Easy Street

By Reita O'Neal Jackson, Sheila O'Neal Ladd and Judith O'Neal Lott

From a beautiful old country home set among live oaks and roses facing the temperamental Gulf waters of the Mississippi Coast to the bewitching city of New Orleans and the hypnotic swamps and bayous to its south, three middle-aged sisters find themselves entangled in a series of mysteries they are determined to solve.

In the summer of 2010, the Meriwether sisters, Vy, Rose, and Indigo, return to the Mississippi Gulf Coast to live in their family home after spending years apart pursuing their own endeavors. Three years later, as they start to relax after renovating their home and gardens, Indigo finds a mysterious trunk in the brimful attic she is cleaning out to refurbish as an apartment for herself. The sisters are curious about the paintings found inside that were mailed to their great-grandparents in the 1940s, but they cannot find any explanation as to where they came from or who the artist was.

As they mull over this discovery, the sale of a nearby home sends them peeking out windows and knocking on doors trying to catch a glimpse of their new reclusive neighbor. Only random lights at night and an occasional twitched curtain suggest that anyone lives there.

Then a spontaneous trip to New Orleans sends them on a mission to find a young girl they believe might be in danger. Following leads that take them into the swamps south of New Orleans, the talents of all three sisters are needed to guide them: Vy's artist's eye, Rose's sleuthing, and Indigo's intriguing instincts.

Written by three sisters, each creating her own character, the fictitious Vy, Rose, and Indigo have distinct personalities and led independent and far-flung lives before coming together under one roof in the house their great-grandparents built overlooking the ever-changing waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Independent, caring, smart, carefree, fearless, funny, and hospitable, these women are a testament to Southern women and all people living life with humor and zest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hickory Hill
• Release date: Apr 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215060889

Reita O'Neal Jackson

The author has held many positions including high school teacher, social worker, nurse, and bed and breakfast owner, but though she was a freelance writer for a few years, she never thought she would ever be the writer of a fantasy book. Having a grandson immersed in all things magical however, inspired her to take up pen and paper to create a fantasy world filled with wonderful creatures and an epic battle. The Defenders is a labor of love, and with the help of her grandson, who named some of the characters and talked through scenarios, a new world was created. She resides with her husband in the peace of rural Mississippi, where she is at work on her next book.

Book preview

Chapter One

Indigo paused in her sorting long enough to wipe her grimy hands on the torn remnant of a faded shirt she’d scavenged from what looked like a bag of old clothes saved by some long ago seamstress for quilt pieces. The attic was stifling. What little relief the early morning brought had long since changed to smothering heat. Humid August mornings weren’t exactly a great time to be cleaning out an attic in the Deep South, but she had put it off and put it off—and now was determined to get it done. Taking a deep breath and puffing it out, she wiped her face with the hem of her T-shirt and looked around the cluttered area, checking her progress. A narrow path through the castoffs and treasures of three generations wound through the two rooms of the attic. She was having a good time exploring it, marveling at some of it, but at times overwhelmed by such a vast undertaking.

Standing with hands on hips, she watched the lazy sunbeams streaming through the east windows. She was going to love this attic! It must have originally been intended for living space, since the flooring, walls, and ceiling were finished, though as far as she knew it had been used for storage since the house was built nearly a century ago. Large windows brought in light from every direction and gave stunning views of the different aspects of the property.

To the east was Joli Petit Bayou flowing sluggishly toward the Gulf. It was home to large white cranes, great blue herons, egrets, ospreys, and other birds and attracted four-legged wildlife to amble its brackish waters. The opposite direction overlooked Grandmother’s rose garden, renovated and now thriving under Vy’s care. At the back, windows in a shed dormer overlooked the kitchen garden, which rambled over a good portion of the backyard, along with a small meadow and dense woods that lay between the property line and the road that curved past the neighbors’ yards on its way to the nature preserve.

The south windows had what most people would think was the grandest view. But, while it was nice to be able to look out a window at the gray Gulf waters, Indigo preferred to be more intimately involved in this vista, wandering aimlessly along the water’s edge or sifting through the tiny treasures tossed upon the sand, taking in deep breaths of the fresh, sea-scented air and watching the antics of the gulls as they swooped and then floated on the wind currents.

Arching her back to stretch out the kinks, she tried to decide which part of the chaos she wanted to tackle next, or whether she’d rather go downstairs for a glass of the strong, iced, sweet tea she craved when she was hot. She was favoring the tea when her eyes fell on an old wooden trunk nearly hidden underneath an ancient secretary piled high with tattered books and dusty, yellowing papers. Her curiosity piqued, she waded through the stacks of odds and ends and knelt down to get a better look. It appeared to be a homemade wooden trunk with dull brass hinges and an ornate brass lock that seemed out of place with the simple lines of the trunk. She tried to raise the lid, but in the tight quarters and with the trunk held fast by the legs of the secretary, she felt no movement at all. Whether it was locked or not she couldn’t tell, but she’d bet it was. Surely if it wasn’t locked the lid would have moved at least a fraction. Well, rats! She’d have to move the secretary.

Quickly forgetting the heat and her desire five minutes ago for a tall glass of tea, she hopped up and began removing the books and papers from the secretary into a neat stack on the floor. Then she stood back, absent-mindedly poking some loose strands of hair back behind her ear and tightening her sagging ponytail, and tried to think of some way to move the secretary off the trunk by herself. After discarding several options, she sighed. Not gonna happen. The wretched thing fit so tightly over the trunk, it seemed to have been made purposefully to cover it. She shook her head at the notion. Probably just making good use of attic space. Regardless, she’d have to wait and get her sisters’ help when they returned from town.

Turning away from the trunk, she surveyed the immense amount of work still left to do. The stifling heat was creeping in, hotter and hotter. She must have air if she were to continue working in this fiery oven. After struggling to wrestle a couple of windows open a crack on the east and north sides of the room, she relaxed, happy to feel a semblance of a cross breeze. The other windows were stuck fast from disuse, but she’d settle for what she could get for now. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams as the breeze blew in. After tightening her ponytail again and pulling the end through the band to lift the hair off her neck, she settled her glasses more firmly on her nose and flapped her shirt to stir up a breeze over her too-warm skin.

Glancing around at the room where she was working, the smaller of the two in the attic, she was satisfied with her progress so far. Three semi-organized stacks lay heaped in a cleared-out section of the room—one headed for the dump and another to the charity bin. The last one, full of appealing finds, she’d pick through more carefully later. There were some vintage clothes that Rose might like and an old rug with faded roses twining around the border that would look great in what would soon be her bedroom. She had found a couple of old hats she would claim before Rose saw them—quirky and one-of-a-kind. She would relish this little bit of accomplishment and not think about how far she still had to go.

It was so difficult to place anything in the dump pile. She knew she had a sentimentality issue, always had. Probably always would. It was hard for her to let go of anything, no matter how ratty and worn, that someone she loved had owned or used. She ran her hand over the brim of one of the hats. Who had worn this old hat? Mother? Grandmother? As she touched the brim with her fingers, she saw her great-grandmother, whom she and her sisters called Granny, materialize right in front of her, smiling, the hat perched over her gray upswept hair.

I wondered whose hat this was, Indigo said, smiling back at Granny. I hope you don’t mind if I wear it? Granny didn’t answer, of course, but she was still smiling when she slowly faded away. Indigo laid the hat aside.

Humming "All I Ask of You," one of her favorite songs from The Phantom of the Opera, she chose one of the carefully stacked boxes in the corner and began rummaging through it, not expecting to find any treasures particularly, but one never knew. The castoffs were from her great-grandparent’s, grandparent’s, and parent’s generations, and she never knew which relic, ancient or more modern, might appeal to her until she held it in her hands. One reason the attic was taking so long to clear out was due to the memories so many of its harbored objects evoked. Sighing, she hoped not to see her Granny’s face as she set the box on the dump pile—worn and faded clothing that none of the sisters, or even the lowliest vagrant, could possibly find a use for.

Giving the attic a quick once-over, she headed downstairs to get that tea and maybe wash the dust and grime away in a nice cool shower.

Freshly showered and dressed in her usual summer garb of long gauzy skirt and soft T-shirt, her damp hair braided into a loose plait, Indigo settled into the backyard swing with her second glass of tea. The deep shade of the huge live oak made the summer heat bearable, its shadows lessening the glare of the sun and decreasing the temperature by at least five degrees. It was not one of the largest of the magnificent giants that flourished along the coast, but a stunning specimen nonetheless—and an indomitable survivor of several catastrophic hurricanes. Some of its trunk-sized limbs swept almost to the ground, and sitting in the swing was like being in a secluded forest glade. The creak of the swing’s chains was soothing as she pushed slowly with her toes back and forth to keep the swing in motion. Except for the twittering of an occasional bird, and a slow car on the street nearby, there was no other sound that broke the silence.

Swinging gently, she thought about her grandmother, who loved spending time in the swing, sitting next to Indigo and her sisters, her low voice talking of one thing or another, her hands usually busy with mindless chores such as shelling peas or shucking corn in the summertime or embroidering or mending during the other seasons. Except for the coldest, rainiest, or hottest days of the year, some of the family could be found daily swinging in this very spot. It was her grandfather’s favorite napping spot, too, and one of Indigo’s favorite memories was of him lying on his back or side, his arm underneath his head to cushion it from the hard boards.

The swing was replaced with regularity because of the wear and tear the weather placed on it, but each replacement was faithfully painted a pale greenish blue and was always large enough so three or even four adults could fit comfortably in it. Since she was a child, this had been Indigo’s favorite place for reading or thinking when she visited her grandmother, and she had fallen easily back into that pattern when she returned to the Coast three years ago. She felt Grandmother’s presence most strongly here in this swing—or in the kitchen—two of Grandmother’s favorite places.

Now, besides Indigo and her two sisters, Rose and Vy, there was only Uncle Byron, who lived close by. The sisters had been separated from each other for years by jobs, distance, and circumstances, busy living their exceedingly different lives. And while they kept in close touch, it wasn’t the same as living in the same town—or under the same roof. So far, they seemed to have hammered out a workable plan for sharing their space in relative harmony. It helped that the house was roomy enough to allow space for each.

The attic would give Indigo the room she needed to not only spend some time alone, but to create, undisturbed. Writing, for her, was best done in solitude and with large chunks of time available, not the dribbles of time that usually came her way. She made better progress when she could write a complete first draft of an article in one sitting, unless it was particularly detailed and lengthy.

She was also looking forward to gaining room enough to spread her projects out and leave them without feeling like the clutter would take over her entire space. (She couldn’t abide clutter.) Designing the flyers and posters that made up another part of her income likewise took concentration and blocks of time. On the other hand, much of her photography didn’t require so much concentration, and the simple folk scenes she embroidered and sold to the John C. Campbell Folk School and a few local shops could easily be done with a fair amount of noise and confusion around.

They would all three have more than enough space when her present room on the second floor became part of Vy’s space. She liked to think of three sisters stacked neatly on top of each other: Rose on the first floor in what had been their grandparents’ suite, Vy on the second, and her on the third.

As she surveyed the garden through half-closed lids, her eyes came to rest on the house next door. The house had been vacant for several months, almost a year actually, the realtor’s for sale sign such a fixed part of the landscape she had been startled to see it gone. Apparently, the house was now occupied, though the only sign of it was the older model minivan with a Louisiana license plate parked in the driveway. Otherwise, it still had the look of an empty, abandoned house.

It was a medium-sized cottage and just far enough away to make good neighbors. Only the front and a small bit of the side of the house could be glimpsed from where she sat. From what she could remember, it had been built in the 1950s by a couple who later retired back to their hometown somewhere up north, Indiana maybe? The next owners were the McAfees, a funny, sociable couple with children who were close in age to Indigo and her siblings. They had romped, fought, spent lots of time together, and at times considered each other best friends until they all scattered to the winds, grown up with lives of their own. The elder McAfees had moved out a year ago to become wanderers, see the world from a travel trailer, and spend time with their grandchildren.

Indigo was glad it had sold. To her way of thinking, there was nothing much sadder than an empty, neglected house. She wanted to know an old house’s story, particularly the long-neglected ones. The McAfee house was not falling down by any means but would undoubtedly look happier with people living there once more.

To Indigo, there was invariably a curiosity about new neighbors. Would they bring noise and mayhem or add to the peacefulness of the area? She hoped for no barking dogs, revving motors, or loud voices. It took only one neighbor to destroy the peace, but time would tell. The quicker she and her sisters met the neighbor, the quicker they could begin to form an opinion, and the happier Indigo would be.

Swigging down the last of her tea and sighing at the thought of having to move, she sauntered slowly across the yard and set the glass down on the back steps, picked up a basket from the pile inside the back door, and strolled through the garden looking for inspiration for lunch. It would be a late lunch today since Vy and Rose were running errands and hadn’t reappeared. The meal needed to be light and quick to prepare. Sliced tomatoes would be good, she thought, along with an herb quiche and fruit. There were plenty of Brandywines left. She picked two of the largest ones, nestling them in the basket, and went in search of the herbs she would need—chives, thyme, and parsley. The chives were getting as travel-happy as the mint, she noticed, but thinning them would have to wait.

Chapter Two

An hour later, Indigo was puttering along happily in the kitchen, the quiche smelling heavenly, a fruit salad chilling in the fridge, and the tomatoes being sliced, when she heard car doors slam.

In-di-go . . . Rose called as she rounded the corner, her arms filled with packages. Oh, there you are! she said, as she dropped the packages on the table. Come see what Vy and I scrounged up in town. Rose sniffed the air appreciatively.

What’d you get? Indigo asked, rinsing her hands and the knife and placing the knife on a cloth to dry.

It’s for your new room, Vy said as she followed Rose into the kitchen. She handed Indigo the flat package she was carrying and motioned for her to open it. Indigo looked at her sisters dubiously, staring at each one in turn to gauge what they were up to. Vy looked like an innocent and adorable ten-year-old, excitedly fluffing out her shoulder-length blond hair with one hand, while Rose watched the moment with characteristic drollness.

Shrugging, Indigo gave them the benefit of the doubt and tore off the brown paper that covered the gift.

Oh, my goodness! she exclaimed. It was a painting of a bright full moon shining through the stark, bare branches of a tree, with the blurred, twirling figure of a girl in a long flowing skirt dancing below. It wasn’t exactly primitive, but the artist painted only what was needed. Minimalist. Smiling, she said, I swear this is exactly the kind of thing I would paint. If I could paint, I mean! Her sisters knew she loved to dabble and that her efforts were terrible at best!

Rose and Vy grinned at each other.

Isn’t it the most perfect thing for your new room? Vy asked.

"The very most perfect thing!"

When we saw it, Vy said, "we were reminded of you. We actually thought it was you! You know, the way you dress, the long dark hair. Well, you know it used to be dark!"

Indigo patted her gray streaked hair as they all laughed.

But, anyway, Vy continued, "we found it tacked up on the wall at Nancy’s Attic and thought it would fit your attic space much better!"

After holding the painting at arm’s length and studying it, Indigo turned and smiled again at her sisters. It’s wonderful and gives me even more incentive to get the attic completed! She went to place it on the end of the counter, but propped her elbows on the counter instead and scrutinized it a few seconds before laying it down. Thank y’all so much! she said as she hugged each of them. It’ll need some kind of plain, barely-there framing, don’t you think, Rose?

Rose, the handyman of the group, replied, I think I have just the thing. Why don’t you decide on the matting first, Vy? Then I can work on the frame.

I’m thinking no matting, Vy said, but show me the frame materials and we can decide later.

Oh, my gosh, exclaimed Rose, dashing toward the door. The groceries! They had been forgotten in their excitement, and the sisters scrambled to unload them. It wouldn’t take long for the mid-day heat to melt the mint chocolate chip ice cream they all craved!

During lunch Vy and Rose entertained Indigo with what little gossip they had gleaned from town. As Rose finished describing a new shop downtown, Vy forked a piece of tomato and chewed it slowly, relishing the taste, before changing the subject. Is there anything better than a fresh tomato? They seem even better than usual this year. In fact, I’m all for a tomato sandwich for supper tonight.

It must be your turn to cook. Rose laughed, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

So it is, Vy said, and I choose to make tomato sandwiches.

Fine with me, said Indigo. And speaking of tomatoes, we need to pick the last of them later when it’s a little cooler. Maybe we can get some of them canned before they rot on the vine.

We ought to just freeze these since we already have so many canned, Rose suggested hopefully. She’d rather eat paste than can!

"I’d usually vote with Indigo for canning, especially since it’s hurricane season and if the electricity is off we’ll lose all our frozen stuff, but we have about fifty jars canned already and freezing is so much easier! Vy said. She knew that if a hurricane came they could lose much more than frozen food. Even the canned food could be destroyed, along with the entire house. They’d been singularly lucky with Katrina. I think we’re growing way too many tomatoes!"

Yeah, let’s freeze these last few stragglers, Indigo agreed. I’ll be happy to do that tomorrow, and that should do it for this year! She took her plate to the sink, rinsed it, and placed it in the dishwasher. How about some ice cream?

After finishing their ice cream and tidying the kitchen, they went their separate ways. Vy wanted to catch up on some calls and to take a nap—she’d been up late the night before and, from her own description, felt wilted by the heat. Rose wandered off to look for framing materials while it was fresh on her mind, and Indigo went to her room to place her moon painting where she could admire it and then to do some research on the computer for a writing project she was in the middle of.

As she entered her room, her phone began to ring. She lay the painting on the bed and reached for the phone in her pocket, noticing that it was her friend Ella’s number.

Hi, Ella, she said as she plopped into the chair near the windows. Ella was a scooter-riding lawyer friend of hers, funny and not like anyone would imagine a lawyer to be, though Indigo knew that all lawyers couldn’t be grouped into a single mold. And while she was a prankster, funny, and seemingly light-hearted, she could flip to the thoroughly serious demeanor of a tough lawyer as fast as kudzu growing. Anyone who thought she could be easily deceived was in for a rude awakening. When she meant business, her look would freeze blood.

After a brief conversation, Indigo laughed and said, See you next week then, and clicked off. Ella wanted to go shopping and out to eat in Bay St. Louis the following week. Fun!

Indigo placed the painting on the shelf in her room and got to work. The computer was as slow as molasses, and she soon tired of her efforts. At such times when she absolutely couldn’t concentrate, she had learned to go with the feeling. Usually when she returned to the work, it went much better and faster.

Restless, she picked up the Wilkie Collins book she was reading. She loved the whole method of his writing, the interesting turn of phrases and his unique characters. She’d been meaning to read his collection for years—he was friends, after all, with Charles Dickens, whom she had always admired. But after a few pages of struggling to make sense of the words, she found she couldn’t even concentrate on Wilkie.

After fussing over some files and then pacing her room, she spied the old hats she’d brought down from the attic and decided to try them on. The one she loved best was a sagey color, with a dark brown ribbon above the brim. The brim only extended about three inches out, and the hat fit close to her head, a cloche she thought it was called and probably dated from the 1920’s or 30’s. Staring into the mirror, she smiled. Her green eyes, slightly olive complexion, and even the dark red frames of her new glasses went well with the look. After turning from side to side and preening just a little, she removed the hat and placed it carefully on the end of the dresser. She decided to keep it even though she couldn’t think of a place or a time she might wear it. Though one never knew.

The other hat was Granny’s old-fashioned straw sun hat with a faded flower on the crown and dark blue ribbon ties. Now, this one she could wear every day—in the garden, walking on the beach, picnicking, you name it. As Indigo placed it on her head, she had a feeling of calm and whispered, Thank you, Granny, before laying it aside next to the cloche.

In that instant she remembered the trunk she’d found, so she picked up the clothes she’d brought down from the attic and went in search of her sisters.

She found them in Rose’s room. What are y’all doing? she asked, holding out the clothes for Rose. I thought you might like these. They’re cool! I’d take them myself, but I can’t pull off that tall, thin look!

Rose laid them across the bed, keeping the top outfit and holding it against herself. She was proud to have some height advantage over the other two: Vy, the oldest, by a good inch, and Indigo, the youngest, by three. She could definitely rock tall and thin.

What? Nothing for me? Vy asked, with a feigned hurt look.

I didn’t find anything I thought you might be interested in; though, come to think of it, why don’t you look at an old mirror I unearthed? You might like that. Sorry I interrupted whatever y’all were talking about, by the way.

You didn’t interrupt anything. We were about to come look for you, Rose said over her shoulder as she walked to the full-length mirror. These old clothes are so much better made than anything you can buy today, she said, twisting from side to side. This was probably Mama’s dress when she was younger than we are. How wonderful would that be! Looking more carefully at the style of the clothes, she said, These might even have belonged to Grandmother . . . back in her younger, skinnier days!

Rose! Indigo admonished, as Rose placed the dress back on the bed.

You know what I mean, Rose said.

Yeah, I know. Why don’t you wait and try them on later? Vy might want to look through them, too, particularly the dresses. Vy started over toward the clothes but was redirected toward the door as Indigo began ushering them out of the room. I can’t wait another minute to show y’all something I found in the attic.

Oh, good, said Vy. It must be a hundred degrees in that attic. Can’t it wait?

Absolutely not, Indigo retorted. By way of enticement, she added over her shoulder, I’ll show you that mirror while we’re up there.

Well in that case, lead on, Vy said drolly, rolling her eyes.

But when they entered the attic, the heat wasn’t so bad. The windows were still cracked open and Indigo had brought up a fan. Not cool by any means but not suffocatingly hot either.

What in the world is so important to drag us into this oven? Vy asked, flapping her hand in her face.

You’ll see, Indigo replied.

Making her way along the path she’d cleared earlier, she went straight to the trunk. Look at this! Do you ever remember seeing it up here?

Vy and Rose squatted down to get a better look, and Vy reached out her hand to try and lift the lid. As much as we played up here, you’d think we’d remember, but, of course, we wouldn’t have paid any attention to something like this back then.

It’s stuck tight and won’t budge, Indigo said. I thought we could lift the secretary straight up and out of the way so we could get to it.

Without too much effort the three managed to do just that.

Vy knelt in front of the trunk and again tried to lift the lid. First with one hand, then with both. Phooey, she said, it’s either stuck tight or locked. Did you look for a key?

Not really. I hoped it was only stuck and not locked.

As she spoke, she began to open the drawers in the secretary. The key wouldn’t necessarily be in the secretary, but it made sense that it would be stored in close proximity to the trunk, so that seemed the logical place to begin. Relying on mystery book knowledge, she not only searched the crevices and corners of the secretary but also ran her hands underneath it and even banged and pulled on all the possible places a secret drawer or hiding place might be located. Probing at the back of one of the drawers, Edgar Allan Poe and his Purloined Letter came to mind and a saying that often turned out to be true: something about hiding in plain sight. So she began to look in more obvious places as Vy and Rose checked along the surface and hinges of the trunk. No key.

Do you think we could break into it without damaging anything? Indigo asked.

Rose was trying the lid again but had no better luck than her sisters. Do you have a flashlight up here? she asked Indigo.

I think there’s one right inside the door from the stairs, she replied as she strode off to look.

What could be in it? Vy asked.

I hope it’s a pile of gold coins. Or jewels. Or a trunk full of money, Rose said.

Wouldn’t it be great if it’s filled with money? Indigo could use it to finish the attic renovation! Vy said. Of course, it’s probably just some old papers or something. And we’ll faint dead away in this heat for nothing!

Indigo returned with the flashlight and handed it to Rose.

Rose sat crosslegged on the floor in front of the trunk, put on her reading glasses that hung from a beaded string around her neck, and shined the light into the keyhole. Piece of cake, she said. Paper clips, please, holding out her hand like a surgeon.

Well, really, Rose, there’s not any paper clips up here, Vy said, looking at her like she’d taken leave of her senses.

Wait a minute, Indigo said, swiveling around. Let’s see. I’m sure I saw some somewhere. Pulling out the middle drawer of the secretary, she muttered, Not here. Searching through several odds and ends boxes she’d looked through earlier, she finally found two in an old sewing basket of all places. Two is all I see, she said, handing them to Rose.

Two is all I need, Rose replied. She bent one into a curve at the bottom and the other into an L shape. Inserting them both into the lock, she went to work while Vy and Indigo eyed her speculatively.

Are you a burglar? Vy tittered.

Indigo laughed.

No, I am not a burglar, Rose smirked, though I do have many talents. Breaking and entering happens to be one of them.

Vy and Indigo looked at each other. They couldn’t always tell if Rose was serious or not.

Rose deftly manipulated one of the paper clips upward and, as the pin inside clicked, used the other paperclip to hold it in place. She continued the process until all the pins were disengaged and the lock was open.

As Rose began to lift the lid of the trunk, Indigo said, Drum roll, please!

Vy and Rose ignored her, and Rose opened the trunk.

Each of them was as curious as the