Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  One of my favorite family videos is of her son’s eighteenth birthday. It’s grainy and shaky—like home videos were back then—but the three-minute clip shows Good Time Jack in middle age, still fit and handsome and manning the grill. In one hand he has a set of tongs. He uses them to turn ears of corn. His other hand is around young Auntie June’s waist. And even though he’s wearing an apron that reads: Kiss me, I’m Cajun, it’s Auntie June who keeps getting the sugar. He can barely keep his lips off her. Every thirty seconds or so, he smooches her cheek or the top of her head, and she absolutely glows from his easy affection. Throughout the entire video, they’re smiling ear to ear, so obviously head over heels in love even after two kids and two decades of marriage.

  “I wish I’d met him,” I tell her.

  “Me too, honey. Me too.”

  We continue down the long hallway with its expensive wainscoting and rows of black-and-white photos of family members long dead. When we step into the kitchen, the comforts of time and place, home and hearth wrap around me. Exposed-brick walls, copper pots and pans hanging from hooks, huge ceiling beams, Spanish-tile floors, and wooden countertops that have been scrubbed so often they’re as soft as silk pay homage to the history of this house. The only nods to modernization Aunt Bea allowed in here are the appliances and the island she had built in the center of the room.

  Auntie June bustles toward the refrigerator, and Aunt Bea motions for us to grab the stools pushed up against the island. She doesn’t join us. Instead, she remains standing. After folding her manicured hands atop the countertop, she says, “Something tells me we should forgo the small talk and get right down to it.”

  She’s always been a shrewd woman. She’s had to be. Her husband left her with a not-so-small fortune to manage. And with great wealth comes great swindlers. Over the years, plenty have tried to scam her out of her millions. None has managed to get as much as a dime.

  Just like her, Luc doesn’t hold back. “Maggie May and I are in trouble, Miss Bea.”

  Auntie June stops filling glasses with Louisiana Kool-Aid, more commonly known as sweet tea, and demands, “What kind of trouble?”

  “The worst kind.” Luc makes a face. “The superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department blames us for the disappearance of his son.”

  Hearing the words aloud makes my mouth go dry.

  “What?” Auntie June squawks. “Why in tarnation would he do that?”

  “Because of me,” Cash is quick to admit. “Sullivan never forgave me for standing up for Maggie and putting a hurt on his precious boy out behind the school gymnasium. I didn’t just stomp Dean’s face in, I stomped his pride in too. Which means I stomped his father’s pride in by extension. Sullivan would love to see me behind bars for that. But since I have an airtight alibi for the night Dean disappeared, he’s going after Maggie and Luc. He knows taking them down would hurt me worse than going down myself. And he’s cooked up some crazy scenario where I held a grudge against Dean and had Luc and Maggie do my dirty work for me by doing away with the dickhead out in the swamp. Uh…excuse my French.”

  “Sweet Jesus on the john,” Auntie June whispers.

  Aunt Bea is more acerbic. “The nut did not fall far from the tree when it came to Dean Sullivan.”

  “Some crazy scenario is one thing,” Auntie June insists. “Proof is quite another. I’m assuming he doesn’t have any?”

  Aunt Bea and Auntie June know I was at the same party as Dean the night he disappeared and that Sullivan has pulled me in for questioning over the years regarding my recollections of that night. They didn’t see me come in after prom, but they know I jumped straight in the shower, and then stood in my robe as I burned my dress in the fire pit outside.

  They think I did that because I was righteously pissed off at Cash for standing me up—and truthfully, even had that bad business in the swamp not happened, I probably would have burned the dress. Still, that rise in Auntie June’s voice makes me wonder if they’ve ever suspected anything. Is it possible I didn’t hide the bruises as well as I thought I did?

  “Sullivan’s got squat because there’s nothing there,” Luc says. “But we all know he won’t bat a lash at fabricating what he needs.”

  “Lord have mercy.” Auntie June’s hands are shaking as she finishes pouring the teas and slides them across the island countertop toward us.

  I take a quick drink, hoping it’ll wet my cotton mouth.

  “Why now?” Aunt Bea asks. She’s fingering the pearls around her neck. It’s the only indication she’s agitated. “Why wait over a decade before coming after you?”

  “Sullivan hoped Cash and I would bite the dust over in Afghanistan,” Luc explains. “He figured that was better than the two of us sitting here in a nice, cushy jail cell. But instead of getting our heads blown off by the Taliban, we turned back up, whole and hale.”

  “So now he’s after his own warped brand of justice,” Auntie June muses.

  “Or so we’ve been told,” Cash says.

  “By whom?” One sleek, gray eyebrow climbs Aunt Bea’s forehead.

  “My father,” Cash admits. “He was good enough to pay me a visit and advise me to keep my distance from Luc and Maggie. You know, so I wouldn’t take the fall with them and put a blight on our family name.”

  My aunts are silent. While Aunt Bea is pretty good at hiding her emotions, Auntie June is not. She looks like she’s sucking on a lemon.

  “Go ahead and say what you’re thinking, Miss June,” Cash tells her. “I’m sure it’s not half as bad as what I’m thinking.”

  “Your daddy and George Sullivan are both egg-sucking dogs,” she snarls. “But in your case”—she takes Cash’s hand—“the nut did fall far from the tree.”

  “Thank you, Miss June.” His voice sounds misty. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

  “Simply speakin’ the truth, honey pie.” She grins at him affectionately.

  Aunt Bea shakes her head. “I’m confused, Cash. If George Sullivan thinks you had it out for Dean and were the one behind his disappearance, then why on God’s green earth is he still bosom buddies with your father? And why would your father remain friends with Sullivan if Sullivan thinks you’re responsible for what happened to Dean? Seems like it’d be an awful conflict of interest between them.”

  “Not when you realize they share a mutual hatred of me,” Cash says.

  I cringe at the thought of the deep psychological scar he must bear knowing his only living parent loathes him.

  Auntie June’s rosy cheeks bleach of color. “How in the world can a man hate his own child?”

  Cash shrugs. “You got me. Maybe because I remind him of my mother? Maybe because he never wanted a kid in the first place, or because he was born with a bitter heart that finds pleasure in others’ pain? I gave up trying to figure him out years ago.”

  “What do you need from me?” Aunt Bea gets back down to business.

  Luc twists his lips. “Before I get ’round to the asking part, lemme first say I know you gotta lot of pull in the city, but that’s only ’cause folks admire and respect you. So don’t feel like you hafta answer my questions if it’s gonna hurt your standing within the community.”

  Aunt Bea bats the notion away. “If you know of a way I can help Maggie, then I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Aunt Bea looks like an ice queen, but she’s got a heart of melted butter. There’s a lump in my throat when I give her a shaky smile. “Thank you, Aunt Bea.”

  “No thanks necessary, my sweet girl. Family is family. Luc”—she turns back to him—“get to asking.”

  He immediately launches into the heart of what brought us out today. “I don’t think it’s any secret that to keep his job through one scandal after another, Sullivan has been blackmailing some of the more influential citizens of New Orleans into supporting his reappointments.”

  Aunt Bea’s gaze sharpens. “The folks you’re talking about may have some skeletons they want kept in the closet, which is
how Sullivan is able to get them in a bind, but having skeletons in the closet and being bad people aren’t one and the same. These are good folks.”

  He pulls a face. “I don’t doubt it, Miss Bea. And the last thing I want is to hurt anyone. But the only way I can see to stop Sullivan from coming after me and Maggie May is if I bring him down first. And the only way I reckon he can be brought down is if some of the people he’s been blackmailing go to the authorities about it. I’m hoping they only need some coaxing.”

  Even before Luc is finished speaking, Aunt Bea is shaking her head. “They won’t agree to have their secrets exposed just because you ask them.”

  “They might if we promise their secrets will remain secrets,” I say. “If we can find a way to bring Sullivan down without outing them.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “With the help of the police.”

  She scoffs. “No one trusts the police, because no one knows which of the officers are under Sullivan’s thumb.”

  “I know one,” I’m quick to say. “Rory Ketchum. You met him and his wife, Jackie, and their two little girls at the Rex parade two Mardi Gras ago, remember?”

  “Twins, right?” Aunt Bea’s eyes narrow in memory. “They were wearing matching yellow dresses with about a hundred braids in their hair all secured with sweet little duck barrettes.”

  “That’s them. And Rory’s told me on more than one occasion that he thinks George Sullivan is lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut. He’s discreet. You can bet on it. And he also knows who’s in Sullivan’s pocket and who isn’t. He can help us find the right people to go to with any information folks give us.”

  Aunt Bea fingers her pearls again. “I suppose it could work. But…” She turns to Cash. “Everyone knows your daddy and Sullivan are as thick as thieves. They’ll never agree to anything if you’re the one doing the asking.”

  A look of disgust passes over Cash’s face. “Damned by my own blood.”

  “I’m not saying it’s fair.” Her expression is full of sympathy. “I’m only saying it’s true. You need to let Luc and Maggie be the ones to approach them.”

  Luc pulls out his cell phone and slides it to Aunt Bea. “The names, if you don’t mind, Miss Bea,” he says. “I’ll memorize your list and then delete it.”

  She takes the phone, but hesitates before typing. “You understand I don’t know anything with complete certainty. Everything I’ve heard is through the grapevine.”

  “Give us a few strings to pull,” he assures her. “Maybe it’ll be enough to unravel Sullivan’s web.”

  She takes a deep breath and starts typing.

  To lessen the tension, Auntie June dishes up slices of pie and pushes them our way.

  Usually, I wouldn’t have much of an appetite after this conversation, but black bottom pecan pie from Galatoire’s isn’t your average fare. This stuff would’ve tempted Gandhi to break his fast. Forking a bite into my mouth, I close my eyes as the sweet, nutty flavor explodes on my tongue.

  “This here pie’s got me thinking on Thanksgiving,” Auntie June says around a mouthful. “What’re you boys planning for the holiday? You going to see your momma up in Shreveport, Luc?”

  “No, ma’am.” He shakes his head. “She’s coming down here to see me and Cash.”

  “Is she now? Well, isn’t that nice. And where will she be staying?”

  “Out at the swamp house with me.”

  Aunt Bea looks mortified. “Won’t that be cramped?”

  Luc laughs. “There used to be three of us living out there, Miss Bea. We managed just fine.”

  “Well, I think y’all should come here for Thanksgiving dinner at least,” Auntie June declares. “Bea and I would love to have you, especially seeing as how I always cook way too much food.”

  “It’s true,” Aunt Bea mutters at the same time I say, “She does.”

  Auntie June dons her most persuasive expression, all twinkling blue eyes and wrinkled cheeks. “What do you say?” she cajoles.

  “Well, I don’t rightly know what Momma has planned,” Luc equivocates. “But I’ll run it by her and see what she says.”

  “Do that.” Auntie June nods.

  “There.” Aunt Bea hands Luc’s phone back to him. “Those are the folks I’ve heard talked about in connection with supporting Sullivan’s appointments. Take them all with a grain of salt.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bea.” Luc flashes his dimples, and darned if my aged aunt doesn’t color up like a schoolgirl.

  “Yes, thank you, Aunt Bea.” I reach across the island to give her bony hand a heartfelt squeeze.

  She smiles, but it slips from her lips like they’re greasy. “I hate this for you, honey. I hate everything about it.”

  I don’t sugarcoat my response. “I hate it too, Aunt Bea. More than you know.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  ______________________________________

  Luc

  Dear Luc,

  School has started again, which means the late-season azaleas and camellias are blooming. Aunt Bea’s entire backyard is festooned in fuchsia flowers that remind me of that horrible hot-pink T-shirt Cash wore the week after we first met him.

  Do you remember? It read, “I’m from Jersey. Go fuck yourself!”

  The principal nearly had a stroke. She made him turn it inside out, but you could still read it if you squinted.

  Funny, at the time I couldn’t understand why he was always raising such a ruckus. Now I kind of miss it. Without the ruckus, I have time to think.

  When I think, I worry.

  I worry about where you are. I worry if you’ve been sent to some faraway place filled with men who want to kill you. I worry the only reason you’re there, the only reason you felt you had to follow Cash, is because of what happened.

  By the way, the kids at school look at me funny. Like they’re waiting on me to… I don’t know. Confess to something? Break down into tears? Run screaming through the hall, tearing out my hair?

  I feel like a fish in a glass bowl most days.

  But I’ll keep on keeping on. I won’t let the depression I was suffering from two years ago get a foothold on me again.

  I never told you about that, did I? Well, I’m telling you about it now, even though I’m ashamed to admit it. I was contemplating the worst, Luc. Then you came along and saved me.

  You’re a hero. You’re MY hero.

  And that worries me too. Because heroes do heroic things by putting themselves in dangerous situations.

  Wherever you are, please don’t think you need to be a hero. Please…just be safe.

  Forever and always, Maggie May

  Sometimes, to be a lover and writer of words is to know the limitations of the language.

  Take the word love, for instance. It’s four little letters that don’t begin to encapsulate the enormity of the emotion.

  There are other words that are similar. Pain, hate, faith. All of them are too small to embody the entirety of their meaning. But I think love is the worst. Love is massive and staggering. It’s convoluted and complex.

  Just look at the three of us.

  On the one hand, I want to strangle Cash for telling Maggie that kiss was a mistake and all he wants is to be friends. I love her, and I don’t want anything to hurt her. But I also want to hug the life out of him and tell him to stop pushing her away because I know that more than anything in the world, he loves her. He just won’t allow himself to have her on account of what’s happening with his head.

  On the other hand, because I love Maggie, I want to warn her that any path she chooses that includes Cash is bound to be a rocky one. No. Not rocky. It’s going to be a trek over the damned Himalayas because (there’s no easy way to say this) Cash is screwed up. And he seems to get more screwed up every day. I hate the idea of her suffering alongside him. But then I hope she does, because I know he’ll do better with her than without her.

  See? Enormous. Convoluted. Complex.

/>   “Miss Bea said his name is Billy Joe Summerset, the president and CEO of Fidelity Bank. But a quick Google search shows he goes by BJ,” Cash says, glancing at his phone.

  He and Maggie are sitting in front of me on the streetcar heading back toward The Quarter. After we drop off Cash at his house, Maggie and I plan to walk over to the shop where I left Smurf. From there, we’ll make our way down the list of folks Miss Bea gave me. (A list I quickly memorized and then just as quickly deleted. As a Green Beret, I’m leery of having anything in writing. I mean, what if Sullivan somehow convinced a judge to subpoena my phone?) Maggie and I are going to ring doorbells, knock on doors, and hopefully persuade someone to help us take Sullivan down. (Something that should have happened years ago.)

  “BJ,” Cash emphasizes with a twist of his lips. “I mean, seriously? That’s worse than Todd.”

  “Maybe he thinks it’s subliminal advertising,” Maggie suggests. “Like, he hopes every time a woman says his name, she’ll be unconsciously considering giving him a blowy.”

  Cash snorts. “A blowy? What are we? Twelve?”

  She laughs, and it’s a bright sound.

  Cash catches my eye and winks. He’s trying to keep her mind off what lies ahead. And maybe, just maybe, make up for what happened last night.

  “You know,” he ventures, “it’s almost lunchtime. You guys should hold off trying to talk to people until after they’ve eaten. My hunch is they’ll be a lot more receptive on full stomachs.”

  Maggie turns to frown at me. “He’s got a point.”

  “How about we stop by the Tomb of the Unknown Slave before you head out?” he suggests. “There’s time to kill. And it’s something easy we can check off our list.”

  “Where is it again?” Maggie asks.

  “In the churchyard of St. Augustine up in the Tremé. It’s only a block from the shop where Luc left Smurf.”

  “Luc?” She lifts an eyebrow at me. “What do you think?”

  What do I think? I think I’m not feeling adventurous. I think we need to get this George Sullivan shitshow on the road. But if Cash is aiming to smooth things over with her, who am I to get in his way?