Mellow Yellow, Dead Red

by Sylvia Rochester

  “Guess we’ll get out of your way,” Wesley said. “You still have my contact information?”

  Captain Reddick patted his shirt pocket.

  “I’d appreciate a call if you locate the animal,” Wesley said. “In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d have your men steer clear of this disturbed area.”

  Wesley took Susan’s arm and motioned for Charlie and A. K. to follow.

  “Get behind me,” Charlie said to A. K. “It’ll make the going easier for you.”

  Before they entered the woods, Susan asked Wesley why he didn’t tell Captain Reddick about the man in the woods. Wesley explained that Reddick would have nothing to do with him. “The man will become pertinent only if foul play is determined. Then it’ll be up to Charlie and me to locate and question him.”

  The trip back to the car wasn’t as difficult as when Susan and A. K. had first walked through the woods. By now a definite path had emerged. Bushes lay trampled, and dangling limbs cleared. They reached Caney Road in half the time it had taken them to find the swamp.

  A. K. brushed out her hair with her fingers and wiped down her slacks and shirt. “I think I’ll shed these clothes at my door and burn them later.”

  “It’s a good idea for both of you to shower and check for ticks.”

  “Ooo, I don’t even want to think about that,” A. K. squealed. “Girlfriend, you owe me big time.”

  Wesley opened the car door for Susan who paused before sliding behind the steering wheel. “You’re going to let me know if Wildlife and Fisheries find anything, aren’t you?”

  “Sure, but that might take a day or two. I’m still upset that you two struck out on your own.”

  “I know,” she said, rubbing his arm. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

  Wesley’s stoic face softened. “I hope to always be there for you. You two get in your car. We’ll be behind you.”

  Susan made a U-turn on Caney Road and headed back to Palmetto. Wesley and Charlie followed partway then continued on to headquarters.

  Upon arriving at the department, Wesley picked up a couple of messages from his desk. “Looks like we have another witness to the hunting incident. I’d better bring the chief up-to-date and also let him know we might have another situation with the gator.”

  Charlie nodded. “You want company?”

  “No, I got it.”

  Wesley tapped on Chief Smith’s glass door. After he was motioned in, he took a seat across from the sheriff, a modern day Jack Webb without the slim build. Sporting a chubby frame, the no-nonsense lawman was in his fifties, but years in the sun made him look much older. Gray had overtaken his dark hair, and his once-erect posture now slumped slightly on his five-foot, ten-inch frame. Short, pudgy fingers clutched a mug of steaming coffee.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “We had a call from another witness on the hunting case. Charlie and I are on our way to interview him.”

  “Where’d that shooting take place?”

  “On posted land about ten miles east of here. Before we leave, I thought I should mention the possibility of another homicide.”

  Chief Smith hiked an eyebrow. “All the signs but no body, huh?”

  “Something like that. I suspect we’ll have confirmation, one way or the other, before long.” Wesley explained about the gator and that Wildlife and Fisheries was investigating. “I’ll let you know if anything develops.”

  “Have we had any calls about a missing person?”

  “Not as far as I know. If it turns out that we have a victim, maybe the person isn’t local.”

  Chief Smith grunted in agreement, and Wesley took his leave.

  “So what’s our next move?” Charlie asked when Wesley returned to his desk.

  Wesley held up the pink telephone message. “You ready to check out this witness?”

  “Yeah, but do we have time to stop for burgers? I’m starving.”

  Wesley’s empty stomach rumbled. “Guess that answers your question.”

  A mile from their destination, Wesley pulled into a Shell station that included a diner. He and Charlie ordered burgers, fries, and cold drinks. They scoffed down the food without conversation.

  After taking his last bite, Wesley wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and waited for his partner to finish his fries. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

  Charlie pushed his wrappers aside and took a sip of Coke. “What do you mean?”

  “For starters, you’ve been on time ever since our last little chat. You look rested, but you also look anxious. Want to talk about it?”

  Charlie sighed. “It’s nothing, really. I just decided to cut back on my late night antics for a while. You were right about it interfering with my job, so I decided to get my act together. Guess what? I found out it feels better to wake up rather than resurrect in the morning.” He grinned. “Besides, I really like my job and would hate to lose it for being stupid.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Wesley pushed up from the table. “You ready to do this?”

  On the way, Wesley suggested Charlie conduct the interview. His partner did a first-rate job, just what Wesley was hoping to see. Before long, the two were back at headquarters.

  “This wasn’t exactly how I planned on spending my Saturday,” Wesley said, “but with homicide, there’s never a set work schedule.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m ready to get out of here, but I’d better type up the interview before I leave. If I wait till next week, I might not be able to read my handwriting.”

  Wesley cleared his desk. “Have fun. I’ll see you Monday, unless something happens before then. I really need one day to unwind.”

  Chapter 6

  Monday morning saw the passage of a cold front. No plunging temperatures, but the thermometer registered in the sixties, cold for Louisiana. The brisk air worked like a panacea, ushering in a constant stream of customers. The continuous ring of the cash register was music to Susan’s ears. Sporting knee-high, black books, a black skirt, beige sweater, and a black fedora, she drew lots of compliments and pulled together at least fifteen similar outfits for eager shoppers.

  Despite the upbeat atmosphere and working with customers, Susan couldn’t stop thinking about the Indian and the arrowhead. She felt compelled to learn about its origin. Would that knowledge help to explain her vision?

  During her lunch break, she called Southeastern Louisiana University to see if someone there might enlighten her. The operator referred her to the History Department and to a Professor Alexander, an authority on Indian history in Louisiana. Susan waited while the operator checked with the professor’s assistant. Before long, the operator came back on the line. “The professor can meet with you at five o’clock in Room 104.”

  Susan could hardly wait for the workday to end. That afternoon, Melanie agreed to close up, and Susan left for her appointment. She arrived on time and located the correct building. The door to the professor’s office was open. A person, presumably the professor, was seated behind a desk and rifling through a file cabinet against the wall. Susan knocked on the door facing. “Excuse me.”

  A slender, dark-haired person swiveled in the chair, not at all what Susan had expected. Most surprising was the fact that the professor was a woman.

  The professor rose and extended a well-manicured hand. She stood eye-to-eye with Susan. “Ms. Griffin? Come in. I’m Martha Alexander. Please, have a seat. I was told you found an arrowhead.”

  Professor Alexander’s voice was soft, and her smile, warm and friendly. Susan took an immediate liking to her. Taking a seat across from the woman, Susan handed her the arrowhead.

  The professor slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses, flicked on a high intensity lamp, and took a closer look at the artifact. “What is it you do, Ms. Griffin?” Martha asked while examining the sculptured stone.

  “Please, call me Susan. I own the Bawdy Boutique in Palmetto.”

  The professor looked up with engaging gray eyes. “Call me M
artha. The Bawdy Boutique. Now that’s a catchy name. I’m familiar with your place. Just haven’t had the time to visit.”

  While Martha continued to examine the arrowhead, Susan studied the woman and her surroundings. To the right of the desk, stacks of papers and file folders threatened to topple off two straight back chairs. Behind them, sundry pieces of pottery and stone carvings shared space with books on shelves that cried out for a good dusting. The small office and its ancient relics smelled of the past, not unlike her grandmother’s house.

  No scent of tantalizing perfumes here, only eau de decay. Martha’s environment was a world apart from the perfumed ambiance of the Bawdy Boutique. Fancy clothes, sheer lingerie, or glittering accessories seemed to have no place in Professor Alexander’s line of work. The collection of historical objects told Susan what Martha treasured couldn’t be bought in a shop. She valued most what belonged to the past, things that could only be obtained when the earth was willing to surrender them.

  Intelligent and unpretentious, Martha came across as a no-nonsense type of person. Tailored, navy slacks and a matching cardigan over a plain, white blouse reflected her personality. But even such unadorned clothing couldn’t disguise the woman’s striking looks. Slip a designer dress on her, turn loose a makeup artist, and she could easily pass as a model, especially with her tall, willowy frame and smooth, tanned complexion.

  After a while, Martha removed her reading glasses and turned her attention to Susan. “It’s hard to picture someone in the fashion world tromping through the woods. Where did you find this?”

  Susan described the location across from the jogging trail but didn’t give the reason for being there. “I wasn’t looking for artifacts. I happened upon it by accident when I ran across a churned up area of ground near the swamp. The light colored stone stood out against the dark earth. I really hope you can identify it or tell me about the Indians that inhabited that area.”

  “I might be able to do both. We don’t have an archeology department on campus, but I’m involved with several organizations and have been on numerous digs. I’m particularly interested and have done extensive research on early Native Americans in Louisiana. Let’s have a seat at this side table.”

  Martha pulled down a large tome from a shelf. When she opened the book, Susan again got a whiff of her grandmother’s living room. Sitting side-by-side, they could easily see the pages. Professor Alexander turned to a section that showed photographs of various arrowheads.

  “That’s it,” Susan said, pointing to one. “It looks just like mine.”

  “Could be,” the professor said. “The shape and color are not unlike thousands of others recovered from the surrounding area. For sure, your arrowhead is old, easily two-hundred years, but it could be much older. I’d have to do further research to determine a more precise age. It’s possible the arrowhead belonged to a member of the Chitimacha tribe.”

  “Two-hundred years? Whoa! What were they like?”

  “Thanks to early French settlers, we have a pretty good description about their dress and culture.” Martha tapped on the arrowhead. “You do realize that Louisiana is not noted for having rocks or boulders. Without the availability of stones, the Chitimacha traded for them. This arrowhead, or the stone from which it was formed, probably came from a northern tribe. Often the Chitimacha used fish bones, mainly the back bone of the Choupic to form their arrowheads. Did you find any other artifacts at that location?”

  “No, but I really didn’t look for any.”

  “I’d be interested in seeing the site. I’m about to wind up this semester, and by then most of the foliage would have gone dormant. That would make it easier to explore.”

  Susan reached into her purse. “Here’s my card. Give me a call when you’re ready.” Susan hoped the gator incident wouldn’t result in something tragic. If so, that area would be off limits. “What were the Chitimacha like?”

  “They were a most interesting people. They can be traced back over thousands of years in Louisiana. While the tribe mainly congregated along coastal Louisiana, some settled in and around what is now Franklin, Louisiana. It’s possible that some of the tribe could have migrated further north, maybe even to the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain.” The professor paused and turned a few more pages. “Here we are. This shows the typical male dress.”

  Susan’s heart caught in her throat as she stared at the picture of a young brave. Like the Indian in her vision, he wore only a loincloth and leggings. What really sent a shiver up her spine was the painting of a deer on the Indian’s chest...that and the professor’s next words.

  “An unusual aspect of the Chitimacha was that they didn’t wear feathers or beads as is typical of many tribes. They preferred only to use body paint. I guess you could say they were the forefathers of our tattoo artists.”

  Susan forced a weak chuckle. Inside, her stomach turned flips. Her Indian was a Chitimacha brave? Has he been roaming those woods all these years, looking to make contact? Why? And why me?

  She couldn’t help but wonder what Martha would say if she knew a Chitimacha Indian had made his presence known. Too bad the professor didn’t have Susan’s gift. The ability to make contact with the past would prove most helpful.

  Martha handed the arrowhead back to Susan. “I hope I’ve answered some of your questions.”

  “Oh, yes, you’ve been most helpful. I can’t thank you enough. I won’t take any more of your time.” Susan stood, ready to leave. “Do stop by the boutique when you get a chance.”

  “I will.” Martha picked up a business card from her desk and scribbled on the back. Here’s my cell number. If you find anything else or have other questions, let me know. I’ll be calling you soon about visiting the site.”

  Susan drove to her apartment mulling over what the professor had told her. She couldn’t wait to tell Wesley.

  After bathing, Susan slipped on a pair of beige slacks, a blue sweater, and a pair of matching blue pumps. In the living room, she flipped on the television and waited for Wesley to arrive. He didn’t keep her waiting long.

  His hair, still damp from a shower, glistened under the porch light. Wearing brown slacks and a cream colored sweater, he greeted her with a hug and a kiss. “You ready?”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “How about Mexican? Thought we’d eat at Tacos and Nachos.”

  “Fine with me.” Susan climbed into his truck and breathed in the fragrance of his cologne, a mixture of sandalwood and spice.

  The Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of Hammond usually drew a crowd, but tonight the parking lot was almost empty. The sound of sizzling fajitas teased her senses and filled the dining area with its tantalizing aroma. Wesley led her to a table overlooking an arbor and outside patio.

  Susan waited until the waiter took their order for drinks before she leaned forward and took Wesley’s hand. “I have some news you might find interesting. I visited a professor of history at the university today, sort of their unofficial archaeologist. The professor was able to identify the arrowhead I found and told me all about the Indians indigenous to the area around Palmetto.”

  She paused when the waiter returned with their drinks and took their order.

  When he left, Wesley settled back in his chair and sipped on his drink. “What’d he have to say?”

  “He was a she, Professor Martha Alexander.” Susan related everything she had learned. “I believe the arrowhead triggered my vision. Why I saw him earlier on the night of the fun run, I can’t explain. Often the images I see are jumbled...like pieces of the puzzle. We’re going to have to piece them together.”

  Wesley strummed his fingers on the table. “There’s something I should tell you, too. When Kara approached me the other morning at the boutique, she said the Tarot cards indicated the death of a woman. I assumed she was talking about my cold case, but the age she mentioned was several years older than my missing person. Get this—she described a disturbed area near water and lots of
blood.”

  “That’s what most charlatans say when they make a prediction on a missing person. Such a generic comment could apply to many murder scenes. Besides, you don’t know if there’s even a victim.”

  “I know, but the fact that we ran across a similar site seems more than a little coincidental, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Kara also mentioned that she keeps seeing the letter, N.”

  “Did you tell her that Edith begins with an E?”

  “What if you did stumble on a homicide? What if the initial turns out to match the name of the victim?”

  “Sounds like you’ve already decided to consult further with her.”

  “Not officially, but I don’t see what harm it would do to hear what she has to say.”

  Susan really couldn’t blame him. He had worked long and hard to solve his cold case. “For your sake, I hope Kara can help you. While I have my doubts about her, I’m not foolish enough to think I’m the only one with psychic abilities.”

  The following morning, Wesley entered his office and brushed the rain from his suit coat. The drizzle was predicted to turn into a downpour later in the day. That, along with a north wind, would make weather suited for ducks. “Good morning, Charlie.”

  “It is if you like it wet,” Charlie said.

  Wesley sat at his desk and opened the file on the hunting incident. “I’ve gone over everything several times, and it looks pretty straight forward to me. All the evidence points to an accidental shooting, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I didn’t see anything to the contrary.”

  “Then I’ll run this by the chief, and he can send the recommendation on to the D.A. But first, I’m past due for a cup of coffee.”

  As he pushed up from his chair, his desk phone rang. “Good to hear from you, Captain Reddick. Did you ever find the gator?” Wesley motioned to Charlie to pick up on the line.

  Captain Reddick sounded agitated. “We tried to take the critter alive, but couldn’t. Had to shoot it. When we finally hauled it out and cut it open....” He cleared his throat. “You’d better get down here. We found human remains.”