A Masquerade of Saints (Saints Mystery Series Book 3) Read online

  A Masquerade of Saints

  Nicole Loughan

  The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration and design by Genevieve LaVO Cosdon, LaVO Marketing and Design

  Book design and production by Little Spot for Stories

  Editing by Erin McNelis, MFA and Kourtney Wojciechowski

  Author Photograph by Rikki Leigh Shepherd, Rikki Leigh Photography

  © 2014 Nicole Loughan

  Table of Contents

  Forward

  Bury your saints

  Saying goodbye

  Hadley House

  Shotgun

  Something new

  Girl time

  Practice makes perfect

  A fine performance

  A new side

  The other half

  A family affair

  Dinner

  A time to run

  The madame

  The General in the bayou

  Dismissed

  Bad Gris Gris

  An unexpected visit

  What Remy knew

  High society

  Back to school

  Date night

  Crawfish

  Tippy’s truth

  Endymion

  Freedom

  Forward

  The man sitting in his hospital bed could feel his urine exiting him through a tube and the IV invading his arm. The worst of it was that he sometimes felt phantom twinges from the hand that he had lost. His mind was occupied with thoughts of how this had happened to him. He stewed thinking about how he ended up this pile of flesh with almost no sight, one leg, one hand and the promise of an almost certain young death. It was almost a year ago to the day that he received an envelope from New Orleans stuffed with twenty 100 dollar bills, accompanied by the name “Fanchon Deveroux” and an email address: [email protected]. He had received this type of package before, and he knew what he was supposed to do with it. He did not know it at the time, but it was the last package he would ever receive.

  Bury your saints

  The house I grew up in was probably my least favorite place on the entire planet. I had a terrible childhood, being raised by two people who hated me just a smidge more than I hated them. The memories of what happened in that house filled my mind as I drove. The deeper I went into the bayou, the more I felt an urge to turn tail and run.

  The house was over the water and while there was a dirt road that ran near it the far more efficient route to the home was via boat. I knew I was getting close as the landscape around me got soggier. I saw a willow tree at the bend in the road and the sway of branches reminded me of the days when I was forced to stand by the Spanish Oak in my yard, pull down my pants, and “pick a switch.”

  The man I had believed to be my father, Rivet Deveroux, uttered this phrase with such regularity during my childhood that I had learned early to grab a thick switch, as they stung less.

  I passed the last bit of good road before the dirt greeted me, and I made my way down it slowly, the car bouncing around from the divots in the dirt. We called them chatter bumps because they made your teeth chatter as you passed over them.

  When I was near the home I saw a slender blonde woman, my realtor, standing beside a shiny silver Buick. She had a bright white suit on, too tailored for the overgrown surroundings of the bayou. She parked her car by the side of the road. She knew better than to drive any further, lest she get stuck in the mud.

  As I approached I noticed that the bottoms of her crisp white pants were tucked into heavy brown boots. This told me I had chosen the right woman to sell my little piece of bayou real estate.

  She propped her sunglasses up on her head and reached her hand out while she introduced herself.

  “You can call me Ms. Mary,” she said and shook my hand with force.

  “Fanchon Deveroux,” I replied, which wasn’t quite the truth but would suffice as an introduction for now.

  We walked towards the house and when it came into view I could see Ms. Mary deflate.

  The home had a red-rusted tin roof over wood that had been badly damaged by the elements. The view did not improve upon closer inspection.

  Ms. Mary continued walking towards the home even though I could tell she had lost most of her interest. When we got to the front door I realized I didn’t have a key to it. I ran my hand along the wood above the door, and got nothing but a splinter for my troubles.

  “I’m sorry Ms. Mary I haven’t been here since all the trouble. The police might have the key.”

  Ms. Mary pulled back the screen door and reached for the knob. To my surprise the door opened. There was still fingerprint dust on the walls and blood on the kitchen floor. The house looked like the crime scene it had become after Rivet and Paulina Deveroux died there.

  I shuddered at the sight of the kitchen, and then walked in anyway. I turned to Ms. Mary who was still at the threshold trying to decide if she was going to come in.

  “The house is scheduled for a cleaning this week. It will be all taken care of before you show it. We can go around this way,” I assured her, walking towards the wall of dark knotted cabinets.

  I stayed close to the wall by the green refrigerator and potbelly stove. I kept my distance from the blood soaked table. It was made from what was once a thick tree stump and was crudely carved. It had just enough room for three mismatched seats, which were meant for Rivet, Paulina and me. We never had guests.

  I continued to the living room, which like the kitchen had wood floors that had been left untreated for too long, leaving them a dirty brown color. Where the walls met the roof there were gaps, and at night the moonlight shone through them. I had bad memories of trying to sleep in this home. I could hear the bayou beneath me through the cracks in the floor. It was the sounds of snakes slithering by and the heavy sloshing of water when an alligator would surface below my room. On a peaceful night it was just the sound of bullfrogs and the current.

  Windy days brought other problems as the house would moan and creak, and each gust would find your skin. I was always afraid one day the wind would blow so hard it would land us all right in the water.

  I was lost in thought when Ms. Mary snapped her fingers in my direction. “Girl, you okay?”

  “Sorry. Just lots of memories.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said. “I was asking how many acres you have.”

  “Three. And there’s a shed, out in the woods by the road,” I replied.

  She walked to the center of the living room and I followed. The room was furnished with a tattered plaid sofa and an old cable spool for a coffee table, piled high with newspapers and wires. The only other feature of the room was a stone fireplace with a mantle. I couldn’t ever recall there being a fire in it, though it was always covered in soot.

  I felt my heart leap when I noticed that the mantle still held a photo of Josephine and me. I walked over to it and touched my hand to the image of my best friend. Her hair was a shade darker than mine and a little longer. Her skin was smooth, her eyes were green and truth be told our features were quite similar. Though there was something about Josephine that made her a true beauty. She was the kind of pretty that people made a fuss about; even in the photo you could see it. I took the photo and tucked it under my arm.

  I turned to look at Ms. Mary and saw her holding her sleeve to her nose. I looked down at my feet and noticed I had just walked through a pile o
f garbage to get to the picture. I took a breath and realized for the first time there was a strange odor in the house.

  “Are the other rooms like this?” Ms. Mary asked.

  “I assume so.” I walked through the living room to the small hallway at the other end where there were three doors. I opened the center door, which led to the bathroom, and then quickly backed my head out when a swarm of flies came buzzing out in my direction. Every porcelain surface in the room had turned to a mixture of some sort of red and black mold. The floor, which was once covered in peel and stick blue tile was reduced to moldy sub flooring with a few discolored tiles peeling up around the edges. I didn’t walk in, but instead turned to Ms. Mary, only to find she had already walked out of my sight.

  I yelled to her, “There are two bedrooms and a bathroom. Do you want to see them?”

  “I’ve seen enough,” she shouted back and I heard the kitchen door open then slam shut. I ran to catch up with her. She stopped a few steps away from the house to gasp for air. I could feel my cheeks burning red from embarrassment at the state of the house.

  After Ms. Mary caught her breath she put her sunglasses back over her eyes and said, “I’m going to be honest Fanchon. Your best hope for this home is that it finishes rotting, falls into the bayou and lets the water carry it away.”

  “Can you at least sell the land?” I asked.

  “I can try, but the pool of people looking to buy out here is pretty small and nobody is going to want to build new on land like this. Especially since Katrina. You can’t get flood insurance in this area.”

  “I’ll give it away, Ms. Mary. Sell it for whatever you can get and double your commission. I just want to be rid of it.”

  “I’ll try my best, sweetheart,” she said.

  She pulled the realtor agreement from her bag and passed it to me. I held it to the siding of the house and without reading it put my name on the dotted line. She looked it over and shook my hand. Then she slid the paper bag into her bag and pulled out a plastic statue of Saint Joseph.

  I knew people who had buried statues of St. Joseph, the patron saint of home and family, in their yard to help them sell their homes, but I didn’t think a woman like Ms. Mary would believe in the practice.

  “Seems a little superstitious,” I told her.

  “You are going to need all the help you can get to sell this place. Make sure you bury him upside down between the road and your house. And lots of people say point his face to the house, but I have always had better luck facing him towards the road. Make sure you bury him good and deep and don’t dig him up until twenty four hours after settlement.”

  I promised her I would bury him and say a prayer to help him along. She started to leave and I asked her if she needed me to take photos.

  “Nope. I’ll get what I need,” she said, as she waved. “Have a wonderful day. Ms. Deveroux.”

  She practically ran to the road and I stayed on the porch watching her. When she got to the edge of the property she aimed her camera to the woods, snapped one photo and left.

  It was still early in the morning and the bayou looked peaceful and bright. I breathed deep the clean water smell of the bayou and felt a sudden urge to remove my shoes. I slid out of them and walked over to the dock. The feel of warm wood under my bare feet was calming. I walked to the end of the dock, sat down and dangled my feet in the water. The gentle current passed through my toes and set my mind at ease. The tranquil moment was spoiled when I noticed a rope hanging in the water at my side. I had never seen the faded nylon rope before and yanked it from the water. Once it surfaced I could see it was a crawfish trap, filled to the brim and crawling with little red snappers trying desperately to get out.

  It was an inverted-style net like Rivet liked to use. It was long and cylindrical, with large rings on both sides and a centerpiece of netting which held the crawfish in after they were enticed to the center by bait. I stuck my hand in to pull on the release string, but it was stuck. The crawfish noticed the invading hand and crawled on it. Their spindly red legs tickled me as pulled. The mudbugs in the bottom could not reach me but instead ran their antennae across my wrists. I kept pulling and thought for a moment about going into the house to get a knife, when I remembered the police took them. In the same moment I was thinking of a way to free them one of the little critters decided to give me a squeeze with its pincer. I took my hand out of the trap and the little bugger was still attached. I pulled him off, chucked him into the water and decided they were on their own.

  Saying goodbye

  I sat shoeless on the dock for a good hour before I decided it was time to get on with my day. I carried my shoes with me to the aluminum fishing boat on the other side of the dock and pulled the cord to start the engine. I released the ropes, pulled anchor and headed down river to the place I really called home, Josephine’s house.

  I pulled up to the Chabert family dock and saw the wild red hair of Josephine’s dad before I saw the rest of him. Clem was sitting in a rocking chair on the porch and when he noticed me in the boat he jumped up and ran to help me pull the boat in.

  I dropped anchor, jumped out of the boat, and gave Clem a tight hug. He kissed me on the cheek and said, “Ha, cher.”

  I kissed him on the cheek as well and followed him to the porch. Josephine’s mother Abolina walked out onto the screened porch and when she saw me jumped up to give me a hug.

  “Bon jou,” Abolina shouted as she peppered me with kisses. I tried to bend down to give her a proper hug, but she was already wound tight around my mid-section. Her embrace was strong for a small woman. The two of them greeted me as a daughter. They swore I was all they had left after Josephine followed her sister into an early grave. After she let me go, I took a few steps back and sat cross-legged on the ground opposite the rocking chairs. I was still barefoot and completely comfortable.

  The two of them sat in their chairs and Abolina asked, “You stayin’ here tonight?”

  “Not tonight,” I said. “I am starting work this week. The pastor at the church gave me a set of hymns to learn before Sunday and another set to work on for the women’s choir. I need to get moved into my house before the weekend and get an instrument to practice on.”

  Clem said nothing but sucked his teeth and started rocking.

  “What are you fretting about?” I asked him.

  “Never you mind,” he said, not looking at me.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “I need to get my things from my room here and get moved in.”

  “That’s good news, cher,” Abolina said. “Where are you planning to stay now?”

  “You remember Claudia and Jarrod who I played cards with at Jori’s place a few months back?”

  She nodded.

  “Claudia’s parents have a shotgun rental downtown with an empty room. The rent there is reasonable, and I’ll make enough playing at the church to cover it with a little leftover.”

  Abolina eyed me suspiciously, “I thought they only had that one rental in town; the one that those boys from the roofing company live in.”

  I smiled at her.

  “No, no, no,” Clem shouted. “You are not staying with those boys. Dey is no good.”

  “Claudia said they were nice, local boys, Clem.”

  “I said no,” he shouted and jumped up from his seat. “Lisette didn’t listen to me either. I told her to stay away from those boys, and she wound up with her head split in two. Josephine didn’t listen to me about New York and Du’Ponde’s curses, and she wound up dead in the belly of an alligator. Now you aren’t going to listen. You’ll be dead next.”

  He stomped into the house and slammed the door behind him. Abolina rocked in her chair taking deep breaths.

  I opened my mouth to say something, and Abolina held her hand out to stop me. “I don’t agree with how Clem handles himself, but I don’t think an unmarried woman should be shacking up with grown men.”

  “I’m not shacking up, but I don’t want to live alone.”

>   “Hmm,” she said coldly. “You could think on it a bit and stay here. At least until after Mardi Gras.”

  “I have to get started at work. It would be a pain to drive in and out of town.”

  “Fine,” she said coldly. “What do you want me to do with your stuff? You can’t fit it all in that boat.”

  “I’ll get most of it today, and I’ll get the rest when I come back to visit.”

  Clem cracked the door open and shouted, “You ain’t gonna visit no more.” Then he slammed the door, shaking the dried alligator skull hanging by the jamb.

  I shouted back to him, “I’ll visit, Clem.”

  I heard him yell in the house and stomp away.

  Abolina, in her usual way, pretended nothing was happening.

  “Well, my sweet baby girl, go grab your things, and let’s send you off.”

  I went into the house and walked to the small room I used to share with Josephine. It had recently been painted yellow for me and outfitted with a handmade quilt embroidered with images of all of my favorite Louisiana plantations. I grabbed a box out of the top of the closet and filled it with my things, like the sun and moon masquerade masks that belonged to Josephine and me, my quilt, my collection of miniature boxes and all of the clothing I could stuff on top.

  I walked to the back bedroom where Clem was holed up. I could hear Buck Owens honky-tonk blasting through the door and said, “I’m heading out, Clem.”

  He cracked open the door and said, “You watch out for yourself in the city. There is more snakes on Bourbon Street then you will ever find out here.”

  “I know, Clem. That’s all the more reason why I shouldn’t be alone. Plus, I’m sure Claudia has told them that Abolina shot the last person who crossed me. Who would dare mess with me knowing I have Abolina on my side?”

  He opened the door the rest of the way and said, “She’s a damn good shot for sure.”

  He gave me a tight hug, encircling me and smooshing my box of stuff.

  “Watch yourself and visit often,” he said, sobbing. Without giving me a chance to reply he went back into his room and closed the door.