by Lynn Shurr
“Hippo down at Joe’s Lounge says he ain’t seen any strange red-headed women, just one fair-haired guy who come in late afternoon and wanted to know where he could rent a boat. Hippo told him Alcide Porrier would rent most anything he owned for the right price and gave the fellow directions. The man drove a light blue sedan. Some of the regulars at Joe’s seen it parked along Front Street when they left around one a.m. Hippo says it wasn’t there at three when he went home. George, I think your lady friend’s been kidnapped.”
“It should have been Suzanne,” George said, looking like a weight had dropped on his foot.
“Would have helped Jeff Sonnier some if he’d took the Yankee gal last night,” the sheriff agreed.
“No, I mean Cherie was sleeping in Suzanne’s bed. Suzanne has been getting weird letters from some man back in Philadelphia. All they ever said was that he’d come to get her and then a lot of…well, descriptions of bondage. No threats against her life, but sick just the same. I pulled one out of the trash the other day when she seemed upset. After that, if I saw another in the mail, I threw it out. The guy sounded like some kind of psycho.”
“If he is a psycho, he might make another try for Suzanne if we give him the chance. Probably, he didn’t figure on two young women staying at your house. Since he wants to do things to her, he won’t kill her right away. He could lead us right to Mrs. Angers. What say you don’t get home tonight, George, in case he’s watching the house?”
“Suzanne could be dead before you stopped him.”
“And if we don’t catch him, she could still end up dead.”
Linc admired the sheriff’s reasoning until he realized George was demanding to go along on the stakeout at the Hill. He started to say, “Look, George, we ain’t playing Devil’s Horseman here. Let the law handle it,” when George volunteered his buddy to go along, too. The sheriff deputized them faster than Linc could back out. It looked like he and the Ghost were going to be spending more time together hunched in the magnolia thickets at the Hill waiting for another man to carry off Suzanne Hudson.
Chapter Twenty
George’s story
The dew started to settle, but too much of a man to admit it, George felt cold in his shirtsleeves and cold around the heart, too. This is what came of wanting Suzanne to see him as desirable to another woman, not just some clown who had to dress up in costume to get her attention. He’d used Cherry as she had used him years ago, but kidnapping and murder made it an unequal trade.
He had plenty of time that moonlit night to lay blame. Finally, it came to rest, not on Suzanne, but on his mother for setting the whole chain into motion. Jefferson Sonnier’s foot got caught in that chain, and it dragged him into the grave with her. By Virginia Lee St. Julien’s code, appearance mattered—a marriage that appeared valid, silver plate that appeared to be sterling. Had she simply appeared to be a mother worried about her son’s future when her real concern was saving Magnolia Hill as a monument to herself—even if it made her lover a thief and her son a liar?
The hum of a small outboard on the bayou drowned out the whine of the early crop of mosquitoes spawned by the flood and feasting on their arms and ankles. Tough to watch the man come up from the water, a shadow in the shadows, moving toward Suzanne’s room where the lights had gone out an hour ago, and not move a muscle. He passed the clump of trees where Linc and George hid, long-legged birds in the bush. Sheriff Duval and a regular deputy squatted behind the big azaleas near the entry.
The kidnapper, Paul, the name on the letters, went up the stairs to the upper gallery. He entered Suzanne’s room by the window, giving it a mighty shove. George waited for her screams, for Sheriff Duval to surge from his hiding place. Nothing happened.
He wanted to move so badly his leg twitched and caught Linc in the shin. Linc gasped but sucked up most of the sound. The night stayed quiet, not a noise but a few plopping fish this close to the bayou. With Suzanne completely dressed, she and her kidnapper stepped out of the window and moved down the steps. The man wore a ski mask covering his face and the pale hair that would have shown in the moonlight. Why didn’t she scream or run? George waited for the sheriff to strike. Damn him, the law did not make a move.
As the pair came closer, the rays of the moon glinted on the knife pressed into Suzanne’s back. He remained quiet as he’d been told to do. The couple passed the trees to the river beyond. Not being able to see the abductor’s face upset him internally. You can tell a man’s intent by looking him in the eyes, which way he will toss a ball, when he is faking an injury. He wanted to knock the guy to the ground and tear off the mask, but, obeying orders, George waited until the noise of the small boat motor buzzed out of hearing.
Linc broke a branch of the magnolia in his hurry to get down. George was already out, running for the bayou when the sheriff radioed to his squad car in town to keep an eye on the blue sedan. He took the path along the river, a direct line into town, quicker than the roads. Linc pounded along behind him. Struggling with the mud left behind by the storm, he kept going down, once near the spot where Linc had waited with the pirogue. Linc pulled him up. Mud-soaked, glasses splattered, George finally reached Front Street. No light blue sedan in sight.
A squad car crept from its hiding place in the alley like a stray cat not sure of its welcome. George pounded on the deputies’ window to let them in. They did, behind the grate they used to separate the sane and the law abiding from the crazies and the criminals. He swore at them to get going, but the officers explained that volunteer deputies were stationed along all the roads leading out of town. They would pick out the sedan and follow in an unmarked vehicle.
Forced to sit and listen to the radio’s blare marking the progress of the light blue sedan, George fidgeted, bumping Linc with his elbows and knees as the culprit and his prey moved farther and farther away. The last voice to come over the air belonged to Billy Patout.
“Shoot,” he said. “Didn’t I just go and lose them somewhere on the old Baton Rouge road?”
Damn that Billy Patout. He did this just to get revenge for the brawl in Joe’s Lounge, George believed. He banged on the grill separating him and Linc from the cops.
“I know where he took her. Let’s get moving.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Suzanne’s story
The worst part was being in the trunk. Suzanne feared suffocation. Paul taped her mouth and tied her hands before locking her into the small, dark place, an insecure womb smelling of gas fumes, where she curled with her knees under her chin. She wanted to gulp air, but the tape across her mouth prevented that and also screaming for help from any late night denizens of Joe’s Lounge. The trunk is not airtight, she reasoned. Breathe evenly. You will be all right. You will. You will. Doesn’t want to kill you, only do obscene things to your body. Maybe, if he weren’t the Philly Slasher, but what if he was? Not a comforting thought. You will be all right. She mentally repeated her not so calming mantra.
They drove on a country road, she could tell. Hell, the roads leaving Port Jefferson were all country roads. As the car banged across potholes, she counted the number of bruises the tire iron she lay on gave her. She tried to use the tool to work off the rope. No good. Suzanne wondered if Paul would use the tire iron later to bash in her skull. No, the Philadelphia Slasher favored knives and blood and dirty words painted in red on the walls.
She wanted air! More air! Sucking in what she could through her nostrils, she began fretting about dulling her reflexes for escape with carbon monoxide and gas fumes. Should she try to kick out the taillights? Most of the cars in the parish had at least one bad light, and no one ever stopped them for it as far as she knew. Wouldn’t a new vehicle have an inside trunk release. Yeah, but where in Hades would it be? She forced herself to be calm again and grope for it. Before she found the latch, the road surface changed to shell popping against the undercarriage of the car. The motor stopped. The trunk opened. Suzanne filled her lungs with the damp night air.
Pau
l jerked her out. Half pretending to be too dizzy to walk, Suzanne got her bearings quickly. They’d arrived at an old motel, the kind with little cottages in a double row running back into the darkness of the trees. The tourist huts of green stucco were roofed with red Mexican tile. The sign, so old it wasn’t even neon, proclaimed this haven to be the Wonderland Motel. Or maybe, the current clientele preferred dimly lit advertising or no lights at all. The only cabin showing some life belonged to the manager who sat dozing by his window in front of a flickering TV while the Late Show rolled on. No one looked out to see a young woman, bound and gagged, emerging from a trunk.
They didn’t enter the cabin where Paul parked. He steered her into the shadows by the pressure of the knife blade in the middle of her back. They moved toward the lodging farthest from the road. Holding his captive close all the while, Paul worked at a rusty padlock on the door with his knife tip. When the door swung open, Suzanne squeezed her eyes shut, afraid to see what might remain of Cherie Angers, or was her flashy rival already food for the gar and crawfish of Bayou Brun? And so, the smell reached her first—mouse droppings, mildew, urine, and the ripe stench of semen, but not the coppery scent of blood.
Suzanne opened her eyes as Paul shoved her forward into the room. Cherie lay bound hand and foot to the old iron bedstead. Somehow, she still looked seductive even with green eye shadow smeared across her face and her red hair pulled into wild, electric spikes as if someone, Paul, had held her by its roots. Despite the odor of decay, the single naked bulb illuminating the room, the sink in one corner with a faucet dripping rusty water in a steady rhythm, Cherie’s linens were almost tidy, tucked in with hospital corners. A cheap, yellow motel blanket covered her breasts, and the straps of her slick, green nightgown had been aligned in perfect parallels over her shoulders. Cherie Angers’ eyes were closed. Dead, Suzanne thought, arranged for burial.
Paul stripped the tape from his first victim’s swollen red lips. The green eyes snapped open, and the mouth began to work. Suzanne should have known a tough cookie like Cherie Angers would be hard to kill.
“No need to be so rough, lover. Cherie has been waiting for you like a good little girl. I’m plumb wore out from last night and this afternoon,” she drawled. Then, the former Cherry Fontaine noticed Suzanne.
“Now why did you have to bring her here, sugar? Didn’t we have enough fun all by ourselves? Oh, I sure would like to see you without that mask, tiger.”
Obligingly, Paul shed the woolen ski mask. His face burned red, his expression more petulant than psychotic. His nearly military crew cut stood up damp and darkened with sweat.
“Why, you’re a real handsome man to be wearing a mask. I thought maybe there was something wrong with you, covering up like that, sort of the Phantom of the Opera, maybe. But I know for a fact the parts of you that matter work real well.”
Suzanne couldn’t believe this. Cherie Angers worked at seducing her kidnapper—possibly a murderer, a serial killer. The gas fumes must have gotten to her. Of course! She was distracting him, giving Suzanne a chance to escape. She edged toward the door, but with one swipe, Paul yanked her back and slammed her into a scratched and cracked plastic chair ending its days in a corner of the Wonderland Motel.
“Tell her, tell her all we did last night. She thinks I’m dull, not romantic enough for her. This guy George can give her a mansion and antiques and Mardi Gras balls and all that shit. Tell her what she missed last night when she was sleeping in his room. Tell her!”
“Oh lover, let’s show her!” Cherie wiggled her shoulders just enough to displace the yellow blanket and make her nipples pout out under the sheer green nylon.
For a maniac killer, Paul seemed slightly shocked. “John was right,” he marveled. “He said he met women all the time who wanted it rough, who wouldn’t struggle when you tied them up. They liked to be threatened, he said.”
As if demonstrating for Suzanne’s benefit, he gripped Cherie’s short hair with his blunt-tipped fingers and kissed her brutally on the mouth. Another chance for escape! She stood up and was betrayed by the creak of split plastic. Paul slammed Cherie’s head back against the pillow and advanced holding the knife toward her.
“Fuck you, Suzanne. I wasted money on fancy dinners and a hell of a lot on postage. I come down here to prove I can be more exciting than some man with a mansion, and I find out you’re not worth the trouble or the vacation leave time. Now that,” he flicked the blade in Cherie’s direction, “That is a real woman, and you don’t deserve—”
The motel door burst open, splintering through the center where the termites had gnawed at it. George moved quickly on those long legs of his. He throttled her attacker with an arm across the throat and twisted Paul’s knife arm behind his back to the point of snapping. Birdie’s turkey carver dropped to the floor. Linc used the knife to free Cherie Angers from the bed and cut Suzanne’s bonds. Two uniformed deputies with their pistols drawn stood wondering what to do in the doorway. George hadn’t given them time to say “Drop you weapon” before he disarmed Paul. Sheriff Duval came in right behind them. The whole scene was very gangbusters—very exciting—very romantic.
As the deputies took charge of cuffing Paul and reading his rights, Suzanne hugged on to George, never wanting to let go despite his mysterious coating of bayou mud. He didn’t so much as glance at Cherry Fontaine in her peek-a-boo green nightie, though all the other men in the room did, only at her dressed in plain jeans and a shirt. She didn’t say a word—because George neglected to remove the tape from her mouth until he lowered his face for a kiss. Oh well, this was a good moment to do nothing but feel.
Cherie did not agree. She grew very vocal as the youngest of the deputies draped the yellow blanket over her shoulders and asked if she wanted to see a doctor. Ignoring him, Cherie staggered from the bed and followed Sheriff Duval and Paul to the squad car.
“Now don’t you hurt him. No harm done, none at all. Honey, I know a good lawyer. We’ll have you out tomorrow. Now that I’ve found you, I’m not going to lose you, tiger. You hear!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Suzanne’s story
George had to be there to make sure things were done to his satisfaction, the executor said. George asked Suzanne to come, and she did, though she’d thought of a million excuses the night before to avoid watching the destruction of Helene Sonnier’s garden this morning. The work crew drifted in between eight and nine and began tearing at the bricks of the cistern with crowbars. The old mortar crumbled easily along with the soft, handmade brick. Suzanne winced each time they tossed a block onto the heap by the porch and small chips of clay flew through the air. By the time the workmen finished the dismantling, the wicker chairs had a fine coating of red dust.
The pumps ran now, diverting the cistern water through the hoses laying along the side the Sonnier house and crushing the new iris shoots in the flowerbeds. The stream flowed out into the gutters of Main Street and followed the tilt of the land into the waters of Bayou Brun. Leakage around the pumps and hoses turned the pleasant back lawn into a morass grooved by the imprints of large work boots.
They reached a sludge layer at midmorning. Now, the workmen gouged into the hole with a piece of equipment that looked like an amusement park claw machine. It chewed out the prizes in huge bites. Metal struck metal. Suzanne shuddered. She’d begged everyone concerned to have the cistern emptied by hand, but the sheriff said this was no damned archaeological dig. His time was money, and the budget the parish forced him to operate on was ass wipe cheap. George could put up the funds for laborers if he wanted. George didn’t have the money either. A laborer hosed down the load of mud by the side of the cistern. The replica silver appeared piece by piece.
She waded in and began carrying the bowls and candlesticks to a tarp placed out of the way of the heavy equipment and heavier feet. Sheriff Duval showed up, called, no doubt, when they uncovered the silver. He tipped his Stetson to Suzanne coated in grime, then stood by the fence silently witnessing th
e return of the stolen goods.
The screen door slammed. She looked up from a weighty piece she cleaned and could not quite remember having handled before. Helene Sonnier came onto the porch and began carefully wiping down the chairs and a small table with a clean white towel. She beckoned to George. He followed her with a serious and guilty look on his face into the house and returned with a perplexed expression and a tray of large sugar cookies, each dotted in the middle with a single raisin. Helene followed him with a sloshing twenty-four cup coffeemaker in her hands and a double package of Styrofoam cups wedged under her fleshy arm.
“Break time,” she called cheerfully over the clang of machinery and the chug of pumps. She waved Suzanne in from her self-appointed task and begged George and Sheriff Duval to take a chair. George fidgeted as the workmen began lining up for coffee. Conscious of their dirty hands, they took only disposable cups. Suzanne seized a cookie and ate more to avoid conversation than to satisfy any hunger. The crumbs stuck in her throat. Her actions had killed this nice woman’s husband.
George spoke up. “You know if half the crew took a break and the other half kept working, it would save the sheriff a lot of time and money.”
The workmen at the end of the line glared resentfully, but when Sheriff Duval nodded, one returned to the dragline and another to the hose. George settled into the chair again and took a bite out of a cookie way down to the raisin in the center. Clearly, he did not know what to say to Mrs. Sonnier either. Helene carried the conversation for everyone.