Whispers of the Bayou

by Mindy Starns Clark

  Was that how Nathan felt about us all the time?

  For some reason, my fingers were shaking as I pressed in our home number. Listening to it ring so far away, I closed my eyes and swallowed hard and told myself that being vulnerable to another person didn’t take bravery, as I had always thought, so much as it took trust.

  I could trust Nathan.

  There was no good reason not to let him all the way in.

  Sadly, once again he did not pick up the phone. I listened to the sound of his recorded voice, tears springing into my eyes. The message I left was yet again merely factual—that I was touching base, that I had gotten food poisoning but that I hoped it would be all over soon, that I would try him again tomorrow.

  Turning off the phone, I set it on the bedside table, closed my eyes, and drifted off to sleep. Somewhere deep in the night, I dreamed that I was trapped inside a big Plexiglas box. Everyone I loved was on the outside just going about their day, but they could not hear me and they would not look at me. I kept pounding and pounding on those solid clear walls, screaming to be heard, but no one even saw that I was there.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Must we in all things look for the how

  and the why and the wherefore?

  When I woke up the next morning, I felt like a new person, the medical crisis seeming to have passed. Standing carefully, I decided that I was steady on my feet, the nausea completely gone. Lisa was still asleep, but I hoped that when she woke up, she would be feeling as good as I was.

  Energetic and alive despite all of yesterday’s turmoil, I quickly showered, dressed, and then stripped the bed and carried everything down the stairs and into the back part of the house. There, I found the laundry room and started a load of sheets and blankets on the hottest setting, eager to kill any lingering germs. As the washer chugged away, I grabbed a bottle of liquid disinfectant from the shelf and brought it to the kitchen. I started a pot of coffee, and then I returned upstairs for my germy, bagged trash cans and brought them downstairs and out the back door.

  Stepping into the sunshine, I was surprised at how humid the air was this early in the day. There was a neat little hose caddy not far from the door, so I carried the cans over to the grass, set the hose inside one of them, and turned on the water. As it filled, I went back into the kitchen to wash my hands, make some toast, and assemble my coffee.

  Fifteen minutes later, the cans were disinfected and shining clean and I was enjoying my breakfast outside on the stoop. Despite my good mood, I knew that there were plenty of somber issues at hand, chief among them being Willy Pedreux’s funeral today at noon.

  Thinking about his death, I decided to take a walk, going around the outside of the house to his room. The whole patio area outside the French doors was still blocked with yellow crime scene tape, which I chose not to cross. Instead, I just looked through the glass into the empty room and then turned around and directed my gaze toward the bayou.

  Considering the accessibility of these doors, I didn’t understand why the police were convinced that the killer had to be one of the known entities. It seemed to me that almost anybody could have come here via the bayou, tied up their boat, come up the path, and walked straight to this room to commit murder, practically sight unseen.

  I backed up a ways and looked at the house, realizing that there weren’t any rooms along this side that had been in use at the time, as both the front half of the house and the upstairs had been closed up tight. If the killer knew that, he would have known he could make this trip without ever being spotted unless someone happened along here outside. Considering that this wasn’t exactly a high traffic area, that wasn’t very likely, either.

  Turning, I walked down toward the water and scanned the shoreline for footprints in the mud. There weren’t any, but that didn’t necessarily prove anything considering that it hadn’t rained until the day after Willy died. Looking toward the house from here, I could see that there were several large bushes between here and there that could have afforded excellent cover for a murderer to watch and wait for the right moment to make their move.

  The day Willy died, he had been left alone several times, though never for very long. I tried to remember how much time I had spent around front at the swings with Charles and Tess and then Lisa. Even if it was just for five minutes, could that have given the killer enough time to slip inside, somehow tamper with his humidifier, and then get away? I thought so, if they had moved fast and had known what they were doing. As for Willy himself, he had drifted in and out of sleep. It wouldn’t have been hard to accomplish the task without him ever even knowing someone had been there fooling with the apparatus that was behind his head.

  Taking my theory a step further, I realized that the killer wouldn’t even necessarily have had to come via the bayou. He or she could have walked over from either of the two paths too. I felt sure that neither Holt nor Livvy could be murderers, but who’s to say that someone else didn’t use one of those access points to carry out their nefarious plan?

  A few minutes later, back upstairs, I shared my theory with Lisa as we both got ready for Willy’s funeral. I wore a navy Dolce and Gabanna suit with chunky gold jewelry, but when Lisa emerged from her room and I saw that she had on a more casual top and skirt, I switched out the jewelry for a simple chain necklace, afraid I might be overdressed as it was.

  We rode together in her car, tossing out various ideas about his death as we went. Once there, Lisa invited me to sit with her and some of her relatives up on the right, but I declined, not wanting to infringe on the section that had clearly been reserved for family.

  Standing in the back of the room, I spotted Deena sitting in the front row, near the coffin. I was torn in my feelings toward her: guilty, if Lisa and I had wrongly accused her of poisoning us, self-righteous if we had not. Either way, I felt bad for being here, because I knew my presence would make Deena uncomfortable—and considering that she was here to bury her husband, that seemed unkind of me regardless.

  I walked up the aisle anyway, hoping to take a quick look at Willy, pay my respects, and then slip to the back of the room and sit there, unnoticed by the widow. The casket was surprisingly lovely, perhaps the nicest I had ever seen. Willy lay against the tasteful silver fabric, dressed in a striped button-down shirt and black slacks, a small Bible in one hand and a rosary in the other. Considering that he was dead, he looked pretty good.

  I turned to walk back and find a seat, but Deena spotted me then and stood, wrapping her bony arms around me. For a second I was afraid she was attacking me, and then I realized that it was a hug.

  “I been sitting here trying to figure out who done this kindness,” she whispered, “and I finally realized the only one it could be was you.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about, but I was glad to see that she wasn’t angry with me as she continued.

  “He was a good man, he deserved more than an old pine box. You’ve got jewels in your heavenly crown, girl, that’s for sure.”

  She pulled away, sobbed into her hanky, and went back to her seat.

  Utterly confused, I headed down the aisle, relieved to see a wheelchair rolling through the doorway at that moment. I recognized the chair but not the man in it, for this guy was nicely dressed in a crisp shirt and tie, his hair cut short and his face shaven clean, the cheeks pale and soft-looking where the beard had been.

  “Uncle Holt?” I said, my eyes growing wide. With the beard gone, I could definitely see the strong Fairmont resemblance. He was almost as handsome as his brother, though Holt’s features were softer somehow, the angle of his jaw less severe. “You look amazing.”

  “Thanks. I decided to go al fresco for a change,” he said with a wink, stroking his naked chin.

  He rolled his chair to the outer aisle of the back row and I sat in the seat next to him, telling him about Deena’s strange words just now. Rather than puzzle over them, however, he merely smiled. After a moment, one of the funeral home employees came over and spoke s
oftly to him.

  “At first, she just about blew a gasket,” the employee said, “but when we assured her it had been covered by an anonymous donor, she calmed down and started crying with joy.”

  The man handed Holt a piece of paper, which he discreetly took and slid into his pocket, thanking him for his help.

  The guy patted Holt on the shoulder and walked away. I sat there for a moment, my mind rolling around the possibilities of what I had just overheard. Finally, curiosity overcame my manners.

  “What’s going on? What’s on that paper?”

  The corner of it was sticking out of his pocket and on a hunch I reached for it before he could stop me. Unfolding it, I saw that it was a receipt from the funeral home, just as I had suspected, for more than eight thousand dollars.

  “What did you do?”

  “Don’t be nosy,” he replied, grabbing back the receipt and stuffing it into his pocket. “I simply righted a wrong. At yesterday’s viewing, Willy was in a cheap-looking, bargain-basement wooden casket. I knew my parents wouldn’t have stood for that, so I took care of it. That’s all.”

  “You upgraded him,” I said, looking up front toward the beautiful silver-and-gold casket that sat there surrounded by flowers. I realized that Deena had made the wrong assumption, thinking that I had been the one to do such a kindness. “And I got the credit for it. Cool.”

  “You behave yourself, miss. This is a somber occasion.”

  With a twinkle in his eye, he jutted out his chin and studiously directed his gaze forward.

  “Hard to behave when I’m sitting next to a modern-day Santa Claus.”

  “Hey, I shaved the beard.”

  “I’m not talking about looks; I’m talking about actions. For what it’s worth, if you’re feeling generous I’d like a pony and a big box of macaroons.”

  “Nosy young ladies get only coal.”

  A woman in front of us turned around and glared, so with a giggle I managed to remain silent. A few minutes later, my father appeared, greeted his brother with an awkward embrace, and then sat down next to me on the other side. Looking around, I also noticed a distinct police presence in the room, and I was reminded this was a funeral for a man who had been murdered as he lay dying. With a surge of emotion, I wondered if it had been my presence at Willy’s bedside that had prompted the killer to act. What “terrible thing” had Willy done that required my forgiveness? What secrets had he been about to spill? With him dead and gone, I realized that I may never know.

  The service started soon after, a somber, religious affair with a lot of standing and sitting and kneeling, not to mention the sickly sweet smell of incense and candles. I wondered what my service would be like when I died, and with that sobering thought I grew quite still, thinking about the man to my right and his rock-solid faith.

  He’d said yesterday that buying into God meant accepting the whole package. Sadly, I realized, I wasn’t even sure what that whole package was. I knew it had something to do with Jesus dying on a cross and then rising again a few days later. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure what becoming a Christian even involved.

  Once the service ended, we shifted over to the church cemetery for the final piece, which was brief. When it was over, they passed out flowers and invited each of us to place them on the casket. My father, uncle, and I got in the line and slowly filed forward, waiting our turn.

  As I stood there facing the casket and laid the carnation atop it, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotion about the man inside. He had died with some important truth on his lips, unspoken. As sick as he had been, and as imminent as his natural death was, someone had done the unspeakable by hurrying that death along. I tilted my head down in a gesture of respect and then turned and walked away. When I lifted my head my eyes met those of the detective who stood off in the distance, observing the proceedings. Whom did he really suspect?

  More importantly, whom should he suspect?

  A buffet lunch was being served back at the church in the fellowship hall, and though I didn’t really want to go, I felt that attending would be the polite thing to do. There, I ate some of the light fare and stood around making small talk with Holt, my father, Lisa, Charles Benochet, and Livvy. When I asked Livvy more about the museum where she volunteered, she said it was only two blocks away from where we stood and that she’d be happy to walk over with me if I wanted to go right now.

  That sounded good to me. Before we left, I told Lisa that I was going to run to the museum with Livvy and catch a ride home with her. In turn, Lisa offered to stop at the grocery store and pick up some food to replace everything of Deena’s back at the house.

  “I’m throwing it all out,” she said, casting a hateful look toward Deena, who was sitting in chair against the wall, surrounded by fellow mourners. “I don’t trust her.”

  Slipping her some cash, I asked if she could also pick up some beef or salmon steaks while she was there, if she didn’t mind, as I had invited my uncle to have dinner with us tonight. I knew there was a grill on the patio outside of Willy’s room, and I thought I might roll it out from under the crime scene tape and around to the back door where I could broil some steaks. Meat was one of the few things I knew how to cook well, thanks to a restaurant job I’d held during my college years that had taught me to man a grill but, sadly, little else in the kitchen.

  “You got it. Sounds good.”

  Lisa offered to handle the preparation of the rest of the meal, including side dishes and dessert, which I gratefully accepted, thinking that if she knew how awful my cooking was, she would know what a favor she was doing for us.

  Livvy and I gave Deena some final words and a hug, though I didn’t have the opportunity to clear up her misconception about the casket just then. Outside, it was boiling hot, but the two blocks were short and Livvy didn’t even break a sweat. When we reached the museum, she took me inside and introduced me to her fellow volunteers, gave me a quick tour, and then led me to the reference book section. As it wasn’t specifically a Cajun museum but one that encompassed a variety of Louisiana cultures, there wasn’t a whole lot there that might be of use to me. Still, I found several large books that seemed promising, and even though they were reference materials, Livvy let me take them out as long as I promised to bring them back the next day.

  As she wrote up the checkout slip, I asked the other volunteers if they had ever heard of a Cajun myth about a bell.

  “Somebody else was asking about that,” one of them said. “Just a few weeks ago. Only they used a French term.”

  “Chucotement du bayou de l’angelus?”

  “Yeah, that was it. They said it had something to do with the Great Expulsion, some old Cajun story about a whole town sneaking out some treasure right under the nose of the British soldiers.”

  I asked her to describe the patron who had been asking, but the girl simply shook her head.

  “Never saw her. We just talked about it on the phone. She wanted more information, but we didn’t have anything, so I suggested that she try the big Cajun museum in St. Martinville. They got everything over there.”

  I tried not to look as stunned, excited, and frantic as I felt. Forcing my voice into normal tones, I inquired about that museum. She gave me a brochure for it but said that, unfortunately, it was too far away to make it there before closing today.

  “Thanks, then, maybe I’ll go there tomorrow,” I said, and then I gathered up the books Livvy had checked out to me, headed out the door, and hit the pavement, walking twice as fast as I had coming in. My mind was bouncing around between thoughts about the identity of the person who had called, the description this girl gave me of the myth, and the potential resource of the Cajun museum.

  “Are you okay?” Livvy asked, racing to catch up.

  “Sorry. I’m just excited. This is the first time I’ve heard that there’s a whole museum dedicated just to the Cajuns. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “I don’t know, I guess it didn’t cross my mind.” After
a few more strides, she spoke again. “You sure are takin’ all this genealogy research seriously.”

  If she only knew.

  Slowing my gait, I tried to relax, to come up with a reason for my intensity.

  “My mother and s-sister died when I was young,” I said finally, stumbling over the word “sister” as I realized I had never quite put it that way before. “I think that researching my roots gives me a way to reconnect with them and with the rest of my family.”

  That explanation seemed to satisfy her. She shared a bit about what it had been like to grow up as one of five sisters, and we quickly covered the two blocks as she chatted the rest of the way.

  Nearing the parking lot at the church, I saw that only three cars remained: Livvy’s black Volvo, Uncle Holt’s handicapped van, and one more vehicle I didn’t recognize, a champagne-colored Lincoln. As we moved closer, my heart stuck in my throat, for I recognized the woman who was standing there in the parking lot talking with Holt.

  It was AJ, who must have made plans to fly down here the moment she got my message and learned that I had already come.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,

  This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught here.

  AJ acted perfectly normal and friendly as I greeted her with a hug and introduced her to Livvy. It was only after Livvy had gotten in her car and driven away that AJ’s expression darkened.

  “Holt’s been filling me in,” she said, glancing toward him. “You and I have a lot to talk about.”

  “I guess we do,” I replied, knowing he must have given her the basic facts about Willy’s death and the involvement of the police. I wondered if he’d also shared the news that I had found and read all of her letters to my grandparents.