Blue Moon

by C. D. Ledbetter

  "Philippe, we need to meet. I have something to tell you."

  "How about lunch?"

  Thomas shook his head and lowered his voice. "I can't risk meeting anywhere around here. If somebody found out I told you, I'd lose my job. I might even get arrested."

  Philippe raised his eyebrows in surprise, and wondered if he should refuse. He'd recently gotten out of a sticky situation with the foreclosure, and wasn't sure if he wanted to leap into another. "Are you sure you want to tell me? If you could go to jail, it might not be worth it."

  "Believe me, you want to hear this."

  He tried to think of somewhere secluded. "How about the rest stop on Highway 10, say tonight at six?"

  "I'll be there. Don't be late."

  As he drove away, he wondered what Thomas knew that was so secretive. He'd loaned money to him a couple of times, but other than that, they'd never done business together. Thomas was a pretty straight guy. What on earth could he be doing that would send him to jail? And, more importantly, did he want to become involved?

  Philippe's two o'clock meeting lasted until five thirty, so he didn't have time to think about Thomas' dilemma. At five forty-five, he left the building and hurried to the rest stop. It was deserted, and he felt strange, sitting in his car, smoking a cigarette. While he waited, he recalled that several murders had been committed at rest stops, and his eyes circled the empty parking lot continuously. When the hazy afternoon sunlight disappeared, night engulfed the area like a thick, dark blanket. Tall cypress trees, with their long fingers of hanging moss, loomed like waiting demons at the edge of the grass, and the acrid aroma of rotting vegetation drifted in from the nearby swamp. The yellow halogen parking lot lights came on, casting eerie shadows on the cement sidewalks and restrooms.

  He glanced down at his watch. The illuminated dial showed six-twenty. It wasn't like Thomas to be late. Something must have delayed him, or else he'd changed his mind. He decided to wait until six-thirty, then leave.

  The glare of incoming headlights flashed in his rear view mirror, but he couldn't tell what kind of car it was. He started his engine and put the transmission into reverse. Heavy pressure on the brake pedal kept the car from moving. He felt silly taking this precaution, but he wasn't about to become another murder statistic.

  The car slowed down, turned off its lights, then stopped in the middle of the parking lot. A few minutes later the door opened, a man emerged, and hobbled toward the rest room.

  Philippe let out a sigh of relief as he recognized Thomas' unmistakable limp. Nobody but Thomas walked like that. He put his car in park and shut off the engine. Thomas gestured for him to get out, and together they walked over to a grassy area.

  Philippe rubbed his cigarette into the wet grass with his shoe. "You're late. What happened?"

  Thomas ran a finger around the collar of his shirt. "I had to make sure I wasn't being followed."

  He saw the fear written on the younger man's face. "What's going on? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

  Thomas shook his head. "Nothing like that." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I believe in repaying debts, and I think what I'm about to tell you will make us even." He reached up and placed a hand on Philippe's arm. "First, you have to promise you'll never tell anybody where you got this information."

  "You're serious, aren't you?"

  "Damn straight, I'm serious. I'm only doing it because you were the only one who'd loan me money when I was flat broke. I've never forgotten that, and this is my chance to repay you. Now, promise me you'll never tell anybody where you got this."

  Philippe nodded. "I promise. What is it?"

  "I was in Baton Rouge three days ago, picking up some plans for our county. There were some men working on the air duct in the john. They left to get some material, and while they were gone, the conversations from the state highway commission board got piped into the john. Don't ask me how it happened, but it did. I heard them say they wanted to put a piece of that new interstate highway right through the east part of the plantation you inherited. I know it's your property, because they referred to it, then said you were the new owner. Seems like only your property has the access they need to connect two major highways. They plan on putting it in sometime during the next three years. They passed the plan, swore everybody to secrecy, then closed the meeting. I looked around the john before I walked out, but I was the only one in there."

  Philippe swore under his breath. "You're sure it's my land they talked about?"

  "Yeah. I wanted to tell you about it so you could maybe get some money out of this deal. Remember, you didn't get it from me."

  He shook Thomas' hand. "Thanks for looking out for me. And don't worry, I won't tell a soul."

  Thomas nodded and peered at the darkness. "I better get back before my wife misses me."

  Philippe returned to his car and waited for Thomas to leave. Of all the filthy, rotten luck. He thought about his dilemma and decided he needed to wait a couple of months before he did anything about buying back the land. Otherwise, the new owner would become suspicious, and might hold on to the property until she figured out why he wanted it back. Besides, he was flat broke. Even if he hocked everything he owned, he'd still come up short. He pounded his fist on the steering wheel. There had to be a way to buy back that land cheaper than he sold it. He wondered if Nicole could figure out something, then laughed at his own stupidity. Of course she could. Being sneaky, deceitful, and underhanded was second nature to her.

  Chapter 28

  The cold wind blew the snow off the three suitcases sitting on the sidewalk. Mary pulled her coat closer and stamped her feet. Where was the stupid taxi? She glanced down at her watch. It should've been here already. She'd told the dispatcher she needed to be picked up at eleven.

  A gloved hand shielded her eyes from the blowing snow as she peered down the street. In the distance, a car lumbered up the road. It drew closer and once she saw the taxi sign, she moved her suitcases closer to the curb.

  The driver got out and placed her suitcases in the trunk. "Where to, lady?"

  "Airport. Can you please hurry? It's eleven thirty and I have a one o'clock flight." They made it with time to spare, and she added a five-dollar tip to the fare.

  Her connecting flight was delayed two hours, and by the time she arrived in St. Francisville, it was nearly midnight. She decided to wait until the next morning to drive out to the plantation. It was late, and the road was difficult to navigate, even by daylight. A taxi deposited her in front of the main hotel, and she waited impatiently for the sleeping manger to open up the office. Some ten minutes later she deposited her suitcases on the bed and checked her briefcase for the notarized papers from Elizavon's attorney. They were still there, and she gave them a final pat before she closed the lid.

  Those papers were her ticket back to the plantation. It was hard to believe, but she'd gotten everything out of Elizavon she'd wanted. Maybe she should've stood up to the old bat years ago.

  She pulled down the spread and blankets and climbed between semi-damp sheets. Even with central heating, the constant humidity made everything feel damp to the touch. She gritted her teeth and pulled the covers up to her chin. Sleep remained elusive, so she allowed herself to think about the multitude of tasks that lay ahead. The first thing she needed to do was rent a car. After that, she'd pay the Sheriff a visit and show him the papers so he knew she was authorized to stay at the plantation. The next stop would be the phone company. She'd left her cell phone at the office for an associate to use while she was away. Since the plantation was so far out, she wanted to be able to call 911 if she needed help.

  She knew the power at the house was already on, because the workers needed it for their tools. Once she finished all her errands, her last stop would be the local market to purchase enough groceries for one or two weeks.

  As she stretched out on the bed, a familiar tingle of excitement coursed through her veins. She was really looking forward to her stay at the plantation, and
was determined to solve the mystery of what happened to Magdalene.

  If only Jack were here. His image came to mind, but she resolutely forced it back. Right now, she needed to focus on matters at hand, instead of what might have been. She had a job to do, and because of DeeDee's plan, she now had a whole month in which to do it.

  She couldn't wait to show the house to DeeDee. They'd decided it would be best if DeeDee waited a day or so before coming down. That would give her time to get settled in, and touch base with Elizavon. Since DeeDee was better at languages, she volunteered to finish the library research, while Mary searched the house.

  The next morning passed in a whirl of activity, and she didn't leave for the plantation until well after two. This time she was prepared for the long drive, and took the time to look at the swamps with a critical eye. She was surprised to realize that even though they were treacherous, they held a beauty all their own. By the time she arrived at the plantation, she held a new respect for the varied landscape that surrounded it.

  The house loomed ahead and she halted the car on the gravel driveway, away from the construction trucks and vans crowded together in front. As she got out of the car, she realized Magdalene would be proud of the work being done. She walked around to the front of the house and paused to watch the men at work. There were three separate groups working on the restoration. One group removed rotten boards on the upper galleries, another worked on the front door and windows, and a third focused their energy on the Doric columns. She became so engrossed in their activities that she jumped when a gloved hand descended on her right arm.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to startle you. Can I ask what you're doing here?" a masculine voice inquired.

  She looked up. The stranger was about fifty years old, with brown eyes and a black mustache, streaked with gray. A blue denim jacket covered most of his red flannel shirt, and a pair of well-worn blue jeans encased long legs. She recovered from her surprise, and fumbled for words. "I'm Mary Corbett, Miss Phelp's niece. I've come to stay at the house while the restoration work's being done."

  He held out a leather-gloved hand. "Glad to meet you. I'm Matt Nichols, construction foreman."

  She shook hands. "We spoke last week on the phone. How's it going?"

  He pointed to the house. "Pretty good. They're removing all the rotted wood first. The next step is to match the wood, then replace the rotted boards with new ones. The columns, however, will have to be special-ordered because of their length and width."

  "What about the roof? I take it your men are going to replace the entire thing." She pointed to the dormer windows and chimneys. "Be sure you have somebody check the chimneys very carefully. Also, when they replace the roof, they'll need to make sure they redo the dormer windows in symmetric proportion. If they don't, the whole effect will be ruined."

  He rubbed his chin. "I see you know your construction techniques. Don't worry, I've got some of the best roofers and carpenters around working for me. If they can't do it, nobody can."

  She walked up the steps and peered at the open spaces where some of the rotted boards had been removed. "I see you've kept the original bousillage entre poteaux walls intact wherever you could. Good."

  "The what?"

  She pulled some of the moss from between the posts. "Bousillage entre poteaux refers to walls made of a mixture of Spanish Moss and sand."

  He grinned. "We call it the sand/moss filler. I'm not used to your fancy French names, 'cause I'm from Texas. Moved here about three years ago."

  "That explains your unusual drawl." She dropped the moss and rubbed her hands to keep them warm. "I don't mean to be rude, but would you mind if we delayed our conversation? I have groceries I need to bring inside."

  "No problem, ma'am. Need any help?"

  She shook her head. "Thanks, I can manage. Why don't we meet in the drawing room in about thirty minutes? I'll be ready to look at the restoration plans by then."

  "No problem. I've got the blueprints in the back of my truck. See you in about half an hour." He walked toward the group of men and disappeared around the side of the house.

  It didn't take long to unload the car and dump her suitcases in one of the downstairs bedrooms. The house was bitterly cold, so she started one fire in the drawing room and another in the first floor bedroom, hoping to take away some of the chill. Thank goodness she'd brought heavy clothes. It was going to take some time to warm this drafty old house.

  She was surprised to find some of the original furniture still in the house. She'd expected to find it empty, and had planned to pick up a table, two chairs and a rollaway bed. Either her aunt bought the place exactly as it was, or the Martines hadn't bothered to remove anything before Elizavon took possession. She made a mental note to see if any of the antiques they'd found were still in the house. It would be interesting to get a list of what was supposed to be there when Elizavon took possession, and compare it to what was actually here.

  Matt Nichols walked into the drawing room a short time later, carrying several sets of blueprints with him. He paused at the French doors. "Where do you want me to put these?"

  She gestured to the coffee table. "Have a seat." While he spread out the plans, she walked over to the liquor cabinet, which now held a coffeepot and a freshly opened can of French Vanilla coffee. "I've put on a pot of coffee. Would you like some?"

  He shook his head. "No, thanks, had about ten cups already." He spread out the blueprints and waved her over. "I've had to recreate the original layout of the house. The top set shows the details of what we're going to restore."

  She took her time going over the sheets, searching for any unusual doors or walls. "What about the carved ceiling medallions? Do you have a special shop that can make an exact match?"

  "I've lined up a master craftsman who specializes in that sort of thing. He's going to do all the interior work, including ceiling medallions, stairs, doorways, floor sections and cornice moldings. He's expensive, but the final product is worth the money. Same thing for the special glass in the windows. I have a fella lined up who specializes in leaded glass."

  "Sounds like you've been doing this for a while."

  He grinned. "Yes, ma'am. I've worked on restoring several of these plantations houses. I get a kick out of bringing the past back to life, so to speak."

  Chills raced up and down her arm when she heard the phrase 'bringing the past back to life.' In a way, that was what she was here to do. She walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured a cup of coffee. "I'm impressed with the detail you've included, Mr. Nichols. If your workers are anywhere as thorough with their work, I'm sure my aunt will be pleased."

  He picked up the blueprints and rolled them into long cylinders. "You don't have to worry about that, Ms. Corbett. I don't put up with shoddy work. I pay my guys good money and expect good work. If they're lazy or incompetent, they're gone."

  She held out her hand, signaling the end of their discussion. "Thank you very much for taking the time to go over the plans, Mr. Nichols. When I phone my aunt tonight, I'll make it a point to tell her how thorough you are."

  He scooped the plans under his arm. "That's what she pays me for, Ms. Corbett. To make sure the job's done right."

  "I think it will be."

  After he left, she checked the fires and phoned Elizavon. Their conversation was short and to the point. Elizavon didn't mince words, and warned Mary that if she wasn't satisfied with the progress reports, Mary would have to leave.

  The house was strangely quiet after the workers left. Mary amused herself by going through the rooms, checking to see what, if any, valuable items were left. It was as she suspected. The few good antiques were gone. She wondered if she should mention that to Elizavon, then decided that the old woman was smart enough to have had somebody check the house the day escrow closed.

  A pan-fried steak, salad, and fresh biscuits complemented the bottle of wine she'd purchased to celebrate her first night in the house. She carried them to the dining room an
d ate her first meal by the light of the fire. Several glasses of red wine later, the grandfather clock chimed nine, and she roused herself enough to give DeeDee a call. The phone rang several times, and she was about to hang up when DeeDee answered.

  "Took you long enough to answer," she teased.

  "I was in the shower, and my answering machine's on the fritz." DeeDee lowered her voice to a whisper. "I'm dying to hear what happened. Did you find anything?"

  Mary laughed. "You don't have to whisper. There's nobody here but me. I haven't found anything yet. The workers are doing a good job, and I've already given Aunt Elizavon her first update. When are you coming down?"

  DeeDee yawned. "I'm leaving on the eight a.m. flight tomorrow. We're supposed to get in about three thirty. Are you going to meet me at the airport?"

  "Of course. We'll need to get back before dark. There aren't any lights on the road, and I don't want to chance running into the swamps by accident. We'd have to walk miles in the freezing cold before we got somebody to help us."

  "If it's that uncivilized, maybe I should stay home."

  "Don't be silly. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

  DeeDee rang off and Mary tossed a couple of logs onto the fire. Tomorrow she'd have to ask the Sheriff who delivered firewood. There wasn't much left, and it would probably be cold and damp the whole time she was here. Two small loads should be enough to keep the house warm for a month.

  It was strange, but now that she was back at the plantation, she felt at ease. She wandered through the house, looking for anything that seemed familiar. She paused at the top of the stairs, trying to remember why this place was so important. Nothing came to mind, so she started at the top step and ran her hands across every piece of wood on the banister, looking for a hidden compartment. By the time she got to the bottom, the clock struck midnight, and her eyes felt like lead weights.

  She stirred the fire in her bedroom and added a couple more logs for good measure. The long cotton drapes fluttered as she walked by, and shadows from the fireplace danced across the sheer white material, forming unusual designs. She'd chosen the guest bedroom on the first floor to make sure she could hear any unwanted visitors. Although she wasn't expecting any problems, this house was in the middle of nowhere. She removed her baseball bat from its carrier and stuck it under the bed. It didn't have as much range as a gun, but at least it was something.