Death by the Riverside

by J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann

  “Don’t tell me that,” he said angrily, slamming down the barrier. “You wouldn’t tell your dad that.”

  “Yes, I would,” I countered, angry at being rejected and confined by what he wanted to believe about me.

  “That’s nothin’ he’d want to hear. You not married. You’d break his heart. Just like…” He stopped, confused and hurt, seeing more of his world crumbling.

  “Just like my mother. And you’re wrong. Dad would understand. He’d want to. He wouldn’t have married her if he couldn’t.”

  “You don’t know your dad like I do, young lady. You just shamed him. Is that what you want?”

  We stood glaring at each other, the grown-up child and the grown old man.

  “Let’s not…” I said, not wanting this battle, with no winners.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know no more,” Ben mumbled, shaking his head sadly.

  “The world changes, doesn’t it? Too quickly for both of us,” I answered, trying to get back to the small common ground we had.

  “Yeah, I guess, I guess so. I’m sorry if I got out of hand. Ol’ Ben’s been out of touch for a while and, yeah, I guess things’ve changed. You got a right to live your life, Mick. Don’t need Ben’s approval.”

  “No,” I replied. “But I would like your friendship. Is that possible?”

  I extended my hand. He turned and looked at me, then took a few hesitant steps in my direction. He reached out and took my hand. We shook hands solemnly, like the time we had shaken hands when I was eight and Ben had agreed to give me a secret ride into town so I could get a birthday present for my dad.

  “’Course we can be friends. I’d never turn my back on Lee’s daughter.”

  “And I would never turn my back on Dad’s partner and best friend.”

  We had run into a wall, a barricade, that I could see no way past. But in some small space we could be friends, some small, confined part of the past.

  “You can stay out here, if you like,” I said as we let go of each other’s hand. “No electricity, but there’s still running water. Key’s still hidden…”

  “In that ol’ hollow stump. Some things never change,” he finished for me. “Thanks, Mick. I might take you up on it. I got me some work at Bob’s Catfish Shack. Doin’ odd jobs and stuff. Get my meals there. I need to be headin’ that way now.”

  “Let me give you a lift,” I said.

  “Naw, it’s okay.”

  “Got to try out the engine and make sure it’s really fixed,” I kidded.

  “Well, now, that’s true,” he agreed with a grin.

  I quickly put the tools away. Ben was staring at the unchanging marsh when I came back.

  “Hop in,” I said. I started the car and drove out of the shipyard. The car’s engine ran smoothly as we picked up speed on the road into Bayou St. Jack’s.

  We came to the curves where the accident had happened. I must have slowed because Ben noticed and said, “It happened here. I guess you know that. I was takin’ a boat to Pascagoula. I found out when I stepped on the dock. Took a bus back here. But…but they was dead and ready to be buried by the time I got here. So I got drunk and come out here and just sat, only a skid mark and some broken glass left to see.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I replied. There seemed so little to say.

  “How do men like that live? How do you kill women and children like he done?”

  “I don’t know, Ben. I don’t think there is any answer.”

  Ben shook his head. “That’s what they want you to think, them rich folks. But I know better. Jonesy come and saw me in jail. He sobered up and got religion, then got cancer. He wanted to set things right, he told me, before he met his Maker. He’d stole the wallet out of that man’s jacket and when the cops come, he’d just shoved it in his pocket. Then some big-shot from the city give him money to forget everythin’ he heard and saw that night. So Jonesy drank a lot and forgot a lot. But after he got sick, he wanted to set things right, so he found me and told me what really happened. So I started askin’ some more questions. You ask enough, you finally get the answers you want. Now I know his name. Holloway. No connections, so he could kill other folks’ families,” Ben answered, still trying to make sense of it after all these years.

  “I wish it were that simple,” I said knowing differently.

  “Sometimes it is,” Ben answered, slipping into lecturing the kid he had known.

  “Fate’s a funny thing. I met his daughter a little while ago.”

  “You kiddin’?” I shook my head. “She tell you she was?”

  “No, something she said,” I replied vaguely.

  “That son-of-a-bitch. He had a daughter, but he still went ahead and murdered my wife and kids. And your dad. Damn him. Just damn him!” He paused for a moment to get control, then asked, “How’d you meet that daughter?”

  “Danny Clayton. The Claytons’ daughter. I guess they went to graduate school together,” I answered, not wanting to go into the details.

  “You didn’t tell her, huh?” he asked.

  “No. I didn’t want to get into it.”

  “I would’ve. I got hold of Ignatious Holloway. That was the big-shot that give Jonesy the money. Jonesy saw his picture in the paper and remembered. It was his son that did it, his drunken son. Told him who I was. Told him I knew what really happened that night. That drunken bastard. No stain on the Holloway name. Not them. He’d give me money, a job, if I would just let the past be. I told him I didn’t want no job, no money, not from him. He lied and said that his son was dead. I even found newspapers that claim he died in an accident somewhere else.

  “What I want now, more’n anything, to see that man and say, you got a daughter, grown and happy. Well, I had two kids and a wife but you took ’em away. Stole ’em like a cheap thief in the night. A ‘mistake.’ Bastard. How the hell does he have a daughter and me nobody?” Ben finished, shouting angrily.

  We were at the Catfish Shack. I pulled over.

  “I don’t know, Ben. Maybe God does, but I don’t,” not adding if there is a God.

  “Your dad always said that life weren’t fair.” Ben was back in control. “I guess he was right. It’s real funny you bein’ friends with a Holloway. Them rich Holloways. Life’s sure strange.”

  “We’re not really friends. Just acquaintances.”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m glad you ain’t friends. That way you won’t never run into that father.” He opened the door to get out.

  For a moment I didn’t understand. Then I realized that Ben thought Cordelia’s father was still alive. That he didn’t know what really happened that night. After all, how could he know what really happened that night? I remembered the drunk and disheveled man who had showed up at my father’s funeral, sobbing uncontrollably. Aunt Greta wouldn’t let me talk to him, wouldn’t even let me near him. She said he was low-life. A week later she told me, with a self-righteous smirk, that he had been arrested for a drunken fight, that my dad had never been a good judge of character, and that I shouldn’t worry about the kind of riffraff he was.

  “But, Ben…that man…he died,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Jonesy saw him put in an ambulance. They hurried him away, Jonesy said, siren screamin’, all in a hurry to save his life. And Jonesy ain’t the only one that says he’s alive.”

  “But that’s not…” I started, then stopped, unsure of what to say, wanting to say nothing, to stay as far away from the memories of that night as possible.

  He got out of the car. “Yeah, I’m glad you ain’t friends. Not your kind of folk. And someday that man’ll get what he’s got comin’,” he spoke through the car window.

  “Ben… Yeah, he’ll get what’s coming,” I answered, backing away from the truth into a cliché. How could he not know? I felt like someone had just told me, with utter belief, that the earth was flat. He’d heard what Jonesy had told him, believed it and never thought to look beyond. Of course Holloway had covered his son’s
bloody tracks, and I tried to pretend that I’d never left any footprints, denying that I’d been there that night. Deceit and lies must have crossed and re-crossed until truth was a blackened smudge. Mine included. How could he know? Jonesy was the only one of us who had bothered to tell Ben Beaugez what truth he knew. I wondered how long Ben had believed that Holloway was still alive. Someday I would tell him, when we broke down a few more barriers. When I didn’t flinch every time my past crept by my bottles of Scotch and faceless lovers. I would be out here in a few weeks. After twenty years, what did a week or two matter?

  “You take care, Micky,” he said. “Hi, Bob,” he called to a middle-aged man coming out of the door.

  I guessed that that was the Bob of Bob’s Catfish Shack. I wanted to avoid any introductions, any fond reminiscences about Lee Robedeaux’s little daughter. I wanted to get away from here. “I’ve got to get going, Ben. Thanks for fixing my car. I’m out here every few weeks. I’ll come by.”

  “You do that, Micky. Maybe we’ll go fishin’ off the dock. You and me always caught the most fish.”

  “I’d like that, Ben,” I answered. I waved politely at Bob, then drove off.

  Holloway had enough money to keep his name clean. What happened to the rest of us didn’t matter. Holloway’s whitewash was here, twenty years later, haunting me. Somehow I had to tell Ben, tell him that one person had survived that night, but that it hadn’t been Holloway’s son.

  The Catfish Shack, with its flashing neon beer signs, disappeared from my rearview mirror.

  Chapter 18

  Saturday finally arrived, and I set out early for Torbin’s. I planned on taking around three hours to get there. If anyone was following me, I would know it. Maybe I was being paranoid, but then Barbara Selby was still lying in the hospital. Frankie wasn’t going to be spending any time with doctors if I could help it.

  Torbin tried very hard to convince me to wear an outrageously revealing, red-sequined gown.

  “But, Micky, darling, I so rarely get to play with the real thing,” he said, running his hands across my breasts in a manner that from any other man and not a few women would have earned a slap across the face.

  I finally talked him into letting me use a long-sleeved black gown that revealed a good deal less cleavage, real or false. I still had a pretty nasty-looking scar on my arm that I didn’t want to display.

  “Well, if you insist,” he said, viewing me. “Keep it if you want. That thing’s a rag that I haven’t worn in years. But, Micky, dear, do keep red in mind. It really is your color.”

  “Thanks, Tor. Next family Christmas, you and I will go in red gowns.”

  “Clashing reds. I’d love it.”

  The tails weren’t too bad a fit on Frankie, but he still ended up looking like a scared penguin.

  “I’ve gotten a limo for you kids. It’s my ball favor to you,” Torbin said, pun intended, I’m sure. “You’ve met Buddy, Frankie. He’ll be your driver and chaperone.”

  “Wait a minute here, I told you not to let Frankie out of…” I started.

  “He didn’t,” Frankie said.

  “If a boy can’t get to the party, you’ve got to bring the party to the boy,” Torbin explained.

  “Torbin’s been wonderful to me. I’ve met people I didn’t even know existed. People like me,” Frankie seconded him.

  Buddy and the limo arrived. Torbin packed us in, telling us to have fun and not do anything that he wouldn’t do. That gave us a lot of leeway, more than I hoped we’d need.

  I couldn’t help but think about the last time I had been down the road to One Hundred Oaks Plantation. This one’s for you, Barbara, I said to myself. At least I can tell your kids we got the men that left you in the swamp.

  We were by no means the only limo that drove through the gates of the plantation. But I’ll say this for Torbin, ours was the only pink one.

  I had to show my invitation to the parking lot attendant. Security was pretty tight, which was a good sign.

  “Just go straight,” he said, giving us directions.

  “Gaily forward,” I commented as we got out of earshot. The influence of that pink limo.

  Frankie and I walked arm and arm down the long drive, doing our best straight imitation. He was steady, chatting amiably, but nervous underneath. You’re a better man than your dad ever was, Frankie. Someday you’ll realize that.

  Another attendant checked our invitations at the door. A fair amount of money had been spent on decorations and food. There was a lot of red, white, and blue and a number of state and Confederate flags scattered about. How tasteful, I thought. There was one big American flag in the ball room, a small concession to the victors of the War of Succession.

  I caught sight of Cordelia at the top of the grand staircase. The deep royal blue gown she wore set off her eyes. Too bad she was straight. Then I caught myself. We all make choices. She made hers. She saw me and waved, but she was with her grandfather, leading him down the stairs. He was moving very slowly, again assisted by the older man I had seen him with the first time I was out here. I couldn’t remember his name.

  Frankie and I went in search of Ranson.

  “Hi, Micky. How are you tonight?” Danny asked, coming up to us. She looked resplendent in a red dress, her bare shoulders showing off her coffee skin. Behind her was Alexandra Sayers, traditional, yet unconventional, with her sedate pearls and black gown. She pulled off understated good taste, something I’d never been very good at.

  Damn, I thought, I know a lot of good-looking women. All of them already spoken for, I reminded myself.

  “Who’s your date?” Danny finished. She cocked an eyebrow at seeing me with a man.

  “Franklin Fitzsimmons. He’s a friend of Torbin’s.” I answered. Then I did the round of introductions and explained who Torbin was for Alex’s benefit.

  For a moment I wondered how we had all managed to wrangle invitations. Danny and Joanne weren’t high echelon enough to automatically get invited and Alex had nothing to do with law enforcement, but then I remembered Cordelia. She probably got to invite whomever she chose. I was just an afterthought on Ranson’s part.

  “Well, the lower classes do find their way into everything, don’t they?” a voice behind me said. Of course, Karen would be here. I was surprised that on our short acquaintance that she could so readily recognize me from the back. “How’s the bait business, dear?” she finished up.

  Danny’s face turned to stone. I realized Karen was talking to her. I was livid.

  “Karen, you’re usually such a perfect host,” Alex said. “Remember, it’s what you do, not what your parents do, that counts in this country.”

  “Not in my house,” Karen answered.

  “Not your house. Not now or ever,” I said, turning to face her.

  “Thanks to you,” she spat at me. “Alex, if these are your friends, your taste in women is remarkably dismal. I don’t think you can count on me in the future for any of your charity functions, if there’s chance you’ll invite this caliber of people,” Karen finished smoothly.

  “Karen. They’re my friends. I invited them,” said a voice from where my back was now turned. Cordelia joined us and put a hand on Danny’s shoulder.

  “You know my opinion of your friends,” Karen retorted. “Particularly little girl detectives and their bayou buddies.”

  I took a step toward Karen and looked down at her. Being a good five inches taller, it was easy. “And we’re glad of it, Karen, sugar,” I said. “Better a bait-catcher than a shark. Go find some helpless minnows.”

  “You bitch…” she started. Cordelia took her by the arm.

  “Let’s go,” she said and maneuvered Karen away from us. “Granddad wants you to meet some people. If you’re polite enough, you might get back in his good graces…” Her voice trailed off across the room as she led Karen to a group that included her grandfather and that Judge Aldus. The honorable judge made room for Karen, ogling her cleavage injudiciously. He glanced at Cordelia,
but she was too tall for him to get a similar view.

  “Sorry, Danny,” Alex said. “Karen can be a real bitch when she’s had a few drinks.”

  “She can also be a bitch when she’s sober,” I added. I hadn’t forgotten her bounced check.

  “Bait-catcher. Damn her,” Danny muttered, letting out a breath and some of her anger. “I need a drink.”

  “There’s a bar this way,” Alex offered pointing Danny off in the opposite direction from the one Karen had taken. I raised a what-was-that-about eyebrow at Alex.

  “Karen got hauled in on some minor drug charge. Danny didn’t treat her any better than anyone else.”

  “Hence, everlasting enmity.”

  “You got it,” Alex said, heading off after Danny.

  Frankie and I went on out to the lawn in our search for Ranson. The yard was lit by an astounding number of, you guessed it, red, white, and blue Japanese lanterns. They didn’t end until halfway to the barn.

  “You have some good friends, Micky,” Frankie said. “You all stuck up for each other. I wish I had friends like that.”

  “You will, Frankie. You just need to start hanging around decent people. The indecent kind, like Torbin.”

  “You’re right. He’s been a friend, a good one. So have you. Someday, I’ll pay you both back.”

  “Tax time, Frankie, just wait,” I said with a laugh.

  “Ready and willing. Throw a bag full of receipts at me. I am good with numbers.”

  “It’s a deal,” I said. We shook hands on it.

  I spotted Ranson.

  “Hello, Joanne,” I said as we got to her. “I’d like you to meet my escort for the evening, Franklin Fitzsimmons.”

  “Hello, Michele,” she answered. “And I’d like you to meet mine, Jackson Ford. Jackson’s with the FBI.”

  “You’re an accountant, aren’t you, Mr. Fitzsimmons?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes, I am,” Frankie replied.

  “Would you excuse us, ladies? I’ve got some people who are very interested in meeting Mr. Fitzsimmons.”

  Frankie looked scared for a moment. I had kept him safe and he didn’t want to leave me.