Bayou Corruption Page 15

  “We have to dig deeper.”

  CoCo glanced at her watch. “I’m gonna have to dig later. I promised Luc and Felicia I’d help them plan the party. Somebody has to stand up to their mother.”

  “What party?”

  “Felicia and Frank’s engagement party, silly. It’s this weekend. I hope you’re planning on attending.”

  “Sure.” Unless she’d returned home by then. Somehow, the idea of leaving Lagniappe didn’t excite her as much as it would have last week. She didn’t have her usual, overwhelming need to get away. And on this trip, she definitely had even more reason to hate the bayou and want to go home. Her about-face didn’t make sense. Why wasn’t she chomping at the bit to get outta here?

  Because of the case? The story? Or, Jackson Devereaux?

  She didn’t want to analyze her emotions just yet. Not over him. Alyssa allowed her sister to help her out of the library to the Jeep. The swelling on her ankle had gone down, but soreness still throbbed occasionally. Meanwhile, her mind flipped through her mental filing cabinet of information. There had to be a link between Kevin Arnold’s murder and her parents’—she just knew it. Now she had to uncover it.

  CoCo dropped her off at home before heading to the Trahan house. Alyssa reviewed her notes again. Where was the connection? Frustration filled her after two hours. She tossed her notes aside and wandered downstairs to check on her grandmother.

  Grandmere stood at the stove, stirring a pot of gumbo. The tang of seafood hovered in the air, blending with the aroma of pepper and spices. How many times in her teen years had she come into the kitchen to find Grandmere cooking comforting meals? Never once understanding Alyssa’s embarrassment over her family, Grandmere offered love and comfort the best way she knew. How often had Alyssa lashed out in anger over her situation—lashed out at the one person who always had a hug for her and love to offer? Could she recall a single time she’d told Grandmere she loved her? Aside from when Grandpere died? Remorse choked her.

  What if she’d lost her grandmother this past week? Without letting her know what lurked under the surface in her heart? What had always been in her heart, even if her immature mind wouldn’t allow her to recognize it, much less admit it? Love and gratitude burst through her. Alyssa wrapped her arms around her grandmother, hugging her from behind.

  “My, ma chère, that’s nice.” Grandmere leaned back into the embrace.

  “I love you, Grandmere.” The words were so emotion-riddled that Alyssa barely managed to squeak them out.

  “Je t’aime, too, child.”

  Tara chose that moment to explode into the kitchen, slamming the screen door in her wake. “Something smells marvelous.” She bounded into the room, her youthfulness brightening the space. She grinned at Alyssa. “You aren’t helping cook, are you?”

  Alyssa crinkled her nose. “No, Ms. Smarty-pants.”

  “Whew, what a relief.” Tara chuckled. “Grandmere, you need me to help you with anything?”

  “Non, child. It’s all set. Only has to simmer for a couple of hours.”

  “I’m gonna run out to the shed for a bit.”

  “Need my help?” Interest flashed into Grandmere’s face.

  Tara grinned. “I can always use your help, yes.”

  Cold seeped into Alyssa’s bones as she lowered herself to a chair, easing the weight off her ankle. “You’re going out there to do that voodoo stuff, aren’t you?”

  “Leave it alone,” Tara snapped. Her eyes blazed with both annoyance and anger.

  “But it’s nonsense. Silly parlor-type games.”

  “Then why does it bother you so much, Al?”

  “Because people think we’re crazy.” There, she’d said it. Finally, after trapping her pain in her heart for so many years, she’d let it out.

  “Is that why you hate it here so, child?” Sadness glistened in Grandmere’s eyes.

  Tears burned Alyssa’s eyes. “People think we’re bonkers…odd and different.”

  “Oh, ma chère, of course we’re different.”

  “I don’t like being different.”

  Suddenly, she’d drifted back to high school.

  “Alyssa LeBlanc makes straight A’s because her grandmother puts hexes on her teachers,” a bouncy cheerleader quipped.

  “Too bad her grandma can’t whip up a love potion so Alyssa can get a date.” The head cheerleader, director of these girls who made Alyssa’s life miserable, glared at her with contempt.

  “Maybe she could get her big sister to do that. I hear she’s learning from grandma,” one of the other girls in the clique said.

  “Yeah, I heard that, too.” The head cheerleader smiled. “What about you, Ally? Are you gonna cast a spell on me now?”

  Their laughter filled her head, her heart. She wanted the hall to close in and swallow her.

  “What are you so afraid of, child?”

  Alyssa snapped her attention to her grandmother, back to the present. “I just don’t want to be laughed at anymore.” Tears spilled from her eyes. She swiped them away, hating that anyone, even her family, bore witness to her weakness.

  “Who laughed at you?” Tara’s tone changed from one of accusing to concern.

  “Nobody.” Great, another traumatic memory to keep the ones from her past company. Joy and rapture.

  “I’m going to put a protection ring around you,” Tara said, her back stiff.

  “No, don’t even th—”

  Her words fell on deaf ears as Tara stormed from the house. Alyssa stared at her grandmother. “Grandmere, I know this is what you do, but it’s wrong. Can’t you see that?”

  “Oh, child, it’s not just what I do. It’s who I am.” Her grandmother smiled and touched her cheek. “It’ll be okay, ma chère. All is well.”

  Alyssa watched Grandmere follow Tara to the shed.

  No, nothing was okay. Nothing could be considered well.

  Least of all her emotional state.

  Jackson staggered from the docks, down the gangplank and to his truck. He’d gotten all the copies he could make in the office. Time was running out. The fake social security number would return any day now, and then the jig would be up. Jackson steered into the parking lot of the local diner. He sat in a booth in the back of the small eatery and ordered coffee. Alone, he pulled out the copies of the bills he’d made and studied them.

  Every single one of them connected to a shipment from the rice plant. Registering the dates, he could almost verify they coincided with the days Bubba found the money in the bayou. In the bill of lading’s account receivable notations, under the plant’s address, were the initials R.T. The person at the plant who’d checked the shipment on the truck to send to the dock. Jackson flipped through the papers again. All of the bills had the initials R.T.

  The waitress swooped by with his coffee and left. Jackson stared at the copies again.

  Maybe this R.T. at the rice plant could shed some light on the matter.

  R.T….

  Roger Thibodeaux!

  Why couldn’t she sleep?

  Maybe since she knew she drew closer to the truth, the knowledge caused her restlessness. Or could it be because Jackson Devereaux’s image kept flitting into her mind? Alyssa tossed the comforter aside and padded to her laptop on the desk. No pain shot up from her ankle. She must have merely stressed it.

  Could the time have come to tell him about her mother and that he’d taken the job she’d coveted? That she’d vowed five years ago to best him?

  Her sister’s voice drummed in her ears. Take everything to God.

  Alyssa started to push the notion aside, but stopped. CoCo had such peace, seemed so content with life. Could her personal relationship with God have something to do with the tranquility?

  Yearning rose up in her chest. She wanted that peace. Wanted that calmness and acceptance. Wanted to be loved for herself.

  Alyssa lowered her head and closed her eyes, and prayed to the God of her sister.

  EIGHTEEN

&nbs
p; The morning sun streaked the sky, as if God’s fingertip had brushed a stroke of violet across the blue masterpiece. Alyssa stared out the open window of her bedroom. Birds chirped, their song carried on the soft breeze floating over the bayou. Maybe Lagniappe wasn’t the cursed place she’d always thought it to be.

  She smiled at herself. This morning, she’d awoken with a prayer on her lips. Could being in a relationship with God be so easy? She’d even dug into her dresser drawers to find her old Bible, looking up passages about Jesus being her intercessor, comforter and defender. To feel comfortable just talking to Him…well, her heart soared.

  Alyssa turned from the window. Her gaze fell on the photograph on her bedside table. Momee and Papa, just months before their deaths. They looked so happy, so in love, so at peace. Had God been a daily part of their lives? She wished she could ask. Alyssa traced her finger along the picture, over Momee’s image. Her heart turned as cold and fragile as the glass.

  Who did she think she was fooling? Alyssa would never ease her guilt of surviving by honoring her mother in journalism. Her therapist had explained survivor’s guilt and all, but now, here in the bayou with a new sense of confidence, she had to ask herself the hard questions. Had she really always wanted to be a journalist, or had she been trying to gain her mother’s approval? For so long she’d thought following in her mother’s footsteps would be what she wanted most. But now? She honestly didn’t know. She’d scrambled and fought to make a niche for herself in journalism, but she hadn’t actually considered if this was truly her heart’s desire. Could she have deluded herself for all these years, determined to follow in the wake of her mother’s ghost?

  For the first time, Alyssa took inventory of her thoughts and emotions. Did she really have passion to be a journalist? The answer numbed her.

  While she enjoyed the fast-paced flow of the job, she didn’t want to write within the confines of the facts. In truth, she felt drawn to something else. Oh, she still wanted to write. She’d always loved the written word. The idea of putting the stories in her mind onto paper beckoned to her. She just didn’t want to be a reporter.

  Should she chuck journalism to become a novelist? Someone plagued by rejections and reservations.

  She set down the photograph, her mind filled with doubts.

  Are you proud of me yet, Momee?

  The slamming of the front door drew her from her musings.

  “Al, you up?” CoCo hollered.

  Alyssa smiled. If she hadn’t been, her sister’s bellow would have woken her. “Yep.” She moved to the stairs, fully dressed.

  “Wow, you’re ready for the day. Come on, let’s have breakfast. Grandmere’s making pancakes.”

  The smell of warmed cane syrup hovered in the kitchen. Alyssa smiled as she took her seat, spying the can of syrup sitting in a pan of water on the stove.

  “Good morning. Hot off the griddle.” Grandmere flipped two cakes onto a plate, slapped a thick pat of butter on top before coating them in the warm syrup. She set the plate in front of Alyssa. The butter had already melted, oozing down the stack.

  Alyssa waited for Grandmere to set CoCo’s plate in front of her. “Would you pray, CoCo?”

  Her sister’s eyes widened, but she smiled and nodded. They bowed their heads, and CoCo offered up grace for the meal, along with asking for the health and protection of their family. When they lifted their heads, Alyssa thought she caught a glimmer of tears in CoCo’s eyes. Her sister loved her. The thought warmed Alyssa more than the heated syrup.

  “What’re your plans for today?” CoCo asked.

  “I was thinking of talking with Jackson and seeing if he could use his connection with the New Orleans paper to find out what Momee was working on when she…died.” The word still sat sideways in her mouth. She took a drink of coffee.

  “Do you think it’s important?”

  “Maybe.” Alyssa shrugged. “It’s something to look into. Then I’m going to try to get copies of the police reports on Kevin Arnold’s murder. Surely there’s something filed that’s a matter of public record.”

  “I’ll be happy to help you later this afternoon. After I finish my run this morning, I’m going over to Luc’s to help Felicia pick out a dress for the party. But then I should be free.”

  “I don’t know what time I’ll get to meet with Jackson. He’s working on the docks at night, so he might sleep in.” And she didn’t know if he’d be willing to help her once she came clean. Her heart ached.

  After CoCo left, Alyssa booted up her laptop and logged onto the Vermilion parish clerk of court’s Web site. She maneuvered until she found the page with access to public documents. Minutes fell off the clock as she scrolled through the dates. Fortunately, the records had all been computerized three years ago, allowing all the old documents to be available. At last, she retrieved the records from the month and year of the murder. She rolled her mouse through page after page.

  She didn’t find a report on Kevin Arnold’s murder, but she did find one with her parents’ names.

  Stomach knotting, Alyssa clicked on the file.

  She scanned the information. Her heart dropped to her knees. The sheriff’s office had conducted an investigation into the accident. For two days.

  Only two.

  After which, they deemed the car crash an accident. Driver’s fault.

  Alyssa’s hands trembled.

  She read until the end of the document. Only one line stuck out at her—the name of the investigating officer.

  Sheriff Roger Thibodeaux.

  “I’m glad you called.” Jackson stared across the table at Alyssa. Her eyes were hooded, and the beginnings of black circles formed under her eyes.

  The clanking of silverware, people moving, and talk from other diner patrons vanished as he studied her.

  A haunted woman.

  His heart tightened.

  “I made a big connection last night,” he offered.

  Her eyes lit up. His heart responded with a backflip. Without stopping to consider his own reactions, he told her what he’d learned from the bills of ladings coinciding with the rice plant and shipment numbers.

  Her face turned pale. He couldn’t read her expression.

  “What’s wrong, Alyssa?”

  “This is getting more frightening the further along we go.” She proceeded to tell him that Roger Thibodeaux had been the sheriff who’d worked the cases of both her parents’ car accident and the assault on Warren Lewis, along with sharing the allegations of Mr. Lewis.

  He let the information sink in. “Do you believe Mr. Lewis is telling the truth?”

  “Absolutely. At least, he believes he’s telling the truth.” She rubbed her scar. “His allegations about Senator Mouton don’t ring true to me, though.”

  “Let me get this straight. Roger Thibodeaux was the sheriff when three seemingly unrelated crimes were committed, and he worked each of them. He’s now the rice plant manager, apparently having landed the job on Senator Mouton’s recommendation.”

  She nodded.

  “And I’ve proven all the numbers found on money in the bayou matched the shipment numbers to rice plant shipments. All had his initials on the bills.”

  Definitely too much to be considered coincidence.

  “How do your parents’ deaths relate?”

  She shifted in her chair. “The car accident that gave me my scar? Well, my parents died in the crash.”

  Now he understood her reaction to his probing questions. “I’m so sorry.” How awful. No wonder she detested Lagniappe so much.

  “Here’s the thing, though. I occasionally have nightmares about the crash, but recently, I’ve had another memory resurface, and now I’m one hundred percent positive the wreck wasn’t an accident. It was murder. Someone killed my parents.”

  And could have killed her. His stomach clenched.

  She continued, obviously unaware of his gut reaction. “I know it’s been a long time—thirteen years ago—but I know I’m right. They we
re murdered, and the crime written off as an accident. By Roger.”

  He shook his head. “It’s so much to consider. And you feel like they’re connected in some way?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m beginning to believe all of this is related.”

  “Me, too.” He stared into his black coffee, his thoughts tumbling over each other.

  “In my research at the library, I found out someone killed Kevin Arnold the same night my parents were murdered.”

  She certainly seemed convinced. Her belief was not only reflected in her words, but also in her face. “Something else interesting. Martin Gocheaux is Roger Thibodeaux’s nephew. Roger got him hired on in the sheriff’s office before he retired to work at the rice plant.” Her eyes danced. “According to Mr. Lewis, another one of Roger’s nephews works on the docks.”

  “Definitely too chancy to be considered a fluke, in my humble opinion.” He studied her. Something akin to dread marred her beautiful features.

  Beautiful? Had he really just thought that?

  As he took in the sight of her, recalling her smile and laugh, her gentleness and concern, he realized he did find her beautiful. Inside and out.

  “Jackson, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  He ran a finger around the rim of his mug. Whatever she had to say, it didn’t look as if she wanted to tell him.

  She sucked in a deep breath. “I haven’t been exactly forthcoming with you.”

  “About?” A sinking feeling washed over him.

  “Do you remember the day you got your promotion at the Times-Picayune?”

  He searched his recollection. “Uh, vaguely.”

  “I interviewed for that job.”

  His mind raced through his memory files. His heart thudded hollowly.

  Big dark eyes. Small girl, with long, dark hair.

  Jackson stared at her. Different color and length of hair. But the same girl. No, now a woman.

  “You.”

  She nodded.

  So what? They’d both applied out for the same position. That wasn’t anything to get all worked up about. Unless…