“Seriously.” My waiter friend’s eyes become dark and menacing. “You can’t include us at all.”
I nod again. I shouldn’t admit this but I feel it’s called for. “I’m a former journalist, been displaced by Katrina and am now writing travel stories. But I never expose my sources. Never.”
Telling people you write for the media can go two ways. They run screaming from your side or they trust you and know you will do what’s right. Man Bun is the latter, thankfully, and he hands me a napkin with his sister’s first name on it and a number to call at the front desk, should I have any trouble. I thank him profusely and we part ways.
I’m up early so I can check out breakfast downstairs, see how well the night shift cleaned the lobby and a host of other reviewer duties. The coffee passes muster — the most important thing to this journalist — and the breakfast spread is larger than I expected, all good marks. I’m trying to stay focused but all I can think about is my meeting with the waiter’s sister.
Seven rolls around, so I finish off my cup of Joe and head out, wearing the most professional thing I brought, basically my knit black pants and a simple top. It’ll have to do. Just as I’m heading out the door, who should waltz in but Eric, looking prime in his coifed outfit and hair damp from a shower.
“Where you heading off to in such a hurry, Angelle? Time to join me for a coffee?”
I look around and notice there’s several people in the café and the waitress looks around and smiles. “Gosh, I thought we weren’t supposed to talk to one another.” I lean in close and whisper, “They might catch on.”
I don’t wait for an answer, head out the door. It’s early morning in Houston but the heat and humidity hit me like running into a glass door. I’m not halfway to Hobart and my body’s clammy from the sweat. I vow to find me a job in a cool place next August, someplace like Greenland.
The Hobart building stretches up before me as an imposing giant, towering about thirty floors above the flat Houston skyline. The lobby’s bare except for a lone security guard in the center. I swallow and enter, all smiles, hoping to make my way to the elevators where Man Bun’s sister works on the tenth floor.
The security guard doesn’t buy it, stops me right away. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Lindsey.” Crap, I don’t know her last name.
“Lindsey who?”
I shrug. “She works in finance, said to meet her in her office for seven-thirty.”
His brow furrows and he starts to retort, so I quickly pull out my phone. “Let me call her.”
I punch in the numbers Man Bun gave me and a tiny voice answers, “Lindsey McDaniel.”
“Hey Lindsey.” I smile at the guard. “Viola Valentine in the lobby. Mr.,” I look at his name tag, “Wallace needs to verify something.”
“You’re the friend of Toby’s?”
“Yes.” I hope that’s her brother’s name.
She asks to speak to the guard and I pass over the phone. After a brief back and forth, Wallace points to the elevators and I’m through. As I enter the elevator car I realize I gave out my real name.
“Not a good move, Vi,” I say to my reflection as the doors close.
Lindsey waits for me in the hallway, we say a few hi, how are yous, and then I follow her into an office that’s devoid of people.
“Everyone gets in around eight,” she tells me.
Her personal office feels more like a closet and we squeeze in and I take the small seat across from her desk, which contains only a computer and two piles of files.
“Sorry about the tight fit,” she says. “I’m only the person who pays the bills, plus I don’t have the right anatomy.”
There’s bitterness here and I can so relate. “The media can be like that, too. Mostly men at the top and difficult to move up.” I look around the tiny office and notice there’s a nice window overlooking downtown Houston. “But I never had my own office, not to mention a window, so you’ve got that going for you.”
“I guess,” Lindsey looks at me a bit impatiently. “What can I help you with?”
I glance back at the slightly opened door, just to be sure, even though no one’s around. “I have a friend who lives in central Louisiana and there’s been some funny activity happening on the property next door. He believes Hobart is involved.”
Lindsey turns back to her computer. “What’s the county?”
“Parish. And it’s Rapides.” I start to spell out Rapides because it’s pronounced rap-eeds, the French name for the rapids in the Red River, but Lindsey’s ahead of me, shaking her head. “We don’t own anything there.”
My heart sinks because I knew this would lead to something. “How about Lorelei Lake? Fontus Springs?”
I spell those out but nothing comes up.
“Sorry.”
I don’t know what to say because I had been so hopeful only moments before. I sit, searching my brain in case I missed something, hoping this woman doesn’t get too impatient and throw me out.
“Hobart does a lot of business with third parties,” she finally says. “Maybe it’s owned by someone else and we just do business with them.”
You know in those cartoons when the characters get a good idea and a lightbulb goes off on top of their head? I can almost feel the heat of the bulb burning my scalp.
“How about Bayou State Transport?” I ask.
Lindsey looks at me cautiously. “Matt Wilson’s company?”
The breath I’ve been holding comes out in a rush. Holy Mother of Pearl. “Seriously?”
She frowns. “You know him?”
I smirk. “Only met him twice and both times were not good. He, or someone he paid, threw a water meter at my car when I checked up on the water quality of the nearby lake.”
Lindsey leans back in her chair and smiles for the first time this morning. “Sounds like him. He’s a piece of work.”
I lean forward, excited that dots are finally being connected. “How do you know him?”
Lindsey leans to the right and checks out the still empty office, then gets up and closes the door.
“He comes in once a month, plays golf with the guys in transportation. He’s always asking me out, even though I’ve told him I have a boyfriend. Not that that matters, I would never date that jerk. He’s one of those always-starring-at-your-breasts kinda guy.”
“Transportation?”
“Yeah.” She sits back down and starts typing. “Hobart uses his property for storage or something like that. His company picks up the product; I don’t know the details. We pay him once a month, which he gets in an envelope when he arrives for his golf game.” She stops typing and I hear the printer coming to life in some corner of the room. Lindsey leans across the desk and whispers, “It’s a bit under the table.”
I lean forward, too. “Under the table?”
Now, she’s really whispering, “I write his checks out by hand, per my boss’s instructions. Understand?”
This is all so good, feel my heart skipping along inside my chest while Lindsey hands me a spreadsheet of payments made to Bayou State Transport of Oklahoma.
“Oklahoma. No wonder I couldn’t find them.”
“You didn’t get that from me and you can’t use that in print. For deep background only.”
I glance down at the enormous figures on the sheet, thinking what a wonderful story this would be, plus the fact that Lindsey knows the journalism lingo, must have loved All the President’s Men as much as Elijah and I did. “Absolutely.”
I hear a knocking on the desk and look up to find Lindsey giving me a hard stare. “I’m serious.”
My heart sinks because this would make an explosive story but a promise is a promise. No story unless I confirm this elsewhere. And yes, journalists do have ethics and I reiterate to Lindsey that I will not use this information with her as the source.
I have a few more questions but Lindsey looks at her watch and I hear movement in the office. She remembers something and di
gs through her pile for her day planner. “Since you had a run-in with Matt, you may want to skedaddle. This is his golf day and he always comes here first to pick up his check.”
A raw panic rushes through me and I don’t need to be told twice. I slip on my sunglasses, thank Lindsey once more — who waves me off — and rush out of the office. While I’m waiting for the elevator I glance around and notice movement in the adjoining office, a couple of women heading toward the ladies room and an overweight man panting and sweating as he exits the stairwell. I give him one of those nods and sad smiles that says, “You go, dude, understand your pain.” He smiles grimly back and disappears into an office.
Seconds are ticking away and now I’m noticing my own perspiration beneath my arms. I tap my foot on the thick, boring-brown carpet and bite the inside of my cheek. What will I do if Matt appears? Will they call security, nab the spreadsheet, and haul me off to jail? I have no newspaper to call to bail me out, no editor or publisher to speak on my behalf.
I’m really starting to panic when the elevator bell jolts me out of my skin. I turn slightly so that no one exiting the elevator will see my face directly and in my peripheral vision notice three women and a couple of suits exit and head toward Lindsey’s office. I quickly enter the elevator car but sideways like a crab. When I’m safely inside and the doors are beginning to close, I brave a glance at the two men. No Matt Wilson.
I exhale and push the lobby button.
“We’re going up,” the man to my right says and I nearly hit the ceiling one more time. I look over and it’s a bicyclist carrying an armful of packages. I look to my left and there’s a college-age girl pushing a mail cart. C’est tout, as they say in Cajun Country. So far, so good.
We move to the upper floors and both deliverers exit the car, then I push the lobby button and head south. Everyone’s coming in to work so it’s a straight route to the ground floor. When the elevator opens, there’s a crowd of people waiting, so my anxiety ratchets up big time, I lower my head, push my sunglasses higher up my nose, and slip through the crowd. I swear I see Matt off to the right talking to another suit; Matt’s wearing what looks like casual golf clothes. It might be my freaked-out imagination, I tell myself, but I don’t waste time heading toward the front door and finally breathe when I hit the sidewalk. I glance behind me to see if I’m being followed and spot a security guard at the entrance. He looks at me, no doubt because I’m looking at him, so I smile and wave like an idiot, which makes him frown and stare.
“Stupid,” I tell myself and turn and walk as fast as I can — without looking like I’m walking fast — toward the hotel. Time to grab my things and get the hell out of Dodge.
“Where are you going so fast?” Eric yells at me from the café when I haul past.
I look his way and think to politely explain that I can’t talk right now, there’s a posse after me, but I’m done with this man. I need to pack up and leave, make a few phone calls on the way home, and finish the job I was paid to do.
I get to my room and throw everything into my bag without caring if it wrinkles. I grab all the toiletries because I’m low at home, and leave a tip for housekeeping. I take one last look around the room, including one wishful glance at that delicious bed that was heaven to sleep in, then head out the door. When I slide my room key across the front lobby counter, I notice Eric’s blonde waiting there as well.
She checks me out and frowns, then slips closer. “Do you know Eric?”
Before, I doubted that this Courtyard would suspect that Eric and I were reviewers, but at the moment I don’t think it’s a good idea to blurt anything out in front of them. “Why?”
She leans in close and it’s now I witness the hurt in her countenance. “He’s an asshole.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, and the pleasure it brings after an hour of espionage feels so good that it doubles in intensity and I can’t stop. The woman frowns and steps back, muttering something about me being a jerk as well, so I wave to the front desk person, grab my bag, and take off for the parking garage, laughing all the way.
As I get to the second floor of the garage, my merriment ceases and I pull the sunglasses back on. When the elevator doors open, I glance around to make sure I’m alone. I am, but I still walk cautiously to my car. The windows are thankfully intact and I waste no time throwing my suitcase into the trunk, my camera and purse into the passenger seat, and light that baby up. I’m on Interstate 10 in no time flat, finally breathing normally.
The first person I call is TB.
“You will not believe what information I have dug up on Lake Lorelie.”
I hear carpentry sounds in the background, remember that he’s on the job in Lafayette. “You won’t believe what I found out.”
I can’t imagine what my ex could have unearthed on a construction site, but I ask anyway. Instead, he asks me out.
“Do you know where Jefferson Island is?”
“The one with the pretty house and gardens down near New Iberia?”
“Yeah, Rip Van Winkle Gardens.”
I’ve heard people rave about how beautiful this place is but the name always put me off, always imagined it like the children’s section of City Park in New Orleans, with statues of little people and Mother Goose characters. A cloud settles over me thinking of that park of my childhood, under water for weeks along with the rest of City Park after Katrina.
I shake it off. “What’s at Jefferson Island.”
“Where are you?”
“Leaving Houston. Should be home in about four hours.”
If Matt Wilson doesn’t spot me and push me off the highway into the Sabine River.
“I’ll be off work by that time; this is a half-day gig. Meet me at Jefferson Island and I’ll buy you lunch.”
“There’s a restaurant?”
A man yells something in the background and TB yells back. “Gotta go,” he says and suddenly my ex-husband with some important piece of information is gone.
The next person I call is Sirona and my car swerves into the right lane while I do, causing the car behind me to honk and yell something about cell phones. “Yeah, yeah,” I say but know I shouldn’t be calling and driving. I push the speaker button and prop the phone on the dashboard allowing me to focus on the road. Elijah answers on the third ring.
“Elijah?”
He recognizes my voice instantly for he becomes self-conscious. “Uh, hi Miss Valentine.”
I try to sound like it’s none of my business that he’s at Sirona’s house. Because honestly, it isn’t. “I was looking for Sirona.”
“She’s not here.” He still sounds like a child caught stealing a cookie. “This is actually my work phone. Can I leave her a message?”
I frown at that last remark; he’s trying to sound like her receptionist, not her lover, and since when does she work at the library? I so want to tell him I don’t care who he sleeps with but that would be worse.
“I have some new information. In fact, you need to hear this, too.”
This perks up Guilty Boy. “I can arrange that. How about tonight?”
Tonight? I find that an odd suggestion but maybe they both have to work all day. “How about tomorrow? I’m heading home from a job in Houston.”
“Tomorrow works.”
“And maybe get Old Man Frederick. He should hear this, too.”
Elijah laughs, and for the first time in this conversation he’s not acting anxious. “I’ll try but you never know with that guy.”
“Whatever you can do. Where shall we meet?”
“My house.” Elijah rattles off the directions. “Nine okay?”
“Nine in the morning?”
Silence follows.
“Elijah?”
I’m answered with a deep exhale. “You know, it’s all good. We should come clean with all this anyway.”
“Clean with what?”
“I’m off work tomorrow so anytime works.”
I’m still in the janitor’s closet wond
ering what needs a broom. “Clean with what?”
“I’ll explain when you get here.”
“And Sirona will be there, too?” There’s something fishy going on and I imagine Sirona is at the center of it.
“Yes. Why don’t you come first thing and I’ll make us all breakfast.”
This is sounding better but there’s so much I want to know. “What did you mean by…?”
“Just come around mid-morning. You have my cell number, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Gotta run. Have to be at the library in ten.”
“I thought this was your work number.”
In an instant, Elijah’s gone.
So many things unraveling, so many questions still unanswered.
I drive east on Interstate 10, then head south once I hit the 49, otherwise known as Evangeline Thruway. When I first moved to Lafayette, I asked residents if that spelling was on purpose or did the highway department not know how to spell and all I got was confused looks. Later, I discovered it’s a highway thing. Weird.
Another hour south and into a rural area where the blistering sun pours its heat down on grateful acres of sugarcane and I pull into Rip Van Winkle Gardens. There’s a lovely road leading up to the main house and restaurant, both overlooking a lake skirted by live oak trees dangling Spanish moss that waves to me in the slight breeze. And I mean slight. TB’s pickup truck is parked outside and through the front window of the house I see him chatting it up with a woman behind a counter.
I leave the comfort of the air-conditioned car, hit the wall of humidity awaiting me, and head inside what looks like a gift shop and information center — apparently you have to pay a fee to enjoy the historic home and gardens. The woman greets me while TB smiles like he’s that child stealing the cookie, only he got away with it.
“You’re never going to believe this,” he tells me first thing.
“Believe what?”
Both he and the counter lady smile knowingly but the woman heads off to speak to a tourist couple gazing at brochures.
“Believe what?” I repeat.
TB grins like a hormonal teenager, a sight that always amazed me. The man could be one hundred years old and he will always be able to resemble an adolescent.
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