"Later…Poppy."
Ray could hear Link Marceau talking to Parker as the door closed. He smiled.
7
Open for Business
The two business owners on either side of Timeless Tattoos could not believe when they saw the "OPEN" sign turned on in the window of Neely Rivers's business. On one side was an actual voodoo supply shop called Voodoo You Do. The other side was a small café, specializing in crawfish, called Amile's Crawfish Emporium. Colleen DuPin, the elderly owner of the voodoo shop, walked into the tattoo parlor and said in shock, "Neely, chile, you really plannin' to open up again?"
"I am. Those bastards didn't kill me. I won't let them kill my spirit either. I used the life insurance money Daddy left me to fix the place up, and I've decided to do caricatures and paintings, too."
"Well, you've got spunk! Why don't you give yourself a voodoo symbol of protection tattooed over your heart?"
"No, Colleen. I own a tattoo parlor, but I don't want to have tattoos all over me." She glanced up. "However, if you have a symbol I can hang above my door, I'll take it."
"That I do, dear, and it's free of charge to you."
"You can pick out any tattoo in trade."
"Your daddy done gave me all the tattoos I want, chile. Maybe you could paint me somethin' real purty for my winda."
"It's a deal." She planted a kiss on the old woman's cheek.
Amile Barbeau, the aspiring restaurateur and chef on the other side of Timeless Tattoos, came in with a platter of crawfish, potatoes, and corn on the cob and a bottle of chardonnay. "We must celebrate Neely's return," he declared. "I, for one, am proud of you. We can't let those thugs ruin our lives."
"I don't think they were thugs, Amile," Neely said. "It was planned. I was the specific target. I don't know why, but I was." She shrugged. "They had cash on them. Thugs wouldn't have had that kind of money. They had it to win my trust and cause me to let down my guard. I almost think somebody paid them to come into my shop." She pulled three chairs around a small table where customers could wait if she was busy. She slid the stack of magazines on top onto the floor.
Amile placed the food in the center of the table and opened the wine. He pulled disposable cups from the bag he had and poured wine.
"They've disappeared. It's been three months, and there hasn't been another attack," Neely went on. "Since there had been so many in succession, it seems my attack was meant to be the last. It was supposed to have served some purpose." She scooped food onto her Styrofoam plate.
"Maybe it's because you were able to provide some identification," Amile said. "Could be they're keeping a low profile."
"This isn't fact, but just my intuition," Neely explained.
"That's scary, Neely," Amile said, handing Colleen a plate. "I guess I can see where you're coming from."
"You have to admit that the FBI agent being killed before he could come back and see me was more than strange."
"That is was, chile," observed Colleen. "You know, there was another FBI agent killed in Baton Rouge a few months back, and a cop in Eau Boueuse before that. All killed the same way. It's as spooky as when all them women, thirteen if I recall, were killed in Eau Boueuse twenty years now."
Amile nodded. "Yeah, some crazy woman trying to summon a demon with virgin sacrifices." He shook his head. "Lots of nut jobs in this world."
"Thirteen? Agent Journey told me I was the thirteenth." She shivered.
Colleen put her hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "You okay, sweet girl?"
"Yeah. It's just I don't remember much about that time. I was just a kid," confessed Neely. Her brow creased and gooseflesh covered her skin. Eau Boueuse brought back the fleeting thought of Raiford Gautier. She gave a soft grunt. Nobody will want me now—especially not someone like him. She shook off her melancholy and broke the head off a crawfish with unnecessary force.
As the three friends sat around the low table enjoying the food Amile had brought, the bell on Neely's door jingled. An attractive young man entered. He had eyes that reminded Neely of a nearly forgotten fantasy.
"May I help you?" she asked as she washed her hands in the sink behind the counter.
The young man replied, "Yes, I'd like to get a Celtic cross on my shoulder blade. Is Neely here?"
"I'm Neely."
"My dad told me to ask for you if I really had to get a tattoo."
"Who's your dad?"
"Raiford Gautier."
The young woman almost dropped the bar of soap she had at the mention of the name. I just thought about him. "Really?" she said aloud.
"Yes. He got a couple of tattoos here."
"I remember." Neely's mind wandered back and she smiled at the memory and then swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. "How are he and his brother?"
"Dad's hanging in there. He's had a rough time since Mom died."
"Your mother…died?" Neely felt distressed at the fact that Raif was suffering. She could feel her heart pounding and a knot developing in her stomach. Stop it, you ninny. He only remembers you are a great tattooist.
"Yes, she was murdered." The young man's words brought Neely back to the moment.
"I'm so sorry. Please, tell your dad my prayers are with him," she said.
"Thanks. I will"
"Was your mother the detective from Eau Boueuse?"
"Yes. Why?"
"We"—She dipped her head toward her friends—"were just discussing the whole situation with all these cops being shot. It's strange. Raif must be devastated."
"Dad's not the type to stay broken. He's overcome a lot of adversity. He just needs time. As for Uncle Ray"—The boy shrugged with a hint of smart-aleck attitude—"he's his normal self."
"What's your name?"
"Patrick. You are open for business, right? I came a few weeks ago, and you were closed."
"Yes, I'm open. We were just having some lunch. Patrick, let me introduce Colleen and Amile."
"Nice to meet you," said Patrick.
Colleen and Amile acknowledged the introduction. Amile asked, "Are you hungry? There's plenty."
"It smells delicious."
"It is. It came from my café next door."
"Maybe a friend and I can come for dinner sometime."
"Please do. Neely, I'll take everything back to the café now. If you want something later, drop in."
Colleen and Amile left Neely to work. "I'm glad you're open," Patrick said.
"I had a little trouble and had to have the place redone, but I'm open."
"Good, because if you hadn't been, I would've given up."
"Why do you want a Celtic cross?"
"I think they look awesome, and it shows I'm a man of faith. Plus, I know someone who has one."
"A girl?" Neely teased.
"Yes."
"The friend you're gonna bring to Amile's for dinner?"
"Yes." Patrick nodded and grinned.
"Okay. Are you afraid of needles like your dad?"
"No." Patrick laughed. He was amused that this woman remembered so much about his father.
"Do you know which one you want? I have several to choose from." Neely got her catalogue of crosses. "Show me which one."
Patrick flipped the pages until he found the one he was looking for. "This one,"Patrick said when he found it.
Neely nodded. "Okay. Take off your shirt and come with me. What brings you to New Orleans other than a tattoo? Your girl?"
"I'm a student at Tulane."
"Then, I guess you're old enough to get a tattoo." She puckered her lips. "You are eighteen, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am." He volunteered his driver's license.
She glanced at his date of birth and smiled. "Well, this is where I practice my art." She waved a hand toward a chair and a padded table. "You'll need to lie on the table. You're my first customer since my incident. Are you ready?"
"I am."
"Then, let's do this."
8
The Year from Hell
&n
bsp; Raif took a week off work to give himself time to grieve although he knew he would never completely heal. He walked into Bertram and Gautier to Myrna, the lobby receptionist, saying, "Mr. Gautier, Mr. Bertram needs you in his office ASAP."
He furrowed tired brows. "Why?"
"Not mine to say." She knitted gray brows into a scowl. "But it's not good."
With a deep sigh, Raif bypassed his own office and went directly to Walter Bertram's corner office. He knocked twice and opened the door.
Six people sat in folding chairs around Walter's desk. Walter himself stood at the plate-glass window overlooking the Gulf of Mexico with a scotch in his hand. He turned at the sound of the opening door. "Thank God, Raif!"
Pointing at the alcoholic drink before noon, "What's wrong?" Raif asked. He nodded toward the firm's lawyer, Saul Blackwell from Baton Rouge.
Saul lifted his own scotch. "You might want one too." Using his glass, he pointed at the other people. "Auditors and Irene Dellaine. She's filed a lawsuit—supposedly Bertram and Gautier used inferior products and funds are missing."
"What?" Raif closed the door with some force.
Saul passed a file to him. Raif opened and read before he slapped it closed. "This is absolute bullshit. Someone will be gone and soon." He ground his teeth as he watched Walter, a man who had just turned seventy, rub his chest. Don't you die on me too, Raif thought.
After months of rebuilding and investigating, Raif filed criminal charges on seven employees and settled three lawsuits for exorbitant amounts. Bertram and Gautier landed on its feet thanks to good malpractice insurance, but had a lot of restructuring to do. Raif was tired. Then at his doctor’s suggestion, Walter retired, leaving the business completely in Raif's hands.
Raif picked up a picture of Chris that sat on his desk. "Maybe this will help me keep my mind off your case. Still no clues." He caressed the glass. "I bet if you were investigating, they would have a suspect by now." He sighed and put the picture back in its place.
Patrick left for Tulane at the end of August. Raif was happy his son had decided to go to his alma mater and get a degree in structural engineering so he could come to work with his father. Patrick confessed he hoped one day the business would be Gautier and Gautier. Raif felt a momentary respite from his brokenness and sadness.
Raif's reprieve and Patrick's dreams almost came to a dead end in September. Patrick's English comp professor accused him of plagiarism and began expulsion procedures.
Raif drove to Tulane to deal with the situation. Professor Moran brought her charge to the board of regents. She insisted Patrick's paper on "The Detention and Execution of Union Spies in Southern Louisiana" had to be plagiarized. She contended the paper was not properly documented, but the information was too accurate to have come from the boy's experience.
Patrick declared with vehemence his innocence. "It's Aunt Larkin's house," he said to his father.
Raif read the paper and the charges before he addressed the board:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to request another English professor read and score this paper. I would also request to provide expert testimony Patrick could, indeed, have known much of this information without actually researching. I admit the documentation has errors, but it is documented. Before you expel a student for knowing something his professor might not know"—He leveled a cold, hard stare at the woman who had accused his son—"you must give him every opportunity to prove himself."
The board discussed the matter and, because Patrick was a legacy and Raif a distinguished alumnus, agreed. Therefore, the next day, Dr. Larkin Sloan Reynolds joined her brother-in-law and nephew. The board questioned Larkin's impartiality on the grounds she was Patrick's aunt.
"Yes, I'm Patrick's aunt," admitted Larkin. "But I'm also a published author, an English professor at the Eau Boueuse branch of LSU, and the owner of the antebellum home Patrick wrote about in his paper." She held the document aloft. "Perhaps, Patrick should've documented his knowledge as a possible interview, but it is his knowledge. I've frequently shared the historical significance of my home with both my own children and my nieces and nephews. I don't believe Patrick deliberately plagiarized anything. I've read his paper. It's good. There are a few mistakes in the technical aspects of documentation for which I would probably deduct ten points. I also found a couple of minor grammatical errors—another five points. I would give this paper an eighty-five. I would also strongly scold Patrick for not allowing me to read it before he submitted it. Part of the writing process is editing and revising. Letting someone else read your paper is extremely advisable." Larkin gave Patrick a withering look. The young man slid down in his chair as his aunt went on. "No, ladies and gentlemen, this paper is not plagiarized—lacking in certain technical aspects, yes, but hardly deserving expulsion. In addition, I believe Patrick has learned a great lesson from this experience. He's Raiford Gautier's son; therefore, he will not need to be told twice."
A white-haired regent with a goatee scratched his chin. "Patrick, tell us a little about your personal experience in this home."
Patrick stood. Hands shaking, he said, "I played in the hayloft that has been turned into a game room. My uncle has cars in the stalls that once housed horses. The area where the gallows was built is sort of off limits, but we often sneaked down there. I got grounded for that twice." He looked at his father. "I grew up exploring the house and the acreage. I should have gotten Aunt Larkin's exact words and maybe even some of the written survey data, but I just wrote what I remembered. I didn't cheat. The words are my own."
The regent gave a curt nod and Patrick retook his seat.
The board deliberated for an hour before they called Patrick back in and delivered their ruling with the same old man making the oral proclamation:
"Patrick Gautier, we have concluded that you did not intentionally plagiarize your work. You did neglect to properly document your sources. We're requiring you to rewrite the paper, and you will receive a grade no higher than eighty-five. We strongly suggest you follow your aunt's advice from now on.” The regent leaned forward, elbows on the table and softened his tone to one that seem grandfatherly. “Son, you have a resource most students don't have. Take advantage of it. You won't be expelled, but next semester, you won't have Professor Moran for composition. As a matter of fact, you'll be in Professor Dixon's class beginning tomorrow. This case is resolved as so stated. Dismissed."
On the drive back to Eau Boueuse, Raif said to Larkin, "Why am I being tested so? All these things really don't help me forget my wife and friends are dead. And nobody has an inkling who's behind it."
She patted his shoulder. There were no words to offer solace.
After Patrick's ordeal, Raif was met by Lindsay's car accident in Los Angeles. She was seriously injured, and for the first time, would not be able to come home for the holidays. He flew to Los Angeles for a week and brought his grandchildren home with him for the holiday season.
Life went on, and Raif did everything from habit. He still ran every day. He continued to work out three times a week. He even displayed his scale Victorian Christmas village at Christmas, but no new structure was added that year.
The holidays came and went. After Thanksgiving, Patrick moved off campus and showed off his Celtic cross tattoo at Christmas.
Parker, Ray's son, literally sat between Trista Gautier and Townes Johnson for his uncle at the Christmas gathering. "You're too close to each other," he told them with a wilting look. Little did anyone know just how close they were. That closeness almost proved to be the last straw on Raif’s back and left him even more broken than he had been.
Trista had been severely depressed since her mother's death. Raif had tried on numerous occasions to talk to her and spend extra time with her, but she seemed to push him away. So, when his daughter came into Raif's home office in April and said, "Dad, I need to talk to you," he was greatly relieved.
Raif swiveled on his drafting stool and asked, "What about, baby?"
Trista seemed nervous, shuffling her feet and looking at the floor. "I sure am glad you're not Uncle Ray," she mumbled. "If I were Courtney, he would strangle me."
"What would make you say that? You haven't done anything that bad. You're too sweet."
"You won't think so for long."
Trista looked so much like her mother Raif found it hard to be angry with her, but the way she was acting worried him. "Talk to me, baby," he said with love.
"Dad!" Trista flung her arms around Raif's neck and began to sob.
Raif held her tightly and soothed her long dishwater-blonde hair. "Shh, baby. It's all right. We're all going to be all right. It just takes time. I love you. Now, shush."
"Oh, Dad, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"For what, baby? What happened wasn't your fault."
"Do you really love me?"
"You know I love you. What's wrong?" Raif held Trista at arms' length.
She blinked back more tears and took a breath. "Dad, I'm pregnant."
Raif stared in utter silence at his daughter. He dropped his face in his hands and shed his own tears. He choked, "Oh, God! How much more?"
"Dad?"
He looked at his child. "Townes?" he asked.
She nodded.
He stood and held out his hand to his youngest. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
Raif snapped, "Where do you think we're going, Trista?"
"The Johnsons'?"
"Yes, ma'am. You didn't do this alone."
Raif took Trista's hand again when they got out of the car and knocked on the Johnsons' door. Terry Johnson opened and said in a dejected voice, "Hello, Raif. Townes just told us. Come in. I was expecting you."
Stepping inside, Raif sighed, "Well, where do we go from here?"
"I say the minister. Then, Sir Townes is going to the recruiter. Where Uncle Sam sends them after that"—Terry shrugged—"I don't know."
"They both graduate in a month, but only because Trista has gone to summer school and is graduating at sixteen. She's sixteen, Terry."
Broken (The Raiford Chronicles #3 Book 1) Page 5