On the way to the car, my polka dot suitcase bopping along behind me, I realize I never asked about Eric. He mentioned exchanging cell phone numbers for “business purposes” but I had balked. I didn’t want TB looking through my messages and finding a strange man among them. A man I had wanton sex with on two occasions.
Besides, I’m not good with goodbyes. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Once I drive around the hotel and make notes on landscaping, upkeep and the overflowing trash receptacles out back, I head to the interstate and back to my Lafayette potting shed. I thought about taking in a few Hattiesburg attractions, even had my bathing suit on the top of my suitcase in the off chance I visited that water park, but my head still aches, I need more caffeine, and I’m pooped from the lack of two night’s sleep.
Before I hit the Louisiana border, TB rings.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Where are you?”
I rub the bridge of my nose. “On my way back to Lafayette.”
“I’ve been waiting for you since yesterday.”
I should have told TB I detoured to Hattiesburg for another review, but why? I mean, we’re not really married.
“I got another assignment. Why are you waiting for me?”
“I didn’t know what to do with your cat.”
“Stinky? He’s not my cat. I just feed him.”
“Then why is he living in your house?”
Stinky never spends more than a meal, a nap, sometimes an overnight with me. If TB had used the apartment, Stinky would have, no doubt, taken off for his daily adventures. I explain to TB as much but he insists the cat never left my apartment.
“He never went outside?”
“Never. I kinda liked it. We watched major league baseball together.”
I start to say, “He’s yours if you want him” but something stills my tongue. I’m getting attached to that cat, would be sad to see him go, but he’s still not mine.
“He’s the neighborhood cat,” I tell TB. “I just feed him sometimes.”
“Well, I got him a litter box and one of those water things that rejuvenates itself. Oh, and a few toys. He loves this feather thing on a string.”
“No wonder he won’t leave.”
TB pauses, then whispers, “There’s something weird about him.”
I don’t know why I have goosebumps running up my arms; we’re discussing a stray cat. But TB’s tone has given me the shivers.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
TB laughs nervously. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
I want to inquire more but I’m reminded of Sirona’s phone call yesterday. “TB, did you look through that whole box of stuff from Fontus Springs?”
“Funny you should mention that.”
The goosebumps return. “Why?”
“I had spread the pages out on the floor and was looking through them, trying to see if anything connected. All of a sudden, Stinky waltzes over and lands on this one particular document.”
Now, I really shiver. Hard.
“Was it an old postcard?” TB pauses again and I know he’s busy thinking. “Hello?”
“What? Postcard?”
I close my eyes and count to ten, shouldn’t be aggravated with this man for all the help he’s given me but conversations routinely take twice as long as they should. I remind myself my head hurts and I hate talking on the phone — years of working the newsroom — and patience is a virtue. Then, in an instant, I see a stone thrown in a pond.
“Lillye?”
This time, the pause on the other end is TB, no doubt worried about my sanity. “Vi? Are you okay?”
I shake off the premonition, but I’m reminded to be nice to the man who fathered the best thing in my life, who’s watching my cat and happily assisting with this investigation. To finally let go of this anger that’s been gripping my heart of late.
But how do I explain my last outburst?
“I’m fine, was just thinking of something. Did the cat sit on a postcard?”
“Vi, I’m worried about you.”
The sincere love coming through the phone nearly breaks my heart. TB’s my best friend and yet I keep pushing him away, finding fault when there isn’t any. I think back on the last two days and how heady running with the Asshole made me feel. I don’t want to be angry, especially at TB, but I want to stay on top, not visit that dark place where the world insists I’ll never see Lillye again.
“I’m fine,” I say a bit too harshly, then soften. “Just tell me what the cat sat on.”
“Fine.” TB sighs. “It was a document about water quality.”
You know those moments when the planets align and you can almost hear angels singing? This wasn’t quite as good as that but close.
“What did it say?”
“Uh, let me go get it.”
While I hear TB shuffling papers, my mind races. The state owns that property and the state tests the water. Could something similar to the accident of the 1930s have happened and someone’s covering it up? Could it be why Elijah freaked on me? Of course, how this all connects to ghosts is beyond me, but my gut tells me the water quality leads to something important.
“Got it,” TB announces when he’s back on the line. “Looks like they did testing in early June after someone complained. The letter is to Elijah, and it pretty much says there is nothing wrong with the lake.
“But here’s what’s interesting,” he continues. “This state document is attached to a copy of the letter Elijah wrote them on March 25. He mentions the guy who complained, a Frederick Hilderbrand. This guy apparently lives next to the springs and swears the water’s tainted, in addition — and get this Vi — unusual things happening at night.”
“Elijah’s letter would have been a little past Easter, when people first started seeing the ghosts.”
“Do you think it’s related?”
I glance at my car’s clock. It’s 11:30 and I can make Baton Rouge in an hour or two.
“TB, are you busy?”
“I was waiting for you to arrive so I could head back home. My job here ended yesterday.”
“Wanna meet me at the Louisiana Department of Water Quality?”
Chapter Eight
I pull into the parking lot of the Capital Complex in downtown Baton Rouge and find TB snoozing in his pickup, head tilted back, mouth wide open. I tap hard on the window which would rattle most people. TB slowly opens his eyes, leans forward and looks around as if in a fog. Which describes my ex-husband to a T.
When he spots me, he rolls down the window — his pickup’s as old as my Toyota but it’s mostly because TB thinks buying new cars is a waste of money — and studies me hard.
“What happened to your face?”
I touch my cheek, find that spot rough and sensitive where I was intimate with the hotel carpet.
“Does it look bad?” I ask TB, wondering how the hell I missed this.
“Looks like you’ve been slapped.”
“Just God reminding me not to drink so much.”
Shouldn’t have admitted that.
“What?”
“Never mind. Are you ready?”
We head to the Louisiana Department of Water Quality, an austere building that’s new to the Baton Rouge government scene but created to match the older, Huey P. Long-era buildings lying in the state capitol’s shadow. The art deco lobby even contains a Works Progress Administration-inspired mural, like the ones designed by local artists in the 1930s after FDR initiated the program. Baton Rouge contains several original murals in the old government buildings and a few at LSU, some leaning toward the left with images many equated with socialistic ideas popular in the Great Depression. This one, however, screams tourism marketing with happy people visiting Jackson Square, a smiling child reaching for a bead at Mardi Gras, a yuppie white couple on a swamp tour. While TB admires the mural’s landmarks from around the state, I greet the lobby receptionist. She sends us to the second floor where records ar
e kept, and I jolt TB from the picture.
“Don’t say anything,” I instruct him. “Let me do the talking.”
Even though the building’s relatively new, the records department reeks of that mustiness you find in old libraries and archives. I approach the desk and pull out my wallet.
“I’m with the New Orleans Post,” I say as I show the woman behind the desk my now expired press card. “I need to research water quality tests done after Katrina.”
The woman glances at my card, but I slip it back into my wallet quickly so she doesn’t get a good look.
“You need to sign in,” she tells me, pushing a questionnaire in my direction. “Most of those records are on the computer. I’ll show you where to look and set you up.”
I fill out the questionnaire, wondering if I should make up a name and address. If this woman asks for my press card again, I’ll be caught in the lie so I use my name and TB’s New Orleans address. I don’t know why I’m being paranoid but the fear in Sirona’s voice has me wondering if something illegal has happened in Fontus Springs.
“You really need to know my car type and license number?” I ask the mousey woman. I mean, really, how much does the government need to know?
“It’s a demographic thing. Plus, only Louisiana residents can access the records.”
That’s not true, but I let it go. I hand the information over and the woman studies my answers, which ratchets my paranoia up a notch. I search my brain for the public records act in regards to the media should I have to start making demands as a working journalist. Basically, governmental records are available for public use, so says the State Legislature, but there are some stipulations, such as giving them so many days to produce. There have been incidences where government agencies have not responded accordingly and media outlets have had to take them to court. I have no media outlet behind me, so I’m on my own here.
Marie — I now see the woman’s name from her lanyard — leads us to a dark corner where there’s two computers amidst boxes of documents. I’m used to doing research in caves like these, but TB glances around surprised, his eyes blinking to adjust to the darkness. Marie plugs in a password that I log into my brain and opens a search page.
“What’s the parish you want to research?” she asks.
Again, I’m afraid to give out too much information so I blurt out Orleans and Saint Bernard parishes, since I’m supposed to be doing Katrina research. Marie brings up those sections, explains how to search the records and leaves us to it. TB plops into the chair next to mine.
“Why is it so dark in here?”
Because government doesn’t like to make anything easy, I want to say. “It’s because of the computers. They need to keep it cool in here for them, plus it’s easier to see the screens.” That much is true.
I lean across TB and bring his computer to life, then type in the password I saw Marie use. The home page appears and I type in Rapides Parish.
“Switch places with me.”
Instead of rising, TB rolls his chair around to my computer and I do the same to his.
“Look up water quality tests for 2006 in Saint Bernard Parish,” I tell him. “There should be plenty considering the entire parish flooded after the hurricane. Print out one or two for a cover. I’ll be looking up Fontus Springs over here.”
Bless his heart, he gets it. Even looks happy to be performing this covert research.
“This is exciting,” he says as he starts perusing web pages, and I almost want to kiss him.
Almost.
I plug in March 2008 into my computer to see if anything unusual happened after Easter, which was March 23, but nothing comes up. I try April, May and June, but again nothing. When I search July, the form that TB found thanks to Stinky emerges on the screen, repeating the same water quality results.
I lean back in my chair. “Nothing. Just the same form that was in the box.” TB says nothing so I assume he hasn’t heard me. “There’s nothing here.”
TB turns his monitor so I can see what’s on his screen. It’s a page marked “Private” and the header is Rapides Parish, underneath which is Bayou State Transport Co. and a listing of tests and dates. I instantly spot April 4, 2008.
“How did you find that?”
TB grins confidently. “I did a search, figured they must have had some private companies paying them to test the water as well. Although I’m surprised that this hasn’t gone public.”
Those stubborn goosebumps return. “Why?”
He clicks on the link and pages of technical terms greet us, most of which I can’t understand. But at the bottom are numbers and chemical names and it all becomes clear.
“Print this out,” I tell TB. “Quick before Marie comes back.”
He does as he’s told and sure enough, as if us mentioning her name has attracted her back to our dark enclave, Marie appears. I’ve managed to get out of my research and pull the sheets from the printer, the last page appearing into my greedy hands before Marie has reached us, but I’m worried TB still has that page up on his computer. I look over nervously and find Solitaire on his screen.
“Y’all need assistance?”
“We were just finishing up,” I tell Marie, sliding the sheets into my folder. “Thank you so much. Found exactly what I needed.”
She frowns glancing at TB. “Looks like he found something else.”
I shrug. “Can’t take him anywhere.”
Before the conversation can continue, I grab TB by the sleeve and pull him up.
“Darn,” he says, sending Marie a seductive smile, “almost got that one.”
We head toward the door, Marie following behind, a goofy smile on her face. TB, with his boyish good looks, does that to people.
“Thanks for everything,” I say over my shoulder.
I saunter out of the office and toward the elevator as confidently as I can muster, TB and I not saying a word. I can feel his grin at my side at our expertise in rooting out evil and I smile as well. Without even thinking, I reach down and take his hand and he squeezes mine when I do.
“We make a good team,” he whispers.
I think back on the last two days and that rush I felt being naughty with Eric. But this feels good too, like spring sunshine on your face after months of cold. Remembering Eric, however, makes me pull my hand away and my smile disappears. TB glances down at me but I refuse to look his way.
Just then the elevator door opens and who should emerge but Matt Wilson, the jerk from the Hi Ho. My heart races but he doesn’t appear to recognize me. TB and I slip past him and enter the elevator, TB pushing the lobby button.
“Want to grab something to eat, Vi?”
I say nothing, praying that the elevator doors will shut soon, but it’s one of those elevators that takes its dang sweet time. Just as the doors slowly close, a hand jolts in between to stop them.
“Viola Valentine?” Matt says when the doors open again. “The ghost hunter?”
He says it with the same snide way he greeted me in Fontus Springs. I want so badly to slap that grin off his face, but say instead with an inquisitive frown, “Matt something or another?”
He gets straight to the point. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, right. You work here. What is it you do again? Clerk?”
He’s not buying it but I have what I need so screw him. He starts to say something, but TB pushes the lobby button again. “Sorry, we have a meeting to get to.” And with my ex-husband’s last comment, the doors close and Matt’s frown disappears.
I let out a deep exhale.
“What was that about?” TB asks.
“I’ll tell you over dinner.”
We quietly exit the building and don’t say a word as we head down Third Street, turn on to Florida Boulevard and enter Poor Boy Lloyd’s, a restaurant that’s popular with locals although I never eat a poboy outside of New Orleans. Call me a snob, but the bread’s not the same. It’s slightly after three, when the establishment closes,
but several of the entrees and sides are still out so we convince the woman behind the counter to serve us. We take our plates and iced tea to a quiet corner — hell, no one’s here — and now both of us are exhaling loudly.
“Who was that guy?” TB finally asks.
“I met him in Fontus Springs. He’s with the department and he came to our meeting to explain how there’s nothing wrong with the water.”
TB digs into his crawfish étouffée, the dish I wouldn’t touch because Louisiana crawfish are out of season now and no imported Chinese crawfish will touch these lips — yes, I’m a food snob. Instead, I enjoy the eggplant Parmesan which is quite tasty despite being under a heating lamp for hours.
“Man, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Didn’t have much for breakfast.”
TB studies me and I feel naked under his gaze. “Hungover?”
I avert my eyes but I’m pretty sure he’s on to me. Instead, I change the subject. “Matt insisted the water quality was fine, talked about the study they did, and acted like everyone was crazy for seeing ghosts. Even said it was a bunch of hysterical women doing the seeing.”
“Is it only women that see these ghosts?”
Now that I think about it, there were few men in town spotting wisps of the departed, but again, that could mean that women are more sensitive to the paranormal or men are refusing to admit as much. There was that young worker at the auto repair shop and a one Frederick Hilderbrand. I pull the sheets out of my folder and study the results. There’s no mention of Hilderbrand, but the test date is ten days past Easter, right after the time he would have complained.
“This is a test conducted privately for Bayou State Transport on April 4 of this year and the reason, it says, is because of ‘unusual smells’ coming from the lake. They mention two people complaining, and I’m assuming one of them is Hilderbrand.”
“Why a transport company?” TB asks.
“They might lease the property from the state and use the land to store materials. Miss Bessie mentioned something about oil when I visited her.”
Ghost Town Page 12