Crimson Bayou

by C. L. Bevill

  “Ah,” Leelah said understandingly. “I detect a hint of anger. So many trials for Mignon. The murder of her mother. The abandonment by her father. Questions to be answered that will never be answered. Even the murder of the young woman, Dara, plucks at the strings of your heart.” There was perverse amusement in the frail voice. “Is this yet another trial?”

  Mignon’s lips settled into a grim line. She didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not since she was eight years old. And never again. Not for John Henry and certainly not for this intrusive, nosy, amazingly perceptive woman who sat at her side, looking at her as if she would condemn or save her out of hand. “Is Dara one of your fallen then? One you failed to protect?”

  Leelah looked upon her visitor with forbidding eyes.

  “Tell me why her parents could not have her in their house, then,” Mignon said when no answer was forthcoming.

  There was a pause. Then Leelah said, “She was a test sent by God for Noel and Apolline. Good at heart, but she was also willful. She wanted more than what the bayous offered her. She wanted to break apart the barriers that limited her and smash them to dust.” Then she leaned forward and said severely, “Let me tell you about the test my mother would have administered. Thirty, forty, fifty years ago, a supermarket would have been a corner grocery store in La Valle, or in Natchitoches if you’d rather. They wouldn’t have asked you if you’d prefer paper or plastic because there wasn’t a choice. You’d get paper. Plain brown paper bags that we would take home and use in other ways. Garbage bags. Fodder for the fire. Packing material. The people who would go out into the world would compare their skin to the color of a brown paper bag. If their skin was lighter than the bag, then they passed. The paper bag test, Mignon, was a judge of who could go and look for legitimate work. For those who could get away with it, for those who might be able to pass. And the lighter our skins the better off we were.”

  There was a thought in Mignon’s head that led her to the last time she’d gotten groceries. She always got plastic. Plastic bags could be recycled, and she did use them in other ways, but it had never been a test to check for the proper lightness of one’s skin. But the plastic from the grocery store in La Valle always gave out pristine-white bags.

  Leelah pointed with her carved cane at the flesh on Mignon’s forearm. “The same color as the milk I buy from the dairy farm. There won’t be anyone who’ll ever ask you that question about your parentage in that supercilious manner that will make your hackles bristle. They won’t look down their noses at you as if you were less than a human being because of the blood that runs in your veins.”

  Mignon examined her forearm with the same scrutiny that Leelah had. When she spoke it was with implacable gravity. “No, I can’t say that I will ever go through the things that you’ve had to endure. But neither will I sweep away my heritage under the rug. I won’t hide what I am. I won’t deny what my mother was. But I won’t deny what my father was either. Although he wasn’t black, he wasn’t a Creole either, was he?”

  Leelah grasped the cane with claw-like hands. The knuckles of her fingers were swollen with arthritis, and she rubbed one hand with the other. “There was a time when we wanted to keep family within the Creoles. Your mother would have been a good wife to one of the men.”

  “There were others, as well,” Mignon said, thinking of Miner Poteet’s wife buried in the same cemetery as her mother. She hadn’t known about her heritage then, but it all made sense now. It was part of the reason the Poteets had been so generous of their care in their tenants.

  “Yes,” Leelah said. “Some folk didn’t want to stay in the bayous. Lonesome country it is. Beautiful, as well. I would suppose that you know that already.”

  This wasn’t the visit with distant relations that Mignon had envisioned. It was something altogether different. She had never backed down from a challenge, and she wasn’t about to back down from one on this particular night. She wasn’t sure what was happening now, but she found that it gave her a most uncomfortable itch in the middle of her shoulder blades as if someone who was out of sight was watching her.

  Leelah went on, “It’s a good thing you’re a strong young woman. And as for the young man you’re seeing? Well, I would prefer that you didn’t associate with a divorced man. Our church doesn’t recognize divorce, although John Henry Roque seems to be a good man.” She cackled with a sudden laugh. “It’s ironic, but you must realize that Roque is a relatively common name for free people of color.”

  Three of the band members had returned and started up a version of a song that Mignon recognized as “‘Alons á Lafayette.’” With the onset of the music, Leelah lifted up her cane suddenly and beckoned to someone unseen. A young man in his early twenties appeared as if from nowhere and stood expectantly at Leelah’s side. “Yes, Grand-maman?” he said. As tall as John Henry, his hair was as black as coal and his eyes were as green as emeralds. He had a handsome strong face, and Mignon almost smiled despite herself.

  “This,” Leelah said to Mignon, “is Phillipe. Phillipe Dede. Dance with Mignon, will you, Phillipe? She needs a little enjoyment.”

  With a brilliant smile, Phillipe extended a hand to Mignon. Mignon stood up and put her hand in his, with a nod in his direction. But before she stepped off toward the impromptu dance floor, she said to Leelah, “Not all the Creole families are the same though. Certainly not the Gullahs, am I right? They were free and mingled in much the same way as your families did, but they married into darker-skinned peoples.”

  Leelah stared at Mignon with black eyes until Phillipe tugged at her hand and led her away. The elderly woman didn’t say anything, but Mignon suspected that she had done what she was generally very good at doing. She had made someone angry.

  •

  Mignon was spun around the dancing area like a whirligig caught in a strong wind. Phillipe lasted through most of “‘Alons á Lafayette”’ before an older man captured Mignon on a half-spin and took her away. He was showing her how to do what he called a “cajun waltz” when someone else cut in. Robert grinned down into her face and while he was expertly guiding her around the grounds in a two-step, said, “I hope you don’t feel like I abandoned you to my mam and to Grannywoman.”

  “She’s not your grandmother, really?” Mignon said breathlessly. She thought she was in shape because she ran nearly every day of the week, but the dancing was purely aerobic, and it was winding her. Was it possible that she was standing in the arms of a murderer?

  “Naw,” Robert said back, nearly as breathless. “She’s more like a wise woman. I do believe she be the oldest woman around. Prolly the most educated, too.”

  Robert spun her a few more times until she was ready to fall over with dizziness. “I’m sorry about Dara,” she said quickly. “I didn’t know about your attachment.”

  There was a black expression that passed over Robert’s face that frightened Mignon for a moment. Then it faded, and his step faltered. He nearly tripped over her, but then he resumed his balance with an expert twist and dip. While she was dipped in his arms, he said into her face, “She dint mean that much to me,” and she knew he was lying.

  “I’m still sorry,” Mignon said sincerely.

  Robert nodded, and she could tell she had affected him. A moment later, someone tapped on his shoulder, and he passed Mignon over gratefully. Over a man’s broad shoulder, she could see Robert melt into the crowd with a gloomy aspect discoloring his normally amicable features. Then Mignon glanced up and saw…

  “John Henry,” she said, panting. “Where have you been?”

  “Sampling moonshine, of course,” he said. John Henry leaned in to whisper into her ear. “And what have you been up to?”

  Mignon didn’t answer him directly. She merely enjoyed the comfort of his arms being around her. “I thought that they might have pitched you into the bayou for the alligators to nibble on,” she said after a moment, trying to catch her breath.

  John Henry laughed, and it was then that Mignon kne
w that he hadn’t been kidding about sampling the moonshine. “I’d kill the alligators, and then they wouldn’t have anything to hunt.”

  After a while with chests heaving, they stopped, even though the band played furiously on. They both got something to eat and talked with a number of people. A sense of gaiety overwhelmed the people there, and although Mignon knew that the Creole families were typically reticent and withdrawn, they didn’t seem so at that moment.

  Mignon went to find a bathroom and discovered that the Dubeauxs had imported a set of Porta-Potties for the party. How they had gotten them into the bayous, she could only imagine, but they were being well used by individuals who were imbibing freely on beer and eating a hundred different dishes of food.

  The bathrooms had been placed on the far side of the complex where there were no houses and only a line of torches to indicate the path. When she stepped back outside, she discovered the moon was almost full in the sky, but it was quickly hidden behind a wreath of dark clouds. Two men were walking away from her, loudly but poorly singing a Pink Floyd tune.

  The shadows converged on her before she realized that they weren’t shadows. Mignon only had a moment to realize that a tall, strong shape enfolded her into his powerful arms and yanked something over her head.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saturday, March 15th

  There’s somebody under the bed.

  Whoever can it be?

  I feel so shocking nervous,

  I call Anne in to me.

  First, she lights the candle,

  Then she lights the gas;

  Get out, you fool, get out, you fool,

  There might be somebody under the bed.

  Anne lit the candle.

  Anne blew it out.

  Anne gave a hell of a shout.

  And knocked the burglar out.

  - Children’s jump rope rhyme

  The hand that had briefly covered Mignon’s mouth smelled of garlic and alcohol. Then it was something else that covered her head. A musky aroma of sweat and gasoline threatened to overwhelm her. A man’s shirt? She didn’t know, and the fact that someone had quickly tied her like a calf at a rodeo, prevented her from finding out. Her ankles were secured. Her wrists were tied and connected to the ankles. There had been only a fleeting amount of conversation as an androgynous someone hissed close to her ear, “Keep quiet, or I’ll clout you upside your head so you cain’t see straight for a month.”

  Mignon would have yelled despite the threat, but the person paused to quickly adjust the cloth on her head, stuffing a wad of clothing into her mouth. She wriggled as much as she could but could not spit it out. All she succeeded in doing was to make her jaw sore and her limbs tired with the effort. The person then adjusted her as they carried her swiftly away. Outraged and afraid, Mignon began to kick in earnest. The nightmare of the last time someone had taken her away against her will was still fresh in her mind.

  Outrage didn’t even begin to cover what Mignon felt. John Henry had warned her about the Creoles. Of course, kidnapping hadn’t been part of the warning, but he had said that they might not be what she expected. Robert loomed in her mind. Robert the murderer? Robert the seaman from the USS George Washington. Robert who had an attachment to a murdered girl. Robert who knew about knots, and it was then that Mignon remembered how John Henry had questioned Robert about the knots on the pirogues. So much for his dropping the Dara Honore issue on this particular night.

  Then there was Leelah Prudhomme, a woman with the security and future of a group to consider. She told Mignon things about how her life actually had been, a woman who could claim a direct relationship to an escaped slave. She was a woman who labored during her long life to attain power and position, and now she had it. Perhaps a better question would be what Leelah Prudhomme would do to protect those she considers her own. Seemingly, Leelah approved of Mignon, but she had issued a directive about John Henry. It hadn’t been a royal proclamation, but it had been an indication of what she thought Mignon should not do.

  There was Sister Helena who seemed to be a good teacher and involved in the welfare of the children under her care, although she had some secret to which Dara had been privy. She also asked the priest what to do about Mignon’s continued questions about Dara. That brought her to Father William, the hard-working administrator. He vied for future monies for the school at every chance. He knew about Dara, he said that she had provoked all those she could, but was he cold-blooded enough to remove her from his agenda?

  Dara Honore was a conundrum. On one hand she was a troubled child, abandoned by her parents to a girl’s school. She defied those who tried to control her. On the other hand, several of the other children had stoutly defended her. Even Leelah had said she had a good heart. But what did that mean? Had she taken things that belonged to others, like Linda’s childish letter to Father William? Had she hoarded them as if they would accord her power?

  Mignon would have shaken her head, but she was immobilized under a powerful individual’s arms. It was then she realized that the gasoline fumes of the garment covering her face were making her woozy. Anger had slipped away into pesky questions that bit at her like irate insects. She was part of the Creoles, and the Creoles were part of her. But she hadn’t been raised here in this place with them and therefore, could not claim the close kinship that would put her in their good tidings. And asking questions about Dara Honore didn’t seem to matter to anyone except John Henry and Linda Terrebonne.

  There was Simon Caraby, who might be involved in more than an investigatory aspect. He was also Creole and once a member of their enclave, until he had gone to the outside world and become a member of law enforcement. Linda had gasped at seeing him. She had called him Le Père des Cocodries, The Father of Alligators. Did the Creoles fear him as Linda evidently did? Why would they be afraid of such a man unless he presented a threat to them?

  Mignon’s head began to spin. All the people who might or might not be implicated in a complicated plot swirled in her brain like a tornado of seething knowledge. When it really came down to it, she didn’t even know why Dara had been murdered. The dead weren’t giving up their secrets. She stifled a muffled giggle. Even John Henry might be a suspect. Staid, straight-laced John Henry? Murder someone? That didn’t seem very likely. It was about as likely as Mignon planning and implementing an elaborate murder plot herself.

  The person shifted Mignon in their arms and then put her down with a stifled grunt. The world was moving, although she was positive that she was no longer being carried. With her tied hands she could feel a rough surface under her fingers. It felt like wood and then there was the slap of more wood on water. Not surprisingly, she had ended up in another boat. Dizzily she decided that she didn’t much like the little boats in the bayou. Nosiree, not at all.

  •

  John Henry waited not so idly for Mignon. Although he had sampled the moonshine that Fred had provided, he wasn’t really drunk. Once the Creoles had gotten used to the sheriff of St. Germaine Parish being in their immediate presence and not posing a threat to them, they became quite animated, even welcoming. They offered him whatever they had, including several sips of the illegal liquor that they sometimes sold for profit but more likely than not was used for their own personal consumption. However, there had been several vocal complaints about how he and Investigator Caraby had allowed Tomas Clovis to escape.

  “I didn’t allow anyone to escape,” John Henry had replied darkly more than once.

  “Well, if we see him in the bayous,” Fred had called happily, “we’ll make sure he’s all tied up for you and give you a call.”

  “A call?” John Henry had repeated curiously. Actually, he was relieved that they hadn’t suggested that they just go ahead and cut to the execution part of justice.

  Out of the pocket of his Lee jeans, Fred had produced a slim cell phone about the size of a folded dollar bill and nearly as slender. “On my cell phone. I got 350 anytime minutes. I get three bars in most of the
bayou.”

  Then the drinking had proceeded. John Henry had held back, and the Creoles hadn’t minded. Not all of them liked the harsh flavor of the moonshine. But John Henry had compared the still to some of the others he’d seen, and he’d even promised to forget where exactly he’d seen it. “Big swamp,” he’d said. “Not sure if I could find my way back even if I wanted to.”

  Creoles had roared with approval. Later, he had found Mignon spinning around the impromptu dance floor with Robert Dubeaux. Robert, the man who was her cousin. A younger, handsome man that Mignon seemed to get along with as if they had grown up together. John Henry couldn’t explain the irrational jealousy that he clamped back with an iron fist. But he knew how the Creoles liked to do things. Families were to marry within families. If they married outside of the family, then it would be to some good Catholic soul who would bring prosperity or wealth to the Creole family. They liked to keep to themselves, but they weren’t unfriendly. They knew that they could trust the members of the extended family, and John Henry had arrested more than his fair share of them, just as he had arrested people in the parish who didn’t happen to be Creole by birth.

  But Mignon Thibeaux was one of them. She hadn’t been raised with them, true. But she was a wealthy famous artist, and she had much to offer them in terms of power. She would make some Creole a good wife and most likely provide to them many fair-of-face children who would make them proud. Mignon? he thought as he stared at her spinning around the dance floor with Robert. A wife and a mother?

  She’s too stubborn to be taken in hand like that. Too stubborn. Too willful. Too independent. She won’t fall over like a row of ducks at a shooting gallery. Mignon might be related by blood, but she isn’t one of them. John Henry’s face turned deadly serious. The lesson wouldn’t be easy for any of them to learn, but he especially feared for Mignon. Lost and alone most of her life, she had a smattering of good friends. Over the last months, she had innocently let it slip how much they had helped her discover the fate of her mother. Madame Terentia, Terri, her good friend and art gallery owner who displayed some of her work. Faust had been Terri’s son and an ardent admirer. Nehemiah Trent had been the one who had performed some of the “back work” and Mignon’s adopted father. One of the maids had been Nehemiah’s granddaughter and another artist that Mignon sponsored.