by C. L. Bevill
For some reason, it sounded like a rote answer to Mignon. It was something that Sister Helena probably used on state reports for funding and for visits from social workers. But Mignon nodded. “Which is probably part of the reason that Dara was out that night,” she suggested softly.
Sister Helena gave half of a shrug. “It’s hardly an excuse, is it? I should have checked the girls at midnight myself. But the monitor counted them. The next morning we found clothing stuffed into a rough shape in Dara’s bed, so she wouldn’t be missed. I can only assume that she had intended to come back at some point that night.”
“Do you know who she was going to meet?”
The hand on Mignon’s shoulder dropped away. The look on Sister Helena’s face became icy. “This sounds more than mere interest to me, Miss Thibeaux. I suggest you take it up with your friend the sheriff.” With that, Sister Helena spun around and left the room. The door slammed shut behind her and Mignon winced.
I’m about as subtle as a freight train barreling through town in the middle of night. Mignon rolled her eyes up.
•
The next day Sister Helena avoided her. Father William wandered in during the lesson and smilingly nodded at the girls as they worked. Mignon’s diligent eyes didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary with the priest. He treated them as students and children. He talked with them jokingly but kept himself in the position of administrator and priest. She couldn’t fault his behavior.
After the class, Mignon finished with the clean-up and found herself alone. She went into the hallway and found that most of the girls in the school had vanished into parts unknown. Then she remembered Callie talking about a field trip. In the twenty minutes it had taken Mignon to straighten the room, the girls had boarded the bus to go to Natchitoches to one of the museums there. She knew that she wasn’t alone in the school, but Mignon also knew when she had an opportunity.
Only this time, Nehemiah Trent wasn’t orchestrating an electrical loss and a malfunctioning sluice gate. She found the offices and discovered one volunteer working the phone in the front. The young woman, hardly out of school herself, looked up at Mignon expectantly, and then smiled. “Oh, you’re that artist. Pleased to meet you. My name is Gail Harper.” She held out her hand, and Mignon shook it briefly. Gail was perhaps twenty years old with blonde-highlighted brown hair and a lovely cherubic face with cupid bow’s lips. She wore a large crucifix around her neck and smiled invitingly as she spoke to the older woman.
“Sister Helena said I could make a few copies of things if I wanted,” Mignon said.
“Well, sure,” Gail said. “The copy room is right back there. It’s right in between Father William’s and Sister Helena’s offices. If you have any trouble with it, just let me know.”
Mignon had brought some art books with her from the farmhouse, and she had truly wanted to copy some specific exercises for the girls to study. Funds were short for the school, and she knew they could hardly afford to buy the books themselves. But she could make the copies and take an opportunity to look around for something that she might be able to use.
Surprisingly, the copy machine was a complicated one, able to collate and staple at the same time. Mignon made one set of copies of the exercises she wanted and then took a few minutes to program the machine to make ten more sets so she wouldn’t have to separate them herself. While the machine clicked and whirled with activity, she looked over her shoulder and found Gail busy on the phone.
Sister Helena’s office was first. She tapped lightly on the door and then with no answer, opened it. Simple and austere, with a plain gray steel desk, a similar filing cabinet, and a cheap bookcase, there were only inspirational posters on the walls. The sister was neat as a pin and her drawers were locked. The only evidence of personality was a row of framed photographs on the desk. Most were of a younger Sister Helena. Her face was a little more filled out; there was color in her cheeks. Some were with a set of people who were obviously her parents. Their skin was brown as if they spent a lot of time outdoors.
Another group of photographs showed Sister Helena with another young woman, their arms wrapped around each other in the embrace that only best friends can have. Her hair was the platinum blonde of youth, and her eyes the color of the deepest blue skies as she laughed into the eye of the camera. Young and beautiful, they complimented each other in the series of moments stolen from real life. This young woman was not Helena’s sister but a beloved friend.
Or, Mignon’s suspicious eye observed, something more than that? A beloved, period. Had the sister been a lesbian in her life before the church? Was this what Dara had been insinuating when she’d sang her irritating impromptu rhyme?
There was nothing else.
Mignon stepped outside carefully. Gail was still on the phone. The copy machine was still working diligently, making more than enough noise to cover her activities. A gentle tap on Father William’s door produced the same results. He was absent.
His office was a little more complicated. He had photos of groups of girls from the school. He had accolades on the wall from groups praising his achievements. He had everything a priest in charge of a Catholic girls’ school should have on his walls. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Except one little thing. Crumpled up in the waste basket was a note. It was on the school’s letterhead, but it had been copied a million times on the Xerox machine to save on printing costs. It was only a few words, but they were telling. It said, “She’s asking questions about Dara. What shall we do?” It was signed with a simple capital H.
Mignon put it back where she found it and left the office the way it had been when she had entered. Nothing in life was ever simple, she’d discovered, and it wasn’t about to get that way.
Chapter Thirteen
Thursday, March 13th - Friday, March 14th
Down in the valley where the green grass grows,
There sat Juliana, as pretty as a rose.
Up came Jean Claude and kissed her on the cheek.
How many kisses did she get this week?
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty…
- Children’s jump rope rhyme
The disheartening quiet between Mignon and John Henry continued. On Thursday, she’d called him and left a message on his machine about the fais do-do on the following evening, but she hadn’t heard back from him before that. Grumbling under her breath after she hung up the phone, she thought she might have really burnt her bridges this time.
The St. Germaine Parish Sheriff’s Department hadn’t managed to get their hands on Tomas Clovis again, and Mignon was fairly sure that Wednesday’s derogatory editorial in the La Valle paper wasn’t going to contribute to John Henry’s good humor. Neither was the fact that Mignon had continued the art classes at Blessed Heart. She had gone every day this week, and the girls were relaxed enough with her to chatter mindlessly while drawing. They let a few things slip about the school, one of which was that the school was in financial straits.
Mignon was somewhat surprised because Blessed Heart appeared solvent, although she was aware that schools of that sort usually ran by the skin of their teeth. She would have to look into the finances of the school. It might reveal another motivation. Perhaps Dara had discovered some secret there and threatened exposure. No matter who was responsible, it seemed more and more like a good idea to find the cache of things Dara had collected from the people around her.
Not liking where her thoughts were leading her, Mignon had decided to follow up on Linda Terrebonne’s suggestion. But first she had to find the ruins, of which Dara had spoken, the place where light bent, whatever that meant. Another thought occurred to her. She could either find the ruins, or she could find Tomas Clovis, and he would tell her where the ruins were located.
A seed of disquiet niggled at Mignon. But Tomas had kept his mouth shut about Dara. He had deep feelings for her. As a matter of fact, he’d braved arrest when he’d gone to the funeral. But had he known that he was taking that risk when he’d gone? Doubt
less Caraby had been questioning half the people in the parish about Tomas and Dara. Since the arrest, there was little secret about who the sheriff’s department blamed for the crime.
Mignon wanted to learn what it was like to be a Creole in St. Germaine Parish. She wanted insight into Dara Honore’s life. It was why she wanted to go to Robert’s fais do-do, and for another reason that she didn’t even want to speak of. That desperate wanting that sprung from such a desolate childhood returned to her at the time she wanted or needed it least. Relatives that she had dimly knew existed were, in fact, a reality. They did exist and were interested in her. Her skeptical self said it was because of her fame as an artist or because of her wealth, but no one had asked for money nor had Robert even hinted at such a thing. To be more precise, when she had paid for Dara’s funeral, there had been antagonism toward her action.
The Honores didn’t want what they perceived as charity. But was that their nature or was it guilt they felt over Dara’s murder?
Too many children. Their oldest had been striking out at the world. She was a girl who stuck her nose into other people’s business. She had taxed the line by dating a Gullah. A Creole, yes, but one so much darker skinned than themselves. She had “provoked.” Mignon winced inwardly at the use of that word. It implied that Dara was far from the innocent child that she had appeared to be in the repose of death’s final embrace.
God. One group of things was so mixed up in the other that Mignon had trouble separating them. When she began thinking of the Creoles, she couldn’t prevent the shift of her thought to Dara Honore. Although she was actually part of a Creole family, she had been in the school for some reason. It was another bit of information that Mignon needed to pry out of someone, whether that someone was John Henry or Ruby Wingo or a Dubeaux.
Dressed in blue jeans and a loose T-shirt, Mignon waited on her porch for Robert to show up. She wasn’t expecting John Henry to come. Her inadvertent insult had driven deep, and she didn’t know what, if anything, would cause that chasm to close once again.
The sun started its decline in the west and she stopped her pacing to marvel at the peaceful tranquility of the forest that surrounded her farmhouse. Shadows extended toward the east like frozen figures drawn in charcoal on a burgeoning canvas. Buds of a silent spring were beginning to bring the woods to life. Leaves were sprouting on the hardwoods, and the grass was shifting from the brown of winter into the emerald green of vitality.
With a sigh deep in her chest, Mignon recognized how much she liked this place. She liked the small town existence. She enjoyed the friendship of Miner Poteet. She certainly didn’t want to leave it. Not because of a failed relationship.
Relationship. She mused over the word in her head. John Henry had called it a relationship. What the hell is a relationship anyway? They dated. They enjoyed each other’s company. They made love. He made her feel…
“Oh crud,” Mignon muttered. “As if I don’t have enough on my mind.” But all relationships have their ups and downs, she reasoned. How would you know? she asked herself primly. You’re going to have to talk to him. You’re going to have to pin him down. Maybe handcuff him to his four-poster and then make him understand that, that, that…what?
The that-what? part lost her completely as she growled in frustration. I know what to do once he’s in bed. But I sure don’t know what to say to him when we’re out. “Oh, John Henry,” she whispered to herself. “Now you’ve got me talking to myself. A sure sign of insanity.”
Then as sure as the sun was going to shine the next day, John Henry drove his big Dodge truck up to the house. She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the rumble of his engine as it made its way down the dirt road that led to the farmhouse.
John Henry parked the truck and stared at her intently through the windshield.
Under her breath, she said ruefully, “Speak of the devil, and the devil will appear.”
When he got out, she saw that he was dressed in much the same manner as she. With Levi’s, a Saints T-shirt tucked into the jeans, and cowboy boots on his feet, he looked as comfortable as he could get. He’d left the Stetson in the truck and paused to run a hand through his hair to dispel the helmet head left by the hat.
Mignon was stationary on the porch. He was there to go with her to the fais do-do or he was there to tell her he wasn’t going. Whatever the outcome, she knew that it was going to make her nervous.
John Henry presented himself at the bottom of the steps to the porch and put his hands on his hips. He looked up into her expectant face and said mildly, “I assume I’m still invited.”
“If I can assume that you still want to go,” she said promptly, keeping her voice neutral.
“Can we dispense with the Dara Honore case tonight?” he asked quietly.
Mignon nodded quickly. She wanted to know what being Creole was like. No matter what she’d thought about it before, questions about Dara would wait. Right now there was this bridge that had just been created by John Henry. It was a fragile bridge, and she wanted to make sure it lasted more than an evening. “Have you been to one of these things before?”
John Henry smiled. It made him look ten years younger and a thousand times more handsome in her eyes. “A few. These good old boys know how to throw a party. I hope you didn’t eat today because they’re gonna try to fatten you up tonight.”
“I ate light,” she said and because there was an abrupt searing light in his eyes, she impulsively added, “Are you going to kiss me?”
“I’d like to kiss you.” Neither one of them moved.
Mignon said, “I’d like to kiss you, too.”
They stared at each other and with a fluid movement that neither could have determined who had started, they came together. It was only the tooting honk of Robert’s horn that parted them and both looked over to find him sitting in his old truck laughing at them hilariously. He yelled out his open window, “Take a pile driver to get you two apart. Come on, then!”
•
Robert talked about being in the navy while Mignon hung on for dear life in the middle of the bench seat. John Henry didn’t say anything about Robert’s driving while he anchored Mignon to his side on the wilder turns on the back roads of St. Germaine Parish. “I dint think I’d like the navy much, but my grandpappy, that’s on my mother’s side, not your grandpappy, Mignon, well he was a sailor in WWII. I think he saw more action in the Pacific than them slackers in Europe did all put together.” He laughed again. “Plus he had him this mermaid on his arm that he could make swim when he made his muscles bulge. Fine looking gal, her.”
Mignon smiled and glanced at John Henry. A muscle at the side of John Henry’s mouth twitched. The bruise on his face was yellow and fading fast. Her hand had shifted to reach up to smooth away the hurt, but she abruptly stopped her action, unsure of his response.
“Anyway, we almost there,” Robert announced. He pulled up to the edge of a small dirt lot with several other vehicles there. But no one was in sight.
“Where’s the party?” Mignon asked, looking around.
Robert guffawed. He glanced at John Henry knowingly. John Henry, who already knew where they were going, merely got out of the truck while Robert retrieved a case of Coors out of the back and dexterously hoisted it onto his shoulder. “Come on, little miss cousin. You ever been out in the bayou?”
“A little,” Mignon said dryly, briefly thinking of Dara Honore.
Robert perked up, recognizing what she’d meant. “Oh, sorry. Dint mean that. Listen to me. My mam should whale on my mouth. She says I got a bigger mouth than a dozen drunken sailors in Shanghai. Like she’d know. But then again, she had to listen to grandpap, so I reckon she would. Anyway, I’m back for a few weeks, and I sound like a pure-D-dyed in the wool redneck once again. The boys back on the ship will be calling me names for a month.” He motioned toward a small dock. “It ain’t the USS George Washington, but the ladies who wait for us are prestigious in their own right. I’m bet
ting Monsieur Shérif knows what to do with a pirogue.”
“I’ve been in one or two,” John Henry said dryly.
“We’re going the rest of the way by boat?” Mignon said, surprised. “There isn’t a road?”
Robert chortled again. “Shore, we go by pirogue. The best way to see a bayou. I take you back in the morning next time. Show you some real perty places to paint, instead of you walking down some back roads where you next comes across Lord knows what.”
There were several small boats at the end of the pier, carefully resting on the wooden planks so that they could be easily tipped into the water. With deceptive ease, Robert upended one into the water, and settled the case of beer into it as if it were a valued passenger. He undid the knotted end of the rope that connected the boat to the pier with misleading simplicity and stepped in easily. Mignon paused to admire the little boats. They varied in lengths. Some looked as long as fifteen feet and some were as short as ten. A narrow flat-bottomed boat, they seemed to be sturdy enough for only one person. And maybe a case of beer, too.
But what really caught Mignon’s eye were the elaborate paintings on the exteriors of the little crafts. Some were the equivalent of a hot rod at a car show. Red flames sputtered on the nose of one jauntily painted vessel. Another had a very curvaceous woman and her ample bosom decorating the stern of the little boat. Naked limbs stretched endlessly toward the front, ending up with red-painted toenails wrapping around the bow. The one Robert had swung into with the ease of an accomplished seaman was painted like a rising sun, with the glowing globe peeking over the bottom of the horizon on the bow. Crimson, orange, and yellow rays shot out until they were lost in the interior of the pirogue.
“You like my paint job, oui?” Robert looked at Mignon with idle curiosity. “I spent all my senior year in high school building and painting my little pirogue to get it just right. I had to get special marine paints. Took me three times to get the paint where I liked it.” He jerked a thumb at the little boat with the large-breasted woman on it. “Not as blessed at Carl Picquery’s gal, Susanne. And Susanne’s the pirogue’s name, not the name of his wife.” He chuckled. “That Susanne, she need to go to a doctor to get them things reduced, else she sink his pirogue.”
