Knock Before You Enter

by D. A. Bale

  It’d been several years since I’d last mounted a horse, back when Zeke and I had dated. We’d spent many a day on his family’s ranch, strolling hand-in-hand along the stream, shooting targets, mounting…

  Maybe breaking things off with Radioman was a mistake. It’d only been a few months. What was the harm in a few more? I could get used to being controlled. In certain situations. With handcuffs.

  I shivered again – and not because of gators this time. Or the heat.

  Gnarled trees overhead shielded us from the worst of the sun, though that was countered by the leaf canopy cocooning the humidity. Five minutes after setting out from the stables, I was already a hot mess and had drained my water bottle dry.

  “This area here,” Janine said, spreading her arms out at a clearing near one of the creek’s branches, “I think it was where most of the workhouses were set.”

  “Workhouses?” I wheezed, knotting my hair into a sloppy ponytail.

  “You know, like the kitchen, washhouse, smokehouse, dairy…”

  “They had their own dairy?”

  “Of course. Plantations back in those days were self-sustaining. In addition to the cash crops, they raised and grew their own food.” She shielded her eyes from the sunrays. “I think the old barn was across the creek way over there, where they raised chickens for eggs, cows for milk, cheese and butter, pigs for…”

  “A delicious bacon cheeseburger,” I interrupted.

  Janine stopped her history lesson with a brow furrow. “Cheeseburgers didn’t come around until decades later.”

  I tossed her an eye roll. “A joke, Janine.”

  “Oh.”

  I shook my head. Even when on vacation, she had trouble relaxing for more than five minutes. If not for the fact Janine would crumble from a guilty conscience – not to mention her mother disowning her – I’d take the girl out right then and find a willing accomplice to bed my bestie.

  Perhaps Lucas was available. He had a tendency to just show up when least expected, so the chances of seeing him again were pretty high – especially if Charlotte got hold of his phone number. But there was still something about that man that sent my antenna into the stratosphere. One moment he acted the southern gentleman. The next like a man who knew how to handle his weapon.

  Gun. I mean gun.

  “Shame the only thing left standing here is the old well house,” Janine lamented, oblivious to my mental machinations. “They’d pull up water from that big, spring-fed well to use for cooking, watering the animals, and satisfying their thirst.”

  “Speaking of thirst, my bottle could use a refill,” I said.

  “We can’t. It was boarded up at some point after someone fell in and drown.”

  The thing appeared as if it’d crumble if someone breathed near it too hard. “How do you know that?”

  Janine shrugged. “One of Grandpa-pa’s stories. Don’t you remember when we’d sit on his lap when we were little?”

  “Must’ve missed that one,” I grumbled, considering a break toward the house to get another water bottle. After gauging how far we’d already ridden, I discarded the idea.

  Instead, I followed along the creek edge while Janine continued the history lesson – which surprisingly turned out to hold my interest – and kept me from realizing until it was too late that I’d sweat right through my t-shirt and my shorts were beginning to feel all sorts of gooey.

  And not in the good way.

  We stopped and dismounted at the sturdy footbridge straddling the creek to let the horses get a good drink. The water looked clear. Beautifully refreshing – and probably contained enough pathogens to send my intestines into an eruption to rival the destruction of Pompeii.

  I was tired, cranky, sweaty, and now I smelled like horse. At this rate, we had a better chance of discovering the Fountain of Youth than a treasure lost almost two centuries ago.

  “This is all interesting, Janine, but how does this help us with the issue at hand?”

  “The issue?”

  Once again, I jiggled the little black book in her face.

  “Oh, that issue,” she chuckled. “I was getting to that. See across that fence line toward the open field?”

  I squinted toward the angling sun as we came upon barbed wire. “That old weatherworn shack?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What about it?”

  “That, my dear Vicki, is the old overseer’s house. That part of the property traded hands sometime shortly after Grandpa-pa married Grandma-ma.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Crimson flooded her face. “Well, uh…I overheard Grandpa-pa talking about it with some business associate when I was a little girl. He was upset because he discovered the survey had an error and the property line had been improperly delineated.”

  I shrugged. “So? What does that have to do with anything?”

  Janine smiled like the proverbial cat who’d caught the canary. “Read the bad poem from the journal again.”

  “Fine,” I sighed, flipping to the back of the book. “The springs grow the mighty oaks, whose canopy shields the souls. Among the housed inhabitants, brings life to whomever takes hold.” I closed the book and looked around. “I don’t get it.”

  “Grandpa-pa was upset about the improperly delineated property line from the survey because it encroached too close to a particular, old oak tree. An enormous old oak tree near a building housing inhabitants.”

  I looked down at my dusty tennis shoes and set eyes on the water trickling along the creek bed. Goosebumps popped out across my body – and it wasn’t from the temperature.

  “The clues from Bonafeld’s journal.”

  A twig snapped us out of our stunned reverie and the horses snorted. Before I had a chance to hide the book under my shirt – no, all that acidic sweat pouring from my pores would disintegrate it – or in my pants – nah, that wouldn’t work either.

  Oh hell, before I could do anything with that pain-in-the-ass book, George popped out from behind a tree to catch us in the act of investigation.

  “What’re you two doing all the way out here?” he asked my boobs.

  “Just going for a walk,” I responded, inching down until his eyes met mine.

  I don’t think he got the hint.

  “So then what’s this about a bonafide journal?”

  Janine stepped closer to me and took the journal from my hands. “It’s not bonafide, it’s…”

  “Really?” I murmured. “Do you think it’s wise to tell him that?”

  There went the brow furrow again. “Oh. Right.” She stuck her nose up at George with all the pretentions of a true De’Laruse. “The bonafide journal is none of your business.”

  George took two steps toward us, pretending to twist his ankle and falling forward with both hands headed toward my God-given assets. I simply stepped aside at the last second as George instead got up close and personal with a mouthful of moldered leaves and dirt. Janine and I laughed, mounted the horses and prodded them down the fence line, her brother sputtering from behind.

  “Stop being an ass and give me that book, or I’m telling Mother.”

  That stopped Janine in her tracks – or her horse in his hooves – and her mouth dropped open in horror as she swung around to confront him. “Well…well I’m telling Mother that you said a cuss word.”

  “Then I’m telling Mother you were all over that Lucas Monette guy at the bar the other night,” George said, spitting out debris and swiping a hand across his mouth, leaving a smear to rival the skid marks he probably still left in his underwear.

  Flames practically drifted from her nose as Janine snorted like her horse. “I never…he never…I’ll tell her I saw you getting a lap dance from more than one tramp that night.”

  “How would you know? You were drunk as a skunk.”

  “And how would you know that, since you were too? Besides, at least my drinks were spiked, and I didn’t do it on purpose…unlike you.”

  Holy –
what were we, five again?

  “Whoa now,” I cried. “Wait a minute. Wait a damn minute!”

  That shut ‘em both up right quick before we spooked the horses into a terrified run. I wasn’t opposed to a good horserace, but the trees and low-hanging branches promised at least one of us would end up on our back – and not in that fun way.

  While I had to give my bestie props for discovering a little steel in her spine, finger-pointing and tongue-wagging like a bunch of backslidden Baptists wasn’t the best way to go about this.

  And me acting in the mom role again? Yeah, that didn’t bode well for anyone.

  “Look, Janine,” I started, “getting all riled up and threatening to tattle on your brother ain’t gonna cut it. He’s not going to Hell for saying ass.”

  “Thank you, Vicki,” George replied with a smug smile greasing his face.

  “There are plenty of other things he’s done that’ll send him there,” I finished.

  “Hey!”

  Janine smirked and stuck out her tongue. Yup, we were definitely back to age five antics.

  “Regardless, George,” I continued with a sniff of the air and toss of my ponytail. “You’ll have to get permission from Addie before you get your excrement-encrusted hands on this particular little black book.”

  One glance at his fingertips sent George into the creek, prostrating himself in humble contemplation enough to make a Catholic proud. I only hope he spent some time washing out his mouth while he was at it.

  And not for saying ass, but for what had come out of one.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Janine and I moseyed ahead along the fence line, outpacing one shit-eating younger brother. By the time I grew fearful of never walking normal again, we dismounted and led the horses while the feeling returned to my legs.

  Riding horses is definitely not like riding a bike. It’s not that you forget how to do it. It’s just that the body protesteth too much if you haven’t done it for awhile.

  When I could reasonably walk upright again without looking like a sailor with scurvy, I spotted something tarnished and rather familiar beyond the trees. “Hey, isn’t that the old family plot?”

  Janine squinted. “That’s it. Come on.”

  We plodded along until the overgrown, rust-spiked fence came into view – one giant tetanus shot just waiting to happen. However, the gate of galvanized steel gleamed brighter than the rest of the surrounds, replaced sometime before Janine and I were ever born.

  To one side of the graveyard stood the gigantic marble mausoleum, housing the last few generations of dead De’Laruses – including Janine’s beloved grandfather. The last time I’d visited was nearly four years ago when Lou passed and was placed within the chiseled walls.

  Talk about creepsville.

  “I haven’t been all the way out here since…” Janine sniffled.

  “I know,” I said, draping an arm across her shoulders.

  Then staring up right at a massive oak, branching out and towering over the graveyard. Moss clung to its branches, making it appear like some ethereal specter reaching for us, shadows from the drooping sunlight giving the effect of movement.

  I shuddered. “Hey, Janine. Take a look at that tree on the other side there.”

  Tears dried up. “That’s what I wanted to show you.”

  Pages rustled in the non-existent breeze as I opened the Bonafeld diary and turned to the poem near the back. Chills sprouted gooseflesh across my arms as I read aloud. “Springs grow the mighty oaks, whose canopy shields the souls.”

  “The canopy of this huge oak covers the graveyard…a graveyard full of souls.”

  I nodded, a smile tugging the corners of my lips. “Me thinks you’ve figured out our first clue in the poem, my dear Janine.”

  “Why thank you, my dear Vicki,” she said with a curtsey. “Wanna go inside?”

  “Does your brother eat turds?”

  We got in a good laugh at George’s expense and swung the gate with a squeal loud enough to wake the dead.

  No pun intended.

  Okay, maybe a little.

  Janine steered clear of the mausoleum and wandered in the direction of the northeastern corner. She pulled up short and bent down to clear one of the weathered headstones. “Maurice has neglected to keep the graveyard trimmed.”

  “The guy’s getting up there in age,” I said. “You think it’s difficult for him to straighten up when he bends over too long?”

  “True.” She read one of the weathered headstones written in French. “Julien Phillipe Emile Albert De’Laruse. Born January fifth, seventeen-oh-one. Died December twenty-third, seventeen-fifty-nine.”

  “Man, your ancestors really liked middle names.”

  “Common practice among the French nobility. I guess they wanted to cover bases with all sides of the family.”

  “Or they weren’t sure who the father was.”

  “Hey, that’s my family you’re talking about,” she countered, then tilted her head. “Then again, European nobles weren’t known for their fidelity.”

  Neither were modern nobles – or those who only thought of themselves as nobility, namely one sperm donor.

  A little part of me prickled with a twinge of jealousy as we explored the resting place of the De’Laruse dead. Janine’s family had long-standing, deep connections to this land, tracing their ancestry to before they even came to Louisiana’s shores. They had history. A legacy to pass on from generation to generation. They came from old money, while the Bohanan’s were considered new money.

  But the money and all its trappings didn’t mean anything to me. It really never meant much to Janine either except that it paid for her extensive education. What mattered to my bestie was family and the preservation of their history.

  “This is his wife, Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie Cornelia Isabella De’Laruse.” Janine quieted as she cleared and read additional markers nearby. “They sure lost a lot of children in those days.”

  “I guess that’s why they had so many.”

  Janine started in again with the sniffles.

  “Now don’t you go getting all weepy again,” I challenged. “We’ve got work to do before we lose the rest of the light.”

  “Look,” she said, stumbling toward the rusted spikes at the far end of the yard. “It’s Great-great-great Grandpa-pa Everard and Grandma-ma Isabella.”

  “The one who bought all the land after the Civil War?”

  “They died within a month of one another just a few years after the war ended.” Janine got a freaky faraway look in her blue eyes. “He died of old age and she from heartbreak.”

  “More like an influenza epidemic took one and then the other, most likely.”

  Janine shrugged. “There’s that. But I like my story better.”

  A breeze stirred up dried bramble and a bed of leaves – the first breeze I’d felt since getting off the plane in Louisiana. The open graveyard gate screeched like a witch from a B-reel horror flick then clanged shut. Chills broke out on my arms. I must be coming down with a fever. Yeah, that’s it.

  “Uh…” I hesitated. “If we don’t stop making up stories and get a move-on, we’re gonna be stuck in a creepy old cemetery in the dark, eaten by mosquitoes before the worms can get to our sorry carcasses,” I emphasized with a sharp slap to my thigh. Pesky pests.

  Oblivious to the elongating shadows and rising creep factor, Janine wrapped her hands around a couple of rusted iron bars and hauled herself up onto the stone and masonry footings. I sure hoped that girl was up on her shots, ‘cause I didn’t want her struck down with a case of lockjaw.

  “We’ve got a more important problem,” she said, her gaze following the oak tree branches down toward the trunk.

  “What’s that?” I inquired, not bothering to touch the flaking fence.

  “I think I know why Grandpa-pa was upset with that businessman about the property line survey all those years ago.”

  Okay, now I was intrigued. I was up on my tetanus shots
– wasn’t I? I sighed then grabbed hold and hauled myself up to join her.

  The barbed wire denoting the property line demarcation appeared menacing against the enormous girth of the oak tree. The oak tree providing a canopy shield to the De’Laruse souls who’d passed on. The oak tree I was pretty sure was the one mentioned in the Bonafeld diary. The one potentially hiding a trove of French gold bars with a fleur-de-lis imprint and captured by the Union during the Civil War.

  The tree currently on the other side of the barbed wire – and at its base, a yawning open hole.

  Uh-oh. Did someone screw the pooch in a big oh-hell-no kinda way?

  I think we bore witness to the answer on that – and it stared us right in the face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  With approaching darkness, no way was I gonna crawl down in a hole filled with all manner of creepy crawlies my gray matter had no trouble conjuring up while standing in a graveyard. There were better ways to approach this investigation for now, so time to get Addie a little more involved and pick her brain instead. However, the moment the screen door slammed behind us, Sibby slipped from the dining hall and intercepted us.

  “Miss Bohanan?”

  “Sibby,” I responded, trying to shut my mind to the X-rated movie reel without resorting to bleach. “We’ve got to…”

  "I only need a minute, if ya please.”

  Janine offered up a head tilt and busied herself with taking off her muddy shoes.

  “Okay,” I said.

  She didn’t even move a step before tears gathered in her eyes. “It were my fault.”

  “I’m sorry, what was your fault?”

  “Your cat.”

  Forget the X-rated movie reel. My mind flashed with all manner of horrible scenarios in which Slinky had died. I grabbed her arm as my stomach took an elevator ride south. “What’s happened to Slinky?”

  She winced. “Oh no, he’s fine. It’s just what happened t’ other night. Ya know…with the screen door in the bedroom.”

  I took a deep breath. “So nothing new?”