I knock on the door when I hear movement inside the room. Eric opens the door in ironed perfection, but his hair is mussed so I peer around him for a female body.
“What are you doing here?”
Not the greeting I was hoping for, and I understand now how TB felt the night I greeted him that way on the threshold of my potting shed. I also catch that wariness in Eric’s gaze, the one men get running into women they hope to never see again. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind this relationship being a two-night stand but his reaction annoys me. I turn my head one way and then the other in the hopes of relieving the tension building there and waltz into the room like I own the place.
“The hedge fund girls must have left a big hole.” I glance around and find the place empty. “Jacob asked me to swing over and review the place. Gave me a nice bonus, too.”
Eric closes the door and his countenance doesn’t change. “How did you know my room number?”
“The front desk, of course.”
Eric pulls his hands through his hair. He’s not happy to see me and I’m not sure why. “We’re not supposed to know each other, remember? You shouldn’t have done that. They might catch on.”
This takes the wind out of my sails. “I didn’t think about that.”
“Yeah, you didn’t.”
It’s not that big of a thing, I reason, but then I need this job, this money. “I’m sure it will be okay. How would they know?”
Eric hasn’t smiled yet, and now he’s frowning, and I wonder if I really screwed up as much as all that. “Stick to the rules, okay Angelle.”
I’m tired of following rules, doing what people expect of me. One of the reasons why I was attracted to this man. Not to mention that he taught me to break Courtyard protocol.
“Why are you being such a dick?”
He grabs his suitcase and throws it on the bed, doesn’t look at me while he unzips the case and starts taking out his perfectly folded clothes. “I don’t like surprises.”
I’ve never been assertive with men, always caved in when they acted like this. Apologized. Acquiesced. Remember that Southern female book of rules?
Not today. “I don’t like surprises either,” I say to him and move toward the door.
He grabs my arm inches from leaving. “Now, don’t be like that. You made a mistake and I’ll forgive you.”
I turn and smile sweetly. “Oh gee, thanks.”
“I’m not into relationships. I thought you got that.”
I shake my head, because as much as finding him with another woman would have shaken up my afternoon, I want no part of this man. “Who said I was? I’m married, asshole.”
I pull my arm free and leave, slamming the door in my wake. I head down the hallway to my room that I notice has another horrible view. In fact, my room’s one step lower than Eric’s, less attractive, less furniture, and a much smaller bathroom, another reminder that angels linger lower on the totem pole. I start to feel aggravated but then a tiny voice in the deep caves of my brain reminds me that I should be grateful for the job and for that heavenly bed before me. I pop back into my tiny bathroom and notice there’s a tub.
“Thank you, Lillye, or whomever is slapping me upside my head,” I say to the air. “Tonight, that tub and I are communing.”
I change into my bathing suit and head out, pausing at the Tiki bar to order a rum and Coke, then head for the pool, which is inside and away from the humid swelter, thank the heavens. After I dive in and take in a few laps, I plop on a lounge chair and open my laptop to start inserting information on the bar area, the bartender’s service, and the cleanliness of the pool. Too much chlorine, not enough rum. There are towels lying about and the construction dust has left a fine film on half of the lounge chairs, so I note that as well.
“Working hard?”
I look up to find Eric staring down on me, of course a drink in his hand.
“What do you want?” I ask, while getting back to my typing.
I sense him sitting on the lounge chair next to me, then relaxing back while he turns a towel into a pillow. “Are you really married?”
Seriously? I look up and find him grinning which, against my better judgment, forces me to smile too. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
He holds up his free hand and shrugs. “You get what you get.”
Yes, you do, I think, and return to my typing.
“So, what’s the story with you and your husband?”
I think back on the two of us on the levee, watching the sun set while sharing mutual pain. “We’re separated, but still married for the health insurance.”
Eric sits up and throws his legs over the side of the lounge chair. “I think you need to change places, be the asshole for a while. You’re made of stronger stuff than I gave you credit for.”
He means it as a compliment, but the comment pierces my heart like an arrow. “I’m not like you,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster because despite the power that comes with being a jerk demanding action, it’s not who I am. Or at least, it’s not who I want to be.
I turn to look at Eric who’s sitting by a pool in a starched, ironed shirt and khaki pants with a distinct crease down the middle. His hair hangs loose about his forehead and those brown eyes twinkle with mischief but I’m not attracted to this man. I can’t imagine what I saw in him.
“I came to your room because I wanted some advice.”
“More lessons in assholeness?”
“More like money laundering, tax fraud, illegal transfer of property.”
He sits up straighter. “Wow, what are you planning on doing?”
“I was a hard news reporter in a previous life and now I’m investigating some weird going-ons in a town in the middle of Louisiana.”
Eric’s interested, but he signals the bartender for another round, thankfully including me. As much as I need to get this work done, the rum softens my edges.
“What do you need to know?” he asks when he turns back.
“You said you worked for a bank and was good at finding out information about people.”
Eric smiles and his eyes narrow. “Good memory, Lois Lane.”
“I’m trying to find out who owns a piece of property.”
“Did you do a title search at the county courthouse?”
“Parish courthouse. This is Louisiana.”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Did you?”
I hand the papers I had copied and point out the missing pages, explain that most of Brock Parker’s heirs appear to have moved out of state — although someone must be paying the property taxes to keep it in the family— and how Bayou State Transport doesn’t appear to be in existence anymore, if they ever were.
“Can you buy property with a fake company?”
He studies the deeds and rubs the faint stubble appearing on his cheek. “Maybe in Louisiana.”
“Seriously?”
“Not legally, no.”
I look over at the paper in his hands. “I can’t find anything about this company.”
“It might be a subsidiary of a larger corporation. Or they may be out of business since this is quite a few years ago.”
“How do I find that out?”
He hands me back the paper. “Better Business Bureau. Search the state’s database of registered businesses. Websites.”
I shake my head. “Did all that. Nothing.”
Eric shrugs. “Maybe they’re not in Louisiana.”
I never thought of that. “Still, wouldn’t something come up on Google?”
The bartender arrives with our drinks and Eric complains about its weakness and use of canned fruit juices, which the bartender reputes, of course. Eric signs the bill and moves to leave.
“Where you going?” I ask.
“There’s a cute blond at the bar.” He pauses and sends me a questioning grin. “Unless....”
I shake my head. “Sorry, asshole, that train left the station.”
Just then a woma
n and her two kids emerge into the pool area and the mom blanches at my remark. Eric laughs, places a hand at his chest as if he’s been injured, and heads over to where a blonde with impossibly long legs sits waiting. The mother’s still giving me the evil eye so I grab my laptop and head back to my room.
I love hotel rooms. Even though I consider myself an environmentalist and recycle my trash, drive one mile per hour below the speed limit and conserve energy in my home, when I’m on the road I ratchet up the A/C and lie on those comfy beds in my underwear. It’s payback for those sacrifices and one I deserve for living in the sweltering Deep South.
I spread out the papers I copied the day before and try to connect the dots of Fontus Springs. Ghost reports began when the resort was in full swing in the 1920s, but they intensified during the 1930s, particularly, I note, around 1932-33. When the military cleaned up the place and soldiers used the property, the ghost sightings ceased and so did the newspapers accounts.
The lake murmurs were another issue altogether. An article bragging of the health benefits of Fontus Springs mentions the Lorelie legend in a box off to the side, how late at night when the moon is full a woman’s singing could be heard. Sounds hokey to me but those early Germans didn’t name the lake for no reason. Still, could there be a logical explanation? Wind through the pines or something to that effect?
The historical articles paint a different story, touting the springs as a top attraction with modern facilities until lack of tourism led to its ruin. There’s the ebb and flow success story that Elijah imparted, until the 1980s when Brock Parker throws in the towel and closes up shop. After that, nothing. No mention of a sale, no mention of Bayou State Transport, water quality issues, or the state of Louisiana.
I draw out a timeline and include the ghost sightings, call TB in the hopes of sharing this information. The call goes to voicemail.
“You won’t believe what I’ve found,” I tell him, explaining the ghost stories and how, to my knowledge, the state doesn’t own Fontus Springs. As I’m rattling on, the voicemail buzzes and the call ends.
I fling my phone on to the bed and sigh. I’m dying to discuss this with someone but don’t dare call Elijah at his work. Yes, I’m getting paranoid but I have a right to be. Instead, I call the next best thing. Sirona doesn’t answer and it goes straight to voice mail, which I find weird, but I leave a message.
“You asked about meeting so let’s meet,” I say. “I’m in Houston right now but I’ll be home soon. Call me.”
I check the time and realize it’s close to six-thirty so I shower and put on something nice. Time for dinner, then I’ll check out every inch of the hotel. I’m giving Jacob the finest review of his career with this one. Tomorrow, I head back to Lafayette and hand in my resignation to Courtyard. It’s time to get my travel writing career back on track.
My hotel faces the new downtown park called Discovery Green, a twelve-acre space that opened earlier this year and includes gardens, splash pads, event stages and a restaurant overlooking it all. I climb to the second floor of the restaurant and enjoy a hint of a breeze beneath oak trees. Because I’m starved for the outdoors after weeks of air conditioned solitude, I decide to sweat on the patio and watch the people walk by below.
“Good evening,” my twenty-something waiter with a man bun says as he hands me a menu. “Our drink special tonight is the Space City Cosmo and it’s half off until eight.”
He also mentions beer and wine on tap but I immediately order the cocktail along with the chips and salsa appetizer. Then I lean back in my chair, put on my sunglasses and enjoy the evening.
My body has no problem relaxing but my brain remains in first gear. I keep thinking about Fontus Springs and its unfortunate history, about Bayou State Transport which doesn’t exist as far as my internet research goes. What caused Lorelei Lake to suddenly drop by half? And, of course, there’s the ghosts. Why there, why the 1930s, why now?
I nibble on my chips and slurp down the cosmos a little too fast but it’s cool and refreshing and drops of sweat are traveling down my back and behind my knees. I dream about cabin life in the Smoky Mountains or a seaside retreat in Maine, wonder if I could find a summer job somewhere far from the steamy Gulf States, when I spot it. There, peering at me across the Houston cityscape, is a giant neon sign atop one of the downtown buildings. In bright red letters it reads Hobart Industries.
I bolt up, because I know this name. But where? It’s wasn’t in the title search, nor the library documents and articles. Still, I’ve heard this name before.
“Another Cosmo?” the waiter asks me.
I look up and shake my head, but I grab his hand, which startles him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, immediately releasing him. “But what is Hobart Industries?”
The waiter frowns and looks in the direction of the building. “It’s an oil and gas company.”
Figures. After all, it’s Houston.
“I know that name. But I can’t remember where.”
The waiter looks around as to if to see who may be listening, then leans in close. “Probably because they’re one of the largest polluters in the country, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
I ask for the check and he drops it on the table, while picking up my used cocktail glass and plates. I throw down cash and add a nice percentage for a tip, then grab my things. I’m about to head out and finish my tour of the hotel but questions still need answering.
I pause and exhale. Mimi always said those on the other side would come to my aid if I needed them, so I close my eyes behind my sunglasses and try to breathe gently. In and out. In and out. Do you know how hard it is to calm one’s mind when you suffer from ADHD? Still, I focus on the breath, in and out, in and out.
After a while, the jumble inside my head disappears. I think of the gentle breeze stirring the oak trees around me, hear the families laughing in the splash pad a few hundred feet away. I’m reminded of the relaxing effects of the cocktails I’ve been imbibing and smile. Life is good.
Suddenly, Old Man Frederick is standing before me, that shotgun pointed at my face.
“If you’re from Hobart Industries,” he shouts at me, “you’d best get that car in reverse fast before I shoot your ass.”
I open my eyes and sit up straight. “Of course.”
I abandon my review of the Houston Courtyard Hotel and head to one of the most familiar places I know. The local library.
Chapter Thirteen
Like the Alexandria Library, the Central Houston Library downtown has a folder on Hobart Industries, but it’s mainly business articles and stock reports. The librarian comes back with another folder titled Hobart Court Cases and my waiter was right, these guys have been dumping oilfield waste on properties where owners have taken them to court for lease violations. I should say allegedly because most of the cases are still in process, according to my internet search, and no court has yet proven them guilty.
Regardless of what may or may not be true of their misdoings, Hobart Industries is a multi-national corporation with friends in high places. The folder contains photos of CEOs and presidents, members of Congress and a few guys in Arabic dress.
I ask the librarian for anything on Bayou State Transport but she has none. And, because I depend on libraries so much and appreciate everything they do, I commend her on keeping such awesome files. Like most librarians, she sends back a small grin and comments that it’s her job. I know better. These people are next to gods in my book.
It’s eight-thirty when I head back to the hotel and I’m thinking about that bathtub, grateful that I remembered to bring my bath salts with me. I pass the Discovery Green restaurant and spot my waiter having a cigarette by the back door.
“Taking a walk?” he asks me.
“Visit to the library.” I pause, thinking back on our earlier conversation. “Hey, what did you mean by Hobart being such a polluter.”
He shrugs. “Just that.”
I’m thinking maybe he’s read
the same articles I have copied tonight, the ones sticking out of my purse, but I ask anyway. “Do you know something most people don’t know?”
He exhales smoke and looks at me with suspicion. “Why?”
“I’m helping out a friend who lost some property in central Louisiana.” Not exactly the truth, but Old Man Frederick will benefit from me sending those ghosts packing. “He mentioned Hobart Industries to me once, which is why I asked you when I spotted their building. The library doesn’t have much on the company, but it did mention pollution cases in Texas and Oklahoma.”
Man Bun extinguishes his cigarette by stepping on it and twisting his foot, then exhales the last of the nicotine out the side of his mouth so the waves of smoke skirt up the side of the building like a sultry snake. He glances around like he did upstairs and leans in close. “My sister works there. Hobart’s a piece of work.”
This makes my journalistic juices flow. “And your sister says they’re dumping illegally?”
He laughs. “Dumping illegally, working past lease deadlines, paying off people to keep things quiet. You name it but you didn’t hear that from me.”
Now, I lean in close. “There’s this rural piece of property in Louisiana and I think someone’s dumping on it because the water’s polluted and there’s been awful smells. When my friend complains, the state says everything’s fine.”
“Like I said, paying off people.”
That makes sense. Why else would Matt Wilson throw a water meter into my car unless he’s personally involved. I digest this information and Man Bun takes out his cell phone, flips it open and calls someone, asks if they would be willing to talk to me.
“How long are you here?” he asks me.
“Until tomorrow.”
He makes some arrangement and then flips the phone closed. “My sister said she can meet with you at seven-thirty tomorrow, before the office officially opens. She said she doesn’t know if she can help and you can’t use her name.”
I’m so excited, I can only nod and say, “Of course.”
Ghost Town Page 19