Page 30 of The Shop on Royal Street
“Nice to meet you,” I said slowly, his name sounding familiar. “Did you say Kobylt?”
“Yes, ma’am. Beau tells me you might know my cousin Rich Kobylt. Our dads are brothers, but his dad married a South Carolina girl, and mine married a Cajun. We’re both in the construction business, just like our dads.”
My eyes flickered down to his pants at the mention of his cousin’s name. Rich was famous—or infamous, depending on who you asked—for his low-slung pants that always revealed more of his backside than anyone really wanted to see. I was still on the fence about hiring Thibaut, but his belted jeans gave him a point in his favor.
“I see. Are you close?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “We used to be, before... the incident. We don’t speak so much no more, on account of my incarceration.”
I nodded, glad he’d been the one to mention his past. “I wasn’t expecting you today. Beau and I were still discussing whether or not we needed more help.” I sent a warning glance at Beau.
Thibaut looked up at the house and didn’t bother to hide his laugh. “I don’t know if you’re pulling a funny or if you need glasses, ma’am, but this house needs help. Or maybe a bulldozer. I need to see the inside first before I decide if I should take the job.”
My glance at Beau this time was more firm and insistent. “Sure,” I said. “Come on inside.”
We all turned toward the door, but stopped at the deep intake of breath from Jorge.“Meu Deus,”he said as he made the sign of the cross.
Nestled in the doorway was a small cloth bag, its sides lumpy from whatever small objects were inside it. Thibaut leaned down and picked it up. “Just some good gris-gris. Probably left by a neighbor wishingyou good luck with the renovation.” He tossed the bag and caught it in his hand. “I think it needs more than luck, so if you know who it’s from, maybe you can ask for a bigger gris-gris.”
Jorge was looking at the pouch with wide eyes. To our surprise, Thibaut began speaking to him in fluent Portuguese. Jorge visibly relaxed, and the conversation ended with Thibaut giving him a gentle slap on the back.
“It’s all good,” Thibaut reassured us. He began climbing the steps.
“You speak Portuguese?” I asked, pulling out the key.
“Yep. I learned it from a fellow inmate. Spanish, too. A little bit of Russian. I figured I could make my sentence about moving forward or I could make it about staying still. There ain’t nothing I could say or do would bring my Rena back, but I was still here and I’ve got my son to think of, so I might as well make the best of it.”
I unlocked the door, unsure how to respond, recalling what Beau had told me about Thibaut’s son, and how his wife’s parents wouldn’t let Thibaut see him. Understandable, I thought, seeing as how he’d killed their daughter.
He stood in the middle of the downstairs room, his arms akimbo, his size compared to everyone else’s making me think of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver in Lilliput. “Wow, you’re really taking it down to the studs,” he said, walking toward the wall with the fireplace. “Why all the half-assed demo everywhere?”
I exchanged a glance with Beau. “We’ve had different crews because of conflicting schedules, so nothing has been consistent. As for the walls, they were all cheap drywall that had been patched over varying layers of plaster. I’m trying to find someone who knows how to do plaster the right way.”
Thibaut nodded. “That’s smart. Too many people think they can just slap anything on the walls and floors and call them renovated, but there are those of us who know and appreciate the difference.” He leaned down and rubbed his hand on a cypress floor plank. “These are real nice. Whoever has been removing the glue has done a nice job without damaging the wood.” He paused at one of the gaping holes inthe floor that I chose to believe had been caused by some heavy object. Not, as Beau had speculated, having suffered irreparable damage from unidentifiable liquids or a sharp instrument that could have been a kitchen knife or an ax.
“You figured out how to patch these yet?”
“We’re still working on it,” Beau said. “Absolutely nothing decent can be found at any of the salvage places, with all the renovations going on and the popularity of cypress floors. If worse comes to worse, we can grab some boards from upstairs and put down carpet there to hide the patch job.”
Thibaut clutched his chest. “You serious? Carpet on these floors?” He shook his head. “I got some sources who might be able to help. Friends from my ‘before’ days.”
“So,” I said, trying to quell the excitement I felt at finally finding someone who understood the how and the why of historic renovation. I needed to find reasons not to hire him, because that one little problem couldn’t be overlooked. “What construction skills do you have?”
He looked at me as if he knew exactly why I was asking. “I’m a master carpenter, and I took a lot of classes while incarcerated, so that I’m also a certified electrician and plumber. Beau here says you might could use me.”
If he were anyone else, I probably would have hugged him.
“Can I see the upstairs?” He began climbing the steps without waiting for an answer. Beau and I followed, Jorge staying behind, possibly to keep an eye on the gris-gris that Thibaut had left on a step of a ladder.
Thibaut stuck his head into the bathroom and didn’t scream or throw up, which I thought was a good sign, and then spent time studying the various cracks and mold patterns on the ceiling, clucking his tongue like an adding machine, tallying what everything was going to cost.
“Are you a roofer, too?” Beau asked.
“Nope. But I know some good ones. And honest ones—that’s the important part. When I had my own business, I figured out who was who.”
He continued to walk around, asking questions, before leading us back to the stairs and to the locked door. “What’s in here?”
“We haven’t found out yet,” I said. “No locksmith has been able to unlock it without damaging the wood, and it’s such a beautiful door and surround that I didn’t want to break it by forcing it.”
