by Lynn Shurr
“I need to clean up and get to the infirmary. Doc Spivey is probably there already. So far, we’ve been lucky to avoid any epidemics of typhoid or dysentery. Pneumonia is carrying off the elderly, but at least we do have a chance to see the children receive their smallpox innoculations.”
“So said Nurse Strictland who runs a very tight and clean ship. I have to say she has been almost friendly lately.”
“Evidently, Leonard’s heart conditon wasn’t as bad as we were told.” They laughed together.
He wished he could have ignored the voice calling, “Dr. Landry, you’re wanted in the commandant’s tent.”
“I need to change my clothes, soldier. Please tell the general I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, the general says right away. Miz Boylan, you’re wanted, too.”
“Would you know what’s going on?” Roz asked the private whose upper lip was covered with downy fuzz masquerading as a moustache.
“I shouldn’t say, ma’am, but…” He lowered his voice. “A big ole nigger brought a body up to camp just now. Maybe they need the doc to do an autopsy. Don’t know why they want you, Miz Boylan. Please come along and don’t give me no trouble.”
The usual crowd had formed outside the general’s tent. Above the heads, Roz could see the long ears of two mules and below their feet, a spreading puddle of water.
“Make way for the doctor,” their escort shouted, using the butt of his rifle to open a path.
As they got nearer, they could see a brawny colored man holding the reins of the mules. “Don’t need no doctor. He dead. Dressed like a king or a politician, but dat won’t get him into heaven, nossir. Might be his family would want to give dis nigger a reward for bringin’ him in.”
General Emory stood at the foot of the wagon close to a tarp-covered form, the source of the growing puddle. “Mrs. Boylan, several people have told me already this man caused trouble in camp last evening and attempted to force you to come with him. He was threatened with bodily harm by Dr. Landry, removed by the camp guards, and remanded to the company of a friend. Jasper, here, found the corpse half lodged under a railway crossing when he was walking the tracks into town. As a medical professional, I expect your stomach is strong enough to identify the body.”
He pulled back the tarp, revealing the bloated face of the corpse. One eye nothing but a black and sunken hole, but the other stared straight up, so pale a blue it was almost white. People who could see crossed themselves. Roz swallowed. “It’s Burke Boylan, my husband. We’ve been separated since January. Yesterday was the first I’d seen him in five months.”
“Dr. Landry, would you say he died from drowning or from that injury to his eye and side of the head?”
“An autopsy would be needed to determine that.”
“Just so. I understand you left camp right after Mr. Boylan and stayed out all night.”
“Yes, I drove to Chapelle to see a patient and returned around midnight but nearly drove off the road. I parked to get some rest and came back to camp this morning.”
“You were alone from midnight on? No one could testify to your whereabouts?”
“I don’t know. I was asleep. I didn’t see anyone until I approached the camp. The water came up during the night. No one would have passed me coming from Chapelle or St. Martinville. I stopped near Cade.”
“And the trestle where you found the body was near Cade, Jasper?”
“Yes, suh. Had to go way back to my cabin to get a hook and some rope to draw him up. My mules was up to dere knees in water bringin’ him here. I figured on a reward and a hot meal, leastways.”
“Go down the hill to the colored camp. Tell them General Emory said to feed you. Stay there in case we need you.”
“Whose gonna be givin’ me my reward and takin’ care of my mules, Mistah General, suh?”
General Emory did not answer the question, but his glare had Jasper jumping from the wagon and heading down the hill. All eyes followed his broad back for a moment before turning back toward the corpse and the desperate face of Rosamond Boylan.
She’d worked so hard to gain respect, but here in the close quarters of the camp, unable to ignore Pierre any longer, she’d tossed some of that reputation into the floodwaters and might be unable to retrieve it. Why not dive in all the way and save the person who had saved her? Roz took a deep breath. “Dr. Landry was with me. We arranged to meet at midnight outside the rear gate so we could be together in privacy.”
“No! Mrs. Boylan stayed here in camp all night assisting with a birth.” Pierre Landry scanned the crowd and picked out Cherie Arton. “You came for her, Cherie. Tell the general Roz never left the camp.”
Cherie opened her mouth and clamped it shut again. A solid cannonball of a woman standing next to her had given her a pinch on the hip and pushed to the front of a group of women. “Don’t you say nuttin’, Cherie Arton.”
“Mama,” Pierre said with exasperation. “When did you get here?”
“Las’ night. Da water, she come up in da house. Your papa and me, we get out da pirogue and paddle, paddle, den walk, walk, walk ’til we get here, and las’ night, I don’t see dat woman nowheres.” She pointed a finger at Roz.
“I offered to take you to Euclide’s out in Carencro three times last week, but you wouldn’t come, Mama.”
“Makes no never mind now.” Alida Landry turned on the general even though her head barely came up to his last row of medals. She shook a finger in his face. “You tryin’ to say my boy, he killed dis man over dat woman. I tell you, me, my son, he never killed nobody. Always, he fixin’up birds and dogs when he was tee-tiny. He got da gift, you know. He don’t even hunt and fish. But wit’ da ladies, dey say he can go all night. I hear what his brudders say about my Pierre, so how come you don’t believe her?”
Roz watched Pierre color under his dark morning stubble. The general’s face appeared to be getting ruddier, too. “Ma’am, I understand you are trying to defend your son, but even if he were with Mrs. Boylan last night, they might have performed an act of collusion.”
“Well, I never heard it called dat before, but my Pierre, he’s a doctor and knows all ways to do it. He wouldn’t have no time to kill nobody.”
Acutely embarrassed, Pierre Landry broke into his mother’s speech about his sexual prowess. “Mama, please go to your tent. You’re making matters worse. General, I swear I didn’t kill this man, nor was I with Mrs. Boylan last night.”
Pacing with his hands clasped behind his back, General Emory tried to restore order to the situation. “Regardless of the aforesaid, I see a man covered in mud who didn’t return to camp until daylight. I know this same man stole—or borrowed a boat as he claims—and neglected his duties to search for this woman, the wife of the victim. Camp rumors say that you, Dr. Landry, and Mrs. Boylan are lovers.”
“We are in love. We haven’t been lovers since Roz married Burke Boylan, but yes, we planned to marry when her divorce became final,” Pierre asserted.
Alida Landry sucked in her breath at that announcement. She opened her mouth, but General Emory took his turn at shaking a finger. “No, ma’am, you’ve had your say. There is enough suspicion to hold your son under arrest until the sheriff can be contacted and an autopsy is completed.”
“My patients in Chapelle—”
“Doctor Spivey will have to tend to them. Private, you will guard Dr. Landry with your life. If he attempts to leave the camp, shoot to kill. That’s an order!”
The lad turned pale under his peach fuzz. “Yessir!”
“As for you, Mrs. Boylan, you will go to your tent where I will place another guard. You will not go out unless called on to perform your duties. There will be no more collusion—I mean plotting—with Dr. Landry. Understood?”
“But I gave Pierre an alibi. Burke was with Artemus Delamare. Do you think we killed them both?”
The general drilled Roz with his gaze. “Possibly. Perhaps, the body of Mr. Boylan’s companion
will be found later.”
A ripple went through the crowd. Those being pushed aside grumbled.
“Make way! Let me through! I got all the answers. Make way!”
A gap opened near the wagon, and Artie Delamare tumbled through it. His wide pants hung soggy on his slight frame, his bow tie was wilted, and his checked coat thoroughly ruined. Only his hair held in place with pommade and perfectly parted in the middle still looked presentable. He limped forward, shaking like a wet dog.
“Artie! Thank God! You can clear this up.”
The way Roz looked at him, Artie felt like some kind of god holding another person’s fate in his hands. Roxie gazed at him that way sometimes. He hung his head and took a deep breath. “Could someone bring me a blanket and a cup of hot coffee? I’ve been up in a live oak all night with a hostile possum and a family of raccoons for company. Thought I could find my way back here, but water was every which way I went. Some men in a boat picked me up and set me down at the base of the hill. Looks like Burke got here before me.”
“Private, get this man a blanket and coffee,” General Emory ordered.
“Sir, I thought I was supposed to guard and shoot Dr. Landry.”
“I’ll shoot the both of you if you don’t get a move on, Private. Your story, sir.” The general gave Artie a curt nod and a disapproving glance at his college boy clothing.
“I drove when we left the camp last night. The guards had tied Boylan’s hands when he became violent. It was dark, and I couldn’t prevent the Mercedes from sliding into some deep water. The vehicle stalled. Burke, he wouldn’t leave the car. He wanted me to help push it out, but the water rose fast. I refused and started up the hill.”
Artie took another breath and glanced around. An avid audience hung on his every word. “Brush, boards with nails, dead animals washed up against the Mercedes.”
Artie raised his arms and smashed them down. “A tree limb hit Buster on the head. He fell face forward onto a board full of nails. The water carried him away.”
He paused dramatically. He’d stopped shaking. “I couldn’t save him. Burke Boylan caused his own death.”
Artie buried his face in his hands. One or two people applauded. The rest stood in silence.
“You’ll sign a statement to that effect?”
Artie nodded without taking his hands away from his face.
“The sheriff still might want to investigate. I know I’ll need to see the results of an autopsy myself.”
The private had returned with an army blanket over one arm and a tin cup of coffee clutched in the hand not holding on to his rifle. Roz tucked the cover around Artie’s shoulder and gave him the warm drink. The man shivered again.
“Do you think you pulled out your stitches, Artie?”
“Yes-s-s.”
“General, do we have your permission to tend to this man?”
“Go, but don’t leave the camp until I’ve collected statements from everyone involved in this sorry accident. Once again, Landry, no more incidents involving you and this woman, or I’ll have to bar you from the camp, doctor or no doctor.”
“I understand perfectly, mon general.”
****
The lamplight shone down on Artemus Delamare’s naked backside like the sun on a California beach. As ridiculous as he felt in the open hospital gown, he was as warm and dry as a newly diapered baby. He could have dozed off if Pierre Landry would quit picking splinters from his butt, but the worst was over. His wound had been cleaned and resutured. Roz held his hand. Artie gave her a brave smile.
“You’re badly bruised, Delamare. Were you hit by some trash in the water?”
“Yeah, I was hit by trash all right. Say Roz, are you and the doctor going to live happily ever after now—because I owe you one for introducing you to Boylan.”
“I hope so. He rescued me, Artie. Life is too short to wait for happiness. I want to marry Pierre before the end of June.”
The doctor looked up. “Roz, people will say you are dancing on Buster’s grave.”
“Perhaps that’s just what I want to do.”
“I’d join you in a Charleston,” Artie offered. “But I need to give my statement and get back to New Orleans before I lose my reputation as a spiffy dresser.”
He eyed the package of new underwear sent for flood victims by a Wisconsin women’s auxilliary. A checked flannel shirt and black trousers with knees so shiny they must have belonged to a shoe salesman or a priest had been plucked from the Red Cross donation bags by Roz. A brown cordouroy jacket with threadbare elbows hung off the back of a chair.
“I can tell you they aren’t going to let me sit in first class on the train back to New Orleans, and me, a high class lawyer now.”
“You passed the bar, Artie! Your family must be pleased.”
“Yeah, like your family loved it when you married Burke. He wasn’t right for you, and the law isn’t right for me, Roz. As soon as I can pack my bags, I’m heading for Hollywood. You said it—life is too short not to make a quick grab at happiness. Tell Roxie I’ll send her a postcard when I get there.”
“My sister isn’t speaking to me.”
“And she feels bad about that. Call. Hell, invite her to the wedding. The only reason all this happened was because I paid Buster to drive me to the Academy for a visit. Roxie seemed so low in her letters. I only wanted to cheer her up. That’s all there was to it, I swear. I had no idea he’d come after you.”
“It’s over now, Artie. No need to say anything more. I’ll step out while you dress.”
With Roz removed from the tent, Pierre Landry gave Artemus Delamare’s bruised backside one last inspection. “Did Burke Boylan really die the way you said, Artie?”
“Close enough. I pray to God that he drowned. You take care of Roz. She’s a great gal.”
Artie finished buttoning his pants and shrugged himself into the cordouroy jacket. He held out a hand to the doctor. “I won’t be seeing you two again unless I come back as a movie star.”
“Bon chance, Artemus.”
Artemus Delmare attempted a grand exit with a few quick dance steps. He winced and settled for tipping an imaginary hat. Roz got a whopper of a kiss on the cheek. As if that weren’t enough, he paused and said, “Adieu, adieu, adieu,” and imitated Roxie’s bobbing curtsy from Christmas Eve, 1925. The couple watched Artie limp down the hill in search of a way out of Louisiana.
Roz leaned into Pierre’s arms. “Did he say anything more about Burke’s death?”
“No. Either it happened as he said, or Artemus Delamare is a better actor than anyone suspected.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Rosamond St. Rochelle Boylan married Dr. Pierre Boniface Landry in a simple Methodist ceremony atop the hill in Camp Roy the third week in June. They had planned to wed at sunrise and in secret with Reverand Grant presiding, Leonard Spivey and Judith Strictland witnessing, but word escaped and reached the ears of Alida Landry.
Her future motherin-law cornered Roz in the nurses’ tent. Shaking a finger in her face, Madame Landry ranted, “You t’ink I don’t know you gonna marry my Pierre, eh, wit’ no banns, no priest. Well, I tell you, me, we got to wait for dat water to go down some so dat all my fam’ly can come. Any woman who would make her name black and lie to save my son, she gonna make a good Landry. Fam’ly first, always fam’ly first. It don’t matter so much my next grandbebes gonna be Met’odist.”
Roz was struck speechless. She nodded her agreement to wait two weeks and marry at noon. The decision was a good one. With the sun shining down and the waters receding, the bride and groom took their vows in front of four thousand witnesses. Colored well-wishers watched through the fence. The Widow Purdue had come, bringing Roz one of her many white dresses, now dyed a pale rose, and a large straw hat trailing a veil of tulle. Loretta arrived with an enormous bouquet made of all her garden flowers that had survived the flood, and three passengers—an excited Henri who couldn’t wait to tell Roz how he’d rowed a boat down Main Street,
Loretta’s youngest daughter, and Roxanne St. Rochelle fresh from the Academy. Roxie held the bouquet while the bride and groom exchanged thin bands of gold.
Faye wept into her handkerchief as she clung to Bernard Toomey. The pregnancy, nearly disguised by a high-waisted dress, made her an emotional mess. Their own wedding was set for the next weekend, come hell or high water, according to Bernie. Edna looked on, wondering if she’d still be single and teaching at the age of sixty-five.
Yes, there had been talk about the swiftness of the nuptials following Burke Boylan’s now confirmed accidental death by drowning, but only Verna Harkrider had been outraged. No one in Chapelle had known Boylan, but they heard he was a brutal man and halfway divorced from his wife anyhow. The Methodist women brought trays and trays of cookies, but they didn’t bring Verna.
The Red Cross volunteers came up with turkey dinners and enough sheet cake covered in vanilla icing to feed both camps. The Landrys supplied the gumbo, so spicy it brought tears to the eyes of Nurse Strictland. At least, she claimed it was the gumbo.
Pierre’s brothers formed up a band. Exiled musicians were plentiful enough in the camp for the dancing to last all day and all night without a stop, first under the shade of the mess tent with its tables pulled aside, and later under the stars where a light wind kept off the mosquitoes on this blessed day.
When Roz, her veil and dress aflutter with dollar bills pinned to the bride for a dance, sat down to drink a cup of lemonade, Roxie took a seat beside her. Shyly, she held out a postcard of the California sun setting over endless rows of orange trees.
On the back, it read, “Hey, Kiddo! I’m out in Hollywood. Everyone here is talking about a new flicker with its own sound called The Jazz Singer. Could be a big break for a guy with a great voice like mine if they make any more of them. Don’t let the Sisters turn you into a nun, and don’t take any wooden nickels. Artie.”
“I guess my love for Artie was just a silly crush. I won’t write back. Sorry I blamed you for everything.”
