by C. L. Bevill
In his arrogance, Caraby believed that it belonged to one of the Clovis family or to one of the families in the Gullah enclave. Tomas would have used it, and when he’d strangled Dara, he’d disposed of it. However, the truth was that Tomas was not a stupid young man and that he’d apparently loved Dara Honore very much.
But Mignon Thibeaux had interfered and caused a rash of questions that bit at him like termites at a pile of wood lying upon the bare ground. She had taken evidence, tampered with it, and kept it out of their hands. In his eyes, that was almost as bad as being the murderer herself.
The questions about the insurance card nagged at Caraby like the whispering curses of a grandmother. Someone had taken the card at some point in time. Since it was in Dara’s custody it was logical to assume that it had been stolen while he had been investigating a crime at Blessed Heart. But Dara hadn’t been a resident at that time. Hence, some other student had taken it, and consequently, it had come into Dara’s possession. However, the logic did not automatically mean that the student he had come to investigate was the same student who had taken the card. That was a conclusion that Mignon had leapt to, but she had also fixated on something else he’d said.
“A racially motivated manner” were the words that had caught her attention. That statement, and the fact that the complaining student had run away not long after the complaint had been issued, had acquired Mignon’s interest. There was no sign of the runaway teenager, but that didn’t mean anything. There were runaways from Blessed Heart at least once a month. That was part of the reason that Caraby hadn’t given the complaining student’s disappearance much thought. But Mignon thought about it.
Why? Does she think that there’s another victim? Caraby measured the possibilities. Yes, it should be considered. He walked back down to where Ruby was running the receptionist area like a vengeful demigod and said, “Did Miss Thibeaux say where she was calling from?”
“Nope,” Ruby said, “And don’t you go grabbing phones outta my hand no more. I ain’t some little twit from the secretarial pool who— ”
Caraby turned away before she could finish. Calls that came in through the outside lines directly to the main number wouldn’t be identified by caller ID, so there was no point in looking at that. The abrupt hang-up by Mignon also bothered him. She hadn’t said where she was or what she was doing. John Henry had said to keep an eye on her when he was able. Because their paths were bound to cross in the process of the ongoing Honore investigation, John Henry thought Caraby might be in a good position to do just that.
Mignon had said, “But the one you investigated is still here?” referring to the fact that it was Blessed Heart students who were the focus of a felony investigation. She’s at the school. Caraby quickly dialed the school and after the twentieth ring he realized that something was very much wrong.
•
The young woman came into the dormitory and looked around cautiously. She had heard breaking glass and guessed who she was seeking had broken a window to escape the building. She knew that it was only a matter of time before Father William returned from the false appointment she’d arranged to get him out of the building. But the deer hunting rifle that he kept in the closet of his office would do the trick effectively. Father William used it for scaring away coyotes and feral dogs in the area, but she had another use for it. An upbringing where everyone hunted to supplement their diet and income had taught her how to use it. Furthermore, she wasn’t bothered by the fact that she would have to use it.
The young woman had been threatened by Dara Honore, and she’d taken care of it. The young woman had attempted to get back what had been taken from her, the rhymes that spoke of the inner struggle of every Creole. Being placed in a no man’s land situated in a cultural setting that no one really understood or dared to comprehend, was not as simple as checking the “other” box on a census form. Every single time it was assumed that she was black because she possessed Gullah blood, it was like a dagger being slowly twisted into her back. All throughout her life she had been forced to work thrice as hard as everyone about her, and she wanted more than that.
Her acceptance into an Ivy League school was a culmination of all that she had worked at in order to raise herself above and beyond the rest. But Dara had threatened to send the entrance committee copies of the rhymes unless the young woman supported her side of the issue of emancipation. The young woman had uselessly begged to get the items back, as well as the childish love letter to Father William, and the insurance card that she had taken from the Creole investigator, Les Père des Cocodries. The last was simply a prize for her. She had beaten The Father of Alligators. He believed that she was innocent of the charges alleged by the black teenager who had complained directly to the police. Like Dara, that one wouldn’t be carrying any tales, and no one was the wiser.
The begging hadn’t affected Dara. Dara was intent on her future just as the young woman was, and she was determined to see herself through by fair means or foul. The young woman had followed her out of the dormitory with the intention of pleading with her for the things once more. The young woman would support Dara, she would back her up, but Dara had changed her mind. Dara’s sense of morality was prompting her to reveal the young woman’s proclivity for racism despite her demands being acquiesced.
Enraged, the young woman had used a school’s tie to strangle Dara in the living room. After the murder was done, she calmly made a mental list of things she would have to do in order to cover her tracks. The body most likely wouldn’t be found, but in the unlikely event that it was, she replaced the tie with a length of rope found in the tool shed. She dumped the body into the bayou not too far away and then planted the other part of the rope into one of the Gullah’s trucks. Tomas Clovis would be the most likely suspect. Then she returned to the school and realized that the coffee table had been fiercely scratched by Dara’s scrambling fingernails. She stayed up well into the night, a trusted student painting the tables, knowing that the difference wouldn’t even be commented upon.
But Dara’s body had been found too quickly. And if Tomas went to jail immediately, then the young woman might never get the rhymes back. It took some clever thinking on how to keep him out for the time being, and she didn’t hesitate in using the good intentions of those around her. An exaggeration about Sister Helena’s argument with Dara helped, as did her protection of Tomas Clovis. And Mignon Thibeaux was the perfect foil. Determined to find out what happened, she was one of them, a Creole, and the young woman knew that Tomas could be persuaded to trust her as he trusted none of the others. Mignon’s integrity was used so effectively against herself.
The young woman hadn’t wanted to murder anyone at the school, but Mignon needed to hand over the rhymes to her and then vanish as surely as everyone else who had impeded her. Like her parents. Like the little cotton-patch teenager. And like Dara. If it hadn’t been for Mignon, Dara would have sunk into the depths of the bayous as surely as those who had gone before her, and little would have ever been recovered. The rhymes would have been disregarded.
The young woman stalked through the dormitory, looking around her carefully, for signs of Mignon and the little girl with the cast. Sharla was unimportant, but she had seen too much. The large room was silent and still. Then she saw the glass shards glittering in the afternoon light near a window on the end. She hurried to the window and peered out.
Mignon’s lithe form could be seen clearly. The red hair burned like fire. She was carrying the little girl wrapped in a blanket and hurrying toward the chapel.
No safety there, Linda Terrebonne thought. She raised the deer rifle up and fired.
Chapter Thirty
Thursday, March 20th
I don’t want the apple, I don’t want the pear,
I don’t want your fifty cent piece to kiss me on the stair.
I’d rather wash the dishes, I’d rather scrub the floor,
I’d rather kiss the bogeyman behind the kitchen door.
- Children’s jump rope rhyme
The crack of the weapon shocked Mignon so much that she almost dropped her precious cargo. She felt the rush of air pass her ear and knew immediately how close the bullet had come to her. Not vacillating, she ran for the chapel, zigzagging as she went. The inane thought that blasted through her head was, Where in hell did Linda Terrebonne get a damn gun?
Ah. Mignon almost stopped to look around while running through the woods. A person with a gun chasing me, trying to kill me, or at the very least trying to stop me from fleeing. It’s ever so familiar, and it really bites. It says something about John Henry being right. She hit the wide double doors of the chapel with her shoulder and burst inside, nearly falling to the floor with forward motion. Then she kicked the doors shut behind her and rapidly scanned the room.
It was a small Catholic church with rows of pews and stained glass that produced the oddly colored shadows that bent into the room with vicious intensity. It was a kaleidoscope of brilliant shades that momentarily made her hesitate. Mignon unfroze with the crack of another shot. Trying to frighten me. She wants those rhymes. She believes that I wouldn’t have dared give them to John Henry because of Simon Caraby. But Linda couldn’t know of our recent conflict and know that I felt so guilty about…
Mignon went to the confessional door and pulled it open an inch. No, she thought. No, that isn’t right. Instead, she pushed her burden under a pew and ran toward the back of the church. There was another door that led to a small conference room and an office. The window was a simple latch, and she punched the screen out with one hand. Outside she could see the thick vegetation of the piney woods that dominated the gentle hill. It had to look obvious that she had fled this way. She had to lead Linda as far away from Sharla as possible.
Slipping out of the window, Mignon fell to the ground and ripped out the knee of her slacks. She bit back a cry as hard ground scraped against her flesh. “Damn,” she said before she could help herself. She stopped and listened. The broad front doors of the chapel echoed piercingly as Linda shoved them open.
Mignon slammed the window shut as loudly as she could. Come after me. Me. She wanted to yell it, but Linda was chillingly intelligent. She had planned for every eventuality, dealing with each as they occurred, and she had exploited what Mignon believed in with the ease of a virtuoso tactician. Only seventeen years old, she might have become whatever she wanted to be. Now she was only absorbed in concealing her trail.
Perhaps she won’t conceal everything, Mignon considered. She launched herself to her feet. Someone else could be blamed for the deaths here. It was even possible that Linda would dispose of the bodies in the bayous so that they would never be found. She could clean up her mess and then could say anything she so desired. Mignon pushed into the thick woods and tried to vanish into the forest. Just as she would have gone down what looked like a game trail, she ripped the material of her already shredded slacks and left the piece on the trail. The blood from the scraped flesh was obvious.
•
Linda heaved open the double doors of the chapel and stood still for a moment, listening to the reverberation of the doors’ opening fade away in the wide space of the room. A moment later, there was a loud sound that came from the rear of the church. The persons she was seeking were trying to evade her there. The back door of the church was blocked by boxes containing supplies, candles, and robes. There wasn’t a way out there except by a window that was in the tiny office that the church secretary used.
That big cast on Sharla’s leg won’t bend, Linda thought with diabolical satisfaction. And it won’t fit through that window. Her eyes meticulously searched the church and settled on the confessional booths. The doors were ajar, and she knew from her years in the school that wasn’t the way the father or the sister would leave them. No sanctuary there.
But suspicious nature made Linda hesitate. The Mignon who she had heard all about wouldn’t leave Sharla to die. Linda cautiously looked around her. The front doors were still wide open. She could double back and surprise Linda, taking the advantage. Sharla could wait. The little girl wasn’t going anywhere. She went back out the front and started to work her way around the chapel. She didn’t even notice the blanket and pillows stuffed under a pew.
•
Sharla peeked out of the bunk bed she was hidden underneath. On one side of her was a dresser, which allowed her to press into the darkest part of the shadows of the bed. There was just enough room for a small adolescent and her ungainly cast to fit. Mignon had whispered into her ear to be as quiet as a mouse and not to move, no matter what happened. She would draw Linda away from her and try to get help.
After Mignon had gone out the window, Sharla heard the sounds of someone walking down the middle of the cement floors of the dormitory. The impact of the feet made Sharla tremble violently, and she worried that the shaking of her slight frame would alert the older girl to her presence. But instead, there was the sound of a shot. Sharla knew that sound. Her father often target practiced on an old barrel in the backyard when he wasn’t sermonizing about the evils of the flesh and how public schools were ruining the children who would be the future.
Daddy ain’t around to shoot anything, Sharla reassured herself. The sheriff said he was going away, and he ain’t coming back until I be out of school and maybe not even then. So she came to the conclusion that it was Linda who was firing at Mignon and couldn’t quite understand why it was that Linda would be firing a weapon at anyone. It was true that Linda didn’t like anyone who wasn’t as white, or whiter, than she was. Linda treated the black girls at the school as if they were the most awful thing on the face of the planet, and every one of them knew what would happen if they complained about her. Their much-prized possessions disappeared. Their hair got hacked off while they were sleeping. It was even whispered that one girl had run away just because of Linda’s harassment.
It hadn’t mattered much to Sharla because she was isolated due to her injury. Some of the girls played with her and treated her very nicely, just as the staff at the school did. It was obvious even to the little girl that Linda was oblivious to her. There was nothing that Sharla had that interested Linda, and the younger girl would soon be leaving.
But if all Linda hated is blacks, then why she be shooting at Miz Thibeaux? Sharla wondered. That gal be as pale as a ghost, and why she be wanting to kill me, too?
Sharla couldn’t make sense of it. She heard another shot and then the sounds of Linda scrambling out the same window as Mignon. By the time the thirteen-year-old looked out, Linda was long gone.
But Sharla had remembered that there was a payphone in the cafeteria. That phone line often worked when the school’s wasn’t functional. She had heard that from Sister Helena who had been complaining about the trustworthiness of the regular lines. Father William had said something about it being hooked up to a separate line. I know how to dial 9-1-1, damn skippy.
•
The forest of thick pine and oak became a wild jungle of ivy and undergrowth that would strangle Mignon if she stopped to let it. The game trail twisted around to the west and started on a gentle decline. In the back of her mind, she knew she would hit the bayou before long, and she would be swimming with the alligators and the nutria. There were no colorful pirogues to take her away from the deadly situation that she was immersed in.
She was panting with effort when the trail ended, and she stepped one foot into deep water. Her leg sank up to her knee as the mud clutched madly at her, unwilling to let her go once it had claimed ownership. Suddenly, Mignon was caught in a cruel snare. A bear trap had snapped itself shut around her limb and would never willingly release. With abruptness that left her gasping, she yanked her foot free and fell onto her butt. Her shoe was missing.
Her head came up. The sounds of someone approaching were as loud as a gunshot. Linda was coming to get her, and Mignon was sitting on her derriere as if taking a break. If I just keep her occupied long enough, someone might return to the school
. Or maybe Caraby will figure it out. Maybe Superman will get married to Spiderman.
The noises stopped with unnerving swiftness. “Miss Thibeaux,” Linda called. “I really don’t want to do you any harm. I just want what belongs to me. You had a few of the rhymes in your purse, which means that Tomas did give them to you. Tell me where the rest are, and you can go along your way.”
Mignon slowly rose to her feet. Linda was further up the trail, obscured by vegetation and substantial brush. The teenager must think I’m a complete idiot. Then she chastised herself mentally, Well, you brought it on yourself, didn’t you? You had to do this, and now you want to complain when it didn’t work out like the drawing room confrontation in a cozy murder mystery?
“Miss Thibeaux,” Linda called out again. “I was raised in the bayous and the woods here. I can follow you for miles. I’m a lot younger than you, and I have a gun. There isn’t much that’s going to stop me, but we can stop this right now if you’re willing to be reasonable.”
Mignon started to follow the line of the bayou’s edge. Wading through the substantial vegetation was like trudging through hardening cement but she persisted. Cattails grew thickly here, creating a tropical forest of emerald green reeds. She knew she was producing an obvious path for Linda to track, but there was little choice. It was herself or Sharla. And even John Henry couldn’t fault her for the decision that she was making. Her feet sank into ankle-deep water, and she cringed when it splashed loudly in the stillness left by Linda’s brusque silence.
Time. She needed time. She waded out into the deeper bayou and prayed that snakes and alligators were taking prolonged afternoon naps.
