by C. L. Bevill
Although the floor needed to be swept, and the stickers needed to be removed from the bathtub, it was still the place where she could sink deeply into the water and let the heat and jets cure all her ills.
She presented her fingernails to her face again and saw that there was more than mud under her nails. There was a red substance imbedded there, and Mignon’s good humor abruptly vanished. Blood?
There was a moment of sick apprehension while Mignon tried to determine whether she had been walking around for the whole morning with the blood of a young innocent under her fingernails. Trepidation battled with logic and lost. Dara didn’t have blood on her. So this can’t be blood under my nails. As simple as that.
But Mignon’s curiosity was piqued. It didn’t seem to be the thick red clay that was found abundantly in the area. The mud on her hands had been black, the sludge of a hundred years of decaying material in the bayous. She found a fingernail file and used the point to carefully dig out the material, letting it fall onto a clean sheet of drawing paper.
Using the pointed end of the file, she pushed the reddish material around. It was the precise color of freshly spilt blood, a deep purplish-red that reflected the light and revealed its nature. However, the substance looked like tiny flakes of paint instead of life’s integral force now blackening with exposure to the elements. And Mignon happened to be an individual who knew something about paints. As a matter of fact, her discriminating artist’s eye knew the color already.
The name was alizarin crimson, and it was as fiercely blood red as the sun’s light in the bayou that very morning.
Chapter Six
Wednesday, March 5th – Thursday, March 6th
Once upon a time, the goose drank wine.
The monkey played the fiddle on the sweet potato vine.
The vine broke. The monkey choked.
They all went to heaven on a nanny goat.
- Children’s jump rope rhyme
John Henry didn’t appear that night at the farmhouse, and Mignon was only mildly surprised. She was expecting an angry tirade about her supposed involvement in the investigation, upon which she planned on apologizing profusely, giving him the paint residue that she’d saved in a plain white envelope, and introducing him to the large Jacuzzi. That tub, once she’d cleaned out the workman’s dirt and the like, had been pure heaven. The luxury of soaking in that tub had made a new woman out of her. As a bribe, she figured that it would be cataclysmically effective upon John Henry, provided she got the chance to proffer it.
She brushed out her wet hair as she sat in the living room next to the old Ben Franklin stove, wondering how angry John Henry was with her. Her stubbornness had once before almost gotten her killed. Sometimes she could see the brooding look in his eyes as he considered the deadly consequences of the actions of an unbalanced individual.
In any case, their lives had settled into a constant that John Henry had begun to take for granted. He didn’t want her to upset the apple cart. John Henry was a confirmed Boy Scout, even if he wanted to deny it. He was a man with morals and ethics. He wanted his steak and potatoes on regular days, and certainly, nothing else would tempt him away from that regularity.
She, on the other hand, was open to change. Her entire life had been a series of alterations and revolutions. Each time she had moved to a new foster home, there was more to be learned, both bad and good. In life there were risks, and if one didn’t stick her head up above the hole, then she might not see what was out there. Of course, John Henry would say that if one stuck her head above the edge of the hole, she was more likely to get it shot off. But then he was regimented and rigid to the depths of his soul. Risks were just that, risks. And risks should not be taken unless there were dire circumstances.
But what more dire circumstance was there than the murder of a young innocent?
Frowning at her thoughts, Mignon allowed them to slip to Dara Honore, a child she knew next to nothing about. Her lovely features stuck in the rictus of death, would remain a fixed memory in Mignon’s mind for a long time. It would be as if she had drawn what she’d seen on a sheet of paper, using charcoal for the vivid clash of white versus black. Her eyes open and staring, the hazel reduced to shades of gray. The creamy brown of her flesh would become the pale white of the paper, only a visual substitution that would be barely acceptable. Death would never be easily epitomized on mere paper as it had been so dreadfully perceived in life.
Visualizations wouldn’t help the girl, nor would they aid Mignon. But she thought of something that would. She put her brush down and reached for the pile of mail that she had earlier brought in earlier with her. She shuffled through it until she found the envelope from Blessed Heart. A moment later she was reading a letter from Sister Helena Curtis, community coordinator and principal at the Blessed Heart School for Girls. The letter was just as Father William had described. The sister had heard about Mignon, as had anyone with ears in the parish, and wanted the girls to benefit from her success. As she was an orphan who had been in a similar position as many of the children, the sister felt that Mignon would have much to offer in the way of encouragement and education. Could she contact the sister when it was convenient?
An oak mantle clock on a coffee table showed that it was almost ten at night. It certainly isn’t convenient now, Mignon considered. But oh, tomorrow it will be.
John Henry was already biased in favor of Father William and his school, but Mignon wasn’t, and it wouldn’t hurt to understand what kind of place it really was. And John Henry couldn’t fault her for being invited to the place.
Mignon thought about that. Well, he can fault me, but he can’t prevent me.
•
The next morning Mignon drove over to her neighbor’s house and found him in one of his favorite places, his garden. Sprouts of unidentified plants poked through the soil as he carefully picked his way through the rows and plucked troublesome weeds from where they attempted hostile takeovers of the fertilized ground. As he heard her car drive up, Miner Poteet turned around expectantly, a luminous smile lighting up his lined face. A John Deere cap was propped jauntily on his head, and denim overalls protected him from the dirt that would inundate him as he worked. Even from yards away she could see the radiant bright blue of his shrewd eyes. In his eighth decade on this earth, Miner was still as spry as if he were in his third.
When Mignon returned to La Valle, she discovered that Miner was still her friend. He was a devoted family man, and he revealed things to her that assisted her search. He had also proven more than trustworthy and knew more about the parish than the most knowledgeable historian.
Miner moved toward her with that same welcoming smile. “Good to see you, little girl,” he called. A warm hug briefly enveloped her tinier frame, and he stepped back to look her over. “I recollect that you should have been in the day before yesterday, but ain’t no one down at the farmhouse then.” There was a teasing twinkle in his eye. “I guess I ain’t the only one pleased that you came home.”
“Mr. Poteet,” Mignon protested weakly. It was like having a father looking over her shoulder. Even her adopted father, Nehemiah, wasn’t as probing as Miner Poteet. Miner was looking out for Mignon’s moral well-being as well as her happiness.
“Oh pshaw,” he said back. “I know about these new relationships. I watched Sex in the City on HBO, but that other show, Oz, well gracious, you don’t want to know what they do on that one.” He made a tutting noise under his breath. “You know what people will say?”
Mignon blushed. “I don’t—” she said and cut herself off. She didn’t like having to defend her morals to someone like Miner. Miner was always going to win. It was simply a given. It was definitely time to change the subject. She took a breath and said, “I went out to the bayou yesterday morning.”
Miner frowned. The teasing light faded from his bright eyes. “Oh Lord above,” he muttered. “Were that you what found that poor girl?”
Nodding slowly, Mignon took Miner’s arm
. “I know you didn’t mean that to happen, Mr. Poteet,” she said reassuringly, afraid that he was going to blame himself for having shown her that particular bayou and telling her about the dazzling colors of the morning sun that were to be found there. He knew she was going to look for out of the ordinary scenes to paint, places off the beaten track, and he knew of more than a few.
“I’m sorry, chère,” he murmured and patted her arm awkwardly. “There don’t usually be bodies in the bayous there.” Then Miner thought about what he’d just said, and a muffled laugh escaped his lips even while he tried to keep it in. “Oh, I am sorry,” he laughed again. “It isn’t funny, and I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I got to mind what comes out of my mouth.”
Mignon couldn’t help but smile back, and the pair of them dissolved into helpless laughter, laughter that had a magical healing power to wash away her unspoken worries. When they finished she felt about a thousand times better than she had before. Miner guided her over to the porch in almost the same manner as Robert had done the day before, and she was glad of the reminder. After they both sat, and Miner had managed to wipe the silly grin from his face, she asked, “Do you know about any cousins of mine in the area, Mr. Poteet?”
Miner took a blissfully deep breath to clear the mirth from his thoughts. “Your folks didn’t talk much about their kin,” he said reflectively. “I know your mama was from this area. She had a few folks who came to visit. But I don’t quite recall if they were her brothers or sisters or what the like was. They didn’t come often.”
“A man came to see me yesterday,” she said. “His name is Robert Dubeaux.”
“Ah,” Miner said understandingly. “Your mama’s birth name was Dubeaux. More than likely you are family. Be a mite surprising if they didn’t have an interest in you, given all the publicity of the past months.” He nodded mostly to himself with rueful expression. “Though they were just as afraid of Ruelle Fanchon as the rest of us. Maybe more so.”
“Why’s that?” she asked curiously.
“Well, back then, the sheriff was God in his own kingdom.” Miner puffed his lips out pensively. “Master Fanchon was the Lord Almighty in this kingdom, and God help the man who stepped in his way. The Lord knows what I’m talking about. I reckon you do, too.”
Mignon nodded.
“But decades past, there weren’t no Internet to report that a lawman had beaten your son half to death when he thought he might be involved in a burglary but had no proof to speak of. There weren’t no countermeasures to prevent such a man from taking liberties from those folk who had less to speak of.”
“You mean the Dubeauxs were very poor,” Mignon said.
“Sure, poor,” Miner agreed carefully, his tone a little odd. “But more than that.” He went silent, and Mignon knew he was contemplating the words he wanted to say to her. “You don’t come to me with easy questions, do you, chère?”
“With friends, I know I can get the answers I need,” she said.
“Friends, huh?” Miner smiled at that. “I reckon I’m right lucky to have such a beautiful young woman as my friend. Those gals at the church would be jealous as old hens.” He was reflective for a moment. “You’ve got to come to church with me sometime, little girl. My granddaughter is studying for midterms and I don’t got a cute little lady to hang on my arm.” He grinned and straightened his shoulders reflexively. “Make an old man strut.”
“The Dubeauxs?” she prompted.
“Oh yes,” Miner said. “Well, there’s poor and there’s poor, as a man might say.” A troubled look crossed his face. “I ain’t sure on how to say this properly. Mama Poteet, that would be my sainted mother, may she rest in peace, raised her children to mind their manners. She said not once but a hundred times if we wanted to be treated with respect, we were to treat others with respect. Each and every soul, no matter what another man said about them.”
Mignon was struggling to understand what Miner was trying to say to her. It sounded like a warning wrapped up in something else.
Miner looked up and saw that she didn’t understand. “Some people are poor, and it don’t matter because they a certain way. They’re one thing, and others who are poor, they’re something else. I never ascribed a difference. The Lord teaches us that all men are alike in his image. He teaches us to judge not, lest judged ye be.” He sighed again, and it was an uncomfortable sigh. “Other folks aren’t so Christian like. They treat those who have less as though they are lesser human beings, and as a result, those people don’t trust the ones not of their family.”
“So the Dubeauxs got a raw deal,” Mignon tried to interpret what Miner was saying. “They were so poor that people looked down on them.”
“Poor, yes,” Miner agreed. “But they’re something else.” He smiled grimly. “So are you, chère. But you done rose above it. I think you would have no matter what. The spirit burns in you like a raging bonfire.”
“So am I?” she repeated with confusion. “Because I’m related to them?”
Miner looked at his hands and blinked. “I’m making a mess of this.” He took another deep breath and started again. “This whole area is full of history. Right back to when the Spanish owned it. Then it was the French. They settled this place, this whole area, and it got to be unique in its outcome. It developed into something so different that it ain’t never really been repeated. Not in the whole of Louisiana, not in the whole of the South.”
“I’m sorry, Miner,” she said patiently and smiled gingerly at the older man. “I guess I’m a little slow. I know about the history of the parish and Natchitoches Parish, too. The oldest settlement in the Louisiana Purchase. French and Spanish influence. Antebellum mansions. Rich, colorful history. Cobblestone streets. But what is it that you’re trying to say?”
Miner looked at her with those gleaming blue eyes again. “They call it something. Gens de couleur libre. You know what that means, little girl? I don’t like to talk about such things because it ain’t right. The missus would have slapped me upside the head if I mentioned such things in the polite company of a young lady. As a matter of fact, she would have rushed right in and got herself a bar of Lava soap for my mouth.” His lips flattened into colorless lines. “But you got to know about this. It’s all about you, too. That girl in the bayou, too.”
Mignon froze in place. “Are you saying I’m related to the murdered girl?”
“I don’t know that exactly,” Miner said slowly. “But I reckon you got the right to have some information about where you from. You never had it before.” He looked out toward his garden longingly, and she could see the wish in his face that the subject had never arisen. Miner truly didn’t like it nor did he care to be put in a position that he had to be the one to tell her. “You go talk to your cousins, little girl. They’ll give you the answers you need.”
“But Mr. Poteet,” Mignon protested.
Miner said, “I guess I ain’t as perky today as I thought. I believe I’ll lay down before lunch for a bit. My granddaughter tells me I need to wear sunblock when I’m working in the garden, and I thought my good old John Deere would take care of Mr. Sun for me.” He stood up, and Mignon was vividly reminded that he was elderly. “Why don’t you come back in a few days, and we’ll talk about some more places for you to paint your perty pictures of?”
Mignon stared at him as he slowly walked inside the house. As the door gently came to a closed position, she was left alone on the small porch. She was wondering if she should get in touch with his granddaughter because he didn’t look well, and she was wondering how much she was to blame. But then his granddaughter drove up in an aging Honda.
Mary Catherine Brevelle attended Northwestern University at Natchitoches. She was twenty years old and had black hair with her grandfather’s fiercely blue eyes. She studied biology and chemistry and Mignon knew that she was as sharp as a needle’s point. “I think your grandfather isn’t feeling too well,” she said in way of greeting.
The smile faded from Mary Cat
herine’s face. “Oh Lord. He was in the garden all morning, wasn’t he? Don’t worry, he’ll be as right as rain after he gets some food in him and some rest. He isn’t the man who gave me horsy rides when I was five years old.”
“I’m sorry,” Mignon said haltingly. “I think I upset him.”
“You did?”
“I asked about some of the people in the area,” she replied quietly. “I don’t think he liked to discuss them. Maybe I brought up some bad memories.”
Mary Catherine’s face cleared. “Granddad’s got a real stern disposition concerning certain folks. He’s old school. One doesn’t talk of distasteful subjects. One talks only of the future. The past is behind us and certainly shouldn’t affect us.”
Mignon glanced back at the house. “I’m very sorry. The last thing I would want to do is to bring up a past he doesn’t want to discuss.”
Mary Catherine shrugged, her slim shoulders moved casually. “I’ll make sure he’s all right. Don’t worry. He’s a stubborn man about certain subjects.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Republicans. WWII. Equal rights. Government corruption. Anything about that?”
A little smile crossed Mignon’s lips. “I think I avoided most of that. I was curious about family in the area.”
“Who’s that?” Mary Catherine asked mildly.
“A man named Robert Dubeaux.”
Mary Catherine’s eyes went round with abrupt understanding. “The Dubeauxs. You mean the people who live near Cane River Lake in some of the deepest bayous.”
“I don’t know where he lives.” Mignon’s eyes narrowed at Mary Catherine’s odd tone. “Your father called them something French.”
“Gens de couleur libre,” Mary Catherine said quickly. “I know the phrase. Granddad doesn’t like to talk about them much. My grandmother was one of them. When she married Granddad they essentially disowned her. Wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t acknowledge her children. It’s part of why he felt so much compassion for your parents.”