by A. C. Mason
“Maybe I’ll give her a call,” Jim said grudgingly.
I suddenly remembered a comment made by Pete Blanchard at the murder scene. “What about those people Mr. Pete mentioned? He said they made those bags?”
Jim leaned forward. “Really, somebody around here makes these bags? Who are they?”
“He had to be referring to that woman who is a Cajun healer.” I turned to Rachel for confirmation.
“Yes, the Romaines,” she said with interest. “Jim, you must have heard of them since you grew up near here.”
“I remember the name, not the family.” He appeared thoughtful. “Seems like I’ve heard it recently.”
“You probably got the notice about Gibb Romaine being paroled from Angola,” Danny said.
Jim nodded, looking irritated with himself. “Yeah I did.” He turned to me. “How did you hear about them?”
“A lady at the beauty salon was talking about a woman who cured all her ailments. She called her a traiteur, which is a Cajun healer.”
“Most likely you haven’t had occasion to deal with the Romaines since you became chief,” Danny said. “Gibb’s been in Angola for twelve years. They completely slipped my mind because they mostly stay to themselves in a place way back in the swamp off the river.
“Old man Romaine supposedly was a traiteur, but most people around here considered him a fraud. Since he’s up in age now, the duties have been passed on to his daughter Patia.”
Jim’s expression brightened. “I do remember my mother talking about the old man. He had an unusual first name. Bevol, Bavol, or something like that. I don’t recall a daughter though.”
“She would have been a lot older than you.” Danny wrinkled his forehead in a brief frown. “Funny thing, Gibb is a lot younger than Patia. I believe their momma died about the time he was born. Bavol is their daddy’s name. His momma taught him how to be a traiteur. He must be close to ninety now.”
“According to tradition, the knowledge of healing is passed on from female to a male offspring, and then he passes the job on to his female offspring and so on down the line,” Rachel explained. “Local gossipers say Bavol’s father was a gypsy passing through with a caravan back in the day.”
Jim raised his brows. “Gypsies?”
The idea also came as a surprise to me. “So that would have been around nineteen-twenty.”
“Correct,” she confirmed. “It’s hard to imagine a gypsy caravan traveling around the countryside in the twentieth century.”
“My two old aunts told stories about them coming around sometimes asking to do odd jobs or to tell fortunes,” Danny recalled. Then he smiled as if remembering a humorous incident. “Auntie used to say that one gypsy would come to the front door to talk to the homeowner and another would go around to the back to steal a couple of chickens.”
Chuckles spread around our group, lightening the atmosphere briefly.
“Looks like we need to take a boat ride down the bayou and pay a visit to Patia and Bavol Romaine,” Jim said.
Danny checked his watch. “We can use one of the flotilla’s boats. I’ll set it up.”
“Do you want me to do some research on the tarot card significance?” Rachel asked.
“Let’s see what if anything we get from the Romaines first.” Danny smiled at her. “I know. You’re going to research it anyway.”
“You know I am. My curiosity is piqued now.”
I couldn’t agree more. If only Jim could be as relaxed as Danny about me doing research on a crime.
Four
Jim turned up the collar of his jacket for protection against the cold wind coming off the water. “Did you notice Carl Hymel hanging around the scene?” he asked over the roar of the boat engine. “That big smirk on his face didn’t sit well with me.”
“Me neither. He didn’t look at all unhappy about Berthelot being killed. But he wiped off the smile pretty quick when he caught us looking at him.” Danny turned the small craft into Bayou Jean Baptiste, a narrow tributary that ran from the Allemand River through a thickly wooded swamp.
Only a few rays of sunlight filtered through the dense vegetation. Large cypress trees laden with beards of Spanish moss lined the banks. Cypress knees protruded from the murky bayou. Several ancient oaks hung precariously over the water, their roots jutting out from the eroding soil. Two white egrets startled by the intrusion took off in front of the boat and soon disappeared over the tree tops.
Jim gazed thoughtfully at the passing scenery. His father’s suicide near here stirred bad memories for him. “You know, I’ve been back in Allemand Parish almost seven years and I have only been up in this area one time when I first took my position as chief.”
“I can understand why you wouldn’t want to. I don’t come out here unless I absolutely have to. Every time I see this stretch, I’m reminded of my tour in Nam,” Danny said. “The foliage is different, but the place gives me the same feeling. Dark and dangerous. Not knowing what’s ahead of you.” He took a quick look at Jim. “I was over there in sixty-nine. You were probably born around that time.”
“My dad served a tour in Vietnam in nineteen seventy-two right after I was born. Supposedly the war was winding down by then, but people were still being killed. According to my mother he wasn’t the same mentally when he returned.”
“A lot of guys weren’t,” Danny acknowledged.
“You did all right.”
“Only because I have a large family and got support and encouragement from them after my tour ended. But I still have a physical scar to remind me.” He made a slight motion with his left arm. “Shrapnel wound.”
“Fighting the bad guys is war enough for me. After knowing about my dad’s experiences in Nam and how the war affected him, I made the decision not to enlist in the military.” He gave a low chuckle. “Luckily the government did away with the draft,”
“Good thing they did. If they hadn’t, Uncle Sam would be calling me back to serve in Iraq or Afghanistan.” Danny pointed ahead to a wood frame structure sitting on ten foot pilings. “There’s the place.” He slowed the boat down to an idle and maneuvered the craft up against the wooden pier in front.
Jim hopped out and secured a rope to a post on the dock. He jerked his head up at the sound of ferocious barking. Two large hounds growled at him and Danny from the top of the stairs. One dog was a female Catahoula and the other most likely her offspring, a mix of mama and who-knew-what.
“Sheriff’s Office,” Danny shouted. “Call off your dogs.”
A thin matronly woman with gray hair appeared next to the dogs and quieted them. “Go on. Get out of the way,” she ordered the canines, swatting each one lightly on its rear end. The dogs bounded away across the gallery, their paws clicking on the wooden floor.
The woman stared down at the two men for several seconds. “What brings you out here, Sheriff?”
“We want to ask you some questions about those gris-gris bags you make, Patia.”
A frown flitted across her face. “My gris-gris bags? What’d you want to know?”
“We’re looking for information about the meaning of the contents.”
“You came a long way out here just to ask a question.” She gave him a suspicious look.
“There’s nobody else to ask. Can we come up?” Danny kept his voice calm and friendly.
Jim guessed he’d learn how to deal with folks like these after a while. In New Orleans he dealt mostly with street violence and domestic abuse, which often ended in a homicide. People like the Romaines lived in this isolated spot because they were suspicious of towns and townspeople, especially the law.
Finally Patia Romaine motioned with her hand to come up the stairs. “We can sit out on the gallery and talk.”
“It’s kind of chilly outside to sit on the porch, maybe we could go inside,” Danny suggested.
“Whatever you came to find out, Sheriff, most likely won’t take too long.” Patia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You won’t be cold
for long.”
There didn’t seem to be a chance for them to get inside the house. Jim followed Danny up the stairs. Stopping at the top, Danny introduced him.
“I figured that’s who you were,” Patia said.
“Nice to meet you, Miz Romaine.” In her younger days, Patia Romaine might have been a good-looking woman, exotic even. Beneath the wrinkles, her face displayed an attractiveness that was hard to define.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re pretty young to be chief. You must have some connection to Teddy Berthelot, or one of those other folks who own most of Allemand Parish.”
“I’m not that young. I don’t have any connection to any of them. My folks were from around here originally, but all they owned was one small piece of land.” He kept his attention on her face. “Funny you should mention Teddy Berthelot. He was killed this morning right after the parade.”
“Stabbed to death with a hunting knife,” Danny added.
Patia’s wrinkled face remained emotionless, but Jim thought he spotted a small gleam of pleasure in her eyes.
“That’s too bad,” she said. “Does your visit here have something to do with his murder?”
“As a matter of fact it does,” Jim said. “There was a gris-gris bag attached to the handle of the knife.”
Her dark eyes widened. “One of my bags?”
“We don’t know for sure. That’s what we want to determine.”
She took a step back and gave him a defensive look. “When I make bags for customers, I give them directions on how to use them. What they do with the bags after that is not my concern.”
Jim motioned with his head toward the chairs on the gallery. “Why don’t we go sit down? You can tell us what you put in your bags.”
As he followed Danny and Patia past the partially open front door, he peered inside. Through the outer screen door, he couldn’t see much, but an item on a small table right inside grabbed his attention.
Patia caught him taking a glimpse inside and quickly pointed to the chairs, motioning for the men to sit.
Hell, I’m really out of practice, he thought, embarrassed at his carelessness. But he did see a possible reason for her not allowing them access to the house.
He and Danny both took seats in the molded plastic chairs. Patia sat across from them in an identical chair.
“How’s your daddy?” Danny asked.
“As well as can be expected for a man his age. He made ninety-one last month.” Apparently she wasn’t interested in small talk. “Now what is it you want to know?”
“What sort of items do you put in them?” Jim asked.
“Only herbs for medicinal or ritual purposes go in there. I hand make my bags, but anybody can buy them in one of them fake voodoo shops in the city.”
Jim leaned forward in his chair. “Only herbs, nothing else?”
Patia avoided his eyes for a split second. “On occasion I’ll add a stone like a crystal, depending on the purpose of the bag.”
For a few moments Jim let his gaze sweep over the gear lying on the table next to Patia’s chair. A hunting knife similar to the murder weapon lay in plain sight. Too bad three quarters of the parish had one like it.
“You never add anything else besides the herbs and occasionally a crystal?” Danny asked.
“That’s what I said, Sheriff.” She folded her arms and glared at both of them in turn. “I believe we’re done here. I can’t tell you anything else.”
“What about tarot cards?” Jim asked, not willing to give up yet. “You ever put them in the bags?”
“No indeed. Tarot cards don’t belong in there.” Rising from the chair, she sent him another defiant look. “We’re done here.”
Glancing at Danny, Jim stood. “Okay, Miz Romaine, but if we have any more questions, we’ll be back.”
The screen door flew open and a tall muscular man who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties charged out onto the porch.
The man seemed familiar, but Jim couldn’t place him. He moved his hand to the butt of his gun in a reflex action. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Danny had done the same. “Hold on there. Who are you?”
The man ignored Jim and addressed his complaint to Danny. “Sheriff, my sister said she didn’t have anything else to tell you. You have no reason to come around here again.” His face displayed a deep-seated animosity toward authority.
The man’s tattoos rang a bell with Jim. All law enforcement agencies in the parish had received notice about the local man’s recent parole from Angola. Apparently Danny also realized his identity.
“You’re Gibb Romaine,” Danny said. “I didn’t recognize you right off. It’s been a while since we last met.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” He curled his lip in a sneer. “You must’ve heard ‘bout my parole from Angola. Now some big shot got hisself killed, so you come straight here. Gibb Romaine makes a good suspect. Pretty convenient, I’d say.”
“I did get notification about your release,” Danny said. “But we didn’t come out here to talk to you.”
“We came out to speak to Patia about gris-gris bags,” Jim said. “How’d you hear about Teddy Berthelot’s murder? Your sister didn’t seem to know about his death.”
“I overheard your conversation.” Romaine viewed Jim with contempt. “You must be Cypress Lake’s new chief.
“I’m Jim Foret. I’ve been chief for almost seven years.”
Romaine grunted. “You’re new to me. I heard they got rid of ole Tank Hebert and picked a hotshot homicide detective from New Orleans.”
The man’s attitude rankled Jim, but he replied in a calm monotone. “I did work as a homicide detective for NOPD. Never thought of myself as a hotshot.” He studied the man, sizing him up with suspicion. “Is there a reason for us to keep you on the list of suspects?”
“Hell no,” he said. “You think I want to go back to Angola?”
“I have to ask. Where were you around eleven this morning?” Jim asked.
Romaine’s jaw muscles twitched. “Here, at home.” He turned to Patia. “Ain’t that right, Sister?”
“He sure was,” Patia said, a smug look on her face. She walked closer to her brother. “Now I can’t tell you anymore about what you came to ask. There’s no reason for you to come around again.”
“If I find evidence to justify another visit, that’ll be reason enough.” Jim’s voice hardened. “You can bet on it.”
Gibb Romaine stiffened at the challenge and took a step forward. Patia put her hand on his arm to hold him back.
“Get off my property!” she ordered.
“Have a warrant in your hand if you come back,” Gibb shouted.
“I plan to.”
Jim smiled to himself as he followed Danny down the steps. Up there on the porch he had begun to think that the years of hardly any crime in Allemand Parish might have left him out of practice…like his less-than-discreet look inside the house.
Did Danny also notice the item? On the surface the sheriff appeared laid back, but most likely because of his calm demeanor he managed to control disagreeable Patia, at least until her ex-con brother showed his face.
Danny gave him a paternal look of approval as he climbed back into the boat. “Dealing with all those dirt bags in New Orleans came in handy.”
“Romaine wasn’t as bad as some I’ve encountered.” Maybe my experience with big city crime did teach me well. He had stepped right back into the swing of things as far as dealing with criminals, but he couldn’t help wondering if he’d messed up by not pushing the subject with Patia about the deck of tarot cards on that table.
He gave a mental shrug. From the brief view he had of the box of cards, they appeared to be a commercial deck. Still, the fact the cards were present meant either Patia or Gibb or both were familiar with symbolism involved in the tarot.
Five
Back in the boat, Jim stared out at the swampy terrain as Danny headed the boat down Bayou Jean Baptiste from the Romaines’ p
lace and turned onto the river. Huge cypress trees mingled with oaks and fan-shaped palmetto leaves. Smells of damp earth and decaying wood hung in the cool air.
Danny suddenly slowed the motor to an idle and headed toward the bank.
“What’s up?” Jim asked.
He pointed to the location. “It’s been a few months since I’ve been up in this area, but that building back there seems to have sprung up overnight.”
Jim narrowed his eyes and searched through a small opening in the heavy foliage, finally spotting the structure. “Looks like it might be a fishing or hunting camp.” He chuckled. “From the appearance, somebody did put it up overnight.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. It could be a temporary structure to serve the purpose until they can build something better. Nothing to be concerned about.” Danny appeared curious even though he sounded nonchalant.
Jim had to admit he felt the same. “You want to check out the place?”
“Maybe we ought to while we’re out here.” Danny surveyed the area and moved the still-idling boat closer to the bank. “Whoever owns this place didn’t bother with a dock or boat launch on the river.”
“Isn’t there an access by water in another location?”
“The bayou that runs by the Romaines’ makes a curve and flows right behind this land.”
“I’ll hop out and take a look-see,” Jim said.
He stepped onto the bank and trudged up the incline. Reaching the trees, he peered through the brush. For several minutes he stood observing the scene. A multitude of No Trespassing signs hung on a barbed wire fence. Nobody seemed to be around, but Jim had the feeling of being watched. Someone was checking him out…like maybe with binoculars. Finally he turned and headed back to the boat.
“Did you see anything of interest?”
He told Danny what he’d observed and his feeling of being watched.
“I’ll see who owns the property later on and if necessary I’ll have a couple of my deputies come out and check things out. A homeless person could have set up camp out here.”
“As bad as the structure is, it seems too sophisticated for a homeless camp.” Jim shrugged. “But those homeless people can be pretty resourceful.”
