“Look at you. You’re covered in mud!” Mrs. Moreau said. “What have you been doing down there?”
Jasmine had been about to sob out every gory detail and suggest they call the police. Surely these women had nothing to do with what lay buried in that cellar.
Surely they didn’t even know it existed, would be as shocked as she was. But Mrs.
Moreau’s question gave her pause. Wouldn’t the average person be more concerned with how Jasmine had come to be in the cellar in the first place?
“I’ve been trying to get out.” She curled her fingers into her palms so they couldn’t see the dirt beneath her nails.
“You poor thing!” It was the younger woman again. “What happened?”
“I c-came to the house to speak with Mrs. Moreau and—”
“Why would you want to talk to me?” Beverly demanded. “I’ve never even met you.”
“We’ve never met. I’m Jasmine Stratford. I work for a victims’ charity. I wanted to ask if your son—”
“Phillip’s out of town.”
“He is?” The younger woman seemed surprised by this information. “I’m Tattie, by the way,” she said to Jasmine. “I live next door.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jasmine mumbled, but Tattie wasn’t listening. “Where’s Phillip?” she asked Mrs. Moreau again.
“He went to Lafayette to see that woman he met online.” She gave Jasmine a glass of water.
Jasmine accepted the water, but she was too uneasy to drink, even though the house was neat as a pin. Scrubbed and polished—if a little cluttered—it was an extreme contrast to the pile of garbage sitting right outside the back door and the general sense of neglect in the yard. The kitchen smelled mildly of cats, which was no wonder because there were three in the kitchen alone, but everything was in its place. There wasn’t a dirty dish on the counter, a magazine or newspaper cast aside on the table, or a cupboard left standing open. “I was talking about Francis.”
A slight tensing around the mouth contradicted Mrs. Moreau’s otherwise genial appearance. “Francis is dead.”
Jasmine wondered if Mrs. Moreau blamed her son, society, herself or Fornier for that harsh reality. She definitely blamed someone. “I read about that.” Jasmine couldn’t bring herself to say she was sorry. Not after what she’d found in the cellar.
“I was hoping you could tell me if he ever traveled to Cleveland.”
“He traveled all over the place,” Tattie interrupted. “He was a truck driver and made deliveries for a lighting company. Didn’t he, Bev?”
“Yes, just like his father used to.” A second later “Bev” turned back to close the cellar door and replace the things that’d been disarranged in the pantry.
“How long ago did he start doing that?” Jasmine asked the neighbor.
“Why do you care about the details of a man’s life when you didn’t even know him, a man who’s already dead?” Joining them again, Bev spoke before Tattie could answer. “Not after what you’ve just been through.”
It was a smart dodge, if it was a dodge, because it got Tattie pressing Jasmine for details. “Why would anyone lock you in the cellar?”
“I have no idea.”
“Should we call the police? Are you hurt? How do we find the person who did this to you?”
These questions came from the neighbor and not Mrs. Moreau. Francis’s mother didn’t seem too concerned, which added to Jasmine’s discomfort. But she decided to untangle all of that later. For now, she wanted to get out of the house.
“The police won’t be able to do anything.” They wouldn’t even be able to enter the cellar without a warrant, not unless Mrs. Moreau allowed them to search and, as cagey as she was, Jasmine knew she wasn’t likely to do that.
“Are you sure?” Tattie asked.
“I’m sure. It happened too fast. I didn’t even see his face.” Just his cigarette butts.
Tattie shook her head. “That had to be terrifying.”
“At least you weren’t hurt,” Mrs. Moreau inserted.
Jasmine put her glass of water on the table as a way of breaking eye contact.
Maybe Mrs. Moreau hadn’t been the one to lock Jasmine in—Jasmine already knew the older woman didn’t have the strength for it—but Francis’s mother had known about it. She hadn’t answered the front door when Jasmine had initially knocked, although she was apparently home at the time. And she hadn’t responded to Jasmine’s pleas for help from the cellar, although she must’ve heard them.
It was the neighbor’s intervention that had, possibly, saved Jasmine’s life.
“Yes, at least I’m not hurt,” she repeated. “But he got away with my purse.”
“So it was a purse-snatching,” Tattie said. “Are you sure you don’t want to call the police? I know chances are slim that you’ll get your stuff back, but it’s worth reporting.”
“I’ll do that later. The only thing I need right now is a ride to the car rental place so I can get a second set of keys.”
“I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.” Mrs. Moreau patted her hand and it was all Jasmine could do not to flinch away from those hardworking, callused fingers. She was about to say she’d rather walk when Tattie came up with an alternate plan.
“No, Bev. You stay here with Dustin.”
Who was Dustin? Fortunately, Jasmine didn’t need to ask. Tattie barely took a breath before volunteering the information. “Beverly’s other son has special needs,” she explained. “I’ll take you.”
Jasmine hadn’t heard about a third Moreau son. She wanted to ask what was wrong with him, but that was far too indelicate a question. “I hate to trouble you,” she told Tattie. “If you’d rather lend me forty dollars for a cab, I promise I’ll get it back to you as soon as I have access to my own money.”
Tattie consulted her watch. “It’s no trouble. My youngest doesn’t have to be picked up from preschool for another hour. I’ve got time.” She stood. “Why don’t you call the car rental company and tell them what happened while I go grab my purse?”
Jasmine was directly behind her. No way was she letting the neighbor leave without her. “I’ll talk to them when I get there.”
Tattie shrugged. “If that’s how you want to do it.”