A graveyard?
Josh raised the gun.
“Cooper’s Bayou Police! Make yourself known!”
The figure jerked upright and Josh saw for the first time that it was a woman in a hooded blue sweatshirt, backlit by a lantern, wielding a carved wooden cross like a vengeful angel.
An angel with a familiar face.
“You fucking make yourself known! This is holy ground,” Ruby howled, hurtling towards them, arms extended like a furious bird of prey. She shined the light directly in their faces and stopped a few feet short of them, brandishing the cross like a dagger. “Holy shit, is that you, Josh?”
“Ruby? Jesus, I’m sorry,” Josh apologized. “Aurora and I were just out here, and—”
“Didn’t mean to scare ya,” she said, extending a hand to Aurora. “Ruby Contreras.” Behind her, Josh swept his flashlight across the clearing at the neat rows of headstones, each one with its own circle of wildflowers, stubs of candles, and piles of what looked like bird bones and torn pieces of paper.
“Is this a graveyard?” Aurora asked.
Ruby leaned against one of the stones. “Yes. This is a voodoo cemetery, one of the last in Cooper County.”
“Ah, yes. Aurora’s been introduced to Charlsie Trosclair.”
Ruby humphed. “I’m talking about voudon. The religion. From Haiti. Not that Cajun crap for tourists. No offense, Aurora.”
Josh read the name on the stone she leaned against. “Billy Bob Contreras,” he said. “He a relative of yours?”
Ruby laughed and spread her arms in a sweeping motion. “All these people are my relatives. Josh, you remember BB, right? He was that homeless guy that used to walk along the bayou in his tighty whities, hooting at the moon. Bet you didn’t know he was also a Vietnam vet. Died last May. I just give everyone my name. Cubans got big families, people don’t ask questions.”
There was a silence between the three of them, like three ghosts in the graveyard, remembering lives lost. Aurora was the first to break the spell.
“But it’s nothing bad? Nothing evil?”
“No, not at all. Even hacks like Charlsie, they don’t mean no harm.”
“Still, you got to be careful out here this late,” Josh told her.
“I got my gun. And what about you? What are you doing out here this late?” She rummaged through her bag and emerged with a bottle of rum. “My holy water,” she explained, taking a swig and passing it to Aurora.
Aurora sipped the rum, letting the burning sweetness settle on her tongue while Josh answered Ruby’s question.
“Investigating.”
“Don’t you bullshit me, Detective Hudson.”
Josh grinned. “Flailing. Trying to figure out what the hell is going on with this case.”
Ruby nodded. “He’s a good man, chère,” she told Aurora.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Anytime,” Ruby said. “I heard Doc say he found a possible perp in NamUs. You know where he’s buried?”
“No idea, but I’m guessing the potter’s field.”
Aurora thought about the man in some mass grave, among a group of faceless criminals.
Ruby whistled. “I hate that place. You ever been out to Weir Island?” Her voice softened. “Six people to a grave over there, no flowers, no nothing.” She straightened up. “Well, not on my fucking watch. Nobody’s been sent there since I started working at the morgue. All of them come here.”
“I had no idea,” Josh said.
“Well, don’t be telling your little cop friends.”
Josh held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not going to tell anybody, I promise. I don’t want to get on your bad side.”
Ruby held out a bag towards Aurora so that she could see the contents: tiny bird bones and dirt. “This is what voodoo does,” she explained. “It keeps a place safe.” She reached down and released her feet from her tangerine sandals. “So,” she said, lifting the hem of her dress like a child to step through the grass. “If your killer is out there on Weir Island, why don’t you dig him up and get some answers?”
The meaning of what she was saying churned in Aurora’s stomach. If they could unmask the man in the grave, they would have the key to this whole thing.
“You’re right,” Aurora said. “I bet that if Doc could look at the body, he might be able to find something to identify him.”
Josh chuckled. “It’s not that simple.”
“What if it is?” Ruby stood up, defiant. “I bury people all the time, so why can’t you dig him up?”
“I don’t know. The law?”
Ruby snorted. “Come on, Josh. You are the law. That ain’t never stopped you before.”
“I mean, we could petition for an exhumation—”
“I’ll sign whatever paperwork they need,” Aurora chimed in.
Ruby laughed. “And who are you going to ask, the county commissioner? You met that guy, Josh? He doesn’t give two shits about the medical examiner’s office, or cold cases. He’s a fat cat who cares about getting reelected. They haven’t approved a budget increase for Doc in ten years.”
She yanked a cluster of white candles out of her bag and turned away to light them. “The way I see it, you want something done, you have to do it your goddamn self.”
Aurora and Josh exchanged a glance, and she could see he was thinking the same thing. They needed answers, and so they were going to dig them up.
Ruby knelt in front of a stone labeled JASMINE CONTRERAS and leaned in close, as though she were trying to persuade the person below to linger just a little longer with the living. She rocked back and forth, chanting in a language that bore little resemblance to anything spoken on earth.
As if in response to her words, the trees around them began to shudder in the wind. Clouds had begun to hover just above the water, and the gilded surface of the bayou split into thousands of tiny copper waves.
“So, Ruby,” Josh said, “you got any digging tools in that bag of yours?”
She turned to face them and grinned. “Well, well, Josh Hudson,” she said. “Aurora, I told you he was a good man.” She nodded at Josh. “I always knew you had a pair under there. I’ve got a shovel in my car if you need it. You be careful now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
On the morning of their scheduled grave-robbing adventure, Josh found himself parked in front of the mini-mart, his conversation with Aurora the previous evening ringing in his ears. Someone had dropped her off here to keep her safe.
But who?
Pearline Suggs, the cashier who had found Aurora, had been interviewed several times, her story never wavering. She had arrived early for her shift, found Aurora on the steps, and had called the police immediately. She had been sixteen and terrified. Now she was a receptionist at a law office in town. There had been no other witnesses. Josh didn’t know what he was hoping to learn, but in a town like Cooper’s Bayou, you never knew who might know something.
The manager of the Margie Belle Grocery was supposed to be mean or crazy, depending on whom you asked. Josh was hoping for crazy.
Inside, an ancient metal fan churned the hot air and spit it out again, along with a cloud of small brown bugs. The peeling shelves were stocked high with junk food. A boy of about five stood on tiptoe to reach a puffy red bag of potato chips. Patsy Cline’s distinctive warble floated out of a dusty old radio with a crooked antenna, and someone was singing along. Josh followed the sound of the voice.
“I miss yer lovin’, yer kisses too,” the voice sang. Josh found himself staring at the rather large rump of the singer, who was a few aisles down and two steps up a ladder, wrestling with a box in the tobacco section of the store.
“Ain’t nothing on earth, I wouldn’t do for you,” Josh finished the last line in his tenor, which wasn’t very good.
“Gracious light!” The woman turned to look at Josh. She had to be at least eighty, with a kind face that was as smooth as a freshly fluffed pillow. She wore an orange hou
sedress that gave her the unfortunate appearance of a pumpkin. Her silver hair was set in enormous pink rollers with a large, shiny piece of tinfoil tucked carefully over each of them.
“Let me help you with that,” Josh offered.
“Well! Ain’t you just an angel sent straight from hay-ven,” she drawled. She placed a meaty pink hand in Josh’s and stepped down from the ladder with a surprising grace.
“Nobody sings like Patsy,” Josh remarked, tugging the box of cigarettes free from the top shelf.
“Well, now, that’s the truth,” she agreed. “You just set that box right there.” He could feel her studying the side of his face. “I know you. You’re Doyle’s boy.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Please don’t hold that against me.”
She shook her head. “Your mama used to come in here with your sister. Your mama was just as sweet as can be.” For a moment, Josh stood there, basking in the warmth of this observation. “Your sister too.”
“Liana,” he said, as though it was important that she know her name. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know where she is.” He’d wired money to Pea this morning, against his better judgment. You won’t be sorry, she’d told him.
She took this comment in stride. “Well,” she said, “people have a way of coming back home. You did, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he said.
“And where’d y’all live? Somewhere up North?”
“Tennessee,” Josh said. “My mama’s folks are there.”
She looked pleased. “Tennessee folks are good folks. Well, I’m pleased that you’re here, Josh Hudson. I’m Miss Margie Belle.” Her sweet expression darkened when she saw the little boy clutching the bag of Ruffles near the counter. She hiked up her dress and began hotfooting it to the front of the store.
“Hey! You gonna pay for them chayda pips? If not, you better hightail it out of here!” She lunged in his direction, and the boy dropped the bag and tore out the front door.
“Some people,” she said, disgusted, “they just wanna come in here and enjoy the air-conditionin’. Well, ain’t nothing in this life comes for free.” Josh wondered what air-conditioning she could possibly be referring to. “Now, sugarplum, you tell me what I can help you with.”
Josh realized that he was definitely going to have to buy something. He looked around for a big-ticket item that would make her happy and settled on a dubious-looking ham sandwich, an oversized cookie, and a Coke. Margie Belle seemed satisfied with these choices.
“Miss Margie, I’m guessing there’s not a lot that happens around here without you knowing something about it,” Josh said.
“You’d be right about that.”
“So were you working here back in 1989, ma’am?”
Margie Belle looked indignant. “Well, of course I was. Long before that, too. Way before you were a twinkle in your mama’s eye.”
The charm came easily to Josh, like slipping on a favorite pair of pants. “Huh, 1989.… Let’s see, what were you then—about twenty?”
Margie Belle laughed, a hearty, throaty laugh that ended in a bout of coughing. She touched her hand to one cheek, where a circle of pink began to bloom on the surface. “You go on, now, with that foolishness,” she said.
“So you knew Aurora Atchison,” he continued.
Margie Belle placed a doughy hand on her heart. “Bless her little heart, you know I did. Someone left her right outside on those steps.” She pointed in the direction of the door.
“Did you know her parents?”
Margie Belle opened her mouth to speak and then thought better of it. “You ain’t a friend of her kin, now, are you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well. Her mama was Hunter Broussard’s girl, you know, the alligator man? Her name was Raylene. She was a little wild, but always respectful. She was so essited when she got pregnant with Aurora.”
“What about her daddy?”
“He was one sorry fella, if you don’t mind my saying so. Sorry as a two-dollar watch. Raylene was too good to take up with him.” She lowered her voice. “Those two ate supper before they said grace, if you understand what I’m saying. That precious little Aurora was almost two when they got married. Yes, sir. Although Raylene’s other boyfriend wasn’t no prize, neither.”
Josh tried to hide his surprise. “Boyfriend?”
Margie Belle made a humphing sound, which led to another fit of coughing. “Oh, yes,” she said, relishing this last hidden piece of gossip. “He was one of those boys, got a big head. Thinks the sun come up just to hear him crow.” She shook her head, and one of her curlers fell out, hitting the linoleum with a click. She bent over to retrieve it.
“Do you remember his name?”
Margie Belle scoffed at this, regarding Josh like he was crazy. “Not sure I do. Some name not found in the Bible. I know she left him to be with Wade.”
Josh felt a surge of energy course through him. Maybe this old boyfriend was important.
He thought about what Bobbie had said about Raylene, how she was on edge in the weeks before the murder. She told me someone was following her.
“Thank you very much for your time today, ma’am,” he said. “I do appreciate it.”
“Oh, I’m sure I didn’t do nothing,” she said.
“That’s not true, ma’am,” he said. “You helped me tremendously.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The idea was completely crazy. Still, Josh had to admit, there was a kind of simple beauty in it too. They wanted answers, so they were going to dig them up.
Literally.
Josh rolled down the windows to let the evening breeze cool the sizzling interior of the Jeep. Next to him, Beau gingerly poked first his nose and then his whole head out the passenger window. For the entire ride to Samba’s house, the dog remained that way, content to let the breeze tickle his nose, his tongue a long pink flag flapping in the wind.
They stopped at the turnoff to Cooper’s Harbor and watched a young couple cross the street with a wolf-sized fluffy white dog. The woman cooed adoringly at the animal while the man produced a red Frisbee from his bag, offering it to the dog, which began a cheerful sprint towards the park across the street.
Beau gave a soft whine, and Josh patted him vigorously on the neck. “Don’t be jealous of that big cotton ball. He doesn’t get to go on secret investigations like you do.” In reply, Beau sniffed and pawed at the backseat, where Josh had stowed a bag containing provisions from Two Ton Toby’s BBQ for the night’s mission. Josh laughed. Beau could not distinguish drugs from baby powder, but the pup still could identify a pulled pork sandwich a mile away. Josh reached back into the bag and offered Beau one of the bones Toby’d given him.
Samba’s house was the last one before the street yawned into a large dirt trail towards the bayou. The house itself, a dilapidated white cottage, was almost completely obscured by a lush curtain of palm fronds. The yellowing front yard was littered with plastic and ceramic lawn ornaments of every imaginable variety, from orange and white polka-dot toadstools to a small gray-haired wizard in a purple robe that bore an uncanny resemblance to Samba himself. At least a week’s worth of newspapers struggled to break free from their plastic wrappers on the sagging steps. A green sign proclaimed in flowery lettering ALL ARE WELCOME.
Josh was wondering if an oddly shaped wind chime made entirely of pink crystals was in fact the doorbell when a clearly exhilarated Samba appeared at the screen door. He wore a bright tie-dye T-shirt that had probably fit better a few years ago and a faded brown baseball cap with what looked like part of a flashlight affixed to the front with duct tape.
Not exactly the ideal getup for a covert operation, but this was as understated as Samba got. Josh appreciated the effort.
“Ready?”
“Showtime!” Samba gave Josh a thumbs-up and followed him to the Jeep. With some difficulty, Samba wedged himself into the front seat. Beau welcomed the intrusion, jumping into the back. Samba gave Beau an affectionat
e scratch behind the ears. From his pocket, Samba produced a yellow bandanna, which he proceeded to tie around his head, further securing the flashlight. He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper.
“So what’s the plan?”
This question reminded Josh of his dad, who had always told him and his brother and sister that you needed three plans: a plan, a backup plan, and an emergency plan. Probably a good rule of thumb when you were running a criminal enterprise, but Josh decided early on that, for him, that was three plans too many. Tonight was really no different. He had basic digging tools, flashlights, and a vague idea of where the potter’s field was located. They were probably in trouble.
“Once we get out there,” Josh informed Samba, “we’ll just look for the right number and start digging.”
Samba turned and stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve got the vic’s ID number from the system.” Josh indicated a crumpled piece of notebook paper stuffed into one of the drink holders between the two front seats. “They’ve got to have it organized somehow.”
Samba let out a laugh punctuated by a snort. “It ain’t the supermarket,” he said. “You see how organized the evidence division is. And that’s stuff that’s supposed to be important!”
Josh reddened. Samba had a point. There weren’t going to be red arrows steering them towards the correct gravesite. Still, he reasoned, it was a limited amount of space, so it had to be somewhat organized.
Didn’t it?
Samba noticed his reaction and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. It’s gonna be great! It’s been a long time since I’ve done something like this.”
Josh wondered how a do-it-yourself exhumation compared with Samba’s other escapades and decided not to ask.
The sun had long set by the time Josh eased the Jeep off the causeway and the headlights swept over Aurora standing next to her rental car on the shoreline. He felt a little rush at the sight of her; they were in this together. Coming here was crazy, but seeing her, he was convinced that it had been the right decision.
The Evidence Room: A Mystery Page 15