The Weekend Visitor Read online

  Perhaps Mary's overneatness and emotional neediness were less a matter of control and needing than they were of the very human desire to be needed ... by something ... by someone. And maybe being such a control freak was because she was afraid that if she ever warn V in control. . . well, we had just seen what that brought on.

  Chapter 19

  Trish and John were waiting for me, complete with a little package of all they thought I might need: map of Louisiana, last known address of May and June Malik, plane ticket to New Orleans, rental car reservation, three hundred dollars in cash, the special credit card they kept for me to use on trips, etc.

  "Where the hell is Haute Bayou?"

  "Out near Morgan City."

  "Where the hell is Morgan City?"

  "Out in the bayou area."

  "Well, that's helpful. Still in the United States, I assume. John, do you realize somebody has me on a seven a.m. flight out of Boston? Do you know what time I'll have to get up?"

  "Well," he shuffled papers importantly, "I figured it would give you time to find the place before dark."

  "Just how far out in the boonies is this bayou? Maybe I should stay over in New Orleans and drive over the next morning." I looked at the map. I would not have been surprised to find areas marked "Here be dragons."

  "Oh, I think you can do it in one day." God forbid I should have a night in New Orleans. "Now, before you leave, take some color shots of the old garage and the cottage behind it. I want May and June to realize how run-down it has become. And show the Police Impound Lot on the one side and that 'adult' film rental place on the other. I don't want them thinking that property is worth a bag of gold as a B&B or restaurant or cutsie little boutique. Here's the sales agreement. And here are your figures to deal with."

  He handed me a slip of paper. "The two prospective buyers will pay this much maximum, but start twenty thousand lower. And here's a check for the binder. The bank will honor your signature on this. Give 'em up to fifteen thousand, but try for five. Now, all set to leave Thursday?"

  "I guess so. I hope I can wrap this up and get home for at least part of the weekend. How about leaving Wednesday?"

  Trish at least had the grace to look embarrassed. "Er, we couldn't get you a seat on the early flight until Thursday," she said, not meeting my eye.

  "Okay," I sighed. "Always a pleasure doing business with you and Ebenezer.

  "By the way ..." I recounted the morning saga.

  John shook his head. "This whole thing is worrisome, and the really bad thing is, everyone is here and liable to run into each other, and it won't really be resolved for another six months."

  "Oh, it may be." Trish gave an acid smile. "Let's see. Jack kills Maureen. Mary kills Grace. Richard kills Mary. Then he and Jack duel over who gets the baby—which has been miraculously C-sectioned into life—and kill each other. Leaving Lillian with all the money and the baby and they live happily ever after."

  "I'm outta here."

  That evening I recounted my day to Cindy, and no part of it pleased her. She felt that Mary might understandably be cracking up. She didn't trust Maureen.

  "You know," she said, "I've heard of women sort of selling their babies before they are born. They go to a large city, get a lawyer to advertise for people who want to adopt but don't want to go through all the rigmarole or have an eligibility problem, and the lawyer sets up a deal where the couple pays expenses plus some cash and gets the baby when it's born." She sipped her Cape Codder and set the glass back on the outdoor table. "I asked Trish about it. She says it's both legal and fairly common. Dear Maureen may just not be here some morning."

  It sounded pretty convoluted to me. "Why should Maureen bother? She's already got that set up with the Sanhopes."

  "She's already got four thousand in cash out of them, minus that eight hundred Grace is so adamant about. Trish says it's easy to get ten thousand dollars, and sometimes more, for a healthy Caucasian kid. That would make at least fourteen thousand dollars all told ... and she screws the Sanhopes to boot, which would please her. And she's rid of Mary, who's getting super-intense about this."

  I took a belt of Bud. "That's plain dishonest."

  An irritated looked crossed Cindy's face. "I don't know what Maureen has done to charm you so thoroughly. She's been plain dishonest from the get-go." She stood up and walked into the house.

  Finishing my beer and cigarette, I wondered what was bothering her. I hadn't been especially defensive of Maureen. I didn't trust her either. I went inside to find Cindy cutting up a salad. I decided to risk the knife.

  "Honey, I don't know why you're upset. I have no great love for Maureen. I'll keep my wallet in an inside pocket when she's around and count the silver when she leaves." I put my arms around her and tried a light touch. "Now Amazin' Grace is the one to worry about. She called me her hero."

  Cindy managed a weak grin, gave me a peck on the cheek and returned to the salad. "Oh, darling, don't mind me. I'm just all at sixes and sevens. Bad day at work. And the car is making that noise again. Frankly, I'm not happy with you on an airplane. And I do wish I could go with you. I've never been to New Orleans, and we could have such fun!"

  I was getting confused. Did she think I was just whisking off to the Deep South for a few days' vacation? Had she forgotten it was work, not riverboat cruises and love under the magnolias? And I strongly suspected I was less likely to die in a mid-air explosion than I was of indigestion if I ate all the cucumbers she was absent-mindedly slicing into the salad.

  "Cindy," I said gently, "I've never been to New Orleans either, and I'll probably spend about forty-five minutes there ... in the airport. That's if they haven't lost my luggage and the car people haven't mislaid my reservation."

  "You mean you won't be dancing through the French Quarter with a beautiful belle on either arm?"

  "Not if John Frost has anything to say about it. I'll be slogging through mangrove bogs with alligators in hot pursuit."

  "Oh, well, why didn't you say so? As long as it's alligators in hot pursuit I won't worry."

  I took a deep breath and grabbed the salad bowl and set it on the table. Crisis past. Over dinner, Cindy told me of her day, mainly centered around a man who had previously bought some mutual fund shares and thought that because he owned a hundred shares of the fund, it meant he owned a hundred shares each of every stock the fund owned. He had tried to sell one of the stocks in the fund because he didn't approve of its product, and the fun had continued from there. Idiots are found everywhere, I suppose.

  Then we talked about what we should do with her hiccupping car. Finally, we discussed where Fargo should stay while I was away. We decided on leaving him with Mom, as usual. It would mean he spent less time alone. Perhaps more importantly, it would mean Mom didn't feel left out.

  Later, we made love, and it was warm and satisfying, as it always was. As I was dozing off, an errant thought floated across my mind: it would be nice to be getting out of Dodge for a few days.

  I went to sleep.

  Chapter 20

  I was a stranger in a strange land. It was a long way to Tipperary. There was a long, long trail a-winding. And I had miles to go before I slept. The afternoon sun glared in angry frustration against my air-conditioned cocoon. In the distance, heat waves made me wonder if the concrete of the road might indeed be liquid when I reached that spot.

  Inlets of sullen gray-green water showed first on my right, then on my left, a weak wind providing the occasional small, irritable whitecap. Sometimes the trees grew right up to the edge of the road, hung with Spanish moss. In my rearview mirror, I could see the breeze from my car set them to rocking and bending like old, bearded men lounging on a storefront porch and laughing at a dirty joke.

  I felt very alone and hoped that Hertz indeed maintained its rental cars as meticulously as it said it did. I did not want a breakdown on this road.

  Finally a small sign pointed to the right and said Haute Bayou 3 mi. I turned onto a narrower road, wher
e I passed a roadhouse, with a sign reading Cajun Cuizine Dancing Weekends atop a sagging roof. I wasn't tempted. Farther on, a twin building had a sign propped out front advertising Good Drinks, Good Eats, Good Music. I might have believed them had it not been for a pen off to the side holding two enormous hogs. I had a feeling they got a lot of leftovers.

  Then came the strip mall that I am convinced introduces every small town in America. I entered "downtown" which looked older and much more solid, boasting a bank, a post office, a cafe, a couple of small office buildings and, finally, a gas station. I wasn't especially low on gas, but I didn't want to get that way, either. And I needed directions, so I pulled in.

  The young man was pleasant and knowledgeable and informed the city slicker carefully to, "Go straight on down this road for two miles, turn left at a sign that points left and says 'Bayou Fishing Camp' and follow that there road right into th' front yard."

  Actually, I stopped a few feet short of the front yard in a neatly raked gravel parking area. I faced a rambling, big old house that looked in excellent repair, with flowers all around, a vegetable garden peeking around the back and a path leading down to a dock and bait shack on the bayou itself. Two other cars and a pickup truck shared the parking area with me. A giant dusty oak lent a suggestion of shady coolness to the porch, where a skinny teenage boy sat on the steps unsnarling the line on a fishing reel.

  "Hi," I said. "I'm looking for May and June Malik. Would you know if they're around?"

  "Not anymore." He turned and called into the house. "Hey, Mama, somebody's here to see those women who used to have the place."

  A pleasant-face woman in her forties stepped onto the porch. "Hello. I'm Edith Martine. May I help you?"

  I explained who I was and who I wanted and more or less why. Ms. Martine looked vague. "Well, we bought the place about four months ago, and they left the morning we finished it all up at the bank. My husband got disability from the fire department up in Baton Rouge, you see." She pointed skyward, making me wonder once again where I really was. "We bought this place, and naturally they would leave, you know."

  "Yes," I agreed with a smile. "I just wonder if you could give me their forwarding address?"

  "Why, no. They didn't leave one with us. Now that was strange, wasn't it?"

  It certainly was. "Er, did everything end up all right? I mean, did the sale go through properly for you?"

  "Oh, yes, everything was settled that morning at the bank. My husband's cousin works there, that's how we originally knew it was for sale—this place, not the bank, you understand." She laughed merrily.

  I smiled weakly. "Well, thank you. I guess that does it. I'll just find a place to stay the night and ask around town a bit tomorrow. Thanks, anyway."

  "Oh, right here!" She gave a little bow. "You should stay here. We have a lovely ground floor room available, with private bath. Come, I'll show you." She placed a friendly arm across my shoulder and I was led away.

  In fact, the room was quite nicely furnished, the bed looked clean and felt firm, and the bathroom was plain but adequate. A window fan moved the hot air around briskly, and I could but hope it would cool down at night. It was probably as good, or better, than I would find elsewhere, so I agreed to stay, despite a handprinted "No smoking, please" sign tucked in the mirror. Breakfast, I was told, was served from seven to nine.

  But dinner was what my stomach wanted first, so I went back into town and headed for the cafe, where I had surprisingly good large-mouth bass fillets fried in a spicy cornmeal batter. I asked the waitress if she knew the Malik sisters.

  "Sure," she said. "Though I didn't know they was sisters. Julie's name was Harker, I think."

  I wasn't surprised at the different last name. After all, one of them could have been married at some time, and the difference in June and Julie could just be a slip in pronunciation. But how could you look at twins and not assume they were sisters?

  "Any idea where they moved to? I need to locate them."

  "Over Florida-way, I heard. You might try looking over there."

  “Thank you."

  Back at the ranch, a bunch of people sat in the living room, laughing along with the canned audience at some sitcom. I bypassed them and located Ms. Martine in the kitchen, where I begged a small bowl of ice. I discovered my room was slightly cooler, but the minute I turned on the lights, bugs the size of blue jays began to bombard the screen. Knowing it was a matter of time before they won, I quickly put ice in the bathroom glass, added bourbon and turned out the lights.

  I felt my way back to the bathroom where I sat on the edge of the tub so I could flick ashes into the toilet and blow smoke out a small window. The bugs turned to other targets, allowing me to hear more distant night noises. Far away, a boat putt-putted and a bobcat screamed. Closer, I thought, an alligator roared. Then I heard a slow plop ... plop ... plop nearby in the bayou. At first, I was pretty sure it was fish jumping for the bugs attracted by the night-light on the dock. Then I became absolutely certain it was one of those three-toed dinosaurs that look like giant ostriches with very mean eyes, coming across the bayou. Plop . .. plop . . .

  I pulled the cell phone from my shirt and called Cindy. "Hi, darling," she said warmly. "I'm so glad you called! I miss you. Where are you?"

  "Jurassic Park."

  The sound of many feet passing my door woke me at the end of a sweaty, fitful, dream-filled night. Obviously the visiting fisherfolk were filing in to breakfast. I took a slow shower, repacked the little I had taken out for the night and stared out the window until they finished their meal. When I saw them sauntering down the path to the dock where the teenage boy was unfastening boat chains, I went into the dining room.

  Mr. and Mrs. Martine were smiling and alert. I felt scowling and logy but managed a smile and nod of thanks for my orange juice. A few moments later a large plate arrived, filled with two nicely cooked eggs, a slice of real country ham, a sausage patty and a spoonful of white stuff I took to be grits with a pat of butter melting in the center. Then came a small basket holding two hot biscuits, and a bread-and-butter plate with real butter and homemade strawberry preserves. Coffee completed the service, and I was left to take a delicate taste of grits. And then a less delicate one. They were really quite good.

  Food helped, although the sausage cleared my sinuses a little more thoroughly than was comfortable. I didn't linger over coffee, thanks to another no smoking sign on the buffet. I stuck my head into the kitchen, where the Martines were having a well-deserved cigarette, and asked if we could settle up. We could, and when I was told that the tally was $55, I made myself retract all the snide thoughts I'd been harboring.

  I drove into town and started my inquiries at the bank with Cousin Martine. He seemed quite startled that the bank had no forwarding address for Ms. Malik and Ms. Harker. It seemed the waitress had been right last night about the second name. They didn't really need an address, he explained. Everything had been settled at the closing, but somebody really should have jotted it down, just in case. He knew they'd gone over Florida-way and was almost certain they were on the west coast thereof.

  I moved on to the post office, where I was told it was a crying shame how many people forgot to fill out change-of-address cards. It caused no end of problems for all concerned. It was certainly causing plenty for me.

  More with the thought of being thorough than any hope of being successful, I went down the block to a small concrete block building with a drooping flag out front and a sign that read "Sheriff's Office" above the door. I entered and saw a man whose ID tag said he was Sheriff R. Laurence himself.

  "Mornin'. I wondered when you'd show up." He had a sweet, grandfatherly smile.

  "Why did you think I would?" I grinned back.

  "Oh, you were asking directions yesterday, in a rental car. Your car was at the fishing camp overnight. I just saw you go in the bank and the post office. So I reckoned you'd misplaced somebody, like mebbe May Malik or Julie Harker."

  He motione
d me to a corner office and to a chair across from his desk. A small air conditioner struggled in the window and I raised my voice to override its growl. "You hit it. They moved, and I can't find anybody with their new address." I showed him my license and explained my mission. "I hope they're just careless. You don't suppose they're some kind of serial killers, do you?" I skipped over the Julie/June submystery. I'd work that out when I found them.

  "Haven't had no complaints," he chortled. "I don't know 'zactly where they are either, but maybe I can help." He pulled out an atlas. "May mentioned to Jeeny White—she's the hairdresser— that they had bought another B&B over on an island off Florida. Now there's several islands over there, you'll notice, but Julie had said something about this inn being near Bradenton and Sarasota. Mentioned it to Arthur Pare. He runs Parc's Market, you see."

  "I see." I really did. I knew exactly how small towns operated.

  "Well, there's three islands it could be. But I know that area a little bit, done some fishin' over there from time to time. And I think it ain't St. Armand's Key. That's way too snooty for your average B&B. Same for Longboat Key, that's gone real upscale over recent years. So that leaves Holmes Beach." He stabbed his finger down on a little blob on the map and grinned up at me over his glasses.

  "If I was a betting man, I'd say that is where you'll find 'em."

  "That's good enough for me." I felt quite relieved. "Holmes Beach, here I come. All I have to do is figure out how to get there."

  "There's probably a flight out of Baton Rouge, just up a ways." He waved vaguely over his shoulder. Haute Bayouites seemed a little fuzzy on the location of their state capital.

  "Well, Sheriff, forgive me if I say I'd rather spend a night in New Orleans than Baton Rouge. You've been a treasure trove of information. What's a good place to stay in New Orleans?"