Beatrice’s face immediately pinked, so I jumped in to save her. “Thank you for loaning us the boat, Mr. Dupre. We only need it for a few hours. And Beatrice here told me all about how she used to work for you. I believe she said you and Mellette Babineaux were partners once.”
The smile slipped down his face. He’d apparently heard about the murder at Sweetwater. Not that I was surprised, since news traveled fast around these small towns. Or, as my granddaddy would say, “It flies at the speed of boredom.”
“Terrible tragedy,” I said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Yes. Yes, it was.”
“My friend and I were the ones who found her, you know.”
He gave a tight nod. “So I’d heard. Can’t believe she’s gone. My phone’s been ringing off the hook. Guess everyone wants to be first in line to tell me.”
“But that won’t happen.” Beatrice gave his shoulder a comforting pat. “My uncle has a police scanner, so he hears everything first.”
“You don’t say.”
He and Beatrice exchanged quick looks that were hard to read. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he asked, “what were you doing down there this morning?”
“I don’t mind at all. I thought I’d take a look around Sweetwater since it’s for sale. Guess I couldn’t resist.”
That seemed to perk him up a bit. “What do you know? Did you get a chance to see the whole property?”
“I did, but not my friend.”
“The house is beautiful. And priced to sell too.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Mr. Dupre.”
He reached into the pocket of his khakis. “Maybe I can help you out.” He withdrew a shiny business card that had the same picture he’d used for the calendar. “Here’s my card, in case you have questions about the property.”
I flinched, so he quickly spoke again. “Not now, of course. But once the dust settles. I’m not hard to get ahold of.”
Funny that he didn’t seem saddened by the news about Mellette Babineaux. At least not enough to put aside his business. “Thank you—um—kindly.” I took the card. “We’ll have the boat back to you as soon as we can.”
“No rush. Gotta go to work, so there won’t be any fishing for me. Let’s get it in your truck, Bea. Grab that end.”
Together, Beatrice and her uncle hoisted the pirogue up and over the tailgate of her pickup. When they finished, they both climbed into the front seat while I settled into the back.
Air rushed through the open windows as soon as we reached the highway. I couldn’t quite catch the conversation up front, but it seemed to involve Sweetwater. I heard the word gris-gris, which someone had told me were good-luck charms, and wangas, which I guessed were the bad ones.
Several miles passed—during which time my neck developed an awful crick from leaning forward—until the river appeared. Stands of tupelo cypress rose from the soupy water like celery stalks half submerged.
After a few more minutes on Highway 975, we reached a dirt road, which looked like all of the other dirt roads we’d passed. Then Beatrice made a hard right and we jerked to a stop at a boat landing.
Here the cypress parted naturally. When I hopped out of the pickup, I landed smack-dab in some wet clay that oozed around my favorite strappy sandals. My heart sank when I saw the mess.
“It’ll wash off.” Beatrice stuck her head through the driver’s-side window. “Don’t worry.” When she swung open the car door and jumped out, I saw that she’d worn ballet flats with her work shirt. Smart girl.
I jerked up my foot and scouted the horizon. Straight ahead of us, thick mats of sphagnum moss floated on the water. A wall of humidity pressed against me and sucked the breath from my lungs. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
“C’mon, Missy,” Beatrice said. “Get yourself some skeeter juice and a cap from the truck. We’ll get this thing in the water.”
I yanked my other heel from the mud and retreated to the pickup. Once I’d doused myself with Off, I twisted my hair into a makeshift bun and tucked it under a faded LSU ball cap. Surely Ambrose would laugh if he saw me, but thank goodness he was miles away at our rent house.
By the time I’d finished, Beatrice and her uncle had lowered the pirogue in the river. I duckwalked over to them and climbed into the boat. Beatrice followed me, only she sat next to the motor and placed her hand on the boat’s tiller. With a big push from her uncle, we sailed away.
“I’ll take your truck back, Bea,” he called out. “Phone me when you want a ride.”
“Thank you!”
The launch began to recede as we floated away. After a minute, Hank Dupre was no bigger than a splotch of mud on my sandal. When he disappeared altogether, Beatrice started the motor, and the sound split the quiet air.
We roared past beds of hydrilla and clumps of cattails as tall as Ambrose. Above us flew swallowtail kites that scoured the trees for lizards and katydids. The smell of rotting leaves, decaying roots, and mold engulfed us, reminding me of the time I left a houseplant too long on the windowsill.
After a bit, Beatrice cut the motor and the air fell quiet again. Now the sounds of the swamp engulfed us. A pair of little blue herons cawed back and forth beside us, a spoonbill’s massive wings beat the air above, and an osprey splashed the water somewhere, no doubt looking for lunch.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Beatrice whispered.
I spun around. “Gorgeous. You seem to know your way around here.”
“Used to come out with my uncle. We’d dip our nets over the side for crawfish.”
“How fun! Maybe Ambrose and I should try it sometime.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Gotta warn you . . . the fishing gets pretty messy. Even waders won’t keep the mud out. Lots of crawfish, though. That and largemouth bass. Some folks around here don’t ever go to the grocery store. Everything they need is right here on the river.”
I watched the wake behind us, which stretched for yards and yards. “Speaking of which . . . how close are we to Ruby’s house?”
“Should be up ahead.”
I twisted back around. After a few more minutes, a ramshackle camp appeared that had two rusty mobile homes. Looked like singlewides to me, with cinder blocks placed beneath them to raise them from the muck. At the foot of the trailers was a listing dock.
The home on the left looked especially quirky. A statue of the Virgin Mary presided over a purple grotto at that one; its plaster shaped like an open clamshell.
“That’s it.” Beatrice grabbed an oar from under her seat. “The one on the left.”
Of course. I followed Beatrice’s lead and grabbed the paddle under my seat. By now I’d moved past glistening and had begun to sweat, so what harm could a little rowing do?
Together we steered the pirogue to the dock. When we reached it, Beatrice grabbed a rope and twisted it into a hitch, which she looped onto the dock’s scratched cleat.
She hopped out of the boat after that. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”
I heaved myself up and out after her. “True enough. Though these sandals are going to be the death of me yet.”
When the dock swayed underfoot, I worried I might tumble into the muck and disappear forever. But only for an instant. Because now I faced another—more pressing—problem.
A spotted mongrel had appeared on the dock. Clearly not the welcoming committee.
Beatrice noticed it too. “They’re usually friendly.” Her voice faltered.
“He doesn’t look too friendly to me.”
“It’s okay, boy.” Her words came out in a singsong. “We won’t hurt you.”
“I don’t think that’s what it’s worried about, Bea.”
Call it instinct or call it foolishness, but I’d rather make the first move in times like these. So I shoved my fists against my hips and worked up a respectable growl that began in the back of my throat and rumbled through my lips. Hallelujah, the dog wasn’t deaf, because it grudgingly sank back on its haunc
hes.
A moment later, a screen door banged open behind us.
“Whatcha doin’ out here?”
Ruby was standing in the doorway of the trailer. She wore the same silver ponytail and wary expression I’d seen earlier.
“Tais-toi, Jack,” she yelled at the dog.
“We wanted to say hello.” I gingerly moved around the dog and walked to where she stood. “Remember me? You were nice enough to get me some sweet tea this morning.”
She eyed me warily. “I knows why yer here. Yer here about Miss Babineaux. Dey tole me she’s dead.”
So much for pleasantries. Although I had to admire her straightforwardness, since that was exactly why we’d come.
“Yes, she died this morning,” I said. “God rest her soul. I brought my assistant, Beatrice, out here with me.”
“All right, den. Da moustiques gonna eat us alive if’n we don’ go in.” She motioned for us to follow her into the ramshackle home.
The rooms we entered were dark and cluttered. All along the wall of the living room hung crosses of various shapes and sizes, of all things. Just like the cross Ambrose had told me about this morning.
They hung in groups of twos and threes above an old-fashioned television set, while dozens more decorated a thin wall that separated the area from the kitchen. I couldn’t see any rhyme or reason to their placement, since fancy ones dressed in plastic rosettes and sequins hung right next to rough-hewn ones made from kindling.
Never in my life had I seen so many crosses, and I grew up going to church, after all.
“Such an interesting collection you have.” I glanced around the trailer. The only place to sit was a plaid couch covered in plastic, but that was strewn with yellowed copies of the Times-Picayune and Dollar General plastic bags. What choice did I have but to lean against the flimsy wall, crosses and all?
“Dey ward off da evil,” Ruby said.
I tried to be casual, even though I worried I might crash right through the wall and land in the kitchen on my backside. “That’s what we’ve come to talk to you about. My friend found a cross this morning, out there in the shed at Sweetwater. Do you know anything about it?”
“Dat’s why ya be here? Ya tink I had somethin’ ta do wit da murder?”
“No, no. I’m not saying that.” While I don’t hold to lying, this seemed a fine time for a little fib. “Of course, we don’t think you had anything to do with it. Nothing at all. We need your help, though.”
“Mah help? Whatcha be talkin’ bout? I don’ know nutin’ ’bout what happened. Told da policeman da same ting.”
Casually, I waved my hand around. “But you know this area. And the people who live around here. Was anyone mad at Miss Babineaux?”
Ruby’s bony shoulders shrugged. “Could be. Lotsa people put da curses on.”
“But did you hear anything?” I asked. “Maybe someone threaten her?”
“Folks don’ like wot she be doin’ wit’ da land. Tryin’ to get us to move off the river. Gah-lee, dat’s all we got.”
She spoke so quickly, it took me a moment to decipher her words. “I see. But would that be reason enough for someone to kill her?”
“All we gots is de land ’round here,” she repeated. “Firs’ be da French wot comes, den da Canadiens. Now you got folks swarm ’round here like da moustiques. Wot’s left? Maybe dat’s why she ain’t got no friends. None of us be goin’ ta dat funeral, right Hollis?
She jerked her head sideways, toward the kitchen. She’d aimed her words at a figure who sat at a plastic dinette set. It was a pale boy, about sixteen, dressed in a dirty sleeveless T-shirt and Nike running shorts.
“No, ma’am,” he said.
“Dat be ma grandson.” She motioned for him to come forward. He had the same wide-set eyes and broad forehead as his grandmother. “He done keep me company in ma old age.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “My name’s Missy and this is Beatrice.”
He ducked his head shyly. “Nice to meet ya. Hope old Jack didn’t bother you none.”
“You heard that, huh?” I smiled. “Turns out neither of us likes to hear growling. You go to school around here?”
“No, ma’am. Kinda doin’ it on ma own.”
Funny, but I hadn’t noticed any textbooks lying around the trailer. About the closest thing were the old newspapers covering the couch. Not to mention Internet coverage was probably spotty in these parts.
“Interesting. We just came by to ask your grandmother some questions.” I turned to face Ruby. “What about this morning? Did you notice anything strange around the mansion?”
“Hard ta say. Ah left early.”
“Do you remember when?” Beatrice asked. She’d been so quiet, I’d forgotten she was there.
“Nah. But I saw you,” She jerked her thumb at me. “And dat young feller too.”
“So you saw—” I didn’t finish the sentence. Ruby must have seen Ambrose, which meant she was still at Sweetwater when I brought Bo over.
Such an interesting visit this had turned out to be. “Well, we won’t take up any more of your time,” I said. “We all feel terrible about what happened.”
I reached for the screen door, but Ruby grabbed my hand before I could open it. She thrust something into my palm and then curled my fingers around it.
“Here. Take dis.” Her eyes bore into mine. “Don’ go nowhere witout it. Nowhere.”
“Um, thank you.” It was a pouch, and the material scratched my palm. “So nice to see you again. And nice to meet you, Hollis.”
I nodded vaguely at the boy before pushing the screen door open. It swayed open with a loud screech, but the noise faded as I made my way down the stairs and across the dock. Thankfully, Jack, the mongrel, was gone, so I had a clear shot to the pirogue.
I finally paused when I reached it.
“What was that all about?” Beatrice had caught up to me and stood peering over my shoulder.
I shrugged and then uncurled my fingers to expose the pouch. Its red flannel had been cinched with a silk ribbon, which I carefully loosened. When I tipped the bag over into my other hand, two dried bones—chicken, thankfully—tumbled out. Next came a gray pebble and something green and spiky that looked familiar. I took a whiff. Sure enough . . . catnip.
Beatrice sucked in her breath. “Wow. She gave you a gris-gris. That means she likes you.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Trust me. She doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you.” She moved away and then lowered herself into the boat.
Didn’t that just beat all. For one thing, I’d never seen so many crosses in one place; more than a monk would have. She’d also talked about Ambrose, which meant she must have been at Sweetwater during the murder. And finally . . . what was she trying to protect me from?
Although it was hotter than a Dutch oven out on the dock, I couldn’t help but shudder.
Chapter 4
For the second time that day, I returned to the rent house with something in my hand. Only this time it was something far more interesting than a sack of greasy beignets.
“Whatcha got there?” Ambrose noticed the treasure as soon as I walked into the kitchen, its walls warmed by the late-afternoon sun.
“A gift. From the caretaker I told you about at Sweetwater.”
Too many hours had passed since I’d last seen him. He was back at the kitchen table, only now he held a newspaper in his hand instead of a fork and knife. At some point, he must’ve gone back to his studio, though, because I spotted tailor’s chalk on his fingers.
I’d tried to return to work too, after my float trip down the river with Beatrice. But I couldn’t concentrate, so I ended up signing a few checks and calling a few clients before I called it quits and came home.
“What kind of gift?” He eyed the pouch curiously.
“She gave me a gris-gris. Have you ever heard of such a thing in your life?”
“Of course I have. I went to Auburn, remember? Spent lots of w
eekends in New Orleans.”
Carefully, I placed the bag on the table. “That’s right. Well, Beatrice and I visited the caretaker’s home today. I got to paddle a pirogue and everything.”
“Good for you.”
“We went to see her because she was at Sweetwater this morning.” I plopped beside him and once again loosened the bag’s tie. “You won’t believe where she lives.”
“Do tell.”
“On the bayou, in this old mobile home. Place looks like it’s been flooded ten times over.”
“Didn’t you say she’s about eighty?”
“At least. She lives out there with her grandson. And I saw the craziest thing at her place.” The bag finally opened, so I turned over the pouch and the contents spilled out.
He shot me a curious look.
“There were crosses at her place, Bo. Dozens and dozens of crosses. Big ones, little ones, and everything in between.”
“Maybe the old lady likes crosses.” Ambrose reached for the chicken bones, which were tied together with a piece of leather. He turned them thoughtfully between his fingers.
“True. But you also found a cross next to Mellette’s body this morning.”
“I remember. But what if she’s just really devout? Even the voodoo around here has some Roman Catholic in it, you know.”
“That would explain the Virgin Mary in her front yard. But there’s more.”
“More?” Once he’d finished with the bones, Ambrose began to toy with the pebble, which was crisscrossed by veins of quartz.
“She said she saw you too. That would mean she was at Sweetwater when we found the body this morning.”
“Bottom line is you think she had something to do with the real estate agent’s murder. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Looks like it,” I said. “Why else would she say that? Plus, there was no love lost between her and Mellette Babineaux. She got really angry this morning when Mellette made her get me some sweet tea.”
“Yeah, but it’s a big jump from being angry at someone to actually killing them.”
Leave to it Ambrose to be rational, even with a pile of voodoo tokens in front of him.
“But it does happen. And remember, the murder scene was pretty tidy. Which means the killer probably knew the victim. That’s what they say, anyway.” Of course, the “they” I was referring to happened to be found in textbooks I’d read at least ten years before, but he didn’t need to know that.
Something Foul at Sweetwater Page 4