“He wouldn’t talk to me and didn’t let her talk to me either,” Emmie answered, knowing the chief had returned here for serious reasons and she wanted to help. “I tried to find out where he was going when I saw it was the same truck that came here before. I asked the pretty girl where they were headed, trying to make it seem like friendly conversation, but he grabbed her by the arm and told her to shut up. Loud, yelling. He was mean. Had tattoos on his fingers. Playing card suit tattoos.”
Emmie splayed her right hand and pointed to her fingers. “Diamond, heart, club, spade. Creepy. The girl pulled away from him and told him she needed to go to the bathroom. He said something like ‘hurry up bitch’ and he just sat staring ahead. But I have to give you this. I found it this morning when I was cleaning up the bathroom. I didn’t know about it when I called you.”
Emmie disappeared momentarily into the backroom and returned with a wrinkled bandana rolled into a small bundle. “She must have put it there. Here. Look. It was on the sink behind the faucet, like she wanted me to find it.”
She set the red bandana on the counter and carefully opened it. An old, worn black leather voodoo doll stuffed with Spanish moss, adorned with tiny white beads for eyes that stared and a sharp porcupine quill for a fearsome mouth, lay pierced by a hatpin to a dog-eared playing card: the King of Hearts.
Even on a mid-morning Sunday, when most of the world gave way to laziness or worship or rest and reflection, the French Quarter bustled. There was no such thing as idle Sunday on Bourbon Street. Small, old restaurants were packed with locals and tourists, sipping strong coffee and indulging in powdered sugar beignets. Rue Bourbon, the oldest street in the city, was alive with music drifting outside from smoke-filled bars that never closed, the haunting soulful sounds of wailing horns speaking the language of sinners and searchers alike. Cobble stone streets added to the rhythm of jostled life, in celebration of the imperfect and good enough, a testament to bumpy journeys that in the end all lead to the same place. New Orleans was a city of forgiveness.
“I used to know these streets pretty well,” Chief Boudreaux said, his eyes darting around as he looked at street signs. He paused to note the store fronts, restaurants, and bars that lined the sidewalks. “But it’s been awhile since I spent that summer here. Not too much has changed,” he commented as he drove past Fat Cash Pawn and pointed it out to Sergeant Howard.
He turned right onto Royal Street passing by art galleries and antique shops. “Kinda fancy here,” Sergeant Howard said. “Not like where Fat Cash Pawn is. Come to this part to spend your money not to get some.”
They drove past Jackson Square and Café du Monde where the loveliness of New Orleans was displayed by tall red brick buildings that spilled blossoms of pink, red, and white flowers from ornate wrought iron balconies. “Look for Dauphine next, Sarge. We take a left and follow it a couple miles down. Lanvale is off that. We’re getting close.”
The street scene gradually changed from city bustle to primarily residential with shotgun houses and creole cottages set back from cracked and crumbling sidewalks. Garish homes painted ocean blue and flamingo pink were interspersed with shabby dwellings of weathered gray wood and peeling white paint. It was a neighborhood mixed with pride and poverty, desperate love and painful neglect. People did not roam the sidewalks here. Skinny dogs loped along the streets and pathways patrolling territories and scouting out food. Rusty chain link fences cordoned off some of the residences, an attempt to keep bad influences away, whether animal or otherwise. The rundown community could not hide its suffering or hold it at bay. It had its voice in the blues.
“There! Over there, Chief!” Sergeant Howard pointed ahead and to the right. “Slow up. Go by first to check it out.”
Chief Boudreaux eased up on the accelerator. He lowered his head to look out the passenger window as he drove by the narrow shotgun house painted bright turquoise like a shining gem among gray stones. Two ruby red aluminum chairs sat on the tiny front porch. Iridescent multi-colored pinwheels planted in the ground along the walkway twirled lazily in the light breeze throwing out a kaleidoscope of color that gave the otherwise bare yard a touch of gaudy carnival whimsy. The house was set off the ground by large cinder blocks. Coral colored rickety wood steps, flanked by sharply spiked wrought iron rails, led to the porch. The sign attached to the front door in big letters discouraged the hospitality the colorful house exhibited: NO TRESSPASSING! The black diesel truck was parked in the dirt driveway, license plate DANCE4U.
“We gonna take him in, Chief?” Sergeant Howard asked, his voice tight with tension.
“No hard proof yet. But this visit will shake him up. The only one who dealt with him in person was that Curtis guy at Fat Cash and he’s gone. Gabriel Landry didn’t see him and there’s no paper trail. Emmie is the key to this so far. C’mon. Let’s go.” He parked the patrol car behind the truck, unconsciously resting his hand on his pistol as he walked with Sergeant Howard down the sidewalk up to the porch.
As he raised his hand about to knock, the door swung open. A tall skinny man, shirtless, wearing baggy jeans and a black cowboy hat stared at them. He leaned against the door jam, cocky, and tipped his hat up higher on his forehead. “What can I do you gentlemen for?” he asked in an icy tone.
Chief Boudreaux noticed his tattooed fingers. “Jack King?”
“The one and only. And now just what the hell are you doing here at my house?”
“Stolen property recovered at Fat Cash Pawn. Can we come in?” Chief Boudreaux was trying to stay civil. The smell of stale cigarette smoke drifted outside. His stomach churned at the unpleasant odor. “Won’t take long,” he stated, looking to Sergeant Howard for confirmation.
“That’s right. Just a few questions,” the sergeant said, standing straight with his shoulders back, his thumbs tucked into his belt.
“Well if it ain’t Sergeant Coward, my old buddy. Still fat as the pig you are. You got a warrant?” Jack King shifted his weight and stood defiantly with his legs apart, placing his hands on his hips, scowling at the sergeant. “Never heard of the place. Don’t got nothin’ to do with me.”
A female voice called out from inside the dark house. “Jack? Who is that? Who are you talking to out there?” She was hidden in shadow initially, until she stepped up behind him into the light from the open door. She placed her hand on his bare shoulder, blowing smoke from her cigarette over his head. A black and white cat darted past her, scurrying down the steps seeking the cool of the shade and fresh air under the house.
The woman was scantily clad in a loose pink sheer pajama top that barely covered her black satin underwear. Thick black mascara smeared around her eyes gave her the appearance of a startled raccoon. Faded red lipstick smudged beyond the outlines of her thin lips and straw straight yellow hair added to her jarring clownish look. She was worn beyond her years, with attempted defiance more pitiful than fearsome. “What have you gone and done now?” she said disgustedly, squeezing his shoulder, glaring at the chief and sergeant, blowing smoke toward them with disdain. “We don’t need no more trouble.”
Jack King pushed her away hard with the back of his hand without turning around. “Get the hell back inside bitch,” he yelled meanly. “This ain’t none of your business, Gloria. Go! Go on!”
She stumbled at the force of his push, dropping her cigarette. As she bent to pick it up, Chief Boudreaux thought he saw her give him a fleeting desperate glance, her mask off, a small plea.
“No cause for that, Mr. King,” the chief said warily. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You got nothing on me,” King said, slamming the door.
Sergeant Howard stepped forward, angry, ready to knock again.
“No. Let’s go, Sarge. We found him,” Chief Boudreaux said turning away from the door. “That’s enough for now. We’re not done with him.”
The sergeant followed him down the steps. “That is one bad man, chief. That woman needs to get out of there. He’s no good. Stains everything
he touches.”
“He sure remembered you. Bad blood between you, huh? Why did he call you that? Sergeant Coward?”
“ ’Cause I didn’t pull the trigger on him. He came after me during that bar fight that landed him in jail. Spit on me. Dared me to shoot him. Said I wasn’t man enough and called me a coward. I almost wish I had pulled that trigger. Kid he beat up winded up in a wheelchair. Paralyzed. Jail didn’t do him no good at all. Just made him meaner.”
“It’ll come around to him, Sarge. Always does in the end,” Chief Boudreaux said as they got back in the patrol car. Sometimes it just takes a while. Longer maybe than it should.”
The trip back to West River went fast. Chief Boudreaux exceeded the speed limit for most of the ride and took Sergeant Howard by surprise when he sped by Emmie’s truck stop. The sergeant was looking forward to more of her coffee and delicious cooking. He also had few occasions to enjoy the company of a pretty woman who doted on him and didn’t mind at all that it was because he was the chief’s sidekick.
“Don’t you want to see her again?” the sergeant asked, unable to hide disappointment.
Chief Boudreaux gave him a quick glance and subtle smile. “You do. I can see that.”
Sergeant Howard replied defensively, “No. No. It’s just she’s such a good cook. Was nice not to eat out of a can for a change. Should have taken some of those biscuits with us though. Reminded me of what my mother used to make…” he said longingly.
“Next time we’ll get her recipe,” the chief promised.
“She’s sweet on you, Chief. Plain as day. You on her, too. Can’t hide it. You get all jumbled up around her. Funny to see you that way. Like your uniform comes right off,” he laughed, tossing the chief a mischievous grin.
Chief Boudreaux blushed as he rolled his eyes and shot back a sneer. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly. There was no denying the effect she had on him. He was accustomed to being in charge but found Emmie’s presence undid that part of him. He didn’t like it that Sergeant Howard could see it, too.
Many young women had invited Chief Boudreaux into steady relationship, and he was used to bold flirting, but he had resisted except for occasional and casual socializing, making him a much sought after “catch” with his good looks and prestigious job. Emmie was different. He couldn’t get her out of his head. Her magnetism was disarming and a little fearful. Tempted as he was to pull into her truck stop once again, he forced himself to drive past, as if testing the power she had over him.
“This trip wasn’t just about her, Sergeant,” he said, trying to sound convincing. “We’ve got to focus on how to prove Jack King’s the thief with hard proof. She’s just a piece of it. There’s a lot more to do.”
“Sure Chief. Whatever you say. Your’re the boss,” the sergeant chuckled back. “She sure makes good biscuits, though. Doesn’t she,” he said looking over at him.
“Yeah. Yeah. She does,” the chief responded, eyes focused on the road.
Monday came rushing in like a gale force wind after a lazy weekend of resting, sleeping, eating pancakes with Pete and Christine and sinking into the comfort of Pete’s arms and the slow rhythm of life at Pete’s aptly named farm Cloud Nine. In the beginning, Nelle had thought the name was almost comical, a reflection of Papaw’s humor and light approach to life, but she had come to know that the name choice was far more than whimsy. The property was Elmer Everheart’s triumph over great odds and his claim for personal happiness. Cloud Nine was where she wanted to be, needed to be. Pete had known it forever, like his grandfather. It was hard to leave him Sunday evening.
Since the death of their grandfathers, Pete and Nelle had advanced into adulthood suddenly, through necessity. Though they felt loss and pain, the new grasp of responsibility came surprisingly quickly, without much consideration, like a snake shedding old skin to make room for the growth that comes with new seasons.
Nelle went to the main house on week day mornings to rouse Christine and make her coffee. The ritual was comforting, not necessary, but loving. They lived steps apart, but not worlds away from each other. Christine frequented the garage apartment in search of sisterly company and food, but found herself at home with her grandfather’s lingering presence a constant reminder of his love.
“Okay. I’m off to see Chief Boudreaux this morning to give him the charm that Junie brought over. I also have to go by Mr. Parker’s office to sign more papers on the property transfer. Then I have to go to the library to study for my exams. I’ll be home by late afternoon. I’ll see you tonight.” She waved goodbye to Christine as she skipped down the back steps and set off on her busy day.
On her short drive to the police station, she mused about Junie and Christine together. Until recently, she had never considered that her little sister might have a romantic involvement, and certainly not with Junie whom she had always regarded as a young, wild country boy, more horse than human. But she had always admired that quality in him and so did Miss Ruby, who oversaw the rearing of her grandson with a stern hand and generous heart. Miss Ruby was a shaper of souls and maker of men. Junie was seventeen now. So was Christine. Seventeen. A time when romance blossoms for real.
Nelle entered the police station and greeted Sergeant Howard. “Hey Sergeant! Heard you guys went back to New Orleans yesterday. Got something here for Chief Boudreaux,” she said, taking the charm out of her purse.
“He’s in his office, Nelle. Go on in,” he answered, pointing toward the chief’s closed door.
Nelle swung through the low gate and walked back to Chief Boudreaux’s office. She could see through the glass window that he was on the phone, hunched over his desk rapidly taking notes with a furrowed brow. She rapped very lightly on the window before opening the door, and took a seat in front of him quietly waiting for him to finish the call.
She didn’t have to wait long. He slammed the phone down and called out loudly to Sergeant Howard, ignoring her presence. “SARGE! GET IN HERE! NOW!”
Nelle froze. She started to get up to leave as Sergeant Howard flew into the room.
Chief Boudreaux put his hand up to Nelle. “No. Stay. Sit down. You need to hear this, too.”
Sergeant Howard and Nelle exchanged puzzled glances. She sat up straight and clutched her purse. Sergeant Howard stood beside her with a worried, anxious face.
Chief Boudreaux read from his notepad as he bent over his desk. In a tight, disbelieving voice, he told them, “Jack King is dead. Last night he fell off his porch onto the fence of sharp iron rails. At least that’s what she said. An iron point went straight through his heart.”
“We just saw him yesterday,” Sergeant Howard said, shaking his head at the incredulous news. “Something doesn’t feel right about this, Chief. Who called you? This ain’t even in our jurisdiction. We didn’t report anything on him to New Orleans police. We didn’t have enough on him yet.”
“A woman called. Wouldn’t give her name. But I think it was the woman he shoved back when she came up to the door behind him. Gloria. She was afraid of him. I wrote down what she said. Every word. She hung up after she told me the rail went through his heart. Didn’t give me a chance to question her more. She didn’t seem too upset over it either.”
Chief Boudreaux sat back hard in his chair, his face registering shock as he ran his fingers through hair on the top of his head. He stared at his scribbled note, hoping in the re-reading the circumstances might become more clear. “Probably drunk. I’ll bet he was drunk.”
Nelle was confused. All she knew about their trip to New Orleans yesterday was that it had something to do with a truck and someone named Jack King. She rightly assumed the truck was the one that Emmie had seen. “What’s going on? Who’s Jack King?”
“Jack King owns the DANCE4U truck that Emmie told us about,” the chief said, reaching over to open his top right drawer. He pulled out a small folded bandana bundle and threw it on his desk. “He came to her place again recently. She called me the same day we found out who owns the
truck. It’s Jack King.”
Sergeant Howard sucked in his breath and took a step back. “Good God in heaven,” he said softly. “Maybe she pushed him. Maybe she had enough of that mean bastard.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” the chief replied, “but have a look at this, Nelle. Emmie gave it to us yesterday. She said the woman in the truck with him, who was the same one as before, left it in the bathroom and she believes she wanted Emmie to find it.”
He opened the bundle exposing the voodoo doll affixed to the King of Hearts card with a long hatpin. A drop of bright red blood had pooled where the pin had pierced through its chest. It had not been there yesterday. His face froze as he looked up at Sarge, who had gone pale.
Sergeant Howard moved away and waved his hands in an attempt to ward off danger. “Oh, no, Chief. That’s nothing to mess with. I ain’t superstitious. Don’t get me wrong,” he said in a trembling voice as he crossed himself for protection.
Nelle studied the frightening doll splayed out and pinned down to the King of Hearts card. Despite its aged cracked leather stuffed plump with brittle Spanish moss, the tiny eyes and fierce mouth appeared curiously sensitive and alert.
“I’m not superstitious either but I know signs when I see them,” Nelle said pensively. “It’s a message, not a warning.” She dug into her purse for the small silver charm that Junie had delivered earlier to Christine. “Here’s another one,” she said, placing it next to the doll. “Someone is asking for help.”
“Who needs help? Why not just ask for it?” Sergeant Howard said skeptically.
Chief Boudreaux answered, “Someone who is trapped. Someone maybe like Gloria. There’s a pattern and puzzle here to figure out.”
“Someone maybe scared to death of that heartless man,” Sergeant Howard said, less ruffled now than in his first reaction.
Nelle nodded in agreement. She didn’t believe in coincidence, and she wasn’t superstitious. She accepted signs and messages as true, even if manifested in mystery. Sleuthing required patience and perseverance, qualities she shared in abundance with Beau Boudreaux.
The Road to Home Page 16