by Karen White
I sucked on the cut as a small breeze rustled the white rectangular receipt that had been used to mark the page. The purple lettering had faded so I could barely make out the name of the store—something with “art and supplies” in it—and the year was definitely 1999.
Lifting the receipt from the book, I examined the page to see if I could determine what it had been marking, my heart seeming to beat a little faster as I recognized the black-and-white photograph on the bottom right of the left-hand page. It was the portrait of Caroline Guidry, with her cat eyes and provocative stare, the sparkling eyes of the alligator brooch nearly dominating the picture.
Squinting, I brought the book closer to my face so I could read the caption. Portrait of unknown woman, oil on canvas. New Orleans, 1956. Private collection.
Unknown woman? I sat up, still sucking on my thumb, just in time to see Trey emerge from the backyard at the rear of the property. He was wearing the same outfit I’d seen him in the last time, but without the sweat-matted hair, and his white socks appeared brighter. The work boots, Tulane T-shirt, and torn shorts were still paint-splattered but otherwise appeared clean. He stopped when he spotted me, apparently as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
“Uncle Trey!” Beau lifted his hand from the water and waved wildly, liberally sprinkling me and the book.
“Careful, sweetie,” I said, using the sleeve of my cotton sweater to wipe off the page.
Trey approached and stood next to me, looking down at the book. “Sorry,” I said. “I borrowed this from your study, planning to return it without any damage.”
He leaned forward to lift the cover to see what it was, then lowered it again. “That was in my study?”
I nodded. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I don’t mind. It’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”
“There’s an inscription on the front dated 1999, from Aimee wishing Monica a Merry Christmas.”
Trey frowned. “She would have been seventeen. A year before she disappeared.”
“Yeah, I thought the same thing. Do you think they’re related in some way?”
He sat down next to me, and I smelled soap and laundry detergent. “I have no idea. Have you found anything in the book?”
“Just this.” I opened the book to the page showing the portrait of Caroline Guidry. “But look here.” I tapped the caption. “It says ‘unknown woman.’ Any idea why it would say that?”
He shook his head. “No clue. As far as I know, the identity of the woman in the portrait has always been known.” He pointed at the photograph. “This is an old picture—you can tell by the graininess of the photo, and it’s in black-and-white. I would guess that it was taken for publicity shortly after it was painted. Probably even by the artist himself for his portfolio. Maybe my family didn’t give permission to print her name. Society was very different back then. Southern women were not supposed to call attention to themselves.”
“It was painted in 1956, the year Caroline disappeared. Maybe that’s why the family hid her identity. Because of the scandal.”
“Maybe,” he said, tapping his fingers on his knee. “We can ask Aimee, see if she knows.”
We? I nodded, still staring at the photograph of the portrait, an insistent thought knocking at the back of my brain. “Does Aimee have the alligator pin?”
“Not that I know of. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen it. Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “From what Aimee’s said, the brooch was Caroline’s signature piece, and she was never seen without it. Even on her housecoat. I was wondering if it was with her when she disappeared.”
He didn’t say anything, and when I turned to look at him, his eyes registered surprise. “That’s some detective work, Julie. Maybe you missed your calling.”
I closed the book. “I’ve hung out with detectives since I was twelve, so I guess it’s only natural that I would start thinking like one.”
He continued to drum his fingers on his knees. “Find anything lately on the Internet to send to your detective friend?”
I shook my head. “Not since I’ve been here. I’ve actually only gone to look twice—the second time this morning. I’ve been so preoccupied with other things—like Beau, and River Song. And Aimee. I love listening to her stories. Still, I need to get focused again, so I don’t miss a lead.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Or maybe you need to determine what’s the real distraction.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, is your new life here distracting you from searching for your sister, or is your search distracting you from living a life?”
I stood abruptly, lifting the book with me. Staring down at him, I said, “You don’t know the first thing about me. And what would you know about having a life? You work all the time, and you still live with your grandmother.”
It looked for a moment like he might actually smile, but his eyes remained serious. “You should come with me this morning.”
“To your office? Why?”
This time he did smile. “It’s Saturday, Julie. Although I have worked on Saturdays before, I’m not actually going to work.”
I looked down at what he was wearing, knowing he wouldn’t volunteer the answer if I didn’t ask the question. “Then where are you going?”
“To help out with building a house in the Lower Ninth Ward. I volunteer with the Make It Right Foundation—a team of architects, businesses, and just regular people trying to get residents to move back.”
I knew the neighborhood from news footage showing the worst of the flooding following Katrina. “But isn’t that whole area below sea level?”
I saw the tic begin in his jaw. “Yes. And a lot of families have lived there for generations and want to move back but have no homes to move back to. MIR is trying to fill that gap. New Orleans can’t come back without its people.”
We looked at each other as if we were speaking the same language but with accents that made our words indecipherable to each other.
“But the neighborhood is still below sea level,” I repeated.
As if speaking to a small child, Trey answered me in slow, measured words. “The levee system is being fixed. And we’re building sustainable, storm-resistant houses that are being built with raised first floors. It’s a fixable situation.”
“And why would you want me to come?”
He stood, too. “Oh, never mind. I guess I thought you might learn something.”
I wanted to ask him if he hoped my participation would teach me the ropes of rebuilding a house, or if he thought the experience would leave me too discouraged at the thought of building something so permanent.
Instead, I asked, “What got you involved in the project?”
Without hesitation, he said, “Xavier.”
“Xavier? ”
“Yeah, Xavier.” He used a fingernail to flick away a blob of green paint on his forearm that had eluded the soap and water. “A few days before Katrina, we evacuated Aimee and Ray Von inland to Jackson. Just like Charles, I didn’t want the house to remain empty for too long, too much of a target, you know? So I came back, doing some last-minute boarding up and moving furniture. But when it came time to leave, I couldn’t get Xavier to go. He said he wasn’t going to let anything happen to Miss Aimee’s house on his watch.”
I remembered what Xavier had told me about how he wouldn’t let anything happen to Miss Aimee, like he was her great protector. “Why is he so attached to her?”
He shrugged. “I guess because she showed him kindness at a time in his life when nobody else did. My grandmother has always had a knack for harboring lost souls.”
I refused to take his words personally and instead allowed him to continue.
“So I stayed with Xavier. I can’t say I’ll ever do anything as stupid again, but I’m glad I did it. We lost a few trees and part of the roof, but we—along with a pair of my hunting rifles—kept the looters away from our hous
e and our neighbors’ houses. And then, when it became clear that the Garden District had been mostly spared, I left Xavier here to guard the house and headed downtown to see what I could do there. Found a spot on a friend’s pontoon boat and helped pull people out of flooded houses.”
We watched as Beau, still making motor noises, lifted two of the boats high in the air and dropped them into the fountain, splashing his face and shirt with cold water. He laughed and then did it again, and I didn’t say anything about sailboats or motors, or about getting wet when it was chilly outside. And I couldn’t decide whether that made me the best guardian in the world or the worst.
I turned back to Trey, recalling something Carol Sue had told me. “ ‘Great tragedy gives us opportunities for great kindness.’ ”
He looked at me oddly. “Yeah, something like that.”
He turned and strode quickly over to Beau, reaching behind the little boy before scooping him up and twirling him in a circle, much to Beau’s shouted delight. Regardless of Trey’s lukewarm attitude toward me and his uncertainty about my presence here, I could feel nothing but relief that he’d never once doubted that Beau belonged.
Putting Beau down, he tousled his hair. “Okay, bud, I’ll be back for dinner, and afterward we can finish our LEGO castle, all right?”
“All right!” Beau shouted, jumping up and trying to reach Trey’s hair as if to tousle his, too.
Trey turned to leave, then paused. “By the way, Julie, I had a house in the Venetian Isles neighborhood in New Orleans East. Lovely spot on the water but outside the levee’s protection. It’s no longer there. And Aimee didn’t want to live alone anymore. That’s why I live with my grandmother.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling properly chastised but not wanting to show it.
He waited a moment as if to see if I would say anything else, then lifted his hand in a wave and let himself out of the gate.
I sat on the bench for a long time after Trey had gone, watching Beau splash in the fountain until he finally moved the ships to the muddy grass. I thought absently that I’d have to give him another bath before lunch, but didn’t care. He was having fun, and his hat remained by my side, forgotten, at least for now.
My cell phone sat in my hands, my thumbnail tapping the blank screen as I ruminated over my conversation with Trey and about what he’d said about distractions. He knew what it was like to search for a missing loved one. Why couldn’t he understand that my need to focus on finding my sister had to be my priority? That my father and brother had long since given up, and that my mother had died without ever knowing? I couldn’t abandon Chelsea now. I’d already done it once.
I quickly hit the memory-dial button and waited.
“Detective Kobylt here.”
“Hi, Detective. It’s Julie Holt.”
“Hello, Julie. How are you?”
For one of the few times I’d spoken to him, his voice was unrushed. “I’m fine, thank you. And you?”
“I’m doing well.” He paused. “Just found out that my oldest daughter is going to have a baby. My wife and I are real excited. It’ll be our first grandchild.”
I sat there, staring at my phone, wondering how I hadn’t known that he had children, and that at least one of them was probably married, and that he could be excited over the prospect of becoming a grandfather. Belatedly, I added, “Congratulations, Detective.”
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “So what can I do for you, Julie? I don’t recall getting any e-mails from you.”
“I actually haven’t been online in a while until this morning and thought I’d call instead. Just to touch base.”
“Did you see anything?”
“Just one thing—and it’s a long shot, which is why I didn’t immediately e-mail you. But the girl Hilary McMahon, the one who disappeared in Hartford after cheerleading practice, I thought you should take a look at her case. In her school photo, she looks a lot like Chelsea.”
“I’m already on it. I saw it, too, and put a call into the detective in charge. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
I smiled into the phone. “Thanks. Hey, has anyone ever told you that you’re pretty good at your job?”
His words carried a smile. “A couple of times.”
“Detective Kobylt?”
“Yes, Julie?”
“How many children do you have?”
He paused briefly before answering. “Four. Two girls and two boys. Why do you ask?”
“I just . . . well, I guess I just always imagined you sitting at your desk, solving crimes. I never thought of you as somebody with a family and another life.”
He laughed, and a phone rang in the background. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t do this job if I didn’t have another life, you know? We all need something to soften the sharp edges. To give us balance. Otherwise, I think we’d find ourselves stumbling around in the dark like lost souls.”
“Yeah, well, I’d better let you go. Thanks for talking with me. And congratulations on becoming a grandfather.”
“Thanks, Julie. Take care.”
The line went dead, and I looked at my cell phone for a long time before turning it off and sticking it back in my pocket.
I held my hand out to Beau. “Come on, Beau. I told Miss Aimee we’d take her to lunch, and you need a bath first.”
He gathered the sailboats in his arms while I picked up the Abe Holt book and red hat and retreated into the house, thinking about lost souls and wondering what had happened to the alligator brooch with the glittering ruby eyes.
CHAPTER 14
Eyewall: An organized band or ring of cumulonimbus clouds that surround the eye . . . of a tropical cyclone.
—NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER
Aimee
FEBRUARY 1956
The scream tumbled me from my bed. I stood barefoot on the wood floor, trailing bedclothes and shivering. I blinked, then used my night-light as a point of reference in the darkened room. Disoriented and still half-asleep, I stumbled to the table, knocking over my glass, and turned on the lamp. I stayed there, hunched over, wondering what to do. The scream had come from close by, and it was undoubtedly female.
A shout followed by the sound of splintered glass moved me out of my inertia. I ran to the door and opened it to stare into the darkened hallway. Light trickled through the transom window over the master bedroom, the leaded glass creating murky shadows on the walls and floor but leaving the corners in total blackness. The boys’ rooms were in another area of the house, and I hesitated, wondering if I should get one of them first.
Angry words crashed through the master bedroom door like bullets. My curiosity overriding my good sense, I closed my bedroom door behind me and moved closer.
Mrs. Guidry’s voice bordered on hysteria. “No! No! No! I won’t have it, you hear? I won’t have it!” Footsteps approached the door. I backed into a shadow as the steps receded.
“You must see reason, Caroline.” Mr. Guidry’s voice was low and gravelly, barely audible. “We don’t have any choices, do we? You’ve made certain of that. This is the only way—even you must see that.”
Another explosion of glass shattered the stillness of the house. I held my breath, waiting for the door to open, or a person to shout, or footsteps on the stairs. But there was nothing. I let the air out of my lungs bit by bit.
Then heavy footsteps crossed the room, followed by the distinctive sound of a hand slapping flesh, followed by female sobs. Almost incoherent now, with her words slurring through her sobs, she said, “I can’t do this! He is dangerous to both of us; don’t you see?”
Mr. Guidry’s voice was so low I could barely hear it, but I sensed the threatening tone just the same. “I’ve already explained it to you. He needs to be here, and I won’t change my mind. I can’t.”
“I will not stand for it, do you hear? I will not stand for it. Either he leaves, or I will. And then I’ll tell everything to anyone who will listen. And maybe then I can finally be free.” I almost did
n’t recognize Mrs. Guidry’s voice. It carried depth and power in it and a dark tone I had never heard from her before.
High heels tapped against the wood floor, and then a door slammed. I took another step backward and bumped into something soft and fleshy. My skin tightened over my skull as the smell of body sweat assaulted my nose. I turned abruptly and recognized the warped landscape of Xavier’s face. The filtered light from the transom skipped over most of the scars but could not hide the clumped skin that melted his left eye shut. A scream caught in my throat as he put a damp palm over my mouth. I tasted salt as I looked into his eye and saw no malice—only sadness. I relaxed in his grip.
A drawer slammed shut behind the closed bedroom door, the brass handles vibrating like fear. Bedsprings squeaked and then a heavy sigh escaped through the door before all was quiet again. Slowly, Xavier removed his hand. A drop of moisture hit my forearm, and I realized that he was crying. The Guidrys must have been discussing him.
I put my hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, Xavier. Things will work out.” I didn’t know if they would or not, but he looked so devastated I had to say something.
He ducked his head and stared into the blackness around our feet. “No, miss,” he whispered. “She’s too afraid to let me stay any longer.” I felt a shudder go through him before he stepped away from my grasp and disappeared down the hallway, as silent as a ghost. I felt my way to my bedroom and closed the door behind me, wishing I’d asked him what Mrs. Guidry was so afraid of.
I rose early the following morning, the bright sun sneaking from behind the venetian blinds and coloring the room with a golden tint. I showered and dressed, then followed the aroma of batter sizzling in the kitchen. I smiled when I saw Gary wearing a bright red apron. Humming to himself, he cradled a bowl of batter close to his chest as he stirred.
