Bayou Moon Read online

  John Henry’s eyebrows went up. The man who ran against him had been a friend of Ruelle’s. He’d even had Ruelle’s endorsement, for all the good that did him. Too many people had too many reasons to hate Ruelle Fanchon. “I came to have a talk with you, Ruelle.”

  “Maybe you tell me some of what’s a-going on up there in St. Germaine,” suggested Ruelle. “I ain’t heard tell of the old place for a year. I don’t hear much of late. Don’t understand why those people don’t call me no more.” He shrugged his big shoulders as if he couldn’t understand why he was so unpopular lately, and John Henry felt a surge of anger.

  Keeping a neutral expression on his face, John Henry gave a quick account of recent happenings in the parish. He told Ruelle about some of the scandals, like when the mayor of LaValle was caught with a transvestite on one of the more isolated highways. Then he mentioned that a hometown girl who had made it good as an artist had returned to LaValle.

  “Oh, yeah?” asked Ruelle. “Do I know the gal?”

  “Her name is Mignon Thibeaux.”

  Ruelle stared at John Henry while he took in the information. It was apparent by the furrowing of his brows that he knew exactly why John Henry had come to see him now. “I remember the Thibeauxs,” he said. “That gal’s mother done run off with one of them St. Michels.”

  It was easy for John Henry to be silent and wait, but Ruelle was no fool. He’d been caught red-handed with drugs while returning from a fishing trip in the Gulf—the Coast Guard had gotten him fair and square and he wasn’t about to wiggle off that hook—but he wasn’t about to admit that he was involved in something much more serious, for which the punishment would be much more severe.

  “I got some of the old boards out of the Poteet farmhouse,” John Henry said. “I took ’em up to the forensics lab in Shreveport. You wouldn’t believe how much money they got going into that place these days, Ruelle. They got equipment there I couldn’t even begin to tell you the name of, much less how to spell it. They can do things with a drop of blood smaller than the end of my pinkie. Tell you when it was put there. Even who it came from, down to the Social Security number. Can you imagine that?” He hesitated to let this soak into the other man’s brain. “I got a team of investigators out to the old place today,” he lied boldly. Actually, he wouldn’t be able to do that until the board tested positive for human blood, but Ruelle wasn’t going to know that. Then John Henry laid it on the line. “I think you know what happened out there. Maybe you want to roll over on someone before they roll over on you.”

  Ruelle sat motionless in his chair for a moment. Then he took a drink of his beer and finally tipped the can toward John Henry. “You want a brew, John Henry. Leétice, girl, go get this boy a beer!” he boomed toward the door, then turned back to John Henry. “That girl, she ain’t good for much else. Cooks pretty good, though. Do you care to eat a bit?”

  “I don’t want anything.” John Henry fought to keep his voice neutral.

  Behind the small talk, Ruelle was busy calculating possibilities. Who would roll over on him? Who would break two long decades of silence? Who could do the most damage? At last he said, “You recording this, John Henry?”

  John Henry shook his head. “Nothing to record, am I right, Ruelle? Maybe I just came up to ask an old law enforcement man like yourself about a crime committed back when you were the sheriff. If anyone knows about it, you would.”

  Ruelle wasn’t the sort of man to be scared by ambiguous statements. He knew that John Henry was on a fishing trip. “I think my memory’s kind of poor for that far back in time. Long time, that. What, twenty, twenty-five years? I don’t even recollect what woman I was married to, much less what all them up at the St. Michel place was doing.”

  “I think your memory might get better, if I was to offer a deal,” John Henry said.

  Ruelle locked his faded blue eyes on John Henry’s, gauging his sincerity. He stared at him for the longest time and then he laughed. He threw his head back and laughed as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his entire life. After some time he put his beer down and wiped a tear from his eye. “Damn, I ain’t laughed so much since Mrs. Regret took up her shotgun and threatened to pepper Tom Siddel for walking on her flower beds.”

  “Pretty quick this deal is going to go away, and never come back,” threatened John Henry. Inside he was deflated. Mignon had been exactly on target. This man had some sort of protection and he wasn’t about to turn his back on people who could make things a lot worse for him than John Henry could.

  Deep inside Ruelle was the heart of a sadistic criminal, somewhat smarter than most, but a criminal all the same. If he had been caught with his hands in the cookie jar, he would have pulled out a few more serious crimes to which he had been witness and bartered for his own well-being. If he wasn’t bartering about Luc’s and Garlande’s disappearances with John Henry, it was because he had already bartered with someone else. Someone like Eleanor St. Michel.

  And that meant something else. If it weren’t worth protecting him, then why bother? Something had happened twenty-five years ago. And if John Henry couldn’t break Ruelle this way, he’d find some other way to do it.

  Ruelle finally shrugged. “You can find your way out, John Henry. Come back some time and make me laugh some more. But best you be quick. I aim to up and leave once they acquit me. Think I’ll move to a beach somewheres.” He smiled knowingly, making it clear to John Henry that he didn’t mean an American beach, but a beach in a country that didn’t have an extradition treaty with the USA.

  “Where are Luc and Garlande?” John Henry demanded.

  “John Henry,” advised Ruelle. “You should go back to St. Germaine and keep to arresting folks for speeding.”

  Try as he might, John Henry couldn’t get anything out of Ruelle Fanchon, just a cold, arrogant smile that spoke volumes about what John Henry didn’t know.

  MIGNON WORKED As hard as she could on her latest painting and finally finished it late Friday afternoon, just as Horace Seay and his crew were leaving the old farmhouse. They had kept to the outside, and Horace was happy to be able to tell Mignon that they were done with the siding. They would come back when Mignon had been given the all-clear to start on the wiring inside the house, and when that was done they would finish work on the walls and the floors. Finally, new appliances would be installed, and the house would be completed for the time being. Just as small, just as desolate, just as haunted as ever, but completed.

  And Horace wasn’t going to spend a minute there after dark. Not after what had happened the night he’d come out to plug himself a deer. He had ignored his wife’s dire warnings, and had gotten out his favorite Remington rifle to satisfy his taste for venison. After all, he’d seen the spoor out here, fresh and plenty. But as he’d waited, he’d heard things in the dark. Either the spooks that his wife spoke of, or men intent on mischief. Men with flashlights and a truck, who didn’t know how to come up on the place silently. Old Man Poteet had loudly stamped his feet through the forest and scared the others off, firing his shotgun into the air. The others had fled, and Horace was the only one left. That was when he had heard other things in the darkness, things that he didn’t dare to know the origins of.

  He said to Mignon as he walked off the porch, “Best you leave, too, mamselle.”

  Mignon had lost track of time and glanced up to see Horace Seay climbing into his ancient truck. It barely registered in her mind. She noticed that the sun was beginning to dip behind the trees and the light had changed from golden to twilight. She covered her painting and began to clean her brushes. She glanced up again and found Horace waiting inside his truck for her to go to her car. She waved at him to go, and he frowned. She had continued cleaning up when the truck door slammed as he got back out.

  Horace mounted the steps and said in a gruff voice, “Mamselle Thibeaux. You best to go, while we drive behind you. The … ah … road is still bad, and we want to make sure you don’t get stuck.”

  M
ignon didn’t catch the urgency in his voice as he peered over her shoulder into the woods. The sun was obliterated by the thick line of trees and the shadows encased the house completely. Horace had seen the shadowed figure moving furtively along the edge of the forest yesterday and again today, but he didn’t think that the young woman had. He didn’t want to leave her alone, fearing that some evil spirit had set its sights on the beautiful miss.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the road,” she said absentmindedly.

  Calloused fingers touched her shoulder and she turned her head, startled. Horace said, “Please.” His fingers stayed just long enough to convey the weight of his message before falling away.

  Her mouth opened to say something but then stopped. These people didn’t have to be concerned about her well-being, but here one was, just like Miner Poteet, someone who cared enough to ask her to leave while the leaving was good. It was sad, but there were so few people in her life who cared simply for the reason that they were compassionate human beings, interested in the health and physical state of others. She nodded and quickly packed up her painting, putting it into the trunk of her car. Horace carried her paints and easel for her and loaded them as she directed.

  She said, “Thank you,” and Horace nodded at her. She never saw the shape behind her, at the edge of the tree line, waiting for an opportunity.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25–SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26

  Fe fi fo fum!

  I smell the blood of an Englishman;

  Be he alive or be he dead,

  I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.

  FE FI FO FUM!

  MIGNON SPENT THE FOLLOWING day preparing for the cleansing ceremony. When she was finished running all her errands, it was time to get dressed. She donned a flowing silk outfit with puffed pants that was the exact color of her eyes. She checked herself in the mirror in her room, pleased that everything was in order.

  Eleanor had offered to send the limousine again, but Mignon had declined, preferring to be able to leave whenever she wanted.

  When Mignon arrived at the mansion, she saw a string of Chinese lanterns hanging from the wrought iron fence and the trees that lined the driveway. A valet took her car and she mounted the steps to the main door. Jourdain Gastineau met her there, smiling as he offered her his arm.

  Mignon couldn’t help being suspicious as he chattered lightly about this and that like the cat that had just eaten the canary. Who is the cat and who is the canary? she wondered.

  Eleanor was serving a buffet this evening and most of the guests ate lightly. Geraud avoided Mignon all evening as he limped around the room, discussing his experience with a rambunctious deadfall in the woods up north. Leya whispered in Terentia Jones’s ear once or twice before mingling with the crowd, and Faust stood conspicuously to one side, dressed in the same suit he’d worn last time. Eugenie talked quietly with her friend, David, who was drinking cognac as if it would save his life. She threw some odd looks at Mignon once or twice but Mignon chose to ignore them.

  The evening seemed to drag on forever, and by the time the group went to the room where the cleansing ritual would be performed, there were many exaggerated sighs of relief. A living room had been transformed into a pale imitation of a chapel. The furniture had been removed. Mats for kneeling were placed in front of a small altar that held the watch fob, the handbell, and a box of twenty-five-year-old cigars. There was also a pile of handkerchiefs, a sparkling new metal box, a length of thick chain, and a padlock. A large wooden cross, replete with glittering lit candles, had been attached to the wall behind the altar.

  Terentia instructed that the candles along the walls be lit, and that all should kneel on the mats. Faust began lighting the candles methodically, while everyone took their designated places. The electric lights were dimmed, leaving an onslaught of shadows that flickered in time with the candles. Terentia walked back and forth in front of the altar, rubbing her hands together while the skirts of her long, gold gown trailed behind her.

  The people in the room were conspicuously quiet. Even Geraud was subdued, as if he were waiting for something to happen. That odd disembodied air of anticipation had returned, full and constrained at the same time, affecting each individual within the confines of the room.

  Terentia began to mutter, “I can feel your pain. The pain is here. The pain of a lost loved one.” Her voice was hoarse with need. It was easy to believe that she was sincere.

  Eleanor was transfixed on the front mat. She stared up at the stout woman and nodded.

  “There is much pain in this room. Many people here have lost people so dear to them. Mothers, fathers, much loved ones. It is hard to concentrate.” Terentia continued to rub at her temples with her chubby hands. “The egg has shown us that there is a curse. The blood is unmistakable. The St. Michel family is cursed with an evil spirit.”

  Mignon was directly behind Eleanor and could hear several people moving restlessly behind her.

  Terentia went on. “We must pray together.” She dropped to her knees on the bare wooden floor and began to pray loudly to God. The rest of the group went along but not as enthusiastically. They prayed until Mignon’s knees began to hurt.

  Terentia suddenly leaped up. “The money, sister,” she said to Eleanor. “It is time. We have the witnesses and the moon has risen over the trees.”

  Outside the window the pale shape of the moon had just cleared the edge of the forest and was beginning its ascent into the heavens.

  Eleanor snapped her fingers and Faust brought a bag up from the back of the room. Mignon watched, fascinated. Terentia instructed Eleanor to take the bag, and handed her the pile of handkerchiefs from the altar. Opening the bag, Eleanor removed stacks of money held together with paper wrappers. Mignon’s eyes widened.

  “Twenty thousand dollars for each person in the household. Twenty thousand dollars for each entity. Twenty thousand dollars for each person close enough to be at this ritual,” chanted Terentia, inadvertently explaining the amount and why it was so. Mignon counted in her mind. Some $200,000. Not a bad amount of money to have lying around. Terentia went on. “Wrap it in the blessed handkerchiefs, Mrs. St. Michel. Blessed with the sweat of priests in Israel, a most holy land, sweated out through working in the name of Jesus Christ, the most holy son of God.”

  Eleanor carefully wrapped the money in the handkerchiefs.

  Terentia produced a large sewing needle. She said, “A sewing needle hewn from the bones of a saint. The thread is from the hair of a nun. Sew the handkerchief shut and let us continue to pray for the removal of the curse from this family.”

  Mignon heard someone mutter something behind her. She thought it must have been Geraud but she wasn’t sure. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jourdain with his head turned toward her, as if he were watching her every move. Eleanor sewed the handkerchiefs shut with quick, deft movements using large stitches. The money, enclosed in the white cloths, was placed in the metal box, and the heavy chain wrapped around the box so that it could not be pried open. Finally the padlock was snapped shut, all by Eleanor herself, and she pocketed the key with a rapid, graceful gesture.

  At last Terentia took the box from Eleanor and brought it to the altar. She sprinkled what she said was holy water on it. The chanting continued while she marched around the room, continuing her appeals to God to remove the curse from the St. Michel family, walking in front of and behind the group, sometimes swinging the box in front of the large wooden cross, and sometimes over the altar.

  Mignon could almost believe that her friend was exactly what she purported to be—a spiritualist that guided those from beyond the grave back to aid the living. She nearly smiled. Their plans had hinged on Eleanor being the superstitious woman she was said to be. When they found out where she went to receive guidance, they had bribed the old woman. Now they counted on Eleanor’s beliefs to produce the information Mignon wanted to hear.

  When Terentia was done swaying and
swinging the metal box, she breathed a great sigh of relief and gently placed the box in Eleanor’s hands. Her large hands cupped the older woman’s face gently. “These spirits talk of reparation, Eleanor St. Michel. You must make amends to those you’ve wronged. Only if you do this will any cleansing last in this place. You must agree to this. You must make amends.” Her voice was low and soothing and Mignon inched forward to hear a little better. “Confess your sins, Eleanor.”

  Eleanor was lost in the moment with the smell of the candles burning around her and hushed, tranquilizing Terentia’s voice. She nodded, almost desperate to admit that she had sinned in some unnamed manner. “I will agree to that. I will make amends.”

  Terentia released Eleanor’s face with a strong nod, and announced, “The curse has been removed. The money should not be touched for three days. It should be placed in a dark place and not interfered with. The evil will go. God has graced this family. God will protect these people. God will smile upon you and your own.”

  “Where?” asked Eleanor. She was breathless with excitement. The ceremony itself was almost anticlimactic, but the relief that came with knowing that Luc would no longer wander the halls of the mansion was immense, like an ocean of pain flowing out of her body.

  “A dark place. A closet. The basement. Blackness must surround the evil and repress it. After three days it should be moved into the light, where evil will be dispelled into its final resting place, where it will be at peace.”

  “The basement,” Eleanor murmured with a relieved sigh. “Come. We will all take it to the basement.”

  There were groans as knee joints popped and everyone got to their feet. Candles were taken up in the most interesting procession Mignon had ever seen. No one spoke. No one murmured. No one said anything. They followed, watched, and waited. When they had finished, the entire group of people had followed Eleanor into the basement, a dark, moist place that truly appeared to be as old as the house above, where the box was locked in the wine cellar.