by C. L. Bevill
Despite all that, Mignon tended to remain alone. Proud and intractable were Mignon’s key attributes. Mignon. And now she sees this link to Dara Honore. She’s determined that Tomas Clovis couldn’t be the one to strangle the life out of a lovely young woman, and she’s contrived a set of possible suspects which doesn’t seem to include her cousin.
Regardless of what Mignon believed, John Henry’s suspicious nature did not limit the murder suspects to merely one young man who happened to be the most likely. He wanted answers for all the unanswered questions. In the evidence room, encased in plastic and labeled as evidence, there was an elaborate knot tied in the rope that had ended Dara’s life. It was similar to the knots he’d seen tied in the ropes that hampered the pirogues to the dock. It was the beginning of another suspicion. Robert had brought up the issue himself, and regardless of what he’d agreed to with Mignon, John Henry couldn’t just drop the issue of Dara Honore.
After their dancing, they had eaten, and then Mignon had walked off toward the bathrooms. John Henry watched her shapely form disappear into the darkness. Then he’d turned toward the docks where a dozen boats were attached. Laughing, drinking, eating people littered the island. They joked with him as he passed. A group of older men was playing a card game around a dilapidated table arguing half-heartedly about a bridge move. Another crowd of people was leg wrestling to see who had the strongest legs and best balance. A cluster of girls, none over the age of ten and up far past their bedtimes, had found a fairly flat part of land and were jump roping, while they sang a lively song.
As he walked past, he heard their high voices singing, “On a hill stands a lady. Who she is, I do not know. All she wants is gold and silver. All she wants is a nice young man. Madam, will you walk? Madam, will you talk? Madam, will you marry me? How many years were they married?” And as they began to count, the rope began to twirl faster and faster.
Reminded of the girls at Blessed Heart School, John Henry thought about what Noel and Apolline Honore had said about Dara. She had found out that she was in trouble. Those were the words she used. She was in trouble; it was an old euphemism for having learned one was pregnant and not married. The school would shelter her until she had her child. Apolline had made the arrangements with Father William. They would continue her schooling. They would ensure that she didn’t have to be held back in school. Then they would make certain that the baby was given to a decent family.
Why? John Henry had asked the blunt question in the kindest voice that he could dredge up. The questions he and Caraby both had wanted answers to, since neither the family nor the school had been forthcoming about Dara’s pregnancy, were the harder ones to ask and remained unasked for the time being. Why send her to a school not ten miles away? Why not keep the child? Why not send her to a school in Baton Rouge or New Orleans? Neither had mentioned the pregnancy until the sheriff’s department had brought it up. An obviously grieving set of parents weren’t the best recipients of the hard questions that the police sometimes had to ask.
The answer to the simple, one-word question hadn’t been something that John Henry had enjoyed hearing. Simon Caraby hadn’t been surprised. Later, he’d told John Henry that Father William occasionally took in pregnant girls from poor families. Since most of the Creole families were poor, the Honores weren’t an exception. Their values tended to be different than the average WASP anyway, and John Henry was the first to admit that he wasn’t empathic to the Creoles. The Honores were doing what they thought was best for their family and for Dara herself. The decision had been made for her. She would have her child in the school. She would give the child up for adoption. She would return to the fold fairly unsullied. She would marry a good Creole boy. She would produce more children. It wasn’t a plan that shocked John Henry, except that no one seemed to care what Dara had wanted. What could have been Dara’s plan for life? Not the life that had been planned for her, certainly. Not at sixteen years of age.
Was that someone’s plan for Mignon?
John Henry grimaced. Surely, they aren’t that antiquated in their thinking. And even if they are, they haven’t run it past Mignon yet. A worried expression crossed his face.
As he came to the docks, John Henry paused. He wanted to be quick. He didn’t want anyone to see him and wonder what he was about. He really didn’t care to be tossed into the bayous for the alligators as Mignon had playfully suggested that they might do to him. He pulled out a plastic baggie that he’d borrowed from the multitudes of kitchen materials that someone had thoughtfully provided at one side of the bountiful buffet of food. He found Robert’s colorful pirogue, and with his pocket knife, he scraped off a sample of the red paint that made up the beautiful sunset decorating the small boat.
When John Henry carefully placed the sample inside the baggie, he folded it up, and put it into a pocket. Then he ran his hands over the sides of the pirogue. If there had been scratches there made by the flailing fingernails of a terrified teenager, they were gone now. It was smooth and seamless as if Robert had spent hours applying something that would level the surface and then sanded it carefully. Coincidence?
God, I hope so. John Henry didn’t like himself much at the moment. Coming to the fais do-do was part of an attempt to re-connect with Mignon and get past their present impasse. Part of the trip was that he didn’t want Robert and the Creoles to have a wide-open shot at Mignon. His face twisted into a regretful scowl. Admitting to flaws in his character wasn’t something that came easily to John Henry. As his ex-wife was wont to say, he would have rather cut off his tongue. But Mignon was special. She was more than special. She is…
John Henry bit the side of his cheek and stood up, giving the pirogue a last lingering stare. Robert said that he wanted to know who had been borrowing his pirogue because they’d been leaving scratches on it. If Robert hadn’t mentioned it, then John Henry wouldn’t even have immediately thought of the chips of crimson paint that had been found on Dara Honore, and he wouldn’t have thought to check the paint to see if it matched. Consequently, Robert could be extremely naïve and very much innocent. Or he was very clever, knowing that eventually a connection would be made between him and Dara and was covering his tracks in advance. After all, two hundred people probably had access to the rows of painted pirogues. It would be a good argument for the lawyers.
As for Robert’s connection to Dara herself, well, Caraby had discovered that Dara had a number of boyfriends previous to Tomas Clovis. She was an attractive, vivacious young woman, and she seemed to attract young men to her like a bee to honey. Caraby had a list of no less than twenty names of young men on it. John Henry hadn’t bothered with the list, knowing that Caraby would interview each one in his turn, but he suspected that if he called Simon at that very moment, he would find out that Robert Dubeaux was on that list with all the others. Not knowing the connection between Dubeaux and Mignon, Caraby wouldn’t have known to mention it.
John Henry turned back toward the revelers. The band had stopped for a break, and several men were singing a song that he eventually recognized as a drunken version of “Bad to the Bone.” He smiled, despite his murky thoughts, and went to find Mignon.
However, it was several more hours and the arrival of the sun before John Henry grimly admitted to himself that Mignon was no longer on the little island in the middle of the bayous. Where she was presently located was anyone’s guess.
Mignon was gone.
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday, March 15th
I had a little dolly dressed in green.
I didn’t like the color so I sent it to the queen.
The queen didn’t like it so she sent it to the king.
The king said, “Close your eyes and count sixteen.”
One, two, three, four…
- Children’s jump rope rhyme
Mignon wasn’t sure if she had fallen unconscious or if she had fallen asleep. The last thing she remembered was that her eyes were burning, and her nose was running, but she co
uldn’t manage to wipe the moisture away because of the way her hands were tied. When she opened her eyes again, the world was a blurred place, and she realized that it was full daylight again. She was lying on a cold surface on her side. A wadded-up piece of cloth pillowed her head, and most importantly, her wrists and ankles had been freed.
Blinking to clear the fuzziness from her eyes, Mignon struggled to sit up, but a sudden wave of nausea threatened to overcome her. She elected to remain lying down until the swell passed her, and her stomach settled into an undecided position of neutrality. Wherever she was, whatever trouble she was in at the present moment, she thought it couldn’t be so terrible, otherwise she would still be restricted and her face covered with that terrible piece of cloth that had been soaked in…
“Gasoline,” said a rough voice as if someone had read her mind.
Mignon turned her head and saw a tall and powerful shape looming over her. It was silhouetted in black by the midmorning sun behind it. Arms moved away from the sides of the shape and showed that they were wide and bound with hard muscles. She would have jerked away, but the nausea returned in a moment’s notice and made her groan with dismay.
The shape above her hesitated and then crouched beside her. She saw who he was as his handsome face twisted with concern. “Just gasoline on that rag. I know you ain’t feeling proper right now, but you’ll be better after a bit.” Tomas Clovis’s dark eyes studied Mignon carefully.
Remaining as still as possible, Mignon looked back at him. He was wearing the same Nike T-shirt and what looked like the same baggy blue jeans she’d seen him wear at the sheriff’s department. Gone was the cheap suit he’d had on at Dara’s funeral. The shirt was stained with sweat and a streak of blood on one sleeve. The jeans were ripped at the knees, and Mignon knew that he’d had a hard week. His girlfriend had been murdered. He had been questioned and then arrested for the deed. He’d run like the most guilty of felons.
Now Tomas could add kidnapping to his list of accomplishments. Mignon’s silent question was the most obvious one. What does Tomas Clovis want with me?
Tomas had risked the wrath of the Dubeauxs, who were distant relatives of the Honores. It was true that none of the Honores had been at the fais do-do, but somehow Tomas had heard that Mignon would be there, and at some point in time she would be vulnerable. The very act of which Tomas was so readily guilty didn’t comfort Mignon. She had been on his side, more than willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but that had been before.
And John Henry, she thought agitatedly. John Henry will be looking for me. I went to the bathroom. I said I’d be right back. He said he’d wait for me. How long before he begins to look for me, and how long before he begins to realize that I’m no longer there? Another disheartening thought occurred to Mignon. Where am I?
Tomas knelt by Mignon and saw the varied expressions cross over her lovely face like a series of progressively black clouds passing over the sky. “I’ll get you something to drink. I got some co-cola. It ain’t freezer cold, but it be better than bayou water.” He rose up on formidable haunches and shot her a last look before turning away.
Mignon tried to sit up again and found that the scent of gasoline lingered around her, making her want to vomit, twisting her stomach into knots. She finally understood that she had inhaled enough of it that it was being emitted from her own pores. “Lord,” she muttered. She put her head into her hands and closed her eyes. A monster headache was coming along in direct competition with the nausea. It struck in the middle of her skull like an ice pick.
Tomas returned with a can of lukewarm Coca Cola. He handed it to her, and she pressed it against the middle of her forehead, but it wasn’t cold enough to do any good. “Got a headache?” he said interestedly.
“Did you put the gas on the rag on purpose?” she muttered.
He stepped away from her and perched on the edge of a large stone, and Mignon tried to shake the fuzziness from her head. Headache, nausea, and hazy vision were combined like the symptoms of the worst hangover she’d ever had.
Folding his arms over his chest, Tomas shook his head. “Accident. I dint realize it was a gas rag until I had you in the bayous. I changed it real quick-like, but you was already higher than a kite.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as though he truly didn’t care one way or another.
Mignon thought caustically, It would have mattered to you if I’d died from it. Then you’d be dealing with not one but two murder charges. She laid her head back against the wadded up cloth on the ground under her and prayed for her body to rapidly cleanse the contaminants from her system. Water would be best, she concluded. “You don’t have any clean water to drink?”
“No,” he said shortly. “Co-cola and Mountain Dew. This or that. I got some beef jerky, if you’re hungry.”
Mignon would have moaned because the thought of food made her stomach roil with anguish, but she stifled it with a quick look away from Tomas.
“I seen people like this before,” Tomas said, and she closed her eyes. “They huff stuff. Get high from the fumes. Spray paint usually.”
“Huff?” she repeated weakly.
“Sniff it,” Tomas said succinctly. “I reckon you got high from the gas fumes. Of course, you didn’t mean to. Made you right sick, too.”
Opening her eyes, Mignon braced her elbow up so that her body was half raised. A shaking hand held the can of coke while the other one opened it. She was going to make herself drink it, even if it came right back up. Several sips later, she concluded that the coke was settling her stomach. Even the headache seemed to be receding slightly. “I don’t suppose you have anything for a headache?”
“Sorry,” he said insincerely.
Half the can was gone before Mignon realized that the thing Tomas was leaning up against was a gravestone. As a matter of fact, she was laying full length across a grave. She tilted her head back and saw the marker not a foot from where her head had been resting. Her head spun around before she could think better of the action.
It was a very old graveyard. Stone markers had buckled over ground that was concave with the collapsing coffins below. Crypts were falling apart with the neglect of decades. An iron fence was completely red with rust and was decaying into the dirt. Only a few feet away a black bayou licked gently at the edges of the small island of earth. She could see the pinnacles of gravestones reaching heavenward from the consuming waters as if they stood on tippy-toes to keep from being completed submerged. It was a surreal scene with the backdrop of towering cypresses with their veils of Spanish moss draped across their massive limbs, wavering in a gentle northern breeze. It was a dreamlike landscape out of the abstract dream of an artist.
All Mignon could think to say was, “Where’s my camera when I really need it?”
•
John Henry had taken advantage of Fred’s 350 anytime minutes because his own cell phone didn’t have a signal. Robert tried to placate John Henry. “We’ll find her. She cain’t be far. None of the pirogues are gone. Got to be still on the island.”
“We’ve looked in every house. We’ve looked under every bush,” John Henry’s voice was grim and cold as ice. “She isn’t in a Porta-Potty. She isn’t hiding under one of the houses with a gallon of moonshine having a good ol’ time.” Then his harsh gaze settled ominously on the bayou. “Either she went out there with someone else willingly or not, or she went out there in the bayou period. I don’t give a damn about the alligator skins on your walls or the deer you got out of season. I don’t care if you’re making enough moonshine to kill all the alcoholics in the Betty Ford Clinic. What I care about is Mignon’s safety.”
Robert turned toward the bayou. It was past 10 a.m., and they hadn’t found hide nor hair of Mignon. If he hadn’t guided her out to the enclave himself in a borrowed pirogue, then he wasn’t sure if he would have believed that she had been there. She had vanished as surely if she were Amelia Earhart. He nodded slowly. “I’ll get the boys out there. We’ll start closest to the isla
nd. We’ll divvy it up into search coordinates and start looking. Truth be told, she cain’t be far.”
John Henry nodded in return and started to dial a number on Fred’s cell phone. Several of the Dubeauxs were standing around waiting for instructions. Many had taken the time to get into thigh waders and prepare for a search. It was hardly the first time someone had gone missing in the bayous of the area. John Henry had aided in many searches, as well. He knew the routine. He simply didn’t want to endure the agony of those who had been left behind, as he had personally witnessed before.
As a matter of fact, John Henry was aggressively cursing his own inaction. He had watched Mignon walk away and then broken his word by going to check on whether or not her cousin might be directly involved in the murder of Dara Honore. While he had been scraping paint off Robert’s pirogue, Mignon had been disappearing. While he considered the ramifications of what it meant for Mignon to discover that she had a whole set of relatives that she hadn’t known about before, she had been walking into limbo.
The bleak thought of Mignon being lost in the black waters of the bayou was so painful that he almost groaned with its onset. Some of the alligators were large enough to take down a small human being, and while Mignon wasn’t tiny, she wasn’t very big either. Not that. Anything but that.
There had been drownings where the bodies were never recovered. Snake bites, quicksand, and once, a cougar who took a toddler out of a backyard, were all incidents that could have been avoided or could have been prevented.