Murmurs began among those in the crowd, angry murmurs, as if they knew what the man was about to say next.
“I am here to tell you that the two hundred people who choose to take passage to the New World on that ship—”
Law was interrupted by angry calls from the crowd, but he raised his voice and continued.
“Whoever they are, those two hundred who choose to take passage and subsequently remain in the Louisiana Territory for exactly three years may at the end of those three years present themselves to my agent, Monsieur Pierre Freneau, who will be escorting the gold all the way to New Orleans and guarding it there. In three years, upon presenting themselves to M. Freneau, each of those two hundred people will be given their very own solid gold fleur-de-lis statuette. It will be theirs to keep, either to melt down and use as a financial reward, or saved intact as a priceless memorial of their homeland, a gift of the Compagne des Indes.”
At that, the crowd was about to explode in fury, angered at this sudden turn for the worse, this cheap attempt, yet again, to lure them to sign up as colonists. Obviously expecting this reaction, however, M. Law thwarted it at that very moment by reaching down and dramatically flinging open the lid of the massive trunk.
There, sparkling brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight, were the two hundred statuettes, gleaming in all their glory. As if one person, the crowd’s angry yells were suddenly swallowed up in gasps and silence.
Their anger was understandable, but the sight of that gleaming mountain of finely polished gold was utterly breathtaking. No wonder they didn’t know how to react.
“As soon as we are finished here,” John Law said as he reached down behind the trunk and lifted up a massive padlock, “I will close and lock this trunk and allow it to be escorted by M. Freneau and the palace guards and anyone else who wants to follow along all the way to La Rochelle. There, it will be loaded on the ship and put under guard. That guard will remain until the ship sails two days from now.”
Law strode to the very front of the dais and gestured toward a man who was sitting directly in front of it, down on the ground level, at a small table that held a long sheet of paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen.
“Citizens of France,” Law said earnestly to the crowd in a softer voice, both arms raised high for his final plea, “if you want to be among the lucky two hundred, all you need to do is line up here at this table and in your turn sign your name or place your mark on the ship’s roster. A new world ripe with opportunity wants you. A crown eager for settlers salutes you. Best of all, a priceless gold treasure awaits you. Thank you for your attention, and may God bless you all. Good day.”
With that, Law turned and strode to the back of the stage, signaling the end of the big event. As the other men on the stage stood to meet him and converse quietly among themselves, it seemed to Jacques that the crowd was stunned, unsure of what to do or how to react. There were a few smatterings of applause, but mostly people just looked at each other, talked among themselves, and considered the opportunity that had been placed before them.
In that moment, as the crowd stretched and shifted to get a better look at the gold and the first few braves souls presented themselves to the man at the table, Jacques finally understood what was going on, what had been going on since the day his father had first received his commission from the palace. Reaching into his pocket, Jacques fingered the letter Papa had written and sealed, the letter whose delivery had nearly killed Jacques in his race to get to this forum on time. Now that he knew what he knew, Jacques had a sick, dark feeling that he could not hide behind the anonymity of a letter after all.
He would have to explain what had happened in person.
TWENTY
Travis and I needed to map out a plan.
First, I realized, I was going to have to tell him about the treasure. As I launched into the tale, I could see that he was as dumbfounded as I had been when Kevin had explained it to me. Though half of that treasure belonged to Travis’ grandfather, Travis had no idea that it existed. He said that his grandparents’ house—the one the sale of the gold had paid for back in the fifties—had been nice but nothing special.
Travis explained that his grandparents had never been the type of people to care much about money anyway. They valued their faith, their family, their health, and their heritage. Money came far down the list.
What I hated to bring up but felt like I should was the possibility that his grandfather had met with some foul play just as my father and Kevin and Sam and I had. As far as we knew, Alphonse Naquin was still out of touch and unaccounted for, and though Travis said it was the old man’s usual pattern to simply disappear on a fishing trip for a while, he agreed that there was a slight chance that someone had gotten to his grandfather in some way too.
“Well, then, you might also want to think about this,” I added. “If my father told my mother she was in danger, isn’t there a chance that your grandmother could be in danger too? Whoever wants the treasure may have started with the two men, but from my father’s message it sounds like they might then move on to the wives.”
Travis’ eyebrows rose high on his face as he considered that possibility for the first time.
“I need to make a call,” he said, standing up and pulling his iPhone from his pocket. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything about the treasure or Sam or where we are now. I just need to get my grandmere somewhere safe.”
He began pacing as soon as he finished dialing, and I thought I should give him some privacy. Standing and stretching my legs, I decided to stroll closer to the water. Oddly enough, the earth was hilly here, despite the fact that this part of Louisiana was mostly flat for miles around. Moving down the gentle slope toward the water, I marveled at the geological phenomenon that could have caused an anomaly like this, rolling hills amidst the flatlands. Whatever caused it, it made for a beautiful piece of land.
Despite all of our personal turmoil, it was so peaceful here. My mind kept going back to the prayer Travis’ friend had said on my behalf. Though I had been a part of corporate prayer numerous times, I think that was the first time in my life anyone had ever prayed specifically for me, with me. It had felt good, for some reason, and infinitely calming to my soul. Maybe, I decided, the man’s intervention on my behalf had now cleared the way for me to go to God myself sometimes. Maybe now I wouldn’t be that rude person just calling for a favor, but instead a friend of a friend, someone who had a right to show up and ask for something every now and then.
Then again, I realized, maybe that was the whole problem, that I was thinking about prayer specifically as a way to get something from God. I had heard enough sermons over the years to know that that wasn’t all prayer was for. It was also for worship, confession, and intercession…things like that. Maybe instead of starting with “God, help me,” I should try something less self-oriented.
Unfortunately, that would have to wait. Travis was calling my name, obviously finished with his phone calls. When I got back to him, he said everything had been taken care of. I had a feeling that with such a large family, there were plenty of big, strong Cajun relatives to take in Grand-mere Minette and keep her safe, even if they didn’t know why Travis wanted them to do so.
“So what’s our next move?” he asked, returning his attention to the task at hand.
“I think we should take a closer look at my father’s ‘special recipe,’ since that’s what he told me to follow.”
Travis retrieved the poem from under the seat of his truck, and we started by taking the frame apart. There was nothing inside that frame except the mat, the photo, and the poem itself. The “insurance policy” my dad had always told my mother to depend on was the poem and/or the photo themselves and not an actual document of some kind. We put the empty frame back in the truck, and just to play it safe, Travis ran and got the key to the office and we let ourselves in to make some photocopies. I put one copy in an envelope I addressed to myself, and another addressed to him. We also each kept a c
opy ourselves to use as a reference.
As for the original poem and photo, we decided to hide them in plain sight for now, creating a folder that looked like a camper’s medical records and simply tucking it into one of the file cabinets of the retreat center’s office. According to Travis, those files were never purged, hardly ever touched, and no one would notice. As a private joke, Travis suggested we name our fictitious camper Antoine Saenger, a lighthearted reference to the argument he and I had had last night. Thus labeled, we slipped the file marked “Saenger, Antoine” into the drawer between “Sabatino, Maria” and “Saia, Clovis.”
After locking up behind us, Travis returned the key to his friends while I made my way back to our comfy little table beside the cabin and studied my copy of the poem. My father had sent the message that I was to “follow the recipe.” Given that the recipe obviously led to the treasure, I thought I was safe to assume that that’s what was at the center of all of this tragedy. Someone else wanted the treasure and was doing whatever they could to get to it. I explained all of that to Travis when he joined me there.
“If that’s the case,” he said, taking the seat across from me, “then why do you think you were framed for murder?”
“Because for some reason they must think I’ll stop them, or I’ll get to it first, or I’ll somehow keep them from getting it themselves. They wanted me out of the way. The problem is, I never heard of the treasure before Monday, and I don’t have a clue where it is.”
“None at all?”
Feeling antsy, I stood and began pacing as we talked.
“Okay,” I said, “my best guess—and this is just a hunch—is that it’s hidden somewhere down in Paradise. After all, that’s where it was found in the first place.”
Looking at the poem, Travis began shaking his head.
“Mais non, cher, look at this last verse. It says, ‘North and West you may search for things gone amiss.’”
“And?”
Travis put down the poem and looked at me.
“If New Orleans or even Ledet’s is his starting point, Paradise isn’t north and west. It’s south and west.”
“Okay, so maybe he means the northwest corner of Paradise. Or north and west of the dock there. Or north and west of some sort of other landmark.”
“Maybe,” Travis said doubtfully, still studying the poem.
“In any event, what I’m trying to say is, there are only a handful of people who even know that the treasure exists: my father, your grandfather, their old buddy Conrad Zahn, their old lawyer Ruben Peralta, Sam Underwood, and one other investor, though I don’t know who that was. Kevin never said. Anyway, when Ruben died and Kevin took over his father’s practice, he found out about all of this. Until Kevin filled me in on Monday night, no one else knew, period. Of course, now I’ve told you.”
“So not counting you and me, that makes seven people total who have known about the treasure,” Travis said, holding up seven fingers and then counting them off as he continued, “but of those seven, Ruben passed away a while back, Kevin and Sam were murdered this week, your father was shot and is in a coma, and my grandfather is unaccounted for and may or may not have met with foul play.”
“Which leaves us with two people still standing who know about the treasure: Conrad Zahn and the other investor.”
“Whoever he was.”
“Right. Those are the two people we need to see, Travis,” I said, placing my hands down on the table and leaning forward. “This secret has been kept for fifty-eight years. If something slipped out now, it had to have slipped from one of the men in this inner circle. They might be able to shed some light on things.”
“Of course, it could be that one of these two guys is the killer himself. Maybe this violence is going to continue until there’s only one left, and all he’ll have to do is grab the treasure and walk away with it.”
“If he can find it, that is. Remember, no one knows where it is except for my dad and your grandfather. From what I can tell of this poem, each man has some sort of clue, but it takes all of the clues, put together, to get to that treasure.” I pointed to the second-to-last verse. “It says it right here: ‘Divided among those named in this poem, I give each a quantity that’s theirs alone. Together they come to solve this rhyme, the treasure they only together can find.’”
“Like a treasure map.”
“Right. The thing is, I’m far less interested in finding the treasure than I am in finding the person or people who are after that treasure—the ones who keep leaving bodies in their wake. Still, I have a feeling that we should look for both at the same time.”
“Both?”
“The killer and the treasure. The sooner we can find that treasure and take it public, the sooner we foil the killer and remove the danger. Our mission is to find the killer or at the very least find the treasure. Either way, if that’s really what this whole thing is all about, once we do that the killing will stop.”
Thus, with the big picture in mind, Travis and I went through the poem, line by line. Decoding the first verse was simple:
There is a place of great repast,
Where promises and friendships last.
Where patrons dine on meals of kings,
And Quarter boys can live their dreams.
The “place of great repast” in the first line was Ledet’s restaurant. The “Quarter boys” in the last line were my father and Sam, who had grown up next door to each other in the French Quarter. Both of them had found jobs in the restaurant industry at a very young age and continued to stay with it in one capacity or other. For many years, my dad dreamed of owning his own restaurant, and he always promised Sam that once he did, Sam would be his manager and right-hand man.
Given what we knew, the meaning of the next verse was also quite clear:
Yet not alone do I succeed,
But with your help in word and deed.
And so I give you at this time,
Security inside a rhyme.
Clearly, these were references to the financial deal that Ruben Peralta had arranged between my father and the investors. We decided “Security inside a rhyme” was just another way of saying, “I’m using the treasure that this poem leads to as collateral for your loans.”
Thus, the next verse also made sense:
Here in the City Care Forgot
We’ll make a gumbo in a pot.
So grab your spices from the shelf.
We start with Chef Ledet himself
To keep the whereabouts of the treasure’s location a secret, the poem had been written in the pretense of a recipe for gumbo when what it really was, was a recipe for finding the treasure. As for the first line, New Orleans was often called the City That Care Forgot.
I didn’t quite get why my father had included the next verse:
In gumbo, always make a roux,
4T oil heated through.
Then add 5T of flour, white,
Stirred over heat till the color’s right.
I expressed my confusion on this one to Travis.
“That is how you start a gumbo,” Travis said. “Maybe he had to put this part in there just to make the poem seem realistic, like it really was just a recipe for gumbo.”
“Okay,” I said, skimming the rest, “so then why is this the only ingredient for which he gives a precise measurement? Four tablespoons oil, five tablespoons flour. Those numbers must be important somehow.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you think he means by ‘till the color’s right’?”
“The color is the most important part of a roux, cher. Don’t you know how to cook gumbo?”
I shrugged, not explaining about my one disastrous experience at gumbo when I was sixteen years old. My father had taken a rare day off from work and we were both at home, so in yet another desperate attempt to get his attention, I had had the brilliant idea of asking him to teach me how to cook.
Much to my delight, he was pleased with my request at first, eag
erly gathering the ingredients from the kitchen cabinets and describing for me the origins of gumbo and the infinite number of variations that people had managed to create over the years. His version started with a roux and ended with filé, he said, though many folks believed you didn’t need filé if you had a roux.
He prattled on and on, and though I didn’t care much about the specifics, I remember beaming in the glow of my father’s undivided attention. With him watching over my shoulder, I stood at the stove and stirred the flour into the oil exactly as he directed.
“The trick is to keep stirring and stirring and watching and watching as it changes colors,” he said.
Sure enough, the longer I stood there and stirred, the mixture began to change from a light brown he called “béchamel sauce” to a darker one he deemed “sauce piquant.” As it slowly grew even darker, I thought the mixture might burn, but he assured me that as long as I kept stirring we could push it to the very limits, to that precise dark brown moment that waited between “not quite enough” and “disaster.”
Unfortunately, the phone rang as we were coming into the home stretch. He answered it, motioning for me to keep stirring. My arm was getting tired, though, so when he ducked around the corner to talk, I took a moment to shake out my arm and switch the spoon to my other hand. That one didn’t work as well for stirring, though, so I switched back, accidentally dropping the spoon in the process.
Mortified, I wiped up the globby mess from the front of the stove and the floor as quickly as I could, knowing that that sort of clutziness in Ledet’s could get a person fired. Hiding the dirty paper towels in the trash and the spoon in the sink, I ran to get a new, clean spoon from the drawer. I made it back to the stove, spoon in hand, just before my father hung up the phone and returned to the room.
I thought I had gotten away with it, but the moment he came around the corner, he screamed. Apparently, in the few seconds it had taken me to clean up my mess, my lack of stirring had caused the roux to burn.
Under the Cajun Moon Page 16
