by C. L. Bevill
“The sheriff was working for the St. Michels,” she commented. Memories came rushing back, the words and sights and smells of an event which had troubled a young girl’s dreams for years. “You will leave the parish, Thibeaux,” Judge Gabriel Laurier had told her father, his voice as rich and as Southern then as it had been the night before, at Eleanor’s dinner party. The sheriff stood at his side, glowering forcefully. “Leave and don’t you ever come back.”
“Come on, child.” Ruff had grasped his five-year-old daughter by the arm, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath, no fight left in him. “We got to go now.”
“But Mama,” protested Mignon. “Where’s Mama?”
“Your mama done chose some other way t’go, Mignon. Get in the goddamned truck!”
The present forced its way back into Mignon’s mind. She looked at Miner Poteet and he confirmed her suspicion. “Paid off by them, by Eleanor. Nothing no one could prove, mind you. But Eleanor was and still is a cold woman. She didn’t want no reminders of no Thibeaux around here. So you and your pa had to go.”
“We left because he threatened us,” she concluded. She could see the scene in her mind, like a fogged, distant dream in which she was a reluctant witness. “The sheriff and the judge, both of them looming over my father, whispering in his ear, in the front yard. I didn’t hear most of what they said, but only saw how they frightened my father. They’d already piled our clothing and a few other things on the front porch. They wouldn’t even let us go into the house. It didn’t take him ten minutes to load up everything, and another five before we were driving out of La Valle forever.” That had been her very first meeting with Judge Gabriel Laurier. After he had muttered threats in her father’s ear, he had walked over to look Mignon up and down, like she was a piece of worthless lint he would flick off the collar of his suit.
Miner nodded. “I thought maybe they’d change their minds after a few years, let you come back to your grandparents or to us, but Eleanor St. Michel never wavered. The sheriff warned us both the year your father died. Came out and sat right where you’re sitting right now, that chawbacon son of a bitch. Said she didn’t want to see that ‘little red-haired whore’s daughter’ running around here.” He had the good grace to look ashamed. “The sheriff’s words, not mine, child.”
“What happened then?” Mignon asked as she stared at Miner Poteet.
Miner appeared almost surprised at the question. “Why, nothing much. Life went on. Ruelle Fanchon retired after some time. Don’t recall exactly when that was. But he didn’t care to stay in this place, with all these people he’d screwed over one time or another for an extra dollar in his pocket. Suppose he was a mite afraid someone would come and burn down his house while he was asleep in his bed. So he moved down to Baton Rouge. Last I ever seen of his sorry hide, I ain’t ashamed to say, and I hear tell about him having problems with the law hisself down to the capital. The St. Michels went on the way they always did. I stopped working for the family in ’87, and ain’t been happier. They keep to their big house and their fancy functions, and I do my business around here. The two don’t meet.”
Mignon had gotten something here, some kind of vindication. Her childhood memories and adult nightmares hadn’t led her astray. Questionable actions had been taken that night such a long time ago.
Then Miner said, “The old farmhouse ain’t been lived in since.”
She looked at him again. “I was down there Friday. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, it ain’t that. But if you go again, mind you don’t step through the floor. The wood’s rotten as a fish market in Denmark. I wouldn’t want you breaking an ankle down on the farm, with no one to hear for miles around.” Miner trailed off, lost in his own thoughts. “But maybe you don’t want to go down there at night.”
Mignon was silent for a moment. “Why not?” She already knew the answer, because she had done just that, and she knew what was down there at night.
He didn’t answer for a moment, as if he were afraid. “I tried to rent the place out time to time. People would come, stay a week or two, and then leave. That was back in the seventies. They said there was noises at night. Noises like they ain’t never heard before.” Miner went back to studying his fingers.
“I’m not sure I understand you …”
His bright blue eyes caught hers. “You understand me, child. I think you understand me just fine. Even the school kids don’t go down there. They don’t go down there because they afraid to. I don’t go down there after dark. I say to you, you go down after dark and you find out things you don’t want to know.” He crossed himself quickly and Mignon thought that he probably wasn’t aware that he had made the religious gesture.
Finally, he shrugged. “I’m saying that place ain’t what it used to be, that’s all.” He looked crossly around him. “Where is that girl with that coffee? Mary Catherine!”
The screen door of the house opened and a young woman dressed much like Mignon came out with two large, steaming mugs. “Hold on to your britches, Grandpa. I’ve got three chapters left of organic chemistry, and man, you don’t want to know what that’s all about.”
Her grandfather guffawed. “Organic chemistry? What for you got to take a class like that? Don’t they offer stuff like history no more? This here is Mignon Thibeaux, Mary Catherine. Her folks and she used to live down at the old homestead, so many years ago I cain’t recall.”
Mary Catherine was a vivacious twenty-year-old with black hair and her grandfather’s blue eyes. She was wand-slim, and held out the mug to Mignon with an apologetic look. “I didn’t know how you take it.” There was something in the younger woman’s eyes that told Mignon Mary Catherine knew who she was. There wasn’t anger or mistrust there, but simple knowledge, and Mignon wondered if she knew a bit more than she was telling.
“Black is perfect,” Mignon said and, took a sip. “Thank you.” It was a strong brew heady with chicory. Try as she might, she wouldn’t get another word about Garlande Thibeaux or Luc St. Michel out of Miner Poteet with his granddaughter standing there. However, she had a good idea that he had told her most of what she wanted to know, most of what he knew. She thought he wouldn’t answer her about the letter, so she didn’t ask.
But there was one last thing she had decided to try before she let go of this thread. “Mr. Poteet, I wonder if there’s something you would consider.”
Miner listened to her, and finally he nodded. He had his own conditions, but those didn’t matter to Mignon so she readily agreed.
It was almost an hour later that Mignon found herself in front of the old house again. She made a mental list of things she would have to accomplish, and was happy to walk back to her car where it sat alone and silent on the side of the highway. She would have to speak with the realtor again, what was his name?
Vincent Grase, that was it. He could finish off the contract between Miner and herself. Mignon smiled. It wouldn’t take long before the news had spread and someone would come to nibble at the bait.
She opened the trunk of her rental car, lifted up the spare tire, and removed a black carrying case about the size of a small doctor’s bag. Keeping her hands in the trunk, away from outside view, she unzipped the case and removed the gun inside. It was a Beretta nine-millimeter, a gun favored by police departments and the United States Army military police. It carried a clip of nine rounds, with room for one in the chamber. She could shoot until the cows came home if she were so inclined. She had purchased it in California and was registered there as owning it. She didn’t have a clue whether it was legal to have it in the state of Louisiana, but she would keep it at her side until she had the answers she sought. Chambering a round, she carefully brought the gun up so that it would be hidden from view. From now on she would keep it within grabbing distance. She might have a very real need of it. It was much better protection than the pepper spray.
That strange cold wind was blowing in from the north again. It seemed as though she were the only one in the
world at this moment in time. She stood beside her rental car, the trunk open and a gun held carefully in front of her, considering that five years ago she never would have guessed that she would be in this place, at this time, doing what she was doing. But then she hadn’t known that a man who owned a gallery in Soho, who sometimes showed her work, would be mugged and shot before her very eyes, triggering a mass of unconscious images she had suppressed for more years than she cared to count.
As soon as Vincent Grase spread the word about her upcoming purchase of the old house on the Poteet land, there would be some consternation. But who would be the most concerned? And what would they do in order to protect themselves?
Mignon put the pistol in her purse and put the purse beside the driver’s seat. She closed the trunk and drove back to the bed and breakfast in Natchitoches.
In her room, she dropped her purse on the table beside the door, and caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning her head in that direction, a blur of motion disappeared under the bed with a smooth, repetitive noise that she had to strain to hear.
Mignon assumed it was a mouse or a rat. She had seen mice before, and rats were nothing but big mice with longer tails. So much for the owner’s cleaning methods, she thought with a groan.
With one knee on the ground by the bed, Mignon stooped to look underneath. One hand lifted the white, lacy bedskirt up and out of the way so she could get a better view. It was the skirt that saved her life.
A great cottonmouth was curled up under the bed.
She focused on the shape under the bed for a split second before it moved directly at her. It was faster than she would have imagined anything could be. It was in that split second that she realized it was a snake, it was striking at her, and her gun was in her purse on the other side of the room.
Mignon couldn’t help the scream that issued forth. She yanked herself back, even while knowing that there was nothing between her and the snake. The snake, its body as big as a baseball bat and as long as she was tall, its white lips and gums illustrating its name, hurled itself relentlessly toward her. Jaws opened impossibly wide, revealing huge fangs which slammed shut with a loud clap as it missed her and snagged the lace bedskirt Mignon had dropped as she yanked herself backward, a low hiss of air escaping through her mouth.
She threw herself back and thrust a chair full of pillows on top of the snake. Then she ran for the door, slipping out and slamming it behind her.
Mignon stood shaking in the garden, her chest heaving up and down, her limbs trembling with the onslaught of adrenaline that flowed so freely from the chilling experience. Her room was located outside the main building, like a guest house, but surrounded by lush fall flowers and evergreen foliage. The cottonmouth was a water snake, however, and lived in watery areas like swamps and lakes. It wouldn’t be attracted to this garden, much less the country-decorated splendor of her room, and its poison was deadly, especially if it had struck at her neck or throat.
Five minutes later, she watched the owner of the bed and breakfast peer into the window of the room. “My lands,” she muttered. “Sure enough. That’s a cottonmouth all right, curled up right next to your bed.”
The word “Duh” almost slipped out of Mignon’s mouth, but she clamped it down and asked instead, “Can you call animal control or something?”
The much older woman nodded distractedly. Her name was Patti Lewis, and she was apologetic and crestfallen at the thought of such a thing happening at her place of business. “I’m sure those folks will come over and take care of that fella. I don’t know what he’s doing in your room, though. You didn’t bring him with you?” It was a half-hearted question at best.
“No, dear,” responded Mignon with sarcasm she couldn’t suppress. “I didn’t.”
Mrs. Lewis went back through the garden to the main building to call the proper authorities while Mignon looked around her. It would be easy enough to walk back here with a snake in a bag, jimmy the door or the window, leave the snake, and vanish without anyone seeing anything. But Mrs. Lewis had a full house of guests, and many of them had wandered through the garden while she and Mignon stood there talking about their uninvited guest.
When the older woman returned, Mignon asked, “You might want to ask if your other guests saw anything unusual this morning.”
Mrs. Lewis’s face twisted unhappily. She had visions in her mind of being sued by the nice young lady who was staying for an unlimited time in her refurbished carriage house. But she wasn’t stupid. “You mean you think someone put that snake in your room? On purpose?” God forbid, the older woman thought. Talk about a lawsuit to end all lawsuits.
Mignon shrugged, happy to be outside while the snake was inside and a shut door stood between the two of them. She wondered how she was going to be able to sleep in that room again without dreaming about snakes. “It’s hard to say exactly what people are capable of, don’t you think?”
Chapter Ten
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockleshells,
And pretty maids all in a row.
MARY, MARY, QUITE CONTRARY
IT HAD BEEN A busy week for Mignon. As soon as she had closed the deal with Miner Poteet, she had wasted little time calling various construction contractors in the Natchitoches area. Men who were willing to drive a few miles out of their way to work for some extra money. Men who weren’t allied to the St. Michels one way or another, like many of those who lived in La Valle.
As it turned out, the house wasn’t as dilapidated as Miner Poteet had worried about. Twenty-five years of neglect hadn’t broken its back. One set of workmen immediately set about jacking up the house in the middle where it was drooping. Despite its appearance, it wasn’t as difficult a task as Mignon imagined it to be. They were done in two days and the house began to look like a decrepit old farmhouse instead of one about to collapse on itself.
One of the contractors had said to her, “The wood beams are in good shape for such an old bear. But I think you’ll have to have all the floors ripped out, some of them are like Swiss cheese.”
Money provided a way for men to work on that as well. Another two days of work and a new plywood floor graced about half of the bottom of the farmhouse. In addition, all of the trash inside had been hauled away, leaving only the major appliances that could be used again, such as the pot-bellied stove someone had tried to drag off once, and the stove in the tiny kitchen.
She laughed aloud at her own quirks. Electricity would be the largest problem, and a master electrician had told her the wiring system was relatively simple. Of course, she couldn’t use the outhouse, so a chemical toilet was brought in for the time being, and any water she used would have to be carted in by car. The road had been leveled for the workmen right off the bat, finally allowing Mignon to drive right up to the house itself.
Which left the problem of the cistern out back. She wasn’t sure what she could do with that. Technically, using rainwater in this day and age wasn’t like it had been a hundred years ago. It wasn’t healthy to use it for anything except to water the yard. The cistern would have to be filled in so it wouldn’t present a danger to anyone walking near it. After a half hour of walking back and forth, Mignon found the cement cap in the backyard under some debris and marked it with bright yellow surveyor’s tape, warning the workmen who were filling in the outhouse pit, and those who might take a break outside, not to walk across that particular area.
It was good to spend her money on this place, Mignon thought, feeling inordinately pleased with herself. It was like bringing a grand old lady back into her own, except that this house could never be considered a grand old lady. Rather a mischievous, dirty child who had allowed the mud to dry on her face.
She could envision a bathhouse out back rather than an outhouse. Perhaps a small building with a septic tank nearby and its own water system. A well might have to be dug, or the wa
ter tank replaced by one that wasn’t rusting into little pieces even as she thought about it. All in all, the old farmhouse might make a decent getaway for her.
Mignon stood on the porch and studied the oil painting on her portable easel. She dipped her round-headed brush into some yellow ocher and lightly dabbed on one side. The painting was coming along just fine. In the bright light of noon on a pleasant September day, her mind was clear and she almost didn’t have to think about how her fingers guided the brushes along the canvas, creating light and shape out of nothingness.
Behind her the house was silent. Two men working on the floor had gone to lunch. Another one who was filling in the outhouse pit had walked off into the woods toward the national forest, saying he’d be back in an hour. Looking for a place to come jacking for deer one night, Mignon thought. He’s checking out the area for spoor. He wouldn’t be the first in this area. She had found a deer stand perched on a tall oak tree about five hundred yards into the forest to the east, in a little clearing someone had made in order to better see deer and shoot them.
Then John Henry drove up in his official vehicle, disrupting her calm train of thought. He parked next to her rental and looked around as he let the engine idle. In addition to the leveled road, a small parking area had been cleared and the brush obscuring the front yard had been removed. A surveyor’s flags marked the length and breadth of the property to all sides. The house had been returned to a level state, which hadn’t improved its overall condition in his opinion. Mignon Thibeaux had been busy this week.