“Vi, I just came out to say hello.”
Thinking back on it now, I don’t know why I doubted him. I pulled away, mumbling something about interrupting his family time.
“I came out here to invite you to join us,” he said, looking injured. “We picked up some boiled shrimp and have more than enough.”
I gazed at the happy family gathered around the table and did something I would never do otherwise. I declined impolitely. My Deep South grandmother must have been turning in her grave.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said with a harsh tone, and I wince now thinking how rude I had been.
The cell phone saves me from complete self-degradation. I look down and see it’s my Aunt Mimi, who called yesterday and I forgot to call back. The guilt returns.
“Hey Aunt Mimi.”
“Hey darling.” Her Alabama accent rolls off sweet and cheerful, even though she’s now running an assisted living facility in Branson.
Growing up in New Orleans no one in my family had the drawl. New Orleans accents — not the kind you hear in those ridiculous Hollywood movies — lean more toward Brooklyn but slower and with lots of y’alls. Most people never believe me when I explain this but it’s true. One theory is that both New Orleans and New York had huge groups of Sicilians immigrating in the first half of the twentieth century.
My mother studied Shakespeare at the finest schools, first UCLA, then Yale, and a Ph.D. from Oxford, so whatever Southern accent she may have had as a youth, she conquered early on. Now, she sounds almost English. Mimi’s also Bohemian while my mother requires suits, high heels, and briefcases.
Oh, and Mimi’s psychic. Apparently, it runs in the family. According to my aunt, my grandmother was quite the Bama soothsayer. I inherited my share of this DNA, one reason I’m now a SCANC.
“Mimi, I’m sorry I haven’t called back. I was on the road and I had a mishap with my car’s window.”
“Oh no, honey, is everything alright?”
I look over toward the garage and see a man in overalls wiping my new window clean. “It will be.”
“I’m calling about your mom.”
That nagging feeling I had when Portia called the day before returns. “Why?”
“It’s nothing, I’m sure. She hasn’t been returning my calls.”
My mother loves talking on the phone so this worries me. “Have you talked to Portia?”
“Yes, and she said your mother is fine but that I should come visit soon.”
“That’s so like Portia. The woman must have everyone come to her.”
Mimi pauses and I wonder if that tone that’s been leaking out my mouth lately has made an appearance.
“Portia asking me to come visit has me worried, nonetheless. I’m thinking something’s up with Deliah.”
Anger and guilt. It’s a constant waltz with me these days. “Yeah, maybe so.”
“Portia invited me over for the Fourth of July weekend so I’ll check in on her. And that way I get to see you, too.”
“That would be awesome, Mimi.”
Another pause. “Are you okay, sweet pea?”
Question of the new century. I got asked that a lot when Lillye died, then after Katrina when I lost nearly everything. And you know I’m not exaggerating. Lake Pontchartrain waters filled our house and remained standing until officials fixed levee holes and pumped that stagnant mess out so even if some things were salvageable, I wanted none of it.
The death of a child and the nation’s worst natural disaster. I used to laugh when people asked me how I was. I mean, really?
“I’m fine,” I lie. As always.
Mimi isn’t buying it. As always.
“We’re going to talk when I get to town, okay?”
The concern in her voice, so loving and sweet, brings emotions racing to the surface. I’m ready to bawl uncontrollably right there in the lobby but Metallica Woman is watching and Boudreaux emerges with my car keys. I have a reputation to uphold.
I swallow hard, assure Mimi I’ll be there with bells on and silently retrieve my keys and pay my bill while Boudreaux grunts swiping my debit card. By the time I get in the car and roll up my new window, the tears fall. I gaze heavenward and wonder who the hell I am anymore.
Thankfully, the cell phone rings and breaks my pity fest.
“Isn’t this a surprise,” I say to Elijah.
“Uh, hi, Ms. Valentine.”
I wonder if Sirona intervened, but then I’m reminded of my espionage the day before.
“Did Matt the Brat call you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Matt Wilson, the man with a strong pitching arm.”
Silence follows and I’m wondering what Elijah’s motives are. Will he avoid the subject which might show guilt on Matt’s part or warn me about investigating further?
“Can we meet?”
This isn’t what I’m expecting, but now that I have blown my hotel review money on a car window, I’m not eager to keep meeting with folks who aren’t paying my bills. “You fired me, remember?”
“I know, Ms. Valentine, and I’m sorry about that. I can explain.”
I let out a long sigh. Suddenly, I’m so very tired.
“Elijah, I couldn’t help myself yesterday, got wind of something and because I’m a journalist with an insatiable curiosity, I just had to know. But it got me a broken car window, something I can’t afford right now, so I’m done. This weird thing going on in your town and the fact that the state is polluting your water is your business from now on.” Then, with an afterthought, because I really am curious, I add, “…unless you want to start paying me again.”
“Ms. Valentine, do you know the Diamond Grill in downtown Alexandria?”
“Yes.”
This isn’t what I’m expecting but I agree. The landmark jewelry store in the central Louisiana town has been renovated and turned into a fine dining restaurant and I’ve been dying to see it.
“Can you meet me there in an hour and a half?”
Elijah’s whispering now so my curiosity doubles. I shouldn’t agree — considering — but I can’t help myself. Plus, I’m starving.
“Fine, but you pay.”
“Of course.”
“And I’m ordering wine with dinner and two desserts to follow.”
I can sense him smiling. “Anything you want.”
“Now I know you’re crazy.”
I believe the smile remains but I hear him exhale a heavy sigh. “More than you know.”
We quickly wrap things up and I head toward Interstate 49 for the trip to Alexandria, this time thankfully without the wind in my hair. It’s too early for NPR’s All Things Considered and the radio stations are playing the same five pop songs so I give TB a call. He doesn’t pick up so I know he’s still mad at me, but I leave a message.
“Hey.” I’ve such a way with words, but he’s hurt and I honestly don’t know what to say. “I have something to tell you.” Oh lord, now he’s going to think there’s more to the affair which really wasn’t an affair considering. “I mean, something happened after you left Baton Rouge.”
I stare at the eighteen-wheeler in front of me, wondering once again why men put outlines of big-busted women on their tire flaps. It’s up there with those deer head decals that if you look at them funny resemble people dancing.
I shake my ADHD head and command myself to focus.
“Someone broke my car window last night. I found the top of a water meter inside the car so you can guess who. Anyway, Elijah just called me and wants to meet in Alexandria so I’m on my way there. If you don’t hear from me in a week, call the FBI.”
I’m trying to be funny, but I must admit, I’m a bit scared. Maybe it’s a trap and I’ll emerge from this meeting with a broken kneecap. I wish TB was here.
“I’m really sorry about last night,” I continue and those damn tears return. “And I swear TB, that guy meant nothing to me. I was lonely, he was around, there was liquor involved….”
Those stupid women on the tire flaps begin to blur so I wipe my hand across my eyes. “Anyway, call me.”
Screw my composure, I think, and allow myself a good long cry until Bunkie, where I force myself to man up. That’s another thing I’ve never understood. Manhood has degrees? You can see why I’m a journalist, my brain never stops inquiring.
By the time I reach the Diamond Grill in downtown Alexandria, my emotions are in check. It’s one-thirty and the place is deserted, all except for Elijah looking forlorn in a dark back corner. He waves and I head his way, but not without taking in the elegant art nouveau/art deco architecture that stretches up two stories to the ceiling. The building used to house C.A. Schnack’s Jewelry Store, which moved to the spot in 1931. Straight ahead a curving staircase leads to a balcony where I spot an equally elegant bar. A grand piano sits to the rear of the dining room and a man dressed in a nice suit and tie plays Memory from Cats and he sends me a wink as I walk past.
“Little good that’ll do ya,” I think, wondering if he’s aiming for a tip.
I reach Elijah’s table and check to see if there’s a quick getaway in sight. Then I choose the chair on the side where I have a good view of the restaurant and no one can sneak up behind me, a trick journalists share with mobsters.
Elijah rises and pulls out my chair, the perfect gentleman. “Thank you for coming.”
I throw my purse in the opposite seat, pulling my napkin into my lap as I sit down. “You may have second thoughts when you see the bill.”
Elijah grins but he’s avoiding my gaze. “I’m really sorry about what happened.”
I place both elbows on the table and look at him sternly. “Just what did happen?”
Elijah glances around the restaurant but there’s only Mr. Mistoffelees at the piano. He leans in close and looks at me for the first time. “It’s a long story, which is why I asked you here.”
Those damn goosebumps are crawling up my spine and I shake them off before they reach my neck. “How about you start at the beginning, then.”
The waitress arrives and Elijah wastes no time ordering. There are two lunch specials today and both sound enticing so he orders one of each with a stuffed mushroom appetizer, then asks for a wine list.
“I was kidding about the wine,” I quickly say, before the waitress leaves us. “Unsweetened iced tea for me.”
We say nothing until the waitress is out of earshot and Piano Man starts a medley from West Side Story. Elijah’s avoiding my eyes again. “Is it true someone threw something through your car window?”
“More like a water meter found its way in.”
Elijah exhales and takes a long drink from his glass.
“I take it you know why.”
He nods. “Matt called me this morning, although he left out the part about the window. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in this but Sirona insisted we bring in help.”
“Involved in what exactly?”
Elijah finally makes himself comfortable but he keeps his voice low. “As you might remember, Fontus Springs is surrounded by piney woods and rolling hills. It’s not good for farming so until trains were brought to central Louisiana and people started logging, hardly anyone lived there.”
He takes another long drink of his water. I want to interrupt and tell him that I read his box of information, but I want to hear him explain. “All but a family of Germans,” he continues. “And with them came the legend.”
I sit up and lean forward. “What legend?”
“Along the Rhine River in Germany people used to hear a woman singing. The story goes that a woman named Lorelie who was jilted by her lover threw herself in the river in despair and now she haunts the place, singing on the rocks or something to that effect. Lots of people have written about this siren, including composers Franz Liszt and Shostakovich.”
“So, let me guess,” I interject. “These Germans who stumbled upon Lorelie Lake in Louisiana think a siren lives there?”
Elijah takes another long sip and I notice his glass is empty. The waitress is suddenly at our table refilling our glasses and an assistant arrives with the mushrooms.
“Those entrees will be up soon,” she says as I instantly dig into the stuffed fungi. “Would you all like some bread?”
I agree at the same time Elijah declines. We laugh, then he instructs the waitress to bring some.
“Sorry, been a long time since breakfast,” I say. “Now, what were you saying?”
The interruption helps Elijah get back on track. He resumes the story with more confidence.
“The lake murmurs, like in the stories, so the Germans thought the name appropriate. They also named Fontus Springs after the Greek god of wells.”
“Yeah, I heard that one.”
“And you probably also know, since you’re a travel writer, that Germans love springs. They’re all over that part of Europe. So, the Hilderbrand family that settled at Lorelie Lake took really good care of Fontus.”
I pause in my mushroom devouring. “Wait, is this the same family as Frederick Hilderbrand, the man who complained about the smell?”
Elijah nods as Judy — it’s on her name tag — delivers bread and three types of whipped butter. Hallelujah! I dive in, but keep inquiring. “Does Fred still own the property and lease it to the state?”
That freaky look returns to Elijah’s face and he checks out the restaurant once more, then leans in close.
“The Hilderbrands didn’t have children, so it ended up being sold at auction to a businessman from Alexandria who took interest in the springs as a tourist attraction. There was a Hilderbrand brother who was supposedly on the deed but he was working laying rails out west at the time so the property was sold without his consent and approval. One reason why Old Man Frederick hates state government so much. He’s tried time and again to prove ownership, has a copy of the deed with his grandfather’s name on it, but the case never goes anywhere. If you want to get an earful, ask him about lawyers.”
“What happened between the Alexandria businessman and the state taking over?”
The entrees arrive, so we both lean back and decide that I want the catfish and Elijah prefers the meatballs and spaghetti. Judy refills our glasses and tries to strike up small-talk conversation but I’m ready to get back to the details.
After she leaves, Elijah continues, while I almost inhale the fish. I think to apologize for my un-ladylike actions — Southern women were brought up to be dainty, don’t you know — but I’m not that girl these days. Now that I think about it, why should I be?
“The guy who bought the springs, Jessie Parker, was a good man and his heart was in the right place,” Elijah says. “He constructed the hotel, restaurant and pumped the spring water into a pool. People came and it brought business to the area, which I suppose was a good thing.”
“Suppose?” I mumble between bites.
“A lot of development happened in those early days, some good, some not so good.”
I let Elijah take a bite while I ponder this information. I had read in Elijah’s box of information that the springs were a hit in the 1920s but fell into neglect by the Great Depression. I think back on my visit to the Branfords and Margie saying something about a tortured woman waking her up the Monday after Easter.
“The man who owned the springs….”
“Jessie Parker, the Alexandria businessman….”
“He had a heart attack one night and some slimy cousin named Brock Parker took over the property,” Elijah continues. “The springs then turned into a speakeasy of sorts. Bootlegging, prostitution. Some people said the mob used it as a hideout when the Feds got too close. Then, when the Depression hit, things got really bad. Desperate people will do anything for a buck and they usually did in Fontus. And Brock got rich.”
“Your grandma said something about the lake disappearing one night.”
Elijah’s fork is halfway to his mouth, but he stops mid-air. “She told you that?”
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p; I nod, then Elijah places his fork down and does a scan of the restaurant one more time. Piano Man is gone and the staff appears hunkered down in the kitchen.
“Brock leased part of the land to an oil company that came in and started drilling on the back property.”
“She said that everyone woke up one morning and half the lake was gone.”
Elijah takes another gulp of his water and I see that it’s almost drained again.
“Something happened one night. Some kind of accident. Old Man Frederick has a few ideas but no one else will speak of it. I’m surprised my grandma told you. The only people around that night were black folks and when my granddad was run out of town, they all shut up.”
Now, it’s my turn to take a drink. “Your grandfather?”
Elijah sends me a sad smile. “Why do you think I sound the way I do? My grandfather started talking about what happened at the lake that night so they forced him out. He ended up in Chicago where he married and my dad was born. I came back because I wanted to know my grandmother and ended up becoming the librarian, then the mayor of Fontus Springs.” He smirks. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“But your name is Fontenot and Miss Bessie’s is Jefferson. Was she originally a Fontenot?”
For the first time since I sat down, Elijah looks me dead in the eyes and his smile is one of triumph. “They know how to spot your car in all of downtown Baton Rouge, but they have yet to make that connection. My grandmother married twice.”
Judy arrives and we both jump; we hadn’t seen her coming.
“I’m sorry,” she immediately says. “I was just checkin’ to see if y’all needed anything.”
“What’s for dessert?” Elijah asks.
I raise my hand. “That’s okay. I’ve had enough.”
Elijah ignores me. “Bring us some of your awesome bread pudding and one of those chocolate lava cakes. Oh, and two coffees.”
“You got it,” Judy says happily and I wonder if she’s adding up that ever-growing tip in her head.
“Whatever you don’t eat, you can take home,” Elijah tells me.
Ordinarily, that Southern woman thing again, I would object and lie that I couldn’t possibly eat all that, but I’m too busy thinking about the return of the prodigal son and a lake vanishing overnight.
Ghost Town Page 14