Blood in the Lake

by Anne L. Simon

  “Fixing the blinds won’t help, Mom. Let’s raise some windows and get fresh air in here. The problem is the musty smell.”

  I tugged at a window, and the sash broke free with a thunderclap, rattling the old glass. Mom jerked her head back as if I’d struck her on the chin. Her nerves had a way to go. Fresh fall breeze chased dust bunnies across the floor. Mom took a deep breath, and I could see her shoulders relax.

  “You’re right, dear. The air feels good.”

  The past few years PawPaw hadn’t kept up the place, and being shut up tight since the funeral didn’t help, but with a lot of work and money, the house could once again be a wonderful home. Not grand like Jefferson House next door, of course. The Victorian mansion was gorgeous.

  I glanced around the wide hallway. “I love this old place.”

  My thoughts drifted. Wouldn’t it be great to restore this house? I’d love to see what could be done with the heavy walnut pocket doors separating the side rooms from the hall. Someone could redo the floor and re-attach the ceiling medallions. And the yard! I’d start by trimming the Magnolia grandiflora and Grancy Greybeards that twin-towered the front yard, and then I’d clear out the sad remains of the haphazard plantings to let the sweet-olive trees waft fragrance across the porches. In the backyard, except for the Satsuma, the fig tree, and the three blueberry bushes that earned their keep with fruit every spring, I’d get rid of everything and open up a view straight down to the lake.

  Get a grip, girl. How could you even think of such things when you don’t even have a job? The whole house needed to be scraped and painted. The roof probably leaked, the porches needed to be rebuilt, and who knew what else was about to fall apart? Fixing up just the outside would cost more than a year’s law school tuition. In this family, only Dora, who lived a thousand miles away, had the means to undertake a restoration. The old house would have to be sold.

  When I turned around, Mom had raised her eyebrows in my direction, one hand on her hip. “Honey, no one would ever know you’re almost through law school. Don’t you think it’s about time you dressed a little more professionally? You could run next door and...”

  Mom smiled as she scolded; she wasn’t really mad. I pushed my bangs behind my right ear, but they dropped back into my face again. What a stupid hairdo—the tousled look. I needed to find a style I didn’t have to fool with all the time.

  Mom continued her fuss about having a family meeting. “Mr. Strait—of course he’s still Jerry to me—is the one who asked me to put this day together, but he didn’t see fit to tell me why. I guess we’re going to hear how the investigation is going. There’s talk around town the cops have a suspect.”

  Actually I knew that and more, but I wasn’t telling Mom. I’d met one of Mr. Strait’s assistants, Tom Barnett, at a football party, and I’d seen him a couple of times since. In fact, whenever my phone rang, my eyes shot to caller ID in the hope I’d see his name on the screen. The central hall of the old house had been the command post for the search—which gave me an idea. “Maybe memories of PawPaw floating around will help keep everyone harmonious.”

  Mom let out another snort. “That’s enough chairs for now, Mandy. We have more in the closet if we get a crowd, and maybe then someone will give us a hand. I hope this meeting is over before time for lunch.” Mom was into resentment today.

  “I’ll make sure there’s something to eat if we’re still going strong by noon.”

  Mom knew I meant a tray of sandwiches from Subway at the Exxon station on the way to town. My generation wouldn’t spend time preparing what we could easily acquire.

  Mom had good reason to worry about gathering the family. Would they even come? A month ago everyone was of one mind in sorrow, but as the sharpness of PawPaw’s brutal death faded to dull pain, and the sheriff hadn’t arrested anyone, old irritations began to scrape against one another. Frustrated and impatient, my aunts and uncles looked around for someone to blame. Uncle Ti had his designated villain. He would leap at any opportunity to complain about the sheriff. I hoped he’d bring Nell to the meeting. He was a lot easier to tolerate with his wife around. Uncle Bub would also come. He’d taken the loss of PawPaw harder than anyone. He didn’t live alone in his cabin in our backyard anymore but had moved into our house. He slept in my older brother Emile’s old room. Uncle Etienne, who lived in town, told Mom he’d be here.

  “Do you think Uncle ‘Tienne will have anything to say today?” I asked.

  “I hope we find out what he has on his mind. Maybe he’ll speak up and not sit there like Charlie McCarthy.”

  “Charlie McCarthy?”

  “Before your time, honey.” Mom almost smiled. “Sunday night radio. Charlie McCarthy was a puppet on the lap of a ventriloquist named Edgar Bergen.”

  I had a mental picture of ‘Tienne perched on Berthe’s rotundity!

  Mom didn’t know if we’d see Uncle J. Allen. Farmers always have some pressing task as an excuse for whatever family event they’d prefer to skip. Aunt Mazie and Aunt Tut would come, but not Aunt Dora. She’d flown in from Atlanta for the funeral, arriving the day before and leaving the day after.

  Mom called the convent in New Orleans to ask about PawPaw’s only living sibling, Mom’s godmother, Sister Agnes. Before she took vows, Sister Agnes was the first Mimi. Mother Superior said a three-hour car trip would be a risk. Not a surprise. When the old nun walked up the aisle at PawPaw’s Mass, I thought she’d blow over if anyone so much as sneezed.

  Mom didn’t extend a special invitation to any of the grandchildren, or even ask for them to be told about the meeting, but a few would show up anyway. No one in this family waited for an invitation to a gathering. Mom had given my brothers and me our orders. Come if you want, but be seen and not heard. I’d tried to make a few suggestions about how the family meeting should go, but she told me to forget Robert’s Rules. She admitted set procedures help people get through sticky situations, but said since the DA wanted this gathering, he’d have to figure out how to make it work.

  At a quarter to ten, Aunt Mazie and her husband Al arrived—fifteen minutes early. Mazie wore a flower-printed mid-calf dress, stockings rolled below her knees, dress shoes. Clearly she had no intention of helping out.

  “Oh, Mimi. I just didn’t know what it would be like to come back to the house again. No, I didn’t know what it would be like today.”

  “Why does Mazie always say everything twice?” I muttered for Mom’s ears only.

  “And always the obvious,” she whispered back.

  You might think Mom would feel motherly and forgiving towards her baby sister, but many times Mom had told me how spoiled Mazie had been as a child, and how her husband Al spoiled her now. One child was quite enough for Mazie, and Al had to do whatever was needed to raise their little girl. Mazie spent most of the day in a lounge chair watching her “stories” on TV. Today she had sticking-up rooster-hair to show she’d logged time there already. Mom scowled in Mazie’s direction, then scurried to find a chair more comfortable than the metal ones she had set up for everyone else. Mom spoiled her baby sister once more!

  Out front, the doors on the next car to pull up popped open, spilling a half dozen passengers onto the lawn—Aunt Tut and her family. When her children were young, Aunt Tut had a station wagon for car pooling the girls to dancing lessons and the boys to Boy Scout campouts and the ball fields. With two children already married, and four more marriages to go, Tut had just bought a used Chrysler Explorer to taxi around the next generation. Aunt Tut went around to the back hatch and retrieved three plastic covered trays. Mom wouldn’t have to worry about lunch after all. Tut always seemed to know what was needed, and she seemed to find the time to go to no end of trouble. Today she had brought sandwiches, drinks, and chips.

  Ti Pierre arrived next, his wife Nell with him, thank God. And then Uncle Etienne and Aunt Berthe pulled up. J. Allen came after all. He’d stopped at our house to pick up Bub. We had all the siblings, except Aunt Dora.

  An
d we’d picked up at least a dozen grandchildren as well. They walked into the house quietly enough, but soon greetings bubbled up into chatter. Not even a solemn occasion could keep them from being glad to see each other. We called that ‘cousination’.

  At ten o’clock, District Attorney Gerald Strait arrived. A tall, suited man walked at his side. Tom.

  Mr. Strait moved easily around the room, greeting almost everyone by name. Smooth, he asked about the count of the shrimp in the last catch, the sucrose level in the sugarcane, if the rice fields were ready to be flooded. He knew the predictions for the local football teams and who won the Chevy pickup at Our Lady of the Sea fall festival raffle. Mom had known Gerald Strait since he was a boy. She’d watched with pride as he took the top spot in the power structure of the district—District Attorney. She gave him about fifteen minutes to work the room, then spoke over the hum with the tone of someone calling a meeting to order.

  “Quiet, y’all. Let’s settle down. Mr. Strait doesn’t have all day.” Her glance to me said, You see, Mandy, I really am going to follow some procedure here. Scraping of chairs on the bare wood floor replaced the buzz of conversation. Women took the front seats, the men drifted to the sides, and the young people clumped together in the back.

  “Jerry—Mr. Strait.” Mom corrected herself. “Come on up front. I think we’re all anxious to hear what you have to say.” Mom directed him to a marble-top table at the end of the hall, then she turned and sat down on the front row. Mr. Strait cleared his throat and looked over the crowd. He raised his chin, and his brows dropped just a touch.

  “My friends, I would like once again to extend to all of you my deepest sympathy for your loss.” For a good three minutes Mr. Strait played the condolence tape. Yada, yada, yada. Get to the point, man. Then he moved on to topic number two.

  “I know, my good friends, nothing we can do will bring back your beloved PawPaw, but I have important news. The sheriff is wrapping up his investigation.” Mr. Strait straightened up to all of his five feet six inches—which reminded me that out in the country they call him the little man with glasses. “This morning Judge Bonin signed an arrest warrant for the person the detectives have concluded is responsible for your father’s death. His name is Remuald Richard.”

  He paused, raised his chin. Someone started to clap, and then came a roll of cheers. Half the room rose to their feet, then the remainder joined them. “Yeah, man!” “Way to go!” Mr. Strait’s face cracked open in a smile. He leaned back on his heels and let the good feelings roll in. A sputtering of questions bubbled from the crowd. He picked out Aunt Tut to recognize first.

  “Is he the same man who, you know, beat up the lady on Captain Cade Road?”

  The DA raised his thumb in a congratulatory gesture. “I believe you surmised there might be a connection between two violent crimes in two days, didn’t you? Good thinking. Yes, Mrs. Bienvenu. The same one.”

  “Does he come from these parts?” Al, Aunt Mazie’s husband, asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Randall. I think he’s lived in this district most of his life. We believe he was born in lower St. Martin, moved around a lot, and for a few years worked offshore. He spent his onshore time wherever he could find a bed. We’ll be learning a lot more about him.”

  Mom raised her hand to ask a question. “Jerry, has he been arrested? Is he in jail?”

  I knew what she was thinking. Are we safe?

  “No, not yet, Mrs. Aguillard.” Mr. Strait tossed away the words as if arrest would be a mere formality. Not the case, I knew from Tom. The sheriff had the name of the suspect but the search for his whereabouts had just begun. “He may have fled the State, but the word is out all over the South. It won’t be long before we find him. He’s just your ordinary criminal type.”

  Ti Pierre exploded from the side of the room. “Ordinary? Hell, no! He don’t sound so ordinary to me. He’s some kind of monster.”

  Mr. Strait smiled. “Of course, Ti Pierre. What I mean is he isn’t someone with international connections and a Swiss bank account. He’s going to have to find money to live, and his friends around here are the only ones who can supply it. We’ll find those friends and they’ll talk. Actually, Richard was in our jail on a drug charge not too long ago.”

  “Shit! That figures. The sheriff had him and let him go.” Ti Pierre again. Why on earth did the family allow Uncle Ti to be so obnoxious?

  Mr. Strait continued. “The sheriff and I are having a joint press conference at noon today to announce the name of the man we want for these two brutal crimes. We’ll be asking anyone with knowledge of his whereabouts to come forward, and we’ll let the public know that if anyone gives him safe harbor, they’ll be prosecuted themselves. Someone will talk, I promise you.”

  “Will there be a reward offered?” Aunt Tut asked.

  “We’ve not set that up as yet. If necessary, we will do so.”

  I’d watched enough TV to know the family would be asked to kick in to the kitty. We’d probably find out about that little detail later on.

  Mr. Strait answered a few more questions and then played the political tape. “I want you all to know that the offices of the District Attorney will see to it that justice is done. In a few weeks I will present the case to the Grand Jury. If they return an indictment for first degree murder of your PawPaw, as I expect they will, we will not rest until we have looked at every bit of evidence, until we have prepared the case to the very best of our ability, until we have presented the evidence in the court of law, until we have obtained a conviction. Then we will see to it that the perpetrator of this horrendous crime receives what he deserves.”

  Mr. Strait passed his eyes around the room. “Of course, we have a long road ahead. We will try the case and then we will endure those long appeals. The trial will be handled by my first assistant here, but of course I will closely supervise everything that takes place. My friends, we will be seeing a lot of each other over the next year.”

  “The next year?” Ti Pierre exploded again. This time he stood up to rant. “You’re going to take a year to put an end to the monster?” This time, Mr. Strait ignored Uncle Ti. Good. We’d all had enough of him.

  Mr. Strait turned to find his assistant in the crowd. “Mr. Barnett, Tom, would you please come up here and introduce yourself to these good people?”

  All eyes turned to the back of the room where Tom was standing—next to me. Mom let out a puff of breath. I’d already told her I’d met the assistant DA who’d be in charge of the case, but she hadn’t put two and two together. I watched Tom walk to the front of the group and replace his boss behind the little table. Younger, of course, and taller. Actually drop-dead handsome. I felt hot, and I’m sure my face turned crimson.

  Tom had a serious expression, his face pale in comparison to Mr. Strait’s. Unlike his boss, Tom didn’t take off a couple afternoons a week to go fishing or play golf.

  “Some of you may know me already, but let me introduce myself. I’m Thomas Barnett, Tom. For some time I’ve been handling the serious felonies occurring in this parish.” He spoke slowly, with the marked accent of the northeastern part of the state. I remembered what one of my law school classmates said about our torts professor who came from Bastrop—when you heard his accent you had to remind yourself he could read and write.

  “We’ll be talking together quite a bit over the next few months. Probably y’all don’t know all the procedures we have to follow in a case like this, but where murder is involved, we have to start with the Grand Jury. Today, at the press conference, Mr. Strait will announce that once Remuald Richard is arrested, we’ll call the Grand Jury back into session and present the evidence the sheriff has assembled. My friends,” Tom smiled, “we have very good evidence.”

  Tom had the full attention of his audience. He looked from one face to another as if he were already talking to the jury. But he was difficult to understand through the filter of his north Louisiana twang.

  “I fully expect the Grand Jurors will brin
g in an indictment for first degree murder of Pierre Boudreaux, your PawPaw. That’s what we have here, first degree murder. For two reasons. First: the killing of a human being when the offender is engaged in committing a felony, and we have evidence Remuald Richard was robbing your PawPaw. Second: the killing of a human being who is over sixty-five years of age. We plan to use both reasons, belt and suspenders, you might say. Then, after the Grand Jury indictment, we’ll need a couple months to prepare for trial. After the trial for first degree murder, we’ll try Richard for what he did to Mrs. Falgout.”

  “Wait a minute! Mr. Barnett. I think that’s what you said your name was.” Uncle Ti stood again. “What if he’s confessed? Do we still have to go through all that crap?”

  Mr. Strait started to move forward to come to his assistant’s rescue. Tom opened a downturned palm to smooth an imaginary ripple in the air, his raised eyebrows asking for the OK to continue. Mr. Strait backed off.

  “Mr. Boudreaux, there are different confessions. Some are more like incriminating statements, and even one signed, sealed and delivered, should we be fortunate enough to get it, is not enough evidence by itself. When the crime charged is a capital murder...” Tom trailed off. Oops! This was not the time to bring up the death penalty.

  Tom glanced at his boss with a look that said, maybe I should have let you handle the family after all. But he couldn’t stop; he was in the dance.

  “Mr. Boudreaux, over the next few months we’ll be seeing each other a lot. We’ll talk about the law, the penalty, and the long, long process we’ll be in. I’ll be trying to move as fast as possible, but we’ll all need a good portion of patience.”

  I looked over at Uncle Ti’s scowling face. He wasn’t buying the story, and he didn’t do Tom the courtesy of standing up to deliver his next shot.