Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 02 - Skeletons of the Atchafalaya (18 page)

I continued. “It wasn’t just Leroi. Uncle Walter did the
same thing. He borrowed from A.D. so he could buy more
land for sugarcane and rice.”

Giselle’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. Uncle Walter?”

“That’s what Bailey said.”

“And he missed a payment.”

I shrugged. “That’s what I was told.”

Janice spoke up. “But, didn’t you say that Walter did not
go upstairs? That he couldn’t have killed A.D.?”

“Yes, but his wife did. Marie. She went upstairs with
Ezeline to look at a blouse. Then she left Ezeline by herself.”

“Then Ezeline could have done it,” said Giselle.

“Or Aunt Marie.” I shook my head. “So you see what I
meant when I said, I haven’t the slightest idea who’s behind
all this.”

We sat silently, listening to the storm outside. It seemed
as if the wind and rain had been pounding at us for months,
and I couldn’t remember the last time I had not heard storm
shutters slamming against the side of the house.

“I don’t know about you two,” Giselle said, rising and
then plopping down in a wingback chair beside the couch.
“But I’m going to get some sleep. Or at least try to.” She
curled up in the chair and laid her head back. “I’m too tired
to go upstairs.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, lying back on the couch. I
slipped my arm around Janice as she lay at my side, her
head on my chest. I looked at my watch. Only nine o’clock,
but already everyone seemed to be settling down for the
night.

I glanced in the direction of the kitchen. As soon as
everyone was asleep, I would explore the secret staircase.

The sudden silence awakened me.

Groggy from sleep, I stared at the ceiling over my head,
trying to orient myself. Janice slept soundly at my side.
Giselle remained curled in her chair.

I looked at the French doors, then I realized the wind
and rain had stopped. The night outside was silent.

We were in the eye of the hurricane. The storm was
moving faster than we expected.

I looked at my watch. Two o’clock. I muttered an oath.
I had slept five hours. So much for exploring the secret
stairway.

For several seconds, I lay motionless. We had planned
to repair the outside damage during the eye, but not now,
not at night. A quick glance at the French doors reaffirmed
my decision.

A few murmurs behind me in the parlor reached my ears.
I eased Janice from my arm and made my way over to
Leroi and his father who were huddled up with Henry and
George.

When Leroi saw me, he grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, Cuz.
I made a fool out of myself.” He offered me his hand.

I took it and pulled him to me. “Forget it,” I said, hugging him. “We’ll just chalk it up to brain damage.”

He laughed and slapped me on the back.

“What’s going on?”

Patric looked around. “We’re in the eye. George here
wants to go out and make as many repairs as we can.”

George ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “The
second half of the storm will be as bad as the first. Me, I
think we should try to do what we can.” He nodded to me.
“I know Tony, that you think about the animals on the
veranda, but maybe we can use the bleach again, at least
until we make repairs.”

They all looked at me. I wasn’t anxious to step out on
that veranda, even with bleach. “When I was a kid, Grandpere Moise took me trotlining with him. He especially liked
to go after the big catfish when the rivers flooded. Once
when the river was far out of its banks, I wanted to go
under a bridge, but he said no. He pulled close enough for
me to see what was under there. The snakes had no place
to go except the bridge. They were so thick in places, I
couldn’t even see the concrete.”

Henry nodded. “Oui. That’s what I say. We have same
here.”

“They couldn’t be that bad,” Uncle George replied.

I arched an eyebrow. “No. Come with me. I want to
show you something I spotted just a minute ago.” I led the
way across the parlor to the French doors across which we
had nailed a solid core door after one of the two storm
doors blew away. “Take a look.” I pointed at the glass at
the bottom of the French door. Between it and the remaining storm door lay a tangle of watersnakes, snug and safe
from the weather.

Patric cursed. “Kill them.”

“No.” Leroi stopped him. “They can’t bother us there.
After the storm passes, they’ll leave.”

“He’s right,” I put in. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if
this whole house wasn’t covered with them. That’s why
our smartest move is to stay put and keep windows and
doors closed tight.”

Outside, the wind started picking up. A few splatters of
rain slammed against the storm shutters.

“She’s coming back,” Uncle George announced solemnly.

Henry grunted. “The eye, she small.”

“That not good,” Uncle George muttered.

“At least she’s started again,” said Patric.

“Good,” Henry replied. “Sooner she start, the sooner she
be over.” He raised his fists over his head. “Come on, Belle.
Do your worst. We going to make it through you.”

The storm slammed into us from the west, now hurling
its battering winds at the other side of the mansion.

Janice and Giselle still slept, a sound, peaceful slumber.
They had to be exhausted. I glanced around the parlor and
through the door into the library. Everyone seemed to be
sleeping.

Moving quietly, I went back into the kitchen and booted
my laptop. If anyone came in, I wanted some kind of excuse for being awake.

I cut my eyes toward the pantry. My heart pounded in
my chest. As children, we’d heard stories about the secret
passages in the old house, and we had searched for them,
but not once had it occurred to us to look in the broom
closet. In our fertile imaginations, we expected sliding panels or revolving bookcases, not simply a curtain with
brooms hanging in front of it.

Scooping a handful of matches from the match holder
on the wall, I quickly crossed the pantry and stepped inside
the broom closet. I eased past the curtain and through the
opening, at the same time closing the door behind me.

The stairway was as dark as the night outside. In a chilling, frightening millisecond, time regressed, carrying me
back to my childhood and the horrors lurking deep in my
subconscious. My breathing grew rapid. My heart thudded
against my chest. Easy, I told myself. Easy. There’s nothing
here. Take it easy.

I struck a match against the wall, and the burst of small
flame cast a reassuring circle of light on both me and the
stairs. See, I told myself. I held the match up, lighting more
of the stairs. No ghosts or goblins in here. The glow of the
match flame drove the skulking monsters back into the
shadows of my imagination, but I knew they were lurking
just beyond sight, ready to leap.

Outside, the storm grew stronger.

Slowly I started up the stairs, one at a time, staying on
the outside of each step to prevent any squeaking. After
several steps I reached a landing, and I spotted what looked
like a thin piece of wood about five inches square on the
inside wall of the stairwell. I touched it. It moved.

Striking another match, I touched the block again, noting
that it pivoted at the top. I pushed it aside and a tiny beam
of light shot into the stairwell.

Hastily, I extinguished the match.

The beam of light remained. I peered into it.

Ozzy’s room!

I blinked and looked again, this time pressing my eye to
the small hole. It was Ozzy’s room. The half-eaten ham
sandwich was still on the nightstand and beside it was an
empty whiskey tumbler. I frowned. Something seemed out
of place, but I didn’t have time to figure out just what it
was.

Pulling my eye from the peephole, I let the tiny wooden
door swing shut on the hole. I lit another match. A small
passage cut left for four or five feet. Beyond, the stairs
continued up to the next floor. I decided to return later to
explore the short passage.

Eight or ten steps higher up, I reached another landing,
and there I found a second peephole, this one in the wall
of A.D.‘s bedroom.

A few feet beyond the peephole was another short passage, and, as the one below, it turned left.

My heel caught on a splintered board, and I stumbled to
my hands and knees, sending the tiny match into the dark ness. On all fours there in the darkness, I muttered a curse.
I struck another match.

The flame flared. My heart leaped into my throat. There,
less than a foot from my face, was a cottonmouth, his
mouth gaping, his fangs glittering in the match light.

I dropped the match and jerked back, clenching my teeth
for the burning strike of the serpent. Moments passed.
Nothing happened. I strained for any sound, but all I heard
was the storm outside.

Sweat poured down my torso. Easing backward, I rose
to my feet. At the corner of the passageway, I struck another match. I extended my arm tentatively. The dim flame
illumined the gaping mouth of the cottonmouth. I jumped
back, but the snake didn’t move.

Then I realized I had discovered the missing cottonmouth.

So much for Uncle George’s voodoo phantom.

I stepped over the snake and laid my hand on a panel of
wood. I gently pushed on one side and it swung open. I
stepped into the closet in A.D.‘s bedroom.

“So, this is how he did it,” I whispered. “Slipped up the
back way, killed A.D., then quietly returned to the first
floor. That’s why no one saw him go up the stairs.” And
with that epiphany, the list of possible perpetrators instantly
doubled, even tripled.

Overhead, the storm pounded the roof.

Backing into the passage, I headed down to Ozzy’s
room.

Once inside, I studied the layout. Then I spotted what
had disturbed me earlier. The whiskey glass.

The whiskey glass holding the drowned cockroaches was
missing. I cut my eyes to the second nightstand where an
empty tumbler had been. The glass was missing. I nodded.
“Yeah. That’s what he did. He put that tumbler in the place
of the one with the roaches.”

But why?

Even I wasn’t so dumb as not to recognize the answer immediately. The roaches had not drowned. They died from
poisoning, and the killer wanted to get rid of the glass.

I studied the nightstand. The bottle of Jim Beam had not
been moved, only the glass. I nodded slowly. Chances
were, that meant the poison had been placed in the glass,
not in the bottle of bourbon. But how? Ozzy went upstairs
to his room alone. I saw him heading up the stairs when
Giselle went into the kitchen.

Could someone have come in from the secret stairway?
Could that someone have been Giselle?

Suddenly, the boards in the ceiling creaked. I froze.
Someone was up in A.D.‘s room.

Moving as quickly as I dared, I slipped out through the
secret door in the back of the closet and eased down the
stairs in the darkness, crossing my fingers I wouldn’t stumble or fall. As long as the killer had no idea I knew of the
stairway, _1 had an advantage.

But, it’s one thing to have an advantage, and quite another to know how to use it.

I slid back in front of the computer just before Uncle
Bailey waddled from the parlor into the kitchen, yawning
and stretching. “You got coffee made, Tony boy?”

“I could put it on right fast, Uncle Bailey. Just hold your
horses.”

“I’ll be right back. Got to wash my face.” He chuckled.
“Ezeline says that’s the proper way to excuse yourself to
go to the toilet.”

“Works for me,” I said, grinning. I still couldn’t force
myself to believe he was the killer.

Later, as he sat across the table from me, sipping the
black coffee, he cleared his throat. “I feel kind of bad,
Tony. You know, because I tell you about Walter and
Leroi. Me, I don’t want them no trouble, and I don’t want you should think I try to put the blame on someone else.
That’s not it.”

“I know, Uncle Bailey. Like I said, I’m just gathering
information for the state police. They’ll carry out the investigation.”

“But, me, I think I look bad since the money clip was
found in my suitcase. What you think?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. Some. I am puzzled about the money,
though.”

He snorted. “Hey, Tony. I don’t got the money. You can
go look. You can see I tell the truth.” He suddenly jumped
up from the table. “I tell you what, Tony. You come with
me now. We go look through my room. You see I got no
money.”

I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was enough of
a snoop that I gained a certain distorted pleasure from
prowling through another’s belongings, yet I knew this
would be a waste of time. Not even Bailey would be dumb
enough to hide the money in his room. “That isn’t necessary, Bailey. We can look later.”

He grabbed my arm, pulling me after him. “No, no. We
look now. Come, come.”

Reluctantly, I let him drag me across the parlor.