Something Foul at Sweetwater

by Sandra Bretting

  “No problem. But yesterday I went out there in a white skirt and strappy sandals. Not gonna make that mistake again.”

  He chuckled. “You’re a hot mess.”

  “What killed me was getting in and out of that dang boat.”

  “Boat?”

  “Yeah . . . we took a pirogue. Borrowed the thing from Beatrice’s uncle.” My voice swelled with pride. “It was my first time out in one. Did pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

  Instead of congratulating me like I thought he would, Lance burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I glanced over at Beatrice, who pretended to study the calendar, although I knew she was eavesdropping on us.

  “Don’t you know there’s a service road out there? It’s used by the fire department. Heck, I haven’t boated on the Atchafalaya in years. Lord knows what kind of creatures live in that water.”

  “Really.” I arched an eyebrow at Beatrice. “You don’t say. How very interesting. Will you excuse me a minute?”

  I cupped my hand over the receiver. Although it was nice of her uncle to loan us the boat, the ride had ruined my skirt and my favorite pair of strappy sandals. Not to mention I’d lost about a pound of water weight in sweat. I hardened my voice. “Beatrice Rushing.”

  She looked at me and gulped.

  “Lance tells me there’s a fire road that leads out to Miss Ruby’s house. We didn’t have to take your uncle’s boat out there after all.”

  “Oops.” But instead of looking contrite like she should have, the little devil actually grinned. “Guess that makes sense. But it was kinda fun watching you struggle out there.”

  “Why, you little—”

  “Missy?”

  I moved my hand away from the telephone receiver. “Sorry, Lance. Turns out my assistant was having some fun with me yesterday on the river.”

  “Uh-oh. I wouldn’t do that if I were her.”

  “She doesn’t know me like you do. Her time will come.”

  Beatrice buried her head farther into the calendar and pretended to not hear me.

  “So, let’s get going,” Lance said. “We can take my squad car. And don’t be too hard on your assistant. The last thing we need around here is another murder. See you soon.”

  “Guess so. Bye.” I hung up the telephone and turned to Beatrice. “All right, smarty-pants. We’ll talk about this later. Right now I need to get Ambrose’s cell phone and head out to the police station.” I quickly filled her in on everything that’d happened to me and Bo the night before. “Call me if anything comes up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She hadn’t called me “ma’am” in ages, so my comments must have spooked her. I grabbed the keys to Ringo and headed for the exit. Luckily, Ambrose was in his studio and tossed me his cell phone without a word.

  Chapter 11

  I made it to the police station in record time and quickly parked next to Lance’s squad car. Then I hurried across the parking lot and entered the lobby.

  A blast of frigid air greeted me as soon as I stepped inside.

  Lance was across the room, near a beige file cabinet, and he walked toward me when I arrived “Good, you’re here. That didn’t take long.”

  “Traffic was a breeze. By the way, how’d you get a search warrant so fast?”

  “The courthouse clerk and I are friends. Didn’t take long for the judge to sign the affidavit. Especially since we’ve been out to Ruby’s place before.”

  “You mentioned that. Are you ready to go?”

  “In a minute. I want to phone my captain and tell him where I am.”

  Goose bumps prickled my arms. “I’ll wait outside. It’s too dang cold in here. Are we taking the squad car?”

  “No . . . let’s take my car. Don’t want to spook Miss Ruby. It’s the tan Olds in the last row.” He tossed me his car keys.

  “Got it. See you outside.”

  A guy wearing maroon scrubs held the door open for me as I emerged from the police station. I spotted Lance’s Buick in the last row, behind a sleek BMW, which made his car look even worse by comparison.

  Dust covered everything but a fan-shaped imprint on the front window, which the wipers had somehow scraped clean.

  I peered through the smeared passenger window before opening the car. A crumpled bag of Cheetos shared the seat with a stack of papers and an empty 7-Eleven Big Gulp. Does Odilia LaPorte know about her son’s sloppiness?

  With a sigh, I opened the door and swept my hand along the seat to knock off the trash. By the time I’d settled in, Lance had appeared, and I pointed to the bag of Cheetos on the floorboard as he stepped into the car. “Breakfast?”

  “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. It’s got cheese, right?” He took the keys from me and started the car.

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Probably my sneakers,” he said. “I left my gym bag in the backseat.”

  “I swaney . . . this thing is a piece of work.”

  “Anyway . . .” he obviously hoped to change the subject, “let’s go over how we’re gonna do this. I’ll show Ruby the judge’s order and explain why we’re there. That is, if she’s home.”

  “She should be. She was there yesterday when Beatrice and I went out. She might not know what her grandson does for fun, though.”

  Lance pulled out of the parking lot and headed for Highway 975. As we crossed the first bridge, the tupelo cypresses once again appeared, like ghostly sentinels wearing thin sheets of moss. Several more miles later, we passed the spot where the tupelos parted naturally and the water rose up to meet the riverbank. It was the same bank from which we’d launched the pirogue yesterday.

  Lance scanned the canopy as he drove. I tried to study the scenery too, but my eyes grew heavy and I leaned my head against the window, despite the smudgy fingerprints and streaks of dirt now rubbing into my hair. After a few minutes I nodded off, while warm air blew across my forehead and the wind whooshed in my ears. Without warning, Lance made a hard right and I jerked awake.

  We were on a bumpy service road that ran perpendicular to the river. Gravel crunched beneath the Buick’s tires, and the axle groaned whenever we hit a particularly bad bump.

  At one point, the cypresses parted again and the river appeared. Like before, debris from the trees covered its surface until the water looked thick enough to walk on. Egrets swooped overhead, their slender necks sometimes parallel to the webbed clumps of hydrilla below.

  We continued to drive, until smaller paths began to fork off from the service road like fingers reaching into the trees. An orange mailbox appeared, and then another box for the Times-Picayune.

  Lance seemed to know his way around as he automatically turned at a lightning-scarred tree. We drove closer to the river until we reached the mobile home on cinder blocks and the listing dock, although I couldn’t quite tell whether a dog was lying in wait for us there.

  What I did see was a blue Chevy Nova with its windows rolled down and a paint job long ago faded by the sun. “Looks like she’s home.”

  Lance pulled up alongside the Chevy. “Just hope she’s in the mood to talk.”

  We stepped out of the car and onto hardened mud. The only sound was our footfalls on the dirt. About halfway to the house, I spied a small flower bed, of all things, tucked behind a rotting doghouse. Someone had edged the messy plot with chicken wire to keep the river animals away, and then planted some strange-looking flowers I couldn’t identify.

  A noise sounded from inside the home. Ruby was at the screen door, wearing a polka-dotted housecoat and tattered bedroom slippers.

  “Miss Ruby.” Lance waved the search warrant as he approached her. “We’d like to come in and talk to you for a bit.”

  She clenched a brown cigarette between her teeth, which she slowly withdrew. “Why? Dere’s nothin’ ta find here. Musta been a slow mornin’ for ya.”

  Lance chuckled. “Not really. But I’m working on the Mellette Babineaux murder. Look, it’s a hundred
degrees out here. Mind if we step inside?”

  “No skin of’n ma nose.” She jerked her head back. “Put da dog up already.”

  I followed Lance into the dark mobile home. All sunlight stopped at the threshold, which left only murky, gray light to navigate by. The living room smelled of dust, burned tobacco, and fried hash browns.

  Little by little, my eyes detected the hazy outline of the couch with its pile of old newspapers and Dollar General bags. I walked toward it but chose to lean against the armrest instead, since I didn’t like my odds of finding a bare spot between the newspapers and plastic bags.

  “Where’s yer gris-gris?” Ruby studied me from her spot near the kitchen.

  “Sorry . . . I forgot it back at my rent house, on the kitchen table,” I said. “Thank you, by the way.”

  “It ain’t gonna do ya no good der. I done tole ya ta keep ’er close.”

  “I know, but I forgot. And what were the chicken bones for?”

  “Dey’s special cuz dey’s crossed. Keep da bad spirits away. Everbody ’round here knows dat.” She rolled her eyes as she took a quick puff from her cigarette.

  “We’re here to ask you about something else.” Lance seemed impatient with our small talk. “Something about Sweetwater.”

  “I tole dis one everytin’ I know.” She jerked her head at me. “Nutin’ more ta say.”

  “Here’s the thing. Melissa saw something last night you should be aware of.”

  “It was Hollis,” I said. My granddaddy always did tell me the best way to get at the truth was to up and ask for it, and I had nothing left to lose. “Is he here with you?”

  “Hollis? Dat’s wot dis is about? Wot dat boy done now?”

  “We’re not sure, Miss Ruby. Is he here?” I repeated.

  “Don’ know. Ain’t seen ’em dis morning.’”

  “We’d like to check.” Lance held up the search warrant. “And see his room.”

  “Ya ain’t tole me wot he’s done.”

  I suddenly remembered the cell phone in my pocket, which Ambrose had loaned me. “We’re not sure yet. Did he say anything about going to a voodoo ceremony last night?”

  “Ya be talkin’ ’bout dat Mother Belle, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yep. ’Fraid so,” Lance said. “She’s back to doing her stuff over at Sweetwater. Do you know anything?”

  “Nah, I don’ got time fer dat.”

  “Hollis was there. I saw him in the back. Everyone was singing a strange song. My friend recorded it.” I pulled the phone out of my pocket. “Listen.” When I pushed the playback button, a reedy soprano began to sing:

  Ena! Ena!

  Akout, Akout an deye

  Jocomo fi nou wa na né

  Jockomo fi na né

  Ruby slowly took the cigarette away from her lips as the song came to an end, and her eyes fluttered closed. “Was she wearin’ dat snake again?”

  I nodded, although she couldn’t see me. “She was. Almost threw it in the fire until she changed her mind.”

  “Hah!” Her eyes flew open. “Dat’s all for show. Weren’t no way she gonna ruin da good snake. Dat song ain’t even voodoo. She stole if from da black Indians up in Naw’leans.”

  “Black Indians?” I glanced sideways at Lance.

  “There used to be tribes up there,” he said. “Everyone a mix of African-American and Native American. All these people speaking pidgin French. They learned it from French slave masters who came down the Mississippi.”

  “But what does it mean?” I asked.

  Ruby shrugged, which sent ashes spiraling to the linoleum. “It’s da war cry. Makes people wanna fight. Nowadays da krewes in Naw’leans sing it, but dey jus’ playactin’.”

  Since I still didn’t understand why a voodoo queen would use an old war cry, I moved closer to the kitchen to be near Ruby. “Why would Mother Belle and her people want to fight?”

  “Dat’s a good question. Dey coulda been celebratin’ too.”

  “Did your grandson tell you he was going there?” Lance asked. “They were at Sweetwater around midnight.”

  “Nah. He don’ tell me nuthin’.”

  “So you didn’t hear him come home?” Lance was an expert at knowing when to press and when to back off.

  “I tol’ you. I didn’t hear nothin’. Dat boy be ro-day, is what dey call it. Cain’t stay home.”

  “But he’s homeschooled,” I said. “Seems to me he should be doing his studying right about now.”

  She stiffened. I’d hit a sore spot, but it was too late to take it back.

  “Ya from da gov’ment? Wanna turn in ma boy?”

  Ambrose always did tell me my mouth moved faster than my brain and the last thing I wanted to do was get on Ruby’s bad side. “No, no. Of course not. But I thought you might have seen him come home last night. Or seen him this morning.”

  She was about to lash out at me again when something sounded from a back room. Something high and loud. Skkkrrriiitttccchhh.

  Ruby turned. “Tais-toi, Jack!”

  The noise stopped. Three rooms branched off of the hall behind her. I took a stab at which one she’d yelled at. “Do you let him stay in your bedroom?”

  “Nah, he ain’t ma dog. He belong to Hollis. I done tol’ dat boy . . .”

  Cccrrraaassshhh! A door flew open and the dog whizzed past us. It barreled toward Lance with its teeth bared and then jumped up against his chest, which forced Lance backward, onto the couch.

  Then something else flashed: a blur of white that streaked across the hall. I whipped around, but it moved too fast. When I turned again, Ruby had taken the dog by the scruff of the neck while the animal howled in protest.

  It all ended in less than a second. No one moved, except for the dog, which thrashed around wildly.

  “Are you all right?” I moved to Lance and helped him rise from the couch.

  “Think so. Ya gotta train that dog, Miss Ruby. He can’t be jumping on people like that.”

  “I tol’ ya . . . it ain’t mine.” She dragged the animal to the screen door, which she banged open with her foot, and then shooed it onto the front steps. “Anyway, he won’t hurtcha.” The door slammed shut behind the animal.

  “Maybe we should go back to Hollis’s room,” I said. Anything to get away from the sound of the dog scratching its nails against the metal screen.

  “You stay out here, Miss Ruby,” Lance said. “We’ll be a few minutes.”

  She didn’t protest, and we walked through the kitchen and into the hall. One of the doors there stood open now: a cheap laminate panel shredded at the bottom. I cautiously stepped into what I assumed to be Hollis’s room, since a poster of a half-naked character from Mortal Kombat hung on the wall and the air smelled like pot.

  An unmade futon sat in the middle of the room. Gimme caps from rock groups—mostly Lynyrd Skynyrd and Kid Rock—hung from the plastic siding and a faded pillowcase covered the room’s only window.

  “I swear, something moved in here,” I whispered to Lance. “Something shot across the hall when the dog came out.”

  I turned and stepped back into the hall, with Lance on my heels. After opening the door across from Hollis’s room, I stepped into another bedroom. This one was lined with crucifixes and a lavender quilt covered the bed. Beyond the mattress stood another door, which rocked back and forth on its hinges.

  “What do you know?” Lance said. “Hollis left through here.”

  “So she lied. Ruby must’ve seen him if she put the dog in his room.” My voice sounded high and tight.

  “Easy, there. You’re not used to being lied to, are you? Don’t worry. After a while it won’t even faze you.”

  “I thought she was gonna help us.” I glumly retreated into the hall. There was no sign of Ruby, but the dog continued to rake the screen door with its nails.

  I returned to Hollis’s dim room, where I spotted a light switch on the wall. I expected a burst of light when I switched it on, but a lavender glow eked out instead. Hollis
must have switched out the lightbulb for a black light, and several things around the room glowed.

  Orange and blue rocks lined a plywood shelf above the window. The trash can glowed pink from its spot under a makeshift desk built from two produce crates. A small pile of books lay on the desktop, along with a sketch pad.

  I walked over to the desk and plucked up the first book. It was a graphic novel with two superheroes on the cover: Batman and Two-Face, who were engaged in an epic battle. The book below it was a manga comic with another topless girl on the cover, only this one held a smoking bazooka.

  Curious now, I turned to the sketch pad. It reminded me of the Strathmore 400 I kept back at the studio, but any similarity ended there. Instead of wispy drawings of wedding veils, silk rosettes, and beaded headbands, Hollis had drawn superheroes missing various body parts. Batman had no arms and a river of blood ran down his legs. The next sketch wasn’t any better: The topless girl from the poster was legless and snakes writhed in her hip sockets.

  I shuddered and closed the sketch pad. Interesting hobby. I was about to give up on the desk when a final book caught my eye. It was black with a red triangle on its cover. I squinted at the title and brought it closer: A Beginner’s Guide to Voodoo and Hoodoo.

  I took it into the hall, where the light was better. The cover opened to a table of contents that listed spells alphabetically. There were spells for love, ones for money, and several for revenge. A whole chapter focused on spells meant to be said in front of a mirror. Hollis had drawn a star next to one that was titled Kitchen Witchery—Using Everyday Items in Your Black Magick. He’d scribbled what looked like “M.B.” next to it.

  I flipped to that chapter. First up was a list of ingredients, including everyday items like cayenne pepper and ginger, followed by some not-so-usual ones: pig’s blood and taro roots, chicken feet and a slip of paper with the victim’s name written on it. “Hey, Lance.”

  He’d knelt beside the trash can, which he’d overturned. “Yeah?”

  “Look at this.” I flashed him the book cover.

  “What’s it say? I can’t see anything in this stupid light.”