Under the Cajun Moon

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Come on, babe, what’s the big deal? That’s just good TV!”

  I wasn’t going to dignify his comment with a reply. As I passed through the studio door and into the hall, I could hear Jenny’s tiny footsteps tapping along behind me.

  “I’m so sorry, I can’t believe he pulled a stunt like that,” she said as she fell into step beside me, her brown curls bouncing as we walked.

  “Don’t apologize, Jenny. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine, for going out with that sleaze in the first place.”

  “Hey, you! Ice Queen!” the sleaze called from behind us. “You left your complimentary fruit basket in the green room.”

  Jenny told me that she would handle things and then meet me at the car.

  “You know, you really crossed the line in there, mister,” Jenny said, turning on her heel as I reached the heavy door and pushed it open. As I stepped out into the Chicago sunshine, I couldn’t help but smile at the tiny tornado who served as my right arm and chief defender. Tony Gray might be six foot three inches of glorified muscle, but against Jenny he didn’t stand a chance.

  Tony couldn’t have known this, but calling me “Ice Queen” had been a particularly cruel blow. That was the nickname I had earned as a teenager, when my ugly-duckling adolescence had given way to a more swanlike appearance, leaving me tall and striking but also confused and frightened. After years of being ignored, suddenly I found myself getting attention from every direction. The problem was that what people saw on the outside didn’t match up at all with who I still was on the inside. Over time, my best defense had become a sort of cool, reserved demeanor. That my eyes were an icy blue didn’t help, and eventually I earned the nickname “Ice Queen.” What no one had ever understood was that underneath all of that ice was a teenager’s aching heart, pumping with a desperate need to belong and to be loved.

  I slipped into the car and dialed my mother’s number. As I waited for it to start ringing, I noticed movement in my side mirror and turned to see what looked like a fruit basket walking toward the car on two tiny legs. Jumping out to help, I cradled the phone against my shoulder as Jenny and I wrestled to get the huge mountain of fresh fruit onto the backseat of my new sports car.

  “I knew I should’ve gone with the convertible,” I quipped.

  “The pineapple’s stuck,” Jenny grunted, pressing down the top until the whole thing finally popped through. At that moment, my mother finally answered.

  “Chloe? It’s about time!”

  “Hello, Mother,” I said, glancing toward Jenny. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “You have to come to Louisiana. Now.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “We need you, Chloe. It’s your father. He’s been shot.”

  He’s been shot.

  And that was it, the “undo” moment that I wanted to take back. Now that I was standing in a room with two policemen and one very dead body, here was another. I had a feeling that my life was about to be filled with all sorts of undo moments.

  Somehow, the cops had come there in response to a report of possible domestic violence, and they seemed intent on sticking with that first impression. I tried to explain, but they both seemed so sure, in fact, that it took a while for them to actually listen to what I was saying. I told them I had almost no memories of last night, absolutely no idea how I had gotten there in that hotel room, and that I had obviously been drugged and brought there without my knowledge or consent. Finally, they grew so frustrated with my adamant insistence about the bizarre nature of the situation that they told me to wait and save my complicated story for the detective.

  In the meantime, one of the cops led me to an empty suite next door and told me to have a seat on the couch and wait for the arrival of the detective. Silently, he stood guard in the open doorway, keeping me safe. I assumed the other one was securing the scene.

  Still confused and incredibly frustrated, I was actually glad to have some peace and quiet to think things through. My brain still felt foggy and my headache was getting worse.

  As I willed the fog to clear, the realization that a man was dead began to sink in. The poor guy was dead! However it had happened, I mourned for his passing and for his loved ones, who would be finding out the sad news any time now.

  A cluster of curious hotel guests began gathering in the courtyard outside, trying to get a peek at what all the hoopla was about. Wishing they would all go away, I called the front desk and asked them to send over something for a headache. Soon a hotel employee appeared with a bottle of water and a packet of generic ibuprofen. I swallowed the pills immediately, leaned my head back against the couch, and closed my eyes.

  From the sound of things, the room next door was buzzing with all sorts of activity. As I continued to wait for the detective, I tried to grasp more memories from my befuddled brain.

  I remembered dropping Jenny at the office and then running home to pack after my mother’s call. I remembered racing to the airport, catching the flight that Jenny had arranged for me, hoping I would arrive while my father was still alive.

  I remembered descending toward the New Orleans airport several hours later, nervously holding my cell phone in my hand and waiting for permission to turn it back on so I could call to see where things stood. Outside, as the lights of the city had loomed into view, I had felt that odd disconnect of coming home once it wasn’t home anymore. Astounded by the unreality of the situation, I’d had to admit that I always expected one day my dad would die from a heart attack or a stroke brought on by a fit of rage at some poor dishwasher who had missed a spot on a plate, or a waitress who had given a patron the wrong kind of spoon. Never had I expected to hear that he’d been a victim of gunfire.

  But that was exactly what had happened. According to my mother, around noon today my father had been the victim of a hunting accident down at his favorite stomping grounds in the swamps of south central Louisiana, an accident that had left him with a gunshot wound to the leg. The bullet had struck an artery, causing him to lose several pints of blood before help had finally arrived. Paramedics had taken him to the nearest hospital, which was in Morgan City, gotten him stabilized, and then airlifted him to Oschner Hospital in New Orleans. Even as I had been en route to New Orleans myself, my father had been having major surgery.

  Reaching New Orleans at last, I dialed my mother’s number the moment I could after the plane landed, hoping she would report that my father’s surgery was successful and that he had regained consciousness.

  The call had gone to voice mail, so I simply told her I had arrived in New Orleans and would be at the hospital as soon as I could get there. Once I hung up, I tucked my phone away, gathered my things, and waited what felt like an eternity for the plane to be secured at the gate and the doors to be opened.

  Thanks to Jenny who had booked me in seat 1C, I was the first one off the plane. The airport was quiet, and I was able to move quickly up the hall and into the main area, which was lined with empty restaurants and darkened gift shops. Taking the escalator, I reached the first floor and strode briskly past baggage claim to the rental car desk at the far end of the hall. As I got closer, I was relieved to see that there was only one person in line. When it was my turn, the young man at the desk processed my rental quickly, and by the time I got back to baggage claim, the buzzer was sounding and the conveyor belt was just kicking into action.

  Watching for my bags, I thought about my relationship with my parents. Things were complicated, but I did love them. Just knowing what they were both going through had knotted up my insides like a fist. I kept hearing my mother’s voice saying We need you, Chloe. I wasn’t sure if I had ever heard those words from either of my parents before.

  We need you.

  The physical trauma of a gunshot wound would be hard enough on anyone, but it didn’t help that my dad was getting on in years. I was a late-in-life baby for him, so it was easy to forget that by now he was almost in his eighties. He had always seemed so healthy and vibrant
, especially when he was with my mom, who was still stunningly beautiful and younger than him by fourteen years. But I had to remember that he wasn’t as young as he seemed, not at all. Even if he survived this, it was definitely going to take a toll on him.

  My bag had been one of the last to come out, but after a quick shuttle ride I had claimed my rental car and climbed inside. There, I had forced myself to sit quietly for a moment, take a few deep breaths, and try to gather my wits about me.

  I hadn’t been back home in a long time, longer than I wanted to admit. Had it been two years? Three? All I knew was that if my father died before I had a chance to see him and say goodbye, I would never forgive myself.

  What kind of daughter was I, anyway?

  My cell phone rang just as I was about to start the car, so I waited, answering instead. It was my mother returning my call, saying that she had been in the recovery room with my father when I had phoned from the plane.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s hanging in there. But he needs you to do him a very big favor, Chloe. I know you want to come straight to the hospital, but he desperately needs you to handle an important business matter for him first. You’ve got power of attorney, you know, so you’re the only one who can do it.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. My father and I had signed power of attorney papers a good ten years ago, when I was in my early twenties, just out of college and embarking on my career. At the time I hadn’t understood why he had chosen me for such an important role, so afterward I had gathered up the nerve to ask him why he had designated his daughter rather than his wife. What my mother didn’t know and would never know was what he said to me in reply. You’re a smart girl, Chloe, not like your mom. She may be the most beautiful gal in New Orleans, but she’s also one of the dumbest. You know how much I love her, but if anything ever happens to me, I need to know you’ll be handling my affairs, not her.

  At the time, I was offended on my mother’s behalf but deeply flattered on my own. Mostly, I was shocked by the rare vote of confidence coming from a man who constantly found fault in those around him, especially me. He was right about my mother in the sense that certain things confounded her, particularly things that involved paperwork or finances. I, on the other hand, had taken after my father, who was born knowing how to do business. His trust in me was well placed, but even then I had hoped I would never be in a position to actually prove it.

  Yet there I was ten years later, and the first thing my mother was asking of me was the last thing on earth I wanted to do.

  “What if Dad doesn’t make it? Can’t this wait?”

  “No, it can’t. Please, Chloe, just do this one thing and then you can come.”

  She rattled out my instructions. I was to go straight to Ledet’s, our family restaurant in the French Quarter, where I was to meet up with their lawyer and sign some business contracts he and my father had been working on.

  “Dad’s not selling the restaurant, is he?”

  “Goodness, no. He’s buying something. Some property. The lawyer knows what it’s all about. You just have to sign the paperwork.”

  Incredible, I thought as the knot in my gut slowly began to shift upward toward my heart. My father was practically at death’s door, yet even in his last, desperate moments it was more important for him to know that a business matter was handled than to see his daughter’s face one last time and tell her all of the things he had never been able to say before.

  Things like I love you, Chloe, and I’m sorry, Chloe.

  Now, sitting on the couch in the hotel room and thinking of my father, I tried to remember if I had ever made it to the hospital last night. Somehow, I just knew that I had not. Frantic, I looked up at the policeman who was standing watch and asked him if he knew anything about Julian Ledet.

  “Julian Ledet, the chef? Yeah, I heard he got shot yesterday.”

  “Do you know if he’s still alive?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I’m his daughter. I came to town so I could be with him at the hospital. They weren’t sure if he would make it through the night.”

  “Far as I know, he’s still alive,” the cop replied, eyeing me strangely. “At least I haven’t heard otherwise.”

  We were interrupted by the appearance of a man wearing a brown suit the same shade as his bowl-cut hair. Speaking with a downtown “N’Awlins” accent, he introduced himself as Detective Walters, though it came out sounding more like “Wahtus.”

  He sat down on the chair to my left, looking as though he was ready for a nice long chat. It wasn’t until that moment that I began to grasp the gravity of my situation. My father’s life was hanging in the balance at the hospital, but instead of being there with him I had woken up this morning in a strange hotel room, one with a dead man on the couch.

  Now I could only hope that the detective had come to give me an explanation, because I sure didn’t have one for him.

  THREE

  FRANCE, 1719

  JACQUES

  It was time for the final beating.

  Jacques reached for the flat sheet of gold and placed it on the work surface in front of him, thrilled that after an entire month of casting, rolling, and beating, casting, rolling, and beating, over and over and over, this incredibly long and boring and tedious job was finally almost finished. That simple thought filled Jacques’ mind with a joy and relief so great he felt like shouting. Given that his presence was supposed to be a secret, though, Jacques knew he could do no such thing—nor even speak very loudly, for that matter, lest the farmer who labored in the surrounding fields hear. He kept silent but was unable to conceal a grin as he worked.

  “You’re looking mighty pleased with yourself,” Papa said softly from accross the room, pausing to sit up straight, wiggle his shoulders, and move his head from side to side in a stretching motion. Goldsmithing was hard on the back and neck.

  Jacques gestured toward the rack against the wall, its shelves bending from the weight of one hundred and ninety-five brass fleur-de-lis statuettes covered in gold leaf. Just five more and they would be finished!

  “I’m smiling because this tedious commission is finally drawing to a close. Oh, how I long to get out of this stuffy workshop and breathe some fresh air! Then it’s out of isolation for us both and back to the city and a normal life.”

  “Back to Angelique, you mean,” Papa teased with a wink.

  “Back to the angelic Angelique,” Jacques agreed, grinning.

  Papa chuckled, which sent him into a bout of coughing. His agonized wheezing and choking had become a familiar sound in the past few weeks, a desperate refrain that echoed repeatedly off of the walls of this stifling place. The old man had quicksilver poisoning, incurred several weeks ago when he was preparing the amalgam for water gilding and had accidentally inhaled mercury vapors. Irreversible and incurable, quicksilver poisoning was also eventually fatal. Immediately he had changed processes, switching to mechanical gilding instead, which was more tedious but safer. By then, however, it was already too late.

  As his health had grown worse, and knowing he would not be able to finish the job alone, Papa had written to Jacques, instructing him to close up their Paris shop, tell everyone that he was off to visit an ailing aunt in Provence, and head to the eastern banks of the Seine. There, he was to purchase a rowboat, load it with as much nonperishable food as it would carry, and set off upriver, watching for a leather apron that would be hanging from a tree along the northern shore.

  Jacques had done exactly as instructed, reaching the location just two hours outside of the city. He had hidden the boat on the wooded bank, retrieved the apron, and then slipped into the building sight unseen.

  Once they were together, Papa had more fully explained what was going on, saying that he was working on orders from the palace itself, doing the highest-paying job of his entire career. His orders stipulated that the work had to be done alone and that if he told anyone else wh
at he was doing he would forfeit the entire payment. As he had already put in so many hours of hard labor on this job before he took ill, he had made the only choice available to him that would allow him to earn the money he was due: He sent in secret for his son, who was young and healthy and would be able to help him finish the task.

  Jacques had been heartbroken to learn of his father’s illness but had tried to remain optimistic. At least their working conditions were not too terrible. The building the palace had conscribed for this top secret project was well supplied, a roomy old blacksmith shop converted for goldsmithing. As there was only one cot, Jacques had been forced to sleep each night on a pallet on the floor, but otherwise he was comfortable. Meals were delivered to Papa twice a day by a neighboring farmer’s wife, and by supplementing those meals with the food Jacques had brought, both men were well fed. Jacques hid whenever the meals arrived, but otherwise they had been left alone to do their work. As long as they kept the doors closed, conversed softly, and only stepped outside for air in the nighttime, no one had seemed to notice or suspect a thing.

  Except for Papa’s lingering ill health and the tediousness of the project, Jacques had to admit that the past few weeks had been enjoyable, a respite from the busyness and noise of their life in the city. Jacques’ mother had died when he was only a boy, so he and his father were used to being alone together.

  But then yesterday Papa had taken a bite of bread and managed to lose a tooth in the process. At that moment, his eyes met his son’s and Jacques could no longer ignore the obvious. The old man was dying, and Jacques could not begin to conceive of what life would be like without his Papa, the man who had been there for all of his nineteen years.

  Trying not to think about that for now, Jacques returned his attentions to the fine sheet of leaf in front of him. Running his dagger in a crisscross pattern through the gold, he managed to cut the sheet into numerous, perfect squares, two centimeters each. When that was done, he put the dagger away and carefully began piling each square one upon another, intermixed with delicate pages of calfskin vellum.