Bayou Hero

by Marilyn Pappano

  Immediately he felt guilty. Grief should be shared, not hidden away in shame. Maybe he didn’t feel love or respect or even regret for their father’s death—and not much for their mother’s—but he loved Mary Ellen. He owed her support if nothing else.

  Abruptly her fork clattered to the plate, her fingers trembling, twitching. “How can you not miss them, Landry?” The sorrow was gone from her voice, replaced by something flatter, cooler. Something...angry? “They were your parents. Your mother. Your father. Without them, you never would have existed. How can you sit there without even a single tear of sympathy or grief for them?”

  The emotion caught him off guard—both hers and his, because that was definitely anger simmering inside him, just underneath the indifference, the uncaring that bothered her so much. Setting his silverware down, he pushed the plate back a few inches, then folded his hands in his lap.

  He schooled steadiness into his voice. “I did my crying for them, because of them, a long time ago, Mary Ellen. I cried so damn hard and so damn often that I ran out of tears.”

  “Things never had to get so bad.” Her tone, her smile, her very self, seemed brittle as if the slightest jostling might break her. “Daddy was hard on you, but all he wanted you to do was try. Go along. Make an effort now and then to be the son he wanted you to be. But that was too much to ask, wasn’t it? You had to do things your way, even if it meant destroying our family. You moving out, me being sent off to that horrible place, Mama and Daddy brokenhearted—all because you couldn’t bear to let him win. Well, you know what, Landry? It was never a game! There weren’t any winners. Just losers. Even you lost out on having parents who loved you in your life.”

  Ice pumped through Landry’s veins. Denial must be a cozy, snug place. He would have loved to live there for a while, but he’d never been able to turn his memories off long enough to settle in.

  Rising from the chair, he dropped the napkin on the table before facing her. “It’s been a hell of a week, Mary Ellen, and I’m not going to fight with you. You believe what you want, I’ll believe what I know and neither of us will try to change the other’s mind. Deal?”

  He turned with a squeak of his flip-flops and headed for the front door. He’d reached the foot of the stairs when her steps click-clicked on the floor, when she called his name and threw herself into his arms the instant he turned.

  “I’m so sorry, Landry! I don’t know what got into me. I’m just so tired and sad, and the doctors have me taking so much medicine, and I just feel like things are never going to be normal again! Please don’t go away mad! I didn’t mean to upset you. I just...” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Oh, God, things have gone so wrong, Landry.”

  He held himself stiff a moment, two, before his muscles relaxed of their own accord, his arms pulling her closer, his hand patting her back. “It’s okay,” he murmured over and over until her tears stopped and her trembling eased. “I’m not mad. I’ve never been mad at you.”

  Her snort was unexpected, a response he could easily imagine from Alia but never from Mary Ellen. “Bull,” she whispered, followed by a hiccup of a laugh. “You’ve been mad at me dozens of times. You just can’t stay mad because I’m so sweet and you love me so much.” She lifted her head, wiped her eyes with her little finger, drying them without smearing her makeup, then gave another shaky laugh. “I love you, too. I couldn’t live without you.”

  Under normal circumstances, though they were close, they weren’t touchy-feely with each other. Her words made him feel a little of the old comfortably familiar awkwardness. He hid it with a grin. “I plan to be around a long time.”

  Pulling out of his arms, she took his hand in both of hers. “Stay longer now. Geneva can reheat our lunch, and she made a fabulous cobbler with peaches picked from her own trees, and there’s vanilla ice cream, too. Please? I promise, no more talk about Mama and Daddy and the house.”

  Because he knew she wouldn’t likely keep her word—how could she avoid talking about the biggest tragedies in her life?—he was reluctant to say yes, but leaving would only hurt her feelings. He was a grown man. He could listen to her, could bite his tongue if necessary.

  And Geneva’s peach cobbler was a thing of wonder.

  “Lead the way back to the table.” As he followed Mary Ellen down the hall again, he realized he was starting to think about food the way Alia did. The thought made him smile.

  Chapter 13

  The rest of the meal passed pleasantly enough. Landry and Mary Ellen talked about the kids, how Scott was taking them to Baton Rouge after work that afternoon, where they would stay with his parents until the Sunday after Camilla’s funeral. They discussed mutual acquaintances and the weather and how lucky Mary Ellen was to have Geneva, who, along with Mama Trahn, was the best cook in the city. He would have to snag a dinner invitation for him and Alia with this same menu. She would fall in love with Geneva after the first bite and be wanting to marry her once she tasted the peach cobbler.

  It gave Landry pause, imagining his sister and her family, Alia and him gathered around the dinner table. He’d never brought a woman to any family get-together—had always kept his love life separate from his family life. But Alia fit perfectly into that image. Mary Ellen would like her because he did, Scott because she was so damn likable, and the girls would love her and want to be just like her when they grew up.

  It felt very right.

  After dessert, he and Mary Ellen took glasses of iced tea onto the gallery, sat under the protection of the broad roof and watched the rain for a while. It had settled to little more than a sprinkle, a fine rinse that washed everything clean and made it gleam. Tiny drops beaded on the grass blades and the flower petals and made him feel lazy, as if all he wanted to do was sit here until Alia got off work, then go to her house and sit on that porch with her.

  Or just take her straight to bed.

  He was considering that, his body temperature rising, his muscles getting twitchy, when Mary Ellen broke the silence.

  “I know I said I wouldn’t...”

  He bit back a sigh.

  Staring into the distance, she heaved her own sigh, heavy and reluctant. “Yesterday you asked if I ever thought about what happened when we were kids. What were you talking about?”

  The question hung between them in the air, as if the humidity had caught it and wouldn’t let it fade away. He shifted to look at her, but she continued to stare off, her expression stark, her body absolutely motionless. For just an instant, skin pale, unmoving, distant look, she reminded him more of a statue than a living, breathing person. Then she met his gaze. Hers was filled with shadows and emotion that scraped her raw, that scraped him raw, too.

  He didn’t want to tell her. Didn’t want to uncover memories she’d buried more than half a lifetime ago. Didn’t want to tarnish that love and respect for their parents that had irritated him so a few hours ago.

  He was tired of talking about it, thinking about it, feeling the betrayal and the pain and the shame and the anger and the bitterness. He wanted, just this once, to forget as thoroughly as she appeared to have done.

  But she was going to find out. The police had talked to the Wallace girls yesterday. They would get to the Grayson and the Gaudette kids soon, if they hadn’t already.

  And they would come to Mary Ellen. They would want to corroborate Landry’s story, would want the details of her own abuse. Was it better to let them spring it on her out of the blue or for him to bring it up?

  “What did you mean, Landry?” she repeated, her voice plaintive and shaky and just a little bit scared. “Why did you leave us? Why did you make me go away for so long? I know that was because of you. Daddy reminded me every time we talked. What happened?”

  Liquid splashed over his fingers, and he realized his hands were shaking every bit as much as hers were still. He set his glass on the table
between them, dried the wet spot on his shorts and swallowed hard. “Do you remember all those Saturday nights we spent with Jeremiah and his friends?”

  Something flickered through her eyes, and a muscle tightened in her jaw. Her mouth worked, as if a spontaneous denial was trying to work its way out but failed. “I—I—” Clamping her mouth shut, she shook her head hard. “No. No, the only time I saw those men was when our families got together. I never...”

  He didn’t say anything. He just watched her head shake get faster, more emphatic, her lips thinner.

  “Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened. Daddy wouldn’t allow—” Panic joined the fear in her eyes. “Mama wouldn’t allow—” Now there were tears, too, not falling yet, just gathering, like the raindrops on the tips of the flower petals.

  “Why would you say such a thing, Landry? Why would you think—” Her mouth formed an O, and the tears started falling. “Oh, my God, Landry. How could he— I’m so sorry! Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry!” She reached a trembling hand toward him. “Why didn’t you tell Daddy? He would have protected you! Hell, Landry, he would have killed anyone who hurt you!”

  He sat, stiff and cold and so damn sorry. “He didn’t protect me, Mary Ellen. He arranged it all.”

  Horror lit her face as she went statue-still again. He thought of his earlier caption for the picture she’d made and changed it now to Southern Belle in Torment. It was too much to take in. She was...shattered.

  He should stand, take her in his arms, tell her it was all a lie, but any comfort he might offer would be too little, and it was too late to take back his words. “I’m sorry, Mary Ellen,” he whispered, his words barely audible over the steady drip of the rain. “But you asked, and I needed to tell, and the police will be questioning you...” Piss-poor excuses, but all he had to give.

  He waited for hysterics, more tears, wails, collapse, but she didn’t surrender to any of those. Slowly she lowered her hand, wrapping those fingers over the hand that held her iced tea, and she gave him a dry-eyed look that was surprisingly strong. “You told the police this?”

  He nodded grimly.

  “You told them everything?”

  His nod this time was even grimmer.

  “Why?” One word, not sharp, not angry, not teary, just very controlled. It surprised him again. He’d never seen her so controlled in an emotional situation. It must be the medication, he thought numbly.

  “Why do you think they were killed, Mary Ellen? Jeremiah and Camilla, Miss Viola and Bradley Wallace? Because of what they did, because of what Camilla and Miss Viola knew.”

  A shudder ratcheted through her as she raised one hand to her forehead, pressing the skin there as if to relieve an ache. “I didn’t know...I don’t... Why don’t I remember that?”

  Relief swept through him. It wasn’t an admission, but it was a start. “You were young. Sometimes our brains push ugly things into a corner and cover them over so we don’t have to deal with them.” Sometimes he wished for a brain like that.

  “But you remember.” Unexpectedly her lips turned up in a tremulous smile. “I know, I know, you’re stronger and braver than me. You always have been.”

  “You’re strong in your own way, Mary Ellen.”

  “I don’t feel strong. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take one of the doctor’s magic pills and lie down for a while.”

  “Of course I don’t mind.” He stood and offered his hand. She laid hers in it, all long, thin bones and porcelain skin, her fingers cold, her nails polished a shade of pink so pale that it was barely a color. Carefully he pulled her to her feet, then walked to the door with her. He thanked her for lunch. She thanked him for coming, and then she hugged him tightly.

  He watched her go inside before turning to the steps. He’d just reached the bottom when she called his name once more. Turning back, he found her standing in the doorway, hands clasped, gaze sliding to, then away from his. “I hate to ask...especially now...but...”

  Take a breath and spit it out, Jeremiah used to say when he’d had enough of what he’d called her dithering—which was usually about three words into it. But Landry didn’t chastise her. He just waited.

  She did take a breath, forcing it to fill her lungs, blowing it out again. “There are a few pieces of jewelry I wanted to put with Mama. I told Mr. DeVille I would bring them over first thing in the morning, but Scott won’t be home until late, and I don’t think I can face the house alone, not this soon. I—I—”

  He could go with her. Hell, he’d arranged and attended Jeremiah’s funeral solely for Mary Ellen’s sake. He could damn well go into the house for the few minutes it would take to get the jewelry. “Do you want to go now?”

  The ginger press of her fingertips to her forehead again accompanied the shake of her head. “I can’t just yet. Can I call you? Will you be able to take a little time off?”

  “Sure. Just let me know.”

  The smile that wreathed her face was sweet and grateful. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  As Alia pulled into her driveway, the sun finally broke through the clouds that had covered the city all day and glistened off the windows of her house, the wet paint and grass, the puddles that had gathered in low spots. On its downward slide over the horizon, it would probably heat the air enough to make things steam, filling the air so full of moisture that it would be like rain that just floated rather than falling. If she’d had anything planned for the evening besides being lazy, it might be miserable, but she didn’t.

  Unless Landry had some suggestions.

  She let herself into the house, sighing at the tremendous difference between the chilled dry air inside and the hot heavy humidity out. She’d entertained herself on the way home with the fantasy of finding Landry there, having forgotten to tell her that Tuesday was his day off, grilling dinner, planning to spend an entire evening and a lovely night with her.

  There was no sign of him, though, and the fragrance she inhaled in the air was either left from that morning or wishful thinking.

  Kicking off her shoes at the end of the couch, she pattered into the kitchen to get a couple pieces of candy to see her through changing her clothing and found the note from him on the counter. A grin split her face ear to ear, melting away the fatigue of the extra hour and a half she’d put in at work. She popped one of the Hershey’s Kisses in her mouth, took the cell from her jacket pocket and dialed his number as she went up the stairs.

  Damn, it went to voice mail. “Leaving notes with my candy stash,” she teased. “Oh, you know me well. I called, as commanded. Feel free to do the same when you get a minute.”

  She’d changed into running clothes, though she had no intention of running this evening, and fixed herself a glass of Kool-Aid when the cell rang. She answered without looking and swallowed a sigh of disappointment when she heard Jimmy’s voice on the other line.

  “Heard the news?”

  “Hi. I’m fine. How are you?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Someone attacked Marco Gaudette about ten this morning.”

  Forgetting common phone etiquette, she grabbed a handful of candy from the kitchen, then sank onto the sofa, bare feet propped on the coffee table. “Attacked how?”

  “Caught him in the office parking garage. Apparently ambushed him from behind a big concrete pillar, stabbed him a couple times, but got scared off by a car parking nearby.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Sadly, no. Get this, the guy’s first blow went right through Gaudette’s left eye. Bastard didn’t see a thing ’cause he was too busy screaming and covering his eyes. Damn.” Jimmy made a disgusted sound. “The driver of the other car didn’t see anything, either, until he found Gaudette crying like a girl on the ground between the pillar and his car. Of course, stick a knife through my eyeball, and I’m gonna cry like a girl, too.
”

  Alia unwrapped a Kiss, brushing away the bits of foil that fell onto her lap, wadding the paper flume tightly into the remaining foil, and put the chocolate in her mouth. “So the Jacksons, Miss Viola and Wallace are killed in the middle of the night, and the killer goes after Gaudette in the middle of the morning?”

  “Are you eating? Jeez, Alia, can you not hold off while we’re on the phone? We’re talking about a skewered eyeball, for God’s sake.”

  “And I cringed appropriately. But I worked late. I just got home, and I’m hungry.”

  He snorted before returning to the conversation. “How do you figure Camilla’s killed in the middle of the night?”

  “Because somebody would have noticed her being stuffed into the crypt, either unconscious and unwieldy or screaming and fighting, during daylight hours.”

  “Yeah, right. Even in the middle of the morning, we got no more evidence or witnesses than we have from the middle of the night. That garage has exits on three different streets. Anyone could have walked in there.”

  “Security cameras?”

  “No view where the attack took place. We got a picture near the stairs. A navy blue rain slicker with the hood pulled up, jeans, running shoes. We can’t even tell how big the guy is ’cause the slicker’s way too big.”

  “Have you warned Anderson and Grayson?”

  A grin came into Jimmy’s voice. “Did that personally this afternoon when we served search warrants on ’em. Grayson pretended the murders and Gaudette’s attempted murder couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him, and Anderson looked like you on a cruise with no seasick medicine.”

  His reference to the first two days of their honeymoon cruise—her stuck in the cabin developing an intimate relationship with the toilet—made her grimace. She hadn’t been able to eat a thing those days, which had turned bad luck into cruel and unusual punishment. As if being married to Jimmy hadn’t turned out to be cruelty enough.