by Karen White
I swallowed. Then I raised my hand and hit the backspace button to view all the other bookmarks in the folder, state agencies and other sites for missing persons, many of them the same ones I used in my search for Chelsea. Every day. Not a single day has gone by since she left that I haven’t searched for her. I remembered what Trey had said, and, staring at the evidence in front of me, I finally believed it to be true. I couldn’t look at him, afraid he might see that I had ever doubted him.
After clearing my throat, I said, “I try to go through these sites on a regular basis, so that if anybody is found, or goes missing in the same geographical area, or even bears a physical resemblance to Chelsea, I can let the detective in charge of her case know about it.”
“It’s hard to look at them all, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“How long has it been?” he asked.
“Seventeen years. She and Monica would have been the same age. The police did an age-progression picture of Chelsea a few years ago to show what she’d look like now. But I still see her the way she looked when she was ten.”
Ice clinked in his glass again. “Seventeen years. That’s a very long time.”
I didn’t answer, knowing there was no way to quantify time spent in searching as if it were nothing more than measuring rainfall in a cup.
The ice clinked again; then he said, “Just turn off the computer when you’re done, and any lights. I’m in the carriage house out back if you need me, but try not to open any of the outside doors, because I’m setting the alarm behind me.” He began to walk toward the door.
“Trey?”
He stopped.
“How did Aimee’s mother die?”
He tilted his head, and it reminded me of Beau when he was contemplating something new and incomprehensible to him. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because she mentioned it tonight, how nobody wanted to talk about her mother or how she died. But when I asked her, she said it was a long story. I thought maybe you’d know.”
“She was killed. Murdered. In their house a few blocks over on Coliseum.”
I stared at him, hoping I’d misunderstood. “Murdered?”
Trey shrugged. “They never found out who did it. Or why. They said it was a random robbery. Her husband was having dinner with clients and came home to find his daughter screaming in the dark house and his wife dead. He had an ironclad alibi, so he was never considered a suspect. But the only thing taken was her wedding ring. Nothing else in the house was touched. This was in 1941, so there was little more than fingerprinting used, and the case was never solved.”
“How did she die?”
He paused, his lips thinning. “Stabbed—multiple times. Wasn’t a knife, they’re pretty sure, but they were never able to find the murder weapon.”
I cringed, unable to reconcile the sweet and gentle Aimee with such a brutal memory. “Aimee must have been a toddler then. How awful to lose her mother so young.”
He took a deep breath. “She was there when her mother was killed. She would go to sleep in her parents’ bed most nights, and her mother must have crawled in beside her when she went to bed. Aimee was most likely sleeping when the murder occurred. She was too young to remember seeing anything, but I imagine something like that doesn’t really ever go away.”
I felt sick to my stomach and wished I had known about her mother’s death before I’d asked Aimee why she needed a place to go to feel safe. And then I remembered something else she’d said to me. “Trey, would the murder of your great-grandmother have anything to do with Monica needing a place to go and feel safe? It’s one of the reasons why Aimee said Monica loved River Song so much—because it was like a sanctuary to her.”
“I can’t imagine how they’d be connected. River Song was a great place to escape from our parents’ acrimonious relationship, but that’s the only reason I could think Monica would need a sanctuary. Besides, the murder happened long before Monica was born. She knew about it because Aimee told us when we were kids, and she overheard me making a wish that my mother would go away permanently. She was trying to tell us why we shouldn’t take our mother for granted.” He leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms. “Why all this interest in my family?”
I glanced down at the worn rug under my feet. “Monica told me so much about all of you that it was as if I knew you. And then yesterday Aimee said something about sharing our stories, how maybe now we could put all the pieces together. I was trying to figure out what she meant.”
I looked up and saw that he’d stepped closer, his height towering over me. I wondered if he used the same technique to intimidate witnesses. “I’m curious about something, Julie. My sister had in her possession a painting of our paternal great-grandmother painted by your great-grandfather, and yet you claim that she never mentioned it to you. Don’t you find that odd?”
He was watching me closely, studying my body language. I stood. “Of course I find it odd. She knew Abe Holt was my great-grandfather, and we even met at an Abe Holt exhibit. Yet she never mentioned it to me.”
He kept his gaze on me, unmoving. “It seems deliberate to me. Like she wanted to meet you, because you were related to him but didn’t want you to know.”
I swallowed, wondering if he could hear it in the quiet room. But I couldn’t think of anything to say, because I’d been wondering the same thing, over and over, and had come no closer to an answer than when I’d first seen the portrait.
Trey stared at me for a long moment before stepping back. “Good night, Julie.”
My mind churned with all of the unknowns, wishing I knew which questions to ask, but knowing they’d only lead to more unanswerable ones. I heard his footsteps in the hallway before I remembered to respond. “Good night, Trey.”
I turned back to the computer and began searching the familiar links, the endless faces and descriptions of the missing, the circumstances behind each baffling disappearance. But I was distracted tonight by the image of a young Aimee sitting in the dark with the body of her dead mother and of a painting of a woman with blue cat eyes and an alligator brooch that sparkled in the light.
The next few weeks passed in a blur as Beau and I settled into our new temporary home. Our rooms were furnished with expensive antiques and art—with the addition of LEGO-print fabrics in Beau’s room—and at first I was too worried about damaging anything to be truly comfortable.
But when Aimee caught me straightening pillows in the living room and telling Beau to take his milk and plate of cookies to the kitchen, she told me that the house wasn’t a museum and needed the occasional cookie crumb or spilled milk to make it a home. We were more relaxed after that, and I found myself loosening up enough to allow myself to be comfortable, but not enough to want to stay long enough to grow roots.
The book about my great-grandfather stayed on my nightstand, unread. I’d think about it only at night, when I was too tired to do much of anything besides crawl beneath the covers and fall asleep. I spent the days with Beau, and sometimes Aimee would join us, exploring the city of his mother’s birth. We rode the streetcars on St. Charles and Carrollton avenues and ate lunch several times at the Camellia Grill—Monica’s favorite restaurant, according to Aimee. We rode borrowed bikes in Audubon Park and then picnicked under the shade of an ancient oak tree. We took long, leisurely walks through the Garden District, then went to the library on St. Charles and checked out children’s books on the city’s history and the origins of LEGOs. I wanted to give Beau the freedom to be a child again, away from sickness and uncertainty.
I’d gone downtown to sign the sales agreement at Mayer and Ryan and opened up a checking account at Whitney Bank to deposit the proceeds. It gave me a sense of pride when I was able to write a check to cover my portion of the retainer for the builders. I brought Beau with me and then afterward took him to the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas to spend the afternoon. We saw penguins and sharks and sea lions, but when I noticed that Beau seemed more focused on the o
ther children with mothers and fathers, I decided it was time to go.
I didn’t see much of Trey. Aimee said that besides certain social obligations, he was also preparing for a big case and would spend a lot of time at his office on Canal Street downtown. I didn’t ask her what those “social obligations” were, but it made me question again his ability to focus on something as important as rebuilding River Song. Especially when he believed his partner in the rebuilding effort wasn’t wholeheartedly committed to the effort.
My suspicions were confirmed when Steve Kenney called to say the blueprints were ready, and Trey said he was too busy to make the trip to Biloxi to see them. Feeling like a martyr, I buckled Beau into the backseat of the van and headed down the now familiar highway, no longer needing my GPS to guide me.
I’d decided earlier that while I was in Biloxi I’d stop by and see Ray Von again. I kept thinking about my conversation with Trey about the portrait and my family connection to it, and how Monica had kept it a secret. Ray Von said Monica had sent a note along with the portrait, and I knew that, for my own peace of mind, I needed to read it, to see if there might be any message in there meant for me. Some kind of explanation.
Aimee had given me Ray Von’s phone number as well as a bag of late tomatoes that Xavier had picked from her garden. I dialed the number from my cell phone several times, but nobody answered. I was halfway down Beach Boulevard traveling west before I decided to just stop by her house to see if she was there. I made a U-turn and pointed the van in the direction of Bellman Street.
Now that I was more familiar with where I was heading, I paid more attention to the scenery. The blue sky allowed for few clouds and the sun beat down on the van, making me warm despite the cooler weather. I’d yet to see it rain, and I’d started to wonder if it ever did, and then I passed another dead tree and remembered. Of course it did. I slowed to study the tree carved into a flock of pelicans, their necks craned upward to the sky, straining toward the unseen. It reminded me of the dolphin tree, and I thought about what it was they were reaching for. I drove slowly the rest of the way to Ray Von’s, the image of the bird tree making me restless as I wondered what it was about the Katrina trees that I found so unsettling.
It was a cool day, and I lowered the windows of the van before getting out. The black cat was perched on the front step, regarding me with half-closed eyes as if I weren’t important enough to warrant his full attention. As I climbed out of the van, I noticed a white Land Rover with Mississippi plates parked on the street, its right tires parked in the sparse and sandy grass of Ray Von’s front yard. It didn’t seem to be the kind of vehicle Ray Von would drive, assuming a woman in her nineties would be driving at all.
I took Beau out of the backseat and climbed the front steps before knocking on the door. I heard the phone ringing inside and counted as it rang ten times before stopping. I knocked one more time, knowing it was futile.
I remembered all of the herbs and dried flowers hanging from the ceiling of her kitchen and thought that she couldn’t hear the phone or my knocks if she was working in a garden in the back of the house. Taking Beau’s hand, I walked through tall grass at the side of the house toward the back. I stopped in surprise, Beau bumping into me. As I’d thought, there was a garden with neat, tidy rows of small plants interspersed with stripes of rocks to make a path between each row. In the middle of one of the paths a woman and a little girl, with matching blond heads and wearing identical pink polka-dotted gardening gloves and capri-length jeans, knelt in front of a squat, bushy plant. They both looked up at us, and we spent a long moment staring at one another in mutual surprise.
I broke the silence. “I’m looking for Ray Von Williams.”
The woman smiled as she stood, pulling the girl up with her. “She’s not here. I took her to her Bible study meeting, and I said I’d tidy up her garden until it was time to pick her up.” She walked toward me and stuck out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Carol Sue Thibodeaux. And this”—she pulled the little girl forward—“is Charlotte Thibodeaux, although we call her Charlie after her daddy.” She indicated Beau with her chin. “She just turned five in August, and I’m thinking she’s about the same age as your little boy.” Her words drawled like syrup, a true Southern accent, I suspected, and completely different from those I’d heard in New Orleans.
Beau had stuck his face in my side, sucking his thumb with the red hat bunched between us, but with his head turned so he could see. Charlie stared at Beau with open curiosity, the thumb in particular, and I put a protective arm around him. “This is Beau, and he did just turn five at the end of July.”
The woman continued to smile at me, waiting. “Oh, and I’m Julie Holt.” I stepped forward and held out my hand. She slipped off her gardening glove and shook my hand in a firm clasp.
Charlie now stood in front of Beau. “How come you still suck your thumb?”
Beau’s eyes found mine, and he seemed so lost standing there facing down a girl who was a whole head shorter than he was. I wanted to pick him up to let him know it was okay, that I understood that he found comfort in it, and that he missed his mother and probably always would.
Before I could move, Charlie said, “Mama said that my teeth would start sticking out like a rabbit and that I’d better stop before that happens, so I go to sleep every night with a sock on my hand.” She glanced at her mother, then lowered her voice before continuing. “But when there’s a thunderstorm I take it off and suck my thumb because it makes me feel better.”
She smiled at Beau, revealing small, square, and perfectly straight baby teeth, and Beau smiled back, making my heart squeeze.
Carol Sue looked at me, and I noticed that we were about the same age, but her brown eyes seemed to be those of a much older person, as if they’d seen more of life than they were supposed to. And I wondered, too, if she was thinking the same thing about me.
“So how do you know Ray Von?” she asked. “Are you a member of the Ladies Auxiliary? I don’t think I’ve seen you at any of the meetings.”
“Oh, no. Actually, it’s a long story. I’ve only met her once. And I don’t really know her. But I know of her through a mutual friend, Monica Guidry.”
Carol Sue’s face paled slightly. “Oh, you’re that Julie. Trey mentioned you’d come here from New York.” Her eyes shifted to Beau, and she moved to kneel in front of him. “You’re Monica’s little boy?” She looked closely at him. “Yes, of course you are. How could I miss it? You look just like your uncle Trey, don’t you?”
“You knew Monica?” I asked.
Touching Beau’s cheek, she nodded, then stood. “I’ve known the Guidrys all of my life. I’m from Biloxi, and we always hung out together during the summer. My parents’ house was two doors down from River Song.”
I remembered all the empty lots. Slowly, I asked, “Is it still there?”
She shook her head. “No. I have a new place, though, a few blocks inland. Mama and Daddy have been living with me ever since Katrina, which has been great, actually, helping out with Charlie.”
“I’m sure,” I said, watching as Charlie pulled Beau over to a corner of the garden before squatting to look at something in the dirt. I tried to sound as if I commiserated with her, but I couldn’t help but wonder what all she needed help with.
“So you were friends with Monica?” I was hungry for information and was trying to remember whether Carol Sue was one of the many names Monica had mentioned.
“Not exactly. Trey and I are the same age, so Monica just sort of tagged along a lot. Trey and I were in undergrad together at Tulane. We even dated for a while. Until I met Charles.” She crossed her arms over her chest and grabbed her elbows as something flittered across her face that made me wary. “Trey and Charles were roommates at the Sigma Chi house, so I suppose it was fate.” She gave an uneasy laugh. “Guess there were no hard feelings, since Trey and Charles remained good friends and even started their own law practice together.”
“No,
I suppose not,” I said, feeling like I was missing something.
“Trey says that you’re rebuilding River Song.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t help but think about what else he’d probably told her. “It was Monica’s dream to have her children come to River Song. I thought it was the right thing to do.”
She studied me with somber brown eyes. “That’s pretty generous of you.”
My choices suddenly felt very selfish, and I wondered if she’d meant that to happen. “Actually, I’m not completely sure that it’s the right thing to do, but I seem to have run out of options. I don’t know if Trey told you, but I’m Beau’s guardian. Trey and I both need time to figure things out, and rebuilding River Song is giving us that time. I haven’t really thought beyond that yet.”
Carol Sue was looking beyond my shoulder. “Charlie, don’t do that, honey. You’re getting your shirt all dirty.”
The little girl had dumped something in Beau’s equally dirty hands and was now wiping hers on her shirt.
Returning her attention to me, she said, “Trey’s actually told me a good deal about your situation and how he offered to buy out your half of River Song. And I have to say that what he told me made me like you before I met you. It’s not often that Trey doesn’t get his way.” She gave me a half smile. “As far as I know, besides you, there were only three people in this world who could say no to Trey and get away with it and that would be Aimee Guidry, Charles, and Monica. It’s an exclusive club, but a necessary one. Trey shouldn’t be allowed to rule the world, even though he seems set on trying to save it.”
I smiled back, relaxing a little. “So you and Charles are still good friends with Trey?”
I remembered what I’d first thought when I’d noticed her eyes, how it seemed they’d already seen too much of life, and what passed behind them now made me realize I’d touched something raw in this woman I hardly knew but somehow seemed connected with.
“Charles passed away five years ago.” She said the words quickly, either to get them over with or because she’d had five years of practice saying them.
