Bayou Blue

by Raquel Byrnes

  Citrine smiled sadly at me, like a slow child or elderly aunt who just didn’t get it. She pulled out a chair, leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her face with her hands. “Everyone knows Jake here in the parish, you know this?”

  “Yeah, well he grew up here, right?”

  “Yes, but not everyone gets close. He has a wide swath about him. He keeps people at…uh…” She put her arm out, palm facing me as if pushing away. “I forget this saying.”

  “At arm’s length.” I finished and knit my brow. “Really? That’s not the impression I got.”

  “Out there in the garden?”

  I felt the blush rising up, hot embarrassment at being seen.

  She and Jake had a history.

  I was almost sure of that. How must she feel? My gaze flitted to the window and I realized she had a clear view of the gazebo. “He was just asking if I was OK.”

  “Yes.” She tilted her head. “I saw that. He seemed to be very concerned over that question.” Her face was a mask of jealousy.

  I flashed on the scene this morning, the domestic picture of her and Jake chatting about lost keys and Michelle’s school. I’d thought they were together, but now I wasn’t sure what was going on. Either way, I didn’t appreciate getting attitude. A sudden surge of annoyance welled up and I raised a brow. “Look, if you and Jake have something going, then his behavior is something you need to talk to him about. Don’t drag me into it.”

  “Oh?” She sat back and crossed her arms, the pain apparent on her features. “You’ve done nothing to encourage this…this whatever he has with you?”

  “Has with me?” I repeated and scrunched my eyes. “What, like I patted the spot next to me and bobbed my eyebrows at him? Kind of a ‘come over here and snuggle with me’ sort of invitation? Is that really what you think happened?”

  She had the same disdainful pout I’d seen on her daughter. “If you say this is what happened…then, OK.”

  I threw my hands up. “All-righty, this conversation is over.” I got up and noticed Michelle standing in the doorway. She held some papers in her hand. I froze at the look on her face. Were we in a comic book, I’d be dodging daggers.

  Citrine followed my gaze, saw Michelle, and then jumped to her feet. Hands on her hips, she looked at her daughter with an exasperated frown. “Où étiez-vous… Where were you? I was so worried, Michelle.”

  Ignoring her mother, Michelle held out papers to me. “Something came for you.” She said in a surprisingly cordial tone. “A fax.”

  I took them. “Thank you.”

  I glanced at the sending number, saw that it was from Global Media, and scanned the papers. They outlined a proposal for a series of investigative reports with me as the show’s focus. It’s what Perry wanted to discuss. “When did these come?”

  “Right after you left.” Michelle nodded. “It says the offer is contingent on you clearing your family’s name or at least burying their involvement.”

  I looked at her, keeping my temper in check with silent counting, and then flipped to the back page. Sure enough, Perry’s familiar scrawl spelled out what Michelle had just said.

  Global Media is set to go, but your brother is a problem. Clean up the mess in Louisiana or they pull the offer. This is your one break, Riley, don’t blow it.

  -Perry

  Citrine let out a strangled laugh. “This is why you are here? To fool Jake into helping you do this? For a job?” She put her hands on her hips as if scolding me.

  “First of all, this is none of your business.” I shook the papers in her face. “Second of all, I am after the truth, and that is all.”

  “It’s just convenient then, that your quest just happens to align with what it takes to become a movie star?” Citrine spat. Her face flushed with anger. “You think we are stupid, Riley?”

  “I think you’re being stupid right now, yes!” When I felt attacked, my first instinct was to lash back and my mouth did this without letting my brain filter anything.

  “What did you say?” Michelle jumped in, waving her index finger at me. “Oh no, you did not just call my mother stupid.”

  “If you are going to jump conclusions based on a fax, then I get to point out how lame that is.” I gathered my things for a second time. I was all set to leave in a huff when I heard Jake’s footsteps outside. The screen door opened with a springy squeak and he poked his head in.

  All three of us started shouting at once and he took a step back outside.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he yelled, his hand up in surrender. “What is going on in here?”

  “She is just using you!” Michelle yelled and pointed at me like I was at the defendant’s table in a bad courtroom drama.

  “I’m not—”

  “Jacob, she will get a television show if she proves her brother had nothing to do with the plant explosion. If she pushes the blame onto someone else, they’ll reward her.” Citrine’s plaintive voice grated on my nerves. “Ask her, Jacob. She has the offer in her hands.”

  “Est-ce vrai?” Jake looked from Citrine, to Michelle, to me, his expression darkening. “Is this true?”

  I gripped the papers tighter, frustration churning my gut. “The offer came because of my work on the Senator Whitford scandal and doesn’t have anything to do with La Foudre.”

  “But the offer, it hinges on you finding someone else to take the fall?” Jake’s voice, though low, vibrated with anger. “Does it even matter if it’s true? If it’s a simpleton like Dauby, then fine. Who cares what happens to his back-water family?”

  “No, of course not!” I reached for his arm but he stepped away and humiliation crawled in me.

  Jake’s gaze flitted from mine to the other women. He lowered his voice. “Then tell me they’re wrong.”

  “That is what my agent wrote, but that is not why I’m here, Jake, I promise.”

  The warmth in his eyes from just a few minutes ago was replaced with distrust and something else…pain? “I don’t know you well enough to trust your promises, Riley.”

  My breath caught with the hurt of his words. I stared at him, my mouth letting out useless creaky little sounds.

  How could I be so stupid? Why did I let my guard down out here?

  Jake’s gaze dismissed my presence as he turned back to the screen door. He paused on his way out and spoke to the room, his eyes down at the floor, unwilling to look at me. “Toughie needs me down at the crime scene. Someone set Dauby’s shack on fire.”

  “What?” Citrine and I said in stereo.

  “The crime scene, the one with all the evidence, it is burning to the ground as we speak,” Jake said and left with the screen door swinging shut.

  I stared at the doorway in shock. What was going on here?

  12

  I walked along the shoulder of the pitted road on my way to the small public library a couple miles from the Lightning Bug. The tension in that house made my stomach flop and I didn’t want to be there anymore. But with the town’s harvest festival gearing up for this weekend and the jazz musicians and other revelers taking up all the available hotel rooms, the chances of finding another place to stay seemed slim.

  After Jake left, Citrine and Michelle refused to talk or even look at me. The only choice I had was to clear out of their way for the rest of the day and try to sneak in under the radar tonight. I used to spend entire days in the library back in college. It shouldn’t be too hard to bide my time there.

  My lip trembled despite my effort to be angry more than hurt at Jake’s words. I did care about what happened to Dauby and his family. The fact that it didn’t take much to convince Jake otherwise made me feel stupid for falling for his southern gentleman shtick. Whenever that man got near me, my brain fritzed out. I kicked an empty soda can. It careened off a boulder with a satisfying crash.

  Why should it matter if he could trust me? All I wanted from him was an inside track to interview the locals, right? I’d almost convince myself, and then the heat of his kiss and the feel
of his arms would send ripples through me and I’d get angry all over again. I never lost focus like this, not in all my time as an investigative reporter. What was it about him that threw me off balance?

  I glanced every few minutes at the column of smoke that rose out of the swamp’s trees. Dauby’s place must still be on fire. I gritted my teeth with frustration. Someone seemed to be one step ahead of me since I got here. I hated the feeling.

  I thought about Dauby and his poor family. Losing him like that, then this? I shook my head and stifled a sob. This was not like tracking a middle-aged politician to his mistress’s house. This was murder. I was almost positive.

  It started to drizzle, the tiny sprinkles pricking my face with cold sharpness. It felt good and I stuck out my tongue and tried to catch some drops.

  On the parish’s website as a historical building, the library took up all three floors of an old mansion owned by one of the town’s original families. Converted to a library in the late seventies, the columned plantation-style house stood on a low hill that sloped away from the road.

  I hopped from stepping stone to stepping stone on the path leading up to the doors while growling into my cell phone.

  “You know I really don’t appreciate what you wrote on that fax, Perry. You might as well have sent over a hive full of angry bees.”

  Perry chuckled, his tone not the least bit apologetic. “I assumed you checked yourself into a professional establishment with a business center and a secretary, not some local’s room-for-rent operation. How was I supposed to know they’d read your mail?”

  “Are you trying to make this harder?” A low hum made me turn and I caught sight of an ATV along the road. Two people sat on it; a larger man and a female, or teenage kid. Helmets obscured their faces. It neared and slowed as if they meant to stop, but an approaching semi-truck blocked my view of it. When it passed, the ATV was on its way again. I stared after it until Perry’s voice indicated that I missed his last sentence.

  “What?”

  “Who cares if the woman who makes the morning waffles saw my message to you?”

  “You don’t get how tiny this parish is, Perry.” I looked to see if the ATV kept going. “If they didn’t trust me before, then they really don’t, now.”

  “What are you…running for homecoming queen down there? You shouldn’t care if they trust you, or not. You told me you had proof your brother didn’t do this—this thing.” Perry’s voice rose. “I went to Global Media with that and they made an offer based on my promise that you’d clear your family’s name.”

  “What does it matter, anyway?” I reached the large double doors and leaned against the alcove wall. “I thought they wanted me for my investigative skills? The Whitford scandal should prove I’m able to deliver results.”

  Perry snorted a laugh. “You can’t be that naïve, Riley. You’re not the only investigative reporter out there with a pretty face. What sets you apart are your family connections that can get you in where others can’t. They want the whole package, the daughter of the crusaders carrying on your family’s fight against injustice. How’re we going to sell that if you can’t get your brother’s name off of the plant disaster?”

  I rubbed my forehead, hoping to quell the headache there. “You make them sound like superheroes.”

  “To a lot of people, your parents are. The strides your mother made to bring funding and aid to battered women and children are enormous.”

  “I know, Perry.”

  “And don’t get me started on your father. Talk about fearless in a pursuit.”

  I shifted, annoyed. I’d heard this before. “What about the book deal?”

  “They have some format ideas. Maybe part memoir, part retelling of your investigation into Whitford. They’re tossing around titles that have ‘Lioness’ in it.”

  “That’s what people call my mother.”

  “Yeah, well, it apparently applies to you now, at least for marketing purposes.”

  I groaned and the image of a mushroom cloud flitted behind my eyes. Would I ever escape the shadow of the Drake name?

  “They’re just ideas, Riley.” Perry soothed. “But you get the point of how interconnected your success is with your family’s standing?”

  “Yes.” I pursed my lips. “I get it.”

  “So don’t call me until you have good news.”

  I hung up and walked into the library’s vast foyer. A marble–topped table stood at the foot of a grand staircase that led up to the second floor. The vase centered on the table held a spray of yellow daffodils and lavender. Their fragrance mingled with the dusty scent of old books and smelled wonderful. I stood there, breathing in the flowers and trying to calm my angry thoughts when a thunderclap slammed down from the sparking sky. I jumped.

  “Oh dear, you’re a skittish one, aren’t ya?” The soft voice from the counter floated across the polished floor. With hair in a silver-white bun atop her head and spectacles on the end of her nose, she looked like a fifties school-marm. I recognized her from her picture on the website.

  I extended my hand. “You must be Mrs. Trebuchet.”

  “Oh, call me Bonnie.” She nodded out to the clouds. “I hope you don’t check out any horror books.”

  “Horror?” I spiked an eyebrow.

  “Well, you’re liable to jump right out of your own skin.”

  “Uh, no. I’m just hiding out here, actually.”

  “Oh, that does sound exciting, doesn’t it?” She tapped her fingertips together and her excited smile crinkled the edges of her pale blue eyes. “From whom?”

  I refused to add fuel to the gossip fire.

  “I thought I’d do some research, actually,” I said instead. “I’m interested in the archives for the local newspaper.”

  Nodding, Bonnie shuffled out from around the counter.

  I followed her to the foot of the staircase.

  “Those would be on the third floor, dear. Newspapers older than two years are on microfiche and any articles about residents of Bayou La Foudre are in the file cabinets by last name.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re that boy’s sister, aren’t you?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Yes.” Bracing for caustic words or blame, Bonnie shocked me when she reached for my hand, held it gently in hers, and gave a soft squeeze.

  “You must be devastated.”

  “I—I am, Bonnie. I honestly can’t believe…” I was at a loss for words.

  “Well, my prayers go out to you and your family.” Bonnie said softly. “I know your family isn’t, uh, into things like that …”

  “I am.” I was grateful for her comfort. “I am and I’m thankful, Bonnie, truly.”

  She patted my hand, and then waved me off to the stairs. “I’m ordering lunch out from Verona’s in a bit, dear. Just in case.”

  “Uh, Bonnie…” I licked my lips, nervous. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let anyone know I was here. I’m not really drawing smiles, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sure, dear. You can stay as long as you like.” Glancing outside, she shook her head. “If you stay too long, though, you might have to wait out the storm here.”

  “Oh…you think it’s close?”

  “Not the big one, not tropical storm Erin, but a decent one might hit us by nightfall.”

  “Thanks, Bonnie,” I called back from the first landing.

  The archives were in the third floor attic. It reminded me of ancient, cramped tombs broken into after remaining sealed for thousands of years. The layer of dust on the wood and brass file cabinets would’ve made any movie special effects team proud. A lone exposed light bulb snaked down from the rafters and shone weakly on the roll-top desk and wood chair in the corner. This room appeared undisturbed in years.

  I walked to the half-moon window and tilted the shutters to let the afternoon light inside. The wan shards sliced through the swirling dust eddy, but didn’t provide much light.

  Distant thunder rumbled.

  I squinted be
tween the slats and spotted the smoke cloud over the bayou canopy, caught myself worrying about Jake, and snapped the shutters closed with a scowl.

  I discovered the archive also served as dumping ground for several strange objects.

  A ship’s figurehead rested on an old table; the carving in the shape of a woman, her hand shielding her eyes as she stared out. Faded blue and white paint decorated her partially clad body.

  In a wood crate on the floor, a pile of metal canteens, some still in their canvas sleeves, shared floor space with three huge hollow heads, the plastic kind used in parades. The creepy red smiles, now cracked with time, gave me the willies.

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” I pulled at the sheet draped over some paintings leaning against the far wall, and covered the heads. “That’s much better.”

  In a supply closet, I found a couple more desk lamps, their cords wrapped around their chunky brass stands. I positioned them around the room and turned them on. Now properly lit, the attic actually felt cozy. Not a bad place to hide out.

  I stood in the middle of the warped wood floor and closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the old house creaking and settling. Tinkling wind chimes outside played a solemn cry of lost and forgotten memories.

  I dropped into the chair and set my purse on the faded blotter. I flicked on the amber desk lamp, pulled my notepad out, and peered at my notes by the warm glow.

  The picture that I took of the sketch in Dauby’s kitchen was too small to decipher on my phone’s small screen. I decided to send it to my email account and look on my laptop once I went back the Lightning Bug. That done, I pulled Randy’s MP3 player out of my purse. Flipping to a fresh sheet of paper in my notepad, I stuck the ear buds of the player in my ears and restarted the file I’d found last night.

  Randy, for some reason, recorded a garbled conversation between him and a woman. He must have had the recorder in his shirt pocket because I kept hearing a muffled scratching noise, like the microphone of the player rubbed against something every few seconds. What I could make out was worrisome.