Under the Cajun Moon (11 page)

The drug had been in my coffee.

One of Kevin’s drinks had obviously been drugged too.

I had no doubt that we had both been unconscious ever since. If so, then there were no more memories left to tell me what had happened next. All I had to go on from here on out was a dead body. That, and some dried blood and tissue under my fingernails.

Feeling suddenly cold, I shuddered to think of what had been done to us once the drugs had kicked in last night. Obviously I had been framed, but why? Had someone literally dragged my nails across Kevin’s face as both of us snoozed away, unconscious? Aching in the pit of my stomach, I thought of Sam. Had he been drugged too? More than anything, I hoped he was all right, but I had a sick feeling that he wasn’t, not at all.

Before I could do anything about this final bit of recovered memory, Detective Walters came bursting into the room with a gleam in his eye. He produced a pair of handcuffs.

“Chloe Ledet, you are under arrest for the murder of Kevin Peralta.”

“I was framed.”

“Yeah, and I’ve got evidence. Get up.”

“What evidence?”

The detective didn’t answer but again told me to stand. As I did, he instructed me to turn around so he could handcuff my wrists behind my back.

“I want a lawyer,” I said, bile rising in my throat.

“You’ll get your lawyer,” he replied, locking the cuffs firmly in place.

Putting a hand on my elbow, he led me out of the hotel room and into the busy courtyard, reciting my Miranda rights as we went. Standing tall, shoulders back, I ignored the curious and scornful gazes of all of those around me. I simply looked straight ahead and told myself this would all be straightened out soon enough.

I allowed myself to be escorted to the police car that was waiting out in front of the hotel. The detective opened the back door of the vehicle and gestured for me to get inside, and then he placed a hand on the top of my head and pushed me down. At first I thought he was trying to force me for some reason, but then I realized he was merely protecting me from banging my head against the low curving side of the door frame.

Worse than the walk of shame through the hotel courtyard and lobby was the time spent sitting in the car while waiting to leave. I was looking around and trying to get a better idea of where on Chartres we were exactly, but as I did, I realized that every single person who walked by made a point of looking in at me. The whole scene was so surreal, in fact, that I did the only thing I could do: I closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else, somewhere safe and quiet and peaceful, where the biggest problem I had was figuring out what rules of etiquette might apply.

F
RANCE, 1719
J
ACQUES

At first, Jacques was merely frustrated at the fact that M. Freneau had taken the wrong load. How could this have happened? Was it Jacques’ fault, for moving the carts? Was it his father’s fault, for not double-checking to make sure he was sending off the wrong one? Or was it Freneau’s fault, for talking and griping when he should have been paying attention to what he was doing? Now the man had left with the same load he had brought, and Jacques was holding on to one of the statuettes he and his father had made. The two trunks may have looked the same, but there was no doubt this was the wrong one because they had been stacked differently on the inside. The carts had been slightly different as well. Freneau’s was shinier and newer, and theirs had rust on the frame and was made of darker wood. Even if the two men hadn’t bothered to look inside the trunks, shouldn’t they have noticed that the fellow was hitching the horse to the same cart that he had unhitched only a short while before?

This was ridiculous! Just to make absolutely sure that
he
wasn’t the one in error, Jacques carried the statuette over to his father’s work area and grabbed a scriber and a loupe. There, he looked through the loupe as he made a tiny mark in an inconspicuous place on the statuette. As he expected, the gold leaf scratched easily away, revealing the brass underneath—at least
to his experienced eye. The man was supposed to have taken away the gilded statuettes and left the solid gold ones behind. Instead, he had done the exact opposite. Sick at heart, Jacques smoothed over the scratch with his thumb, put away the tools, and returned the statuette to the trunk. unsure of what to do. This would be a simple problem to solve if he had a horse and the freedom to be seen. As it was, his hands were tied.

Reluctantly, Jacques went to his father and shook him gently until he opened his eyes. Jacques told him what had happened. After Papa had expressed his aggravation at the ridiculous turn of events, he began blaming himself, asking how he could have been so careless, so stupid. Jacques protested vigorously, saying that considering he could hardly breathe at the time, it was probably all he could do not to collapse before the man was out of sight.

Once Papa accepted Jacques’ logic and had calmed down a bit, he propped himself up and the two of them puzzled over a solution. Even if he had a horse, Papa wasn’t healthy enough to gallop up the road and get to the man himself. Jacques could certainly do that, but Freneau might recognize him as Papa’s son, and how would he explain his presence way out here in the middle of nowhere? Surely Freneau would put two and two together and figure out that Papa had been violating the confidentiality of their agreement. Not only would all of their hard work go unpaid, but Papa’s reputation for discretion would be sullied forever.

Lunch arrived in the middle of their conversation, so while Jacques hid again in the wardrobe, Papa gathered his strength to answer the door, take the food from the farmer’s wife, and ask if they had a horse he could borrow. She said no, so he asked if there was any way she or her husband could deliver a message to Paris immediately on his behalf, something he was willing to pay handsomely for. Despite the large sum of money he was offering, she declined, saying they might be able to do it near the end of the week but not today. He thanked her anyway and bid her good day.

Once she was gone, Jacques and his father shared the meal she had brought and continued to discuss their options. They considered simply waiting until Freneau returned in two days for the gold bars and telling
him then. But there was a good chance that by that point it would be too late. Whatever the palace was up to with the gilded statuettes, they might be needing them without room for delay.

After much conversation, Jacques came up with a plan. He paced back and forth as he laid it out, a complicated game of hide-and-seek involving a letter, a courier, and an elaborately constructed deception. At the conclusion of his description, Jacques smiled with pride. As far as he could tell, it was a plausible plan, as long as Papa, a man known for his honesty and integrity, would be able to pull off a few lies.

“No,” Papa said softly.

“I know it’s not a perfect plan, but if you—”

“No, Jacques, no more lies. One lie always begets another. The first lie was when I brought you out here in secret a month ago rather than send for M. Freneau and honestly tell him about my ill health. All of our sneaking and hiding, that has been a constant lie, and all because I didn’t want to surrender this valuable commission. At what cost, though, have I done this? At the cost of teaching my son to construct such a fanciful and complicated story? Bah! It is not worth it. Not at any price.”

With an energy he hadn’t demonstrated in days, Papa strode to the work table, pulled out pen and paper and ink, and furiously scribbled out a missive. Finally, he put the pen down, blowing on the page so the ink would dry, and then he folded it into thirds. He reached for a lit candle and tilted it over the seam, allowing a few drops of wax to drip into a warm glob. Then he put the candle down and, into that warm glob of wax, he carefully pressed his goldsmith’s mark.

“Here is your letter for M. Freneau,” Papa said, a calmness finally taking back over as he crossed the room and handed it to Jacques. “Bring it to a courier in Charenton or all the way to Paris yourself, whichever is faster. But no more lies, yes?”

Jacques took the letter, nodding his head but also letting his frustration show.

“And if they find out you broke confidentiality and withhold payment, what then?” Jacques demanded, studying his father’s stern face. “You gave your
life
for those little statuettes, and now you’re ready to sacrifice your
payment as well? Think of all our hard work, Papa! What was it for, if not for the money?”

Papa didn’t reply at first, but instead he sat on the edge of the cot, Jacques’ questions echoing in the dusty silence around them.

“What was it for?” Papa rasped. “Maybe it was just for
time
, Jacques.”

“Time?”

“To be together. To carry out a job well done, side by side. To have one last month with…you.”

Papa looked up as he finished speaking. After a moment, despite the shame that burned his cheeks, Jacques forced himself to meet his father’s gaze. How did Papa always know words that were so right and true, words that could cut through sinfulness and pride like a dagger through gold leaf?

“You are right, Papa,” he whispered. “Of course. You are always right. No more lies.”

Nodding, Papa laid down and stretched out.

“You are a good son and a good Christian, Jacques. If I die, ’twill only be a temporary parting, you know.”

“Will you wait for me in heaven, Papa?” Jacques whispered, pulling the blanket up over the old man’s shoulders.

“Right there at the pearly gates, my son. Now, go and do what you must do, but hurry back.”

Trying not to cry, Jacques moved quickly. He doused the fire in the furnace and gathered his things. Before he left, he paused in the rear doorway, taking one last look into the dim, hot room and the man lying on the cot, the great man whom Jacques loved and admired and had always seen as his hero. Giving that weary hero a final wave, Jacques moved out into the sunlight. He didn’t fear Freneau’s impending anger over the mix-up or the possibility that the palace would learn their confidentiality had been violated and, in consequence, would decide to withhold payment.

His only fear was that Papa would be dead by the time he got back.

Mentally speaking, I managed to separate myself from what was happening to me the whole time I waited in the police car and throughout the drive to wherever we were going, which ended up being a massive tan structure a few miles north of the interstate.