by C. L. Bevill
Mignon had taken it in stride, but the truth was that she was sick of everyone but John Henry, and she was deathly sick of hearing rhymes. Especially jump rope rhymes.
John Henry and she had come to an uneasy conclusion. Things were to remain as they were. He wasn’t going to insist that she change her ways, and she wasn’t going to insist that he get used to it. They were going to have to work on it. At the moment, Mignon thought she could live with it. He’d even told her that he wanted her to meet his daughter. All by itself, that was a huge step for John Henry. It was almost like a commitment written in concrete. She didn’t think he knew how telling that was.
Rolling over on her side, Mignon tried to relax and let herself drift off to sleep, but it was difficult. Her mind was racing, and she found it hard to let go. So much had happened.
“Mignon,” a voice said, and she thought for a moment that the voice had come out of her head. She turned slightly and saw a dark shape silhouetted by the shard of light from the cracked door. She hadn’t heard it open, and for another moment, she thought that Linda Terrebonne had come to visit, insistent upon regaining what was rightfully hers.
But it wasn’t Linda Terrebonne. He took a step forward, and she saw the light caress his bluish-black flesh. It was Tomas Clovis.
“Tomas?” she said, lifting herself up on her elbow. A prickle of fear caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand up, but she repressed it. Under her pillow her hand grasped the Beretta’s grips.
“You found out who done it, dint you,” he said firmly. Her eyes were adjusted to the dimness of the room, and she could see the cold set of his features. Tomas wasn’t happy. Mignon had a fleeting thought that questioned if he would ever be happy again.
“Yes,” she agreed. “The sheriff doesn’t want to arrest you anymore. As a matter of fact, he’s cleared you completely. He told the press as well, so there wouldn’t be any doubts.”
Tomas nodded. “I heard.”
“Then why are— ”
He interrupted. “I don’t need to talk to them, so it don’t matter.”
In the gloom Mignon thought he looked like he was something made of obsidian, ready to shatter if something even gingerly touched him. His eyes were black pools of despair and rage all wrapped up in each other, never able to separate. He’d broken into her house because she’d double-checked the locks earlier. She didn’t know what he was capable of doing.
“They say you be getting better,” he said after a moment. “They say you be fine. I like that. You did what I asked of you. I wanted to thank you. I thanked you before for pulling Dara out of the bayou. Ain’t no one else will. Folks don’t want to know that a Creole responsible for Dara’s death. Don’t want to know that they capable of killing each other like that, purely on account of ambition.” He hissed out the last word as if it were vile and repulsive. “It got Dara murdered. Both hers and that other one. They ain’t found that other gal. Likely they won’t. The bayou don’t normally give up its dead.”
There were no words to console Tomas, and Mignon didn’t want to search for them. She was sickened by his overwhelming wrath. Finally, she said, “They’ll catch Linda.”
Tomas laughed bitterly. Then he went to the door. He opened it and allowed Mignon to see his face fully. It wasn’t as she had thought. In the bright light of the hallway, it was worse. It seemed as though he had lost all of his humanity. Just before he stepped outside, he said, “No, they won’t. On account of I found her first.” Then he vanished into the light.
Mignon took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and put her head down. She was still with John Henry. She had discovered the answers to the scorching questions that haunted her. Dara Honore hadn’t been like Mignon at all. No, Dara had been altogether unique, and the comparison was inadequate at best. But Mignon had gotten what she had wanted.
Opening her eyes and raising herself again, she reached for the phone and called John Henry’s home number. He answered on the third ring. His caller ID told him who it was. “Mignon?” he said instead of hello.
“John Henry,” she said. “I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
~The End~
After Word
Many years ago I wrote Bayou Moon, (St. Martins, 2002), and I worked hard on the novel. The editor was very particular. In any event, it was published, and although the reviews were mostly favorable, it did not sell very well. Then the editor passed on the second novel featuring Mignon Thibeaux. As a matter of fact, I had never intended on writing another novel about Mignon because the first one stood alone so very well. However, about a month before Bayou Moon was published in October of 2002, the editor and I had a conversation, and she said something like, “If this one sells, you’ll want another one with Mignon in it.” So I went to work writing Crimson Bayou. I thought it turned out well, but the editor disagreed, and thus we parted company, leaving me to pursue writing in another fashion, which did ultimately work out for the best. But the book is here, and I’ve revised it because it’s a good mystery. I particularly enjoyed the revision of the history of the Creoles in the Cane River area. In addition, there are many non-fiction books about Marie Thérèse Coincoin, who was a very real person, as was her contributions to the area. However, I did embellish about the use of pirogues and the Creole enclaves, as is a writer’s right to do. I should also make a note about the use of the term Gullah. Most people will think of them as individuals who reside in the Lowcountry region of South Carolina and Georgia, who are descended from slaves and have their own unique culture and language. In doing my research about the Cane River area, some of the Creoles there were referred to as Gullahs or sometimes Redbones, which I decided was too risqué to use. Therefore, the term Gullah is not exclusive to the individuals in the Lowcountry region of South Carolina and Georgia, and I felt that I could use it in the story. It is not my intention to inadvertently insult those who call themselves Gullahs from the Lowcountry region. Regardless, it does make a good story. If one ever gets the chance to visit Natchitoches Parrish in Louisiana, please enjoy their rich heritage, wondrously hearty atmosphere, and genial residents. It’s well worth the trip!
Caren L. Bevill
About the Author
C.L. Bevill has lived in Virginia, Texas, Arizona, and Oregon. She once was in the U.S. Army and a graphic illustrator. She holds degrees in social psychology and counseling. She is the author of Bubba and the Dead Woman, Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas, Bubba and the Missing Woman, Veiled Eyes, Disembodied Bones, and Shadow People, among others. Presently she lives with her husband and her daughter in Alabama and continues to constantly write. She can be reached at www.clbevill.com or you can read her blog at www.carwoo.blogspot.com
Other Novels by C.L. Bevill
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Mysteries:
Bubba and the Dead Woman
Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas
Bubba and the Missing Woman
Brownie and the Dame
Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note
Bayou Moon
Paranormal Suspense/Romance:
Veiled Eyes (Lake People 1)
Disembodied Bones (Lake People 2)
Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel (Lake People 3)
The Moon Trilogy:
Black Moon (The Moon Trilogy 1)
Amber Moon (The Moon Trilogy 2)
Silver Moon (The Moon Trilogy 3)
Cat Clan Novellas:
Harvest Moon
Blood Moon
Crescent Moon
Shadow People
Sea of Dreams
Mountains of Dreams (Dreams #2) (Coming soon)
Suspense:
The Flight of the Scarlet Tanager
Black Comedy:
The Life and Death of Bayou Billy
Missile Rats
Chicklet:
Dial ‘M’ For Mascara
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