Bayou Moon Page 5

  MIGNON CHECKED INTO a bed and breakfast in Natchitoches, a full ten miles outside of La Valle, well across the parish line.

  Natchitoches was the oldest city in Louisiana, a city full of French and Spanish influence, and streets that transported one back a century or two. Its character was rich, well nourished, and enchanting, and felt to Mignon like taking a stroll in a place that shouldn’t exist. It was also a place where people didn’t burn holes in her back staring, whispering things that she could almost hear, that she could imagine all too well. In Natchitoches she could pretend she was a normal young woman who was more than successful in her given career and was only taking some time off to visit the place where she was born.

  She changed her clothing into something more comfortable, re-dressed her throbbing knee, took a dose of Motrin, and even took some time to extract a sketch pad from the trunk of the rental car. It was in her nature to draw, and draw she did. She sketched some charcoal studies of the Cane River, a portion of the Red River that had changed its course after a massive logjam a century before. Now it was a lake, with lake-side homes that dated back to the Civil War and before. Many of the streets in the downtown area of Natchitoches were cobbled, and even in September tourists flocked to the ancient city and the starting point of the historic Spanish Trail which led to Mexico City.

  The rustic streets were crowded with people on a Friday night, and horse-drawn carriages passed her as she walked, her pad tucked under her arm. There were paddleboats on the river, and people congregated on every corner. She almost had to fight to return to her bed and breakfast. She took a minute to brush her hair, reapply her lipstick and drove back to La Valle, where she ate at a little restaurant on the edge of the town.

  Bertrand’s wasn’t a fancy place, but was frequented by working class people. Sturdy booths and wooden tables supported the dozens of people who wandered through to eat on a daily basis. Most of the patrons seemed to be farmers, but a few catered to the tourist industry. Mignon wasn’t familiar with that aspect of the area, but she heard people all around her planning events that would put money in their pockets by virtue of selling tourist items such as T-shirts, and trinkets, or participating in historic tours. Many worked in Natchitoches or at Northwest State University. They ate with their families, enjoying the odd night out, and most didn’t stare at Mignon as if she were a woman no one ever expected to return.

  “Do I know you?” asked the waitress softly when she served Mignon her meal.

  “I used to live here, a long time ago,” answered Mignon just as softly. The rest of the restaurant was caught up in their own conversations, in eating, and in pursuing their lives. She studied her jambalaya.

  “That must be it,” murmured the waitress. “Maybe I knew one of your sisters, no?”

  “Maybe.”

  Mignon dug into the jambalaya, relishing the spicy taste of the Louisianan dish, sopping up the remains with a bit of crusty bread. When she was done, she realized that there were others in the restaurant who were looking at her oddly. Most of them were probably old enough to remember another woman who had lived here until she left at the age of twenty-five. They gazed at her with a certain trepidation, as if something might happen as the result of her presence.

  Mignon smiled brightly at some of them, and nodded politely to the waitress, leaving a good tip. The service had been fine, and the food delicious.

  When she was outside she returned to her rental car and drove away. Darkness had fallen over St. Germaine Parish, leaving the land bleak and forlorn.

  Before long Mignon found herself on the farm road that ran past the overgrown track that led to the house where she had been born. With a lump in her throat, she parked the car on the side of the road and dug through her purse for the small flashlight she had deliberately placed there.

  There was something about the old farmhouse that drew her inexplicably. Something that sat on her chest, pushing against her, even while she tried to shove off its dreadful weight.

  The night was silent as she shut the door to her car, and Mignon stood still for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light that the stars provided. The crickets started up again, with the rattling screech of a locust searching for its own set of answers. The wind began to caress the trees, moving the branches like diaphanous fans in the sultry breeze, sending currents of cooling twilight over her body. For a long minute it was only the night whispering into her ear like a mischievous prophet of doom.

  Mignon stepped away from the car and slowly began to pick her way into the blackness that was the edge of the Kisatchie National Forest. She felt like an apprehensive burglar, intent on creeping onto another’s private property to steal some precious item, at any moment to be discovered. But the truth was that she was alone in the night, with perhaps only an armadillo or a skunk to keep her company.

  The path decomposed into complete darkness as the trees closed over her head. She clicked the button on the mini-mag flashlight and the light abruptly came on. The nighttime noise ceased for a full ten seconds and then began to flow back over her as the animals and insects adjusted to the latest intruder.

  Minutes later Mignon emerged from the arms of the forest and stood in front of the old house once more. It stared at her, windows filled with blackness, and even the hardiest insects ceased their endless efforts to feed and mate. The wind whipped around her and cast her hair across her eyes. The light seemed to be intrusive, so she turned the flashlight off and brushed curling tendrils away from her eyes.

  She stepped into the porch, listening to the creaking wood, and her stomach clenched in indecision. Memories of evenings spent sitting on this porch or playing in the front yard while her parents enjoyed the shade of the porch came to her in a rush of nostalgia, assuaging the dread that threatened to engulf her. She touched the rough wood support and felt its coarse surface. Then she froze.

  Someone was humming. It was a faint noise that flowed from the interior of the old house, a sad melody that sounded familiar to Mignon. It filled the air and whirled about her like a vexing wind. The front door was wide open, allowing the sound through, and Mignon knew that when she and John Henry left earlier, it had been closed.

  Steeling herself, Mignon took another step. She had never believed the rumors. There was reality and there was hard terra firma. She was grounded in both, no simpering miss here.

  The dim light spilled in from the windows and rested on a pale figure sitting in the kitchen. Mignon gasped and the humming died away. With more strength than she knew she possessed, she brought the tiny flashlight up and turned it on again. The narrow beam forced the shadows away and illuminated most of the small room.

  No one was there.

  For a moment she had forgotten to breathe. Her tortured lungs took in air with great relief and her pounding heart began to slow. She was alone in the darkness with only shadows for companions and the silence of the night to soothe her anxiety.

  The light cast about the room and found it more threatening than in the daytime. The darkness seemed to leap out at her, jumping as she inadvertently moved the tiny flashlight about. But the room seemed so familiar.

  Mignon moved into the main bedroom, looking at the rotting wood floor and seeing only the bed in her mind’s eye, a brass bed that had belonged to her great grandmother, one of the few possessions Garlande had truly been proud of, a bed that was left behind that night, as well.

  Suddenly, she had a vision of that same bed, its white coverlet stained with blood, and she wasn’t sure if the whimper of pain that emanated forth came from her or from the echoes of her mind. Someone is dying, she thought urgently. Someone was dying. She could see the figure in the forefront of her mind, daylight spilling into the room from the windows at the sides, yellow light showing bright red blood splattered on the walls, on the floor, on the white bedspread, and … .

  “Oh, God,” she muttered, looking down to see blood dripping from the white frock she was wearing, which didn’t seem white at all anymor
e.

  She dropped the flashlight with a gasp and stepped backward, closing her eyes and discovering that the vision would not leave her head. It was there and stayed there as if permanently implanted in her brain.

  Then she opened her eyes and it was gone. The flashlight spun lazily to a halt on the floor, and there were only oddly shaped shadows moving in time with the motion of the mini-mag. Almost stumbling, Mignon reached for the flashlight and fled the little house in the forest, almost as quickly as she had earlier, but with no one at her heels except strange dreams.

  WHEN MIGNON RETURNED to her motel and got out of her car, a man stepped out of the shadows. He had silvery blonde hair and eyes that were nearly black in the night. “I’m Geraud St. Michel,” he said and held out his hand.

  She hesitated before taking it. He shook it with an iron grip, an air of arrogance surrounding him.

  “My mother would like to speak with you,” he said, his voice icy, his tone reserved. “The chauffeur will bring you back once you’ve completed your … discussion.” He said no more, and Mignon wasn’t in a mood to draw him into a conversation, although she insisted on driving her own vehicle, which he conceded with barely concealed irritation.

  In a very real way it was like being escorted to the royal court, but Mignon knew she would not refuse. As exhausted as she was, she knew that this was the opportunity she had waited for and it could not be passed up. She wondered why Eleanor had summoned her and how she had found her location so quickly. The area had limited facilities, and Mignon supposed that people with money could use it to their own benefit, such as quickly locating one troublesome mischief-maker.

  Eleanor met them at the door of the mansion, her blue eyes set like stones in her face. She was still an attractive woman, dressed in an Yves St. Laurent suit, smelling of Chanel, appearing as though she was going to some exclusive dinner. She approached Mignon and offered a delicate hand. “I’m Eleanor St. Michel.”

  Mignon studied the hand for a moment. Eleanor didn’t wear much jewelry, just a Dior watch encrusted with diamonds. At last she took the hand. “I’m Mignon Thibeaux,” she said, and she couldn’t quite help it, her chin went up.

  Eleanor smiled at the movement. The little chit has some moxie in her. It was a calculating smile. “You have the most amazing resemblance to your mother, my dear.” With that recognition came the innate knowledge that she might be able to use the young woman to her own advantage. “Come in. Let me show you the mansion.”

  “More properly, it’s a plantation house,” Eleanor corrected herself as they stood in the grand foyer, a great round room with black and white marble tiles running across the floor underneath one of the biggest crystal chandeliers Mignon had ever seen. A flower arrangement made of a dozen varieties of hothouse blossoms sat on an Italian marble table in the exact center of the room. The walls were antique white and the many doors around the curve of the room hinted at more elaborate detail inside each of their realms.

  They stood there alone. Geraud had vanished upstairs after glaring at Mignon. A maid had asked Mignon if she desired a beverage and then disappeared.

  Eleanor went on. “Louis St. Michel, the builder of the house, preferred that it be called a mansion. A deliberate play on the power that simple words can provide.” Mignon couldn’t help but notice the rich tone of her voice. Educated Southern was what her friend Terri called that kind of voice, with only a hint of its Louisiana origins. “We open the house in the spring and the fall for a week to tourists, who come see the antebellum homes in this area. You recall all of those homes, Beau Fort, Magnolia, and Melrose?”

  Mignon stood beside Eleanor, dressed in a white silk shirt and khaki pants which had been perfect for a casual dinner in La Valle, but now made her feel somewhat intimidated. She tried hard to suppress the feeling. She had been to dinner with the richest and most prominent people in both California and New York. She had met the President of the United States. Her manners and dress were as refined as anything Eleanor St. Michel could come up with, but still, being back in this place brought back waves of insecurity that she stamped down ruthlessly. She smiled her best nonchalant smile, and replied, “My family wasn’t the type to sightsee when I lived here, Mrs. St. Michel. I’m sure you understand.”

  Eleanor turned to study the younger woman and found that the little waif had more than moxie, she had pride. But then she was also a well-known artist. Eleanor had a houseful of works gathered by herself and a previous St. Michel wife, resulting in an eclectic and valuable collection of fine art. There was even a Mignon painting in one of the small drawing rooms, a watercolor study of lights on the French Mediterranean. It is, she thought, a work that examines both the light and dark nature of the frivolous and iniquitous ocean-side play area for the idle rich. It was also a piece that appealed to Eleanor’s own varied nature.

  It was ironic that she herself had purchased the painting several years ago in a New York City gallery, never realizing just who Mignon was. Mignon Thibeaux signed her works with only her first name, and that was how she was advertised. Eleanor had never made the connection between the famous artist and the gangling red-haired daughter of her husband’s mistress. She wouldn’t have gotten rid of the piece if she had known, however. It was a fine investment worth ten times what she had paid for it.

  “Of course, I understand,” Eleanor said. “I think in a very serious way, we are connected by that event. Your mother and my husband both left us. We understand each other completely. Do we not?”

  There was, recognized Mignon, another message there in her words. A warning, perhaps? It wasn’t completely clear to Mignon, so she took the words for granted, and nodded. “An event I prefer to ignore, when I can,” she stated, very truthfully.

  Eleanor nodded as well. The Thibeaux girl had done well by herself. She had brought herself up to a level that few could hope to attain from humble Louisiana beginnings. She had once played in the dirt around a shanty while her father worked in the fields and her mother had offered her wares to other women’s husbands. But Mignon had risen above all of that. Eleanor could respect that, even if she had not been able to accept it years before. But there was more to it than that. The witch-woman had told her that she must appease the spirits haunting the St. Michel mansion and that Mignon Thibeaux could very well be the key. It was possible she could reach them in a way that all of the psychics could not. “I would like very much to invite you to dinner tomorrow night, Mignon.”

  Mignon raised an eyebrow. It was the oddest invitation she had ever received, but she would play along. This woman had her own private agenda, one that would probably benefit the St. Michels, or perhaps only Eleanor. “And I would like very much to come.”

  “Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight, and who knows what might come after that?” Eleanor smiled, pleased that the younger woman had acquiesced so easily. But that was hardly a surprise, as she suspected that Mignon Thibeaux had her own order of business, as well. “I have some magnificent artwork to show you. I even have a Diego Rivera I recently acquired. A wonderful piece. His detail and caricature are marvelous. There’s a Pollock in the study, and a Poussin in the living room. Exquisite use of color and brush strokes. I know that you’ll enjoy viewing these as an artist. But we’ll have more than ample opportunity to discuss artwork tomorrow.”

  With that Mignon was politely escorted to the front door. When she drove out of the gate, she saw John Henry’s large Bronco waiting under the trees a mile down the road Mignon had to travel. She jerked a little when she realized who it was, but the vehicle didn’t move as she passed and his head didn’t even turn. She slowly relaxed and drove as far as she could away from the St. Michel property.

  By the time she reached the bed and breakfast in Natchitoches, Mignon was beginning to feel the excess of adrenalin drain out of her body like water falling over a cliff. She stopped for a beer at a local tavern, forgetting that Natchitoches was a college town, and fought her way to the bar. She returned to her room and foun
d the door slightly ajar.

  Mignon wasn’t particularly surprised. She pushed the door open and looked in the room, the light from a streetlight dimly illuminating the area. There was no one there, and drawers had been half pulled from the country-style dresser. Her suitcase was unsecured and the lid left open. Clothing hung crookedly on hangers in the closet, which was also wide-open. Nothing seemed to be missing or damaged, but everything was askew and out of joint. But whoever had been there had come and gone, and she was alone.

  However, when the phone rang she still jumped. It was her adopted father, Nehemiah Trent.

  “My dear,” he said. “You’ve no idea how worried we all are about you.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know. I should have called earlier. But I was invited to the house and I just got back.”

  “They’ve invited you already?” he said doubtfully. “But you’ve only just arrived.”

  “It’s a small town, Nehemiah. It’s so very small.” She looked around a room that had been systematically searched by someone in the hours she had been gone, and knew that if she told him about that he would demand that she pack up and leave immediately. “They have an intelligence system here that would put the CIA to shame.”

  He sighed. “That doesn’t sound reassuring.”

  “Everything will be all right. I know you’re anxious, but I just want to find out what happened to my mother. I need to find out. We can do that, if we just follow the plan.”

  Chapter Six

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11

  Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief;

  Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of beef.

  I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy wasn’t in;

  Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow-bone.