Whispers of the Bayou Read online

  “For me? Here?”

  “Yes, it was from Charles Benochet, the attorney who handles your inheritance in Louisiana.”

  I was unsure about what this had to do with all that was going on, but at least I understood why she had opened a letter addressed to me. AJ handled the details of my inheritance, interacting with the Louisiana attorney on my behalf. The legalities were complicated, but basically I owned a house and some land that had been left to me by my paternal grandparents in their will. The way I understood it, the property was already technically mine, but it wouldn’t actually come into my possession until the death of their old caretaker, a man named Willy Pedreaux, to whom they had given a life estate or, as they called it in Louisiana, a “usufruct.”

  Considering that Mr. Pedreaux was in his seventies and Tess was five, we had always earmarked the inheritance to fund her college education. We planned to sell the place, probably sight unseen, and use the proceeds to help her get through school. If the man survived into his nineties, we’d simply go the student loan route and use the money to pay off the debt after the fact, whenever it eventually came into our hands.

  “According to Charles,” AJ continued, “Willy Pedreaux has been suffering from a lung condition called pulmonary fibrosis. They don’t expect him to live much longer.”

  “Oh.”

  Of all the things I expected to hear, this wasn’t it. From a purely financial standpoint, this was beneficial for me, of course, though considering that a man had to die for me to inherit, I didn’t feel happy about it at all. The poor guy, here he was set for the rest of his life in a nice home with no mortgage payment to worry about, and his life was being cut short by a fatal illness.

  “That’s so sad,” I added. “But what does this have to do with anything?”

  “Bear with me,” AJ said, handing me the letter and gesturing that I should read it for myself.

  I skimmed the page of correspondence, which was written mostly in lawyer speak. From what I could tell, this was a courtesy note, written to inform me that I would be coming into my inheritance within a month or two, far sooner than anyone had expected. Then I got to the last paragraph, which added something of a twist:

  I’m writing at Willy’s request, to see if you might find it in your heart to come down to Louisiana and meet with him before he passes away. He wants very much to speak with you. If you can come, please let our office know and we’ll be happy to make the necessary arrangements.

  Sincerely yours,

  Charles Benochet

  I looked up at AJ, feeling inexplicably sad.

  “The poor man,” I said, “he probably wanted to tell me all about the house and his memories of it and everything. He must not know that I plan to sell it.”

  “This letter showed up about a week later.”

  AJ pulled out the second letter and handed it to me. Again, it was from Charles Benochet, but this time his request for me to come down was a bit more insistent:

  Willy Pedreaux is urgently requesting that you come down so that he can speak to you. Please consider making the trip, if for no other reason than allowing this very sick man to find some peace in his final days.

  “Sounds like this fellow really wants to talk to me.” I held a letter in each hand, looking at AJ for more clarification. “But I still don’t see what—”

  “Miranda,” she interrupted, her eyes on the envelopes still in her lap. “Go with me here. After that, there were three more letters, a few e-mails, and several phone calls, all from Charles, all asking you to please come down and meet with Willy.”

  She handed me the three letters, which I read, and each one sounded even more urgent than the one before. The most recent one even contained a generous check from the estate to cover the cost of airfare.

  I realized that AJ had been hiding all of this from me, keeping it to herself despite the desperate tone of these letters.

  “Is this guy still alive now?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “Then I don’t understand,” I said, folding the letters and putting them all back into their envelopes. “If he’s this desperate to see me, I’d be willing to go down there and talk to him just to give him some peace of mind. I feel terrible about this. Why didn’t you share it with me sooner?”

  “Oh, Miranda, it’s so complicated. You know I don’t want you going to Louisiana. I don’t want you to have anything to do with those people.”

  And there it was, the age-old elephant in the corner she had been avoiding for years. The truth was that I knew very little about my family in Louisiana or even my own late mother—and it didn’t help matters that I had not one single memory from the part of my childhood when I lived down there myself. All I knew was that my mom died in a tragic accident when I was young and that AJ, her sister, had subsequently been given custody of me, her five-year-old niece. AJ had come down to Louisiana for my mother’s funeral and then brought me back with her to her home in New York. I had never returned to Louisiana since.

  AJ never wanted to talk about my mother’s death or why my father had essentially given me away afterward, nor about the grandparents and other relatives I had been forced to leave behind. I always wondered about it, but over the years I had learned to stop asking. It certainly hadn’t seemed to matter to my father; he had moved to Arizona soon after I was gone and eventually started a new life of his own.

  “I tried to be a good mother to you,” AJ said now, tears again filling her eyes. “I did the best I could.”

  I put down the letters and scooted forward on the couch so that I could take her hands. She had sacrificed so much to raise me, serving as both mother and father to me for most of my life. Truly, I couldn’t have asked for a better parent.

  I tried to tell her as much now, assuring her that I knew she always had my best interests at heart. More important in this moment, I said, was for her to explain why she was so upset and what any of this had to do with what had been going on here today.

  AJ nodded, tears welling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.

  “That man who came to see you at your office, I have no idea who he was or what he really wanted. The men who attacked you, I don’t know who they were either.”

  “Okay…”

  “But both things have to do with the symbol, the one in the painting. That cross-in-a-bell has shown up before. In two places, actually.”

  “Two places?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, meeting my eyes. “The man…the attack…the symbol…I don’t know how it all ties together, Miranda, but I do know they all have one thing in common.”

  “What?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  She studied my face gravely and then held out one more letter.

  “They all come back around to you.”

  THREE

  As the sunset

  Threw the long shadows of trees o’er the broad ambrosial meadows.

  Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen.

  “This last letter came yesterday,” AJ explained, “but it was addressed to me, not you. Rather than one more note from the lawyer, this one is from Willy Pedreaux himself, the fellow who is dying.”

  I took the paper from her and unfolded it to see large letters scrawled in pencil. The handwriting was uneven and deeply slanted, as if it had been written by someone ill and lying in bed.

  The message it contained was brief. It said:

  Dear Ms. Greene,

  Please let her come. It’s time.

  Sincerely,

  Willy Pedreaux

  Under his name he had drawn a single symbol: an elaborate cross inside the shape of a bell.

  A chill slid under my skin.

  “What do you think this means?” I whispered.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “But you have some idea,” I persisted, looking up at her.

  “Yes, I do. Sort of.”

  In all of my imaginings, nothing could have prepared me for wh
at she did next. Now it was her turn to take both of my hands in hers and fix her eyes on mine.

  “Miranda, honey, do you trust me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then you have to let me do what I need to do with no objections. Okay?”

  “Um…okay.”

  We stood and she led me down the narrow hallway and into the master bathroom, pulling out a white wrought iron chair from the vanity and indicating that I should sit. I did.

  From the cabinet under the sink, she took out a pair of scissors, a razor, shaving cream, and some bobby pins, setting them all on the gray marble countertop. Positioning herself behind me, she began fooling with my hair, using the bobby pins to secure various sections to my head. I couldn’t fathom what she was doing, but my eyes widened when she reached for the scissors.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, leaning away from her.

  “You have to trust me, Miranda.”

  Trust her? I didn’t want a haircut, but it also seemed that I had no choice. Relenting, I sat up straight again and let her do what she needed to do. From behind my head, I could hear the distinct sound of a snip, and when I looked down at the ground I could see a long shank of my dark hair falling to the tile floor.

  Startled, I reached back and felt my head with my fingers.

  “Good grief, AJ!” I cried, realizing that she had cut away a good two square inches of hair, almost to the scalp, from the very center of the back of my head.

  What she did next came as even more of a shock, but by this point I was too confused to resist. Pushing away my hand, she used a washcloth to wet that square of my head, dabbed on some of the shaving cream, and shaved it down to the scalp with the razor. I closed my eyes, hoping that at least some artful hairstyling might be able to hide the damage she was now doing until my hair grew back in.

  “Okay,” she said finally, dropping the razor into the sink, a tangle of dark hairs clumped on the blade.

  “Does this have something to do with my birthmark?” I asked as my mind raced, trying to decide what possible reason she might have for shaving a part of my head—the same part my attackers had studied with the flashlight. I tilted my chin away from the mirror, but I couldn’t see far enough back to glimpse what she had done.

  “It’s not a birthmark, Miranda. I only told you that when you were young, so you’d have a answer for anyone who might accidentally run across it—like a hairdresser, or maybe one of your little friends if you were doing each other’s hair.”

  Over the years I had been asked “What’s that?” a few times, usually during my misguided attempts to have foil highlights added to my dark hair. Otherwise, the mark stayed completely hidden and unnoticed. I rarely thought about it, and as far as I knew even Nathan wasn’t aware that it was there.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “If it’s not a birthmark, what is it?”

  Again, I reached back to touch the area on my scalp—only now it was strangely naked, the skin perfectly smooth and hairless.

  “It’s a tattoo,” she said.

  “A tattoo?”

  “I have no idea where it came from or what it means, but it’s been there since you were small. I found it when you about six or seven and you wanted me to braid your hair. When I called and asked your father what it was, he had no idea. Only your grandmother seemed to know what I was talking about, but she wouldn’t tell me anything. She just said that we would be told eventually, when it was time.”

  “Time? Time for what?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t elaborate.”

  I started to protest, but AJ shook her head, looking at me in the mirror.

  “Your grandmother was a tough cookie, Miranda. You really wouldn’t understand unless you had known her.”

  My fingers rubbed furiously at the bald patch of my scalp.

  “She tattooed a little girl? That’s practically child abuse!”

  “That’s what I said. When I threatened legal action, she told me that if I did anything about it at all, they would countersue me to get back full custody of you. I didn’t know if they could win, but I couldn’t risk the chance of losing you, so I had to let it go. After all these years, truly, I had almost forgotten about it until the letter came yesterday from Mr. Pedreaux.”

  Without any further words, AJ reached into the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a heavy silver hand mirror. I stood and turned as I took it from her, my stomach in knots. It took a moment to adjust, tilting the glass so that I could see the back of my head in the reflection of my reflection. Once I did, I gasped, for there it was: a tattoo on the back of my head, about an inch in diameter, etched into my scalp in dark purple ink. The shape had obviously been distorted a bit as I had grown, but the image was unmistakable.

  It was an elaborate cross, tucked neatly inside a bell.

  Now it was my turn to fall apart. The mirror slipped from my hands, though AJ was so close in the small room that she managed to catch it before it crashed to the ground. Suddenly, the scene seemed to grow hazy before me. Gasping for air, I ran back to the living room where there was more space to move around and breathe, the whole scene playing out again and again in my mind.

  Those men had been looking for this tattoo. They had ripped up my shirt to check my back. Tugged up my pants to check my legs. Pulled off my shoes and socks to see my feet. Finally, they had thumbed through my hair to check my head, and there it was. Why those places specifically, rather than just stripping me down and looking all over? Why did they know to look where they did? And once they found it, why did they simply stare for a moment and then run? Were they trying to memorize it?

  “I should call the police and tell them I know what those men were doing,” I whispered to AJ, who was standing nearby and looking as if she was ready to catch me should I start to fall down. “That might help them connect the dots to some other incident.”

  “You probably should,” she replied. “I’ll get the card that policeman gave you. It’s in with your dirty clothes.”

  From the pocket of my torn pants, AJ retrieved the NYPD contact information. I reached the fellow who was in charge of my case and presented a simplified version of what I’d learned, saying that I realized what my attackers were looking for was a tattoo on the back of my head. I described the symbol and explained that someone else had also approached me today about the same symbol, though not in such a violent manner. The cop listened to my tale, but by the end he merely sounded a bit disdainful, as if I was either grasping at straws or completely making it up. By the time the call was over, I knew three things: the symbol of a cross inside a bell was of no significance to the NYPD, there had been no other reports of mad tattoo-hunting attackers, and the man in charge of my case now thought I was nuts. On top of all that, he refused to send someone over to the museum to retrieve the painting in question because, as far as he was concerned, it was not connected to any crime.

  I hung up the phone and described his side of the conversation. “Honey, it’s not surprising he acted this way,” she assured me. “Even in New York City, that’s probably not something they see every day, a beautiful young woman and respected professional with a creepy symbol tattooed in the middle of her head.”

  I walked to the window and looked down at the streets, half expecting to see Jimmy Smith or my faceless attackers or even the witness from the restaurant looking up at me.

  “Call him,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “This guy who’s dying down in Louisiana. Ask him what it means and what he wants. If he won’t say, tell him what happened to me today.”

  Without another word AJ used the phone for directory assistance and then was connected to the number of the dying Willy Pedreaux. I listened as she spoke to what sounded like the man’s wife and then the man himself. AJ spoke politely at first, but soon her voice grew angry and then downright furious. Still, the people on the other end wouldn’t budge. Willy refused to tell me anything over the phone, but he said if I came dow
n there to see him right away, all would be revealed.

  I grabbed the phone from her and tried myself, but the weary male voice on the other end began to cry, begging me to come, saying this was the only way I could learn the truth before he died. Hearing the whimper of his ill and aged voice, I felt myself growing sick to my stomach, confused and guilty about the whole situation, even though none of this was my fault. As I disconnected the call, I told AJ that as far as I could see, I had no choice. I needed to fly to Louisiana as soon as possible, whether she was happy about that or not.

  Before she could reply, I told her to wait, that there was an urgent call I needed to make first. AJ sat and stewed on the couch as I dialed the receptionist at the museum to see if the man had come back yet for his painting. The girl said that he had not, so I had her transfer the call to my friend Bill, who was the head of our museum’s security department. I explained the strange situation to him as simply as I could, saying that a suspicious man had left a painting in my office today and that shortly afterward I had been mugged in an alley while walking to lunch.

  “The police suspect that the two events are connected,” I hedged, “so it’s very important to handle the situation correctly if the man returns.”

  Bill was infuriated at the thought that I had been attacked, and he promised that if the man I described showed up at the museum he would be detained and that the police and I would be contacted immediately. I thanked Bill for his help and ended the call. Hanging up the phone, I looked across the room at my aunt. Her expression was somber, her hands carefully clasped in front of her.

  “What is it?” I asked warily.

  “Until today, I didn’t think I’d ever have to deal with this, with the thought of you going back down to Louisiana.”

  She seemed so upset that I actually felt bad for her. I may not have known the reasons why she had always kept so much from me, but I had no doubt that she’d thought it was for my own good.

  “This isn’t that big of a deal,” I said gently. “I’ll just go down there, meet with this man, and come home. End of story.”