Bayou Moon Page 7

  Eleanor took Mignon’s arm lightly and escorted her through the lower aspects of the St. Michel mansion. There were numerous rooms on the lower level, from the grand ballroom to three parlors, and the kitchens on one side. The drawing room on the east side had approximately twenty paintings hung carefully on the walls. Mignon studied the collection with an expert eye. She said at last, “A viable collection, Eleanor, the envy of any serious collector. I particularly enjoy your Cézanne.”

  The St. Michel matriarch nodded agreeably, pleased with Mignon’s analysis of the pieces in the room. In truth, Mignon was pleased as well. It was rare to see some of the artists included outside of a museum, and to be able to approach and even touch some of the pieces was like touching the hand of God. She took a step toward the Cézanne, then looked back over her shoulder at Eleanor. “May I?”

  Eleanor nodded approvingly. “If one cannot touch them, feel them, they certainly don’t seem real.”

  It was all too easy to run her fingers over the brush strokes, marveling in the French master’s domination of color and shapes. It was an early piece, perhaps not so valuable as some of his more famous works, but still a wonder to behold. A pastoral scene filled with bright hues, and a use of composition that had led art historians to call Cézanne “the father of modern art.”

  “I even have one of your works in the small drawing room,” said Eleanor. “I purchased it a few years ago.”

  Lost in texture and style, Mignon couldn’t take her eyes off the Cézanne. “You didn’t know it was me,” she said, referring to her parentage.

  Eleanor’s voice was unrevealing, “No, dear. I didn’t. But I would have bought it for the very same reason you can’t take your fingers off that piece. To look at the shapes and feel what you must have felt deeply in your heart transferred by a simple process of paint to paper and canvas.”

  Jerking her fingers away like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, Mignon turned toward the other woman. They stared at each other for a long moment.

  Finally Eleanor said, “I think we should have a discernment. It is, after all, almost the witching hour.”

  “What’s a discernment?” Mignon asked innocently, knowing full well what it was.

  “A fancy way of saying a seance, my dear.”

  Chapter Seven

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11

  “Who killed Cock Robin?”

  “I,” said the sparrow,

  “With my bow and arrow,

  I killed Cock Robin.”

  “Who saw him die?”

  “I,” said the fly,

  “With my little eye,

  I saw him die.”

  WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN?

  IT WAS A DARK room, one of the small parlors Mignon had passed through earlier, with the lights deliberately muted and the drapes across the windows closed. In the dim light one could not appreciate the burnished wood paneling and the intricate wainscoting that circled the room, the plush, red velvet fainting couch to one side, or even the elaborately woven Persian rug underfoot.

  Seven people sat around a round table that had been brought in specifically for the seance. The judge had left earlier, pleading that he was a tired old man and staying up past midnight cost him far more than simple sleep. The closemouthed David had muttered something about needing a stiff brandy and a cigarette, and Alexandrine had murmured apologetically that such a thing did not appeal to her.

  “I’m not sure why you believe in all this nonsense,” she said.

  Eleanor cast a frozen glance at her. “Having an open mind to the world beyond our world presents different … orientations, Alexandrine.”

  Alexandrine shrugged carelessly and turned to her husband. “If I take the car, how will you get home?” Jourdain was gazing at Eleanor and did not hear her. Alexandrine raised her voice. “Jourdain?”

  Geraud said, “I’ll have the chauffeur give him a lift.”

  Alexandrine gave her husband one last resentful stare before sweeping regally from the room.

  “Seven,” murmured Leya. “It’s the perfect number for a discernment.”

  “And just after the new moon,” Eleanor added. “We might have some success.”

  Mignon was seated between John Henry and Eugenie. “And whose ghost are we divining?” John Henry asked with a laugh.

  “It’s not a specific ghost, John Henry. But rather we’re seeking enlightenment,” Eleanor said. “It’s a way of opening your mind to other … possibilities.”

  Mignon waited until Eleanor’s attention was occupied with rearranging some candles on the table before saying to John Henry, “See? Open your mind up a little.”

  His knee bumped hers underneath the table deliberately.

  Geraud sneered at his wife and his mother, leaning back in his chair with a snifter of cognac in one hand. “This is all very amusing, ladies, but you know what I think of all of this.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Leya reassured him. “We need seven people and you can’t leave. Besides, you might become a believer.” Her husband had drunk enough cognac already that he was pliable and not inclined to spoil his wife’s or his mother’s fun, so he remained, an irked expression on his face.

  Jourdain sat directly across from Mignon, and was again staring at her from under gray eyebrows with such an odd look that she was transfixed when she caught it. Immediately she knew he was thinking of her mother, Garlande. “I’m nothing like her,” she said to him. It happened so quickly, without thought, that a moment after she spoke she wondered if she had said it aloud or merely thought it.

  Jourdain was taken aback. He was sorry that what was on his mind was so readily apparent to her, especially her. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “You do resemble her.”

  Even Geraud turned his attention upon Mignon. “I remember her with long red hair,” he mused. “God, what a beautiful woman. Hair streaming down to her waist, a figure with full … . Well, her face is unmistakably the same.” He didn’t notice his mother’s face twitching in irritation.

  “I never knew that until I came here,” Mignon said. “I’ve never even seen a picture of her.”

  “Yes,” said Geraud, the slightest slur in his voice. “We never got to that particular subject. Why did you come back here, Miss Thibeaux?”

  Mignon folded her hands across her lap. She kept her expression serene and calm. “An interest in my past, perhaps. My family is just about as Louisianian as they come. Everyone likes to know about their heritage.”

  “And you’re not interested in stirring up things?” Jourdain said carefully.

  Shrugging, Mignon was aware that all other conversation had ceased and everyone had focused squarely on her. “Stirring up what? I had no control over what happened. I have no interest in raking up the coals.”

  John Henry said, “Yes, what would be to gain?” But he wasn’t being rhetorical, and he was looking directly at Mignon.

  Eugenie interrupted with a short laugh. “What difference does it make if she’s here? She’s a Thibeaux, and Thibeauxs have lived in St. Germaine Parish for two hundred years, just as long as the St. Michels, when it wasn’t even a parish. If you were alone, like she is, wouldn’t you be curious about your heritage, your upbringing? I know I would be.”

  “And that’s the most she’s said all night,” Geraud said. “Miss Thibeaux, we stand corrected.”

  Leya glanced at her watch. “It’s almost midnight.”

  “The saints preserve us,” Geraud said dryly.

  Mignon couldn’t blame him for his skepticism. It all seemed overboard and silly to her, as well.

  Leya dimmed the remaining lights and the room was black. Everyone stopped talking. Suddenly, Eleanor gasped. “Stop that, Geraud.”

  “It wasn’t me, Mother. Perhaps an amorous spirit?”

  “Quiet,” said Leya. “I hear the chimes of the grandfather clock.”

  Geraud snorted but he didn’t say anything else.

  “Quickly, hold each other’s hands,” L
eya went on.

  There was a brief fumble in the darkness while hands searched for one another. On Mignon’s left side, the sheriff’s hand was large and warm, holding hers lightly. On her right, Eugenie had a cold grasp, as if her circulation wasn’t quite as healthy as it should be.

  Leya’s voice cut through the darkness again. “Concentrate. Open your minds. Open your hearts and concentrate.”

  Mignon had thought that her eyes should have adjusted by now, but the dark was as black as a crypt. She closed her eyes as she sat there and relaxed. The chimes of the grandfather clock had stopped in the distance and the house was quiet but for the wind moving along the trees outside.

  Again Leya’s voice insinuated itself into the gloom, less intrusively now, instead hypnotically working its way into the minds of the people who sat at the round table. Mignon couldn’t help a little shiver of apprehension as Leya intoned, “Come, spirits of the midnight hour. Come and speak to us. Share with us your wisdom.”

  On her left, Mignon felt John Henry’s hand twitch in time with the laughter he was suppressing in his big body. She smiled.

  The round table, fully seven feet in diameter, moved with a loud clunk. Everyone jumped.

  “What the hell was that?” demanded Geraud.

  “The table moved,” said Eugenie.

  “It did move,” said Jourdain. “Someone must have kicked it.”

  “Turn on the goddamn lights,” insisted Geraud.

  Leya flicked on the table light behind her and everyone blinked. After a moment it was clear that the table was sedentary and no one was confessing to the deed. Every face appeared surprised, even startled.

  Mignon glanced around her apprehensively. Even John Henry seemed to have lost his amusement at the situation. “Thinking about what your constituents would think if they could see you now?” Although she phrased it as a question, it was not.

  John Henry glared at Mignon and let go of her hand. Mignon put both of her hands under the table.

  There was silence again. They waited and looked at each other for a long minute. Leya slowly reached behind her and turned off the single light again. Blackness descended. “Hold hands again. We mustn’t let this opportunity pass.”

  Arms and hands moved. Finally, John Henry murmured, “Mignon? Your hand?”

  Mignon offered her hands to John Henry and Eugenie. “Good God,” John Henry exclaimed. “Your hand is like ice.”

  “Are you all right, Mignon?” asked Eugenie.

  “Yes,” muttered Mignon. “I’m just a little cold, that’s all.”

  Leya’s voice came again, “Do you want to continue, Mignon?”

  “Yes,” said Mignon. “I’m fine.”

  “Good,” John Henry said. “Perhaps if we rest our right foot on the top of the left foot of the person to our right, we could clear up the table movement issue without ado.”

  Geraud chuckled in the darkness, inordinately pleased with this method of preventing someone from playing jokes. “A good idea, John Henry.”

  Feet moved gingerly in the darkness. “Can you put your foot just on my toe, John Henry?” asked Mignon. He complied without answering her.

  Eleanor snapped at Geraud, “Rest on top of it, Geraud, not smash it.”

  “Sorry,” her son offered lamely.

  At last Leya repeated her entreaty for the spirits to join the circle. Again there was abject silence and again the table suddenly moved, banging heavily on the floor.

  “Jesus Christ,” whispered Geraud. There wasn’t another word in the room. Everyone had been hushed effectively and immediately.

  The table heaved again and then was still.

  Mignon shivered again.

  Leya called, “Spirits? Are you with us?” Her voice was full of apprehension and anticipation at the same time.

  It was as though a switch of another kind had been pulled. The atmosphere changed. Each person became silent and anxious, as a black fear seeped through the room. They were present and so was something else that affected each one of them. Long, curling tendrils of dread tangled with the strings of their very souls.

  “Isn’t it cold in here?” asked Mignon. She couldn’t seem to help the way her body quaked. She let go of Eugenie’s hand and pulled at the front of her dress almost frantically. “And it’s hard to breathe. There’s no air in here. It’s like I’m buried alive!”

  “Oh, my God,” cried Eugenie and leapt to her feet, crashing into a wall as her chair tumbled to the floor on its back.

  “Turn on the light!” said John Henry.

  Leya scrambled for the switch and when the light came on, they all saw that Mignon was staring down at the table, the only person still in the same position she’d assumed when they’d begun the second time. Eugenie had found her way to the parlor door and stopped with her hand on the latch. She gazed back over her shoulder, horror straining her fine features. Her moonstruck blonde hair had escaped its confines and she seemed the picture of a woman on the verge of a breakdown. Eleanor was half out of her seat, staring at Mignon with an open mouth. Geraud had pulled his chair away from the table and clutched at the lapel of his suit as if it were a life preserver. Jourdain had both hands flat on the table as he stared at Mignon.

  “Mignon?” whispered John Henry. He leaned toward her.

  Mignon slowly looked up. Her eyes were pale green and huge in her pale face. They were lost in another world, focused on nothing at all. John Henry rubbed her hands with his. “God, her hands are like ice.”

  The others stared at her in hushed trepidation of what might be coming.

  “It’s so black here,” Mignon said softly, but everyone could hear her as clear as a bell. Her voice was a tone deeper, throatier. She stared into nothingness as if she were looking at some other place. “There isn’t any air here. I can feel things crawling across my feet. Oh, God,” she cried out. “Where am I?”

  “Mignon!” John Henry yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. Her eyes suddenly closed. He yelled again, “Mignon!”

  Mignon’s eyes snapped open and she demanded, “What the hell are you doing, John Henry?” The demand was issued in such a normal, slightly curious, slightly outraged tone of voice that the sheriff was taken aback.

  John Henry let go of Mignon as if he had been holding a rattlesnake by the tail. There was a collective sigh in the room.

  Leya looked at Mignon in awe. “That never happened before.”

  Even Geraud had lost his sarcasm. “Let’s call it a night.”

  Eleanor still sat in her chair, a blank look on her face. Across from her, Jourdain stared at the table as if it held all of the answers he needed to know.

  “What?” asked Mignon, craning her neck around looking at the people who stared at her. “Do I have something on my face?”

  “You mean you don’t remember what you said?” asked Eugenie, behind her.

  “I didn’t say anything,” stated Mignon. “Leya was asking the spirits to come, and my hands were cold, and then John Henry here was shaking me.”

  “How very odd,” said Eleanor. “You said something about the darkness.”

  “About not being able to breathe,” added John Henry.

  “And things … crawling over your feet,” said Eugenie, her hand still on the door frame. “It was very frightening. Tell us, Mignon, were you playing with us? Was it all a game?”

  Eleanor looked at Mignon with a steady expression that the other woman found difficult to read. “Of course it was all in fun, Eugenie,” her mother answered, shaking her head slightly at Mignon. “Why don’t you go on upstairs. You look very tired, dear.”

  Eugenie stared at her mother. Finally she opened the door and said, “I am very tired. Thank you for a lovely evening. Especially you, Mignon. Perhaps you might come again.” She slid out the door, all crimson silk and platinum blonde waves of hair trailing behind her.

  If I’m ever invited, Mignon thought to herself. There had been a risk here. One that she wasn’t sure she had
managed to overcome, since the remainder of the people in the room were staring at her as if she had suddenly gone insane. What happened here?

  At last Eleanor said, “Thank you, Mignon. We all know that what just happened was quite real. But Eugenie needs a bit of subterfuge upon occasion. She’s not been herself of late. You understand, my dear.”

  Mignon nodded slowly. She glanced at the other faces in the room. Leya was still staring at her. Jourdain had a blank look on his face. Geraud held onto his snifter of cognac, with perhaps a little tremor in his hand. Finally, John Henry stood up.

  “I’ve got to go, Eleanor,” said John Henry, shooting Mignon a glance. He added, “Not that it hasn’t been a most interesting evening, but the parish is a seven day a week kind of job.”

  “Ma’am.” He nodded at Leya, and then at Geraud and Jourdain. “Gentlemen.” Then he looked very simply at Mignon and his lips tightened. “Miss Thibeaux.”

  Mignon rose. Her knees were still shaking, but she managed to stand without giving anything away. She wanted to run off so that her heart would stop thundering in her chest as if it might explode at any second. “I need to go, as well.”

  Eleanor looked at Mignon for a long moment. “Why don’t you come back some evening, my dear? I’m sure we might be able to scare up some better entertainment than a séance.”

  Mignon smiled at the older woman’s deliberate turn of phrase. “Perhaps I will.” She said her goodbyes to the others, made a brief visit to the bathroom to splash water on her face, and was escorted to the door by Jourdain, who signaled the valet to bring her rental car.

  While the two of them stood alone in the chilly night air, he remarked, “You aren’t staying here very long.” It wasn’t a question, and Mignon was sure it was a veiled threat. She took it in the most innocent way she could.

  “I’m not sure how long I’m staying,” she said brightly as the valet opened her car door for her. Jourdain kept a carefully empty expression on his face as he watched her drive away.

  The valet went back to his post near the bottom of the stairs, pulling his jacket together to ward off the cold. Geraud came up behind Jourdain and said, “Isn’t it interesting?”