Under the Cajun Moon

by Mindy Starns Clark

  At least we finally learned how Wade Henkins had come to know about the treasure in the first place. According to court testimony, it had simply been a matter of his having been in the right place at the right time. Working security at Ledet’s on the night of Ruben Peralta’s funeral, he had been fine-tuning the alarm system down in the wine cellar when he overheard a conversation between my father and Sam. They had thought they were having a private discussion about the need to tell Kevin Peralta all about the treasure now that he would be taking over his father’s practice. Putting two and two together, Wade had begun snooping around after that, embarking on a greedy pursuit that would eventually end up in murder.

  About six months after the treasure was made public and just before it was about to go up for auction at Christie’s, we were contacted by a representative of the French government and told that the treasure rightfully belonged to them. Just as my father had always feared, by revealing the statuettes to the world, it looked as though we were going to lose them entirely.

  But my father hadn’t counted on my help in the matter. The day the representative showed up to claim the gold and bring it back to France, we all decided to meet for lunch at Ledet’s and give the treasure a proper sendoff.

  I’m not sure what tipped me off about the representative first, if it was the “okay” sign he flashed during conversation (which, to the French, meant “zero,” not “okay”) or the fact that he politely kept one hand on his lap during the entire meal (when the French politely keep both hands on the table). But at some point, because of his very American etiquette, I began to suspect that the man wasn’t actually French at all. Discreetly, I managed to quiz him about French protocol, French manners, and even the order of the seven courses in a Parisian restaurant. He failed on all accounts, and so, as we were waiting for our desserts, I excused myself to go to the restroom and called up the police instead. The man was under arrest practically before the others at our table even understood what was going on. I was afraid he might be an extended relative of the Henkins, maybe one who hadn’t participated in the original crime and wasn’t serving time at Angola like the others. But as it turned out, this guy was just a petty criminal from Shreveport who had apparently planned to con the gold right out of our hands and then disappear.

  Two weeks later we were all stunned when the fleur-de-lis statuettes sold at auction for $96 million dollars. Once we all had our money, it was fun deciding how to utilize it. I was especially touched when my father established a huge memorial scholarship fund in honor of his late best friend and right-hand man, Sam. Because he had been in the hospital and missed Sam’s funeral, my dad had rented out Preservation Hall just last week, on the anniversary of Sam’s death, and thrown a huge musical party in his honor instead. Travis and I had been there, and it was one of the first times I had ever interacted with my parents in a social setting and hadn’t felt in any way excluded or overlooked. I still wasn’t sure if that was because I was changing or they were, or both.

  Following his example, I had established a scholarship fund of my own, one in honor of Ben Runner that would benefit Chitimacha tribe members who were interested in majoring in the fields of medicine or pharmacology. I also made a sizeable donation to the Tribe’s already-outstanding senior care program and managed to convince Josie Runner to take advantage of all the services available to her there. With the help of her fellow tribe members, we even engineered a complete renovation of her house. Given the fact that I had nearly gotten her killed, I thought it was the least that I could do.

  As for me, all charges had been dropped by the time we were rescued from the salt mine. Many inconsistencies had led Detective Walters to rethink his original impressions about the case, especially when blood samples taken from me and from Kevin Peralta had both tested positive for the date rape drug known as GHB. Wade Henkins, on the other hand, was convicted of numerous felonies and had recently begun serving concurrent life sentences at Angola State Prison. His brothers were at Angola as well.

  In fact, many parts of what had gone so wrong one year before had actually turned out so right in the end. As the wedding reception drew to a close, my father gave a beautiful toast to the bride and groom, welcoming Travis into our family. Later, I found myself thinking about my father’s choice of words. Had my parents and I ever been a family? Maybe not, but we were getting there.

  As TJ happily stayed at home with his numerous aunts and uncles and cousins, Travis and I headed off for ten heavenly days in Hawaii on our honeymoon. Though the scenery was amazing and the nights breathtaking, the highlight of the whole trip for me actually came one afternoon when we were lounging around together in our rented condo. Travis decided that his new wife absolutely had to learn how to make a gumbo before the week was over. We rounded up the ingredients we needed and started with a roux, but soon Travis moved in close behind me so that he could perfect my stirring technique. That led to some kissing of my neck and a warm hand around my waist, and soon we both forgot all about the gumbo.

  Ten minutes later we were so lost in each other that the smoke alarm had to go off before we realized what was happening. As it beep-beep-beeped from high up on the ceiling, Travis moved the smoking pan from the burner while I raced to open the windows and doors to fan the smoke outside. When the alarm finally stopped, I nervously turned to look at my husband’s face.

  “You’re not mad that we burned the roux?” I asked, biting my lip.

  “Why?” he replied, seeming genuinely perplexed. “It’s just a roux.”

  At that moment, my eyes filled with tears. He didn’t understand my reaction at all, and I had to assure him that they were happy tears, not sad.

  “If you say so, cher.”

  Standing there and looking at each other, I recognized yet another facet of the character of God. Somehow, He had a way of bringing into my life people who were helping me to heal and grow. Chief among them was my new husband.

  As he wrapped his arms around me and we picked up where we had left off, I knew one thing for sure: I would love this man forever.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Under the Cajun Moon is Mindy’s eleventh novel from Harvest House Publishers. Previous books include the bestselling Gothic thriller, Whispers of the Bayou, and Amish romantic suspense, Shadows of Lancaster County, as well as the Million Dollar Mysteries and the Smart Chick Mystery series, which includes The Trouble with Tulip, Blind Dates Can Be Murder, and Elementary, My Dear Watkins.

  Mindy is also a playwright, a singer, and a former stand-up comedian. A popular speaker at churches, libraries, civic groups, and conferences, Mindy lives with her husband and two daughters near Valley Forge, Pennsylvania.

  In any story, where facts are used to mold and shape fiction, sometimes it becomes hard for readers to tell the two apart, particularly when learning about a history or culture that isn’t overly familiar. For more information and to find out which elements of this story are fictional and which are based on fact, visit Mindy’s website at:

  www.mindystarnsclark.com.

  Anna Bailey thought she left the tragedies of the past behind when she took on a new identity and moved from Pennsylvania to California. But now that her brother has vanished and his wife is crying out for help, Anna knows she has no choice but to come out of hiding, go home, and find him. Back in Lancaster County, Anna follows the high-tech trail her brother left behind, a trail that leads from the simple world of Amish farming to the cutting edge of DNA research and gene therapy.

  Following up on her extremely popular gothic thriller, Whispers of the Bayou, Mindy Starns Clark offers another suspenseful standalone mystery, one full of Amish simplicity, dark shadows, and the light of God’s amazing grace.

  * * *

  ISBN: 978-0-7369-2447-4 $13.99 Read a sample chapter: www.HarvestHousePublishers.com

  If you enjoyed Under the Cajun Moon,

  you’ll love Shadows of lancaster County.

  Here’s a sample…

  ONE

/>   BOBBY

  I’m dead. The powerful engine gunning behind him drowned out every other thought. He held on to the handlebars of the borrowed motorcycle, crouched low on the leather seat, and accelerated as far as he dared. When the dark car struck his rear tire the first time, he managed to hang on through the jolt, though just barely. Regaining control, he crouched even lower and gripped the handlebars more tightly, adrenaline surging in the piercing cold. In vain he searched the blackness ahead for an escape, for some point of diversion where the motorcycle could go but the car pursuing him could not. Caught on the wide curve of a hilly highway, there were no shoulders here, and no way to know what lay in the darkness off to the right beyond the metal guardrail. Worse, he knew he couldn’t swerve back and forth on the blacktop to dodge the next hit, because moves like that on a motorcycle would end up flipping the bike and high-siding him whether the car rammed into him again or not.

  A second jolt came just as the guardrail ended, a collision that nearly managed to unseat him. Barely hanging on, he regained his balance, scooted forward on the leather seat, and took a deep breath, conscious of the vehicle still roaring aggressively behind him in murderous pursuit. In a choice between certain death on the road and possible survival off of it, he steeled his nerves and made the decision to leave the pavement no matter what he might run into. Holding on tight, he shifted his weight and angled the handlebars to the right, veering into the unknown darkness. The action was punctuated by a series of bumps and jolts as his tires went from blacktop to gravel to crunchy brown grass.

  Let it be a field, God. Let it be somebody’s farm.

  The headlamp of the borrowed motorcycle was strong, its beam slicing through the February night air to reveal the unfamiliar terrain he had driven himself into. Before he could discern what lay ahead, however, before he could even slow down or adjust his direction or see if the car had tried to follow, he spotted the looming gray mass in front of him—a solid, four-foot-high cement retaining wall. He knew this was the end.

  The sudden stop flung him heavenward, propelling him in a broad arc across the night sky like the flare of a Roman candle. As he went, he thought mostly of the ground far below him, the frozen and unforgiving earth that was going to greet him by shattering his bones or snapping his neck upon landing. He prayed for the latter, less painful option.

  Let it end quickly, God.

  As his trajectory continued, his limbs instinctively flailing against the void, his mind went to one person: his younger sister, Anna. He hoped beyond hope that his message would get to her, that she would understand what he wanted her to do. For a guy who didn’t even own a computer, he found it vaguely ironic that the last thought that raced through his mind just before certain death was of an email. But the message he had sent her was the only chance he had, the only hope that Lydia and Isaac might still be protected. That one email was the only way his desperate efforts might save his wife and son and the unborn child Lydia was carrying.

  Let it end quickly, God, he prayed again just before impact. And please, God, please guide Anna to the truth.

  TWO

  ANNA

  The nightmare started up again last night.

  That was the first thought that struck me as I turned off the alarm. Somewhere in the early hours of the dawn I had gone there in my sleep for the first time in many months. Now as I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, I couldn’t understand why it was back, this nightmare that had plagued me off and on for the past eleven years.

  Why now? Why last night?

  Sometimes all it took was an external cue, like a house fire spotted from the freeway. An Amish character flashing across the television screen. A news report about a dead newborn baby. But I hadn’t experienced any of those things lately. There was simply no reason for the nightmare to have returned like this, out of the blue.

  Standing up, I traded my nightgown for shorts and a T-shirt and then padded into the bathroom. As I stood at the mirror and brushed my teeth, I tried not to relive it again now that I was awake, but I couldn’t help it.

  The dream was always beautiful at first: rolling fields that look like patchwork on an Amish quilt, cars sharing the road with horses and buggies, colorful laundry flapping in the wind. But then there was the farmhouse, the rambling old farmhouse. Without electricity or curtains, as I came closer the windows would turn into dark, empty eyes staring at me. My nightmare always ended the same: black to orange to hot white. Sirens. Screams. The acrid stench of smoke, of terror, of unspeakable loss. When I woke up, guilt would consume me like flame.

  Wishing I could spit out that guilt along with the toothpaste, I rinsed my mouth and then reached for my hairbrush, attacking my long, blond hair with vigor.

  It happened a long, long time ago.

  You paid your dues.

  All has been forgiven.

  Telling myself that over and over, I swept my hair into a ponytail, turned out the light, and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, judging by the mess on the counter and the fact that the door was ajar, I realized my housemate was already up and doing her exercises on the back porch. Kiki was always trying out some new fitness trend, the latest and greatest plan guaranteed to shed pounds and inches by the second. I had given up long ago trying to convince her that if she would just come jogging with me a few times a week, she would eventually achieve the results she so desperately sought. Still, I thought as I put away the juice carton and wiped off the counter, on days like today I was glad I could jog alone. I needed the quiet to clear my head and wash away the last remnants of my nightmare.

  Once the kitchen was tidy, I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and opened the back door the rest of the way; a warm ocean breeze wafted in to greet me. I stepped out onto the uneven slats of the porch and let the door fall shut behind me as I inhaled the salty sea smell of morning. Gorgeous. As someone who had grown up in snowy Pennsylvania, I knew I’d never get used to the year-round warm weather and sunshine of Southern California.

  “Howdy,” Kiki said cheerfully. She was doing stretches on the far side of the porch, past the square of rotten boards near the door. “Wanna see my new Piloga move?”

  “Piloga? What’s that? Some cross between Pilates and Yoga?”

  “No, it’s named after the founder, Manny Piloga. He teaches the fifty-plus class down at the Y.”

  I smiled, glancing at my watch. It was early yet; I could spare a few minutes to encourage her efforts—not to mention that a quick chat might help distract me even further from my nightmare. As Kiki sat on the wooden floorboards, I reached for a folded aluminum chair that was propped against the wall and told her to be careful on the floor lest she get splinters in her bottom.

  “Aw, I’ve got so much padding, I probably wouldn’t even feel it if I did,” Kiki laughed, adjusting the waistband on her pajamas and stretching her legs out in front of her.

  “Hey, I saw that guy at the grocery store flirting with you yesterday,” I reminded her as I sat in the chair. “He didn’t seem to mind a little extra padding at all.”

  “That’s ’cause he works in the deli department. He likes it when the scales weigh in heavy.”

  I rolled my eyes again, refusing to laugh at her joke, but she laughed loud enough for both of us.

  “Okay, check out the ab work I’ve been doing,” Kiki said as she leaned back, arms jutting forward parallel to the ground. Slowly, she raised her legs into the air and held them there. “I can stay like this for three minutes, just long enough for you to tell me about your date last night. A fancy dinner at Harborside, hmm? He must have had something in mind. Maybe a certain question he wanted to pop?”

  “Good grief, Kik, it was just our third date.”

  “Sometimes true love can speed things along. I got engaged to my Roger during our first date—and we were happily married for twenty-five years before he passed, God rest his soul.”

  “Yeah, well, you were one of the lucky ones. Very impressive stance, by the way.
”

  “Thanks. Manny says it strengthens the core.”

  I opened up my water bottle, took a sip, and looked at my housemate, who also happened to be my landlord, coworker, and best friend despite the twenty-one-year difference in our ages. As she maintained her bizarre position, I thought about yesterday evening, about my third and final outing with Hal, or as I had come to think of him, Hal-itosis.

  “We decided not to see each other anymore.”

  She let out a long grunt, though I wasn’t sure if it was from exertion or exasperation.

  “ ‘We’ who? ‘We’ him or ‘we’ you? Or do I even have to ask?”

  “Well, like you expected, he did take me to Harborside for a reason. He told me he wants to get more serious.”

  “Exclusive dating serious or engagement serious?”

  “I have no idea, Kik. His exact words were ‘I think it’s time we should take this to the next level.’ I didn’t even want to know what the next level was. I suggested he would be happier with someone who enjoys day-old-coffee breath.”

  A loud laugh burst from Kiki’s mouth. “You didn’t say that!”

  “No, I didn’t. But I thought it. I just told him I didn’t think it would be fair to him, because I wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m not interested in a long-term relationship…with him.”

  “Uh-huh.” She was quiet for a long moment, but her silence was louder than words.

  I looked her way to see that she was still holding her pose, though beads of sweat were now forming along her hairline.

  “What?” I demanded. “What is it you’re not saying?”

  “I don’t know, Anna, it’s just that you’re so picky about who you’re willing to go out with, which is fine. Not every fellow who comes sniffing around a pretty girl is worth her time or attention. But how come the ones who make it through the first elimination never get to the next round?”