Crimson Bayou

by C. L. Bevill

  Parking wasn’t easy. Cars lined the road almost all the way to the main turnoff and Mignon was lucky to find someone nearer the school buildings pulling their car out after visiting with a student. She was five minutes early and found a seat in a pew in the back of the chapel, which was surprisingly full. There were many people there that she took to be relatives and family members who had taken the opportunity to attend church and visit at the same time.

  Father William said the Mass and as Mignon listened half-heartedly, her thoughts strayed to Sister Helena and Simon Caraby. Sister Helena had argued with Dara the night before she was found murdered. She had access. She had a motive that would involve losing everything she had worked for in the past decade and more. She had everything except the physical power to overwhelm a girl many inches and pounds larger.

  Mignon scanned the audience but couldn’t find the sister in attendance. Either she had gone to the earlier Mass or she would be coming to a later one. Sister Helena seemed an unlikely suspect. She was kind to the girls. There had been no complaints about her filed with the St. Germaine’s Sheriff’s Department, or John Henry would have said it when he discussed it before. In addition, why write such a blatant note to Father William about Mignon’s questions about Dara? It was something that anyone could have seen and commented about. And there was the interesting fact that Sister Helena had been present at the fais do-do. Mignon had caught a glimpse of her there not long before Tomas had carried her off like a sack of groceries under his arm. What had the sister been doing there, and what did it have to do with Dara, if anything?

  But Simon Caraby? Mignon was mystified. She had taken Linda’s statement about him at face value. People with little of value, who are forgotten by the rest of society, have much to lose to those who have power and authority. A truly corrupt individual could take advantage of such a group of people. Had Caraby earned his Creole moniker because he simply turned his back on his heritage or because he used them in ways that would please him? If Dara had something that belonged to him, then she had met him before she had been murdered. If Dara had met him, then he was keeping that to himself.

  Mignon made a moue with her lips. Caraby might very well not be keeping it from John Henry. John Henry might know exactly what was going on with Caraby, and it was perfectly innocent. After all, Caraby was a Creole. He shared their heritage. He probably had relatives among them. He might even have friends there, as well. Linda might be repeating a story told by someone who had been angered by Caraby. Doubtless over the course of his career, the man had been forced to arrest some of the Creoles. He probably had testified against them in a court of law. If he had gone against the Creoles in that manner, it might have earned him that disturbing nickname, and Linda was merely echoing what she’d heard.

  She would have sighed, but the Mass was in a moment of silence, and Mignon didn’t want to be the single noise amongst the hush. There was only one way to answer the persistent questions that rolled around in her head like infuriated Africanized bees going after something that had angered them. She was going to have to ask them. Both of them and make sure she was in a well-lit, well-populated place when she did so.

  When the Mass was over she spoke briefly to Father William, who looked at her coldly. Ignoring his chilliness, Mignon went to find Sister Helena. There was no time like the present to ask the questions that needed to be answered, and Mignon didn’t dare tell Simon Caraby about the photographs because of the little ID that had been included there. At least she didn’t, yet.

  Sister Helena was in the office alone working on the computer. She looked up at Mignon, and her expression wasn’t exactly welcoming. Her wimple was in place but a few stray hairs had escaped the headpiece, revealing the dark brown color underneath.

  Mignon leaned against the counter that separated the front area from the rear, looking as if it were a regular school for children and no different from any public facility. She looked across at the sister and waited calmly.

  “I suppose,” Sister Helena said presently, not looking up from the computer, “that you saw me at the enclave.”

  “I did see you.”

  “There are many Catholic Creoles in the bayous that require spiritual assistance,” Sister Helena said. Her fingers tap-tap-tapped at the keyboard without hesitation.

  Mignon hoped that Sister Helena would fill in the gaps without prompting.

  After a long minute, the fingers stopped their motion, and Sister Helena said, “It isn’t enough for you?”

  “Do you know what happened to me?” Mignon said softly.

  “You disappeared,” Sister Helena said promptly. “They were afraid you might have drowned in the bayou. Perhaps an alligator might have eaten you. We were all pleased when they announced you had been located safely. A mere accident. God be praised.”

  Mignon kept quiet when the inevitable pause ensued.

  “But,” the sister added quietly, “they whispered that one of the Gullahs had taken you.”

  “You know who,” Mignon stated bluntly. The sister wasn’t looking up, but Mignon could tell from her expression that she knew much more than she was admitting.

  “Tomas Clovis,” Sister Helena said, and she gave up the ghost. Her wan face came up, and her eyes met Mignon’s. Mignon was a little shocked. The sister looked haunted.

  “What did you argue with Dara about the night she was murdered?” Mignon said gently.

  “Dara wanted to leave Blessed Heart, like some of the girls do,” Sister Helena said, propping her elbows on the desk and resting her chin on the palms of her hands. “She wanted many things, most of which she couldn’t have.”

  “And she wanted you to help her.”

  “Yes. She wanted my help.”

  “Because she had something that belonged to you,” Mignon said firmly.

  “I thought that Tomas might reveal to you where Dara had placed her most valued possessions. Her letters, her rhymes, her very soul, I think,” Sister Helena mused, and Mignon noted that she didn’t seem to be as concerned now. The proverbial cat, Mignon realized, was out of the bag, and there was nothing that the sister could do to stuff the animal back inside.

  “The photograph of you and your friend,” Mignon said.

  Sister Helena nodded. “I think Dara must have wandered by the office one day and seen me looking at it. It’s a source of comfort to me. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Mignon tried to keep her expression neutral. “I understand that you loved someone once. Love can be comforting.”

  “But unlike the photographs on my desk, that one was very different,” Sister Helena said, and her eyes were mocking, “and yes, I realize you were in my office. Gail is hardly blind, Miss Thibeaux. She thought you were simply curious.” She paused and added, “You’ll need to improve your breaking and entering skills if you wish to continue in your detective capacity.”

  So much for subtlety, Mignon told herself sarcastically. “I don’t care about your life before you took the veil, sister. I only have questions about the immediate past. The one that includes Dara Honore.”

  “But if you reveal that photograph, then there will be no immediate future for me,” Sister Helena said, and her voice broke slightly.

  Mignon couldn’t help the surge of compassion. Why would anyone want to cover up her questions by writing a note to Father William asking about them? “In today’s era, I doubt it’s the transgression you believe it to be. No one needs to know about it. You don’t abuse the children. I’ve never thought that you do. I heard a half-dozen people singing your praises to Father William this morning. It’s obvious that you care deeply about the girls here.” And her mind was abruptly made up. Sister Helena couldn’t have done it herself, and she certainly hadn’t begged Father William to aid her in covering up youthful indiscretions. Father William had been glaring at Mignon because she was asking questions, because she was stirring up a hornet’s nest no matter what the cost.

  “Then what?” Sister Helena snapp
ed suddenly. “What do you want with me? Dara wanted, too. She wanted, and she demanded in a manner that suggested she would never back down until she got what she wanted.”

  “I don’t want anything from you but the truth,” Mignon said. “Did you kill Dara? Did you procure someone to do the job for you?”

  “God forgive you, no,” Sister Helena protested instantly. She crossed her chest, and her fingers went to her rosary. Her eyes closed and then opened. “What about the photograph?”

  “As soon as this matter is settled I’ll give it back to you,” Mignon said. John Henry wouldn’t be happy if he knew, but she knew he’d do the same thing. He wouldn’t allow it to be passed through the hands of a half-dozen deputies and whispered about in the halls of the sheriff’s department, where it would eventually slither out like an escaped rabid animal into the general populace. Sister Helena would be persecuted by people actively ignoring her. Then there would be action taken against the school itself. It was true that homosexuality was more commonly accepted, but this was still the backwoods of Louisiana. The sister would be forced to leave, if the school was to survive and there would be no guarantees. Mignon couldn’t say exactly why it was that she felt that Helena was innocent. But Sister Helena sounded as if she were telling the truth, and the fact was that the sister didn’t have to tell Mignon anything at all, if she so wished, and the sister was well aware of that reality.

  Sister Helena glanced away. Mignon was at a loss for words, something that was happening to her more and more often of late. She would have turned away, but the sister whispered something and Mignon said, “What?”

  “Her name was Blair.”

  “The girl in the photograph,” Mignon said.

  “Yes,” Sister Helena said, her eyes on the far wall, misty with remembrance. “She was only twenty-two when…”

  And that makes me feel about an inch and a half tall, Mignon thought. “She’s dead.”

  “Flight 4315 crashed upon landing in Georgia a long time ago. All on aboard were lost including a senator from Texas and an astronaut. But there was also Blair Windham, a very special woman.” Sister Helena’s eyes briefly closed again, and she composed herself. “She had relatives there. Then she was going to join me in New Orleans. I was in graduate school.” Her eyes came up to Mignon’s and locked with hers. “I took my vows a year after that. It was probably for the wrong reasons, but I do good, and I can live with myself now.”

  Mignon vaguely remembered the details of Flight 4315 primarily because of the two famous people onboard the plane. It had happened during the tumultuous times of soldiers fighting and dying in the Middle East, and the details had been quickly lost in the excitement and fanfare of returning troops. Suddenly anxious to change the subject, she said, “What did Dara want from you?”

  “Emancipation,” Sister Helena said. “She wanted legal status as an adult. It was so she could make decisions for herself legally and without having to consult with her parents.”

  “Decisions for herself and for the baby?” Mignon said quietly. It wasn’t quite a question.

  “We’ve helped in changing a few teenagers’ statuses here over the years,” Sister Helena said and added sadly, “When it was warranted.”

  There was something in her expression that told Mignon what she needed to know. “You didn’t like being forced, but you thought her case was justified.”

  “Dara was mature enough to take care of herself and her child. Her means were criminal, but I’ve always thought that fear gives one wings.”

  “Her actions were motivated out of fear?” Mignon persisted.

  “Fear of what would happen to her child in the wrong foster home. You see, if Dara had been forced to give up her child, and Tomas couldn’t get custody, how could he, since he couldn’t afford the cheapest lawyer, then the baby would be put in foster care. It wouldn’t have been here because infants are not in our charter. It would have been most likely in someone’s private home. It would be someone who likely would be doing it only for a paycheck. The love would not be there and possibly much worse would be present.” Sister Helena’s face was bleak. “Dara asked me only two weeks ago what happens to babies of mixed heritage.”

  Mignon tried to swallow but couldn’t clear her throat.

  “There isn’t much requirement for African American babies. Many people want Caucasian babies. And the child would have been perceived as African American despite the fact that he or she would have been so clearly Creole.” The sister paused, and her head bent over her rosary beads. Her fingers moved rapidly over the beads as if she were praying. “And the baby would probably have grown up in foster care. An older child can survive, as you know, without permanent trauma. A baby is a completely different story.”

  The mental image of a baby enduring the experiences of a loveless environment and the neglect that often goes hand in hand made Mignon shudder with horror. Seen from that perspective she could condone Dara’s actions. In fact, Mignon would have been the first to cheer her on if she were still alive today.

  But there were two other things. One was less troubling. “Why are you so concerned about my asking questions, Sister Helena?”

  “How did you—” the sister cut her words off before she could finish. Comprehension made her eyes glitter, and she started again, “The note in the father’s office.” She sighed, and it was the sigh of a principal about to scold a trying student. “I realize your fame as an artist gives you a certain inscrutability, but snooping inside private offices isn’t something that I would overlook.”

  Mignon stared unflinchingly at the sister.

  Sister Helena sighed again. “I had hoped that a little information would make you less curious, not more. But you seem like a bulldog, one whose jaws will have to be pried apart in order to make it release.”

  “I don’t care for that comparison, but if it makes you feel better, sister, by all means continue to think it. My interest is in discovering who murdered Dara because I’m not sure if the sheriff’s office will.”

  “They’re still dead set on Tomas Clovis,” Sister Helena interpreted.

  “Why,” Mignon repeated carefully, “were you so concerned about my asking questions? Why tell Father William?”

  The sister did not hesitate in her answer. “If Noel and Apolline Honore knew about the ongoing application process for Dara Honore’s emancipation, they would very likely sue us. We’re already undergoing a financial crunch at the time. It would be devastating.” Her voice went to a hoarse whisper that Mignon struggled to hear. “Although that hardly compares to the murder of a child.”

  “It was just a…heads-up?” Mignon said and inwardly winced.

  “Father William needs to know what’s going on,” Sister Helena explained. “He’s in the middle of procuring monies from a dozen different donors. That, and dealing with the board’s questions about Dara’s murder, might very well put us under for the third and final time. No more home for troubled girls. No more positive role models for children who so desperately need our care. Nothing.”

  Struggling to understand the information, Mignon stood there for a moment, lost for words. The sister was too cooperative. Helena didn’t like answering Mignon’s questions, but she didn’t shy away from it. Was it because she knew that Mignon wouldn’t go away or because of Mignon’s connection with John Henry or perhaps it was because she knew that Mignon would understand?

  “There was something else,” Mignon said slowly. The words of the biased rhymes floated through her head, like the repetitive jingle of a particularly annoying television commercial. “Was Dara prejudiced against other Creoles?”

  Sister Helena looked at Mignon, and her eyebrows crinkled in a frown. “Prejudiced against other…Creoles?”

  “Was she?”

  “Dara was…” Sister Helena’s voice trailed away falteringly. “I forget that you never met her while she was alive. She was lively, quick-witted, and very pretty. Some of the girls envied her. Others emulated her. She was
principally good at making up rhymes, sometimes so personal I’d want to tear out my own hair after hearing them.”

  “One of the girls repeated the one she made up about you,” Mignon said. “It was clever enough that no one but you might understand it.”

  “Only one rhyme?” Sister Helena laughed, and it turned into a choke. “She had several. But prejudiced, why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Her written rhymes were a variation on a theme, none of it was positive about other darker-skinned individuals. Gullahs were a favorite target. It surprised me since her boyfriend was Tomas.”

  “And Tomas is not only a Gullah, but he’s as black as black can come,” Sister Helena said thoughtfully.

  Mignon started to protest but bit it off. It wouldn’t do any good.

  “The area is inundated with discrimination.” Sister Helena’s hands went wide apart, palms up as if demonstrating the futility of the issue. “Children are taught to disrespect that which is different from them. Stereotypes of a culture are all-encompassing here. If Dara followed a theme in her rhymes, it doesn’t surprise me.”

  There was something else. Mignon prompted, “But…?”

  “But I wouldn’t have called Dara bigoted,” Sister Helena finished. Her face was troubled. Her hands came back together and worked diligently and unconsciously at the rosary beads again. “On the contrary, I would have said she was one of those who recognized the equality in all God’s children.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything else left to say.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Monday, March 17th

  Mammy’s in the kitchen, doing some stitching.

  In comes the bogeyman and out goes she.

  Mammy comes in later, and the bogeyman ate her.

  - Children’s jump rope rhyme