Under the Cajun Moon

by Mindy Starns Clark

FRANCE, 1719

  JACQUES

  At first, Jacques was merely frustrated at the fact that M. Freneau had taken the wrong load. How could this have happened? Was it Jacques’ fault, for moving the carts? Was it his father’s fault, for not double-checking to make sure he was sending off the wrong one? Or was it Freneau’s fault, for talking and griping when he should have been paying attention to what he was doing? Now the man had left with the same load he had brought, and Jacques was holding on to one of the statuettes he and his father had made. The two trunks may have looked the same, but there was no doubt this was the wrong one because they had been stacked differently on the inside. The carts had been slightly different as well. Freneau’s was shinier and newer, and theirs had rust on the frame and was made of darker wood. Even if the two men hadn’t bothered to look inside the trunks, shouldn’t they have noticed that the fellow was hitching the horse to the same cart that he had unhitched only a short while before?

  This was ridiculous! Just to make absolutely sure that he wasn’t the one in error, Jacques carried the statuette over to his father’s work area and grabbed a scriber and a loupe. There, he looked through the loupe as he made a tiny mark in an inconspicuous place on the statuette. As he expected, the gold leaf scratched easily away, revealing the brass underneath—at least to his experienced eye. The man was supposed to have taken away the gilded statuettes and left the solid gold ones behind. Instead, he had done the exact opposite. Sick at heart, Jacques smoothed over the scratch with his thumb, put away the tools, and returned the statuette to the trunk. unsure of what to do. This would be a simple problem to solve if he had a horse and the freedom to be seen. As it was, his hands were tied.

  Reluctantly, Jacques went to his father and shook him gently until he opened his eyes. Jacques told him what had happened. After Papa had expressed his aggravation at the ridiculous turn of events, he began blaming himself, asking how he could have been so careless, so stupid. Jacques protested vigorously, saying that considering he could hardly breathe at the time, it was probably all he could do not to collapse before the man was out of sight.

  Once Papa accepted Jacques’ logic and had calmed down a bit, he propped himself up and the two of them puzzled over a solution. Even if he had a horse, Papa wasn’t healthy enough to gallop up the road and get to the man himself. Jacques could certainly do that, but Freneau might recognize him as Papa’s son, and how would he explain his presence way out here in the middle of nowhere? Surely Freneau would put two and two together and figure out that Papa had been violating the confidentiality of their agreement. Not only would all of their hard work go unpaid, but Papa’s reputation for discretion would be sullied forever.

  Lunch arrived in the middle of their conversation, so while Jacques hid again in the wardrobe, Papa gathered his strength to answer the door, take the food from the farmer’s wife, and ask if they had a horse he could borrow. She said no, so he asked if there was any way she or her husband could deliver a message to Paris immediately on his behalf, something he was willing to pay handsomely for. Despite the large sum of money he was offering, she declined, saying they might be able to do it near the end of the week but not today. He thanked her anyway and bid her good day.

  Once she was gone, Jacques and his father shared the meal she had brought and continued to discuss their options. They considered simply waiting until Freneau returned in two days for the gold bars and telling him then. But there was a good chance that by that point it would be too late. Whatever the palace was up to with the gilded statuettes, they might be needing them without room for delay.

  After much conversation, Jacques came up with a plan. He paced back and forth as he laid it out, a complicated game of hide-and-seek involving a letter, a courier, and an elaborately constructed deception. At the conclusion of his description, Jacques smiled with pride. As far as he could tell, it was a plausible plan, as long as Papa, a man known for his honesty and integrity, would be able to pull off a few lies.

  “No,” Papa said softly.

  “I know it’s not a perfect plan, but if you—”

  “No, Jacques, no more lies. One lie always begets another. The first lie was when I brought you out here in secret a month ago rather than send for M. Freneau and honestly tell him about my ill health. All of our sneaking and hiding, that has been a constant lie, and all because I didn’t want to surrender this valuable commission. At what cost, though, have I done this? At the cost of teaching my son to construct such a fanciful and complicated story? Bah! It is not worth it. Not at any price.”

  With an energy he hadn’t demonstrated in days, Papa strode to the work table, pulled out pen and paper and ink, and furiously scribbled out a missive. Finally, he put the pen down, blowing on the page so the ink would dry, and then he folded it into thirds. He reached for a lit candle and tilted it over the seam, allowing a few drops of wax to drip into a warm glob. Then he put the candle down and, into that warm glob of wax, he carefully pressed his goldsmith’s mark.

  “Here is your letter for M. Freneau,” Papa said, a calmness finally taking back over as he crossed the room and handed it to Jacques. “Bring it to a courier in Charenton or all the way to Paris yourself, whichever is faster. But no more lies, yes?”

  Jacques took the letter, nodding his head but also letting his frustration show.

  “And if they find out you broke confidentiality and withhold payment, what then?” Jacques demanded, studying his father’s stern face. “You gave your life for those little statuettes, and now you’re ready to sacrifice your payment as well? Think of all our hard work, Papa! What was it for, if not for the money?”

  Papa didn’t reply at first, but instead he sat on the edge of the cot, Jacques’ questions echoing in the dusty silence around them.

  “What was it for?” Papa rasped. “Maybe it was just for time, Jacques.”

  “Time?”

  “To be together. To carry out a job well done, side by side. To have one last month with…you.”

  Papa looked up as he finished speaking. After a moment, despite the shame that burned his cheeks, Jacques forced himself to meet his father’s gaze. How did Papa always know words that were so right and true, words that could cut through sinfulness and pride like a dagger through gold leaf?

  “You are right, Papa,” he whispered. “Of course. You are always right. No more lies.”

  Nodding, Papa laid down and stretched out.

  “You are a good son and a good Christian, Jacques. If I die, ’twill only be a temporary parting, you know.”

  “Will you wait for me in heaven, Papa?” Jacques whispered, pulling the blanket up over the old man’s shoulders.

  “Right there at the pearly gates, my son. Now, go and do what you must do, but hurry back.”

  Trying not to cry, Jacques moved quickly. He doused the fire in the furnace and gathered his things. Before he left, he paused in the rear doorway, taking one last look into the dim, hot room and the man lying on the cot, the great man whom Jacques loved and admired and had always seen as his hero. Giving that weary hero a final wave, Jacques moved out into the sunlight. He didn’t fear Freneau’s impending anger over the mix-up or the possibility that the palace would learn their confidentiality had been violated and, in consequence, would decide to withhold payment.

  His only fear was that Papa would be dead by the time he got back.

  TEN

  Mentally speaking, I managed to separate myself from what was happening to me the whole time I waited in the police car and throughout the drive to wherever we were going, which ended up being a massive tan structure a few miles north of the interstate.

  As they led me into the building, I saw two things that shocked me back to my current reality: across the street, a row of bail bondsman shops, and directly in front of me, a high fence topped with tangled rounds of barbed wire. This was the real deal. Central Lockup.

  Numbly, I remained mute as I was processed into the system. I was glad when they finally took off t
he handcuffs, gladder still that they used no ink in taking my fingerprints. Instead, a woman held and rolled each finger in turn across a pad that was linked to a computer, and the prints were taken digitally. I may have lost my long nails, but at least I didn’t have purple fingertips once we were done.

  I didn’t really start shaking until they took my mug shot. Somehow, standing there and holding a sign below my chin and looking at the camera, I finally began to feel the gravity of my situation. I had been framed for murder! As the camera flashed in my eyes, I knew this was all part of an elaborate setup, and that it had to do with my father and Alphonse Naquin and their long-hidden treasure. For some reason, someone wanted me out of the way and in jail, even if it meant killing someone else to put me there.

  They let me make a phone call once I was processed, but as I stood there with the telephone in my hand, I didn’t have a clue as to what number to dial. I thought about phoning my mother, but in a situation this extreme, I knew she would be pretty much useless. I could call my father’s lawyer, but apparently he was dead and I was the one who had killed him. Finally, I tried calling Sam again but got no answer, which didn’t surprise me. For all I knew, he was somewhere else going through his own fog of confusion and disaster—if he was still even alive. In the end, I called the one person in my life who was utterly dependable and completely competent: my assistant, Jenny. When she answered, I explained my situation, saying that I was still in New Orleans and there had been a horrible mix-up, and that I had been arrested and put in jail.

  “I’ll take the next plane to New Orleans and come get you out of there,” she cried.

  “No, please don’t come. I just need you to make some phone calls.”

  Giving her the numbers, I told her to call my mother and tell her what had happened, and then to keep trying Sam’s number until she got through. Most important, I said I needed her to find me a lawyer, the very best criminal defense lawyer in New Orleans. I told her the police were so sure of my guilt that I had refused to answer another question until I had a lawyer present.

  “Good move,” Jenny replied.

  The officer who had given me the telephone gestured to me to wrap it up, so I told Jenny that I needed to go.

  “Find me a lawyer as fast as humanly possible,” I repeated.

  As I hung up, I watched another prisoner coming in, one who was struggling violently against her handcuffs as they attempted to process her.

  As she wildly cursed and writhed, my mind filled with the image of being forced into a cell with a dozen more like that.

  A policewoman led me out of the room, down the hall, and into what looked like yet another processing area, a series of cubicles manned by police personnel. A scarred wooden bench was against a wall, and I was instructed to sit there.

  “You behave, and I won’t have to lock you in,” she said, gesturing toward a row of metal hooks that protruded from the wall above the bench. I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, but I had a feeling that the hooks were there to connect to handcuffs or other types of restraints.

  I didn’t know what I was waiting for, or how long I would have to sit there, but an old wooden bench in the hallway beat a dirty barred cell with other prisoners hands down, so I kept my mouth shut and remained perfectly still. I tried to listen to the various conversations going on around me, but mostly the cops in the next room were just chitchatting about a recent ballgame, about what they did Saturday night, about what they planned to do next Saturday night. Finally, someone came out and spoke to the cop who was standing guard over me, and the next thing I knew, she was bringing me to what looked like an interrogation room. It was small with pink walls and a two-way mirror at the end. At the center of the room was a table with several chairs around it. I was told which chair to take and so I sat and again I waited.

  After what felt like an eternity, there was a small knock at the door and a man stepped inside. He spoke with the policewoman, who left the room, and then he approached me and shook my hand, introducing himself as Mike Donner, my new lawyer. I was so relieved that I nearly blurted out the first thing that popped into my mind: Are you sure you want the job? Apparently I’ve been known to kill lawyers!

  He joined me at the table, pulled out his briefcase, and began telling me just a little bit about himself and his firm. He ended by saying that he was the best criminal defense lawyer in town but that the best didn’t come cheap.

  “I’ve spoken with your mother, and she has assured me that if you can’t pay my bill, she will.”

  This was not an auspicious beginning, but at this point, I didn’t have much choice. I replied that I was quite capable of paying for his services and that my mother’s assistance in that regard would not be needed. Once those formalities were out of the way, he seemed to relax a bit and urged me to relax as well.

  “I just want to hear, in your own words, the sequence of events that brought you here today. Take your time, and tell me the whole story.”

  “I’d be happy to. But first can you tell me if my father still alive?”

  “Yes, but from what I understand he’s in a coma.”

  I exhaled deeply, relieved to know that despite all that was going on and all that was going wrong at least my father hadn’t died during the night. Folding my hands and placing them on the table in front of me, I started at the beginning, at that moment when Jenny interrupted me during my television appearance to give me the message that my mother had been urgently trying to reach me. Unlike Detective Walters, who had constantly interrupted me to clarify things and ask questions in an apparent attempt to confuse me, Mr. Donner just listened quietly, took notes on a yellow legal pad, and responded with the occasional nod or grunt. When I was finished with the whole tale, I wasn’t sure if he believed me or not. I supposed it didn’t really matter. It was his job to defend me regardless.

  When it was his turn to speak, he began by commending me for not talking to the police any more than I had.

  “I wish you hadn’t said anything at all to them, but this is better than nothing.”

  He went on to tell me of the strongest evidence the police had against me thus far, a preliminary match between Kevin’s scratched face and the blood and tissues under my nails. Mr. Donner said that they wouldn’t have DNA results back for a while but that the blood type was a match, as was the tissue structure. Worse, by evaluating blood and saliva stains, police had determined that the pillow I slept with under my head last night was the same one that had been used to smother Kevin to death at some point prior to midnight.

  Even the lawyer seemed to turn up his lip a bit at that one, as if to say what a cold fish I must be to kill a man and then take a long rest on top of the murder weapon.

  Donner then launched into a description of what would happen next, which seemed to have nothing to do with my guilt or innocence at this point. Apparently, the state was required to give me a bail hearing within twenty-four hours. Strikes against me were the nature of the charges—that is, murder in the first degree—and the fact that I was from out of town and did not live here. Very much in my favor, however, were the facts that I was a responsible business person with no criminal history, I had strong ties to this area, including a father whose very name was synonymous with New Orleans, and the fact that my father was currently in a hospital and needed me there.

  “I feel confident you will be released on bail, hopefully by this time tomorrow.”

  He acted as though I would be pleased to hear him say the word “released,” when in fact I was still dumbfounded at the word “tomorrow.”

  “Do you mean I have to spend the night here? In jail? With criminals?”

  “I know the prospect of that sounds quite horrifying to you, but this is just Central Lockup. You might be okay here. Prison, on the other hand, is a different matter altogether. Believe me when I say I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you out of there.”

  “And what happens if we go to this bail hearing and the judge denies bail?
”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?”

  I closed my eyes, telling myself I would most likely be out of jail by this time tomorrow. After that, I would be in a position to put things together and ask questions and track down whoever had really killed Kevin and framed me—not to mention shot my father.

  In the meantime, I just needed to find some way to survive.

  ELEVEN

  Detective Walters questioned me at the station with my lawyer sitting in. He asked me all of the same questions, but Donner wouldn’t let me answer most of them. I wasn’t eager to be shown to my cell, but the whole process was so incredibly aggravating that by the time we were done, going almost anywhere other than there was a relief.

  I spent the next few hours locked in a small cell with a sleeping woman who was probably in for prostitution, given the outfit she was wearing. Other prisoners were led past, but fortunately no one else was ever put inside with us, and my roommate never woke up. Most of the time, I tried to ignore the stench of the open toilet that sat just a few feet from my bed. Worse than the smell, though, was the noise. It never stopped, not the yelling and catcalls from one cell to another, nor the clinking and clanging of bars and chains and doors. My senses were assaulted from every side, and even my skin felt scratchy and chafed under the orange jumpsuit I had been given to wear.

  My stomach was growling by mid afternoon, which really surprised me. How could I want to eat at a time like this? I reminded myself that hunger was a normal bodily function, and that so far I had had nothing to eat all day. Of course I was hungry. Between the processing and the interrogating, somehow I had slipped through the cracks and not been given any breakfast or lunch.

  I had no watch or cell phone to keep time, and there was no clock in sight, but the hours ticked by at an excruciatingly slow rate. At one point, I was so insanely bored that I found myself wishing my roommate would wake up, just so I would have someone to talk to. Finally, I was given a change of scenery when a uniformed officer came and got me from my cell and brought me to a room similar to the one I had been in earlier.