Crimson Bayou

  Crimson Bayou

  By

  C.L. Bevill

  Crimson Bayou

  Copyright 2013 by Caren L. Bevill at Smashwords

  All rights reserved.

  Crimson Bayou is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Fictitiously used characters are utilized without intent to defame or denigrate.

  Crimson Bayou is the second book in a series featuring Mignon Thibeaux. The first novel published by St. Martin’s Thomas Dunne in 2002 was Bayou Moon. Ideally it should be read in order.

  Thanks to Vida Bevill, Beth Aube, and Jana DeLeon for various and sundry, not to mention priceless assistance. A noteworthy thanks to Jean Routen Hopkins for giving me answers concerning naval affairs in extraordinary detail. (Any mistakes, or otherwise known as literary license, are mine, not hers.) A special thank you to Woody Bevill for being my rock. Thanks to Mary E. Bates, freelance proofreader of ebooks, printed material, and websites. Contact her at mbates16@columbus.rr.com. She has the dubious job of being a proofreader/editor extraordinaire.

  For Bryant Mansfield and Barbara Wommack

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Other Novels by C.L. Bevill

  Chapter One

  Wednesday, March 5th

  A sailor went to sea, sea, sea.

  To see what he could see, see, see.

  But all that he could see, see, see,

  Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea.

  - Children’s hand-clapping rhyme.

  The dramatic sights and smells of the bayou surrounded Mignon Thibeaux. She carefully traversed a pair of rutted tracks. The tracks led deeper into the emerald depths of heavy shrubbery. Her artist’s eye noted every shade of green, from the dark holly leaves of a thick bush, to the pale jade green of fragile ivy twisting its budding leaves around a distended cypress branch. She could identify a dozen species of trees that made their homes at the bayou’s lapping edge, each making its way in an already crowded arrangement of vegetation. Ash and cedar vied for space with pine and oak. Even a lonesome evergreen juniper contested with larger growth for space, its clumps of violet berries vibrantly contrasting with the dark green background.

  But it was the dogwoods that were strewn across the heart of the Kisatchie National Forest that most interested Mignon. The early spring had instigated a flood of pale lavender that had burst forth in a cascade of fragrant blooms. Each flowering bud marked the dogwoods as if they were calling to her. She walked in a perfumed jungle that caused her senses to tingle. Every step held a new revelation for her eyes. Each sniff was a luxurious treat to her nostrils.

  The dogwoods were in full bloom, and with it they brought the bayous to life in a wondrously colorful manner that would not be repeated for a full year. Unfortunately, the insubstantial, exotic blooms wouldn’t last long. A week, perhaps two, and the pretty blossoms would float away to join in the evolution that made the cycle of bayou life eternal. And Mignon knew her next series of paintings would feature the beauteous aspects of the west central portion of the state she was quickly learning to treasure.

  In the artist’s eye of her mind, it would be a much brighter series than she had ever done before. In the past, the darkness of her own history had spectacularly tainted her work. It was the inexorable effect of the disappearance of her mother at age five, followed by the consequent abandonment by her father. It had caused her to be thrust into a series of foster homes from Texas to California. It was only the timely intervention of her adopted father that had guided her out of a life of abysmal pain. She had discovered that there was more to life, and there was also possibility. Then, there had been more questions, questions that tortured her nighttime hours and plagued her to hunt for that which would be a balm to her bleeding wounds.

  In her third decade of life, Mignon had decided to return to her birth place, seeking the answers to her blackest questions. Where had her mother, Garlande Thibeaux, gone to when she vanished out of her only child’s life? There had been a simple answer. She and her lover, the wealthy plantation owner, Luc St. Michel, had been murdered on the same day they together planned to leave Louisiana forever. When Mignon had come to stir the embers, they had been roused so well that she was almost murdered in the process of getting her answers. But receive them she had, and now, only months later, life had settled into a calmer pattern of existence where conventionality was the norm. Murderers no longer targeted her, and ghosts didn’t walk the bayous endlessly seeking retribution for long-ago wrongdoings.

  Her nightmares had become almost nonexistent. Mignon didn’t dream of skeletal fingers reaching across a dark chasm to yank her down into the stygian depths. The St. Michel’s hold on St. Germaine Parish was eternally broken. Luc’s wife, Eleanor, would most likely never return, and already the St. Michel Mansion was beginning to show neglectful signs of disuse.

  Of course, Mignon didn’t care if Eleanor St. Michel returned or not to St. Germaine and the little town of La Valle. Eleanor had made her proverbial bed, and she would have to sleep in it, wherever she was, whatever she was doing. Mignon knew that the woman had been devastated at the dual losses of her only daughter, Eugenie, and her close friend, Jourdain Gastineau. Furthermore, it could have been argued that it was partially Mignon’s fault. More deaths had not been on her agenda when she had returned to La Valle, and she had not pulled the trigger herself.

  Mignon shook her head to clear her thoughts. Auburn hair, the shade of burnished bronze, fluttered in a slight morning breeze. She ran a hand through the layers and fiercely blinked away the past. No longer did it have the power to hurt her. She had conquered that part of it, and she wouldn’t let it rule her any longer.

  All around her were reminders of the future to be. Life on the cusp of wonder filled her senses. First light in the Bayou Kisatchie showed her a plethora of awe-inspiring phenomena to behold. From the graceful snowy egrets, who craned their elegant necks to watch her passing, to the moss that flimsily dangled from the trees above like cotton-candy creations that might vanish in the grasp of a strong wind; it was enough to relax her soul.

  An inevitable comparison came to Mignon as she waded through ankle-deep water, making her way to where the twin tracks of a seldom-used trail resumed their course ever inward toward where the astute individual feared to tread. Over jeans, she wore thigh-high waders borrowed from acquaintances renewed in the wash of a tidal wave of past, that had put secrets in the forefront. She held her 35mm camera in one hand, the strap firmly around her shoulder so that the equipment wouldn’t spill into the murky waters. But it was the comparison between the place she was and the place she’d been, that occupied Mignon’s th
oughts.

  The day before, she had been in New York City, a place where lights streamed forth perpetually, and people moved ceaselessly as they went about their business. The smells had been that of diesel and sweat and fried foods from the voracious venders who roamed the streets like animals seeking prey. It had been loud, and Mignon’s nerves had been somewhat wracked. She had lunch with her editor and then dinner with her good friend, Terentia Jones. She couldn’t wait to return to the nonchalant existence of Louisiana.

  Terri had interpreted it accurately. “You’ve got it bad, girlfriend.” She had viewed her friend with a skeptical but discerning eye. “I don’t know if it’s the hunky sheriff or that thick Louisiana sludge calling to your soul, but Lord, you’ve got a case of it like a bird with West Nile Virus. Inescapable.”

  Mignon had stepped off the plane in Shreveport and breathed in the rich, aromatic air as if it would save her life. John Henry Roque was the hunky sheriff of whom Terri had spoken, and he’d been waiting for her, all six foot plus inches of him, looking scandalously handsome in his uniform. One hand held his trademark Stetson. The other had held a dozen roses. As she had been gone for three weeks, she had missed him, too. She didn’t know if she wanted to put a name on what they had together. John Henry, with his square jaw and his sherry-colored eyes, had a manner about him that made most other men pale in comparison, like shadows lost to a cloudy day. His large hands could deftly wrest a possible felon to the hood of his parish vehicle. Or they could be as gentle as a dainty feather as he caressed the soft flesh of an inner elbow.

  Mignon cursed under her breath as she made herself blush with the memories stirring her thoughts. The bane of being a redhead was her fair skin and the reality that the blush of her flesh revealed embarrassing thoughts. Was it truly John Henry who brought her back to Louisiana or more likely a combination of many things?

  Making that admission was difficult. Mignon’s previous relationships had been stained with her ambitions in the past. Now she had the answers to questions that had scoured her psyche, and she had the success that disregarded any sense that she was still the little girl who had been abandoned in a bus station.

  In times of remorse, Mignon had tried to justify her father’s actions. Ruff Thibeaux’s alcoholism had limited his ability to care for his daughter. She went hungry more times than not. Her clothing hung on her skinny frame and was as clean as a homeless person’s clothes could be, considering that they spent half their nights in a filthy shelter. But Ruff had been selfish. An eight-year-old girl didn’t know that her father had a momentary pique of conscience and saw what he was doing to her. But Mignon saw the past from the subjective viewpoint of a grown woman, a woman who valued her relationships and knew that only she was responsible for herself. Her own decisions would forever impact the individual she was and the individual she would be in the future.

  If she ever had a child, she knew that the baby would never be abandoned by her. A child? Mignon blinked again. It was the effect of solitude in the peaceful bayou. It was only her and the sound of the wind thrusting branches against adjacent trees. The calls of distant birds beckoning each to another told her that she was being as effectively quiet as she could. John Henry already had a divorce and a daughter. She didn’t know what future their relationship held, and it wasn’t the time to make decisions about the future. She knew that she cared for him and that he cared for her in turn. But children? Where did that come from?

  Mignon made the furtive thoughts disappear from her brain. She deliberately primed the Minolta camera, setting the f-stop and the shutter speed, and took a set of photos. The eastern horizon was tinged with pink that bled into red, showing the silhouette of thick trees like a black and white drawing in the foreground. It was the color she hoped to replicate. She preferred to use a 35mm camera rather than a digital. She knew that film might not replicate it precisely, however, the photos would stimulate her memory, and she would mix the colors until the correct shade produced itself on her artist’s palette. Pale pink dissolved into a deeper ruby, making the bayou appear as crimson as blood spilling from an open wound.

  There was a hoarse coughing noise that floated back to her, and Mignon froze with the camera still held halfway up to her face. Was there another person in the bayou, perhaps fishing for catfish or other fish the dark waters held? No, John Henry had mentioned that cougars were sighted infrequently in the bayous. Although game was plentiful for the predators in the national forest, the big cats would attack humans if cornered. And their coughing-like calls sometimes were issued as a warning.

  Mignon took a step backward and carefully looked all around her. For a long moment, there was silence. Even the birds were keeping markedly silent. There were other dangers in the bayous. Black bears were still in the area. John Henry had seen a pair only a month before while on a search and rescue. Wild pigs patrolled the bayous, and although small, the animals could be vicious. But the cougars could do significant damage to a small woman like Mignon, and he’d instructed her to bring her 9mm Beretta with her when she ventured into the Kisatchie National Forest.

  Of course, in her usual manner, Mignon hadn’t listened. She had her handy 35mm camera, and she was fairly sure that the photographic equipment might cause a charging cat to pause for at least a second or two. She would have laughed at herself if she hadn’t been holding her breath while she scanned never-ending yards of vegetation for a set of feline eyes.

  Birds exploded a hundred yards away, and a mournful cry followed their departure. There was a vicious snarl. Mignon then saw the sleek tan shape of a small cougar as she worked her way deeper into the bayou, studiously avoiding Mignon. When the cat had vanished as quickly as she had appeared, Mignon rolled her eyes. I could have taken a picture of her. But she had been staring too hard. She had never seen such an animal outside of a zoo.

  The sound of the passing cougar faded away as the cat looked for a quieter place to stalk her next meal. Mignon thought for a moment that she should have been frightened, but instead, she was strangely exhilarated and attempted to identify the feeling for a moment. A cougar, not a hundred yards away from me! Terri will never believe me.

  The striking colors of the rising sun caught her eye again. Purple had transformed into wisps of pink that rivaled the dogwood’s blooms, and crimson light spilled onto the bleak surface of the bayou waters. There were bloody slivers of radiance that reached for Mignon as she panned her gaze around.

  I have to get a shot of that. She took several steps into the bayou and shook her foot out of a patch of quicksand. If she let her foot sink into it, she would be missing one of her waders when she went home. The slimy substance was like Super Glue. The trick was to gingerly feel one’s way through the bayous in order to detect the telltale give of the soil and then move out of the suspected area as quickly as possible. It was never like the movies portrayed it. Only a sinkhole could suck one down into the gritty depths of the earth.

  The wader came out with a sucking noise, and Mignon moved to surer footing. Her eyes went back to the red that was making the entire bayou glow with color. She was so intrigued with the dark profiles of distant cypress that she didn’t look down immediately to see what had bumped into her. Ignoring the fact that she should have been concerned an alligator or a snake had decided to investigate her movement, her eyes only dropped for a moment; she was completely transfixed with the startling array of colors.

  Mignon had the camera up to her face before it registered with her. She gulped in a well-needed breath of air and looked down again. She knew what she’d seen, but she didn’t want it to be true.

  A hand gently nudged her knee. The young woman floated on her back in the tranquil bayou waters, her hair spread out around her head in an eerie halo. Her eyes were open. Mignon registered that they were hazel a moment before she admitted to herself that not only were they hazel, but that they were very much dead.

  Chapter Two

  Wednesday, March 5th

  Last night,
night before, my boyfriend took me to the candy store.

  He bought me ice cream, he bought me cake. He brought me home with a bellyache.

  Mamma, Mamma, I feel sick. Call the doctor quick, quick, quick!

  Doctor, doctor, will I die?

  - Children’s jump rope rhyme

  Noticing detail was Mignon’s preferred method to avoid hysteria. As a matter of fact, she’d seen a dead human being before. Not just one. Specifically, if one were counting, she’d seen four. Two had been mere skeletons, but the third and fourth ones had been as newly deceased as the young woman floating at her knees. Despite that, the finer points seemed to insinuate themselves into the deepest gray matter of her brain with a fevered rush that threatened to overpower everything else. A gentle current was trying to turn the body away and take it out into the bayous. A horsefly had detected the inevitable process of death and fluttered spastically about, looking for an opportunity. The crimson light of the sun’s first look through the thick trees cast a red mask across the girl’s face.

  She had been strangled. A knotted rope still adorned her neck like a bizarre tie. One end floated away in the waters, while the other disappeared beneath her body, lost in the murk. One of her hands rested peacefully across her abdomen and the other reached out as if seeking help, softly bumping a rubber-covered thigh. Her face was lovely in its lifeless repose. Hazel eyes reflected flecks of gold, green, and brown. The whites of her eyes revealed pinpricks of blood as if the girl had been drinking too much. Her skin was a creamy shade of brown that every teenage girl aspired to have during bikini weather. Waist-length, dark brown hair caught the current and tried to make its escape.