He glares again. My expression is steadfast. “I will fail you if need be. If you are checking to see what my limit is, you’ve already passed it. You’re lucky I believe in second chances.” Giving it some thought, he nods.
“This isn’t a victory for you,” he asserts.
“I never considered it to be. Believe it or not, I want you to pass.”
“Whatever. Can I go?”
I nod towards the door, and he’s gone in an instant.
“Wow, that kid’s got some issues,” Cal says, rubbing his beard.
“Do you think I handled the situation okay?” I query.
“I think so. You stood firm and made it known that you weren’t going to tolerate his shit anymore.”
“Think it sunk in?”
“Time will tell. So, how was your night?”
I push my chair away from my desk. “Crazy.” I give him a brief rundown of the events, and he crosses his arms.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he asks, and I’m not sure if he’s angry or hurt.
“It was so late by the time Major Collins left that I decided to wait until today to fill you in. There’s nothing you could have done at that point anyway.”
“I could’ve come over.”
“I suppose you could’ve, but for what? To protect me from the psychotic cat?”
He shuts the door before pushing his body close to mine. “Psychotic cats are no joking matter. Feral felines kill.”
I laugh. “Do they now? I wasn’t aware.”
“Knowledge is a powerful thing.”
“So how many deaths do you figure are attributed to these feral felines yearly?”
“Hundreds. Maybe thousands.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, they run a close second to baboon bites.”
I wince. “Yes, I hear that’s reached epidemic proportions.”
“I wanna…”
I stop him before he can say it. “Just do it,” I say, pushing myself into his arms. He kisses me passionately before smoothing his shirt, straightening his tie, and whistling a tune as he casually struts out of my office and down the hall. Gathering my things, I head for my class.
I’m in the grocery store making my way through the aisles like I’m on a game show. Quickly running through the list in my mind, I toss items into the buggy without so much as slowing down once I find them. Each makes a satisfying clink as it lands in the basket, like an audible score keeper. Clink. One point. Clink, clink, clink. Plus three! The crowd goes wild! Okay, it’s nowhere near that exciting, but regardless, I’m hustling.
Clink, clink. Two cans of cream of mushroom soup. Then the basket goes BAM!, and I nearly hit the floor from the collision. Who would be at the other end of the offending basket? None other than Richie the sleezeball furniture salesman.
“Hey, if you want to knock me off my feet, never fear. Your beauty has already done so many times over,” he says with an assured smile.
“We’ve seen each other twice, once when I bought furniture from you. How could it happen repeatedly?” I ask with annoyance.
He leans in closely, “Cause you’re in my dreams every night.”
“Richie, what part of I’m not interested did you not understand?”
“I know you’ve been seeing people, so why not let me show you what a gentleman I can be?”
“Who I see is none of your business, and what does it matter to you anyway?”
“Small town. People talk. You shouldn’t settle by dating only one man. You should play the field.”
“I’m very uncomfortable with this conversation, Richie...”
“Maybe you should consider pluralizing so you have something to compare the professor to.”
“I have no interest in ‘pluralizing,’ and do others seriously sit around talking about my relationship with Cal?”
“Pretty much. Been boring ‘round here lately.”
“Wow. Okay. Look, Richie. I’m flattered, but I assure you, I’m not the one for you. What about her?” I ask, pointing to the first woman I see.
“Married.”
“Or her,” I ask of the woman standing near the meat case.
“Been there. Done that. Couldn’t handle my virility.”
I shudder. “What about her?” I ask, pointing to a woman in leopard print pants and tiger striped shirt with an exposed shoulder.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, biting his lower lip. “She looks like someone who’s looking for someone to tame her. Love them wild ones. I’ll catch you later, Pocahontas.”
I don’t know if he’s referring to my heritage or if he truly doesn’t know my name, but regardless, I’m thrilled he’s set his sights elsewhere. I get my stride back, and before I know it, I’m home unpacking the groceries. Cal knocks on the door, and when I open it he surprises me with a dozen roses. “Not picked from the bushes outside,” he jokes.
“Thank you so much,” I say, placing the vase on the counter before taking in the roses’ delicate scent.
“It’s been a hell of a day. I’m whooped.” He stretches, yawns, and then plops onto the sofa with the TV remote. “What’s for dinner?”
“Is this a fast forward into our future?” I joke.
He peeks over the arm of the sofa. “Do you mind? I kinda thought we were far enough along in our relationship that…”
“Stop. I’m picking. Besides, if it were the future, you’d be cooking for me.”
“You’ll be very disappointed and probably very thin if you’re depending on my cooking to see us through.”
“Isn’t there a culinary school nearby?”
“Why go to culinary school if I have you?” I toss a dishtowel at his head. He catches it and still laughing at his quip, brings it into the kitchen, wraps it around my waist, and pulls me to him. “You’re the only woman I’d go to culinary school for.”
“That’s a serious commitment. How does the old rhyme go? Cal and Cheyenne sittin’ in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes culinary school?”
“I think it’s love.”
“It is; I was just teasing.”
“No, Cheyenne. I think it’s love between us. I’m telling you that I love you.” My breath catches. He always gets me when I least expect it! “Wait! Don’t say anything.” He scribbles on my scratchpad then turns it so I can see. Do you love me? Circle one. Yes or No. Smiling broadly I take the pen from him and circle Yes. “Yeah?” he asks. I nod, taking a sip from my wine glass. “Well, alright then. We’re in love. Wanna get married?”
I choke on my drink and fight to keep wine from shooting through my nose. “Too soon for that joke?” he asks.
I nod as he pats my back. I fill a glass with water and after a few sips, homeostasis is restored.
“Hey, pretty lady. How about I take you out for dinner tonight?”
“I’d like that. Just give me a few minutes to change.”
“Well, if you’re going to be in there all naked and such,” he says following towards the bedroom. I shut the door in his face.
“I thought you loved me,” he whimpers.
I open the door a crack. “I do. I’ll show you exactly how much later tonight. But as of right now, I’m starved, and if I let you in this room… well, we both know how that will end.”
“Yeah, I’ll be sated, and you’ll be starving.”
“We’ll be sated, and I’ll be starving. Nonetheless, go away.”
“Kiss me?”
“Yes, but that’s it. One quick kiss.”
It wasn’t a quick kiss, but I do manage to get dressed and we get out the door for dinner at a reasonable hour. After a delicious meal with playful and fun banter, I’m completely relaxed when we return to my apartment. I fall asleep in Cal’s arms, and all is right with the world—at least until the dream spoils my restful sleep.
The entire scene I saw inside Azalea Downs replays in my dream. The carnage, the blood, the bodies. The lady in white, the man whose face I can’t see. It’s different this time in that instead of
gasping for air, it appears as though the woman in white is trying to tell me something. There is no sound, and as hard as I try, I can’t read her lips. Growing frustrated, I take off up the stairs and take refuge in the dark closet. Just like the first time I had the vision, going into the closet pulls me from the nightmare. My eyes fly open and I’m a panting, shaky mess.
“What happened? Are you okay?” Cal asks, reaching out to hold me. “It’s okay,” he says soothingly as he lightly kisses the top of my head. “Was it a nightmare?”
I nod.
“You’re safe, sweetheart. I’m here.”
“I was in the house again, Cal. It’s all so vivid. Why do I keep having these visions? It doesn’t make sense. Your dad said it didn’t correlate with the actual crime scene, so why do I keep seeing these things?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did, because I’d do anything to make them stop. Just remember, it’s not real.”
I nod. “I know, but it’s still frightening and disturbing.”
“I’m sure it is. Here, lie back down,” he says, softly stroking my arm. Slowly, I feel the tension leave my body, and before long, I’m able to fall asleep once again.
The dream hinders my sleep for nearly a week straight. Each time, an extra detail emerges, none of which make any sense to me. A vase full of peacock feathers in the corner of the parlor appeared in one dream. A thick gold band with intricate scroll work appears on the hand of the faceless man in another. The black haired woman desperately tries to tell me something, but there is no sound to my dreams, much like watching a silent film. The newest addition is a white square of cloth with yarn fringes. Perhaps the woman in white’s shawl or wrap? I need answers.
Cal and I arrive at Felton’s for another seafood feast Felton insisted on having, and I’m relieved to have the opportunity to run the new details by him. If one of these things is accurate, then it will lend credence as to why I’m having these dreams. If not, then I’m stuck trying to figure out why my psyche insists on replaying a false crime scene over and over. Either way, I feel a therapy appointment is inevitable.
Cal’s tending to the cooking device on the back porch, a propane fueled burner with an extra large frying pan on top, while I join Felton in the kitchen. He’s battering the seafood assortment with a highly seasoned cornmeal based breading.
“Thanks for having us over again. I enjoyed the last dinner immensely,” I say as an icebreaker once we’re alone.
“Yeah, it’s good for me, too. Usually it’s a bowl of cereal or a sandwich—something quick and easy, ya know?”
“I do. Single life.”
“It doesn’t appear that you’re so single anymore,” he mentions, nodding his head towards the back porch.
I smile. “I guess not.”
“He’s a good boy.”
“Yes, he is. I didn’t come to Louisiana anticipating a relationship, just a change of scenery. Meeting Cal has turned out to be better therapy for me than the move.”
“Therapy?” he asks.
“I had a hard time dealing with the death of my parents. I needed to get away from Oklahoma because there were too many reminders.”
He nods. “Understandable.”
“Felton, I have some more questions about the Nuit Rouge murders.”
He stops what he’s doing to look at me. “More?”
“Yes. I’ve started dreaming about it, and the dreams are so vivid that I’m remembering more details. I don’t mean remembering, of course, but it’s how it appears to me in the dreams.”
“I’m confused. What is it with you and the murders? Are you sure you didn’t overhear your parents discussing it when you were younger or something? Maybe they knew one of the victims?”
“No, our family has no ties to Louisiana whatsoever. I was relieved when you told me my visions weren’t accurate, because I thought that would be the end of it, but…”
He stops what he’s doing and pats off the cornmeal coating his hands. “Okay, what’s new? Let’s see if we can put an end to this once and for all, or else we’re going to have to get you down to New Orleans to get them spirits outta you.”
“Possession? Ben at Azalea Downs mentioned something about that. You don’t believe in that stuff, do you?” I ask, swallowing hard.
“I believe that anything’s possible, but relax. I don’t think you’re possessed. An overactive imagination is still my guess. Lay the new details on me, and we’ll try to get this sorted out.” He gives me his undivided attention.
“Okay. Peacock feathers in a vase.”
Felton looks deep in thought for a while. “I can’t say that I recall a vase with peacock feathers, but remember, this was a long time ago, and that’s not really the kind of thing you remember from a crime scene like that. What else?”
“A gold band on a guy’s finger.”
“I’m sure most of the guys had gold bands on their fingers. Most were married couples.”
“This one had some kind of scrollwork. It was a unique pattern that made it different from most.”
Felton shrugs. “I don’t think I’d put too much stock in that one.”
“The black haired woman keeps trying to tell me something, but I can’t make out what it is, and there was this white fringed shawl or something. I saw that in my dream, too.”
“Again, a shawl would be something expected at the scene. They were all dressed up for a party. Darling, I think you’re worrying yourself for nothing. Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something, and you’re not listening.”
“Maybe so,” I say, unsure of whether to feel relieved or defeated. “The school janitor told me that the university library has some information about the murders. Maybe I can research it some, just to put my mind at ease.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll go down the station and pull the old file. I’ll flip through the pictures and search specifically for the new details you told me about.”
“I hate for you to go through such trouble, but it would be a great relief to finally know for sure. Your theory about my subconscious trying to communicate with me seems plausible, and would actually be a lot easier to accept than my possible possession by an unsettled ghost,” I say with a smile.
In a paternal way that nearly makes my heart melt, Felton kisses me on the forehead. “I’ll take care of it. We’ll get you all fixed up so you can get on with the important things in life, like getting that boy of mine to settle down.”
I laugh. “I’m working on it. I’m just so glad you don’t think I’m crazy.”
“I told you before, I know crazy, and crazy you ain’t. Now, if you don’t mind, grab that bag of French fries out of the freezer and bring them out to Cal while I finish this up. Looks like he’s done with the hushpuppies,” he remarks, glancing onto the back porch.
“Sure,” I say, doing exactly as he requested. Cal smiles when I join him.
“Hey, how are things going in there?” he asks.
“Great. I talked to your dad about the dreams, and he doesn’t think I’m crazy. Hearing that makes me feel so much better. Plus, he promised he’d pull the old files and review the pictures to see if any of the new things I dreamed about show up.”
“And if they do?”
“We’ve determined that I’m probably possessed by a restless soul.”
Cal laughs. “And if it doesn’t?”
“Your dad seems to think that perhaps my subconscious is trying to tell me something.”
“Hmmm. Good theory, I suppose—as long as it’s not trying to warn you away from me.”
“I wouldn’t listen,” I say, encircling my arms around his waist.
“Good.” He gives me a light kiss before going back to frying the food. Felton joins us outside, and we have one of the nicest, most relaxing afternoons I’ve had since moving to Louisiana. After dinner, we fish from the dock, take a sunset boat ride, and end the night with a cocktail on the porch. However, as usual, things don’t stay tranquil for long.
> Chapter Ten
I’m dragging tail this morning because of all the tossing and turning that went on during the night. It was as if the dream was set on replay, and continually looped over and over until I finally woke up. Coffee is a must, and thankfully, the café on Main Street offers a spectacularly potent blend. I’m propped on the counter while waiting for the waitress to bring me my to-go order when someone takes the stool next to me. I smell him before I see him.
“Richie, how are things?” I ask in monotone.
“Rich. Remember? Not Richie. Rich.”
“Sorry,” I say though my apology is not all that sincere.
“You look really good this morning. Downright scrumptious,” he says, awkwardly and blatantly sniffing me. I reel backwards.
“Please don’t do that again,” I demand, sitting down, but making sure there is an empty stool between us. “It’s creepy.”
“It’s supposed to be a compliment.”
“’Nice shoes’ is a compliment. Sniffing someone the way you just did is not.”
“That’s not what the video says.”
“Video?”
“Jungle John’s Primal Style Passion. Men and woman have these primal urges that we try to hide, but if they’re tapped into…”
“No,” I say.
“No what?” Rich asks.
“Just no. No to all of it. Please don’t take dating advice from videos.”
“No?”
I shake my head emphatically. “Look, Richie. You’re trying too hard. Be subtle, be relaxed, be yourself. Women like confidence but not arrogance. There’s a difference.”
“That’s nothing like the video says.”
I sigh. “How many women have you actually won over based upon the advice from your video?”
He rolls his eyes upwards as he counts mentally. “None.”
I nod. “Take it from me—a woman. Ditch the video and give my advice a try.”
Broken Bayou Page 11
