“Have you tried the courthouse?”
“I went there looking for something else, but I have a contact who’s been helpful. I’ll call her now and see what she can turn up. Send me your flight info and I’ll pick you up Friday night!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He asked Grace if she could find out who owned the land at Asher. She said she’d get right on it; it could take hours or a few days, and she’d call when she finished.
It made her happy he’d called on her again, and she asked if he minded her telling some friends. He agreed so long as she didn’t mention exactly where his interests lay. For some reason, everything about Asher spelled trouble for him.
Grace told her coworkers, and word soon spread throughout the courthouse and across the street to the sheriff’s office. A dispatcher named Sara told Junior that Grace was doing research for that TV investigator who came in last week. The sheriff cursed and stomped out of the office, slamming the door behind him and leaving the stunned clerk behind.
Junior stormed into the clerk’s office wearing a scowl that frightened Grace. He demanded she tell him what Landry wanted, and she said that he was looking at land records.
“This is about Asher, isn’t it? Dammit, I ordered that boy not to go down there. Tell me the truth, woman. He’s got you looking up stuff about Asher, doesn’t he?”
Grace had been born and raised a Southern Baptist. One thing she learned as a little girl was that if you start off lying, you’ll make a mess of your life and go straight to Hell. As a result, she’d never been good at prevarication.
A tear trickled down her cheek. “I’m only trying to help him. What harm does it do? You know as well as I that there’s nothing down there. It’s a ghost town now. Why are you so dead set on keeping him out of Asher?”
Junior was livid. He had enough trouble with Joel Morin on his back, and now the damned reporter was sticking his nose into things that might get people in hot water.
“You want Abbeville splashed all over national TV by a sleazy ghost hunter? When he’s finished with us, he’ll have the world thinking Asher is spookier than Amityville. Tourists will descend on us like flies, looking for stuff that Landry Drake made up. I’ll be damned if I’ll let that happen. If you hear from him again, you call me first thing. And don’t give him anything else. Understand?”
That Southern Baptist background also gave Grace a moral compass, a clear understanding of right and wrong. The sheriff had issues with Landry, but they had nothing to do with her. Land records were public information. Junior Conreco had no business berating her, and she wouldn’t stand for it. She told him how she felt, and she refused to tell him anything about Landry.
“People have been spinning yarns about Asher for years,” she continued. “Something bad happened down there, but people talk about it like it’s some kind of mysterious thing. Everybody involved has been dead for ages. Who cares if my grandfather or yours was a vigilante? They acted like criminals, but it doesn’t matter now. Here’s how I feel. If there’s something down there he shouldn’t see, then tell me what it is. Otherwise, leave me be, and him too. He’s a nice young man and he’s doing nothing wrong.”
He’s a pain in the ass. Fuming, Junior forced himself not to lash out at Grace. She was right about the things she knew, but she didn’t know the whole story. Only the Conclave did.
He took a deep breath, calmed down, and asked, “Who owns that property at Asher?”
“I haven’t found out yet. Landry asked the same thing, and since the land records are public, I’ll try to find out. When I learn the answer, I’ll tell you both.”
If he continued, she’d wonder even more what was behind all this, so he’d handle it another way. He went back to his office and called WCCY Television in New Orleans, told the receptionist his title, asked for the boss, and got Ted. Ted listened — there wasn’t an opportunity to talk — and replaced the receiver after the sheriff hung up on him. Then the agitated manager walked down the hall to Landry’s office.
“Do you have a minute?”
Landry looked up from his monitor and saw Ted standing in the doorway, his face as white as a sheet. “Hey, are you all right?”
“Better than you, I’d say. I just got a call from the sheriff over in Vermilion Parish.”
Landry’s laugh made things worse.
“What have you done over there to piss him off? He’s the sheriff, Landry! There’s a warrant for your arrest if you set foot in his parish again. He said to rein you in or the station might end up in trouble too.”
“It’s a bluff. Did he tell you what the charges were?”
“No, I got flustered and didn’t ask. How can you smile? This is serious.”
In the two days since Landry’s return, he’d been working on other things. There was nothing to report about Asher yet, but now he brought his boss current.
“So what are you going to do next?”
“I’m going back. He can’t arrest me — well, technically he can, but he can’t hold me without cause. There’s something going on. The more they try to keep me away, the more I’m convinced it’s true. They’re hiding something about Asher. It may involve some missing teenagers, or a mob that burned the town more than a hundred years ago, or something else entirely. But this is my job, and I know when I’m onto something. Don’t worry; I’ll be fine.”
“You have no idea if you’ll be fine. Why wouldn’t I worry after all the close calls you’ve had? Everyone else here does the news or the weather or the sports, or talks about Mardi Gras or how many drunks are in the Quarter on weekends. Nobody who works for me ever gets in a jam, except one. You, however, are a different cat. You keep me awake at night. Because of you I buy antacids by the carton. Promise me one thing. Call our lawyers and tell them about the sheriff. Then someone can bail you out without calling me at two in the morning.”
Landry apologized for giving Ted heartburn over the past couple of years, and he meant it. His boss was right — there had been one tight spot after another, but it was part of the job description. He promised to call the lawyers and to be on his best behavior in Vermilion Parish. His fingers were crossed on that last part. People up there got pissed off when he asked questions, so he must go and ask more.
Junior must have talked to Grace. That was how he found out Landry was still nosing around the parish. He called her and she whispered, “I’ll call you right back. Too many listening ears around here.”
He knew from her conspiratorial tone this was exciting to her, but he regretted involving her. If she ticked off the wrong people, she might lose her job.
He called the station’s law firm and spoke to an attorney who’d helped with other situations. He agreed the sheriff was way out of bounds but cautioned that in some rural parishes, lawmen didn’t always stay on the right side of the law. Sometimes outsiders ended up in big trouble before anyone knew there was a problem. He cautioned Landry to be careful.
A few minutes later Grace called back from a stall in the ladies’ bathroom. She told him about the sheriff’s visit and how he had scared her at first. “I had to tell him about Asher,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing wrong with you seeing those records, and I told him so!”
“No need to apologize,” Landry assured her. “I’m sorry I put you in the middle of all this.”
“Now don’t you say that! I love being involved! This is the most fun I’ve had in years! And I have news about who owns Asher. Hang on.” He heard her unfold a piece of paper. “It’s a company, not a person. The name is SOJ Land Company, and it owns two hundred acres along the river, including where Asher was. They got the property in a land grant in 1842.”
SOJ. The Sons of Jehovah. “Interesting. Now I need to figure out who owns that company.”
“I’m ahead of you on that! I called the Secretary of State in Baton Rouge to find out. There were two companies by that name, but one’s too new. It started in 1967. It’s the other one we want!”
/> Her resourcefulness impressed him, and he told her. “What did you find out?”
“Three men from Lafayette formed it in 1842. Micah Lafont, a lawyer; Caleb Lafont, a parson; and James Savary, a farrier. I’ll bet the Lafonts were brothers.”
“Great investigating! I’ll acknowledge you if this ends up on TV. I’ll even get you a seat to watch us tape it if you’d like to come. And I’m sorry about what happened.”
That thrilled her, and she pooh-poohed his apology. “That sheriff won’t scare me next time. I’m ready for him. He’d better watch out who he messes with!”
Landry thought, It won’t be you he messes with next time. It’ll be me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cate and Landry arrived at Beau Rivage as the sun was setting, and soon they were in their usual seats on the back veranda, drinking wine and listening to the cicadas start up their nightfall chirping. They asked about Callie’s husband, Jordan, with whom they’d shared an eerie adventure that became a segment called The Nursery.
Jordan was busy juggling his architectural practice and overseeing the Arbors, his home that was also St. Francisville’s newest bed-and-breakfast. St. Francisville was a tourist destination, and the rooms in Jordan’s old house were full almost every night. Callie’s property lay along the river in a beautiful setting, but it was remote and off the main road and had far less traffic than Jordan’s. She had a lady to help with her place, and she stayed with her husband at the Arbors most of each week.
Cate recalled when she and Landry first visited Beau Rivage, when she sat in the same chair and saw her first ghost. “Have you seen Anne-Marie lately?” she asked, but Callie hadn’t. After what happened in The Nursery, Anne-Marie had said she wouldn’t be back, and she hadn’t returned.
“I miss her,” Callie admitted, adding that as odd as Anne-Marie was, she had also been her protector and guardian. It made her sad to think she’d never again appear without warning and start talking in riddles.
They spent a wonderful evening catching up over dinner and wine. Afterwards, Landry asked if they could have a brandy in the library. They sat on Callie’s grandmother’s overstuffed couch under the stern countenance of Leonore Arceneaux, whose painting hung above the fireplace. An ancestor of Callie’s, Leonore had owned the property after the Civil War and played a part in Callie’s own adventures at Beau Rivage.
Unlike the last time, no ghosts roamed the halls tonight. Landry and Cate slept with the second-floor windows open to catch the calls of night birds, the wind in the trees, and the lap-lapping of the Atchafalaya River a hundred yards away.
After breakfast on the veranda, Landry left for Opelousas. He found Lee doing the same thing, sitting in his wheelchair in the front yard of the facility under a huge old oak and smoking a cigarette. A much less friendly woman than Ruby sat in a folding chair beside him. When Landry walked up, she gave him the chair and went inside so they could talk in private.
“You have your beeper,” she told Lee. “Just buzz me when you’re ready.”
As seniors can do sometimes, Lee wanted to talk about his stay in the hospital, how many meds he was on, and how well he was doing, all things considered. Landry indulged him and then asked if they could pick up where they left off.
“Do you remember what you promised we’d talk about when I came back?”
Lee nodded. With a twinkle in his eye and a slight grin, he replied, “Do you remember what I told you to bring me when you came back?”
Landry laughed, pulled a carton of Winston cigarettes from a sack, and handed them over. “You don’t forget much, do you?”
“For an old man, you mean? Naw, I’m blessed. Ninety-seven and still on top of the dirt.” He put the carton in his lap and said, “What have you learned since we met in Perry?”
“After I left you, I looked through some records at the courthouse, and I stopped by the sheriff’s office. He made it clear that he didn’t want me nosing around town. I made one more stop, at the Hebert Funeral Home, and I got the cold shoulder there too.”
“That don’t surprise me. People still fret about things that happened a hundred years ago. Still keepin’ secrets for no reason, if you ask me. Who cares now about somebody’s granddad who did some bad things? Now tell me what you know about Billy Whistler.”
Landry told Lee about the old newspaper articles and his discussion with Catfish.
Lee sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, exhaled with a cough, and said, “There’s a lot that people don’t know about Billy, and most folks think it’s just a legend. You know about legends; they change with every tellin’. But Billy’s story has two parts that never changed over all the years. One is that he first appeared on the night those fellas burned the town and somebody got lynched. And the other has to do with some girls who disappeared from time to time. I may have mentioned them earlier. People say he was the one what snatched ’em, but that may be a made-up story to make Billy seem even scarier.”
Landry interrupted. “I want to hear the rest, but first let’s talk about the parts that never change. Who got lynched?”
Lee looked away, like he was hedging. “Maybe one of them religious freaks.”
“Could it have been one of the vigilantes?”
“You know, don’t you? Somebody’s told you, and maybe it was one of them. They had just burned the town, after all. Stands to reason those folks would be mad as a hornet.”
“Did Billy Whistler kill him?”
“Billy Whistler’s a legend. I told you that already.”
“Lee, I think you’re hiding something. You keep talking about Billy Whistler like he’s real. Please tell me the story.”
Although Lee disparaged others for keeping secrets, he had kept this one for so long he couldn’t look Landry in the eyes. His voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “Mr. Auguste Dauphin was the man’s name. He done somethin’ awful that night, and the Sons of Jehovah hanged him for it. There’s one body that’ll never be found.”
“Because he became Billy Whistler?”
Lee snorted. “Hell no, son! God, you’ve got this story all mixed up. I done told you what the man did. He committed a grave offense against them people.”
Frustrated, Landry fought for patience. He was having to draw out every answer. “Did he kill one of them?”
“Might have been better if he had.” He took another long drag from his cigarette and said, “Enough about him. Now I’m gonna tell you about Billy Whistler.”
“One second. Can we talk first about the girls who disappeared over the years?”
Now Lee seemed frustrated. “I never saw anybody ask as many questions as you do. If you can be quiet for a minute, I’ll tell you the story like it was told to me, and you’ll hear all about the girls.”
The old man skipped the beginning of Billy Whistler’s story because it involved Auguste Dauphin. He should never have said that name, and he had to be careful now.
“Just so you know, nobody’s ever proved this story I’m tellin’ you. Some people swear by it. It’s become kind of real to me, because I’ve heard it for almost ninety-seven years, long enough for it to sound real. Ain’t nobody ever captured him, or met him face-to-face, or nothin’ like that. Sightings, stories, scary tales, that kind of stuff. Same as the rougarou stories — some people even say Billy Whistler’s one of them. We talked about them last time, remember?”
Landry nodded.
“Here’s my take on it. Billy Whistler’s a ghoul who’s lived for over a hundred years. He was alive in 1880, and he’s still alive today, if alive is what he is. Maybe he’s one of them walking corpses like a zombie or something, and then again maybe he truly is a rougarou. People say he died and the Sons of Jehovah buried him in a grave somewhere, but his grave is empty because he still roams the earth. Ever hear of Remembering Day?”
“Yes,” Landry said, but he didn’t know what it meant.
“It’s all part of the same legend. The story goes that every ten years, on the anniversary
of Asher’s being burned down, the cult holds an all-night vigil where the town used to be. It’s called Remembering Day, on account of they remember when the vigilantes came. They dance around and do who-knows-what to each other. Billy Whistler comes out on those nights and sacrifices a girl. Crazy story, ain’t it?”
“That’s what you meant about girls disappearing?”
“Yep.”
“Missing kids are a huge deal. Where were they from, and why aren’t their families still looking for them?”
“They were from Abbeville, far as I know. As to their families, maybe they did. Guess Sheriff Conreco would know about that. Why don’t you ask him?” He took another puff.
“Why doesn’t the sheriff go to Asher on Remembering Day and investigate?”
Lee grinned. “I told you about them secrets people still keep.” He stretched and yawned and said, “Man, I’m beat.”
Landry was far from finished with this subject, but his time was almost up. There was one more thing he wanted to learn before he left.
“I first came to Abbeville because of a strange voicemail someone left at my station.” He pulled up the message on his phone and read it verbatim. “I’d like to help her, but with so little information, I don’t know where to begin.”
Without hesitation the old man said, “Paulie. I’d start with him. If there’s anything worth knowing around this parish, he’s the man to talk to.”
“Paulie? Paulie who? Where can I find him?”
Lee was fading. He pulled the fob from his pocket and clicked it. “I have to go inside now. I’m gettin’ tired and I need my nap. Been nice talkin’ to you again, and thanks for the cigarettes. You come back anytime you want.”
As the nurse came across the lawn, Landry pushed for more. “Please, Lee, tell me who Paulie is and where to find him.”
Lee’s eyelids were fluttering now. “Paulie? Everybody knows who he is. He’s at the church.”
“The church in Abbeville? The Catholic church?”
The nurse came to his side. “Ready to go in, Mr. Lee?”
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