in a hurry and failed to return for it.
I frowned. The cigarette would still be burning if Nathan had gotten up when Susan and I first arrived at his house. No, he had hurried off for some other reason prior to our arrival and he hadn’t returned. He hadn’t put on his boots. He hadn’t taken his truck. Something’s wrong!