Men Made in America Mega-Bundle

by Gayle Wilson, Marie Ferrarella, Jennifer Greene, Annette Broadrick, Judith Arnold, Rita Herron, Anne Stuart, Diana Palmer, Elizabeth Bevarly, Patricia Rosemoor, Emilie Richards

  Didi was not trying to change a man who was different from her own particular preference. She accepted and supported her brother-in-law’s reclusiveness and his devotion to nature. What worried her now was his mood swings, the silences that went on for days and then the explosions of temper. She was concerned about Martin for his own sake, but she was also concerned about the effect his behavior was having on Leonce.

  “Leonce, he don’t talk to me no more,” Didi said sadly. “I say somethin’ about Martin, he leaves the room. Used to be when he weren’t on the rig, he’d go off in the mornin’s and then come back for dinner with a mess of fish or crabs. Now he don’t come home till dark. Half the time he got nuthin’ to show for goin’. He’s doin’ it to git away from me.”

  “Does Martin have any friends who’ve talked to you about his behavior?”

  “Leonce has friends, men he works on the rig with. Leonce goes off with them two, three times a week to drink and play Bourré. Martin? Well, everybody likes Martin, nuthin’ about him not to like. But nobody’s close to Martin, so nobody but a few people he’s lost his temper with’ve noticed anythin’.”

  “Do you suppose I could see him while I’m here?” Antoinette asked.

  “I was hopin’ you’d wanna. I told Claude and Martin you was comin’ and that we’d make dinner for them tonight. ’Course, I don’t know if Martin, he’ll be there. S’posed to be, but then, who knows?”

  “Let’s wait and see. After I’ve seen him myself, I can give you better advice.”

  Didi volunteered to take Antoinette to visit a small community about five miles away by boat. The two women packed a light lunch and traveled to the little town, which officially consisted of a general store and bait shop, a school-bus shelter and a tiny church that seated no more than twenty. Swampers and fishermen sat on the banks of the bayou behind the general store, swapping yarns. Antoinette decided that the scene resembled something from a Cajun edition of The Saturday Evening Post.

  Down the road and through a thicket of palmetto and scrub oak was the cottage of a friend of Didi’s. The three women sat on the front porch talking and enjoying the warm spring air. Didi’s friend, Mathilde, was a native of the bayou country who had gone away, gotten several degrees and returned to her roots. A free-lance writer, she now lived in the old family home, a genuine Acadian cottage constructed of split cypress and bousillage, a mixture of mud and Spanish moss used to fill in cracks and protect the wood. Mathilde had more education than her friend and more experience in the rest of the world, but she was very much like Didi in her enthusiasm and her openness. Antoinette enjoyed the afternoon thoroughly.

  By four-thirty Didi and Antoinette were on their way back to Didi’s to begin dinner preparations. Sam’s name came up again while they chopped onions for crawfish bisque.

  “Did Claude think it was strange having me come to visit here without Sam?” Antoinette asked, giving the cutting board a resounding whap with her knife.

  “No. Claude said, ‘That Sam-son, he’s too stupid to see une bonne femme when she stands in front of him. Me, I marry her in a second if she look at me like she look at Sam-son.”’

  Antoinette smiled. She hadn’t expected Sam’s uncle to be an ally. “Well, I’m glad you invited me down for the weekend, though I’m sorry you’re worried about Martin.”

  “I wanted you to be my sister-in-law.”

  Antoinette ignored the fact that Leonce and Sam weren’t really brothers. There was something about coming down to the bayous, something about being here with Didi doing traditional women’s work and feasting on gossip as they would feast on crawfish bisque and catfish later that night, that made Antoinette realize just how much she had wanted the same thing. She hadn’t admitted it to herself before this moment, but she realized with a sudden surge of vulnerability that she had probably wanted to marry Sam almost from the beginning.

  No wonder he’d run. He had sensed her desire for permanency even before she had. It had scared him to death.

  “The board, it’s not s’posed to go in the bisque.”

  Antoinette looked down at the onions, which were now nothing more than juice. Didi was right; there were splinters mixed in. “I’m sorry,” she apologized.

  “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

  “You didn’t. I made myself angry.”

  “Sam-son, he’s gonna realize what he’s missin’.”

  “The day M’sieu Gator, he learns to fly,” Antoinette answered sadly.

  The ache in Sam’s shoulder was worse the next morning, but surprisingly the rest of him felt better than it had in a month. His dreams had been of Antoinette. They had been hopeful, joyous dreams of a reunion. He realized just how impossible those dreams were, but he had awakened knowing that he had to try to make them come true.

  Antoinette would be crazy to give him another chance. Sam knew just how badly he had treated her. His only hope was to throw himself on her mercy and woo her with the single-mindedness he’d always reserved for his job. The phone rang while he was making his plans, and for one heart-stopping moment he believed it might be her.

  It was Joshua. “How are you doing this morning?”

  “I’m fine,” Sam assured his friend. “Better than you know.”

  “Oh?”

  Sam allowed himself a smile at Joshua’s obvious curiosity. “I’ve got nothing to report, but maybe I will later on.”

  “You’re not going to work, are you?”

  “They won’t let me near the station today. I’ve been ordered to take the weekend off.”

  “Make sure you rest. I’ve had to hog-tie Maggie to keep her from coming over to fluff your pillows and make you chicken soup.”

  Sam hesitated, then decided to go ahead and share his plans with Joshua. “Tell her if everything goes the way I want, Antoinette will do it for me.”

  Joshua whistled softly, and Sam could almost see his smile over the phone. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

  Sam hung up, looked at the phone for a full minute and picked it up again. He’d learned the folly of hesitation early in his police career. He dialed Antoinette’s number without looking it up. It, like everything else about her, was burned permanently into his brain.

  His heart gave an uncharacteristic thump when he heard the click of a receiver. But the voice that answered wasn’t Antoinette’s, or rather it was Antoinette’s, but a recorded version that was as unlike the real thing as a plastic rose. He was so disappointed that he had to redial the number again just to listen to the message.

  She was out at the moment, but he was to leave his name and number at the sound of the tone.

  He hung up, leaving nothing except a loud click.

  It was early in the morning, not even ten. Where was she? He wanted her. He was in no mood to wait.

  One shower and meager breakfast later he tried again. This time he pantomimed along with the message. At the end he gave in, leaving his name and phone number in a voice that sounded strangely like a plea. Lunchtime came and went. He spent the afternoon cleaning the apartment and shopping for something he could cook for dinner, just in case she agreed to see him.

  Dinnertime came and went, and the message was just the same each time he called. For entertainment he watched ridiculously stylish television cops play at catching bad guys who were fashion-conscious, too. He wondered if most of the viewing audience really believed that police work paid that well or was that simple.

  After the late-night news he tried her again. He wondered if she’d found someone new, someone who could give her everything she needed. It was his last thought before he fell asleep.

  Claude was the first to arrive for dinner. He wiped his feet carefully before coming inside, as if he was somehow intimidated by Didi’s housekeeping. Seated on the sofa with a beer in his hand, however, he was just Nonc Claude, bayou patriarch.

  Martin came in just as they were about to give up and sit down to dinner without him. His face was a road map of scowls. He mumbled a go
od-evening to everyone, but it was the last word of English that he spoke during the meal, even though Claude reminded him that Antoinette didn’t understand Cajun French.

  Antoinette evaluated Martin discreetly as she ate the mouthwatering meal. There had definitely been a change, although it was subtle enough to make her wonder how serious it was. Martin was the picture of an angry man, a man with an ax to grind, but not necessarily a man who was mentally ill. There were many ways of determining just how disturbed he was, but none of them were things she could do while sitting at the dinner table. Her inability to speak his language was also a definite problem. Without being able to understand the meaning and nuances of the few sentences he uttered, it was impossible to analyze more than the tone of his voice. She wondered if that had occurred to him.

  He left immediately after dinner, followed closely by his father. Didi was quiet as they cleaned up, obviously waiting for Antoinette to give her opinion when she was ready. Antoinette went over everything in her head, but there was little she could add to what she’d already told Didi.

  “Didi,” she said finally, “I just don’t know what to tell you. I never make a diagnosis unless I’m really sure I’m right. I don’t know what’s going on with Martin. He’s obviously angry, but you didn’t need me to tell you that.” She leaned on a counter, trying to put her feelings into words. “I don’t think you have to worry about Martin hurting himself. His anger is turned out, not in.”

  “The day he dumped crawfish on Mr. Simoneaux’s feets, I got worried about him hurtin’ someone else.”

  Antoinette nodded. It was a legitimate worry, and it had occurred to Antoinette. “That’s possible, I guess, though from what you’ve said, Martin has so little contact with people he doesn’t have much chance to use his anger.”

  “You don’t think he’s crazy?”

  “Crazy can mean a lot of things. If Martin doesn’t resolve what’s bothering him, it might make him mentally ill. How close he is to that point now, I can’t say. You’re going to have to use your own judgment about telling your parents. I wish I could be more help, but I can’t be, not without doing a thorough psychological evaluation. Making guesses wouldn’t help any of you.”

  Didi was philosophical, although it was obvious that she would have preferred a definitive answer. “Mais non, making guesses isn’t good.” She scrubbed the counter until it was clean enough to do surgery on, finally beginning a new topic. “Claude, he likes you.”

  Antoinette wasn’t sure how the two thoughts connected, but she made a noncommittal sound of agreement.

  “He’d listen to you,” Didi continued.

  Now Antoinette understood. Her first inclination was to refuse to become involved. Her second was that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Of course, she wouldn’t approach Claude as a psychologist who was there to tell him that his son was mentally ill, only as a concerned friend who was worried about Martin’s behavior. As careful as she had been not to unfairly alarm Didi, she was concerned about Martin. Something was wrong here. She could feel it, and she had great respect for her own intuition. She hated to leave Bayou Midnight without making an attempt to help.

  There was one other thing to consider. If she spoke to Claude, that fact might get back to Sam, and Sam would be angry that she’d interfered. But Sam’s anger couldn’t be much worse than his indifference. In the long run she had to do what felt right. Talking to Claude about her concerns felt right. She would be the soul of tact, stopping immediately if she sensed any resistance. She was experienced enough not to worsen the situation.

  “All right,” she agreed, “I’ll talk to Claude. But I’ll only tell him what I’ve told you. I’m not going to tell him what he should do.”

  Didi’s smile was so filled with gratitude that Antoinette was sure she had made the right decision. Until now Didi had carried this burden alone. It was a big burden, even for someone so strong and self-assured.

  “Martin, he gits up and goes out before the birds sing. Claude, he gits up later. Tomorrow bein’ Sunday, he’ll be home in the mornin’ till nine.”

  “Then I’ll go over about eight-thirty and try to catch him. I’ll head home from there.”

  “I gotta go to early Mass. I promised the Virgin I’d git up and go to early Mass every Sunday if she’d send me a son.”

  Antoinette gave her a spontaneous hug. Didi was one of a kind and very special. “I’ll be gone when you get back. I’ve had a lovely day. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Me, I’m the one to say thank you. I just want my family smilin’ again. You gonna help it happen.”

  “I hope so, Didi.”

  Didi was gone when Antoinette woke up the next morning. She had been lulled to sleep by the chirping of crickets and the croaking of frogs, sleeping better than she had in the past month. After she dressed, she sat on the front porch smoking the first cigarette of the day and watching the glossy surface of the water, still and calm and infinitely mysterious.

  Didi had left homemade cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee in the kitchen. Antoinette resumed her place on the porch and watched a pileated woodpecker scrounge for his breakfast in a dead tree at the water’s edge as she ate her own.

  It was a little past eight when she loaded her overnight case into the car and headed toward Claude’s cabin. She wasn’t looking forward to confronting him, but she still believed it was the best thing to do. She had dreamed all night of Martin. Foggy dream fragments where Martin was always just out of reach. The truth about Martin was just out of reach, too. There was something wrong, but it, like the dream, was just out of her grasp.

  The time was right to tell Claude about her concerns. They would talk, and then she would drive back to New Orleans. She would not come again. Now when she remembered Bayou Midnight, her memories would be diluted with memories of this weekend here without Sam. Eventually that would help her put things in perspective. But coming back once was all the coming back she needed. More would only bring up thoughts of Sam, thoughts that were better buried. If Didi needed to talk to her again, and Antoinette doubted that she would, it would have to be in New Orleans.

  At Claude’s cabin Antoinette parked her car and got out, expecting Tootsie to greet her. But there was no sign of the big sheepdog or her canine friend, Claude’s hound. There weren’t any signs of Claude or Martin, either. Antoinette knocked on the back door of the house, waited a minute and knocked again. It was apparent that no one was inside.

  She walked around the side of the house, calling for Tootsie as she went, but the only signs of life anywhere in the vicinity were the occasional songs of birds and the leaping mullet in the bayou.

  The one place left to try was the boathouse. Sam had told her that his uncle built pirogues the time-honored Cajun way when he could get a cypress log large enough to hollow out. Since such logs were few and far between and skilled artisans were a thing of the past, Claude’s pirogues brought top dollar. Antoinette hoped she would find Sam’s uncle out in the boathouse working on one. It would be an ideal place to talk, casual enough not to put pressure on Claude.

  Antoinette hesitated at the boathouse door. She was surprised to find a heavy padlock, unsnapped but still unwelcoming, hanging from a shiny metal clasp. She supposed that the bayou wasn’t immune to crime, but it still surprised her to find such evidence of distrust from Claude LeBeaud.

  Knocking once, then twice, she pushed open the door. No one was inside, but there were signs that someone had been recently. There was a pirogue in progress that looked as if it had recently been shoved to the side, judging from the redistribution of sawdust. Boot tracks led to the other side of the roomy building, and tools, sawhorses and rubbish had been moved to make a clear trail. Another padlock gleamed silver-bright from a closet on the opposite wall. It was the final thing Antoinette needed to set her curiosity into full gear.

  What did Claude or perhaps Martin feel he had to keep under double lock and key? She had no business wondering, but the part of her tha
t had become a psychologist to solve puzzles wanted to know. Were there valuable furs from their seasons of trapping in the closet? Were there traps, equipment, outboard motors that might be prime targets for bayou theft? Or was there something more insidious?

  She walked across the room, aware that she was snooping but unwilling to stop. She felt compelled to find the answer, and she wasn’t sure why. Somewhere in the back of her brain suspicions were beginning to form. Closer to the closet door she could see that this lock, too, was not shut. It was a warning that someone would be back shortly, but the warning went unheeded as she removed the lock and opened the closet door.

  The sight of wooden crates of explosives stacked as neatly as canned goods in a grocery store made her shut her eyes in horror. There were times when the final piece of the puzzle dropped into place and the solution was much worse than not knowing had been. She was only surprised that she hadn’t seen this particular solution to several puzzles long before this.

  Martin, with his hatred of Omega Oil and the personality profile of a loner, was the Omega Oil arsonist. Martin, with his training in Vietnam and his experience as a hunter, had moved in and out of the Omega installations with skill and cunning, destroying that which he felt was destroying him. He had never murdered purposely—he had even saved Laurie Fischer’s life—but he was nevertheless guilty of killing a man. And judging from the size of this cache of dynamite, he was on his way to killing others. Everything fit neatly. Her dreams of the night before came sharply into focus. She only wondered why she hadn’t been suspicious before.