Voodoo River (v0.99)

  Lucy said, “The bisque is like a soup that’s been enriched with crawfish fat. The heads have been stuffed with a mixture of crawfish meat and bread crumbs and spices. You can pick it up, then use your spoon to lift out the stuffing.”

  “Okay.” The bisque was a deep brown, and several stuffed crawfish shells bobbed in it. I did as she said and dug out the stuffing and tasted it. The stuffing tasted of thyme. “This is terrific. Would you like one?”

  “Please.”

  I spooned out one of the stuffed shells and put it on her plate. She said, “Here. Try the étouffée.”

  The étouffée was a rich brown sauce chunky with diced green bell peppers and celery and crawfish tails over rice. She forked some onto one of the little bread plates, then passed it to me. I tasted it. These people have redefined the word yummy.

  She said, “Does the étouffée you get in California taste like this?”

  “Not even close.”

  Lucy Chenier picked up the stuffed shell I had given her and spooned out the filling. As she did, a brown drop of the gravy ran down along the heel of her hand toward her wrist. She turned up her hand without thinking about it and licked off the drip. I felt something swell in my chest and had to swallow and then had the rest of the Bloody Mary. I said, “Would you like another?”

  Nod. Smile. “Maybe one more. I have to drive.”

  I flagged at the waitress and showed her two fingers. Two bags of ice and a cold shower, please. Lucy said, “You eat the boiled crawfish by breaking the tails out of the body, then pinching the tail so that the shell cracks and you can get out the meat.” She took one of my crawfish and demonstrated. “You see?”

  “Unh-hunh.” Maybe if I concentrated on the food. The food could save me.

  “Then you put the head in your mouth and suck it.”

  I blinked at her as she put the head in her mouth and sucked it. She smiled simply. “Gets out the juice.”

  I coughed and covered my mouth. I drank some water. Think about the food. The food. The waitress brought our drinks and I drank mine without stopping. Lucy looked concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I shook my head. “Not a thing.”

  She sipped her new drink and ate some more of her étouffée. I noticed that most of my food was gone and most of hers was still on her plate. I hope she didn’t think me a glutton. “Are you from Baton Rouge?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your accent is sorter than the others I hear.”

  She smiled. “I’m not the one with the accent, Mr. Cole.”

  I spread my hands. Busted.

  “I went to LSU for prelaw, but I attended law school in Michigan. Living with Yankees can devastate your accent.”

  “And you returned home to practice.”

  “My boyfriend was here, working, and we wanted to be married. He was a lawyer, too. He still is.”

  “How about that.”

  “We were divorced four years ago.”

  “That happens.” I tried not to beam.

  “Yes, it does.” It seemed as if she was going to say more, but then she went’back to the étouffée. “Now tell me about you. Do you have a background in law enforcement?”

  “Nope. I’ve been licensed for twelve years and, before that, I apprenticed with a man named George Fieder. George had about a million hours of experience and was maybe the best investigator who ever lived. Before that, I was in the army.”

  “College?”

  “University of Southeast Asia. The work-study program.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “You look too young for Vietnam.”

  “I looked older then.”

  “Of course.”

  “May I ask you a personal question, Ms. Chenier?”

  She nodded, chewing.

  “Have you sought out your birth parents?”

  “No.” She shook her head, then used the back of her wrist to move her hair from her eyes. Fingers still sticky from the crawfish. “The vast majority of adopted children don’t. There may be a minor curiosity from time to time, but your mom and dad are your mom and dad.”

  “The people who raise you.”

  “That’s it. A long time ago a woman gave birth to me, and gave me over to the state because she felt it best for both of us. She now has her life, I have mine, and my birth father his. I can appreciate on an intellectual level that they birthed me, but emotionally, my folks are Jack and Ann Kyle. Jack helped me ace algebra and Ann drove me to the court every day after school to practice tennis. Do you see?”

  “Sure. They’re your family.”

  She smiled and nodded and ate more of the étouffée. “Just like yours.”

  “Yet you’ve devoted your career to this kind of work.”

  “Not really. Most of my practice is in the area of divorce and custody disputes. But I don’t have to want to recover my birth parents to appreciate that need in others. All of us should have access to our medical histories. Because I feel the weight of that, and because I’m in a position to help those with the need, I do.”

  “You share a mutual experience with other adopted children and you feel a kinship. All brothers and sisters under the skin.”

  She seemed pleased. “That’s exactly right.” Amazing how a little vodka can dull the senses, isn’t it? She put down her fork and crossed her arms on the table. “So, Mr. Adventure, tell me what you think of our Louisiana crawfish. Is it the most incredible thing you’ve ever eaten?”

  “I ate dog when I was in Vietnam.”

  Lucy Chenier’s smile vanished and she looked uncertain. “How … adventurous.”

  I shrugged and finished off the crawfish tails.

  She said, “Arf.”

  I looked up.

  Lucy Chenier’s face was red and her mouth was a dimpled tight line. She opened her mouth and breathed deep and blinked to clear her eyes, “I’m sorry, but the idea of it.” She covered her face with her napkin. “Was it a poodle?”

  I put down my fork and folded my arms on the table. “Oh, I get it. Humor.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just so funny.”

  “Not to the dog.”

  Lucy laughed, then motioned to the waitress and said, “I really do have to be going.”

  “Would you like coffee?”

  “I would, but I can’t. I have another appointment with a very special gentleman.”

  I looked at her. “Oh.”

  “My son. He’s eight.”

  “Ah.”

  The waitress brought us Handi Wipes. Lucy paid, and then we drove back to the hotel. I suggested that we go together to Edith Boudreaux’s shop the next morning, but Lucy had two early meetings and thought it better if we met there. I told her that that would be fine. We rode in silence most of the way with an air of expectancy in the car that felt more hopeful than uncomfortable, as if the night held a kind of static charge waiting to be released.

  When we stopped at the Ho-Jo’s front entrance, it was almost ten.

  She said, “Well.”

  “I had a very nice time tonight, Lucy. Thank you.”

  “Me, too.”

  We sat in the neon light another moment, looking at each other, and then I leaned across to kiss her. She put her hand on my chest and gently pushed, and I backed up. She looked uncomfortable. “You’re a neat guy, and I had a good time with you, but we’re working together. Do you see?”

  “Sure.” I swallowed and blinked, and then offered my hand. “Thanks for dinner. I enjoyed myself.”

  She took my hand, eyes never leaving mine. “Please don’t take this wrong.”

  “Of course not.” I tried to smile.

  We shook, and then I got out of Lucy Chenier’s car and watched her drive away.

  The night was balmy and pleasant, and I walked along the levee and up the little hill and along the nighttime Baton Rouge streets, drunk not from the vodka but with the joyful awareness that tomorrow I would see her again.

  The next morning I left
the hotel just before eight, drove across the Huey Long Bridge, and, one hour and five minutes later, parked in a diagonal spot beneath the Eunice town clock just across the square from Edith Boudreaux’s clothing store. A CLOSED sign hung in the window, and the red and white store hours sign said that they opened at ten A.M. It was twelve minutes after nine.

  I went into a coffee shop, bought two coffees to go, and brought them and a handful of sweetener and creamer packs out to my car. I sat there with the windows down, sipping the coffee and watching the store. At twenty-six minutes after nine Lucy Chenier’s Lexus came around the square and parked four spaces down from me. I got out with the coffees, walked over, rapped on her fender, then opened her passenger-side door, slid in, and handed her a coffee. “There’s sweetener and creamer. I didn’t know what you take.”

  “This is so thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “We’re a full-service operation, ma’am.” She popped the plastic top off the Styrofoam cup, blew on the coffee, then sipped it black. Even watching her sip was an adventure.

  She said, “Is that the store?”

  “Yes. Edie’s. They open at ten.”

  Lucy Chenier sipped more of the coffee and watched the store. When she sipped, the steam from the coffee brushed over her face like a child’s fingers. The amber-green eyes seemed darker today, almost brown, and I wondered at their change. She was wearing a crushed linen jacket over a white blouse and baggy camel pants, and she smelled of buttermilk soap. If I stared at her any more I’d probably reveal myself to be the world’s largest doogie. I forced myself to look at the store.

  At fourteen minutes before ten, Edith Boudreaux walked around the corner and came down the block and let herself in through the shop’s front door. I said, “That’s her.”

  “My God, she does look like Jodi, doesn’t she?”

  “Yep.”

  Lucy finished her coffee, then said, “Let’s go see her.”

  We walked across the square and went in. The same little bell rang when we entered, and the air was as chill today as I remembered it. Edith Boudreaux looked up at us from the cash register where she was loading a fresh tape. She said, “Sorry. We’re not open yet.” She hadn’t yet turned around the CLOSED sign.

  Lucy smiled pleasantly and stepped into the store as if they were old friends. “I know, but I was hoping we might spend a few minutes now. My name is Lucille Chenier. I’m an attorney from Baton Rouge.” Lucy crossed with her hand out and Edith Boudreaux took it without thinking. She seemed sort of puzzled, and then she recognized me.

  “You were in yesterday.”

  “That’s right.”

  She brightened and glanced at Lucy. “You brought your wife this time.”

  Lucy gave a friendly laugh. “No. Mr. Cole and I work together.” She patted Edith Boudreaux’s hand, calming her, telling her that we were good people and there was nothing to be frightened of. Friendly people come to change your life. Lucy said, “I know you need to ready for opening, but it’s better that we’re alone.”

  “What are you talking about?” Looking at me. “Why alone?”

  Lucy said, “I practice civil law, and part of my practice involves adoption recovery. It’s a sensitive, private matter, and I treat everyone’s confidence with the utmost respect.”

  Edith Boudreaux’s face darkened and she took a single step back. Jimmie Ray had been to see her all right.

  Lucy went on, “Birth parents who want to find their children or adoptees who want to find their birth parents or learn something about their biological relatives employ me to help make those connections. I’m working for such a person now, and Mr. Cole and I have come across something that we need to check.”

  Edith Boudreaux glanced from Lucy to me and back to Lucy. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed, and her hands came together beneath her breasts. Lucy said, “Mrs. Boudreaux, I hope this won’t come as a shock to you, but it may. This isn’t bad news in any way. It is very, very good news. Were you aware that your mother gave birth to a child on July 9, thirty-six years ago, and then gave that child up for adoption?”

  The eyes flicked again. Me to Lucy. Lucy to me. “Why did you come here? Who sent you here?” Jimmie Ray all right.

  The bell tinkled again and the young blond clerk came through the door. Edith Boudreaux clutched at Lucy and said, “Please don’t say anything.”

  She went to the young woman and said something so softly that we could not hear. Lucy looked at me and lowered her voice. “Why’s she so scared?”

  I shook my head. Edith Boudreaux returned and said, “That’s Sandy. Sandy helps out. We can go in back.” She hustled us through the curtained doorway and into the stockroom. Racks of plastic-covered clothes filled most of the floor space, and blue and white garment boxes were stacked against the walls and on cheap shelves. An Arrowhead water cooler stood outside what I guessed was a restroom. Edith pulled the curtain and wrung her hands. “I don’t know what you want of me.”

  Lucy’s voice was calm and measured and soothing, an FM disc jockey playing easy listening after midnight. She said, “My client may be the child that your mother gave away. Your sister, Edith. She wants nothing of you, or anyone else in her biological family, except to learn her medical history.”

  Nodding now. Squinting like all of this was going by very fast and it was difficult to contain. I wondered what Jimmie Ray had told her. I was wondering where he’d gotten the money to buy the Mustang. She said, “I don’t know.”

  Lucy said, “The only way we can be sure that my client is the child that your mother gave away is if both parties submit to the state’s adoption registry search so we can see if there’s a match. If there is a match, the state will unseal the records and confirm the identity.”

  Edith Boudreaux was nodding, but I’m not sure the nods meant anything. She said, “You think your client is that baby?”

  “We believe she is, yes.”

  “That’s who sent you here? The baby?” She was so nervous she was rocking, swaying back and forth as if in time with a heartbeat.

  “My client is thirty-six years old. She’s a woman now.”

  “That was all so long ago.”

  “She doesn’t want anything from you, Mrs. Boudreaux. She simply wants to know the particulars of her medical heritage. Does breast or uterine cancer run in the family? Is the family long-lived? That kind of thing.”

  “My mother’s dead.”

  “We know. And we know that your father is ill. That’s why we came to you. Won’t you help us?”

  She was still making the little rocking moves, and then she said, “I have to call my husband. I need to speak with him.”

  She went out through the curtain without looking at us. Lucy blew out a loud sigh and took a cup of water from the cooler. “What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “Somebody scared her. Probably Jimmie Ray.”

  Lucy crumpled the cup, didn’t see any place to toss it, put it in her pocket. “With what? All we’re talking about here is an adoption.”

  It didn’t take long for Edith Boudreaux to talk to her husband, and it didn’t take long for him to arrive on the scene. We waited maybe eight or nine minutes, and then the outer bell tinkled and a tall, florid man about Edith’s age came through the curtain ahead of her. He was thick across the shoulders and butt, with small eyes and a sun-reddened face and large hands that looked callused and rough. He was wearing a crisp khaki Evangeline Parish sheriff’s uniform open at the collar, and he was the same cop I’d seen with Jimmie Ray Rebenack at the crawfish farm.

  He said, “My name’s Jo-el Boudreaux. I’m the sheriff here in Evangeline Parish. Could I see some identification, please?” As he said it he looked over Lucy and then he looked over me. His eyes stayed with you without blinking. Cop eyes.

  Lucy showed her driver’s license and gave him a business card. When he looked at my investigator’s license he said, “California.”

  I nodded.

  “You carrying?”


  I shook my head. “Nope. Not licensed in Louisiana.”

  “Why don’t we see?”

  He pointed at the wall and I assumed the position and he patted me down. Lucy Chenier looked surprised and then angry. She said, “There’s no need for that. I’m an attorney, this man is a licensed investigator. This is a legitimate inquiry.” She was breathing quickly, confused by his manner. Everything had suddenly risen to a level she wasn’t used to.

  I said, “It’s okay.”

  The sheriff copied some information off the license into a little notepad. After that he flipped back the license, and he didn’t much care if I caught it or not. He said, “Yeah, well, we’ll check on that. We’ll see. Now that we know where we stand, why don’t you tell me what you’re after.” He squared himself off at us, the way he’d front a kid he’d stopped for driving too fast on a back road.

  Lucy didn’t like it, but she went through it again for Jo-el Boudreaux, telling him about the sealed state documents, about the possibility that our client was the child given away by Pamela Johnson, about our client’s desire not to contact her long lost family but simply to establish her medical history.

  Jo-el Boudreaux was shaking his head before she finished. “You got any proof that this baby and your client are the same person?”

  Lucy said, “No, sir. But they were born on the same day, and they’re both female, and they were both given up to the state. That’s why we need the records opened.”

  He was shaking his head again. “Not interested. I want you people to leave my wife alone. Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any.”

  Edith Boudreaux looked like she wasn’t as sure. She said, “Jo-el, maybe we should—”

  He cut her off. “Edith, what’s there to say? The past is the past, isn’t it?”

  Lucy said, “Our client doesn’t want anything from you, Mr. Boudreaux. She simply wants to know her medical history. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  He said, “I understand that a lot of my wife’s family’s dirty laundry is going to be stirred up again. You people go around town spreading crap about my wife’s family, it’ll go hard on you.”