Royce picked up the bottle, slid the coaster beneath it. “I don’t think I’m a help to anyone.”
“You’re helping me by letting me move in with you,” Cliff said.
“That’s no big deal. You’re my brother.”
“It’s a big deal to me, especially since you’re such a neat-freak and I can be sort of messy sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Royce swigged his beer, set the bottle down. “Try all the time.”
Nettie picked up Royce’s hand, patted it gently. “We all know how you like to plan things out first, and that’s all well and good. But sometimes, you have to do like the Good Book teaches and just step out on faith.”
“Nettie, you sound like one of those Sunday morning preachers on television.” Cliff started to help himself to more peach cobbler, but she snatched the pan away. “Hey, I wanted a second helping.”
She set the pan on the kitchen counter, out of his reach. “All that sugar seems to be goin’ to your mouth, young man.”
“I was kidding, Nettie.”
She tossed Cliff another hushpuppy and turned her attention back to his brother. “Answer me one question, Royce.”
“Okay.”
“How are you gonna feel if while you are getting all your ducks lined up, that architect friend of hers ups and asks her to marry him?”
Royce snapped to attention. “How do you know about Keith?”
“Why does Elita need an architect?” Cliff asked. “And who’s Keith?”
Nettie answered. “He’s the architect fellow Miss Elita was keepin’ company with for a time before she came home to bury her mother. The young man flew all the way to Louisiana to see her.”
A crimson flush spread across Royce’s face. “Keith Foster flew down to San Antonio for a meeting. On his way back to Chicago, he stopped by to pay his condolences to Elita and her family. That’s all there was to his visit.”
“I heard he brought house plans with him.” Nettie wagged her finger at Royce. “That man didn’t fly to Louisiana to get Elita’s opinions on his new home because he wanted free decorating advice from a woman studyin’ to be a pharmacist.”
Cliff laughed. “Dang, Nettie, you know more about what’s going on around the Caddo than Luther Boudreaux.”
“Luther likes to get information so he can gossip about folks.” She turned back to Royce. “I make it a point to know everything about my children, both those born to me and those brought to me like you boys and Miss Virginia were. I love all my young’uns and don’t like to see them hurtin’ or doing somethin’ stupid.”
Royce placed his hands on Nettie’s small shoulders. “Am I doing something stupid?”
“Yes!” Cliff said. “You’re sure-fired stupid if you let Elita go back to Chicago without telling her you love her.”
Nettie looked up at Royce. “I’ve never said this before, but in this instance, you should listen to your little brother.”
Cliff’s arms shot up into the air. “Thank you, Jesus.”
Nettie took a step toward Cliff, knotted both hands on her slim hips, and gave him a piercing look.
“That wasn’t blasphemy, Nettie, I promise. It was pure gratitude.”
She relaxed and turned her back to her youngest charge before he could see her grin. ”Time’s a-wastin’, Royce. What are you gonna do?”
“Elita knows I love her. I’ve always loved her.”
Nettie nodded. “Yes, she knows. But a woman needs more than love alone. She needs hope for a life with the man she loves. When my Alvin left to fight in World War Two, I knew he loved me. But it was his promise to come back to me that kept the fires of love burnin’. Even when I didn’t hear from him for months on end, I never lost hope in his promise to return to me and our family.” Nettie gently took Royce’s face in her hands. “You’ve left Elita without any hope, and in doing so you’ve given her no reason to trust in a future with you.”
Royce rocked back on his heels. “I can’t imagine a life without Elita in it.”
Nettie removed a set of keys from the oar-shaped wooden board next to the front door and handed it to Royce. “Your boat is a lot faster than hers. If you leave now—”
“I can catch her before she gets to Devin’s Cove.” Royce kissed Nettie’s forehead. “What about Cliff?”
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll call my Alvin and tell him to come over because we’re dining with the rich folks tonight.”
Royce gave her a bear hug that almost lifted her off her feet. “Cliff and I are rich because we have you in our lives.”
“Amen to that,” Cliff added.
Nettie straightened her dress. “Hush up now before y’all make me cry.”
“Thanks, again,” Royce called as he bolted out the door.
Nettie walked over to the phone hanging on the kitchen wall. She started to dial, but hung up the receiver. She grabbed the pan of peach cobbler from the kitchen counter and set it in front of Cliff. “Don’t eat too much. You’ll spoil your supper.”
He smiled at her. “Yes . . . Mom.”
CHAPTER 30
Elita pushed the throttle of the Johnson motor wide open. She wanted to get away from Royce before the trickle of tears streaming down her face became a torrent. She hoped the loud guttural drone of engine noise would block the questions that yapped at her mind with the ferocity of a terrier after a rat. No such luck.
Why hadn’t Royce told her goodbye? Why didn’t he ask her to come back after she graduated? He could’ve gave her a ride to the airport so they could work things out before she left the Caddo for a year or perhaps, forever. But instead, he’d seemed unconcerned about her leaving.
By the time Duck Island came into view, Elita managed to curb the flow of tears, but not stop the ache in her heart. She moved closer to the island. The sheltered cove lay as empty now as it’d been when she’d passed earlier that day.
Elita guided her boat around the western tip of the island and turned left into the inlet between Duck Island and Vireo Point. She traveled a good ninety yards before turning around and heading for a sliver of sandy beach on Duck Island. This is stupid and childish. She needed to get home and change clothes before Uncle Matt and the others arrived.
Stopping on Duck Island to see the camp house she and Royce had built seven years earlier was the last thing Elita needed to do. But the crushing pain inside her overpowered all logic. Did the shelter of saplings where she’d gifted Royce with her virginity still stand strong? Or like her relationship with Royce, had the pine hideaway crumbled into rubble due to neglect?
Elita cut the engine and paddled into the shallows. She stepped out and gave thanks that the dark-tea-colored water wasn’t deep enough to swamp the top of her rubber boots. After securing the boat, she threaded her way through the thicket toward the middle of the island. The rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker pounding a tree echoed through the woods.
She stepped into the clearing and gasped. The camp house still stood, but someone had discovered their secret place. A mottled brown and green tarp covered with thick black netting topped the hideaway. Royce’s entry door made from pine saplings had been replaced with a metal door and hefty padlock.
Unreasoned anger grabbed her. How dare anyone transform the love nest she and Royce had built into storage or a hunting blind! The intrusion, the violation of what the tiny house meant to her made her stomach roil. Now, the sweet memories of their times together here would always be blanketed by a canvas of camouflage.
Elita closed her eyes and tried to will away her anger. She had no right to be outraged or offended. This wasn’t Dupree or Sutton property. It was the Caddo, and the Caddo opened her watery arms to all who dared step back in time to enjoy the primordial splendor. Besides, Elita and Royce had physically abandoned their camp years before. Physically, she thought, but not emotionally.
Her anger ebbed as her curiosity grew. Elita untied one side of the tarp, lifted it and found a black waterproof liner beneath. She peered through gaps between
ill-fitting logs. Slivers of light revealed stacks of book-sized packages.
She pulled the liner back down, retied the tarp, and stepped away to ponder what could be so important that someone would go to such effort and expense to hide it. Her scalp tingled. She’d dawdled too long. Mamaw would be worried. Elita turned to leave, but her boot caught in a sucker root of a black locust tree. She tumbled forward, landing face down in the dirt.
Elita caught a few deep breaths before pushing up to a sitting position. Nothing broken. No blood. No pain except for the heel of her left hand, which must have struck a root or a rock. She massaged the ache while searching for what had bruised her hand. A small bottle lay half-buried in the dirt.
She brushed away the soil. From her work in the hospital pharmacy, Elita recognized the small, brown-capped, amber glass bottle immediately. She unscrewed the rusty lid and found a dozen tiny white pills. Nitrostat, sublingual compressed nitroglycerin tablets, prescribed to treat angina or chest pains in patients with coronary artery disease.
Elita stood, dusted off the dirt and debris from her jeans. Walking into the sunlight, she rubbed at the dirt covering the bottle’s label. She could make out the letters D A of a first name, but only the first letter of the last name—B. One word, Houston, was easily discernible, but did it stand for a Dr. Houston or for Houston, Texas?
Like a mental game of Scrabble, her mind rearranged the letters in possible combinations. She remembered Virginia saying one of the Houston oil executives lost during a Caddo storm last April took heart medication. What was his name? Dale . . . Dale Butler. His death had been ruled an accident due to a massive heart attack brought on by exposure.
Elita stared at the small bottle. How did Butler’s medicine bottle end up on Duck Island when his body had been found miles away in the shallows off Mayhaw Point? Something felt wrong.
“What’cha doing here, Girl?”
Elita pivoted. A man stood at the edge of the clearing, his hulking frame half hid in the shadows. “Jax Boudreaux, didn’t I tell you to stop sneaking up on me?”
“Didn’t I tell ya to stay out of the Caddo?” Jax pointed his shotgun in the direction of her boat. “You’d best git out of here, Girl.”
“I’ll go, but first I want some answers.” She nodded at the cabin. “Who is using this and for what reason?”
Jax shook his head.
“You know. The Caddo talks to you, remember?”
He eyed the ground. “Can’t tell nobody cause he’ll be real mad if’n I tell on him.”
“Who’ll be mad at you?”
“The loup-garou,” he said in a voice barely audible.
Elita’s shoulders sagged. Not this old story again. She rubbed the ache in her palm as she pondered how to get information from Jax. Explaining to him that the loup-garou only existed in fairytales wouldn’t work. She decided to give him what he wanted.
“You want me to leave Duck Island and never come back?”
He nodded vigorously.
“I’ll go, but first tell me something.” Elita opened her hand to show him the medication bottle. “These pills belonged to Dale Butler, that Sutton Oil fellow who died after getting lost in the Caddo. He kept this medicine with him at all times.” She took two steps closer to Jax. “How did Butler’s medicine bottle end up on Duck Island when his body was found at Mayhaw Point?”
Jax didn’t answer. His attention turned toward the path leading up from the cove.
“Answer my question,” Elita persisted. “How did Dale—”
“Quiet, Girl.” His round face contorted. His eyes filled with panic. “I warned ya, but ya just didn’t listen.” He scurried toward the safety of the woods.
“What’s the matter, Jax?” Her hand went to her throat, to where the dime protection necklace had been. Icy tentacles of dread spread through her. “Come back!” From somewhere deep in the shadows, she heard his muted voice.
“Run, Girl, run.”
Elita slipped the medicine bottle into her shirt pocket. A twig snapped behind her. She whirled and found herself staring at the person Jax feared the most.
“What the devil are you doing here, Elita?” The fury in Luther Boudreaux’s eyes and the bitterness in his voice showcased the reason for Jax’s sudden departure.
But while Luther’s presence might intimidate his younger brother, his aggravated tone caused Elita’s fear to flip to anger. “I could ask you the same damn thing.”
“Thought you’d left for Chicago.”
“Your gossip sources screwed up this time. I’m not leaving until tomorrow.”
He grabbed her shoulders. “You can’t be here. Get out of here now!”
Elita shoved him away. “You sound like Jax. I don’t have to—”
“Jax? When did you see my brother?”
“I was talking to him just before you arrived.”
Luther scanned the clearing. “Did he leave?”
“Maybe. He could be hiding in the shadows.”
“No, no, no. Not again.” Luther wrapped his hands around his head as if trying to hold in his brain. “Please God, don’t let this happen again.”
“Don’t let what happen again?” The acrid taste of fear rose in her throat. Jax’s warnings could be ignored as the fantasies of an innocent, but Luther’s distress suggested he knew something terrible. Evil lurked in the Caddo and Luther knew its name.
“What kind of mess have you got yourself into?” Elita pulled at his arm. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”
He wiped at the tears sliding down his cheeks. “No one can help me. I’m in too deep.”
Seeing Luther cry alarmed her more than Jax’s tales of the loup-garou. The puzzle pieces started falling in place. The camouflaged cabin. Jax’s multiple warnings about staying out of the Caddo. Luther’s persistent offers to take her to Moccasin Bayou, and now his tears. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the small medicine bottle containing Dale Butler’s heart medication.
“I found this lying near the cabin.” Elita held the bottle for Luther to see. “How did you find Dale Butler’s body at Mayhaw Point when this bottle proves he took shelter here?”
Luther swallowed hard. “What most likely happened was his body . . . his body must have fallen in the water somehow and it floated to Mayhaw Point.”
“Bullshit, Luther. Mayhaw Point is upstream from Duck Island. A body doesn’t get upstream unless someone takes it.” She tucked the bottle back into her pocket. “You killed Dale Butler and hid his body at Mayhaw Point so you could be the one to find it later, after sending Sheriff Glover and the searchers to other parts of the Caddo.”
“I never killed anybody. I only helped hide the bodies.”
“Bodies?” Her mind scrambled in confusion. “How many bodies?”
He shut his eyes, bowed his head.
Elita grabbed his shirt. “How many bodies?” She stared into his closed eyes. “Look at me, damn you. Look me straight in the eyes and tell me how many . . . .” She shoved Luther hard against the cabin wall and clutched her roiling abdomen. Vomit painted the roof of her mouth. Sweat broke out along her hairline as a moan escaped her lips. “Did you kill my daddy, Luther?”
He regained his footing. “Yancy was my friend.”
“Damn your hide, tell me the truth!”
“I tried to help him just like I’ve tried to help you.” His shoulders curved forward, caving in his chest, making him look even thinner than normal. “I tried to steer him away from this part of the Caddo. I warned him about going near Duck Island, but just like you, Yancy was too stubborn for his own good.”
“You found his body in Moccasin Bayou because you put it there, didn’t you?”
He looked at his feet, gave a slight nod.
Elita’s hands balled into fists. For five years, she and her mother went through hell trying to decide whether Yancy’s death was really an accident or suicide due to his grief over her brother’s death. In all that time, no one suggested Yan
cy Dupree might have been murdered.
“You saw my family going through all that pain and never said a word about what truly happened. You ate at our table and prayed for his soul with us.” Elita blinked in an effort to stem the flow of tears. “Dammit, Luther, you were one of his pallbearers and the whole time you knew he’d been murdered.” She wiped at her eyes. “Who did it? Why would anyone kill Daddy and Dale Butler?” She grabbed his shirt again and shook him. “Tell me why, damn you!”
“You’ve got to get out of here, Elita.” Luther pulled free of her grasp. “Get on that plane tomorrow and forget everything about today.”
She pointed at the cabin. “What’s in there that is so important that you’re willing to help people kill for it?”
“I never killed anybody in my life.” Luther’s voice pitched higher in desperation. “I had no choice. You must believe me.”
“She’s never going to believe you, Luther.” Mark Hagar stood at the head of the footpath leading up from the cove landing.
Elita felt relief at seeing the deputy. Then she noticed the tail of his uniform shirt wasn’t tucked in and mud soiled the lower part of his pant legs. A sneer replaced his once friendly smile. His pistol sat secured in its holster on his right hip, his deputy’s badge was missing.
Hagar chuckled. “I resigned from the sheriff’s office so I can get out of this Podunk town and get back to my real job of providing protection for my uncle.”
“Shut up, Mark!” Luther yelled. “She doesn’t need to know about that.”
“My name is Marco. Marco Piccioni.” He turned to Elita. “Perhaps you’ve heard of my family? We’re well known in southern Louisiana, especially around New Orleans.”
She recognized the Piccioni name from the newspapers and nightly news programs over the past decade. Prostitution, gambling, racketeering, murder, drugs—the Piccioni crime family had their hands in it all. Few of the criminals had been successfully prosecuted since witnesses against them either refused to testify or turned up dead.
Shadows of Home: A Woman with Questions. A Man with Secrets. A Bayou without Mercy Page 30