Page 29 of The Shop on Royal Street
I shook my head, thinking of the wet footprints, and a little girl who’d disappeared and never been found. “Not really. Beau’s mother and his little sister. And I guess we could add his father to that list, too, since his body was never recovered after the storm.”
Jaxson nodded solemnly. “My family had already evacuated, so we weren’t here when it happened, but it’s all anybody could talk about when we finally moved back into town, and that was five months later.” He paused. “Why the interest? Did Beau ask you? Because Mimi has always made it clear that she believes Sunny is gone forever and hasmade a point of never talking about it because she doesn’t want to reopen an old wound. And since Beau’s parents didn’t evacuate, it’s just always been assumed that theirs are two of the numerous bodies unable to be identified and buried anonymously.”
“That’s heartbreaking. I can’t imagine. And I can’t adequately explain my interest. My dad’s a historic-true-crime mystery writer, so I’m always seeing possible plots wherever I go. It’s either inherited or learned—but I can’t seem to shake my morbid curiosity.”
He tilted his head. “Wait—your last name is Trenholm. Is your dad Jack Trenholm?”
“Yep. The one and only.”
“Oh, my gosh. I’m his biggest fan.”
“Be careful who you say that to.” I laughed. “Authors get a little worried when they hear that. No one can forget Stephen King’sMisery.”
“Ouch—yeah. You’re probably right. Well, I promise that if I ever get to meet your dad, I’ll keep that to myself.”
“Well, my parents and siblings will be here in October, so I’ll make sure you get to meet him then. And since you’ve been such a big help, I’ll even throw in an autographed copy of his latest.”
He grinned. “Not necessary at all, but greatly appreciated.”
Jolene reappeared from the kitchen holding a plate of neatly arranged cookies in a precise pyramid that would have made Melanie proud; it was covered in plastic wrap and topped with an elaborately tied satin bow. I didn’t bother asking if she’d tied it herself.
She walked past us, holding the plate and sending me a wink. “I’ll see you out, Jaxson.”
Jaxson paused at the top of the steps. “I’ll be in touch after I speak with Uncle Bernie. And don’t forget that I’ll see you at your house around four o’clock on Thursday to take some ‘in progress’ photos and make a Facebook Live video.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll make sure I wash my hair and put on a clean T-shirt.”
I began clearing the plates and glasses and bringing them to the kitchen. I was placing the glasses in the sink when I heard thedistinctive ring of the landline phone, shrilling loudly in the now-empty apartment. Too loud to be coming from inside my closet, wrapped in a wad of sweaters.
Slowly, I emerged from the kitchen into the dining room in time to hear the telltale ring again, louder this time because the phone had been replaced on the top of the large teacher’s desk. I turned to ask Jolene if she’d moved it, belatedly realizing that she wasn’t there. And that I already knew the answer.
I picked up the receiver and slowly held it to my ear. But all I heard was distant static from an unknown part of the universe, and faintly, very faintly, the sound of breathing before the finality of the click of a receiver being replaced in its cradle. A dial tone began droning in my ear. Even though I was fairly sure what I would find, it was my nature to discover the facts on my own. I picked up the cord that was connected to the back of the phone, pulling it out from behind the desk until the end of it dangled in front of me.
The phone rang once, then stopped. I lifted the phone off of the desk and casually walked it back to my closet, then rewrapped it twice before closing the door tightly. The muffled sound of its ringing could be heard as I left my room, slamming the door behind me.
CHAPTER 10
On Thursday, I locked my bike to what remained of the railing of my porch. Although I’d been working at my real job since seven a.m., the usual excitement and rush of energy I would feel as I approached the house was missing, my thoughts still back at the office, where I had yet to inform my boss that I had no way of getting to St. Francisville on Monday. In my defense, he’d been out of the office Monday and Tuesday and in meetings most of the day yesterday, and he had seemed preoccupied all this morning and I didn’t want to bother him. It didn’t escape my notice that I might have adopted Melanie’s questionable approach to problem-solving—if I ignored problems long enough, they would go away.
I’d called limo companies, asking for all-day rates for the one day I had allotted to do the job, and when they’d quoted their prices, I’d had to start mentally downgrading all of the lovely appliances that Jolene had begun earmarking for the finished house. At least we had my hot pot, so we wouldn’t need a stove right away.
The loud backfiring from an old truck announced Jorge’s arrival. Until I’d gotten used to it, I’d duck for cover, assuming it was yet another gunshot, which had become as familiar a sound of my newhometown as the music spilling onto the streets and the clip-clop of the tourist-carriage mules returning to their stable on Esplanade.
I waved in greeting, shouting out one of the few words of Portuguese I’d learned.“Olá!”
I didn’t bother wondering why he was just now showing up, since I’d learned through Christopher that Jorge lived with his elderly mother and he was her sole caretaker. She didn’t speak English and she was afraid of strangers, so his work schedule fluctuated as needed.
I’d accepted this since he was the most patient person I’d ever met and he was meticulous with every job assigned to him. It had been his idea to erect in the wreck of a backyard a refinishing center for all of the woodwork salvaged from inside the house; it was complete with an awning to protect the work space from rain and the workers from self-combustion under the hot sun. He’d brought his own extension cord so we could use one of Beau’s fans to blow the hot air at us instead of having it simply sit on our sweltering bodies while we worked outside.
Beau’s truck pulled up right behind Jorge’s, followed by another truck—around the same vintage as Jorge’s—with a man I didn’t recognize in the driver’s seat. I walked down the steps to greet Beau and the stranger as they approached me. “Hey, Nola. This is the guy I’ve been telling you about.”
I turned my head sharply, taking in the middle-aged man who was built like the guy on the Mr.Clean cleaning products label, and dressed in jeans and the same white T-shirt. Bulging muscles not quite hidden beneath tattoo sleeves on both arms made impressive lumps beneath his T-shirt, making me think that most of his time in prison had been spent in the gym.
Like Mr.Clean, he was also bald, but instead of having bushy white eyebrows he had blond ones, and he didn’t have a gold hoop earring. Or piercings of any kind. As far as I could see, at least. I’d walked down Bourbon Street enough times to know there were plenty of places to pierce on the human body, not all of them visible if a person was wearing clothes—not always a given in the French Quarter.
“Thibaut Kobylt, ma’am,” the man said, his grin friendly and his handshake firm.
I flashed Beau a glance to let him know that he’d jumped the gun and that I hadn’t had enough time to consider hiring a convicted felon. I also noticed that even though Beau was tall, Thibaut was at least a head taller.
