Under the Cajun Moon Read online

  Bursting into the building, the media people cornered me as a group, flinging questions at me and pointing microphones and cameras in my face. I was mortified, not just that my story had become news but also because I hadn’t even seen a mirror since waking up this morning. I could only imagine what my hair and face must look like, not to mention my wrinkled and dirty clothes.

  Without answering any of their questions, I managed to push my way free, made it outside, and descended the steps as fast as I could as they clattered along behind me. As I neared the bottom, one guy jumped around in front of me, again blocking my way. Trying not to look like a deer caught in headlights, I mentally cursed my lawyer for abandoning me when he surely must have known this would happen.

  “No comment, no comment. Á ca oui! Can’t you see the lady has no comment?”

  Someone had swooped into the group from the side, and, with his back to me, began herding the reporters away. I couldn’t see who it was, only that it wasn’t my lawyer, nor was it Wade or Sam. It was someone much younger than any of them, much more physically fit. When he finally turned around toward me, I thought his face looked familiar, but I couldn’t place his name. About my same height and age, he was wearing Levis, a dark T-shirt, and a backwards-facing baseball cap.

  Suddenly, he startled me by putting his hands on my upper arms and pulling me close so that he could whisper in my ear.

  “See dat building ’cross the street?” he whispered in what sounded like a Cajun accent. “Go in through the front and out the back and get into the black truck that’s sitting in the parking lot. Keys are under the mat. Drive two blocks up Broad and pull into the Piggly Wiggly. I’ll meet you there bien vite.”

  Feeling like an idiot, once he pulled away I just stood there, staring at him. I wasn’t about to get in the car of someone I didn’t know, especially not now, given all that had been happening. Still, he was willing to handle the reporters for me, and I surely needed help there. He turned back around and again held out his arms to block them. Glancing at me over his shoulder, he seemed irritated that I was still frozen to the spot.

  “Chloe! Va-ten!” he snapped, which I assumed meant “Get going.”

  “Who are you?” I managed to reply. “As much as I appreciate your help, I don’t go places with strangers.”

  “I’m not a stranger. I’m Travis Naquin, Alphonse’s grandson. Now go. Depêche toi!” Hurry up.

  Travis Naquin? I remembered him now.

  From the corner of my eye, I watched for a break in the rush hour traffic and then dashed across the street at the exact moment when I could make it safely across without anyone else being able to follow me. As I did, I could hear Travis calling after me.

  “Hé, Chloe, bring me a bag of Zapp’s and some sweet tea when you come back out, would you?”

  Given that I was walking into a minimart, I had to guess that he had said that for the reporters’ benefit. They would wait where they were, expecting me to return, only I wasn’t going to. Very clever. I had a feeling that in a few minutes Travis would say something like, “Let me go see what’s keeping that girl,” and pull the same stunt, slipping out the back and jogging up the road to our rendezvous point out of view from the courthouse.

  I stepped inside the store, which was empty except for an Asian man behind the counter. He didn’t say a word but merely smiled and pointed toward a doorway. I went through it, down a hall, and out the back. Sure enough, a big black truck with mud-covered fenders was waiting just outside. It was unlocked and the keys were under the floor mat.

  There was no question that this was the vehicle of a backwoods boy, a true Louisiana Cajun. Between the Popeye’s wrappers on the floor, the shotgun mounted in the rear window, and the fishing weights that littered the front seat, about all this vehicle lacked to make the image complete were alligator-skin floor mats.

  As I gingerly climbed inside, I tried to remember what I knew of Travis Naquin. He and I were the same age and had actually gone out on a date once when we were teenagers. I didn’t remember much about him, though I did recall that the date hadn’t worked out too well. I had no idea what he was doing here now, but if he had important information that could help me figure out what was going on, I was eager to speak with him.

  Better yet, he could give me a ride back to my car in the French Quarter. Then I could retrieve it from the parking garage where it had spent the night and most of the day and drive as fast as possible to the hospital, where I hoped my father was still alive.

  As I started up the truck and made my way onto Broad, I thought about the reporters and their frenzied attack. My sincere hope was that this story was going to remain local. Even though my father was an international celebrity, there was a chance that a scandal involving his daughter just might slip under the radar as long as the local affiliates didn’t make too big of a deal out of it. If the story went national, I couldn’t bear to consider what this whole thing might do to my business. Chloe Ledet was supposed to be the very epitome of refinement and good taste. Somehow, I didn’t think a first-degree-murder charge lent itself to that image. Even if I were proven innocent, my reputation would have been sullied forever.

  I was still thinking about that when I almost overshot the store I was looking for. Turning quickly, I pulled into an end spot, turned off the car, and moved around to the passenger seat. As I did, I saw Travis coming toward me on the sidewalk, not a single reporter in sight.

  “That wasn’t so hard,” he said as he climbed into the car. “I wonder how long they’ll wait around till they realize we’ve given them the slip.”

  He settled into his seat, but instead of reaching for the ignition, he turned to face me, pulling off his baseball cap as he did and smoothing back his hair.

  “Thank you so much for helping me out back there, Travis. Could you possibly give me a ride to my car in the French Quarter?”

  “Sure, but I think we’ll have a better chance of a clean break if we sit here for a few minutes to let them realize we’re gone and take off as well.”

  “All right.”

  Except for the brown hair that was a little too shaggy, Travis Naquin was far better looking than I remembered.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t know who I was,” he said, shaking his head, a dimpled smile revealing straight, white teeth. “I recognized you immediately.”

  “It was just so out of context that it took me a minute. What are you doing here? Please tell me you’ve come on behalf of your grandfather, who sent you to explain everything to me, including who shot my father and who killed Kevin Peralta.”

  “Mais jamais, I’m sorry to tell you but that’s not it. I haven’t seen my grandpere for a couple days. I came to town to try and find Sam Underwood. I’ve been looking for him all afternoon, but it’s like he’s disappeared off the face of the earth. I was about to give up and head home when I turned on the radio and heard them saying that you were being released. I was already on Canal and about to get on the interstate, so I just kept going straight and came here instead. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “How did you know about the reporters?”

  “I was out front a little while, waiting for you. I figured they were too. When I saw them racing up the stairs to get to you, I worked out a plan of escape. Sorry it took so long, but I had to move my car and make friends with the guy in the minimart first.”

  “Well, thanks. I felt like a lamb at the slaughter.”

  “Really? You looked cool as a cucumber. As always.”

  I glanced at Travis, wondering if that was an “Ice Queen”-type dig or an attempt at a compliment, but from his expression I simply couldn’t tell.

  “Anyway,” he added, “I know you had a heck of a day, but I’m hoping you might know where Sam is or help me find him.”

  “How would I know where Sam is? I’ve been in police custody.”

  “When I talked to him last night, he was heading to the Quarter to meet with you. It’s really important that I find him. I�
�ve got something he needs.”

  “Did you try his apartment?”

  “Calling on the phone and banging on the door, yes I did.”

  “How about Ledet’s?” I asked. “He’s retired now, but from what I understand he still comes over for family meal every day.”

  “Family meal?”

  “That’s when the staff of a restaurant eats together before shift starts—not menu items, of course, but still good stuff, baked chicken, lasagna, things like that. Sam has an open invitation and he’s there almost every day. They didn’t say if he had come today?”

  “Well, see, that’s the thing. Considering that your daddy’s in the hospital and you’re in jail for murder, the folks at Ledet’s aren’t saying anything to anybody about anything. They treated me like a gui-gui ga ga, in fact.”

  “Gui-gui ga ga?”

  “A nosy country bumpkin.”

  “I’m sorry about that. They can be kind of snobby in there. It probably had less to do with the questions you were asking than the fact you came into the restaurant wearing jeans and a T-shirt.”

  “Yeah, and a baseball cap to boot. Oh, well. I figured if anybody knows where Sam is, you would, either because he told you where he was going today or because you killed him last night and stashed the body.”

  I glanced sharply at Travis, irritated to see that he was grinning.

  “You think this is funny? I’ve been charged with first-degree murder.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “No!”

  “I didn’t think so. See, that’s why it’s funny, because even though I haven’t seen you in probably fifteen years, I already know you’re the last person on earth who’d commit a crime, especially not a murder, especially not if that murder was a crime of passion.”

  I thought about that for a moment.

  “Are you saying I’m not capable of passion?” I asked cooly, trying to remember our long-ago date. Had he put the moves on me and I turned him down? I simply couldn’t recall how that particular evening had played out.

  “Mais non, cher, just that you were always so prim and proper and worried about rules. Murder is the ultimate rule breaker, a massive disruption of the natural order of things. It’s one of the ten commandments, for goodness’ sake. I just couldn’t imagine such a major rule being broken by the same girl who once scolded me for speeding up to get through a yellow traffic light and shamed me into giving back the extra fifty cents in change the guy at the movie theater had handed me by mistake. If you’re anything like you used to be, Chloe, you aren’t capable of murder. Maigre tout, you probably wouldn’t be capable of taking a video back to the store unless you’d rewound it first. Murder? No way. I’d stake my favorite hat on that.”

  Well. I was speechless for a moment, trying to decide if I was offended by his exaggerations or flattered at how fully he had me pegged.

  “Glad to know that as my life hangs in the balance you’re willing to risk a hat,” I said finally, causing him to throw his head back and laugh.

  “Touché, cher.”

  “Look, I haven’t seen or spoken to Sam since last night, right about when I realized that someone had put a drug in my coffee.” I didn’t add the latest bit of news I had received from my lawyer, that for some reason Sam told the other employees that Kevin and I left and he had cleaned up the room. Those were both lies, but I knew Sam and Sam didn’t lie.

  I didn’t know what to think.

  “Where’s your grandfather, Travis? Somehow, I have a feeling he could explain a number of things.”

  Travis shrugged.

  “I don’t know. He does this a lot, goes off on a fishing or hunting trip and disappears for days on end. My grandmere said he left home two days ago, saying, ‘Je vous vois quand je vous vois.’ That’s their code for ‘I’m going off to fish and think, so don’t rush me, don’t bother me, and don’t expect me. I’ll see you when I see you.’”

  “‘Don’t rush me, don’t bother me’? That must be some marriage.”

  “Sixty-three years this month, so I guess they’re doing all right, then.”

  I looked out of the side window and ran a hand through my hair, my filthy hair that hadn’t been shampooed since yesterday morning. I was tired and snarky and ready to be done with this whole mess. Most of all I wanted to see my father. I also desperately needed to talk with Sam myself.

  “My car’s parked near Ledet’s,” I said. “If you’ll get me back there, I’ll go with you to Sam’s apartment first before I leave for the hospital, and we can go inside and take a look around to see if we can figure out where he might’ve gone or what’s happened to him.”

  “Breaking and entering? You sure that doesn’t violate your parole?” Travis teased, reaching for the ignition.

  “It’s not parole, it’s bail, and for your information I have a key.”

  “C’est convenue. I mean, that’s convenient. At this point, I’m ready to do whatever it takes, even if that means consorting with a felon.”

  “You’re one to talk. Just because you’re helping me now doesn’t mean I should trust you. I barely remember you at all.”

  “Yeah, well, I remember you a little too well. Come on, cher. Let’s go.”

  THIRTEEN

  FRANCE, 1719

  JACQUES

  The noise and bustle in the town of Charenton assaulted Jacques’ senses from every side, a likely consequence of living in near isolation for an entire month. It didn’t help that he was in a place he did not know well, dealing with people he had never met. And everywhere he went, it seemed he was jostled or bumped or shouted around. He had passed the famous Home of Charenton on the outskirts of town, where all of France sent their insane, but in Jacques’ opinion things in the center of the village seemed insane as well.

  Jacques finally located a courier service, one that listed on its delivery roster “Isle de la Cite, Paris.” Papa’s letter was addressed to the Palais-Royal, so that would work. Stepping inside, Jacques thought a whole crowd was waiting in line, but as his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized it was simply a husband and wife and their five rowdy children. Jacques stood near the door for a moment, listening to the children fight with each other as their parents conducted their business with the man at the counter. Unable to handle the din, Jacques finally decided he would prefer to wait outside.

  At least there was a sidewalk there where he could stand and lean against the wall as he waited, sidewalks being a luxury that Paris proper didn’t have room for. From this spot Jacques was able to ignore the loud arguing of the children inside while he observed the busyness of the street, the noisy mix of people and buggies and commerce. Was normal life always like this and he had just never noticed before? How immune one must become to busyness when living directly with it.

  “In just an hour!” a man shouted to someone else as he ran past Jacques and nearly crashed into him. “Is it to be outside their offices?”

  “No, it’s at Les Halles, not Rue Quinquempoix!”

  Jacques couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He didn’t know what they were talking about specifically, but Rue Quinquempoix, or what Papa called “the street lately gone mad,” was the center of financial speculation in Paris, the likes of which France had not seen in quite a while. The excitement had begun several years ago, when a Scottish financial wizard named John Law had aligned with the regent and created La Banque General. Since then Paris, and indeed all of France, had been going mad for speculation. The way Jacque understood it, John Law’s bank was based on credit and paper money, two things Papa was very wary of.

  Of course, there was no denying that many people were becoming quite rich these days, trading stock and buying shares in Law’s Compagnie des Indes, whose offices were located at the heart of the speculation district on Rue Quinquempoix. Despite the frenzy, Papa continued to be cautious of speculation on principal, saying that paper lacked the integrity of gold, that sooner or later values would be unrealistically inflated, and that what was
going up surely had to come crashing down. Jacques trusted his father’s judgment, but sometimes he wondered if Papa was wrong and there really was something to it after all. From what he understood, shares first bought at five hundred were already trading for fifteen hundred!

  Either way, at least the upward shift in income was good for the goldsmithing business. The nouveau riche almost always began their elevated lifestyles by procuring the latest fashions for themselves and their homes, and often that meant the shinier the better. The gold and silver boutique in the Place Dauphin that Jacques ran for his father had made more money in the past year than it had in the previous five combined. Sales were up all over town, and energy pulsed from Rue Quinquempoix as if speculating involved the very creation of life itself.

  Jacques’ thoughts were interrupted by more loud arguing from inside the courier’s office.

  “I think he’s going to give one to every good little girl in the city,” one of the children’s voices cried.

  “Don’t be stupid. There’s only two hundred in all,” a boy replied. “I think they’re for future soldiers, like me.”

  It sounded as though the noisy family was about finished with their business, so Jacques moved closer to the door, waiting as they tumbled out.

  “Mommy, if you get a gold statuette from M. Law, can I have it?” one of the girls asked, tugging on her mother’s skirt.

  The mother’s face looked weary as she glanced at Jacques, scolded all of the children, and kept ushering them out of the door.

  “You’re all being silly,” she said to her children. “If we got one, it would belong to our entire family, not any single one of you, so that’s enough of that. What could children possibly want with a fleur-de-lis statuette anyway, even if it is pure gold?”

  “I’d use it as my dowry someday!” one of the daughters said.

  “I’d put it on the mantle and declare myself king!” one of the sons cried.

  “Well, stop this endless quarreling because it doesn’t matter. We’re not going to Les Halles and that’s that. We don’t even know what the statuettes are for or if our family would get one, and we cannot afford to travel all that way just to find out. Now move along!”