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Jewel of the Bayou
by Amy Jo Belford
Cover Art Derived from photo by Mauro Cateb
Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0
Chapter One
“Hello?”
The church door was cracked open, but it seemed awfully dark and quiet inside. Too quiet, for a Sunday morning. It hadn’t taken me very long to walk here, but I wasn’t that early. By 10:45 a.m., every Baptist church that I had ever known would have had folks jostling for their usual places in the pews. Maybe it was something about this town. Maybe the Baptist church in Sinful, Louisiana just couldn’t draw a crowd.
“Hello?” I called out again. I stuck my head around the door, and in the dim light I could barely make out a scene that might have come from Tornado Alley. Hymnals were scattered around at random, there were church bulletins littering the aisle and, unless I was crazy, it looked like someone had abandoned a pair of bright green pumps beneath the pew just ahead of me.
The sunlight at my back was making it hard to see what was going on, and I squinted as I stepped inside. I could smell those churchy smells – a little bit of dust, a little bit of wood polish – and I picked up a hymnal and took a look. Yep, it was Baptist, all right, so I was in the right place even if no one else was here to join in a song.
Which is when I heard something rustling up by the pulpit.
Now, I may be a big girl, but that doesn’t mean that I can take all comers. Whatever had cleared out this church hadn’t left any survivors as far as I could tell, and for all I knew the giant alligator, or something even worse, was just itching to take a bite out of the next sweet, innocent thing to go poking around.
I watch movies. I know how these things work.
But there’s no accounting for curiosity, and before I thought better of it I found myself quietly moving down the aisle, listening for something other than the sound of my own feet. The rustling seemed to be coming from down on the floor, and I wondered if it was the sound of church bulletins blowing around in a breeze. Which might have made more sense if the windows weren’t shuttered, but still. I’d grab at any explanation that didn’t involve an alligator.
“Hello?” I said once more, and I hated the quaver I heard in my voice. You’d think I’d be ready for any surprises, as the only girl growing up with four brothers who loved a good practical joke, but something about the silence was making me nervous.
Which is probably why the massive hulk chose that moment to rise up right in front of me.
“Hiii-yah!”
As I yelled, I threw the hymnal in my hand at the shadow looming above me and heard the slap as it made contact. Lightening reflexes, that’s me.
I heard the shadow bellow, which was followed by a loud crash, which was followed by a few words that made it pretty clear I wasn’t yelling back and forth with the pastor.
My eyes were adjusting to the light and I could see now that, whatever it was, it was grabbing its nose with one hand and pulling the buds out of its ears with the other. And if he wasn’t a giant, he was at least seven feet tall.
Well, maybe six foot something.
Six foot of something worth looking at, I could tell. The dark suit he was wearing couldn’t hide those broad shoulders, and I could make out a head full of sandy blond hair that looked like it usually wasn’t so carefully combed into place.
And I knew for a fact that he had a deep, husky voice.
“What’d you do that for?” he said. His deep, husky voice was slightly muffled by the hand he held over his nose.
“What did I do that for? Why wouldn’t I do that! Who are you, anyway, scaring people on a Sunday morning!”
I was a tiny bit excited, but it was going to take a few moments to get my heart back into my ribcage after it had jumped up into my throat. Not that there’s anything wrong with a rush of adrenaline now and then. It’s just that it had been a while since I’d felt anything like it. And, honestly, it felt good. Maybe I was missing my brothers and their surprises more than I thought. Maybe I needed a little more excitement in my life.
Definitely the last one.
“Hate to break it to ya, but scaring strangers wasn’t on the books for this morning.” He rubbed his nose gingerly, but there didn’t seem to be any permanent damage. In fact, now that I got a better look at it, it already appeared to have had a run-in with a hymnal or two in the past. “Come back later, maybe I’ll scare you then.”
He grinned as he said it, and for some reason Little Red Riding Hood came to mind.
“Come back later?”
“Yep. It’s not time yet. Come back later. Go get some lunch.”
That made me bristle. I may have a few curves, but that doesn’t mean that it’s OK to make a crack about eating lunch at 10:45 a.m.
“It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?” I said. “Even for a gal like me.”
“A gal like you, huh.” His grin got bigger. “I’ll bet you avoid a lot of good advice, second guessing what folks say to you.”
I felt the tips of my ears get red, and tried to think of something smart to say. I knew I could come up with something. Probably in about twelve hours, while brushing my teeth before bed.
While I stewed, he picked up some gold-colored plates from the floor.
“So, is lunch what you’re planning to serve on those things?”
It was the best I could come up with. Don’t judge.
“What, these?” He looked at them as if he’d never seen them before. “A minute ago they were covered with little glasses. For communion, I guess. Turns out they scatter like crazy when they get knocked over.”
“Ah,” I said. That explained the crash, although not what he was doing down on the floor in front of the pulpit in the first place.
“As for lunch,” he said, “around these parts, they eat it at 10:00 in the morning. On Sundays, anyway.”
“Really?”
“Really. So it turns out it’s not all about you after all. It’s something about banana pudding, instead.”
That was definitely a crack at me, but I let it slide. “Then church is already over?”
“It is. And that means you’re out of luck. Or, maybe that means it’s your lucky day. It didn’t look to me like the sermon was doing much for the crowd. Guess you’ll have to try again next week.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I said lightly. “Really, I just needed an excuse to get away for the morning. My boss thinks that I should stick around 24/7, but even she can’t put up too much of a fuss if I go to church.”
“Your boss?” He was crouching down again, picking up the itty bitty glasses that had rolled around on the floor. Someone was going to want to give them a good washing before they filled them up with grape juice again.
“That’s right.” I watched him grabbing at the glasses for a moment, then I sighed and bent down to help. “Mrs. Langstrom, in the big Victorian? Outside of town? She hired me as her companion. Which sounds old-fashioned, I know, but it just means that she wants someone to be around in case she needs something.”
I didn’t go into the details. If Mrs. Langstrom is too cheap to pay for real in-home care, but wants to make sure that
she has someone around to shout orders at while she’s indulging in her hypochondria, who am I to stand in her way? Jobs for recent Art School graduates are few and far between, and at least by taking this job in Sinful I wasn’t too far from my family over in Purdee. And not too far from New Orleans, either. Not that I’d had a chance to get there, yet. Not with the short leash that Mrs. Langstrom uses. Which is why it was so nice to get out of the house this morning.
“Right. Well, I can see you’re helpful,” he said as I accidentally kicked a glass under a pew. “Maybe too helpful. I’ve got this covered.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” I asked. “What exactly is it that you’ve got covered? If the church service is over, what are you still doing here, anyway?”
I stood back up, set a few glasses on the communion table, and looked around again.
“And why is it so dark in here? And why is this place such a mess?”
“Well, you’re full of questions, aren’t you?” He sat back on his haunches and looked up at me. I hadn’t noticed his eyes before, but now I couldn’t look away. Something about that shade of blue seemed to be making my stomach flutter.
“Yes, I am,” I said. “And I’ll start with the most important one. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m Jack,” he said, and he stood up.
He held out a hand, and I took it. He might be a murderer or a thief, but at least he was remembering his manners.
“Pleased to meet you, Jack. I’m Lindy.”
“Lindy,” he said, and nodded.
“Next question,” I said. “Why is this place such a mess? You weren’t ransacking it, were you?”
“Ransacking? No. This mess is all thanks to the folks who go to this church. They’ve got some peculiar Baptists in these parts.”
“Then you’re not from around here?”
“Nope, just passing through.”
“Ah ha!” I said, and I started to look around for another hymnal to throw, just in case.
“Settle down,” he said. “I’m here to take pictures.”
“Pictures?”
“That’s right. For the, uh, Church Directory.”
“Oh,” I said, and suddenly it made more sense. The dim lighting, the crouching on the floor where I could see cords strung along to an electrical outlet.
“Oh!” I said again. “You’re getting set up to take portraits.”
“Yep, and maybe you haven’t put it all together yet, but I’m not ready,” he said. “Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you ever since you barged in on me. You want your picture taken, you’ll have to come back this afternoon or tomorrow just like everyone else.”
“And what I’ve been trying to tell you, ever since you decided to lunge at me like some sort of ax-murderer, is that I’m just here to go to church,” I said.
“And you’re too late for that. You want to find the Baptists? Fine. I’ll show you where you can find your Baptists. Then maybe I can get back to work, and you can get yourself some lunch.”
“What is it about you and lunch, anyway? Do I look like I’m starving?”
‘You’re looking just fine,” he said, and there was that grin again. “All I’m saying is that if you want to catch some Baptists, you’ll have to go where they are. And I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again… They’re at lunch.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well. In that case.”
“In that case,” he said, and he walked me back up the aisle.
Chapter Two
I walked through the door of the café and was greeted by a hubbub that would put a bee hive to shame. When Jack had pointed me toward Francine’s Café I had thought that he was joking about finding a congregation or two inside, but I discovered that it isn’t the size of the restaurant that counts – it’s how tightly you can pack the people in.
“There she is now!”
The shout cut through the buzz, and I looked around to see whose voice could slice through a crowd like that. I saw her over at a long table crowded with ladies in their Sunday best. Elderly ladies, I should say. And one of them was waving frantically at me.
“Hey, there!” she shouted again. “We thought you’d never get here!”
I was confused, but not as confused as she must have been. Clearly she had mistaken me for someone else, and I walked over to explain the situation. A middle aged woman carrying a tray full of lunch plates and iced tea glasses caught my eye, and nodded toward an empty chair at the table before disappearing through the swinging doors to the kitchen. Honestly, it seemed like everyone was confused around here.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, with my best, sweet smile. “I think you’ve confused me…”
“Shhhh,” she hissed in reply. “Don’t say a word, or the Catholics will catch on!”
She grabbed my forearm, and pulled me down into the empty chair.
“Why, you don’t say!” she exclaimed in a loud voice, with a triumphant look over at a neighboring table where a sour faced woman was turning back to her companions with a harrumph. “Isn’t that something!”
She pulled me close.
“I don’t know who you are, but play nice and you’ll get the best banana pudding you’ve ever had in your life.”
Banana pudding, again!
“Maybe you can explain to me what’s going on,” I said. “This has to have been the most confusing Sunday morning of my life. No Baptists at the Baptist church, lunch at 10:00 in the morning, strangers grabbing me and offering me banana pudding…”
“Never look a banana pudding in the mouth, that’s the first rule,” she said, and then she grabbed my hand. “The name’s Gertie. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said. “I’m Lindy. And I’m still confused.”
“Simplest thing in the world,” she said briskly. “You’ve got to get here early to get Francine’s banana pudding, and church gets out at 10:00 a.m. so we all have a shot at it. Today the Baptists beat the crowd, and we got enough for the whole table, which is one short anyway, since Marge is out of town. Anyway, the Catholics just have to make due with what’s left.”
She looked awfully smug as she said this, and it made me think that the pudding might be worth it.
“So that’s it,” I said. “Everyone rushes to the café, which explains why the church looked like tornado swept through it.”
“Oh, it’ll get cleaned up after lunch. But not until then. The problem today is that, while we knew Marge wouldn’t be here, we didn’t expect Edna Mae to be called home.”
My eyes got wide. “She died?”
“Good grief, don’t be so dramatic. Called home! Her old orange tabby snuck out through a window again, and she had to go drag him back by his tail, or whatever she does. Anyway, she couldn’t come to lunch after all. Which is why we have an extra seat.”
“And an extra portion of pudding,” I said. The light was beginning to dawn.
“Exactly. We’d box it up and take it to her, but the Catholics will have our hides if we do. They think that it has to be first come, first serve on Sundays, and an unused pudding on our table should go over to them.”
She paused for a moment over her coffee cup.
“Although,” she went on, “to be fair, we’d feel the same way if we were in their shoes. Anyway! You’ve saved the day. We don’t have to give any ground to Celia Arceneaux and her minions, and you get a treat. The only loser is Edna Mae, but frankly she doesn’t need the pudding.”
She took a long look at me.
“Watch it,” I said.
“I didn’t say a word. Now let me introduce you to the table.”
I was welcomed by the members of what I would come to know as the Sinful Ladies Club, and enjoyed a fantastic plate of biscuits and gravy, bacon on the side, and hot coffee. More brunch than lunch, but I make no apologies for what I eat at mid-morning. The ladies were all retired and then some, but they still knew their business, and their business was pulling the story of my life out of me in one, long, take. I d
idn’t mind. It had been a while since I had the chance to talk to a real, live person who wasn’t named Gladys Langstrom.
“Gladys Langstrom. That old biddy,” the Sinful Lady known as Ida Belle said, and I waited for her to elaborate. I wasn’t about to give out any details, myself. I have standards.
“I’ve known Gladys since she and I were knee high to a June bug, and she’s never been anything but the vainest, crabbiest, most…”
“Hey, now,” Gertie interrupted. “No speaking ill of a fellow Baptist on Sunday.”
“Fellow Baptist my sweet bippy. She hasn’t so much as cast her shadow across the door since the Big Organ scandal, and you can’t tell me that she has the right to consider herself a Baptist in good standing after the way she tried to pull the whole church down around herself when she didn’t get her way about the pipes.”
“Like we have any need for a full pipe organ here in Sinful,” she went on, “or anything but a piano and that old pump organ. Once the choir starts singing in tune, maybe then we can start talking about spending that kind of money on a bunch of whistles.”
“I thought that she didn’t come to church because she’s frail,” I said. “And when that man from the church came to visit a few days ago, she said she just wasn’t feeling up to meeting anyone.”
“Man from the church?”
“The one from the ministry to visit the widows and orphans, or something like that?”
Ida Belle snorted. “First I’ve heard of that ministry, though I imagine there would be a widow or two in this town who might be interested in a man coming to call.”
“Who was it, exactly?” Gertie asked.
“Ryan,” I said. “He said he was Deacon Ryan, from the Baptist Church.”
I felt the tips of my ears start to turn red again. Deacon Ryan wasn’t that much older than me, really, and with his dark hair slicked back and his eyes twinkling behind his horn-rimmed glasses, it wasn’t hard to imagine the widows of Sinful taking time to talk to him. The deep dimples would probably help to keep their interest, too.
miss fortune mystery (ff) - jewel of the bayou Page 1
