Crimson Bayou: Mignon Thibeaux, #1

By C.L. Bevill

Crimson rays from the sun's morning light shine on an isolated bayou and expose the body of a young woman.

Mignon Thibeaux, a renowned artist and recently returned local, is adapting to the slow-paced life of the Cane River and its enigmatic people. It is she who finds the young woman floating in the bayou, strangled and left in the timorous dark waters. It is also Mignon who will become embroiled in the hunt for the person who is responsible for the young woman's death.

Mignon will discover she has more in common with the dead girl than she would have ever imagined, including being related to Mignon's murdered mother. The exotic world of the Louisianan Creoles has bloomed into a locale providing the impetus for a vile murder. Danger and knowledge vie for dominance, and only Mignon can unravel its secrets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.L. Bevill
• Release date: Apr 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301011070

C.L. Bevill

C.L. Bevill is the author of several books including Bubba and the Dead Woman, Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas, Bubba and the Missing Woman, Bayou Moon, The Flight of the Scarlet Tanager, Veiled Eyes, Disembodied Bones, and Shadow People. She is currently at work on her latest literary masterpiece.

Book preview

Chapter One

Wednesday, March 5th

A sailor went to sea, sea, sea.

To see what he could see, see, see.

But all that he could see, see, see,

Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea.

- Children’s hand-clapping rhyme.

The dramatic sights and smells of the bayou surrounded Mignon Thibeaux. She carefully traversed a pair of rutted tracks. The tracks led deeper into the emerald depths of heavy shrubbery. Her artist’s eye noted every shade of green, from the dark holly leaves of a thick bush, to the pale jade green of fragile ivy twisting its budding leaves around a distended cypress branch. She could identify a dozen species of trees that made their homes at the bayou’s lapping edge, each making its way in an already crowded arrangement of vegetation. Ash and cedar vied for space with pine and oak. Even a lonesome evergreen juniper contested with larger growth for space, its clumps of violet berries vibrantly contrasting with the dark green background.

But it was the dogwoods that were strewn across the heart of the Kisatchie National Forest that most interested Mignon. The early spring had instigated a flood of pale lavender that had burst forth in a cascade of fragrant blooms. Each flowering bud marked the dogwoods as if they were calling to her. She walked in a perfumed jungle that caused her senses to tingle. Every step held a new revelation for her eyes. Each sniff was a luxurious treat to her nostrils.

The dogwoods were in full bloom, and with it they brought the bayous to life in a wondrously colorful manner that would not be repeated for a full year. Unfortunately, the insubstantial, exotic blooms wouldn’t last long. A week, perhaps two, and the pretty blossoms would float away to join in the evolution that made the cycle of bayou life eternal. And Mignon knew her next series of paintings would feature the beauteous aspects of the west central portion of the state she was quickly learning to treasure.

In the artist’s eye of her mind, it would be a much brighter series than she had ever done before. In the past, the darkness of her own history had spectacularly tainted her work. It was the inexorable effect of the disappearance of her mother at age five, followed by the consequent abandonment by her father. It had caused her to be thrust into a series of foster homes from Texas to California. It was only the timely intervention of her adopted father that had guided her out of a life of abysmal pain. She had discovered that there was more to life, and there was also possibility. Then, there had been more questions, questions that tortured her nighttime hours and plagued her to hunt for that which would be a balm to her bleeding wounds.

In her third decade of life, Mignon had decided to return to her birth place, seeking the answers to her blackest questions. Where had her mother, Garlande Thibeaux, gone to when she vanished out of her only child’s life? There had been a simple answer. She and her lover, the wealthy plantation owner, Luc St. Michel, had been murdered on the same day they together planned to leave Louisiana forever. When Mignon had come to stir the embers, they had been roused so well that she was almost murdered in the process of getting her answers. But receive them she had, and now, only months later, life had settled into a calmer pattern of existence where conventionality was the norm. Murderers no longer targeted her, and ghosts didn’t walk the bayous endlessly seeking retribution for long-ago wrongdoings.

Her nightmares had become almost nonexistent. Mignon didn’t dream of skeletal fingers reaching across a dark chasm to yank her down into the stygian depths. The St. Michel’s hold on St. Germaine Parish was eternally broken. Luc’s wife, Eleanor, would most likely never return, and already the St. Michel Mansion was beginning to show neglectful signs of disuse.

Of course, Mignon didn’t care if Eleanor St. Michel returned or not to St. Germaine and the little town of La Valle. Eleanor had made her proverbial bed, and she would have to sleep in it, wherever she was, whatever she was doing. Mignon knew that the woman had been devastated at the dual losses of her only daughter, Eugenie, and her close friend, Jourdain Gastineau. Furthermore, it could have been argued that it was partially Mignon’s fault. More deaths had not been on her agenda when she had returned to La Valle, and she had not pulled the trigger herself.

Mignon shook her head to clear her thoughts. Auburn hair, the shade of burnished bronze, fluttered in a slight morning breeze. She ran a hand through the layers and fiercely blinked away the past. No longer did it have the power to hurt her. She had conquered that part of it, and she wouldn’t let it rule her any longer.

All around her were reminders of the future to be. Life on the cusp of wonder filled her senses. First light in the Bayou Kisatchie showed her a plethora of awe-inspiring phenomena to behold. From the graceful snowy egrets, who craned their elegant necks to watch her passing, to the moss that flimsily dangled from the trees above like cotton-candy creations that might vanish in the grasp of a strong wind; it was enough to relax her soul.

An inevitable comparison came to Mignon as she waded through ankle-deep water, making her way to where the twin tracks of a seldom-used trail resumed their course ever inward toward where the astute individual feared to tread. Over jeans, she wore thigh-high waders borrowed from acquaintances renewed in the wash of a tidal wave of past, that had put secrets in the forefront. She held her 35mm camera in one hand, the strap firmly around her shoulder so that the equipment wouldn’t spill into the murky waters. But it was the comparison between the place she was and the place she’d been, that occupied Mignon’s thoughts.

The day before, she had been in New York City, a place where lights streamed forth perpetually, and people moved ceaselessly as they went about their business. The smells had been that of diesel and sweat and fried foods from the voracious venders who roamed the streets like animals seeking prey. It had been loud, and Mignon’s nerves had been somewhat wracked. She had lunch with her editor and then dinner with her good friend, Terentia Jones. She couldn’t wait to return to the nonchalant existence of Louisiana.

Terri had interpreted it accurately. You’ve got it bad, girlfriend. She had viewed her friend with a skeptical but discerning eye. I don’t know if it’s the hunky sheriff or that thick Louisiana sludge calling to your soul, but Lord, you’ve got a case of it like a bird with West Nile Virus. Inescapable.

Mignon had stepped off the plane in Shreveport and breathed in the rich, aromatic air as if it would save her life. John Henry Roque was the hunky sheriff of whom Terri had spoken, and he’d been waiting for her, all six foot plus inches of him, looking scandalously handsome in his uniform. One hand held his trademark Stetson. The other had held a dozen roses. As she had been gone for three weeks, she had missed him, too. She didn’t know if she wanted to put a name on what they had together. John Henry, with his square jaw and his sherry-colored eyes, had a manner about him that made most other men pale in comparison, like shadows lost to a cloudy day. His large hands could deftly wrest a possible felon to the hood of his parish vehicle. Or they could be as gentle as a dainty feather as he caressed the soft flesh of an inner elbow.

Mignon cursed under her breath as she made herself blush with the memories stirring her thoughts. The bane of being a redhead was her fair skin and the reality that the blush of her flesh revealed embarrassing thoughts. Was it truly John Henry who brought her back to Louisiana or more likely a combination of many things?

Making that admission was difficult. Mignon’s previous relationships had been stained with her ambitions in the past. Now she had the answers to questions that had scoured her psyche, and she had the success that disregarded any sense that she was still the little girl who had been abandoned in a bus station.

In times of remorse, Mignon had tried to justify her father’s actions. Ruff Thibeaux’s alcoholism had limited his ability to care for his daughter. She went hungry more times than not. Her clothing hung on her skinny frame and was as clean as a homeless person’s clothes could be, considering that they spent half their nights in a filthy shelter. But Ruff had been selfish. An eight-year-old girl didn’t know that her father had a momentary pique of conscience and saw what he was doing to her. But Mignon saw the past from the subjective viewpoint of a grown woman, a woman who valued her relationships and knew that only she was responsible for herself. Her own decisions would forever impact the individual she was and the individual she would be in the future.

If she ever had a child, she knew that the baby would never be abandoned by her. A child? Mignon blinked again. It was the effect of solitude in the peaceful bayou. It was only her and the sound of the wind thrusting branches against adjacent trees. The calls of distant birds beckoning each to another told her that she was being as effectively quiet as she could. John Henry already had a divorce and a daughter. She didn’t know what future their relationship held, and it wasn’t the time to make decisions about the future. She knew that she cared for him and that he cared for her in turn. But children? Where did that come from?

Mignon made the furtive thoughts disappear from her brain. She deliberately primed the Minolta camera, setting the f-stop and the shutter speed, and took a set of photos. The eastern horizon was tinged with pink that bled into red, showing the silhouette of thick trees like a black and white drawing in the foreground. It was the color she hoped to replicate. She preferred to use a 35mm camera rather than a digital. She knew that film might not replicate it precisely, however, the photos would stimulate her memory, and she would mix the colors until the correct shade produced itself on her artist’s palette. Pale pink dissolved into a deeper ruby, making the bayou appear as crimson as blood spilling from an open wound.

There was a hoarse coughing noise that floated back to her, and Mignon froze with the camera still held halfway up to her face. Was there another person in the bayou, perhaps fishing for catfish or other fish the dark waters held? No, John Henry had mentioned that cougars were sighted infrequently in the bayous. Although game was plentiful for the predators in the national forest, the big cats would attack humans if cornered. And their coughing-like calls sometimes were issued as a warning.

Mignon took a step backward and carefully looked all around her. For a long moment, there was silence. Even the birds were keeping markedly silent. There were other dangers in the bayous. Black bears were still in the area. John Henry had seen a pair only a month before while on a search and rescue. Wild pigs patrolled the bayous, and although small, the animals could be vicious. But the cougars could do significant damage to a small woman like Mignon, and he’d instructed her to bring her 9mm Beretta with her when she ventured into the Kisatchie National Forest.

Of course, in her usual manner, Mignon hadn’t listened. She had her handy 35mm camera, and she was fairly sure that the photographic equipment might cause a charging cat to pause for at least a second or two. She would have laughed at herself if she hadn’t been holding her breath while she scanned never-ending yards of vegetation for a set of feline eyes.

Birds exploded a hundred yards away, and a mournful cry followed their departure. There was a vicious snarl. Mignon then saw the sleek tan shape of a small cougar as she worked her way deeper into the bayou, studiously avoiding Mignon. When the cat had vanished as quickly as she had appeared, Mignon rolled her eyes. I could have taken a picture of her. But she had been staring too hard. She had never seen such an animal outside of a zoo.

The sound of the passing cougar faded away as the cat looked for a quieter place to stalk her next meal. Mignon thought for a moment that she should have been frightened, but instead, she was strangely exhilarated and attempted to identify the feeling for a moment. A cougar, not a hundred yards away from me! Terri will never believe me.

The striking colors of the rising sun caught her eye again. Purple had transformed into wisps of pink that rivaled the dogwood’s blooms, and crimson light spilled onto the bleak surface of the bayou waters. There were bloody slivers of radiance that reached for Mignon as she panned her gaze around.

I have to get a shot of that. She took several steps into the bayou and shook her foot out of a patch of quicksand. If she let her foot sink into it, she would be missing one of her waders when she went home. The slimy substance was like Super Glue. The trick was to gingerly feel one’s way through the bayous in order to detect the telltale give of the soil and then move out of the suspected area as quickly as possible. It was never like the movies portrayed it. Only a sinkhole could suck one down into the gritty depths of the earth.

The wader came out with a sucking noise, and Mignon moved to surer footing. Her eyes went back to the red that was making the entire bayou glow with color. She was so intrigued with the dark profiles of distant cypress that she didn’t look down immediately to see what had bumped into her. Ignoring the fact that she should have been concerned an alligator or a snake had decided to investigate her movement, her eyes only dropped for a moment; she was completely transfixed with the startling array of colors.

Mignon had the camera up to her face before it registered with her. She gulped in a well-needed breath of air and looked down again. She knew what she’d seen, but she didn’t want it to be true.

A hand gently nudged her knee. The young woman floated on her back in the tranquil bayou waters, her hair spread out around her head in an eerie halo. Her eyes were open. Mignon registered that they were hazel a moment before she admitted to herself that not only were they hazel, but that they were very much dead.

Chapter Two

Wednesday, March 5th

Last night, night before, my boyfriend took me to the candy store.

He bought me ice cream, he bought me cake. He brought me home with a bellyache.

Mamma, Mamma, I feel sick. Call the doctor quick, quick, quick!

Doctor, doctor, will I die?

- Children’s jump rope rhyme

Noticing detail was Mignon’s preferred method to avoid hysteria. As a matter of fact, she’d seen a dead human being before. Not just one. Specifically, if one were counting, she’d seen four. Two had been mere skeletons, but the third and fourth ones had been as newly deceased as the young woman floating at her knees. Despite that, the finer points seemed to insinuate themselves into the deepest gray matter of her brain with a fevered rush that threatened to overpower everything else. A gentle current was trying to turn the body away and take it out into the bayous. A horsefly had detected the inevitable process of death and fluttered spastically about, looking for an opportunity. The crimson light of the sun’s first look through the thick trees cast a red mask across the girl’s face.

She had been strangled. A knotted rope still adorned her neck like a bizarre tie. One end floated away in the waters, while the other disappeared beneath her body, lost in the murk. One of her hands rested peacefully across her abdomen and the other reached out as if seeking help, softly bumping a rubber-covered thigh. Her face was lovely in its lifeless repose. Hazel eyes reflected flecks of gold, green, and brown. The whites of her eyes revealed pinpricks of blood as if the girl had been drinking too much. Her skin was a creamy shade of brown that every teenage girl aspired to have during bikini weather. Waist-length, dark brown hair caught the current and tried to make its escape.

Mignon took another deep breath and tried to look away, but she found she could not. The girl was wearing a white shirt, almost businesslike in its appearance, with a wide collar and two breast pockets. A girlish black tie was knotted loosely around the collar, pulled out of its proper position by a struggle that had resulted in this tragic occurrence. A black skirt that ended just above her knees was the completion of what the girl had been wearing. Mignon couldn’t see if the girl had shoes on or not; her legs and feet disappeared into the black waters.

When Mignon’s eyes began to burn, she forced herself to look up and discovered that the sun had made its appearance above the tree line. She had been standing there staring at the dead body of a young woman for the better part of ten minutes. The most shocking aspect of the woman’s appearance was that she seemed so young. So damn young. Mignon’s previous thoughts came back to haunt her. Here was another child, a girl perhaps in her middle to late teens, abandoned in the worst possible manner. Someone who didn’t want her had simply chosen a cowardly way to deal with her.

As Mignon had learned, murder was an ugly word. She had hoped that once the mystery of her own mother’s disappearance had been solved that she would never again experience its like. She deliberately attempted to find refuge in rediscovering Louisiana’s intrinsic magnificence and instead, bumped into death there.

She put a hand down and touched the young woman’s neck just below the jaw line. Her body was the same temperature as the water, and the blood in her veins most likely hadn’t moved for many hours. Mignon braced herself mentally. Don’t worry, she whispered to the dead girl. I won’t leave you alone.

Putting her hands into the water, Mignon slid them under the young woman’s shoulders and began to tug her gently toward the bit of dry land that held the isolated dirt road. She didn’t dare leave her in the water to float away. Certainly because of that, she pulled the body to where it wouldn’t be subject to the whims of an unsympathetic flow and animals in the bayous who didn’t care if their meals were alive or not.

As they reached the sloping bank, Mignon put her back into it and hauled the limp figure upwards. Her fingernails dug into the limp flesh, and she winced at the feeling. Carefully pillowing the young woman’s head on a clump of monkey grass, Mignon looked down and saw that the feet were still in the water. Barefoot, something had already been nibbling at her toes. Mignon closed her eyes for a moment, tamping back the gag reflex. When she could move again, she circumspectly placed the young woman’s feet on the dry bank so that none of her remained in the water.

Then she reached into her jacket and pulled out a tiny cell phone. She flipped it open, punched in a speed dial number, and waited for an answer. Mignon hoped that she would sound calm when the person on the other end answered.

Then he did. Roque, John Henry said roughly, his voice thick with sleep. He normally would be up at this hour, halfway to work, or in the little café in La Valle drinking a cup of the coffee that he said reminded him of boiling lava. However, only hours after picking her up last night, there had been a terrible car accident involving three vehicles and an eighteen-wheeler. He’d been up half the night making sure everything was properly cared-for. Three people were in critical condition. One of the drivers had been pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital, and the frozen food the truck had been carrying was still strewn over half the median. When he’d returned to his home at half past three, Mignon was still sleeping in his bed. She’d slipped out at five and turned off his alarm so that he would sleep a few more hours instead of stoically going into the office.

John Henry, she said carefully, marveling at how amazingly serene she sounded.

Mignon, John Henry drawled, "I was planning on waking you up this morning, chère, but you went and ran off on me. He paused for a second. Is that the time? Oh Lord, did you turn my clock off again? I told you that—"

John Henry, she repeated.

Despite a lack of sleep, John Henry was in a good mood. It’s all right, he said. If you come on back and scrub my back in the shower, you can turn off my alarm anytime you’d like. I know the voters won’t like it, but the hell with them.

John Henry, Mignon said for a third time, and this time the underlying strain of her voice got through to him.

What is it? he said urgently. Your car? Did you have an accident?

No, I’m fine. Mignon hesitated, unsure about how to tell him that she just happened to have stumbled upon the body of a young woman in the bayou. Oh, things just happen to me. No, no, the last time, I brought it on myself. No one could dispute that. But not this time. This time it’s purely accidental. At least, the part about me finding her is accidental. It’s not me.

John Henry took that in with aplomb that Mignon found herself admiring. It’s not you, he repeated. Then someone else had an accident?

Not an accident, Mignon said. If I had to guess, I think she’s been strangled. And she’s very, very dead.

•

John Henry was mad. Mignon thought that he probably wasn’t mad at her. He was tired, and he didn’t like homicides. And he especially didn’t like homicides involving children. Furthermore, he didn’t like it when someone he knew so personally was concerned, even in the most peripheral manner. Consequently, he was irritated, and she was the only one around for the time being for him to take it out on.

He’d arrived at the Kisatchie Bayou twenty minutes after she’d called him. Because his parish vehicle was four-wheel drive, he was able to come almost to the point where she’d pulled the girl’s body onto the bank. John Henry spared the dead young woman a single piercing glance and then taken Mignon firmly by her shoulders, towering over her five feet six inches as he stood so close to her. Staring down into her eyes, he said, Are you hurt?

Mignon shook her head.

Was there anyone else here? he asked insistently.

No, whoever did this is probably long gone. Her body is cold to the touch.

John Henry blinked. A muscle in his face twitched in a telltale manner. She knew what that meant. It was like a signal. She had done something he didn’t approve of. Cold to the touch? He took a breath and continued calmly, You touched her?

Yes, Mignon said after taking her own calming breath. John Henry was such a policeman. What did he expect me to do? Scream for the nearest real man to help?

John Henry saw her eyes narrow, and his duplicated the action, trying to read her thoughts. Then his gaze flickered toward the body and came instantly back. He could see where the body had been dragged up the shore. The scrapes on the mud bank were dark with moisture, having not had time to dry out. You touched the body, he said again. You moved the body?

Mignon decided that she should stare in the middle of John Henry’s chest instead of his astute sherry-colored eyes. Buttons were half done. He had been in a hurry to get to her. He hadn’t had time to shave; the stubble on his face was reddish-gold in the sunlight. His shirt was tucked in on only one side. The tail hung out haphazardly. His dark brown hair appeared pretty much as it did when he had shot out of bed to come to the rescue.

A turtle, she gritted, was trying to eat her toes. Then she shivered, and John Henry sighed. He tugged her into his embrace and tucked her head into his shoulder with a restful stroke across her hair.

You moved the body, he said again. Where was it?

Mignon took exception to the word it. She pulled back and looked defiantly up at his face. Then she pointed. "She was floating about ten yards into the bayou, straight out from where I pulled her in. The current was taking her away. If I hadn’t moved her, then I’m not sure you would have been able to find her very quickly, if at all."

John Henry cursed under his breath. I didn’t mean anything by calling the girl ‘it,’ Mignon. You know that. Stop being so perverse.

Mignon’s expression remained mutinous for a moment and then relaxed into neutrality. She said, I didn’t deliberately run out and look for a body, John Henry. I wasn’t trying to thwart you in some manner. I was just doing research for my series.

The bayou paintings you’re planning, he confirmed with reluctant patience.

Yes. But then something…happened, for lack of a better word.

John Henry deftly guided her to the cab of the Bronco. He opened the door and sat her down inside. Nice waders, he said.

Miner Poteet lent them to me, she said, but her voice was flat. A month or so ago he showed me this trail and said the locals call it Crimson Bayou. It’s actually part of Kisatchie, but he said the sun makes it light up like it was on fire. Her somber gaze went to the girl’s body. She didn’t get to see it. Can we cover her with a blanket, John Henry?

John Henry’s face contorted, and she fruitlessly tried to identify the expression. No, we can’t. Not until the medical examiner comes. She’s not feeling any pain right now, Mignon.

Do you know her? Mignon asked after a moment.

She looks like she belongs to one of the families who live in enclaves near parts of the Cane River Lake, John Henry said mildly, trying to assess Mignon’s mental state. They tend to marry within themselves frequently. There’s a bunch of them. Hugons, Xaviers, Lioutaus. They keep to themselves. The sheriff’s department gets called over there once in a while.

Those are all French-sounding names, Mignon commented quietly.

French and Spanish. The area is rotten with them. His frank gaze returned to her face. Although a name doesn’t get more French than Mignon Thibeaux.

I’m all right, John Henry, Mignon said suddenly. She brought her gaze up to his.

John Henry noticed that her eyes were brown now. When he’d met her they’d been pale green, the result of contacts, but now they were a warm brown, the shade of freshly grated nutmeg, the color she’d been born with. She was a redhead with brown eyes. It doesn’t seem quite right, he thought, but when he looked into her face, it didn’t matter. Mignon was all Mignon, unique and beautiful, intelligent and contrary, all in one special package. It should have been a simple matter of questioning an individual who’d found a dead body, but it was never as uncomplicated as it should be. Of course you are, he said right back.

You don’t have to worry about me, she said soothingly. Her eyes slid over his shoulder to the girl who lay lifelessly on a mud bank. It was just…unexpected. The brief hesitation between the last two words revealed more about Mignon’s state of well-being than she was willing to disclose herself.

There was a rush of movement from behind them, and two sheriff’s deputies made their way onto the scene. John Henry looked at them and then back at Mignon. I’ve got to work, Mignon. Are you sure—

I’m sure, she said quickly. I’m not made out of cotton candy.

Mignon watched the three men mark off the scene. One deputy was sent to search out the location where the girl’s body might have been dumped into the bayou. She could hear John Henry and a deputy named Elvis Brandt talking quietly. It wasn’t here, said John Henry. There weren’t tire tracks or any footprints other than Mignon’s, and she wasn’t hiding her trail.

That gal looks familiar, said Elvis with an eye on the young woman lying on the bank. I cain’t rightly remember from where. She looks so young, too. Did you notice her clothing?

Yeah, John Henry concurred, and Mignon had to prevent herself from tilting her head to better hear what he was going to say to Elvis. Blessed Heart. There isn’t a logo, but it sure looks like what those girls wear over there.

Elvis looked around, and Mignon dropped her gaze to her feet. Her feet were so very interesting, all concealed in thick rubber waders. Elvis said after a moment, I reckon that place ain’t much more than a mile as the crow flies from here.

Mignon’s eyes went back up. Neither man was looking at her now. John Henry tucked his errant shirt tails into his pants and shrugged. Through the bayous, I guess it is. Maybe she floated from there to here.

I think the current runs that direction, sheriff, Elvis agreed. Somebody plunked that girl into the water and hoped the animals would get to her before anyone else did. His head swiveled to look back at Mignon. But your-uh…your-uh…but Mignon found her first.

Mignon stared back. Some of the locals had trouble with the concept of the pair being lovers. Elvis blushed, showing a swatch of unflattering pink skin under a cloud of freckles.

John Henry captured Elvis’s attention again. You think you know this girl, then? While Elvis was studying the flaccid features of the dead girl again, John Henry shot Mignon a look that stated clearly, Stay out of this.

Mignon shrugged lightly and looked away. Both men resumed their conversation in lower tones. She heard the words Blessed Heart twice more along with several other names, and once, John Henry said, Creole, right?

Elvis nodded shortly. Betcha.

There was another muttered conversation where John Henry was undeniably giving instructions to Elvis. Mignon found it interesting because she didn’t get to see this side of John Henry that much. He liked to keep work and personal life as separate as he could. When work issues bothered him, he kept them stoically inside. Mignon found it so completely at odds with her work because her work was her life. Art was so much an ingrained component of her that she could never split it from the life she lived.

The other deputy returned with a fourth man. He wore a plain black suit and western boots on his feet. His black hair was slicked back from his face and showed a stark countenance beneath. Mignon studied him for a long moment because, although he wasn’t skinny, his flesh clung to the shape of his skull with a dearth of excess fat. The unidentified man walked like a police officer, and Mignon realized that he must be one because of the impatient way John Henry was waiting for him. They stood together, close to the same height, towering over the more diminutive Elvis. The other deputy headed back to the main road, having been directed to guide the medical examiner in when that individual arrived.

Mignon tilted her head to hear better and caught a few more words interspersed with mumbled phrases she didn’t understand. Girl’s school…Caraby…carefully…strangled…last night? Perhaps yesterday…medical examiner will…Mignon.

Three men all looked in her direction, and she didn’t bother to try to hide her interest. The man in the suit nodded and strolled over to her. My name is Simon Caraby, he said and offered a hand to her.

Mignon glanced at her hands. They were covered with mud. She grimaced. I would guess that you don’t want to get them dirty.

He put his hand down and shrugged. I’m the St. Germaine Parish Investigator. You can call me detective or investigator if you’d prefer, he said. He removed a PDA from his suit pocket and flipped open the cover. Simon’s okay, too.

Mignon noticed his black eyes. They really were black, as black as deepest night. Black hair, black eyes, and lily white skin. It was an odd combination. But she knew people in New York who would love to use Caraby as a model. He had that look. Somberly handsome. No, not handsome. Striking. She wouldn’t mind drawing him herself, but there was no warmth in this man. His touch