Bayou Moon
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue - FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
Chapter One - FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10
Chapter Two - FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10
Chapter Three - FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10
Chapter Four - FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10
Chapter Five - FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10
Chapter Six - SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
Chapter Seven - SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
Chapter Eight - SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11–SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 12
Chapter Nine - SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 12
Chapter Ten - FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17
Chapter Eleven - FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17
Chapter Twelve - SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 18
Chapter Thirteen - SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 18–SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
Chapter Fourteen - SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
Chapter Fifteen - SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
Chapter Sixteen - MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
Chapter Seventeen - MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
Chapter Eighteen - TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
Chapter Nineteen - TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
Chapter Twenty - WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22–FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24
Chapter Twenty-one - SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25–SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
Chapter Twenty-two - SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
Chapter Twenty-three - SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
Chapter Twenty-four - SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
Chapter Twenty-five - TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28–WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 6
Copyright Page
To Michelle Gomez, Jennifer Llewellyn, and Violet Urquidez, good friends, all
Acknowledgments
Grateful thanks to Palma Beckett, dedicated reader, Carolyn Chu, committed editor, Ron and Mary Lee Laitsch, inspiring agents, and Woody Bevill, supportive husband.
By the light of a bayou moon,
A ghostly figure wanders there,
Once radiant as sunlight at noon,
Now pale as ice with black eyes that stare.
BAYOU MOON
Prologue
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties
And things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us!
CORNISH PRAYER
FOG ROLLED OFF THE river, obscuring the waning, crescent-shaped moon. All that was left of the heavenly body was the midnight glow that permeated the clouds of moisture flowing effortlessly over the bare earth. It highlighted skeletal fingers of mist grasping for unknown quarry. The mist conspired to keep all of its secrets, from the untenable September chill that had blown down from the north, dropping the temperature below fifty degrees, to the abnormal silence of the night crickets and cicadas.
Indeed, no human seemed to wander this night. The wind tenderly moved the branches of the tallest trees. Only a little debris from pine trees moved restlessly under their full branches. The land was silent. It was as if it prepared itself for what it knew would come, what it knew must come.
The sliver of yellowy-silver moon stared unflinchingly down at the St. Michel mansion where it arrogantly sat on a hill in the St. Germaine Parish of northwestern Louisiana. Once all of the land around it belonged to the wealthy St. Michel family. There, slaves had toiled to grow and pick cotton, pecans, and corn. The produce was loaded onto barges that sailed up a river hardly large enough to contain the barge. Then it returned down river, finding passage to bigger rivers and eventually the grand Mississippi and to the city of New Orleans where its cargo was sold. Once, the St. Michels had ruled the parish with an iron fist, in politics, in employment, and in sheer brutality. The St. Michels were a rich, influential family, with similarly powerful relatives in both Washington, D.C., and in Baton Rouge. And the St. Michels were never known to be kind, gentle people, much less benefactors to those who labored for them.
But time had had its way with the St. Michels and their land, and although they were still wealthy, their base of power had faded, leaving them big fish of the little pond called La Valle, Louisiana. The politicians still asked for money, but it was rarely given. The charities still invited the family matriarch, but she came only sporadically.
The land that had been plowed using the blood and sweat of purchased men was sold off piecemeal. Sometimes it was leased to farmers, who continued to grow intermediate crops of pecans and corn. The great St. Michel mansion became another interesting landmark to those who visited the South. It was a plantation house of tremendous Greek-inspired architecture, with fancy, towering columns, and so many rooms that two housekeepers were employed to supervise the cleaning. At one point, there were so many maids that one St. Michel mistress took to calling them all Sally; she could never remember all of the names in the endless rotation of young women who came to work there and then moved on. The house still boasted its bounty of silver, gilt-edged wainscoting, velvet wallpaper, crystal chandeliers, and ornate furniture. An antique dealer would have been joyfully exuberant at the chance to sell such wondrous possessions.
And although the St. Michel empire shrank in size, the wealth did not. One canny forebear discovered that he had a knack for investing money, and bought early into such companies as Ford, General Electric, and even the newest technology, computers. This man, whose name was Pierre St. Michel and who died long before the night of September 3rd, made more money for the St. Michels in a decade than the entire family had made in a century. But the power base that had been theirs never returned. The St. Michel children never again showed an interest in politicking, other than obligatory contributions to a cause. Their lives were spent in modest business pursuits, if that, and the life of what was called “the plantation set.” They spent time in Europe, Baton Rouge, they attended the best balls during Mardi Gras, they were known throughout Louisiana, but they also became isolated.
And isolation might have begot that which came to the St. Michels.
Only one housekeeper stayed nights at the St. Michel mansion. The other slept at her home, on the other side of the town. Most of the maids were away, snug in their little homes, many miles away, many of them still in high school, a few in junior high school. Only a few slept in the maids’ quarters, behind the mansion. The groundsman slept in the cottage near the maids’ quarters and never budged, because he was as deaf as a post, and typically drunk on a pint of Southern Comfort.
In the withering fog that poured across emerald green shrubbery and through cleverly crafted Japanese boxwood mazes a figure clad in white drifted. Her features were vague, and long, red hair streamed across her back, delicately moved by a desolate breeze. She made her way through the gardens and seemed to cast no shadow from the meager, fog-obscured moon.
Inside the mansion a woman stared out the windows so intently that she did not see a man approach her silently from behind. A lean, willowy figure silhouetted against the glowing light outside, her hair was the same color as the sliver of heavenly body above. She clasped the curtain in one hand and pressed herself closely to the glass, fogging the window with her breath.
“Eugenie,” said the man. He was her twin in almost every respect. His hair was the same silver-gilt. His eyes were the same midnight blue. His face was square and aristocratic. His figure was that of a whipcord strength. He was a man who worked at maintaining his trim, angular physique in the same manner that the woman did. One needed only to compare the two people for a second to realize that they were siblings.
“I saw her, Geraud,” said Eugenie. “She walks again.” One of her elegant, well-manicured hands pointed into the weighty fog. “Can’t you see the glow in the night? Can’t you see?”
Geraud stepped forward, centering himself at the window, framed by luxurious velvet and silk, and gazed into the worl
d of white light refracting off moisture-laden clouds. He stared, looking for whatever it was that his sister saw. For a moment, he straightened up, not believing what had passed so briefly before him. His eyes narrowed as he pressed his face closer to the cold glass in front of him. There was a figure in the mist. A female figure with long red hair, hair the color of burnished bronze, stood at the bottom of the hill, staring at them. Her figure was lost in the whirling clouds of fog. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, the figure was gone. A trick of the imagination, he thought, almost desperately. Only a trick. The fog is thick like I’ve never seen it before, and who knows what could have caused that?
Geraud stared into the fog until his eyes began to hurt, but there was nothing else. Nothing moved that he could see. There is no one, he thought. There is no one there.
A hand touched his shoulder, and he spun around. Their mother, Eleanor, stood behind the two of them, observing them with eyes as cool as their own. She stood there, wrapped in a silk robe, her small feet in satin slippers, her hands resting on her abdomen. Her long, white hair was tucked up carefully into a chignon. If Geraud had not heard the bell on the grandfather clock strike two, he might have thought that his mother had not yet been to bed. She looked calm, serene, as if she could handle anything. No vestiges of sleep still remained on her remarkable visage.
“What did you see?” asked Eleanor. Her face was as angular as her children’s. There could be no doubt of their lineage. She was their mother in many more respects than merely appearance. But where she was sedate, Geraud’s blood raced with anxiety, as if something lay beyond them, in the fog-screened lightlessness, something that was best faced by people who were inside the mansion, rather than without.
Geraud shook his head, not willing to share a midnight fancy, something that was simply shadows out of the darkness, determined that it simply could not be possible. He glanced at his sister and found her looking out the window as if waiting for someone to come home.
Eleanor touched her daughter’s shoulder and murmured, “You should go to bed, my dear. It’s far too late to be up, staring out into the fog.”
Eugenie turned toward her mother and paused before nodding. She wrapped her arms around her slender figure and almost drifted away, her white gown the only thing they could see in the darkness of the mansion.
Later, when Eleanor went to check on Eugenie, Geraud stood and watched from the bedroom door. The dim light from the hallway spilled into the dark room as Eleanor stroked her daughter’s hair over and over again, a simple gesture that indicated the depth of love for her child.
“I thought I saw … ,” started Geraud, and stopped. To admit to his too clever maman that he had seen anything would have been a mistake. Inside the house the fog was a distant memory.
“Saw what?” said Eleanor.
“It’s stupid.”
“You saw her, too.” Eleanor’s voice was firm, but tranquil, as if ghosts appearing before her children were an everyday occurrence.
“I saw … something,” he said. He was not willing to put a name to anything, for that would be like accepting the reality of something that could not be proven. “It might very well have been one of those damned tabloid reporters for all I know.”
“Did you smell something, too?” Eleanor asked. One of her hands continued stroking Eugenie’s hair while the other touched the saint’s medal hanging around her neck. “Earlier this evening, after dinner? As if he had just been standing there, watching all of us?”
Geraud took a step back from the door. He had smelled something he recalled from the remnants of his childhood, a smell that he could only connect to one person. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I haven’t smelled Cuban cigars in twenty-five years.” Eleanor put her fingers on her daughter’s cheek. Then she finally turned her head to look at her son. “I don’t think you have, either.”
Geraud’s face twisted. “It could be from anyone. Eugenie went out tonight. She went to a bar. She has friends who smoke. It doesn’t mean anything.” He repeated this litany, as if simple repetition would make it so.
“It’s not the first time,” said Eleanor. Her eyes were brilliant in the night, the blue so dark, they could have been black. She looked at him with the expressionless face of a Madonna. She might very well have been discussing the weather. “On nights like this, when the fog rolls across the lawn in a wave, it’s like he’s come home. I could walk into the study, and there he’d sit, waiting for me, waiting for us all.”
There was silence between mother and son for a long time.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Geraud finally said. “And don’t go calling on one of your ripoff psychics to clear this up. It’s just Eugenie, making us think that ghosts are walking in the night. She sees these things only in her head. Nothing more. She needs to take her medication. That’s all.” He spun around and stalked off, his footsteps echoing behind him.
Eleanor looked back at her daughter, who had escaped into the world of dreams, where nothing was real, and everything could be twisted to suit one’s purpose. “Who are you trying to convince, Geraud?” she asked herself softly. “Me or you?”
Chapter One
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10
It’s like a lion at the door;
And when the door begins to crack,
It’s like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It’s like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You’re dead, and dead, and dead, indeed.
A MAN OF WORDS AND NOT OF DEEDS
IT WAS A WARM, cloudless, Friday morning when a living ghost walked the streets of La Valle, Louisiana. There were some who actually gasped when they saw her. One old woman turned to her equally elderly companion and whispered of the will-o’-the-wisp, an evil diable at work, even in the most powerful magic that was full sunlight. She crossed herself, and spat on the sidewalk where the ghost had trod, vowing to make a protective gris-gris for herself that very night.
Bill Martinez, the pharmacist, dropped his customer’s prescription all over the pharmacy’s floor, scattering blue and white pills to the four winds. The customer peered curiously over the counter and asked, “Now what in the name of God has gotten into you, Bill?” He laughed. “A ghost walk over your grave?”
Bill stood up straight and banged his head against the bottom of the counter, under which he had been fishing with stubby fingers for a stray pill. “Goddamnit,” he muttered. His eyes were level with the counter for a moment. Then he rose up and looked back outside, watching the woman strolling down the main street of La Valle, as if she had stepped out from two decades past. He stuffed the last of the errant pills into the bottle and passed it over to his customer without saying another word. Finally, it occurred to him that his customer was still standing in front of him, staring. “What?” asked Bill.
Jourdain Gastineau, a seasoned and well-connected lawyer on the verge of being appointed Supreme Court Justice, studied the pharmacist with all of the skills he used in politics and in his thriving law practice. He hadn’t known Bill to get upset about anything or anyone, much less so flustered that he had dropped pills all over the floor. He had known the pharmacist for nigh on thirty years, since they were in high school together, playing football in a mud-splattered field behind the school’s main building, not a mile from where they now stood. “You want me to pay for that, Bill?” he said. “I ’spect you might like to get a little return on your investment.”
Bill studied Jourdain in return, regaining his composure and most of his good humor. The woman had stopped to look at the pharmacy’s window display, inadvertently centering herself in the large opening. She stood behind Jourdain, just through the plate glass window, looking intently at a display of cameras that Bill had gotten in a few days before. “You want to look out my front window, Jourdain? Then we’ll speak of the money for your prescription. Though I’d think a fe
lla like yourself wouldn’t need a sedative. Being such a cold-blooded lawyer and all.”
Jourdain laughed easily. “My wife is having trouble sleeping, Bill. Not that it’s any of your business.” He was not a tall man, nor short. His hair had turned gray, and he wasn’t one to use some fancy hair dye to keep it the color it should have been. But his figure and face belied his fifty-odd years, and his clear brown eyes often sparkled with a vigor that Bill knew other men of their age had long since lost. Most of the time Jourdain’s humor was easygoing, except when it took place in the courtroom or at a mediator’s table. He was a well-regarded man in the small town of La Valle, a man who spent more of his time in Baton Rouge, where the true political struggles happened, and a man who was going to move up soon, if the rumors held any truth. But there had always been that hint of ruthlessness that Bill and others of his ilk had known about. Bill had discovered it on the playing fields of their youth, and suspected that other men had discovered it on the playing fields of the legal system. Furthermore, Bill knew perfectly well that it was Jourdain Gastineau’s name on the prescription bottle, not his wife’s.
Jourdain was still laughing when he turned and saw what Bill had already seen. His laugh was abruptly cut off by a loud wheezing noise.
Bill rubbed the bump on the top of his head with grim satisfaction. “Talk about something walking over your grave,” he said.
Jourdain was wondering if he were having a heart attack, because he couldn’t move. All he could do was stare. Blood roared in his ears. His vision was tunneled at the woman standing almost directly in front of him, as if she were presenting herself to him. It was her. Her fine, beautiful features were the same. That color of hair, burnished bronze, shining brilliantly in the sunshine, was so patently hers. He could remember it vividly. That was her well-shaped figure encased in a little gray business suit. A sensible suit, but curve-hugging all the same, accentuating her long legs.