Crimson Bayou

by C. L. Bevill

  Silence came from the other end.

  “It’s important,” she insisted. “Someone took your card then. Why?”

  “There was a complaint about one of the children,” Caraby said. “I investigate felony complaints, so I investigated it.”

  “What child?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Caraby said forcibly. “Juvenile complaints are extremely confidential. That way they don’t— ”

  “What child?” Mignon shot out.

  There was silence again. Then he said coldly, “One of the girls had threatened another one in a racially motivated manner. I won’t tell you who because that would be violating about a thousand laws besides the fact that you have no business with that kind of information.”

  “A racially motivated manner,” she repeated. “Did John Henry give you the bag of Dara’s possessions?”

  “He checked it into evidence just before he left,” Caraby said with a lethal timbre. “I haven’t had a chance to go over it yet. I’m still trying to understand why you didn’t give it to us on Tuesday.”

  “Because I thought you might be responsible for Dara’s death,” Mignon said slowly.

  “So I gathered.” His grim tone faded. “What changed your mind?”

  “Besides your ironclad alibi, I don’t think you would have strangled her,” Mignon answered honestly. “And if you had, we would never have found her body in a million years.”

  Caraby made a disgusted noise. “I guess I asked for that.”

  A racially motivated manner? It bothered Mignon. It bothered her a lot. “Was it a white girl that the complaint was filed about?” Information filtered through Mignon’s mind rapidly. Dara had rhymes that were racially motivated, some that truly troubled Mignon’s sense of morality. But Dara hadn’t been at Blessed Heart until weeks later, well after Caraby’s visit. There was a thought in her head that suggested that another girl had taken Caraby’s insurance card for some obscure reason. Then Dara had sought out things that would aid her in her attempt to attain emancipation. The card was one of those things. Had the rhymes been another? Was it that Dara hadn’t written the rhymes at all? Or perhaps only some of them?

  “Was there evidence?” she said when it became apparent Caraby wouldn’t answer that.

  “One girl’s word against another,” Caraby explained slowly. “Not the best situation. The report’s been filed, and no further action will take place since the complainant is no longer at Blessed Heart.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She ran away a week after the event,” Caraby said. “Left a note explaining that she hated the home, and she hated the area. There’s an APB out for her since she’s still underage.”

  “But the one you investigated is still here?” There was a sick thought in Mignon’s head. Is there another body of a young woman out in the bayous somewhere? Someone who hasn’t been found yet? “And what makes you so sure that the other one ran away?”

  “She had a history of it. Over ten attempts in the last two years,” Caraby said. “But the other one is still there, and I don’t like that you’re suggesting that I didn’t do my job properly.”

  “You were too hung up on Tomas,” Mignon said coldly. “You didn’t want to look any deeper.”

  The line went dead and Mignon said, “Investigator?” She punched the disconnect button several times and got nothing. She went to another phone and found that it was the same. The phone lines were gone. She hadn’t even had the chance to tell him that his primary crime scene was at the school, that the source of the red paint was the coffee table that Dara had so futilely scratched.

  “Gail?” Mignon called. “Gail?” She walked around the counter that separated the sitting area with the secretary’s desks and looked around. Gail Harper was nowhere to be found.

  Then Mignon’s eye saw something else. If the devastating image of Dara hadn’t been in her mind as she had envisioned the crime, she wouldn’t have made the connection. There was a large box painted a vivid sky blue just beside the door. It held an assortment of toys, balls, and jump ropes. She stared down into the box and looked at the jump ropes with a feeling of utter horror. On the top was a set of ropes that was neatly tied into a bunch with an elaborate knot. She’d seen the knot before. As a matter of fact, she’d seen it twice before. The first time, she’d seen the knot around Dara Honore’s neck. The second time…, Mignon knew that she should have made the connection then, but she’d been in a state of shock and uncomfortable horror at being in a place that she’d never wanted to be, ever again.

  She knew exactly who the murderer was even if she didn’t know why. But as she continued to think about it, she was beginning to form a hypothesis.

  Then Mignon looked over to her left and toward Father William’s and Sister Helena’s offices with the little copy room neatly in between. The copy room’s door was halfway shut, but the hand of someone lying motionlessly on the floor could be seen.

  Suppressing a cry, Mignon rushed to the room and saw Gail Harper on the floor. Her blonde-streaked brown hair was matted with blood, and she lay as still as the dead. Mignon knelt and took her pulse. It throbbed weakly, making Mignon take a deep breath of relief. What she needed to do now was to find some way of getting help for her.

  But there was something else. Mignon was alone in the building with a murderer. They had cut the phone lines and clubbed Gail unconscious. Certainly, they wouldn’t hesitate in hurting a little girl in a cast.

  “Oh God,” Mignon muttered. “Sharla.”

  Chapter Twenty–nine

  Thursday, March 20th

  Cinderella dressed in yellow, went upstairs to kiss a fellow.

  Made a mistake, kissed a snake.

  How many doctors did it take? One, two, three, four, five…

  - Children’s jump rope rhyme

  Mignon dashed down the hall toward the living room in the girls’ wing. She didn’t even look around for the person that she knew was responsible. All she knew was that she wanted to make sure she made it to Sharla’s side before someone else had a chance to get there instead. Mignon knew that if a person was willing to bludgeon Gail Harper unconscious, and that probably wasn’t her intent, then she was more than willing to kill any remaining witnesses.

  The tiny thirteen-year-old with a broken leg encased in a heavy cast would be an easy target. Sharla wasn’t able to move very much. Furthermore, to Sharla, someone who was a fellow student in the home would be considered harmless, hardly the threat that her own vicious father with a sledgehammer had presented. She wouldn’t even know what was coming.

  Mignon slid around the living room’s open door and caught herself on the doorjamb. The deepest part of her expected to see the little girl brutally murdered by someone obsessed on covering up her own mistakes.

  Dara’s handwriting had varied with her moods. No, it was something more than that. It was two separate young women writing rhymes. Perhaps the murder had been impulsive. Dara had the rhymes that damned the murderer, and if the murderer had demanded them back, the other girl would have refused, wanting the continued leverage or even something more.

  More certain than ever, Mignon knew now that she had made a mistake. The writing was similar, girlish, but it wasn’t exactly the same. She had noticed it, but she attributed it to the varied writing styles of all human beings. However, everyone who spoke about Dara made her out to be honorable, determined, and even admirable, not the individual who was responsible for the bigotry contained in the writings. Dara had seen something that belonged to another girl, something that condemned the other one. Whether Dara would have exposed the other girl as a cruel racist, or Dara thought that the other girl could be persuaded to help her with the process of freeing herself from her family, was no longer of consequence. Dara had taken the items that belonged to another. The other girl murdered Dara and systematically attempted to cover it up.

  Mignon gasped at the sight before her in the living room.

  Sharla was ser
enely painting the cast with one hand and humming the theme from Gilligan’s Island. No one was threatening her. No one loomed behind her. No one was about to strangle her or do harm to her in any way. She looked up at Mignon’s gasp and didn’t realize that anything was amiss. Sharla said cheerfully, “Hello, again.”

  Scanning the room slowly, Mignon said, “Is there anyone else here today, Sharla?”

  “Nope,” Sharla said right back. “Just Miz Harper. Oh yes, Father William was in before. We played checkers. I think he cheats. And him a priest.”

  Mignon cast a glance over her shoulder. “No one but Miss Harper and Father William? None of the other girls?”

  “No,” Sharla said.

  A plan of escaping to the nearest phone formulated in Mignon’s mind. She thought about the Explorer sitting outside and immediately realized that she’d left her purse and keys in the office. If someone was willing to cut the phone lines, what else would that person be willing to do? She went quickly to the window and could see the front end of the SUV from where she stood. The two tires in front were flat again. She couldn’t see the rear, but she was betting the other two were flat, as well. Icy certainty flooded her. No games here. Oh girl, don’t you know I can and will drive on flat tires?

  “Sharla,” Mignon said, rapidly returning to the little girl’s side. “Someone is here at the school that isn’t very nice. She hurt Miss Harper, and I think she intends to hurt us, too.”

  Sharla put the paint brush down. “Like my daddy?” she said tremulously.

  There wasn’t time for cold comfort. Not for Sharla and certainly not for Mignon. “Worse than that. She wants to kill me. I don’t want to gamble on what she might do to you.”

  The little girl’s thin shoulders began to tremble. Mignon took the paintbrush out of her hand and put it in the cup of paint. “I’m sorry I have to frighten you, but we have to leave. Right now.” She reached under Sharla’s knees and behind her back and scooped her up. Mignon staggered a little under the weight. She was strong enough, but Sharla was at least eighty pounds, and she had no idea how much the cast weighed.

  Sharla wrapped her thin arms trustingly around Mignon’s neck. “Call the po-lice,” she instructed. “The sheriff looked like he wanted to kill my daddy for what he did. He a big ol’ man. Take care of us good. He’s got a gun, too.”

  Mignon’s lips flattened in a colorless line. Sharla wasn’t the only one who wanted John Henry there to save the day. “Yes, I know, baby. John Henry would take care of business, but he isn’t here right now. And the phone lines aren’t working.”

  “Oh,” Sharla muttered. “You don’t have a cell phone?”

  “Sorry,” Mignon muttered back. She carried the little girl down the hallway toward the front door and craned her neck all around as she went. Pausing by the office, she said, “Got to get my keys, kiddo.”

  Looking through the open office door, Mignon could see her purse on the floor, not in the cubby where she’d left it. She hadn’t seen it before, or she had simply underestimated the gravity of the situation. The contents had been dumped unceremoniously on the ground, and the keys were not in sight. Even the water-damaged cell phone was missing. The young woman’s not so stupid after all, Mignon decided. “Change of plans, Sharla.”

  “We’re not leaving?” Sharla said, quivering.

  “My car isn’t working,” Mignon said. “And I’m not sure if she’ll just let us walk down the road.” She turned away and headed toward the exit on the far end. “She’s expecting us to go for the car, and we’re not going there. Did you ever play hide-and-seek, honey?”

  “Sure,” Sharla said shakily. Her thin arms gripped Mignon’s neck tighter.

  “I’m going to hide you, and you don’t come out or call out for anyone except me, the sheriff, or Father William.” Mignon said the words swiftly, and her head scrutinized the nooks and crannies of the school. She searched for an appropriate place to put the child, fully determined to evade the one who was assiduously hunting them.

  “Okay,” Sharla said faintly. “But what if you don’t come back?”

  “If I don’t, the sheriff or Father William will,” Mignon said positively. Her arms were beginning to shake with the excess weight. Sharla wasn’t very big, but Mignon wasn’t John Henry and able to carry a load without feeling the weight.

  Hoping that Caraby was the man that John Henry thought he was, Mignon wasn’t sure that her statement to Sharla was accurate. Although he’d been dead set on Tomas Clovis as the perpetrator, would he realize there was something seriously wrong in Mignon being cut off on the phone line? God, I hope so. But then, she thought with dread inexorably filling her entire body, he doesn’t know where I am. I never said, did I? But the police have caller ID, right?

  “Honey,” Mignon said gently. Her head surveyed the area and found it wanting. Soon the girl would have to come looking for Mignon and Sharla. It was inevitable. Mignon was willing to fight tooth and nail, but she was also willing to bet that whatever weapon the girl had would probably be significant enough to do acute bodily injury. And she didn’t want to gamble with Sharla’s life. “Is there a place that you know where someone won’t look?”

  “We’re not supposed to go into the chapel except for services,” Sharla whispered.

  Mignon adjusted Sharla in her arms. “The confessional,” she whispered back. Maybe, just maybe, the young woman would assume that Sharla wouldn’t dare hide in the church. The sanctity of the church was tantamount at Blessed Heart. The learning foundation was Catholicism, and it was taught staunchly. The chapel was not a play area. It was used for the devotion of prayers and worship of God exclusively. Perhaps.

  Skirting the halls, Mignon made her way down the dormitory wing, which was the closest wing to the chapel. Sharla whispered fiercely, “The door down here don’t work. They had to chain it shut on account of girls sneaking out at night to smoke cigarettes.”

  Fire hazard, thought Mignon. Damn. “There are windows though,” she said firmly. The young woman wouldn’t be expecting them to go this way. No obvious way out. She found the dorm with its rows of bunk beds. Everything was neat, and all was in its place. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, she thought inanely. And it’s not even close to Christmas.

  With a repressed groan of relief, Mignon put Sharla down on a bunk. The windows were designed to only open about four inches, and she cursed silently. When this was all said and done, she was going to have a long chat with Father William about safety issues for the students at Blessed Heart. If I get the chance…

  Sharla glanced over her shoulder and said, “I heard something.”

  Mignon had heard it, too. A door slammed somewhere. A warning or an attempt to frighten them? She didn’t know which one, but she was frightened. The young woman had gone to extremes to cover up for herself. She had killed Dara. She had repainted the tables. When Dara’s body had been located far too fast, she had fed misinformation to Mignon, knowing that Mignon would most likely feed it to her boyfriend, the sheriff of St. Germaine Parish. She had taken the opportunity to free Tomas from custody because only he knew where Dara had hidden those damning rhymes. She had protected Tomas because, again, only she could do that. Perhaps she had taken a moment to suggest to Tomas that only Mignon could be trusted because she was one of them, part Creole, and because she had nearly gotten herself killed in the process of bringing her mother’s murderer to light. The young woman had manipulated the situation like a master strategist. She knew the bayous like the back of her hand and had waited for Mignon to show up at the communal dock. She had taken the opportunity to slash the Explorer’s tires and gone to the farmhouse to search for what she knew Tomas had given to Mignon.

  Now, here in this place, she had waited for another opportunity. The minimum of people were here. Had she seen Mignon and taken the chance? No, Mignon realized that it must be more than that. Gail Harper had said that two girls besides Sharla had stayed today. One went to work and that was probably Annona g
oing to her job at the library. The other one had an interview at a fast-food restaurant. There wasn’t an interview, Mignon knew with unsettling conviction, and the young woman had probably gone to the farmhouse first. Then she had returned here and found her prey conveniently waiting for her. More likely, she had seen Mignon leaving and followed her back to the school.

  Oh man, Mignon thought, I am way too predictable. And I think John Henry’s right. I’m not cut out to be a detective. Grabbing a blanket off the bed, she wrapped it around her arm. Then she punched through the glass and knocked all the remaining slivers out of the frame. The noise was negligible, but she knew the other one could hear it. She would come chasing it down as soon as she understood what it meant.

  Through the gaping hole that the broken window left, Mignon could see the chapel. She wouldn’t make it. The young woman would see her and see her carrying Sharla away. Even if Mignon managed to lure her away, then she might be able to return and hunt the little girl down.

  Something crashed distantly as Mignon realized that the young woman was close.

  Mignon looked down at Sharla. This was the same kind of nightmare that she had gone through with the individual who had chased her through the dark forests near the farmhouse. The thought made her knees go weak. Oh Jesus, what am I going to do?

  •

  Caraby knew when he was wrong. He knew when to admit that he’d made a mistake. He didn’t like to do it, but he knew it all the same. The more he thought about Mignon’s defense of Tomas Clovis, the more he realized that she was correct. He had lost sight of the situation. The most likely suspect was a Gullah Creole, one of those that were damned because of their dark color. All of the mores that Caraby had learned from his parents had culminated in a bias against the boy, and he had communicated that bias to the sheriff. All of the circumstantial evidence was so damning that Caraby became bigheaded enough not to want to bother wasting his time on anything else. The only thing that was left was to find the thing upon which Dara Honore had scraped her fingernails. He was figuring that it was another painted pirogue. How many things were painted that blood red color?