Blood Parish

by E. J. Findorff

  Izzy had first been elected sheriff of Moreau Parish twenty-five years earlier. Angel could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen her aunt in civilian clothes.

  “Why did you even come to the memorial, Angel?” Her accent mimicked everyone in Lemon Twig, easy and with a twang. It was an identifier, much like a sequence of DNA.

  “I’m a masochist.” Angel straddled the bench like a seesaw, a few feet lower than her aunt. Letting Izzy have the position of power would be to her benefit. Thankfully, her pumps had stretched just enough to be tolerable.

  “No ulterior motives?”

  “Damn, Aunt Izzy, I just got here.”

  “It’s been a good seven years. What have you been doing down in New Orleans?”

  “Keeping the feds off your doorstep.” Her eye squinted as sunlight squeezed through the tree leaves.

  “And you had to come say goodbye to my sister’s ashes?”

  “Ashes? Aunt Lorna wanted to be planted, not barbecued.”

  “The patronne said no. Every Blondeaux gets cremated, ever since the feds exhumed Uncle Lawrence back in the ’60s.” Her aunt reached up, trying to touch a blossoming flower just inches away. “Besides, Bobby would have to embalm her. Her own son. That’s just not right.”

  Two mourners opened the back door, then turned around with disgust when they spotted Angel. Izzy poked a thumb at the funeral home. “Get used to that. You left, which is blasphemy, and became a fed, which is sacrilege.”

  “Sounds like I’m excommunicated.”

  “Yep.”

  Angel stifled a laugh. “Well, this has been fun. I should get inside.”

  Izzy held up her hand. “One more thing. Lorna’s new will.”

  “What will?”

  Izzy’s eyes widened. “She never told you? Lorna went outside the family to make a new will.”

  “Wait, my mom’s her lawyer.”

  “Not with this. Lorna named you in her will. You and Lucy May. No one else. Not even Bobby.”

  “Me? How do you know that? Doesn’t it have to go through probate?” Angel brushed a bug off her arm.

  Izzy reached for the bloom again. She missed. “I met the lawyer. He’s actually around here somewhere. A judge made him executor before checking with me first. Couldn’t stop that, but I tracked him down.”

  “And he talked to you?”

  “I have my ways.” Her voice trailed. “And the brave bastard still came here today.”

  “I don’t want to know what you did.” Angel shook her head. “Why would Aunt Lorna bypass my mom?”

  “Crazy, right? Your maw maw always suspected something wasn’t right with her lately.”

  “My mom knows about this new will?” Angel straightened her back and stretched, having been hunched while sitting.

  “She knows, but she’s going to act surprised when you tell her. Let her have that.”

  “Yeah, I know my mom.”

  "Lorna better have left Lucy May the land, and you a set of dishes, or shit will hit the fan."

  “Aunt Lorna was a hoarder. She probably just left me some of her crap.”

  "Patronne isn't happy."

  “Is maw maw ever happy?”

  “This last will and testament fiasco isn’t as bad as when you defected, but… you know.” Izzy looked off to the distance. “The patronne came down from her mansion to be with the peasants.” With one final reach, Izzy managed to snag the large white flower off the low branch. It snapped off as her butt lightly touched back down on the picnic table.

  “And Bobby? How’s he taking his mom’s death?”

  “Who knows?” She pushed the bloom into her nose. “Word is, he talks to the dead bodies before embalming them.” Her finger twirled next to her head. “I hope that’s all he does.”

  "Ew. He has Autism and was abused for it. Have a heart."

  She rolled her eyes. “Lucy May says he wants to move away, too, but his reasons I understand.”

  “Being a Blondeaux isn’t for everyone. It’s messed up that anyone who marries into our side of the clan has to take the Blondeaux name, male or female. Like it’s a royal lineage.”

  “We are royals.” Izzy eased off the picnic table, throwing the blossom at the base of a nearby trashcan. She casually walked to her cruiser, reached in the front seat, and pulled out something from her glove compartment. She returned, presenting a business card to Angel. “That’s the lawyer’s info.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t the FBI pay you anything? You still driving that piece of shit truck? What do you call it… the stone?”

  “Rock. It’s the Rock.” Angel glanced at her 1980 F150, powder blue pickup. “Most dependable thing in my life.” She put the card in her pocket.

  “Your dad will be happy you still have it.” Izzy moseyed past Angel toward the back entrance. “You heading back to New Orleans tonight? What is that, a six-hour drive?”

  “About six. But, I’m staying with the folks.” Saying the words aloud actually made it real. She took a breath.

  “No shit.”

  “I was never not... I’m not the one who… never mind.”

  “Un-huh. Don’t wait too long to come in. Reverend Trevor is going to give a long and winding speech.”

  “Wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  Chapter 4

  The Divinity Room of The Wilkens Funeral Home was at capacity. Some of the family and friends sat, while others meandered, shaking hands. Men sported suits off the rack, and the women fancied dresses usually reserved for church. By all accounts, it looked like an average Lemon Twig Protestant mass. None of the mourners were distressed. Lorna was considered a figurehead, and not many had been close to her.

  Angel stood in the rear by a little table with a water dispenser and trays of cookies and finger sandwiches. In the corner were two ice chests with beer and Coke for when the kitchen got crowded. On the wall behind her was a large painting of Saint Jude, as indicated by the frame's engraved plate.

  No one paid attention to Angel. Donald and John were delusional to think she could extract helpful information. However, they were right in the fact that no outsider would ever get this close. Inheriting something of substance from Lorna would be the only thing to advance the stagnant investigation.

  Two large men appeared just feet away, gently moving people to create a path. The head of the family, her maw maw Paulette, made her way with a cane. This was the woman at the heart of their criminal syndicate—the patronne.

  Angel met her halfway. The room seemed to stop talking.

  If Paulette's descendants were the royal lineage as Izzy put it, then her grandmother was Queen Elizabeth. However, Izzy indicated the old lady had lost touch with the family's pulse just as Angel had, but in an entirely different way. It was as if she had become a dictator, abandoning the hands-on involvement every head of family had before her.

  Her wrinkled, veiny hand reached out, taking Angel’s. Maw maw Paulette smiled with her twinkling eyes. “Good to see you.”

  “Good to be home,” Angel responded.

  With that, the patronne continued to her seat. Background conversation resumed, and Angel was once again alone. If Angel knew anything, it was that her grannie wasn't pleasant. That short sterile exchange meant Angel wasn't welcome.

  A few minutes passed and still no Reverend Trevor. A matured Lucy May weaved through the crowd, taking the same path their maw maw had. Angel reminded herself that Lucy May and her twin Bobby were the same age as her; however, they seemed so much younger.

  Lucy May was oddly attractive, like a European fashion model that wasn’t traditionally beautiful. Her brunette bob hadn’t changed in seven years, but her bangs were too long. Thick eyebrows angled perfectly. And she had a little button nose that many women pay dearly to get.

  Lucy May said, "I'm glad you made it." Her voice was light, airy, and very country.

  “You look good.”

  “We’re not twenty-two anymore.”Her fingers curled he
r hair as if a nervous habit.

  “It was a lifetime ago. You had two lives. One before the murder of your dad, and one after.”

  “My timeline seems to be defined by tragedies.”

  The pause they shared was more for reflection than just an awkward moment.

  “When are you leaving?” Lucy May’s expression was inquisitive.

  “Tomorrow.” Angel hoped to draw her out. “Working?”

  “Sort of.” Her brown eyes widened as she looked up at Saint Jude on the wall. She audibly inhaled. “I’m a receptionist at Blondeaux Landscaping. Pretty easy stuff.”

  Angel cleared a tuft of hair from Lucy May's left eye. "You're so pretty. Have you thought about a new hairstyle? Side-swept… maybe layers. Some highlights."

  A grin cracked her lips. Her head bowed. “I have to go. The reverend likes me in the front during his services.”

  Why? Angel thought. Because you’ll be the new patronne one day?

  Lucy May disappeared into the mourners. A minute later, Reverend Trevor materialized at the front of the room and began speaking like a televangelist. The senior pastor of God's Light Church reflected on happier times, occasionally reaching out to touch the decorative urn as if to comfort Lorna's ashes. He was more sincere than the practiced sermons she remembered. His eyes locked on Angel's for a moment, but that meant nothing as he glanced everywhere. He stood above the average resident at six-foot-two. Since his back injury, however, he had let himself go in the mid-section.

  The room’s attention focused on him. He relished controlling the masses. The mourners were equally captivated. Some stood on the outer walls, but everyone listened without interruption while maw maw Paulette was in attendance.

  Lucy May had found her spot in the front row next to their grandmother. The lawyer Mark Senn hadn't made himself known yet. No one else approached Angel, and she didn't expect them to. While inside the funeral home, everyone would be respectful. Her parents were near the front row, where her dad nursed a beer.

  Lorna's son hadn't made an appearance. Bobby was still the oddity in Lemon Twig - the murderer turned embalmer, who lived in an upstairs bedroom of the funeral home. Bobby had been mistreated most of his life by all accounts, thrown into a cage when he misbehaved or his Autism acted up. Despite Lorna's impending power of being patronne, Doug kept an aggressive hold on the family behind closed doors. Lorna hadn't protected her children from Doug, which led to Bobby killing him.

  The reverend ended his eulogy by giving a public announcement. He said, “As everyone is aware, we have outgrown our home at God’s Light. We plan on breaking ground on our new church sometime this month or next. It will be a glorious, grand house of God, I assure you. In the meantime, my wonderful staff and I will continue to hold mass within the walls that birthed our great church.”

  This drew applause from the room. The reverend’s hands attempted to quiet everyone. “Please enjoy the refreshments, the crawfish boil that follows, and remember Miss Lorna fondly. God bless.”

  As Trevor spoke with a junior pastor, he gazed through the parting crowd at Angel. This time he held it.

  Chapter 5

  The Wilkens Funeral Home slowly emptied. Angel’s parents and other mourners kissed and hugged. Relatives eased their way toward the crawfish boil being held in a picnic area with sheltered tables and a pretty gazebo. She approached her folks as they exited. They merely looked at her, then at each other without expression.

  “Such a warm greeting,” Angel jested, moving to meet them under the oak’s shade.

  “People can see us, dear.” Her mother’s pretty, pudgy face remained in a state of concern. Smiles were rare. Her short, dishwater-blonde hair jetted out in different directions like a trendy cut gone wrong. A light green dress with pearls flattered her frame.

  Her dad stutter-stepped forward, giving her a peck on her cheek. “New Orleans suits you well.”

  “It’s a wonderful city.”

  Her dad's pot belly tested the same gray suit he had worn to Doug’s funeral. He wobbled as he stood as if he had a war injury. Thin, light brown hair pushed over his forehead, topping a symmetrical, almost triangular face. His dark accusing eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. They always appeared to have devious thoughts behind them, no matter his expression.

  “You’re eating enough?” her mom asked.

  "Too much. Speaking of which, attending the crawfish boil is a bad idea - for me, at least."

  Her dad placed his hand on her mom's arm. "We'll get chicken. Have a family dinner at home." It was more like asking permission.

  Her mom’s face soured. “That sounds nice.”

  With that look of disappointment, all of Angel’s resentment came back like a freight train. “Alright, it’s hot. I’ll meet you back at the house.” She bowed out of the exchange, heading for the Rock with rising bile. Just as she reached for the truck’s door, an urgent voice caught her attention.

  “Agent Blondeaux?”

  “That’s me.” She spun around to see a man roughly her age. Her parents noticed him, too, but continued to their car.

  “Hello. I’m Mark Senn. Miss Lorna’s lawyer." He had a refined look about him. Dark stubble came off as an undecided beard. His hair had been combed, but it was messy considering its length. She suspected he had an Asian branch in his family tree. He wore a blue blazer and an unbuttoned white shirt like he had worked late at the office.

  “It was nice of you to attend, Mr. Senn.”

  “Mark, please. I came to like Miss Lorna. I wanted to pay my respects. And I figured to meet you here.”

  “Call me Angel.” She leaned against the Rock’s door. “I’m told I’m in the will.”

  “You are.” His teeth were perfectly straight from braces. “Would you like to get some coffee, or maybe a cocktail depending on the day you’ve had?”

  “Are you picking me up at my aunt’s funeral?” She clutched her chest dramatically.

  “No,” he answered quickly. “I thought we could talk about…”

  She waved the comment off. “I’m kidding, Mark. Yeah, we can get a beer at the Frog. It should be pretty quiet there right now.” She really needed one.

  Mark Senn followed Angel a mile to the outer edge of Lemon Twig, where auto shops, discount motels, and a liquor store peppered the landscape. She pulled into the empty lot, with the lawyer easing his late model BMW into the next spot.

  “Nice joint,” he said. “I think they clone these places in every parish.”

  "An old friend works here, so I'm familiar with it." Angel led him into the empty establishment. Sunlight lit the room through the windows. A large dance floor took up most of the space with a raised corner stage for bands. Tables surrounded the dance floor with private booths against the wall. In the back were several pool tables.

  She stepped up to the bar with a ten-dollar bill. “Two Abita Ambers, Eddie.”

  The bartender stared at her as if contemplating service. “Delilah’s friend Angel, right?”

  “Great memory. It’s been a while. Love the mutton chops.”

  "Thanks." He smoothed them down.

  With the beers in hand, Angel and the lawyer chose the nearest booth, each sliding to the seat’s center. A Journey song suddenly came on the speaker, as Eddie now had customers. They tapped bottlenecks. Mark took a nice pull from his beer. "This is so good. Thanks for coming."

  “No problem.” She also took a swig. “You’re delaying my trip to my parents’ house, so I owe you. Something about the will?”

  He closed the space between them by leaning in. “No, nothing about the will. Now that we’re here, I’m a little embarrassed about why I invited you.”

  “Just spit it out.”

  He let out a frustrated groan. “I went to law school but always wanted to be an FBI agent.”

  “No shit?”

  “I thought about using my political science degree to join the Bureau, but…” He shrugged. “That was too real for me. I went the easy route.” />
  “You really wanted to come here to tell me that?”

  His eyebrow hiked. “Okay, already. Your interrogation broke me. Truth is, I saw you standing in the back of the funeral home and… and…”

  “And?” He was adorable when flustered.

  He turned bashful. “Can I tell you another story?”

  A British accent spewed forth. “Doth may entertain me.” She rolled her hand for him to continue.

  “When I was in sixth grade, I found myself staring at this girl across the room.”

  “A stalker at that age?” She snapped a quick picture of him with her cell. “For when I call 9-1-1.”

  He threw his napkin at her. “Aren’t FBI agents supposed to be stuffy?”

  “Opposite. We’re crazy fuckers.”

  He held a big grin. "Just let me explain. I had no idea why I couldn't take my eyes off this girl. It was as if a switch was flipped, and suddenly, I had hormones. This girl was my first crush, and I remember my life changed like I stepped through a door from childhood to adolescence.”

  “Crushes can be rough.”

  “I ached for that girl."

  “And I remind you of her?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Oh. Thank you?” Angel tilted her head, waiting for him to continue.

  "I found myself staring at you, and I didn't know why. You reminded me of that confusing time." He threw his arm on the back of the booth and drank from his beer. “It was nice meeting you. Drive safely.”

  Angel’s face burned. “That’s a sweet story, Mark. But I live in New Orleans. Who’ll raise our baby?”

  He chuckled. “Izzy warned me you were a firecracker.”

  “Izzy’s a wet blanket. She got in your business about this will?”

  He shrugged. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “Lock your offices at night.”

  "I do." He brought his arm back to the table. "So, can I ask a personal question?"

  “You can. Can’t guarantee I’ll answer.”

  “How did you become an FBI agent after being raised Blondeaux?”

  Angel had tried to figure that out her entire life. He was right that it was a personal question. “It sort of parallels your stalker story.”