Maggie was flabbergasted by their similarities and differences. Clara had loved, suffered, lost, and endured. She made a new life choosing independence, settling with aloneness as a small price to pay.
“Now what about you Maggie the Mystery. Who was he?”
Maggie was unprepared for her question and wanted to go home. “Soldier. Warrior. Military man,” she said unenthusiastically. “We’re not together anymore.”
“Children?” Clara asked.
Maggie swallowed hard. “Yes. Three girls.” She looked down at the table and curled her fingers into the palm of her hand.
“Well.” Clara understood that Maggie would disclose little else tonight. Maggie’s strained voice was heavy with finality. Their conversation was over.
“I hope you find your way back to them, Maggie. It’s late. Let’s go.”
Maggie raised her head and tightened her lips to stop the quiver but she couldn’t hide the sadness in her face. She grabbed her purse, scooted out of the booth, and followed Clara out the door.
They parted at the corner with a brief, affectionate hug. Clara squeezed Maggie’s shoulders in a gesture of camaraderie. They felt the bond of this new friendship equally. Clara walked to the left, Maggie crossed the street to the right. Two women alone but not lonely tonight.
Later that night, back in her monastic room in the small Victorian era boarding house, Maggie peered out the window to see the streetlight casting shadows of the large beech tree on the deserted street. Branches were swaying and leaves were twirling in the strong summer breeze. The rustling motion and warm wind pacified her ache. The gray colorless scene of life in the shadows gave her a picture of hope. Morning would come. The beech tree would still be there. And the leaves would be bright green.
She undressed slowly, deliberating, and lay down on her single bed. Memories of the sea in Japan came kindly, caressing her with undulating motion and the lulling sound of Michiko’s voice singing to her baby girls. Sleep came peaceful and deep.
Chief Boudreaux drummed his fingers on his desk as he waited impatiently to hear back from the state Motor Vehicle Office. Black diesel pickup truck. DANCE4U license plate. These identifiers were like a flashing neon sign as far as he was concerned. This would not be difficult to trace. He was also eager to return the vessel to the community center, not only because the cherished artifact had been found but also because he was concerned about the vessel’s fragility and wanted it safely out of his custody back where it belonged.
When he placed the call to the community center, he found it no surprise that Henry Doucet, the director, already knew about the recovery trip to New Orleans. Doucet had already solicited a donation from the university’s archaeology department; the new shatterproof glass case would arrive soon.
There are no secrets in West River. News travels faster than smoke signals. Chief Boudreaux promised to deliver it right away.
Henry Gavin Doucet met him in the community center parking lot, hands on his hips, grinning madly, waddling unevenly toward the patrol car as he shifted back and forth on his portly frame. His faded olive green fisherman’s vest, that he was never without, made him look more like an outdoorsman than the administrator for the nature preserve and community center.
“What the hell took you so long, Beau! I hope you got ‘em locked up in jail by now.” He pulled on his long silver beard, chuckling with delight to see the chief. “Let me get that out of the car so you don’t trip and bust it to pieces.” He laughed, but was serious.
“Hey, Hawk,” Beau said opening his door, more than glad to oblige. “It’s all yours again. Glad it’s still in one piece. I think it is anyway. Wrapped it up good and Nelle kept watch over it the whole way back from New Orleans. We got some good leads to track down on it, too.”
“Hawk” was Henry Gavin Doucet’s nickname. Only people who didn’t know him called him Henry or Mr. Doucet, and those were few. Hawk’s wispy gray hair circled his round face like a shimmering halo. It shot up straight in the front and out on the sides, covering his ears. Children thought he looked like Santa Claus with his white beard, twinkling blue eyes and pot belly that could never quite be contained in his signature fisherman’s vest. Hawk gave out peppermint candy treats dug from the deep interior pockets of his vest to the schoolchildren who visited the center on field trips. He had been doing it for so long that he smelled like peppermint. His very presence personified jolly old Saint Nicholas.
A ninth generation Louisianan, he never married and lamented the fact that he was essentially the end of the Doucet family line. The Doucets could trace their ancestry back to the emigration of French colonists from Acadia in Nova Scotia to Southern Louisiana as consequence of conflict with British soldiers in the 17th century. The French farmers and fishermen had more in common with native people than the British military. A proud Cajun, this fact accounted for his devotion to preserving the history of his people and community. His legacy lay in protecting what history had left behind and conserving what remained unspoiled.
Hawk lived a quiet life with his childhood best friend Ernie on the outskirts of town, maintaining the forgotten records and artistic renderings of historic West River along with tending to the business of managing the care of the nature preserve and community center. He took great pride in his work and the role he played in West River’s preservation, mesmerizing young schoolchildren with vivid tales of how families lived off the bayou and river in the old days. Graphic photographs of monster size alligators, prehistoric garfish longer than cars, alligator snapping turtles bigger than tires with spikes protruding from their armored shells, stealthy bobcats and ferocious black bears drew squeals of fear and wonder from his captive classes of youngsters. He stoked their imaginations with facts and fables, taking great delight in their unabashed awe. Hawk was an old man with a young heart. He never outgrew the charms of childhood.
Hawk’s lifelong friend, Ernie LeBlanc, was tall and lanky as a bayou cypress tree with gray-streaked dark hair that hung past his shoulders like wavy Spanish moss. He liked teasing Hawk by calling him a “newcomer”, claiming that his people had always been part of the bayou and had not come from anywhere else, ever. Ernie was a “from here.” Hawk was a “come here.” No amount of time could change that distinction.
Ernie fished with hooks made from the bones of massive alligator garfish, revered as sacred relics through traditions passed on by countless generations. He maintained that the red stone necklace he wore was proof of this eternal existence, but refused to give it up for any kind of academic examination. He also knew that his small collection of stone cooking balls decorated with intricate circular and line patterns that had been in his family “forever” were known to have ancient origins. Ernie attributed his reputation for making the best crawdad etouffee dish in the whole of Ouachita Parish to the power of the ancestral clan mothers that still dwelled inside the handmade clay balls. No one disputed his assertion, for no one could duplicate his cooking. Even the simplest concoctions with minimal ingredients, his celebrated corn soup called “Macque Choux” couldn’t be replicated. It was difficult for him to convey this truth without piquing inquiry from nosey curiosity seekers, who begged to either buy or borrow his treasures, an idea that made him shudder.
Short on words but expert on his primitive stove, Ernie mostly kept to himself, preferring the bayou and its abundant critters to the company of people. Like Hawk, his connection to the land and his people was absolute and binding. He had cane woven baskets passed down from so long ago no one could remember not using them. His great grandmother instilled in him the dominance of the female rulers of the bear clan and Ernie wore her earring and believed her life-force lived in him. He was as deeply rooted in the waters of the bayou as the primordial cypress trees.
Different as the sun and the moon, Ernie and Hawk held in common matters of the spirit that knew no language and transcended time. They were a good match and took good care of each other.
“Ernie says to tell you
that whoever did this wants to make things right. He says their heart is bleeding. He says to look at the gold charm and listen to the horses. He talks in riddles sometimes. I’m not sure what he means. I don’t think he knows either. But he said to give you this.”
Hawk handed Beau a flat river rock with the images of three small owls carved deeply into the stone. “It was a gift from your grandmother to his grandmother. They were great friends, like sisters almost, you know, during hard times. It’s supposed to ease worries. His grandmother rubbed it when she needed to think. That’s what he told me. He thinks the wisdom of the owl will help you. That’s Ernie. So here. It’s yours now.”
Beau clasped his fingers around the stone and felt its coolness in his palm. He opened his hand slowly, uncurling his fingers gently. “Tell him thanks, Hawk. Be sure to, okay?” Beau uttered the words softly as he stared at the carving etched in the dark stone. Three. Three owls. He smiled.
“Oh. One more thing. I almost forgot. He told me to tell you that winners are sometimes the losers. There he goes again. Ain’t he something. You get that?” Hawk asked, shaking his head.
Beau nodded. “Yeah, I think so. Tell Ernie I appreciate it, will you.” He rubbed the owl stone with his thumb and slipped it in his pocket. Searching for the right words to deliver his gratitude for the heirloom gift he said, “And tell him we missed him and his crawdad etouffee at the jubilee this year. I wish he had been there. We had some pitiful corn soup entries and nobody even tried on that crawdad dish.”
Hawk nodded in agreement. “Aww, you know Ernie. He’s not much good around a bunch of people. He don’t like to compete neither. Gets too many questions ‘bout his cooking.” Hawk chuckled, “Ernie don’t like attention. Makes him nervous. Prefers being invisible. He don’t like people prying into anything about his life. Neither do I.”
“You tell him I’ll take good care of my owl stone. And you can invite me over next time he’s whipping up that crawdad etouffee. I promise not to ask a word about how he makes it,” Beau said grinning. “Everything I cook comes out of a can.”
He raised his hand in a gesture of friendship and parting and slipped back into his police car. Heading back to the police station, he drove the dusty backroads at a slow crawl, occupied with Ernie’s messages and the meanings and clues they might hold. Beau accepted Ernie’s insight and intuition without skepticism or question; his main concern was mapping the pathway that would lead to connecting the dots and solving the case in a way that would stand up to the law.
As he finally turned into the police station parking lot, hardly remembering the drive, the owl stone shifted in his pants pocket. He rubbed it unconsciously against his leg, feeling a surge of energy and sudden ravenous craving for a good corn soup.
Chief Boudreaux tipped his head hello to Officer Larry Howard, the desk sergeant who sat at the front entrance to the small red brick police station. The station was quiet and empty except for him. The other officer was out patrolling, which meant mainly issuing tickets to speeding drivers and mediating neighbor disputes over hunters trespassing and dogs roaming on private property.
Two pink While You Were Out message slips lay on the chief’s desk. The first he had been waiting for, the second was unexpected.
“When did this call come in, Larry?” he asked the sergeant, waving the pink slip of paper in the air.
“Which one? Motor Vehicle Office?” The sergeant was well aware of his chief’s eagerness to get a trace on the license plate of the black diesel truck.
“No. The other one. The girl.”
“About an hour ago, I guess. She wouldn’t say what she wanted. I asked twice. She just left her name and said to call her as soon as you can. Sounded like she was in hurry and talked real low. Can you read my scribble okay?”
The sergeant had written Emaline. “Yeah. I got it.” He plopped down in his chair and turned toward the back wall, rapidly dialing the number.
“Bonjour.” Her voice was strong and clear.
“Emmie? Comment ca va?”
“Chief? Beau? Is that you?”
“Yes. You called? Are you alright?”
“Mon Dieu! It was here again! The truck! They came here again early this morning!”
“What did you see? Did you talk to them?”
“I tried. He wanted to gas up this time. I put the pump in and went around to where the girl was sitting. Asked where they were heading. She looked upset. I asked what was wrong and he yelled at her to shut up. He grabbed her by the arm and squeezed it hard. He was mean. Skinny with lines in his face. Older. A cowboy hat with a silver band. He had a diamond, heart, spade and club tattooed on his fingers. Like maybe a card gambler or something. It was the same truck as before. Same guy. DANCE4U on the plate. Like I told you,” Emmie blurted out the information rapidly, and then took a deep breath. “Okay. That’s it. C’est tout.”
Chief Boudreaux leaned back in his chair. Silent. Taking it in.
“You still there?” she asked.
“Oui. Of course. Sorry. Just thinking. What about the girl? Anymore about the girl?”
“Well,” Emmie sighed loudly, “she was blonde, fair skin. Sort of pretty. Not hard looking like he was. Younger. She was mad at him, I could tell. Like they had been fighting or something.”
“She didn’t say where they were going?”
“He wouldn’t let her talk. No,” Emmie replied. “Does this help you?”
Chief Boudreaux chuckled. “Mon Dieu, ma cher. Oh, yes. More than you know. You would make a good cop, Emmie.” He heard her alluring giggle in response and felt his heart skip a beat.
“Are you coming back soon?” she asked, not hiding her eagerness.
“I think I just might have to. It looks like it. Yes. I am. I think so.” He could have bitten his tongue off at his sloppy stammering response. That giggle again. It made him tingle.
“Maybe this time you will stay a little longer?” she suggested in a honey-laced voice.
He could feel her reeling him in like a helpless fish caught on a line. He had taken the bait when first he saw her. Clutching his alligator tooth that hung discreetly under his shirt, he responded without hesitation. “Yes. Oui. I will probably have to do that. Take a statement from you. You gave me a lot.” He grimaced at his ridiculous reply.
“I have more, Mr. Beau. More to give. I hope you come soon,” she cooed.
Beau’s eyebrows shot up. A bead of sweat broke out on his upper lip as his body temperature began to rise. “Thank you,” he said helplessly, rolling his eyes. He was caught.
She hung up.
He blew a long low whistle as he hung up the receiver. No woman had ever had this kind of power over him and he wasn’t sure that he liked it. After taking a few deep breaths to clear his head, he picked up his other message and dialed the motor vehicle number. This call settled him and brought him back to chief in charge.
“Yes, sir. We have that for you Chief Boudreaux,” the female voice said professionally. “It’s registered to a Mr. Jack Burrow King, 13 Lanvale Street, New Orleans. Personalized license plate is DANCE4U. Chevrolet 1960 black diesel pickup truck. He’s the original owner. Anything else we can help you with today, Chief?”
Chief Boudreaux hastily recorded the information. “Great! Thank you! Got it.” He slammed down the receiver. “Sarge! Larry! We got him!” he yelled, sprinting toward the front desk, focused on his work again.
“Who is he? Where does he live?” Sergeant Howard asked, charged by Chief Boudreaux’s excitement.
The chief tossed his note on the sergeant’s desk. “Here he is. Look!”
Sergeant Howard stared at the name. His eyes narrowed in concentration. “Hmmmm,” he murmured and scratched his chin. “Jack King.” He looked up at the chief. “I know this guy. He’s got a record long as your arm. Give it to me. I’ll get back to you.”
“How do you know him?”
“I arrested him eight or nine years ago when I worked across the river in Bawcomville before
I came here. Almost killed a guy in a bar brawl. Big gambler. He’s mean. Half crazy, too. Robbed a guy after a card game he lost. Did a year in jail.”
“I need to go see him, Sarge.”
“Not alone you don’t.”
Nelle worried about the changes that would come now that her grandfather was gone. His absence wrenched her into fretting over the unknown and uncontrollable future; the burdens he had carried for them now hers. Her lodestar and inspiration, he was the centering force that somehow made all things right and manageable. She struggled to restore order by attempting to rescue those she loved from the calamities of life. Her younger sister needed her help and attention to cope with his sudden loss. Christine had been happily spoiled by his love and affection and Nelle knew she could not adequately fill that void, but it didn’t lessen her worry. She ached for the companionship of her older sister Mary Ellen, a nurse who lived in Baton Rouge, and wished she were not so far away.
Pete was lost without his Papaw, the man who adored and raised him, and the emptiness it left him with was palpable. His grief compounded her sadness. Neither of them had ever foreseen a future when their guiding stars went dim. Alone together in their early weeks of mourning gave them little comfort.
Although grateful that she and her sisters were the heirs to Granddad’s modest estate, she did not want his property to become her prison. She did not envision her future there. Christine would graduate from high school in the spring and she was in her final year of veterinary school. The fates of her father and mother were beyond her power to influence. Granddad helped her to accept that without bitterness, but longing for parents had no cure. He had been a salve to the hurting that never went away and now he was gone, too.
Her life had descended again into the exhausting weight of uncertainty and upheaval. What she desired and needed most was the comfort of Pete’s arms. She wanted to hear his frequent gentle lectures, before the clock of death stopped time for both of them, when he would whisper to her lovingly that she could not fix everything. However briefly, he freed her from the trap of believing that she could make everyone’s problems go away.
The Road to Home Page 14