She wondered how people down here weathered each new hurricane, each storm. It’d take a certain stubbornness to hold out, people who loved this land more than she’d ever loved a particular location. She’d always felt a bit restless. There was no mystery as to the reason, of course, but she was envious of the devotion required to fight for existence in such a place. To say, “This is my home and I’m staying put.”
Judging by the small group of frame houses, most of them built on pilings, plus a single two-story hotel, two gas stations, a bait shop and a coffee shop, she guessed there were maybe fifty people taking such a stand. And she was willing to bet almost all of them were fishermen. Someone had to own the motley collection of boats bumping against the dock. With only a sliver of moon in the sky, she couldn’t see them very well, but they obviously didn’t belong to the rich and famous.
What now? She turned in to one of the gas stations, but like the other, it was closed. Should she have gone back to her hotel and set out tomorrow morning, when she could’ve gotten an earlier start?
Now that it was dark, she had no idea how she’d find Fornier out on the bayou
“somewheres.” And she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in the tin-roofed hotel that hung over the water. Although there was nothing wrong with the hotel, except that it looked deserted.
She checked her watch. Seven-thirty. New Orleans was only an hour and a half to the northeast. She could drive back there tonight and arrive at a reasonable time. But she was hungry and exhausted, and she hated to waste another day on this search, especially if it turned out that Fornier couldn’t or wouldn’t help her.
After parking in a lot that was mostly crushed shells, she went into the hotel, where she found a big man who looked as weathered as the rickety dock she’d just passed.
“Wanna room?” The buttons on his flannel shirt strained with the effort of covering his barrel chest, and he was missing two fingers on his left hand, but he gave her a welcoming, gap-toothed smile.
“Yes, I do. But first I was hoping you could help me find someone.”
“Who d’at?”
“T-Bone.” Figuring there couldn’t be more than one T-Bone in a town of four dozen people, even in Cajun country, she didn’t mention the last name, hoping to sound more familiar with Fornier than she really was.
“T-Bone’s down de bayou near Port Fourchon.”
Down was good. She didn’t know how she could go much farther south without running into the Gulf of Mexico, which meant he couldn’t be far. “Can you tell me how to get there?”
He studied her for a moment. “Is T-Bone expectin’ you?”
She considered telling the truth, but rejected the idea. She couldn’t risk being stonewalled. She needed this man’s help, and she was willing to twist reality a little in order to get it. It was what any private investigator would do, but she still felt guilty.
“Actually, I’m here as a surprise.” She manufactured a coquettish smile. “A friend of his from Mamou sent me to meet him. Do you know…Poppo?” she invented quickly.
“No.”
“Well, he thinks we’d be perfect for each other,” she gushed. “Since my husband walked out on me, I’m hoping to meet someone new, and Poppo says T-Bone needs a woman even if he won’t admit it.”
The old man’s thick eyebrows slid up, but he hooked his thumbs into the bib of his overalls and grinned. No doubt he saw her as a harmless young lady, and that lowered his guard. “Lord, am I glad to see you. D’at poor boy need somet’ing, I tell ya. He on’y come to town meybe every udder week. I don’t t’ink he has a speck o’
company in between.”
“And here it is Christmas.”
“What a nice surprise.”
“So…can you give me some directions?”
“I can’t see no harm in d’at. Go six, seven mile down de highway—” he pointed one of his gnarled fingers at the door behind her “—d’en turn right on Rappelet Road. After another half mile or so, d’ere’ll be a road d’at goes toward Bay Champagne. He’s back d’ere in de swamp.”
Swamp. Ugh. “Is that a left or a right turn?” She needed to clarify as much as possible. There was no way she wanted to get lost in a place that frightened her as much as the bayou.
Taking a piece of paper from somewhere under the front desk, he drew her a crude map. “D’is will get you d’ere.”
She could barely read the writing. “There isn’t any chance of getting lost, is there?” she asked apprehensively. And that was all it took. With a motion quicker than she expected for a man of his age, he reached under the desk again. This time he produced a sign that said, Gone fishin’. Be back soon.
Within ten minutes the grizzled fisherman had led Jasmine to a large shack, which stood on a spot of dry ground tucked into a thicket of cypress and pecan trees interspersed with marsh grass. Spanish moss hung from the trees, blocking what little moonlight might’ve filtered through the branches, making it seem far later than it really was.
As she drove closer, she could see the flicker of a lantern or candle burning inside the shack. Someone was home, but her guide didn’t proceed to the house. He pulled over, his right-side tires practically in the water, and waved her up even with him.
She rolled down her window.
“D’at’s it,” he shouted, half hanging out of his truck.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “You’re turning around?”
“I gotta get back to de hotel.”
“Right.” She studied Fornier’s place again, feeling uncertain about coming here after sundown. The man in this house had shot another man in cold blood. There were extenuating circumstances, of course, but still…“You’ll hold a room for me, won’t you?” she said. “I’ll be back tonight. If you don’t see me in an hour or so you might come looking for me.”
He laughed and slapped his door, making enough noise to bring a large man to the entrance of the shack, even though they were fifty yards away. Silhouetted by the light behind him, he stood with the door open, legs apart, hands on hips—as if he were king of the whole swamp and was none too happy at the intrusion.
Not only had Fornier killed a man, he’d lost his wife and daughter. And he’d served time in prison. Was he still sane?
Jasmine cleared her throat. “Or…you don’t suppose you could spare another couple of minutes to wait for me?”