Tainted Harvest

by E. Denise Billups

  “No, not personally. I recognized the Doucet cognomen from the quarterly museum mailin’ list. Your parents are regular patrons of the museum.”

  Simone wasn’t aware of her parent’s patronage but recalls her father’s anxious, last-minute scramble every tax season to find charity receipts for tax write-offs. Once, she’d heard him ask Mom for the museum payments. She thought they’d visited a museum in Baton Rouge. “Yes, Mom and Ella were childhood friends.”

  “Were?”

  “Mom passed away four months ago.”

  “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry to hear that. My deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, Ella became a good friend while she worked here. She often spoke of Lily during our conversations. I’m sure she’d love to hear your voice. Do you have a pen handy?”

  “Um . . . just a second,” she mumbles, reaching toward the dashboard for the mobile in the hands-free device. The car swerves. She grips and steadies the wheel. “Um, I’m driving and can’t reach my mobile—”

  “Give me your cell phone number. I’ll text Ella’s contact information.”

  At once, Simone rattles off her number, repeating it twice.

  “Hold on one second . . . there we go. It just went through.”

  Simone’s mobile chimes. “I got it. Cindy, thanks so much for your help.” “You bet. Please give my condolences to your father.”

  “I will. Thank you.” Simone ends the call, perceiving her parents donated to the museum to support Mom’s lifelong friend. Hmm, how often did they visit the museum or Natchez?

  To her bewilderment and recollection, Mom made occasional trips to Mississippi, but Ella never visited Baton Rouge. She’d met Ella only once, at her mom’s funeral, but had heard her voice many times, as Mom and Ella were close and spoke on the phone often. She was but an intangible, high-pitched voice, not real in her world. This was one reason Simone never felt obliged to keep in touch after Lily’s death. How might she react to a sudden inquisitive call concerning a mysterious poem four months after the funeral?

  “What the . . .” Cars come to a complete stop with the traffic jam ahead. A police cruiser and ambulance sound behind, appearing in her rearview mirror, and speed past. If it’s an accident, it might be a while before the roads clear. Blowing air through her lips and staring at the mobile on the dashboard, she reckons now’s the perfect time to speak to Ella.

  Inhaling deep, she dials Ella’s number, exhaling when a familiar high-pitched voice answers with a rich southern brogue through the hands-free cell phone on the dashboard.

  “Hello.”

  “Ella?” Simone asks, staring straight ahead at the road.

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “It’s Simone, Lily’s daughter.”

  “Simone? Dear Lord, what a surprise, sweetheart. Goodness gracious, I never thought I’d hear your voice again after losin’ your mama. Is somethin’ wrong, child? How’s your papa doin’?”

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry to alarm you. Nothing’s wrong, and Dad’s fine. It must be strange hearing from me out of the blue. I’ve meant to call sooner and apologize it’s taken this long.”

  “Don’t apologize. Lily told me about your job. I imagine your schedule’s hectic flying around the world. All that matters is that you called.”

  “I landed at Baton Rouge airport an hour ago. I’m on my way to Natchez now for an assignment and thought I’d let you know I’m in town.”

  “Wonderful. You should stop on by the house. I can cook us somethin’ to eat while we catch up.”

  “I’d love to, Ella, but I have to get to the B&B and check-in today. Perhaps tomorrow after I’ve settled in.”

  “Then I’ll prepare a small meal while we talk. How about lunchtime?”

  She imagines a table filled with buttery ice-laced cakes, crispy fried meats, thick gravies, Polk-weed salads, greens, and bread—southern favorites. Mom praised Ella’s Mississippi Mud cake and sometimes brought slices home along with a basket of Ella’s other baked goods, which she and Dad devoured to the last crumb. “No, please, don’t go out of your way for me.”

  “It’s no bother. I haven’t cooked for anyone but myself since my husband passed, and the children all moved away. It will be a pleasure cookin’ for someone else.”

  How lonely she must be without her family and closest friend. And how inconsiderate she’s been, not calling since the funeral. “That sounds wonderful. Ella, something’s been troubling me since I accepted the assignment.”

  “Oh? What is it, Moni?”

  The nickname her mom used often, and one Ella adopted from her parents, induces simultaneous warmth and dread, evoking her mother’s surreal appeal on the airplane. “Moni, tell her story.”

  “Moni, you there?”

  “Oh, sorry, Ella.”

  “What’s achin’ you, child?”

  “The thing is, I’ve been having unusual dreams of Mom and a strange poem on Natchez. When dad heard the verse, he said the words are from a poem Mom received from you during her last visit. Do you recall the poem, Ella?”

  “May I ask where you got the poem?” she asks swiftly, alarmed.

  “I-It . . . this might sound bizarre, but the first verse just popped into my head, and the rest came to me in a dream.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Do you know the poet?”

  “No, I wish to heavens I did,” Ella replies with a long sigh and even longer pause. “The poem was given to me anonymously at the museum. Someone walked in and requested the program director, which was me at the time, receive the envelope. No name. No note. No return address. Just the poem. You sure Lily never read it to you?”

  “No, I heard it for the first time four days ago in my dream. It’s the oddest thing. The first line of the stanza came to me right before I accepted the assignment. Then that same night, I had a horrible dream.”

  “Was there a young gal with child in your dream?”

  With child? She’d believed the bundle under the girl’s skirt was peaches. She was pregnant . . . “How did you know?”

  “Where are you stayin’, Moni?”

  Simone’s brows rise and furrow at Ella’s skirting of the question. Why ask about the girl then overtly dodge her response? Her rudeness leaves her more than curious, but she doesn’t press the issue just yet. “At Magnolia Sunrise Bed & Breakfast.”

  “Oh!” she responds sharply. “Out on the bluffs?” she asks in a lower pitch. “Near the cemetery?”

  “Yes. Is something wrong?”

  “Er, well, no . . . it’s a lovely place. I reckon that’s a good two miles from my home. We need to talk tomorrow, and you’re more than welcome to stay here durin’ your visit.”

  “Thanks, Ella, but part of my assignment is the B&B, so I’ll need to remain there. But a visit for a few hours tomorrow is good. Oh, I don’t have your address.”

  “Is this your cell phone number?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll text you the address and directions.”

  “Thanks . . .” Simone pauses, irked by her evasiveness and wanting answers to her earlier inquiry. “Ella, Dad said when Mom returned from visiting you, she had horrible dreams and couldn’t sleep. He believes the dreams and poems contributed to her heart attack. Did she mention the dreams before her death?”

  “Moni, I’ll clarify everything tomorrow.”

  Simone narrows her eyes and holds her tongue. “OK.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, child.”

  “Me too, Ella. Tomorrow at noon, then.”

  “I’ll be here, good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.”

  Simone chuckles at a southern saying she hasn’t heard in years. “All right, Ella.” She ends the call with a genuine laugh she hasn’t had in days, but it quickly fades as worry floods her mind again.

  Ahead, policemen motion cars off the freeway to another ramp. Simone follows the other vehicles onto a scenic route to Natchez. Carefully watching road signs,
she ruminates over the abrupt change in Ella’s tone at the mention of the poem. Her evasiveness sends greater dread through her mind. Something sinister is behind that poem. Maybe she should listen to Dad and leave it be. But the dreams won’t let her do so.

  Beware the crag on summer eves,

  She arrives, aggrieved,

  Arms replete with plummy treasures.

  Oh, how tempting, succulent, sweet,

  Yet, wicked to the pitted marrow.

  One bite, she’ll reveal

  A grim genesis of horrors,

  Skeletal antiquity,

  Deeply seeded,

  Root-to-leaf fodder,

  For the Devil’s harvest,

  Below the bluffs of Natchez Trace.

  Magnolia Sunrise

  Natchez, Mississippi

  Natchez’s sweltering heat hangs heavy in the air with no reprieve from muggy breezes, just more humidity only an air conditioner relieves. Seated behind the rental car’s chilly vents, Simone pays little heed to the scorching weather, consumed with unpleasant dreams and bothersome queries which subdue the venture’s novelty and excitement. Ominous vibes persist from Brooklyn like a Geiger counter needle drifting further right toward an unknown threat the closer she gets to the B&B.

  “Moni, tell her story . . .”

  “Who and what story, Mom?” she queries under her breath, thumping her hand into the wheel. “Is it about Natchez?”

  She dips her head shoulder to shoulder, rubs her stiff neck with a loud exhalation, and pushes slipped sunglasses atop her nose. To the right and left of the lane, behind towering oaks, pecan, and magnolia trees, postbellum plantations, once bordered by lucrative cotton and tobacco fields and slave shanties during the antebellum era, roll past her rose-tinted view.

  Ahead, on Cemetery Road, an open wrought-iron gate flanked by two white pillars and low red brick walls marks the entrance to Natchez National Cemetery. She wonders about Bridgette’s honeymoon destination choice. This is not the magazine’s typical wedding getaway. Newlyweds might be horror-struck to learn rows and rows of graves border the B&B, unless a haunted retreat is what they seek. Regardless, she’s curious to see the Turning Angel effigy described on the city’s website. With the sun dimming over the massive necropolis, it’s much too eerie to explore alone. She’ll brave the cemetery another day on Natchez’s haunted horse-and-buggy ghost tour.

  Per Parker’s driving directions, she slows the car past the gate, as the B&B is located two houses north of the graveyard. Atop steep forested bluffs sit private homes on both sides of the winding, narrow two-lane road. Do homeowners fear that one day the craggy sandstone walls will give way, sucking their properties into the swampy depths below?

  Past a large Greek Revival-style home, the white facade of a grand antebellum Victorian wavers through trees. Magnolia Sunrise Bed-and-Breakfast sits far off the road, cloistered behind a creepy live oak with knotted branches sweeping the ground and a dark-green triangular magnolia tree. Simone steers the car onto the long private driveway curving behind the B&B, parking in the rear beside five vehicles. A whiff of magnolia's citrus honey and fragrant honeysuckles overpower fresh-mowed grass and brackish delta breezes coming off the river when she exits the rental.

  As she approaches the stone pathway, a thirtyish-looking man of average stature and build wearing white crepe drawstring pants, a navy Polo T-shirt, and flip-flops rises from a regal wicker rocker.

  “Simone?” he asks, stepping off the porch with a hop in his walk.

  “Yes. Parker?”

  A Duchenne smile explodes across his face, feathers his bright eyes, and brackets fine lines around his gracile lips. His hands fly from his pockets, held aloft. “Girl, where you been?” he asks in an overly familiar twang as if they’re old friends, enfolding her in a swift embrace.

  Simone flinches then stiffens in his gentle squeeze. Does he greet every guest with such exuberant southern charm and call an utter stranger girl? His familiarity might displeasure others. But she’s sure their mutual friendship with Bridgette warranted the hug.

  Parker releases his arms, steps back, and inserts his hands in his pants pockets while probing her face with a charming grin. “We expected you an hour ago for supper.”

  She fuses her agape lips, imparting a rueful grimace. “I was hoping to arrive in time for dinner, but an accident on US 84 snarled traffic. Patrol rerouted cars to the scenic roads, which took more time, but I enjoyed views of historic homes.”

  “Ahhh, lost in the view. I hope you didn’t miss the turnoff admiring the scenery.” He chortles in jest.

  Simone grins at his playfulness. “Nah, despite the detour, I found the house without a hitch, given your easy-to-follow directions.”

  Parker’s kind baby-blue eyes narrow beneath thick curly eyelashes, contrasting masculine facial features in a peculiar but appealing way. “I bet you’re tuckered from the trip. Let’s get you into the AC.”

  Now she understands why this spirited, unpretentious man with infectious energy appealed to Bridgette. From the bounce of his hips to his corn-silk hair he exudes perkiness.

  “Bridge spoke fondly of you, and you’re just as stunning as she said.”

  “Oh, thank you. Brigette’s the best. She spoke highly of you and Amelia, too,” Simone replies, tearing her long stare from his enviable lashes and tugging at the Samsonite.

  “I got that.”

  “Um, oh, no, I . . .” Before she can object, he lifts the luggage off the ground, the muscles of his shoulder taut beneath the polo shirt as he carries rather than rolls it through the door. “Thank you,” she replies, following him inside the home.

  “I’m afraid Amelia’s traveling a few days, but she should be back before you leave. We have five couples for the week: two honeymooners and three couples visiting from various states,” he explains, setting the luggage on the floor. “Welcome to our charming home.”

  “Spectacular,” Simone praises, turning in circles and gawking at the stunning architecture, rich decor, spiraling staircase, and the large room beyond the foyer. Chandeliers sparkle off brilliant white walls and shiny cypress wood floors. The chic and modern black-and-white theme showcased throughout the space looks as if someone doused a paintbrush in chocolate and flecked it over the white home. Ebony finials and fittings, charcoal picture frames, glossy onyx railings along eggshell stairs, and graphite metal lanterns placed around the home contrast with the overall whiteness of the furniture and walls.

  “Amelia’s the interior designer and artistic one in the family. She strove to mix contemporary southern elegance with a touch of British décor.”

  “I always assumed the south adopted interior design from early British settlers. But I guess I’m wrong.”

  “Interior design isn’t my forte, but you could learn a lesson or two from my British wife.”

  “I thought you both were Natchez natives.”

  “I was born here but lived abroad for many years. Amelia is London born. We both met Bridgette at university and have remained friends since graduation.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Your suite’s this way, on the south-western end of the home with sweeping vistas of Miss-Lou.”

  Simone grins. “Miss-Lou. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that term.”

  “I figured a Baton Rouge native knows the river divide between Mississippi and Louisiana as good old Miss-Lou.”

  “Hmm,” Simone mutters, narrowing one eye. “I see Bridgette sent my dossier before my assignment began,” she says with a frivolous grin.

  Parker’s chortle rings around the foyer. “A page or two. She had only great praises for you. She said you’re a wonderful writer, too good for a travel magazine.”

  “Dear me, such exalts. I’m blushing,” she states with humor, invoking an old twang. “Yep, I’m Louisiana bred but left soon after college. Brooklyn’s my home now, between travels for work. But I find my way home every year for the holidays.”

  “One can never l
eave their roots for too long.”

  The simple comment reflects wisdom and has a poignant tone, revealing personal experience that resonates true for Simone. She nods in agreement and follows him through a long gallery of portraits. Their sandals echo around the space, flip-flopping to a silent pause before the paintings.

  At a distance from the wall, several gold-fringed Victorian chairs with crimson cushions border the window-less space, reminiscent of a sitting room in a museum, positioned in front of a wall of paintings that belong on a prominent surface. Perhaps they hung in a grander space years ago.

  Large, gilded frames enclose pictures of Magnolia Sunrise Plantation during the 1800s and images of a striking family. A handsome blond man dressed in a navy-blue cutaway coat with tails and breeches tucked into boots stands beside an attractive woman sitting in what appears to be the same chair as the one behind Simone. Blonde ringlets fall around sharp features, piercing sky-blue eyes, and tight lips. A white-and-gold brooch accentuates her elegant neck. Two twin boys stand at her side, leaning into the folds of her voluminous velvet lilac hoop skirt. The children possess prominent blue eyes and a deep tan, though their reddish-brown curls display a striking contrast to their parent’s blond strands.

  Drawn to a smaller portrait alongside the others, she inches closer to the image of a pubescent slave girl with a diffident smile and the glare of a lioness cradling two ivory-gowned Caucasian infants on her lap as though they came from her womb. Why paint just one girl? Weren't there many slaves at Magnolia Sunrise Plantation? Simone's gaze locks on the girl's youthful eyes tightened in spite, in anger. Her hair painted a burnished brown, eyes walnut-colored beneath long, lush lashes. Where has she seen . . .

  “This is Remembrance Hall. Paintings of the original owners have graced these walls since the beginning. Amelia insisted on keeping them. I was and still am ambivalent about venerating slaveowners. But this was their home. We maintained the original fixtures in this room, except for the hideous wallpaper. Those are original Louis XV chairs, and the only original furniture you’ll find in the home, besides Blackamoor statues we kept in each bathroom.” He pauses, noticing Simone’s furrowed gaze as she looks at the painting of the slave girl. “I hope the pictures and the home’s atrocious past don’t offend you?”