Thousands of acres of DeLaire land were bought and paid for with ancestral blood. Why should slave descendants leave the only American home they’d known, a homeland they’d paid for in sweat and tears?
Still, she thought, many slave descendants had left. That would account for why so many elderly remained in DeLaire. But why did the L’Overtures remain? Or come back? John had been a veteran. And the very pregnant Brenda, why did she stay? With no apparent immediate family, had she stayed because the town adopted her? Or because she feared doing otherwise?
Looking around the “town,” Marie couldn’t help believing that all the black folks were getting the short end of the stick. No doubt the DeLaire descendants were living in city luxury elsewhere, while the bayou land was still being sucked for oil, making money for a decadent, “good times roll” family.
No one living in DeLaire seemed to being having any good times.
K-Paul stopped for gas at the one-tank station.
Next to the station was Bebe’s Grocery. Marie went inside, and paused, staring at the shelves of processed food, the glass freezer filled with frozen waffles and sausages, and the refrigerator section filled with scrapple and beer. Not a single fresh vegetable or fruit. She slowly walked the few aisles, grabbing sunflower seeds, candy bars, and a liter of Coke. She wanted to be seen.
“Sheriff know you’re here?” asked the man behind the counter.
She recognized the grocer as Tommy, the diabetic. Khaki pants and the counter obscured the wounds on his legs. But she could tell that standing, he was in pain. A stool was behind the cash register.
“I’ve come to keep my promise,” she answered.
“A healing? Healing ceremony?”
She saw the hunger in his eyes, the energy infusing his body, intent on worship, needing spiritual miracles.
“Medicine first. Then, afterward, yes, a ceremony.”
“Nana’s yard. I’ll tell everyone.” He reached for the rotary phone.
“No.”
Tommy stopped dialing, quizzical.
“The L’Overture yard.”
Shocked, Tommy wet his lips. He gripped his stool for balance. “That’s where them murders were.”
“Yes. Parents and their infant. Shot and burned.”
Deadpan, Tommy stared straight at her, and shook his head. “A real shame.” Then he blinked.
She watched Tommy weigh and value his own needs over the murdered family’s. She couldn’t help but feel disgusted. How many people would have to die before he’d think twice about a ceremony on their graves?
“You going to tell Aaron?”
“You mean the sheriff?”
He nodded.
“Why don’t you?”
Glee lit in Tommy’s eyes. She knew he’d spread the news like wildfire. Tonight, everybody in DeLaire would be eager to dance in the L’Overture yard. Her trap was modest. She hoped guilt would lead to revelations. But by springing the trap, she hoped she’d discover—the gods would help her discover—the combined mysteries of a dead dying people and an eroding, possibly toxic wetlands.
She left as Tommy started dialing his phone.
K-Paul was settling the gas nozzle into its carriage. He gave the attendant, a beanpole-thin man, thirty dollars. “Hate to do it,” K-Paul said to Marie. “Vivco is part of the problem. Fewer oil wells, more land.”
She handed K-Paul a Coke. “Follow this road to the end, turn right, and drive until you can’t drive anymore. Then we’ll be at Nana’s.”
K-Paul undid the Jeep’s top. “Too much heat,” he said, explaining.
“Couldn’t agree more.” Marie could see clearly and everyone could see her clearly.
Hot air and dust washed over her. Children were playing marbles by the side of the road. Pregnant Brenda was standing on a porch, her T-shirt, tight and rippling, inching up her bulging abdomen. The elderly Ibo-looking man—Nate, she remembered—stood, stoic, in his yard watching her pass.
Tommy wasn’t wasting any time making his calls.
Other folks stopped, dead still, in the street; some, their screen doors slamming, stepped onto their porches, their hands shading their eyes. Men stopped fixing their cars, their boats in driveways; women stopped hanging clothes and sheets on lines.
K-Paul drove slowly, and in between the shanty houses, the boat docks, she saw slices of the Gulf, calm, deep waters.
“Not much here,” said K-Paul.
“Not much,” she replied. Or else too much of something sickening everyone.
She hoped Aaron and Deet would be at home. Waiting for her.
“There,” she said, “Nana’s house is there, the last on the street.”
K-Paul parked the car. Both Aaron and Deet were sitting on the porch steps. The brothers looked like ghosts of themselves. Deet looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks; Aaron looked gaunt, as if he’d already decided to be dead.
“Heard you’re going to do a ceremony,” said Aaron.
“News travels fast,” she responded wryly.
“Beau, is he all right?” asked Deet, pushing forward, wringing his hands.
“Beau’s fine. My daughter loves him. She says thank you.”
“That’s all right then,” answered Deet, grinning, while his brother scowled. “She’ll play with him and love him.”
“You shouldn’t have come back here, Dr. Laveau,” said Aaron, lighting a cigarette. “Want a cigarette? See, I don’t have to worry about oxygen. No possible explosions here.”
“Just elsewhere. At the L’Overtures’.”
“Funny,” Aaron replied, studying K-Paul. “Brought a cop with you?”
“He doesn’t look like a cop.”
“You’re right, Deet. Meet Dr. Girouard.”
K-Paul offered his hand; Deet shook it, but Aaron ignored him.
Up close, Aaron reeked of alcohol, his eyes were scarred red.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured.
“You don’t know anything about my loss.”
“I missed you, Sheriff,” she answered, dryly.
“He’s not a sheriff anymore.”
“Shut up, Deet.” Aaron looked uncomfortable, wounded.
Now she understood why Tommy had said Aaron, not sheriff. “Fired? Surely not. Not an employee who’s so easily bribed.”
“Shut up.”
“Hey,” said K-Paul, ready to defend Marie.
“Guilty conscience?”
“Nana’s gone, I’ve given up my work. What else do you want me to do?”
“Tell me who killed the L’Overtures. Who set the fire.”
“It won’t make any difference. Two hundred years, this has been our home. This land has held my family together. You wouldn’t understand that. Yes, I’ve read about you. Raised in Chicago.” He spat the city’s name like a dirty word. “You didn’t even know your country roots. Know about Louisiana.”
Aaron stood. “Come on, Deet. We need a drink to wash this bad taste out of our mouths. Spoiled fish, throw the bastards back.” His hand on the doorknob, the screen door half open, his face contorted.
Such sadness, Marie thought.
“Dr. Laveau, you don’t know anything about the L’Overtures. We’re mourning them, too. Just leave us alone. Come on, Deet.”
But Deet didn’t move.
Aaron’s face flushed red. “Suit yourself,” he snarled before entering the house.
“I told you not to come here,” Deet said, petulant, looking back at the screen door.
Marie couldn’t tell whether he looked back simply because he missed his brother, or because he suspected his brother might be listening. Was Deet afraid of Aaron?
“Nobody wants you here, Miz Laveau.”
“You mean your brother doesn’t,” responded K-Paul. “He’s foul tempered.”
“Don’t be talking bad about my brother.” Deet, his chest puffed like a rooster’s, pushed up against K-Paul. He was daring for a fight, ready to pound all his frustration and hurt into some
one’s face.
“It’s all right, Deet,” she said, touching his arm. “K-Paul’s sorry.”
K-Paul shrugged.
“We need your help.”
“Not going to help that man with nothing,” answered Deet, pointing at K-Paul.
“I need your help, Deet.”
“No, I’m not going to talk to you, either. All you’ve brought is trouble.” He turned, like a distraught child, taking his toys to go home.
“Please.” Deet had been defiant when his brother wanted him to go inside. She just needed a bit more courage from him. “Please, Deet.”
“No.”
“Even if Nana would’ve wanted you to help me?”
“She’s dead.”
“But still here, Deet. I’ve seen her.”
He stopped, not yet turning around, poised between going inside, joining his brother and his known world, or accepting her and the unknown.
She saw his shoulders slump. Saw him decide, turning quickly, coming toward her, stumbling down the steps.
“Where?”
Marie could smell his breath. Alcohol. But he didn’t reek like Aaron. She felt sure Deet wasn’t much of a drinker. But with Nana dead, she could imagine the two brothers spending their hours drowning their sorrow, staring at Nana’s empty bed. Deet would nurse his whiskey; Aaron would drain one glass after another, rushing toward unconsciousness. Eventually, he’d die, like Riley.
“At the L’Overtures’,” she lied. “That’s where I saw Nana. That’s why I’m doing a ceremony there tonight. It’s what Nana would’ve wanted.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to. I’d like to search Nana’s altar, if you don’t mind. I need some things.”
“What things?” he asked, suspicious.
“Her water glass. The spirit statues she prayed to. The saints she favored will help me to conjure her.”
Deet, his neck clenched, wanted to say no.
She rushed on: “All voodooiennes have aids, special spirit guides. You know that, Deet. I want my ceremony to honor Nana. To please her.”
She didn’t tell Deet she was also searching for evidence. For some clue about who doctored Nana, where the medical equipment came from, who supplied the medicines. Maybe she could connect them to who abandoned DeLaire’s needed and necessary public health.
“Let me ask Aaron.”
“You know Nana believed in me,” she said, urgently. “You know it.”
Deet didn’t respond. Wincing, favoring his left knee, he climbed the stairs and went into the house.
Brows raised, K-Paul looked at Marie. “Torn ACL?”
“Football.”
“Ah, every rural boy’s dream to make it in the city. New Orleans. The big time. Big-time money. A million-to-one shot.”
K-Paul strolled to the yard’s southernmost end. “Come see, Marie. A backyard dock.” He tugged a rope anchoring a small powerboat. Two fishing poles and a bait bag were inside. K-Paul opened the bag. “Look here,” he said, holding up a jar as if he’d discovered gold. “Worms.” He held the jar closer. “A bit lean, though. Need to be fat, juicy, to catch the best fish.”
Worms squirmed behind glass.
“Even in the best places, fishing’s declined. Still, it’s beautiful here,” said K-Paul. “Told you, nothing like the Gulf.”
The landscape was beautiful. Warm, soothing air layered the Gulf. Every summer, breezes rushed in and over the Gulf, kicking up storms, hurricanes. But not today.
Waves lapping against sand sounded like a mother soothing a child, “Hush, hush, hush.”
The horizon was now purplish-orange; some clouds floated, white, others were a dull yellow; still others were rimmed in gray. A perfect landscape painting filled with depth and color. With beauty and a touch of menace.
“Too bad evil exists everywhere,” Marie said softly, not knowing if K-Paul heard.
Shoulder to shoulder, they watched ships—motorboats, shrimpers, a pleasure sailboat—all sail inland, harbor bound, skimming across green, foam-tipped waters.
“Storm’s coming,” said Marie, echoing K-Paul’s earlier warning. “The weather service must’ve sent a warning.”
“Everyone’s racing home. Trying to make port.”
“Except for the L’Overtures.” She scanned the horizon for ghosts, tried to sense if there was any prophetic vision she’d missed.
“If something happens, K-Paul, you’ll have the samples tested. Follow up with the Department of Health. With Parks, police you can trust.”
“What’re you saying?”
“Just what I said.” She wiped sweat from her brow. “Have you ever been to a voodoo ceremony?”
“No. Only the French Quarter’s voodoo tour.”
“You didn’t.”
“Did.”
She smiled. “Titillation and cheap entertainment, K-Paul. You know those tours pander to tourists and their fears.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? It was fun. Besides—”
“You got laid.”
“How’d you know?”
“She was an out of towner.”
“Exactly,” answered K-Paul. “Northerners like being scared by our voodoo. I had to comfort her afterward.”
“Rogue.”
Shouting sounds spilled from the house. A chair sounded as if it was being overturned.
More serious, she clutched K-Paul’s hand, whispering hurriedly, “K-Paul, anything might happen tonight. Nana prayed to spirits I’m not entirely familiar with.”
“That’s why you want to search inside?”
“Yes. But the illnesses I’ve seen in DeLaire might be connected as well. There’s something awry in the environment, I’m sure of it. But I’m not sure the illness isn’t connected to the rituals.
“Voodoo communities aren’t supposed to inspire fear, lies. Yet both brothers are hiding something. I think Nana was, too.”
Her heart ached. It pained her to think that any voodoo community might be secretive, spiritually unhealthy. Such communities reinforced stereotypes. Yet given slavery’s influence, it was amazing that voodoo as a sustaining force survived at all. She couldn’t imagine, in the 1800s, 1900s, practicing her faith while being cursed, leered at, and pummeled with stones and shouts of “barbarism,” “devil worship.”
Americans bemoaned the Salem witch trials, but they didn’t bemoan the attempted systematic destruction of African faiths. It was a miracle as surely as Christ turning water into wine that African slaves had blended their religion with Christianity and held strong to the good. Kept kindness, and fought off bitterness. Had Nana—no, Marie couldn’t believe it—betrayed that?
“Marie?”
Far off, clouds were darkening. Rain threatened; somewhere, wind was beginning to swirl.
The brothers were arguing inside the house.
“K-Paul, if something happens to me—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
She shook her head. “Walker is dangerous. A concrete threat. But so, too, are voodoo ceremonies without proper protections. I don’t have my drummers. Or any of the followers I trust. I don’t have—”
“El and Duluc.”
“Yes. I’m on my own.”
“You’ve got me.”
“You’ve never been to a ceremony.”
“Still, I don’t believe they’re dangerous. That’s all hype, isn’t it?”
How could she explain? Each ceremony held spiritual danger, far worse than the bodily danger K-Paul was imagining.
She didn’t answer but stared at the Gulf. Waves lapped the shore, adding soil but taking away far more.
You could walk into sandy waters, feel perfectly safe, only to have the ocean’s shelf dramatically drop from beneath your feet. Ceremonies were like that, any second you could be lost among the unknown.
“Let’s get out of here, Marie,” said K-Paul urgently. “Let’s go back to New Orleans. Attend to Huan’s burial. Our patients at Chari
ty. ’Sides, if a hurricane is really coming, this delta will flood. Folks should get the hell out.”
“Cold feet?”
“No. I’m worried about you, for you.”
“This is part of who I am—Marie Laveau.”
A door slammed shut. Aaron, head lowered, staggered down the porch steps. Willfully avoiding eye contact with Marie and K-Paul, he got into his car. It was still painted black and white, but the red siren lights had been removed from the roof.
“He’s guilty as sin,” said K-Paul.
“Nothing worse than self-flagellation,” said Marie, pityingly. “Tonight, I’ll delve for the spiritual, K-Paul. You watch for the concrete. Please. Stand by me.”
“No need to ask again. I’ve got a rifle in the trunk. Walker won’t get near you. Or Aaron, either.”
Aaron drove off, his engine gunning, tires spinning, kicking up dirt and mud.
“I’m hoping the DeLaire community will reveal itself to me,” said Marie sadly. “They act socially inbred, like they’ve known each other forever. They seem to act in unison, but they won’t even take a young girl to a hospital or a clinic. I want to know why, K-Paul.
“I want to find out what secret this community is hiding. Find out who murdered the L’Overtures. Why Nana died protecting her grandsons and everyone here, especially Aaron. Why Aaron broke his vows.”
She looked at the waves crashing against the shore. Swallows were rushing inland.
“Oil and water. I feel you’re right, K-Paul. Both substances are so vital, so entwined. Nonetheless, there’s been a history of lies, pain, and devastation. Odd, isn’t it? Oil is still troubling the waters.”
K-Paul spoke slowly, his eyes squinting, staring out to sea. “DeLaire. There was a case twenty, twenty-one years ago. Riley told me about it. Broke his heart. Started his binges. DeLaire Plantation and Vivco. Some federal investigation. Never went to trial. Heard there was a settlement.”
“Against Vivco?”
“Both. Vivco and the DeLaire descendants. Some kind of environmental collusion. The federal government sued them both.
“The investigation had to do with waste, chemical by-products. Vivco and the DeLaires both paid damages for cleanup, remediation.
“Pa told me that they used to call oil ‘the devil’s excrement.’ The DeLaires struck a no-win bargain. Look, even though there was environmental cleanup, you can still see the loss of land. Every storm, even the one coming now, will cause more and more land loss. The trees and marsh that protected the county and city, DeLaire and New Orleans, are reduced to the smallest number they’ve ever been.”
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 55