“Can we talk about this later? I need ta go get my oxygen,” his grandmother said. “I’m feelin’ kinda wheezy.”
“Do you need my help?” Cage stood, too.
“No, no, you sit here and talk with yer cousin. Catch up on old times. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Help yerselves to some of the Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake that Tante Lulu sent over.”
Now he was confused. Maybe Em had been referring to that time after her wedding. But why would she have been trying to contact him then?
His grandmother didn’t come right back and the silence in the room was deafening. He for damn sure wasn’t in the mood for any friggin’ cake or “catching up” with Bernie.
“What the hell is goin’ on?” he asked Bernie, who was still scarfing down red beans and rice like an inmate’s last meal on death row. “You weren’t married to her for very long.”
“Who?”
“Who the hell do you think? Been married that many times, have you?”
“Nope, only once,” the idiot replied with a smile. Did he have any idea how close he was to having those glasses smashed into his face with a fist? “Six months. The ink hardly had time to dry on the marriage certificate.” Bernie didn’t appear at all shattered by his failed marriage.
Odder and odder!
“I never knew you had the hots for Em when we were in school,” Cage mused. Bernie had been two years older than Cage and already in college when Cage had been boot-kicked out of Louisiana and into the Navy.
Bernie studied him for a minute, suddenly serious. “Guess I hid it well.” Before Cage had a chance to ask Bernie how the marriage had come about, so soon after Cage had left, so soon after Em had claimed to love him, Bernie wiped his mouth with a St. Jude napkin and set it aside, leaning toward him. “Justin, I have a problem at Landry Pyrotechnics.”
And I should give a rat’s ass… why? “Pfff! The economy’s bad all over.”
“Not that kind of a problem. There are these guys who work for me on the assembly line. A couple of them are Arab or Iranian or something.”
“Whoa! Today judgments about people based on their appearance or ethnicity will get you slapped with a racial discrimination suit quicker than you can say ACLU.”
Bernie shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. These guys, no matter the color of their skin, are kinda scary. Can you check them out for me?”
“Geez, Bern, I’m not a private investigator. And you don’t investigate people just because they’re ‘scary.’ ” Besides, dipshit, why should I do you any favors?
“You’re a Navy SEAL. I thought you SEALs cared about terrorists.”
“Terrorists! Slow the train down here, Bern. You better explain that remark.”
“This time of the year we hire dozens of part-timers to prepare for the Mardi Gras Fireworks Extravaganza. At first, Muhammed and Abdul worked out fine on the assembly line. They’re very proficient in English.” Bernie helped himself to a big slice of cake and took several bites before continuing.
Cage was getting impatient.
“They’re really smart guys. College educated, I think. Working at a minimum wage job?”
“Hey, I know lots of college grads who can’t get work in their specialties today. They do whatever to earn a living. Think waitressing and Domino’s delivery.”
“Something is just off about them. The questions they ask. The way they keep to themselves. A few times they were in parts of the factory where they had no business being. I just have a gut feeling they’re up to no good.”
Alarm bells went off in Cage’s head. Sometimes the best intel didn’t amount to beans compared to a gut feeling. “Why don’t you just fire them?”
“Without cause?”
“Have you thought about going to the police?”
“Are you kidding? You have trouble believing me without any evidence. What do you think the cops would say?”
“Look. Send me whatever info you have. Social security numbers. Addresses. Don’t companies dealing with explosives have to do security checks?”
“Yeah, but not for line workers.”
“Maybe they should.”
Bernie shrugged. “I made copies of the employee files on these two,” he added, pulling out some sheets that had been folded over and over to fit in his back pocket.
Cage arched his brows. “You were that confident that I would help you?”
“Just hopeful,” Bernie said, and looked as if he might hug him.
Not in this lifetime! Cage stepped back and busied himself with putting their plates in the sink.
Once the awkward moment was over… awkward only for him, apparently… Bernie appeared ready to leave. “Should I go in and say good-bye to Aunt MaeMae?”
“No, I’ll tell her you had to leave.” Cage walked him to his car, to make up for his lack of a hug, he supposed. Bernie’s vehicle was a late-model BMW, the kind worth about 75k new. The firecracker business must be good.
“I really do appreciate this,” Bernie said.
And Cage ducked another hug. Jeesh! What was with Bernie and the man hugs? Probably watched too much Dr. Phil, or something. “Yeah, well, you can do something for me,” Cage said with a grin, a sudden inspiration having come to him.
“Anything,” Bernie said.
Cage reached down and picked up a kitten. Handing it to a startled Bernie, he said, “You look like a cat man to me.”
“Hey, I already have a cat.”
“See, I sensed that about you. And did you know, scientists claim all pets should come in pairs?”
“Bullshit!” Bernie tried to hand it back, but Cage folded his arms over his chest. Mumbling some swear words under his breath, Bernie stretched a fleece jacket over the leather backseat and set the mewling kitten on it. Immediately, the cat shifted around to get comfortable and fell asleep.
“A match made in heaven,” Cage said.
“Or hell,” Bernie grumbled through the open driver’s door window. “And by the way, Cage.” An evil grin came over Bernie’s face now, and Cage was going to be hit with the proverbial “last word,” he suspected. “You’re wondering why Em and I got married… and divorced. Ask her.”
Hah! Like she’d tell me anything. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“Buddy, it has everything to do with you.” On those mysterious words, Bernie backed up and drove away, leaving a fishtail of crushed shells and a befuddled Cage.
Eventually, Cage turned around, about to go back in the house, when he swore the St. Jude lawn statue winked at him.
And the plot thickens…
On Thursday night, Emelie had just showered and shampooed her hair, after a long but productive day and evening in her studio following her breakdown over the memento box. She was determined not to think about Justin anymore. He was a page from her past in a long-closed book, and that was all.
She was surprised to hear her phone ring at 10 p.m. The only one who called that late was Belle, but caller ID showed a number she didn’t recognize. With a towel turban about her head, and a ratty old robe quickly wrapped around her body, she picked up the cell phone on her bedroom dresser.
“Hello.”
“Em-el-ie?” a female voice with a rich Cajun accent inquired.
“Yes,” she said tentatively.
“This is Mary Mae LeBlanc. How are ya, dear?”
At first, Emelie was confused, but then she gasped softly. Justin’s grandmother? Why would she be calling me? “Miss MaeMae?” she said. In the South, “Miss” was an appellation often attached to any older woman, a sign of respect.
“Yes.”
Emelie wondered if she should mention that she’d heard about MaeMae’s illness, but decided that was the kind of thing you only discussed if the other person brought it up first. “How are you, Miss MaeMae? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”
“I know. Do ya come back to Bayou Black ever?”
“Occasionally. My father still lives outside Houma. In fact, his sev
entieth birthday is on Saturday, and his friend Francine is planning a little lunch celebration.” Emelie was rambling, nervous for some reason. Maybe she was afraid to learn why the old lady was calling.
“Well, that would be jist perfect. Do ya think ya could stop by that mornin’ ta talk with me?”
What? No way! was her first reaction, immediately followed by, She’s ill. She has cancer, for heaven’s sake. Can’t I bend my pride just a little bit?
Emelie’s hesitation spoke volumes apparently, because Miss MaeMae said, “Justin will be gone fer a few hours that mornin’. He’s goin’ inta the hardware store fer shovels and rakes and bags. Belle Pitot and her boys are comin’ over in the afternoon, ya know, ta help clear up the yard. I’ve let things go a little. Talk about! Anyways, I should be here alone fer a spell; so we kin have some private time.” A long sigh followed, and heavy breathing, as if the old lady was having difficulty putting so many words together.
Emelie felt guilty, of course. Still, she persisted, “Are you sure we can’t just talk over the phone?”
Miss MaeMae was equally persistent. “Some things are best said in person.”
“I’d love to stop by and see you again,” she conceded. “Will nine thirty be okay?”
“Wonderful!” As an afterthought, Miss MaeMae added, “Yer ex-husband, Bernard, was here today. Lovely boy!”
Huh? Bernie hardly knew Miss MaeMae. And he lived in Lafayette. What was he doing on Bayou Black and why this particular place to stop? “Why? Why was Bernie there?”
“He was jist passin’ by, and I think he had some bizness ta discuss with Justin.”
Business? Oh, this does not sound good.
After Emelie said good-bye and set her phone back on the dresser, Emelie put her face in her hands. She had a premonition of bad things to come. Why did it feel as if her life was spinning out of control?
There are itches, and then there are ITCHES…
“I got an itch,” Tante Lulu said out of the blue to her niece, Charmaine, who was helping her prepare some casseroles and breads and desserts to be frozen and taken over to her friend MaeMae in her time of need. There would be enough to last a month.
“Do you want me to get some calamine lotion from your medicine cabinet? Do you have a rash, honey?” Charmaine asked as she leaned over Tante Lulu to check for rashes and practically split the seam in her jeans, which were plastered on her behind tighter’n white on rice. “I swear, Charmaine, those britches ’re so tight I can see yer religion.”
Charmine just grinned.
You had to admire a woman who was over forty and could still maintain her figure. Like me, Tante Lulu thought with a giggle.
“About the itch,” Charmaine reminded her.
“Not that kinda itch, silly! An itch to matchmake.” Tante Lulu fashioned herself the yenta of the bayou. She had more marriages under her belt than any of them highfalutin’ Internet sites, that was for sure.
“Besides, if I had that other kinda itch, I’d know ’zackly what to do fer it, being a traiteur and all.” For more years than Tante Lulu could count, she’d been the best folk healer hereabouts. Her pantry off the kitchen overflowed with herbs and ointments and potions that were a testament to that profession.
Charmaine straightened and grinned at her. “Who ya got in yer crosshairs now, Auntie?”
“That grandson of MaeMae’s. Justin. I’m thinkin’ I oughta be startin’ on a hope chest fer him.”
It was Tante Lulu’s practice to make hope chests for the men in her family, more so than the women. And for male friends, as well. She filled them with crocheted bedspreads and doilies and such. And of course St. Jude items.
Charmaine groaned.
“What? You think he ain’t ripe fer pluckin’?”
Grinning at her choice of words, Charmaine said, “And I suppose you have a woman in mind already.”
“’Course I do. That gal he was head over hiney in love with back when he was a young’un.”
“Emelie Gaudet? Oh, Lordy! Her father will be comin’ after you with a shotgun.”
“I ain’t afraid of that ol’ fart.”
“Old” being relative, of course. Tante Lulu was considerably older than Claude Gaudet, the bull-headed former sheriff who’d run roughshod over some folks in the parish when he was ridin’ his police car ’round like he was lord of the roost.
“Anyways, Auntie, what makes you think there’s still a sizzle between those two?”
“Some sizzles never die out.”
“Did you read that in a book?” Charmaine grinned at her.
Tante Lulu grinned right back. “Nah. I made it up. By the way, couldja use one of them midget horses back at yer ranch?”
“Huh?”
People were always accusing Tante Lulu of skipping from one subject to another like grease in a hot skillet, but really, to her, it made perfect sense to go from talking about Justin LeBlanc, to thinking about his grandmother, MaeMae, then remembering the small horse and all the other animals in the yard. She explained it all to Charmaine.
“Why didn’t you say so to begin with?”
“I jist did.” Lordy, some folks were thicker ’n roux.
Charmaine blinked her long lashes at her, then smiled. “Where should we start? With the matchmaking, I mean. Not the horse, though I suppose Rusty won’t mind, and the kids will love it.” She paused, “Oh, please God, you’re not planning another Cajun Village People show, are you?”
Tante Lulu was known for persuading—okay, conning—her family members into putting on outrageous, but very entertaining, events, based loosely—very loosely—on the old Village People group. Usually they happened in the middle of one of her matchmaking plans. They all complained about them, but deep down, Tante Lulu suspected that they loved to participate.
“No. No Cajun People act. Leastways not yet.” Tante Lulu pondered the possibilities, then said, “I already gave that LeBlanc boy a St. Jude statue. I’m thinkin’ Miss Gaudet might be in need of one, too. Mebbe you and me need ta take a ride into N’awleans.”
Charmaine shook her head and made some tsking noises at Tante Lulu, as if she was hopeless. Tante Lulu knew all about hopeless. Nothing was hopeless. She had it on good authority.
Chapter Eight
Oh, the webs we weave when first we practice to deceive…
Emelie arrived at Miss MaeMae’s house on Bayou Black about nine thirty. To her relief, she saw no vehicles about. Except… Good Lord! Did they still have Priscilla? Oh, the memories that car evoked!
I will not go there! I will not go there! I will see what Miss MaeMae wants, then get the hell out of Dodge. Dodge being anywhere within fifty miles of Justin LeBlanc, Emelie told herself and wiped her mind clean. “Clean” being the key word because what she’d done in that old car was far from “clean.”
The next thing she noticed—and how could she not notice—was a virtual zoo in and around the old cottage. Belle had mentioned something about Miss MaeMae’s rescue efforts having gotten out of hand, but no one could have prepared her for this mess. It was amazing that the animal control people hadn’t stepped in, but then none of the animals appeared to be malnourished or abused in any way. God bless people like Miss MaeMae, and her husband before he died, being willing to rescue these abandoned creatures!
Emelie should feel guilty for not offering to help Belle and the boys clear this up today, but she didn’t have the time. At least, that was the mental excuse she made. Dodge, she reminded herself.
She inched her way carefully up the steep back steps through the maze of barking, meowing, baaing, neighing, oinking cries for attention, and then eased around the child’s rail. Just then, she noticed Miss MaeMae standing on the other side of the open wooden screen door.
“Em-el-ie! It does my heart good ta see ya, child!”
It had been almost seventeen years since she’d last seen Justin’s grandmother, and the changes were dramatic. Not just aging, as in black hair turned to pure white, or wrin
kles on a face that had been unusually smooth even when she’d been in her fifties. No, it was the short cap of curls indicative of a chemo patient, and the frailness of her tall frame. The clincher, of course, was the cannula in her nose and the portable oxygen tank on wheels at her side.
Justin must be dying inside, she thought. Coming home to these changes, then getting blasted with such bad news from the doctor before arriving at my shop. And I was not sympathetic to him. Not nearly enough.
The guilt that had been nagging at Emelie amped up tenfold. Yes, Miss MaeMae had turned her away when Justin left town abruptly, even rudely when Emelie had pestered her incessantly for his address. Still, Emelie had known this lady since her grandmother brought her for visits when she was a toddler. As Justin used to tease her, “I’ve seen you in diapers, babe.”
Her MawMaw Gaudet would be so ashamed of her!
Miss MaeMae pulled the cannula from her nose and set it and her oxygen tank aside. Then she opened her arms wide to welcome Emelie into her home. For some reason, Emelie began to weep against the old lady’s bony shoulders, which didn’t feel bony at all, more like the cushioning comfort of a mothering woman.
Pulling apart finally, they laughed and dabbed at their eyes with napkins imprinted with, of all things, images of St. Jude, thanks to that infamous bayou traiteur Tante Lulu, Miss MaeMae explained with a laugh.
“Come, come, sit yerself down, chère,” MawMaw encouraged Emelie, leading her to the kitchen. Without asking, she placed a cup of coffee in front of her with a sugar bowl and creamer.
“Don’t you need your oxygen?” Emelie asked as she took a sip. It was delicious. Black, strong, and fresh, the way she liked it.
“I already gassed up,” Miss MaeMae said with a laugh, referring to her oxygen. “I doan need it all the time. Yet.”
“Yet” being such a sad word in this context. “I’m so sorry for your… illness.”
“Thass what happens when ya get old. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.” Miss MaeMae shrugged. “But I’m the one who’s sorry, and thass why I asked ya ta come see me.”
Emelie tilted her head in question.