Bayou Moon Page 12

  When she went into the master bedroom, she saw that he was bending over the floor in one corner, looking down intently at something he had found.

  The floor was nothing but tongue and grooved planks fitted together, like most hardwood flooring. The men had been tearing out the pieces almost recklessly, because most of it was warped, rotted, or generally useless. But Horace had found a piece of the flooring that lifted out easily because someone had once rigged it that way. When she examined the piece of wood more carefully, she saw that someone had sanded away one side of the tongue; when it was fit into the floor, it appeared as solid as any of the rest of the flooring. However, it could be pulled up easily with the edge of a fingernail or a knife, in order to retrieve one’s secret possessions.

  Horace motioned at Mignon to look into the hole, and together they stared at an old metal box that had been slipped into the floor sideways and wedged between a piling and a support. The bare earth was dark in the deep shadows underneath the box and to the sides of the pilings. Since the piling was on the side of the house, it wasn’t among those that had needed rebuilding or bracing when the house had been jacked up. Consequently, if Horace hadn’t seen the box when he was tearing up the old flooring, it might never have been found again.

  He glanced at her with compassionate brown eyes because he knew the story about her mother and he knew that she and her parents had once lived in this desolate, broken-down place. Horace didn’t know if the rusted metal box belonged to anyone she had known, but he wasn’t going to look in it. He was a superstitious man, and his own wife said the fifolet, a glowing ball of fire that signaled the coming of terrible things, had been seen in the bayou on three consecutive nights. “Let the young woman take that burden,” his wife told him. “Le Bonne Dieu will watch over her and her trials.”

  Mignon reached carefully into the hole, mindful that the other two workmen had stepped up to the doorway and were quietly watching both of them. It took a moment to dislodge the box from its place. When she had the box in both hands, she set it down on the floor beside them. Finally, she said, “I think you’ve worked enough today. Why don’t you guys go home?”

  Horace wanted to see what was inside the box, but he didn’t want to bring evil spirits down on his head. As for his two companions, if they were dumb enough to want to see what was in the box, then let them hang a noose around their own heads. He barked at the other two men, “I’m leaving. You want a ride with me, no? Else you walk back to Natchitoches.”

  He walked out of the room without looking back. The other two men parted for him to pass, then looked at each other curiously. One asked the other, “What crawled up his butt?”

  The other said, “I don’t know, but I ain’t walking back to Natchitoches, no.”

  Mignon waited until she heard Horace’s truck start up with a roar and a clunk. He ground his gears backing up, and almost a minute later she couldn’t hear his engine anymore. She peered down into the hole again and found there was nothing else there but a spiderweb.

  With a sigh she turned to the box. The moment it had come into the light she had known who it belonged to, because of the lock on the chest. It was a little padlock, not even an inch long, silver in color, mostly obscured by rust, and had a little embossed knot running across its body. Garlande had worn that lock sometimes on a chain around her neck. She had joked to her only child on more than one occasion, “It’s the lock to my heart, ma chère.”

  Now it guarded the box that had been left under the bedroom floor. Mignon picked up the box and fingered the tiny padlock. It had two little wheels on the bottom with letters on them. It was a tiny combination lock. Mignon didn’t want to break it, so she started on the combinations in order. There were only six letters on each petite wheel. She began with A on one side, rolled the other wheel to the A on the opposite side with the tip of her index finger, and the lock fell open soundlessly.

  It dropped off the box and onto the floor. After a moment, the rusted lid yielded to Mignon’s prying fingers and it came open with a creak. No one had opened the box for many years.

  Mignon sat down heavily on the floor, holding the box in her arms. Had she known something would be waiting in this house for her? Had she been called here to find some mysterious object that would point to where her mother was now? It would be easy to say this was so, but there had been another reason behind buying the old house, one that was more practical in nature. It was true Mignon couldn’t have foretold that Miner Poteet would be willing to sell this parcel of land, but once the idea had come to her, she knew that it could be worked into her overall plan. It would be like shoving a needle under someone’s fingernails—the same someone who had searched her room and had put a snake inside to greet her return.

  Not only was the child of Garlande Thibeaux back, but she resembled her mother in the most eerie way imaginable. Not only that, but she seemed as though she wanted to stay and perhaps ask questions that other people wouldn’t want asked, and would never, ever want answered.

  She looked inside the rusted box and found a diary. It was a cheap one with pink flowers on it, something that obviously came from some five-and-dime store back in the seventies. The diary was fastened with a lock, but the key was still attached, not that it would have stopped Mignon from ripping it open and reading the words that waited for her within.

  Inadvertently she tilted the box to one side and a necklace came sliding down, making a small clicking noise on the lower side of the metal container. Mignon dipped a finger in to move the diary slightly out of the way. The necklace glittered in the dim light of the room. It was as shiny as the day it had been put into the box. No dross, that, she thought. This is nothing my father could have afforded.

  The same finger slid under the edge of the necklace and lifted it out into the light. It was a gold medallion with a picture of a saint on it. She looked closer and saw that it was an image of St. Luke, the patron saint of artists and doctors, which Mignon knew because of her own calling in life. Her adopted father had given her a medallion like this once, to wear around her neck for luck.

  Deftly her fingers turned the medallion over so that its back was visible in the beam of light coming in through the dirty bedroom window. Engraved on the back were the initials L. St. M. It had been a gift to a lover who had nothing and couldn’t take the risk of wearing it openly. Had it been a special trinket that represented something to him? Or was it simply a little piece of nothing that a millionaire could easily afford and wouldn’t think of twice after pressing it into the hand of his mistress?

  Mignon put the necklace back into the box. It had been a gift from Garlande’s lover, so valued by her mother that it had been carefully hidden away from her husband, along with a diary that might reveal some of her most guarded thoughts.

  Mignon knew that her mother would have no more left these precious things behind than she would have left her own daughter. The wind outside began to howl like a man in agony. She hugged the diary to her chest, and the words popped out of nothingness: “Old King Cole was a merry old soul, and a merry old soul was he, he called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, and he called for his fiddlers three.” She wiped away an errant tear coursing down her cheek.

  When she returned to her bed and breakfast just after 6 P.M. she found two telephone messages waiting for her. One was from Eleanor St. Michel inviting her to another dinner at the mansion the following night. The other was from Nehemiah.

  She picked up the phone and dialed his number. “It’s me,” she said.

  “Mignon,” he said with relief. “I was about to call in the Marines. You should have called days ago. I’ve been scared half to death. I can’t help thinking about what you’re doing every waking moment.” He paused. “On the other hand, I must admit a certain eagerness to see what happens next. It’s very contradictory.”

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “It’s on for tomorrow. Time for another little push.”

  “If only there was another way,” he sa
id. “It’s not my part, you understand. That I can handle. But you. That’s entirely something else. You’ve put yourself right smack in the middle of the danger zone. I can’t help but worry about you.”

  “So you’re ready then,” she persisted.

  There was a brief silence. Finally, Nehemiah sighed. “Extremely,” he said. “And I expect you are, as well.”

  Mignon was exactly that. She had agitated the murderer before, gambling that her assumptions about who was responsible for the disappearances of her mother and Luc St. Michel were correct. She fully intended to give that person another vigorous shaking.

  AFTER LEAVING MIGNON, John Henry went to see Jourdain Gastineau in his fancy La Valle office. On his way there, John Henry wondered how a man like Jourdain got to be on the short list for one of the highest judicial positions in the state of Louisiana. John Henry knew Jourdain had been born and raised in La Valle, and had married locally. Although he had been educated at Harvard, he had returned to the same township to begin a lucrative practice, catering to the plantation set. His clients were the richest members of north-central Louisiana, and he had serviced state politicians, spending a considerable amount of time in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Despite the fact that he had never been a judge before, he would most likely be one for the rest of his life.

  The office itself was sophisticated and pleasing to the eye. Expensive cypress wood lined the walls and was stained to a warm, amber hue. Graceful scenes of Louisiana history adorned the walls. The furniture was expensive and of the same shade as the cypress wood paneling. Even the receptionist, an attractive young brunette with large brown eyes and a beguiling, well-endowed figure, embellished the office. Her smile was wide enough to swallow him whole, but she couldn’t hold a candle to Mignon Thibeaux’s lustrous radiance. This sudden urge to compare the two women was unfamiliar to him, and it made him uneasy.

  “Sheriff,” gushed the receptionist. “Mr. Gastineau said to send you right in.” She waved a manicured hand at the door behind her desk. She wasn’t a local girl, either, but someone imported from New Orleans or Baton Rouge. John Henry had heard about Jourdain’s preference for young beautiful women to man his offices, a fact that had led to much speculation in town as to what their other duties might be.

  Jourdain greeted him amicably enough, but with a curious light in his eyes. He rose from his desk and came around to face him. “What can I do for you, John Henry?” he asked, offering his hand to the other man.

  They shook hands and then sat down. Jourdain’s office was similar in most respects to the reception area, but featured Jourdain’s own wall of fame, including diplomas, certificates of appreciation, and various civic awards. John Henry had never been inside this office before. He had never needed to, because the two men usually met at various functions related to the daily regimen of politicking. They had never sat across from each other in the courtroom because it wasn’t the kind of law that Jourdain Gastineau practiced. In any case, it was different now, and John Henry was seeing everything in a new light.

  Because I am walking a fine line, he thought. He was angry with Mignon for pricking the bubble that kept all of the doubt locked away. Now, it was starting to spill out and he was looking at every man and woman in his parish as if he or she were a possible murderer or conspirator in the disappearances of Luc and Garlande. He had been true to what being a lawman should mean before, but now something had tainted the parish, a place he had come to regard as his home.

  “I have some questions,” he said.

  Jourdain laughed. “Sounds too all-important for today. They’re about to announce the nomination for Supreme Court justice. I just got a call from the governor, and he was mighty pleased with himself. And the rest you’ll hear on the news like everyone else.”

  Which made this all the more difficult. Who in the name of God wants to piss off a Supreme Court justice? John Henry sighed. He had to be very careful here. “About Luc St. Michel.”

  Jourdain’s face betrayed his obvious irritation. “I knew that woman was going to cause trouble. What is it? What can she possibly be dragging out of the past now?”

  “Luc St. Michel disappeared in September of 1975,” began John Henry, and Jourdain interrupted him.

  “He didn’t disappear, he left. He left with his mistress. Hell, it wasn’t a secret.”

  “I want to know how control of the St. Michel estate came to Eleanor,” John Henry said as bluntly as he could. So much for walking the line. I’ve picked a side and I won’t be crossing back.

  Jourdain leaned back in his tall leather chair and examined his manicured nails. He thought for a moment. “I know what this is about. The question isn’t how she came into control, but why Luc didn’t take his money with him.”

  John Henry didn’t say anything.

  There was a long silence. Finally Jourdain said, “Luc St. Michel was a selfish son of a bitch and he left without taking care of a damned thing. I made up a power of attorney for Eleanor so that she would have something to control him with. She was in urgent need. She didn’t have access to the St. Michel trust and they would have been in trouble if I hadn’t done something. John Henry, she didn’t have anything except the house over her head, and that wasn’t even hers. She had to have money to keep the house running and the various accounts active.”

  “Did she know that you forged his signature?”

  There was a pause as Jourdain considered the legalities of the situation. “No, Eleanor thought Luc had signed it in lieu of what he had done to her. She wasn’t thinking properly about the whole situation. He had done the unthinkable and then left her and their children without a penny to their name. Although Geraud would have come into his own some years later, Eleanor was in a dire state of affairs at that time. And Luc had a multitude of accounts, some in Switzerland. Twenty-five years ago he was a millionaire. That is tantamount to being a billionaire today.”

  “And no one has ever stopped to ask why? No one ever asked, what the hell happened? Don’t you know what that means, Jourdain?” John Henry twisted his face as he asked the question. He didn’t wait for an answer. “No one has seen or heard from Luc St. Michel or Garlande Thibeaux since they allegedly left. Not anyone. They might as well have fallen off the face of the planet.”

  Jourdain’s mouth fell open and then snapped shut. His mind was busy calculating possibilities. “Surely you don’t think that Eleanor … did something to Luc and his mistress?”

  John Henry stared at the other man as if he could divine the contents of his soul. Finally he said, “I don’t know what to think, Jourdain. I know that you did something illegal, and I know that there’s no evidence of a homicide. But someone seems to be damned sure that Luc St. Michel is dead. Why are they asking for him at seances? Why do they think he’s haunting them? Because they know he’s dead and buried and they know exactly who did the burying. And I have to ask why Eleanor had the judge and the old sheriff run the Thibeauxs out of town like some kind of trash they didn’t want to look at anymore.”

  Sitting forward in his chair, John Henry locked his eyes with Jourdain’s. He wanted to know this man’s secrets. He wanted to see him squirm with discomfort. Because he knew that if Gabriel Laurier and Ruelle Fanchon were involved, then Jourdain Gastineau had probably been the man pushing them from behind. With all that dirty business, it was clear how Jourdain had garnered the nomination to the Supreme Court. It wasn’t a surprise to John Henry. He had played in the same pool that dictated he sometimes let go influential men who had drunk too much or were going a tad fast on a dark night. He had politicked for campaign money from the same families with which Jourdain did regular business. He discovered it wasn’t sitting well now.

  “It’s because of Eugenie’s nightmares, that’s all,” said Jourdain. “She’s unbalanced and Eleanor thinks that she’s half possessed by her father’s ghost. Luc could be anywhere. There’s no proof that he’s dead. I’ve tried to talk Eleanor out of these activities with her psychics, but you kn
ow how she is. She doesn’t want to listen to anyone but her own counsel. She thinks that having that girl, the artist, in her house, will help appease them in some insane manner.”

  “Jourdain, there isn’t any evidence of a crime.” said John Henry. “I’ve told you. I’ve known you for ten years and you’ve known me. I’ve never thought that you were capable of doing something wrong like that. But I understand why you did it. Forging a signature twenty-five years ago doesn’t mean crap to me now, and I’ve no reason to bring it up in the future. But understand this, if you have knowledge of a murder, then you become a conspirator after the fact, and there’s no statute of limitations on that. And there isn’t much that will protect you. Not even a nomination to the highest court in the state.”

  “You haven’t even read me my rights, John Henry,” Jourdain said icily.

  “I don’t have to because I don’t have one shred of evidence that anyone is dead, much less murdered.” John Henry stood up and looked steadily down at the older man. “Let’s just call it a friendly chat between two acquaintances, and a hearty congratulations on your new job.” He paused. “Maybe even a last ‘favor’ to you.”

  He left without another word.

  Jourdain sat in his chair and steepled his fingers together as he stared at the door.

  Chapter Twelve

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 18

  There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile,

  He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile;

  He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,

  And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

  THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN

  DARKNESS HAD DESCENDED UPON St. Germaine Parish and a man climbed out of a rented car, looking at the levee that ran parallel to the road. It was an earthen structure built in the 1930s by a stream of men who worked in Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps under the supervision of the Army Corps of Engineers. For the unnamed tributary to the Cane River, the main sluice gates were approximately eight feet wide and eight feet tall in a moderately-sized dam about a mile north of the St. Michel mansion.