by C. L. Bevill
The man, dressed in a gray suit, looked up at the night sky where storm clouds concealed the stars. A sprinkle of rain had begun and he smiled to himself. Mother Nature was on their side this particular evening. He went to the trunk of the car and retrieved a set of bolt cutters, fully five feet long, and whistled as he mounted the levee. He made his way to the sluice gates and intently observed the simple mechanism that operated the gates. A large steel wheel raised and lowered the gates, used most often by those who needed water from the canal to water their crops.
However, the farmers all had a key to the padlock that secured a chain that prevented petty vandalism to the gate. The man whistled a bit from the theme to Mission: Impossible. The average vandal didn’t have a handy set of bolt snippers. He broke the lock and used the manually operated wheel to raise the levee gates. Water spilled into the causeway and he smiled. It was a remarkably easy process; the farmers kept the mechanism well oiled to prevent rusting. When he was done, he used the large bolt cutters to break the handle on the wheel so that the the gates could not be shut anytime soon.
When he was finished, the man brushed dirt from his hands, retrieved the bolt cutters, paused to wipe any incriminating prints from the sluice gate wheel, and returned to his car. He was smiling broadly, happy that he hadn’t even broken into a sweat. With one last look at his handiwork, he drove off to implement the second part of his plan—to sabotage an electrical transformer that fed power to most of the dwellings in the area, including the St. Michel mansion.
GERAUD WATCHED THE valet assist Mignon from her rental car and wondered why she simply didn’t buy a car. After all, it had become common knowledge that she had purchased that godforsaken spit of land where she and her parents had lived when she was a child. Since it had been sitting empty and forgotten in the thick woods near the edge of the Kistachie National Forest, she was most likely paying a small fortune for men to rebuild every part of it. A rental car was impractical at best, if she was intent on staying. Then he brightened. Maybe she wasn’t planning to stay, but merely wanted to touch something from her past, just as any human being might do in order to understand his or her heritage.
A long leg became visible for a moment as Mignon stepped from the car. The slit in her dress parted, exposing an expanse of creamy thigh, curving calf, and a nicely turned ankle. Geraud held his breath. He’d been thirteen when Garlande became his father’s mistress, and fifteen when his father had decided to leave LaValle with the same woman. Thirteen had been man enough to appreciate his father’s perception of Garlande’s attractiveness. In his mind’s eye, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, and one he had dreamt of in his teenage bed for years afterwards. There was that long red hair, which seemed to glow with an inner red-hot fire, and the pale green eyes that glimmered with sensual knowledge. Her lips had been full and appealing and beckoned to a man in a wicked manner. There was that lush figure that any hot-blooded male could hold on to, and one that his own wife would have called Rubenesque in a condescending way.
Luc had taken Geraud along a few times when he stopped at the house down the narrow dirt road, leaving the teenager to fend for himself while his father spent time with Garlande. As far as Geraud knew, this had been a ploy to throw off Eleanor. Why would a man take his adolescent son along while he went to see his mistress?
Sometimes the little girl, her hair the exact shade as her mother’s, had come out on the porch and stared at the big, luxurious sedan. Sometimes Geraud had wandered through the thick woods until he heard his father calling for him to return. His father had explained to him that wealthy men sometimes married for reasons other than love, that having a mistress wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it was something to be kept discreet.
Geraud could hear his father’s voice in his head just as plainly as if he were speaking to him this very moment. “Geraud, my son. Your mother would not disapprove unless I were to flaunt this woman in her face. That would be rude, not only to your mother, but to our family name. Although I care for your mother, I also care for this woman, and both should be treated with respect.”
Geraud hadn’t quite understood. He had asked, “What about her husband, Papa?”
Luc had laughed. “I don’t think he’ll be coming after me with a shotgun, if that’s what you mean, Geraud. One simply has to handle these affairs with a sort of dignity. Respect your wife and your mistress. That’s the way we do things. Comprends?”
That wasn’t the way Luc had done it and Geraud bitterly remembered it. His father hadn’t been the one driving an invisible wedge into the wholeness that was their family, splintered though it actually was. It had been that woman. His mistress, Garlande Thibeaux. It was her fault that his father did not love his wife and had not respected her. Her fault and none other.
The man at the gate had called a minute earlier to let Geraud know that Mignon’s car was on its way up the drive. Eleanor had instructed Geraud to escort the young woman inside. And he had made a silent vow to find out a little something about her motives for being here.
At least there hadn’t been any more incidents of ghosts walking the halls of the mansion or the grounds. Even Eugenie seemed to be sleeping better this week, as if their mother’s ploys with the Thibeaux girl were truly working. Geraud had to be thankful for those small mercies. Perhaps all of this could be wrapped up quickly and then these ridiculous “hauntings” would no longer be fodder for the pulp press.
He focused on Mignon as she passed her keys to the valet. She could be a model with her looks, although she was a bit short. Perhaps an actress, with a figure that men would admire and women would envy. She was young, attractive, and successful in a way that few backwoods Louisianians could ever achieve. So what does she want around here? he asked himself.
Geraud stepped forward, with an eye on her breasts. Mignon was dressed in another sheath. Sheer white material over the shoulders became more opaque as it hugged every bit of her shape, hinting at the marble-hued flesh underneath. It was a longer dress that draped elegantly to her ankles and cleverly concealed the slits that reached nearly to mid-thigh on each side. Elegant white pumps on her feet completed her ensemble. He wasn’t a judge of designer wear, but he knew that this hadn’t come off a rack at any store between Los Angeles and New York City.
“Geraud,” greeted Mignon. “You look handsome.” And he did. He wore a black designer suit that offset his pale hair and blue eyes. The shirt itself was the exact midnight blue shade of his eyes, and a silk tie that cost ten times more than what he would tip at a good restaurant graced his neck. Geraud St. Michel appeared every inch the successful businessman and wealthy, old-monied Louisianian. And Mignon knew he was.
His stores did reasonably well, purchasing import items from China, Taiwan, the Philippines, and the Asian continent, then selling them at a tremendous markup to Americans who enjoyed ethnic decor. However, there had been a slump in sales of late, one that concerned Geraud very much.
But Geraud had been spending some time at home lately. He had a home in New Orleans where his wife preferred to live, and there was another family house in Baton Rouge, where little time had been spent by any St. Michel in the last ten years. But the eldest and only son seemed to want to keep close to home these days. All the while, Mignon knew from business reports that Geraud’s company was in the throes of some twisted type of growing pains. Although its earnings were good, it also needed a fresh influx of money and it needed its CEO to maintain his respectable name.
Geraud offered his arm to Mignon and broke her reverie. He commented, “And you look rather beautiful yourself. I look at you and I see your mother.”
“Oh?” Mignon wasn’t sure where he wanted to lead her. He had the most anticipatory look on his face, the appearance of a shark circling his prey.
“I knew about your mother and my father, of course.” Geraud led her into the mansion, deliberately keeping their entrance to a slow stroll. “Years before they had the audacity to do what they d
id. I know what he sees in her. She was one hot piece of—”
“And your point is?” Mignon interrupted. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear Geraud’s crude take on what Luc had found so attractive about her mother. Geraud wasn’t a nice man. She knew about the teenage mistress he kept in an apartment in New Orleans, a young woman who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in the emergency room when he was in town. His only redeeming quality seemed to be that he cared so much about his sister that he’d moved back to St. Germaine Parish in order to spend more time with her, although it was far more likely that he was protecting his own best interests.
“She was a mercenary little bitch,” he said amicably. “Just like you.”
Mignon smiled. They paused to look at a painting in the long hall. It was an early-twentieth-century George Grosz. Grosz was a German-American artist who became well known for his anti-World War I political views. Later he turned to oils and produced some fine expressionistic pieces that tended to be less controversial. Mignon thought the piece they were looking at dated from the forties; it depicted a scene at a beach with a small house in the background as the shoreline twisted away. Its colors were as brilliant as the day it was completed, and it elicited a solitary emotion that plucked the heartstrings. She had noticed the painting before but hadn’t had the opportunity to study it.
She didn’t say anything in response to Geraud’s comment.
“So what do you want?” he asked after a long moment of silence. She could hear other voices floating down the hallway. They seemed so far away. The translation was clear: How much do you want?
“From you?” she finally asked. “I’m not as rich as the St. Michels, but I’m rich enough. I became a millionaire two years ago. My financial advisor tells me we doubled that last year. I don’t need money.”
“Then what is it? A twisted desire to see the family that your mother ruined? A little appetite for revenge? I’m curious to see what exactly you’re up to. That little piece of property in the backwoods doesn’t have a lot of appeal, I think. I’m not sure if you are capable of sentiment. Your mother wasn’t. Otherwise she would have been happy to remain simply my father’s mistress.”
Mignon stared at the brush strokes that George Grosz had used over fifty years before. He was a man who had tried to use his artwork to express his unhappiness about World War I Germany, a country that suffered tremendously at the whim of its leaders. He wasn’t the most well known painter, but his work was pleasing to the eye and a good investment. She turned to Geraud, “Are you trying to make me angry?”
Geraud crossed his arms over his chest. “No, I just want you to know the effect your mother had on us. You’ve seen Eugenie, who still dreams of her father at night, so much so that she feels compelled to seek him out. My mother became a cold woman, abandoned by her beloved husband, never to be the same person again, because of the whispers, because of the innuendo.”
“And you?” Mignon tilted her head at him. She thought that Eleanor had been a cold woman long before her husband had vanished. “What effect did it have on you?”
“It taught me a lesson about life.”
There was no need to ask what the lesson had been. She had learned the lesson, as well. But Geraud was too self-centered to see that his family’s lives weren’t the only ones that had been impacted. There had also been the lives of a little girl and her father, who were forced to flee for safety’s sake. “And our lives? Weren’t they affected as well?” She had to ask the question, just to see if there was any compassion in this man.
“What did you lose? A woman who didn’t care about you,” he answered carelessly.
“Geraud,” came Eleanor’s voice from the front parlor. “I insist that you stop haranguing Miss Thibeaux and bring her in to visit with the other guests.”
They turned to look at Eleanor as she stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a charcoal-black suit, immaculate from the top of her styled head to the tips of her polished shoes. Her face gave away nothing, but remained coldly serene, the ice queen in her palace of frozen wastelands. How much did she hear? Mignon silently asked herself. And then, What does it matter?
Mignon went into the parlor, followed closely by Geraud. She did not let him touch her arm again. Inside was almost the same group of people who had been invited the previous Saturday evening. Eleanor liked to entertain her close friends. Jourdain and his wife, Alexandrine, were present, appearing nonchalant as they chatted with Eugenie and her friend, David Something-or-Other. Mignon was surprised the Gastineaus had come, since the announcement for the Supreme Court position had been made the day before.
Gabriel Laurier winked lasciviously at Mignon from the corner, where he was helping himself to some of Geraud’s brandy. Geraud’s wife, Leya, was staring out the window at the storm clouds gathering into an angry front. Finally, there was a short, fat, black woman dressed in a flowing gown of vivid purple, and beside her a young black man dressed in a conservative dark blue suit. They were talking quietly with Eleanor as Mignon passed through the door.
“Mignon, my dear,” said Eleanor. “Here is someone I would like you to meet.”
Mignon stepped up and looked at the black woman. She was in her forties with creamy brown skin, doe’s eyes, and long black hair gathered into a careful plait down her back. Every finger on her hands was decorated with various gold rings, and more gold glittered at her neck and her ears. She was a striking woman, not someone who could be ignored in any situation, much less at a dinner party.
“This is Madam Terentia Jones,” Eleanor announced proudly. “She has had much success with the revivification of spirits from the next world.”
Which is very interesting, thought Mignon. Eleanor was widely known to enjoy the company of seers and spiritualists from around the country who came to “enlighten” her. What does one say to that? “An amazing accomplishment, I’m sure.”
“Let me touch your hand,” boomed the woman. She had a throaty voice, attractive and deep, but at the same time feminine and compelling. Mignon presented her hand automatically. Soft fingers enclosed hers and pressed for a moment. Then brown eyes searched her own. “A woman of mystery.”
A smile flittered across Mignon’s face. Anyone who had been in LaValle for more than a few minutes and had an open ear for gossip would have heard about her and her eccentricities. Terentia Jones went on. “A woman with depths as unfathomable as the ocean.”
Her young male companion kept pulling at his collar and tie and Mignon’s eyes turned to him. He was obviously uncomfortable here. Too many rich people. Too many white people. Too much authority. He was young and handsome, but annoyed by playing male courtesan to Terentia. Mignon knew that he was something more than that. She shifted her attention seamlessly back to the spiritualist.
“I think a tarot reading would be most informative with this one,” said Terentia, the rhythm of her voice almost lulling. “I sense a quandary within her soul, an aura of enigma. A most compelling young woman.”
“Thank you,” murmured Mignon.
Leya turned away from the window. “Did my mother-in-law tell you about our experiences last Saturday, Miss Jones? It was the most amazing psychic occurrence I’ve ever witnessed.”
Terentia released Mignon’s hand reluctantly and turned away to speak with Leya and Eleanor. Mignon rested her hands against her abdomen comfortably, but itched to rub them together, exhibiting a bit of the nervousness she felt. As she glanced up she saw that Jourdain and Geraud were both watching her.
What are they expecting? Mignon asked herself. I have to be careful.
“I’m Faust,” said the young black man, holding out a large hand. Mignon smiled and shook it, all the while staring at his rich, individual features, searching for the things that motivated him.
“Faust. An interesting name. Did you sell your soul to the devil?”
He grinned. Teeth of the purest white spread his face apart. There was a low chuckle. “Haven’t we all, Miss Thibeaux?”
“You know me,” she said.
Faust shrugged, showing the spread of muscles under his jacket. “People talk. It’s the most amazing thing if a guy happens to listen.” He wasn’t from the South, any more than Terentia Jones was. Both of their voices lacked the Louisiana accent she found so pleasing to her ears. If anything, they sounded like her—someone who could speak on the radio or broadcast the news, neutral and without home.
A flash of lightning illuminated the room. It was followed by a crack of thunder and several people jumped. The electricity flickered, and Eleanor announced that they should begin dinner before the lights left them completely.
Mignon wondered where John Henry was this evening. She had a sudden image of him soaked to the skin in his uniform, his muscles delineated by the wet cloth, and shivered involuntarily. What is getting into me? I never let anyone affect me like this.
“Cold, Miss Thibeaux?” asked Jourdain, looking at her with cool brown eyes. He was every inch the poised attorney who had been appointed to the Supreme Court. His eyes were assessing and penetrating.
“The storm, Mr. Gastineau,” answered Mignon calmly. She stretched out her arm. “See, I have goose bumps.”
“Can we expect another intriguing performance tonight?” he asked.
“I didn’t expect the first one,” she said.
Jourdain laughed. “Well, one never knows what to expect at Eleanor’s galas. A seance here. A psychic there. Ghosts from the past. Skeletons from the closet.”
“Yes, but from whose closet?”