Blood Parish

by E. J. Findorff

  “I understand the stigma, but that’s not incest,” Ruby said. “My research says second cousins with no health issues are safe to have children. It’s the first cousins that have the birth problems.”

  “I know. But it’s still weird.” She shook it off. “My grandmother Paulette became a doctor thinking her brothers were going to head the family. She had a knack for genealogy and a better business sense than all her siblings. Even if a relative didn’t participate, they were a part of it, like extras in a movie.”

  “It’s impressive by criminal standards,” Ruby commented.

  Angel scratched her brow. “Most Moreau enforcement officers are Blondeauxs, led by the sheriff, my Aunt Isabel - otherwise known as Izzy. Cousins own a lot of businesses concentrated in Lemon Twig. It would have been relatively easy to disappear that bus on the desolate highway between Brockton and Lemon Twig.”

  Donald jumped in. “Your packet contains the information on all the players and their parents. Interviews with the last people to see them alive. Those under Paulette’s command that might’ve been involved are there, too. Her four brothers and one sister are deceased, except for your Uncle Earl, your grandmother’s youngest brother.”

  “We need to keep in mind the trafficking probability,” Ruby said.

  “The initial team led by Belcher tried to make that connection with the laundering.” Donald flipped to the middle of the packet. “The money enters the parish in minimal amounts, as we’ve said. No idea where it originates, but our best guess is a neighboring state, likely a truck stop or rest area. Cash-dependent local businesses owned by Blondeauxs - strip clubs, restaurants, and the like, are given the money, and they integrate it into their profits and payouts. One other thing is the churches. Pastor Trevor Healey, in particular. No relation to any Blondeaux.”

  “He prefers to be called reverend,” Angel corrected.

  “The church receives donations from these businesses and layers it back out to foreign countries and other legal ventures. There are so many individuals participating that the single amounts aren’t worth squat.”

  Angel said, “Arresting anyone at this point is like picking up a corner drug dealer. Izzy is probably my grandmother’s successor now with Lorna gone. Beyond that, it would be my mom, or the golden child, Lucy May. These are the people I need to get closer to.”

  Ruby said, "Lucy May and Bobby are twins. As a child, Bobby hadn't been diagnosed with Autism and was caged when they didn't want to deal with him. At twenty-two, he killed his father. You went down there for the questioning just after you had entered Quantico."

  “As a wide-eyed newbie, I had no choice but to go. Turns out, Lucy May lived in my parents’ house after Doug’s murder. So, for years, she was under my mother’s tutelage. Bobby is very smart, despite getting a late start on education.” She circled his picture on the laser. “That murder dislodged the Blondeaux code in the twins. I don’t think they’re as ruthless or fully vested.”

  “And don’t forget your estranged Uncle Earl. He could be a resource.” Ruby checked a box.

  “He’s on my list. I’ll make another attempt at contact.”

  Agent Ruby held up a picture. “What about your childhood friend? Joseph Blondeaux-Mauck.”

  “Joe-Joe. He’s hot-headed—short fuse. Not a big thinker, and Paulette probably uses him for muscle. Plus, he was supposed to be paired with me, and he’s resentful. I don’t think he’d be trusted with anything important.”

  Donald said, “Maybe you should explore that. Romance him a bit. Seems you have a very short list of friends out there.”

  “Uh… no. I’d rather pull out my eyelashes. So, let’s go over Blood Parish again. I have a week to get prepared for this adventure.”

  Chapter 9

  One week later… Brockton, Louisiana

  The journey from New Orleans to Moreau Parish had taken a bit over six hours. Angel sang to the radio with the anticipation of seeing Mark again, but she didn’t hold out hope that he’d still be interested. He had ghosted her since their conversation at the Frog, but that wasn’t a concern.

  She had first dropped off her suitcases at the small quaint house the Bureau rented just outside of Moreau Parish. Agent Ruby had been there for two days, setting up their secure network and communications with a tech team that wouldn’t be staying. Angel accepted the smaller bedroom for the few weeks they would spend getting nowhere.

  The last thing Angel wanted to do was stand out in her fed clothes. Ruby helped her pick out an outfit from her crammed suitcases. Mark influenced her choice in a pretty yellow sundress and a pair of sandals. The dress allowed for a bit of cleavage, which Ruby approved. Instead of a ponytail, her wavy blonde hair fell free, parted on the side. It occasionally fell over the right side of her face.

  Angel’s truck rumbled into the Brockton business district, thirty-five miles north of unincorporated Lemon Twig. It was early afternoon and humid. Concord Street was tranquil, subdued, and lined with trees. The visual postcard of shops and restaurants was lovely.

  The back and forth travel was giving the Rock a workout, but the truck could handle it. Angel’s dad had bought the used F150 as a gift for her high school graduation. He enthusiastically pointed out all the bells and whistles and idiosyncrasies of an older model. The Rock had been her constant companion since.

  The Rock easily fit into a wide spot in front of the building address. She admired the historic French-style architecture, reminding her of the Quarter, just in a more innocent way. Many fringe Blondeauxs lived in Brockton, not being directly involved in the business.

  She entered the cool lobby, locating the first-floor suite number on a blackboard of pop-in white letters. It didn’t take long to find Mark’s office door, which was propped open with the bust of a large rusted horse head.

  “Hi. I’m Angel Blondeaux,” she announced to the receptionist, a young woman of college-age. Some low-volume pop song floated from her speakers. There was a water cooler and three chairs. A coffee table contained a spread of magazines.

  “Why, Miss Blondeaux, how are you today?”

  “Fine as sunshine. Yourself?”

  “Right as rain,” she responded. “Go right in.”

  “Thanks.” Angel proceeded past her desk. The smell of old books and older carpeting hung in the air. At first, she didn’t recognize the back of Lucy May’s head. Her hair had changed drastically with highlights. It was swept to the side, as had been suggested at the memorial.

  Lucy May turned her fairy-like profile ever so slightly, revealing heavy-handed makeup. The jeans and tee shirt used to be Angel’s from high school, obviously stolen from her old room. However, they fit her well. Lucy May pulled out a compact mirror, not really to fix her hair, but to admire it.

  The rest of the office consisted of a deep-green potted plant in the corner. Several credentials and awards hung on one wall. Volumes of books were randomly lined up and stacked on shelves; whether staged or from actual use, they were impressive. Mark kept his desk clutter-free.

  Their initial glance was like sharing a private joke. Mark said, “Angel, good to see you again. You’re the first federal agent I’ve had in my office.” He stood, his fit core leaning forward to shake her hand. He chose his clothes with care but remained casual.

  “Nice meeting you again.”

  He presented a chair to the left of Lucy May. “You obviously know your cousin.”

  “I love your hair.” Angel resisted touching it. “You look amazing.”

  “Thank you. Your idea.” Her stoic face barely registered the compliment.

  Mark shook his finger at her. “You sound like you developed some New Orleans with your accent.”

  “My Lemon twang?” Angel regretted saying something so silly.

  The man chortled. “That’s a good one.”

  “Can you two flirt after the reading?” Lucy May asked.

  Angel expected a warmer reception from her cousin, but odds were, she got a reprimand from their
grandmother for being cordial at the funeral home.

  “Just being nice, Lucy May.” Angel scanned the office. “This is a beautiful building.”

  “Built in 1876, when Brockville was called Oliver’s Point.”

  “That’s – so - interesting.” Lucy May’s voice was feathery. She stared forward, past Mark, to the window behind him.

  “Bobby doing okay?”

  “He’s fine. Can we move along?”

  “Sure.” Angel also wanted this meeting to be over so she could go back to the house and formulate the plan with Ruby. After a week or two of getting nowhere, the Bureau should tell them to pack it up.

  Mark drank some water and arranged his files. “Let’s get to it. There were only two beneficiaries named in Lorna Blondeaux’s will. Lucy May, you will inherit the total sum of three-hundred and sixty thousand dollars, including jewelry valued at twenty-four thousand dollars. Miss Lorna had been clear that Bobby wanted you to get his portion.”

  “Yeah, he’d rather not manage money.” Lucy May shifted in her chair. This was reminiscent of her questioning at the police station about her father’s murder. Her hands remained clasped in her lap. “I get the house and land, too, right?”

  Mark cleared his throat. “There was a late addendum. Miss Lorna left Angel the house… and the 1812 acres.”

  “What? Me?” Angel’s head swiveled between them. Twenty different ideas hit her at once. The biggest question was simple. Why?

  Lucy May didn’t move a muscle. It was like watching a burning fuse disappear in a stick of dynamite without exploding. Any second she would blow to pieces, but apparently, she had developed the same self-control taught at the school of Mable.

  “Did my Aunt Lorna say why?” Angel asked.

  “No, I’m afraid not. I have to hold the estate for six months for disputes and such, but Miss Lorna stipulated that you live there to maintain the property, but you can’t sell or do work to the house or land.” Mark then pulled an envelope from a large safe in the cabinet behind him. “Miss Lorna also indicated that you must open this letter up in private and suggested keeping it in a safe place.”

  “Okay.” Angel accepted the plain white envelope – another stick of dynamite?

  Lucy May pulled out a cell phone from her back pocket, dialed, and put the phone to her ear. She spoke in a monotone, not bothering to be discrete. “Yeah. No. She left the land to Angel. Yeah. Yeah. I’m still here now. Yeah. Yeah.”

  She slipped the phone back into jeans.

  “I know this must be a shock…” Mark began.

  Lucy May stood to face Angel. “You’re going to keep it?”

  “I have no intention of keeping it, Lucy May. But I’m not going to refuse it until I know why your mother would do this.” She looked at Mark. “How long do I have to decline?”

  “About eight months. If you decide to refuse it, or if anything should happen to you, God forbid, it will automatically go to Lucy May, the contingent beneficiary.”

  If they killed me, Angel thought.

  Lucy May’s eyes wandered. “She did this to get back at me for moving out. My mom was forced to live in that house, but I couldn’t.”

  “Aunt Lorna was forced to live there?” Angel asked.

  Lucy May’s hand covered her forehead, whispering, “I just want the house bulldozed.”

  Angel reached out. “Just be patient, okay? The entire estate is yours. I swear. Stop by if you want anything.”

  “I don’t. Donate everything to Reverend Trevor’s church. Or leave it. I don’t care.”

  Mark said, “You can contest it, but it is a long and tedious process that requires a stringent…”

  “I’m not contesting,” Lucy May interrupted. “I’ll trust Angel will keep her word.” She stepped up to Mark’s desk. “Do I need to sign something?”

  Lorna’s offspring, the one that hadn’t been caged, exited with a slight nod to Angel. The door closed with barely a click. Angel leaned forward with her elbows on her knees while absorbing the moment. She was aware that Mark avoided glancing at her cleavage.

  “1812 acres? Are you kidding me?” She leaned back and pulled up at her dress. “My cuz almost shit a brick, didn’t she?”

  “Not my place to say.” Mark started collecting his files. “But, yeah.”

  Chapter 10

  Mark Senn pulled out an old-school, folded paper map complete with elevation lines. Neither one mentioned their last encounter at the Frog. It was like a game of chicken to see who would make that initial move. He spread the map out in order to draw an imaginary rectangle with his finger. He smelled of coconut.

  “You get all this land here. It’s nearly three square miles. The prison is here.”

  “Unreal that they built an actual prison.”

  “Maybe half the size of Angola. Although the insurance and taxes are rather hefty. I asked Miss Lorna why they wouldn’t just tear it down. She was very evasive.”

  “That would be grandma Paulette’s decision.” She moved her hair behind her ear.

  “There are lots of dirt access roads not marked here, and your land is parallel to other parcels owned by, well, more of your relatives.”

  Angel thought back to the Blood Parish file she had just studied back in New Orleans. “My great grandfather George Blondeaux had the prison built in 1932. A handshake deal with Huey Long during his road-building initiative. George offered a crew to help build roads in the area. Three years before the governor was assassinated.”

  “Amazing.”

  “The prison was abandoned soon after because George fell ill, and no one wanted to take on a beast like that.”

  “I know the abbreviated history. Including speculation about the missing bus of players.”

  “The prison was the first place searched after they found the burned-out bus carcass.”

  “The archives say your great-grandfather George had bought all this land at a government auction for ten dollars an acre.”

  “Can probably get fifteen an acre now.”

  “A lot more than that. Depends who wants it, though.” Mark smoothed the map again. “About thirty-five years ago, Miss Lorna’s husband Doug put together a proposal to use the prison, thinking he could make it profitable. Have you ever tried to open a privately funded prison? Nightmare.”

  “The area became the Glue Trap,” she said absently. “At least the parish communities thrive.”

  “Your family even planned ahead, putting in a water tower here.” He pointed. “And a sub-station here, just outside your property line. Still maintained and operational. However, the growth is still hampered. Well, not hampered, but unwelcome.”

  “Moreau Parish is the least populated, most isolated parish in Louisiana. There’s a reason for that.”

  “I’d love to hear the untold history of the Blondeauxs.”

  “Are you trying to pick me up at the reading of a will?”

  With a smile, he rubbed his brow. “Sorry, I never contacted you. I just...”

  She shrugged it off. “You were going to come off as desperate or a jag, so you weren’t going to win either way.”

  “Oh, I see. I should just stick to funerals, then.”

  “In that case, who can I kill?”

  “There has to be a funeral going on somewhere.”

  And just that easily, they picked up where they had left off. She continued with flushed cheeks. “Okay. Blondeaux history. Back in the mid-1800s, there were Blondeauxs and Renards peppered throughout the parish. My direct descendent, Elroy Blondeaux, was one of ten siblings - five boys and five girls. Betty Renard was one of ten siblings - again, five boys and five girls. All were farmers when Lemon Twig was just a twig. Ten boys married ten girls, having many kids.” Angel circled a spot just beyond Main Street.

  “Makes sense.”

  “They weren’t far from the Mississippi River. They secretly grew weed and made moonshine. Got into guns. Gambling. Dabbled in whatever illegal activity they could. They were so leery o
f outsiders that cousins married each other until the law caught up with them.”

  Mark drank from a bottle of water. “Louisiana doesn’t allow first-cousin marriages anymore.”

  “It’s not a proud history.”

  “I didn’t know any of that.” Mark ran his fingers through his hair.

  Angel pointed to several spots on the map where the topographical rings grew closer. “Are these burial mounds?”

  “Indian mounds, yes.”

  “I never knew about the one on Lorna’s property.”

  “They’re historical sites. Don’t mess with them. You have a stream back here, some good hunting, a small lake, but most of the acreage is forestry.”

  “Looks like good ATV riding.”

  “That it does.” Mark backed away, leaning on a chair. “I wish I could’ve gotten to see the house. I kind of had this morbid curiosity about the room the murder happened in.”

  She folded the map. “Wouldn’t you have done that as executor?”

  “Unfortunately, no. A realty company handled home inspection.”

  “You want to check it out? It’s forty miles, though.”

  “Really? Are you trying to take me home, Miss Blondeaux?”

  She wagged her finger at him. “Good one.”

  “Just let me lock up.”

  Chapter 11

  The return drive from Brockton seemed like a long one with Mark on her tail. Angel continually glanced at the letter sitting on the passenger side of the cab. It practically vibrated. Aunt Lorna needed her to open it in private, and she couldn’t do that with Mark around.

  Once past Lemon Twig’s fancy boutique businesses on Broad Street and into the immediate residential neighborhood, one could see how well its residents lived. The roads were perfectly maintained, leading to paver driveways and crisply painted two-stories, some with columns. The sky seemed a brighter cyan. Most side streets had kids playing in them. It was upper-middle-class all the way.

  The better homes soon disappeared. The houses grew scarce, seemingly leaning away from Angel’s destination. The aging domiciles were spread apart on large plots of land, with no rhyme or reason regarding continuity. No fences or bushes indicated a property’s border. Sometimes a freshly mowed lawn butted up to a weed-filled mess. Most had long dirt driveways leading to a carport or garage. The distant towering water reservoir resembled an upside-down balloon.