Blood Parish: Angel Blondeaux, #1

By E.J. Findorff

How does the disappearance of nineteen high school baseball players remain a mystery for thirty years?

 

Estranged from her infamous crime family, a New Orleans FBI agent inherits her aunt's estate which holds the secret to solving the three-decadeold cold case.

 

Angel Blondeaux had been taught since birth to never betray family, only to escape the clutches of home to become an FBI agent. For generations, Blondeaux has been the name to respect in Moreau Parish, and the name to fear. Crime is no longer a part of life, but a lifestyle, woven into the fabric of the parish. So, when Angel Blondeaux had graduated Quantico, she was rejected by the family like a bad organ. 
 
The FBI forces Angel to return home for her aunt's funeral, only to discover a new will has been drafted, leaving Angel the house and an immense plot of land, along with the buried secrets from thirty years past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.J. Findorff
• Release date: May 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953602015

Book preview

Prologue

Thirty years ago

The grimy white school bus headed out of Moreau Parish under the weight of a crushing defeat. The teenaged baseball players onboard were sullen. Extra innings had exhausted the team, and night fell hard. David, the driver, observed the collective yawning in the giant rearview mirror above his head. Route 22 had no lights, no traffic, and many curves. David knew the highway out of the parish but was always careful.

While most of the Walker Wildcats players could have traveled home with their parents, the coach insisted they stay together for team bonding. Brothers win together and lose together. The weekly pizza party back in Brockton had been canceled, due to the hour they would arrive. That didn’t matter. A house party would soften the blow the following night, as those were legendary. David only drove the team, but he was part of the staff and a part of the family. If anything, those young men would learn good sportsmanship.

David used high beams while driving under the speed limit. The wind whipped through the open windows. A few times, a hidden police car surprised them; however he knew Sheriff Blondeaux and his deputies. Sometimes an animal attempted to cross the road, and the last thing he needed was to kill a stray dog on top of the loss.

The coaches had stayed behind, citing team business, but a last-minute team booster chaperoned the return trip. He was a supposed religious fellow that David had seen speaking with the parents. The man attempted to cheer up the team when they first boarded. He enthusiastically told them they battled with dignity, and that God was proud of them. He mentioned the Almighty a bunch.

As they came to a bend in the road, a parked squad car blocked both lanes, just fifty yards ahead. A flare burned orange on the centerline. David slowed to a stop. The boys paid attention as the chaperone casually moved to the front.

Let me out, the booster said.

David hesitated, then opened the door. Sure, mister.

"It’s reverend. Make your peace with God."

The strange young man exited the bus. He walked past two figures as they approached in silhouette. David figured they were troopers, and their squad car might’ve broken down or had an accident. He saw their faces, their clothes, and their firearms. The bus had happened upon something very odd. The two men stopped in front of the giant grill, each aiming his weapon. David slowly raised his hands.

Chapter 1

Aserious vibe hung in the air as if circulating from the vents. Special Agent Angel Blondeaux strode with purpose along the New Orleans FBI field office's main hall, ignoring the pain in her toes from breaking in a new pair of short-heeled pumps.

Donald Lester had summoned Angel to the important conference room. Many of the state's most significant operations were born and strategized from the table in that room. Just the NOPD alone had been the target of concurrent investigations for decades. Those chairs launched many careers.

Angel straightened her fitted blue jacket over a shoulder holster. Her fingers reconfigured a loose ponytail. Someone must have complained, or a bad decision came to light. This meeting was probably about a misstep coming back to bite her in the ass. It wouldn’t be her first suspension.

Two men and a lady saw her approach from inside the encased glass box. Each had water within reach. Donald Lester stopped speaking mid-sentence, waving Angel in. The three agents were positioned on the same side of the square lacquered table, which was large enough for twenty. Next to Donald was John Belcher, the Executive Assistant Director, or EAD, from Quantico.

Angel kept her eyes on the third person, a serious black woman with a light touch of makeup. The way her thumbnail flicked under her manicured fingernails betrayed her calm, reserved appearance. The name badge was too small to read.

I was told there’d be cake. Angel stood across from Donald, her case handler.

Donald pressed a button on the table’s embedded control panel, and the glass walls instantly frosted over so no one could see inside. He looked at his watch. Thanks for coming on short notice. This is Special Agent Gail Ruby.

Okay. Angel waited.

Just left White Collar Crime to join Human Trafficking. She stood, reaching to shake her hand.

Angel reciprocated. Trafficking, Donald? I told you…

Just hear us out, he cut in.

Angel stemmed her concern. She accepted a seat opposite this tribunal, near a pen, paper, and water. Her feet immediately slipped from their patent leather bindings.

Is someone bringing the cake? Angel looked around.

John’s posture turned rigid. Don’t mind her, Agent Ruby. She’s actually behaving.

I’ve heard you can be a handful. Ruby’s chair swiveled left and right. She hadn’t learned to hide her nervous tells yet.

Just a handful? Guess I’m not trying hard enough. Angel’s eyes darted between each of them. This feels like the principal’s office.

John waved his hand. This has nothing to do with any of your current operations.

Then, it’s about my family and that damn bus. You know they hate me, John.

Ruby said, We were hoping to get another shot before your grandmother’s secrets are lost forever.

You mean before she dies. And you want me to ask her what happened? Hey, maw maw, did you sell those boys on the black market? Can I see your receipts?

Look, Ruby continued, We know it’s a long shot. But if any of those boys were sold into slavery, there’s a slim chance we can track at least one of them down if we get a name. A location. Anything. What about your grandmother’s brother, Earl Blondeaux? He was sheriff at the time. He moved away from the family like you did. Lives in Brockton now.

I've talked to him on three separate occasions, and he's told me to screw off every time. They let him retire, which means he's keeping his mouth shut.

Ruby still pushed. He's old and living alone. At some point, he's going to want to unload.

Angel squinted. Thirty years, Agent Ruby. Considering a case goes cold after forty-eight hours, you’re a real optimist.

You’re always so quick to refuse. John’s jaw muscle twitched.

My relatives won’t crack. How do you think they manage to launder money for the past hundred years? Angel fiddled with the pad of paper. Remember my Uncle Doug Blondeaux’s murder investigation seven years ago?

Of course, John admitted. We had high hopes during that time.

"I was talked into going then, too. I accomplished nothing. They froze me out. The Blondeauxs are literarily the law out there."

You obviously haven’t heard the news from home yet. Donald leaned forward.

"My home? Angel’s hand touched her chest. Lemon Twig?"

Donald soothed his tone. We received word that your Aunt Lorna passed from an apparent overdose.

Chapter 2

Angel blinked several times. She forced her hands to stay below the table. " You received word my aunt died? I don’t understand."

It pinged on our radar, Donald dismissed the oversight as unimportant. You told me you kept in contact with your Aunt Lorna.

From time to time, I talked to her on the phone. Just to check up because I don’t want to talk to anyone else. She’s the heir to the queendom, so I try to engage her. Tried to engage her.

Sounds like you’re homesick, Agent Ruby said.

Not homesick. I miss my childhood – big difference.

Is there? Ruby grew confident. Your mom was practically a child herself when she had you at seventeen.

Oh, she was never a child. Even at seventeen, she was a thirty-year-old, believe me.

So, no one has contacted you? John asked.

No. Angel scooted the chair forward, letting her toes curl and pull at the thin carpet. Her hand flipped through the blank pad of paper. She pushed it to the side. "The only one that might contact me would be my cousin Lucy May."

Ruby’s voice deepened. The child of a crime family grows up to become a fed – friction is to be expected. I’m aware of your history.

Oh, good. We can skip kissing and go right to second base. Angel adjusted her ponytail again. I’m sorry. My aunt is dead. My feet are throbbing.

John set his pen down. "The death of your aunt could be the perfect opportunity to bridge that chasm. This is an in. An opening. It’s your clan, right? Your kin?"

John inched closer to his real thoughts of the southern states. He would eventually trespass into an insult. Angel pulled the pad and pen into her lap as if to take notes. Bottom line, gentlemen - and lady, they will never, ever tell me anything.

Donald kept urging her. Let’s use this, Angel.

We’ve known each other a long time, Don. You know I can barely look my parents in the eye.

Donald nodded, silently glossing over lasers sitting in front of him.

We need you to do this, Agent Blondeaux. John loosened his tie. Your reluctance practically allows them to commit federal crimes. You’re complicit.

I’m a detriment, not an advantage, and I’ll be damned if you call me complicit.

You’ve witnessed things before you moved to New Orleans, Donald said. You’ve told me as much over the years.

John’s voice rose. Your ancestors built a prison that still sits abandoned on your aunt’s land, for Christ’s sake. The entire parish is related to each other. Are you with the inbreeds, or with us?

There it was. Angel held the tablet up to see. She had drawn a closed fist with the middle finger extended. No one spoke for a moment.

Your convict family owns a prison? Agent Ruby pretended to scribble in her pad with a slight smile. Angel liked her, despite her naïve intentions.

Donald put his hand on John’s shoulder. Let’s not have a repeat of last time.

Agent Ruby swiveled to face the pair. What happened last time?

John touched the bump on his nose that hadn’t always been there. Of course, I didn’t mean the inbreed comment.

Angel tore the page out, balling up the doodle.

We’ve tried without you. John turned on the charm. Every attempt has failed over the years because the one requirement is to be related.

I don’t have a choice this time, do I?

Thank you. John exhaled in relief. There’s something else. Your racketeering operation with the NOPD…

What about it?

We’re going to taint your involvement.

Angel reared back. What does that mean?

"We’re going to launch an internal investigation into your pseudo mishandling of evidence. Officially, you’re suspended pending investigation as far as anyone is concerned."

My colleagues are going to think I tampered with evidence?

Temporary. They’ll suspect something, but we won’t release details. John presented a folder. The Director is on board. We have paperwork to make it all appear official. A closed investigation. After the funeral, we’ll suspend you, and you can return with a chip on your shoulder against us.

Their paid politicians will look into it, so everything has to line up. Angel rubbed at both temples.

Yes. Plant the seed. We’ll find a way to use it.

Angel’s cell phone chimed. She stared at the name, not having seen that particular caller ID for three years. Are you kidding me? A hot wave passed through her body.

Who is it? Donald asked.

It’s my mom. A tingle of sweat started on her brow. She tensed to keep from shaking.

Answer it, Donald suggested after two more rings.

She probably doesn’t expect me to answer. Her finger pressed the green button. Hi, mom. No one spoke on the other end. Mom? You there?

Angel? I’m surprised you picked up. Her southern accent was as strong as ever.

Me, too. The emotional distance came back like a reflex. So, who died? She put the phone on speaker and set it down.

Your Aunt Lorna. Her mom didn’t miss a beat.

Angel feigned surprise. Aunt Lorna’s dead?

Two days ago. I wasn’t sure to call you, but…

Who killed her?

I swear to God, Blondo… She used Angel’s childhood nickname, which actually had been acquired because of her hair color. It looks like an accidental overdose of her medication.

Accidental, huh?

Are you working?

I'm at the field office, and my cell is tapped, so you know. Got seven agents listening in, and a drone is over your house.

Should we expect you at the services?

If I won’t get hog-tied, I’ll be there.

Bye, dear. The call dropped.

In the Blondeaux clan, no one ever died from natural causes.

Chapter 3

Lemon Twig, Louisiana

A mature magnolia tree spread shade just outside the Wilkens Funeral Home's back entrance. Sheriff Izzy Blondeaux was loitering outside when Angel parked next to the squad car. Her Aunt Izzy waved her over, stepping on the bench of a weathered picnic table so she could sit her sturdy frame on the eating surface.

Izzy had first been elected sheriff of Moreau Parish twenty-five years earlier. Angel could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen her aunt in civilian clothes.

Why did you even come to the memorial, Angel? Her accent mimicked everyone in Lemon Twig, easy and with a twang. It was an identifier, much like a sequence of DNA.

I’m a masochist. Angel straddled the bench like a seesaw, a few feet lower than her aunt. Letting Izzy have the position of power would be to her benefit. Thankfully, her pumps had stretched just enough to be tolerable.

No ulterior motives?

Damn, Aunt Izzy, I just got here.

It’s been a good seven years. What have you been doing down in New Orleans?

Keeping the feds off your doorstep. Her eye squinted as sunlight squeezed through the tree leaves.

And you had to come say goodbye to my sister’s ashes?

Ashes? Aunt Lorna wanted to be planted, not barbecued.

"The patronne said no. Every Blondeaux gets cremated, ever since the feds exhumed Uncle Lawrence back in the ’60s. Her aunt reached up, trying to touch a blossoming flower just inches away. Besides, Bobby would have to embalm her. Her own son. That’s just not right."

Two mourners opened the back door, then turned around with disgust when they spotted Angel. Izzy poked a thumb at the funeral home. Get used to that. You left, which is blasphemy, and became a fed, which is sacrilege.

Sounds like I’m excommunicated.

Yep.

Angel stifled a laugh. Well, this has been fun. I should get inside.

Izzy held up her hand. One more thing. Lorna’s new will.

What will?

Izzy’s eyes widened. She never told you? Lorna went outside the family to make a new will.

Wait, my mom’s her lawyer.

Not with this. Lorna named you in her will. You and Lucy May. No one else. Not even Bobby.

Me? How do you know that? Doesn’t it have to go through probate? Angel brushed a bug off her arm.

Izzy reached for the bloom again. She missed. I met the lawyer. He’s actually around here somewhere. A judge made him executor before checking with me first. Couldn’t stop that, but I tracked him down.

And he talked to you?

I have my ways. Her voice trailed. And the brave bastard still came here today.

I don’t want to know what you did. Angel shook her head. Why would Aunt Lorna bypass my mom?

Crazy, right? Your maw maw always suspected something wasn’t right with her lately.

My mom knows about this new will? Angel straightened her back and stretched, having been hunched while sitting.

She knows, but she’s going to act surprised when you tell her. Let her have that.

Yeah, I know my mom.

Lorna better have left Lucy May the land, and you a set of dishes, or shit will hit the fan.

Aunt Lorna was a hoarder. She probably just left me some of her crap.

Patronne isn't happy.

Is maw maw ever happy?

This last will and testament fiasco isn’t as bad as when you defected, but… you know. Izzy looked off to the distance. The patronne came down from her mansion to be with the peasants. With one final reach, Izzy managed to snag the large white flower off the low branch. It snapped off as her butt lightly touched back down on the picnic table.

And Bobby? How’s he taking his mom’s death?

Who knows? She pushed the bloom into her nose. Word is, he talks to the dead bodies before embalming them. Her finger twirled next to her head. I hope that’s all he does.

Ew. He has Autism and was abused for it. Have a heart.

She rolled her eyes. "Lucy May says he wants to move away, too, but his reasons I understand."

"Being a Blondeaux isn’t for everyone. It’s messed up that anyone who marries into our side of the clan has to take the Blondeaux name, male or female. Like it’s a royal lineage."

"We are royals. Izzy eased off the picnic table, throwing the blossom at the base of a nearby trashcan. She casually walked to her cruiser, reached in the front seat, and pulled out something from her glove compartment. She returned, presenting a business card to Angel. That’s the lawyer’s info."

Thanks.

"Don’t the FBI pay you anything? You still driving that piece of shit truck? What do you call it… the stone?"

Rock. It’s the Rock. Angel glanced at her 1980 F150, powder blue pickup. Most dependable thing in my life. She put the card in her pocket.

Your dad will be happy you still have it. Izzy moseyed past Angel toward the back entrance. You heading back to New Orleans tonight? What is that, a six-hour drive?

About six. But, I’m staying with the folks. Saying the words aloud actually made it real. She took a breath.

No shit.

"I was never not... I’m not the one who… never mind."

Un-huh. Don’t wait too long to come in. Reverend Trevor is going to give a long and winding speech.

Wouldn’t want to miss that.

Chapter 4

The Divinity Room of The Wilkens Funeral Home was at capacity. Some of the family and friends sat, while others meandered, shaking hands. Men sported suits off the rack, and the women fancied dresses usually reserved for church. By all accounts, it looked like an average Lemon Twig Protestant mass. None of the mourners were distressed. Lorna was considered a figurehead, and not many had been close to her.

Angel stood in the rear by a little table with a water dispenser and trays of cookies and finger sandwiches. In the corner were two ice chests with beer and Coke for when the kitchen got crowded. On the wall behind her was a large painting of Saint Jude, as indicated by the frame's engraved plate.

No one paid attention to Angel. Donald and John were delusional to think she could extract helpful information. However, they were right in the fact that no outsider would ever get this close. Inheriting something of substance from Lorna would be the only thing to advance the stagnant investigation.

Two large men appeared just feet away, gently moving people to create a path. The head of the family, her maw maw Paulette, made her way with a cane. This was the woman at the heart of their criminal syndicate—the patronne.

Angel met her halfway. The room seemed to stop talking.

If Paulette's descendants were the royal lineage as Izzy put it, then her grandmother was Queen Elizabeth. However, Izzy indicated the old lady had lost touch with the family's pulse just as Angel had, but in an entirely different way. It was as if she had become a dictator, abandoning the hands-on involvement every head of family had before her.

Her wrinkled, veiny hand reached out, taking Angel’s. Maw maw Paulette smiled with her twinkling eyes. Good to see you.

Good to be home, Angel responded.

With that, the patronne continued to her seat. Background conversation resumed, and Angel was once again alone. If Angel knew anything, it was that her grannie wasn't pleasant. That short sterile exchange meant Angel wasn't welcome.

A few minutes passed and still no Reverend Trevor. A matured Lucy May weaved through the crowd, taking the same path their maw maw had. Angel reminded herself that Lucy May and her twin Bobby were the same age as her; however, they seemed so much younger.

Lucy May was oddly attractive, like a European fashion model that wasn’t traditionally beautiful. Her brunette bob hadn’t changed in seven years, but her bangs were too long. Thick eyebrows angled perfectly. And she had a little button nose that many women pay dearly to get.

Lucy May said, I'm glad you made it. Her voice was light, airy, and very country.

You look good.

We’re not twenty-two anymore.Her fingers curled her hair as if a nervous habit.

It was a lifetime ago. You had two lives. One before the murder of your dad, and one after.

My timeline seems to be defined by tragedies.

The pause they shared was more for reflection than just an awkward moment.

When are you leaving? Lucy May’s expression was inquisitive.

Tomorrow. Angel hoped to draw her out. Working?

Sort of. Her brown eyes widened as she looked up at Saint Jude on the wall. She audibly inhaled. I’m a receptionist at Blondeaux Landscaping. Pretty easy stuff.

Angel cleared a tuft of hair from Lucy May's left eye. You're so pretty. Have you thought about a new hairstyle? Side-swept… maybe layers. Some highlights.

A grin cracked her lips. Her head bowed. I have to go. The reverend likes me in the front during his services.

Why? Angel thought. Because you’ll be the new patronne one day?

Lucy May disappeared into the mourners. A minute later, Reverend Trevor materialized at the front of the room and began speaking like a televangelist. The senior pastor of God's Light Church reflected on happier times, occasionally reaching out to touch the decorative urn as if to comfort Lorna's ashes. He was more sincere than the practiced sermons she remembered. His eyes locked on Angel's for a moment, but that meant nothing as he glanced everywhere. He stood above the average resident at six-foot-two. Since his back injury, however, he had let himself go in the mid-section.

The room’s attention focused on him. He relished controlling the masses. The mourners were equally captivated. Some stood on the outer walls, but everyone listened without interruption while maw maw Paulette was in attendance.

Lucy May had found her spot in the front row next to their grandmother. The lawyer Mark Senn hadn't made himself known yet. No one else approached Angel, and she didn't expect them to. While inside the funeral home, everyone would be respectful. Her parents were near the front row, where her dad nursed a beer.

Lorna's son hadn't made an appearance. Bobby was still the oddity in Lemon Twig - the murderer turned embalmer, who lived in an upstairs bedroom of the funeral home. Bobby had been mistreated most of his life by all accounts, thrown into a cage when he misbehaved or his Autism acted up. Despite Lorna's impending power of being patronne, Doug kept an aggressive hold on the family behind closed doors. Lorna hadn't protected her children from Doug, which led to Bobby killing him.

The reverend ended his eulogy by giving a public announcement. He said, As everyone is aware, we have outgrown our home at God’s Light. We plan on breaking ground on our new church sometime this month or next. It will be a glorious, grand house of God, I assure you. In the meantime, my wonderful staff and I will continue to hold mass within the walls that birthed our great church.

This drew applause from the room. The reverend’s hands attempted to quiet everyone. Please enjoy the refreshments, the crawfish boil that follows, and remember Miss Lorna fondly. God bless.

As Trevor spoke with a junior pastor, he gazed through the parting crowd at Angel. This time he held it.

Chapter 5

The Wilkens Funeral Home slowly emptied. Angel’s parents and other mourners kissed and hugged. Relatives eased their way toward the crawfish boil being held in a picnic area with sheltered tables and a pretty gazebo. She approached her folks as they exited. They merely looked at her, then at each other without expression.

Such a warm greeting, Angel jested, moving to meet them under the oak’s shade.

People can see us, dear. Her mother’s pretty, pudgy face remained in a state of concern. Smiles were rare. Her short, dishwater-blonde hair