Fever Moon Read online

  “Have another bit of tart, Father?”

  He shook his head. “Here in Louisiana we’re lucky. Most Americans have a hard time finding enough sugar to make sweets.” So far his attempts at conversation had failed miserably. Marguerite was far away in her thoughts.

  “And they don’t have the stink of cane burning in the fields all winter, yes?”

  He felt the lash of her anger and knew it wasn’t directed toward him. Her husband was being examined like a hunk of dead meat. An autopsy. What was the world coming to? From what he’d heard, any moron could tell that Henri Bastion had been viciously attacked and killed. There was no need to further desecrate the body, leaving his widow to wait to see what would be left to bury.

  “Are there arrangements I can help with?” He put his empty cup on the tray. “Death isn’t God’s punishment, Marguerite. We all must die to return to our Father.”

  “Forgive me.” She drew a ragged breath. “When his body is brought home, we’ll hold the wake immediately. The funeral will follow as soon as possible. I want this over, for the children.”

  “How are the children holding up?” He hadn’t heard a peep from any of them.

  “They’ve taken to their beds with grief. They loved their papa. Now they’ll have to grow up without a father.” She hitched the shawl higher, and a ring of keys jingled at her waist.

  Michael had come to offer comfort, but Marguerite sat rigid on the edge of her chair, her posture perfection, her dress impeccable. She was groomed as if she were going into town. Her hair had been braided and pinned so that it crowned her head, and the dark chestnut color was a glory. Even after three children, Marguerite was still a handsome woman, not beaten down by the hardships of the land.

  “Mrs. LaRoche is organizing a dinner to be brought over tonight.”

  “That’s very kind but unnecessary. Bernadette Matthews has been cooking for us.” She bit her lip. “I don’t suppose Bernadette will be coming for a while. Her sister …” She faded into silence, her gaze on her lap.

  He swallowed. “You’ve suffered a terrible loss. It’s the duty of the community to come to your assistance.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  “Do you need help with Henri’s papers, the legal aspects? Is there anything I can do to help you?” Michael rose to his feet. He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m here to help in any way I can.”

  “Adele must have lost her mind. I heard she was like a wild thing. Have they charged her with Henri’s murder?”

  “They don’t expect Adele to live.”

  Marguerite walked to the window and looked out over the fertile land. “Perhaps that would be a kindness for her. For all of us. I mean, to spare us all … a trial.” She straightened her posture and turned to him. “I don’t ever want to know the details.”

  “I’ve heard Adele is very sick, unlikely to survive the day.” Michael walked to stand beside her. “You’ll face many decisions in the days ahead, Marguerite. Don’t feel that you’re alone. The community is here for you.”

  “Thank you, Father Michael. Now I’m tired, and I must see to the children.”

  Michael looked out over the land at the rows of cane that rippled in a slight breeze, the tassels catching the rays of the early-morning sun. Marguerite had lost her husband, but she would not go hungry. Henri had left her plenty of money and the wealth of the land. “The ladies will be out directly with the food. If you need me, day or night, just call.”

  5

  TTHE midday sun was warm across Florence’s shoulders. The tightly cinched dress she’d chosen, a rich burgundy crepe de chine, accentuated the sway of her hips as she walked along Main Street. With the war going on most necessities were in short supply, or not to be had at all, but at least shopping gave her a pretense to get out of her house, and she was one of the few people in town with money to spend. She ran her business cash only—no credit to anyone. Her mama hadn’t raised a fool. A man wouldn’t pay for a pleasure he’d already tasted.

  In a storefront window she examined an ornate sofa, daydreaming for a moment of the house she would have when she left Iberia Parish. To flaunt her wealth here would bring trouble down on her head. She sometimes bought a dress or a new pair of shoes—able to pay for leather soles instead of cardboard if such a thing could be found. No large ticket items, though.

  She kept her life simple, her furnishings plain. One day, though, she’d dig up the money she’d buried so carefully and simply disappear from the parish to find the life she deserved. One luxury she allowed herself was a monthly trip to Baton Rouge, the state capital. Though she knew too well the rough districts near the river, she’d found a neighborhood in the north part of town where the hedges were high, the shutters always half closed, and where people lived their anonymous big-city lives in quiet comfort. And safety.

  One afternoon a month, she allowed herself the fantasy as she strolled the sidewalks shaded by large oaks and exotic palms. She would buy a house there, furnish it with the heavy mahogany antiques she favored, and start life anew. She would present herself as the widow, if not wife, of a lawman. A woman of grace and beauty who had survived hard times. There would be no children, though. Life was too hard and unpredictable to risk that.

  A dark car clattered by, and she noticed her reflection in the window. My, but she looked serious. And sad. Since Raymond Thibodeaux had begun to knock on her door regularly, sadness had burrowed deep in her bones. Her love for him had grown with equal measure with her understanding of the darkness that truly claimed his heart. Raymond felt he didn’t deserve to live. He’d exiled himself to a half life as punishment for not dying.

  She stepped beneath the awning of Marcel’s Dress Shop and couldn’t be certain if it was the sudden shade or her thoughts that sent a shiver over her. Now Henri Bastion was dead in a brutal murder, and Raymond had involved himself in the defense of a madwoman.

  The door of the dress shop opened and the proprietress, Marcel Yerby, waved her inside. “Florence, is something wrong? You look like you’re in pain.”

  Florence fixed a smile on her face. Marcel had a head full of coarse dark hair she rolled on rags each night to accomplish the latest style. She was vain and sometimes arrogant but today seemed in a chatty mood. “My thoughts had drifted to Henri Bastion and the terrible death he met on Section Line Road.” Marcel would have all the latest gossip, and Florence knew the value of talk. She had a few tidbits to share herself, gleaned from Emanuel Agee’s late-night visit.

  Marcel nodded, eyebrows lifting. “I heard Adele Hebert was hovering over the body, snarling, and that a pack of wolves waited at the edge of the road. Raymond had to shoot four of them before he could get to Adele.”

  Florence felt a pulse of hope. “So, Raymond is finally a hero in the eyes of the town.”

  “Hardly. He’s defending Adele, saying she’s innocent.”

  Florence walked to a rack of dresses and began looking through them. She waited for Marcel to talk. The shopkeeper couldn’t keep a secret.

  “You’d best beware, cher. Raymond Thibodeaux has something going with Adele.” Marcel arched an eyebrow. “She’s cast a spell on him and aims to take him all the way to the dark side.”

  “One thing I know, Marcel. Raymond only goes where he wants.” Florence pulled a green floral print dress off the rack, pretending to examine it. “Do you think this color will bring out my eyes?”

  Marcel looked at the dress. “Men might enjoy your eyes, but that low bodice and short skirt will have them drooling over your figure. Course, the only man you want to notice is Raymond, isn’t that right?”

  Florence put the dress aside to try on. “I’m not the kind of woman to break my heart on a rock that won’t roll.” She forced a smile. “So tell me what you’ve heard about Adele.”

  “She had twins, but she never named the father.”

  Florence stopped with her hand on a clothes hanger. “Didn’t she work for the Bastions for a while?”

  Marce
l’s plucked eyebrows rose even higher. “Yes, I’d forgotten. Last year sometime. Are the boys his get?”

  Florence shrugged. “The boys died during the early October fever.” She grimaced. “I hope this cold snap has finally driven the mosquitoes away. If it warms again, we’ll have another epidemic.”

  “Lettie, at the telephone exchange, said that Raymond called Father Finley and told him to get to the Bastion place. Imagine, ordering a priest around.”

  “Raymond knows how to get things done.” Florence kept her focus on the rack of dresses. “Someone has to take charge in this place.”

  “I’ll bet he does take charge.” She grinned. “For all that he never smiles and he sometimes limps, he’s a sexy man. He stirs the blood.” Marcel clicked the dresses along the rack and pulled out a black number with a plunging back and swinging skirt. “This is perfect for you. As to Raymond, he’s haunted by death. He brought it to many, and now he regrets his actions. I know you care for him, Florence, but he walks with the Dark Angel. That’s what Raymond and Adele have in common.”

  Florence pulled out a dress and put it in the stack to try on. “Adele has reason to be insane. Her sister bled from the hands and hung herself, and her boys died only a couple of weeks ago. That’s too much pain for any woman to endure. That doesn’t make Adele a murderer.”

  Marcel looked around as if she feared someone would overhear them. “Father Finley wrote the Vatican about Rosa, to get her declared authentic. He was very excited by the prospect of a true religious miracle in his congregation. Of course, you’d know this if you attended church.”

  Florence laughed out loud. “My life is hard enough without spending extra time on my knees.”

  Marcel tried to block her laughter with a hand. “You are set for hell, Florence.”

  “Maybe so.” She selected another dress. “A stigmatic in the church would have been a tremendous draw. Converts would’ve flocked like thieves to a bazaar. If Adele is a loup-garou, perhaps we can sell tickets.”

  “You’ve become jaded, Florence. Not everything is about money.” Marcel made a face.

  “Trust what I say, Marcel. Everything of any importance is about money.” She lifted the skirt of the black dress, feeling the weight of the material, considering the way it would swirl on a dance floor. She’d practiced the steps of the jitterbug. Before the war, Raymond had been quite the dancer. “Raymond knows that money is always the motive. That’s why he’s become Adele’s champion. She has nothing to gain. And I should remind you that neither does Raymond. He only wants justice.” It was true. It seemed the only reason Raymond didn’t end his own life was because he felt, in some small way, that he guarded the parish against injustices.

  “Raymond’s sister was in the shop earlier today. She said Raymond has changed so much since he went to war that she doesn’t know him. He’s a stranger to his family. He used to laugh and carry on, but now he doesn’t even smile. He all but left a girl at the altar.” She slid a fitted peplum jacket and skirt out of the rack and held it for Florence’s inspection.

  She shook her head. “Too businesslike. I’m not a secretary, as everyone knows.” She took a breath. “Maybe Raymond doesn’t need a silly girl to make him giggle.” Marcel’s words cut her, but she refused to show it.

  Marcel returned the suit. “Raymond avoids his family. He avoids everyone he knew before the war.”

  “Maybe he has better things to do.” Florence kept her gaze on the dresses. Raymond didn’t avoid her—he sought her out. Sometimes, just before sleep, he would reach out and stroke her face with such tenderness that it fed the secret hope that burned in her heart.

  Marcel sighed. “He dated Chula Baker, and he left that other girl at the altar. I heard she’s still lovesick and moved to New Orleans to get away from seeing him.”

  “She was a kitten who tried to love a lion. It was bound to end in disaster.” Florence picked up the green-floral and black dresses. “Let me try these on. I’ve been invited to a dinner in Baton Rouge next month.” It was a lie, but it would throw Marcel’s mind off the scent of Raymond.

  “At the Sinclair home?”

  Florence only smiled and disappeared into the fitting room. Marcel’s tongue would wag even faster if she didn’t have facts.

  Teche was the Indian word for “snake,” and it was an apt description of the deep bayou that wound like a serpent’s coils through the parish and was the lifeblood of New Iberia. Bayou Teche, the snake river, the provider and destroyer. Raymond drove slowly across the bridge that spanned the placid yellow water. The bayou, like so much of life, wore both faces.

  As a boy, he’d loved the bayou. He and his father and Antoine had spent many afternoons fishing, paddling softly past the gators, snakes, and snapping turtles that could take off a man’s hand. He could still hear his father’s voice. “All creatures have a place and a purpose, boys. Never kill except as a last resort. For food, to protect yourselves or those you love. To kill for pleasure shows the worst of any man.”

  Raymond often heard those words in his nightmares.

  He drove northeast, maneuvering the roads still muddy from the storm. Bayou Caneche, a smaller tributary but still navigable by pirogue, fed into the Teche about ten miles due north of New Iberia. No one had been able to give him exact directions to Bernadette Matthews’s house, at least not by land. He had a general knowledge of the area. He would find Bernadette, “the normal sister,” because she was next on his list to question.

  His thoughts drifted to Adele and the dark flutter of her eyelashes against her cheeks, like a moth under a glass. Not one single person in town had claimed to be her friend, or even know her. She was trapped, too. He would have to figure out the properties of the trap before he could spring the release.

  The sun was bright; the day beautiful. He passed rippling acres of marsh grass that bent in a soft wind to take the last green bows of summer toward shore. The landscape would soon turn brown and drear, but still beautiful in its own way. The cypress trees had already begun. The furry fronds took on a russet color, reflected in the black pools of swamp water that dotted his travels.

  After the war and his long stay in the hospital, he’d come back to New Iberia because it was home. Because there was nowhere else to go. No place had beckoned him, promising the life he’d once dreamed of having—a wife and family, a job, the weekends to drink and dance with his friends. That life was forever out of his reach. Antoine, a boy who’d never anticipated the reality of war, was dead.

  The things he’d seen and done had changed Raymond. The consequences of his actions sat beside him in the passenger seat of the car like an always watchful corpse.

  Perhaps that was why he felt so compelled to help Adele. In a strange way, they were both prisoners of external forces. He’d gone to war because it was his duty. He’d followed the orders given him, killed when commanded to do so, taking no pleasure in the men who fell before him. Until Antoine. After his brother’s death, Raymond had taken satisfaction from the dead. Against his father’s dictates, he’d killed with grim pleasure. And he’d learned that killing couldn’t stop the nightmare parade of images that haunted his sleep.

  Sometimes at night he heard Antoine’s whistle, the shrill, clear sound of a hawk that had been their secret signal. Kay-ie. The sound would pierce his head. Drops of blood leaked from his ears, and he would awaken to the sound of his own screams.

  Adele was haunted, too. She was lost in her nightmares, and perhaps had chosen to let the fever boil her. Madame Louiselle had hinted that someone had cast a spell on Adele. A spell or something more sinister. To him, Adele seemed poisoned, but he had no idea what could cause such behavior.

  The question that intrigued him regarding Adele was why? If this delusion was more than a fever dream, who would select an unmarried Cajun woman as patsy to a vicious murder?

  If someone had done this to Adele, he would find that person and make them pay the ultimate price the law allowed. He no longer lived for laugh
ter, only for justice.

  He came to a narrow dirt trail that led through a canopy of towering trees. There were no road markers, but this was the way to Bayou Caneche. The road wound, clinging to the highest ground as the land on either side became more liquid than dirt. With the smallest rain, the road would flood. Bernadette Matthews lived her life in perpetual threat of isolation. For many Cajuns it was the preferred way of life.

  The road narrowed and limbs and branches began to swipe at the car. Overhead, the tree limbs were so dense the sun didn’t penetrate, leaving the area filled with tall trees and little undergrowth. The stark beauty of it made him stop the car.

  If a man was patient, he could come upon the wild hogs that roamed the swamps. Because of the shortage of meat, the hogs were highly favored as ingredients in the andouille sausage made locally. They were ferocious beasts who attacked rather than ran. Razor-sharp tusks grew from their snouts, and he’d been on manhunts where the missing person was found dead, the hamstring muscles cut by a boar’s tusks.

  Alligators, too, watched from the sloughs, dead pools, and wallows like the one to his right. Also favored as meat, the beasts ranged up to ten feet in length and were fast enough to bring down a cow or horse that strayed too close. Those who thought the gator’s six-inch legs would slow it down often didn’t live to learn differently.

  While the hogs and gators had a certain value, the water snakes did not. Large moccasins the color of a dead stick would coil in the leaves and dirt, undetectable except for a stench young boys learned to recognize as soon as they were old enough to walk in the woods.

  There were many predators and dangers in the woods, but no wolves. And certainly no loup-garous.

  He drove on, wondering if he’d somehow chosen the wrong path. At last the trees parted to reveal a cypress cabin set on pilings at least twelve feet in the air. He saw a child’s curly head looking over the railing of the porch, and then another. An older girl was swinging in the front yard, a book on her lap. She watched him with solemn eyes. At last a woman with Adele’s dark hair and eyebrows stepped onto the porch and waited, her expression neither welcoming nor forbidding. Two children followed at her side.